Chapter 42
title: "The Blood Test" wordCount: 2422
The diagnostic wards burned into Caelan's veins like liquid fire, and the physician's voice seemed to come from very far away: "Do not fight the memories. Let them come."
Caelan's fingers dug into the examination table's edge. The metal was cold beneath his palms, grounding him as the ancient magic carved into the sanctum's walls began to pulse with sickly green light. The physician—a woman whose name he'd already forgotten—stood at the periphery of his vision, her hands moving through the air in precise gestures that left trails of luminescence.
"The wards will search your blood for the curse's signature." Her voice was clinical, detached. "They were designed to detect even dormant carriers. But the process requires consciousness. If you pass out, we'll have to start over."
"How long?" Caelan's jaw was tight enough to crack teeth.
"Minutes. Hours. It depends on how deeply the curse has woven itself into your lineage." She paused, her hands stilling. "My lord, you should know—the wards will surface memories tied to your bloodline. Traumatic ones, usually. The magic seeks out pain like a lodestone seeks north."
Caelan's mother's face flashed behind his eyelids. Water closing over her head. Her hands reaching up, up, always up toward a surface she'd never reach.
"I understand," he said.
The physician nodded once, then pressed her palm against the largest ward carved into the wall. The green light intensified, and Caelan's vision went white.
The water was cold.
That was the first thing Caelan noticed—not that he was drowning, not that his lungs were screaming for air, but that the water was so cold it felt like knives against his skin. Except it wasn't his skin. The hands he saw reaching upward were smaller than his, more delicate, with calluses in different places.
His mother's hands.
No. Not a memory. He was living it. Feeling what she'd felt.
The river current pulled at her—at him—dragging her down and away from the bridge where soldiers stood watching. One of them was laughing. Caelan could hear it even through the water, a sound like breaking glass. Her chest burned. His chest burned. The need for air was a living thing, clawing its way up her throat.
She kicked toward the surface. Her dress tangled around her legs, heavy with water, pulling her down. The silver comb in her hair—the one Caelan wore now, braided into his own black hair—caught the light filtering through the water, a brief flash of brightness in the murky green.
She thought of her son.
The thought hit Caelan like a physical blow. Not abstract, not distant—he felt her love for him as if it were his own emotion, vast and terrible and all-consuming. She thought of him safe in the academy dormitory, thought of how she'd scraped together enough coin to keep him there another year, thought of how he'd looked at her the last time she'd visited, embarrassed by her worn dress and rough hands but trying to hide it.
She hoped he'd be better than this. Better than the empire that was letting her drown. Better than the rage she knew would consume him when he learned how she'd died.
Her lungs gave out. Water rushed in, and with it came a strange clarity. She wasn't afraid anymore. Just sad. Sad that she wouldn't see what he'd become. Sad that her death would twist him into something hard and sharp and full of hate.
She hoped he'd forgive her for leaving him alone.
The water closed over her head one final time, and Caelan screamed.
He came back to himself on the floor of the sanctum, his throat raw, his face wet. The physician was kneeling beside him, her hand on his shoulder, her expression carefully neutral.
"The test is complete," she said quietly.
Caelan couldn't speak. His mother's love for him was still there, still burning in his chest like a brand. All these years, he'd carried her death like a weapon, had sharpened his rage on the memory of her drowning. But she hadn't wanted that. She'd wanted him to be better.
"My lord." The physician's voice was gentle now, almost kind. "You don't carry the curse."
The words took a moment to penetrate. When they did, Caelan's breath left him in a rush. He pressed his forehead against the cold stone floor, his shoulders shaking.
"You're certain?" His voice was barely a whisper.
"The wards would have reacted differently if the curse was present, even in dormant form. Your bloodline is clean." She paused. "I'll give you a moment."
Her footsteps retreated. A door opened and closed. Caelan was alone.
He sobbed.
Not the careful, controlled grief he'd allowed himself over the years—brief moments of weakness quickly suppressed. This was raw and ugly and complete. He cried for his mother, for the woman who'd loved him enough to hope he'd be better than his worst impulses. He cried for the years he'd spent using her death as justification for his own cruelty. He cried because she'd died hoping he'd choose mercy, and he'd chosen vengeance instead.
The silver comb in his hair pressed against his scalp. He reached up, touched it with trembling fingers.
"I'm sorry," he whispered to the empty room. "I'm so sorry."
The door opened again. Caelan didn't look up, didn't try to compose himself. Let whoever it was see him broken. He was tired of pretending to be made of stone.
Footsteps approached, lighter than the physician's. A rustle of fabric as someone knelt beside him.
"The physician said you were clear." Sera's voice was soft, almost hesitant. "That's good news, Caelan."
He finally raised his head. Sera's face was pale, her eyes shadowed with exhaustion, but her expression held something he'd never seen there before—understanding. She knew what it was like to face the possibility of carrying the curse. She knew what it cost to hope you might be free of it.
"She wanted me to be better," Caelan said. His voice cracked. "My mother. She died hoping I'd be better than this."
Sera was quiet for a long moment. Then she stood, smoothing her skirts with careful precision.
"Then perhaps you should honor that hope." She moved toward the door, then paused. "I'll ensure you're not disturbed."
The door closed behind her with a soft click. Caelan was alone again, but this time the solitude felt different. Less like isolation and more like space to breathe.
He stayed on the floor until his tears ran dry, until his breathing steadied, until the memory of his mother's love settled into something he could carry without it destroying him.
When he finally stood, his legs were unsteady. He made his way to the sanctum's small washbasin, splashed cold water on his face, and studied his reflection in the polished metal mirror. The scar bisecting his right eyebrow stood out stark against his pale skin. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face blotchy.
He looked human. Breakable. Real.
The water remembers, he'd always said when speaking of past injustices. But maybe it was time to let the water carry away some of the rage instead of holding onto it like a lifeline.
He left the sanctum, nodding to the physician who waited in the corridor outside. She inclined her head respectfully, asked no questions. The palace hallways were quiet—it was late afternoon, the hour when most courtiers retreated to their chambers to prepare for evening entertainments.
Caelan's feet carried him toward the eastern wing without conscious thought. He needed air. Needed to see the sky.
The balcony overlooking the city was empty when he arrived, or so he thought until he stepped fully outside and saw her.
Thalia stood at the railing, her back to him, her red hair loose around her shoulders instead of bound in its usual practical braid. She wore simple traveling clothes—leather pants, a worn jacket—not the servant's uniform she'd adopted during her time in Sera's service.
She turned at the sound of his footsteps. Her she stared slightly when she saw his face.
"You look like hell," she said.
"I feel like it." Caelan moved to stand beside her at the railing, keeping a careful distance between them. "What are you doing here?"
"Heard about the Council session." Thalia's gaze returned to the city spread out below them. "Heard you and Sera are both competing in the Trial. Thought that was monumentally stupid, so I came to tell you so in person."
"Noted."
"That's it? Just 'noted'?" She glanced at him sidelong. "No defensive speech about duty and honor?"
Caelan's hands gripped the railing. The stone was warm from the afternoon sun. "I was just tested for the Kaelith curse. The wards—they made me relive my mother's drowning. From her perspective."
Thalia went very still. "Caelan—"
"I don't carry it. The curse." He forced the words out. "I'm clear. But she—my mother—she died hoping I'd be better than the empire that killed her. Better than my own rage." He laughed, a bitter sound. "I've spent fifteen years doing the exact opposite."
"You've spent fifteen years surviving." Thalia's voice was sharp. "Don't romanticize your mother's death into some kind of moral lesson. She drowned because the empire is rotten. That's not on you."
"But what I do with that knowledge is." Caelan turned to face her fully. "I've hurt people, Thalia. I've used my pain as an excuse to cause more pain. That's not survival. That's just cruelty."
Thalia's face hardened. She looked away, her fingers drumming against the railing in a nervous rhythm. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you were right." The admission cost him, but he forced it out anyway. "When you left. You were right about me. I was so focused on tearing down the system that I didn't care who got caught in the collapse."
"I wasn't entirely right." Thalia's voice was quieter now. "I knew what you were when I got involved with you. Knew you were angry and reckless and willing to burn everything down. I thought I could—" She stopped, shook her head. "Doesn't matter what I thought."
"It matters to me."
"Well, it shouldn't." She pushed away from the railing, paced a few steps, then turned back. "Look, I didn't come here to rehash our relationship. I came because I heard about the Trial, and I wanted to make sure you weren't doing something stupid."
"Like competing despite the risk?"
"Exactly like that." Thalia crossed her arms. "Sera's dying, Caelan. Everyone knows it now. You could just wait her out. Let the curse do the work for you."
"That's not—" Caelan stopped, forced himself to think before speaking. "I need to prove I can earn the throne. Not just take it because my rival died. If I'm going to rule, I need to show I'm worthy of it."
"Since when do you care about being worthy?" Thalia's eyes were sharp, searching. "You've always said the throne should go to whoever's strong enough to take it."
"I was wrong about a lot of things." Caelan met her gaze steadily. "I'm trying to be better. Trying to be what my mother hoped I'd become."
Thalia studied him for a long moment. Something in her expression shifted—not softening, exactly, but becoming less guarded. "You really mean that."
"Yes."
"Huh." She turned back to the city view, her shoulders relaxing slightly. "Maybe you're not completely hopeless after all."
They stood in silence for a while. The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and gold. Below them, the city was coming alive with evening activity—lanterns being lit, market stalls closing, people heading home or out for the night.
"I'm leaving," Thalia said finally. "After the Trial. Going back to the Undercroft."
Caelan's chest tightened, but he kept his voice level. "To do what?"
"Help rebuild. The war destroyed a lot down there—not just buildings, but trust. Community." She glanced at him. "Someone needs to do the work of putting it back together. Might as well be me."
"That's good." He meant it. "You'll be good at that."
"Yeah, well." Thalia's mouth quirked in a half-smile. "Turns out I'm better at building things than tearing them down. Who knew?"
"I did." Caelan's voice was soft. "I always knew that about you."
Thalia's smile faded. She looked at him, really looked at him, and for a moment Caelan saw the girl he'd fallen in love with—fierce and brilliant and full of hope that the world could be better. Then she blinked, and the moment passed.
"Don't," she said quietly. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be."
"I'm not trying to." Caelan's hands were shaking. He shoved them into his pockets. "I just—I want you to know that I'm sorry. For everything. For using you. For not seeing what we had until it was gone."
"I know." Thalia's voice was barely audible. "I'm sorry too. For leaving the way I did. For not—" She stopped, took a breath. "For not fighting harder to make you see reason before it came to that."
"You tried. I didn't listen."
"No, you didn't." She laughed, a sound caught between bitterness and affection. "You never did listen to anyone."
"I'm trying to change that too."
"Good." Thalia moved toward the balcony entrance, then paused. "For what it's worth, I hope you win the Trial. I hope you become the kind of ruler who actually gives a damn about the people at the bottom. The empire needs that."
"And if I don't win?"
"Then Sera will make a decent enough empress, assuming the curse doesn't kill her first." Thalia's expression was unreadable. "Either way, the Undercroft will survive. We always do."
She was almost to the door when she stopped again. Caelan's heart jumped—maybe she'd changed her mind, maybe she'd stay, maybe—
"The Reformist Council wants to meet with you," Thalia said without turning around. Her voice was carefully neutral. "Before the Trial. They have information about the wards—about what they actually test for."
Caelan straightened. "What do you mean, what they test for?"
"Lord Venn doesn't want you to know." Thalia's shoulders were tense. "He thinks the information would give you an unfair advantage. But the Council thinks you deserve to understand what you're walking into."
"Thalia, wait—"
But she was already walking away, her footsteps echoing down the corridor, and Caelan was left standing alone on the balcony as the sun sank below the horizon and the first stars began to appear in the darkening sky.