Chapter 256
Chapter 256
ELENA
The box with Maggie’s dagger sat untouched on my nightstand for hours.
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I tried to ignore it, tried to read, tried to sleep. But my eyes kept drifting to that velvet–lined box. To the sharp glint of silver through the crack in the lid. To the way my pulse seemed to react every time I so much as looked at it.
Eventually, I gave up.
I pulled the box into my lap and opened it fully. The dagger gleamed in the low light of my bedside lamp, sharp and almost too beautiful to be a weapon. Its handle was etched with crescent moons and knotwork designs that shimmered faintly when I turned it. It was weighty, but not heavy. Balanced.
And underneath it–tucked neatly in the bottom of the box- was an envelope.
I slipped the paper free and opened it. Inside was a single–page letter, typed on crisp stationery, signed in pen at the bottom by Maggie’s defense attorney.
To Whom It May Concern:
This ceremonial dagger was submitted into evidence during the trial of my client, Maggie Thorn. After extensive testing, it was found to contain no trace evidence linking it to any of the injuries or attacks presented by the prosecution. As such, it was determined that the dagger was not used in any of the alleged crimes.
Per judicial protocol, ownership of the item reverted back to my client at the conclusion of her trial.
However, as the item is considered a weapon and my client is now in long–term incarceration, she is not permitted to take possession of it. Ms. Thorn has asked that custody be transferred to you, Elena Hart, as a gesture of personal gratitude.
In her words: For the fight she’s continuing. For what she’s carrying.
It is a beautiful piece, undoubtedly ceremonial. Real silver. You may wish to sell it to help fund your Foundation.
Sincerely, Tessa Harrow Attorney at Law
I stared at the signature, then at the note, then at the dagger again.
Sell it?
Maybe. The Foundation needed funds. Every coin counted. And silver–real silver–was expensive. But something about that suggestion made my stomach twist.
Because this wasn’t just metal.
It was history. It was intention. It was a gift from someone who had very little left to give.
And when I held it–when I let my fingers close around the hilt–a chill swept over me.
I had seen this before.
Not here. Not in the courtroom. Not in Maggie’s cell.
Somewhere else.
I rose to my feet, gripping the dagger, and crossed the room to where I kept my bag. I slipped the blade into a soft cloth and tucked it away. I wasn’t going to sell it.
I was going to take it to Dr. Voss.
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Two days later, I sat across from him in the quiet sanctuary of his office, the dagger resting on the low table between us.
“I recognize it,” I said. “But not from the trial. Not from anything cent. I think it’s tied to a memory I haven’t fully recovered” Dr. Voss leaned forward. He studied the blade, his brows furrowed slightly, then looked at me.
“You’ve been remembering more since we began this process,” he said softly. “And now that we know Dr. Emmerich’s treatment was designed to suppress your memories, we can approach this differently.”
I nodded.
He reached for his satchel and began to prepare the space. Candles, herbs, a shallow bowl of water, a bundle of sage. The room darkened slightly as he drew the heavy drapes, letting only a narrow beam of moonlight fall across the center of the room.
“Intent matters,” he said, lighting the herbs. “And so does permission. Are you ready for what you might see?”
I hesitated, then nodded. “I want to know.”
He nodded. “Then place your hands on the dagger, and close your eyes. Let it speak.”
The scent of sage was thick and heady. The warmth of the candlelight flickered against my closed eyelids. I let ray breath slow, let my thoughts fade.
Dr. Voss’s voice murmured an incantation, ancient and melodic.
And then the world tilted.
I was small again.
Not the frightened, fragmented child I sometimes remembered being in my dreams, but strong. Confident. Ten, maybe eleven. My hair was in a braid down my back, and I wore my favorite cloak, the blue one I insisted on even when the weather was too
warm.
My bow was slung across my back.
I had followed Mason. He hadn’t wanted me to, of course. He and his friends were older, and the place they were heading–a narrow pass between the mountains, thick with thorns and mist was strictly off–limits.
But I was stubborn.
And I’d just won the youth archery competition. I was flying high on pride, on the applause that had rung in my ears for days.
So I trailed him.
Careful. Silent. Determined.
The woods here were darker, the canopy thick and the branches clawing at the sky. I could hear the distant trickle of water. The soft crunch of my boots on the path. Birds shifted nervously in the trees.
Then I heard it.
A whimper.
No–a cry.
I turned, following the sound until I stumbled into a small clearing surrounded by bramble. There, crouched beneath a tree, was a girl.
She was older than me—maybe fourteen. Her hair was tangled, her clothes dirty. One arm was pressed to her chest, blood oozing between her fingers. The wound stank of silver.
I gasped. “Oh my Goddess.”
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I dropped my bow and rushed to her side.
“What happened? Let me see. Here. I have a handkerchief.”
She hissed as I wrapped the cloth around her wound.
“It’s a silver cut,” she said. “It hurts.”
I bit my lip. I didn’t know what to do beyond pressing the cloth tight. “Who did this?”
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She looked over her shoulder. Her eyes were sharp with something too old for her face–cunning, calculation, or maybe just
fear.
“Rogues,” she said. “They wanted the dagger. I said no.”
Her voice was thin, almost whispery. I had to lean in to hear her over the wind rattling the branches above us.
And that’s when I heard the screams.
Far off. Muffled. But unmistakable.
I sat back on my heels. “What’s that?”
She didn’t answer right away. Her fingers clutched tighter around her wound.
Then, quietly, she said, “The rogues. I think they’re attacking someone.”
I looked toward the sound, my heart thundering,
“Who?”
She hesitated. Her eyes flicked toward the treeline.
Then said, in a voice that sounded far too calm, “A prince.”
The word chilled me.
We weren’t supposed to be out here. And now there was an attack? A real one?
I stood quickly, eyes scanning the woods. Somewhere, deeper in the forest, I could hear wolves shouting. A snarl cut through the air. A yelp.
My skin prickled.
“What’s your name?” I asked, still holding her arm. It felt too delicate in my grip. Like she might break apart if I let go.
She blinked up at me. Her face pale. Blood on her lip now, too. A smear of dirt on her jaw.
