“Veaer,” Elise’s voice betrayed her fear. Death was flashing before her eyes. “Please, do the honours. I want it to be you. It can only be you.”

  And I want to be with you. I want you, only you.

  “I can’t do it, I can’t do it.”

  Tychon’s apparition flashed in and out of her vision, his presence holding the same weight as Harq’s message to her. He was on his knees, then towering over her, then standing there, the same boy he was when he was taken away from a life of greatness.

  A kaleidoscope of butterflies burst from the windows and shadows, landing upon and around Elise’s body. She imagined their little hands like flies, rubbing together in preparation for a feast.

  Elise chuckled as the tip of the blade caressed the soft skin in the middle of her chest. “Where has all that anger gone? Just yesterday you looked like you wanted to kill me. For taking away that precious kitty's life. For making you keep my secret for so long.” Her lips wavered and her glassy eyes shone against the silver moon and golden flames. Her chest rose and dropped at the beat of the music.

  Veaer inhaled, like the air had shifted to that time years ago. Struggling against the grip of someone with just as much loyalty to Elise back then. Watching Elise laugh because she had done something right by the divine. Young Kitt appeared beside Tychon, and they looked at each other as if they had already seen what would happen here today.

  Veaer knew that she felt deeply in her soul, that every situation she encountered burrowed negative and positive responses into her heart and regurgitated them at the tip of her tongue.

  But she had to accept, too, that these emotions only came in tides that would recede as if at the command of the moon. She feared that after today, the only feeling remaining would be grief. Grief for a saint yet to be canonised.

  “I made you watch as I killed him,” Elise shrieked as she grabbed one of Veaer’s arms and shook it. Veaer shut her eyes so that her senses would focus on the splinters of the handle and ensure they wouldn’t leave unless she willed it so. “I made you break into his room even when he was dead. I made you read his journal while he couldn’t do anything to stop it. I made you steal maps from my father’s office. I made you find that crypt. Join the Ascension Order. The rituals, the angels, everything!”

  “Stop talking, just stop it!” Veaer’s chest caved in as she opened her eyes to see tears streaming down Elise’s cheeks, how her body shook in dirty fabrics, uncontrollable cries and deep yet unsatisfying breaths.

  “I made you love me, so you must hate me for everything I’ve done to you. You hate me, Veaer. You hate me! So kill me, please!”

  “I love you!”

  The blade flew down and ripped Elise’s skin open, past bones and flesh, into her chest, with all the power of the universe behind it.

  Blood spurt from the wound and coated Veaer’s hands.

  Every sound drowned out. It was just blood, blood, blood, blood. Blood. Elise’s blood. Dark red and slowly oozing, and the edge that split along Elise’s chest was tender and pink—perfect, beautiful, a new butterfly’s home.

  She lifted the knife and drove it down again. And again. And more red. So much that she would’ve thought her arms were always this way. She ignored the screams of the protectors who didn’t realise what was actually coming when they had chosen to be part of this cause. She ignored Harq screaming at her to stop and then turning away with a hand over his mouth.

  She ignored the way the chalk circle started to glow red too, how the room became further draped in shadows.

  “Oh,” Elise gasped, “so this is how it feels.”

  Veaer wailed and crumbled against the altar table, her head finding a place to rest on Elise’s stomach as a pool of blood stained the cloth. “What am I doing? What have I done?” The knife remained stuck, the blunt end of the handle pointing to the heavens.

  “You love me, you truly do.” Elise smiled and brought her hands to her chest, weaving her fingers around the metal blade and leaving them to be intertwined in her final moments. “I love you too, Veaer Rosell.”

  EPILOGUE

  “Your name is humming inside my chest.

  I think this is what it means to love.

  I think this is what it means to be living.”

  ― Emma Bleker, I am a grand, living, buzzing thing

  Years Later.

  On the first Friday of May, every year, Veaer Rosell would sit in her studio with a fresh canvas and new paints.

  Natural light flooded from large windows and highlighted hanging paintings along one of the walls. One in styles that overlapped as if handed around in a circle; sharp corners, soft edges, and shapes plastered on with a sense of inexperience. Another lent itself to time, being an attempt at a realistic depiction of Miriam Manor’s front doors from her last year at the academy.

  Otherwise, the rest of the walls were covered in muted colours, allowing creativity to bounce off the peaceful atmosphere they elicited. A rack of art supplies was in easy reach by way of wheels. When the room was empty, its home was out of the way. But when she was determined to create, most days but not all, it would hover around her stool in the centre of the room.

  When others visited her sanctuary, they often described it being uneasy to understand. Charcoal drawings that were of the same subject over and over with slight changes across time were found in piles on one of the tables. On the floor were open folders of references and inspirational work. An unfinished sculpture sat in the corner. An unused pottery wheel to the side. She claimed to get to them someday, but she returned to her true artistic love: painting.

  With a lift of the brush, she applied the first layer of paint. That was the easy part.

  The hard part was remembering. What that moment looked like a few years ago. A young girl with long black hair, golden skin, and deep brown eyes with sun rays trapped inside laying on an altar of red and white. The perfect piece that captured what would be considered an intangible experience to others, but everything to her.

  She could appreciate what context brought to art. She learnt that when she cleaned up the cathedral in the dead of the night. When she was brought in for a psychological evaluation and assigned to a psychiatrist. When she was tasked with painting over the manor mural as part of her punishment. When detectives led her to Tychon’s room and then Elise’s to tell them about her experience. And she would stare at the paintings and tapestries and specimen frames in both, remembering and remembering.

  Eventually memories become something of a layered beast. One’s memory was only the last time they remembered an instance. In this case, her painting of Saint Elise Excava on the day of her passing was only as much as she remembered from when she painted it last year, and the year before that, and the year before that.

  She started in the middle, with the knife in her chest.

  On the third Friday of May, every year, Veaer Rosell would travel to Adraredon Academy. Nowadays, rather than making Haiwrin drop her off on his way to work, she drove there herself and then parked on the western edge of the grounds, just outside the forest behind Miriam Manor.

  She spun the keys on her finger as she closed the car door and moved to the trunk to pull out a canvas hidden with a cloth over it. The canvas was carried under her left arm, and she wiped the sweat on her right palm against her jacket. She brought her touch to her head where her scarlet wolf caemi ears remained even when she passed the threshold. Just like her earlier visits; maybe she had grown up enough to get past any anti-magic.

  The forest was easy to navigate in the daytime as a path had been installed. When she could see the back of the manor peeking over the trees, she paused and looked among the dirt and leaves for a symbol etched into a hidden concrete slab. A hand placed upon the symbol caused it to glow, and a moment later the slab lifted itself and moved aside, revealing a small ladder downwards.

  The crypt was quiet, which meant everything was normal. While only a few knew about the secret entrances around the school, she still held onto an irrational anxiety of the wrong people stumbling upon the underground and causing a chaos she couldn’t control now that she wasn’t a part of the academy anymore.

  Days of practise and memorisation made the trip through the labyrinth of stone and sand walls easier. The crypt had become, in part, her new cathedral of comfort for the rest of her senior year, where she painted newly inspired pieces on the divine, fresh angles on the heroes that preceded the buildings and crypt itself. Her unintentional mix between Syriphian history and dedicated artistic skill helped her acceptance into some of the best institutes of arts education around the continent.

  Eventually her choice of life after Adraredon Academy came down to a vision. A small house in the nearby town, living with her lover, painting her days away, but when she wasn’t holed up in that studio, she was assisting in exhibitions, workshops, and special events. She liked being able to walk down the street to visit her best friend. She liked knowing that a legacy she had established wasn’t so far away, but far enough that she didn’t think about it all the time.

  She found the large room of stone tombs that she had seen the first time she came underground. Her first stop was the room of hero statues. She stared into the eyes of each one until her eyes dried out.

  Then she walked through some more corridors before arriving at an open doorway. The room inside was filled with candles, though this time they were already lit before she arrived. A figure stood deep inside, with his hands in his pockets, back to Veaer, staring at the shrine embedded into the wall.

  “Izot?” Veaer called, and her voice bounced in the empty space. She hadn’t seen him since graduation.

  The young man spun around, his hands shifting from his pockets and his face drawn in surprise. He wore a sophisticated suit as if he had just been attending an important meeting, looking slightly out of place among cobwebs and decay.

  He brought a hand to his chest and a small smile appeared on his lips. “Oh, Veaer. I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “Wouldn’t have expected you to expect me,” she replied. She waited for a nod from the young man before she stepped into the room and adjusted the canvas in her hands. “What are you doing here?” She kept her gaze on the display.

  A framed picture of Elise, one that didn’t encapsulate her entirely as a school photo, but no picture would truly be able to achieve such a feat. The frame was surrounded with more candles, and a pot of sand sat behind it with a stick of incense upright and glowing orange at the tip. The scent of sandalwood and myrrh floated past her.

  The shrine was further decorated with pieces of art, flowers, and offerings. Handmade beaded bracelets and amulets carved from metal. Two pieces of sheet music on yellowed paper provided a placemat to a tiny marble statue created in Elise’s likeness.

  “The same reason you are. To pay my respects.” Izot folded his hands in front of him and twiddled his thumbs. He watched Veaer as she removed the cloth from her canvas and moved to the left wall. “So, you’re the one who makes those?”

  Veaer fixed her latest iteration next to the others. She knew that her friends considered it morbid—offering paintings of someone’s demise to their shrine—but she thought this part of her duty as a disciple. It’s something Elise would’ve liked.

  “I sign these. You would know how my signature looks. At least an imitation of it.” After admiring her progress, she returned to Izot’s side, giving him a side glance and a smile. “How is your father?”

  “He’s retired.”

  “When?”

  “The year after we finished.” Izot looked down and placed a hand on the edge of the shrine. “I think he learnt how it felt to…” A pause. “He returned the administration to the Galacia family.”

  She straightened with a start. The path in the forest, why she hadn’t heard more news about Headmaster Doallan Excava and disappearing students, how her caemi heritage persisted on the academy grounds. Safety, a new era, and magic returned at the hands of another family. Headmaster Doallan experienced a loss like no other and decided it was enough.

  “And they accepted?”

  “If not by a favour to my father, then a favour to their ancestors. They run this place well, maybe better.” Izot wet his lips with his tongue. “I think he blames himself. He still wonders what happened. I do too, but I know—actually, I don’t know—but I think Elise would want me to just grow up and be better than our dad was.”

  Veaer watched a single flame dance next to Elise’s face. She still remembered the words said, the declarations made. She remembered that Elise sought a love only found after death. She was glad that it existed even when she doubted it.

  “So,” Izot cleared his throat, “I know that Haiwrin is an assistant here now. Intending to lead some new research in magical injury one day?” She raised an eyebrow and he continued, “I may not be student president anymore, but I do enjoy knowing where our cohort ends up. He’s doing good work, even if it helps him at most.”

  She nodded in a silent agreement. He was able to receive treatment that mended anything life threatening to his heart and lungs, though his arms still suffered from pain some days, and he would ask Veaer to scribe anything important if she was available to visit him at home. That, and he had a new perspective in his participation in the theatre arts.

  “I’m very proud of him,” Veaer said. “I only want the best for him after what he’s been through.”

  “And how about you? Treating yourself well?”

  She feigned a gasp. Izot furrowed his brows with a nervous smile. She replied, “Is that a real question? I wouldn’t have known Izot Excava to ask me such a thing.”

  “Of course. And tell me about that Adair.”

  “I’m doing quite well.” She was happy to almost believe it as she said it. It was hard to know when she was genuinely doing well. “I painted that a couple weeks ago.” She gestured vaguely to her painting. “I’m here today. More comfortable in my own body, doing things I enjoy with my days. Finding myself able to chat to you.” Both despite their past qualms and her role in his sister’s passing. “And Adair…” She held up her left hand, revealing a simple rose gold ring on her finger.

  Izot blinked, his chin rising. “Engaged?”

  “No, no. They wouldn’t do that so soon.” Veaer chuckled and hooked her hands behind her back, tapping each finger one at a time. “Just a promise.”

  The two stared at the shrine for a moment longer, then decided to use the forest exit together. Izot waved goodbye and Veaer rushed forward to give him a hug before he walked away.

  Then they left, leaving Adraredon Academy none the wiser.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Chrysalis and Requiem has become something new and different from what it originally started as. I have carried these characters with me for almost seven years, ever since I made a world of my own to tell stories in. A time when Veaer was still a thief and Izot was still a prince, but in a world of magical, medieval mischief.

  Now we are here. Obsessive murder lesbians on a gothic campus where the protagonist gets with the princess rather than the prince.

  Semblances of their previous story still persist in this final version, and it makes me happy to see the growth I’ve experienced as a writer. For that, I have many to thank.

  I would like to thank Caleb Hosalla, my cover illustrator. Thank you for dedicating yourself to my vision and executing it in the most wonderful way.

  Thank you to my beta readers for their joy, shock, and passion towards my novel. Emma, Kaye, Catarina, Sophie, Sarah, Rose, Olivier, Jamie, Faith, Feifei, and Iris.

  Thank you to my street team, my blurb authors, and my arc readers for their ongoing support of my publication. I have a big dream when it comes to this book and every one of you helps to make that happen.

  Thank you to Happon for your continued artistic work when it comes to bringing my characters to life. You always seem to know what I’m trying to say.

  Thank you to the Wranglers for being an awesome well of publishing insight and friendship in this industry. I’m so proud of us!

  Thank you to my connections across publishing, such as Gideon from Room of One’s Own bookstore and other amazing booksellers, librarians, and bookish vendors I keep in touch with.

  Thank you especially to Feifei. You were my critique partner at the most important time of Chrysalis and Requiem’s creation. You helped me form the confidence that seeps through my writing and how I share this story with others.

  Of course, thank you to my partner Zak. This is only the beginning and I will fill our future bookshelves with my publications.

  Thank you to my family for continuing to show excitement for my work and wanting to read my books (this one might be a bit darker than the last).

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Quinton Li is a Melbourne-based non-binary novelist, poet, fiction editor and anthology curator. With a love for fortune-telling, angelic beings and the human condition, it's no wonder that many of their works across fiction and poetry touch on these subjects. Alongside these themes, they strongly resonate with queer and Asian diaspora works and believe that art can change a perspective or enhance it.

  Find more at quintonli.com

 

 

  Quinton Li, Chrysalis and Requiem

 

 

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