8. Uriel
8
URIEL
I push open the heavy oak door to my workshop, unsurprised to find Raven sprawled across my leather couch. Her midnight hair spills over the armrest as she flips through one of my journals, her dove-gray wings draped carelessly over the side.
"Don't you have your own house?"
"Yours is more fun." She doesn't look up from the page. "Your notes on metal tempering are shit, by the way."
The door creaks again and Koros's massive frame fills the entrance. His dark wings barely fit through without scraping the sides. One golden eye catches mine, the other remaining that endless void of black.
"So." Raven sits up, violet eyes sparking with interest. "Who's the pretty little thing you brought back from Ikoth?"
I drop into my chair, boots propped on the desk. "A souvenir." My voice is hard as I glare at the two of them. I've been back for less than a day and of course they heard. They were probably lounging around my house while I was gone.
"Did you kidnap her?"
"Yeah."
The journal whizzes past my head, missing by inches. I expected that reaction.
Koros's laugh rumbles through the room like distant thunder. "Why'd you take her?" His scarred face twists into something between amusement and curiosity. He, at least, won't berate me.
"She was...interesting." I run a hand through my curls. "I was there for rare materials anyway."
"You can't just keep her!" Raven's wings flare out, knocking over a stack of papers. That was on purpose, too. She has full control over the damn things. "What the fuck are you going to do with a human?"
That's the question, isn't it? I trace the grain of wood on my desk, considering. The truth is, I don't know. She fascinated me - this delicate creature with fire in her eyes, so different from the usual rabble in New Solas. I saw her and just...took her. Like picking up a shiny rock that caught my eye.
"You didn't think this through at all, did you?" Raven's tone drips with exasperation.
I shrug. No point denying it.
Koros settles into the chair across from my desk, the wood groaning under his weight. "Where is she now?"
"I've got her in a guest room." I twist a quill between my fingers. After I found Athena wandering around and looking lost, I brought her to the room I had stocked for her, mildly shocked she hadn't found it on her own. "She's not exactly thrilled to be here."
"No shit." Raven swings her legs off the couch, wincing slightly as she puts weight on her left one. "Most people don't enjoy being kidnapped."
"She tried to stab me with a dinner knife." That was before I brought her to the room and maybe I had taunted her a bit too much for her state. She wasn't herself, but I know how to bring that fire out.
That gets another thunderous laugh from Koros. "I like her already."
"You would." I snap the quill in half, tossing the pieces aside. "She's different from the humans here. Educated. Refined."
"And that gives you the right to-"
"I know what I'm doing, Raven."
She stands, wings bristling. "Do you? Because it looks like you grabbed some poor girl on a whim and now you're keeping her prisoner in your house."
"It's not like that."
It's definitely like that.
"Then what's it like?"
I don't have an answer that will satisfy her. Fuck, I don't have an answer that satisfies me. The girl had just burst through wards that most magical beings would struggle with and she was stunning. Something about her... The way she held herself, the flash in her eyes. Before I knew what I was doing, I'd already decided she was coming back with me.
"You're going to have to let her go." Raven's voice softens. "You know that, right?"
Raven has always had too much of a moral compass. Koros, on the other hand, is fearsome even among xaphan - and we are known to be the cruelest creatures on the planet.
"No." The word comes out harder than I intend. "She stays."
Koros leans forward, his chair creaking ominously. "What are you planning to do with her?"
"I don't know yet." I stand and walk to the window, watching shadows stretch across my grounds as the sun sets. "But she's mine now."
After spending the better part of the morning with Raven and Koros, who I kicked out of my workshop study, I go to retrieve Athena. She looks even more stunning now, her ringlets restored after a shower and dressed in tight leathers to keep out the cold.
I lead Athena into my workshop, watching her golden-green eyes widen at the array of weapons lining the walls. Her honey-blonde ringlets catch the afternoon light streaming through the high windows.
"This is adamantine." I lift a curved blade from my workbench. "It holds enchantments better than standard metal."
She steps closer, but keeps a careful distance. Smart girl. "How do you infuse the magic?"
"Like this." I place my palm against the flat of the blade. Heat ripples through the metal, making it glow a deep crimson. "Each enchantment requires different elements. Different ways to be forged and imbued with magic. ."
"What about healing enchantments?" There's that spark in her eyes again.
"Those are trickier." I set the blade down. "They require balance, empathy. Most warriors can't manage them."
She moves to the workbench, fingers hovering over a row of crystals. "These focus the energy?"
"Yes." I catch her wrist before she can touch them. Her pulse flutters against my thumb like a trapped bird. "But they'll burn human skin."
Instead of pulling away, she turns her hand in my grip, examining the calluses on my palm. "You don't use magic for everything?"
"Magic is a tool, not a crutch." I release her, surprised by her boldness. "The best weapons are forged with both."
"Show me more?"
I find myself explaining the intricate process of tempering enchanted metal, the way magic must be woven through each layer. She asks intelligent questions about magical theory, catching details I wouldn't expect a human to notice.
"The energy patterns," she says, sketching them in the air with her finger. "They're like healing meridians in the body."
I pause in my demonstration. "You understand magical theory?"
"I studied healing." A shadow crosses her face. "Before."
Before I took her. The words hang unspoken between us.
But her interest seems genuine, not just an attempt to placate her captor. She leans over my shoulder as I demonstrate how to trace binding runes into the metal, her breath warm against my neck. The proximity sends an unexpected thrill down my spine.
I need to remember what she is. A human. A curiosity. Nothing more.
But when she correctly identifies the components of a complex protection ward, I can't help feeling a flutter of pride.
Which quickly dies.
She circles the workbench, those golden-green eyes fixed on the half-finished sword. "Your rune placement is inefficient."
"Excuse me?" I come up next to her, wings bristling. One second she's asking me questions and the next she's criticizing like she knows what's going on.
"Look." She points to the protection sigils I've etched near the hilt. "If you moved these closer to the blade's center of gravity, they'd require less magical energy to maintain."
I lean over her shoulder, close enough to catch the scent of honey and herbs in her hair. "And what would a human know about magical efficiency?"
She whirls to face me, chin lifted in defiance. "Enough to see you're wasting power for the sake of aesthetics."
"Aesthetics?" My laugh comes out harsh. "These patterns have been refined through generations of warfare."
"By warriors too stubborn to consider alternatives." Her fingers trace the air above the metal, following the flow of magic. "The energy should spiral, not branch."
Heat rises under my skin. She's right, damn her, but I'm not about to admit it. "Perhaps you'd like to forge the weapons yourself?"
"Perhaps I would, if you hadn't dragged me here against my will." The words drip venom, but her hands remain steady as she examines the blade.
"You seem comfortable enough now."
"Understanding my cage doesn't mean I accept it." She grabs a piece of charcoal and starts sketching on a scrap of parchment. Her design... it's elegant. Simple. Infuriating.
I snatch the parchment away. "This would never hold during combat."
"Test it then." She crosses her arms, ringlets bouncing with the sharp movement. "Unless you're afraid to be proven wrong by a mere human?"
My wings snap open, casting her in shadow. "Watch yourself, little demon."
"Or what?" Those eyes flash molten gold in the afternoon light. "You'll lock me in my room again? Take away my dinner privileges?"
I grip the edge of the workbench, wood creaking under my fingers. No one speaks to me this way. No one dares. Yet here she stands, this fragile human with fire in her veins, challenging me in my own domain.
"Your technique," she continues, tapping the parchment, "wastes energy maintaining multiple anchor points. Mine uses a single focal point with branching channels."
The worst part is, I can see exactly how it would work.
I trace the binding runes into the metal, letting magic flow through my fingertips. The blade drinks it in, hungry for power. Dark energy coils beneath the surface like trapped smoke, waiting to be shaped. This enchantment requires precision - one wrong move and the whole thing could-
A small gasp draws my attention. Athena leans forward, those golden-green eyes tracking every movement of my hands. Her lips part slightly, ringlets falling forward as she studies the intricate pattern forming in the steel. The pure fascination on her face...
I fumble the next rune. Magic sputters and hisses against my palm.
"The energy's destabilizing," she murmurs, not even looking up. "You need to reinforce the southern point."
She's right again. Damn her.
I redirect the flow, but my focus keeps drifting to the way she unconsciously mirrors my movements, her delicate fingers sketching patterns in the air. There's an intensity to her concentration that transforms her entire being. Gone is the frightened captive - in her place stands a scholar, a healer who sees past the surface to the underlying structures of magic itself.
The blade pulses between us, drinking in power. Dark energy should repel her, send her stumbling back like most. Instead, she sways closer, drawn to the intricate dance of magic and metal. A strand of honey-gold hair falls across her face. My fingers itch to brush it away.
"There." Her voice drops to a whisper. "Do you see how the patterns align?"
I do. But I'm watching the way understanding lights her features from within, turning those eyes to liquid gold. The fierce intelligence burning behind them stirs something primal in my chest. Something possessive and hungry that has nothing to do with magic.
The enchantment flares, responding to my distraction. Dark energy crackles across the blade's surface. She should flinch away - any sane person would. Instead, she reaches out, tracing the air above the writhing patterns.
"Beautiful," she breathes.
Yes. She is.
I crush that thought before it can take root. She's human. A temporary diversion. Nothing more.
But when she looks up at me with that blend of defiance and wonder, I'm not sure who I'm trying to convince.
So, I assign her to organizing my journals, telling myself it's better than having her locked in that room all day or facing her telling me off. The real reason gnaws at the back of my mind - I want to watch her work, to understand what makes her different from the other humans I've encountered.
She sits cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by stacks of leather-bound books. Those honey-blonde ringlets fall forward as she sorts them by date and subject. Her small hands handle each tome with reverence, pausing occasionally to study a diagram or trace a rune pattern.
I find myself walking past her workspace more often than necessary, pretending to search for tools or materials. Each time, she's discovered something new to question or critique. Her insights are irritatingly accurate.
"Your organizational system is chaos," she declares, sorting another stack. "How do you find anything?"
"I manage." I lean against the workbench, wings settling against my back. "Though apparently not to your standards."
She shoots me a look that could cut steel. "Standards require actual structure, not just throwing everything wherever it lands."
The fire in her eyes when she argues... it draws me like a moth to flame. I catch myself making deliberate mistakes in my notes just to hear her corrections. The way her voice rises with indignation, how her fingers tap against the pages in frustration - it stirs something dark and hungry in my chest.
"You're hovering again," she says without looking up.
"It's my workshop."
"Then work." Those golden-green eyes flick to mine. "Unless you don't trust me with your precious journals?"
I do trust her, I realize. That's what unsettles me most of all.