Chapter 9 #2
Golden light flickers over their masked faces, casting shifting shadows against the worn wooden walls.
Reon stands in a blaze of crimson, his coat embroidered with curling patterns of gold, while Orios is clad in midnight blue, the fabric stretched so taut across his broad frame I wonder if he simply refused to conjure a size larger.
I let the door click shut behind me. “Let us go.” Then, frowning, I scan the hall. “Where is Solena?”
A door creaks open further down the hall, and soft footsteps sound against the wooden floor.
Solena steps forward, the candlelight catching on the pale silver of her gown, its fabric fluid as moonlight, draping elegantly over her frame.
The bodice is fitted, its delicate embroidery glimmering with frost-kissed threads, the neckline a graceful sweep that bares the smooth expanse of her collarbones.
Her long black hair spills in perfect sheets down her back, a river of night against the cool shimmer of her dress.
For a heartbeat, I forget to breathe.
It is not Solena I see standing before me, but her.
Amara. The shape of her lips, the way the candlelight pools in her dark eyes, the soft cascade of her hair.
It's all so painfully, impossibly familiar.
My pulse stutters, my throat tightens, and for a single, wretched moment, I am caught in the cruel jaws of memory.
I do not know how long I stand there, lost in the trick of candlelight, before awareness drags me back. Too late.
Solena shifts, uneasy, adjusting her silver mask, her fingers twitching. The air in the hall thickens, tension creeping in like an unwelcome guest. One by one, the others notice. Reon’s smile fades, Orios stiffens at her side, and Zyphoro’s sharp gaze flicks between us.
I blink, shattering the illusion, and exhale through my nose, forcing the weight from my chest.
A muscle in Orios’ jaw ticks as he steps closer to Solena, glaring at me from beneath his heavy brow, his broad form shifting between us. His hand finds the small of her back, his fingers pressing just firmly enough to remind her, and me, of where she belongs.
I’m not about to waste time in a pissing contest with him, and I have far more pressing matters than justifying myself to anyone.
“Let’s move,” I grind out, my voice a low rasp against the uneasy silence. My eyes flit to Zyphoro. “Is your plaything ready?”
She nods. “He is downstairs. Exhausted but able-bodied enough to serve his purpose.”
I do not care for the sordid details, though I’m glad Tamis has survived the last few nights as Zyphoro’s bedmate. I press forward, Zyphoro at my side. Behind me, I hear Solena’s quiet breath as she clings to Orios’ arm, her fingers tightening just slightly. His frown deepens, but he says nothing.
No one does.
We descend the narrow stairs and move through the tavern, no longer a quiet hovel cloaked in midnight hush.
Now it thrums with life. Music curls through the air, tangled with raucous laughter, the thrum of voices, and the sharp clatter of mugs colliding in drunken celebration.
The patrons, soaked in ale and blissful ignorance, barely glance up as the finely dressed Fae, masked and glittering, slip like shadows through their midst.
When we step outside, the warm breeze clings, offering no reprieve from the choke of the humid night. Tamis leads the way, but he falters, his eyes flicking toward the dark alleyways that split off from the street like veins. I catch his elbow before he can get clever.
“Not thinking of making a run for it, are you?” My voice grates rough as gravel. “I’d hate to snap your neck after my sister’s taken such a liking to you.”
Zyphoro laughs, soft and dangerous, as Tamis swallows hard.
“Of course not, Your Highness. I’m only… orienting myself.” He stiffens his spine, gaze sweeping over the crowd-packed street, thick with bodies drifting between taverns and brothels like moths to a flame. Then his eyes catch something and widen beneath the edge of his mask.
“There,” he says, voice steadier now.
My gaze drifts down the street to the large domed building looming at the edge of the city’s chaos. A place that seems to exist apart from the noise. Even the staggering drunks and scavenging dogs give it a wide berth, as though something unseen warns them away.
If Tamis speaks the truth, then hidden within those shadowed halls lies another Fae House long thought to be lost, and within it, a mirror of whispered legend. A thing of impossible magic, said to reveal either your greatest desire or your most harrowing fear.
The others walk ahead, their footfalls swallowed by the thrum of the city. But Zyphoro lingers at my side, her steps as light as breath. She tips her chin toward Solena’s back, where Orios’ thick arm is wrapped around her waist, keeping her close.
“And what was that?” she murmurs at my ear.
“It was nothing,” I grumble.
Zyphoro exhales. “The fact that you understand my meaning says it was something.”
My jaw tightens. Canines lengthen. My body reacts to her insinuation with an insulted sort of rage, lip curling, fingers flexing at my sides.
“For a fleeting moment…” I begin, the words like ash in my mouth. “She looked like Amara. That is all.”
Zyphoro sighs, and the weight of it is somehow worse than any blade. “That is much.”
I halt abruptly, seizing her elbow in my grip. “I dislike what you imply.”
The others continue on, their shadows shifting against the buildings like ghosts.
Zyphoro tilts her head, her gaze sharp, assessing.
That familiar, predatory curiosity slides over her face, and a chill licks up my spine.
It is the look that always makes me feel as if I have been flayed open, as if she is sifting through my ribs, through the sinew and marrow, searching for my deepest truths.
“You spend much time with the maid,” she muses. “Her hands are on your skin almost daily.”
I roll my eyes. “To ink the sigils, Zyphoro.”
“A convenient excuse,” she murmurs. “Perhaps even a pleasant side effect.”
My fists clench.
“I know this journey has worn you thin,” she continues, softer now, almost gentle. Almost. “Your mind, your body, your will, all stretched to the breaking point. A spider’s web trembling on the edge of snapping.”
I turn my head away, but she catches my chin between two fingers, forcing me to meet her gaze.
“I know your grief consumes you,” she whispers. “Be careful where you seek solace.”
A growl rumbles through me. I slap her hand away, hard enough that she stumbles back a step.
“Watch your tongue, sister,” I snarl. “Before you lose it.”
She laughs. Laughs.
“Just an observation, brother.”
Shadows curl at my fingertips.
“Then do not make me take your eyes as well,” I hiss.
But she merely spins in the middle of the street, arms outstretched, before striding ahead, leaving me alone with the gnawing weight of her words.
Zyphoro fears nothing.
And I am beginning to think she feels nothing just as strongly.
Her words, her jests, her cutting little observations. Are they just weapons she wields for her own amusement? A way to stave off the boredom?
Or is she testing me, watching, waiting? Hoping to unearth something raw, something visceral?
Perhaps she only wishes to see me feel so that, for just one fleeting moment, she might feel something, too.
I carry on, my steps steady, my gaze fixed ahead as Zyphoro melds into the others without so much as a backward glance.
She has sworn to take my life if the darkness within me rises.
If my curse fights its way to the surface.
And I am beginning to think I must be ready to return the favor.