Chapter 20
Daed
The void shifts around me, a swirling abyss of black and deeper black, shifting and writhing. The air is thick here, heavy with something unseen, something that clings to my skin like tar. But I do not stop. I do not hesitate.
The golden threads gleam in the darkness, thin as silk, delicate as whispers, yet stronger than any chain.
They stretch before me, weaving through the nothingness, pulsing in time with the frantic beat of my heart.
Binds of Fate. Threads of magic that only mates can see, spun from the fabric of destiny itself, a tether between two souls meant to find each other in life, in death, and beyond.
I saw them that day, when I first set eyes on Amara in the Grove. Now, they lead me to her.
My breath is ragged as I move forward, my steps soundless against the nothingness beneath me. The threads shimmer like stardust, guiding me, pulling me through the void. But in the corner of my eye, I see them.
Demons of smoke and shadow.
They hover in the darkness, stalking, watching. Their jagged-toothed mouths hang open, drool thick and shining, their hollow eyes fixed on me. Their hunger is palpable, a gnawing presence in the air, their talons twitching in anticipation. But they do not lunge. They do not attack.
And more troubling still, they have not summoned him.
Our master.
A chill slithers down my spine, colder than the void itself. Why do they hesitate? Why do they wait?
I do not waste time questioning. If I remain undiscovered, it is a mercy I will not squander. Every moment here is a risk, and I will not give them time to reconsider their inaction.
Amara needs me.
I grip the golden threads tighter and push forward, faster now, chasing the echo of her voice. I feel her pain through the tether, a cry in the dark that sets my soul ablaze.
The closer I get, the more desperate her cries become. Every muscle in my body is wound tight, stretched past its limits, but it’s still not fast enough, not when her next words hit me like a blade to the gut.
“Daedalus! Help me! Our baby!”
The world narrows to that single, fractured plea.
Nothing has ever sliced through me so deep, so violently.
My blood turns molten, my veins searing with the force of my desperation.
My legs burn as I push harder, faster, void-walking in reckless bursts.
The threads between us pulse like a heartbeat, dragging me forward.
My hands claw at the air. I will rip through the very fabric of this realm if I have to.
My body is nothing. My pain is nothing. If it means getting to her, I would run until my bones shattered, until my lungs bled, until my very soul burned itself out. I will tear through every demon that dares to stand between us.
I will reach her.
And I will destroy anything that threatens what’s mine.
The golden threads coil through the darkness, weaving around a figure bathed in their glow, and my heart both shatters and mends in the same breath. She is here. Every step forward is agony, every heartbeat a war between relief and terror.
I void-walk again, stepping through the abyss to emerge at her side.
The moment I do, her scent engulfs me. Hers.
No soaps, no oils, no perfumes. Just her.
The scent I feared I’d never breathe again, the one that lingered on my sheets long after she had gone, that clung to my skin the first time our bodies tangled in Pariseth, slick and burning, mouths desperate, limbs shaking.
But beneath that, something sharp, something wrong.
Blood.
Fresh. Hot. Spilling too fast.
Ashen drifts forward, eyes hollow, paws dragging, bewitched by the dark force that still calls to him. I seize a fistful of his smoky mane, wrenching him to a stop, and he lets out a startled grunt. But my attention is already locked elsewhere.
A scent. A presence. A man.
I drag my gaze upward and see him. The one holding her.
The Golden Son.
Our eyes collide, and for a moment, time bends, thick with a silence that could shatter mountains, turn tides, split the sky in two.
Rage surges through me, the taste of blood sharp on my tongue. My canines lengthen, my breath shortens, my fists clench so tight I might break my own bones. This glare is one of war, of unfinished battles, of violence yet to come.
But even my fury must wait.
Because Amara is in pain. My Amara. And that matters more than anything.
I reach out, brushing my fingers against her skin. She is warm, tingling against my touch.
“Wife,” I whisper.
Her eyes flicker open, and her lips tremble, curving into a soft, fragile smile, her tears pooling on the curve of her mouth.
“Husband,” she breathes.
But nothing is ever simple for Amara and me.
I tear my eyes from her long enough to see the wound in the fabric of this realm. A portal barely holding itself open, and through that shrinking gap, I see him.
Emranth.
The servant of the Father Below grins at me, his mouth a wicked curve, his eyes brimming with malice.
“Prince Daedalus,” he croons, voice slick as oil. “What a wondrous day this is! Delivering us both a feast and an heir at once.”
My grip on Amara tightens. Over my dead body.
But Emranth’s smirk doesn’t have time to settle before his face twists with hunger.
He lunges, teeth bared, claws swiping through the portal’s shrinking space, his nails raking against the edges, sending sparks of dark energy scattering.
When he realizes he cannot reach us, his mouth splits, a cavernous, yawning maw that stretches too wide, too deep, endless.
And from its depths, I hear them.
Screeches like shattered glass, a chorus of shrill, keening hunger.
Then they come. A legion of winged horrors, bursting from his throat like he is regurgitating the void itself, their bodies sleek, their eyes burning with void-light.
They dive toward us, talons outstretched, their cries slicing through my skull like daggers.
No time.
I seize Ashen’s mane in one hand, cup Amara’s jaw in the other, and with a single thought—go—the void rips open around us.
The world implodes in sound, Emranth’s screech of rage swallowed in the rupture, the beasts howling as the darkness folds over them, sealing them away.
And then we are gone.
***
It is the squawks of the seabirds that pull me from unconsciousness. My eyes flicker open, and for a brief, weightless moment, my mind is blank. A slate wiped clean by salt air and sun. The world is nothing but the rhythmic crash of waves, the burn of heat on my skin.
Then Amara screams.
The sound cracks through me, and everything comes rushing back.
I bolt upright, twisting toward her voice, my body moving before thought can catch up. I scramble across the wooden deck, hands slipping on the damp boards, heart hammering as she screams again.
She is on her back, legs splayed wide, her full, heavy belly rising and falling with shuddered breaths. The silk of her dress fans around her like the petals of a wilting flower, once a delicate shade of teal, now soaked in deep crimson.
Blood. So much blood.
Solena kneels between Amara’s legs, her hands slick with it, working quickly, her face a mask of grim concentration.
“Breathe, Amara,” Solena instructs, her voice steady, but I hear the tight edge of concern beneath it. “You must breathe.”
Ashen paces at her side, restless and low to the ground.
A soft whimper escapes him as he leans down, nudging Amara’s shoulder with his nose, smoke curling faintly from his mane.
The worry in his eyes is almost human. Aching, helpless.
But now is not the time for sentiment. I will spare him the sight of her suffering.
With a flick of my wrist, he growls, a sound of protest more than defiance, before dissolving into a plume of smoke, leaving only the echo of his sorrow behind.
Orios and Reon hover nearby, their gazes dark with worry, while Zyphoro kneels at Amara’s side, clutching her trembling hand. My sister looks up at me, and I see it in her eyes before she even speaks.
This is wrong.
Not how it should be.
I can feel it too, the unnatural energy thrumming in the air, thick as storm clouds. Amara’s belly is too full, her body straining under the weight of a pregnancy that should not be this far along. The days apart have felt endless, but this… this is not right.
“The void,” I mutter, realization striking like lightning. “Time moves differently there.”
Zyphoro nods grimly in agreement, but my focus is only on Amara now. I grasp her hand, pressing it to my lips, kissing her knuckles as if I can will warmth back into her skin. But she is so cold. Clammy with sweat, her complexion leached of color.
Her fingers tighten weakly around mine. “Daedalus…” Her voice is barely a breath, pain twisting her features. Her eyes, hazy with suffering, flicker to mine. “Is it really you?”
“Yes, my love,” I whisper fiercely, cradling her hand against my face. “I am here. We are together at last.”
She sobs, the sound fractured, caught between agony and relief. “This isn’t right. I’m not ready. I haven’t carried long enough.” Her breath hitches, and then, in a voice laced with raw terror, she chokes out, “There’s too much blood.”
I press her palm to my skin, closing my eyes, letting the familiarity of her touch anchor me. “You are strong. Our baby is strong. You do not know fear.”
Her body convulses violently. A strangled cry rips from her lips as she lurches forward.
Solena’s eyes flare with panic.
“We must deliver this baby,” she says, voice edged with urgency. “Or we will lose them both.”