Chapter 40 #2
The intensity of the moment lingered in the air like smoke. As Varyth’s hand tensed around me, my gut twisted with feeling I couldn’t quite place.
But before I could dwell on it, he tugged me flush against his side. “We should go.”
A tingle of magic danced across my skin, and the world blurred around us.
When it snapped back into focus, we stood outside a tower, its looming spire a stark silhouette against the pale morning sky.
The stone beneath our feet thrummed with ancient magic, a low, constant pulse that resonated through the soles of my shoes.
Varyth didn’t hesitate, leading me inside with purposeful strides. The heavy wooden doors swung open at our approach, revealing a vast circular chamber bathed in an ethereal, silvery light. Gossamer curtains drifted lazily through the air.
Nyxaria’s delegation weren’t here yet, so we moved to settle into the room.
We approached the obsidian table that dominated the space, it’s surface gleamed, reflecting distorted images of ourselves and the misty chamber around us.
The others began to drift away, leaving only Varyth, Fenric and Darian to sit at the table.
I started to follow Shaelith, but Varyth gripped my hand, his fingers intertwining with mine in a gesture that was both electric and comforting.
“No,” he said, low, but absolute. “You stay with me.”
I hesitated, uncertainty threading through me. “I don’t belong—”
“I don’t care.” His eyes burned, the quiet fury in them not directed at me, but at the very suggestion of distance. “You’re by my side, Isara.”
I found myself nodding, allowing him to guide me towards the table.
We moved as one, my dress whispering against the smooth stone floor.
The obsidian table stretched before us, its surface dark as spilled ink.
As I neared, my reflection twisted and wavered across it.
It shifted, contorting, the stone itself knowing this meeting would rewrite me into someone unrecognisable.
I settled into the high-backed chair beside Varyth, Darian took the seat to my right, his usual jovial demeanour replaced by a focused intensity. Fenric settled himself on Varyth’s other side, his posture rigid and alert.
The air in the chamber thickened, charged with anticipation. Motes of silvery light danced through the misty veils surrounding us, creating an otherworldly atmosphere. The stone walls hummed with ancient magic, murmurs that slithered through me, unseen and uninvited.
We didn’t have to wait long.
The shadows in the corner of the room began to shift, stirring in the depths of the darkened space.
A cool, almost imperceptible breeze whispered through the room.
It traced along my skin, slipping beneath my dress and settling against my spine.
The air grew heavier, thicker, the atmosphere drawing tight, before suddenly parting, the curtain of darkness ripping aside.
They stepped through the tear in reality itself.
Ashterion entered first, striding the chamber with the grace of a predator. His movements were slow, an elegance that came from knowing no one would ever stop him. Shadows clung to him, poured from him. They writhed around his legs, licked up the walls, consuming the light in its path.
His power wasn’t just overwhelming, it was suffocating. A force, ancient and unending, pressing against my skin, sinking into my bones.
Varyth had always filled a room with his power.
Ashterion stole the air from it.
He stood well over six and a half feet tall, his powerful frame corded with muscle that spoke of centuries of battle and conquest and skin the rich brown of dusk’s first shadows.
His face was a masterpiece of rugged angles and brooding intensity, with high cheekbones and a strong, defined jaw that look like it had been carved from shadows and light.
But it was his eyes that truly commanded attention, piercing blue orbs flecked with silver, twin pools of midnight sky studded with stars.
There was a weight in them, ancient and boundless, edged with a sharp, feral intelligence.
But it was the scar that transformed him.
A jagged slash began at his right temple and carved a merciless path down his cheek, across the angle of his jaw, and into the thick column of his throat.
It wasn’t a scar that healed clean. It looked torn, as if something had tried to rip him open and failed.
Old magic shimmered faintly in its depths, a faint silver burn that crawled like veins of frost beneath the skin.
My breath stalled in my chest, and Varyth’s hand tightened around mine, his thumb tracing soothing circles on my skin.
Ashterion’s eyes locked onto mine, and the earth—the foundation beneath my feet—lurched.
I thought the world might snap under the weight of that single glance.
He wasn’t looking at me. He was seeing. Peeling back layers I hadn’t even known existed, prying into corners of myself that had long been buried.
Ashterion’s wife, Xyliria, followed in one smooth step behind him, her presence as eerie as the first time I saw her. Her body was wrapped in another flowing gown of blood-red silk, exposing the ivory skin of her bare shoulders and adorned with thin silver chains that glowed faintly.
Varyth’s grip on my hand tightened further, almost painfully so. Tension radiated from him, a stark contrast to his usual composed demeanour.
Ashterion’s smirk widened fractionally as he took in our joined hands, before meeting Varyth’s gaze.
The air between them crackled with unspoken challenge.
Before I could dwell on it the next member of the delegation entered.
I recognised Merrick, Ashterion’s second. He looked the same as he had in the cave. Not the storm itself, but the moment before it. Where Ashterion was all control and precision, Merrick was rougher, heavier—the inevitability of impact.
The way he stood, the way he breathed, it all whispered of calculated lethality. Of someone who had been an apex predator for so long, he no longer recognised anything as a true threat.
His gaze locked with Darian’s.
For a single, electric moment, the air between them thrummed, loaded with everything unspoken. A battle waged in the space of a heartbeat, Merrick’s smirk curling slow and easy, Darian’s expression twisting into a snarl.
Merrick tilted his head, the corner of his mouth quirking higher, his hazel eyes gleaming with cold amusement. He didn’t need to say anything. His expression alone was enough. A dare wrapped in the easy, effortless confidence of a man who knew exactly what he was doing.
Darian stiffened. His wings twitched, his hands fisting against the table. The deep, guttural sound that rumbled from his chest was purely animal, purely warning.
Another female who had followed Merrick let out a sharp noise, unimpressed. “Must you?” she said to Merrick, who only grinned wider.
“What?” Merrick spread his hands in mock innocence. “He started it.”
Every muscle in Darian’s body tensed, his wings twitching as a growl built in his throat.
Merrick, of course, smiled. A lazy, taunting smirk, merely enjoying the show. Every inch of him screamed Go on, lose control.
He wanted this.
And Darian was seconds away from giving it to him. He shifted. A fraction of an inch. But I knew. He was about to launch himself at Merrick.
I didn’t hesitate. My hand found his arm, fingers wrapping around bunched muscle, warm and tense beneath my palm. I felt the fury trembling there. The heat of him, the sheer tension vibrating beneath his skin, made my pulse spike, but I kept my voice steady.
“I know,” I said, cutting through the tension. “I understand.”
He didn’t look at me immediately. His focus locked on Merrick.
I gripped his arm tighter.
“I understand,” I said, louder now, enough to rise above the roar I could feel beneath his skin. “I know what he’s doing. And I know you want to tear him apart.”
His head snapped to me, chest heaving, teeth bared. For a moment, for a single, agonising heartbeat, I thought it wouldn’t be enough. That he was lost to that fire in his blood, the storm in his soul.
But he paused.
I didn’t flinch. “Don’t let him win.”
For a long, agonising moment, Darian didn’t move. His body vibrated with the tension of a beast ready to rip the world apart.
Merrick watched, so gods-damned amused. But then, the tension eased. Darian’s wings lowered. The growl in his chest faded to a simmer instead of a full-blown threat of violence. He was still tense. Still ready. But he wasn’t going to kill Merrick. For now.
The female leaned in and muttered in Merrick’s ear, who scoffed in response. I could only assume that she was Elowyn, Ashterion’s third in command. She certainly fit the description Fenric had provided.
She was crafted, not born. Every line of her face, every gleam of silver against her skin, was a study in lethal perfection. A beauty meant to destroy.
Despite her smaller stature, she stood tall, her posture regal and poised. And yet, there was a freedom in the way her long, silken hair spilled down her back in waves of nightshade.
Her chicory skin glowed with an otherworldly radiance, smooth and flawless. It was the kind of beauty that could freeze you in place or break a man with a single glance. She wore fitted leathers that clung to her body with an unforgiving elegance.
Her almond-shaped eyes, the colour of amethyst drowned in ink, locked onto mine with chilling intensity. There was no warmth in them, only a piercing calculation. One that saw straight through me, could rip apart everything I was with a single thought.
She noted Varyth’s grip around my hand, and something I couldn’t quite decipher flashed across her features.
Then the reality hit.