Chapter 42
“I hope you don’t mind, we have a bit of a walk,” Brand said, lacing his fingers with hers.
She nodded, in a stupor when Brand drew her along behind his brothers as they stepped off the platform and disappeared into the throng around the portal.
There was no such thing as responding. No forming thoughts, let alone words.
The Weeping City, capital of the Great Plateau and the epicenter of creation, rose up around her in shades of grey and green, white and gold.
Emerald vines clung to the lofty stone structures, their leaves as large as supper plates.
Colorful canopies were suspended over the stalls lining the open market they’d stepped into, shouts and laughter ringing out over the din of the crowd to mix with the scent of spiced food in the air.
Creatures from every realm meandered, pausing only to acknowledge the Imperials among them with bows and nods and dipping curtsies before going about their business.
It was the Palace of Argoph, though—perched on its mesa above—demanding all of her attention.
Brand’s home.
Wide, seemingly infinite steps of glimmering stone gave the illusion they were growing out of the city itself, springing into view above the skyline.
Cleaving the elevated land in two, they cut up through rock and flora to terminate at the palace’s foundation atop, so huge that the hundreds—maybe thousands—daring the climb looked like little more than scurrying insects in comparison.
Argoph itself rose in ivory tiers, sculpted pillars and ancient columns holding each diminishing level aloft. Gilded domes topped the dozens of towers in its rounded perimeters, the central, largest one looming high above the rest and glinting in Solyrian’s light like its own sunstar.
Waterfalls streamed from the uppermost story and fell to the next, and the next, and the next, building into five massive cascades that pummeled over the cliff edge beneath arching bridges, carving themselves into the land as they rushed away.
The Realm Rivers, being birthed from the Fountain of All Life right before her very eyes.
Tears pooled in Lunara’s eyes as she beheld them, their distant roar calling out to her like a siren’s song. The closer they got, the faster her feet wanted to move, until she was the one tugging Brand along.
At last, they rounded a final corner, shoulder-to-shoulder with countless others on their way into the palace grounds, and were greeted by a garden of sorts.
The open expanse laid at the foot of the steps, trimmed with trees and wild, reaching greenery.
Stunning blooms jutted from their stalks into the pathways and lined the grassy area, almost swallowing the intermittent benches and gathering places.
Lunara tipped her head back, gaze pushing past the crystalline stairs and soaring into the sky. Argoph seemed to mingle with the clouds themselves, so far above them it stole her breath away, excitement and trepidation twisting with equal measure.
“There are no images or renderings or words in all of Bordoroth that do this justice,” she breathed.
Magnus turned to look over his shoulder with a grin. “Aye. They can’t quite capture the feeling, no matter how they might try.”
Even Vann had perked up, his limp less pronounced, a look of utter serenity on his beautiful face.
“I have to tell you,” Brand murmured. “This will be an announcement, of sorts.”
A month ago, Lunara would’ve shied away, unwilling to do anything that would draw attention to herself. Now, with him at her side, she didn’t even mind. “How so?”
They reached the edge of the green, a dozen yards from the base of the steps.
Between them, a mosaic depicting the Sisters and their forming of Bordoroth had been immaculately laid into the stone.
The circle where the world might have been between their hands was empty of detail, copper tiles forming a hoop around a void of midnight blue.
Oily, shimmering midnight blue. A portal.
Those weaving around them were careful to steer clear of it, no one stepping upon the yawning space—except for Brand’s brothers, who disappeared the moment they were inside of it.
“None but Imperials and their mates are able to enter Argoph through this portal. Everyone who sees you go in will know you’re mine.”
“Good.” She looked him right in the eye as she said it. “As long as they realize you are mine in return.”
Plunging his hand into her hair, he rasped, “Oh, I don’t think there will be any doubt, little moon. Not after this.”
His kiss was sudden and searing, and over too soon. Lunara heard the gasps, a wave of murmurs in their wake, and didn’t mind that either.
“Come. Time for you to see what all the fuss is about.” He leaned closer. “Maybe find that alcove.”
She was still laughing when they stepped through the spectral fingers of the ether and into the Palace of Argoph.
Lunara stared crosseyed down the long length of a very elaborate—very sharp—spear, and into the flickering crimson and ebony gaze of who she could only describe as a stone-cold killer.
You could probably blast her halfway across Bordoroth with nothing but your shield.
“Amal, I don’t give a fuck that you’re his ajma. I will feed that to you pointy-end first if you don’t take it away in the next few seconds.”
Even better.
Brand had flown into his rage the second they’d stepped through the portal and found this madness on the other side, ruining his shirt and roaring in her aggressor’s unflinching face.
A warm, rolling chuckle followed Brand’s threat from somewhere beside her, but she was too scared to even dart a glance, lest she be skewered for the offense.
The warrior in front of her oozed a strange, protective hostility.
Something about the controlled lunge of her toned body promised that Lunara was safe—as long as she complied.
Since the only words out of her mouth had been a rich, guttural, “Not another step,” it would appear this spot on the portal platform, just outside the throne room, was where Lunara lived now.
“I will not.” She—Amal, apparently—narrowed her eyes. “I don’t know her.”
A growl rumbled from Brand’s chest. “She is Lunara the Moonweaver, a Sorcerit of the Evesong, and she’s my bloody damned mate, Amal. I’m not going to ask again.”
“It’s true, we were all there to hear it happen,” Magnus said, chuckling. “How are you, lass? Still terrifying?”
Amal lifted her gaze towards him. “Uncertain, Your Highness. Are you still telling insufferable jokes?”
“Aye. Usually.”
“Then I’m probably still your worst nightmare.”
Magnus only laughed louder. It didn’t escape Lunara’s notice that Vann was entirely silent and not even attempting to defend her like the others.
Taking the threat to her life out of the equation, nightmare didn’t seem an appropriate description for the breathtaking female before her—especially when one side of her full lips twitched in amusement.
Amusement that fled when Amal focused on Lunara again.
The deep red flecks in her irises were imitated in fine scales across high cheekbones.
They flashed with blazing pops of deep ochre and sunny amber against her mahogany skin, disappearing entirely when she shifted slightly out of a patch of light—a perfect match for the beads of gold and fire opal woven into the countless, jaw-length twists of her black hair.
Dressed neck to feet in sensible swaths of oiled leather and midnight linen, she was without a doubt an Arrajnekkatti Rider—the first time Lunara had ever come face-to-face with one, but there was just something about her that sang of sparkling sand and sunlight.
“What proof do you have that you are who they claim you to be?” Amal asked.
“Um…”
“Amalajneera.” Sisters, that voice. Deeply resonant, though the owner spoke softly. “Can you not feel my brother’s marrow entwined with hers?”
Seeing as she knew what Araxis sounded like—and that he didn’t have a very enthusiastic Rider bodyguard—the only one of Brand’s brothers left was Amunkar, Heir to the throne of Bordoroth. Which, made sense. His commanding, restrained tone was very believably that of a future Emperor.
Well, shite.
Amal’s nostrils flared. “She could have tricked him to get to you or your parents. Could be a mind-wielder. Or what if she is the shapeshifter, and we are giving her exactly what she’s been working towards all along? The timing is too convenient.”
Amunkar finally stepped into view.
The warm brown of his skin had the same metallic scales sparkling beneath the surface as Amal did—only his were almost entirely gold. Long hair like fresh-tilled earth was half gathered into a knot on his head, the rest falling over wide shoulders in coiled ropes to his waist.
A heavy, gleaming medallion sitting in the center of his chest caught her eye, suspended on a thick chain and framed perfectly by the deep vee of his knee-length tunic.
Along with his tight trousers, the silken, olive threads boasted a subtle shimmer, complimenting the vibrant pattern of his wide-sleeved overcoat.
Black, russet, and ivory shot through the deep green color in a pattern both curving and geometric at once, so intricate that Lunara could’ve stared for hours trying to piece it out.
The epitome of looming majesty.
He wrapped his hand around Amal’s shoulder, a thick ring glinting. “If that is the case, it will be handled.” His penetrating, umber stare landed on Lunara.
Hot and cold, and loaded with so much raw power that she actually stopped breathing. It promised friendship and ruin in equal measure, depending on which side of him you fell—not unlike Amal, there.
Shitting stars.
“Anything to say for yourself, Lunara the Moonweaver, Sorcerit of the Evesong with an Elder name, despite the fact that I have never once laid eyes on you and know all of those who boast such status?”
“Amun—”
The Imperial Heir raised a silencing finger at Brand and waited, focused solely on her.