Chapter 41
Gods, that fucking kiss.
Andrian pushed a hand through his unruly hair, the few errant strands falling right back into place across his brow, and he sighed.
Andrian had kissed countless in his life. It had always been…fine. A precursor to what he really wanted. Something expected, anticipated, a necessary evil to whatever distraction his broken, youthful self had found for the night.
He knew he was good at it—or, at least, that’s what he’d been told. It hadn’t taken long for him to realize that a little bit of thought toward his partner’s pleasure would vastly improve his own. And really, that’s all he’d cared about before.
Before her.
Kissing never made sense to Andrian until he met Mariah.
Even when each kiss felt like stolen bites of a happiness he didn’t deserve, never had one felt quite like that one on the cliffside overlooking Eyarfell and its cratered lake of sterling blue waters.
It had rattled him. More than anything Kol had ever said, more than any dark secret he’d ever unearthed. Something had slipped into place—both in him and in the universe. Something so devastating that he didn’t dare to ask himself what.
“Are you doing all right over there? The reading can’t be that bad.”
He lifted his head, finding a forest-green gaze. Gods, he couldn’t even fight it. His lips twitched with the beginnings of a smirk, warmth blooming in his chest.
“What if I told you that this one was about an old priest’s bowel movements?”
Mariah’s nose scrunched. She leaned back in her chair, kicking her booted feet up on the desk. “I’d say that’s probably not what we’re looking for, but if it’s interesting to you, then by all means keep at it.”
His smirk stretched into a full grin, her eyes sparkling with humor as she returned it. Fuck, the way she looked at him. He could hardly ever believe that he deserved it.
What in all the gods had he ever done to earn that sort of love and patience? What could someone with so much light possibly see in all the dark crevices of his polluted soul?
She’d said that nothing would ever shake it, that nothing would ever change the way she saw him. What she saw in him. But that’s only because she didn’t know.
Andrian could still feel the burn of Julian Laurent’s blood on his hands, the dull aching presence of Kol behind his eyes.
If he told her, and in doing so lost his only source of light, he didn’t think he could survive it.
“I swear. All the two of you ever do is stare at each other and smile. It’s getting weird. Aren’t we supposed to be researching?”
“That depends, Matheo.” Mariah swung her gaze to the other warrior hunched over a dusty scroll. “Are you learning anything?”
Matheo scowled. “You know damn well I’m not. The only things here are diaries and prophecies.” He pushed the scroll away from him, a cloud of dust floating up around it. His scowl shifted into disgust. “What are you hoping to find here, anyway?”
“Do you ever listen?” Mariah’s voice was exasperated, but still light with humor and affection.
“Of course, I do.” Matheo blushed. “But, you know…” He fiddled with the corner of a piece of parchment. “We’ve done a lot of researching since you were Chosen. Sometimes it all blends together.”
A small paperweight flew through the air. It hit Matheo’s forehead with a thump, and he hunched over, muttering a curse. Mariah smirked with satisfaction.
Andrian huffed a chuckle, but the younger man had a point.
They’d settled into a routine since their arrival in Eyarfell three days ago.
Mariah would wake them in the morning as the sun was cresting the horizon and drag them out to train.
Long runs up and down the cliffs of the city, followed by sparring in the cliffside field they’d gone to that first day with Signe and Callamus.
It felt good to be physical again, to get back into training and fighting and returning to some semblance of normalcy.
And watching Mariah spar…gods, he’d work himself to exhaustion just to see her move.
In the afternoons, after rinsing the sweat from their bodies and changing into fresh clothes, they’d taken to scouring the libraries tucked in the dark corners of Eyarfell’s cavernous temples.
Library was a loose term. The room they were seated in was hardly more than a crumbling cave, rusted metal racks lining the walls filled with dusty and decayed scrolls and tomes.
Eyarfell wasn’t a place of amassed knowledge and learning; not like Verith’s libraries or the archives supposedly hoarded by the Vathan king.
This was a place of spiritual learning, and the only documents believed worthy of saving were those that spoke of prophecy and the gods.
And, somehow, some old priest’s shits.
Andrian sighed and tossed the old journal aside, reaching for another from his waiting stack. Mariah watched him, brow lifted but said nothing.
“What do you think we’ll find, nio?” he asked quietly.
Matheo may have forgotten, but Andrian knew their purpose here: either find information on the godkiller weapon or find the weapon itself.
“Why do you think you’ll find it in an old scroll?
The Luexrithians are very different from Onitans.
” He would know. He’d grown up hearing stories about his mother’s people—how they didn’t tell stories or pass knowledge by writing it down on parchment.
Their stories, their wisdom, was held in memories.
“I don’t know.” She frowned, flipping the page of the journal she had open on her legs. “Rulene said something about how the things I seek lie to the north. I don’t think the knowledge is here, but…maybe the weapon is.”
Andrian drummed his fingers on the worn stone table. “And you think there might be a mention of it somewhere in all these diaries and prophecies?”
Her tight nod was her only answer.
Matheo clapped, jolting forward in his seat. “The weapon! That’s right. I remember now.”
Mariah gave him a deadpanned look. “Please don’t tell me you were serious.”
“I’m always serious.”
Andrian smirked. “Well personally, I think if I read one more vague prophecy, I might become a prophet myself.”
“Good,” Mariah said, gaze not lifting from the journal. “This court could use someone with a little foresight.”
Matheo grumbled, Mariah’s mouth twitched, and Andrian turned back to his tome with a smile on his lips. Papers rustled as Matheo dragged the next scroll to him, unrolling it with another groan.
They slipped back into their comfortable silence, broken only by pages flipping and the occasional long exhale or rustle of clothes.
“Wait.” Matheo straightened, planting his feet on the ground. “This one is actually interesting. It mentions the sun and moons and shadows—”
Mariah was out of her chair in a flash of movement, snatching the scroll from Matheo. Her back was to Andrian as she read the ancient parchment, but he saw it.
The way her shoulders tensed. The way her spine went rigid. The way her shoulders rose and fell as her breathing quickened, deepened.
When she sank back into her chair, face pale, he shot from his. Andrian stalked around the stone table and rested a hand on her shoulder. A silent question.
She handed the scroll to him without meeting his gaze. He scanned the faded, scrawling script, unease sweeping over his chest and settling in his gut.
Wrought together by determined love,
Torn apart by vengeful fate.
The sun casts the darkest shadows,
But the moon shall light the way.
The lies that built the world will crumble,
As the severed power wanes.
The cosmos fear their strength and might,
And only shattered can they be remade.
He read it twice. Three times. Each time, his frown etched deeper. His mind was quiet as he handed the scroll back to Matheo, who placed it on the table, eyes wide.
Mariah slowly turned in her chair, tipping her chin up to meet Andrian’s gaze. A new emotion, one he knew she’d only come to know recently, shimmered in the depths of her eyes.
Fear.
She swallowed, fingers tightening into fists.
“Moon,” she finally said. “It said ‘moon.’”
It took him a moment to understand.
The prophecy spoke of a moon—singular. Not plural. Not the two that their world had.
The stories from his youth flashed through his mind. Of the legends his mother used to tell him. How their world hadn’t always had two moons and wouldn’t have them forever.
He’d believed them to be nothing more than stories. Hadn’t he? After all, he’d given Mariah a name tied to those very same stories.
He kept those thoughts to himself. He knelt beside Mariah, reaching for her hand.
“A bad translation,” he murmured. “Just some rambling old nonsense. Like everything else in this library.”
Mariah nodded, but a haze of doubt lingered over her gaze.
Andrian couldn’t lie that he didn’t feel the same.
“Look, all I’m saying is that while it’s beautiful here, it’s just too…pious. For me.” Matheo raised his hands in surrender. “Personal preference. Not meant to be an offense.”
Signe, sprawled across on the couches in Mariah and Andrian’s rooms, rolled her eyes. “Pious.” She scoffed. “You use that word like it’s an insult.”
“It’s not an insult. It’s just too quiet here.” Matheo slouched further into the chair.
Mariah chuckled. She was stretched out like a cat, her head resting in Andrian’s lap. He played idly with the dark strands of her hair, a smile tugging at his lips.
Dangerous. Her casual comfort with him was dangerous. That had always been the biggest risk with Mariah; no matter how hard he fought, he could never stay away from her. Could never keep his hands from making their way back to her skin.
It was an impossible urge, and one he’d given up fighting. If only to keep the other impulses at bay.
But even his control on that front was waning, and he knew it.