3. What Time Has Stolen
What Time Has Stolen
Auryn blinked to clear her blurry vision, turning her head to look around. She was sitting in the Umbral Archives, a tome titled ‘Runes of the Flowe’ pressed to her chest. She exhaled slowly and relaxed her shoulders. Odd, but she hardly remembered how she’d gotten here.
Some time ago, the Horn of Reckoning bellowed through the Daesa Major, shaking the walls and floors. The deep sound echoed through the crystal halls like ceremonial thunder, leaving none in doubt as to its message.
The Resh’Agar was returning from another conquest. The Archivists had already named it The Rites of Starblind Soil. Something about him conquering a rising rebellion in the East and finding a valuable artifact to add to the Prism Keep.
More deaths. Another brutal, pointless war.
Years of spilling blood in some far-off corner of the world that hadn’t yet remembered how to kneel before the Void.
Surprisingly short for a Resh’Agar expedition.
Only fifteen years with a sudden return that had startled the Council when the Mandate was given.
They spoke of their theories for days, but none know the truth of why he returned so early.
The company had sustained heavy losses. Some kind of illness.
No salve, spell, or prayer could touch it.
Or perhaps it was a curse, originating somewhere in the Starblind ruins.
No record existed of him ever traveling there before.
Perhaps he was unprepared. An unsettling thought—for the Resh’Agar to be unprepared, to fail in subjugation.
It was a bad omen, and Auryn could only remain calm because her instinct whispered he was safe.
As long as he is safe, I can endure anything. Even if he does not remember me now, I will find a way to take back what was stolen from us.
But…I cannot see him. If his eyes are cold…if those oceans of warmth now mirror the eyes of his brother…
Her nails dug into the book in her arms. She shuddered once, then straightened.
Forced her face into neutrality. This part of the Archives was private, but none could see her weakness.
Attendants skittered about in the shadows at all hours of the day and night.
If one saw her cowering, if they wore the light red robes of their Companion Hosts, they would not hesitate to use it against her.
And Zeera would love to see me fall. To spread another vile rumor to the Council that I am unfit. Unstable.
:: Go to him. You must. ::
The corner of her eye twitched, and she pressed her hand against her forehead.
Dizziness assailed her. A pounding headache.
How long had she been sitting here? Was the ceremony over now?
How would she explain her absence? Would anyone notice?
The only time someone remarked on her absence was if she was late to the morning Litany.
However, this wasn’t the Chant or a Procession.
The Sokar’s presence was expected, but not required.
The Reckoning would be as grand as always.
Kailorien’s onyx cape would trail behind him, a banner of victory in scintillating Polis-light.
Aethersteel would gleam, the Resh’Agar’s runic armor—Morvane—making him look taller, like the shadow of the Spines over the Emerald Moores.
Attendants would throw flowers in his path while the Reskala stood in proud salute.
His Second, Thrassus, would try to fill Zarrek’s role with honor as he trailed behind his Sovereign.
The People would kneel, and all would sign and pray in unison.
Priests would raise their hands in prayer while the People chanted his name in rhythmic song.
Resh…Resh…Resh…Resh…
The Arm of the Void was home.
Glory to the Destroyer.
Hypocrisy, more like. Celebrating the pain of a man who held up the world.
Auryn should have been there. By all rights and laws, she should have stood atop the Penance Stair and given him the Void’s true blessing.
Instead, she'd crawled here to mourn him. To give into her fear, for once. Odd that Lu’ma hadn’t tried to stop her.
Auryn glanced around again, then looked down at herself.
Lu’ma must have helped me dress.
She wore her Sokar’s ritual gown. It gleamed with gems and mana thread, white as sunlight shining through the clouds at daybreak. But over it, she wore a thick brown shawl to guard against the chill of Ice.
Why would I have donned the gown when I knew I wasn’t going to attend the ceremony?
She sighed and curled her toes. No shoes, though. She hated them. Without the press of the ground beneath her feet, she felt she might float away sometimes. In thought. In body. And in heart. Especially when Kailorien was gone.
Time moved slowly in the silence of Krystopolis, but it did not heal wounds. Scars and hurts lingered—festering and swelling, growing until their pain overrode all memory.
And now, he had returned.
Or had he?
Over half a century had passed since he’d crowned her Sokar.
As the years peeled away, Auryn had prayed they would grow closer.
She’d chosen him. Gone with him despite her vision of a troubled future.
She’d known the cost of his regard—had been prepared to pay the price to stay with him in darkness.
But the only thing that had grown between them was a void more vast than any the Destroyer wielded.
Though she was Sokar, she had no place at Council.
She had no say in anything of import. Assigned only a single Attendant.
Excluded from social customs and invitations.
Mocked in shadow. Worshiped in false light.
She was a symbol. A placeholder. An ornament displayed in Doctrine festivals then locked back in her room until the next event.
I have no voice to speak for him. No words powerful enough to save him. Or myself.
The black marble floor tiles before her blurred.
Let the masses cheer the blood-stained crown. Let the world bow for the illusion of the Resh’Agar, for I will not.
My Kailorien… that is all you ever were to me…
His name echoed in her thoughts. Again and again until the plea eclipsed even the humming of the Shields within her jaded senses. Until her longing for him grew so vast she locked it deep inside her heart to keep afloat within its waters.
Then—quiet.
Not the kind that followed celebration, but the kind that pressed.
Soft. Dense. Real.
Her breath froze in her lungs.
A presence approached.
Footsteps.
Heavy. Armored. Cautious.
His mana burned into hers like a roaring flame—molding, melding, beckoning.
She turned enough to give away her hiding place.
He stood in the adjoining hall, his shadow dancing as it always did.
Beneath his booted feet, his mirror shade mimicked every move.
Yet, not. As though the shadow knew the heart his body was rejecting.
Within his waist-length onyx hair—tied back in a war tie—the shadows swirled like inky rivulets of dragon blood.
The Surface sun had kissed his supple skin, brightening its pallor to a bronze-like hue. Earthen. Bold.
So much like the hand he reached out to her as he murmured, “Starlight. There you are.”
Taller than the fiercest of Reskala, he was big. So very big. Like the bars of his cage had tightened far too much over centuries of bondage. His eyes were as blue as primal mana. Visceral. Fierce.
She still could not breathe.
For he’d come.
He’d called her.
And it meant that he hadn’t forgotten.
Not completely.
She nearly surged to her feet. Nearly ran to him.
But the walls had eyes and the stone had ears and the Void was impartial and—
“I didn’t see you at the Reckoning,” he said. “I was worried.”
“I did not come,” she answered, her voice raspy from disuse.
“And so I’ve come to you,” he said, as though years hadn’t separated them.
“I’m reading,” Auryn said.
“So busy that you couldn’t greet me?”
The crows feet at the corners of his eyes lengthened, and her heart snagged. Those eyes were the Veilweave itself, and Auryn was a thread winding deeper and deeper into the tapestry of him.
She reached out and let him pull her to her feet.
Even through his armored glove, his touch was overwhelming.
More than contact. More than the press of flesh and mana.
Each time his skin brushed against her own, his fire spiraled into her.
When their eyes met, that flaming burn settled deep within her belly.
Until her legs trembled and a bird clawed at the inside of her lungs.
He is still looking at me.
He still sees me.
No, I cannot touch him. I must not. The walls have eyes. Always watching.
But…
Auryn reached up and stroked the waves of his black hair. “It’s longer,” she observed. Still soft. Slippery, like moistened silk.
He returned the favor, removing one glove, running his hand through her silver tresses as her heart pounded in her chest.
“And yours hasn’t changed. Still like falling starlight,” he mused.
Auryn took as silent a breath as she could manage.
The same hand moved downwards, cupping one of her cheeks. His gaze swelled with nostalgic longing. “You haven’t aged, Auryn. You are as lovely as the day you stepped out of the ice into my arms.”
“You remember?” she whispered. “The ice…”
She stopped herself. Slammed her defenses down against the longing in her soul. She’d never meant to ask him that.
“I do,” he said, his brow furrowing. And then again, with more force, "I do."
For a moment, everything around them went silent. Still. As though time itself held its breath. Auryn allowed herself a moment—a spark—of hope. But just as quickly, she stepped back from it, looking towards some bookshelves behind him.
“Surely something has changed,” she countered with neutrality. “Fifteen years is not a short amount of time.”
“No,” he insisted, pulling her gaze back to his with a hand on her shoulder. “I mean what I say.”
She made a sound of bitter amusement. “Another oddity, then, to add to the list.”
“List?”