13. First Touch
First Touch
Auryn stumbled through the halls, her body so hot she needed no mana to light up the Polis around her. As soon as her fingers or shoulder touched the walls, the sensitive crystal pulsed, the burning fire in her core drawing out blooms of emerald light from its depths.
She’d tried to diffuse her affliction with magic, thinking it was a hex.
Zeera liked to hex her journals and trinkets when she thought Auryn wasn’t looking.
And she hadn’t been, at first. But after decades of the same petty nonsense—and having to drink more of Lu'ma's bitter mana-correcting serums than she could recall—she now checked twice before touching any of the items in her room.
But she stayed with Kailorien in his wing now.
Zeera couldn't have touched her things. And this was no hex. The mana serum hadn’t made it easier to breathe.
No corrective spell made the pain bearable.
It was like a fever. But Auryn’s body was immune to sickness.
It healed minor wounds in minutes. It wasn’t possible that she’d caught something from her and Kailorien’s processions to the city.
After exhausting all magical options to alleviate the symptoms, Auryn decided to return to her quarters.
She couldn’t let anyone see her like this.
Not so weak and vulnerable. Besides, she needed to prepare for the Grand Festival of Growth in the morning.
There was too much to do. She couldn’t afford these kinds of delays.
I need to remind Kailorien not to be late. Not this time.
Stars help me—I can hardly think.
Somehow, between deciding to go to her room and stumbling around like a dizzy voidmoth in the corridors, she’d ambled into the Companions’ Hall.
The crystal had turned from emerald to rose, gold and silver threads tracing ancient etchings that mirrored the Doctrine on the walls.
Citrines and garnet crystals lined the floor and ceilings.
The Polis light pulsed with a different kind of mana than the rest of the Jade Lattices.
A surge ran through her.
Fast. Heavy. Agonizing.
Like touching lightning with her bare hands. She nearly toppled sideways. Her thoughts swam. The world narrowed to breath.
Not hers.
His.
Kailorien’s.
It seared through her veins, a force tearing through skin, hot and thundering, soaked in hunger.
A pounding.
Not in her body.
Drums.
Beating.
Beating.
Beating.
Not like the Reckoning.
Not like war.
Ritual. Ceremony.
Another surge paralyzed her. She stumbled forward, catching the edge of a marble column to keep from collapsing. Her thighs clenched of their own accord. Her pulse was a scream in her ears.
It was him.
Somewhere ahead.
Kailorien.
But this wasn’t like anything she’d felt before. Not a tide of desire. Not the steady yearning she’d grown used to. This was feral. Ravaging. The weight of his body pressed into hers. His lust. Not for her. Not just wanting—
Consuming.
And then a voice.
“You look unwell, Sokar.”
She turned, staring up into orbs of ice and apathy.
So like Kailorien’s.
So unlike them.
Shu’Khan, dressed in white silk, his beauty ethereal as always, and his face as unmoved as an effigy’s.
His hair, straight and onyx black, flowed down his shoulders like a waterfall ending at his waist. Fine golden necklaces and bracelets adorned his neck and wrists.
His feet were wrapped in silken sandals.
She lurched, and his eyes filled with understanding. Empathy.
“Come,” he said, tilting his head. “Let Us show you the source of your ailment.”
Auryn didn’t trust him. Not in the least. In decades, she’d only spoken to him a handful of times.
Kailorien had warned her about his brother, telling her to stay away from him.
That he was cruel. Wicked. But everything spun around her, and if Shu’Khan knew the cause, maybe she could stop it somehow. Cool it.
And still, the drums were beating.
Beating.
Beating.
Closer with each step. Louder. Shaking the walls.
Vibrating up through her bare feet. The Polis around them pulsed with the sound, flashing emerald and rose.
Dazed, she followed him, watching his back sway as he walked—no, floated—over the rose and silver tile.
His unique scent floated to her. Heavy Sahtra. Overbearing.
“We came to observe,” he said, his voice smooth and lilting. “To ensure the Resh’Agar was performing his duties without fail.”
“I want to leave now,” Auryn told him, her voice thin and reedy.
“But if you do, you will not know his truth.” Shu’Khan paused. Turned his head until their eyes met. “We did not take you for a coward.”
“I’m not afraid,” she said, straightening.
“Then come,” he smiled. “We are not far now.”
They passed through the outer two thresholds of the Companions’ Hall, the marble blooming from emerald to rose, gold, and amber.
In a blink, they stood in front of a runed archway to the core chamber.
The sigils powered down—open, inviting. A teasing golden light flickered within.
Voices. Straining. Moaning. Gasping. Giggling.
The thick scent of incense and ceremonial sage wafted to her nose.
Drums were beating.
Beating.
Beating.
The air pulsed with a kind of electricity, one she immediately recognized.
Estar.
This is Estar.
Stars help me.
I need to get away.
Auryn nearly turned to flee, a dread weight settling in her stomach. Like she’d eaten curdled cheese.
Pain stopped her. A wave of dizziness made her lose her footing. She caught herself on the wall, but her feet took her inside. Farther. And farther.
A row of soft, cushioned black and gold divans stretched out along the right side of the massive room.
This chamber was much larger than any of hers had ever been.
Rose and silver pillows lined the furniture.
From the ceiling hung sheer silks of the same color scheme, draping over the divans like veils leading into another world.
Beyond lay four Companions. Naked. Their skin glowing with a sheen of sweat. Auryn’s gaze roamed their bodies—curved hips, full breasts, soft lines sculpted to please. Tall. Strong. Built for pleasure. So different from her. So beautiful. So perfect.
Auryn took in everything, even that which went beyond their form. Her Manasight spoke of severe mana depletion.
She’d read about Estar many times over the years, curious as to its function.
But the records were obscure. Naturally, the basics were described.
Ritual intercourse. The Resh’Agar coupling with females bred for stamina.
A rare genetic trait. Only vessels with exceptionally high mana capacity were chosen.
Anyone less would die in the joining, for the Resh’Agar devoured their mana in the process.
It powered his runes, his strength, his bond with the Shields.
A divine ritual.
Necessary.
Above all, not optional. As Auryn looked at the naked Companions on the divans, her heart withered in her chest. It hurt so much to know he’d touched them, whispered to them, kissed them.
This time, the pain came in her throat.
It sealed shut as though someone had clamped their hand around it.
She whirled. Again. To run. To flee.
“Do you not want truth, Sokar?” Shu’Khan asked, so close this time that his mouth was near her ear. When had he come up behind her?
“Stay. Watch. Learn. Do you not wish to know more about your Resh’Agar?”
Auryn flinched.
His breath was warm. Too warm. Like everything else around her. The air. Her skin. The ache between her legs. Her throat stung with it. She didn’t answer him. Couldn’t. Her lips parted, but no words came. Only the faintest exhale.
She turned back toward the veils and the drumming. Toward the scene.
A young Attendant sat in the corner of the room, beating a black leather drum. Beside him, a Priest bowed low to the ground, muttering prayers to the Void.
And that was when she saw him.
Kailorien.
Not clothed in Morvane or brooding in silence like the man she knew. Not even like the one who came to her in dreams—mouth soft with longing, voice gravel and thunder.
No. This man…this god…knelt at the center of the room like an effigy of war and lust. Runes glowed along the carved lines of his arms, his back, his sides.
His body was bare, wet with sweat and oil and painted symbols.
Muscles corded and flexed beneath his skin with every motion.
His head was bowed over one of the Companion’s shoulders, the black silk of his hair curtaining the place where his mouth moved.
A low sound rumbled from his chest. Not words. Not a moan. A growl.
Auryn’s nails bit into her palms.
This couldn’t be him.
Except it was.
The link between them wrapped around her ribs like a serpent, tightening with each thrust of his hips, every curl of his tongue, every trembling sigh from the women he touched.
Pleasure spiked through her spine. Her knees nearly gave out. Her vision doubled. Runes, light, heat. Her own heartbeat echoed with his rhythm—an unbearable resonance clawing through her flesh.
One of the women cried out, arching. Another knelt behind him, kissing his back, her fingers trailing down his spine. And Kailorien—no, the Resh’Agar—did not stop them. He leaned into it.
He wanted it.
He finished with one. Drained her dry of mana and tossed her onto the divan like a discarded empty flask. Another Companion crawled forward, wrapping her mouth around him. Taking him in. All of him. He fisted his hands into her black hair, hard enough to pull.
But she didn’t cry out in pain.
She moaned in bliss.
Auryn’s thighs clenched again. The place between her legs pulsed as if his touch had found her from across the room. Her breath came in gasps now—soft, desperate, ashamed.
I could never take him like that.
I’m too small.
Too delicate.
And the breadth of him.
I could never.
Is that why he is always gentle?
Is that why he never takes me like this?
Her mouth opened to cry out, to scream, to flee, but Shu’Khan’s hand closed around her upper arm. Firm. Inescapable.