18. The Crucible #2
She did not hurry. As always, her limping steps were measured, each placement deliberate against the scarred stone, as though she walked not across a training yard but through a sanctum.
The escorting warriors kept half a pace behind her rather than ahead, their posture subtly altered—not guarding her from threat, but clearing a path through disciplined ranks.
A murmur did not rise.
The Reskala did not move.
Yet the air shifted all the same.
Drex’s gaze followed Kailorien’s and sharpened. “Shall I dismiss the ranks, Your Quintessence?”
Kailorien did not answer at once. His eyes rested on Lu’ma as she crossed the breadth of the yard, unflinching beneath the weight of the Reskala's stares. The runes along the warriors’ skin glowed steadily, yet none so much as flickered in her direction.
She carried a sealed missive in both hands, held at chest height in the formal sign of audience request.
Kailorien inclined his head once.
“Hold formation,” he said.
The Marshal obeyed without question.
Lu’ma reached the edge of the parade ground and stopped at the prescribed distance. The two escorting Reskala halted behind her and knelt, blades grounded in silent respect.
Only then did she lower herself to one knee.
The Crucible Yard remained vast and unyielding around them, a sea of steel and scar and white fire. At its center, something quieter waited to be spoken.
The corridor was quiet, save for the click of Kailorien’s footsteps over carved crystal flooring.
A message rested loosely in his fingers, the vellum sealed and unbroken.
Nearly an hour had passed, but Kailorien hadn’t opened the missive yet.
He didn’t need to. Whatever was written there was likely a formality.
Lu’ma always found reasons to send for him, always related to Auryn.
A missed meal. A spike in fever. Letting him know she had spent her afternoon in the Umbral Archives instead of resting.
The girl was devoted past anything he’d ever witnessed in an Attendant.
Not only that, but she was defiant in her service.
Auryn likely did not know Lu’ma was sending him these small messages.
His little star would have been embarrassed.
Would have worried she was burdening him.
Anyone else in his position might have punished Lu’ma for her insolence.
But Kailorien was only grateful for her.
Like him, she only wanted to help Auryn.
To stop her from pushing her body past its limits.
To help her see her worth. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that Auryn wouldn’t listen.
That he still didn’t know how to balance loving her and giving her the freedom she so desperately deserved.
As he rounded the final hallway that would lead him to the Resh’Agar’s abode, Kailorien tucked the message into the inner pocket of his cloak.
Lu’ma’s relentless attempts at rebellion only made her more endearing in their futility.
He knew the rhythm of her now. The chaos she carried like a second skin.
He stepped up to the ward on the double doors leading to his wing and placed his palm on the key sigil lock. The magic hissed and glowed, a runed sphere appearing over his gloved hand. The symbols rotated as the magic recognized his mana, then, with another faint hiss, the lock allowed him entry.
The wing was well lit. Lu’ma had worked to activate all the Polis lanterns in the sitting room and the adjoining chambers.
The sound of each of his steps drew a reaction from the Polis crystal walls until the sound waves propagated and coalesced, bringing the walls to life in emerald hues.
The green reflected off the black and gold marble around him—the colors of the Resh’Agar.
He heard Auryn’s voice in his chamber, sweet and familiar.
“Lu’ma, you fuss too much. Truly. I think I am more than ready to go. At this rate, you are delaying my departure.”
A beat of silence followed by a velvet laugh.
“No, my friend. You fixed my sash already. Please, rest now. You have been running about all morning fussing over me.”
As Kailorien approached, he sensed a familiar magic in the air. A mana that could only belong to one person. To his Auryn. But not from casting. From Weaving. His brows drew together.
He rounded the curve, stepped past the archway. Then…
He stopped.
All thoughts in his mind came to a sudden, grinding, halt.
Auryn stood before the far divan, back partially turned, long gossamer veil shimmering like falling snow. A crown of light arched from her brow—sharp, delicate, divine. Gauze spilled like moonwater down her back, trailing behind her like mist behind a gliding cloud.
The gown she wore was not of this world.
Not just in beauty, but in the way it clung to her body with impossible precision, stitched along the seams of her very form.
It accented her slim waist then spread outward along the curve of her hips.
The skirts flowed in ripples down to the floor, the fabric folding back and forth in elegant waves of silk and lace.
His mouth parted. He couldn’t breathe.
Not because she was beautiful—though Void help him, she was ethereal—but because he’d forgotten.
Forgotten she was more than someone he needed to protect. More than his heart.
She was sovereign.
She was his world.
And he was unworthy of the sight of her.
She turned. Their eyes met, all of the crystals and jewels of her dress reflecting in her silver eyes in cosmic union.
His Sokar.
His Bonded.
One half of him.
He took a breath, surfacing from the depths of awe and reverie.
"Auryn..."
Her cheeks flushed, her eyes growing wide. She hadn’t expected him. But Lu’ma—he had never seen an Attendant look so pleased and smug.
Kailorien approached the living vision before him with caution, reverence, as though any sudden movement might scatter her into mist. And when he was close enough to touch her, he did not, afraid to break this moment. Afraid he’d blink and find her gone.
Still breathless, he raised a hand—gloved fingers brushing the edge of her veil.
“You—” he began, but stopped. Swallowed. Started again, softer. “You look like the first rays of starlight falling on the world.”
She lowered her gaze, her flush deepening.
He stepped closer.
“I have seen all the corners of Daesmoria, all those things that others have called wonders. Yet never have I truly seen one until this very moment.”
And then—he knelt.
Not as the Resh’Agar.
But as Kailorien.
He took her small hand in his and kissed her knuckles. Each one in turn. When he looked up again, there were tears in her eyes. Unshed. Restrained. He brushed his thumb along her skin and kissed her palm. As he did, he allowed his thoughts to travel across their bond.
My Auryn. My Sovereign Star. My Sokar. You are worthy of all you wish to claim. You always have been. Not by virtue of the dress you wear, but by the virtue of your stormheart.
So burn, my starlight. Show them your fire.
And if you need me, I will always come for you.