25. Whispers Behind the Curtain #2
The diadem was low-profile, its metal a dusky auric alloy, elegant and unassuming at a glance. However, the stones set into it were anything but. Starcut emeralds and sun-opals, the kind only mined in the deepest vaults of Iliri, glittered like fragments of fallen stars.
And the slippers, blessedly, had no heel. Just the softest gold-threaded soles, so she could walk in silence and comfort, just the way she liked.
Behind her, Lu’ma stepped back and signed with a subtle flourish, 'Your Radiance is ready.'
At the far end of the chamber, Kailorien hadn’t moved in nearly ten minutes. He sat at his study with his head bowed, one hand curled into a fist against his mouth, the other turning a quill slowly between his fingers.
He hadn’t looked at her. Not once since Lu’ma began dressing her. His knuckles whitened around the quill. Auryn turned, pulse flickering at the tension in his shoulders—at the way his runes seemed to call to her just beneath his skin. Watching her, even if he wasn’t.
She took a slow, grounding breath. “Are you coming with me to the Prismatum?” she asked.
Kailorien didn’t lift his head. Just said in a tone edged with restraint, “If I look at you now, I won’t let you leave the room.”
Lu’ma made an odd sort of sound.
Auryn flushed. “It is only a dress.”
“No," he countered. “It’s proof I have no self-control. Void help the Council if they see you like this and think you’re theirs to summon. They’ll bleed before I let them lay claim.”
He sat. Controlled. Coiled. Eyes still down.
Lu’ma swept back toward the corner of the room, blending into shadow, ever-watchful.
Kailorien crossed to Auryn with decisive steps. He stopped in front of her, gaze fixed stubbornly on the floor.
“You look…” he whispered. “I have no words.”
She tilted her head, amused now. “You always have words.”
“Not for this,” he murmured, then finally lifted his gaze to her face. He stepped in closer, his proximity stealing her breath. His fingers ghosted along the edge of her veil, careful not to disturb the weave. One knuckle brushed her collarbone.
“You’re dangerous like this,” he said. “Beautiful, yes. But dangerous. Because I forget where we’re supposed to be going. I forget why I let you out of my arms in the first place.”
Auryn arched a brow higher, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “Is our eloquent Resh’Agar at a loss?”
He gave a low, strained laugh. “Not a loss. Just…being tested.”
“You’re the one who chose the gown.”
“My only regret is not choosing it sooner. You were meant to be seen like this. To walk with a crown on your head.”
He leaned in. Pressed his lips behind her ear where the veil parted.
“Let them see you,” he whispered. “Let them all look. And let them remember that it was me who dressed you. Me who bathed you in my touch before silk ever brushed your skin.”
She flushed all the way to her ears. Not with shame, but because she was as hopelessly lost as he was.
Behind them, Lu’ma cleared her throat with a perfectly neutral sign, 'Your Radiance must depart if she wishes to arrive before the hourglass empties.'
Kailorien exhaled through his nose, annoyed. “Fine,” he muttered. “Let’s go before I rip this gown trying to undress you again.”
Auryn turned away quickly, mostly to hide the tremor in her knees. He caught her wrist before she could take a step.
Something cold and metallic brushed against her skin. A bracelet with a delicate silver chain and five teardrop citrine gems. They glowed softly as she turned her wrist in the light.
"Kail…this is…"
"A key sigil," he said. "Five charges with clearance anywhere within the Shields. Four two way portals and one," worry furrowed his brow, "one as contingency."
Her chest twisted, and she rose on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.
"You know I hate this magic. The Resh'Agar's blood—your blood—is sacrificed to break the law of nature.
" She glanced at the dagger at his waist. Always there, no matter what armor he wore.
"You carry the weight of the city. The weight of the Shields.
The burden of the Reskala. And these portals…
there must be a better way to travel between districts.
For you to oversee the entire portal network… "
"It only functions because I am bound to the Shields. No other blood will suffice."
"Then I will find a way," she promised. "First Estar. Then this. I will break your chains, link by link."
He frowned. "Auryn—"
But he stopped when her eyes met his. She gave no quarter. Would never give an inch in the fight to keep him whole. He raised a brow a moment before a resigned sigh left him.
"I should know better than to challenge my Sovereign Star."
"You are not a phiros stone, Kail. You are not some conduit to be used and mined for power. You are yourself. As am I."
He drew the dagger from his waist, and she covered his hand with hers. As he sliced the ethereal blade into his forearm to summon a portal to the Prismatum, the pain of it echoed through her skin.
"We will fight together. Hurt together. Bleed together. That is what it means to be Bonded to me, Kailorien."
His hand settled on her waist, and he pressed his lips to her temple. "You are my breath."
"And you are my heart," she replied.
The portal did not shimmer—it cracked the air open like judgment.
A pulse of pale blue light cleaved the Prismatum’s entryway as the gate widened, sending temple incense and amber Sahtra smoke scattering.
Heat and sound followed—like shattering glass.
And when the light stilled, when the breath of mana exhaled across the chamber, the Resh’Agar stepped through.
He was armored in full obsidian aethersteel, the spikes on his pauldrons gleaming and his cloak billowing behind him like a banner of war.
His face was shadowed beneath his mantle’s hood, rune-lit pauldrons simmering with restrained power.
The priests who had gathered near the Lustrate fell to their knees without hesitation, spines bowed, foreheads to stone, their bodies shivering with both terror and utter devotion.
But the Resh’Agar did not close the portal behind him.
He turned, and from the crackling magic seam appeared a small thin arm gloved in white and gold.
The Resh’Agar took the hand and guided his Sokar from the portal.
The Sokar, whom the city witnessed at processions, festivals, and Doctrine worship every week—was unrecognizable.
She was radiant.
Regal.
Untouchable.
And even those who had once dared to slander her behind her back now looked on in awe as she stepped forth from the portal and looked around the Prismatum as though determining whether its grandeur was worthy of her presence.
Behind her, one more figure stepped out.
An Attendant dressed in formal violet robes with black hair drawn up in a tight bun, piercing black eyes, and a severe limp in one foot.
The eyes of the Prismatum did not linger on her form.
Just another Attendant. Certainly nothing of interest compared to the Sokar.
Her Radiance’s hair was braided tightly down her spine in a formal wrap, woven through with silver wire. Her steps were precise, her posture unshaken as she gestured for attention. Attendants, Priests, and High Priests alike all snapped to obey, their eyes wide and their mouths agape.
“We are present to inspect the site of the attack at the Lustrate,” she announced, her crystalline voice cutting through silence. Behind her, her Attendant arranged her silk veil to fall just so, removing a snag, ensuring it flowed with each of her movements.
It was not a request.
Not even a command.
It was a decree.
The nearest priest flinched as though struck.
Another scrambled to his feet, then froze mid-rise when Kailorien took one slow step forward—no words, no threat, just the sound of his armor whispering across polished stone.
His hood had not fallen. Beneath, his eyes glowed blue.
The presence of him, the weight of him, coiled through the chamber like smoke.
No one dared refuse Her Radiance.
They led them into the inner sanctum of the Prismatum without any resistance.
The Lustrate was colder than Auryn remembered.
The sacred loom space still sighed with the memory of cast magic.
Coppery mana-washed threads hung limp from their mounts, half-dyed in dull pigment.
Several spindles remained untouched, their ends crusted over.
And beside the main altar, a wash of rust-colored residue stained the seam of the floor.
Blood. Scrubbed. But not completely erased.
Auryn stepped over it. “We will begin here,” she said.
A High Priest scrambled to her side, his hands flying up in frantic signs—Your Radiance, this mess will be cleaned in short order. The Prismatum has sent missives to the Council. Requested resources to cleanse the tile of the traitor’s filth.
“In this case, it is good that the Council moves slowly,” she commented. “Let Us hope that not too many signs of the attack have been erased. We intend to investigate in depth.”
No one questioned her.
She moved through the Lustrate like a shadow of memory—tracing her own past steps. Her fingers hovered near the frame where the weaver had fallen. Her eyes swept over every wall, every loose thread.
Kailorien did not speak. He stood behind her, slightly to the left, always between her and the door.
A younger priest tried to approach—perhaps to offer some unnecessary explanation—but stopped short when Auryn turned sharply and said, “Was a search of hair conducted?”
The man blinked, startled, and signed in reply, 'Hair, Your Radiance.'
“Yes,” she said. “Did you sweep the floor for strands? Did you collect shed fragments from the spools? Was the body’s head preserved for sampling?”
Inwardly, Auryn flinched at her own question. The memory of that head rolling against her slippers made her queasy. But she showed no sign of discomfort. Couldn’t.