32. The Spider’s Loving Web #3
“Do not look so troubled, child. We have lived for millennia with this pain, and We have learned to master it.”
And everything else beneath it.
Auryn didn’t know how to reply to Shu’Khan’s words, so she let them go—filed them away like so many of the other things he said that hovered somewhere between sincerity and his unique poetic cadence.
“I received your gift,” she said instead. “How do you find such rare tomes when it seems I’ve excavated half the Umbral Archive and haven’t found as much?”
Shu’Khan drifted to a nearby divan, his movement like oil across water.
He didn’t simply sit—he sprawled, lounging across the cushions with the entitlement of a deity whose temple was his birthright.
The silver embroidery of his robes caught the firelight, sparking in sharp relief against the ink-dark silk.
He raised a single, languid finger.
Auryn approached, but only halfway. She stopped at a respectful distance—close enough to converse, far enough that he could not reach her without effort. A boundary.
He noticed, of course. His smile was faint. Practiced. “We look outside the borders of the Shields.”
She tilted her head, puzzled. “Outside? You mean…the Surface?”
“Indeed.”
A beat.
“Trade and communication with the Surface is riddled with tension,” she said. “Father…I didn’t know you went to such lengths.”
“We do many things that go unspoken,” he replied. He traced a pattern idly into the velvet arm of the divan, the gesture too casual for the weight of his words. “All for knowledge. For legacy. And, most recently, for you. Our Sokar.”
The fire cracked in the hearth, casting gold and crimson across the mosaic floor. Somewhere deep in the walls, mana pipes hissed, like breath behind stone.
“And how is your research on the Runesgram?” Shu’Khan’s voice was gentle, but his eyes—when they met hers—were anything but. Empty. Hollow. But within: a glint. A poised barb, needle-fine and waiting.
Should you tell him about me? About…us?
Auryn didn’t flinch. Not anymore.
“I understand its workings well,” she said, careful. “But in practice…”
She let it hang between them. Let silence veil what she would not share.
His gaze sharpened.
“The Wolf,” he said. “Yes. We are certain those howls are not easily tamed.”
He stood, uncoiling from the divan like a shadow might rise from its caster. Crossing toward the hearth, he reached out—not for her, but for the flame. His fingers hovered just close enough to feel the heat.
“If they could be,” he said, more to the fire than to her, “We would have helped Our brother centuries ago. We would have gentled him, as you have tried.”
He turned back to her then. The fire danced in his eyes.
“But alas,” he murmured, “We must send him to war again and again…only to offer him reprieve from the Wolf’s bite, never a cure.”
His voice dropped, almost tender. “We suspect that burden is now yours, ilphara.”
Did you hear that? I am your burden. Yours.
Auryn hesitated. Once.
Then again.
Finally, in a voice barely more than breath, she whispered, “There is a symbol which eludes me. In the text.”
Shu’Khan looked up at once. His eyes sparked with interest.
“Draw it for Us.”
Without another word, she stepped closer to the divan and sank to her knees on the polished floor.
Lifting her fingers, she summoned a ribbon of mana, shaping it delicately into the ancient symbol—each curve precise, each flick of light a scholar’s devotion.
It shimmered briefly before embedding itself into the stone.
Shu’Khan’s eyes followed her hands with genuine interest.
“Somar’a,” he murmured. “And what have you tried to couple it with?”
“Uth’red. Vit’ris. Con’vrey.” She spoke quickly now, thoughts spilling out in momentum. “Reversing their ley can suppress pain, but without this symbol…” Her fingers hovered over the fading glyph. “Without Somar’a, I’ve made no progress.”
He made a low humming sound—curious, pleased, almost melodic. Then, with liquid grace, he slipped from the divan and knelt beside her. Still, he did not touch. But he came close enough that the scent of his Sahtra oil—ambered, spiced, bitter—brushed the edge of her breath.
His fingertips lit golden with mana.
“Try this way, ilphara,” he said, drawing smooth strokes in the air above hers. “The northern string, then eastern. Then the ley atop, like this…”
Auryn’s breath hitched. Her eyes widened as he completed the arrangement—and then, like a storm breaking, understanding crashed through her.
“That’s right!” she gasped, surging to her feet. “Of course! How did I not see it?”
She reached into the folds of her robes, retrieving parchment and stylus with frantic energy. Uncapping the tip, she scratched down the sequence with practiced speed, whispering under her breath as if afraid the revelation would vanish before she could trap it in ink.
“I’ll try it tonight,” she muttered, more to herself than to him. “This must be the breakthrough I’ve been searching for. If I add Lustral supports, and stabilize the ley drift, and maybe bring in the lower cluster—”
She stopped mid-sentence.
Froze.
Her eyes flicked to Shu’Khan.
First, you answer me. Now, you answer him.
He was still kneeling. Still close. Watching her not with smugness or triumph, but with something far more dangerous.
He was smiling.
Like a god watching his chosen disciple stumble into faith.
Auryn’s stomach dropped.
She tucked the parchment away, eyes narrowing, walls slamming back into place behind her irises.
Too late.
“Forgive me, Father. That was an unseemly display.”
Auryn folded her hands before her, tucking them tightly, as if to contain the rush of emotion she’d just exposed.
But the smile never left Shu’Khan’s face. Even as he stood, even as he sank leisurely back into the cushions of the divan, he smiled.
“You are radiant,” he said, his voice lowered like silk over coals. “Never apologize for such a thing.”
The flicker of his eyes warmed—not just with admiration, but with something personal. Possessive.
“We were afraid,” he continued, “that We would not see your fire again after the attack in the Commons.”
Auryn’s breath stilled.