32. The Spider’s Loving Web #4
“To think Our Sokar might be harmed, even while surrounded by a flank of Reskala…” He shook his head with slow disdain. “If there is anything unseemly, it is that fact alone.”
He let the silence hover like a veiled question.
“Are you…alright?” he asked then, softer. “Your wounds have healed, of course. But your mind…your soul. That kind of violence—does it linger?”
It lingers, and I do love witnessing it with you in your dreams.
She hesitated, then nodded once.
“It was frightening,” she admitted. “But the Resh’Agar was there.”
A spark of something unreadable flickered behind Shu’Khan’s eyes at the slip of that name. But he did not comment on it directly.
“Yes,” he said instead. “Iridias did well. He always does. Certainly, he keeps a watch over you that is… unparalleled in its devotion.” Then, delicately, he added, “Though We are concerned that it may affect his performance in Estar.”
Auryn steadied herself.
“Father,” she said, voice even, “is Estar truly necessary?”
He leaned back into the cushions like an exasperated mentor.
“This again,” he drawled.
“As often as needed,” she replied, calm but resolute, “until you see my truth.”
Their eyes met. Held. The hearth crackled. And in that pause, the balance of power tilted—neither wholly one nor the other’s.
“The Estar is convoluted and ancient,” Auryn said, lifting her chin. “It is not needed.”
She stood taller with each breath, each word steady. “I have presented the research. The data. Many times. But the Council does not read my reports. They do not listen.”
Shu’Khan stroked his chin, gaze unreadable. “And you believe that We shall?”
“I believe,” she replied, “that if you truly want this city to see my light, then you understand that the Companions have taken too much power. Even from your hands. Their influence is too great. They do not speak at Council, but they fan the flames behind it.”
He paused, the motion of his fingers stilling. “You do make a tempting point.”
Turning away, he moved back toward the fluxhearth, its flame dancing like a thing alive. He stood before it in utter stillness. So long that Auryn began to wonder if he even breathed.
Then, at last, a soft exhale.
“Let Us try it, then,” he said. “For a time.”
Auryn blinked. “Try it?”
He turned to her, eyes catching the firelight.
“No Estar. No Companions. Four Cycles—Dark, Ice, Fire, Growth. A full year, ilphara, with no Estar. Let Us see the results.”
Her heart thudded once, hard enough to echo. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Her toes had gone numb. No Estar? Truly? So simply? To take the pain of the man she loved—his suffering, his ritualized torment — and release it with no fanfare, no conditions?
It didn’t feel real.
“The Council will oppose you,” she said at last, her voice barely above a whisper.
He smiled. “Certainly, they will try.”
Then, with the soft heat of a flame curling around a wick, he said: “But they, too, must be reminded that the Doctrine isn’t in books and scrolls and paintings. It is in Us.”
“Father,” she breathed, her voice wavering. “Father, I—”
“Careful,” he murmured.
His voice didn’t sharpen. It quieted. A whisper of a blade.
“We know what you would say, and We must caution you against it. If you wish to rule, you must stand above. Above gratitude, especially. A strong ruler isn’t thankful. He is strong enough to take and to give.”
She nodded, slowly.
A kingly gift. Yet it makes no difference. Compared to those willing vessels, I would much rather occupy your every thought, your every dream. Buy his freedom, little ember, knowing you will never be free of me yourself.
Shu’Khan spoke again.
“You’ve been hiding these summons from Iridias, have you not?” His tone was light, nearly fond. “And Our gifts.”
Auryn said nothing. The silence stretched. Taut as wire. Sharp as judgment.
“It pains Us to think you may be ashamed to align yourself with Us before Our brother.”
Her fingers clenched around the tome.
“It isn’t about alignment,” she said.
But the rest of the sentence wouldn’t come.
He rose.
One step.
Another.
Descending from his dais as though gravity bent itself to his command.
“He does not trust Our intent,” Shu’Khan murmured. “And he is right to doubt. We were…different, before We knew you. But now? Now We see your potential. Your light.”
She couldn’t meet his eyes.
“So, tell him, ilphara.” He was close now. Reaching—his hand suspended in the air between them. Not touching. Hovering.
“Tell him of Our talks. Of Our efforts. Tell him everything. Do right by him.”
His voice dipped.
“After all…he does adore you so.”
A pause. Just long enough for her heart to stutter.
“Would it not pain him,” Shu’Khan whispered, “if he found out…another way?”
She took a step back. Not out of fear. Not exactly. But the air around him had thickened, shimmering with something too vast, too knowing. He watched her—eyes unreadable, lips curved with a near-smile—and then turned back to the hearth.
“Ask yourself, Sokar,” he said, voice low and liquid, “why you fear telling him the truth.”
The flames licked higher behind him. Their glow caught the sharp lines of his profile, casting his face half in shadow.
“But do tell him…”
A beat. A breath.
“…or I will.”