44. The Weapon and the Wielder #2
Auryn's heart leapt into her throat. She whirled around, her entire body breaking into cold sweat at Kailorien's threat.
No, Kail! I will not allow you to—
Easy, starlight. Breathe. Trust me.
The air tightened like a drawn string. Shu’Khan’s eyes narrowed, but his hands stayed steepled. Auryn turned back to face Shu'Khan, fighting to maintain her composure. She was not alone here. Not this time.
“It was never Our intent to interfere,” Shu’Khan said. “Our Sovereign Star knows she could have come to Us for such approval.” His gaze lingered on Kailorien. “To invoke the Rite of Scars for this is… premature.”
“How so?” Kailorien asked, voice flat.
“We grant her the privilege to use the bow of her choice. Keep your Rite, Iridias. It is a blade that may be drawn only once in a century. You may find the next cut the Council demands… draws deeper.”
Kailorien’s scowl darkened, but Auryn’s hand found his arm. “You are generous, Father. Your foresight may yet serve us.”
Shu’Khan smiled—a rare and terrible thing. “You see how Our ilphara defers to Our wisdom, Iridias? You might learn from her.”
He turned, floating back to his seat. Before settling, he cast one final glance over his shoulder.
“We endure your temper because it can be turned upon Our enemies,” Shu’Khan said, gaze narrowing. “But rage does not make a ruler, Iridias—it makes a weapon. And weapons do not lead. They are wielded.”
Vargrún cackled in Auryn's thoughts.
Until they tire of that fate, and they use the edge they were given to cut a new path. Even more amusing when that cut cleaves straight through the flesh of its creator.
Without intending to, Auryn leaned until her shoulder brushed Kailorien’s arm.
You are not a weapon to be wielded. Neither am I. Let his words echo, but do not let them linger.
Kailorien leaned. Just a breath to the right. Just enough so she could feel his arm brush back against her shoulder.
His words ring true. I was forged to be a weapon and a vessel for the Shields. I lived as such until you opened my eyes to what I truly wanted. Though I am a weapon, I have grown tired of that fate…
Auryn’s heart skipped a beat. Unable to check herself, she glanced at Kailorien.
Had she imagined it, or had he just used the same words as Vargrún in her mind?
A tremor rippled through the Bond, and for a moment she could not tell if it was Kailorien’s warmth or Vargrún’s claws scratching against her awareness.
She turned back to Shu’Khan quickly, hoping he hadn’t noticed her lapse in control.
“What is your will, Father?” she asked, raising her chin.
Shu’Khan did not look at her again. Still silent, he smoothed his robes to perfection.
“Leave Us,” he said at length. “Prepare for the Path of Fire, Sokar. That should be your sole focus now. If any mistakes are made in the ceremony, the Rite of Judgment will not proceed.”
That night, Auryn drifted in and out of sleep.
Her nerves were too raw to allow for dreaming.
In just three days, she would walk the Path of Fire, a holy route through all the Districts to prepare for the Rite of Judgment.
Builders and Crafters had been working tirelessly for months to modify cobblestones leading through each District, ripping out gold stones and replacing them with crimson tile.
Large pillars had been constructed to hold wide braziers, connected with metal and magic to a plate at the base.
Once she reached each pillar, she needed to touch it with her hand to light the flame at the top.
A simple task, yet Auryn couldn’t shake the feeling that something wouldn’t go as planned.
As daylight crept through the heavy crimson curtains in the chamber, a familiar hand brushed her cheek and stroked her hair. Auryn smiled, her body relaxing, waves of peace radiating outward from Kailorien’s gentle fingers.
“I hope you slept well,” she said, leaning into his touch. “I must have been tossing and turning. Forgive me. I have much on my mind.”
He didn’t reply, and her smile deepened. Kailorien often reached for her even in sleep, as though the Bond called to him when she needed him most.
“The meeting with Shu’Khan wasn’t a victory,” she mused, “but it wasn’t defeat. I won’t see it as such.” She shifted until her back pressed against his front. His body heat cocooned her in warmth.
You are stubborn. But so is the Sovereign Flame. His eyes saw straight through your courageous facade.
The rune’s rumbling voice slid into her thoughts as it always did — constant, inevitable.
She had learned to ignore it the way one ignores the ache of an old scar.
Reaching up, she twined her fingers with Kailorien’s and brought them to her lips, kissing his knuckles.
He pulled her against him in a tight embrace, his scent comforting in moments when Vargrún refused to stay quiet.
She sighed.
“I should prepare for the day. There is still much to be done before the Path of Fire.” She made a bitter sound.
“Naturally, the Council planned for this. Holding a ceremony of this grandeur during the Cycle of Fire is Sevrion’s personal touch.
I need to walk the path. Stabilize the webs.
With the heat in full swing, it will interfere with any magic cast that day. ”
Kailorien shifted, his lips pressing against her ear. He took a deep breath, as he so often did when he wanted to surround himself with her scent.
“Emberling,” he murmured. “Your eyes are brighter than I imagined them. And your skin…so warm…so soft…”
Auryn’s blood turned to ice. Cold sweat broke out across her body. The hairs on the nape of her neck stood on end, and gooseflesh covered her arms and legs.
She surged upwards, ripping herself from Kailorien’s embrace and slamming her back to the headboard in her haste to turn around and face him.
Kailorien sat at her side, bare to the waist, every one of his runes glowing crimson.
His head tilted just so, black bangs falling forward across his brow, his lips curved in that almost-smile she knew better than her own breath — except the eyes.
His eyes were red.
She tried to speak, but no words came. No breath to shape them. No thought to order them.
Those fierce red eyes crinkled at the corners, slitted pupils contracting as his gaze narrowed in on her.
“Do you know how long I have waited?” His voice was Kailorien’s timbre, but threaded with something jagged, alien. “How long I have stared through his gaze, craving the moment he would bring me close enough to see you like this?”
Her lips parted, but still nothing came.
Even when she tried to whisper his name. Call for him. Beg for him.
Her throat seized. Tightened so much she could hardly rasp out a reedy sound of distress.
She called to him in the Bond.
Kail. Kail. Answer me…please…Kail!
Silence. Nothing. Not muffled. Not faint. Just gone.
Panic clawed through her chest, ravaging her lungs. She raised her palms. Silver light coalesced at her fingertips, then sputtered and died.
No.
No. No. No.
She couldn’t fight him—she couldn’t risk hurting him.
Answer me! Kail! Kailorien!
Vargrún leaned closer, crowding her back against the headboard. She inhaled a jagged breath as one of his fingers twined a strand of her hair.
“Beautiful,” he whispered and took another deep breath. “And that scent. Violet, old parchment, flowing ink, and something else, too… Fear.”
His hand traced her cheek, thumb brushing her lip.
“What is it, little ember? Would you reject me after I’ve worked so diligently to meet you in the flesh?”
“Give him back,” she demanded, voice trembling.
He chuckled. That sound she so loved. But warped. Disfigured.
“You wound me. After we’ve been together every day, every hour for years, you still spurn me?
You never answered again after that first time, but I remembered your voice, your magic.
I sought it out at every turn, tried so hard to turn your gaze.
This—” he swept a hand down his stolen body, cruel delight flickering across his smile, “—is only the natural escalation. Would you not agree?”
Her terror cut deeper, not for herself but for Kailorien. What if he couldn’t regain control? What if Vargrún had claimed him at last?
Her memories shattered into a kaleidoscope of colors and flashes. All the times she’d Woven his runes. All the times she’d told him how lonely she was when he was gone on Campaign. All the Council sessions in which he’d delayed his departure.
For her.
Always for her.
I knew—I knew—that being so close to the Flaeme, to the heart of the Shields, weakened his resistance to the Master Rune. I knew, and still I let him delay. I let him put aside what he needed so I could keep him close.
I was selfish.
But I won’t allow him to pay the price.
I won’t.
There must be something I can do.
Something. Anything.
He is my Bonded! My Silari! Surely, if I call—
Realization struck. A blind hope.
Instinct took her.
She lunged forward, arms circling his neck, and pressed her lips to his.
Vargrún growled in his chest. His runes flared. She kissed him deeply, letting him grip her waist with familiar yet foreign hands. Let him lay her back against the mattress and taste the fear upon her tongue. She pulled back only to whisper. To beg.
“Kail… My Silari… I need your breath… give me your Weave…”
For a heartbeat, only silence answered as he claimed her lips again. His mouth moved against hers, hot, invasive—red eyes burning. Heat pooled in her belly, but she felt no shame in it. This was her Kailorien. His body. His hands. His skin. Vargrún was a disease, and she would burn him out.
“Breath,” she gasped. “Kail… Weave for me…”
Her hands caressed his runes, and she poured her magic into them. The crimson began to fade, replaced by white.
Then—a spark.
Ansuz flared to life on his chest. Azure breath surged, Weaving, and the kiss changed — desperate, trembling, his.
Overwhelming. Eclipsing everything.
Kailorien.