Chapter 15 Aurelia
Aurelia
I stood there, watching Lysara.
Even in the low glow of the corridor sconces, she looked otherworldly. Before I could speak, a flutter of wings danced overhead. Seraphine hovered closer, sniffing delicately in my direction. Her nose wrinkled in mock curiosity. “This one smells like a summer storm and unresolved decisions.”
Santiago, still crouched near a stack of books, let out a quiet snort. “That’s oddly specific.”
Seraphine spun midair with a hum. “Ah yes—and the watchful one, who smells like burnt incense and repressed emotion. I have an excellent nose for moods.”
Santiago let out another small laugh, and I found myself blinking at him. Against my will, the corner of my mouth twitched, but the thought of Aeryn cut the flicker of humor short.
Lysara’s gaze flicked toward Santiago for a breath too long. Something like recognition softened her expression before she masked it with a polite smile. Her eyes caught on the bit of tideglass glinting at his collar.
“Nice necklace,” she said lightly.
Santiago’s mouth curved faintly. “Thanks. It was a gift.”
The air between them shifted subtly, but it wasn’t lost on me. Whatever passed in that glance, they buried it quickly. I looked between them, uncertain whether to ask or ignore the way her smile dimmed before she turned back to me.
“We don’t have time for this,” I muttered, low, more to myself than them.
But Lysara’s hand was suddenly on my arm, grounding, her voice soft as silk. “Come, let’s get you settled. The healer will be joining us as well.”
I stiffened. “I’m not sharing a room with anyone. I’ve survived on my own this long.”
“You won’t have to,” she assured me. “There are four connected chambers—Santiago will take the first, then my own, yours next, and… Malachi’s is the last.”
I frowned. “That seems… deliberate.”
Lysara’s mouth twitched. “They were built for the bonded—Keepers and their chosen counterparts. The walls carry enchantments for protection, healing, and—if the gods are kind—peace. But they’ve been empty for years.”
“Why not use them?” I asked.
“The upper wing runs cold,” she said. Her tone was mild, but there was something knowing behind it. “Most of us prefer the warmth below—the lower halls were built near the heart of the castle, where the fire never dies.”
She hesitated, a flicker of something softer passing across her features. “Besides,” she added with a wink, “it’s easier to keep secrets when you’re close to the dark.”
Something about the way she said it made me wonder how much slipping in and out she’d done over the years—and what secrets she carried from the shadows of this place.
Maybe having her around would not be as bad as I thought.
We began climbing the winding staircases—stone steps narrowing as we ascended, the air thinning, walls whispering of ancient enchantments. When we passed Malachi’s door, I paused.
Something dark curled under the threshold, thin tendrils of shadow slipping across the floor before vanishing.
Lysara opened the last door at the end of the hall. “Santiago’s.”
His room was warm and well-appointed. Carved wood bed, cozy fire, a tall window looking out into the mist-veiled gardens.
Santiago stepped in with a quiet hum of approval. “I don’t know,” he said dryly, “I think my cell below might be a bit nicer.”
Then Lysara turned toward a section of the wall, brushing her hand along the stone. A latch clicked, and a hidden door eased open.
She stepped inside, glancing around with a soft expression. “It’s been quite some time since I’ve stayed here,” she murmured, fingertips trailing lightly along the edge of the vanity. “But it looks exactly as I left it.”
Pale, ethereal, simple. The walls were pearlescent, the linens a whisper of lavender, delicate but elegant—like Lysara herself.
We made our way through another hidden door connected to another room.
“Here we are. If there is anything you’d like to change, please do let me know. We have great…” Lysara’s voice trailed off as I made my way into the room.
My room was unexpected.
Green vines curled around carved shelves built into the walls.
They were already filled with books. Soft emerald tapestries hung from ceiling to floor, catching the light in muted waves.
A writing desk stood beneath a tall window, and across from it, a vanity with an antique mirror.
The bed—a towering four-poster wrapped in moss-toned linens and golden trim—looked impossibly soft, like a place to drown in warmth.
I ran my hand over the blankets and nearly sighed at the softness.
It reminded me of my room at home, but elevated, richer, more curated. Everything there had been mismatched but comforting and soft with wear.
But here… here, the curtains weren’t makeshift or tattered. The linens weren’t patched by hand. It was all just… more. Too perfect. Too intentional. Too unfamiliar.
I swallowed the ache rising in my chest, brushing my fingers once more over the soft linens.
“Let’s get you ready for this evening,” Lysara said gently, gesturing toward a side alcove I hadn’t noticed before.
A curved archway led into a bathing chamber—stone-tiled and softly lit with wall sconces that glowed like fireflies.
A clawfoot tub rested beneath a stained-glass window, pale green and amber light filtering through the glass and dancing over the tiled floor.
Shelves were built into the stone walls, stacked with delicate jars of oils, soaps, and neatly folded towels softer than anything I’d ever touched.
To the right was another doorway, tall, arched, and carved with delicate ivy leaves.
When I peeked inside, I found a wardrobe that seemed larger than my entire bedroom back home.
Gowns in rich fabrics lined one wall, soft shoes and ornate cloaks along the other.
Velvet-lined drawers and mirrored cabinets glittered faintly under warm lamplight.
I stepped back, unsure if this was a wardrobe or a secret passage to another realm.
Then there was the other thing—a strange spigot hanging from the ceiling in the bathing area, encased in sculpted copper vines. It loomed above a tiled corner.
“What is that?” I asked, wrinkling my brow.
Lysara smiled, amused. “It’s called a shower. It pours water from above, like standing beneath rainfall, only warm. Quite soothing, once you get used to it.”
I blinked at it, still skeptical. “You want me to bathe under a ceiling pipe?”
She laughed softly. “You’ll learn to love it.”
I turned back to the tub—thankfully more familiar.
A bath had already been drawn, steam rising in gentle coils.
The scent of rose and sandalwood wrapped around me, softening the edges of my nerves.
I reached for the buttons of my dress and undressed slowly, my fingertips trembling more than I’d admit.
“I’ll leave you to it then.” The door closed quietly behind her.
As I undressed, I caught my reflection in the mirror.
The scar—the one I’d always known—cut a familiar path beginning just beneath my brow.
It was an old story written across my skin.
It continued down the center of my chest, threading between my breasts, then along the line of my stomach.
At my navel, it twisted again, wrapping around my side and snaking toward my back.
No matter how many times I looked at it, it always felt like it was still being written.
“Who is your patron?”
The memory surged without warning.
Hands restraining me. The burn of the lash. Leather straps biting into my wrists. A cold stone table beneath my back. Faces shrouded in shadow.
“Who is your patron?” As if the answer was something they could beat out of me.
Old rituals insisted a goddess would appear when her favored bled. None did.
I snapped back to the present with a sharp inhale, the edges of that day still clinging to my skin.
My eyes drifted to the bandage wrapped around my chest.
I unwound the cloth slowly, each layer tugging before it released. Dried blood clung to the linen, pulling at my skin with a sharp, tearing catch. When it finally peeled away, I froze.
The gash was still deep, held together by Lumen Sutures—light-thread used only by Synnex healers to drive out magic-touched wounds. They should have shone silver. Instead, their glow had guttered out, leaving thin, darkened lines, as if something had scorched the magic from within.
Shadows seeped through the weakened stitches, shifting as if they sensed the air. They slipped back beneath my skin before I could fully register the movement.
A chill prickled along my spine.
My chest tightened, suddenly aware of a presence behind me—something hovering just at the edge of sense. My head snapped toward the feeling, but no one was there. Only a stillness that hadn’t been there a moment before, deep and absolute.
Panic clawed up my throat. How could I save anyone when I couldn’t even keep myself whole?
I forced the fear back down, smothering it under anger. My gaze returned to the mirror. “Great,” I muttered, voice brittle. “Another scar.”
I pressed my fingers to it, and the skin thrummed beneath my touch. What are you? What did you leave behind?
The dream. The dagger. The way it had cut through me like silk. But how could a dream leave something so real behind?
If that was real… what else had been? Hayat. The shadows. The pain. The whispering dark.
I remembered falling… remembered arms around me. A scent of smoke, myrrh, ash and heat—a body bracing mine as I returned to the world. And then—nothing.
Fury sparked, burning away the tremor of fear. Someone had touched me—held me—when I was broken. They had seen me weak. My jaw clenched. Never again. No one would carve scars into me. No one would touch Aeryn. No one would leave me powerless.
The water in the tub was hot, grounding. I slipped beneath its surface, letting it close over me, wishing it could drown the questions clawing at the edges of my thoughts.
I surfaced with a sharp inhale and ran my fingers through my wet hair, trying to shake it all off.
Steam curled around the chamber, fogging the mirror and softening the edges of reality. The scent of rose and sandalwood clung to my skin, but beneath it all, I still felt the phantom press of shadow.
When I emerged from the bathing chamber, Lysara waited.
She held fresh clothes—undergarments too soft, too sheer, too laced for my taste.
I eyed the dress draped across the chair—silken, elegant, and entirely too revealing.
The plunging neckline dipped far lower than I was comfortable with, threatening to put my scar on full display.
I had lived with it for most of my life—learned to hide it, to armor myself around it.
But now… more people had seen it in the past few days than in all the years it had been carved into my skin. The thought made my chest tighten.
Lysara noticed the tension in my shoulders before I even spoke.
“Too bare,” she murmured, more to herself than to me.
Without waiting for a response, she lifted her hands.
Threads of shimmering fabric flowed from her fingertips, swirling before settling over the bodice of the gown.
The neckline rose gracefully, weaving itself higher with effortless elegance, delicate patterns blooming across the fabric.
Weavers were extremely rare. Back in Synnex, only a handful remained, kept hidden in the homes of the town leaders like prized possessions. The ability to pull something from nothing was a magic hunted nearly to extinction.
Our eyes met in recognition. Her secret to tell, I reminded myself.
“There,” she said softly. “A touch more modest. Beautiful still, but yours.”
I nodded, grateful, fingers brushing over the newly formed fabric. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” she said. “Now, arms up.”
I obeyed, and she slipped the gown over my head, guiding the fabric down with practiced grace. Her hands were precise and gentle as she smoothed it into place, fastening hidden clasps at my back with deft fingers.
The silk hugged my body—soft, cool, impossibly light. Lysara adjusted the fabric at my waist, coaxing it into place with practiced ease.
Her touch lingered on my shoulder. “Tell me,” she said softly, “what drives a mortal girl to come here? Few cross the Veil willingly. Fewer still survive it.”
My reflection wavered in the mirror. “My brother,” I said at last. “He’s all I have left, and I’m all he has. Family is… what keeps me standing.”
Lysara’s gaze found mine in the glass, something knowing in the faint curve of her mouth. “Then we are not so different,” she murmured. “Everyone here has someone they’d burn the world for.”
“So you came to the city that never gives without taking.” Lysara added, her voice soft but certain.
“If it means finding Etherblooms, I’ll pay the cost.”
Her hands stilled briefly, then resumed smoothing the fabric down. “If they can be had,” she murmured, “it will be through him. He is… possessive of the gardens.”
“Kaelith,” I said quietly.
Her eyes met mine in the mirror, soft but sharp. “He grants what serves him. Be careful what you make him believe you are worth.”
The words sank deep, heavier than they should have. Kaelith. The name had been a warning in Synnex—whispered alongside tales of Nyxarra’s cruelty. Yet here, his name was law, and law was something I could use.
“Then I’ll make him believe I’m worth everything,” I said quietly. “If that’s what it takes.”
I needed to prepare. If I was going to face Kaelith and ask him for what I needed, I would have to look less like a half-drowned stray and more like someone worth listening to. Aeryn didn’t have time for me to falter.
“Have a seat, please,” Lysara said gently, gesturing toward the vanity—a carved mahogany piece adorned with crystal bottles of oils, perfumes, and tinctures. The green velvet stool looked impossibly plush, inviting in a way that made me hesitate before sinking into it.
She stepped behind me, gathering my damp curls into her hands. She twisted and pinned with quiet precision, shaping my hair into a loose updo. Soft tendrils spiraled free around my face, framing me with effortless elegance.
“There,” Lysara said at last, stepping back. “You’re ready.”
I rose from the velvet stool. In the mirror, I looked like someone else entirely.
But beneath the stitching and the polish, the question clawed its way up my throat.
Ready for what?