Chapter 7 #2
I swallow, heart thudding. “Okay.”
Steam still clings to my skin as I step out of the bath. I wrap myself in a thin robe, damp hair dripping down my back, and pad barefoot into my bedchamber. My mind won’t quiet. Zillah. The sharpness in her eyes. The way Alva said 'shielding,' it felt like the most crucial thing in the world.
I will begin training with her tomorrow, and I can’t decide if I’m eager or terrified.
I’m turning it all over in my head when a knock sounds at the door.
Of course, it’s probably Sirona. She’s the only one who ever bothers.
“Coming,” I call, and tug the robe tighter around me as I swing the door open. Not Sirona. Lowan.
He stands in the doorway, cloaked in shadow and firelight, eyes sweeping over me before I can blink. His gaze flicks from the damp strands of my hair down the line of my robe, and his nostrils flare like he’s just caught scent of something he shouldn’t want. Heat rushes to my face.
I tug the robe tighter across my chest, meaning to shield myself, but the motion only makes my breasts more obvious.
His eyes drop—just for a breath—and my heart lurches.
Thrill and panic collide in my chest. Part of me wants to slam the door and hide.
Another part wants to step closer so he can look.
Instead, I lift my chin. With one hand on my hip, the other clutching the fabric at my chest, I channel all the haughtiness I can summon. “Is there something I can do for you?”
For the briefest instant, his mask slips. His pause, the dark gleam in his eyes—it feels like the air between us crackles with the same thought. I can’t let myself speak—a hundred things I would do for him if I dared. Then the ice slams back into place.
“I came to tell you,” he says, voice smooth but strained, “Zillah expects you in the circle tomorrow. After breakfast. Bring the dagger.”
My stomach drops. He knows. I school my face into indifference, though I can feel the heat creeping up my neck. “Dagger?” I echo.
His silver eyes pin me. “You know the one.” He leans infinitesimally closer, voice dipping low. “I believe you’re very familiar with it.”
The breath catches in my throat. The double edge of his words cuts sharply, and I can’t tell if he meant it that way—or if I only wish he did.
I force a smirk. “Excellent. See you there.” And before he can say another word, I slam the door in his face.
I lean back against it, robe clutched tight, heart hammering. Gods above. What just happened?
Morning comes too soon. I braid my curls back with shaky fingers, trying to keep them out of the way. Practical. Controlled. Precisely what I don’t feel. My stomach knots, and my hands tremble with each twist of hair. Today I train with Zillah, but my nerves aren’t about her. They’re about him.
A knock breaks through my thoughts. My heart leaps straight into my throat.
Gods, it’s him. He’s back already—what, come to scowl at me again?
Or worse, to smirk? I yank the door open, sass already sharpened on my tongue—and there’s no one.
The hall stretches empty in both directions.
Only a small box, neatly wrapped with a simple ribbon, rests on the floor.
Confused, I glance around one last time, then snatch it up and shut the door quickly behind me.
My pulse races as I tug the ribbon free and lift the lid.
Inside lies a sheath. Black leather—smooth and supple, clearly new.
Not Lowan’s. Custom-made. My breath catches as I run my fingertips over the design—two feathers, etched into the leather, crisscrossing like wings folded together.
It’s beautiful. Dark and sleek and perfect. My heart swells in a way I don’t want to name. No one else knows I have the dagger. It has to be from him. And then a blistering wave of embarrassment washes over me.
What if he had meant to give this to me last night?
He came to my door with a message anyone could have delivered at breakfast. He didn’t need to face me then, not just to tell me about Zillah.
Maybe he’d been there to hand me this sheath, knowing I treasured his blade.
Perhaps he’d meant for it to be a moment.
And I ruined it. Slammed the door in his face merely to prove I could.
I press the sheath to my chest, wishing I could rewind that instant. Maybe that’s why he left it here instead—wordless, left behind like a secret he doesn’t want to admit. I don’t know whether to smile or cringe. But, gods help me, I love it anyway.
Zillah waits for us in the circle like she’s been lounging there all morning. She leans against a tree, arms folded, boot crossed casually over the other, like she owns the ground itself.
A tattoo I hadn’t noticed last night catches the light—golden ink glimmering across her left hand, curling down her ring finger and over her knuckles.
The placement stops me cold. The pattern doesn’t match my mother’s, and her tattoo is black, but otherwise, the resemblance is too sharp, too deliberate to be a coincidence.
Lowan’s silver eyes flick toward her. “Sister.”
She doesn’t even glance up at first, but casually inspects her nails like they’re more interesting than either of us. Then, smoothly: “Brother.”
I blink. With this stiff exchange, I forget my concern about the tattoo. That’s it? That’s how siblings greet each other? Lowan’s mouth twitches, barely, but I catch it. “So glad you could come up for air from between Selene’s legs long enough to join us.”
My eyes widen. Heat rushes up my neck. Gods, did he just—? Zillah doesn’t even flinch. Her lips curve lazily. “Jealous, brother?”
“Absolutely not.” His reply is instant, flat.
She shrugs. “If you need release, I can always call Remli—”
“Let’s just get started.” Lowan’s tone snaps cold before she can finish. Frost pours off him like a wall slamming shut. Zillah chuckles, clearly pleased she’s hit her mark. She pushes off the tree with feline grace, stretching her shoulders like a cat.
I glance between them, baffled. “Who’s—”
Lowan cuts me off, sharp. “What we’re here for is more important than rehashing the past. Or personal details you’re not privy to.” His eyes lock on me, cool and unyielding.
My mouth snaps shut. The sting burns even as curiosity claws at me. Remli. Selene. Who the hell are they? Zillah is openly smirking now, her gaze bouncing between us like she’s savoring every second of the tension. “Ooooh,” she drawls. “What do we have here? Something I should know about?”
I bristle. My hands curl into fists, and I look anywhere but at either of them. Lowan’s patience clearly snaps. He glares at his sister. “Should you go first, or should I?” Zillah’s smirk widens into something sharp and dangerous. “Oh, it would be my pleasure.”
Feyrnacht is finally here. Someone provided me with a dress for the occasion, but I don’t know where it came from.
It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
Midnight blue fabric clings to me like liquid night, embroidered with silver thread that spills down the bodice in starbursts and crescent moons.
A sheer overlay drapes from my shoulders, trailing behind me like a cape of constellations, every star shimmering as if plucked from the sky.
The whole thing feels enchanted, as though the night itself is stitched into cloth just for me.
Sirona dons her gloves and helps me dress, sweeping my curls up off my neck and pinning them with elegant precision.
Last of all, I slip on the silvery gloves—sleek and luminous, elegant enough to match the gown, though I know they’re more than decoration.
They keep my magic contained, protecting me from accidents and others from me.
We glide downstairs together, laughing and giddy about the festivities, when I see him. Lowan. Dressed in midnight blue, with his black hair still damp from his bath, he has a glass in his hand as he speaks casually with a guard.
The guest list is small—just the Veynars and the estate staff, given the night off to celebrate.
Lowan turns as soon as Sirona and I step into the room, like some invisible tether pulls his gaze to mine.
His eyes flare the instant they meet me, as if I’ve stolen his breath.
He doesn’t look away, not once, even as he crosses the room.
Sirona giggles beside me. “I’ll be back,” she whispers, slipping away, but I barely hear her. I’m already caught in his trap.
“You look—” his voice rasps, roughened. “That color looks ravishing on you.”
“Thank you. Apparently, it’s Feyrnacht, so here I am,” I answer, and immediately wish I’d said nothing at all.
“Here you are,” he murmurs, voice low, seductive. He tosses back the rest of his drink in a single fluid motion, then extends his arm toward me.
“Let’s have a drink, shall we?”
I don’t know if it’s the festivities or the wine heating his blood, but as long as he looks at me like this, I don’t care.
Sirona gifts me a blue cord for wisdom: Alva, a green cord for luck. A bold young guard asks me for a second dance, and I’m about to accept when Lowan steps forward, eyes blazing. “She is spoken for this dance, Dax.”
The room stills for a breath. Then he turns to me, extending his hand, his silver eyes a storm I can’t read. The song is slow. Our bodies draw close, his hand firm at the small of my back, mine clinging to his shoulder.
“I hope you weren’t too attached to dancing with Dax again,” he says evenly, though his gaze consumes me.
“Who? Oh, no—it’s fine. They were just being nice.” My voice is breathless; the closeness of him unraveling me.
“Nice,” he echoes, dry, biting. “They were looking at you like they wanted more than ‘nice.’”
I bristle. “So? Maybe I did too. Did you ever consider that?”