Chapter 7 #3
It’s a lie, and we both know it, but the flicker of possessiveness in his voice… gods, I want it. He halts mid-step, though neither of us lets go. I’m hyperaware of his grip, the heat of his hand through the thin barrier of my gown, the pressure of his fingers against my gloved palm.
“I trust every person in this room,” he says, chest heaving with restraint. “But not one of them deserves to—” He breaks off, dragging in a breath, then steps back.
In his hand, a red cord glimmers. He offers it to me. I take it, heart pounding, not knowing what it means—only that when I lift my eyes to his, the ice has melted, replaced by a longing so fierce it steals my breath.
My hand lifts of its own accord, reaching for him—but before I can touch, he bows stiffly, turns on his heel, and is gone. I slide the cord onto my wrist, then drift through the crowd until I find Sirona. She’s laughing in a corner with a girl from the kitchen staff, cheeks flushed with wine.
“Oh, Metra! There you are!” she exclaims, pulling me closer. “Are you having a good time? Oh, my goodness—” Her eyes widen, and she actually gasps, grabbing my wrist.
“What?” I ask, startled, holding my arm out.
“This is absolutely delightful! Tell me—who in the realm gifted you a cord of passion?”
She points, but I don’t need her finger to know which one she means. The red cord gleams against my skin, the one Lowan pressed into my hand only moments ago. Red. For passion.
I shrug, forcing a casual smile. “I found it by the drinks. I did not know what it meant.” A partial lie. Sirona giggles, accepting it as a harmless faux pas from someone new to Feyrnacht, and lets it go.
“Where’s Zillah?” I ask quickly, eager to change the subject.
“Oh, these things don’t interest her. She’s happiest holed up with Selene for the night.”
“Who is—” I begin, but Sirona has already spotted someone across the room. She shouts a greeting and rushes off before I can finish.
I glance around. The music is still playing, laughter echoing through the hall, garlands swaying under lantern light. It’s beautiful—too beautiful. I should be swept up in it, but I only feel the ache of wanting quiet. If Zillah can skip the entire night, surely I can skip part of it.
I slip out the doors and climb the main stairs, anticipating the hush of my chamber, the comfort of the bed waiting for me.
The music fades behind me as I climb the stairs, laughter and dancing muffled by stone and distance.
My feet ache, and wine fogs my head, but the giddy weight of the night won’t leave me.
I turn the corner into the hallway leading to my chamber—and stop short. Lowan is there. For one wild heartbeat, I’m thrilled. Then terror coils low in my stomach. He’s been different tonight—intense, unreadable. Dangerous.
He doesn’t move as I approach, and only watches me steadily, silver eyes burning in the lantern light.
“How long have you been waiting here?” I manage.
“It doesn’t matter.”
I arch a brow. “Oh? Did you want to make sure I came back to my room alone?”
A flicker of irritation crosses his face, gone almost as quickly as it came. “Actually, yes. But not for the reasons you think.” He exhales, raking a hand through his dark hair. “I shouldn’t have stopped you from dancing with whomever you wished earlier.”
The words catch me off guard. “Are you… apologizing?”
His only answer is a level look that makes my pulse stumble.
“Well,” I mutter, turning toward my door, “my feet are killing me. I’m going in.” I pause, glance back. “You’re welcome to come in, if you’d like.”
He follows without a word. The door closes behind us, and suddenly the silence between us is louder than the revelry below. I kick off my shoes with a sigh. Only then do I realize—I’ll never get out of this dress on my own. Sirona pinned me into it.
“Would you… Be so kind?” I ask, fingers brushing the clasps at my back. “Careful, though. Touching me could be dangerous.”
He doesn’t answer. His eyes darken, and with a slight motion of his hand, he tells me to turn around. I do.
The world narrows to the sound of clasps slipping free, the brush of his breath at my neck, the heat of his presence right behind me. Neither of us speaks. By the time he finishes, my skin is prickling with awareness.
“I’ll be right back,” I whisper, and escape into the bathing chamber.
I lean against the door, heart pounding. He’s in my room. I strip out of the gown, slip into my sleeping shift, and throw a robe around me. It feels surreal—too intimate, too dangerous—but when I return, he’s still there.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “That dress was so beautiful, but I’m glad to be simple and comfortable again.”
“I’m glad you’ve found comfort here,” he murmurs.
I hesitate. “It’s strange. I think about home, about my mother, about going back. But not as often as I should. Something about this place feels like home, too, and I don’t understand why.”
His gaze holds mine, steady, searching. “Sometimes what you’ve always known isn’t where you’re meant to be.” The truth of it stirs within me, profound and undeniable.
We stare at each other, the air between us thrumming. I ache to reach out, to touch him, to bridge the impossible distance. My lips form his name. “Lowan…”
He takes a step closer, eyes blazing. “Feyrnacht,” he says hoarsely.
“What?”
“Tonight is Feyrnacht. Anything goes. It’s Fate weaving the year ahead.” His jaw tightens. “But it won’t be like this tomorrow. It can’t.”
I understand what he means: us. He swallows hard. “Others depend on me. They are my responsibility. Which means I can’t—” He cuts off, jaw tight. “I have to put duty above all else.”
“Right,” I say, though I feel like someone has yanked the floor from under me. Still, he hovers closer, raising a hand as if he might touch me, regardless of danger. My breath catches.
“This night isn’t over yet,” I whisper.
His eyes flare—a hundred unsaid words burning between us.
For a heartbeat, I decide I’d take whatever he offered—even if it ended with dawn. But another voice inside me knows better. “But I deserve more than a few borrowed hours,” I breathe. “If that’s all you can give, maybe it’s better left untouched.”
His hand drops. He nods once, slowly, resigned. Respect glimmers in his gaze—devastation, too. Then he turns and leaves. The door closes, and I collapse back onto the bed, heart still racing, whispering to the silence, “What just happened?”
Feyrnacht is never mentioned again—just like so many other moments between us—but the tension doesn’t fade. If anything, it sharpens.
I spend the next four days training with Zillah and sparring with Lowan, who insists on putting every weapon imaginable in my hands—swords, axes, staffs, even things I don’t have names for.
Apparently, the power I pulled from him isn’t just strength and agility, but his instinct.
No matter the weapon, my body knows—the balance, the angles, the way to strike.
Lowan won’t admit it outright, of course. But I see it. The flicker in his eyes when I catch him off guard, the curve of his mouth when my blade nearly kisses his ribs. Pride. Glee, even. For once, I’m a challenge—and he loves it.
He puts me flat on my back, steel flashing as he takes me down.
Before I can recover, he follows, bracing over me, his weight caging me in.
He’s not just gloating—he’s teaching. His voice is low and measured as he shows me how to finish an opponent from this angle, or reverse the position and take the upper hand.
But all I can focus on is him. The heat of his body close to mine, the rhythm of our breathing syncing after the fight, the way his eyes lock on mine with such relentless intensity. My head tips back before I can stop it, baring my throat as if my body craves his touch without permission.
His gaze drops, following the line of my neck. His nostrils flare. And I know—he still wants me too. The realization coils hot and dangerous between us. What would happen if we—A sharp throat-clear shatters the moment.
“Unless you plan to seduce each other to death, you’re doing this maneuver all wrong,” Zillah drawls. I’d forgotten she was even here.
Lowan jerks upright, all clipped movements and training formality again, leaving me sprawled in the dust—breathless, burning, and aching for what nearly was.
Magic is harder than blades. Under Zillah’s cool instruction, though, I’ve managed a few small things.
A spark here, a pulse there. Nothing dramatic, but enough to prove there’s something in me waiting to be shaped.
Shielding, she says, is essential. Everyone can learn to shield, but her gift can strip others' shields, shutting them down completely. I’ll never be at that level—unless I take her power too, which no one wants.
So, for safety, we avoid touch. No one presses too close.
Still, today I can feel it—I’m close. On the edge of making the shield real. As we wrap up, sweat streaks down my spine. Lowan turns away, already striding for the edge of the circle. I fall in behind him, chest heaving.
“Just a theory,” Zillah mumbles from behind us.
I glance over my shoulder. She’s holding her dagger. Before I can even process it, she hurls it—straight at Lowan’s back.
My heart seizes. He doesn’t even turn. Doesn’t know.
The power rips out of me like a thunderclap.
A wall of force flares to life, rushing past me as the dagger slices the air.
It slams against my shield; the impact jolts through my bones, and the blade ricochets off course, clattering harmlessly to the ground—the silence after rings louder than the strike.
Lowan finally turns. His silver eyes meet mine, unreadable. One dark eyebrow lifts. He looks utterly unbothered, as though the blade never could have touched him anyway. Maybe it couldn’t. But still—I stopped it.
Zillah, however, is grinning like a cat with cream. “Interesting,” she says, voice low and satisfied. “I was right.”
I’m still shaking, my pulse racing. “What the actual hell was that?”
Her grin widens. “A breakthrough.”
Something inside me fractures.
“Breakthrough?” My voice is sharp, brittle. “You nearly stabbed your brother. What is wrong with you?”
Zillah only smirks. Lowan watches, maddeningly unruffled.
I throw my hands up. “I’ve had it. I’ve had it with this circle. With these woods. With your twisted sibling games, with the silence, with all of it. I’ve been dragged out here day after day with no answers, no explanation, and I’m done. Do you hear me? Done.”
I shove past Lowan—except he shifts aside, as though opening the way was his idea all along. That smug, unreadable look only fuels my fury. I don’t look back. I stomp out of the circle, through the trees, all the way to the estate.
By the time I reach my chamber, I’m seething.
Boots off, door slammed, fists clenched.
If I could get out of this place, I would.
Sirona and Alva are kind, but what does it matter?
Kindness means nothing when you’re still basically a prisoner.
I throw myself onto the bed, glaring at the ceiling, fury burning into exhaustion.
Eventually, the adrenaline ebbs. My stomach growls, traitorous and hollow.
Of course, I skipped dinner and told Alva I wasn’t hungry.
Now I’ll starve in my self-righteous fury.
Perfect. With a groan, I pull myself up.
Fine. I’ll creep down to the kitchen, snag a crust of bread, and slink back to my room before anyone notices.
I pad through the darkened halls, bare feet silent on cold stone. The estate is hushed, lanterns guttering low. But when I step through the threshold of the kitchen, I freeze. Someone’s already there.
She stands in flowing white; her gown draped like mist over strong, slender limbs. Her skin is deep, warm brown, her hair a cascade of intricate braids the color of moonlight. She moves with a grace that makes the air itself pause—pouring hot water into a delicate cup as though it’s a ritual.
She turns her head slightly, as if she’s been expecting me all along. “You must be Metra.”
I blink, surprised. “Oh—sorry. I didn’t think anyone would be awake at this hour.”
Her lips curve in a smile, serene and knowing. “Why waste the hours when the moon is gracing us with her wisdom and guidance?”
My throat goes dry. There’s no mistaking it—this must be Selene.