2. Colton
Chapter 2
Colton
She’s out of reach, our bond stretched thin. I don’t let on to Nyx, who’s got a flair for drama that I can do without. His constant presence is like a chokehold—unnecessary and grating.
I watch over Lyra in bed, the rise and fall of her chest under my palm the only thing steadying me.
Since she blacked out in the tunnels, dragging her back to this place felt like a march through purgatory. It’s too quiet, the kind of quiet that screams, and I’m close to regretting not listening to Nyx about using the bridge. Close.
“We should be tracking down Athalda, make her bow to Lyra or...end her,” Nyx says, looming over Lyra’s other side.
“As tempting as that is, Lyra’s got first dibs on the witch, and that’s non-negotiable,” I say, my hold on her unyielding. “I’m not going anywhere. She stays with me.”
“I’m here, aren’t I? She’ll have me until she wakes,” Nyx shoots back.
I can’t help but laugh. “That’s supposed to make me feel better? ”
“Get over yourself, Colton. When are you going to come clean about your own tales? Can’t wait to see her face when she hears about our lineage,” Nyx says with a smirk that I want to wipe off his face.
“You’re afraid that I might be the light she needs,” I say, keeping my voice even. “But at least I’m not drowning in a sea of lies. I never once plotted against her, not like you.”
Nyx’s smirk doesn’t waver. “Afraid? Please. You’re the one playing the dutiful guard dog. But it suits you, brother. Keep barking at shadows while I deal with the real threats.”
I match his smirk with a cold one of my own. “Guard dog? That makes you the court jester, always dancing around the truth. We both know who Lyra can count on when danger comes knocking. Don’t forget I was there to help put back the pieces after you broke her.”
He leans back, his eyes hardening. “She’ll need more than muscle and pretty words, Colton. When the time comes, it’s my power that’ll save her. It’s a king she needs.”
“You think power is enough?” I retort, my grip on Lyra tightening, a silent promise to shield her with more than brute strength. “It’s not merely about power. It’s about trust, something you know nothing about.”
Nyx stands, a storm brewing in his gaze. “Trust is earned in blood and battle, not whispered sweet nothings. I’ve seen the way you look at her since her dark magic awakened, the hesitation in your eyes. Don’t think for a second she hasn’t noticed it too. When she wakes, we’ll see whose side she’s on.”
“She’s not a trophy to be won,” I snap, rising to meet him eye to eye. “She’s her own person. But when she wakes, she’ll see through your illusions. The only reason she’s been keeping you around is your father’s crazy prophecy about your light saving her. Soon she’ll know the truth.”
Our stares lock, two immovable forces bound by blood but divided by our secrets. The tension could spark a war, yet we’re both unyielding, protectors and pursuers of the one we claim to love.
“Don’t you mean our father? May the best brother win,” Nyx says quietly, turning away with a shadow of a grin, leaving the words hanging like a guillotine’s blade between us.
And as the silence settles over us, I can’t shake the feeling that the real battle for Lyra’s heart is beginning.
My Lyra… I take a seat at the foot of the bed, paying no mind to Nyx as he ambles over to gaze out the window. She seems unchanged, yet there’s something distinctly different about her from the last time we found ourselves here. Those initial nights were fraught with her restlessness, her heart torn by the turmoil with Nyx, Aidan, and Samael. It’s undeniable—she’s endured far too much for her young age.
Her hair, a bit longer now, retains its vibrancy, the white-blonde waves spilling around her like a luminous frame. In sleep, she appears almost serene, a big contrast to the exhaustion I know has claimed her. Drained from funneling too much power into the heart, she might succumb to this deep sleep for days, a luxury we can ill afford.
The uncertainty outside these walls, including the unknown whereabouts of Athalda, weighs heavily on me. Lyra’s resolve to face Athalda herself is clear, but the security of our surroundings cannot wait.
I’m torn between the desire to remain by her side and the necessity of ensuring the palace’s safety. I thought maybe with her newfound strength she would have awakened by now, but the connection between us feels fragile, her vitality diminished.
“Can I trust you to stay here with her?” I ask, rising to my feet. Nyx’s attention snaps from the window to me.
“Where are you going?” he demands .
“Can I trust you?” I repeat, holding his stare firmly.
“You’d know if I moved her. We’re bound by this tether until someone can undo it,” he says with resignation as he kicks off his boots and moves closer to the bed.
I let out a heavy sigh. Deep down, I know Nyx will look after her. I think he might actually love her, which is something new for him. But the thought of him touching her, being close to her, is unsettling. I pull the door open, and before stepping out I cast one last look back. Nyx is tucking Lyra into his side, pulling her close on the bed. I shake my head and slam the door behind me to drown out the image, to prevent myself from doing something I’ll regret.
The possibility of Lyra choosing Nyx is something I have to face, and it’s a thought that’s hard to swallow. Running a hand through my hair, I push that worry aside. I can’t dwell on it now. My immediate task is to figure out why this palace feels so deserted and find out where Athalda and Anika are.
I decide to methodically search the palace, starting with the halls closest to Lyra and gradually working my way toward the more decrepit side. I sweep through every room and corridor, the lava channels carved into the walls illuminating my path.
As I approach the side of the palace that’s rotting, the once sparkling walls darken, and the rugs underfoot become dilapidated. This is Athalda’s domain, her dark spells seeping into the very stones, decaying the walls themselves.
“I wondered when we would meet again, although I can’t say I expected you to come alone.” Athalda’s voice reaches me before my hand even touches her door. Her old, raspy tone more than unsettles me—it ignites a deep-seated loathing.
The door swings open, and I step into the dimly lit room, finding the old woman with tangled hair ensconced in a wooden chair in the far corner, rocking gently.
“You’re lucky I’m alone. After what Lyra did to Euric, I can’t say she’d be as... accommodating,” I say, my voice steady as I close the distance between us, until those pitch-black eyes snap into focus on me.
“So it’s true then. Lyra has killed her father? I felt his death but wasn’t certain who delivered the final blow,” she says, her tone eerily nonchalant, as if the outcome was something she had foreseen.
“You knew this would happen?” I challenge, noting how she absently taps her long nails against the wooden armrest.
“Euric was becoming restless. I warned him that Lyra wasn’t prepared. The dark magic needed more time to corrupt her essence, but his arrogance clouded his judgment,” she reveals with a dismissive wave of her hand.
“Corrupt her essence? What are you talking about?” I ask.
Lyra had confided that Euric sought greater power, expecting her to accept the demise of Eguina, to let its heart—and with it, everyone—perish. But Lyra, even touched by darkness, would never entertain such madness. Euric’s faith in this was sheer delusion.
“The shadows within her grow, already reshaping her. You’ve felt it, though denial seems to cloud your sight. A boy blinded by love,” she taunts, her laughter grating on my nerves.
A low growl forms at the back of my throat, the urge to end Athalda feeling nearly overwhelming as I recall how she exploited Lyra, shaping her into a tool for Euric’s ambition. It revolts me.
“Easy, boy, did I strike a nerve?” she adds, her expression flickering with what looks like concern for a fleeting moment. And that’s when the air shifts, when I sense her presence.
The door bursts open, torn from its hinges, as Lyra steps into the room. Her gaze finds mine. “Colton,” she breathes, and the sound of my name on her lips unravels me.
She wraps her arms around my neck, holding me as if we’ve been apart for ages. I inhale her familiar scent, trying to ignore Nyx’s disapproving glance as he saunters in behind her, leaning casually against the wall with his arms crossed.
“You were supposed to look after her,” I accuse Nyx, unable to hide my irritation.
“She insisted on coming,” he retorts with an eye roll. “Said she felt you were in distress.”
It seems I wasn’t as adept at masking my emotions or controlling our connection as I thought. Despite knowing she was resting, I hadn’t sensed her awakening, nor her approach, until her magic brushed against mine. She’s honing her ability to shield herself from me, a development that leaves me unsettled.
She releases me too soon and turns to face Athalda, who’s masked her expression again with that typical indifferent facade.
“You,” Lyra says, pointing at the old hag, her voice carrying a mix of accusation and defiance.
“Don’t you point your finger at me, girl,” Athalda retorts, her nails beginning that infuriating tap again.
I’m overwhelmed with the urge to step in front of Lyra, to whisk her away from this venomous presence, to shield her from the woman before us. Every so-called family member Lyra has ever known has used her and abused her, but I swear it ends today.
“This isn’t going to go how it usually does,” Lyra says, her voice dropping an octave, heavy with something dark and powerful. I steal a glance at her and notice wisps of shadows threading through the whites of her eyes—a sight that I may never get used to seeing.
Before I can fully grasp the situation, the wooden rocker beneath Athalda splinters, collapses, and darkens. Something like spilt ink pours from Lyra. Shadowy tendrils, like branches in a twisted forest, wrap around Athalda, pinning her against the wall.
“To think, I once shed a tear for you when Samael killed you,” Lyra says with a laugh, but the sound is chilling, foreign to the warm laughter I know. I glance at Nyx, who hasn’t moved and is leaning casually against the wall, seemingly unbothered by the transformation unfolding in Lyra, by the dark magic coursing through her.
“Do you remember the last time we were in this room practicing magic and you slapped me for asking too many questions?”
Lyra steps closer, her presence dominating the room. When Athalda remains silent, Lyra strikes her across the face. The impact forces the old witch to wince, especially on the side marred by scars, closing her bad eye momentarily.
“What a fool I was, thinking you actually wanted to help me, to make me stronger for my sake and that of my people. But you’ve always been his lackey, haven’t you? Always dancing to my father’s tune like a loyal puppet,” Lyra accuses, her voice dripping with contempt as she starts pacing before Athalda, trapped and helpless.
“He saw great potential in you, a chance for you to rise to divinity alongside him. Your actions not only destroyed his ambitions but also obliterated any hope of transcending the mortal coil,” Athalda retorts through gritted teeth, defiant even in a compromised position.
“I did more than shatter his ambitions. I tore out his heart,” Lyra counters with a cold, mocking laugh, the sound echoing off the walls as she moves. “And as for becoming a god, I wield more power now than I could have ever imagined. In your eyes, I might as well be a deity. I don’t need whatever lies beyond those gates. ”
Nyx and I share a look of unease, a silent acknowledgement of the dangerous path she treads.
“Mind your words, child. Mock the gods, and you may find yourself facing oblivion, as your father did,” Athalda snaps back in a raspy whisper as the shadows constricting her tighten cruelly, eliciting a choked gasp before Lyra eases her grip.
“I have questions for you, and since my father is gone and you’ve got no one left to hide behind, I suggest sticking to the truth. If I sense even a hint of deceit, it’ll be the last lie you ever tell. Do you understand?” Lyra leans in close to Athalda’s face, the threat unmistakable.
After a moment’s pause, Athalda clears her throat. “I understand.” Her compliance surprises me slightly. I half-expected a snide comeback, but given her precarious situation, her usual combativeness seems to have deserted her.
“I know I saw Luke in the burning forest. He was here in Zomea. I’ve seen him multiple times through my midnight mind. My mother too—I’ve heard her voice. Where are they now? Why is it that we hardly ever see another soul in Zomea?” Lyra’s inquiry is earnest, her eyes searching Athalda’s for any flicker of dishonesty.
I find myself leaning in, equally eager for the truth. The scarcity of faces in Zomea has been a puzzle to me as well. Aside from Anika, encounters with others have been rare, mostly during my ventures far from the palace in search of Aidan.
“Zomea is vast, and your midnight mind isn’t always reliable—” Athalda begins, only to stop abruptly when Lyra’s dark tendrils tighten around her throat.
“I’m tired of the lies, the same ones my father peddled. I refuse to believe that not a single soul I’ve known has made it into Zomea. You’re as delusional as he was if you expect me to accept that,” Lyra counters, her resolve steeling in the face of Athalda’s evasions.
Her fierceness, though slightly terrifying, fills me with pride. She’s standing her ground, challenging the untruths that’ve been fed to her.
“Everyone from your past who entered Zomea was hunted down and eliminated. Is that clear enough for you? Your father wouldn’t risk leaving anyone alive, not with the threat they could pose to his plans. Any face you recognized with your midnight mind was before they met their final end, either by Euric’s hand or mine,” Athalda reveals, her voice cold and matter-of-fact.
For a moment, I brace for Lyra’s wrath to erupt, for the shadows to do their worst. But instead she takes a deep, measured breath, and when I dare to look into her eyes, I find them not fully consumed by the darkness—still flecked with warmth. It’s a reassurance that she remains in control of herself, despite the swirling tempest of power at her beck and call.
“What about Nyx’s parents?” Lyra probes.
My heart clenches, hoping nothing slips that could unveil our shared lineage. It’s a revelation I’m not ready for Lyra to hear, not until I can explain it myself in my own way.
“That, I truly do not know. Zomea’s expanse dwarfs all the realms of Eguina combined. And the scarcity of souls near this palace? Partly because it’s nestled within an active volcano, and partly because Euric’s reputation precedes him even here. He was both respected and feared. His desire for solitude was well known. Those who ignored it quickly regretted their curiosity,” Athalda explains, and something in her tone convinces me she’s speaking the truth this time.
The mention of my biological father, Callum, stirs a whirlwind of thoughts. If he’s somewhere in Zomea, he might hold the keys to the many unanswered questions that haunt us—the nature of the prophecy, the identity of the light, and how it all intertwines with our fates.
“What lives behind the gates?” Lyra halts her pacing to fix Athalda with a questioning look.
“What makes you think anything lives there?” Athalda counters tersely.
“Don’t deflect my question with another question,” Lyra insists, drawing in a deep breath. I sense her struggle for composure, yet I stay silent, a mere observer to this exchange.
“Your father was of the belief that it’s the dwelling place of the gods,” Athalda finally concedes, prompting a flicker of disappointment across Lyra’s features.
“Doesn’t it strike you as peculiar? A random gate in the eeriest part of Zomea, unopened yet purportedly home to all the gods?” Lyra muses, almost to herself. Her skepticism mirrors my own thoughts. The gates do possess an unsettling aura, one I’m not eager to delve into further.
“Where are all the Gholioths? Why haven’t I seen one? Do they still bear resemblance to their Fae origins? This all spiraled from your lie about Gholioth blood,” Lyra presses on, her frustration evident, though it’s unclear if she’s seeking answers from Athalda or simply voicing her thoughts aloud.
“Their appearance varies with the observer. They might reveal themselves to you, should they find you worthy,” Athalda replies, her answer eliciting an involuntary eye roll from me.
“I’m tired of your riddles. Why can’t you provide a straightforward answer?” Lyra howls, her anger surfacing as shadows writhe and stretch, causing Athalda to cry out in pain.
Glancing at Nyx, I catch him smirking, and there’s a troubling glint of amusement in Lyra’s eyes. This cruelty, this delight in another’s torment, is uncharacteristic of the Lyra I know. The influence they exert on each other is toxic. They’re drawing out the worst in one another.
As I’m about to intervene, Athalda, amidst coughs, manages to choke out, “Are you certain Samael is merely your stepbrother? You might find you share more with him than you realize.”
“He’s a monster. He tortured the innocent. Do you think you’re innocent?” Lyra challenges, her voice hard, but then unexpectedly she withdraws her shadows, allowing Athalda a moment’s reprieve. The old witch collapses to the wooden floor, her knees hitting with a thud that echoes through the room. Looking up at Lyra, there’s a fleeting moment where I feel a pang of sympathy for Athalda. Perhaps, in some twisted way, she and Lyra aren’t so different—both manipulated by Euric, both deceived and used for his ambitions. Yet this common ground doesn’t excuse Athalda’s actions.
“What are you doing? Do you want me to finish her off for you?” Nyx offers, but the suggestion seems off, especially coming from someone who claims to be the light against the darkness.
“No, I’m not a monster. And your power… It’s nothing compared to mine,” Lyra asserts, her authority undisputed in the dim light of the room, as she turns back to Athalda. “You claim Zomea’s vast? Then I banish you from this palace. Find a new corner of misery for your existence. Perhaps away from my father’s influence, you might find redemption. Or not. Either way, if our paths cross again, I may not hold back. I may be a monster.”
Without responding, Athalda disappears from the room, perhaps wisely choosing silence over a parting jab. The air feels cleaner, somehow lighter, though Nyx’s quick move to embrace Lyra sets a knot in my stomach. I turn away, unable to watch their display of unity .
“Let’s move away from here, please,” I mutter as I head toward the main sitting room.
The weight of what she said weighs heavily on my mind. “I may be a monster.” The possibility of her embracing that darkness fully is a thought I don’t want to entertain.