Chapter 9
Daed
The next few days drag like a lame mule, and the inn’s no better than the ship, just a different kind of dank hole to dwell in.
We don’t go out. Can’t risk drawing eyes, not when we’re this close.
Close to what, exactly? I couldn’t say. The answers might come tonight, or this could be another waste of time, another false thread unraveling in my hands while Amara slips further from my reach.
And then there’s the other rot blooming under my skin.
The sigils of the unseen grow weaker each time Solena carves them.
I can feel the void creeping in, smoke curling at the corners of my sight, whispering through the cracks of my mind.
It wants me. Wants to take me, twist me, use me.
If Gygarth wins, if he gets his claws in deep enough, then I’ll no longer be the Fae who aches for Amara with every cursed beat of his heart.
I’ll be hi s hound. His butcher. My only purpose, a blind, brutal hunger to hunt meat for the beast.
I must find answers tonight. Before I lose everything.
The evening breeze rushes through the open window, cool against my skin, but all I feel is her.
Amara. The whisper of wind becomes the ghost of her fingers, tracing along my flesh.
My eyes slip shut, surrendering to the memory.
The way she touched me, how her hands mapped my body with a knowledge that should have taken a lifetime to learn.
But that was the secret, wasn’t it?
She wasn’t just any human. Nor any other Awakened.
She was mine. My mate. My destiny.
And she carried the map of me within her, etched into her soul as surely as I carried hers. I knew her. Every lush, tempting curve, every dip that beckoned my touch, every mouthwatering crevice that even now has my cock stiff and aching beneath my leathers.
The way her body hummed for me. The way her breathy moans tangled with mine. The feel of her soft breasts crushed against my chest as I stole the air from her lungs, claiming her so fully, so completely, that there could be no doubt she was mine to possess, to love, to fuck.
A sharp growl rumbles in my throat as I grip myself roughly, the throbbing demand between my legs a cruel reminder of what was stolen from me. Of what I will kill to get back.
Then the wind shifts.
The warmth of memory is replaced by something colder, more formal, laced with power, and then a voice follows.
“My prince. I bring news from Baev’kalath.”
The breeze coils into the shape of a female, her features indistinct, a mere echo of something Fae, a whisper on the wind.
Lady Ilyra’s spies are everywhere and nowhere, unseen but ever-present. Without them, I would be blind to what has become of my kingdom in my absence. Ilyra is as loyal as she is ruthless, and through her, I remain informed.
I force my need aside, moving from the window to the edge of the bed.
“What news do you bring?”
“All goes well, Your Highness. Lady Ilyra holds Baev’kalath with the aid of the warriors of Eyr’Drogul, despite Lord Modok’s persistence.”
My jaw tightens. “Has he crossed the sea? Does he bring more than threats?”
The wind-wrought figure shudders. “Not yet, Your Highness. But with the Lady twins and Lord Horax unwilling to continue negotiations, a challenge is not implausible.”
My teeth clench. “And what of Sarberos?”
“Nothing yet,” the voice murmurs. “He fortifies himself and his people within Thal’Morven, refusing communication with anyone.”
“And the Sundered Kingdoms? The Legion?”
“They hold the mainland strong. Without contestation. It seems they are now led by a coven of generals.”
I barely contain my snarl, my teeth grinding against the words I know I must ask.
“And the Golden Son?”
A pause.
“No, Your Highness. There is still no sign.”
The confirmation is a knife in my gut.
His absence can mean only one thing.
He is with her.
And the thought of it, of him anywhere near Amara, festers inside me like a sickness, like a rot devouring me from within.
The edges of the figure waver, its form unraveling inch by inch, carried away on the breeze slipping through the open window.
“Is that all, Your Highness?” The voice cracks, strained with the effort of holding itself together.
“Yes, go now to your mistress.”
The faceless shadow bows its head in silent regard before sweeping out into the night, dissolving in a slant of moonlight.
The door swings open, slamming against the wall, and Zyphoro steps inside. Her sharp gaze flickers around the room before settling on me.
“Talking to yourself again, brother?”
I exhale sharply, rubbing my brow. “A visit from Ilyra’s spies. She holds strong, but I fear there will be little left of our kingdom by the time we return home.”
Zyphoro folds her arms, leaning against the doorframe. “I should have stayed.”
“No.” My voice is sharper than I intend, my head snapping toward her. She stiffens, surprised. “You were trapped there long enough. I will not leave you in the dark again.”
Her shoulders ease, though she does not dare smile.
“Besides,” I add, a smirk tugging at my lips. “If I need to raze House Ithranor to the ground, I’ll require the finest Fae warrior to ever live.”
To that, she grins. “You flatter me, Daedalus. But you aren’t wrong.”
Her expression stirs something bittersweet in my chest. I wish it could always be like this between us.
Light, easy, unburdened. But the past is a scar that will never fade, tainting what should be an unbreakable bond.
The sharing of a womb. A brother and sister forged from the same blood, the same great lineage, bound by the same cursed power.
And yet, every time I look upon Zyphoro, I am lashed with the guilt of knowing I could not save her. That no matter what I do, I will never reclaim the time she lost, nor ease the solitude that had been as much her prison as the enchanted cage that bound her.
Even now, her presence on this mission, to restore my wife, to restore my happiness, feels like a cruel joke at her expense.
“Are you ready?” she asks. “The hour grows close.”
I turn to the window. The full moon looms in the ink-dark sky, and I breathe deep, slow, steadying myself. Bowing my head, I rest my elbows on my knees, clasping my hands.
Smoke coils from my skin, thick and curling, sliding over my worn leathers, swallowing my muddied boots.
It moves with purpose, threading through every seam, devouring every frayed edge, until the tattered remnants of travel and violence are erased.
When it recedes, it leaves behind a suit of deep violet, woven with an almost imperceptible shimmer, as if stardust itself has been spun into the fabric.
The silver-threaded cuffs catch the light, their delicate curls forming ancient, arcane patterns.
The jacket molds perfectly to my frame, the cut precise enough to trace the shape of my shoulders and the breadth of my chest, as though it had been stitched by someone who knew every inch of me.
Its sharp lapels draw the eye to the crisp, high collar of the shirt beneath, black as midnight, and the sleek fabric moves with me, tapering into fitted trousers and black leather boots polished to a mirror sheen.
The smoke continues up my throat, curling over my jaw, teasing at my cheekbones before washing over my face.
When it vanishes, a silver mask remains, wicked, baroque, twisted and gleaming beneath the moonlight.
The metal is molded into intricate swirls, sharp at the edges, curling like the horns of a forgotten god.
It obscures my eyes, save for the slits that cut through, allowing me to see the world while revealing nothing in return.
And around my neck, on a simple leather cord, hangs the only piece of me that remains untouched: a hewn moonstone, swirling and restless with its quiet glow. It once belonged to my mother. Its other half dangles from Zyphoro’s throat.
I flex my fingers, feeling the shift of fabric, the hidden strength beneath the decadence. A suit fit for a prince. A mask fit for a monster.
Zyphoro rolls her eyes, unimpressed. Smoke pools at her heels, thick as storm clouds, swirling in restless tendrils around her legs. It rises, licking at her skin, and when it fades, she stands transformed.
A gown of the deepest obsidian clings to her frame, but unlike the sharp lines of my suit, there’s nothing modest or subtle about my sister’s choice tonight.
The dress is cut high in the front, revealing far more leg than I’m comfortable seeing, her thigh-high stockings disappearing beneath a tangle of black tulle that spills into a dramatic train behind her.
Her heels are sharp enough to wound, meant to be heard before she enters the room, and her long black gloves cling to her arms like a second skin. But it’s the bodice… strapless, tight, and straining against the full rise of her chest, that has my gaze darting away.
Smoke curls around her face, thick and inky, sliding over her sharp cheekbones and smirking lips. When it recedes, it leaves behind a mask of ebony filigree, its edges tapering into delicate thorns that frame her temples.
She flicks a hand, and in her palm, the silver pommel of a dagger gleams, conjured from nothing, a casual reminder that beauty and death are often the same thing. Beneath the veil of shadow and lace, her silver eyes gleam. “Shall we?”
I rise from the edge of the bed and step toward her, drawn by the bond that hums in the space between us. Our eyes lock in a hollow silence, the only sound being the restless whisper of the breeze slipping through the open window. I extend my arm.
“Sister.”
She tilts her head, studying me with that rare, quiet softness. Then, with a ghost of a smile, she slips her arm through mine.
“Brother.”
A grin tugs at my lips as I push open the door, and side by side, we step into the candlelit corridor of the inn, where the others wait.