Chapter 10
Daed
As we near the domed building, the low thrum of music pulses through the air, muffled yet insistent, like a heartbeat beneath stone.
We ascend the stairs, and from the city’s darkened corners, figures slip from the shadows. Their faces remain obscured behind masks that catch and refract the moonlight, their eerie smiles dipped in a courtesy that feels strangely familiar, though we have not earned it.
Good. That means we look as though we belong.
At the top of the landing, two tall, lithe males stand in silence. Even before I see the sharp angles of their faces or catch the faint glint of eyes beneath their hoods, I know what they are. Fae. Their scent confirms it.
Tamis takes a step forward, and Zyphoro slinks her arm through his, the perfect illusion of a doting consort rather than his beautiful tormentor.
Orios moves in close to Solena, silent and imposing, a wall of stone at her back.
I catch the flick of his glare, the bitter twist of his mouth.
He says nothing. Of course he doesn’t. He's a Reaper of the Ebon Flight, centuries under my command, forged in loyalty and discipline.
That loyalty is carved into him, and it runs deeper than blood.
But I know the lengths a male will go to for what he loves. What violence he will endure and what violence he will inflict just to keep her close.
We Fae pretend we are refined, detached.
Above petty emotions. Weakness is for humans, we say.
But the truth is, time doesn't dull us. Not always.
Sometimes it sharpens the edge, deepens the hunger.
And I would not be surprised if one day it overtakes Orios entirely.
If his restraint snaps, and I feel his blade between my ribs.
I hope it never comes to that.
It would be a shame to cut him open—throat, belly, and balls—and let him bleed out into the dirt.
What a waste of a fine warrior.
At the entrance, the guards square their shoulders as Tamis approaches. But their posture falters the moment Zyphoro steps into view, impossible to ignore, like an eclipse slipping across the sun.
“Tamis Efrain,” he says with cool confidence, gesturing to us. “And these are my guests.”
The guards make a show of inspecting us, but their eyes keep dragging back to my sister. They hesitate too long, caught somewhere between suspicion and awe.
Then the doors swing open, spilling golden light across the worn stone steps.
We step through the threshold with the feigned ease of those who have walked these halls before. Our eyes, however, betray our caution, scanning every alcove and shadowed corner, sweeping the balcony above. Our heads snap toward each burst of laughter, each ripple of conversation.
Because though we may be Fae, we were not invited.
And if House Taramethos holds the same contempt for me as Ithranor does, then my title will be worth nothing here.
On this side of the Untold Sea, I rule no one.
The doors slam shut behind us with a thunderous boom, sealing us inside the opulence of the masquerade.
The ballroom is vast, its domed ceiling a decadent masterpiece—a mural of Fae desire and ruin.
Celestials and demons entwine in an eternal embrace, hands reaching through a shimmer of stars, faces caught between rapture and despair, ecstasy and agony made one.
Golden constellations glimmer faintly in the lacquered paint, the illusion of motion making it seem as though the figures still writhe, still yearn.
Soft light spills from crystal sconces, gliding across walls of black marble veined with smoke-grey. It fractures through curtains of silver beads that drape the obsidian floor like falling starlight, swaying with every pulse of sound and movement.
Within those shifting veils, masked figures move as one, swirling beneath the mournful wail of violins. Every step deliberate. Every turn flawless. Not a single misstep, only the seamless rhythm of dancers who’ve known this waltz for lifetimes.
I part the beaded curtain and step through as the melody coils through the air, slow and hypnotic.
The cool strands brush against my fingers as they sway closed behind me.
The air is thick with heady perfume, spiced wine, bodies pressed dangerously close.
I do not need to look at the others to know they feel it, too.
The unseen undercurrent beneath all this beauty. The tension wound tight enough to snap.
It hums in my blood. It feels like home.
I let my gaze sweep the room, cataloging the players in this game before they can do the same to me.
And then I see her.
Seated upon a gilded chair that is no throne but might as well be, her posture languid. As if all of this, this performance, this illusion, exists purely for her amusement.
Her pitch-black hair falls in sleek ringlets, a thin golden circlet resting against her brow. It glints softly in the light, forged from the same delicate metal as the mask that conceals most of her face. But her eyes, an eerie, liquid blue, are unmistakable.
Lady Marlayna of House Taramethos.
Of course, she is still here. Of course, she still rules them.
I do not know why I am surprised.
But if I recognize Marlayna, then without a doubt, she will recognize me.
I cannot risk that.
My gaze lifts to the balconies above, shadowed alcoves hanging watchfully over the masquerade.
“Where is the mirror?” I whisper to Tamis.
“I’m not sure,” he says.
It takes every ounce of restraint not to gut him where he stands for such a worthless answer.
“Sometimes it’s beside her,” he adds, voice low. “Other times... upstairs. In the parlor.”
I scan the chamber again, my eyes dragging over every surface. Nothing. No glint of silver, no sign of it at all.
“It must be upstairs,” I mutter, the frustration coiling tight beneath my ribs.
“Possibly,” Reon murmurs, following my line of sight. He tips his head toward the Fae guards at the base of the stairs, their expressions blank, their presence anything but idle. “They are clearly guarding something.”
I nod. “Then upstairs is where I must go.”
Zyphoro smirks, eyes gleaming with that signature reckless amusement. “You’ll need a distraction, I assume?”
She turns to Reon, head tilting just so, eyes of the storm flashing beneath her mask. “May I have this dance, Lord of Eyr’Drogul?”
His tongue rolls against the inside of his cheek as he casts his gaze over her in a slow, appreciative sweep. His smile is crooked, shameless and enough to make my stomach churn.
“I thought this ginger wasn’t allowed to touch that flawless skin of yours?”
In a flash, Zyphoro grabs him by the collar and yanks him close, their faces nearly touching, a breath of a whisper separating their indulgent smirks.
“It must be your lucky night, then,” she purrs. “Be sure to savor it.”
Reon grins, biting back a groan as he seizes her wrists and drapes them over his shoulders, hands sliding down to clutch her waist. He takes control, rough and eager, and Zyphoro laughs, surrendering to his lead with a glint in her eyes that dares him to try harder.
In an instant, he spins her into the swell of masked bodies, their steps sliding into rhythm as the violinists quicken their tempo.
The eerie melody winds tighter, a noose of sound pulling the dancers deeper into its thrall, each movement more fevered, like they’ve all forgotten where the music ends and the spell begins.
I catch the way Tamis’ chin drops to his chest, shoulders caving in. Poor, pathetic, fucking soul.
“I’m getting a drink,” he mutters, sulking off.
“Don’t even think about breathing a word of us to anyone,” I call after him, voice low and lethal.
But he doesn’t bother to answer, too busy dragging his sorry carcass to the bar.
And now I am left standing with Orios and Solena.
The Reaper still glowers at me, his silence deadlier than any sharpened steel, his gaze an unspoken accusation.
But Solena, ever soft where he is hard, runs a delicate hand over his forearm, leaning into him as if she alone has the power to thaw the ice beneath his ribs.
“Come, my love,” she whispers, and the words coil around him like a spell, drawing the anger from his blood, smoothing the edges of his rigid stance.
Orios exhales slow. “Yes, my love.”
It is spoken to Solena, and yet, somehow, it is meant for me to hear too.
A warning. A reminder. A parting word.
Then he takes her in his arms, their bodies molding together as they step onto the floor, slipping into the dance. They twirl and glide in perfect synchrony, arms taut, hands clasped, leaning back as they spin.
I shouldn’t watch.
But as Solena moves, the candlelight catches her face just enough, and the world warps.
For the briefest moment, I see Amara once more.
Smiling at me, beckoning, her eyes bright with something she never got to say.
My breath stumbles. My fingers twitch. Before I can stop myself, my hand lifts, reaching but just as swiftly, the illusion splinters. I grit my teeth, curling my hand into a fist, wrenching myself back from the brink.
Zyphoro was right.
This journey, this grief, is unraveling me thread by thread, leaving nothing but frayed edges and shadows where certainty used to be.
I know she is not Amara.
And yet, my twisted heart still wants so desperately that it is willing to deceive me.
This is madness.
And I cannot afford to lose focus. Not when, for the first time in weeks, I am close.
I turn away from the dancers, pushing through the beaded curtain and slipping toward the stairs.
I move like a whisper, curving around the guests who flock to the dance floor, careful not to brush too close, careful not to let the guards catch the shift in the air as I slip past. They stand vigilant, but I’ve long mastered the art of being unseen.
Then, as if on cue, a heavy thud shakes the floor, followed by a sharp shriek.
The music screeches to a halt.