Chapter 13 #2
“That, I haven’t seen yet. But I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You’re the favored son, after all.”
“Favored?” I scoff, bitterness rising like bile in my throat. “To be alone? For my dearest friend to be exiled to some rock? For my mate to be a human? For me to be a slave to the void? How does any of this make me fortunate?”
The words burn through me, and I clench my jaw, my fingers gripping my hair at the roots as I tug at it, trying to expel the anger that twists in my gut, the frustration clawing at me.
Zema doesn’t flinch at my outburst. Instead, she reaches for me, her fingers curling in invitation. “Come, Daedalus.”
I hesitate, resisting the pull at first, my anger flaring hotter, but her soft smile, her gentle motion, draws me in. Slowly, I sink to my knees beside her, surrendering once again to the quiet strength she offers.
She taps her lap, and I lay my head down there, the fire’s crackle now seeming distant, almost forgotten, as her steady hand moves over my head. The warmth of her touch spreads through me, and something in the air shifts. Calming, soothing.
The sound of my heartbeat fades into the background. It’s as if her hands are not just brushing over my skin, but weaving something deeper, threads of something far more profound sinking into my bones, reaching into the depths of my mind.
As Zema’s fingers gently trace the line of my scalp, a memory flickers, fragile as the light from the fire.
I’m a child again, standing in a garden.
The sun is warm, but there’s a cool breeze that smells like the earth after rain.
Zema is there, her small hands holding a bundle of wildflowers, a smile stretching wide across her face.
Her hair is unbound, flowing like the wind itself, and for a moment, she looks like a spirit, something untouchable and free.
She hands me a flower, violet petals, soft as the clouds overhead, and tells me that one day, when we’re older, we’ll return here together, and the flowers will still be blooming. That everything will be as it was.
I laugh, and she giggles too, her eyes sparkling as we spin around the garden, pretending we could dance forever.
“Do you see it, Daed?” she asks. “Do you remember?”
“Yes,” I murmur. “I remember.”
But the memory fades as quickly as it came. I blink, and I’m back in the cave.
I close my eyes, my arms instinctively wrapping around Zema’s knees, pulling her closer without a second thought.
Her hand continues its steady, gentle caress through my hair, and I let myself fall into the sensation, seeking refuge in the comfort of her touch.
The warmth of the memory washes over me, a fleeting glimpse of a time when the world was simpler, before it all fractured.
As much as the peace she offers soothes the ache, it also sharpens the pain. A cruel contrast, carving deep the truth of all we’ve lost. The innocence, the laughter, the golden days before the weight of destiny crushed the lightness of youth.
Before the world turned against her. Before they discovered what she was.
Before her own blood, her brother Modok, her sister Nyraxes, cast her out, shamed her, stripped her of her name until it was nothing but a whispered curse among the Mordorin Fae.
And yet, here in this hollowed-out refuge, with the fire flickering low and her fingers threading through my hair, I let myself feel it all. The warmth, the sorrow, the longing for a time that will never return.
After her. The hour is late, well past midnight, and the revelry is finally unraveling.
One by one, they drift away. Some with the ones they came with, others in newfound entanglements, and the rest stumbling drunkenly into the night.
I remain. Silent. Watchful. Seated in the shadowed corner, legs spread, hands braced on the arms of the chair as I stare at it.
The scrying mirror.
I’ve watched it for hours, long after I left Reon to fulfill my bargain.
Long after Solena and Orios departed, and my sister not long after that.
Still, the mirror remains the room’s gravitational center, its shimmering surface drawing the last few stragglers, each seeing something different in its depths.
Eventually the crowd thins, leaving only one.
I have waited long enough.
I rise, moving through the staggering remnants of the night, indifferent to the drunken bodies that lurch into my path. They are nothing. Only the mirror matters.
I stop before it, the lone viewer oblivious to my presence. Oblivious to the prince of the Mordorin. The commander of the Ebon Flight. The wielder of Death Singer. The favored one.
But of course, none of that matters to a man lost in his own desires. Just as the revelers meant nothing to me, my titles mean nothing to him. He is ensnared, his gaze swallowed whole by the mirror’s promise.
From behind the male, I see nothing. Not what he sees. Not what I need. Only the tarnished surface of the mirror.
I must get closer.
I must move him.
I set a firm hand on his shoulder, but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t so much as breathe in acknowledgment.
My fingers tighten. I step forward.
“You must move,” I say, my voice edged with command. No patience. No politeness.
Still, he stays.
For a moment, I wonder… is he truly lost? Or does he dare to ignore me? Either choice will end poorly for him.
I lean in, my lips near his ear. “Move. Now. Or I will move you myself. You do not want that.”
A breath of silence.
Then, in a snap of motion, he turns his head and what I see is not Fae.
The face before me is gray, hollow-cheeked, its skin stretched too thin over bone.
Bulging, glassy eyes roll in their sockets, unfocused and wild.
A mouth, dry and cracked, splits open to reveal rows of razored teeth.
It hisses, then screeches, a jagged, unnatural sound, and lunges at me with gnarled claws.
Smoke curls instinctively at my fingertips. The void stirs, waiting, whispering the promise of Death Singer. But I do not draw it. Not yet. Not unless her life depends on it.
Instead, I strike.
My hand snaps to its throat, closing around the sinewy column. The creature writhes, clawing at my wrist, but I do not loosen my hold. I squeeze.
And then… it changes.
The monstrous features ripple, distorting. The bulging eyes recede. The jagged teeth dull and shrink. The sallow, corpse-like skin flushes, softening back into something familiar. Something Fae.
By the time I release him, he is gasping, staggering backward, his chest rising and falling in ragged desperation.
I watch him, my gaze cutting over his form, then flicking back to the mirror. I have always known its power, the way it can ensnare, consume, devour. But this? This I have never seen.
A soul so lost that it forgets itself entirely.
The male collapses at my feet.
“Leave,” I command.
He nods weakly, his body shaking as he staggers from the room. He does not look back at the mirror, though I can see the battle warring in his eyes, the desperate pull of whatever he saw. He folds into himself as he stumbles through the doorway, a broken thing, sobbing.
I turn to the mirror, and doubt flickers like a cold ember behind my eyes.
What if I become lost as he did? I like to think myself stronger, immune to such enchantments.
But the House of Taramethos is wise and wicked, their power of creation unrivaled, their methods unknown.
That secrecy is what makes their artifacts so coveted and so feared.
I step closer, my eyes half-lidded, as if only offering a sliver of myself to its call. The mirror’s tarnished surface remains still, unremarkable, reflecting nothing more than my own face at first. But then, subtle as a breath, the image shifts.
The room behind me is not the one I stand in.
Gone are the velvet-draped settees with their gilded edges, the sweeping tapestries, the grandeur of this forgotten house.
In its place, something I know well. A massive hearth, its mantle carved with writhing serpents and grim-faced gargoyles. And above it… a painting.
A Fae female, her flowing gown gathered over the gentle swell of her belly.
I swallow hard. My pulse trips over itself.
“Mother?”
I step closer. A single step. And it is like plummeting from a great height.
The world shatters.
Shapes blur, colors bleed into a violent swirl. The sounds of the chamber turn hollow, distant, until even my own breath feels impossibly far away.
Then silence.
Darkness, vast and suffocating. The kind that presses in on all sides, black as the void itself.
For one brief, breathless moment, I fear that is exactly where I am.
But he is not here.
Gygarth.
I do not feel his presence. His poison.
I inhale slowly, steadying.
In this silence, it is only me and the mirror, and when its surface ripples like disturbed water, I brace myself for what awaits on the other side.
Suddenly I am falling.
Not through space, not through time, but through something deeper. My body remains rooted before the glass, yet my soul is wrenched forward, dragged into the vision with a force that steals my breath.
A sea stretches beneath me, endless and glistening like liquid sapphire. The mirror pulls me across its rolling expanse, faster than the wind, until the waters blur into nothing but streaks of light. Then, without warning, I ascend.
Higher.
Higher.
The air turns thin, crisp, charged with raw magic.
Driftspire.
Its floating isles materialize before me, wreathed in mist and clouds. The vision surges forward, spiraling upward, until at last, it fixes upon a lone tower.
A window.
And within it… Amara.
My heart clenches as I see her standing there, framed by sunlight, her hands cradling her belly.
Our child.
She is radiant, with her waves of hair cascading over her shoulders, her brown skin glistening, almost golden. But her face is solemn, her gaze lost to the horizon, as if she is searching. Yearning.
For me.