Chapter 14
Daed
That night, sleep eludes me. I wander the moonlit streets of Ballamar, haunted by the visions the scrying mirror forced upon me.
Ghosts of desire twisted into nightmares.
I should have known better. I had hoped it would show me only what my heart longs for most. All I needed was to think of Amara, to let the warmth she ignites within me guide the way, like a beacon through the dark.
Instead, the rot inside me poisoned that beauty, warping it into something else.
Because the mirror does not show only dreams. It reveals your deepest fear.
Amara and the Golden Son. His hands on her.
On my wife. As if he dares to believe himself worthy of breathing the same air as my queen, let alone touching her skin.
My fists tighten, the rage coiling through me like a viper ready to strike.
But I cannot lose myself to this fury. The mirror, for all its power, cannot be trusted.
Its magic is ancient, wild. Though crafted by the Fae, it bows to no master, answers to no soul.
It does not soothe. It does not guide. It only hungers for chaos.
As the sun crests the horizon, bleeding burnt orange across the sky, it strikes me full in the face, dragging me back to the present.
I have lost time. Again. Another fruitless errand, another night wasted, and I am no closer to Amara.
The mirror may have revealed Driftspire, but not where to find it.
The city in the sky remains a phantom, offering no hint of where it hovers and I do not dare test the mirror again.
Because the Golden Son coveting my wife is not the only nightmare it showed me.
Baev’kalath. The chamber buried deep within the stone. The place where my mother was murdered. Where my sister and I were brought into this cursed world. Where Gygarth took his offering of flesh.
I feel his eyes still on me, searing through my skin, through the wretched soul he has claimed as his own.
Again, I try to convince myself it was not real.
That Gygarth did not see me in that moment.
That the sigils held, and I am still beyond his reach.
But his power is infinite. His hunger is boundless.
Even a glimpse of the void could be enough.
The sigils. I feel them burned into my back, raw and aching where the fabric of my shirt rubs against the wounds. I must find Solena. She must carve fresh runes.
The inn looms before me, its doors yawning open to the reek of stale ale and unwashed bodies.
I push through, stepping over drunks crumpled on the floor, while others slump across the tavern’s tables, their snores rattling through the dim room.
Up the stairs, down the narrow hall lined with doors, I pass Zyphoro’s room and rap my knuckles sharply against the door of Solena and Orios.
No reply. I barely wait for one. Desperation claws at me. I have traveled too far, suffered too much, to let Gygarth take hold of me now.
“Solena. Orios. Are you awake?”
I don’t allow time for an answer. I shove the door open, heedless of the consequences.
The bed jerks on its legs, the covers rustling, shifting. Someone, or rather, someones, are beneath them, writhing in a tangled mess. The only thing in plain sight is Orios’ enormous feet dangling off the end of the mattress.
“I’m sorry to intrude,” I say, though my tone lacks any true remorse. “I need Solena to check my sigils.”
A hushed flurry of whispers. No response.
My brow furrows. “Did you hear me? This is urgent.”
After a long pause, Solena’s breathless voice finally emerges from beneath the covers.
“Yes, Rook. I will be out in a moment.”
More rustling follows, then a furious whispered hiss. “Stop that!”
I stiffen. “Excuse me?”
“Not you. I mean… nothing… just…please, I’ll be right out.”
My eyes narrow at the strange, shifting bulge beneath the blankets, writhing like a sack of trapped serpents.
I grip the edge of the blanket and give it a sharp tug, just enough to expose Orios on the left. His hair tumbles free in a wild, disheveled mane, the dark strands curling over his bare chest. He gulps, knuckles white as he fists the covers, holding them in place with a silent plea for mercy.
“Rook,” he stammers, his voice hoarse. “Please, if you… give us a moment.”
Before I can respond, Solena pops out on the right, her hair a tangled mess, bare shoulders stark against the sheets. There is no mistaking what I’ve walked in on. If I weren’t so anxious, I might even be amused.
“I'm sorry to have disturbed you,” I say at last, genuinely, realizing I’ve made this far more uncomfortable than necessary. “I'll wait downstairs.”
I turn, gripping the door handle to grant them their privacy, but something tugs at my instincts. My spine stiffens. I glance back, eyes narrowing at the bed where Solena and Orios lie, covers clutched to their chests. They are sprawled apart, yet the space between them is not empty.
I pause. Then tilt my head.
“Who is your friend, Solena?” I ask.
Color drains from her face. “My… friend?”
I shift my gaze to Orios. If she is a bad liar, he will be worse.
“Reaper,” I say, watching him flinch at the command. “Will you answer me?”
“Yes, Rook,” he blurts, then blanches. “I mean…no. I mean…” His eyes dart helplessly to Solena, begging for rescue.
I roll my eyes, already bored. “Fine. I'll find out myself.”
I plant a knee on the edge of the bed and grip the covers, but before I can yank them away, a third head bobs up between them.
Zyphoro.
She sweeps a hand through her raven curls, shaking them back from her face, her bare shoulders inked with runes. I thank every god in existence that I stopped myself before pulling the blanket further. There are some things I never need to see.
“Really?” I ask dryly, arching a brow.
Zyphoro shrugs. “They seduced me and I’ve never been so happy to be proved wrong.”
I stare at her. Then at them. Then back again. I have heard nothing more preposterous in my life.
Slowly, I turn to Orios, smirking. “Have a good night, Reaper?”
He doesn’t answer. But his burning red cheeks and the reluctant curve of his mouth tell me everything I need to know.
“Well,” I sigh, shaking my head. “When the three of you manage to untangle yourselves from whatever that is, can we get the fuck out of here? Ballamar has given nothing.” My gaze sweeps over them, unimpressed. “To me, anyway.”
I leave them at last, and the moment the door clicks shut behind me, I swear I hear their collective sigh of relief.
Downstairs, I push aside a slumbering drunk slumped over the bar, claiming his spot without remorse.
No bartender in sight. Fine. I help myself to a shot of rum, pouring generously before knocking it back in one sharp motion.
The burn scalds its way down my throat, a brief distraction from the rot in my mind.
The tension coiled in my muscles refuses to unwind. My crew had their fun last night, but I find no envy in their indulgences. The fire in my blood is not so easily quenched.
I am a Fae of flesh, of heat and hunger, and I do not deny my nature.
I know the sweet relief of a warm body, the way pleasure can be both an escape and a reckoning.
I know how it feels to sink into heat, to lose myself in the rhythm of lust until there is nothing left but breath and skin and the fleeting illusion of peace.
But no nameless body can sate me now. No indulgence would be enough. The hunger twisting in my gut is for Amara alone. Only her hands, her mouth, her body, can ease this ache. Only she can unravel me, soothe the rage and the want that has me wound so tight I might snap.
I brace my hands on the bar, breathing deep, willing myself to be still. But stillness is impossible. Not when I burn for her.
I pour another rum, polishing it off quicker than the first, when at last I hear the steady rhythm of boots descending the stairs.
I don’t need to look up to know it’s Zyphoro.
She slides onto the stool beside me, one hand tightening the straps of her leather harness while the other helps itself to the bottle of rum.
“Not for a moment do I believe that was their idea,” I say, my fingers tightening around the empty glass.
“They seemed eager to prove a point, and I was not about to refuse them,” she replies, her tone light. “What’s the matter, brother? Jealous I got there first?”
“Watch your tongue, sister,” I warn, low and sharp.
She grins, unrepentant. “My tongue has been doing far more than watching. In fact, it's exhausted.”
“Then by all means, be silent. It clearly needs the rest.”
Her laughter is quiet, a purr of amusement as she swirls the rum in her glass. “I don’t doubt the love you have for Amara. It’s one of the few things I find admirable about you.”
I exhale through my nose, pushing past her jibes. “You are too kind.”
“But you’d be a fool to think you are not desired by others,” she continues, tossing back her drink in one smooth motion.
I finally glance at her, my gaze narrowing as she slams the glass onto the bar. “What are you talking about?”
“You’re not so clueless as to miss the way Solena looks at you.”
The scrape of my chair against the wooden floor is sharp as I push back from the bar. “I’ve heard and seen enough from you for one morning, Zyphoro.”
“Fine, fine.” She raises her hands in mock surrender, though mischief lingers in her smirk. “Forget I mentioned it. Perhaps I’m mistaken.”
“You are,” I snap, leaving no room for argument. “The bond between Solena and Orios is a strong one. I can attest to that and her runeweaving has been invaluable.”
Zyphoro hums, watching me with a knowing glint in her eye. “Indeed, brother. And I’m sure the long hours with your bare, muscled flesh beneath her hands have had no effect on her at all.”