48. Ryker
Ryker
Raea’s emotions are on full display again as I peel back the stone door that once could have locked out entire armies—but now crumbles in my hands.
What the hell is this place? Caelus seemed fine to ditch us here, so I’m assuming we aren’t in danger.
Still, I don’t let my guard down, searching the darkness, keeping one eye on the trees at our backs.
My ears strain, listening for any subtle change in the air.
The door finally gives, large chunks falling to the ground. I almost snort when Soraea peeks in, shaking her head when she’s met with another dark space. I grab her hand, leading her inside.
I know what she’s thinking, what she’s feeling.
Normally, I’d agree, but in this case, I can’t protect her in this human body.
Vaeric has shown me again and again that no matter how hard I try, I won’t best him in this frail human body.
Nurek proved it when he lifted boulders with his mind while I struggled for hours.
And Riven—Riven moved like he was part of the wind itself, taking men down without even blinking.
So no, I won’t waste any time mourning my old self.
Stepping inside, magic slides across my skin like invisible cobwebs.
A breath passes through the hall—cold and unseen—and one by one, torches ignite down the corridor, stretching farther than the eye can see.
Our footsteps squeak on the polished tile.
This place is enchanted—has to be. Outside, the building looks unstable as it’s reclaimed by the forest. Here, the polished floor reflects our movements.
There's a low chant drifting through the air—too faint to understand, but heavy with ancient power.
Otherwise, the space feels stripped bare—like something once sacred that has long since been abandoned. Now, there’s just stained glass windows, scattered chairs, and a few ancient tapestries along the stone walls.
The air smells faintly sweet, not comforting, but old—like incense burned centuries ago and never fully faded. A few of the tapestries are depictions of wars. Ugly and brutal—limbs torn from bodies, blood-soaking battlefields, heads severed and lifted in victory.
We continue, unsure of our destination. It takes several minutes before we reach the front dais, where two bowls lie beneath a mural of creation.
Stars blinking into existence, the Primordials watching and looking down upon their five children, all creating the planets and systems within this galaxy.
Godly hands sweep across stone, painting stars into existence—some bursting into light, others erased with a single careless gesture.
Raea gasps as we watch.
The air shifts—pressure building, cold seeping into my bones.
When I turn, a wisp of white and blue hovers behind us, like a torn strand of cloud given life.
Raea turns, unsure where to look—at the mural that is still depicting the creation, or at the eerie strand that seems sentient.
It drifts around us, tendrils of light stretching outward until it spills across the mural—swallowing it whole before pulling itself into a towering form.
Dressed in white robes, the hood so deep we can’t see a face, it speaks. “Kneel, daughter of the forest and son of storms.”
Well, that's a new title.
Its voice is ancient and cold—neither male nor female.
Raea struggles with her breath as she kneels in front of the bowl. I glance around, following her lead. The robes are made of strands of light, crackling with gold and blue energy.
The being reaches into the air and pulls a staff with a glowing orb on top of it from somewhere. I’m still unnerved, on edge, when it says, “I am Mythkyel, emissary to the Primordial gods.”
Raea draws in a sharp breath as I squeeze her hand.
“This hall is sacred for all beings created. They can be made and unmade.” It pauses, then adds, “We have been watching since the time of your births, unable to intervene until now. What is your right shall be restored, but first—”
Mythkyel is less a being and more a localized storm of light—a wispy form of cloud and energy that pulses with terrifying indifference.
The air in the hall grows cold enough to crack bone.
This is the emissary of those who designed our souls, and as it looks down at us, I realize we aren't here to be healed—we are here to be remade into something lethal.
It gestures to the bowls in front of us, which gleam gold beneath the torchlight. At the bottom is what appears to be water, so still, so clear.
“Place your hands in the bowl, and do not,” it hisses, “remove your hands. Doing so will unbind the process. The string of life that tethers you to your birthright will unravel—and you will be lost.”
Raea looks to me, and I nod, wishing I could go first to test it out.
“Together?” she asks, her voice shaky and low as she forces a small smile. I know she’s terrified, but she’s facing her fears head-on. It's one of the many things I love about her. She doesn’t turn from the hard things. She doesn't run. She faces them.
I nod and together sink our hands into our respective bowls.
She cries out first. My jaw locks as fire rips through my veins.
Fuck. This isn’t water. It burns like it’s peeling the flesh from my bones.
When I look down, it only looks like I’ve submerged my hand, but the pain…
it radiates up my arms into my shoulders, like acid in my blood.
Raea cries, and despite the feeling of burning alive, I call for her. “Soraea,” I grit out. “Look…at me. Look at me, Princess.”
Tears are streaming down her face as she looks up. Pure agony contorts her features. “It hurts,” she sobs.
I nod, unwilling to look away. “I know, love. You can do this. We can do this.” My chest tightens as the feeling of fire ignites behind my breastbone, and my hands tremble. Everything in me says to remove my hands, to take Raea and run, but I won’t.
I can’t.
Raea trembles, the bowl shaking from how hard she’s fighting. Her eyes roll into the back of her head. If she passes out, her hands will slip free.
“Look at me, love,” I command. “Look at my face.”
She blinks, barely there.
“Stay…awake,” I pant.
The being has been quiet, watchful of our agony, but then it says, “The old has burned the path for the new.” The words echo through the hall like a decree.
With a clap, the pain ends like it never even existed.
Raea and I look down at her hands, both of them still in the water, except there’s no more pain.
It’s now a cool basin of water. When I look up, the being is watching me.
“Once made, you can never be unmade. Do you, Anders Rykerson, son of Aki Rykerson, line of the Stormborne Fae, heir, and mate to Soraea Tierson, understand and agree to forfeit the body with which you were born?”
When I look at Raea, her lip wobbles, but she manages to nod.
“I understand.”
The being, still eerily floating, asks the same to Soraea. “Do you, Soraea Tierson, Daughter of Amaya Gavandrial-Tierson, first of the Starborn Elven line, heir, Lumisthariel, and mate to Anders Rykerson, understand and agree to forfeit the body with which you were born?”
Raea nods. Her white strands have come loose from her braids, falling into her face.
“Then remove your hands and bleed.”
A dagger appears between us, the hilt ornate and sturdy. It’s a black obsidian, sharp and honed like it’s never been dull for a moment. I lift the dagger between us and, with my free hand, take Raea’s in mine.
I grab her attention, her green eyes glittering in the light. The pools of green so deep I’d happily drown in them.
“Keep your eyes on me, okay?”
She nods as I slice her palm open, the crimson pooling until it drips off either side. With her eyes still on me, I move her hand over the bowl and let her blood mix with the water. I let go and cut my left hand open, doing the same. Drops of red splash into the bowl, spreading out and mixing.
“It is done,” the being says.
When I glance up, it has returned to its original state. I blink—and the water ignites, flames roaring up from the bowls in a blinding burst of light. I barely have time to look at Raea before my vision goes dark and I fall into a blanket of stars.
Time loses all meaning.
Pain has no end.
I float in this dark place, the stars my only company as my soul is ripped from my body. Every inch of me hurts. My bones are remade—stretched, thickened, strengthened. The strands of my hair, my lungs, my fingertips. There isn’t a single part of me that is left untouched.
For a minute—or an eternity, I’m not sure—I live in this state of agony. Whole worlds could be born and die, and I wouldn’t know. This hell feels endless.
My only thought is that my mate is experiencing this too. It’s what keeps me tethered. I have to get back to her.
I feel the moment my soul is forced back into flesh that barely contains it.
But then the pain softens, growing lighter.
I feel grounded in a way I never have before.
In a heartbeat, a river of new power flows beneath my skin.
I know somehow that if I called upon the water, it would answer.
If I summoned the wind, it would dance where I willed it.
But it’s something more than that.
If I told the skies themselves to collide and put on a show, they would obey.
This is the legacy of the Stormborne Fae.
The power doesn’t flow—it floods. It is the weight of a thousand Stormborne ancestors crashing into my consciousness, a tidal wave of ancestral memory—ancient wars, fallen kingdoms, and the shadow magic that once nearly devoured our world.
Now I understand why King Ariyan looked at me with fear.
I am no longer an ignorant prince from across the galaxy. I am the living embodiment of a bloodline meant to command the skies. The line that once ruled the system with power—and a gentle hand.
I inhale deeply, letting it all settle into my bones.
This is the body I was meant for. The body of a warrior.
A Fae male. A mate. I draw back my arm and swing, shattering the darkness around me.
It splinters, then falls away, revealing the dimly lit hall.
I’m on the floor, lying curled in a ball.
The air smells stale. I hear heavy breathing and turn to find Soraea asleep, sprawled across the polished floor.
I push myself to my knees, unaware of my new strength, and nearly crack the tile beneath me as I crawl toward her, hovering over her body.
She looks so peaceful, but I know the hell she’s living through. I can already see the differences in her.
She looks like a goddess carved from starlight and forest shadow, her skin faintly iridescent as if dusted with glowing stars. The feeble human body the priestess spoke of is gone, replaced by a form that can finally contain the power of the stars she was born to carry.
I lean down, needing to feel her—hold her. To remind her she isn’t alone. I press my face to her neck and inhale deeply until her scent settles into my bones.
My new senses spark to life.
I smell rain falling in the forest, frost blooms covered in midnight dew as fog settles over Kyrr. I smell home.
Memories of us—of her—come flooding back. All at once, I remember everything.
An ache like I’ve never known tears through me. I feel frantic, like a vital piece of my soul has been ripped away.
Our Mating Bond.
I know it deep within me. It calls to me, begging to be completed.
“I’m here,” I whisper, pulling her limp body into my lap and cradling her. “I’ve got you. Come back to me. Don’t leave me now, Soraea.”
But the Bond between us is silent, and the quiet terrifies me more than the darkness ever did.