Chapter 8
Aimee
Sweat clings to every inch of my body, my feet sinking into the sweltering sand with each step I take. Next to me, Killian is the picture of stoic resolve; a tic in his jaw and his furrowed brows the only sign that he might be suffering in this hellish heat too.
All around us, towering dunes shimmer in the unbearable sun like molten gold.
I can’t believe this is where the humans chose to flee from the Fae massacre.
I can almost taste their raw desperation, the heartbreak and relentless will to survive that led them to forge an unnavigable path in a place that was not meant to sustain or nurture life.
But they didn’t just escape from one hell to another, did they? Against all odds, they found shelter in this desert wilderness, and they thrived.
Azwrah is the living embodiment of that. Of the human capacity to adapt, to flourish in even the harshest environments. They are not pampered like the fucking Fae, nor are they immortal like the vampires. Their beautiful fragility makes it all even more astounding.
Hidden in the shifting sands is a city unlike anything I’ve seen before.
Defiant towers rise proudly from foundations buried deep within the bronze sands, piercing the humid air like yellowed tusks of ancient beasts.
Overflowing terraces and wooden bridges connect the imposing structures, creating intricate footways for humans to travel from one building to the next.
It dawns on me that nobody is walking on the ground like us; several pairs of eyes are overlooking us in curiosity from above. I nudge Killian’s shoulder, pointing to a ladder woven from sturdy rope.
“Shouldn’t we take to the pathways above? I can feel the skin on my feet melting in this cursed dust.”
His gaze follows my fingers, and he grunts his approval, shifting course to the stepladder. He hoists himself up with ease, and I follow as graciously as I can muster in this damp heat. By the time my feet hit the wooden planks, my muscles are taut and I heave in exhaustion.
Humans clear a path for us, watching us with awe and wariness. Their gazes cling to my exposed body; my flimsy nightgown, now soaking wet from the heat, doing nothing to hide my curves.
“Here, take this,” Killian says, handing me his black shirt.
I gingerly wrap my fingers around it as I stare at his naked chest. A single rivulet of sweat carves a path down his perfectly sculpted abs, and I gulp.
The inside of my mouth feels dry like sandpaper—whether from the view or the heat, I’m not sure.
I cover myself with the shirt, and I immediately drown in his intoxicating scent. For a second, I’m transported back to better times, when the heat of his body was the one engulfing me in sweet surrender, but the ephemeral illusion vanishes just as quickly as I conjured it.
“Do you even know where we are going?” I ask, attempting to focus on something other than those memories.
“Kasbah Sol’Kantarra. The palace ahead.” He nods with a jerk of his head toward the sun-polished, monumental ziggurat dwarfing everything around it.
My breath catches in my throat as I stare in awe at the gleaming citadel, erected on an elevated platform of pale sunstone. I thought this incandescent rock was just a myth, but as my gaze glides over the smooth surface aflame in the desert sun, I realize myths are just stories yet unproven.
Its glittering walls reflect the sunlight in a visual mirage of colors, reminding me of Sariah’s powers.
I hope Blaise was able to convince her to follow him to Wrahta, to safety.
I wish I were there when they arrived, to put her mind at ease.
She must be frightened and confused, and I couldn’t blame her if she didn’t believe Blaise was ushering her to salvation.
“You know, it would have been handy if you had shadow-walked us directly to the palace. Or if you had given me the chance to wear proper clothing before whisking us away to this place. It’s going to be an awkward meeting if the human leaders can stare at my nipples or my bare legs.”
“It’s already awkward,” Killian snorts in disdain, before adding, “It’s not like I could pinpoint our destination precisely. I’ve never been here before. Just be thankful we didn’t land in the middle of no-fucking-where, miles away from Azwrah.”
He does have a point. I huff in frustration. It’s difficult to stay annoyed with him when his answers make sense. But I need to stay annoyed, otherwise I will get lost in feelings I don’t want to let rule me anymore.
I revert my attention back to the otherworldly monument ahead, glowing in the sun as if Alektriona herself wove it from light and fire. Indeed, if the Fae Goddess of Life would walk this realm, this would be a place worthy of being called her throne.
But the Gods have forsaken us a long time ago, not giving a single fuck about the pain and suffering endured in their absence.
The closer we get to the palace, the more I notice its geometrical splendor.
Not only the platform it stands upon is made of sunstone, but it looks like the walls are made, brick after brick, from the same ancient mineral.
The entire structure has a magical inner glow, emanating from every nook and cranny.
I can only imagine how breathtaking the view must be at sunset, when the world bleeds red, and the building reflects the twilight.
Five minarets stand dignified at each point of the star-shaped building, over-seeing the busy city beneath.
Translucent domes cap their slender frames, reflecting the light in prismatic waves that dance on the sunlit ground.
Beyond them, row upon row of sandstone columns circle the citadel’s perimeter, like ancient guards eroded by the elements.
Balconies draped in luxurious desert plants jut out at uneven angles, creating the mirage of a luminous stairway to heaven.
The Fae Royals would die of unadulterated jealousy if they’d ever see this place. Everything in Ryawarath is dripping in gold and fake opulence, but not one overly expensive stone compares to the aethereal beauty and the majestic solemnity of Azwrah and Kasbah Sol’Kantarra.
“What about your super speed? Why are we walking in a thousand degrees when we could have reached the palace in seconds?”
“For fuck’s sake, it’s called diplomacy. We don’t want to be considered a hostile force approaching,” Killian grunts, dragging a hand over his face.
“But they already know we are coming. They invited us, no?”
“Oh Akaori, will you shut up already? You’re giving me a bigger headache than the sun,” he grumbles, speeding up toward the massive bronze-colored gates that stand like fierce custodians protecting a sacred space.
“Asshole,” I mutter, scrambling to keep up with him until we reach the entrance.
I crane my neck to look at the glinting metal-looking gates, wondering what kind of material could have been used to forge them.
From up close, it shimmers with sun-kissed particles, as if it contains the warmth of the sun inside; yet, when I lay my palm flat against it, the surface is cool to the touch, like a breath of fresh air.
“Now what, Mister Diplomacy?” I ask, raising a brow, seeing how there is no one to greet us.
“We knock,” Killian answers curtly, pounding on the door twice with his fist.
For a split second nothing happens, and I’m about to open my mouth and throw a snarky remark his way when a hidden panel at eye-level slides open and a pair of cautious sky-colored eyes regard us from the other side.
“Who are you and what’s your business at Sol’Kantarra?” the stranger asks, his voice slightly muffled from behind the heavy gates.
“Tell your superiors the Vampire King and the Foretold One are here. Your leaders have invited us,” Killian answers with authority.
The cornflower eyes narrow slightly before the panel slams shut with a resounding thud that echoes in the surrounding silence.
“That went well,” I say with an eye roll. “I don’t think he was very impressed with your diplomacy skills, to be honest.”
“Umbra, I swear to Akaori…”
Killian’s response drowns out in the loud creak of the opening gate.
The metal-like door moves slowly, dispersing particles of sand everywhere and revealing an inner courtyard where several warriors draped in ochre headscarves that cover their hair and faces await with their hands hovering over long dune swords hanging from their waists.
At the forefront stands the azure-eyed human, his headscarf unraveled to reveal a gorgeous ginger man, with unruly copper hair and a few days’ old stubble peppering his strong jawline.
He throws me a quick once-over, his gaze lingering a second longer than it should on my exposed legs, before facing Killian head-on.
“Kahlya and Celine are not momentarily available. I am to accompany you to your chambers to rest and freshen up, and afterwards a private dinner will be held in your honor.”
“And you are?” Killian asks, not concealing his contempt. There go his so-called diplomacy skills.
“Mael, at your disposal, Foretold One.”
The man directs his response to me, purposefully ignoring Killian, as he bows slightly and offers me an arm that I gingerly take.
“I’m Kahlya’s cousin and the superiors you requested me to fetch for you. High General of the Reweroth army,” he throws over his shoulder to a stone-faced Killian.
“Call me Aimee,” I say as I let him guide me through the courtyard, past his line of warriors and up the polished steps leading into the palace. “Don’t mind him; that’s just his charming personality.”
Mael throws a dazzling smile my way as Killian mutters behind me something that sounds very much like “pain in my ass”.