45. Aryn #3
Rhael’s eyes are wide as he stares. “What about the snow?”
Cameron chuckles again as he glances around at the art, all depicting cold weather and icy conditions. “‘Fraid snow doesn’t exist anymore on our side. Maybe in some of the more extreme parts of the world, but not where we are.”
Rhael shakes his head, then glances back at his painting like he could draw heat from the sunlight.
We finish looking through the museum, then climb to the highest battlement to overlook the city.
The capital sprawls out below us in a sea of rooftops and winding cobblestone streets under the pale winter sky.
I point out a distant wing of the castle. “That’s where Zadeus held me,” I say quietly to Cato.
His brows pinch as he looks at me. “I never thought about the fact that you would’ve been here.”
“Not for long. He was assembling his research team when he took me, but eventually he placed us in a secret location. Fewer distractions, he said.”
“Sounds like Ljómur.”
“It was very similar,” I agree. “He put his research in remote parts of the world. That way, he could see enemies coming from miles away. Very few people knew what he was doing, and even fewer knew the locations.”
“I’m sorry you were there so long,” Cato murmurs as his hand finds mine. “I would’ve found some way to break you out of that place.”
“There you go, being the hero again.”
He chuckles as he pulls me into a hug, and we both stare at that place that used to be my prison. “I love you, darlin’. I might not know everything that means yet, but I know I’m willing to do just about anything to keep you safe.”
“You got my back, rha khor?”
“Shit, I got your back, your front… I got any part you want me to have.”
I lean into him for a moment, drawing strength from his presence. “I want you to have all of me,” I finally say.
He hums and presses a kiss to my temple. “I’ll remember that later.”
A surprised laugh rolls out of me, and a few of the others glance in our direction as we try to contain ourselves. Eventually, a messenger finds us.
It’s time.
Tension and nerves are sky high as we enter the Vaelor’s private wing.
Guards line the hallway, every one of them watching us carefully.
The room we’re led into is messier than I expected, with a long wooden table surrounded by high-backed chairs and papers scattered over its surface.
An entire wall is covered in detailed maps and diagrams. They look more like relief efforts and crop planning than any sort of war efforts, though I notice one highlights areas where the Viskari gave us trouble on the road.
Tall arched windows on the opposite side offer a sweeping view of the city below. Large hearths burn steadily on either far wall, filling the space with warmth, but underneath the smell of burning logs is the faint scent of ink, polished wood, and aged parchment.
The guards are cautious, though one bows respectfully and gestures toward the chairs. “Please, sit. The Vaelor will join you shortly.”
We settle in to wait, anticipation becoming a tangible thing in the room. What happens if she doesn’t believe us? If she laughs in our faces, or tells us it’s not her war to fight?
Everything hinges on this moment, and my stomach is suddenly tight with the realization of what it means if we fail.
The door swings open, and the guards snap to attention as the Vaelor strides in. She carries herself with the confident bearing of a seasoned warrior, unbothered by the fact that every eye in the room is on her.
She’s Anunian with a deep purple skin, a powerful build, and three long, whiplike tails that move with restless energy behind her.
She wears practical armor much like her soldiers, scarred and well-used, with only a silver brooch shaped like a broken crown pinned at her collar to mark her status.
Her presence fills the room instantly. Sharp brown eyes assess all of us in a single glance.
“I apologize for the delay,” she says, voice commanding as she moves toward the head of the table. “There are many demands on my time. Let us speak plainly. Brihn’s message was… unusual, and I won’t pretend to understand half of it. Tell me why you have come.”
As she speaks, Ronan can’t stop staring. His eyes are wide, fixed on her face with an intensity I’ve rarely seen from him, and his skin has gone pale.
After a moment, the Vaelor notices. She tilts her head, one brow rising. “Is there a problem?”
Ronan swallows hard, then shakes his head, blinking as he continues to stare. “What is your name?”
The guards tense, hands drifting toward weapons, but the Vaelor raises a hand to stop them. She studies Ronan for a long beat before answering.
“Ailynor.”
Ronan breathes out a single Elyrian word like it’s a prayer.
“Va…”
The Vaelor takes a hard step back, eyes darting over Ronan as her tails stand at attention like serpents ready to strike. “It is impossible,” she hisses.
“What did he say?” Cato demands as he leans toward me, fully on alert.
I’m frozen in shock, staring between them. “It means ‘mother.’”