Chapter Twenty-Three
I have to admit, the view here is spectacular.
The city sprawls beneath me, its surfaces glistening as the recent rain casts everything in a reflective sheen.
The magelights suspended from wrought iron lamp posts cast a silver glow, lighting up the streets in an orderly fashion.
Ollora lies vast and sprawling, curling around the shoreline in the distance like a gentle caress.
The breeze carries a lazy, comforting scent, a blend of Kevus Lake and night-blooming jasmine. A thin mist rises from the cobblestone streets, creating a low hanging fog that blankets the ground.
Perched atop the parapet of an ancient three-story building in the Twilight Mire, the illusion of freedom is an easy trap to fall into.
I have a number of choices before me, and the longer I dance between the lines, the closer the lines become.
I’m going to be forced to choose a side before long.
And I’m not sure any of the choices on offer will end the way I want.
Shifting my weight, I bring my legs up onto the parapet and lie back onto the stone to stare at the night sky. I breathe deep, appreciating the grounding scent of petrichor and jasmine, and the feel of the cool breeze on my skin.
The clouds hadn’t fully left by the time I reached the Twilight Mire, but they had separated enough to give glimpses of the moon and stars that lie millions of miles beyond.
Brushing my hair out of my eyes and folding my arms under my head, I sigh. I’d opted not to wear the glamouring ring, wanting to keep it from Ryc in case I needed to use it again—in case I need to go into hiding or flee Ollora.
If this meeting goes south, my bag is packed, ready, and waiting on my bed at the temple. I’ll make my way as far west as I can manage, and with any luck I’ll find myself in a human-run country where these fae kings hold no power.
Leaving me to contend with Netharis and Celesta—and potentially a few pointed stares or comments from humans regarding my fae appearance. Hopefully, an easy enough thing to hide with the glamouring ring.
Celesta will be easy enough to avoid.
It’s Netharis I’m most concerned about.
A life on the run isn’t the kind of life I’d imagined for myself, but it’s better than the alternative.
After dinner, I waited for Eve and Cora to leave for night prayer before ferrying myself out of the temple. It left me with an hour to fill before midnight, but upon finding this location, I felt no rush to leave or entertain myself elsewhere.
This meeting will solidify Ryc as the Sovereign King beyond any reasonable doubt, which foolishly I hold onto. I don’t want to believe the male I feel inexplicably drawn to is the same male who could use me like Netharis, or Celesta, or Kassil.
Surely Nektos wouldn’t design my Fate this way.
Perhaps Netharis wasn’t lying when he said her plans were cruel.
Within the depths of my being, I know Ryc and Alaryc are the same person. Two halves of the whole. The alluring fae and the powerful king. Just as I’m both demon and winged fae.
One does not exist without the other.
?????????????
I’m not sure when I’d fallen asleep, but I had.
I shift, seeking an impossible comfort against the stone, and a soft, lightweight material slides over my shoulder. A cloak. The lingering scent belongs to Ryc. Propelling myself upright, he chuckles behind me.
“I’m grateful I arrived when I did,” he says as I swing my legs around, letting them hang off the parapet. “Finding you on the street after a fall like this would not have been ideal.”
Glancing down, the cobblestone street lies three stories below.
“No, I suppose not,” I return quietly, drawing his cloak tight around my shoulders. The night has grown chill.
Through the corner of my eye, Ryc sits a couple feet away, looking out over the city. Without his cloak and hood, he looks nothing like the mysterious, brooding figure that’s been trailing me for the last week and very much like the Sovereign King of Erus.
A steadfast, strong figure borne of nobility and grace sitting beside a vessel of death, a demon from the hells. This is several degrees of impossible, whatever this is, whatever we are.
Yet it’s as if the realm is holding its breath. Waiting.
Why?
For a while we sit in silence, staring, neither sure where to start. The draw in my chest urges me closer, and gripping logic tightly, I remain still. In my bones, I know the nature of this unknown thing between us hinges on how this conversation will unfold.
He shatters the silence, “You do not seem surprised by who I am.”
Not the questions I anticipated, but filled with curiosity all the same.
“Do not mistake my silence for a lack of surprise, fae,” I say flatly and he laughs. “If you seek volatility,” I scoff a small teasing laugh, returning my attention to the stars above, “there’s still time.”
“I’ve come to expect no less, little witch.” I can hear the smirk on his lips in his tone. “It is much more entertaining when you prove me wrong.”
My head swivels left and the scathing remark on my tongue dies.
In an instant, the complexities of the world melt away, leaving the two of us in an empty universe. The breath in my lungs evaporates, rendering me dizzy.
Three hundred years later and the color of his eyes still pierces through the very essence of me. It’s as if he sees all of me—all of my darkness, everything I am, everything I’ve done, and none of it matters.
Not to him.
On instinct, I lean closer, shortening the distance between us, tracing the scar on his brow.
He doesn’t flinch, or pull away, or breathe under my touch.
His left brow is cleaved in two near the tail.
A smooth line of scarred skin, paler in comparison, travels down from his brow and traces his cheekbone.
A claw, or a talon, I realize, must have given it to him.
But how?
When?
“I don’t remember this,” I say, my voice quiet.
“Been thinking about my face often?” he teases, arching the scarred brow.
“Three hundred years dreaming of you,” I answer without hesitation, my voice barely above a whisper.
He gives me a soft smile as I lower my hand.
“How?” Finally, I ask the question I’ve held close to my chest for three centuries. “How did you see me?”
He lifts his face toward the heavens. “A gift of my innate.”
My brows furrow.
What kind of innate gives a mortal the ability to see into death?
“Who are you?” I ask and he meets my stare.
His smile is enough to render me stupid. It tears at my resolve, all logic, and sends a shiver down my spine.
“A broad question with many answers,” he laughs with a rueful shake of his head. “You and I are bound in many intricate ways, little witch. Many of which I’m still figuring out.”
My brows raise along with my surprise.
I am not the only one left feeling confused, trying to make sense of this. The smile he gives me is dangerous, distracting. His golden eyes are filled with things he wants to say but struggles to find the words or courage to speak.
Fear induced clarity strikes me like lightning.
This, all of this, is dangerous. Whatever this is, whether it be of his design or the gods, I can’t allow it.
Pivoting, I leap from the parapet onto the roof. He turns as I sling his cloak at him, catching it before it’s launched off the building, the confusion on his face clear.
“You may choose to be Nektos’ puppet, but I do not,” I say as my fingers fumble to unstrap the dagger on my thigh. “Netharis, Celesta, Nektos, you—I am not a tool to be used.”
He drapes the cloak over the parapet as he stands.
“I do not seek to use you,” he says, the note of hurt in his voice hitting me square in the chest. “I’d hoped to make that clear. I see that I haven’t.”
With a fluid motion, I toss the sheathed dagger to him. He catches it with ease, dropping it beside him, his eyes never leaving mine.
“Nothing is clear,” I snap the words, letting my fear fuel me.
“I left the hells to escape Netharis, my contract, and the archdemon I’ve been promised to.
Not to enmesh myself with mortals, or Fate, or any of this.
” I point to the dagger. “If I had known the implications of accepting your gift, I wouldn’t have.
I don’t need a lover. I need someone who can keep me alive—out of the hells.
Someone who isn’t afraid to stand against the gods with me. ”
In my chest, the pull grows stronger, and I plant my feet firmly in place. Fighting the urge with every ounce of determination I have.
“Let me be your weapon, little witch,” he says, closing the distance between us in a few long strides. “As your guardian.”
My guardian?
Lilith had said the same earlier. And admittedly, while with him, the worries of the world fall away—not because I’m distracted, but because I feel safe with him.
Despite the way his words set my heart racing, I steel myself, wrapping my distrust, fear, and hopelessness around me like an impenetrable shield.
“I cannot trust you.” My hands tighten into fists as I stare up at him, and my innate begins to vibrate.
“We do not have time for me to earn your trust the way I’d like at this point.” He reaches, gently brushing some of my hair out of my eyes. “Offer me a contract.”
“What?” The question leaves me in a breathy sound. “No.”
I did not hear this fae correctly.
He did not just ask me for a contract.
A small smile plays on his lips. “Afraid to damn my soul? I’m flattered.”
“No, I don’t care about your soul,” I snarl the words and he chuckles. “I am not going to bind myself to a mortal positioned to claim me in the name of some archaic faerie throne, Ryc.”
His laughter grows, fueling my budding irritation.
In a swift motion he tilts my chin, lifting my face to his, his lips hovering over mine. I freeze, my muscles winding in tight. One slight shift, the tiniest push of my toes, and I could taste him. My toes curl in my boots in an attempt to thwart the idea.