ELEVEN
Silas kept his gaze trained ahead, warmth flooding him as the walls of his home city loomed from the thick layers of mist coating the ground. He tried not to glance too often at the woman tugging her horse through the outer gates beside him.
He didn’t care what she thought of his hometown. Not one bit.
The City of Lunarian emerged from the mist like something carved from the bones of the earth itself.
Built into the rising cliffs of the Western Ranges, its pale stone buildings were stacked upon one another in a tiered sprawl, linked by narrow, winding streets and arched bridges that spanned the chasms between.
The city was old, weathered by time and frost, its edges softened by the constant presence of mist rolling in from the surrounding valleys.
The air was bitingly cold, the wind carrying the distant bell toll from high towers. Silver banners bearing Lunarian’s crest hung from street posts, a silver crescent moon over a mountain peak, fluttering in the frigid wind.
Moving into the heart of the city, he noticed Amelia shivering, pink fingers pulling her jacket tighter around herself.
He resisted the urge to throw more of his clothing at her.
She would need to find some warmer clothes to survive the bitter weather of the Shadowlands.
He mentally prepared a list of items to gather for her as they walked.
“You grew up here?” she asked, eyeing the looming stone walls and arched bridges spanning the city. “That explains so much.”
Silas carefully guided his horse up the street, hoofbeats clopping on the stones and reverberating around them. “What exactly does that explain?”
Amelia gestured vaguely at their surroundings. “Your excessive layering of coats. The occasional brooding. The way you sometimes look as though contemplating the meaning of life and death simultaneously.”
Silas scoffed at her assessment. “Lunarian is cold, but practical. It’s well fortified, unlike your beloved coastal cities, where everything is about aesthetics over function.”
Amelia sent him a surprised look. “Well, perish the thought that a place is actually pleasant to live in.” She scanned the icy streets, watching people bustle between buildings wrapped in heavy cloaks, faces half-hidden behind scarfs.
Arcane crystals flared with golden light inside sconces, their glow trying desperately to pierce the thick mist.
Silas exhaled a breath that misted in the air. “Lunarian isn’t exactly meant to be pleasant,” he said, crestfallen by her words, “it’s meant to endure.”
Amelia eyed him. “Again. Explains so much.”
Silas ignored her.
Ahead, the road sloped towards the upper district, where the wealthiest families resided. There, overlooking the city like a sentinel, stood the Finley Estate, and Silas’ childhood home.
The entrance was marked by tall, ornate gates, the crest of the Finley family emblazoned upon them. Beyond the gates, the Estate loomed. A grand, imposing home of pale stone, its multitude of windows with black accents, glinted like shards of ice in the weak sunlight.
Not just a home, a fortress.
Amelia scrutinised the Finley crest on the iron gates, an ouroboros of a snake swallowing its own tail, encircling a single midnight star.
She let out a low whistle and cast him a humoured look. “Subtle,” she observed dryly.
Silas shrugged. “It’s just a crest.”
“It’s a statement,” she remarked, breath visible in the cold air. Amelia leaned closer to study the design. “What does it mean? We are rich, cold and have no fun?”
Silas sighed. “It represents the balance of knowledge and power. The endless pursuit of understanding.”
Amelia snorted. “I should have known your family motto would be something pretentious.”
He gave her a flat stare. “And what would your family crest be? A disorganised stack of books topped by a cold, weak cup of tea?”
“Bold of you to assume my family even has a crest.”
He raised a brow, unsure whether she was joking. All prominent families in Aethrial had a crest. Amelia’s parents practically owned the University in Ivory City.
They passed quietly through the creaking gates, tugging their horses with them.
The courtyard was lined with frostbitten hedges, a frozen fountain at its centre, standing like a forgotten relic of warmer times. Smartly dressed attendants were already approaching to take their horses.
Amelia handed her horse over with a smile before facing Silas. “What have you told your mother about me? I don’t expect a warm welcome, but should I expect a dramatic confrontation?” She trailed her gaze over the ivory walls warily. “A disarmingly stoic butler? Sibling locked in the attic?”
Silas rubbed at his temples. He should have set some expectations, possibly warned her. Procrastination was not often his enemy, but in this case, he had let it win.
“Veralind—my mother is…difficult,” he said slowly, “but she’s the only one who might have the answers we need.”
Amelia’s face pinched with bewilderment.
Silas gestured for the steps of the Estate. She paused, as though considering if she wanted to ask more. Thankfully, she relented, and walked with him to the doors. He had a feeling this visit was going to exhaust him more than the past few days.
That was saying something.
Silas led Amelia into his home, the interior as imposing as the exterior.
The vast halls were made of the same pale stone as the rest of the city, but it was offset by towering, dark wooden shelving and wrought-iron chandeliers that cast its light across polished flooring.
The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of charring meat wafting from the kitchens below.
The entrance hall opened into the atrium, where a spiral staircase made of marble and black railing curled upwards. The walls were adorned by portraits of his stern-faced ancestors, their light, sharp eyes watching them both silently.
Amelia shivered slightly as she surveyed the portraits and the cold, clinical surroundings. “Your family sure did commit to the whole ‘intellectual dynasty’ deal, didn’t they?”
Silas barely glanced at the depictions of his ancestors, brushing over his father’s entirely.
He turned to look at her. A piece of her dark hair had fallen from her braid, brushing at her cold-stained cheek, her head tilted up to take in the arches above.
His finger twitched, aching to push it back behind her ear.
He cleared his throat. “They prefer ‘legacy of scholarly excellence’.”
She scoffed, fingers reaching up to brush away the stray tendril.
He sighed softly and averted his eyes.
Silas directed her up the staircase and further into the estate, which was split into several wings.
One led towards a dimly lit study filled with leather-bound books, artefacts encased by glass, and a lifetime of memories that Silas had tried hard to forget.
He skipped the study, heading for the bedrooms past the formal dining hall.
She dipped her head in beyond the wide-open double doors curiously, taking in the long table made of dark wood, stretched out beneath a skylight that lit the room with cold sunshine through frost-laced glass.
“Finley, I knew you were rich,” she said quietly, as though afraid to be heard by the ghosts of his ancestors, “but this is rich rich.”
“Yeah,” was all he said, pulling the doors to the dining room closed so she was forced to straighten and retreat into the hallway. She raised a brow but didn’t argue as he led her away.
“I suppose you got everything you ever wanted?”
Silas frowned, glancing at her sidelong. He expected a mocking expression, but he found something more calculated, like Amelia might sense that the home held a sadness for him that he wasn’t articulating. She was baiting him into speaking on it.
Not ready to expose those parts of him, he gave the response she would have expected from him a week ago. “Sure did. The kids called me ‘Silas the Spoiled’. Quite fitting, yes?”
Before Amelia could respond, he stopped before a set of handsomely engraved doors and gestured at them. She looked at Silas quizzically. “Is your mother in there?”
He laughed. “No, and I don’t know where she is, but my mother won’t be…up to chatting until later. It’s best if we wait for supper before we start asking questions.”
Clearly disappointed, she glanced at the doors. “Oh, alright.”
“I don’t know how long you’ll be staying,” Silas said, gesturing again at the iron door handles, “but this will be your room, if it suits.”
Amelia swung the doors open, stopping at the threshold to take it in.
The bedrooms of the estate were in the east wing, each chamber unsurprisingly large and carrying the same sombre elegance as the rest of the house.
A canopied bed with midnight-blue blankets stood against the far wall, its four posts carved with the Finley ouroboros.
A large fireplace, dark and cold, took up most of the wall opposite the bed, a plush red couch set before it.
A heavy desk was positioned beneath a frosted window which overlooked the city.
There was an extra set of thick blankets neatly folded at the foot of her bed, along with an extra set of gloves, a winter cloak, and a scarf.
Amelia had wandered over, trailing her fingers across the soft bedding before she spotted them. She looked over her shoulder at him. “Did you tell your staff I needed these?”
Silas leaned against the doorframe. “I simply mentioned that you’re from a climate where winter means you wear a long-sleeved shirt.” He should have known his mothers’ staff would be so prompt with his whispered request. Frustratingly useful, they were.
Amelia reached out to touch the cloak made of rich, dark fabric. “I’d protest, but my fingers are unreasonably cold right now, so…” She plucked up a glove and examined it, fingers smoothing over the material. He watched her drift to the window and peer out the misty glass.