Chapter 10 Rhianelle #2
I am shaking with fury. Arescaine’s hand finds mine in the darkness and squeezes once. A warning. Stay quiet.
I force myself to breathe slowly.
They discuss more positions and strategies. Kharlis reveals troop numbers and weaknesses in our defenses. Every word is another dagger in my kingdom’s back.
“There is one concern,” one of the commanders says after a while. “The vampire.”
My attention sharpens.
“Arescaine?” Kharlis waves dismissively. “He’s just a hired blade for the Wiolants. Nothing to worry about.”
“Are you certain? We’ve heard he’s unlike any Nightwalker we’ve seen before.” The commander leans back in his chair, studying Kharlis. “Our mistress has developed a strange fixation on him.”
Kharlis hesitates. “I can have eyes on him, if that’s what you need.”
“See that you do,” the dark-haired commander says.
The other commanders nod, apparently satisfied.
A faint scrape sounds somewhere near the wall. One of the commanders looks toward the alcove. “Did you hear something?”
The youngest glances toward him. “You’re imagining things.”
“Has this room been checked?” The first commander does not look away from the wall.
Kharlis frowns. “No, but this is the Painted Moth. Thorn Vale guarantees privacy to every guest.”
“Still, we should be cautious.” The first commander’s gaze moves slowly around the room. “Check the room.”
My heart stops.
I can feel Arescaine tense beside me. His hand tightens on mine.
The youngest commander rises from his chair and moves into the center of the room. He lifts both hands and begins speaking in one of the oldest fae tongues. I recognize fragments from texts written before the first elven kingdoms. The words come too quickly for me to understand.
The air grows hot. The wine inside the goblets trembles, and the flames in the lamps lengthen toward the ceiling.
“What is he doing?” Kharlis asks.
“Checking for listeners,” the dark-haired commander answers. “Spies. The spell will burn anyone hiding nearby.”
Fire erupts from the young commander’s hands. The flames do not spread wildly. They move across the carpets and climb the walls in branching streams, searching with purpose through every corner and concealed space.
The heat reaches the alcove.
Arescaine moves before I can react. He draws me hard against his chest and wraps both wings completely around me, sealing me inside a living cocoon.
The fire hits.
I feel the heat through the wings. Arescaine’s whole body goes rigid with pain. His breathing turns ragged, strained.
But he doesn’t make a sound.
The wings hold and protect me. I am pressed so close to Arescaine I can feel his heartbeat racing against me and the tremors passing through his body as the spell burns.
The heat fades as the spell ends.
“Not a single being in this world can withstand the fires of Hellios,” the commander says, sounding satisfied. “We’re alone.”
Kharlis lets out a relieved breath and turns back to the map. “Now, about the reinforcements heading to the southern border...”
They resume their discussion as though nothing happened, moving soldiers across the map and planning where Avalon should strike next.
Arescaine keeps me enclosed within his wings. He is still trembling and in pain, but not a single sound escapes him. His whole body is drawn tight around me. He fights to remain silent.
I can’t heal him and risk the magic being detected. I can only stand there, trapped within the shelter of his burned wings, feeling each shudder that passes through him. He took the full force of the spell without hesitation.
The vampire allowed the flames to burn him so they would not touch me.
They talk for what feels like an hour. More positions are exposed and more strategies are shared. Kharlis calmly hands our enemies every weapon they need to destroy us.
“The queen has a weakness,” Kharlis is saying. “Her friend. The Maiden of Arawynn. If you capture Blaire Blackbriar, Her Highness will do anything to get her back.”
My fury sharpens into something colder. He would use Blaire against me.
“Interesting,” the commander says thoughtfully. “We’ll consider it.”
They talk for another eternity. Finally, one of the commanders stands. “Enough business. Let’s enjoy the evening. The Painted Moth has excellent entertainment.”
Kharlis laughs. “I could use a drink and perhaps some company.”
“The serving staff here is exceptional.” The commander’s smile makes my skin crawl. “We should take advantage of Thorn Vale’s hospitality while we are here.”
They move toward the door, their footsteps and voices fading down the corridor.
The room falls quiet.
Arescaine doesn’t release me from his wings. I can feel him still trembling.
“They’re gone,” I whisper.
His wings slowly unfurl.
I pull back to look at him. His face is pale like an ordinary Nightwalker, jaw clenched tight.
“How bad?” I ask quietly.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. I felt you—”
Through the crack in the door, I can hear voices in the main room. Kharlis and the commanders, calling for servers and more wine.
Arescaine and I can’t leave without being seen. We can’t risk exposing ourselves now. I look at his wings. They are still extended, with the membranes showing angry red burns across the surface.
“Let me heal you,” I whisper.
“It’s too risky,” he breathes.
“They’re in the other room. I’ll be careful. Slow. Just enough to—”
“Rhianelle—”
“Please.”
He stares at me for several heartbeats, resistance tightening every line of his face. Then his gaze lowers to my hand, and he nods once.
I press my hand gently against the burned membrane of his wing. He flinches but doesn’t pull away.
Closing my eyes, I call upon Anastarros’s blessing. The healing magic answers immediately. I hold it tightly under my control, allowing only the smallest thread to flow from my palm.
There can be no bright flare of power. Nothing can betray our presence to the commanders nearby. The magic seeps quietly into the damaged membrane beneath my fingertips. It eases the heat trapped within the burns.
Scorched tissue begins to mend beneath my palm. The delicate structures draw together strand by strand.
I work slowly, giving him only enough magic to soothe the worst of the damage while keeping our hiding place concealed.
Arescaine’s breathing steadies slightly. I move my hand across the wing surface, finding the worst burns and healing them one by one. So slowly and so carefully.
Yet he continues to tremble. In the dim light, I see the strain carved into his expression.
His eyes are half-lidded, his jaw tight, and a muscle jumps in his cheek.
A low sound escapes him when my fingers pass over a vein in the membrane.
It is barely audible and disappears almost as soon as it forms.
“Is it still hurting?” I whisper.
The burns are healing. They should not be hurting him this much anymore. A pulse of alarm moves through me. Have I done something wrong? Have I somehow made the pain worse instead of easing it?
“No.” His voice is strained.
“Then why are you—”
“You need to stop touching them.” He cuts me off, each word sounding dragged from between clenched teeth. “The wings are sensitive.”
I pause, my hand resting on the membrane.
Sensitive? All right. I should be more careful, then.
There are still a few burns left to heal. My fingers move across the membrane, checking for remaining damage.
His whole body goes rigid. “Just… be careful.”
“I’m almost done healing.”
“You’re not healing anymore. You’re—” He breaks off as my fingers trace along a vein in the wing. “Stop.”
“Does it hurt?” I ask.
“No.” His jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping.
“Then what is it?”
I touch a particularly delicate section near where the wing connects to his back. His hand shoots out, gripping my wrist to still my movement.
“Rhianelle.” His voice is a warning. Low and dangerous. “Stop.”
He stares at me, his eyes dark and intense in the dim light of the closet.
Arescaine’s breath hisses out between his teeth. His grip on my wrist tightens. In the narrow space between us, pressed close enough to feel every line of his body, I become abruptly aware of the hard length of him.
Oh.
Oh. Heat floods my face as understanding crashes over me.
“It’s that sensitive,” I whisper.
“Yes,” he says through his teeth. “So unless you want to discover exactly how sensitive, don’t touch.”
Before I can respond, the closet door opens.
We both freeze.
A fae stands in the doorway. She is slender, with delicate butterfly wings in shades of pink and gold. Petal stares at us for a heartbeat, her eyes going wide.
“Fawn?” she breathes.
She is one of the servers I’d met before. A bruise darkens her left eye. It’s fresh and painful-looking. The skin around it is swollen, angry purple and yellow.
Rage flares in my chest. Someone hit her.
“Petal,” I whisper. “Please—”
She holds up a hand, cutting me off. She glances over her shoulder toward the main room where Kharlis’s laughter echoes.
Then she looks back at us, her expression hardening with determination.
“Wait here,” she mouths.
She closes the door before I can respond.
We stand in the darkness, pressed together in the tiny space. Arescaine’s wings are still extended, still touching my hands.
Through the crack in the door, I hear Petal’s voice, bright and cheerful despite what must be a throbbing eye.
“My lords, gentlemen, if I may suggest, we have a much finer room available tonight. Compliments of the house. Better wine, better accommodations that are much more private.”
“Oh?” That is Kharlis. “How much more private?”
“Completely isolated. Perfect for... extended entertainment.” Her voice is composed, but I can hear the edge underneath it. The anger. “I could arrange for our best servers to attend you personally. You know how skilled they are.”
“Tempting,” one of the fae commanders says.
“Very well,” Kharlis agrees. “Lead the way. Your eye is rather distracting, girl. Cover it better next time.”
I hear Petal’s sharp intake of breath. “Of course, my lord. My apologies.”