Chapter 37 Threads Beneath
Chapter thirty-seven
Threads Beneath
-Maris-
The chamber was carved from salt stone, walls glimmering with threads of sea crystal and ancient glyphs that pulsed faintly with stored magic.
The scholars had gathered in a circle, robed in bone-white, their mouths murmuring incantations too old for common tongues.
Candles flickered with a bowl of still water in the center of the room reflected nothing, not even the flicker of her own face.
Maris sat on a low, cushioned dais, her palms upturned, her breath steady despite the chill crawling down her spine. She felt like a sacrifice at the alter of Eiren.
She had agreed to this, not because she trusted Alarik but because she had to know. Something inside her was changing, burning brighter and deeper by the hour. The goddess’s kiss still bloomed against her skin like a celestial bruise.
The eldest of the scholars stepped forward, a woman with cataract-white eyes and skin darkened by time and salt. Her fingers were etched with ink, curling with runes that seemed to shift with her pulse.
Maris swallowed, her voice barely above a whisper. “What are you going to do?”
The woman’s lips curled faintly not unkind. But unreadable.
“You are the seam where gods stitched failure to hope. The child of paradox. Born from bloodlines that should never have crossed,” she added, glancing at the shimmer at Maris’s temple, “touched by the one who sleeps beneath the stars. We will try to probe your power to help you gain control child.”
Eiren.
The scholars continued their rites. One by one, they placed their hands above her skin, never quite touching, but drawing threads of light from her body like spider silk. Her magic responded without command, flickering in patterns they could barely interpret.
“It continues to dream,” one whispered. “Not fully awake but watching.”
Her magic was sentient. That truth struck her with a cold, wild certainty.
And still, something deeper stirred beneath it. A second pulse. One not wholly hers.
She inhaled sharply. Kael.
She could feel him faint and distant, the thrum of his anger and desperation tickling the edge of her thoughts. Like someone knocking from behind glass.
Her stomach turned.
The bond faded with their distance and she didn’t know what would happen if it vanished entirely.
Before she could speak, the door opened.
Alarik stepped inside. He didn’t smile. But his gaze met hers with a reverence that curled the breath in her chest.
“Enough for today,” he said softly to the scholars. “She’s had her fill of prodding and prophecy.”
They obeyed bowing low as they slipped away, runes trailing behind them like water.
The chamber was quiet now.
Maris sat perfectly still on the edge of the dais, her skin still buzzing from the scholars’ probing magic, her thoughts frayed.
She watched Alarik with narrowed eyes, annoyed by his presence, fortunately he didn’t approach.
But he looked at her with a searing gaze, a thousand thoughts rippling behind his violet-blue irises.
“You're holding yourself well,” he said at last, his voice low and warm, almost private. “They are not gentle.”
“Neither am I,” she replied, chin lifting — her smirk slowly evaporated as the realization of what she implied hit her like a physical blow.
That made something flicker at the corner of his mouth.
She begged the goddess to make him fade from sight. She prayed he'd say something cryptic and vanish back to his war maps and whispered secrets — to save her the embarrassment of this conversation continuing.
Instead, he stepped forward.
“I want to show you something,” he said. “If you’ll allow it.”
Maris stared. “Is it going to hurt?”
“No,” he said. Then, after a pause, “But it may frighten you.”
She didn’t move but nodded.
Alarik offered his hand not as a king, not as a captor, but as something like a friend.
Her fingers brushed his palm heat jolted her.
His magic licked against hers like a spark seeking kindling a tether between them, frayed and faint from dreams, coiled tight.
He led her to the center of the room where a circle of sea-glass tiles had been laid in ancient patterns.
Arcane script shimmered faintly beneath their feet as they stepped within.
“Your full power is still dormant,” Alarik said. “You’re feeling fragments, waking pulses, small ruptures, but it’s yours wield. You must learn to call it on command.”
“How?” she asked, her throat dry.
“With me,” he said, gently placing his hand just below her collarbone. “I can help you find the threads to pull.”
The contact was nothing indecent and yet her breath caught— she cursed her body for the betrayal.
His fingers were respectfully placed but the magic they stirred felt sinful. She felt its essence lift flaring outward.
Her eyes widened as a shimmer burst from her palms, golden and silver power. Her power hit between them with enough force to cause a shift in his footing. It crackled through the air before dissolving into mist.
Alarik didn’t flinch. In fact, his expression only grew more reverent.
“Again,” he whispered. “But this time, don’t hold back.”
“I’m not sure that I was.”
He smiled, just slightly. “It will come with practice— the awareness — soon it will be second nature for you.”
Maris inhaled, closing her eyes and focusing on the power coursing through her.
Her magic surged again but this time, when it hit his body, it didn’t push him back. It wrapped around him like light made tangible, silver threads glowing across his chest, his throat — it slithered up his hands that rested on her shoulders. She gasped.
As she looked unto Alarik, his composer shattered. His eyes were wide, caught in the glow from her summons. His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to speak and had forgotten how. Completely awestruck.
The room pulsed. For a suspended moment, it was like she was him, feeling his awe, his hesitation, his —
Desire.
Not lust. Not hunger.
But longing.
The gravity of the feeling caused her focus on the magic to dissipate, her threads of magic blinked out. Her cheeks burned.
The weight of her magic still lingered in the air, clinging to the corners of the chamber in aftershocks. Maris didn't speak — she didn't know where to begin. Even as her pulse slowed. She could still feel it, him, wrapped within her.
As she glanced up into his gaze, she found him already watching her.
"There's something I need to tell you," Alarik said softly.
"The first night," he whispered, "when I entered your dreams …
it wasn't only your mind I touched." He hesitated, then continued, his voice hushed.
"You were never meant to see my true form, it was too risky— with Kael knowing me, he could have easily found out about my meddling — had you told him what you saw.
But as I tried to project a facade, you saw straight through it— you saw me.
It caught me off guard and I ending up giving a part of myself to you. "
Her breath caught but she didn't interrupt.
"You carry a sliver of my soul now. That's why you can sense me — and I can feel you, although distantly." He exhaled slowly, like confessing it cost him something.
"You shouldn't have been able to keep more than the spells price — a drop of ones soul to enter another —but I suspect with your goddess blessed magic it altered the spell."
He stepped forward then, just enough for the light reflecting from the sea below to catch the edge of sadness in his expression.
"You're the keeper of it, Maris. A piece of me lives in you now, and whether you want it or not… I'm bound to you."
His voice was edged with fragility. "I'm sorry it was more of an invasion that I ever meant, I never —"
"Can I give it back to you?" She asked raw and uncertain.
"No," he shook his head. "once given, it can't be returned without breaking us both."
She didn't speak. Just nodded once, because she didn't know how to unpack the bare truth he'd laid before her.
-Alarik-
Alarik could still feel the press of her power on his chest, the echo of it wrapped around his soul like a phantom heartbeat. His own magic had recoiled and embraced in the same breath. It didn’t fight her.
It recognized her.
Maris had stood at the center of the circle like she belonged to the very gods that had damned them. Her dark hair tumbled down her back in waves, slightly mussed from the exertion of magic. Her eyes, those green-silver eyes still burned with remnants of the power she’d unleashed.
She was beautiful.
Not in the same way as Elenwe, she—had been warm and golden.
Maris was made of starlight and steel. A porcelain blade.
Not only powerful. Not only rare.
Called.
Now she was looking at him like she wanted to understand him too with the truth he'd spoken. He knew it would complicate things but he couldn't keep it to himself. Not when she'd felt him now.
Alarik turned away slightly, running a hand through his pale hair as if the movement might cool the heat in his veins.
He hadn’t meant to let it go that far.
But her magic had answered his in a way that rattled him. Not like two foreign forces clashing but like puzzle pieces fitting into place.
Even now, in the corner of his mind, he could feel the resonance of her soft, flickering, and curious. Like she’d left the door half-open without realizing it.
Her hand glinted as she smoothed out her dress, she wore Kael’s ring.
That cursed engagement band a constant reminder of the hold Kael had.
Alarik hated it with a violence he couldn’t quite contain. He could still smell Kael on her clinging to her.
His jaw locked.
He didn’t want to resent her for it. She hadn’t known. Kael had claimed her without truth. Without giving her the full history, the prophecy. Without ever warning her who that stranger in her dreams might be.
Who I am, Alarik thought bitterly.
He exhaled slowly, trying to center himself.
This wasn’t about his pride. Or his jealousy. It was about survival. His kingdom. His people. Her future. If she remained in Calyrix, if Kael continued to use her without shaping her power what would she become? A weapon? A queen in a cage?
Here… at least she had a chance to choose.
He turned back to face her. She was still standing within the arcane circle, watching him carefully, breathing uneven.
“You're grasp on your power advancing quickly,” he said quietly.
“ I wasn't expecting it to feel that… good, the release of it.” She replied with her head slightly tilted, the silver starburst in her irises catching the torchlight.
Alarik forced a breath. “The scholars will want to continue tomorrow. I’ll inform them of the progress we’ve made. But tonight… you should rest.”
She nodded leaving the circle, her steps graceful but heavy, like the weight of what had passed between them clung to her limbs.
When the door closed behind her but Alarik remained.
Alone in the chamber, he stared at the glowing lines of the spellwork at his feet.
The raven landed with blood on its beak.
Alarik stood at the edge of his war room’s balcony, wind from the western sea tugging at his silvery cloak. The parchment tied to the raven’s leg bore Nythran wax cracked and broken.
Kael has moved.
The missive was brief. The borderland camps had been razed by night-fire, and word had spread like plague: Kael had summoned every noble house, including the ancient, reclusive ones.
Worse, he had allied himself with Thauren of Virellia.
Kael must have offered him something substantial to fight at his side.
Alarik’s hand curled around the edge of the stone railing.
Of all the damned kings…
Thauren.
The Storm-crowned butcher with blood and vengeance braided into his hair. The man who had once called Kael brother in arms, who had hated Alarik even before Elenwe’s death shattered every fragile tie of trust between their fractured thrones.
A low growl coiled in Alarik’s throat.
“He’s assembling godsdamned legions,” Zairon muttered behind him, voice flat. “Nightbound. Fae. Vampire. Even Virellian tideborn. He’ll come to reclaim her once forces are fully aligned.”
Alarik didn’t move. “Then let him.”
Zairon approached, golden eyes catching the firelight. “He won’t stop at war, Alarik. He wants her back.”
“I know.”
Zairon gave him a long look. “I don’t want you to mistake a hunger for change with lust.”
Alarik’s jaw flexed.
It wasn’t that simple.
He had brought Maris here under the Veil of strategy and necessity, but each day she became more than prophecy. There was light in her, not just magic. A sharpness. A soul he hadn’t expected and the dream bond between them had only deepened since she arrived.
“She’s not ready,” Alarik said quietly. “He’ll use her before she understands what she is.”
Zairon stepped beside him, arms crossed. “And we won’t?”
Alarik turned sharply, but Zairon’s expression didn't falter — a challenge.
“I’m not blind,” Zairon added. “I know what she could be. I also know what you’ve become since she arrived.”
Alarik didn’t answer. The silence stretched, broken only by the distant crashing of the waves below Nerium’s cliffs.
“I’ve sent word to the Isles,” Alarik finally said. “The coastal houses. They’ll defend the western shore.”
“And here?”
“She will not be taken.” His voice was steel now. “Double the guard. No one enters her wing without going through me or Serenya.”
He moved back into the chamber, passing the great carved table of Calanthe’s rulers. Maps, sigils, and ancient relics lay scattered across it like the remnants of a lost age.
Alarik extended a hand and magic sparked, tracing a symbol into the air above the center of the table.
A crown formed of twisted light.
“She is the key,” he murmured. “But only if she chooses to be.”
Behind him, Zairon let out a slow breath. “Then you better give her a reason to choose us.”