Chapter 21
Sleep refuses to claim me. My body aches for rest, every muscle heavy, but my mind will not yield. I lie tangled in threadbare sheets, eyes fixed on the ceiling’s worn wooden beams, unable to stop thinking of him.
Rian.
Every time my eyelids flutter closed, he’s there. His dark, unyielding stare holds me captive.
I trace the sharp cut of his handsome features, admiring the strength coiled into every line of his body.
His shadows reach for me, hungry, desperate.
As if they crave me. Their phantom touch lingers on my skin, wrapping me in their darkness, squeezing tighter every time I fight them…
every time I tell myself I don’t want him.
My chest tightens. My fingers curl into the sheets.
Enough!
I should be consumed with finding an answer to my problems in the forbidden Fae text tucked under my mattress, not dwelling on thoughts of the male who holds my fate in his shadow-wielding hands.
I fling back my covers and untangle my legs from my sheets, slipping out of bed, careful not to disturb Ferria in the bed across from mine. My sister lies on her back, one arm thrown over her forehead while the other dangles off the edge. Quiet snores float into the air.
She doesn’t wake.
Good.
Juniper wasn’t exaggerating when she said Ferria needs rest. I’ve never seen my sister so exhausted. The dark circles under her eyes resemble bruises, but not the sort my healing magic has any effect on. I cannot rid someone of fatigue.
General Ironheart’s order must be massive. That, on top of her normal workload refining astlerium, and it’s a wonder she hasn’t passed out while working and fallen into the fiery forge.
Not that fire would harm her, but Anton would certainly have questions if her arm slipped into the blaze and came out unmarred.
I pad into the sitting room and retrieve the small leather diary from between the couch cushions. I settle on the lumpy seat and open to the first page.
Beautiful handwriting scrolls across the page. The elegant swoops and sharp lines speak of discipline and art. Tonight is the first time I’ve found the energy to open the leather-bound journal Juniper slipped into my hands at the temple.
I read the opening date and frown. I turn the page, only to be met with a similar problem.
The First Stars Watch
The Day of Pommel Rite
The Second Setting of the Blood Moon
I have no idea what time in history correlates to those unusual phrases. Mention of The Mother and the Fae language confirms the author is Fae, but other than that, very little information makes sense.
The flame in the lantern gutters. I reach over and turn the knob, feeding it more oil.
With a mind-clearing breath, I turn the page and read the next diary entry, eager to escape the Shadow Fae haunting my thoughts and learn as much as I can about the unknown Fae author and the mysterious life she lived on the other side of the Veil.
The summer estate is more breathtaking than I remember.
The lake sings at night, silver-bright under the moons, and the roses along the western hedge have bloomed early—blush-pink and heavy with scent.
I’ve taken to sitting beneath the myrtle tree in the mornings, sketching the hills before the sun makes them too gold to look at without squinting. Here, everything feels gentler. Slower. It almost makes me forget the strain of what awaits me back in the city.
But this peace won’t last.
The nobles, with their polished smiles and agendas wrapped in silky words and insincere compliments, arrive tomorrow.
And among them, him.
He watches too much. Speaks too little.
I never know what my father’s brother is thinking, only that I know it’s about me.
Mother has tried to tell Father of my discomfort. As have I. But to no avail.
Mother says Father is blind by sibling love—that he doesn’t want to think poorly of the younger male he helped raise when their mother faded from grief all those years ago.
Would I be the same if The Mother deigned to bless my parents with another child? Would I be blind to a sibling's faults out of affection?
I hope not.
And yet… part of me longs for that kind of bond.
To not walk this life quite so…alone.
Words begin to blur. I blink and rub my eyes, but nothing changes. I’m too tired to continue.
With a sigh, I close the diary and wrap the thin leather string around the metal clasp, determined to try reading again as soon as I can.
Maybe I should tell Ferria about the diary.
There has to be a reason my mother left the book behind for us.
Maybe she will be able to help me figure out what it is?
I just need to solve Darius’s problem first…
I stand and lift my arms above my head. My spine cracks when I rotate, and my shoulders sag when I drop my arms.
I’m running out of time. The featured event of the Late King’s Festival is tomorrow or—
I glance at the dusty timepiece on my table.
It’s actually later today.
I rub my throbbing temples.
In two days, I’m due to fulfill my end of the bargain. The clock is ticking, as it always has been. But things are different now.
Yes, the Fae would do anything to save Darius. Draven might even be capable of razing Verdanthia to the ground. But Jaxon and Rian? I’m not so sure.
I think of their disgust when hearing about the abused women in Verdanthia. There’s decency in the superior race I wasn’t expecting. I don’t want to believe they will let my neighbors suffer for my failure. But what if they don’t have a choice?
I glance at my marked arms. The shadows are still, as if sleeping, like I should be.
I have no knowledge of Fae power or the repercussions of the shadows embedded in my flesh. Do the Fae have control over this extension of their magic? Or is our deal’s magic a separate entity? Would they be able to call it off if they wanted?
I lower my hands and sigh. It doesn’t matter. I won’t let things get that far.
The first thing I did after returning from the forest tonight was open the Fae tome to the section Rian finally told me to read.
I nearly gave up after the first ten pages, unable to understand how the vague history and cryptic herbal remedies could help me. But then I saw two words.
Light gift.
Immediately, I thought of the way my power flared that night by the forge—how it lit up the dark when I fought off the beasts. Could the two be the same? Could a “light gift” be what flows through my veins?
I scoured the section with bleary eyes, desperate to understand anything and everything about the mysterious light gift.
That’s when Ferria shuffled in the front door—red-eyed, yet still ready to help. It took all my effort to convince her that sleep mattered more. For both of us. Not that it did me any good.
I look through the bedroom door and bite my bottom lip. I should try to read it again and see if—
“FIRE!”
I blink. Fatigue dulls my senses. That’s the only reason I don’t immediately register the alarming word crashing through the open kitchen window.
“Fire! Near the southern shacks. Spreading fast!”
Another blink.
Fire?
Fire!
I bolt across the sitting room, knocking over the chair in my path, and grab my satchel from the hook on the wall.
“What do you need?” Ferria appears at my side.
Dark circles still shadow her eyes, but they are bright, alert.
“Medicine.” I rush to my cabinet and fling it open, grabbing every ointment and tonic that could be useful.
Disinfection. Pain relief. A moisture barrier.
“Bandages?” Ferria asks.
The warning shouts rise outside as more and more citizens wake up and rush to aid their neighbors.
“The wash room. Under the cabinet.”
She hurries off and returns seconds later with an armful of brown and off-white bandages. They look worse for wear, but they’re clean.
I help Ferria shove the bandages into my satchel. Then I hike it over my shoulder, and we’re running out the door.
Men and women stumble out of their homes, sleepy, but ready to help. Fire is dangerous at all times, but with the dozens of people visiting for the Late King’s Festival, the flames will be even more devastating if they get out of hand.
Ferria slows to keep pace with me. I pump my arms harder, racing the rest of the crowd to reach the fire.
We draw closer to the southern shacks, but that’s not where the dark smoke rises into the starlit sky.
A slanted thatched roof is engulfed in flames. The worn wooden door sits open. Nothing about the home stands out from the others at its sides, but I’d know this place anywhere.
Brother Fief’s house.
My stomach rolls.
Did I do this? Did beating the man to a pulp not satiate the violent Fae? Did they set fire to his house?
No.
I don’t believe it. They wouldn’t.
“Healer Stonebloom!” someone shouts above the chaos.
I spin in a circle. Soldiers bellow orders. Citizens cry and yell as those in nearby homes scramble to grab what little valuables they can save before hustling out of the too-close homes.
I scan the sea of familiar and unfamiliar faces, my blood roaring in my ears, until I spot the slender, brown-haired young man limping towards me.
“Healer Stonebloom!”
“Rolf,” I exhale. Thank the Gods. “Are you all right?”
He nods. His youthful face is all business. “Come quick. Burn victims are gathered in front of the tailor's shop.”
I look at Ferria.
“Go,” she orders, tying back loose strands of hair before she joins the line of people passing pails of water from the central well to the flames.
A young soldier tosses a bucket onto the fire. I pause and frown.
Did the flames grow taller?
“Healer Stonebloom!” Rolf shouts.
I shake away the odd thought and hurry after him.
“Clear the way!” Rolf yells, hobbling along at an impressive speed considering he’s still recovering from a snapped leg. “Healer coming through.”
Those who hear are quick to jump out of the way. Their wary stares tell me it’s not out of respect or urgency.
We turn and reach the tailor’s storefront. It’s off the street where the fire rages, so smoke is minimal. But there are a dozen people lying on blankets and piles of clothes as makeshift beds. Each one writhes in pain.