Chapter 33
Come to the mad side; we’ve got cosplay.
The discreet side door from the service corridor brought them straight into the heart of the convention. The moment they stepped onto the exhibition floor, the air punched out of Emma’s lungs.
It was a sensory assault—thousands of people pressed shoulder to shoulder, a tapestry of voices layered over trailers blasting from giant screens.
The air smelled of popcorn, warm plastic, and too many bodies pressed together.
The hall was unrecognizable from the eerily empty expanse they’d wandered through this morning.
Darren leaned close, so she could hear his voice through the mask. “Welcome to the jungle.”
Emma laughed nervously. “This is . . . insane.”
He stepped in front of her, adjusted her hood, then let his hands settle on her shoulders.
“Hey. You sure you want to do this? We could still go back.”
She glanced out over the sea of people, their sheer mass and noise overwhelming. But no one was looking at them. No one was discreetly lifting a phone in their direction. They were just two more cosplayers in a sea of superheroes, stormtroopers, and anime characters with hair in blazing colors.
And for the first time in days, no one expected anything from her. No panels, no signings, no questions to answer. Just this moment, completely anonymous.
The freedom hit her like a rush of air after too long underwater.
She wanted this. She needed this.
“You couldn’t stop me if you tried,” she said, pulling away from the wall. “Come on, Cole.”
She heard his delighted chuckle behind her.
They made their way through the nearest aisle, which happened to be the one where the Darkreach booth was posted.
A group of teenage girls in show merch pushed past, tote bags heavy with swag dangling from their arms. One of them stopped short in front of a massive cardboard cutout showing Darren himself, brooding in full Kael armor.
“God, he’s so hot,” the girl gushed, completely unaware that the real version stood an arm’s length away. “If I met him in real life, I’d actually combust.”
Emma pressed her lips together, fighting a laugh. Darren gave the tiniest shrug beside her, eyes dancing with wicked amusement above the mask.
They drifted onward, swept along by the current. Near the giant Lego booth, two girls were huddled over a phone.
“Do another one—a girl. Make it Darren’s eyes and Emma’s hair this time.”
Emma froze, tugging Darren’s sleeve to pull his attention from a detailed, perfectly scaled Lego model of the entire convention. She cocked her head toward the girls, eyes wide. Darren leaned in discreetly to glance at the screen.
“What the actual hell?” Emma whispered.
He tilted his head. “Huh. Our kids would be really cute.”
She blinked, very grateful for the mask hiding her blush. Darren pulled her onward before the girls finished debating whether their AI baby should have his or her nose.
“See?” he murmured, leaning in so only she could hear. “People still ship us.”
She rolled her eyes, but something warm and complicated filled her chest, anyway.
They were stopped next by a man in Mandalorian armor, who raised a gloved hand.
Emma’s heart skipped a beat, thinking they’d been recognized.
But then he burst out in a high-pitched voice wildly at odds with his costume, “Oh my god, those are the best stillsuits I’ve seen all day! Can I get a photo?”
Darren didn’t miss a beat—he posed with his hand raised solemnly, like Paul Atreides summoning a sandworm. Emma broke into giggles behind her mask, trying to mimic him, though she felt more like an awkward tourist.
“This is the way,” Darren said, deepening his voice.
“Oooh, crossover,” the Mandalorian squealed. He bowed gallantly and moved on, leaving them both in stitches behind their masks.
Eventually, they reached the far end of the exhibit floor and slipped into Artists’ Alley. The roar of the main floor dimmed to a hum, replaced by the scratch of markers and the soft shuffle of prints across folding tables.
No giant screens or neon signs lined the ceiling here. Just humble stands with independent artists showcasing prints, merch, and their own comic books.
After the extravagant studio setups, these booths looked tiny, dwarfed by impossibly tall grey and white wall panels. Yet everything here was more heartfelt, more human, than the giant entertainment booths.
They strolled lazily, pausing every now and then to admire someone’s work. At one of the tables, Emma’s gaze caught on something familiar enough to halt her mid-step. A scene from The Bonds of Light—the very same one she’d read at the bookstore.
It was reimagined in richly colored marker pen.
Lucen hovered over Catlyn, his dark eyes rendered luminous and strange.
The lines were masterful, uncannily close to how she had always pictured them in her mind.
Emma’s throat tightened. Her story was here—alive, stitched into the noise and color of the convention.
She showed it to Darren. “Look what I found.”
“Emma,” Darren whispered. He swept his gloved hand toward the booth.
She took a stumbling step back. “That’s . . .”
It wasn’t just that painting.
It was every painting on the table.
Everywhere she looked, Lucen and Catlyn stared back. Their first meeting. The soul-binding ceremony. Lucen drawing light from her. Catlyn escaping. Her whole story.
Their bond was visualized as a glow between their hearts, connection and chain at the same time. It was more beautiful, more elegant than she ever could have pictured it herself.
She’d seen fan art before, but having it laid out like this—every scene she’d ever imagined, all at once—was overwhelming.
The idea that someone had read her words and been inspired enough to turn them into something beautiful of their own.
She put a gloved hand over her mouth, blinking against the sudden wetness.
“That’s all you,” Darren murmured, eyes steady on hers over the mask.
She couldn’t answer—just breathed, feeling impossibly light and unbearably heavy all at the same time.
The artist stepped out from behind the table, a man in his early twenties with kind eyes. “Do you like them?”
Emma nodded, lowering her hand. “They’re amazing,” she breathed, voice shaky.
The man’s brow furrowed, confused. Darren slipped an arm around her and steered her gently away. “Huge Bonds of Light fan,” he explained over his shoulder. “You’re very talented, man.”
The artist, oblivious, thanked him, then turned his attention to another group of fans.
gig
After covering most of the floor, they ducked into a slightly calmer corner by a pop-up food stall. Emma perched on the edge of a small table, flushed and overheated in the stillsuit.
Darren returned with two water bottles, scanned the area, then nodded. She tugged her mask down, gasping in the cool air as she drank. Darren pulled his mask down too, emptying his bottle in one go.
“This suit is a thirst trap,” he said.
Emma almost choked on her water. “Do you even know what a thirst trap is?”
He smirked. “Sure I do. I’ve been accused of being one often enough.”
She shook her head. “Well, you’re using the term wrong.”
“Stand down, writer,” he teased. “This isn’t an edit round.”
“You know, as a Brit, I’d expect you to be a bit more meticulous about proper—”
The unmistakable sensation of being watched cut her off. She looked up.
Across the aisle, a man with a pro camera had his lens locked directly on them.
Her stomach plunged, cold and hard.
“Darren,” she murmured.
Darren turned, instantly reading the situation. He shifted, blocking her with his body and taking her lightly by the elbow. “Time to go.”
They tugged their masks back into place and plunged back into the throng, weaving between Deadpools and Elsas. Emma caught a glimpse of the man trailing after them, her pulse thundering.
She ducked low, dragging Darren with her into the aisle where the Dune booth stood, cutting through a desert diorama that matched their suits. Adrenaline and giddy exhilaration tangled in her chest as they hid in the crowd—it felt like being true rebels on the run.
They didn’t slow down until they reached a guarded doorway at the far edge of the floor, one that would take them back into the service corridor. Emma’s lungs burned as they skidded to a stop.
The security guard instantly stepped in front of them, palms up like a wall.
“This area is off limits to visitors. No entry.”
Darren yanked his mask down, impatient. “Mate, we’ve got a paparazzo on our heels. Just let us through.”
Not a flicker of recognition. The guy looked like he spent more time bench-pressing than binge-watching TV shows. His eyes remained flat.
“Nice try. I’ve seen every trick in the book. No entry without credentials.”
Emma’s head whipped to Darren, eyes widening. “We left them with our clothes.”
His jaw flexed. He leveled the guard with a look sharp enough to cut glass, then spun around, scanning the space. Something far above them caught his attention. He pivoted back, jabbing a finger upward.
“There. That’s my credentials.”
Emma followed his gesture—straight up to a massive Darkreach banner hanging from the rafters overhead. Kael Ferros, three times larger than life, glared down with Darren’s face.
The guard let his arms drop.
“Right. Okay. That works.”