19. A Shared Cup #2
“Worry not, Councilor. If We were so easily insulted, We could not sit in such proximity to the vipers of this den.”
He glanced at the eight Companions. “You have not touched your glass,” he commented. “I believe I know why.”
A pause.
A silence between them filled with nothing but the undulating music.
And then—
“Lamari,” Auryn began, “We plan to attend Council.”
His eyes took her in. Fully, perhaps, for the first time.
“Why would you tell me this?” he asked. “You would have more advantage if you simply walked in.”
“We would have more advantage if We had a writ with your seal on it, inviting us to discuss topics critical to civic function.”
“Such as,” his voice steadied. He took another sip of his wine.
“The Solutus rebellion, first and foremost. You have tried most staunchly to move the Council to take greater measures against them. Yet none have listened. They believe they are misguided fools, but We know you disagree.”
“And if I could not influence the Council to listen, what good would the Sokar’s word be?”
“Let Us speak, and you will understand.”
A pause, then Lamari chuckled. “I like your pluck, child.” He took a step towards her. “Alright, you’ll have your writ. But it is not endorsement. You’ll find my word isn’t the most popular within the Axis Hall.”
The musicians signaled guests to return to their tables, and Auryn glided back to her seat.
The air pressed hot against her throat, thick as soaked fur.
Each breath tasted of perfume and heat—cloying, unbearable.
Even the light pierced her eyes. Her affliction—the mysterious heat—hadn't eased in days, and her body screamed beneath the gown’s pressure.
Her skin ached. The floor tilted up and down beneath her feet.
The gown, soft as it was, chafed against her skin. The threads felt alive—spiders crawling up her collarbone, whispering she was an imposter wrapped in silk. Sweat beaded beneath the crown at her temples.
It was all she could do to sit down with poise without pitching sideways.
To her surprise, Zeera seated herself at Auryn’s table. Her crystalline fan snapped through the air as her voice dropped low.
“You are out of your depth, little ornament,” she hissed.
“Staying with His Quintessence in his spare chamber has bolstered your ego far too much. And now I hear the Council is building you a wing of your own? How wasteful. What would you do there, all alone with your malformed little Attendant? Wander the halls until you tripped and fell out a window?”
Auryn’s hands almost snapped up. Almost.
he held firm, showing no interest. If she defended Lu’ma here, they would know she meant something to the Sokar, and such a thing could not be permitted.
Lu’ma was already too bold, too spirited—took too many risks.
Auryn couldn’t risk drawing any more attention to her friend. Not if she hoped to keep her safe.
“Don’t you know, little ornament? He pities you. He watches you only because he feels an obligation to do so. His Quintessence wouldn’t look twice at you if you did not hold your title, empty as it is.”
Auryn’s gaze snapped to Zeera.
“Ah, did I hit a nerve? So it is true. You covet him. You dare to do so despite your ugliness, your shapelessness, your lack of everything that would make you a woman.” Her voice dropped lower.
“With that tiny mouth and those narrow hips, can you even hold His Quintessence in all his glory? Can you grant him the kind of pleasure only a true Companion can?”
The words barely landed before Lu’ma stepped into the parlor.
Silent. Composed. None noticed her save the Sokar, for Attendants were meant to be invisible.
She spared no glance for the Companions—only the Sokar.
She bowed low and sat before her table, her hands moving like falling petals in signs of utmost class and grace.
Forgive this Nameless, Your Radiance. His Quintessence asked this to be delivered.
She held a black box. No sigils, no ribbon, only the stark glint of obsidian lacquer and fine metalwork at its clasp.
Auryn kept her expression set. Firm. Neutral. Even as she reached for the box and her heart fluttered in her chest, she controlled her hands. Kept her fingers from trembling.
She clicked the box open.
Nestled in dark velvet lay the Resh’Agar’s crest. His shoulder clasp.
The living mark of his station, only one of which ever existed at any one time.
Silver and black, etched with lines resembling veins on leaves.
Not something that could be forged or impersonated.
It was symbolic. A message not just to Auryn but those who witnessed her holding it that the Resh'Agar was placing his trust in her hands.
The room fell silent once again, music grinding to a halt.
Zeera stood. “What is the meaning of this?”
Lu’ma continued signing, impassive, 'His Quintessence expresses regret that he could not join his Sovereign Star this dusk.'
Auryn read the small note tucked beside it. ‘You do not have to stay. You are needed at the temple. Say the word, and this summons becomes real.’
Tears prickled behind her eyes, but she forced them back.
She stood. Slow. Measured. The room turned to her like moths to a flame. She held up a hand. “A summons has come. The Grand Festival of Growth must be tended to. We must retire.”
Zeera sneered. “How convenient…to fall ill just when the claws come out.”
Auryn’s legs shook, but she smoothed her skirt and met each Companion’s gaze in turn.
“We are grateful that you have performed your duties with such ardor in the service of Our Resh’Agar. We pray that you will continue to bring honor to the Destroyer and the Flaeme.”
Heat beat against her temples like a second heartbeat. Her head felt as if it floated far above her shoulders, light and distant. But she walked. Had no choice.
Just before she turned to leave, she paused beside Zeera.
She leaned in.
Soft. Controlled.
“Do take care, Zeera. The more beautiful one is, the more one should fear a lasting scar.”
With that said, Auryn left the balcony, box clutched in one hand.
Within her breast, the fire of survival blazed, as did the fever in her blood.
But the Sokar would not fall. Not yet.