32. The Spider’s Loving Web #2
Kail emerged from the other end of the room dressed in loose trousers and a black undershirt. He ran his hand through his mussed hair.
“You’ll do well, as always.”
She smiled, though she could hardly make it sincere.
“I still worry.”
They went back to preparing for the day. Auryn helped Kailorien with the buckles of his armor. She quite enjoyed the task. It was soothing. Peaceful. For brief moments, it gave her the illusion that she had some control over his safety.
Kailorien had just finished securing the final buckle on his bracer when Auryn kissed his cheek and slipped past him toward the door.
“I’ll see you tonight,” she said lightly.
He caught her hand before she could vanish completely.
His sharp eyes searched hers, lingering on something—a tightness she couldn’t quite hide.
“You’ll tell me if something’s wrong?”
She smiled. “I’ll tell you if anything new is wrong.”
He huffed a breath through his nose, half-smile lingering as he let her go. She vanished into the corridor before he could press further.
And so, you go to court his brother—for favors. For scraps. Without telling your Bonded a thing. How very…political…of you, little Sokar.
The doors to the Vesper Seat opened without sound, revealing a chamber soaked in heat and shadow.
The colossal fluxhearth at its center roared with a steady, unnerving fervor—its flame twisting high above the golden grate, casting writhing reflections along the dark stone floor. The air was stifling as Auryn stepped inside.
She wore no ceremonial silk today. No formal braid or gold-set veil.
Just a simple slate-blue dress with sleeves pushed up to her elbows and a thin sash at her waist. Her hair was loosely pinned, strands sticking to her damp neck.
A scroll rested beneath her arm, and the faint scent of lavender clung to her skin, though she hadn’t worn it for him.
He stood before the hearth with his back to her—still and quiet, hands steepled as if in meditation. His long black hair hung unbound, falling like liquid shadow down the back of his robes. For one disorienting moment, she saw someone else there.
Her heart seized.
Kailorien.
But then her gaze sharpened, and she saw the truth in contrast. Shu’Khan wasn’t built like Kailorien.
His frame was lean, sculpted by privilege rather than war.
He bore no calluses, no scars. His shoulders weren’t as broad, his stance lacked the coiled tension of battle-readiness.
And his face—flawless and pale—had never known cold or sorrow or pain. Even the light touched him differently.
Guilt flared hot behind her ribs for mistaking them for even a moment.
He didn’t turn as she approached. Only his voice stirred the room.
“Our ilphara comes. Our divine Sokar.”
“Sovereign,” she answered evenly.
That made him turn. His gaze met hers, and it was so wounded she nearly faltered. His expression was restrained, but not cold. Never cold with her.
“You sadden Us,” he said. “After all Our good will. Our gifts. Our love. You would still not call Us by the name We asked for?”
His hand tightens on your leash.
Auryn hesitated, her grip tensing on the scroll—lip caught between her teeth.
“Father,” she said at last.
He approached. No rustle of robes. No shadow cast. He was simply closer now, though he didn’t touch her. His hand rose, fingers extending toward her cheek—and then stopped. Hovering.
She stared at it. “You still ask for permission,” she said.
“We always will, for you,” Shu’Khan replied.
His eyes flicked to his own hand, then back to hers.
“We regret what happened between us. What We did with mana and breath all those years ago was never meant to harm. We only wished to aid you. And in that attempt… We lost your faith. Your trust.” A pause. “Let Us earn it back.”
Earn it back. Yes. Only to shatter it again. Do not forget he spoke to that voice inside of you. Does he truly think you don't remember how he ravaged your lungs?
She said nothing to Vargrún's taunts. Her gaze dropped again to that suspended hand. Steady. Waiting.
“Your power,” she murmured, “The way you sense emotion through touch. I haven’t read about anything like it. Not in any Chronicle. Not even in the early accounts of the Shattering.”
A faint nod. “You will not,” he said. “Just as no Chronicle could hold you, ilphara. So much like yourself, We are…other. Strange. Our body is unknowable. By design.”
A song of kindred spirits. It is so tempting to believe another may yet understand you. But it is folly, nonetheless.
“I still don’t understand why you shared it with me. Why you—" she nodded at his hand, “why you want to touch me when physical contact is so painful for you.”
He exhaled, as though releasing something delicate and long-held.
Then, with ceremonial care, he reached out and touched her—just the tip of one manicured nail brushing against her arm.
No more than a moment. His eyes closed, not even long enough to be called a blink.
And when they opened again, the contact was gone.
“To touch you is to touch life itself. You carry a rare fire, ilphara. The Numen's flame. When Our power brushes against this being, it gives…relief from the pain. If only temporarily.”
"The voice," she said.
He blinked at her. "Would you still deny its existence?
How odd. We are quite certain you know what it is.
But worry not. We will not drag you from anonymity if you wish to continue playing innocent.
Still, do take heed. One day, you will not be able to hide behind a vessel's mask.
You are Numen, whether you wear the mantle or not. "
"I am not hiding."
"Then you are choosing. As is your right. You chose to become Sovereign. You choose to harbor an ill-advised attachment to my brother. You choose… and it is fascinating to observe.
Auryn did not answer him, and with an amused tilt to his lips, he glided back toward the hearth without a sound. She watched him. Still conflicted, yet unable to escape that nagging sensation that she was wrong. That Kailorien was wrong.
That, together, they were wronging this man.
Is it possible to wrong the beast that keeps its fangs at your throat?
You’re no better, Vargrún, Auryn thought before she could control herself.
Cold sweat broke out on her nape. Her skin sandpapered with gooseflesh.
The next time his voice came, it was closer. Sharper. Like the rasp of an animal's breath right at her ear.
An answer. At long last. Emberling, your voice in the Bond, it is—
He took a breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was deafening.
EXQUISITE.
It took all of her self-control not to flinch at the hunger in that single word. The overwhelming fear that forced her body into a shudder at the victory in his tone. Void help her. She hadn’t meant to answer him. For years, she’d tried never to speak back.
Only to break now? In this moment?
She clenched her hand into a fist so hard her nails dug into her palm.
One predator in her mind and one standing before her.
One she called madness, and one she labeled ‘Father’.
You pity the one who looks so much like your Resh’Agar, and yet you feel no empathy for the one that has given your Silari the strength to wade through war. To come home to you unscathed.
His strength is his own!
Her nails dug harder into her palm. Anger rose up like bile in her throat. Raw. Fierce. Unchecked.
Again, she’d answered.
Damn it all.
She turned her full focus on Shu’Khan. Forced herself to count the twists and turns embroidered in gold on his ethereal robes. She thought back to the temples. The blood. The children. How they needed her right now.
“Father,” Auryn cleared her throat, steadying herself. “I came because you summoned me. But I need to raise a serious matter.”
He didn’t speak. Not yet. Just stood before the roaring fluxhearth, his silhouette bathed in shimmering orange and blue.
“The Council is not following the Writ of the Ninth Lattice,” she continued. “Assistance to the temples in the Commons is being withheld. While the Companions swim in luxury — bathing in the rarest Lustrals — our People are dying.”
Shu’Khan nodded, slow and solemn. The flickering flames reflected in his iridescent eyes, evoking images of far-off stars and time-forgotten magic.
“Spoken as a true and noble leader,” he said at last. “We are proud, ilphara. The next Council session is nigh, is it not? We shall attend.”
Her breath caught.
“You will?”
“You have Our word.”
Her eyes narrowed. Suspicion flared, quiet but keen. “But the moon cycle is nearly upon us. With your affliction, will you still—”
“We will attend,” he said again, silk-soft, his voice wrapping around her like warm velvet. “This is a matter of grave importance.”
He turned back to her now, the folds of his robe whispering with every step. “You sacrifice much,” he reminded her. “Even when your own condition burns your body with fever. Do you not? How then could We do less, when Our own Sokar leads by such radiant example?”
Radiant and blinding. Like a dying star shining in its final moments.
“My fever is tolerable,” she frowned. “But what happens to you during such times is…” The words dried in her throat. “Have you never wondered what the cause may be? Perhaps there is a cure.”
“Had there been one, We would have found it.” The corner of his mouth lifted in something like amusement. “Is this pity?” he asked, and for a breath, his voice darkened just enough to chill the heat of the flames. “Pray, spare Us that.”
She shook her head. “Not pity. Just…” Her arms wrapped around her torso. “I know what it is like, to be bound in such chains.”
“There is your answer,” he murmured. “As to why We have shared our pain with you. Our secret. Not even Iridias is aware.”
“Why haven’t you told him? He might understand—”
“He would not believe Us,” Shu’Khan cut in. Not frustrated. Not sorrowful. Just truth.
And once again, Auryn shied from the growing guilt in her stomach.
That they were wronging him.