33. In Quiet Revelation
In Quiet Revelation
The door of the Hall of the Destroyer clicked shut behind Auryn.
She walked aimlessly down the long, dim hall, each step heavier than the last. The shimmer of her mana dragged behind her like an unraveling veil.
Her fingers scraped the polished stone as she passed, as if the wall alone could anchor her in place.
She didn’t make it far.
Just beyond the curve of the lattice corridor, she collapsed against the wall. Her knees gave. The cold of the floor soaked through her robes. She folded inward, trembling, hands clenched into the folds of her sleeves. Shaking, breath hitched high in her throat.
She barely noticed the sound of fluttering robes settling beside her.
Lu’ma. Silent. Still. Her presence like moonlight—not intrusive, just steady. The Attendant crouched and took Auryn’s hands in both of hers. Her palms were warm. Grounding.
Auryn’s voice cracked, brittle as bone. “Please,” she whispered, “help me bathe.”
Lu’ma did not question. She only nodded once, then waited.
After her knees felt more sure, Auryn stood up and straightened her skirts.
Lu’ma checked the surrounding area for fallen hair.
There was still a long ways to go before she reached Kailorien’s wing, and Auryn did her best to don her Sokar’s regal visage.
She forced herself to walk with grace and poise. Hurrying through the halls was unseemly, a behavior for Attendants, not those of holy blood. Several Councilors passed her in the halls, and she nodded to them. But, for the most part, their journey was undisturbed.
The moment they crossed the threshold into the Resh’Agar’s wing, Lu’ma began preparations for a bath. Auryn always bathed after seeing the Sovereign Flame. The scent of his Sahtra was too unique—too obvious. It lingered, clung to clothing and skin, even after standing beside him for a short time.
This routine was familiar. Over the last several years, Shu’Khan summoned her more and more frequently.
But Kailorien’s hatred for his brother had never diminished.
Since the time when Shu’Khan had attempted to give her raw mana, it had only grown.
He frequently warned her about trusting him in any manner, and she’d always promised to take care.
So how could she tell Kailorien that she called Shu’Khan ‘Father’ in secret?
How could she tell him that the progress she’d made in researching his Runesgram was only possible because of the rare tomes Shu’Khan sent her as gifts?
Or that her growing autonomy as the Sokar was possible thanks to Shu’Khan’s support in the shadows?
He gave her portal clearance without formal application. Decreed her immune to Curfew. Funneled additional Gleams towards her various projects for the Commons and the Temples. Even advised her as to which Councilors could be pushed in session to give their votes for her cause.
Tell him, Auryn—or I will.
Shall I tell him before either of you?
Vargrún’s voice curled inside her skull like smoke through a keyhole, cold and damp against the edges of her mind. The fine hairs at the nape of her neck prickled.
Auryn did not respond. Was determined not to respond ever again. One way or another, she would find a way to rid herself of Vargrún’s whispering. Until then, she must keep her emotions in check. Keep herself to a higher standard.
For now…
For now, she needed to wash his smell off of her.
When Lu’ma approached to help her into the bath, Auryn followed without a word.
She stripped out of her gown, instructing Lu’ma to take it to the Servitor for immediate cleaning.
The Attendant nodded. This was routine, too.
Though every time Auryn made the request—every time Lu’ma had to hide a scroll or arrange for secret baths like this—she wore the same disapproving expression.
For tonight, Auryn ignored it.
The water steamed around her, fragrant with crushed rosemary and the bite of cleansing salts.
A series of Lustrals glowed in the Runewell at the bottom of the pool.
Auryn sat on the ledge in the water, skin flushed and hands shaking.
Gritting her teeth, she gripped a washcloth in her hands and scrubbed.
Hard. Desperate. Again and again. Red splotches bloomed across her arms, her neck, her shoulders.
Lu’ma knelt at her side, pouring warm water down her spine, brushing tangles from her hair with painstaking care.
When Auryn’s scrubbing stuttered, Lu’ma took the cloth from her and continued with much gentler strokes.
A silence stretched between them—not empty, but full of all the things Auryn couldn’t voice.
All the feelings she didn’t know how to name.
She opened her mouth once. Closed it.
Then her voice escaped in a whisper, small and hoarse.
“He…smiled at me today.”
Lu’ma paused.
Auryn stared down at the water. “Not as the god that keeps vigil over Krystopolis. Not even as a threat.” She dragged a hand down her face. “Like I was his. Like I’d done something worthy of pride.”
A beat of silence.
Then Lu’ma signed, hands sharp with grief and purpose.
'This cannot continue, Your Radiance. Tonight. You must tell the Resh’Agar everything.'
Auryn didn’t nod. She breathed in, slow and unsteady, then whispered, “Yes. You’re right. You’ve been telling me this for months, and I…was simply afraid.”
Lu’ma set aside the washcloth to free her hands for speech, 'Your Radiance, you have nothing to fear. His Quintessence will understand.'
“You are certain?”
Lu’ma hesitated.
“You don’t know how deeply he hates his brother. It blinds him. He is not the sort of man that will judge without knowing the full story, but when it comes to the Sovereign, he does not think rationally.”
She ran a hand through her hair in frustration, suddenly distracted by an odd sensation. Looking down at her palm, she flexed her fingers.
“Lu’ma, bring a brighter light, please.”
The girl obliged, picking up a Polis lantern from a nearby table and padding over to the pool. In the brighter golden light, Auryn held up her hand and paled. There, on her palm curled around one of her fingers was a silver strand of hair.
Lu’ma nearly dropped the lantern. She started to sign, but Auryn held up her other hand. She unwrapped the strand and gave it to the girl.
“Burn it, please. If you cannot or if it is too dangerous, tell me. I will find a way.”
'Your Radiance, this is the third hair in the last Cycle. Something is terribly wrong with Your Radiance’s health. There should be no shedding, just as His Quintessence.'
Auryn nodded. Just as Kailorien never shed hair, Auryn did not either. Though, she suspected the reason for her lack of shedding wasn’t the same as his. Just more proof that she was different. Unnatural.
Until now.
Auryn stood and dried off with a nearby towel, donning a fresh chemise, bodice, and robe.
She could not afford to think of hair shedding right now.
Not when she needed to prepare for her conversation with Kailorien tonight.
Leaving the bathing chamber, she entered the adjoining chamber and threw herself into work.
She began with Shu’Khan’s gifts. Her hands moved without command, muscle memory guiding her through the chaos.
She laid each scroll flat. Aligned the notes.
Gathered her styluses, her marked-up parchments, the volumes Shu’Khan had gifted her with delicate intent.
His letters. The translations. Everything.
She placed them in a satchel and left it waiting by the fluxhearth.
Then she sat on the edge of the cushions. Waiting. Wondering if now even the condition of her hair was growing into another secret she would need to keep from the man she loved.
He came in just after dusk, unarmored but still carrying the day with him—dust and smoke clinging to his skin, the faint metallic tang of mana residue caught in his hair.
Auryn rose. She met him at the threshold and stepped into his shadow without a word, wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing her forehead to the steady rise and fall of his chest.
He stilled.
Then melted.
The tension in him released all at once, his arms locking her in as if he could keep the whole world out by sheer will. She heard the long breath leave him—a sound almost like relief.
But when he drew back to speak, she touched a finger to his lips. “No. Please. Let me speak first.”
A faint crease formed between his brows. He only nodded.
Auryn swallowed hard. “Kail…I haven’t been honest with you. Not in every way.” Her voice trembled. “And I—” she cut herself off, breath sharp, “I don’t deserve the love I know you’d offer right now, so don’t. Just…listen.”
She told him.
All of it.
The sessions with Shu’Khan. The rare tomes, the whispered guidance, the quiet manipulations disguised as gifts. How approval from him made her feel both powerful and impossibly small.
But not quite everything.
Not the voice.
Not Vargrún.
When she stopped, her pulse was a drumbeat in her ears. She braced herself—for fury, for argument, for his runes to blaze and his voice to cut the air like glass.
Instead, he breathed out slow. Stepped forward. Drew her into his arms again. His lips brushed her temple as he murmured.
“For a long time now, you’ve built a wall in the Bond.”
Her body went rigid.
“I didn’t understand why,” he continued. “I thought you were…tired of me. Of my fussing. My hand always on you. But now I know. You didn’t want me to hear your fear about Shu’Khan.”
“That’s not the reason,” she said quickly. Her grip tightened on him. “You can be overprotective, Kail, but I would never cleave you from my mind. Never.”
A beat passed—not awkward, but weighted.
“Auryn, he’s more than dangerous,” he said. “I won’t tell you not to see him—I trust your instincts. But remember what he did to you with his breath once. Please, don’t step into that lake deeper than you must.”
She stared at him, disbelieving.
His mouth curved, though there was no humor in it. “What is it? Did you expect my runes to light up and for me to storm the Vesper Seat?”
She hesitated. “…A little.”
His arms tightened, the air around him shivering with barely contained rage. Through the Bond, she felt truths he didn’t voice—jagged and hot—and let them pass.
“I’ll be careful,” she promised. “I’m always watching.”
He drew a breath as if to steady himself. “Then I have to be honest too. Vargrún has been speaking to me.”
The world tilted.
She staggered back, fists bunching in his tunic. “What?”
“Since you started Weaving my runes, I think.”
Her heartbeat roared in her ears. “Kail…” Her hand went to her shoulder like she could physically hold herself together.
His brows furrowed. “Auryn?”
The words ripped out of her before she could stop them. “Me too.”
They spoke in hushed voices long into the night. Of Vargrún. Of the whispers. Of the shadowed thoughts neither had dared confess until now. They unraveled their timelines—where it started, what he said, how it felt.
Auryn spoke of the intrusive presence, the way he lingered just beneath her skin, not like Kailorien’s warmth in the Bond, but something colder.
Hungrier. He spoke with familiarity, with knowledge no stranger should have.
Her voice trembled as she admitted he knew things he shouldn't—things about Shu’Khan, about the Estar ritual, about Kailorien himself.
Kailorien, in turn, admitted that he had first written it off as stress.
Then as the ghost of madness from before.
But now, in the wake of her confession, the pieces aligned.
It wasn’t residual madness. It was presence.
Conscious. Deliberate. He confessed that Vargrún sometimes spoke with his voice—twisting it. Mocking it.
And worst of all?
Sometimes, it sounded caring.
A silence fell again.
Then Auryn whispered, “I can’t shut him out. I’ve tried.” She looked away, shame coloring her tone. “I never Wove him. Never touched him. But he’s there. Always there.”
Kailorien’s voice was tight. “What if we shut off the Bond? Just temporarily. Put up walls. We’re able to. We’ve done it before.”
She looked at him, wide-eyed, wounded. Imagined losing the one place—the one thing she had that was just theirs and theirs alone.
And shook her head.
“No,” she said, voice sharp with pain. “I won’t lose your voice to him. That place…” her hand pressed over her heart, “…it’s ours. Ours, Kail. Not his.”
Her voice cracked. “It’s the one place we see each other—hear each other—clearly. We could be far away and still call to each other. We could be standing in a room full of people denouncing us, and we can hear each other’s voices above theirs. I won’t let him take that from me too.”
Something in him went still. Not the wariness, not the anger—him.
Through the Bond, she felt it like a slow exhale against her ribs; the warmth of recognition, the quiet ache of being chosen.
His hand found the back of her neck, thumb resting just beneath her hairline, and stayed there.
No words, no promises—just the steady thrum of his pulse in her skin, telling her he’d heard every word.
And so, they sat together in stillness, mourning a lack of a solution, yet determined to move forward, nonetheless.