Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
Neither of them spoke as they climbed the stairs. Araya stayed two paces behind him, as if that meager separation would do either of them any good when the bond tugged between them with every step.
He tried to block out her emotions—to give her some semblance of privacy—but it was impossible.
Confusion, hurt, fear…they battered through the tether until he couldn’t tell where one ended and the next began.
The shadows needled at him, demanding he close the distance and pull her into his arms—but Loren clenched his jaw, forcing himself to keep walking.
She hadn’t agreed to this connection. She didn’t want his comfort.
Not like she’d agreed to give her power to Jaxon Shaw.
Loren’s hands curled into fists, the shadows snapping at his ankles as they fed his own fury back to him.
Fae children learned better long before they came into their own power.
You never reached for someone’s magic without consent.
He’d done it once, to save her life. But Shaw had done it to her over and over again, carving pieces out of her until she thought she’d asked him to do it.
If Loren ever hurt her like that—Goddess. He’d hand her the knife and kneel at her feet.
The shadows hissed their protest, crowding close, but he ignored them, forcing his breathing to even out as they finally reached the top of the stairs. There would be time enough for shame once he got her safely back within the warded walls of Ithralis.
The door groaned open under his hand, the temple beyond still shrouded under the ever-present shadows that choked the sky here. He tried not to look too hard, his chest tightening at the decayed ruin it had all become. Another piece of his people’s heart, rotting in the dark.
“Do they only come out at night?”
Loren startled, glancing back at Araya. She wasn’t looking at him, a frown creasing her forehead as she stared up at the statue of the Absent Goddess.
“That’s when they hunt,” Loren said. “But under heavy shadow, they can show up at any time.”
He nodded toward the gouges raked deep into the stone—as if something had tried to claw the door open to get to them. Araya’s face drained of color as her gaze caught on them, the bond flooding with her fear. Good. At least she wouldn’t try to run at night again.
By the time they made it back to Ithralis, the sun was high in the sky, a weak, pale disc blurred by haze. Loren kept his gaze straight ahead, ignoring the sharp pang of disappointment that pulsed through the bond as Araya’s eyes flicked to the empty docks.
Nyra was long gone—along with Araya’s only hope of escape. What would she think if she knew the weatherworker had pushed to slit her throat and leave her in a back alley for Jaxon to find?
“Well,” Thorne drawled as they walked into the main hall. “You two look terrible.”
Araya flinched, her boots scuffing against the stone, and Loren had to bite back the urge to snap at his oldest friend over his tone.
But Thorne’s sharp eyes betrayed his concern, lingering on the dirt smeared across Araya’s skin, mixed with blood where she’d fallen and scraped her hands.
Loren was certain he didn’t look any better, but Thorne didn’t press them for answers.
“Eloria is looking for you both,” he said instead. “She wants you in Lumaria.”
“We aren’t available.” Loren tossed his cloak across the back of a chair, grimacing as the bond tugged in his chest, raw and sore. “Araya needs a proper schedule.”
Her head whipped toward him, her silver eyes flashing. “A schedule for what?”
“For training your magic.” He met her glare, refusing to look away even as her anger pulsed hot down the bond. “You almost killed us both because you don’t know how to use your own power properly. It’s dangerous and unacceptable.”
“No.” She drew herself up to her full height, crossing her arms over her chest. “I won’t do it. Who would even teach me?”
“Me.” Loren scowled at her. “And it’s not up for debate. You’re a danger to yourself and everyone around you without control.”
Araya flinched back, her hurt booming like a bruise between them. “Sorry to be such a disappointment,” she spat. “I guess that’s what you get for claiming a mate you never actually wanted. I’d rather eat glass than work with you. I want Thorne to teach me.”
The shadows reared back, hissing their displeasure. Their fury lashed at him, demanding he cut down the male she’d chosen over him.
“Enough.” Loren’s voice cracked through the room like a whip. He glared at Araya, meeting her silver gaze with his own fury. “You’re finished here. Go to your room.”
Her chin lifted, fresh outrage flooding their connection. For a heartbeat he thought she might defy him—but then she spun on her heel and stormed toward the stairs.
Loren watched her go. Every step she took clawed at him, her hurt and anger twisting the knife in an already open wound. But he didn’t call her back.
“You told her then,” Thorne said as her footsteps faded. “How did she take it?”
“Don’t be an ass,” Loren growled. “The shadows already want to rip you to shreds. Don’t give them an excuse.”
Thorne’s sharp gaze flicked to the darkness writhing at Loren’s feet. He wouldn’t be able to hear the whispers—the dark, insistent chorus demanding that Loren loose his grip and unleash them on the threat to their bond—but he took a step back anyway.
“You know you can’t ignore Eloria,” he said. “She’s regent. If she wants Araya in Lumaria—”
“She’s not going,” Loren snapped. “Not unless you want to watch the shadows murder the entire Small Council. The way they talk about her—” he shook his head, sagging against one of the armchairs. “I’ll go by myself. I just…need a minute.”
“They’re that bad, then?”
“It’s a constant battle.” Loren sighed, scrubbing his hand over his face. “Especially where she’s concerned.”
“You know, talking might help—”
Loren straightened, shaking his head. “Just…keep an eye on her for me. Please. You’re the only one I trust not to try and use her.”
“Alright,” Thorne said reluctantly. “But—”
“Thank you.” Loren turned for the stairs, not giving his friend a chance to finish. The shadows trailed after him like reluctant hounds, their incessant muttering not quite drowning out Thorne’s deep, disappointed sigh.
“I told you she wouldn’t be happy.”
Loren pulled his hood up, twitching his cloak to fully cover the shadows. They curled against him, muttering words he couldn’t quite make out.
“She never asked for any of this,” he continued, lowering his voice as they approached the outskirts of the shantytown that had sprung up outside Lumaria’s walls. “You have no excuse for being surprised.”
They didn’t answer him—not in words. But a cold band of power coiled tight around his chest, squeezing painfully tight against his ribs.
They hadn’t wanted to leave her, howling so frantically in his ears that he’d given in and stopped to check on her before he left, hoping that it would settle them.
She’d been asleep, her face soft and unguarded in the dim light that shone through her window.
She hadn’t even changed her clothes—as if exhaustion had dragged her into her nest of blankets before she could do more than kick off her boots.
He’d stood there too long, battling the urge to reach for her until shame had driven him back into the hall.
“We couldn’t ignore Eloria,” he said more gently. “Thorne is there with her. She’s safe.”
The shadows grumbled, but the pressure around his ribs eased slightly.
He wound his way through the camp that crowded the city walls, pretending not to see the hollow-eyed children that peeked out at him from beneath the flaps of sagging tents.
It reeked of desperation—the air thick with greasy smoke from guttering cook fires and the stench of rotting refuse.
Too many people crammed into too little space, driven from their homes and reduced to beggars.
The sun finally broke through the mist as he neared the city gates, a pale shaft of warmth brushing his face. Eloria had weather workers pushing themselves around the clock to keep the city and the surrounding farmland clear of the choking haze—but even here, no one moved freely after dark.
Too many had disappeared after sunset, claimed by the zal’vorr or the darkness itself.
Loren exhaled slowly, rolling the stiffness from his shoulders.
He was tired. The kind of tired that sank its claws into you and didn’t let go.
Last night had been long. Araya’s reckless flight, the zal’vorr, everything that had happened in the crypt.
..Goddess save him, she’d almost brought the whole thing down on top of them.
And somehow, her answer to everything was to double down on her maddening insistence that she needed the man who had drained her and left her for dead on the floor.
Eloria was the last person he wanted to deal with after all that. But she was the regent, and he had no intention of taking that power back from her. The part of him that would have made a decent king had died back in his cell twenty years ago.
Loren bowed his head as he slipped through the gates. No one stopped him. With his hood pulled and the shadows tucked away, he was just another refugee, picking his way through the city with his head down and his shoulders hunched.
The streets inside the walls were no less grim than the camp outside.
Dozens of fae stood in long lines that wound through the square, clutching dented metal bowls and empty sacks as they waited for their share of grain and root vegetables.
Guards kept watch near the wagons, distributing the rations with painstaking precision.
Everywhere he looked, Loren was met with hollow cheeks and listless eyes, children who should have run and played through the streets instead clinging silently to their mothers’ skirts.