Chapter 10
Chapter
Ten
Loren paced between the long tables, his footfalls silent on the polished stone.
The library hadn’t changed in twenty-five years, the ancient enchantments woven into its foundations allowing it to endure when everything else had crumbled to shadow and ruin.
No dust, no damp—only the familiar perfume of ink and leather, and rows upon rows of towering shelves groaning beneath the weight of thousands of books.
The full history of the fae—boiled down to words on parchment.
He’d spent hours here as a child, pouring himself into his studies in an eager effort to earn his father’s praise. It had been his sanctuary, a place to prepare himself to wear the crown he’d been chosen for.
As he’d grown, he’d dreamed of bringing his mate here. Of showing her the quiet alcove where he liked to curl up and read, to share the knowledge he’d grown up with at his fingertips.
But not like this. Not when she’d negotiated access like she didn’t believe he’d share everything he had with her freely. Not when she didn’t trust him to tell her the truth.
It’s your fault. The shadows snapped at his heels. You locked her up.
Loren dragged a hand over his face. He had locked her up.
Because the moment she’d had the chance, she’d tried to run.
Because she’d lost control of her power.
Because she’d nearly died. She’d agreed to meet him last night, but now…
he glanced over at the table, where the tea service he’d asked Veria to bring sat untouched, the pot gone long cold despite the magic meant to keep it warm.
What if she’d changed her mind? What if she didn’t come?
Their shadows laughed, their mad whispers breaking into a hundred jagged pieces, scraping over him like knives.
“Enough,” Loren growled, slamming his hand down on the edge of the table, topping a few of the aged scrolls from their neat stacks.
To his shock, they obeyed—skittering up the walls like dark ivy to flicker and shift just beyond the reach of the weak sunlight that filtered through the high windows.
She had done that. Even now, her magic pulsed through him, twining with his own in a way that felt so right that Loren feared he might never feel whole without it again.
He threw himself down in one of the padded chairs, dragging a hand through his shorn hair.
Cutting it had been the only way salvage what remained, the rest of it too matted and tangled for even magic to repair after twenty-five years spent rotting in his own filth.
Loren stared down at his wrists, his gaze catching on the other lingering reminder of his captivity.
The scars from the manacles had finally closed over and flattened, some of the lurid color fading—but he doubted they’d ever vanish completely.
There was only so much magic could heal.
He turned his arm, tugging back his sleeve to study the shadowmark that still twisted up his forearm.
That scar was as dark and vivid as the day he’d gotten it.
Both Ilyana and Thorne had looked at it, but there was nothing that would heal it but time.
A cold numbness radiated from the writhing marks that twisted under his skin, a chill reminder of what he could expect when dara’el finally tired of waiting for him to be the prince it wanted and decided to wipe the slate clean after all.
“Does it still hurt?”
Loren startled, his heart leaping in his chest as he shot to his feet.
Araya stood just inside the doorway, one hand braced lightly on the frame as if she wasn’t sure whether to fully step into the room or run as fast as she could in the opposite direction.
She’d dressed plainly, her hair pulled back into her customary braid, a few stubborn wisps curling around her face.
The shadow that had refused to leave her and rejoin the many curled around her ankles, watching him as carefully as she did.
“Not really,” he managed, his voice hoarse. “It’s mostly numb.”
Araya nodded, still hovering uncertainly in the doorway. “You didn’t say when to meet you.”
She was right, he realized. He hadn’t given her a time.
Loren blew out a slow breath, gesturing her inside. “No harm done, ael’sura,” he said. “We might as well set the terms of our agreement now.”
She stepped inside, just far enough for the door to close behind her. Her silver eyes widened, tracing over the the towering shelves as the shadows danced far above them both.
“Ithralis is where the heir to the fae throne comes to learn about the shadows and their duty.” Loren cleared his throat, clasping his hands behind his back.
“Because of that, this library holds the most complete record of dara’el in existence.
If the answers you’re looking for can be found… they’ll be here.”
He paused, but Araya said nothing. She didn’t even look at him, her eyes fixed on the books like she’d never seen anything like this.
“For every morning of research,” Loren continued, frowning as she took another step closer, her hand hovering over the spines of the books like she didn’t quite dare to touch them. “You will give me an afternoon of training you magic. I’ll meet you here every morning.”
“You’re…going to help me?” Her brow furrowed, the prickly edge of her suspicion softened with genuine confusion.
“Of course.” Loren’s heart ached in his chest. “You might not trust me, but I have no desire to be your jailor. And—” a wry smile tugged at his mouth despite the seriousness of the moment “—like you so passionately pointed out—you don’t speak the language, do you?”
“These are all in Valenya?” Araya’s head whipped toward him, her suspicion eclipsed by wide-eyed wonder. “And they all belong to you?”
“Well—they belong to the crown.” Loren stared at her, his eyebrows drawing together when she stood frozen in place, not reaching out to take any of the books despite the aching curiosity he could feel through their bond. “You can touch them, you know.”
“Amazing,” she breathed, the word so soft Loren doubted it had been meant for him. He fell into step behind her, frowning as she ran her fingers along the edge of the nearest shelf, making no move to take even a single one from its place.
“Surely, you’ve seen the library at the Aetherium,” he said. Even if the Arcanum had removed every book written in Valenya from its shelves, that library would still dwarf this one.
“Oh, part-fae aren’t allowed in the main library.” Araya tipped her head back, staring up at the skylight far above them. Mist pressed against the glass, turning the faint sunlight that made it through cold and silver.
Loren stopped in his tracks, his stomach twisting at her casual admission. As if that was normal. “Didn’t you have special privileges?”
“I did. I do.” She hooked a thumb around the necklace she always wore, flashing the gold and black symbol of the Arcanum at him. “They would bring me the books I requested once Jaxon signed off on them, I never actually got to go in.”
Loren’s throat tightened. His fingers twitched, the irrational urge to tear that amulet from her neck nearly overtaking him. The thought of her having to wear their mark around her throat just to access books—
His fury must have shown on his face because Araya closed her fist around the cursed thing, hunching her shoulders as he took a step closer.
“You don’t have to wear that here.” Loren reached out, finding gentleness somewhere as he brushed his fingers over her clenched fist. “You are welcome to any book in this library. There is no knowledge here that is off-limits to you.”
Araya’s breath caught, her surprise flickering through the bond. Some of the tension drained from her shoulders, and her fist loosened, the amulet falling back against her chest.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“You don’t have to thank me for that,” Loren said shortly. “It’s how it should have been the entire time, ael’sura.”
She blinked up at him, her brow furrowing. “You keep calling me that. Will you finally tell me what it means?”
Loren’s heart stuttered. When had he gotten so close to her? His hand hovered a breath away from curling around her waist, her face turned to his. The scent of wildflowers and rain-soaked earth filled his nose, finally free of the heavily-perfumed soaps humans favored.
He drew in a slow breath, willing his heartbeat to slow. Goddess help him, even the shadows strained toward her, restless and wanting. They pulled at his self control, begging him to close the half-step between them.
“It’s what I called you before I knew your name,” he said at last. “The direct translation is my life, but colloquially it’s closer to my hope.”
Araya’s eyes widened, the bright flicker of her surprise rippling through the bond. But she didn’t look away.
“Why would you call me that?” she breathed.
“Because, ael’sura—” Loren smiled down at her, his heart twisting painfully.
“I’d long since given up hope in that dungeon.
I didn’t believe I had any future left that wasn’t full of pain and darkness.
But then—” he gave into temptation, tracing the damp edge of her braid with his fingers “—you started appearing in my dreams, and for the first time in twenty years…I wanted to live.”
Araya stepped back, a pink flush darkening her cheeks all the way to the jagged tips of her ears. Loren let his hand drop, the echo of her tension humming under his skin.
“You said your mother was fae and your father was half-fae.” He tucked his hands behind his back so he didn’t reach for her again, willing his voice to stay steady. “Did you ever speak Valenya?”
“I—Yes. At one point.” She frowned. “But I was very young.”
“Would you like to see if you can remember?”
He knew it was a mistake the instant her face lit up. His resolve to keep his distance crumbled, the myriad of reasons why getting closer would only break both their hearts paling against the brightness of her smile.
“I’d like that,” Araya said. And—Goddess help him—Loren smiled back.