Chapter 23 #2
And in the sudden, deeper gloom, the Seer Twins stood with their veiled faces turned toward me.
They were smiling.
The cavern had folded into that heavy quiet that came long after midnight. Most of the rebels slept, their forms lumps under rough blankets. The only sounds were hushed breaths and the occasional murmur of couples who hadn't untangled yet.
I sat on my bedroll, polishing my daggers.
The wool under me had gone flat weeks ago—more stone than cushion now.
Someone had let the fire die to coals, and the chill had crept back in.
The celebration's incense still clung to my hair, sweet and smoky, mixing with the sour edge of wine dregs spilled near the fire pit.
The steel was familiar in my hands. Grounding. A rhythmic distraction while my mind refused to stop circling.
The ball was a fluke. The Marks reacting, nothing more. His threats were just that—threats. Empty words from a male who couldn't even stick around long enough to face what he'd started.
I dug the cloth into my blade harder than necessary.
It meant nothing. He meant nothing.
The bastard.
My lip curled into a sneer. If he walked in right now, I'd gut him before he got a word out. Maybe I'd pin him by the balls. Make him count his own heartbeats before his last breath.
I was “polishing” so aggressively I nicked my finger on the edge. I paused to suck off the blood when a shadow detached itself from the deeper gloom near the cavern entrance.
Every nerve in my body pulled taut. Exhaustion and paranoia fighting for the same wire. The figure moved with silent, predatory grace. The faint glint of a Crownforged cuirass caught the dim light.
My breath hitched. The blade I'd gripped so harshly clattered to the stone, forgotten.
He was back.
He came toward me the way wildfire catches—inevitable, eating the distance like the air between us had always been kindling. Each step measured—that familiar contained power rolling off him in waves. He held my gaze until he reached my bedroll.
My heart slammed against my breastbone. Traitor.
His attention dropped to the dagger by my feet, and one corner of his mouth tilted—not quite a smirk, but close enough to make my blood heat.
"Still sharpening steel at this hour? Careful—someone might think you're waiting for a reason to use them."
"Who says I don't intend to use them?" The words were supposed to come out harsh. They didn't. "You're back. That's reason enough."
A smile—slow, knowing—split his face. He tracked the waver in my voice, the way my tongue shot out to moisten my lips.
He'd heard it. The crack in my armor.
And he liked it.I searched his face for the angle. There was always an angle.
"Looking for something?" His voice lowered. "Or just looking?"
My eyes snapped back to his. "Don't flatter yourself."
"I don't have to." He stepped closer. "You do it for me."
I tore my eyes away, desperate for somewhere else to look.
My eyes dropped to his Mark, searching for the tell-tale glow of that onyx-black light—but the shadows clung too thick to see anything.I snatched my blade back up off the floor.
And manically started polishing again, desperate to look as unbothered as possible.
Then he knelt.
His fingers closed over mine, stilling them, and slipped the blade free. The other gripped my chin and forced me to look him in the eye. A smirk spread across his lips—making my insides flip.
"Perhaps you'd prefer a different kind of training tonight," he murmured. His voice sunk into a lethal invitation.
His thumb skimmed lightly over my lips—they parted for him without my permission.
Heat tore through me. My Marks ignited, the warmth pooling low in my belly.
His eyes slid to my mouth.
I leaned in. Just a fraction. Just enough to damn myself—
His face dissolved.
The sharp line of his jaw blurred. The cold intensity in his eyes melted into something familiar. Something mischievous.
The Crownforged cuirass shimmered and dissolved into drab rebel cloth.
Maxx.
He stood there grinning like he'd just won a bet with the gods themselves.
For one horrifying second, I couldn't move. Couldn't process.
Then everything hit at once.
Mortification struck me—stealing the air from my lungs. My cheeks burned so fiercely I thought they might catch fire.
And underneath it all, worse than the rest—
Grief.
Because for thirty seconds, I had believed it was real. I had wanted it to be real.
And now I had to live with knowing that.
"Oh, Flameheart." Maxx's voice dripped with theatrical sympathy. "The look on your face." He shook his head, still grinning. "Priceless."
I couldn't speak. A jagged silence had choked me.
"You really thought the Soulbinder would come at you like that?" He tilted his head, studying me with those too-keen eyes. "Even for him, that was a bit much."
He paused and his grin softened.
"But the blush, Amaria. The way you leaned in." His voice dropped. "That was real."
I wanted to deny it. Wanted to spit something vicious at him and watch it land.
Nothing came out.
Maxx watched me for a beat longer, concern flashing in his warm eyes.
"Better you figure it out with me," he said quietly, "than get blindsided by the real thing."
Then he turned and sauntered away, hands in his pockets, like he hadn't just cracked me open and looked inside.
I sank back onto my bedroll, daggers clutched uselessly in my trembling hands.
Eryndor was still gone. Still missing.
And Maxx—the cynical trickster who saw too much—now held a piece of me I'd never meant to give anyone.
The cavern hummed around me. The Nullatheon's tremor seeped through the stone. Then a wet snarl vibrating through the walls, distant. It didn't sound like magic. It sounded like hunger.
I waited. Listened. Nothing followed. Probably just a stray dog prowling near the outer tunnels.
That's what I told myself, anyway.