Chapter 3 #2
He keeps looking at me like I have even the faintest grasp of what’s happening—an assumption that gives me far more credit than I deserve.
Because none of this makes sense. None of it.
And I know once the adrenaline fades and reality catches up—whatever reality this is—this situation won’t feel okay at all.
I don’t know where I am, and trusting others has never come easily to me. Even those who’ve saved my life.
But still, he’s my best chance at getting home.
“I understand,” I say, hoping it sounds remotely believable.
His eyebrow arches, unconvinced.
“But hey,” I add, irritation slipping through, “maybe you can retire the whole dragging-me-around-like-a-ragdoll routine? It’s unnecessary and getting old. I can follow simple directions. Got it?”
His eyes widen slightly before a smirk curves his mouth. Without a word, he gestures toward the others and extends his hand, palm up, clearly catching my not-so-subtle hint.
I take it.
We walk over together.
The table is tucked into a shadowed corner, half concealed by low-hanging lights and sheer fabric that sways with the passing crowd.
The older man—who must be Orren—lounges in his chair, one arm draped casually over the backrest. His attention sharpens the moment we approach.
His gaze drops to our joined hands, then lifts to my face.
“Well,” he says, a slow grin spreading across his lips, “you took your time.”
Lucien bows his head. “I had a delay,” he replies evenly, releasing my hand only long enough to pull out a chair for me.
Fazen settles across from us, studying me again—more carefully this time, as if measuring how much he can look without being rude. Someone places a glass in front of me. Clear liquid, faintly glowing at the rim. I hesitate.
“Don’t worry,” Fazen says gently. “It’s one of the drinks they’re famous for. Mild.”
I glance at Lucien, my concern less about the strength and more about whether it might kill me. He gives me a reassuring look, so I take a careful sip.
The taste is unfamiliar—cool and slightly sweet, like mint mixed with something sharper. Warmth spreads through my chest, loosening the tight coil of nerves just a little.
“So,” Orren says, leaning forward, elbows on the table. “You’ve been busy, Lucien. Vanishing without a word. Care to explain?”
Lucien’s jaw tightens—barely noticeable unless you’re watching him as closely as I am.
“I had matters to attend to.”
“Mmm,” Orren hums, leaning back. “You always do.”
Silence stretches. I keep my eyes on my glass, taking small sips, remembering Lucien’s warning. Less is more. This is definitely not the moment for me to chime in, even though it’s killing me not to.
Fazen breaks the silence.
“You didn’t introduce us properly,” he says to Lucien, then smiles at me. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name—or which sector you’re from.”
Every instinct screams for me to look at Lucien, to ask for help. I don’t.
I lift my gaze just enough to meet Fazen’s, but not for long. “I’m . . . with him.”
Orren chuckles. “Well, that much is obvious, dear girl.”
Heat creeps up my neck. Idiotic. Definitely idiotic.
Then Lucien’s hand settles unexpectedly on my knee beneath the table, sending a jolt through me. I glance up at him, and for just a moment his expression softens into something comforting before his gaze hardens again as it shifts back to the others.
“Yes,” he says smoothly. “She’s with me. We’re getting to know each other.” His eyes flick briefly to mine. “Now let’s move on.”
The pointed look he gives the two men leaves no room for argument.
“Understood, brother,” Fazen replies.
I’m trying to keep up, but they’re not exactly making it easy.
“Aris has been looking for you. All of us have, really,” Fazen says. “It’s been a few cycles.” There’s no anger in his tone—just concern.
Something flashes across Lucien’s face, too quick for me to identify, before his usual composure snaps back into place.
“I know. My apologies. I assumed you could hold the wards until my return—”
“I don’t think you understand, Lucien,” Fazen cuts in. “Things haven’t been ordinary. We’ve noticed . . . unusual circumstances. And today . . .” He hesitates. “Something else. Enough to put Aris on edge. Enough to send him looking for you.”
Lucien’s face falls. His shoulders stiffen, fingers curling against the edge of the stone table. Whatever that means, it clearly struck a nerve.
“I see,” Lucien says flatly.
“May we have a word?” Orren asks, his stare fixed on Lucien. Without looking away, he gestures to Fazen. “Why don’t you take Lucien’s friend for a game of steel strike while I speak with him?”
Fazen dips his head respectfully before turning to me.
We head toward the back of the bar, and I catch a glimpse of Orren murmuring something low to Lucien. Whatever it is makes Lucien cross his arms, his gaze fixed on the floor.
That’s when I notice how light my feet feel. How the room seems louder, voices echoing just a bit too much.
Wow. That was a hell of a drink.
“I take it you’ve played this before?” Fazen asks, lifting several metal rods—arrowlike and heavy—from a rack on the wall.
“Well . . .” I stall, tilting my head as I buy time. Coy sounds better than lost. Or drunk. “I’ve never really been a game person.”
The second the words leave my mouth, Fazen’s attention snaps to me. His eyes narrow just a fraction.
Oh no. Did I mess up?
“Interesting,” he says, still studying me like I’ve revealed more than I intended.
He turns back to the board. “I’ll light it up.
The goal is simple. Throw and land your strike as close to the center as possible.
The closer you are, the more points you score.
We take turns.” His mouth curves as he looks back at me.
“And if you land near your opponent’s strike with enough force, you can knock theirs out. Highest score wins.”
Okay.
Simple.
I can do simple.
Then Fazen raises his hands.
A pulse of electricity surges from his palms, striking the board. Light floods across its surface, lines igniting in a sharp, humming pattern. The air vibrates with power—deep, thrumming—and suddenly I feel it. A magnetic pull presses against the strike in my hand. It’s neither subtle nor gentle.
The board is pushing it away.
I stare, heart kicking harder as I tighten my grip. There’s no possible way I have the strength to throw this against a force like that. No way to fake my way through it. He’s going to see straight through me.
“Ladies first,” Fazen says.
I swallow hard, the sound loud in my own ears. My palms are instantly slick with sweat. Whatever this is—whatever my weakness reveals—it won’t be subtle. There’s no graceful way out now.
I draw in a breath.
Screw it.
I step forward anyway, muscles coiling, shoulder rolling back as I wind up to throw.
And the weight vanishes.
The strike is ripped from my grip mid-motion, leaving my hand grasping at empty air. It whistles past in a sharp metallic blur before snapping cleanly into another hand.
Lucien’s.
He’s suddenly beside me, fingers closing around the strike as if he’d been expecting it all along. He flashes Fazen a smile that’s all charm and just enough threat.
“Still hustling unsuspecting beings in bars, Fazen?” His gaze flicks briefly to me—amused, reassuring. “Care to challenge someone with a little more experience?”
Lucien doesn’t wait for an answer. He steps forward, rolling the strike once in his palm like it weighs nothing, then turns toward the board. The hum of the magnetic field deepens, almost as if it’s responding to him.
Fazen’s smile sharpens. “Confident.”
“Experienced,” Lucien corrects.
He takes position, shoulders loose, posture casual, but there’s tension there that suddenly makes me aware of my own breathing. When he throws, it isn’t forceful.
It’s precise.
The strike slices through the air, cutting clean against the magnetic resistance before slamming into the board dead center.
The impact rings out—a low metallic chime—as the lights flash blue and white.
Fazen lets out a quiet laugh. “Show-off.”
Lucien steps back, glancing at me as he does. “Your turn,” he murmurs. “Let me help, just a little.”
Before I can respond, he moves closer, guiding my stance with a light touch at my elbow, his fingers warm against my skin. The magnetic pull presses again—strong, but steadier now, as if it’s been turned down just enough.
“Don’t fight it,” he says softly near my ear. “Listen to it.”
I inhale, focusing not on the board or the watching eyes around the bar, but on the strange hum beneath my ribs—and the echo answering the force in my hand.
And I throw.
The strike wobbles, veering wide.
Then it corrects midair, as if nudged by an invisible force.
It lands just off center, close enough to send a ripple of light across the board.
Silence.
Then Fazen’s brows lift. “Huh.”
Lucien’s hand lingers on my back a second longer before it’s gone, the sudden loss of his warmth immediate. “Not bad,” he says. “Especially for a first time.”
I can’t help but smile, knowing that was far more than just a little help, and I catch the smirk that flickers across his face before he turns away. He returns the strikes to the rack, then casually informs Fazen that we’re heading out.
I glance around, searching for the older man, but he’s gone—slipped away after their private conversation, it seems.
Lucien comes back to me and casually extends his hand, a gesture that’s become far too familiar between us. Still, against my better judgment, I take it.
Together, we step out of the bar and into the cool night air.