12. Bodin
Chapter 12
Bodin
A s I lean against the door, my eyes catch on a painting hanging slightly askew on the opposite wall. I cross the room in two swift strides and adjust the frame, aligning it perfectly with the others. The simple act releases tension within me.
With Fox gone and Styx returned, even my thoughts feel untethered. The castle itself seems made of transient thoughts, as insubstantial as mist. But at least our Shadow has left and taken her intoxicating scent with her.
Legion releases a strangled, furious sound. Tension coils in his posture. He stares hard at his desk, the reports and the war map pinned to the wall behind him. Then he looks at us in turn, and his demeanor grows incandescent and dark.
He is not one to lose control of his emotions. Even in my gut, where I know our history is stored, I feel this statement’s truth. So when the room dims as his fury sucks the light and his fists tremble, I take a step in Varen’s direction, the weakest among us. He sits by the hearth, lost in a puzzle of his own making—strips of kindling and bones, leftovers from the wildling’s snack.
Legion sees my protective move, directs his gaze down, and roars his fury. He swipes his desk clean of papers, quills, inkwells, and the jar of trapped wisps clatter to the floor. Then he braces himself against the desk, head bowed, breathing ragged.
This is not control. This is catastrophe with its claws in all of us.
As papers and inkwells clatter to the floor, I lock eyes with Emrys, then Styx, a slight tilt of my head conveying my concern.
My muscles coil, ready to spring into action at the slightest provocation.
“Pay attention,” Legion’s harsh, guttural voice cuts through the tense silence. “Because I will only say this once. If any of you allow our queen to suffer again, I will disembowel you and string your entrails over the mantlepiece until you have learned your lesson. Understood?”
I blink, stunned into silence. So many parts of that statement don’t make sense.
“Hardly fair,” Emrys drawls, “considering our current afflictions prevent us from following your decree to the letter.”
Legion’s hand hits the desk. “Do not belittle your intelligence by feigning ignorance of my true meaning, Emrys.”
“I have a question.” Styx raises a hesitant hand. “What suffering are you talking about, the cut on her palm?”
Legion glares through the curtain of his hair, hand on desk, jaw clenched until Styx’s facetiousness fades. Only then does he straighten, fix his shirt, and calmly reply, “For eons, the word suffer has only had one definition: Us.”
Stupid question, Styx. He hears my thoughts and rolls his eyes, then continues aloud.
“Let’s say,” he waves his hand around. “For shits and giggles, and unless you want me to dip into your mind . . . be precise, brother.”
“The most recent incident is her wounded palm.” His eyes turn inward, self-deprecating. “I admit, I was also to blame. It is unforgivable.”
The others stare at him, holding their peace. Perhaps out of fear or respect. Not me.
I fold my arms and say, “If you admit to this oversight without your memories, how are we expected to uphold this impossible task?”
He drops into his chair, his expression defeated for a moment before he gathers his composure.
“Which is why,” he growls, “I now give this order as your Knight Commander, your First, and your Last.” His emphasis on the final word drops the temperature in the room to arctic. “If any of you willingly or negligently allow our queen to suffer, then there will be consequences.”
A low growl builds in my chest, my teeth aching to elongate into fangs I don’t have. I swallow hard, forcing the sound back down. Even Varen looks up from his mystery puzzle, wary.
The dragon takes advantage, slinks out from beneath a couch, and tentatively bites a bone. Varen snarls at him and snatches it back. A tug of war ensues, and I walk over to break it up.
Styx strides to the desk, fearlessly meeting Legion’s gaze. “The mortal is not our fated queen.”
“Stop fooling yourself,” Legion mumbles, retrieving the fallen jar of wisps and turning it over in his hands. “The sooner you fall in line, the better.”
“Perhaps it’s time to step out of line.”
Legion levels his stare on our Sixth, darkness flickering in every corner of the room. “Is that a challenge?”
A pause. “Maybe.”
“Styx,” Emrys warns, “do not test him.”
“Why not? He is impotent, as you all are. Not me. For once, I am—fuck!” Wings erupt from Styx’s back, ripping apart his dark shirt. Dismayed, he glances over his shoulders. “Why is it fucking doing that? Our wings never used to do that!”
“Be thankful it is not your tail.”
“This could happen with my tail?”
“Maybe you instinctively keep it shifted away like your horns and spikes.” Legion slides his fingers beneath his spectacles, rubbing his eyes. “We started bonding with Willow the moment we touched five years ago. We’ve absorbed her ability to shift forms. Fox was the same. Before her, our wings were always out, simply glamoured away.”
“That makes sense,” I cautiously reply, my mind racing to process this new information.
Shifting, as opposed to glamouring, provides numerous tactical advantages. Improved stealth capabilities, easier movement in tight spaces, and better ability to blend in with mortals when necessary. But it also means we’ll need to develop new fighting techniques to compensate for the sudden appearance or disappearance of wings in battle. Kinetic energy from the shift could be useful.
At Styx’s disgruntled concession at the logic, Legion’s eyes fill with patience. “You will all feel confused and conflicted until we break the seals. So you must do as I instruct until we are whole and united again.”
“Don’t we anyway?” Distaste twists Emrys’s lips, but he gives a reluctant nod.
“You know where I stand,” I reply.
“By the door?” Styx snarks.
My fists clenches. “Do you wish to sleep bruised tonight, brother?”
“You’d have to catch me first.”
I take a threatening step toward him. He grins and flickers across the room to stand by the fireplace. He can outmaneuver me with his seal broken, but inevitably, mine will be too. Fortunately, the fool still recalls how precarious the sixth position is in the hive.
The true meaning of my thoughts slips. I grasp to catch it, but it’s gone. I am left with only a strange sense of guilt and walk backward, creating distance between us until my spine hits the door.
Legion turns to Styx. “Is there anything you recall about how your seal was broken?”
“As I told you before, I last remember feeling like I walked into a trap.”
Legion mutters darkly, “I sent you on a mission—the Interlude had just begun, and like now, rogue Nightmares were surfacing. You were being petulant as always, wanting to go off alone for some reason. Emrys, you broke the news about his punishment for public brawling.”
“Did I?” His dark brows knit.
Legion waves him off. “You won’t remember much. The enchantment keeps sending your memory in circles.”
“I think I would remember something like that.” He scowls, grinding his jaw.
Emrys prides himself on being direct. These clouds in our heads are likely causing him more distress than me.
“There was no brawling.” Styx snarls, “They lied, and you left me there to rot.”
We all look at each other, fear skating down our spines. It feels odd, foreign. Fear has no place in our world except within the hearts of our victims, the wicked souls we feast upon. I roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the unfamiliar sensation.
“We forgot.” Legion’s tone is flat as he studies his hands. “And it is unforgivable.”
Legion’s admission of guilt catches me off guard. For a moment, I see not our unshakeable leader but a vulnerable, flawed being. The urge to step forward, to shield him from the others’ gazes, is almost overwhelming. Instead, I straighten my posture, drawing attention to myself and away from his moment of weakness. The hive needs strength now, not vulnerability.
“We will continue to investigate,” Legion promises Styx, then looks each of us in the eyes. “The end of our suffering is finally within our grasp. Our queen is with us . . . and by some miracle, she looks fondly at me—even at you miscreants.” That last bit sparks amusement in his eyes. When we don’t laugh, he deadpans. “You’ve all lost your humor, it seems.”
“Perhaps you need to work on your jokes,” Styx returns sourly, although his lips twitch.
Legion looks to me for help, but I show my palms in surrender and mutter, “What would I know about humor?”
“Jokes are a muttonheaded mortal pastime,” Emrys huffs and idly takes a stick from Varen’s makeshift honeycomb diagram to poke the embers with.
“I find them fun,” Styx counters.
Varen launches to his feet, snatches the stick, and glowers as he sinks down again. Emrys gives an exaggerated apologetic look, then purposefully sits on the sofa beside Varen and starts poking holes in his diagram’s logic. The ensuing bickering grinds Legion’s jaw but strangely brings music to my heart.
“And what of the Earl’s warning,” I ask, “The Shining Host convenes at moonrise tonight.”
Emrys gestures at the map of Nightmares. “What of that?”
Legion’s eyes glitter as he taps his finger on the jar of wisps. “Leave Puck up to me.”
“So, he survived.” Styx rolls his eyes. “I should have killed him, but Willow didn’t want me to reveal my powers.”
“She was right to stop you,” Legion confirms, eyes landing on Varen. “Puck won’t have control of the Baleful Hunt for long.”
“Tonight, then.” I nod.
A fierce protectiveness surges through me. We may be fractured, our memories in tatters, but our bond remains unbroken. Whatever storms lie ahead, I will be the bulwark that shields my hive from harm.
It’s not just duty—it’s who I am.