CHAPTER 20 #2
And Cian—self-righteous, loyal, infuriating Cian—would watch it happen.
Damon wanted to see the moment realization struck him, the moment he understood he had failed to protect the one person he cared about, the moment the world collapsed around him.
Damon wanted to savor every flicker of despair, every fracture of hope, every breath of helplessness.
The amulet pulsed against his chest, a faint vibration that made his breath catch.
It was calling to her, the magic stretching like an invisible thread between them, intimate and inescapable.
When Damon focused, he felt her presence brush the edges of his senses—like warmth seeping through the chill, subtle yet certain—a soft echo in his mind, not quite his own.
The amulet’s pull resonated with both their blood and the old power binding them together, reaching through the earth, the stone, and the tangled roots beneath the courtyard.
Faelith’s blood was awakening.
Damon wondered if she truly understood the legacy that shadowed her every step. Had she guessed, even in fragments, what it meant to be the last of her line, or sensed the danger pressing at the edge of her dreams?
He closed his eyes, savoring the sensation. It was like standing at the edge of a cliff, feeling the first gust of wind before the jump.
She was coming.
Everything he had built—every lie, every mask, every carefully placed thread—would tighten around her with quiet inevitability.
The courtyard stones seemed to hum beneath his boots. He didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. He felt her before he heard her — the faint tremor of her steps, the uneven rhythm of her breath, the way her presence brushed against the edges of the magic like a hesitant hand.
Faelith stepped into the courtyard.
She paused just inside the archway, her silhouette framed by the remnants of the moon.
Her hair was unbound, her dress simple, her posture tight with uncertainty.
Her eyes were wide and unfocused, as though she were still half inside the vision the grove had forced upon her.
She looked fragile in a way Damon had never seen — not weak, but shaken, stripped of certainty, caught between instinct and fear.
Perfect.
He let her stand there for a moment, let her take in the sight of him without the crow mask, let her see the discarded feathers on the bench, let her wonder why he was here, why he was waiting, why the pull had led her to him.
He wanted her off balance.
He wanted her unsure.
He wanted her to feel as though she had stepped into a moment already in motion.
Only when he felt her breath hitch did he finally turn his head, slowly, deliberately, as though he were surprised to find her there.
“Faelith.”
Her name left his mouth soft, warm, almost relieved — the tone Simon would use, the tone she trusted, the tone he had perfected. He let his gaze drift back to the pond, as though he had been contemplating its dark surface.
“You shouldn’t be alone after what happened,” he murmured, voice gentle, concerned. “I’ve been thinking about you. About how shaken you must feel.”
She hesitated, then moved toward him with small, tentative steps, stopping at his side as though unsure whether she belonged there. Her fingers trembled at her sides. Her breath came unevenly. She looked like she was searching for something, anything to hold onto. Whether it be answers or a person.
He offered his hands.
She took them.
Her palms were cold, her grip uncertain. Damon closed his fingers around hers with careful tenderness, letting warmth seep into her skin. He brushed his thumb across her knuckles as though reassuring her, grounding her.
“Faelith,” he said softly, “you’re trembling.”
She swallowed, eyes flicking up to his.
He stepped closer, letting the concern deepen in his expression. “You’ve been through so much. No one should face what you have alone.”
She didn’t pull away.
He lifted one hand from hers, reaching up slowly, gently, brushing a stray lock of hair back behind her elven ear. His fingers grazed her skin with deliberate softness, the gesture intimate, protective, perfectly measured.
She froze at the touch — not recoiling, but startled, uncertain, pliable.
Clay.
She was clay in his hands.
He felt her lean, just briefly, toward the comfort he offered. Felt her confusion soften into something vulnerable. Felt the amulet pulse against his chest, responding to her nearness, calling to her blood.
He let his hand linger near her cheek, not quite touching, but close enough that she could feel the warmth he emitted.
“You’re safe with me,” he whispered. “I promise you that.”
Her breath trembled.
He smiled — soft, sympathetic, perfectly crafted.
This play was too easy.
She was molding exactly as he had planned.
Damon guided her deeper into the courtyard, their hands still loosely joined. He didn’t pull her; he simply walked, letting her match him, letting her feel as though she was choosing to walk beside him rather than being led.
Faelith stayed close, her steps small and uncertain.
She kept glancing at him, then away, then back again, as though she were trying to decide whether he was a comfort or a threat.
Damon felt the tension in her grip — not resistance, but hesitation.
She was still leery of who she trusted. She was still trying to piece together the truth.
She was still fragile enough to break in any direction he chose.
But now was not the time to push.
Threads unraveled best when left to loosen on their own.
They made it to a pavilion; a table and a few chairs took up the middle of the space. Damon gently guided Faelith and helped her sit.
She exhaled shakily, her voice barely above a whisper. “I… I don’t know what to do. Everything feels wrong. There are so many missing pieces; I can’t make sense of it.”
He sat and angled his body toward her, careful, attentive, the perfect echo of Simon’s gentle concern. “Tell me.”
Damon watched as she worked her throat around the knot forming. She looked down at her hands, then up at him, then away again. “I trusted him,” she whispered. “I trusted Cian. And he...”
Her voice broke.
Damon lowered his gaze, letting sympathy soften his expression. “He betrayed that trust.”
She swallowed hard. “He lied to me. He kept things from me. He made me believe I was safe with him.”
Damon didn’t respond immediately. He let the silence stretch, let her fill it with her own doubts, her own fears, her own unraveling.
She was doing the work for him — pulling apart the threads of her loyalty, loosening the knots of her trust, letting the ache of betrayal settle deeper into her bones.
Finally, he spoke, voice quiet and steady, his own experience slipping out as truth. “It’s difficult,” he murmured, “when someone you care for shows you a face you never expected.”
Her breath trembled. “I don’t think I ever knew who he was.”
Damon leaned closer, slow enough not to startle her. “You don’t have to decide that now.”
She looked up at him, eyes shining with confusion and hurt. “But I feel like I should. I feel like I need to understand what’s real.”
He shook his head gently. “Not tonight. Not after what you’ve endured.”
Her shoulders sagged, relief and exhaustion mingling in her posture. She was unraveling beautifully — not in panic, but in quiet, vulnerable confusion. Damon could feel the shift in her, the way her guard lowered just enough for him to slip deeper into the space she was trying to protect.
He reached out, brushing his fingers lightly over her own— a touch that felt supportive, not possessive.
She closed her eyes, a tear slipping down her cheek. “I don’t know who to trust.”
He let his hand fall away, giving her space, giving her the illusion of choice. “Then don’t trust anyone,” he said softly.
She opened her eyes, startled by the answer.
He offered a faint, reassuring smile. “Let the truth come to you. Let the pieces fall where they will.”
And then, almost without meaning to, he added, “Truth can fuel your vengeance.”
It was a line Simon would never say.
But Faelith didn’t react. She didn’t even seem to hear it.
Damon smoothed his expression instantly, slipping Simon’s gentleness back into place with practiced ease. “You’re overwhelmed,” he murmured. “Anyone would be.”
Perhaps the crack in his mask won’t be the domino effect that will bring his carefully laid plans to ruin.