I crawl forward on hands and knees, the fabric beneath meunforgiving against my scraped palms. The darkness is a heavy blanket, muffling sound, stealing sight. I reach out with my mind, following the faint, thrumming line of the bond. It’s a frayed thread in the suffocating black, but it’s there. And it’s the only thing that feels real.
My fingers brush against a limb. An elbow—I follow it up, tracing the hard line of his arm to the curve of a corded shoulder. His body feels strung tight, coiled with energy. When my hand settles on his chest, his heartbeat drums slow and steady.
You’re alive,I think.
A hand clamps around my wrist, the strength of his grip startling in the silent dark. His fingers slide quickly up my arm, over my shoulder, until his hand cups the back of my neck. The gesture isn’t gentle. It’s a claim. A question.
What did you do?
My breath hitches at the intensity of his focus on me. The frustration, the confusion, the anger, bubbling inside him. And I sense there’s still more to those emotions, held behind a wall, and this is only what he’s letting spill over.
He was going to destroy the shard, not take it as Selen wanted. And his fight with Blaise still hung open, waiting for the chance to end in the blood he’s so desperate for. By touching that… thing… I somehow… tore us out of there?
His breath ghosts my cheek, warm, furious.
I tore you from your vengeance,I think, the words a silent, defiant answer.From the emperor’s stage.
A thumb twitches against the soft skin below my ear.You tore us from a fight we were winning.
You were winning his game,I shoot back, my own anger rising to meet his.Not ours.
His grip tightens fractionally, and his voice drops, a low growl that vibrates through my skull.We are in the dark, unarmed, with no idea where we are, because you couldn’t follow a simple plan.
There was no plan,I snap, pushing back against his chest, pushing him away from me.
My shove is useless. It’s like pushing against a cliff face. He doesn’t give an inch, his body a stubborn wall in the suffocating dark.
My hands shake with a rage that’s half his, half mine.It’s always been you and Blaise—you and whatever lithborn wreckage you’ve cooked up in that head of yours. Let go.
His fingers thread into my hair and lift; the motion a sudden ownership, not tenderness. The dark presses in until all I can sense is him—the heat, the claustrophobic closeness.You think this is a game?he asks.You really think you can light a beacon for the whole empire and walk away?
Better than letting you smash a piece of our history to win a round in theirs,I manage, rallying, my voice shaking with a fury I didn’t know I had.Dancing for the man who murdered your wife.
The words are a lit fuse.You know nothing,he sends, the thought a razor against my consciousness.
I know what the temple showed me,I reply, my defiance a shield against him.I know what he took from you. And I know you were about to let your hatred for him burn down one of the last sacred places we have left.
He pauses, his emotions shifting—dense, layered, a tangle I can’t quite unravel.
It was never their game,he sends finally, the words edged.I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that... It was mine.
“Your self-destruction,” I whisper, aloud this time. “And you’re not taking me with you.”
His grip on me suddenly loosens, fingers falling away as though my words sparked him. His emotional walls slam up higher in the darkness, and he… feels once again as untouchable as an ice lord.
I exhale sharply.I don’t know what is going on with this storm-cursed fae, but he’s giving me whiplash I never gods-damned asked for.
I curse and shove him, pushing myself fully away—just as a grinding sound rips through the space.
A brilliant, blinding rectangle of light slices through the darkness, forcing my eyes shut with a pained gasp. I crack them open, squinting.
Silhouetted in the doorway stand two figures. One is lean and angular, radiating an unnerving stillness. The other is taller and broader, but with the contained grace of an athlete.
“On your feet,” Selen says, her voice cutting through the ringing in my ears.
Shock jolts through me. My eyes adjust, blinking.
The taller figure steps forward from the doorway, and the breath catches in my throat. It’s Byron. His unruly blond hair is haloed by the light from the corridor behind him, his peculiar gray and amber-speckled eyes fixed on us with that quiet, unnerving intensity—taking in our disheveled state without comment.
