Thorne had called this an island, which meant no escape without a boat.
Even if she managed to get out of her room, slip past Thorne and Loren and steal a boat—then what? She didn’t know where they were, didn’t know how to sail, and doubted she could talk her way past the Shadowed Veil a second time.
Araya gritted her teeth, flopping into one of the chairs. There was nothing she could do—nothing but wait, and hope Loren and Thorne would listen to her when they finally decided to tell her what the hell they were thinking.
She sank back into the plush chair, letting herself relax for the first time since she’d found Loren bleeding out in his cell.
Gods, she was tired.
All she wanted was to close her eyes and wake up in her own bed—discover that the past few weeks had been nothing more than a strange, tangled dream. Because if none of this had happened—if Jaxon had never taken her down to Loren’s cell, never pinned her down and ripped her power from her—Araya could still pretend she was safe.
She could still pretend he loved her.
The fire snapped in the hearth, startling her. Araya flinched, a hand flying to her chest to still the sudden, hollow ache blooming there.
And then the shadows moved.
Araya shot to her feet, her heart pounding as she stared at the twisting streams of darkness slinking out of the corners of the room. The fire guttered, the temperature plummeting and her breath fogging in the air. She stumbled back a step, starting to reach for the door—but even if it hadn’t been locked, where would she go? The Shadowed Veil had dragged an entire ship into oblivion. What could it do toher?
But these shadows didn’t move to attack her.
Araya narrowed her eyes, studying the shifting shapes. They weren’t feral or all-consuming like the shadows from the Veil. These moved like the ones that had curled around Loren in his cell—watching, waiting… almost curious.
Of course, those shadows had killed Aeron—but Araya had never feared they would hurt her. “What the hellareyou?” she murmured.
That got a reaction—the shadows shuddered in unison, rearing back. They looked almost…offended.
“What?” Araya sank back into the chair, staring at them. The way they curled into the corners of the room…it really did look like they were sulking. “Don’t tell me I hurt your feelings.”
The shadows hesitated, their movements stilling before they rippled again—slower this time, almost… tentative. They clung to the corners of the room, their tendrils curling in on themselves like they were reconsidering their approach.
“Fine.” Araya laughed, shaking her head. “If you’re so interested in me, do something useful. Take me to Loren. Let me tell him myself just how much of a bastard he’s been.”
The shadows paused, as if considering her words. Then, without warning, they vanished, melting into the walls like ink on old parchment. In seconds, Araya was alone in her room again, with only the very normal shadows for company and nothing to do but wait.
Chapter
Thirty-Two
Eluneth had once gleamedatop the sea like an emerald, its cliffs draped in ivy and crowned with ancient oaks and silver-bloomed laurels. Now, it was a corpse.
Loren’s boots crunched across the brittle soil, mist curling around his legs like grasping fingers as he walked through the skeletal, twisted remains of the tortured trees. He had expected ruin. But that didn’t make it any easier to see.
Somewhere in the distance, something snarled—low and guttural. Loren stilled, his breath catching.
Azal’vor. Or more than one.
He didn’t move, didn’t even breathe for a long moment. But whatever was watching from the seething heart of the shadows was content to let him pass. For now.
Loren forced himself forward, picking his way across the blackened earth toward the looming shape of the temple. Bones littered the ground—all human. Gaunt ribcages lay tangled in rusted armor, jaws slack in eternal screams. Some had been cracked open, dragged through the ash before vanishing into the mist that searched across the battlefield.
He picked his way carefully up the ruined stairs, skirting the veins of shadow spidering through the once-pristine white stone. It yawned open, its grand doors shattered. Loren held his breath as he stepped through, half-expecting to be struck down where he stood—but only silence met him.
Whatever had happened here, it hadn’t crossed the threshold. Only time had done its quiet work here, fading the murals and dulling the stone. Dust drifted through the air, the altar looming above it all. The Goddess’ statue still stood there, her face shrouded and her hands outstretched in eternal offering or warning—Loren could never decide which.
But Loren wasn’t here to pray.
He descended the narrow stairs into the crypt. Aetherlamps flared to life as he passed, casting a flickering glow that barely touched the shadows clinging to the floor. They moved with him—curling around his feet, trailing behind like misty specters.
