Araya blinked. The question caught her off guard—Carrow was not the type to ask personal questions, much less show concern.
“I have my papers?—”
"Papers won’t stop a mob, Starwind." Carrow exhaled sharply. "You should have left with the others."
“I had work to finish, sir.”
“You always do.” Carrow shook his head. His tone wasn’t unkind, but there was something too close to pity in his eyes, and it made her chest tighten.
“Take care, Araya,” he said quietly. “Lock up on your way out.”
Araya busied herself at the workbench, reorganizing tools that were already in their place and rubbing imaginary specks of dirt off them with a soft cloth. She didn’t let her hands start to shake until the door swung closed behind him, the latch clicking shut and leaving her in silence.
Araya gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white, blinking fast against the sudden burn in her eyes. She pressed a hand to her mouth, stifling a sound that might have been a sob, then slowly sank onto the stool by her bench. For a few long breaths, she let herself feel it all—the fear, the anger, the uncertainty of what tomorrow would look like for her.
Then, like she had done every day for the past six months, she packed it all up into a tiny, neat box and locked it in the back of her mind.
Then she straightened. Wiped her eyes. Thirty amplifiers in one day—that had to count for something, didn’t it?
Arayaclung to that hope as she moved through the workshop, securing the windows one by one, shutting out the distant roar of the streets below. The celebrations had begun as the sun started to set, filling the city with laughter, drums, and the crackle of fireworks.
For humans, Dominion Day was a night of pride. A night where they toasted the kingdom they had built on stolen magic. But for fae females like Araya, Dominion Day was a night best spent behind locked doors.
The others had left hours ago, slipping away in small, tight-knit groups for safety. No one had asked if she was coming, or invited her to walk with them.
They never did.
Araya had been set apart the moment the Arcanum granted her waiver, permitting Jaxon to sponsor her apprenticeship while her peers were reassigned to workshops and other menial pursuits, only to disappear into the breeding program once their cycles began.
Jaxon hadn’t saved her like he’d promised. He’d left her here without a word of explanation, leaving her trapped on the same precipice as every fae female under the Arcanum’s authority.
Araya exhaled sharply, pushing the thought to the back of her mind as she hurried through the rest of her cleanup and swept her cloak around her shoulders. It might be summer, but only a fool would walk around tonight without doing everything they could to hide their fae blood.
She fastened the clasp at her throat as the door creaked open behind her. “Did you forget something, sir?”
But it wasn’t Carrow who responded, his voice filled with a familiar dry amusement that sent her heart galloping as she whipped around to face him, not believing her own ears.
“You never used to call mesir.”
“Jaxon,” Araya whispered, her traitorous heart skipping a beat.
The last time she’d seen him—Gods only knew, they had never been equals, but it had been as close as they would ever get. Now he stood before her, immaculate in a high-collared black coat trimmedwith gold thread. A formal black sash crossed his chest, pinned in place by a gleaming medallion bearing the Arcanum’s Eye—marking him not only a Master, but a Commander.
But that smile was the same—smug, self-assured, steeped in privilege and charm. Worse, so was her reaction to it. If Jaxon had been fae, he would have heard her heart betray her. It thundered in her chest, caught somewhere between longing and dread.
The door fell shut behind him, plunging the workshop back into shadow. He prowled toward her, the click of his polished boots ringing out against the stone.
“Are you finished for tonight?” he drawled, his voice as thick and sweet as honey.
“I—” Araya stumbled over her words. “I just finished. I’m meeting Serafina tonight.”
“Reschedule,” Jaxon suggested. He stepped closer, crowding her. Gods, he even smelled the same—the familiar vanilla perfume of his soap surrounding her. “Come to dinner with me instead, Starling.”
Araya stiffened. The old nickname slid between her ribs like a cold knife, cutting straight through the heat he stirred.
“I can’t,” she said shortly, fighting to keep her voice level. “I didn’t even know you were back—you never wrote.”
She had. Twice.
