Sam, ever practical and refreshingly unflappable in the face of Rue’s dramatics, stands with a huff of disapproval, completely unabashed by his nakedness as he reaches for his discarded clothes. His broad shoulders move with fluid grace as he pulls on his shirt, and his eyes meet mine with a mixture of resigned acceptance and steely determination.
“He’s right,” Sam concedes reluctantly, though the words seem to physically pain him to speak. His jaw clenches as he continues dressing with efficient movements. “The mountain won’t wait for our convenience.”
I exhale slowly, deliberately, gathering my scattered resolve along with my equally scattered garments from where they’ve been abandoned across the stone floor. The reality of what lies ahead settles over me like a heavy cloak, the Trial of Power, my father’s fate hanging in the balance, the weight of proving myself to an entire realm that sees me as nothing more than a half breed curiosity.
“Fine,” I say, injecting as much authority into my voice as I can manage while clutching a sheet. “Give us a moment, Rue. Just. . .a moment to collect ourselves.”
“A moment,” Rue agrees with a sigh, spinning on his heel with a swirl of his cloak. “But no more dalliances, my dear ones. The Trial of Power waits for absolutely no one, not even for a gorgeous witch-fae hybrid, blessed with two deliciously devoted consorts who clearly worship at her altar.”
As he glides from the room with feline grace, I catch the knowing smirk playing across his lips, the satisfied gleam in his eyes that suggests he’s thoroughly enjoyed disrupting our intimate moment.
The silence that follows his departure feels almost oppressive after his gigantic presence. I begin gathering myclothes, hyperaware of every movement, every breath from my companions. Locke’s calloused hand finds mine as I reach for my battle leathers, his thumb tracing gentle, soothing patterns against my skin, a wordless comfort that grounds me in the present moment.
“Are you ready for this, Starlight?” The question falls from his lips heavy with implication, weighted with all the fears and hopes we haven’t yet spoken aloud. Am I ready to face the mountain that will test not just the magic flowing through my veins, but my very worth as a being? Am I ready to prove to the Night Court, to all of Vanir, that I am infinitely more than the worthless dud the Blue Mountain Coven labeled me and discarded?
“Yes,” I say, and the conviction in my voice surprises even me. The word rings with truth, with power I’m only beginning to understand. “I’m ready.” I’ve spent far too much of my life being told what I couldn’t do, what I shouldn’t be, what I’d never amount to. No more. Those days of doubt and self-loathing are behind me now.
Sam approaches, now fully dressed in his practical traveling clothes, and presses a lingering kiss to my forehead. His lips are warm against my skin, and I can smell the familiar scent of him, earth and pine and something uniquely Sam. “Then let’s get this done,” he murmurs against my hair. “Together. Whatever comes, we face it as one.”
We finish dressing and pack in companionable silence, the air around us charged with anticipation and nervous energy. I pull on my sturdy boots, grateful beyond measure for how reliable they’ve proven throughout this impossible journey. The fabric of my battle leathers, a precious gift from Lucky, clings to my skin like a second skin, woven through with protective spells that hum faintly with their own magic. The familiar weight of them gives me confidence, makes me feel more myself.
When we finally emerge from our temporary sanctuary, Rue is lounging against the weathered side of the mountain with casual elegance, the horses already saddled and ready for travel. He’s examining a small throwing knife that glints dangerously in his long fingers.
“Finally,” he drawls without looking up from his blade, sliding it into some hidden sheath with a fluid motion that speaks of years of practice. “I was beginning to think you’d decided to start another round.”
“Enough, Rue,” Locke warns, but there’s no real heat behind his words, only the weary patience of someone who’s been dealing with such provocations for centuries. They’ve clearly danced this particular dance countless times before.
The path ahead winds upward in a serpentine pattern, disappearing into a thick blanket of swirling mist that shrouds the upper reaches of the mountain like a living thing. The fog moves with purpose, with intelligence, and I can feel ancient magic pulsing within it. The Trial of Power lies beyond that impenetrable veil, waiting like a sleeping dragon, a test specifically designed to break those unworthy of the magic it guards, to crush the spirits of those who dare to challenge its authority.
“The mist is thicker today than it was yesterday,” Rue observes. He studies the swirling fog with the intensity of a predator assessing potential danger. “The mountain knows you’re coming, Esme. It’s preparing for you.”
I straighten my shoulders, feeling the weight of destiny settling around me like armor. The magic in my blood responds to the mountain’s call, singing in harmony with whatever ancient power dwells within its peaks. “Good,” I say, my voice carrying across the crisp mountain air. “Then it won’t be surprised when I conquer it.”
Sam’s hand finds mine immediately, his grip steady and reassuringly warm, an anchor in the storm of uncertainty ahead. On my other side, Locke’s presence radiates quiet strength like a fortress built to withstand any siege. Between them, I am both anchored to earth and free to soar among the stars.
“Lead the way, Esmeralda,” Rue says, swinging gracefully into his saddle, there’s no mockery in his tone, no hidden amusement dancing in his eyes. Just pure, undiluted respect as we mount our horses, the leather creaking beneath us.
I take the first step onto the ancient path, feeling the mountain’s magic humming beneath my feet like a living heartbeat. It recognizes me, not as an intruder to be repelled, but as a worthy challenger to be tested. The mist swirls in response to my presence, parting slightly as if extending an invitation, daring me to step forward into the unknown.
“Let’s go save my father,” I say, my voice carrying the weight of determination and hope in equal measure. Together, we begin our ascent into the mist-shrouded unknown, our horses’ hooves clicking against ancient stone.
The Trial of Power awaits somewhere above us in the swirling fog, and I am no longer the frightened girl who doubted her own worth. I am Esmeralda Ayla, the name of my father, called Soraya by the stars themselves, beloved of two fierce hearts, and I am coming to claim what has always been mine.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
ESME
The higher we climb, the thinner the air becomes, each labored breath a reminder of how far we’ve ascended into this desolate realm between sky and stone. Each inhalation cuts sharp and shallow through my lungs, the cold mountain air burning like liquid ice in my chest. Snow crunches and compacts under the steady rhythm of our horses’ hooves, thick and treacherous, creating a muffled symphony as we follow the narrow path that cuts precariously across the mountain’s jagged, unforgiving face. The trail is barely wide enough for our mounts to navigate single file, forcing us into a vulnerable line that makes my skin crawl with unease.
The drop to our left is sheer and merciless, a yawning chasm that seems to swallow sound and light alike. When Rue’s horse missteps, sending loose rocks skittering off the edge, I watch them tumble and bounce against the cliff face before vanishing completely into the white mist below. The sight makes my stomach lurch, and I force myself to focus straight ahead rather than contemplating the crushing death that waits mere feet away.
“Easy,” Locke murmurs to his mount, his voice barely above a whisper. “Steady now, that’s it.”
Even his voice carries a careful quality, measured and soft, as if too much sound might shatter the fragile stillness that exists this high up in the realm between worlds. His eyes never stop scanning the path ahead, always alert, always calculating the next potential threat.
Sam rides close behind me, close enough that I can hear his horse’s breathing mix with the wind. When I chance a look back over my shoulder, his eyes are constantly scanning the trail we’ve just traversed, always watching our backs, always ready to defend. The sight of his familiar, protective stance sends a wave of warmth through my chest despite the bitter cold surrounding us.
Rue hums a slow, off-key tune under his breath, the melody drifting through the thin air like a lullaby. I suspect it’s meant to calm his horse, though I have a feeling it’s also serving to steady his own nerves. The deep timber of his humming voice carries something soothing in its rhythm, and I find myself getting lost in the sound. Without meaning to, it’s calming me too, settling some of the anxiety that’s been building in my chest since we began this treacherous ascent.
