His features soften, a flicker of something unreadable—disappointment? understanding?—crossing his face. He doesn’t push. Instead, he shifts the subject, asking about my upcoming break, my family’s trip to Kliax. I try to listen, to respond, but his gaze, though no longer direct, feels like a physical weight, a warmth lingering on my cheek where his breath had almost kissed me.
Even as we talk about FinSurfing and bioluminescent beaches, a potent current still hums between us, a silent language we both understand but refuse to speak. The casual facade we try to adopt feels thin, stretched taut. By the time we arrive at the temple, the surface of our conversation is smooth, but the undercurrent is a raging torrent of unspoken words and simmering desire.
The familiar, shimmering glass of the system’s largest temple comes into view as I lower us onto the visitors’ launchpad. Anders insisted we didn’t tell anyone aside from Professor Ainslyn, as we’d both be missing combat, and the Chancellor. Neither seemed to ask questions; maybe they didn’t want to know, or perhaps they trust us enough. Either way, we’re alone, without our guards, and without anyone’s knowledge, we’re here.
If we had alerted King Hunter and Queen Isobel that we were coming, there would have been considerable fanfare, guards, and all the other things. We need to slip in and out before anyone notices. I tap my energy shield on, watching him do the same as he pulls my cloak over my disguised hair. We’re both dressed in all black, unassuming clothing, with black cloaks. When we step out into the wind, Anders tugs me close, wrapping a hand around my billowing cloak and shielding me with his body.
Inside the temple, it is quiet today, with only a few prayerful visitors moving between different stations to offer prayers to both Astor and Calia, as well as their parents, the Primordials. This is the only temple I know of that has offering tables for them.
We make our way across the rich wine-colored marble floors, illuminated with an orange glow from the thousands of sconces. The glass building allows for ample natural light. However, due to the constant cloud cover, the need for artificial lighting still persists. We pass patrons murmuring their prayers, and find an information screen along the back wall.
Anders moves quickly, pulling up a map and the history of how the new temple was built. Looking over the maps again, he nods silently, urging me to go through the door on my right. We find ourselves alone in a long hallway with only a few doors labeled storage, candles, and holograms.
We slip into the last door, labeled archives. The door, thankfully, is unlocked. We begin our search. He takes thefar side of the room, while I stay close to the shelving of books near the door. I run my fingers over the new leather-bound books, knowing that what we’re looking for is much older. When I find nothing, I groan. Anders does the same, running a hand through his hair.
“Well, shit,” he mutters. “There has to be somewhere else—” His voice drifts off as the hair on my neck stands with a prickling sensation. An eerie “I’m here” is like a whisper on an invisible wind. I turn, focusing, and he falls silent. Another call to me pulls me out of the door.
On the other side, we’re met with another long hall, this one illuminated with bright white walls and offices. I nearly collide with him when I back up. “Keep your hood up, but walk to the end of the hall. Act like we belong here.” I’m about to tell him about the voice when a door to our left opens up, and two men exit, lost in conversation.
We both turn, walking quickly but not quickly enough to catch attention. I’m just thankful it’s normal to be found in cloaks here.
Anders holds me back a moment, looking both ways. For some reason, he doesn’t question me. He just lets me lead, following, staying close. I follow the sound, like it’s drifting and leading me down the hall, then another, and another. I’ve lost my surroundings, but I keep going. The last turn we take leads us to an old hallway that appears to have been unused for years.
A door sits alone in the old stonework. The voice drifts behind it, disappearing. With a shaky voice, I say, “I think—I think it’s through here.” He studies me a moment before nodding. Without questioning, he tries the handle. When it doesn’t budge, he looks around just before his hand connects—hard, breaking the handle and lock off completely. My mouth falls open as I stare at him.
“I’ll leave a donation to fix it,” is all he says. I don’t bother asking before the door swings open, revealing stone steps that descend into the dark. Anders urges me forward, and the clang of the heavy door behind us swallows the last flicker of light, plunging us into absolute, suffocating darkness. It presses in, thick and cold, stealing the air from my lungs.
My hands instinctively fly out, hitting rough, damp stone, whilemy breath comes in ragged gasps. Despite the unending darkness, my vision swims.
My fingers continue to scrape along the wall as I take a step. The only sound down here is the sound of the rushing noise of my blood pumping through me, and the thump of my heart that feels like it’s attempting to escape my chest. A sharp breath comes out just before I ask, “Is this a bad time to tell you I don’t like dark, enclosed spaces?” Instantly, his hands find mine. They’re warm and steady, and despite the energy that exchanges between us, I feel my heart begin to slow, my breath becoming even.
“Breathe with me.” His voice is no more than a whisper against my cheek. He inhales for a few seconds and then out for a few. I follow him, letting him guide me. We do this a few times, and after a while, I stand straight. “I’m here. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
I sense his gaze on me, steady and unwavering, as if the darkness doesn’t exist for him. Maybe it doesn’t. He’s not normal. I know it in my bones. He leads me down and down uneven, slick steps, the passage feeling as if it narrows with every step. He keeps hold of my hand, whispering if there’s a big step or a short one, his soft words echoing off stone walls.
We keep descending, further and further, the air growing heavier, colder, and damper. It gets so cold that I can almost see the cloud of my breath in front of me. We keep going, though.
Down. Down. Down.
When he tells me there’s a turn in the steps, I notice that the air is somehow thinner, tasting of ancient dust and forgotten stone. We continue then in silence for another few minutes.
“I can see the bottom.” His voice echoes off the stone. “Almost there.” The cold down here seeps into my bones with a creeping chill that echoes my mounting panic. We’re so far down, and nobody knows we’re here. As if knowing where my thoughts have gone, he says, “You’re safe with me. I’m here. I won’t let anything happen.” Panic claws at my throat, threatening to choke me. My other hand flies to his arm, gripping it with white-knuckled desperation. His fingers,which are still interlaced with my other hand, tighten, solid and warm, a lifeline.
“I’m here,’” he murmurs, his voice a low thrum against the suffocating silence. “Always.” He tugs, pulling me against his solid warmth, wrapping an arm around me. I nod, squeezing him, breathing through my nose, out through my mouth, just like I was taught. “Good girl,” he whispers, running a hand over the back of my cloak. “You’re doing well.”
When we finally reach the last step, Anders pulls an old sconce from the wall, using a lighter he has stored in his pocket to light the flame. I don’t even bother asking as my jaw drops.
Walls of impossibly smooth, jet-black obsidian rise around us, scarred with ancient, glowing carvings that pulse faintly, like a sleeping heartbeat. The ceiling soars, lost in shadows. The floor, an expanse of polished, dark marble, reflects the torchlight like still water, broken only by a single, massive carving at its center.
A monolithic altar of dark, unpolished stone dominates the chamber’s heart, stained with time, bearing faint, faded etchings of symbols I don’t recognize, yet feel hauntingly familiar. Colossal statues, easily double Anders’ height, tower around the edges. They depict figures with elongated limbs and eyes carved from luminous crystal, their expressions serene yet unnerving. The air here is heavy with the scent of forgotten magic, buzzing faintly against my skin.
I don’t know what I expected to find, but my breath hitches. This is more than something. This iseverything.
“There,” Anders murmurs, pointing to a hidden door on the far wall, almost invisible against the obsidian. He holds the torch in his right hand, my hand clutched in his left. When we push it open, a cloud of ancient, stale air washes over us. I nearly sob with relief, not just from escaping the cold, but from the sight before us. There’s a long room filled with dusty shelves that looks abandoned and hasn’t been touched for half a century since the new temple was constructed. Candles, dishes, cleaning supplies… We continue along the wall, Anders sticking to my side.
I swipe my finger over one of the wooden shelves, and it comesaway with a thick coating of dust. We find another section of vases and altar cloths, and then beside it, a massive painting of the gods. It looks old, the paint peeling from the canvas. I sigh and turn to him.
“Nothing.” He steps closer, as I step back. There’s that same look in his eye that makes me want to surge up onto my toes and lay claim to his mouth. Another step back makes my shoulders connect with the painting, and it shifts. The way he’s looking at me makes my mouth water, but then a breeze hits the back of my neck.
