But I’m freezing, exhausted, and will soon collapse. Then I’ll be at the mercy of the elements and the Shadowfeeders, so I’d rather take the risk and see what shelter he has spotted.
The black trunks around are receding, and we step into a wide clearing.
An old, rotting woodcutters’ hut stands there, spared by some strange whim of the Elders.
Aeidas kicks the piles of dead leaves littering the threshold and forces the door open.
With a flick of his wrist, his twin wisps appear again, bathing his tall frame in cool blueish light. Something dark and shimmering solidifies in his hand. Magic buzzes around it, hinting at its deadly power.
Atos’s hairy armpits!
“Is this a Shadowblade, Aeidas?”
“Shhh, Talysse,” he hushes and steps into the darkness of the hut, his magical weapon raised.
Shadowblades are the stuff of fairytales, at least around Tenebris. Nobody has seen one in centuries. Legends tell of these deadly blades, forged by Atos himself for his favorite Unseelie: they can change shapes in the blink of an eye and appear in the hands of their wielder out of thin air.
And I was planning on fighting this with a rock! I bark a bitter laugh.
“Can’t you stay quiet for a minute, Talysse? You want to attract all Shadowfeeders of this forest?” Aeidas scolds me from the hut.
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of Shadowfeeders, Aeidas! You have a Shadowblade!”
Shadowblades can inflict serious damage on the demons, but only Sunblades can kill them, the magical weapons forged by Cymmetra for the Seelie Kings and Queens. All of them are dead, of course. Slaughtered by the Unseelie during the war.
The sound of falling objects and a soft curse spill into the night. What is happening inside?
“Are you okay, Aeidas?” A stupid thing to ask someone wielding an indestructible weapon. The air inside is cool, laced with a scent of mold. The rotten floor planks screech under my steps. The hut seems to be abandoned for centuries, left to the mercy of the tiny critters and insects but spared by the elements. Cobwebs drape from the massive beams supporting the roof, shimmering like threaded silver in the light of Aeidas’s wisps; the maul of a dark fireplace gapes on the wall. The space is crowded with overturned shelves and broken clay plates. No human bones, no foul stench, no weird words scribbled on the walls this time. It appears the inhabitants left in a hurry.
A single bed, covered in rags, stands right next to the fireplace.
“Not a bad place to spend the rest of the night, Talysse!” He collects the shelves, breaks them over his knee, and piles them into the stone fireplace.
“Indeed. I’ve seen much worse.”
He throws me a long, thoughtful look.
His blade is gone. Dismissed.
Thank Cymmetra. Something about this weapon, about the lethal power harnessed into it, unsettles me. For a moment, I imagine how he must look in battle when all the charm of a prince is stripped off, and the raw, murderous essence of Fae royalty is unleashed. It must be quite a terrifying sight. Oblivious to my presence, he snaps his fingers and sparks fly into the kindling. The flames lick the dry wood, and soon, the hut is bathed in soft golden light.
I stretch my hands, basking in the blissful warmth.
“You better take those wet clothes off,” he says over his shoulder.
“I know you cannot resist me, but in Tenebris, gentlemen should buy me dinner before asking for this,” I spit, trying to calm the wild beating of my heart.
“Is that before or after your friends from the back alley smack them with a club?”
I shrug. “Depends on the job.”
“Oh, there are other jobs? Now I’m curious. What else is on the menu? Pickpocketing men while you kiss them?” He chuckles, throwing more wood into the flames.
Elders above, his guess is so close. “Pickpocketing is not my trade. My looks are very…memorable.” I point at my white hair strand without hiding an amused grin. The silence stretches, and the prince rises and takes a step toward me. The warmth of his body, combined with this cursed scent of his, tempts me with promises of dark, forbidden pleasures.
“Indeed,” he murmurs. “Your eyes are so unusual for a Satreyan.”
His gaze drops to my wrist, where Mother’s bracelet pulsates with soft magic.
