I laugh. “Then what’s the difference? Between gifts and wielding elen?”
“Oh, of course you don’t know. Sorry. Sometimes I forget that you are human.” She gives me a sheepish smile. “First off, only the moonborn can begifted, so to speak. It used to be quite common to have a gift or two, but as with so many other C’elen powers, they have become less and less common after the Darkening. Second, gifts cannot be blocked the same way as elen, by a brace, for example, or by being inside the Void. It’s ingrained in you. Like breathing.”
“And healing, like you do—is that a gift?”
“No, healing is a skill, not a gift. How many glyphs you have—meaning your strength—is vital, of course. Other than that, it’s your skill at weaving the strands of elen that matters.” She turns toward me. “The memory sharing, however,that’sa gift.” Her proud expression is unmistakable.
We sit in silence for a while, the only sound that of the cascading waterfalls.
“I knew I should have come earlier.”Those were the first words out of Ero’s mouth. Had he known I would be there? Had he been looking for...me?
“I’d like some time alone,” I say after a while, then add that I won’t do anything stupid when she looks unsure whether to go. “Besides, I’m sure Fie is waiting for you.” I push the corners of my mouth upward in a small smile.
She laughs. “All right. I’m convinced. But don’t you dare do anything reckless.” She grabs both my hands, her face turning serious. “Even in deepest night, a single unwavering candle shines bright,” she says. “I will be that light for you. When things get too hard to handle, look toward me. I have known darkness, and, most importantly, Iknowit is possible to make it out.” She hugs me hard, then pushes to her feet.
I watch her until her back disappears in the distance, then drop down on my back, staring at the countless twinkling stars.
IT IS QUIET WHEN I make my way back to my quarters, and I slow my pace as I enter an unfamiliar part of the Arc. The long hallway is lined with painted pictures of stunning Rean males and females, but based on what they’re wearing, they must be from a different era entirely. Alcoves carved into the stone walls hold sculptures and smaller portraits, creating shadowed nooks along the corridor. Feelinga tingle of unease, I pick up my pace.Maybe I should have chosen a different route.
Noticing a familiar face on a large canvas hanging at the corner of a crossing corridor, I stop, raising my hand to let my fingers trace across the sleek contours so familiar to my memory. Casimir.
“I’d stay away from that one if I were you.”
I jump, whirling around to find Aster lounging against the wall opposite the painting. Half covered in the shadows of the dimly lit hallway—as if he’s wrapped them over himself as a blanket—it’s hard to distinguish his features, but there’s no mistaking the clipped tone of his voice. What is he doing here in the dark alone? Escaping the ball, same as me?
“I dreamed about him.” I don’t know why I share this piece of information, but it’s the only thing I can think of.
A flicker of surprise is followed by an emotion I can’t decipher as he steps out of the shadows. Anger? Hate? Something stronger? The next instant, his cool mask of indifference is back in place, hiding all emotion. His gaze glides across my body. “I’m sure you’ve had more pleasant dreams.”
I stare at him in horrified silence. Did he just refer to the very explicit dreams I’ve had about him? Heat spreads through my body like a wildfire, pooling between my legs. Amusement dances across his face. What I would give to wipe off that knowing smirk.
“He’s your brother,” I blurt, more a statement than a question, and I notice how his features harden once again. So be it. I don’t care. Anything to get his attention away from those dreams.
“Was,” he says, his jaw clenched.
I nod, not knowing what else to say, and we both stare at Casimir in silence for a while. What must it have felt like to have his mate killed by his twin brother? All the pain he must have suffered. And still is, likely, depending on how long ago it happened. Compared to Casimir, Emma’s and Llyr’s betrayals pale.
“He killed her,” I say, my voice barely a whisper. “Nana. I saw it. In a dream.” I turn to look at him.
His gaze snaps to mine. “What kind of dream?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “The type you have when you sleep.”
His eyes narrow. “Were youwatchingwhatever played out from a distance, or were youinthe dream, like the—”
“Enough.” I don’t need him to get into detail about those dreams.
A faint smile plays on his lips before his face turns serious again.
“Watching,” I say before he can say more. “I was watching. Hovering. I don’t know how to explain it...” The first dream I had about Aster and Nana, as well as the dream where Casimir killed Nana, was significantly different from the others.
Aster studies Casimir, a contemplative look etched on his face.
“She was your mate,” I blurt.
His gaze meets mine. “I’m still hers,” he says.
Right. Not even death breaks that bond. What a wretched existence that must be, to be tied in such a suffocating way to another person and not even death will set you free. It may not be a brace, but it controls you nonetheless. There could only be one reason why anyone would do such a foolish thing as being mated to someone.
