Alora wanted to scream. Why couldn’t he simply be honest with her?
His eyes met hers, shadow and sorrow carved into every line of his face. Like ithurtto be near her. Then he turned from her, and that said more than any truth he wasn’t yet ready to share.
She always sensed Rune’s lies, even the ones he did not speak aloud. But this was the first time she felt the burning truth.
They had a past.
A painful one she couldn’t remember and one he couldn’t share.
Rune lifted a dirty knapsack from behind a corner chair. Dark red stains marked the front, but what had her attention was the bright glowing light streaming from beneath the flap. He set it on the table, drawing out a glass jar containing her magic.
Rune gazed at it, his eyes almost hypnotized by the glowing strands. He turned away from it.
“This belongs to you,” he said. “Siphoning power is one thing but returning it is another. Not a subject I am familiar with, but my archives will have answers. Deimos is already in thecatacombs, researching the arcana. We will find a way to return it to you.”
Alora rubbed her cold arms. She didn’t know if she wanted her magic returned. All of this started because of whatever dark power she’d inherited.
“This is divine magic,” Rune murmured. “The light you inherited from the Mortal God through your mother. If Eldrik had known what other power you carry in your veins, he might have given pause to his actions.”
But now that Alora thought of it, there had been a moment where it seemed Eldrik did know.
What if the siphoning had meant to take both sides of her magic but he had been interrupted?
Sighing, Alora pushed the thought aside. “I should get dressed. The others are waiting.”
With a motion of his hand, the shadows wrapped around her, replacing her nightgown for the attire of a queen.
She stood at the mirror, breath caught in her throat.
Gone was the girl who had once lived in exile. In her place stood a vision forged by shadow and sovereignty. The gown clung to her like liquid night, woven from silk as dark as the deep and threaded with veins of molten gold that curled across the bodice like vines. Red gems gleamed like captured firelight, nestled at her throat, her waist, her hip.
The dress exposed her shoulders and dipped low enough on her back to whisper of power rather than vanity. Her hair was gathered up and coiled with delicate gold chains that shimmered in delicate strands. A crown rested upon her head, not ostentatious, but unmistakable. Forged of volcanic glass and starlight, it traced her brow with sharp, elegant curves, a single red gem glinting at its center like the eye of a storm.
He admired her with that still, predatory calm, arms crossed, shadows curling at his heels. His eyes smoldered with embers and something heavier.
Alora’s throat tightened.
His gaze traces her slowly, from the glint of the crown at her brow to the gold threading her gown. The intention behind the dress was laden with meaning. As though daring the world to forget who she was.
Alora absentmindedly reached for her Sunstone dagger, until she remembered it was gone.
“It was lost in the Ruins,” Rune sighed. “I’m afraid it cannot be replaced.”
Her heart sank a little. She had been fond of that pretty blade.
Shadows swarmed in Rune’s palm as he summoned her daggers of Moonstone and Nightstone. “But these are nearly as dangerous, if not in equal measure.”
Once they were strapped to each thigh, Alora was ready to face whatever reckoning that waited.
She smiled at the golden doorknob in the shape of a briar rose and opened the door, stepping into a hall she didn’t recognize.
What had once been a humble, one-room-cottage, now rose into a luxurious, two-story manor with a wraparound hall and doors that led to other chambers. The walls were paneled in rich oakwood, carved with the expanse of flowering meadows. A gilded chandelier shaped into the branches of a willow glinted from the ceiling. Every detail was exquisite yet soft and made for her.
An open loft framed the view, letting her see the living space from above.
The main room had transformed with lofted walls with floor to ceiling windows let in the soft pink light of dawn over a large couch and chaises framed like curling vines.
Delphi perched stiffly on a velvet green one, spine rod-straight, expression unreadable. Her sapphire gown was torn, her face splotched with soot. Rihan sat beside her, small hands folded in his lap, too quiet. Perhaps because Caelum stood guard near them, hand on his hilt, every inch the loyal sentinel in his knight armor.
