He moved onto the clothes.
A merlot, silky, collared shirt and black, slim-fit pants: the casualoutfit he often wore when he wasn’t acting on city business, as he despised wearing dress vests and slacks when he didn’t have to.
Back when he’d first founded Hollow City, it was Isla who bought him his firstproperoutfit.Befitting for the founder of the city, she’d said.
Finnian held the shirt up to his nose. The fabric smelled of eucalyptus and rosemary, the charm he cast to clean his clothes, and of the lemongrass and orange blossom incense he burned in his home.
Interesting.
Nausea churned in his stomach at the idea of Cassian inside his home. Not because the High God had invaded his personal space, but because he’d invaded his space and brought backsome of his belongings, as what? A kind gesture? He didn’t know how to interpret it.
Finnian’s attention shifted to the pile of jewelry on the vanity. All his titanium rings, his three necklaces with various jewels hanging from their chains—Mira’s pendant, a bloodstone crystal, and an astrophyllite. His favorites. They were all there, unharmed.
A crisp swivel of his wrist and the muck and blood from his time in Moros vanished clean from his skin.
He slipped the rings on his fingers and the necklaces over his head, and replaced the torn rags of his clothes with the fresh ones Cassian provided.
As he fastened the first three bottom buttons of his shirt, he nibbled on his bottom lip, fixated on the absence of the itch boring into the hub of his mind.
The moment he came out of the hallucination and back to his surroundings on the altar, the buzzing of the curse had silenced. It was like a warning that he shouldn’t trust himself in those moments.
Dread tightened its grip in his chest as he continued to dwell on it. The itch, resembling a voracious parasite, served as tangible proof of the curse’s existence, tormenting his mind without respite. Its fickleness haunted him.
How much of this can I withstand?
Finnian lifted his palms up and stared at the lines mapped out across his skin like tiny roads. He replayed everything in his head to decipher what had been real versus the curse. From the moment Shivani escorted him back into his cell, to now.
The peonies hadn’t appeared untilafterCassian cursed him. He’d noticed the moss on the walls of Moros prior to it, though. A true sign from his father. He had been close after all.
Now that Finnian was no longer in Moros, what was he to do? Without his ability to teleport in this godsforsaken Land, hewould have no choice but to trek through the Serpentine Forest—ifhe could find his way back to it. And if he somehow survived traveling through its Achlys-infested territory, he would end up right back where he started—facing executioners and possibly the High God of Chaos and Ruin once more. And that was if Cassian hadn’t caught him. All to run around Moros on the reliance of moss alone.
Finnian squeezed his eyes shut and stuck his thumbs into his sockets, rubbing. Time was frail now. No longer a luxury. He needed a better plan.
Finnian turned and planted his palms on the vanity surface, meeting his reflection in the mirror. The sight made him grimace.
Through the open buttons of his shirt, he could make out the vicious curse mark on his pec. The ink-black blight snaked up his collarbone and twisted around his neck several times like a rotted vine.
Finnian huffed out a breath, contemplating buttoning up his shirt fully. He despised how certain fabrics agitated his senses. While he enjoyed stylish outfits, he preferred loose clothes that allowed his skin to breathe.
Fuck it.
There was no use in trying to hide it out of denial.
His eyes flickered up to his awful haircut. He made a face as he ran his fingers through the short, wavy ends of his dark strands. They were choppy and uneven along his forehead, and he suddenly wished he had made Shivani scream a little more after he’d broken out of his cell.
He could easily regrow his hair using glamor, but he hesitated.
You need a better plan.
What was the fastest, easiest solution to find Father?
Cassian.
From their fights and feuds over the years, FinnianknewCassian—his likes, dislikes, his tics, strengths, and weaknesses.
Finnian’s eyes jumped to the frosted glass on the door in the mirror. Beyond it, he could make out the silhouette of Cassian across the room, standing in front of a large window, hands in his pockets. Despite his fearsome reputation, Cassian was kind-hearted—and lonely.
Finnian ran his hand over his tousled locks.
