“Gods, I thought your glare was gorgeous. That smile is just…”
Brela stuck her right hand up and Cason hauled her to her feet, balancing her as she wobbled slightly and pressed into his body to steady herself. Slightly slouched, she pressed her chin into his chest and stared up at him.
“My smile is just… what?” he asked, one hand idly stroking her spine, the other weaving through her white-blonde hair. He toyed with the cuffs still neatly weaved into her braids, feeling the hum of recognition with his own magic.
Blinking slowly, she lifted on her toes, hovering just a breath away from his lips. Her smile twitched, eyes glinting with mischief.
Fire and lightning sparked to life once again in his chest, those absolutely sinful thoughts from earlier resurfacing again. But he also remembered their interaction in the courtyard that morning, and he knew he needed to maintain his lead, especially if he no longer had the knife.
Her breath caressed his mouth as she leaned closer, but he was the one to whisper, “I want those pastries.”
And despite every muscle in his body begging him to lay her back on that soft rug under their feet and lick that gorgeous flush on her cheeks, he let go of her, snagged a pastry off the top of the plate, and plopped on the couch.
Brela’s jaw hung open, still swaying on her toes where he had left her. She swallowed and lowered herself to the ground, her eyes sparking with the challenge. “Oh, well done, fire breather.”
As he winked, she picked up the plate of desserts and sat next to him, curling her legs underneath her as if she didn’t plan on leaving his room for a long time.
* * *
Maybe it was the wine.Maybe it was the intoxicating lightness that had replaced the bitter and sharp chill of the Veil shard in her collarbone.
Brela told herself that the slips of information about shadow magic were to get a better sense of how much Cason’s chain had loosened.
Some. Not enough.
Which is why she hid the absolute life-changing title Cason had so casually dropped in their conversation.
Shadow magic tattoos were special. Cherished more than it was in the other kingdoms. Sometimes she believed the shadow-kind were the first to plant the idea that certain magics were superior—thattheirmagic was superior. The original elitist kingdom.
But the shadow inking ceremony was special for a reason.
The Shadow Speaker was the head of the temple. The leader, the master, the oracle. The connection and gateway between Ryia, her magic-blessed, and the shadows.
Other temples had their versions of the Speaker, the leaders and keepers of magic knowledge, but they went by a different title. The title that the Veil Worshipper leaders had adopted to piss off the other kingdoms.
Sun Scholar. Moon Scholar. Earth Scholar. Veil Scholar.
As a child, Tybost and Lilla always encouraged Brela’s drawings. They called her their little Shadow Speaker so often that Brela began to believe it and dream of one day finding all the shadow-kind again. It was the reason she tried to talk to the celvusa under her bed. It was the reason she sometimes believed the shard in her chest had a voice of its own.
It was how she discovered that the shadows around her did indeed talk back in their own way.
And it wasn’t until Cason’s casual comment that the title finally sank its full weight onto her chest. That she realized what she’d been doing all these years.
Brela was the Veil Scholar, and the Veil Scholar with magic was the Shadow Scholar.
Brela, by default and by gods-damned luck,was the Shadow Speaker.
That truth hit her when she realized the magic behind the symbols she had drawn. The liquid smoke wasn’t crafted just because she liked it. That was the ink that the shadows sang to her as she read; the symbols that werehermagic.
They were the symbols that—if she’d had natural magic and not the side-effect magic of a Veil shard—would have been inked on her body.
As she and Cason sat on his couch, letting the sugary pastries help dull the spinning effects of the wine, she begged him to show her all the little tricks he could make with his magic. As if she hadn’t already loved the gorgeous inks of the magic-blessed, it was almost like she could see the power with a brand new appreciation. She memorized every lick of flame and tendril of lightning he created.
So when his eyes darted to his bed, an unspoken question flashing in his gaze, she couldn’t agree fast enough. She wanted to see those three different affinities marked along his arms and chest again, and even though she could draw them from memory alone, she had a new idea in mind. So Brela took her time tracing the tattoos with her fingers and tongue, that taste of hickory smoke mixing with his crackling power and forming new patterns in her mind. She let those curling flames, jagged edges, and solid swirls of ink lull her to sleep.
29
Ancient Nightmares
