It wasn’t the kind of breaking that gave her any sort of victorious thrill. There was no light, no humor, none of the joking surrender she might’ve suspected. It was a true shattering, a wall disintegrating, a descent into a place she had a feeling he had no desire to go. His chest heaved beneath her, his skin hot and burning. His eyes were open and wide and desperate and pained.
“Mariah…” He said her name like a plea. Like it was a gift.
But not the one she wanted.
Her breathing slowed, the tension leaving her body. She relaxed into him, still gripping the knife. Her forehead met his, her free hand slipping into his hair. He cupped her face, holding her against him.
“Please,” she whispered, her eyes falling shut.
A silence passed between them. A silence born from the bond between kindred souls with familiar pain. A silence that knewand recognized the other, that spoke of whispered destinies and powers above those they could comprehend.
Maybe it was the magic of this place, of this kingdom. A place where past and present blurred, where prophecy danced in the earth and in the blood of its people.
Andrian tensed. His exhale brushed her lips. She cracked her eyes, lifting her head, and he looked like he was about to speak?—
“I really hate to interrupt your flirting or whatever this is, but it’s past noon, and I’m starving. Are we ready to head back?”
The moment burst into pieces, tension broken like a shattered mirror. Mariah shook her head, rolling off Andrian and pushing to her feet. She shoved her dagger back into its familiar red holster on her thigh and picked up her two discarded training blades. Matheo had already gathered the rest of their training gear and stood at the tree line, watching them with confusion.
Mariah stormed past him, racing down the mountain like darkness itself chased her.
Chapter 46
“What do you think?”
Sebastian turned from the window overlooking the bustling streets of Elyren, arms crossed over his chest.
It was a fine city. Plenty of market and trade, busy vendors and shops, all constructed within the towering forest. It even ascended into the canopy, structures built between the branches and connected by long, thick bridges of gnarled wood.
He’d gotten another glimpse of their earth magic at work as a crew had repaired one of those bridges. Much like the Idrixians, the Vathans used their hands to warp and shape the wood and stone and earth. It was akin to how Onitans manipulated fire or air—though these southern people had much more practical uses for their magic.
The reminder of magic—and the refusal of Ciana to acknowledge her own—sent a wave of unease through him.
It fell to pieces when his gaze landed on her across the room, standing before a full-length mirror.
Her gown was black, its sleeves and bodice sheer. Colorful flowers of red and orange and pink and cream were woven into the material, covering what it needed to and spilling down the sleeves. More flowers were embroidered onto the skirts, dripping over Ciana’s curves. Her mass of golden curls was pulled halfway back from her face, pinned on either side of her head and cascading down her back.
“Sebastian?” She cocked her head, amusement in her eyes.
Sebastian swallowed thickly. He wanted to tell her that she looked like sunshine and warmth brought to life. Even in black, she radiated light, as if the flowers on the gown were blooming just for her. Everything about Ciana glowed, her lips caught in a half-smile that always seemed just a moment from bursting into a laugh.
But he didn’t. Because she wasn’t wearing this dress for him. She’d ordered this dress for a very specific purpose, and it wasn’t for his compliments.
She was wearing it to woo a king.
“It looks good. I’m sure the king will love it.” The words burned as he forced them out. He couldn’t even hide it, either; he sounded like he’d swallowed acid.
Ciana frowned. “If you scowl any deeper, you’ll turn into Andrian.”
Sebastian huffed, but it wasn’t a real laugh. He wasn’t sure he knew how to find humor these days. He shoved his hands in his pockets, striding away from the window.
“I don’t like any of this,” he said after a moment. He leaned heavily on the wall, his eyes turning up to the ceiling. It was woven from the branches of the tree growing in the center of Ciana’s rooms, dripping with Vatha’s strange glowing lights.
Notallume, he reminded himself. It might as well be magic, nonetheless.
Ciana made an impatient sound. “That’s obvious. But you could, I don’t know, pretend. Or, at the bare minimum,try.”
Pretend. Was that what she was doing? Was she telling him the truth when she said it was all an act, that she was just playing her part with Niktael?
