“Renovations.” The word tasted wrong. “It must be because of the Sokâr’s wing.” Her lips thinned. “This will fuel Zeera’s rage. The Selen pair won’t take this lightly. There will be a fight.”
“Not in the open,” Kailorien said.
“No. Behind the curtain. Behind Sevrion Hale’s machinations.” She drew a broken breath. “But this… Kail…this is a victory. However small, it buys us time. To think. To plan.”
His hand came down over hers, steadying her curled fingers. “Everything with Shu’Khan has a price. And I don’t know what this one will cost you.”
“I won’t say it is worth it,” she murmured. “Some years ago, I might have, but I am no longer so naive. We will feel this—and we must endure.”
The bathwater cooled behind them, the azure mist long gone. Yet she still felt the echo of his heartbeat under her cheek, as if it had imprinted there. For one treacherous moment, she wanted to believe the decree was a gift.
But the shadow of Shu’Khan’s smile lingered—the spider closing in on its prey.
In the back of her mind, a voice broke over her anxiety like thunder over clouded skies.
Struggle, little ember. Fight. I will be here for every rise and every fall.
When you’ve truly fallen, you will call to me. Both you and your Resh’Agar.
And I will answer.
35
The Violet Gaze
Three days after the attack in the alleys of the city, Auryn stood near her wardrobe, Lu’ma loosening the heavy clasps of her formal gown. Each layer fell away with a muted sigh of fabric until the Sokâr’s ceremonial weight was gone, leaving only the lighter touch of linen and silk. She rubbed absently at her bare shoulder, the skin indented from where the dress had rested too long.
Sahtra incense clung to the Resh’Agar’s chamber tonight—sweet resin over sharp stone. Kailorien sat behind his desk, the lamplight burnishing the black sweep of his hair as he bent over a sheaf of papers. His quill moved in decisive strokes, each line a signature, an order, a judgment. Then it stilled—a drop of ink fattening at the nib.
“You’re going to the Commons again.”
“I need to see it,” she said. “That alley. The magic is already fading.”
“But the blood hasn’t,” he cautioned. “Nor has the scent of it.”
She glanced at him through her reflection in the wardrobe mirror. “You know that doesn’t trouble me, love.”
“I’m aware,” he confirmed. “And that is what troublesme. Auryn, you were nearly killed. If Zarrek hadn’t come when he did—”
“I’d take you with me if I could.” She smiled—a touch manipulative, knowing full well her teasing often disarmed him when he was being overprotective.
He gave a humorless huff. His desk was drowning in orders that wouldn’t wait for morning. He was grounded, and he knew it well.
“I am not going as the Sokâr, and having the Resh’Agar on the arm of an unknown woman will set tongues to blazing.”
He sighed.
Tired.
Weary.
A line cut deeper between his brows.
Little one, you try my patience.
Don’t I always? I thought that was why you loved me.
He glared at her brightening smile and the mischief in her eyes.
