He tried once more, but the light did not come again. The fever didn’t vanish, but her brow smoothed. Her fingers brushed against his wrist. Not quite conscious. But reaching.
He stared past the flickering fluxhearth, trying to leash the rage coiling in his chest—the rage at all the ways she’d been humiliated, diminished, made to suffer right under his gaze.
And still, after all these years, the words that echoed were Zarrek’s.
You can’t cage her, Resh. She’s too wild.
Wild, even now. After the solitude. The silence. The sight of Vargrún.
His little star was still undaunted. Still untamed.
In the hush of her truth, Kailorien found himself asking, 'How do you protect something you love…without breaking its wings todo so?'
His hand cupped her cheek as she settled into sleep, her breath syncing to his own.
And in that silence, he made a vow.
If the Council would not grant her power, he would become it.
Not her cage.
Her shield.
Her storm.
Her voice, until she could wield her own again.
22
A Breath, Rejected
The Vesper Seat pulsed with quiet menace, thick with Sahtra smoke and gold-threaded silks. Auryn stood at the entrance, sweating beneath her gown. Her fever had grown worse over the past two days since the incident at the Lustrate, but she had refused to delay. Not when Shu’Khan—the Sovereign Flame himself—had summoned her. Not when she had no gowns, no Council sanction, no strength left to waste.
And his cryptic message had offered to remedy that on at least two fronts.
His summons had arrived along with a delicate package. The gowns from Kailorien had returned. Orbeenreturned. Judging from the wording of the message, Shu’Khan had interfered to ensure they would make it safely to their destination this time.
Lu’ma had been delighted, and Auryn didn’t have the heart to remind her that nothing in Krystopolis came without cost. Much like Auryn’s Weaving, each hook, each thread, and each loop tugged on an equal and opposite consequence.
‘Come to Us at the Vesper Seat, Sovereign Star. We will grant you a Writ for Council as a reward for your obedience.’
Auryn’s skin crawled. She remembered standing beside him at the Estâr. Remembered his cold, clammy fingers touching her shoulder as he whispered cruelty. And his eyes—his face, which was the twin toKailorien’s—had been impassive, devoid of any empathy as its owner witnessed his own brother’s pain.
What could such a man possibly want with her now? What could he gain from giving her access to the Council? Was it not in his best interest that the Sokâr remain silent and passive? Surely he knew she planned rebellion in her heart. A man like him always knew. Always watched.
Now, before her in the Vesper Seat, he sat sprawled in his white marble throne as if it were a divan. His hands steepled before his chest. Eyes taking in her every motion.
"Greetings," he drawled, smiling as if they shared a secret. "Ourilpharagraces Us at last with her divinity."
How could a man who looked so much like her beloved be so very different from him? His voice sounded nothing like Kailorien's.
"Why do you call me that?" she asked him. "You have never approved of me."
He stroked his chin with a long, elegant finger. "You have captured Our regard. Perhaps it is time to begin anew. After all, you are the Child of the Void and We are the Sovereign Flame."
His gaze flicked to the warped seams of her shabby dress. “Under-dressed to meet your Sovereign, are you not?”
She kept her chin high. “You sent the summons, and I have come. The message did not imply this was a formal occasion.”
