Page 31 of The Nymph King

At that, Imani pushed herself up, already reaching mentally through every form of magic she had mastered.

“Imani.” Esa caught her wrist before she could turn away. “Don’t let him die merely because the obvious proof is easier.”

A lump in her throat threatened to choke her. Imani gently pulled her hand free. “I won’t,” she said, nodding.

They parted ways and headed into their rooms. Imani waved her wand, making the door close behind her with a soft click.

Resting was out of the question. Pacing. That was all Imani could do.

After an hour, she’d worn a groove in the carpet. Her thoughts circled relentlessly, refusing to settle long enough for anything useful to take shape. Every idea fractured before it could form, collapsing under the same unavoidable truth—someone would die. The question was no longer how to avoid it. It was how to choose.

The thought was a poison in her chest, spreading slowly, making it harder to breathe and harder to think.

Her shadows danced frantically across the walls as the fire flickered in and out with her distress.

Imani stopped. Her eyes followed the shadows. Could she use them to prove she was the true heir? Would it be enough for the shadows to move her from one side of the room to the other?

That was all she intended. A few yards. From the fireplace to the windows and back again.

She had only learned to shadow-travel a few months ago, when Zadie taught her in Niflheim, and Imani still didn’t trust herself with long distances unless she had no other choice. Crossing a bedroom should have been enough to buy time to think of another solution. And right now, time was the only thing she needed.

She hadn’t shadow-traveled in weeks, not since leaving Niflheim, yet the power answered her call without hesitation. Darkness began gathering, swirling into a cloud that surrounded Imani, a thick blanket of night blotting out the fireplace light. It took her a few moments to realize wisps of shadow were rising from her hands and drifting around her body. More shadows poured out of her, strands coiling tightly until they consumed her in their dark embrace.

She focused on the far side of the room, where the windows stood.

That was where she wanted to go.

With a gasp, the pull came faster than she expected. And as Imani reached for the destination, another urge tugged beneath the magic at the same moment. It was familiar, powerful, and buried so deeply inside her that she reacted before she understood it.

Kiran.

Her shadows seized on the connection.

No—

The room disappeared.

* * *

Moving by shadow had never been her preferred way to travel, as she desperately needed more practice.

Imani materialized in a dark room. A fire in the hearth sputtered as shadows appeared, but otherwise she barely breathed. Because this was Kiran’s chamber, her hand flew to her mouth as she tried to take stock.

The air was warmer here than in Vathis, and thick with his lingering scent—smoke, iron, and something darker that clung to the back of her throat.

The rumpled bed behind her still bore the faint imprint of a body that had occupied it too recently, as if the space itself refused to forget him. Everything felt lived-in, claimed, saturated with his presence, making the walls seem closer and the silence heavier. This place was not meant for rest. It was a place where he existed fully, without restraint, and now she stood within it, unguarded.

The space pressed in on her in a way her own quarters never had. No distance here, no separation between presence and absence. Even without him, everything screamed of Kiran’s presence. It made her aware of herself in a way she didn’t like, of her breath, her body, and the way she stood inside something that was entirely his.

Imani held herself perfectly still, as if any movement might draw something from the air, might wake whatever lingered here in his absence. This was not safe.

An unwelcome awareness slid through her. Memory flickered first, then her body answered before she could stop it. Beneath both, her magic shifted toward him as if in recognition. Heat unfurled low in her body, unbidden and undeniable, her thoughts snagging on him as memory blurred into want and sharpened into a far more dangerous emotion. She wanted him—fiercely, irrationally—and that fact burned as much as the desire itself.

Imani’s mouth thinned as she forced it back, hating that this space—his space—could reach into her.

Her fingers brushed the edge of the rumpled sheets before she could stop herself. The fabric was still faintly warm, still carrying the weight of him, and she didn’t pull away. Instead, she let her hand press into it, just slightly, as if testing whether he might still be there beneath her touch, as if memory alone could summon him back. For one dangerous, unguarded second, she let herself feel his absence and the aching truth that she missed him.

It hit her harder than she expected. It wasn’t just that she missed him; part of her had never truly stopped. She had simply hidden it beneath anger and betrayal. However, in this moment, free from distance and distraction, it emerged anew, raw and undeniable.