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He wanted to touch it. Wanted to trace it with the pads of his fingers. Wanted to run his tongue across it. And if he weren’t so determined not to wake her after the day she’d had, he would have. His teeth ached with the sudden deep, roaring need to do much more than that—to clamp down on it, reclaiming her, piercing every part of her.
But no.
She deserved to rest.
As slowly as possible, careful not to jostle her, Cedric eased himself off the bed. He held his breath as she rolled over again, her fingers twitching, reaching instinctively for him, though her eyes didn’t open. He caught her hand and pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles before draping her arm over the pillow he’d been lying on, giving her something to hold. Then he tucked the blanket around her and stepped away.
The little guesthouse they’d been given in Elderglade was simple enough—smooth planked floors that were cool beneath Cedric’s bare feet, the bed, a small dresser and smaller table. Instead of windows along the walls, there were two cut into the slanted ceiling, letting soft light filter down from a starlit sky.
When Cedric pushed the door open and stepped onto the porch attached to the front of their hut, he was met with a rush of cool, midnight air. He inhaled deeply through his nose, his eyes following the trails of bioluminescent ferns growing along the paths that crisscrossed through the glade. Between those, the stars and moon above, and the glow-tailed sundryflies flitting about near the stream, there was still so much light. So much light and so much life, even at this late hour. He hadn’t paid much attention before, given how concerned he’d been about Elyria finally waking, but now that he had ascertained she was well—or, as well as he could have hoped—he had to wonder: Did Elderglade not sleep?
Down by the stream, a mixedborn teenager washed clothes. Three huts over and across the path, an elderly sylvan couple sat on their porch, playing a game of cards.
Perhaps things would change when winter finally caught up to this place. But whether due to the ancient magic protecting the sanctuary, or some other phenomenon, the cold had yet to arrive.
Cedric was glad for it. Anything to make Elyria’s transition back to normalcy a little easier. It had been autumn when she was taken. Here, in Elderglade, it felt like autumn still.
He laid his hands on the railing and let his gaze drift over the glade. There was something in the air here—it reminded Cedric of the skies after a rain, the scent of freshly shorn grass. It felt . . . clean. Untouched.
Precious.
No wonder Zephyr had betrayed them all for the sake of the sanctuary. She’d stood against her friends in the Crucible, she’d lied, she’d manipulated them . . . and she’d been willing to die in the Sanctum, if that’s what it would’ve taken, to keep Varyth Malchior from destroying this place.
What did it mean for Elderglade now that it was Malakar standing in his stead?
Cedric didn’t understand the magic protecting the sanctuary. He wasn’t even sure Elder Larkess or the rest of the sylvan council truly did either, so long had it been in place. He only knew what he’d seen—the way the archway had sealed itself when Elyria had approached it that first time, the bursts of light that had knocked her clear off Fjaethe’s back.
Cedric grinned into the moonlight at the memory.
And then that grin fell into a worried purse of his lips as he remembered what happened next. How, after what could only be summed up as the singular best night of his existence, after their bond had been forged, after his light had braided with Elyria’s shadow—a wisp of her darkness burying itself behind his ribs, something bright threading into her in return—the archway had opened.
Had accepted them both.
Was it supposed to? he wondered now, the thought poking him uncomfortably in the back of his mind.
He thought of the way Elyria’s sparrow had been unable to get close to the archway, how it had been blasted back into the ether. Thought of the way her shadows had spilled from her during her confrontation with Zephyr after they’d gotten inside. Thought of Nox’s shadow-message cutting through from the in-between with the warning that they needed to return to King’s Keep.
And he thought of how the trees had seemed to shudder, the very air almost groaning at each use of shadow magic—a subtle recoiling. Elderglade had not liked it very much.
And yet . . .
When Sid had flown Cedric and Elyria back to the forest after their escape from Castle Lumin, hopping in and out of the shadows with the two of them seated on her back, Cedric had been prepared. He had commanded the shadowcat to drop them off a good twenty feet back from the gate, not wanting to tempt another burst of magic, another attack meant to wipe out the shadows that approached.
Sid, of course, hadn’t felt like listening.
She had carried them right up to the very gate, the tips of her wings brushing the curved trees that made up Elderglade’s entrance.
And nothing had happened.
No winding of vines closing them off and shutting them out. No bolts of magic lunging for them. If Cedric hadn’t already started dismounting, hadn’t already begun pulling the unconscious Elyria from between Sid’s shoulder blades, would the shadowcat have been able to carry them straight through? Would the sanctuary have stopped her at all?
Cedric would never have dared test it. He hadn’t even noticed at the time, too busy holding Elyria together and not falling apart himself.
But now . . .
Something gnawed at him, like his own magic was trying to speak to him. He just couldn’t quite put his finger on what it meant to say.
Zephyr’s betrayal made a different kind of sense now. She had been willing to pay the ultimate price to protect a place that was already protected. But if Elderglade was bending its rules now—for Elyria, and for Cedric, too—who else might it bend for? How far could its magic be twisted before something broke? Before Malakar found a crack and slipped something poisonous through?
