Page 107

He completes his circle, coming to stand before Theron. Though they’re of a similar height, Nyctarian somehow takes up more space, shadows gathering around him as if his sithe itself leans closer to listen.

“But you…” His attention slides back to me. “If Kelaros is indeed your blood, then a Nyt’Fall line thought lost has survived beyond my borders.”

I don’t like the way he says my borders.

I like even less the way Kelaros watches me.

Nyctarian raises his voice, though with only guards left along the walls, he has no audience to impress. “Barring contracts of procreation, the clans of the Dark Sithe answer to its King.”

Theron’s white robes flare, Silver light driving back the shadows creeping toward us. “Wildlings belong to no one.”

One dark brow arches. “The Lord of the Wild Wood may beg to differ.”

“And you are not the Oryndel.” Theron draws me closer by the shoulder. “Amalia Wolf has agreed to help me save my brother. Whatever blood she carries, she does not belong to you.”

“Wolf, is it?” Nyctarian turns his unsettling attention back to me. “Strange for a darkling to hold two names.”

Under his scrutiny, the glamour begins to itch.

“And what does Amalia Wolf intend to do about the Opal she carries inside her?”

Good question.

I wish I had a good answer.

Kelaros studies me with a new purpose now, one that wasn’t there before Nyctarian named us family. He lingers briefly where the shard lies hidden beneath flesh and glamour, before returning to me.

Elionn’s stone flares cold beneath my shirt in warning.

Of what, I have no idea.

Nyctarian turns away from me, pacing several steps before stopping. “Healer Nyt’Fall has given his report. Now, darkling, tell me what you experienced.”

The question draws my attention from Kelaros.

“The court is dying.” I force the words past the tightness in my throat. “Or maybe it would be more accurate to say the court is aware of its own death approaching.”

That strips the last trace of indifference from Nyctarian.

“It remembers what it once was, but not well. Everything inside is…” I struggle for a word to describe the wrongness of the place. “Broken. As if it has pieces of memories and keeps trying to put them back together, except they never fit.”

The fragment burns hotter beneath my sternum.

“It hungers for what it lost. Its King. Its people. Its purpose.” The fragment pulses beneath my hand. “I can’t separate what I understood while I was there from what it made me understand. It doesn’t speak. Not the way we do. It pushes sensations and needs into me until I can’t always tell which are mine.”

Nyctarian says nothing.

Neither does Theron.

Even Kelaros has stopped smiling.

“The architecture never settles. Corridors lead nowhere or connect to places they shouldn’t. Chambers change size. Doors disappear. It kept remaking itself around us.” A shiver crawls over my skin at the memory. “And it changes anything it manages to hold onto long enough.”

I shut out the hall for a moment, only for an image of Elionn consumed by crystal to fill the darkness.

“When we found Prince Elionn, parts of his body had already changed. He’d become its Anchor. With no Royals left of its own, the court was using him to stabilize itself.”

Nyctarian’s attention sharpens. “A Silver Prince anchoring a dead court.”