She is my twin. The other half of my splintered soul.
Time and betrayal have stolen centuries from us, yet I know her as I know my own heartbeat and still, there are shadows in her I will never reach. Dark corners I will never fully see, never truly understand.
I trust her with my life, and I know without a doubt that she would end it if she had to.
Sometimes I wonder how different the world might have been if Gygarth had chosen a favored daughter over a favored son. If the curse had been hers, not mine. If I had been the one locked away in a room that does not exist, counting the years slip by while the world outside forgot my name.
There cannot be one without the other.
Does Zyphoro speak of the Father Below… or of us?
I leave Zyphoro in the moonlight and descend below deck.
The door groans open beneath my hand, and the first thing I see is the crib.
Empty.
Haunting.
I wrench my gaze away before the hollow ache in my chest can deepen, but there is no peace elsewhere.
Amara lies silent on the bed, arms still at her sides, her body a ruined statue. Char clings stubbornly to her skin, burned and blistered, red and raw, torn as though the world itself had tried to unmake her. I barely recognize her and yet golden threads, the Binds of Fate, still wind through the dark between us, reaching for me, reminding me that beneath the agony, she is still mine. My mate. My heart.
A faint golden halo wraps around her, holding her in place, freezing her in this single moment in time.
Hunched in a chair beside the bed is Reon. Exhaustion drips from every line of him. His hair has dulled, his eyes ringed in dark shadows, their usual glow snuffed out. His skin is ashen, his once sharp frame worn thin. One trembling arm stretches toward Amara, his fingers sparking with faint flickers of light as if they might gutter out at any second.
He’s been holding the barrier since we departed Baev’kalath, pouring every scrap of his essence into keeping Amara suspended, so her body cannot slip further toward decay. The strain is eating him alive.
I do not know the full extent of his Fae gifts, only scraps from old texts, the kind of knowledge gathered in fragments over years. Each House’s magic is bound to their bloodline. The Mordorin, with their void-walking. The Taramethos, masters of transmutation. The Maledannan, healers without peer and the Fae of Eyr’Drogul, manipulators of time itself.
I’ve seen Reon use it before, moments in battle where seconds meant survival, or in smaller moments, like plucking a boy from mid-fall. He’s even been known to boast, with a roguish grin, how his gift serves him in the bedroom, stretching out pleasures far beyond what his own body could claim credit for.
But this… this I have never seen.
Holding her like this takes more than skill. More than will. It demands the very lifeblood of him and it could fail at any moment.
All Fae gifts have limits. No matter how infinite they may seem, magic is fickle. Wild. It has no master, only slaves and yet, I have never seen Reon so fixed, so unshakably devoted to a single purpose.
I know without question that he will hold this barrier for as long as he can, until his last breath if it comes to that, and for that, I am more grateful than I can ever say. More grateful than he will ever know.
I’m so fixed on Amara. On Reon. On the empty crib, I don’t notice Solena at first. She moves quietly in the corner, leaning over a washbowl. Her hands twist a cloth, wringing water from it until droplets patter back into the basin.
She crosses to Reon without a word, pressing the cool fabric to his brow, wiping away the sheen of sweat that clings there. Then she reaches for a cup on the table, lifts it to his lips until he drinks. When he swallows, she returns it to its place.
All of it done in silence.
“How much longer until we reach land?” Solena asks finally, though her gaze does not meet mine, fixed instead on the tasks she vigilantly tends to.
“Not long. A day or two at most. Zyphoro and I can conjure more smoke to drive the winds.” I exhale. “I can summon as much of the void as I wish, it seems. Gygarth doesn’t care. He’s not hunting me anymore. He has something else.”
A small, sharp gulp from her. “What do you think he will do with her?”
“I do not know,” I breathe.
Truth is, I don’t want to know. My heart cannot bear the weight of what that answer might be, and to speak my fears aloud would give them teeth.
“What will happen when we reach the Grove? Will her people truly be able to heal her?”
