“Who’s there?” The voice is rough, weary. Before I can answer, it continues, harsher now. “Daedalus? That’s you, isn’t it? Are you just going to stand there like a pervert?”
I roll my eyes, a huff escaping me. “I was coming to you…if you’d give me a damned second.”
A snap of fingers sounds behind the curtain, followed by a bark of laughter. Brittle, humorless. “I couldn’t give you a second even if I tried, Rook.”
I move closer, my steps careful, though each one crashes through my head like thunder. My fingers curl around the curtain’s edge. I draw it back slowly.
Reon lies on his back, hands folded over his chest, a woven blanket pulled to his waist, not quite long enough to cover him.
He nods at the thing draped across him. “They’re all so short here.”
He tries to tease, tries to smile at his own expense, but his lips barely shift. His head turns toward me, limp hair falling across one eye. He’s still Reon, the same sharp lines, the same roguish charm that sets mortals and Fae alike spinning, but the spark is gone.
His copper hair, once bright as torchlight, has dulled to tired rust. His skin hangs thin and ashen around the fierce angles of his face. Even his freckles have faded, and his eyes, those bright hazel flames that always held mischief, danger, life, whether seducing his next conquest or warning an enemy to run, are empty now. Burnt out like a dying star.
He lifts a hand from his chest and snaps his fingers again.
Nothing. No gold spark, no shimmer of time bending to his will.
“It’s all gone,” he murmurs, voice barely more than air. “Every last drop.”
“It will come back, Reon,” I say.
A grin cuts across his mouth, sharp but without heat. “Huh. You’re usually such an excellent liar.”
I’ve never heard him sound like this. So hollow. So stripped of the assurance that once defined him. I should know how to comfort him. I remember what it was to lose my wings. To feel the empty ache where power should have been. Fae magic isn’t some trick of light; it isus. In our blood. Our breath. Our very bones. When it’s gone, we are never whole again. We are fragile, mortal in all the worst ways.
He’s right to doubt me. I don’t know if his power will return. I had to devour a void demon to reclaim what I’d lost, and Reon, the master of time himself, what would he have to do to restore his?
My throat tightens, but I keep my face composed. I hold the bowl out to him, steady despite the weight of everything between us.
“Broth,” I say, keeping it short so I don’t end up saying something stupid.
Reon groans as he props himself up on his elbows, peering into the bowl. His nose wrinkles.
“Is it good?”
I tip my head side to side, weighing my answer. “For a human concoction of weeds and flowers, it’s not the worst thing I’ve ever had in my mouth.”
That earns a rasping laugh from him. “Careful, Rook. Don’t tempt me with such unworthy bait.”
He reaches out, takes the bowl from my hand, and studies it like it might bite back. A cautious sniff, then a glance at me for reassurance. I nod once, and he drinks.
It’s just a testing sip at first. Then he licks his lips.
“That’s good weed,” he mutters, before draining the rest in a few gulps.
When he’s done, he wipes his mouth on his sleeve and lets out a small, satisfied sigh.
“How do you feel?” I ask, navigating the unfamiliar terrain of empathy.
“The same,” he says, “but slightly fuller.” His eyes narrow, glinting faintly with the ghost of his old mischief. “But enough about me. How areyou, Rook?”
I wave him off, but he hisses, that sharp Reon tone still alive beneath the weariness.
“Please. I’d much rather hear about your misfortune than dwell on mine.”
I smirk. “We go to battle soon. I couldn’t be better.”
