“They hold the mainland strong. Without contestation. It seems they are now led by a coven of generals.”
I barely contain my snarl, my teeth grinding against the words I know I must ask.
“And the Golden Son?”
A pause.
“No, Your Highness. There is still no sign.”
The confirmation is a knife in my gut.
His absence can mean only one thing.
He is with her.
And the thought of it, of him anywhere near Amara, festers inside me like a sickness, like a rot devouring me from within.
The edges of the figure waver, its form unraveling inch by inch, carried away on the breeze slipping through the open window.
“Is that all, Your Highness?” The voice cracks, strained with the effort of holding itself together.
“Yes, go now to your mistress.”
The faceless shadow bows its head in silent regard before sweeping out into the night, dissolving in a slant of moonlight.
The door swings open, slamming against the wall, and Zyphoro steps inside. Her sharp gaze flickers around the room before settling on me.
“Talking to yourself again, brother?”
I exhale sharply, rubbing my brow. “A visit from Ilyra’s spies. She holds strong, but I fear there will be little left of our kingdom by the time we return home.”
Zyphoro folds her arms, leaning against the doorframe. “I should have stayed.”
“No.” My voice is sharper than I intend, my head snapping toward her. She stiffens, surprised. “You were trapped there long enough. I will not leave you in the dark again.”
Her shoulders ease, though she does not dare smile.
“Besides,” I add, a smirk tugging at my lips. “If I need to raze House Ithranor to the ground, I’ll require the finest Fae warrior to ever live.”
To that, she grins. “You flatter me, Daedalus. But you aren’t wrong.”
Her expression stirs something bittersweet in my chest. I wish it could always be like this between us. Light, easy, unburdened. But the past is a scar that will never fade, tainting what should be an unbreakable bond. The sharing of a womb. A brother and sister forged from the same blood, the same great lineage, bound by the same cursed power.
And yet, every time I look upon Zyphoro, I am lashed with the guilt of knowing I could not save her. That no matter what I do, I will never reclaim the time she lost, nor ease the solitude that had been as much her prison as the enchanted cage that bound her.
Even now, her presence on this mission, to restore my wife, to restore my happiness, feels like a cruel joke at her expense.
“Are you ready?” she asks. “The hour grows close.”
I turn to the window. The full moon looms in the ink-dark sky, and I breathe deep, slow, steadying myself. Bowing my head, I rest my elbows on my knees, clasping my hands.
Smoke coils from my skin, thick and curling, sliding over my worn leathers, swallowing my muddied boots. It moves with purpose, threading through every seam, devouring every frayed edge, until the tattered remnants of travel and violence are erased. When it recedes, it leaves behind a suit of deep violet, woven with an almost imperceptible shimmer, as if stardust itself has been spun into the fabric.
The silver-threaded cuffs catch the light, their delicate curls forming ancient, arcane patterns. The jacket molds perfectly to my frame, the cut precise enough to trace the shape of my shoulders and the breadth of my chest, as though it had been stitched by someone who knew every inch of me. Its sharp lapels draw the eye to the crisp, high collar of the shirt beneath, black as midnight, and the sleek fabric moves with me, tapering into fitted trousers and black leather boots polished to a mirror sheen.
The smoke continues up my throat, curling over my jaw, teasing at my cheekbones before washing over my face. When it vanishes, a silver mask remains, wicked, baroque, twisted and gleaming beneath the moonlight. The metal is molded into intricate swirls, sharp at the edges, curling like the horns of a forgotten god. It obscures my eyes, save for the slits that cut through, allowing me to see the world while revealing nothing in return.
And around my neck, on a simple leather cord, hangs the only piece of me that remains untouched: a hewn moonstone, swirling and restless with its quiet glow. It once belonged to my mother. Its other half dangles from Zyphoro’s throat.
