“There,” he says, voice steadier now.
My gaze drifts down the street to the large domed building looming at the edge of the city’s chaos. A place that seems to exist apart from the noise. Even the staggering drunks and scavenging dogs give it a wide berth, as though something unseen warns them away.
If Tamis speaks the truth, then hidden within those shadowed halls lies another Fae House long thought to be lost, and within it, a mirror of whispered legend. A thing of impossible magic, said to reveal either your greatest desire or your most harrowing fear.
The others walk ahead, their footfalls swallowed by the thrum of the city. But Zyphoro lingers at my side, her steps as light as breath. She tips her chin toward Solena’s back, where Orios’ thick arm is wrapped around her waist, keeping her close.
“And what was that?” she murmurs at my ear.
“It was nothing,” I grumble.
Zyphoro exhales. “The fact that you understand my meaning says it was something.”
My jaw tightens. Canines lengthen. My body reacts to her insinuation with an insulted sort of rage, lip curling, fingers flexing at my sides.
“For a fleeting moment…” I begin, the words like ash in my mouth. “She looked like Amara. That is all.”
Zyphoro sighs, and the weight of it is somehow worse than any blade. “That is much.”
I halt abruptly, seizing her elbow in my grip. “I dislike what you imply.”
The others continue on, their shadows shifting against the buildings like ghosts.
Zyphoro tilts her head, her gaze sharp, assessing. That familiar, predatory curiosity slides over her face, and a chill licks up my spine. It is the look that always makes me feel as if I have been flayed open, as if she is sifting through my ribs, through the sinew and marrow, searching for my deepest truths.
“You spend much time with the maid,” she muses. “Her hands are on your skin almost daily.”
I roll my eyes. “To ink the sigils, Zyphoro.”
“A convenient excuse,” she murmurs. “Perhaps even a pleasant side effect.”
My fists clench.
“I know this journey has worn you thin,” she continues, softer now, almost gentle. Almost. “Your mind, your body, your will, all stretched to the breaking point. A spider’s web trembling on the edge of snapping.”
I turn my head away, but she catches my chin between two fingers, forcing me to meet her gaze.
“I know your grief consumes you,” she whispers. “Be careful where you seek solace.”
A growl rumbles through me. I slap her hand away, hard enough that she stumbles back a step.
“Watch your tongue, sister,” I snarl. “Before you lose it.”
She laughs.Laughs.
“Just an observation, brother.”
Shadows curl at my fingertips.
“Then do not make me take your eyes as well,” I hiss.
But she merely spins in the middle of the street, arms outstretched, before striding ahead, leaving me alone with the gnawing weight of her words.
Zyphoro fears nothing.
And I am beginning to think she feels nothing just as strongly.
Her words, her jests, her cutting little observations. Are they just weapons she wields for her own amusement? A way to stave off the boredom?
