Amara
Empty. I had always known the meaning of the word. I knew empty when I saw it. But to feel it, truly and deeply, was not anything I had ever known. It is a hollowness that aches and hungers. It is all consuming, as if it could devour you in one bite from the inside. There is no sating the emptiness. No amount of food or drink will fill that hole. It is bottomless. Fathomless. I have no doubt that if you tried to walk the emptiness you would perish without ever knowing you were nowhere near its end. It is a beast. A monster. Emptiness is a demon that preys and it has been my only companion since the night I was torn from the arms of my prince.
The days melted into weeks, weeks bled into months, and now time is a shapeless thing I cannot hold. I no longer know how long it has been since I last felt his skin against mine. I fear I cannot recall its warmth, the exact place where the smooth hardness of him softened. Was it just beneath his ribs? The subtle dip of his waist before the rigid edge of his hip?
I close my eyes and try to summon it. Yes. That was the spot. There, he would stifle a grin when my fingers grazed him, this dark Fae warrior, whose laughter was as rare as the bright dawn in bleak winter. If only the warriors he commanded knew their fierce leader was ticklish…if you found the right place. It was a secret part of him, a joy only I knew.
But we had no time.
We were thrown together, two forces of nature colliding, leaving destruction in our wake. In the brief, turbulent span we shared, we lived lifetimes. Of heartache and betrayal, of desire and passion. I felt more pain and pleasure in those moments with him than many endure in the fullness of their years.
He is all things to me. All the things I crave and all the things I despise.
My husband. My betrayer. My enemy. My love.
But how long will I wait here? How long until he comes for me? How long until I forget the warmth of his skin beneath my fingers, or the timbre of his voice, or the sharp lines of his face?
My hands drift down, resting on the curve of my stomach, on the small swell beneath my flowing silk dress. A bittersweet tether to him, this growing life within me.
How long until this child is the only memory I have of Daedalus Phaedren?
The breeze brushes my face, cool and gentle, and I tilt my head toward the mists of cloud and the pallid blue of the sky.
The city outside my window is an astonishing patchwork of floating isles, each suspended in the endless expanse of sky like shards of a shattered world, held aloft by ancient magic. Some are small and rugged, little more than rocky crags with tufts of greenery. Others spill waterfalls from their edges, the torrents vanishing into the clouds below. And then there are the sprawling platforms of life, dotted with spired towers no different from my own.
Never before had I seen such a place. But even in my awe, I quickly noticed the absence of bridges or platforms linking the islands. The Ithranor, with their command over the wind, can travel wherever they please in this city in the sky, a stark reminder that I, a human, cannot.
We are so high I doubt the world below even knows we exist up here. Driftspire, the sanctuary the Ithranor carved out for themselves when they fled the Sundered Kingdoms during the Betrayer’s Battle.
But this home is out of necessity. It is not the home they want.
What I’ve pieced together over these long, suffocating months is this: the Ithranor ache for the land where they truly belong. The birthplace of the First Fae, where they boarded their ships and set out for the Sundered Kingdoms centuries ago. A land long vanished from maps, its coordinates swallowed by time. A place spoken of only in myth and memory. This much they’ve shared freely.
What they haven’t been so forthcoming with is why any of this involves me. Or my child.
I have not been treated terribly. Not by most standards. They feed me, clothe me. My room is clean and well-appointed, stocked with books, paper, ink for writing or drawing, and even a chess table to keep my mind occupied. But a gilded cage is still a cage.
When I step toward the balcony, I am reminded of that truth. The moment my foot crosses the threshold, something cinches around my neck, and I inhale sharply as the pressure builds. Light shimmers against my skin, and a silver collar materializes. Inch by inch, a chain emerges, extending to a thick steel ring embedded in the center of the room.
My lip curls as I glare at the restraints, but defiance costs me. The collar tightens with each passing second, biting into my skin until the rune etched into my flesh burns. Pain blooms, sharp and all-encompassing, and I clench my teeth against it.
But it’s no use.
The ache creeps into my skull, a vise tightening until my vision falters and my body betrays me. With a growl of frustration, I retreat, the curse on my lips barely a whisper. The moment I step back, the collar slackens, the chain vanishing into thin air as though it was never there.
But I know better. It’s always there. Invisible. Waiting.
It is how the Ithranor keep me prisoner in this luxurious cell. How they strip me of my power.
No amount of broken fingers will summon the pain I need to channel. Even the agony from the collar itself cannot stir my magic. This collar is laced with a spell so potent, it drains my abilities, rendering me helpless. And with each passing moment, the emptiness grows, creeping closer, threatening to consume me before I can escape.
Footsteps echo beyond the heavy door. I glance toward the cloud-shrouded sun, its pallid light barely reaching this forsaken height. Lunch. The Ithranor are nothing if not prompt.
I turn toward the door, waiting for the usual arrival of my meal, brought by a quiet maid, one who has clearly been ordered not to look at me, let alone speak. She always sets the food down in silence and leaves with her eyes fixed firmly on the floor. She might like me if given the chance. I have a way of turning stubborn maids into loyal friends.
The heavy blue door swings open, but instead of the familiar maid, I’m met with the towering presence of the Golden Son. His broad frame fills the doorway and I instinctively take a step back, my body colliding with the wooden post of my bed. My arm curls around it for support, steadying myself as his gaze holds mine.
“You’re back. I thought…”
