“What would you have me do, then?” I mumble, frustration creeping into my voice. “The truth will only bring her death.”
She shakes her head, unphased by my words. “You will not let her die.”
I growl, clenching my fists. “Then what? What the fuck do I do?”
Zema still isn’t moved by the sharp edge in my voice.
“That, I haven’t seen yet. But I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You’re the favored son, after all.”
“Favored?” I scoff, bitterness rising like bile in my throat. “To be alone? For my dearest friend to be exiled to some rock? For my mate to be a human? For me to be a slave to the void? How does any of this make me fortunate?”
The words burn through me, and I clench my jaw, my fingers gripping my hair at the roots as I tug at it, trying to expel the anger that twists in my gut, the frustration clawing at me.
Zema doesn’t flinch at my outburst. Instead, she reaches for me, her fingers curling in invitation. “Come, Daedalus.”
I hesitate, resisting the pull at first, my anger flaring hotter, but her soft smile, her gentle motion, draws me in. Slowly, I sink to my knees beside her, surrendering once again to the quiet strength she offers.
She taps her lap, and I lay my head down there, the fire’s crackle now seeming distant, almost forgotten, as her steady hand moves over my head. The warmth of her touch spreads through me, and something in the air shifts. Calming, soothing.
The sound of my heartbeat fades into the background. It’s as if her hands are not just brushing over my skin, but weaving something deeper, threads of something far more profound sinking into my bones, reaching into the depths of my mind.
As Zema’s fingers gently trace the line of my scalp, a memory flickers, fragile as the light from the fire.
I’m a child again, standing in a garden. The sun is warm, but there’s a cool breeze that smells like the earth after rain. Zema is there, her small hands holding a bundle of wildflowers, a smile stretching wide across her face. Her hair is unbound, flowing like the wind itself, and for a moment, she looks like a spirit, something untouchable and free.
She hands me a flower, violet petals, soft as the clouds overhead, and tells me that one day, when we’re older, we’ll return here together, and the flowers will still be blooming. That everything will be as it was.
I laugh, and she giggles too, her eyes sparkling as we spin around the garden, pretending we could dance forever.
“Do you see it, Daed?” she asks. “Do you remember?”
“Yes,” I murmur. “I remember.”
But the memory fades as quickly as it came. I blink, and I’m back in the cave.
I close my eyes, my arms instinctively wrapping around Zema’s knees, pulling her closer without a second thought. Her hand continues its steady, gentle caress through my hair, and I let myself fall into the sensation, seeking refuge in the comfort of her touch. The warmth of the memory washes over me, a fleeting glimpse of a time when the world was simpler, before it all fractured.
As much as the peace she offers soothes the ache, it also sharpens the pain. A cruel contrast, carving deep the truth of all we’ve lost. The innocence, the laughter, the golden days before the weight of destiny crushed the lightness of youth.
Before the world turned against her. Before they discovered what she was.
Before her own blood, her brother Modok, her sister Nyraxes, cast her out, shamed her, stripped her of her name until it was nothing but a whispered curse among the Mordorin Fae.
And yet, here in this hollowed-out refuge, with the fire flickering low and her fingers threading through my hair, I let myself feel it all. The warmth, the sorrow, the longing for a time that will never return.
After her.The hour is late, well past midnight, and the revelry is finally unraveling. One by one, they drift away. Some with the ones they came with, others in newfound entanglements, and the rest stumbling drunkenly into the night. I remain. Silent. Watchful. Seated in the shadowed corner, legs spread, hands braced on the arms of the chair as I stare at it.
The scrying mirror.
I’ve watched it for hours, long after I left Reon to fulfill my bargain. Long after Solena and Orios departed, and my sister not long after that. Still, the mirror remains the room’s gravitational center, its shimmering surface drawing the last few stragglers, each seeing something different in its depths.
Eventually the crowd thins, leaving only one.
I have waited long enough.
I rise, moving through the staggering remnants of the night, indifferent to the drunken bodies that lurch into my path. They are nothing. Only the mirror matters.
I stop before it, the lone viewer oblivious to my presence. Oblivious to the prince of the Mordorin. The commander of the Ebon Flight. The wielder of Death Singer. The favored one.
