A whisper slithers through the void, low and ancient, curling through my bones, wrapping tight around my lungs like chains.Daedalus.
My name, spoken from lips that do not exist.
A cold touch skims my cheek.
I shudder, every muscle in my body locking up as if unseen hands are winding around my throat, my wrists, dragging me closer.
I thrash against it, against the pull of the mirror, against the force sinking its claws into my mind, trying to root me in place.
It takes every ounce of my will, every scrap of strength I possess, to wrench myself free.
The world lurches, and suddenly the vision shatters.
I stagger back, gasping, my chest heaving. The weight of the magic clings to me, whispering my name in the hollows of my mind. My vision swims, my knees nearly buckling, but I force myself to focus, on the room, on the mirror, on the crack now spiderwebbing across its surface.
The magic hums, furious at my escape.
I do not wait to see what happens next.
I turn, storming from the parlor before the mirror can show me anything else.
Chapter 14
Daed
That night, sleep eludes me. I wander the moonlit streets of Ballamar, haunted by the visions the scrying mirror forced upon me. Ghosts of desire twisted into nightmares. I should have known better. I had hoped it would show me only what my heart longs for most. All I needed was to think of Amara, to let the warmth she ignites within me guide the way, like a beacon through the dark. Instead, the rot inside me poisoned that beauty, warping it into something else. Because the mirror does not show only dreams. It reveals your deepest fear.
Amara and the Golden Son. His hands on her. On my wife. As if he dares to believe himself worthy of breathing the same air as my queen, let alone touching her skin. My fists tighten, the rage coiling through me like a viper ready to strike. But I cannot lose myself to this fury. The mirror, for all its power, cannot be trusted. Its magic is ancient, wild. Though crafted by the Fae, it bows to no master, answers to no soul. It does not soothe. It does not guide. It only hungers for chaos.
As the sun crests the horizon, bleeding burnt orange across the sky, it strikes me full in the face, dragging me back to the present. I have lost time. Again. Another fruitless errand, another night wasted, and I am no closer to Amara. The mirror may have revealed Driftspire, but not where to find it. The city in the sky remains a phantom, offering no hint of where it hovers and I do not dare test the mirror again.
Because the Golden Son coveting my wife is not the only nightmare it showed me.
Baev’kalath. The chamber buried deep within the stone. The place where my mother was murdered. Where my sister and I were brought into this cursed world. Where Gygarth took his offering of flesh.
I feel his eyes still on me, searing through my skin, through the wretched soul he has claimed as his own. Again, I try to convince myself it was not real. That Gygarth did notsee me in that moment. That the sigils held, and I am still beyond his reach. But his power is infinite. His hunger is boundless. Even a glimpse of the void could be enough.
The sigils. I feel them burned into my back, raw and aching where the fabric of my shirt rubs against the wounds. I must find Solena. She must carve fresh runes.
The inn looms before me, its doors yawning open to the reek of stale ale and unwashed bodies. I push through, stepping over drunks crumpled on the floor, while others slump across the tavern’s tables, their snores rattling through the dim room. Up the stairs, down the narrow hall lined with doors, I pass Zyphoro’s room and rap my knuckles sharply against the door of Solena and Orios.
No reply. I barely wait for one. Desperation claws at me. I have traveled too far, suffered too much, to let Gygarth take hold of me now.
“Solena. Orios. Are you awake?”
I don’t allow time for an answer. I shove the door open, heedless of the consequences.
The bed jerks on its legs, the covers rustling, shifting. Someone, or rather,someones, are beneath them, writhing in a tangled mess. The only thing in plain sight is Orios’ enormous feet dangling off the end of the mattress.
“I’m sorry to intrude,” I say, though my tone lacks any true remorse. “I need Solena to check my sigils.”
A hushed flurry of whispers. No response.
My brow furrows. “Did you hear me? This is urgent.”
After a long pause, Solena’s breathless voice finally emerges from beneath the covers.
“Yes, Rook. I will be out in a moment.”
