Anethesis bows his head in mock civility. “Rest now, Princess. There is so much to do.”
Chapter 17
Amara
If the Golden Son is right, if the Ithranor truly intend to spill my blood, every last drop, to tear open the portal to their home, then this cage, this cavern, will be the last thing I ever see.
I have proven myself, done as they asked, played the obedient fool. And now I wait. A lamb fattened for slaughter. Even my meals have doubled. Perhaps the only mercy they will grant me. A feast for my final days.
I sink into the cushions of my cage, Ashen curled against me, his smoke-thin body rising and falling with each shallow breath.
The tests may have ended, but Anethesis still comes, as he always does, at the same hour each evening. When the trays are cleared, when the silence is thick enough to suffocate. He makes me recite words whose meanings are lost to me, spoken in a tongue far older than the little Fae I know.
Véthari lios an’thera. Véthari lios an’thera. Véthari lios an’thera.
Over and over, I recite the words. Anethesis insists I must know them as intimately as my own name, that they are not merely spoken but felt, carved into the marrow of my bones.
I submit. Committing to memory the last words I will ever speak. It twists my stomach to see how pleased he is by my obedience. Every time he tells me what a good job I’m doing, I imagine tearing apart what’s left of his face.
But I can’t let him see the truth. He must believe I’m just another pawn. An unwitting slave to his ambition. It’s the only way out. The only way to save my family.
When I am not practicing the words, when it’s just me and Ashen, alone in the hush of the cave, I hear him. The Golden Son.
His screams echo from somewhere deep within Driftspire. His torment too constant, too cruel, to be anything but entertainment for whoever holds the reins.
And yet, I cannot bring myself to feel only rage towards him. Not anymore.
I tell myself we are nothing alike, no matter how often he insists otherwise. But it clings to me, that truth hidden in his words. Buried like a splinter I can’t quite dig out.
There’s been a shift.
Not a softening. Not exactly. But the jagged edges of my hate have dulled, worn down by proximity, by shared pain, by something I don’t want to name.
Hatred is clean. Simple. It lives in black and white.
But this, this strange, uneasy tether between us, is a space streaked with gray.
The Fae who set fire to my world burned his too. I’ve seen the flicker in his eyes, in the way he speaks of what he’s lost. And whether I like it or not, he has shown me slivers of kindness, shards of something like respect. As much as someone like him can give, and every time his broken cries find me in the dark, I remember I am the reason he screams.
He found me here. Broke the rules of his allies. He gave me truths when no one else would.
So when I finally figure out how to escape this wretched prison of rock and wind and silence, I wonder if I’ll owe him his freedom too.
In our cage, I run my fingers through Ashen’s fading form. His drifting smoke reminds me of another who exists in that gray space. Daedalus.
I should only think of holding him again, but part of me aches with the question: Why hasn’t Daedalus come for me?
I try not to dwell. The world beyond the Sundered Kingdoms is vast, and I am not easily found. My prison lies high in the clouds. Even so, doubt creeps in.
Then, suddenly, a sharp kick lurches me forward. Another follows, stronger.
Even Ashen flinches as my belly twists, the life inside me not just stirring, but commanding. I feel it in my bones, in my soul. A demand, not a plea.
Do not give in to despair.
I press a hand to my stomach, fingers splayed over taut skin, a living reminder of all I’ve fought for.
All I’ve survived.
