Azyric is quick to retort. “The fae have portals. Use one. Don’t pretend you’re walking anywhere, just to gain her sympathy.”
Sylvin’s eyes flick to mine one last time, ignoring the wraith. “Don’t let the shadow king lure you too deep into the dark, Wren.”
“It’s…” I murmur again, almost reflexively now, before I stop myself.
He said Wren.
He offers a smile before turning and striding toward the mountains with a languid grace, like he truly doesn’t want to return to his duties and is choosing not to use a portal.
I’m left with the shadowed observer who remains unmoved for a beat longer, gaze scanning the sky, the trees, the unseen. When he speaks, it’s quiet and controlled. “This is my land, but we will travel by shadow to our stronghold in the bordering state.”
Before I can ask what that means, his long gait quickly eats up the distance betweenus. He reaches out with one hand, his fingers brushing my wrist. The contact sends a jolt through me that isn’t entirely fear.
I’m not quite sure how to process this new feeling.
He leans in, shadows brushing my shoulder as his breath fans across the shell of my ear.
“I noticed your hesitation when we mentioned winning this war.”
My breathing halts for a moment at the subtle accusation.
“Don’t think for a second that you’re fooling me.”
The world folds inward, swallowed by shadow before I can take another breath.
Chapter 4
Azyric
We arrive in silence in my wing of the castle.
The walls rise around us, formed of black stone that glimmers with the subtle glow from the sconces lining the hall. It may not be beautiful, but it was built to withstand a siege, not to impress–unlike the decadent spires of the vampires or the gilded courts of the fae. Its bones are older than I am, shaped by hands that valued keeping our kind alive for centuries to come.
Survival over ornamentation. Duty over desire. Logic over emotion.
Each day blurs together under that regime.
Her presence here is a ripple of disruption in our careful order and it won’t go unnoticed.
Golden-green eyes framed by full, dark lashes stareup at me as I release her from my careful grip. I can’t help but appreciate the fullness of her pink lips and the cupid’s bow on top, while this close to her. Even the contrast of her fair skin against the long, dark waves of her hair are enchanting.
I clear my throat and step back, trying to hide the anger welling up within me as my shadows refuse to disentangle completely from her.
My lip lifts, not quite a snarl, but the edge of one. I don’t know what unsettles me more: their disobedience…or her sudden indifference to it.
Less than an hour ago she recoiled from my shadows, as if they were flames that would scorch through her skin and leave nothing behind. Now, she stands tall with her chin raised, refusing to break my gaze as one wraps lazily around her wrist. It practically strokes her skin and she doesn’t so much as blink twice or look at it.
Why?
The shift is too sudden. Too complete. More tendrils dance around her, hovering there like they’re reverent or curious.
I clench my jaw to keep from reacting further.
Other wraiths–young, foolish, weak ones–lose control of their shadows often. Their emotions are too overwhelming for them to control, allowing their shadows to bleed out into the world like an open wound.
But I am not them. I am their king.
I have never allowed a shadow to break through my control. Not once in all my years, even as a child.
