“Two: Manipulator of perception.” Amarithe’s eyes narrow in amusement. “Three: A weeping time witch.” Velentha doesn’t react. She never does. “Four: A flame with a stick up his ass.” Calrix flares hotter. “Five: A walking celestial gaslighter.” Elaron smiles wider. “And six,” I say, landing on Mal’Thariel, “a mute slab of cosmic furniture.”
Amarithe hums a low, silken sound. “Your arrogance continues to amuse.”
“And your obsession with control continues to bore me.”
“You speak as if you matter,” Calrix growls as his wings flare wide, flame licking the edge of his shoulders. “You’re nothing but an heir still unproven. Without a throne. Without a queen.”
There it is, the blade they always swing. And it lands. Not deep, but enough to care. I keep my expression flat, not deigning to give these assholes the reaction they so desperately crave.
Velentha’s runes flicker. “Time bleeds faster than you realise. The cycle closes.”
Elaron leans forward, “Tick, tick, Child of Ruin. The crown slips from fingers too long unclaimed.”
“You all love your riddles, don’t you?” I say, smiling without warmth. “Just say it. Just say I need a bride. Say I’m running out of time. Say you’re all terrified of what happens if I ascend the throne without one.”
“You will not ascend,” Seraphiel says, final and smug. “Not without balance. That is the law.”
“Your law,” I growl.
“The only law that matters.” She counters.
Amarithe tilts her head, lashes fluttering. “Unless… you’ve found someone?”
Every eye turns to me. Six points of celestial pressure, suffocating and bright. I lift my chin. “You’d be the first to know if I had.”
Velentha tilts her head, ever so slightly. “Would we?”
That’s an insane question from the bitch who sees literally fucking everything. But I’ve had enough, so I let smoke begin to coil around my shoulders in warning. “We’re done here.”
“You leave,” Seraphiel says, “with no answers to our questions.”
“I never get any in return,” I shoot back with a smirk. “Seems fair.”
The portal hums open behind me; this bullshit realm rarely lets me just teleport in and out. It’s like a power play from them—or fear. Making sure I’m a little weaker magic-wise because portals require more power than teleportation. I turn to the portal to my world. But before I step through, I glance back once.
“When I do choose,” I say, voice low, “You’ll feel it. Or your little all-seeing eye over there will tell you.”
And then I’m gone.
Chapter 7
Daisy
The hunger didn’t come in waves anymore.
It just hums. A constant, gnawing ache in my stomach, I’ve learnt to ignore. I pour black coffee into a chipped thermos, hoping the bitterness will fuel me enough to get me through the day. It won’t, but I like to pretend it does. Just like how I pretend I’m not tired, or worried, or fraying at the edges. Because pretending has become somewhat of an art to me.
My apartment smells faintly of toast, burnt as always. I shove my textbooks and work apron into my battered tote bag, checking the fridge one last time to see if it’s still tragically empty. It is. Half a stick of butter, one egg, and a bottle of off-brand ketchup glare back at me.
My walk to campus is soggy in the bitter fall weather, but it’s peaceful. The cracked pavement glistens with rain, and leaves cling to my boots, my college looming ahead like a tired giant made of grey brick clad in ivy. The surrounding buildings are amix of hopeful modern renovations and a weary old library that smells like dusty books. My favourite smell alongside coffee.
Rent was due next week, and my last paycheque from the coffee shop barely covered the electricity bill. I’d already sold my mom’s old earrings, and yesterday morning, I finally gave up her necklace—the delicate gold one with a tiny engraved heart. I pawned it without looking the guy behind the counter in the eye.
“I just need enough to float me until next payday.” I’d said.
He didn’t ask questions, just handed me sixty bucks and a receipt I wouldn’t use. I knew damn well the necklace was worth more than that, especially sentimentally. But sentiment didn’t pay the bills.
By the time I reach the coffee shop where I work part-time, my socks are wet, my hair is a mess, and I’m ten minutes early because I couldn’t stand being alone in my apartment any longer.
