Naoko smiles again. “You’re right. The family connection led me to invest in the Porcelain Guild. I spent an autumn there once, and I was touched by how well they trained and cared for the grails.” She glances at Vana. “I know Draskora treats grails rather differently.”
There’s a hint of rebuke there—though Vana doesn’t think the Fellrian system is without reproach either. “We don’t have a formal organization for grails, correct.”
“They don’t have to live in the Porcelain Guild, of course. It’s just easier for many families.” Naoko shrugs. “Have you ever had a grail?”
Vana has never even considered it. Taking a grail’s magic is intimate, the power transfer made easier the closer a mage is to their grail. Vana doesn’t want to join magic with anyone but Daromir. “I haven’t. I think you would have found that in your homework.”
Naoko laughs. “My resources aren’t that extensive. How are you finding Draskora, by the way? As a fellow foreigner.”
Vana can answer easily, if not truthfully. “I don’t feel like a foreigner after so long. Draskora is my home. The dragons dropping off the northern cliffs. The edges of the Friendly Forest, where violet vines grow between crystal trees.” Vana smiles. Politely. “It’s less harsh than I expected, yet more harsh as well. Like any place.”
“That’s lovely.” Naoko sighs. “It’s a shame the air is so quiet today. I would have liked to hear the caverns singing.”
She and her guards leave first, trailing out of the caverns with far more grace than Mori preceded them with. Vana closes his eyes as the caverns fall silent. He has to concentrate to feel the hum of scalestone. He’s so used to it after so many years in Draskora.
Daromir moves to his side. They don’t touch, and the nearness isn’t as reassuring as usual. They’re alone, and Vana yearns to turn into Daromir’s arms. But if he does, he doesn’t trust himself not to go too far.
Instead Vana opens his eyes and asks something he’s never dared ask before: “How areyoufinding Draskora, Daro?”
Daromir turns at a perfect angle for the enchanted lanterns to reflect distractingly off his chiseled jaw. “Do you have to ask? You’re here. That’s all that matters.”
Vana is once again seized by the incredible urge to kiss Daromir. Relief swells—yes. Daromir’s right. As long as they’re together, it doesn’t matter where they are. It doesn’t matter who they are.
“Daro,” Vana says, and he’s the one who reaches out to straighten Daromir’s collar this time.
A flush rises to Daromir’s face, and his emerald eyes darken. Maybe it’s just a trick of the light. Maybe if Vana kissed him, Daromir wouldn’t stop him.
Before Vana risks ruining his life, Daromir spins away. Ice crystallizes in midair to deflect a crossbow bolt.
Then another, from the opposite direction.
Then the cave walls fracture into rushing shadows.
“Rain,” Daromir snaps as razor-sharp ice blades spin around them. Vana is already responding to the order. The temperature plunges even before Vana brings the storm in.
Vana’s magic surges on instinct, so forcefully his vision darkens as Daromir rushes forward. Ice blades whirl around them. Vana calls down the sky, and it floods into the Organ Caverns. The caves don’t just sing. They scream with the racing force of the storm.
Dark clouds pour through every orifice, spilling rain like trails of blood. Water beats down in patches, then more and more. It’s exactly what Daromir needs to become unstoppable. He wields ice with scarcely a thought, sword in one hand, shoving Vana towards a wall with the other. His hand is cold on Vana’s shoulder.
Vana can’t see the assailants. The cave is a confusing kaleidoscope of rain and rock and glittering ice. All Vana’s energy and attention goes to controlling the storm.
Magic snaps through the clouds, threatening lightning. Vana digs his nails into his palms, striving for calm.
A shadowy figure dartsthroughDaromir’s ice blades. Vana steps back, nearly slipping on slick rock—not fast enough to dodge the outstretched knife.
The blade slashes across his stomach—
Painlessly.
Daromir’s sword through the shadow’s throat meets no resistance. He swears, pulling the blow before he strikes Vana instead, and spins around again in a flurry of frozen blades.
Rain falls through the shadow’s feet, as if there’s no obstruction.
“Illusion magic,” Vana gasps.
“Not all of it,” Daromir grits out. “One of the bolts was real.”
So, the mage assassin is in the cave—they have to be, to control the shadows. “I’ll find him,” Vana says quietly, sure Daromir will hear him despite the screeching caves. He lets the clouds spread until they cover the entirety of the visible cave in their steady drizzle. The rain obscures the lanterns, the shadows, the crossbow bolts Daromir deflects, real and fake.
