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ADELLUM

I squeeze the blue geode in my pocket until its jagged edges draw blood. The pain is welcome—a small, bright clarity in the fog I've lived in for five years. Five years of searching, of chasing ghosts and rumors. Five years without her.

Some people say it's been five years without my sanity.

I think that's what happens when a part of your soul is ripped away and you are desperate to find it. And I would do anything to find her.

"Magnificent work, truly magnificent," the gallery owner purrs, circling my latest piece. "So much... anguish. The collectors will fight over this one."

I stare at the canvas without really seeing it. Swirls of crimson and black threaded with silver—a storm with no center. Like me. I've created seventeen pieces in this series. Each one darker than the last.

"When does the exhibition open?" I ask, my voice flat.

"Three days. And we've already had inquiries from Lord Verran and Lady Nimue. They're both desperate to add to their collections." The gallery owner—Merrick—adjusts his spectacles and peers at me. "You look terrible, by the way. Are you sleeping at all?"

I turn away from him, flexing my wings slightly. They've grown dull these past years, the once-glossy feathers now ashen at the tips. "Sleep is overrated."

"Genius requires rest, Adellum. Even tortured genius."

"I'm not a genius. I'm just—" I pause, uncertain how to finish that sentence. What am I now? A shell. A shadow. A man consumed by a single purpose.

"You're the most sought-after artist in New Solas," Merrick says. "Your work commands prices that would make emperors weep."

"And yet," I murmur, "I can't find one human woman."

Merrick's expression softens with pity. I hate it. "Still searching for your muse?"

My hand tightens around the crystal in my pocket. Her birthday present. Five birthdays come and gone, and I still carry it everywhere, its rough edges a constant reminder of what I lost.

"She wasn't my muse," I say. "She was my everything ." The word is rough and raw, coming out so tortured that I think it's a glimpse to the turmoil inside of me.

I leave without waiting for his response, pushing through the gallery's ornate doors and into the crisp mountain air. New Solas sprawls below, a gleaming tumor of wealth and privilege perched on the mountainside. I spread my wings and launch myself into the empty sky, letting the sharp currents carry me away from the suffocating city.

Sior is waiting when I return to our estate at dusk. His dark wings are folded neatly behind his back, his expression somewhere between concern and exasperation.

"You missed your meeting," he says without preamble.

I brush past him. "Send him a painting."

"He doesn't want a painting. He wants to commission a sculpture for his new wing." Sior follows me into the studio, his footsteps measured and precise. "Adellum, this is the third appointment you've missed this month."

I thought he'd learned years ago to stop setting up appointments I'd miss. But I guess we both never fucking learn.

I pick up a brush, dipping it in swirling blue. "I was following a lead."

Sior's sigh carries the weight of five years of disappointment. "Another false trail? What was it this time? A woman who sounded like her? A flash of curly hair in a market?"

"Someone saw a human woman matching her description in Ecrin." Not that she was. I spent days ripping apart that village until I think the humans there were rallying to kill the monster that had wandered in.

"Saufort?" Sior snorts. "That dreary little fishing village? What would she possibly be doing there?"

I whirl on him, brush dripping blue onto the marble floor. "Hiding from me, obviously."

"Adellum." His voice softens into something almost kind. It's worse than his anger. "It's been five years. She's not hiding. She's gone. And you need to accept that before you destroy yourself—and everything we've built."

"Everything we've built?" I laugh, the sound cracked and hollow. "You built an empire on my talent. I built nothing but dreams that turned to ash."

"You're being dramatic."

"I'm being honest. Something you might try sometime." I turn back to the blank canvas, already seeing the storm of colors I'll pour onto it.

Sior is quiet for a long moment. When he speaks again, his voice is careful. "What if you find her, and she doesn't want to be found? What if she left because she wanted to leave?"

The thought cuts deeper than the crystal ever could. I don't answer him. Instead, I drag the brush across the canvas, a violent streak of blue like a scream.

"I need her," I say finally, my voice barely audible. "If she doesn't want me, she can tell me herself. But I need to know she's alive. I need to know I didn't dream her."

The truth is I don't care why she left or where she is. I will find her. And then I am never fucking losing her again.

"Are you at least going to Lezer still? The golem market?—"

"I leave in the morning," I answer on a rough growl. I'm starting to spiral, as I've grown prone to when I think about Harmony for too long.

So basically I am always caught in a long, downward spiral.

Sior shakes his head and leaves me alone with my canvas, my obsession, my prayer. Each stroke is her name. Each color a memory—the gold flecks in her hazel eyes, the sun-brown of her skin, the dark chocolate of her curls.

I push my zarryn harder than I should through the torrential downpour. The creature's silver coat is slick with rain, its two tails dragging in the mud as it huffs in protest. Lightning cracks open the sky, and my mount rears, nearly throwing me from the saddle.

"Fuck!" I grip the reins tighter, my wings instinctively spreading to catch my balance before I force them closed again beneath my sodden cloak. "Easy. Easy ."

But the zarryn isn't having it. The beast has been temperamental since we left New Solas, but now it plants its hooves in the mud and refuses to move another step down the flooded road. I could force it—I've done worse things lately—but exhaustion seeps through me like the rain through my clothes.

I scan the dreary landscape, squinting through sheets of water. The lights of a village flicker in the valley below, barely visible through the storm. Not where I was headed. Not even close. I'd meant to push south to Lezer and then maybe go even farther toward Mor'ghed, thinking maybe I could find some peace among the dybbuks. At least they understand what it's like to be haunted.

"Fine," I mutter to the zarryn, tugging its reins toward the village. "We'll shelter for the night."

The path down to the village is slick with mud, forcing me to dismount and lead the beast by hand. By the time we reach the first cobblestone streets, I'm soaked through, filthy, and in a fouler mood than when I started. Though when am I not in a foul mood?

It's hard to not be when my chest feels like it's perpetually caving in.

The village is quiet despite the early evening hour, most sensible folk driven indoors by the weather. Quaint little buildings line narrow streets, their windows glowing with warm light that only makes me feel colder. This place reeks of contentment. Of settled lives and simple pleasures. Everything I've lost.

A wooden sign swings violently in the wind—an inn, thank the gods. I tie the zarryn beneath the awning, not caring if the innkeeper objects. The creature shakes itself, splattering mud in a wide arc.

"Ungrateful beast," I mutter, pulling my hood lower to shield my face. The last thing I need is to be recognized. My reputation precedes me these days, and not the artistic acclaim Sior loves to tout. No, it's the other whispers that follow me now. Unhinged. Dangerous. Obsessed . All very true.

I turn toward the inn's door, then stop. Across the small village square, golden light spills onto wet cobblestones from the open door of what looks to be a restaurant. Someone is kneeling just outside that doorway, a cloth in hand, wiping at a spill despite the rain.

A woman.

Her back is to me, but I'd know those curves anywhere, burned as they are into my memory. She's wearing a simple dress, sleeves rolled up despite the chill. And her hair—that impossible hair—is piled atop her head, a few curls escaping to frame her face as she turns slightly.

The world stops spinning. The rain freezes in mid-air. My heart forgets to beat.

"Harmony," I whisper, the name torn from my throat.

She hasn't seen me. She's still bent over, wiping at whatever has spilled, her movements quick and efficient. She's curvier than I remember, looking absolutely fucking perfect. Still radiating that quiet strength that drew me to her from the first moment.

I stare, blinking, wondering if I'll wake from this dream. If I'm still caught in a waking nightmare. I wave in indecision as I stare at her, wondering what to do.

She's here. I've found her.

And now that I have, I will not fucking let her go again.