Page 21 of Sun, Moon & Shadow (Fate of Aemoria #1)

A hush fell as Callan entered, the gust of frigid wind snaking through the room in his wake nearly extinguishing the fire blazing in the center of the hall.

Nova followed, halting inside the entryway and glancing timidly at the crowd gathered around tables laden with platters of roasted meat and fish, loaves of bread, and pitchers of ale.

The space boasted a high vaulted ceiling.

Doors lined the gallery walks on the second and third levels, likely leading to private chambers.

Some folk regarded Callan with distaste, crinkled noses and curled lips.

Most wore looks of shock, particularly the male sitting upon a modest wooden throne on the low platform on the far side of the great room.

As Nova watched Callan stride to the foot of the platform, two guards closed the doors with a bang, startling her.

“Callan?” Rising from his throne, the male moved to the platform’s edge, looking down on Callan.

While he had the appearance of a young man, an air of wisdom clung to him, and Nova surmised he was considerably older than Callan.

Dressed simply in black breeches, a loose cream-colored shirt, and a brown leather vest, he wore no ornamentation to indicate his status as being above his guests’.

He descended the steps to stand at Callan’s side.

“Uncle Thorn.” Callan bowed his head.

The two males stood roughly the same height, but while Callan was solid muscle, his uncle had a leaner build.

He had a full beard, and brown hair that fell to his chin, one side shaved close to his scalp.

There was little resemblance between the two.

Where Callan was clearly a trained warrior, his body a finely crafted weapon, his uncle had the look of a strategist. Nova suspected Thorn relied on a sharp intellect over brute strength.

“My last several letters to you have gone unanswered.” Thorn addressed Callan, but pitched his voice so the gathered crowd could hear. “And, as welcome as it is, you sent no word to inform me of this ... visit.”

“There wasn’t time. We’ve come urgently to take care of a personal matter concerning my companion.” Callan motioned for Nova to join him.

She approached slowly, uneasy under the sea of eyes tracking her across the room, her footsteps echoing off the high ceiling.

She reached Callan’s side and lowered her hood.

Startled gasps erupted from the crowd. Two guards posted at the base of the platform rushed forward, weapons drawn in a flash of steel caught in the firelight.

In a heartbeat, Callan pulled his own sword from the sheath at his back and swept Nova behind him, shielding her body with his own. The nearest guard halted just short of running onto Callan’s blade.

“Anyone who even thinks of harming her will meet a swift death upon my sword. Without hesitation. Without mercy. Am I understood?” Callan’s roar brought a dead silence to the crowded hall. None dared answer.

Callan’s uncle raised his arm, signaling his guards to lower their weapons. The third and fourth fingers on his left hand were missing. The guards obeyed his command, shrinking back into position, wary eyes fixed on both Callan and Nova.

“Might we speak privately, Uncle?” Callan asked, his voice calm and even in spite of the blade still leveled before him. Thorn searched Callan’s face for a beat before clapping his hands and glancing around at the onlookers.

“Clear the hall.”

Abandoning full plates and half-empty cups, everyone rose from their seats, some climbing the stairs and others heading outdoors.

Only when the room was empty did Callan return his sword to the sheath at his back.

He turned to Nova, his dark eyes wide as he gripped her hand in his own.

Under the circumstances, Nova welcomed the touch and clung to his hand with equal force.

“Won’t you introduce me?” Thorn asked, his eyes narrowed on Nova.

Callan turned back to face his uncle. “Thorn, this is Nova. She’s been a guest in Pyralis.”

Thorn motioned to a male servant who stood like a statue close by, awaiting his Lord’s instructions.

“Show Miss Nova to a guest chamber. Light the fire and prepare a tray with food and drink.” He waved a dismissive hand in her direction, as if shooing away a fly buzzing in his ear.

“Nova remains with me,” Callan said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“Very well.” Thorn addressed the servant again. “Prepare the fire. Bring food later.”

The servant bowed before hurrying up the staircase and out of sight. Thorn sat on a stool beside the fire and motioned for them to do the same. Callan and Nova lowered themselves onto a long bench on the opposite side of the stone pit, flames dancing between them and Callan’s uncle.

“Now then, what are you doing here, Callan?”

“I plan to accompany Nova on her journey north,” Callan explained.

“To Silvergard?” Thorn’s tone was wary as he studied her. “It’s unwise to travel to the Lunar Court.”

He held up an empty cup, which was promptly filled by a waiting servant holding a large pitcher.

Thorn motioned toward them, and the servant filled cups for Nova and Callan as well.

Nova sipped politely, realizing it wasn’t ale but a sweet honeyed wine.

In the bright light of the fire, she could better see Thorn’s face, noting the faintest creases at his brow and the corners of his eyes—eyes pinning her with an appraising stare.

“How fortunate, then, that we’re not traveling there.” Callan swallowed a large gulp from his own cup.

“Ah.” Thorn stared into his mug. “Then where are you going?”

“Nova has plans to visit the Temple of Illora. I offered to escort her by boat to avoid traveling through Lunar territory.”

“So, this is only a temporary visit,” Thorn said flatly. “I confess, when I saw you burst through those doors, I hoped you’d finally come to honor your responsibilities here.”

Callan’s jaw tensed, and Nova suddenly wished she had been whisked away to the guest chamber.

“I tire of this discussion,” Callan said, words clipped. “It’s the reason why I no longer even open your letters. I believe I’ve made my position clear.”

“I understand your position,” Thorn responded, voice raised. He paused to compose himself before continuing. “I mourn them too. So do your subjects. But you cannot continue to allow your grief to prevent you from fulfilling your obligations to Nivali. To your people.”

“Everyone seems quite well under your rule.” Callan gestured to the plentiful food and furs.

“I’m a regent. A good one, if I may say so, but I am not the rightful Noble Lord of Nivali. The folk do not forget this. It’s you who has forgotten your oath.”

Callan flexed his wrists as if the markings concealed beneath his bracers pained him.

“I have not forgotten!”

His shield slipped in his anger, and, for an instant, Nova once again beheld the raw power of Callan’s true form.

A bright light burst forth, like the blinding glare of sun on snow.

Silver flecks glinted on his cheekbones, his dark hair blowing on an unseen breeze.

Then his shield slammed back into place, the bright light vanishing as quickly as it had come.

When he spoke again, his voice was a pained staccato.

“I cannot forget. I cannot move on. I cannot do what you ask of me.” Callan hunched forward, as if weighed down by the burden of his uncle’s expectations.

Nova resisted the urge to reach out and touch him.

The hall was silent save for the crackling of the fire as Thorn observed his nephew, his sharp mind clearly assessing the situation.

“You’re weary from your travels,” he said at last. “We’ll speak again once you’ve rested.”

Thorn clapped his large hands together, and a servant appeared, ready to see them to their quarters. Callan stormed off without another word to his uncle.

“Sleep well, Nova,” Thorn said as she rose to leave. She made a quick curtsy before climbing the stairs to the upper level, keenly aware of Thorn’s watchful eyes on her back.

Nova followed a trail of ice and snow to an ornately carved door at the far end of the hall.

The door stood ajar, the knob encased in ice and the wooden surface coated in a thick layer of frost. She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.

Callan stood before the fireplace, an elbow resting on the mantelpiece beside his sword and dagger.

A large bed sat on a frame of carved wood, piled high with plump pillows, thick blankets, and plush furs.

Two chairs and a small table sat tucked into the corner.

Another doorway on the far side of the room presumably led to a bathing chamber.

Tapestries of wintry scenes hung on the paneled walls: snow-covered forests and green swirls dancing across midnight skies.

An enormous white pelt covered the floor before the fire, with a small settee draped in woven blankets angled before the hearth.

Nova crossed the room, coming to stand beside Callan.

Holding out her frozen hands, she flexed her reddened knuckles, joints sluggish from the cold.

He kept his gaze trained on the fire. She undid the clasp of her cloak, draping it over one of the dining chairs.

Tugging her dagger from her boot, she laid it atop the mantel beside Callan’s blades.

“Well,” she said. “That was quite a homecoming.”

Callan huffed and continued staring into the flames. A moment later, he looked at her, his expression tight.

“I’m sorry.” He shook his head, the action heavy with the same emotion she’d seen when he hesitated in front of the doors to the Great Hall. She now recognized it as shame. “I’m sorry you saw that.”

“I’m not,” she murmured, a thrill skipping down her spine at the memory of the beauty and power of Callan’s true form. “Tell me what happened. What’s kept you from your home for so long?”