Page 14

Chapter

Thirteen

Araya descended into the depths of the Aetherium, every reluctant step carrying her closer to the chained prince she never wanted to see again. His shadows pressed in around her—no longer content to linger politely in the corners where they belonged. Instead, they slid through the cracks in the walls and pooled in the seams of the floor, thicker than darkness should be—slithering at the edges of her vision and curling their dark tendrils around her ankles.

“Leave me alone,” she whispered. “I don’t know what you want.”

But they didn’t listen.

Their voices rose in a hissing, whispered chorus—like wind through dead branches, or knives dragged over wet stone. The words didn’t make sense, not in any language she knew, but they meant something. She could feel it—scraping along the inside of her skull, tugging at memories she’d buried long ago.

She squeezed her eyes shut, gripping the railing until her knuckles ached. It had been weeks since Jaxon first brought her here—long enough that Araya had started to nurture a flicker of hope that the Arcanum would deny Garrick’s request for her clearance. But this morning, she’d found the note on her workbench .

Meet me , it read. Jaxon hadn’t signed it, hadn’t said where to meet him—but she knew. And she knew what would be waiting for her when she got there.

She pressed her palm to the first iron door, that last ember of hope guttering out as the runes carved into it flared silver-blue under her touch. It swung open, confirming exactly what she had dreaded. The Arcanum had granted her clearance. There was no escaping what they wanted from her now.

Get the prince to talk to her. Convince him to trust her. Then betray him.

It was just another task. No different than the others they’d assigned her over the years. Working for them was the price of the freedom they’d allowed her. This was the same.

And yet, it felt different.

Araya had never minded working on amplifiers. The bones were already processed by the time they reached her, and she only ever infused them with her own power…but she didn’t want to see the broken prince again. Not even in her dreams.

She’d been brewing herself Serafina’s tea every night, chasing the drugged, dreamless sleep it offered.

Araya moved through the desecrated temple, her footsteps nearly silent on the cracked stone floor. She did not stop, refusing to linger under the scrutiny of the shattered idols. She avoided looking at the altar and the ravaged graves altogether, eager to leave this part behind.

She quickened her steps, a strange tug behind her breastbone urging her forward—like someone had hooked her heart on a string and was reeling her in. Araya shook her head, trying to dismiss it as nerves, but the sensation only deepened further into the catacombs she went.

She was almost relieved to see the same guard standing in front of the door to Loren’s cell. His gaze flicked to hers, then dropped immediately, his discomfort palpable. Had he been punished for allowing her through last time ?

“Miss Starwind,” he said, not meeting her eyes. “Master Jaxon asked that you wait in the workshop until he’s finished.”

“Finished?” Araya asked, frowning. The guard shifted uncomfortably, his gaze darting back to the door behind him. Araya’s stomach lurched at the realization—Jaxon was inside.

“He shouldn’t be much longer,” the guard said, clearing his throat. “The workshop is just down the hall—it will be the only open door. You can’t miss it.”

Araya hesitated. That pull in her chest surged, urging her to spring forward, to push through the door he guarded. To find him . She clenched her fists behind her back, letting the pain of her nails digging into her palms ground her as she shook the feeling off.

“Thank you,” she said, pretending not to hear him exhale audibly as she turned away, heading further down the hall.

Bright light spilled out the open door of the workshop, casting a golden glow into the dank hallway. Araya squinted as she stepped across the threshold, half-blinded by the aetherlamps after the calculated dimness of the rest of the dungeon. Araya squinted as she stepped across the threshold, taking in a space that looked more like a field laboratory than a traditional workshop.

Long, communal workbenches stretched across the space, their surfaces cluttered with scattered tools. Mismatched shelves lined the back wall, sagging under the weight of supplies jammed haphazardly wherever they would fit. The air reeked of burning aether and damp stone, all mixed with the lingering undertone of old blood, a sickening mix that turned her stomach.

“Jaxon certainly hasn’t done much with the space, has he?”

Araya jumped, startling at the unfamiliar voice. She whirled, finding the man framed in the doorway, his black robes stark against the bright glow of the aetherlamps. His pale blue eyes gleamed, bright and cruel, as they swept the cluttered space with obvious disdain before settling on her.

“I suppose he doesn’t have particularly high standards,” he continued, stepping forward. “After all, he’s insisting on trusting a halfblood female with our most precious secrets.”

Araya’s stomach dropped as the door swung closed behind him, latching with a quiet click that might as well have been a death knell. He prowled closer, his shadow falling over her as she stumbled back until her spine struck the bloodstained wall. She had nowhere else to go.

“But I can see why he’s enamored—after all, enchanting a young man rarely requires magic.” He stared down at her, his smile thin and cold. “Sometimes, a pretty face and a willing mouth are enough. I’m sure you do everything he asks… don’t you?”

Araya flinched, her face flushing under his scrutiny. Shame prickled beneath her skin, and worse—fear. She knew what happened to fae females who found themselves alone with powerful human mages—there was no one to stop him here.

“Magister Hale,” she managed to say, her voice shaking.

“You know who I am. Good.” The faint smile on his lips didn’t touch his pale blue eyes. “I’m sure you can guess that I argued vehemently against this, then. You may belong to Jaxon, but if you compromise this project, I will personally ensure the consequences are... unforgettable. Do you understand me?"

“I understand,” Araya said, forcing the words past the lump in her throat.

“Good,” Hale said again. He smiled faintly, like he could read her fear as easily as words on a page. “This place is a disaster,” he said, turning his sharp gaze back to the room. Air rushed back into Araya’s lungs the moment he stepped away, his contempt lingering like a shadow. “Sloppy benches—improper storage. Typical of Jaxon?—”

“Are you inspecting my workspaces now?” Araya’s heart leapt as Jaxon’s voice sliced through the tension, her legs threatening to buckle with relief.

Hale straightened, his lips pressing into a thin line as he turned to face Jaxon. “This isn’t your workspace,” he said coldly. “It belongs to the Arcanum. You should at least attempt to maintain some semblance of order?—”

Jaxon chuckled. “This is how your team left things, Hale.” He gestured broadly to the cluttered benches and scattered tools. “If you’d put half the effort into overseeing them as you do interfering with my bond, maybe you would have gotten results.”

Hale’s face darkened, his pale eyes narrowing to slits. His hands flexed at his sides, but his gaze was icy as it swept over them both.

“Try not to get too attached to your toys, boy.” He sneered. “Because when this all falls apart, it won’t be the golden son they come for—it will be her.”

With that, he turned sharply on his heel, his black robes flaring as he swept from the room like a thundercloud. His sharp footsteps echoed down the hallway, fading quickly into silence.

Araya released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She stumbled forward, and Jaxon caught her easily, his arms wrapping around her like steel bands as she pressed her face into his chest, trembling.

“Don’t let him frighten you, Starling,” Jaxon murmured, his hand stroking long lines down her back. “Hale is just bitter because he got outvoted. I’m sorry he surprised you here—he still has clearance, but I’ll talk to my father. Hale won’t get this close to you again.”

Araya clung to him, letting his steady presence ease the tension knotted in her chest. She closed her eyes, breathing in the comforting vanilla scent of his soap. But beneath that comforting scent there was something else—something metallic and acrid. Her nostrils flared as she pulled back, staring at the dried crimson streaking his hands and forearms.

“Jaxon,” she breathed, her voice catching. “What happened?”

“I was doing my part, Starling.” Jaxon smiled at her, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Getting the prince ready for you.”

Araya caught her breath, her eyes darting from his hands to his face, searching for answers she wasn’t sure she wanted to find. “Ready for me?”

“It’s your turn now.” Jaxon plucked a worn leather first-aid kit off one of the cluttered workbenches, presenting it to her with a flourish. “Let’s see if you can coax a few secrets out of him while you’re patching him up.”

Araya barely caught the kit, scrambling to follow as he turned, striding into the hall with long steps. “All you need to do tonight is tend to his injuries,” he called back, not bothering to look back to see if she followed. “I doubt he’ll say much—it will take time before he trusts you enough to reveal anything useful.”

“Jaxon—” Araya hurried to keep up, her heart in her throat. She couldn’t do this. “I’m not an inquisitor. I can’t?—”

“You can.” Jaxon waved off her protest. “You don’t need training, Starling. You were what broke him last time.”

Araya flushed hot, the pull in her chest sharpening to a burning pain. “But what if?—”

“What if what?” Jaxon turned back to her, his dark eyes gleaming in the faint light. “What if he tries to kill you? Trust me, Starling. He’s not in any condition to hurt anyone right now.”

Araya’s stomach turned as Jaxon cupped her face, stroking his thumb along her cheekbone and brushing a kiss over her lips. “And if he does, Aeron is right outside the door. He would never let anything happen to you—right, Aeron?”

“Of course not, sir,” the guard said, his focus locked firmly on the opposite wall.

Jaxon’s thumb continued its slow, deliberate sweep, his breath warm against her ear. “See? You’re perfectly safe,” he murmured. “Nothing bad will happen to you as long as you keep being good for me, Starling.”

Araya forced herself to nod. His touch, his words, even the tone of his voice—each one was another link in the chain tightening around her.

“That’s my Starling,” Jaxon said, his grin widening at her obedience. He pressed a fleeting kiss to her temple before releasing her, the absence of his touch more jarring than its presence. “Find me when you’re done. I want to hear all about it.”

“I’m sorry—about last time, Miss,” Aeron said, his voice strained and his eyes locked firmly on the ground. “I didn’t know who you were before. It’s no excuse—but I…I made a mistake. Master Shaw made that very clear, Miss. I understand now.”

Clear . Araya blanched, the word settling uneasily in her chest, dragging her thoughts into darker places. What had Jaxon done to terrify this man? Or had it been Garrick? What would he do to her if she failed him?

Araya’s fingers tightened around the strap of the first aid kit, the leather biting into her palm. Jaxon was already long gone, his footsteps long since vanished down the hall. There was no way out of this. No excuse clever enough, no soft-spoken evasion that would free her. Jaxon wouldn’t accept anything less than total obedience here—even from her. He might care for her, but his true devotion would always be to the Arcanum and the future he was building here.

“Thank you, Aeron,” she said, dredging up all the kindness she could muster. “I’m not upset, I never was. You were only doing your job.”

Aeron shifted, glancing up at her briefly before his gaze darted back away, landing somewhere over her shoulder. “Just knock twice when you’re done,” he muttered. “His chains don’t let him reach the door.”

Araya nodded, the lump in her throat too thick for words as Aeron turned the keys. They grated in the locks, tumblers clicking as they dropped into place, magic illuminating everything in a strange, blue glow for half a heartbeat before it faded away.

The heavy door groaned, creaking open on ancient hinges to yawn open like some ancient maw—wide and waiting to swallow her whole.

Araya stepped forward before she could think better of it, the pull behind her ribs dragging her across the threshold. A heartbeat later, the heavy door slammed shut behind her with a thunderous clang. Araya flinched, barely choking back a scream as she was plunged into instant, absolute darkness.

She stood frozen, breath shallow, listening to the echoing silence that followed. The cell felt alive around her—too still, too quiet, like it was holding its breath. Her heart pounded, each beat a thunderclap in the suffocating black as even her fae sight struggled to adjust.

“Loren?” she called out, her voice shaking.

There was no response, her soft call swallowed almost immediately by the thick air, heavy with the metallic tang of blood, the acrid stench of waste, and the damp rot of moldy straw. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, trying not to breathe too deeply as she took another hesitant step toward where she could just barely make out the outline of his body crumpled on the floor.

“Loren,” she called again, a little louder. He didn’t stir.

She needed light. Turning back to the door, Araya felt her way along the wall, her fingers brushing over the rough, damp stone until they met the cold metal of the sconce. She reached for her aether, sketching the rune for light in the air. For a moment, nothing happened, but then the lamp flared to life with a soft hiss, bathing the cell in its flickering, uneven light.

Araya exhaled shakily, relieved. Now that she had light, she could deal with anything.

But when she turned back to Loren, the first aid kit slipped from her hands, landing on the stone floor with a dull thud as she got her first good look at him. It was worse than she could have imagined. So much worse.

Loren lay crumpled on the cold floor, his blood soaking into the straw scattered haphazardly across the cell, as if he had struggled. His shirt hung from him in tattered, blood-soaked scraps, doing nothing to hide the deep, angry slices that marred his chest and arms, some still oozing blood. Where he wasn’t bleeding, dark, mottled bruises spread across his skin.

But it wasn’t just the fresh wounds—his ribs jutted sharply beneath his torn shirt, his skin waxy and stretched too thin over hard angles. Some of the bruises were older, faded to sickly yellow, and puckered scars marked where old cuts had healed.

“Oh, Loren,” Araya whispered, dropping to her knees beside him. She reached out, but stopped short of touching him, fearing even the gentlest touch would hurt him. His head lolled, his dark matted hair plastered to his ashen skin. If not for the faint rise and fall of his chest, each jagged breath rattling like a dying echo in the stillness, she would have thought he was gone.

She scrambled for the first aid kit, fumbling it open with shaking hands. Her heart sank as she took in the pitiful contents—bandages, clean linen cloths, a small vial of antiseptic…not even a suture kit. Basic, suitable for minor injuries—not…this.

He needed a Healer. A real one. Not her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, dabbing at one of the cuts on his chest. Loren shuddered under her touch, a low, pained moan escaping his lips. “I’m so sorry,” she repeated, her voice choked. “I’m trying to be gentle, I swear.”

She worked in silence, her focus narrowing to the rhythm of cleaning and dressing his wounds as best she could. She had to discard his shirt entirely, peeling the tattered, filthy fabric away from his skin with careful fingers. Most of the cuts beneath were shallow and neat, already closing. But the others—some of them were deep, jagged gashes, slicing all the way to the bone. She dressed those carefully, doing her best to pull the edges of the wounds together without a suture kit.

Her breath hitched when she reached his wrists. The iron manacles had bitten deep into the flesh, carving fresh gashes into old scars. Blood pooled in the raw wounds, mixing with dirt and rust, and she bit her lip hard enough to taste copper.

Finally, there was nothing else she could do. Slowly, she gathered the bloodied cloths and the empty vials of antiseptic, tears dripping down her face. When she was done, she stroked her fingers along a small patch of unmarred skin on his face, trying to compose herself. Loren stirred faintly at her touch, but his eyes didn’t open. She doubted he even knew she was here.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered one last time, her voice trembling. Rising slowly, turned to the door, her throat still choked with tears as she knocked twice. The keys grated in the lock and the door opened, letting her back out into the corridor. Aeron waited there, his posture stiff as he locked the door again behind her.

“This one is yours,” he said, handing her the second key. “Master Shaw had it made for you. So you can come on your own next time.”

Araya swallowed hard, the key in her palm heavier than iron. Of course, there would be a next time. There always would be. Jaxon had no reason to stop. And now, neither did she.