Page 9

Chapter

Eight

Araya hummed softly, shifting the heavy basket against her hip as she made her way through the evening crowd surrounding the Aetherium. The crisp autumn air nipped at her exposed cheeks, but she left her hood down, savoring the bite of the wind. Even after two months, the giddy rush of walking freely—hair unbound, ears uncovered—hadn't faded.

Bonding with Jaxon had given her everything she had ever wanted. Safety. A home—even a place in the Aetherium, though she’d traded the title of adept for miss .

Though, if she were being picky, she could have done without the dreams.

They were nothing like the nightmares that used to drag her from sleep screaming after Kaldrath—but several nights a week, after falling asleep in the safety of Jaxon’s arms, Araya found herself back in that dungeon. The fae male didn’t speak to her again, but she knew he saw her. She could feel it in the way his eyes burned, tracking every step she took with a white-hot intensity she couldn’t explain .

Araya shook her head, brushing off the lingering unease. Dreams were nothing but echoes of the past. That fae male probably wasn’t even real—and if she had known him once, he was surely long gone by now.

She had a future, and it didn’t include ghosts.

Araya crossed the street and approached the grand archway that led into the heart of the Aetherium. She paused for just a moment, tilting her head back to take it in. It soared above her, silver-blue veins of magic threaded through the stone so seamlessly they still pulsed with power—all without a single rune.

No mage alive today could replicate it—it was possible no human ever could. The fae mages had been capable of incredible feats. If only they had chosen to share their power, instead of locking it away—hoarding knowledge, refusing to teach anyone beyond their own kind.

What might they have accomplished together, if instead of shutting the world out, the fae had let humans in?

Araya stepped beneath the arch and into the evening bustle of the Aetherium. The grand hall thrummed with life—students in scholar’s robes weaving between seasoned mages, Healers in their deep blue cloaks laughing softly with researchers and spellwrights. A pair of black-cloaked Arcanum aides hurried through the throng without stopping, their steps quick and purposeful even as the rest of the hall slowed for dinner. The Arcanum must be meeting on the upper floors—their work never stopped.

A few researchers she’d met through Jaxon nodded in recognition or murmured polite greetings. No one questioned her presence. Araya smiled back, her heart swelling. Mira had been right—this had been easy to get used to.

She was almost to the West Tower when her gaze caught on a group of young fae, all female, huddled near the edge of the hall. They looked to be about the age Araya had been when she first arrived—old enough to have come into their magic, still young enough to look uncertain in it. They must be new—freshly selected by the Arcanum for the honor of learning just enough to serve the New Dominion.

Araya slowed, instinct drawing her toward them. She remembered what it was like to be new here, scared and alone among all these humans.

“You’re looking for the East Tower,” she said gently, pointing them in the right direction. “Your cohort boards and studies there. The dining hall’s on the lower level, with dormitories and classrooms above.”

One of them gave a stiff nod, not quite meeting her eyes. Another clutched her satchel like it was a shield. They murmured thanks and moved quickly, skirts brushing the floor as they slipped along the wall, vanishing into the current of robed mages.

Araya watched them go, a pang catching in her chest. She had always told herself she’d earned her place—but sometimes, it was hard to ignore how narrow the path had been.

She and Jaxon were proof that it could work—fae and humans, side by side. Maybe one day, they could show the world.

She climbed the spiraling staircase of the West Tower, the hum of conversation fading behind her. The exertion made her legs burn, but she relished it—each landing she passed was another step away from the frightened child who had once begged the Arcanum to let her learn magic.

No other fae had a workshop in the upper levels of the West Tower.

She adjusted the basket again, almost dropping it as she rounded the corner and barely avoided colliding with Serafina as the Healer hurried down in the opposite direction.

“Araya!” Serafina gasped, stumbling back a step. Her heavy leather satchel slipped from her shoulder and hit the floor with a dull thud.

“Serafina—” Araya’s smile faltered as Serafina’s gaze flicked past her, sweeping the wide curve of the staircase, as if calculating the fastest way to slip away without causing a scene. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Serafina scooped up her satchel, her knuckles whitening as she clutched the worn leather against her chest. “I was just getting some supplies,” she said, flashing a too-bright smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Are you on your way to see Jaxon?”

“I am,” Araya answered, suddenly all too aware of the distance between them. When was the last time she had seen Serafina? Not since she bonded with Jaxon. Guilt twisted in her chest.

“I’m sorry I never properly thanked you—for the dress. It was perfect.”

“I’m glad.” Serafina smiled, but her eyes shone with something sadder. “It looked beautiful on you.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. When had silence between them become so awkward? They had been each other’s constants for years—until Araya chose Jaxon.

Serafina swung the bag over her shoulder, shifting to the side like she meant to breeze right past—but Araya took a step forward, desperate to hold onto this interaction with the woman who used to be her best friend.

“You seem busy,” she said, nodding to the heavy satchel. “Is it for the clinic? I can’t do maternity rounds anymore, but I could ask Jaxon if I could help in the clinic?—”

“Oh—no, it’s nothing important.” Serafina shook her head, though her laugh rang hollow. “I just needed to grab a few things from the infirmary. Don’t worry about it. I understand why you can’t help now. You have your life—and I’m not part of it. Take care, Araya.”

Araya winced. “Serafina?—”

But she was already gone, taking the steep stairs two at a time and vanishing around the bend before the word had even left Araya’s lips. Araya stared after her. Serafina had been her first friend here—they’d told each other everything. Or at least, she’d thought they had. But now…now Araya wasn’t sure if she knew Serafina at all.

Because the infirmary wasn’t in the West Tower.

Her best friend had just lied to her.

By the time Araya reached the door to Jaxon’s workshop, she had almost convinced herself there was a reasonable explanation for Serafina’s behavior. She was a master-level Healer—that meant she did, technically, have privileges to access the upper levels of the West Tower. There had to be a logical reason for her behavior.

Araya paused when she heard voices inside Jaxon’s workshop, straining her ears. Kai…and Caylin. Wonderful. She glanced at the door to her own workshop, just a door down. It would be easy to slip inside and wait for them to leave, but she had just as much of a right to Jaxon’s time as they did. More, even.

Bracing herself, Araya pushed open the door.

Jaxon’s workshop was as grand as he was—high, arching windows bathed the space in golden light, illuminating the rows of shelves stacked with tomes, enchanted tools, and half-finished artifacts. From this height, the entire city sprawled out in front of them, offering a clear view of the towering curtain of shadows that loomed over the sea—the Shadowed Veil itself, dark and impenetrable, still guarding its secrets.

Jaxon sat at the scarred workbench, his head bent over a pair of fae daggers. Even from the doorway, Araya could feel the weight of the curse tangled within them—the sharp, strange taste of fae magic clashing with the dissonant hum of the amplifiers Jaxon was using to fuel his work, setting her teeth on edge.

Most cursebreakers would have at least reinforced their wards before dealing with a curse like this. But Jaxon hadn’t bothered—his hands didn’t even tremble as he wielded his etching tool, tracing delicate runes with confident precision.

“I’m just saying you deserve a break,” Kai wheedled, lounging on a stool beside him. “You’re working too hard. Everyone needs to have a little fun—we were going to make a night of it. You aren’t too good for a little drinking and debauchery, are you?”

“Harassing a cursebreaker while they work is a quick way to end up covered in a blistering rash,” Araya warned, setting her basket down on the low table. “Do you think the Gilded Lily will let you in if you’re oozing?”

“Araya!” Kai’s face lit up, his grin widening when he saw her basket. “Thank the Gods, I’m famished.” He darted around the workbench, snatching an apple from the basket and biting into it. “We’re trying to convince Jaxon to leave before sunrise—surely you can sway him.”

“You put too much faith in my influence,” Araya said with a laugh. Jaxon hadn’t so much as glanced up from his work, even as Kai loudly lamented his stubbornness. “We all know cursebreaking is Jaxon’s true passion.”

“Don’t bother, Kai,” Caylin snarked from one of Jaxon’s overstuffed armchairs. “Jaxon’s playing house now. Too bad it’s not with someone who knows the first thing about keeping one.”

“Actually, it’s from the Hearth.” Araya met Caylin’s glare head-on, her smile deliberately calm. She had hoped the human woman’s attitude would soften with time, but Caylin still hated her.

“Did you say the Hearth?” Jaxon looked up, blinking owlishly at her through the rune-etched spectacles. “I’m starved.”

He flicked his fingers, sealing the last of the curse beneath the web of reinforced enchantment he’d woven, tucking them back into their iron-lined box.

“See?” Kai threw out his arms. “You’re underestimating your power over him. He’s been staring at those for hours—it’s like talking to a statue.”

“I can’t tonight, Kai,” Jaxon said, shaking his head. “I have work to get done.” Araya’s breath caught as he circled the workbench and brushed a kiss across her lips. Aether sparked between them, the magic in her blood practically singing as his fingers skimmed the edge of her jaw .

Jaxon grinned wickedly at her when he pulled back, his dark eyes smoldering. “I missed you.”

“I guess that’s our cue,” Kai sighed theatrically, tossing his apple core into the bin. “You coming, Caylin? Or are you planning to stand there glaring at Araya all night? Keep it up and people are going to start thinking you’re jealous.”

“Of what?” Caylin spat. But she stood, making a show of smoothing the wrinkles out of her skirt before storming out of the workshop without a goodbye to any of them.

Kai grinned at Araya, utterly unapologetic. “Enjoy your work, you stuffy old scholars.” He gave them a mock bow before backing out of the workshop, closing the door behind them.

Jaxon, seemingly unbothered by the exchange, was already unpacking the basket onto the table. “I like that you get along with them,” he remarked.

Araya snorted, pulling out the plates and starting to load one for each of them. “I get along with Kai,” she corrected. “Caylin hates me—Mira tolerates me.”

Jaxon took his plate and sank onto the couch, kicking his boots up onto the low table. “Caylin is jealous.”

Araya arched an eyebrow. “Yes, because human women don’t like it when their men bond fae females instead of marrying one of them.”

Jaxon tilted his head, amusement glinting in his eyes. “She’s jealous because you’re twice the mage she will ever be. And it has nothing to do with you being fae and naturally having more power—it’s your determination. Caylin doesn’t have it. She never will.”

Araya flushed. She opened her mouth to argue, but Jaxon cut her off with a playful scowl.

“The only answer I want to hear is, ‘Thank you, Master Jaxon Shaw.’”

Araya set her plate aside, then took his from his hands, placing it on the table before swinging a leg over him and settling onto his lap. His hands tightened on her hips, his breath hitching as she dipped her head toward his.

“Thank you, Master Jaxon Shaw,” she murmured against his lips.

Her magic surged toward him, tangling with his in a way she still didn’t fully understand. It had been days since he’d siphoned from her, and she was too full again—bloated with power she couldn’t burn fast enough. The pressure beneath her skin was nearly unbearable, a slow burn that left her aching and restless.

“Jaxon…” she whispered, pressing her body closer, desperate for even the smallest release. “Please. I need you to take it.”

“Gods,” Jaxon groaned, his grip on her hips tightening as her magic curled around them both, greedy and insistent. “You’re the perfect woman. But I really do have work to do.”

“I know,” Araya sighed, dragging her nails over his scalp. His head dropped back, and she couldn’t resist pressing one more kiss to the exposed column of his throat. “But I need you to come home tonight. I need you.”

“I’ll be there,” he promised, squeezing her hips once more before letting her slide off his lap to claim the seat beside him. “What did you do all day?”

“I spent the whole day locked in your office—reading.” Araya nudged his plate back toward him and picked up her own. After safety and security, having an actual library in her home was one of the greatest perks of being bonded to Jaxon.

Jaxon chuckled, ignoring his plate to wrap an arm around her. “Somehow, I’m not surprised. Did you learn anything?”

“I did—” Araya rummaged in her bag until she found her sheaf of notes. “I was going over the translation you found of the Chronicles of Valendral and some other accounts of the fae royal line. I was trying to figure out how a spell could linger more than twenty years past the caster’s death. I couldn’t come up with anything. If the Shadowed Veil was part of King Corwin’s magic it would have dissipated with his death. ”

Jaxon’s brow furrowed as he considered her words, his fingers idly tracing slow, absentminded patterns over the back of her neck.

“But—” Araya flipped her notes open to the passage she had marked earlier. “Shadow powers aren’t exactly rare in the royal line—the records you pulled show that every generation has at least one. And there are more than a few references to rulers ‘wreathed’ or ‘crowned’ in shadows.”

Jaxon leaned in slightly, scanning the note she pointed to. “You don’t think it’s a metaphor?”

“I don’t.” Araya frowned down at it. “The more I look at this, the less it feels like a spell. What if it’s something else entirely—some kind of hereditary force or entity tied to the royal bloodline?”

Jaxon’s eyes narrowed as he skimmed over Araya’s notes. “There’s no precedent for it.”

“True.” Araya shrugged, gathering up her pages. “But the fae were secretive. If this was something they meant to keep hidden, maybe no one outside the royal family ever knew the truth.” She hesitated, tapping one corner of the parchment. “What I don’t understand is—if the power was passed down through the royal line, what happened when the fae king died with no heir to inherit it?”

“That’s…an interesting question.” Jaxon leaned back slightly, his fingers drifting to the amulet at his throat as he stared past her. The golden setting she’d made for the bone disc gleamed, catching the light of the aetherlamps as he turned it idly between his fingers.

“Too bad there’s no way to test it,” she said, sliding her research back into her bag. “I guess we’ll never know.”

Jaxon didn’t move as she cleaned up their meal, his thoughtful expression unchanging. For the first time, silence stretched between them—not the easy, comfortable kind, but something heavier, weighted with unspoken thoughts. Like he was deciding how much to say.

“What if someone wore an amulet infused with blood from the royal line?” Jaxon asked finally. “Do you think the Veil—whatever it is—would respond to them?”

Araya turned slowly. “The Arcanum has the fae king’s blood?”

Jaxon’s face split into a bright, reckless grin—so full of mischief and excitement it made her stomach flip.

“Tell me, Starling,” he said. “How do you feel about breaking a few rules tonight?”

“What about your work?” Araya raised an eyebrow, studying him for some sign of what he intended.

Jaxon’s grin widened, giving her no hints. “It will get done—we don’t even have to leave the Aetherium for this.” He stood, stretching lazily. “Grab your cloak, though—it gets cold down there.”

If Jaxon’s workshop was at the top of the West Tower, then wherever he was leading her had to be buried in the depths of the Aetherium itself. She hadn’t even realized the foundation ran this deep. Every step burned, and both of them were breathing hard as they passed the landings for the third and fourth subterranean levels.

Araya sighed in relief when the stairs ended at the fifth, only to groan when Jaxon led her down the hall to yet another set of stairs.

“It’s worth it,” he laughed. He pressed his hand to the door, blue and silver runes flaring under his touch as it unlocked. “I promise.”

This stairway was steeper and longer, lit by dim aetherlamps that cast just enough light to reveal each step, plunging their descent into oppressive gloom. The chill seeped into Araya’s bones, every step heavier as if the walls were closing in on her, sealing her fate.

“Almost,” Jaxon said, tugging her forward by the hand. “Just through here. You’re going to like this part.”

They passed through yet another warded door, into a corridor that had partially collapsed. A narrow path had been cleared through the rubble, but it was so tight Araya’s shoulders scraped the stone, and Jaxon had to turn sideways in places—though his hand never left hers.

Just as she began to feel like the walls might close in and crush them both, the passage gave way—opening into a vast, echoing chamber. Araya blinked in the dim light, staring at the strange room. It was a temple—or what remained of one. The shattered remnants of idols crunched under her feet as she moved forward, and great chunks had been torn from the walls. A devastating crack split the altar into two, but Araya could still feel the hum of residual power in the room.

Detailed paintings decorated the wall behind it, portraying a history she didn’t recognize. Araya stepped back, craning her neck to take in the entirety of it, and her breath caught in her throat.

There, in the very center of the ceiling, was the Valendri Goddess. Araya recognized her from the small portrait her mother had once displayed—a delicate, otherworldly figure surrounded by a halo of ethereal light. Surrounding her, a vivid tableau captured the essence of lost Valendri history and culture in every brushstroke.

“How is this here?” Araya breathed, her voice barely above a whisper as she took in the scene.

“They blocked off the main staircase,” Jaxon said, stepping up beside her. “They emptied the graves?—”

Araya’s stomach turned as she glanced back at the cracked alcoves along the walls. It was one thing to work with processed fae bone—but to see where it came from? That was different.

“—but the temple itself wasn’t worth the effort of tearing down.”

Araya shivered and tugged her cloak tighter, following Jaxon past the cracked altar. Aetherlamps gave way to rune-inscribed sconces, their thin, sickly light barely illuminating the corridor that stretched ahead of them. Iron doors loomed along both sides, the runes scarring their pitted surfaces long dead—just like the fae they once imprisoned.

“The Arcanum kept their high-value prisoners down here after the Ascendancy,” Jaxon said, setting a brisk pace down the hall. “They’re down to one at this point, though.”

“Master Shaw—” a guard jumped to his feet as they approached the familiar iron-barred door, its surface covered in a labyrinth of runes. “I wasn’t expecting?—”

“Aeron,” Jaxon greeted the guard with an easy smile. “This wasn’t planned. We have a theory we need to test.”

The guard’s eyes flitted to Araya, his gaze lingering on her ears and hair. “Does she have clearance?”

“She’s my bond,” Jaxon said firmly, his tone leaving no room for protest. “I vouch for her—my father will too, if you make me climb all the way back up there and get him. He hates doing those steps though.”

“No need,” Aeron said quickly, pulling out a large brass key. “Do you have your key—good.”

Araya hardly dared breathe as they turned their keys in unison, magic flaring bright across the blackened door as tumblers clicked. The door cracked open with a low, grinding groan—thick air spilling out like breath from a long-sealed tomb.

“Go ahead, then,” Jaxon said, nodding for her to enter first.

She stepped forward, every muscle tense, already knowing what she would see. He looked exactly like he did in her dreams—from the dark fall of his hair to the harsh lines of his too-thin face, and the way his hands rested on his knees, deceptively still. She took another step before she even realized she was moving, dragged forward by that strange tug behind her breastbone.

This had to be another dream. She was asleep—trapped in one of those dreams again, and this time her mind had pulled Jaxon in too, twisting it into something stranger.

Then those emerald eyes snapped open, locking onto hers with such fierce recognition that she gasped aloud, stumbling back into Jaxon’s solid chest.

“Easy,” Jaxon murmured, laughing as he wrapped an arm around her waist to steady her. He flicked his hand, kindling an aetherlamp as the door groaned shut behind them, locking them inside. “Don’t worry, Starling. He hasn’t attacked a guard in over a decade.”

“Who is he?” Araya’s voice wavered as the male’s gaze snapped to where Jaxon touched her, his lips curling to reveal a flash of sharp, white teeth.

“Araya Starwind,” Jaxon purred, smug satisfaction lacing his voice. “Meet Prince Loren of Valendral—heir to the fae throne.”

He dragged his hand down her back, fingertips ghosting over her spine in a silent claim. He met the furious male’s gaze, unbothered.

“Do you think his blood will do?”