Page 26 of The Dark Mage

“I died trying to save you,” he rasped, his voice sounding long unused. “I died watching you burn. You made me leave you, and then you sacrificed yourselves for me. I could only do the same for you.”

Ren’wyn gestured to the tortured forms before her, commanding them. “S peak.”

The youngest one flickered inten sely.

“Speak.” Dark power crawled from her throat with the order, and Fael’s magic heated her b lood.

“We died for you to be free,” the small shade whispered. “We died in vain.”

Ren’wyn reached one hand toward the family and one hand toward the young man, shadows eddying outward from her to the sh ades.

“Be at peace,” she said gently. “You died filled with love and purpose. You died to free one another. No one died in vain. Be at peace, and be united at last.” She brought her hands together, an invitation for what migh t be.

“Be at peace, and win at last with love,” she whisp ered.

Tears started again, the family’s sacrifice a painful reminder of her own mother’s death. Fael’s empty hand curved over her hip, and she channeled his strength to settle deeper into the Void.

The young man stepped toward his family. The three larger shades turned to the smallest, who hesitated only a moment. His shadowed hand reached for the older bro ther.

Light burst forth. Fael roared, his hands snatching Ren’wyn’s shoulders, turning her bodily into his chest. Dropping like a stone, he curled protectively over her as she threw her arms around his neck.

They held each other until the light dissipated, taking the shadows and mist with it to reveal the sun.

Ren’wyn was sweating and breathing heavily, but her heart was light. The first thing she saw when she opened her eyes was a wash of green and gold stars in hazel eyes so warm they invited her to d rown.

Fael pulled her against him. “Welcome back,” he whisp ered.

Fael asked so many questions on their ride home.

“Where did they go?” An understandable first ques tion.

“I don’t know,” she answered. “Some of my Masters believed there’s another realm after the Void; others thought they perhaps ceased to exist altogether and returned to the energy of the w orld.”

“What do you believe?” he a sked.

“I hope they go somewhere they find happiness,” she said, feeling wistful. “I like to believe they find contentment somewhere safe.”

“I like that,” he agreed, pausing to reflect. “Do they always appear so different in nature? Some shadowed and others almost a live?”

“Yes, they always have—for me, at least. Sometimes a shade will lose character with time. Sometimes a violent death or violent nature will change their appearance. Other times, it seems determined by how their spirits were claimed by the Void.”

“The gestures?” he a sked.

“I learned the simplest commands, breathing, and focusing techniques from my mother and grandfather; they knew to teach me enough to keep me from being overwhelmed by the Void. At the Academy, my Masters expanded on everything, teaching me how to access my magic through breath and thought, to call it up with my will. They taught me complex gestures that allow me to work the separate forces within the Void: shadows, shades, death, and wind.”

She still couldn’t believe she had another person to share Spyre with. Trusting Fael was a freedom in it self.

Fael kept one hand on the reins, the other on her waist—steady and comforting. The horse rocked, a steady clip-clop toward Delmor, and it was one of those last truly beautiful autumn days with warm air, singing cicadas, and buttery suns hine.

“When did you learn you had magic?” he a sked.

“Dark mages are revealed fully on the day they turn ten, though there are signs beforehand. Gray eyes, a dark mage parent, an unsettled feeling as the Void creeps in. At ten, you see your first shades—your guide or guides within the Void.”

“Who are y ours?”

“My brothers and sister who were miscarried. They appear as adults. I’ve only seen the bottom half of their faces and their hands. When I go into the Void, they are always near, though I don’t always see them.”

Fael continued, but not with a ques tion.

“I was taught to fear dark mages. My teachers told me dark magic corrupts, and dark mages love to murder and maim.

When I met you, you were injured and scared, but I felt your magic stir.

I knew right then you were a dark mage, and I was afraid—until I watched you with your power.

As broken as you were, you radiated strength and l ight.

“Then as we traveled, it became clear you were not what I was told. You are good—but also damn powerful. When you unleash your magic, your darkness sings. Power that deep and strong is rare.”

Ren’wyn wasn’t sure how to respond, so she let his words wash over her in silence. He didn’t critique her—he saw and appreciated her strength. It was so foreign. She settled farther into his lap and rel axed.

“I’m sorry about the last few…” Ren’wyn started, but Fael cu t in.

“Don’t apologize,” he growled, his chest rumbling against her back, his long fingers curving at her hip. “You bear so much. You were treated cruelly. Give yourself time and s pace.”

She relished the security of his body pressed against hers and the potential he saw in her. Somewhere deep down, her small voice sighed with happiness. She was tired, she realized—bone-weary, but no longer ho llow.

They crested a hill, and Delmor spread out before them.

At the inn, Ren’wyn headed straight to her room and collapsed face-first onto the bed, asleep as soon as she hit the pillow. When she woke two hours later, she turned toward Fael’s side—and found only the wall. His absence left a strange hollow space, like the loss of a limb.

Joining him for supper after bathing and changing, she found him clean, dry, and smiling. She felt good enough to wear her green dress, loving the play of the fabric over her legs.

“You look a hell of a lot better,” he said, motioning to where he had poured her a glass of wine.

“If only I could say the same for you,” she parried, drawing a laugh from him.

They talked about her hopes for the apothecary during supper. Ren’wyn wanted to repaint the sign out front and add window boxes with herbs. She was excited to make a trip for more winter fern from her favorite section of the forest. Fael listened intently, asking how she would us e it.

“For a tea,” she explained. “It’s good for stomach cr amps.”

They enjoyed dry red wine, soft cheese, and bread. The main course was a pork stew with autumn squa shes.

Both had too much to drink, but they were elated after their day. They decided to wait until tomorrow to resume training—Ren’wyn joked that she might not even make it outside after so much wine.

As they reached the doors to their rooms, Ren’wyn knew Fael wouldn’t ask to come with her.

He would wait for her to invite him. If she did, she knew she’d ask for more than comfort and sleep.

The realization shocked her. His gentle kindness, his steady presence as she walked out of her sadness, and the wine, it all had her thinking about him in ways she shoul dn’t.

“Ren’wyn?” he prom pted.

She couldn’t help but bite her bottom lip, even as she grinned. Was it just her, or was he leaning toward her with those fiery eyes?

“How does it feel?” he asked suddenly, tipping back. “How did it feel today, after the light, when they were set tled?”

No one had ever asked her that before. It was such an intimate question—one the Masters at Spyre never discussed, except to say it felt different for ever yone.

“Satisfying,” she said, humming contentedly. “Like sleep after hard work, or food after a long night. Like water on a hot day. The Void is satisfied too—it almost feels like I hear it sigh with happi ness.”

His eyes lit with wonder. “I saw a bright light after their shared touch. I felt c lean.”

“Me too,” she ag reed.

“Thank you for sharing with me,” he said gra vely.

“Thank you for believing in me,” she rep lied.

“Good night, Ren ’wyn.”

“Good night, Fael.”

He turned and walked to his room, and she pushed the ache of his absence deep down as she entered her own.