Page 21 of What Whispers in the Dark (Promises of the Marked)

T he hillside was cloaked in starlight. Calm and near tranquil in the absence of bursting magic, which had earlier been exploding with bright colors, igniting the night horizon and forming shapes and patterns until their embers rained onto his birthday celebrations below.

Every sound from the meadow had died to a low hum now. Most of his Dragons had retired to their tents, but a few remained crowded around the dying fires that glowed with the colored magic his Mystics ignited them with.

Alora lay beside him, head cushioned by her fingers interlaced behind. On her back, stretched across the blanket he had dawned them.

Smiling as stars reflected in her eyes. He had just made a pathetic attempt at tracing constellations.

Following a perceived path to resemble a unicorn, but Alora discovered his foolery.

It appeared nothing like the majestic beasts.

Yet, she humored him, followed by a quick roll of her eyes when he insisted on its resemblance.

“A unicorn? Really? It couldn’t even pass as Ghost.” Alora snorted, shaking her head in disbelief before she rotated it, disturbing her white hair before meeting his eyes. “You’re actually worse than Rowlen.”

With Garrik’s amused grunt, the blue of her irises softened. It wasn’t until they flickered to his lips and paused that he realized why.

He was smiling.

Something in his chest tightened along with his jaw. A muscle feathered in his cheek. When was the last time that simple reaction was not forced or illusioned?

But he did not allow it to settle, uncertain if it was real. But … it must have been. Twisting on his face without a single thought.

He did not know what to think of it. What to say after. How Alora’s smile widened in the calm silence hovering between them. So, he asked, “How did you meet Rowlen?” Because turning the attention from his … uncomfortable expression was easier, even if it involved another male.

Fists threatening to constrict, he reminded himself, Her friend . Rowlen was her friend.

It hardly worked.

Alora stared a moment longer before twisting to the stars. “It’s a long story,” she answered. Silence followed. Along with an unfocused stare, as if dreaming with her eyes open. Locked in the memory that tugged her mouth downward.

“Hmm.” Garrik rolled onto his side, wrinkling the onyx blanket.

Close enough to feel her warmth. Close enough that if he dared to lean down, their lips would meet.

“Luck has it, I am in close council with the High Prince.” There was that flawless smile.

Returned to her face as bright as the stars.

“The bastard can be persuaded to allow the time. If not, I will fight him for it.”

An amused scoff. Another smile. This time pointed at him. But there was something else there. Something he could not place. Alora chewed on the inside of her cheek before attempting to divert him once again. “It’s so boring.”

He doubted that. Nothing about her was boring. The exact opposite. “It so happens that I enjoy boring .”

Eyes as magnificent as sapphires dulled. Liquid lined them.

Garrik’s softened, and he felt the weight of his frivolous toying crushing down by the discomfort capturing her face. If she did not wish to speak of it… “It is alright. You do not need to?—”

“Have you ever held a jar of blazebugs?”

His brows furrowed. What did a winged fireflyer have to do with it?

Still, he shook his head in answer. His mother never allowed him to.

She sympathized with any and every creature, no matter how diminutive.

Higher or lesser, fae or insect, their social standing did not determine their worth because they were already priceless.

Not one to ever permit anything to be caged, but instead, vowed to release it.

To her, being imprisoned was worse than death.

It was why Castle Galdheir was occupied with faelights and glowstones—the very magic of Zyllyryon. The torches lining the city streets, too. Her kingdom adored her for it. Fair and honest and loving toward everyone and every living thing … until Magnelis defiled it all.

Head angled, her gaze settled on a button near his chest, as if looking him in the eyes would bring her a great deal of shame.

He did not like it, but something whispered to remain silent?—

“They remind me of pixies. The ones the privileged in Telldaira enslaved to illuminate their lanterns at celebrations,” she explained. “I sat on a roof just beyond where Kaine would have the western wall built, cutting through the city, not more than three years after my parents…”

Even in his own lungs, the air felt tight.

That pain—that deep-lying, echoing, unending pain—stole the color from her skin.

Half-expecting her silence, Alora instead weathered it expertly, pulled her arms from behind her head, and crossed them over her abdomen. Then hinted, “Something about it … something about the pixies’ faces, how their light dimmed as the hours went on. I hated it. Couldn’t let them die.”

If it could, Garrik’s chest would have warmed.

Even so young, she was a fighter. She should never have needed to be.

Alora went on, “I didn’t quite know what I was going to do, but my hand felt as fiery as my temper. Mother warned me of my powers being seen, but I was … so angry.

“If everyone attending hadn’t been so concerned with themselves, they would have seen a faeling outstretch her hands to those posts.

But not one noticed as I lit the strings aflame that held the lanterns.

” She sighed, her grip around her torso tightened.

“It wasn’t until the first one dropped and shattered that I realized perhaps it wasn’t the best idea.

But I had lit another before that one fell, and I couldn’t stop the flames from eating away at it.

I was never taught how—only to conceal my flames—never let it burn. ”

Her stare moved above his shoulder, somewhere distant.

“Something small knelt amongst the shattered glass. A young male who flinched when a voice shouted at him, and I noticed then he held an injured pixie in his palms.” Alora’s lips quivered.

“Because of me. ” A tear slipped down her cheek, swift and brutal.

Hot as molten steel and just as scathing.

She did not flinch when Garrik tenderly brushed it away. Another quickly followed, and he collected it, too. His heart dropped—nearly split. This pain he understood deep in his core … a relentless torment not so simply eased.

Yet, he would not allow her to undoubtedly blame herself for the aftermath—not her. She was not a monster like he was. Her actions were pure even when the consequence was not. “You did not know, Alora,” he argued lightly, wanting to pull her close, wrap her in his arms, allow her to feel his words.

Though he knew she did not believe it, her eyes thanked him as he brushed another tear away.

Alora swallowed. Emotion dammed the liquid in her eyes, prepared to flood at any moment.

He nearly suggested a shift in conversion when she murmured, “The young male wrapped the first pixie in a cloth napkin and ran to the next. Doing the same before slipping them under a silk-draped table. He didn’t have time to withdraw from underneath because an older male wrenched him out by his ankle.

” Her voice broke. “He slapped him. As if shattering the lanterns was his fault.

“I waited until the party concluded and the lanterns were removed to jump from the roof.” She smiled. Subtle, but a smile, nonetheless. Then chuckled, “I startled him,” and widened her grin. “One of my favorite games to play in the years thereafter.”

Garrik could imagine her amusement because he and Aiden delighted in such trickery to torment Thalon. Lurking around corners, leaping out to elicit such an entertaining shriek from one so solidly built and steady-minded.

“What happened next?” he asked, and she loosened her punishing hold that had maneuvered to her ribs.

Good. She did not need to punish herself for it any longer.

A moment of hesitation, then, “Can I show you?”

He thought he may have imagined it, but no. That was another smile contorting his face. She was asking him into her mind. For the first time, she wanted him there. How could he possibly say anything other than, “Of course.”

Alora’s memories caressed him like a warm palm cupping his cheek the moment she closed her eyes, and his magic—his shadows—slipped through the barrier between them.

“Stay back,” the faeling male warned, terrified. Terrified because the hand hovering over a bleeding wound on the pixie’s shoulder had exploded with blinding white light. When it lifted …

Nothing. Where that wound had been … there was nothing. Not even a spec of blood.

“You have magic ?” she squeaked, a little too loud and excited that if someone was passing by, it wouldn’t go unnoticed. The pixie in his hand darted away, the only thing to remind them of her presence; a swirling trail of glitter in the wind.

“Shh, shh.” He ran to her and covered her mouth.

She couldn’t decide if she should be surprised or disgusted.

“You can’t tell anyone!” Pleading ice-blue eyes darted around the darkened courtyard, empty save for the still-decorated tables and chairs, and cascading pots of pearlseas and ivy twisting up marbled pillars and archways.

Alora pulled his hand from her mouth and gaped.

She had never met another Marked One. And a healer at that. One who … who could fix her mistake …

“Please,” he choked out and opened his mouth to speak, but Alora covered it instead.

Guided by moonlight, in the reflection of his eyes, she could see her hand between them ignite. White flames dancing with sparks turned them so wide the whites glowed, and he fell back on his behind.

“I have magic, too, silly.” Extending her hand, the flames resigned, and she offered, “I’m Alora.”

But he didn’t take her hand. Didn’t return the gesture, utterly speechless.