𝔸 ℂ𝕠𝕦𝕣𝕥 𝕠𝕗 𝕃𝕠𝕧𝕖 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕎𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕙 (Book 2)

Twelve

    It is for the best. I kept telling myself over and over again. I didn't know how I'd let something else invade my mind.

    The day before the week finally finished I'd been walking down the now-familiar hallways I'd made sure to memorize, heading for the dining room. I'd eaten more in the past week. It was a gradual increase, and yet my energy felt better.

My sleep had still been haunted by crippling nightmares. They left me disoriented and broken, but my breathing never left me on the verge of passing out. A small victory. But a victory nonetheless.

I approached the large archway but immediately stopped as Rhysand and Mor's voices floated toward me. I knew it was a public space, that they wouldn't be having some top-secret conversation in a place where ears could be listening—example: me. I quieted my footsteps anyway, not wanting to reveal my presence just yet. I knew Fae had a sense of smell and they could likely have caught my scent already—a skill I'd made sure I learned after death.

My magic was unknown to me, I was too cowardly to try to wield it in any way, out of fear of destruction or tragedy. But in the next moment, I wished I knew how to mask my scent.

I walked into the room finally after the realization that even if I wanted to become invisible I literally couldn't—the thought was very humbling.

The two came into my view, Rhysand was pacing around in circles next to one of the large open windows of the palace. He held his chin like he was contemplating, Mor sat in a cream-colored armchair with her hands splayed across the sides as she stared into the distance.

"Azriel wouldn't want to know that," she was saying.

    "Azriel can go to hell," Rhysand snapped back, "He likely already knows anyway."

    Azriel? He was likely some Night Court contact. It had never really occurred to me that Rhysand would have different stations as High Lord. People he relied on. To me, he seemed like an "If I don't do it myself, it won't get done" type of male. A statement I entirely agreed with.

    "We played games last time," Mor continued with a voice that I knew whatever they were talking about was very serious. I paused wondering if this conversation was important and why they felt the need to have it in public. "And we lost. Badly. We're not going to do that again." She finished as she loosed a heavy breath.

    "You should be working." was his response, "I gave you control for a reason, you know."

    Mor's jaw tightened as she faced me; leaning against a pillar as I eavesdropped in plain sight. She gave me a smile, that looked more like a cringe.

    Rhysand turned to me aswell, his face set in a frown, "Say what it is you came here to say, Mor." He resumed his pacing.

    Mor rolled her eyes—a half-hearted action that was likely for my benefit—" There was another attack—a temple in Cesere. Almost every priestess slain, the trove looted.

    Rhysand's face was a mix of pure rage and sorrow at her news. He halted entirely, "Who." a command.

    "We don't know," she replied, just as solemn as him. "Same tracks as last time: small group, bodies that showed signs of wounds from large blades, no trace of where they came from or how they disappeared. No survivors. The bodies weren't even found until a day later when a group of pilgrims came by."

    I raised my eyebrows in surprise, and Mor looked over at me giving me a sympathetic look.

    I looked over to the High Lord, not really knowing how to handle sympathy. Shadows began to curl around his back, taking the beginning shapes of wings. Then as if he'd finally loosed his temper from its leash, the majestic wings became flesh.