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His nostrils flare. “Our quarters.”
My brow furrows. “That’s the same thing.”
“I assure you, they are not.” He cups my elbows and helps me to my feet. “Once we return home, I will educate you on the difference.”
A shiver goes through me.
Do I want that?
Or is it the bond?
I can’t tell anymore, and I’m not sure it matters.
29
THE THREAD BETWEEN US
CAELAN
Ipace the chamber I stand in, seven steps to the window, pivot, and seven steps back.
The rhythm fails to soothe the chaos inside my skull where a second heartbeat pulses with growing urgency. I cradle my temples in my palms, but the sensation only intensifies, a silver thread pulling taut between realms.
“Amalia,” I whisper to the empty chamber, her name a plea and a curse.
The sithean stone’s connection throbs at the base of my skull, a persistent ache that’s grown stronger with each passing hour. Not my stone, but my twin and I were once one within our mother’s womb, our magic formed as a single spark before splitting into two bodies.
The connection still exists. And in his absence, the stone binding us reaches for a replacement, and her pain creeps across my skin, distant yet undeniable.
My fingertips crackle with silver threads of magic, snapping and sparking with each agitated movement, the control I’ve maintained for centuries fraying at the edges.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the largest mirror, barely recognizing the fae who stares back. Dark circles rim my silver eyes, giving them a sunken, haunted quality.
My immaculate robe hangs from shoulders, rigid with tension and gone bony from missed meals. Its pristine lines are at odds with the state of me. The silver circlet marking me as regent in Theron’s absence sits askew on hair I haven’t bothered to braid in the traditional style.
This is what ruling does, what fear does.
What love does.
I continue my circuit, bare feet silent on polished floors cold enough to burn. The spire groans around me, a living thing straining as my solitary magic struggles to sustain it.
With both Theron and Elionn gone, the burden of anchoring the entire Silver Sithe falls to me alone. The walls know this, the floors, the very air, all of it crying out for balance restored.
“I’m trying,” I mutter, answering the unspoken complaint of stone and silver.
Court matters pile on my desk unattended, scrolls and petitions demanding attention I cannot spare. The ministers whisper when they think I cannot hear, wondering if the last Myr’Shade Royal has the strength to hold.
Their doubts feed mine, a serpent eating its tail.
My hands shake as I reach for the chalice by my bed. The moonwine inside ripples with my unsteady grip, Silver light dancing across the surface before I drain it in desperate swallows. The warmth spreads through my chest, a poor substitute for the comfort I crave.
The pain comes without warning, a vicious stab beneath my ribs that doubles me over.
My chalice clatters to the floor, remnants of moonwine spilling in a pool of quicksilver across the marble tiles. Not my pain.
Hers.
The connection between us flares hot and wild, dragging a gasp from my throat. Whatever Amalia suffers in the Dark Sithe has grown strong enough to reach me here.
