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A rare lightness breaks through my worry. “How could I forget, when you remain so fierce?”
Her resolve falters for a heartbeat before snapping back into place. “We need to move. Elionn can’t wait.”
“Nor can you.” I release her hand with reluctance, though I remain close enough for the unnatural cold radiating from her body to reach me. “The Dark King has agreed to provide twelve guards. Thalindor prepares our weapons and supplies as we speak.”
“I don’t trust his guards,” she murmurs as servants rush past in the corridor, carrying armor and weapons toward the spire’s main entrance.
“Nor do I.” I lean closer. “But we cannot be seen as the enemy here. Once inside the rift, we follow our own plan.”
“Then let’s not keep them waiting.” She straightens her spine and squares her shoulders. “The sooner we leave, the sooner we return with Elionn.”
She starts down the corridor, and I fall into step beside her.
Whatever waits beyond the rift, we meet it side by side.
Within the hour, the Dark King’s guards await us in the courtyard, twelve warriors clad in obsidian armor that drinks the morning light. They stand in perfect formation, weapons gleaming with recent oil, expressions carved from the same unforgiving stone as their fortress.
Not one acknowledges me, whether as calculated insult or wise precaution. Silver and Dark have not mixed well in a long time, and today we ask them to risk their lives for a prince not their own.
Nyctarian walks ahead of us, his dark robes catching no light despite their intricate embroidery. “Twelve of my most disciplined warriors. They have been instructed to follow your command once you cross the rift, provided your orders serve the mission.”
A qualification worthy of the Dark King.
“And who determines that?” I ask.
“I trust you will give them no reason to question it.”
“Such trust between our sithes. I am moved.”
Nyctarian’s mouth threatens a smile.
“Save your sentiment for our return,” Kelaros says, joining us at Nyctarian’s side. “Assuming the Opal Court permits one.”
Thalindor joins us, bearing a pack of supplies and a shield strapped to his back, its inner surface polished to a mirror shine. Our escape route, should all else fail. His silver armor stands out among the darkness as a beacon.
“We are prepared, Your Majesty.” His attention strays briefly to Amalia, apprehension evident despite his discipline.
She stands apart from our group, facing toward the rift.
I cross to her side and stop close enough for my sleeve to brush hers. “Amalia.”
She blinks, returning to us with visible effort. “The court is waiting for us. It’s… excited.”
“As am I.” Kelaros sidles closer. “For the mysteries we will unlock today.”
Thalindor positions himself between Kelaros and Amalia, a movement so smooth it appears casual rather than protective. “We should depart now.”
Nyctarian raises a hand, and his guards form a wedge around us, leading the way into the crumbling depths of the Dark Spire, to the abandoned courtyard.
As we near, Amalia walks with increasing confidence, her earlier exhaustion falling away. Each step strengthens her, as if the proximity to the court feeds the shard within. The Opal threads beneath her skin pulse brighter, more insistent.
I match my stride to hers. “Does the pain lessen?”
“Yes,” she says without turning from the path curving around a building in ruins. “I feel stronger now.”
Disquiet fills me. Though I wish her no pain, it worries me for what its absence could mean. Is the proximity to the Opal Court the only cause? Or has her body changed past the point of going back to who she was?
We round the bend, and the fissure in the mountainside comes into view. It resembles a wound torn in reality itself, edges ragged and seeping opalescent energy. Roots from nearby trees have grown toward it, their tips transformed to crystal where they touch the light.
