Page 3 of Realms of Shadow and Sun
Phillippe looked down at his brother and sighed, his expression a mixture of empathy and concern. “I can't imagine how difficult this must be,” he said softly. “Fated bonds are so rare, it's hard for any of us to truly understand how you feel. But we will get her back, Grayden. I promise you that.” He paused, then asked gently, “Can you still feel her?”
Grayden closed his eyes, reaching out along their bond. The connection was there, but instead of the fiery inferno he usually felt, it was like a dim candle flame, flickering and in danger of being snuffed out. “She's there,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, “but faint. So faint.”
“You know she's alive,” Phillippe said, squeezing Grayden's shoulder gently. “That's more than any of us would get if we lost our loved ones. You need to focus on that blessing, Brother. It's a thread of hope we can cling to.”
Grayden nodded, but his insides remained knotted with worry and fear. He felt perspiration beading on his forehead, unsure if it was from the fever or the turmoil in his mind. Trying to push thoughts of Renya aside for a moment, he asked, “How is our sister?”
Phillippe's expression darkened, and he shifted his feet, suddenly unable to meet Grayden's gaze. “I haven't been able to see her yet,” he admitted, his voice heavy with concern. “She'll only see Julietta. She won't let Dimitri give her anything to help ease her grief. I ran into Julietta on my way up here, and she said Selenia doesn't talk. She just...stares into the fire and won't eat or drink.”
Worry gripped Grayden's heart, squeezing until he felt he might suffocate. Fates, everything was falling apart around them. Jurel was dead, Renya was gone, and nearly half the Twilight Kingdom lay in ruins. He was also certain his magic was completely depleted. Grayden had pulled everything from inside of him on that hill to try and reach Cressida, but he hadn’t been able to bring forth even a spark.
Phillippe saw the look of despair on Grayden's face and clapped him gently on the back, mindful of his injuries. “One thing at a time, Grayden,” he said, his voice firm but kind. “One thing at a time. We'll face each challenge as it comes, and we'll do it together.”
Grayden nodded, trying to draw strength from his brother's words. But as he closed his eyes, all he could see was Renya's face, her eyes wide with fear as Cressida dragged her away. The memory burned, fueling a determination that began to smolder within him. He would heal, he would regain his strength, and then...then he would move heaven and earth to bring her back.
Chapter Three
For the third consecutive day, Sion found himself contemplating whether or not he should just kill Brandle in his sleep. The allure of making it look like an accident was tempting. He could push him off a cliff, bury him alive in an avalanche...the list of potential punishments and methods of death seemed endless, each more satisfying than the last in Sion's mind. But as gratifying as orchestrating Brandle's demise might be, he knew Grayden was still relying on him to play his part at Cressida's court. The weight of his responsibility sat heavy on his shoulders, a constant reminder of the delicate game he was forced to play.
Sion sat by the flickering fire, its warmth barely penetrating the chill of the Snow Lands. The crackling flames cast dancing shadows across the pristine white landscape, creating a strange, ever-shifting view. He listened to Brandle's thunderous snores emanating from the nearby tent, the sound grating on his already frayed nerves. It surprised him that Brandle trusted him enough to sleep so soundly, leaving Sion to keep watch. For his part, Sion rarely closed his eyes for more than a few minutes at a time, his fingers perpetually curled around the hilt of his dagger, ready to spring into action at a moment's notice. He didn't trust the queen's cousin for a heartbeat, and he wasn't about to let his guard down now.
A muffled cough drew Sion's attention to the old man bound to a nearby tree. The sight of the elderly prisoner, forced to sleep upright in the biting cold, with nothing but the frozen ground beneath his thin, strange garb, made Sion's stomach churn with guilt. He rose from his position by the fire, snow packing beneath his boots as he approached the captive.
Sion studied the man, taking in his torn shirt and peculiar footwear. The shoes were black with laces, but they were low-cut, entirely unsuitable for the harsh conditions of the Snow Lands. His glasses hung askew on his face, one edge dangling lower than the other, a testament to the rough treatment he'd endured. Despite his disheveled appearance, the man's eyes were a piercing, crystalline blue that seemed to bore right through Sion.
Sion couldn't fathom why this seemingly unremarkable human was so important to the Shadow Queen. Perhaps he had been banished to the human realm? The memory of their initial encounter flooded back to Sion. When he and Brandle had stepped through the portal and found the man bent over a long row of books, he had offered no resistance. It was almost as if he had been expecting them, his cerulean eyes twinkling with amusement before Brandle's magic froze him in place and then forcibly dragged him into their world.
The old man rubbed his hands together vigorously, blowing on them in a futile attempt to generate warmth. The golden buttons securing his sleeves glinted in the firelight, a touch of elegance in their desolate surroundings. Sion glanced back towards Brandle's tent, confirming that the snoring continued on, before he spoke in a hushed tone.
“I'm sorry about this,” he murmured, genuine regret coloring his words. “I wish I could let you go and return you to your world.”
The old man's gaze settled on Sion, his mouth twitching as if he possessed a secret that Sion couldn't possibly comprehend. “Trust me,” he replied, his voice surprisingly steady despite the cold. “I'm right where I want to be.” He studied Sion intently, silver hair damp against his scalp, snowflakes melting and tracing icy paths down his weathered face.
Sion sighed heavily, the weight of his conflicting loyalties pressing down on him. He reached into the leather satchel slung across his shoulder and produced a handful of dense, nutrient-rich traveling cakes. Kneeling down, he pressed them into the old man's cold-numbed hands. The prisoner grasped them eagerly, shoveling the food into his mouth with surprising speed.
“Do you have a name?” Sion asked, curiosity getting the better of him.
The man swallowed hard, then offered another enigmatic grin. “Cyrus,” he replied simply.
Sion rocked back on his heels before standing and moving back to the fire. He grabbed a battered pot and began filling it with fresh snow and a blend of aromatic herbs. The familiar motions of preparing tea provided a moment of normalcy in the surreal situation.
“Well, Cyrus,” Sion began, his tone casual but his mind racing, “what does the Shadow Queen want with you? What importance do you hold for her that she sent us all the way to the human realm to retrieve you?”
Cyrus's eyes glinted in the firelight, a hint of mischief in their depths. “Oh, trust me, I'm important to her,” he said, his voice laden with unspoken meaning. “At one time, I was the most important person to her.”
Sion snorted, finding the claim hard to believe. And yet...it was a strange request, traveling through the portal to kidnap an aging human male. There had to be some kind of connection there, as impossible as it seemed.
Cyrus began coughing again, a dry rattle that seemed to emanate from deep within his lungs. Sion turned his attention back to the pot he had placed in the fire. As the mixture heated, a soft citrus aroma wafted through the air, eliciting a contented sigh from the old man.
“I haven't smelled crimling tea in almost twenty-five years,” Cyrus murmured, his eyes closed as he savored the familiar scent.
Sion's suspicions crystallized in that moment. This man wasn't just a human. He was fae, glamoured like Renya had been. For whatever reason, he had either been banished or had chosen to hide in the human realm.
Carefully, Sion removed the pot from the fire and poured its steaming contents into a tarnished silver mug. He brought it over to his prisoner, watching as Cyrus's blue eyes sparkled with knowing gratitude.
“You're not really hers, are you?” Cyrus asked softly, his gaze penetrating.
Sion fought to keep his face neutral, his heart hammering in his chest. How could this man guess his duplicity so easily?
