Hands restraining me. The burn of the lash. Leather straps biting into my wrists. A cold stone table beneath my back. Faces shrouded in shadow.
“Who is your patron?” As if the answer was something they could beat out of me.
Old rituals insisted a goddess would appear when her favored bled. None did.
I snapped back to the present with a sharp inhale, the edges of that day still clinging to my skin.
My eyes drifted to the bandage wrapped around my chest.
I unwound the cloth slowly, each layer tugging before itreleased. Dried blood clung to the linen, pulling at my skin with a sharp, tearing catch. When it finally peeled away, I froze.
The gash was still deep, held together by Lumen Sutures—light-thread used only by Synnex healers to drive out magic-touched wounds. They should have shone silver. Instead, their glow had guttered out, leaving thin, darkened lines, as if something had scorched the magic from within.
Shadows seeped through the weakened stitches, shifting as if they sensed the air. They slipped back beneath my skin before I could fully register the movement.
A chill prickled along my spine.
My chest tightened, suddenly aware of a presence behind me—something hovering just at the edge of sense. My head snapped toward the feeling, but no one was there. Only a stillness that hadn’t been there a moment before, deep and absolute.
Panic clawed up my throat. How could I save anyone when I couldn’t even keep myself whole?
I forced the fear back down, smothering it under anger. My gaze returned to the mirror. “Great,” I muttered, voice brittle. “Another scar.”
I pressed my fingers to it, and the skin thrummed beneath my touch.What are you? What did you leave behind?
The dream. The dagger. The way it had cut through me like silk. But how could a dream leave something so real behind?
If that was real… what else had been? Hayat. The shadows. The pain. The whispering dark.
I remembered falling… remembered arms around me. A scent of smoke, myrrh, ash and heat—a body bracing mine as I returned to the world. And then—nothing.
Fury sparked, burning away the tremor of fear. Someone had touched me—held me—when I was broken. They had seen me weak. My jaw clenched. Never again. No one would carve scarsinto me. No one would touch Aeryn. No one would leave me powerless.
The water in the tub was hot, grounding. I slipped beneath its surface, letting it close over me, wishing it could drown the questions clawing at the edges of my thoughts.
I surfaced with a sharp inhale and ran my fingers through my wet hair, trying to shake it all off.
Steam curled around the chamber, fogging the mirror and softening the edges of reality. The scent of rose and sandalwood clung to my skin, but beneath it all, I still felt the phantom press of shadow.
When I emerged from the bathing chamber, Lysara waited.
She held fresh clothes—undergarments too soft, too sheer, too laced for my taste. I eyed the dress draped across the chair—silken, elegant, and entirely too revealing. The plunging neckline dipped far lower than I was comfortable with, threatening to put my scar on full display. I had lived with it for most of my life—learned to hide it, to armor myself around it. But now… more people had seen it in the past few days than in all the years it had been carved into my skin. The thought made my chest tighten.
Lysara noticed the tension in my shoulders before I even spoke. “Too bare,” she murmured, more to herself than to me. Without waiting for a response, she lifted her hands. Threads of shimmering fabric flowed from her fingertips, swirling before settling over the bodice of the gown. The neckline rose gracefully, weaving itself higher with effortless elegance, delicate patterns blooming across the fabric.
Weavers were extremely rare. Back in Synnex, only a handful remained, kept hidden in the homes of the town leaders like prized possessions. The ability to pull something from nothing was a magic hunted nearly to extinction.
Our eyes met in recognition.Her secret to tell, I reminded myself.
“There,” she said softly. “A touch more modest. Beautiful still, but yours.”
I nodded, grateful, fingers brushing over the newly formed fabric. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” she said. “Now, arms up.”
I obeyed, and she slipped the gown over my head, guiding the fabric down with practiced grace. Her hands were precise and gentle as she smoothed it into place, fastening hidden clasps at my back with deft fingers.
The silk hugged my body—soft, cool, impossibly light. Lysara adjusted the fabric at my waist, coaxing it into place with practiced ease.