I eyed his extended hand wearily. “Why?”
“Because you deserve the truth.”
“I already know the truth,” I said.
“Then you have nothing to fear.”
I should have refused. Every instinct told me to turn away, to call for the guard, to end this intrusion before it rooted itself any deeper.
But something beneath my sternum stirred, reckless and aching.
Slowly, I extended my hands toward him, his fingers enveloping mine completely.
I did not have time to take note of the scars across his palms or the heat flooding my body, because the world folded in on itself.
The chamber fell away around me, dissolving into something vast and ancient. I could smell stone—not the dust-warmed stone of the Archives, but something colder. Obsidian corridors slick with shadow. The air of Umbral, thick and mineral-rich, heavy with the weight of centuries.
I had never been there. And yet I knew it.
The scent clung to my lungs as though I stood within those halls myself.
Heat unfurled beneath my skin, spreading outward from the point of contact. My pulse scattered, my breath hitching as images flooded behind my eyes.
Towering archways carved from black glass. Markets lined with lanterns that burned a muted violet, their light flickering over faces I had never seen before. Tall shadows moving with quiet authority. Figures cloaked in darkness that did not frighten me—because I understood, somehow, that this was home.
His home.
A sense of loneliness washed over me. But it was not mine.
Years of standing apart. Of watching bonds form around him that were never meant for him. Of holding power without warmth. Of hearing others’ souls echo and finding no answering chord within his own.
And beneath it, a yearning not for conquest, but for someone who could step into those obsidian halls and not recoil.
My fingers tightened around his instinctively. I felt an invisible thread pull between us, beginning in my chest andending in his. I gasped as it lit up a molten gold in response, shimmering vibrantly.
You would just know.
My heart slammed violently against my ribs.
No.
No, this was not that.
It could not be. Because if it was, it meant the texts were fraudulent. It meant the High Court had spent centuries weaving a lie to keep us compliant. And more terrifyingly, it meant the one thing I had always wanted for myself—that impossible, undeniable alignment—was now within reach. But it was attached to him.
I tore my hands from his and the chamber slammed back into focus.
My shoulders struck the wall the bed rested against as I shuffled away from him, the cold biting through the thin fabric at my back.
“You did that,” I accused, my voice unsteady. “You forced me to see things. You planted hallucinations.”
He remained exactly where I had left him, hands empty at his sides. “I did not.”
“You expect me to believe that?” I bit out. “What you are insinuating is not possible.”
“Who decreed that?”
I stared at him incredulously. “The texts. The High Court. Me.”