Page 18 of A Reign of Storm and Madness

This place. The windows. The quiet reverence I feel as I stand amidst the tomes and dust. It’s…

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” A familiar soft, masculine voice speaks up, both finishing my thought before I have a chance to and offering a question by way of greeting. It startles me from my reverie so abruptly that I rip my gaze away from the images above me and whirl to face the man who steps out from the stacks of books.

Caedmon is dressed impeccably as always in rich royal colors of blue and gold. His tunic is snow white against his dark skin where it peeks out from the opening of the indigo jacket. The stitches shine bright, glimmering like the sun matching the pads over his shoulders. A careful floral design lines the front of his lapels.

My eyes lift to meet his. They’re lighter than I remember. Instead of graveyard brown, they appear almost honeyed—like bleeding sap from a maple tree. I blink and suck in a quick breath before I jerk my gaze down and bend, offering my bow as a sign of respect.

Of all the Gods I’d expected to be one of the ‘others’ Dauphine had mentioned, Caedmon had slipped my mind. It hadn’t occurred to me that the lone God who had shown me sympathy and even kindness would want to see me again.

“You may lift your head, Kiera.” Caedmon is quick to command me, but I keep my eyes trained on the floor. Something unsettling grips my chest.

Why him? I have to wonder. Why is he here?

Silent footsteps move towards me, stopping a hair’s breadth away as I see the tips of his polished boots beneath me. I swallow reflexively as the crackle of Divine energy spills over me, sliding over the back of my neck and down my spine. I want to reach up and slap a palm over the place where the brimstone still sits beneath my flesh, a mark not unlike the new uniform, a reminder of my place in the world.

Something tells me that Caedmon isn’t here by coincidence but by design. “Kiera.” I close my eyes at the gentleness in his tone. I dislike gentleness. I can’t trust it. When fingers graze my shoulder, my eyes shoot open again, but still, I don’t move. I don’t look up. It takes all my strength not to pull away as Caedmon’s hand moves along my shoulder and his fingers touch my chin, forcing my head up so that I have no other choice but to meet his softened gaze.

“You may relax,” he says. “There’s no one else here but you and I.”

Lie? I can’t tell. My heartbeat thunders in my ears. His posture is relaxed. Yet that only makes my muscles tighten impossibly further. Distrust sings in my blood and the still lingering effects of the wounds not yet completely healed on my back remind me that regardless of his seemingly kind eyes, Caedmon is a Divine Being. A powerful one, at that. He is the God of Prophecy. I am little more than an ant he’s chosen not to step on.

His full lips twitch as if he can read my thoughts and when his hands move away from my chin, releasing me, I finally stand up.

“Did you know that your eyes flash a brighter silver when you’re emotional?” he asks casually.

“What?” I gape at him.

His lips quirk, the corner of his mouth tipping upward. “Your eyes are like starlight and storm clouds all at once,” he murmurs, and when he gazes at me I have the distinct feeling that he’s not so much looking at me as he is looking through me. As if he’s seeing someone else entirely. “Tell me something,” he says, shaking his head as if ridding himself of untoward thoughts. “Do you get your eyes from your mother or father?”

I blink. “I’m not entirely sure,” I answer him honestly.

He arches a brow, the action looking almost regal rather than curious. “You don’t know?”

I bite down on my tongue wondering how much to tell him. Discerning which truths are harmful and which are innocent is not quite something I’ve ever been good at. Not like Ophelia. Not like Regis.

After what feels far too long, past the point of politeness, I answer him. “My father died when I was young,” I say, choosing honesty. “I don’t remember much of my mother, but I think my eyes are likely from her.”

“Did she die as well?” The question, coming from Caedmon, doesn’t sound like actual interest, but asked as if it’s part of a dance he feels the need to complete. A step towards something I can’t yet see.

“I don’t know,” I repeat.

He hums, the sound musical and soothing. My senses strain closer to him, relishing in the soft melodious note of his voice. I grind my jaw and grip the sides of my trousers, digging my hands into the fabric, threatening to rip it with the strength I extend in an effort to remain still.

Caedmon turns away and a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding rushes out of my chest. “I’m sure you’re still healing,” he says as he takes a few steps away and moves towards a bookshelf. “So when it became clear that Dolos intended to punish you further, I volunteered to have you help me with my research.”

“Your research?” I repeat.

I eye his back warily. My fingers stretch out at my sides, cramping from just how harshly I’d been gripping my trousers. The weight of the blade at the small of my back and in one of my boots is heavier than usual.

Caedmon lifts a hand and a light flares to life above our heads. My chin jerks upward as I realize that the last remains of sunlight have disappeared and the windows above are all dark now. More lights appear above the rows of bookshelves, lining the long corridor of parchment and ancient tomes before us.

The God of Prophecy looks back at me over his shoulder, the twist of his lips belying his amusement. “Yes,” he says. “Being immortal is ridiculously boring, so many of my brethren—myself included—often find ourselves obsessed with the mysteries of the world.”

I step after him. “What kind of mysteries?” The question feels pulled from somewhere deep within me, but once it’s out there, I refuse to take it back.

Caedmon half-turns back to me but looks to the stack of books before him, his attention fixated on the volumes as he scans the shelf. “There are plenty of mysteries in this world, Kiera,” he says. “Ones far older than even the Gods.”

The history lesson from earlier that day resurfaces in my mind. I’d been distracted by Kalix as he’d antagonized the Goddess of Scribes in that reckless way of his. The memory of her words, though, hadn’t disappeared. In fact, I’d latched on to them as I’d listened to her talk.

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