Page 46 of Kingdom of the Two Moons

Caryan allows him to see it, Riven knows. This is how they stand for a while, wordless, the room doused in the dirty red twilight shed by the blood moon.

“What do you want, Riven?” Caryan asks eventually, but his voice has whetted itself to an edge. Caryan knows very well why he is here, feeling everything over the bond.

Riven clears his throat. His voice is solemn, no trace of humor left as he asks, “Do you believe in Kalleandara’s prophecy?”

The girl who ends the blight. The blight—a reference to Caryan and his curse.

And Melody, the very girl.

Caryan just shrugs—a strange, human gesture—while Riven drops his clothes in his hand to the ground. There is no point in getting dressed now to keep up any rules of civility. He walks over to the bar built into the wall, pouring each of them a glass of ruby brandy. He saunters back to Caryan and hands him one.

Shoulder to shoulder they stand and look out over the city, until Caryan eventually decides to give him an answer.

“Prophecies hold a certain truth. I have learned that over the years.”

There it is—the fact that Caryan is older than all of them. Older than any fae has ever been. He was made immortal by Gatilla. Riven has no clue how long he served Gatilla before Riven himself was forced to join her court. Gatilla reached an age no witch or elf should ever be able to, no doubt due to her stolen magic. She made herself immortal, or at least thought she had. Until Caryan proved her wrong when he found a way to circumvent it—when he sucked all the magic out of her. Her supposed immortality went with it, transferred to Caryan.

But that Caryan cannot die naturally does not mean he cannot bekilled, as far as Riven is aware.

Riven watches Caryan take another sip from the glass, that strange blue still in his eyes. Whatever the reason is, Riven knows it has something to do with that girl. “I am not sure that answers my question,” he says quietly.

“What do you want to know, then?” Shadows curl off Caryan’s powerful shoulders, dancing in a breeze like smoke.

“Do you believe prophecies hold true in general or can they be changed?”

“They point out the inevitable. But I think you should go to bed now. We need to go to the borders tomorrow,” Caryan answers casually before he turns away, striding towards the double-winged door that leads to his private chambers. Too casually, dismissing him. It stirs a strange kind of slumbering anger in Riven.

Riven steps into the shadows. Only to appear right in front of Caryan again, blocking his way.

A flicker of fury—maybe also disbelief—flashes across Caryan’s features before his face turns arctic. Black power rips from him, licking up Riven’s bare skin, ready to strike.

Riven just inclines his chin, forcing himself to keep his face schooled in careful indifference. Only years as the cruel enforcer of Palisandre and the years at Gatilla’s court after that make his heart rate stay calm, his breathing even.

He will pay for this, he knows. But he will pay gladly.

He pushes, “They say she ends the blight. The blight is you.”

Caryan’s eyes shift, the blue replaced by a blazing amber promising violence.

Yet Riven continues, “Does she mean your end?”

“What exactly is your question, Riven?” Another growl. A concession, though. Something Caryan has granted him, those deadly shadows still curling, waiting. Suspended.For now.

“Why bring her here then? Why not hide her? Hide her from anyone, even from you? I could do it. I’ll take her to the end of the world if you want me to and never return.” He means every word. He would doanythingto prevent Caryan’s certain death. Even if it breaks his own heart.

A second passes between them, unspoken. The embers in Caryan’s eyes dim like fire without oxygen. “The prophecy says she will end the blight, but we do not yet know in what way she will end the blight—or me, if you will. I brought her here to find out.”

“No, you brought her here to find what only she can find. To gain more power. You brought her here to retrieve those relics. The elven artifacts. You want to use her talent, just as Lyrian did.”

Caryan’s teeth snap right into his face as fast as a lash of black lightning. He growls, “Not. Like. Lyrian.” Just as fast as he came, Caryan pulls back, and all that unholy magic with him. When he speaks again, his voice is slick as ice, so at odds with the black fire that still dances in his eyes. “Very careful, Riven, or I’m going to draw some more blood tonight.”

Riven pushes on regardless. “Then do it. But it needs to be said—keeping her here is tantamount to suicide.”

“I’m not going to warn you a second time,” Caryan seethes. His upper lip curls back, baring his fangs to their full length.

“She is a half-blood, Caryan!”

Half-bloods. So rare among the fae. Most of them are born with no magic at all, yet some… Some bear magic that is even more devastating than the magic of a high fae or a witch. Along with unique talents and skills. This is what makes them so feared.

---