Page 81 of Cursed Shadows 2

If my heart was aching before, it’s being shredded to pieces now. Like a jar of pixies unleashed in my chest, I feel tiny nails and teeth ripping through me.

A tear slips down my cheek at the tragedy of it all, for Rune, his evate, Aleana, and a me that could have been if I’d given in to the temptation to chase after Daxeel through dark lands.

We fall into silence for the rest of the walk.

I don’t push him on Aleana. I walk quietly beside this male who I know is good.

And when we part ways in the courtyard, he dips his head in farewell, and I give a sharp curtsey.

I don’t go to my bedchamber like I should, at least to take care of the bruise budding along my cheekbone or the cut on my lip or the bite from Daxeel on my shoulder.

Instead, I find myself veering down the corridors that will lead me to the dance hall.

The dancers have replaced me already. With my commitment to the Sacrament, I can’t perform with them now. But this phase, they show me kindness.

I wander into the hall and, hesitantly, sneak a spot on the farthest end of the line of their practice.

Only some glances are spared my way, but none of them ask me what I’m doing or tell me to leave. They understand—the emptiness of the mind when the music starts and the body moves. A slate wiped clean.

And so I dance.

17

DAXEEL

††††††

Daxeel drops into the cerulean velvet chair by the unlit hearth. Tris, the red-haired slave, a freckled human, whisks to his side in a heartbeat, and sets to pouring out a mug of coffee and plating some grilled pixie hearts and fried morke eggs, as black as ink blots.

He throws a blackened heart into his mouth, his weary gaze on Samick across the lounge. “What are you doing up so early?”

Snowy strands of hair fall into Samick’s face. He flicks his seafoam eyes up from the parchments and charcoals scattered all around the table he’s hunched over. “I have not gone to bed yet.”

Through his fatigue, Daxeel picks up on the scent of a female. “Someone from the Gloaming?”

Samick rubs his charcoal-stained fingertips together as he considers his sketch. “Luna, the female Ridge brought with him.”

In answer, he just hums something curt. For a moment, he studies the black smudges on the parchments. Daxeel doesn’t have to guess what Samick is sketching—those beloved ateralum throwing stars of his.

New designs, probably.

Samick’s trait is a rare one, and he cherishes it. The ability to manipulate the stubborn, unique black metal. It’s a trait only found among a few ancient tribes of fae in the northern mountains of the Ice Court.

Other traits exist, some rare—like Rune’s ability to silence prey with a single touch, or rarer still, some have the sense of fate—and others more common, like Daxeel’s mildshapeshifting talents.

But Samick’s fae trait is one that regards him amongst the dokkalves as a life worth saving above most others, and one that pays in bricks of gold.

For a long moment, Samick considers him. His icy gaze is as unfeeling and inexpressive as his face. Has always been that way with him. A lifelong brotherhood, and Samick never thaws.

“You bonded,” he says after a moment.

Daxeel takes the mug of freshly brewed coffee. “It changes nothing.”

Samick is silent as he considers him. It’s not until Dax drinks the mug empty, then sets it aside and reclines in the armchair, that Samick speaks, “It will be more difficult now.”

Looking up at the arched ceiling, trimmed with gold, he sighs, “It was always going to be difficult.”

Another pause, then an arctic voice, “You love her again.”

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