Page 114 of Rift
“Beyond,” she whispered.
His finger slid down her cheek, trailing the freckles as he held her eyes.
“Whoever you are, whatever you are, Astra Leona, the gods did not craft you to hide in the shadow of night.”
And yet you deny me your own sunlight, she thought. Instead of confessing the feeling aloud, she sighed, his finger pausing at her chin as if to catch the whisper of her discontent.
“Astra!” Mirquios boomed across the street, his voice bouncing against the beige walls of his palace. She hadn’t even looked around. She was so entranced by the golden light of the Sun. They were perched atop a paved street on a hill, looking down at the rest of the city. Everything glowed in shades of sand and red clay.
Luxuros pushed her chin toward his king as if it was perfectly within the scope of his job to touch her like this.
The king stopped just short of them. “Whoa.”
Lux dropped his finger, the print embedded in her skin in a sizzling scar no one would ever see. “That’s intriguing,” he whispered. “Who would have thought a Lunar princess would be even more beautiful in the Sun?”
“Perhaps I belong here, after all,” she suggested. She half-meant it.
Mirquios only smiled and gestured toward the street, unfurling before them. “Shall we?”
“Where are we heading?” Astra asked.
Lux flashed a devilish smile at his long-time companion, who mirrored his expression. She saw it then, the bond between them, a seal that blood couldn’t touch.
“No place fit for a princess,” the king said.
Astra followed him through a series of alleyways, Luxuros stalking behind them to keep an eye on the empty streets. The homes in Mercury were vertically oriented, much like the homes in Celene, but on a grander scale. Tall towers rose one after the other, with pastel green and blue domes crowning their roofs. Balconies boasting plants and hanging laundry loomed over the city sidewalks, teeming with evidence that a few hours from now, the streets would bustle with life.
Everything the Sun touched sparkled.
Mirquios banked left at the end of an alley, throwing his hand backward to grasp for Astra’s. He yanked her into a narrow opening between towers, bathed in cool shadows. He stepped lightly as he guided her to a back door, cracked open with a metal crate.
“Welcome, Princess,” Mirquios said, sweeping his arm toward the door. “To The Dune, home to the Mercurian Rebels.” He pulled the door open and entered first, scanning the room before waving her forward, the commander close behind her.
It was dim inside. Her eyes struggled to adjust after taking in so much light, but the bar slowly came into focus. It was empty save for someone stocking curved glass bottles behind a slab of aventurine stretched across the room. It glimmered under beams of morning light sneaking in through the open door. Velvet-lined booths hovered around metallic tables across the majority of the floor. A stage littered with instruments took up the far edge of the room.
“She’s downstairs,” the barkeep called out without looking up. Mirquios and Luxuros exchanged a glance before the king plunged down a narrow staircase beside the door, his tall frame swallowed by the darkness immediately.
Astra craned her neck to peer into the darkness, but a gentle push from Luxuros at her back prodded her forward. She descended into the inky black, her eyes relaxing as they found their comfort in the haze.
Her feet hit cold cement at the bottom of the stairs as Mirquios disappeared behind a door that had seen better days.
Perhaps better centuries.
“Maeve?” he called.
Luxuros pushed Astra aside, poking his head through the door and holding her back as they spoke with someone in hushed tones. When a velvety feminine tone replied, his fingers curled around her wrist as he pulled her into the basement.
Before her eyes could even take anyone in, a gasp followed by amused giggles prickled at her skin.
They’d entered a workshop of sorts. Shelves held tools and trinkets spread out and numbered, neatly organized into rows of similarly shaped objects. In the corner was a sitting area comprised of worn-out, mismatched chairs, their fabrics faded by time.
Rising from one of them was a woman who stood eye to eye with the commander, her tall frame weathered by fine lines at the corners of her amber eyes. Her deep skin was marred on one side of her neck with a shallow series of scars, healed over gods knew how long ago. As Astra’s eyes settled on them, she pulled her onyx braids forward, letting them spill over her neck in a waterfall of beads that bounced off her leather vest.
“Astra, this is Maeve Maelstrom, the Captain of the Mercurian Nova Rebels.” Astra extended her hand, but Maeve’s wide-eyed stare gave her pause.
“You’re her spitting fucking image,” Maeve said quietly, scanning every freckle on Astra’s face. No colors flowed from her chest—she must have been trained by the commander.
“Oh,” Astra said, shrugging. “Yes, I look a great deal like my aunt.” A rivulet of crimson pulled at her nerves.
