Page 111 of Trials of Dusk and Dreams
Legion’s gaze flicks between us. For a heartbeat, I glimpse longing—or is it frustration?—before he clips, “Wait outside.”
I blink. “Um . . . okay?”
“Now, Willow.”
Still avoiding me. Fine. I need air anyway.
Outside, I tilt my face to the sky. Their muffled voices drift out:
“She has no idea how she smells,” Bodin growls.
“Indeed.” Legion’s rich baritone drips with disdain. “I’d prefer to be anywhere else.”
His words sting. I sniff my armpit and wince. Yeah, I reek. There are no showers out here, just icy river splashes. The Dread Hunt lurking in the depths doesn’t encourage lingering.
“Leave her with me, then,” Bodin demands.
“I would, but Puck insists all Shadows attend. For diplomacy and education.” Legion sighs, heavy with . . . resignation? Regret? “I will endure.”
Endure. The word slams into me. But as I process their exchange, I realize there’s more to Legion’s reaction than simple disgust. His rigid control, his insistence on distance—a male fighting his own desires?
Could Bodin mean my pheromones? Are they detecting them this early?
My ability to shift might not be the only wolfish trait they absorbed. The urge to mate, to guard one’s partner, can turn aggressive when rivals approach a wolf’s new mate. Mom once let slip that Dad nearly brawled with a bartender for merely serving her the morning after they first mated.
Maybe Heliodor is a blessing. One night away from judging eyes.
Chapter 45
Willow
We join other Radiants, their Shadows, Alfie, and the Earl at Heliodor’s gates. While we wait for them to open, I scan the camp one last time. Plenty of campfires flicker in the darkness, but no sign of Nightmares. The Gentle Interlude seems genuine. Was this all just an elaborate vacation?
As guards direct us through three sets of gates, my breath catches. The city spirals up a mountain in dizzying terraces. In the distance, the palace’s crystal spires pierce the sky.
Only the waiting carriage reminds me of Avorlorna. It glides on fey lines, propelled by swirling, luminous giant wisps. As we settle in, I brave the silence beside Legion’s brooding presence.
“Legion, did you?—”
His razor-sharp glare silences me. “Know your place, Shadow.”
Heat floods my cheeks. I look away, acutely aware of the other passengers. Dahlia sits ramrod-straight beside Lord Ignarius, the picture of Shadow decorum. The hawkish Radiantdismisses me with a glance before resuming his chat with the Earl.
I know Dahlia and Ignarius are having an affair, forbidden or not. But he maintains a professional façade in public. Occasionally, when no other Radiants are watching, he’ll treat her with flowery delicacy. Still, it’s not enough to violate the Old Code’s strictures on Folk-mortal liaisons.
The carriage lurches into motion, bearing us deeper into Heliodor’s stony heart. We jolt over a polished granite bridge, and Legion’s hand grazes my thigh. It lingers—a heartbeat too long—before he snatches it back, fixating on the approaching palace beyond the window.
If only I could blame his coldness on social rules. But he’s just as distant in private. Except for that raw moment when I knelt before him, his memories flooded back, and he gazed upon me as if I were the center of his universe.
We approach a colossal geode palace, its crystalline heart exposed to the moonlight. Cascading gardens adorn the palace walls, rare crystal flowers and bioluminescent vines pulsing with otherworldly light—the sight tugs at memories of Elphyne, a bittersweet ache in my chest.
Lady Nivene’s reverent whisper to her Shadow Irisa catches my ear. “Dagda himself shaped the Adamant Palace from the mountain’s core. His divine hammer struck the stone, and with each blow, the palace grew.”
I lean in, careful not to draw Legion’s attention.
“The Baleful Hunt’s power echoes through every crystal, every stone,” she continues. “On nights when it flies, they say the entire palace sings with Dagda’s strength, a melody that fortifies the soul. Without the Hunt . . .” She pauses, her voice dropping lower. “Some fear the palace might crumble, taking all of Heliodor with it.”
Her words stir something deep within me. Beyond the ache for the Earl’s loss of the Baleful Hunt to Puck, there’s a profound sense of wrongness. The Hunt belongs here, with the House of Stone. It’s an elemental dragon, needing to feed on stone as the others feed on their respective elements.
