Page 17 of Claimed By Stone
“I wish I knew what to callyou,” he said quietly. “Is there anything you can recall? Even a sliver? Maybe we can jog your memory.”
I furrowed my brow, reaching inward for something—anything—but all I found was a faint, uneasy echo. I didn’t want to feel what I’d felt when I looked at that symbol.
“Well, I can speak Godling,” I said slowly, “so I must be a descendant on some level. How that translates into being trapped as a statue in this mountain… I don’t know.”
“Trapped?” he echoed, sharply. “You saidtrapped?”
I cocked my head, puzzled. “I did. Which would mean… I wasn’t meant to be a statue.Perhaps?”
He stepped closer, frowning in thought. “Hmmm. I’m not well-versed in transmutation magic, my clan can’t wield it, but with a little research...”
And just like that, he was gone—already striding toward the shelves. I felt his absence like a draft against my skin, and without thinking, I followed.
“What are you looking for?”
He was already halfway up the ladder, reaching for a thick tome near the top. Dust curled from its cover as he brought it down and cleared space on the table, laying it down with a satisfyingthud.
“I can only read some of this. Many of the pages are written in Godling,” he said, glancing at me.
“Well,” I replied, unable to stop the slow smile that curled across my lips, “it just so happens you have a translator.”
His answering grin sent something warm swirling through my chest. “I do indeed.”
I moved to sit beside him again, closer this time.
He opened the book. Most of it was written in the language of the Fae—one any magic wielder could learn. But the other script, the one that shimmered faintly against the yellowed pages, belonged to the Godlings.
“I’ve never been able to read any of this,” he murmured. “I can manage the Fae text, but not the Godling. Until now.”
“If I wasn’t meant to be a statue…” I looked at him, voice soft. “Maybe we can find the answers here.”
His eyes connected with mine, and he gave a small nod. Hope bubbled up inside of me at that thought.
“It’s worth a try,” he said.
He turned the page, and something stopped me. A drawing—a symbol I couldn’t name—leaped off the parchment. I raised my hand to touch it, and he did the same. Our hands met over the book.
Time stilled.
Breathing the same air, this close to him, I felt warmth steal through my body. It felt like I was safe. Like, for the first time in longer than I could understand, I wasn’t alone in the dark.
He turned toward me. That look of awe I was beginning to crave softened his face.
“You feel like home,” I whispered.
“I feel the same way,” he said.
He cupped my cheek. His hand was calloused and careful. I leaned into it, searching for the contact.
“I may not know what this magic is,” he said, voice low, “but whatever it is, it’s nothing I’ve felt before.”
And even though I didn’t know what Ihadfelt before, I knew that was true.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked, eyes shining with reverence.
I nodded—barely, afraid that even the motion might send me slipping away again.
His lips met mine, warm and reverent, and something inside mebloomed.
