Page 117 of Andreas

Turning in the opposite direction, he wanted nothing more than to fall back into that sweet dream of the little boy with raven locks and brilliant moss eyes—because Rymedur knew once he woke up, the nightmare of reality would return, and the truth that he would never see the boy’s mischievous, cheeky grin ever again would be real.

But the incessant poking would not stop, and when Rymedur wafted his hand to be rid of the annoying little bugger, his arm dropped, reaching for the only thing that would bring him comfort—Areanel.

Blinking the sleep from his eyes, Rymedur’s vision adjusted to the darkness that clung to the small, stuffy room. Something was missing. At some point in his sleep, Rymedur had turned onto his stomach, his head turned to the side. Uncurling his arms from where they were crossed beneath the pillow, Rymedur lifted himself onto his elbows and stretched out an arm. Smoothing a hand over the rough, scratchy bedsheets, he noted the slight warmth, barely there, meaning Areanel hadn’t been gone long. But where had she disappeared to?

Sleep often evaded Areanel; Rymedur knew that well, and with the way he had seen her struggling over the past three days, he wasn’t surprised. He had tried his best to support her, even attempting to stay up with her so that she could talk to him. But Areanel had other ideas. The yawn that escaped him was telling—Rymedur must have been exhausted to have fallen asleep and not realise when Areanel had left.

Flopping back, he bounced off the mattress. Rymedur’s back ached, muscles sore and limbs stiff. Running a hand down his face, he chuckled at the memory of the night before, his cheeks burning beneath his hand. Gods be damned, he was a grown man blushing over his own wife! Huffing a laugh, Rymedur found himself thinking of his past relationships. There had been plenty (not that he would ever tell Areanel), but no man or woman had ever made him blush at the mere thought of them—and here he was, blushing like an adolescent over his little demon.

A flash of a memory rushed to the forefront of Rymedur’s mind, of a lean man with dark hair just like his. Long and tied back at the nape of his neck, with eyes that mirrored his own, he twirled a petite woman. Her eyes were honeyed amber, and feathers decorated her inky hair, pulled into two braids. They spun around a cosy living area, and the sound of their laughter and hurried footwork was a different kind of music. His parents.

Had they shared what he felt in his chest every time he looked at Areanel? A love so deep it felt euphoric.

A sharp jab at his side chased away his nostalgic memories. Rymedur again swatted at whatever disturbed him and covered his face, groaning into both hands. Dammit, he was hard again at just the thought of her.

Whispering silk curled like a ribbon around his fingers before hardening into what felt eerily similar to a soft rope. Rymedur’s brows pinched. ‘What the—’ His confused whisper turned into a surprised yelp as his hands were torn away from his face. Rymedur was pulled upright with force as his shadows moved back and forth against his skin—slow and sluggish like sentient tattoos awoken from a deep slumber—of their own accord.

Looking towards the culprit, Rymedur saw a lone shadow curling around his fingers, weaving in and out, its movements frantic as the dark guest tried to get his attention.

Perplexed, Rymedur could only stare as the shadow flicked its tail, as though gesturing for Rymedur to follow before flitting towards the door. A moment of shock had Rymedur pausing. He knew his shadows inside out—knew what they thought, meant, felt—all of it. He wasn’t sure how, but it was something he had taught himself. Manifesting later than the average elven child, his first shadow had only appeared to him in his early adolescent years. It had terrified him. The darkness seemed to move on its own, gravitating towards him, but his parents had been patient as he tried to learn the new and rare power he had been cursed with.

It was his father, James Luca—a human—who had helped and encouraged him to never give in to his fears and to face the darkness with a lifted chin and a steady presence. However, his father’s mortal life had come to an end long before Rymedur was properly able to understand his shadows.

A weight, like a boulder settling in his ribs, had him gulping down the stone lodged in his throat. Rymedur wondered if his father could see him now, whether he would have been proud of him. Not only could he understand his shadows, but he could control them. It had taken years of defiance, discipline and rigorous training, but he had managed to do it and become the most decorated, youngest commander in Selcirith history.

So, when Rymedur glanced down at his chest and saw the inky shadows writhing, unsettled against his arms and curving over his shoulders, he knew something was wrong.

Jumping up, the soreness in his limbs long forgotten, he grabbed the closest clothes—trousers crumpled into a bundle—and pulled them on. He quickly moved around the bed, not bothering with the ties, and blindly fished through the dark for the blade he knew Areanel kept under her pillow.

Then, he rushed to follow the frantic shadow.

He followed it into the hallway and down the creaking floorboards of the corridor. Focusing on steadying his erratic heartbeat, Rymedur opened that familiar door to his power and could taste the spicy pine-like scent on the tip of his tongue as the darkness snaked out of the vault he kept locked away in his soul. The blade in his palm became a second thought; if his shadows were pulling him into danger, Rymedur knew he could count on them.

Letting the door slide open, his shadows emerged, peeling back from his skin and raising their heads until they were poised like snakes, ready to strike at a moment’s notice.

The darkness in the corner of his eye seemed to shift, and he swore it edged closer, bowing as he sped past. The shadows pressed closer and closer, waiting for him to reach out and use them.

The small, erratic shadow that had awoken him slithered along the worn floors, disappearing around a corner at the end of the narrow hall, making for the crowded sitting area.

Rymedur’s steps faltered as he heard hushed voices, but he couldn’t make out a word—especially not over the snores that rattled the too-thin walls, emanating from Brutus and Vasilio’s shared room. Another reason for their restless nights. Rymedur’s eyes rolled as he glared at the door.

Tilting his head, Rymedur placed a hand on the wall and leaned closer, trying to hear what was being said while cursing his rounded mortal ears. Rymedur inched forward, the chipped grey paint rough against his calloused palms. A draft of winter air nipped at his bare skin, and the only warmth came from the silver chain he was never without, which shifted under the shadows around his neck.

‘Stop it.’ The plea was whispered, the only thing he could hear from this distance, but it was enough for him to move. The cool handle of the blade slid into his palm, feeling, for a second, like the only thing tethering him to this world.

Desperation. Despair. Devastation. A plea. Rymedur’s heart stuttered to an almost complete stop. Because that was Areanel’s voice. Areanel, who sounded so broken. So shattered.

Rymedur turned the corner, blade tight in his grip. The entire room was illuminated by moonlight, and Rymedur could see all the city’s districts through the window from where he stood: the towering government building in the centre, with its large, glass, domed roof; the busy harbour at the far end of the city, bustling with fishermen and naval commanders alike; the combination of fae magic and human technology integrated into every seam, from small everyday items to the way the buildings were designed; even Alabasus’ underground, the dirty little secrets the citizens of the city didn’t want others to know, he could see.

For the second time that night, Rymedur halted mid-step; his gaze followed the small shadow along the threadbare rug running towards the bare foot that hung swinging from the height of the window ledge she perched on—Areanel. His little demon sat side-long, one leg curled under the other, on the ledge facing Caius. But that was not the reason Rymedur had frozen.

Following the shadow Rymedur had first noticed, he watched as it curled around Areanel’s leg, climbing up until it reached the hand that wrapped around the wrist that was gripping her bare thigh. There, it reared up like a snake, hissing at its prey.

What the fuck? Rymedur’s breath stuttered, mind frozen.

Areanel’s knuckles had turned white, and one hand trembled around Caius’s wrist while the other clutched the collar of his white shirt. It felt like someone had punched him, landing a heavy blow to his gut. What were they doing? Something old and ancient stirred within Rymedur’s chest at the sight of Caius’s hand squeezing against her thigh as he leaned into her space. An irrational, territorial, elven part of Rymedur’s soul twisted, like claws spearing his thoughts. The sensation shocked him; he had never been the type to get jealous. He’d had his fair share of past lovers; some he had even shared in his reckless youth. So, when the murderous intention made itself known, Rymedur was taken aback.

But there was something in the way his shadow moved—snapping and spearing at Caius, whose face was now inches away from Areanel’s—that told him this was wrong.