Page 13 of Realms of Shadow and Sun

Sion's face softened at the mention of Grayden, a flicker of hope passing across his features. “I'll try the best I can—Cressida is asleep and drank heavily before bed so I'm hoping she won't notice my absence. I'll try to get a hawk out. What do you want me to tell him?”

Renya hesitated for a second. What could she possibly say to him? How could she encapsulate all her love, fear, and hope in a brief message? The words seemed to stick in her throat, inadequate in the face of their separation. Finally, she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. “Tell him…tell him to trust me. To wait. And that I'm okay. And…that I love him.” She flushed a bit, the declaration feeling both deeply personal and woefully insufficient.

But Sion didn't seem embarrassed about her declaration. Instead, his eyes held a mixture of understanding and sadness. “I will, Renya. Hopefully we'll talk again soon. Leave your window unlocked in the evenings and I'll try to visit when I can. Good luck.”

Sion gave her a quick embrace, the gesture conveying more than words ever could. Then, with the agility of a cat, he pushed himself through the window, his golden robes blowing gently in the night air before he disappeared into the darkness.

Renya stood there for a long moment, staring at the empty window. The cool night breeze caressed her face, carrying with it the scent of freedom that now seemed so far away. She closed her eyes, trying to commit every detail of this encounter to memory –the sound of Sion's voice, the warmth of his embrace, the glimmer of hope he had brought with him.

With a heavy sigh, she moved to close the window, leaving it unlocked as instructed. Her fingers lingered on the latch, a part of her wishing she could follow Sion into the night. But she knew her place was here, for now. She had a role to play, a battle to fight from within enemy territory.

Renya turned back to her room, her eyes adjusting to the dim light. The enormity of the task ahead of her was daunting. To deceive Cressida, to learn from her while secretly plotting against her – it seemed almost impossible. And yet, what choice did she have?

As she crawled into bed, exhaustion finally overtaking her, Renya's last thoughts were of Grayden. She reached out with her mind, sending her love across the distance that separated them. And just before sleep claimed her, she could have sworn she felt a faint warmth in response, a ghostly touch that whispered of hope and reunion.

Chapter Eight

“Absolutely not,” Grayden growled, his irritation evident. His fist clenched on the polished surface of the war table. “I will not wait any longer to rescue Renya. I'm healed now—I'll go alone if I have to.”

The council chamber fell silent, the weight of Grayden's words hanging heavy in the air. Torchlight flickered across the worried faces gathered around the table, casting long shadows that seemed to embody the gravity of their situation.

“Grayden, be reasonable,” Phillippe pleaded, his dark eyes narrowed. “We'll need every soldier available to us if we want to have any real chance of defeating the Shadow Queen. If we separate our resources now, our Snow Land soldiers will be killed. We need to solidify all of our armies and make one targeted attack. We can't risk the men.”

Grayden glanced around the table, fuming. The faces of his allies—friends he'd fought alongside and trusted with his life—now seemed like obstacles. How could they expect him to wait to rescue Renya? Every second they were apart was excruciating for him, a physical ache that ate away at his very core. There was so much to be done before they amassed the forces from the other kingdoms. Triston and Esmeralda were still negotiating with the Spring Lands, their diplomatic efforts slowed by centuries of mistrust and political maneuvering. The Twilight Kingdom was trying to recoup the losses they endured, their once-mighty forces decimated by the Shadow Queen's surprise attack. It would take weeks—if not months—to launch a full attack on the Shadow Realm.

The realization made Grayden's blood run cold. Months of Renya in Cressida's clutches. Months of not knowing if she was safe, if she was suffering. The thought was unbearable.

Kalora seemed sympathetic, her gentle eyes filled with understanding. But even she nodded in agreement with Phillippe. “I know how hard this is,” she said softly, reaching out to touch Grayden's arm. He jerked away, unable to bear the comfort. Kalora continued, undeterred, “But we can't afford to lose any men—not if we want to have a chance at vanquishing her once and for all.”

Grayden launched to his feet, seething in anger. The chair behind him toppled backwards, the crash echoing through the chamber. In one fluid motion, he grabbed the dagger from his boot and threw it at the middle of the table. The blade whistled through the air, embedding itself in the thick wood with a resounding thunk. It quivered there, a physical manifestation of Grayden's frustration and pain.

Without another word, he stormed out of the room, leaving the rest of the attendees stunned into silence. The heavy door slammed behind him, the sound reverberating through the stone hallway.

His boots thumped noisily against the stone floor as he strode away, each step fueled by a potent mixture of anger, fear, and desperation. He headed towards his chambers, his mind racing with half-formed plans of rescue and revenge.

Grayden had just started to climb the staircase when a familiar figure appeared at the top. Selenia stood there, her arms crossed, a knowing look on her face.

“Brother, yelling and threatening won't get Renya back any faster,” she said, her voice firm but gentle.

Grayden exhaled heavily, the fight draining out of him at the sight of his sister. He continued up the stairs, brushing past Selenia and pushing open the door to his room. He didn't invite her in, but he didn't need to. Selenia followed him inside, closing the door softly behind her.

The room was dimly lit, the fading afternoon light casting long shadows across the floor. Selenia took a seat beside the fireplace, the flames casting a warm glow on her face. She looked at Grayden meaningfully, waiting for him to speak.

He sighed and sat opposite her, his eyes fixed on his boots while the fire crackled and hissed. The anger that had fueled him moments ago was fading, leaving behind nothing but weariness.

“I just don't know what to do without her,” he said, his voice hardly above a whisper. The admission felt like defeat, a weakness he couldn't afford to show to anyone else.

Selenia's face softened, empathy shining in her eyes. “I know. I feel the same way about—” she paused, swallowing hard before continuing, “I just, I understand. But Grayden, she's alive. She's resourceful and brave. She'll be okay.”

Grayden's face turned crimson, embarrassment washing over him as he recalled his tantrum in the council chamber. Renya was alive, and he had proof—he'd felt a flash of anger through their bond this morning. It was faint, like trying to hear a whisper across a crowded room, but it was there. A reminder that she was still fighting, still holding on.

His gaze shifted to Selenia, and a wave of guilt crashed over him. While he ached for Renya, at least he knew she was alive. Selenia had to come to terms with the fact that Jurel was gone, lost forever. They'd sent his body back to the Snow Lands so he could be laid to rest with his father. Selenia had cried and tried to accompany his body, but Grayden would take no more risks where her safety was concerned. He was needed here, and he would trust no one else with her protection.

“How are you doing, Selenia?” he asked softly, realizing he'd been so consumed by his own pain that he'd neglected his sister's grief.

She shrugged, avoiding his gaze and looking into the fire. The flames danced in her eyes, masking the pain he knew lurked beneath the surface. “I'm managing,” she said after a moment, her voice barely audible over the crackling fire.

A movement caught Grayden's eye, and he noticed a small white ball of fur curled up in front of the fireplace. The snow-white kitten was sleeping soundly, oblivious to the weight of sorrow that hung in the room.

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