Page 10 of The Bound Mage
Loren opened his mouth, but she raised her voice, cutting him off.
“You walk out on the Small Council whenever it suits you. You refuse to step into your role as prince.” Her voice sliced through the air like a blade. “Our people are refugees in our own kingdom, crammed together like rats on a sinking ship, clinging to the last dry planks. And the children?—”
She stopped, taking a deep breath.
“I know you think keeping Araya in the dark protects her,” she said more quietly. “But parents are already making impossible choices. If this continues… they’ll beg the New Dominion to take their children. Just so they’ll have food in their bellies. She grew up in one of those camps. Do you think she could live with that?”
“I already stole her choice once,” Loren snapped. The shadows slipped his grip, spiderwebbing across the walls in dark veins that pulsed in time with his ragged breaths. “I’m not going to use starving children to manipulate her into accepting another chain.”
Eloria sighed, her expression shuttering as she stared at the writhing shadows.
“You should still tell her the truth,” she said softly. “Just… tell me you’ll consider it, Loren. Please. I hate seeing you like this."
“Just go, Eloria,” Loren ground out. The shadows bucked at the edges of his control, their hissing voices drowning out the pounding of his own heart. “Leave me alone.”
Eloria just shook her head, staring at him like she didn’t recognize the male he’d become.“I’ll see you tonight, Lorendrael,” she said softly. “It’s your homecoming. Try and show up for it.”
Chapter
Three
The castle wasa relic of another world. Moss and creeping lichen clung to pale stone walls crowned by brittle, long-dead vines. The wide, unbarred windows yawned open to the mist-heavy air, their frames streaked with water stains.
It wasn’t a fortress. Even in good repair, these walls would never have withstood the Arcanum’s forces. But now? The gate didn’t even close. When Jaxon came for her, he’d be able to walk right in.
“It’s smaller than I expected,” Araya said, staring down at the pier far below. Nyra’s boat was still tied there, the female’s silver hair catching the weak sunlight as she scurried across the deck. The only path down was the staircase they’d climbed—narrow and slick from constant moisture. A fall from this height—Araya wasn’t sure if it would be better to smash into the rocks or hit the water and drown.
“This was never a primary residence,” Thorne said. “It was a retreat for the royal family and their closest friends. A place to honor the Goddess and learn from her acolytes.”
“But there’s a city?” Araya asked.
“Lumaria,” Thorne replied, glancing at her. “Eloria moved the court there about twenty years ago—to be closer to her people after her father died.”
“Is it far?” Araya stared down at the waves, keeping her voice carefully neutral.
“It’s about a half day’s walk, if you take the cliff road.” Thorne’s lips twitched, but he didn’t call her on her thinly veiled attempt to get more information. “The temple road is much shorter, but it runs through the forest.”
Araya frowned, glancing at the dark line of trees. “Why is that a problem?”
“Because not all of the shadows here are as tame as Loren’s.” Thorne gave her a faint, humorless smile. “Trust me. If you’re thinking of trying to run, do it during the day. And take the cliff road.”
There wasn’t much else to see. Thorne didn’t press her, just nodding in approval when she navigated them through the halls back to the guest wing without guidance.
Alone again, Araya rifled through the desk drawers. To her surprise, she found a neat stack of parchment, along with a quill and a small pot of ink. It wasn’t much—but it was something.
She sat down at the desk, smoothing the first sheet with a steadying breath. Then she uncapped the inkwell, dipped the quill, and began to write—carefully noting everything Thorne had told her. The coast road. The forest. Lumaria.
Finally, she sat back, staring down at the page and willing an answer to take shape.
None did.
The knock at the door made her jump, startling her so badly that she left a crooked slash of ink across the page. Araya set it aside, blowing on it hurriedly before crossing the room. She pulled open the door, expecting Thorne or Ilyana. Or—gods forbid—Loren.
But instead a strange fae female stood there. She tilted her head, her blue black hair cascading over her shoulders and her green eyes dancing with good humor.
“Well,” she said, her common accented with the lilting cadence of Valenya. “Look at you.”
“Can I help you?” Araya asked warily.
