Page 5 of The Bound Mage
“—my only goal here is to support your recovery,” Ilyana was still speaking, her voice steady, too earnest. "Physically, magically, and emotionally. Others have found it helpful to speak with fae who have been through the same things. If you ever wanted to talk to someone else who grew up in the camps?—”
“I don’t.”
“Healing takes many forms.” Ilyana sighed, glass clinking and leather creaking as she packed up her bag. “If you ever change your mind, I’d be happy to put you in contact with them.”
Araya didn’t respond, staring out the window long after the door clicked shut. She had no interest in sitting in a room full of so-called survivors and sifting through the wreckage of her past, pretending to find comfort in rehashing the horrors they had allendured. Maybe they had fooled themselves into believing they were safe here—beyond the Arcanum’s reach.
But Araya knew better.
She stepped away from the window and crossed the room to the wardrobe, her fingers closing over the handle with sudden purpose. She was done waiting for Loren to come to her. If he wanted to keep her a prisoner here, he needed to understand the consequences.
The fae might be confident in their safety, but ArayaknewJaxon. He wasn’tjusta commander. He was the son of the High Magister, heir to the most powerful man in the New Dominion. And she was his bonded fae ward—they would never justlet her go.
He had Loren’s blood—and hers. All of her notes. It was only a matter of time before he followed her through the Veil. And when he did, there would be no sanctuary left for anyone.
Despite Loren’spromise that she wasn’t a prisoner here, Araya expectedsomethingto remind her that her freedom was nothing but an illusion. But the door opened easily at her touch. There was no flare of magic, no guard waiting to stop her. Only an empty hallway.
Someone had thrown back the curtains, but the pale, mist-thinned sunlight that shone weakly through the glass only illuminated the thick dust that still covered most surfaces. No one had bothered to light the aetherlamps, casting everything in an eerie half-light.
Araya hesitated, toying with the Arcanum’s Eye resting against her throat. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to take the amulet off, clinging to the sense of safety it offered even ifit was useless here. This had to be some sort of trick—a play for her trust. These were the same people who had drugged her and stolen her across the Shadowed Sea, ripping her from everything she’d ever known.
At least if they were trying to make her believe she had choices, she had some sort of chance. There was a city here—somewhere. If Loren wouldn’t see reason, surely someone there would help her. If she just found the right person and appealed to their conscience?—
But she’d never accomplish any of that from inside this room.
With a deep breath, Araya stepped into the hall, closing her door softly behind her. She hesitated, half-expecting Loren’s shadows to flicker at the edge of her vision—but the only shadows she saw were the ones she would have expected to see in an abandoned castle.
She moved slowly at first, part of her still waiting for the invisible leash to snap tight and guards to burst into the corridor, dragging her back to her room. But the only sound she heard as she passed door after closed door was the scuff of her own boots against the stone floor.
Loren had to be here somewhere—along with Thorne and Nyra and whoever else attended a fae prince—but Araya couldn’t shake the creeping sense that she was completely and utterly alone.
She tried to retrace the path Loren’s shadow had led her along that first night, but it all felt different in the strange half-light. Corridors stretched too long, the threadbare tapestries blurring together until she wondered if she was circling the same wing over and over again. Still, something tugged her forward, urging her deeper into the heart of the castle.
She knew she was getting close when the furniture was no longer shrouded beneath dusty sheets. It gleamed as if freshly polished, all of it boasting the curling, fluid lines of faecraftsmanship. Finally, a hallway opened into what must have once been a personal sitting room. A book lay facedown on the low table, its spine cracked and pages slightly curled. The cushions on the settee had been pushed askew, like someone had only just left. But the hearth was dark, and the cup of tea on the side table had long since gone cold.
Stepping cautiously into the room, Araya breathed in the somehow familiar scent of cold rain and granite. But it was only a fading trace. Loren had been here recently, but he wasn’t now.
Emboldened by his absence, Araya drifted into the room, skimming her fingers over the soft fabric of the settee cushions and the cool, polished wood. She paused at the book, studying the looping script on the cover. Valenya—of course. She squinted at the letters, trying to pick out the familiar shapes of the runes she knew, but it was like trying to put together a puzzle with no reference.
With a sigh, she moved on, exploring the room slowly until she found herself standing before a painting shrouded in white linen. Unable to help herself, Araya reached out. She only meant to lift the corner—but the entire sheet slid free, engulfing her in a cloud of dust. She coughed, choking as she stared at the painting it had shrouded.
Loren was so young—no more than twelve or thirteen—but his face was already a near-perfect echo of the male she knew. The crowned male beside him could only be his father. They shared the same sharp cheekbones and raven-dark hair. But Loren’s eyes—those were his mother’s, dancing with a joy she had never seen in person.
His mother—the queen—stood beside them, her silver hair spilling like moonlight over her bare shoulders. The child in her arms couldn’t have been older than three or four, those same green eyes beaming at the artist with open delight through a curtain of wild dark waves.
Araya blinked, her eyes burning for reasons that had nothing to do with the dust in the air. It was a moment suspended in time—a memory from a world long ago turned to ash.
Both of Loren’s parents were long dead, slain in the first years of the New Dominion. And his sister—Loren had refused when Araya offered to try and find out what had happened to her. He’d been terrified to draw the Arcanum’s attention to her, clinging to the desperate hope she might still be alive somewhere.
“If you’re looking for Loren, he’s not here.”
Araya jerked back, whirling to find Thorne Emberwood leaning in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. The weak sunlight caught the red-gold threads in his auburn hair, brightening it until Araya could hardly believe he ever passed as human.
“Loren is in Lumaria.” Thorne’s amber eyes flicked from her to the portrait, seeing far too much. “He left this morning. He won’t be back until tomorrow.”
“How do you know I was looking for him?” Araya lifted her chin, refusing to back down. “Maybe I’m just lost.”
“You’re a long way from the guest wing.” Thorne’s lips twitched, his serious expression slipping. “You were so enthralled by that portrait you didn’t even hear me come in. Another minute, and you’d have been rifling through his drawers.”
