Page 86 of The Edge of Darkness

“He was able to do what others were not,” Maeson said. “He mastered it.”

“No,” Aremis corrected her.

She whipped her head back to him, her eyes searching his.

“I have lived with this power,” he said. “But that does not mean that it has not cost me.”

Maeson’s face faltered.

“Go on,” Nivelle urged.

Aremis was worried—the tension in his jaw an obvious tell—but he pushed past it. “When I use the word ‘chaos,’ I do so because it is the only word I can think of that embodies what it truly feels like. Every minute of every day, there is a constant battle being waged within me, and—” He stopped himself, taking in a slow breath, working through his words. “No one knows how that feels, or the things that are stolen from me along the way.”

“Stolen?” I questioned.

“Moments, memories, emotions.” He stiffened, seeming to remember the company he was in, the hand that clutched onto his arm. “You call this power a curse,” he went on, directing the statement to Nivelle. “If that is indeed what it is, then I understand everything now.”

“A useful ability, despite its repercussions,” Nivelle said. She looked from Aremis to Maeson, pausing on the proximity between the two, the unspoken thing between them. But there was no pity in her eyes, regardless of what she saw before her, regardless of the pain in Aremis’s voice that was glaringly apparent, even though he tried to hide it.

She turned to me. “You will need his power on the battlefield.”

Aremis and I locked eyes. We already knew that much. A dampened, somber smile tilted his lips. I couldn’t share one back, though. Not while I knew what his power was doing to him on the inside.

He had described it to me once—how the voices and the visions were all-consuming. Much too powerful for the average fae who happened to be born with the ability. And yet, here he stood, perfectly composed—save for the sadness in his expression. After so many years of control, he remained level-headed, unwavering in his dedication and strength in every way. That in itself was the perfect testament to the male he was. It was why Niall had chosen him as his second. But my heart hurt for him and all that he’d had to endure, struggling with this so-called “curse,” while upholding and maintaining his position within Calledan’s court as Niall’s advisor.

“Can the curse be broken?” I asked Nivelle.

She thought about my question for a moment, before saying, “I’m not sure. The witch perished while attempting to separate herself from it.”

A collective sense of defeat fell over us.

Maeson covered her mouth. “Excuse me,” she said shakily, striding off toward the edge of the patio.

Aremis fought the urge to follow, opting instead to turn back to Nivelle, and stepping closer. His voice was low—steady and determined. “But there is a way to at least try?”

Nivelle tilted her head back to look up at him. “That will depend on what you are willing to sacrifice.”

He would do it—whatever it required. He didn’t need to say it out loud; I saw his resolve. As if Nivelle saw it too, and found it admirable enough, she said, “I will help you, if I can.”

Surprise flickered through me. Perhaps my previous conversation with her really had changed her mind about the fae.

Before Aremis could utter his thanks, the door at the top of the stairs opened. We turned to see Roirdan looking down at us, a grin plastered onto his scruffy face.

“Finally, I’m not the first one to arrive, for once,” he said, taking the stairs with more grace than his size should allow. The sun caught in his hair, highlighting the gold in the brown strands that fell forward to frame his face. The rest was tied back in a knot with a strap of leather.

His focus was trained on Nivelle, who seemed to shrink in size before him, even though she straightened in defiance. He sauntered by her, and she turned her head to follow his gait, slinging daggers at his back with her eyes as he took his place at the breakfast table.

Both Aremis and I noted the way the two of them acted in each other’s presence—Roirdan with a swagger to his step and a tilt to his lips, and Nivelle, with a fury of spite building behind her hard stare.

Someone else cleared their throat.

Niall.

He crossed the space and planted a kiss on my forehead, while taking note of the looks on all of our faces, and Maeson, standing by herself, facing the mountains. “What’s going on?”

“Just a friendly morning chat,” I said, trying to convince him that the tension that laced the space wasn’t as bad as it seemed.

He wasn’t buying it.