Page 63 of What Beats Within the Tunnels

“You might have had her in your bed, but I’m certain I’m the one she was thinking of. She loves me. To her, you’re a temporary balm, a fleeting distraction from the anguish I’ve caused. And soon, she’ll see that and come running back,” he retorts with a bitter edge.

I refuse to let him rile me up. “Believe me,” I say, voice low, “I had her so consumed with pleasure that the only name she could scream was mine.”

The room’s temperature drops noticeably, a clear indication that Nyx’s control over his magic is wavering. The realization strikes me: this bastard might genuinely harbor feelings for her. I wouldn’t have believed him capable. Despite the smoothness of his response, I don’t miss the tight, white-knuckled grip he has on his desk.

“So, when’s the ship setting sail?” he finally asks, trying to regain some semblance of composure.

“Before dusk,” I state firmly, “whether you’re there or not.”

He meets my gaze with a defiant one of his own. “I’ll be there,” he snaps.

I decide it’s time to cut the encounter short. There’s no need to drag out this pissing match any longer. I prepare to channel, leaving him in the cold, but I hear him before I go.

“Just remember, Colton, every touch, every kiss, she learned from me. You’re merely retracing my steps.”

The door to Dorian’s shop creaks open under my forceful push, announcing my arrival with purpose. What Nyx said still scratches at the back of my mind, fueling my irritation. But right now there are more pressing matters to attend to.

Front and center, Trilok and Goaty manage the shop’s daily dealings. Goaty, with her uncanny ability to read anyone, immediately catches onto my mood. “Well, someone’s feathers are clearly ruffled,” she observes, her voice dripping with sarcasm and a smirk playing on her lips. The old woman has always had a sharp tongue and keen eye.

Trilok is ever the mediator. “Dorian’s in his usual spot,” he offers, casting me a sympathetic look. I knew I always liked the talented young Fae.

I spot Dorian immediately, hunched over a long table scattered with schematics, rare metals, and the glint of various tools. The air is thick with the smell of molten metal and aged wood, mixing with the distinct scent of magic-tinged leather. The rhythmic clang of a hammer against steel resounds from the opposite end, where a few apprentices are hard at work forging.

Dorian, always absorbed in his craft, doesn’t notice me immediately. He’s engrossed in a design laid out on a workbench, his hands deftly moving over various tools and metals. As I approach, he looks up, his sharp eyes instantly assessing my state.

“Rough morning?” he inquires with a raised brow.

“Nyx,” I mutter by way of explanation, my voice low and laced with barely restrained annoyance.

Dorian nods, understanding the implication. “I see. If you’re here for the supplies, they’re ready. But if you’re looking for a sparring partner to take out that frustration...” He smirks, indicating a set of weapons hanging on the wall.

I can’t help but grin at that. “Maybe later. For now, let’s focus on the task at hand.”

He chuckles, motioning for me to follow, and we delve deeper into his workshop.

Dorian pauses in front of a hefty cabinet, its doors resembling cage bars. With a key pulled from his pocket, he unlocks it, extracting a compact sheath. He places it into my hand, and the weight is deceivingly light given its size, which is no longer than my own palm. The sheath, crafted from the deepest black leather, has a meticulously etched L—a signature for Lyra.

“I’ve custom-made this for her,” Dorian declares, his voice betraying a touch of pride. “Your briefing on her abilities was quite enlightening.”

Compelled by curiosity, I pull the handle. A blade emerges, cascading outward, black as a moonless night sky. Even in the workshop’s subdued lighting, it gleams ominously. Its edge looks wickedly sharp, promising lethality in every strike.

Dorian watches my fascination before speaking again. “This blade,” he says with care, “is crafted from Starforged Steel and is laced with essence crystals sourced directly from the Dream Forest’s innermost sanctum. Its core is designed to resonate with its user’s deepest emotions. When Lyra wields this, she isn’t just holding a sword; she’s channeling a conduit for her own potent magical energies.”

Experimentally, I flick the blade, watching as it shrinks back seamlessly into its sheath. Dorian nods in approval. “The sword senses its master’s intentions. It remains discreetly hidden on demand and readies for combat when the situation calls.”

Slipping the sheath onto my belt, I meet Dorian’s gaze. “This is perfect. She’ll love it,” I assure him.

After a prolonged discussion with Dorian, and ensuring Bim would oversee the Dream Forest in my absence, I barely managed to scrape together enough time to pack some essentials.

Throughout the day, Lyra’s fortitude in maintaining her barriers impressed me. I only sensed her once, a whisper of melancholy brushing against my mind.

Upon my return, I questioned her about her day, needing to know she was alright. Her response, detailing a simple walk with Chepi and some relaxation, didn’t quite sit right with me. I couldn’t shake off the feeling that she had been lost in deep thought, perhaps wrestling with her own demons. This tether, as powerful as it is, frustrates me in its limitations. I crave a deeper connection, a way into all of her thoughts.

I yearn to know the secrets she holds close to her heart, the thoughts that weigh her down. Even when her face is illuminated by a smile, I can’t miss the lingering sorrow in her eyes. It’s a constant reminder of the pain she’s endured. I wish I had the power to extract all her pain and anguish, and I’d like to torture everyone who has ever dared to hurt her.

I drop my pack onto the bed and sit, pulling Lyra close to stand between my legs.

“What’s on your mind, my shadow?” I ask, wrapping her in my embrace and taking a deep breath, letting her sweet scent of young roses and honeysuckle fill my lungs.