Page 11 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

“Is everything all right?” Myrella eyed Emmeline with a concerned furrow in her brow.

“Of course. I’m sure it’s just about the start of term progress,” Emmeline quickly answered and folded the note, hoping her shaking hands weren’t obvious. “Thank you.”

Turning back to dismiss the class, she sent Myrella off without another word, the summons burning like starfire in her palm.

Chapter Five

Emmeline

“Emmeline. Welcome,” Aldryn Falliare, the Master of Lyra Temple Academy, greeted her as the door to his office clipped shut, the sound echoing to the high ceilings.

The navy pennants draping the stained-glass windows bordering the entrance rustled with the motion, Lyra’s crest catching the light, the serpent swallowing its own tail to form a perfect circle, a pair of glorious wings set atop a twelve-pointed star in the center with the spikes piercing the snake’s scales. Emmeline shuddered as she was entranced with the beast’s beady eye.

The gruesome piece adorned every available surface of the Temple Academy and many of the isle’s other establishments, meant to symbolize the supremacy of the Angel Valyrie and both the eternal nature of the Fates as well as their precious Balance.

Each of the Constellation Isles off the coast of Gallantia defined themselves with an image just as brutal. Whether it be the armored starfire phoenix of Alvan—its white flamed feathers devouring a precious branch of wisteria from beneath a carved helm—the lyre of Gemmi that bled wisps of airy fortunes that resembled screaming masks, or any of the other four, all were wicked in their own right, heavy with intention that Emmeline could—and often had—read about for days on end.

She swallowed over her dry throat as she studied the serpent emblem, hands turning clammy. Rough scales grated against her skin, her heart rate quickening at the blade-sharp fangs.

Sweat gathered along her palms.

Her scars⁠—

“All right, dear?” Master Falliare asked.

She snapped her attention away from the sigil, stifling the panic creeping up her spine. Emmeline nodded but she didn’t step forward, hands twisting behind her back.

“Of course, sir.” The Temple Master’s eyes dropped over her. Under his scrutiny, the circular chamber felt like a tunnel, trapping her, its high ceilings so far away and the single door at her back not enough of an exit. She cleared her throat, waiting until his eyes met hers to add, “Your summons said this was a pressing matter?”

“How was the morning lesson?” Falliare asked, thick waves of grey hair drooping around his sharp-featured face. A dramatic cloak hung off his shoulders, water droplets from the dewy isle morning sprinkling the rich navy fabric as if he’d only just returned from somewhere.

“As productive and eye-opening as always,” Emmeline answered, hiding any hint of wariness at his clear diversion, though she still hadn’t figured out what Falliare wanted. “First hour is always the rowdiest, as you know, and they’re full of questions about next month’s festival.”

A low, dismissive chuckle rumbled behind Falliare, and Emmeline stiffened. Peering around his broad-shouldered frame, she nearly jumped when she met a pair of steel grey eyes, the stranger seated at the desk as if he owned it.

“Oh,” she muttered, pulling her attention back to Falliare. “I hadn’t realized this was a group gathering.”

“Yes,” the Temple Master said, stepping aside to reveal the other attendee. In accordance with the dramatic show, light filtered through the towering windows on either side of the desk in beaming streaks that skipped across every expensive bauble in the room. “I’ve asked Roremar to join us. I have a task I need assistance with—from both of you.”

The man leaned back in the Temple Master’s chair with all the ease in the world, one booted ankle crossing over his knee and long fingers drumming against the carved wood arm. His dark grey leathers were worn—knees and elbows faded as well as small patches throughout—yet they were somehow pristine, cared for with precise attention to detail. All silver buckles gleamed, as did the pair of triple-bladed daggers at his waist—the shape unique to the Starsearcher clan, meant to resemble a star whizzing through the air when thrown. A sword Emmeline was certain didn’t belong to Falliare was propped against the desk, the hilt shining silver and studded with a pattern of dark gems she couldn’t decipher from across the room.

It wasn’t only the weapons that had Emmeline’s shoulders straightening, though. The stranger had a calculating yet amused look in his steel eyes, peering from behind a few stray curls of thick black hair. The haughty purse of his full lips and the sharp jawline that ticked over whatever he saw when he looked at her.

Not just looked.

He studied her like he was committing her presence to memory, crafting his own constellation out of whatever he found. Was he always so…intense? Regarding strangers as opponents or something to be discovered? The attention had her spine straightening, skin heating as if he could see all the secrets buried beneath, the magic in her veins fighting to break free.

Roremar, Falliare had called him.

And…oh, fucking Fates. She knew exactly who this was.

Roremar the Reckless, a warrior who earned his reputation through less than savory—and less than smart—scheming. Initially, he’d begun in reconnaissance for Lyra’s legions, eventually moving to the strategy team. From what Emmeline had heard, his methods usually ended with more heads and limbs scattered around the battlefield than could have possibly been necessary.

And had Falliare said he had a task? For the two of them? Stars, she didn’t like the sound of that. Emmeline operated on perfectly crafted order, and this man’s history spoke of anything but. Whatever the Temple Master wanted, she’d be better off conquering it alone.

Lips still pursed, Roremar pushed up from his seat and circled the desk. His arms crossed over his chest as that Fatesdamned stare continued to probe her, but she kept her expression blank.

“For us?” Emmeline echoed.