Page 198
Where it vanished into thin air, like he was never there at all.
Magnus almost fell to his knees, holding back a scream he knew would never end if he let it free.
—Forget about him, Maggie. He’s gone—
Aye, Pet, but—
—You’re about to muck it up twice, lad—
Shite. No.
Fern.
Mag raced back the way he came, straight to the spot where he left her, but she was already gone.
And he had a horrible feeling she might never let him live it down.
Lunara had never smelled better.
Her hair had never been smoother or shinier, the wild mass of waves and spirals tamed to loose, consistent curls. Her eyes had never been lined with such art or precision, her blue irises almost startling amidst the black powder. Her skin had never sparkled quite so much, its opalescence rich and vibrant. And once they were healed, her nails had never been so long, painted a deep and endless crimson like the blood her people practically worshipped.
Likewise, the curves of her body had never been hugged and held so well, not even by garments of her own creation. Orion’s silk was lighter than air, the midnight fabric speckled with gold stars and draped over her skin in ways she thought were impossible on someone with her shape.
Lunara was absolutely stunning. Even she knew it.
And she had never been more miserable.
The headpiece Araxis placed at the end of her ablutions was heavy on her brow, though the chains and stones may as well have been wisps of cloud and starlight—a constant reminder of the responsibility it represented.
And does everything in this wretched place have to be made with the same materials? Honestly.
She already had one diamond stone embedded in her very flesh. Why did she need another dangling on her damned forehead? It tickled and taunted, flapping against her with every trudging step it took to reach the ancient amphitheater within the Elder Halls and the onyx arena at its center known as the Hollow.
Where she now stood. Alone. Enduring upwards of five hundred stares.
Row upon curved row of seats sprang from the Hollow, stacked and looming while those in the Elder Tier found their places. The quiet din of their murmurings built as they multiplied, dizzying, like screams and shouts aimed directly in her ear. Scents assaulted her, their ceremonial oils and waters dense in every shallow, ragged breath. Rapt gazes bore into flesh and bone, adding salt to the open wounds on Lunara’s soul.
She couldn’t bring herself to look at the front row, reserved for the Elder Council. Wasn’t sure what her body would do when she beheld the forty-nine creatures who ruined her life—fifty-one if she included Araxis and Cordelia.
Which she was still on the fence about.
There were moments with Brand, at the height of her bliss and discovery of him, where she was able to forget. Where she even edged towards the idea of forgiveness, for her own peace if nothing else.
To be under their scrutiny, surrounded at last by the very creatures she spent more than five decades avoiding…
It was the nightmare that woke her in the lonely dark. The tears that flowed like the Fount from the tired eyes she refused to close because horrors were painted on the back of her lids. The cold sweat and tremble that had been her constant companions. The jump scares at every cracking branch and cold breeze.
It was Lunara’s greatest fear being realized.
No benefit of a friendly face. No hand to hold her own. No sweet words to shore her courage.
She was alone. So fucking alone.
Doesn’t matter. Don’t let them make you smaller. You are Lunara the Moonweaver, their blessed fucking Keeper. Look them in the bleeding eye so they know it.
Right. Easy. Just her and herself. Shite.
Gathering her courage, Lunara turned back towards the doors she came through and started there.
