Chapter 9: The King’s Obsession
Alaric stared at the rough-spun servant’s tunic in his hands, the plan forming in his mind—distract, acquire, disguise, locate the conduit. It was a good plan. A clean one. But the light in this damn room kept shifting.
A cluster of bioluminescent fungi near the ceiling pulsed with a soft, green-tinged glow. It caught Rose as she braided her hair back, her fingers quick and practical. The light danced along the curve of her neck, turned the stray wisps around her face into filaments of gold against the darker brown. It lit her eyes from within, making that green depth seem infinite, a forest under a strange moon. He knew he should be running through the layout of the Spire again, calculating risks, but his thoughts kept stuttering, snagging on the way she bit her lip in concentration.
It was a problem. She was a problem. Not the inconvenient, delicate burden he’d first assumed, but a distraction of a different, more dangerous kind. The memory of her against the door, the whispered “don’t stop” that had felt too real, it flashed behind his eyes at inconvenient moments. He dragged a hand down his face. Focus. Eldrin was down there. His men were scattered, relying on him.
A resonant chime sounded at their door, three clear tones. The summons.
The throne room was a maw of polished darkness. The air was cooler here, smelling of damp rock and something metallic, like old blood. Their footsteps echoed on the black oak floor, the sound swallowed by the vaulted ceiling lost in shadow. At the far end, the throne wasn’t a seat of honor but a jagged wound of twisted iron, its back turned to the room as if in supreme disdain for any who sought an audience.
Lord Vaelan was not seated. He stood before it, a tall, slender figure in robes of charcoal grey, his long-fingered hands clasped behind his back. He watched them approach, his large, dark eyes reflective and unblinking. His features were sharp, elegant in a way that felt alien, carved from the same stone as his Spire.
Alaric felt Rose beside him, a taut, warm presence. He angled his body slightly, instinctively putting himself between her and the Myogian lord. The move was subtle, a husband’s proprietary shift. He forced himself to meet Vaelan’s gaze, to project a weary traveler’s respect.
“You requested our presence, my lord,” Alaric said, his voice steady in the hollow space.
Vaelan didn’t answer him. His attention slid past Alaric as if he were a pillar, a piece of furniture. Those obsidian eyes fixed on Rose.
He moved toward her, his steps silent on the stone. Alaric’s muscles coiled. He couldn’t intervene, not without breaking their cover. He could only stand, a statue of forced calm, as Vaelan stopped mere inches from Rose.
“Your surface-wife intrigues me,” Vaelan mused, his voice a melodic whisper that seemed to come from the walls themselves. He was speaking to Alaric, but his eyes never left Rose’s face.
One long, pale finger, tipped with a claw-like nail, lifted. It caught a strand of Rose’s hair that had escaped her braid. He didn’t tug, just let it rest there, the bioluminescent light from sconces turning it to liquid gold against his grey skin.
“Tell me, little bird,” Vaelan said, leaning closer, his words meant only for her. “Does your mate know how exquisitely your pulse flutters when touched?”
Alaric’s vision narrowed. He saw the frantic beat in the hollow of Rose’s throat, the slight tremor she couldn’t control. Rage, cold and bright, flashed through him. It was a physical effort to keep his hands at his sides, to stop them from reaching for a weapon he didn’t have.
Rose didn’t flinch back. She lifted her chin, meeting Vaelan’s gaze directly. Her voice, when it came, was clear, laced with a defiance she couldn’t fully mask. “All surface-folk pulse. It’s a sign of being alive. I’d heard your kind had forgotten the feeling.”
A flicker, something like amusement, passed over Vaelan’s impassive face. He dropped the strand of hair. “Alive. Yes. A noisy, wet, fragile business.” Finally, he glanced at Alaric, a dismissive flick of his eyes. “You seek audience regarding the famous Singing Stones. A common pilgrimage for bonded pairs, so my attendants tell me. Why?”
Alaric swallowed the bitterness in his mouth. “A vow. Made when we were pledged.” He reached out, his hand finding Rose’s. Her fingers were ice-cold. He laced his with them, a display of unity. “To hear their song together. It is… important to us.”
Vaelan watched their joined hands with detached interest. “The Stones sing of eternity. Of timelessness. You mortals, with your frantic pulses and your fleeting bonds…” He trailed off, his gaze returning to Rose, tracing the line of her jaw, the vivid green of her eyes. “You are like mayflies trying to comprehend the mountain. The sound would break you.”
“Our vow remains,” Alaric pressed, the words tight.
“Of course.” Vaelan waved a hand. “You may hear them. Before the supper hour. A guide will be provided. The paths are… treacherous for the uninitiated.” He took a step back, his business apparently concluded. His final look was for Rose alone, a slow, appraising sweep that made Alaric’s grip tighten on her hand. “Enjoy the music, little bird. Try not to be swept away.”
They were dismissed.
Alaric led Rose out, his stride measured, their clasped hands the only point of contact. He didn’t speak until they were several corridors away, back in the winding, fungal-lit passages. Then he stopped, pulling her into a shallow alcove.
He could still see Vaelan’s claw touching her hair. His blood thumped in his ears, a hot, ragged rhythm.
“Are you alright?” The question came out harsher than he intended.
Rose tugged her hand free. Her composure was cracking, revealing the shock underneath. “He wasn’t interested in you at all. Not even a little.”
“I noticed.” The admission tasted like ash. He’d been prepared for suspicion, interrogation, a test of their story. Not this. Not that rapt, unsettling fascination.
“He all but confirmed the Stones are real. And that they’re dangerous.” Rose wrapped her arms around herself, the practical rogue reasserting itself over the rattled wife. “A guide means we’re watched.”
“We use it.” Alaric’s mind was finally clearing, the red haze receding, leaving behind the sharp, cold edges of a new strategy. “We let them take us to the Stones. We find the source of the sound, the vibration. And we look for a west conduit that drips.”
He looked at her then, really looked. The gold was gone from her hair in the dimmer light here, just plain brown again. But her eyes were still that impossible green, wide and fierce and scared. And he knew, with a certainty that unnerved him more than Vaelan’s claws, that the most dangerous thing in the Myogian Spire wasn’t the king or his cells.
It was his own inability to look away from her.