Chapter 8: The Relic and the Wound
The garden held its breath.
Alaida sat beneath the silver-leaved tree, her fingers still resting on the runes carved into the bench. Thalion hadn't moved. He stood beside her now, close enough that she could hear the shift of his cloak when he breathed.
"I've never spoken of her," he said.
Alaida looked up.
"My mother," Thalion continued. "She died when I was sixteen. Poisoned by someone who wanted the crown."
Alaida's heart tightened. "I'm sorry."
"She was the only softness I knew," he said. "And they took her because she made me hesitate."
Alaida didn't speak. She reached out, slowly, and placed her hand over his.
Thalion flinched—but didn't pull away.
"She didn't make you weak," Alaida whispered. "She made you human."
Thalion's jaw clenched. "Humans don't survive in this palace."
Alaida stood, her hand still on his. "Then teach me how to be something else."
He looked at her—truly looked. Her white lashes, her avena-colored eyes, the way she stood barefoot in his mother's garden like a forgotten prayer.
"I want to show you something," he said.
He led her through a hidden corridor behind the garden wall, past tapestries and locked doors, until they reached a chamber lit only by moonlight.
Inside, on a pedestal of obsidian, rested a relic.
A lion carved from crystal, its paw slightly crooked.
Alaida gasped. "It's like the one my father made."
Thalion nodded. "I found it in the ruins of a village. I kept it. I don't know why."
She stepped closer, tears rising. "It's mine."
Thalion turned to her, something breaking in his gaze.
"Then perhaps," he said, voice low, "you were never prey."