Page 106 of A House of Gold
The green light flares bright, consuming the smoke, pulling it back toward,
I watch through half-closed eyes as the envy flows across the room. Toward him. Toward the figure watching from the wall.
It's drawn to its master. To Idris.
The realization hits me like a punch to the gut.
I'm on my knees, hands braced against the dusty floor, still shaking from the purge. Empty. Exhausted.
The salt circle releases me. The candles gutter and die.
And I know, with absolute certainty, that the man standing against that wall isn't Croesus.
I force myself to sit up, still shaking, and look toward the door.
"Croesus" is standing exactly where he was before. Silent. Staring. Watching me with that intense, fascinated attention.
And that's when it hits me.
Croesus has seen me purge sins before. He knows what this looks like. Knows the words I speak. Knows I'm vulnerable during it, that I need support even if I won't ask for it.
But this Croesus has been watching the entire time in complete silence. Not offering help. Not speaking at all. Just...observing. Like he's never witnessed a purge before and wants to memorize every detail.
Real Croesus wouldn't do that. He'd have said something by now, checked on me, asked if I needed anything, made some comment to let me know he was there and paying attention.
He wouldn't just stand there. Silent. Staring with that unblinking, hungry curiosity.
And through the binding, I feel Croesus, the real Croesus, still somewhere else in the house. Patrolling. Watching for Idris.
Not here.
I force my eyes to focus on the figure against the wall. Really look at him.
The way he sits. The tilt of his head. The quality of attention.
"You're not him," I whisper.
The figure smiles. And then he shifts.
The illusion peels away like a mask, and suddenly, it's not Croesus at all. It's someone else, beautiful in a way that makes my eyes hurt. Sharp cheekbones, perfect features, with hair that shifts color in the light like oil on water. Eyes that are impossible to pin down, mirrors reflecting my own face back at me.
Idris. The Angel of Envy.
His lips move, forming words, shaping sounds, but no voice comes out. Instead, his words form directly in my mind, smooth and androgynous, like silk against my thoughts.
Clever girl. You've learned him well enough to know when it's not him. Even when the imitation is perfect. That's fascinating.
"Get out." My voice is steadier than I feel. The envy is still coiling through me, half-purged, and I'm vulnerable. Weak.
He doesn't move from his position against the wall. His lips continue their silent dance, words forming only in my head.Finish your ritual. I promise I won't interfere. I just want to watch.
"Why?"
You're a dying breed. And you're particularly good at it.His eyes, currently mirrors, fix on me with unnerving intensity.Please. Continue. Pretend I'm not here.
I should refuse. Should call for Croesus through the binding, bring him here to deal with this.
And Idris is still watching with that intense fascination, his lips moving in what might be a smile.
