Page 143 of Tears for a Broken Sky
He leaned in, his breath brushing my cheek. “A shame. Still, I do like you in chains, my love.”
Behind him, Thorne moved.
Just a fraction. But it was enough.
Vael’s grip burned hotter. His magic coiled just beneath the surface.
“You’ll change your tone soon,” he said. “Once you see what I’ve built for us.”
He yanked me forward, his grip unrelenting, and dragged me out onto the wharf.
The sunlight hit like a slap—too bright after the dark belly of the ship. I blinked against it, dazed, as the chaos of the dock unfolded around us.
I didn’t know the area, but the bright silks and jewelled cloaks told me enough. We were in Duskfall.
Behind the township, carved against the mountains like a wound that never healed, stood a tower of black stone. Tall. Silent. Watching.
It pulsed with something old. Wrong.
A blemish on the land.
Soldiers swarmed the area—loading crates, shouting orders, inspecting weapons. Vael’s colours flew high above the battlements in tattered crimson.
“That,” Vael said beside me, voice honey-slick and proud, “is the future.”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t tear my eyes from the tower.
Something about it called to my shadows. Not gently.
They recoiled like a wounded animal.
He leaned closer. “Welcome home, precious.”
**
We were met at the end of the dock by a black carriage with silver trim and no driver.
Vael helped me in like a gentleman—like a groom on his wedding day.
He slid in beside me, too close, taking my hand and cradling it in his lap. He stroked my fingers as though we were newlyweds, as though he hadn’t stolen that touch. Claimed it.
Across from me, Thorne sat like stone. His eyes locked on Vael’s hands. He didn’t speak. But his jaw twitched—tight with something too sharp to name.
The ride was silent, save for the soft rattle of wheels over cobblestone and the occasional whisper of breath I didn’t realise I was holding.
When we reached the tower, the carriage slowed. The gates yawned open, revealing a courtyard still under construction. Workers shouted over each other, hauling beams and stone into place, while black-armoured soldiers patrolled every inch.
A figure in burnt umber robes stood waiting.
His crown—iron and twisted like thorned branches—sat heavy on his brow. He was flanked by guards in crimson and steel, their weapons sharp, their faces sharper.
“Welcome back, Vael,” the crowned man called. His voice was smooth, cultured. Too smooth. “I see your journey was successful?”
Vael smiled, stepping down from the carriage like he owned the world. “Very,” he said, glancing back at me. “And the preparations?”
The man inclined his head. “Nearly complete. Your sanctum awaits, as promised.”
Sanctum.
