Page 22 of Fallen Nocturne

The longer I watch him, the stronger the pull becomes. My heart lurches without warning. The feeling spreads outward from my chest until my fingertips tingle and my knees feel unsteady. It is not fear. I know fear too well to mistake it for this.

This is longing.

A deep, impossible ache for a stranger whose face I cannot even see. Every part of me strains toward him as though distance itself has become unbearable. Gods, the pull makes no sense, but resisting it feels worse.

I don’t realize I’m moving until I’m halfway across the throne room.

My feet carry me slowly. One step, then another, then another, each one soundless against the black marble. My reflection glides beneath me like a ghost, keeping pace as I cross the vast hall. The longing in my chest tightens with every step.

Closer. Closer. I need to be closer.

I need to see his face. I need to touch him, just once. I’m ten steps from the throne when his head turns.

His eyes find mine through the mask, and the entire world narrows to that gaze. My heart stumbles against my ribs.

He leans his head against one hand. “I was wondering when you’d stop hiding.”

His voice travels through me. There is no reason it should affect me. It is only a voice, low and touched with amusement.

“Spying is impolite.” His mouth curves into a faint smirk. “But you have always been exceptionally good at being silent.”

I frown. “Have we met?”

The smile vanishes.

For one brief moment, grief passes over the part of his face I can see. It is gone so quickly I might have imagined it.

“What do you think?” he asks.

“I don’t know.” The answer frustrates me. I search the visible parts of his face, but nothing becomes clearer. “Who are you?”

His mouth curves. Not quite a smile. “You’re standing in my throne room, little fawn. Who are you?”

Warmth flickers through me at the endearment before irritation swiftly replaces it.

Little fawn.

As though I am small and timid, some fragile creature likely to flee at the first sign of danger. I lift my chin. “I asked first.”

“I suppose you did.” He tilts his head, studying me the way one might study a bird that has flown through an open window. “But this is my palace. My kingdom. My throne. I think that earns me the first answer.”

“Rhianelle,” I say proudly. “Rhianelle Wiolant.”

I don’t know why I give him my real name. In Astefar, you shouldn’t give your name freely. I always lie.

“Rhianelle,” he says slowly, tasting each syllable. “A beautiful name.”

Pleasure warms my cheeks, but I refuse to let him see how easily the compliment affects me. “It’s just a name.”

“No.” Those dark eyes hold mine. “Not just.”

I stare at him, searching the darkness behind his mask for something I cannot name. The longer our gazes remain locked, the more the longing inside me changes. It is no longer merely a pull toward him. It feels like an absence.

I miss him.

The realization strikes so sharply that my breath catches. I miss the sound of his voice, though I have only just heard it. I miss the touch of hands that have never held me and the sight of a face I have never seen. The distance between us feels unbearable. I need to close it. I need to stand near enough to feel his warmth and prove that he is real.

It is not attraction alone, though there is plenty of that. The feeling is deeper and infinitely worse. It is the ache of missing someone for so long that the absence has become part of my bones.