She’s orchestrated this, I realize, astonished. She’s encased my room in art.

And in the center of one of the webs at the room’s far end, she’s written something in elaborate Noi calligraphy.

Noi’khin.

Tears well in my eyes, as I realize this is Sylla’s radical response to the countless times I’ve opened my door or turned a corner to find slurs scrawled on the walls.

It’s a deeply beautiful gesture.

She’s made things beautiful for me.

Tears streak down my face as my sorrow breaks wide-open.

I turn to find Sylla standing in the door’s frame now in partial human form, her hands neatly folded, a shy light in her eight eyes, her large, dark spider legs folded delicately around her frame, their tips demurely touching.

I take her in, fearsome and lovely all at the same time. And I realize that spiders are like that. So frightening to watch. Terrifying in what they do, how they kill. But also artists of the highest order. I glance around the room again, at the magnificent weaving that makes my heart ache from its beauty. As I realize that Sylla, too, is an artist of the highest order.

The multiple small spiders hang there, motionless, as if breathlessly waiting for my reaction to this strange and lovely showing of friendship.

“This is incredible,” I tell Sylla, my voice breaking as I struggle to find the words to convey my overwhelming rush of gratitude. “What you can do is just so beautiful,” I manage, the words heartfelt. “And so complex.”

“Embrace the complexity,” she says, tilting her head as her stillness embraces us both.

I cough out a sob, grimacing as tears fall. “I’m trying,” I rasp out. “I’m trying. But I’m really struggling here.”

“Embrace that too,” she says, her words a low, bone-deep thrum that resonates through my core. They’re prone to this, the Death Fae—cryptic, philosophical pronouncements—and right now, it feels like a lifeline.

“I feel so alone, Sylla,” I admit, breaking down, unable to hold back the sobs wracking my whole frame as I shut my eyes so tight they hurt.

She makes no sound crossing the room, her spidery leg a gentle weight on my shoulder.

“Take courage, Noi’khin,” she says as I sob. “And be patient with Vothendrile. He’s lost, just like you.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

AS’LORION

Tierney Calix

The Wyvernguard
South Wyvernguard Island, Noilaan
Eastern Realm
Sixth Month

Tierney walks to Fyordin’s room. Restlessness curls in the pit of her stomach over her impulsive decision, the hour approaching midnight.

Pulling in a shaky breath, she raps on Fyordin’s door, sensing the flow of his power just beyond it. The hallway is silent, its indigo walls lit by a single sapphire rune sconce. She curses under her breath, unable to control the way her water power is leaping through the door toward him with potent, turbulent force.