of crystal in his palm and then transferred them to a folded piece of cloth . . . her heart felt similar to the shattered crystals he was trying to save.
“I thought the attendants would have collected all the pieces by now.”
“I told them not to,” he said without looking up.
“Why?”
“When my Shadow Familiar first awakened, I was too foolish to understand its danger to others. I thought I could control it without taking the time to bond first. That mistake cost a Seraphian citizen their leg. For an entire year afterward, my mother forced me to live with that man—a baker—as his servant. I fetched him his robe in the morning, his breakfast. I put so many loaves into that huge oven I swear I’ll never look at bread the same.”
She smiled a little as she imagined a young, privileged Stolas slaving away in front of an oven, his massive wings cramped inside the bakery.
Stolas Darkshade knew how to make bread. The idea was so ridiculous she almost laughed, but then again, so many things about Stolas were the opposite of what she expected.
He was a study in contrasts.
Sometimes the raw, unfettered power she sensed roiling beneath his flesh was overwhelming, like the midday Penrythian sun—too powerful, too bright. Other times his presence was like standing beneath a sky of falling stars—wholly mesmerizing.
“That must have been humiliating,” she said.
“It was. But I learned a valuable lesson. I alone am responsible for fixing what I break.”
She wasn’t sure you could fix taking someone’s leg away . . . but she got the point, and she was torn between scoffing and smiling.
Only Stolas could turn this situation into a lesson. He was always mentoring her in some way. And even if those lessons were typically delivered with impatience and a short temper, she appreciated them.
She glanced down at Stolas. He had yet to look at her, his attention focused on a tiny sliver of crystal caged between his long fingers. She understood why he took sole responsibility for cleaning the damage he’d done, but to do that tonight of all nights, alone . . .
“If you plan to stand there all evening with that pitying look then I’m going to ask you to leave,” he murmured.
She didn’t blame him for his curt response. The last thing he needed right now was pity from anyone. But he was wrong if he thought she would leave him alone to bear this burden.
Dropping to her knees, she tossed her hair over her shoulder and began searching the black tiles for the quick flicker of light that marked a nearby crystal fragment.
A lock of ivory hair, made whiter by the moonlight streaming down, fell over Stolas’s brow as his head tilted so she could see his profile. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” she asked softly. “I’m helping.”
“I didn’t ask you to. This is my burden to bear alone.”
“What about that speech you gave earlier about rising and falling together?”
Even with his face turned away, she knew he was rolling his eyes. “You’re twisting my words.”
“No, I’m literally repeating them back to you. And . . . I’m being a friend.”
“A friend?” A gravelly chuckle cut through the hall. “Is that what we are to one another?”
Her fingernails stabbed into her palms. If she didn’t know Stolas the way she did, his words would sting. But she did know him.
Whenever he felt someone getting too close, especially during a vulnerable moment, he did this.
Lashed out.
Pushed people away.
Tried to be the monster they claimed he was.
“You can’t scare me, you know.” She grunted as her knee, already sore from falling during a training session this week, caught on a jagged part of the floor. “I’ve seen you at your worst, remember?”
“Beastie, you haven’t even scratched the surface on my worst.”
She plucked a fingernail sized fragment of crystal from a crack in the floor and held it up to the light, fascinated by the glimmer of power she felt pulsating from its core. “I’ll take my chances.”
Apparently coming to the conclusion that she wasn’t going to budge, he switched to ignoring her, and they gathered the pieces in silence. The only sounds were her soft breathing and the occasional ruffle of Stolas’s feathers as his wings shifted, stretching and ruffling seemingly on their own accord.
More than once, she found herself watching him when he wasn’t looking. Something about the way the soft light glided over his kneeling form was mesmerizing. Painted in those