A Touch Of Darkness

14 || Exchange Of Secrets

The door slips too harshly from Finlay's grip, the sound of it thunking closed vibrating through the carpet at his feet, but he's too stiff to wince. He presses his forehead into it, hissing in a breath between clenched teeth.

Fear squirms in his chest and itches at his palms. He screws his eyes shut. It's a good thing Ligari and Edrali crafted this so carefully; if it was as roughly shaped as a Cormé door, he'd have a splinter by now. But he can't seem to separate himself from it. Just beyond the melded planks, he catches the edge of Nathan's hastened breathing, though it quickly fades into the howls of the wind.

"You lied to me."

Finlay's nails curl, biting into his skin. This isn't the way it was supposed to go. He is so close. But now Ligari has planted a seed of doubt, and he needs to remove it before it sprouts into that damned flame.

Abruptly, he whips around, shoulders jamming into the door instead. "I told you not to tell him."

Ligari is still on her knees, still toying with a section of silver thread, and she doesn't move even at his prompt. His skin burns. He takes in a deep breath, pushing down the seething fire.

"He has a right to know," she says without looking up. "You are fully aware of that." Her finger flicks, splitting the thread in two. "But his rights don't exactly play into your agenda."

He sighs. "There is no right and wrong where he's concerned." The growl in his voice doesn't come as easily as usual. He rakes a hand through his hair, tearing at the roots, hoping the pricks of pain will snap some sense into him.

Ligari's gaze is hard, slicing at him like a blade. He jerks away, his lips parting on instinct. "D'anei étoi svis."

"As ryvei ka jés sol," Ligari finishes, carrying the accented lilt better than he does. "I see your father has taught you well."

Nodding silently, he pushes off from the door, grazing a hand over the shelves beside it. Opposite, the drawing of Aorila glares across at him. He ducks his head, gritting his teeth against the ache in his chest.

"When will they be ready?" he asks after a moment, gesturing to the leather she works on.

"Two hours, maybe three. By nightfall, certainly, if I stay focused."

"I'll make sure to keep you from distraction." He spins. The room feels as if it is closing in on him, sunny walls beating down with false cheer. A headache pulses at his temples.

Yet, despite his desperation to breathe in fresher air, he pauses at the handle. The fear has returned, twisting its sickening tangle, scraping at the inside of his lungs. He blinks hard, kicks his heel into the floor, but it remains. It always does.

Nine years of waiting, and he's still scared.

"You don't have to do this, Fiesi."

Hurriedly, he pulls himself straight, though he doesn't look back at her. "Don't start that again. You can't change my mind."

Her feet scuff on the carpet as she rises. The beam of her gaze cuts into the base of his neck, piercing his spine. "Maybe not," she says, almost as if pondering to herself. "Maybe I don't have to."

Again, he turns, resting a hand on the door as he meets her stare's slice. "You think I'm having second thoughts?" Now the growl comes, grating at his throat. He laughs, and the roughness leaks into it, leeching any humour from the sound. "I've waited for this far too long to back out now. And why would I? Nothing has changed."

She cocks her head sideways. He glares in reply, shifting as his skin prickles under her examination. As she slides around the desk, flowing steps rippling the bottom of her tunic like emerald waves, the look only grows in power.