Book Two: The Larkspur's Longing ~ A tale of deep obsession and devotion

Chapter Twenty-four: Longing

(TW: Suggestive)

Callidus ascended the spiraling stairs of Windridge Tower, each step causing a sharp jolt in his jaw, a bitter reminder of his recent fight with Jasper. His tongue felt clumsy and bloated in his mouth and a heavy coat of dried blood encrusted his lips, the slightest motion splitting the fragile skin anew and inviting a fresh sting of pain.

The decision to have Jasper placed under medical care and detained had proceeded smoothly, facilitated by Lady Hale who delivered the message to the rest of the Eflian delegation per Callidus's instructions. As of now, the delegation members were accommodated in the Guest Wing, each of them isolated in separate rooms.

Callidus himself had personally transported Jasper to the Sapphire Suite, the Eflian prince slumbering throughout the journey. He braced himself for the inevitable rumors that would circulate about him carrying what could be mistaken for a wrapped corpse through the palace's corridors, secretly hoping that such gossip would deter others from bothering him in the days to come.

The impact of Jasper's fist lingered, as did the memory of the uncharacteristically forceful air that had slammed Jasper against the window. Echoes of Jasper's voice, cracked with anger and loaded with accusations that struck at Callidus's very core, tore into his mind like serrated blades.

Jasper struck first.

Retaliation was Callidus's right.

Yet, guilt and discomfort coiled in his gut, tainting his usual satisfaction in doling out punishment.

The sight of Jasper openly weeping, his tearful admission of love for his wife, had struck a raw nerve within Callidus, resulting in something deeper than the vague sense of pity he sometimes felt for people on the receiving end of his magic. That, combined with the very real realization that Callidus hadn't wanted to hurt Jasper, left him in a state of inner turmoil.

Jasper was no longer his friend.

As for Cressida, he now needed to conjure up another surprise for her later tonight. It was difficult to imagine that only a few hours ago, he had left Windridge brimming with hope and happiness. His infectious excitement had rubbed off on her, and following their blissful breakfast, she had openly shared her enthusiasm for discovering what surprise he had prepared.

Jasper had ruined everything.

Upon reaching the door, Callidus hesitated, already anticipating the questions Cressida would have about his injuries. Aside from a frigid breeze, he had deliberately refrained from tending to his wounds, clinging onto a desperate wish that her response would match his carefully constructed expectations.

He envisioned Cressida's eyes softening, her breath catching in concern, her features painted with worry. He imagined her standing up from her seat, running towards him, only for her to pause and gaze uncertainly, unsure how to help.

It was the same reaction he'd observed in Lady Hale upon seeing Jasper's battered condition and it now formed a bittersweet template for his longing.

Callidus wanted – he required – proof that Cressida cared for him.

For a fleeting moment, he recalled his mother's distant demeanor whenever he scraped his knee on the staircase - a cold sigh and instructions on how to tend to his own wounds. (Even more fleetingly, he pictured his father's look of disdain.)

As he hesitated in front of the door, a captivating sound abruptly caught his attention. Mesmerized, Callidus focused on the delicate melody emanating from the bedchamber. His moment of hesitation transformed into wonder as he realized what he was hearing:

Cressida was singing.

As the notes of Cressida's song wafted through the closed door, Callidus's tension eased, replaced by a warm, poignant sensation that spread through his chest. He leaned against the doorframe; his eyes fixed on the metal barrier that separated him from the source of the music.