Chapter 29: Athea Walks In

The kiss came without warning.

​One moment, Zaeryn was about to speak, the next, Ysmeine had pulled him towards her and her lips were on his, soft yet full of intent.

​Her scent, a delicate mix of something floral and uniquely hers, enveloped him, drawing him deeper. He felt the firm, warm curve of her body press against his side, her hands finding his chest, gripping the fabric of the shirt as if to pull him closer.

For a second, his mind blanked. However he didn’t mind it. Instinct took over, and he kissed her back, her lips yielding and tasting faintly.

The moment lingered longer than ever before. This wasn’t one of those light, almost-maternal brushes he was used to. This was... deeper. More intimate.

When they finally pulled away from the kiss, her smile was calm, but her eyes told a different story, something fierce and unspoken.

​Zaeryn’s breath hitched.

​Heat crept up his neck as realization hit him: that was passionate. The kind of kiss that left an aftertaste, an ache. She’d never kissed him like that before, with so much passion and tension.

​Seeing the red in his cheeks, Ysmeine grinned faintly,"You’re burning up," she teased softly, brushing her thumb against his cheek. "Now," she continued, her voice turning serious, "tell me what happened. When you went out to see Ryan."

​Zaeryn took a moment, gathering his thoughts.

​He started telling her everything.

Recalling the event was hard for him every time, because it was not something he liked to relive.

However, he had to relive it for Ysmeine. He told her all he could from the message to fighting off the Fade-turned Ryan, to passing out. But, he didn’t tell her what happened after he passed out or anything about his system.

​Ysmeine listened, her expression turning darker with each word. Her thumb, which had been stroking his cheek, now moved to cradle his face, her eyes searching his.

The depth of his pain was clear to her, even if the full horror of the event wasn’t.

​Without waiting for an answer, her hand moved from his face, gliding down his neck to the edge of his shirt. With thoughtful curiosity mixed with deep concern, she gently lifted the fabric, revealing the skin beneath.

There, just below his ribs, was a scratch, a thin, jagged line already beginning to dry over. It pulsed faintly with a dark, almost bruised discoloration around its edges, an unmistakable mark of the Fade.

​Ysmeine’s breath caught in her throat, and her gaze snapped to his, a sudden, cold fear constricting her chest. "Does it hurt?" she asked.

Zaeryn shook his head.

​’Oh my, I didn’t realize, he got scratched by the Fade. It’s a miracle he survived at all.’ Ysmeine thought to herself.

And just the thought of things being different, if he didn’t survive the encounter and turned into one of those zombie looking things, made her fear and she folded into him, arms locking tight, her face pressed to his shoulder as though by sheer closeness she could bar the world from reaching him. "Zaeryn," she breathed, and the tremor in her voice turned his spine cold. "If I had lost you—"

Her hold hardened, fierce as a vow. "No matter what the Council tries to do , no matter what it costs, I’ll keep you safe. I swear it."

​Zaeryn winced subtly, not because of pain but from her touch.

​Shaking his head, he said. "It’s fine. Already healing, actually," he murmured, his gaze falling to her lips, a glint in his eyes.

For a moment, he could only hear the low hum of her breath, the drumbeat of her heart against his chest. Then he turned and caught her mouth in a sudden kiss—deep, claiming, a wordless answer to the fear in her grip.

When he pulled away, his voice was quiet, almost rough. "I’d stay here all day if I could." His thumb traced the curve of her cheek. A shadow crossed his eyes. "But they want more tests."

"Then go," Ysmeine said softly, regaining her calm. "For now... you can trust them."

Zaeryn nodded, then paused. "Have you spoken to Athea?"

The question made her stiffen up. It was clear she didn’t want him to ask that question.

A hint passed across her features before she smoothed it away. "Not yet, love. We... haven’t spoken in years."

Zaeryn’s jaw tightened, "Figures." He turned to leave.

"Zaeryn, wait," Ysmeine said quickly, standing up and stepping forward.

He paused, but didn’t turn. She reached him, wrapping her arms around his middle from behind, pulling him back against her.

Her breasts, soft and warm, pressed firmly into his back, he could feel them and they made something in him shift.

"She’s probably just busy, love. You know how her life is." Ysmeine’s voice brushed his ear. "Don’t be angry with her. She still cares for you... I promise."

Zaeryn didn’t answer. His shoulders stayed firm beneath her arms. He didn’t believe her.

He could hear the strain in her tone, the way even she didn’t quite believe her own words. Not anymore.

Undeterred, she tried again, her voice dipping into something softer, threaded with memory. "Do you remember that solar chronometer she sent for your thirteenth birthday?" Her lips curved faintly against his shoulder. "The one that could predict solar flares days in advance? No one else had anything like it. Do you know how rare that was?" She gave a quiet laugh. "She searched for months to find it. Just for you."

Her arms tightened around him, as though her hold could bind him to the truth she was weaving. "That was her way of showing it, Zaeryn. How much you mattered. She really did care."

Zaeryn sighed. "I have to go, see you when I get back." With that he left.

When the door closed behind him, Ysmeine stood alone. Her fists clenched, "Athea...."

___

The cruiser hummed softly as it moved through the city. Inside, the atmosphere was far less smooth than the ride.

Zaeryn sat down, arms folded, eyes glued to the passing scenery outside like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. Beside him, Arya was all composure: legs crossed, posture impeccable, gaze forward... except for the occasional glance she threw his way.

He noticed the subtle looks, and it made him feel a little suffocated. It felt like she was looking at him with judgment... or was it curiosity? He couldn’t tell.

Up front, Mireille handled the controls like a woman at peace, tapping the interface with her usual aloofness.

The silence stretched, heavy and unbearable, until Arya finally spoke—her tone polite, almost too polite.

"Would you care for refreshments, Zaeryn? We have a selection tailored for your dietary needs."

He gave her a brief glance. "...No. Thank you."

"Are you sure?" Mireille chimed in from the front, nonchalantly, eyes still on the buttons she was pressing. "You and your girlfriend burned a lot of energy last night."

Zaeryn’s heart stopped. He was taken back . His brain scrambled. ’No way. No. She didn’t just— say that!’

Based on this, Zaeryn could now confirm that, Mireille and Arya did overhear him and Sage having sex after all, and it made him feel awkward as hell. His head snapped toward her, eyes wide. "Excuse me?"

Mireille showed a grin, slow and evil. "The training session," she said innocently. "What else would I mean?"

"Oh... haha." His laugh was brittle, awkward. In this moment, he couldn’t handle the embarrassment, and just wanted to throw himself out of the moving cruiser and into the nearest black hole.

Arya, of course, stayed perfectly composed. But he caught it, a little bit of amusement in her eyes. The smallest, cruelest twitch of her lips.

Zaeryn slumped back, dragging a hand over his face. ’Why didn’t I turn on the noise dampening field? Why?’ He let out a groan. "I... I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you two could hear anything."

Arya finally turned to him fully, "Don’t apologize," she said, the faintest hint of a smile curving her lips. "If anything... be proud. Judging by the way she was calling your name, I’d say you’re very... gifted." She pressed a hand on his.

Zaeryn nearly choked when her hand brushed against his. Wow, is she flirting? Or just trying to make me as uncomfortable as possible? He was betting on the latter.

And then, to his horror, Mireille decided to twist the knife.

"I think," she drawled, voice serious but laced with wicked amusement, "you should consider a... specialized profession."

Zaeryn blinked at her, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for dignity. "A what now?"

"A Consort," Mireille said casually, like she was suggesting a new hairstyle. "Or better... a prime conssort . You’d make a fortune. Rare males with your... skill set? I don’t think they even exist. The aristocrats would line up."

Zaeryn felt like his soul had briefly left his body. Mireille wasn’t the talkative type—at least that’s what he’d assumed. But when she finally decided to open her mouth, it was apparently just to make him squirm.

Nonetheless, what she said had him thinking, ’Did she just—’’ He stared at her, weighing the offer in silence. ’No. No freaking way.’

Arya didn’t even flinch. In fact, she tilted her head slightly, studying him with an expression that felt far too analytical for his comfort. "It would solve certain... societal pressures," she murmured thoughtfully, as if Mireille had just proposed a legitimate diplomatic strategy instead of ruining Zaeryn’s will to live.

Zaeryn slammed his head back against the seat with a groan. "Absolutely not. Not happening. Ever."

"Why not?" Mireille’s grin widened, sharp and gleaming. "You’d be worshipped, Zaeryn. Pampered. Fed grapes in lustrous sheets by highborn ladies who’d fight for your time slot."

___

Somewhere else.

Behind a door sealed with triple biometric locks, the laboratory stretched wide. The lighting was sterile white and faintly emitted with blue.

Rows of monitors took over the space. Scientists filled the room, each one of them engaged in their work.

Suspended in a reinforced containment field at the center of the room was the thing that had kept every scientist awake for weeks: a carcass, or what was left of one—of a Star Beast.

Its sheer size and height dwarfed that of each and everyone of the women scurrying around it. Shimmery scales, cracked open like shattered glass. Veins that glowed faintly with residual energy. Its head, or what passed for it, rested in a different containment holder, its mouth was lined with crystalline fangs that shimmered like frozen suns.

The beast was dead, but the air around it pulsed with menace.

Just then, the doors to the laboratory slid open without warning, and a hush fell instantly across the lab.

A woman strode in.

Her presence alone seemed to sharpen the air. She was undeniably stunning, a vision of refined beauty that blended power with an almost ethereal elegance easily fitting the mold of an unreachable, yet captivating figure.

Her heels hit the floor with an unhurried rhythm as she walked. She wore a lab coat, but beneath it clung a sleek dress that hinted at curves without flaunting them. Minimal jewelry, hair cascading over one shoulder, refined, yet dangerously alluring.

Her piercing gaze sweeped over the room like a cold tide.

Dr. Ilara Veyne, blonde, immaculate, and carrying the brittle poise of someone balancing genius with fear—stepped forward.

She clasped her tablet like a shield, and then bowed. "What an honour to have you here, Princess Athea."