“I don’t understand why you’re making such a fuss about this,” Gawain said.
“He stole the map! We can’t just let him go.”
Gawain huffed. “He took what rightfully belonged to my guild, Marc. The owner tried to back out of our deal.” There was a rustle of paper and an irritated huff followed. “He signed for it and refused to hand it over yesterday, so I sent the kid to retrieve it.”
Faust scowled at the mention. He was not a kid.
“He’s too armed to be a page,” Marc retorted.
There was a pause as if someone showed off their wares from the faint rustle of clothing.
“My pages are always armed with knights like you,” Gawain said, his tone sharp.
Marc scoffed. “Fine. I don’t see anything in here.” Heavy footsteps crossed over the hold and a sharp yelp followed the sound of books pounding the ceiling. “You need to archive your shit better, Cian,” Marc said.
“Get out if you’re done,” Cian growled.
Gawain chuckled. “I’d listen to him, Marc. He might put a bullet through you if you disrespect his work again.”
Marc’s footsteps moved away, and the door banged shut.
Faust lowered his hand, sitting in silence for what seemed like an eternity. He couldn’t bring himself to read more of the journals, too riled up to focus. Faust hugged his uninjured leg, resting his head on his knee, and closed his eyes, trying to relax. He gripped the gemstone in his hand, hoping to settle his mind, but it didn’t help that more time passed and Cian didn’t move to let him out.
The Volliare creaked and swayed in the wind, echoing the deafening silence around him—silence he hated. This was no different from being stuck in his room in Limorous with only books and his work.
Armor clanked from the hallway and reverberated in the hold, shifting his awareness to a place he wasn’t anymore—his room.
Alone.
Locked in.
Trapped.
Faust grasped the gemstone, closing his eyes tight. He needed out. He couldn’t stay in here. A low whimper left his lips, his heart beating too fast. The blanket ripped under his tight grip and magic rippled within him. He was going to burst.
Wind wafted through the small space, brushing against Faust’s sweaty bangs, forcing the air from his lungs. The wind carried a strange mixture of Aris’s magic and another’s.
Warmth coiled around him and Faust shuddered through a small groan. He rocked his hips, grasping at his chest at the sharp arousal shooting through him to his cock. By Alimphis, he needed Ignas’s touch. He bit his lip and let himself drown in the quiver of his magic between Aris and Ignas’s, his skin aflame, too hot and aroused by their presence.
He unlaced his pants and stroked his cock fast, lost in the warm wind cocooning him until he came all over his hand. He slouched against the wall breathing hard, his cheeks burning with embarrassment over getting off by the feelings alone. The need for his consorts burned through his soul, taking his usual restraint with it.
He rubbed his hand on the blanket roughly, and laced up his pants, shuddering through his heightened sensitivity. The wind gave him another pass, taking the warmth away, and he froze. It carried a different magic to it—one older and controlled. This wind wasn’t Aris’s.
Magic sang under his skin the longer Linos’s wind lingered, weaving through the wind in a familiar dance, greeting Faust like a lost lover, and he struggled to keep his magic at bay. The wood creaked, and he curled against the wall as if he could will it to stay in place. He’d be found if this continued.
Wind caressed his face, smoothing over his forehead where his deity marking lay dormant, and he lost the grip on his magic.
A rough surge of wind butted against the walls, creaking along the planks, while the wind continued to tease his magic. He clawed at the wood, splintering it into small vines of flowers.
The wind stagnated in a bubble around him and he could finally breathe. His head thunked against the wall, overstimulated.
Linos’s wind coiled around him again, soothing his magic into a strange lull, sending his mind into a fog. He swayed against his leg, his sight growing dark.
Chapter Six
The forest crackled, splintered, and wavered among the growing heat and flames around Faust. He inhaled only to cough on the thickening smoke. Vasil’s roar of anguish drew his attention to the sky, and as before in the memory, Vasil’s wings were large and spread wide, the deity’s body taut.
Faust couldn’t breathe, and his leg hurt. He blinked slowly. Qinn’s wound burned and bubbled in a way his own wound didn’t. Someone had injured Qinn.
He called for Vasil. The deity turned to him with the same anger Faust had grown accustomed to in this memory.
Vasil flew closer, his mouth opened in a yell of something Faust couldn’t hear over the roar of the fire.
It was coming—the pain.
Faust lurched with the sharp pierce to his chest, slowly turning through the pain to look behind him.
High King.
Faust snapped awake, curling in on himself with a whimper. It burned. He clawed at his chest, the pain lingering from Qinn’s memory.
Safe.
He bit his lip, knowing he could not respond. Nothing good happened when he did. The voice continued to pester him. He covered his ears, willing himself to think of anything but the voice. He took slow breaths until the phantom pain dissipated along with the voice. He lay flat and tried to gather his bearings. The vision made his body ache as if he’d run quite a distance.
He glanced to his right and froze. Closed journals lay next to a pot of ink with the pen nib still coated in blue beside them. He didn’t remember doing anything with ink.
Faust sat up, staring at the small mess.
Wind caressed his cheek and a hot flush rose to his cheeks. He’d gotten himself off to Aris and Ignas’s magic around him, but it felt like he’d done it again. He hoped he hadn’t done so in his sleep. He tugged at his sweaty clothes, disgusted. He needed a real bath.
A set of three raps knocked against the door to Cian’s study, and Cian’s boots hit the floor.
Faust looked up, hopeful he could come out. The sky had darkened. He must have only dozed off for a few hours at least, but he couldn’t stay in here any longer with the voice’s constant calls. He needed out before he went crazy.
The trunks skid across the ceiling and the metal mechanism clicked and popped up, shining more light into the space. Faust grabbed his swords.
“We’re safe now. It should take them a bit for another patrol, I hope. Are you all right?” Cian asked, reaching down to help Faust.
Faust hesitated in taking Cian’s hand and offered his clean hand, making for an awkward lift up that Cian didn’t question. He hoped Cian hadn’t heard him. He belted his swords back in place once he was out of the hold and leaned on a trunk to keep the weight off his leg. “I am fine now.”
“I’m sorry.” Cian climbed into the hold and came back up after a few minutes with the journals Faust had read and a few more he didn’t get to. He placed them on a trunk, then snapped his fingers and the hold closed. He shoved the trunks back in place. “I didn’t expect it to take hours. You look tired.”
Hours. Faust forced a smile. He would not do that again. “I will be fine.”