A Court of Graves and Flowers

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The sun spun gold across the sitting room, bathing Callisto in a warm, honeyed glow.

Tamlin stood by the doorway, transfixed at the sight before him. His gaze traced the cascade of her dark hair, pooling around her shoulders like a midnight sea. He ached to brush it aside, to feel its softness against his fingertips.

Her amethyst gown, a lighter version of her eyes, shimmered with every breath she took, clinging to her curves like a whispered promise. Tamlin imagined the feel of the cool silk against his skin, the brush of her laughter against his lips.

She was the picture of utter relaxation as she lounged on the sofa of the sitting room, her feet folded beneath her and her wings hidden by the usual glamor. Books surrounded her, on the couch, littered across the floor, and in her hand. She had been lost in ancient tomes since Amren's visit the previous day. The only tell-tale sign that she was not as relaxed as she appeared was the slight crease between her furrowed eyebrows, casting shadows over her stunning purple eyes.

Tamlin watched her with a rapt intensity, his eyes devouring every detail. "Interesting reading, my Lady?" he teased, his voice laced with a playful warmth.

Callisto blinked, then a slow smile bloomed on her face. Tamlij was a vision himself, clad in a light blue tunic that accentuated the breadth of his shoulders and the sun-kissed glow of his skin. His blonde hair curled like soft waves around his handsome face. "Not nearly as interesting as the company I usually keep."

His heart swelled at the veiled compliment. As he strolled to the couch, he couldn't help but ask: "Then why has it kept you so consumed? You've spent every free minute with these books since Amren and Feyre left yesterday."

Callisto frowned at that. He had a point, and she didn't mean to spend so much time away from training, from figuring out the magic still keeping her there and from Tamlin. "Amren has me brushing up on the lore of our people, of Illyrian witches, and of the ancient magic that they possessed."

Tamlin raised an eyebrow, a flicker of concern mixing with amusement. "A witch? Does she truly believe that's... possible?"

Callisto laughed, a soft, mellifluous sound that washed over him like a summer breeze. "That's what I asked her yesterday," she admitted, her smile fading into a thoughtful expression. "But... honestly, the more I read, the more the possibility lingers."

Intrigued, Tamlin leaned closer, his gaze seeking hers. "Share with me, then. What have you learned?"

As Callisto's voice wove its spell, Tamlin found himself transported. No longer was he in the sun-drenched sitting room but under the silver embrace of a moonlit forest. Moonlight painted the ancient trees with an ethereal glow, and shadows danced like restless spirits at the edges of the path.

Callisto, her voice husky with the thrill of rediscovery, revealed all that she learned. "The Illyrian witches were daughters of the moon, inheritors of an ancient female goddess's power, her name now lost to time. These women were weavers of moonlight, guardians of crossroads and thresholds, as fearsome as they were alluring."

Tamlin chuckled at that. "That sounds about right," he murmured, earning a thwack on the arm from Callisto.

"As I was saying," she continued, pink now tinting her cheeks, "they could call upon the darkness, not as something to be feared, but as a tool. The shadows obscured them from view and bestowed upon them the gift of unseen passage. The whispers of the dead, whispered secrets that were carried on the night wind, were theirs to interpret. And they spoke in spells. Their power could bend fate and conjure illusions. They could guide those lost in the darkness and unleash their fury upon those who dared to trespass."