THE MOON IS MY SUN
THE NIGHT IS MY DAY
THE NIGHT IS MY DAY
S
omeone else is here.
An onyx brow arches ever so slightly upwards as Caine pauses at the marbled entryway of the plush-carpeted antechamber. Silver eyes narrow as they skim towards the scarlet winged girl, curled like a cat in a shadowy corner of the vast library. Even from his distance, behind tomes and wood and tapestries, she is impossible to miss. A flame in the night. Under the light of the moon, her gleaming pelt shivers like a blood drenched blade, and Caine half expects her to be little more than an apparition. A vengeful spirit sent from her grave to haunt him for eternity, perhaps. It is a bemusing thought.
His eyes shift away from the crimson sylph to glance at the scrolls hovering in front of him like delicate moths. Despite his lost magic (which he still grieves for, achingly), it had taken the boy only a few idle nights to wield the weak telekinesis that the land had gifted him with perfect control. It’s poor consolation, of course, but Caine is not in the position to be picky.
His wings, as black as pitch, trail along his sides like a cloak as he strides silently down the aisles, pausing every so often to slide a scroll back to its proper resting place. He had landed in Denocte just an hour ago, his gait swift and his mouth drawn as pale eyes narrowed at every ripple of ivory, every glint of gold.
To his utter dismay, however, the prince was nowhere in sight.
And so Caine has settled for the night, his expression darker than the starless sky. Leaving the confines of the castle was unthinkable — the Denoctians were already insufferable enough in the day. Just how infuriatingly lively would they become when it was night?
It was no surprise, then, when the library beckoned him with a crooning hand. It always did.
A tendril of obsidian hair drifts lazily in front of his eyes, and Caine brushes it back with a wavering sigh. The air around him is empty; he does not wish to spend another hour bent over papers, straining to read faded words under a half-lit chandelier. The damn Denoctians and their love of the dark, Caine thinks, as he remembers Agenor’s brightly-lit mansion with a bitter sort of longing.
Strange, that a boy of shadow hails from a place of light — blinding light. Stranger still, that he detests the shadows he wraps himself so fully in, loathes the sunless nights he endures. For Caine is a child of the sun, as much as any of the gilded denizens of Vectaeryn are.
But life is nothing if not cruel.
His gaze drifts back to the girl. There is little left for him to do, and Caine hates being idle more than he values solitude (too much time for the mind to wander). And there, lying so peacefully that he is sure she’s asleep, is a perfect distraction.
Silence is an art, and Caine wields it better than Death himself (death is always so loud, in the end, because of how much they struggle), and he makes no sound as he approaches. An amused smile dances along his sleek jaw as he slides himself softly into the seat directly across from her, silver eyes glinting as she doesn't so much as stir. How long will it take for her to notice?
A shame for her, though, because tonight Caine has grown tired of waiting.
“Is it really so comfortable here?” he asks, voice as lyrical as a songbird as he props his head lazily against a wing. His gaze on her is that of a curious raven, and his handsome smile grows sharper, more feral, by the second. “If you aren’t careful, you’ll drool all over these precious books, and I doubt they’ll like that.”
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