7. Athena

7

ATHENA

T he smile curling across Uriel's perfect features makes my blood boil. His golden eyes sparkle with amusement, like I'm some kind of entertaining pet that just performed a trick. The argument's heat still lingers in my chest, my hands clenched at my sides.

"You're quite spirited for a human." He stretches his massive wings, the light gray feathers catching the workshop's lamplight. "Though I guess I should come to expect that by now."

The way he studies me – like I'm a puzzle he can't quite solve – sets my skin tingling. There's no trace of the condescension I usually see from xaphan. Instead, his gaze holds something darker, more intense.

A rough laugh escapes him. "Such fire in those eyes." He reaches out, and I feel the magic bonds loosen. "You think you'll find your own way back, don't you?"

The question isn't really a question at all. Before I can respond, his wings fold close to his body and he turns on his heel, leaving me alone in his workshop with nothing but the echo of his laughter and the lingering warmth where his magic just was filling the room.

My fists unclench slowly, joints aching from how tight I'd been holding them. That arrogant, insufferable... He's the first person to ever see me as capable of being a threat, and he uses it to mock me.

The anger still simmers under my skin as I turn to examine the workshop more closely now that he isn't here watching me. Scattered across the massive oak workbench, blades catch the lamplight – some plain steel, others gleaming with an otherworldly sheen. My fingers hover over a dagger with runes etched into its surface, the metal almost humming with energy.

" Don't touch me ," the blade seems to whisper in a way that's foreign to me.

I snatch my hand back, heart pounding. A demanding weapon. Of course he'd make something like that.

The walls are lined with shelves of components – bottles of liquid starlight, feathers that spark with electricity, crystals that pulse like heartbeats. In the corner, a forge burns without fuel, flames dancing in impossible colors.

My instincts draw me to a sword with a crimson sheen. The edge looks sharp enough to split a hair, but it's the magic woven through it that catches my attention. The blade doesn't just cut – it cauterizes, prevents infection, speeds healing. It's beautiful and terrifying at once.

I've always been drawn to healing. Where my sister has always been more suspicious of others, I've been empathetic. For years, I begged my father to learn to let me heal, and while I have done some work in it, it was minimal.

Maybe that's where this newfound rage and bitterness is coming from. Either way, standing here, staring at the work that Uriel does is pulling out old desires from me, ones that I learned to bury to be the perfect daughter. Some good that did me.

I go back to studying the blade. "Fascinating." The word slips out before I can stop it. I lean closer to examine the intricate patterns etched into the metal, careful not to touch. Each line flows into the next like a dance, forming symbols I recognize from my own healing studies.

A rack of spears stands against the far wall, their tips glowing with contained lightning. Beside them, a war hammer whose head seems to be made of compressed darkness. The air around it feels heavy, wrong.

Each weapon is a masterpiece of magic and metal, deadly art given form. Part of me wants to hate how impressive it all is, but I can't deny the skill it must take to create these. It must be what brought him across continents. I'm sure there are many customers after his creations.

My reflection catches in a polished shield – honey-blonde curls disheveled from our argument, golden-green eyes still bright with defiance. Even angry, I look soft compared to all this weaponry. No wonder everyone thinks I need protecting.

But these weapons... they're not just instruments of death. The healing sword proves that. There's something more here, something that speaks to both the warrior and the healer. I wonder if that was why he was intrigued when he first saw me, if he felt that same pull I did that I've been ignoring.

No, Athena , I tell myself. He stole you because he's a shit person.

Sighing, I take inventory. The forge dominates one wall, its eternal flame casting dancing shadows. Workbenches line the others, each dedicated to different stages of weapon crafting. One holds raw materials – metals that sing when struck, gems that pulse with trapped starlight. Another displays works in progress, blades waiting for their final enchantments.

The medical room catches my eye. Unlike the workshop's organized chaos, this space maintains strict order. Shelves of potions arranged by purpose, bandages rolled with military precision. The scents of herbs and magic mingle in the air. Despite myself, I'm impressed by the collection of healing supplies. Each labeled bottle contains perfectly prepared solutions, the work of someone who understands both magic and medicine.

I find the weak points in the workshop's security – a window whose latch sticks, floorboards that creak near the storage room. But even these aren't true vulnerabilities, just the natural wear of a space that's actually used rather than just displayed.

Deciding to continue my exploration, I step into the dying light, squinting against its harsh glare. No sign of Uriel's massive wings on the horizon. The bastard's probably watching from somewhere, amused by my predicament.

The workshop connects to the main house through a covered walkway, its wooden beams carved with intricate protective runes. My fingers trace one symbol – a ward against fire. Smart, considering the forge inside.

The walkway offers shelter from rain, but the sides remain open to catch cool breezes. I wrap my arms around me, wishing desperately that I had a change of clothes. But Uriel has not offered me that, nor my own quarters.

Gods, what am I going to do here?

I test each section of the property's boundaries methodically, like checking a patient's wounds. The magical barrier forms a dome over the entire estate. It's strongest near the perimeter fence, where it crackles with warning when I press against it, little sparks of pain. I'm sure it would be agony if I pushed harder like he said. Weaker spots exist – particularly where tree branches cross the boundary line – but still impenetrable to someone without magic.

The mansion looms behind me, three stories of pale stone and dark wood. Unlike the gaudy displays of wealth that most xaphan are known for, this place feels lived-in despite its size. Gardens sprawl in carefully planned chaos, medicinal herbs mixed with decorative blooms. My healer's mind catalogs each plant – bloodroot, feverfew, nightshade. He grows everything needed for both healing and harm.

A stone path winds through the gardens to a small pond. The barrier extends over the water, rippling like heat waves where it meets the surface. No escape that way either.

My prison may be beautiful, but it's still a prison. Every exit, every potential escape route, hums with that same barrier magic. He's left me just enough freedom to explore, to appreciate the craftsmanship of my cage, while ensuring I can't actually leave.

The worst part? I understand why everyone wants to protect me. I'm not blind to it - even when Astrid gave up her whole life to protect me. But being kept safe isn't the same as being kept captive, and right now, I'm definitely the latter. I can't say it felt much different at home, either, though. And that is a problem.

My palm presses against nothing, yet everything. The invisible barrier at the main entrance feels like pressing against a wall of pure force. No matter how hard I push, it doesn't yield – solid as steel but smooth as glass. Magic ripples beneath my touch, a reminder of how powerless I am without it.

That seems to stir something up in me, and that feeling of being watched, of having no say in where I go, the memories of home - it all boils up in me.

I slam both hands against the barrier. The impact should hurt, should give me something real to fight against, but there's only that same unyielding resistance. Pinpricks of pain skitter up my arms but I barely feel it. My fingers curl into fists, and I strike the barrier again. And again. Each hit sends vibrations up my arms, magic humming against my skin.

"Let me out!" The words tear from my throat, raw and desperate. The sound echoes across the empty courtyard, bouncing off stone walls that mock my imprisonment.

Heat builds behind my eyes. I blink hard, refusing to give him the satisfaction of my tears. The golden-green eyes I share with my sister stare back at me in the barrier's faint shimmer – but where Astrid's hold steel, mine show every emotion I try to hide.

Gods, no wonder I was never treated like her. I'm a mess. There's no denying it now, looking at my situation. I spent so long angry with Father, even Astrid sometimes, and look where it landed me. Right where they feared.

My honey-blonde curls are tangled and dirty from the trip, wild around my face like my thoughts. I'm not the delicate flower everyone thinks I am, not some fragile thing to be locked away and protected. The barrier pulses with each racing beat of my heart, responding to my fury even though I can't control it.

I press my forehead against the magic wall, letting its cool energy wash over my heated skin. The tears threaten again, burning at the corners of my eyes. I don't want to let them out, don't want to let the war inside me win.

But a single tear escapes despite my best efforts. It slides down my cheek, dropping to disappear into the barrier's surface with a tiny spark. I watch it vanish, this small piece of my weakness absorbed by his magic, and something inside me hardens.

My hands fall to my sides, fingers uncurling slowly. The barrier remains, unmoved by either force or grief. Beyond it, the path to freedom stretches toward the horizon, taunting me with its proximity.

I will find a way out.