Except… he was impossible to ignore.
Especially when he ate a couple of grapes and then immediately abandoned them for the bag of pink-and-white frosted animal crackers, because of course he did. This is the man who ate ice cream for breakfast. Why had I ever expected him to start with anything but the cookies?
In the end, I was grateful for his sweet tooth. Because when Syrin opened the little bag of animal crackers, he looked so absurdly pleased that it broke the awkwardness a little. He held up a lion-shaped one. “What is this supposed to be?”
I grinned. “Pretty sure that’s a lion. See the little mane?”
“It looks nothing like the actual creature.”
I snorted. “Yeah, well, they’re not exactly sculpting them by hand.”
He bit into it.
“You just decapitated it.”
He rolled his eyes at me. “Yes. Very sad.” He looked down at the cookie again, lips pursed. “This is not as good as ice cream.”
I let out a slightly wild laugh, still recovering from all the emotions earlier. “Yeah, well, they are sort of on different tiers. These are more like… fun for kids, not super delicious. Mom has them for my cousins that are younger, her brother’s kids. We just thought they’d be fun.”
“They are interesting,” Syrin admitted as he examined another shape. “This one seems to be a… blob.”
I snorted. “That one’s a buffalo.”
“Ah. We have not seen this creature yet.” He smiled, and his glow settled into that easy gold I was starting to think of as content. I reached for my water bottle.
And then—
Syrin’s glow vanished—not dimmed, not flickered—vanished as he went pale. He froze mid-chew, the cracker slipping from his fingers. His eyes were unfocused, staring past me at nothing at all.
“Syrin?” I whispered.
He didn’t respond, just sat frozen. Then his breath hitched, and white light slammed into the world in a violent burst, blinding me. I blinked, trying to get my bearings. The trees hid us here, but a flash like that… Someone yelled from the path.
No! Not now, not here.
Then Syrin jerked like he’d been electrocuted, one hand shooting to his chest, fingers curling into his shirt.
“Syrin!” I lunged forward, catching him around the arm. The air around him shimmered, too bright and warm. My pulse was going a mile a minute. What was happening? His breath caught again, and he jerked violently, knocking the backpack from the table.
His glow erupted again, jagged white laced with sickly gray. A strangled sound tore from his throat. It wasn’t loud, but it was the kind of sound that made my heart claw its way up my ribs.
He doubled over, and his head would have slammed into the table if I hadn’t yanked him to the side. His breath was ragged, hands trembling like he couldn’t hold onto himself.
“Syrin, talk to me! What’s happening?”
He shook his head like he was trying to shake something off him. Or out of him. Tears streaked down his face, lit silver by his flickering glow.
“The Light—” His voice cracked painfully. “Something—something’s wrong.”
There were more voices on the path. Not many, but enough. “Is that a spotlight?” someone said.
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Another voice. “Maybe it’s part of a show.”
Crap.
“Okay,” I whispered, pulling Syrin closer, blocking their view with my body. “It’s okay. Just tell me—”
“It can’t feel him,” Syrin said.
My stomach dropped. “Syrin… who?”
His breath stuttered, and the light pulsed violently, a ring of white rippling under his skin. “My father,” he choked. “The Light—” He gasped. “Trina, it can’t find my father.”
The words hit like the world shifted sideways. The glow flared again, a surge of white panic that made the hairs on my arms lift. Did that… could you sever a Keeper from the Light? Or was he dead? Syrin clutched his chest harder, curling in on himself on the bench. His whole body shook, like grief hitting too fast for him to brace.
“Syrin. Hey! Look at me,” I said, grabbing his face with both hands. “Look at me.”
His eyes finally lifted to mine, wild and terrified.
“Trina,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I can’t feel him. He’s gone.”
All around us, the zoo kept going. I could still hear kids laughing, birds screeching, the wind rustling the trees. But our little patch of forest felt like the world had cracked open.
His breath broke on a sob, the kind he tried to swallow down but couldn’t. The light under his skin flared again, white edged with frantic copper, like it didn’t know whether to burn or run.
“Syrin,” I whispered, pulling him in tightly, wrapping my arms firmly around him. “Hey. I’ve got you. It’s okay. It’s okay.”
It wasn’t, and we both knew it, but his fingers already curled into my sleeves like he was drowning. His forehead pressed against my shoulder, shaky breaths spilling against my collarbone. His light thrashed under his skin, blinding me every few seconds. I’d never seen it shift so rapidly: surging white, plunging gray, flickering in jagged bursts like something inside him was clawing to get out.
“I can’t—” His voice cracked. “I’m sorry. They’ll see, but I can’t—I can’t hold it—Trina, it’s too much—”
“Yes, you can,” I murmured, arms tightening around him. “I’m here. I’m right here. Just breathe. Just… just feel me, okay? Stay with me.”
People were staring now, a small group that had stopped on the path. I hunched over Syrin, shielding his face, pretending we were just two college kids in a very dramatic meltdown moment. Not a magical implosion waiting to happen.
Another wave hit him. Syrin gasped, clutching the front of my shirt. “It’s screaming,” he choked. “The Light is screaming and I—Trina, I can’t—”
“I know,” I whispered fiercely. “Hold on anyway.”
A shadow fell over us.
“What happened?” Mom’s voice was sharp.
I looked up. She stood there with her hair pulled back, a zoo map still in her hand from the bathroom trip. Full alarm hit her face in an instant. “Oh no,” she whispered, stepping closer. “Syrin. Sweetheart, breathe. You need to pull back.”
“I can’t,” he sobbed. “It’s gone. It’s gone. He’s gone—”
“His dad,” I mouthed to Mom.
She froze, then crouched, immediately entering nurse mode, her voice dropping to a calm she absolutely didn’t feel. “Okay, listen to me. You’re not losing yourself. The Light is reacting to your grief. You’re still in control. You’re still here.”
The plants around us shimmered faintly copper, as if the Light were curling outward with every pulse of emotion, threatening to flare. My breath caught. Crap. Would they catch fire!?! The branches of the trees practically looked like they might start dripping liquid light.
Someone on the trail had a camera out, and for a moment, I hated them. Hated that they would make Syrin’s grief into a video to be passed around.
Mom’s eyes darted around, calculating line of sight, risk. “This is too public,” she hissed under her breath.
Another surge hit. Syrin jerked, a soft cry tearing from him before he buried his face against me again. The glow burst out of him in a halo of white, bright enough that Mom swore under her breath. This one… this one was almost hot.
“Trina,” she said sharply. “Don’t let go.”
“I’m not,” I said, tightening my grip. “I won’t.”
She glanced towards the observers, standing and shifting to further block him from sight.
“Syrin,” I murmured. “It’s okay. The glowing is okay. Let it out.” It wasn’t, not really, but the alternative…
Syrin’s fingers dug into my arms, desperate, terrified, gripping like he was trying to anchor himself to a world suddenly tilting off its axis. “I can’t feel him,” he whispered again, voice breaking. “The Light can’t feel him.”
And then he crumpled fully against me, shaking uncontrollably. Heat flared again. Too warm. It was way too hot around Syrin.
“Syrin! I just… I need you to control the flames. That’s it, okay? Everything else is fine.”
Mom moved closer, her hand hovering near his back, judging whether touch would help or make the Light lash harder. “Trina,” she murmured, “keep his focus on you. Keep him grounded. I need to figure out what to do next.”
I swallowed hard, heart pounding. “Syrin,” I breathed against his hair, “I’ve got you. I’m here. You’re not alone. I swear you’re not alone.”
His glow fluttered, still wild, but flickering faintly toward bronze where his forehead pressed into my shoulder. It felt like the temperature dropped a degree.
Mom exhaled shakily. “Good. Good. Keep doing that.”
Syrin’s tears soaked through my sleeve. His breath hitched over and over, and under it, the Light kept surging: a wounded, grieving thing, trying to burn and collapse at the same time.
Then something shifted. Light pooled at Syrin’s feet, instead of in the air, threading through with black, practically exploding with black. Just like before. Exactly like before.
“No,” Syrin whispered, voice hoarse. “Not here. Not—”
The gold pulsed once, like a heartbeat, then folded in on itself, collapsing inward as shadow swallowed it whole.
I scrambled from the picnic table, away from the light, Mom helping me drag Syrin.
The collapsing light tore open. And something rose out of it.
Singer Lain: Starbloom
A saint groomed for sacrifice awakens a sleeping serpent and summons a ruinous, slow-burn love. Divine music, forbidden Heat, and a world where faith has fangs.
- dark romantasy ? slow burn
- a saint who won’t stay silent
- dragon gods, blood-magic, chosen-one fallout
- hearts vs. holy orders
- daily updates!
“A lush, sensual fantasy about power, purity, and the magic that blooms when a girl dares to sing her own song.”
Exiled to fetch the mythic Starbloom, Lain meets Mallow, a roguish herbalist with gentler hands than the clergy’s, and Morgan Balthir, a veinwright whose vows taste like chains. The Underserpent is waking. So is she.