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Chapter Text

Rowan Whitethorn arrived in Doranelle exhausted.

He had been flying without sleep for three days and nights, obeying the urgent summons of his queen and master. Maeve, the Queen of all the Fae.

Though his power was drained and his wing muscles twitched with exhaustion, Rowan didn’t slow his relentless pace. The closer he got to Doranelle, the stronger the tug was in his heart and soul. Even though he hadn’t seen Maeve in weeks, the blood oath’s pull was relentless. Inescapable.

Rowan swooped down from above the clouds, a soft gray morning unraveling beneath him. The city of rivers spread out below his straining wings, hills and bridges, winding roads and rushing water.

Doranelle was a stronghold of pale stone built on a massive island, natural moats encircling walls of granite. On the north end of the city, several rivers combined to form a massive waterfall, causing waves of mist to float over the city’s blue rooftops. Mist that currently stroked Rowan’s gray and white feathers, greeting him with the welcoming fingers of a long-awaited friend.

The winds of Doranelle were cool and soft, a familiar temperate climate. The winds of home. Or at least, the home he had come to accept.

Rowan closed his eyes for a moment as a slash of pain rent through him. Invisible snow fell on his shoulders. Mountains towered before his eyes while blood stained hidden fingers. Screaming echoed in his head. Lyria.

But the pain was expected, the screams an old friend. He barely reacted as the cold blankness iced over his heart, barely flinched as he forced the images to fade, the soundless cries to weaken.

Rowan’s wings settled back into their usual rhythm and he soared over the entry bridges, their guards nodding to him. His queen must have told them of his imminent arrival, ordered them not to impede his progress. Maeve was impatient.

Curiosity narrowed his eyes. It wasn’t like Maeve to do this – to call without warning and without explanation, to invoke the blood oath through a missive, rather than in person. It set him on edge.

His summons had been very brief indeed.

Prince Whitethorn –

We have received news of great significance, and your presence is required in Doranelle. You are ordered to leave immediately. Fly swift, I expect to see you within the week.

– Maeve

Even thousands of miles away, Rowan could feel that tug in his chest, that need to obey. While the blood oath relied on specific and clear demands, and often needed close proximity to subdue resistance, this summons could not be ignored. Even if Rowan had cared enough to want to fight it.

So he’d left, without any goodbyes, or any of his belongings. Traveling as fast as his wings could carry him.

The only stop Rowan made before leaving was to inform Lord Siarill’s manservant of his imminent departure. He had been stationed among a royal court in the far east, a place where humans and Fae lived and worked together in peace.

However, the royals had decided – for some godforsaken reason – that they no longer wanted to abide by a trade agreement they had set with Maeve. Therefore Rowan had been dispatched to convince them of their folly. As a reminder of exactly who would be coming after them if the tensions between their two nations escalated.

After centuries of peace, Lord Siarill and his family had gotten complacent, and arrogant.

Though the court was Fae itself, they were isolated from much of the western world. Enough so that rumors of Maeve’s retinue of elite warriors had not reached them. They knew none of his stories, none of the vicious tales that had followed him for nigh on three hundred years.

The royal family had expected a demure figure, one that was aloof, but kind. Who had one foot in the forest, and eyes only for the stars. They had not anticipated a warrior, born and bred for battle, honed by three centuries of bloodshed and conflict. They had not prepared for him.

And so, his task was ever easier.

Rowan had been sent on many such missions, as much a royal emissary as a military commander. And while the royal courts were always comfortable and luxurious, and he was always treated with the respect he was due as a Prince of Doranelle, Rowan far preferred brawling in the mud to sparring with barbed words over decadent banquets. He would rather spend weeks campaigning, go months without adequate sleep and days without food in seemingly endless battles than spend even one day fielding pointed attacks from spoiled royals and corrupt, self-serving politicians.

And Maeve knew it. So, he acted as diplomat whenever she wished.

Maeve loved doing things like that, thrived on those little acts of cruelty that she knew added up over the years, the centuries, until they dug in and nestled in your very soul. Maeve was an expert in breaking people to her will – not only because she was a skilled manipulator, but because she enjoyed it.

So this – this impromptu summons, chafed on Rowan.

All of Maeve’s warriors were given a great deal of independence in which they could act on her orders. No free will, no real autonomy, but in the details, in planning and strategizing, they were often left to their own devices.

Rowan had expected to remain within Lord Siarill’s court for several weeks to come, acting the part of the foreign dignitary while simultaneously mining them for information. It wasn’t like Maeve to cut their missions short, to interrupt them with letters or news. In fact, Rowan was unsure whether he had ever received such a notice in his three centuries of service. Not once.

Something important had happened. Something unprecedented. And not knowing what was to come, not knowing what he was flying into, aggravated Rowan.

He turned towards the north, to the great waterfall and the stone palace concealed in its wake. It was large and imposing, not overly luxurious the way many royal houses were. His queen’s castle gracefully straddled the line between royal courthouse and military stronghold; it was a commanding structure, but it didn’t tower over the rest of the city, and its many fountains and gardens softened the hard lines of its stone architecture.

Rowan efficiently swooped down towards the grand entryway, its massive carved stone doors inscribed with ancient images of the three sisters, the three queens: Mab, Mora and Maeve.

Mab and Mora had long passed, exalted into godhood millennia before Rowan’s birth. But Queen Maeve remained, still ruling over the city of rivers.

Rowan shifted into his Fae form, landing lightly on his toes as he emitted a quick flash of cold, white light. The sentries at the door marked him carefully, but automatically opened the doors to let him in.

Rowan forwent a bath, heading directly for the throne room.

He swept past courtyards filled with columns wrapped in jasmine, past corridors covered in extravagant mosaics depicting scenes from dancing maidens to idyllic pastorals to starry skies, past arched ceilings dappled with colored light from stained glass windows. And always water, pools and fountains and rivers bubbling and murmuring from every corner.

Even the hallways cradled tiny streams, offshoots from the great rivers surrounding the city. Occasionally, in corners and crossroads, they would gather into delicate pools lined with waterlilies.

He paid none of it any heed, striding ceaselessly towards his queen and master. Obeying the pull of the blood oath currently constricting his chest.

His quiet steps down the stone corridors were loud, echoing through the silent palace. Despite the rich furnishings and inviting decor, the fortress was nearly empty. His queen didn’t maintain much of a court, finding babbling courtiers a nuisance.

Even so, sentries were everywhere, both those he could see and those he could only sense. Hiding in dark corners and behind false walls. But they only added to the strange atmosphere of hushed, anticipatory quiet. It was almost oppressive, the silence. But Rowan was used to it, welcomed it even. The quiet of the castle calmed the noise within him.

Eventually, he reached a wide veranda overhanding the river. The great waterfall was now very close, its roaring effectively making it impossible for anything spoken in the exposed space to be overheard.

His queen was waiting for him, lounging casually on her throne like a cat in a patch of sunlight. She was wearing a heavy dress of black velvet, emphasizing the paleness of her skin and the depth of her black hair. The ever-present owl sat perched on the back of her seat, its eyes intent.

The owl was a Fae – Rowan could tell that much from the creature’s scent. But in all the years he had served in Queen Maeve’s court, he had not once seen the individual in Fae form. So he knew nothing at all about them, not their gender, age, or purpose. Not that he really cared enough to find out.

Maeve never hid important information from her court, never hid her plans or strategies from her blood-bonded. Nothing of significance wasn’t shared between them. Meaning that the owl wasn’t worth mentioning, and that was that.

Maeve’s face was carefully blank, though intense. Only her eyes betrayed her vicious power, and they pierced Rowan through like blades of obsidian.

His queen was power incarnate. He could almost see the waves of darkness roiling around her, lying in wait. Even now, after centuries in her service, he marveled at the sheer force contained within his queen. They all did, Maeve’s blood-sworn court.

There were six of them. A group of warriors that were feared and respected throughout Wendlyn, and notorious in lands much farther than that. They were some of the most powerful Fae males living, and they used that strength to serve their queen in any and every way she required them to.

Rowan was the only one present for this meeting, but he could sense the powers of at least two others somewhere in the palace, their magic a dark, hovering presence in the corner of his mind.

While Rowan was unsure exactly who the power belonged to, he knew at least one of the warriors had to be one of the twins. Fenrys and Connall, the Wolves of Doranelle. Maeve always made sure to retain one of them here, as a way to hold sway over the other. Whoever it was, they were probably hidden upstairs, warming her royal bed.

Rowan’s nostrils flared slightly, and he carefully contained the disgust that swirled in his stomach. They were held in more than one kind of slavery, Maeve’s warrior-court.

Even if his familial bond with Maeve exempted him from that exact manner of service, Rowan knew what kind of female sat waiting before him. Had known when he swore the blood oath all those years ago – had known when he signed away his life, his very will, away to her like so much chattel. But he hadn’t cared. He had been too far gone, too lost for it to matter.

Even now, with malice curling on his queen’s lips, Rowan couldn’t bring himself to regret the decision. It had been a choice between two different sets of shackles. And Rowan had chosen purpose, and power, and glory. And the privilege to serve, to protect and defend the way all Fae males longed to.

Even so, he didn’t love his queen, didn’t worship her the way some of the others did. Especially his commander, Lorcan Salvaterre.

Lorcan pursued Maeve relentlessly, was utterly devoted to her. He was convinced that they were matched for each other, that their shared dark powers called to each other. But Maeve had no desire for love or companionship. She had physical needs, and those she sated in other ways.

Maeve rejected Lorcan and instead bedded the twins, knowing that it made them all suffer immeasurably. She delighted in it.

Rowan didn’t resent Lorcan for his affection towards their queen, or Fenrys for his distaste. He understood it. All of them, Rowan included, were drawn to power. And their queen was the most powerful Fae living.

Rowan approached the dais and knelt.

“Majesty,” he murmured.

Maeve didn’t acknowledge him, instead clapping her hands loudly to summon an attendant. They entered, received their orders and left swiftly, heading down the hall and into the depths of the castle, their errand unknown to Rowan.

Maeve kept him kneeling on the stone floor through the long minutes while they waited. She could keep him waiting there for weeks, for years if she wished. Could force him to kneel until he wasted and died.

Eventually, she spoke. “How fare our eastern neighbors?”

“Less well than they were before my arrival, Majesty.”

The corners of her lips turned up. “Should I expect any more trouble from them?”

“I should think not. Lord Siarill turned out to be quite persuadable. It was his daughter that we will have to watch out for – it turned out that she, and not her father, was behind the breaking of your agreement and of incensing the people against you.”

“And why would Princess Aniya do such a thing?” Maeve’s voice turned dangerous. “We hosted her here once, you know, when she was a child.”

Rowan gritted his teeth, the bearer of bad news. “Aniya, like all of the Siarill family, are pure blooded Fae. But their city, along with the rest of their kingdom, has a very large population of demi-Fae. Because of where their kingdom is situated, they have always had large populations of both Fae and humankind that could not easily avoid one another.”

Rowan’s knees were beginning to ache, the blood oath compelling him to speak far more than he normally would have. “Unlike our brethren in the west, or here in Doranelle, neither group could overpower the other. They came close to civil war on several occasions, but now have lived in peace for centuries. So demi-Fae have become increasingly more common.”

“A disease of half-breeds spreading though the east.” Maeve’s voice was dark and stormy, while her magic gathered in a great cloud around her.

Rowan had to hold in his wince at the word. Half-breeds. An insulting term for those with both Fae and human parents. In Doranelle, mortals and demi-Fae were both thought of as lesser, as below the more powerful and worthy Fae peoples. However, Demi-Fae people had the unlucky experience of facing this from both Fae and from human nations, and often had to live in the wild, on the fringes of society. But not in Lord Siarill’s kingdom.

“Aniya fell in love with a demi-Fae female. They are set to marry in early summer.” Maeve’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “And it seems that she is…averse…to our methods of dealing with the demi-Fae in Doranelle.”

“What are her plans.”

“Nothing was set in stone upon my arrival, majesty. Only discontented rumblings and whispers behind closed doors. I managed to halt the rebel groups for now, but was called away before I could do much more to prevent coming violence.”

Maeve turned her piercing gaze on him. “Are you perhaps blaming me for your inability to contain the eastern princess?”

“Of course not, your majesty.” Rowan spoke into the dirt between them.

“I thought not.” Maeve smiled, her face twisting into something dark and suggestive of violence, but at that moment the servant reentered.

The attendant was accompanied by an unremarkable figure, who bowed low while the servant retreated into the shadows. The newcomer was of average height and dressed in all black. Rowan couldn’t detect any hidden weapons on their person, but he wasn’t able to see much with his gaze still forced towards the stone dais.

“Majesty,” the figure said softly, her voice suggesting her to be a young female.

Maeve inclined her head towards the girl, and turned back to Rowan, saying, “You have been missed these past days, Prince. While you were off cavorting with Princess Aniya and her whore, we received news,” she paused, her gaze intensifying. “Of Aelin Galathynius.”

Of all the names Rowan may have expected to hear fall from her lips, this was last. The princess of Terrasen?

“She’s not dead?” The words escaped his lips without his permission. The blood oath relented somewhat, allowing him to straighten out of his crouch.

“It appears that the princess has had a very interesting journey.” Maeve’s eyes glinted slyly as she gestured for the figure in black to stand and speak, while Rowan felt a wry curiosity growing within him, breaking through the cold disinterest. 

“We have learned,” said the female, as she stood and faced their queen, “That Celaena Sardothien has been sent to Wendlyn, to Varese, to assassinate the royal family and steal their naval defense strategy.”

Rowan felt his confusion mount, but he remained silent as the figure in black continued.

“Sardothien was trained by Arobynn Hamel, the King of the Assassins of the western continent, and became well-known as Adarlan’s Assassin. Now, she has found herself employed by Adarlan’s king as his Champion, and has been sent to Wendlyn on his orders.”

She paused, her jaw twitching slightly. “It was not until very recently that we discovered that Sardothien and Aelin Galathynius are in fact one and the same.”

Rowan stiffened, taken aback. The princess, hiding as an assassin?

“…We do not yet understand the circumstances of her survival, or how exactly she spent the many years between the fall of Terrasen and her appointment as King’s Champion – other than the many rumors that have been spread of the supposed exploits of Celaena Sardothien.” The female’s voice twisted in irritation, her eyes flitting up to look at their queen, as if seeking some kind of confirmation, or reassurance.

“But we do know without a doubt that she is a girl of barely nineteen, with golden hair and turquoise eyes with a central ring of gold.”

Ashryver eyes. Unmistakable. 

“She was spotted and recognized by a source, on a merchant ship headed for Varese barely one week hence. They contacted a hand of mine through the method we discussed,” the female nodded to their queen, “and they then passed the information on to me.”

So the female was one of Maeve’s spies, a member of a vast network that spanned throughout Erilea and beyond.

The spy continued. “Aelin Galathynius was nearly across the sea when my hand received this message. If she has not already arrived, she will within a few days.”

“How trustworthy is this report?” Rowan interjected.

“The source who retrieved the information has always been reliable, and I am inclined to believe their assessment. They have no reason to pass on false information, and as they were once familiar with the Galathynius and Ashryver families, they have every reason to be able to recognize a member of that family.” The spy continued to look at their queen, even though she was replying to Rowan. “Regardless, we already possessed the information on Celaena Sardothien’s movements from a source within Rifthold’s court, and the physical descriptions of the women match perfectly.”

“Rumors of Celaena Sardothien have been circling Wendlyn for many years now.” Rowan did the math in his head, calculating. “Terrasen fell barely a decade ago. If Celaena Sardothien and Aelin Galathynius are one, that means a child not even into her late teens has been the one responsible for her many crimes.”

The spy nodded. “Yes. Most had assumed Celaena was older, and there were many rumors speculating her gender was a lie as well. But no, for perhaps half a year now we have had confirmation that Celaena was a woman barely into her twenties or late teens.”

“And there is no question that the assassin is Aelin Galathynius?” Rowan pushed.

“None.” It wasn’t the spy who replied, but his queen.

“I have my own ways of keeping watch on the world, and I have long known that Terrasen’s heir lived on. The wildfire brought into the world upon her birth did not burn out with the fall of her nation. And now it draws ever closer to our shores.”

Maeve looked out onto the water, and the pale stone walls that had now stood so long, unchallenged. Stone and water. It had long been known that his queen had a distaste, even a fear, for fire. That had been made apparent millennia ago…

He turned away from those thoughts as his queen asked, “Is that all, spymaster?”

“I have only the details of her arrival and departure from Rifthold, and the rumors we have gathered of her life as Celaena.”

“Why do you not have more concrete information on the assassin?” Rowan asked.

“At the time, she was not considered a priority.” The spy shrugged. “Celaena rose to prominence during our most recent conflict with Akkadians in the northeast, and the minimal spies we retained on the western continent were focused on Adarlan’s court, and acquiring information on their continued conflict with the other nations in the west, such as Melisande and Eyllwe. We had no reason to focus on the life of an assassin in the slums of Rifthold.”

“Even though she posed enough of a threat to become famous across the sea?” Rowan challenged. 

“Enough.” Maeve’s quiet command silenced them immediately. She jerked her chin to the door behind her, unceremoniously dismissing the spy, who bowed low and departed through the door behind the throne.

“Brannon’s heir, surfaced once again,” Maeve mused after a moment of silence.

Rowan didn’t respond. There had once been rumors that the girl’s power rivaled that of Brannon, her ancestor. Wildfire strong enough to encircle the world, his queen’s only weakness. Rowan’s jaw clenched.

“I need you to collect her for me, Rowan.”

He nodded, staring directly back into her hard eyes.

“When this came to light, nearly a week ago now, both Lorcan and Fenrys were present. Fenrys of course immediately volunteered his services.” Her eyes glittered with wicked amusement. “The girl is apparently very pretty. A wild, fiery creature – the princess made assassin.”

Rowan’s jaw twitched ever so slightly.

Maeve’s smile grew. “I decided to let him go as an advance guard, to track her down before you collect her. But I want you to bring her to me.”

Fenrys loved anything wild and beautiful. To dangle this princess before him, but make Rowan actually collect the wild girl…it was a punishment for both of them. Rowan's jaw clenched.

“Instead Fenrys will remain in Varese, containing the Ashryver royals – who have become increasingly more irritating in their requests to strike back at Adarlan’s forces. They know that they cannot go to war until I allow it, but they seem to be getting more and more forgetful.”

Rowan just nodded once again, trying to disguise his frustration.

The Ashryvers had always been an irritation for Maeve – and over the past few decades, their disobediences have become more and more frank. It was an easy task to throw the reckless and willful male. Give him a taste of freedom, only to snatch it back once again when it would hurt the most.

But Rowan barely spared Fenrys’ plight a thought. He was already thinking of what he would be facing in Varese when he arrived. Whenever Fenrys was set free, even for a few days, he completely lost himself.

The male was beyond infuriating. Rowan had absolutely no desire to show up in Varese only to have to drag the debauched male out of some ditch or hovel. Wild and reckless, no discipline, no self-control.

Maeve continued. “The princess has been ordered to assassinate the Ashryver family. Obviously, that cannot be allowed. But I also have become aware that she has another purpose…one that concerns me.”

Rowan’s eyes narrowed, while his body stilled. If the Heir of Fire had been sent to assassinate Maeve…

But his queen just said, “Bring her to the outpost at Mistward, and I will meet you there.” Rowan couldn’t restrain a slight jerk of surprise at the words. His queen was going to leave Doranelle? At the behest of some foreign brat?

Rowan couldn’t hold in the question. “What does the girl want, majesty?”

Maeve fingers twitched, her lips curling once more. “Knowledge. She seeks answers to…ancient questions. But that is not why I wish to meet with the girl.”

Rowan cocked his head.

“I’m sure you remember tell of her power.”

His lips tightened slightly, brow furrowing. It was not like Maeve to avoid questions, or to withhold answers... 

“The Heir of Fire. The Heir of Brannon.” She paused for a moment, considering, “The girl probably has little to no control over her magic. But still, we cannot be certain. Make sure that you bring her to me unharmed, and without having destroyed anything irreparable. You know how irritating the Ashryvers can be, and I doubt they’d take well to the destruction of their capital.”

The words were teasing, his queen always preferred a light touch. But Rowan knew what she was implying, the wounds she was prodding. He refused to react, while a city crumbled behind his eyes. Sollemere.

Her lips twitched once again. Maeve was enjoying herself. “The princess is probably already hidden within the city – she may even have sought refuge with her relatives, despite what the Adarlanian king ordered. Find her for me.”

Rowan just nodded again while his Queen stared him down, her words radiating with command. “Travel swiftly, I expect to meet Brannon’s heir within a fortnight.”

Her eyes were focused, predatory. Filled with desire. Maeve wanted this princess more than just for a meeting, to answer some questions or discover a new source of power. Perhaps the princess was intended as another tool, another weapon in her arsenal.

Regardless, Maeve had drawn a net around the Heir of Terrasen, a spider in a great web, and was using Rowan to ensnare her. Not Fenrys, not Lorcan, but Rowan. She had called him from another assignment, and required him to capture the girl. The question was, was he the hook or the bait?

While Rowan couldn’t help speculating idly, the ice coating his limbs did not shift an inch – he didn't really care either way. Maeve would tell him what she was planning when she wanted to, be it in a week or in a century. He had decided long ago to surrender such feelings for the honor of service.

Rowan took off, shifting into his hawk and flying out of the throne room into the waiting mists. Breaking the intent gaze of his queen and master. There was something more to this foreign princess, something more than just the promise of power.

The heir of fire had risen from the ashes.

Had she come to burn them all to the ground?

Chapter Text

Rowan soared out, over the turrets and bridges, and towards that faint pulse of dark power he could still sense within the palace.

He shifted and landed lightly on the pads of his feet in a small interior courtyard with a central fountain, then turned quickly down the hall to his left and pushed open a plain stone door that sat halfway down the passage. Inside, he was greeted by a bare space that held only an immaculate bed, a cold fireplace, and a wooden desk at which sat a tall, dark, brooding figure facing away from him, studying a worn piece of paper.

“Whitethorn,” Lorcan said without turning to look at him. “What in rutting hell do you want.”

It had been nearly a year since Rowan had seen the male, and yet there was no greeting, no warmth from him. Not that Rowan expected anything else.

In earlier years, when he had first encountered Lorcan, Rowan had pitied the male. Had wondered what had happened, what had been taken from him as a child on the streets of Doranelle, for him to be this way.

Now…he no longer needed to. 

Rowan and Lorcan were the same. Two sides of one coin, black granite and solid ice. Perfect killing tools. A match made in hell.

Exactly where Lorcan got his magic – straight from the fiery pits of hell. Blessed by Hellas, god of death, Lorcan’s power was that of will – of death and thought and destruction. Perhaps that was why he was so attracted to a queen who collected the wills of others as if they were her own.

When Rowan did not reply, Lorcan turned around, revealing features hewn from granite and piercing onyx eyes. “What.”

Rowan hesitated slightly, unsure how to ask the questions he harbored. Lorcan would not take well to questioning their queen. “I assume you know why I was called back from the east.”

“I didn’t even know you were in the east. But yes, I know why you were called to Doranelle. What of it.” The words were blank and empty, and Lorcan’s features barely moved from their cruel cast as they escaped his mouth.

Rowan’s voice was hardly any warmer. “Why.”

Lorcan finally seemed to actually see Rowan. “Gavriel is in the north, Vaughan off with another garrison on the other side of the world. Fenrys is already in Varese, and Connall is upstairs somewhere doing gods know what, and isn’t allowed to leave.” Lorcan’s voice was hard.

“I have been called to the fleet, heading south along the coast and then east through the southern inlets, to send aid to the Erriagti people. I’m set to leave in the next few days, but I should be back before the end of the season. I do not have time for other errands, and you are the next in line.”

Rowan pursed his lips slightly. “There’s still something different about this one. It feels almost as though Maeve is…hiding something.”

Lorcan’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “What are you insinuating.”

He sighed. “Nothing specifically. This just feels – off.”

“I assumed it was a roundabout method of punishing Fenrys. He’s been pulling at the leash even more than usual lately.”

That explanation didn’t sit well with Rowan, for some reason. “She didn’t reveal anything to you indicating why she wants the girl so badly?”

“I’m sure you remember tell of her power.”

Rowan’s silence was answer enough.

“Well then, there’s your answer.”

Rowan clenched his jaw. “She really seeks to recruit?”

“So it seems.”

“A fire gift for the Queen of the Rivers.” Rowan’s statement was wry, almost skeptical.

Lorcan narrowed his eyes again. “And why would you say that?”

“Maeve built this city of stone and water. She fears fire.” Rowan was almost surprised at his daring for voicing these thoughts aloud. “Why would she covet it so?”

Lorcan’s words were merciless. “Perhaps, all those millennia ago, if our queen had acquired Brannon, we would not watch over a kingdom but instead an empire.”

“So she seeks to conquer.”

“I do not know, Rowan. And frankly I don’t understand where this sudden desire to question our queen’s motives is coming from.”

Rowan didn’t know either.

So he moved on. “What do you know of the girl? I was in the north, fighting in that useless excuse for a war, but you were here when she came to light.”

Lorcan sighed. “She’s demi-Fae. As far as I remember she had shifting abilities – human and Fae forms. Rare, but not unheard of. We don’t know how well trained she is in her powers.”

“So they could be formidable.”

“They could be. Another reason for Maeve sending you.”

Rowan turned his head and narrowed his eyes slightly, considering. Magic had been absent from the western continent for nearly a decade, meaning that the princess wouldn’t have been able to train her powers in her homeland. But her master, Arobynn Hamel, could easily have sent her to a foreign nation to do so.

“And what about as the assassin.”

“Not much had been known about Celaena Sardothien, other than that she was a col-blooded killer. Ruthless and arrogant. Rumors were rampant, and if our queen could divine fact from fiction, she isn’t sharing.”

“But obviously proficient?” Rowan pushed.

“At least against mortals.”

“But she isn’t fully mortal.”

“No she is not. And we do not know if the assassin’s guild trained her in her Fae form.”

As Fae, the princess’ speed and strength would rival even theirs. But only if she had been trained to use it. Rowan’s blood thrilled. “This could be quite the fight.”

Lorcan’s answering smile was brutal. “I’ve never known you to shy from a challenge, Whitethorn. Don’t disappoint me now.”

Rowan’s grin was small and cold as he responded. “And what about you? What are you going to face in the southeast?”

 “A royal has turned, and the people have revolted against him, burning wherever they go. Maeve sends aid to the foolish king, setting the price of winning his kingdom back for him that he must lay much of his authority at her feet.” Lorcan grimaced. “At least its more interesting than an errand run to Varese.”

“We’ll see.” Rowan goaded, even though he knew Lorcan was probably right. The princess would likely be as much a pain in his ass as Fenrys was. All royals were the same – spoiled, selfish, and entirely useless. Especially the powerful ones.

Lorcan just huffed a laugh. “Sure. We’ll see.”

“Who knows. Maybe the princess will be so completely useless that Maeve disposes of her the moment they meet at Mistward, and I’ll be able to join you in the southeast.”

Lorcan’s brow furrowed slightly. “Mistward? The western outpost?”

Rowan nodded.

“Maeve is leaving Doranelle?”

“Yes.”

Lorcan’s lips tightened as he turned his head to face the wall. Their queen did not leave her city lightly. Rowan hadn’t been wrong, something had shifted. This meeting was more than just a formality.

Lorcan turned back to face him, and they reached an understanding.

The male’s eyes were dark. “Regardless, your mission remains the same. Go, collect the princess, and leave the future to the oracles.”

Rowan just nodded, and left.

···

The dawn sun stretched its comforting hand out to brush Rowan’s feathers. He hadn’t bothered to transform back into his Fae form to sleep, choosing instead to perch on a convenient branch until morning.

The trip would normally take him three days. Now, with Fenrys waiting for him in Varese already, he’d hoped to half that. So he’d flown through the previous day, pushing his body to its limit. But he hadn’t had even a moment to rest while in Doranelle, meaning he couldn’t move as quickly as he wished. No matter how it irked him, he’d had to sleep last night.

Rowan opened his eyes quickly, jerked from sleep by the sudden warmth while his nightmares slowly faded, the familiar images leeching from behind his eyelids. He sat on the oaken bough, waiting for the screams to dissipate. Lyria.

Rowan sighed into Mala’s embrace. The sun goddess had always favored him, and now she seemed to smile lightly upon his skin, a promise of some kind. Tomorrow, he would reach Varese, and begin the hunt.

Rowan let out a screech of anticipation. He could be walking into the fight of his life, and his blood thrilled to the challenge.

Aelin Galathynius very well could be a considerable threat, one trained in both Fae combat and fire magic. Whose power at nine years of age had people across the world worried about their borders and their futures.

Even in Doranelle they had feared that the princess would one day take her magic beyond Terrasen's borders and across the sea to the city of water and stone. Where she might be powerful enough to pose a threat. But then the world had twisted, and Terrasen fell, like so many other kingdoms in the west this past decade, and Terrasen’s heir was no more. Or so he had thought.

Now the princess was nearing her second decade. She was still young, but a child no more. And her power will only have grown with the passing years. Then, somehow she had come into the service of Adarlan’s King, the man who had overthrown her country, who had murdered her family. And she was in Wendlyn to kill for him.

The princess of Terrasen had abandoned her nation and become a killer. Had become Adarlan’s assassin, Celaena Sardothien.

Even on the other side of the world, rumors of that girl had reached him. She would disappear for a time, and then violently resurface, carnage and destruction in her wake. Rowan had never paid much attention to the stories, rejecting them as fanciful tales. But now he wished he’d paid them more heed.

The girl was obviously proficient in combat. Just the fact that he had heard of her, had noted her existence, attested to that. Even if her strength as a mortal couldn’t hold a candle to any well-trained Fae. But would he be facing her as a mortal?

As it always did before a test, his blood spiked with adrenaline. But this time, the eagerness was tinged with something else. A thought he couldn’t contain. Particularly as the date, the dreaded anniversary, loomed over him like a guillotine blade.

Perhaps today he would see her again.

Rowan violently battered at the hope that yawned its tiny head with the unwelcome thought, a futile attempt to strike away the agony that followed surely after. Lyria.

He shook himself, shuttering the pain away behind walls of ice, and took off into the light of the rising sun.

As Rowan flew, he calculated.

His quarry was a princess of Terrasen, descendant of Brannon and gifted with his fire magic. Once Rowan was in close proximity to her, he would probably be able to sense her power just as he did with any magic wielder. But from a distance, he wasn’t familiar enough with her to sense a gods-damned thing.

Her scent could possibly mark her as Terrasen royalty, but she had spent so many years as another person, in foreign nation, that he couldn’t rely on it alone to track her down. Her scent might not have any traces of Terrasen left.

She would most likely have an Adarlanian accent, or perhaps a Terrasen one. But then again, she had been trained as a spy and assassin, she could be adept at disguising her accent, as well as her distinctive appearance.

But the spy’s information had been predicated upon the princess’s golden hair and turquoise-and-gold eyes; meaning Rowan could be assured that at least within the last week the princess had retained those features.

He couldn’t easily ask around after her either. With the name Aelin Galathynius, or Celaena Sardothien for that matter, she wouldn’t provide any names that would be recognizable at bars or inns. He had to rely on description alone.

There was also the chance that she had found sanctuary with her relatives, the Ashryvers, and he would have to spirit her away under the noses of royal guards.

This was proving to be even more of a challenge than he had originally supposed. From a distance, he would be forced to use that which she could not easily change about herself. Namely, her eyes, her age, and the feeling of her power.

···

The day waxed into night, the miles dissolving beneath his wings. Then the sun rose once more, bringing with it the promise of contest.

Where to look for a princess in the city of Varese? Rowan mused.

The city’s sprawl came into view beneath the clouds, a hilly expanse of red terracotta tiles and white stucco walls. The sun had fully risen now, and was baking the city streets and its many colors into a white-bright haze. In the evenings, the streets would glow golden, falling into lovely streaks of yellow and orange. But during the day, the capital scorched and blistered under Mala’s heavy gaze.

The vegetation that survived the sun’s glare was hardy and tough, but still a dark and vibrant green, contrasting well with warm tones of the capital. Outside the city walls, the evergreens gathered into a thick forest that spread towards the distant mountains and the city of rivers hidden among them.

The buildings were all piled on top of each other, climbing onto each other’s shoulders and resting on each other’s backs, a pile of limbs. It was haphazard and chaotic, a mess of noise and color and scent.

A perfect hiding place.

He swooped down low, heading past the centrally located palace and towards the northwest section of the city, making sure to avoid the gazes of keen-eyed castle guards. Varese was a city of magic, housing a substantial Fae population in addition to the many Fae nomads that regularly came through the city. The palace guards would know how to recognize a Fae in animal form, and he had no desire to be spotted and stopped.

The northwestern part of Varese was the oldest part of the city, and underneath all of the carelessly stacked additions you can still find the original ancient courtyard that the capital city was built around. It now housed a small market that teemed with magical trinkets, potions, fortune tellers, spells and tools, as well as gifted street performers and defected mercenaries that now traded their powers for a few coins.

This district held the highest concentration of Fae, and unsurprisingly, it was the area of the city Rowan was most familiar with.

He remained in hawk form, soaring high above the market stalls and avoiding any watchful eyes. In his Fae body, his presence would be noted wherever he went. He was too powerful, too recognizable, and far too memorable.

Rowan swooped down a familiar alley and towards a secluded doorway. Without hesitation, he soared through the open curtain and transformed, moving to sit on a plain wooden chair. The space was painfully small and almost entirely bare, the consequence of so much time traveling.

The apartment was one of many spread throughout Wendlyn, all inconspicuous, tiny, and sparse. Kept by Maeve’s blood-sworn warriors as outposts, ready to be used whenever needed.

Rowan could feel a familiar presence in the only room adjoining the main space.

Good, he was here.

Rowan let out a grunt of annoyance. There was no way that his presence hadn’t already been sensed. He was being ignored. But before he could break down the door and pull the male out by his teeth, it opened and Fenrys lurched out, a wild look in his eye and a short dagger in his hands.

Rowan snorted, his eyebrows raising. Or maybe not.

“Pleasant sleep?” Rowan asked, his voice laced with derision.

Fenrys only grunted, and sat in the only other available chair. The male was disheveled; there were heavy bags under his dark eyes, his golden curls were matted, and his bronze skin was ashen. Rowan had obviously just woken him after a late night.

Rowan’s jaw tightened. At least the male was where he was supposed to be – even if he hadn’t actually achieved anything other than debauchery in the days since his arrival.

But Fenrys just frowned back at his icy glare. “Took you long enough.” His words were muddled with sleep and leftover drink.

 Rowan’s eyes narrowed still further. Barely anyone in the world would dare to speak to him like that. Unluckily for Rowan, Fenrys was one of those very few. “Have you done anything other than drink yourself to death since you got here?”

“No. And I promise, I did it just to annoy you.”

Rowan blinked, while his muscles tensed.

“Now now Rowan don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’m not that stupid.” Fenrys’ grin was wicked, his eyes bright enough to set the apartment on fire.

Rowan just sighed, leashing his anger and dredging up that well of patience hidden beneath it. It wasn’t particularly deep. This time of year, early spring, was always the hardest for Rowan. He wished he could just leave, could fly into the waiting winds and rage at the waning sun. Instead he was trapped here with this male and his infuriating mouth.

Fenrys spoke up. “I’ve been here nearly a week now. I wasn’t expecting you so soon – you must have hauled ass from Doranelle.”

Rowan just grunted.

“I’ve spent the past three days and nights almost entirely in the palace. Galan Ashryver, the crown prince, is honorable – he will be a benevolent ruler. He spends most of his days in council, or with his army. Adarlanian forces venture closer every day – threatening outright war. And he’s become a blockade runner.”

Fenrys grinned at that, his eyes warm with respect for the young prince. Rowan nodded, waiting for him to continue.

“The people love him for it. Maeve will probably have a hard time with him in the coming years – he’s intractable. Stubborn. And righteous to a fault. The king however is different story – you’re familiar with him, I’m sure.”

Rowan grimaced.

Fenrys cursed. “Bastard. Can’t shine his shoes without checking in with at least three advisors, and even then, he’d probably still avoid going through with it. Her majesty has wrapped him utterly around her finger. There is no way that he is knowingly hiding Aelin Galathynius under Maeve’s nose, absolutely none. And with the princess’s eyes and age…she’d probably be discovered within days if she tried to infiltrate the court.”

Rowan agreed with the assessment. “But?”

“But there’s a chance that Galan Ashryver is hiding her. A small one, but still a chance.”

Rowan nodded again.

“His patterns are very regular – and much of the time he is in company. He only rarely has time alone, and even more rarely is he out of the palace grounds. Their security is fairly tight – enough so that even Adarlan’s Assassin couldn’t easily slip through.”

“The princess was ordered to assassinate the Ashryvers – ”

 “Yes,” Fenrys interrupted, causing Rowan’s frown to deepen, “and that is why my focus these past few days has been on the palace, and not on tracking the girl down.”

“And?” Rowan spoke through his teeth.

“Nothing.”

“No threats, no attacks, no one scouting them out?”

“Absolutely nothing. I’ve mentioned the possibility of a threat to his guards, and they are planning on upping his security. Not that the assassin is likely to get a shot at him before we track her down.”

“Not that that is going to prove an easy task.”

Fenrys’ eyes glinted. “You doubt our ability to overpower a teenage princess?”

Rowan scowled. “I am cautious when that teenage princess has a power great enough to attract the attention of our queen, and of nations across the world.”

“Oh Rowan, what a worrier you are turning into in your old age.”

Rowan’s anger pulled on its leash. He sighed. “That wasn’t what I meant anyways. The girl has every reason to stay out of sight, and as an assassin, she must have been trained to disguise her appearance. She could prove very difficult to track down.”

Fenrys frowned, and nodded.

Rowan shifted in his seat. “What did Maeve tell you before you left?”

Fenrys cocked his head, his eyes dancing once again. “What? Are you thinking I may have received more information than you, oh-great-immortal-warrior?

“Just tell me.”

The male relented. “Only the princess’ description, her purpose in Varese, and her identity as both Celaena and Aelin.” Fenrys’ eyes darkened slightly. “Maeve also said that she was sending for you, and you were to collect the girl and ferry her back. I was ordered to stay away from her, which I’m sure was intended as a punishment. Instead I have to stay in Varese to ensure that the Ashryver prince doesn’t get any ideas about attacking Adarlan before Maeve decides it’s necessary.”

“From what you said, that might also prove a challenge.”

Fenrys nodded. “You know how these royals are – still upset about Maeve ignoring Terrasen’s call for aid all those years ago. Slow to trust. Just got back from a long night of ingratiating.”

“If that’s what you call it.” He eyed the undergarments strewn through the apartment.

Fenrys grinned wickedly. “Nothing wrong with enjoying a few nights of freedom.”

Rowan’s lips tightened slightly. No matter how infuriating the male was, Rowan still sympathized with Fenrys. He bore the brunt of Maeve’s attentions, shielding his twin from her. Fenrys was still young by Fae standards, but the twin wolves had still served Maeve for nearly a century. And all that time, Fenrys protected his brother from Maeve.

Fenrys hadn’t sworn to Maeve out of devotion, or desire for power, or even out of desperation as Rowan had. He had sworn out of his love for his brother, and his need to protect him.

Maybe as a result of that, out of all of them Fenrys chafed the most under Maeve’s rule. He never betrayed her, never undermined her, but he was the only one of Maeve's blood-sworn who perhaps truly regretted taking the blood oath.

But it didn’t matter – now that it was done, he would serve for the rest of his life or die in dishonor. There were no other options.

Rowan shook himself from those pointless thoughts. “How long will you be here?”

“Her majesty bade me stay till the end of the month.”

“Good.” Rowan paused. “Well you'd better not have any other plans for your day – we’re going hunting.”

Rowan waited for a rebuttal, but none came. Fenrys was just nodding his agreement, a wicked light gleaming in his eyes. “Getting worn-out, old man? Need some assistance on your little chase?”

Rowan growled as the words cut through him. He pushed the fury away through sheer force of will, snarling, “You know why I asked.”

Fenrys grinned wide. “What, the ancient, all-powerful warrior needs my help interrogating barmaids?”

“You’re less conspicuous than I am.”

 “Friendlier, you mean.”

“A bigger pain in the ass.”

“Better at flirting with the barmaids though.” Fenrys laughed outright, ducking to avoid Rowan’s swipe at his left cheekbone. “Don’t worry Rowan, I’ll ask around for your missing princess.”

Rowan closed his eyes briefly, strangling the fury that threatened to break through his icy walls.

“Aww I’ve got you all hot and bothered now – care for cool drink little birdie?”

Rowan’s nostrils flared warningly. If he could manage to avoid slaughtering Fenrys, this male would put him in the ground one day.

Fenrys just laughed again, letting go for the time being. “I’ll start by checking the tabernas in the old parts of the city, see if anyone’s spotted someone that fits her description. Maybe she’s more comfortable around other Fae. Then I’ll check the slums. Easiest place to hide in a city of this size.”

Rowan nodded.

“You?”

“I’ll scout from above.”

“I knew you’d be useful someday.”

···

The day passed slowly, dully.

The rhythms of the capital had not changed since Rowan had last visited, and were unlikely to change for centuries to come. It was peaceful, and the city guards were calm, collected, and reliable. There were no threats to be uncovered, no spies lining the rooftops or assassins in the shadows. Nor was there any scent, any hint, of wildfire.

The fight he had anticipated, had almost longed for, did not materialize.

Still, Rowan catalogued every unusual figure that passed below, marking every person that could conceivably fit the princess’s description, and many others besides. Even so, there were not many.

When dark fell and the streets began to empty, Rowan returned to the apartment to meet with Fenrys.

He stewed in silence, forced to wait for the male to reappear. The walls of the apartment were close, confining. He was claustrophobic in the tiny space. Even so, the anxiety was less to do with the apartment and more to do with the thoughts trapped inside his head. He couldn’t get away from them, had no escape. The date loomed over him, a clock running out in his head, an anvil waiting to drop.

Even after all these centuries, his grief was still the weight of the world on his back.

The burden of his anguish and his guilt, his endless shame, had not lessened by one single drop. He could still feel the rough wood of the shovel between his fingers, still taste the copper of her blood on his lips. Could still sense the heat of the mountain home burning before his eyes.

And the images rent him through just as thoroughly as they had that first day.

He longed to move, to escape, to allow the wind and moonlight to coat his body in ice until he no longer had to breathe – no longer had to think. Until his very bones were made of ice. But he couldn’t, so he sat and waited. Not for his brother to walk through the door, bearing news of the princess they sought, but for the foe who would finally best him, and send him back to his love.

It was late into the night when Fenrys finally reappeared.

The moon was full, and a soft white light illuminated the space through the open window. Pale blue curtains ruffled as the front door clicked open and shut.

Fenrys moved through the room efficiently, grabbing a dirty bottle of some amber liquid and collapsing into the chair opposite Rowan. He took a long draught, then handed the bottle over to Rowan, who drank without hesitation.

“So I asked around.”

“Hmm.”

“And I’m not sure how reliable the information I managed to get is.”

Rowan grunted.

“It’s not that people were unwilling to talk – its more that the description we have to give is so sketchy. In Varese, Ashryver eyes are common enough, even when paired with golden hair and aristocratic features.”

“Bastards.”

“Yep. It seems that over the years the Ashryvers have managed to spread their line pretty far throughout the city.”

“So, nothing.”

“I didn’t say that.”

Rowan waited.

“I managed to find a few possibilities. All new to the city, all young women, traveling alone, matching the description. One is staying in a wayhouse in a southern section of the city, arrived three nights ago. I visited her earlier this evening.”

“And?”

“Beautiful. Great taste in furniture. But unless your princess is planning on marrying a merchant’s son and eloping to Fenharrow anytime soon, she’s not your girl.”

Rowan raised his eyebrows.

“I take it no dice.”

“Just keep talking.”

“Another was just passing through, heading for a ship to the southern continent. I managed to catch her before she left. Not her. Great flirt though.”

Rowan frowned at the cocky male.

“There were a few others, all shaky matches, not really worth checking up on unless we get desperate. And the last one was a bit of a mystery. Apparently, there’s been a young woman showing up each night in tabernas around the western edge of the city to gamble. Always keeps her face covered.”

“Hmm.”

“Yeah. I ended up talking to a few guards and barkeeps, and last night a city guard finally got a good look. She’s young – at the latest in her mid-twenties, with light hair and the right eyes. Stood out to him – she’s quite pretty apparently, but the man didn’t want to pursue any of his bosses’ cousins.”

Rowan frowned.

“She’s a shit gambler though, plays dice all night and ends up robbing back what she loses. Started a few big fights the past couple nights. The guards are looking for her, but she doesn’t seem to have an address in the city, and she isn’t renting a room anywhere. She’s a ghost.”

Rowan’s lips twitched.

"Doesn’t sound much like royalty – but since she’s successfully hidden from Adarlan’s soldiers on her own all these years, I wouldn’t put anything past her.”

“Any leads?”

“Nope. Whoever she is, she’s good at hiding her tracks. But I can give you the names and locations of the bars she’s been spotted at the past few nights.”

Rowan nodded as Fenrys relayed the information, then asked, “Would you purchase a couple of horses for me in the market tomorrow? Whether or not this girl is the princess, once I do find her I don’t want to let her out of my sight. I’m going to need a way out of the city, and I would prefer it not to be on my feet.”

Fenrys frowned, but agreed, and Rowan nodded his thanks.

Then the male’s eyes seemed to shift, and he hesitated for a moment, considering something. His lips pursed, brow furrowed. Worried. Rowan found himself automatically tensing in response.

Fenrys shook his head as he said, “Why this girl Rowan? I was in Doranelle, with nothing to do. The girl is powerful, yes, but she is young. And mortal. Any of us could probably take her. But Maeve still took you from another assignment and asked you to collect her.”

Rowan turned to look out the window.

“And now she’s going to leave Doranelle to meet with her. Leave Doranelle. I don’t think she’s done that this century. Why?”

“I don’t know.” Rowan’s voice was hard.

Fenrys frowned and nodded, parsing his real meaning from the non-answer.

Something had shifted.

Change was on the horizon. Aelin Galathynius had reappeared, the lost princess found. And their queen was intent on acquiring her. War was stirring in the west, coming ever closer to their shores. Adarlan was poised to attack, had even schemed to murder royalty, a risky and underhanded ploy. The chess pieces were moving.

The two males said a quiet farewell, Fenrys still lost in thought.

Rowan took off into the darkness, the wind tearing at his feathers.

Chapter Text

Rowan passed the rest of the night circling the city, letting the cool moonlight soothe the ache in his chest, and filling his lungs with gentle winds until his breaths were steady and even. He’d left Fenrys alone in the small apartment, still stewing.

Rowan didn’t know what the male was thinking exactly – but he could hazard a guess. There was the hint of hope on his warm features. The hope for change.

A different kind of hope coiled deep in Rowan’s gut. But still, he hoped. No matter how he tried to subdue it, to strangle it, Rowan hoped. And he hated himself for it.

Fenrys, at least, was free of that. He’d acted honorably, had always protected those he loved. And Rowan had not. Fenrys had no shame, no guilt. He had no reason for it. Maybe that was why he chafed on Rowan so.

Even sworn to Maeve, the male was free. And Rowan never would be again.

He pulled himself from those thoughts, focusing on the sprawling city below, and the princess hidden within its depths. She was so close. He had only to find her, to face the Heir of Fire, and maybe then he would see his love again.

On the anniversary of the day they were parted, perhaps he would finally be returned to her. To Lyria.

He spent the following day above a thin crescent-shaped area on the western edge of the city, monitoring its many taps, bars, and walkways. He had retrieved the relevant locations from Fenrys, and during the night had mapped out a route. So he circled, all the while tense and apprehensive – constantly on the alert for a glimpse of turquoise eyes rimmed with gold. 

It wasn’t until late that night that he spotted her. By then, the tension in Rowan’s limbs had succumbed to a roiling frustration, and he felt as though the circuit he had been making through the air should have burned tracks into the earth by now.

The moon was lighter tonight, a layer of clouds obscuring Deanna’s faint glow and making it much more difficult to mark the faces of the figures below, even with Fae senses. Rowan had almost considered returning to the apartment to get some sleep, even risking intruding on Fenrys and whatever company he may have with him tonight, when suddenly the sound of angry shouting broke through the quiet night.

The noise was coming from a small, out-of-the-way taberna a few streets back on his route. It was one that his quarry had not been to before, but it was in the right area, so Rowan had marked it anyways.

The unmistakable sound of a wooden object (a chair?) crashing into a solid form (a body?) reached Rowan, just as he plunged through the air towards the bar entrance, landing on the edge of an awning across the way.            

In was only a few moments before a large man and another, smaller, cloaked figure burst through the tavern doors. They tumbled, clearly drunk, into the dirt. The man only managed to land one badly placed punch to the figure’s jaw before they efficiently flipped the man on his back and had him pinned below them.

During the absolute mess of a brawl, the smaller figure’s hood fell, revealing a tangle of long dirty hair and faded blue eyes, framing a delicate face with sharp, aristocratic features. The woman’s ears were round, human.

She couldn’t have been older than her mid-twenties, and she had flipped the brute over on his back like he had weighed no more than a sack of grain.

Rowan flapped his wings, moving a bit closer within the protection of the shadows. He heard her say, “Give it back you piece of shit,” just as she slid a dagger out of her sleeve and pressed it against the man’s ribs.

Rowan was still too far away to catch a trace of the woman’s scent, and though he strained, he could feel no hint of power from her. He remained cautious, moving as close as he could to the pair of them while staying out of sight.

The man reluctantly handed her a small object. The girl stood up and began to walk away, but not before passing beneath a street lamp. Her dull eyes glinted slightly in the light, providing the slightest metallic shimmer.

Rowan took off to follow her into the night.

···

Rowan sat perched on a rough brick chimney, staring intently at the small figure lying in the shade on the roof across from him. As she had all morning.

The day of the anniversary of his love’s death had dawned bright and hot. There were no clouds in the sky, no protection from Mala’s piercing gaze. But today, her touch did not feel a comfort. Today, nothing could wrest him from his grief, his boundless rage.

And the princess lying on the roof before him certainly was not helping matters.

Though it was only barely midday, the Wendlyn sun blazed overhead, baking the streets below until the cobblestones were hot enough to burn bare feet. And on the roof, it was even worse.

The clay tiles were designed to keep cool, to prevent the dwellings below from becoming so hot as to be uninhabitable. But lying on top of them had to be extraordinarily uncomfortable. Still, the girl remained unmoving, except to occasionally take swigs of sour wine from a clay jug, as the sun continued to rise overhead.

Rowan nearly squawked in frustration, his talons digging deeper into the crumbling stone beneath his feet.

The girl was a drunk. A complete and utter waste of his time. A stable boy probably could have collected her and ferried her to Mistward.

She brushed her face, moving to shield her eyes from the sun’s glare. But as she did so, she rubbed a freshly split lip courtesy of last night’s fight, and it wept a few beads of blood.

The girl was in a deplorable state – and not only because of her recent brawl. The damage went deeper than that.

Her tanned skin was coated in a thick layer of dirt, no doubt from the many nights spent lazing on rooftops, and her hair was one matted tangle resting on her shoulders. Once, no doubt, it had shone blonde and bright, and cascaded down her back like a golden waterfall. Now it was a dull brown, caked with dirt and spotted with dried blood, just like her skin.

Her clothes were, if possible, even worse. Soiled, ragged, and encrusted with gore. She gave every appearance of being the worst of the city’s vagrants. Drunken and vile.

But the girl just dozed, drowning herself in wine. Brash and overconfident in her inattention. She had no discipline, no self-control. So used to getting her own way that she couldn’t even be bothered to wash herself when left to her own devices.

Even the scars that painted her skin attested to her arrogance. Someone with that many marks obviously never bothered to shield themselves, and provoked fights simply for the fun of it. This girl was far too used to winning.

Even so, there was no doubt that this girl, this vagrant, was the princess he sought. She lay hardly twenty feet away from him, and from that distance he could just barely sense the flickers of her power. Faint, dying embers, smothered beneath iron bars of avoidance and neglect.

Rowan’s beak clicked. Heir of Fire, he scoffed.

The good-for-nothing child had turned away from even that – the deepest and most undeniable part of her identity. Her power. Her very self.

She had abandoned them all – forsaken her nation, discarded her very name, to…do what? Sneak through windows and murder political rivals for spare change? Lie on rooftops and drink herself into a stupor while the world continued to turn around her?

This child had abandoned her people to death and destruction by the thousands, through poverty and war alike. In Terrasen – her home, her birthright – the citizens she was responsible for starved in droves, driven into destitution by Adarlan’s iron taxes. When they rebelled, they burned. And here, their princess, their salvation, lay. Not a care in the world.

Furious anger roiled in Rowan’s stomach.

Yes, she had been a child when Adarlan attacked. But she was a youth no longer, and yet here she was, in the employment of the very king who had destroyed her nation and was on his way to enslaving an entire continent to his will. Not only that, but she was here on orders to murder and destabilize the royal court of Wendlyn. Her own cousins.

The Ashryvers. Members of her own family. They even shared a name – the princess’s full title was Aelin Ashryver Galathynius.

She didn’t seem to be in any hurry to fulfill those orders however. Not that her aversion to commit murder within her own family inspired any lenience on Rowan’s part. In fact, the girl’s unwillingness to stand against the King of Adarlan, combined with her reluctance to follow through with her commands, only solidified her lack of self-discipline.

The princess was a child. Unwilling and incapable of sacrifice. Foreign to real hardship.

A dark cloak lay beside her, too hot to don at the moment. Its removal, however, revealed the only notable items in her possession – two long daggers strapped to her thighs. Quickly and easily reachable. She had a great many other small weapons on her person, both above and below her clothing. Daggers concealed against her forearms and across her shoulders, as well as the backs of her thighs and lower back. Knee-high boots concealed at least four more blades.

It was a miracle she could even move with so much steel on her. Although, it was very well hidden; her beggar’s costume allowed it to be overlooked by even the most careful observer.

She took another swig of sour wine and frowned – the jug was empty. She lay back against the tiles and closed her eyes.

Her body was relaxed, and her face utterly blank. There was no fight in this girl, no challenge. Rowan felt the tiny, pitiful hope deep in his chest wither and die, replaced by a boundless disappointment. She was nothing, not even close to the foe he awaited. She could not bring the death he longed for.

And the fury in Rowan’s gut curdled into hatred.

This girl who could be so much, an agent of change, a beacon of hope for so many, was absolutely nothing. Just another killer. And he hated her for it.

A flock of birds soared past him, curious. Before he could snap his beak at the pests they swooped down to the street, some forty feet below.

Though the girl barely passed for a beggar at the moment, let alone an assassin, the scouting location she’d picked was ideal. From the roof, you could easily see into the massive indoor market below, as well as to the perimeter of the castle walls barely two blocks away. And yet by the angle of the intervening roofs, neither the city guards nor the palace sentries could see where she was surveilling them.

Not that she was making much use of the advantage.

She also hadn’t marked his presence. Rowan was perched in full view, but the princess gave every appearance of being entirely oblivious of his existence, nor had she noticed as he tailed her from the tavern the previous night. Some assassin.

The most likely explanation was that she had never been trained to detect Fae in their animal forms. She certainly hadn’t been trained in any other aspect of her Fae self. Completely useless.

So, he’d just watched her carefully as she wandered through the streets and alleys, then clambered up a drainpipe and collapsed on the terracotta tiles, dead asleep. She led him directly to her hiding place, never suspecting that she had been followed.

But there she had surprised him again.

Rowan had expected her to lead him deep into the slums of Varese, to the secluded outer edges of the city. Where the streets fell into disrepair, only housing boarded up shacks and opium dens and were lined with beggars and homeless vagrants.

Even in Varese, where the wealth was spread between the upper and lower classes, and the guards were more likely to help than hurt the populace, there were still those forced to the fringes of society, to live in back alleys and leech off of the generosity of individuals to feed themselves. An easy place for an assassin to hide.

But instead she had wandered into the very heart of the capital, the center of the lion’s den, barely a hundred yards from her family’s palace.

Yes, the princess had been trained well while hidden away in Adarlan. The rumors about Celaena Sardothien appeared to not have been exaggerated. Even drunken and aimless, the girl moved powerfully, with presence. Her eyes were dark, cold blank walls, but they did little to lessen her swagger. They even helped emphasize it – made her ruthless. Untamed. She could take up space if she wanted to, be someone everyone took notice of. Even him.

Arrogant brat.

Even so, he would never have guessed that such a ghostly frame was supposedly housing power to equal that of Brannon.

He sent a mild wind her way, pulling her scent towards him so that he might get a better feel for that power, to scout for any last unknowns, any tricks up her sleeve. Ensuring that the coming confrontation would go as smoothly as he planned.

The wind whispered to him of dying embers, and fading brightness. She was powerless.

Rowan wanted to get this over with, to face the girl and haul her to Maeve and be done with her. To not let this worthless princess take up another moment of his time and energy. But they were four stories up, and though it infuriated him, Rowan knew he would have to wait until the girl left the roof before he could confront her.

So he sat, watching as the sun climbed to its zenith and began to pass into early afternoon.

···

Eventually, the princess slowly peeled herself off the edge of the roof and moved to clamber unsteadily down the side of the building. Somehow, she managed not to fall and smash herself on the pavement below. Rowan resisted the urge to fly out and push her.  

He waited until the girl was out of sight, then dove from the crumbling brick chimney and into a dark alley adjoining the street below. The shadows were deep enough to engulf the flash of light as Rowan transformed, and landed lightly on his feet.

He had to prevent a violent shudder from wracking his body as the full weight of the slums’ stench hit him for the first time.

Gods, the city reeked.

Refuse, piss, bile – every vile byproduct of human civilization you could think of coated his mouth and tongue, making his eyes water. The humans all lived on top of each other, creating layers of foul reek that permeated the city deep into the earth. Even the water was affected, swirling in pools of revolting stench in every fountain, every trough.

Rowan mastered himself, and advanced towards the mouth of the alley, observing as the princess gracelessly slid to the ground, her mouth forming a silent curse. She leaned against the wall and swayed slightly, blinking and wincing as her eyes adjusted to the rapid change in light.

The girl was too distracted to notice as a female vagrant moved close, shouting, “Slattern! Don’t let me catch you in front of my door again!”

The princess blinked and retreated, confused. A mumbled, “sorry,” escaped her lips while her hands came up to her chest, either to placate or restrain.

Rowan didn’t blame the beggar for becoming territorial. The two women could have been twins – equally ragged and filthy. Amusement at the girl’s confusion washed through Rowan. Obviously, the princess hadn’t had access to a mirror lately, and hadn’t realized that she had now sunk to the lowest of the low – the street urchins, homeless, half-mad and revolting.

Apparently, even deposed royalty still had some standards.

Rowan grinned as the beggar spat out a wad of phlegm onto the cobblestones at the princess’ feet, and then laughed outright at the shocked and disgusted expression on the girl’s face.

The arrogant princess had absolutely no idea what was lying in wait for her, as Rowan carefully stepped out of the shadows of the alley, turning to face the Heir of Ashes.

Chapter Text

The princess turned swiftly around, her right hand already hidden within the folds of her heavy cloak, clutching the dagger concealed within. She was completely still as she evaluated him, her eyes wide with shock. Rowan almost grinned at the sight.

The princess had probably never seen a fully-fledged Fae before; it had been a decade since magic had been eradicated and the burnings began that had driven all the western Fae from sight of Adarlanian soldiers. The very few that survived lived far from civilization, or were trapped in animal form to roam in the wilderness. Regardless, there was no possible way that she had ever seen anyone like him before.

Rowan was the most powerful pure-blooded Fae male living. He did not revel in the fact, did not lord it over other Fae – but it was a reality of his existence, one that he had grappled with for most of his life. Still, he couldn’t help but enjoy the educational experience he was providing the princess.

The street had gone absolutely silent, the mad beggar woman now huddled in her alcove, pressed against a teetering pile of rubbish, whimpering in fear. The other street urchins shrank back, retreating into secluded doorways and fleeing into the sunny street beyond.

The scent of fear radiated from the princess in waves, but she didn’t let it control her the way so many did. The girl was obviously intimately familiar with the emotion, trained to disregard it and act rationally.

The princess’ eyes roved over him, passing by his silver hair and settling on his tattoo. Rowan ceased his advance, pausing in a dusty patch of sunlight while she studied the whorls of black ink. The markings stretched down the left side of his face and neck, continuing below the pale surcoat and cloak he wore, all the way down his left arm to his wrist. They were in the old language of the Fae – and from the uncomprehending look on the girl’s face, were unintelligible to her.

A small measure of relief stole through him at the realization. Rowan didn’t want her to know any more about him than she needed to.

As Rowan paused, he scanned the rest of the street carefully. It was now nearly empty – its shadowy occupants immediately dispersed by the power radiating from him. There were only a few in the world who would meet the challenge in Rowan’s eyes, and none of that small group were currently in the street before him.

The girl still hadn’t moved, had made no attempt to flee – either back up the drainpipe to the roof or down a side street. She appeared to be contemplating, calculating her next move.

She had skillfully appraised him, marking his weapons, both those hidden beneath his clothing and those that were exposed, including the sword strapped across his back and the vicious knives at his sides, as well as his other advantages, his elongated canines, height, broad shoulders, corded muscle, and overwhelming bulk.

But the girl evaluated him in a way Rowan was unfamiliar with. Normally, the aggression and cold hostility he emanated sent people to their knees, or had them running in the opposite direction. Sometimes, through the fear, Rowan could even scent varying shades of jealousy or desire. Without exception, people reacted to him with how they thought they could use him, could possess him and his power.

But this girl was blank, empty. The fear he had scented earlier had faded and was replaced with…nothing. She was cold, and hard. Emotionless.

But now that the fear was gone, Rowan could finally get an untarnished trace of her scent. It wafted over to him on a warm breeze, carrying much stronger hints of her power than earlier – her flames brought to the surface by stress.

Rowan nearly flinched.

She smelled horrific. Her scent was almost entirely obscured by the vile stench of an unwashed human body. Rowan could taste the layers of blood, sweat, and grime on her as if they were real, tangible things. He could almost see the musk wrapped around her, like a disgusting veil of fog.

But underneath that haze, Rowan could detect her true scent, the smell of her essence, her very identity.

It was bright and sharp, biting almost. It stuck in his throat uncomfortably. Within it, he could scent the faintest hint of a north wind, of evergreen and ice – of her homeland. That scent was baked into her blood, her very bones. It marked her as who and what she was – a princess of Terrasen.

There could be no doubt.

But that tiny hint of northern wind, of her lineage, was almost completely overshadowed by the roiling tempest that thundered through her veins. Now that he was so close, it was undeniable. The petulant child had been given the power of a god, and it writhed in her bones, unwillingly constrained by her small frame. The door between them was locked fast, and the wildfire wanted out. And yet she refused to use it, turned away from it. 

Even now, with the cold arrogance in her eyes and the iron bars enclosing her magic, the princess’ scent spoke of heat and spark and burning embers. They whispered to him, nudging at his icy wind.

Discomfort and a blistering wrath pulsed through him.

He hated this girl, hated her more than he would have thought possible. She was wild and completely untamed – a force of nature. A storm to be weathered. No discipline, no control, and not a shred of compassion. A killer.

She shifted position slightly, erring to the defensive. Rowan almost chuckled again.

He wished the girl would strike out, attack him with all the force her human form could muster. It would give him something to do with the fury steadily slicing through his self-control. Give him an outlet for the aggression pumping its way through his blood. He would eviscerate her, and then he could move on – go back to Doranelle and his queen, and face whatever punishment she would have in store for him.

This girl was a killer, and Rowan was an executioner of killers.

But instead of striking, all the tension in the girl’s limbs suddenly leaked out, and was replaced by a sly grace as she sauntered towards him. “Well met my friend,” she purred. “Well met indeed.”

Rowan remained completely still, impassive. Though taken slightly aback by the quick shift from aggression to easy familiarity, he was unsurprised by her change in tactics. She was Celaena Sardothien, the princess turned assassin, and she knew that verbal thrusts were just as effective as physical ones.

So did Rowan. He had dwelt in the center of Maeve’s court for too long not to have become familiar with that kind of warfare. And he detested it. From the princess’ arrogant lips, it infuriated him even more.

The girl paused a few feet before him, staring directly into his eyes – hers swimming with a wicked delight. “What a lovely surprise.” Her voice lilted in all the right places. “I thought we were to meet at the city walls.”

Even if she didn’t know exactly who he was, she had at least deduced who had sent him, and why. She had to know that there was no escaping the coming encounter. Perhaps that was why she was so relaxed –Maeve had said that the girl wanted to meet with her. The princess wasn’t just playing along; she was getting exactly what she sought – an audience with the Queen of the Fae.

Although giving the girl what she wanted aggravated Rowan to no end, he looked directly back into her sneering face anyways, and said, “Let’s go,” infusing his voice with as much indifference as he could.

Before the princess could give him some irreverent retort, Rowan turned and stalked down the sunlit street, avoiding the eyes of the vagrants currently regarding him with intense levels of fear and wonder. He listened carefully for the sound of the princess’ booted feet on the path behind him, relaxing slightly when she began to follow – although a fleeting hint of disappointment passed through him at her easy acquiescence.

Rowan led her through the city, down wandering paths and alleyways, trying to keep as much out of sight as possible. To his relief, the girl never raised any objection, verbal or otherwise, and instead just closely followed him into the northwest section of the city, where Fenrys had promised to leave a pair of horses for him.

Rowan hated traveling in Fae form, and it looked like he had signed up for a good deal of it. People stared as he walked past, pausing their working and walking and shopping to investigate the massive Fae warrior in their midst. Occasionally, flashes of recognition would spread on the faces of the onlookers, and he knew that it would soon be no secret that Rowan Whitethorn was in Varese, leading a strange, filthy girl through the capital.

They entered a small square, the princess lagging behind even though Rowan had slowed his pace to a crawl to accommodate her mortal form. It was adjacent to the apartment, and now held two sorry mares tied before a trough, waiting for them.

Rowan sighed imperceptibly. Fenrys just had to get his retribution for being asked to run Rowan’s errands.

He mounted the larger of the two beasts, while the princess stuffed her small satchel in the saddlebags of the other mare. Rowan began to turn the horse to lead it out of the square when the princess spoke. “I’ve known a few brooding warrior-types in my day, but I think you might be the broodiest of them all.”

Rowan whipped his head to face her. The girl’s tone hadn’t lost any of that infuriating insolence, but it wasn’t really the insult he was reacting to. They were surrounded by a great many interested ears, and if the princess let anything slip of more importance…

She continued, drawling, “Oh, hello. I think you know who I am, so I won’t bother introducing myself. But before I’m carted off to gods-know-where, I’d like to know who you are.”

His lips thinned. How had this girl survived so long? Instead of using violence to let out his fury, like he wanted to, Rowan glared at the many eavesdroppers loitering at the edges of the square – daring any of them to challenge him. They quickly dispersed.

Once he could no longer sense anyone within hearing range, he said evenly, “You’ve gathered enough about me at this point to have learned what you need to know.”

“Fair enough. But what am I to call you?” She gripped the saddle but didn’t mount it.

Rowan’s lips slipped into a frown. He supposed it wouldn’t do any harm to give the girl his name, though it pained him to give the arrogant brat any leverage over him. The less she knew about him, the less she could use against him.

“Rowan.”

She didn’t even blink. Either she had much more self-control than he suspected, which was highly doubtful, or she didn’t recognize the name.

“Well, Rowan – ” The princess’ tone was now bordering on open belligerence. Rowan felt his control beginning to slip as his eyes narrowed, warning of coming violence. She continued anyway. “Dare I ask where we’re going?”

The girl clearly had no regard for her own safety. Rowan had to actively suppress the fury coursing through him as he replied, “I’m taking you where you’ve been summoned.”

She kept silent this time, though he’d expected her to ask where the hell that was, instead mounting her mare and following him out of the square and onto the streets beyond. They slowly approached the entry gates, and the city guards merely waved them through, recognizing him as one of Maeve’s blood sworn and backing away in fear and respect.

Rowan grimaced. Why did it have to be this girl who challenged him, who met his hostility with an equal measure of her own?

Anger still pounded through him, undiminished by the heavy silence that now spread between them. The primal part of him ached to resolve the contest between them, to force the female to concede. It was strange to feel so when the pair of them were so outmatched. Rowan was unused to being challenged by other Fae, even his fellow blood-sworn had yielded to his power without much question. Except for Fenrys – that male constantly challenged him. But their contests lacked heat, Fenrys never actually expected to win.

But this female, this girl, had met the aggression in his eyes with her own arrogance, and had not backed down. She was so used to winning that the thought of losing never seemed to enter into her head.

Though she had lived as an assassin in the slums of Adarlan’s capital for most of her life, she was royalty – through and through.

Rowan let the cool, clean wind coming off the mountains breeze through his lungs, flushing out the last of the noxious city air and calming the pounding of his blood. They were several long days away from Mistward, and it seemed that Rowan would need every bit of his self-control to make it there without snapping.

Chapter Text

Rowan rode for Mistward, leading the princess down the dusty southern road while the sun sank behind them, towards rocky foothills and the rough-hewn Cambrian mountains beyond.

Mistward was one of several fortresses along the mountain range, all of which guarded the passes between the moral-held Wendlyn and the Fae lands commanded by Queen Maeve. Many of these fortresses, Mistward included, were manned by the demi-Fae who were not worthy enough to enter Maeve’s lands. They were secluded outposts, just bare bones and basic fundamentals.

Rowan had passed through Mistward a few times, some of the sentries posted there would remember his face. They were unlikely to have any problems gaining entry. The real question was whether he would have any trouble with the princess upon arriving at the fortress and meeting his queen.

Rowan doubted that Maeve would have even half the patience he had for the girl and her attitude. He was almost looking forward to it. But they still had half a week of rough travel before that reunion.

It’d been a long time since Rowan had made this trek on the ground, or any journey for that matter, and it was actually a welcome novelty. While thick forests of evergreens stretched on their western flank, around them the earth was open and exposed, sprawling fields of boulder-spotted grasslands flowed from the sea at their backs towards the feet of the hills before them.

The air was bright and green, speaking of fresh grasses, the chirping of crickets, and the fluttering of moths’ wings. Out of the reach of the mess and noise of the capital, the land breathed more comfortably, and Rowan could feel a knot ease in his chest. Despite the company of the girl riding a few yards behind him.

Luckily, she had been just as quiet as he had. Rowan had half-expected a steady stream of complaints to spring from her throughout the rough journey, but she just looked dull and weary, seemingly incapable of speech.

Rowan was at least as exhausted as the princess. He hadn’t slept these past two nights, and although he wanted this trek over and done with as soon as physically possible, they would have to rest tonight.

The path grew steadily rockier as they approached the foothills, dangerous ravines sprouting up on either side of the road. Twilight was just beginning to fall as they mounted the base of the hills and the path pulled them into a dense forest, where the trees became tall and proud, monarchs of Wendlyn and guardians of the path to Doranelle.

The farther they traveled from the human’s realm, the more Fae Rowan could sense in the wild lands around them, hidden within thickets, behind mossy boulders, and in the mists far above their heads. He felt no threat around them, but still he tightened the shields of hard air he was maintaining around the two mares, remaining vigilant.

The air became thick with magic, a familiar metallic taint on Rowan’s tongue. It almost hummed with it, a low and quiet song. Even the girl seemed to notice the change; her head turning more often to survey their surroundings, her eyes curious.

And it almost felt as though the forest looked back – welcoming the foreign princess into its depths.

Rowan frowned slightly as he turned off the path, heading for a small stream he could hear, less than a hundred or so yards out of sight of the road. The princess sighed in relief behind him.

Rowan almost rolled his eyes. Royal brat.

He dismounted, and dumped their gear in a small hollow that would serve as their camp for the night, then guided his horse to the brook for a drink. He didn’t wait for the princess to follow, and was amused by the sounds of her stumbling on the many stones and tree roots between them. Rowan had forgotten how dull mortal senses were – the path through the trees must have been invisible to her.

Despite himself, Rowan couldn’t help wondering why the princess chose to remain in that form. Although there appeared to be much more human in her than Fae, immortal blood still bubbled in her veins. The rumors hadn’t lied – though she was demi-Fae, the princess could shift if she wanted, could inhabit a pure Fae form.

Not even Lorcan, the most powerful demi-Fae male living, could do that. Though he was blessed by the god Hellas and possessed magic and enhanced senses, Lorcan was human. And she wasn’t. Or at least, she didn’t have to be.

Yet still, the girl remained mortal, with all the limitations the form entailed.

Perhaps she wanted to seem weak, helpless. To lull him into a false sense of security in case a fight brewed between them. Rowan still didn’t know what the princess was planning for her meeting with his queen, and it made him cautious.

The horses drank their fill, and Rowan returned to the hollow to brush them down for the night. When the princess reappeared, he silently handed her some food from his saddlebags – bread, cheese, and a green apple. She murmured a quiet, “thank you,” while he began to feed the horses a mixture of grain and hay.

She flopped down before a large oak and shoveled it down. She ate loudly, obnoxiously. Rowan’s jaw tightened.

After a few moments, she said, “Are there so many threats in Wendlyn that we can’t risk a fire?” Rowan nearly sighed. He supposed it had been too much to ask for the silence between them to last the night.

He sat down against a tree opposite her, and shut his eyes, his body longing for sleep. “Not from mortals.”

It was almost a threat. A slow trickle of fear leaked from the princess. She lived in western cities, and was unused to dealing with immortal foes. Rowan mentally scoffed. The princess had seen so little of the world, and yet still acted as though there was nothing she hadn’t seen, nothing she didn’t know.

A moment passed and then something shifted in the air around them. Instead of the monsters Rowan had implied, the welcoming presence he’d sensed upon their arrival drew closer, enveloping their camp. He tensed automatically as it flitted around the edges of his shield, advancing now that they’d settled into the hollow for the night. But he relaxed as the wind carried him their scent.

It was the Little Folk. The Faeries. Their scent was deep and rich, and spoke of the land itself – of the nature of magic and the richness of the earth. It was a scent he recognized, but was entirely unfamiliar with. Though Rowan had always known about the faeries, had often sensed their presence, he had never seen them up close, or gotten a whiff of their scent.

The princess flinched as she finally sensed them as well, noticing the three sets of small, glowing eyes peeking out over the rim of a nearby boulder. But following her initial shock, Rowan felt no hint of fear from the princess, only a quiet recognition.

She knew them, had seen them before – as a child in the west. Before they were slaughtered in droves by Adarlan’s hand.

The faeries had eyes only for her, and though their scent was too wild, too foreign for Rowan to comprehend their emotions, he thought he could detect the barest trace of hope, of wonder, emanating from them.

Before Rowan could blink, he suddenly felt the presence of many more faeries, resting in the fringes of the trees around the hollow. Dozens of Little Folk come to greet the foreign princess, to bear a silent witness to her arrival.

She just sat and stared, her face unreadable. Rowan felt his confusion mount, breaking through the exhaustion and indifference. Something indecipherable passed between them, and then the princess spoke, her words clear and strong.

“They still live.”

It was an assurance, but the words were far from comforting. Rowan began to understand.

With the slaughtering and razing of the last decade, no one in Wendlyn knew how many, if any, of the magical folk in the west had survived. Adarlan had pillaged the continent, burned the ancient forests, and butchered the sacred stags of Terrasen. Stories of the massacre were told in quiet whispers around fires, speaking a warning for young Fae of what was waiting for them in the west.

The faeries had come bearing a desperate, silent question. Had their western brethren lived on? But that was not the only reason they came.

They had sought out this foreign princess, her specifically. And as she had recognized them, they had recognized her. They knew who and what she was – a Fae princess, the descendant of Mab. Her heir. Their heir.

Rowan’s teeth clenched. He wished he could speak with the retreating Little Folk, tell them that their hope was for naught, warn them. The girl was not who they wanted her to be, was no longer a princess of Terrasen. She had turned away from them, and was nothing at all.

The warm feeling of their presence left the little hollow, leaving it cold and empty and unremarkable. Rowan lay his head back against the oak trunk, and fell into a restless slumber, the anniversary of the death of his love finally coming to a close.

···

The next few days passed slower than Rowan had dared hope, and yet faster than he’d feared. Travel over land had long since lost its novelty, and the trip had become a grueling one. Less because of its difficulty, and much more due to his impatience to escape the girl and her infuriating, discomforting presence.

Yet, the princess had maintained her silence, a feat he’d previously assumed impossible. She didn’t complain, didn’t hesitate or drag behind. The girl just awoke silently before dawn each morning, led her horse a few yards behind his all day, gave him the occasional half-nod when he passed her directions, and collapsed into a heap every evening after eating and drinking her fill.

The silence was almost concerning in its consistence – though it relieved him. He’d never spent so much time with another and not exchanged a single word.

In traveling with his fellow lieutenants, Rowan had come to learn and expect certain habits from them, and while they were often quiet, the silence came from a friendly, companionable place.

Fenrys and Connall never shut up of course, especially when in each other’s company, and while Lorcan and Vaughan were aloof, they didn’t curb their thoughts – particularly in the evenings. Gavriel was also reserved, but more often than not his silences could be traced back to Rowan’s own desire for quiet. The male was perceptive, and tended to conform his actions to the moods and desires of those around him.

Rowan had only spent brief periods with mortals, and the behavior of those had been fairly consistent – large doses of fear and respect coupled with an irritating tenacity for ferreting out his knowledge of Maeve’s dealings and strategies, under the guise of polite conversation.

But the princess was just blank – a void. If he hadn’t been so confident in his ability to overpower her, it would have worried him. Any number of plots could be hiding behind that emptiness.

Even so, Rowan had absolutely no desire to engage the girl in any conversation whatsoever. If she wanted to keep quiet, that was fine with him.

Even when not with the maddening princess, conversation was beyond exhausting. Rowan only ever spoke when necessary, which, as it turned out, was not often. It was one of the few reasons he was grateful for the power that pumped through his veins, and the strength in his limbs. His presence unnerved others, drove them away.

In younger years, Rowan had almost resented it. Had often gone out of his way to suppress his power and subdue his presence, attempting to pacify those around him. It had been a perpetual source of pressure, and tension. Forcing a constant balancing act of social negotiation.

But now…now he had been stripped of that veneer of social acceptability. Now, people stayed out of his way, and he stayed out of theirs. Most of the time.

Luckily, they only passed a few groups on the road, mostly humans leading wagons full of various goods to trade in the markets of the coastal towns. All of which took one look at Rowan and gave them the right of way, some murmuring prayers to various gods for mercy. They looked at the princess with concern, worried about the fate of any human woman traveling with such a male.

It used to bother him, but now he barely noticed.

Though Rowan was ever watchful, ever vigilant, always aware of his surroundings and those around him, he was never really present. His body was separate from his mind, the vast majority of his attention pulled elsewhere, lost and adrift and searching.

For Lyria. For his mate.

For that which he had lost, in shame and in dishonor.

The strange, mismatched pair rode still farther, reaching the base of the mountains and turning eastward. The forest steadily became lusher and denser, losing the scrawny, gnarled quality of the sparse trees closer to the baking capital.

Mists began to envelop them, forcing the pair to pierce through great veils of fog as they continued to ascend the blue-tipped peaks. The cold damp settled into his skin and brushed against his very bones. While it wasn’t a welcome sensation, it was familiar and tolerable. The princess didn’t seem to be so accepting however, and her constant, violent shivering grated on Rowan. Though still – she never spoke a word of complaint.

And, despite being a city-dweller, she was a competent horseman, navigating the tricky path with ease. Never needing Rowan’s assistance, or for him to slow, even as they turned from the path on the fourth day of travel and cut alongside the mountain range towards the fortress.

This close to Mistward there was no path, and Rowan instead followed the markers set every few hundred feet – granite stones carved with symbols in the Old Language. Whorls and patterns which led them over blankets of moss-covered earth, occasional plateaus of wildflower-strewn fields, and up rocky hillsides.

As they drew ever nearer, Rowan could feel the blood oath pulling at his chest, drawing him towards the fortress. Where Maeve was waiting for them.

He smelled the smoke before the lights of the castle came into view. Mistward was an ancient place, and appeared to rise out of the mountain range itself. It was guarded by a ring of towering ward-stones, woven through the trees surrounding the outpost. They were even older, and had been placed here in a time beyond the reach of memory. Even for the Fae.

There was only one entrance, a narrow path between two massive black stones that curved towards each other like the horns of some great beast. As they passed below them, a familiar electric current snapped over Rowan’s skin, marking the barrier of the veil of magical protection that encircled the fortress.

The sentries were now alerted to their arrival, but didn’t react with any surprise. They had known they were coming.

Mistward was hardly more than a military post, no matter its age. It consisted of a few adequate watchtowers, connected by a large central building, and a passable retaining wall with an unexceptional wooden gate. While it was far from neglected, the building showed its age; moss and lichen obscuring the granite walls and wear showing on the wooden entry doors.

There were six sentries patrolling the outer wall, three on each of the watchtowers and three more at the gates – a full guard. Evidently the commander of Mistward wanted to ensure the fortress appeared at its best for its current occupants.

The princess spoke up from behind – her first words in days. “I think I’d rather stay in the woods.”

Rowan didn’t deign to respond. The pull in his blood had become uncomfortable, a fierce, inescapable tug, through the gates and into the depths of the castle.

They passed by the guards, who saluted him, and into the large courtyard beyond, where two stable hands relieved them of their horses and saddlebags. The two males were pale and harried, no doubt a reflection of the tension emanating from the whole fortress. The source of which pulled at him still more intently, a fish on a line, into the main building, up a narrow set of stone stairs, and into an upper hallway.

The princess followed him closely, her silence now heavy and filled with anxiety, which exploded into terror as they entered a small office. Where his queen gazed up at them from behind a desk.

Her eyes glittered, her lips curling into a malicious smile.

“Hello Aelin Galathynius.”

Chapter Text

The princess froze, her body seizing up even more violently than when Rowan had surprised her in the alley. Maeve just stared her down, a snake at a mouse.

The girl stepped back, instinct taking over as she attempted to flee. But instead of stepping back through the threshold, she hit Rowan’s hard, unyielding body. He sent a gust of wind behind them, shutting the door with a soft, violent click.

Neither female broke their stare, and Rowan knew that his queen was measuring the girl, weighing and calculating. Tasting her scent and feeling the power writhing in her limbs. Just as he had.

The girl’s fear leaked out of her like smoke, spilling from her form and filling the room with its noxious scent. Her hands were shaking violently, her body trembling against his.

Rowan could feel her shoulder blades digging in the muscles of his chest, the sharp points of her elbows in his sides. Before the girl even thought of moving towards his queen, or of stretching her fingers towards the lethal daggers strapped to her hips, Rowan would know. And would act, cutting the girl down before she could blink.

Her heart fluttered like hummingbird’s wings, and her breaths were shallow and ragged. She was too incapacitated to react in any way – either with violence or with deference.

With barely a sentence, his queen had utterly decimated the girl, rendering her incoherent. The bravado she had so easily carried in her stance and spat out with her every word now withered and died as she was reduced to a husk of herself. Rowan had seen it time and time again; people shrank, were condensed to their very essence when forced into the place between fight and flight, when they were given no options.

No matter how familiar the princess was with fear, no matter how she had trained or worked these past years, she had not been prepared to face his queen. Not been prepared for the sheer force of her presence and her power.

Rowan almost laughed at himself. The girl couldn’t pose a threat to his queen, never could. She had no ace up her sleeve, was hiding nothing that they couldn’t detect. Powerless, and a complete waste of his time.

By contrast, Maeve was fearsome and eternal, radiating an ancient grace. Her pale skin glowed in the faint moonlight, and her dark eyes glittered like pools of the night sky. Even in this dingy room, his queen radiated, magnificent.

Rowan waited for her to speak, for the orders to come that he had longed to hear ever since first laying eyes on the girl in Varese.

But Maeve remained silent, her pale fingers folded in the lap of her gown, the ever-present barn owl once again perched on the back of her chair.

The princess breathed in and out slowly, steadying herself. The potency of her fear diminished slightly, the copper tang fading from the air of the small office, and uncovering her true scent.

As it had in the alley, her scent tugged at him. A fading brightness masked by sweat and muck and horses. It bit at him, brushing the ice in his limbs with weak sparks and waning embers. He ignored it, discomforted.

Then the princess spoke, in a small, but hard voice. “Aelin Galathynius is dead.” A new emotion emanated from her, disgust and hatred and…grief.

Rowan tilted his head ever so slightly. Hmm.

Maeve just smiled. A promise of violence. A promise of victory. She knew the Heir of Fire was powerless, and hers to do with what she would.

“Let us not bother with lies.”

The girl’s nostrils flared at his queen’s words. A stubborn rebuttal. She didn’t believe it was a lie – to her, Aelin Galathynius was dead. As Rowan had known, the princess had truly turned her back on herself and her birthright when she became the assassin. Aelin was not hiding, she was gone. Celaena Sardothien stood before them.

Maeve watched the girl, reading her every emotion like words off the page. The Fae queen was rapt, focused and intense. She had not once glanced Rowan’s way, her eyes utterly fixed on the assassin. Rowan couldn’t remember the last time his queen was so engrossed.

She wanted this child desperately. Craved her. Coveted her. And for what, Rowan did not know.

The girl was still pressed hard against Rowan’s form, as if his body was a wall. Rowan saw Maeve’s eyes flick between them, noting the connection. Though her gaze was empty of anything he could decipher, Rowan pulled away from the girl and leaned against the doorway, under the guise of preventing any escape.

Maeve’s eyes gleamed, some hidden knowledge flashing there.

Rowan’s brow narrowed in response. But of course, nothing more appeared on his queen’s face. Maeve was more than skilled at playing these games – a master of manipulation. She would explain when and if she wanted to, and short of that, Rowan would have to wait. There was no use in speculating.

Silence spread between them like ice. Sharp and cold and inescapable. But his queen just sat and waited for the girl to make the next move, her black, depthless eyes burrowing a hole in the princess.

Rowan could feel Maeve’s dark power flowing around her like an invisible black cape, churning and spiraling like smoke, or liquid obsidian. Nightmare made flesh.

Though the princess’ fire was tightly contained, locked behind iron bars, her embers had stirred to the surface. Her fear had drawn the sparks like bees to honey, or flies to a corpse.

Together, the three of them filled the space with light and dark and cold, the scent of power overwhelming the small room. Three of the most formidable Fae in the world, convened in a half-rotted office in a secluded, run-down fortress in a forgotten corner of the world.

The girl’s breathing was still ragged as she bent at the waist, bowing low. But Rowan doubted she was finding her humility at last. It seemed that she had decided to actually play his queen’s game, apparently not realizing that there was no way to win it.

Maeve was still smiling as the girl rose. “I suppose that with a proper bath, you’ll look a good deal like your mother.”

Another strike at a possible vulnerability – first Aelin’s name, now her family. But now the girl seemed to be more in control of herself, and didn’t react to the verbal blow. Instead, she smiled faintly and said, “Had I known who I would be meeting, I might have begged my escort for time to freshen up.”

A tentative initial volley, deflecting the real taunt and instead drawing Rowan into the battle. He remained silent, anger bubbling in his stomach, while Maeve glanced at him. She seemed to gauge the resentment, the hostility between the two of them. Something lit up behind his queen’s eyes, as understanding fell into place.

Rowan’s lips tightened imperceptibly. Maeve knew something, was planning something, there was something he was missing…

“I’m afraid I must bear the blame for the pressing pace,” Maeve said. “Though I suppose he could have bothered to at least find you a pool to bathe in along the way.” The words were light, teasing. Maeve was enjoying herself.

“Prince Rowan—” He felt the jolt of the girl’s shock as Maeve continued, “—is from my sister Mora’s bloodline. He is my nephew of sorts, and a member of my household. An extremely distant relation of yours; there is some ancient ancestry linking you.”

Another move to put the princess on uneven footing, for the pleasure of making her squirm. Not that they actually shared any blood – Mora and Mab’s lines had become so diluted over the millennia that the princess was probably more closely related to the royal families of Melisande or Eyllwe than the Whitethorn family.

The girl remained calm however, rallying herself. She spooled her arrogance back into her body until it once again draped over her frame and coated her every word, the way one pulls on a comfortable and familiar garment. Then said, contempt dripping from each word, “You don’t say.”

Brat. Rowan tensed at the girl’s derision, but Maeve just casually responded. “You must be wondering why it is I asked Prince Rowan to bring you here.”

The girl bit her tongue. Maeve’s eyes shone.

“I have been waiting a long, long while to meet you. And as I do not leave these lands, I could not see you. Not with my eyes, at least.”

Maeve had the power of foresight – the power to see beyond the use of her eyes, across nations and into the future. His queen had undoubtedly been waiting for this girl since long before her birth, and Rowan couldn’t help wondering just how long in the making this incongruous meeting had been.

To the Fae, years could feel like weeks. To one as eternal as Maeve, time warped into shapes completely separate from mortal understanding. Maeve could have seen the princess of flame coming centuries ago, before her line had been sired, before her family’s name had been established. She had perhaps been waiting for the heir of Brannon to rise since his fall all those millennia past.

The princess’ eyes were cold, calculating and impassive, as Maeve continued.  “They broke my laws, you know. Your parents disobeyed my commands when they eloped. The bloodlines were too volatile to be mixed, but your mother promised to let me see you after you were born.”

Rowan could remember that time for himself – his queen’s cold fury at their disobedience, and then her long, slow anger at their mounting disrespect, the insult of being ignored.

Maeve cocked her head, eyes tightening. “It would seem that in the eight years after your birth, she was always too busy to uphold her vow.”

The girl’s breathing sped slightly, her eyes intent and her body rigid, seemingly saying, Yes, and it was for a damn good reason.

A broken vow – an unfulfilled debt. These were things significant to the Fae, notions that still held weight after decades of time had passed. Within Fae customs, such debts were passed on through bloodlines, until payment was reaped or the debt fulfilled. And one to Maeve, to the Queen of the Fae herself, would incur the very highest cost.

“But now you are here,” Maeve’s face darkened, her lips curling. “And a grown woman. My eyes across the sea have brought me such strange, horrible stories of you. From your scars and steel, I wonder whether they are indeed true.”

For the first time that evening, true interest sparked inside Rowan. What had the spymaster shared with his queen that she had kept from him?

“Like the tale I heard over a year ago, that an assassin with Ashryver eyes was spotted by the horned Lord of the North in a wagon bound for – ”

“Enough.”

The princess interrupted, her teeth clenched and her eyes hard. She glanced back at Rowan, gauging his intent expression, which he quickly rearranged into dull indifference. She shot him a sharp look, obviously saying, Mind your own gods-damned business. Rowan’s eyes narrowed.

“I know my own history.” She turned back to Maeve, who was wickedly amused, her spear having found its mark. “I’m an assassin, yes.”

This time, Rowan couldn’t stop the snort that passed his lips. Assassin she may be, but she hardly lived up to the tales of Celaena Sardothien. Nor was her profession a point of pride as she implied. Killing for money wasn’t even equal to common soldiering – no matter her level of supposed proficiency or renown.

“And your other talents?” Maeve pushed, her nostrils flaring as she pulled in the girl’s scent, confirming what she already knew. “What has become of them?”

“Like everyone else on my continent, I haven’t been able to access them.” A flat, emotionless answer.

“You are not on your continent anymore,” Maeve purred.

Fear once again began to radiate from the princess, her muscles tensing as her body went taut. Her every molecule seemed to be screaming at her to run.

Maeve’s eyes lit up with malicious pleasure. “Show me,” she whispered, her voice filled with longing. She shot a spear of power towards the girl, enveloping her in darkness. Coaxing out the fire.

The girl’s fear mounted to heights previously unknown. The air was coated in copper and ashes, filled with her terror and anxiety. Wildfire simmered below the surface, straining, reaching, stretching –

The darkness in Maeve’s eyes spread, filling the space with gloom and smoke as she poked and prodded and sliced at the girl, peering inside her skull and testing the bars hidden within.

Rowan waited for the girl to start shaking again, for her to submit and grovel at his queen’s feet, for her to break.

But instead, the girl just breathed, deep and even, her eyes hardening into bricks of solid gold and clenching her hands into fists, reaching for the daggers at her hips.

Rowan’s body went taut as the tension mounted, waiting, anticipating –

Maeve interrupted, her low laugh cleanly slicing through the tension in the small room as the darkness swiftly retreated. The pressure of the princess’ wildfire receded as her fear fell back under her control.

“Your mother hid you from me for years,” Maeve said, continuing her other line of attack. “She and your father always had a remarkable talent for knowing when my eyes were searching for you. Such a rare gift—the ability to summon and manipulate flame. So few exist who possess more than an ember of it; fewer still who can master its wildness. And yet your mother wanted you to stifle your power—though she knew that I only wanted you to submit to it.”

The words were delicate, her voice imbued with that perfect combination of playfulness and dominance. The girl’s embers roiled beneath her skin, aching to meet the challenge in his queen’s eyes.

Maeve sliced yet again, eyes burning with malicious pleasure. “Look how well that turned out for them.”

The game was getting very, very dangerous now, very close to an explosive climax. The girl spoke low and intense, from deep within herself. “And where were you ten years ago?”

Maeve pushed the blade in deeper, softly responding. “I do not take kindly to being lied to.”

Shock. Pure, unadulterated shock pulsed from the princess.

Rowan let out a small, wry smile. No, his queen did not, and she knew exactly how to take revenge, to eke out her price. The princess had already paid her debt to Maeve, though she had not known it at the time.

Rowan had wondered why Doranelle had done so little while their brethren in the west had fallen. He needed wonder no more.

“I do not have more time to spare you,” Maeve said brusquely, now that the winning hand had been played. “So let me be brief: my eyes have told me that you have questions. Questions that no mortal has the right to ask—about the keys.”

The girl was slowly recovering from the shock and pain, but still she opened her mouth to speak, desperate.

Maeve held up her hand, silencing her. “I will give you those answers. You may come to me in Doranelle to receive them.”

“Why not - ”

The world came to stop around him as a growl slipped past Rowan’s lips, icy, vicious anger rippling through him. Finally he understood. Finally, he grasped what he had been missing.

Maeve wanted the princess to come to Doranelle, to the center of her realm, under the guise of providing her with whatever this was that she sought. But Maeve did not allow mortals or demi-Fae into her city unless they had proven themselves. Unless they had shown power and control sufficient enough to be permitted.

That was why Rowan had been pulled from the eastern post, why Fenrys had not been called to collect the girl.

Rowan was going to have to train her, to teach her how to control her power until his queen was satisfied with her abilities. Maeve wanted him to hone a weapon for her, to discover how sharp it would be. And who better to teach an heir of fire than a prince of ice?

Maeve plowed on, ignoring Rowan’s sharp retort. “Because they are answers that require time, and answers you have not yet earned.”

“Tell me what I can do to earn them and I will do it.”

Foolish girl. Isn’t it known in the human lands that one does not make such bargains with the Fae? Even now her arrogance astounded him. How could she be so spoiled and selfish to believe that she would be an exception to such a rule? That her aunt would not force her to pay an iron price for such a reward?

Maeve was just amused. “A dangerous thing to offer without hearing the price.”

“You want me to show you my magic? I’ll show it to you. But not here – not – ”

“I have no interest in seeing you drop your magic at my feet like a sack of grain. I want to see what you can do with it, Aelin Galathynius – which currently seems like not very much at all.”

Maeve wielded the girl’s true name as a chef brandishes a knife, skillfully piercing the hide of her prey. “I want to see what you will become under the right circumstances.”

“I don’t – ”

“I do not permit mortals or half-breeds into Doranelle. For a half-breed to enter my realm, she must prove herself both gifted and worthy. Mistward, this fortress, is one of several proving grounds. And a place where those who do not pass the test can spend their days.”

Half-breed. Another barb, another weapon. Not that he had any sympathy for the girl at the moment, still seething from the realization of how he would be forced to spend the next few months. Or, gods, years –

“And what manner of test might I expect before I am deemed worthy?”

Maeve turned to Rowan, meeting his hard eyes with her amused ones. “You shall come to me once Prince Rowan decides that you have mastered your gifts. He shall train you here. And you shall not set foot in Doranelle until he deems your training complete.”

Maeve’s gaze intensified as she beheld Rowan, infusing her tone with command. He held his anger on a very, very short leash, nodding slightly to his queen and master, to confirm his understanding.

He was to remain at this outpost, for years if necessary, assigned as watchdog for Maeve’s new pet princess. Teaching her table manners and her ABC’s while her other blood-sworn did the actual work of protecting his queen and country.

Rowan remained motionless while pure fury roiled beneath his skin.

It was strange. The emotion was not unusual, but its intensity would have unnerved him had he had any room within himself for another sensation. It had been so long since he had felt anything with such strength. But this foreign princess was so insanely maddening, so infuriating, that she burst through all his icy walls like they were glass, or water.

Still, he kept tight control of himself, concealing the storm raging within. But he thought Maeve had sensed it anyway, as she smiled and turned back to the princess, who was saying, “What I need to know isn’t something that can wait – ”

“You want answers regarding the keys, heir of Terrasen? Then they shall be waiting for you in Doranelle. The rest is up to you.”

“Truthfully,” the brat blurted, desperate. “You will truthfully answer my questions about the keys.”

Maeve’s grin widened. “You haven’t forgotten all of our ways, then. I will truthfully answer all your questions about the keys.”

The princess hesitated, then asked, “What manner of training – ”

“Prince Rowan shall explain the specifics. For now, he will escort you to your chamber to rest.” Rowan’s teeth locked together, barely containing a vicious snarl. But he would do as his queen commanded. He had no other choice.

The girl hardened once again, intense and commanding. Forcing her way through the cloud of fear that had begun to surround her. “You swear you’ll tell me what I need to know?”

“I do not break my promises.” Rowan’s lips tightened. No, Maeve never broke her word. She expertly whittled away at it, until it bent and swung in a light breeze. Maeve would tell the girl the truth, but which truth? Who was to say.

“And I have the feeling that you are unlike your mother in that regard, too.”

The girl’s teeth clenched as she bit back a violent retort, the dig at her family doing its work, another blade in her hide. She breathed, little more than a stuck pig, and then made one last attempt, one final play in their game.

“To what end? You want me to train only so I can make a spectacle of my talents?”

But then Maeve smiled wickedly, triumphantly, and played her final card.

“I wish you to become who you were born to be. To become queen.”

And Aelin Galathynius turned on her heel and stepped out of the room, without another word.

Chapter Text

Maeve nodded, and Rowan let the girl stalk into the waiting hallway, following close behind. Both of them were positively seething, radiating heat and tension and fury. Now that the inescapable force of Maeve’s presence had been removed, there was no damper on either of their tempers, no check on the threat of violence that steadily spread between them like a pit of lava.

Rowan would count himself very lucky if they made it to her rooms in silence, if the princess managed to keep her mouth shut. Any word exchanged between the two of them would serve as a match being thrown, inevitably causing the noxious gas swathed around them to spark into a fiery explosion of rage and violence.

Rowan told himself he could keep himself in check, could retain his tight hold on his anger. It wouldn’t be a good idea to give in while still under Maeve’s nose, and so soon after the two females had struck their bargain and made their tentative peace. They were so close, only a few more turns, a few more steps –

But then the girl spoke, sparks igniting. “You must be very important to Her Immortal Majesty if she put you on nurse duty.”

Lightening crackled through his veins, icing over his limbs. There was a great roaring in his head as the primal part of him rared to meet the challenge the girl was setting him, to fight his opponent until she was defeated, or destroyed. 

He responded without thinking, focusing on keeping the leash he held on his anger from snapping. “Given your history, she didn’t trust anyone but her best to keep you in line.”

The words were barely more than a growl. Rowan couldn’t remember the last time he had spoken to someone with so much heat, so much vitriol. Not even Fenrys’ taunts could pull him out of his icy shell so easily.

The princess’ eyes lit up – he was giving her exactly what she wanted. Rowan lashed down even harder on his fury as she retaliated, “Playing warrior in the woods doesn’t seem like the greatest indicator of talent.”

He clenched his jaw tight, speaking through his teeth. “I fought on killing fields long before you, your parents, or your grand-uncle were even born.”

Rowan nearly snarled in satisfaction, seeing the girl bristle in indignation. “Who’s to fight here except birds and beasts?”

He had to choke down a laugh. The child had no idea, none whatsoever. If not for her arrogance and conceit, he may have sympathized with the girl’s obvious ignorance. As it was, it only served to increase his contempt.

“The world is a far bigger and more dangerous place than you can imagine, girl. Consider yourself blessed to receive any training – to have the chance to prove yourself.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “I’ve seen plenty of this big and dangerous world, princeling.”

A soft laugh escaped through Rowan’s clenched teeth. Two could play at that game. “Just wait, Aelin.”

The barb hit home – she dropped all pretense of playfulness, her voice now filled with pure aggression. “Don’t call me that.”

Rowan’s eyes sparked. “It’s your name. I’m not going to call you anything different.”

She stepped in front of him, and he flashed his teeth at her. Rowan could smell the scent of her power as it writhed around her, filling the corridor. He choked on it.

“No one here can know who I am. Do you understand?”

He pressed down hard, pushing his advantage. “My aunt has given me a harder task than she realizes, I think.” She flinched slightly as his claiming, his dig at her demi- status. She did not belong, and Maeve was his, not hers.

The she responded, loathing coating her voice with its slimy fingers as she bathed in its addictive touch. “Fae like you make me understand the King of Adarlan’s actions a bit more, I think.”

Before he could reconsider, Rowan punched the girl in the face. He had aimed for her nose, but she had managed to roll slightly to the side, catching the blow on her chin. She hit the opposite wall hard, her head connecting with the bricks. Blood leaked from her mouth.

But the spark in the girl’s eyes didn’t fade. She wanted this fight, wanted Rowan to beat her into a pulp. Why, he didn’t know. Probably to get him in trouble with Maeve – a ploy to alter the bargain they’d struck in her favor.

So before Rowan could strike her again, he halted, preventing himself from fracturing her jaw and instead snarling in her face, low and vicious.

She just purred, “Do it.”

Rowan only barely maintained control, knowing that this would do nothing to teach the girl respect or humility. It wouldn’t make her yield, or break, or hurt. He’d have to find another way to penetrate her armor.

“Why should I give you what you want?”

“You’re just as useless as the rest of your brethren.”

He just laughed again, lowering his fist. “If you’re that desperate to eat stone, go ahead: I’ll let you try to land the next punch.”

She didn’t hesitate, swinging wildly, no control, no discipline. He moved quickly and easily aside, then hooked his foot around hers, sending her careening into the wall once more.

Rowan stepped back and crossed his arms while the girl spat blood, swearing. He smirked, sending her hurtling towards him again, so overwhelmed with fury that she moved with no plan, no strategy.

Rowan grinned viciously as he efficiently countered, sending her crashing into a darkened brazier behind him and landing on the hard stone floor, her teeth ringing. The monster in his chest purred its satisfaction – the struggle providing an outlet for his fury, allowing it to ebb from his limbs.

“Like I said, you have a lot to learn. About everything.”

“Go fuck yourself.” She snarled past her already swollen lip.

Rowan sauntered down the hall, leaving her lying there in a heap. “Next time you say anything like that,” he said without looking over his shoulder, “I’ll have you chopping wood for a month.”

Rowan paused momentarily, listening to her drag herself off the stones. Then they made their way down the hall, and he dumped her in a small, cold room that was tucked away in a corner of the fortress, which would be hers for the foreseeable future.

It was little better than a prison cell, and would be achingly cold at night. There was no fireplace, only a small bed, a chamber pot, and a washbasin filled with a layer of water currently coated in ice. Perfect for the spoiled brat.

“Give me your weapons.” Rowan picked up a bucket and tossed its contents into the hall, holding it out towards the girl.

“Why? And no.”

“Give me your weapons.”

She just looked back at him, eyes blank. “Tell me why.”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

“Then we’re going to have another brawl.”

Rowan raised his brow. You call that a brawl?

But still, the girl’s face was leaking blood like a dripping faucet, and he would already have to answer to Maeve for the punch he’d thrown. And, now that he’d struck out, he’d lifted some of the burden of his fury and what remained was far easier to ignore.

So instead of giving the girl what she wanted, he answered, “Starting at dawn, you’ll earn your keep by helping in the kitchen. Unless you plan to murder everyone in the fortress, there is no need for you to be armed. Or to be armed while we train. So I’ll keep your daggers until you’ve earned them back.”

Her mouth twisted into a frown. “The kitchen?”

Rowan bared his teeth in a wicked grin. “Everyone pulls their weight here. Princesses included. No one’s above some hard labor, least of all you.”

Her frown deepened into something deeper, and darker, her teeth clacking together with an audible snap. “So my training includes being a scullery maid?”

“Part of it.” And I’m going to savor every damn second of your misery.

She pursed her lips. “For an old bastard, you certainly haven’t bothered to learn manners at any point in your long existence.”

“Why should I waste flattery on a child who’s already in love with herself?”

“We’re related, you know.”

“We’ve as much blood in common as I do with the fortress pig-boy.” He shoved the bucket in her face, exhausted by this trying game of wills.

Her nostrils flared, but finally she acquiesced, and began to disarm herself. Rowan carefully counted the weapons she pulled from beneath her clothing, running them against the mental tally he’d generated.

When she finished, he tucked the bucket into his side and strode from the room without a farewell, calling over his shoulder, “Be ready at dawn.”

The door slammed shut, but he could still hear the girl say, “Bastard. Old stinking bastard,” before he stormed down the hall and back up the spiral staircase.

···

Rowan had never stayed the night at Mistward, though he had passed through it countless times. So while he had never slept in the room he was heading towards, he knew that it was the one he would be given.

He opened the wooden door and slid quietly inside, utterly spent. The room was small and shabby, a large four-poster bed occupying much of the space. Worn rugs were thrown over much of the floor, an attempt to soften their cold stone chill. A small but acceptable fireplace was set into one wall, with a worn wooden worktable placed in front of it.

Rowan placed the bucket of weapons on the ground next to the table, where his saddlebags were already waiting. He turned to the fireplace, and set to work constructing a meagre fire, knowing that as night came on, it would get harder and harder to keep the mists’ cold chill from freezing his bones.

Just as he got the fire lit however, Rowan felt that familiar tug deep in his chest, pulling him out of his room, back up the stairs, and over to the small office where Maeve still sat, holding court.

This time once he approached, Rowan knelt, bowing his head before the Queen of the Fae.

She didn’t waste any time with formalities. “I see you and the Heir of Terrasen have become quite close over your travels.” Rowan didn’t respond, keeping his eyes low. Waiting to see how she would react.

Maeve regarded him carefully, evaluating. “I’d just struck a bargain with the girl, a formal agreement between Doranelle and Terrasen – a historic moment. Even accounting for the princess’ tenuous relationship with her throne.”

Rowan frowned. He was completely empty, the girl’s fire having robbed him of all remaining strength, and was far, far too exhausted to continue to play this game.

“And then the moment she leaves my sight, you hit her.”

Rowan’s fingers twitched. “My apologies, majesty.”

Maeve smelled an easy victory. “Does your remorse undo the potential damage you have done to this bargain, and to the future relationship of Doranelle to the nation of Terrasen?”

“No my queen.”

“Then I would say that you have a debt owed, Rowan Whitethorn.”

Rowan finally raised his eyes to look up at her, his face carefully blank. Maeve’s eyes were narrowed, her brow set and her mouth wry. She seemed to be coming to some kind of decision, to be weighing different strategies against each other.

Her presence was lighter than it had been earlier; her dark power was still there, but it was no longer oppressive in its weight. Now that the princess was gone, Maeve’s performance had slipped ever so slightly, become more comfortable, easier.

She was no longer actively malicious, and yet still Maeve was a force to be reckoned with.

“I do not know if this is fortunate, or unfortunate, Prince Rowan, but I believe that there is no punishment that I could bestow upon you that would be more effective than that which I already have.” Maeve’s grin twisted into something dark and inescapable – a cage.

Rowan’s jaw twitched in response, but he was far too drained for Maeve’s harsh words to cut him the way she intended them too. He'd already accepted his fate, any more fury expended on its behalf would just be an unnecessary excess. So instead of snarling, or protesting, or asking why it had to be him to train the girl, and not someone with far more experience or ability, he just said quietly, “Yes my queen.”

Her lips tightened, “I must admit, while I had formed very few expectations regarding the heir of Terrasen, I certainly had not expected for the two of you to detest each other so entirely.”

Rowan remained silent, still watching his queen’s face intently.

She watched him right back, seeing past his icy armor and down into his very essence. Maeve knew him better than any still living, knew him better than he knew himself. There was nothing he would hide from her, nothing he would deny her – even if such a thing would have been possible.

Yes, Rowan had known who this female was when he had tied his life to her, had known her many faults, known of the darkness that nestled deep in her soul. But she was all Rowan had, the only person he had left.

Maeve looked right through him, divining whatever knowledge she sought. Then she leaned back, and turned to look out the window, ruminating. A whisper of words passed her lips, “It seems I did my work too well.”

But before Rowan could begin to question, she turned the full weight of her gaze back onto him, saying, “Regardless of your feelings for each other, I expect adequate results.”

Rowan nodded brusquely.

“The girl will likely prove difficult. She has received almost no training whatsoever. Her mother…was difficult. She never believed the girl needed to receive proper training in order to achieve the necessary control. The princess was only taught to suppress.”

Maeve scoffed. “The woman knew that the only way the girl could be taught was through me. And after her disobedience in marrying that Terrasen prince, she feared me too much to allow her daughter within my clutches.” She smiled wickedly. “But it didn’t work, and the girl ended up here anyways. As was inevitable.”

Rowan just nodded.

Maeve spoke more to herself than to him. “The journey may have been more winding than I initially supposed, but now here she is. And the next stage can begin.”

Maeve paused for a moment, and then spoke directly to Rowan, her voice hard and commanding. “I want you to unleash her for me Rowan.”

He nodded grimly.

“That child has no idea what agreement she just made. Yes, when she comes to me, I will give her the answers she seeks, but she will not get a chance to do anything with them. You will train her for me Rowan, reforge her. Make her into a weapon.”

Maeve stood, her violet skirts billowing around her, obviously dismissing him. Rowan stood, beginning to leave, but then Maeve spoke again, a dark finality coating the words.

“I need you to break her.”

Rowan bowed low, and strode from the room.

···

Rowan sat on the edge of his bed, staring into the writing depths of the flames before him.

The smell of ash and burning wood permeated the space. Rowan wondered dully if he would ever be able to dissociate the scent from the princess of Terrasen, or if for centuries to come Rowan would be forced to think of the insufferable girl whenever he smelled flames.

And now he would be forced to spend the coming weeks and months and years in her delightful company, training her.

He had only rarely trained individuals – normally he was placed in command of large groups of soldiers, to lead them in battle and ready them for war. Occasionally, he shared the duty with one or more of his fellow blood-sworn. But most often he was alone, at the head of a legion that could number in the thousands.

Within that very small group of individuals, he had only trained a handful in magic. And never had he taught one with even a drop of power such as this princess had.

Normally, when a demi-Fae sought to enter Doranelle they were trained for a number of years in combat, and if they had it, in magic. Until they were given some kind of test to evaluate their abilities, and were either let in or turned away. Only a very, very select few were allowed to enter, and once they were, even they were not greeted with open arms.

In Doranelle, the demi-Fae were second class citizens, relegated to the tasks that full-blooded Fae regarded with contempt and distaste. Particularly those who weren’t gifted with magic. Lorcan, the most powerful demi-Fae male living, was the exception, not the rule.

However, this girl was unlike all the others, even Lorcan. Her training, and her life afterwards, would be unlike any he had heard of. Even Rowan’s own training those centuries past would not compare to what this girl required, despite the similarities in the strength of their power. He had very little relevant experience to draw from.

Rowan had given the girl kitchen duty, meaning that he had mornings to himself. Maeve hadn’t given him any other tasks to fulfill at Mistward, meaning that he now had the unexpected benefit of a limited freedom, and time. Time away from Maeve and her conniving court, in an outpost where he so outranked the occupants that he had no one to bother him, no one who would seek him out. Where he could do what he wished.

If it weren’t for the princess sleeping in the bowels of the fortress below him, Rowan may have been anticipating this unexpected freedom with gladness, or at least a measure of relief. It was rare that any of Maeve’s warriors were given such time.

And yet Rowan was sure that the Heir of Terrasen would find a way to ruin it for him, just as Maeve had promised. This was far from a gift.

Rowan wanted the coming months over and done with. Wanted the princess gone and out of his life. But Maeve had ordered him to train her, to break her and unleash her power, and so he would do so. But he didn’t have to ensure that the princess followed through with her side of the bargain. If she abandoned it of her own volition, Rowan would be free. Free to return to Doranelle and face Maeve’s wrath empty-handed. It might even be worth it.

In the meantime, Rowan would have to figure out some kind of plan, a test for the princess to take. A way for him to evaluate the girl’s magic and her control. For that was the real talent in working with magic – not your ability to manipulate it, but your skill in conforming your power to your will.

Stubbornness was equally helpful to creativity and ingenuity when working with magic. And while the princess was perhaps the most stubborn person he had ever encountered, she hadn’t demonstrated one scrap of self-control in the week that he had known her. Rowan’s stomach sank.

Perhaps he would have her face some kind of threat…a foe within reach of the fortress.

He sighed. He could think on it further some other time, when his head wasn’t pounding with exhaustion. Rowan still had weeks before that day dawned. Weeks he would spend almost entirely in the company of that spoiled, useless, insufferable child. Trying to teach her. To get her to listen.

Through the exhaustion, Rowan felt the familiar stirrings of a well-worn irritation, deep in his gut. He frowned as he turned on his side, falling into an uneasy sleep.

Chapter Text

Rowan awoke abruptly, well before dawn. Moonlight stretched its cool fingers over him through the window, while cold mists battered against the glass. The fire had long since burnt itself out, and no longer helped to keep away the chill.

His eyes ached, ripped to quickly from sleep. The warmth from his anger was utterly gone, and the cold emptiness had returned in full force.

It wasn’t so much he was in pain the way one was from a wound, a constant ache. No, instead it was like large parts of him were missing. His chest was empty – all those vital organs cleanly scooped out like so much cream.

And so often, the emptiness was so heavy that he couldn’t breathe around it, couldn’t think around it.

Rowan sat up on the bed and moved to open the window, the freezing glass stinging his skin. He shifted in a flash of light, and soared out over the courtyard, through the black stone gates and over the mountain range beyond.

The cool night air seeped cleanly into his lungs, filling them far better than his Fae body could.

The nightmares came every night. He had gotten used to them. Learned how to endure them. But that didn’t mean that it had gotten any easier.

Rowan had lost his mate, his wife, his love, just over two centuries ago now. And while purpose and distance had provided distractions form the agony of his loss, time had not dulled the wound.

His wings strained still further. Lyria’s screams still rang out in his head, filing his mind with their heart-wrenching sound. The familiar images flashed behind his eyes, and though he had seen them countless times, had relived them more than any other event in his life combined, they had not lost one drop of their potency, their brutal effectiveness.

Rowan breathed, and relaxed into the wind’s embrace. He soared still higher, breaking through the mists to reveal the length of Wendlyn flowing below him. The land was like a canvas painted in moonlight, the tips of the mountains bright and shining, the oaken forests rippling like folds of deep green silk.

This is what he had missed from the pitiful vantage point atop the horse’s back. The shape of the land, the way it moved and breathed like a great beast, or an ancient, slumbering god.

Rowan could see the western coastline snaking across the horizon in the distance, marking the barrier between Wendlyn and the great ocean separating the eastern and western continents. Countless rivers flowed down from the misty mountain peaks to meet with the sea beyond, steadily carving through the bedrock below.

The land was a familiar sight, a soothing one. The land of his queen and country. But it didn’t call to him, didn’t feel like home. And he didn’t love it.

The only time he had ever felt at home anywhere had been deep in the mountains, surrounded by pines and icy mountain wind. Where the snows got so deep that the drifts could overwhelm their cottage.

The home he had shared with Lyria. Where he had buried her. It had burned to nothing when the raiders had come, and was now just a blank patch of grass. Unremarkable, unmemorable.

He was the only one left who remembered her. The only one who still mourned her. His mate. A flower girl in the markets of Doranelle, with no family, no connections. He had lost Maeve’s favor, but he hadn’t cared, he’d mated her anyways, had loved her just the same.

And then she’d been taken from him. Murdered by foreign raiders. When she’d been pregnant with their child.

Rowan breathed deep, gliding over dark fields and mounds.

He hadn’t been there for her, hadn’t been there to protect her. He’d abandoned them, his wife and child, to pursue his own glory and honor. To regain Maeve’s favor. Lyria had begged him to stay, but he’d left her anyways. To face her fate alone.

Rowan dove, landing on an oak branch overlooking a dark field, unable to keep his body moving any longer.

The nightmares had been worse tonight. The anger that he had drowned in yesterday had eroded away at the icy walls he used to keep himself contained, guarded. The princess had incited a fury in him so great that it had created a pathway for the pain and shame and guilt to flood him – escaping through a breach in the dam.

And he hated her for it.

As Rowan bathed in his hate and shame and pain, a whip of darkness thrashed before him, breaking him from his train of vicious thoughts. He flapped away quickly, startled, while the tendrils of smoke rallied to strike yet again.

Rowan retaliated with ice and wind, driving the creature back as he returned to the skies.

He had inadvertently come to rest before a barrow-wight field. The home of dark creatures of smoke and malice that came out at night and reveled in catching unguarded Fae unawares, seeking to squirrel away their treasure. Beneath the field was undoubtedly a verifiable trove of riches, the hoard of the creatures above. Rich enough to rival a dragon, or a king.

If he could have, Rowan would have grinned. A perfect foe for the Heir of Fire.

···

He felt the beginnings of dawn stirring on the other side of the Cambrian mountains, and flew swiftly back to Mistward to begin the day – first of a great many at the fortress. In the company of the princess.

He had left her the previous night in a truly horrific state. She was still wearing the vagrant clothes he’d first encountered her in, still smelling of the rooftops of Varese. And their brawl the previous night had left her with fresh bruises, a torn lip and a bloody mouth. A slight twinge of shame passed through him, a vague flicker of feeling.

No matter how much she deserved it, Rowan never reveled in an unfair fight. He had acted badly.

Rowan swooped back into the fortress, shifting and heading for the storage area where they kept extra linen, soaps and salves. Rowan took a small ivory tin that smelled of rosemary and mint, and would help reduce the swelling in the girl’s lip, as well as some clothes, soap and pitchers of water.

He didn’t think he could stand it if he had to deal with the girl’s stench for one more day. And he didn’t want to inflict it upon the other members of the fortress either.

He left the items outside the girl’s door just as dawn began to rear its head over the peaks of the mountains, along with a note that read: You deserved it. Maeve sends her wishes for a speedy recovery.

There. She got what she wanted – Rowan in trouble with Maeve. He knew it wouldn’t satisfy her, but he didn’t want her raring for a fight again this morning the way she had yesterday. He didn’t think he would be able to stop himself this time.

Rowan went back to his rooms and readied himself for the day, then headed down to the kitchens to meet with the princess, waiting in the hallway for her to appear.

She was late. Dawn had now fully broken, and Rowan would just love any excuse to pull her out of that room by his teeth and make her chop wood all afternoon for her tardiness.

Luckily for the princess, after barely another minute of stewing, Rowan heard footsteps in the kitchen at his back and the chattering from inside suddenly cease.

He turned and entered the kitchen. The princess had indeed arrived, now in the set of fresh clothes he had left, and the dirt of Varese finally cleaned off her.

Emrys, the fortress cook, was already awake and working on breakfast, stirring something in a large pot over a fire. Another male assisted him, standing in an out-of-the-way corner chopping onions and monitoring a collection of bread loaves baking in the large oven set into the wall beside him.

The two males nodded their greeting, Emrys respectful and the young male near-deferential, caution and fear emanating from each of them respectively. The girl just stared back at him, blank and hard.

In clothes that actually fit, she was gaunt, the blades of her collarbones sticking out like wings. In the morning light and without the dirt, the scars papering her skin were much more prominent, shining stripes of white-silver. Her eyes were dull with sleep, and the bruises on her face stood out against her pale skin.

His eyes tightened slightly as her scent wafted towards him. Her clean, untarnished scent.

The brightness he’d sensed beneath her disgusting stench was a sharp, potent mixture jasmine flowers and lemon verbena, of warmth and sweetness and biting citrus. Her embers still slumbered, but the scent of ash and smoke and charred wood clung to her like a cloud of mist.

It bit at him, scraping down his throat. Uncomfortable. Irritating.

He spoke through the burn, addressing where Emrys stood tending the fire. “Your new scullery maid for the morning shift. After breakfast, I have her for the rest of the day.”

Rowan turned to the girl now, a challenge in his eyes. You wanted to remain unidentified, so go ahead, Princess. Introduce yourself with whatever name you want.

She frowned in understanding, and then said hesitantly, “Elentiya. My name is Elentiya.”

Rowan’s brow furrowed in confusion. Why would the girl choose a name in Eyllwe? The language of a nation so far from Terrasen?

Rowan let the emotion go as Emrys cautiously approached the girl, not really caring enough to divine an answer.

Emrys wiped his hands on his apron and his eyes roved over the princess, assessing her clothes, her sharp, blank eyes, and her many scars. He seemed a bit taken aback by the strange child’s appearance, though he was unsurprised by the gruff command in Rowan’s voice. Emrys had resided in Mistward for years, decades even, and knew Rowan, was used to his way of behaving. Even so, he hesitated before entering the fraught, simmering space between him and the princess, obviously sensing the antagonism bubbling there.

He spoke softly, bowing to Rowan. “So good of you to find us additional help, Prince.” Then he turned to the girl and gave her an efficient once over. Rowan had been right to give the girl to Emrys. He’d work her hard, teach the spoiled princess the value of laboring for the benefit of others.

“Ever work in a kitchen?” he asked. Rowan almost scoffed.

“No,” she responded softly.

“Well, I hope you’re a fast learner and quick on your feet,” Emrys replied.

“I’ll do my best.”

And Rowan stalked out of the kitchen, having heard all he needed to, and aching to escape the princess’ presence and the scent that still tore at his throat.

···

Rowan stalked up the stairs, heading for the fortified outer wall and the sentry station hidden within, where Malakai would be waiting.

As far as Rowan knew, Malakai was still the commander of the fortress and all of the forces housed within. So, though Rowan would prefer to keep to himself, this conversation was a necessary evil.

Rowan approached the station, really just a table in a small room off to the side near the entry gates, papered over in maps and missives. Malakai sat on a small wooden chair, pouring over a piece of paper clutched between white knuckles that Rowan recognized as a common field report from the fortress sentries.

He waited for Malakai to look up and acknowledge his presence, not wanting to start talking before absolutely necessary. Even if he was familiar with the male, had met with him on numerous occasions to collect reports for Maeve and distribute her instructions, Rowan was in no rush to spark this conversation.

It wasn’t that the two males didn’t along – Malakai regarded him with the usual fear and grudging respect. It was more that Rowan didn’t particularly get along with anybody, especially outside the inner circle of Maeve’s warrior-court.

Malakai sighed, breathing in deep and finally getting a whiff of Rowan’s scent. He quickly looked up, his eyes widening in surprise.

“Oh,” he said, taken aback, “Prince Whitethorn.”

Rowan grunted an acknowledgement.

“I’m sorry I’d just assumed you had left with the Queen and her retinue last night.”

“So she’s gone.”

Malakai furrowed his brow. “Yes – Her Majesty left late last night, returning to Doranelle.”

Rowan nodded, accepting the information. He had not felt the presence of Maeve’s power since the night before, but that wasn’t in and of itself a confirmation of her departure.

“The Queen of the Fae has commanded that I stay stationed here at Mistward. I’m to train a female who arrived with us last night, and to remain here through the season, and perhaps into the summer or fall.” If I’m unlucky, he added mentally.

Malakai just nodded, unsuccessfully leashing his surprise at the news. “Has Queen Maeve given you any other assignment while in the fortress?” he asked, tentative.

“No – but I am to take command throughout the duration of my stay here.”

Again Malakai just nodded, accepting the demotion with as much grace as could be expected. Rowan guessed that he could just count himself lucky that the male wasn’t as prone to aggressive plays for dominance as so many of the other Fae were. Particularly as his patience had already been worn so thin in dealing with the princess and her aggressive dominant royal bullshit.

“Any news?”

Rowan didn’t actually expect there to be any, Mistward was a quiet and secluded place, but he asked so that he could wrap up this conversation and move on. So when Malakai frowned and said, “Actually, yes – ” it surprised, and then concerned him.

“I just received the report from a scout that returned this morning from the northwest, near the southern hills.”

Rowan frowned. They had passed through those hills on their journey to the fortress. Whatever news the sentry brought had probably missed them by days – if not by hours.

“He discovered a body.”

Rowan tensed, clenching his jaw as Malakai continued. “A demi-Fae male. Time and cause of death were indeterminable – but he was killed no longer than a week past and no sooner than two days ago.”

Right when he and the princess had been traveling through the area. Frustration and cold anger coiled in Rowan’s gut. “Skinwalkers?” he asked through his teeth.

“No – not unless they’ve drastically changed their patterns.”

Rowan raised his brows questioningly.

“The male was only a husk. Whoever killed him drained him of his very essence. There were no marks, no wounds or bruises – only dried blood streaking from his mouth and ears. Though apparently his skin was withered and dried – the scout compared it to an old apple.” Malakai’s voice twisted in disgust. “But according to him, the most horrifying part was the smell. The body stank of something twisted and vile. When I asked the boy to describe it, he just spluttered. I’ve never known him to be scared, or tentative. But he looked absolutely terrified. All he would say was that the scent was wrong, just wrong, and that I would know it when I smelled it.”

Rowan’s face had darkened while Malakai spoke, a promise of violence sparking in his eyes.

“And this is the first you’ve seen of this?”

“Yes. There have been no other bodies, no strange sightings. Nothing else unusual reported.”

“Who was the male?”

“We don’t yet know. No one from in or around the fortress is missing, and we haven’t received word of any missing people within the past month, let alone any who match this male’s description. There isn’t much around here as you know – you have to travel closer to the coast or the rivers to find any farms or towns.”

“What was the precise location?” Rowan mentally readied himself to depart.

Malakai turned and pulled a map from underneath a pile of papers on the desk. It was of the western side of the Cambrian mountain range, and the lands separating them from the sea. Villages dotted the coastline and the rivers that fed from the mountains, roads connecting them to Varese and the mountain passes.

Malakai pointed to a spot deep in the hills abutting the westernmost peak on the map, where the hills were narrowest between the peaks and the oceans. Rowan committed the map to memory, then looked back at Malakai. “Is there anything else I should know?”

“Nothing that I can think of. Fly well Whitethorn, and…when you return, would you let me know what you discover?”

Rowan nodded brusquely, turning to leave and taking off into the morning sun.

The trip that had taken them nearly three days on horseback took him barely an hour through the air. Not only could he bypass all of the detours they’d been forced to take around crevasses, and avoid the winding paths through the forests, he no longer had to force a horse up rocky hillsides, or ford across slow-moving rivers.

And, with his magic, Rowan could push and pull the winds at will, driving him still faster through the clouds. His hawk body soared over the land in great leaps and bounds, miles melting beneath his feathers, the body of the dead demi-Fae drawing closer with each beat of his wings.

···

“It was just as the scout said.” Rowan told Malakai bluntly. “The body was dumped near a river inlet that fed into the ocean, less than fifteen miles out. It was lying on its stomach, but when I flipped it over, the face was contorted. The male had been scared when he died. Horrified.”

“But who ever heard of someone being scared to death.” Malakai frowned.

Rowan grunted.

He certainly had not. It was possible that Maeve may have encountered such a thing over her many millennia, or perhaps Lorcan or Gavriel, who had a combined three centuries on Rowan. But if so, he’d never heard them speak of it. Nor had he ever heard mention of such a thing happening, not in legend or rumor.

It grated on him, the ignorance. Made him feel incapable.

Malakai was staring intently at the table in front of him, at the pile of paper, as if it would provide the answers he sought so desperately.

His scent was filled with worry and grief. While nowhere near as old as Rowan, the male was an elder of the demi-Fae, and felt responsible for the welfare of the people who lived here. They were his home, his family. And like all Fae males, he needed to protect them. 

It sent a familiar ache through Rowan.

Malakai sighed, and seemed to shake himself from a stupor. Then said, “Well, I’ll be sure to keep you informed Prince, about anything else that may come up.”

Rowan just nodded, and turned to leave the station, heading for the kitchens.

He couldn’t get the image of the demi-Fae male out of his head. It had been grisly. While no blood had been spilt, and animals had avoided the body, the sight of a sentient being in such a desiccated, ruined state was deeply disturbing.

And the smell. It had been like nothing Rowan had even sensed before. It was indescribable, unnatural and vile and completely other.

The scout had not exaggerated. Whatever had killed the male was entirely wrong.

And Rowan had been so close, within a few miles when this demi-Fae male had been murdered, had been utterly eviscerated, and he hadn’t been able to do a damn thing. A deep, violent anger broke through Rowan’s icy indifference, as it seemed to do so much more easily lately.

A new threat was stalking Wendlyn.

Chapter Text

Once again, all sound ceased as Rowan descended the stairwell and entered within view of the kitchens. Emrys’ soft singing and the mindless chatter from the young male – Luca, he remembered – cutting off abruptly. The girl was hunched over a washbasin, slowly scrubbing at a dish. Just the sight of her was enough to turn his slowly burning fury into a raging inferno.

Rowan hadn’t realized that he’d been hoping to find the girl suffering, moaning and groaning about doing such menial, servant work. But she just seemed to have been steadily laboring, quietly in the corner.

“Let’s go.” Rowan said, his voice hard.

As the princess moved to join him, Rowan caught Emrys looking at him with a new kind of fear in his eyes. A fear for others, for this girl.

Rowan clenched his teeth tightly, grinding them together. Something about Emrys’ worry on the behalf of this arrogant, insufferable, worthless princess was beyond aggravating. She did not deserve any pity, or affection.

Rowan led the girl through the small interior courtyard and out into the forest. It was now nearly midday, but the light and warmth of the sun’s rays couldn’t really pierce through the layers of mist shrouding the moss-covered oaks. It chilled Rowan’s bones, and he could hear the princess’ teeth chattering behind him. Good.

They slowly made their way up the rocky ridge and into the highest reaches of the forest, until the foothills were left far behind them and green fields stretched before them.

After the speed and surety of his flight that morning, treading along at a mortal pace was agonizing. The girl seemed to barely move, their snail’s pace making this short trip into an hour-long slog.

Luckily, the princess kept silent, and they both avoided throwing gasoline onto the flames simmering between them. But not for long.

Rowan was leading them to an old temple of the sun goddess, Mala. It was now a ruin, but he could still feel the warmth of the goddess’ power echoing in the stones below as he crossed over them and paid homage to the goddess who favored him.

Then the girl spoke up from behind him, her voice a crackling whip through the misty silence. “Do your worst.”

Rowan turned and gave her an obvious once-over, cataloguing her mist-soaked clothing, the bruises on her face and body, her loose muscles, the positions of her feet and arms... She wasn’t ready for a fight, and she knew it.

He breathed through the fury. This girl was going to be the death of him. “Wipe that smarmy, lying smile off your face,” he snarled. Rowan had no patience left for her ridiculous antics today, not after the morning he’d had.

She didn’t shift a muscle. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” If anything, the antagonism in her voice had only increased.

Rowan felt the muscles in his body stretch and expand, filling with a violent intent and a ravenous desire for action. He stepped forwards, his chest now less than a foot from her body, and flashed his canines at her.

“Here’s your first lesson, girl: cut the horseshit. I don’t feel like dealing with it, and I’m probably the only one who doesn’t give a damn about how angry and vicious and awful you are underneath.”

Her jaw clenched. “I don’t think you particularly want to see how angry and vicious and awful I am underneath.”

“Go ahead and be as nasty as you want, Princess, because I’ve been ten times as nasty, for ten times longer than you’ve been alive.”

Rowan’s words, or at least the aching, primal challenge within them, finally reached her. She pulled her lips back from her teeth in a feral grin. He snarled in response. “Better. Now shift.” Maybe if her pissed the girl off just enough, he could find a way around those iron bars in her mind.

Her voice was vicious. “It’s not something I can control.”

“If I wanted excuses, I’d ask for them. Shift.”

She didn’t even try, didn’t reach within herself. Instead she snarled right back at him. “I hope you brought snacks, because we’re going to be here a long, long while if today’s lesson is dependent upon my shifting.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re really going to make me enjoy training you.”

She plowed on, heedless of the violence promised by the set of his jaw and the shape of his body.  “I’ve already participated in a dozen versions of the master-disciple training saga, so why don’t we cut that horseshit, too?”

His fingers twitched, voice becoming quieter, more lethal. “Shut your smart-ass mouth and shift.”

She set her jaw, tensing her muscles. “No.”

And Rowan lunged.

Somehow, she dodged his first blow, sidestepping the fist he sent flying to her face. And then she twisted enough in the opposite direction to blindly avoid his second strike to her left side. But even with her years of training as an assassin, she wasn’t fast enough to evade his third blow, a swift kick to the backs of her legs.

She thudded to the ground gracelessly, slamming her already wrecked face onto the weather-beaten rock. The princess rolled to the side, groaning, her breathing ragged, as Rowan effortlessly pounced and straddled her chest, effectively rendering her motionless.

She tried to unseat him, but her movements were ineffective, fluttery things. They lacked strength, or any real conviction.

“Shift.” Rowan hissed, shoving all the menace, all the anger and hate and vitriol that he possessed into the command.

She just laughed at him, an emotionless, cold thing. Like a dead fish.

It was as if her every action, her every breath, was perfectly designed to piss him off. Rowan didn’t think it would have been possible for him to be more furious, more insanely angry than he had been when he hit her last night, but he had been dead wrong.

“Nice try,” she chuckled. “You think you can trick me into shifting by pissing me off?”

Rowan snarled viciously, his canines inches from her throat.

“Here’s an idea: I’m rich as hell. How about we pretend to do this training for a week or so, and then you tell Maeve I’m good and ready to enter her territory, and I’ll give you all the gods-damned gold you want.”

Rowan nearly exploded with rage. Bribery? The girl thought to placate him with her blood money?

For the first time in two centuries, Rowan was filled with the desire to hurt another being. To make her suffer. To make her feel pain.

“Here’s an idea,” The words escaped from deep within his throat, cracking his ice-covered heart with the fiery hate they were bathed in. “I don’t know what the hell you’ve been doing for ten years, other than flouncing around and calling yourself an assassin. But I think you’re used to getting your way. I think you have no control over yourself. No control, and no discipline—not the kind that counts, deep down. You are a child, and a spoiled one at that. And,” he paused, deliberating, finding the words that would hit her the hardest, “you are a coward.”

The word sank into her like that blade it was, and she struggled beneath him, her eyes alight with fury. He let out a low, malicious laugh.

Then Rowan took the blade and twisted.

“Don’t like that word?” He leaned closer still, now close enough to rip out her throat without barely moving. “Coward. You’re a coward who has run for ten years while innocent people were burned and butchered and tortured because of you. Because you fled, because you abandoned them – ”

Rowan’s voice cut off as he saw the utter, complete blankness in the girl’s eyes. It was like she was dead, like his vicious words had killed her and sent her to the Afterworld.

But her heart still beat and her chest still moved, so she wasn’t dead. She was hiding. Hiding away where the truth couldn’t touch her, where she didn’t have to deal with her reality, or face her fears.

Well, if anger couldn’t bring on the shift, perhaps fear would. The princess could do with a healthy dose of fear.

“Get up.” Rowan stood, setting the princess free. She didn’t move. “Get up.” He snarled more viciously. Slowly, the life returned to her eyes, but she still didn’t move a muscle.

Rowan’s nostrils flared. He reached down and pulled her up by her shoulders, her thin body light as a willow wand.

“Pathetic,” he spat, releasing her roughly. “Spineless and pathetic.”

The girl just looked back at him, her face blank and pale, as he turned and strode into the woods.

···

Rowan led the princess back down the wooded slope and through the oaks, but he was not taking her back to Mistward. No, he was angling towards the barrow field mounds, and the wights that nestled within them.

Rowan knew that this was a stupid, dangerous idea. He was just too furious to care.

He wanted the princess to get a taste of the creatures waiting out there, a taste of the wideness and depth of a world that she had barely seen a fraction of. He wouldn’t actually let them kill her, no matter how much he wanted her gone. He just needed her to get a taste of real fear, of the inescapable panic brought on by powerlessness. Maybe it would even force her around those iron bars. Force her to shift.

Rowan didn’t really care either way. He was so angry at this girl, this child, that he could barely see straight. Yet again, he had surprised himself, Rowan hadn’t wished death on another thinking being so desperately, so violently, since the years after the death of his mate. The years where he slowly took his revenge, and then aimlessly wandered the earth, purposeless.

There was no reason for him to hate the princess that much – no logical explanation for it. It didn’t make sense, but Rowan with still too furious to give a shit. He just wanted the girl to hurt. And to wipe that arrogant smirk off her face permanently.

The pair of them approached the barrows, Rowan drawing his sword and dagger cautiously, then he turned to the girl and spoke.

“I had planned to wait until you had some handle on your power – planned to make you come at night, when the barrow-wights are really something to behold, but consider this a favor, as there are few that will dare come out in the day. Walk through the mounds – face the wights and make it to the other side of the field, Aelin, and we can go to Doranelle whenever you wish.”

Her eyes were cold and hard as she regarded him. She had to know that this was a trap, that there was no way she could face the wights without control of her magic and still live. Had to know that Rowan was using her mortal impatience against her.

The scent of fear drifted from her on the wind’s back, while her posture spoke of a hesitant wariness.

The corners of Rowan’s lips curled into a smile as he noticed her eyeing his weapons. He shrugged his shoulders, “You can either wait to earn back your steel, or you can enter as you are now.”

A quick flash of temper. “My bare hands are weapon enough.”

Rowan’s smile widened as he turned and sauntered through the hills, leading the girl to the center of the field where he knew that a wight had been freed.

Each of the barrows were sealed with heavy, iron doors that were bolted into stone foundations, locking up the beasts within. There were dozens of them, ancient tombs of kings and princes long since passed. And they all breathed – the air around them moving in strange, twisting currents as the creatures within slept.

But as he and the princess walked past, the earth yawned, and the barrow mounds were filled with the rustling of awakening things. But still they walked on, the princess remaining close behind despite the fear steadily pumping its way through her blood and pulsing into the air around them. Her fear excited the wights, pulling them out of their niches and from within their lairs.

They reached the center – the oldest barrow in the field. It rested in the middle of a circle of dead grass, and the stones of its threshold had been broken – torn asunder by the tenacious fingers of tree roots and gnarled bushes. And the iron door was gone, nowhere in sight.

“I leave you here,” Rowan said, carefully keeping his feet outside the ring of dead grass. His smile was deadly. “I’ll meet you on the other side of the field.”

The girl looked like she was about to bolt. To run and run and run until she was as far away from him and this field as she could get. But instead of giving in to the impulse, the foolish girl steeled herself, inclined her head to Rowan, and walked into the dead grass.

She moved slowly, steadily, the way one does when they’re trying not to spook a predator. Not realizing it wouldn’t make any difference.

But for some reason, the wight didn’t attack. It remained hidden within its barrow, completely out of sight as the girl made her slow approach and turned to walk around to the other side of the mound. It was…afraid. But not of them. Wights were not afraid of the Fae, no matter how powerful.

Rowan took off, sprinting to the other side of the field. Could luck, blind, foolish luck get the girl out of this completely unharmed?

Frustration bubbled deep in Rowan’s gut as he reached the other side of the field, eyes searching intently for any sign of the girl or the wight. But when the central mound came into view, only darkness met his gaze.

Rowan stopped suddenly, his whole body tensing yet again. But it was a completely different kind of tension than he had just experienced in his brawl with the princess. Then, he had not actually felt any danger, any threat. The girl was only a mortal – a well-trained one, yes, but a mortal nonetheless. She posed no danger to him or any other Fae.

This however, was something different. Something wrong.

The blackness was not of the wights’ making. It was different. Entirely other. And the creatures were hiding from it.

The darkness cloaked the barrow-mounds like a black cloth, thicker and more impenetrable than smoke. It was like a brick wall of inky night had been erected in the middle of the field, and from within, Rowan could barely sense a thing.

He could just barely smell the princess’ terror and pain, but those scents were almost entirely masked by the overwhelming scent emanating from the dark wall itself.

It was of dust and carrion, and something else – something indescribable. It was almost like the scent that had obscured the body of the demi-Fae male, but different somehow. Shifted. The way scents varied between individuals. But still wholly wrong. Not human, not Fae, and not animal. Not even skinwalker or faerie or dragon. It wasn’t alive, had no pulse or emotion or essence the way all living beings did.

Rowan could just barely hear the girl gasping, “This is not real. This is not real.” Her voice was desperate and panicked, and Rowan was surprised to be feeling…fear. Though the emotion was barely a flicker, it was still there. He was afraid.

Rowan rallied, and considered his options. There weren’t many.

He could either wait for the princess to appear out of the darkness, for the black curtain to dissipate on its own, or he could enter into the black void and discover for himself what was within.

His entire being shied from that path. The darkness and whatever created it was wrong. Not of this earth. And…when he looked too long in its depths he could see things…hear Lyria’s screams…feel her body in his arms…

And then the princess was running, lurching and stumbling and falling over herself. Desperate to get away, to escape the blackness and whatever lay within it. Rowan moved forwards to meet her, to pull her away from the void, shoving that aching, screaming part of himself deep inside and locking it behind walls of ice.

A gasping, shrieking noise was leaking from somewhere deep in her chest. Her face was bone white, and her clothes were soiled, covered in vomit and piss and bodily fluids.

She stumbled and fell at his feet, still retching, though now only a small stream of bile trickled from her mouth, her stomach emptied.

Rowan gritted his teeth. No matter the ferocity of the darkness, or the strength of the malice it radiated, the girl should have more discipline, more self-control than she was currently demonstrating. The princess was weak, and self-indulgent. She had no control over her emotions whatsoever, and instead gave herself to them, letting them do what they would.

The terror and grief and pain coming from her was so strong, so intense that he could taste its metallic tang on his teeth. It coated his mouth like bile.

And then, finally, she began to shift – the fear so strong and all-consuming that she was forced through those iron bars and into her other form.

Maybe this had been worth it.

But there was only a flash of canines and pointed ears and then she groaned, returning to her mortal form – but there was another flash of light and the girl shifted back to immortal, her face contorting in agony.

The shifting was completely uncontrolled. Her flesh rippled like water as she flipped between her two forms, mortal and immortal, fast as the beat of a hummingbird’s wings. She was stuck in the place between, tangled up in those iron bars separating her from her power.

The girl’s magic surged around her, cradling her in its blanket of fire. But instead of relaxing into its embrace, she choked on it, gasping, screaming –

And then she passed out.

Rowan sighed in exasperation.

While he had been focusing on the princess writhing on the ground before him, the darkness had slowly dissipated, leaving behind no trace of its existence, or of what had created it.

The wind whispered to him of a fast-moving body, some kind of creature, whipping through the tree branches to the southwest.

Rowan longed to go after it, to track it back through the barrow mounds and into the forest beyond, to follow it back to its lair. But he couldn’t leave the girl at his feet on her own, alone and weak and vulnerable in the middle of a field of wights. Wights that were quickly recovering in the absence of the dark creature, and stirring once more in their hollows.

Rowan groaned his frustration, and then gingerly grasped the disgusting girl’s shoulders and dragged her into the safety of the forest at their backs.

He dumped her a few hundred feet into the safety of the canopy, then sprinted back towards the barrows, shifting midstride. He circled the fields and the surrounding woodlands, scanning for any sign of the darkness or anything that could possibly be the otherworldly creature that had created it. But there was nothing.

Nothing strange, nothing that stood out. And no trace of that awful, wretched stench.

Rowan curved back to return to where he’d left the princess, fuming. If only she had more self-control, if she could have run into the safety of the trees without completely losing it, he could have gone off and pursued the creature. Maybe even discovered what had killed the demi-Fae male, and removed a threat from Doranelle’s lands. Protected the fortress.

But the spineless princess had prevented him from doing so.

Rowan sat on a rock next to her prone form, waiting for her to return to consciousness. He idly threw a dagger as he stewed, his anger slowly bubbling and murmuring in his blood.

Eventually, the girl awoke, her eyes slowly sliding open, sore limbs stretching.

He didn’t wait for her to recover. “No discipline, no control, and no courage.” She turned to look at him, eyes glazed over. “You failed. You made it to the other side of the field, but I said to face the wights – not throw a magical tantrum.”

Her fury blazed to life, overwhelming the exhaustion and lingering fear. Rising to match his own writhing temper. “I will kill you. How dare – ”

“That was not a wight, Princess.” Rowan interrupted, his well of patience dangerously close to running dry. He definitely didn’t have enough left to listen to her go on another arrogant tirade. He barely had enough to speak at all.

Their eyes met, and he mentally shot towards her, That thing should not have been there.

Then what in hell was it, you stupid bastard? she shot back without hesitation.

Rowan clenched his jaw. Even completely silent, the girl’s tone reeked of arrogant disdain. “I don’t know. We’ve had skinwalkers on the prowl for weeks, roaming down from the hills to search for human pelts, but this…this was something different. I have never encountered its like, not in these lands or any other. Thanks to having to drag you away, I don’t think I’ll learn anytime soon.” He looked pointedly at her deplorable state. “It was gone when I circled back. Tell me what happened. I saw only darkness, and when you emerged, you were – different.”

She looked down at herself, frowning in disgust. “No. And you can go to hell.”

He pressed. “Other lives might depend on it.”

“I want to go back to the fortress,” Her words came with a very great effort, her breaths shallow and labored. “Right now.”

Anger burned even higher within him, reaching to claw at his throat. Selfish brat. “You’re done when I say you’re done.”

“You can kill me or torture me or throw me off a cliff, but I am done for today. In that darkness, I saw things that no one should be able to see. It dragged me through my memories – and not the decent ones. Is that enough for you?”

The girl’s voice was different, altered by her encounter with the creature. This time, her ferocity didn’t come from arrogance, or aggression, or narcissism. Instead it was the sound of a desperate, small, trapped person. Someone who had run from pain for so long, that they no longer knew how to face it any other way.

Rowan spat out a sharp sound of frustration and anger. Nothing could excuse her refusal, her unwillingness to provide potentially crucial information. He was right, the girl was a coward – through and through.

Rowan stood, and led her through the woods and back to Mistward, completely failing to ignore the fury pounding its way through his limbs as he brooded.

The iron bars in her mind were made of fear. A terror so large and great that she allowed it to control her, to cripple her and prevent her from being herself. From accessing the other half of her identity – her Fae form.

The princess would have to overcome her own fear and cowardice in order to learn control. The question was – how to make a coward face their fears?

They arrived back at the fortress, the girl turning away from the entry guards as they passed, trying to hide the horrific state she was in. They noticed anyways, disgust and anger and fear wafting from them as they took in her rank stench and beaten body. And the sentiment was reflected by all of the many workers and soldiers they passed, though none voiced their worry or discomfort – all too intimidated by the force of Rowan’s presence, or by the girl’s own hostility.

He knew the reputation he already carried with the fortress residents, as well as the wider world. Knew that this would do nothing at all to endear them to him. Would maybe even make the girl a figure of sympathy.

He didn’t care. There was nothing to be done about it regardless.

Rowan was desperate to leave, but before he dumped her, he managed to say, “These are the female baths. Your room is a level up. Be in the kitchens at dawn tomorrow.”

And he strode down the corridor without a second glance – relieved to escape the fiery torrent of her presence and fall back into the waiting arms of his cool, icy indifference.

Chapter Text

Rowan sat at his worktable, pouring over a pile of papers he had taken from Malakai just after dawn. Among them were all the scout reports that had come from the southern hills over the past month, missives from nearby towns, and several maps of the area at different scales, on which he had marked the location of the body.

Nothing in the pile had gotten him any closer to understanding how, why, or who had murdered the male, nor what they could do to protect the people in the fortress or the surrounding area from the threat. And it infuriated him.

Early that morning, after being roughly awakened by the usual vivid nightmares, Rowan had returned to the barrow fields, searching once again for what he knew he would not find – a trace of the creature and its darkness.

Though the encounter had been strange and unnerving, and the scent had reminded him of what he had smelled on the body of the demi-Fae male, he still hadn’t told Malakai about what happened with the princess in the barrow-wight fields.

Rowan told himself that he couldn’t be entirely sure that the two incidents were connected, and that he had no reason to tell the old male. But maybe he just didn’t want to admit to himself that the real reason he didn’t mention it was that he didn’t want to have to explain why they had been there in the first place.

When they’d briefly met that morning, Malakai didn’t immediately bring it up, though Rowan knew he wanted to. Obviously, if last night’s sentries hadn’t told the commander about the state the girl had been in when they returned, other witnesses in the fortress had. And the male was concerned.

It wasn’t normal for people to return from training white as a sheet, with a massive black eye and covered in piss and vomit. So people noticed, and they talked. People like Emrys, Malakai’s mate.

Rowan hadn’t noticed the connection between them until dinner last night, when he’d scented them on each other, in that deep, essential place where Fae carried the scents of their mates.

Rowan might not have given the girl kitchen work if he had known that the two males he and the princess were going to come in contact with the most were mated. Too much knowledge gathered in one place. But he hadn’t known, and so now he would have to deal with Emrys and Malakai’s fleeting presence in his life. 

Last night, Rowan had purposely arrived to dinner very late, both in an attempt to avoid any curious eyes and to avoid the princess in particular. He had no desire to see her on a normal day, and on that particular day, after what happened with their fight and the dark creature, the need was even more inescapable. 

He needn’t have bothered though. The princess had not come to dinner, and Emrys was worried. Already, he cared about the girl, was anxious for her welfare.

He’d overheard the two males talking in the nearly empty kitchen as Rowan downed cold stew, hidden out of sight below the stairs outside the door.

“The girl is so scarred, Malakai, so wounded. I shudder to think what has happened to her in the west this past decade.”

“I know, love, I know.”

“And the state she was in this evening! I don’t understand how that could have happened. I trust that prince, he’s a hard one, but I trust him. And yet he brings her back looking like he half scared her to death.”

“Still, you can’t let yourself be dragged into her problems. I know you care – it’s what I love so much about you. But that girl is a mess, and she’s not your problem.”

“She is though, she is when she’s in my kitchen, under our roof.”

“Just – just don’t put your head where it doesn’t belong. She doesn’t want any help, and I’d be gods-damned before I bothered Prince Rowan for anything. Neither of them want your interference.”

“But what if she needs it?”

Malakai sighed, exasperated. “Just don’t – don’t push. Let them come to you.”

“I’m going to make sure she has clean clothes at least, make sure she’s well-kept while she’s here. Particularly if she’s going to keep going off and ruining the clothes she does have. And please Malakai, could you – ”

Emrys’ pleading voice faded as Rowan left the vicinity of the kitchen, leaving his bowl under the stairs for someone to find, not wanting to enter the room and disturb the two males within. Rowan didn’t want to have to deal with their shock, or discomfort at his having overheard them. Particularly after the day he’d had.

So Rowan had gone to his rooms and lay on his bed for hours, unable to get to sleep, trapped with his thoughts.

While he couldn’t stand the petulant child, and thought she deserved what she got, Emrys wasn’t exactly wrong. Rowan should know better than to let the princess’ taunts get to him, to let her bait him into hitting her.

He was her teacher, and he had to act like it, whether he wanted to or not. And Emrys didn’t deserve the worry Rowan was putting him through. He could at least keep himself from sending the girl to the kitchens looking like she was pummeled by a horse.

Eventually, he’d fallen asleep. Where his dreams had been punctuated by vivid images of Lyria, intensified by the hallucinations he’d had in the presence of the dark creature.

Rowan sighed, putting down the maps he held and turning to look out the window. It was near midday now, and he had to go down and collect the princess.

The girl was even more gaunt and grim than yesterday evening, what with the passing night to allow for the bruises on her face to develop into a massive yellow and purple black eye, and for the new paleness of her skin to settle into a ghostly, wraithlike shade.

They exchanged their usual taunts, with the princess telling him to go fuck himself, and Rowan asking her if she was going to vomit and piss on herself again.

When they arrived at the temple ruins, his only request was that she shift.

Rowan ordered her to sit on the edge of the ridge and search until she transformed, no matter how long it took. He ignored her many protests, her demands to leave, her complaints about the misty wind, and requests to learn magic now, not later. Replying only, “No shift, no magic lessons.”

There were many different ways Fae could access their shifting, but the easiest, and the most reliable, was through peace, a harmony with the self. And after the disaster of the previous day’s attempts, Rowan decided he would try this way, before falling on pissing the girl off on purpose once again.

Even if that was all he wanted to do.

And too soon, he’d relented, bowing under the weight of the girl’s taunts and many complaints, and they were exchanging vicious insults once again. But the taunts never escalated into anything physical – no matter how his muscles tensed, longing for action.

But the anger didn’t work either. The righteous fury Rowan incensed in her wasn’t enough, wasn’t the right kind of force to shimmy her around those bars and into her other form. And he had no idea how to propel her there.

So until she figured out her shit, they would sit on the cold stones and wait. Even as thunderclouds came in and a storm raged around them, the girl’s teeth chattering so loudly he could have mistaken them for stones smashing down a rockslide, her skin turning a delicate shade of blue.

That evening, he ditched her at the baths with the silent promise that tomorrow would be just as bad. She didn’t even flinch, just turned and strode through the worn wooden doorway. The second the girl was out of sight, Rowan shifted and took off into the trees, pushing through the pounding rain and into the embrace of the storm-driven winds, breathing deep to rid himself of her intoxicating scent.

His stomach rumbled - Rowan would have to eat soon. But he could wait until later, for the food that would be left over after the fortress residents left the kitchen. Where he could eat in peace, without the worry of overhearing any more unwelcome conversations.

Though the day had been pointless, at least he hadn’t attacked the girl again. And though they had exchanged their usual outburst of jibes and insults, she had never crossed the line into outright hatred, or said anything truly vile.

Not that it made the girl any less insufferable. She was still a coward, who ran from her problems, and from her responsibilities. Who left her people and nation to fend for themselves.

But seeing her in such a state yesterday had shifted something in Rowan.

Yes, the girl had abandoned her people, and nothing excused that. But when Adarlan had attacked, the girl had been only eight years old. A child, and a young one at that.

Rowan swooped above the rainclouds surrounding the fortress, considering. When he had been that young his parents had still been alive, and the three of them had been happily living in a country home just outside of Doranelle. That had been the year he first learn to control his shift, and learned how to fly. The year that he learned to love his wings, and the cold kiss of the wind.

And at that age, the princess had lost her whole family, her home, and her identity all in one fell swoop. It didn’t excuse her behavior, or her relentless, insufferable arrogance, but it did explain them somewhat.

At only eight years old, Aelin Galathynius had been ripped from her home and was placed into the care of the assassin’s guild, where she became a killer, and began earning the many scars that covered her limbs.

Now that the dirt had been removed, the marks became a defining feature of the princess. They marked her as a warrior - as someone not to be crossed. Almost the way Rowan’s tattoo did for him.

He had noticed many of the other demi-Fae eyeing the girl warily, attempting to place her in the ranks of the social structure within the fortress. From the looks in their eyes, it was fairly high. Even without knowing the girl was royal, the power radiating from her was obvious, and it marked her as someone to be considered, to be watched.

And so, none approached her. The hostile scent she put out forced any who might have been intrigued by the strange, scarred girl to stay far, far away. They didn’t want to be attacked.

The only person who seemed even remotely inclined to approach the girl was the other kitchen worker, Luca. Rowan almost wondered at the male’s ability to ignore the scent the girl put out, but then remembered that he didn’t care.

Still, he was confused by the girl’s acceptance of the solitude. It was abnormal, and marked her just as much as her scars did.

As thunder shook through the sky, while lightening arced in the distance, Rowan dove back down through the cloud cover and towards the fortress below, soaring through the ward-gates and towards the kitchens.

To his surprise, they were packed despite the late hour. And from the look of the tables and countertops, they had held dinner there. Everyone was gathered around the blazing hearth, where Emrys and Malakai stood, chatting idly to each other.

Rowan perched in the shadows, peering through the half open kitchen door at the warm scene before him.

They were a family, and between them flowed love and affection and that well-worn familial irritation. Couples embraced while rivals snarled and males postured before females, striving for their affection. They all knew each other, were comfortable in each other’s space, and none were left out of the large group.

Well, none except for the scarred, self-contained girl snaking her way through the crowd with a practiced ease, piling food on a quickly snatched plate and retreating to the shadows to eat.

No one noticed her, no one marked her. And the girl seemed to want it that way.

But then Emrys cleared his throat and began to speak, and all thought of the strange princess was pulled from Rowan’s head.

Emrys was a story-keeper. A living library of myths and histories. A role highly regarded among both the Fae and the humans of Wendlyn, enough so that it was no wonder he and his mate were the unofficial leaders of the fortress. Emrys told a familiar tale, a fireside story, one for chilling the bones and warning the children away from the woods and strange folk.

Rowan’s mother had been such a keeper, and listening to the male speak such tales as she had done was a comfort, if only a small one. Similar to the feel of the wind ruffling his feathers, a welcome distraction.

After Emrys finished his fable, everyone playfully pushing and teasing one another, the girl stood to depart, though the rest of the crowd was lingering, hoping for another tale.

But instead of weaving her way through the crowd, the princess turned to face the doorway where Rowan was perched. As she beheld him in the semi-dark, her eyes narrowed and then widened in comprehension. Somehow, the girl recognized him, knew that Rowan’s animal form was a white-tailed hawk. Perhaps someone in the fortress had told her.

However, unlike every other exchange between them, the princess didn’t radiate any aggression or hostility, only recognition and a quiet confusion. But before Rowan could wonder at the change, Emrys spoke out from the front of the room.

“Elentiya,” the old male said, gesturing towards the girl, “Would you perhaps share a story from your lands? We’d love to hear a tale, if you’d do us the honor.”

The princess just looked back at Emrys, her cold, empty eyes meeting his warm and inviting ones, as everyone present turned to look at her.

And it wasn’t until that moment, in seeing the princess regard that kind, selfless, unassuming male with such empty blankness, that Rowan began to understand. Her eyes weren’t empty due to arrogance, and they weren’t emotionless because she didn’t care. The princess’ eyes were empty because of the grief he could now scent pouring out of her like an overflowing well.

The girl was a coward, and so it didn’t matter. Rowan didn’t care whether the girl acted from hate or grief or pain or just plain old narcissism. Rowan didn’t have it within himself to give a shit about the girl’s pain, he already had too much of his own to handle to deal with someone else’s.

But still, it changed something, something small, to know that the girl was hurting. Was alone.

Aelin just stared at the old male, then said, “No thank you,” her voice quiet and hard and completely empty.

Emrys flinched, eyes widening in sympathy and pain. But the girl didn’t notice, too wrapped up in herself as she strode from the kitchen and up the stairs towards her room, the whispers of the demi-Fae following her like a trail of ashes.

Chapter Text

The next week passed slowly, agonizingly.

Two more dead demi-Fae were found, both following the same strange patterns as the first, and yet Rowan was still no closer to identifying who- or what-ever was responsible. It infuriated him. And the princess certainly wasn’t helping.

Each day Rowan awoke before dawn, shaken abruptly from sleep by vivid, intense nightmares. He then spent his mornings pouring over papers, flying out to view the sites of the three dead bodies, or on fruitless searches for the dark creature he had seen with the princess.

As time passed, he was becoming more and more convinced that the two were one and the same, but without proof he was unwilling to commit to such a claim. And though he had combed through the record-keeping books held by the fortress, and had racked his brain for any memory, any mention of such a creature, he had come up with nothing.

He even sent letters out to his fellow blood-sworn, asking if they had ever seen or heard of anything that could possibly assist in his search. But it was unlikely that he would hear back from any of them any time soon, if ever. All Rowan could do was inform those nearby of the threat, while Malakai told the rest of the fortress. Attempting to keep them on their guard until the danger passed, or was defeated.

At noon each day, Rowan would go down the kitchens, collect the princess and lead her to the ruins on the ridge, where they sat. Pointlessly. For hours.

Time that Rowan could be spending in a myriad of other, more productive ways. Finding the creature that was killing the demi-Fae, for one. But no, he had to sit and babysit the brat while she refused, point-blank, to even try to shift.

It was infuriating.

While the hostility between them didn’t escalate into anything physical, the girl seemed to get more and more irritating with each day, each hour, that he was in her presence.

Just because Rowan was beginning to understand why she behaved the way she did, it did not mean for one second that her behavior was any less maddening. And he had dealt with grating personalities before – he’d trained Fenrys, for crying out loud – but none of them, absolutely none of them, had anything on this princess.

He’d gotten used to the others, and each had become familiar annoyances – hardly enough to prick his hide. Definitely not enough to pierce though his icy armor. But this girl, this child, always managed to find a new route of attack, a new way to surprise and infuriate him.

And through it all, those iron bars of fear in her head never swayed an inch. Nor did she find a way around them. The girl let her emotions rule her, control her, and yet no matter how he taunted, no matter how he snarled and sneered and hissed, she remained determinedly, resolutely human.

Always, with every other soldier placed in his charge, anger worked. The soldiers would break, would find the fight within them, if Rowan made them angry enough. Rage would turn even the most sniveling coward into someone who could stand and fight.

But not with this girl.

No matter how much they snarled and spat at each other, she refused to shift. And Rowan did not yet know what else to try. Of course, it didn’t hurt that her very presence made him angry enough to raze the whole mountain.

So, they exchanged insults, had silent arguments, and generally pissed each other off. Whenever she was particularly nasty, he made the princess chop wood until she could no longer feel her arms, saying that if she was going to waste his time, then she might as well be useful in some way.

Once, he even threatened to take her back to the barrow-fields, as it was the only time that she had even come close to making the shift, but she had snarled so viciously in response that he was forced backed off.

She said that she would slit her own throat before she went back there, and while having the girl dead and out of his life would certainly be a relief, the image of her lying on the ground, bleeding out from a ragged wound to her throat, didn’t sit well.

After they reappeared at the fortress each evening, Rowan would fly above the woodlands, letting the spring rains clear the girl’s blistering scent from his lungs. Then he would find his way to the kitchens, drawn by the soothing, familiar sound of Emrys’ stories.

The princess was there every night, along with every other unoccupied member of the fortress, due to the rains keeping them all indoors. She always ate on the shadowed steps, keeping well away from everyone, including Rowan. And he certainly wasn’t going to argue with that. Outside of training, there was no reason for them to have anything to do with each other.  

But then, on the eighth day after their arrival at Mistward, the aggravating pattern finally broke.

That morning, Rowan had discovered the third demi-Fae body. A female. She had been young, and utterly defenseless. Her body had been carelessly dumped in a ditch, her limbs splayed at odd angles and her face contorted in fear and agony.

She had not died well. And Rowan couldn’t do anything to prevent it from happening again. He was useless, utterly useless. And murderously enraged.

And the fury followed him through the rest of the morning, pounding in the background as talked with Malakai, sharpened his blades, stared at maps, and collected the princess from the kitchens.

But they were only partway through their hike when the girl suddenly stopped and said, “I have a request.”

Rowan turned to face her, regarding her flatly. Her black eye had only just started to fade, her frail body still weak and thin and pale – like she was recovering from a sickness. “I want to see you shift.”

Rowan blinked, the command in her voice familiar and infuriating. That superior tone grated on him more than anything else about her, more than even her arrogance, or her cowardice. Rowan took orders from his queen, and no other. That alone was hard enough already.

His voice was stormy as he said, “You don’t have the privilege of giving orders.”

She disregarded his provocation, and instead became almost earnest, persuasive. “Show me how you do it.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, skeptical. And though his fury did not sway one inch, and giving the girl anything she wanted only aggravated him further, Rowan supposed that nothing could be lost by showing her his shift. Particularly as she had already seen his animal form.

So Rowan stared back at her, silently saying, Just this once.

And he shifted with a flash of light, flying over to the nearest tree branch to perch and gauge her reaction. Her mouth was hanging open, her eyes carefully tracking him, and something like wonder emanated from her. She stared at him like he was some kind of zoo animal, or a plaything.

He clicked his beak, choking down that now all-too-familiar fury. Then when she looked away, scanning the ground distractedly, he lunged.

Rowan slashed his talons at her eyes, then shifted back in another flash of light and was once again clothed and armed and growling, inches from the princess’ face. “Your turn.”

She flinched back automatically, but didn’t react in any other way to his sudden attack. Which only angered him further.

“Where do your clothes go?”

“Between, somewhere. I don’t particularly care.”

She clenched her jaw, her eyes stony as she reacted to his hostile tone with her own irritation. Satisfaction washed through Rowan at the sight, and he bared his teeth at the girl, but she just held his stare evenly, breathing deep, steeling herself.

“Sometimes I wonder whether this is a punishment for you,” she snarled at him through her teeth, “But what could you have done to piss off her Immortal Majesty?”

“Don’t use that tone when you talk about her.”

This close to the princess, her scent coated his throat, enveloping his every sense in her flames, and her sweet, citrusy brightness. Her scent was intoxicating, and inescapable. He choked on it.

“Oh, I can use whatever tone I want. And you can taunt and snarl at me and make me chop wood all day, but short of ripping out my tongue, you can’t – ”

Without thinking, without any consideration for what he was doing, Rowan shot his hand out and grabbed her tongue. She gagged, and bit down on his fingers, but he refused to let go, her mortal teeth not enough to dig into his skin.

But still, the action echoed the Fae gesture, the claiming bite that he had not experienced for two centuries. And it intensified his rage from the pit of lava slowly bubbling in his stomach to a fiery torrent of pure, untarnished fury.

“Say that again,” Rowan purred.

The girl choked, desperately reaching for the daggers at his hips while simultaneously slamming her knee between his legs. But Rowan just shoved his body against hers, trapping her against a tree trunk and preventing her from making any other move to escalate their fight.

The girl’s eyes widened, the scent of her fear and shame coating his tongue with its awful copper tang. But he just growled in satisfaction, taking it for the submission that it was. The princess knew how outmatched she was, and she hated it. Detested how she was forced to yield to his strength.

Rowan released her tongue, but then immediately regretted it as she spat on his feet, gasping for air. And then she swore at him. A filthy name – a foul, hateful curse.

An insult that he could not stand for.

For the first time, Rowan lost all control. He was utterly overwhelmed by his fury and her scent and the feel of her body against his. And as he surrendered to the primal, purely Fae part of him, he bit her.

His canines sunk into the curve of skin between her neck and collarbone, and he didn’t even hear as the princess shrieked in rage and pain. He could feel her frantic pulse pounding in his own body as his every sense, every thought, was turned towards the taste of the female’s blood currently streaming into his mouth.

It tasted of her, of her fire and her flickering embers. Of her bright, sweet scent of jasmine and lemon verbena. Which was now so intense that he lost sight of his surroundings, could no longer sense them around him. There was only her.

He pushed harder against her, pressing them into the tree trunk until he could feel every curve, every bone of her body against his. Her fire burned through him, passing through his icy armor as if it didn’t exist, batting away his wind like cobwebs or dust motes.

He could taste who she was, could feel her very essence crackling over his tongue. Her role as the Heir of Terrasen, her identity as the Heir of Mab – a tiny, glittering raindrop. The power to heal and to manipulate water, hidden underneath the weight of all that flame.

He could taste her immense, roiling grief; a flavor so familiar it could have even belonged to him. Her anger and fear and shame and every other emotion coursing through her blood at that moment. And the scent of a male – no, a man – her lover?

Cold fury tore through him once again, icing over his limbs and taking him as much by surprise as the bite had. She belonged to someone else. Even this girl, this insufferable child who was worthy of no one, had someone. She wasn’t alone.

But before he could even begin to process that thought, the girl growled and shoved him roughly away. Rowan staggered back, his teeth ripping her skin, temporarily blinded by a flash of light and a ripple of color as the girl shifted, and roared, dominant and immortal and purely Fae.

 “There you are.”

Rowan’s face split into a satisfied grin, pushing away that quick flash of anger. He spat her blood out, wanting to rid himself of the all-consuming taste, to clear his head of the feel of her. To try to think around it.

She bared her canines at him, her eyes burning bright with fury. She moved to lunge at him, but then paused, taking in the world around her as if it was different – fresh and new and clear in this immortal form.

The girl panted, breathless, as she adjusted. The wound at her neck quickly knitted itself back together, leaving only a faint line along her collarbone and a large bloodstain down her chest where the wound had gushed and spurted under Rowan’s teeth. He hadn’t even noticed.

Rowan tensed, wrestling with the primal part of him, fighting the urge to lunge and bite her again, and make the mark stick. The impulse unnerved him, but he just ignored it, locking it away behind walls of ice.

Then he felt it, brighter and stronger than ever before: wildfire.

The girl’s power was a maelstrom beneath her skin, and while Rowan could always feel its crackling fingers, now that she inhabited her Fae body the fire could not be ignored. It rose up within her, a great wave, begging to be released, and he tensed, ready to batter it back if she lost control. But then the girl was tensing as well, her body stiff as rawhide as she pushed down the magic with a barrage of pure fear and hatred.

Rowan stepped closer to the girl, hesitant. She needed to release the power, needed to learn to let it go, or it would consume her. “Let it out. Don’t fight it.” His voice was as soft as it had ever been in her presence.

She breathed, quick and fast as a bird, almost hyperventilating.

And her magic reacted to her fear, cocooning her, swaddling her, reaching out towards Rowan to protect her. And as her magic brushed over him, like a cat against his legs, Rowan felt his own magic shift in response, reaching out to brush against hers, arching to her touch.

He cast a tendril of power to her elbow, sending her falling back against the tree. And as Rowan recklessly sent another whorl of power to her cheek, he realized that his magic wanted to play, was playing, with the girl and her blazing flames.

But before Rowan could decide whether he wanted to stop, or continue, or get angry, the girl finally let go of her tight hold on her power, and a great wave of blue wildfire rushed towards him. It engulfed the trees, the path, the whole world in flames –

Without thinking, Rowan sucked the air out of the space, choking the blaze into nothing.

The girl dropped to her knees, clutching at her throat as if she could claw open her blocked airway with her bare hands. Rowan stepped right in front of her, peering down to make sure that she wasn’t going to burst into flames again the second he gave the girl her breath back.

Satisfied that she wouldn’t, Rowan let go of his hold on her lungs and air flowed down her throat in a rush. She pulled it down in great gulps, blind to the world as a white light flashed and she relaxed back into her mortal form, those iron bars solid and unyielding once more.

Rowan frowned in irritation. So much for progress.

Now that the girl was mortal again, the scent of her fire was much less potent. But still, he could taste it on his teeth, taste her grief and her throne and her fire and the man she loved.

That cold anger washed through him once more, the taste of the man’s scent a faint, pale tang of steel and cotton and birchwood. It was uncomfortable on his tongue. Repellant. For the first time, he noticed the amethyst ring shining dully on her left hand.

Almost against his will, Rowan found himself asking, “Does your lover know what you are?”

The girl lifted her head up, seeming completely unsurprised by the question. “He knows everything.”

Rowan pursed his lips, sensing the half-truth. Regardless, he wouldn’t bite her again, even if it had managed to push her into her Fae form.

It wasn’t worth it. The feel of her power, of her fire coursing through his limbs…he almost shuddered. And she belonged to another, the undeniable proof of their connection resting in her very blood and bones.

The quick flash of anger tapped once again against his icy walls. But he ignored it, and instead said, “I won’t be biting you again.”

She growled, weak and fangless this time. “Even if it’s the only way to get me to shift?”

He was icy and empty, all the fight taken out of him. So he didn’t react to the fiery challenge in the girl’s voice, instead turning to walk up the hill and towards the ridge, choosing to pretend that whatever just occurred between them hadn’t happened.

But he still answered her. “You don’t bite the women of other males.”

She hesitated. “We’re not – together,” something in her voice had shifted, was dulled. “Not anymore. I let him go before I came here.”

Rowan found himself looking back at her over his shoulder, curiosity breaking through his tight hold on his emotions. “Why?”

“Because he’s safer if he’s as repulsed by me as you are.”

Rowan cocked his head. Though the words were small, quiet things, they spoke of a pure, unadulterated self-loathing. The kind that dug down into you and nestled there, a permanent fixture. Her words touched something deep and broken and familiar within Rowan.

And as the screaming began to echo in his skull Rowan found himself saying, “At least you’ve already learned one lesson.” Her brow furrowed, and he elaborated, “The people you love are just weapons that will be used against you.”

His voice was cold and hard and full of his ancient grief. Whether she heard it or not, he knew she understood. He’d tasted it in her blood. This spineless princess had much to learn, but he didn’t need to teach her about loss.

Rowan pushed through the familiar pain, shoving it deep down inside him with a battering ram of ice and wind, erasing Lyria’s screams from his mind. Not registering the scent of grief wafting from the girl through the feeling of his own agony.

“Shift again,” he ordered, jerking his chin at her. “This time, try to remain in control, and don’t let yourself be overwhelmed by your magic, allow it to breathe, don’t release – ”

But she was turned inwards, eyes blank and unseeing. Letting her emotions spiral in the air around her, allowing them to become a storm that she could not escape. Coward. She wasn’t dealing with her pain, couldn’t face it. Weak and pathetic and spineless. Unworthy.

Rowan gripped her by the shoulders and snarled at her, “Are you listening?”

She came back to earth and stared at him, plainly exhausted. “Why don’t you just bite me again?”

Rowan clenched his jaw, clamping down on the strange mix of emotions that rushed through him at the words. Unable to deal with any of them. Instead he went back to his purpose, to his reason for being here in the first place. Rowan was here to train her, on the orders of his queen and master. And that was all.

 So Rowan turned to anger, to the only tool he knew for breaking cowards from their fear, to make them stand and fight. He clenched her shoulders tighter between his fingers as he snarled, “Why don’t I give you the lashing you deserve?”

It was an attempt to pull her back from within her miserable, self-pitying shell. But it didn’t work as he intended. Instead of snarling, or retorting with one of her usual vicious insults, the girl stiffened, and blinked.

Something in her shifted, turned from weak exhaustion to a boundless, unyielding determination. “If you ever take a whip to me, I will skin you alive.”

Rowan’s eyes narrowed at the hard look in her eyes, and he let go of her shoulders roughly, turning to pace around the small clearing. As he stalked, he reassessed, needing to find another way through her armor.

“If you don’t shift again, you’re pulling double duty in the kitchens for the next week.”

“Fine.”

His fingers twitched at the clipped answer, anger pulsing though him.

“You’re worthless.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“You would probably have been more useful to the world if you’d actually died ten years ago.”

She just looked back at him, her body unnaturally still.

“I’m leaving.”

Rowan watched as she turned and strode back to the fortress, impassive. He should have been thrilled, should have been overjoyed that the girl was finally departing, finally abandoning her deal with Maeve and going back to whatever gods-forsaken place she had come from.

But he was just annoyed with her. Annoyed that the girl was running again, annoyed that she was allowing the fear to win, to control her. Annoyed that she would never be worthy of her name, her title, or her power. Of the hopes that were so unwittingly pinned on her.

Rowan transformed into his hawk, and swooped after her, moving to wait between two oak trees directly in the path she would be forced to take back from the fortress.

Though so much had happened already today, barely any time had passed since Rowan had collected the girl from the kitchens. The sun was still high in the sky, and they had only made it a short distance away from the walls of the fortress.

So, the girl soon reappeared, her satchel slung over her shoulder and her eyes solid bricks of gold, hard and cold.

 “Is this what you do? Run away when things get hard?”

She brushed past him.

“You’re free of your obligation to train me, so I have nothing more to say to you, and you have nothing more to say to me. Do us both a favor and go to hell.”

Rowan growled viciously. “Have you ever had to fight for anything in your life?”

A low, bitter laugh came up from deep in her chest, but she just kept walking, heading west. He kept up easily, still pushing for the answers he sought. “You’re proving me right with every step you take.”

“I don’t care.”

The words grated on him. Particularly because he knew that she did care, not about his opinion of her, but about whatever knowledge she had been so desperate to get from his queen. “I don’t know what you want from Maeve – what answers you’re looking for, but you – ”

“You don’t know what I want from her?” she interrupted, shouting back at him, “How about saving the world from the King of Adarlan?”

That had perhaps been the last thing he expected to hear from the selfish girl. Not only because she seemed to have no interest in anyone but herself, but because she believed that Maeve would help her with such an endeavor.

Caught off guard, and wanting to understand despite himself, he just replied, “Why bother? Maybe the world’s not worth saving.”

Her voice was furious and loud and completely unguarded as she shot right back, “Because I made a promise. A promise to my friend that I would see her kingdom freed.” She shoved her right palm into his face, where two long scars lay. The marks of a blood oath. “I made an unbreakable vow. And you and Maeve – all you gods-damned bastards – are getting in the way of that.”

He narrowed his eyes as he continued to follow her down the hillside. “And what of your own people? What of your own kingdom?”

“They are better off without me, just as you said.”

Rowan snarled, fury momentarily breaking over the skeptical disbelief. “So you’d save another land, but not yours. Why can’t your friend save her own kingdom?”

“Because she is dead!” The last word tore from her throat in a desperate scream. “Because she is dead, and I am left with my worthless life!”

He looked back at her for a moment, her eyes meeting his while her fractured, tortured words reached down deep inside of him and tugged.

Her eyes were a mirror, a reflection of his own as she turned away and strode down the hillside, as far away from the fortress and the demi-Fae and Maeve and him as she could get.

And Rowan just stood there, stunned. Her words burrowed into him, tenaciously digging up his insides. And they hurt. Not much, but still a shocking, unanticipated amount. She hurt him with his own pain, stabbing him with a blade made from the words he shouted at himself in his dreams each night.

The ache was familiar, and yet completely different. Lyria’s screams weren’t echoing in his head, there were no visions flashing before his eyes. Just Aelin, tearing down the hillside before him, carrying his words on her lips. Forging into the woodland alone.

He stood, staring at the path she had made in the undergrowth, as the spring rains began to fall. Without the girl’s crackling fire surrounding him, Rowan felt colder, emptier, and very, very alone.

Chapter Text

The sun set over the Cambrian mountains, turning the silvery mists into a luscious golden haze. Rowan flew through it heedlessly, idly circling the woodlands surrounding the fortress, purposeless and brooding.

After Aelin had left him standing there in the quiet drizzle, Rowan had shifted, taking to the misty winds for answers he knew they couldn’t give him.

The girl was an enigma. She didn’t make any gods-damned sense. And Rowan didn’t want to have to put the energy in to understand her.

He had wished she would vanish, would just up and leave. Taking her bullshit along with her. But now that she had, Rowan found himself equally irritated by her departure.

Rowan soared still higher while rain tumbled all around him, ruminating. He was relieved, he told himself forcefully, He was relieved that the girl was gone. That she’d returned to whatever gods-forsaken place she came from.

But he didn’t quite believe it.

It felt…unresolved. This thing between them. And it grated on him like an unscratched itch.

Darkness fell, but still he flew. Not wanting to return to the fortress and deal with the others’ questions. To face the reality of her departure and what it meant for him. What he would have to endure when he returned to Doranelle empty-handed.

So instead he continued his circling, thinking his useless, repetitive thoughts.

The girl hadn’t said much, but what she had said painted a strange picture. Though she had spent the past ten years hiding away in Adarlan, learning to be little more than a paid cutthroat, she was now in Wendlyn to make a deal with the Queen of the Fae for some esoteric piece of information that she said could help bring about the demise of the King of Adarlan.

Who she currently served as champion, and whose court she had lived in for the past year. Who she had killed for, and promised to assassinate the Ashryvers for.

Why a mortal king posed enough of a threat that she needed to bargain with Maeve for information to help destroy him, was beyond Rowan. And at that, so was her strange need to destroy him in the first place.

Why had she made such a vow? And to whom? Had she in fact become the King’s Champion to spy – or to otherwise work against him? And if she cared about the loss of human lives, why had she become an assassin in the first place?

The thoughts spun uselessly around in Rowan’s head, dragging his muscles and weighing down his wings. The girl’s words and actions didn’t correlate – were completely at odds with one another. She was a coward, but she faced Maeve down without hesitation. She was a killer, but she had apparently come to Doranelle to rescue a people that weren’t even her own.

It was exhausting just to think about.

And Rowan didn’t think he had given another person so much thought this decade – this century even. He hated feeling like there was something he didn’t know, something he didn’t understand. And this girl made absolutely no gods-damned sense.

It was beyond frustrating.

The moon began to rise, Deanna shining her pale light through the pouring rain and streaking silver over the blue-tipped mountain peaks. Rowan turned to look, but that was when he spotted it – an orange spark partially hidden on the side of the mountain to the northwest of the fortress.

He swooped towards it, his gut tightening in fury as it came into view. A fire flickered in the mouth of a shallow cave, and sheltered behind it was the huddled, sleeping form of Aelin Galathynius.

If he could have, Rowan would have groaned. As it was, he let out a short screech of exasperation.

The fire was like a beacon, a signal flare for anyone and anything in the vicinity that might be interested in a stupid, irresponsible, arrogant demi-Fae female. He closed his eyes and sighed, shaking his head. Hadn’t he told her? Hadn’t he warned her?

Rowan had not lit one single fire during their journey from Varese. Wouldn’t that have been enough to get the message across? Hadn’t she been listening to the stories Emrys told around the hearth each evening?

His beak clicked as he settled on a branch overlooking the cave mouth, deliberating.

The fire was dwindling, its wood nearly burnt out. The night had nearly reached its height, was about to pass over into early morning. The female had made it this far without something coming, perhaps her luck would hold, and Rowan could avoid having to rouse her and face dealing with the angry, idiotic girl.

But before he allowed himself to hope, a sudden, unnatural silence stole over the surrounding forest. Rowan pulled a breeze towards him, and it carried with it a familiar rancid, festering scent.

Rowan cursed, diving from his perch towards where the princess lay, but she was already gone.

He cursed again, this time out of dread. Skinwalkers. Another curse, barely a huff of breath from his beak. He flew back out over the woodlands, flying low between the tops of the oaks.

Rowan was immortal, a warrior who had served Maeve for nearly three centuries and had been sent to almost every corner of the earth. He had faced a great many foes, and while the skinwalkers were far from the worst of that bunch, that didn’t mean he looked forwards to an encounter with them.

Particularly because his magic was completely useless. The creatures were made of darkness clothed in stolen skins – they did not breathe, and did not rely on their piecemeal bodies to sustain them. His ice and wind could not stop them, only slow them.

He tracked the girl within seconds, her path straight and unwavering through the trees away from the cave and down the mountainside towards the north. Her scent would be as easy for the creatures to follow as it was for him.

Rowan stopped his advance, hiding within the branches of a tree about fifty feet above the princess as she crept through the foliage below. She had obviously been trained to move quietly, to avoid detection. But it had been to mortal standards – her every step was a crack, her breaths much too loud.

Rowan mentally cursed again.

He pulled a wind towards him, dragging her scent away from her path through the undergrowth and instead pushing it to the southwest. Away from him and the girl and anyone who might be outside the fortress. But it wouldn’t work for long.

A flash of lightening, and Rowan could see three tall, lanky silhouettes lurking in front of the mouth of her cave. They stood like humans, but they were barely pale imitations. Wolves in sheep’s clothing – literally.

As he continued to push away the girl’s scent, disguising her actual trail, ever more pungent wafts of the creatures’ stench poured over him, wrapping him in the scent of leather and carrion and blood and earthy darkness.

It was revolting, and it took every bit of his self-control not to gag. Or to cut and run. But he couldn’t leave the girl here alone, not with the skinwalkers so close. No one deserved death at their hands.

But Rowan couldn’t hide her for much longer, the creatures were stirring atop their perch, and soon would discover that the scent trail was false. And with her weak, human legs, the princess wouldn’t even make it half a mile before they caught her and killed her. Tore her apart, bit by bit.

She didn’t even have anything to help her in defense – Rowan had taken her weapons upon arriving in the fortress, and she hadn’t left with them. She was unarmed. Defenseless and vulnerable.

And there was nothing he could do, nothing, except dive down there and die next to her. Because he couldn’t leave another female to face their fate alone.

He reached her within moments, swooping down and transforming in midair.

She had started to run between the tree trunks, having given in to the terror he could smell swirling around her. She was swift and strong, but nowhere near fast enough.

It was dark, and she was blinded by her weak mortal senses, so she didn’t notice him until she crashed right into him. Without looking, she slashed a wooden spear at his chest, but he ducked out of the way before she could make contact.

She moved to stab him again, clutching a pair of rudimentary stakes she had fashioned out of oaken branches. But before she could, Rowan grabbed her wrists hard. She twisted in his grip, bringing up a foot to smash into his chest, but Rowan just dragged her against him and pressed them into a hollowed-out tree.

She finally realized that he was a friend and stopped her useless struggling, instead curling in on herself and panting franticly against his chest.

Rowan gripped her by her shoulders and shoved his mouth as close to her ear as possible, keeping his voice low and steady. “You are going to listen to every word I say,” he could barely hear himself over the pattering of the rain outside. “Or else you are going to die tonight. Do you understand?”

She nodded, and he let go, needing his hands free to draw his sword and hatchet in preparation for the fight that inevitably drew upon them. He could hear the skinwalkers drawing closer, their stench overwhelming.

“Your survival depends entirely on you. You need to shift now. Or your mortal slowness will kill you.”

Rowan’s eyes were intense, forcing his words home. She took them blankly, shoving down the panic that threatened to overwhelm her with a deceptive ease. While she was no stranger to fear, the very idea of having to shift was enough to cause her chest to rise and fall in shallow breaths, for her palms to sweat and her jaw to clench tight.

Rowan’s mouth tightened imperceptibly. He didn’t really believe that she would be able to do it. But still he tried to convince her, made one last attempt to guide her around those iron bars in her mind. To avoid the bloody battle that loomed over them, carrying their certain doom along with it.

He tensed as the sound of stone of metal shrieked through the rain – the creatures were sharpening their blades. His fingers twitched.

The girl found her voice, “Your magic – ”

He interrupted. “They do not breathe, so have no airways to cut off. Ice would slow them, not stop them. My wind is already blowing our scent away from them, but not for long. Shift, Aelin.”

She just looked back at him, eyes wide and breaths uneven, while her terror coated his mouth with its copper tang. Her embers shifted and rose within, responding to the stress.

Lightening flashed once again – they were close. Very, very close.

“We are going to have to run in a moment. What form you take when we do will determine our fates. So breathe, and shift.”

She closed her eyes as he drew a stream of cool air towards her, a soothing thread, filling her lungs and calming her racing heartbeat. She breathed deep, but remained stubbornly, infuriatingly mortal.

Rowan gritted his teeth and steeled himself for the coming battle. If she couldn’t shift, there was almost no point in running, no point in giving up the advantage of surprise. If she couldn’t shift, he would attack. But he wouldn’t win.

Rowan breathed with her, in and out, accepting his fate. If she couldn’t shift, he would die at the hands of the creatures. At least he would die at someone’s side, protecting them.

Die as he should have two hundred years ago.

But then there was a bright flash, and Rowan slammed his body against hers, attempting to cover up the light before the creatures could take notice, and mark their hiding spot.

Sharp canines pierced her gums, points sprouted from her ears, and keen senses overwhelmed dull ones as she made the shift from mortal to immortal. Rowan’s eyes widened slightly, almost in wonder. She had actually done it.

Confusion descended almost immediately. How? What had been different this time?

But before he could let the emotion distract him further, the female gagged, finally smelling the true stench of the creatures, and he could hear voices drifting from the trees above them.

“There are two of them now,” one hissed. “A Fae male joined the female. I want him—he smells of storm winds and steel.”

Another voice. “The female we’ll bring back with us— dawn’s too close. Then we can take our time peeling her apart.”

Rowan clenched his jaw, stepping back from the girl and turning to assess the forest beyond, altering his plan. They would now have to flee, to run as fast as their limbs could carry them. But there was still no guarantee that they would get away.

“There is a swift river a third of a mile east, at the base of a large cliff.” He pulled two long daggers from their sheaths at his forearms, not looking away from the surrounding forests as he handed them to her. She immediately discarded her makeshift weapons and tightly gripped the ivory hilts of his steel, her knuckles white with tension.

“When I say run, you run like hell. Step where I step, and don’t turn around for any reason. If we are separated, run straight – you’ll hear the river.” He lay down each order with an unyielding finality, not leaving any room for argument. “If they catch you, you cannot kill them – not with a mortal weapon. Your best option is to fight until you can get free and run. Understand?”

She nodded, steeling herself.

“On my mark.” Rowan prepared himself as well, the wind whispering to him, revealing the locations of the three creatures and showing him the lay of the land. The cliff was nearly fifty feet up, while the river large and swift, swollen from the falling rain. It wouldn’t stop the creatures, but perhaps the water could slow them. Giving him and the girl a chance to escape, to flee back underneath the protective wards around the fortress.

“Steady …” They both settled onto their haunches, moments from launching themselves into the mossy undergrowth.

Then, what he had been waiting for – one of the creatures hissed, so close they could have been in the tree trunk with them, “Come out, come out – ”

And Rowan sent a bolt of wind over to the branches in the west, carrying their scents and rustling the brush – a false trail, a distraction.

The skinwalkers bought it, racing after the diversion as Rowan said, “Now,” and burst out of the tree and into the waiting forest, racing through the pouring rain for the river beyond.

Aelin followed after him, but she couldn’t keep up – she was too slow, much, much too slow. Rowan lessened his racing pace to allow her to catch up, but still, the creatures were beginning to realize that the trail he had laid was false, they were turning back, hearing the sounds of their actual escape to the east.

And she was tripping, stumbling over roots and loose stones. She hadn’t adjusted to her new speed and strength, her limbs were awkward and uncooperative beneath her, and even though he slowed, she lagged behind.

She slipped, almost falling, but he shot a hand towards her elbow to steady her, “Faster,” he growled, fear making his words tense and harsh.

They shot forwards, breaking through the underbrush, but they were slow, much too slow, and far too soon, the creatures’ smell began to envelop them once again, cloaking them in the rancid stench of leather and carrion.

But they were so close now, the darkness of the forest beginning to brighten ahead as they neared the treeline and the waiting cliff, soon they could jump into the waiting water and flee –

A fourth skinwalker leapt out of the brush ahead, somehow managing to remain undetected in the undergrowth. Masked by their overwhelming scent and Rowan’s own carelessness.

It lunged, and Aelin shouted in warning from behind him, but Rowan didn’t falter as he ducked, slashing with the sword in his right hand and slicing with the hatchet in his left, severing its arm and removing its head.

It fell to the ground with a soft thump, but Rowan didn’t stop to look, still sprinting towards the river. He knew that at that very moment, its leathery limbs would be stitching themselves back together – skinwalkers never stayed down for long.

The other creatures closed in from behind, shrieking in rage, Aelin still at his heels. They were so close, only a few hundred more feet –

“You think the river can save you?” one of them hissed at Aelin, laughing coldly. “You think if we get wet, we’ll lose our form? I have worn the skins of fishes when mortals were scarce, female.”

Rowan gritted his teeth. He had worried about that – but the river was still their best chance. Not a good chance, but their best chance. There, he could use the water to freeze the creatures, to trap them and allow them a few moments to escape to the other bank. Give them a head start in their mad rush back to the fortress.

The scent of Aelin’s terror wafted over him, carrying with it the feel of her rustling embers, her gathering power. “Rowan,” she breathed, worried, and seeking some kind of reassurance. But he had none to give.

Rowan didn’t acknowledge her, and instead answered by launching himself off the cliff and into the roiling water below.

He breached the surface, rising up and hurling himself onto the other bank in preparation for the girl’s fall, and for the creatures that were only feet behind her. Then Rowan felt Aelin’s power rise up in a tidal wave, spilling from the near-infinite well of magic hidden in her small frame. He could finally see her on the cliff, and she did not hesitate before throwing herself over the edge.

He readied himself, digging up his own well of magic, but before he could act the girl twisted in midair, turning to face the creatures on the ridge and shouted “Shift!” Rowan obeyed without question, transforming into his hawk and flying out of range as she released a torrent of fire that spread from her in a great flood in every direction.

She had no control, no precision, but the force she released was powerful enough that it burned the three skinwalkers to ashes, and set large swaths of the surrounding forest alight.

Then Aelin hit the water, and the torrent of fire choked out. But the flames consuming the oaks burned on, and though they were hindered by the rain pouring down from the heavens, they still spread from branch to branch, the girl’s raging wildfire writhing and dancing and multiplying.

Rowan’s power ached, not just to be released, but to join the girl’s flames. To dance with her sparks. It wanted to play. Rowan ignored it, instead sending out his wind to douse the flames, slowly choking them of the necessary oxygen.

Aelin pulled herself from the water, soaking wet and shivering. She sat down on the bank, curling in on herself. The fear he’d felt around her had lessened its copper tang, her embers settling down once again. Rowan couldn’t scent much of anything wafting from her. She was blank. Empty and exhausted

Though the power she’d shown was a mighty force, Rowan could still feel an ocean churning within her. Her well of fire was near-bottomless – she had barely let a drop out of the faucet.

Rowan’s magic twitched and writhed, while that strange thirst yawned deep in his gut. Just like all the males who served the Queen of the Fae, Rowan was drawn to power. And the might of this female was unlike that of any other he’d encountered.

He shoved the feeling down, submerging it deep within and locking it away, icing over his limbs. He didn’t want to deal with the uncomfortable call, didn’t want to face it. The female was already confusing enough.

As he continued to choke the fires still eating the surrounding forests, Aelin finally spoke, her voice tired and soft, “Can you put it out?”

“You could, if you tried.” When she didn’t respond, he added, “I’m almost done.”

As he spoke, the flames nearest to them finally vanished, and Rowan got to work on the rest of the smoldering trees. Rowan gritted his teeth, his own exhaustion drawing out a simmering irritation. “We don’t need something else attracted to your fires.”

She remained silent, too tired and cold to respond to the taunt, watching as Rowan slowly extinguished her flames one by one, the lights dying out like snuffed candles.

For a moment they waited as silence and darkness settled in over them, a soft, light blanket.

“Why is my shifting so vital?”

The question rose gently from her, a quiet plead for information. She had asked it before, so many times, but there was always an edge of command there, of entitlement. This felt different.

“Because it terrifies you,” he responded gruffly. “Mastering it is the first step toward learning to control your power. Without that control, with a blast like that, you could easily have burnt yourself out.”

“What do you mean?”

He looked at her, brows scrunched together. She didn’t know?

“When you access your power, what does it feel like?”

She paused for a moment, thinking. “A well. The magic feels like a well.”

 “Have you felt the bottom of it?”

 “Is there a bottom?”

His eyes tightened imperceptibly. Had she never felt the bottom? Even as a child?  

“All magic has a bottom—a breaking point. For those with weaker gifts, it’s easily depleted and easily refilled. They can access most of their power at once. But for those with stronger gifts, it can take hours to hit the bottom, to summon their powers at full strength.”

“How long does it take you?”  

Rowan’s lips tightened at the personal question, but his irritation was more at having to answer at all than the question itself. She should know these things; she should have been told. Even the youngest Fae children understood the basics of wielding magic, whether they had it or not. It was common knowledge in Doranelle, so Rowan hadn’t even considered that this princess from the west might not know it.

“A full day. Before battle, we take the time, so that when we walk onto the killing field, we can be at our strongest. You can do other things at the same time, but some part of you is down in there, pulling up more and more, until you reach the bottom.”

“And when you pull it all out, it just—releases in some giant wave?”

“If I want it to. I can release it in smaller bursts, and go on for a while. But it can be hard to hold it back. People sometimes can’t tell friend from foe when they’re handling that much magic.”

Her eyes shifted, darkening, almost…remembering. But before he could ask, she said, “How long does it take you to recover?”

“Days. A week, depending on how I used the power and whether I drained every last drop. Some make the mistake of trying to take more before they’re ready, or holding on for too long, and they either burn out their minds or just burn up altogether. Your shaking isn’t just from the river, you know. It’s your body’s way of telling you not to do that again.”

“Because of the iron in our blood pushing against the magic?”

He nodded. “That’s how our enemies will sometimes try to fight against us if they don’t have magic—iron everything.”

Her brows rose, so he explained. “I was captured once. While on a campaign in the east, in a kingdom that doesn’t exist anymore. They had me shackled head to toe in iron to keep me from choking the air out of their lungs.”

She let out a low whistle. “Were you tortured?”

“Two weeks on their tables before my men rescued me.” He unbuckled his vambrace and pushed back the sleeve of his right arm, revealing the thick scar that lay there. “Cut me open bit by bit, then took the bones here and – ”

“I can see very well what happened, and know exactly how it’s done,” she interrupted, looking at the ground as if she could tear up the earth with her very eyes. That relentless, roiling grief poured from her once again, anger and pain stiffening her limbs.

He thought he knew, but Rowan still quietly asked, “Was it you, or someone else?”

“I was too late. He didn’t survive.” She was silent for a moment, then, “Thank you for saving me.” Her voice was hoarse, and reluctant.

He shrugged, uncomfortable. “I am bound by an unbreakable blood oath to my Queen, so I had no choice but to ensure you didn’t die.” He didn’t know why he was lying. He just knew that it was easier than any other explanation.

“But,” he added, hesitantly, “I would not have left anyone to a fate at the hands of the skinwalkers.”

“A warning would have been nice.”

“I said they were on the loose – weeks ago. But even if I’d warned you today, you would not have listened.”

She just shivered, seeming to acquiesce. Then a flash of light, and she shifted back, her ears rounding, canines vanishing. Her shivers became more violent, the cold much more intense in her mortal form. Once again, the shifting was uncontrolled, seeming to have no rhyme or reason behind it. 

“What was the trigger when you shifted earlier?” he asked, needing to know, even if the girl left and he never saw her again.

“It was nothing.” The girl distractedly rubbed at her arms, her voice hollow. But it belied concealed knowledge – she knew why she had shifted, she just didn’t want to tell him.

He stared at her, a silent demand for information.

She sighed, and answered. “Let’s just say it was fear and necessity and impressively deep-rooted survival instincts.”

He pursed his lips at the half-truth. “You didn’t lose control immediately upon shifting. When you finally used your magic, your clothes didn’t burn; neither did your hair. And the daggers didn’t melt.” He grabbed the blades back out of her hands, only just remembering that he had given them to her.

“Why was it different this time?” he pressed.

She looked away, and answered reluctantly. “Because I didn’t want you to die to save me,” she admitted.

He cocked his head. “Would you have shifted to save yourself?”

“Your opinion of me is pretty much identical to my own, so you know the answer.”

She stared into the churning depths of the river, shielding herself from his probing gaze, her own eyes blank and unseeing.

Rowan narrowed his eyes, forcing the pieces of her together – bit by confusing bit. She hadn’t wanted him to die to save her. At the very least, she didn’t want to owe him that debt, hadn’t wanted to have another life hanging on her the way so many already were.

He had misjudged her, had dismissed her as a ruthless killer, had mistaken her coldness for heartlessness. But this female was far from cruel. She cared, cared far too much for an indifferent world that had stripped her of everything that mattered.

Rowan didn’t know what had happened in the intervening years after her family had been assassinated, but he did know that they couldn’t have been easy. So little was.

And so she had become this – a writhing mess of a person, clothed in her arrogance and grief. Barely surviving.

Rowan had thought her a coward, but she had faced Maeve, had faced the skinwalkers, had faced him day after day. Her fears weren’t normal, weren’t average everyday horrors for such a person to run from them. To piss and vomit on herself when faced with them. To force her into a cage of her own making.

Her power slumbered, once again trapped beneath those unyielding iron bars. An ocean hidden within her. But Rowan could still feel delicate tendrils of its writhing flame, poking and prodding at him, longing to get out.

They didn’t make him as uncomfortable as they used to.

He shifted slightly. Regardless of his feelings about her, the princess was obviously a scion of the gods. A power like that was a force unleashed onto the earth by their hand – for wrath or for kindness no one yet knew. And Rowan couldn’t find it within himself to allow that power to remain on its leash. It called to him, ached to be let out. To be free.

Though the girl infuriated him like no other, he was starting to see beyond her biting insults and flashy armor. And he couldn’t let her walk away, not without having escaped the cage she was trapped within.

Rowan crossed his arms. “You’re not leaving,” he said at last, “I’m not letting you off double duty in the kitchens, but you’re not leaving.”

“Why?” she turned to look at him, brow furrowed, still shivering violently.

“Because I said so, that’s why,” he retorted, unfastening his cloak. She looked like she was about to protest, but then he tossed her his cloak. And then his jacket.

When he turned to go back to the fortress, she rose to follow him. And Rowan found himself feeling…relief. He was relieved that the girl was choosing to stay.

Because no matter how much she infuriated him, he wanted the girl to learn, wanted her to escape and grow into who she was meant to be. Not because Maeve had ordered him to, but because he, Rowan, wanted to see what she would become.

He couldn’t let the girl leave without having felt the true might of Aelin Galathynius – free and untethered.

Chapter Text

Rowan lived up to his word and forced the princess to pull double duty in the kitchens. So she worked both the breakfast and the dinner shifts that week, leaving her exhausted and aching and irritable. But she took to the work well, not seeming to feel the punishment as it had been intended. Which irritated him.

Though he had a much better understanding of the girl, he still hadn’t figured out a way to turn that knowledge into anything useful. Therefore, every afternoon they sat for hours in the pouring rain while the princess tried and failed to find a way around those iron bars in her mind.

The girl was still infuriating, still arrogant and impudent and wild, but he didn’t hate her as much as he had before. If he had cared to think about it, he would have probably characterized his feelings as an antagonistic dislike.

She still aggravated him, and he still goaded her right back. But he understood her better now, and found that he couldn’t hate her.

No more dead demi-Fae turned up, but Rowan still spent every morning searching the woodlands and digging through papers for leads. He didn’t make any progress. The maps and missives just stared back at him, blank and unhelpful, while the forests remained infuriatingly empty.

But one morning, Rowan received news through the fortress courier.

Fenrys was back in Doranelle, having finished his assignment in Varese. And apparently, he missed irritating Rowan to death.

Rowan –

I arrived in Doranelle just this week. I didn’t realize you would still be at Mistward, or I might have stopped there on my way back. Not that I miss your pretty face – I just need to collect on the favor I did for you in Varese. You owe me.

Connall and I are the only ones currently in the capital, so there won’t be much help coming your way (we drew straws, and I received the absolutely wonderful pleasure of responding to your very thoughtful and not-at-all-grouchy message).

Lorcan is now with fleet along the southern coast, pushing east towards the rebel camps. As you know, it’ll be unlikely that he responds in time to actually be helpful – if at all. Vaughan is still on the other side of the world, doing whatever the hell Maeve asked him to do there, so there’s almost no chance of you reaching him. But I’m sure you knew that.

Gavriel on the other hand, we just got word from – he will be returning within the month, back from the outpost on the northern edge of the Cambrian Mountains. The soldiers he was stationed with were all killed – slaughtered by a band of rogues sometime after midwinter. He tracked the killers to their base, and executed their leader. But still, those were soldiers Gavriel had known for decades, some even longer. You actually probably knew some of their names, but I don’t, so I can’t relay them to you.

In his message, Gavriel said that he was looking for you, and had visited Lord Siarill’s court in the east where he thought you were still stationed. But of course, you weren’t there, and after checking with Lorcan in the south, he said he would be returning. I tried to send a letter his way, but we’ll see if he gets it.

Neither me, nor my brother, know anything – there have been no reports here of any strange bodies, missing people, or of whatever that dark creature was.

Are you sure that the bodies aren’t just from normal crime? Fae gone bad? And about that creature – you never actually saw anything, right? Just a weird darkness?

Maybe another Fae has been blessed by Hellas and is raging across the countryside. Though it’s hard to imagine anyone more unstable than Lorcan. Perhaps he’s just in a mood and decided to take it out on his demi-Fae cousins. I certainly wouldn’t put it past him. Lorcan could probably dry someone up into a husk if he wanted to.

I refrained from asking our dear mistress, assuming that if you got that desperate, you could very well ask her yourself. Good luck with that.

I will, however, search through the library for you, but I doubt I’ll find anything helpful. What you had to say was too vague, and far too reliant on your own experience with the creature, rather than its identity, characteristics, or history – and you know what it’s like in there. Impossible to find anything you’re looking for even under the best of circumstances.

Let me know if anything interesting happens, its dead boring here – as per usual. Could use an evil demon creature to spice things up. Perhaps I could even set it on Connall – he certainly could use a good sharp shock. Brooding bastard.

Hope you’re enjoying training that pretty princess, because if you aren’t, I’d be glad to take your place. I’ve heard she’s fiery. Sounds like fun if I’ve ever heard of it.

Let me know of any developments, I will do the same –

Fenrys

Rowan’s jaw was clenched the whole time he read the letter.

Even so, he knew that the boastful male did actually care about the lives of the demi-Fae, and would help him if he could.

Not that it meant that he was excited to repay the favor the male thought he was owed – the last time Fenrys had called in a favor, the pair of them had woken up in an abandoned cottage nearly ten miles away from where they’d been staying, soaking wet, short two purses full of gold coin, and absolutely no memory of the night before.

Fenrys still told the story at every possible opportunity.

Rowan growled at the paper in his hands, forcing his thoughts away from the infuriating male. Instead they fell on Gavriel. Which honestly wasn’t that much better.

Rowan had known many of the soldiers in Gavriel’s company. Many of them had families, had mates that would now be mourning them. The emptiness in his chest twisted.

Rowan drafted a quick reply, relaying the information he had gathered on the appearance of the new bodies, as well as the inferences he had been able to make about the dark creature. It wasn’t much.

A few days later, another surprise. Lorcan had also received his letter, and bothered to respond.

Whitethorn –

So you ended up training the girl. My condolences.

I’ve never heard of anything remotely similar to whatever this creature is. It doesn’t sound like anything blessed by Hellas, or by any other of the gods. Are you sure that it isn’t just the skinwalkers?

I am still in the southeast, the rebels are proving harder to put down that originally thought. Don’t bother me again for anything unimportant.

– Lorcan Salvaterre

Rowan’s face twisted into a frown. Well, at least he’d responded at all.

Each evening he listened to Emrys’ stories, usually hidden beneath the stairs just out of sight. The girl's black eye and split lip had begun to fade, while her limbs had strengthened, her skin regained some color, and in general, she began to look healthier. More human.

Perhaps because of that fact, he didn’t overhear any more worried conversations between Emrys or Malakai, nor did he catch any strange looks from them. Though the girl still kept away from others in the fortress, it seemed that she was settling in to life at Mistward.

Nightmares still plagued Rowan, and every morning he was jerked from sleep well before dawn, sweat coating his limbs and images flashing behind his eyes. But occasionally, something different flickered through his mind. A set of lips, the taste of jasmine, a flicker of flame –

Whenever that happened, Rowan threw himself into the misty wind, coating himself in its icy touch and locking those thoughts away where he didn’t have to deal with them.

A week after the incident with the skinwalkers, Rowan collected the girl from the kitchens at noon as usual, and they made their daily trek up the mountain to the temple ruins, the girl’s mortal pace somehow having become even more irritating with time.

It was unusually sunny that day, and the echo of the power within the temple stones felt stronger, richer than usual. As did the girl’s. Not that it seemed to make any difference with her shifting.

They sat for just over two hours, mostly silent among the glowing stones, before the girl stood, groaning. She paced for moment, her hands on her hips, studying the stones.

She looked around as if she could feel the effect of Mala’s touch as well, could hear the whispered prayers of long-dead worshippers, begging the goddess for her blessing.

She broke through the heavy silence. “What was this place, anyway?”

Rowan dogged her steps, leashing his irritation at the impertinent question. “The Sun Goddess’s temple.”

She cocked her head. “You’ve been bringing me here because you think it might help with mastering my powers – my shifting?”

He nodded faintly.

The girl turned and placed her hand on the stones, soaking up their warmth, lost in thought. Only the vague outline of the temple remained, the barest imprint of a brick path, crumbling pillars strewn about like abandoned toys.

For some reason, its loss saddened him. An ancient place of fire and worship, destroyed and forsaken by time.

The princess broke through his reverie unexpectedly, “Mab was immortalized into godhood thanks to Maeve,” she ran a hand down the jagged block, musing aloud. “But that was over five hundred years ago. Mala had a sister in the moon long before Mab took her place.”

Deanna and Mala, sisters and eternal rivals, keepers of the sun and the moon. “Deanna was the original sister’s name. But you humans gave her some of Mab’s traits. The hunting, the hounds.”

“Perhaps Deanna and Mala weren’t always rivals.”

Rowan cocked his head. “What are you getting at?”

She just shrugged, running her pale fingers over the white granite. “Did you ever know Mab?”

He was quiet for a long moment, considering.

“No,” he said at last. “I am old, but not that old.”

“Do you feel old?”

The question was pointed, but not aggressive. She wasn’t asking as a challenge, or a taunt. For some reason, she wanted to know. It was a question to seek understanding, not dominance.

So he answered. “I am still considered young by the standards of my kind.”

She did not relent. “You said that you once campaigned in a kingdom that no longer exists. You’ve been off to war several times, it seems, and seen the world. That would leave its mark. Age you on the inside.”

Curiosity broke though him, threading its way through his ice like roots pushing into the earth. He turned his gaze towards her, “Do you feel old?”

She met his gaze calmly, measured and quiet as she considered the question. “These days, I am very glad to be a mortal, and to only have to endure this life once. These days, I don’t envy you at all.”

Her words were heavy things laid at his feet. But still, that curiosity did not let up. “And before?”

She turned away, looking at the distant horizon. “I used to wish I had a chance to see it all – and hated that I never would.”

The burden of royalty – of an heir. A burden he had never felt, though he was a prince. Before Lyria, he had passed his life attempting to escape just such a trap as the princess had been born into. But after her death, he had sold himself into his own gilded cage. It was strange - in a way, they were almost similar, both trapped.

Rowan formed another question, but before he could ask it, the girl spoke again, sidetracking him. “Is this where the stags were kept – before this place was destroyed?”

Just last night, Emrys had told the story of the sun stags, ancient beings who held an immortal flame between their massive antlers, so similar to their cousins in the west. The stags of Terrasen. They had once been stolen from a temple in this land, never to be seen again.

“I don’t know. This temple wasn’t destroyed; it was abandoned when the Fae moved to Doranelle, and then ruined by time and weather.”

“Emrys’ stories said destroyed, not abandoned.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Again, what are you getting at?”

She paused. Then shook her head at the ground and said, “The Fae on my continent—in Terrasen … they weren’t like you. At least, I don’t remember them being that way. There weren’t many, but …” She swallowed hard. “The King of Adarlan hunted and killed them, so easily. Yet when I look at you, I don’t understand how he did it.”

His mouth twisted into a frown. All those lives, snuffed out, because of one man’s cruelty. For the first time, he was angry at his queen for her pettiness, for her refusal to send aid. It wasn’t only this girl’s fault that Terrasen had fallen – he should have been there. Should have helped.

“I’ve never been to your continent, but I heard that the Fae there were gentler – less aggressive, very few trained in combat – and they relied heavily on magic. Once magic was gone from your lands, many of them might not have known what to do against trained soldiers.”

“And yet Maeve wouldn’t send aid.” Her jaw was clenched, her brow furrowed.

“The Fae of your continent long ago severed ties with Maeve.” He paused again, unsure why he was justifying, but still unwilling to admit to this foreign princess that his queen had been wrong, and needlessly cruel. “But there were some in Doranelle who argued in favor of helping. My queen wound up offering sanctuary to any who could make it here.”

She seemed to sigh, closing her eyes for only a moment as she stepped away from the ancient carvings and back to her usual spot, the scent of her boundless grief and guilt and ache wafting from her like a perfume.

They sat in silence until twilight descended and they returned to the keep, night blanketing them in its heavy folds.

Chapter Text

That night Rowan lay awake, brooding.

He had been jerked from his usual nightmares, and could still feel the blood dripping from his fingers, see the faces of her killers, feel the heat on his skin of his home in flames. He wondered idly if the images would always weigh on him so, if he would never be free of them. He wondered if he even wanted to be.

Rowan sighed, shifting his thoughts away from such pointlessness. He had lost his mate, his life partner. He would always be searching, forever waiting for her to reappear, until he finally joined her in the Afterworld.

Instead, Rowan turned his thoughts to the questions the girl had thrown at him that afternoon. It had almost seemed as though she was skirting around the subject, avoiding asking about what really interested her. Not that he didn’t suspect what was really on her mind.

And this time, her curiosity hadn’t irritated him. Most of the questions she’d voiced aloud had revolved around the life of Fae. She had lived most of her life in ignorance of half of her heritage – of her very identity. Rowan didn’t fault her for wanting to understand her own family and history.

And the princess had made a deal with Maeve knowing even less about Fae than he had originally suspected. She had absolutely no idea who she made a bargain with, no idea what awaited her Doranelle. What she would likely be forced into when he took her there.

For now he had little doubt that the girl would eventually pass his tests, and he would be forced by the blood oath to abide by Maeve’s orders, and bring the girl to the city of rivers. But he was still unsure what Maeve would do upon their arrival, what she really wanted from the girl. The obvious answer was that she wanted her for her power, wanted to use her. Perhaps even wanted her to swear the blood oath, and join her warrior court.

But all of them had taken the oath willingly, regardless of their feelings about it now, and the Heir of Terrasen had no intention of becoming a weapon in his queen’s arsenal. She had her own agenda, her own questions for Maeve. Not that Rowan had any idea what those were.

Obviously, Maeve was planning something, and the princess would walk into Doranelle unprepared and unawares. And Rowan would be the one who took her there. For some reason, that didn’t sit well with him.

Rowan turned over, facing away from the stream of moonlight spreading across the bedcovers and instead turning to the blank stone wall of the small, cold room.

The fire he’d set before he’d fallen asleep had long since burned out, but he could still taste its embers in the air, a memory of the flicker of flames. So similar to the scent of the princess’ power.

Rowan swallowed. He could almost taste it – the girl’s blood in his mouth. Like an echo, or a pale remnant. Something twisted in his gut.

It had been strange, today, speaking to her without any animosity. To have some level of peace flow between them. The scent of her flames didn’t even disconcert him anymore.

Not that Rowan had any idea what the girl’s attitude was towards him. Earlier, he hadn’t cared, hadn’t thought of her beyond just an infuriating chore, a punishment he had to endure. But now she was a person, albeit an irritating one. And Rowan couldn’t help wondering what she thought.

He knew she didn’t understand the significance of biting in Fae culture, and at the time he hadn’t found it within himself to fully explain it to her. He wasn’t sure he had it in him to explain even now. He told himself it was nothing – she’d provoked him one to many times, he’d lost control of himself, and that was that.

Even so, the girl was an enigma. So much so that he couldn’t stop thinking about her – no matter how much he wanted to. She was a frustrating puzzle, one he couldn’t put down until it was solved.

He hadn’t considered it much before, but he’d never been able to speak with anyone in such a way either. It was almost like he could read the girl’s thoughts in her eyes. No matter how confusing she was, that part of her was simple. Easy. And Rowan trusted it implicitly – knew that he wasn’t seeing things, or misreading her.

It was strange, to have such a connection with the princess, when everything else was so confusing. Very strange.

Rowan turned over again, shutting out the faint moonlight and letting his thoughts settle back down into sleep. It was restless though, barely a doze, and permeated through with flickers of flame and blood and darkness.

···

Around mid-morning, Malakai interrupted Rowan’s usual pattern by knocking on his door, his face drawn tight with anxiety. Rowan just looked at him, waiting for the old male to speak.

“Prince.” Malakai swallowed. “I’ve just received notice that another body has been found.” Rowan’s jaw tightened, that familiar fury writhing in his gut.

“It wasn’t from the long-range scouts either. The report came from Bas, who just completed a foray into the west. His task was to make a circuit of the western flank, cutting a line through the southwest, along the coast, and then back up along the northern diagonal.”

Malakai paused momentarily, clenching his teeth at the words he had to deliver. “But then on his way back, he found the body of a demi-Fae female, half submerged in a stream on the edge of the pine forest, barely three miles from the sea.”

“Any discrepancies?”

“None that Bas could convey – but he hasn’t seen any of the other bodies in person, only heard tell of them from me or the other scouts. So it’s possible he didn’t know what to look for.”

Rowan grunted. “Has the body been identified?”

“No and once again, she hadn’t been reported missing. We have no idea who she was, where she came from, or why she was killed.” Malakai paused, then asked hesitantly, “Are you going to go view the site?”

Rowan nodded gruffly, his lips pursed, most of his attention focused inwards. Malakai inclined his head in return and left without another word, heading back towards the sentry station. Once the male was out of sight, Rowan cursed loudly.

A familiar guilt and shame had now joined the anger roiling in his stomach. He wasn't protecting the demi-Fae, wasn't preventing these deaths. He was failing, he would keep failing until he could solve this problem, could figure out whatever the hell he was missing…

He turned back to sit at the desk, grabbing a map of the western flank of the fortress. He knew the circuits made by the sentries, and could find the approximate location of the body without the Malakai’s help. He would wait until he visited the site before marking the exact location on the map however.

Rowan noted the date and time, then cursed violently again. It was too late for him to go visit the body before he had to collect the girl. He could either cancel training for the day, go that evening after leaving the girl alone for the night, or…he could take her with him. The site was just close enough for them to walk.

And, she had lived and worked in the assassin’s keep, among murderers and thieves. Been trained as a killer herself. While it irked him to resort to asking the girl for help, she wasn’t unintelligent. Perhaps she would have some useful insight. And it would give him a break from the endless sitting, the insufferable waiting for the shift that seemed like it would never come. Give them both a chance to do something actually productive with their afternoon.

Half an hour later, Rowan stood outside the kitchens, shifting his weight in irritation. She was late. He sighed, then moved to collect her from her rooms.

The girl’s door was open, and inside she was shrugging on her jacket and hastily pulling her golden hair into a loose braid. It was brighter, much shinier than when she’d first arrived at Mistward. Healthier. Probably from the consistent access to food and bathwater.

Rowan leaned against the doorframe. “You’re already late.”

She turned to face him, “There were extra dishes this morning,” she replied calmly, not reacting to the frustration in his voice. “Can I expect to do something useful with you today, or will it be more sitting and growling and glaring? Or will I just wind up chopping wood for hours on end?”

Rowan just turned and strode into the hall, the girl’s taunts unable to ruffle him. She followed soon after, her steps light and spirited, her fingers still tangling in the unfinished braid at her shoulder.

As they headed out of the fortress, her scent wafted over him as usual. But something about it seemed slightly different today, almost…cleaner. The lemon verbena was stronger, sharper, while the jasmine was more herbal. More like a salve, or a tea. Perfectly bittersweet. Also it was easier to smell Terrasen on her, easier to scent those tiny hints of biting wind, evergreen, and ice – of her throne.

The hostile scent she’d put out was gone, had ebbed away. Something had evidently shifted in the girl, an edge had been soothed.

And it showed in other ways, too: as they walked past a few off-duty sentries on their way out of the fortress, she looked them in the eye and smiled a greeting. They both flinched slightly in surprise, blinking, their nostrils flaring as they also took in the change.

Both males returned her grin, and they hesitated on the stairs beside them. Rowan had to lock his teeth together to prevent a growl. What was wrong with him today?

She just kept following him across the courtyard and past the front gates, without acknowledging the warm greeting given by the two males. However, her brow furrowed and her newly clean scent was polluted by the stink of confusion and irritation. Obviously, she didn’t understand the sudden change in behavior.

The smell of her whirling emotions only intensified as they walked, heading south and up into the mountains. So eventually Rowan said, “They’ve all been keeping their distance because of the scent you put out.”

“Excuse me?” She was practically indignant. Rowan was almost amused. The assassin really knew so little about the ways of the Fae.

“There are more males than females here – and they’re fairly isolated from the world. Haven’t you wondered why they haven’t approached you?”

“They stayed away because I…smell?” Her face burned a dull rose. Rowan suppressed a flicker of a grin.

“Your scent says that you don’t want to be approached. The males smell it more than the females, and have been staying the hell away. They don’t want their faces clawed off.”

Her mouth opened slightly, her eyes widening. It seemed she didn’t know how to react to that. Eventually, she said, “Good. I’m not interested in men- males.”

Rowan stared pointedly at the amethyst ring resting on one of her fingers. She never took it off - obviously, whoever had given the trinket to her mattered. She cared about him, longed for him. Unless he had misread the taste of the man in her blood.

So he couldn’t help but ask, “What happens if you become queen? Will you refuse a potential alliance through marriage?”

Her lips pursed, her breath huffing out. But Rowan didn’t think she was reacting to his dig at her lover – instead she seemed sensitive to his reference to her throne. To the idea of becoming queen. Aelin Galathynius still rejected the truth of her own identity.

She turned inwards, then shook herself back to reality. She almost rolled her eyes. Instead of taking his question honestly, the girl decided to treat it as a taunt, and responded only with, “Nice try.”

He smirked, letting the mood lighten. “You’re learning.”

“You get baited by me every now and then, too, you know.”

Rowan just looked at her slyly. I let you bait me, in case you haven’t noticed. I’m not some mortal fool.

There was a moment of silence, then, “Where the hell are we going today? We never head west.”

The grin vanished from his face, her words a stark reminder of what was awaiting them. “You want to do something useful. So here’s your chance.”

···

It wasn’t until after three in the afternoon that they finally reached the edge of the pine wood, the girl’s mortal pace slowing them to a crawl. He’d almost been ready to tear out his own hair.

As they grew closer, Rowan carefully tracked their path through the trees, marking every stone, stump, and fallen log. He could hear the crash of the sea against the surf and the cries of gulls overhead, while the scent of brine and fish wafted towards them from the west. Behind him, the girl’s booted feet crunched into the pine needles carpeting the forest floor. The wind began to whisper to him of trickling water, the pattering feet of small creatures, the scent of death and –

The dark shape of a body sending ripples in the stream ahead.

It was the same as all the others. The body of a demi-Fae female lay wedged between the rocks of a slow-moving creek, the running water not yet rotted her. The body was a dried husk, withered and desiccated and shrunken, protected from the force of the moving water.

The assassin swore violently, her scent flaring with fury and horror.

Even though Rowan had known what to expect, his reaction was much the same as the girl’s. Particularly as the foul stench began to bore into him, filling up his mouth and nose with its putrid, nauseating reek. It almost felt like it was pitting holes in his throat, like he was breathing acid.

The assassin moved closer, examining the body and the surrounding earth. The ground had been churned up, the brush broken and trampled. There were no wounds on the female, save for those trickles of dried blood from her mouth and ears. And just like the others, the demi-Fae’s face was twisted, contorted by terror and sorrow alike.

“What did this?” the girl asked, her voice soft and open with shock. Rowan knelt beside her, examining the remains more closely while the assassin turned to study the surrounding brush. “Why not just dump her in the sea? Leaving her in a stream seems idiotic. They left tracks, too – unless those are from whoever found her.”

“Malakai gave me the report this morning – and he and his men are trained not to leave tracks.” He strode into the water, continuing his examination. “But this scent…I’ll admit it’s different.”

Rowan’s jaw clenched tight. He could only barely contain his fury at the destroyed body. He didn’t want the girl’s questions, he wanted her experience. His eyes flashed to hers. “So you tell me, assassin. You wanted to be useful.”

She bristled slightly at his tone, but then sniffed. And winced violently. He honestly didn’t blame her. “You claimed you didn’t know what that thing in the barrow field was,” she responded through bated breath, “I think this is what it does.”

So the girl had made the connection as well, and with mortal senses to boot. Rowan inhaled deeply again, bracing his hands on his hips to drive away the nausea. He couldn’t ignore it any more – it was the dark creature from the barrow fields that was committing these killings. When they’d chanced upon it, all those weeks ago, the girl had only barely escaped with her life.

Rowan’s eyes scanned over her, remembering how she had looked after appearing from the black cloud. “You came out of that darkness looking as if someone had sucked the life from you. Your skin was a shade paler, your freckles gone.”

She hesitated, pursing her lips, then said, “It forced me to go through … memories. The worst kind.” Her eyes roved over the female’s terrified features. “Have you ever heard of a creature that can feed on such things? When I glimpsed it, I saw a man – a beautiful man, pale and dark-haired, with eyes of full black. He wasn’t human. I mean, he looked it, but his eyes – they weren’t human at all.”

Rowan grimaced at his own ignorance. “Even my queen doesn’t know every foul creature roaming these lands. If the skinwalkers are venturing down from the mountains, perhaps other things are, too.”

The girl turned towards the south, where they’d heard bells chiming only a few minute ago. “The townspeople might know something. Maybe they’ve seen it or heard rumors.”

He shook his head roughly, “We don’t have the time; you wasted daylight by coming here in your human form.” He couldn’t hide the frustration in his words. Perhaps foolishly, he’d hoped the assassin would’ve proven a greater help. “We have an hour before we head back. Make the most of it.”

They spent the next half hour or so following the faint scent trail left by the female through the underbrush, as there was no trace left of the creature. But it only led to the edge of the cliff overlooking the sea, with no easy path to the beach below nor any sign of recent habitation nearby. Perhaps the demi-Fae female could shift, and had appeared there. Either that or she had dropped from the sky.

Rowan stared out at the ocean, arms crossed, fury pulsing through him with each beat of his heart. “It doesn’t make sense,” he said, more to himself than to her. “This is the fourth body in the last few weeks – none of them reported missing.” He squatted on the sandy ground and drew a rough line in the dirt with a tattooed finger. The shape of Wendlyn’s coastline.

“They’ve been found here.” He marked each location of the body sites from as small dots in the dirt, all close to the coast. “We’re here,” he said, making another dot. He sat back on his heels as the assassin leaned over to peer at the crude map. “And yet you and I encountered the creature lurking amongst the barrow-wights here,” he added, and drew an X to mark the location of the barrow mounds, deep inland. “I haven’t seen any further signs of it remaining by the barrows, and the wights have returned to their usual habits.”

“Were the other bodies the same?”

“All were drained like this, with expressions of terror on their faces – not a hint of a wound, beyond dried blood at the nose and ears.”

“All dumped in the forest, not the sea?”

He nodded.

“But all within walking distance of the water.”

He nodded again.

“If it were a skilled, sentient killer, it would hide the bodies better. Or, again, use the sea.” She gazed off towards the ocean, the sun beginning to descend over the waves. “Or maybe it doesn’t care. Maybe it wants us to know what it’s doing. There were – there were times when I left bodies so that they’d be found by a certain person, or to send a type of message.” Her voice was tight and hesitant, restraining some deep emotion. “What do the victims have in common?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “We don’t even know their names or where they came from.” He rose and dusted his hands off. “We need to return to the fortress.”

She grabbed his elbow, and he had to restrain himself from swatting her hand away. “Wait. Have you seen enough of the body?”

He nodded slowly.

“Then we’ve got to bury her.”

He cocked his head. “The ground’s too hard here.”

She stalked out towards the forest, saying, “Then we’ll do it the ancient way.”

He followed her reluctantly, but within a few minutes they returned to the section of the stream where the demi-Fae female lay, slowly rotting under the pressure of the running water. The assassin heaved the body out from between the rocks and onto the dry bed of pine needles next to the crumpled undergrowth. Then she turned, collecting kindling and branches and pine needles and dumping them next to the body.

Though anger filled her scent, sharpening every line of her hard form, the girl knelt carefully beside the body, gently placing the gathered wood. Assembling a funeral pyre for the unknown female.

Rowan just watched, not saying anything at all as the Heir of Fire struggled to create a flame by hand, those iron bars within her never seeming colder, or more like a cage, than they did in that moment.

After a few strokes of her rudimentary flint, the pine needles began to smoke, and the branches caught, the flames leaping across the pyre to cradle the form of the dead female, a final embrace.

Aelin rose and moved away from the burning body, while Rowan stepped forwards to stand beside her. He called a wind towards them, feeding the slowly dancing flames with his power.

Aelin’s eyes were dark and hooded, her mouth set in a hard line. But she looked at the steadily burning body as if it held answers for her, as if it held punishment, or absolution. That, at least, Rowan understood. The grief, and the guilt that never went away, was always there, hidden just beneath. The assassin looked at the body as if it offered her the atonement she surely sought.

The two of them stood, the warrior and the assassin, holding a vigil for the dead demi-Fae until her body was nothing but ashes. The silence between them was heavy with fury and sorrow, but for the first time, those emotions were not directed at each other. Instead, the pair of them burned together, their shared anger itself a way to pay respect to the dead female.

A silent promise – your death will not be in vain. We will witness, and take your revenge. We will ensure that no others share your fate.

Rowan felt that promise echo in his bones as he lifted the ashes of the dead female on a swift wind, carrying them up and away, over the trees and towards the sea beyond.

Chapter Text

Days passed, and the rhythm of them was strange, off-kilter. But not unwelcome.

Rowan and the princess no longer sat in silence on the ridge each day. While they didn’t fill entire afternoons with conversation, speech flowed much more freely between them now. Something had changed. Something imperceptible, but vital.

Yet still, her shifting remained elusive.

Those iron bars remained rigid, locked tight. Fear either had no effect or shut her down completely, anger just made her impossible to deal with, and if these weeks had accomplished nothing else, they had shown that she was completely unable to find any peace within herself. She still couldn’t accept her own identity, and Rowan had run out of ways to try to force her to.

The three times she had managed to make the shift had been when Rowan bit her, when they faced the skinwalkers, and her complete loss of control when faced with the dark creature. The only time she’d even gotten close to control had been with the skinwalkers, but as Rowan had no interest in putting either of them in mortal danger again, that wasn’t a particularly helpful insight.

However, there was one more thing he thought he could try. The girl was the heir to two mighty bloodlines, descendant to Brannon and Mab. She wasn’t only blessed with fire magic, but also water. Perhaps there was someone else close by who could help him.

It was a fifteen mile walk to the healers’ compound. Fifteen there, and fifteen back. Thirty miles, all at a mortal pace. This had better be worth it.

Rowan had visited the compound nearly as often as Mistward, checking in with the Head Healer and the soldiers stationed there, picking up reports, and distributing orders from Maeve. The camp lay on the border of Maeve’s lands and the mortal kingdom to the north, where both human and Fae peoples could reach them. As a result, while it was mostly populated by Fae or demi-Fae, humans could often be seen within the keep, both gifted and mortal alike.

It was where Malakai and Emrys sent those who were injured but could still travel, where anyone within several dozen miles would try to go if they were sick or hurt. Therefore, Rowan didn’t only want to ask after the princess – he also needed to find out if any other demi-Fae had escaped the clutches of the dark creature, and come here for treatment. Or if the healers here had found any bodies of their own. Perhaps Rowan could solve both of his problems at once.

The Head Healer at this particular camp was an old female named Namonora. He’d met her numerous times over the years, had even been treated by her, though that had been long ago, and wasn’t a time he recalled with much grace. Though he knew that she was kind, ancient and wise. A good female, who didn’t use her power or influence to manipulate, the way so many immortals did. She was not one to waste time playing games – not when lives could be on the line. It was quality Rowan appreciated. Particularly considering what he was about to ask of her.

While it was a hospital, the fort also served as a school, and a home to the many Fae who lived, worked, and taught here. So all kinds of people bustled about, carrying books and papers, cloths and bandages, stringing children along at their heels or crying quietly in out-of-the-way corners. It was a place filled with life and death and noise, and so while the wild princess’ eyes immediately lit up upon their arrival, Rowan was somewhat uncomfortable in the chaos.

He soon left the girl to wander the grounds and went off to find the Head Healer. It didn’t take long. Namonora was in the thick of things, instructing a pupil on the correct way to set a broken limb while watching over another as they applied a poultice to a daunting gash, then began to stitch the gruesome wound closed.

He quietly approached, not wanting to disturb any of the healers, but Namonora’s clever eyes soon took notice of him. She pulled aside another senior healer to fill her place and walked over to meet him.

“Prince Whitethorn. Greetings.”

Rowan inclined his head, “May we speak, somewhere out the way?”

She nodded, striding quickly into the hall and towards a small, empty office. As they entered, Rowan quickly shut the door with a gust of wind. Namonora turned her sharp gaze back on him, raising her eyebrows in a silent inquiry.

Rowan answered her unasked question, with only a slight hesitation. “I’m currently stationed at Mistward, and recently four dead demi-Fae have been found near the fortress. Has word of this reached you?” His voice felt colder than usual, icy at the inconvenience of having to ask for the old healer’s help.

Namonora’s wrinkled face fell, her lily-and-mint-and-rain flavored scent darkening with sorrow. “Yes, Malakai sent word, a few weeks past. I had not heard that the numbers had gotten so high, however.”

“Did he mention the circumstances of their deaths?”

“No – I didn’t realize there was anything to mention.” Her clever eyes glanced over him as she spoke, efficiently assessing. But not in the way of a warrior – in the way of a healer. Her gaze didn’t pierce, only searched. Evaluating a patient. Rowan wasn’t sure he wanted to know what she saw in his hard features.

His jaw tightened. “All four were drained of life, and left as withered husks. There were no marks on them, besides dried blood around their mouths and ears.”

“The skinwalkers? I heard they are beginning to leave their mountain haunts.”

“No this is something different.”

The healer slipped into some hidden, calculating part of herself. “You said ‘withered.’ What does that mean, exactly?”

“Their skin was dried and wrinkled, far beyond the reach of their age. It was almost as though they had been left in the desert sun for weeks on end – only none had decomposed beyond a few days. Both scavengers and bugs avoided them, which was inconspicuous in itself. And there was this…smell. That covers them. Not only death, but the scent of the creature that killed them.”

“So you are sure that they were killed – and did not die of disease or another health problem? Sometimes, overuse of magic can cause victims to contort in strange ways.”

Rowan shook his head, saying, “I am sure that it wasn’t a series of burnouts, I could recognize that easily. And I doubt a disease – ”

 “Would be able to kill people in such a strange grouping,” the healer interrupted, nodding at him, “All demi-Fae, all scattered throughout the wild, no other cases outside these four, and a very quick onset – death would have been almost immediate. And for a health problem, such as a new kind of blood infection or tumor, to take four completely separate individuals, all under such strange circumstances, is so unlikely as to be functionally impossible.”

Rowan nodded in agreement. Those were the conclusions he had drawn as well.

“Still…” the healer mused, “It is hard to be sure. Would it perhaps be possible for a victim to be brought to us for examination, should another be found? We can investigate the body and discover beyond doubt what the cause of death actually was.”

“Of course.” Rowan’s voice was dark as he mentally kicked himself, he should have thought of that weeks ago.

Namonora nodded, her lips tightening. “Still, I hope that we do not hear from each other again. I would rather this remain a mystery forever than for another Fae to suffer this fate.”

Rowan dipped his head.

“Do you have any ideas about the culprit, Prince? Is it perhaps some new immortal foe, or just another powerful Fae who has lost their way?”

Rowan hesitated, unsure. “I think…there is a chance that I saw the creature. The scent was similar. I never got a close look at it, but the female I was traveling with did. She described it as looking like a man, with eyes that were completely black. It created this cloud of darkness, so deep that I couldn’t see her within it. When she finally escaped, she was different. Pale, and sickly. Afterwards, she said that the creature made her relive her worst memories. All the bodies died with expressions of pure terror on their faces as well. It’s almost as though the creature kills through fear itself.”

Namonora’s frown deepened. “I have never heard of such a thing.”

“And no one has come to the fortress bearing a similar story?”

“None. I would remember. Anyone who met this dark creature either did not come here, or did not survive their encounter.”

Rowan nodded gruffly, his jaw tightening.

The ancient healer’s face turned towards the window, looking out over the grounds where Rowan could just barely see the princess. She was walking among an arrangement of tents, following a group of pupils as they made their rounds through the sick. Namonora’s brow furrowed, her scent filling up with fear and anxiety as she looked over all these people who were now in danger, people who she was responsible for.

Who he was responsible for.

Namonora turned back to look at him, her old eyes shrewd and thoughtful. “I have heard tales from long ago, ancient stories of creatures from the deep dark. Beings that fled from the wars of other worlds, and slipped past the watchful eyes of Mala and Deanna and all the other gods of this realm.” Her voice was soft, as if she called the words up from deep within. “They are darkness made flesh – said not to bleed, not to hurt, not to die. They are evil, and Maeve protects us from them with her own dark magics.”

Rowan almost shook his head at the old healer. He had heard many such stories – they were fireside tales, fabricated from encounters with much more ordinary foes like the barrow wights and skinwalkers, and then stretched beyond reality and into that nebulous range of myth and legend. Maeve may even have even invented them in order to solidify her standing among the Fae, where the peoples’ fear of her could easily turn from respectful into hateful.

But then Namonora continued. “More and more often, we receive patients from the west, and they bear news of things stirring there. Old things. Perhaps now they have come east.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Where have you heard this.”

“A few weeks past, a traveler from the Red Desert. She would not tell us any specifics, but she spoke of things, dark things, rising in the south. And then another, from the Dead Islands, bearing the same news.”

“Adarlan?”

“Perhaps. And yet, perhaps not.”

Rowan shook his head slowly. It was hearsay, nothing else. “Regardless, the creature is here, whether it came from the west or down from the mountains or from deep within the eastern caves.”

Namonora nodded, spooling herself back into the confident leader she had been only a few moments before. “I wish you luck on your search, Prince. I will let you know if any come bearing news of the creature, though I am sorry that I cannot be of much more help.”

She turned to leave, thinking the matter settled. But Rowan held out his hand for her to stop, forced to halt her retreat. He was not done.

“There’s something else. This isn’t the real reason I was stationed at Mistward.” The healer cocked her head, Rowan’s stomach sank. “Maeve has asked me to train a demi-Fae female in her power, and I’ve been having some…difficulty…in helping her access her shifting.” Rowan tried to hide his reluctance to ask for help, but doubted he succeeded. This ancient healer had been teaching for far too long not to see right past his defenses.

“Are you asking after my medical or educational expertise?” Namonora’s sharp gaze roved over him once again, reassessing, her eyes glinting with the gathered knowledge.

“Perhaps both. The girl is stubborn, and has some kind of…block. Between her and her power.”

“Hmm.” The corners of the healer’s lips curved into a small frown as she considered his words. She turned to look out the window once again, only this time her eyes sought out the princess. The girl was now speaking with a woman who was sitting on a cot, her arm in a sling. The woman laughed at something, while the princess responded with a small smile, the warmest Rowan had yet seen her give, though her eyes were still dark. Seeing her there, among others of her like, made Rowan feel more alone than he had in weeks.

“Are you asking on her behalf, or yours, Prince?” The healer’s question startled him, and Rowan turned to face her, only just now realizing that Namonora had been observing him watching the princess. “It is possible that the girl isn’t trying, that she doesn’t want to make the shift at all. Doesn’t want to train, to become a warrior. Perhaps this life,” she looked pointedly at Rowan, “is not what she wants for herself.”

His voice was tight, “The girl is already a warrior, so she has no other life to choose from, and she’s not unwise enough to drag this out on purpose – she knows that she’s entered into an agreement that she cannot break.”

Namonora’s lips tightened, and she nodded. While she lived in the outskirts of Maeve’s kingdom, away from her court, the healer was not oblivious to her ways. Though she respected Maeve, she did not love her.

So instead of pressing, she just said, “Shifting involves the piercing of the veil that separates the two forms of the soul, Fae and animal. To shift, one needs to find the peace within themselves, to fully inhabit the one form, and so, travel into the other. I am sure that you know this.”

Rowan nodded, a quick jerk of his head.

“There are some physical maladies that can prevent the shift, but they are very, very rare. It’s much more likely that the girl has some kind of emotional imbalance, or residual trauma, that is making it difficult for her to access her other form. All work through such things in their own way, and at their own pace. There is a chance that the female will never be able to overcome this barrier, and will always feel its effects.” Namonora’s eyes found Rowan’s. “There is not much one can do to help, besides provide support, and attempt not to add to their burden.”

Rowan almost snorted – he didn’t think he’d met anyone less in need of coddling than that girl. She could handle her ego all by herself. But the healer’s gaze did not leave his, seeking to communicate something further, something without words. And it set his teeth on edge.

There were precious few Fae that did not know Rowan’s history, and Namonora was not one of them. She had been the one who healed him after Maeve pulled him from his years of aimless wandering. Had helped restore his body from the weak, half-starved mess he had been. She knew very well what had caused him to become the cold, hard male that sat before her. Perhaps that was why she found it easier to deal with him than so many others.

Rowan could feel his muscles tense as the silence lengthened, but the wise female did not pursue the matter. “May I pass on some good, general advice?” she asked softly.

Rowan nodded slowly, while the healer’s minty scent enveloped him, her green eyes still on his.

“People tend to learn better when you align their own motivations with that which you are trying to instill in them. Discover what emotions drive this female, discover what she wants. And use that to help guide her shift.”

Rowan’s lips tightened as he nodded once again.

“Blocks in magic are mental, and therefore emotional. The female will not truly be able to overcome this challenge until she overcomes whatever created it. But still, if you find what drives her, what spurs her to action, you may find her a path over, or around the block.” Namonora seemed to look right through him, pushing aside his barriers and digging right into the truth. “But it will not go away on its own. She must face it, and only then will she be able to find the peace.”

Rowan absolutely could not escape the impression that the healer wasn’t only talking about the princess anymore. An impression that was solidified with the female’s parting words.

“And Prince?” She seemed to hesitate momentarily, then said, “You cannot atone forever. Do not let your grief destroy what remains of your life – there is hope still, hope for a brighter future. Do not let that spark go out.”

Rowan’s jaw clenched tight, and he left the office without another word, the force of the healer’s gaze burrowing a hole into his retreating back.

She was wrong. There was no hope for him. He had been left completely alone, to fill the aching chasm in his chest with a feeble oath to a dark queen. But as Rowan rounded a corner, and the princess came into view, he couldn’t help but think that perhaps he wasn’t as alone as he used to be. That perhaps the spark the healer had spoken of did not belong to him, but to her.

And it was his responsibility that it did not go out. That instead, it flourished.

···

Rowan arrived back at the fortress that evening to the news that another body had been found. The girl had already returned to her room when Rowan met Malakai in the kitchens, where the two males were speaking quietly before the hearth.

Rowan barely caught the words, “I’m so worried, Emrys – ” before the males took notice of him, and they broke apart. Malakai’s face was grave as he relayed the information, his scent filled with sorrow and anger. Emrys stood by quietly, supporting his mate while stirring something fragrant on the fire.

This report was no different than all the others – an unknown demi-Fae male was found dumped in the wilderness – only this time the intelligence came from a scout stationed at another fortress almost forty miles to the southwest. The body was emaciated, near water, and only a few miles from the sea. The neighboring fortress then sent a missive to Malakai, having received his warning, with the location of the body and a promise to continue to apprise Mistward of any further discoveries.

Rowan then informed Malakai of the news he had gathered from the healer’s compound, and of Namonora’s request to see one of the bodies. Luckily, the healers’ fort was closer to the new body site than Mistward, meaning that whoever moved the body of the demi-Fae would only have to ferry it three or so miles through the wilderness, instead of nearly twenty or thirty – a much more manageable task. Malakai promised he would dispatch a pair of sentries, with orders to purchase a wagon in a nearby town, after Rowan had a chance to visit the site.

Even so, Malakai’s scent was permeated with sorrow and anger and shame – just as Rowan did, Malakai felt responsible for every day that passed while they failed to capture the creature, and to protect the fortress and its neighboring lands. That was their purpose – and the more weeks that passed, the higher the death count grew, the greater their shame.

And so, before he departed the kitchen and left the two males alone to comfort each other, Rowan said, “Malakai, I – ” He paused, and huffed a sigh, then shook his head. The words were dead things in his mouth.

Rowan wanted…not to thank the male, but to say that he understood. That he also would fight for the fortress, and the people within it. But the words would not come, and so instead he just said, “We will visit the body tomorrow, if you send the sentries around midafternoon you should miss us.”

“So Elentiya will go as well, Prince?” Emrys asked.

Rowan nodded and left the kitchens without another word.

But then he reconsidered – the site was over twenty miles to the southwest, much too far to travel on foot with the princess. Even if she miraculously managed to shift, the distance was a lot for a young demi-Fae. Forty miles in a single day would take up nearly half their time, and that was if she was in her Fae form. Which was far from assured.

But the body was very close to a seaside village, and the girl was right – there was a high probability that the townspeople knew something. It was hard to believe that creature could travel so widely without being spotted, especially since they had already seen it, and escaped once, and at the time they hadn’t even been looking for it. Such a strange being would surely be a source of gossip in a slow, sleepy village so far from the capital.

But it was very unlikely that they would talk to Rowan. The humans of Wendlyn tolerated Fae, mostly out of necessity. They would not trust him, or deign to speak with him except for under the direst circumstance. For too long, malicious Fae had taken advantage of the mortals of Wendlyn, using their superior strength to take what they wanted with little to no consequences. While Rowan, and others among Maeve’s court, had taken it among themselves to punish such rogues, their effort had on the whole been too little, too late. It would take many more centuries for trust and camaraderie to return between the two peoples, if then.

And Rowan was hardly a mild or approachable example of his race. He was just too powerful; the mortals would likely run in the other direction if he arrived asking questions about a strange creature that was killing demi-Fae down the western coast. So he needed the girl. A mortal asking questions would be easier for them to bear, even if she was unlikely to be particularly courteous. Though she had done well with the people in the healer’s fort – perhaps a new wave of politeness and contrition would overtake the girl. Though he doubted it.

He would have to take the girl. They could camp overnight, giving her a chance to rest between journeys, but there was no way that the girl could make it without shifting. Tomorrow, Rowan would have to see if the healer’s advice had any merit.

···

Rowan didn’t bother going to the kitchens to wait for the girl that morning, instead he went straight for her rooms, carrying a small pack with overnight supplies. The princess was already gone, but she soon reappeared, still chewing her breakfast. Her eyes were brighter than usual, their golden core molten and swirling.

He held the pack open for her, “Clothes.” She grabbed an extra shirt and some underclothes from her bed and stuffed them into the pack, and Rowan shouldered it. She looked surprised at the move – perhaps she had assumed that she was to be pack mule for their journey. But Rowan wanted her in the best possible mood this morning if he was going to try to convince her to shift.

They left the fortress in silence, heading through the misty trees towards the west and out through the ward-gate. Once they passed through the invisible barrier, the magic softly pulsing over his skin, Rowan stopped. He turned to the princess, pulling off his hood and saying, “Shift, and let’s go.”

The dancing in her eyes grew even more playful, though she still did not smile. “And here I was, thinking we’d become friends.”

Rowan raised his eyebrows, friends? But instead of questioning the princess, he just gestured at her to shift and said, “It’s twenty miles.” Her eyes widened ever so slightly, and he gave her a wicked grin in response. “We’re running. Each way.”

Although that now-familiar trepidation coursed through her scent, she didn’t give it one inch, instead saying, “And where are we going?” with exactly the usual level of insolence.

His jaw clenched involuntarily, but not at the girl’s rudeness – at the news he had to deliver. “There was another body – a demi-Fae from a neighboring fortress. Dumped in the same area, same patterns. I want to go to the nearby town to question the citizens, but …” his mouth tightened at having to admit this. “But I need your help. It’ll be easier for the mortals to talk to you.”

“Is that a compliment?”

He just rolled his eyes. Rowan understood the arrogance, though he didn’t have to like it. The girl was all ego. “Shift, or it’ll take us twice as long.”

“I can’t. You know it doesn’t work like that.”

“Don’t you want to see how fast you can run?” Rowan certainly did. The princess was small, but her muscles were lithe and strong. In her Fae form, she could even prove as powerful as any within Maeve’s warrior-court. And Namonora had said to motivate her to shift by aligning it with her own desires – perhaps her arrogance would prove helpful.

But instead of rising to the challenge, or even feeling some level of curiosity, the girl’s scent filled with despondence. “I can’t use my other form in Adarlan anyway, so what’s the point?”

He frowned at her. “The point is that you’re here now, and you haven’t properly tested your limits. The point is, another husk of a body was found, and I consider that to be unacceptable.”

Her scent shifted into a coppery mix of sorrow, and anger. She wasn’t heartless, surely she understood the necessity of finding the creature – perhaps he could work with that instead. Before, she had shifted to protect him from danger, to prevent his death. Maybe she could shift for the same reasons now, only without an imminent threat pressing upon them.

Rowan knew that she wasn’t scared, but still he said, “Unless you’re still frightened,” and pulled on the end of her braids. As he had suspected, the gesture pulled her anger to the surface, her nostrils flaring.

She snarled, “The only thing that frightens me is how very much I want to throttle you.”  

But her anger at him had never been helpful, had only distracted her. He needed to take that anger and push it into something more productive – an anger on behalf of others instead of on behalf of herself. That could be the key.

So as that fury continued to roil and twist in her scent, Rowan said, “Hone it – the anger.” The scent of ashes and burning jasmine grew stronger by the second. “Let it be a blade, Aelin. If you cannot find the peace, then at least hone the anger that guides you to the shift. Embrace and control it – It is not your enemy.”

“This will not end well,” she breathed.

Fear began to eat away at the fury in her, but he did not let up. She was so close. “See what you want, Aelin, and seize it. Don’t ask for it; don’t wish for it. Take it.”

“I’m certain the average magic instructor would not recommend this to most people.” Her mouth was set, protesting to the last. But he could tell that she was beginning to relent – somewhere, she knew that she had to accept this part of herself, that she had no choice but to concede.

“You are not most people, and I think you like it that way. If it’s a darker set of emotions that will help you shift on command, then that’s what we’ll use. There might come a day when you find that anger doesn’t work, or when it is a crutch, but for now…” he paused. “It was the common denominator those times you shifted – anger of varying kinds. So own it.”

She looked at him for a moment, then took a long breath. And another. And another. Aelin turned deep within, anchoring herself, searching, hunting –  

Then, discovery: she brushed against that shimmering veil and this time she didn’t hesitate before punching through the barrier and into her other form. Canines shot out, points grew from her ears, and a bright light flashed as she completed the shift.

Rowan couldn’t help but grin as Aelin’s scent washed over him, stronger and more familiar in this form. Jasmine and lemon verbena and dancing flames, so much more potent now than even a few moments ago.

Her eyes flicked up to meet his, and Rowan moved, darting to her side and pulling her braid again. She whirled, but he was already gone, pinching her other side. She yelped, “Stop – ” and he was back in front of her, a wild invitation in his eyes.

He wanted to see her move, wanted to see her run – loose and free. He could still sense the cage; it was like she’d temporarily picked a lock, the bars were still waiting for her to return into their clutches. But for now, Aelin Galathynius stared back at him, completely free for the first time since he had met her. And he wanted to play.

Rowan shot left, but before he could pinch her other side she moved, faster than ever before, and slammed down on his arm with an elbow and whacking him upside the head with her other hand.

The hit didn’t hurt, but it surprised him so much that he stopped dead, blinking in shock. Aelin’s scent filled up with satisfaction as she smirked up at him, her new fangs glinting. He bared his teeth right back at her. “Oh, you’d better run now.” And he lunged, but before he could reach her, she turned and shot through the trees to the southwest.

He followed, slow and steady, waiting for her to find her pace as she leaped over fallen logs and ducked beneath low-hanging branches. Her anger simmered away, giving over to a wild abandon as she bounded through the underbrush, her body lithe and capable and as wild as the flames that pulsed from her, barely contained by her small form.  

It was so similar to exercises he had done countless times, training faceless thousands, and yet it was completely different. Before, the run had been a necessity – a way to develop strength and stamina, or a method to maintain them. Now, the run was almost…enjoyable.

The pleasure of her freedom leaked over into his own body, and he could feel the absence of Aelin’s cage almost as acutely as she could. Her newfound liberty was intoxicating, and he could feel his own walls melting, the ice leaking from his limbs as he embraced her wildness. Rowan couldn’t remember the last time he had allowed himself to feel such freedom, the last time he smiled from enjoyment. Now he found he couldn’t turn away from it.

Quickly, too quickly, she began to speed up, getting faster and faster until they were hurtling together through the trees. Every time Rowan drew close – either to poke her or pull her braids or tackle her, he did not know – Aelin would veer away, a golden streak among the oaken boughs.

After a few minutes, they hit a plateau, the ground flattening and hardening and becoming easy beneath their feet, a welcoming carpet rolled out to greet them. And suddenly, Aelin was flying. Her hair whipped out behind her in a golden ribbon, her simple, bright clothing a streak of light and color as she sprinted over the grasses.

Gods, she was fast. Fast as any of them in their Fae forms. Rowan no longer had to alter his pace, and his limbs began to stretch, his stride lengthening until the pair of them were running together, both free and unrestrained.

Aelin dodged a tree, throwing herself between two hanging branches, and she let out a whoop of delight. Her scent began to overwhelm him, each note burning with a happiness he had never sensed in her before. It was so vibrant, so different from her usual scent, that it startled him. He hadn’t understood how angry she had always been until he finally caught a glimpse of her scent that was completely pure.

And it bit at him, ate at him, poked and prodded and stirred him until he couldn’t stop himself shooting after her, lunging with a snap of his teeth. She dodged, and he lunged again, this time moving to run at her side.

Her face was open, her eyes shining with that same feral contentment he could feel pulsing through his own veins. And it was like seeing her for the first time. He had known she was good-looking, had understood that objectively, her sharp, clear features were pretty and striking. But he had not noticed how truly attractive she was until that moment.

Aelin was beautiful.

And together they flew, silver and gold streaks piercing through the lonely mists.

Chapter Text

When they finally stopped to rest in a small glade, both he and Aelin were practically gulping down air. The twenty miles had gone quickly, the distance melting beneath their feet until Rowan could hear the sea waves crashing in the distance, and the wind began to whisper to him of the bustle of the people in the nearby town.

But before they attempted to question the villagers, Rowan wanted to visit the site of the dead demi-Fae, confirm that there was nothing more to be learned, and ensure that everything was ready for Malakai’s soldiers to ferry the body to the healers’ compound. He couldn’t sense the body, but as they were barely half a mile from the village, it had to be close by. They could rest for a moment before beginning their search.

As they recovered, Aelin just stood there, breathing heavily and staring at him with those piercing golden eyes. It was strange, but not unwelcome. To be looked at.

So Rowan stared right back at her, studying Aelin as if she were something entirely new. The lines of her face were sharp, aristocratic and refined, while her skin was tan and glowing from so much time spent sitting on those sun-warmed rocks. Freckles dotted her nose, while heat bloomed on her cheeks. Her magic was dormant, but still it pulsed around her, filling the air with power and promise and the smell of vibrant, crackling embers.

The princess was a completely different person to when they first met. It was almost disconcerting to see the entirety of the change, and realize how slow he had been in noticing it. Or maybe it was just this new form of hers – a body so much more familiar to Rowan, its lines and curves so much more like to him than her mortal form, a scent so much more similar to his. In her Fae form, Aelin’s scent spoke more of the woods, of the magic and the wildness of the Fae.

Aelin wiped the sweat from her face, still panting, but seeming invigorated, like she could run for miles more. Her eyes hadn’t left his, but her mind had turned inwards, and he knew that Aelin wasn’t really seeing him. But Rowan saw her, and that newfound attraction ripped through him once again, taking him completely by surprise.

Confusion and disgust immediately followed the shock. Her scent bit at him, her fire wrapping around him like a second skin. His magic automatically pushed back, and the contact felt claustrophobic, an uncomfortable pressure. All the while that sharp, scorching scent coated his throat and nostrils.

Rowan shied away from it, feeling his body ice over, his muscles tensing and his fingers clenching into fists. The princess blinked, finally realizing that she had been staring, and then started slightly at his cold expression. Rowan just turned away, avoiding her gaze and rifling through the small backpack. He tossed her shirt at her, barking, “Change,” then stripped off his own shirt and changed into the spare clothes he’d packed for himself.

When he turned back, the girl had disappeared into the nearby brush, apparently wanting some privacy. He used her momentary absence to gather his thoughts and steel himself once more, pulling his icy armor back on, piece by bitter piece.

His face was a dark mask, hiding the confusing mess that swirled beneath. Rowan locked it up within walls of ice, having absolutely no desire to peer within and discover exactly what they held. He just had to get through a few more months with the princess and then he would be free of her, and could go back to his life from before. To serve his queen as lieutenant and diplomat of Doranelle. Not easy, but simple. Familiar.

Rowan took a drink from his water skein and scanned their surroundings, searching both with his eyes and his winds. The princess returned wearing fresh clothes and he tossed her the skein, which she gulped from greedily.

Rowan sent his power out still farther, feelers snaking through the forest, past large stones and great oaks, secluded meadows and hidden hollows, over creeks and farmsteads and the red-tiled roofs and cobblestone streets of the little village. Then, he felt it, a whisper of a dark figure, lying in the dirt beside a medium-sized river half a mile south of them.

He turned and strode through the trees without explanation, leaving the princess behind in the small glade. They reached the site within a minute or so, the girl only a few steps behind him.

As they approached, Rowan thought that the rancid stench somehow seemed stronger, more potent on the body and its surroundings. Although, after a thorough examination, neither Rowan nor the assassin could find anything else out of the ordinary. Perhaps it was just because the kill was fresher, and the smell had not yet had a chance to dissipate.

As a result, the princess seemed to keep her distance from the body, its foul stench apparently affecting her more strongly than it did Rowan. But soon he realized it was more than just distaste; the scent was triggering something deep within her, stirring some hidden memory. He scented grief…and guilt. But she didn’t acknowledge it, so Rowan did not ask her about it.

Despite her revulsion, the assassin attempted to build a pyre for the unknown demi-Fae, seeking to burn him as they had the female. Rowan held out a hand to stop her, forced to give a quick explanation about the healer’s request, and the imminent arrival of Malakai’s sentries.

She frowned, but nodded her acquiescence. Before she stood, the princess pulled the dead demi-Fae into a more comfortable position, straightening his limbs and folding his arms on his chest. She paused for a moment, sorrow filling her, then bent over the male and closed his eyes for him, a whisper of final words passing her lips.

She turned and strode from the small brook without another word, back towards the village bells they could now hear chiming to the northwest, the scent of remorse trailing after the assassin like a coppery cape.

Rowan cast the male one last look before following her into the wilderness.

···

It wasn’t long before Rowan realized that it hadn’t made one bit of difference bringing the princess along. It was almost impossible to get anyone to approach, let alone to talk to the two Fae strangers. Perhaps the reason that the girl hadn’t been much help was her refusal to shift back into her mortal form, but with her ever-worsening mood, Rowan didn’t want to have to ask her to do anything.

Particularly as he now realized that a strange, angry young woman from Adarlan wearing Fae clothes and without any other belongings would probably not be much better received. And there was the small, but deterrent possibility that if she shifted to mortal, she wouldn’t be able to shift back for the journey tomorrow. And that was a risk Rowan was unwilling to take – twenty miles at a mortal pace with the resentful princess might just kill him.

Windows were shuttered as they passed, people crossed to the other side of the street, and stores that were once open, mysteriously closed their doors. Those that they did manage to corner, had nothing to say.

No, they had not heard of a missing demi-Fae, or any other bodies. No, they had not seen any strange people lurking about. No, livestock were not disappearing, though there was a chicken thief a few towns away. No, they were perfectly safe and protected in Wendlyn, and didn’t appreciate Fae and demi-Fae poking into their business, either.

Rowan carefully maintained calm, banishing his anger and frustration until they were barely ripples at the edges of his form, calling up that vast well of patience from within. Not that it made any difference – they were shunned, as usual. Even when he and the princess split up to cover more ground separately.

Afternoon began to creep up on them, the sun falling lower and lower in the sky as Rowan fell into step beside the girl on the cobbled main street, both of them barely maintaining a reign on their tempers. The princess was particularly annoyed, as the innkeeper had just informed them that he had no vacancies, and they would indeed need their bedrolls tonight. Not that Rowan much cared.

“I could believe it was a half-wild creature if at least some of them knew these people had vanished,” she mused. “But consistently selecting someone who wouldn’t be missed or noticed? It must be sentient enough to know who to target. The demi-Fae has to be a message – but what? To stay away? Then why leave bodies in the first place?”

Rowan’s lips tightened as the princess halted, tugging at the end of her braid. Why indeed?

Apparently, no one in the largest village along this stretch of coastline knew anything at all. Namonora hadn’t heard anything, the other fortresses knew no more than he did, Fenrys hadn’t received any reports while in the capital, and unless these villagers were lying through their teeth – they knew nothing either. There were no rumors, no strange attacks, no thefts, no sightings. Nothing to go on.

The assassin was right, the creature had to have some level of intelligence. And intelligent beings usually killed with some kind of agenda. There was almost always some ulterior motive, or revealing trait. Evil males beat their partners, got into fights, hurt animals, started fires, and then began their killing. And once they did, it wasn’t random – they would target specific people, those they held prejudices against, had offended them in some way, or who they just decided deserved to die.

This creature was a killer of the demi-Fae. Why?

His thoughts began to circle uselessly while the princess remained standing in the street, stopped in front of a clothier’s window. The woman behind the glass saw them standing there, and slashed the curtains shut. Rowan snorted.

The girl turned to face him, indignant. “You’re used to this, I assume?”

“A lot of the Fae who venture into mortal lands have earned themselves a reputation for … taking what they want. It went unchecked for too many years, but even though our laws are stricter now, the fear remains.”

Her eyes narrowed, “Who enforces these laws?”

Rowan smiled darkly, “I do. When I’m not off campaigning, my aunt has me hunt down the rogues.” Or, he went off and did so himself, generally with Gavriel at his side. There was no need to tell the princess that his aunt probably would prefer the mortals’ deference towards her to be fueled as much by terror as it was by respect.

“And kill them?” Her eyes were still narrowed, but the question was without judgement, plain and emotionless.

“If the situation calls for it. Or I just haul them back to Doranelle and let Maeve decide what to do with them.”

Her voice turned wry, “I think I’d prefer death at your hands to death at Maeve’s.”

He almost laughed. “That might be the first wise thing you’ve said to me.”

She paused for a moment, then asked, “The demi-Fae said you have five other warrior friends. Do they hunt with you? How often do you see them?”

Rowan’s eyes narrowed, “I see them whenever the situation calls for it. Maeve has them serve her as she sees fit, as she does with me.” His response was clipped, automatic. Words he had said a thousand times before. “It is an honor to be a warrior serving in her inner circle.”

He watched the girl, waiting for a prodding query or insolent remark, for her to voice the thoughts that he knew went through everyone, mortal and immortal alike, when he spoke of his position in Maeve’s court.

Rumors abounded in Doranelle about Maeve’s blood-sworn, and none of them were kind. They also weren’t all untrue. They couldn’t hide what they did in her service, be it torture or kill or maim, and Maeve couldn’t quiet their screams when she punished them, nor could she keep it secret that she bedded some of them. Not that she particularly cared. But if the girl asked him about that, Rowan wasn’t sure that the leash he held on his anger –

“Did you bring any money?” she interrupted, unexpectedly jerking him from his thoughts.

Rowan raised his brows, “Yes. They won’t take your bribes, though.”

“Good. More for me, then.” She pointed at the ‘Confectionery’ sign swinging in the light breeze a few buildings down from them. “If we can’t win them with charm, we might as well win them with our business.”

“Did you somehow not hear what I just – ”

But she already had reached the shop and was pulling the door open, plastering on a false smile so obvious, Rowan though it could have been stuck there with honey and cement.

The confectioner blanched as the two of them entered, fear drenching his scent like an overflowing gutter. But the princess didn’t let her smile falter one bit, instead charming that shopkeeper into letting her buy two boxes of something she called ‘hazelnut truffles,’ and then went from shop to shop, down the whole street, doing the same with every other merchant and trader.

Rowan didn’t say a word as the princess stalked down the road like she owned it, drawing out the merchants and managing to make them believe it, too. It was almost impressive, the way she used clever lies, a quick wit, and a few coins to completely transform their attitude towards her. She completely won them over, until the street was bustling with people once again, merchants pushing their wares at them, young men clamoring for a word with the pretty female, and the innkeeper suddenly finding a vacancy that was “just perfect for the young couple!”

No matter his irritation, Rowan kept his mouth shut during the whole ordeal, dutifully carrying the many bags and boxes the princess acquired as she sailed down the market street. A book here, a loaf of bread there, a letter for a carrier to deliver, a packet of spice, a handful of dried meat, and suddenly everyone was eager to talk. Not that they had anything more to say.

Apparently, none of the villagers had lied to them, which he supposed was good, though it didn’t much diminish his irritation. The only gossip they actually managed to acquire was from a lone crab-monger, who mentioned that he’d found a few discarded knives in his nets. Apparently, they’d been of good make, but he’d tossed them all back into the sea as offerings to the gods, so Rowan couldn’t examine them. Probably just lost off a merchant ship traveling to or from the western continent.

Sunset soon threatened, and Rowan found himself silently cursing at the approaching darkness. The day had mostly been a waste – even if he had managed to get the princess to shift. Who was to say if that would last.

They were no closer to slaying the dark creature than he had been yesterday. His only hope was that the healers at the compound would be able to divine something useful from the body – but it could be weeks before he heard from them. Weeks more of struggling in the dark, and watching the bodies pile up.

They set up camp in the glade from earlier, laying out their bedrolls and eating cold food for dinner. At least the girl had finally learned her lesson about setting fires in the wilderness.

They didn’t speak, and she soon fell asleep, drifting off well before the moon rose. But Rowan lay awake, the stars twinkling just above him. His thoughts began to twist and coil, while the stars continued to shine tantalizingly, soft flickers of white light, scarcely out of reach. Tiny drops in the pool of black emptiness. They were only a few hands-breadths away – perhaps if he raised his arms high enough, if he could reach far enough, maybe he could just touch them –

Rowan awoke abruptly, dawn’s light barely a flicker on the distant horizon.

His dreams had been dark, and full of whispers. The quiet had been so different, so utterly wrong, that it dragged him from sleep, until he was nearly retching in the grass next to his bedroll.

He sat up groggily, and turned to look at the princess, lying on the other side of the small glade. She was tossing and turning in her sleep, murmuring softly. He managed to make out the words, “Aedion,” and “sorry,” and “wish – ” before her words descended into the incomprehensible.

Rowan just sighed and turned to the slowly rising sun. It had not been Lyria in his dreams last night, that much he knew, and the absence of her usual screams had been a terror he was unfamiliar with. He shook his head and stood, forcibly rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Mala stretched her warm fingers over his face, but the gesture did not comfort him. The warmth was far too similar to the feel of the girl’s power, the soft to her harsh, the pale flicker to her writhing inferno.

An inferno that he would now have to direct, to teach how to use and control. Rowan sighed. Well, there was no point in putting it off. The girl would have to begin someday – it might as well be now.

He spent the next few minutes assembling a small fire in the center of the glade, then waiting for the girl to awaken. She didn’t do so gently – gasping and jolting upright, pulled violently from whatever hell her dreams had foisted on her.

“Do you want breakfast?” he asked. She turned to him slowly, frowning slightly through the sleep that still coated her features, then nodded.

“Then start the fire.”

“You can’t be serious.”

He didn’t bother responding. She groaned and sat up straighter, blinking and crossing her legs. She held out her hand to the logs, beginning to reach in to her well of power.

“Pointing is a crutch. Your mind can direct the flames just fine.”

“Perhaps I like the dramatics.”

He just looked at her, sharply. Light the fire. Now.

She rubbed her eyes, but then seemed to rally herself, a small snake of power extending from her and towards the unlit logs.

“Easy,” he said slowly, just as the wood began to smoke, “A knife, remember. You are in control.”

She breathed heavily, and then something began to twist and crackle – a snap, and the magic ruptured almost without warning. It flew out of her in a great cloud, nearly incinerating the entire glade before Rowan could douse it with his own power.

Soon, the clearing was empty of smoke and embers, and they could see each other clearly again. Rowan only sighed, saying, “At least you didn’t panic and shift back into your human form.”

The girl just nodded mutely.

And then they collected their things and made the journey back to the fortress, hurtling dispassionately through the undergrowth, Rowan unable to entirely curb his unruly thoughts.

To others, they were perhaps a prince and a princess, embers and ice. But Rowan knew better – and he thought the girl did too. They were an assassin and an executioner, neither of them royal, neither of them worthy, but both of them the only chance of stopping the creature, and protecting the demi-Fae.

Fate was quite the sly bastard that way.

Chapter Text

The one success of their overnight trip had been that the princess seemed to have mastered her shift, finally finding a path through the veil and into her other form, despite the bars that still caged her power. It was a relief – to no longer be forced to travel at a mortal pace, nor to have to sit on those temple stones, hour after hour. Now instead, he had the pleasure of watching the girl whine and sweat and complain as she attempted to light candles with her magic.

Being forced to direct your power at a very small object or task was one of the easiest ways to foster control and focus. When he had begun learning all those decades ago, Rowan had been asked to make pinwheels spin, or freeze small cups of water into blocks of ice. He’d hated it, but that didn’t mean he had much sympathy for the princess – it was necessary, and she would have to get over it. Just as he would have to deal with her frequent bursts of barely-controlled magic, preventing forest fires, keeping their clothes from singeing, and stopping the temple from exploding into lots of very small pieces.

He spent about a week in this way, passing his afternoons trying to draw out a modicum of control from the princess, but all she really managed to do was eat. Rowan now had to keep a bag filled with food on hand at all times for the girl, as her magic ate up all of her energy.

There were no more bodies, thank the gods, and so instead of viewing new sites he used his mornings to carry out fruitless searches for the creature, visit neighboring fortresses and convene with Malakai, but it led to nothing. Namonora sent notice that they had received the body of the demi-Fae male, and would send word with any discoveries they made, but it would be a further few weeks before that would be possible.

Rowan spent his evenings in the kitchens, avoiding the spring rains and listening to Emrys’ stories. The old male had a vast trove of them, some of which even Rowan was unfamiliar with. Tales of ancient warriors and cunning sorcerers, of shield maidens and enchanted animals, battles and quests and adventure. Even tales that stretched back beyond the memory of the Fae and into the history of the land – of the little folk and the forest spirits who reigned supreme in the wildest reaches of Maeve’s kingdom.

The princess listened as well, while washing the night’s dishes. Rowan always perched in the open doorway in his hawk form, and usually after finishing the evening’s work, the princess would sit beside the back door, barely a few feet away from him. Sometimes, he would catch himself sidling closer to her, so they were side by side in the shadows. He could have sworn that she leaned closer, too.

A few days after their trip to the village, Rowan received another letter from Lorcan. It was dated from just over a week earlier, and was short and to the point.

Whitethorn –

Gavriel visited a few days past, looking for you. I told him where you could be found, and that if you were no longer there, you were probably inspecting what remains of the fleet.

I don’t know if you heard, but he lost several soldiers in an ambush while in the northern mountains. Saida among them. She will be mourned.

 – Lorcan

Rowan had helped train Saida, alongside Lorcan and Gavriel. She was a good soldier, a quick and clever female. He knew that she had even been considered to join Maeve’s inner circle, but had been denied because of her attachment to a demi-Fae female that lived outside of Doranelle, someone of little status or utility to his queen. Saida also had an independent streak that Maeve found disagreeable, but which made her a very talented commander, and pleasant company.

Rowan hadn’t known that she’d been among Gavriel’s company. Another bright light lost. Yet here Rowan still was. Unchanged after all these years. Still alone. Still waiting.

He spent the day quiet and cold and distant, with even less patience than usual for the princess’ whining. That evening, Rowan ate dinner after everyone had gone to bed, hidden beneath the hallway staircase. He often ate there – it was out of the way, where no one would start at his presence, or trap him in conversation.

However, the unfortunate consequence was that whoever was in the kitchens thought they were alone, and spoke freely. So Rowan once again found himself in the position of overhearing one of those whispered conversations between Emrys and Malakai. And once again, it wasn’t anything he wanted to hear.

“There haven’t been any more bodies, have there?” Emrys’ voice reached Rowan, breaking through his usual fog of ice and indifference.

“No – thank the gods. But we haven’t made any more progress, and I can tell that the Prince is getting impatient. Not used to being faced with problems he can’t solve, or questions he doesn’t know the answer to.”

“Don’t scoff – you know he cares.”

“Do we, though?”

“Yes – stop with that.”

Malakai sighed. “I know. Just…it can be so hard to even get through a quick conversation with him.” There was a pause. “But at least Elentiya has seemed to be doing better lately? Right?” Malakai prodded, obviously trying to placate his mate.

“Yes.” Emrys’ voice was hard. “And it has me worried, actually, love.” Rowan could almost hear his furrowed brow and tight lips.

“Hmm?” the question in Malakai’s voice was obvious.

“She’s brighter, yes. Just a bit. And they’ve stopped brawling so much, but she still isn’t opening up, love. Still isn’t reaching out to anyone, or making any friends. She hardly even talks to me and Luca in the mornings, only responds when it would be downright rude to keep ignoring us.”

“And?” Malakai seemed somewhat skeptical.

“And the only other person she’s seemed to develop any kind of relationship with is the Prince, Malakai. And I’m scared for her.”

“Do you really think he’s the type to take advantage?”

“I think that I don’t know. And I think that she’s so lonely that she’s willing to do anything to escape it.”

“Perhaps it could be good for the pair of them.” Malakai responded dispassionately.

“Perhaps.” Emrys’ voice was tight. “But perhaps it could end with her being even more hurt than before she arrived here.”

“Still, love, it isn’t your problem. Please, please stop worrying about the girl. She’s going to do whatever she’s going to do, and he will do whatever he’s going to, and that’s that.”

“But Malakai – ”

And Rowan was gone.

He’d noticed that the girl kept to herself, that she hadn’t really formed any connections while at the fortress. That even if she now returned the sentries’ smiles, she still shunned their advances. But somehow, he’d never factored himself into that equation. Never considered that the sole connection the girl had made had been with him.

It felt like he’d swallowed a stone. He didn’t want to be anything to the child, didn’t want the arrogant princess to mean anything to him, or him to her. And it infuriated him that Emrys and Malakai thought that there was some possibility there, that there could ever be anything there.

He’d not been celibate since Lyria died, far from it. But the relationships he’d had had never meant anything, besides physical release, or a warm bed to lie in at night. They had only ever been a respite from the loneliness, or a slightly more pleasant way to pass the time.

But this female…he couldn’t just bed her and it mean nothing. Rowan was her teacher for one, but she was also a mortal princess, and he her senior by nearly three centuries. And she was an assignment forced on him by his queen, meaning Maeve would inevitably find out, and Rowan had always made a point to keep that part of his life well away from her. He didn’t know how Maeve would react to such a thing, and he had no intention of finding out. It didn’t matter that the princess was attractive, or that he might want her. She was an arrogant pain in his ass, and that was that.

Rowan was going to have to suck it up and start eating in the kitchens. He didn’t think he could handle continuing to overhear this shit.

···

A few more days passed, and this evening, the princess labored over a particularly large pile of dishes while Emrys narrated a story about a clever wolf, a magical firebird, and three princes. Rowan had actually heard the tale many times before, it had been a favorite with one of his cousins.

Little Sellene Whitethorn had loved the youngest prince, and had asked his uncle Ellys to tell her the story of how the kind grey wolf helped the hero to outwit the three kings, capture the great firebird and the golden horse, marry the beautiful princess, and defeat his evil older brothers, over and over and over again. However, the story still felt grand, even after having heard it so many times. An epic tale of love and selflessness and greed.

But Rowan had never understood why his little cousin had liked the prince so much; the male had been so selfish, so greedy and callous. It was the wolf who was the true hero, though it got no happy ending, no great love. Nothing was said about what happened to it after the prince married his princess. But Rowan thought he knew.

Emrys concluded his tale, and everyone began requesting he tell their favorites, stories Rowan had probably heard several times over since arriving at Mistward. But then the princess unexpectedly spoke up from her post at the sink. “Do you know any stories about Queen Maeve?”

There was dead silence in the kitchen, while everyone’s heads turned to face her. She hadn’t spoken up since that first night, and for her first request to be about the queen…the girl was playing with fire. There could easily be other eyes on them that reported back to Maeve, and Rowan didn’t think his queen would take well to the Heir of Terrasen knowing more about her than she wanted her to.

Emrys smiled faintly at the girl, not wanting to discourage her from participating, though obviously discomforted by her request. “Lots. Which one would you like to hear?”

“The earliest ones that you know. All of them.” Her eyes were intent, her face blank. Her scent didn’t speak of much, only determination, and curiosity.

Even if the request was somewhat reckless, Rowan didn’t begrudge her asking about their aunt, she had as much right to know about her as any other. Especially since she had entered into a bargain with her. Perhaps the princess should be learning all she could, preparing for their inevitable meeting. Not that it would go any other way than how Maeve wanted it to.

Emrys paused, while several people shot both him, Rowan, and the girl nervous glances. “Then I shall start at the beginning.”

The princess settled into her seat by the door, only a foot or so away from him. Rowan clicked his beak at her, a warning. But she just voraciously dug into a loaf of bread, ignoring him.

Emrys began the tale of the beginning.

“Long ago, when there was no mortal king on Wendlyn’s throne, the faeries still walked among us. Some were good and fair, some were prone to little mischiefs, and some were fouler and darker than the blackest night. But they were all of them ruled by Maeve and her two sisters, whom they called Mora and Mab. Cunning Mora, who bore the shape of a great hawk. Fair Mab, who bore the shape of a swan. And the dark Maeve, whose wildness could not be contained by any single form.”

Emrys went on to recite the history, known to all within Doranelle, and many without, of how Mora and Mab fell in love with mortal men, and thus yielded their immortality. Of how many said that Maeve had forced them to do so as a punishment for their abandonment, how many others said that they did so only to escape her. Of Maeve’s anguish, and their joy.

Then the princess asked another deadly question, “Did Maeve ever find a mate?”

The room fell silent once more, though Emrys was quicker in his reply this time. “No – though she came close, at the dawn of time. A warrior, rumor claimed, had stolen her heart with his clever mind and pure soul. But he had died in some long-ago war and lost the ring he’d intended for her, and since then, Maeve had cherished her warriors above all others. They loved her for it, and made her a mighty queen whom no one dared challenge.”

Rowan kept still and quiet, feeling the attention of the room on him. Not many knew that it was he who perched in the doorway each night, but there were enough that he felt the awareness like a heavy weight. He could feel the pressure of the princess’ stare the most, of the questions, maybe even accusations, she harbored. But he did not look at her, and she did not voice them.

Instead, they both listened as Emrys continued to tell the stories of his queen while the moon began to rise, painting a portrait of a ruthless, cunning ruler who could conquer the world if she wished, but instead kept to her forest realm of Doranelle. Of whom little was known, but much was said. Of a queen who was feared in lands they had never even heard of, by people they would never meet.

Rowan only barely paid attention. There was nothing Emrys could tell him that he hadn’t heard before, nothing the male could say that would surprise him, or change his mind. He did not regret the blood oath; had known the full scope of the choice he’d been making when he decided to take it. He would not let the righteous princess judge him for a decision that she could never understand, even if it was a decision that she might soon be faced with herself.

Then, all of a sudden, Rowan caught a familiar scent on the breeze, of fur and walnut and sun-warmed rock. Gavriel.

Rowan turned his head to watch the slow, steady approach of the golden mountain cat, ignoring the jolt of the princess beside him as she also took note of the male’s advance.

His fur was darkened by the rain, golden eyes flashing in the torchlight. But it was his pace, his posture that caught and held Rowan’s attention: the male was slumped, his head heavy with sorrow. Gavriel had come, but it was not for comfort or camaraderie. It was to grieve.

Gavriel shifted with a dull flash of light, so faint that it could easily have been mistaken for a distant strike of lightening, and Rowan took off from the doorway, transforming in midair to greet his oldest friend. Unlike Fenrys, or even Lorcan, Gavriel was the only one of Maeve’s warriors that Rowan truly got along with.

So Rowan greeted the golden-haired male warmly, clasping his forearms and quickly embracing him. His tanned face was stony, solemn, but there was still kindness hidden in his features. A kindness that was now almost completely overshadowed by grief and exhaustion.

“I’ve been looking for you for six weeks,” he said, frustration coating his words, the thick, black tattoo on his neck rippling slightly as he swallowed. “Vaughan said you were at the eastern border, but when I visited, the lord there told me you were called away unexpectedly. Lorcan said you could either be here or on the coast, inspecting the fleet. But then I got a letter from the twins that told me that the queen had been all the way out here, and left you alone, so I came hoping that you might…”

“I heard what happened, Gavriel,” Rowan interrupted the weary male, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder.

He seemed to sigh in response, then scrubbed at his face, and said, “I know you probably don’t want to – ”

“Just tell me what you want and it will be done.” It was all Rowan could offer him, all he could do in the face of such sorrow and guilt. Gavriel slumped slightly, his broad shoulders curving inwards, his towering height somewhat diminished.

Rowan turned to guide the male through another, less occupied entrance and up towards his rooms so they could talk in peace. But as he moved he caught a glimpse of the princess through the open door, her face pale, eyes wide. There was a question there, a silent request.

Rowan didn’t acknowledge it, nor did he look back at her as he strode through the rain with his friend and brother, and into the dark stone castle.

Rowan didn’t speak until they entered his small rooms, the door was shut behind them, and the candles along the window and before the fireplace were lit. “I received a letter from Lorcan, only this week, telling me about Saida. And a few weeks before that, from Fenrys.”

Gavriel’s jaw clenched. “I lost all three of them Rowan – Saida, Arun, and Elidyr. I would have died myself, but Saida stepped in my place and stopped the killing blow by letting it fall on her own body.”

Gavriel breathed deep, his face creasing in pain as he moved to sit on the bed. Rowan’s features softened slightly. Though the young female had not deserved death, at least she had been given such an honorable one.

“The rogues that attacked us were mutinous bastards. We were being led through a mountain pass by one of the traitors, but there were more waiting ahead, hidden in an invisible crevasse to the side of the path. There were only a dozen of them, but they were well-trained, and I barely escaped with my life. They…Arun and Elidyr…they were slaughtered, Rowan. Killed like beasts.”

Rowan listened in silence, letting the male pull out the story the way one removes a shard of glass, embedded deep in the flesh. A painful, but necessary, act.

“And Saida – ” Gavriel’s voice broke. “She saved my life. The traitor who led up through the mountain pass had been ordered to strike me down first, to allow the others to be overwhelmed by the remaining forces. But Saida saw the strike coming, just in time to step in front of it.”

Gavriel grimaced, but continued. “I – I couldn’t save her. The sword cut her shoulder to hip, and she wasn’t wearing enough armor. She bled out within minutes.”

Rowan began to move about the room, gathering the necessary supplies: needles, ink, iron, salt, cloth, mallet, charcoal and paper.

“I used their weapons and clothes to track the killers to their base, deep in Sennerath Mountain. They were a rogue faction we were teasing out, a group of mercenaries who had turned, and were trying to raise an army against Doranelle. Or more likely, the Fae city nearest them – Eralhona.”

Rowan began to sketch out a design in the old language of the Fae, three names, stacked one on top of the other.

“When I arrived, all but a very few were gone, having fled when they heard what happened in the pass. Only the leader and his closest companions were left. The battle was quick, but I ensured that justice was served.” At that, Gavriel’s eyes met Rowan’s. “I ensured that their killers were executed, and the rebel faction disbanded.”

Rowan nodded. Gavriel didn’t need to say the last part, that it didn’t matter. They had still died, and it had been his fault. The soldiers had been his responsibility, and nothing Rowan could say would convince him otherwise. Gavriel would feel this guilt for centuries to come.

Rowan passed the design over to the golden-eyed male, who nodded and began disarming himself. He stripped off his shirt, revealing a massive, rippling design of dozens, if not hundreds of tattoos wrapping the skin of his back and chest, then lay on his back atop the worktable without another word.

This was a routine between them, a pattern borne of decades of companionship. Whenever Gavriel lost a soldier under his command, he would tattoo their names on his body, marking his shame and grief forevermore. And Rowan would help him.

So, Rowan scrubbed Gavriel’s chest with the salt water mixture, spreading it down a blank column that spanned the left side of his body, from the middle of his ribs beneath his left pectoral muscle, down to the curve of his left hip bone. As the salt dried, Rowan began mixing the powdered iron into the small vat of black ink, then used the charcoal pencil to mark out the letters on the male’s skin. Saida, Arun, Elidyr.

As Rowan lifted the bone-handle of the deadly sharp tattoo needle in one hand and the small mallet in the other, Gavriel began to murmur softly. He sang the Fae lament he owed them as their leader and commander, falling into the comfort of ritual and tradition to ease the pain that lined his sharp, muscled form.

They would pass the night this way, Rowan tapping the black marks over Gavriel’s heart while the male voiced his grief and sorrow and guilt, the pair of them falling into a comfortable rhythm. A pattern of familiar gestures.

The tap of the needle, a hiss of pain, the wipe of the bloody cloth, a dip in the pot of iron-ink. Several more taps with the mallet, wipe of cloth, dip in the ink, tap of the needle, drops of blood, whisper of pain, dip in ink. Tap, hiss, wipe, dip, tap hiss wipe dip, tap tap tap tap. Until the minutes became hours.

And they were suddenly interrupted.

···

There was a soft knock on the door, and Gavriel’s murmured prayers stopped mid-sentence. He looked at Rowan questioningly, but Rowan could think of no reason why Malakai would bother him in the middle of the night – it was too late for him to have received news of another dead demi-Fae from the scouts or sentries, most will have gone to bed and the night watch was restricted to the fortress walls. Perhaps someone had arrived bearing an urgent message?  

Before Malakai could knock again, Rowan barked, “What,” and the door opened. But it wasn’t the old commander standing there.

It was the princess, bearing a tray of stew and bread on her hip. She eased the door open slowly, peeking her head through the gap and saying, “I thought you might want some stew and – ”

Her words cut off as she took in the scene before her: Rowan sitting astride a half-dressed Gavriel, the tools and needles papering the surface of his worktable, the feel of pain and grief that permeated the room. She didn’t retreat however, didn’t step back or apologize. Didn’t seem to react in any way to her obvious incursion into something that had absolutely nothing to do with her.

Rowan was angrier than he’d been in weeks. She’d intruded, had decided that her curiosity and sense of self-importance was enough to justify this little visit. Had decided that she had some relation, some claim on him that was strong enough to match his connection to Gavriel.

That arrogant presumption was enough in itself to piss Rowan off to no end, but the girl had also intruded on Gavriel, at a time when the male was undergoing a private, personal ritual. Who was vulnerable, and who trusted Rowan with this small, agonized part of himself. And Rowan had let him down. Because of the gods-damned princess. And he was fucking furious.

“Get out.” His voice was steel and stone.

“Do you want the stew?” her eyes continued to scan over the pair of them, coming to rest on Gavriel’s chest. They widened, her mouth opening slightly as she absorbed the many markings that covered his body, and Rowan’s fury peaked even higher. That she would enter, without permission and apparently without noticing how very unwelcome she was, and ogle at Gavriel as if he were a peculiarity, an exotic animal or a specimen in a laboratory, was beyond words.

Rowan managed to choke out, “Leave it.”

The girl’s face was carefully neutral, but Rowan could scent the slight tang of regret breaking through the surprise and cold curiosity. “Sorry to interrupt,” she said flatly, and began to leave.

Gavriel lifted his head ever so slightly, the confusion finally reaching such a height that it broke through the grief and pain. Rowan knew that he was taking in the girl’s appearance, breathing in both their scents in an attempt to discern whoever the hell this was, and why Rowan was so pissed off by her presence.

“Sorry,” she said again, and stepped out of the room. But not before Gavriel got a good whiff of her scent, and his eyes widened with a burgeoning understanding.

The door shut behind the princess with a soft, violent click. And that was it – Rowan’s control was at an end, his well of patience utterly dry.

Rowan ignored Gavriel’s questioning stare, instead breathing deep and closing his eyes, hoping to curb his fury just enough that he wouldn’t get into another brawl with the girl right under Emrys’ nose. Then stalked out of the bedroom without a word of explanation.

The princess had only made it two steps down the hall before collapsing on the floor, leaning against the stone wall and roughly rubbing at her face. Her scent was riddled through with sadness and pain and shame, but once she saw him, it faded into recklessness, and a deep, wild rage.

She looked up at him, her eyes piercing, and before he could even open his mouth, she said, “Do you do it for money?”

The words were a thrown punch, an insult sunk deep in his gut. The fury coursing through his body became molten, writhing beneath his skin until it twitched and scratched and burned. He snarled ferociously, flashing his teeth while his muscles tensed and stretched. But he kept the anger on its leash, just barely.

She knew exactly what she was doing, what she was provoking. She wanted this fight almost as much as he did. That emptiness behind her eyes spoke volumes – Rowan knew what it was to hurt so much, to be so broken and raging and destroyed that you need something, anything to distract you from it. To remind you that you are still alive. But it was a fight that he refused to give to her.

“One, it’s none of your business. And two, I would never stoop so low.” He gave her a sharp, cutting look that told her exactly what he thought of her former profession.

The girl didn’t even flinch. “You know, it might be better if you just slapped me instead.”

“Instead of what?” the violence in his voice was barely controlled.

“Instead of reminding me again and again how rutting worthless and awful and cowardly I am. Believe me, I can do the job well enough on my own. So just hit me, because I’m damned tired of trading insults. And you know what? You didn’t even bother to tell me you’d be unavailable. If you’d said something, I never would have come. I’m sorry I did. But you just left me downstairs.”

Rowan’s wrath hadn’t diminished one bit during the princess’ petty speech, but her final words stopped him dead, erasing the anger with the ease of sweeping away a few cobwebs. You left me.

Rowan had once left a female alone, had abandoned her to danger and death. To face her fate, deserted and forsaken. But this girl had no right to accuse him of abandonment. No right to claim that place. Rowan had no obligation to her, no reason to bring her further into his life. He owed her no explanations, no apologies, and certainly no familiarity.

You left me.

Even so, no matter what he said, no matter how he rationalized, the princess’ accusation wiped him completely clean. In one fell stroke, her words swept through his form like acid and left only the aching, violent emptiness. And the girl was not yet done.

“You left me,” she repeated in a broken whisper, and the screaming began in his head. “I have no one left. No one.”

At that, the emptiness cracked, and out spilled words.

“There is nothing that I can give you.” Rowan said harshly, Lyria’s cries echoing in his head until his very skull was reverberating like the inside of a bell. “Nothing I want to give you. You are not owed an explanation for what I do outside of training. I don’t care what you have been through or what you want to do with your life. The sooner you can sort out your whining and self-pity, the sooner I can be rid of you. You are nothing to me, and I do not care.”

There was a great pause, where the world itself seemed to hang in the balance.

It didn’t matter whether the words were true or not, didn’t matter if he meant them, didn’t matter how much she paled, how shallow her breaths came, how her eyes widened. He said them anyways.

Perhaps he said them to protect himself, to ensure that nothing would ever again enter his heart, would worm its way in only to shatter it once again. Perhaps he wanted to hurt her, to wound her for exposing him to this pain, this agony that he had managed to shield himself from for centuries.

Or maybe it was just to distract himself from the images now flashing before his eyes, the memories he’d tried so hard to banish. A cottage burned up on the crest of a mountain, smoke and embers curling into the clouds above. Arms dug a grave through deep drifts of snow. Blood ran tracks down the backs of his hands.

Perhaps he said them to distract himself from the grief that now tore a hole in his chest, breaking through every wall he’d ever built to contain it.

So Rowan just stood outside the open door to his rooms, waiting for the princess to explode, for her to fight back, as she always had before. For her to rage and shout and use a barrage of insults to break him into a thousand tiny pieces. For her magic to explode out of her in a torrent, burning him alive. He would probably let it.

But the princess was completely still. The gold in her eyes had faded, her bright hair now a dull yellow, the glow of her tan skin replaced by snow and marble. Her face was blank and hollow, yet her features weren’t detached, nor carefully controlled. She wasn’t hiding anything. Rowan’s cruel words had ripped her open and inside she was just…empty.

Rowan looked back at her until he realized that perhaps the girl wasn’t going to fight back, that perhaps he had finally said the right thing, finally fulfilled the task he had been given by his queen. Until he realized that he might have broken the Heir of Fire.

A moment ago, Rowan would have sworn his heart had vanished, had been lost in the wake of the wave of emptiness. But now he could feel it twist and rip in his chest, and he knew it still beat.

Without word or sound, the princess slowly turned and walked away. And with each step, Rowan could taste the fire in her scent waning and flickering, until every single last ember burnt out.

Chapter Text

Rowan returned to his room in a daze, his mouth filled with the taste of dust and ashes. Gavriel was now sitting up on the worktable, cradling the bowl of stew the princess had left, now almost empty, while the loaf of bread had been gnawed down to the crust.

The golden male looked at him slowly, steadily. Instead of returning his gaze, Rowan turned and sat on the bed before his knees gave out beneath him.

“So that was the Heir of Terrasen.”

Gavriel’s voice reached him slowly, as if traveling through a thick fog. “Yes,” Rowan responded plainly. There was no chance in hell that Gavriel hadn’t heard every single word that had passed between them.

“Fenrys mentioned the princess in his letter. Have you…was that – ”

“No.” Rowan collected himself through sheer force of will. “That was nothing. Just an argument – she’s even more difficult than Fenrys was.”

“I find that hard to believe.” Gavriel’s voice lightened somewhat, but there was still an undercurrent of suspicion, of worry. One that Rowan was determined to eliminate.

“I think she’s a punishment from Maeve, and if not her, then the gods. She fights me on everything, questions every word I say. If I told her the sun rose in the east and set in the west, she wouldn’t believe it.” Just keeping his voice even and polite was a massive effort.

Gavriel was silent for a moment. Then he said, hesitantly, “She looked so…familiar. It was strange, almost like – ” the male’s voice cut off abruptly, his lips pursed tight. Rowan caught a quick whiff of something cold and sharp in his warm, nutty scent, perhaps grief – or longing? But then the emotion was once again carefully controlled and concealed, so thoroughly Rowan thought he might have imagined it.

Gavriel shook his head roughly, saying, “It doesn’t matter. Did Maeve say what her intentions were regarding the princess?”

“No. Only that I was to bring her to Doranelle when she proved herself.”

“And how much longer do you expect to be here?”

“Perhaps a few months.”

“So she learns quickly.”

Rowan sighed. “She was already proficient in combat. There were a few complications in teaching her to access her power, but now that she’s gotten through that first stage I expect she’ll progress quickly.”

“Her power is...” Gavriel’s voice trailed off in astonishment.

“I know.” Rowan responded. Even with barely a minute in the girl’s presence, Gavriel already could sense her potential.

“Do you expect that she will join us?”

Rowan shook his head slowly, pursing his lips. “I don’t know.” He paused for a second, looking out the dark window. “I can only suspect what Maeve wants, but the girl has her own agenda.”

“And?”

“And I have no idea what it is, or what she wants. And I don’t particularly give a shit. I’m going to train her and take her to Doranelle as Maeve ordered, then I can be rid of her.” Rowan’s voice was hard, but his throat was tight. And he suspected that the male might have heard the half-truth there.

Gavriel’s face twisted in a frown. “Maeve won’t want to let such a gift escape her grasp, regardless of the girl’s intentions. She must have some kind of plan in place, some kind of leverage she can pull.”

Rowan understood. Although Maeve was powerful enough to confront her enemies solely with brute force, that wasn’t how she preferred to operate. Instead, she manipulated, twisting others into the positions she wants them in.

Gavriel’s voice was dispassionate. “The princess will yield when they meet in Doranelle, and then we will discover Maeve’s purpose with the girl. Perhaps she’s intended to be an agent in the west. Adarlan has become quite the annoyance of late, there’s a chance Maeve wants the girl to go west and claim her throne. We haven’t had a strong ally on that continent for decades now. It makes our western flank weak. And the advantages of having a foreign ruler there to protect our interests must be massive…”

Rowan remained silent, nodding along while Gavriel speculated idly. It was strange to hear someone talk of such things as if they weren’t of monumental significance. As if they were only small shifts, tiny moves on the chessboard of nations.

For some reason, they no longer were for Rowan. For some reason, he couldn’t think about the princess in that way anymore – as only a piece to be moved at the will of other, more powerful players.

“…or maybe she is intended to join us, and Maeve will continue to avoid war and fortify our borders. Either way, the princess will likely prove a great advantage.”

When Rowan didn’t say anything, Gavriel looked at him sternly, though not harshly. It was an examining look, one that questioned and surveyed. In it, Rowan could feel every year of Gavriel’s seniority, each decade of the centuries Rowan had not yet experienced. Though Rowan outranked Gavriel, was second only to Lorcan in their court, in that moment, he didn’t feel it.

Gavriel had always been his sounding board, where he went when he could no longer stand Fenrys’ recklessness, when Lorcan’s misery became too much to bear. But this time the issue was so much less clear, so confusing and incomprehensible that he couldn’t even begin to address it with himself, let alone the male.

So he remained silent, acknowledging Gavriel’s questioning look but refusing to answer it. Gavriel leaned down to place the bowl of stew on the floor, and instead of pushing the issue, accepted Rowan’s refusal. “The night is beginning to wane, and I doubt you still want to be doing this when the sun returns.”

Rowan nodded, moving to sit astride the worktable and picking up the needle and mallet. Gavriel led back down, closed his eyes and once again began his murmured prayers.

It took a while for Rowan to get back into the easy rhythm, for the motions to feel comfortable and familiar again. The moon rose and fell, casting a beam of light that traveled across his bed until it disappeared behind the Cambrian mountains, and all went black. The rain eventually stopped its soft patter against the window, and the silver mists returned.

All the while, Gavriel spoke on behalf of his fallen dead. He pleaded with the gods to take their souls and treat them gently, guiding them into the Afterworld with kindness and tenderness. He told of their great deeds and their mighty worth, until the scent of his grief lessened and wore thin.

Rowan was silent the whole time, his only sounds the soft tap of the mallet and dip in the inkpot. He didn’t join in with the male’s murmured entreaty, but together they grieved through the night. And though their sorrow had completely different causes, the familiar ritual helped to soothe both of their aches until the edges were dull and blunt.

By the time the sun began to rise, the markings were finally done. Rowan began to clear off the table, collecting his needles and pouring the remaining ink on the fire, while Gavriel gingerly pulled his shirt over the fresh tattoo.

Rowan had been wrapped up in his own thoughts, but he thought that perhaps something had shifted in the male through the night. That Gavriel had undergone some change of heart, or realization. But he said nothing, and Rowan didn’t push. He knew he was in no position to ask personal information of anybody.

Rowan kept his face turned towards the back wall, away from the bed where Gavriel was now sitting, strapping on his many weapons. Soon, the male finished readying himself and stood, saying his goodbyes. Rowan mumbled one in return, now mopping up the pools of blood and spilled ink that dotted the surface of the table.

But before leaving, Gavriel hesitated in the doorway, deliberating. “I will see you in a few months Rowan. Until then…” he trailed off. “Just remember that Maeve will use any and all advantages at her disposal, regardless of the consequences. Do not accidentally become that very advantage.”

Before Rowan could protest, Gavriel interrupted again, “I’m not saying I understand whatever your relationship is with the girl. Just don’t let any attachment to her overshadow your duty to your queen. You have your orders, and no matter what she does, the princess cannot avoid the coming meeting.”

Rowan spoke through his teeth. “I know my orders, Gavriel. And as I said last night, the girl is nothing to me.”

“So you say.”

“So it is.”

Gavriel just nodded, backing off and turning to leave the cold stone room. But before he could, Rowan added in a slightly lighter tone, “Farewell Gavriel. And when you see Maeve, tell her…tell her that the princess is learning well, and I expect to return to Doranelle before Samhuinn.”

“I will.” Gavriel dipped his head, and left the room.

···

Gavriel strode through the fortress, lost in thought.

He couldn’t escape the image of the girl, the Princess of Terrasen. It swam before his eyes no matter how hard he tried to eliminate it. He’d spent the whole night consumed by it, haunted by it. While he had been whispering prayers to his lost men, while Rowan had marked his shame and grief on his body, his heart had been vehemently denying the truth that hovered just out of reach.

Those eyes, that face…the girl was a spitting image of the woman he loved.

An Ashryver Princess, a future Queen of Wendlyn. The woman he had left alone nearly twenty-four years ago. Who had decided to banish him from her presence rather than accept that he was blood-sworn to Maeve. He would have followed her to the ends of the earth, would have done anything to protect her. But she didn’t want him to, and so Gavriel had left and not looked back. Never to see her again.

He didn’t know what had happened to her after that, hadn’t wanted to. It hurt too much. But he had heard that shortly after that summer, an Ashryver princess had been married off to the Prince of Terrasen. And within months, had a golden-haired child with extraordinary Fae gifts. Gifts usually never seen among those whose Fae blood was so diluted.

The possibility hovered above him, tantalizing him with its likelihood.

Was that his child sleeping in the fortress above him? His child whose heart beat with fire and power and magic?

As the night had passed, it had gotten harder and harder to deny it. The truth that his heart was telling him. He could have sired a child. A child who thought they’d been abandoned, who was alone and friendless in a world that was crueler than it was kind.

His grief had fled his body, and it took all of his control to hide the anxiety that replaced it. Though Rowan had been distracted by his own pain, Gavriel didn’t want the male taking notice. No one knew about his relationship with the princess that summer, and he had gone to great lengths to keep it that way. He would not fail her now. Though his love was dead, he could not fail her child.

But there was nothing more he could do. Nothing to protect her from the powers that circled, vultures ready to pounce.

Gavriel had heard everything said between Aelin and Rowan, and it worried him. The male had been needlessly cruel, even heartless. But Gavriel knew Rowan, and something had shifted in the male since he’d seen him last. It wasn’t so much that an edge had been softened, more that an edge had been uncovered. That the girl had awoken some part of him that had been sleeping, dreaming of being awake and alive.

Perhaps in another time, in another life, this would have comforted Gavriel. It would have gladdened him to see his old friend begin to heal, to let go. But now, he wasn’t so sure. Especially considering what he had overheard last night, the pain and loneliness they both shared.

And, the girl was fated to face Maeve, to be brought before her and offered up like a pig to slaughter. For Maeve to do with what she would. The idea, the very image of seeing that perfect, golden face kneeling before Maeve was enough for his heart to twist and contort uncomfortably in his chest.

But still, no matter the ramifications of this horrific possibility, Gavriel didn’t want Rowan to do anything stupid. To lose his head, in the face of his melting heart. If he tried to betray their queen, he would fail, and either be punished himself, or send the young woman to death or torture.

The words came to him unasked, unbidden. His daughter.

And they rent him through.

···

Rowan lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, listless and pathetic. The sun had now risen, Mala’s golden light streaming through the window and caressing his icy face. It carried with it a whisper of something, something he couldn’t quite make out. And, like words in another tongue, they sailed past his ears like beautiful nothings.

The whisper of light carried no scent other than that of the dust motes floating through the air, no trace of embers or flame. No trace of the girl’s fiery power.

A power that he’d felt burn out before his very eyes.

He’d spent the whole night denying it, turning to action and repetition to dull the pain and sorrow and regret, but it hadn’t worked. Once Gavriel had walked out that door, it had returned full force.

He couldn’t shake the image of the look on her face, could rid himself of the smell of ashes trailing after her every step. And all the while, the taste of her blood on his lips haunted him, a pale remnant of fire and light and beauty. It stalked him through his dreams, and he couldn’t escape it, no matter how far he flew.

Rowan’s eyelids drooped, his limbs aching with exhaustion from the hours of tattooing, but sleep did not find him. The sun continued to rise until its height could no longer be ignored, and Rowan unwillingly pulled himself from bed and headed towards the kitchens.

As he approached, the lack of sound was deafening. Usually, he could hear the chatter of the boy, Luca, and Emrys’ soft responses and quiet laughter. Occasionally, Rowan even heard short comments from the girl. And even on days when the work was heavy, and talk scarce, you could always hear the sounds of movement, of the hustle that was demanded by the requirements of feeding dozens of people each and every day. But this morning, it was near-silent.

When he reached the kitchen doorway, Rowan found the large room empty save for Emrys, who was sitting quietly at a table, cradling a mug of tea. He looked up at Rowan, and his eyes were bright with tears. When the old male’s scent reached him, it was heavy with sorrow. Something had happened.

Rowan honestly didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to ask. Didn’t want to find out the state the girl had been when she arrived that morning, didn’t want to know what she might have told the old male.

It didn’t matter. Because either way, the princess was nowhere to be seen. And he couldn’t sense her anywhere else in the fortress either. Even if she had only left to go on a walk, and was intending on returning, she was supposed to be here. Rowan was going to have to track her down.

He felt a quick rush of relief at the thought. The girl had left again, and so for a little while longer at least, Rowan didn’t have to face what he’d said yesterday. He had the excuse of dragging the princess back to the fortress to avoid whatever other, more personal confrontation threatened.

Rowan took a step towards the back door, nodding a greeting at Emrys, so lost in his own thoughts that he didn’t notice the old male carefully considering him until he spoke up.

“What are you doing?” Emrys asked flatly.

“What?” Rowan’s eyes narrowed. The old male looked him up and down, studying him with a practiced eye. And though the steel in Rowan’s gaze was undiminished, the demi-Fae did not shirk from his gaze.

 “To that girl. What are you doing that makes her come in here with such emptiness in her eyes?” Emrys’ voice wasn’t rude or confrontational – he wasn’t seeking to challenge Rowan. But it still rang with a quiet, unshakable authority that set him on edge.

“That’s none of your concern.”

Emrys pressed his lips into a tight line, unwilling to back down. “What do you see when you look at her, Prince?”

He didn’t know. These days, he didn’t know a damn thing. “That’s none of your concern, either.”

Emrys ran a hand over his weathered face. “I see her slipping away, bit by bit, because you shove her down when she so desperately needs someone to help her back up.”

“I don’t see why I would be of any use to – ”

“Did you know that Evalin Ashryver was my friend? She spent almost a year working in this kitchen – living here with us, fighting to convince your queen that demi-Fae have a place in your realm. She fought for our rights until the very day she departed this kingdom – and the many years after, until she was murdered by those monsters across the sea. So I knew. I knew who her daughter was the moment you brought her into this kitchen. All of us who were here twenty-five years ago recognized her for what she is.”

Rowan blinked, the only sign of his shock. Emrys and Malakai had known the whole time, they had known that he was lying, had known that the girl he was training was the Heir of Terrasen, was Evalin Ashryver’s daughter. All those overheard conversations, that quiet concern – it wasn’t just the affection of an affectionate male, but the anxiety that arose from real connection. Rowan could only stare.

Emrys continued, his eyes intent. “She has no hope, Prince. She has no hope left in her heart. Help her. If not for her sake, then at least for what she represents – what she could offer all of us, you included.”

“And what is that?” the question was almost earnest.

Emrys’ response was soft. “A better world.”

···

Rowan had left without another word, fleeing Emrys’ determined stare. Taking to the skies, his only respite from a world filled with people and their useless talk.

Now he flew high above the fortress, fiercely driving through the silver mists, water droplets coating his feathers with their icy touch. But he barely took notice of them, barely took notice of anything as the old male’s words resounded in his head, bouncing off his skull and rattling his bones.

Shove her down, Slipping away, Such emptiness, No hope.

She has no hope in her heart.

He couldn’t escape them, couldn’t dodge them. They stuck to his feathers like tar, heavy and molten and sweltering, and the cold wind made not one bit of difference.

What are you doing? What are you doing? What are you doing?

Rowan did not know.

The taste of the girl’s blood echoed in his mouth, mocking him. And the fiery taste brought with it more words, more memories, more icy shame in his gut.

Spineless, Pathetic, Cowardly.

Worthless.

All so completely untrue.

He’d known they were, had begun to confront the truth of her pain, of his cruelty. But knowing and understanding were completely different things. Being confronted with his misjudgment had shaken something loose in Rowan, had forced him to acknowledge the truth of the princess, and how horribly he had wronged her.

She was a girl who was alone, who was in pain. Who thought she’d found someone who knew the truth of her and didn’t hate her for it, but then found herself mistaken.

She was his mirror.

His equal.

And he’d rejected her. Had clung to his solitude and hatred and pain instead of choosing something better. Something that felt like hope.

But it was a fragile, death-marked hope. A hope that would soon be brought to keel at Maeve’s feet. To be destroyed forever.

Rowan’s chest constricted, the image of him guiding Aelin through the streets of Doranelle, alone and powerless, enough to twist in his gut like a knife. To be the destroyer of that hope…it was a deed he would not come back from. That he could not come back from.

Now it was Gavriel’s words that echoed in his head. The princess will yield when they meet in Doranelle.

No.

He could not allow it. In the deepest, darkest part of his blackened heart, he could not allow it. She would fight, and he would help her. Die with her, if necessary. Die as he should have for Lyria, all those centuries ago. Die protecting hope, instead of destroying it.

And Aelin would fight as well, would fight until her last breath because that was who she was. She already was asking questions about Maeve, searching for any weaknesses. Not that Emrys had given her any.

A memory crashed through him with the force of a lightning strike.

Suddenly, Rowan knew. He understood what Mala had whispered on his skin that morning. He remembered.

A millennia ago, a warrior had stolen Maeve’s heart. A warrior named Athril, dearest of Brannon and beloved of Maeve, the Queen of the Fae. A warrior who had killed demons and darkness and fought in the wars that helped to found this world and forge it anew. A warrior who had intended to give Maeve a ring.

His queen had never known where Athril’s ring and Brannon’s sword had disappeared after their deaths. But Rowan did.

He just needed to find a way to get them to the princess without having to explain, without pressing at the limitations of the blood oath. He couldn’t outright betray his queen, couldn’t just give weapons to her enemies without consequences.

But perhaps there was a way for him to achieve two of his goals at once, to subtly put the ring in the princess’ hands, while also teaching her to control her power. Aelin had always been best motivated when other people’s interests were at stake. Now all Rowan had to do was find some motivation.

···

An hour or so later, Rowan was flying back through the icy mist, searching for the golden princess. She had walked for miles through the oaken woods, up through the mountains and along a tree-lined shore of secluded lake that now glared white-bright in the early afternoon sunlight.

She was curled in on herself, shaking from the force of her sobs, her shoulders thin and tight. Rowan waited for her to calm before swooping down and shifting to sit beside her. As he drew closer, he was relieved to taste the barest hint of flame beneath the sea of ash, a pale trace of hope.

She raised her head to look out across the rippling water, but didn’t acknowledge his presence in any other way. Tears glistened in tracks down her cheeks.

“You want to talk about it?” he asked, his voice as soft as it had ever been.

“No.” She swallowed hard, then yanked a handkerchief from her pocket and blew her nose. They were silent for a moment, the only sound the soft lapping of the water on the shore. A soft, peaceful place.

Rowan breathed, and rallied. “Good. Because we’re going.”

“Bastard.” She cursed at him, but it was without much heat. “Going where?”

Rowan turned to look at the princess. Her eyes were bright again, the gold molten and swirling beneath the glazed surface of her recently shed tears. Almost like a frozen-over lake, where the force of the water was barely contained by a thin sheet of ice. Ready to break free.

Rowan smiled at her. “I think I’ve started to figure you out, Aelin Galathynius.”

Chapter Text

Aelin was quiet through the long walk up the side of the mountain, not speaking a word of complaint as they climbed higher and higher, the trees fading into mounds of lichen-covered rock, which soon were covered by snow and ice as they approached the crest of the snow-capped peak of Bald Mountain.

But before they’d have to start clambering through snow drifts, Rowan turned, delving southwest, where the gaping maw of a massive cave lay hidden.

“What in every burning ring of hell are we doing here?” Aelin asked as the cave came into view. Her tone was derisive, but the effect of her scorn was somewhat lost in the sound of her out-of-breath panting.

Rowan ignored the question, instead striding through the entrance of the cave and saying, “Hurry up.” The hike had taken them longer than he had thought it would, and he was starting to get just a little bit worried.

Rowan had to hold in a grimace as he strode through the darkness. The cavern smelled horrible, of mold and rust and rotting things. But he kept his path straight, heading towards the lake he knew waited for them, his icy power keeping its surface frozen solid.

Though his steps were quiet, the ground was rocky, littered with small stones worn smooth by water, and the sound of his feet on the loose rock echoed unnervingly. Especially since the stones weren’t the only obstacles that lay before them. The cave was also strewn with rusted weapons, armor, and clothes. Relics left by Fae long since dead.

Fae such as Brannon of the Wildfire, and Athril the Healer.

It was Emrys’ stories that had reminded him, that had shown him the answer. Rowan didn’t know when he had first heard the tale of Maeve and her love, the story of her great tragedy. But he did remember the day he learned the lie at its heart.

The tale told throughout the land was that Athril, beloved of the dark queen, had died in obscurity, in some long-forgotten conflict. But that was untrue. Maeve had killed Athril. Killed him for spite or hate or some hidden strategy, Rowan did not know. But she had killed him, forcing Brannon to flee these lands with his sword, Goldryn, and Athril’s family ring. But he did not cross the ocean with them.

Brannon escaped Doranelle, traversed the mountain paths and even passed through Mistward itself. But when he arrived at the fortress, he came empty-handed, the only explanation being that he’d abandoned the sword and ring somewhere between Doranelle and Mistward.

Maeve had no idea where Brannon had left them, though she had searched high and low. Searched through the long years, until decades became centuries. But Rowan knew. Or at least, he thought he did.

Goldryn and the ring lay among the weapons beneath Bald Mountain, where Athril had once carved out the eye of a great water-demon. It was a story no one else knew, a story his mother had once told him. The story of Athril and Brannon and the lake-monster.

Maeve didn’t like tales of Brannon, kept them from being told within her borders. So Rowan’s mother had whispered it in secret, beneath the bedcovers and behind closed doors. It had been one of his favorites.

Rowan had always liked tales of Brannon, of his fire and his fierce heart. Just as he had always loved Mala, Rowan had wanted to grow up to be exactly like the ferocious Fae warrior. But Maeve hated Brannon, had raised up a city of water and stone as protection against him. Protection against Brannon’s wrath from murdering his beloved friend.

It had taken Emrys’ reminder to connect the dots, to realize that the only plausible resting place for Goldryn and the ring was this cave. The cave where the lake-monster had once dwelt, slain long ago by Brannon and Athril.

Rowan walked briskly through the darkness, Aelin staggering after him. Soon, his eyes adjusted and a figure came into view across the frozen expanse of the ancient lake. A figure he had left chained there barely an hour before.

“Tell me I’m hallucinating.” Aelin’s tone was hard, unyielding.

Sitting on a blanket in the center of the lake, the chains around his wrists anchored under the ice, was Luca.

Aelin’s motivation, and her distraction.

Luca’s chains clanked as he raised a hand in greeting. “I thought you’d never show. I’m freezing,” he called, and tucked his hands back under his arms.

“What is this place?” Aelin asked.

“Go get him,” Rowan answered.

“Are you out of your mind?”

He only smiled. Rowan could feel the heat of Aelin’s fury from nearly five feet away. She stepped toward the ice, but he blocked her path before she could get any farther. “In your other form.”

“He doesn’t know what I am,” she murmured, still looking out towards the boy. A small curl of fear and shame wafted from her.

After all these weeks, she still feared her other form. Had learned to hate it. What had happened to her in Adarlan?

“You’ve been living in a fortress of demi-Fae, you know. He won’t care.”

Aelin clenched her jaw and turned to face Rowan, anger once again overpowering all other emotion in her scent. “How dare you drag him into this?”

“You dragged him in yourself when you insulted him – and Emrys. The least you can do is retrieve him.” A convenient excuse.

While Rowan had hauled Luca up the mountain, the boy had explained what’d happened in the kitchens that morning. The princess had been primed to snap, but still, Rowan couldn’t help wondering what an Eyllwe knife meant to her, why it had broken her from her slim mask of control and caused her to explode on the three demi-Fae males. It didn’t matter though; Rowan would’ve used Luca for this regardless. Making things up to the boy was just another motivating force he could try to pull in his favor.

Before the princess could retort, Luca interrupted. “I hope you brought snacks! I’m starving. Hurry up, Elentiya. Rowan said you had to do this as part of your training, and …” the prattle continued but Rowan shut it out, focusing his gaze on Aelin.

She was hesitating. Finding a way to justify, to avoid having to confront her identity. Not only as an Heir, but also as Fae. Still, she clung to the guise of pure humanity.

“What is the gods-damned point of this? Just punishment for acting like an ass?”

Rowan almost flinched. If anyone deserved punishment, it was he. “You can control your power in human form – keep it dormant. But the moment you switch, the moment you get agitated or angry or afraid, the moment you remember how much your power scares you, your magic rises up to protect you. It doesn’t understand that you are the source of those feelings, not some external threat. When there is an outside threat, when you forget to fear your power long enough, you have control. Or some control.” He pointed at Luca. “So free him.”

As he spoke, the anger leeched out of her scent, replaced by a fear so strong, so deep-seated and visceral, Rowan was surprised her knees weren’t shaking.

“What happens to Luca if I fail?”

“He’ll be very cold and very wet. And possibly die.” Rowan smiled at her. Making her think that he would actually let the boy come to harm. He might let them fall in, but he would never let the boy drown. Emrys and Malakai would kill him.

“Were the chains really necessary? He’ll go right to the bottom.” Her voice was faint. Aelin turned to look out over the icy expanse, her eyes surveying Luca and his chains. Then, she held out her hand expectantly, silently asking for the key.

Rowan shook his head, there was no key. She would have to melt the chains, or break through the ice. “Control is your key. And focus. Cross the lake, then figure out how to free him without drowning the both of you.”

Aelin nearly snarled, baring her teeth. “Don’t give me a lesson like you’re some mystical-nonsense master! This is the stupidest thing I have ever had to – ”

“Hurry,” Rowan interrupted with a wolfish grin, sending out a tendril of his power to weaken the ice ever so slightly. It groaned loudly, and Aelin flinched, her eyes widening.

“You are a bastard.” She stared him down, as if resolving to make his life a living hell. Rowan’s grim smile didn’t shift one inch. If this worked, he would take whatever she threw at him.

Then Aelin transformed, the change quicker and more in control with each time she shifted. She blinked through the discomfort, then scowled at Rowan, saying, “It gives me comfort to know that people like you have a special place in hell waiting for them.”

“Tell me something I don’t already know.”

Aelin just turned, giving him a particularly vulgar gesture as she took her first cautious step onto the ice.

Though Rowan was confident she wasn’t going to fall through, he strengthened the ice beneath her feet, creating an ironclad path between her and Luca. But before turning to begin his search for the ring and sword, Rowan hesitated, watching as she placed foot after tentative foot on the thin layer of his magic.

The Heir of Fire walked above the frozen lake, striding over the clear ice in an image straight from a fireside tale. An ember dancing atop the still water, a lick of flame burning in the deep dark.

As she drew farther and farther away from the shore, her terror swelled, and her power grew right alongside it. Until the layer of ice began to shudder and groan under the pressure from her magic.

And Rowan let it, let the ice crack and spiderweb beneath her feet. Allowing it to complain just enough for her to be forced to reign in her own power. For her to have to find the control to prevent an icy plunge.

“Stop it,” she hissed at Rowan.

Aelin took another tentative step, and the ice cracked again. Rowan could feel the ice melting, could feel her blistering heat like a bonfire in the middle of the lake, beginning to carve its way through the thin barrier between her body and the icy water below.

“Elentiya?” Luca asked, worry coating his voice. Despite his original intentions, Rowan began strengthening the ice, the tension forcing him to wield his magic. But then Aelin began to breathe, slow and deep and even.

Her hands clenched, her muscles tensing, and Rowan could feel the heat slowly fading. Just enough to allow the ice beneath her feet to re-freeze, leaving it white and cloudy. But panic still clouded her scent with its copper tang, and her magic still writhed in a great cloud around her.

Aelin slid one foot forwards, slowly, hesitantly. A soft humming sound emanated from her closed lips, a lovely, lilting tune. At first it seemed to calm her, but then her advance slowed until it stopped completely. And she stood, staring at the ice as if it were her worst enemy, as if it was everything she feared in this world.

“Elentiya?” Luca’s voice was even more anxious.

Aelin’s magic flickered in response, expanding once again until a violent crack splintered through the air, echoing off the walls of the cave.

Worry curled in Rowan’s gut, but his voice was steady as he said, “You are in control now.” He took a step closer to her, once again strengthening the path between her and Luca. “You are its master.”

Aelin took another step, and the ice cracked again. “You are the keeper of your own fate,” Rowan said, his voice soft.

Even if he didn’t understand why she feared herself so, why she hated her magic when couldn’t even imagine not loving his, Rowan knew what it was to not be in control. He understood how it felt to be helpless before the plots and desires of others. To have forces out of your control shape your life regardless of want or will.

Aelin hummed some more, and the flame receded. Rowan could feel the heat dissipate from the surface of the ice, could feel her magic spooling back into her form until its pressure had almost completely withdrawn.

Aelin’s advance quickened, becoming steady and confident. Rowan barely held in a triumphant smile.

He turned away from the princess, who he was now sure would make it across the frozen lake without incident, and strode along the shore, his eyes flicking over the stony expanse, searching intently.

It had to be here, it just had to be…

Rowan carefully catalogued each of the blades resting on the beach, and then dismissed them. None were of fine enough make to be the sword he sought. He looked out over the clear water, where he could see the metallic glints that indicated that many more blades lay at the bottom of the lake. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

Rowan could hear the princess and the boy talking quietly from the center of the lake, along with the clatter of chains as Luca shifted on the ice. Rowan thought he could feel Aelin’s anger from all the way on the other side of the cave.

Rowan turned back to the shore, glancing over the weapons he had already dismissed, and then looked up to examine the cave wall. And there it was, a small crevice concealing the object of his search – a sword with a golden hilt and a ruby the size of a chicken’s egg on the pommel, with a plain gold ring hidden just beneath the scabbard.

The objects that were Aelin’s only chance of walking out of Doranelle free and unharmed.

Rowan reached into the crevice and removed the ancient blade, almost marveling at the power he could feel curling from it, a golden mist of ageless force.

But before he could properly examine the exquisite sword, Rowan felt Aelin begin to reach for her magic once more, pulling out a small, burning thread. He turned back to face the frozen lake just as the ice splintered around them, and Luca yelped in surprise.

“Control,” Rowan barked at Aelin, while reaching within, readying his own power to rescue the pair of them from the icy water if necessary. But Aelin remained in control, and a small hole melted where her palm had been.

She took several long breaths, and then rallied once more, drawing out a tiny thread of power and using it to burrow into the ice. There was a clank of metal, a hiss of steam, and then –

“Oh, thank the gods,” Luca moaned, and hauled the length of chain out of the hole, while Aelin closed her eyes and pulled her magic back into her body, slowly wrapping it around the invisible spool deep in her chest until the world was cold and empty once more.

“Please tell me you brought food,” Luca whined.

“Is that why you came? Rowan promised you snacks?” Aelin’s voice was bitter, but her ire wasn’t directed at the boy. Rowan wondered if they would even make it to the trees before Aelin started yelling at him for this one. But it had been worth it, so worth it – on both counts.

“I’m a growing boy.” Luca grumbled, then winced as he glanced at Rowan. “And you don’t say no to him.”

Rowan almost winced himself. Now he definitely could feel Aelin’s fury pressing in on him, burning cinders and grinding pepper. It choked in his throat.

But then, before he could so much as flinch, Aelin’s scent shifted. Copper and ash coated his throat as Aelin’s fear exploded from her in a great torrent, and Rowan froze on the shore, a hundred yards away and completely unable to help as a bright red eye peeked through the hole Aelin had made in the ice, violence and death and hate leeching from it like poisoned wine.

Aelin cursed violently, her hand pressing against Luca’s small form. “Get off the ice now,” she breathed, her body still as she fought to control the fear that coursed through her blood.

Rowan breathed, eyes wide and muscles tense as he did exactly the same, drawing his sword in one hand and clutching Goldryn in the other.

That creature was not supposed to be here. The cave was supposed to be empty, the monster long since dead, killed by Athril and Brannon centuries ago. But here it was, ancient and furious and filled with such violent malevolence it was a wonder how it remained so still and quiet when all it wanted was to rip and tear and roar.

“Holy gods,” Luca whispered, “What is that?”

“Shut up and go,” Aelin hissed, slowly standing from her crouch before the hole.

But the boy still didn’t move. “Now, Luca,” Rowan growled.

Rowan ached to run onto the ice, to get between the princess and the monster, but he couldn’t move, could do nothing at all. If he ran out there, he would just put more stress on the ice, and make it all the more likely that the creature would break through and send them all tumbling into the freezing depths together.

The creature drew still closer to Aelin and Luca, its massive white teeth gleaming in the faint light, it red eye glowing with an ageless fury. And Rowan could only stand on the shore and hold the ice in place, a bridge back to land and out of the dark cave.  

Rowan sent his power towards them, strengthening and thickening the ice that connected them to the shore. But the consequence of shifting the focus of his magic was that the rest of the ice covering the lake began to weaken under the pressure of the shifting water. It was a risk he would have to take.

“Don’t look down,” Aelin said, then gave the boy a shove. “Go.”

Luca finally began to shuffle down the path of ice, moving slowly backwards, looking towards where Aelin still stood motionless. Towards the creature that now hovered only a few feet below her. But Aelin did not move.

Rowan wanted to shout at her, to demand that she flee, but he understood. The princess was letting the boy get ahead, was guarding his back. Rowan almost cursed himself. The princess didn’t even have a weapon, and still she waited, curbing her terror, to protect the boy he had so recklessly endangered.

“Faster,” Rowan growled at Luca, who was only halfway to the shore. Aelin still wasn’t moving.

The lake-monster floated even higher, and now Rowan could see every detail of its mutilated face, of its massive, scaled body. Not a dragon or wyvern or serpent, but some monstrous creature in between. A creature even Brannon of the Wildfire had failed to kill. And Aelin still hadn’t moved.

Rowan almost shouted again, but then she finally broke into a shuffle. But before she could make it more than three steps, a bone-white flash snapped up through the depths, twisting like a striking asp.

It was the creature’s long tail, and it whipped against the thin layer of ice with the force of a storm-driven rockfall.

Rowan kept it together through sheer force of will, his muscles straining as the magic took its toll. The surface of the lake rippled and arched, but the icy bridge did not break.

Aelin fell to her knees as the world bounced. Then scrambled, frantically forcing down her own magic as she lurched to the side to avoid the scaled head that hurtled towards the ice just beneath her feet. And once again, the surface quaked.

Rowan’s muscles tensed as he contained the force of the creature’s massive body, his iron will facing the monster’s ancient strength. Sweat began to drip into his eyes, and he blinked it away furiously.

Rowan could feel little pieces of ice breaking off at the edges while he focused on maintaining the ice that protected them from the monster. But no matter how much he pushed, how tightly he wove his magic, those cracks drew ever closer. Invisible tendrils caused by stress. Inevitable and inescapable. A ticking clock.

“Weapon,” Aelin gasped, and Rowan slid Goldryn across the bridge, propelling the blade towards her on a brisk wind. “Hurry,” he growled at Aelin, drawing his hatchet to replace the lost weapon. If this came to a fight, no matter her skill with a blade, she could not win. And she would drown in the icy water if he couldn’t keep the ice intact.

Aelin scooped up the weapon, swiftly unsheathing the sword and wielding it comfortably in her right hand. But as she freed the blade, Athril’s ring fell onto the ice at her feet. Before Rowan could curse through the struggle of holding the ice in place, Aelin leaned down, grabbed the ring, pocketed it, and ran. Just as the creature’s tail whipped up once again and the ice shuddered.

Except this time, the princess didn’t fall, gracefully sinking onto her haunches to offset the motion of the bucking surface. But Luca did, slipping on the slick surface and landing on his face, motionless.

Aelin didn’t wait for the surface to steady, instead running to protect the vulnerable Luca. She reached the boy in a few more heartbeats and hauled him up, gripping him tightly as she continued their frantic flight, just as the creature began to pound away at the ice, the bridge lifting and stretching again and again and again.

Rowan strained, sweat dripping down his face, his power leeching away as he fought back the immense force of the creature’s massive body.

And then enormous talons joined the tail, gouging deep lines into the rapidly weakening ice. It was all Rowan could do to keep the path between him and Aelin intact, the bridge narrowing and thinning until it was only a slim barrier that melted behind Aelin’s pounding feet like a rippling cape.

The seconds passed like hours until finally, finally, they reached the shore and Rowan could let go, and the ice exploded in a shower of freezing water.

They were now all on dry ground, but they were far from safety. The creature could likely move on land, could pursue them out of the cave and down the mountainside. Their blades were barely toothpicks to a creature so large, and now that the ice was gone, so was their thin layer of protection from those claws and tail and teeth.

So Aelin did not stop, hauling the boy over the rocks and towards the cave entrance where they could just see the pale light of day flickering through the darkness. But before Rowan turned and fled with them, he caught a glimpse the monster trying to crawl onto the shore, its one red eye wild with hunger, its massive teeth promising a brutal, violent death.

And they were running, sprinting out of the darkness and down the side of the mountain, Aelin barely a few feet ahead of him as she dodged rocks and trees, stumbling under the weight of the boy in her arms.

Rowan stayed behind, his sword and hatchet still drawn, guarding their backs just as Aelin had done earlier. They hit the murky trees, leaving the rocky paths behind, and then –

A roar shook the stones and sent the birds scattering into the air. But it was a roar of rage and hunger, not of triumph. Rowan turned to look back up at the cave on the crest of the hill, and saw the swish of a tail, the glint of scales.

After millennia in the watery dark, the monster could not withstand the sunshine.

But Rowan did not relax as he turned and sprinted down through the forest, following after the princess and her young charge as they fled down the mountainside and towards the fortress that was their only protection when night fell.

···

Aelin didn’t slow her relentless pace the whole way down the mountainside. Rowan spent the whole time silently cursing himself.

You complete gods-damned fucking idiot. Gods. Fuck.

He’d almost lost both of them, Aelin and Luca. And if he had, it would’ve been entirely his fault. He’d left Luca alone in the cave for over an hour for godssake. If the monster had come then, if it had been a bit quicker…Gods help him. You fucking idiot.

And Aelin…she had barely escaped with her life. She’d stayed behind, to protect the child he’d endangered in his reckless folly, and nearly been killed herself. If she had died there…Rowan didn’t let the thought complete in his mind. It would have been an undoing of all he had tried to achieve. The hope he tried to foster.

Once Mistward was in sight, Aelin practically threw Luca down the slope, shouting at him to keep his mouth shut about what happened in the cave. Rowan halted a few steps behind her, panting.

She waited until Luca had disappeared into the underbrush, then turned, throwing Goldryn to the ground and snarled at him. “I will kill you.”

Then she launched herself at him.

He dodged her assault automatically. Even in her Fae form, he was faster than her, and instead of slamming into him, she ran headfirst into the tree at his back. But he didn’t have time to get much farther than a step away, and now she was close, too close.

Aelin whirled and lunged once again, teeth bared, and he was trapped between her and an oaken bough. She grabbed him by the front of his jacket and slammed her fist into his face.

Rowan snarled as the pain lanced through his jaw, and threw her roughly to the ground, the breath whooshing out of her. Even so, triumph lined her face, wicked pleasure joining the fury in her scent despite the blood choking her throat and dripping from her nose. Rowan moved to pounce on her chest, but before he could pin her to the ground, Aelin got her legs around him and shoved.

Surprise and fury wiped away the remains of shame and guilt as Rowan lay on his back in the dirt, immobilized by the assassin with ease. There weren’t many Fae that could get the drop on Rowan, and though Aelin had been well-trained, he hadn’t thought that she might be one of them. She moved with a fluid ease, like a snake, or a water-reed. Born and bred for combat. If he hadn’t been so furious, he might have marveled.

Her thighs crushed into his sides as she slammed her fist into his head again, pounding at his tattoo.

“If you ever again bring someone else into this,” she punched him again, mangling the marks still further, “If you ever endanger anyone else the way you did today …” her blood splattered onto his face, joining his own. “I will kill you.”

Rowan had gone still, had stopped fighting. He deserved it. Deserved far worse than a beating for all he had done in this life.

Another strike. “I will rip out your rutting throat.” Aelin bared her canines. “You understand?”

Rowan turned his head to spit out a mouthful of blood. His cheekbones ached. He knew he would have to fix the damage to his tattoo in the morning. And that, more than anything else, had Rowan’s fury pushing back through the apathy, his blood roaring.

It took him a moment to notice, but then he felt Aelin’s power surge. She turned inwards to fight it back down, and Rowan lunged, flipping them over on the grass until she was pinned beneath him.

Rowan spoke without thinking, “I will do whatever I please.”

“You will keep other people out of it!” she screamed, so loudly that the birds stopped chattering. “No one else!”

She thrashed against him, grabbing at his wrists. Her power broke its leash and began burning his arms like hot irons. Though her fingers crisped his skin, his flesh blistering through his burnt shirt, Rowan made no move to remove her hands.

She was too far gone to even notice. The terror of their flight, and then the anger and release of their short brawl had unleashed something in Aelin. Something teased at the edges, aching to be let go. And Rowan wanted to hear it, wanted to understand.

“Tell me why, Aelin.”

“Because I am sick of it!” Air rasped down her lungs, the words escaping her body like uncaged birds. Frantic and desperate and wild.

“I told her I would not help, so she orchestrated her own death. Because she thought …” She laughed, a horrible, painful sound. “She thought that her death would spur me into action. She thought I could somehow do more than her – that she was worth more dead. And she lied – about everything. She lied to me because I was a coward, and I hate her for it. I hate her for leaving me.”

The words barely made sense, but as she spoke them, Aelin’s fury leeched from her, a wave falling back into the sea. She let go of his scorched wrists, though Rowan made no move to get off her.

“Please,” she begged. “Please don’t bring anyone else into it. I will do anything you ask of me. But that is my line. Anything else but that.”

Rowan looked at her pain-wracked face, those golden eyes lined with silver, and slowly, he let go of her arms, his wrists screaming in pain.

He had once thought this girl heartless. A killer. Thought her spoiled and cowardly and spineless.

“How did she die?” Rowan asked, peeling away from her still form, the space between them now a tangible thing.

Her words were cold. “She manipulated a mutual acquaintance into thinking he needed to kill her in order to further his agenda. He hired an assassin, made sure I wasn’t around, and had her murdered.”

“What happened to the two men?” a wry question.

“The assassin I hunted down and left in pieces in an alleyway. And the man who hired him …” Aelin paused, a ghost of memory haunting her face. “I gutted him and dumped his body in a sewer.”

His eyes didn’t leave hers. “Good.”

Good that they had died, good that justice had been served.

But more than that – good that Aelin was the same, that she fought the same monsters, that the same darkness writhed beneath her skin. Good that he wasn’t wrong about her, not a second time. She was his reflection, she was his mirror.

The prince and the assassin, the warrior and the embers.

She stared back at him, and then finally seemed to take in the damage she’d done to his body – her eyes settling on the handprint shaped burns on his forearms.

She stood, her eyes wide and her scent filling with remorse. “I am…so sorry – ” she started, but Rowan held up a hand.

“You do not apologize,” he said, “for defending the people you care about.”

Rowan stood as well, wincing slightly as he flexed his arms. Aelin strode over to where she had abandoned Goldryn and picked it up, saying, “I’m keeping the sword.”

Rowan pursed his lips at her demanding tone, “You haven’t earned it.” No Fae he trained was allowed their own weapons until they were deemed worthy of possessing them.

But then Rowan reconsidered. It would be far more difficult for him to give her the sword later than to let her take it now. The blood oath wouldn’t let him unless he found some way to subvert his intentions. For as long as he intended it as a weapon against Maeve, he couldn’t give it to Aelin outright.

So, though it went against every rule of training he held, Rowan let her keep it. “Consider this a favor. Leave it in your rooms when we’re training.”

Aelin turned her head to look back up the mountain, her brow furrowing. “What if that thing tracks us to the fortress once darkness falls?”

“Even if it does, it can’t get past the wards.”

Aelin just raised her brows in confusion.

“The stones around the fortress have a spell woven between them to keep out enemies. Even magic bounces off it.”

“Oh,” she replied simply, and they began to walk back to the fortress.

“You know,” she said slyly after a few moments of silence, “that’s twice now you’ve made a mess of my training with your tasks. I’m fairly sure that makes you the worst instructor I’ve ever had.”

Rowan gave her a sidelong look. “I’m surprised it took you this long to call attention to it.”

Aelin snorted, and while she didn’t smile exactly, her lips twitched and her expression became warm and open. Though they were both complete wrecks, aching and limping and blood dripping from their faces, the air between them was light, peaceful. And after all that had happened between them, both this afternoon and last night and every night before then, Rowan could still make her smile.

Chapter Text

Before they even made it over the threshold of the kitchen door, Emrys was upon them. “I’ve never seen such a sorry sight,” the old male hissed. “Blood and dirt and leaves over every inch of you both.”

He wasn’t wrong. And Emrys seemed to sense an easy victory. Their confrontation earlier had apparently only emboldened him. Not that Rowan was going to challenge the old male – Rowan deserved what he got. Not only for endangering all of them this afternoon, but for what he’d said to Aelin last night, what he’d said to her these past weeks.

Rowan could see Luca huddled by the fire, and the boy seemed alright. There wasn’t any visible damage anyways, and that was enough for Rowan. He wondered if the boy had told Emrys and Malakai about what had happened. He doubted it – Emrys was upset, but not that upset.

“No better than alley cats, brawling at all hours of the day and night,” the old male said, slamming two bowls of stew onto the worktable which Rowan sat before without a word of protest. “Eat, both of you. And then get cleaned up. Elentiya, you’re off kitchen duty tonight and tomorrow.”

Aelin was still standing in the entryway, and she seemed like she was about to protest, but Emrys held out a hand to stop her. “I don’t want you bleeding on everything. You’ll be more trouble than you’re worth.”

Rowan was already digging in to the warm stew. Perhaps it was just because of the near-death experience, or the burns currently throbbing on his arms, but it tasted even better than usual. Rich and tender and delectable.

Aelin sat next to him on the bench, swearing viciously, her face scrunched up in pain and anger. Rowan clenched his jaw. He couldn’t tell if the curses were from pain or irritation at Emrys’ declaration or if they were directed towards himself.

She stretched her right leg, wincing and cursing again. That had been the leg he’d kicked. A small measure of shame stole through him. It didn’t matter whether the curses were from pain or not – they were definitely for him.

“Clean out your mouth, too, while you’re at it,” Emrys snapped from the hearth.

A moment passed while Aelin seemed to settle into the bench, still wincing and looking at Emrys and Malakai as if she was planning on biting their heads off. Then she began to eat, and shifted back into her human form.

Emrys approached bearing a loaf of bread, saying, “Makes no difference to me whether your ears are pointy or round, or what your teeth look like. But,” he added, looking at Rowan, “I can’t deny I’m glad to see you got in a few punches this time.”

Rowan snapped his head up, meeting the old male’s gaze. His eyes seemed to say, You deserved far worse for what you’ve done to that child these past weeks.

Emrys’ voice was hard, but not cruel. More...stern, as he said, “Don’t you think you’ve had enough of beating each other into a pulp?”

Malakai stiffened, but Emrys went on in spite of his mate’s obvious anxiety. “What good does it accomplish, other than providing me with a scullery maid whose face scares the wits out of our sentries? You think any of us like to hear you two cursing and screaming every afternoon? The language you use is enough to curdle all the milk in Wendlyn.”

The atmosphere in the kitchen was tense, and Rowan knew they were all expecting him to be furious, to react in some way to the challenge the old male was setting. To lash out.

Instead, Rowan just lowered his head and mumbled an apology into his stew.

Surprise, and wicked amusement flashed through Aelin’s scent. Rowan almost thought he saw her lips curl into a fierce grin out of the corner of his eyes. But before he could glance up and confirm the look, Aelin stood and walked over to kneel at the old male’s feet.

She apologized profusely, to Emrys, Luca, and Malakai. For disrespecting their kindness, for hurting them with her careless words, for walking out on them that morning. Shame wafted through her scent, riddling it through with its noxious reek.

Malakai and Luca quietly muttered their acceptance, though Emrys only nodded. He was still wary. Hurt even. The grief from that morning had not yet left him, and though he had clearly forgiven her, it would be a while before everything was alright once more.

Emrys lowered his hand to help her from her crouch, saying, “I accept your apology, Elentiya. And I know you mean it, because I know who you are. All the elder Fae here do, for we knew your mother. She worked here in her youth. Fighting to convince the Fae of Doranelle that the demi-Fae should have a place in their realm.”

Aelin kept very still as Emrys spoke, and unlike Rowan, she didn’t seem all that surprised by the revelation. Though she was obviously discomforted by it, as she always was by the truth of her identity.

They ate the rest of their dinner in near-silence, and soon the kitchens began to fill for the evening, demi-Fae entering for the nightly meal and hearthside storytelling. Only a few did a double take upon seeing Aelin and Rowan together on the bench, their eyes glancing over their swollen and lacerated faces, covered in each other’s blood.

When Aelin stood to wash up after the meal, Rowan joined her, surprise coloring her scent and widening her eyes. He ignored it.

They washed the dishes together in quiet companionship, with only the sound of the swish of water and clink of china. But after only a few minutes of this, Aelin spoke, breaking the silence. “We had an adventure today.”

Rowan’s eyes shot up. She was looking right at Emrys, her eyes shining, and Luca was grinning with pure delight from the corner table. Malakai however, was not amused.

Malakai set down his spoon and said, “Let me guess: it had something to do with that roar that sent the livestock into pandemonium.”

Aelin’s eyes crinkled. “What do you know of a creature that dwells in the lake under …” She glanced at Rowan questioningly.

“Bald Mountain. And he can’t know that story,” Rowan said dismissively. “No one does.”

Emrys stared right back at him, his face tight with anger. “I am a Story Keeper,” he said indignantly, “And that means that the tales I collect might not come from Fae or human mouths, but I hear them anyway.”

Emrys sat down at the table, folding his hands in front of him and obviously settling in to tell the night’s tale. Rowan couldn’t help but feel skeptical. His mother’s story had been passed through his family – and tales of Brannon and Athril were frowned upon in Doranelle. No matter how wise this male was, he couldn’t know what Rowan did. Could he?

“I heard one story, years ago,” Emrys began, “From a fool who thought he could cross the Cambrian Mountains and enter Maeve’s realm without invitation. He was on his way back, barely clinging to life thanks to Maeve’s wild wolves in the passes, so we brought him here while we sent for the healers.”

Malakai murmured, “So that’s why you wouldn’t give him a moment’s peace.” Emrys gave his mate a wry smile, their eyes meeting in a shared look of love and deep affection. Obviously, this was how they had met, all those years ago.

Emrys continued. “He had a fierce infection, so at the time I thought it might have been a fever dream, but he told me he found a cave at the base of the Bald Mountain. He camped there, because it was raining and cold and he planned to be off at first light. Still, he felt like something was watching him from the lake. He drifted off, and awoke only because the ripples were lapping against the shore – ripples from the center of the lake. And just beyond the light of his fire, out in the deep, he spied something swimming. Bigger than a tree or any beast he’d ever seen.”

“Oh, it was horrific,” Luca cut in, his voice bright and excited.

“You said you were out with Bas and the other scouts on border patrol today!” Emrys gave Rowan a look that suggested he’d better test his next meal for poison.

Rowan kept his gaze even and level, and soon Emrys was once again lost in thought, absorbed by his tale. Though perhaps his face now had a slightly darker cast. Damn that talkative child.

“What the fool learned that night was this: the creature was almost as old as the mountain itself. It claimed to have been born in another world, but had slipped into this one when the gods were looking elsewhere. It had preyed upon Fae and humans until a mighty Fae warrior challenged it. And before the warrior was through, he carved one of the creature’s eyes out – for spite or sport – and cursed the beast, so that as long as that mountain stood, the creature would be forced to live beneath it.”

Emrys paused for a moment. Rowan had been wrong – Emrys knew whereof he spoke, even if he didn’t know the specifics. Didn’t know that it had been Athril and Brannon who had battled the monster, and cursed it. But perhaps Rowan could use this to his advantage.

“So it has dwelled in the labyrinth of underwater caves under the mountain. It has no name – for it forgot what it was called long ago, and those who meet it do not return home.”

Rowan stared directly at Emrys, his head cocked ever so slightly to the side. His chest ached slightly, the blood oath twisting as he pushed at its restrictions. Rowan glanced at Aelin, making sure she was listening, then asked, “Who was the warrior who carved out its eye?”

“The fool didn’t know, and neither did the beast. But the language it spoke was Fae – an archaic form of the Old Language, almost indecipherable. It could remember the gold ring he bore, but not what he looked like.”

Aelin started, her fingers reaching for the ring in her pocket. If she did not already understand, she soon would. The ring she bore was Athril’s, the sword Brannon’s. She would put it together, and could plan. Could figure out how to use this weapon he had given her – a weapon to bargain with.

It was all Rowan could do for her, all he could give her to defend herself against Maeve during their inevitable meeting. Perhaps, if she played her cards exactly right, Aelin could walk out of the city of rivers better off than she had entered it.

Rowan reached for a glass of water, the next dish in the long line of washing. He had forgotten just how mind-numbing the task was. But as he moved, the sleeve of his jacket shifted, and brushed against his throbbing wrists. The burns were even worse, the skin red and inflamed. He couldn’t hold in a wince, and he thought Aelin might have noticed.

But before either of them could say anything, Aelin to express remorse or Rowan to reject her sympathy, Emrys interrupted them, pinning Rowan down with a hard stare. “No more adventures.”

Instead of meeting the old male’s hard eyes, Rowan turned to look at Luca. Though the boy was indignant, his body tense with irritation at Emrys’ overprotectiveness, he was barely more than a child. And Rowan had nearly gotten him killed today.

“Agreed.”

But the old male didn’t back down. “And no more brawling.”

This time, Rowan met Aelin’s fierce gaze, uncertainty coursing through him. It felt as though he and Aelin had launched themselves over a cliff and into empty space, and he had no idea what the hell the bottom of the chasm would look like.

So he kept his face blank as he said, “We’ll try.”

···

Rowan went up to his rooms in silence, his every step burdened by the screaming pain in his wrists. But he refused to go the healers, nor to sneak into the storeroom where they kept their salves and tinctures. Or to heal the burns with his own magic.

Instead, he just trudged up the stairs, pushing open his door and collapsing on his bed, exhausted. He hadn’t slept last night, and the day had been long. Perhaps one of the longest of his very long life.

But sleep wouldn’t come.

His muscles refused to relax, his mind endlessly circling. The same images kept reappearing behind his eyes: Luca scrambling, his eyes wide with terror; the creature’s red eye appearing through the hole in the ice; and Aelin, standing barely inches from the lake monster, her shoulders set, half in a crouch, utterly defenseless but ready to protect the boy with her life if it proved necessary.

Aelin, not an assassin, but a warrior. A soldier.

Rowan lay awake on his bed for nearly an hour before he gave up and moved to sit in the chair beside the worktable. His fingers automatically reached for anything he could use to distract himself, and they happened upon the map of the western edge of Doranelle. The map of the area between Mistward and the sea, where the locations of each of the five dead demi-Fae were carefully marked.

But the ink swam before his eyes.

His wrists ached all the way down to the bones, but that wasn’t what distracted him. Instead he was thinking of the feeling of weightlessness that still coursed through him. As if he were falling, had lost his tether and was treading water, far out to sea. As if he were lost, and did not know the way.

Rowan didn’t think he’d known for a long while.

He’d wandered aimlessly for so long, traveling without stars or compass to guide him for so many years that he’d become numb to it. It hadn’t bothered him, the aimlessness, the purposelessness. He hadn’t even thought about it.

Now, it was as though a candle had been lit, the fog cleared. It was like he had been slowly brought back to consciousness after a long sleep, and now he had absolutely no idea where he was.

And all the while, Aelin’s fierce eyes, her smell, the very taste of her blood, echoed within him. A nagging, persistent reminder. I am here, I am here, I am here.

A soft knock at the door.

“What?” Rowan snapped, jerked from his brooding.

The door clicked open, allowing the intruder’s scent to waft into the small space. Once again, Aelin had decided to pay him a visit. It was like his thoughts had manifested her from the ether.

Only tonight, with this visit, Aelin’s scent was entwined with a faint, tentative guilt. A soft, cloying odor heavy on his tongue – like dust and rotten fruit. Entirely opposite to last nights’ intrusion.

She pushed the door open soundlessly, and made one short step into the small space. Rowan turned to face her as she took in every detail of his quarters, surprised to find that this time, he wasn’t infuriated by her imposition.

“What do you want?”

Aelin said nothing at first, her eyes roving over his bare chest, her face blank. She took in every detail of his tattoo, cataloguing his every scar. There was no desire in her gaze, only a mild curiosity. So Rowan tolerated her look, waiting until her gaze stopped to rest on the burns she’d given him, now aching red manacles around his wrists.

She tossed the salve to him. “I thought you might want this.”

He caught it with one hand, but his eyes remained on her. “I deserved it.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t feel bad.”

He turned the tin over and over between his fingers. He didn’t understand why she would care about his pain. “Is this a bribe?”

“Give it back, if you’re going to be a pain in my ass.” She held out her hand for the tin, but instead of handing it over, Rowan closed it in his fist, then set it on the worktable.

“You could heal yourself, you know. Heal me, too. Nothing major, but you have that gift.”

Aelin hesitated, her brow furrowed. “It’s – it’s the drop of water affinity I inherited from Mab’s line. My mother –” another pause, this time with a grimace of pain, “told me that the drop of water in my magic was my salvation – and sense of self-preservation.”

Rowan nodded, and she continued, “I wanted to learn to use it like the other healers – long ago, I mean. But never was allowed to. They said…well, it wouldn’t be all that useful, since I didn’t have much of it, and Queens don’t become healers.”

Aelin’s words tapered off, her gaze turned inwards, remembering. Rowan almost felt as though it was he who was intruding, though it was she who had come, uninvited, to his rooms twice in two days.

It was awkwardness that caused his next words to fall from his mouth, “Go to bed. Since you’re banned from the kitchen tomorrow, we’re training at dawn.”

Aelin turned without another word, but as she moved her scent filled with a deep ache, almost sorrow, and her ashes coated his throat.

Rowan had learned more about the princess this past day than he had in all of the previous weeks. Still, there was much to learn, much to uncover. But his picture of her was far more complete, far less impressionistic than it had been even yesterday.

She had given him a few of her truths, a few of the secrets she held close to her heart. And he had given her nothing in return. She knew nothing of him – not his age, his family, his purpose, his history. Rowan knew of some of the death that weighed on her heart, but she knew nothing of what weighed on his. Knew nothing of Lyria.

And it didn’t seem…fair, somehow. Didn’t seem like an even exchange.

Rowan felt that he owed Aelin, but it was more than that. He couldn’t bear for her to leave, for both of them to fall asleep that night, with these words still dammed up inside him. He couldn’t stand the thought of the princess not knowing, not understanding why. Rowan knew about her grief, but she had no idea that it was shared. That they both had been left alone.

So before Aelin could walk out of his room Rowan spoke.

“Wait. Shut the door.”

There was a pause, but then the door clicked, and Rowan heard the rustle of clothes and groan of wood as Aelin leaned against the entrance, waiting for him to speak.

He breathed deep. Once. Twice. Again.

“When my mate died, it took me a very, very long time to come back.”

A breath from behind him. “How long ago?” she asked.

“Two hundred three years, twenty-seven days ago.”

It was either fate or luck or the gods themselves that had Rowan first meet Aelin on the anniversary of Lyria’s death. Or maybe Maeve had planned it that way on purpose. He certainly wouldn’t put it past her.

Rowan gestured to his tattoo. “This tells the story of how it happened. Of the shame I’ll carry until my last breath.”

Cold understanding emanated from Aelin. “Others come to you to have their own grief and shame tattooed on them.”

“Gavriel lost three of his soldiers in an ambush in the northern mountains. They were slaughtered. He survived. For as long as he’s been a warrior, he’s tattooed himself with the names of those under his command who have fallen. But where the blame lies has little to do with the point of the markings.”

“Were you to blame?” a soft, level question. From one killer to another. Rowan turned slowly to face her, not quite all the way, but enough to give her a sidelong glance.

“Yes. When I was young, I was…ferocious in my efforts to win valor for myself and my bloodline. Wherever Maeve sent me on campaigns, I went. Along the way, I mated a female of our race. Lyria.”

It had been so long since he said her name aloud, so long since he spoke of her without someone flinching, or skirting around it, avoiding it like the plague. Afraid of Rowan’s reaction. But Aelin’s even gaze did not shift one inch.

“She sold flowers in the market in Doranelle. Maeve disapproved, but…when you meet your mate, there is nothing you can do to alter it. She was mine, and no one could tell me otherwise. Mating her cost me Maeve’s favor, and I still yearned so badly to prove myself. So when war came calling and Maeve offered me a chance to redeem myself, I took it. Lyria begged me not to go. But I was so arrogant, so misguided, that I left her at our mountain home and went off to war. I left her alone.”

For the first time, Rowan’s eyes met Aelin’s, and in them, Rowan could almost see her words from the previous night echoing through her mind. You left me.

Her face softened, but it wasn’t in pity. It was in understanding.

“I was gone for months, winning all that glory I so foolishly sought. And then we got word that our enemies had been secretly trying to gain entrance to Doranelle through the mountain passes.”

Rowan ran a hand through his hair, and scratched at his face. He had never given this story to anybody, had never needed to, and the words and images and memories cracked the ice in his veins and shot him through with acid.

“I flew home. As fast as I’d ever flown. When I got there, I found that…found she had been with child. And they had slaughtered her anyway, and burnt our house to cinders. When you lose a mate, you don’t …” he shook his head, his jaw clenched tight, his heart in his throat.

“I lost all sense of self, of time and place. I hunted them down, all the males who hurt her. I took a long while killing them. She was pregnant – had been pregnant since I’d left her. But I’d been so enamored with my own foolish agenda that I hadn’t scented it on her. I left my pregnant mate alone.”

Aelin’s voice broke as she asked him the question, that same question he had thrown at her in the woods that evening. “What did you do after you killed them?”

“For ten years, I did nothing. I vanished. I went mad. Beyond mad. I felt nothing at all. I just…left. I wandered the world, in and out of my forms, hardly marking the seasons, eating only when my hawk told me it needed to feed or it would die. I would have let myself die – except I…couldn’t bring myself …” the words trailed off, the memories almost overwhelming.

Rowan cleared his throat. “I might have stayed that way forever, but Maeve tracked me down. She said it was enough time spent in mourning, and that I was to serve her as prince and commander – to work with a handful of other warriors to protect the realm. It was the first time I had spoken to anyone since that day I found Lyria. The first time I’d heard my name – or remembered it.”

“So you went with her?” a wry question.

“I had nothing. No one. At that point, I hoped serving her might get me killed, and then I could see Lyria again. So when I returned to Doranelle, I wrote the story of my shame on my flesh. And then I bound myself to Maeve with the blood oath, and have served her since.”

They sat in silence for one long moment, both pulled deep within themselves. It was a companionable silence, one of shared grief and pain. A silence that Rowan had only ever shared with Gavriel.

Then Aelin spoke, her voice hesitant again. “How – how did you come back from that kind of loss?” Her face was open, her eyes wide. An honest, earnest question. One he had no answer to.

“I didn’t. For a long while I couldn’t. I think I’m still … not back. I might never be.”

Aelin nodded, her lips pressed tight, and glanced away from him and towards the window. Her scent roiled with that ancient grief, a sadness that marked her, aged her far beyond her years. Silver lined her eyes.

Rowan knew that her face was a mirror to his. That it always had been.

Aelin knew what is was to be crippled at your very core, understood the icy grief that coated his every word, his every step, because she had her own to match. And with that realization, with that inescapable truth, Rowan couldn’t help but trust her.

To trust this foreign princess with a small piece of his shattered heart. To trust that she would take it without grinding it into dust. That Aelin could see that deep, dark part of himself and would not look away from it. That perhaps, he no longer had to be so completely alone.

“But maybe,” the words escaped him quietly, softly. Aelin turned to look back at him. “Maybe we could find the way back together.”

“I think,” she said, “I would like that very much.”

The soft, tentative whisper was a brush of heat over his icy heart. The first rays of dawn over the snow-capped mountains. Deep in his chest, Rowan felt the aching warmth of hope yawn its golden head, the strongest he could remember feeling since the death of his mate.

Rowan held out his hand. “Together, then.”

For one small, infinite moment, Aelin hesitated, studying his hand intently. But then she reached out a small, scarred palm and took his outstretched hand in hers.

“Together,” she said, her voice defiant, yet soft.

Perhaps it was an illusion of the faint firelight, but as Aelin took his hand, Rowan thought he could see the gold in her eyes flicker and twitch, a living flame coaxed from slumber.

Chapter Text

Rowan awoke that morning feeling fresh and clear and light, so much so that it surprised him. Unnerved him. He still felt weightless, but he was no longer falling, no longer lost. He could almost still feel Aelin’s hand in his, a phantom limb. Guiding him onwards.

The day passed normally, only Aelin was banned from the kitchens so they made their trek up to the temple ruins in the early morning rather than at noon. They were both quiet for most of the day, adjusting to this new thing – this new dynamic between them. Or at least Rowan was.

He didn’t know what to do with her, didn’t know where to place her in his life.

Yes, she was temporary, and would soon be gone back into the west, but right now she felt frighteningly permanent. And though she was young, she felt old. Very old. Her experiences in life had aged her immensely, and though she was very similar in temperament to Fenrys, Rowan felt far more akin to her than he’d ever felt to the reckless male.

But she wasn’t a friend, wasn’t a sister, wasn’t a companion. She was still his student, still under his command. And he did not take that lightly, nor could he forget it. She was his responsibility until they knelt at Maeve’s feet in Doranelle, and no earlier.

And yet, last night something had passed between them. Something had shifted, and would not easily shift back.

Yet it was far from easy between them. The day Aelin didn’t provoke him at least once, would be the day the world fell apart at the seams. What was strange was Rowan was almost starting to enjoy the teasing, and how it morphed into a comfortable banter between the two of them.

Mostly, however, he felt a ravenous, aching curiosity. The girl was a mystery, one he was now determined to solve. One that he would solve. Last night, Rowan had broken down the door, and handed her his past on a silver platter. And she had taken it, had listened to his every word. Without judgement, and without reproach.

It had felt…good. To open those floodgates, to let go of his truth. To share it with her. And he had no intention of going back to the icy silence. All the questions had built up within him over the past weeks and were now resting on the tip of his tongue, begging to be asked. He just had to find the right opportunity.

That evening, Rowan ate in the kitchens with everyone else, then retired to his rooms early to begin repairing the damage done to his tattoos. He used a mirror to ink in the mangled sections on his face, but soon realized it would be impossible for him to fix the marks on his right arm without help.

Rowan sighed deeply, and went to go ask Aelin a favor.

···

“Tell me about how you learned to tattoo.” 

“No.” An automatic response.

Aelin looked up, her eyes narrowed. “If you don’t answer my questions, I might very well make a mistake, and…” She lowered the tattooing needle closer to his arm for emphasis.

Rowan almost laughed. As it was, he let out a huff of air through his nose and his lips tightened, preventing a smile.

He was sitting on his worktable, facing away from the idly burning fire and towards the closed door. Aelin was sitting in the rickety wooden chair and hunched over his wrist, baring the tattoo needle with a wicked glint in her eyes, her neck arched towards him, her golden hair falling over her shoulders and masking the beautiful curve where her neck met her torso –

“Did you learn from someone? Master and apprentice and all that?” Aelin’s question jerked Rowan from his thoughts.

“Yes, master and apprentice and all that,” Rowan answered, silently cursing himself. “In the war camps, we had a commander who used to tattoo the number of enemies he’d killed on his flesh – sometimes he’d write the whole story of a battle. All the young soldiers were enamored of it, and I convinced him to teach me.”

“With that legendary charm of yours, I suppose.” This time, he couldn’t completely hold in the smile curving his lips. He cursed inwardly again, and mentally shook himself.

“Just fill in the spots where I – ” Rowan hissed in pain as Aelin took the needle and punched another mark into the thin skin on his wrist. “Good. That’s the right depth.”

Rowan couldn’t help but be impressed. Before they’d begun, he’d instructed her on how to properly use the tools, and she’d taken to the lessons quickly, her skill with blades translating fairly well into the subtle dexterity necessary to make the delicate markings. Usually he asked Gavriel to assist him, and it’d become a regular ritual in their easy friendship. Once, he’d asked Fenrys, and then immediately regretted it. The male had no patience for the fine, slow work.

Aelin made several more marks, her hands steady, while Rowan focused on locking his jaw and evening his breaths.

“Tell me about your family.” Another casual question.

“Tell me about yours and I’ll tell you about mine,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Fine.” Her hard voice revealed nothing. “Are your parents alive?”

Rowan shook his head. “My parents were very old when they conceived me. I was their only child in the millennia they’d been mated. They faded into the Afterworld before I reached my second decade.”

Aelin was quiet, so Rowan paused for a moment, deliberating. There was so much he wanted to ask her – about the years he knew nothing of, about her family, her friends, about whoever had died and left her to cross the ocean alone, desperate enough to bargain with a Fae queen. But he knew he had to ease into it.

“You had no siblings.” The statement was flat, the question implied. And even though Rowan had thought it innocuous enough, Aelin still hesitated, her embers curling around her as she steeled herself.

“My mother, thanks to her Fae heritage, had a difficult time with the pregnancy. She stopped breathing during labor. They said it was my father’s will that kept her tethered to this world. I don’t know if she even could have conceived again after that. So, no siblings. But – ” A pause, and a deep breath. “But I had a cousin. He was five years older than me, and we fought and loved each other like siblings.” Her voice was hollow and cold. Rowan searched, trying to remember, but the name slipped his mind. Her cousin…

“I don’t know what happened, but they started saying his name – as a skilled general in the king’s army.” And then it clicked. Aedion, Aedion Ashryver. The name he had heard her whisper in her sleep that night they camped in the wilderness together, the male she had apologized to in her dreams. The Wolf of the North, and general to the King of Adarlan.

Rowan didn’t know much about him, only the scant rumors that had made their way across the sea. Before the fall of Terrasen, not much was said about the boy – especially when so much attention was laid on his much more powerful cousin – but Rowan could remember hearing of vague machinations to marry Aelin and Aedion, strengthening Terrasen’s ties to the Ashryvers and Wendlyn, and therefore to Doranelle.

After its fall, Rowan had heard nothing at all until Aedion swore fealty to Adarlan and was placed in charge of Terrasen, only now under the thumb of the evil king. He had become Adarlan’s whore, and a menace to his own people. But still, he had survived. A feat in itself.

Aelin’s voice was quiet as she admitted, “I think facing my cousin after everything would be the worst of it – worse than facing the king.”

Understanding twisted in Rowan. She had left Aedion to deal with everything completely alone – with the fall of their kingdom and the slaughter of their family, with the murder and enslavement of their people, with the shame of having to kneel to the southern king. Aelin’s hands trembled, shame and hatred dousing her golden flames.

So Rowan gave her all he could – the calming meditation that came with the repetitive action of using the tattoo needle. “Keep working,” Rowan said, jerking his head towards the tools currently sitting in her lap.

After a few more taps of the mallet, Rowan chanced another question. “Do you think your cousin would kill you or help you? An army like his could change the tide of any war.”

Aelin’s lips pursed. “I don’t know what he would think of me, or where his loyalties lie. And I’d rather not know. Ever.”

Rowan kept silent, waiting for Aelin decide to continue the conversation. He knew what it was to be unable to talk, and though his curiosity burned, he didn’t want to push her into giving anything she didn’t want to give him.

But after only a few moments of silence, she offered up another question. “Do you have cousins?”

“Too many. Mora’s line was always the most widespread, and my meddlesome, gossiping cousins make my visits to Doranelle … irksome.” Aelin gave him a small smile, and though it didn’t touch her eyes it urged him onwards. “You’d probably get along with my cousins. Especially with the snooping.”

Aelin squeezed his hand hard enough to hurt. “You’re one to talk, Prince. I’ve never been asked so many questions in my life.”

The light teasing had him baring his teeth in response, though the pressure of her hand was a surprisingly welcome warmth. Rowan stiffened, forcing those thoughts back, and glanced meaningfully at his bleeding wrist. “Hurry up, Princess. I want to go to bed at some point before dawn.”

But instead, Aelin used her free hand to make a particularly vulgar gesture. Before she could drive the point home with some quip or insult, Rowan caught her hand with his own, baring his teeth again. “That is not very queenly.”

“Then it’s good I’m not a queen, isn’t it?” She tried to keep the words light, but they burned with the weight of her self-hatred. And Rowan could no longer hold in his curiosity.

“You have sworn to free your friend’s kingdom and save the world – but will not even consider your own lands. What scares you about seizing your birthright? The king? Facing what remains of your court?”

Their faces were now inches from each other, close enough that he could see the flecks of brown hidden in the indistinct border between her turquoise pupils and their golden core, their hands still clasped together between their chests. “Give me one good reason why you won’t take back your throne. One good reason, and I’ll keep my mouth shut about it.”

Aelin paused, seeming to weigh the intentness of his gaze against her desire to keep her answers locked up deep in her chest. Then she finally said, “Because if I free Eyllwe and destroy the king as Celaena, I can go anywhere after that. The crown … my crown is just another set of shackles.”

He leaned back slightly, the information clicking into place. His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, another set of shackles?” Rowan loosened his grip on her hand to reveal the two thin bands of silver that encircled her wrists – the marks of heavy chains, embedded in her bones.

Aelin yanked her hands out of his grip. “Nothing,” she said. “Arobynn, my master, liked to use them for training every now and then.”

Rowan’s mouth tightened. Something was off in her scent, and it almost smelled like the anxiety that came with a lie. Not that Rowan blamed her if she was keeping anything back from him – she didn’t own him anything.

Aelin went back to her work, and Rowan kept his body very still through the sting of the tattoo needle. But his mind was far away from the small, damp room. It was across the sea, in the capital of Adarlan and deep in the bowels of the Assassin’s Keep, where he could see a small golden figure curled up in the dark, her limbs held in chains. A perfect reflection of the cage she still labored within, the mental shackles containing her power. But in this image, Aelin had a child’s face.

Fury rippled through him, and the question leaped to his lips. “Why did you stay with Arobynn?”

A pause. “I knew I wanted two things: First, to disappear from the world and from my enemies, but … ah.” Aelin avoided his gaze. “I wanted to hide from myself, mostly. I convinced myself I should disappear, because the second thing I wanted, even then, was to be able to someday…hurt people the way I had been hurt. And it turned out that I was very, very good at it.”

That quick flash of fury gave way to a much deeper, writhing rage as the image of that chained girl shifted, her face becoming twisted with a suffering and anger and violence that no child should be faced with. There was much about the princess that eluded him, but this didn’t. He too had been put in chains, he too had a master.

But he had chosen his chains, had walked into this slavery. She had been forced into it, and the difference there was massive. Infuriatingly so. The difference between jumping off the ledge, and being pushed.

Aelin continued. “If he had tossed me away, I would either have died or wound up with the rebels. If I had grown up with them, I probably would have been found by the king and slaughtered. Or I would have grown up so hateful that I would have been killing Adarlanian soldiers from a young age.”

Rowan’s brows rose at all the questions she was purposefully leaving unanswered, but Aelin only clicked her tongue, saying, “You thought I was just going to spread my whole history at your feet the moment I met you? I’m sure you have even more stories than I do, so stop looking so surprised. Maybe we should just go back to beating each other into a pulp.”

“Oh, not a chance, Princess. You can tell me what you want, when you want, but there’s no going back now.”

She lifted the needle and mallet once more, another tease on her lips. “I’m sure your other friends just adore having you around.”

Rowan grabbed her by the chin, lifting her face to look up at him. “First thing,” he breathed, “We’re not friends. I’m still training you, and that means you’re still under my command.”

A thin shield, one Rowan could only hope would stay intact under the weight of Aelin’s relentless teasing. If she started making any other kind of advance, he had no idea what he would do. Rowan didn’t know what Aelin wanted with him, but he did know that he wanted her. And that he couldn’t ever have her. For many, many reasons.

So he also said, “Second – whatever we are, whatever this is? I’m still figuring it out, too. So if I’m going to give you the space you deserve to sort yourself out, then you can damn well give it to me.”

She studied him for a moment, their breath mingling.

“Deal,” she said.

···

The next few weeks passed more quickly and easily than any Rowan could remember in the past century. He still woke up almost every morning gasping for air, still occasionally heard Lyria’s faint screams in his head, and felt the cold numbness dragging at the corners of his mind. But time no longer pressed in on him like bags of sand, and passing through each day no longer felt like fording through river rapids.

Emrys grudgingly let Aelin return to the kitchens the next day, and she spent each morning and evening playing scullery maid. Rowan had decided to continue the pattern, even if he now knew that the work wouldn’t teach her the lessons he’d originally intended it too.

Aelin didn’t need to be taught the value of hard work, didn’t need her arrogance curbed by manual labor. She already understood these things. But she seemed to enjoy her time working with Emrys and Luca, so Rowan had no intention on depriving her of meaningful, productive work in which she found purpose and camaraderie. Particularly as it freed up his mornings to continue his pursuit of the dark creature.

To both his and Malakai’s relief, no more dead demi-Fae appeared. And though each morning Rowan flew into the wild, carrying out systematic searches for the creature, he found nothing at all. As usual.

By now, the flights were almost solely out of habit, or perhaps some sense of obligation. Though he remained vigilant, Rowan didn’t truly expect to discover anything on these trips, and he ended up spending most of the time thinking about the princess.

Not that he really wanted to be doing that either.

But he couldn’t help it, she was an enigma. The more he tried to unravel her, the more tangled up she seemed to be. And she was very adept at dodging his questions; much of the time they spent together, it was he who was speaking, telling her his many stories, his long history.

Now that he had finally let go of some of his truth, the rest of it followed suit, flowing out of him more painlessly than he would have ever thought possible. But it was more than that – Rowan wanted to tell her. Wanted her to know him, just as he wanted to know her.

Rowan told Aelin about his various campaigns in the south and east of Doranelle, the wars fought and won, the courts that rose and fell with the tide, the Fae he’d led through battle and who died at his hand and under his command. Told of sieges in bloody sand that lasted for years, of the destruction of towns and villages, the massacre of evil and good men alike, of spying, lying, cheating, and killing.

And she listened to it all, unwittingly giving him the greatest gift she could give.

Fenrys, Connall, Lorcan, Vaughan and Gavriel were frequent visitors in his tales, though it was rare that all of them were ever in one place. Aelin didn’t ask many questions about them, and Rowan only rarely provided names or details. There were stories that weren’t his to tell, truths that didn’t belong to him.

As he talked, Aelin worked with her magic, painstakingly drawing out small tendrils of flame and trying not to burn up the mountainside. She only sometimes failed. The small things were still the hardest, and Rowan had her practicing lighting candles, putting out hearth fires, weaving ribbons of flame through her fingers. Slowly, she improved.

A week or so after the incident beneath Bald Mountain, Namonora finally sent notice to the fortress.

Prince Whitethorn –

We have completed our examination of the body, though I would prefer to explain our conclusions in person. And also, I think there is someone here you would benefit from meeting.

Please come at your earliest convenience.

– Namonora, Head Healer

Western Compound, Doranelle

So the next morning, Rowan flew out to meet with Namonora at the Healer’s compound.

This time, he found her sitting at a worn desk in a small room deep in the stone castle, pouring over a piece of paper, her brow furrowed. Rowan greeted the old female respectfully, his head slightly bowed. Namonora jerked from her reverie, then greeted him in return.

“As you asked, so I have come.” Rowan said.

“Indeed you have, Prince Whitethorn.”

“And?”

“And there is no doubt that the demi-Fae are being murdered. None whatsoever.”

Rowan’s lips pursed, and he nodded, gesturing for the old healer to continue.

“The body arrived approximately two weeks ago. Both I, and two other experienced healers conducted the examination. We couldn’t determine an exact time of death, due to the strange nature of the decay, and the damage done to the body in transport. The demi-Fae could have died as few as two or three days before he was discovered, or as much as three weeks.”

“Is that normal? To have such a wide gap?” Rowan interrupted.

“Far from it. Normally, we can determine the age of any corpse by the degree to which various species of insect have matured on the body, in combination with how physically decomposed it is. But this body has not decomposed naturally, and has been avoided by all kinds of scavengers – including insects.”

“Do you know of anything that could cause such a thing?”

Namonora clenched her teeth, and shook her head jerkily, frowning. “No. I have never heard of bodies being avoided by insects – such a thing is completely unnatural. A disruption of the biological cycle, the order of things. It all but confirms that whatever killed the demi-Fae is just as unnatural.”

“You mean, the creature…marked them, somehow?”

“Perhaps, I don’t know.” Namonora shook her head again, this time in discomfort. “It could be the scent that keeps them at bay, but we couldn’t prove such a thing. It could also be as simple as the fact that the corpse was so withered and empty of sustenance that scavengers were deterred from feeding.”

“What about a cause of death?” Rowan was intent, his eyes narrowed.

Namonora pursed her lips. “Another mystery. You were right, there were no marks on the body, nor could we find any internal damage to any organs, vital or otherwise. The lungs, heart, liver, intestines, brain – all intact.”

“So death was magical.” Rowan asserted.

“Yes.” Namonora sighed. “I can’t think of any other reasonable explanation, though I don’t know of any power that could inflict this kind of damage.”

“It has to be something new.”

Namonora pursed her lips. “One of the first lessons you get taught as a healer, is that the simplest explanation is usually the correct one. I do not like asserting something so outlandish, no matter how it stares us in the face. It was why it took me so long to summon you. I kept re-examining our notes, turning the facts over and over in my mind. I even consulted with my former instructor, but he knew nothing that could be helpful.” The healer sighed, a huff of air out of her nose. “But once Paynor arrived, I knew I could wait no longer.”

Rowan frowned, asking a silent question.

Namonora just shook her head, standing from her chair and moving to depart. “I will let him tell his own story.”

 The healer led him back through the compound, and towards the wing of the camp where long-term patients stayed while being treated for non-life threatening injuries. Namonora knocked on an obscure dark wooden door, her expression expectant. A soft, “Come in,” could be heard from within, and she entered, revealing a small, dry room with a well-made bed and a tall, lean man sitting upright, though his left leg was encased in plaster.

“Head Healer,” the man greeted her, nodding respectfully. He was completely human, his scent bland and uninteresting – a mixture of wool and hay and oats. His clothing was simple, but clearly marked him as a soldier from Wendlyn, possibly naval.

“Paynor.” Namonora inclined her head in return, her face tight, “This is Prince Rowan Whitethorn.”

Rowan nodded his greeting, while the man’s scent filled up with that all-too-familiar fear, his eyes widening, muscles stiffening. Rowan shifted slightly. It had been a while since someone had reacted to his presence so violently, and it discomforted him.

The soldiers of Mistward had no love for him, but they no longer flinched whenever he entered a room. Rowan could even eat in the kitchens now without attracting too much undue attention. And spending so much time with Aelin, who had not feared him even once since that first encounter, was really shifting his expectations for how others reacted to his presence, and not helpfully.

Namonora’s voice cut through the tension rapidly filling the small space. “The Prince is investigating a series of deaths, and I think your story is relevant to his search.”

The soldier looked confused, but with a gesture of encouragement from Namonora, he began to speak. “Until very recently, I was a soldier serving in Wendlyn, in the King’s navy, beneath Prince Galan Ashryver.” The young soldier shifted in his seat on the bed, settling in to tell his tale.

“The first couple of years were simple, not easy, but expected, you know? I fought when I was told, did whatever work was asked of me, kept silent when I was told to. But then a few months ago, we got a strange assignment. A foray into enemy territory, but not to strike – to spy.” At this, the soldier’s eyes flicked uncomfortably over to Rowan’s and then back again.

“It was strictly against the King’s directive, but the orders came straight from the lips of Prince Galan, and my commander wasn’t one to question princes.”

“So you went.” Rowan said, his face inscrutable.

“So we went.” Paynor agreed dispiritedly. “Galan wanted us to make a sweep of Adarlan’s coast, to scout the locations and dispersal of enemy ships, and to determine whether the bastard king was really intending on invading us anytime soon. We were to disguise ourselves as merchants, but instructed to keep our distance from foreign ships as much as possible.”

Paynor signed. “It worked at first. We shot across the sea, heading for the southern half of the western continent, around Fenharrow. After about a month, we reached land, and began to skirt our way up the coast. We knew we would have a sketchy bit of sailing around the Dead Islands, but we had no idea what we were in for. A storm caught us at exactly the wrong time, and we were marooned just off the coast. Only twenty-three of us survived the sinking. But that was only the beginning of it.”

The soldier’s face darkened, and he shook his head slowly. “Now, I have to think I’d gone insane. But I would have sworn I could hear…roaring. Fell noises at night. And then people began to disappear.” The soldier shuddered. “For all I know, they were only wandering off and then succumbing to dehydration, or exposure. But with that roaring…it was hard not to think that the islands were haunted. That a creature was coming at night and killing us off – one by one.”

Paynor took a steadying breath. “I soon lost track of the days, but we had to have been stranded for nearly a week. And then, the night before we were rescued, I think I caught a glimpse of…something. A…darkness. That reeked of death. But then it was gone, and in the morning the twelve of us remaining were found by a passing vessel and taken to the nearest port, where we bartered transport onto a ship heading for Varese, and didn’t look back.”

The soldier’s voice regained some of its former strength. “Another month passed in travel, and we regained some our health. But this leg – ” Paynor gestured to the limb currently bound in plaster “ – was broken in the sinking, and it didn’t set right. So once we returned to Wendlyn, I was sent to the Fae healers, so I might recover its use. And now here I am.”

Namonora nodded, her pleasant expression doing little to disguise the anger and fear and disgust that colored her scent. “Thank you Paynor, I know that was hard for you to relive.”

The soldier nodded, his brow furrowed in anxiety and confusion. “I only hope I could be of service, ma’am. But I don’t really understand how I could much help.”

Namonora only nodded once again, giving the soldier a polite farewell and turning to leave the small room. Rowan followed her back up to her small office, thoughts swirling.

“So.” Rowan said, once the door was shut behind them.

“So. Last time you visited, you asked after anyone who bore a similar story to yours. So once I heard Paynor’s, I sent for you.”

“He is not exactly a trustworthy source – he admitted himself that he must have been going mad.”

“Quite to the contrary. Before you came last time, we had already treated another from Paynor’s company and discharged her. There is another to corroborate his story, who also spoke of a strange darkness stirring in the Dead Islands.”

“That does not mean it has come here.”

“No, it does not. But you must be able to see the similarities between them.”

Rowan sighed. “Paynor did not lie, but I am loath to take such vague assertions at face value. As you said with healing, so is true with most things: the easiest explanation is usually the correct one. And a connection between two events, thousands of miles apart and separated by an ocean, is far from the easiest explanation.”

Namonora’s jaw tightened, and she sighed as well. “Still. I thought you should hear his story.”

Rowan nodded, and thanked her.

Namonora shifted in her seat, her eyes once again finding his. “And as for your other problem, how has that been going?”

Rowan blinked. “She has progressed well since we last spoke.”

“And is Aelin Galathynius’ mental block gone?”

Rowan couldn’t contain a flinch of surprise.

Namonora gave him a small smile, her eyes warm. “I did not know until I saw her in person. I knew her mother, many years ago. A good woman, the Ashryver Princess. Her daughter seems to have inherited her strength, and her compassion.”

“So it seems.” The words were tight, even if Rowan should have anticipated this after Emrys’ revelation the previous week. Namonora had been here just as long as the old male, if not longer, and her memory was infallible. No matter her penchant for bedside tales and impractical notions.

“The Heir of Terrasen has walked a hard road. I can only hope that it has been less dark of late.” The healer’s eyes glinted.

Rowan’s mouth tightened, but before he could reply, Namonora interrupted once again. “I stand by what I said before, Prince. There is still hope. And it gladdens me that after all these years, you seem to have found it again.”

Rowan just nodded curtly, his face an icy mask as he strode from the room. It wasn’t that he was angry with the female, more that he didn’t have the heart to contradict her. No matter all that had happened, how much had changed, it didn’t mean that there was any hope for him.

Rowan had been entrusted a spark, and he would ensure its survival unto his own death – but that meant nothing for his own future. He had tied himself to Maeve, and though it had been at the lowest, most desperate point in his life, he had still done it. And it could not be undone.

Not for anything, let alone feeble hope.

Chapter Text

The following week was filled with preparations for Beltane, a night of fire and food and dancing. A night practically made for the wild princess.

Spring would soon begin to wane, the rains washing away and giving over to the wild blossoms and bounty of summer. Beltane was a celebration of this change, where all came together to honor the fire goddess, and to pray for a prosperous harvest.

Fae across the world would be laying out offerings to the Little Folk, decorating hawthorn bushes, raising maypoles, and preparing feasts. In the evening, small fires would be ignited to allow a few brave souls to jump across. It was said jumping would bring luck, and ensure a good crop or a healthy birth. Fae used it to pray to the gods for whatever they desired most, and sometimes, the gods would listen. Of course most of the time, they stayed infuriatingly silent.

Rowan had never put much stock in the idea, though Lyria had always loved the celebrations, and he had tolerated them for her sake. Not that she spent much time leaping over fires. The pair of them had usually spent the time eating and listening to music, or dancing barefoot in the grass, their fingers entwined, feet clumsy and awkward, as far from the flames as they could get. Lyria didn’t love Beltane for its fires: she loved the holiday for what it meant – the end of the relentless mountain snows and the return of the flowers in her garden.

Rowan almost flinched. It had been a long time since he had thought of that garden, since he could remember its wild expanse without the pain forcing the images away. But now he could see every lovely petal, every tenacious weed, and instead of Lyria’s screams echoing in his mind, he could almost sense her presence on his skin, almost hear her soft laugh. And though the sound unearthed an ache deep in his chest, it was not unbearable.

After her death, Rowan avoided Beltane – or any celebration, really – instead spending the time holed up and trying to forget, usually by drowning himself in alcohol. On nights like this, where so many were turning to the comfort of their partners, it was so much harder to forget that he was alone, to forget what he had lost.

Though recently, it had gotten much easier to do so. So much so that he could now even think of Lyria, could remember his time with her, without completely falling apart. Usually, she was a small hole at the back of his mind, always there – but most of the time he could get through the day without having to acknowledge it. Now, Rowan could go whole days without thinking of her, entire hours where his forgetfulness wasn’t forced, but easy. Natural.

Rowan didn’t want to think too hard about the cause of that new ease.

Aelin had spent the past few days practicing harder than Rowan had yet seen. She was throwing herself into the work, and slowly but surely, she was improving. Even if Emrys was keeping Aelin back later and later each day to help prepare the Beltane feast, making her later and later each morning.

Not that the princess was complaining – Rowan caught her sneaking extra food off of overloaded plates at least half a dozen times. The magic he had her performing was exhausting, so he didn’t really blame her. Particularly as it meant that he no longer had to haul quite so much food up the mountain to help sustain her while they practiced. It was the little things.

Aelin was improving, but not as fast as she could be. She was still far from ready to go to Doranelle, and though she had mastered her shift, those iron bars limiting her power had not shifted one inch, and she still struggled to access her magic around them. Aelin worked best under some kind of pressure, when others were dependent upon her self-control.

Beltane was a celebration of fire, and Aelin was its Heir. Perhaps Rowan could figure out a safer way to use the princess’ drive to keep others safe while learning to control her power.

···

Twilight was starting to fall over the Cambrian mountains, painting the mists golden once again. Rowan and Aelin were standing together on a mountain plateau, a mile or so above Mistward. Various Fae wandered about, setting up tables for the feast, bringing in kindling from the surrounding woods, or just mulling about, waiting for the celebrations to begin. A few were giggling and practicing dances, while a couple of musicians were placing instruments along the forest edge, preparing to play.

Over the past few days, dozens of other demi-Fae had arrived from neighboring outposts to join in their celebrations, and most of them seemed familiar with many of the residents of Mistward. Rowan recognized a few of them, mostly healers from the compound. Even Namonora had come to Mistward to celebrate.

The newcomers were all friendly, and they greeted each other with much embracing and well-natured teasing. Normally, Rowan would be unaffected by the increased attendance, as he was usually feared and avoided by other Fae. But Aelin wasn’t, and the attention she was attracting grated on him.

Rowan had caught many of the visiting males throwing glances her way, their faces open and inviting. However, they always reconsidered when they noticed Rowan standing at her side, their scents shifting from inviting to reluctant.

Perhaps if the males had known that Rowan was her teacher, they would have been less hesitant to approach the princess. But Rowan didn’t have room to feel guilty for not enlightening them to that fact – he was too busy feeling grumpy and protective and irritable. Not that he would blame Aelin for going off and pursuing some wide-eyed male. She deserved whatever pleasure she could get her hands on.

Even if he wasn’t so sure that Aelin felt the same way about him. The previous night, Aelin had actually growled at another female in the kitchens at dinner who had been looking at him with interest, and had stepped forwards as if to say hello.

Rowan wanted to be irritated at the princess for her intrusion, but he couldn’t help but be a tiny bit pleased – the deep, territorial, and entirely male part of himself secretly satisfied by it. Pleased that she had staked some small claim to him, even if it was only as a companion, or a friend.

Not that that word came easy to him. Friend. Rowan hadn’t had a person to call a friend in over 200 years – his fellow warriors didn’t really count. Not even Gavriel, even if Rowan had occasionally thought of him as one. They were all blood-bonded, connected by a lust for power and purpose, and nothing more. It wasn’t a foundation for deeper relationships to form.

And yet here Aelin was, his equal, his mirror and…his friend. Regardless of all obstacles.

Aelin had not feared him once after their initial meeting, hadn’t once flinched from him, no matter how much shit he’d flung at her. And it was starting to affect him, to change him. No matter how he tried to deny it. His conversation with Namonora had begun to open his eyes, but it wasn’t until last night that he’d really noticed.

Rowan’s scent had changed. It had lost its abrasiveness, was no longer so hostile. Just as Aelin’s had. And the demi-Fae females at the fortress had begun to notice.

Rowan didn’t really know how to feel about that.

Aelin munched on an apple a few feet behind him, the loud crunch breaking him from his thoughts. They were standing in front of three unlit fires. The central pyre was a massive pile of wood, stacked up high enough to brush the stars, but the two at its sides were much smaller – perfect for jumping. And all three of which would be Aelin’s responsibility through the night.

“I assume you brought me here so I could practice?” Aelin chucked the apple core across the field, rubbing at a sore shoulder and frowning.

Rowan gestured towards the piles of firewood. “Ignite them, and keep the fires controlled and even all night.”

“All three.” Aelin’s voice was flat, colored by a familiar irritation.

“Keep the end ones low for the jumpers. The middle one should be scorching the clouds.”

Aelin pursed her lips, anxiety filling her scent. “This could easily turn lethal.”

Rowan lifted a hand, stirring the winds around the princess just enough to ruffle her clothes and tousle her golden hair. “I’ll be here,” he said simply.

“And if I somehow still manage to turn someone into a living torch?”

“Then it’s a good thing the healers are also here to celebrate.”

She gave him a dirty look, but seemed to accept her instructions, turning towards the unlit pyres and rolling her shoulders. “When do you want to start?”

“Now.”

···

Aelin was doing well, very well in fact. Though that didn’t much settle Rowan’s nerves. Each time another oblivious demi-Fae leaped over one of the jumping-fires, heedless of the danger they were placing themselves in, Rowan could feel his whole body tense.

Not that Aelin much appreciated his anxiety. Every time he murmured for her to be careful, or to keep steady, she all but snarled at him. So Rowan did his best to keep his eyes forwards, out towards the field full of demi-Fae and away from the princess who was steadily burning at his side.

The Beltane celebrations of his childhood in Doranelle had been rigid, formal affairs. Queen Maeve hosted a banquet, which she rarely attended for more than a few minutes, and his mother always shoved him into his stiffest, most uncomfortable tunic with strict orders not to spill anything on it. There was dancing, but it was always restricted to the strict, formal movements of the traditional dances.

When he was younger, his parents had forced him to pair off with other young females to dance, and he’d despised it. It wasn’t the dancing that he hated – his family had put him in lessons, so he knew all of the movements. It was more the awkward, stilted conversation, the obligatory etiquette and proper manners that he chafed against. And it had only gotten worse as he grew older.

By the time he reached his second and third decades, Rowan’s parents were gone, and he was living in his uncle Ellys’ house alongside his many cousins, including Endymion and Sellene. Ellys had raised him well, had even given him his first lessons in swordplay. But he had been strict, and avoiding formal events had been out of the question.

So once Rowan was free of his uncle’s influence, he had avoided official celebrations and their fraught conversation as often as possible. But here, among the demi-Fae, things were different.

The dancing was much more lively, the clothing looser and more comfortable – made for spinning and whirling in the firelight. The food was less decadent, and far more delicious. Emrys’ feast had been made with love and care, and not impressing the various lords and ladies, in mind.

But most of all was the feeling of freedom and joy and excitement that overwhelmed the open space. Everyone’s scents overlapped into a cacophony of warmth and spice and vibrance. Here, people ate what they wanted, laughed when they wanted, danced how they wanted to, and even went off into the bushes together without anyone staring daggers at them.

The smell was intense, and with Aelin standing just feet away, it was almost overwhelming. Her flames and magic and the heat of her body reached out to caress him, pulling the memory of the taste of her blood to the forefront of his mind. Lemon and jasmine and fire, all wrapped up in the taste of desire that had flooded the whole of the clearing.

And the music. It was beyond words.

Violins and flutes and drums and harps and horns, weaving together a blanket of sound that swathed the whole of the field – the whole of the world. And while the music was all ancient songs that had been played in Doranelle for millennia – by the demi-Fae musicians, the sound had some other richness, some deeper emotion Rowan hadn’t heard before.

He thought that Aelin might have been just as moved by the beautiful melody, her flames seeming to twist in time with the music, the vibrant colors blinking and flashing in the starlight.

And what colors they were; rubies and citrines and tigereyes and the deepest sapphires. Over the past few weeks, the flames she conjured had shifted, becoming richer and more varied – a symphony in and of itself. More beautiful than any sunset.

Nearby demi-Fae marveled at the gorgeous fires, obviously wondering at how they burned so brightly and yet didn’t consume the wood they rested on. A few wandering eyes took note of Rowan and Aelin standing quietly in the shadows at the edge of the clearing, but Rowan didn’t think any of the watchers made the connection between the magic flames and the fire-wielder at his side.

As the night wore on, Aelin grew more and more exhausted, drained by the sustained use of magic. But the well of fire within her did not lessen. It burned on, endlessly ravenous.

Yet still, those iron bars did not burn away. Aelin’s wildfire felt strong enough to consume the entirety of Erilea, but the prison in her mind was impervious to that strength, and held fast. Once again, the image of Aelin chained up in a darkened dungeon, her child’s face twisted in anger and pain, flashed before his eyes.

Rowan’s jaw tightened. He would do anything to free her from those bars. To see the Heir of Fire unleashed at last.

Aelin shifted on her feet slightly, her face contorting in discomfort.

“Easy,” Rowan said as her flames danced a bit higher.

“I know,” Aelin spat through her teeth.

Rowan frowned. He was certain he was in control, and ready to intervene if it proved necessary. Even if he wasn’t stronger than Aelin’s flames, Rowan was confident that he was stubborn enough to repress the wildfire if it slipped Aelin’s control. But still, he only barely contained a flinch as a female took a wild leap over the leftmost pyre, giggling as she went.

Aelin shifted again, the middle bonfire twisting and arching with her as she stretched, mirroring her movements, a rippling golden reflection. “When can I stop?”

“When I say so.”

“I’m sweating to death, I’m starving, and I want a break.”

“Resorting to whining?” Rowan wanted to roll his eyes, but he was being baked alive, his linen shirt soaked with sweat and the leather blazingly hot, shrinking and tightening in the blistering heat. And the princess was far from better off; Rowan could see her limbs glistening with sweat, her clothes damp and wrinkled, face cherry-red.  

Rowan sent a cooling breeze in her direction, wrapping his ice around her burning form. Aelin’s muscles relaxed and she closed her eyes, moaning softly.

Rowan became very still, desire pooling in his stomach as her scent and the taste of her blood wrapped around him, neatly wiping his mind clean of everything but the feel of her heat beside him.

He forcibly wrenched his thoughts away, thinking of something, anything other than how much he wanted to walk over to her and –

No.

After a few moments, Rowan cleared his throat and managed to say, “Just a little while longer.”

Aelin visibly sagged in relief, and a few more silent minutes passed. Rowan could feel Aelin’s thoughts drift, her gaze shifting over to the piles of food stacked on the tables across the field. Her stomach grumbled aggressively, and Rowan felt an ounce of guilt pass through him. He would give it a few more minutes, and then they could stop for the night.

Aelin began tapping her foot, her head bobbing and swaying along with the music. Her flames began to follow suit, whirling and swishing with every twitch of her fingers. They leaped higher once again, and Rowan tensed.

“Easy,” Rowan said, but then it clicked. “Music. That day on the ice, you were humming.”

Aelin nodded, beginning to hum along with the instruments. A bead of sweat trickled down her face, and Rowan sent another cool breeze her way, though this time she was burning so hotly that the air warmed almost immediately, and didn’t seem to help.

“Let the music steady you,” Rowan said, but Aelin didn’t respond. Her eyes were glued to the flames, and they were surprisingly blank, though their golden core was molten and bright.

Rowan’s brow furrowed, anxiety trickling through him. Aelin’s flames roiled and undulated with the melody, the colors deepening to rich blues and bright whites as the temperature increased.

“Easy…” Rowan said again, but Aelin didn’t seem to hear. It was almost as though she was in some kind of trance, her thoughts pulled into the depths of the writhing flames.

“Steady.” Rowan’s voice had shifted from calming to tight and insistent. But still, she did not move, her gaze utterly fixed upon the three smokeless fires now bursting with power and life and intensity.

Rowan took a step closer to her, all of his attention utterly fixed on the fire-wielder. Her power writhed and strained against her mental cage, aching for freedom. And though the pressure of the power was surely extraordinarily painful, Aelin didn’t even twitch, her scent clean and as empty as death.

Terror flooded Rowan. “That’s enough for now,” he said, grabbing her arm in an attempt to get her attention. But it burned him, and he hissed and let go. “That is enough.”

Rowan didn’t know how, but Aelin was burning out. Right before his eyes.

He had been worried about Aelin accidently losing control and hurting other Fae, he didn’t realize that he should have also been worried about her roasting herself from the inside out.

She turned to look at him, slowly, reluctantly. And her eyes were even emptier than he had thought. She turned back to the flames, the gold around her pupils burning even brighter than Rowan had yet seen.

“Look at me,” Rowan said desperately. He wanted to reach out and touch her, but he couldn’t when she was burning so hotly. “Look at me.”

She didn’t move. “Let the fires burn on their own,” he ordered, his voice filled with fear. Finally, she turned back to face him, her scent filling with a dull, confused pain. His nostrils flared. “Aelin, stop right now.”

She was completely still, agony pulsing through her scent and tensing all of her muscles. “Let go.”

He reached out to touch her, but stopped himself when he felt the heat radiating from her body in waves. The bonfires were starting to climb, and the demi-Fae around them started to back away, murmuring in worry and confusion.

But Rowan didn’t pay them any heed. “If you don’t let go, you are going to burn out completely.” But Aelin still didn’t shift one inch. Rowan snarled, “You are on the verge of roasting yourself from the inside out.”

Aelin blinked once, then her eyes widened as her wildfire filled her up, and agony radiated from her in waves. The iron cage did not break, and instead of melting the bars, Aelin set her fire free in the prison of her own body.

The three bonfires surged, racing up to melt the stars as Aelin fell onto the grass, groaning in pain. Demi-Fae yelled, the music faltered, and Rowan stilled as the killing calm iced over his limbs.

“I’m sorry,” Rowan hissed, swearing viciously as he ripped the air from her lungs. He waited only an instant for the fires to fall and the magic to be torn away before returning her breath to her.

“Breathe. Breathe.” Rowan begged as Aelin gasped raggedly, her spine arching as her power settled uncomfortably back in its cage, its connection to the world broken. But the wildfire still coursed through her body, boiling her blood and roasting her skin.

And Rowan was running, leaving Aelin lying on the ground, where she was shaking with tearless, panicked sobs. He sprinted over to the eastern edge of the field, where he could see Namonora and another female chatting casually.

At the sight of his panicked expression, Namonora instantly shifted, her face becoming severe. “What is it?”

Rowan didn’t have time for explanations. “Come,” he said, turning back to return to the princess who might have already succumbed to the fire, return to the spark that might have finally burned out.

Thankfully, they followed him without question, and when they reached Aelin, she was still writhing on the ground.

Still alive. Rowan had to hold in a sigh of relief.

Namonora’s assessment was quick and efficient. “Can you stand to carry her? There aren’t any water-wielders here, and we need to get her into cold water. Now.”

Rowan gritted his teeth, and then gingerly stretched out his arms to cradle the princess, shutting out the pain as her skin met his, her fire reaching through his clothes and scorching his flesh. Rowan held Aelin as far from his body as he could, sprinting through the forest and back down the mountain towards the fortress, his heart beating rapidly in his chest.

He tried to wrap her in his ice-kissed wind, enveloping her burning body in freezing air. But it didn’t work. Rowan wasn’t able to pierce through the heat she was emanating.

He pumped his legs still faster, hurtling through the underbrush as Aelin’s scent weakened and twisted and frayed, her grip on consciousness fading under the weight of the agony pulsing through her.

Rowan tightened his grip on the princess, unwilling to let her fade. Unwilling to let her die.

After some unknowable, endless stretch of time, the fortress came into view, and Rowan tore through the ward-stones, over the gate, past the courtyard, down the stairs and towards the bathing room.

“Get her into the water.”

Rowan lowered her gingerly into the sunken stone tub, but before her skin even brushed the surface, the water began to billow with steam. Rowan swore.

“Freeze it, Prince,” Namonora commanded. “Now.”

Rowan sent all of his power towards the female in the basin before him, a vast surge of ice and wind, and the water immediately froze solid. But then –

“Get her out!” Namonora shouted, and Rowan reached in and snatched Aelin from the now-boiling water, the skin on his hands beginning to blister. She had nearly boiled herself alive.

Rowan lifted her up and placed her in another tub, kneeling at its head while the two healers hovered somewhere to his side. This time, he had to be more careful with his use of magic. So instead of a quick wave, Rowan focused on gathering a steady, forceful pressure.

The ice formed again, and then began to melt. “Breathe,” Rowan said into her ear. “Let it go – let it get out of you.” Steam began to rise once again, but then Aelin took one small, shaky breath, and it dissipated slightly. “Good,” Rowan panted with the effort of fighting against the wild, uncontrolled force of Aelin’s magic.

Ice formed again, and then melted. Aelin took another steadying breath, her eyes closing as she focused on calming her panicked body.

Rowan began to sweat in earnest, the perspiration trickling over his ruined skin and stinging, salt in an open wound. While his magic was so strained, the burns couldn’t heal by themselves. But the small ache was nothing in the face of the terror currently coursing through him.

The water froze and melted in a steady pattern, like the movement of a pendulum, or breath in a pair of lungs. In and out, in and out. Frozen, then melted. Fire, then ice. The ebb and flow of the tide, pushing and pulling.

Aelin’s uncontrolled flames slammed against his steel will, over and over and over again, until the pendulum began to slow, the breaths evening out until finally, they stopped.

The water stilled, settling into a comfortable warmth while Aelin’s scent relaxed from the sharp, agonized copper tang to a dull ache. Rowan felt his own limbs begin to relax, the lack of tension leaving him feeling hollow, and heavy.

“We need to get those clothes off her,” Namonora said, and Rowan moved out of their way while the two healers leaned over the tub, carefully easing up Aelin’s head and peeling off her sodden clothes.

There was a moment of quiet while Namonora silently assessed Aelin’s condition, her eyes expertly flicking over her still form, cataloguing every detail. Aelin just lay there, eyes closed, her skin dangerously pale and her face flushed with fever.

Namonora looked at Rowan expectantly, silently asking him to speak.

Rowan kept his voice calm and soft. “Just answer yes or no. That’s all you have to do.”

Aelin nodded stiffly, grimacing in pain. Her eyes were still closed.

“Are you in danger of flaring up again?”

“No,” she responded, barely a whisper through her lips.

“Are you in pain?”

“Yes.” Another breath of sound, punctuated with a flare of discomfort in her scent.

Rowan clenched his jaw, looking pointedly at Namonora.

The old healer nodded at him. “We will prepare a tonic. Just keep her cool.” And they both trod into the hallway, heading for the kitchens, the door shutting softly behind them.

Rowan reached over for a bucket of water and handful of washcloths lying on the floor beside him. He dipped the cloths into the water, and brought the temperature as close to freezing as he could without it turning solid and useless, then laid a cloth on Aelin’s forehead. She sighed in relief, her tight expression softening.

Rowan soaked the other cloth in the bucket, and began wringing it over her head and neck. “The burnout,” he said quietly. “You should have told me you were at your limit.”

Aelin opened her eyes a millimeter, but didn’t say anything. He wrung more water over her brow.

“If you’d gone on any longer, the burnout would have destroyed you. You must learn to recognize the signs – and how to pull back before it’s too late.” The anxiety in his voice gave way to command. “It will rip you apart inside. Make this…” he shook his head. “Make this look like nothing. You don’t touch your magic until you’ve rested for a while. Understand?”

Aelin only raised her chin, her expression pleading, a silent request for more of the icy water. But Rowan just held the cloth tantalizingly above her, refusing to wring it until she nodded her agreement.

A few more silent minutes passed, Rowan slowly cooling the princess’ heat. But the pain in her scent refused to fade, and Namonora still did not appear. The more time that passed without the arrival of the tonic, the higher Rowan’s irritation grew. And soon, he was flinging the cloth in the bucket and standing up to leave, deciding that Aelin was cool enough to survive without him for a few moments, and her need for the painkillers was now greater than her need for temperature-control.

“I’m going to check on the tonic. I’ll be back soon.”

She nodded faintly, and Rowan left, the door clicking shut behind him.

He strode directly over to the kitchens, his booted feet slamming into the stones and echoing loudly through the halls. Rowan didn’t think he’d ever cared less.

He found Namonora stirring various strong-smelling plants in a cauldron over a fire, the other healer efficiently dicing several other herbs, readying them to be mixed into the pot with the others. When Rowan entered, Namonora instantly dropped what she was doing and gestured for the other female to take over, then strode over to him, her expression determined.

“I know you’re going to want to protest, but I do not care. You need those burns treated, or they absolutely will get infected.” Namonora grabbed Rowan’s shoulder and pulled him over to the counter, where white bandaging had already been laid out. Rowan opened his mouth to object, but Namonora interrupted. “Do not argue with me, Rowan Whitethorn. I’m not about to change my mind, and you protesting will only make this take longer.”

Rowan clenched his jaw, and seriously considered retaliation, but at the steel in the healer’s eyes, he relented, and began to strip off his ruined clothing. Namonora’s lips pinched in victory.

Rowan winced, groaning in pain as the cotton pulled at the tender flesh of his chest and arms. Namonora clicked her tongue and raised a mortar and pestle filled with a sweet-smelling poultice.

“That might have been the strangest almost-burnout I have ever seen,” she said, dabbing the saccharine mixture on the welts covering his left arm. It smelled of eucalyptus and ginger and strawberries.

“I’m not sure it was a burnout,” Rowan sighed.

Namonora tilted her head, a silent question. She moved to the other arm.

Rowan shook his head. “I don’t know. But her power wasn’t depleted – it was more like she…set it free. Within her own body.”

“A suicide attempt?” the other female asked politely.

Rowan flinched, and Namonora’s clever eyes narrowed, taking note. “No,” he finally replied, “She just lost control.”

“Hmm.” Namonora muttered, smearing the last of the poultice over his bare chest. “The block.”

“Yes,” Rowan agreed, nodding ruefully.

“So there has been no more progress since I last saw you?”

“No.” Rowan’s voice was curt.

Namonora began wrapping the clean white linen around his arms, seeming to be mulling something over, hesitating. “As I said before, she may never overcome it.” The healer’s eyes tentatively flicked over Rowan’s face. His expression was carefully impassive. “These things are far more emotional than they are physical. And if she does not find a way to confront whatever trauma lies in her past, she may always have this block. Instead of focusing on getting rid of it, maybe she could focus her attention on finding ways to cope with it, to work around it.”

Rowan just nodded tersely, his face blank and hard. Namonora finished bandaging his chest, and nodded slowly, giving him her permission to leave. “We will be in with the tonic in another few minutes,” she said, and turned back to the fire. Rowan carefully pulled his shirt back on over the bandages, and strode from the room without another word.

But not before overhearing a final comment from the healers, their words gliding over to him through the open doorway.

“So that was Rowan Whitethorn,” the other female said plainly.

“And the Princess of Terrasen.” Namonora responded.

“Are they together?”

“I don’t know. But I think they are well suited. Perhaps – ” and her voice faded into the background.

Rowan only clenched his jaw, shaking off their words and striding purposefully towards the bathing room.

It was lit by faint candlelight, and the tiny, flickering flames cast eerie shadows over the walls and stone floors. Various cloths, buckets, and basins were scattered intermittently across the room, filling the spaces between the sunken stone tubs. Aelin was a golden ghost across the stretch of the room, now sitting up and facing away from the doorway through which Rowan had just entered.

The door clicked shut behind him, and his feet made soft tapping sounds with each step towards the princess. Rowan was irritated, and impatient. He could scent Aelin’s pain from across the room, and he had to tell her that the tonic wasn’t yet ready.

But Rowan only made it halfway across the room before the bottom fell out of his stomach, and he stopped dead.

Her back.

Rowan’s breath was ripped from him in a ragged gasp, and there was an overwhelming silence in his mind.

Her back was a mangled slab of flesh, a mess of old scars, one on top of the other on top of the other. Marks of pain and hate and prolonged suffering. The marks of someone who had been beaten, again and again and again. The marks of someone who had been destroyed.

Aelin – Rowan’s mental voice broke over her name – Aelin hadn’t only suffered due to death and misfortune and loss, she had been broken. Broken by others.

A roaring began somewhere at the back of his mind, vicious and lethal and inexorable. He would rip apart whoever had done that to her with his bare hands. He would destroy them, would hunt them down until only their ashes remained. Would see them suffer. Would ensure that Aelin got her revenge on them before they died.

Aelin turned her head, her brow furrowed in confusion. But once she saw the direction of his gaze, her face softened in understanding.

“Who did that do you?” The words were blank, empty. Rowan’s body was so stressed, so fraught with pain and shock and fury, that the question just slipped out, barely a breath between his lips. Completely emotionless.

Aelin’s voice was tired and hollow as she responded, “A lot of people. I spent some time in the Salt Mines of Endovier.”

Rowan felt his chest tighten. “How long?”

“A year. I was there a year before…it’s a long story.” Aelin’s eyes flitted over his bandaged chest and arms, her face falling in sorrow and regret. Rowan thought that if she apologized to him, he might explode.

“You were a slave.” The word twisted on the way out, burning his throat like acid. Aelin paused, and gave him a slow nod, her eyes filled with some ancient benediction, or divine reckoning.

Rowan opened his mouth – to say what, he didn’t know. So many things were roiling inside him, aching to be set free. Questions, apologies, furious declarations, vows of revenge, expressions of sympathy. They all caught in his throat, and he closed his mouth as one small truth settled into him.

Maeve knew.

Maeve had known the princess had been a slave, had known how much she’d suffered and toiled, had known everything. And she hadn’t said a word. She’d kept it all from him.

Rowan felt himself turn from the room, and shut the door behind him quietly. He wanted to slam it, to shatter it behind him. But he couldn’t do that to Aelin. Aelin, who was sitting in the cold tub, alone and abandoned by all the world. Aelin, who had been a slave.

And Maeve had known everything, and then called for Rowan to break her, like some prize draft horse. Like an animal, or an object. Just a new flashy possession for the Queen who collected Fae like carriages or garments or jewelry. Another weapon in her arsenal, to join the row of hearts lined up on her sleeve.

Rowan flew through the clouds, soaring over the rippling forests, shaping the winds to push him onward, faster and faster, sending him towards the dark queen.

Why hadn’t Maeve told him? Why hadn’t Aelin told him?

Rowan took in the passing world out of instinct rather than interest, all of his thoughts still bent towards the image of that expanse of ruined flesh, glistening in the candlelight. It was burned into him, branded and seared. Right alongside the images of Lyria’s corpse, bloody and cold and distorted.

Aelin in shackles, Aelin in the dark, Aelin tied to a post, a pale figure brandishing a whip –

Rowan howled, his hawk’s cry piercing the night, echoing off of the sides of the Cambrian mountains, now towering before him. A chorus of unearthly howls rose in response – Maeve’s wild wolves, guarding the passes. Even if he flew all the way to Doranelle, he’d reach his queen and demand answers and…she would not give them to him. With the blood oath, she could command he not go back to Mistward.

Rowan choked the current of wind beneath his wings. Aelin…Aelin had not trusted him – had not wanted him to know. Did she think he would think the worse of her? That he would think that she deserved it?

The thought curdled in his stomach. She had not wanted him to know, had not thought he deserved to know. And maybe he didn’t.

That day – that day early on, he’d threatened to whip her, gods above. And she’d lost it. He’d been such a proud fool that he’d assumed she’d lashed out because she was nothing more than a child. He should have known better – should have known that when she did react to something like that, it meant the scars went deep. And then there were the other things he’d said…

Shame roiled alongside the anger in his gut.

She hadn’t wanted him to know, and when he’d found out, he’d just left her alone. Too wrapped up in his own anger and agony to notice how that must have felt. To have your secrets ripped from you, and then be abandoned.

Rowan had left her alone. Weak and defenseless, and recovering from a burnout.

Primal anger sharpened in his gut, brimming with a territorial, possessive need. Not a need for her, but a need to protect – a male’s duty and honor. He had not handled the news as he should have.

If she hadn’t wanted to tell him about being a slave, then she probably had done so assuming the worst about him – just as she was probably assuming the worst about his leaving. The thought didn’t sit well.

So he veered back to the north and called his magic to pull the winds with him, easing his flight back to the fortress.

After a few more frozen minutes, Rowan arrived back at the old stone walls of the fortress, now familiar in its ancient, crumbling majesty. He headed right for Aelin’s room, swooping around the southwestern corner of the castle and towards where he knew her small window would lie.

He sent a sharp wind over to push the glass open, intending on explaining, or apologizing, or begging her forgiveness, he didn’t know. His hawk’s wings brushed the edges of the window frame as he swooped into her room, finding it smaller and colder than he remembered.

The basin in the corner had iced over, the stone floor looking just as freezing to the touch. Aelin lay curled up tight beneath a ragged blanket, still undressed, her breath fogging the air and her limbs shaking with cold.

Rowan shifted with a flash of light, his heart twisting. He had left her in a room without a fireplace, had given her a space purposefully and intensely uncomfortable. Intent on punishing her, for crimes she had not committed, and had paid for many times over.

Rowan scooped her up, wrapping her more tightly in the blanket and carrying her up two flights of stairs, down the hall, and into his rooms. A fire was already roaring in the grate, and the space was warm and inviting, especially when compared to the rooms he had just left.

Rowan laid her carefully on his bed, tucking her into the quilt and moving to lie beside her, as far from her trembling form as the space would allow. His voice was unintentionally rough as he said, “You’re staying with me from now on.”

Aelin’s eyes drifted open, her face drained from pain and exhaustion.

“The bed is for tonight. Tomorrow, you’ll get a cot. You’ll clean up after yourself or you’ll be back in that room.”

 “Very well.” She nestled more comfortably into her pillow. “But I don’t want your pity.”

Rowan’s voice shook slightly. “This is not pity. Maeve decided not to tell me what happened to you. You have to know that I – I wasn’t aware you had – ”

She slid an arm across the bed to grasp his hand, her fingers small and cold in his. Rowan’s eyes were wide, his face open. He hadn’t felt so vulnerable in – he didn’t know when.

If she wanted, she could strike him a blow that would fracture him, would rent him through.

It wouldn’t be anything more than he deserved.

Her words were soft. “I knew. At first, I was afraid you’d mock me if I told you, and I would kill you for it. Then I didn’t want you to pity me. And more than any of that, I didn’t want you to think it was ever an excuse.”

“Like a good soldier.” His voice was filled with wonder, with awe at the strength of this woman. How he had ever thought her a killer. He would regret that for the rest of his miserable life.

Rowan took a long breath. “Tell me how you were sent there – and how you got out.” It wasn’t an order, wasn’t a command. It was a request. To understand, so that they could once again be on even footing. So that he could know her, as she now knew him.

Aelin’s face hardened slightly, but she breathed deep, rallying herself. “After my…parents…were killed, I fell into the service of Arobynn Hamel. He spent the next eight years training me, forming me into a weapon.”

Aelin began to weave a tale of death and intrigue and pain and…love. She suffered much at Arobynn’s hand, but she still found joy and happiness in her time in Rifthold, living out the final days of her childhood.

Aelin’s voice warmed slightly, her eyes crinkling. “I was as wild as could be – dancing until dawn with courtesans and thieves and all the beautiful, wicked creatures in the world.” She smiled at the memory, and Rowan smiled with her.

She spoke of learning to love music, of growing older and finding herself happy to be free, reveling in the pleasure of anonymity. And the guilt she felt whenever she remembered the cost of that freedom.

Rowan kept silent the whole time, letting the story flow from her freely and without interruption. These past weeks had taught him how good talking could feel, how much lighter and freer you were after the tale was done. So much so that you wondered at the massive weight the invisible burden had been before. He didn’t want to deprive her of that, no matter the questions that pressed on his tongue.

And, he couldn’t help but feel...honored. Honored to be chosen to be a part of her life, to help her bear this burden.

She spoke of a man named Sam Cortland, and how together they’d sacked a city and freed over a hundred slaves, using little more than their wits. But then, how upon her return Arobynn beat them mercilessly, and sent her to the Red Desert to train with the Silent Assassins.

Aelin told Rowan of running in the desert, of racing Asterion horses, of battles and death and escape. She spoke of falling in love for the first time, and how her and Sam schemed to escape from Rifthold together.

Aelin’s voice was tentative. “I think in my heart I knew that it wasn’t going to work. That the gods wouldn’t let me elude the burden of my name forever. But still…I loved him too much to care.” And Rowan’s heart twisted.

She spoke of his death at the hands of her fellow assassins, her voice shaking slightly as she told of how she failed to get her vengeance, was captured and taken to the king’s court, and sentenced to enslavement in the salt mines. Her words drifted off, “I still don’t know who it was that betrayed me…”

But Rowan thought he did. If Arobynn Hamel ever got within his reach, Rowan would take his revenge. Slowly.

But Aelin was obviously not ready to hear that the man she had lived with, grown up with, and had come to regard as some mixture of teacher, father, or brother, had left her to rot in that prison. Had tortured and killed her love.

So Rowan kept silent as Aelin continued. “That first day in Endovier, I knew I would die there.” Her voice was like the inside of a tomb. “They brought me inside, stripped me, cut off my hair, tied me to the whipping post and gave me twenty-one lashes. Then they rubbed salt in the wounds, and made sure that they would never heal properly. It was only through the kindness of some of the other prisoners that I survived that first night. Which they were then killed for, of course. But I got my revenge. It took a while, but I got it.”

Aelin spoke of a year in hell. A year of darkness and toil. Of how eventually, she snapped, sprinting for her own death. How she had killed her overseer, taken her revenge on the guards, and gotten within an inch of the wall before being knocked unconscious. How she had run three hundred and sixty-three feet.

Rowan only marveled.

“And then, one day, they came. The Crown Prince and the Captain of the Guard. And they took me away.”

She told him how the son of her enemy offered her a shot at freedom, and used her to win a competition to become the Hand of the King. She told Rowan how she won it, slowly rebuilding her body from the wreck it had been after leaving Endovier. How she had come to love Chaol Westfall.

How the Captain had rescued her from hell, and helped to heal her, how he rebuilt her heart only for it to shatter once more with another death, another betrayal, another weight on her shoulders.

Nehemia. The princess of Eyllwe. She had been Aelin’s friend, her closest confident. She had loved her. And then she died.

Was murdered, violently. Horrifically.

Aelin tracked down her killers, and left them in pieces. But Chaol Westfall had discovered that she was Fae, and made a deal to get her out of Adarlan. To send her to Varese, under orders to assassinate the Ashryvers and collect their naval defense plans.

“So I came. And then I met you.”

Aelin’s golden eyes flicked up to meet his, hers clouded with exhaustion. Rowan squeezed her fingers lightly, glad that they were regaining their usual warmth.

Aelin closed her eyes and sunk into the bed, finally succumbing to exhaustion. But Rowan lay awake, his thoughts whirring.

She had edited, leaving out a lot of crucial details. She hadn’t explained her deal with Maeve, or why she went along with Chaol’s plan. Nor had she said how her parents had been killed, and why she'd ended up in Arobynn’s care.

But still, Rowan felt…clear. Free of the confusion and the questions that had been weighing on him for so long – from ever since she had swaggered into his life, broken and drunken and hurting.

There were other things that he was curious about, however. Things he had no right to ask, but still wondered. Did she still love that man from across the sea? Still long for him even after all that had broken between them?

And what would she do when Rowan brought her to Maeve? Would she leave with her armies and her alliance, bought with the ring he had given her, never to return? Would he ever see her again?

Worry trickled through his veins, and Rowan pulled the princess’ hand to his chest, resting it over his heart. His breaths evened out, and he began to drift into an easy sleep.

But before he truly fell, he remembered something Aelin had said, a gift Nehemia had given her. “She named me Elentiya – Spirit That Could Not Be Broken.”

The words mocked him, and filled his heart with an aching mixture of joy and sadness. Aelin – the spirit that couldn’t be broken. That he had been ordered to break, and who instead had become his friend.

She lay at his side, the weight of a thousand burdens on her shoulders, and yet she still survived. Had endured.

Unbroken.

Chapter Text

When Rowan awoke the next morning, Aelin was still asleep, her hands still curled to his chest, warm in his loose grip.

Rowan awoke slowly, softly. Gradually rising to the surface. He had slept better last night than he had in centuries. Dreamless and calm and warm. He had forgotten how good it felt to have another’s touch. How good it felt to feel another’s warmth in the dead of night, to have the weight of another body beside you, to help fight back the cold and the nightmares.

Or maybe it was just because it was Aelin who lay beside him, whose fire warmed the blankets and whose scent filled his nose, the soft notes of jasmine and lemon verbena echoing his own calm contentment. There had been others through the long and lonely years, but none of them had been so comfortable or familiar. None of them had stalled the nightmares.

Even so, there was nothing romantic about sharing a bed with Aelin. Especially when she was so weak, recovering from the hell her magic had put her body through.

Rowan stretched, his spine cracking and stiff muscles warming. Aelin shifted, her eyes tightening, but they remained closed. Rowan carefully rose, attempting to keep the surface of the bed still as he clambered off and began to dress.

The bandages from the previous night were now unnecessary, the burns mostly healed. But still, they pulled uncomfortably at the new skin as he peeled them off. Rowan strapped on his usual assembly of weapons and armor and left his rooms, casting one last look at the sleeping female now curling up into the empty space he’d left on the bed.

The halls were still and quiet, the morning slower than usual. A few hungover demi-Fae wandered the halls, voyaging out to find breakfast, to start the day’s work, or just to return to their own beds after a night in someone else’s.

Emrys, however, was bustling about as usual, corralling a sleepy Luca into minding the bread dough, while stirring a hearty mixture of egg, onion, and potato on the stove, transforming the bland items into a massive, mouthwatering omelet.

Rowan nodded his greeting, and grabbed a tray to bring some food up to the sleeping princess. He seized some bread and stew, passing over the richer food in favor of the plainer fare.

He then turned to leave, saying, “Elentiya won’t be able to help in the kitchens for the next few days.” But before Emrys could inquire further, Rowan was gone.

When he got back up to his rooms, Rowan stoked the fire and prepared the kettle to brew some ginger tea. He knew he was fussing, but he couldn’t find it within himself to care. Aelin deserved a little fussing. And it wasn’t only because of the pain Rowan knew was wracking its way through her body at the moment. She’d had very few people in her life to fuss over her in recent days.

Aelin hadn’t really had anyone to care for her since her parents died. Every single person she had come to care for, and who had come to care for her, had gone. Leaving her alone. Over and over and over again. It was a miracle, after all that loss, that she had any ability to trust at all. Let alone to trust him.

So Rowan would fuss.

He didn’t let her get out of bed that day, and made sure that she ate every morsel of the bread and stew he brought her, and that her mug of tea was always full.

Around mid-morning, Luca and Emrys appeared, probably making sure that Aelin was still alive even though her rooms were empty. Rowan gave them a hard stare and the hint of a growl, and they left quickly, stammering something about how they would come back when she was feeling better.

Rowan knew it was ridiculous, but it didn’t matter. The need to protect the vulnerable female now curled up into a sitting position on his bed was far too strong to ignore easily.

It was coming on afternoon now, and Rowan sat at his table, facing away from Aelin and pouring over the map marking the locations of the dead bodies. It was more out of habit than anything else. He knew the map wouldn’t be able to tell him anything he didn’t already know.

“You know,” Aelin’s voice drifted from behind him, “I highly doubt anyone is going to attack me now, if they’ve already put up with my nonsense for this long.”

Rowan didn’t look up. “This isn’t negotiable.”

Apparently, the princess wasn’t particularly used to being cared for. If Rowan could’ve told himself two months ago that by Beltane, he would be waiting on the girl hand and foot, and would be happy to do so, and not only that – but that she would be resistant to the attention, he would have thought himself a liar.

Yet here they both were.

Aelin shifted on the bed, and her scent filled with copper. Rowan frowned. No matter his fussing, there wasn’t much he could do to take away her pain. And sitting here all day watching her suffer was infuriating. He felt helpless. And he hated feeling so trapped.

Not that it would be any better elsewhere. Every time he left his rooms, usually to go to the kitchen to grab more food, Rowan was wracked with worry.

So he wasn’t going anywhere. And neither was Aelin. They were both trapped in hell together.

Aelin’s voice broke through his brooding. “So you mean to tell me that whenever someone comes close to burnout, she not only goes through all this misery, but if she’s female, the males around her go this berserk?”

Rowan turned to face the princess. “This is hardly berserk. At least you can defend yourself by physical means when your magic is useless. For other Fae, even if they’ve had weapons and defense training, if they can’t touch their magic, they’re vulnerable, especially when they’re drained and in pain. That makes people – usually males, yes – somewhat edgy. Others have been known to kill without thought any perceived threat, real or otherwise.”

Aelin seemed skeptical to the point of disdain. “What sort of threat? Maeve’s lands are peaceful.” She leaned to set down her now-empty mug, but Rowan was already there, taking it from her pale fingers and refilling it from the steaming kettle by the fire.

He spoke as he moved. “Threats from anywhere – males, females, creatures…You can’t reason against it. Even if it wasn’t in our culture, there would still be an instinct to protect the defenseless, regardless of whether they’re female or male, young or old.”

She was frowning at him, clearly about to protest, but before she could, Rowan reached for another slice of bread and bowl of beef broth. “Eat this.”

She narrowed her eyes at the food, considering it carefully. “It pains me to say this, but one more bite and I’ll be sick all over the place.”

He dipped the bread in the broth and held it out to her more insistently. “You need to keep up your energy. You probably came so close to burnout because you didn’t have enough food in your stomach.”

Aelin grimaced, but reluctantly took it and began to eat, her shaky hands slow and steady.

Rowan frowned as he examined her. Her face was pale and coated in a sheen of sweat, remnants left by infrequent hot flashes, and her lips were dry and cracked. She was hunched over, her limbs limp and shaky. Her usually bright eyes were dim with pain and crinkled with a rising irritation.

She was just going to have to deal with it.

Rowan turned his gaze to his surroundings, ensuring that there was nothing else he could do to improve her condition. The fire was suffocatingly high, in order to stave off the chills that wracked her every few minutes. The window was cracked, allowing for the slightest of breezes for him to latch onto whenever she had a hot flash. The door was shut and locked, and another pot of tea was ready and steeping atop his worktable.

Aelin handed him her empty bowl, rubbing her fingers against her forehead. “So when the magic runs out,” she said, “that’s it – either you stop or you burn out?”

Rowan leaned back in his chair, his breath coming out in a huff. No, those were not the only possibilities. There was something else, something he had not even thought to consider before now.

“Well, there’s the carranam.” He paused for a moment, his thoughts twisting around the impossible, outlandish idea. “It’s hard to explain… I’ve only ever seen it used a handful of times on killing fields. When you’re drained, your carranam can yield their power to you, as long as you’re compatible and actively sharing a blood connection.”

The way their magics played with one another, the way he felt her fire rubbing up against his skin, even now, after she had been so drained…

Aelin tilted her head to the side. “If we were carranam, and I gave you my power, would you still only be using wind and ice – not my fire?”

The question almost felt too astute. Rowan nodded, distracted.

“How do you know if you’re compatible with someone?”

“There’s no way of telling until you try.” Rowan replied, his voice almost cautious. “And the bond is so rare that the majority of Fae never meet someone who is compatible, or whom they trust enough to test it out. There’s always a threat that they could take too much – and if they’re unskilled, they could shatter your mind. Or you could both burn out completely.”

Aelin’s brow was furrowed slightly, her eyes faraway. “Could you ever just steal magic from someone?”

Rowan held in a grimace. “Less savory Fae once attempted to do so – to win battles and add to their own power – but it never worked. And if it did, it was because the person they held hostage was coincidentally compatible. Maeve outlawed any forced bonds long before I was born, but…I’ve been sent a few times to hunt down corrupt Fae who keep their carranam as slaves. Usually, the slaves are so broken there’s no way to rehabilitate them.”

Memories rippled through him, images of Fae in chains, locked in cages, whipped within an inch of their lives…

Just because they were fit matches, were drawn to each other through blood and magic, it didn’t mean that Fae were always humane. That those with weak hearts and evil dispositions didn’t take advantage. Rowan held in a sigh. “Putting them down is the only mercy I can offer.”

Aelin’s eyes softened. “Doing that must be harder than all the wars and sieges you’ve ever waged.”

“Immortality is not as much of a gift as mortals would believe. It can breed monsters that even you would be sick to learn about. Imagine the sadists you’ve encountered – and then imagine them with millennia to hone their craft and warped desires.”

Aelin shuddered. “This conversation’s become too awful to have after eating,” she said, slumping against the pillows. “Tell me which one of your little cadre is the handsomest, and if he would fancy me.”

Rowan choked at the abrupt change in topic. “The thought of you with any of my companions makes my blood run cold.”

Not that Fenrys would be opposed. In fact, Rowan was absolutely certain that the male would be the opposite of opposed. And the others…her power…they would all be drawn to it. Just as he was. Rowan held in a shudder of his own.

Aelin’s voice was teasing. “They’re that awful? Your kitty-cat friend looked decent enough.”

Rowan’s brows shot up to the ceiling. This woman would never stop surprising him. Kitty-cat friend?

“I don’t think my kitty-cat friend would know what to do with you – nor would any of the others. It would likely end in bloodshed.” The real question was – whose blood would be shed? To his own surprise, he doubted it would be the princess’.

Aelin’s grin didn’t falter, even as he crossed his arms, his face solidifying. “They would likely have very little interest in you, as you’ll be old and decrepit soon enough and thus not worth the effort it would take to win you.”

Aelin just rolled her eyes. “Killjoy.”

She shifted on the bed, the pile of blankets twisting to uncover her bare wrists, and the scars that lay there. Scars that he now knew were not left at the hand of a cruel master, but were the result of her year as a slave.

Instead of a golden child locked in a dungeon, the image in his mind was now of a young woman toiling in the dark, a pickaxe in her hands, salt burning beneath her feet. She looked up at him, and her golden eyes were blank. There was no anger there, no hatred or suffering. Only the emptiness of the bereft.

His chest tightened.

Although the image wasn’t real, the scars solidified it. An unnecessary reminder. “A skilled healer could probably get rid of those scars – definitely the ones on your wrist, and most on your back.”

Aelin clenched her jaw, but after a moment loosed a long breath. “There were cells in the bowels of the mines that they used to punish slaves. Cells so dark you would wake up in them and think you’d been blinded. They locked me in there sometimes – once for three weeks straight. And the only thing that got me through it was reminding myself of my name, over and over and over – I am Celaena Sardothien.”

Aelin’s face was set, her voice steady. Rowan felt his own blood run cold. Imagining her, a lone flame in all that darkness…

“When they would let me out, so much of my mind had shut down in the darkness that the only thing I could remember was that my name was Celaena. Celaena Sardothien, arrogant and brave and skilled, Celaena who did not know fear or despair, Celaena who was a weapon honed by Death.”

She ran a shaking hand through her hair. “I don’t usually let myself think about that part of Endovier.” She breathed. “After I got out, there were nights when I would wake up and think I was back in those cells, and I would have to light every candle in my room to prove I wasn’t. They don’t just kill you in the mines – they break you.”

But she hadn’t broken. Rowan wanted to comfort her, to hug her, to brush her hair out of her eyes and tell her that no one would ever lock her in darkness again – but he couldn’t. And he couldn’t promise her anything. So he sat and listened, his eyes trained on her face.

“There are thousands of slaves in Endovier, and a good number are from Terrasen. Regardless of what I do with my birthright, I’m going to find a way to free them someday. I will free them. Them, and all the slaves in Calaculla, too. So my scars serve as a reminder of that.” Aelin seemed lighter, almost. The truth a weight from her shoulders.

Yet still, was so much she kept hidden. So much truth that still weighed on her.

“What happened ten years ago, Aelin?”

Her eyes were cold, her response automatic. “I’m not going to talk about that.”

“If you took up your crown, you could free Endovier far more easily than – ”

“I can’t talk about it.”

“Why?” The question was almost pleading.

Aelin rubbed her brows again, her gaze turned inwards.

“There is this … rage,” she said hoarsely. “This despair and hatred and rage that lives and breathes inside me. There is no sanity to it, no gentleness. It is a monster dwelling under my skin. For the past ten years, I have worked every day, every hour, to keep that monster locked up. And the moment I talk about those two days, and what happened before and after, that monster is going to break loose, and there will be no accounting for what I do.”

A breath. “That is how I was able to stand before the King of Adarlan, how I was able to befriend his son and his captain, how I was able to live in that palace. Because I did not give that rage, those memories, one inch. And right now I am looking for the tools that might destroy my enemy, and I cannot let out the monster, because it will make me use those tools against the king, not put them back as I should – and I might very well destroy the world for spite. So that is why I must be Celaena, not Aelin – because being Aelin means facing those things, and unleashing that monster. Do you understand?”

“For whatever it’s worth, I don’t think you would destroy the world from spite.” His voice turned hard. “But I also think you like to suffer. You collect scars because you want proof that you are paying for whatever sins you’ve committed. And I know this because I’ve been doing the same damn thing for two hundred years. Tell me, do you think you will go to some blessed Afterworld, or do you expect a burning hell? You’re hoping for hell – because how could you face them in the Afterworld? Better to suffer, to be damned for eternity and – ”

“That’s enough,” she whispered, her voice small and cold.

Rowan turned back to the worktable, kicking himself, sure that he had passed over some invisible boundary. But he couldn’t focus at all on the piece of paper before him, not when the scent of Aelin’s pain and sorrow wrapped around him like sandpaper. Bitter and rotten.

And it only got stronger as the seconds passed, until Rowan found himself standing up and moving over to lie on the bed next to her, his body pressing into her warmth. Not holding her, only lying beside her. A strange internal compromise.

“At least if you’re going to hell,” Rowan muttered, “then we’ll be there together.”

“I feel bad for the dark god already.”

Aelin’s warm, vibrant scent filled his nostrils, calling up the memory of the taste of her blood in his mouth. Her hair was a golden river on the pillow in front of him, and before he could stop himself, his fingers were reaching out to brush down it.

At the soft touch, a small sigh escaped Aelin’s lips, and Rowan knew that he couldn’t stop.

“When I’m back to normal, can I assume you’re going to yell at me about almost burning out?”

He let out a quiet laugh. “You have no idea.” Her hair was like liquid gold, layers of sunlight passing between his fingers. She smiled against her pillow, and Rowan was happy to see that almost all of the sadness had left her scent.

After a few long moments of quiet companionship, Rowan muttered, “I have no doubt that you’ll be able to free the slaves from the labor camps someday. No matter what name you use.”

Aelin only leaned further into his touch, placing a hand onto his chest. Her eyes were closed, but still she said, softly, “Thank you for looking after me.”

Rowan just grunted, while the princess faded into sleep, her hand still over his heart, and his fingers still curled in her hair.

Rowan lay awake and unmoving on the bed beside her, watching as the sun fell into darkness and the moon rose over the blankets, marking the princess’ golden hair silver in the faint white light.

His thoughts twisted uselessly, stumbling over the same point over and over again.

Could they be carranam?

Rowan had never considered such a thing before, had never given any thought to the idea that there might be someone out there, waiting, their magic matched perfectly to his. Even when he’d first learned about the concept, it hadn’t sparked much deliberation.

It’d been drilled into him that such pairings were even rarer than finding your mate, and that even when they were chanced upon, they rarely meant anything of significance. Most magic gifts were small and inconsequential, and did little to affect the daily lives of the Fae. Carranam were hardly any different.

And far, far too often, the pairs were ill-matched, and either fell apart or were used to the exclusive benefit of one partner. Rowan would never forget the faces of the Fae he had freed from such pairings, the slaves he had killed. From mercy, he had done it. But still, he had killed them. Slaves. Those deaths would weigh on him unto his dying day.

In his long life, Rowan had met exactly two pairs of carranam that used their power together. The first had been hundreds of years ago, and they had died together in some long-forgotten war at the edge of the world, their power not enough to save them.

The other pair had been a chance meeting, a few decades earlier. Both partners were married to other Fae, and they lived to the south of Doranelle, on the outskirts of a small farming village. Together, they used their power to grow wheat and barley and corn, and to ensure that their people were safe and well fed through the years.

A simple, honest life. A life of growing things, of drawing water from the earth and reaping a bountiful harvest each year. Nothing great or glorious.

He had felt the way their powers worked together, seen how their wells of magic combined to form a whole greater than the sum of its parts. It was almost as though one being had been split into two independent halves, a perfect match. And their power was nothing, a drop in the bucket, compared to his. Compared to Aelin’s.

If they were carranam…The words twisted on their way out. If they were carranam, Rowan would be handing Maeve a weapon beyond her wildest dreams. A weapon she could use to conquer Erilea, and raze the earth to ashes. If they were carranam, there was nothing in the word that would be able to stand in the way of their might. Not even the gods.

An image of him and Aelin, fire and ice, a whirling torrent of power, appeared before him. Legions knelt at their feet, hosts more roaring at their back, a war of their own making pressing in upon them. He could feel Aelin’s presence in his chest, right next to where the blood oath lay in wait.

In this world, in this image, Aelin was sworn to his queen. Aelin was trapped right alongside him. A slave once more.

Maeve towered before them, her face aglow with triumph.

The image sunk in Rowan’s stomach, a sickly weight.

If they were carranam, it didn’t change anything for either of them. He was still trapped, Aelin still in danger. And regardless of how much it seemed to fit, how matched they seemed to be, it didn’t mean anything.

Carranam were so rare, and they were such a strange pair: an ancient Fae male, and a young demi-Fae princess from across the sea?

No. Rowan rejected the idea, rejected the image of the pair of them in chains, kneeling at Maeve’s feet. No. They couldn’t be carranam. It was too strange, too unlikely. Too rare.

But still…that other half of the image taunted him, pulling at the corners of his mind. Rowan and Aelin, their power wrapped around them. Equals. A perfect match.

It tugged at him, and secretly, he almost wanted it. Wanted some tangible, irreversible connection to the Heir of Fire. So that when the day came that she walked away from him forever, he would have something of hers that belonged to him. So that he would have a piece of her fire to remember her by.

Chapter Text

Aelin was growing increasingly irritated by being trapped inside, snapping at him more readily with each passing minute. But even so, her protests were without much heat.

No matter how much it infuriated her, she understood why he wasn’t letting her roam free through the fortress, and she was in enough pain to accept his assistance. To be frank, Rowan wouldn’t be entirely surprised to find out that she secretly was enjoying the attention, beneath all of her exasperated assertions that she was able to take care of herself, thank-you-very-much.

Or maybe he just thought that because he wanted her to be.

The morning of their final day in paired confinement dawned cold and misty, as always. Rowan awoke before Aelin, and was already sitting at his worktable, looking out through the foggy window over the fortress grounds while a pot of ginger tea brewed on his desk.

He’d just started the slow process of sharpening his blades when Aelin began to stir. After a few moments of rustling blankets, she turned over and asked, “How many days has it been since Beltane, Rowan?”

“Today is the third.”

“Huh.” She sat up on the bed, her bones cracking as she stretched. “Today is my birthday. I’m nineteen.” Her voice was slow and gravelly, still filled with sleep. “Huh. Nineteen.”

Rowan turned to face her. “Happy Birthday.”

“Thanks.” A small smile.

Rowan poured a cup of tea and handed it over to her, saying, “I was waiting for you to wake up before I went and got breakfast.”

She nodded at him, already sipping at her tea, and he left.

It was later than usual, and the halls were decently empty – most demi-Fae having already started their day. He found Emrys pulling a tray of bread loaves from the oven, while Malakai stood nearby, hastily eating a bowl of steaming stew. Luca was already gone for the day, off on sentry duty.

Rowan nodded a greeting to the two males, and began collecting some food for their breakfasts. He paid more attention to what he chose this time however, passing over dishes that seemed more lackluster. He figured it might be nice for Aelin to have a better breakfast than usual.

As he was pulling a few slices of soft white bread onto the tray, alongside a bowl of fresh red summer berries, Malakai cut through his train of thought. “Prince Rowan, I was actually just about to go up to see you.”

Rowan looked up to see a shadow pass over Malakai’s face.

“Another body was found in the night, just received word this morning.” Malakai sighed, “That makes the sixth.”

Rowan’s jaw tightened.

“So far, it seems as though it’s following all of the usual patterns. Dumped near water, drained of all life, blood at the mouth and ears. But I suppose you’d like to confirm for yourself?”

Rowan just nodded, and Malakai described its exact location – to the northwest, closer to the southern hills than any other since the first body they had discovered. Rowan gathered up his tray of food, making to leave, but before he could, Malakai interrupted him.

“Did – did Head Healer Namonora speak to you about her findings?” he asked, only a small hesitation in his voice.

Rowan pursed his lips. “Yes.”

“And…what do you think of her views?”

Rowan sighed, his mouth twisting into a wry frown. “I don’t know. Did she tell you about Paynor?”

“Yes, and her suspicions that the creatures are one and the same. And…there’s all this talk of an impending invasion from Adarlan…that Wendlyn is on the verge of attack…”

Emrys spoke up from his place by the fire, “…Are the rumors true, Prince? Have you heard anything? Should we be worried?”

Rowan breathed deep and said, “I don’t know of anything that’s worth repeating. If Adarlan is moving to attack, I doubt Mistward – or any of the other demi-Fae strongholds, for that matter – will be affected without ample time to prepare beforehand. Adarlan may be readying to make its move, and if they break Wendlyn’s front lines, we must then be prepared. But it’s useless to worry beforehand.”

He turned back to face Malakai. “And as for Namonora’s speculations – while I can’t discount them, I’m not sure its worth our time to pay them much heed. There just isn’t enough evidence either way. No matter how infuriating, we must wait, until either the killings stop, the creature is apprehended and destroyed, or new evidence comes to light. There are no other options.”

The two males seemed almost taken aback by the speech, and they just nodded blankly at Rowan as he inclined his head and turned to leave, already preparing for his argument with the princess when she inevitably demanded that he take her with him to visit the body.

Rowan almost had to lock Aelin up in his rooms in order to leave without her following along after him.

Eventually she acquiesced, and teased him by saying that some time alone was enough of a birthday present that she would allow it. He just raised his eyebrows at her.

The body was exactly as Malakai said, a lifeless husk, carelessly dumped near a stream, blood at the mouth, nose, and ears. This time, Rowan burned the corpse on his own, the embers dull and lifeless compared to Aelin’s.

On his way back to the fortress, Rowan passed by the village from before, and decided to make a stop. They didn’t know anything of course, but at least they spoke to him, accepting the gold and silver that rattled in his pockets as enough of a reward for the chore of speaking to such a strange and powerful Fae.

Rowan even grabbed the box of chocolates Aelin liked from the confectionary on his way out, remembering how she had enjoyed them before.

When he handed them over to her an hour or so later, he claimed to be insulted that she considered his absence a proper birthday present. She laughed lightly, popping the chocolates into her mouth one after another, as if they were nuts, or sunflower seeds. Rowan had to hold in a shudder.

She tried to embrace him to show her thanks, but he shrugged her off, saying it was nothing. But that evening, while he was studying a message from Vaughan, she snuck up behind him and landed a soft kiss on his cheek. And he didn’t know why, but he let her.

Even so, he grimaced and snarled at the princess, rubbing at the scorching mark she had left on his face. Aelin only laughed and spun back onto the bed, content in her victory.

Rowan hid a grin.

···

The next day, Rowan led Aelin west, away from their usual trek up to the temple ruins and instead towards a convenient clearing he knew lay a mile or so away from the fortress.

Beltane had been a disaster, but still, she had mastered that part of her self-control, and was now ready to progress to the next step of her training. Rowan was almost excited. No more sitting, no more waiting. Aelin had been trained as a warrior, and now Rowan would be putting that to the test.

They stood across from each other, Aelin already sunk into a defensive position, a gleam in her eye. Rowan didn’t know how much she had already guessed about what was about to occur, but obviously she knew that she wasn’t going to be just lighting candles anymore.

“Your magic lacks shape,” Rowan said, “And because it has no shape, you have little control. As a form of attack, a fireball or wave of flame is useful, yes. But if you are engaging a skilled combatant – if you want to be able to use your power – then you have to learn to fight with it.”

Aelin groaned, but that gleam in her eye only brightened.

Rowan’s voice sharpened. “But you have one advantage that many magic-wielders do not: you already know how to fight with weapons.”

The corners of Aelin’s lips twitched. “First chocolates on my birthday, now an actual compliment?”

Rowan’s eyes narrowed. The more you talk, the more I’m going to make you pay in a moment.

Her smile widened. Apologies, master. I am yours to instruct.

Brat.

Rowan jerked his chin at her. “Your fire can take whatever form you wish – the only limit being your imagination. And considering your upbringing, should you go on the offensive – ”

“You want me to make a sword out of fire?”

“Arrows, daggers – you direct the power. Visualize it, and use it as you would a mortal weapon.”

She swallowed.

He smirked. Afraid to play with fire, Princess?

You won’t be happy if I singe your eyebrows off.

Try me. “When you trained as an assassin, what was the first thing you learned?”

“How to defend myself.”

Rowan hid a grin of satisfaction. “Good.”

···

Barely an hour had passed, and yet Aelin was acting as though she were ready to drop. Sweat coated her limbs, her breaths were ragged in her throat, and her eyes were slightly glazed.

Rowan sent another ice dagger towards her left arm, and it left a small graze of red behind before disappearing into the mossy foliage. Aelin snarled, more out of annoyance than pain.

He had thrown dagger after dagger her way, and yet she had not yet managed to conjure a shield even once. There were occasional flickers of flame, but they were always too far to the right or left, and far too insubstantial to do anything to his ice. And Rowan needed her to conjure a shield, not a wall, or a wave – a small, controlled shield. Strong enough to melt the daggers into nothing. Only then would he stop his assault.

But it didn’t seem to matter that dried blood streaked Aelin’s cheeks and arms, didn’t matter that fury was coursing through her blood. It was as it always was with Aelin – she wasn’t ever properly motivated by her own pain or anger or frustration. And her mental cage remained strong. Rowan held in a curse.

“Try harder,” he snarled.

“I am trying,” she snapped, rolling aside as he sent two gleaming ice daggers at her head.

Rowan growled. “You’re acting like you’re on the verge of a burnout.”

“Maybe I am.”

“If you believe for one moment that you’re close to a burnout after an hour of practicing – ”

“It happened that quickly on Beltane.”

“That was not the end of your power.” Rowan prepared the next blade, letting it hover in wait beside his head. “You fell into the lure of the magic and let it do what it wanted – let it consume you. Had you kept your head, you could have had those fires burning for weeks – months.”

Her face was cold. “No.”

His nostrils flared. “I knew it. You wanted your power to be insignificant – you were relieved when you thought that was all you had.”

Rowan flung the dagger towards her, then the next, and the next. All the while wondering how he could help her escape those iron bars, borne of fear and self-hatred.

In the beginning, he had thought his task would be to teach a coward to face her fears, but he couldn’t have been farther from the truth. Aelin was as far from a coward as anyone he had met. No, his task was to help this woman learn to accept her own identity. And he had absolutely no idea how to do that.

Perhaps Namonora was right, and she never would. The thought sent a wave of revulsion through him. No. He couldn’t bear it.

Rowan sent another dagger towards the princess, but this time instead of dodging, she raised her arm, eyes flaming with intensity.

But nothing appeared, and she cursed so loudly in pain and fury that the birds overhead stilled their twittering. Rowan grimaced.

“Stop hitting me! I get the point!” Aelin yelled, grasping her arm as blood welled beneath her tunic.

Rowan only steeled himself, and sent another dagger. And another. Aelin dodged efficiently, swooping and ducking, all while clutching her injured arm. She gritted her teeth, swearing viciously at him. Rowan sent another dagger, leaving a shallow scrape across her cheekbone.

Aelin hissed, her eyes bright.

And then something shifted. Aelin sighed, relaxing her stiff muscles and her power rallied, focusing from a haze of smoke and flame into malleable bright-white steel within her.

And when Rowan sent another dagger past her right side, it vanished with a hiss of steam. Striking right into the heart of a shield of deep red, a flame as compact as any armor.

Rowan smiled. “We’re done for today. Go eat something.”

Aelin slowly looked up from her right arm, her eyes wide with wonder and triumph. “No. Again.”

···

A few more days passed, and Aelin returned to her usual fiery, arrogant self. But Rowan didn’t kick her out of his rooms, or ask her to get that cot. He didn’t really even bother giving himself any excuses.

He woke up each morning with her scent on his tongue, and the golden wash of her hair before his eyes. And she didn’t seem to have any inclination to alter their arrangement, either. Though perhaps that was because she thought her only other option was to go back to the shithole she’d been forced to sleep in before.

Either way, the sleeping arrangements stood. And Rowan, against his better judgement, had no intention of changing them.

In the afternoons, he had Aelin making shields of various sizes and temperatures, some large enough to protect an entire regiment and a blazing sapphire blue, others as small as a thimble and a pale gold.

Yet even after days of practicing, her wildfire burned hot. No end in sight.

Rowan couldn’t help but wondering at the force contained within the female. Speculating about how it could be molded, and used in battle. Rowan knew power, had fought whole armies alongside his fellow blood-sworn. He was familiar with its reach, and its limitations.

But Aelin…she was an army unto herself. Or she would be.

Rowan almost understood Aelin’s fears, understood why she might limit herself. Such power was a burden. He could understand not wanting it. To be free of those obligations.

So she had become Celaena, not only out of necessity, but as an escape. From the royal trap she had been born into. Hadn’t Rowan done the very same? Become blood sworn to Maeve, to escape his own demons? To serve a new purpose?

And when he was younger, he had done all he could to make others comfortable in his presence, had gone out of his way to suppress his power. And he had hated it, just as Aelin seemed to.

So no matter how much it frustrated him, her mental cage, Rowan understood it.

Even so, over the past few days, she had progressed quickly, almost too quickly. Her control was improving, as well as her speed and agility. She was quicker, her reactions more fluid and natural.

She could now conjure various blades and weapons, all compact and focused, and she could completely shield against his attacks over half the time. Yesterday, Aelin had even managed to hold multiple defenses fast against constant assault for nearly fifteen minutes, and she could encircle the entire clearing in her flames and hold them burning for over an hour without a break.

It was insanely quick progress, especially considering how slow it had been to start. So when he felt Aelin leave their rooms before dawn for the fourth morning in a row, Rowan followed her. Before, he had assumed that she was leaving early to help in the kitchens, but her scent lead down the stairs, through the courtyard and out over the grounds.

Rowan shifted, and flew out over the courtyard and the exterior wall of the fortress, thinking to check the nearby wilderness for the princess. But he didn’t have to look any farther.

Aelin was standing on the other side of the ward-stone gate, fighting with herself.

Her flames had become gloriously varied, golds and reds and oranges, and with each kick of flames, each swipe of her arms, the power rushed forwards only to bounce back off the wards, forcing her to dodge and swoop and shield.

Her movements were sure, and strong. The dance of the assassin she had been.

Rowan shook his head. Her master had been a monster, but he had trained her thoroughly. Aelin seamlessly melded her training as a warrior with her new lessons in governing her power, and was turning herself into a powerful magic-user. A true Heir of Fire.

Rowan swooped down beside the sentries along the battlement wall, and shifted back into his Fae form. To their credit, they hardly jumped, though a tang of fear still washed over him, marking the air with copper.

Even after all these weeks, he was still feared by residents of the fortress. Rowan held in a frown of discomfort.

“How long has she been down there?”

“An hour, Prince,” one said, watching the flashing flames below.

“For how many mornings in a row?”

“This is the fourth, Prince,” the same sentry replied.

Rowan looked back down towards the princess, just as a dagger of flame flew from her hand and towards the invisible barrier, as if racing for the head of an opponent. A warrior on a battlefield.

“I’ve never seen anyone … fight like that,” the sentry said. It was a question, but Rowan didn’t bother to answer. It wasn’t their business, and he wasn’t entirely certain if his queen would be pleased with the demi-Fae learning to use their powers in such a way. Though he fully planned to tell Lorcan, if only to see whether they could use it in their training.

Aelin moved from throwing weapons to hand-to-hand combat: a punch of power, a sweeping kick of flame. She ducked and flipped and twisted, relentless, raging, and –

She swore with her usual color as the wall sent the punch of ruby flame back at her. She managed to shield, but still got knocked on her ass. Yet none of the sentries laughed.

Rowan didn’t know if it was because of his presence or because of her. He got his answer a heartbeat later, as he waited for her to shout or shriek or walk away. But the princess just slowly got to her feet, not bothering to brush off the dirt and leaves, and kept practicing.

After a few minutes, a messenger appeared bearing a letter for Rowan, and so he turned away from the fire-wielder and headed back for his rooms.

He opened it absentmindedly, still thinking of Aelin’s unexpected resourcefulness, but as he started reading all his thoughts drained away, and were replaced by a familiar, roiling irritation.

Fenrys was evidently still starving for attention, only this time, he came bearing news. Of an infuriating sort.

Rowan –

I hope everything’s alright with you, training going well, oh yes I’m doing absolutely fine thank you for asking, just loving it here trapped with my brother and a surprisingly moody Gavriel, really enjoying myself, glad to know you’re having fun with the princess – oh you’re not? You’re actually just the same old brooding bastard you’ve always been and are not in any way appreciating the many benefits of being hundreds of miles away from Doranelle, in close quarters with a beautiful young female who you happen to spend almost every waking minute with? Oh? Oh? Now I’m remembering why I don’t like you very much.

Anyways, glad that’s out of the way.

Remelle and co. are on their way to Mistward.

Yeah. You’re expected to play host. Maeve officially sent her, along with Essar and Benson (that absolute ass from that cotillion a few years ago? Remember?) to meet Vaughan and play diplomat somewhere to the southwest, but they are also going to pass through the fortress on their way and ‘check in.’ They should be arriving only barely behind this letter – they left Doranelle this morning.

Also, Remelle has made herself very…present, lately. Always about the castle, asking pointed questions. I don’t really know what to make of Maeve deciding to send her, maybe she just wants to get under your skin.

And I don’t know whether Maeve decided to inform her of your purpose at Mistward, but I doubt it. Aelin Galathynius is too charged a title to throw around with ease, and especially not in the presence of that particular lady. Remelle isn’t exactly known to keep things to herself.

But other than that, I don’t have anything concrete to report. Except for the suspicions, that I’m sure you share, about the selection of these particular individuals for this visit. My speculations, however, are somewhat worthless compared to yours. You are much more familiar with the people involved. Or at least one of them. Quite familiar.

One might even say…intimately familiar.

To be honest I just wish I could be there to see how this plays out.

Good luck, I guess –

Fenrys

Rowan took a breath through his teeth. Remelle.

She had been a mistake, a stupid one. And he had been paying for it for nearly a century now.

Rowan had never thought that he would be one to succumb to the failings of his own vanity, but oh, he had. Remelle had showered him with her relentless attention and spiky cynicism, and – he unwillingly admitted to himself – she had been a warm, attractive body in the right place at the right time.

He had ended the affair after a season or so, but she never seemed to give up. At every gathering, every opportunity, she would be at his elbows, or sending him carefully crafted looks from across the room.

Rowan usually avoided the female at all costs. And most of the time he was successful: with his position, he could avoid most social engagements, and technically, he outranked her. Which made things a bit easier. For him. For her, Rowan was sure that it just turned him into an enticing challenge, something to fill the endless time with.

And now she was on her way to Mistward, where he had no chance of avoiding her. Alongside Essar and Benson. A merry group of nobles, come to scout out the warrior among the demi-Fae.

Come to spy.

For that was what Fenrys had left unsaid. There was no other reasonable explanation. Why else would you send three noble Fae, one who could master any language or accent she heard, another who could become invisible, and a fire-wielder?

Maeve had sent them to spy, the only question was, what did she want them to discover? Was Mistward actually a diversion from their true objective, or was their visit here their actual purpose? Was Maeve getting impatient? Did she seek information about Aelin’s progress? Or was Rowan just being paranoid because of his desire to keep his relationship with the girl out of Maeve’s view?

Rowan didn’t know.

Either way, he still had to deal with them. And if the letter was correct, they should be arriving later that very day. Rowan failed to hide a groan of exasperation.

They would need rooms for the night. Mistward was full to the brim, a few demi-Fae would probably have to be kicked out for the night. And Rowan would have to prepare Emrys, the nobles would be expecting a formal meal.

Ungh. A formal dinner.

Rowan wasn’t sure how he would be able to face it. Not without it ending in bloodshed. Well, at least he might not have to face it alone. He could bring Aelin with him – whether they knew it or not, she certainly was high-ranked enough. And if he was right, and they were here to spy…then it would be all the easier to keep watch over her if she was at his side.

Rowan sighed, and turned to head towards the kitchens to speak with Emrys.

···

“What’s your favorite food?” Aelin was lounging on a boulder in a pillar of sunlight, soaking it up like a lizard or a snake. She chucked a nut in the air and caught it in her mouth.

He had decided to take it easy that afternoon, to give her a break, in order to work up to asking her to help him this evening.

Rowan frowned. “Whatever keeps me alive at the moment,” he said, forearms braced on his knees, looking out over the rippling valley below. Searching for the horses and guards that would mark the imminent arrival of the Fae royals.

She clicked her tongue. “Could you be any more of an animal?”

He slid a glance in her direction, lifting a brow and saying, You remember what my other form is, don’t you?

When she only scowled, he sighed. “There’s a street vendor in Doranelle who sells meat on a stick.”

“Meat on a stick.” Aelin fought a grin.

“And I suppose yours is some confection or useless bit of sugar.”

“Sweets aren’t useless. And yes. I’d crawl over hot coals for a piece of chocolate hazelnut cake right now.”

Rowan glared at her. “What good could that possibly be for keeping your body strong? With your magic, you’d burn through it and be hungry again within half an hour.”

She plopped herself up on her elbows. “Your priorities are obscenely out of order. Not all food is for survival and strength-building. You didn’t even try one of the chocolates from that town. I guarantee the moment you do every time I turn my back, you’ll be shoveling them down.”

Aelin seemed to be fighting a laugh, and Rowan was about to say that maybe she didn’t actually deserve an afternoon off, when she quickly asked, “Favorite color?”

Rowan only hesitated a moment before saying, “Green.”

“I’m surprised you actually know.”

Rowan narrowed his eyes at her, but the teasing glint in her eyes only brightened. “What’s yours?”

“For a while, I made myself believe it was blue. But – it’s always been red. You probably know why.”

Rowan made an affirmative sound.

Aelin lay down and raised a hand above her, threading a line of fire through her fingers. She plaited it between her knuckles, then snaked it down her palm, until it curled around her wrist, twining and slithering along her skin.

“Good,” Rowan said. “Your control is improving.”

“Mmhmm.” She lifted her other hand, and rings of flame encircled her fingers. She set to work on carving the flames, forging them into individual patterns. Jewelry for the princess of fire.

“Try it on me,” Rowan said. She turned her head and frowned at him. “Do it.”

Rowan felt a delicious heat waft down his neck and shoulders as flames began to appear atop his head, twirling and crackling with power. Aelin’s gaze was focused on the space just above him, a little crinkle appearing between her eyes as she focused on stream of magic.

She was making him a crown of flames, and even as she worked on refining the details, the jewelry on her fingers and wrists didn’t shift or flicker, still burning brightly despite the shift in her focus.

“Bold move,” Rowan said. “One that doesn’t have much space for error.”

“I’m surprised you’re not encasing your head in ice.”

“I trust you,” he said quietly, and she looked up sharply, meeting his gaze with questioning eyes.

“And now one for you,” he said, and Aelin’s expression shifted to one of delight as a crown of ice began to take shape in the space between them, delicate spikes rising high. Rowan lifted it between his fingers and placed it on her brow.

For a moment, they smiled at each other, the Prince of Ice and the Heir of Fire, but then Aelin’s face fell, her flames vanished, and her scent filled with grief. She stood and turned towards the ridge, her arms wrapping around herself.

For a moment, Rowan was confused. But then – understanding. He had made her a crown. A crown.

With a flicker of thought, Rowan melted the headpiece and it dissolved into mist on the mountain wind. Rowan sighed and began to approach her side. “We’re going to have visitors tonight,” he said.

“Should I be concerned?”

“I – I need your help.”

Aelin’s face brightened somewhat. “Ah. So that’s why you let me have an afternoon of peace.” He snarled, but she just lifted a brow. “Will I finally be meeting your mysterious friends?”

The words came stiffly. “No. They’re Fae nobility, passing through the area. They requested a place to stay for the night, and will arrive around sunset. Emrys is making them dinner, and I am expected to…entertain them.”

There was a heavy pause. “Oh. no. No.”

“They will not condescend to dine with the demi-Fae, and – ”

“I’m even less acceptable than a demi-Fae!”

“ – if I have to play host to them all evening, it will likely end in bloodshed.”

She blinked. “Not favorites of yours?”

“They’re typical nobility. Not trained warriors. They expect to be treated a certain way.”

“So? You’re in Maeve’s little cabal. And you’re a prince to boot. Don’t
you outrank them?”

“Technically, but there are politics to consider. Especially when they’ll be reporting to Maeve.”

She groaned. “So what – I’m supposed to play hostess?”

Her face was about as miserable as his. “No. Just – help me deal with them.”

She pursed her lips, but thankfully, she seemed to be coming around. “And what am I going to get out of it?”

Rowan clenched his jaw, and he honestly considered saying that he wouldn’t kick her ass, but instead, he sighed and said, “I’ll find you a chocolate hazelnut cake.”

“No.” Rowan raised his brows, and she threw a wicked smile at him. “You’ll just owe me. A favor that I can call in whenever I please.”

He sighed again, lifting his gaze skyward. If he lived through the next few hours, he would honestly be surprised. “Just look presentable at sundown.”

Chapter Text

Rowan shifted uncomfortably, rolling his weight from left to right. Aelin glanced up at him, her brow furrowed. Apparently, the small motion hadn’t escaped her notice. It didn’t help that Rowan usually kept his body exceptionally still.

But this evening hardly counted as ‘the usual.’

They were standing at the entrance to the fortress, in the small interior courtyard that rested just behind the battlement wall. Rowan hadn’t changed for the evening, only bothering to don his cleanest overcoat and leave the more cumbersome of his weapons behind in his rooms.

Aelin, however, had bathed, dressed in a pleasant yellow tunic and loose pants, and carefully braided her hair across her brow and rolled it beneath her right ear. It was almost like a crown – a golden circlet.

She was practically radiant.

In fact, the only thing marring her appearance was the scowl currently darkening her features. Not that there was anything Rowan could do about that. Well, except for freeing her of any obligation to help him through this evening.

Not that that was much of an option. The closer the royals drew, the more convinced Rowan was that the only thing that would keep him from completely losing a handle on his temper was Aelin’s presence.

Remelle’s icy laugh wafted through the mist and towards the fortress gates, accompanied by the sound of bells and merry voices. They were close. Rowan barely manage to suppress a groan. As it was, a huff of breath escaped through his nostrils.

Aelin slid him a sideways glance. “Really? You need my help with these prancing idiots?”

Rowan clenched his jaw, and sent her his most vicious glare. She didn’t react. “Keep your voice down,” he muttered, and gave a pointed glance to her ears.

She rolled her eyes, but her lips closed into a disdainful frown and stayed that way. Rowan’s gaze lingered perhaps a little bit too long on her mouth.

He jerked his head away just as the company came into view, passing over the drawbridge and entering the small inner courtyard where he and Aelin stood in wait.

There was a total of five Fae in the party, two bored-looking guards having accompanied the three royals. Remelle was in the lead, her pale blond hair twisted carefully into place, her snow-white face touched with rose petals, her posture perfectly poised to show off her figure. She was stunning. No matter how much Rowan disliked the female, he had to reluctantly concede that fact.

Remelle’s piercing blue eyes flared bright as they fixed on him, and her expression shifted, becoming snakelike. A serpent with it eyes on the mouse. Rowan’s jaw tightened, anger curdling in his gut.

The female was beautiful, but she had nothing, nothing, on the soft perfection of the princess standing beside him. Her beauty was cold, her manner conniving and insincere. She thought nothing of others, had nothing driving her beyond blind ambition.

How Rowan had spent a whole season in her company was beyond him. He guessed there was something to be said for limited choices. And for giving in under pressure – she had been ferocious in her pursuit of him.

Rowan carefully let his gaze casually slide away from Remelle’s, fixing his expression into bland disinterest, and onto the next in line: Benson.

Rowan had last seen the male at a ball he’d been dragged into attending by Fenrys, half a dozen years earlier. Benson had gotten thoroughly drunk, cheated Fenrys at cards, ruined several other guests’ attires, and ended the evening flat on his ass in the middle of the dance floor, passed out drunk.

Rowan could also recall a few memorably rude comments escaping his lips at dinner, most of them directed a demi-Fae server. They now ran through his head, making his nostrils flare, and his lips curl in disgust.

In short, Rowan had little love for the male. But he didn’t outright despise Benson – Fenrys had taken his revenge for the card-cheating (with minor thievery and a dunk in the river), and the male had learned his lesson. Or at least, he appeared to have.

The last in line was Essar. She was also looking at Rowan, but her eyes were warm, and the hint of a smile lightened her expression. Her form was relaxed, comfortable and uncalculating. The opposite to Remelle.

And, she was the only one of the three royals who seemed to notice Aelin standing at his side. Her eyes tightened slightly in confusion, and she tilted her head, asking a silent question. Rowan ignored her, his gaze shifting over to the remaining members of the small party.

The two guards had straightened, their slumped shoulders now set back and their sloppy postures rigid, almost severe. They both looked intently at Rowan, in wariness or interest, he did not know.

Illar and Yestrya. Rowan had trained them both, a few decades’ past (or was it more than that now? He couldn’t remember) in preparation for war with the Parthynians. But they did not know each other well, and Rowan found himself wondering if the soldiers were acting thus to impress him, or if they were actually preparing themselves to fight in order to protect the royals under their guard.

Remelle slid gracefully off of her white mare, and advanced towards Rowan, her gaze intent. “Rowan!” she exclaimed, and held out her hands towards him.

“Lady Remelle,” he said coolly, and took her proffered fingers in his. She looked as if she expected a kiss in greeting, and Rowan barely managed to keep from shoving the lady out of his space as he dropped her hands unceremoniously and turned towards the others, now also dismounting.

“Lord Benson,” Rowan said evenly, and the male dipped his head in greeting. “Lady Essar.”

The female smiled warmly at him, her eyes glowing with a genuine kindness as she reached out her arms to greet him. Rowan took her fingers in hand much more willingly than he had Remelle’s, and he could almost feel the waves of ice emanating from Remelle in response to his obvious preference.

But irritatingly, Remelle recovered quickly, and by the time Rowan had dropped Essar’s fingers she was already smiling prettily and saying, “It’s been an age, hasn’t it? You never come to our parties, and Maeve keeps you all to herself.”

Remelle placed a proprietary hand on his shoulder, her long, thin fingers like spiders’ legs through the cloth of his overcoat.

Rowan felt his whole body go still. But Remelle either didn’t notice, or didn’t care, as she continued, “There was a time when I got to keep you to myself. Sometimes I miss those days.” Her face twisted into an exaggerated pout.

Rowan breathed deep, locking his muscles in place. Remelle’s hand felt like a thorn in his shoulder – aching to be ripped out. But instead of pushing her away, Rowan just turned to the guards and said, “Stables are to the left.”

They both nodded gratefully, evidently appreciative of the opportunity for a break from their companions, and the promise of a decent meal and a bed for the night. They left the courtyard quickly.

Aelin had been quiet through the introduction, a silent presence hidden in his shadow, lying in wait. He could sense her clever eyes taking in the royals, and marking them as only she could. The princess who was an assassin.

Rowan extended an arm in her direction, silently asking her to come forwards. For a moment, she hesitated, and while he didn’t exactly blame her, her reluctance still stung somehow.

But then she strode forwards, walking closer and closer, until she was standing right beside him, and he could have tucked her into his side. He had to stop himself from doing exactly that.

All of a sudden, Rowan’s breaths came easier, and his muscles began to unclench. “This is – Elentiya.” He had to stop himself from slipping and using her real name. “I’m training her at the queen’s request. Elentiya, this is Lady Remelle, Lord Benson, and Lady Essar.”

Aelin’s expression was blank and cold as she dipped her head at the royals. Remelle and Benson pursed their lips in annoyance, but Essar gave Aelin a warm hello, and she shot up somewhat in Rowan’s estimation.

“So you are a half-breed, then,” Benson said baldly, his dark eyes raking over her golden form greedily. Rowan bristled, his muscles trembling with the growl he forced down his throat.

Aelin’s smile was tight. “My great-grandmother was Fae. So if that makes me demi-Fae, l don’t know.”

Remelle shot Rowan an exasperated look. Really? You brought a half-breed to meet us? How common of you.

Rowan forced his expression to remain blank, straining his limbs into stillness. He was honestly impressed by Aelin’s self-control. Her embers were smoldering dully, but her face was calm and her scent was clean and light on his tongue. And instead of striding forwards and knocking the royals into the dirt, as he knew she must long to, she just stepped even closer to Rowan, until their arms brushed lightly against each other.

Now Rowan was forced to exercise control of a wholly other kind.

Meanwhile, Essar’s eyes were flicking between the pair of them, seeing and understanding far more than her two companions.

Though he and Remelle had been lovers, it was Essar who Rowan considered himself closest to. For a while, she and Lorcan had been involved, and he had seen her rather frequently. So she knew Rowan, knew his history and understood how he operated.

Perhaps enough to see more than Rowan was comfortable with.

But before he could either step away from Aelin or say something to justify her presence, Essar’s gaze relaxed and she said, “WeIl, I look forward to hearing about your adventures, Rowan – and how you came to be here, Elentiya. But first, l think I should very much like a bath and something to nibble on.” She slid an apologetic look in Aelin’s direction. “I’d kill for anything chocolate right now.”

The hint of a smile graced Aelin’s face, and Rowan could almost feel the corners of his mouth lift too. But then he looked away from Aelin to see Remelle staring daggers at him, through her pleasant, smiling mask – and fury once again pooled in his stomach.

···

“So, you and Remelle,” Aelin’s voice teased from behind him, where she was lounging casually on the bed.

Rowan snarled, ripping the whetstone past his hunting knife with perhaps a bit too much force. He could smell the amusement in Aelin’s scent from all the way across the room.

They had just returned from dumping the royals at the baths, after showing them where their rooms for the night would be. Luckily for Rowan, there had been three demi-Fae more than happy to vacate their acceptably-large bedrooms if it meant getting out of the way of the royal visitors.

But there was still an hour before dinner, and Rowan didn’t think he would be able to take the anticipation for much longer. He didn’t know if he’d ever wanted something to be over and done with more than this evening.

Except perhaps his task training the princess. How that had changed.

But, as it seemed distinctly unlikely that his relationship with Remelle was about to pull even a splinter of the one-eighty his relationship with Aelin had, Rowan resolved to remain sullen, and pissed off.

Aelin, however, was not. He could feel her smiling behind his back, undoubtedly using his silence to supply her seemingly bottomless arsenal of mockery.

The words unwillingly fell from his lips. “Remelle was…a very, very big mistake.”

“Seems like she doesn’t think so.”

Rowan turned his head over his shoulder to glare at her. He had been right of course, Aelin was near-jubilant. “It was a hundred years ago.”

She didn’t blink. “She acts like you cast her aside this winter.”

“Remelle just wants whatever she can’t have. A condition many immortals suffer from to stave off boredom.”

“She was practically clawing at you.” Oh, Aelin was enjoying herself. It might have even been fun to watch if he hadn’t been so pissed off.

“She can claw all she wants, but I’m not making that mistake again.”

“Sounds like you made that mistake a few times.”

Rowan leveled a vicious gaze at her. “It was over the course of a season, and then I came to my senses.”

“Mmmm.” Aelin’s brows were touching the heavens, her lips tightly pressed together. A weak guard against the laughter threatening to explode from her chest.

Rowan stabbed the knife into the table and stalked over to her, a glower fixed to his face. “One laugh,” he warned. “Just one laugh, and I’m going to dump you in the nearest pond.”

Aelin was shaking now, the mattress trembling with the force of her barely-restrained delight.

Rowan leaned over her small frame, close enough that he could see every golden glint in her turquoise eyes. Close enough that her joyful embers caught in his throat – a pleasant spice, a delicious heat. 

“Don’t. You. Dare,” he growled, and though he was furious, seeing her so happy was calling the hint of a grin to his own face. “If you – ”

The bedroom door clicked open, and Rowan was snarling before he even fully registered the sound. But then a familiar scent washed over him, rose and ice and swan feathers, and Remelle came into view.

She blinked in shock. “Oh!”

It took no time at all for Rowan to see the scene from Remelle’s perspective. Aelin, sprawled across the bed, comfortable and relaxed and familiar. Rowan, braced over her, far too close to be just casual. The smell of joy and teasing and playfulness that permeated the space. The way their scents mixed together, close and intimate…

Rowan straightened quickly, concealing his reluctance at having to leave behind Aelin’s warmth. “What do you want?”

Remelle’s eyes were grazing over the space, taking in all the details that marked Aelin’s presence – her hairbrush on the dresser, the undergarments she’d left tossed over the back of a chair, the ribbons she used to tie back her hair, the small boots in the corner beside his larger ones. All things that filled Rowan’s chest with a strange twisting whenever he saw them, but now sent worry shooting through his stomach.

“I wanted to catch up,” Remelle said, looking everywhere but at Aelin, “but it seems you are…occupied.”

“We’ll talk at dinner,” Rowan said simply, a clear dismissal.

But then Aelin popped up from the bed, her face lit up with a wicked grin. “I have to go help Emrys with the meal, actually.” She stood, and moved quickly towards the door. “Why don’t you stay, Remelle?”

Rowan sent her a glare that would have rendered even the hardiest soldier to a blubbering mess at his feet, but Aelin’s eyes just twinkled at him, and she sauntered off out the door and down the hall, whistling to herself. Leaving him alone with Remelle.

Rowan was going to kill her. As soon as they resumed training, he was going to murder her. And then murder her again.

Remelle was frowning in the direction Aelin had gone, her eyes unreadable. But when she turned back to face him, that serpentine smile was once again dancing on her lips. “Is this part of her training, too?”

He had no patience for this. “Get out.”

Remelle clicked her tongue. “Is that how you speak to me these days?”

"I don’t know why you bothered to stop here, or what you expect of me—”

“I heard you were here, and thought I’d say hello and spare you the tedious company of half-breeds. I didn’t realize you’d taken to them so much.”

Rowan pursed his lips. He had no desire to argue with the conniving female, and if he just outright denied her claim, all it would bring was a headache. But letting Remelle assume he was bedding Aelin was equally unacceptable.

It would, without a doubt, get back to Maeve. And the more she knew, the worse their footing would be when they inevitably returned to Doranelle. But – hmm. There was a chance –

“And who was it that told you I was here?”

“Maeve, of course. I complained to her that I missed you.”

Rowan nodded to himself. The question was whether or not Remelle was a willing or unknowing spy. Not that it changed much in all practicality. He still had to find a way to convince her that what she saw, wasn’t what she thought she did…

“As your friend, Rowan, l have to say…the girl’s rather beneath you.”

He held in a laugh. So Maeve hadn’t informed her of his purpose at Mistward. The thought was somewhat comforting. Maeve hadn’t pulled her very far into her confidences, spy or no.

“One,” he said, “you’re not my friend. Two, it’s none of your business.”

Remelle’s eyes narrowed, a promise of violence. Rowan could almost see her mentally zeroing in on Aelin, resolving to make every minute until she left a living hell for the princess, having no idea the manner of predator she was provoking.

So rather than see Remelle’s blood splattered across the fortress walls before dawn, he said, “There is a shortage of bedrooms here, and we’ve had to share quarters as a result.” Not quite a lie, but not the entire truth.

Remelle only switched tactics. “Well, I suppose that’s good news for Benson.”

“What.”

“He has needs that must be attended to, and finds her attractive enough. Maeve said it was more than fine if she – "

“If Benson lays one finger on her, he’s going to find himself without his insides.” The words escaped through is lips as fury rose up within Rowan like a tidal wave – breaching over dams of reason and restriction as if they were only pebbles, or woodchips. Maeve had suggested that the princess was available for – what? Prostitution? Sex on demand?

Rowan almost wanted to see him try it, wanted to watch the male burn to ash in an inferno of Aelin’s making just for even suggesting, for assuming that Aelin was his to do with what he wished –

Remelle’s surprised voice broke through his mental tornado. “Honestly, Rowan, what do you think most of the half-breeds wind up doing in Doranelle?”

Rowan was struck dumb. That, along with the rage still pulsing through his veins, rendered him momentarily speechless. Remelle just shrugged, indifferent. “Benson will be gentle with – ”

“Benson looks twice at her, and he dies. He looks twice at any of the females in this fortress and he dies.” The words were laced with a growl so fierce that they were barely understandable.

But Remelle understood. Perhaps too well.

Rowan didn’t know how much she had inferred from his reaction, and he didn’t care. His thoughts were tumbling through thornbushes. Did Lorcan know? Was he aware what went on in their city? It was disgusting – worse than disgusting. The Fae were better than that. But Maeve –

“I’ll make sure the warning is conveyed,” Remelle purred, and she left without another word, her rose-ice-and-feather flavored scent streaking behind her, a rippling cape.

A moment passed, Rowan collapsed on the bed, suddenly exhausted. For the first time that day, Rowan was no longer sure he actually wanted them all to make it through the evening unscathed.

He couldn’t help but think that they deserved it, that they all deserved it, many times over. Deep down, Rowan thought he’d known about the purpose of the demi-Fae in Doranelle. He must have.

He’d seen their empty, expressionless faces. Hopeless. Abandoned.

The weight of the world’s hatred settled in on him, bags on sand on his chest. The demi-Fae deserved better. They all deserved better: better than a system that crushed people underfoot, better than the seemingly endless wars, better than Maeve.

The thought curdled in his chest, the blood-oath twinging and pulling. Although deep down he’d always believed it, had always known it, he had never said such thing so blatantly, so openly, before.

The Fae deserved better than Maeve.

Guilt, and a deep, all-consuming shame twisted in his gut. He was hardly any better than she. Yes, he’d had no choices, but still, he had supported Maeve for most of his too-long life. Had helped her subjugate foreign peoples, had fought and killed and tortured on her orders.

But he had always known, deep down, that what he was doing was wrong. He’d just been too far gone to let himself care. Perhaps that was why Remelle’s and Benson’s attitudes grated on him so sharply.

They had no qualms. No doubts. And they supported her freely, without force or threat of punishment and death.

Yes, they deserved whatever they got. And in the grand scheme of things, what was one brawl, really?

···

From the moment they entered the dining hall, Rowan knew that the evening was completely hopeless. A lost cause. Each of them was a lit match, a shortening fuse, just waiting to set the whole room alight.

All Rowan wanted to do was sit back and watch the flames spew – but reason won out. Against his better judgement.

Rowan, as the highest-ranking member of the party, was forced to sit at the head of the table. The plan had been for Aelin to sit on his left side, with Essar beside her, leaving Remelle to his right side, and Benson next to her.

But Remelle, quicker than either he or Aelin had anticipated, had steered Benson into the seat intended for Aelin and taken the seat on Rowan’s other side for herself, trapping Rowan between the two of them and leaving Aelin with the option of sitting beside the icy female, or the leering male.

She chose Benson, to his obvious delight. The male’s dark eyes wrapped around Aelin’s figure greedily, taking in every curve and dip in her soft form, his oaky scent filling with lecherous intent.

Rowan’s gaze fixed on Benson, his expression turning lethal as the killing calm washed over him. If the male so much as twitched, if he made any move towards the princess whatsoever, Rowan would be ready.

Aelin studiously ignored the male, taking a too-casual sip from her wineglass.

For a minute or so, there was quiet as they waited for the first course to be brought out – a roast chicken soup that left Remelle and Benson frowning.

It tasted divine, but Rowan barely managed a spoonful before Remelle finally broke the silence. “So you’re from Adarlan’s empire.” The question was innocuous enough, but Remelle eyed Aelin the way one does a small animal right before you poke it with a stick.

Aelin took a slow spoonful of soup, her face carefully blank. “I am.”

Remelle didn’t pause for a second. “I thought l detected the accent – Adarlan and…Terrasen, am I right? They do mangle their words over there so brutally. I doubt even years here will cure you of the boorish accent.”

Rowan felt his muscles stiffening slowly, as if he were undergoing some alchemical process that was turning his limbs to stone. The fury was like magma, a force greater than any above the ground, yet it was unseen, hidden within the rock of his body. Even so, the threads of his self-control were beginning to fray…

Aelin, however, seemed to be keeping a better hold on her temper. She took another slow spoonful of soup.

Essar dipped into the silence next, saying, “I find the accent quite charming, actually,” her pleasantry only somewhat forced. Benson grunted in agreement, giving Aelin another too-long look. Rowan’s fingers twitched.

“Well, you had such a provincial upbringing, Essar.” Remelle said brightly. “I’m not surprised that you like it.”

Essar’s face tightened, and her eyes flashed. There was a quick spark of invisible power, and when Remelle went to take a delicate sip of her soup, she let out a hiss and nearly dropped her spoon.

Essar had heated her stew. Rowan’s lips twitched. Essar gave the female an innocent, questioning look, but Remelle only said, “The beastly cook boiled this soup.”

Either the lady was denser than Rowan remembered, or she was purposefully misdirecting her anger in order to piss him and Aelin off. Either way, it was working. Aelin’s jaw was now clenched tight, and Rowan was ready to explode.

But before he could unleash any of his fury, Aelin breathed deep, checking her own anger, and turned to Essar. “You grew up in the countryside?”

Remelle rolled her eyes, but Essar smiled, giving Rowan time to breathe and regain some equilibrium. “My father owns a vineyard in the southeast of our territory. I spent my youth roaming the olive orchards and the cypress groves. But I moved to Doranelle when it was deemed time for me to enter society.”

“Alas, Essar has been rather unlucky when it comes to fulfilling her parents’ wishes to find a proper husband,” Remelle said, her voice dripping with condescension.

But Aelin’s reaction was surprising. “Husband,” she asked, confusedly. “Not – mate?”

Rowan was unsettled to discover that the word barely touched him. In his current state, it should have toppled him over the edge, should have sent him reeling with pain and sorrow. Should have rent him through with the sound of Lyria’s screams.

But it didn’t. Which was almost more disturbing than the pain.

As if they were in another room, Rowan could hear Remelle click her tongue and provide an explanation, but the words did not touch him. He was far away, lost in the realization that he couldn’t remember the last time he had thought of Lyria, couldn’t remember the last time he had dreamed of her. And it terrified him.

But before he could completely lose himself to the swirling whirlpool of his thoughts, Remelle’s voice cut through the fog. “But as a half-breed, you won’t have to worry about such things. Finding a mate is even rarer for those with diluted blood – and none of us would marry you, anyway.”

This time, Rowan couldn’t hold in the hushed snarl that sent faint reverberations through the surface of the table.

They stared at each other, Aelin’s features frozen in place, Remelle just smiling sweetly back at her. But Essar’s brow was furrowed, and she was looking between Rowan and the princess as if she was putting the pieces together.

Her voice was soft, cautionary. “Remelle.”

But the lady ignored Essar’s warning, and instead turned to Rowan and began speaking in the language of the Fae, still smiling viciously. “You wouldn’t marry her, would you Prince Rowan? Maeve might tolerate a small dalliance, but marriage? Certainly not.”

When Rowan didn’t reply, Remelle turned to Benson. “Though she is rather pretty, is she not, Benson? A worthy addition to the notches on your bedpost?”

A flicker of a grin passed the male’s lips. “Certainly.”  

Remelle opened her mouth to say something else, but then Rowan finally found his voice. “Speak the common tongue, Remelle.”

Remelle put a hand on her chest in a mockery of an apology. “Sometimes I forget – It’s not every day I’m in the company of half-breeds.”

Rowan’s muscles jerked involuntarily, tiny cracks beginning to appear in his stone form as the lava beneath began to bubble and spit.

He forced himself to remember why he had to avoid a brawl in the first place, why he had to keep control on himself, why Maeve couldn’t find out that he’d brawled with her spies –

Luca and Emrys appeared, bearing platters containing the next course – roast meats and vegetables – and they cleared the soup away, giving him a quick moment to recollect himself. Emrys loitered in the doorway for a moment, waiting to hear their reaction to his food.

Aelin took a bite of some rabbit, and nodded her enthusiasm to the old male. He grinned, his face flushing.

But then Remelle interrupted. “Rowan, it must be a trial for you to have to eat this day in and day out.” She pushed her meat around on her plate, setting her fork down with a damning clink.

Emrys slunk from the room noiselessly. Yet to Rowan, his departure echoed through the hallway, each soft step reverberating on his nerves like a gong.

His voice was lethal. “I eat better here than I do in Doranelle.”

“There’s no need to be nice on account of the help,” Remelle said. “if they don’t learn what we like, whatever will they do in the capital?”

Something in Aelin’s voice had curdled. “The next time you insult my friend, I’m going to shove your face into whatever plate is in front of you.”

Remelle blinked. “Well, I never – ”

“Remelle,” Essar whispered, insistent.

But Remelle just put a hand on Rowan’s forearm, her long, cold fingers like talons. “You mean to let her insult me like that? To make threats against a member of the royal household?”

Rowan went utterly still. “Get your hand off me.” 

Remelle ignored him, instead turning to snap at Aelin. “You are dismissed from this table. Get out.”

Rowan felt the cold pleasure of the fury beginning to leak from his tense muscles as he loosened the grip of his iron resolve.

Aelin appeared to be at her limit as well. “Take your hand off him.”

“I can do as I please, and if you have any sense, you’ll vacate this hall before I have you whipped – ”

Before he could move, before he could even breathe, fire was erupting before his eyes, and Remelle’s panicked scream was echoing off the stones.

Rowan saw orange as a living flame wrapped itself carefully around Remelle, not burning, not singeing, just – encasing. Even the hand that was touching Rowan’s arm was ablaze with flickers of gold and red.

There was no heat to the flames, no threat – only light, and the bright, furious scent of Aelin’s power.

Rowan was stunned stupid.

Aelin had never even come close to displaying this degree of control, had never practiced anything even beginning to resemble such a feat. And yet, she had done it. Had wrapped the lady in her power as easily as one might clothe her in linen.

Remelle’s eyes were wide through the haze of flame, fear billowing from her in waves. Rowan felt his lips stretch into a grin.

She turned to Essar and said, shakily, “Release me.”

Essar only looked at Aelin, her face blank with shock and awe. “It’s not my magic.”

Aelin’s eyes tightened in pleasure, her red lips curving into a delicate smile as her flames flared with heat. Not enough to burn – only enough to make the lady sweat. To make her understand the precariousness of her position.

Then, Aelin said, her voice a loving caress, “If you ever raise a whip to anyone, I will find you, and I will make sure that these flames burn.”

Remelle seethed. “How dare you threaten a lady of Doranelle.”

Aelin laughed, wild and reckless and utterly free. “The next time you touch Rowan without his permission, I will burn you into ashes.” Then she turned to Benson. “And if you look at me or any female like that again, I will melt your bones before you have a chance to scream.”

Showing more wisdom than he thought the male capable of, Benson nodded quickly and averted his gaze.

Essar’s face paled as Aelin turned to her, pulling her teeth back into a snarl and saying, “You keep everything you learned here to yourself.”

Essar only nodded.

Aelin at last faced Rowan, the gold in her eyes molten with power and fury and delight. A mirror to his own amusement. “I defer judgement to you, Prince.”

Rowan turned to study Remelle, who was hardly breathing. Some deep, dark part of himself wanted to see her burn, wanted her to scream, to suffer for what she’d said. But the reasonable part of himself won out.

He jerked his chin. “Release her and let’s eat.”

The flames winked out so fast it was if they’d never existed.

In the silence that fell, Remelle leaned over the arm of her chair and vomited on the floor.

···

Dinner concluded in silence, and they returned to their rooms with barely a word of goodnight to the Fae royals. Benson still couldn’t look Aelin in the eye, and Remelle was just quietly seething. Essar, however, was contemplative, her thoughts lost to him.

It had him worried.

But as he and Aelin undressed and got ready for bed, Rowan couldn’t stop thinking about how Aelin had jumped to his rescue, had lost control of her anger not when the lady had insulted her or Emrys, but when Remelle had tried to place a claim on Rowan.

Remelle had posed a threat to those Aelin saw as hers. And she had reacted in kind – swiftly and brutally.

Aelin had placed a claim on him.

Had declared one, openly and for all to see. He was hers – was her friend. And she would protect him with her words and her power, regardless of the social or political cost. In Doranelle, that meant something. Whenever a Fae invoked the Old Ways, it speared a bond into the ground, solidifying it.

They led down to sleep in silence, Rowan still lost in thought. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so comfortable in another’s presence. Not even with Gavriel did he feel so at peace. The jasmine and lemon verbena of Aelin’s scent washed over him, tying him in knots.

The heat of her body warmed the blankets pleasantly, and Rowan found himself longing to reach out and touch her. To stroke his hand across her face. To tangle his fingers in her hair.

She had stood up for him, had claimed him. And he wanted her.

The blood oath pulsed uncomfortably in his chest, an unwelcome reminder.

“If I never see them again, it’ll be too soon,” Aelin’s voice pierced the darkness of their room.

Rowan let out a low laugh. “I though you liked Essar.”

“I do, but…you should have heard her trying to get me to talk in the kitchen.”

“About what?”

Aelin was still facing away from him, looking out the moonlit window. “About you. About our – relationship. I think you’ll go home to a host of unpleasant rumors.”

Rowan grimaced. “I think the status of our relationship will be the least of the rumors after tonight.”

There was a pause, and then: “Essar said that you and Lorcan once decimated a city together.”

Rowan hissed in surprise and remembered pain. “Ah. Sollemere.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“That’s because it doesn’t exist anymore.” His voice was wry.

She turned over, staring at him in the moonlight that slipped in through the curtains. Her face was pulled into a worried frown. “You wiped it off the map – literally?”

Rowan hesitated for a moment, considering. “Sollemere was a place so wicked, full of monstrous people who did such unspeakable things, that…even Maeve was disgusted by them. She gave them a warning to stop their ways, and said if they…”

He clenched his jaw at the memories that flooded his mind. Images of children, of babies, sacrificed at the altar, raped and beaten and mutilated. All in the name of some half-remembered god.

Sollemere’s priests were beyond anything he had seen, lost to the esoteric workings of their own brutal machinations, adrift in a world where it was not only acceptable, but revered, to bathe in the blood of thousands and consume the flesh of their enemies.

Rowan huffed a breath, his throat tight. “There are some acts that are unforgivable – and I won’t stain this room by mentioning them. But she swore to them that if they continued to do it, she would obliterate them.”

“Let me guess; they didn’t listen.”

“No. We got out as many children as we could with our legion. And when they were safely away, Lorcan and I leveled it to dust.”

“You’re that powerful.”

Rowan stared at her. “You don’t seem shocked by it.”

Aelin’s voice was pragmatic. “You’ve told me plenty of harrowing stories. If what these people did was so awful that you won’t repeat it, then I’ll say they had it coming.”

“So bloodthirsty.”

“Is that a problem for you?”

“I find it endearing.”

Aelin gave him a playful shove, but he caught her hand and gripped it in his own, feeling the rough calluses that marked her scarred skin. “You could do that, you know,” Rowan said softly. “Make an entire city burn.”

Her voice was just as soft. “I hope I never have to.”

“So do I.” He threaded his fingers through hers and held them up to examine the scars along the back of her hand, her fingers. Scars that marked her for who she was, just as his tattoo marked him.

His lips twitched. “But I’ll never forget the look on Remelle’s face when you shot fire out of your mouth and eyes.”

“I did not.” She was almost indignant, and Rowan laughed softly in response.

“Part woman, part dragon.”

“I didn’t spew flames.”

“Your eyes were living gold.”

Aelin just narrowed those same eyes at him, a question. “Are you going to reprimand me?”

Rowan lowered their joined hands to the bed, but didn’t let go. “Why should I? She was given fair warning, she ignored it, and you followed through. It follows the Old Ways, and you had every right to show her how serious you were.”

There was a moment of silence where Aelin seemed to be considering that, her face angled down towards their entwined fingers. Then she said, her voice tentative, “It scared me – how in control I was. How much I meant it. It scared me that I wasn’t scared. It scared me that…”

She trailed off, and her gaze flicked up to meet his. Her eyes were filled with a deep emotion that he could not name, but felt reflected in his very bones. “It scared me that …”

Rowan read the silent sentences right off of her worried face.

It scared me that I’ve come to care so much about you that I’d draw that sort of line in the sand. It scared me that I would burn and maim and kill for you, and yet and yet at the end of the day, you still belong to Maeve, and there is nothing I can do, no amount of burning and maiming and killing, to keep you with me.

Rowan felt his heart beating in his toes. He released Aelin’s hand, only to raise his pale fingers to her soft cheek, as he had been longing to do all evening. Had been longing to do for days.

Aelin closed her eyes and leaned into his touch, as if she understood what he was trying to say, as if she knew the words that were written on his face without even having to look.

I know.

···

The next morning, the royal party readied themselves to depart, the first light of dawn still shining through the mists. Rowan didn’t bother to bring the princess down to see them off. Assuming, correctly, that her presence wouldn’t exactly be welcome so soon after the events of the previous night. Or perhaps, ever again.

Remelle was still seething – yet jumpy, as if she expected the princess to appear behind corners, flames at the ready. Benson was refusing to look anyone in the eye (a definite improvement), but Essar was still lost in thought, her gaze tearing up the cobblestones beneath their feet.

Rowan waited until they were all mounted before he approached, not caring to provide a formal farewell. Rowan ignored Remelle’s icy glares, and grabbed hold of Essar’s horse’s bridle to stop her.

His words were laden. “Let’s hope last night was the most eventful of your journey.”

Essar just looked up at the fortress, as if she could see through moss and stone to the princess sleeping within. Her golden-brown skin was radiant in the early morning light, her hazel eyes glinting.

Essar was a beautiful female—soft and inviting and clever—and he’d never understood why Lorcan hadn’t tried harder to keep her. She had been good for him. But Lorcan’s ruthlessness and cold ambition were his best tools and worst enemies. He had only seen the female for what she offered inside his bedroom.

Essar’s voice was quiet. “I do not think any of us will forget last night anytime soon.”

Rowan pursed his lips. She knew. Essar had figured out what kind of magic smoldered in Aelin’s veins, and she knew that last night, the Princess of Terrasen had made a claim on him. If Essar told Maeve about it …

The others in the party moved out, Remelle stiff-backed, but Rowan remained with Essar.

“Name the price for your silence,” Rowan said.

Essar’s dark brows rose. “You think I would run to the nearest gossip and tell them Aelin Galathynius is training here?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

Essar’s dark eyes narrowed. “I would not run to Maeve, either. Remelle will tell her that the girl threw a tantrum and attacked her without provocation – she’d never admit to any of the truth behind it. Or figure out who she really is. And Benson…leave him to me.”

“And your price?”

She shook her head. “There is no price, Prince.”

He gripped the bridle harder. “Why?”

Essar studied the disappearing party, then the fortress. “We have known each other for a long while now. Through all the centuries, I have never seen you present another female as your equal – as your friend. And I do not think you did it because of who she is.”

Rowan opened his mouth, but before he could speak, she said, “I would not take that gift away from you, Rowan. Because it is a gift. She is a gift – to the world, and to you.”

Before he realized what he was doing, his fingers were slackening on the reins, and Essar motioned her mount into a walk.

“She is going to fight for you, Rowan,” Essar said, looking over a shoulder. “And you deserve it, after all this time. You deserve to have someone who will burn the earth to ash for you.”

His heart was pounding wildly, but he kept his face blank, his will ice and steel.

“If you see him,” Essar added with a sad smile, “tell Lorcan I send my regards.”

And then she was gone.

···

Things fell back into their usual rhythm in the two days that followed, though Rowan couldn’t stop thinking about what Essar had said. Because he knew it was true, because…because he wanted it to be true.

Aelin said nothing about it, though he’d sometimes catch her frowning at him, as if trying to decipher some puzzle.

He was pouring over a report Lorcan had sent him, which detailed the conclusion of the conflict between the Erriagti people, and his plans to return to Doranelle within the next few weeks, when Aelin walked into their rooms that night. The smell of chocolate and nuts hit him, and when he twisted in his seat, he discovered her carrying a small, misshapen cake, a sheepish smile on her face.

“It took me hours to make this damn thing, so you’d better say it’s good.”

She set it in front of him, along with a plate, fork, and knife. The blade she used to slice into the chocolate-frosted lump, cutting a large piece. It was layered with a lighter frosting – some sort of creamy-looking filling between the dark cake.

“Chocolate hazelnut cake?”

She plopped the piece on the plate for him and took his hand to press the fork into it. “You have no idea how hard it was to get the ingredients. Or to find some sort of recipe. I haven’t even tasted it yet. Emrys looked like he was going to faint with horror.” When Rowan just stared at the cake, she clicked her tongue. “This is the favor you owe me. Just try it.”

He gave her a long stare that usually sent men running, but she only bit her lip and glanced down at the cake, tentative. It was enough that he frowned, adjusted his grip on the fork, picked up a piece, and brought it to his mouth.

While he chewed and swallowed, she was practically hopping from foot to foot and wringing her hands. So he let out a grunt of pleasure, took another bite, and then another, until the entire piece was cleaned off his plate.

Then he took another piece. And another. Until his stomach was protesting and all but a sliver was left on the platter.

“I told you it was delicious,” she preened, giving him a triumphant smile as he set down his fork. She moved to ruffle his hair, but he caught her wrist, squeezing gently while he rose from his seat and brought his face dangerously close to hers.

He knew every fleck of gold in those remarkable eyes – knew how her very blood tasted. And this near to her, their breath mingling…

“Now we’re even,” he said, and stalked out of the room.

He was about three steps down the hall when Aelin’s fork scraped against the platter, no doubt scooping the sliver of cake he’d left. A moment after that her curse barked off the stones of the fortress, followed by spitting and coughing.

Despite himself, Rowan was smiling when he shouldered open the bathing room door – and quickly cast up the contents of his stomach.

Chapter Text

Rowan sat up quickly, a gasp already trapped in his throat. It was early morning, and the small window was white with frozen mist, preventing him from seeing much of the fortress’ surroundings. Regardless, he could tell that dawn was still far off – Mala’s golden light distracted by the waking of far off lands – and neglecting theirs.

Rowan rubbed at his eyes, seeking a way to wipe away the images that still danced behind his lids. He had been ripped from sleep by a dream, by the same dream that had been torturing him all week.

A nightmare that was not a vision, but a memory. A memory of the night he had spent two centuries trying to forget, and now was running like a cold river through his mind, relentless and inescapable:

The wind was reluctant beneath his wing feathers, tossing and tumbling and chafing against his magic’s inescapable pull. It was cold, bitingly cold. But Rowan didn’t feel it, not through his already icy chest. Frozen not with cold, but with fear. With panic.

The familiar land of home teased at the edges of his vision, but the picturesque mountain vista was distorted, marred by black clouds and the smell of smoke. The ice coating Rowan’s heart began to crack, shattering glass exploding in his torso. Piercing and slicing as it went.

Rowan dove, his wings straining, his breaths sharp in his lungs as he rounded a corner and their hilltop rose before his eyes. And then his heart dropped completely out of his chest.

Their home was gone.

Destroyed. Eradicated. Burnt to dust and ashes.

Nothing was left. Not the cottage, nor the stables or pens. Their animals were slaughtered and left in the snow to rot. And the garden, Lyria’s precious, treasured blooms, had been trampled into the earth. Already withering.

The surrounding trees were alight with a forest fire that could have been burning for hours. Days, even. The ground was dusted with snow, but the thin coating hadn’t proved a hindrance to the flames that danced from branch to branch, wild and harsh and utterly indifferent.

Rowan’s feet pounded into the earth as he approached the ground, shifting in less than a second. And he was running.

Twigs snapped over his skin, ripping into his face. Beads of blood dripped down his cheeks, replacing the tears that could not come. One moment he was running, and the next, he was home.

Their cottage was a pile of ash and burnt wood. A pyre. But Rowan ran for it anyways, his hands digging into the remains desperately, ignoring the heat of the still-burning embers. Ignoring the truth that was staring him baldly in the face: nothing that had been in the cottage when it burned would have survived.

All of a sudden, Rowan collapsed. His knees gave way and he was sitting in the dirt. Sitting in the grave of his only home.

Her name bubbled up through him, burning and itching as it went. But his throat tightened, trapping the cry in his chest where is writhed and twitched. Pressing against his heart and lungs and throat until they ached.

It felt as though hours passed, but it must have only been seconds. Drops of blood appeared before his eyes, and it was a while before he realized that they were real, before he recognized their smell.

His eyes slowly began to focus through the haze, and they traced the pools of red over the ground, through the trampled snow, up to the crest of the hill and –

Rowan tore up the hill, a desperate hope clawing its way up his throat. His hands reached for the body curled atop the cliff face, his fingers trembling. But then her scent reached him. Her cold, empty, lifeless scent.

And Rowan felt his very essence leaking away, melting into the snow as what was left of the mating bond guttered, and fizzled out.

He was alone.

Rowan reached out tentatively, his fingers seeking to cradle Lyria’s face, to stroke her hair, one last time.

But then a frown crossed over his mouth, his face tightening. Lyria’s hair was brown, not gold. And her scent was a mixture of silk and ferns and rabbits’ fur – not this strange, bright, citrusy spice.

Confusion washed over the agony in his chest. Dulling it, and distracting him. The mountains began to fall away, darkening and disappearing in his periphery. The falling snow seemed to stall in mid-air, sparkling like captured stars. Caution slowed Rowan’s fingertips as they stretched that final inch to brush across the female’s face and turn her head towards him.

Aelin Galathynius’ cold blue eyes looked back at him, their golden core frozen solid. A hollow void. Wild no more.

The princess’ blood stained his hands, and it sunk into his skin like acid. Filling him with an infinite, boundless guilt. Aelin was dead, and it was his fault.

He’d brought her to Maeve, and she killed her. And Rowan watched.

But no – she was here, right before his eyes. Her hair was a ripple of golden silk on the pillow, each breath a wisp of delicate white fog into the cold air of the stone room. Aelin was alive and well.

But not for long, a cold voice in the back of his head interrupted. Not for long.

And Rowan couldn’t find any disagreement within himself.

For even if she survived her looming encounter with Maeve, afterwards, she would leave. Back to Adarlan, or Terrasen, or Eyllwe. Onto other dangers. And he probably would never see her again.

Rowan stood up from the bed, and the princess sighed and turned over, her arm spreading out into the empty space he left behind. He lit a fire in the hearth, opened the window, and launched himself into the night sky – seeking answers from the wind that he knew it could not give him.

It was almost as though the dream had been crafted specifically to torture him, to make every part of him writhe in discomfort.

Rowan was used to dreaming of Lyria, was accustomed to closing his eyes each evening and being tortured with her scent, her bloodstained fingers, her broken body. Her screams. But this, this…lack, was almost even worse.

He was supposed to dream of her, his lost love. Was supposed to feel that pain for every day, every second, until he was returned to her in the Afterworld. For that pain to be taken away, for it to be turned on its head in such a way, was a violation of that unwritten contract. Of the agreement he’d made with himself when he gave his life over to Maeve. And so the guilt gnawed at him, a hungry animal.

But then seeing Aelin’s face in death, and knowing it was his fault –

Rowan shuddered, choking on the image and swerving in midair as he temporarily lost his balance. Even just imagining that guilt was beyond his capabilities. He couldn’t be the death of her. He refused to be.

But that meeting was creeping up on them, drawing ever closer. Each day Aelin improved by leaps and bounds. She was a natural fighter, taking everything he threw at her in stride, and then some. Even Fenrys and Connall couldn’t compare to her.

Even so, Aelin had not even come close to reaching her full potential. The iron bars locked around her power had not weakened, Aelin had only gotten better at navigating around them. She now knew how to access small amounts of her gift, and could control and manipulate those small portions, but the vast majority remained inaccessible to her. Held under lock and key.

But it almost didn’t even matter. Aelin was powerful enough that even without access to her entire gift, she was nearly ready to meet Maeve. And there was nothing he could do about it.

Rowan cursed inwardly, and made to turn back to the fortress, the blackened sky only just beginning to pale into a navy blue.

He could feel the days pressing in on him, the end of his time with Aelin looming close. There was a part of him that wanted to make the most of that time, that tasted the remnants of her blood on his tongue and wanted to damn the consequences to hell. Aelin had claimed him as a friend – was there a chance that she wanted him in that other way as well?

But it was only a very small part. There was still that male- no, man, across the sea. The love that had sent her away. A steel-cotton-and-birchwood trace in her blood. And though his mark had been fading in her scent of late, the amethyst ring remained on her finger, a clear sign of her feelings.

No, she didn’t want him the way he wanted her. But that was fine. In actuality, it was probably for the best. Rowan didn’t know what he would do if she had decided to pursue him for anything more than friendship. Aelin was relentless when she wanted something, and Rowan’s self-control was far from faultless. And there were more significant things to separate them than a captain across the sea.

Rowan sailed through the window of their rooms, shifted, and settled into the chair before the worktable. He removed the blades from their concealed places in his vambraces, and studiously began to clean them. There was still at least an hour before the sun truly dawned, but there was no chance of Rowan going back to sleep.

He reached beneath the work table, his hand stretching into the compartment hidden just underneath, searching for his sharpening set. But then his fingers brushed past an unexpected object – something he hadn’t thought about in weeks.

Rowan pulled out the bundle and unrolled it on top of the table surface, revealing the knives he had confiscated from Aelin all those months ago. Most of them were in piss-poor condition, having been neglected for so long (and not having been of particularly great quality to begin with). But there was one that stood out.

It was silver, and though it was burnished with dirt, the metal was of good make. The edge was strong, though dull, and the handle was wrapped in a sturdy leather thong. It was a good, solid weapon. One that could remain useful years after weaker tools had succumbed to the pressure of time.

Rowan discarded the other blades, grabbed his felt cloth and sharpening rod, and set to work.

···

Soon, Aelin awoke and headed down to the kitchens to help with breakfast.  Rowan went with her, thinking to grab some food before the kitchens filled with demi-Fae. On his way back up to his rooms however, Malakai found him.

The old male got right to the point. “Another body’s been found.” Rowan’s jaw locked, and a stone dropped into his stomach. “And there’s been a letter for you – it came with the courier this morning. She arrived just as I was about to go find you, so I thought I would deliver it for her.”

Malakai handed Rowan the letter, his eyes cold and hard, but Rowan knew that the aggression wasn’t directed towards him. This was the second body they had discovered this week, the other having been found three days earlier by Bas on his usual circuit. Rowan had forced Aelin to remain at Mistward that day to practice while he flew to the site to confirm Bas’ report, and to dispose of the body. But this time, he doubted he would be able to convince her to stay.

Rowan sighed and took the letter, recognizing the writing as Vaughan’s, but instead of opening it in the hallway he tucked it into a pocket in his tunic and turned his eyes back towards Malakai.

Without any further prompting, the male launched into a description of the body’s location. It had been found by a sentry who belonged to a neighboring fortress to the south, far beyond any of the other sites. It had been spotted thirty-two miles directly southwest, just off the coast. Once the sentry returned, the commander at that fortress informed Malakai of the discovery.

Rowan only nodded at the male, who then jerked his head tersely in return and retreated back to the sentry station atop the battlement wall.

Each time Malakai arrived bearing news that yet another demi-Fae had been murdered it got harder. And now, it was the second time this very week. How many more would die before Rowan could figure out what the hell he was missing?

Rowan returned to his rooms in a daze, distractedly tearing open the report from Vaughan. It was short and to the point, as all Vaughan’s reports were. Apparently, Remelle, Benson, and Essar had arrived, and were now settling into the southwestern court to play diplomat and to spy for their queen – meaning that Vaughan was now on his way back to Doranelle.

Rowan set down the letter and sighed. Then began to gather up his many blades, and ready himself for a lengthy morning run.

···

Aelin had gotten even faster. Thirty-two miles – the farthest she had ever run. She had to push her Fae body to the limit, and yet they still made great time – it was still mid-morning when they arrived at the sea cliffs, where the body of the unknown demi-Fae was waiting for them.

Aelin stripped off her tunic, her chest heaving, forcing the white band she wrapped around her breasts to stretch and contract with each breath. Rowan averted his eyes, unbuttoning his own jacket while a delicate heat kissed his cheeks. He silently chided himself.

After they caught their breath, Rowan sent out a few feelers of wind, and they brought back impressions of pine and mist and birdsong…and a scent trail leading towards the shoreline. He and Aelin carefully approached the site, now close enough that Rowan didn’t even need his wind to scent the rotting corpse.

“Well, I can certainly smell him this time,” Aelin said wryly.

“This body has been rotting here longer than the demi-Fae from three days ago.” Rowan mused aloud. But then he regretted it when a spike of irritation struck him in Aelin’s scent. She definitely hadn’t forgiven him for leaving her behind earlier this week.

Rowan fully expected a sharp retort from the princess, scolding him for his protectiveness, but then the body of the demi-Fae came into view.

The ground around the body was torn up, the pine carpet full of gouges and hollows. There was a small stream just ahead, and even over its rushing, Rowan could clearly hear the buzzing of thousands of busy flies. All of which were hovering just above what appeared to be a heap of clothing piled behind a small boulder.

He approached the contorted form, swearing viciously as the smell began to overwhelm him. He leaned over to examine the male, forced to cover his mouth and nose with a forearm.

The demi-Fae’s face was twisted in horror, the obligatory dried blood oozing from the mouth, nostrils, and ears. The skin was wrinkled and dried as usual, but the clothes were perhaps more torn-up than others had been.

Aelin took a step forwards, her face twisted in disgust. “It has our attention and it knows it,” she said. “It’s targeting demi-Fae – either to send a message, or because they…taste good. But – ” Her voice cut off, her face becoming contemplative. “What if there’s more than one?”

Rowan’s brows raised in surprise. There had been moments where he had considered it, had thought that the creature’s scent varied slightly between bodies. But he’d never been sure. And it had seemed even more unlikely that there were multiple overlooked and undetected creatures stalking the countryside.

Aelin moved to stand behind him, her scent filling with a nauseated horror. But as always, she didn’t let it overwhelm her.

“You’re old as hell,” she said, her eyes meeting his. “You must have considered that we’re dealing with a few of them, given how vast the territory is. What if the one we saw in the barrows wasn’t even the creature responsible for these bodies?”

Rowan narrowed his eyes, and gave her a shallow nod. She could very well be right – most land-locked predators didn’t have a hunting range beyond fifteen square miles, and the creature had killed over an area far closer to a hundred.

“Rowan,” Aelin’s worried tone pulled him from his train of thought. “Rowan, tell me you see what I’m seeing.” She swatted at the flies uselessly, her gaze fixed on the male’s hands, where you could just see –

Rowan cursed, crouching to get a closer look. There were small cuts along the palms, as if he had dug in his fingernails. Rowan used the tip of a blade to push back a bit of clothing torn at the collar. “This male – ”

“Fought.” Aelin interrupted. “He fought back against it. None of the others did, according to the reports.” She squatted beside him, holding out a hand for Rowan’s dagger.

He hesitated for a moment, but then her eyes met his, and he pressed the hilt into her open palm. Only for the afternoon.

Her lips twitched as she grabbed the dagger, seeming to tease him right back. I know, I know. I haven’t earned my weapons back yet. Don’t get your feathers ruffled.

Her gaze left his before he could respond, prematurely cutting off their silent conversation. Rowan snarled at her. He only got a quiet amusement in response.

Aelin carefully advanced towards the rotting forearm, gently running the tip of the dagger underneath the male’s cracked nails, and then smearing the contents on the back of her own hand.

A stain of oily black.

“What the hell is that?” Rowan demanded, leaning over her outstretched hand and sniffing the strange substance. He jerked back automatically, snarling. The smell…it was as though the stench coating the bodies had been distilled, condensed into solid form. And it was fouler than anything Rowan had ever smelled before. “That’s not dirt.”

Possibilities raced through his mind, each seeming less likely than the last. But that night-black oil…it couldn’t be blood.

“This isn’t possible.” Aelin jerked to her feet, her hands shaking slightly as she started to pace, all of a sudden filled with a manic energy. “This – this – this – ” her words came out in a stutter, and Rowan found himself rising slowly and carefully, forcing himself to press down on the panic that filled his own body at the sight of Aelin so frantic.

“I’m wrong. I have to be wrong.” The words didn’t seem to be directed at him, and instead Aelin was wrapped up in her own thoughts. No – her memories.

“Tell me,” Rowan growled, unable to wait any longer.

Aelin raised her eyes to meet his, her face tight. She moved to rub her eyes, but then seemed to remember the black oil still marking her skin, and went to wipe them on her shirt. Only then remembering that she wasn’t wearing one – only the breast band.

Her face twisted, and she crouched and ran her fingers in the stream, then rose and provided Rowan with an explanation. What she told him, astounded him.

Aelin had been holding out even more than he had suspected.

She told him of a creature, discovered in the catacombs beneath a library, within the very palace where she had been held captive for so many months. A beast with black blood and talons and a mutilated face – a demon with a human heart. Created, and held, beneath a clock tower made of Wyrdstone.

She told him of Wyrdmarks, of learning a language by firelight with the help of a friend, Nehemia, each word aching with the pain of her loss. Of how she had used the marks to contain the demon while she had killed it, cutting it to pieces right before the eyes of the crown prince.

She told him of the Wyrdkeys. And of the information that Maeve was holding hostage. Information that was necessary to stop a king who already possessed at least one of these keys, and was using it to create these demons. Targeting those with magic in their blood to be their hosts.

“The demon beneath the clock tower had been left there because of some defect, some flaw.” Aelin said, “But what if there were others, a new version that had been perfected?”

She shook with cold, her eyes cast to the ground, and Rowan sent a warm breeze her way. Wrapping the air around her like a silken ribbon, and erasing the gooseflesh that coasted her arms and stomach.

Rowan’s thoughts were twisting and contorting, but he held his face steady. This was the information he’d been missing. The connection that allowed the pieces to fall into place. He remembered the man Namonora had shown him, the man with the tale of a lethal darkness emerging from across the sea…

“How did it get here?” he asked.

Aelin shook her head. “I don’t know. I hope I’m wrong. But that smell – I’ll never forget that smell as long as I live. Like it had rotted from the inside out, its very essence ruined.”

Rowan began to pace. “But it retained some cognitive abilities. And whatever this is, it must have them, too, if it’s dumping the bodies.”

“Demi-Fae…they would make perfect hosts, with so many of them able to use magic and no one in Wendlyn or Doranelle caring if they live or die. But these corpses – if he wanted to kidnap them, why kill them?”

“Unless they weren’t compatible,” Rowan said. “And if they weren’t compatible, then what better use for them than to drain them dry?”

“But what’s the point of leaving the bodies where we can find them? To drum up fear?”

Rowan ground his jaw, stalking through the torn-up earth as if the ground would provide them with the answers they sought. But the dirt was only dirt.

“Burn the body, Aelin,” Rowan said, removing the sheath and belt that had housed the dagger still dangling from her hand and tossing them to her. She caught them easily. “We’re going hunting.”

···

Even when Rowan shifted into his other form, and circled high above, they found nothing. No trace of the creature, or of anyone at all, for that matter. This area wasn’t very densely habited – most of the local farmers inhabited an area farther down the coast.

As the light grew dim, they climbed up into the biggest, densest tree Rowan could find with several square miles, and they squeezed together onto a massive branch, huddled against the cold. Rowan hadn’t brought supplies for an overnight trip, and even with the coverage provided by the thick pine boughs, any fire would be seen for miles.

Aelin complained, petitioning to be allowed to summon even just a flicker of flame. But Rowan only pointed out that there was no moon that night, and as they had just proven – worse things than skinwalkers prowled these woods.

Instead of giving her space to grumble any further, Rowan asked her to explain more about the creature she’d encountered in the library, for her to detail its every strength and weakness. She told him readily, but nothing much stood out.

The creatures were strong, difficult to kill. Without the weaknesses of mortal foes, and with many of the benefits of immortal ones. As she spoke, Rowan pulled out one of the longer of his knives and began to clean it, more out of a desire to use the task to focus his own attention, than out of actual necessity.

“Do you think I was mistaken?” Aelin asked softly, “About the creature, I mean.”

Rowan turned away from her in order to pull his shirt over his head, and access the blades strapped to the skin beneath. He almost felt as though he could feel Aelin’s attention on him, could feel the slight pressure of her gaze on his back.

But when he turned back to face her, her eyes were fixed to his face. Still, the ghost of a smile marked his expression as he said, “We’re dealing with a cunning, lethal predator, regardless of where it originated and how many there are.” He grasped the small dagger that had been strapped over his left pectoral, and began to thoroughly wipe it down. “If you were mistaken, I’d consider it a blessing.”

Aelin leaned back against the tree trunk, her scent filling with exhaustion and dejection as she fell into her own thoughts.

Rowan let her be, instead turning to the familiar ritual of preparation. He systematically worked his way through his collection of blades, and then used the water skin to rinse his hands, neck, and chest, cleaning them of sweat and grime. Every now and again, feeling that faint pressure of Aelin’s watchful eyes.

He told himself that it didn’t mean anything, that she was looking at him simply because he was something to look at – an object in her field of vision. Her scent told him nothing, and so he dismissed those unwanted voices in his mind that thought that maybe, she was watching him for a different reason.

But still, the pressure felt…nice. It felt good to be looked at by her. To be seen.

Rowan pulled his shirt back on and settled his body against the trunk, his side pressing comfortably into Aelin’s. They sat in the dark quietly for a while until Aelin said, “You once told me that when you find your mate, you can’t stomach the idea of hurting them physically. Once you’re mated, you’d sooner harm yourself.”

Rowan turned to face her, the gold in her eyes glinting softly in the faint light. Her expression was unreadable. “Yes; why?”

“I tried to kill him. I mauled his face, then held a dagger over his heart because I thought he was responsible for Nehemia’s death. I would have done it if someone hadn’t stopped me. If Chaol – ” her voice broke off. “If he’d truly been my mate, I wouldn’t have been able to do that, would I?”

Rowan hesitated. He wanted to say no, that he didn’t think that Chaol was her mate. The man’s scent was fading from her blood, each day growing fainter and fainter. And it didn’t sit in that deep, essential place where Fae carried the scents of their mates.

No, the captain was a passing note in Aelin’s life, small and irrelevant. But the amethyst ring still glittered on Aelin’s finger, a reminder of the man who still held her heart. And Rowan wasn’t sure that Aelin wanted to hear that the man wasn’t hers to claim. Love could be a hard thing to let go of, regardless of how blatantly its falseness stared you in the face.

So instead Rowan said, “You hadn’t been in your Fae form for ten years, so perhaps your instincts weren’t even able to take hold. Sometimes, mates can be together intimately before the actual bond snaps into place.”

“It’s a useless hope to cling to, anyway.”

“…Do you want the truth?”

Aelin only tucked her chin into her tunic and closed her eyes. “Not tonight.”

Chapter Text

At dawn, they returned to the site to retrace their steps, hoping for a fresh perspective with the new day.

After some deliberation, Rowan had decided to give a few of his weapons to Aelin, only as a precaution. No matter how much it irritated him to shirk tradition, he didn’t know what they might be walking into. And Aelin seemed to have a knack for finding the thorniest patch of brambles – and then gleefully jumping in.

They thoroughly searched the area where body had lain, now only a pale sooty mark in the earth, for long minutes and found absolutely nothing. That is, until Aelin spotted something they had missed the day before – a tiny droplet of dried blood on a nearby rock. Just enough for Rowan to catch a trace of the male’s scent and use his winds to trace the demi-Fae’s path back towards the sea cliffs.

They now stood atop the cliffs, shielding their eyes from the sun’s glare as they scanned their surroundings for any trace of the demi-Fae, where he had come from, and the creatures that had killed him.

There were thousands of caves lining the bluffs, some submerged, others resting high above the water, cut into the cliff face itself. A danger to ships of all sizes, but useful for hiding any manner of things. Particularly the various creatures who used the tide to their advantage in hunting the beasts of the sea.

Though Rowan definitely knew of a few that wouldn’t turn their nose up at a Fae, either. Yet it was mid-day, so he was reasonably sure that nothing would bother them that they couldn’t easily handle.

The beach was nearly a hundred feet below their feet, hardly more than a spit of land lined with rocks and crashing surf. The scent off of the sea wind was fresh and clean and bracing – full of salt and scorching heat.

But it had also wiped away any remaining trace of the male’s scent. It wandered out of the trees, onto this overlook, and stopped dead. Either the male had dropped here out of nowhere (which was theoretically possible – presuming he could shift into some kind of flying creature) or he had doubled back on himself, arriving at this point and then returning from where he came – presumably the spot in the woods where they had found him lying dead.

Either way, there was nothing else to be discovered by standing here. And as they were so exposed, out of the shadowed shelter of the trees, Rowan was rather anxious to depart. But before he could say anything –

Aelin was leaning over the cliff edge, her face twisted into a frown, and Rowan’s hands were automatically reaching out to steady her, taken aback by the degree to which his stomach was twisted by panic.

She just gave him a withering look. “I’m trying not to be insulted,” she said. “Look.” And she pointed over the lip of the cliff edge just over to their left, where the sharp point seemed to have softened somewhat. A sagging curve – as if worn down by some kind of pressure.

Rowan gripped her arm tighter as they both leaned slightly farther over the edge to glimpse a hidden, crumbled stone staircase.

The path was so ancient that there were hardly any steps now – just lumps of rock and sand, peppered with obstinate brown shrubs. It led down towards a slightly calmer section of the beach, hidden by the curve of the cliffs, where the water was just clear enough that a break in the barrier reef was visible.

A space large enough for small ships to pass through. The perfect place to surreptitiously enter the country – and remain undetected by the surrounding inhabitants. Even those that lived and worked on the seas.

Rowan was still looking over at the inlet, his mind whirling with all the possibilities, when Aelin began to speak, her words sounding as though she were already in the middle of a thought. “The bodies were dumped in streams and rivers,” she said, crouching in the dirt and sketching a crude map of the body sites – apparently from memory.

Rowan squatted next to her. “The sea was never far off,” he said. “They could have dumped the bodies there. But – ”

“But then those bodies probably would drift right back to shore, and prompt people to look along the beach. Look here,” she said, pointing at the area towards the center of her map - presumably where they were currently sitting. “There are countless caves along this section of the shore. “It’s an easy access point from – ”

Aelin swore.

Rowan knew that they were both thinking the same thing. Adarlan. “We’re leaving. Now.”

“Don’t you think they would already have attacked if they’d seen us?”

He stood, pointing up at the sun. Aelin seemed skeptical. “If we’re going to explore, then we’re going to do it under cover of darkness. So we’re going back to the stream, and we’re going to find something to eat. And then, Princess,” he said, a wild grin twisting his face, “We are going to have some fun.”

···

By the late afternoon, Mala had apparently decided to take pity on them because just before sunset, rainclouds appeared on the horizon, thundering and crackling with enough of a vengeance to conceal their every sound as they strode across the beach and began to thoroughly search each of the caves.

It didn’t take long. They had barely made it through half a dozen before they found themselves lying side by side on their stomachs on a lower shelf of the sea cliffs, scouting the next stretch of beach before they continued their search. Rowan called a wind towards him, pulling the sights and scents of their surroundings along with it.

The wind whispered of trodden sand and dead fish, of cloth and steel and sweat and the hum that always surrounded closely-pressed bodies. The unmistakable sign of a large host, barely hidden from sight. A stone settled in Rowan’s toes.

A few armed men crossed over their line of sight, clothed in crimson and gold. The colors of Adarlan.

The soldiers passed over the sandy beach from a nearby copse of trees, and entered a massive cave mouth, its size partially concealed by convenient camouflage with the surrounding rock. The wind whispered to him, heavy with the knowledge of heavy booted feet and urine and boredom and pain and the cold damp hollowness of a large, buried space. Big enough to conceal an entire battalion of soldiers.

The creatures had not been dropped here on their own, to wreak havoc on their own prerogative. They had been accompanied by an army – large enough to wipe the area clean of both demi-Fae and humans. Efficient and disciplined.

Aelin turned her head towards him, her eyes slightly wide, and whispered, “The crab-monger. In the village. He said – he said he found weapons in his nets. They must be taking ships and then getting close enough to swim through the reef without attracting attention. We need to get a closer look.”

Her eyes twinkled unexpectedly. “I knew you’d be useful someday.”

Rowan snorted, hiding a grin, and shifted to his hawk without another word. She was watching him carefully, and he had to resist the urge to brush his feathers across her cheeks as he spread his wings and soared out over the cliffs and glided across the water. Nothing more than another animal, hunting for a meal.

He carefully flew out over bluffs, keeping his movements cyclical and seemingly random, all the while approaching ever closer to the cave mouth. The soldiers had now entered the cave and the beach was empty, but his wind told him that a few more men rested just within the antechamber, keeping watch over the entrance.

Rowan rested on a rock, waiting patiently, searching for the right opportunity…

Then a slight hint of movement from the sentries, a small distraction, and Rowan was soaring up and through the cave mouth, keeping his small body as close to the dark ceiling as possible. Hopefully appearing to any wandering eyes to be just an animal searching for shelter from the rain. That was the advantage in facing mortal soldiers – they didn’t know how to recognize a Fae’s animal form even if they tried.

The cave mouth opened up into a vast cavern, barely lightened by a handful of dull torches. It spread out in the darkness, stretching into strange and twisted offshoots – some of which appeared to be even larger than this one.

Below him, a few dozen soldiers lounged about, resting on crates and boxes and stone shelfs, talking, eating, brawling, training, and doing all those things a sedentary army did to entertain itself. The soldiers seemed to have been carefully chosen for this group – all were experienced, and from what Rowan could see, highly disciplined and very well trained.

Rowan kept as quiet as he possibly could, while he called the wind towards him from all through the caverns. Soon he realized that the cavern was not one large space, but an interconnected network of caves and tunnels, spreading along the shoreline and into Wendlyn. They spread through the earth like feelers, some so deep and dark that he doubted they had been touched by any creature larger than grubs and beetles for millennia.

The soldiers occupied perhaps a quarter mile of this expanse with their dining, sleeping, and recreational activities, leaving much of the caves barren and empty. The sounds of their grotesque laughter occasionally echoed through the space, their joy etching violence in Rowan’s bones.

He spread out over the space, weaving between the stalactites. Now that he was deeper inside the cave, he was no longer so worried about detection. The expanse was too dark, and far too large and complex for anyone to notice more than a strange black blur if they happened to see him. Which was unlikely; none of the soldiers were paying much attention.

Rowan began to count, using the eyes of the wind far more than his own. There were eighty-six men distributed through the main cavern, and another sixty-four spread out between the four main offshoots to the left and right.

Along a narrow passageway directly to the back of the main space, Rowan counted another eight, with thirty-two more sleeping in the improvised dormitories sectioned off alongside the tunnel.

But then Rowan narrowed his eyes. The wind spoke of ten more soldiers, loitering at the far end of the long, twisted passage. Their voices were quiet through the soft stone, though their tone was harsh. The breeze passed him pieces of sentences: The general…how much longer…I hate guard duty…Narrok is…but why…I don’t like them…me neither, but…General Narrok cannot…but he is one of them too…

Rowan was advancing down the tunnel, using the stale air to propel him forwards and keeping his wings tight to his body, reducing the effects his presence to the bare minimum. Soon, the space opened up slightly, and Rowan hid himself in a back corner between two dark planes of rock.

The soldiers were all resting just before another entrance, to a tunnel that seemed to curve and delve deeper into the earth, a catacomb beneath their feet.

Faint whispers drifted up from the sunken space, but the soldiers paid them no heed. So, Rowan cautiously pulled a feeler of wind towards them, a foray into darkness. What it brought back sent lightning through his bones.

Iron chains clanked, darkness whorled, and fear bloomed with the stench of copper and vomit and rotting things - the scent of the demon-creatures mixing in with the scent of the dying.

There were four creatures in that small room, hovering over the body of a demi-Fae female, who was lying on a stone plinth and murmuring incoherently, already close to death.

Even from such a distance, protected from the creatures by a thick layer of stone and earth, Rowan felt his entire body shy away from the creatures. His bones ached as his power twisted, and writhed, aching with the inherent wrongness of the demons. Everything in his body was telling him to fly far, far away, and never to return. To go back to Aelin and take her away from this place.

The demi-Fae female twisted and flipped, and Rowan heard the creatures shift in delight, feeding on her fear and pain like honeyed wine. Draining her dry.

And Rowan knew what would happen next. The demi-Fae would dry up into a withered husk, and the general would order one of his lieutenants to collect the body and dump it in the surrounding countryside, leaving it to rot.

The female gasped, and Rowan’s heart wrenched. He threw his power over to her without thinking, and felt something deep in his gut flinch as his ice and wind struck against an impenetrable iron shield.

And in that jolt, he slipped slightly on his perch, sending a small cascade of pebbles clattering down the stone surface of the cave. He stilled instantly, but on the uneven stones the pebbles fell for long seconds.

He clearly heard a guard say, “What was that?” but apparently, they decided to overlook the small discrepancy, and soon they once again fell into idle chatter.

Rowan knew he had to leave, but still – he hesitated. Wracking his mind for some solution, some way to put the female out of her misery, to provide her with an escape from the visions of fear and pain that were consuming her. But there was none.

So Rowan turned and flew away, ashamed and disgusted with himself, even though he knew there was nothing he could do.

As he flew, he thought. The demi-Fae were not being brought all the way here only for the creatures to feast – if it were only a matter of hunger, the creatures could feed and dispose of the bodies without bothering to drag them all the way into the caves.

No, there was another purpose here – knowledge. Experimentation. And with what Aelin had told him yesterday…Rowan cursed silently.

He returned to the main cave and began to survey it, scanning for weaknesses and possible strategies. There were exactly two hundred soldiers distributed through the cavern systems, with General Narrok and his three lieutenants at the army’s head, each of them leading their own platoon within the company.

They were well armed and stocked, and – Rowan cursed again. Each of the soldiers was dressed in iron, head to toe. They knew their enemy better than he had thought.

And – Rowan flapped a bit closer. And there were small, strange marks carved into the metal, dotting it with whorls and crosses. His eyes scanned over the army, and he began seeing them everywhere. Leaping out from corners and entrances, all carved into the stone of the cave walls.

He tentatively sent his magic over towards the marks, a brush of an invisible finger, and they zapped him with an icy spark that jolted down his spine and rendered him temporarily stunned.

His suspicions were confirmed. They must be those symbols Aelin had explained about yesterday – not ward stones, but akin to them. Charged with a similar, ancient power. Wyrdmarks.

The King of Adarlan knew his enemy, and he had sent an army here to destroy it. Rowan couldn’t help but feel the strange misfortune that had guided the king to lead his forces directly into the path of his oldest enemy, and his greatest foe. The Heir of Terrasen – she who had hidden under his nose for so many years, and she whom he must be desperate to destroy.

For the only place this army could be heading towards was the fortress. Mistward. Where the demi-Fae lay in wait – a feast ripe for the taking.

Rowan longed with his whole being to reach out with his power and suffocate the whole lot of them. To rip the air from their lungs and watch as they twitched on the stones. To keep Aelin and all the other demi-Fae safe from their clutches.

But he couldn’t. If he tried, he would certainly die.

Rowan carefully drew himself up and wove among the stalactites once more, exiting the caves and returning to the stormy evening and the hunted princess waiting for him atop the cliffs. So lost in his thoughts that he didn’t notice the dark figure resting just inside the lip of the cave mouth, its black eyes glinting with malice, and its black talons flashing in the starlight.

Rowan flew above Aelin, circled once, and then headed off into the woods – a clear direction to follow. Rowan led the princess a quarter of a mile through the trees, waiting until she was far enough away from the caves that he could stop her before she tried to run in there, heedless of the danger, fire and magic filling her palms.

He shifted and leaned against a gnarled old pine, waiting for the soft sound of her padding footsteps to mark her appearance.

Aelin’s brows were furrowed, her scent touched with worry.

He spoke before she had to ask the question. “There are about two hundred mortal soldiers and three of those creatures in the caves. There’s a hidden network of them all along the shore.” Her face tightened, but she remained silent.

“They are under the command of someone called General Narrok. The soldiers all look highly trained, but they keep well away from the three creatures.” Rowan wiped at his face, realizing that in his Fae form, his nose had begun to bleed. “You were right. The three creatures look like men, but aren’t men. Whatever dwells inside their skin is…disgusting isn’t the right word. It was as if my magic, my blood – my very essence was repelled by them.”

He examined the blood on his fingers. “All of them seem to be waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

Rowan’s face darkened, and he cocked his head. She should know better than he. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“The king never said anything about this. He – he …” Aelin stared into the distance, her voice trailing off. Then she refocused. “Send word for Wendlyn’s forces—warn them right now.”

Rowan shook his head. “Even if I reached Varese tomorrow, it would take over a week to get here on foot. Most of the units have been deployed in the north all spring.”

“We still need to warn them that they’re at risk.”

“Use your head. There are endless caves and places to hide along the western coastline. And yet they pick here, this access point.”

A pause. “The mountain road will take them past the fortress.” Panic blossomed on her face and in her scent, her wildfire reaching through the iron bars to soothe her. “No – not past. To the fortress. They’re going after the demi-Fae.”

Rowan nodded slowly, his gut twisting as a vision of the sentries, of Luca, fighting atop the fortress walls passed behind his eyes. All so young. He shook his head of the unwelcome images.

“I think those bodies we found were experiments. To learn the weaknesses and strengths of the demi-Fae, to learn which ones were…compatible with whatever it is they do to warp beings. With these numbers, I’d suggest this unit was sent here to capture and retrieve the demi-Fae, or to wipe out a potential threat.”

Aelin only lifted her chin and said, “Then right now – right now, we’ll go down to that beach and unleash our magic on them all. While they’re sleeping.” She began to turn, heading back for the caves, but Rowan grabbed her elbow.

Aelin looked at him in surprise and disgust. “If I had thought there was a way to do it, I would have suffocated them all. But we can’t – not without endangering our lives in the process.”

“Believe me, I can and I will.” Rowan could see that she wasn’t listening, that instead she was turning to the bloodlust, the desire for revenge. He clenched his jaw.

“No. You physically cannot harm them, Aelin. Not right now. They know enough about those Wyrdmarks to have protected their whole rutting camp from our kind of magic. Wards – like the stones around the fortress, but different. They wear iron everywhere they can, in their weapons, in their armor. They know their enemy well. We might be good, but we can’t take them on alone and walk out of those caves alive.”

Aelin shook off his head and began to pace, running her fingers through her golden hair. Rowan hesitated, the words resting on his tongue. But Aelin saw them anyways.

“Say it,” she demanded.

“Narrok is in the very back of the caves, in a private chamber. He is like them, a creature wearing the skin of a man. He sends out his three monsters to retrieve the demi-Fae, and they bring them back to the cave – for him to experiment on.”

The news passed over her face like a shadow. “I tried to cut off her air – to make it easier for her,” Rowan said. “But they have her in too much iron, and…she won’t make it through the night, even if we go in there now. She is already a husk, barely able to breathe. There is no coming back from what they’ve done. They’ve fed on the very life of her, trapping her in her mind, making her relive whatever horrors and miseries she’s already encountered.”

Her words were frozen, her fire guttered. “It truly fed on me that day in the barrows,” she whispered. “If I hadn’t managed to escape, it would have drained me like that.”

Rowan growled viciously in confirmation, unable to form any words.  

Aelin scrubbed at her face, tipping her head back so that the rain washed over her cheeks. As if she sought to cleanse herself of their mark. Then she took a long breath and turned to face Rowan, her eyes hard. “We cannot kill them with our magic while they are encamped. Wendlyn’s forces are too far away, and Narrok is going after the demi-Fae with three of those monsters plus two hundred soldiers.”

Rowan nodded as she continued. “How many of the sentries at Mistward have actually seen battle?”

“Thirty or less. And some, like Malakai, are too old, but will fight anyway – and die.” Rowan turned to walk deeper in the woods, needing to move, to get back to the fortress so that they could begin to prepare. So that they could put more distance between them and the female currently writhing on that stone plinth, and he wouldn’t so anything so stupid as go after her.

If he went, Aelin would die. So he walked.

Aelin was dazed, lost in thought a few feet behind him as they slowly began to make their way back to the fortress. But they barely made it a hundred feet before an all-too-familiar stench wafted towards him on a salty wind.

Rowan’s entire body stilled, and he raised his fist to tell Aelin to stop, his nostrils flaring. A demon was close.

Rowan silently unsheathed a blade from his vambrace, shifting his muscles into a subtly defensive position and scanned the trees ahead and behind. The winds carried a warning: tiny stream…old oak…dark limbs, rancid stench…walking slowly…dark eyes forwards…towards where the warrior and the wildfire stood still…

“Only one.” His voice was near-silent, his mind whirring like a wound clock, cold and calculating as he pulled up a skeleton of a plan.

Aelin drew her dagger just as quietly. “That’s not reassuring.”

Rowan pointed. “He’s coming dead at us. You head to the right for twenty yards, I’ll go left. When he’s between us, wait for my signal, then strike. No magic – it might attract too much attention if others are nearby. Keep it quick and quiet and fast.”

“Rowan, this thing – ”

“Quick and quiet and fast.” He had no other choice than to believe it.

Aelin’s eyes flashed at him. It fed on me and would have turned me into a husk. We could easily meet that fate right now.

You were unprepared, he said back. And I was not with you.

This is insane. I faced one of the defective ones, too, and it almost killed me.

Scared, Princess?

Yes, and wisely so. But then she seemed to sigh, either accepting that they had no other choice or rising to his teasing. Regardless, she nodded, slipped silently into the trees, and vanished.

Rowan wrenched his gaze away from the empty space where the princess had just been standing, and moved to his position on the left flank, ducking behind a large evergreen.

The demon still hadn’t entered his view, though with his wind he could track its movements through the undergrowth. It had not shifted from its previous path, and was heading directly for the space between him and Aelin – the spot they had only just left.

Rowan steadily manipulated the air to pull their scents through the trap, hopefully guiding the creature forwards, without arousing any of its suspicions or revealing their true hiding places. Then, he threw the remnants of their scent out towards the sea, where he hoped the salty wind would wipe the air clean of their trace. He knew it was likely a wasted effort, but he tried anyways.

The demon took another slow step, and with the slightest crumple of dried leaves, it appeared in Rowan’s field of vision.

The creature was a man, with black hair and black eyes. A man with a haunting, ethereal face, and a stone collar around his neck. Though Rowan had been in the barrow fields when Aelin had faced this creature, and though he had just discovered all four of them hiding away in their nest, deep in the darkness of the caves, this was the first time Rowan had seen one of them with his own two eyes.

Blood began to trickle down from Rowan's nose, lining the curves of his lips in red. The creature took another step.

It was a man, and yet, it was also something as far from human as physically possible. The strange, silky-smooth movements, the curved black talons, sharper than steel. The smell that had now deepened, turning from a faint hint into an unbearable reek of death and decay and soul-rot that Rowan was forced to breathe through his mouth.

He knew Aelin was capable, knew that she was as safe as she could be, but still – it ached to be even a few feet from her with that creature stalking towards them. The wind told him that she was crouched behind a mossy oak, facing away from both him and the creature. Her breaths were steady, but her heart thundered.

It took another step forwards, now standing directly in between him and Aelin. Rowan flashed his dagger towards her – a clear signal to strike.

But she did not move.

He flashed it again. Still – no reaction.

Panic began to seep into his very bones. In some small part of his mind, he could still sense Aelin – hidden behind that tree. But her presence had dulled and warped in his mind until he could no longer tell, no longer knew, was not sure –

And then the creature turned its head to face Rowan, and the screaming began in his mind.

Nothing, absolutely nothing in all his imaginings, could have compared to it. Every other time he had heard Lyria’s voice, had listened to her begging, had witnessed her screams of agony – had been nothing but a pale imitation.

Lyria appeared before him, in all her remembered beauty. She was on her knees, her eyes sparkling with tears as she grasped at his traveling cloak, begging him not to go. Her voice cracked. Rowan left.

And then she was dead, her stiff weight a stone in his arms. The scent of their dead child a ghost between them.

But then she was alive once more – thrashing and screaming in pain as invisible fingers tore at her clothes and sunk blades in her flesh, weeping blood. Crying for Rowan to come, for Rowan to help her – for her mate to come save her.

But he hadn’t. And now he couldn’t.

Tears were streaming down his face of their own accord as he fell to his knees, the blade in his hands slipping between his fingers, slicing as it went. And the sharp sting cut through the visions, distracting him just enough to allow him to grasp onto the pain like an anchor, and pull himself free.

The apparitions melted around him, dripping away to reveal that the trees nearby were empty. The creature was gone.

Aelin.

And Rowan was running headlong through the forest, heedless of any danger, towards the princess of flames.

He found her just as she pivoted, making to strike at the creature’s exposed side while her other arm made to slash at its throat. A fluid, perfect maneuver.

But then she froze.

The demon smiled, and Aelin’s blades clattered to the earth.

“You,” it said, darkness pouring from it like a waterfall of whirling black smoke, until it covered both of them completely in its dark cloak. “Your agony tasted like wine.”

Rowan fought through the screams, battered against the fear and agony that threatened to down him once more. In the back of his mind, Rowan knew that the only reason he was able to remain upright was that the majority of its attention was focused on Aelin.

Rowan threw his magic at the darkness, seeking to blow the it away, to suffocate the creature within or to force Aelin from the demon’s thrall. But the smoke did not shift, his wind passing through it like water in a fisherman’s net.

Rowan was screaming her name, desperate and frantic, but it felt almost soundless in the strange hollow air.

So Rowan breathed once, and then tore through the darkness with his steel and wind, his canines bared and growls thundering in his chest.

Rowan ripped Aelin from the creature, but she did not even look at him. Her gaze was still locked with the demon’s black eyes, her face blank and her fingers clawing at Rowan desperately. To get free, so that the demon and the suffering and the guilt could have her, could consume her.

So with rage and panic flowing freely within him, Rowan pulled her body even closer and bit her between her neck and her shoulder.

Even with a demon before them, surrounded by pain and darkness, it was exactly the same as before. Her blood was nectar on his tongue, spiced and bright with her fire and her fear.

Aelin’s body jerked, and he let go. But all he wanted to do was bite her again, to bite her all over, and Rowan realized that this time wasn’t the same.

It was stronger.

Aelin gasped, finally awake and aware, and Rowan crushed her body to his, still hauling them away, while the demon lingered by the tree, barely a few yards from them.

Rowan sketched a snarl. The demon only laughed.

And Rowan knew that this was a fight they could not win. In the dark, with such limited weapons, against an enemy that did not need mortal steel to kill them – they were outmatched. Rowan’s magic was useless. Aelin’s fire might be able to mark it but he couldn’t know until they tried, and with Aelin in such a state, Rowan didn’t want to waste the time it would take for a try.

“We have to run,” Rowan breathed in her ear. Another laugh from the creature, who stepped closer. Rowan pulled them farther back.

“You can try,” it said.

Rowan had barely a second’s warning before Aelin threw out her magic in a wall of flame between them and the demon. The creature hissed, and Rowan didn’t take the time to figure out whether it was in pain or only annoyance before the pair of them turned, and fled into the forest.

Aelin’s magic had bought them time, but it was barely a minute before they could hear the creature crashing through the trees behind them. Rowan knew these woods, knew which paths to take and how to hide their trail – both with his winds and with the land. The creature fell farther behind. But it did not stop, did not give up.

And Rowan knew that it wasn’t because of fear of detection, or because of a need to remain hidden and unknown to the demi-Fae. No, the demon was chasing Aelin. Her specifically. The pleasure of feasting on her fears would be unmatched by any other they could find, here or across the sea. 

They ran for miles through the trees, veering away from the fortress where Rowan feared that even the ward-stones would be unable to protect them from the demon’s magic. All the while, Rowan searched his mind for any way, any solution that would leave them both, or at least Aelin, safe and unharmed.

He considered leaving her and going after the demon himself, but his magic had no effect on the creature – ice and wind doing nothing against darkness. Only Aelin’s magic would do anything, and Rowan would not allow her to go up against that creature until she had full access to her might – that iron gate unlatched.

For at the moment, she was too weak for Rowan to be sure that she could overcome the demon. So they ran, and Rowan forced the despair back by inches.

Aelin’s breaths were ragged, and Rowan felt his muscles begin to twinge under the weight of the steel he carried. They wouldn’t be able to keep up this pace for much longer.

“He won’t stop,” Aelin panted, rain pouring down her face, which was silver in the moonlight. “He’s like a hound on a scent.”

Rowan bared his teeth. If she told him to leave her, to shift and save himself, he would lose it. “Then I’ll run him down until he drops dead.”

Lightning illuminated a deer path atop the hill, and Aelin turned her head, her eyes glinting. “Rowan,” she breathed. “Rowan, I have an idea.”

···

Rowan was sure that Aelin had a death wish. But he went along with her insane idea anyways – he didn’t exactly have a better one to offer.

His wings were slick in the pelting rain as he circled, leading the creature around and around with the scent of Aelin’s tunic. He flitted from tree to tree, making sure to mark each of them with both their scents. He could just hear the creature a few hundred feet behind him, stumbling through the underbrush.

Rowan could see Aelin’s fire, bright orange through the gray rain, at the top of the hill at his back. An invitation for the skinwalkers. Rowan shook his head. That morning, if he could have told himself that he would be purposefully drawing the skinwalkers towards Aelin in some inane plan she’d concocted –

He sighed, smothering the fear in an affectionate disapproval.

Rowan could faintly hear the “screee” of the blade on the whetstone, and the sounds of murmured voices, and knew that the first part of her plan was drawing to a close. And soon, Aelin was sprinting through the underbrush, a mile up from where she had told him to lead the creature. A mile to run before they would be safe from both the skinwalkers and the creature.

Rowan’s hawk screeched as she approached, warning her that the demon was near, and that he was waiting for her by the place where the ancient road bent around a boulder.

The road ran right, but Aelin went left, her eyes bright but her face determined. Rowan shoved a fierce wind over the road, pulling Aelin’s scent with it and leading the skinwalkers right into the path of the demon.

Aelin threw herself behind a tree, only a dozen yards off the road and forced her body into stillness, a hand clasped over her mouth, smothering the gasps that racked her lungs. Rowan dove and shifted, enveloping her body in his, attempting to cover up her scent with his own.

Though her body trembled, and her scent stank of fear, it was a relief to once again have her close – a thorn removed.

Five pairs of feet slithered along the road, passing them without stopping and continuing on to follow the false scent – right into the waiting arms of the demon.

Rowan waited only a moment for the skinwalkers to be out of earshot before he tugged at Aelin’s sleeve, urging her upwards. We have to climb, he silently said. And in a few deft movements, Aelin was clambering up the trunk, foot after foot, until she stalled on a wide branch near the top, at least fifty feet up.

Rowan sat beside her, pulling her next to him, needing to feel her heartbeat on his skin. And also to hide her scent from the monsters below.

Only a minute passed before the screaming began. The otherworldly shrieks and roars of two deaths facing each other, and discovering which, of the two of them, were the stronger.

They fought for the better part of a half an hour, until the shrieks turned from desperate to victorious, and then faded into the rainy night. But Rowan and Aelin did not let go of each other once, nor did they dare close their eyes until dawn graced them with her golden light.

Relief flooded Rowan, but it was immediately followed by despair. Yes, they had escaped this one danger, but a whole army of them was on their way to Mistward, and there was nothing Rowan could do to stop them.

Chapter Text

If either of them got any sleep that night, it was in quick, fleeting bursts. Barely daydreams, which then faded from memory as quickly as their eyes reopened.

Before they returned to the fortress, Rowan and Aelin headed a ways down the mountain, following the ancient road until they reached the spot where the battle between the skinwalkers and the creature had taken place in the night.

But the clearing was empty of all but trampled earth, snapped branches, the remains of fetid stench, and spots of black blood. Rowan had hoped that with any luck, it could give them some insight into the creatures’ potential weaknesses, or even a way they could be defeated. But there was nothing to be found. The body of the creature had simply disappeared.

Rowan had to swallow his disappointment as they turned on their heels and began to angle across the slope back towards Mistward, falling into a steady run.

As they ran, Rowan began to plan.

There were barely thirty fit soldiers housed at Mistward, mostly young, and all untried. The border outposts were conceived as military bases, but that was more window dressing than anything else.

Demi-Fae would arrive, usually in their youth – thinking to test themselves in order to enter the Fae city. The would stay, sometimes for years, training their bodies and their magic. And they almost always were found wanting.

Then they were given a choice: go back to human society, where you will be feared and shunned and hated all your life – even in the more tolerant cities like Varese – or stay. Stay and become a sentry or a guard. Become a cook, laundress, or healer’s assistant – a farmer, apothecary, or baker. Almost all stayed.

And so the fortresses became more peaceful communities than soldiers’ stations, no matter what they appeared to be. So small they were almost an extended family.

A family that hadn’t welcomed Rowan, but hadn’t rejected or shunned him either. He was increasingly surprised by how comfortable he felt in Mistward, how like home it felt – in as much as he could feel at home anywhere.

And now this family, and that home, was under attack. By two hundred soldiers, and three demons with powers that Rowan was sure had not yet been fully tested.

It would be a difficult assault for the soldiers, Mistward’s battlement wall was strong, and the sentries would be able to use arrows and pitch and flaming oil to batter them back. With their iron and their wyrdmarks, magic was useless, so Rowan and the demi-Fae captains would have to rely on mortal methods of waging war. They would be less effective, and that disadvantage would cost them – time and men.

After perhaps an hour or so, maybe more, the demi-Fae would tire. They would run out of arrows and pitch, and the soldiers would gain ground. They would batter the gate to pieces, and flood into the interior courtyard. Rowan and Aelin would be forced to abandon the battlement wall and join a group of fighters there.

Blade would meet blade, and together, they would slay many. But not enough. Eventually, they would be overwhelmed, and Mistward would be taken. Just like that.

And this was only considering the mortal soldiers. Rowan wasn’t quite sure what place the three creatures would have in the battle to come, but he was sure that no matter what, they weren’t here just to stand and look ugly.

Perhaps the fortress’ ward-stones would be able to keep them out, and perhaps not. Either way, the terror and panic they would inspire in the demi-Fae would be considerable. Most likely, it would mean soldiers abandoning their posts, attempting to flee. Chaos, bedlam. An even quicker end.

Mistward was at a disadvantage by numbers, skill, and magic. Their few advantages amounted to little. There were the obvious physical barriers – the walls, ward-stones, and drawbridge – but other than that, all the demi-Fae had to work with was their knowledge of the terrain, their determination, and whatever wits they could pull about them.

The fortress came into view, the ward-stones looming over them. Usually they were large and intimidating, but this morning they seemed old. Old and weak.

Rowan breathed deep, ordering his thoughts and steeling his mind. There were a lot of decisions they needed to make.

···

Malakai took the news better than he had any right to expect.

Rowan told him everything; their discovery about what had been killing the demi-Fae, how they tracked it to its hiding place in the caves. The army that was waiting there, and the iron they were clothed in. The experiments, and the death.

Well, almost everything. Rowan didn’t say anything about the wyrdmarks or keys, nor the fact that Aelin had encountered one of these creatures in the king’s palace in Adarlan last winter.

Aelin was mostly silent as Rowan relayed the information. A solid presence by his side, her fingers pulling through her golden hair - rebraiding it. It seemed as though the action was a calming one, of repetition and familiarity.

“Call all the captains in the fortress to the sentry station,” Rowan said, his voice hard with command. “There is a lot we need to discuss.”

Malakai jerked his head once, his expression frozen solid and his eyes cast into the middle distance - not really seeing. “Two patrols are out at the moment, one in the southern hills, another along the coast to the northwest. I’ll send two men to collect them. A messenger boy will collect the others.” Malakai breathed once, the air seeping into his lungs. “If I would be permitted, Prince, might I go down to the kitchens?”

The question was forcedly casual, and the set of Malakai’s mouth revealed just how much he wanted to go and speak with his mate, to confirm that Emrys was still safe - at least for now.

Rowan nodded, and the old male left. His movements were solid and swift. Purposeful, not panicked. But the fear was unmistakable in the tense set of the male’s shoulders, and the streak of copper in his scent.

Rowan had hidden his hopelessness, but Malakai knew the odds. He had helped train the demi-Fae at the fortress for long years, and knew their abilities even more intimately than Rowan did.

He and Aelin didn’t bother to return to their rooms to change or clean up before heading to the sentry station.

···

“The first thing we must do,” Rowan said, his hands pressed against the ancient, round wooden table, dusted with various papers, “Is send messengers to all the neighboring fortresses, here, here, and here.” Rowan pointed out the pertinent locations on the map in front of him, “as well as the Healers’ compound.”

Rowan made sure that his voice was calm, and empty of any apprehension. He knew how important it was that he not appear at all worried, how important it was that he kept these men from despairing. Fear killed just as surely as a blade, or an arrow.

The captains of Mistward looked back at him, anxiety widening their eyes and pursing their lips. Aelin stood at his side, while Malakai stood across from him. Eight other leaders filled the remaining space, of various ages and abilities, while a few messengers and errand-runners lingered in the entryway.

Rowan had only given these captains the bare facts – glossing over much of the unnecessary details. He had told them as little about the creatures as he dared, but even that had been enough to bring sweat to their brows and their hands to their sword hilts.

There had been many rumors about the dead demi-Fae over the past weeks, often untrue and exaggerated, but always bone-chilling. And Malakai hadn’t been able to quash all of them. Rowan was reaping the effects of those stories now.  

He continued without stop. “The nearby fortresses may have some men that they might be able to send, and the rest need to know to flee. And Namonora needs to evacuate all her patients able to walk.”

Malakai gestured for an nervous young female to depart, with instructions to collect three other runners along the way. She left quickly, her steps rushed and scattered.

“We must also inform the Wendlyn court.” Aelin started slightly, but Rowan ignored her. “If there is an army at our gates, Adarlan might also be intending to attack their borders. And they should be able to send aid.”

“They’d better,” a younger male grumbled from the back of the room. “We’re owed it.”

 A gray-haired female joined him. “If they don’t, we’re doomed.” The words came out in a hoarse whisper.

Rowan gritted his teeth as the room began to hollow out, tendrils of fear leaking across the surface of the table – streaks of copper, bright as blood. His knuckles grated against the wood as he pressed his weight harder into the surface.

He kept his tone flat and even, as if the woman had not spoken. “This force is not insurmountable, no matter our numbers. We have much that they do not. Namely, our position, our determination, and our knowledge of the land.” Rowan’s words were carefully calculated, speaking just as he would take the reins of a nervous horse. He looked towards Malakai. “But first, a message must be sent to the king.”

Another runner was dispatched. Rowan took a deep breath. “This is what we are going to do.”

···

They talked for hours, deliberating and detailing. Traps would be set in the miles surrounding the fortress; hidden pits, nets, spikes, and snares, as well as paths leading unsuspecting soldiers through glens of poisonous plants and venomous creatures. Bells and lookouts would also be placed at strategic points in the mire, ensuring that they would be forewarned of an attack at any time of night.

They planned rotations, arranged for the fortification of the castle, prepared reconnaissance missions, and reorganized the rhythms and patterns of the fortress to accommodate their drastically changed circumstances.

Three times a day, a group of sentries would make a circuit of their borders while each morning and evening, another group would foray into enemy territory and spy on the soldiers in their caves. Rowan made sure to communicate every detail he knew of that expanse of shoreline and the surrounding territory – the convenient crevices and blind spots, the layout of nearby caves and the ways the tides interacted with the coastline throughout the day, as well as all they had managed to glean of the soldiers’ behavior in the short time they had been there. Trying to give the spies every advantage he could.

Messages were sent to the nearby villages as well, warning them of what might be coming their way – though it was decided that they were not in as much danger as the neighboring fortresses.

At one point, a younger male voiced the question, “Why not beg Queen Maeve for aid? Does she not – ”

It was Malakai who interrupted the male, shutting down the question before its stink could permeate too far into the small room. The male looked taken aback at the dismissal, but most of the other demi-Fae only shifted uncomfortably, and avoided Rowan’s gaze. They all knew the truth - that Maeve would never send such a helping force. She didn’t care about the demi-Fae beyond how she could use them to shield her realm, a warning bell for potential invasion into Doranelle.

Each time a demi-Fae spoke, Rowan made sure to take note of their name, title, and position. He knew that they feared him, and over the past few months he hadn’t done much to rectify that fear. Now, that fear was dangerous. He needed them to trust him, to trust that he would get them out of this, that he would lead them to victory. This was the first step to inciting that trust.

If they didn’t trust him, they wouldn’t fight the way he needed them to. If they didn’t believe that he was going to fight and die for them, they wouldn’t fight and die for him. It was cold and calculating, but it was necessary, so he didn’t shirk from it.

As they talked, Rowan felt the emotions of the room change, shifting from outright terror to a grim determination. Though the room was still drenched in anxiety, the captains had put their despair aside, at least for now. Rowan felt his respect for the demi-Fae grow.

Aelin was mostly silent during their conversation, but when she did speak, her words were invaluable, and strikingly intelligent. She stood at his right hand, and they were the clear leaders of the group.

Even though most of the demi-Fae knew her as Elentiya, the kitchen maid, and thought her a strange, quiet girl, they accepted her more easily into this circle of leaders than Rowan expected. Perhaps the truth of her identity was more widespread than he had originally thought. Or maybe it was her connection to Rowan that garnered her acceptance. Either way, they listened when she spoke, and nodded their agreement to her suggestions.

The longer they talked, the more messengers began to return. Namonora’s was the first, and then each of the nearby outposts, in order of distance.

Not as many men could be spared as Rowan had hoped, only a few dozen in total. The commanders were worried (and reasonably so) that Adarlanian soldiers would appear on their own doorsteps, and were therefore cautious. Still, it was better than nothing.

With her message, Namonora also sent a couple of healers to assist in transporting Mistward’s few wounded back to the Healers’ compound, where they could be dealt with alongside the other patients there. As well as to provide them with various medical supplies – mostly excess bandages, salve, thread, and ointment. The first of many provisions to prepare for the battle to come.

An hour or so later, there were sighs of relief – even a few whoops of exultation – when news arrived from Wendlyn that the king would promise them as many men that could be spared. Rowan, however, was not among the celebratory.

The phrasing of the missive was vague and ambiguous, the words of a politician. Rowan knew the Wendlyn king, and understood him to be Maeve’s creature, through and through. He would not make any move that could potentially affect his standing with her.

So despite his promises, the was no way he would spare enough men to make much of a difference. All the Wendlynite soldiers would do was prevent their outright annihilation in favor of a more lingering, protracted demise. All it would mean was more men dead.

But Rowan kept his thoughts to himself.

He was surprised, however, that Aelin also kept quiet, and that while happy relief was coursing through the demi-Fae all around them, dread saturated her scent. So strong, it was almost…fear.

He puzzled at it in the back of his mind for long minutes while she stood at his side, her turquoise and gold eyes turned inward. And then something clicked. Ashryver eyes. The eyes of her cousins, the royal family who had just promised them aid. Soldiers who might include men who shared those same eyes, who were her family. Who might recognize her.

Rowan knew it was unlikely that the king would send his own son, Galan Ashryver, to assist them, but from what Aelin had said about her reluctance to meet her other cousin, Aedion, Rowan assumed that she would be equally reticent to reacquaint with others from her family. Rowan almost sighed, but he didn’t say anything. He couldn’t really blame her. Still afraid of who she really was.

Just before the meeting broke, and the captains went off to carry out their various orders, Malakai spoke up. Apparently, there was an old tunnel, hidden beneath the western wing of the fortress, that wound its way underneath the courtyard and out into the Cambrian Mountains.

It was ancient, neglected and crumbling, but should they end up under siege, it could provide a valuable bolt-hole. Rowan sent a pair of demi-Fae, Bas and Innar, to travel its length and confirm that it was still intact, as well as to set up a few choice snares at the entrance, a small precaution against any unwelcome foes discovering it.

Rowan knew that having any outlet into the fortress other than the heavily guarded gate was a vulnerability, but the tunnel was too potentially useful to waste. With it, they had a way to escape. It was better than nothing.

···

Rowan thrust the shovel into the earth, sweat beading on his forehead. There was a dull thud from behind him, marking the stroke of Aelin’s shovel.

They were digging a pit, which would then be filled with stakes and disguised into the surrounding woodland. To Rowan’s left, several other demi-Fae, including Luca and Bas, toiled alongside them. Father into the woods, Rowan could hear many others working on similar traps and snares, their quiet words filtering around the old oaken tree trunks in soft whispers.

This particular pit would cut through a large clearing, crossing a well-used game trail, and would hopefully be six feet deep and over fifteen feet long by the time they were finished with it.

The earth was hard and stony, and ribboned through with gnarled roots. Rowan silently begged the Little Folk to forgive him each time he jammed the blade of his shovel into them, chopping at the roots until he could rip them up with his fingers and cast them into the undergrowth, discarding the broken bones of the forest.

However, many hands made light work, and the long minutes passed with the satisfaction of watching the laborers sink lower and lower into the earth as the pit widened and deepened.

After an hour or so, Malakai came to collect Aelin, needing her wildfire to assist him with some task back in the fortress. She silently departed, leaving Rowan alone with Bas and Luca.

All afternoon, the two young males had been joking and teasing with each other in that way only young boys could. It was clear to Rowan that Luca was smitten with the older male – he held onto his every word, laughed at every poor joke, posturing at every turn. Another day, Rowan might’ve smiled listening to them.

Rowan didn’t think he could remember ever being so young.

Now that Aelin was gone, they loosened, becoming louder and more open.  Rowan was just out of their line of sight – making it easy for them to forget that he was there, and fall into their own little world.

“This morning, Malakai sent me through a hidden tunnel beneath the west wing of the fortress.” Bas was almost smug.

“Really? I didn’t know about any tun– ”

“Apparently its centuries old. It was all crumbling and damp, and it went for what felt like miles all in the dark, but then we came out through a wooden door covered in dirt and leaves and we were by that massive maple tree out near the curve in the path, you know?”

“Yeah, I know that one. One time – ”

“Me and Innar got to set a bunch of traps at the entrance to stop the soldiers from Adarlan finding it and sneaking into the fortress,” Bas said, very importantly.

“Wow that’s so cool.” Luca’s words were endearingly earnest. “What were they?”

“Just some basic snares,” Bas waved his hand dismissively. “It’s all so exciting, isn’t it? Malakai is all serious, and I get that its dangerous of course, but still. It’s just like one of Emrys’ stories.”

“Yeah I get what you mean – ”

“I just can’t believe we’re really going to be fighting against actual soldiers from Adaran! I mean, there’s been talk about war for months now. Years, even. But still, somehow I never expected it would actually happen!”

“Yeah, it’s really crazy – ”

“What I don’t really understand is why we’re fighting them in the first place. I mean, I get why Adarlan would want to invade Wednlyn, or even Doranelle, but why here? We don’t have anything against them.”

“Well, I mean – ”

“I mean, if it were up to me, we could let them pass us by. They’ve definitely got bigger fish to fry than just a few old – ”

Luca finally managed to interrupt the other male. “But Adarlan is evil. They’ve taken over so many other nations, and for no reason. And they’ve outlawed magic! If they took over here, maybe they would take the magic away here, too. And just look at what they did to Elentiya – I know she doesn’t talk much, but still. It can’t be a good place if she left it like that.”

Bas paused for a moment. “I guess. But still, it seems unnecessary. We’re just a bunch of demi-Fae. Why would they care about us? We don’t matter to anybody.” His voice had grown bitter and angry.

Luca’s response was somber. “It’s not as bad as all that.”

Bas didn’t match the other young male’s optimism. “Yes it is, and you know it. People are always coming and going, and we always come second to the Fae, no matter how low. I mean, remember when those royals came to visit, and we had to give up our rooms for them and avoid the dining room and keep out of their way and make sure that they didn’t see hide nor hair of any of us?” Bas shoved his shovel particularly hard into the earth. "Well, except Elentiya. I wonder why she’s so special.”

“Must be her power, right? I mean, she is being trained by the Prince.” Luca’s voice was so unguarded that Rowan was quite sure that they had completely forgotten about him.

“Ungh. Prince Rowan. He’s no better than the rest of them. Always so silent and arrogant. Thinking he’s so much better than all the rest of us – ”

“But he actually is so much better than the rest of us!” Luca’s excitement broke through Bas’s complaints. “Do you remember that story Emrys told us last winter, about how Rowan and Lorcan – ”

Luca went on to enthusiastically tell the story of how Rowan had, a century earlier, singlehandedly escaped from the capture of an enemy force far to the south, and then defeated their army, sacked their city, and burnt it completely to the ground – all completely on his own.

Parts of his story were true: Rowan had, in fact, been captured and then escaped. But he hadn’t done it singlehandedly, and the city was very much still standing. His men had helped him escape, and with Lorcan’s help, he had removed the band of soldiers who had taken control of the city, and helped install a leader more accommodating towards Maeve’s interests.

Their conversation shifted back to their enthusiasm for the battle to come – mostly trading fighting techniques and combat stories, and trying to one-up each other with past injuries and their victories in the sparring ring.

Another day, he might have found their exchange not worth much of his attention. If he had bothered to listen, he probably would have internally ridiculed them for their ignorance and blatant disrespect. Another day, he might’ve thought them irritating.

But it wasn’t another day, and today, their exchange cast a deep, aching sorrow all the way through to his bones.  

Eventually Aelin returned, and they finished the pit. Then they set the stakes into the bottom and covered the opening with a flimsy structure of reeds and branches, topped with packed earth, dead leaves, and pine needles.

Bas and Luca went off to join the other younger members of Mistward, grins lightening their faces and their laughter echoing through the somber woodland.

Rowan and Aelin walked together, checking up on the other workers, and then returned to the fortress to catch some sleep. The silence between them was heavy, but not uncomfortable. More like a shared weight, shouldered evenly between them.

They both knew exactly what was coming for them.

···

Rowan gasped awake, his eyes shooting open as he abruptly sat up, rumpling the blankets into a messy pile in his lap. Aelin shifted slightly at the sudden movement, but did not wake.

Her brow was scrunched in her own nightmares. Rowan hesitated, but then ran his fingers through her golden hair, unable to stop himself from trying to soothe her, even though he knew it was futile. Maybe he just wanted to touch her, to be sure that she really was still here. Maybe he just wanted to feel her between his fingers, while he knew he still could.

Rowan carefully stood, making sure not to shift the mattress as he got up and walked over to his worktable, where he sat and stared at the missives that lay there, waiting for his attention.

But he didn’t really see them. He’d had a new dream last night. In this one, he was tied up, and made to watch while every single member of the fortress was executed. One by one by one. The captains from the meeting, the kitchen workers, the healers and sentries and guardsmen. Bas and Luca. Malakai and Emrys. And then, at last, Aelin.

Her eyes were empty as they cut her throat. Her lifeblood spilled onto the stones, a red waterfall. The color of her heart.

Rowan’s eyes shut involuntarily, ineffectually attempting to shove away the images.

All evening, and into the night, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the conversation he had overheard between Bas and Luca. It replayed in his head, over and over. It was a nothing, a banality. Not worth remembering, or mentioning to anyone. But he couldn’t shake it.

Those two boys, clothed in the invincibility of youth, were going to die. And there was nothing Rowan could do to stop it.

Rowan stood suddenly, and began to pace about the room. Normally he would leave, would fly all the way to the sea and back, but he couldn’t stand leaving Aelin alone in their rooms, not even for a moment. Not with the knowledge of an enemy camp just outside their borders. He couldn’t bear the thought of it.

So he paced, while the faces of those two children fixed themselves in his mind, unmovable, and inescapable.

They deserved so much better than this. Deserved a chance to live, to learn and to grow. To acquire their own scars and stories. To be able to look back on their boyhoods and laugh at how reckless and arrogant they had been.

Another image flickered into his mind’s eye; Malakai and Emrys, saying goodbye to each other that afternoon before Malakai went off with a border patrol to set a series of traps along their southeastern flank. The old commander had walked away, but before he left, he turned, and the two mates exchanged a look so full of love and devotion and fear and concern that it set Rowan aching even now.

None of them deserved this, the young or the old.

And it wasn’t only because they deserved whole and complete lives, untouched by death and war and violence – but also because of his queen. Because of Maeve, who, in spite and hatred and anger, would deprive the demi-Fae of all of it. Would deprive them of everything she could.

They all deserved the lives she wanted to take from them.

A soft sigh floated up from the bed, and Rowan momentarily stilled his furious pacing.

Aelin.

And after everything she had been through, didn’t she deserve a life? Wasn’t she entitled to one?

Righteous fury flooded Rowan, pure anger at the injustice and unfairness of it all. He just felt so gods-damned helpless. Here he was, the most powerful Fae male in all of existence, and there was nothing he could do to help this female, and all these people who so deserved to be helped.

Except –

There was something.

Alone, he wasn’t strong enough to win them victory, not even with Aelin and the demi-Fae and a company of Wendlynite soldiers at his back. But he could call for aid. He could ask his fellow blood sworn to come to Mistward.

He couldn’t guarantee victory over the three demons, not even with all five of Maeve’s lieutenants at his side. But he could be sure of the defeat of the soldiers. He could give the demi-Fae a chance. The very least he owed them.

Rowan’s thoughts span in circles, even as his feet made a circuit about the bedroom.

Even though he’d known them all for decades and centuries, he wasn’t sure he trusted them not to inform Maeve. And if they did tell her about the attack, she might call him back to Doranelle, might force him to abandon the demi-Fae to death and defeat. Might even force him to abandon Aelin.

He wasn’t even exactly sure where they all were, let alone if they would answer his call. It may be that they would just ignore him. They didn’t owe him loyalty outside of their mutual obligations to their queen and country. They had no real reason to come, other than to help. Other than for a kindness he wasn’t entirely sure existed in any of them besides Gavriel.

And if they did decide to come to his aid, they would be risking much. It wasn’t outright disobedience, but still, defiance of any kind would need to be addressed. They would be risking punishment of the severest kind.

He didn’t know what they would choose, if he decided to ask. He only knew what he would do in their position.

But it was different, so different, having to ask. He was responsible. He would be responsible, for whatever harm came to them if he decided to call for their aid. Even if they didn’t come, and Maeve only found out about his call, they might be punished. And Rowan would be to blame. Their blood would be on his hands.

Rowan’s jaw clenched tight, his hands balling into fists.

But if he didn’t call, they would all most certainly die. The fortress was too vulnerable, the dark magic of the creatures too powerful. Even if the magic of the ward stones kept the creatures out, it couldn’t protect them against the soldiers. And with their iron armor and their wyrdmarks, they would easily overwhelm the demi-Fae. They were better trained, better armed, better prepared.

Everyone in the fortress was going to die.

Could he not just give his fellow warriors the choice? If Rowan knew that any one of them was facing death, alongside a castle full of innocents, he would come. Regardless of the consequences. Rowan would want them to give him that choice.

Wouldn’t they want the same of him?

The words spun uselessly in his mind, tangling into a nest of thorns.

They might come, and they might not. They might tell Maeve, and she might order Rowan to return to Doranelle. But there was one truth that was inevitable. Undeniable.

Adarlan was going to win this battle. Without more help, Rowan and Aelin and everyone else in this fortress would fall.

Rowan breathed deep, icing over his limbs as his thoughts hardened, and became iron in his mind. He carefully walked back over to the worktable, sat down, and began to draw up five desperate, pleading letters.

Chapter Text

Days passed in the flurry of preparation, filled with long hours, hard work, meetings, decisions, disagreements, and anxiety.

Rowan had awakened the next morning and immediately sought out a courier, requesting that they deliver his letters with as much haste as could be possible. Three he sent to Doranelle, where last he heard Gavriel, Fenrys, and Connall were still posted.

The other two he had far less specific information to provide. Rowan knew that both Vaughan and Lorcan were somewhere to the southwest, each on their way back to the capital. Lorcan had left several weeks before, at the conclusion of the conflict with the Erriagti people, and he would likely be slowly making his way up through the south, following the rivers.

Rowan was even less sure about Vaughan. He had received word that the group of spying royals had relieved him of duty, approximately a week previous. But Rowan didn’t know exactly where Vaughan had been, nor how far he had to travel before he would return to more familiar lands – let alone the path the male would take.

Rowan knew that it was a waste of time and energy to worry, that he had done what he could, and they would either answer his call, or they wouldn’t. But still, in the back of his mind, he couldn’t keep his doubts at bay.

Instead, he tried to distract himself with work. Which proved fairly effective – he doubted that over the next few days anyone in the fortress would run out of things to do.

In addition to the normal activities of the fortress, and their other preparations for the coming battle, the armory needed to be inventoried, and replenished. Supplies needed to be gathered, weapons sharpened, and armor fitted. Food needed to be prepared in case of siege, and livestock needed to be gathered and sheltered.

Rowan did all that and more, organizing rotations and separating everyone in the fortress into groups to set traps in shifts throughout the day. More pits were dug, snares set, and traps laid.

Aelin took it upon herself to help train those in the fortress who were more unfamiliar with combat, leading a series of lessons in the mornings and afternoons. She took them through motion after motion, carefully adjusting positions and providing sound advice. Her voice never faltered, her limbs moving with grace and power – never belying any fear or doubt.

She looked like a leader. Like a queen.

And it appeared in other places as well. A brush across a young female’s newly fitted armor, adjusting it to fit. A small, warm smile given to an older male, encouraging him to be stronger, surer in his movements. Rushing over to help an overwhelmed guard carry sacks of feed into a storage space. The surety in her voice when she made suggestions, adjustments to strategy, her eyes quick and her shoulders strong.

She spoke with authority, but without being condescending or demeaning. She made others listen, and she commanded respect, and she did so not because of her name and title, and not because of her magic, but because of her.

It was a power that Rowan hadn’t known she possessed, and one that he knew was only going to grow in strength as she came into her own.

Perhaps the gods had been planning more with the deaths of her family than just the takeover of one kingdom by another. Perhaps they were creating a champion. Her experiences, while horrific, would significantly aid her in her reign.

A queen that personally understood the evils of slavery? The cost of poverty? Who knew the thoughts and wishes of all, from the slums to the marketplace to the palace? Such a thing was invaluable.

Rowan only wished he would be there to see it.

Malakai and the other leaders began to treat her differently, with a hushed respect, and warmth in their eyes. Several of them, including Malakai and Emrys, had known that she was a princess before now, and they hadn’t let it change the way they treated her. But now, with grace and authority dressing her every movement, they began to see what she really was – who she could really be.

Rowan wondered if Aelin was starting to see it as well, was starting to realize that she was becoming the leader her parents had wanted her to be. Rowan certainly saw it, and so did the others. But he didn’t say anything to her, didn’t want to bring up anything that might damage this delicate thing that was just sprouting between them.

The pair of them worked each day, from dawn till midnight, until their muscles ached, and they were about to drop. Then they collapsed into bed together, where Rowan couldn’t help but lean his body as close to hers as he dared. Where they would often wake up entangled in each other’s arms.

Rowan didn’t know if Aelin touched him out of stress, or anxiety, or the simple desire to feel another’s skin. To remind herself that she was alive. He didn’t know if it was out of loneliness, or because she missed her lover from across the sea. He didn’t know if it was because she was starting to feel those same, tangled emotions that he was realizing were starting to grow in his chest.

They didn’t say anything about it. Only woke together each morning, with the white light of day passing into their small haven, and bringing the outside world along with it. Then arose in silence, and started the day’s work.

Rowan found he spent much of his time with Malakai, planning and organizing and delegating. And he also found that the old male was not only a very competent and shrewd commander, but that the two of them worked well together. As the days passed, he felt Malakai shift, slowly becoming more and more comfortable in Rowan’s presence. Felt the old male lose much of that halting, formal respect, and watched it grow into a more sincere, genuine trust.

By the end of the third day after he and Aelin had returned from their overnight trip, Rowan and Malakai found that they could speak openly and agreeably with each other. It was nice, despite everything, to have earned the old male’s trust, after all this time.

That afternoon, Rowan assembled the eight captains, along with Aelin and Malakai, around a table in the dining hall for a meeting.

“Bas’s scouting team reported that the creatures look like they’re readying to move in a few days,” he said, pointing to a map. “Are the first and second miles of traps almost done?” The captains gave their confirmation. “Good. Tomorrow, I want your men preparing the next few miles, too.”

Rowan led them through the meeting, carefully keeping track of all the arms and legs of their plan. He made sure to emanate a careful steadiness, made sure to use each of the demi-Fae’s names when he addressed them, and he was encouraged by the determination he sensed radiating from them, strong enough that it outweighed the anxiety.

Rowan knew exactly what fear did to people, knew that fear could turn a winning battle into a losing one. So, he did the only thing he could for them – mastered his fear until it was almost entirely gone; wrapped up in cold resolve and ruthlessness.

This time however, the fear was different.

Rowan hadn’t been afraid of dying since he had lost Lyria, hadn’t had anything in life that he had been afraid to lose. His fear before battle for the past two centuries had just been a body’s uncontrollable reaction to danger. A fear that barely registered underneath the walls of ice within him.

Now he feared for another. He feared for Aelin.

Throughout all his planning, all his worries and organization, Rowan had been thinking of ways to keep her safe. In the back of his mind, he swam through possibilities and ideas, the ordinary and the outlandish alike, trying to find a way to ensure that she would walk away from this conflict, unharmed.

The meeting ended, and the captains walked out wearily, going to fulfill the various tasks Rowan had assigned them. He turned to Aelin, wanting to tell her to leave, to flee, to escape before this doom found them. He knew he wouldn’t, knew she wouldn’t, but he couldn’t stop the wanting nonetheless.

Aelin only stared at him, not seeming to notice that everyone had left. She must be completely exhausted. “Get some sleep. You’re no use to me completely dazed.”

“Sorry.” She rubbed at her eyes, and Rowan just looked back at her, waiting, seeing the words on her face.

They had never struggled to communicate, never struggled to understand what the other meant, what they wanted. At least not after those first few shameful weeks. Working with her was effortless, and there was no judgment, no need to explain himself. It was even easier working with her than it was with Lorcan, or Gavriel.

Shame and regret flooded through him. He had wasted so much time. Time spent hating her, and brawling, and wallowing. And now he had so little left.

But she was still looking at him. Rowan frowned. “Just say it.”

Her words came slowly. “We can handle the mortal soldiers, but those creatures and Narrok…” She paused, examining a map on the table between them. “If we had Fae warriors – like your companion who came to receive his tattoo – or all five of your cadre, even, it could turn the tide.” Her tone was careful, hesitant. She traced the line of mountains that separated these lands from the immortal ones beyond. “But you have not sent for them. Why?”

Rowan hesitated, unsure. “You know why.”

“Would Maeve order you home out of spite for the demi-Fae?”

“For a few reasons, I think.”

“And this is the person you chose to serve.” Her voice was bitter, mocking.

Rowan’s response was level, controlled. “I knew what I was doing when I drank her blood to seal the oath.”

Aelin’s eyes darkened, her lips pursing together. Her scent filled with some strange, repulsive odor. Like spoiled meat. “Then let’s hope Wendlyn’s reinforcements get here quickly.”

She turned to leave, but Rowan gipped her wrist, halting her retreat. Unwilling to let their conversation end on such a note. “Don’t do that,” he said, searching for the right words. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“With that…disgust.” He found the name for that thing in her scent.

“I’m not – ”

Rowan just gave her a sharp look, cutting her off. She sighed. “This…all this, Rowan…” She waved a hand to the map, to the doors the demi-Fae had passed through, to the sounds of people readying their supplies and defenses in the courtyard. “For whatever it’s worth, all of this just proves that she doesn’t deserve you. I think you know that, too.”

Rowan’s brow furrowed, and he looked away before she could read his face. “That isn’t your concern.”

Her words were soft and sad. “I know. But I thought you should still hear it.”

When he didn’t respond, she slowly walked out of the dining hall, her light footsteps pounding in his eardrums.

Rowan leaned over the table, his shoulders hunched and his hands braced against the surface, still looking at the map of the lands surrounding Mistward. But he didn’t see it, not really.

He couldn’t tell her the truth – that he knew who Maeve was, that he had known for centuries, and that he had hidden that truth from himself as best he could. To endure.

He couldn’t tell her that if he allowed himself to want, if he allowed himself to let go of the icy wall he maintained over his heart, he would want to stay with her. To join her when she returned to Adarlan. To be by her side, guarding her back.

But he had no way to break his oath to Maeve, no way to turn back time and prevent himself from taking it, to force himself to wait, to hold out for something infinitely better.

For now he knew he truly regretted taking the oath. Regretted it with every fiber of his being. Knew that he would do anything to take it back, would suffer any torture, would endure any pain.

Just so he wouldn’t have to watch her leave him, and know that he would never see her again.

The future was murky, no one knew how the coming conflicts were going to play out, but Rowan knew that someday, perhaps very soon, Aelin would have to face her enemies in the west, and either be destroyed, or take back her crown. Either outcome meant the same thing for him. She would be queen, or dead, and he would still be here, serving Maeve, until Erilea was consumed by the sun.

He would have to wait, to sit in Doranelle while Aelin fought against an entire nation, completely alone.

Rowan knew that he would fight against the oath with everything he had, would fight it until he took his last breath. But he knew it would be in vain.

···

The following day passed much the same as the three previous. Though as their preparations escalated, tensions in the fortress began to mount, edging towards a breaking point.

Aelin concluded her final sparring lesson of the day, and returned to their rooms to wash her face and bandage a burn on her forearm, while Rowan headed to the kitchens to check in on Emrys and Malakai, seeking answers to some trivial question.

But the second he entered the small space, the words crumbled on his lips, his request immediately forgotten.

Emrys was in his mate’s arms, tears silently streaming down his face while Malakai soothingly rubbed his back. Shock and grief permeated the room, and Rowan could feel the horror spreading through the fortress, as whatever news they had received began to disperse.

Something had gone terribly, horribly wrong.

Rowan’s limbs felt like lead as he slowly approached the distraught pair, a wave of panic spilling over all the walls he had created to contain it. His breaths were shallow in his chest.

At the sound of his approach, Malaki and Emrys broke apart and turned their heads towards him. Rowan soundlessly entreated them for answers, unable to speak for the roaring in his head, screaming for Aelin to be by his side, to know she was safe.

Malakai answered his unspoken question, “The slaves. The slaves in Calaculla and Endovier…have all been executed.”

His heart dropped like a stone, even as relief flooded through his body. The news wasn’t of their imminent demise, but of a disaster of a completely different kind.

Malakai was still speaking, giving Rowan the details – the hows and whys. Rowan heard him, but he wasn’t really listening. All his thoughts had turned to the girl, to the princess who had once been a slave. The woman who had sworn to Rowan that she would someday free all those poor, dead, slaves.

His limbs felt disconnected to his body.

A sea of guilt that was not his own stretched before him, and he saw the pain this would cause her. The agony and the remorse. Rowan wondered for a moment if the Adarlanian king hadn’t somehow known what he was doing, if he hadn’t done it on purpose. To make his enemy writhe.

And then Rowan heard footsteps on the stairs at his back, and tasted her fiery scent. He breathed, and steeled himself, turning to face her.

Aelin approached them, full of grim anticipation. Her scent was filled with barely-smothered fear but her face was a mask of cold determination.

As she beheld the scene before her – the grief in the room, the shock and horror Rowan knew was on his face – she paled even further, her eyes widening and her scent becoming thick with copper.

Rowan’s arms hung slack at his sides, his fingers clenching and unclenching. He could do this; he could get through this. He wouldn’t make this any worse for her.

Aelin almost seemed to take a step back, as if to try to avoid this, to evade the doom he held in wait for her.

Rowan took a step toward her – one step, and that was all it took before she began shaking her head, before she lifted her hands in front of her as if to push him away.

“Please,” she said, and her voice broke. “Please.”

Rowan kept approaching, knowing that he couldn’t avoid this, knowing that he had to keep it together, had to bear as much of this burden for her as he could.

He stopped within reach but did not touch her.

He swallowed once. Twice. “There was…there was an uprising at the Calaculla labor camp.” Another shallow breath. “After Princess Nehemia was assassinated, they say a slave girl killed her overseer and sparked an uprising. The slaves seized the camp.” Aelin’s eyes were blank, the gold frozen solid. “The King of Adarlan sent two legions to get the slaves under control. And they killed them all.”

“The slaves killed his legions?” The hope in her eyes nearly struck him to the ground. He breathed once, trying to calm himself, and grasped her hand as gently as he could.

She almost flinched at his touch.

“No. The soldiers killed every slave in Calaculla.” He could see the words twist in her, gutting her like a knife.

But she was still in denial. “There are thousands of people enslaved in Calaculla.”

Rowan nodded, the weight of that death settling on his shoulders like smothering blanket. But still – she didn’t know the whole truth, only half.

He opened and closed his mouth, trying to master himself, forcing himself to grit and bear it, to bear causing her this agony.

She breathed, “Endovier?” It was a fool’s plea.

Slowly, so slowly, Rowan shook his head. “Once he got word of the uprising in Eyllwe, the King of Adarlan sent two other legions north. None were spared in Endovier.”

Her eyes went dark, and she stared but did not see. Her knees began to buckle and he gripped her arms as if he could keep her from falling into the abyss.

Aelin’s face was utterly blank, wiped clean of every thought. She breathed in quick, panicked gasps. He could almost hear the wailing echoing behind her eyes. And his heart broke.

“Aelin,” he whispered, too softly for others to hear, letting all his emotion, all his tenderness and care, reveal itself in that short word.

But at the sound of it, at the sound of her name on his lips, Aelin tore off his grip and was running out the kitchen door. Running across the courtyard, her feet pounding over the cobblestones. Running through the wooden gate, and out of his sight.

Rowan’s arms were still held out, but she was gone.

Her name.

He had known what that name meant to her, a connection to her past, the identity she had lost, that had been taken from her. And he had said it anyways. He had reminded her of her guilt, the responsibility she felt to protect all who had been connected to the country she had been born to lead. Aelin, the name of the person who had been promised to the world to protect the defenseless.

Guilt coursed through him as he stood, making to follow her out of the fortress. But before he made it out of the kitchens, Malakai’s voice broke through his reverie.

“Wait! Prince!”

Rowan stopped and turned, taken aback by the urgency in the male’s tone. What could possibly still matter? What could still make any difference?

From the pain in Malakai’s eyes, something certainly could. And Rowan realized suddenly that the grief in the kitchens upon his arrival, the grief that he could feel flooding through the fortress in a desperate, panicked wave, was not due to the deaths of strangers across the sea.

No, something else had gone wrong. Something much closer to home.

Rowan barely had time to steel himself once again before Malakai spoke once more. “The courier also brought news from Wendlyn.”

He swallowed, his voice shaking slightly. “Their northern border has been attacked by three thousand men on Adarlanian ships. Most of their fleet must have been dispatched.” Malakai paused for breath, but Rowan knew what the male was going to say.

“Reinforcements aren’t coming.” The words were barely a whisper.

Malakai shook his head. “No. We are on our own.”

Rowan swallowed once, then nodded at the old male. “Then we will just have to make this the fight of our lives, won’t we commander.”

Something sparked in Malakai’s eyes. “Yes, we will, Prince. We will.”

They shared a moment of deep understanding. Of pain, and of leadership. And then Rowan turned and stepped out of the kitchens, transforming with a burst of light.

He soared above the courtyard and over the battlement wall, his eyes already straining into the dark woods beyond, searching for any sign –

But he needn’t look so far. She hadn’t left the fortress grounds, hadn’t even gone through the ward-gates.

Rowan felt his stomach drop, his eyes widening. But not in fear. In wonder.

A torrent of fire coursed out of Aelin, a blast that shook the trees and set the earth rumbling. A torrent cast straight at the ward-gates. And the magical barrier devoured her power whole, absorbing every last ember.

Rowan swooped down, shifting in midair as he moved to stand beside her. But he dared not get too close.

Aelin just stood there, burning more powerfully than he had ever seen, more powerfully than anyone he had ever seen, and she did not stop. She fed her rage, her grief and pain and anger, into the barrier stones and they lapped up every flicker, every spark.

She truly was the Heir of Fire, the Heir of Brannon. Rowan had known it, had felt the beast slumbering beneath her skin. But still, seeing and believing were different things.

Her power rose from within her, a behemoth from the deep.

Rowan looked at her, and he marveled.

Hours passed, and she worked herself into exhaustion. Her fires waned, the colors shifting from whites and blues down to deep reds and pale golds, until they flickered, and went out. Rowan sent a cool breeze her way, the only comfort he could think to give her.

The forest had gone silent, the birds and insects quieted by her fiery assault. But the barrier now seemed to hum with fresh power, the stones crackling and sparking with electricity.

Aelin turned to face him, and Rowan expected to see exhausted eyes and weary limbs. But instead, her face was bright with pain. Despite the intensity of her assault, yet more flames bloomed in her eyes, their golden core molten and ferocious.

Rowan could still feel the wildfire roaring beneath her skin, could still taste her flames in the air. Aelin’s well of magic had not run dry – her power still demanded to be let out.

Aelin just looked back at him, her shoulders sagging under all that weight, and Rowan breathed, preparing to add to her burden. “Word just arrived from Wendlyn. Reinforcements aren’t coming.”

“They didn’t come ten years ago.” Her voice was raw and cracked, though her words were calm. “Why should they bother helping now?”

Rowan’s eyes softened. “Aelin.”

She turned away, gazing into the darkening forest, too far gone to really hear him. Rowan knew she wouldn’t listen, knew it was useless. But still, he had to try. “You do not have to stay – we can go to Doranelle tonight, and you can retrieve your knowledge from Maeve. You have my blessing.”

She turned back to face him, her eyes hard. “Don’t insult me by asking me to leave. I am fighting. Nehemia would have stayed. My parents would have stayed.”

“They also had the luxury of knowing that their bloodline did not end with them.” His words were near-desperate. He couldn’t allow her to give in to this, to give in to the pain until she vanished under its weight. She couldn’t just submit to the fate she had been given. He needed her to fight – to survive, by any means necessary. Even by sacrificing the lives of their friends here. It was a burden he would bear.

She just gritted her teeth. “You have experience – you are needed here. You are the only person who can give the demi-Fae a chance of surviving; you are trusted and respected. So I am staying. Because you are needed, and because I will follow you to whatever end.”

A long moment passed as her words coursed through him. Burning, forging.

Rowan could feel something rising from deep within, and it enveloped him. When he emerged from its embrace, he knew he would be forever changed.

He did not look away.

“To whatever end?”

She nodded.

Rowan reached into his tunic and pulled out a dagger. Her dagger. He held it out, finally returning it to her. The metal gleamed in the faint moonlight, reflecting Aelin’s golden eyes back at him. She took the blade slowly, seeming to recognize the gesture for what it was. An acknowledgement.

Rowan looked into her eyes, into the very core of her. And she looked right back, piercing him through with her gaze.

And he said the only thing he knew, the one true thing. “Fireheart.”

Chapter Text

For hours that night they stayed up talking, adjusting their plans to accommodate the lack of reinforcements.

There was a somber moment when Rowan calmly encouraged all of the non-fighters still in the fortress to flee. Several demi-Fae exchanged worried glances, but all refused. Even Emrys wouldn’t leave, and Malakai simply said that where his mate went, he went.

Rowan didn’t know whether to be thankful or not that there wasn’t much they could change. The die had been cast, and there was no turning back now. But Rowan kept the demi-Fae captains talking anyways, distracting them from their fear.

It wasn’t until Emrys hauled a pot from beneath the kitchen sink and began banging it with a wooden spoon – demanding that they give it up for the night, that they headed off to bed. Aelin managed to catch a few hours of sleep, but Rowan lay awake, just staring up at the stone ceiling and listening to the slow, even breaths of the female at his side.

The next morning, they led almost every single demi-Fae at Mistward – those who weren’t already out delivering messages, that is – to the healers’ compound, where they helped cart the patients to safety.

They moved them to a camp set into the side of a mountain, an easily defensible cavern with enough space to set up a temporary hospital. It was dark, and a bit damp, but the healers and the wounded would be far safer here than along that exposed section of river.

It took most of the day, even with the dozens of healers and healers’ assistants to help them carry the many stretchers, cots, boxes, and baskets. And there was a seemingly endless line of patients needing assistance traversing the rocky path up to the secluded caves. Many of the wounded used crutches or were bedridden, and many more were too sick to walk unassisted for longer than a few minutes – Fae with weak hearts or lungs, with recently stitched wounds, or half-healed broken bones.

And then there were the supplies. Medical tools, salves, cloth, bandages, and herbs – clothes, books, blankets, and mountains upon mountains of food. All that needed to be carefully transported and stored.

Namonora was a frantic presence in the fringes of Rowan’s vision, flitting in and out of his view throughout the day. One moment, she was assisting a stumbling female over a particularly uneven bit of earth, the next she was organizing piles of books into ‘stay,’ ‘storage,’ and ‘leave,’ piles, according to levels of usefulness. Another, Rowan caught her chastising a rowdy group of young demi-Fae, clearly students, and corralling them into separating piles of patient uniforms into ‘clean’ and ‘dirty,’ and folding them neatly into burlap sacks. In yet another, he found her instructing a harassed-looking assistant on the proper way to pack sets of scalpels “without cutting off the fingers of some unsuspecting healer!”

It wasn’t until evening that Rowan caught a quiet moment with her, when much of the chaos had died down. Even after everything had been moved from the compound and into the cavern, the demi-Fae from Mistward stayed to help the healers organize the camp into a functional structure, and help the wounded settle into their temporary home.

Luca and Emrys had assisted with dinner, whipping up a meal from the dry rations now filling the makeshift pantry, using a convenient rock shelf to prepare the soup that they were now ladling into dozens of bowls. Bas was laughing enthusiastically with a group of injured men from Wendlyn in a secluded corner, exchanging bawdy jokes and generally lightening the dour mood. Aelin was wandering through the rows of cots lighting candles and torches, occasionally giving a soft touch and a smile to those who seemed quiet, or lost.

Namonora was now standing cross-armed near the entrance to the cave, her eyes surveying the company critically. Rowan sidled up beside her, and together they looked over the motley group, stress furrowing both their brows.

After a few long moments, Namonora sighed and turned to face Rowan. “I think you owe me an explanation.”

Rowan frowned. The messages sent to the healers and the other fortresses had been short and to the point, purposefully neglecting to explain much of what they had learned about the dark creatures.

So Rowan told her. He explained how Aelin had discovered their hiding place in the caves, how she realized the connection between the stench and the creature she had faced in the palace in Adarlan. How Rowan had discovered the creatures hidden at the back of the soldier’s camp, and what he learned there. How they had escaped.

Namonora’s eyes darkened as he spoke, her face tightening. When he got to the battle between the creature and the skinwalkers, she paled. “So you are sure it is dead then?”

Rowan sighed. “There was no body.”

“So you cannot be sure.”

“No, we cannot. But I don’t see how it could have survived.”

Namonora looked back over her patients, her healers. All these people she was responsible for. “I was right. Adarlan is breeding monsters in the Dead Islands.” Her voice was cold and hard.

Rowan nodded slowly. “So it seems.”

“Do you know how they can be killed?”

Rowan’s jaw clenched and he shook his head. “I have only guesses.”

Namonora turned sharply to look at him, but she didn’t say anything more. After a heavy pause, she asked, “Are some of your people going to stay here with us? We would be happy to shelter as many as needed.”

“Yes, a few of the non-fighters were going to stay, and we were planning on leaving a small group of guards as well.”

“Good. That is good.” Her voice trailed off.

“Is Paynor still here?”

“No. We discharged him two weeks ago, and he went off to rejoin his naval company. He’s probably fighting at Wendlyn’s northern border as we speak.”

The disdain of a healer filled her voice. A few months ago, Rowan might have thought lesser of her for it. But now…

“Then let us hope their outlook is better than ours.” He was surprised at the layer of sarcasm that darkened his tone.

Her eyes widened. “Is it really that bad?”

The question was earnest. And Rowan knew that he couldn’t avoid it.

“When we could be sure of reinforcements, I knew we had a shot.”

“And now?”

“Now, we will fight as hard as we can. And let the dice fall where they may.”

Silence.

Sorrow leeched into the healer’s lily-mint-and-rain flavored scent, and the two of them turned once again to look over the churning, rippling mass of people before them. Mortals, demi-Fae, and Fae, all working together, helping one another.

Rowan’s eyes automatically sought out a golden head of hair, and found Aelin sitting at the end of a child’s cot. The girl looked pale, and gaunt, but her eyes were bright. A small smile warmed Aelin’s face as they talked quietly with each other.

Aelin raised her hand, and flames began to wrap around her fingers, leafy vines blossoming over her knuckles. The girl started slightly, but Aelin only took her fingers in her own, letting the flaming vines slowly creep over their joined hands to curl around the girl’s wrists as well. They began to sprout into golden blooms, each petal curving and undulating in an invisible breeze.

Rowan could hear the child’s delighted laugh from all the way across the cavern.

“And what will her place be, in the battle to come?”

Rowan realized with a slight shock that Namonora had also been watching Aelin and the girl. Had been watching him watch them. He quickly collected himself. “The princess is an accomplished fighter - she will do whatever is required of her,” Rowan replied simply.

But Namonora seemed unsatisfied. “I can feel the touch of her power from here.”

Rowan nodded vaguely.

“A mighty gift.”

She was prodding, seeking answers he wasn’t sure he wanted to give. Rowan just pursed his lips, jerking his head once.

“Such a gift could only have been bestowed by the gods.” She turned back to face Aelin, face tight. “A demi-Fae princess, with power enough to remake the world.”

Rowan remained silent, his face expressionless.

“A rare thing, that. Priceless.”

Rowan was sure that her eyes must be boring holes into the back of his head by now. Still, he kept his silence.

Her teeth clacked together. “Do you know what our Queen intends to do with this precious gift?”

A pause. “I doubt, Head Healer, that I would tell you, even if I knew.” Rowan’s voice was measured, cautious.

A huff of breath. “A courtly answer, if ever I heard one, your highness.”

Rowan snorted.

“Still – if you both survive, you must take her to Doranelle?”

Rowans silence served as answer in itself.

Namonora sighed. “The thought of those powers, colliding...” she shivered slightly. “I suppose you won’t tell me what the princess intends, either?”

Rowan just sighed.

“I figured.”

“What will be, will be, Head Healer. There’s not much in our power to stop it.”

“I never would have thought you to be so defeatist.” A cold frown. “You must do whatever you can. She must survive.”

Rowan’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t respond.

There was a short pause, but then: “You cannot let that girl die.”

Namonora’s voice had become low and intense. Rowan turned to face her, but didn’t say anything. He was surprised to see that instead of anger or reproach, her face was filled with a deep concern.

Rowan sent the old female a questioning look, but she only answered it with yet more evasiveness. “Did I ever tell you the story of how I became a healer?”

Rowan slowly shook his head.                                                   

“I met Queen Maeve once. As a child. She found me.”

The healer’s voice relaxed, preparing to tell a long and familiar story. By contrast, Rowan found himself tensing, his muscles stiffening with unease.

“I grew up on the streets of Doranelle. I am full Fae, but still, my parents abandoned me. It took years, but eventually I found out that my father had gotten my mother with child, and then abandoned her. My mother had a very hard labor, and she died giving birth to me. A nursemary took care of me through babyhood, but eventually the money ran out, and she abandoned me too.” A wry frown.

“I lived among groups of demi-Fae children, moving between empty homes and abandoned buildings - scrounging for food and stealing coin where we could. With my gift, I learned how to draw water from the earth, and others were drawn to me, and to the small amount of safety I could offer. I had no idea that another life was possible.”

Rowan found himself interested against his will. It was so similar, and yet so different from Lorcan’s upbringing.

“One day, in my late teens or perhaps early twenties, I stole from the wrong person. A lord of some kind, I never learned his name. Guards came after me, and they broke apart the small group I was living with at the time. They killed one of my friends.”

Namonora’s voice broke, and Rowan shifted in discomfort. Unsure just exactly where she was taking this story, why she felt the need to tell it to him.

“Then they hauled me to the palace, jailed me, and sentenced me to six months’ hard labor. In the textile mills in Kerrcian.” A swallow. “I began to plot my escape. They didn’t know I had a gift. I was untrained, so it was small and easily hidden. I sharpened my water into blades, and began to cut at the bars they held me in. But of course, I was discovered within days, and they covered my hands in iron gloves.

“Only now they knew I had a gift of healing, and everything changed. Queen Maeve sent for me. I can still remember the way my hands shook as I walked through the stone hallways and into the throne room…” She trailed off, her eyes far away.

“She listened as I told my story, listened to my complaints and my excuses. But just when I expected her to render judgement, to punish me for my theft and my desperation, she began to tell me a story of her own.”

Namonora’s face clouded over, in anger or fear or hate, Rowan was not sure.

“She told me a story of evil men, and a narrow escape. Of violence and power and corruption and abuse. I do not know how much of it was true, if any. And I don’t know why she decided to tell it to me. But I remember what Maeve said once she finished.” A deep breath.

“She told me that we should accept the vileness. That instead of trying to change the wicked, instead of trying to fix or heal or learn, we must make ourselves more powerful. That the only way to right the wrongs done to us, is to ensure that they suffered in kind.

 “She told me that she would do all she could to win. All she could to protect herself. And to take the revenge she thought herself owed.”

Namonora’s voice was as ice.

“Before she let me go that day, our Queen said that I would owe her for this. That one day, she would call in this debt of mine. I promised her I would do as she asked, then she sent me away to be trained. To learn the healing arts, hidden away in the compound astride the capital city.”

Rowan couldn’t tear his eyes away from the healer, couldn’t help the dread that pooled in his stomach as he began to suspect what was coming next…

“I learned well, and years passed. The work was difficult, and yet those were the safest and most comfortable years I had yet experienced. Though always, the shadow of that debt hung over me, a cat just waiting to pounce. And then, nearly a decade later, she sent for me once more.

“Even though I was no longer that scared little girl, even though I had learned and grown and become an accomplished healer, it was no different this time than the last. My hands still trembled as I walked through those granite hallways, and I can still remember the way my heartbeat pounded in my eardrums.

“And my fear was not unwarranted.”

Rowan felt the dread begin to curdle in his gut.

“Maeve wanted to ask me to become her personal healer, to be by her side and protect her always. She wanted me to swear the blood oath. To be her slave.” A deep breath. “I declined her offer.”

Rowan’s gaze fixed to the floor.

“So that is why I am here, Prince. Despite my many accomplishments. Why I have been banished to the fringes. I refused to do her bidding, and she punished me accordingly.”

Namonora raised her arms to Rowan, and pulled up the long sleeves of her linen gown – revealing ancient, mottled scars. The remnants of deep burns.

“Maeve controls through fear. And she does whatever she can to best serve her own interests, regardless of the harm. Even by defeating and subjugating her enemies before they even become so.” She lowered her arms, letting the sleeves pool once more to cover the old injuries. Her gaze was a stone thrown at his face.

“You know this prince; you have been doing this for her for centuries now. But this girl, this princess...she is different. She could be something different.”

Rowan turned his eyes away, but Namonora was undeterred.

“You must protect her. Even if you have to sacrifice the whole of the fortress to do so, you must keep her safe. This fight doesn’t matter – war is coming. And it is bigger than a fortress in the mists of Doranelle.”

Her voice was insistent. “You must save her, But not for you. Not for your own happiness. The world turns on that child’s fingertips, and I think you know it. Do not forget what your queen has done for power.”

There was a pause, but then Rowan raised his head to see Aelin and the girl, across the way, laughing with each other. Bright. Warm.

He turned to face Namonora, and he nodded.

···

They spent the rest of the evening back at the fortress, discussing their plans for the next few days. They had left Emrys, along with a selection of sentries and few other older demi-Fae who would not be able to fight, with the healers. Rowan wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to forget the look on Malakai’s face as he walked away from his mate.

Darkness fell, the moon rose, and soon he and Aelin were making their way to bed. Within a minute of entering their rooms, Aelin was undressed and flopping into bed, a sigh of relief escaping her lips.

Instead of joining her, Rowan turned to the washbasin, peeling off his shirt and beginning to clean the seat and grime from his limbs. “You did well helping me plan tonight.”

Her reply was wry. “You sound surprised.”

Rowan wiped his face, then leaned against the dresser, bracing his hands against either end. The wood groaned in protest.

Everything had changed between them, and yet absolutely nothing had.

Rowan began to turn back to face her, but his eyes were caught by a golden glint. Aelin had left Goldryn casually leaning against the bedpost, its ruby smoldering in the dim light. Rowan ran a finger across the hit.

What a flimsy shield he had given her. Namonora’s words swirled in his mind, and he wished, wished with everything he had, that he could protect her. Could keep her safe.

Rowan let go of the dresser and approached the bed. “I sent word,” he said, the words slipping from his lips as if by accident. “To my…cadre, as you like to call them.”

Aelin’s face tightened, almost imperceptibly. “When?”

“A few days ago. I don’t know where they all are or whether they’ll arrive in time. Maeve might not let them come – or some of them might not even ask her. They can be…unpredictable. And it may be that I just get the order to return to Doranelle, and – ”

 “You actually called for aid?” She cut off his babbling.

His eyes narrowed. I just said that I did.

She stood, and he retreated a step. What changed your mind?

Some things are worth the risk.

This time, he didn’t back away as Aelin took another step towards him. And another. Her face was filled with some deep emotion, a well so dark he could not see the bottom.

Her words were ragged. “I claim you, Rowan Whitethorn. I don’t care what you say and how much you protest. I claim you as my friend.”

Rowan turned away from her before she could see the way his face twisted, before she could read the words that would surely be obvious there.

Because it didn’t matter. Even if they survived, when they went to Doranelle, she would walk out of Maeve’s realm alone.

And it hurt.

Her words wormed inside him and ached and festered and itched.

Hurt even more because he knew that under different circumstances, in a different life, he would be filled with joy. And love. And happiness and every other hopeful and tragic and heart-wrenching emotion you feel when you’re accepted by another person for exactly who you are.

Rowan stood there, listening as Aelin rustled the covers, getting herself settled in for sleep. He collected himself, then padded over to join her.

As he settled into bed beside her, it almost seemed as though she relaxed into his form. Her breaths coming more even, and her lithe body falling comfortably still.

But they did not touch, and all night Rowan knew he would feel the pressure of that hollow ache, that need to wrap his arms around her, to feel her skin on his and know that she was still alive.

To believe that perhaps, she could be his. As he was already hers.

Chapter Text

Gavriel’s sword hand shot out, the sleek metal shrieking through the air as he sliced and chopped, his feet carefully marking their set pattern over the packed earth. In the distance, he could hear the sounds of other soldiers practicing; grunts and shouts and sharp clangs echoing over the practice fields as they went through their daily routines. The faint morning sun lit the mists all around them, a golden haze. 

Gavriel wiped the sweat from his brow with a towel, the familiar ache just beginning to start in his muscles. He sighed, then made to leave the practice fields, finished for the day. 

He’d been coming here more often lately, and was staying for longer and longer stretches of time. Following his return from the post in the northern mountains, Gavriel had been different, slightly off. He knew that his queen and his fellow warriors were attributing that difference to grief, to the guilt at the loss of his men. To the three new markings that just barely peeked out the side of his leather jerkin when he raised his arms over his head. But that wasn’t the reason for the change.

No matter how hard he tried, no matter how hard he worked, how tired he was, that face wouldn’t go away. The girl with the face of the woman. His lost love. Tamalina, the second princess of Wendlyn.

Gavriel’s feet pounded into the earth as he walked, dirt and rock scattering in his wake.

He turned the memory over and over in his mind – the image of the princess, bearing a tray of stew and bread. Rowan’s snarl of rage as she edged into the room, the shock and hurt that filled her scent. The overwhelming blankness behind her eyes. The golden head of hair that so matched his own. 

The possibility grated on him, itching and scratching. A splinter in the back of his mind, that refused to be removed. His daughter.

The girl might be his daughter. 

He’d spent the last weeks wrestling with this fact, trying to eliminate it, or at least subdue it. Trying to forget. But his efforts were in vain. 

So instead he stormed through the castle, surly and distant. He knew he was beginning to irritate Fenrys, but he didn’t care. The young male could get in line. 

Gavriel didn’t want to admit it to himself, but really he was just waiting. Waiting for Rowan to appear, the girl in tow. Waiting to see if his suspicions were correct. To see if it were possible that time had stretched and morphed his memory of the girl until she fit the picture of his love. To see if there was a chance he was wrong.

Even if, deep down, he was sure that he wasn’t. 

But it felt shameful to just wait – to not act. Even if there wasn’t anything he could do. He wasn’t even sure that the girl was his responsibility. But still, this waiting…it was going to drive him completely mad. 

Gavriel reached his rooms, shutting the door behind him with a loud thud and striding over to sit at the desk that straddled the far wall. A window was set into the stone above it, providing a small view of the city. A gray frame surrounding its expanse of blue rooftops and white cobblestones. The great river flowed idly by, casting up great lots of mist that drifted over the many alleys, buildings and plazas. It was picturesque. Gavriel didn’t see any of it. 

He didn’t mind his fate, not all that much. The rewards of his life still outweighed the trials. Nor did he hate Maeve, for all she put them through. She was his Queen, and she would always be. So despite everything, he was glad of his position – both for the responsibility and honor it provided, and for the purpose. 

Gavriel was the linchpin, a connector between warriors who otherwise might have ripped each other to pieces. He kept the peace between them, and made sure that they didn’t fall apart. Lorcan was their leader, with Rowan as his second, and Gavriel stood mostly in the background, hidden in the shadows. But he knew he was essential. 

But for the girl...he wouldn’t wish this life on her. He wouldn’t wish his life on anyone. And yet she was coming, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. 

Gavriel hoped that the princess would just fulfill her bargain and go – that she would be allowed to leave, unscathed and unburdened. But still, he worried. The power he had felt in her...it was greater than any he’d ever felt before. Only Queen Maeve could match it. 

He couldn't imagine his queen just letting the girl go, not when she could be such a useful tool. Not when the princess might be powerful enough to beat her. 

Maeve must have a plan, must have some leverage on the child. But for the life of him, Gavriel couldn’t figure out what it was. The only thing that seemed remotely possible was…Rowan. 

Their Queen had chosen him for this task, chosen him specifically. And the feelings Gavriel had sensed in the male, the changes…they hinted at something more. An attachment of some kind. He couldn’t speculate about the princess, but still – something had shifted in the Prince while in Mistward. And Gavriel was sure that it marked change. 

Perhaps the girl would join them, and perhaps she would instead be sent out to retake her throne. Maybe they would even help her. Maeve had long coveted the western continent, perhaps she now thought to conquer. 

All their spies indicated that war was coming. Adarlan was poised to attack Wendlyn, seeking to stretch their empire eastwards. So no matter what, soon Maeve would send them into battle. The question was – which side would they be fighting for this time? 

All Gavriel knew was that he would do all he could to keep that child safe. Whether she was his or not, he owed as much to her mother. To Tamalina.

But he had no idea what he could possibly do to help the princess. He was forced to obey his Queen, to bend to her every wish. All he could do for her was keep her secrets, and his silence. For as long as he could manage it. 

Gavriel sighed, and turned to the papers on his desk. He knew there was a report from Vaughan that needed looking at, as well as a dispatch from the eastern border and one from the admiral commanding the fleet currently guarding their western flank. 

While Lorcan was still traveling up from the south, and Rowan was stationed in Mistward, Gavriel was the highest ranked member of the blood-sworn in the capital. As a result, he had to deal with much of their mail. He had just begun to sift through the papers when an unmarked letter fell through the pile. 

It was light, and hastily closed, the wax seal clumsy and misshapen. But still – Gavriel could just recognize the symbol embossed in the wax. It was a bird, its wings extended in flight, its beak curved and sharp. A hawk.

A frown twisted Gavriel’s face as he used a letter opener to slice open Rowan’s message, and unfolded the paper within. 

Gavriel –

I can only hope that this will reach you in time. 

Adarlan has sent a company of two hundred soldiers and three demons to attack Mistward, and capture or kill the demi-Fae housed here. There are barely thirty demi-Fae soldiers who have seen battle, and as you know, the fortress is not properly outfitted for war. We have called for assistance from Wendlyn, but I have no hope of victory.

Come to our aid.

I know that I have no right to ask this of you, that I have no right to expect this of you. But I have no choice. I must. 

I beg you, please come to our aid. 

I will fight and die alongside these men. If you choose not to come, remember me well. If you choose not to come, I will understand. 

But if you choose not to come, you doom these men to death. 

I beg you, come to my aid. 

With you at my side, we have a chance at survival. With you at my side, perhaps these people can live. Have a future. 

Please, come to my aid. 

Our lives are in your hands. 

– Rowan 

The paper crumpled between Gavriel’s fingers. That face was still fixed in his vision, only now the eyes were empty, her face white as death. Aelin, dead or dying. Her fires waning.

Gavriel’s chest was a hollow space, empty and still. Thoughtlessly, he stood and walked from the room, his blood spiked with shock. Within seconds, he reached a courtyard and transformed. His lion’s paws thundered on the stone as he raced down the castle hallways and out into the city beyond. 

He ran, without needing a moment to reconsider. Without a moment of doubt. Ran for Mistward.

···

Fenrys was dreaming. He knew it, and yet he still longed for it to be real. Still longed for his dreams to leap from the ether of his mind and out into the world. 

In the dream, he was running. His paws digging into the earthy loam, bits of grass catching in his claws, wiping them clean of the blood of the deer he’d just eaten for lunch. Its sweet meat lined his stomach and weighed him down in that comfortable, satisfying way that only a good meal could. 

In the dream, the wind whipped through his fur, its fingers flowing over his coat and making it ripple like water. In the dream, the sun warmed his limbs and flashed in his eyes, a bright discomfort. In the dream, there was no catch over his heart, no chains or locks or ropes tying him to a dark queen. He was free.

But he wasn’t dreaming anymore. 

Now, he was lying on Maeve’s bed. Hating himself. And everyone else under the sun. Drunk, but not sufficiently so. A glass of red wine rested in one of his hands. 

Maeve had left a while ago now, but he couldn’t quite remember why. It didn’t really matter. 

Fenrys didn’t know whether to be glad of the moment’s peace, or to hate it. It was so much easier to just hate everything. To hate this prison, and to hate the moments of freedom he was given. To hate his pitiful, despicable life, with every single ripped-up piece of him still left. 

Maeve didn’t call him every night. In fact, she rarely called him more than once or twice a week. But it was enough. His body didn’t feel like his own anymore – it didn’t feel like it belonged to him. Probably because it didn’t. It belonged to her, just like everything else. 

Fenrys shoved those useless thoughts down deep. He knew damn well what a waste of time it was to dwell. 

Instead he took another swig of wine. Perhaps if he drank enough of it, he might just forget. Not only everything he’d been forced to do last night, but also the dream that he’d woken up to. 

For it was the dream that was the real torture. Without thought of freedom, captivity would not be so great a burden to bear. So Maeve made sure that freedom was always nearby, just close enough to taste. 

Like with that trip to Varese, where he had to watch as Rowan took for granted every single thing he held dear. His ability, his autonomy. His independence. And then Fenrys had to watch Rowan leave, with the knowledge that he would never be able to follow. 

It was the freedom that tore at him, not the imprisonment. Cages were rather boring, after all. Even ones made of words and blood and darkness.

Even so, Fenrys didn’t think he regretted taking the blood-oath. He fought it with every breath in his body, and would do anything to be free of it – suffer any torture, break any bond. But were he given the option to go back and change his mind, he didn’t think that he would.

Fenrys had taken it to protect his little brother, and nothing more. 

Well, maybe a little bit more. 

All Fae males were drawn to power, and Maeve was the most powerful Fae living. They were all drawn to her, no matter her darkness. They had all wanted to serve her. 

And maybe just a tiny, minuscule little piece of him had been jealous of his brother. Didn’t like being surpassed and overshadowed by him. It was a piece that Fenrys didn’t particularly like looking at, but he saw it nonetheless. 

He thought Connall might see it too. They didn’t speak of it. 

Fenrys didn’t even know if Connall was grateful for what he had done. For what he protected him from, night after night after night. Didn’t know if his brother even cared. They didn’t speak of that either. 

They were still close though. As close as they had been growing up, running through the alleys and markets of Doranelle, play-fighting on the practice fields. They shared the same power, the ability to slip between the folds of the world. And they had learned it together, had figured out each of its valleys and ripples and tears by each other’s sides. 

Each time they jumped, slipping through an invisible crack in the universe, they could feel the other pressing in on them, the whole of the world becoming the warmth of their embrace. And then they would fall out into reality – the open air feeling as empty and lonely as the space between stars.

It didn’t matter how far apart they were, didn’t matter where they were coming from or where they were going, that pressure was there. And it was a comfort, especially when they’d been young, and the power felt far more like a burden then a gift. 

Once, when they’d been only eight or nine, Connall had forgotten how to get back. For hours, he’d been lost in the space between spaces, trapped by that crushing pressure. But eventually, Fenrys had managed to coax him back out again – by singing him one of the songs their mother sang while hanging the washing. 

Oh the blue skies above, they mark the cloth stark white

Back and forth, back and forth

The moon pulls the sea, the green from the earth

As day folds into night, and the children run free

Back and forth, back and forth

Connall had returned, and their mother had scolded him for being so reckless. But it had just made them realize that no one else would ever understand. Realize that their powers were a part of one another, just as they were a part of one another. Inseparable. 

And nothing, not even Maeve, could change that. Fenrys wouldn’t let her. 

Right now, his brother was probably up in his rooms, reading. That shy bastard almost always had a book in his hands. When they were boys, it had been like pulling teeth to get him to go outside to train. 

And he was such a goddamn know-it-all. It was infuriating. Mostly because Fenrys rarely knew what the fuck he was talking about. I mean, he loved the little guy, but that didn’t mean he wanted to hear about the fellowship circles and fertility cycles of freshwater selkies day in and day out, for weeks on end. Or at least until the idiot moved on, pursuing some other esoteric piece of knowledge. 

Fenrys had actually been quite surprised that when Rowan wrote, asking for information about his weird little demon problem in Wendlyn, Connall hadn’t known anything about it. Fenrys was sure that the ignorance frustrated him. His brother had spent a whole week in the library after they received Rowan’s letter, searching for anything that could possibly solve the mystery. And he found absolutely nothing. 

Fenrys had found it a bit difficult not to gloat as he watched his brother stalk about the castle, a scowl fixed to his brow. It was nice to see him stumped over something, for once. 

Fenrys couldn’t help but wonder how Rowan was doing at Mistward, wonder what the princess of fire was like. He’d only seen her briefly, a quick look between the walls of an alleyway in Varese as Rowan led her through the city to collect the horses Fenrys had left for them. 

It hadn’t been a good look. She’d been well hidden underneath a dark cloak, though Fenrys still caught the edges of dozens of blades beneath her heavy clothes. Her face had been obscured with dirt and grime and sweat, her hair matted together. And the smell, ungh. Overall, not the most remarkable showing. 

What had really impressed itself on him had been the sheer weight of her power. A writhing mass of flames, all bunched up and twisted in on themselves, forced within her small frame. Her power was so massive that even untrained, it had actually overwhelmed the icy wind of the Fae male leading her. Rowan’s power was great, but next to hers…the maelstrom of power felt more like a light rain. A drizzle, if you would. 

And Fenrys hadn’t been able to get the feeling out of his head. The touch of the princess’ flames. It burned through him, making him wonder just how wild she would be.  But it wasn’t like Maeve would ever let him near the girl. 

Fenrys sighed and turned over on the bed. No matter how much he might want to, getting drunk before nine in the morning probably wasn’t one of his best ideas. He should get up and face the day. 

He groaned. 

But still, he got to his feet and made his way out of Maeve’s private quarters, bare feet padding on the cold stone. His muscles were stiff, and not in a good way - he was looking forward to his morning training session. But first he had to return to his rooms to grab his gear and wash his face. 

Fenrys didn’t pass anyone in the halls, for which he was grateful. Everyone in the castle knew of course, but still. Having to start his day with some page boy averting his eyes as he walked past, usually barefoot and in various states of dress, was far from great.

Fenrys pushed open the door to his rooms, and was already shrugging off yesterday’s clothes and reaching for clean ones when he noticed an unmarked letter resting on his worktable. The couriers usually went through the palace rooms each morning, dropping off the day’s mail, but it wasn’t often that Fenrys received anything. Particularly when a higher ranked member of Maeve’s blood-sworn was present. 

He walked over to the desk and ripped open the envelope, absentmindedly pulling out the letter and beginning to read. 

His eyes skittered over the black ink, and as he read, his fingers tightened their grip on the thin paper, his knuckles whitening. The bottom fell out of his stomach. 

Mistward was under attack. Rowan was under attack. 

He was calling for aid. 

Fenrys felt strangely panicked. Not once, in all the years he had known him, had Rowan ever come close to writing something like this letter. The male was near-invincible – it had never even entered Fenrys’ head to be concerned about him. 

But here he was, needing Fenrys’ help. 

Would he answer?

Fenrys wanted to be the type of male who ran into danger, heedless of the consequences. Who came when he was called. Who always helped when asked. 

But then a deeper, more personal fear joined the panic choking his throat. Maeve. 

If he left without permission and without warning, she would not take it lightly. Unimaginable horrors would be waiting for him when he returned. Except, Fenrys could  actually imagine them - they had been inflicted on him already, time and time again. 

The question was – did he care? What more could she do to him that she had not done already, twice over? 

The freedom teased at him, tantalizing, just out of his reach. Only this time it was fear that was holding him back. His own fear. And all he wanted, all he had ever wanted, was to be fearless. To be free. 

And the princess...she was at Mistward. She was in as much danger as Rowan. Perhaps if he went, he could see her again. Could save her. 

Fenrys wanted to do something good, for once. To do one good thing. 

With an invisible twist, Fenrys slipped out of time and space and reappeared in his brother’s rooms. 

But they were empty – Connall wasn’t there. 

Fenrys made to leave, to check the library, or perhaps the training fields, when something caught his eye. A familiar-looking envelope lay open on the desk, the letter inside nowhere to be seen. 

A wry grin curved Fenrys’ lips as he vanished once more.

···

There was a small clearing, hidden behind a spur of rock just outside the palace grounds. It was unremarkable in every way, other than the fact that it happened to lie right at the limit of the distance the twins could jump - and was invisible to the palace sentries. 

In short, it was a perfect rendezvous point. 

Fenrys appeared out of nowhere, a slip of gold against the sun-warmed rock. By contrast, his brother was a shadow lounging just out of sight, easy to miss in the dappled forest. 

Connall’s voice was droll. “I was starting to think that you weren’t going to show.”

Fenrys let out a snort. “Touché. I half-expected you wouldn’t be here.”

He frowned. “Me too.” 

Fenrys’ own brow furrowed, the question slipping out. “Why did you decide to come?” 

Connall shuffled his feet, his face dark. “It felt like…a betrayal to stay. I owe him too much to abandon him like that.”

Fenrys nodded. Connall was quiet, but he was fiercely loyal to those that were close to him. And he had always looked up to the powerful male, ever since they were in training. He wasn’t about to just stand by while his mentor was fighting for his life. 

Fenrys opened his mouth to say something when the sound of an approach rippled through the nearby trees. Fenrys immediately drew his weapons, fear icing over his muscles. If Maeve had already discovered them…if Connall had lied and this was a trap…

But the crunch of leaves and brush of undergrowth spoke of something different, not a person, something else. Something familiar…

Fenrys relaxed his stance as Gavriel shouldered his way past the pine boughs and into the clearing, his lion’s coat bright in the warm sunlight. The male’s eyes were focused and intense, his warm scent filled with a wrinkled tension and fierce determination. 

Without a word, Fenrys transformed into his wolf, his muscles stretching and filling with anticipation. He felt that strange ripple behind him that indicated Connall had shifted as well. 

Gavriel turned and began to run, his claws ripping into the dirt, his heavy bulk pounding the earth. Fenrys shot after him, flowing into the male’s right flank even as Connall moved to his left. Together, the three of them pierced through the undergrowth, the sun warming their backs as they shot into the west. 

The breath in their lungs came sharp and cold, their stomachs empty of everything but the desperate, pleading hope that they would make it in time. That they wouldn’t be too late. 

···

Lorcan lifted the tankard to his lips, wincing slightly as the sour beer coated his tongue. The tavern was busier than he would’ve liked – filled to the brim with laughing, hungry people out for an evening of drink and merriment. 

He’d spent the whole day running, his first after leaving the rest of his crew with the fleet on the southwestern coastline. He should be back in Doranelle within the next few days, and he was looking forwards to his return. He didn't love being away from the capital for so long. Being away from his Queen. 

Usually, Lorcan would’ve kept running through the night, only stopping to catch a few hours’ sleep in some hollow or cave. But after only a few hours of travel, he’d passed a familiar scent. A trail leading north.

Vaughan was also traveling back to Doranelle, and Lorcan had caught up with him by midafternoon. The male was in desperate need of a bed, a hot meal and a drink, so Lorcan had (somewhat unwillingly) capitulated to his plan to stay at an inn for the night. 

Now Vaughan was over at the bar, chatting to some human female. She’d begun their conversation with clipped answers and dour looks, but now Vaughan had her giggling away, her cheeks touched with happy red dimples. 

Lorcan frowned into his drink.

For a moment, he’d considered joining him over there, to see if he could also find someone who might warm his bed tonight. But in the end, he’d decided against it. Far too tired. And too lazy.

Just then, a maid wandered over to his booth, her arms sagging under the weight of a heavily burdened tray of drinks and food. But she carried them easily, her footsteps light and nimble through the lively crowd. Obviously familiar with this type of work. Lorcan was just beginning to reconsider his earlier assertion, to see if this lithe, muscled female might be amenable to him, when the woman pulled a crumpled letter from her apron and dropped it on the table in front of him, with the words, “This just came for ya, from the evening post up from the coast. Seems like its been a long way,  searchin’ for you.” Then she turned, moving to carry her tray back to the kitchen. 

Lorcan’s eyes followed her for a moment, then turned back to examine the letter. It was unmarked, which was strange. And the very fact that someone was going to such lengths to contact him, instead of waiting until he returned to Doranelle, was also strange. 

Lorcan tentatively ripped open the envelope and pulled out the paper within. What he read there was astounding. 

The words took a while to sink in, but when they did, Lorcan found that he was absolutely furious. That he was murderously enraged. 

How dare he? 

How dare Rowan ask this of him, ask this of all of them? How dare he presume to be above the word of their queen? Presume that Lorcan would betray her for him?

Mistward was under attack, and the lives of the demi-Fae there were in danger, but why in the gods' names did Rowan care? Why wasn’t he leaving them to their fate, and bringing the princess back to Doranelle? 

That’s what Lorcan would’ve done. And that certainly was what their Queen would expect. What she would require.

So why, by Hellas’ scythe, was he staying? Why was he protecting them? 

Lorcan couldn’t come up with a satisfactory answer. He supposed that it didn’t really matter. Rowan was staying. And he would give his life to protect those people. The demi-Fae. His people, Lorcan supposed. Even if he had spent the past four hundred years distancing himself from them. 

Lorcan’s teeth clacked together, his jaw tightening. Rowan was staying, and he was asking Lorcan, and presumably the rest of the blood-sworn, to join him. Rowan knew the consequences for deserting, knew what they all would be facing for disobeying Maeve’s orders and coming to his aid. Rowan knew, and he was asking anyways. 

Lorcan’s eyes narrowed. That didn’t sound like the Rowan he knew, like the Rowan he had fought and trained and worked beside these past two centuries. 

That Rowan leapt at death with an indifference even Lorcan did not possess. That Rowan would’ve always made the hard choice, regardless of the consequences. This didn’t feel like that Rowan at all. 

But still - this was Rowan he was talking about. The male he had relied upon for hundreds of years. The male who was probably - though Lorcan was loathe to admit it - the Fae he was closest to in all the world. Even closer to than Maeve.

And he'd laid out the facts, bare and unguarded. Mistward was weak and defenseless. They were facing a lethal army, and a battle that they would not win. All of those demi-Fae were going to die, Rowan alongside them.

Rowan was going to die. And Lorcan was fucking furious about it. 

He slammed his fists into the table, pushing it out of his way, the beer spilling over onto the floor. Then Lorcan tore up the letter, got to his feet, and moved towards the bar to collect Vaughan. 

···

They ran through the night, and the following day. Ran through bracken and field and marsh. And finally, through mist. 

They ran until they met up with Gavriel, Connall, and Fenrys, and then they ran some more. There was no time for words, no reason for them. They had all come, and the dice would fall where they would. They would face the punishment they justly deserved. 

They ran until they fell into darkness, until the forest around them went quiet. Ran until they reached the crest of a hill, and the fortress appeared below them, wrapped in darkness and chaos and power. Until they saw a lone female standing before the ward stones, the only thing keeping the castle from being overcome. 

Chapter Text

Early that morning, Rowan hadn’t been able to get back to sleep.

He’d woken up shaking and sweating, his dreams fading behind his eyelids. This time however, as he held Aelin’s dead body in his arms before the burning mountain cottage, it was Namonora’s words that echoed through him.

You must save her, but not for you.

She is different. She could be something different.

You cannot let that girl die.

Rowan’s silent vow in return still ached in his very bones. Because when he’d agreed, he hadn’t really been promising Namonora. He’d been promising himself – swearing that he wouldn’t let his blood oath be the reason for her death, no matter how it tortured him. No matter how it twitched and writhed in his chest.

It had been an acknowledgement of what he knew he wanted, deep down.

Rowan wanted to be sworn to Aelin, not Maeve. To serve her, and be in her court, and at her side. Always. Rowan wanted to give Aelin the blood-oath. And it wasn’t only because she deserved it, or because she needed him.

It was because he wanted to do something good. Because he wanted to be good.

Rowan hadn’t been good in centuries. He couldn’t have recognized good if it had stared him in the face. But now, with this princess, with this Queen just within his grasp, Rowan found that he wanted to be who she needed. To follow the old ways.

To be good, once more, before he died.

Aelin sighed lightly, and turned over on the bed, her golden hair twisting around her shoulders.

Her scent wafted around him, all-encompassing. Overwhelming. That familiar desire coiled in his gut, the desire to reach out and touch her. To reach out and claim her. To bite her, in that lovely space between her neck and her shoulder, or at the tips of her ears. To bite her all over.

Rowan was sure that he would be able to recognize her scent anywhere. That even in a crowded ballroom, he would be able to find her from scent alone. That he would be able to track her down from thousands of miles away.

But it was more than just scent – in the back his mind, or perhaps somewhere deep in his chest, he could sense her. Could feel her presence. In the weeks they had spent breathing in each other’s scents, they had become bonded. No matter how far away she was, Rowan would be able to feel her there. Feel her close.

Rowan closed his eyes, despair joining the desire smothering his limbs. The world had now shown him just exactly how good life could be, and it was about to take it all away.

And Rowan could see it all, could see every detail of that alternate future. It teased him, a delicious fruit just out of his reach.

In that other world, Rowan would leave Wendlyn with Aelin. He would help her form her court, would stand at her side. If she wanted, he could help her take her revenge, or regain her throne. In that other world, he could claim his lands and title, and he could make his suit with her. He could offer her wealth and men and material, and in that other world, he might be able to profess what he felt for her. And maybe, in that world, he could find out if she returned those feelings.

But that wasn’t the world they lived in.

Rowan breathed deep through the fury that rose up in his chest. But he wasn’t angry at Maeve, or the other blood-sworn, or even the gods – not really. He was angry at himself. At how weak he had been. How shortsighted.

Rowan threw off the blankets and strode over to the window where he immediately shifted and soared out into the blackness.

The winds were cold and dark and unexpectedly silent. Usually, the sky was alive with the sounds of the night-creatures; filled with the hoots of hunting owls, skittering mice, foxes playing in their holes, and bats gliding atop wind-rivers, scooping up bugs or pieces of dropped fruit.

But there was only quiet, and Rowan was uneasy.

He decided to take a sweep of their perimeter, his mind still consumed with thoughts of Aelin. But what he found there sent all those worries right out of his head.

···

Rowan roughly shook Aelin’s shoulder, relieved when her eyes shot right open. “Get your sword and your weapons, and hurry,” he said, already halfway across the room, slinging on a shirt and padded overcoat. He could hear Aelin doing the same, her breaths coming quick and copper tinting her scent.

“I think we’ve been betrayed,” Rowan continued, now sliding daggers into position along his forearms, shoulders, and thighs.

“They’re coming tonight,” Aelin breathed.

When Rowan turned to look at her, her eyes were wide as she stared out their small window at the silent forest and the advancing line of black. A darkness that blotted about the stars, blacker than the night.

Rowan’s teeth gritted together. They had only minutes to wake the fortress and get everyone into position.

“I did a sweep of the perimeter,” he said, stuffing a knife in each boot. “It’s as if someone told them where every trap, every warning bell is located. They’ll be here within the hour.”

“Are the ward-stones still working?” Aelin began braiding her hair, then strapped Goldryn across her back.

“Yes – they’re intact. I raised the alarm, and Malakai and the others are readying our defenses on the walls.” He’d intended to wake the old male before Aelin, but found Malakai already up and sitting at his desk, staring into a small fire, the empty bed neat and untouched.

Now, Rowan could only be grateful that they had left Emrys with the healers, no matter how it pained Malakai to be separated from his mate.

Rowan strapped his own sword across his back, alongside the hatchet and hunting knife. Aelin was now pulling on her boots, and her voice was hard as she asked, “Who would have betrayed us?”

 “I don’t know, and when I find them, I’ll splatter them on the walls. But for now, we have bigger problems to worry about.”

Aelin’s eyes twitched back to the open window, where the darkness on the horizon had spread, devouring the stars, the trees, the light. Her voice was tentative as she said, “…what is that?”

Rowan’s mouth tightened, becoming a thin line. “Bigger problems.”

···

Minutes passed in a flurry of activity. Malakai took up his station behind the battlements, where he could control the flow of information and direct their movements through the battle. A few of the younger, less capable sentries were sent deep into the castle, guarding the emergency escape tunnel. A few more stood by the entrance, front lines for when the soldiers broke through the front gates.

However, the vast majority of the demi-Fae stood atop the battlements, clutching bows between white knuckles and shaking fists, readying themselves to launch volleys of arrows and pour vats of pitch and oil. Rowan and Aelin stood at the helm of the paltry force, each carrying bows of their own, and trying their utmost to emanate waves of confidence. It wasn’t working.

The men were scared. Rowan had done his best to shield them from the knowledge of their fate, but he couldn’t hide it all. They knew the numbers. They knew their chances.

The ward-stones were the last line of defense before the fortress itself, and Rowan had no idea how long the magical shield would last under an assault by the dark creatures. It could be minutes, could be seconds.

Either way, Mistward couldn’t outlast them forever. And when the creatures broke through, two hundred soldiers at their heels, the demi-Fae would have to face them head on. They didn’t have enough arrows to guarantee the deaths of even half Adarlan’s forces. No matter what, they would soon be facing hand-to-hand combat against an enemy clad in iron and wyrdmarks.

Once they ran out of arrows, the sentries would leave the battlements, one by one, and enter the courtyard – where they would wait. Wait for the gates to be breached, so they could use the entrance as a bottleneck. Wait for the fighting to commence.

With each breath, the darkness on the horizon drew closer, bringing their doom along with it.

The wind gave Rowan barely a few moment’s warning before dozens of animals began to stream past the walls of the fortress, fleeing the veil of blackness. Claws clicked over stone, wings flapped overhead, fur and feathers and scales blending into a medley of creatures, all led by the Little Folk. And though they were barely more than a gleam of nightseeing eyes at the edges of the flock, Rowan could have sworn that they kept glancing toward the woman at his side. To the princess.

Barely seconds after the last of the Little Folk disappeared into the woods, heading up into the mountains to safety, the veil of darkness touched the circle of stones. It rested against them, a dark cloud hovering in wait.

“As soon as the barrier falls, I want you to put arrows through their eyes,” Rowan said to Aelin, though his eyes were forward, scouring the woods for their arrival. “Don’t give them a chance to enthrall you – or anyone. Leave the soldiers to the others.”

Rowan still couldn’t hear or see anything to indicate the presence of the soldiers, but he remembered the strange effects the darkness had. It could easily shield an army from sight or sound.

Aelin nodded, gripping her bow more tightly. “What about magic?”

“Use it sparingly, but if you think you can destroy them with it, don’t hesitate. And don’t get fancy. Take them down by any means possible.”

As he spoke, a reek began to rise from behind the barrier, the smell of death and dust and carrion. The demi-Fae around them began to shift in their positions, murmuring uncomfortably. Their sense of smell was nowhere near as sensitive as Rowan’s – but still, they could hardly not notice the otherworldly stench seeping from the blackness. A smell straight from the lands of Hellas.

A few straggling animals darted from the tree line, their limbs awkward and disjointed, foam bubbling from the corners of their mouths. Aelin’s voice floated up from beside him, her words hollow and detached. “Rowan – they’re here.”

 As if she had conjured them herself, the creatures emerged from the darkness, halting barely five yards from the ward stones. They were dressed in all black, their tunics slightly open to reveal the stone torques choking their necks. Their veins bled black, their talons sharp and polished, their eyes piercing the fortress like dark blades of obsidian. The cloud of fear around them was so intense Rowan could barely taste anything in the air other than copper.

And once they emerged from the darkness, he almost felt as though he could feel them, a harsh pressure against his skin. Like rough cotton, or unpicked wool. Three distinct presences that pushed on his soul.

Rowan started slightly. Three, not two. Three.

Aelin seemed to realize this at the same time he did. “But the skinwalkers – ”

Her voice cut off as that male, that beautiful male from before, smiled. It was a look born of knowledge, and of familiarity. A look directed straight at Aelin.

Rowan felt the energy in his body alchemizing, intensifying. Shifting from raw power into violent intent. He wanted to kill that creature. He would kill him.

A rabbit bolted from the bushes, racing for the path between the ward-stones. But before it could make it, a whip of darkness lashed out and passed over the animal. It appeared to have no more substance than a shadow, or a cloud of smoke, but the rabbit fell mid-leap. Its fur matted before their very eyes, even as its flesh shrunk, drying up over its now-prominent skeleton.

Rowan held in a shudder. Together, the creatures were much more powerful than apart. He and Aelin had barely escaped the clutches of one of them, even with the help of the skinwalkers. Together, the creatures had the power of a lesser god. Together, they would crush them.

Even as this truth seeped into Rowan’s bones, the demi-Fae all around him stirred, some cursing in surprise and horror.

Rowan collected himself. “The barrier cannot be allowed to fall,” he said to Aelin, though he made sure that the surety and confidence in his tone could be heard by all. “That blackness will kill anything it touches.”

Even as he spoke, the darkness stretched its reaching fingers around the ward-stone borders, encasing them completely in a cloud of pure black. The blanket blotted out everything, the stars overhead, the forest around them – even the wind was stilled. The only light in the fortress came from their torches and candles, a paltry hint of orange in a world of pure black.

The barrier began to hum violently, sparking and buzzing, almost in agitation. But it held. However, Rowan couldn’t feel particularly grateful for it. They were now entirely cut off from the outside world.

It was as if they had been transported to hell itself.

Aelin shifted at his side, a spark of gold in the darkness. She winced in pain as her ears sharpened to points and her canines pricked her lips, but her focus remained undiminished.

Then, Narrok stepped lightly out from the edges of the trees.

He was undeniably their leader, honed and scarred and powerfully built. He moved with a lithe power, making his authority obvious and indisputable. Narrok’s gaze passed over the demi-Fae, pausing on Aelin, and coming to rest on Rowan.

For a moment, they looked at each other. Measuring and weighing.

Rowan half-expected the male to make some speech, to parlay and offer them a choice between yielding to the king’s power or death. To break their morale. But then, Narrok drew his iron blade and swung it towards the ward-stone gates, a delighted look on his face. And there was nothing Rowan could do as a whip of darkness snapped out and struck the invisible barrier.

Before they had time to strike again, before Rowan even had time to register the effect this assault had on their only magical line of defense, he was moving back towards the gates, shouting for the archers to ready themselves, for them to use whatever magic they had to shield against the oncoming darkness.

There was another strike, and the barrier rippled, the air shuddering around them as if it were a physical thing – a stone in an earthquake, the inside of a drum. The ward-stones began to whine in protest.

Behind him, the demi-Fae were moving into position, their terror barely smothered beneath their desperate preparation. In front of him, Aelin was the only thing standing between the fortress and the ward-stones. The only one who had not moved.

“Aelin,” Rowan snapped, and she looked over her shoulder at him. “Get inside the gates.”

Her face didn’t change, and her legs didn’t move. Instead, she met his gaze in that way only she could, her eyes filled with fire and fury, and slung her bow across her back. When she raised her hand, it was clothed in a glove of flame.

Rowan felt panic begin to seep into his bones.

Aelin’s words were measured. “In the woods that night, it balked from the flame.”

“To use it, you’ll have to get outside the barrier, or it’ll just rebound against the walls.”

“I know,” she said quietly, and Rowan had to actively stop himself from sprinting towards her and dragging her back behind the gates.

“The last time, you took one look at that thing and fell under its spell.” The darkness lashed once again, and the barrier groaned in response, placing a dark emphasis on his words.

Still, Aelin did not move, and Rowan stepped once towards her, his blood spiked with adrenaline. Copper swirled all around them, but surprisingly, none of it seemed to come from Aelin. Her scent was completely blank. This did not comfort him.

“It won’t be like last time,” she said, her eyes on Narrok and the creatures. “I don’t know what else to do.”

But before he could shout at her, before he could say that she didn’t need to sacrifice herself, that she didn’t need to atone for anything, that they still had time to escape together – before he could admit that he didn’t know what to do either, a cry echoed through the fortress behind him.

A chorus of shouts joined it, yells of pain and surprise. Calls for aid. Cries of Rowan’s name. Then the unmistakable screech of metal on metal, the clash of steel and iron. The sound of battle.

 And it was as if he were far away, as if he were submerged in water or deep beneath the surface of the earth, as someone said, “The tunnel! They’ve been let in through the tunnel!” and a hope Rowan didn’t even know he had crashed about his ears.

They had been betrayed. And the betrayer hadn’t just undone the traps and bells, hadn’t just guided the army around their makeshift protection. They had shown them the escape tunnel. And now the armies of Adarlan were crawling up from within, creeping through the underground network of tunnels and right into the belly of the castle. The ward-stones were far too occupied with the threat from above to even notice the one the snuck up from below.

The sounds of death and combat grew ever louder, but Rowan did not move. He couldn’t. Not while Aelin was still set on her path.

“Rowan – ” her words were cut off by the sound of yet another strike against the barrier stones. And another. Flakes of granite began to fall from the pillars, a shower of dust and sparks. The groaning grew in intensity.

The barriers wouldn’t be able to hold up much longer. And Aelin knew it. She began to take a few halting steps towards the stones.

A vicious growl ripped through Rowan’s chest. “Do not take one more step – ”

He moved towards her, but Aelin didn’t halt her advance. Screaming had begun from inside the fortress, and Rowan felt like he was being ripped in two.

He grabbed her elbow, forcing her to look at him. “That was an order.”

Aelin knocked his hand away. “You’re needed inside. Leave the barrier to me.”

“You don’t know if it’ll work – ”

“It will work,” she snarled. “I’m the expendable one, Rowan.”

His words were barely legible through the growling escaping from his chest. “You are heir to the throne of – ”

“Right now, I am a woman who has a power that might save lives. Let me do this. Help the others.”

Aelin’s eyes pleaded with him. And they were the eyes of a Queen, of the Queen that he wanted. His Queen.

And she wanted everything that he did. Wanted to be good – to do something good. After all that had been taken from her, all that had been done to her and denied her, she still wanted to help. Wanted to be worthy of her name.

No matter how it tore at him, how could he deny her that?

Aelin had the best, the only chance against those creatures. Yet the determination in her eyes worried him. It wasn’t a resolve born of a desperate fight for survival. No, her eyes spoke more of sacrifice.

I’m the expendable one, Rowan.

Rowan looked at the ward-stones, at the fortress and the sentries scrambling to help below. Weighing, calculating.

If he forced her to run, he would be taking away everything she wanted to be, everything that she was. He would be betraying her, in the deepest, most essential way. And he just couldn’t do it. Even if it meant that the hopes of thousands died, right here, right now. Because it meant death either way.

So instead of asking her to run with him, instead of begging her to hide behind the wooden gates, he did the harder thing. Made the more difficult choice. The words hurt as they slipped out.

“Do not engage them. You focus on that darkness and keeping it away from the barrier, and that’s it. Hold the line, Aelin.”

Her eyes did not change, and her scent was clean of fear as she nodded and said, “Understood.”

“They will attack you the moment you set foot outside the barrier.” Rowan released her arm, and it felt like a stone removed from a dam. ““Have a shield ready.”

The scent of her magic rose, cloaking her body in flame and smoke. “I know.” Aelin said, and she turned away from the fortress, away from the demi-Fae. Away from him. Turned to face the enemy that would likely kill her.

Rowan could help but linger. Couldn’t help but wait and make sure that she survived those few crucial moments, even while those screams tore at his eardrums.

Aelin walked out over the patch of yellowing grass, drawing her golden sword, the sword of Brannon, in her right hand, while Mala’s flames enveloped her left. As she walked her flames grew even brighter. Slowly, the Heir of Fire passed beneath the stone arches and into the darkness beyond.

Rowan tore his eyes away, even as plumes of flame and blades of darkness began to clash on the other side of the barrier. He tried his best to forget, tried his best only to think of what he had to do now. To think that if he could kill enough soldiers, that if she could hold off the creatures for just long enough, then maybe they could all flee.

Rowan turned and began to run back through the gates and into the interior courtyard, rallying the sentries to his side. They blocked the gates behind them, and he left two guards with orders to alert him or Malakai should the barriers fall, and darkness reach the castle.

The rest ran with him through the stone passageways down deep into the belly of the fortress, where blood streamed on the walls and ran in puddles on the floor. Where the dead were already piling up.

Rowan drew his sword in one hand and his hatchet in the other, and threw himself into the fray.

It was hell, but it was a familiar hell. So Rowan endured.

He took up position at the head of their makeshift phalanx, directly before the mouth of the tunnel, and there he stood as time began to flow like bees and honey – thick and slow and yet also swift and jerky and filled with action.

This was the part of battle that Rowan was used to. The part that he was most comfortable in. He sword hand did not falter as it rent through flesh, felling soldier after soldier as they poured up from the depths of hell.

Still, he couldn’t be everywhere. The tunnel was wide enough that Adarlanian men could slide past the touch of his steel, and reach the demi-Fae behind him. Rowan couldn’t protect them all, no matter how much he may want to.

And so he had to listen as the demi-Fae sentries tired, and began to fall. It only made Rowan fight harder, swing his limbs swifter, but he knew that even he would soon begin to tire. That this steady tide of soldiers wouldn’t falter until far after Mistward had been overcome.

Minutes passed as hours, and after some unknowable stretch of time, Rowan was pulled aside by Luca, of all people.

The boy was breathing heavily, a cut on his temple streaming blood into his eyes, marking his brow with gore. “It was Bas.”

Rowan started, but Luca just took a shuddering breath, his light eyes shadowed with devastation. “It was Bas who betrayed us. He – he wanted power. And…a home. A place. They told him that they could give it to him.”

The pain in the boy’s voice nearly broke Rowan’s heart, but all he could manage was to place a hand on Luca’s shoulder, hopefully communicating his sympathy without words. Then he pushed the boy behind him, forcing him back up the tunnel and into relative safety, and rejoined the battle.

Bas had chafed against the inferior position of the demi-Fae more than most. He’d risen in the ranks at Mistward fairly quickly, earning himself the admiration of many of the younger demi-Fae, and the respect of most of the older. Even Malakai had liked and trusted Bas a great deal. But it’d meant that Bas always wanted more. And Mistward couldn’t give it to him.

Rowan knew from the agony in Luca’s scent that Bas had already met his end. He could only hope that the boy hadn’t been the one to do it. Could only hope that the stains on this child’s soul were not yet so black as to be irreversible.

That they would live to see the light of day, so that the boy would have the chance to heal, and forgive.

So, with each swing of his blades, Rowan hoped.

···

Gavriel’s paws pounded into the earth, his breaths ripping through his lungs in pained, ragged bursts, his limbs heavy. They had run through the day, night, and day again. Had run until they met up with Lorcan and Vaughan, and then had run some more. And they hadn’t stopped once.

It was starting to weigh on him. But now, with the sounds of battle and the feel of that strange darkness all around them, Gavriel knew that it had been worth it. That they had reached the fortress just in time.

Unless, a dark voice whispered in the back of his mind, you’re too late. Unless they’re both already dead.

Rowan and the princess. The two people he had come to help. To save.

Ahead of him, Fenrys and Connall’s wolves sprinted forwards through the trees, down the hidden path they all knew would lead out of the mountains and down into the secluded valley that concealed the fortress. They whipped around each other, the black and white wolves, playful to the end.

Above, Vaughan flew in osprey form, his great wings cutting through the mists overhead. Behind, he could just hear Lorcan pounding through undergrowth, his Fae legs fighting to keep up with the four-legged creatures. Even so, Gavriel, Fenrys, and Connall had only had to adjust their speed very little to accommodate the male – Lorcan’s massive height was enough to nearly make up for the differences in stride.

Though they had been running together through most of the night, they hadn’t said one word to each other. Perhaps it was because there was nothing more to say. They had all decided to come. Had all answered their friend’s desperate call.

It felt strange. Different, to choose to be together. To travel and fight and work together by their own volition, wholly and completely. It spoke of something…new. New and dangerous.

Then they reached the crest of a hill, and the stone castle spread out beneath their feet.

It had been barely a month since Gavriel had last been at Mistward, and yet now, the male barely recognized it. It was shrouded in a cloak of thick darkness, through which he could only barely see the hint of broken stone and yellowed grass. The towering barrier stones looked old and cracked, and the dark magic that encircled the fortress was clothed in sparks of bright, vibrant gold - the only light in the utter blackness.

Four figures stood before the gates, and Gavriel could only assume that the strange darkness came from them. All around them, he smelled copper and death and carrion, a stench so potent and intense he felt his hackles rise despite himself. And though the figures stood on two legs as men, and were clothed in the guise of men, Gavriel knew, deep in his gut, that they were as far from human or Fae as a thinking creature could be. That they were demons.

The creatures did not turn at their approach, but the darkness began to spread towards them regardless – like blood in water. Gavriel felt himself slowing, almost subconsciously. Ahead, Connall and Fenrys stopped in their tracks, avoiding the touch of the dark mist, out of fear or knowledge – Gavriel wasn’t sure.

But before Gavriel could do anything, before he could shift or speak or even growl, a piercing light breached the black. A golden blade of fire that cut through the darkness like a knife in butter. And through the breach, Gavriel could just see the image of a figure wrapped in gold. A woman, whose scent spoke of ash and spice and citrus.

The flames formed a tunnel through the darkness, and then the wolves were running. Sprinting through the black as fast as they dared. Vaughan swooped down to join them, and then Lorcan was passing Gavriel, dark limbs joining fur and feather in the golden flames.

But Gavriel was hesitating.

Not to follow his fellow blood-sworn through the breach, but to leave with them. To enter the fortress, and leave the woman behind.

Fenrys and Connall were already gone, and he could hear their furious growls shaking the foundations of the castle as they joined the battle within. Vaughan was circling the battlements, surveying the perimeter before joining them, and Lorcan was forcing open the wooden gates, making to follow the wolves into the depths of the castle.

None of them had spared the woman a glance. Had not acknowledged her, or thanked her, or thought to make sure she was alright. Perhaps, in another world, Gavriel would have done the same.

But instead, he paused, the golden tunnel disintegrating at his back.

The princess was in pain. Her face was splattered in gore, her sword hanging limply in tired limbs, her eyes clouded with exhaustion. She coughed up blood, and it shone in the grass.

But still, her words were fierce. “He’s inside,” she choked out. “Help him.”

Gavriel didn’t have to know her to know that she was begging. That she was desperate for Rowan to be safe, desperate for him to survive. Gavriel didn’t have to know her to know that she loved him.

“Go,” she wheezed through broken lungs. “Go.”

Still, he hesitated. Could he allow this woman to sacrifice herself? Could he allow her to die here, alone and without help?

The sounds of death echoed from the stone building, and Gavriel took a step towards the castle. And another.

The darkness swirled around them, barely held back by the woman’s shields of flame. And Gavriel knew that there was nothing he could do. If he stayed, he would only be able to die alongside her. His magic was nothing to those creatures. He could be of no help.

But in the fortress, he could ensure that Rowan survived. For this princess, he could make sure that Rowan lived. And he could bear witness, could remember her sacrifice, her bravery, for the remainder of his too-long life. He could do her that honor.

So Gavriel turned away from perhaps the bravest woman he had ever known, and dove through the gates and into the waiting battle below.

···

Rowan was far from exhausted, and yet his thoughts were scattered, his limbs slow and unsure. Most of his attention was far away from this dark and bloody tunnel, up at the stone gates, with the female that was risking everything to keep the fortress from being overrun.

No, Rowan was not exhausted. He had fought for far longer and in worse conditions. But the demi-Fae were. Each of their swings were slower, weaker. It took more effort each time they faced an enemy to fell them, especially as soldiers continued flooding the fortress, an unending stream.

Rowan yanked his sword from the gut of a falling soldier, his dagger already slicing the neck of the next, when a deep growling shook the stones of the fortress.

Relief, deep and profound, threatened to bring Rowan to his knees.  

Many of the demi-Fae around him froze in fear as twin wolves leapt down the staircase, closing their massive jaws around the necks of enemy soldiers. Massive wings flapped, and then white light flashed and a glowering, dark-eyed male was before him, already swinging a sword to decapitate another solder.

Vaughan merely nodded grimly at him before taking position on his left side, never one to waste words. Beyond him, the wolves were nothing short of lethal, not bothering to shift into Fae form as they tore through enemy ranks.

The demi-Fae began to rally once more, taking up arms once again with more vigor than Rowan had yet seen. Now it was the soldiers from Adarlan who looked fearful. Who blanched and stumbled, wide-eyed in the darkness.

That was all Rowan needed to see before he was running, sprinting back up the stairs and dodging the bloodied and worn demi-Fae. Dread clenched its fingers around his quick-beating heart. Darkness had not yet fallen, the stones of the fortress still stood, which meant that she had to still be breathing, that she had to still be holding the line, but –

A mountain cat skidded to halt on the stairwell before him and shifted. Rowan took one look in Gavriel’s tawny eyes before he demanded, “Where is she?”

The male’s eyes tightened, almost imperceptibly, and he held out one arm. As if to stop him. “She’s in bad shape, Rowan. I think – ”

And Rowan was shoving aside his oldest friend, already sprinting up the stairs. Not waiting to hear the end of that sentence. Not waiting to find out what he had allowed to happen to the princess. To his Queen.

Another towering figure appeared on the steps before him – Lorcan.

Even Lorcan had answered his call. Rowan shouldered past him without a second glance – the time for gratitude would come later, and the dark-haired demi-Fae didn’t say anything as Rowan rushed headlong to the battlement gates.

What he saw there nearly drove him to his knees.

The wall of flame was in tatters, but still protecting the barrier. But the three creatures…Aelin was standing in front of them, hunched and panting, sword limp in her hand. They advanced, and a feeble blue flame sprang up before them.

They swiped it away with wave of their hands. Another flame sprang up, and her knees buckled. The shield of flame surged and receded, pulsing like the light around her body.

She was burning out. Why hadn’t she retreated?

Another step closer and the creatures said something that had her raising her head. Rowan knew he could not reach her, didn’t even have the breath to shout a warning as Aelin gazed into the face of the creature before her. And there was absolutely nothing behind her eyes. No fire, no fury. No life.

A wave of emptiness replaced the panic strangling Rowan’s limbs, and it felt as though all of the life vanished from his body. She had lied. She had lied to him. And this realization hurt almost as much as the knowledge that they were about to die.

She had wanted to save other lives, yes. But not her own. She had gone out there with no intention of coming back. Of surviving.

Fury rippled, deep in his gut. He would not, could not, allow it. Even if she had succumbed to her grief, Rowan wouldn’t allow her to just vanish. To let herself be annihilated.

Rowan took in a breath – to roar, to run, to call his power, but then a wall of muscle slammed into him from behind, and tackled him into the grass. And though Rowan shoved and twisted and writhed, he couldn’t do anything against the four centuries of training and feline instinct that had him pinned.

Gavriel knew him, had helped train him, had worked with him for centuries. And Rowan could do nothing to thwart him. Could do nothing about the magical shield Gavriel had raised, nothing about the muscled limbs clenched around his arms and legs.

They both watched as the creature took Aelin’s face in its hands, and her sword thudded to the ground, forgotten.

And Rowan was screaming. Screaming as the creature pulled her into its arms. Screaming as she stopped fighting. As her flames winked out and as the darkness swallowed her whole.

Gavriel held him through it all, keeping him from sprinting through those broken gates and into that blackness that destroyed worlds. The blackness that was well on its way to destroying his.

Rowan was aware of Lorcan lingering behind him, a dark presence at his back. He had no room to wonder why. Why he stayed. Why he watched.

Rowan writhed in Gavriel’s grip, and the barrier fell.

It fell without ceremony, without sound. One second it was there, a dark, crackling energy, and the next it was gone. Had winked out of existence as easily as the sun passes behind a cloud, or a fog fades at break of day.

Rowan hurled his power at the cloud of darkness with all the force he could muster; summoned gales of winds and storms of ice, but nothing could pierce it. The cloak of darkness held, a black shroud that hid his Queen from him. And it did not advance.

Though the barrier had fallen, the creatures did not attack. The darkness did not move. And Rowan thought he knew why.

 The creatures and Narrok had captured a prize far greater than the demi-Fae. The joy of feeding on her was something they planned to relish for a long, long while. He had felt their joy as they consumed the female in the caves, had sensed the curling anticipation of the male that had chased them through the woods and into the arms of the skinwalkers.

The creatures fed on pain and suffering, and hers was far greater than any they could’ve possibly imagined.

Minutes passed, and though Rowan did not stop his useless assault on the darkness, time felt stagnant. Nothing changed. The sounds of the battle raging beneath them did not slow, nor did Gavriel’s grip on his shoulders slacken. And Aelin did not succumb.

Rowan wasn’t sure how he knew: he just did. Aelin was still alive. Her heart still beat, and until it stopped, he would fight. With everything he had, he would fight.

Even as he began to hear that soft, warm female voice. Beckoning to him. Calling him to her, begging him to join her. Saying that if only he came, she could live. If only he came, they could be together again, forever. If only he came, she would forgive him for everything, for all of it.

It tore him to shreds. And the minutes ticked by.

“Rowan,” Gavriel murmured, tightening his grip on Rowan’s arm. Rain had begun pouring. “We are needed inside.”

“No,” he snarled. They didn’t understand. It didn’t matter. Nothing else mattered but the girl dying in that dark. Dying alone. Thinking that he had left her to die alone.

“Rowan, the others – ”

“No.”

Lorcan swore over the roar of the torrential rain. “She is dead, you fool, or close enough to it. You can still save other lives.”

They began hauling him to his feet, away from her. “If you don’t let me go, I’ll rip your head from your body,” he snarled at Lorcan, his commander. The male who had taken him in, who had trained him. Who he had traveled with through the long centuries.

But Rowan said it anyways.

Gavriel flicked his eyes to Lorcan in some silent conversation. Rowan tensed, preparing to fling them off. They would knock him unconscious sooner than allow him into that dark, where Lyria’s beckoning had now turned to screaming for mercy.

It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real.

But Aelin was real, and was being drained of life with every moment they held him here. All he needed to get them unconscious was for Gavriel to drop his magical shield.

“Let go,” Rowan growled again, preparing to strike.

But then a rumbling shook the earth, and the three of them all froze. Beneath them, some huge power was surging, so massive and primordial it set the ground trembling. So massive that Rowan felt it in his very bones.

They turned toward the darkness. And Rowan could have sworn that a golden light arced through it, then disappeared.

“That’s impossible,” Gavriel breathed. “She burned out.”

Rowan didn’t dare blink. Her burnouts had always been self-imposed, had always been born of that iron cage, the bars that she hadn’t been able to rid herself of. That she had clung to, through all these long weeks.

The creatures fed on despair and pain and terror. But what if Aelin could let go of those fears? What if she walked through them, and learned to embrace them?

As if in answer, flame erupted from the wall of darkness.

The fire unfurled, filling the rainy night, vibrant as a red opal. Lorcan swore, and Gavriel threw up additional shields of his own magic. Rowan didn’t bother. They did not fight him as he shrugged off their grip, surging to his feet.

The flame didn’t singe a hair on his head. It flowed above and past him, glorious and immortal and unbreakable. It embraced him. Welcomed him as a friend.

And there, beyond the stones, standing between two of those creatures, was Aelin, a strange mark glowing on her brow. Her hair flowed around her, shorter now and bright like her fire. And her eyes – though they were red-rimmed, the gold in her eyes was a living flame.

The two creatures lunged for her, the darkness sweeping in around them.

Rowan ran all of one step before she flung out her arms, grabbing the creatures by their flawless faces – her palms over their open mouths as she exhaled sharply.

 As if she’d breathed fire into their cores, flames shot out of their eyes, their ears, their fingers. The two creatures didn’t have a chance to scream as she burned them into cinders.

She lowered her arms. Her magic was raging so fiercely that the rain turned to steam before it hit her. A weapon bright from the forging.

He forgot Gavriel and Lorcan as he bolted for her – the gold and red and blue flames utterly hers, this Heir of Fire. Spying him at last, she smiled faintly.

A Queen’s smile. Full of relief and friendship and care and tenderness. It was a smile he wanted to look at for hours. A smile he wanted to see every single day until the day he died.

But there was exhaustion in that smile, and her bright magic flickered. Behind her, Narrok and the remaining creature – the one they had faced in the woods – were spooling the darkness into themselves, as if readying for attack. She turned toward them, swaying slightly, her skin deathly pale. They had fed on her, and she was drained after shredding apart their brethren. A very real, very final burnout was steadily approaching.

The wall of black swelled, one final hammer blow to squash her, but she stood fast, a golden light in the darkness. That was all Rowan needed to see before he knew what he had to do. Wind and ice were of no use here, but there were other ways.

Rowan drew his dagger and sliced his palm open as he sprinted through the gate-stones towards Aelin.

For even if it was all for nothing, even if he couldn’t help her, even if it made no difference at all whatsoever, he would at least be by her side. Neither of them would be alone. They could be together, as the darkness consumed them.

Rowan reached her, panting and bloody, and he held out his hand for her to take.

They were carranam, and he had come for her, just as she would have for him. And Rowan saw in her eyes that this would work. That she believed it too. He didn’t know if his power was strong enough, didn’t know if they would survive.

He didn’t know, but he hoped.

Aelin held his gaze as she grabbed her own dagger and cut open her palm, right over the scars that marked her blood-oath to avenge the death of her friend, her oath to save her nation.

And even though she knew he could read the words right off her face, she still asked him, “To whatever end?”

Rowan just nodded, and she gripped his outstretched hand, joining them. Blood to blood and soul to soul. He wrapped his other arm around her, grasping her tightly and feeling her heartbeat on his skin, the contours of her body against his. He leaned close and whispered softly into her ear, “I claim you, too, Aelin Galathynius.”

The wave of impenetrable black descended, roaring as it made to devour them. But they were together, no longer alone. They had both survived horrific things, had both weathered darknesses much greater than the one they currently faced.

So Rowan was not afraid of that crushing black, not with the Queen in his arms. The woman who had lit up his night. Who made him want to live once more.

Rowan breathed deep, and let the barriers within his mind fall, one by one. And he felt as Aelin’s mind entered his, felt as her fire flickered in his veins, her power new and bright and hot.

She drew his power into her, and it flooded out of him in a great rush, Rowan letting it flow freely between them as their blood dripped down their entwined arms.

Her well of power was near-empty, but its sheer size still astonished him.

It was fathomless, an enormous, hollow expanse. Was as vast as the sun – as the very core of the earth. She was the Heir of Fire, the Heir of Brannon, and she had no equal.

Rowan felt vulnerable in a way he never had before as Aelin sucked his magic from him. Vulnerable, but completely unafraid. To her, who’d had nothing and no one, who had been left completely alone, he gave the one and only thing he could. Himself.

Aelin’s knees began to buckle as the weight of their shared power took its toll, and Rowan held her in place, supporting her body while her mind bore the immense weight of their combined magics.

Then, Aelin struck.

The black wave had not even hallway fallen before Aelin shattered it apart with an arc of golden light, leaving Narrok and the remaining creature gaping.

She didn’t give them a moment to recover. Aelin reached into Rowan, drawing his power into her own body, his ice and wind and lightning becoming fire and light and heat in the alchemy of her blood. And then it exploded out of them in a torrent of golden flame.

Together they burned, surrounded by the force of a thousand stars. Embers crackled in the air all around them, flickers of flame like millions of fireflies. It was like standing on the surface of the sun.

Narrok and the creature were shrieking, and the sounds tore up his eardrums, a blade digging in and twisting. He and Aelin clung to each other as she crammed the light down their throats, burning up their black blood.

There was a sudden silence. And before he was destroyed completely, Narrok looked at Aelin, his eyes piercing her deep. For a moment they stared at each other, seeming to exchange something. A final goodbye.

Rowan clung tight to Aelin, keeping her anchored to him as the light around them intensified, becoming so bright it was actually painful. But Rowan forced his eyes to remain open. Forced himself to watch.

Aelin called the light to her, bending it to her will. And then she forced it into the creatures, pouring all of that beautiful, golden light into every shadowy corner of them.

The ironclad expression on Aelin’s face did not shift as she stared back at Narrok, and burned him to dust and ashes.

The remaining creature only managed to crawl two steps before he succumbed as well, a silent scream frozen on his dark face as he was incinerated.

Slowly, the light and flame receded, and Aelin’s exhausted mind fell away from his own. And all that remained of Narrok and the three creatures were four Wyrdstone collars steaming in the wet grass.  

Their bloody palms fell apart at last, and Rowan felt Aelin’s soul slip out of his grasp. He shivered, suddenly cold.

Rowan looked up for the first time, and found that the darkness was completely gone, utterly eradicated. And though Aelin had burned as hot as a falling star, the trees around them were still green, the mists still chill. Towards the east, Rowan could just see the faint rays of dawn beginning to peek around the mountain peaks. The tips of Mala’s fingers stretching to greet them, washing the last of the darkness aside.

Aelin swayed slightly, utterly spent, and Rowan wrapped his arm around her more tightly, guiding her over the uneven grass and up the blood-spattered steps, towards their rooms. But before they left, Rowan leaned over and scooped up the stone collars, sliding them onto his swordbelt.

Gavriel and Lorcan were already gone, presumably to assist below. The sounds of battle had died down, the clash of metal and shouts of pain dwindling into silence. The fortress halls were quiet and empty as they walked side by side.

The second Aelin’s head hit the pillow, she was dead asleep.

Rowan pulled off her boots, rolling her over in order to pull the blankets out from underneath her. Then he tucked her into bed, carefully arranging the covers over her sleeping form.

But before he left the small stone chamber, his fingers found their way into her golden hair. Rowan smoothed the silken strands back behind her ears, gave her one last, lingering look, and walked out.

Chapter Text

With each step down the stone staircase, a slight clicking sounded from Rowan’s hip, the four stone collars jostling against each other as he walked. With each step he took away from Aelin, he felt something in his chest twisting. Something bright, and strong, and full of fire. Something new.

The carranam bond.

Rowan had never heard one described before, and he was taken aback by the strength of it, the potency. It was like a…tether. That connected him to her. An artifact of Aelin’s scent, like a key, buried in his chest.

It was strange, to be given another magical connection after so many centuries. He was used to the feel of the blood oath on his soul, the way it writhed in his veins. An acidic, curling smoke. The strength of it. The inevitability of it. Maeve always made sure that their oaths to her were born of pure submission.

That bond smothered his will, and dulled his senses. That bond had put him to sleep for two hundred years.

This bond was a jolt of electricity. An awakening.

The stone corridors were quiet all around him, but not with death. With healing. Rowan could sense the presences of his…cadre, as Aelin liked to call them, deeper in the fortress. Small flickers of darkness at the edges of his senses.

And with each of his steps closer to them, Rowan couldn’t help but think that this new bond was almost like how he had felt with Lyria. Couldn’t help but draw comparisons, and similarities.

Before her death, and the mating bond became an aching chasm in his chest, it had been a soft, warm presence just over his heart. A place where he could feel his mate close. Where he could sense her.

Rowan always felt when she was in pain, when she was in danger. And it gave him the vaguest sense of her location, almost like a scent trail.

This new bond, his carranam bond with Aelin, was strikingly like that. Unnervingly so.

Aelin hadn’t replaced Lyria. She hadn’t filled the hole the mating bond had left within him. But with this carranam bond…Rowan found that it was harder and harder to feel that hollow ache. To feel the place where his body remembered her loss.

And Rowan wasn’t exactly sure whether he was glad of it.

Rowan was hovering just before the entrance to the corridor where he had spent most of that morning – shoulder to shoulder with the demi-Fae, sweat dripping down his limbs, the air drenched in copper. Now, it was empty of all but the dead. The stones were slick with blood, the walls spattered with gore. Rowan could hardly walk without stepping on hands and toes and torsos, cold and hard and bulky in death.

But Rowan did so anyways – making his way through the pit of bodies to check for a smothered breath or faint heartbeat – any hint of life. He found none. Someone had clearly already gone through and collected the injured, then probably moved them to the dining hall, or the inner courtyard, to be attended to. Where the survivors had gone, Rowan did not yet know.

He stood and sighed, making to leave the corridor.

There was much to be done. The bodies would have to be burned. The gate to the tunnel was mangled, it would have to be reinforced – and soon, in case of a second attack. There were the injured to heal, and prisoners to organize.

And Rowan was utterly uninterested in all of it. All he wanted was to go back; to follow that tether to its source. To curl up beside Aelin and sleep for a century or more.

His feet were slow as they mounted the stairs, making for the sentry station where he knew he would be able to find Malakai. But before he made it very far, a familiar, bronze-skinned shape nearly barreled into him.

“Hey – oh, it’s you.” Fenrys, now in human form, stepped to the side and out of the way of Rowan’s path. Though he had fought as his wolf, the younger male was drenched in half-dried blood, his skin mottled with newly forming bruises. It didn’t matter that it was a different form – it was still you.

Rowan’s greeting was guarded. “Fenrys.”

“Rowan. Where’d you get off to? You missed almost all the fun!” Even with his hair matted together with someone else’s blood, the boy was practically chipper.

Rowan frowned, raising his eyebrows. Fun?

Fenrys waved his hands derisively. “You know what I mean. Did you leave to go help the princess? Is she alright?”

Though he was only asking from general curiosity, there was an anxiety in his tone that unsettled Rowan. He didn’t know what they wanted with Aelin, didn’t know if Maeve had sent them, couldn’t be sure of anything. Though he had fought with them for years almost beyond count, he didn’t trust them as far as he could throw them.

Rowan followed Fenrys’ question with one of his own. “What happened after I left? Where were the survivors taken?”

“Lorcan’s in charge. Last I saw, he was up on the battlements with an older demi-Fae who seemed to be a leader. There were forty or so soldiers who were still standing when their commanders fell, and they surrendered fairly painlessly. Lorcan had them taken to the dungeons to await questioning, but none of them seem particularly talkative.”

So Lorcan had taken charge. Something inside Rowan unfurled, a hidden tension flowing from his limbs. “How many dead?”

“Most survived. Seems that Adarlan was seeking to capture, not kill. I think last count was twelve, though that might increase before night falls.”

“Wounded?”

“Our side? Most. I think Gavriel is attending to them in the mess hall. There are a few dozen Adarlanian soldiers too – but I think they’re being kept separately.”

Rowan just nodded, satisfied. But before he could turn to depart, Fenrys’ hand shot out, stopping him.

“Wait – you never answered my question. Is the princess alright? We…we passed her on our way in and she…she didn’t look very good.”

Fenrys’ eyes were surprisingly earnest. But instead of compassion, Rowan felt a chill pass through him. Fenrys had seen Aelin. They all had, on their way into Mistward. For some reason, Rowan had never thought that through before – that in order to reach the fortress, his cadre must have passed by Aelin. And left her there.

“You saw her?”

Fenrys seemed to hesitate at the coldness in Rowan’s tone. “…Yes. She let us through that strange black smoke. It was phenomenal actually – she made this…this bridge. Of golden light. A tunnel, that gave us a way through. Otherwise we never would have been able to make it.”

There was awe on the young male’s face, wonder in his voice. But Rowan did not hear it. “You saw her, and you just left her there?”

Fenrys started, his brow furrowing. “Yes. What else could we have done?”

Rowan was fuming. You could have stayed. You could have helped. He wanted to rage at the male, to shout himself hoarse. But he kept himself in check.

“She will be fine in a few days.” And Rowan turned and left without another word.

He didn’t really expect Fenrys to understand. But Lorcan should have. And Gavriel definitely should have. Had they all just sailed past her?

Gavriel knew exactly what it was like when the people you were responsible for died under your command. Hadn’t Rowan tattooed enough names into the male’s skin by now? It was almost as though they died by your very hand. As if they died because of you. Because you didn’t think hard enough, or plan well enough.

They died because you weren’t good enough to save them.  

Gavriel knew that. And he had nearly let Aelin die for them anyways. To die for him.

Rowan strode out through the gates and onto the yellowed grass, damp with rain. The ward stones towered before him, dark and silent and aged. Even with the death of the creatures, the magic that had fueled them was gone – utterly emptied.

Most likely, they would never spark again.

The loss of their magic, their majesty, weighed on Rowan just as those twelve deaths did. Deaths that he was responsible for. Somewhere, the logical part of his mind told him that there was nothing more he could have done, nothing more he could have sacrificed. But it was a very small part.

Rowan took another step forwards, to rest a hand on the black monoliths. Seeking to confirm with his hands what his eyes and ears were already telling him. But as he moved, the stone collars jostled once again, like a chorus of dull wind chimes.

Rowan lifted one off of his sword belt, examining it closely for the first time. They were perfectly round and utterly black – so dark that it was hard to see the flaws on the matte surface.

Even with the demons dead and gone, the fragments of stone held whispers of darkness about them. And it was more than just a memory of power, more than just a trace. It was almost as if those bodies had been little more than vehicles for the darkness, and it was the collars that held the real power.

Rowan placed the circle of stone carefully back on his belt, then shifted and flew out into the morning light, headed deep into the mountains.

 He didn’t have time to make it all the way to the sea, not with Aelin sleeping in their rooms, unprotected, while Maeve’s warriors strode through Mistward. Not when Rowan couldn’t be sure of their motives, or their obligations.

Instead, he headed for the deepest, wildest place he could find with his winds and his hawk’s eyes.

 Half an hour passed, and eventually he chanced upon a patch of evergreens hidden in the shadows between two massive peaks. Though it was approaching summer, snow still shone at their tops, the steadily rising sun marking the mountains a blinding white.

Rowan dove through the chill, passing between shelves of rock and soaring through narrow crevasses until the light dimmed, and became scarce, and mid-morning turned to dusky twilight.

The evergreens were undaunted however, monarchs rising up against the faces of stone to tower over the southern hills that lay below. Rowan flew to the base of a particularly gigantic pine, where he shifted in mid-air and landed on a platform of gnarled roots and discarded rusty pine needles.

Rowan breathed deep, then called his power up from within, pulling the last dregs of ice from the well in his chest. The magic came unwillingly, though with it he cast a blade of pure ice. Which he used to dig into the earth, tunneling deep into the nest of roots below.

Once the hole was at least eight feet deep, Rowan let the blade melt and fade into the dry earth. He carefully lifted each collar off his swordbelt and threw them into the deep, then filled the pit back up with hard-packed earth, replacing the bed of pine needles over the surface.

Rowan stood carefully, realizing for the first time that he had let his concentration slip. That he’d perhaps been too focused on the task before him, and not paid enough attention to his surroundings.

For as he turned to leave the hollow, a strange presence flitted at the edges of his senses.

Immediately, Rowan strengthened his shields and cast out his winds, seeking answers. The air did not give them to him. Not really.

The presence felt…different. Unexpected. But surprisingly, not unfamiliar.

It felt wild.

Then it clicked into place. The Little Folk.

Rowan took a hesitant step forwards, just as a pair of eyes peeked over a fallen log, then quickly fell from view. Rowan took another step. And another.

He wanted to speak, to say something. To tell them that the demon creatures were dead, that the wild reaches were safe once more. To tell them who had killed them. But for some reason, Rowan felt that they somehow already knew.

Rowan reached the log, expecting to find it empty. So he was unsurprised to find that the faeries were gone, their presence fading from the hollow. But he was startled by the fact that the log was not completely bare.

Atop the mossy surface rested two circles – crowns, Rowan realized – of red and white.

They were undeniably beautiful. Exquisitely crafted wreaths of the warmest flame and the coldest frost. Rowan’s hand stretched towards the red one first, recognizing spiky red maple leaves and orange petals from marigold flowers. There were strips of yellow from the brightest buttercups, and yet more colors from plants Rowan could not name. All collected and pieced together into this fiery masterpiece that barely resembled the plants they had once been.

Rowan was struck with the memory of the crown Aelin had once made for him, the crown of pure flames. This wreath was the perfect image of her magic.  

He felt his eyes shift, searching out the other wreath. It was quieter, more understated, and yet still indisputably majestic. It was made of leaves of pure frost, wormwood and silver sage and needles of blue pine. And the spitting image of the circlet he had crafted for Aelin.

Rowan felt his brow furrowing, his gaze searching through the close-set tree boughs for any hint of movement, any indication that they were still there. Still watching.

For they had been. The Little Folk had been watching them for weeks.

And while Rowan was discomforted by this discovery, he felt no fear, no antagonism. These were gifts, not threats. A silent thanks.  

And as Rowan held that crown of fire between his hands, it finally sank in. The demons were dead. They had won. Aelin had lived.

Tears formed at the corners of his eyes as he raised his head to face the darkness of the forest beyond. “Thank you,” Rowan said. “Thank you.”

···

The harsh stone of Mistward’s walls appeared through the thinning mist as Rowan dove towards the fortress. Now that the barrier-stones were forever silenced, he no longer had to pass through the front gate, and so could glide over the battlement wall and land directly on the stones of the interior courtyard.

With the knowledge that Lorcan had taken charge alongside Malakai, and that they had suffered minimal losses with the enemy forces already contained and subdued, Rowan had lost all interest in participating in the recovery and repairs. All he wanted was to go up to their rooms, bar the door, and drift off into the deepest sleep he had risked in weeks.

But the interior courtyard was far from the empty, silent place it usually was.

A temporary hospital had been set up under swathes of white canvas, where men were lying on cots and sitting on mats, blood pooling beneath bandages while hollowed eyes stared into air filled with the sounds of the dying.

Mistward hadn’t been hit hard, but Adarlan had been. And the wounded waiting to be helped numbered in the dozens.

Fenrys had told Rowan that the hospital had been set up in the dining hall. Otherwise, Rowan would have flown directly to his rooms, instead of risking passing by where he knew Gavriel would be waiting for him.

The male in question looked up just as Rowan entered. There was no avoiding him, no matter how much Rowan might wish to.

Gavriel was standing at the bedside of a young soldier in Adarlan’s colors, though they were hard to see through the pools of blood encrusting the fabric. But as Gavirel wasn’t holding bandage or needle and thread, Rowan assumed that the blood was not the soldier’s.

Gavriel’s brow furrowed as his eyes met Rowan’s, concern and – was that fear? – passing through his scent. But as usual, the male swiftly reigned in his emotions once more.

“Are you alright?”

The question felt loaded, though Rowan wasn’t sure if that was Gavriel’s intention. It didn’t really matter. Rowan didn’t have an answer to give him. So instead of speaking, Rowan just grunted, then moved to stand at the soldier’s other side. Silently offering his assistance.

Together, they reset the soldier’s broken leg, then used their combined magics to bind the fragments of bone and knit the skin and muscle back together. Despite everything, the two of them immediately fell back into a rhythm, into that shared dance of movement and magic and thought.

Soon, the man was whole once again. Gavriel took a wet cloth from the man’s bedside and used it to wipe his hands and face, then handed it over to Rowan, a silent thanks in his eyes. Rowan took it.

“Is Aelin going to be alright?”

A pause. “She’s resting.”

“She has grown these past weeks. Improved.”

Another grunt.

“Do you think it is enough?”

For the first time, Rowan looked directly into Gavriel’s eyes. Something passed between them. “I cannot keep her here forever.”

“No, you cannot.”

There almost seemed to be actual remorse in the male’s voice. Rowan wasn’t sure if he would be able to keep his irritation in check for much longer. “Is that why then?”

“Why what?”

“Why you just left her there? Why you held me down when I tried to help her?”

Gavriel looked taken aback. “You think that I wanted the girl to die?”

“Give me an alternative.”

“She begged us to leave – to save you. I could not deny her her last wish.”

“Even when you knew that would not be what I wanted?” Rowan was very nearly shouting now. “Even after all these years of tattooing the names of the Fae you’ve lost on your own skin? You still don’t understand?”

“If you had seen her face, you would not have denied her either.” The quiet resolve on Gavriel’s face was enough to momentarily disarm Rowan. He changed tack. “What were those stone rings you carried before? I didn’t get a good look – “

“Does Maeve know that you’re here?” Rowan interrupted before the male could finish his question.

Gavriel hesitated, his eyes darkening. But not with anger, with…shame. “No. She did not know when we left. Though she must surely know by now.”

A small measure of sympathy washed through Rowan, working to melt the ice somewhat. Gavriel was loyal through and through. This betrayal had cut him.

“What happened? When – when you got my letters?”

Another pause. “I was alone. Fenrys and Connall were also in the capital, but I didn’t meet up with them until after. I don’t know how Lorcan and Vaughan decided, but they were still in the south – we met up with them near the southern mountain pass.” Gavriel’s eyes were almost boring into Rowan’s by this point, pinning him in place. “I did not say anything to anyone. I just left. But that doesn’t mean that you have nothing to worry about.”

The accusation in his tone was a painful reminder of what Rowan had been suppressing all morning. A reminder of what was waiting for them back in Doranelle. Who was waiting for all of them.

And whatever happened, it would be Rowans fault. Their pain, their punishment. Aelin’s pain – it all would be his fault. But he saw no other way.

Rowan took a slow step back, nodding at Gavriel. All of his anger towards the male had temporarily evaporated. “Thank – thank you.” He choked out. “For coming. For saving her.” Then he turned and left the courtyard, heading up the stairs to finally join Aelin in their bed.

···

Lorcan was nearly at his wits end.

He’d missed most of the actual fighting, instead babysitting Rowan to make sure that the bastard didn’t run off to his own death. So by the time he reached the tunnel where it appeared most of the battle had taken place, the twins had already taken care of almost everything. And now he was stuck organizing the repairs and recovery of this insignificant backwater fortress.

Bodies had to be collected and burned, sentries needed to be sent out to confirm that there were no other forces lying in wait for a second attack, workers needed to be organized to clear away the rubble and gore. He needed to ensure that the prisoners from Adarlan were well locked up, and had to arrange for them to be interrogated.

But all the while, as the morning passed into mid-day, Lorcan couldn’t get that image out of his head. The picture of his second, of Whitethorn for gods’ sake, screaming bloody murder as that princess fell into darkness. The look on his face when he wrenched himself free of their grip and ran to her. The image of them in each other’s arms, while the world burned to ash at her hand.

When they arrived, Lorcan had left her for dead. He’d dismissed her – just like that. The darkness surrounding those creatures was unlike anything he had ever felt before. The feel of it on his skin…Lorcan shivered. His powers did nothing against it.

Only fire could destroy them, and the princess had burned out. Or so he’d thought.

He’d tried to convince Whitethorn that the girl was dead, that there was nothing to be done. But the male refused to listen. And then, when she rose through the darkness – it was almost as though she brought the dawn with her.

That power…it was unlike anything he had ever felt before. Apart from his queen, nothing could match the girl. Nothing and no one. Not even him.

He almost didn’t even blame Whitethorn for going after her.

But only a very small part.

Mostly, Lorcan felt…betrayed. There really was no other word for it. And betrayed for love, of all things.

Everything was about to change. Nothing would ever again be the same between them, or within his lieutenants. Never again would they rove through the countryside together, drinking and fighting and bedding women. Never again would Rowan be able to look at the horizon without some measure of longing in his eyes.

Rowan Whitethorn had fallen in love. After all these centuries, and with that foreign bitch of all people. Whether the bastard knew it or not, he had fallen in love once more. And it would probably break him all over again.

Lorcan cursed violently, and a sentry in the corner of the room jumped in fright.

He didn’t know where Rowan was at the moment, and frankly, he didn’t much care. Lorcan wasn’t sure he wanted to see him. Didn’t know what the hell they would say to each other.

Not that Rowan’s help wouldn’t be appreciated. The older demi-Fae male in charge of the fortress – Malakai, Lorcan thought his name was – wasn’t particularly helpful. Rowan was Lorcan’s second for good reason, and his other lieutenants were already occupied.

Fenrys and Connall were running forays into the perimeter, ensuring that there weren’t any more parties of soldiers lying in wait. Gavriel had been dispatched to help the small group of fighters who had skills in healing, and Vaughan was helping to repair the damage done to the escape tunnel. It had caved in in places, and the gates were badly damaged.

They were all here, doing their duty. Helping Rowan save all of these gods-damned ungrateful bastards. Risking their lives, and most definitely risking their liberty. All because of Rowan. And where was he? Absolutely nowhere to be found. Probably off with that fire-breathing bitch.

At some point, Connall returned with the information that there weren’t any soldiers within fifty miles of the fortress, and the caves that had served as their camp all these weeks were emptied.

Lorcan then sent the wolf to the healer’s compound to inform the head healer there that the threat had been dealt with, at which point the older demi-Fae commander spoke up and said that the healers had been moved into the mountains for safety, and Lorcan had to bite down on his tongue to keep himself from snarling at the male.

Then Connall was gone, Fenrys was arranging for the traps in the woods to be taken apart, and the elderly demi-Fae had left with some mumbled excuse about following along behind Connall to meet up with someone to tell them the news. And Lorcan was alone. Which he found was actually not that much better than having company.

What did Rowan think was going to happen?

Did he think that Maeve would let them be together? That there was some happy future in store for them?

The second that that little girl made it through Doranelle’s gates, she would likely be trapped there forever. Maeve would never let a power like that slip through her fingers – and with the way the girl looked at Rowan? The princess was doomed.

Maeve would force the girl to swear the blood oath, one way or the other. Then, once the girl was hers, Maeve would undoubtedly keep her and Rowan separated as much as physically possible.

Because they were carranam, and together…together their power was more than anything Lorcan had ever seen. Even Maeve –

No, his queen was the most powerful being in all of existence. But still, the two of them together could prove a threat. And Maeve would not stand for it. So they must be kept apart.

Lorcan’s teeth slammed together. Why had that jackass allowed this to happen?

His team of commanders had been near-perfect. They worked together almost seamlessly, each with their own specialties. There was order, and structure. Even Fenrys, who was a right pain in the ass most of the time, fit within their hierarchy well.

But now…now it would all fall apart. Rowan loved that girl, and everything was about to change. He would defend her above all others, would protect her in the face of any threats, would never put her in any danger – even if it proved necessary in order to meet their objective.

That bastard’s cock was going to fuck everything up. And Lorcan didn’t see any way to stop it.

Then Vaughan reappeared, with the news that he had just gone down to the dungeons to check on the prisoners, and found them all dead in their cells. Poison.

Lorcan muttered a violent curse, and stood.

···

Gavriel was exhausted to his very bones. Night had now fallen, and they had lost three more men over the course of the afternoon. Three men whose deaths he had not been able to prevent.

Many more Adarlanian soldiers had died, but Gavriel couldn’t bring himself to much care about them. Particularly after they started bringing out the cyanide. Lorcan had told him that they had lost all of the prisoners in the cells, and to try his best to save the few soldiers from Adarlan who were still in his care.

Gavriel told the male not to get his hopes up.

He had spent the entire day at work, stuck in some courtyard, surrounded by the moans and complaints of broken men. There were a few demi-Fae sentries who had some healing magic, but far too soon their powers were exhausted, and Gavriel had to send them off to rest.

He couldn’t completely heal all of them – it would have surpassed his strength. But he ensured that no one died that wasn’t already marked to enter Hellas’ realm. Obviously, the soldiers’ goal had been to overwhelm and capture, rather than kill. The fortress was very lucky to have escaped with so little death.

Still, what he wouldn’t have given to have Rowan’s help. Or Lorcan’s. Or anyone’s, really. But they were all busy. And Gavriel would have rathered face a dragon in single combat than to go up to Rowan’s rooms and ask him to come down and help. Especially after their discussion those hours earlier.

It had been so strange – the cold male had felt almost…vulnerable. In a way that Gavriel had never seen before. And the look on his face when the barrier fell, and the princess was consumed by darkness…Gavriel would be haunted by that look for as long as he lived.

Just as he had known the second he saw the princess’s pleading, desperate, dying face before the ward-stones, begging them to go save Rowan, that she had loved him, in that moment he had known the same for Rowan. The prince loved that woman. And now there was nothing that any of them could do about it.

All they would be able to do was wait, and watch, and discover how it would play out.

But there was something, something more. The two of them were closer, more comfortable with each other. And they were obviously sleeping in the same bed. But there was also this strange hint, a trace, of the girl’s scent on Rowan. Mixed in with his.

Perhaps it was just the settling of that new bond between them – the carranam bond. For some reason that didn’t quite sit right with Gavriel.

Though that was another image it didn’t seem likely he would ever be able to erase from his mind. The way they looked together, staring into each other’s eyes while the entire world burned to ashes around them. The way their power felt as it rushed over his skin, an avalanche, a tsunami. The explosion of a star on the surface on the earth.

The fact that they were carranam changed everything. Now, if Aelin joined their ranks, it seemed unlikely that Rowan and the princess would be allowed within fifty feet of each other. Maeve disliked a threat almost as much as she hated betrayal. Or disloyalty.

Gavriel’s stomach turned over. He knew far too well what they would be facing upon their return to Doranelle. He forced his mind away from the unpleasant memories. He had made his choice, and he would stick by it. He had known the consequences when he decided to come.

And he would not regret it. The girl and Rowan had both lived. Even the majority of the demi-Fae had survived.

Though he would regret leaving Aelin alone at those gates for as long as he lived. Rowan was right, he should have stayed. No matter how worried he had been for his friend, the princess had needed him. And he had almost let her die for them.

His daughter. The words were an uncomfortable weight. Full of doubt. At first he had desperately shied away from them, aching for them not to be true, for them to be anything but. Now, he was less sure.

The princess was growing into a powerful female, a leader and magic user worthy of renown. Wouldn’t it be understandable to want to belong to her, in some small way? To want to be hers?

Shame joined the guilt writhing in his gut. It was a betrayal to his queen to want to belong to another. For it wasn’t really as a father that he wanted to belong to the princess, it was as a soldier. A lieutenant.

Aelin’s power was a beacon, and just like Rowan obviously was, Gavriel felt himself being drawn to her.

So, as Gavriel moved between the dozens of patients sleeping before him, searching for bandages to change and fevers to lessen, his thoughts kept whirling back to that essential, all-consuming question. What would happen when Rowan brought the princess to Doranelle? And would Rowan be able to survive another loss of this magnitude?

The night slowly passed into day, and just before dawn began to peek her head over the mountains, Lorcan appeared.

He was obviously trying to sneak out before the fortress woke up, now that the majority of Mistward was once again up and running as normal. And though Gavriel doubted the male would ever admit it to himself, to leave without having to see Rowan. Without having to deal with whatever it was that was shifting like quicksand beneath their feet.

Gavriel stood and walked over to meet Lorcan, who was now standing over by the entry gates, buckling on his swordbelt.

They stood in silence for a moment, but then, “What do you think will happen when we return? What are you going to say to her?”

Lorcan’s eyes narrowed, knowing immediately what Gavriel was getting at. “I’m going to tell her the truth of what happened. What else.”

Gavriel’s brows furrowed. “You know as well as I –”

“That changes nothing.”

“It changes everything, and you know it.”  

“Just because Rowan went and fell for – ”

“He hasn’t been at peace for centuries, Lorcan. You would deny him that?”

“No. But there isn’t exactly anything that we can do to stop it. I would worry less about that selfish bastard, and more about your own skin, Gavriel. Rowan and that bitch are going to get what’s coming to them, and so are we.”

Gavriel only nodded. “I knew that when I decided to leave.”

Lorcan’s face darkened. “Tell Rowan I said goodbye. And that…that by the time he returns to Doranelle, I will have submitted my report. I can’t hide this from her – even if I wanted to.”

Gavriel nodded again, then clasped Lorcan’s arms in farewell. “I will meet you on the road, Commander.”

Lorcan’s gaze shifted slightly, an acknowledgement that he heard the silent words in Gavriel’s promise. I am coming too. I will not let you enter Doranelle alone.

But the male just jerked his head once, turned, and ran into the mist.

Dawn passed into morning, and Fenrys, Connall, and Vaughan all also departed, with similar words of farewell. But Gavriel lingered – wanting to see the girl one last time before he left, wanting to ask her the question that burned on his lips.

Before morning could give way to midday, an opportunity presented itself. Rowan and the princess were walking down through the fortress and the courtyard, heading out over the grounds. So Gavriel headed towards the back gate in order to intercept them.

Rowan was stony faced. Aelin was smiling.

 I thought you’d be gone by now.” The accusation in Rowan’s icy voice was difficult to ignore.

“The twins and Vaughan left an hour ago, and Lorcan left at dawn. He said to tell you good-bye.”

Rowan only nodded absentmindedly, dismissing Lorcan’s message without much thought. “What do you want?”

Gavriel frowned, looking them both up and down. “Be careful when you face Maeve. We’ll have given our reports by then.”

Rowan didn’t react, though the princess started slightly. “Travel swiftly,” he said, an obvious dismissal, and continued walking past the gate and into the waiting mists. The princess, however, lingered.

Her eyes were cautious, and they studied him carefully. Then she said, softer than the mists brushing his cheeks, “Thank you.” Gavriel blinked, and he heard Rowan freeze suddenly at his back. “For the warning. And for hesitating that day.”

She extended a shaking hand towards him, wrapped in gauze and purple with bruises. Gavriel looked at it for a moment before shaking it gently in his own. Her warm golden eyes met his, and then all of sudden he was asking the question, the question on which his world now turned.

“…How old are you?”

“Nineteen,” she replied, casually as anything, and Gavriel was releasing a breath that he didn’t even know he was holding. He didn’t know if it was from relief or sadness or surprise, though nevertheless, it was a release.

 Aelin Galathynius was not, and could not ever be, his daughter. She was too young, by a number of years.

In order to fill the strange silence that had fallen, Gavriel made some comment about how that made her magic even more impressive. Aelin winked at him, then turned to follow Rowan into the trees.

Gavriel could feel the male’s confusion from a dozen feet away, but he didn’t much care. Rowan could be confused for a bit. He deserved as much for what he had put them all through, and what he was going to put them through, over these few weeks. And Gavriel was far too confused and conflicted himself to much care about the younger male’s feelings at the moment.

He was relieved at the news, but that worry was still there. He cared about the girl now, and that wasn’t something so easily undone. And it was not only because of his own burgeoning affection.

Gavriel couldn’t help but worry for the girl on Rowan’s behalf. Particularly because of the look Rowan was currently giving her – that flaming, all-consuming look. Like he was the moon, looking at his own personal sun. Knowing that soon, it would all come to an end.

So as the pair of them began to disappear into the trees, Gavriel murmured, “Good luck, Rowan.”

Then he shifted, and ran off to join his fellow warriors. To head for the capital, where Maeve was lying in wait.

To head for Doranelle.

Chapter Text

Rowan’s footsteps were light as he padded through the mist-shrouded trees, Aelin by his side. The winds told him that Gavriel was now long gone, having shifted into his lion and headed off back to Doranelle.

Rowan had heard Gavriel’s last words, though they had barely been a brush at his back. “Good luck Rowan.” And he knew that he should’ve said something in return, should’ve said goodbye. But he hadn’t. Gavriel had nearly let Aelin die for them, and that wasn’t something Rowan could soon overlook.

That morning, he had asked Aelin about what happened. Actually, he had practically forced the information out of her. Eventually, she told him that only Gavriel had hesitated before running into the castle. That everyone else had just ran past her.

Then, Aelin had insisted on leaving Mistward, even though she should definitely still be in bed. Her muscles seemed strong, but her breaths were uneven, and every now and then, her hands seemed to tremble slightly.

Rowan cast Aelin a sidelong look as she hesitated before mounting a fallen tree. She stuck her tongue out at him.

Rowan just sighed, and continued to lead her through the undergrowth. He probably couldn’t have kept her inside even if she had been falling over her own feet. 

Though this diversion was against his wishes, he was just a little bit excited to show Aelin this place. He had come across it on one of his many flights through the mountains – a secluded pool, fed by a small waterfall, surrounded by flat, sun-warmed rocks.

He heard a small sigh dance through Aelin’s lips as they breached through the final line of trees and the pool came into view. The corners of his mouth twitched. The pool was even more beautiful than he remembered – it was lit up with shafts of golden light, and the sounds of bird calls echoed in the trees above, joining the tumble of the waterfall.

Rowan sat on a warm, flat stone, pulled off his boots, and rolled up his pants to dip his feet in the water. The mountain stream-fed pool was delectably cool in the summer sun.

Aelin moved to sit beside him, her face scrunched tight to hold in the groans she obviously wanted to set loose.

Rowan was frowning, but once Aelin spotted the disapproval written on his face, she just gave him a look that clearly was daring him to order her back to bedrest. Rowan had to hold in another sigh.

A few moments passed as Aelin rolled up her own clothes and dipped her feet into the water, her gaze searching up through the oaks to find the source of the birdsong.

Pain lined her face, exhaustion darkening the bags underneath her eyes. Aelin was hurting, no matter how much she wanted to hide it from him. She was hurting because of the King of Adarlan.

Rowan’s voice was quiet, but clear. “There is no undoing what happened with Narrok. Once the world hears that Aelin Galathynius fought against Adarlan, they will know you are alive. He will know you are alive, and where you are, and that you do not plan to cower. He will hunt you for the rest of your life.”

Aelin’s face didn’t change. “I accepted that fate from the moment I stepped outside the barrier.” She kicked at the water, causing an avalanche of ripples to echo across the pool. But the small movement also made her hiss in discomfort, her jaw tight with pain.

Rowan silently handed her the skein of pain-killing tonic, knowing that it was useless to ask her to head back to Mistward to rest. As she drank, Rowan could see her muscles relaxing, her soul seeming to sigh in relief.

They sat in silence for a time, letting the forest pool calm their whirring thoughts. It was nice to let go of the worry that had been so all-consuming these past days, to have a moment of peace together, where the past and the future didn’t feel so close.

But then, Aelin gasped.

Her eyes turned inward, and she no longer seemed entirely present. No longer aware of anything other than whatever revelation she was experiencing.

Rowan waited, hoping for explanations to spring unprompted from her lips. But as the seconds passed and she remained silent and unseeing, fear began to course through Rowan.

“What is it?” he asked.

“The third Wyrdkey – ” Aelin swore, breaking off.

“Aelin.” Rowan could hear the fear and hurt in his own voice. “Tell me what you learned.”

Her lips tightened. “Not while you are bound to her.”

“I am bound to her forever.”

“I know.” With that small phrase, Aelin shrouded the bright pool in gray, pulling the future back into their small moment of peace.

Rowan leaned over his knees, dipping his hands into the pool. “You’re right. I don’t want you to tell me. Any of it.”

“I hate that,” she breathed. “I hate her.”

Rowan’s jaw clenched, and he tried to not hear those words, or at least, tried not to remember them. They would only be another weapon Maeve could use against her. Instead he looked over at Goldryn, at the only weapon he could give her to help her. At the only thing that might keep her safe.

That morning, over breakfast, Aelin had explained the sword’s history to him. She had figured it out, had found the ring, and knew who it belonged to. She had pieced together the truth hidden in Emrys’ stories.

What was yet to be known was whether or not she would be able to use it to her advantage.

Silence built between them, like sheets of water, or clouds of mist. But then, Aelin broke it. “I have never told anyone this story. No one in the world knows it. But it’s mine,” she blinked furiously, sadness filling her scent, “and it’s time for me to tell it.”

Rowan leaned back on the rock, bracing his palms behind him. She couldn’t tell him whatever she had learned about the Wyrdkey, and though it hurt, he understood. So instead, she was giving him what she could – her story. The truth of her.

“Once upon a time,” Aelin said softly, her voice as light as the wind itself, “in a land long since burned to ash, there lived a young princess who loved her kingdom…very much.”

She told him everything. Everything that she had withheld, all the things in her past that she had not been able to face. And how the creatures, the Valg demons, had forced her to confront them.

Aelin told him of growing up in Terrasen, held fast in the wings of a mighty kingdom. Told him of a heart that was told to burn more softly. She told him of loneliness, and fear. But also of love.

And then, the pain of losing it all. Of waking up soaking wet in the blood of her parents. Of running, of hiding, and the indescribable horror of being found.

Aelin told him of the sacrifice of Lady Marion.

Of running through the snow and diving into the icy river. And of being saved, by the most unlikely person imaginable.

Aelin’s words were a gift given on golden hands. She gave Rowan her story freely and openly, without hesitation or any misgivings. She smiled, and laughed, and cried. And when the tears began to overflow, Rowan wiped them off her cheeks.

When she finished, Rowan merely passed Aelin more of the tonic. She smiled at him, sad but true. And Rowan felt those final whispers of that iron cage fall away into mist. Her magic swirled around them, tendrils of power pulsing in the sun-warmed air.

Rowan had kept his vow; Aelin was finally free.

He smiled back at her.

After a moment, Aelin held out her hand, her palm open over the still pool. And slowly, a droplet of water the size of a marble rose from the surface and into her waiting fingers.

Rowan smiled wider. “No wonder your sense of self-preservation is so pathetic, if that’s all the water you can conjure.”

He flicked her chin, and she grinned at him through her falling tears, sending the droplet splashing onto his face.

Rowan tossed her into the pool. A moment later, laughing, he jumped in himself.

···

A week passed, in toil and in celebration, and during that time, Aelin began to heal. But it was more than that – a weight was taken off of her shoulders. Her eyes were brighter, her limbs quicker, her steps lighter. And she was more beautiful than ever before.

That night, now that most of the demi-Fae had recovered, and grieved for their dead, Emrys was hosting a celebration. There would be food, drinks, fire, and dancing, and while Rowan wasn’t particularly thrilled about going himself, it was nice to see everyone in Mistward looking forwards to something. Especially Aelin.

What it really revealed to him was just how fond he had become of the small fortress and all of its residents. People for whom he had been indifferent to at best, had suddenly become as dear to him as the Fae he was closest to in Doranelle. Closer, even.

Emrys and Malakai and Luca had become significant figures in his life, no matter how strange that was to admit to himself. And seeing the three of them look at each other with joy in their eyes again, a family once more, warmed Rowan’s icy heart.

Emrys placed the feast on rickety wooden tables in the field where they had celebrated Beltane, those short weeks ago, and demi-Fae got to work arranging bonfires, ale, and music for the coming festivities.

Rowan and Aelin walked together up to the meadow, in companionable silence. Aelin was wearing a loose cotton dress that Rowan had never seen her in before. It didn’t fit her particularly well – loose in places and tight in others, probably borrowed. But it looked like it had been spun by pure sunlight.

The gown was simple, everyday. As she walked, the fabric shifted to reveal her common leather boots. But it also was cut to reveal the whole spread of her shoulders, framing her delicate collarbones beautifully. She looked like a shaft of gold hidden beneath the green tree boughs.

Rowan knew that Aelin had less than no interest in him in that way. But it was almost as though she had worn the dress to torment him specifically.

As they approached the field, music wafted to them on the air, and Aelin began to speed up her pace, until she was almost running through the trees, her golden hair wild and loose on the wind. She laughed, the sound wrapped in delight.

Aelin danced that night, and for the first time, Rowan felt he truly understood why she had been chosen as the Heir of Fire. It was because she was flame itself –bright and twisting and whirling and free. Wildness incarnate, touched by Mala herself.

She danced all through the darkness, her feet lighter than air as they floated over the ground. Often she had partners, but most of the time she was alone, spinning before fires of her own making. Flames filled with colors that Rowan wasn’t sure he’d ever seen before.

And then, late into the night, Aelin looked over to where he stood in the shadows, and their eyes met. And all of a sudden he knew. Her face was filled with that wild joy, her turquoise eyes framed with liquid gold, and he just knew.

Rowan loved her.

He had run into the Valg darkness because he was in love with her.

The newly-formed bond in his chest almost seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, relaxing into that love. But what immediately followed after was grief. Grief, and a fear so strong that Rowan found himself turning away from Aelin and walking back over to the other side of the clearing.

Soon though, very soon, Rowan found himself wishing that he had stayed where he was. For through the sleepy crowd, Rowan could just hear the voices of Emrys and Malakai having a quiet, though strained, discussion about…him.

“I talked with the sentries who were atop the battlements that night, and they told me that it was all true, they are carranam.” Malakai said.

Emrys’ voice was so soft as to be almost unintelligible. “Really? Even now, it’s so hard to believe…”

“It is the only way they could have defeated those creatures.”

“And Elentiya, a fire-user. I knew that she had to be powerful, what with the Queen coming to see her and all. But her mother had water magic, so I never thought – ”

“I know.” Malakai turned to look at the princess, who was currently hand in hand with a young female, as they laughed and twirled around a bonfire that was pulsing bright blue. “We owe her all our lives.”

“We owe both of them our lives. The Prince also.”

The old commander nodded. “Yes, and not only for destroying those demons. If his friends had not come…I’m not sure we would have survived the soldiers’ onslaught.”

Emrys nodded, his eyes downcast. “Still, I am worried, love. It almost feels as though ever since the second those two came to Mistward I’ve been worried for them.”

“They will likely leave soon, and then your worries can cease.”

Emrys’ jaw clenched. “If only. I can only imagine what they will be walking into when they leave here for Doranelle.”

“There’s nothing you can do about it, love.”

Emrys shook his head, his eyes far away. “She’s so young. And he is old.”

Malakai nodded, his eyes tight.

“And he is bound to her.”

Another nod.

“And I can’t help but think…that those soldiers were sent here for more than just an attack on the fortress. It can’t be a coincidence that she was here, Adarlan’s greatest enemy, when Adarlan attacked.”

Malakai pursed his lips, but remained quiet. Emrys sighed.

“Alright, alright. I’ll stop. Would you like…”

Rowan stopped listening, heading deeper into the crowd. Unable to stop the falling sensation that nearly rendered him dizzy.

They were right. Though this time, the reminder cut into him like a knife. There was nothing he could offer her, nothing but more chains. And never before had that felt like such a tragedy.

Rowan loved her, and she would never know. And even if they lived through the next few days, he would never see her again. He loved her, but it was a love doomed to loss. Perhaps it was no more than he deserved, to love again, only for it to be taken away. No more than he deserved for allowing his mate to die. 

Rowan walked out into the trees, turning away from the golden festival behind him, his vision just beginning to blur. He shifted, then flew out into the night, his tears becoming streaks of silver in the moonlight. His hawk wheeled around, heading back towards the meadow. Where Rowan caught one last glimpse of the golden princess, dancing wild and free, before soaring off into the mountains beyond.

···

Fenrys knelt. Beside his brother and fellow commanders. Before the queen who held his heart in her iron fist. He bowed his wolf’s head, his nose brushing the stones. Maeve smiled.

“I see you have returned from your ill-begotten journey.” The smile twisted, becoming a blade. “And you have brought Lorcan and Vaughan back with you. All the better.”

Her midnight gown shifted as she re-crossed her legs, delicate ankles peeking below the layers of chiffon. For a moment, Maeve just looked at them, and the air crackled with invisible tension. The desperation of the last breath beneath the guillotine blade.

Even from across the throne room, Fenrys could feel the dark Queen’s excitement. She reveled in her power over them. And for her, the anticipation was every bit as delectable as the feast.

“Of course, the sentries who were on duty that afternoon have all been disposed of.” Maeve studied her nails, casual as anything. “I would be unable to trust them to carry out their duties after such an egregious lapse.” Fenrys could have sworn her eyes flicked over to Gavriel and back again, her lips twitching.

The male was rigid. His every muscle taut. The waves of grief and guilt that pulsed from him were almost overpowering.

The weight in Fenrys’ gut solidified. Something was different this time around – something was sharper. More immediate, and intense. Maeve wasn’t reacting the way he had expected.

Fenrys’ paws slid over the stone as he shifted slightly, his wolf’s nails clacking lightly on the granite.

Maeve’s eyes met his. “I might have expected as much from you, Fenrys. Always pulling at the leash. You would leap at the chance to leave Doranelle. Even if it were only to escape my clutches for a few hours.” She leaned forwards, a cold laugh twisting her cheeks. “Betraying me was just a convenient bonus.”

Lorcan flinched. Though still, none of them spoke a word.

“But you, Connall. You, I was surprised about.” Maeve’s voice lilted in all the right places, her eyes promising violence. And delighting in that promise. Fenrys’ hackles began to rise, fury pooling in his gut. Fury at his own inability to do anything to prevent whatever was coming for them.

“I knew you cared for Rowan, knew you looked up to him. But to choose him, over me? Over your Queen?” A careful pause. “Obviously, I miscalculated.”

Then her gaze landed on Lorcan. And it was like she dealt him a physical blow, solely with the tilt of her head, the flicker of a frown. Lorcan nearly crumpled to his knees. His black eyes swum with pleading, with prayers, with that dark love of his.

Bile rose in Fenrys’ throat.

“And you. My second.” A pause where she carefully looked Lorcan up and down. Pure malice, undiluted and visceral, smearing over him in that look. “Lorcan Salvaterre.” The male tensed, and his silent pleas dropped from his lips with a nearly audible clink.

“Stand. And explain yourself.”

His commander got slowly to his feet, carefully putting one foot in front of the other. His gaze was fixed on the pale white stone of Maeve’s throne as he began to speak.

“We were halfway between the sea and the mountains when the letter reached us. I had caught up with Vaughn earlier that day, and we decided to stay at an inn for the night.” A jut of his chin. “Rowan made it clear in his letter that if we did not come to his aid, he, and everyone within Mistward, was going to die. So we went.”

“Just like that?” An arch of a sculpted brow.

Lorcan slowly nodded.

“Did you not consider, that had I deemed it necessary to assist the demi-Fae, I would have dispatched you myself?” Feigned innocence dripped from her words like poisoned honey. “Or did you in fact think me unaware of their plight?”

Lorcan only breathed, slow and steady, his lips tightly pursed.

Maeve’s eyes narrowed as she read the defiance there. “Evidently not. What happened once you arrived?”

A short swallow. “It took us all night to reach Mistward. At some point, we met up with Gavriel, Fenrys, and Connall. But once we got to the valley on the mountainside, it was already swathed in shadow. Four creatures were guarding the entrance, and attacking the fortress’ wards with dark magic. I attacked it with my own, but it did nothing. Whatever those creatures are, they are not of this world.”

Fenrys watched Maeve’s face closely, searching for any indication of recognition there. He found none, though her features were carefully schooled into blankness. He felt his own eyes narrow.

“Then, a golden light pierced through the veil of black, creating a bridge to let us through. A bridge made by Aelin Galathynius.”

This time, Fenrys saw a flicker of something akin to fear flash in the dark Queen’s eyes. Fear, and desire. What did the princess really mean to his Queen?

Still, Maeve kept silent, waiting for some unknown cue.

Lorcan swallowed once again, his face darkening. “We easily overpowered the soldiers in the tunnels, and Rowan ran back to join Aelin before the front gates. And together, they destroyed the creatures.”

Maeve’s eyes narrowed into deadly slits. “How?”

A shallow breath. Fenrys felt as the blood oath pulled at Lorcan’s soul, putting it under the edge of a knife-blade. “They – they are carranam.” Another breath. “Rowan gave Aelin his power, and she used it to melt the creatures from the inside out.”

Maeve leaned back into her throne, her features becoming contemplative. “Carranam. I see…” Her gaze danced over the ceiling, seemingly piecing together bits of information. “Hmm. And after?”

Lorcan’s words came easier now. “Only fifteen demi-Fae were lost. We put the surviving Adarlanian soldiers in the dungeons, but they took poison rather than risk being interrogated. Both Aelin Galathynius and Rowan survived without undue injuries.”

“And soon, they will return to Doranelle?”

Lorcan nodded.

“Good. Well then!” Maeve clapped her hands sharply, and a dark figure appeared from the hallway behind her throne. “Time to get on with it. Cairn – ” Fenrys’ stomach twisted violently, “ – why don’t you hand those over to Fenrys and Gavriel. Fenrys, shift.”

Fenrys felt as his body transformed without him asking it to, obeying his Queen’s every wish. He watched his paws become hands, felt clothes wrap over skin, all the while feeling very far away.

Cairn handed him an iron tipped whip with a smile, and Fenrys took it.

Maeve’s eyes met his, and Fenrys felt dread coating every one of his nerve endings. That was a look he understood. He knew it as intimately as anything. That face graced every one of his nightmares.

“Fenrys,” Maeve said delicately, “Stand behind Connall.”

There was an agony-filled second where Fenrys locked his muscles. Where he refused to move a single inch. It felt as though his soul was being slowly shredded by a grater.

Maeve’s smile widened, and the grating becoming a searing, ripping, furious agony – and he was walking, foot over foot, to stand behind his brother. But the pain did not go away.

Fenrys wasn’t really listening, but he sensed as Gavriel moved to stand behind Vaughn, and Cairn behind Lorcan. Watched as three silver tunics dropped onto the stones, one by one by one. Watched the bare flesh of their arched backs pebble in the chill air.

Fenrys knew what was coming. But that did not make it any easier to do. Only easier to keep silent, and still. As if the quiet could make it not real. As if it could help them all pretend it wasn’t happening.

There was a ruffle of silk as Maeve leaned back into her throne. “I command you all to continue until I say otherwise. Cairn – count the lashes.”

Fenrys retreated into the darkest, quietest part of his mind as his right arm raised automatically, preparing to strike. Preparing for the iron tipped whip to rent the flesh of his brother. The only person he truly cared for in all the world.

Connall was stiller than death.

Fenrys sensed, rather than saw, the vile sneer on Cairn’s face as he raised his own whip, and said, “One.”

Fenrys’ last thought before the iron descended was of the princess. And of the horrors that awaited her in the City of the Rivers.

Chapter Text

For the first time, seemingly in weeks, Rowan awoke with a clear head.

Today, they would leave Mistward. In the week that had passed since his…cadre’s…departure, the fortress had gotten no word from the capital. No summons, no orders. This did not comfort him.

Maeve knew everything, she had to. But instead of choosing to strike, she was biding her time. She knew that he had to return to Doranelle eventually. It was not to her advantage to drag them home early, and against their will.

As Rowan walked about their rooms, gathering various belongings, he couldn’t help but wonder what had happened upon the cadre’s return to the city. Couldn’t help but imagine what they had been forced to endure on his behalf.

Aelin stirred in bed, giving Rowan the chance to shake away those thoughts. He took it gratefully.

The princess sat up, her golden hair rumpled. Cloudy eyes found his. “It’s time to leave. Isn’t it?”

Rowan only nodded.

Within half an hour, they were ready to depart, and found themselves standing at the kitchen door, saying their goodbyes to Emrys, Malakai, and Luca.

Somewhere to his right, Aelin was enduring a torrent of worry and affection from Emrys, all while the old male shoved more food than Rowan thought was in the entire fortress pantry into her rapidly-filling pack. Rowan was facing Malakai, who seemed to be struggling to figure out what exactly to say.

The prince decided to take pity on the male. “It has been an honor, Commander,” he said firmly, with a slight bow of his head.

Malakai’s body jerked, his scent speaking of surprise. “…the very same, Your Highness.” The old commander also bowed his head, respect lining his brow.

A small smile graced Rowan’s lips as he backed away, allowing Aelin to say her final goodbyes without any interference.

The princess was looking at the three males, her brow furrowed with anxiety but her scent warm with affection. “It might take a while,” she was saying, “but if – when, I reclaim my kingdom, the demi-Fae will always have a home there. And you two – and Malakai – will have a place in my household, should you wish it. As my friends.”

Emrys’ eyes were gleaming as he nodded, gripping Luca’s hand. Malakai let the ghost of a smile intrude on his resolute expression. Rowan had to hold in a grin at the sight – the gruff commander really had let this female worm into his heart, whether he had wanted it or not.

Luca was openly staring at Aelin, his eyes filled with wonder. Rowan was not sure whether he had ever truly understood who he had spent all those weeks toiling beside in the kitchens. But there was no doubt in his mind now – this was a future queen standing before them. And no longer could anyone easily forget it.

Pride at everything Aelin had accomplished coursed through him. Pride and fondness. He had known that he loved her, deep in his heart, for days – weeks, really. Ever since he saw her looking back at him through the Valg darkness, and she smiled at him, with that Queen’s smile.

Aelin reached out and ruffled Luca’s hair, a warm smile stretching her cheeks. She made to turn and join Rowan at the edges of the trees, but before she could Emrys spoke up.

“Your mother would be proud,” he said. Aelin put a hand on her heart and bowed her thanks. Rowan knew without even needing to taste her scent that words wouldn’t be capable of communicating the depth of her gratitude.

But the morning was beginning to wane, so he cleared his throat softly. And Aelin gave the three males one last parting smile before she followed him into the trees.

Their feet were light as they padded over the leaf-dusted earth, their speed increasing until they were once again streaks of gold and silver through the misty undergrowth. Only this time, their path headed up the mountains to the east, in the direction of the rising sun. To Maeve, at last.

···

The whipping was no more than he deserved.

Lorcan didn’t have to say it out loud to know that it was true, though he’d found himself repeating it over and over again in his head over the past two days. Days that he had spent tied to a post in the stocks, being whipped by Cairn.

There was no warning before Cairn entered the small, muddy yard. No time for Lorcan to prepare. All of a sudden, he would feel a breath at his back, would hear the slight pull of feet in mud, and then the iron would rent his back.

Cairn worked at him for what felt like hours at a time, his every stroke of the whip coated with gleeful mutterings and shouted taunts. Lorcan knew that the vile male took every possible pleasure in having such power over him, that every sound he made would be played over in Cairn’s mind for weeks or months to come.

So Lorcan kept as silent as he could, each stroke of the whip becoming a vow of revenge.

He knew that he deserved punishment. But this, this was something different. This was personal. And Lorcan would take his vengeance on Cairn even if it took him unto the end of his life.

Mostly, Lorcan slept. And let the pain and rage consume him.

Even so, Lorcan couldn’t find it within himself to really regret the decision. The betrayal. Rowan had not lied – if they hadn’t come, Mistward would have fallen. They had saved him, and that fire-breathing bitch. This was just the price they had to pay.

But Lorcan wasn’t sure he would ever forget the sound of that word on his queen’s lips. Betrayal.

He had betrayed her. The one thing he had sworn never to do, not in his extraordinarily long life. And he had done it. When it came down to it, he had chosen Whitethorn’s life over his devotion to his Queen. Had chosen Rowan over Maeve.

And the truth of that decision shook him.

Maeve had found him in that hovel, those centuries past, had rescued him and nurtured him. Had made him into who he was. And yet he had betrayed her. It would be a long time before he would be able to reconcile that with himself.

He was her Second, her top commander, her most trusted confidant. He was responsible. The one in charge. He was at least as guilty as Whitethorn. He didn’t blame Maeve for her punishment of him, even as he hated Cairn for it. Even though he had betrayed his Queen, he could never hate her.

Ever since he had first beheld her, and felt the curls of her dark power brush his dark soul, he had loved her. There hadn’t been anything he could do about it. It was like they were made for each other, both creatures of darkness. Both Fae who stood alone and apart. Who were both loved, and hated, by those less powerful than they.

But she did not feel the same.

Her every rejection of him cut him to the quick. Lorcan tried not to let her see how much her indifference hurt him, but he knew that she knew. And that she gloried in it, in his suffering. Gloried in the way that they both knew this doomed courtship would never end, that he would never stop loving her, and she would never stop taunting him with that love.

Lorcan knew that she bedded Fenrys partially to spite him. Knowing that choosing him over Lorcan would hurt more than some noble, or courtier. And the fact that it worked infuriated him. But there was nothing he could do about it.

Other than perhaps be grateful that Rowan was her relation, however distant, and therefore could not be the blade of her choice. For it was certain that Maeve choosing Rowan to take to bed would hurt more than even Fenrys.

Rowan was his, not hers.

Or at least he was his. Not anymore.

Lorcan had lost Rowan to the clutches of some foreign whore. A bitch-queen from across the sea. And he had no idea how to get him back.

So Lorcan took his whipping with a curse, and a smile. Cairn was the least of his problems. And soon, Lorcan would ensure that the despicable male got what was coming to him.

Cairn left him there, bleeding on the stones, until day passed into night and then day again. And Gavriel and Fenrys came for him.

A key clicked in a lock, shackles fell into the mud with a thump, and Lorcan sagged to the ground, his limbs sighing in relief even as they wept fresh blood into the earth, red beneath his bloody body.

“Get him up,” Gavriel said softly, and Lorcan felt hands reach around his arms and pull him to his feet. “I’m sorry Lorcan, she ordered us not to heal your wounds with our power.”

Lorcan just grunted, forcing his legs to take his weight. They shook, but held. Fenrys began to guide him back up the path to the area of the palace that held their suites.

Lorcan frowned, but accepted the male’s assistance with as much grace as he could muster. He didn’t really have another choice.

“Anything to report?” Lorcan’s voice strained through gritted teeth. One step after the other, he said to himself, one step after the other.

“Nothing of any significance.” Gavriel shrugged. “We received word yesterday from the sentries that guard the western pass that the wolves spotted Rowan and Aelin making their way through the mountains.”

“So they are on their way to Doranelle.” Lorcan grunted.

“Evidently.”

“And when are they expected – ” he gasped, sucking in a breath through his teeth, “ – to arrive?”

“Within two or three days,” Gavriel said, soberly.

Fenrys, however, seemed to have a very different reaction. His scent filled with anger, and his muscles filled with tension, coiled to spring. He shook his head. “When Rowan gets here, I hope he suffers for what he’s done. I hope she drags him over hot coals for this.”

Gavriel turned in alarm, “Fenrys, you don’t – ”

“I mean it, Gavriel. I can’t wait to tell him what happened because he sent us those damned letters. To tell him that she tied Lorcan up in the yard and let Cairn – ”

“You will do no such thing.” Lorcan forced as much authority as he could into his pained voice. Fenrys frowned at him, confused. “You will not speak of this, not to Rowan, not to anyone.”

“But Lorcan – ”

“No, Fenrys. What’s done is done. There’s no changing it now. And it’s no use harping on about it like some upset child.”

Lorcan could feel Gavriel looking at him inquisitively, but Lorcan kept his eyes ahead, until they reached the familiar halls of the residential part of the castle and he shook off their assistance and told them to go and get some rest.

But before he could escape to his rooms, Fenrys tried to speak up one last time. “Lorcan, Rowan should – ”

“No, Fenrys. And I will not hear any more of this from you. You will not speak to Whitethorn about what happened here, and I’m tired of saying so. And if I find out that you defied a direct order, there will be consequences.” Lorcan stared him down, looking the young male directly in the eyes, until Fenrys nodded and turned away.

Gavriel nodded as well, and the two males left the stone corridor.

Lorcan collapsed facedown into bed, but for long minutes, sleep eluded him. He knew that within a couple of hours, or perhaps a day, his own magic would heal the wounds to his body. But right now, they hurt enough to keep him from sleep.

Rowan would have enough to face when he reached Doranelle, he didn’t need Fenrys attacking him at first opportunity as well. And the knowledge of what Maeve had done because Rowan had called for their aid…he didn’t need that weighing on his soul.

Rowan hadn’t really had another choice. He needed to save the fortress, and the demi-Fae. Needed to save the female he loved.

Lorcan turned over in bed, the sheets rustling as he groaned in pain. If Lorcan knew nothing else, he knew how far one would go for the one they loved.

···

Rowan awoke with the rustling of leaves, and the flicker of a breeze over his cheeks. It whispered of birds chattering, a far-off stream, of the coming dawn, and of the countless dreams of slumbering Fae, hidden just from sight.

He rose slowly, his eyes automatically flicking over to his left side to check on the female who was still slumbering there. Aelin’s eyes flickered beneath her lids, her brow furrowed and her mouth open, letting the occasional bated breath escape. Telltale signs of nightmares haunting her sleep.

Rowan frowned and stood. There was nothing he could do, and she needed all the sleep she could get, even if that sleep was restless. Today, she would meet with the Queen of the Fae, and show her all that she had learnt.

They had camped that night at the top of a hill, at the bottom of which you could see the rivers that would lead them through the rest of the valley and right up to the stone walls of Doranelle. Rowan strode through their small camp, heading east to where the first glints of the rising sun could be gleaned over the ruffled edge of the horizon.

Below him, the river water churned, gray and violent and deep. Surely a promise of what was to come.

Today, he would see Maeve again. For the first time in months. For the first time since he had realized the true depth of what he had given up the day he swore her the blood oath. Rowan wondered how long it would take her before she knew that she had lost him forever. Wondered if she already knew. Surely Lorcan and Gavriel had told her what happened at the ward-gates? Surely she must have guessed?

Either way, all would be decided before nightfall. Relief and panic warred within him, fighting for dominance. Both held fast.

Rowan turned to glance back at the queen – his Queen – shifting on her bed of leaves, close to wakefulness. She was so beautiful. Everything he wanted, and everything he couldn’t have.

But something that he just had to save. Someone he had to save.

Desperation began to overflow within him, breaking through the final barriers of ice surrounding his heart. And then, as he turned back to face the now-rising sun, it happened.

At first, it was just a brush, like a trail of burning fingertips, across his brow and down his cheek. Then the feeling of a Presence. Greater and more terrible than he had ever thought to comprehend. Greater than any he could possibly imagine.

She was the sun and the stars and the hearth and the candleflame, the great and the small, the important and the insignificant. She was more than any would ever know, more than thousands of years of worship could appreciate.

She was Mala Firebringer.

And like a sunbeam though the morning dew, she appeared before Rowan Whitethorn, Prince of Doranelle, Lieutenant and second to Lorcan Salvaterre, and bloodsworn to Maeve, The Queen of All the Fae, a silent question ready on her lips.

What ails you so, Prince of Ice?

Rowan wanted to fall to his knees, to avert his eyes, to fall into some remembered prayer from childhood lessons. Yet he was frozen in place.

She was barely more than an outline, a shaft of light enclosed in the rising sun, but he felt her mighty power and strange gentleness as potently as if she were standing right next to him. And that mighty power felt…familiar. Like something he had already learned to love.

So Rowan breathed in her unknowable scent and offered up his desperate prayer.

Rowan Whitethorn begged the Goddess of Dawn to protect Aelin Galathynius. To keep her safe from Maeve when they entered Doranelle, to give her strength and guidance, and to let her walk out alive.

And yet Mala waited. Her question still unanswered. A hidden truth not yet acknowledged.

So Rowan unlocked that final door, and told Mala what truly weighed on his heart. Not for Aelin to survive, or to leave safely, having secured her armies and her peace. But for them to stay together. For Rowan to remain with Aelin, the woman he loved. Here or in any other world.

And as he admitted that, the deepest truth of his heart, Rowan felt the goddess smile at him, across time and space, through other worlds and bearing the prayers of thousands, as she disappeared into the brightening sun.

Aelin awoke, and moved to stand beside him. She cast him a questioning look, which he left unanswered. He didn’t know if he could explain what had just passed. But he knew that it had been something permanent, unchangeable.

They packed up camp and began to scale the hill, following the rushing river back to its source. To Doranelle they went, for their futures to be decided. To Doranelle, where a dark Queen lay in her spider’s web, waiting to pounce. To Doranelle, with the grace of a goddess bestowed upon them, their blades sharp, their steps light, and their eyes bright with star fire.

To Doranelle.

Chapter Text

Gavriel’s muscles tensed, his lion’s form becoming as solid as stone atop a sentry post, as he watched the shapes of Rowan and Aelin pass over the west bridge and into the capital city.

Rowan looked nearly as tense as he felt, his fingers inches from hidden blades, his eyes darting at every movement. The male made a sweep of the city walls and battlements, noting every guardsman and posting. For a moment, butterflies passed through Gavriel as Rowan’s searching gaze swept over him. And though he saw Rowan mentally take note of the two guards at his side, Gavriel was too well hidden to be seen from the ground.

Rowan’s gaze moved on, though Gavriel did not relax. Instead the old male’s eyes traveled sideways, where they examined the princess who was trailing a few paces behind Rowan.

Her eyes were guarded, but she looked like she had recovered well over the past week. Her gait was even and strong, her face its normal golden tone, and she shouldered her pack easily and without effort. What really struck him, however, was the look in her eyes as her upturned face gazed at the city before her.

Her look was awestruck, wondrous; her searching gaze the stark opposite to her surly companion. She catalogued the towers and cobbles and gates of Doranelle with affection, rather than suspicion. It was almost as though she were the warrior returning home, rather than the enemy princess seeking to upend Doranelle’s court.

Under normal circumstances, it might have made him smile.

Instead, Gavriel only shifted, grimacing as pain ghosted up his wounded back. Though the whipping had been days earlier, Maeve had forbidden they use magic to heal their wounds, and the marks had festered. Meaning Gavriel would be dealing with the aches for weeks to come.

Not that mere flesh wounds were the only, or the greatest, consequences of that fateful afternoon. Images swirled before his eyes, hands and faces and shadows of the lost men. Fae that he had trained, had worked alongside, had traveled with, had disciplined, praised, drank with, and fought with.

Fae that he might as well have killed himself.

Maeve had killed them, had killed them all – just like that. A whole guard. Dozens of men, executed because he had decided to leave Doranelle.

Remorse pooled in Gavriel’s stomach. Remorse that was very nearly regret. He knew that if he were faced with the choice again, he likely wouldn’t change his decision. And that filled him with shame. That he would choose a castle of demi-Fae over his countrymen, the Fae soldiers he lived and worked with every single day of his life, the soldiers protecting the Queen that he was sworn to, shook him.

That loyalty to hearth and home, that devotion, was one of the most important pieces of his identity. And the knowledge that he had overturned it all, had sacrificed those men all because of a girl that he had thought was his daughter and a male he could barely call a friend, shamed him.

He knew it wasn’t the girl’s fault. He had made those decisions himself, and he would live with the consequences. But still, he couldn’t help but feel the slightest twinge of irritation towards her.

Perhaps even if he hadn’t left, even if he and Fenrys and Connall had stayed, the fortress could have still pulled through. Vaughan and Lorcan still ran to their aid. Perhaps it would have been enough. And an entire palace guard would not have been slaughtered in retribution.

Gavriel would never know. What he did know was that if he had not gone, and Rowan, Lorcan, Vaughan, the princess, and the entire castle of demi-Fae had died as a result, then he wouldn’t have been able to live with himself.

So instead of continuing to wallow, Gavriel would shoulder his grief. And in a few days, when this tumult had died down, he and Rowan would add sixteen new names to the tattoos marking his skin. Right between his shoulder blades, where the marks of the whip had lain.

Now in Fae form, the old commander turned to the other two soldiers standing guard atop the stone roof and said, “Warn me when they pass through the second battlement. And alert the city guard that Prince Rowan Whitethorn has returned, bearing with him, a potential threat.”

The two females both nodded, looking alert. One went off to convey the message even as Gavriel shifted once again, and took off into the streets of Doranelle. It took him only a few moments before he was climbing the steps to the palace entrance, and then making his way through the labyrinthine complex to where he knew his Queen was waiting for him.

She stood on a balcony overlooking the city, clad in a gown blacker than night. She turned as he approached, her eyes expectant.

Gavriel shifted, and spoke. “They passed over the western bridge, and are about to enter the city.”

“Good.” Maeve’s eyes stared into the distance. “And how is our little princess doing?”

“She appears to have recovered well.”

Maeve just nodded. “Tell the twins that I command them follow them through the city, though they must stay out of sight and return to join me in the throne room once they reach the palace entrance.”

Gavriel bowed even as the bond in his chest twisted slightly, acknowledging the order. “Shall I join the twins in the city, then?”

Maeve shook her head, her lips twitching. “No. I have another task for you, Gavriel. On my desk you will find the tools necessary for you to fulfill it.”

Maeve turned to once again look over Doranelle, while Gavriel strode back into the inner chamber. A large, ornate wooden desk sat waiting for him in the center of the room, a plush settee placed at its other side. Atop the carved mahogany work surface lay two iron tipped whips, that were all too familiar.

Cold fingertips brushed over the iron, wary, and hesitant. Almost as though if Gavriel gripped the weapons, the wounds would reopen, and he would feel their collective agony writhing beneath his skin. And who was to say how many Fae these tools had damaged? Certainly more than he could count.

And Maeve kept them in her rooms, treasured objects on display for all to see. Far from rough tools, the whips were of exquisite craftsmanship. The tips and handles formed by Doranelle’s very best smiths, whorls and spirals of ironwork freshly polished of dried blood. Good as new.

“Find Lorcan as well,” Maeve’s voice floated over to him through the open glass doors, “He is to join you.”

Gavriel collected himself. “And you wish us to wait…?”

“Outside the audience chamber.”

He nodded and began gathering up the implements, but before he turned from the room he decided to risk one question. “Majesty, how – how do you see this conflict resolving? What do you think she will do?”

Maeve turned to him, her face split into a satisfied grin. “Do not fret, Gavriel. It can only go one of very few ways. And all are in our favor.” And she gestured from him to depart.

So Gavriel bowed one final time, then left the antechamber to collect Lorcan and the twins, his heart heavy in his chest.

···

Rowan stepped carefully out of the trees, making himself completely visible to the city’s sentries for the first time. He had to hold in a breath as Aelin joined him, facing the field separating them from the rivers that guarded the capital city. There was no turning back now.

“I assume you normally fly right in and don’t deign to use the bridges,” Aelin said, her tone light – though Rowan could sense the tension beneath it.

He just frowned and nodded vaguely, eyeing the western bridge. He could see the guards manning their usual places along the battlements, and on each of the two large bridges. Nothing looked out of place, nothing worth cataloguing. Though he was sure that would change once they entered the city proper.

Aelin was looking as well, though instead of distrust or wariness, her scent filled with wonder and admiration. And for a second, Rowan thought to see the city through her eyes. Doranelle was a magnificent place, all pale stone and clear water, gray cobbles and blue tiled rooftops. Elegant architecture pierced through clouds of mist billowing from the nearby waterfall

Although, for the first time Rowan approached the beautiful city with nothing but suspicion. It was no longer his home, no matter what happened in the next few hours. He had felt more at home in Mistward these past few weeks than he had ever felt within the walls of Maeve’s palace.

Though perhaps that was far more to do with the female at his side, than the fortress itself.

“Well,” Aelin said, taking an exaggerated breath and patting Goldryn’s hilt. “Let’s go see our beloved aunt. I’d hate to keep her waiting.” And together, they stepped forwards into the field, following the well-trodden market paths towards the western bridge. Seeming for all the world two weary travelers taking refuge in the city of rivers.

The two of them weren’t stopped as they mounted the stone bridge, though the guards eyed them carefully. So Rowan and Aelin strode cautiously past Fae pulling carts loaded with everything from vegetables to hay to wire, bearing their goods to market to sell. No one glanced their way.

It was now coming on evening, and the cobblestones were dark with shadows and the windows bright with reflections of the setting sun. Fae wandered through the streets, music floating from hidden courtyards while more Fae danced all around them, purchasing mulled cider and candied maple syrup from street vendors.  

Aelin was wrapped up in the magic of it all, in the movement and the grace and laughter. He knew she was still on her guard, but the wonder in her eyes and in her scent was enough to nearly bring a smile to his face, despite the fear that filled him.

Rowan almost wished that he had had the chance to show her his city properly, to take her to the amphitheaters and temples and shops. And especially, the libraries -  both those in the city and in the palace. There were treasures there anybody would cherish, and Aelin, he knew, would revel in them. But alas, it was not to be.

They slowly passed through the winding stone paths, Rowan guiding Aelin towards the gleaming palace gates that were waiting for them at the city’s north face, right where the huge rivers gathered into the mighty waterfall.

In the meantime, Rowan kept careful watch of their surroundings, marking the faces and postures of each guard they passed. Soon after they had passed through the gate and beneath the battlements, his winds had whispered to him of the shadows of great wolves following their progress from back alleys and behind rooftops.

He kept careful tabs on their movements, but the twins never came within fifty feet of them. However, they were not the only ones assigned to follow their progress to the stone palace. High above, a dozen or so birds of prey circled, like vultures over a dying animal.

All of them hawks.

Maeve had sent his own family to watch over him, to threaten him. To threaten Aelin.

Rowan’s frown deepened, and he knew that at that moment, every line of his body would be promising violence. Fae nearby skittered away, repulsed. He wanted to snarl at the air, to transform and attack Endymion and Sellene and all the rest, and drive them back into their hollows.

But he couldn’t. So he settled for flashing his teeth, and redoubling the vigilance of his watch.

Each second was an hour, each minute a day. But eventually, they reached the steps of the palace. The shadows that were Fenrys and Connall melted away, and the hawks overhead spun off in all different directions. Rowan began to feel that tell-tale pull in his chest; the blood oath beginning to eat into his heart, forcing his feet forwards.

They were escorted by two youthful pages, each disguising their terror beneath stoic masks. The pages guided them through the familiar corridors and chambers, heading straight for Maeve’s throne room.

Anticipation curled in his gut. The watchful eyes of the palace guards followed their every movement, sweaty hands clutching at spears and sword handles. The anxiety he felt seemed to be filling the whole of the palace. He could hear the whispers of silk as courtiers rushed about, their soft footsteps brushing over the pale stone, barely audible over the sounds of rushing water.

Everything seemed to be balancing on the edge of a knife, and the whole palace was waiting to see which way they would topple.

The pages melted into the background as they approached the entrance to the throne room. And Rowan’s heart leapt into his throat as he quietly pushed open the stone doors, and stepped out onto the waiting veranda.

Maeve was waiting for them.

Fenrys and Connall were at her flanks, resting on the dais in their wolf forms and monitoring their approach with alert eyes. The sound of the waterfall was loud with the spring snowmelt, though Rowan could still hear as Maeve shifted her legs, black silk ruffling on skin.

The gown Maeve had chosen was darker than the blackest night, and it conformed to her shape almost as armor. Ready for the battlefield. Her violet eyes flicked over him before they came to rest squarely on Aelin.

Rowan approached the throne of white stone and knelt. “Majesty.”

Maeve did not acknowledge him. “It would seem that you have accomplished your task, Aelin Galathynius.”

Even with his head down, Rowan could feel Aelin’s smile at the dark Queen’s taunt. Another test she had passed – a name and title she was now ready to reclaim.

“Indeed,” she said simply.

Maeve deigned to glance down at Rowan, though she still did not release him from his bow. “I will admit that I am surprised that you managed to gain his approval so swiftly.” She leaned back in her throne, “So show me then. A demonstration of what you have learned these months.”

Aelin did not flinch. “I would prefer to first retrieve the knowledge you’re keeping to yourself.”

Maeve clicked her tongue. Rowan wanted to smile. Aelin was far from that scared-shitless vagrant Maeve had met in the halls of Mistward those months ago. And he knew that she was surprised, and impressed, against her will.

“You don’t trust my word?” Maeve asked.

“You can’t believe I’d give you everything you want with no proof you can deliver your side of the bargain.”

Maeve narrowed her eyes. “The Wyrdkeys.”

“How they can be destroyed, where they are, and what else you know of them.”

“They cannot be destroyed. They can only be put back in the gate.”

Aelin’s scent was tinted with dread, coloring her previous confidence. “How can they be put back in the gate?”

“Don’t you think they would already have been restored to their home if anyone knew?”

“You said you knew about them.”

Maeve’s smile deepened, she knew she was gaining the upper hand. Rowan’s stomach twisted. “I do know about them. I know they can be used to create, to destroy, to open portals. But I do not know how to put them back. I never learned how, and then they were taken by Brannon across the sea and I never saw them again.”

Aelin pushed on. “What did they look like? What did they feel like?”

Rowan heard Maeve’s skirts shift once again, her arm reaching forwards to gesture at Aelin – a cupped palm. “Black and glittering, no more than slivers of stone. But they were not stone – they were like nothing on this earth, in any realm. It was like holding the living flesh of a god, like containing the breath of every being in every realm all at once. It was madness and joy and terror and despair and eternity.”

Nausea rose in Rowan’s stomach. The thought of Maeve possessing even one of the keys was horrifying, beyond comprehension. And the possessive lilt in her voice, the desire there, left no doubt in Rowan’s mind her true purpose. She wanted those keys even as much as she wanted Aelin.

“And what else can you tell me about them?”

“That’s all I can recall, I’m afraid.” Maeve’s eyes flickered, victory hidden within their depths.

Aelin did not falter, shifting to another line of attack. “The Valg princes – what can you tell me of them?”

For a few moments, Maeve stalled. Considering her answer. Finally, “Ah – yes. My men informed me of their presence.” Another pause. “There are many different races of Valg – creatures that even your darkest nightmares would flee from. They are ruled by the princes, who themselves are made of shadow and despair and hatred and have no bodies to occupy save those that they infiltrate. There aren’t many princes – but I once witnessed an entire legion of Fae warriors devoured by six of them within hours.”

Rowan felt a chill go up his spine. Anxiety permeated the veranda as Aelin also reacted to the news, and even the twins shuffled in place, their hackles rising.

“But I killed them with my fire and light – ”

Maeve interrupted. “How do you think Brannon won himself such glory and a kingdom? He was a discarded son of nobody, unclaimed by either parent. But Mala loved him fiercely, so his flames were sometimes all that held the Valg princes at bay until we could summon a force to push them back.”

This time, it was Aelin who hesitated, thoughts whirring behind a careful mask. Then she asked, very slowly, “Brannon wasn’t royal-born?”

Maeve cocked her head, a viper preparing to strike. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you what the mark on your brow means?”

“I was told it was a sacred mark.”

A wicked smile. “Sacred only because of the bearer who established your kingdom. But before that, it was nothing. Brannon was born with the bastard’s mark – the mark every unclaimed, unwanted child possessed, marking them as nameless, nobody. Each of Brannon’s heirs, despite their noble lineage, has since been graced with it – the nameless mark.”

Aelin’s anxiety continued to mount. Rowan wished he could see her face, could read the thoughts that would be written there, but his head was still forced down, to the stones before Maeve’s throne. His back began to ache in irritation.

“Why did it glow when I dueled Cain, and when I faced the Valg princes?”

“Perhaps your blood merely recognized the presence of the Valg and was trying to tell you something. Perhaps it meant nothing.”

 “Are fire and light the only way to kill the Valg princes?”

“They are hard to kill, but not invincible,” Maeve admitted. “With the way the Adarlanian king compels them, cutting off their heads to sever the collar might do the trick. If you are to return to Adarlan, that will be the only way, I suspect.”

Because in the western continent, magic was still contained. Once Aelin returned, she would be left with little more than her wits and her blades. The image of her, fighting those creatures with nothing but a sliver of metal to protect her, did not sit well with him.

“If the king is indeed summoning the Valg to his armies, what can be done to stop them?”

“The King of Adarlan, it seems, is doing what I never had the nerve to do while the keys were briefly in my possession. Without all three keys, he is limited. He can only open the portal between our worlds for short periods, long enough to let in perhaps one prince to infiltrate a body he has prepared. But with all three keys, he could open the portal at will – he could summon all the Valg armies, to be led by the princes in their mortal bodies, and…” Maeve’s voiced seemed mildly intrigued, though the outline she constructed was horrific. “And with all three keys, he might not need to rely on magically gifted hosts for the Valg. There are countless lesser spirits amongst the Valg, hungry for entrance to this world.”

Aelin seemed equally horrified. Though she hid it well. “He’d have to make countless collars for them, then.”

“He would not need to, not with all three keys. His control would be absolute. And he would not need living hosts – only bodies.”

Rowan felt his muscles contract, tensing on the cold hard stone. An army of the dead, under his absolute control… he heard Aelin’s heart skip a beat.

“He could have an army of the dead, inhabited by the Valg.”

Maeve nodded. “An army that does not need to eat or sleep or breathe – an army that will sweep like a plague across your continent, and others. Maybe other worlds, too.”

Panic swept over the princess, and for a horrible moment, it seemed as though it might overwhelm her. Maeve waited with bated breath, leaning forwards on her throne. And when the seconds continued to tick past, and the princess did not speak, Maeve’s smile deepened. Fear lined Rowan’s gut, coating it in acid.

There was still time, he told himself, time for her to bargain. To use the ring, and acquire the tenuous peace she so desperately needed.

“As for the locations of the three keys,” Maeve said, “I do not know where they are. They were brought across the sea, and I have not heard of them again until these past ten years. It would seem that the king has at least one, probably two. The third, however…” Maeve looked Aelin up and down, her gaze searching, cataloguing. To Rowan’s relief, she did not flinch. “You have some inkling of its whereabouts, don’t you?”

Aelin remained silent.

“Don’t you?” Maeve pressed.

Another pause, and then, “No, I don’t.”

Maeve’s smile widened. “Rowan, rise and tell me the truth.”

A vice on his heart, immediate, and strong. And against his will, he was rising, his hands clenched at his sides. He kept his mouth shut for as long as he could before the pain became unbearable.

He swallowed. Once. Twice. “She found a riddle, and she knows the King of Adarlan has at least the first key, but doesn’t know where he keeps it. She also learned what Brannon did with the third – and where it is. She refused to tell me.”

His hands trembled, from the aftereffects of the pain, but also from shame. Never before had he wanted so badly to be someone else, to be anyone else. To be the person that Aelin told her secrets to. The person who could keep them safe.

Maeve tutted. “Keeping secrets, Aelin? From your aunt?”

“Not for all the world would I tell you where the third key is.” Aelin’s voice was strong, resolute.

Maeve was jubilant. “Oh, I know,” she purred, then snapped her fingers and the twin wolves rose to their feet, shifting in flashes of white light. They avoided Rowan’s gaze.

And, with a waft of wind, Rowan knew what was coming. Lorcan and Gavriel appeared from the hidden antechamber at his back, their scents mixing in a melody of duty and regret and anger. An all-too familiar song. Two iron-tipped whips clutched between white knuckles.

Fenrys and Connall moved towards him, wrapping their fingers around his wrists and guiding him to his knees. Rowan didn’t flinch, didn’t struggle. This was as familiar a pattern as any within Maeve’s circle. And he knew that they did not do it from hatred, or from malice. He knew they did not desire to inflict the pain that he knew was coming.

Lorcan did not hesitate before ripping Rowan’s jacket, tunic, and shirt from him, his bare skin feeling vulnerable beneath the mist off the waterfall. Rowan knew exactly what the male would look like, knew every line of his dark face. And he knew that while Lorcan would not regret bestowing the beating Rowan was about to receive, deep in his black heart Lorcan hated having to give it.

Rowan raised his eyes, glancing over to look at Aelin’s terror-stricken face, and his heart constricted. Maeve knew. She knew that Aelin had been a slave. What she had endured. This punishment was as much for her as it was for him.

Guilt overwhelmed any remaining trickle of fear in his limbs as behind him, he heard the whistle of air as Gavriel and Lorcan raised the whips, readying to strike.

“Until she answers me,” Maeve said, casual as anything.

And just before the iron descended, Aelin’s cracked whisper floated before him. “Please,” she begged. Then the iron sliced through his back, renting the flesh from crown to hip.

Rowan sagged, gritting his teeth and hissing with pain. But it was not the switch that cut him to the quick. It was the terror quickly flooding the veranda, the grief and horror of the princess that he so loved. Her pain hurt him far more than his ever could.

“Please,” she said again, desperate. But before Rowan could react, the second whip was flying, carving through his flesh like butter.

Rowan shuddered, locking a gasp between his teeth. Once his body recovered from the shock, he took a deep, careful breath. Letting the air relax his limbs once again. Pace yourself, he thought, pace yourself. Don’t make this any harder for her than it has to be.

Maeve’s voice cut through the pain. “How long this lasts depends entirely on you, niece.”

“Stop it,” Aelin growled.

Maeve’s delight was as sweet as wine, poisoned by a lover at dinner. It suffused the veranda with the smell of rotten fruit, fermenting in the sun. Joining the scent of his blood on the stones.

“Not for all the world, Aelin? But what about for Prince Rowan?”

Another strike, another breath. Another piece torn from his heart at the terror in Aelin’s eyes.

“Tell me where the third Wyrdkey is, Aelin.”

Crack. Slice. Agony.

A breath tumbled from Aelin’s lips, and she opened her mouth as if to speak, but before she could, Rowan gritted his teeth and lifted his head, forcing his gaze onto her.

Her face melted with pity and sympathy, and though he knew that she could read the words in his eyes, he still needed to say it. To push aside the blood oath and make sure that she understood that he would bear whatever he needed to. Would die if necessary, to keep that knowledge out of Maeve’s hands.

“Don’t,” Rowan said, pain and defiance and desperation coloring his voice.  

And he watched as Aelin’s expression shifted, from desperate to raging, from pained to powerful, and the scent of burning embers passed beneath his nostrils. The only warning of what was to come.

Rowan’s lips slipped into a smile, just as Aelin set the whole world on fire.

Her power ripped through their shields as if they were paper. Rowan’s blood turned to steam as it fell from his body, and beside them, the waterfall stopped its pounding roar – turning to vapor before it could reach the river below.

All was silent on the veranda, in the palace, in the whole city – as golden flames wrapped around them, brushing over their skin with the lightest of touches. Beautiful, and yet hauntingly indifferent. Rowan could hear shouts beginning to rise from the city, as Fae tried to understand what was happening. Tried to fight it.

All failed.

Aelin’s eyes were bricks of solid gold as she looked over at Maeve, her gaze holding not even the possibility of absolution. Maeve’s face was white as bone as she slowly stood, descending from her throne. The two Queens looked at each other, the light and the dark, finally coming to an understanding.

Aelin’s lips twitched slightly as she turned up the heat.

Rowan’s eyes were wide. The entire island was wreathed in wildfire, and Aelin was controlling it on her own. He hung from the twin’s arms, unable to come to his feet. But the heat of her flames was lovely on the wounds on his back, and he could feel the flesh beginning to knit itself back together. Rowan tried to rally as best as he could, hoping that if it came to a fight, he would be able to protect Aelin from anything lethal.

“You wanted a demonstration,” Aelin said softly, “One thought from me, and your city will burn.”

“It is stone,” Maeve snapped.

Aelin only smiled. “Your people aren’t.”

Maeve’s nostrils flared. “Would you murder innocents, Aelin? Perhaps. You did it for years, didn’t you?”

Her smile didn’t falter. “Try me. Just try to push me, Aunt, and see what comes of it. This was what you wanted, wasn’t it? Not for me to master my magic, but for you to learn just how powerful I am. Not how much of your sister’s blood flows in my veins – no, you’ve known from the start that I have very little of Mab’s power. You wanted to know how much I got from Brannon.”

Aelin’s chin rose as the flames grew higher, inching towards the stars. And then she began to speak. “You never gave the keys to Brannon. And you didn’t journey with Brannon and Athril to retrieve the keys from the Valg.”

A crown of fire wreathed her head, marking Aelin as the Queen she was. “You went to steal them for yourself. You wanted to keep them. Once Brannon and Athril realized that, they fought you. And Athril…” She drew Goldryn, its hilt glowing bloodred. “Your beloved Athril, dearest friend of Brannon … when Athril fought you, you killed him. You, not the Valg. And in your grief and shame, you were weakened enough that Brannon took the keys from you. It wasn’t some enemy force who sacked the Sun Goddess’s temple. It was Brannon. He burned any last trace of himself, any clue of where he was going so you would not find him. He left only Athril’s sword to honor his friend – in the cave where Athril had first carved out the eye of that poor lake creature – and never told you. After Brannon left these shores, you did not dare follow him, not when he had the keys, not when his magic – my magic – was so strong.”

With each word of her speech, Rowan could see Maeve hardening, her eyes narrowing as she calculated, reforming her plans.

“That was why you abandoned your land in the foothills and left it to rot. That was why you built a city of stone surrounded by water: so Brannon’s heirs could not return and roast you alive. That was why you wanted to see me, why you bargained with my mother. You wanted to know what manner of threat I would pose. What would happen when Brannon’s blood mixed with Mab’s line.”

Aelin opened her arms wide, Goldryn burning bright in one hand. “Behold my power, Maeve. Behold what I grapple with in the deep dark, what prowls under my skin.”

Aelin exhaled, and with her breath, every single flame in the city was extinguished. Every light, every candle, every hearth. And the world was plunged into darkness.

Aelin stalked over to Rowan. One look and a flash of her teeth was enough for the twins to release him. And Gavriel and Lorcan made no move to stop her as Aelin reached forwards and pulled him into her arms.

“Aelin,” he murmured, his lips forming the prayer, “Aelin.”

She held him close, their breaths coming as one, and the lights rekindled.

But the moment could not last. “Rowan,” Maeve’s voice was higher than usual, “come here.”

Her words cinched over his heart, and he stiffened, grunting with pain. Maeve was still standing at the base of her dais, her dress stained with soot, face shining with sweat.

Rowan staggered over to her, the movement re-opening the wounds at his back and they began to once again weep with blood. He swayed slightly in place.

A rage like no other poured from the dark Queen. “Give me that sword and get out,” she said, seething, and extended a hand for Goldryn.

Aelin calmly shook her head. “I don’t think so. Brannon left it in that cave for anyone but you to find. And so it is mine, through blood and fire and darkness.” She sheathed Goldryn at her side. “Not very pleasant when someone doesn’t give you what you want, is it?”

Rowan could feel it creeping up on them. The final moment. The last words before the parting. Though his heart swam with sorrow, he found himself clinging to Aelin’s every word, committing every detail to memory. Every cadence, every lilt. He never wanted to forget the sound of her voice.

Maeve’s lips thinned. “You will pay for this.”

Aelin just walked forwards, took Maeve’s hand, and said, “Oh, I don’t think I will,” throwing her mind open to the queen.

For a long moment, both of their eyes were dark, empty. Turned inwards as they shared whatever secret Aelin had prepared for this exact moment. Rowan just hoped that it would be enough.

When they broke apart, Maeve’s jaw was slack, her eyes wide. Whatever Aelin had shown her, it had worked. The Queen was afraid. Hope, violent, deceitful, disloyal hope began to grow in Rowan’s chest. Taking over everything.

“I suggest,” Aelin said carefully, “that you think very, very carefully before threatening me or my own, or hurting Rowan again.”

“Rowan belongs to me,” Maeve hissed. “I can do what I wish with him.”

Aelin paused, then turned to look at him. Their eyes met, and Rowan knew that Aelin could see everything. All that he had tried to hide, all that was so desperately trying to burst from his chest.

In her eyes, Rowan thought he saw that same pain. And that same hope.

Slowly, carefully she drew an object from her pocket. Athril’s ring. Maeve went as still as death.

“I think you’ve been looking for this for a long time,” Aelin said.

“That does not belong to you.”

“Doesn’t it? I found it, after all. In Goldryn’s scabbard, where Brannon left it after grabbing it off Athril’s corpse – the family ring Athril would have given you someday. And in the thousands of years since then, you never found it, so…I suppose it’s mine by chance.” She closed her fist around the ring. “But who would have thought you were so sentimental?”

Maeve’s lips thinned. “Give it to me.”

Aelin forced out a laugh. “I don’t have to give you a damn thing.”

Rowan turned to face the waterfall, hiding his face where Aelin would not be able to see the unrestrained agony there. Here it was, that final moment. And Rowan was no more prepared for it than he had been from the beginning.

Aelin’s voice sounded far away as she said, “I’ll make a trade with you, though.” He felt Maeve’s interest rise. “Your beloved’s ring – for Rowan’s freedom from his blood oath.”

The world stuttered, and then halted completely. The breath was stolen from Rowan’s lungs as his entire body stiffened.

With all the strength he could muster, Rowan rejected her words. The ones that he had never allowed himself to even consider, except for that morning, at the rising of the dawn. He rejected them because they could not be true. It was not possible.

But no matter how much he tried, relentless, vicious hope, would not let him go.

Somewhere, vaguely, he was aware that his fellow warriors were not breathing. That they were staring at them more intently than ever before.

“A blood oath is eternal,” Maeve said tightly.

“I don’t care. Free him.”

Maeve was silent. Aelin held out the ring again. “Your choice. Free him, or I melt this right here.”

There was a pause, and it felt as though it stretched out into infinity. Two paths appeared before him, the dark and the light. And Rowan felt as though he had found the fulcrum on which his life turned. This moment, this decision, would be the most important thing that happened to him until the day he died.

Fear and hope threatened to overwhelm him. Yet still, he could not bear to look.

There was a rustle of silk, and then, “Very well. I’ve grown rather bored of his company these past few decades, anyway.”

Rowan turned to face Aelin, slowly, unfeeling. His limbs felt disconnected from his body. He was sure that this could not be real. Their eyes met, hers shining with a hope brighter than the rising sun.

“By my blood that flows in you,” Maeve said. “Through no dishonor, through no act of treachery, I hereby free you, Rowan Whitethorn, of your blood oath to me.”

Rowan did not look away from Aelin, even as Maeve repeated the oath in the Old Language, and asked him to spill his blood to break the bond. Even as he drew out a dagger and slit his left wrist. Even as Maeve said, “You are free of me, Prince Rowan Whitethorn,” and Rowan felt the blood oath fall away, and shatter into millions of pieces on the tiles at his feet.

And without even realizing it, he was running, running towards Aelin, towards the only woman in the world. And his hands were on her cheeks, her brow pressed against his. “Aelin,” he said, “Aelin.” Her name a prayer, and an oath, in his mouth.

She was crying, tears glistening on uplifted cheeks as he kissed her brow and fell to his knees in the only way he knew to prove himself to her. The only way he knew to protect her, and declare his allegiance to her. And Rowan reached for her wrist so he might drink her blood.

But Aelin jerked back, saying, “You’re free. You’re free now,” and her eyes were shouting that she could not agree to this, that she could not accept it.

But Rowan was more sure about this than he had been about anything. Even more sure than when he had first met Lyria in the marketplace. Trust me, his eyes screamed.

I don’t want you enslaved to me. I won’t be that kind of queen.

You have no court – you are defenseless, landless, and without allies. She might let you walk out of here today, but she could come after you tomorrow. She knows how powerful I am – how powerful we are together. It will make her hesitate.

Please don’t do this – I will give you anything else you ask, but not this.

I claim you, Aelin. To whatever end.

And then something in her eyes shifted, as if she were allowing herself to want this, to admit that it was alright to want this badly enough that it hurt. And when Rowan reached for her wrist the second time, she did not pull away.

“Together, Fireheart,” he said, pushing back the sleeve of her tunic. “We’ll find a way together. A court that will change the world.”

Rowan looked up from her exposed wrist and Aelin was nodding, nodding and smiling in that way of hers, and Rowan finally started to realize that maybe, just maybe, she might be his. In this one way, they might be bonded until death.

Rowan drew his dagger and offered it to her. “Say it, Aelin.”

The woman who would be his queen took his dagger and held it over her exposed wrist, her eyes meeting his once again. “Do you promise to serve in my court, Rowan Whitethorn, from now until the day you die?”

Rowan was unhesitating. “I do. Until my last breath, and the world beyond. To whatever end.”

Aelin grinned as she drew the dagger across her wrist, leaving a trail of blood in its wake. And then she offered her arm to him.

Rowan took it, with all the gentleness he could muster. Then he lowered his mouth to her skin and drank.

Just as the delectable taste of her began to register in his mind and body, something lightning bright snapped through him, something made of her fire and his ice, something made of them. And then began to settle, coating his every molecule – a thread binding their two bodies, tighter and tighter with every pull he took of her blood.

And the taste of it, it was unlike ever before. Not touched by fear or guilt or anger, there was only Aelin, and her scent, and the feel of her, and the touch of her power as it raced through his veins.

Rowan took three pulls from her wrist before he raised his head and looked up to meet her gaze, and her eyes were molten and warm and once he saw them, he knew that they were the only home he would ever need.

There were no words to do justice to what passed between them in that moment.

Then Maeve hissed, and Rowan remembered that they weren’t alone. “Now that you have insulted me further, get out. All of you.”

The cadre turned and fled from the veranda, but even as they left, Rowan could sense the cacophony of emotions they left in their wake: fury, wonder, jealousy, disbelief, envy.

Aelin helped Rowan to his feet, and let him heal the wound on her wrist even as the remains of the marks on his back vanished. Then, standing shoulder to shoulder, they turned to face Maeve one final time.

But there was only a white barn owl flapping off into the moonlit night.

Chapter Text

He was free.

That was the only thought in Rowan’s head as he and Aelin hurtled from Doranelle, rushing through the hushed city streets. As their feet pounded over the cobblestones and he explained that they didn’t need to stop by his quarters because he had nothing worthwhile to take. As the hawks that were his only family monitored their flight through the western gate, over the bridge, and out of the city of rivers.

He was free, he was free, he was free.

None of his cadre came after them, nor did Rowan expect them too. Not after what had happened in the throne room. He wouldn’t be surprised if they never wanted to speak to him again.

For he was free, and they were not.

Rowan wasn’t sure he wanted to speculate about how they felt about that. He wasn’t even sure how he would have felt about such a thing only a few months ago. It was so inexplicable. So…unexpected.

Even though he had begged the goddess of the dawn, Rowan had never actually thought that he would be free of Maeve, and still live. Never thought that there was a world where he might get the chance to be sworn to Aelin. To serve a female who deserved it, who needed him.

Yet here he was. Because of Aelin. Because she had used her one bargaining chip, her one piece of leverage, to free him from his oath. To rectify the biggest mistake of his life. Not for peace, or armies, or funds. For him.

 It was an insurmountable debt. One he would be paying for the rest of his life, no matter how long or short that may be. A debt so massive that he couldn’t even begin to repay it, not even with him swearing the oath to her instead.

Even though it had been hours since they had sworn it, the glowing feeling had not left his body. The feeling of her very being brushing against his own, of the warmth of her spirit. The taste of her blood still rung in his mouth, her scent whirling around him, becoming a part of him. The way that Maeve’s had been.

Only this bond was wholly different. Maeve had forced them all to swear their oaths from obedience to her alone. That oath had been claws on his heart and a shadow in his mind, marionette strings attached to all of his limbs, manipulating his body as easily as a sculptor shaped clay.

The feeling of this new oath would have been incomprehensible to him before he experienced it. Utterly unfathomable.

In those brief moments between breaking with Maeve and swearing himself to Aelin, Rowan remembered what freedom felt like. It was a hollow power, a lightness last experienced so long ago now that he had forgotten how heavy the chains had become. But this new oath, the bond he shared with Aelin…it was everything.

They were a part of each other now, inextricable and necessary. Like a pair of lungs, or a beating heart. The bond compelled him to obey her not through pain or obligation or suffering, but through the simple fact that somewhere deep in her chest, lay a sliver of his heart. And somewhere deep in his, lay a shard of hers.

Equally exchanged, not with force or anguish, but with love.

They ran for hours beneath the moonlit trees, Deanna lighting their way into the west. Until Aelin was so exhausted that she was tripping over her feet, and the moon fell and they were both stumbling in the semi-dark.

They made their way into an inn for the night, in some backwater town at the edges of Fae territory. The second they were in their rooms, Aelin tumbled into bed, dead asleep. But Rowan lay awake for long hours, listening to the steady breaths from her lungs and thinking of the future that now lay before him.

A future he had never thought he would get to experience.

All the paths they could take tumbled at his feet like so many stones, possibilities and opportunities and alternate futures. But what finally allowed him to fall asleep was the knowledge that, no matter what, they would be treading those paths together. Facing the future side by side.

···

Fenrys shifted into his wolf, and threw himself from the throne room, flying through the mist and tearing into the mossy loam below. He sprinted over the grounds without thought, without hesitation. His claws dug up chunks of grassy earth that skittered through the air behind him, marking his path for all to see. 

He didn’t care. He didn’t even notice.

The palace disappeared behind him, fading into the darkness. Before him, the endless expanse of Doranelle’s forests extended, as far as the eye could see. Though it was fast approaching summer, and the heat of the day now stretched further and further into the evening, the darkness felt cold on Fenrys’ fur. Cold, and unwelcoming. The shadows of the tree boughs offering him no comfort.

Still he ran. Still he breathed. In and out. In and out. Fury pounding through his veins.

All he wanted was to storm and rage and tear into the fabric of the world with tooth and claw, until it ripped to pieces at his feet. To rip himself apart. But he knew that even if he did it, that even if he tore at his fur and peeled muscles from bone, that little piece would remain. A parasite latched to his heart.

His oath – kept until his final breath.

The oath that he’d thought was unbreakable. The oath that he’d thought he would never escape.

But Rowan just had.

Rowan was free. And Fenrys, was not.

He had thought that he’d understood the unfairness of the world. The lack of justice or equality or virtue. He’d thought that that had been one of the only things he had truly known.

He had been a fool.

Until that moment, seeing Rowan get everything Fenrys wanted, the only thing he had ever wanted, with but a wave of a hand and a few words –

Another breath; in and out, in and out. The frozen air cut ragged lines in his throat, sharp and bloody, each breath a mouthful of icy darkness.

His lungs filled up with the night’s reaching fingers, until it coursed through his very veins. Until the white of his fur felt like it was made of that darkness. And the heat of that panic and fury faded away, leaving a frozen agony in its wake.

Rowan was free.

Free to leave. To go off with the princess of fire and never return.

That image of the two of them, so utterly lost in each other, her blood dripping from his russet lips… It had hurt nearly as much as the breaking had. The feeling of that warmth as their golden oath washed over them, new and bright and vibrant –

It was everything Fenrys wanted. Aelin was every single thing that he wanted.

Her face as she challenged Maeve, as she let go of that flood of magic and set the world on fire, all glory and power and majesty, was burned into his mind. The feeling of her power, of her, would live in his memory forever.

Even now, wrapped in pain and cold and darkness, that feeling warmed him – an antidote to Maeve’s darkness. No wonder she had brought Rowan back.

It didn’t matter how much Fenrys knew that it wasn’t Rowan’s fault, that he had suffered for centuries, that this was the first time he had known peace since Lyria’s death – Fenrys was still furious with him. It was because of him that he’d had to whip Connall within an inch of his life, because of him that he’d had to watch Lorcan destroyed at Cairn’s hands, because of him that he’d had to go to Maeve and see to her desire with his brother’s blood still on his hands –

Fenrys shuddered to a stop, collapsing to the ground. His body a cold and distant something.

And Rowan still didn’t know. Lorcan had ordered Fenrys never to say anything. So he didn’t. And now Rowan was free. Now, he would never know.

For some reason, that, the idea that Rowan could leave forever and never know the true cost of that freedom, was what finally broke him.

Hot tears began to stream over his cheeks, marking paths through the pale fur beneath his eyes. Rough, hacking sobs heaved in his chest, aching to be set loose. But Fenrys kept them trapped, tight in his ruined throat.

They set his body to shivering, tense and barely controlled. But Fenrys knew that if he unlocked his jaw, if he let even one cry escape, he would howl and writhe and roar until he could no longer speak. Until the moon fell and the sun rose and the earth fell once more into chaos.

So he crouched, his limbs shaking with exhaustion, his teeth cemented shut. And he did not move.

···

That night, Fenrys dreamed of fire and ice. Of demons and darkness and gods and queens and crowns. And in the morning, Connall woke him with a low growl and few soft brushes with his snout.

Fenrys was slow to wake, desperately holding onto his dreams, as if they could save him from having to face the new day that was just beginning to dawn. As if another minute of sleep would give him the strength he needed.

Connall was sitting back on his haunches when Fenrys finally opened his eyes, his coat matted with dirt, eyes faded from exhaustion.

Fenrys sighed, then shifted. “You look like shit,” he said.

A huff escaped through Connall’s teeth, then he shifted as well. “Well it’s your fault. I spent half the night searching for you in these gods-damned woods.”

Fenrys flinched.

Connall sighed. “They’re gone. But I’m sure you know that. Stayed at an inn at Evesmouth, which is nearly sixty miles to the west.”

Fenrys just nodded. He hadn’t thought for a second that they would have stayed any longer than absolutely necessary. “Is – ” he croaked, then cleared his throat. “Where is Maeve?”

Connall’s lips tightened, almost imperceptibly. “Last night she went into her suite with that ring the princess gave her and refused all company. When I left, she still hadn’t come out.”

Fenrys breathed deep, then stood. His legs threatened to give out underneath him.

Connall’s brow furrowed ever so slightly, “Are – are you – ”

“I’m fine.” Fenrys cut him off, looking away from Connall and starting the long walk back to the castle.

“You don’t seem fine, Fen – ”

“Well I have to be, Con, is that good enough for you?” Fenrys tried his best to keep the irritation from his voice. But by the look on his brother’s face, he had failed.

“Well, you could at least try to pretend that you’re angry with him, instead of just jealous – ”

“That won’t be difficult,” Fenrys forced a pale laugh through his closed mouth. “I’m definitely angry.”

“But not for the right reasons.”

Fenrys turned to look back at his brother, his jaw clenched tight. “And what would the right reasons be, dear brother? Please enlighten me.”

“He betrayed us, betrayed all of us. Not just Maeve. He broke a sacred vow, and now he’s going off to gods know where to scheme and plot with a foreign princess who might just make for a powerful threat to both Maeve and Doranelle, and you’re off sulking because she picked him and not you.”

Fenrys’ teeth locked. “That’s not true.”

“Oh? Then why are you in the middle of the woods covered in shit and leaves, eyes red as all hell and pale as a rutting ghost then Fenrys? Why? And don’t try to tell me that you’re upset because of the insult to our Queen, I’ve known you my whole life Fenrys, don’t think that I can’t see through your shit.”

Fenrys closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath. He had always tried his best to never make his brother feel bad for his loyalty to Maeve, had tried to keep him from feeling guilty. But Connall wasn’t done.

“You’re just jealous of Rowan, you would do anything to break your vow – ”

“Yeah?” Something small shattered in Fenrys’ chest. “And why do you think that is, Con? Come on, wrack your brains. It can’t be that difficult.”

Connall’s face tightened. “That doesn’t mean that you just get to – ”

“Leave me alone Con. I can make my way back by myself.” Fenrys’ boots crushed through the undergrowth.

“It’s not like it’s my fault that you decided to – ”

“I know, Con.”

“You’re not a kid anymore, Fen. You made that decision all by yourself – ”

“I know, Con! Just – just please. Please go.”

A pause. Then Fenrys felt as Connall shifted into his wolf, and listened as his footsteps faded into the forest at his back, leaving him alone.

Alone, and trapped, and lost.

Connall had never understood; Fenrys didn’t know why he’d expected anything different this time. But that didn’t mean that he regretted his choice to serve Maeve. No matter what Connall said, it had been the only possible option at the time. Now Fenrys just had to live with the consequences.

A shiver racked through his chest, threatening to make the tears fall again.

But for the male he’d just forced to leave, for the little boy he had been, for the brother he would always be, Fenrys walked on. Even though he could see nothing but darkness ahead. He walked on.

···

In the morning, Aelin shook Rowan awake and begged him to retrieve his needles and ink from his pack. As they ate breakfast, Aelin positively shoving the food down her throat, she explained to him what it was that she wanted.

Once he understood, he knew she needn’t have begged. Rowan probably would have given her this even in the beginning, when he was convinced that he hated her. Something that felt unthinkable now.

As she spoke, Rowan sketched. Forming the curved lines into veins of language, all wrapped around each other. One after the other after the other. The names of those she had lost.

When Aelin looked at the image he had wrought, her eyes shone bright and sharp. A cutting light.

And Rowan knew that he would go to the ends of the earth to make sure that she never had to look that way again. Knew that he would do anything, even swear himself to Maeve again, if it meant that she could have lived her life untouched by darkness.

While Aelin scrubbed herself with coarse salt from the kitchen downstairs in the tiny attached bathing room, Rowan gathered his tools; ink, cloth, mallet, and bone-handled needle, all placed carefully on the waiting worktable. Then he tied back his hair and rolled up his sleeves, preparing for the many hours of work to come.

When Aelin reappeared, her skin gleamed in the candlelight. And once she unwrapped her robe to reveal her bare chest, Rowan had to work to keep his gaze lifted and his breath steady. This was far from the time or place.

Aelin laid on her stomach on the worktable, revealing the network of pale scars that covered her back, which was enough for Rowan to pull himself together and remember why they were there. And for that old anger and sadness to resurface.

“Deep breath,” he said, watching as her torso rose and fell, while she wove her power within the embers flickering in the fireplace. “Have you had enough water and food?”

Aelin nodded absently. So Rowan took a deep breath of his own, saying, “Let me know when you need to get up,” and turned his focus to her back. Trying his best to see it only as blank canvas, instead of as Aelin’s lithe form. It only partly worked.

He ran a hand down the expanse, carefully going over each of the many scars, testing them for their depth and texture. Beneath his fingers, he felt her shiver slightly.

Then he began the process of drawing out the designs along her scars, carefully marking the outlines he would have to follow with the needle. Minutes passed in this way, in quiet companionship, until he finished the ink marking. He gave Aelin a quick break in the bathing room, and then she returned to the work table, chin resting on her hands.

“Don’t move from now on. I’m starting,” Rowan said.

Aelin only grunted in acknowledgement, her gaze fixed forwards.

So Rowan carefully leaned over her left shoulder to begin inscribing the marks at the highest point on her back. The heat of her body rose up to brush against his hovering form, smelling of salt and grief. His breath came in sharp as he made the first prick with the needle.

Her body kept still, but Rowan heard the slightest click of teeth as her jaw clamped shut, responding to the pain of the salt. That was what this type of tattooing was for – the pain reminded the bearer of the loss.

Rowan kept that knowledge at the forefront of his mind as he moved to make the next mark, and Aelin opened her mouth and began her prayers.

It was a lament for her family, the lament that she had owed them for ten years. An even-keeled torrent of words in a simplified, slightly distorted version of the Old Language. Rowan had never heard Terrasen’s dialect of the Old Language before. It was different, almost…wilder.

In the language of her ancestors, of her birthright, Aelin told the gods of her parents’ deaths, of her uncle’s death, and of Marion’s sacrifice. She beseeched the immortals to take the souls of her loved ones into their paradise and keep them safe. Told them of their good deeds and loving words and brave acts.

She never faltered. And as Rowan worked his way slowly down the expanse of her back, and the sun rose and fell in the sky, he listened. He bore witness to her entreaty, so that even if the gods weren’t listening, even if their decision was long made and her family’s fate sealed, there would be someone who knew their worth. Who knew that even though a decade had passed in the mortal world, there was still one here who loved them. Who mourned their loss.

Aelin never once paused for more than a breath, her voice rising in song and chant, and soon, his movements fell into the rhythm of her words, punctuating them with the soft taps of the mallet, the swipes of the cloth. Turning her song into a melody of grief and ritual and time.

Rowan did not speak, even as the hours passed and her voice turned hoarse, her throat a ravaged whisper. Even as her words began to slow. If she needed water, she would ask for it. But Rowan knew that she wouldn’t.

Her pain was her offering to the gods, the only penance she could take for her decade of silence. So she took it, and when the markings were finally done, her back was raw and red and throbbing. Still, she did not stop her song.

It took her several attempts to rise from the table, but once she did, she strode out of the inn and into the moonlight, falling to her knees in a night-dark field. Rowan stood just behind her, waiting silent in the shadows.

Aelin tilted her golden face up to the silver sky and sang the final song; the sacred song of her household. The Fae lament each child learned from their mother’s lips, passed on through the ages, cradle to cradle.

The Galathynius’ song was noble and grand, though it passed into being with but a whisper, almost like a wish. There were pieces of the story of Terrasen hidden in the lyrics, but most of the melody was dedicated to family and home and a love so powerful it lasted through the generations. A good song. A proud song.

Aelin’s voice was broken and raw, hardly more than a rasp, and her skin was weeping blood and ink, but she kneeled there through the night, bare and cold and shivering. On her back, the fresh tattoo shone in the faint light. Three lines of text scrolling over her three largest scars, the story of her love and loss. One line each for her parents and uncle, Lady Marion, and her court and people. On the smaller, shorter scars, lay the stories of Sam and Nehemia.

Her beloved dead.

Aelin mourned their loss, laying her pain bare for the whole world to swallow up, until dawn glinted on the distant horizon. Until her obligation was, finally, fulfilled.

Chapter Text

Aelin slept the whole day, and well into the night. When she woke, she was quiet. Contemplative.

That morning, they set off towards the northwest, heading for the mountain pass they had traveled on their way into Doranelle, those short weeks ago. For the most part, they traveled in silence. Once they passed through the mountains, Rowan asked if Aelin wanted to return to Mistward, if she wanted to make a final goodbye. She just shook her head.

So instead, the pair of travelers turned northwards, heading for Wendlyn. Running the same paths they had followed in that first journey from Varese. Rowan had to suppress a grin as he remembered it, how angry they had both been. How lost.

“What are you smiling about?” Aelin asked, her eyes flitting over his warm expression.

“Just remembering.” Rowan said, “This is the way we took from Varese.”

Aelin looked around, taking in the hills and crevasses, the stones and scrubby plants. “It is, isn’t it.” A small smile. “And here you are now – same brooding bastard as always.”

Rowan tried to shove her, but Aelin just laughed and dodged his swing. “Can’t get me nearly so easily this time though,” she teased. “I wonder why that is?” she dodged another swipe, “Because it can’t be because of your teaching.”

Rowan growled, this time making for her left side, but Aelin just twisted out of his reach, dodging a tree and prancing into the meadow beyond. “Oh I know,” another dodge, “It was definitely Emrys. All that work in the kitchens, whew. Really learned a lot about evading my opponents.”

Rowan dove for her back, a snarl building in his chest.

Aelin was radiant. “Because I definitely consider anyone who was that strict about food prep to be my opponent.” Another dodge, this time slipping around a large boulder.

At some point, Rowan was going to have to admit to himself that he was missing on purpose.

“Though on second thought, that man really did know how to cook,” she laughed. “Unlike someone else I know.”

Rowan launched himself forwards and they tumbled into the grass, Rowan straddling her hips and snarling. Aelin’s grin didn’t fade for a second. “See?” she teased. “It took you over six tries before you finally knocked me down. There’s no way you’re responsible for this.” She gestured vaguely to all of herself, shaking her head and beaming.

Now Rowan really had to work hard to keep the smile off his face. Particularly since his face was less than a foot from hers; he could see each fleck of gold in her eyes. Her delicate breath brushed over his face, and he could feel as it warmed his pale cheeks, heat spreading through his body at its light touch. His hands pushed into the grass at her sides, barely inches from her torso.

“Really though,” she continued, not seeming to notice anything strange. “You have to admit you were far from the finest of my teachers. I mean the Mute Master? Leader of the Silent Assassins? Come on. No contest.”

Rowan frowned. “I didn’t exactly have a wealth of experience to draw from in this particular instance.”

Aelin smirked. “Perhaps. But the barrow-wight fields? The skinwalkers?”

“The skinwalkers were absolutely your fault, you can’t lay that one on me.”

“…the creature under the lake?”

Rowan pursed his lips. Aelin seemed to sense defeat.

Another massive smile, “Come on then, my most grand and skillful instructor! Let me up, we’ve got places to be.”

Rowan relinquished his hold on her, somewhat reluctantly, then they continued their journey towards the southern hills. Running with Aelin had not lost one bit of its joyfulness in the many weeks they had now spent side by side, pushing through the undergrowth. It still held that first moment of exultation, of wild abandon.

And now, as Rowan followed that whip of golden hair as it rippled through the mist of green, with the heat of Aelin’s body still radiating through his own, Rowan thought that he might be the luckiest Fae living.

But if nothing else, Rowan truly understood how fragile it all was. How breakable. Aelin must be protected. She had to stay safe.

A few moments passed in companionable silence before Rowan mustered the will to ask the question that had been weighing on him ever since they bypassed Mistward.

“And where are those “places,” Aelin? Where are we headed?”

When she hesitated, Rowan found himself filling the tense silence. “Ever since we left the mountain passes, you’ve been edging us northwards. Between us and the northern sea there lay a few dozen market towns surrounding Varese. Along the western edge of Wendlyn, there are a handful of ports that could take us east to Adarlan, Fenharrow, Eyllwe or your home.” Rowan felt her eyes flicker to the ground at his mention of Terrasen. “Or even to the Southern continent, ruled by the Khagan in the city of Antica.”

Still, she kept silent. “If you wish to flee, and bide your time. We can also head back east, skirting around the northern mountain ranges and Maeve’s territory.”

Aelin’s eyes finally met his, curiosity shining there. “And what lies that way?”

Rowan answered carefully. “Once you pass through the mountains, the northern coastline swings to the south, leading to a tropical region that is only just out of Doranelle’s reach.” They both leapt over a fallen log. “Then, another sea.”

“And beyond that?”

“More land. Deserts and tropics to the east and south.”

Aelin quieted again.

“Aelin, now that I’m in your court, I have a right to know something of what you’re planning.” A frown. Worry sank into Rowan’s gut. “…It is my duty to keep you safe, and I cannot do that if you keep me in the dark.”

“Well…” she said, finally, “what do you think I should do?”

They stopped for a moment in a secluded glade, and Rowan’s eyes met hers. A shaft of sunlight lit up her golden hair. “I think you should rally your allies, then go to Adarlan to face the king.”

Aelin just shook her head, brow furrowing. “What allies, Rowan? I am a princess in nothing but name. I have an empty title, with no land or army, and no support from the ruling nobles.”

“Then go back to Terrasen and claim your title.”

She looked away. “No,” she said plainly, her eyes hidden from him. “Not yet.”

“What about Varese? Your cousins, the Ashryvers – ”

“They do not know me. They have no reason to trust me. And my mother, when she left, she never returned. Her marriage was frowned upon, not only by Maeve, but by the Ashryvers as well.”

“That was your mother, not you – ”

“When Terrasen called for aid, they did not come. Why would it prove any different now? When I have even less claim to their assistance than Darrow had.”

A scowl was now etched onto Rowan’s face. He had a hard time keeping the irritation from his voice. “If you have no wish to make allies, then what are you planning? What were you intending to do after you got your information from Maeve?”

Aelin now wore a frown to rival his. “I had no idea. As I’m sure you very well know.”

“Then what – ”

“When I left the Salt Mines, I knew I was trading one kind of slavery for another. But I took it, because I had no other choice. In the months after becoming the King’s Glorified Executioner, I was trapped. I didn’t commit any of the murders he required of me, but I knew that there was a time limit on how long I would be able to get away with spiriting my ‘victims’ away in the dead of night.” She took a breath, the scorn fading somewhat from her tone. “I was detained by the threats he made against Nehemia and her family. But when we visited that village to investigate the deaths by the Valg, I sent letters to the King and Queen of Eyllwe that will free me from that obligation.”

Rowan was now just starting to put it all together. “So, you intend to go to Adarlan.”

“Yes.” Aelin said as she strode out of the glade. “I think it is the only way forward.”

Rowan glanced at her left hand, remembering the amethyst ring that had laid there for so many months. The ring given to her by a captain of the guard. And he couldn’t help but wonder if there were other loose ends she sought to tie up in Rifthold.

So Rowan nodded, and followed her out of the sunlight. “And what will we do when we get there?”

Her eyes flitted to his, reluctant and anxious. “I never said anything about we.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed Rowan, but you kind of attract a lot of attention,” she teased, trying to distract him. “And that’s here, where people are much more used to the Fae. In Adarlan, where magic has been banned for a decade? You would attract far too much notice.”

“I have another form – ”

“And in Adarlan, you would be stuck in that other form. Where you wouldn’t exactly be very much help.”

Rowan moved in front of Aelin, stopping her in her tracks. “So your plan is to go alone?”

Aelin carefully controlled her surge of irritation, but Rowan still caught the surge of ash and spice in her scent. “Yes.” Her voice was fierce. “And you will not be able to stop me, Rowan Whitethorn.”

Rowan waited for a moment, expecting that familiar feeling of helplessness, of dread, to wash over him. The feeling of an order from his blood-sworn Queen. And even though he was fucking furious with her, and confused, and hurt, a wash of surprise and wonder passed through him as he realized that even though it had been an order, it didn’t feel that way. It was more like…an idea, dropped into his head without warning. A suggestion.

Something he could choose whether or not to follow.

And it was more than enough to distract him. “We’ll see about that,” he said, starting up a loping run.

Aelin joined him, a laugh huffing through her nostrils. “We’ll see about that,” she mocked. “You’re not going to give up easy, are you?”

“No.”

Another laugh, more genuine this time. “I guess you wouldn’t be you if you didn’t make everything more difficult than it had to be.”

Rowan turned to look at her, brows raised to his hairline. “You’re saying that to me?”

Her lips twisted into the smallest of pouts, and Rowan found himself laughing harder than he had in weeks. Aelin shoved him and sped into the forest ahead, but Rowan caught the trail of her scent before it vanished – a waft of warm sparks, citrus and spice like a gentle afternoon.

No matter what she said, he would try to make her see reason. She had to understand; he didn’t have a purpose without her. Rowan was a part of her court now, he was supposed to stand beside her, to help her reclaim her throne if she so wished. To die for her if need be.

Nothing was more important than that.

So Rowan tore after her, into the waiting arms of the coming evening.

···

They had been arguing for days.

Rowan and Aelin spent another night under the stars before Aelin swung them west, heading for the nearest port where she could charter passage on a ship large enough to take her across the ocean to Adarlan. What she wanted him to do in Wendlyn for all the weeks they would be separated, was unclear.

No matter how he tried to explain, how he tried to convince her, she wouldn’t budge. She wanted to go alone, and as she’d said, there was nothing he could do to stop her.

Her final night in Wendlyn, they slept in a tiny inn along the coast. That evening, she’d chartered a cabin on a spice trader’s vessel looking to trade for furs, wine, and other luxury goods in Rifthold, Bellhaven and Banjali.

Rowan didn’t sleep particularly well, even though it had definitely been their most comfortable lodgings since Mistward. Aelin, as usual, slept like a rock.

They had slept beside each other for so long now, Rowan wasn’t sure he really remembered the way it felt to wake to a cold bed. The silence without the rhythm of another person’s breathing. The comfort of the feeling of her skin, only inches from his.

For weeks now, she had kept the nightmares at bay, just by being herself. Just by staying with him. But tomorrow, she would be gone.

It had been his worst fear, all the way through the spring. Having to watch as she left him behind. And even though he had been given the miracle of his freedom, even though he had been given everything he had ever dared to ask for, still he would have to watch her leave. Would have to be left behind.

The gods’ always did take their payment.

But what really hurt, more than even that, was the fact that this was by Aelin’s volition, not an accident, or a cruel twist of fate. She was choosing this, she was choosing to leave him.

All those moments, where he could feel the space between them so acutely, where he could feel her breath as if it were his own – must not be the same for her. She couldn’t want him. It just wasn’t possible.

Rowan had known it, but still, some deep part of himself outside of his conscious control had hoped anyways. Had hoped that maybe, now that he was free, they might be together.

He had been wrong. Aelin would return to the west, where a prince and a captain and an assassin were waiting for her. And she was leaving him behind.

Perhaps when Rowan finally saw her again, she would have found her partner. Her King.

Rowan would be okay with it, he would make himself be okay with it. With whoever she chose. But he couldn’t help but think that no matter how noble or strong, no matter how worthy, they could never deserve her.

Soon, Aelin awoke, and the morning hours swept past them, a furious current of rushing time, until high tide was upon them, and the ship was ready to set sail.

“This plan is absurd,” Rowan said for the hundredth time, as they stopped in the shadows of a tavern by the docks. “Going back alone seems like suicide.”

Aelin was trying her best to hide her irritation with him. But failing miserably. “One, I’m going back as Celaena, not Aelin – ”

“Celaena, who did not accomplish the king’s mission, and who they are now going to hunt down.”

“The King and Queen of Eyllwe should have gotten their warning by now…” Her voice trailed off, as if acknowledging the irrelevance of this thought. It didn’t matter to Rowan what happened to the royal family of Eyllwe, not really. He was the first and only member of Aelin’s court, so her welfare was his responsibility. And she was going straight into the Lion’s den, where not only one, but two kings wanted her dead. Both of her former masters.

Rowan broke through the silence. “So you’re going to get the key from your old master, find the captain, and then what?”

She pursed her lips. “Then I go north.”

“And I’m supposed to sit on my ass for the next gods know how many months?”

Aelin rolled her eyes. Rowan wanted to growl at her. They would keep having this argument until either she left, or saw reason.

“You’re not exactly inconspicuous, Rowan. If your tattoos don’t attract attention, then the hair, the ears, the teeth…”

“I have another form, you know.” Rowan insisted, even if he knew there was no use.

“And, just like I said, magic doesn’t work there anymore. You’d be trapped in that form. Though I do hear that Rifthold rats are particularly delicious, if you want to eat them for months.”

Rowan just glared at her. She stared him down, her eyes solid gold.

That image hurt enough that he had to look away, turning to scan the ship. He’d already snuck out last night and inspected it thoroughly, prow to keel, itemizing the many barrels and digging through the various cabins for anything amiss. To his immense disappointment, he hadn’t found anything.

Rowan’s jaw clenched. “We’re stronger together than apart.”

A huff of breath. “If I’d known you would be such a pain in the ass, I never would have let you swear that oath.”

“Aelin.” It was almost a beg. “Either as yourself or as Celaena, they will try to find you and kill you. They are probably already tracking you down. We could go to Varese right now and approach your mother’s mortal kin, the Ashryvers. They might have a plan.”

She just sighed. “My chance at success in getting the Wyrdkey out of Rifthold lies in stealth as Celaena.”

“Please,” he said, truly begging now.

But she just lifted her chin, stubborn as always. “I am going, Rowan. I will gather the rest of my court – our court – and then we will raise the greatest army the world has ever witnessed. I will call in every favor, every debt owed to Celaena Sardothien, to my parents, to my bloodline. And then…” She looked toward the sea, towards what felt like the only land Rowan had never seen. “And then I am going to rattle the stars.”

Aelin stepped forwards, then put her arms around him, pulling him into her embrace. It felt like a promise, or maybe it was just her own form of pleading. A plead to make this easier for her. To let her go.

“Soon,” she said. “I will send for you soon, when the time is right. Until then, try to make yourself useful.”

Rowan shook his head, trying to hide the glints of silver blurring his eyes, then gripped her in a bone crushing embrace. His fingers were cold in the wind-chilled air.

Rowan let go just enough so he would be able to see her face. “Perhaps I’ll go help repair Mistward,” he said.

Aeiln nodded. “You never told me,” she said, her eyes earnest. “What you were praying to Mala for that morning before we entered Doranelle.”

Rowan hesitated, the truth a vice on his heart. Goodbyes were times for confessions, but not this one. Not when there was no chance of her feeling the same.

His answer was careful, and quiet. “I prayed for two things. I asked her to ensure you survived the encounter with Maeve – to guide you and give you the strength you needed.”

Aelin turned to glance at the sun, now kissing the horizon with its golden orange light, her eyes filling with wonder and gratitude. A shiver whispered down her spine, and she trembled in his arms. “And the second?”

Another pause. “It was a selfish wish, and a fool’s hope.”

Aelin’s eyes turned molten, and he knew the answer had to be plain on his face. But that was different than admitting it outright.

A small smile. “Dangerous, for a prince of ice and wind to pray to the Fire-Bringer,” she breathed.

Rowan shrugged, allowing a smile of his own to escape as he wiped away one of her own tears, gently brushing the soft skin of her cheek. “For some reason, Mala likes me, and agreed that you and I make a formidable pair.”

Aelin threw herself deeper into his arms, taking in a deep breath – as if memorizing his scent. Rowan didn’t pretend to not be doing the same. Jasmine, lemon verbena, and roaring embers. So different to the scent of the girl he had first seen atop that rooftop. So different, and yet exactly the same.

Rowan held her, and memorized the feel of her arms at his back, her chest against his. A feeling he wasn’t sure he would ever get again – even if they were reunited in the west.

She stepped back, and their arms fell. Aelin took one last look at him, the first member of her royal court, and then she turned and walked away. Boarding the ship that would bear her away from this land.

Rowan contained the trembling in his muscles, but only barely, as he watched her greet the captain, then disappear into the bowels of the ship. He shifted with a glint and a rustle, then flew out into the wind-torn sky. Waiting to see if she would reappear, one last time.

The ship set sail, and Rowan escorted it as it meandered away from the dock and through the hidden maze of reefs and sandbars below. He told himself it was to make sure that she was safe, to ensure that she made it out into the open ocean. But he knew that it was a lie.

True night soon fell, and Rowan was about to give up when Aelin finally appeared on the upper deck, her eyes already thrown skyward. As if she had known to look for him, as if she had wished that he would be there.

Rowan dove, swooping as low as he dared. He brushed his silver wing against her pale cheek, taking his final look of her Queen’s face. She was so beautiful.

Rowan turned away from her, from his Aelin, from his Fireheart, and let loose the cry that had curled up in his chest. Then he flew out towards the dark mass of land, nothing but a shadow under the moonless night. A shadow that was no longer home without the female that had made it so.

 Rowan looked up at the stars, and he promised himself, he swore to every god he knew and many more that he didn’t, that he would see her again. That they would make their way back to each other, no matter the cost. For he was Rowan Whitethorn, bloodsworn warrior and carranam to Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, and together, they could make even the gods learn to bend.

Chapter Text

Lorcan rapped on the massive wooden door, skin stretched tight over white knuckles. It had been weeks since the breaking, since Whitethorn had left them. Had left him. But in all that time, Lorcan had barely glimpsed a shadow of his Queen.

Lorcan tried not to think of him, had done his best to erase Rowan Whitethorn from his mind completely. That bastard wasn’t worth the effort of a reaction. And except for those few furious, blinding moments right after the breaking, Lorcan had mostly succeeded in doing so.

Whitethorn had joined the lowest of the low, the traitors and the faithless. He belonged with the Valg demons in the deepest depths of Hellas’ realm for what he had done to thei– to his queen.

And those vile things that bitch had screeched at his Maeve, venomous, dangerous falsehoods – still rolled around in his mind. They wouldn’t leave him alone. The very idea that Maeve had murdered Athril in cold blood, that she had betrayed Brannon – it was beyond words. And it was distracting him from what was important: defending Doranelle against potential attack.

For if nothing else, the fire-breathing-bitch-queen had demonstrated that Doranelle was vulnerable, its people were vulnerable. And it was Lorcan’s responsibility to fix that vulnerability.

Which was why he dared to go to Maeve’s quarters, despite not being summoned. They needed to discuss what they would do, what she would do, should Rowan and Aelin decide to return, with far less magnanimous intentions, and far more firepower.

In their last meeting, Whitethorn was still bound to Maeve, unable to act. Unable to assist his queen, if Lorcan could ever call her that. And their power together, unhindered and well-rested? The very thought of it sent a shiver down his spine.

There was fear, yes. And certainly wariness. But what made him uncomfortable was the desire there – not for her, but for that power. To share in it, to have it near him. Even to posses it. It was a feeling that Lorcan tried his hardest to subdue, and one that Whitethorn had so obviously embraced. Heedlessly so.

The door swung open, and a handmaiden admitted him.

Maeve was perched on a settee on the far side of the room, gazing out her open window towards the roaring waterfall just beyond. Her chambers sat directly above the veranda that served as a throne room and audience chamber, meaning that several of the windows in her personal quarters looked directly out over the falls and southern river, which threaded through and around the city, protecting it from invasion.

From here, Maeve could see the whole of her city, could watch over it. Like an owl tucked away in her nest, looking down from the roof of the forest.

Lorcan approached, and knelt. “My Queen.”

She didn’t turn. Lorcan’s body went still as death.

“Speak.”

Lorcan swallowed. “Your majesty, I have sought an audience to discuss your strategy for the defense of this city.”

“No.” Her voice was flat.

“No?” Lorcan was tentative. Maeve’s moods shifted so unexpectedly, and with her face turned away, he couldn’t be quite sure exactly who he was dealing with.

“No.” Maeve turned to face him, her pale skin shining in the white light from the window. Unearthly. Immortal. “You wish to understand why I let them go.”

Lorcan kept silent, waiting.

Maeve smiled, an eerie look. Dark, and disconcerting. “The girl did get some things right you know. And it was kind of her to return this ring to me. Brannon hid it so well.” The golden band glittered on her right hand, its ruby bright in the sunlight.

“The princess made the mistake of her short life when she gave me this ring. The ring that Brannon had kept safe from me for centuries. Hidden in a cave of all things.” A huff of a laugh. “Did you know that it was forged by Mala herself?”

Maeve’s eyes flicked over to his. Lorcan shook his head, a small gesture. “She forged it for her great love, Brannon, in order to protect him. From the Valg.” It almost seemed as though the ruby deepened in color, becoming darker, more mysterious. More precious. “Any who wears this ring is protected from the Valg. Cannot be killed by them, cannot be possessed by them. The princess handed me my own immunity.”

She gently lowered her hand into her lap, the silken sleeves of her gown covering up the golden ring once more. “And what use is a demon-killing sword compared to that?”

Maeve’s eyes once again met his, piercing him through. “I let them go because Aelin Galathynius is going to find the Wyrdkeys for me.”

Lorcan’s breath came shallow.

“Aelin Galathynius is well-informed. More well-informed than I had thought. But not nearly as well informed as me. Yes, I killed Athril. He betrayed me, sought to keep the keys from me. To keep me down, lesser. When I would be a goddess. Mighty as Mala herself.” The words tore from her, angry and aching.

“He betrayed me. So I killed him. And I do not regret it.”

Lorcan’s brow was furrowed, his eyes tight.

“But she has no idea that she didn’t escape. No, I unleashed her. To ravish the world. And bring me back the Wyrdkeys.” Maeve turned back, gazing over the blue rooftops of her misty city. “No, Lorcan. We do not need to worry about Aelin Galathynius returning to Doranelle. Instead, think of how we might meet her in the west. Of how we can overwhelm her, and take my rightful prize from her cold, dead fingers.”

Another dark smile. “We cannot let her destroy the Wyrdkeys. No. The Wyrdkeys are mine. And she is going to find them for me.”

Lorcan just nodded, unable to summon a response. Maeve gestured for her handmaiden to see him out, and Lorcan stood from his crouch, his knees trembling. He nodded at his queen, then walked out. The cold stone halls welcoming him into their depths.

The door shuddered to a close behind him, shutting his queen away with her visions and memories and greed. For if there was only one thing that he was sure of, it was that the Wyrdkeys, and their immense, unfathomable power, would destroy her.

Lorcan strode through the corridors, his footsteps echoing down their empty lengths like ripples in the water. A soft marking of his presence.

In all the centuries he had lived and toiled beneath this roof, beneath this throne, it had been the same. Maeve remained secluded in Doranelle, refusing to expand her territory, refusing to conquer any surrounding lands, fighting in useless wars in order to keep everything exactly as it was. The borders in the eastern continent had not shifted in millennia, and that was the way Maeve wanted it.

In the past season, more had changed in Doranelle than had in the entire five hundred years Lorcan had been alive. And it seemed like more change was coming. Lorcan couldn’t just let things be anymore, couldn’t just let this pass by. He couldn’t, and he wouldn’t.

Lorcan couldn’t watch his queen destroy herself. And he certainly wouldn’t help her do it.

So what would he do instead?