Chapter Text
Aelin didn’t know anything but her heart that existed only when she released her fire. It was an extravagant display of sorts, one that she didn’t anticipate would be so overwhelming yet relieving at the same time.
Rowan swallowed, the bump in his throat bobbing, “That was something, it was.”
“Are you fucking joking?” Fenrys drawled. “Princess, Queen, Your Amazing Majesty, whatever you want to be called, that was gods-damned amazing.”
Aelin mustered a smile, even if her mouth felt dry after gulping down all the water they had. “It was—good?” She looked at Rowan, for confirmation or affirmation or some reassurance, she didn’t know. Aelin just watched his lips lift incrementally, and then as his cool hand rested on her shoulder. She sighed in pleasure—of the temperature, of course.
“She’s burning up.” Gavriel spoke up. “She may get sick.”
“She’ll be fine.” Rowan waved them away, “Give her some space.”
The sound of Fenrys scoffing could be heard a couple feet away, and getting farther. She sighed again when the coolness engulfed her body, chilling the sweat that dripped off her skin. The tight braid she’d tied her hair in early morning was killing her, so with slippery fingers she hastily fumbled with the ribbon. She groaned in relief when the tightness across her scalp eased.
Rowan watched do it all with a cocked head. When her hands grew tired to unravel her hair, she shoved him lightly and motioned to the tangled strands.
Aelin suppressed a laugh as he looked at her hair with the likeness of how he’d stare at a goat. She mimicked pulled apart a braid with a piece of her hair and relaxed when he got the hang of it.
It was nice, having someone do something as simple as unravel her braid, but that combined with the brisk air that Aelin knew Rowan conjured—she was oddly the calmest she’d been in a while. The tension was slowly melting from her shoulders.
When the braid was all gone, Rowan lifted his hands. His expression turns serious.
“Your magic…it’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen.” He says slowly.
“Should I be flattered?” Aelin raises a brow. “Imagine being a child with that sort of power.” She shook her head.
“Didn’t anyone try to train you?”
Aelin laughs humorlessly. “More people than I can count. Either I terrified them when they actually witnessed my power or I burned something they loved to ash.” She furrowed her brows and after a couple seconds, unfurled a fisted hand. A droplet of water sat in the center of her palm. “I wish I got this magic instead.”
“Careful,” Rowan murmurs. “Mala could smite you for insulting her power.”
“All my fire has done is destroy.” Aelin is on her feet in an instant. “All I’ve gained from her power is loneliness.”
Rowan’s harsh expression doesn’t waver. She’s beginning to think that it’s just his normal face. Perhaps icy would be a better describer.
Nonetheless, he stands up, and Aelin grits her teeth when he surpasses her in height. Though she knows she’s taller than most women, it rankled her for some irrational reason to see this fae tower over her like it was nothing. She huffs, whirling around and spies Aedion’s burnt-to-a-crisp cloak. She winced. The dark green fabric had been a gift from him to her—a reminder of Terrasen.
Everywhere she went, Terrasen was there. She lived, breathed, and would eventually die for it; whether her demise be natural or from war, she leaned towards the second option. Besides her friends, she loved nothing more than her homeland—and she didn’t want to think about what she’d sacrifice for it and her people to finally be free.
When she reached the group of loitering fae, she scooped up the pack that she’d deposited with them, rummaging through it to pull out a chocolate pastry wrapped in some plastic that Quinn had hastily made for her before she’d left. While everyone who’d traveled on the ship to the Southern Continent knew, Quinn would kill anyone else if they discovered his secret love of baking and cooking.
“You just had a chocolate pastry in that bag?” Fenrys practically salivates. She takes pity on the seemingly golden fae, and breaks off a piece. When she holds out the sweet to him, he snatches it out of her palm, gulps it down in seconds, and lets out an approving grunt. “I’m forever in your service, Majesty.” He mocks a bow.
Aelin nods in somber agreement. “Glad you understood the price of my generosity.”
The glower of Rowan’s face chills the air significantly. Aelin figures it’s not the time to quip about how much she enjoys the cool breeze.
“So what now?” Fenrys drawls, straightening up and gesturing to the clearing behind them. “You said a princess sent you here? To find us?”
“Yes,” Aelin nodded. “I…honestly the only reason I convinced my court to travel here was so that I could get a handle on my powers. As I’m sure you know, magic has been erased from Erilea for over a decade. My kingdom has been taken from me for the same amount of time.” She inhaled deeply from her nose. It was always a struggle, reigning in her emotions enough to maintain a cool, blank face. Now, with her fire magic released, it was harder to keep a tight grip on her anger.
“Why would you come to the Southern Continent to gain control of your magic if it is banished from your own continent? Forgive my ignorance, but what is the point?” Gavriel questioned.
Aelin swallowed. She sized up the three fae males, which admittedly didn’t make her feel any better seeing as they could pummel her into the ground with sheer force. “I have a plan regarding that.”
“Which is…?” Fenrys trails off, but Aelin lets out a small snort.
“Oh no.” Aelin wags her finger, “I don’t know any of you well enough to tell you this top-secret plan involving the freeing of magic across my home continent,” She makes a clicking noise with her mouth. When thinking harder, “No, you must wait, and hope that I find you all useful enough to keep around until then.” Aelin nods to herself.
They all exchange a look. “Do you think this plan of yours could somehow work in Wendlyn?” Gavriel speaks up.
Aelin winced. “I’m sorry. I received confidential information relevant only to Erilea and is contingent on only freeing magic here. Perhaps, when magic returns, we can find something for Wendlyn. For now, Terrasen is my only priority. And to do that, Erilea must become my priority.”
Rowan nods. It seems at least he understands how much her kingdom means to her. “So, why else are you here? You have no teacher to guide you, and Mala didn’t give us any further instruction.”
The hesitancy must be plain on her face, because he opens his mouth to speak again when Aelin cuts in. “I think you will be my teachers. It’s the only explanation that makes sense, at least to me. You all are gods-know-how-many-centuries-old fae. My magic has never been tamed by any Erilean magic-wielder. My mother promised to bring me to Maeve when I was young, for her to examine me or experiment, or understand what the Ashryver and Galathynius lines had created—but she never did.”
“Gods know what would have happened if she did.” Gavriel breathes. “Ashryver, you said?”
Aelin shot him a weird look. “Yes. I’m the daughter of Evalin Ashryver. And Rhoe Galathynius. Does living in the wilderness hinder your knowledge of current events?”
“No, it’s—never mind.”
“Either way,” Aelin continued, “you all are exceptionally gifted in the magic area. You are all fae—Wendlyn fae, at that. There’s none more different from my previous trainers than you all. You could help me gain control over my magic.”
Fenrys looked to the sky and pinched the bridge of his nose. “No pressure.” He sighed.
“It’s disheartening to see you stressed, Fenrys.” Gavriel teases. “Not your best look.”
“Shut the fu—”
“If this is the way it’s going to be, I’m this close to figuring out my magic by my own damn self.” Aelin remarks, not even looking up from her bag, from which she’s rummaging for items yet again.
This time, the cool voice that speaks next shouldn’t surprise her, but it does. “Then what do you wish to know, Princess?”
///
Lysandra wiped the sweat from her brow as she peered at the tower looming above her and her companions. It had been a journey from the inconspicuous port that their ship had docked at to the Torre Cesme, but at long last, they’d arrived.
Elide shuffled over to Lysandra, and laced an arm within hers. “What are you thinking?” She asks, gazing at the point where Lysandra had her eyes set on.
“A million different things.”
Elide chuckled.
“Mostly,” Lysandra murmurs, “how vast the world is. I didn’t think I’d ever save enough money to see it all one day. And now I’m here.”
“And now you’re here.” Elide echoes. “With good company as well, I hope.”
Lysandra gave a wry smirk. “Some.”
They’re silent for a moment. Then Elide speaks up, “Do you think Aelin’s okay?”
Even though it had been well over three weeks since Lysandra learned that her new friend was the lost heir of Terrasen, it was still jarring to hear her royal name like that. Aelin would always be Celaena to her, in some way. She didn’t hold the woman against her for deceiving her—now that she knew the extent of her situation, she’d have done the same.
“Yeah,” She says instead, nodding reassuringly. Elide and Aelin had grown up together. They were practically sisters—and seeing this unease marring Elide’s normally cool expression did little to soothe Lysandra. But who else would soothe Elide? “She’s probably already found those fae. She’s probably on her way to mastering her magic as we speak.”
“Gods, I hope so,” Elide mutters. “Terrasen would be all the better for it.”
Before Lysandra can inquire more, the doors to the Towers slowly creak open. It’s ominous in its welcome to the Erilean travelers, because Lysandra finds herself suddenly shoved behind a man with a broad, wide back riddled with weapons. She rolls her eyes.
“It’s a tower for healers, Aedion.” Lysandra bites back a laugh. “No one is getting murdered in broad daylight. I’m pretty sure it goes against their moral code.”
“Where was their moral code when the rest of the world was being taken over?” Aedion’s low murmur is barely discernible, and Lysandra frowns.
“That’s hardly fair—” She begins, but her words are cut short when a figure emerges from the tower entrance.
A singular woman, clad in a modest dress. Her hair pulled into a messy braid, the strands a mix between dark brown and honey. She stands straight, confident.
“So you are the rebellion.” Her voice is loud enough to reach Lysandra, though the bustling city pays her no attention.
Captain Quinn steps forward. “Ma’am, we are no rebellion—”
“You practically are one,” She retorts, moving down the steps, closer towards them. It’s clear that she doesn’t fear a single thing they can do to her, regardless of the fact that the entire traveling party has weapons on their person. “Mala described you all as the ‘saving light of the continent,’”
“And you are?” Lysandra steps away from Aedion. She faintly hears his hiss to get back behind me ,but pays it no mind. “Yrene Towers?”
“Yes.” She nods. Then she inclines her head in the direction of the Torre. “Come. We have been waiting for you.”
///
“This is pointless.” Aelin spits into the field, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth. Her lips are dry and cracked, her body is secreting sweat in places she didn’t know could secret sweat, her head is pounding—everything is miserable, and Aelin is targeting everyone around her regardless of intention.
“It’s not pointless,” Rowan’s no-nonsense tone rankles her to a point where Aelin just wants to smash his face into the nearest wall. “You must control small things before learning how to destroy villages.”
“I will not destroy villages,” She retorts, eyebrows scrunching as she focuses on her palm, splayed out in front of her. She channels all of her energy into crafting a small, singular flame, yet all that manifests is a miniscule spark. “Though perhaps I’ll burn down Rifthold.” The thought prompts a slight, dark smile. “Without most of the residents in it, of course.”
“Most?” Gavriel somehow makes the single word sound as if he is horrified with her train of thought. “ You are the one that’s going to be trusted to rule a kingdom?”
She whips her head, small flame forgotten as the inferno of her anger intensifies. “Yes. What is your problem with it?”
“You would burn down a city? With people inside?”
“I said without most.”
“ Any loss of life is terrible. And you’d do it with pleasure?”
The anger consolidates until it’s a writhing snake, and she’s the one who strikes.
“Don’t pretend that you’ve never taken a life.” Aelin stands, and walks over to where he rests. “Don’t pretend as if you’re high and mighty. I may not know you very well, but I know that the dangers of this world and the evil that resides in it are no strangers to you. Some of the people in that gods-damned city are monsters. ” She snarls, bending until they’re face to face. “I’d happily love to watch those horrid people burn. Such as the King of Adarlan, you know, the one responsible for the collapse of Terrasen, Melisande, and Fenharrow? The one responsible for my parents’ death? The enslavement of my kingdom?
“If you were in my position, you’d say the same. Don’t pretend as if you haven’t thought about killing Queen Maeve,” Aelin mocks. “They’re all imposters, and they all deserve nothing short of death. Sparing them would be idiocy.”
“Ookay,” Fenrys whistles, gently steering Aelin away from Gavriel, who watched the woman with surprised eyes. “Maybe we need to calm down. It’s been a long day.”
“It’s been a long life,” Aelin returns, catching sight of a stream. The sight immediately captures her attention. She whips off her tunic, wearing only a slip as she slides her trousers down her legs. “I’m taking a bath. The rest of you can do what you want.”
“Oh, thank you, most gracious majesty,” She hears Fenrys boast from behind her, and she fights a smile.
“Are you kidding me, Gav?” Aelin distantly hears the slap of a palm against a chest, and stifles a giggle while submerging herself beneath the calm water. “Incur the wrath of a monarch, why don’t you? Smartest idea from you yet.”
“That’s rich coming from you,” Rowan says, distracted. “Because you’re obviously the brains of our group.”
“In matters of the heart, yes, I am.” Fenrys sniffs. “All jokes aside, that was the most insensitive thing I’ve ever heard.”
“I know,” Gavriel sighed. Aelin could feel the remorse behind the words, and relaxed marginally at the thought. She felt a little bad for yelling at him now, but he deserved it at the time. Just thinking about sparing the predators that roamed the city of Rifthold made her shiver in anger. “I’ll apologize when she returns.”
“And,” Fenrys whistles, “I think we need a better way of training the girl. We can’t teach her to wield fire by making her sit still and conjure the tiniest flame when we know she’s capable of burning us to crisps without a second thought.”
“That’s the thing,” Rowan interjects. “She needs to think twice. The display we saw earlier was an Unleashing, and you know it. I’ve seen Sellene do it years before Maeve, and we all did it when we crossed into Terrasen. Beyond that, she needs to have control over her abilities. We let her keep Unleashing like that, and that will be the only thing she’ll know how to do.”
The other two were silent as they stewed over Rowan’s words, and Aelin found herself reluctantly understanding why even the smallest things mattered when talking about magic. She dunked her head, massaging her scalp as she strained her fae ears to listen harder.
“Okay, what about the issue of the others?”
“They’ll come.”
“How are you sure?” Fenrys hissed to Gavriel. “You’re always so annoyingly cryptic.”
Aelin could practically hear the eye roll that she somehow knew Gavriel just mustered. “They know their orders.”
“Couldn’t they have forgotten their orders?”
“No.” Gavriel’s answer was adamant, but Aelin’s interest was piqued. “Lorcan wouldn’t forsake a duty bestowed by the gods. Nor would Vaughn.”
“The male has a family,” Rowan pointed out. “He could be hesitant on returning to war, especially with the rumors of the Adarlanian King considering expansion to the Western Wastes.”
At that, Aelin’s head snapped in their direction. The Western Wastes, currently occupied by an old friend of Aelin, was a place that she knew well. Who was this Vaughn they spoke of, and why was he so concerned about the wellbeing of the Western Wastes?
“Calling it a family is a far stretch,” Fenrys allowed, “It’s him, and his three children.” He huffed a laugh, “Who would have thought silent, emotionless Vaughn would have been the first to father children between us all?”
Aelin manoeuvred herself so that her body was hidden behind the leaf of a weeping tree, soundlessly swimming closer to shore. She peered through the leaves, finally catching sight of the males.
“His children,” Gavriel looked at Fenrys meaningfully, “are full-fledged warriors. Returning to fight the war is an honorable way to serve the gods—whose opinions are something Vaughn and his children value. So we can count on him, plus his kids to make good on his promise.”
“And Connall?” Rowan looked at Fenrys. “Have you heard anything?”
Fenrys rolls his eyes. “Last I heard, he was sleeping through the female population of Tigana. I spoke to him earlier. He’s on his way.”
Rowan nods to himself. Then he juts his head toward the stream, noting Aelin’s absence. She mutters a curse as his eyes move toward the tree, and quickly sinks under the water.
She scrubs her arms and legs while underneath, attempting to gracefully rise and break the surface of the water, running a hand over the length of her hair. She wrinkles her nose at the thought of not having her products. Aelin can live without luxury, but she loves to indulge—difficult when you’re a princess who’s supposed to be dead and decidedly not spending the royal coffers on lavender soap.
“Are you done?”
Aelin jolts, whirling to see Rowan now seated at the shore of the stream. He doesn’t say anything else, infuriatingly raising an eyebrow.
“I wish I could control my magic just to be able to singe your eyebrows off.” Aelin mutters, looking around for anything to dry her body off with. Unable to come up with any options, she closes her eyes in annoyance for a second, then meets his eyes. “Give me your shirt.”
He looks at her for half a second, then whips off the shirt without a second thought. Barely a moment passed before he held the garment out to Aelin, who grabbed it quickly as she tried to keep the surprise off her face. For all he knew, she could have thrown the shirt out in the river, yet he still gave it to her.
She used the cloth to soak up the water that was clinging to her body as she rose out of the stream. The cool breeze that accentuated the water still on her person made her sigh in relief, and with a single glance to her bunched clothes that lay next to the stream, she decided to scoop them up and shove them into her pack.
“Did you two get lost and end up together?” Fenrys drawled when Aelin came within distance.
She looked behind her and had to hold back a lip bite when she saw the skin that his shirtless chest revealed. Hard muscles that she had to actively keep herself from reaching out and brushing her fingers against. And—dear gods, was that a tattoo?
Nonetheless, Aelin remained steadfast in her resolution, instead plopping down on the ground, thoroughly refreshed. “So, my trusty little Cadre, let’s begin.”
///
“What—and let me emphasize this—the fuck is a Valg?” Dorian demands, pacing the length of his considerably hefty room. Nehemia, wearing a grim expression, lays on his bed, while Chaol’s face is unreadable. He’s relaxed enough to sit in front of the fire instead of standing at Dorian’s door, yet every line of his body is rigid with wariness.
“I thought it was folklore. I thought it couldn’t be real, not now, not in this world.” Nehemia shakes her head in disbelief. “But what I saw in that cell, it just made me sure in my awful theories.”
“But what are they?” Dorian persists, halting at the foot of the bed. He spreads his heads, but they tremble in an anxious movement. “All you’ve done since you left the cell and rushed in here is shake your head and mutter to yourself. If you know what’s going on, please tell me.”
Dorian bites his lip after finishing, carefully watching Nehemia’s expression for any type of flickers. He recognizes almost all of her miniscule movements, the flash of skepticism in her eyes. He doesn’t blame her—Chaol and he were unlikely friends once she arrived in Adarlan a couple months ago. She has every reason to distrust them, but Dorian knows that she doesn’t. She wouldn’t waste her secret knowledge of wyrdmarks and everything otherworldly with someone like the Crown Prince of the nation that’s intimidating her country into all but invasion unless she knew where Dorian’s interests lied.
“The Valg,” She begins, “is a long story.”
“We’ve got time.” Chaol speaks up from the fire. “If I’m to deal with a prisoner such as that, I’d like to know what I’m getting into.”
“They are, in a way, related to the wyrdmarks.” She sighs, splaying her hands out to them. “The Valg are from a different realm. They are like parasites, demons who infiltrate the host, basically taking over everything until the host is but a hollow shell of who they once were. Sort of like a transitory vessel in this world.”
“And if they’re from a different realm, how is it that you know about them?” Dorian questioned, hanging his head.
“Stories,” Nehemia shrugged. “Warnings, legends, a variety of different things, really. A host of them landed in the Southern Continent when they tried to cross over a couple hundred odd years ago. I think,” She pauses, and hesitates before speaking again, as if she doesn’t believe what she’s saying. “I think the Valg are the reason magic disappeared in Wendlyn all those years ago. And why it disappeared here.”
“Explain.” Dorian grits out, “Please.”
“Well, the books in Eyllwe had vague descriptions of what a Valg in a human body appeared as. The assassin seemed like he was in a state of self-destruction. A ring on his finger, made of black stone, is what gives him his power. From Morath, I believe. I don’t know,” She shakes her head again, “Queen Maeve’s arrival into Wendlyn was sudden—a monarch with a more direct line to Mab and Mora that Queen Sellene is unbelievable, and yet somehow, Doranelle acquiesced to her like that?” Nehemia snaps her fingers in emphasis. “What if she’s Valg? What if she crossed over from her realm, and brought her soldiers with her?”
“Okay, even if that is true—which is extremely unlikely,” Chaol stands, hands bracketing the back of his neck. “This is Queen Maeve we’re talking about. The one who’s in direct alliance with the King.”
“Exactly!” Nehemia points at Chaol, as if a stroke of genius struck her. “Gods, this makes so much sense. Maeve’s already in control of the East—Wendlyn—Erilea being her next target is obvious. We’re weaker than the South, because of our separations into different kingdoms. Easier to break apart when one enters into alliance with a superpower.”
“Like Adarlan allying with Wendlyn,” Dorian realizes out loud. “Of course.” He murmurs to himself, realization like a strike of lightning breaking apart everything he thought he knew. But it all lines up. Eleven years ago, around the fall of Terrasen, the King had traveled to Wendlyn with the purpose of cultivating an alliance—one that he assured the rest of Erilea he would extend to them. But when he returned, he turned to subjugating all the kingdoms. Breaking their spirits.
“So you’re saying that the King and Maeve are working together in an attempt to literally take over the world? You both realize how far-fetched this sounds?” Chaol implores, panic a slight undertone in his voice. “I mean, this is treason.”
“Was that meeting with the Heir of Terrasen a couple weeks ago not treason?” Nehemia raises a brow despite the fevered atmosphere. “Listen, Captain, you’re going to have to let go of our duty compass and grab onto your moral one.”
“I know, but,” He shakes his head, “What if you’re wrong?”
Nehemia doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m not.”