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Chapter Text

The Fall of Magic

Blood was pounding in her ears.

She could hear nothing. Feel nothing. Only the rush of the water was a distant sound, the water right below the bridge she was crossing. Lady Marion had said to make it to the farm. Aelin would listen.

But the flashes of her mother’s dearest friend hitting the table, the red splashing the window, was on repeat in her mind, and she could not escape it. Nor the image of the horrified servant finding her in between her parents' corpses.

“Make for the bridge, and cross it. Do you remember the empty farm down the road? Find a place to hide there—and do not come out, do not let yourself be seen by anyone except someone you recognize. Not even if they say they’re a friend. Wait for the court—they will find you.”

Her nursemaid’s last orders for Aelin.

Her mother’s hand on her heart.

“Wherever you go, Aelin, no matter how far, this will lead you home.”

The voices of her loved ones echoed in her head, fueling Aelin to pump her arms harder, to use every bit of strength she had. The end of the bridge was in sight. She could see the empty road that followed.

Swallowing, and pushing away from the darkness with a stubborn light that refused to be put out, Aelin ran.

Run, Aelin .

The Amulet of Orynth that her mother had gifted her only the night before bounced up and down. She prayed it stayed on. She was praying for a lot of things.

Rain was pounding on her now. It made the wood slippery.

Somehow, Aelin made it across the bridge.

Breathing heavily, she did not give herself time to rest as she launched down the dirt road. The Florine River became a vague sound that she would only hear in her nightmares.

She only had to wait til tomorrow, Aelin told herself. Only til tomorrow, and then her Uncle’s court would come. Lord Lochan, Aedion, and Captain Quinn. They would find her.

A looming shadow grew over the road, and it made Aelin’s heart stutter. But it only belonged to that farm Lady Marion had shown her a few months ago, when the entire royal family had come down to the countryside. Aelin scrambled off the road, reaching for the door of the barn, a muted red color. As if it hadn’t been used in decades.

When she pulled, the door didn’t budge.

Aelin, with her tiny hands, couldn’t pull open the door. Panic was a living thing in her body, making her shaky and forcing small breaths out of her body that refused to give her air.

She didn’t know what she could do. 

Letting go of the door, Aelin pushed the tears away with sheer will. No, she would not cry. 

She whipped her head around, looking for something— anything —that would help her. The sounds of the land around her, lush and green with vegetation, flat land offering no additional hiding places for her.

Aelin leaned against the door in defeat. That was it.

She’d meet her end like the rest of her family. Like Lady Marion. Was dying painful, she wondered? What was she meant for?

She remembered Aedion, who was still at the castle. Who would’ve known by now, that Orlon was dead. That Rhoe and Evalin were dead.

Who would do such a thing? Who would kill Aelin’s family? Lady Marion?

Overcome with guilt—she slumped to the ground, still in the nightgown her nursemaid had dressed her in, now muddied with water and dirt. Clutching at the Amulet, she sniffed. She was lost. And she didn’t know the way.

Not a second after Aelin had thought the words dejectedly, she heard tiny footsteps.

She’d been in her Fae form tonight. And when she tried to shift back, she found she couldn’t. Couldn’t reach the embers that lived within her, and relief filtered through her. Then sadness. Aelin was afraid of her fire, sometimes even hated it—if only for all the problems it caused her parents—but a part of her thrived on the flames.

And then she remembered the footprints heard by her Fae ears. Standing up quickly, Aelin rose on her tiptoes to make as little noise as possible. Before she could even move, she felt her left leg be pushed forward. Heart thumping, Aelin looked down to see the Little Folk, eyes fraught with determination.

They pushed her with more force. She stumbled. Little hands were all over her legs, and she heard the unspoken word. 

Run.

She ran.

They were guiding her, Aelin realized, slightly pulling along her shoulder, or her hair. Her arm was held aloft, while the tiny faeries led her to the side of the barn. Far above her head, there was an open window. Her breath caught. By the gods.

“How do I get up?” Her voice was shaky. It was the first time Aelin had spoken since Lady Marion had kissed her brow and ordered her to leave.

They said nothing, but their fluttering bodies suggested otherwise. Multiple Little Folk rose up over her head, gesturing for her hands. Aelin whipped her head backwards as a roar was heard in the far distance. Her heart started beating faster.

The faeries from above pulled her arms. The faeries from below pushed. Urgency was in every line of their tiny forms. 

They killed her parents. They killed her uncle Orlon, and Lady Marion. Now they’re going to kill her .

She grit her teeth as anger surged through her blood. She would not let them kill her. She would kill them . 

Pushing up off the ground, the faeries grabbed hold of Aelin’s arms and legs. They propelled her to a ledge jutting out from a first story window. Grappling for the windowsill at the very bottom of the open window, Aelin’s nails tore out of their rightful areas. She didn’t feel the pain, only feeling victory as she wobbled on the tiptoes of one foot. Her hands found purchase on the sill, and Aelin took a deep breath.

Impatient hands on her back. Gentle soothing flips of their wings. Aelin curled her arms, pulling her weight up and over the sill. Her golden hair hung over her shoulders as her torso hit the ledge. It bit into her body but she didn’t think about the pain.

The roar echoed again.

A final push, and Aelin tumbled into the attic of the barn. Heaving a silent sigh of relief, she waited.

She found a large chest, big enough to fit her whole body. She crept into it, and belatedly realized the absence of squeaks from the metal hinges meant something.

Aelin closed the lid of the chest over her, encased in darkness once again. Only til morning, she reminded herself. Only til morning. She wrapped her arms around her knees, hearing that same roaring over and over. 

All night.

///

Aedion had never felt more terrified in his life.

“Aedion, hurry,” Lord Lochan, or—as Aedion called him—Mr Cal, urged. 

They’d set out for the countryside manor the moment word had arrived that the Prince of Terrasen and his wife had been found dead in their beds. From Ms Marion, who’d stayed with Aelin.

Aelin.

When they arrived, Ms Marion was unconscious. And blood was everywhere.

Mr Cal had fallen to his knees in front of his wife. Aedion had held his breath, searching the entire manor for his young cousin.

Ms Marion was still breathing, Aedion had learned when he entered the room again, but they didn’t know when she’d wake up—if she ever did. Her blood was splattered on the windows, the table, and the ground. He was still, straining his sensitive ears to hear anything that would help lead him to Aelin.

He didn’t let himself think about the deaths of the people he’d loved most in the world. Just prayed that the one who’d understood him best despite her age—the one who he’d sworn to protect regardless of a blood oath—was still alive.

///

Aelin didn’t sleep.

She stayed awake all night—unable to shut her eyes without seeing her mother and father, without seeing Lady Marion with her knives shining, falling to the ground. 

The flutter and flapping of the birds was the only sound that indicated the sun had risen. But still Aelin did not open the chest in which she hid. She didn’t react to any sound, not after the roaring had died off a couple hours ago. The Little Folk had given her a tap at her shoulder, a couple playfully flicking her hair, before leaving not long after she’d found the trunk. Leaving her alone.

It was after another hour that she heard footsteps beneath her. Aelin tensed, the familiar fear from last night wracking up her body. Curling herself up into a ball as if that would hide her if someone was able to find the chest and open it, Aelin listened with her Fae ears.

“What did she say again?”

“She was supposed to come down here. Hide in the barn. But the door was rusted—it wouldn’t have opened for her.”

“What if she’s—”

“She’s alive.”

Aelin jolted.

She’d been listening to people who sounded a lot like Aedion and Lord Cal. But she didn’t believe that for a second. If the same people— things —were here that had killed her parents, who knew what they were capable of?

But the one who’d said, “She’s alive,”—that was Lady Marion. And Lady Marion was dead . 

“You can’t know that, Mar,” Lord Lochan’s voice echoes, “That old bridge was rickety enough. We don’t know if she—if she's—” His voice broke.

“No.” Marion said, her resolve strong. “She is alive. I know it.”

Earlier that night, when Aelin’d woken up in her parents’ bed, the smell that had greeted her was atrocious. It wasn’t blood, it wasn’t something from this world. There was no way to describe it. And when someone had come to take her, the someone who’d killed Lady Marion, they’d had the same disgusting smell. Like dreams rotting in darkness.

Aelin took a tentative sniff, creaking the chest open only the tiniest of slivers. They were downstairs still—hadn’t thought that there would be an attic. Her nose was filled with the smells of home, of Aedion and Lord Cal and Lady Marion.

But she was hesitant. 

Lady Marion said that the court would come looking for her—that they would find her. But— 

Footsteps became thundering as someone yelled, “There’s another floor!”

She smelled Aedion, his scent mixed with a huge tint of fear. Aelin frowned. 

“Aelin?” He whispered, and she was so tempted to open the chest, to fling her arms around everyone and go to sleep in her big bed. And with their normal scents, it was hard for Aelin to refuse herself.

But what if they were just monsters? What if they were here to kill her like they killed her family?

“Mr Cal!” Aedion called, “Over here!”

There were vibrations beneath her, and Aelin knew they were walking towards the chest. She clenched her fists. There wasn’t going to be any escaping now, she knew inside her heart. She outran them once—only with the sacrifice of Lady Marion—she wouldn’t be able to outrun them again.

Someone found the top of the trunk, and slowly pulled it open, flooding the tiny dark pocket with light that Aelin hadn’t seen in hours.

Fear—something ugly that she’d known in small amounts—rose up inside her as she reverted to her small child-like self. Curling up in herself, her nose was flooded with the smell of Lady Marion leaning over the trunk. Aelin scrambled away.

“Aelin,” Lady Marion whispered, reaching for her. Aelin shook in fear.

“No!” She yelled, “ It’s not you !”

“Aelin, darling, it’s me, it’s me.” Lady Marion pleaded, “Look, I knew you’d make it, and you did,” she said, tears in her eyes. “It’s me .”

Vaguely, Aelin registered Aedion and Lord Cal standing in the threshold, right before the stairs, panting as if they’d run up. Lady Marion had dried blood all over her, dark eyes with flecks of gold tired and red with exhaustion. She had a rather ugly bruise forming on her temple and scratches all over her arms.

“It’s not you.” Aelin said flatly, still shrinking away. “I know ‘cause I saw you fall. I saw you die.”

“But I didn’t, Aelin,” Lady Marion says softly, “I just lost consciousness for a bit.” She explains. “I promise, Aelin, until the day I die, I won’t ever purposely leave you. I swear .”

“We.” Lord Cal corrects, walking over to Aelin, who—slowly but surely—drops her tense shoulder. Still holding her arms together, Lord Cal crouches a healthy distance away from her, as if she was some horse he was trying not to spook. “ We promise not to purposely leave you. Right, Aedion?”

“Yes,” Aelin had never seen Aedion nod so quickly—save for the times her father would call him for training. Back then she’d never seen him more excited .

And then it hit her. Again.

Gods, her father . Her parents .

Smothering a cry, Aelin crumples to the ground, arms held tightly around herself. She opens her mouth to say something, but all that comes out is this horrible sob that she’s never heard from herself in her life .

Instantly, three bodies are holding her small shaking one, three sets of voices soothing her, three sets of arms there to fix her up when she’s broken.

“You found me,” She sniffles.

A hand brushes her dirty, mangled hair out of her face. She’s greeted by the sight of Lady Marion’s gentle face—with the recent addition of grief in her eyes. “Of course we’d find you, Aelin. Did you ever think we wouldn’t?”

The four sit there for a while, on the floor of the attic, occasional cries from Aelin, and the shushing sounds from her court.

Soon, Lord Cal stands up, and scoops up Aelin as if she weighs nothing. Aedion glares as Aelin’s feet. It’s only then that Aelin realizes how much she hurts. Her feet were torn up by branches and stones and some splinters from the old bridge. Her arms are bruised, her skin this pale color instead of her usual golden.

“Come,” Lord Cal says. “Let’s get you somewhere safe.”

Chapter Text

Fifty Years Earlier (Wendlyn)

Somewhere inside of him, Rowan knew it was going to be a shitty day.

Another day of fending off Maeve’s bloodthirsty warriors, who were eager to appease their newly appointed Queen. Rowan knew she wasn’t from this continent. Hell, she might have even not been from this world.  But it was either bow to her, or be annihilated.

For Rowan and his group of friends, it was politely declining Maeve’s—very passive-aggressive—offers to be her blood-sworn warriors. That soon escalated to being very aggressive.

No, thank you. Rowan had no desire to be owned by someone, body and soul.

But today—today felt like it’d be different.

Rowan and his friends were hiding in the woods, closer to Mistward or Varese than Doranelle. And it was all going fine until some dumbass decided to almost shoot Rowan’s eyebrow off with an arrow.

“Wake up, idiots,” Rowan hissed, Lorcan already pulling out his sharpened sword. The two had been keeping watch while the other four jolted awake.

“Shit, how?” Fenrys grumbled, scooping up his sword and grabbing his twin, Connall, by the arm.

“ Perhaps,"  Lorcan snarled, already halfway done packing up the site, along with Gavriel, “it was the copious amounts of chocolate you bought and gossiping you did at the mortal town a day ago?!”

Fenrys groaned. “Just because I wish to know what is going on in the world instead of wandering around like lost puppies, doesn’t mean it’s my fault. Remember, they have magic; we don’t.”

“No shit,” Connall deadpanned, rolling his eyes. After that, the group of warriors left the little runt of woods, as if they’d never even been there in the first place, efficiently dispatching Maeve’s little group as well. And then, like the days before, they travelled east.

Magic had been taken from Wendlyn. Once Queen Maeve arrived, stealing Sellene’s proper spot as Fae Queen, she’d somehow eliminated magic all together—exceptions for her and her blood-sworn. Rowan had met his friends during training under Sellene’s rule, and they’d banded together, creating a camaraderie of sorts. Soon, Sellene had Lorcan appointed as a general, and the rest of them elevated to high status. 

Rowan was fairly young as a Fae male—having lived almost five decades. It had led him, and his friends, to yearn for glory.

Glory that Sellene granted; hard-earned nonetheless.

When Maeve had taken over, she’d sought them for their magic, for their power.  Rowan wasn’t oblivious. He wasn’t cocky, either. He knew he was the most powerful pure-bred Fae to be born in centuries. And all of them were lulled in by Maeve’s  lies. Until Rowan had had a dream from the goddess Mala (of all gods to watch over him, he couldn’t for the life of him understand why the goddess of the sun and fire would do so) warning him of Maeve.

Telling him about his mate.

Mala had said to take their leave of Doranelle, and go to the Southern Continent, where they were to wait for 61 years. 

There, they would find two individuals capable of saving this world and Rowan’s kingdom. One of which… 

Rowan had immediately gotten his cousin Enda—along with his mate Sade Kerrigan—his uncle, and any other cousins the others could round up, out of Doranelle and to head for the Eastern Continent. He’d stayed til the last minute, trying to convince Sellene to leave in order to be safe, but the former Queen insisted on staying with her people. She’d softened when Rowan had told her about his dream, about this future mate he had that he was supposed to find. She quite literally pushed him out of the kingdom.

“Go find this mate of yours,” she’d grinned, eyes still flitting around them to ensure they weren’t being followed. “And when you do, introduce me to them, yeah? It’ll be nice to not be the only female in this family.”

Rowan had only looked at her with bewildered eyes and she’d taken that moment to smirk at him, shift into her golden eagle form, and fly away.

“We’re a day's travel away from Varese,” Vaughn said quietly next to Rowan once they had a calm spot. “I just did a patrol. Do we go to the Southern Continent directly, or do we dock at Terrasen, and find our way down there soon enough?”

“I’ll be in Terrasen for a bit,” Gavriel says from behind them. Rowan raises an inquisitive eyebrow when he turns around. “I’ve always wanted to see the kingdom,” Gavriel shrugged. 

“And how long will you stay in Terrasen?”

“I’ll most likely explore the whole continent,” Gavriel says non committedly, “It being my first time to Erilea, and all. We’ve got time until we’re supposed to meet these two ridiculously powerful individuals. Might as well make the most of it.”

To that, Rowan had no answer.

///

The ship docked at the shores of Terrasen. As Rowan breathed in the pine smell of the Oakwald, and the snow of the Staghorns, he knew he couldn’t exactly fault Gavriel, Fenrys, and Connall for wanting to explore Erilea before settling their asses in Antica for some sixty years.

“I think it’d be best not to inform the royals’ of our presence,” Lorcan said, sharpening a dagger on a stone. “Gods know if they’d inform Maeve out of spite.”

“The Galathyniuses’ have always had a distrust of Doranelle, even before Maeve took over,” Vaughn said, the words definitely the first spoken out of him in days. “This whole magic banishing business has probably strengthened that.”

“Speaking of magic,” Fenrys cut in, grinning, “have you felt it?”

While Lorcan rolled his eyes directly at Fenrys, Rowan had felt it. The pit in the bottom of his stomach, the ice and wind that he tasted in the air. Magic was in this kingdom—this continent—and he’d missed it so much.

Fenrys smiled wickedly, the wind (not Rowan) lifting his golden hair, whipping it about his face. Then he vanished into dark shadows, appearing right next to Lorcan and slapping his ass.

“ Fenrys Moonbeam—"

Fenrys cackled, and even Vaughn cracked a smile at Lorcan’s indignant squawk.

“What a mighty fine ass you have, Salvaterre,” Fenrys smirked, “No wonder all the females are after you. What do you say, Rowan?”

Rowan rolled his eyes. “Never focused on his ass like you have, Fenrys.”

Fenrys flipped his hair, letting out a “hmph!” before slinging an arm around Connall’s neck, ruffling the darker twin’s locks.

The group had decided on docking in Terrasen, where Gavriel, Fenrys, and Connall would stay for a bit—as Terrasen was rumored to be one of the best places for Fae, demi-Fae, and humans alike—and Vaughn would just venture off.

Vaughn had never been as close with the group as the others were. Rowan just figured it was his nature. But when the male had told him of his own plans, only a couple days after leaving the shores of Wendlyn, Rowan felt as if he understood.

He had a lover waiting for him in the Western Wastes. A woman he’d met a decade ago, enthralled him—until they’d shared relations and she’d vanished.

A month ago, supposedly, a letter had arrived for the warrior, telling him about a child she’d borne—one that looked eerily like him.

It was the main reason Vaughn had agreed to come. This woman had confessed to being terrified out of her mind, and had run the moment she could. That she still loved him. And she wanted her daughter to have a father.

Vaughn would part ways with them, and it was hard to say when he would return. If he ever would.

But Rowan understood. Though he’d never been in love, and had never even entertained the possibility of loving someone like that until he’d heard of his mate, he understood that a part of Vaughn had been fractured the moment this woman had left him. A chance to piece it back together wasn’t one Rowan would think the male would let slip away.

Lorcan, on the other hand, was as aimless as Rowan would be. Lorcan would head straight to the Southern Continent, though, most likely, he’d dive straight into the wild. And wouldn’t emerge until the very day Hellas told him to.

And that left Rowan. He still hadn’t decided what he’d do. On the one hand, going to Antica straight away to sit his ass there and wait for sixty-one years didn’t seem all that efficient. Though Rowan had never bothered to think about seeing the world, he didn’t seem to mind that much. 

So Rowan would stay with the rest, at least until the forty year mark. Then he’d most certainly go to Antica and sit his ass there. He’d do it gladly.

Because if he was being honest? He kept having dreams, filled with the same vision Mala had granted him that night that seemed so long ago—a vision of crackling embers, and a pair of bright blue eyes with a core of gold staring at him through the flames.

They haunted him each and every night, til he had to remind himself that his mate hadn’t been born yet, and it was getting a little creepy.

Nonetheless, Rowan had never been impatient in his life.

Not until her.

Chapter Text

Sixty-One Years Later

Aelin huffed. This miserable corset was going to be the death of her.

An elbow dug into her ear as Elide said, sickly sweet, “Aelin, stop squirming .”

“I can’t help it, El,” Aelin hissed, shifting once more. “I don’t understand how I ever tolerated these things.”

“Well, at least look like you’re having a good time.” Elide said from behind her fan.

“Auntie!” Aelin whined, albeit quietly.

Marion laughed softly, “She’s not wrong, Aelin.”

Elide’s smug smirk couldn’t be hidden behind her lacy, black fan. Aelin quicked her shin, sure and quick, nonetheless.

“Gods-damned it, Aelin.” Aedion ordered, a prop bottle of questionable contents in his hand. He laid back lazily, eyes smudged with red from Aelin’s lip tint. “Would it kill you for one second to not be violent?”

“I second that question.” Elide muttered, non discreetly rubbing her uninjured shin against the one Aelin had kicked.

Before Aelin could quip a smartass response, the green-eyed courtesan from earlier returned, waving her fan as she laughed prettily. It was all a ruse, Aelin knew. Lysandra—as she’d learned the name of the woman—despised being in such a business. And Aelin despised that she had to turn to such a practice she didn’t wish to be in.

She despised being in Rifthold.

After a wonderful summer in Terrasen—in hiding, of course—Aelin had met with Lord Darrow about what steps to take. Aedion had been in Rifthold for quite a while at that point, something that always made Aelin anxious and terrified, though the only people who could sense it was Elide and her parents.

They’d grown up together, after her family’s deaths. Of course they’d be able to figure Aelin out.

Aedion being in Rifthold was so that he could keep up appearances as being a haughty, full-of-himself general. Which, Aelin had teased, couldn’t be hard enough for her cousin. During his time here, in the summer, Aedion had caught wind of a rebel organization, claiming that they had made contact with the lost Heir of Terrasen, and were planning a revolt against Adarlan’s rule. All of which was wonderful.

Except Aelin had never heard of this so-called rebel organization. Problematic, considering her title.

Lost Heir of Terrasen.

Originally, they’d planned on just popping in the city that the King of Adarlan reigned over, but as soon as Aelin had spoken to the rebels—in disguise—she knew that the time was near.

On top of claiming that they’d had contact with Aelin, they also had valuable information from the Princess Nehemia Ytger of Eyllwe, and the Crown Prince of Adarlan—Dorian Havilliard—himself. The first part, Aelin could understand. The Princess was known to be incredibly loyal to her kingdom, and devoted to her subjects. An ally Aelin would be lucky to have.

But Dorian. The son of the tyrant that had razed all these kingdoms, ruined this whole continent? Who had an alliance with Queen Maeve—or something close to it? It was hard to believe.

Aelin wanted to go to the Southern Continent. Not to flee, she had to rush to explain to Lord Darrow. No—never to flee. The Southern Continent still had magic. Queen Maeve had banished magic from her continent years ago. Seemingly close to sixty. And with Adarlan having managed to rest the same fate on this one… Aelin’s only chance was to learn her own magic in the Southern Continent, make an alliance with Princess Nehemia and Prince Dorian—risking her damn life while doing so—and come back to free this one.

To finally take back her throne and crown—once and for all. 

And it wouldn’t hurt to see the King of Adarlan burn from her flames either.

“Oh, hello , Celaena and Marion!” Lysandra exclaimed, all mock excitement as she hooked Aelin and Elide into both her arms after putting her fan away. She pulled them farther from the corner Auntie Marion and Aedion were currently occupying, Captain Quinn—who’d given Aelin a wink under his ridiculously large hat—and Uncle Cal acting as an assassin that most would like to stay away from. He played the part well, Aelin noticed as she tried to suppress a laugh, though she wouldn’t soon forget how the man had shrieked at finding out his wife (and daughter) was descended from Ironteeth witches.

In retrospect, it had explained a lot.

“Fancy seeing you here, Lysandra!” Aelin gasped, aware of the red-haired bastard watching Lysandra with a gaze akin to a predator in the tavern they were in. “Why, I haven’t seen you in ages . Isn’t that right, Mar?”

Aelin had teased Elide for weeks after a stuttering moment where the woman had spontaneously said her mother’s name instead of a completely random one. Aelin herself had so much fun choosing another alibi for herself. She quite liked Celaena Sardothien, yes.

“Of course! We absolutely need to get together once more. My dear friend Celaena and I are visiting from a small town in Terrasen, where we’ll set out for in a few days,” Wrinkling her nose, Elide sighs, “Don’t you simply hate being in a stuffy carriage? And trapaising the entire length of the continent at that!”

Aelin smiled. Eyes were on them now. Good.

“Lysandra,” Aelin leaned in, as she pointed to a man in the corner of the room. A man she knew was very close to getting his balls chopped off, if Aedion had anything to say about it. “How’s Evangeline?”

The man looked suspicious, assuming Aelin, Lysandra, and Elide were whispering about him. Elide let out a giggle. Lysandra murmured, “She likes the shoes you got her. Said thank you.”

“Wonderful. Arobynn?”

“Should be taken care of by your dashing cousin.”

Fighting to keep the look of disgust off her face, Aelin muttered, “I don’t think he’d leave that man alive even if you asked him, Lys.”

“He’s coming now,” Elide whispered, fingering her thigh—where, underneath the layers of tulle, an intricate dagger was strapped, a matching one on her other leg, gifted by her father. Matching mother and daughter sets. Quite the gift for Yulemas.

A blonde man, with green eyes sauntered over to the three ladies. Eyes on Lysandra, a charming smile spread across his face. 

Archer Finn, leader of the rebel organization, and one of Lysandra’s fellow courtesans. And the most big-headed, idiotic liar Aelin had the pleasure hearing of. 

“Hello, Lysandra,” Archer smiled, reaching out for her hand. “Care to introduce me to your friends?”

“Celaena Sardothien,” Aelin said, keeping Lysandra’s hand tucked in her elbow. Shifting so she could put the fan in her other hand, Aelin reached her own hand out instead. She could practically feel her court wince. “Lovely to meet you. You are?”

“Archer Finn, at your service,” He tipped his head a little, as he brought Aelin’s hand to his mouth, kissing it gently. Aelin fought her instincts. “And you?” He turned to Elide.

“Marion.” Elide said flatly, keeping her fan up and eyes locking onto his. As if daring him to say something.

“Pardon her,” Aelin laughed, “she’s mourning her lover. Fell off a cliff,” Leaning in as Elide dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief that Lysandra handed her, Aelin said conspiratorially, “Bit of an idiot, if you ask me.”

Archer laughed a bit mockingly, “My condolences, madam.”

What a prick. Madam? Elide didn’t look that old.

“Hmph!” Elide made a show of blowing her nose, unhooking her arm from Lysandra’s, and stomping away. Archer had the decency to look bewildered, though Aelin could see the twinkle of triumph—and for her as well. Lysandra made a sound of surprise, but Archer’s eyes remained on her. Aelin’s goal was achieved once Lysandra pranced off, most likely towards Captain Quinn or Aedion. Aelin remained where she was.

The two looked the other up and down slowly, and Aelin willed her eyes to become dark.

Making her voice low and sultry, Aelin said, “Isn’t there anywhere private here?”

Archer smiled—all charm and seduction. “So eager to make use of my services, Celaena?” He sounded out her voice like a purr, meant to heat her blood with a single whisper.

But Aelin only smirked darkly, slowly lacing her arm with his, hiding the two of them from the world with her fan as she murmured, “I don’t pay for what I can get for free.”

///

Archer led her to the room upstairs—the sounds of raucous laughter from the tavern downstairs drowning out any conversation the pair might have filled the strained, tense silence with. Though Aelin wasn’t eager by any means to speak with this bastard.

Rumor was that he’d tried to assassinate the Princess of Eyllwe, because she wouldn’t give him information on Prince Dorian—on how to assassinate him .

Seems Archer Finn had a thing for assassinating royals. Maybe she should watch out, Aelin thinks amusedly.

Archer walks down the door, fluid grace lacing his every step. Any hesitation he might have had earlier was erased by the presence of male arrogance and smugness. Aelin resisted rolling her eyes.

He came to stop in front of a door, one almost at the end of a hall that had a window. Placing a hand on the small of Aelin’s back, he eased the door open, leading her inside as if she were a spooked animal. Aelin turned, tossing the fan somewhere in the room as she grabbed hold of the lapels of his tunic. Pulling him down to her height, she felt infinitely proud of herself when she saw the widening of Archer’s pupils, and the lust swirling in his gaze.

She may not like kissing up to the man, but she knew she looked damn good doing it.

He gripped her waist tightly, and before leaning down to kiss her, Aelin pushed him against the wall opposite the door, sighing in the way all women did when they were occupied. Archer didn’t even let out a grumble, just smirked as he shifted to get Aelin against the wall instead.

But nothing could have prepared him for when Aelin whipped out a dagger from her corset, and set the cold metal on Archer’s throat.

Jerking against her hold, Aelin clicked her tongue when she held him back with a single hand, a knee near one of his legs.

“In case you didn’t realize,” Aelin said, chuckling lowly, “we aren’t having sex.”

“Who are you?” Archer gasped in surprise, desire still evident in his eyes—quickly diminishing now.

“Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, Queen of Terrasen, at your service,” Aelin purred, echoing his earlier words. “I was made aware that a certain rebel organization had made contact with me? You wouldn’t seem to know anything about that, would you, Archer Finn?”

When he said nothing, the room quiet with shocked silence, Aelin dug the knife in a little deeper.

“Is this what the Lost Heir of Terrasen has become, then?” Archer asked, a little desperately. “A killer?”

A killer?

Aelin laughed harshly. “Surely you of all people wouldn’t be lecturing me on morality? I’m sure my being a killer is the very least of your concerns.”

“What do you want from me?” Archer asked. “Money?”

Aelin laughed again. “Oh, you’re funny!” she kept the knife where it was, humming idly. “No, I don’t want your money. I’d like for you to tell me all the information you’ve learned against the King of Adarlan. And Queen Maeve of the Fae.”

“I-I don’t know anything about Queen Maeve.” Archer stuttered.

Aelin snorted. “Keep dreaming. Give me the information, and the informants you have. Or I’ll slit your gods-damned throat for trying to murder the Princess Nehemia of Eyllwe. Really, you have no shame.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Are you dumb?” Aelin asked. “What part of, “I’ll slit your gods-damned throat,” do you not understand?” Afterward, she muttered, “Dumbass.”

///

Aelin had been with Archer for too long.

Elide chewed her lip anxiously. She fiddled with the stem of her fan, fighting to keep her gloves on her hands. 

“Elide, my darling, stop fidgeting,” her mother murmured, “It will attract attention.”

“She’s been with him too long, Mother,” Elide whispered back. “Should I go check on her?” She dropped her hand to run the length of her thigh. Feeling comforted by the familiar weight of the daggers—then feeling even more comforted by the fact that she’d helped Aelin dress herself. Usually the Princess could handle clothing herself, but with the gracious amount of steel she insisted on wearing, paired with the ridiculous corset and elaborate laces and hairstyle—it wasn’t ideal.

“No.” Marion said. Nevertheless, she breathed after a moment, “Give her three minutes.”

Minutes later, Lysandra strolled over, Aedion on her arm—and if Elide was feeling in a particularly teasing mood, completely head over heels for the courtesan—as she smiled invitingly to Father. 

Elide didn’t miss the glimmer of misery in Lysandra’s eyes as she did so. Which was the only reason she forgave the woman for looking at her father like that. Why her mother shot Lysandra an accepting nod. And why her father acted as if he’d never seen. Only for appearances. For her madam that sat in the corner, watching them.

“We have to go up.” Aedion said flatly, but quietly. He looked at Elide, only to see her nod resolutely.

“Princess knows what she’s doing,” Quinn said from behind them. “Give her time.”

“It’s not supposed to take longer than five minutes,” Aedion argued. 

Interjecting, Elide said, “And she’s been up there for ten.” The two locked eyes and communicated wordlessly.

Quinn rolled his eyes.

“Have such little faith in me?” Aelin drawled from behind them. Elide whipped around, a relieved breath crawling up her throat. Aelin stood there, a wicked smirk on her face, and Archer standing demurely next to her. She tsked, inspecting her nails.

Quinn stepped closer with a smug grin on his face. “Told ya. My student’s got the lot of you beat.”

Dark brown eyes lit with pride, he moved to ruffle Aelin’s hair—an affectionate gesture shared between the pair often— when she hissed and moved away. 

“Do you know how long it took Elide to make this?” Aelin demanded.

“ Elide?! ” Archer asked.

Aelin shot him a mocking look. “Surely, you didn’t think we gave you our real names, did you? Dumbass.”

“I’m not a dumbass.” 

“Dumbass.”

“Stop calling me dumbass!”

“Dumb-ass.”

“Aelin,” Mother said warningly, though Elide saw the amusement shining through. “That’s enough.”

A sigh. Then, “Yes, Auntie.”

“What next?” Aedion asked, smiling savagely at Archer, who shrunk away in annoyance. “Southern?”

“No,” Aelin said. “Tonight, we accompany Mr. Finn to his rebel meeting.”

“When?” asked Aedion.

Aelin looked at Archer, eyebrows raised. He, however, had his eyes set on Elide. The man had a skeptical expression—as if he couldn’t believe someone as small and innocent looking as her could be in this crowd. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see her father’s hands tighten on his sword.

Elide merely allowed him a bored glance. “Tell us today , Mr. Finn.”

“I was not aware that Terrasenians were so polite. Aren’t your people from the Staghorns a special breed of uncivilized?” Archer continued speaking, despite the furious glares of both Aedion and Quinn directed at him.

Ignoring Aedion and Quinn, Elide merely said, “Aelin was right. You are a dumbass.”

Aelin grinned. “My bitch.” 

Looping arms with Elide and Lysandra, Aelin walked off with them, shooting Archer a saccharine smile while winking at her cousin. Presumably to deal with the trash.

///

Suffice to say, when Archer walked into the rebel meeting later that night, with Aelin Galathynius in tow, they looked as if they might shit their pants.

Despite all of her courts’ warnings, Aelin didn’t hold back her wild smirk at the figures cloaked in black, slack-jaw and mouths agape. 

“I’m telling you once more, this isn’t up for negotiation,” someone said resolutely from somewhere ahead, sounding exhausted. “The Crown Prince has summoned an audience with you, and I’m the only one he trusts enough to come here and speak to you. So I strongly suggest you listen instead of trying to shoo me off before your leader gets here.”

Aelin raised an eyebrow at Archer’s panicked face. An interesting turn of events, one that had Aelin on her toes.

Aedion, the self-sacrificing prick, took a stance in between Aelin and Archer, a hand on the pommel of his sword. Quinn and Uncle Cal stood on both her flanks, Elide and Lysandra’s arms still looped in her own. Though that made it difficult for them to maneuver streets, the girls wouldn’t let go of each other simply to delight in the long-suffering of men around them scoff and roll their eyes.

Marion stood next to her husband, the picture of an innocent damsel. The picture that Aelin was attempting on recreating—and failing, at that.

“Ahem,” Aelin called out. “What’s this about the Crown Prince?”

She could practically hear Aedion grinding his teeth together.

Sounds of scrambling and metal being drawn, Aelin sighed. This corset really was going to bruise her.

A man came walking out of the shadows, holding another black-cloaked man by the collar, dragging him towards Archer. The man—dark brown hair, with a stature that indicated being trained his whole life, and the red gold wyvern of Adarlan—flitted his eyes over to the company of seven that Archer had brought with them, and barked, “Who the hell are they?”

Archer swallowed, but his voice was smooth as he said, “I wasn’t aware I had to inform you of who I bring into this warehouse, Captain.”

Captain. As in—Captain of the Royal Guard. 

Aelin saw Quinn flex his hands, as if fighting his impulses.

“What’s this about the Crown Prince?” Aelin asked once more. Internally, she was quaking. Her Fae ears were covered by the tresses of her hair, still styled spectacularly. Other than those distinctive features, the compelling Fae looks—that could lure in even the most guarded of humans—easily can be written off as being blessed by the gods. 

The Captain swivelled his head in her direction, and she was met with bronze eyes that were hardened in stoicism. “Move along, miss.”

“No,” Aelin said simply, finally letting go of Elide and Lysandra, who both stood their ground. Aelin walked forward, putting a hand on Aedion’s shoulder—if only to leash the territorial-protective Fae in him.

“Who are you to speak to me?” The man asked. “I’m here on official business of the Crown Prince of Adarlan. Now, move along. ”

It was now or never. If the Prince was seeking an audience with the most popular rebel group at the moment, claiming to sponsor Aelin’s ascent to her rightful throne, then that meant that the shadow of Adarlan certainly did not extend to the King’s son.

Stepping in front of Aedion now, to shield him , Aelin said, “This is a rebel organization that I have taken special interest in. You will not shoo me away like a mere animal,” Aelin wrinkled her nose.

“Come from Terrasen, have you?” The man raised a brow. Damn. Perhaps her accent was too noticeable.

“I have.” Aelin grinned unabashedly. “You see, I’ve come for the same reason your Prince has.”

“And what would that be?” His face was bored—a mask.

“Aelin…” Aedion hissed almost imperceptibly. 

“To have an audience with them.”

“And who would you be to make those types of demands?” The man said, annoyed.

“Terrasen’s rightful Queen,” Aelin bowed, a wicked lilt in her tone. “Now, where is Prince Dorian? I haven’t seen him since he spilled tea on my dress, the clumsy buffoon.”

Chapter Text

Chaol felt like punching the woman in the face.

Not that he’d voice those desires out loud, no, because she had about three male bodyguards from the looks of it, all armed, and three women who looked close to stabbing his eye out with their hairpins. Something that was well-demonstrated by his friend back at the palace.

Not to mention, the woman in question looked like wildfire ready to burn.

And then she’d uttered the words—all with a Terrasenian accent, and Chaol felt like he’d fallen off of a cliff because there was no way in hell that the Heir of Terrasen was still alive?

She merely watched him as he struggled to construct his “court-mask” as Dorian liked to call it. Bland and emotionless and yielding absolutely nothing.

“I have no interest in dealing with liars,” Chaol said, dismissing her and relishing when a slight tinge of anger colored her eyes.

“Call me a liar once more, Captain,” she warned, before a hand came on her shoulder, pulling her backwards. She let out a snarl, teeth glinting in the light. And the man who’d pulled her back—

Of course. Of course Aedion-rutting-Ashryver would be here.

“She speaks the truth,” A woman spoke from the back, and Chaol turned his head to her, his eyes deceptively tired and dead. She had dark black hair, matching another one in the group of women who wanted to stab him, and her chin was held high. “I am Lady Marion Lochan of Perranth, and I don’t think there’s much you can claim she’s a liar when she wears the most treasured heirloom of House Galathynius around her neck.”

And when Chaol looked closer—gods, it was the Terrasen crest. An antler with a glowing star stamped in the middle of the medallion. He hadn’t done much studying on the collapsed kingdom. But he knew enough. 

He knew that such patriotic jewelry was not ever allowed in the hands of citizens of Terrasen. 

Another heir. Another heir to an oppressed and forgotten kingdom.

Nehemia would love to hear this. She’d go on and on about the famed court of Terrasen—how strong and unbreakable they were. And now? Now he was entirely certain that a huge part of that court was standing in front of him, with Archer Finn in tow, ready to negotiate with the most popular rebel group in Rifthold. One that Dorian had specifically requested he’d speak to.

What the hell was he going to do now?

///

Aelin tapped her foot in impatience.

After Marion had spoke, she could see the pieces coming together in the Captain’s eyes. His gaze had gone straight to her chest, and while the look of utter shock might have complimented her once, she wanted to knock some sense into the man. Besides, she knew he was only staring at the Amulet.

Sure, had she been in his place, she may have also been hesitant to believe something as outrageous as this. 

But she was an identical copy of her mother. And she knew there still existed paintings of the royal family of Terrasen. Painting of her.

But regardless, she wasn’t going to let some pride get in the way of this opportunity. Originally, she’d wanted to meet with the rebels to see if there was some way to get rid of magic from this continent, since they also claimed to have contacts in the far reaches of Erilea. And because they had contact with Princess Nehemia and Prince Dorian. Now if she could speak directly to Dorian himself? It would speed things up with much more positive results. If the Adarlanian Heir was looking to rid his kingdom of its tyrant, what better way to do it than with the heir to the fallen kingdom?

///

Chaol was taking far too long, and Dorian was starting to get worried.

A hand swatted his forearm, and he looked over to see Nehemia in the middle of rolling her eyes, saying, in a perfect accent, “Quit worrying so much. He’s probably having too much fun punching Archer in the face.”

Dorian huffed out a laugh, but remained looking out the Gardens, where Chaol agreed to meet him… a quarter of an hour ago, now.

He leaned against the pillar, cloaked in dark clothes and a hood concealing his features. Nehemia stood next to him in similar attire, the black a stark contrast to her usual white and gold Eyllwan dress. Though a gold circlet still sat upon her brow, one which she refused to remove.

The dark obsidian tower rose up in front of Dorian, and he wrinkled his nose at the sight of the might displayed by his father. It made his blood boil—not just the obscene and dramatic—but the new things he’d learned from Nehemia after she’d come to his palace. Dorian mourned for what his kingdom had become, even if he scarcely remembered a time before it. 

Which was why he was even considering having an audience with the most popular rebel group in Rifthold.

A scuffle, and then the scrape of boots against the stone ground, and Dorian’s hand flew to the hilt of his sword hanging at his side, Damaris.

A dark figure emerged, with another, taller one rising from his back.

Dorian recognized the height and build of his friend, but the one behind him… No, he didn’t know, nor recognize, this one.

Chaol lowered his hood, and Dorian was on guard.

“What?” Nehemia demanded, not one for mincing words. And Dorian was grateful for it as he peered questioningly at the Captain of the Guard. The other man chuckled darkly, and took off his—his hat? It was abnormally large, and he had no idea why one would wear such an ostentatious thing.

Regardless, Dorian was met with ashy blond hair, and dark brown eyes surrounded by laugh lines—and a smirk. He had to be in his late-thirties. The cloak did nothing to hide the cross of two swords at his back.

Dorian turned to Chaol, and hissed softly, “Who is this?”

“Dor—”

“Aw, you don’t recognize me?” The man interrupted, “Pity.”

“Why would I recognize you?” Dorian asked, confused. His hands flexed, and he had to tell himself he was fine.

“I suppose there’s no use breaking it to him gently,” The man mused, and Chaol looked about ready to throttle him. Lifting a hand to his stubble, the man said, “I was Terrasen’s Captain of the Guard, much like your friend. I’m Quinn.”

Dorian reared back as if someone hit him. Nehemia reached out with a sympathetic expression, though her features were still obscured with bewilderment. 

“What?” Dorian whispered. He’d heard… he’d heard the rumors that the rebel group was in contact with Aelin Galathynius. But those were rumors.  Chaol had confirmed it himself.

“I am also presumed dead,” he frowned. “So there’s that.”

Frost was starting to grow on the pillar above him, and he distinctly felt Nehemia slipping behind him, tracing those damned Wyrdmarks on his hand.

“How?” Dorian turned to Chaol, fighting to keep his voice low. " How is this possible?”

A derisive snort, and then, “It’s difficult as hell to evade your soldiers, Prince, I’ll give you that. But it’s even harder to train the Princess of a collapsed kingdom who nurses a burning rage to kill your father— and keep her from the eyes of Adarlan.” 

Nehemia breathed in sharply, her eyes immediately shooting towards Quinn.

“Aelin Galathynius is alive?” Her Eyllwe accent slipped out, as it usually did when she was shocked.

Quinn looked to Nehemia, finally registering the circlet, and bowed, bending at the waist. He said, “Your Highness,”

Chaol looked at him incredulously, then motioned to Dorian. 

Quinn rolled his eyes, and tipped his hat.

Tipped. His. Hat.

Dorian wasn’t one to have a big amount of pride in regards to his royalty. He didn’t expect anyone to love him. He didn’t expect any person in Erilea to be fiercely loyal to the core to his father. But in the way Quinn did it? It made him feel equal parts frustration and guilt. Because he deserved every bit of refusal and disrespect that Quinn paid him.

“Aelin Galathynius is alive,” Nehemia murmured to herself. “ Alive.”

“Indeed, Your Highness,” Quinn nodded, and Dorian felt like crumpling at the knees. Another heir. Another ruler to a kingdom destroyed by his own. 

Guilt was a living, breathing thing that held him hostage. It binded his bones, deafened his ears until all he could hear was the blood rushing in his veins. His magic was stifled by the Wyrdmarks—though it was something that Nehemia tried not to do often. She said that suffocating magic was like cutting off a limb.

“How?”

Nehemia had spoken, and Quinn answered, “She didn’t drown. My Princess made it to a farm, and hid there for hours. The rest of her court found her. When the sun crested the next day, her entire family, save for Aedion, was dead,” Sorrow filled his entire body as his shoulders sagged slightly. “May they rest in the Afterworld.”

Nehemia bowed her head in solidarity.

“The task fell upon us to raise the Heir of Terrasen. We had to ensure that most believed her dead.” Looking around them, Quinn said, “This is not conversation for prying eyes. Come with me.”

“Why are they to come with you?” Chaol asked, but Nehemia had already stepped forward, determined.

“My Princess wants to speak to you. It’s a part of her very elaborate plan,” Quinn said with dryness. “She hadn’t been in contact with the rebels. Only heard of them, and the rumors that they had information on you two.” Pointing to Dorian and Nehemia, he continued, “Then this one wandered in, and Aelin saw her opportunity. She believes she can secure an alliance with you. It’s up to you to come.” Nehemia was already nodding, and Dorian was very inclined to follow the man.

Chaol still shook his head, looking at Dorian. “It’s my job to ensure you’re safe. We don’t know what they’re capable of.”

“Chaol, I can’t not go.” Dorian said, shaking his head. “I believe him. If she wants to make an alliance with us, it would be in our best interest to meet with them.”

“Dorian.”

“I’m going,” Dorian nodded, his eyes full of hope. Hope for this world, and its people. 

///

Aelin was tired of waiting. She sighed.

Marion stared at Aelin’s impatience. “He’ll be back with them soon enough,”

Elide sighed from beside Aelin.

“I swear to all the gods,” Marion muttered from above their seated spots. The rebels stood by warily. Though, Aelin didn’t really have any use for Archer anymore. “Raising the two of you has been the hardest job of my entire life. You better make me outrageously wealthy when you take back Terrasen, Aelin.”

Elide nodded sagely.

Aelin snorted. “I’ll try, Auntie. Think of it as an eternal birthday present to my mother.”

“Evalin would be appalled at the amount of grey hairs the two of you—not mentioning Aedion— have given me.” Marion shook her head, smiling faintly.

“Nonsense,” Cal said, slinging an arm around Marion’s shoulders. “You have no grey hairs.”

Marion rolled her eyes, “Don’t insult me by thinking I’m blind, darling.”

“You don’t!” Cal defended, laughing. Elide leaned into Aelin, wrinkling her nose in disgust as her father kissed her mother’s neck.

“Could they refrain from doing that here?” Elide’s voice was strained, and Aelin laughed harder, clutching her sides. Lysandra snorted from across them, and Aelin stopped abruptly.

The courtesan’s face was already growing pinker, as Aelin said, “I knew it!”

“What?” Aedion asked, the length of his leg clearly pressed against Lysandra’s. 

“She isn’t perfect! Thank the gods, I was starting to wonder if you had any flaws.” Aelin jokes, winking at Lysandra. The latter scoffed.

“If anything, that’d be you,  miss future-Queen of a prosperous nation.” 

Gods, Aelin felt happy.  She was surrounded by people she loved and people who loved her. Hopefully, as she sent a prayer up to the gods, her kingdom was near winning back its freedom. Granted, there were things that were horrid in this world, things that made her shudder and had appearances in her nightmares. 

Things that made her blood boil and her hands flex, inching for the fire magic that used to burn within her. 

A Fae she’d met in the north of Terrasen—ones that remained, who had joined with the wolf tribes—had said the reason for her feeling more connected to magic, even with it banished everywhere, was most likely because she was in her Fae form. She always felt the magic, the vast well beneath her, but she could never dredge it up.

Over the years, she’d learned to appreciate fire. Not just her own. 

Fire kept a soldier warm on a cold winter night. 

And her fire—gods know what she could have done with it.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the creaking of a door that had Aedion and Marion jumping up, the latter palming both her matching daggers, and Aedion stepping directly in front of Aelin.

As if her ego could take anymore hits.

She batted his shoulder. He stayed where he was.

“It’s me,” Quinn called out.

“Did they come?” Aelin asked.

“You bet, Princess.”

Aelin shoved Aedion aside, Fae strength and years of training combined allowing her to do so. She stepped forward, cursing the corset for the umpteenth time tonight as she smoothed down her hair, strangely nervous.

Her last time dealing with royals was years ago, when the King of Adarlan had visited, resulting in something that definitely did not need to be revisited at this time.

First, a woman entered, only a couple inches shorter than Aelin herself, but with unyielding grace and poise. A staff was carried in her hand, the top tipped with some sort of gold figurine. Under her dark hood, Aelin could make out a circlet, something that could only have been made from the gold of Eyllwe. 

This was Princess Nehemia.

The Princess’s eyes immediately scanned the surroundings, searching for someone. And once her eyes locked with Aelin, she staggered.

Somehow, at the same time, both Princesses of lost kingdoms bowed to one another.

“A miracle,” the Princess said, “An absolute miracle.”

“Lovely to meet you, Princess,” Aelin said, leaning back. They’d done that at the same time too. “Big fan.”

Her eyes widened, as if she were surprised, and then she let out a bark of laughter. “Nehemia will do just fine,” the accent that accompanied her declaration earlier was completely lost now, as she spoke, “And I return the sentiment.”

Aelin smiled. Nehemia smiled back.

A throat cleared behind them, and Nehemia sighed softly. The guard—Chaol—had made the noise, and then Aelin remembered who had to have come with them.

A man stood in front of Chaol, and Aelin observed the hilt of a sword at his side peeking out from the folds of his cloak, as he lifted his hands to the hood concealing his features. Letting it fall, she was met with startling sapphire eyes and raven black hair. An expression that hinted at carrying a weight far too heavy for anyone to bear. Wariness in his eyes. But even she wasn’t blind to the misery and hope burning bright in his rigid form.

Aelin, with some deep cynical part inside her, contemplated not bowing to the son of her family’s murderer. To the son of her kingdom’s oppressor and conqueror.

But then she remembered the soft teachings Marion had given her, in attempts to stamp out the savageness in Aelin. Teachings that suggested that forgiveness would always be the right path. That accepting and moving on was the only way life could function.

So, in a turn of events that shocked many inside the puny rebel hideout, Princess Aelin Galathynius of Terrasen inclined her head and bowed to Prince Dorian Havilliard of Adarlan.

Chapter Text

Dorian didn’t know whether he’d end up getting punched in the face tonight, or on the floor asking for forgiveness.

He certainly did not expect the Princess of Terrasen to bow to him.

Dorian already knew it would be hard to face another person that his father had essentially destroyed the life of. He had planned on a hostile meeting—awkward, at the very least. 

When Dorian had made the thought of bowing, the Terrasenian Princess had beat him to it.

She lifted her head, raising an eyebrow at Dorian’s bewildered state. Dorian scrambled, bending at the waist and bowing deeply. He stayed that way for far longer than she had—and Dorian let out a tiny sigh of relief. At least she wasn’t too inclined to rip his throat out. A huffing laugh echoed through the air.

“I like him,” A man said, and the Princess shared a grin. Dorian jolted. 

General Aedion Ashryver, commander of the Bane, and the last remaining family of Aelin Galathynius, was standing right behind her.

Noticing his incredulous stare, Aedion snapped his teeth in welcome, the gleaming white shocking him. And then Dorian remembered the Fae heritage in him.

“Well, I suppose introductions are in order, yes?” The Princess said. Straightening out of the bow, Dorian loosed a sigh as he looked at Chaol—who stood with his hand on the hilt of his sword. Dorian looked back to her, the golden hair falling over her ears and framing her face.

Dimly, Dorian remembered meeting her once, right before magic disappeared from the continent. He’d spilled tea on her.

Clearing his throat, Dorian said, “Yes, of course. But first, I’d like to apologize.”

She raised an eyebrow once more. No humor was in her expression.

“I would like to formally recognize the suffrage of your kingdom. And to personally guarantee that when I take the throne of Adarlan, gods-willing, I will spend my entire life trying to heal this world from what my father has done,” His eyes were burning, once he started thinking more and more about it. Shame and guilt settled low in his stomach.

A hand settled on his shoulder, gentle and soothing. Dorian looked to his right. A woman—ebony hair and gold-flecked eyes—smiled softly. “Thank you,” The Princess says from in front of him, frank and honest. 

“We appreciate that,” the woman at his side said. “It means a great deal to us, Your Highness.”

Dorian nodded, and while it eased the burning weight on his shoulders, it didn’t lift it.

Rolling her shoulders back, Aelin said, “Right, well, I’m Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, Princess and Lost Heir of Terrasen, but I suppose you already knew that.” Aedion snorted from behind her, then choked in the middle as if someone had elbowed him.

Continuing, Aelin gestured to the woman with a hand on Dorian’s shoulder. “That is Lady Marion Lochan of Perranth, and her husband, Lord Cal Lochan of Perranth,” she nods to a man standing behind Aedion and her, looking as if he could blend in the shadows. “You’ve already met my Captain,” Aelin assumed.

“Yep, I was the one who brought them here, Princess.” Quinn drawled.

Ignoring him, “This is Elide Lochan, Heir of Perranth,” she points at a similarly dark-haired woman as Lady Marion, though she stood shorter, and looked far more hostile than Lady Marion did. “And Aedion, my cousin. Which again, I’m assuming you already know, based on your face.” 

“Yes,” Dorian nodded, “Erm—”

The two royals stood there, staring at the other. Silence ringing out around them.

Faintly, Dorian heard Chaol shifting. 

“My name is Nehemia,” The Eyllwan Princess spoke up, clearly uncomfortable in the charged silence. Though Nehemia was always one of the wisest he knew, she loved silence. “It is quite an honor to meet you, Highness.”

Aelin cocked her head, a smile settling on her features. “Likewise. Please, call me Aelin.”

The two smiled at each other, and Nehemia reached out a hand after a second. He saw Quinn stiffen, which in turn made Chaol stiffen. 

Nehemia grasped Aelin’s hand, squeezing it in sympathy. “I’m sorry for what you have lost.”

Aelin’s smile faltered, sorrow in her eyes. She nodded, holding Nehemia’s hand. “Thank you,” she rasped. “To you as well.”

Lady Marion bowed her head, her husband repeating her action. Quinn tightened his hand into a fist, rapping it on his chest twice before doing the same.

Taking a deep breath, Aelin turned back to Dorian, her hand slipping out of Nehemia’s. The words that came out of her mouth were ones he had been expecting, but still somehow shocked Dorian to his core.

“I want to make an alliance with you.”

///

Aelin crossed her arms across her chest. Raising an eyebrow at Dorian’s bewildered look, she said, “Didn’t my Captain tell you why I wanted to meet with you?”

“Yes, well, it still comes as a shock when—when this happens.”

And Aelin, as cunning as a facade she put up, understood the Prince perfectly. Which was the only reason she cut him a smirk, and nodded.

“Here’s my proposition,” Aelin starts. 

“Can’t wait to hear this,” Aedion muttered to Elide, who snorted. “It’s not like she tells us, her Court, the plan.”

Ignoring them, Aelin continues, “I don’t think it’s a secret I want my damn kingdom back. Nor the fact that I would very much like to see your father dead. Sorry for my bluntness.”

Swallowing, Dorian nods. “Sometimes, you’re not the only one,” he murmurs. Aelin tamps down any surprise that might’ve shown on her face. Instead she carries on.

“I think we’re the future of the continent. Fenharrow has handed their territories over to Adarlan without that much of a fight. The Western Wastes…” Aelin pauses. A flash of red-wine hair stumps her. “The Western Wastes are secure. For now. But our kingdoms, Eyllwe and Terrasen, fell without ease. If we want to raise our kingdoms again and take back what’s rightfully ours, we need to be in complete agreement.”

Nehemia, Princess of Eyllwe, nodded with barely controlled excitement. Excitement could be the only way to describe it, but Aelin could see the hope clear as day in her eyes. “I am willing to extend an alliance with you, and I can guarantee that you’ll have the support of my family.”

Aelin acknowledged her, “Thank you. That means a lot,” A faint smile, “I’ve always wanted to see Eyllwe.”

“We would be honored to have you,” Nehemia says. “The rumors of the beauty of Terrasen, though, has not missed our lands.”

“I should hope not,” Aelin raises a shoulder. “But perhaps I’m a little biased.”

“Princess,” Quinn calls, dry humor in his voice. “Perhaps, you should continue on with this alliance negotiations. We have a tight window.”

Aelin rolled her eyes but said, “Fine,” nonetheless. Turning to Dorian, “This is what I want.”

And she lays the terms down for him. A mask of his own slips down and over his face, determination and the expression of a King replacing the fear and the timidness. Aelin knows, somehow, that he won’t let her down in any way. Maybe it’s the rage she saw when talking about the fallen kingdoms, and the labor camps. Maybe it’s the way he seems set on making up for sins that weren’t wholly his own. 

Whatever it is, Aelin knows—even before coming here—that this wasn’t his fault. But he will fight to fix it. And that’s what she needs in an ally.

Nehemia, on the other hand, lives up to her given title. The Light of Eyllwe is as bright and as wicked as the rumors turn out to be. Aelin is still surprised the King of Adarlan has allowed her to stay as long as she’s had.

Aelin has and always will be eternally thankful to her family. Her made—her found—family. But they don’t exactly understand the burden Aelin’s known she’s had since she could understand her parents. Even when magic fell and was —allegedly— banished by the King, and she was suddenly an orphan, with no crown, no throne, and no castle. Aelin had known, despite all that Quinn had warned her of, all that Aedion cautioned against, that she’d take her kingdom back. 

Aelin would rise from the ashes of her enemies, and she’d do it with a smile on her face.

///

“So we are in agreement?” Aelin says, an expectant eyebrow raised.

Dorian nods. Holds out a hand. Aelin grasps it, shaking it firmly, before turning to Nehemia. The woman foregoes the formality, instead, leaning forward into a hug. Aelin tries not to be surprised. She stood shorter than Aelin, the staff secured on her back now. 

“This is the right path,” Nehemia whispered, almost imperceptible, even for Aelin’s Fae ears. Aedion wouldn’t be able to hear.

“What?” Aelin returned. 

“Look to the Torre Cesme. You’ll find a woman there by the name of Yrene Towers. She will know you’re coming.”

“How?”

“The same way I know. A dream. And, you will find a Fae group of warriors. You won’t be able to miss them.”

“How did you know?”

An acceptable question, Aelin thought. No one besides their most trusted court members knew that Aelin and her companions were to go to the Southern Continent. Specifically Antica, where a certain Torre was located.

“I can’t tell you,” Nehemia said apologetically. “I-It’s like a feeling I get. Visions. I just got one now. This meeting was the right path. You must leave and get a hold on your magic, and we must do our part from here.”

Aelin pulled back. There was a wise, ancient smile on the Princess’s face.

“Good luck, Your Highness.”

Blowing out a breath, Aelin nodded. “Thank you. Good luck to you as well.”

They backed away from the other, and Nehemia put a hand on her heart. “May the gods help us all.”

Aelin turned to her court, the reason for her burning hope. She smiled. In turn, all of them, including Lysandra, put their hands over their hearts. 

It was time.

///

It wasn’t the first time Aelin and her court had boarded a ship in the middle of the night. 

To be fair, though, it wasn’t the middle of the night anymore. She could see the sun rising over the edge of the Great Ocean. Evangeline was asleep next to Aelin, laying on the deck of the ship. Aelin ran a hand through the red-gold locks of hair.

“Thank you,” Lysandra whispered next to Evangeline, the two women forming a protective sandwich of the girl. Aelin turned and met the emerald eyes of the courtesan —former courtesan, if she had anything to say about it—that were rimmed with red. “Thank you,” she said again.

Aelin only smiled. “You said that around fourteen times already, Lys.”

“Still, I-I, you—”

“I didn’t do it because you’re a shapeshifter, Lysandra. Though, I’ll admit, that is an amazing advantage. I did it because you deserve this. Both of you. And you’ve become a friend to me these past weeks.” She looked over to see another bout of tears leaking from Lysandra’s eyes. “What kind of friend would I be if I left you here?”

“What kind of friends would we be if we left you here.” Elide interrupted, a ruffle of skirts shifting as she sat down behind them. “Aelin wasn’t the only one who had grown close to you, Lysandra.”

“Besides,” Aelin said, eyes twinkling, “I’m sure my cousin would have carted you out of here himself if I hadn’t.”

“But you didn’t have to-to give me—” Lysandra tried again, and Aelin squeezed her hand as Elide rested one on her shoulder. 

“Of course I did,” Aelin dismissed, “And anyways, our friend Ren didn’t wish to control an entire territory. He’ll still be a part of my court, as you are now. And you’ve shown time and time again that you’ll be loyal to me. A good friend. That’s all I need.”

“Thank you,” Lysandra said again. 

Aelin and Elide laughed softly. “Welcome to the court, Lysandra.” Elide said.

The three girls fell asleep, with the sun cresting over their heads, all curled over a tiny Evangeline—who’d wake up soon in surprise, once she figured out she was not, in fact, at the Courtesans’ Keep, but instead on a ship bound for Antica.

///

They had three weeks at sea ahead of them. Aelin planned on using that time to enlist Quinn in helping Lysandra train. She mulled over the words Nehemia had whispered to her. Fae warriors in Antica?

It was almost unbelievable. From the small stacks of books her court was able to steal from the Library of Orynth, before Adarlan had ordered its burning, she had learned of a settlement of Fae in the Southern Continent. But they’d all died out, or left after a while. And that was recorded hundreds of years ago.

She supposed, since Wendlyn had also outlawed magic, that Fae could have escaped and fled to one of the strongest continents in the world. 

And that led her to another predicament. With all the changing events of the night, Aelin hadn’t been able to get any information from Archer about Queen Maeve.

She knew that the Fae Queen had taken power around sixty years ago, conquered the kingdom of Doranelle. The Queen before, Sellene Whitethorn, remains prisoner of Maeve. Somehow, the Queen had figured out how to banish magic from her continent—with the exception of her, and her blood-sworn warriors. 

Aelin has a feeling that it’s related to the King of Adarlan, and her own continents’ banishment of magic fifty years later.

It’s really all she knows about the other continent. Aelin spent most of her time in hiding, plotting ways to take back her throne, training like a maniac, and learned the structure of multiple kingdoms. Not to mention, travelling all over the continent, and trying to help her own people. 

She can’t exactly let it slip that the Heir of Terrasen is alive to her people, however much she yearns to reverse the loss of hope they have. It would get to Adarlan somehow—not to mention the deal her mother had made with Queen Maeve—and ruin any chance they have at liberation.

Aelin shakes her head. Thoughts would be the death of her. 

“Aelin!” Aedion called. “Ready?”

Lysandra and Evangeline sat on the deck, a healthy way away from the almost-identical pair. Aedion, with a sword in his hands, polished and aimed tall. Aelin snorted. Seems like someone was trying to puff out his chest in front of a certain woman. Aelin met Elide’s eyes from across the ship, and saw the same amusement in her eyes.

“Of course,” Aelin replied, scooping her sword from the ground, and twirling it around a couple times. 

Quinn counted down, and Aelin fell into her calm, breathing in twice and blowing out three breaths. When he commanded, “Begin!” Aelin crossed the sword in front of her diagonally. The steel glinted. Aedion circled her a couple times until Aelin rolled her eyes out of boredom, striking out and catching his blade.

“Don’t go easy on me,” Aelin warned. “I can hack your balls off without looking, so please, for the love of the gods, spar.” 

Aedion’s answering smirk was her only warning as he swiped from below. She just barely caught herself from falling on her ass rather dramatically. Spinning, Aelin caught one of his legs, but Aedion didn’t go down, which infuriated her quite a bit. 

“Aelin!” Quinn called, all joking mannerisms aside, his instructor mode rearing its head. She inwardly groaned at the familiar gruff yell of her name—indicating she was failing miserably. “You’re slouching! Your form is absolute shit right now. Fix that.”

She flashed her teeth at him, her canines gleaming, but he only tsked.

Using the flat of her blade to push Aedion away, Aelin twisted her wrist a few times. Shaking her head to banish any remaining thoughts from earlier, Aelin willed herself to focus.

She was better than this.

And so, now Aelin’s wicked smile was the only warning Aedion had before she was a blur of golden hair and dark tunic. Her Fae strength and speed was an advantage, yes, but Quinn had ensured she could handle fighting without her senses. By way of strapping weights on her arms and legs to slow her down, by blindfolding her, by putting extremely strong ear muffs on her ears. And though she’d moaned and groaned throughout it all—the extinguishment of her survival senses didn’t sit well with her on any account—she would be eternally thankful to her former Captain of the Guard. 

Aelin whipped out her leg, catching Aedion in the gut—a surprise attack, one that left him gasping and keeling over—to meet Aelin’s knee. His nose let out an audible crack! and Aelin let out a whoop of victory.

“That was not fair,” Aedion argued afterwards, a handkerchief dotted with blood held loosely in his hand. He knew the complaint was half-hearted, yet carried on with it anyways. Something very intrinsically similar to Aelin.

“Of course it was,” Aelin dismissed. “I didn’t even use the weapon. And I’m sure your male ego can take the hit.”

Aedion only grumbled, relenting slightly once Quinn agreed with Aelin.

With that out of the way, Aelin sparred with Quinn and Elide a couple of times before retiring to the bow of the ship. She looked out at the large expanse of blue sea. No one knew what awaited them in Antica. Though Aelin advocated for her travel there, mainly to regain control on her magic, she’d be a fool not to admit the fear festering in her bones at the thought of actually using her fire once more. It was a lovely dream on a cold night, something for the future.

But it was the future now, and Aelin had a kingdom to look after. 

She’d taken a whetstone, and she now used it, sharpening the edge of the blade she’d used. The screech and occasional clang of metal behind her were the only sounds that accompanied her plaguing thoughts.

Aelin sighed.

Her hair was up in a ponytail, and she relished the feeling of her locks out of her face. 

“You ever thought of piercing any other part of your body?” Elide asks, slipping in behind Aelin and sitting with her legs dangling off the side of the ship. They were sitting behind the railing, just in case Aedion or Quinn decided it was time for them to die.

“I mean,” Elide continued, “I think your ears will fall off if you pierce them more.”

“You sound like Auntie,” Aelin grumbled. 

“You sound like Auntie,” Elide mocked. “It’s true! Why don’t you get one on your lip like those men we met—”

“I am not going to get a lip piercing, Elide Lochan.”

Sighing, Elide says, “Oh well. What about one on your stomach?”

“Really?” Turning, Aelin raised an eyebrow.

Elide clicked her tongue. “No. Too daring.”

“Too daring?” Aelin glared. Elide hummed.

Truth be told, Aelin loved getting piercings. They were something newly introduced to her while living with Aedion’s Bane. Even though her healing was sped up because of her Fae form—it wasn’t as quick as it would be, had magic been free—they often had to mix the needles with salt in order for the holes to not seal.

And, if Aelin was being honest, a piercing on her stomach wouldn’t be horrible.

///

Three weeks at sea passed by in a flash.

Soon, Aelin was staring at the hustle and bustle of the port-city, marvelling at the new scents she smelled, the different languages and childrens’ laughter she picked up with her ears, the colors and different architecture of each street she saw. It was beautiful, and amazing, and she felt like this was something she wanted for Terrasen.

She also felt the festering of her magic deep in her gut. It had unsettled her, and at the same time, excited her.

Long ago, she’d come to the conclusion that her magic could be worlds-ending. It was rare, and ugly, and beautiful, and harsh, and fiery, and something that was so intrinsically her that Aelin stopped being so afraid of it. And then she grew to miss it.

Now, with all those boundaries lifted, she was almost like her 8-year-old self again, scared to pull up the magic, only to make her court—her family—fear her. 

“Aelin, you ready?” Aedion stood next to her, looking out at the busy town.

Aelin answered a couple moments later. “It’s so nice, isn’t it? No war, no famine, no worries.”

Softly, Aedion said, “Makes you wonder what it could have been like.”

“Yeah.”

The two cousins stood next to each other, sadness heavy in the air between them, until Aelin took a deep breath. She crafted her queenly face—her mask, her wicked friend—turning to the people of her court that have assembled somewhere behind her.

“Thank you for coming with me,” Aelin said, her words quiet, but the power behind them enough to bend the will of the worlds. “So. Plan.”

“Not like she ever shares them,” Quinn muttered to Uncle Cal. The two men shared long-suffering expressions.

Rolling her eyes, Aelin says, “And I’m not about to start now. Aedion, Auntie and Uncle, Lysandra, Elide, and Quinn, you have to go to the Torre. I will be on my own."

“The Torre?” Quinn demands. “How was this ever in the plan?!”

Aelin raised an eyebrow. “Someone told me.”

“Does this have anything to do with the Princess Nehemia?” Marion asks, looking at Aelin imploringly.

She gives a jut of her chin which can be taken as a nod. “Yeah. You must find someone named Yrene Towers.”

“And do what?” Aedion asks. “I’m not being separated from you again.”

Aelin winced. Being away from her cousin for a couple weeks while he had to maintain appearances in Rifthold was hard enough—these three weeks sailing to Antica was like breathing in clean air after being stuck in a burning building. And perhaps she’s being dramatic. Aelin and Aedion had been close before magic fell and Terrasen collapsed. But afterwards? It took them years before one could stand to be away for a day at a time.

Before she could second-guess herself, Aelin shook her head. She couldn’t even explain why he shouldn’t be with her. It was… it was like a feeling.

Aedion scoffed, but Marion interrupted before he could say something that would ensue the cousins at each other’s throats. “What are you going to do, Aelin?”

“I’ve been commanded to find a—a group of Fae warriors,” Aelin says, her eyebrows furrowed. She hadn’t quite understood that part of Nehemia’s suggestions. “I’ll supposedly know them when I see them.”

“What?” Aedion asked. “You’re supposed to find Fae?”

Cal and Quinn exchanged wary glances. “Perhaps one of us should go with you, Aelin,” Cal tried to say, though she could see right through him.

“I don’t need bodyguards.” Aein said. “No one knows I’m alive. I don’t have a target on my back. And besides, they’re supposed to help me figure out my magic.”

“This is bullshit!” Aedion burst. “We’re here to help you, Aelin. We’re your court. Our damn job is to make sure you’re protected! You can’t just ask us to leave you,” He pants, desperation in his eyes.

Aelin softens. “I get that, Aedion, I do. But as I said, I can handle myself. I can’t spend my whole life hiding behind you all. If I’m somehow supposed to face Adarlan and take back Terrasen, I will know how to conduct myself without the support of others. That is that.”

“Aelin—” Elide starts.

“And that is that.” She knows her face has hardened into something dark, lip curling upwards to reveal the tips of her elongated canines. Mentally shaking it off, Aelin straightens. “I am not going to argue with you. I’ll meet you at the Torre in a week.”

“What if—” 

“Have faith in me, cousin,” Aelin called behind her, turning. She winked at Evangeline who looked on with wide eyes. 

“Gods help us,” Quinn murmured, watching his future Queen walk away, two swords over her back, and countless daggers concealed over her form. 

“Gods help her.” Marion said.

Aelin grins.

Chapter Text

“The revolts in Endovier are gaining momentum, sir.” A guard decked in Adarlan red said, swallowing nervously. “They injured two overseers.”

“Two overseers.” The King’s voice was flat. Dorian kept his face blank. “Injured.”

“Yes, s-sir,” the guard stuttered afterwards. 

Turning to his right-hand man, the King of Adarlan laughed. And laughed. 

Chills skittered down Dorian’s spine, who sat straight and impassive around the council table. A map was spread out along the length of the wood, red flags surrounding the borders of the Adarlan empire. A sheen of colored lines indicating just that. It made him sick.

“With Princess Nehemia still in our capital, my King, her efforts to cut back the number of people in our labor camps are gaining more momentum, especially in court.” Perrington said, at his place—to the right of the King. A place where a son or daughter should be seated. Not that Dorian had any wish to be closer to his father than necessary.

“Mm.” The King hummed. Rubbing his beard with a hand, a glinting onyx ring catching Dorian’s eye, he turned to Perrington. “What do you suggest we do?”

“Sir?”

“About Princess Nehemia. Clearly, as you have explained, she has become a parasite in our flawless system. One that must be eradicated. My question, Duke, is how?”

Duke Perrington’s face spread into a slow smile once he finally comprehended the information. If Dorian wasn’t stewing with anger, he’d have had to suppress a smirk. Slow idiot.

“We could always assassinate her,” The Duke offered. “There are countless assassins we could approach that would keep their mouths shut. In fact, I know a couple myself.”

Dorian kept an eye on his father. The King’s face didn’t change once the Duke had made his suggestion. He instead turned to Dorian. “What about you, son?”

Son. The word was a joke. An insult. Dorian had never been a son to his father, and now, seeing the things he had seen, he didn’t want to be.

“Killing Princess Nehemia would only gain us more enemies in the process. She is the peoples’ Princess. Even if you made it so that no one could indeed blame you, that all can account for nothing. The people already have negative opinions of Adarlan. A death—of a royal, at that—will only serve to unite more against you.” Dorian said with cleverly concealed rage.

“So you think we should keep Princess Nehemia alive.” The King says, not even a question.

Dorian shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Unless you want the entirety of Eyllwe to believe you more a monster than they think this kingdom is. Emotion like that could fuel more than enough uprisings. And with the proper connections and motives, rebels could put together alliances that would eventually turn most of the continent against us.” Us, he thinks with disgust.

The King, Dorian’s father, remains staring at his son for an uncomfortable amount of time. Dorian tastes the now-familiar tartness of ice that cools the inside of his mouth. Under the table, he clenches his fists. But his eyes are steady and unfazed as he continues to hold his father’s gaze.

Finally, the King looks away and Dorian breathes an unnoticeable sigh of relief.

“The Prince’s words have truth. Anyone else have another idea that will keep various gods-damned kingdoms rebelling against us?”

///

Aelin hadn’t even been in Antica for more than a couple hours and she already wanted to peel her skin off because of the heat.

The hustle of the city was similar to Rifthold. But other than that, the God-City couldn’t be more different.

Pulling a hood low over her face, Aelin swiftly moved between crowds until her eyes landed on a vendor. Selling some sort of cloth, gorgeous colors like bright emerald green and deep ruby red, the woman stood back as her cart was flocked by people. People from all areas. It was wonderful.

Before Aelin herself was pulled into the thrall that the market could offer, a hand grabbed her elbow roughly. 

Whirling in supernatural speed, Aelin whipped out her dagger, simultaneously wrenching her arm out of the imposter’s grip. Snarling, Aelin brought her leg up, poised to kick her attacker.

…Only to find herself face to face with an equally aggressive face, lips curled up to reveal elongated canines almost identical to Aelin’s.

She only stayed frozen for a split-second before proceeding with her kick, aiming low. The attacker moved like wind, faster than even Aelin herself could move. He gripped one of her arms, pulling it tight behind her before Aelin cursed quite loudly, stomping on his foot in a last ditch effort. It infuriated her to no end that he’d bested her—not to mention her very delicate pride.

“What the fucking fuck,” Aelin hissed, her hands bunching into fists behind her. Hair had fallen from her braid in frizzy golden waves. 

“Shut up,” he murmured, wrenching her arm again. 

“I’d be more inclined if you’d get your dirty hands off me.” Aelin growled. She pulled her arm again, surprised to find that his grip had loosened slightly. Rearing her head back, Aelin smashed the back of her head into his nose, which distracted him enough for Aelin to free one hand. 

She shot her hand back, and grasped his hair, pulling him downwards as she spun around, kicking once more. At least this time, she thought wryly, she hit her target. He fell to his knees in front of her, though they were almost at the same level, Aelin’s head only a couple inches above his.

And when he opened his eyes, Aelin’s breath hitched a little. 

Pine green eyes stared back at her. Widened in shock. Her hand was still gripping his hair—a silver color, and surprisingly soft. She fought the ridiculous urge to ask what shampoo he used. 

“You’re…” he started to say before Aelin’s critical-thinking mind returned to her and she interrupted.

“What the hell was that?” She exclaimed, glaring daggers at him. Though he still had an expression akin to wonder as he stared at her. “I don’t even rutting know you! Care to explain why you wish to murder me?” 

“I—” 

“Hold up,” Aelin said, slipping a dagger out of her belt and holding it to his neck. “Okay. Proceed.”

Despite it all, he raised an eyebrow. 

“For dramatic flair,” Aelin said. “Now, I believe an explanation is warranted.”

“Rowan!” Aelin’s eyes didn’t move from the male, but she could smell a different scent bounding towards them, blond hair and a glint of steel from the corner of her eye. “Whoopsie, someone’s got himself in a bind. Did you know these people sell Spidersilk? Who would have thought?”

“Precious commodity, that,” Aelin nodded. “Only those in the know would come here for spidersilk.”

“And you are…?” The male stood in front of her now, not bothering to hide the sword so casually in his grip. The silver-haired male—Rowan—was still staring at her like she hung the gods-damned moon. Aelin decided not to focus on that, lest her ego grow bigger than needed.

“Celaena.” She grinned wickedly. “And your friend here almost killed me. I’d like to know why.”

“What’s a Fae like you doing here?” The male said instead, eyeing Aelin up and down.

“Gods, what does it take to get an explanation on attempted murder around here?” Aelin muttered. Digging the dagger in deeper, Aelin said, “This isn’t really the time nor the place, but you can bet your ass I will embarrass myself yelling at the lot of you and feigning some damsel-in-distress shit if one of you doesn’t start talking.”

Rowan coughed, bringing her attention back to him as he swallowed. “I—you—”

“Oh, for the gods’ sake,” Aelin groaned, “Do I know you?”

“What?” 

“Do. I. Know. You?” She enunciated painstakingly. “Clearly, you’re at a loss for words, and while that may flatter me, it’s also concerning and creepy, and you’re holding me up when I don’t have a lot of time.”

Fuck. Why’d she say that?

“Got somewhere to be, Miss?” The blonde one counters, an eyebrow raised.

“Yes, I…” Aelin trailed off. Gods. How big of a dumbass is she?

“Fenrys,” The male in front of her rasped. “It’s her.”

“Her? Rowan, I don’t know what you’ve been drinking, but you haven’t hooked up with a woman in decades, let alone even talked to one outside of necessity so unless—”

“Fenrys.” Rowan snarled. 

Aelin snorted. His eyes whipped to her. 

And the words he uttered next had her losing her grip on her dagger, and slapping him across the face.

///

Rowan wished Mala had told him he was destined to have a violent mate.

“What the fuck do you mean ‘You’re my mate’?” She imitated. Her eyes wild and bright, she says, “I don’t have a mate!”

Rowan shrugs. “Ask the gods.”

“How— what the fuck?!” she sputters. Her hand reached out—presumably to slap him again—but Rowan didn’t take a liking to being slapped. Now that she’d let go of him, he was able to catch her palm and attempt to gently place it back at her side. 

Key word: attempt.

“I don’t have time for this.” Celaena spits, shaking her head. “No. Nope. I—fucking hell.”

“You curse a lot.” 

She whips back to face him, and Rowan distinctly thinks, shit, before also remembering he’s still on his knees in front of her. “Oh really? I curse a lot?” She asks sardonically. “Well, thank you for pointing that out. Really, I’m indebted to you, for acknowledging a very severe issue that I have. Any other observations?”

Fenrys, the fucking idiot he is, falls over his ass laughing.

“Hold up,” Celaena says. “If you know I’m your—you know—then why the rutting hell did you attack me?”

Rowan reaches up behind his head, scratching it. “Well—”

“Is this how you usually greet your womanly prospects?” She asks. “Because word to the wise, no female on any world will ever appreciate that.” When Rowan opens his mouth to attempt to defend himself, she amends, “Well, I suppose there are some who would like that. But me, I’m a woman of class. A woman of standards. And you are not meeting them. At all.”

“Do you ever stop talking?” Rowan mutters.

“I mean, obviously. But I tend to ramble when I’m unsettled, along with cursing, which you so politely pointed out, and I’m clearly unsettled right now. And confused. And hot. Like, why on earth does it have to be so skin-meltingly hot here?”

Rowan blinked.

But no, it doesn’t stop there. “And I was instructed to find some Fae so I can actually control the gods-damned magic I have—which I haven’t used in 11 years. Along with finding a way to take back my damn kingdom and actually free magic in Erilea without getting myself killed which is looking more and more appealing.”

Celaena stops abruptly, chest heaving. She groaned, digging the heels of her hands into her eyes as she dropped down against a stone wall.

“Kingdom?” Rowan croaked. Shit, he’d known she was powerful. Could smell the embers from far away, that he followed it here. But a gods-damned kingdom? There were no monarchs with the name of Celaena. 

She leaned her head back, and looked at him. 

The dreams he had almost every week—of her blue-gold ringed eyes—really hadn’t done the real thing any justice. They captivated him, from the moment he saw them in his sleep to the first time seeing them in person, after being kicked and pulled by the hair by the same woman. 

“I was really hoping you wouldn’t focus on that part.”

Chapter Text

“I don’t care if she’s my gods-damned cousin. I am going to murder Aelin.” 

Aedion shoved another palmy leaf out of the way, near-growling at this point, as he and Quinn led the way. 

“You’re supposed to call her Celaena in public, Aed.” Elide commented from behind him, unbothered by his grumpy attitude. “But me too.”

“How can she be so dumb? We’re in a land she doesn’t know, looking for Fae. Fae! Does the idiot have a death wish?”

Aedion stomped in stride with Quinn—though the latter was more careful where he put his feet, as he drawled, “Aedion, calm down.”

“Calm down? Calm down?” Aedion shrieks. “How the hell am I supposed to calm down when our lovely queen has decided that she must traipaise off on her own and figure out her magic without us, her gods-damned court.”

Yes, perhaps the snub—one that Aelin didn’t really mean—hurt more than he’d let on. 

But that didn’t negate the fact that Aelin was out here alone, and though she’d bested him in training enough times for Aedion to understand she could handle herself, he couldn’t stop himself from worrying. 

“Aelin is going to be fine, Aedion.” Lysandra says from the back. Evangeline was hanging on the shifter’s back, busy weaving flowers into Lysandra’s dark hair. Aedion turned, wordlessly nudging Evangeline and quickly taking her from Lysandra’s back. She gave a quick gracious smile, then continued. “It’s not like she doesn’t know what she’s doing. Celaena knows more than enough about this land and its customs. Plus, the only reason she’s making us go to the Torre is because it’d be harder to find Fae with an entire damn entourage.”

Evangeline’s small hands were clutching Aedion’s shoulders as he carried on. “I know that, but she’s alone.”

Alone. That was what scared him the most. Aelin had been alone too many times to count over the last 11 years. He hated even thinking about that one fearful night she’d spent in the ceiling of a barn, inside a chest.

“She knows what she’s doing.” Lysandra laid a hand on his chest, halting him while the rest of the court walked on. “Trust her.”

A beat, then two, passed in silence. Listening to the wind and distant sound of the market somewhere beyond them. Aedion looked down at the delicate hand, the calluses that were newly formed—three weeks of training at sea’s result—brushing against his tunic. He glanced back up, seeing her cheeks take on a pink tint, but she left her hand there. Put a little more pressure. Then said, “Okay?”

Aedion’s own hands were occupied holding the legs of Evangeline atop his back, because he knew if they were free, he’d waste no time in catching her palm with his own. 

Though they— he— hadn’t known this woman long, it feels as if there was never a time without her among their ranks. Sometimes, in the dark of night, staring up at the Lord of the North constellation that pointed in the opposite direction in which they were headed, he thought about it. About her.

Sure, the foundation had been based on attraction. That much, Aedion would not deny. But after seeing her heart, watching her take care of Evangeline as her own even as she was still a young woman, understanding that her, Elide, and Aelin all had a bond that he could never fully grasp—one that made her a part of their court and his family and cemented her place for good? After glimpsing all of that, Aedion couldn’t stay away. Not that he wanted to.

“Aedion?”

Her voice interrupted his thoughts, and he’d realized he’d been staring at her hand for far too long. Long enough that she’d taken the hand off his chest and he’d just stood there like a dumbass, eyes on a point of his chest.

“Okay.” He responded to her earlier claim. “Yeah, I can trust her.”

“I know,” She smiles, turning away and gesturing over her shoulder for him to follow. “I think they left us behind.”

“We’ll catch up.” Aedion murmured, watching the way her dark hair swished from her mid-back. Features that were slightly changed now that the barrier on Lysandra’s magic had been lifted peered at him from where she walked. She’d been experimenting with her shifter magic. 

An eyebrow raised, she called, “You coming?”

Gods. If only she knew the power she possessed would be nothing compared to the power she wielded over Aedion, body and soul.

///

Aelin had enough self-esteem to not call herself an idiot. But now, she was seriously rethinking that notion.

Rowan and Fenrys blinked at her, slumped on the ground with her hands over her face in frustration. 

“Well, this has been lovely and fun, but I suspect Gavriel is in need of my assistance. Oh, look there he is now!” Fenrys started, nodding furiously. Then, when he thought Aelin wasn’t looking—technically squinting through her hands—he made a series of shocked and sly expressions to Rowan before leaving.

“You are…” Rowan began. “You’re a Princess?”

Aelin hadn’t noticed this earlier, but he had a wonderful accent. One that made her blush—because it’d been something she’d been partial to for so long. 

And then, she remembered Nehemia’s words. Of course this would be the group of Fae she was supposed to find. Since she was still in her Fae form, Aelin could smell the power radiating off these two—perhaps three with the mention of Gavriel, whoever the hell that was. Power that was enough to make her shit her pants if she didn’t know she possessed similar magic as well. 

Burning. Deep, fury, red burning. 

“Queen, if we’re being technical. But I haven’t been crowned yet.”

“Queen of…?”

Aelin hesitated. She’d never done this before—Aunt Marion and Quinn had been the ones to break the news to Lysandra about her new friend being the Lost Heir of Terrasen. Aelin had been so used to being closed off, to showing the rest of the world a carefully crafted face, that she found it hard to say the one word of a place she’d loved with all her heart. Could she trust him, even with that unspoken fact hanging between them?

“Should I start guessing?” He said with a twist of his lips. A joke. Was that a joke?

Even with all the doubts circulating around, Aelin couldn’t help the fact that she felt comforted here. As if his presence was enough to reassure her and nothing less.

“Terrasen.” Aelin lifted her chin. She wouldn’t cower. “I’m the Queen of Terrasen.”

He mouthed the kingdom of her birthplace, and this time she was the one raising a brow.

Quickly, she rushed on, “I was sent here.”

Instantly, Rowan was on guard. Something similar to her calculating mask slid over his face—but his was harsher, almost messy and crackled with energy. She could see the restlessness beneath his gaze. “Who?”

“Princess Nehemia. Of Eyllwe.” Aelin took in the confused expression.

“What would the Princess of Eyllwe have anything to do with sending you here? Why?” He asked, baffled. “I was sent here from Wendlyn 61 years ago. There’s no way this woman would have known.”

61 years ago? Aelin tried to not let her surprise show. He’d looked near her age, perhaps a couple of years older than her at most. Though, it wasn’t as if she’d met that many Fae, much less remembered them from her distant childhood. Aelin knew Fae lived for hundreds of years, in theory. It was just different seeing it in front of her.

“Why were you sent here?” Aelin accused. “All you’ve done since I got here is fucking attack me and then drop a very important piece of information on me as if I have the emotional capacity to handle anything. Gods know how I’m still functioning.” She muttered as an afterthought. 

Dropping her head against the stone wall, she almost missed Rowan’s low, “Well, I wasn’t the one proclaiming I’m a monarch to a fallen kingdom.”

“Shut up.” She said without opening her eyes. 

“No.” He was determined now. Standing up and walking over to where Aelin pretended the world didn’t exist and she could simply float away without having to deal with all of this. “I was sent here by Mala.”

“Mala Fire-bringer?” Aelin’s head snapped up. “Are you fucking serious?” Of all the gods.

Rowan acknowledged her with a nod, rolling his eyes despite it all. “She’s the one who told me that—well, that is to say—you’re my mate.”

There that word was again. Mate.

Aelin didn’t know what to make of that. The stories her parents and other Fae that used to reside in her kingdom had told her about Fae mates, about how it was told to be a love above anything else. She didn’t understand how she could love this male when she’d just met him. Hell, he could have been lying.

“I can smell the fire on you.”

Aelin met his eyes. “I can smell the wind on you.”

They came to sort of a standstill—though they were both sitting. She couldn’t look away from his eyes, transfixed in a sort of trance. He didn’t look down the way most men did when Aelin would defiantly lift her chin and unabashedly stare. Rowan kept her eyes, and it was true, she could smell the wind on him, along with the frosty-pine scent of snow. 

“Rowan?” She asked. He shuddered. “Are you lying to me?”

“No.” The word was an admission, a breath of air between them—solid as the wall behind her but as flimsy as the swaying sand a ways away.

“What do we do now?” Aelin asked, finally looking away. She blinked a couple times if only to rid her from the mind-boggling feeling of Rowan knowing every damn thought in her head. That wasn’t possible.

Right?

Aelin wanted to snort at her reality. She comes to a different continent to find a way to control her magic so that she may return it to Erilea? Instead, finds her mate.

“Princess Aelin Ashryver was powerful,” Rowan mused, jolting her out of her self-mocking thoughts at the sound of her name on his lips. She had half a mind to correct him when he continued. “I’ve been on this side of the world for years. Whispers of your fire magic were not missed here.”

“What whispers?”

“That, if properly harnessed, you could become a weapon of war. Able to destroy a whole gods-damned army in a matter of seconds. The khagan and his family here were wary of you before the fall of magic.” Rowan crossed his arms and quirked an eyebrow. “And that was when you were a child.”

“I know as much about my magic as I did back then,” Aelin snapped. “I couldn’t control it. Even now, it’s taunting me—as if it wants me to destroy something.”

Aelin wasn’t exaggerating when she said that. The fire in her gut was heating her from the inside. The promise of its use was too alluring, and Aelin wasn’t sure she could resist it for longer. She’d already held back when they’d crossed some unseen barrier at sea. 

“Your magic can only do what you want it to do. If you have the will to not burn everything in our vicinity, then you won’t.” Rowan said. Aelin was tempted to ask if he could read her mind. “You’ve held your magic back for eleven years. It wants to come out and play.”

Aelin looked up. A small smile splayed on the edge of his lips. He stands up, brushing the sand off his pants as he holds a hand out for her. “I hope you aren’t scared, Princess.”

Aelin stares at the scarred hand, silent for a moment. A rare flash of vulnerability overshadows her swaggering confidence when she asks, “What if I hurt someone?”

Rowan doesn’t hesitate before he answers, “You won’t.”

“But—”

“Shut up and take my hand already, will you?” He grumbles, shaking his hand hanging between them.

“If someone dies, it’s on you.” Aelin muttered, reaching up and grasping his hand. “And my name is Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, thank you very much.”

///

“Are you sure this is what Mala meant?” Fenrys whispered to Rowan for about the four-thousandth time. He and Gavriel were two walls of Fae next to him, watching the golden-haired Princess glower at them.

“I wouldn’t know,” she hissed. “How the fuck am I supposed to know how to do this? I haven’t done magic in a decade.”

“Magic is as easy as breathing.” Gavriel says, eyes darting to her eyes over and over. “It will get easier with time.”

“Wow.” Aelin deadpanned. “That is oh so helpful. I know how to do magic now. Oh gods, it’s like I’m cured! However did you—”

“Aelin.” 

Rowan didn’t have to say anything else besides her name—a name that rolled wonderfully off his tongue, one that he wanted to repeat over and over, just to see if the marvel of murmuring it would ever wear off. And that was without factoring in her other two family names. A mouthful if there ever was one.

And it helped that Gavriel looked relieved to not shoulder the burden of Aelin’s gaze.

She whipped her gaze over to him in an instant. “What?” She asked, crossing her arms and leaning on one leg. Aelin looked at him as if he shouldn’t dare to contradict her. Unlike the stuffy monarchs and vain males he’d met over the years, she wore it as confidence and not an overestimation of ability. Because Rowan knew without a doubt she could knock him on his ass, magic or not.

He gestured her over, farther from Gavriel and Fenrys, though the latter’s eyebrows looked as if they were worms on his forehead. She huffed, but followed him nonetheless.

“What?” She repeated, stopping right before he did.

“What do you feel,” he started, pulse suddenly picking up, “when you think about your magic?”

Aelin didn’t utter a word. The thoughts burning in her eyes said enough.

I am afraid. She said.

Are you? He questioned.

Yes.

No.

“What do you mean ‘No.’?!” Aelin burst. “How do you know what I’m feeling? Is there mate telepathy or some shit?”

Despite the accusation, Rowan laughed. He laughed so loudly that Gavriel and Fenrys had mirrored shocked expressions. 

Aelin shuffled her feet. “You laughing at me is not helping matters. Do you even remember what I said about manners and women?”

Gods help him, that made Rowan laugh harder than he had in years.

Without warning, her hand made a fist, hurtling towards his side. He caught it easily, of course. He wasn’t Second to Lorcan’s general for no reason, after all. Aelin, unperturbed, huffed once and turned away. She stormed to the clearing that Gavriel and Fenrys had been waiting in, the one where Rowan was supposed to meet them before he smelled the scent of burning embers and jasmine verbena, combined with something uniquely Fae that had him on guard immediately. Was the mentality attack first, questions later a good one? Probably not.

Rowan was finishing up his laughter when Aelin stomped to the middle of the clearing, surrounded by green grass, her braid swaying in the balmy breeze. She practically whipped off her cloak, and Rowan heard her mutter, “This damned cloak is no good use. Golds-melting hot here and Aed makes me wear a fucking cloak.” Despite her annoyance, Aelin folded up the piece of cloth as Gavriel and Fenrys made their way towards Rowan.

“I don’t know whether to laugh or cower.” Gavriel started. Rowan snorted.

“I know she’s going places,” Fenrys states. “Honestly, she’s better than half the monarchs we’ve seen. Excluding Sellene, of course.” He nods to Rowan. “But Sellene wasn’t as prone to beating the shit out of you.”

“And you like that?” Gavriel asked.

“Yes. I admire someone who doesn’t hide behind court masks.” Fenrys frowned. Memories—no doubt of Maeve and any of the other rulers they’d seen over the decades—crossing his eyes.

Rowan nodded in understanding. “I doubt she grew up with a court.” 

“I did.” Aelin called out from at least thirty feet away. “At least for the first decade of my life. And then, you know, the whole let’s-murder-the-Terrasenian-royal-family thing happened. I don’t know why you’re whispering as if you don’t want me to hear you.”

“I think Darling and Daring Aelin and I will be great friends,” Fenrys grinned, throwing a wink at Aelin’s figure. 

“Darling and Daring…?” Gavriel whispered. After a few moments, he shook his head, “Nevermind.”

“What, exactly, are you planning on doing?” Rowan called out in the field. Aelin spun back around, her back to them. At ease, she seemed. Though even with how easily Rowan had disarmed her a couple feet away from the clothing vendors, Aelin possessed that confident, lethal grace that most Fae had. A form that knew they could take on warriors and make it out alive. 

Instead of getting a response to his question, Rowan received a middle finger in his direction.

He snorted again. Then Fenrys hissed, “Why do you keep doing that? It’s throwing me off.”

“Off of what?” Rowan retorted. 

“You’re supposed to be broody. Not giggly.” 

“Call me giggly one more time.”

“Gig—”

Fire exploded.

///

Aelin blocked out the bickering that erupted behind her, focusing solely on the deep well of burning power lingering inside her. Annoyance and anger she felt at Rowan laughing—perhaps it wasn’t at her, but Aelin’s pride was a delicate and fractured thing. So, she would do this; do magic, if only to wipe that gods-damned smirk off his pretty fucking face.

Reaching in with spindling, invisible fingers, Aelin let loose the power she’d been denied for so long. And for the first time in eleven years, she relaxed.

When she was a child, she always did feel free when her fire magic was expressed, when all she saw was roiling flames and burning embers. But that feeling would soon be eclipsed with her fear of it. Of what she could do—what she could become.

Now, she felt none of that.

Red, orange, and yellow burst from within her, arcing around the clearing. A display of who Aelin was, to her core. Heat that warmed her face but nothing more, Aelin held out her hands, tipped her head to the sky, and grinned.

“Holy Gods,” Aelin heard behind her. Fenrys. “Holy fucking Gods.”

Burning, burning, burning. What she could do with this power. The King of Adarlan would cower in his magic-fearing skin. 

Out and out, fire and flames and tendrils of red leached from within her.

Out and out, until Aelin started losing herself in the power, the majesty of it all. Hers, she knew, this was hers, and she controlled the shit out of it. But now, the lull of the magic pulled her in, threatening to lure her in completely. The thrum of her fiery dance, the notes of the blazing song—all she could think of was this.

Was she losing control?

Was she still here?

Was she good enough?

“Okay,” A soothing voice—rough around the edges but silky where it counted—halted her spiral into that deathly power given to her. 

Was she worthy?

Was she—

Ice kissed wind roared around her, interrupting the spread of fire. Air without oxygen surrounded everything, smothering the flames asleep. Aelin was thankful for it. The thrall her magic pulled her into was a song that she couldn’t stop singing despite her wish not to burn something to the ground. 

Aelin fell to her knees. Or was she already there? She had no clue. 

Calming wind whispered over her form, cooling the drops of sweat that clung to her forehead, her back. The tunic she wore was soaked with it. She sighed at the nice breeze.

A male kneeled in front of her when Aelin finally opened her eyes. Silver-haired, green-eyed. Aelin knew him. She knew him like she knew the back of her hand, yet he had never felt so unfamiliar.

“Water,” She croaked. “Is there—water?”

That quickly, a different tanned hand held out a canteen filled with water in front of her, another concerned face to add. 

Wordlessly taking the canteen, the water poured out of it and into her mouth. She swallowed, and swallowed. Gods, it felt like she had been standing in the desert for years, her throat dry as the sand that was peppered in with the grass around them. She let the water slip down her face, drooping below her chin before messily wiping it.

Rowan took the now empty canteen from her, handing it off to Fenrys. She remembered their names now, though she wasn’t sure how she could have forgotten. 

After a while, Aelin said, “Well? How was it?”

///

Nehemia woke in a cold sweat.

Dreams of darkness, or malice and cold haunted her. A mountain, where she was trapped. She couldn’t think, couldn’t feel anything except for that shuddering loss of hope, that depression take over her body, her mind—

War was coming. Already underway.

Her country, Eyllwe, her people, had already been fighting against Adarlan for eleven damned years. And here she was, in the den of the lion, of the enemy. Befriending his son, his soldiers.

That flash of guilt, of shame, shook her.

But then she remembered the prince’s heart she’d glimpsed her first month here—almost four months ago. And the pure intent of those soldiers who hated their overlord.

Those people—they had the will to change this bleak world. And if no one was going to lead them, then she would. Then Dorian would.

Breathing heavy, heart beating, hands shaking, she turned to the bedside table. And saw a blade aimed for her throat.

///

Dorian hadn’t slept all night. 

In fact, he hadn’t even looked at the tower where his chambers were. Despite it offering numerous comforts over the years, even the Glass Castle was a somber reminder of what Adarlan had become.

No, Dorian stayed out all night. He walked the gardens, the grounds, the stables. His mind wouldn’t rest, and the magic coating his mouth was desperate to play.

Raw magic, as Nehemia had once called it. Raw, able to be made into anything. 

He tended to lean towards snow, towards frost and ice.

Dorian replayed the plan made between him, Nehemia, and Aelin.

Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, alive and well, ready to take her throne. It was as much of a shock to him now as it was three weeks ago.

He knew she was in Antica now, readying to take back control of her deadly magic. Magic like his—though her’s was of flame and red-hot anger.

A scream broke through the night. Dorian had been passing through the guests’ wing, outside the windows. Nehemia.

Dorian’s blood ran cold, and he ran.

Chapter Text

Without thinking, Nehemia reacted. The blade aiming for her throat plunged down in panic, but tore only her warm sheets as she rolled out of the way. Letting out a bloodcurdling scream, she flung her blanket over the intruder in anger, and jumped out of the bed as fast as possible. Her golden staff glinted across the room, propped up against the wall.

The figure that she couldn’t see—thanks to her blanket—let out a sound of anger. They wildly threw the knife in her direction. Nehemia ducked, and let out a filthy curse in Eyllwe—one that would make her parents shake their heads in disappointment. The figure laughed darkly. Male?

Her doors burst open, her homeland guards pouring inside the grand room. Shouts filled the hallway outside, light from the sparsely filled lanterns spilling into her room. One of her closer guards, Haje, shoved her behind him. He moved her to the door.

“I’m capable of staying here.” Nehemia said in Eyllwe. She snatched the golden staff that was suddenly next to her.

His eyes darkened. “Please leave, Highness.”

She stayed quiet, all except for the regal determination in her eyes. Haje glimpsed that, and a low sound came out of his throat before he gritted out, “Stay behind me.”

“What are we doing to him?” She asked, ignoring his order and coming to stand by his side, staff in hand.

“ You aren’t going to be doing anything, Princess.” He said, glancing at her. She tsked.

Currently, her assassin was laying on the ground, one of her guards holding him down with his hands tied. The bedsheet she’d flung on him was removed, revealing the face of the man who’d tried to kill her. She was about to ask him—demand—who he was. Who’d sent him to kill her. Who wanted her gone.

Quite a long list of people, she knew, but she wasn’t about to focus on it.

Cold, icy air drifted inside.

The hallway quieted as a pair of boots clicking against the floor became audible.

Haje’s sharp jaw tightened, turning towards the door. One of his hands held a curved Eyllwe knife, while the other held another staff. Nehemia looked away from him quickly, pulse fluttering.

Behind her, the assassin made a muffled sound as if to remind her that she was at the scene of her attempted assassination— not a stroll in the gardens with her closest guard.

Nonetheless, Haje pushed her behind him once again.

Frost gathered on the roof of her room, and Nehemia understood right a second before the Crown Prince of Adarlan stormed inside her quarters.

///

Dorian’s heart tumbled at the open doors of Nehemia’s rooms. Servants and guards gathered outside her rooms, their murmurs turning quiet once Dorian drew closer. Spines straightened, hands disappearing behind backs, heads bowed. It was a heady sense of power for any man, but Dorian despised the submission shown to him and his own.

But right now, he focused on Nehemia. 

Clamor from inside made its way out, as Dorian entered. All of Nehemia’s Eyllwe guards were inside, while two were guarding a man on the ground. Another had Nehemia behind him.

“What is happening here?” He demanded, clenching his fists behind his back.

Nehemia approached him with her hands out, as if to tame a wild beast. The guard who’d held her back relaxed marginally at the sight of Dorian—at the fact that he wasn’t a threat to his Princess.

“I’m all right, Dorian,” Nehemia murmured. “Deep breaths, remember?”

That’s when Dorian registered the coldness gathering in the corners of the room. Her breath had turned visible, and he flexed his fists in order to restrain the magic coursing through him. The frost stopped growing along the edges of the wall but a slight chill in the air remained.

“What happened?” He asked again, then noticed the man on his stomach in front of the bed, arms in a locked position. “Did he—”

“Yes.” Nehemia looked lost for all of a moment before straightening her body and fixing her jaw. “Now that reminds me.” She scooped up the staff from the floor where she’d dropped it when Dorian burst in, stalking towards the man.

It was a laughable sight, the Eyllwe Princess in a nightgown, anger written across her cheeks and a golden weapon in hand. But the atmosphere of the room was anything but—cold with Dorian’s magic but feverish with Nehemia’s rage.

She plucked the curved dagger out of the guard’s hand, who, despite the stoicness of his face, smirked at the sight.

Nehemia stopped at the man’s feet. 

“Who the hell are you?”

///

“Father,” Dorian tried to protest. “It is a threat under our roof. It is our responsibility to take care of it. If only to secure our dominance over them.”

“It was those damn guards’ idea to not have their Princess be protected by Adarlan soldiers,” The King said with contempt. “They should have been prepared to face the consequences.”

“Don’t you think this was too well timed?” Dorian masked his desperation with an air of indifference. “It was only a couple days ago that our Lord Perrington came up with the idea to assassinate the Princess. Of course, this is just me speculating, but the evidence seems too potent to ignore.”

The King stopped pacing. “How so?”

“Well, after last nights’ theatrics, I paid a visit to the Lords’ rooms. He wasn’t in them, but I took liberties upon myself and searched the room—something I’m sure you wouldn’t mind, given that he is required to report everything to us.” Dorian watched the annoyance in his father’s expression simmer, but only like oil near flame. “Several letters and accounts were found, three of which held confidential information to the Assassins’ Keep, and their King of Assassins.”

Dorian knew how much it pained his father’s insolent ego to hear the title King attached with anyone else. It gave him a burned sense of satisfaction to see the grimace pass over his features before he waved his hand. “Go on.”

“Those letters were proof of communication back and forth to send an assassin after Princess Nehemia. I believe that while the Princess is not our best and most desirable asset,” Dorian paused and swallowed the frosty taste that lingered, “the Lord Perrington does not heed yours or my wishes in regards to her life. He needs to be reminded of whose palace he resides in and under whose rule he lives under.”

The King of Adarlan stewed in silence. Dorian had tried his best to appeal to his pride, and it seemed as if his words were doing it well when the King spoke. 

“Perhaps he was acting in Adarlan’s best interest, son.” He looked right into Dorian’s eyes, black melding with sapphire. “After all, we are all but servants to our kingdom, not just our monarch.” 

It was such a laughable notion, Dorian wanted to roll his eyes. Adarlan was founded on the principles of what his father spoke of, yes, but those moral were long-buried years after the King rose to power.

“But what does it show for his respect for you, Your Majesty?” Dorian implored. “What message does it send to the rest of your advisors who would love nothing more than to gain power over man? Be rewarded rather than punished for it? Perrington may have been acting in the best interests of Adarlan, but with all due respect, that is not the point. More and more provinces and cities in our kingdom wish to revolt. The entire damned continent is under our fist, but there are ample forces that wish to take back their freedom. Nehemia’s death, like I said before, would only serve to ignite the flame of rebellion.”

Dorian stalked over to the window, looking over Rifthold. The vantage point allowed for such a beautiful view of his city that he couldn’t help but stay silent for a moment longer. 

“She is loved by her nation and others, and like I said before: her death in our territory, whether by our hand and sword or not, will propel this continent into vengeance-filled anger. And I don’t believe I need to tell you what that will lead to.”

Dorian couldn’t help but feel a bit proud of himself for putting up such a compelling argument. 

The King’s Chambers remained quiet for countless minutes more. Dorian didn’t count how long it took for his father to speak up, clearly giving way to grudging acceptance of Dorian’s claim.

“You’re not wrong,” The King nodded to himself. “Very well. I have some urgent matters for him to attend to in Morath. Those accounts better be long gone by tonight. No word of this leaves the soldiers in the room and the servants.”

Too late, Dorian thought. Servants talk, and word of your carelessness has already reached the heart of this city.

Turning the city against the King would undoubtedly turn the city against Dorian as well. For that, he felt this burning pit of guilt and a roaring divide of anger aimed towards his father. 

But other than that, Dorian felt pretty damn good.

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Dorian said instead, bowing deeply. Internally cursing whatever god that had given him this fate, he turned on his heel and stalked out of the chambers, counting this one victory for himself and saving the rest for later. When this political war would finally be won, and Dorian could breathe in peace.

///

Chaol already knew it was going to be a horrible day.

He’d woken up to his guards demanding information about the apparent assassination attempt on Nehemia last night for logging. Chaol had frozen for a total of three seconds before moving and asking all the questions in all the right places. He’d yet to visit the assassin—who now was getting comfortable in his cell—which was something he was sure Nehemia would demand to be a part of.

Her Eyllwe soldiers had also debriefed him, knowing now that, while they couldn’t trust Adarlan’s subjects so blatantly, Chaol wasn’t going to be the one to turn them in. Not if they caused any harm to Dorian.

Startling from his thoughts, Chaol rapped on the door of Nehemia’s quarters.

They were grand by anyone’s standards, complete with three rooms, beautiful wall decorations, and a four-poster bed that Chaol didn’t care for, but looked nice all the same. But even the rooms were designed as a thinly-veiled insult to the Princess, if anyone casted a glance in the wing for royal guests.

The door opened soundlessly, revealing a lone-faced Nehemia standing there, rubbing her eyes.

“Were you…” Chaol raised an eyebrow, “sleeping?”

Nehemia narrowed her eyes at him. “So what if I was?” She dared him to ask, but Chaol only chuckled before reverting back into his Captain-self.

“I’m going down to see the prisoner. Do you want—?” Chaol started but Nehemia interrupted.

“Give me two minutes.” Was all she said, then slammed the door in his face. He turned, with a knowing smile on his face before he noticed the guard standing in front of him.

He was one of Nehemia’s, a bronze, tan face staring back at him, head shaved with sharp lines of gold shorn through it, like most high ranking guards in Eyllwe wore. A spear was held in his hand, countless curved and straight daggers attached in his belt. 

“I will accompany you.” The guard said, his tone brokering no room for argument. 

Chaol said, “I understand your concern, but if you are worried, I can assure you that I can adequately protect Nehemia. You do not have to worry about—”

“She is my Princess. To you, she is another royal guest. I will accompany you. The rest can stay here.” He said, ignoring Chaol’s offer. 

On the one hand, the guardly side of Chaol approved. If it were he and Dorian, he probably would have done the same thing. Leaving Dorian’s safety in the hands of another kingdom’s guard, of which they knew close to nothing about? He shuddered at the thought.

On the other hand, however, Chaol was a bit miffed.

“As you wish.” Chaol said instead, right as the door began to open.

Both men turned, facing the Princess of Eyllwe as she appeared in her standard white dress, her belt holstering two daggers, and a gold staff glinting in hand. Chaol suppressed a smirk at the sight, her straight yet serious face. Her golden circlet gleamed atop her dark hair and skin, screaming her birthright for all to see.

“He’s subdued, for now,” Chaol said, a hand landing on the hilt of his sword. “I have three guards on watch right now, but if you prefer—”

“Only you two with me.” Nehemia interrupted, brushing past both men and starting down the hall. She calls over her shoulder, “I’d rather the castle guard didn’t witness my anger.”

Chaol and the guard both snorted, then shot each other dark looks. 

They stood there for a couple more seconds, battling out that male dominance—though deep down, Chaol knew this guard had known Nehemia for longer than him anyways. But he felt sort of selfish for his unlikely friend.

“Come  on, you two,” Nehemia’s exasperated voice broke the silence between Chaol and the guard. She stood at the end of the hall, annoyance and amusement mixed in her expression. “We don’t have all day, you know.”

///

Nehemia was on a mission.

Anger brewed in every step that took her closer to the dungeons of Adarlan, where her assassin resided.

It wasn’t the first time Nehemia’s life had been threatened by one who desired money for their empty pockets. Sometimes, when she thought about it, she could sympathize with them. At least the ones that had no other choice. Nonetheless, it didn’t stop the annoyance, the incredulousness that would follow the attempts. She survived it every time. She wasn’t trained by her own father for nothing.

Chaol took his stance in front of her to gain clearance to the cells below. The twin guards that stood in front of the entrance nodded to him, ignored Nehemia and Haje, and opened the door. The snub wasn’t out of place, not in Adarlan.

Haje’s hand tightened around his spear.

Chaol led them down the dark, damp hallway. He stopped three cells before the hall twisted into darkness, and Nehemia stopped at his shoulder.

Her assassin was curled up on the ground, in fetal position. Immediately, the hair on her arms rose, a shudder rippling through her body. She sniffed, and recoiled instantly. The smell of blood, rusty and rich filled her nostrils.

She looked at Chaol, whose face betrayed nothing of what she smelt. Or the bad feeling she got from being down here.

He drew his sword, using the hilt to bang on the bars. The dull noise almost made Nehemia flinch, and it only served to cause the assassin to curl in on themselves even more.

“Make it stop.”

His low moan filtered through the air, and Nehemia stopped breathing. Chaol and Haje inched closer to the bars. “What?” Chaol barked.

“Please,  please make it stop.”

Nehemia stayed silent, holding her breath til her lungs burned.

“Make what stop?” her body betrayed her, and she shoved both men out of her way, clearing her view into the cell.

The assassin turned, and stared at her.

Nehemia sucked in a sharp breath.

“Gods.”

His hands were decayed. A ring glinted on his one remaining finger, where the rest were just…gone.

As if they’d been ripped off.

His eyes were black, soulless. Tears long dried tracked down the mud that covered his face. His hair that must have once been thick and plentiful, had been ripped out, chucks missing from his scalp. Nicks and scratches covered any of the exposed skin he displayed, blood not even dried yet. 

“What in the gods’ name…” Chaol trails off, but Nehemia knows better.

It was something she had been hoping was just a far-fetched theory, something that kept her up at night with fear. The blood left her face then, at the physical confirmation of those thoughts laying in agony right in front of her. She couldn’t ignore that, no matter how hard she tried.

The Valg had returned.

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.”