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Chapter Text

Aoide woke to her father lightly shaking her shoulder. The cold, dim light of the full moon shone through the airy curtains of her room. Dawn was still several hours away, and the streets of Neva were uncharacteristically quiet.

“We must hurry,” Aoide’s father whispered. “Veronique has prepared your trunk. The carriage is waiting.”

Aoide’s father left her bedroom while she forced the exhaustion from her mind. She listened to his quiet, pacing footsteps as she dressed in the simple green dress and matching cloak that her lady-in-waiting, Veronique, had set aside.

Aoide glimpsed herself in the mirror. Her raven black hair was ragged and shorn, leaving her delicate neck exposed. Five dark bruises in the shape of fingers marred her deep terracotta complexion. The splits and welts on her face were still fresh and agonizingly tender.

The sight of her own reflection made Aoide squeamish. Without further delay, she pulled up the hood of her cloak and met her father in the dark hallway. Together, they skittered down the grand staircase in silence.

Aoide tried her best to catalogue the art hanging in the hall as they made their descent. Pieces her father had saved for his private collection rather than sell to the high society of Neva. Some of them were landscapes, some portraits, and others abstract splotches. Her father’s good taste had secured their family wealth and status among the elite in Neva, but those connections could not shield Aoide from him.

As they reached the front door, Aoide stopped in the doorway of the formal living room. It was where she spent most of her time, sitting at the grand piano and playing for whoever was willing to listen — esteemed guests, her father’s clients, the house staff. She hadn’t the strength to play the last few days. She wasn’t sure she’d ever get the chance to play it again.

Her father bought the piano from Montesere when Aoide was a child. The faeries in Montesere did not hide their contempt for humans, which left many wondering how Aoide’s father convinced them to sell the faerie-made instrument. Perhaps they found the idea of humans making music humorous.

The piano was an object of undeniable beauty. The imposing body was made of rich mahogany, its earthy smell filling the room. The piano legs, lid, and music stand were decorated with detailed carvings of flowers and tangled vines. Small cherubs lounged among the petals and thorns, smiling up at whoever sat on the matching bench. The keys, made of delicate bone, developed a creamy patina from use.

Aoide would never forget her first time sitting at that piano. She could have sworn the piano had played her, guiding her unsteady fingers over the velvet soft keys. Compositions once stilted and unfamiliar now flowed from her like aged wine from a carafe. She could play for hours, her mind filling with strange images and voices.

Her father placed a hand on Aoide’s arm and guided her through the front door. There was no time for this sort of tender-hearted reminiscing.

The carriage was the smallest and simplest in her father’s possession, one he typically used to transport fine pieces of art across the continent. It was meant to be unremarkable, almost ramshackle, to discourage any looters from targeting it on the main byways.

Aoide’s father handed her a small leather purse, gold jingling as she secured it to her belt.

“Use the gold for a carriage from the port to Phineas’ cottage. There is some extra for food and lodging,” Aoide’s father said. He handed her a small map with her Uncle Phineas’ cottage marked with a star.

Aoide nodded and climbed the two steps into the carriage. Her father held the carriage door open. Aoide heard a small sound escape her father’s bobbing throat.

“Aoide…” he said, his voice no more than a rasp. “Do not write to us. Do not try to return. You will be safe with your Uncle Phineas.”

“I know,” Aoide whispered. Her throat ached with every syllable.

Her father gripped the carriage door as he tried to find the words to ease their shared pain. He took a step closer and grabbed Aoide’s clenched hands.

“I know you will survive this. You have your mother’s will. You have so many of her best qualities,” her father said. “All I wish is for you to be happy.”

Aoide cried silently as her father closed the carriage door and gave the driver a nod.

The driver followed the path plotted out by her father, a carefully planned route that avoided all known city watch posts. Aoide held her breath until the carriage was out of the dense tangle of alleys. She watched as her family’s townhouse became nothing more than a dot on the dark horizon, the salt of her tears burning a small cut on her cheek.

——

The ship Aoide’s father secured her passage on was a merchant ship stocked with all manner of goods — spices of every origin, large bolts of fine silk, shining bronze sculptures, and a few exotic pets. Each storeroom under the deck was filled with priceless delights headed to the wealthiest families across the sea.

Aoide’s father was at the docks often enough that he made friends with a few of the merchant sailors. Some of them became good friends, much to her mother’s chagrin. The sailors never visited their family’s townhouse but Aoide knew her father would frequent taverns with them. He would stumble home, jolly and drunk, and tell Aoide the sailors’ stories of the wild and strange lands they visited. Those stories had inspired numerous compositions on the piano, sweeping and boundless.

One of her father’s most infamous friends, Elmier, set aside space in one of the smaller storage rooms below deck. There was just enough room for a thin bedroll and her trunk among the barrels of expensive wine.

“It’s not much, but no one will bother you here,” Elmier said.

Aoide stayed silent while she removed her hood to get a better look at the storage room. She tried not to let Elmier’s flinch bother her. She knew she looked wretched with her uneven haircut and brutalized face. She could hardly stomach looking at herself.

She turned to Elmier and gave him a curt nod. It hurt her throat to speak more than a few words, the muscles still tender and weak. She forced herself to meet his eyes despite his flitting focus. Elmier was a bit old to be a sailor, smile lines etched into his tanned and age-spotted face. She imagined his animated grin as he told stories of swashbuckling and adventuring. Now, he only grimaced at the sorry sight of her.

“I’ll leave you to settle,” he said before he meandered out of the storage room and shut the door behind him.

Aoide clicked open the trunk that Veronique prepared for her. Neatly tucked inside were two day dresses, her favorite pair of leather boots, and a nightgown. There was also one of her finer dresses packed in the trunk, though Aoide doubted she’d have need of it. The thought of being involved in high society affairs made her break into a cold sweat. She stuffed the dress underneath a few other items.

In addition to the clothing, Veronique managed to fit a few personal items — a pair of pearl earrings, a small bottle of perfume smelling of jasmine and vetiver, her favorite silk scarf, and a pocket sized triptych of Aoide, her mother, and her father.

She dropped the triptych like it had been on fire. The face that peered back at her, a smirking, rosy cheeked trouble-maker, made her want to tear the portrait apart.

“Your daughter is an unrepentant, unruly bohemian layabout!” Aoide’s mother used to shout, usually from the top of the staircase as Aoide shuffled in from another late night.

“I think you mean our daughter,” her father used to chide, beaming with pride.

Eager to dismiss the memory, Aoide shut the trunk and crawled over to the bedroll. She’d only slept a few hours before her father had woken her, her slumber mercifully devoid of any dreams. It was some of the only sleep she had gotten in the past six days. The appeal of that unrelenting black curtain drew her eyes closed, the rhythmic bob of the ship lulling her to sleep.

She wasn’t so lucky this time. For as soon as her eyes closed, she found herself back in Neva.

——

She was running down the streets of Neva with Veronique’s hand in hers. Not out of fear, but excitement. Aoide lived so many nights like this, her dream version of the city nightlife near identical to the real thing.

Neva was a sprawling, ever-changing city. It was unmatched in its history of strong trade routes, meaning each quarter was a world of its own. The borders between each quarter blurred and birthed entirely new subcultures with traditions and cuisines that didn’t exist outside of the city. Aoide explored every inch of Neva, much as her father did when he was her age.

The city thrummed with an energy that made Aoide’s heart sing. Every footstep, every wafting smell, every snippet of overheard conversation was a note. She composed whole books of songs to capture Neva, jaunty tunes with overlapping and clashing melodies. Those songs were always her father’s favorites.

“Slow down, Aoide. We should be heading home,” Veronique said, pulling Aoide to a stop.

Aoide turned to her lady-in-waiting, pursing her lips into a childish pout. Veronique could only shake her head and laugh in reply, her titian curls bouncing and shining. Aoide spent many mornings begging Veronique to curl her straight dark hair, envious of the way Veronique’s framed her beautiful face like a regal lion’s mane.

“But the tavern is just around the corner!” Aoide found herself whining. “Hal said they let anyone get on stage.”

Aoide knew this was a dream, but she couldn’t stop herself as she grabbed Veronique’s hand again and dragged her elegant friend down the street, both of them giggling in delight at their delinquency. Aoide wanted to stop her feet from pounding down those cobblestones. She didn’t want to see Veronique’s joyous face looking at hers, or hear the raucous laughter of that damn tavern.

Turn around, she told her dream self. Go home and behave.

But the dream continued on against her will. She was a passive observer within her own body, powerless to alter the course of her subconscious.

The tavern was bustling with the usual crowd of artists and musicians in varying stages of drunkenness. A group of young men were winding each other up by slurping down whole mugs of beer. Clutches of women danced to the braying fiddle. A few others hung to the corners, tucking and rolling dried herbs into thin sheets of paper and smoking out the tavern, much to the barmaid’s displeasure.

“This place is full of heathens,” Veronique said. Underneath a thin veil of disgust, Aoide detected her delight.

“Isn’t it great?” Aoide said with a wink. Veronique returned a grin.

In a sea of faces, Aoide spotted Hal near a group of men smoking. Her heart plummeted to her stomach as he returned her look and shoved his way through the crowd. Aoide had always been attracted to the sheer confidence that radiated off Hal. He was four years her senior, and achieved an air of manhood that made Aoide shiver. He never blushed when Aoide looked right into his deep, blue-green eyes. Hal always looked right back, mischief edging around the corners of his mouth.

Wake up, Aoide begged herself. Please just let me wake up.

But she didn’t wake up. Hal met her in the middle of bar room and picked her up, spinning her once and nearly losing his balance. She leaned into his chest, broad and warm. She inhaled his smoky and sweet scent, the smell of turpentine lingering in her nose. He must have spent all day in his studio and all night carousing.

Hal returned Aoide to the ground only to nudge her along toward the small stage where a fiddle player performed.

“Go on then,” he teased. “Show us how it’s done.”

Aoide looked back at the crowd, suddenly unsure whether she knew any songs fit for the rowdy tavern.

“Maybe after you buy me and Veronique a round,” Aoide replied.

Hal laughed, lolling his head back and bumping into a man behind him. The tavern was packed, with most people shoulder to shoulder. No one seemed to mind as the drink and smoke blurred the lines between friends and strangers.

Hal settled his eyes back on Aoide, growing serious. She shook at the intensity of his stare, feeling his eyes boring into her. He brought both his hands to her shoulders, steadying himself.

“Get up there, Aoide. Let them see who you are,” he told her, his voice rumbling through the din. His face was close to hers now, the stubble on his cheeks tickling hers. She swallowed hard and her stomach lurched.

“What if they don’t like it?” Aoide asked. She felt her courage bottoming out now as the sounds of revelry shifted into discord.

Someone shoved her forward and Aoide tripped, her knees landing on the stage in a bang. Pain swelled and travelled down to her feet as she stood up. The crowd grew angrier now, shouting at her to play something. She limped toward the piano and sat down, staring at the keys in blind panic.

She lifted her hands to play only to find them mangled. Her fingers pointed at sickening angles, some of them nothing more than pulp and bone. Blood poured down her arms, covering the ivory and ebony keys until all she saw was red.

She felt herself drifting away as a hand seized the back of her neck and squeezed.

“Play, you little whore,” a man’s voice said. But it wasn’t Hal. It was too craggy and vicious to be Hal.

She felt those fat, cold fingers grip her neck harder, slamming her face into the bloody keys. The piano spat out a trio of discordant notes and the crowd cheered. She felt hot breath on her ear, wet and vile.

Aoide could barely breathe as those fingers dug into the muscles of her neck. She could hear Hal now, crying out to her like a wounded animal. He was somewhere in that crowd, but she couldn’t bear to look at him.

She clamped her eyes closed and retreated to that unreachable place in her mind. A place where no hands could harm her. Where no fear could stop her heart from beating. Where there was no pain, no joy, no feeling at all.

——

Aoide awoke with a start, the ship nearly keeling against a wave. The room was silent, except for the sounds of her panting and the wine sloshing in the barrels.

Aoide ripped her hands from under the blanket and examined her unblemished fingers. Relief swelled in her chest as she bent and straightened them until she was sure they were her own.

She wiped away the few stray hairs that clung to her sweaty face, strands that had been missed by the dull blade. She swayed as she stood up. The rocking of the ship made her sick and the air had grown stuffy in the storage room. She didn’t know if she had slept five minutes or five days, but she needed to get out.

She opened the door and found a tray of food in the hall. It was meager compared to her usual meals but enough to keep her alive. Her father warned her the voyage would be difficult. The route to the Mortal Lands outside Prythian was long and there would be little in the way of pleasant distractions.

Aoide stepped over the tray, walked past the storage rooms, and climbed up the ladder to the deck. With a firm push, she opened the hatch.

She smelled the salt and felt the sunshine baking the wooden planks. The cool, strong breeze whipped against her face. Aoide took a deep breath before she ascended. All around her, sailors busied themselves with keeping the ship righted.

Aoide stumbled as she walked across the boards, marveling at how the men seemed unaffected by the rolling waves. None of them paid her any mind, almost to the point of avoidance.

Aoide made it to the edge of the ship without incident and gripped the rail tightly. There was nothing within sight except for endless sea and blue sky. Not even the shoreline of Neva was visible. Aoide loosed a sigh of relief, her worry drifting away for a moment. She hadn’t realized how tense she had been the past few days, fear settling in her chest like molten rock.

“You’re awake,” a voice said behind her, gentle in tone but gruff with age. Elmier stood next to Aoide and surveyed the horizon.

“How long was I asleep?” Aoide asked. Her voice was nothing more than a croak.

“Two days, give or take. Slept through a whole storm too.”

Aoide’s father said it would take close to a month to reach the Mortal Lands outside Prythian, if the weather held. Two days and her home was already out of sight. It dawned on Aoide how far away she’d be from Neva, from her family, from Veronique. Everything she knew was out of reach. The rest of the world lay somewhere beyond that blue horizon, waiting for her.

“What do you know of the Mortal Lands bordering Prythian?” Aoide asked.

“They’re nothing like Neva, that’s for sure,” he said with a chuckle.

Aoide shifted, unsure whether that was a good thing or a bad thing. Elmier, noticing Aoide’s discomfort, continued.

“I was born in a destitute village. There was little in the way of opportunity for us low borne. Hell, there’s hardly any for the high borne either. My choices were to beg, steal, or work myself into an early grave. I watched my mother do the first, my father the last. I decided those options didn’t suit me. So I snuck onto a merchant ship when I was sixteen and never looked back.”

“So you were happy to leave?”

“In some ways, yes.”

Elmier paused and assessed Aoide with a weighty look. He turned back to the horizon before speaking again.

“There is a…wildness to Prythian. The land has a restless energy,” Elmier said.

“What do you mean?” Aoide asked, her curiosity piqued. She watched as Elmier searched for the right words, mulling them over in his mind.

“In Prythian, everything is alive. Hungry. Deadly. Even in the Mortal Lands, you can feel it,” Elmier explained. “Maybe it’s all that bloody history. But you can feel it.”

Aoide chilled at Elmier’s words. Alive. Hungry. Deadly. This was the place she was heading to, the place that was supposed to be her refuge.

She knew she should be afraid — and she was. But intermingled with that fear was a small slice of thrilling curiosity. That curiosity seared into her heart, sent it pounding away in her chest. Aoide knew something beautiful and terrible lay waiting for her across the sea. She felt it calling to her, pulling the ship closer to land like a fish on a line.

“You should eat something,” Elmier said before he returned to his duties.

Aoide took one last gulp of fresh air before she retreated to the store room and devoured the tray of food left outside her door. The soup was cold and the bread was stale, but she didn’t care. It was the first real meal she had eaten in days.

With her stomach full, Aoide opened the trunk again and plucked out the triptych. She covered her own portrait with her thumb.

She studied the portraits of her mother and father. The likeness of the paintings were uncanny. Aoide’s eyes hovered on her father’s groomed mustache and gentle smile, then on her mother’s prominent nose and her dark, serious eyes. The artist, one of her father’s oldest and most talented friends, had captured their essence with only a few masterful strokes.

Aoide blinked away the burning sensation in her eyes. She would never see her parents again. She had fought against her fate like a wild, bucking horse and now they were all in terrible danger. Not just her parents, but Veronique and Hal too.

How foolish she had been. She would have flung herself off the side of that ship if she wasn’t such a coward. If she had just accepted her role, behaved like a proper lady…

Within that spiral of soul-rending pain, she remembered her father’s final words in the carriage and steadied herself.

All I wish is for you to be happy.

Chapter Text

Blood.

No matter what the beast did, it could not get the taste of blood out of its mouth. Big, heaving gulps from the clear lake did nothing to wash away the cloying flavor of copper and salt.

The beast prowled the verdant hills and dense forests, killing all those who threatened eternal Spring. The only kindness it showed to its victims was a quick death — a snap of the neck, a claw through the heart.

Not all of them were clean. The beast didn’t enjoy those but it didn’t stop itself either. Its lands were overrun with fiends intent on devouring whatever poor creature crossed their paths. The interlopers would not stop until there was nothing left. The death of a thousand innocents would not slake their miserable thirst.

At first, the beast had been angry. Whole weeks were lost to that vortex of rage, unending and all-consuming. The beast would have let it destroy its soul. Snip the delicate threads of sanity and forsake its better nature.

But the beast grew tired of the taste of blood. When was the last time it had eaten a hot meal? Tasted faerie wine? Slept in a bed? Slept at all?

Beams of moonlight danced across the lake as the ripples calmed to perfect stillness. The beast caught its reflection in the silvery waters. It had forgotten what it looked like. The portrait of a predator, an animal driven by the basest of needs — survival.

All except for those green eyes. The eyes of its mother, staring back in passive horror.

The beast lingered a moment longer and gorged itself on the peace of the lake. The pickerelweed and the yellow marigolds shuddered in the breeze. The sweet, mild smell of pollen drifted and settled. This was what the beast was trying to protect. It would do anything to preserve the last bastions of beauty in this land.

A gentle gust of air, briny and foreign, ruffled the beast’s shaggy coat. In the distance, some foul creature shrieked with horrible delight. The beast lifted its head, scenting the metallic tang of fresh blood, and was off again.

Chapter Text

Aoide passed the month at sea like a cloistered priestess. She rarely left the small storeroom. She couldn’t stand the way the men looked at her, some pitying and others horrified. All except for Elmier.

On the rare occasion she was above deck, Elmier told her stories of the Mortal Lands outside of Prythian. His stories were some of the only entertainment she had to pass the time, though very few of them were pleasant.

Aoide knew little about the world beyond the Continent, most of which she learned right before the Wall fell. Her father attended a summit organized by merchants to discuss the threat of war with Prythian, but it was all for naught. The real threat had been Hybern all along.

The looming war in Prythian was the center of every conversation in Neva. The once jubilant city was a hair’s breadth away from widespread civil disorder. If Hybern conquered Prythian, the humans on the Continent would be ripe for conquest. The young were angry at the prospect of consignment. The old were terrified of complete annihilation. Ancient fears of enslavement and torture thrummed in their blood, threatening to fester into violence.

The city watch saw it as a convenient excuse to tighten its grip. They enforced curfews and enacted decency laws without oversight. Raids on taverns and houses of ill repute became commonplace. Aoide knew of many artists and musicians who tried to flee, only to be jailed or killed by zealous patrols.

When the Wall fell, her father wanted to join the war effort. A foreign merchant was organizing a force of three ships to travel across the sea and needed men willing to die for the cause.

One night over dinner, her father informed them of his intention to join the growing force of men leaving for Prythian.

“You are no fighter, Ambrose. If you get on that ship, you will die. Find another way to help. Do not get yourself killed for the sake of pride,” her mother said.

“The sake of pride? It’s not for my pride, Sarai. It’s for you. For our daughter. For the sake of humanity.”

“And when you are killed by some faerie beast, who will protect us? Who will keep us clothed and fed?” Sarai shot back.

Her mother’s voice was even-keeled, a willful calm settling over the table. But Aoide knew the words were meant to be as deadly as a poison arrow to the heart.

Aoide’s father looked at her, mouth drawn in a grim line. The last few months had aged him, the lean angles of his face now sagging and soft.

“Aoide knows what must be done.”

Aoide let out a huff and banished that particular memory from her mind. Her father never did join the war effort, but Aoide wasn’t sure if that was her mother’s doing, or if he was deemed too old or too inept with a sword. It was a good thing too, for if he’d left and died…

Aoide shivered at the thought. The last year of her life felt like a fever dream. Neva had always been a city of possibility, a place where Aoide was free to follow her desires wherever they took her. She hadn’t noticed the rope around her neck until it was too late — a rabbit in a snare. Aoide felt that rope loosen with every mile she set between her and Neva.

“I see you’ve finally gotten your sea legs,” Elmier said. He clamped a hand down on Aoide’s shoulder.

It was true that Aoide no longer fumbled across the deck, holding on to whatever ledge or surface she could get a hand on. She mastered the constant bob and roll, shifted her weight to balance herself. The ship was a living beast and she responded to its every heave in perfect harmony.

“They don’t seem to appreciate my accomplishment,” Aoide said. She jutted her chin at the men who skittered away at her attention.

Elmier squeezed his lips together in a tight line. The other sailors never got used to her presence on the deck. Aoide wondered just how terrible she looked if she could scare away an entire crew of seasoned seamen.

“It’s nothing personal. You make them nervous.”

“I make a crew of sailors nervous?”

“Sailors are a superstitious bunch. Having a woman on board is a…bad omen. And then we hit that storm right out of the port. Didn’t seem to bother you, though. Slept right through it,” Elmier chuckled.

“You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“You should have seen those fools cowering in front of your door, praying to whatever higher power would listen. All the while you were snuggled up in your bedroll,” Elmier said.

His chuckle turned into an outright guffaw, which drew a few sidelong glances. Aoide tried not to mind the attention. She didn’t have the heart to tell Elmier that the first few nights on the ship were filled with constant nightmares.

On one particularly bad night, Aoide found an old plank of wood and borrowed a small knife from Elmier. She carved eighty-eight narrow rectangles, each representing a key on a piano. She played out her fears until her eyes were heavy with exhaustion.

“How far are we from land?” Aoide asked.

Elmier pulled a tarnished brass spyglass from the inside of his coat and handed it to Aoide.

“See for yourself.”

Aoide extended the spyglass and peered through the eyepiece, adjusting it until a flat, jutting piece of land came into focus. From what Aoide could see, there wasn’t much aside from dense forest and a few small clearings.

“We’ll be in port in two days, give or take. Based on that map your father gave you, it’ll take another day by carriage to your Uncle Phineas.”

Aoide scanned the horizon, eager to see more of the coastline. Elmier warned her that the Mortal Lands were nothing like Neva. Most of it was left untouched by humans, aside from a few small villages and farms. The land looked peaceful from a distance, but Aoide remembered Elmier’s words:

Alive. Hungry. Deadly.

Aoide snapped the spyglass closed and handed it back to Elmier.

“You should know that Phineas lives very close to the wall. Or, at least where the wall used to be. Don’t wander too far,” Elmier said.

“Is it really that dangerous?”

“There hasn’t been any recent…incidents from what I’ve heard. But faerie lands are no place for a human woman.”

Aoide had heard that sort of thing before. Her mother would scold her endlessly on all the places she shouldn’t be as a “woman of her station.” Her father had taken up the habit more recently.

But Aoide knew those places were where life happened. All manner of delights and horrors mingled there, waiting to be experienced. Waiting to be composed into song and shared among those willing to listen. That part of her, that insatiable curiosity, knew she’d end up in those forgotten hollows and sun-dappled valleys.

“I know that look,” Elmier sighed. “Trouble.”

“Why do you think I’m being sent away?”

That made Elmier uncomfortable. Aoide had picked up on Elmier’s tell, a hand rubbing the scruff on his cheek. Whenever the conversation veered toward her situation, Elmier blanched, spending a good minute running his hand down his face before speaking again.

“Your father-“

“My father is back in Neva. So is my mother and everyone else I’ve ever known. Their opinions hold no weight here.” Aoide said. Her voice wasn’t angry. She spoke with conviction, knowing it was the truth.

“You will be on your own there, aside from Phineas. Your father-I mean…” Elmier stuttered. Aoide waited for him to find the right words. A moment passed between them and the silence stretched uncomfortably.

“Just be careful,” Elmier said before he slunk off like a reprimanded child.

Aoide couldn’t be upset at Elmier. She knew he only spoke that way because he cared. She knew her parents sent her away because they cared. So many people had cherished her throughout her life, but it still hadn’t been enough. All the love in the world couldn’t keep her safe from harm. Only distance could do that now.

The last two days of the voyage passed slowly. Aoide kept herself busy packing and repacking the trunk. She had accumulated only a few items during the voyage — a large white feather from a seabird, a few sheets of half-finished compositions, and a length of rope tied into an intricate series of loops and knots.

Elmier had taught Aoide a few of the tougher sailor knots, which she had picked up quickly. Her nimble piano fingers enjoyed the challenge of memorizing the patterns until they became second nature. She created a few of her own knots, mimicking the shape of flowers and clover.

When the ship entered the port, Aoide heaved her trunk above deck and waited impatiently as the sailors dropped the anchor. Elmier helped her off the ship and flagged down a carriage driver willing to take Aoide to the village.

“Remember what I told you now,” Elmier said. He put on his best impression of an overbearing father, eyebrows drawn together in a serious look.

“I’ll take it under advisement,” Aoide responded. She quirked her eyebrow in emphasis.

Aoide could have sworn Elmier almost smiled before he tapped two fingers to his forehead in a lazy salute. A moment later, her carriage was off.

——

The day’s travel to her Uncle Phineas’ cottage was a pleasant journey. The early summer sun peaked behind the drifting clouds. The cool breeze set the late-blooming petals purling, a few catching in Aoide’s short hair.

Aoide was sure the carriage driver hated her. Every few hours she would bang on the side of the carriage and ask the driver to stop so she could admire the view. After the fourth time, he told her she should just sit on the dickey box and steer the carriage herself.

So, she did, aside from the steering part. That she left up to him. After weeks spent in a tiny storage room, she welcomed every breath of fresh air. Even the smell of manure didn’t bother her as they passed the small farms along the dirt road.

Dotted between the rolling hills of sweet grass and gentle streams were derelict stone structures and destroyed cottages. Whole sections of wooded land were charred and flattened. The ashen soil must have been fertile, for Aoide saw small buds peeking out from the blackened debris.

War had come and left a hideous mark, a fact that Aoide would not forget. The land would heal, sending tender green shoots of life up toward the sunlight. She thought of her own skin, the scars forming pink flesh over the healed wounds on her face. Time would pass and the marks would fade, but she would not forget.

Aoide never ventured far out of Neva. She knew most of the continent was a broad expanse of land like this one, but it didn’t hold the same appeal as the frenetic city. She marveled at how far she could see without a city sprawl blocking her view. Aoide regretted not exploring the pastoral side of the continent when she had the chance.

“Is that the village?” Aoide asked. She pointed to a cluster of buildings set around a small square.

“Yes,” the driver said, but made no attempt to stop the horses.

“Could we stop?” Aoide asked.

The driver didn’t respond. Aoide felt for the pouch of coins which had grown light in her travels.

“I’ll give you an extra silver piece if you stop. Just for a few minutes.”

The driver sighed and held out his hand. Aoide placed the last piece of silver she had in his palm. She only had a few coppers left now, barely enough for a meal.

The driver pulled to the side of the road, propped his feet up, and pulled his hat over his eyes. Aoide took the hint and tied her silk scarf around her face, leaving the driver to his nap.

A few villagers milled around the square, some with small carts of handicrafts and goods. The villagers were dressed modestly, many wearing what Aoide assumed were handmade and repaired clothes. There were no nobles strutting down the causeway in their finest silks and furs. The quiet hum of activity would have bored Aoide before, but now she felt a bit of relief. No one paid her any mind as she explored the village.

There were only a few shops that lined the village center — an apothecary, a blacksmith, and a tailor. She nearly walked right past the last shop, which was the smallest of the four and in the worst condition.

The shop window was dirty, but Aoide could see the display of small flutes, recorders, and piccolos through the grime. She let out a small gasp of delight. She wiped the filthy window with a sleeve and tried to get a better look inside.

There was no piano from what she could see. Not that she could afford one with her measly four coppers. She looked again at the display and eyed a wooden fife made of rosewood. The hand carved instrument was worth two gold, which was more than she had — but it was feasible. Surely she could save enough once she figured out how to make some coin.

Unsure of how long she spent peering through the window, Aoide hurried back to the carriage and continued on to her Uncle Phineas’ cottage.

——

The sun was nearly set by the time they reached the cottage. The driver dropped Aoide’s trunk by the side of the dirt road and hurried back up the path, eager to outpace the darkening sky.

The cottage was small but well kept. Candles twinkled in the open windowsills, the flames dancing with the gentle breeze. Two large peony bushes framed the wooden front door, the heavy pink buds hanging low. Smoke curled out of the stone chimney and floated skyward.

Phineas’ home was the farthest from the town square. The land behind his cottage dropped off into the thick tree line. Aoide scanned the forest and wondered how far out the wall had been. She was surprised to see that the cottage was in such good condition, considering how close it was to faerie lands.

She didn’t linger long outside the cottage. Night was quickly advancing and the sky grew darker by the minute. Aoide dragged her trunk down the path and gave two solid raps on the front door.

The man who answered looked just like her mother. Tall and broad shouldered, her Uncle Phineas’ dark eyes shone in the candlelight like polished obsidian. His once black hair was peppered with grey, and his complexion deep and warm like hers — like her mother’s, too. His face was serious but not grave as he greeted her.

“Aoide. You’ve arrived safely.”

“Against all odds,” Aoide responded.

Phineas stepped aside and let Aoide into the main living space of the cottage. Much like the exterior, it was clean but spartan. A wooden table sat in the center of the room in front of the hearth, flanked by two chairs. One of the chairs was old and worn while the other looked brand new. A fire crackled in the hearth and a pot of stew nearly bubbled over. In the far corner next to a shelf of books was a plush red chair and a small table with an oil lamp.

There was little in the way of decoration but the overall impression was cozy. The cottage was warm and quiet. Safe.

“Your room is on the right,” Phineas said, pointing toward the back of the cottage. “Go ahead and put your things in order. And then we’ll eat.”

Aoide opened the door to the narrow bedroom. Against the wall was a bed covered with a hand stitched quilt. There was a chest of drawers at the foot of the bed. Against the other wall, a wooden desk sat under the window.

Aoide tucked her clothes in the chest of drawers. The rest of her belongings went on the desk next to a small mirror. She avoided her reflection, untying the silk scarf around her head and covering the glass.

Aoide changed out of her road dusted clothes and into the cleanest dress she had. Cleaning her clothes hadn’t been easy on the ship. She wasn’t eager to hang her white chemise undergarments to dry for all the men to see, so she would hang them in the storage room. She dabbed a bit of the perfume Veronique packed and silently thanked her genius lady-in-waiting. Aoide yearned for a hot bath.

Aoide closed the bedroom door behind her and returned to the main room. Phineas jumped a bit when he saw her as his eyes tracked to her cropped hair.

Although her Uncle Phineas lived in the Mortal Lands outside Prythian, he was born in Neva. As a Nevan man, he would know what that short hair meant. Or, in Aoide’s case, what it was supposed to mean.

Aoide’s face warmed, embarrassed at the implication. She had never met her Uncle Phineas before. She knew he was two years older than her mother and left the Continent shortly after he completed his training to become a healer. Aoide’s mother always said Phineas had a bleeding heart. He didn’t think Neva needed another healer, so he set off to help those most in need.

Phineas turned back to the hearth, filled two bowls with stew, and set them on the table. Aoide joined him and sat in the new chair.

A silence settled between them. Aoide felt the pressure to speak rise with every passing moment. This was her new home and her Uncle Phineas was her only family. She had no money and no idea what her purpose would be in this new world.

She had never thought about her life’s purpose in Neva. As far as she was concerned, her life didn’t need one. Her father’s immense wealth provided for every need and desire. She spent most days sleeping until noon, then playing piano until Veronique dressed her for dinner. She’d suffered through hundreds of those dinners, entertaining nobles looking to buy pieces from her father. She’d charm and laugh and perform her compositions, playing the role of a high society lady in need of a wealthy husband.

After dinner and a game of cards, Aoide would sneak out through the servant’s quarters and meet Hal and his troupe of artists in some flophouse. They’d spend all night wandering the streets of Neva, looking for inspiration.

Now, she had no reputation, no piano, and no friends. Aoide hadn’t thought of that on the voyage. She was so concerned about getting to the Mortal Lands that she never considered what she’d do once she arrived.

The silence ticked on. It gnawed at her now, turned her stomach sour. She had to say something to stave off her spiral.

“Why do you live so far from the village?” Aoide asked.

Phineas finished his bowl of stew and placed his spoon on the cloth napkin. He took his time to form an answer.

“I make the villagers uncomfortable.”

Aoide waited for an explanation, but Phineas did not provide one. She had never met a man of so few words. Aoide was used to the ramblings and diatribes of Nevan nobles, who loved nothing more than to speak about themselves.

“And why is that?” Aoide asked, trying to maintain some semblance of a conversation. Again, Phineas took his time to reply.

“In addition to my responsibilities as a healer, I also prepare bodies for their funerary rights,” Phineas said.

Aoide still didn’t understand. She cocked her head to the side and silently urging her Uncle Phineas to explain.

“If I am in the village, it’s because someone is sick, or in pain, or dead. They see me as a bad omen.”

“But that’s ridiculous. You’re trying to help them,” Aoide said.

“These people have seen suffering on a scale many couldn’t imagine. They are scared, Aoide. Now more than ever with the Wall destroyed.”

“And you are not? Is it not dangerous to live so close to faerie lands?”

“A faerie has never done me any harm.”

But humans have, Aoide thought, sensing what Phineas left unsaid. Phineas rose from the table and placed their two bowls in a basin of soapy water.

“I still take precautions, of course. But I like this cottage. It’s quiet.”

Aoide saw a flash of her mother in Phineas. He exuded the same self-assured calm. He was not stubborn, nor angry in his willfulness. He possessed a stillness of mind that Aoide envied. She wondered if that sort of quietude was a prerequisite to becoming a healer, or something he learned through his work.

“And you enjoy your work, even if everyone dislikes you for it?” Aoide asked.

“I don’t just enjoy it. I need it. It’s part of me,” Phineas said.

Aoide understood that feeling. It was the same way she felt about playing the piano. A part of her mind was always thinking about her next composition. Even when she struggled to learn a new piece, there was something about the act of playing that was essential to her very existence.

“There’s a shop in the village that sells instruments. They have a fife I’d like to buy…only I don’t have the gold for it,” Aoide said.

“I suppose I could write to your father-“

“No,” Aoide said. She didn’t want her Uncle Phineas to think she was some spoiled noblewoman. “I want to make my own coin. And we shouldn’t write to them, anyway. My father is concerned that someone could intercept a letter.”

“There’s not much work for women in the village. Your mother was hoping you would focus on settling here,” Phineas said in an attempt to be delicate.

But Aoide knew what he meant by “settling” and she didn’t like it at all. A spike of hot anger flashed through her chest and was quickly snuffed out.

Marriage was what got her into this whole mess. Not just that, but her anger too. She didn’t want to feel that rage again, driving her to recklessness and despair. She hoped she could leave those things behind in Neva.

“And what will you do with me if I don’t settle?” Aoide asked.

She looked into Phineas’ dark eyes. She felt her mother’s eyes looking back. But unlike her mother’s assessing stare, Phineas’ face softened. He cleared his throat and walked over to the bookshelf. He plucked a thick tome from the top shelf.

“I’m in need of an assistant. I have many regular appointments these days. Some of the men fought in a small militia after the Wall fell. They need weekly check-ins to manage their pain,” Phineas said. He let the heavy book thwack on the table.

Aoide peered at the title — “Compendium of Common Maladies, Vol IV” and grinned at her Uncle Phineas.

“I’ll do it,” Aoide said.

“Just like that? You don’t want to know how much I’ll pay you? Or what you’ll be doing?” he asked.

“I didn’t realize I could negotiate,” Aoide said. Her naivety made Phineas chuckle.

“I don’t always get paid in coin for my services, but whatever I can spare will be yours. And you’ll have one day of rest to take care of any personal business,” Phineas said.

He recorded this all on a piece of parchment and signed his name on the bottom. He pushed the parchment toward Aoide.

“A contract to make your apprenticeship official,” Phineas said. He held out the quill.

Aoide scanned the contract, then her Uncle Phineas. There was no humor in his face — he was not trying to appease her. This was a real contract, one she would be held accountable for. It was the first time anyone had taken her seriously and it nearly stunned her.

Aoide plucked the quill from Phineas’ hand and signed her name.

“We’ll start tomorrow, then. Get some rest,” Phineas said. He blew out the candles and retired to his room.

Aoide lay awake that night, adjusting to the foreign feeling of a new bed. Her bed. In her small, simple bedroom. A warm breeze drifted in through the open window and sent the curtain fluttering. Insects chirped and clicked, a gentle hum of nocturnal activity.

She had a purpose now — she was a healer’s apprentice. And she would save every piece of copper until she could afford that fife. She could spend her day off learning how to play it. It wasn’t a piano, but it was something.

For the first time in months, Aoide slept soundly.

Chapter Text

The beast collapsed in the shadow of a rocky outcropping, its body tense and sore from exertion. Staying in this form for so long was a massive drain on its power, not to mention the physical demands of killing any wayward creatures it tracked down.

The beast wasn’t sure how long it’d be able to go on before it was reduced to its other nature. There were still expanses of its land yet to be cleared, teeming with deviants and villains. The land couldn’t heal until the beast excised the corruption threatening to upend not only the Spring Court, but the Mortal Lands beyond.

If the beast could just hold on a bit longer, it could fulfill its obligations. It’d need to improve the wards around the land to prevent further intruders. The beast was never too good with wards and it would be difficult to maintain them without help.

A thought flashed in the beast’s mind — the image of a male with red hair and golden-brown skin. The beast shook its head and cleared the thought from its mind. It had sullied that friendship, perhaps beyond repair. It would have to do this alone.

The pebbled ground dug into the beast’s side, poking at aching straps of muscle and bone. The beast felt itself slipping dangerously close to powerlessness. If something vicious and hungry were to discover it in this position, it could very well mean death.

The dark world chirped all around the beast, reminding it of all the life depending on this great and terrible duty. Even the smallest cricket was of great importance to the beast. Every little soul striving to survive was worth protection.

The smell of jasmine and vetiver floated dreamily toward the beast, sweet and earthy. Mingled in that alluring scent was that same hint of brine it smelled before, strange but not unpleasant.

The beast lifted its head toward the sky and caught the trailing aroma in its superior nose. It felt a strong desire to follow that trail, and so it did. The massive beast loped toward its origin with great effort, every step more agonizing than the next.

The night was mercifully quiet. The beast encountered no fiends in need of violent dispatching, only the tranquil hum of crepuscular insects and birds urging it to continue forward.

It took the beast the better part of the night to get close. It stopped suddenly when it realized that the scent trail stretched beyond the wall, or where it used to be, into the Mortal Lands. With its fae eyesight, the beast could see a small, dark cottage just beyond the tree line.

This scent was not fae. It was human.

The beast toed the line where the wall once stood. Nothing stopped the beast from crossing into Mortal Lands, except for a tiny petal of dread unfurling in its mind.

A memory, painful and haunting, burst through months of repression. Blue-grey eyes, honey brown hair, an ash arrow—

No. The beast would not think of that night or the ensuing chaos that left it shrinking at its own reflection, hating itself until all that was left was that simmering rage.

The beast wasn’t sure it would ever be able to face it. The terrible truth of it all. The corruption of its very soul and the unforgivable things it had done in the name of love. Some of the same things its father had done in the name of power.

Two starkly opposite intentions, yet the same outcome. It wondered what difference intentions made — if they made a difference at all.

The beast stood there until the sun peaked over the horizon line. In the distance, the cottage came to life with the sounds of shuffling feet. A jolt of alarm raced through the beast’s blood, sending it running in the opposite direction as fast as its throbbing paws would take it.

Chapter Text

It took Aoide several weeks of regular appointments and late night emergencies to save up enough gold for the rosewood fife. She had seen a shocking number of injuries, disorders, and illnesses in those weeks. Her mind spun with the sudden influx of information.

Aoide thrived at the practical portion of her apprenticeship. Her nimble, strong fingers were adept at suturing and dressing wounds thanks to Elmier’s knot-tying classes. She was surprisingly handy with a scalpel too, delicate and precise with her incisions.

Where she struggled was diagnosis. There were simply too many things to know, too many questions to ask, too many conflicting bits of information to weigh. Her Uncle Phineas insisted such expertise only came with time.

There was not a single day she didn’t come home exhausted, her white apron covered in an alarming variety of bodily fluids. At night, she’d sit at the table parsing through dense medical texts, trying to memorize common signs and effective treatments for any number of diseases and conditions. There were many evenings Phineas had shaken her awake, her face down in a book.

“How do you remember all these things? It’s impossible,” Aoide said, exasperated by the sheer number and variety of afflictions.

“I imagine the same way you remember all those piano compositions,” Phineas replied. Aoide had told him about her love for the piano, often humming different tunes as they cleaned and sorted their tools and materials.

Aoide realized her Uncle Phineas must be a genius. His mind was an unending well of knowledge from which he could dredge up dozens of possible causes and cures for whatever ailment they encountered. There was no condition too strange to diagnose, no illness too rare to treat.

And yet the townsfolk shrank from him, often turning and walking in the opposite direction whenever they ventured into the village. Her Uncle Phineas took it in stride, never scowling or shying away from their distaste.

Phineas did not seem to dislike any part of his occupation, even when it required a strong stomach. He was just as serious and exacting treating a child’s headache as he was when conducting a life-saving surgery.

There were aspects that Aoide noticed he seemed to prefer. There were several men who lost limbs in the war with Hybern. Many of the amputations were field amputations, quick and brutal. The men had chronic pain and were in dire need of relief. Most had little money to spare, finding it difficult to work, and Phineas refused to take their coin.

Phineas had taken it upon himself to create aids and prosthetics for the men, custom fitting new limbs in his spare time. Aoide watched him work in his room from her spot at the table. He carved and adjusted the limbs until the men found them satisfactory. Sometimes, she’d find him still working when she woke up.

Those regular visits were the most taxing for Aoide. She couldn’t stop sneaking glances at their scars, thick and jagged. She found herself absentmindedly touching her own scar as the men talked about their discomfort.

“Does that scar bother you?” Phineas asked once after a particularly long day of regular appointments.

“Sometimes it feels sore,” Aoide admitted sheepishly. Her uncle had never mentioned the scar before. She assumed he was so used to seeing worse that he didn’t notice it.

“I will set aside some of the numbing balm for you. And some lavender oil to reduce its appearance,” Phineas said with an assessing glance.

Aoide imagined her scar must have looked terrible if Phineas was recommending lavender oil. She had noticed patients staring at it before, but to know that Phineas thought it severe enough for treatment meant it was worse than she realized.

Aoide tried not to let it bother her as she walked into town, her small leather coin purse snug against her belt. Nothing could stop her from buying that fife. She hurried along the square, headed right to the decrepit little shop, and pulled on the door.

Locked. She knocked, then knocked again, but no one answered. Aoide backed up and peered through the shop window. She looked for the shopkeeper, but found no one inside.

Aoide looked up and spotted a second floor. She wondered if the shopkeeper lived above the store. She could see a few personal items sitting on the ledge inside.

“Hello?” Aoide called out.

But there was no response. Aoide glanced around and looked for a pebble. She picked up the smallest, roundest rock she could find, aimed at the second floor window, and tossed it.

She was hoping it would clink harmlessly against the glass and alert whoever lived on the second floor. Instead, it crashed right through. A shout sounded from the second floor and a moment later, an elderly woman popped her head out the gaping hole.

“What the hell was that for?” she yelled.

Aoide cringed, trying to decide whether it was better to run. But she really wanted that fife…

“I’m sorry!” Aoide shouted back. “Do you own the shop downstairs? I’d like to buy something.”

“What?”

“The shop. I want to buy the rosewood fife.”

The woman gave Aoide a bewildered look, but nodded in reply.

“Give me a moment,” she said, before disappearing. A few minutes later, the door to the shop opened.

The shop was dim and dusty, but filled with gorgeous instruments of all kinds. Aoide found herself lingering as the woman headed to the shop display and plucked the small fife from the window.

“Is this the one?” the woman asked.

“Yes, that’s it,” Aoide said. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s a fine piece. Travelled here all the way from Neva.”

“What a coincidence. So have I.”

Aoide rolled the fife in her hand, admiring the rich wood and the shining brass caps at either end. It was a simple instrument, but well-made and light in her hand.

“Do you know how to play it?”

“No, actually. I’m a pianist, but I don’t have a piano to play here.”

The woman walked down the aisle of the packed shop, careful not to knock over any of the displays, as she shuffled behind the counter.

“My husband — he owned the shop with me — always wanted a piano. But it’s too expensive to ship them from the Continent,” the woman said. “I can barely sell a penny flute these days.”

“Why?” Aoide asked.

“Folks aren’t in the music-making mood,” the woman explained with a shrug of her shoulders. “Business was always a bit slow, but after the Wall fell…”

The woman trailed off. Aoide watched the woman grimace as if she was remembering something terrible.

“I understand,” Aoide said, though she didn’t. How anyone could live without music was beyond her.

Aoide reached into the purse and placed two gold coins on the counter, as well as a piece of silver, leaving her with only a few coppers left.

“For the fife…and the window,” Aoide said. “Sorry about that, again.”

“Eh, it was cracked anyway,” the woman said with a small wink.

“My name’s Aoide.”

Aoide stuck her hand out, which the woman took with her own. Her hand was small but her grasp was strong.

“Iris. Come back if you need help figuring out how to play it,” the woman said with a smirk.

“I’ll come back and play you a song instead,” Aoide replied, up to the challenge. How hard could it be to figure out a little flute like this one?

——

“You difficult little…thing!” Aoide shouted. She resisted the urge to toss the fife out of the tree she was currently perched in. She had spent the better part of the day struggling to get a clear tone, her breath wavering from pushing out all the air in her lungs.

She was determined though, and would not give up until she could play a full composition for Iris. She took a break in the afternoon sun and listened to the birds chirping, envying their varying tones and melodies.

Aoide had ran most of the way home from the shop, eager to use her one day of rest efficiently. She was tired of spending her day in the cottage reorganizing her small collection of belongings or reading another medical book to pass the time.

She followed the sounds of the wrens and warblers into the forest beyond her uncle’s cottage and listened for inspiration. She wanted her first composition to be an ode to her new home and all the little creatures that dwelled there.

The forest was a hub of activity. Small birds and insects buzzed and chirped around her in perfect harmony. Below, Aoide spotted a small hare bounding deeper into the brush. The sounds of the swaying leaves spoke to Aoide, begging her to express their intentions through song. The forest was just as lively as Neva had been, only different.

Aoide closed her eyes. Her head lolled against the thick trunk of the tree. She let the sounds of the forest wash over her, ideas sparking and fizzing out behind her eyelids. She must have dozed off for a bit, for when she opened her eyes, the daylight had shifted to early evening.

Phineas would be home soon. Aoide didn’t think he’d be happy to find out she ventured into the woods, closer to faerie territory than was wise. Aoide scrambled down the tree and adjusted her dress. She removed any pieces of bark or leaves that would give her away.

She had her back turned when she heard it — no, sensed it. A presence, large and lumbering, edging closer to her. She could feel the memory of hands closing around her neck, panic rising in her chest. Slowly, she turned to face it.

A massive beast dragged itself toward her through the thicket and slumped at her feet. It wasn’t like any creature she had ever seen — as large as a horse with the golden coat of a lion, the snout of a wolf, and the antlers of a stag.

Something in Aoide’s blood begged her to run, pumping hot and fast through her veins. Her heart fluttered in her chest like a butterfly in a summer storm.

The beast huffed out shallow breaths, its powerful chest fighting to rise. With the beast on its side, Aoide could see the deep gash down its torso and the fresh blood. It looked up at her in agony, its startling green eyes begging her to do something.

Aoide’s mind snapped into focus with one look from those eyes. They stared at her with a sort of recognition that did not seem animal. As if a person was trapped in there, bleeding out. The healer’s apprentice burst into action. She got close to the beast and examined the wound.

The wound was deep and could be fatal if not treated. It wasn’t so deep that it cut entirely through muscle, but the state of the beast made Aoide think it lost a lot of blood. She’d need her suturing kit, which was back at the cottage.

“Do not move. I will be right back,” Aoide whispered to the beast. “Please don’t die.”

Aoide ran through the forest. She leapt over rocks and fallen trees, pumping her arms and legs as hard as she could. Her lungs burned with the effort as she slammed the door open to the cottage. In a violent whirl, she ripped through the room and knocked over her chair in haste. She grabbed the suturing kit, cleaning solution, and a wad of cotton. She tore out of her Uncle Phineas’ house without bothering to close the front door.

Again, she set off in a run. She heard a rip of fabric and felt something warm drip down her leg. She must have bashed her leg on a rock, but she didn’t stop to assess herself. She would deal with her own injury later.

She made it back to the beast, which must’ve crawled a few feet more before it collapsed again. The sun was retreating behind the horizon line, making it difficult for Aoide to see.

She did not delay another moment. She cleaned the wound with the solution and got close to ensure any dirt or debris was washed away. The beast groaned at what Aoide imagined was a great, stinging pain.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s going to hurt. I will try to be quick.”

She threaded the largest suturing needle she could find in the cottage and clamped down the needle holder. Armed with her forceps, she inched closer to the beast, her hands trembling at the thought of touching it.

She took one deep breath, tried her best to channel Phineas’ self-assured calm, and brought the two ends of the wound together with the forceps. The beast shifted in response to the sudden touch, but Aoide did not falter. In one swift move, she tugged the needle through the thick layer of fur and flesh and prayed it would not break.

Her fear went somewhere far away as she focused on the wound and her hands. Clamp, stick, pull. Clamp, stick, pull. She gave herself over to that rhythm, adjusting to the beast’s twitches as she tugged the needle through.

“I’m going as fast as I can,” Aoide said to the beast, as if it could understand her pleas and apologies.

Aoide held her breath as she placed the last suture and took a look at her work. The line of stitches was tight and straight, a near perfect job despite the conditions. She cut the thread and tied it off, adrenaline coursing through her body. She couldn’t stop herself from shaking as she realized what she had done.

Not a moment after the knot was tied, she heard the thump of feet and her Uncle Phineas’ voice.

“Aoide!”

Aoide looked at the beast and met its verdant stare. Its gaze shifted in and out of focus, the pain and the loss of blood bearing down on its consciousness. She lifted her hand and gently pet its cheek. Its coat was shaggy and dull, but soft. Aoide didn’t consider how close her hand was to its powerful maw. How easy it would be for the beast to clamp down and rip her to shreds.

“Aoide! Where are you?” Phineas shouted again.

“Here, Uncle!” Aoide yelled back.

She stood up and looked for him. She saw the light from a lantern bobbing closer toward her and she waved her arms trying to catch Phineas’ attention.

Phineas was on her in a moment, scanning her bleeding leg between harried breaths. It took him a moment to notice the beast splayed behind Aoide.

Aoide watched as Phineas froze. She saw an uncharacteristic look of horror cross his face as the lantern shook in his fist.

“Aoide,” he whispered. “Get behind me.” Phineas raised a crossbow, a bolt already drawn.

“But the beast. It’s injured and it needs help-“

“That is no beast,” her Uncle Phineas said. “That is a faerie.”

Aoide whipped around and looked at the creature again. She felt the truth hit her like a rock shattering through a glass window. Of course it had been a faerie. She had never seen an animal like it, the amalgam of pure predator. And those eyes…

“Get away, Aoide,” Phineas said.

Aoide watched her Uncle Phineas raise the crossbow and point it just beyond her. She realized what Phineas planned to do.

“You can’t be serious, Uncle. It’s hurt. Nearly dead.”

“Faeries don’t die easily,” Phineas said.

Aoide gaped at her Uncle Phineas. He remained composed, but Aoide could detect the slightest tremor in his hand. In all the weeks she worked beside him, watching as patients suffered and died, Aoide had never seen him scared.

“If you kill that creature, I will never forgive you,” Aoide said. Her voice dropped low with warning.

The faerie barely clung to life. Aoide did her best to give him a shot at survival but only time would tell. If the wound got infected or if there was internal damage she could not see, it would die alone in those woods.

Phineas held the crossbow for a beat before he dropped his arm.

“We need to get to the cottage. Now.”

Phineas grabbed Aoide’s arm and pulled her along hurriedly. She glanced back one last time, trying to see if the faerie was still breathing, but it was too dark to tell.

Chapter Text

Her name was Aoide. The beast rolled the name over in its mind like a river polishing a stone.

The beast wasn’t sure how it ended up so close to human territory. A horde of naga had surprised it several miles back while it rested. The beast managed to kill the whole lot of them, but not before one particularly vicious creature sliced it.

In its weakened state, the beast’s wound did not clot. Every ounce of power had been rung out in the months of its frenzied hunt. It would die if it could not find help. It would fail in its duty to save the land and damn hundreds of innocent souls with it.

In the haze of pain and despair, the beast heard the sound of a flute and smelled her scent drifting on the wind. A great need rose up in it, driving the beast toward her as Death followed close behind. Its mind drifted in and out, but its paws moved forward mechanically, as though it would continue on even if its soul detached and floated away.

She had looked right at him, saw beyond the bestial visage. Her eyes, the color of rich soil after a spring rain, turned something over inside the beast. Desires long forgotten flamed to life, demanding to be heard.

Seeing her had been a gift, one the beast was sure it did not deserve. If it lived through the night, it’d owe her its life — and it would gladly give it to her, even if it was worthless.

She had gotten so close as she treated the wound, the warmth of her soft body mere inches away. The beast watched her determined face as she worked, her dark eyebrows drawing close together in complete concentration. A scar, jagged and pink, marked her skin from the tip of her ear down to the corner of her mouth. It did nothing to hinder her fierce beauty.

It was easy to forget how small humans could be. How her delicate flesh betrayed a tenacious heart beating like a war drum. The beast always admired how humans managed so much with their short lives, wholly exposed to the dangers of the world. Some humans knew only suffering for the entirety of their existence and yet they continued on. They hoped and strived and loved more in a few years than some faeries did in a century.

What excuse did the beast have for its sorry state? It had lived five hundred years and was no wiser than it’d been as a young male. The things the beast had done to the female it loved and to the friend it cherished above all things — the same mistakes over and over until they left.

Aoide. Aoide. Aoide. The beast felt its heart chant her name, summoning its will to live from the depths of its fading consciousness. It needed to see her again. To meet that knowing stare with its own. To hear that lilt in her voice as she spoke. It was the last thing the beast heard before it drifted off into cold, endless darkness.

Chapter Text

Aoide didn’t sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw emerald ones staring back, gentle and wet with suffering. It nearly drove her mad, thinking of that faerie dying alone and left to rot.

Phineas hadn’t slept either. He spent the whole night sitting near the front door, his crossbow drawn in his leather-gloved hands. He did say he took precautions, but it never crossed Aoide’s mind that he might kill a faerie. They spent their days together saving lives, even when the odds were stacked against them. To kill a down creature felt wrong.

Phineas had said a faerie never harmed him. Aoide wondered if he killed a faerie before it could do so. Or had he just been lucky all this time never to cross paths with one? The thought set Aoide’s teeth on edge.

When would she stop being so naive? She had learned back in Neva that she was not invincible. She knew what it felt like to hover close to death, unable to breathe as those unrelenting hands squeezed her neck. Aoide felt some part of her flicker and fizz out of existence, if only for a moment, before she came back to herself.

And yet, she could not stop herself from running headlong into danger. Something woke in her when she saw that faerie. Her curiosity overrode the fear meant to keep her alive. Centuries of human instinct held no power over her need to know more, to experience something rare and deadly.

Aoide got the feeling that her own impulses were driving her towards some sublime fate like a runaway carriage. She knew death waited for them all. The most practical person could fall ill and die suddenly, as she’d seen many times in her work.

So, what was the harm? If she was going to die, she wanted to explore every corner of this land. Taste and smell and feel everything it had to offer, then memorialize it in song. She would be gone one day, but those songs would live on.

Aoide waited for the sun to rise before she got out of bed. Her leg was badly bruised, lumps of blue-purple skin throbbing with every step. When she left her room, she found her Uncle Phineas slumped in his chair. The quiet dragging of her feet woke him and nearly sent him careening off his perch.

“You’re awake,” Phineas said with a croak.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

Aoide sat in the chair and eyed the crossbow. The bolt was made out of a wood she’d never seen before. Something about the crossbow unnerved her, a bubble of disgust forming in her throat.

“How is your leg?” Phineas asked. He had cleaned the wound after they got back to the cottage last night. The cut was shallow but her leg swelled from the trauma of knocking into the rock.

“It hurts like hell.”

“Rest today. You’re of no use to me injured,” Phineas said.

“I don’t think you’ll need that,” Aoide said and pointed to the crossbow. She never wanted to see the damn thing again.

“You’re probably right. If that faerie wanted to kill us, it would have done it already.”

Phineas rose and tucked the crossbow away in a chest near the door. Then, he removed the leather gloves and took a settling breath.

“It was injured. I doubt it could do much even if it wanted to,” Aoide said.

“Do not underestimate a faerie, even in a compromised state.”

Phineas turned to Aoide, his face grim. Again, Aoide detected a hint of fear in his posture, a sight she was unaccustomed to in her Uncle Phineas.

“I need you to listen to me, Aoide. I made a promise to your parents that I would keep you safe. I do not wish to go back on that promise. I do not think I have it in me to write them a letter telling them their only child, their sole happiness in this world, is gravely hurt or…dead.”

Aoide could not look at her Uncle Phineas as he spoke. She couldn’t bear to see his face, pleading and desperate. It would have reminded her of her mother in those final days, begging Aoide to behave. Unlike then, Aoide could not dredge up that righteous anger — only sorrow. Sorrow that her impulses hurt everyone around her, again and again, but she could not stop.

She would not live as a caged bird. She would not perform and play the good little lady. She would not make herself quiet and lovely for anyone’s sake.

Aoide mustered all her courage and stared at her uncle. She did not look away, even though his expression wounded her.

“I only did what I thought was right. And I will continue to do so, even if it ends badly for me,” said Aoide.

Aoide expected her uncle to demand she stay out of the forest. She prepared for him to yell, beg, or give her some ultimatum. Instead, he asked a question.

“Do you know why I left Neva?”

Aoide shot her uncle a confused look.

“My mother said you left after your training. To help those most in need.”

“Sarai was always good at crafting convenient lies.”

Aoide shifted in her seat, her brow drawn down in confusion. She had never known her mother to be a liar. In fact, Aoide thought she was usually a little too honest.

“I was training to become a healer, that part is true. I met someone during that training. Someone who became very dear to me. Only he was a man. At the time, our family’s reputation was tenuous. There were some rumors that…well, that doesn’t matter. When your grandparents found out about my relationship, they were angry. More than that, they were afraid. Not just for me but for your mother, who was struggling to find an appropriate suitor.”

Phineas paused and bowed his head in shame. He fought against his own mind, starting and stopping again until he found what he wanted to say.

“I was furious at them. I did so many things I regret. Hurt them badly. Sarai the worst of them all. I knew the things I felt — the things I wanted — weren’t malicious. And yet, it hurt them. Seeing them that way…I had to leave. When your mother wrote to me, told me what happened to you, I begged her to send you here. I promised her I could help you. That I would keep you safe.”

“I’m sorry, Uncle, ” Aoide said. Her breath left her lungs.

Aoide was sorry. Not for going into the forest and not for helping the faerie, but for what Phineas had suffered. She had felt the same way back in Neva. She saw a side of humanity that filled her with such overwhelming despair that it nearly destroyed her. Nearly drove her to welcome death by the hands of her would-be captor.

“I will not tell you what to do, Aoide. I am not your master. I know you will not listen to anything other than what’s in your heart. But please, remember it is not just you who pays the price for your actions.”

Phineas did not comfort her, nor was she looking for it. Aoide would rather hear the truth, harsh and smarting, than be treated like a child. It was the truth that strengthened her resolve, reminded her why her curiosity and kindness were important despite the danger they posed. She knew Phineas felt the same, even if it frightened him.

Phineas left Aoide at the table. He dressed, packed his bag, and left without another word.

——

Going back into the forest was an objectively foolish thing to do. Aoide knew this. But no amount of wisdom or guilt could stop her.

It was difficult to find her way back to where she had been yesterday. It was nearly impossible with the added complication of her aching leg. Through gritted teeth, Aoide limped her way through the brush.

She scanned every inch of the forest floor looking for the fife. She had dropped it at some point in her mad dash to the cottage. The deep color of the rosewood was near identical in color to a branch stripped of its bark. She had already gotten her hopes up over a dozen sticks.

Slowly, she retraced her steps. She saved up for weeks to buy that fife and she would be damned if she lost it now. It was the only thing that could keep her sane, especially after that conversation with Phineas.

She tried to ignore the part of her that wondered about the faerie. Had it survived the night? Or would she discover its body picked over by carrion? The thought made her sick with worry.

Aoide moved faster and pushed the sharp pain in her leg out of her mind. Her thoughts circled like water down a drain. She needed to know what became of that faerie, more than she needed that fife. She headed straight to the clearing beyond the brush.

The faerie wasn’t there. There was no sign of dismemberment or decay either. All Aoide could see was a patch of dried blood clumped on the soil.

Alive. The faerie was alive somewhere. Aoide fell to her knees and thanked whatever higher power listened to such things. She felt tears come, hot and fast, as relief shook through her. She was surprised at the strength and suddenness of her emotions.

“Hasn’t anyone told you to stay out of these woods?”

Aoide jumped. She whirled around, expecting to see someone standing right behind her. Only she found no one.

Aoide did not answer. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. A tingling awareness sent her eyes darting, scanning for the slightest movement.

“There are faeries here. And they will not hesitate to kill you.”

The voice was deep and commanding, but not harsh. There was something velvety soft about its tone, like the downy leaves of lambs-ear. It seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once.

“So I’ve been told. Yet here I am, still alive,” Aoide said. She could barely get the words out of her mouth.

Aoide felt eyes watching her, but she could not figure out from where. She straightened her spine and drew back her shoulders. She would not cower. Whatever was out there, she’d meet it with her head high.

“You’re a lucky human, then. You mustn’t have met many faeries.”

“I’ve met plenty.”

“How many is plenty?”

“Enough,” Aoide insisted. “One.”

A growl of laughter rippled through the dense tree line. Aoide tried not to redden with embarrassment.

It had called her human, which meant whatever spoke to her was likely not human. Faerie. It couldn’t possible be the same creature…

“I’m looking for my fife. Have you seen it?” Aoide asked. She needed to keep the conversation going while she figured out where the voice was coming from.

“Perhaps. What would you give me for it?”

The voice was solid now, no longer circling around her like a mountain lion bearing down on a hare. Aoide tracked the sound and took two steps in its direction.

“Give you? It’s mine,” Aoide said.

“It was on my land. By faerie law, it belongs to me.”

It was hard to argue with that logic. Aoide wasn’t aware of how faerie laws worked, but she was familiar with the principle of finders keepers. It was possible the faerie was teasing Aoide, playing a game to get something from her.

If it was a game the faerie wanted, Aoide could play along.

“I’ll play you a song,” Aoide offered.

She looked straight ahead, right where the sound of the voice was coming from as though she could see who spoke to her. Then, out of thin air, he appeared only a few inches away, dangling the fife right in front of her face.

She stared right up at him and grabbed it.

——

The sound of his laughter was foreign to him. What an odd sensation it was — to hear his own joy and wonder where it came from.

He hadn’t expected her to be so charming. The Aoide he met last night was grave and exacting, like a faerie healer patching up a mortally injured warrior in a field tent.

Looking down at her now, Tamlin could see just how human she was. Her face was round, her cheeks full and her complexion warm, like sun-baked clay. Her short, dark hair exposed round ears and a delicate neck, arching up towards him. There was some base part of him that wanted to touch her, to feel her tender flesh under his teeth. She was so supple and soft compared to the leanness of the high fae. He knew somewhere underneath that softness was a will of steel — he had seen it the night before, unyielding in its strength.

Trouble, the beast crooned. Its feline curiosity slinked cautiously through his mind.

Tamlin held himself like the trained warrior he was, refusing to do so much as twitch in her presence. He didn’t disagree with the beast, but he couldn’t look away. Something about the dark, unending quality of her eyes pinned him there, demanded he meet her stare. He wanted to throw himself into those deep orbs and freefall into whatever waited for him at the bottom.

It took only a moment for Aoide to realize who — or what — he was. A spark of recognition lit within her and she blinked hard.

“It’s-it’s you,” she gasped. The sound of her airy whisper sent something pounding inside him.

She reached for him, her fingers grazing his tunic. On instinct, he winnowed behind her. He could not bear her touch, could not risk what it would do to him.

She whipped around, the smell of jasmine and vetiver overwhelming him. She narrowed her eyes, that glint of steel shining.

“Let me see your wound. I want to make sure it’s not infected.”

She extended her hand again, but he winnowed just out of reach.

“It’s fine. It’s healed.”

She looked at him with an incredulous stare. He could see a wheel turning, a thought clicking away in her mind — she had remembered something that unsettled her. But she did not look away and she did not run from him.

“How are you doing that? Moving without…moving?”

“There are a great many things I can do,” Tamlin said. He felt the unfamiliar sensation of a smirk pulling his lips back.

Aoide rolled her eyes. Tamlin could hardly believe it — this little human rolled her eyes at him. If it was anyone else, he would have been furious. He would have shored up his power and reminded them of who he was and what he was capable of. When Aoide did it, he couldn’t help but feel pleased.

“Are you going to play that little fife? I thought humans treated their word as their god.”

“About that…I’m not very good at it. I’m a much better pianist,” she said, fingering the wooden flute clumsily.

“You should not make a bargain with a faerie so carelessly,” Tamlin replied, his tone growing serious. As much as he enjoyed teasing her, bargains were not to be taken lightly. Tamlin knew that a little too well.

Tamlin watched Aoide shift, her eyes growing ruminative. Her voice, once lilting and bright, went low.

“Close your eyes,” she ordered. “I can’t play with you staring at me like that.”

Tamlin took the command as seriously as a soldier took an order from a general. His whole body responded to the authority in her voice, drawing his hands to his side and his shoulders back.

Weak, a voice growled inside him. But it was not the beast, who purred like a house cat as he felt Aoide step closer.

No, the voice was older and crueler than the beast. A voice Tamlin would have preferred to wipe from every corner of his mind, along with the male it belonged to. Tamlin tried to clamp down on the memory that threatened to overwhelm him, fuel the rage living inside him until it burned him alive.

An image flashed in his mind — a human woman kneeling next to the body of a boy, crumpled and bloody.

“All these centuries of enslavement and your kind still struggles to follow the simplest of commands.”

No, Tamlin thought. I don’t want to see this again.

“Please, my Lord. He is only a child.”

“Was a child. Now, it is a corpse. Consider yourself lucky not to be in the same condition.”

“Yes, my Lord. Thank you my Lord.”

The woman bowed deeper. Tamlin did not understand how someone could make themselves so small. He looked away, staring at the frescoes that adorned the ceiling. He wanted to leap into those peaceful, gentle clouds. He wanted to be far, far away from this hell.

A force pressed down on his head, bringing the human woman back into view as she picked up the small, lifeless body.

“Do not look away. They are nothing but trained vermin. When they get out of hand, we exterminate them.”

Tamlin could feel it now, that fury bubbling in his chest so violently, threatening to tear him and everything around him apart. Obliterate the entire world. His jaw clenched as he tried to pull the scraps of himself together again, pushing the feeling down.

An airy chime sounded, followed by a series of twinkling notes. Tamlin felt a tug, delicate but firm, on some invisible thread inside him. Slowly, he felt himself return to the present moment.

The music caressed his rage, fluttered around it like a graceful bird. Tamlin felt the flame flicker and fade away, turning to nothing but harmless ash. With every breath she took, a little bit of it blew away.

She was no master at the fife, some notes wavering from effort, but Tamlin felt her intentions ringing as clear as a bell. Every note felt like Spring — tender buds blooming and swaying in the breeze, sweet green grass growing wild under the warming sun. He heard her appreciation for all that new life striving to survive past the frost.

The melody gently descended like a petal on the wind, drifting and landing on his shoulder. A meditative silence followed and soothed the burnt remains of his temper.

“You can open your eyes now,” Aoide murmured.

Slowly, Tamlin opened his eyes. She was standing very close to him. The weight of her presence pulled on him like a minnow in a stream. It took a great amount of effort to step away.

“Did you…like it?” Aoide asked.

“Yes.”

He wanted to say more, tell her to play it over again until it was the only sound he could hear. Until it became so firmly lodged in his mind that he could summon it whenever he needed.

Aoide looked disappointed at his lackluster response.

“I could play it better on the piano. Only I don’t have one anymore.”

“I have a piano.”

A useless thing to say. A dangerous suggestion hung between them now, one Tamlin was afraid to offer outright.

“You play?” Aoide asked. She jumped toward him in excitement.

“No, I don’t. I play the fiddle.”

He should have said played fiddle. It had been months since he touched one and he very much expected he’d embarrass himself if he played for her.

“The fiddle,” Aoide said, her eyes shining. “I always thought the fiddle was lovely. Especially when accompanied by a piano.”

Her eyes went dreamy for a moment, before that look of trouble flashed across her face.

“Take me to it. Take me to your piano,” Aoide insisted.

“No. It’s not safe. I’d need to take you deeper into faerie territory.”

“You mean a big, powerful beast like yourself can’t protect one measly human?”

Tamlin felt the beast rile, insulted at the implication. He bit back his impulse to snarl at Aoide.

The truth was that Tamlin wasn’t sure he could protect her. Most of the land had been cleared of intruders. Only a few remained, the ones smart enough not to take him head-on. A few more hunts and then he’d need to work on strengthening the wards.

But it wasn’t those few remaining faeries that he worried about harming Aoide.

“You owe me, you know. I saved your life. Doesn’t that count for something?”

“It does,” Tamlin responded. He withheld any hint of emotion from his voice. He didn’t want Aoide to know just how much it meant to him.

“Then grant me a bargain, or whatever you called it before.”

Delicious little troublemaker, the beast hummed.

“Bargains are no trivial matter. The magical bond that forms between parties could kill a faerie if broken,” he said, his voice sounding more like a High Lord than he intended.

“Then don’t break it.”

“You do not know what you ask of me, Aoide.”

She stilled at the sound of her name. He watched as her expression shifted. Her relaxed posture straightened into that of a trained lady, cold and direct.

“You do not know what I want from you, beast,” she parried, mimicking his tone.

Tamlin felt his claws threatening to poke out from his clenched fists. Quickly, he tucked them behind his back.

“It should be simple enough for you to manage. Once a week, you will bring me to your piano and allow me to play whatever I want. You will ensure no harm comes to me during those visits. You will not attempt to trick me or trap me. When I am ready to leave, you will bring me back to this very spot, and you will let me return to the Mortal Lands.”

She paused, mulling over the terms she set and looking for the loophole faeries were so well known for finding. Satisfied, she crossed her arms.

She was wiley. She’d need to be if she was going into faerie lands.

Bringing Aoide to the Spring Court was a terrible idea. Waiting for her with the fife had been a terrible idea too, but Tamlin could not stop himself. Every part of him — beast and high fae, warrior and High Lord, villain and hero — reached for her. All of those disparate parts of himself joined together, each desiring to feel her stare and be known.

“Once a week, I will bring you to my home. You can play whatever you wish on my piano. No harm will come to you and I will not attempt to deceive or trap you. I will return you to this same spot when you wish to leave and I will not prevent you from returning to the Mortal Lands,” Tamlin repeated.

“Then it’s a bargain,” Aoide said.

Tamlin turned to leave, nearly about to lose his composure. If Aoide was to spend time in the manor, he’d need to get to work on those wards immediately. Not just for the sake of the bargain, but for her safety.

“Wait!” she shouted. “Don’t you know it’s rude to speak a lady’s name without sharing your own?”

“Tamlin,” he said before he winnowed away.

Chapter Text

Tamlin.

Aoide woke with his name in her mind every morning since their meeting. She fell asleep to the sound of his voice saying hers.

She did not understand him. She tried to figure out what made him tick, but he was as solemn as a priestess. None of her attempts to rile him got any response, which was dangerous. Aoide needed to know where the line was — her life may depend on it.

She didn’t think Tamlin would harm her and the bargain was watertight. Still, Phineas’ words hung heavy in her mind:

Do not underestimate a faerie.

Tamlin didn’t look malicious. Aoide could tell he was in a position of authority by the way he held himself, but his clothes were not fine. His golden hair was long and wild, swaying in the breeze like an overgrown field of wheat. His handsome face was partially obscured by a shaggy blonde beard in desperate need of a trim.

Still, Aoide nearly blushed when he looked at her. She had never seen such a beautiful face. In the bright light of day, she noticed honeyed flecks in those startling green eyes, smoldering like molten gold.

The hard angles of his lean body looked like they were carved from precious stone. Not even the most talented sculptors in Neva could create such a perfect form. And the way he moved, like some feline predator about to lunge, captivated her. She could watch him circle her endlessly, her breath catching as he drew closer, closer-

“Aoide.”

Aoide jumped at the sound of her Uncle Phineas’ voice. She looked at his extended hand and realized he was asking her for something.

“The gauze, Aoide.”

“Of-of course,” Aoide said.

That was the third time in a week she had been caught daydreaming. She was grateful Phineas did not confront her, but she knew he was not happy about it either.

Aoide and Phineas spent most of the week working in a companionable silence. The two of them had an understanding, one that need not be spoken. They had both suffered great wounds inflicted by the people they loved, and had wounded them in return. Neither of them would sacrifice their principles for anyone, but it still hurt.

If Phineas knew of Aoide’s return to the forest, he did not say. Which was good, because Aoide did not want to lie to him. She would sneak away again tomorrow to fulfill her part of the bargain.

She couldn’t wait to play the piano. She had improved her fife playing in the past six days, but it would never hold the same appeal. She could only play two octaves on the little wooden flute, which hindered her ability to express herself. It was like trying to speak only to realize you’d forgotten most of your native tongue.

Aoide wondered if Tamlin would play his fiddle. She imagined he was quite good, given his fae graces. She pictured his chin resting against the body of the violin, his brows furrowed in concentration, his muscular forearm tensing with every stroke of the bow—

What was wrong with her? No matter how hard she tried to stay focused, she found her mind drifting to Tamlin. That damn faerie had gotten under her skin. No one had ever affected her like this, not even Hal.

Hal, who was the first of so many things in her life. He showed her the meaning of beauty, truth, pain, sorrow, love. What did she give him in return?

She doomed him. Ruined his life to punish her parents and defy a petty tyrant. And while Hal suffered back in Neva, she daydreamed about a faerie who didn’t so much as blink in her direction.

She needed to pull herself together. Tamlin was not a handsome prince in a far off land who would save her through the power of love. He was a faerie, and likely a powerful one at that, who she foolishly guilted into a bargain.

Aoide’s father had told her a few stories about faeries when she was growing up. Some of them were cautionary tales about their capricious natures and disgust for humans, but others were about their talent for fine craftsmanship, art, and their varied cultures.

Her mother hated those stories or any mention of faeries. She couldn’t stand to listen to Aoide playing the Monteseren piano, often leaving the townhouse to visit with other ladies until dinner. The conversation over dinner was usually dominated by a tiresome rotation of Nevan nobleman interested in her father’s collection or Aoide herself. As Aoide came of age, she hardly spoke to her mother at all.

She didn’t hate her mother, not even in those last few months as she begged Aoide to give into the demands of that petty tyrant. Aoide saw her mother as a stranger with whom she shared some physical attributes — dark eyes, aquiline noses, and pin-straight hair.

You have so many of her best qualities, her father had told her, meaning her mother’s willfulness in addition to her looks. She wondered what other qualities they shared. She supposed she could ask Phineas, but she did not want to cause him any more pain.

Aoide floated through the rest of the day, following Phineas around like a phantom. She spent the evening in her room, transposing the song she’d played to suit the piano. Some other ideas for compositions came to mind, but she’d need to play them out first and see what other inspiration came to her.

The small mirror on her desk kept catching her eye. It was still covered by the silk scarf. Aoide hadn’t seen her reflection in more than two months.

Her hair had grown and she had taken to tucking the short, itchy hairs behind her ear. She ran her fingers over her face and tried to piece together what she looked like. Many of the small cuts had healed, but the scar across her cheek remained. She let her fingers linger over the raised bits of tender tissue to get a sense of its size and shape.

What had Tamlin thought of her? He didn’t avert his eyes or jump at the sight of her like the sailors and Phineas had done. Instead, he looked right through her. Aoide was quite certain he found her to be as plain and uninteresting as the dirt under his feet.

She found her hand hovering over the silk scarf, tempted to rip it off and see who met her gaze. What sort of face did she present to the world? What impression did she leave?

Did it matter? Back in Neva, her charming smile and sparkling eyes were an asset to attract suitors — not that she had any intention of taking their courting seriously. Now, she was a healer’s apprentice. Looks didn’t matter to the sick and dying. They were much more concerned with her skills, her knowledge, and her bedside manner.

Aoide left the scarf where it was and slid under the quilt on her bed. Tomorrow, she’d venture into faerie territory, far beyond where any sensible human dare travel. The opportunities for inspiration would be endless. She couldn’t imagine all the sights and sensations she’d experience and what sort of music they’d rouse from her.

Just before she drifted off, she heard that same velvet whisper saying her name:

Aoide.

——

It had been an exhausting week. Tamlin’s power returned in fits and starts. Aoide’s suturing had helped along his healing, but prowling around as the beast for months on end depleted his well of power in near totality. It didn’t help that he launched himself immediately into warding, a skill he was always found lacking in.

The wards around the Spring Court lands were vast. Some areas held strong, while others weakened due to constant prods from Hybern’s surviving ilk. Culling that horrific herd of sadists took some of the strain off the wards but they were still in need of repair.

Tamlin traversed nearly the entire border of the Spring Court’s territory and felt for weak spots. It took all of his concentration to find the gaps and then fix them. It took even more power to make sure they remained standing.

Tamlin needed stronger wards around the manor to make sure Aoide was safe. The border would be a first line of defense. Most lesser fae would struggle to break past them.

But it wasn’t just lesser fae who trespassed into his territory. Eris seemed to think the Spring Court was a neutral meeting ground for all his devious plotting and Rhysand had a habit of dropping by to insult Tamlin whenever he pleased.

Tamlin couldn’t risk an unexpected visit. Aoide’s presence in the manor would be brief, but Rhysand and his court were remarkably good at being in the right place at the right time. Or, in Tamlin’s case, the wrong place at the worst time.

What would they think if they found a human woman in his manor? They’d likely assume the worst and Tamlin couldn’t blame them for it. His recent behavior didn’t engender any feelings of respect or trust. He’d have to remedy that too, he knew, but it was difficult to swallow the copious amounts of pride required.

A fear pushed itself through Tamlin’s mind, one he had spent the week trying to ignore. He got the sensation that his life was nothing more than an unending cycle of misery, and he was doomed to repeat the same mistakes over again in eternal karmic damnation.

He needed to be different this time. For his people. For Aoide. For the sake of his soul. If something were to happen to Aoide, the bargain would be unforgiving. Tamlin could feel the strength of the magic as soon as they made it. It compelled him with such surprising force that he couldn’t think of anything other than Aoide’s well being. If breaking it didn’t kill him outright, he wasn’t sure he’d have the will to go on.

Wards. All day and all night he thought about them. After he returned from their second meeting, he stayed up the whole night in the library researching — how to strengthen them, layer them, break them, maintain them, extend them beyond his awareness.

He spent the rest of the week testing what he learned. In addition to repairing the border wards, he tried some newer techniques for the manor. He had drawn the attention of some trespassing naga and let them track him back to the manor. He watched as they stopped suddenly, glancing around as though they forgot where they were, and turned in the other direction. He did it again with whatever vicious creature he could find until he was sure the wards would hold.

The manor was not a pretty sight, but with his whole attention on defense, he could not bring himself to glamour the grounds. He wondered what Aoide would think of the growing state of disrepair. Would she even want to come back?

Many of the rooms in the manor were ripped apart. Tamlin hadn’t remembered doing it, or killing those sentries, but he could recall the Lucien’s face as clear as day. His look of utter fear and disgust broke through the beast’s grip and reached Tamlin’s awareness so violently that he hoped Lucien would just kill him.

Lucien had come back a few times after that unforgivable day. Lucien had always come back, willing to appeal to Tamlin’s goodness when no one else could stomach it or believe it existed.

That is, until now. Lucien had extended his hand one last time and Tamlin swatted it away. If Tamlin wanted to see Lucien again, he’d need to seek him out.

He would, one day. When the ledger of blood and misery was wiped clean. When Tamlin could look at his friend and not find him looking back in pity or shame. He would do right by Lucien, even if it took another 500 years — Tamlin owed him that.

He would have to think about repairing his relationship with Lucien another time. The bargain with Aoide required much of his attention. If he was being honest with himself, he didn’t mind it. Late at night, Tamlin found himself wondering what sort of trouble she’d gotten into during their week apart. She had been utterly unaffected by his fae authority, but not foolishly so. Her wording of the bargain was precise, as though she had struck countless bargains with High Lords before. She was human, there was no doubt about that — but a crafty one.

Before winnowing to their agreed meeting spot, Tamlin pulled back the unkempt strands of his hair together with a strap of leather. He was never one for finery, but he dressed in a gold-embroidered tunic and a pair of umber pants. He ran a bit of spruce oil through the straggly ends of his beard until the hairs softened and stayed in place.

The male in the mirror did not look like a High Lord, but he did not look like a beast either. He wondered if Aoide cared about that sort of thing, or if she’d find his primping and preening ridiculous. She had already seen the beast and she didn’t seem to mind it. She had stroked its face tenderly and spoken to it in gentle whispers. Maybe Aoide preferred the beast’s hideous maw to the vain beauty of the high fae.

With that one last look, Tamlin stepped out of the manor, walked through the wards, and winnowed to meet Aoide.

Chapter Text

Aoide glanced at her pocket watch while she paced between two large oak trees. Only a few minutes had passed since she arrived in the clearing, but she grew more worried with every ticking second.

She repeated the bargain in her mind as she had countless times since waking that morning. Aoide mulled over each word, trying to find a loophole that would give Tamlin an advantage over her situation. Aoide never specified a meeting time. If he wanted to, Tamlin could make her wait hours, which would cut into her piano time. Or, maybe he lied about the strength of the bargain and wouldn’t show at all. He must have spent the whole week trying to find a way out of their deal.

No — he would come. It was clear that he wanted something from her, otherwise why agree to the bargain? Why wait for her in the clearing with her fife and tease her? It was clear what Aoide gained from the bargain, but what did Tamlin get out of it?

He was playing a game with her. Aoide needed to figure out the rules, and quickly. She did not want to learn what would happen if he got the upper hand.

She opened the pocket watch again and glanced at the time. The watch had been a gift from Phineas. He insisted it was an important tool for any healer. It was a simple piece, designed for practicality over beauty. She matched her footsteps to the tick of the hand in a meditative pace.

“Apologies for keeping you waiting.”

Aoide jumped at the sound of Tamlin’s voice. She pivoted quickly and nearly lost her balance at the sight of his looming stature. His figure blocked out the motes of sunlight, casting a shadow that engulfed her wholly.

“It’s very rude to sneak up on a person like that.”

Aoide snapped the pocket watch shut and tucked it away. Already, Tamlin managed to catch her unaware.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you. I forget how dull your human senses can be.”

“You did not frighten me. And my human senses are not dull. Your fae sense are just…sensitive.”

Aoide prayed Tamlin could not hear the racing tempo of her heart with that superior fae hearing. She tried to get her body to relax, but the sight of him made her blood pound in her ears. She turned her back to him, eager to put distance between them. Aoide was finding it hard to think when he looked at her.

“Let’s go, then. I don’t want to waste any more of the day,” Aoide said. She walked in the opposite direction of the cottage, assuming Tamlin’s home lay in the direction from which she found him as a beast.

“We won’t be walking.”

“And how will we get there? Will you sprout little faerie wings and fly me there?”

“Not…quite. I’ll winnow us.”

Aoide turned to Tamlin, who stood perfectly still, his hands tucked behind his back. His expression was cool and detached.

“Winnow? What does that mean?”

Tamlin took two steps toward Aoide, his stride loping and graceful. He held out the crook of his arm, the image of a gentleman. Or, gentlemale, she supposed.

“It’s easier to show you,” Tamlin said. He lifted his chin to her, signaling Aoide to take his arm.

“And no harm will come to me?”

“No harm will come to you. The bargain forbids it.”

Slowly, Aoide looped her arm around his. Standing next to him, Aoide was reminded how small she was compared to his fae stature. He held his long, lean arm far away from his body as though touching her repulsed him.

Aoide couldn’t help but look up and meet his gaze. He smelled woody and spicy, like a freshly felled spruce tree. She noticed his beard was neat and his wild hair was tied back with a leather strap. Aoide wondered if he had done it for her, but quickly dismissed the ridiculous notion. The last time she had seen him, he had just recovered from a near-fatal wound. Perhaps this is what he always looked like.

Against her better judgement, Aoide found herself enjoying the view.

Without warning, a powerful gust of wind blew all around them and sucked the air right out of Aoide’s lungs. Everything around her shifted and she got the sensation they were moving, only the two of them stayed perfectly still. Before she could so much as blink, they were somewhere else.

An involuntary gasp left Aoide’s mouth as she took in a gulp of air. Once she was certain her feet were on solid ground, she pulled her arm from Tamlin’s and stepped away from him. She could have sworn she heard him chuckle, but it was too faint to be sure.

It took a moment for Aoide to come to her senses, but when she did she nearly gasped again. Slowly, she turned in a circle and took in the wild and lush landscape around her.

The land was unbelievably vibrant. Thick, curling sprouts of grass and brightly colored wildflowers swayed in the balmy breeze. A babbling creak cut through the high grass and sparkled in the warm sunshine. Gentle, rolling hills gave way to an imposing mountain in the distance. Around her, graceful birds and bumbling insects floated on the wind. The breeze smelled of nectar, sweet and floral.

“What is this place?” Aoide whispered.

“It’s the Spring Court. And that is my home,” Tamlin said, pointing northward.

Nestled in the valley stood an ivy-covered manor overlooking a sprawling estate. Dense forest surrounded all sides of the clearing, the tree line extending beyond Aoide’s vision. Fountains gurgled in an overgrown garden, the plants and flowers competing with one another for sunlight.

Aoide finally understood what Elmier meant when he said the land was alive. She could feel it breathe with every gust of wind, move with the rolling hills, speak through the birdsong, beat its heart alongside the tiny footfalls of creatures. All those sensations sang to her in perfect harmony.

Tamlin set off toward the manor and Aoide followed behind. She struggled to keep up with his pace, her feet unfamiliar with the texture and grade of the hillside. The land seemed to react to his presence. The grass bent toward him in a courtier’s bow. The sweet, warm breeze ruffled his hair, golden strands shining in the sunlight. Songbirds circled around his head like a living crown and sang a twinkling melody.

As they drew closer to the manor, Aoide got a closer look at the estate grounds. High alabaster walls peaked through the thick ivy. Vines tangled around balconies and climbed across windows toward the roof. The garden was delightfully unmanaged, the flowers overtaking their neatly arranged plots and spreading across the grounds wherever they could find purchase.

To many, the nearly derelict manor would be an eyesore. But to Aoide, nothing could match its untamed beauty. The entire estate felt like a forgotten paradise, and she was the lucky explorer who stumbled upon it.

Tamlin reached the front and walked into the manor without checking that she was behind him. Aoide didn’t notice, for she was too focused on recording every detail in her mind and mapping it across eighty-eight piano keys. The tone of her piece shifted when she entered the manor.

Although just as wild as the exterior, there was a low thrum to the energy in the manor, like the sound of a thumping drum. Dust motes drifted through shafts of light and settled on every surface. The smell of must and decay permeated the air. Aoide peaked into the rooms that lined the black and white tiled grand entrance. Whole rooms were turned over, as though some great force of wind ripped them apart. All the doors were blown open through the hallway too, except for one.

Aoide paused in front of the door, conspicuous only because it was in such good condition. It was strange — how untouched it looked compared to the rest of the house.

Tamlin’s footsteps began to fade and Aoide jumped forward to follow once again. She did not want to lose sight of him. She could swear she felt eyes on her, curious and deadly.

Quickly, she rounded a corner and nearly smacked into Tamlin. She stopped just short of him, her dress whipping around her with the sudden force.

“The piano is in here,” Tamlin said. He seemed completely unaffected by their near collision, turning away from her and cruising into the room. Aoide delayed a moment, silently cursing her human eagerness, before joining him.

The room was bright and airy. Large windows framed the wall, overlooking another garden. Unlike the garden outside, something had interrupted its tranquil abandonment. There was a gaping hole in the center, as though someone had torn out a whole section of the garden in an act of rage. A scar on an otherwise beautifully undisturbed garden. Aoide absentmindedly felt for her own on her cheek.

“I hope the piano is sufficient,” Tamlin said.

The piano was in the center of the room. It was a stunning instrument. A warm beam of sunlight danced on the lacquered ivory cover, setting it aglow. Aoide drifted over and sat on the bench. She examined the keys and pressed a few to make sure it was in good working order. The piano chimed, ringing clear and bright.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmured.

She felt Tamlin’s presence behind her, warm and heavy. Aoide straightened her spine and loosened her shoulders into proper playing posture. She tried her best to ignore the feeling of his stare.

“I will leave you then.”

Tamlin’s shoes scuffed against the tile floor as he walked to the door.

“Wait,” Aoide said. “Are you not going to play your fiddle?”

Aoide glanced around the room and spotted Tamlin’s fiddle in the corner. A layer of dust collected on its edges, as though it hasn’t been touched in some time.

“That was not part of our bargain.”

“It was implied.”

“That is not how bargains work, Aoide.”

The sound of his voice saying her name did something strange to her. She felt an expanse of air, tingly and warm, push against her beating heart.

“You won’t stay? Not even for one song?”

Tamlin stopped in the arch of the doorway. Aoide clamped her mouth shut, aware of how her voice went soft without her meaning.

“I must ensure no harm comes to you.”

Without further explanation, Tamlin left Aoide alone in the room. She turned back to the piano and tried not to think too much about all the things in Prythian that could harm her.

——

Aoide ran through her composition one last time, etching a few amendments on the parchment. The piece, which was inspired by the Spring Court and the estate, was nearly complete. She took a glance at her pocket watch and realized almost four hours had passed.

It has been months since Aoide played. Her back ached from holding her spine straight. She needed to take a break and stretch her legs. She would also need to figure out how to summon Tamlin — she did not want to risk Phineas getting home before she was back.

Aoide stood up and walked into the hallway. She peeked around the corner to find it empty. She realized how odd it was for such a large manor to be completely devoid of any staff. Estates of this size needed a large staff to maintain it, but there was no one here.

Something terrible had happened here. Aoide could feel it the moment she stepped inside the manor, before she had seen the wrecked rooms. She wondered if it was the beast who had torn through the house, or if it was some awful creature looking to kill it — perhaps that’s how the beast had gotten injured.

“Tamlin?” Aoide called out. “I’d like to go home now.”

Silence. Aoide walked down the hallway, scanning each room for him, but found them to be empty. She passed by the closed door and stopped again. A bad idea rang in her head, and she found herself reaching for the door knob before she could reason with herself.

Slowly, she opened the door. The room was dark, the curtain drawn over the window. It was filled with white sheets covering stacks of items against the walls. Aoide walked further into the room and realized the sheets covered canvases of varying shapes and sizes. It reminded Aoide of her father’s office, where he stored recently purchased art.

For the first time since arriving in Prythian, Aoide felt a twinge of homesickness. She used to love spending time in her father’s office, peeling back the protective covers that preserved the art. She was always surprised at what she found underneath — stunning pieces of all different styles. She recalled the first time she saw one of Hal’s pieces: a nude portrait of a woman in repose. She had blushed when she realized what it was, but she couldn’t stop herself from admiring the detail work.

As if in a trance, Aoide pulled one of the sheets back and found a beautiful landscape. She pulled another and found a more abstract piece that looked like stars in the night sky. She shuffled some around and found a small frame tucked in a corner, eager to see what else Tamlin had stowed away.

She paused when she realized the small canvas was a portrait of Tamlin. The features were all precise, his strong, angular face perfectly proportioned. The artist had captured the color of his hair and the green of his eyes with startling accuracy.

But something was missing — something in that verdant stare. She had seen it the first night they met, when she looked at the beast and he looked back. There was something trapped in his eyes, as though some part of himself was encased in the center of a flawless emerald.

“You shouldn’t be in here.”

Tamlin pulled the sheet from her hands and tossed it over the portrait. Aoide stepped back and found that same look in his eyes — wounded and vulnerable. Again, the weight of his presence made her body react strangely.

“Oh…I-“

“Are you ready to leave?”

“Yes, but why are all these paintings covered? They’re beautiful.”

“Come,” Tamlin said with a wave of his hand. Aoide felt the command in his voice, but she ignored it.

“My father is an art dealer in Neva. I’ve seen many fine pieces, but these are really wonderful. Who did them?”

Tamlin did not answer. His body locked up and his eyes went distant, as though he was seeing things that were not there.

She knew that look. She knew what it felt like, too.

“Have I upset you?”

“I do not wish to speak about it,” he said. Aoide watched as his throat bobbed and then stopped.

“You don’t need to speak it. Perhaps you could play it for me. On the fiddle.”

Tamlin looked at her with an odd expression. Aoide tucked a loose hair behind her ear, suddenly aware of herself.

“That’s what I do when I play piano. I put my feelings into it. And it gives me something back.”

Aoide had never told anyone that before. She hadn’t even realized it was true until she said it out loud. If Tamlin heard her, he didn’t show it. He walked right out of the room and through the front door. Aoide followed him out in silence.

Once they were outside of the manor and past the garden, Tamlin extended his arm and Aoide took it. The wind rose and whipped around them until they were back in the forest. Before she could do as much as say goodbye, Tamlin was gone.

Aoide raced back to the cabin, relieved to find it empty. She walked into her room and closed the door behind her. She slumped to the ground and pressed her palm to her racing heart.

She had found the line, jumped over it, and lived. Tamlin did not attempt to trick her or harm her. He had barely spoken to her at all.

Aoide did not move from her spot on the floor until she heard the front door open and the sound of Phineas’ tired feed scuffing against the floor.

——

Tamlin paced across the manor’s grand entrance, his panic-fueled fury rising with every step. The day had been going perfectly. Every ward held strong against would-be trespassers. He found no fiends prowling the estate or beyond as he surveyed the lands. He had paid a visit to Tarquin’s males stationed near the Autumn Court border, who all remarked what a quiet few days it had been.

Tamlin felt the Spring Court react to Aoide the moment they winnowed to the estate. The spirit of the land had started to return after he repaired and improved the wards, the peace settling in the valleys and forests. But something came alive when it sensed Aoide’s presence.

The soft, grassy hillside rose to meet their feet. All around them, curious little souls buzzed with excitement. The wildflowers bloomed brighter, the smell of their nectar wafting straight for them. The birds did not seek shelter in the thick brush, rather they soared overhead, eager to get a look at her.

Human. Healer. Music-maker.

A chorus of voices sang to Tamlin, mild and sweet. Through the sing-song, he felt the beast rouse.

Little troublemaker, it purred.

Tamlin kept his distance from Aoide, trying to keep that savage feeling in control. He could feel the beast looking out through his eyes, sensing her every breath. It could hear the pulse of her blood and the flurrying beat of her heart. It wanted to feel that thrumming against its skin, nuzzle into the soft crook of her neck. It wanted to revel in her warmth, her sweet scent.

He kept several feet ahead of her on the walk to the manor. He couldn’t bear to be around her in this state, nor could he deal with the disappointment if she found the estate grounds too decrepit to tolerate. All he needed to do was show her the piano and he would be off again. He almost abandoned that plan when she asked him to stay, the sound of her voice tugging on something in his chest.

He left her alone in that decaying manor, expecting her to stay within the confines of the music room. It was a foolish assumption to make. Tamlin knew humans were naturally curious and Aoide even more so — of course she would wander.

Seeing her in Feyre’s studio did something to the beast — scared it. Sent it slinking back in the shadows of Tamlin’s mind, snarling at Aoide’s intrusion.

She sees me, it hissed.

Tamlin understood what the beast meant. He had felt the same thing when she found the beast in that clearing. She looked through its eyes and found Tamlin, his consciousness tucked away in the recesses of the beast’s awareness.

Tamlin halted in the grand entrance. If she refused to come back, what would that mean for the bargain? She made it clear that Tamlin would need to return her to the Mortal Lands if she wished, but there was no clarification on whether she needed to come willingly. What if he would need to kidnap her to fulfill the bargain?

He would not do that. He refused to make Aoide do anything against her will.

Tamlin felt the fear clouding his senses, pulling him back in time to those cursed days after they returned from Under the Mountain. When he imprisoned Feyre in this damned manor, the terror seizing his mind and driving him to madness. His power rose around him and threatened to blow the manor apart.

He struggled to contain that miserable feeling, the need for release pummeling him like a great wave. He had to do something to get rid of it.

Play it, he heard Aoide say.

Tamlin stalked to the music room, careening into the door as he burst toward the fiddle. He picked up the violin and the bow. He tucked his chin against the smooth body and held the bow aloft, pausing a moment.

Play it.

He brought the bow down hard, the sound screeching and horrifying. He put all his fear into that long, dragging note. Something seized him, sending him into a frenzy of strokes. His whole body tensed as memories bubbled to the surface of his mind.

Fluttering red and white rose petals drifting on the wind. A tattooed hand pulling away from his outstretched arm. Blue-grey eyes filled with fear and loathing. Paint splattering across a wall, red and dripping.

The fiddle shrieked, responding to the horror that rolled off Tamlin in waves. With each note, terrible memories surfaced and floated away, until his mind went mercifully silent.

He stopped and looked down at the fiddle. Two of the strings had snapped from the force of his playing, and the other two were nearly shredded. Around him, the music room remained in perfect condition. No great burst of force had shaken the manor or tore the room apart.

And he felt…better. Calmer.

Tamlin sank to the floor. He stared up at the fresco, his thoughts as light as the billowing clouds painted on the blue sky. He drifted among them, soaring above his own body before he settled back. He felt the cool tiles on his skin and the breeze from the open window caressing his face. The quiet of the manor settled in his bones and lulled that burning anguish within.

He wondered if Aoide had ever felt the same when she played piano. What sort of awful feelings she gave over to it, and what it gave to her in return. He wanted to hear it, and more than that, he wanted to play alongside her.

Tamlin knew it was a risk. If he showed himself to her, allowed her to see all the evil and selfish things he had done, she might hate him.

But Aoide had seen the beast. She had seen the state of the manor. Aoide was clever enough to know something had gone wrong. If she was willing to come back, perhaps she was also willing to witness those hideous parts of himself and not balk.

Chapter Text

The week passed by quickly. Aoide kept herself busy, focusing on her apprenticeship after her strange day with Tamlin. The only way to fight off that gnawing feeling of guilt was to throw herself into her work.

Aoide woke on the morning of her day off to find a trunk sitting outside her bedroom door. She had never seen it before, nor had she noticed Phineas purchasing it during one of their forays into the village.

“What is this?” Aoide asked her Uncle Phineas.

“I received a letter from a man named Elmier a few days ago. He said a mysterious trunk had appeared on his merchant ship with directions to deliver it to a cottage near the edge of the village. No mention on where it came from. It arrived very early this morning,” Phineas said. He shot Aoide a knowing look.

Aoide dragged the trunk into her room and tore it open. Inside, she found more of her clothes folded lovingly between various pieces of jewelry and several of her songbooks. She plucked the first leather-bound book she found and a small piece of parchment fell out. Eagerly, she read the note.

My most lovely and dearest friend —

The townhouse is too quiet without you and I am miserably bored. Your father was kind enough to take me on as his assistant, but I am terrible at it. He keeps asking me for my opinion on new pieces but I have no idea what to say other “beautiful” or “stunning” or whatever compliment I can muster.

Your mother ordered that the piano be sold, but there hasn’t been a single interested party. Sometimes, when everyone has gone to bed, I sit at it and pretend you are next to me tapping away at the keys.

Hal is recovering. He visited the townhouse once, but left after he realized you were not here. We haven’t seen him since.

I can’t imagine the sort of trouble you’ve gotten into, wherever you are. Your father has kept your whereabouts to himself.

That wretched monster — whose name I won’t waste precious ink on writing — seems to have forgotten the whole affair. There have been riots ripping Neva apart, keeping him and the watch busy. I hear there’s another planned a fortnight from now, though this letter will reach you long after.

I will not write again so as not to risk your discovery, but know that I speak to you always as though you were here.

With all my love,
Veronique

Tears spilled down Aoide’s cheeks. She folded the letter up and held it close to her heart. Aoide felt the throbbing ache of loneliness in her chest.

She had no idea how her father managed to smuggle a trunk of her belongings out of Neva. Aoide assumed the townhouse was under careful surveillance. If there was chaos across the city, perhaps the watch were too busy to worry about some troublesome noblewoman.

She was both invigorated and deeply worried by the contents of Veronique’s letter. The citizens of Neva were rising up against the draconian city watch, but there was no doubt that innocents would pay a high price for their freedom. Aoide regretted fleeing, wishing she was alongside them. She knew if she stayed, it was more likely she’d be in a cage than on the streets.

You’ll make such a beautiful pet, songbird.

Aoide ignored that vicious voice and sent the memory of it to the darkest recesses of her mind. She read the letter again, cherishing Veronique’s words and wishing she could hear her voice. Aoide missed the sight of her wild red curls and the way she tolerated Aoide’s mischief, pretending she did not enjoy all the trouble they got into together.

A knock sounded on the bedroom door, followed by Phineas’ voice.

“I’m heading off now, Aoide. If you have the time, I’d appreciate if you could prepare some cotton bandages. We’re running low,” Phineas said.

“Yes, Uncle.”

Realizing what time it was, Aoide rushed to get ready. It was a long walk to the meeting spot in the forest and Aoide did not want to be late. She had already upset Tamlin the week before. She imagined his patience with her was paper thin.

Aoide tore through the trunk, looking for a new dress to wear. Veronique managed to fit several, many of which were Aoide’s favorites. One in particular caught her eye — a traditional Nevan gown.

Aoide rubbed the luscious fabric between her fingers. The dress was made from a diaphanous silk, delicate and cool for the warm summer months. The fabric was ruched and layered to cover her chest, her backside, and where her legs met, but left the rest of her exposed. The silk, a deep, creamy color was a near match to her complexion.

“Goodness, you look heavenly,” Veronique used to tell her. “Like a princess from some faraway land come to seduce a prince.”

It would be completely inappropriate to wear such a dress into the forest. She would look ridiculous in it. Tamlin would probably laugh at her, or worse — find her soft human body repulsive.

She picked a different dress — a modest blue cotton gown. Quickly, she tucked the songbooks in a leather bag. She stopped at her desk, ignored the mirror, and grabbed the pocket-sized triptych. She gently placed it next to the books and closed the snug satchel.

Aoide took one last glance at the discarded Nevan gown and shook her head before she ran out of the cottage.

——

Tamlin was already there when Aoide arrived in the clearing. He was dressed in another white tunic and brown pants, his hair neatly tied at the nape of his neck.

“I’m sorry,” Aoide said between heaving breaths.

Tamlin’s only response was to extend his arm to her. Aoide wrapped hers around the crook of his elbow and prepared herself for that powerful gust of wind. She managed not to make a fool of herself this time, keeping her composure despite the sudden change in environment. Just like last time, Tamlin set off again without waiting for her to catch up.

Something had changed in the manor. The wrecked rooms lining the entrance and the hallway were…righted. The destroyed pieces of furniture had been removed, and the remaining items were set back in place. It looked as though the floors had been swept and the dust wiped from every surface. Aoide did not notice any house staff milling around — had Tamlin done this?

Aoide did not stop when she reached the closed door in the hallway. She made a point of not noticing it all. She still felt bad about her intrusion and the pain it had caused Tamlin. She had spent several evenings thinking of his response to finding her there — how his body tensed and twisted as she questioned him.

Aoide followed Tamlin into the music room, but stopped short of the piano. Aoide noticed the fiddle had been moved from the corner she spotted it last time and left on the floor. Two of its strings were broken and the other two were badly mangled.

He had played it. Played out what he was feeling and almost destroyed the violin in the process.

Aoide recalled a memory from early in her piano training. She was trying to express something on her teacher’s upright piano, but she could not get it right. She stomped down on the left pedal in frustration and the whole thing snapped right off. It took a lot of cajoling and gold from her father to smooth things over.

Aoide turned to Tamlin. It the first time she let her eyes meet his all morning. She watched his gaze settle on her, his expression passive and unreadable. Aoide pulled out a notebook and set it on the music stand.

“I wrote you something. Please, stay and listen. I won’t keep you from your duties for long.”

He did not move. Tamlin stood in the middle of the room and folded his arms behind his back. Aoide watched the folds of his tunic wrap tightly around his broad shoulders and pull against his muscled chest. She fought the blush creeping up her neck.

“Go on, then.”

“Right,” Aoide nodded. She sat down at the piano and opened the notebook. The song was not composed logically like her other pieces. Instead, it was a flurry of observations and expressions, tiny scrawls of text next to amateur depictions of various flowers and greenery she’d seen around the estate.

Aoide closed her eyes and thought of Tamlin. She pictured the threads of his gold-spun hair and the scruffiness of his beard. She smelled his scent, earthy and sweet like fresh cut wood and blooming lilacs. She felt the heaviness of his presence, the command of his posture. She thought of his bright, viridescent eyes and their honey flecks. She played out that aching look within them, the sorrow that collected in the corners. She pictured the beast too, looking at her hungrily.

The song flowed from her and filled the room, reverberating through the empty manor. Aoide imagined a time when the estate was filled with all sorts of sounds — rushing footsteps, echoing laughter, hushed whispers, and raucous balls. She gave these sensations to Tamlin and hoped they made him happy. She gave him her apologies for poking around that desolate manor, soothing and meek.

She felt him growing closer as the song slowed and finished. Aoide’s fingers stumbled over the last few notes, growing anxious with his every step, until they came to a rest.

Aoide looked over her shoulder to find Tamlin hovering close behind her. His mouth parted slightly, an airy breath escaping his lips. Aoide felt her own breath come quickly now as something slithered in her stomach.

“Tamlin-“

He stepped back suddenly. Aoide felt the whoosh of air and the emptiness that followed as he moved away.

“I should be going now.”

“Wait, please. I-I’m sorry if I upset you yesterday. My curiosity got the better of me. I promise I won’t cause you any more trouble.”

Tamlin paused in the doorway. Slowly, he turned to her, an odd look in his eyes.

“What’s the harm in a little trouble?”

He shut the door behind him and Aoide clutched her chest in surprise.

Did he just…surely he did not just flirt with her?

Aoide flopped down at the piano and tried to compose herself, but found her heart would not stop pounding.

——

Fool, the beast purred. Clumsy, inarticulate fool.

Tamlin set off into a run, his heart beating not from physical exertion but embarrassment at what he said to Aoide. The sound of her voice speaking his name caught him off guard and sent all rational thought off a cliff.

It was the first time she’d ever said it — his name. Her voice was so quiet, so tender. He wished she’d whisper it again, but feared what he would have done. Instead, he said something stupid and ran away.

It was true though — Aoide could cause all the trouble she wanted. He delighted at the thought of her mischief, the gleam that shone in her eyes when she challenged his authority. Tamlin wanted to feel the strength of her will, bend to it and let her bring the beast to heel.

He hadn’t felt that way with anyone before. Not even Feyre. No, he never could tell Feyre what he was feeling. Tamlin was always terrified she’d find some weakness in him, see all his shortcomings and failures. He kept those ugly and fragile parts of himself far away, thinking that if he pushed them down deep enough, he too would forget they existed.

He hid those feelings a little too well, along with his good sense. All Feyre wanted was to be let in, but Tamlin couldn’t do it. He stopped listening to her reasonable demands. He let his fear twist his principles into villainy, let the beast glut itself on that righteous rage until everyone was his enemy.

Tamlin had come close to the precipice and let his feet dangle over the edge. He heard that yawning void of hatred call to him. He regretted how long it took him to step back, and the harm he caused to those he loved.

Tamlin had done what he could to repay for his moral failings. He aided Feyre’s escape from Hybern’s camp, dragged Beron and his warriors to the battlefront, and revived Rhysand. Still, that simmering anger lingered for months as he let the beast ravage and kill.

Already, things had seemed to improve in Aoide’s presence. The way she spoke to him, openly and without deception, surprised him. She let all her feelings be known, either through words or music. Tamlin could feel the seeds of some great realization working their way through centuries of blood and soil.

Tamlin reached the farthest border of the Spring Court, where Tarquin’s males kept careful watch over the Autumn Court. The males lounged about but jolted to their positions as they sensed his approach.

“High Lord,” one of them said with a curt bow. Tamlin had come to learn his name was Priscus.

Priscus led the small legion of males efficiently, all who seemed to respect him greatly. There was no infighting or petty disagreements among the males. Priscus made an order and they followed.

“Another quiet patrol?” Tamlin asked.

“Yes, High Lord. To be honest, I think the males are getting a bit antsy. There hasn’t been so much as an errant pixie, let alone any red-haired spies, in the past two weeks.”

“Good. The wards are working then. Send word to Tarquin that the border is secure. He may have need of you elsewhere,” Tamlin said.

“Yes, High Lord. Though I doubt he’ll reassign us. He made it clear that the High Lord of the Night Court—“

“I must be off,” Tamlin said. He did not wish to hear of Rhysand or his growing friendships with the other High Lords.

“Of course,” Priscus said with a bow.

Tamlin winnowed back to the estate, mindful of how long he must have been running to reach the border of the Autumn Court. He would need to bring Aoide back to the Mortal Lands soon.

As he entered the manor, he listened to the sound of her playing. It wasn’t as beautiful and contemplative as it had been earlier that day. The piece she played now was loud and dissonant, like the sound of a heated argument. She bashed and barreled down the keys and the discord grew. He couldn’t help the speed of his stride as he headed to the music room.

As he walked into the room, Tamlin felt an unbelievable wave of torment consume his senses. Aoide was hunched over the piano, her hands in fists as she slammed into the keys. He could smell the salt of her sweat beading in the crook of her neck and the fear radiating out of every pore.

“Aoide,” he called out. She did not hear him.

Tamlin placed his hand on her shoulder. She froze, her shaking hands hovering above the piano as though it pained her to stop.

“Aoide,” Tamlin repeated. He looked at the piano stand to see what she had been playing, but found no music. Instead, he saw a small triptych — portraits of an older man with a warm small, a serious noblewoman with dark eyes, and a young woman.

It was a portrait of Aoide. Not how she appeared now, though. Her hair was long and her face still had the roundness of youth. There was no scar on her cheek, which dimpled with a mischievous grin.

Aoide snatched the set of portraits, realizing Tamlin had been examining them closely.

“I didn’t hear you,” she said. Her chest rose and fell.

“That portrait,” Tamlin said. “That was you.”

“Yes,” Aoide said. She tucked it away in a leather bag near her feet.

“Why are you hiding it?”

“I’m not hiding it. It’s…hard for me to look at.”

Tamlin understood, maybe better than anyone. He had a whole room full of paintings he couldn’t stand to look at.

“Why?” He asked. He knew he shouldn’t. He didn’t want to pry, but he couldn’t understand how anyone could look at Aoide and not be transfixed by those obsidian eyes.

“It reminds me of Neva — my home. And the reason I had to leave.”

“Your hair was long,” Tamlin whispered. He found himself wanting to touch the short strands of it and twist them between his fingers.

“It’s customary for Nevan women to let it grow. Most women only cut it once in their life,” Aoide said. She paused, looking away from him. “Tradition dictates that a Nevan woman shears it off after the consummation of marriage.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in. When they did, Tamlin felt the sensation of something deep within him snapping in two.

“You are married?”

“No! Goodness no. My situation was a bit unorthodox,” Aoide said, the words coming out in an anxious flurry.

Mine, the beast growled.

Tamlin ignored the beast’s possessiveness. Aoide turned back to him now, her cheeks flushed with pink.

“I fled Neva because of that…situation. My Uncle Phineas was kind enough to take me in. He’s a healer in the village. And he’ll be very upset if he comes home to find me missing.”

Aoide stood and packed the rest of her belongings in the leather bag. Phineas must have been the human man who came for her in the woods and pointed a crossbow at the beast. The bolt had been made from ash wood, which Tamlin supposed was wise. Her uncle lived far too close to faerie lands not to have a few tricks up his sleeve.

Tamlin straightened and held his arm out to Aoide.

“Let us be off, then.”

Chapter Text

Aoide convinced her Uncle Phineas to spend the evening in the village. Usually, they returned to the cottage after their last regular appointment, but Aoide insisted she had urgent business that could not wait.

“I suppose I could make a stop at the tailor,” Phineas said, running a finger over a hole in his favorite shirt.

“I won’t be long,” Aoide promised. “I just need to buy some supplies from the music shop.”

“We leave before it gets dark,” Phineas said.

Aoide set off towards Iris’ shop. Just like last time, the door was locked. Aoide stepped back and looked up, spotting the new pane in the window she broke a few weeks prior.

Aoide pulled out the fife and played a series of notes, clear and high. She had gotten pretty good with the little flute, her embouchure improving each time she played. It was a fun way to test out ideas when she couldn’t play Tamlin’s piano.

“Sounds pretty good. For an amateur.”

Aoide looked up to find Iris grinning, the wrinkles of her face smirking along with her mouth. Her long, silver hair tumbled out of the window, shining in the early evening sun.

“Do you know anything about restringing a fiddle?”

“Oh, sure. Thinking of picking it up?”

“No, it’s for a friend. His fiddle is in need of some repairs.”

“Meet me downstairs,” Iris said, before disappearing from the window.

Aoide met Iris inside the shop. Iris plucked a violin from the shelf and walked Aoide through the process. It was much like treating a wound or preparing a body for burial. Aoide could feel that part of her mind, that exacting and detail-oriented focus, absorb Iris’ skillful movements.

“Your turn,” Iris said, handing Aoide over the fiddle.

Without looking at her notes, Aoide went right to business. She unwound the strings and removed them, then lubricated the tuning peg, nut and bridge. She threaded the strings into the pegs, making sure they were in the correct order. Slowly, she wound the strings, attached them to the tailpiece, and removed the slack.

She handed it back to Iris for inspection. Iris held up the violin parallel to her eyes. She checked the bridge. She then brought the violin up to pitch and plucked at the strings.

“Not too bad, girl. I’d hire you, only I don’t have any customers.”

Iris placed the violin back on its shelf before returning behind the counter. She tossed a set of strings on the counter.

“How much do I owe you?” Aoide asked. She rifled through her coin purse, counting the coppers and silver pieces.

“Consider it a trade for the song you played,” Iris said, waving her hand in dismissal.

“I can’t allow that, Iris. I owe you for those strings and the lesson.”

“Fine, fine. A few coppers.”

Aoide handed over the coppers, along with a silver piece. She grabbed the strings and tucked them away in her bag.

“See you next time, Iris.”

“Till next time, girl.”

Aoide left the shop to find Phineas waiting for her outside. The sun was quickly retreating behind the horizon line. The village was quiet, except for a small tavern. Aoide could see the candlelight glimmering within, warm and welcoming.

She could do with a pint, but she knew Phineas would not step foot in the tavern. The two of them would likely clear the place out, or get themselves tossed out the front door.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Aoide said.

“That’s alright. Let’s get home.”

The two of them walked side by side in a comfortable silence. Living with her Uncle Phineas was not exciting, but it was pleasant. Aoide’s days were full of structure and meaningful work. She’d come to enjoy this simple existence living alongside him. He did not demand much from her, and did not ask questions he did not want the answer to.

“I didn’t know that music shop was still open,” Phineas said as the village faded from sight.

“I’m not sure it is. I think Iris makes an exception for troublesome foreigners, though.”

“Lucky you,” Phineas said, rewarding her with a rare chuckle. “You have your father’s charm, you know.”

“So I’ve been told,” Aoide murmured.

Aoide felt another twang of homesickness. The feeling was rare, but always unsettling. She knew the home she missed did not exist anymore. Neva had changed and not for the better. Aoide knew there was no future for her there.

Aoide tried to work out that feeling on the piano, but things devolved so spectacularly that Tamlin had to intervene. It had been close to a week since then, but the strength of that emotional outburst still lingered.

Aoide almost told him everything. One look from him and she was willing to bear her soul, tell him all the wretched things she had done for spite. She couldn’t stop the memories that left her slamming her fists in anguish.

One particular memory had pushed her over the edge that day — the moment that set a series of regrettable events into action and sent her fleeing from Neva.

It was customary in Neva for noblewomen to declare accepted marriage proposals in the city broadsheets. Invitations to betrothal balls and luncheons would follow, all building up to a lavish wedding ceremony.

Aoide found out about her own betrothal in one of those broadsheets. Her parents hadn’t deigned it important enough to tell her ahead of time. The sight of her name next to his incensed her. Righteous anger burned through her and sent her flying down the staircase in a rage. She burst into the breakfast room, ready to rip it apart.

“How dare you,” Aoide snarled. She balled up the broadsheet and threw it at her father.

“Good morning to you too, Aoide.”

“How could you do this to me? How could you accept that monster’s proposal on my behalf?”

Aoide slammed her fist down on the table and sent the porcelain teacups trembling in their saucers.

“That monster is the only thing standing between us and the faeries who want us dead,” her mother said.

Aoide looked at her father who didn’t so much as lift his eyes from his porridge.

“You promised me, father. You said it was my choice.”

“The situation has changed, Aoide,” her mother said. “Now please, sit down and eat breakfast.”

“You lied to me, you bastard-“

“Aoide!”

Aoide ignored her mother’s cry and pushed past toward her father, who refused to lift his head.

“Look at me, you coward,” Aoide seethed. “You’ve sold me off to a tyrant. Do you know what he’ll do to me? Look at me, damn you!”

Aoide pounded her fist against her father’s chest. He stood and grabbed her wrist, but he still did not look at her.

“Control your daughter, Sarai.”

Aoide reeled back, as though he had slapped her.

Your daughter. Not ours.

Someone touched Aoide’s shoulder and she wrenched away. She tore out of the dining room and up towards her room. She yanked the door open and proceeded to throw, smash, and kick anything within reach.

Something in her shattered into a million tiny shards. She was certain she’d never find all the pieces. There would be no putting herself back together. She curled up on the floor and held her knees to her chest.

Veronique found her in that shameful state several hours later. Aoide’s mind was a maelstrom of half-formed fears that replayed over in her head.

“I’ll run you a bath,” Veronique said after she helped Aoide sit upright.

“No. I need to get dressed.”

“I’m sorry Aoide, but you missed dinner. I can have them send you up a plate-“

“I am leaving, Veronique.”

Veronique stilled. Her usually placid expression twisted with worry.

“Where are you going?”

“Hal’s at that boarding house near the docks.”

“That slum is no place for a lady-“

“I am no lady,” Aoide shouted. Veronique jerked back, shocked by the tone in Aoide’s voice. She had never spoken to Veronique like that before. Aoide was disgusted at herself, but she could not stop.

Aoide yanked the first dress she could find in the armoire and dressed herself hastily. She did not wait for Veronique to button the back.

“I cannot marry him. You know what sort of cretin he is — what he’s done. I’d rather throw myself off the balcony than let him get what he wants.”

“Aoide, please. Don’t do anything drastic. We’ll find a way out of it. Together.”

“No. There is no together, Veronique. I alone will be forced to marry a villain, and I alone will deal with it how I wish.”

Aoide closed as many buttons as she could on the back of her dress and slipped on a pair of slippers. She grabbed her cloak and wrapped it around herself. She did not look at Veronique as she slipped out the door.

“I’m sorry for the mess,” Aoide said before closing the door behind her. It was the last thing she ever said to Veronique.

And what a mess she’d made.

——

Aoide was up to something. Tamlin could tell she had her mind set on mischief from one look alone. Her dark eyes skittered around, refusing to look at him. Her scent was different too — he could smell the usual jasmine and vetiver, but there was a metallic undertone lingering on her skin.

She hadn’t said a word to him until they were in the manor. She did not ask him to stay like she had before. Aoide simply walked to the piano, sat down, and dismissed him with three words:

“See you later.”

Arrogant little human, the beast barked.

He did not wander far from the manor. There was little need to patrol with the border wards holding strong. Tamlin found himself with a surprising amount of free time, which he spent either repairing the manor or walking the grounds. During the evenings, he thought about the state of his court and how he was going to rebuild it.

It was a difficult duty to undertake, especially without Lucien. Tamlin relied on Lucien for many things, but especially when it came to smoothing out his rough edges. Lucien was adept at reading the shifting politics of the Spring Court and finding a diplomatic way forward. It was a heavy burden, and one Tamlin knew he needed help with.

It was not right to ask that of Lucien again. Lucien was forging his own path and Tamlin would not stop his friend from discovering what lay at the end of that road. Tamlin had his own path to walk, his own wrongs to right.

Rebuilding trust within the Spring Court was going to take time. There were many legitimate grievances to air and address. The problem was that many of the fae who remained either feared or reviled him. They were more likely to root for his downfall than they were to help him.

Tamlin needed to figure out what was most important to his court and give it to them. Rebuilding efforts, re-establishment of commerce, festivals and traditions — the list went on. Things could not continue as they were, but Tamlin was not sure where to start.

Only an hour had passed before Tamlin heard Aoide call for him. He couldn’t scent her fear and he was sure the wards around the manor were secure.

Tamlin rushed toward the manor and down the hallway, scanning the estate with his keen fae senses. He could not detect any danger, but he needed to see Aoide with his own eyes to be sure.

He found her standing in the middle of the music room, smiling wide. In her extended arm, she held out his fiddle. All four strings were replaced and the body gleamed with polish.

“Play with me,” she said.

Slowly, Tamlin walked toward her. She looked up at him, that self-satisfied smirk sending a cascade of foolish thoughts racing through his mind.

“I’m out of practice,” he said. A weak excuse, one that Aoide would easily counter.

“I’m sure my dull human senses won’t mind.”

“I won’t know any of the songs you play.”

“So I’ll teach you,” she said, dragging out each syllable.

Tamlin didn’t know why he was resisting. He wanted to play with her. He was curious how they would sound together. More than that, he wanted to feel that unity with her, follow her intentions wherever they led him.

Aoide did not wait for another rebuttal. She walked back to the piano and sat down. With one look from those bewitching eyes, she commanded him to follow.

“I’ll play the song through once. Then, I’ll break it into parts for you to repeat. I’ll be playing in G-sharp minor.”

Tamlin nodded once. He placed the fiddle in the crook of her neck and fingered the strings lightly. She had done a good job of restringing the fiddle.

Aoide began to play. The song began with soft, airy notes that twinkled like stars in the night sky. Her fingers moved gracefully over the keys, her featherlight touch just grazing the ivory.

The song quickly ascended into a flurry of keystrokes. Tamlin watched as her fingers moved like mighty waves in a sea, rising and falling with easy fluidity. The piano trilled as her playing increased in intensity.

The song then descended into delightful chaos, like spiraling dancers drunk on faerie wine. The small muscles and tendons in Aoide’s hands tensed as she struck the piano. She threw herself into the crashing finale, her brows drawn together in fierce concentration.

If he didn’t know any better, Tamlin would have sworn she was fae. He didn’t realize humans could play with such finesse. He could hear the growing patter of her heart and felt his own respond in kind.

Aoide caught him staring and quirked the corner of her mouth impishly.

“Have I impressed you, faerie?”

“Where did you learn to play?” Tamlin asked.

“I started lessons when I was very young. My father told me I came out of the womb bellowing like an opera singer,” she responded.

She looked down at the piano and ran her fingers over the action frame. Tamlin watched as her mouth drew down into a frown now.

“He managed to buy a Monteseren piano. I don’t know how he did it. I swear he could talk a king into handing over his crown. It was a beautiful piano. It had all these wonderfully intricate wood carvings. And the sound was heavenly.”

Tamlin chewed over the information like a bundle of wheat head. A human male had convinced the Monteserens to sell him a faerie-made piano…

“Not that your piano isn’t beautiful, too,” she said, interrupting Tamlin’s thoughts. She settled back and drew her hands to the keys.

“Now, let’s play. Think you can keep up?” She asked with a roguish smirk.

Chapter Text

“That was good, but I think you could hold that note a little longer,” Aoide said.

Tamlin re-adjusted the fiddle, tucking it tighter under the scruff of his beard. He dragged the bow slowly across the strings, sustaining the note a beat longer. Aoide picked up from where they left off, the two of them playing in perfect synchronicity.

Playing with Tamlin was easy. Aoide shouldn’t have been surprised, considering his superior fae senses, but she found herself marveling at his talent nonetheless. She led and he followed, never grumbling at her corrections. It took only a session and a half for him to master the composition.

Aoide could watch him play for hours. He was prone to meandering, loping around the piano in graceful strides, as his muscled forearm flexed with each pull of the bow. He watched her intently as they played through the more involved sections, reading the twitch of her wrist for cues.

Aoide played with others before, but it had never clicked like it did with Tamlin. There was little need for discussion — he picked up on the slightest of adjustments and responded to her improvised flourishes with his own. It was a new side to him, one that did not rebuff her jabs with that complacent, inscrutable mask.

It dawned on Aoide that she had gotten what she wanted — a piano to play and someone to play it with. Tamlin held up his side of the bargain, never trying to trick her or find a loophole to use against her.

She still did not know what he gained from her being here. He seemed more tolerant of her presence while they played, but after they finished for the day he returned to his usual indifference, barely giving her more than a neutral glance. Aoide wondered if he was this way with everyone.

Aoide never saw anyone else around the estate. As far as she knew, Tamlin was the only faerie left in the entirety of the Spring Court. He never mentioned friends or family, past lovers or enemies.

Was that why he made the bargain? Did he allow Aoide to visit because he was lonely? It was hard to believe that someone so morose could get lonely, but she supposed no man —or, faerie — was an island.

“Why don’t we take a break? It’s a beautiful day outside,” Aoide said, halting before the finale.

“If you wish,” Tamlin said. He rested the fiddle on its stand and drew his hands behind his back.

Aoide stood from the piano and walked toward the glass doors that led to the second garden. She let the breeze ruffle the cropped strands of her hair and turned her face to the sun. The Mortal Lands had grown hot and humid, summer taking its toll on her patience. She relished the balmy air, savoring the mild weather.

She found a shady spot under an ancient-looking oak tree and fell back in the dew. She let her fingers run over the lush grass and closed her eyes. The solitude was a reprieve from her days working alongside Phineas, which were filled with the sick, the dying, or the merely intolerable.

Aoide expected Tamlin to hover several feet away as he normally did. She was surprised when he sat down right next to her and lounged against the tree. She cracked one eye open and snuck a glance, admiring the way his unbound hair shone in the rays of sunshine.

“Is there something you want, Aoide?” He asked, catching her looking through a half-opened eye.

“No,” she replied, a little too quickly. She ignored that rolling sensation in her stomach when he said her name.

“I can tell you have something on your mind,” he prodded. Aoide didn’t want to ask how he knew that — if there was some fae sense that could pick up on the question burning in her mind.

What do you want with me?

She thought of a different question.

“Are there villages in the Spring Court?” she asked, eager to push that other question to the back of her mind.

“Of course. Do you think faerie lands are just pretty landscapes for you to admire?” Tamlin said, making her feel a bit foolish.

“How would I know? You haven’t offered to show me more than your manor,” she said, hurling back her own retort.

“There are several villages across Spring lands. Many of them are in need of rebuilding. The war and other…regrettable events that followed destabilized much of the court.”

Aoide could recognize the sound of a politician from a mile away, even if it was fae. She had guessed Tamlin held some modicum of influence over the court, based on his once grand estate.

“Could you bring me to them? The villages, I mean.”

Why?” He asked. He shifted, his posture going rigid.

“Because I’m a meddlesome human? I want to see what a fae village looks like.”

She watched as that mask of indifference slipped over his features. Cold, invulnerable, and unreadable.

“It’s too dangerous.”

She could have predicted that would be his response. Tamlin had said the same thing about her visiting the Spring Court to play his piano, but she had convinced him then.

“Do you really think danger is enough to stop me?” Aoide said, challenging Tamlin to think of a better excuse.

She watched as Tamlin bristled at her tone, then gave her an assessing look. Aoide watched as he weighed the risks — take her himself, or chance her going on her own.

Tamlin looked away. He plucked a curling strand of grass and rolled it between his fingers.

“They wouldn’t appreciate my presence there,” he said.

She didn’t like the tone of his voice, so bleak and monotone. His indifference shifted into brooding.

“Why?”

It was her turn to prod now — to turn that reticence into something open, honest.

“Because I am High Lord.”

Aoide didn’t mean to, but she found herself leaning away from him. She had been right about influence, only she did not expect him to be so patrician.

“You’re a lord?”

“Not a lord, Aoide. There is only one High Lord of Spring.”

The heft of his title, the power he held over the land sent a shiver through Aoide. She had been around many influential men in her life, her father being one of them. But none of those men were responsible for whole territories. None of them were as fierce or strong as Tamlin. She felt her feeble human body cow at his authority in a way she hadn’t experienced before. She fought that feeling, refusing to fear any man or faerie, regardless of their standing. She would not let his title scare her away.

Aoide saw something change in him. Gone was that frustrating rigidness she was used to. His back hunched, as though he shrank from the title with shame. She didn’t like seeing him this way, deflated and grim. Aoide preferred his frigid indifference to his misery.

Aoide knew what that misery felt like — the way a title could trap and chafe, even if everyone around you saw it as a privilege. She knew how power eroded one’s soft parts, isolated a person from the world around them. How sweet it tasted to yield that power just to feel something.

If she had stayed in Neva and been forced to marry that monster, she would have been the same. There would be no late-night carousing, no troublemaking, no living. There would be only obligation and performance, rules and restrictions. It would have turned her into a shell, ripe for anger and hopelessness.

She wanted to give Tamlin what Veronique and Hal had given her — a taste of real life. A taste of freedom.

“We could disguise you. Put some soot in your beard or find a cloak-“

“They are not humans, Aoide. A simple disguise will not trick them.”

“What about the beast?”

Tamlin chuckled ruefully and shook his head.

“And have them run away in terror?”

Terror? Aoide knew the beast was menacing, but she assumed it was no more frightening than other faeries.

“Could you change into something else, then? Something less…intimidating?”

Aoide would not give up. She knew this was what he needed. She knew she could help him in the same ways others had helped her.

Tamlin chewed over the suggestion, his jaw tensing as he considered it. She squeezed her fingers together, pushing down the urge to touch the strained muscles.

“It’s been a while since I’ve done it,” he said. She felt him give a little, that iron will softening just enough for her to make a difference.

“What about a bird? No one would notice another little wren or warbler about,” she suggested.

Tamlin stood and turned his back to her. She watched as he pulled his shoulders back, each muscle tensing in effort. It seemed to bring him some measure of discomfort.

One moment, he was standing there, a hulking mountain of flesh and bone, and then he was gone. In his place, a tuft of feathers and wings flapped.

Aoide could not stop herself from gasping in delight. She jumped up and raced toward him, watching as he fluttered around her. She let out a peal of laughter as he chirped and trilled at her.

He landed on her shoulder, his small body so light she could barely feel him. It was almost impossible to tell it was him, except for those startling green eyes.

“Incredible,” Aoide whispered. She lifted a single delicate finger to stroke his soft feathers.

In a flash, he was back to himself, his massive hand gripping her wrist.

“Sorry, I-“

“It’s okay,” he murmured. He cleared his throat and re-assumed his usual rigid stance. “You’ll need a disguise too. You will draw too much attention as a human.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Aoide said. “Will you turn me into a bird, too?”

“Perhaps something more subtle,” Tamlin suggested. “It takes a lot of concentration to keep myself in such a small form. I could glamour you instead.”

“Glamour me? Into what?”

“Into a faerie.”

Aoide felt a twinge of worry. Surely this wasn’t some fae trick? The bargain was clear on that — no tricks, no traps. Tamlin must have felt her concern. He took two steps toward her and met her eyes.

“You won’t feel a thing. I promise,” Tamlin said. The sureness in his voice calmed her fears.

“Okay,” Aoide said, nodding. “Do it.”

With a lazy swipe of his hand, Tamlin glamoured her. Or, at least she figured he did. She didn’t feel any different.

“How do I look?”

“Would you like to see? I can fetch a mirror-“

“No! No mirrors. I…” Aoide trailed off, her face warming. “I haven’t been able to use one since I left Neva. It’s silly, I know, but I guess I’m scared to see what I look like.”

Scared of who will be looking back, she thought to herself.

Aoide turned away from Tamlin. It felt strange to admit such a ridiculous thing. She felt the weight and warmth of his presence as he drew nearer.

“I can’t stand the sight of roses. Or the smell of them. You’d think as the High Lord of Spring, I’d love all flowers equally. But roses…I detest roses.”

Aoide stilled. She looked at the garden, eyeing the scar in the middle, the mound of dirt and shredded leaves catching her attention once again.

Tamlin circled around her until they were face to face. She found it difficult to look at him.

“I could tell you what you look like.”

Aoide lifted her head to meet Tamlin’s gaze. She felt her face grow warm as his eyes bore into her, two green jewels shining in the sun.

“Okay,” she said, her voice no more than a whisper.

“I merely tweaked your appearance. Your ears are longer now, and your skin is brighter. You appear taller and leaner too. Less…soft.”

He paused, his brows drawing close together before speaking again. He looked as though it took some great effort to bear looking at her.

“Your eyes are the same. So is your nose and your lips,” he said, his eyes lingering over her mouth.

His throat bobbed as his hand traced her cheek. She felt his fingers run over her scar. She winced, clamping her eyes shut and pulling away from his touch.

“It’s hideous, I know,” she said. “My scar.”

Tamlin stepped back, his brows knitting together.

“Not hideous,” he said. “Different.”

Different. Not hideous. Different.

The word sunk into Aoide’s stomach like a rock dropped in the sea.

“Let’s go then,” Aoide said, her voice deadpan.

——

Tamlin had said something wrong. He knew it the minute those words left his lips —

Different.

He should have thought of a better word. Striking, or charming, or alluring, or beautiful.

Beautiful. That’s what he should have said. That’s what she had wanted him to say, wasn’t it? He felt that need from her, that subtle change in her scent when he touched her cheek. The bloom of her aura pulled him toward her, wrapping around him like the petals of a nyctinastic flower.

He felt the beast rouse within him, eager to turn itself over and fuel its wanton desire. But Tamlin couldn’t do it. He would not trick her into being with him without knowing the truth. Not just for the sake of the bargain, but because she deserved better.

Feyre and Lucien had, too.

As they approached the village, Tamlin dipped down closer to Aoide. He perched on her shoulder, keeping a close eye on the faeries around them. There were several Urisk in this village, but there were also Sidhes, Clurichaun, Wichtlein, and other varieties of lesser fae.

Tamlin felt Aoide suck in a breath as she took in the sight — faeries of all kinds, colors, and sizes walked right past and paid them no mind. Relief washed over him as they realized their trick was working. There were a few lingering looks, but such interest was to be expected. He had glamoured Aoide as high fae, an uncommon sight in the village after the war and subsequent collapse.

The village was in better shape than the others, but it was still in a ruinous state. All the homes surrounding the center of the square were abandoned, some no more than a collapsed stone wall with a door. Others were burned to the ground, the charred debris stacked haphazardly to clear a walking path.

There were no shops in good enough condition to operate, so the faeries had taken to conducting an open-air market. They traded whatever supplies they could cobble together. The offerings were meager, with little in the way of fresh food. The harvest suffered greatly, the land denied the necessary magic needed to flourish when he failed to participate in Calanmai.

All the villagers were in living in a state of poverty, but a few were particularly destitute. Without anything of worth left to trade, they resorted to begging. Hollowed and straggly, their skin lacked that fae luster. Their misery was unbearable, the scent of their hopelessness like a rotting corpse left out in the sun.

Our new High Lord. What a disappointment-

The last words of his dead father coiled around his mind, cold and venomous like an adder snake. The memory of his father’s voice, wet and rasping, haunted him. He could not handle the sight of his people suffering, knowing the bastard had been right in the end.

Tamlin tried. He begged his father’s courtiers and emissaries to stay, tried to convince them that he was up to the task. He compromised on his morals, allowed traditions that should have died along with his father continue on.

It didn’t work. His court, his subjects, and the other High Lords saw him as nothing more than a war-band beast in a crown.

Tamlin forced himself to witness the misery he had caused. Like a hot blade pressed to a wound, it was agonizing but necessary. He let their suffering burn into his soul and cauterize the oozing guilt that had slowly bled him dry for centuries.

With that searing pain came clarity. An idea unfurled in his mind and a half-formed plan followed.

These faeries were all that was left of Tamlin’s subjects— the ones without courtly connections, who could not flee with their wealth and influence to weather the storm in comfort. Amid destruction and despair, they carried on. If Tamlin wanted to rebuild, it was these faeries who would need to serve on his councils.

Tamlin listened closely to the snippets of conversation that floated by as Aoide meandered. In these forms, no one paid them any mind. They did not sneer or flee in terror from their monstrous High Lord.

Aoide passed a group of Urisk pulling near-empty pails of water from the well. With his beak, Tamlin tugged on the sleeve of her dress, urging her in their direction. Aoide slowed, eyeing the group with a sidelong glance.

“We’ll need to dig a new well. This one’s run aground. I’ll get together a few males,” said one of the faeries. Tamlin noticed the others nodding in agreement.

“I’m not sure how many we’ll get, Fabian. There’s not many of us left,” another said, wringing their hands.

“Let me talk to Bel,” the one name Fabian replied.

“You really think she’d send her militia over to dig a well?”

“Do they not suffer from thirst as we do?” Fabian asked.

Tamlin took a moment to memorize Fabian’s appearance. He was older than the rest, his bark-like skin thick and deeply furrowed. His clothes, although old, were well-mended and neat. His eyes were shockingly light, the icy blue irises glowing despite his wizened face.

Tamlin noted a few other faeries — a schoolmarm trying to round up a few rowdy children, a young female at the front of a line scooping grain into small cloth sacks, and two males weaving dried grass charms to burn for Litha celebrations.

Aoide approached the males making the charms, watching as they interlaced grass and flowers with their spindly fingers.

“May I join you?” she asked.

“Don’t see why not,” the male faerie said with a nod of his chin. “Are you any good at making Litha charms?”

“I’ve never made them before. But I’m a quick study.”

Tamlin watched Aoide as she closely observed the Sidhe male. Tamlin chirped in her ear and cocked his head to the side. Aoide looked down at him and nodded her head.

“I’m fine. Go ahead and fly off now, little beast,” she whispered.

The Sidhe gave her an odd look, but quickly returned his focus to the charm. Tamlin gave the faeries one last discerning look before taking to the skies, circling around the village on the chilly updraft. He watched as the faeries moved to and fro, the patterns of their lives playing out before him like a choreographed dance.

He soared overhead for as long as his strength would allow. It had been centuries since he’d used his power like this. For fifty years, the well of his magic had dried up thanks to Amarantha’s curse, but even before then he did not shift often.

The first time it happened, he had been with his mother. She would spend most of her afternoons in the garden, sitting among the roses and playing her dulcimer. After his lessons, he’d join her, eager to avoid his father and brothers training nearby. He was still too young to hold his own against his brothers, both of whom had lost the softness of childhood. Tamlin’s own pudginess was a constant target for their jabs, physical or otherwise.

Tamlin hadn’t shifted on purpose. He liked to surprise his mother, often creeping towards her between the grove of fruit trees and launching himself on her in a mock attack. He would cling to his mother, attempting to play fight and wrestle her, but she was far too strong and graceful.

“There’s my little beast,” she would laugh before tickling him until Tamlin couldn’t hold on any longer.

He must have been thinking of that nickname that day, for when he sprung from between the trees, it was not a small faerie child that his mother caught in her arms. He was certain now that the beast was with him even then, long before he ever had the need for it. It wasn’t until many years later that he felt that rage curdling his blood and heard the roar in his mind.

“You must not let your brothers find out,” she whispered, her voice cold with fear. “Do you understand, Tamlin? You must not ever do that again.”

For several years, he was able to hide his nature. His lessons kept him cloistered from the males in his family and he was too young and weak to be seen as a threat. He heard his father raging and beating the slaves and his brothers throughout his childhood, but Tamlin did not register in his father’s awareness until adolescence. It was not until then did his father deign Tamlin worthy of his attention and abuse.

His lessons changed as he grew leaner and stronger. Tamlin no longer learned about history, or reading, or arithmetic. Instead, he spent his hours getting clobbered by his father and brothers in the training ring. They’d pummel him, insisting they were teaching him the art of combat and war. Tamlin was certain real instructors would not leave their student bloody and broken, forcing them to drag themselves to their room and laughing at their misery.

Their cruel sniggering watered the seeds of rage buried in the fertile loam of his soul. They grew like weeds, blocking out the sun and choking out anything tender or mild. His power grew too, volatile and unrestrained.

He joined the war band as soon as he was able. It had been his mother’s idea, one he was resistant to at first. Tamlin imagined the war band would be filled with brutes like his brothers, eager to draw blood and cull the weak. At least when his brothers beat him, Tamlin could crawl back into his own bed at the end of the day. The war band would not have such familiar comforts.

He had been wrong, though. The war band was filled with savage males, but together they all shared a singular purpose — kill the enemy. There was a begrudging respect between warriors, so long as one could prove their mettle.

Those days were filled with blood and misery, but also adventure, pleasure, and music. The older males regaled him with tales so grand and filthy they made him blush. He had his first taste of faerie wine, lain with females, and had learned to play the fiddle. War had granted Tamlin his freedom and made good use of the rage that burned within him, directing his anger toward a unified goal. No one minded when that fury blazed a little too hot — it only meant less work for the rest of them.

Tamlin focused his attention on Aoide again, watching her chat with the males as she wrapped strands of grass and dried flowers together. She looked at home there, fitting seamlessly into the folds of the village. He almost laughed at how well she blended in, how clueless the faeries were to her true nature.

Aoide looked up and waved her hand, summoning him. He flew toward her, the rush of air ruffling his feathers as he descended. Tamlin landed in the high grass beside her and chirped.

Carefully, she scooped him up, cupping him between her warm hands. She brought his feathered form close to her face, her dark eyes looming large. He saw himself reflected back in those deep, unending pools. He had never been so near her. She parted her lips into a smile, her mouth like a dollop of strawberry jam.

“It’s time to leave, little beast.”

She placed him on her shoulder, thanked the two Sidhe males, and headed back into the forest surrounding the village. Tamlin waited until they were camouflaged in the thicket before he returned them both to their original forms. Muscle and sinew sighed in relief as the pressure of binding himself into such a small figure released.

Tamlin could feel Aoide watching him as he stretched and flexed until his limbs no longer felt numb. The strap of muscle between his shoulders burned from exertion. Slowly, he rolled his neck, the bone and tissue cracking. He savored the feeling of her stare and how it sent a pleasant heat through him.

“Come now, let’s get you home,” he said, holding his arm out to Aoide. She took his arm in hers and Tamlin winnowed them back to the forest near her Uncle’s cottage.

“Wait,” she said, tugging his arm before he could set off again. “I made something for you.”

She let go of his arm and dug through the small leather bag slung over her shoulder.

“Kneel,” she ordered him, a mischievous smile lighting up her face.

He felt the beast prepare to pounce, its claws pushing through the tender flesh of his knuckles. Tamlin swallowed the guttural chuff rising in his throat. He felt his sore muscles tense to attention, his entire body buzzing like a thousand angry hornets.

He lowered himself to his knees, the beast roaring at him. His blood pumped wildly as he fought against his every instinct to surge forward. He wanted to feel the pulse of her fragile human existence against his immortal soul. Tamlin wanted to devour her, fill himself with that indomitable spirit and let it wash away the centuries of numbing sorrow and agonizing rage. He wanted to bury his fear and anguish in that wanton desire, let the momentary release leave him with nothing but blissful silence.

Just one taste, the beast purred, but Tamlin knew it would not sate its hunger. The feeling grew, sending his heart beating so hard it hurt to breath. The beast filled his mind with images — the tender muscles in her neck under his teeth, the supple curve of her hips between his hands, her mouth open—

As Aoide approached, Tamlin focused on what it had felt like to be held by her — how his bird form nestled in the palms of her hands, his downy body tucked in the cocoon of her slender fingers. He had never been held like that before. Never allowed himself to be so vulnerable.

Safe. With her, he was safe.

The beast retreated, slinking back into the hazy blackness. It was just him and Aoide. The rest of the world shrank away, and with it, that savage desire and flame-licked rage that drove him to madness.

He felt Aoide place something on his head. He let his fingers run over it, feeling the weave of dried grass and delicate petals.

“There,” she murmured. “Now you look like the High Lord of Spring.”

Tamlin looked up at Aoide. Her round face shone in the fading slices of sunlight streaming through the leafy canopy. He did not want to let her go. He wanted to stay here with her forever, but the bargain would not allow it.

Before he could do something foolish, he winnowed away.

Chapter Text

Do it.

Do it, you coward.

Do it-

Aoide clenched the hand hovering over the mirror and pushed away from the wooden desk. Her pacing sent the flame from a stubby candle flickering, casting strange shadows around her room.

The cottage was silent. Phineas had long since retired for the night, too exhausted to work on his prosthetics after a grueling few days. A summer influenza ripped through the village, sickening man, woman, and child in equal measure.

“I’ve become dependent on your help, Aoide. You’ve picked up the trade quickly. Days without you are getting tougher,” he told her. Aoide was flattered by the compliment. She knew Phineas didn’t hand those out lightly.

Aoide could not sleep. She could not quiet her mind for long enough. Every time she settled in her bed, closed her eyes and slowed her breathing, she heard it — that word pounding like a bodhran.

Different.
Different.
Different.

She rolled it over in her mind until it no longer sounded like a word at all. She had never been called that before. Vain as it was to admit, she’d always liked her appearance. Aoide had many suitors, though she knew they were equally attracted to her father’s wealth as they were to her beauty.

She’d gotten used to their compliments, how they waxed poetic about her dark eyes, her soft lips, the curve of her backside. It had gotten tiresome, enticing men enough to want her but not so much as to tempt their advances. She let them project their idle fantasies onto her, never letting them close enough to see her own desires.

Aoide played that game for the better part of nine years, long before she understood there was no prize for the women who won. She watched as her peers married men twice their age, old and infirm, though usually docile. There were others who bound themselves to younger men who spent their best years abroad, rewarding their patient wives with illegitimate children, or worse — debts that bankrupted entire estates.

The worst of the matches were catastrophic. Women once vibrant and effervescent faded from public life, making only rare appearances at grand balls. They followed their husbands around like ghosts, wan and dull. They haunted the corners of dancehalls, a warning to all the flushed and giggling girls spinning around their rakish partners.

She could not — would not — become like them.

So, Aoide learned to lose the game gracefully. Her mother would never allow her only child to become a spinster. There were reputations to uphold, bloodlines to further, and advantageous business opportunities to consider. Playing the game was the only condition on the freedom her father granted her.

She pushed those thoughts aside, thinking instead of all the possible meanings of that damned word. She blew out the candle on the sill, the wick barely long enough to sustain a flame, and crawled under the quilt. Aoide turned away from the desk and ignored the mirror still covered by her scarf.

Was different a bad thing? Maybe she was strange to Tamlin, her human features odd and unpleasant compared to his fine fae appearance. There was nothing that could match his flawless beauty, the angles of his body sharp and hard like the face of a mighty mountain.

Or maybe different was good. Singular, or noteworthy or special.

After all these weeks together, Aoide still did not know how Tamlin felt about her. He kept his distance, never lingering near her for more than necessary. His gaze, imperious and cold, didn’t drift below her eyes. He treated her with casual indifference — not rude, but not fond either. He was curious at times, but never sought to plumb the depths of her thoughts. She felt his constant restraint, as though something pulled at an invisible rope around his waist, forcing him away from her.

It shouldn’t have bothered her. He had given her everything she asked for, no matter how foolish or impractical. Tamlin respected her wishes, never trying to bend the bargain to his benefit. Aoide often felt she was taking advantage of his hospitality.

She wondered if the fae were immune to her practiced charms. Perhaps they were too keen to be swayed by her human wit or beauty. She had no doubt she looked clumsy and foolish compared to their preternatural poise.

Different.

Something else had been different that afternoon. Aoide saw a change in Tamlin’s eyes as he knelt before her. The usual caged fear that shadowed his gaze gave way to something new, the gold-green of his irises shimmering.

Despite being on his knees, Tamlin’s presence loomed large, his broad shoulders nearly double the width of her own. She’d forgotten how imposing he was, having spent most of the day watching him flutter around as a wren.

Aoide’s mind began to drift pleasantly, weariness blanketing her senses and settling in her bones. She recalled how he looked soaring over the village, diving and arcing above them, unrestrained by the forces that kept the rest of them earthbound. Aoide could not stop watching him, splitting her focus between weaving and admiring. She did not understand why, but it filled her with a profound sense of contentment.

Only then, in that place of half dreaming and half waking, could Aoide admit it to herself — the things she wanted to give Tamlin, and what she hoped he would return.

She wondered what Tamlin would’ve done if she’d taken that handsome face in her hands and brought her lips to his. She wanted to feel the roll of his tongue over her own, his warm breath panting into her mouth. She wanted his desire meet her own, let them mingle and spark an eternal flame that burned until nothing but ash was left.

Such foolish pining had nearly destroyed her in the past, and hurt the people she loved most. She didn’t deserve to want, or to have that want fulfilled. She had wielded desire as her weapon, convinced Hal to go along with her naive plans, and left him to deal with the consequences.

Aoide could not fight sleep a moment longer. Exhaustion shoved her consciousness into an unending vortex of darkness, where past and present, reality and fiction, all blurred together into warped nightmares.

Aoide was in the boarding house again. She was being held down by a rough hand around her neck. She squeezed her eyes closed, wanted to surrender to that endless black that threatened to swallow her whole.

Strands of her shorn hair covered the scuffed wood floor. They clung to her face, which was wet with tears and blood. Her throat ached as she gasped for breath. She could feel the bruises forming, those five fingers digging into muscle and tendon, restricting her windpipe and making her light-headed.

“Open your eyes, filthy tart,” the voice commanded. The hand tightened and Aoide obeyed.

When she opened her eyes, it wasn’t Hal she found pinned in the chair. It wasn’t his moans of pain she heard when the city watchmen brought the pommel of their swords down on his hands, over and over, blood spraying on the table. It wasn’t his fingers that cracked and mashed into purple-blue mounds of flesh. It wasn’t Hal’s eyes that met hers, their agony twinning her own.

Tamlin. It was Tamlin at the table. Tamlin groaning in misery and begging them to let Aoide go. It was Tamlin’s beautiful face that twisted until it was unrecognizable, wracked with such sorrow and abject horror that it shattered her heart into pieces.

Aoide screamed, guttural and animal. The sound of her own voice scared her, sent her thrashing against the hand that pinned her. She felt it tighten again, squeezing the life out of her, sending her soul hovering above her body and up, up—

Aoide felt a branch thwack against her face, stinging the scar on her cheek. She blinked, eyes focusing on her surroundings, her mind ricocheting between dreaming and waking.

The warm breeze licked away the tears streaming down her cheeks. Crickets chirped around her and the leaves above her head rustled in the wind. Aoide placed a hand on her chest, feeling the painful beat of her heart pounding away.

Just a dream, she told herself.

A dream that had felt so real it frightened her even now that she was awake. Phantom pain pulsed through her, the scar on her cheek burning as a small trickle of blood dripped down her chin. The branch had cut her, leaving a small slice near the corner of her mouth.

Dawn threatened the horizon. Aoide wondered how long she’d been out there, sleepwalking through the woods. The terrain had become familiar, thanks to her weekly trips to the meeting spot. Her bare feet knew each rock and tree root underneath. She realized she was close to the clearing, a good half hour walk back to the cottage.

Aoide delayed a moment despite the risk of Phineas waking to find her gone. She waited, wishing Tamlin would materialize out of the dark brush and take her away. She desperately wanted to see him. She needed to take his large hands in hers, examine his unblemished skin and long, dexterous fingers. Aoide wanted to be sure he was unharmed.

Impolite thoughts about those hands buzzed in her mind. She shook her head, dismissing the absurd ache that filled her.

It was just a dream. Tamlin was fine. She would see him in a few days time and he would be his usual reticent self. She was sure of it, her sense returning now that she was fully awake.

Aoide turned from the clearing and began the trek back to the cottage.

——

Tamlin tucked himself in the crevice of a craggy rock, camouflaged by rain-sodden leaves and mud. His bulging, amphibian eyes adjusted to the darkness quickly, their superior vision detecting shades and colors even his high fae eyes could not perceive.

The evening watch patrolled the encampment, a militia outpost hidden deep within Spring Court lands. Tamlin had spent the better part of three days observing the camp, which had gone unnoticed during the months he spent ripping through the lands as the beast. The encampment had been glamoured, and impressively so — it was a fairly massive operation, easily double the size of the largest village. Tamlin had only discovered it after overhearing a conversation between Fabian and another Urisk in the village.

Tamlin began his week of reconnaissance by following around Fabian, the male Urisk who organized the digging of a new well in the village. His initial impressions about Fabian held true. He was an honest, charitable male with a natural sense for leadership. The villagers trusted him, following Fabian’s orders without much fuss. He seemed to hold sway over the other villages too, often traveling between them to share news or trade supplies.

Fabian had all the makings of a good council member. Bel, however, was a different story.

Based on what Tamlin had overheard, he expected Bel to be a relentless thug — a towering figure of a female, as wide as a mountain and as strong as a gale force wind. The villagers feared her, shrinking at the mere mention of her existence. Even Fabian hesitated to speak her name, as though saying it alone could invoke her ire.

The reality had been…unexpected. She was ferocious, there was no doubt about that, but all that ruthless bloodlust was trapped in the diminutive form of a pixie no larger than Tamlin’s forefinger. Her wings were delicate and gauzy, her freckled skin the color of sweet pea flowers. Despite her size, her voice boomed with authority, cutting through the din of the camp.

He watched as she fluttered around the encampment, day and night, as though she had no need for sleep. Tamlin couldn’t find a single male in the camp who didn’t fear her, none daring so much as to look at her, let alone disobey an order.

Although severe, she was not unfair in her treatment of the males. Each member of the militia was well-fed, their rations surprisingly generous considering the famine ripping through the court. Several barrels of faerie wine were tucked away in a tent, doled out in celebration when an officer was promoted, or a particularly vicious enemy had been dispatched.

It reminded Tamlin of his father’s war band. The conditions were brutal — the ground squelching and slick with mud, the canvas tents threadbare and filthy, and the latrines stinking of piss — but it was better than destitution.

Tamlin picked up on a growing restlessness in the camp. Bel kept the males busy digging trenches, fortifying walls, and making supply runs, but it was clear they were running out of enemies to kill. Too many of her officers lounged by the campfires, picking their nails and lobbing insults at one another. The wards had managed to fend off the remainder of Hybern’s ilk, leaving the males with fewer devils to direct their anger towards.

Tamlin knew what happened when warriors remained idle for too long. The slightest jab could turn a comrade into an enemy, starting a feud that would rip the camp apart, splintering the group and scattering them across the lands. Tamlin could not risk such infighting, especially when larger threats loomed right over the border in the Autumn Court.

Tamlin knew he needed Bel just as much as he needed Fabian. How he was going to convince them to help…he hadn’t figured that part out yet. Fabian could be persuaded by appealing to his innate need to help, but Bel would be a tougher case. Between every order she gave, Bel cursed Tamlin’s name, damning him to an eternity of suffering.

Every evening, Bel would hold court with the high ranking warriors, drinking and grumbling about the state of their once great homeland.

“High Lord, my left ass cheek. I’ve taken shits fiercer than him,” she muttered as she sipped wine from a thimble. The males who sat around her table grunted in agreement.

No, there would be no pleading with Bel to do the right thing. He’d need to persuade her that allying with him would provide some material benefit, strengthen her authority. It was a delicate line to walk. Faeries like Bel could scent empty promises from a mile away. His offer would need to have teeth.

As the night wore on, Bel’s tirades became less coherent, her audience slumping in their seats as the faerie wine deadened their senses. Tamlin felt himself fading too, his power drained from shifting day after day. Each time he changed himself, the transition from creature to fae grew easier, but left him sore and exhausted. Using his power was like exercising a muscle — it required pain to train it, but ample recovery to strengthen it.

He wriggled from his hiding spot and plodded along the forest floor, leaping from rock to rock until he was out of sight. The first light of dawn trickled through the thick tree cover and the birds began their morning songs. Once far enough away that the night watch could not spot him, he returned to his high fae form and winnowed back to the manor.

He scented Aoide the moment his feet hit the dew-covered grass. Jasmine, vetiver, and a hint of brine washed over him, followed by the coppery smell of fresh blood.

The smell drifted from the direction of the forest, several miles away from the manor. The metallic zing of her fear was so potent he gagged.

Tamlin shored up the remaining ounce of his power and winnowed right for the clearing. His claws poked out from his knuckles, poised to rip his enemies apart. He felt the beast’s canines rip the corner of his lip, a snarl rumbling in his throat.

He found only an empty clearing. There was no sign of Aoide, aside from some footsteps in the mud and a thin tree branch covered in her blood. Tamlin raised his face toward the wind, tracking her scent trail.

She had been here, likely no more than a hour or two ago. Lingering among the cloying smell of fear and sweat was something else. Something peculiar. Unexpected.

Tamlin could not stop himself from following the muddy prints that led back to her uncle’s cottage. He needed to see her. Silently, he crept through the forest, his fae grace leaving no trace of his presence. He stuck to the shadows as the sun rose, threatening to give him away as he circled the small cottage.

If Aoide’s uncle found him here, Tamlin had no doubt he would shoot that ash arrow. He knew how fragile their peace with the humans was, how one errant judgement could send their world back into that spiral of war and tragedy. Cautiously, he approached the cottage, letting the jasmine and vetiver guide him to her window.

Tamlin peered through the glass and saw her curled in the narrow bed, her back turned to him. Her thin nightgown exposed one of her shoulders, the skin flushed. He listened for the sound of her heart beating, strong and constant.

She was alive, drifting between wakefulness and sleep by the sound of her breathing. He felt his chest cave in relief, but his mind raced. What had she been doing in the forest? What had scared her so thoroughly that she summoned him?

And why could he scent her desire? That pleasant but startling bouquet called to him, daring him to climb through her window and into her bed.

Tamlin did not dally another moment as the sun rose above the tree line. With great effort, he winnowed back to his estate and stumbled to the nearest creek, dunking himself in the clear, icy waters. The sudden cold cleared his mind, banishing feelings he thought wiser to ignore.

Chapter Text

“You’re too tense.”

Aoide brought her fingers down hard on the piano. For the past two hours, she had been trying to learn a fae composition. The song was a frenzied and off-kilter reel, dizzying in its rapidity. According to Tamlin, it was often played at festivals accompanied by five or six other musicians.

The irony of Tamlin telling her to loosen up was not lost on her. She knew he was right. Her playing didn’t have the required fluidity for the reel and she stuttered on the trills.

It’s not that Aoide was incapable of playing such a merry and chaotic song, it was that she didn’t feel like playing at all. It had been a miserable week, thorough in its drudgery. It rained for days on end, the ground turning into a sopping, muddy mess. She and Phineas had trudged through it all week, treating the lingering influenza sickening the village, in addition to the two births they attended with the local midwife.

Then, there was the matter of Aoide’s nightmares. They had come back in full force. It was always the same dream — her being held down in the boarding house — but who sat in the chair changed constantly. Sometimes it was Hal, or Phineas, or Veronique. Mostly, it was Tamlin. Those were always incessently brutal, the terror clinging to her long after she’d woken up.

There were other thoughts that unsettled her, pulling her attention away from her patients or conversations over supper with Phineas. So much happened during her last visit to the Spring Court, and what she saw in the village continued to unnerve her as the days went on.

There were many wonderful things about the village. Faeries of all kinds lived together, so remarkably different from anything Aoide had ever seen. She marveled at their foreign beauty, each entrancing in their own way.

The faerie she weaved with was particularly mesmerizing, his fingers long and airy. The few words he exchanged were like whispers drifting on the wind. She’d started drafting a composition in her mind as she watched him work, a light and wispy melody.

It was not the strangeness of the faeries that upset her — it was the state of the village. Aoide had seen the remnants of war in the Mortal Lands, but the damage did not compare to the condition of the village. Too many faeries were rail-thin, their expressions glazed as they shuffled from one ruined corner to the next in aimless misery.

Aoide wondered how far her home was from such widespread despair. How bad had the riots gotten in Neva? Were her parents and Veronique safe? And what had become of Hal? All questions that could not be answered without risking her discovery.

It was those questions that gnawed at her each time she raised her hands to play. They stifled her, made her fingers stiff and her mind unfocused. She couldn’t concentrate on Tamlin’s lesson, asking him to repeat sections three or four times before they sunk in. He remained patient, but Aoide could not stop grumbling at her own inability to get it right.

“Is something the matter, Aoide?”

His voice brought her back to the music room. She had spaced out again, missing whatever correction he had made. It was likely the same one he’d tried to explain a dozen times earlier.

Something was the matter — there were too many unanswered questions swirling around her head. And he was the biggest one of them all.

“Nothing is wrong,” Aoide said with a huff. “Play it again.”

“Well,” Tamlin said. “That was thoroughly convincing.”

He did not prod her for an explanation. He rested his chin on the violin and brought the bow down. The song crashed through the room, the cords of muscles in his forearm rippling in precise movements. He played it perfectly, just as he had several times before.

Aoide picked up after him, focusing on the trills. She strained to hit them all, stumbling in the latter section until she was completely off tempo.

“Dammit,” she muttered.

“Let’s take a break-“

“Again. Play it again.”

Tamlin took a long look at Aoide. She turned away, his attention unsettling her. Despite his hesitation, Tamlin played again, only faster this time, striking the fiddle with such speed and tenacity that the bow was no more than a blur. Aoide struggled to get through the first set of notes, annoyed at Tamlin’s tempo shift. She brought her fist down on the keys, abandoning the attempt.

“Are you going to tell me what’s bothering you? Or would you prefer to destroy my piano?”

“Again,” Aoide simmered.

“No.”

Aoide whipped her head toward him and glared. Tamlin seemed wholly unaffected by her ire. He schooled his expression, his green eyes cool and still as they bore into her.

Aoide pushed away from the piano bench and strode toward him, her steps echoing through the room.

“You. You are what’s bothering me,” she said, her voice teeming with frustration.

“And what have I done to vex you so, Aoide?”

The corner of his mouth quirked. Aoide felt her stomach churn, warm and uneasy. She turned away and paced the room, her arms wrapped around her shoulders.

“Why am I here?”

“You saved my life, I granted you a bargain, and now I am bound to follow it.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Aoide snapped. Her hands clamped her shoulders tight, pulling on the fabric of her dress.

“Then, tell me-“

“What do you want from me?” Aoide asked. Her voice stretched, cracking with irritation.

“Want from you?”

“You act like you can hardly stand me. Why bother granting me a bargain at all? Clearly I’m nothing more than a human nuisance to you.”

Tamlin let out a rumbling chuckle. He placed his fiddle on the stand and ran a hand through his unbound hair, his brows drawn together. He strode across the room, elegant and predacious, until he loomed over her.

“Do you know how difficult it is to be around you?”

Aoide froze. She had to crane her neck to meet his gaze, his eyes flaming like a hungry animal.

“Why don’t you tell me, beast?”

Tamlin’s nostrils flared, his chest heaving with shallow, rasping breaths. Aoide did not cower. She pulled back her shoulders, drawing closer to Tamlin. She felt something pull on her, like fingers plucking a fiddle string.

“I can hear every breath you take. I can feel your little heart beating, your blood pumping,” Tamlin said, his voice a low thrum. Aoide placed a hand on her chest, suddenly aware of how loud it thumped.

“Your scent is everywhere. It lingers here, long after you’ve left. I smell jasmine in my dreams, vetiver and sea salt when I wake.”

Aoide felt a sudden rush of blood, her face tingling with shock. Tamlin bent towards her, sending Aoide stumbling into the piano. Her back hit the solid wood, but Tamlin didn’t stop.

“You summoned me a few nights ago. Your scent travelled all the way to the manor. It drew me right to your cottage as you slept, all curled up in your bed. Maybe I should be asking what you want from me.”

“I did no such thing-“

Tamlin’s head swiveled toward the door. In a flash, he was in the hallway, too quick for Aoide’s eyes to perceive his movement.

“Where do you think you’re going? We were in the middle of a conversation.”

“Someone’s here. Do not leave this room,” Tamlin said.

“What?”

“Please, Aoide,” he murmured.

Aoide watched Tamlin shift before her eyes. It had been many weeks since she’d seen the beast, the savage visage shocking in the daylight. She’d forgotten how massive he was in this form, all razor-sharp teeth and claw. His antlers were jagged and proud, a perfect crown for a predator.

The beast looked at Aoide and hummed a low growl before he lunged down the hall and out of sight.

Like hell I’m staying here, Aoide thought.

Aoide ran after Tamlin, bounding down the hallway with a few coarse words in mind. She rounded the corner, already halfway through a diatribe.

“Does being a High Lord exempt you from common manners? What sort of ma-“

The sight of long, red hair sent Aoide reeling back.

Veronique, her mind whispered, but it was not her friend who stood in the grand entrance of the manor.

—

Lucien.

Relief coursed through the beast. The familiar sight of the red-headed male quieted the violence thrumming in its blood. It did not relent to its other nature yet, reaching its awareness beyond the manor and sensing for more unwelcome guests.

Lucien had blasted a hole in the manor wards like a battering ram through a glass window. The beast knew Lucien was powerful, but he did not act alone. Someone had helped him.

Before the beast could ask who broke the wards, Aoide rounded the corner, her lilting accent unusually terse.

Impudent little troublemaker, the beast snarled.

Tamlin shoved the beast’s simmering rage aside, forcing it into submission. He came back to himself, shifting to his high fae form as Aoide’s steps stuttered.

The look on Lucien’s face was almost worth the explaining he’d have to do. Uncharacteristic shock graced his delicate features, turning his usual nonplussed grin into a slack-jawed gape.

“Lucien,” Tamlin said. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Lucien did not answer. He did not give Tamlin so much as a glance when he spoke. His eyes, both golden and russet, focused solely on Aoide. Tamlin watched as the mechanical eye scanned her, looking for what he assumed were signs of distress.

One more look and I’ll pluck that eye right out of his skull, the beast growled.

“Oh…hello,” Aoide said, her voice soft. “Are you a friend of Tamlin’s?”

Lucien’s eyes flicked to Tamlin, neither of them sure how to answer that question. At one point, Lucien had been his best friend, his confidant, and the only faerie in the world he trusted for counsel. Now, they were little more than strangers.

“Depends who you ask,” Lucien quipped.

Lucien’s quick wit was always his best weapon. He could handle himself with a sword, but Tamlin knew his words cut deeper than any blade. It was what made him such an excellent emissary — his attacks were bloodless, but effective.

Aoide approached Lucien. Tamlin felt the rising urge to put himself between them and fill the narrowing space with his own body. A stupid inclination, but one he found difficult to ignore.

“Your hair…” Aoide whispered. “It’s red.”

“The human knows her colors.”

Aoide smirked at Lucien, undeterred by the rude retort. Tamlin watched as her eyes shone, a hint of trouble dancing in those dark eddies. He wanted to run his thumb over her smile and make her look at him instead.

“The human also knows how to play piano. Do you like music?” Aoide asked.

“What faerie doesn’t?”

“Come,” she said, looping an arm around Lucien’s. “Let me play you something.”

Tamlin could not stop himself from grabbing Aoide’s other arm as she turned to leave. Firm, but gentle, he tugged on her.

Mine, the beast chuffed. My little troublemaker.

“It’s time for you to go home now, Aoide,” Tamlin said. The beast began to prowl, preparing to lunge at the sight of her arm around Lucien’s. He needed to get Aoide far, far away, before he did something stupid.

“Just one song, and then I will be ready.”

“Aoide-“

Tamlin felt a sudden pain seized his heart as he pulled on her arm. His lungs flattened, the air leaving his chest. An angry thrum echoed through him. It halted his body and forced his limbs to seize.

The conditions of their bargain rang through him—

When I am ready to leave, you will bring me back.

He could not force Aoide to go. He could only take her back to the Mortal Lands when she was ready.

Tamlin fought against the will of the bargain, holding on to Aoide’s arm until it became too difficult to deny. He released her, unable to move as he watched her walk down the hallway with Lucien.

He doubled over once they rounded the corner, fighting to catch his breath. Pain, dizzying and searing in its agony, rang through him. It did not calm until he heard Aoide’s playing, gentle and sweet.

Tamlin stood in the doorway of the music room, observing them closely. There was an instant affability between them, as though they’d known each other for centuries. She spoke to Lucien as she played, effortlessly moving between question and answer, chord to chord.

Lucien leaned against the piano, chuckling at her prodding questions and her undeniable charm. Her expression was smug as she found just the right buttons to press. She could make an interrogation enjoyable.

Tamlin’s oldest, dearest friend and…Aoide.

What was she to Tamlin? That was the question she’d meant to ask earlier. It was a reasonable question, one Tamlin wasn’t sure he had the answer to.

She thought he disliked her. Human nuisance, she called herself. Tamlin knew he’d been curt with her, but he never treated her like an annoyance. Whatever she asked for, he gave. Tamlin thought he’d been the very essence of an honorable male, aside from a few uncouth thoughts.

Speak for yourself, the beast purred.

The beast had wrested more control than Tamlin was comfortable conceding earlier that day. She was so close to him, her chest grazing his every time she took a breath. It would have been easy to press himself against her, feel the give of her tender flesh under his grip.

It was getting harder to push that feeling away. Every week, he grew closer to giving in and letting that savage desire devastate him. He needed to find a release before they met again.

Work would be a good distraction. There was plenty of it — a soul-numbing amount. He needed to start cobbling together his council, convince all his chosen faeries to trust him, and manage to get them into the same room without bloodshed.

Tamlin glanced at his red-headed friend. Lucien would have some good advice on that front. He’d managed to keep Jurian and Vassa from tearing each other apart, a difficult task from the bits Lucien had told him about the Band of Exiles.

“Either one of them kills the other in their sleep,” Lucien smirked, “Or they sleep with each other.”

Tamlin would have laughed at that, but the beast wasn’t one for humor. In those early days, Tamlin couldn’t manage to tame the beast enough to shift. He’d been stuck, caged by its fear and fury, and shoved to the back of his own consciousness. He was trapped for months while the beast devoured every errant faerie that crossed its path.

“Don’t you know it’s rude to stare?” Lucien said, his voice cutting through the now silent room.

Aoide’s song had concluded, but she hadn’t gotten up from the bench. Tamlin watched as she examined Lucien’s face, lingering on his gold eye.

“Is it a prosthetic? Do you have full vision? And is it purely mechanical, or is there some sort of faerie-“

“Yes, it’s a prosthetic. Partly mechanical, but mostly magic. As for my vision…I would described it as enhanced. But before you ask, no, I can’t see through walls. Or clothes.”

“People ask that?”

Lucien shrugged and Aoide laughed. Tamlin relished in the sound of her mischievous giggle, growing jealous he was not the cause of it.

“My Uncle Phineas is a healer. He makes prosthetics for the men who fought in the war, but they’re only anatomical. Do you know how the faerie magic works?”

“I don’t think anyone does, aside from its creator.”

Aoide slumped in the piano bench, biting her bottom lip in disappointment.

“Are you ready, Aoide?” Tamlin said, his booming voice an interruption in the serene music room. Aoide jumped, as though she’d forgotten he was waiting for her.

“I did say one song, didn’t I?” Aoide said to Lucien, avoiding Tamlin’s gaze.

The human nuisance thinks she can ignore us?

“It’s been a pleasure, Lucien. Will we be seeing you again soon?” Aoide asked.

Lucien shot a quick glance at Tamlin. Tamlin sensed his uneasiness as he hesitated in his reply.

“That depends on Tamlin,” Lucien said, ever the perfect emissary.

“Does it now?” Aoide said.

Tamlin watched Aoide as she walked across the room, her languid stride made deliberate by the weighty look in her eyes. He’d seen her like this once before, back when they first made the bargain.

You do not know what I want from you, beast, she’d said to him. Tamlin wondered if Aoide knew just how right she was.

She was the vision of a well-trained lady, beautiful and controlled. Her posture was ramrod, her whole body as tense as a bowstring. Her dress danced around her like suitors in a ballroom vying for her attention. She moved as though the world itself was at her beck and call.

Tamlin fought the urge to meet her in the middle, her presence pulling on him like a bird flying in an updraft. He remained still, refusing to move after she breezed right past him.

“Coming?” Aoide asked.

Tamlin ignored the pointed look on Lucien’s face and trailed behind Aoide. He watched as her hips swayed, each flick a command for him to follow. She stopped at the edge of the garden and held out the crook of her arm, waiting for him to escort her back to the forest.

Tamlin played the role of gentlemale, wrapping his arm around hers and winnowing them back to their meeting spot. Aoide slid her arm from his the moment their feet grazed the ground and began to walk away.

“Don’t you want to know the answer to your question, troublemaker?”

Aoide paused, but she did not turn to face him.

“Go on, then,” she said, her voice soft and high.

Tamlin took three long strides toward Aoide, close enough to see the pulse point throbbing in her neck.

“I only want from you what you wish to give willingly. If your tolerance is all I receive, then I shall cherish it. But know this, Aoide — if there is something you desire, all you must do is ask and I will oblige.”

Before Aoide could say a word, Tamlin was already back at the manor, winnowing through the massive hole Lucien left in his wards. He examined the fissure as he moved through it, determined to improve upon its design.

Lucien let out a low whistle, one elbow propped on the piano, as Tamlin re-appeared in the music room.

“She’s a handful,” Lucien said. “Care to explain why you have a human woman living in your house?”

“She’s not living here. She merely visits.”

“Glad to see you’re speaking to me with words instead of growls. Not that your answers are any more decipherable than the beast’s.”

Lucien sat down at the piano bench and touched a key, the low note echoing through the music room.

“Why are you here, Lucien?”

“Tarquin sent word that he was pulling some of his males back. They said the wards around the Spring Court made their presence here unnecessary. Inquiring minds wanted to test them.”

“Tell Rhysand to mind his damn business,” Tamlin sneered.

“It wasn’t Rhysand. Though, he wasn’t opposed to the idea,” Lucien said.

Tamlin didn’t care who it was, but he was thrown by the sound in Lucien’s voice — too delicate and careful. Tamlin decided it was best he did not further that line of inquiry.

“How did you get through the wards?”

“I’m not answering that question until you tell me why a human woman was traipsing around the manor,” Lucien said.

Lucien stood up from the piano bench and met Tamlin in the center of the room. Lucien was his own male now, free to ignore Tamlin’s authority as High Lord. That ancient inclination to command and to yield no longer existed between them.

“I granted her a bargain,” Tamlin said.

“And why would you do something as spectacularly foolish as that?”

Tamlin felt the blood warm in his veins, a call to remind Lucien of his power. Tamlin bit back that feeling, waiting to speak before it passed.

“Because she saved my life.”

Lucien took a step back, his golden eye scanning Tamlin’s face. Tamlin knew he was looking for any trace of subterfuge. Even though it was the truth, he felt a rush of guilt run through him as Lucien observed his cool expression.

“She comes once a week to play my piano. I vowed to keep her safe during her visits. When she wants to leave, I bring her back to the mortal lands,” Tamlin said. He walked past Lucien and examined his fiddle, checking on the tension of the strings.

“That explains the wards,” Lucien said under his breath.

“Yes, the wards you so kindly destroyed,” Tamlin quipped. “Helion continues to live up to his name.”

“You should be grateful any of us care enough to make the effort. It took us several days to find its weakness.”

“Good,” Tamlin said. “Will you be leaving now that your little mission is complete?”

“I was hoping for some pleasant conversation, though I suppose the human managed that well enough. She’s Nevan, isn’t she?”

“Who told you that?” Tamlin said, his voice like a peal of thunder. Lucien’s gold eye flicked to Tamlin’s fists, which were both curled and clawed.

“No one,” Lucien said calmly. “Her accent was familiar. I heard it when I was on the Continent.”

Tamlin deflated, ashamed at the outburst roiling in his chest. He took a breath, thinking of Aoide’s voice, warm and bright like the sunlight streaming through the windows.

Tamlin had forgotten about Lucien’s trip across the sea. He’d mentioned it when their paths briefly crossed after the last battle against Hybern. Tamlin did not linger on the ruined battlefield — he did not wish to know how many souls were added to the debt that would surely damn him.

“Do you still have contacts on the Continent?” Tamlin asked, an idea forming in his mind.

“I have several,” Lucien responded.

“Any in Neva?”

Lucien’s eyes narrowed, but Tamlin saw a flash of curiosity shine in his russet iris.

“Why?”

“There’s something I’d like to track down — a faerie-made piano. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find. It belongs to a prominent art dealer. Made of wood, intricately carved.”

“For the human, I assume?” Lucien asked.

“Her name is Aoide.”

“What does it do?” Lucien asked, his voice tinged with cautious interest.

”Makes music, I presume.”

Lucien sighed and walked toward the door, his red hair flowing behind him like liquid flame.

“I’ll see what I can do — for her sake,” Lucien said, striding toward the hallway.

“Lucien,” Tamlin said, following after him. “Will you be reporting to Rhysand about my…situation?”

“Will I tell him about Aoide, you mean?” Lucien asked, cocking his head to the side in mock-consideration. Lucien made Tamlin wait on his reply, keeping his golden eye fixed on him.

“I’ll do as any good emissary would,” he said with a smile. “I’ll tell him precisely when he needs to know.”

Chapter Text

Aoide blew a strand of hair off her forehead as she focused on the patient in front of her. Phineas observed her closely, watching as Aoide brought the scalpel down.

Aoide cut into the flesh with a confident swipe, applying just enough pressure to slice the skin without causing excessive damage. Phineas applied the warm compress against the patient’s oozing boil as Aoide prepared the antiseptic and a clean dressing, holding back a gag.

“Well done, Aoide. Would you like to walk our patient through the recovery process?”

Aoide handed Phineas another warm compress before applying the antiseptic and wrapping the wound in cotton bandages.

“You’ll need to keep the area clean with hot water and the antiseptic wash. It’s a mixture of honey and wine. We’ll leave you with several bottles, which should be enough for a month. Re-dress it daily and let us know if you see any signs of infection — redness, swelling, or a fever.”

Phineas nodded and helped Aoide tie off the bandage neatly.

“We will visit in two weeks time, unless you have any concerns about the healing process,” Phineas added.

Aoide collected their tools while Phineas settled the payment with the patient. It was growing late, the warm summer air cooling into a pleasant evening. As they walked down the path toward home, Phineas gave Aoide the two silver pieces, neglecting to split the payment as he normally did. Aoide shot Phineas a quizzical look.

“You handled that all on your own. You deserve it.”

Aoide tucked the two silver pieces in her coin purse — payment for honest work. Those two coins were infinitely more valuable than all the gold and fine art in her father’s possession.

“Thank you, Phineas. Not just for the silver,” Aoide said.

In the two months she’d lived with Phineas, Aoide’s life had changed drastically. Her days were filled with purpose, her skills growing with each patient she treated. She was no expert, but she didn’t need to be. Aoide had her whole life ahead of her, and a path forward that would not end in her being someone’s reluctant wife.

As they walked to the front door of the cottage, Phineas hesitated at the front door, glancing into the small window to his right.

“Is something the matter, Uncle?” Aoide asked.

“No, no,” Phineas said. He opened the front door and stepped aside to let Aoide into the cottage.

Aoide jumped in surprise at what she found — a small cake, a few paper decorations hanging from the ceiling beams, and Iris standing proudly in front of the lit hearth.

“Happy birthday, Aoide.”

Aoide turned to Phineas, her smile so wide it made her cheeks hurt. He returned her smile with his own.

“How did you know?”

“What kind of uncle would I be if I didn’t know my only niece’s birthday?”

“And you invited Iris,” Aoide said, approaching the hearth. “Thank you for coming.”

Aoide took Iris’ bony hands in her own and squeezed lightly.

“Anything for my best customer. Now go on and make your wish,” Iris said, bobbing her head toward the table.

Aoide marveled at the cake, simple but beautifully decorated with yellow marigolds and lavender. The flames of three candles danced as she swiped a finger across the edge and tasted the frosting. Sweet and tart, like the summer berries blooming all around them. She brought her face close to the cake and considered her wish carefully.

“Make it a good one,” said Iris.

She did not need to think long. Her wish burned clear and bright as the candles warming her face. Aoide closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and blew. They dug into the cake, content to eat dessert before their dinner. Iris pulled out a small bottle of port and poured three glasses.

“How old are you, Aoide?” Iris asked.

“Twenty-four,” Aoide said. “How old are you?”

“Too old to be asked that question,” Iris responded. She handed Aoide a stack wrapped in brown paper and twine. “Open your present.”

Aoide took a sip of the port, savoring the sweet taste of blackberry and cinnamon, before she tore through the wrapping. It was three songbooks — one for the fife, one for piano, and one for violin. Aoide flipped through them, scanning the pages and imagining the music in her mind.

“The violin book is for your friend,” Iris said. Aoide didn’t lift her head, too preoccupied to realize the question that would follow.

“What friend?” Phineas asked.

Aoide stopped on a piano composition called Spring Eternal, the name snagging on something in her throat. The notes rang clear and sweet as she thought of Tamlin accompanying her on his fiddle.

“Just someone I met in Iris’ shop,” Aoide said. She glanced at Iris, silently begging her not to expose her lie. “He’s from another village.”

“Which village? What’s his family’s name-“

“Is a young woman not entitled to some privacy?” Iris asked, interrupting Phineas’ interrogation.

Aoide watched as Phineas turned a shade of pink she did not think possible. He took a sip of his port, swallowing loud enough to hear across the room. Iris gave Aoide a wink before taking a sip from her own glass.

Phineas stood from his chair and pulled a small box out of the desk in his room. He handed it to Aoide without a word. Aoide opened the box and found two silver hair barrettes engraved with lilacs and cowslip. She examined the detail work, admiring the craftsmanship.

“I noticed that your hair gets in your eyes when we work. It’s important to keep it neat,” Phineas said.

Aoide laughed at the practicality of his gift. She took the barrettes out of the box and secured the loose strands of her hair into the clips.

“I love them, Phineas. Thank you both for the gifts.”

Aoide spent the rest of the evening playing her fife. Iris had brought a zither, an instrument Aoide had never seen before. She watched as Iris plucked the strings with a piece of thin, carved bone. They played a few songs, transposing some of the pieces from the songbooks. Phineas whistled along, though often out of tune. Aoide didn’t mind one bit.

Once the bottle of port was empty, Phineas walked Iris home. Aoide perched on the side of her bed, sated by the wine and music. Pale light from the full moon filled her room, setting the dress hanging on her bedroom door aglow.

She ran her fingers over the gossamer silk and thought of all her birthdays back in Neva. Her father would insist on throwing a ball to celebrate, a lavish event where no expense was spared. Her mother invited every suitable bachelor far and wide, praying that Aoide would not spend another year unwed and childless.

It was at one of those birthday balls where she met Hal. She found him sneaking out the servant quarters after delivering two new pieces to her father’s office. She noticed his simple clothes and his awed expression at the display of their wealth, and quickly whisked him away to the ballroom. They spun around like madmen all night, allowing Aoide to avoid all the other men on her dance card.

She and Hal chatted the whole time, discussing art, music, and the best spots in Neva for a cheap pint of ale. He did not take his eyes off hers the whole time, surprisingly adroit despite never attending a ball in his life.

“Tavern dancing is more my speed,” Hal told her, ricocheting them both across the room in defiance of the waltz being played by the quartet.

He’d left after the last song played and gave Aoide a genteel kiss on her knuckles. The sea of suitors parted as he made his way through the crowd, the noblemen sneering as he passed. If Hal was bothered, he didn’t show it, donning a wolfish grin as he commanded the room’s attention.

Aoide’s mother set off on a lecture the moment the townhouse had been cleared of guests. She was livid at Aoide’s rebellion, but never raised her voice above a terse whisper so as not to draw her father’s attention.

“You’ve surely done it now. Embarrassed this whole family, and for what? To teach us all a lesson?”

“You wanted me to dance, mother. So, I danced.” Aoide said. She sat at the vanity in her room and ran a comb through her long, dark hair.

“You know very well what I wanted,” her mother said.

“I assumed every man present was there for my assessment. It couldn’t be helped that the best among them was without a title.”

“I’ve long given up on finding you a titled husband. But that boy is without a future, without common manners-“

“Have you, mother? It seems to me that a title is all that matters to you,” Aoide interrupted, her voice growing sharp and loud.

Her mother stared at Aoide through the mirror, her cold and appraising eyes sending a chill through Aoide’s body.

“One day, when you are bound to your chosen pauper, you will realize that I only wanted the best for you. You may think your father allows these silly games because he loves you, but that love will only result in your misery.”

Aoide’s mother shut the door behind her, the latch bolt clicking quietly. Her mother always needed the last word, landing her vicious attack with all the grace and poise of a lethally trained lady.

Aoide simmered in her room the rest of the night, refusing to let her mother know how deep her words cut. She sought Hal out two days later in one of the taverns he’d mentioned, determined to capture his heart.

As Aoide curled up in her bed in the silent cottage, she understood that her time with Hal always had an expiration date. All the lust and passion that existed between them would have soured under the sobering bonds of marriage. She doubted Hal would have been a good husband anyway — he was not one for constancy, his eyes always searching for his next muse.

Aoide’s thoughts drifted to Tamlin and his parting words. She had acted like a scorned child, ignoring his focused gaze as she played for Lucien. Whether Lucien realized Aoide’s mischief, she was not sure. He seemed to take some measure of delight in her performance of the frigid noblewoman, likely because it caused Tamlin grief.

No one had ever asked her what she wanted. Usually, she was told what she should want — a husband, children, wealth and influence. Aoide’s only desire back in Neva was to flout tradition, foil the course set for her. Never had she thought about what she’d want if all those expectations vanished.

Perhaps it was the reflective nature of her birthday, the passage of another year distilling the murky past into clarity, but Aoide began to understand that Tamlin’s answer was exactly what she wished for:

Freedom.

Aoide thought she had been free back in Neva, but her independence was only a mirage, a temporary reprieve from the fate that awaited her. She’d done everything should could to avoid it, but her refusal to see her situation for what it was only brought her closer to her grim destiny.

Leaving Neva had been a gift. A chance at emancipation from the ties that bound her, at the cost of losing everyone she held dear. She missed her family and Veronique, but she could not step back into that life. Never again would she accept conditions on her free will.

Tamlin was willing to give her what she desired, as long as she was brave enough to ask. What those desires were, she wasn’t sure yet, but she was determined to find out.

No matter where they led.

—

Perched on a grassy hillside, Tamlin watched as the candlelight flickered in Fabian’s cabin. The cloudless sky twinkled with hundreds of stars illuminating the dark valley. The air was sweet and mild, peppered with the scent of rosemary from the yarrow smoke drifting out of the window.

Tamlin didn’t expect Fabian to live alone. He had gotten the impression that Fabian was a properly settled male, one with a merry wife and grandchildren tumbling around him. What he found was a quiet, lonely existence on the edge of civilization — or what was left of it.

Tamlin stood and dusted off his clothes. He shifted, altering his appearance to that of a river-nymph. He spread his fingers apart, examining the translucency of the webbed flesh, satisfied with his transformation.

As Tamlin approached the cabin, he listened to the sounds of Fabian shuffling around and whistling a tune. He waited until Fabian settled before he knocked twice on the wooden door.

Tamlin sensed Fabian’s stillness. Even the lit candles seemed to stop their trembling as Fabian assessed the situation. A knock at this hour was more likely trouble than opportunity, something Tamlin had not considered in his plan. He did not have the time to reconsider as the door slowly opened, revealing a cautious Fabian.

“Hello, Fabian,” Tamlin said, mimicking the calm and breezy way nymphs spoke.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Ceto-“

“What do you want?” Fabian asked. The floorboards creaked as he shifted his weight from one foot to another. Tamlin could not see Fabian’s right hand, which he assumed held a dagger.

“I am here on behalf of our High Lord,” Tamlin said. He watched as Fabian’s posture shifted from silent alarm to active danger.

“Liar,” Fabian said, his ice-blue eyes narrowing. “Tell me the meaning of your visit or risk your demise.”

Tamlin began to doubt the premise of his plan. He thought approaching Fabian as himself would either frighten him or enrage him. Tamlin assumed any decent male would despise him, Fabian included. Perhaps his subterfuge was doing more harm than good — a deceitful way to start an honest attempt at partnership.

“Your High Lord has many eyes across this land. He takes many shapes and hears many things. He wishes to extend an invitation-

Fabian did not let Tamlin finish, launching himself from the threshold, a blade glinting in the moonlight. Tamlin dodged, and the two circled one another, sure-footed and wary. Fabian held himself with all the confidence of a trained warrior, his movements fluid but powerful.

“Enough of your tricks, nymph. Speak true, or I will kill you,” Fabian said.

His voice was clear and steady, a warning that he’d make good on his word. Fabian’s eyes shined with primeval intuition, his senses heightened from the yarrow. Tamlin was familiar with the sensation. The males in the war band would often smoke out whole tents to prepare for a raid, the spicy smell blanketing the camp for days.

Tamlin smiled, a piece Fabian’s past clicking into place.

“You’re welcome to try, brother-in-arms.”

Tamlin shed his disguise, shifting back to his high fae form. Fabian’s eyes widened before he lowered them and dropped to his knee.

“High Lord Tamlin,” Fabian gasped. “Forgive me.”

Fabian rested the dagger on the ground slowly. He took the back of Tamlin’s hand and pressed it to his forehead. The display was an ancient sign of respect for one’s superior, a practice Tamlin hadn’t seen followed for several hundred years.

Not since his father ruled the Spring Court.

Tamlin pulled his hand away from Fabian’s grip, folding his arms behind his back. He could not stand the sight of it — such an old and respectable male bowing to him. Tamlin did not deserve that distinction.

“Stand, Fabian,” Tamlin said. Fabian rose, but he did not lift his eyes from the ground. “I come here not to test your allegiance, but to ask for your help.”

“My…help?”

“Let us sit by your hearth. We have much to discuss,” Tamlin said.

Fabian welcomed Tamlin into the cabin, sparsely decorated but neat. It was one room, with a bed shoved in the corner and a small table in the center. The fire burned low, only a few embers remaining.

Fabian stood in the middle of the room and offered a chair to Tamlin. Tamlin opted for a perch on the edge of the table instead, and insisted Fabian sit in turn.

“You were in my father’s war band,” Tamlin said, a statement rather than a question.

Fabian sat upright in the chair and folded his hands.

“That’s correct,” Fabian said. “Though the Urisk didn’t see as much activity as the high fae. We mostly dealt with the…remnants of conquest.”

An ignoble job for a warrior. The first kill was always committed by the highest ranking fae, leaving the lesser fae to finish off the dying males choking on their own blood. To look a male in the eyes, witness their last moments alive, and shove a pike in their throat…

Some thought it was a mercy. Tamlin had never seen it that way. He’d much rather crawl and scrape and rage against oblivion than be snuffed out by the toe of someone’s boot. To die was inevitable, but to die with dishonor was to be avoided at all costs.

“What gave me away?” Fabian asked, interrupting Tamlin’s thoughts.

“The yarrow, among other things,” Tamlin explained.

There was a quality to all males who served and survived the war band — an air of decay that clung to them all, the names of hundreds of restless spirits etched into their souls. Evil deeds committed for the sake of a greedy male.

Tamlin knew Fabian could not resist the call to help. They were both desperate for atonement, the wanting only made sweeter by the bone-deep awareness that they did not deserve it.

“Ah,” said Fabian, eyeing out the still-smoldering pipe. “Old habits die hard. It’s been a long time since I thought of those days. You were always highly respected among the males. It was an honor to serve your father-“

“My father,” Tamlin spat, “was a ruthless and depraved despot. Do not praise him for my sake. I much prefer him dead.”

Fabian shifted in his seat. Tamlin withdrew from the table, ashamed of his outburst.

“I’m not here to rehash the past,” Tamlin said, changing the subject. “I’m here because I need your help protecting the future.”

Slowly, Tamlin paced across the humble cabin. The wooden slats creaked below his heavy footfalls, the boards brittle and warped. He wanted to show Fabian he was a calm, capable High Lord. If Tamlin couldn’t convince him to help, the plan would fall apart. Fabian was the linchpin, the moral center of his council, and the faerie most likely to persuade his peers to trust Tamlin.

“What is it that you require of me, High Lord?”

Tamlin ceased his pacing and looked at Fabian directly, keeping his expression cool and balanced. He thought of Aoide and how she summoned that steely quietude, commanding but not cruel.

“I am forming a council to advise on the rebuilding process. I’d like you to join.”

Fabian stilled, as silent and unmoving as death itself. Tamlin searched his face, looking for any indication of what Fabian was thinking. The thick creases in his knobby, bark-like skin revealed nothing. A moment passed, and then another, before Fabian did so much as blink.

“Why me?”

“I saw how you handled the well. The faeries trust you to make decisions with their best interests in mind. If I don’t have that,” Tamlin said, “I have nothing at all.”

Fabian stood from his chair and rifled through one of the cabinets, until he found a bottle and two cups. He poured two short glasses of what Tamlin assumed was liquor, and knocked one back.

Fabian ran a hand over his furrowed face, his jaw tensing as he mulled over what Tamlin was proposing.

“What will you have me do?” Fabian asked.

“We’ll need to start with visits to each of the villages. I want to hold open sessions to hear their concerns. We need to show them we’re willing to help. No issue is too small,” Tamlin said.

Fabian drank the shot he poured for Tamlin, then poured two more.

“After that, we’ll need to organize a few different forces. I’ll need you to introduce me to Bel-“

“Mother above,” Fabian sighed.

“Her militia is well stocked and in need of orders. They’ll help with distributing rations and fortifying our borders.”

“Bel is more likely to put your head on a spike than she would serve as your general,” Fabian muttered.

“Like I told you before, she’s welcome to try,” Tamlin said.

“If I can convince Bel — and that’s a very big if — who else will be on this council?” Fabian asked.

“I’m hoping you could help with that, too. There was a female sorting grain in the village. Do you know her name?”

“Selene. She tends to one of the farms to the east,” Fabian said. “She’d be a good fit. Quiet, but hardworking. Her crop was strong this year despite the…challenges.”

“Good. Do you hold any sway with her?” Tamlin asked.

“Some. Enough,” Fabian said with a sure nod. “Who else?”

“We’ll need someone to advise on festivals and celebrations. I saw a Sidhe male weaving Litha charms. Do you know anything about him?”

“Not much,” said Fabian. “I’ve only seen him once or twice. The other male who was with him is his mate. I think they live in the village closest to the Autumn Court border.”

“I didn’t realize faeries still lived there,” Tamlin said.

The villages closest to the Autumn Court were nothing more than rubble, abandoned shortly after the war. Before Tarquin’s males arrived, there was a near-constant stream of Hybern’s vile creatures appearing near the border. Tamlin was certain Beron was involved, but he had never found the proof.

If the Sidhe male was still living in that village, it would complicate Tamlin’s approach. The male likely despised him, maybe more than Bel. If Fabian didn’t have any information on him, Tamlin would be left flying blind. He couldn’t appeal to what the Sidhe wanted, didn’t have any borrowed good will from Fabian…

Aoide. Aoide had spoken to the Sidhe when they visited the village. Surely, she gleaned something useful from their conversation. At the very least, she might know his name. She’d managed to charm Lucien in a matter of a few minutes. If she could—

No the beast growled. Too dangerous.

Tamlin felt the beast’s hungry maw clamp down on his consciousness, threatening to take control. An unwelcome parade of panicked thoughts flashed in his mind, some memories and others imagined futures.

He saw Aoide mangled on a marble floor. Aoide calling out to him in pain. Aoide looking at him with hatred and disgust. Aoide begging him to help her—

Feyre, too. Feyre dead. Feyre suffering. Feyre walking away, forever.

Tamlin grabbed the bottle and took four long pulls. He fought the urge to gag, the acrid fumes burning his eyes. The bitter taste grounded him, ripping him from the beast’s grip.

“Be careful with that,” Fabian warned. “Too much and you’ll start hallucinating.”

Tamlin slammed the bottle down on the table and wiped his mouth. He blinked as Fabian’s figure doubled and tripled before his vision settled again.

“There’s one more thing, Fabian. Something I need you to promise me,” Tamlin said, his words practically falling out of his mouth.

“What is it, High Lord?”

Tamlin shuffled toward the front door, his thoughts growing hazy. He needed to get back to the manor before he made a fool of himself.

Too late, the beast grumbled.

“Never bend the knee again. Not to anyone. Especially not to me.”

Tamlin winnowed back to the manor. Or, at least he tried to. Instead, he landed in a boggy marsh about two miles south, on his hands and knees. He wretched, then winnowed again to the manor gardens.

He crawled up the stairs, dragging himself through the grand entrance and into the music room before he collapsed in front of the piano.

A figure sat at the bench, dark-haired and slight. Their back was curved liked a sickened tree, the short strands of their hair hanging limp. Tamlin squinted, trying to focus his eyes as his vision twisted and swayed. He reached out his hand, but felt only air.

“Aoide?” he called out.

Tamlin pulled himself up, staggering forward toward the bench. He stumbled, falling to his knees as he extended his arm again.

“Look at me, Aoide,” Tamlin murmured.

The figure whipped around and bent toward him, drawing close to his face. Tamlin fell backwards, his head smacking against the cold tile.

It was not Aoide’s face that stared at him. Blue-grey eyes pierced through the fog clouding his mind, sending Tamlin scuttling across the room until his back hit the wall. Her neck hung at an odd angle, rolling to the side as she walked toward him.

“Doomed,” she moaned.

“No,” Tamlin whispered. “Stop.”

“Doomed to repeat. Doomed to break. Doomed to die.”

“No,” Tamlin begged, louder this time. He slid up the wall, his legs buckling under the weight of his own body. A sob broke from his chest, hot tears streaking down his face. He closed his eyes, the sight of Feyre’s hollowed expression too much to bear.

He watched her die. Watched as Amarantha broke her into pieces and brought her foot down on her shattered body, over and over again. There was nothing he could do to stop it. No amount of begging or apologizing or whoring would appease her. The wheel turned, and their fates were decided.

Feyre was destined to die, and he was forced to watch.

A hand, soft and warm, wiped his cheek. Another voice spoke to him now, sweet as a blooming hyacinth and as old as his earliest memories.

“Open your eyes, my son, and listen to me,” it said.

Tamlin was no longer in the music room. He was upstairs, cradling a body in his arms. His mother’s body. Blood gurgled in her throat as she opened her mouth.

“Do not make your father’s mistakes. Do not fear-“

She seized in his arms. He held on as tight as he could, holding her against his chest until she stilled. Her green eyes glazed, dull and empty.

“Do not fear what?” Tamlin asked, shaking her limp body. “DO NOT FEAR WHAT?” he roared.

Something hard whacked against the back of his head, sending Tamlin spiraling into darkness.

Chapter Text

He was late.

Aoide had spent an hour idling at their meeting spot, nudging a pebble across the ground with her toe until she grew bored enough to kick it as far as she could. It pinged against a tree and dropped somewhere deep in the brush.

Tamlin had never been late before. He arrived at the exact same time every week, more reliable than her wind-up pocket watch. Aoide knew they left things in a strange place last week, but there was always tension between them when they parted. His absence plucked some hidden string inside her, reverberating through her body for the rest of the day. She wondered if he felt it too.

It was that same string that pulled on her now, telling her something was wrong. Tamlin wouldn’t leave her waiting like this. Something was keeping him from coming.

Aoide began walking. She knew it was stupid — she had no idea where the manor was, or how far. She had no map, no bearings on her surroundings, and was growing more worried by the second.

“Tamlin?” Aoide called out.

Useless and foolish. There could be any number of faeries or miscreants around, waiting for a bumbling human to wander by. Aoide continued on, hopping over a small creek and clambering over some boulders.

She called for Tamlin again, her pace growing more hurried as the forest canopy grew thicker. It was harder to see the sun, making it difficult to orient herself. She came to another creek that looked similar to the last one. Had she just walked in a circle?

Aoide whipped around, trying to figure out where she was. She could have sworn she passed a few birch trees near the boulders, but she couldn’t find them now. Aoide felt her stomach turn sour as she realized she was lost.

“Tamlin!” she shouted. “This would be a good time to magically appear.”

Silence. He did not emerge from the brush or fizz into existence like she hoped he would.

Dammit, Aoide thought. Dammit, dammit, dammit.

She couldn’t stop herself from breaking into a run, her breathing fast and shallow as she began to panic. She went back toward the cottage, or at least she thought she did. Somehow, she ended right back at that same damn creek.

“Tamlin!” Aoide yelled. “Tam-“

She felt a hand tug her shoulder, warm and strong. Tamlin stood behind her, his back hunched and his eyes bloodshot. Aoide could smell a whiff of alcohol clinging to his skin.

Aoide stepped out of his grasp and looked him over. His usual golden glow had gone pallid, his shirt was half tucked, and his hair was wild and unkempt.

“Are you…drunk?” Aoide asked. She didn’t know faeries could get drunk. She always assumed those sorts of physical limitations were below them.

“No,” Tamlin grumbled.

Aoide snorted. She understood why Veronique always had a smirk when she’d find Aoide crawling up the stairs after a night out with Hal. Tamlin looked pitiful, the very picture of misery.

“You were drunk, then. Take me to the manor,” Aoide said. “You’ve already made me wait long enough.”

Tamlin shot Aoide another pathetic look before he took her arm and winnowed them to the manor grounds. Halfway through their walk to the front door, Tamlin brought his hands to his knees and sucked in the cool breeze.

Once inside, Aoide did not turn down the hall as she normally did. Instead, she headed up the stairs toward uncharted territory.

“Where are you going?” Tamlin asked.

“You can barely stand, let alone play the fiddle. And I refuse to watch you drag yourself around all day,” Aoide said. “Show me where your bedroom is,” she ordered.

“Why?”

“You need a bath and something to help with that hangover,” Aoide said.

“I don’t need your-“

“Too bad,” Aoide said, her voice like the crack of a whip. “Because you’re getting it. You told me last week that I could ask for whatever I wanted and you would oblige. What I want is for you to stop being so damn stubborn and let me help you.”

She waited for Tamlin at the top of the stairs, looking down as he leaned against the banister. His tangled blond locks hung in front of his eyes, which Aoide assumed were with smoldering with annoyance.

It was pitiful, really. Such a fierce and powerful faerie reduced to this state. Aoide should have been upset by his tardiness, but his suffering seemed like punishment enough.

“Fine,” Tamlin muttered.

He dragged himself up the stairs and past Aoide, heading down the hall. The door to his bedroom was left wide open — Aoide supposed he had no need for privacy.

Aoide followed behind him, stopping short at the state of his bedroom. Thick wisteria vines broke through the shattered windows and criss-crossed the ceiling. Purple blooms hung over them, filling the room with their musky and sweet perfume. Ivy clung to the walls and blanketed the alabaster in leafy green. Velvety moss grew through cracks in the floor, soft under Aoide’s feet.

The bed was left untouched, the sheets still starch white and the pillows fluffed, as though no one had slept in it for many months. The fireplace was cold, an unused pile of wood sitting in the grate.

Aoide wondered where Tamlin slept, if not in his own bedroom. A pang of sadness gripped her, thinking of him slumped in a chair or on the floor. Why he would deny himself such a basic comfort, Aoide did not know.

She shook off her sorrow and pulled together her best impression of Veronique, who had gotten her through many of her own torturous morning-afters. She adjusted the barrettes in her hair, tucking all the strands long enough to fit, and got to work.

Tamlin leaned against the door frame, watching as she lit a fire in the fireplace with the set of matches on the mantle. She stacked the wood strategically as Veronique used to do and had taught her in kind.

Aoide found the en-suite, careful to avoid the three panel mirror, and started a hot bath. The bathroom was in similar condition to Tamlin’s bedroom. Aoide thought it suited Tamlin — wild and beautiful.

She left the bath running and found Tamlin in the same spot she’d left him, as if he was afraid to enter his own room. His eyes were heavy, his head lolling as he rested it against the wall.

“Well, don’t just stand there. Go on and get in the bath,” Aoide said. “Do you have a tea pot?”

“Somewhere in the galley,” Tamlin said as he walked toward Aoide.

In one swift movement, he pulled his tunic over his head and tossed it on the floor. Aoide held her breath as he stalked toward her, his skin still golden despite the pallor. Aoide blushed at the sight of his muscled torso and the honey-blonde hair that trailed down his chiseled stomach. Freckles dotted his broad shoulders and across his chest, sun-kissed and bronzed. Despite his brawn, he moved with a feline grace, his body rolling toward her like the swell of a mighty wave.

He hooked a thumb around the clasp of his pants and Aoide was out the door, flying down the staircase with her hand pressed against her warmed cheek.

She walked right out of the front door and toward the garden, focusing her mind on the task ahead. Phineas had taught her all the common flora and their medicinal uses. The apothecary in the village did not always have the supplies they needed for tinctures or decoctions, which meant they needed to forage their own remedies. She trampled through the overgrown weeds looking for the right herbs and flowers.

Aoide found a patch of mint, a fast-growing herb that would help settle a stomach. There was also an abundance of milk thistle and chamomile, which she gathered from stem to bloom. While on her knees, she spotted a small cluster of feverfew. Satisfied with her finds, she tucked all her ingredients in the skirts of her dress and returned to the manor.

Aoide prepared the flowers and herbs in the galley after ransacking the cabinets in search of a teapot. She cut the stems of the flowers down the center, plucked off the buds, and crushed the mint leaves. She hummed as she worked, taking her time to prepare the tea properly.

Aoide wondered what happened the night before that could’ve resulted in Tamlin’s current state. There were no signs of a raucous party or a wild night. The manor was as still and quiet as it always was, not another soul in sight.

Aoide had many regrettable nights of her own back in Neva, but she’d always had company — Hal, or Veronique, or a cast of local Nevan characters. She couldn’t imagine how lonely the manor must feel at night, the estate grounds silent as the world slept and Tamlin drank.

Slowly, she made her way back up the stairs. She focused on keeping her hands steady so as not to spill any water from the kettle. It was the only way to keep her thoughts from drifting to Tamlin soaking in the tub, his gold-spun strands of hair fanning around him like a crown.

Aoide peeked around the open door, a sudden shyness seizing her. She caught a glimpse of Tamlin as he wound a towel around his waist, slung low enough that Aoide could see a tempting cut of muscle from his hips down to his groin. She allowed herself the briefest moment of admiration as the cords of muscle in his back tensed from movement.

Aoide bowed her head, looking at her feet as she walked to the fireplace and put the teapot near the flames. She kept her back to Tamlin as he made his way across the room. The smell of lilac and cedar followed, settling between them and mixing with the scent of charred wood.

“What’s that?” Tamlin asked.

“Tea. Mint to settle your stomach, chamomile and milk thistle to soothe any inflammation, and feverfew to help with your headache.”

Aoide stood and wiped her hands on her dress, unable to bring her gaze any higher than the floor.

It’s just a body, Aoide told herself. She’d seen dozens of them in her work, whether to examine a wound or prepare a corpse for a funeral. She’d seen all types and variations, both men and women alike — old and young, thin and muscular, and everything else in between.

But Tamlin wasn’t a sick patient or a body on a table, cold and empty. He was warm and alive, his masculine figure so potent and vigorous that Aoide couldn’t bring herself to look. Her low belly felt airy and a tingling sensation traveled from the top of her head to the tips of her toes.

She’d lain with Hal, seen his flushed skin and his manhood, but she hadn’t felt like this. Hal was by no means scrawny, but he was almost boyish compared to Tamlin. It felt vulgar to allow herself more than a glance, as though she was spying on some secret beauty, only to be seen by the pure light of the sun.

The teapot began to boil and Aoide poured the contents into a cup. She did not dare look at Tamlin as she walked toward the bed. She placed the cup on the side table, pulled back the white sheet, and patted the bed.

“Come sit and drink your tea,” she said. Aoide busied herself, looking for a comb on a table or nightstand. Out of the corner of her eye, she tracked his movement as he sat down, his back to her as took a sip from the cup.

Aoide found a comb and wrapped her fingers tightly around it, letting the teeth dig into her skin as she gathered the courage to approach him.

His golden hair trailed down his back, tumbling into loose, curling ends. The strands caught a sliver of light shining through the wisteria and ivy, setting it aglow. Aoide felt her breath catch in her throat as she kneeled on the bed and crawled closer. She hitched up the end of her skirts as she made her way toward him.

Aoide could feel the heat radiating off his body as she drew close. She consumed every detail of his strong back and the way his wet hair clung to his skin. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and press her cheek against his warm body.

Gingerly, Aoide brought the comb through his hair, careful not to snag or pull on the tangled strands. She felt Tamlin tense from her touch, his back pulling up and away as though she’d frightened him.

“Sorry,” she whispered. “I’ll be gentle.”

Aoide tried to ignore the pounding feeling in her chest, her heart beating so loud she was certain Tamlin could hear it. She pulled the comb through his hair, the damp strands sending droplets of water cascading down his back.

“Is the tea ok?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Aoide tried to think of something to say. She struggled to focus on anything other than her hands and his body, and what it would feel like to touch him. Her fingers began to shake as she gripped the comb tighter. She tucked a loose hair behind his pointed ear, her fingers grazing the sensitive skin. He shivered, so slight Aoide barely registered it.

Absentmindedly, Aoide began to braid Tamlin’s hair, wrapping and tucking in the same patterns Veronique used to make in her own. She tugged lightly on a few strands and Tamlin melted, his posture going slack.

“That feels nice,” Tamlin said, his voice no more than a sigh. Aoide ignored the featherlight feeling in her chest.

“Back home my lady-in-waiting used to braid my hair every day,” Aoide said.

“Do you miss it?” Tamlin asked.

“My hair?”

“No,” Tamlin said. “Your home.”

Aoide paused, contemplating her answer. She shifted her weight from one knee to another, the bed moving along with her.

“I think I miss a version of it,” Aoide said. “The Neva I left behind was…it wasn’t my home anymore.”

“What happened?” Tamlin asked.

Aoide took a deep breath in an attempt to settle herself. No one had asked what happened since she arrived. She only realized then how lonely it had made her feel.

“Neva is a port city. One of the wealthiest on the Continent. It was a refuge for people who had no where else to go — artists, musicians, bohemians, and vagrants alike,” Aoide said.

She finished one braid and began on another, looping the two plaits together. The repetition centered her, made her nimble fingers steady and stopped her body from shaking as memories bubbled to the surface of her mind.

“Anything you dreamed of, you could find in Neva. Food, music, art, entertainment. Everyone was so different, yet alike in their lust for life,” said Aoide.

She sighed, thinking of the magical streets of Neva, the buzz of activity and the frenetic energy that filled her, became a part of her that would live on even if she never returned. There would always be a piece of her that remained there, a shard so bright and enduring nothing could break it.

“Things changed when we heard of war across the sea. Some thought we had grown soft as a people. Too focused on pleasure to protect ourselves from enemies. The head of the watch-“

Aoide’s voice went wobbly as she thought of him. She hadn’t spoken his name since she left Neva. She hadn’t even let herself think of it. Now, she couldn’t stop from recallling the sound of his furious, rasping voice. She could feel the weight of his body pushing her against the floor, his rough hands around her neck.

The man who haunted her dreams. The man who maimed Hal and threatened to ruin her family. The man who would do anything to own her.

Her betrothed.

“Thaddeus Salazar,” Aoide croaked, “He convinced the other chancellors we needed to toughen up. Everything changed. The city was under curfew and they were raiding every home, tavern, and shop they could. It didn’t matter who you were, or if you had done anything wrong. It was…it was a nightmare,” Aoide said.

Aoide dropped her hands from Tamlin, fisting the sheets in her hands and blinking away the tears that threatened corners of her eyes. She cleared her throat, refusing to let the memory of Salazar upset her.

“We hoped things would get better after Hybern was defeated. When they didn’t, my parents sent me away.”

Tamlin turned to her, his hand landing between her exposed knees as he twisted. He didn’t say a word. He only looked at her, his emerald eyes shining with the same stinging pain as her own.

“I left them,” Aoide said. “I abandoned them.”

“No,” Tamlin said. “You escaped. You survived.”

Aoide grimaced, a small sound escaping her throat as she pushed off her knees and away from Tamlin. One more look from those verdant eyes and the rest of the horrible story would tumble out of her. She wasn’t ready to show that part of herself yet, hideous and weak. She couldn’t bear it if Tamlin found her actions irredeemable.

Aoide stood in front of the fire, letting the hot air dry her eyes. She watched the flames dance, her eyes unfocused as the wood charred and crumbled. She heard the bed shift, and the sounds of padding feet follow.

“You said you wanted to help me,” Tamlin said. “How far does that offer extend?”

Aoide struggled to process the words that came out of his mouth. She had not yet returned to her body, her thoughts whirling around the room for several moments until they settled.

Aoide turned toward Tamlin, her eyes drifting down his half-naked body before snapping up to his face.

“That depends — what do you need?” Aoide asked, her voice cracking on the last word.

Tamlin’s jaw clenched, the muscles flaring as his teeth ground together. Aoide felt a desire to bite the pulsing ridge of his face and flushed at the thought.

“Do remember the Sidhe you were weaving charms with, back when we visited the village?”

Aoide leaned back, trying to put some distance between them and clear the haze that addled her mind.

“Of course — what is it that you called him? A Sidhe?”

“Yes,” Tamlin said. “It’s a sort of faerie. Did he tell you his name?”

“No,” Aoide said. “We mostly talked about
a festival called Litha. It sounded lovely,” Aoide said.

“Litha is another name for the summer solstice,” Tamlin explained. “Sidhes are made of wind and spirit. They have a close connection to the magic that exists throughout the Spring Court. Some believe they are manifested from the soul of the land itself.”

“Amazing,” Aoide whispered. “I had no idea.”

“Do you think he’d talk to you again?” Tamlin asked.

“I suppose so. He didn’t seem to dislike me.”

Tamlin’s eyes shifted, looking beyond Aoide. His expression darkened as she watched him mull something over.

“What is it?” Aoide asked, growing worried at his silence.

Tamlin turned away from Aoide, tugging on something within her as he moved out of her reach.

“I’m forming a council to advise on the rebuilding process. I need you to convince him to join it.”

“Why do you think he needs to be convinced?” Aoide asked.

“Because I failed them,” Tamlin said, so matter of fact that Aoide couldn’t find the will to argue with him. 

She’d seen the state of the village. Felt the pain and the misery so acutely it made her think of her own home and all the people she failed back in Neva. The futures they sacrificed while she relished in her own freedom. All the things she could have done with her influence, squandered on petty vengeance.

That was in the past now. No amount of lamenting and hand-wringing could change what she’d done — or didn’t do. She could only act in the present and hoped it rippled into a better future.

“I’ll do it,” Aoide said. “When do I need to speak with him?”

“The sooner the better,” Tamlin said.

He walked behind the dressing screen and emerged in a clean tunic and pants. Aoide was too consumed by her thoughts to register him changing just a few feet away.

She could do this. She had been trained her whole life for this sort of thing — lessons on how to speak, how to hold herself, how to command the attention of any room. Her mother insisted Aoide needed to be as formidable as any potential husband, both beautiful and cunning.

She’d always be an object to admire first, but her beauty would fade. Eventually, younger women would tempt her spouse. She’d need to be an asset to her husband both in high society and business if the marriage was to last. The only thing worse than a spinster was a useless wife.

Aoide had to succeed. There was no other outcome she’d let herself consider. If she could not do this, then what had it all been for?

Aoide stood up, brushed her skirts and adjusted her barrettes behind her ear. She took a steadying breath and squared her shoulders.

“Let’s go,” she said.

—

The village on the border was just as grim as Tamlin remembered. Most of the cottages and shops were no more than piles of debris and rubble. The ground was littered with abandoned possessions — torn clothes, half-destroyed furniture, children’s toys — all belonging to faeries who either fled or died as a result of his inaction.

He looked to Aoide, who did not balk at the destruction. He watched as her dark eyes scanned the ruins, searching for something amid the devastation. When her eyes landed on partially intact cottage, she stopped. It was the only structure still standing in the village.

“That seems like a good place to start,” Aoide said.

Tamlin stretched his awareness toward the cottage and confirmed Aoide’s assumption. He could hear the sounds of someone inside, a surprising hum of domesticity among the wreckage. Fabian had been right — the Sidhe was living here.

“He’s there,” Tamlin confirmed. “Let me glamour you-“

“No,” Aoide said. “No glamour. If I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it as myself,” she said.

Stupid, reckless human, the beast hissed.

Tamlin was sick of hearing voices in his head, all ancient or dead or angry. They were relentless, a constant and unwelcome reminder of his shortcomings.

“Fine,” Tamlin said. “But I’m coming with you.”

Tamlin strained against his exhaustion, shifting himself into the form of a field mouse. The world grew bigger around his small body, the grass too high for him to see over. Tamlin took a moment to adjust, getting a feel for his new vantage point.

Aoide picked him up, her hands cupping his body gently.

“I don’t think I’ll ever tire of watching you do that,” Aoide said.

She tucked him in the pocket of her dress and gave the pocket a pat before setting off toward the cottage.

There was no hesitation in her stride as Aoide walked to the front door of the cottage. Tamlin bobbed with her every step, his body still reeling from the sudden change.

Tamlin listened as Aoide knocked three times on the door. She shifted her weight between her feet. He noticed a subtle change in her scent that triggered something in him — a call and a response.

Impatiently, Aoide knocked again while Tamlin fought a cascade of thoughts that threatened to upend their whole plan. He could not allow himself to feed that impulse to protect. He did not allow himself to consider all the ways the encounter could go wrong.

He believed in Aoide. He watched her charm everyone she met, her curious questions and honest answers persuading the most reticent of faeries to trust her. There was an undeniable goodness within her that shone brighter than the sunniest of spring days.

What she had told him earlier had only proven her rectitude. The pain she felt on behalf of her people, the regret she expressed for their continued sorrow. None of it her fault, yet still her burden to bear.

Tamlin did not know how she managed it — to maintain such a purity of heart in an endlessly cruel world. He wasn’t sure he was ever as virtuous as Aoide, even as a child. He feared there had always been something terrible inside him, festering from the moment he took his first breath. The roots of his anger ran so deep he wasn’t sure it was possible to excise the rot that plagued him.

Perhaps that was his lot in life — the destiny that the Mother, or whoever controlled such things, set for him. The world needed villains as much as it needed heroes.

A voice interrupted Tamlin’s musings, whispery and soft. He felt Aoide’s hand lightly squeeze her pocket. Tamlin nudged her fingers with his cold, twitchy nose.

“It is you,” the voice said, floating above them like a breeze ruffling the leaves of a tree. “I have been waiting.”

“Is that so?” Aoide said. “I hope not for too long.”

“Time is of little consequence to faeries. Come human,” the Sidhe said.

Aoide hesitated. Tamlin felt the stutter in her step as she lingered. Tamlin wished he could see Aoide’s face so he could understand what she was thinking. All he had to go off of was the sound of her voice and her scent.

“You are not…you do not find it strange that I am human?”

“Do you think that little glamour fooled me? The spirit told me of your arrival many weeks ago,” said the Sidhe.

Tamlin heard the creak of footsteps, followed by Aoide’s own. He smelled the crackling fire and the heady scent of burning mugwort. A chair scraped against the floor and he felt Aoide sit, the soft curve of her stomach pressing against his fragile body.

“You seem to know a lot about me,” Aoide said. “Do you also know the purpose of my visit?”

“I will not insult the Mother with my assumptions,” the Sidhe said. “Speak, and let your intentions be known.”

“I’m here on Tamlin’s behalf,” Aoide said. “High Lord Tamlin, that is.”

The sound of Aoide’s voice saying his name still sent a shudder through him. It was strange to hear her refer to him with his title. She’d never treated him as anyone but himself, forgoing all the pomp and solemnity he usually received.

“Is that so?” the Sidhe said. “And what, pray tell, does the High Lord want from me?”

Aoide shifted in her chair, picking up on the cold and indifferent way the Sidhe responded to Tamlin’s name. He had been right to ask for Aoide’s help — there was no way the male would be willing to tolerate Tamlin’s presence without her persuasion.

“He’s looking to build a council. A group of faeries to advise on the rebuilding process. He wants to bring you all together and find a way forward.”

Tamlin heard the Sidhe laugh, bitter and sharp.

“Soon enough, there won’t be a land to rebuild,” the Sidhe said.

“What do you mean?” Aoide asked.

“Do you not feel it, human? The spirit of this land is dying. It has been for many centuries, long before your ancestors were a twinkle in the eyes of their begetter. It is not entirely your High Lord’s fault, but he has done nothing to fix it. He has abandoned us.”

“You seem to have a lot of opinions. Wouldn’t it be nice to have the High Lord’s ear?” Aoide quipped.

“What good is an ear if it can’t listen?” the Sidhe responded.

“What makes you think he won’t?”

Tamlin felt a sense of pride wash over him as Aoide refused to back down. He could feel her the speed of her thoughts as she maneuvered, deftly guiding their tete a tete toward an advantage.

“He’s a High Lord, human. They don’t listen to our kind.”

Aoide stood suddenly and Tamlin jolted with her. He felt her lean forward and he scrambled not to fall out of her pocket.

“That’s not true. I know it’s not,” Aoide said, her voice growing tense.

“Believe what you want,” the Sidhe said, retreating.

The conversation reached an impasse. Aoide could not push too hard, or she’d risk scaring the Sidhe into abnegation. Tamlin remained perfectly still, trying to sense Aoide’s intentions. He felt the worrying sensation that they’d been backed into a corner.

“Just one meeting,” Aoide said. “One meeting to let him prove himself.”

“He’s had plenty of chances, human. Give me one good reason why I should grant him another.”

“Because this is your home. It is his home, too. And you don’t seem the type to sit around and do nothing when you are called to serve it,” Aoide said.

A silence settled in the room. Aoide did not move an inch, her nerves as strong as steel. Tamlin could picture the look in her eyes, her deep orbs shining bright enough to blind the male.

“One chance,” the Sidhe said.

“One,” Aoide repeated. “My name is Aoide.”

Tamlin felt her move again, her arm shaking as the Sidhe clasped her hand.

“Amun,” the Sidhe said in return. “I would tell you to run along and inform your High Lord, but I have a feeling he’s never too far from you.”

Aoide felt for Tamlin in her pocket, giving his body a stroke. He wiggled under her delicate touch.

“You have no idea,” Aoide said.

Chapter Text

Aoide lay on the side of a grassy hill, the wind whipping her hair as she watched the flowers sway around her. Purple crocuses, yellow freesias, and parti-colored tulips dotted the valley as far as the eye could see. The air was honeyed with the smell of nectar and dewy grass, sweet and pure.

They hadn’t said anything to one another as they left the cottage. She carefully scooped Tamlin out of her pocket and watched him shift back to his fae form. A dozen unsaid thoughts flowed between them as they walked through the ruins in silence.

Once they were out of the village, Aoide asked Tamlin to bring her somewhere quiet. She needed to clear her head before she returned to the Mortal Lands — to her other life. He winnowed them right to the valley, where she spent the past hour staring at the cloudless sky.

Amun said he felt her presence in the Spring Court. The spirit had whispered it to him, like a secret finally revealed. Aoide didn’t understand how or why her arrival was important enough to herald. Amun made it sound as though it was destined, a sign of some great change on the near-horizon.

That couldn’t be possible. Aoide wasn’t supposed to be there. Her home was across the sea, along with the fate she narrowly avoided. She could feel the reckoning of that destiny, encased in amber and waiting for her return.

Aoide’s escape was one domino in a cascade of unplanned outcomes, a direct consequence of her actions. She thought she ended up in the Spring Court because everything had gone disastrously wrong. What did it mean if it was all part of a larger plan? That Hal was doomed to suffer? That her people were fated to die for their freedom? The notion there was a greater power deciding who suffered and who prevailed provided no comfort to Aoide. She did not like being a pawn, her life shuffled around in service of another’s torment or triumph.

She looked at Tamlin who lay beside her, just out of arm’s reach. He’d fallen asleep, his chest slowly rising and falling. Gone was the usual tension in his jaw, the crease that formed between his brows. His hair spilled down his shoulders and scattered around his head, like a river of molten gold. Aoide thought of the cherubs carved into her piano back in Neva, their serene expressions and gentle repose.

She committed Tamlin’s profile to memory — the straight slope of his nose, the curve of his bottom lip, the scruff of his beard. It was the longest she had ever looked at him without losing her nerve.

Aoide wondered how he felt about what Amun said. She imagined it must have been painful to hear it, a confirmation of what Tamlin had told her earlier; he failed them. Aoide didn’t know the details beyond the little he shared, but she knew how it weighed on him. She felt it in the way he moved, the way he grew quiet and withdrawn, the way he played his fiddle. There was always something clawing at the back of his mind, pulling him away from her, even as their orbits drew them closer together.

It was a good sign that Amun was willing to try. She wondered if Hal would give her the same chance — not that she’d ever see him again. Aoide wouldn’t get redeem herself in his eyes. Hal would never know the depth of her regret, or the things she planned to do to settle her karmic debt.

Aoide wanted to feel happier. She knew she should be proud of herself for convincing Amun. His knowledge of the land’s spirit would greatly benefit Tamlin’s council. Her performance of the keen, persuasive lady was everything her mother wanted her to be. She had been the reason the plan succeeded — not Tamlin’s strength or his power, but her words.

Still, there was a feeling hanging in the back of her chest. An emptiness, gnawing and desperate. It had started after she left Neva, so small she hadn’t noticed, and grown into a black hole. Thoughts and intentions went in, but nothing came out. She could offer a thousand good deeds to that emptiness, but it wouldn’t be enough. The guilt and remorse would always be with her.

Aoide moved closer to Tamlin, resting on her elbow. Absentmindedly, she held one of his braids between her fingers. She ran her thumb over the plait, the strands dazzling in the sun.

She didn’t know how old Tamlin was, but she knew faeries could live for hundreds of years. What did it feel like to have centuries of regrets? How deep was his black pit of guilt? What parts of himself had he offered it in the vain hope that obliteration would feel blissful? It was a wonder he felt anything at all.

Aoide looked at Tamlin and saw a sliver of herself reflected back. She felt that tug on her heart, the same one that woke her from dreams and sent her running into forests. It pulled so suddenly and forcefully that it knocked the breath out of her lungs and sent it floating away on the breeze.

Tamlin’s eyes opened, not with a flutter but a sudden, clear-eyed awareness. They skimmed over her, stopping on the fingers holding his braid. Aoide did not move, as though she was a rabbit who spotted a mountain lion.

“You’re awake,” Aoide whispered.

Tamlin didn’t say a word. He just stared at her, his green eyes brighter after some rest. Aoide felt his soft puffs of breath warm her face, so close she should hear his heart beating. She wanted to press her hand to it and let her own beat in unison.

“We should get you home,” Tamlin said.

“Yes,” Aoide responded.

Neither of them moved.

Tamlin gave her a heated look, the golden flecks in his eyes smoldering like the flames of a hot forge. It felt like a question, a subtle prod—

A dare.

Aoide leaned over and kissed him. The moment her lips brushed his, she felt her body ignite with white-hot euphoria. Something deep within her pounded, demanding more, more, more. It terrified her — the intensity of that wanting. It sent her scrambling away as every part of her begged to stay.

Aoide didn’t know whether that kiss was an act of fate, or her own free will. All she knew was that it felt right.

—

Tamlin collapsed on the unmade bed. He pressed his face into the downy comforter, inhaling the smell of sweet jasmine and woody vetiver. A beam of moonlight shone through the wisteria vines that crawled through the window.

Tamlin wrapped the sheets around himself, letting Aoide’s scent mingle with his own until they became one. He sunk into the featherbed, adjusting to the unfamiliar softness. It had been many months since he laid in a bed. He’d gotten used to sleeping outside, the ground firm and the air chilled. It was difficult being in the manor at night. The high alabaster walls and endless silence transformed his home into a tomb.

He much preferred it when Aoide was there, playing piano or causing him trouble. She was so bright and vibrant, so unbelievably delicate and alive — like the bloom of an iris. An ache blossomed inside him, half-wanting, half-dreading what was to come.

He breathed in her scent again and pushed the grief aside, indulging in present. There was only today. Only that brief moment her lips were on his, soft and sweet. The moment the land grew quiet in solemn observance, as though some ancient wrong had finally be righted.

He’d thought the kiss was a lingering hallucination. One moment, he could feel warmth of her skin against his, her finger tugging on his hair. The next, she was brushing grass off her skirt and walking up the hill.

He remained still for several moments, waiting for some horrific memory to ruin the peace that settled within him, but it never came. There were no shadowed figures that cried doom, or idle threats from long-dead faeries. There was only the cool breeze and Aoide’s scent drifting away. Not even the beast could summon more than a purr, its tail flicking back and forth like a game had just begun.

He winnowed them back right after. Aoide left without more than a murmured good-bye, not once looking at him. He was glad for it, knowing full well that one look from those endless eyes would undo him. He could not afford to let his savage desire shatter what was left of his sense.

He ignored the sensation of arousal, cooling the hot pump of blood with a centering breath. He could not give into that want, even now that he was alone, fearing it would open a door he could not close. He wrestled the sheets off himself and paced the room, trying to work off the growing tension in his body.

He left his bedroom, padding down the stairs and swiftly into the music room. Without hesitation, he picked up his fiddle and pulled the bow across the strings. The fiddle crooned as Tamlin played with all the tenderness of a fervent lover, the music his only paramour.

He thought of Aoide and the feeling of her adept fingers in his hair, weaving strand over strand. It was not all that different to how she maneuvered around Amun’s distrust, striking at the truth buried within his soul — the same truth that sat within Tamlin and Fabian.

The song turned away from desire, that base flame of want tempering into something more enduring. He promised Aoide that he would give her whatever she wished. He made that ardent vow with all the solemnity of a supplicant swearing to their god. She would set the pace, and he would follow.

He wished she was playing alongside him, guiding him with her graceful harmonies. He imagined what she might play, the clever little refrains she’d craft to draw all the disparate parts together. She was always able to find the right threads to pull, unifying their separate parts into a greater whole.

Tamlin brought his bow to a rest and returned the fiddle to its stand. He felt the restlessness leave his body, the buzz of adrenaline fading into a contemplative silence.

It was only then that he felt it — a hole in the wards around the manor, no larger than the eye of a needle. The shadows that clung to the corners of the room shifted, curling into a column of pitch-black smoke in the middle of the room, blocking out the moonlight.

And from that smoke, two violet eyes blinked into existence, staring at him with contempt.

Tamlin’s body responded before his mind, his clenched fists growing razor sharp claws. A growl escaped his lips, guttural and brutal. The beast wrestled for dominance, gnashing its angry maw as Tamlin fought against the shift.

“Rhysand,” Tamlin seethed. “Get out.”

The shadows whirled around in a cyclone, shaking the panes in the windows and leaving a crack in the glass. The shadows solidified and Rhysand made his dramatic entrance, his face cloaked in velvet blackness, like Death itself.

“Tamlin,” Rhysand purred, “As hospitable as ever.”

Tamlin launched himself at Rhysand, aiming to grab the lapel of his jacket, but only grasping shadow as Rhysand re-appeared across the room. A smug smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“Now, is that any way to treat the male who so kindly put you out of your misery last night?” Rhysand said, his voice smooth and cold.

Tamlin’s body tensed, the muscles screaming to lunge forward again. It took a moment for Rhysand’s words to register, the thrum of violence sending his blood pounding in his ears.

In all his stupor, Tamlin had forgotten it — that sudden thwack that knocked him out cold the night before, freeing him from his hallucinations.

“You,” Tamlin muttered. “It was you.”

Of course it was Rhysand. It was always Rhysand. There had not been a single indignity Tamlin suffered that Rhysand hadn’t witnessed, as though it was pre-ordained by the Mother herself.

“Don’t sound so upset, Tamlin. Consider yourself lucky. Others may not have been so merciful,” Rhysand said, his voice darkening.

“Since when is a blow to the head considered a mercy?” Tamlin barked.

Rhysand flicked something off the shoulder of his jacket, as though Tamlin’s anger was as insignificant as a piece of lint, before crossing the room.

“Would you prefer I snap your neck?” Rhysand cooed, his violet eyes simmering with cruelty.

“What do you want?” Tamlin said, the words snaking out between clenched teeth.

“I wanted to see if the rumors were true.”

Tamlin froze, Rhysand’s words settling in his blood like ice. He forced his thoughts to come to a standstill, refusing to let himself think of Aoide. He wiped her from his mind, papering over her smile, the sound of her voice, the sparkle in her dark eyes. Even thinking of her name was dangerous around Rhysand. If he suspected Tamlin was hiding something, it’d be all over. One look into his mind, and Rhysand would know.

“What rumours?” Tamlin asked, sounding as clueless as he could muster.

“That you’d decided to get off your ass and do something about the state of your court.”

Tamlin did not allow his mind to relax. He glanced at the piano, wondering if Rhysand could smell her lingering scent on him.

“Was Lucien’s report not satisfactory?”

“Lucien is…busy. Something about reaching a contact on the Continent,” Rhysand said, picking at his nails. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that?”

“He’s your emissary now, Rhysand.”

Rhysand’s eyes scanned Tamlin’s face, searching for any hint of a lie. Tamlin held his stare, refusing to do so much as blink. He pushed away all thoughts of Lucien and the request he had made only weeks ago.

Rhysand smiled, his face turning wolfish as he began to melt back into the shadows.

“I must say, Tamlin, I really love what you’ve done to the place. The whole ‘once grand estate turned decrepit mess’ really compliments what a pitiful bastard you’ve become.”

He sniffed, shooting one last withering look at Tamlin before drawing back his proverbial bow, readying his last shot:

“And is that jasmine I smell? A nice touch.”

Rhysand fizzed out of existence, the shadows whispering away as the moonlight streamed through the cracked windows once again.

Tamlin hunched against the piano, his breath fast and shaky. Lucien had kept Tamlin’s secret, but Rhysand was no fool. He might not know all the details, but he knew something was amiss.

Tamlin felt for the small tear left in the wards, a delicate but effective attack on the ironclad defenses around the manor. How Rhysand managed it, Tamlin didn’t know. He was always gifted in the ways of magic, so much so Tamlin wasn’t certain he was capable of keeping Rhysand out.

It was only a matter of time before Rhysand discovered Aoide. Tamlin knew this, felt it deep within him that their time together was slipping through his fingers like grains of sand.

He would not resign himself to that fate yet. He would fix the wards and hold the world at bay for another day. He’d fight for every moment, cherish every second with Aoide, until they met whatever bitter end waited for them.

Chapter Text

Aoide cupped her ear and pressed her cheek against the library door. She held her breath, straining to hear the hushed conversation between Tamlin and Lucien. She could only catch a few clear words among the murmurs, none of which were helpful to her eavesdropping.

Truth be told, she was annoyed at the both of them. As soon as her feet hit the ground, Tamlin told her he had business to attend to with Lucien, who was holed up in the library since his arrival last night. Lucien hadn’t bothered to greet her at all, shooting a quick nod in her direction before Tamlin closed the door in her face.

Tamlin didn’t seem to notice the extra care she’d put into her appearance, her hair finally long enough to twist into a proper style. It had been difficult to manage without a mirror, but Aoide’s nimble fingers weaved the growing strands in a half-decent braid. She dressed in a velvet green gown, one of the few that hadn’t been stained with blood or sweat from her work. The plush fabric was embroidered with amethyst flowers and gold vines, carefully sewn by the finest dressmaker in Neva.

Aoide had waited in the clearing, re-arranging her skirts and patting her barrettes anxiously. She tried to summon the Aoide who enticed countless Nevan noblemen to ask for her hand, but she found herself unable to commit to the act. There was something in Tamlin’s countenance that demanded her honesty.

He appeared out of the brush with his usual greeting. He held out the crook of his arm, focusing his gaze on the tree line behind her, as though the bark and leaves were infinitely more interesting than she. Aoide opted to hold his hand, interlacing her fingers between his. She gave his hand a small squeeze before he winnowed them to the Spring Court.

Aoide wasn’t sure what she expected. Tamlin was not one for grand declarations, but she hoped he’d be a little more forthcoming after their kiss. She’d thought about it all week, her imagination spiraling into impropriety as she lay in her bed at night. As the days passed, she began to ruthlessly re-examine his reaction, unsure whether he felt the same.

If his treatment of her earlier had been any indication of his feelings, Aoide was not optimistic. Perhaps he ignored her as a way of sparing her heart, giving Aoide an opportunity to accept his disinterest with her pride still intact. She had been so certain in the moment that he wanted to kiss her, but it was possible she misread the situation. How many times had a suitor mistaken her forced interest for a budding romance?

Aoide tried to behave. She sat at the piano for an hour, lazily playing an old composition before her boredom turned into irritation. She’d taken a tour around the gardens, made herself a cup of tea in the galley, and re-arranged the barrettes in her hair before those troublesome thoughts sent her tiptoeing toward the library.

It had all been very suspicious, the way the two of them locked themselves away, avoiding her glare as Tamlin shuffled her out. She was almost certain that their business had something to do with her visits to the Spring Court.

Had Tamlin also been thrown by Amun’s vague implications of prophecy? Or had something else happened during her week away? She’d noticed the subtle hairline cracks in the windows around the music room, the glass a touch away from shattering.

Tamlin and Lucien’s conversation grew quieter, their words indecipherable from one another. Aoide leaned closer against the door, her full weight pressed against the thick wood. She listened for the sounds of footsteps, but heard nothing until it was too late.

The door ripped open, a whirl of red hair whipping from the sudden force. Aoide was too slow to react, her body fumbling forward in a graceless, mortifying descent. Aoide’s only reaction was to stick her arms out to catch herself before she smacked into the hard tile.

Only she didn’t hit the floor. Instead, she fell into Tamlin, who’d winnowed across the library to catch her right before she collided with the marble. He held her tight, wrapping his strong, sinewy arms around her waist.

Told you,” Lucien said with a smirk.

“Are you alright?” Tamlin asked, ignoring Lucien’s satisfaction.

“I’m fine,” Aoide said.

Tamlin gave Aoide a thorough once-over, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers grazed the tip of her scar and Aoide shuddered, the healed skin still sensitive to his touch. He picked Aoide up and placed her back on solid ground, his hands lingering on her hips a moment longer than necessary.

Lucien cleared his throat and Aoide remembered they were not alone. It became difficult to focus on anything but Tamlin’s hands, which he curled and tucked behind his back as he stepped away from her.

“Eavesdropping? How incredibly un-ladylike,” Lucien tutted.

Aoide crossed her arms and walked toward the large wooden table in the center of the room, eyeing the books scattered across the surface. She scanned for any words or titles that jumped out, but her plan was foiled when a sudden gust of wind sent all the pages fluttering. She glanced around the library, unable to find a single open window between the floor-to-ceiling shelves.

“I’ll behave like a lady when I am treated as one,” Aoide said, her voice cool and detached. “Now, are you going to tell me what business you two have been whispering about all day?”

Lucien glanced at Tamlin, as though he was waiting for some unsaid cue in Tamlin’s posture. Aoide’s eyes flicked between them, her lids narrowing as she realized they were stonewalling her. She needed to unsettled them, catch them flat-footed and see what missteps they’d be forced to take.

“If you’re not going to say anything, I’ll have to assume it involves me,” Aoide said.

Aoide crossed the room, the train of her gown flowing behind her as she made a beeline for Tamlin. She lifted her chin and pursed her lips in the most haughty look she could muster.

“Tell me High Lord,” Aoide said, “Are you the type to kiss and tell?”

Lucien let out a sound that was part chuckle, part cough. He held his fist in front of his mouth, swallowing the rest of his reaction to Aoide’s provocation. Aoide kept her stare on Tamlin, who turned an interesting shade of light pink. He averted his eyes, staring at the table behind Aoide.

“We were discussing the council,” Tamlin said. He brushed past Aoide toward the center of the room, closing the open books on the table and stacking them in a pile.

“Is that so?” Aoide muttered.

She followed behind Tamlin, picking up a book and skimming the pages. The book detailed the ancient history of the Spring Court, spanning centuries of cultural contributions to faerie art and music. Lucien plucked the book from Aoide’s hands and placed it on the pile.

“Tamlin mentioned you convinced a Sidhe to join,” Lucien said. “I always forget how persistent you humans can be.”

A jab for a jab. Aoide knew from Lucien’s fox-like grin that it wasn’t meant as an insult, rather a friendly duologue — a distraction from whatever damning details were hidden among the pile of books Tamlin was scrambling to tuck away on the shelves.

“His name is Amun,” Aoide said. “And I would urge you not to test that persistence, lest you become the target.”

“Perhaps it’s time we took a break, Lucien,” Tamlin said. He walked around the table and placed a hand on Aoide’s low back, guiding her away from the books. “Come Aoide, I have something to show you.”

Aoide took one last glance at the table, which had been neatly arranged to prevent further snooping. Realizing she’d been beat, Aoide allowed Tamlin’s hand to remain, his gentle nudging sending her stomach plummeting to her feet.

They walked to the music room, where Tamlin pulled a folded piece of parchment from his pocket and placed it on the piano’s music stand. The parchment was worn with age, the vellum so thin it was almost transparent.

“What’s this?” Aoide asked.

She sat down on the piano and squinted at the musical notation, some of which had faded to near-incomprehension.

“It’s an ancient fae song, originating from the Spring Court. I found it tucked away in one of the books in the library. I’d like you to teach me how to play it.”

Aoide looked at Tamlin, who hovered behind her, keeping his distance.

“Why?” Aoide asked.

“Because I never learned how to read music,” Tamlin admitted.

“But why this song?”

Tamlin walked over to his fiddle. Aoide watched as he idly fingered the strings, his eyes growing unfocused as his mind was pulled elsewhere.

“I believe my mother wrote it,” he finally said.

Aoide saw the sorrow in his face, the corners of his mouth pulling downward as he placed his chin on the body of the fiddle. She felt a throb of that sorrow squeeze in her own chest, her body mirroring his own.

Aoide turned back to the piano, tracing the notations with her finger, trying to piece together the faint ink marks. She tried to understand the intention of the piece as a whole, letting her intuition guide the bits she could not read.

The composition began in a major key, soft and light, the notes lilting like a child’s lullaby. The first half was slow and meditative, as peaceful as the valley Tamlin had brought her to last week. The later half, although just as contemplative, moved from serenity to melancholia. The last few notes shimmered and floated away, fading like the last rays of sunlight on a warm Spring day. It was a bittersweet composition, filled with quiet joy and profound loneliness.

“Do you know what instrument your mother played? It may help me transcribe the piece,” said Aoide.

“Her favorite was the dulcimer.”

“Like a zither, then,” Aoide said. She paused at a particularly difficult section to interpret, the ink completely unreadable.

“You’ve played one before?” Tamlin asked.

“No,” Aoide said, “My friend does. She played it for me on my birthday a few weeks back.”

Aoide pulled out a fresh piece of parchment from her bag and a quill, copying over the sections that were clear. She made some tentative marks on the areas where she needed to guess what the notation once said, jotting down a few possible variations.

“I’m sorry,” Tamlin said. “I hadn’t realized.”

“I didn’t tell you,” Aoide said. “Can you come here and tell me what you see? Is that a little line there?”

Tamlin bent over Aoide’s shoulder and stared at the faint line her finger hovered over. She heard him swallow, the bob of his throat catching as his chest brushed her shoulder.

“Yes,” he said. “I think so.” He traced the vellum with his own finger, their hands resting next to each other on the music stand.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Tamlin asked.

“About my birthday? I didn’t think you would care,” Aoide said. “Do faeries celebrate birthdays? Seems like it would get tedious after a while.”

“Some do,” Tamlin said. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-four,” Aoide said. “And you?”

“Five hundred and eleven,” Tamlin said.

Aoide tried not to react, but she couldn’t help the shocked laugh that escaped her lips. Tamlin didn’t look a day over twenty-five. Aoide knew he was old, but five hundred years? He’d lived her lifetime twenty times over…

“Does that frighten you?” Tamlin asked.

“No,” Aoide said. “Nothing about you frightens me.”

“Good,” he murmured.

Aoide’s eyes drifted to Tamlin’s lips, mere inches away from her own. The two of them savored that brief moment of inaction, the delicious tension that set Aoide’s mind into a delirious whorl of lust.

They both surged forward, their lips colliding in a furious, urgent kiss. Aoide’s mouth parted and Tamlin’s tongue rolled against hers, dominant and hungry. Aoide buried a hand in his hair, tugging on his golden strands and pulling him closer. Tamlin groaned into her mouth and bit down on her bottom lip with his sharp canine. Aoide blushed at the sound of her whimper, desperate and wanton, as the small slice of pain elevated her need.

In one swift motion, Tamlin scooped her up and pushed her against the piano, her backside landing on the keyboard in a loud thump. The piano spat out a series of urgent, chaotic notes as Aoide parted her legs. She felt Tamlin press into her, the firm bulge of his pants against her damp undergarments. Aoide wrapped her legs around his waist and tugged him closer, needing him on top of her. The feeling of Tamlin’s arousal rubbing against her sent Aoide into a frenzy, her hands fisting the fabric of his tunic.

Tamlin’s mouth began to drift. Down her neck, over her collarbones, across the neckline of her dress. His lips brushed the top of her breasts and trailed back upward, his teeth dragging over her throbbing pulse point as though he meant to bite it. Aoide moaned as he licked the sensitive skin behind her ear, her head lolling back in bliss.

She felt Tamlin respond to the guttural sound of her pleasure, his fingers digging into her hips as he ground himself into her harder. She arched toward him, craving the feeling of his body moving against hers. It wasn’t enough to be close to him — Aoide wanted to be devoured.

Aoide felt herself careening toward a point of no return. If she gave herself over to the feeling, she was certain it would consume her every thought from then on. There would be no before, no reality she’d be willing to live in without him.

Gently, she rested a hand on Tamlin’s chest, and he stopped. Their chests rose and fell together, their bodies buzzing with a silent understanding. Aoide stared into his blown pupils, only a sliver of green looking back at her.

“Such an odd way of playing the piano,” Lucien said, breezing in from the library.

Tamlin jumped back and Aoide scrambled off the piano, patting her dress before plopping down on the piano bench. She cleared her throat, feeling for the barrettes that had come loose from her hair.

Lucien lounged on a settee, a book in his hand and a grin on his face.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” Lucien said, with a wave of his hand.

Aoide’s eyes burned into the composition on the music stand. She did not dare glance at Tamlin, fearing what the sight of his tousled hair and wrinkled tunic would do to her.

“Right,” Aoide said. “I think the first bit goes something like this.”

Aoide began to play, fumbling over a few notes as she tried to stop her fingers from trembling. Her mind was elsewhere, imagining what would’ve happened if Lucien hadn’t interrupted. Tamlin seemed similarly dazed, his precise playing a bit more listless than usual.

They worked through the first half of the song, making small adjustments as they tried Aoide’s variations. There was a give and take to their playing, much like how they’d tangled and teased each other moments ago. Aoide had gotten a sense for Tamlin’s playing over the past few weeks. She understood his sensibilities, the way he eased into complicated flourishes with unearthly grace — a perfect partner to her classical and structured playing. They ebbed and flowed, pushed and pulled, but always ended up together.

“I’ll need some more time to work through the ending,” Aoide said. “Iris might have an idea what these little notations mean,” she mumbled, making a note to pay her friend a visit.

Aoide stood from the piano and joined Lucien on the settee. He hadn’t flipped a page in his book the whole time, his eyes flicking between Tamlin and Aoide as they played.

“Have I impressed you?” Aoide asked.

“With the size of your ego, you mean?” Lucien quipped. “It is so very large,” he teased, his voice growing mocking and grand.

“Why must it always come down to size? I suppose faerie males really are no different to human men,” Aoide sighed.

Lucien laughed and Aoide smiled in return. Aoide couldn’t help but feel a kinship with Lucien, his red hair and biting retorts reminding her of Veronique. Veronique had kept Aoide grounded through it all, always the voice of reason when she veered toward self-destruction. Aoide was grateful for the family she had cobbled together in the Mortal Lands, but friends? She was in desperate need of those.

“It’s getting late,” Tamlin said.

The sun had started its evening descent, the music room aglow in honeyed pinks and purples. Aoide always thought the beauty of Spring lie in its sunsets, the colors of the sky mirroring the vibrant blooms below. She’d never watched the sunset in the Spring Court, always winnowing back before Phineas returned from his day in the village.

Aoide followed Tamlin out to the garden, where he whisked her away, back to the forest. They stood beneath the dense canopy of trees, completely alone aside from the bumble of insects and chirp of birdsong.

“I…” Aoide trailed off.

“Yes?” Tamlin responded.

Aoide stared at his hand, still wrapped around hers. She didn’t want to let go. She wanted to feel those hands on her again, let them know every part of her. She wanted to know him too, in that way only lovers could.

“I-what I mean to say is-“

“Have I left you speechless, Aoide?” Tamlin asked.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Aoide said, her cheeks aflame.

And much to Aoide’s surprise, Tamlin smiled. As bright as a ray of sunshine, as sweet as a field of hyacinths. She felt her lips curve upward in response, his joy contagious, filling some part of her she didn’t know was empty.

It was the first time she’d ever seen him happy.

“Go home, troublemaker,” Tamlin said, running his thumb over her bottom lip. “Before you give me any bad ideas.”

Aoide wanted to bite down on that thumb and show him just how much trouble she could cause. But before Aoide could act, Tamlin winnowed away, taking a small part of her with him.

—

Tamlin found Lucien in Feyre’s studio, hovering between the covered canvases like a ghost. The room was dim, the drawn curtains blocking out the last rays of the sunset. Lucien stood in front of an uncovered painting — a landscape of the manor, back when it was properly manicured and cared for.

Tamlin couldn’t bring himself to step into the room. He lingered in the doorway like an unwelcome guest. He felt like an intruder in his own home, a thief thumbing through someone else’s possessions. He should have dealt with the paintings months ago, but he couldn’t bear being in the studio long enough. He considered setting the room ablaze and letting the manor burn with it, but deemed it too risky considering the proximity to the forest. Instead, he let the room become a mausoleum — a monument to a past life left to wither and die.

“It’s happening again, isn’t it?” Lucien asked.

“I won’t let it,” Tamlin said.

Lucien whipped around, his brilliant red hair following in a wave. The fury in his glare felt like an arrow to Tamlin’s gut.

“Really, Tam? Because from where I stand, it looks like you’re content to let history repeat itself,” Lucien spat.

Tamlin felt a fizz of anger spark in his chest, promptly smothered by the stagnant air and dust in the studio. He turned on his heel, heading back to the library. Lucien followed closely behind, the angry slap of his soles echoing down the hallway.

Tamlin threw open the library doors, pulling the books he’d put away earlier. Lucien and Tamlin had spent the previous night scouring an endless stack of books, looking for any kernel of information that could help them.

“You’re not going to tell her then?” Lucien asked.

Tamlin slammed the pile of books on the table, a few of them falling to the ground in his sudden outburst.

“Tell Aoide what, Lucien? That some seer hundreds of miles away had a vision that may or may not spell disaster for us all?” Tamlin barked.

“Elain is not some seer,” Lucien seethed.

Tamlin cracked open a dense, leather-bound book, his eyes glazing as he tried to parse out the scrawled text. Nearly every account they’d studied was handwritten, the parchment crumbling and the ink faded.

Lucien slumped in the chair across from Tamlin, the two of them thoroughly fed up with the whole affair. Lucien thumbed through the book in front of him, barely scanning the pages before tossing it aside.

Lucien had shown up the night before, his eyes wild with panic. He pounded at the wards until Tamlin let him in, blazing past the manor doors and heading straight to the library.

“We need to talk,” Lucien said, pacing up and down the shelves, his gold eye scanning relentlessly.

“What’s going on?” Tamlin asked.

Tamlin watched as Lucien began pulling books off the shelves, stacking them by the dozen on the table.

“Did you find the piano?” Tamlin asked.

“Oh, we found it. It’s due to arrive in two weeks,” Lucien said.

“That’s good,” Tamlin said.

Tamlin couldn’t wait to see the look on Aoide’s face when she found her piano in the music room. He wanted to hear that airy gasp of delight, see her dark eyes widening in surprise. More than anything, he wanted to give her a little piece of home — something that would comfort her when she got that faraway look in her eyes.

Tamlin’s excitement was tempered by the dour expression on Lucien’s face, his mouth twisting into a grimace.

“I’m not so sure it is,” Lucien muttered. “I need you to tell me everything you know about that damn piano.”

“It was Aoide’s, back when she lived in Neva. She said her father bought it from Montesere. I don’t know anything more, other than what it looks like,” Tamlin said.

Lucien froze, his hands stopping over the spine of a book.

“The man who sold us the piano — that was Aoide’s father?” Lucien asked.

“Yes.”

“Gods,” Lucien muttered, “It gets worse by the minute.”

Lucien chucked a book at Tamlin, the heavy tome thudding against his chest. Tamlin glanced at the title — a first account of ancient trades and craftsmanship in the Spring Court, spanning centuries of history.

“What the hell are you on about?” Tamlin asked.

Lucien sat at the large, round table and gestured for Tamlin to follow suit. Slowly, Tamlin lowered into the seat, eyeing Lucien suspiciously.

“It was difficult tracking down my contact in Neva. The whole city is on lockdown thanks to some wannabe despot named Salazar,” Lucien said.

Salazar — Tamlin knew that name. Aoide mentioned he was the head of the city watch, and the reason she fled Neva. He felt his skin prickle at the mention of him, echoing the fear in Aoide’s voice as she said his name.

“We tracked down the piano and secured passage on a merchant ship. Salazar’s men held the damn thing in port for days, along with my contact. They beat her half to death for information. Apparently, Aoide’s father is a known smuggler. We had to bribe the bastards to let it through,” Lucien muttered.

An endless series of questions flew through Tamlin’s mind — about Salazar, about Aoide’s family, about the state of Neva. A cold tendril dread began to coil around his heart.

“When I returned to the Night Court, Rhysand was on a tear about a set of visions Elain had. Something about a dark-haired human playing a carved wooden piano. The way she described the piano, Tam…I don’t think it’s from Montesere. In fact, I’d be willing to bet my other eye it was made here. In the Spring Court,” said Lucien.

“What?” Tamlin whispered.

“There’s more,” Lucien said. “Elain had two other visions. She said she saw the same human woman running as if something was chasing her.”

Tamlin felt his field of vision narrow as the beast began to prowl through his mind, readying itself to pounce on the imagined villain chasing Aoide. Tamlin’s claws pushed through his knuckles with such force that he began to bleed, his whole body humming with alarm.

“What else did she see?” Tamlin growled.

Lucien shifted, pressing his lips together in a thin line. Tamlin watched as the blood drained from Lucien’s face, his golden skin turning as pale as his brothers’. Lucien swallowed, his throat bobbing as he summoned the words.

“She saw Beron crossing the border.”

Rage ripped through Tamlin, the beast no longer content to sit idly by. The shift happened forcefully, his whole body twisting and cracking as he changed into that other nature. It was both pain and release — freedom and captivity — as Tamlin fought for control of his mind.

All the beast wanted to do was tear and shred and bleed that bastard until there was nothing left but viscera. Let Beron cross that line and meet his doom, consequences be damned. The whole world could revolt against the beast, and it would make no difference. What was another hundred or thousand or million souls on its blood-soaked ledger? It would kill them all if it had to, obliterate whoever threatened the peace it enjoyed with Aoide-

Aoide.

Tamlin breathed. He held on to that name, let it pull him back to the surface as the beast tried to shove him down an endless pit of fear. He thought of her smile, the sound of her voice, the feeling of her hands tangled in his hair. He conjured the image of her playing the piano and the way she chewed her lip as she worked through a difficult piece.

Sweet Aoide. His little troublemaker. She would not stand for this behavior. She’d look the beast right in its angry maw and tell it to sit like a good boy. And gods, he would listen. He’d crawl for her if she asked.

Slowly, the ringing in his ears faded. Tamlin’s blood cooled, the rumble of anger fading into nothing but a whisper. Tamlin felt the beast come to heel, flicking its tail at the thought of Aoide’s gentle touch, the way she stroked its face the first night they met.

Tamlin shifted back to his fae form, panting as he wrested control from the beast. His clothes were damp with sweat, his whole body shaking from the rapid change between forms. It had been several weeks since he’d been in that bestial form. He’d forgotten how taxing it was on his reserve of power.

Lucien remained perfectly still, his hand on the dagger strapped to his hip. Tamlin slumped into a chair and closed his eyes, centering himself with a long breath.

“We always knew Beron was waiting to make a move. It changes nothing,” Tamlin said.

“Like hell it doesn’t,” Lucien scoffed. “You need to keep Aoide out of the Spring Court. If Beron finds out you have a human-“

“He’ll kill her,” Tamlin said. “I know.”

Lucien’s face contorted into a scowl, the color returning to his cheeks as his heart began to pump, loud enough that Tamlin could hear it.

“He won’t just kill her. He’ll torture her first. And he’ll make you watch,” Lucien seethed.

“The bargain is unforgiving. I pushed the limits last time you were here, and it almost killed me-“

“So make her end the bargain. Scare her away, make her hate you. I don’t care, Tam. Just do something-“

“I won’t,” Tamlin said. “I can’t.”

“Why the hell not?” Lucien sputtered.

“Because I-“

Tamlin stopped himself. He bit back whatever he was going to say — swallowed it and let the realization churn in his stomach until he felt sick. Lucien’s gold eye flicked over Tamlin once, then twice.

“You…you don’t think she’s your-“

“No,” Tamlin said. “That’s not possible.”

A silence settled between them. Tamlin felt something in the back of his mind, a thought that he could not realize. Something unknown and unspoken prodded him, begging to be heard.

“Does Rhysand know Aoide is here?” Tamlin asked.

“No. At least, not yet,” Lucien said.

“And Elain thinks these visions are related?”

“From what she could sense — yes. The piano arrives and sets off some horrible chain of events,” Lucien sighed. “We need to figure out who made it. What it’s capable of. And why Aoide’s father had it in the first place.”

Tamlin’s head began to spin. He’d need to get Bel on the council sooner rather than later, and convince her to divert her militia to the Autumn Court border. Tamlin needed eyes on the border at all times in case Beron made a move.

Tamlin and Lucien spent the rest of the night researching, theorizing, and planning until their eyes burned. They spoke of the council, the most strategic places to station Bel’s males, the sort of tricky Autumn Court espionage they’d need to look out for. It had been ages since the two of them worked together like this, questions and answers and more questions flowing between them, a constant analysis of risk and benefit.

Tamlin only left the room to collect Aoide, after which he had promptly returned until she’d interrupted. Tamlin should have know Aoide would have grown suspicious of their behavior, her curiosity getting the better of her. It was in her nature to poke and dig, observe and question. It was one of the things he liked most about her.

Spending the day with her was a welcome reprieve from the doom that awaited them in the library. One look from those obsidian eyes was all it took to ground Tamlin. Hearing her play his mother’s song soothed some ancient hurt within him, returned a lost piece of himself that he’d forgotten was missing.

Tamlin could not give that up. He’d read every book in that library if he had to. He’d make concessions, beg and plead with Bel to lend him her militia. He’d bend to Beron if it meant Aoide was left unharmed — and not just because the bargain compelled him to.

It would be different this time. He would be different this time.

Or he’d die trying.

Chapter Text

Iris held the vellum between her slender fingers, lifting the delicate piece of parchment up toward the light. She muttered a series of notes to herself, squinting behind a pair of wire-framed glasses resting on the tip of her nose.

“Where did you find this? It looks ancient — and that’s coming from me,” Iris asked.

“My friend gave it to me to transcribe. He thinks it was written by his mother-’s ancestors,” Aoide said, stumbling over her words.

Aoide spent the last several evenings hunched over her desk in the cottage, struggling to work through the latter half of Tamlin’s mother’s composition. The notation was too foreign, too complicated to piece together on her own. None of the interpretations she drafted sounded right, as though she was missing some crucial part that tied it all together.

Asking Iris for help had been a last resort. Aoide felt protective over the composition, reluctant to let anyone else discover what secrets lay hidden in such a remarkable piece. Aoide was determined to figure it out, not just for the sake of her own stubbornness, but as a gift to Tamlin.

“Huh,” Iris huffed.

“What?” Aoide asked.

Gently, Iris laid the composition on her desk and hopped down from her stool. Aoide watched as Iris rustled through a pile of pamphlets and loose sheets of paper shoved in a drawer.

“Now where is that - ah!” Iris said

Iris pulled out a stack of crumpled booklets and tossed one to Aoide. She smoothed out the pages, noting the care taken to bind the booklet together. The paper was dyed the color of a robin’s egg, the edges of the pages deckled. The margins were decorated with childlike drawings of flowers, leaves, twinkling stars, sunbursts, and snowflakes.

“Songs of the Blessed,” Aoide mumbled, reading the cover. “What is this?”

“Before the wall fell, there was a group of fanatics that used to travel between villages called the Children of the Blessed. They worshipped the faeries like gods,” Iris said.

“What happened to them?” Aoide asked.

“Dead, probably, if they were foolish enough to cross into faerie lands. Before they had the good sense to disappear, they dropped off these booklets to the shop. They wanted us to spread the music of our benevolent masters,” Iris said, rolling her eyes.

Aoide felt a chill travel down her spine. Had Tamlin come across these fanatics? There had been no sign of humans at the manor, or anywhere in the Spring Court, from what Aoide could tell. What sort of creatures had the Children of the Blessed encountered, and where were they now?

Aoide pushed the thought from her mind. She flipped through the booklet, analyzing the notation in each of the pieces. Although not as complex as Tamlin’s mother’s composition, there were similarities in the way the music was written. She noticed common symbols and matching refrains, clues to the logic that held the pieces together.

Carefully, Aoide overlayed the gauzy vellum on the booklet, analyzing the pieces together. None were an exact match, but there were enough commonalities to help Aoide work through the parts of the song that were too faded to comprehend. It would take her some time to fully transcribe the piece, but she was certain it was possible to reconstruct Tamlin’s mother’s music with the help of the booklet.

“This is exactly what I needed. Thanks, Iris-“

“Now hold on there,” Iris said, placing a hand on the booklet. “Your little tale about your friend may have satisfied your Uncle, but I know a woman in love when I see one.”

Aoide felt her whole body flush at that word — love.

“I’m not in love,” Aoide said, stalling the conversation until she figured out what to say.

Iris snorted, keeping an iron grip on the booklet as she stared at Aoide with her smoky grey eyes. Aoide tried to keep her face neutral despite the blush working its way down her neck.

“Lying to yourself as well, then?” Iris quipped.

Aoide tugged on the booklet and Iris pulled it back, tutting at Aoide as she shook her head.

“He’s a friend, nothing more,” Aoide insisted.

“And what do you know of this friend? Did he explain why his mother was in possession of faerie music?” Iris asked.

“I know what I need to know.”

Iris narrowed her eyes, dissatisfied with Aoide’s answer. The two of them remained locked in a standoff, neither of them daring to blink as they gripped either end of the booklet. Iris opened her mouth, preparing a retort, when Phineas walked through the shop door.

Iris’ grip loosened and Aoide ripped the book from her grasp, grateful for the distraction her Uncle provided. She stuffed the book in her leather bag and rounded the corner of the counter toward Phineas.

“Perfect timing, Uncle,” Aoide said with a grin. “Shall we head home?”

“Hello, Iris,” Phineas said.

He dipped his chin, bowing his head awkwardly. He didn’t seem to register Aoide’s presence, his dark eyes focused solely on Iris.

“Phineas,” Iris responded.

Aoide looked between the two of them, feeling the tension that settled in the shop. She’d asked Phineas if they could stop by the shop earlier that morning, but she hadn’t detected anything odd in his reply. Now, standing between them, Aoide couldn’t help but notice how well groomed her Uncle was, his sandy grey hair neatly parted to the side and his mustache freshly trimmed.

“Good-bye then,” Phineas said abruptly. He turned to leave, not waiting to see whether Aoide followed.

“Wait,” Iris said “Your handkerchief.”

Iris pulled a clean, folded handkerchief from her pocket, handing it to Phineas.

“You can keep it,” Phineas said, walking out the front door.

Aoide matched his stride, her legs working twice as hard to keep up with him. She glanced back at Iris, who tucked the handkerchief away before shooting a pointed look at Aoide. Aoide gave her a cheeky smile and wave in return, before catching up with her Uncle.

“What on earth was that?” Aoide asked, bounding out of the shop.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Phineas said.

I guess denial runs in the family, Aoide thought.

“Did you and Iris..are you two-“

“No,” Phineas said. “Where would you get that idea from?”

Phineas sped up now, forcing Aoide to break into a jog to keep up with him. She nearly collided with a group of townsfolk as Phineas weaved through the crowded village square.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe from that entire interaction,” Aoide said nonchalantly.

Phineas turned suddenly, sending Aoide jolting back to avoid crashing into him. Phineas ran a hand through his hair, mussing his tidy curls.

“I made a fool of myself. I should go apologize-“

“Hold on there, Uncle,” Aoide said, grabbing his arm. “You don’t want to scare her.”

“You’re right,” Phineas nodded. “What’s done is done.”

Phineas set off again toward the cottage, shuffling past the villagers gathered for market day. Aoide hurried to catch up, picking up her skirts to avoid tripping over the uneven stone path. It wasn’t until they were out of the village that Phineas began to slow down, the peaceful hum of the woods filling the silence between them.

“Are we going to talk about what just happened?” Aoide asked delicately.

“I’d rather not,” Phineas replied, his face growing uncharacteristically red.

“Got it,” Aoide said.

Aoide dropped it, knowing all too well what it felt like to be on the receiving end of that sort of interrogation. Phineas hadn’t pushed Aoide to share anything, and she was keen to return the favor.

Aoide wondered what Phineas and Iris liked about one another. The two of them could not be more different in Aoide’s eyes. Phineas was grave, exacting, orderly. He did not speak unless he had something important to say, preferring to keep his thoughts to himself. She’d never met anyone as patient as her Uncle, so constant in his unwavering commitment to help whoever he could.

Iris, on the other hand, was fiery and stubborn, almost to the point of surliness. There was no pleasantries, no markers of fine grooming or etiquette in the way she spoke, but Aoide couldn’t deny her charm. Iris didn’t care if you were a beggar or a baron, so long as you were honest.

Aoide’s parents had been the same — starkly opposite in nearly every way, yet perfectly matched. There was no argument that either escaped unscathed, no show of affection that wasn’t returned and magnified. Separate they were whole, if not flawed, people. Together, they were something else entirely. What was it that kept them together, the thread that connected all those disparate parts into a whole? Aoide wasn’t sure if they knew either, if anyone truly understood such things.

Aoide wondered what impression she and Tamlin gave off. She imagined Lucien had laughed himself silly at the sight of them together, like a cat playing with a mouse before devouring it. Phineas and Iris might have been opposites, but at least they were both human. She could not say the same for her and Tamlin.

Iris had been right about one thing — what did Aoide really know about Tamlin? He had over five hundred years of history that she hadn’t bothered to learn. Lifetimes worth of experiences, habits, likes, and fears. Their time together was as insignificant as a rain drop in a summer storm.

Aoide had known Hal for two years before they kissed, and longer before she had lain with him. They spent countless evenings and early mornings together, talking until there was nothing left to say. She knew every freckle, every curl, every imperfection that marked his handsome face. That seemed more akin to love than whatever existed between her and Tamlin.

And yet…Hal had never made her feel like Tamlin had last week. Hal was a shameless rake and a generous lover, but he couldn’t make her knees tremble with one look. She’d never been driven mad at the thought of his hands on her, never felt that undeniable tug on her heart when he said her name.

Aoide felt her own pace quicken now, anxious to return to the cottage. As soon as they arrived, Aoide locked herself away in her room and pulled out the booklet and Tamlin’s mother’s composition. She tried to force herself to focus on decoding the last few sections remaining, but she couldn’t stop the parade of questions running through her mind.

What was Tamlin’s favorite flower? What forms did he enjoying shifting into the most? When did he learn to play the fiddle?

Aoide pushed the booklet aside and pulled out the notebook she used for recording symptoms and treatments for her patients. She opened to a fresh page, writing down every question that came to mind. What was his family like? When did he meet Lucien? Had he always wanted to become High Lord?

Maybe it wasn’t possible to know it all — to ask five hundred years worth of questions. Did it really matter whether Tamlin had a sweet tooth, or preferred to sleep on the right side of the bed? What did it take to love someone, to know their soul as if it was a part of your own? What was the thread that held them together, despite all their differences?

Aoide heard a soft knock at her door, followed by the rasp of the old hinges. Quickly, she covered her notebook with a piece of unfinished sheet music before Phineas popped his head into her room.

“Are you hungry Aoide? Your dinner is growing cold.”

Aoide hadn’t noticed the room growing darker. She must have spent hours filling the book with her questions, her mind in a flurry.

“I’m sorry, I hadn’t realized it was ready.”

“What is it you’re working on?” Phineas asked.

He brought a bowl of stew to her desk and glanced at the parchment in front of her. Aoide shoveled in a few spoonfuls and took a bite of bread before she made a few marks on the sheet music.

“A new piece. Something for Iris to play on her zither,” Aoide lied.

“That sounds nice,” Phineas said.

Phineas pulled a matchbook from his pocket, lighting the candle on her desk. The flame on the fresh candle crackled to life, illuminating her room.

“You shouldn’t work in the dark. You’ll strain your eyes,” Phineas said, ever the practical healer.

Aoide slurped down the rest of the stew, suddenly aware of her hunger. She polished off the rest of the bread and returned to the sheet music, feigning a befuddled look as she wrote and re-wrote the same phrase again.

“Don’t stay up too late,” Phineas said. He grabbed the bowl off her desk and closed the door behind him.

As soon as the door latched, Aoide returned to her questions, jotting down a few more before she felt satisfied. She rubbed her bleary eyes, exhausted from a long day of appointments and Iris’ prodding questions.

It was remarkable how full her life had become since arriving in the Mortal Lands, her days ricocheting between the mundane and the unbelievable. One moment she was an ordinary human woman, and the next, a fearless companion to a faerie High Lord. Her life in Neva paled in comparison.

Aoide returned to the booklet Iris had given her, running her fingers across the drawings in the margins. Iris believed the Children of the Blessed had died when they crossed into faerie lands, but at least one of them must have survived. Otherwise, how would they have made the booklet? Somewhere in that great expanse was a human who cherished music, wished to memorialize and share it, just like Aoide.

Aoide wished she could show Phineas and Iris the wonders that lay just beyond the forest. She wanted them to smell the sweet Spring breeze, lay in fields of endless flowers, drink from the cold, clear streams. She knew if they saw it, they would understand why she lied and deceived them. Why she returned every week, despite the danger.

Aoide sighed, slumping in her chair. She wasn’t sure how long she could keep up her visits to the Spring Court. It was a miracle that Phineas hadn’t figured it out yet. If he returned early from work and found her missing, she’d have no good explanation for her whereabouts. And now, with Iris poking around, it only felt like a matter of time before everything fell apart.

Aoide heard the bedroom door creak open. She turned, expecting to find Phineas in the doorway about to lecture her on the importance of a good night’s sleep for one’s cognitive function. Aoide prepared her rebuttal, but found only darkness staring back at her.

One moment, Aoide was in her chair. The next, she was kneeling on the floor, her whole body trembling. Her skin was pebbled with goosebumps despite the warm breeze floating through the open window. It was as though a black curtain had fallen over her mind. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was horribly, terribly wrong.

Aoide glanced at the candle on her desk, the wax half-melted. She could have sworn Phineas was there only moments ago, lighting the fresh wick. She felt stomach churn with silent panic.

Slowly, Aoide rose from the floor. She listened for the sounds of footsteps, of breathing — anything that might indicate that someone was in the cottage. She tiptoed to the opened door, peaking out into the main room.

The door whined as Aoide pushed it open. Her breathing grew erratic, bile burning her throat as she dared to step through the doorway. Wildly, she scanned the room, squinting in the darkness. Her eyes could not register any threatening figures shrouded in the corners. She spotted a bread knife on the table and grabbed it, holding it close to her chest.

Painstakingly, she made her way across the room, avoiding the creaking floorboards as she headed towards Phineas’ room. She cracked open his bedroom door, gripping the knife in her free hand.

Although his room was pitch black, Aoide’s eyes adjusted. She could see the outline of her Uncle Phineas’ profile, the gentle rise and fall of his chest. She listened for the sound of his light snoring before she closed the door.

Relief coursed through her at the sight of her Uncle, safe in his bed. She crept back to her room, deciding not to blow out the candle as she crawled into bed. She tucked the knife under her pillow, unable to shake the feeling that someone — or something had been there.

No, that was ridiculous. The cottage was completely empty, aside from herself and Phineas. Aoide must have fallen asleep at her desk. Perhaps she had been sleepwalking again.

Yes, Aoide thought, that must be it.

She stared at the wavering flame, her eyes growing swollen with fatigue. It wasn’t until dawn burned red across the horizon that Aoide fell asleep.

—

Deep in Spring Court territory, Tamlin, Fabian and Lucien hid behind the broad trunk of a willow tree. The moon was round and full, bright enough to get a clear view of the militia encampment. They’d spent the past hour and a half scoping out the patrol along the wall, waiting for the change of the watch.

“Why is it so damn muddy,” Lucien griped, flinging a clump of mud off the heel of his leather boot.

“It’s a militia camp,” Tamlin said.

“It hasn’t rained for days,” Lucien groused.

“You get used to it,” Fabian said.

“Gods, I hope not,” Lucien muttered.

Fabian leaned against the tree, whittling a nub of wood with a fixed blade, unbothered by the stench and the filth of the encampment. For Tamlin and Fabian, the reek of unwashed males, spilled booze, and shit was nostalgic. It was a scent that neither could wipe from their memory — and not for lack of trying.

It was easy for Tamlin to forget how green Lucien was when it came to the brutal conditions of war and occupation. Two hundred years his junior, Lucien had the rare luck of never serving in a war band or an army. He was skilled with a sword and capable enough in hand-to-hand, but he was no battle-hardened warrior.

That was a good thing, at least when it came to their plan. Fabian insisted that Tamlin play the role of the savage brute, the notoriously cruel High Lord prone to outbursts and violence. Lucien would act as the polished emissary, the only one capable of persuading Tamlin to compromise. If Bel pushed too far, it was Tamlin who would need to frighten her enough to guarantee her cooperation.

As for Fabian, he was their “in” — the one responsible for convincing the patrol to let them through the gates. Fabian knew one of the guards on the wall, an old friend from the village. He’d managed to turn that friendship into a shaky association with Belladonna, or Bel, as she preferred to be called. Fabian organized a few trades for supplies in the past, but with grain and fresh food growing lean, the relationship had become strained.

Tamlin didn’t want to think what it would take to fight their way through the encampment if things took a turn for the worst. All three of them were armed to the teeth, mostly for show. Fabian and Tamlin understood that showing weakness was a death sentence, one that Bel would gladly carry out herself. Laying waste to the entire camp was not an option either, which meant they had little room for error in their approach.

Tamlin rested a hand on the pommel of the blade strapped to his thigh. He rolled his shoulders, easing the tension that sang throughout his body. His fighting leathers pulled against his broad chest, the
hide creaking from the strain. Violence hummed in his very marrow, a trained response to the brutal aura that hung over the encampment.

It was in that quiet moment of anticipation that Tamlin felt a tug on something deep in his gut. A sudden, sharp pain that urged him to turn around. A whispered cry floated on the breeze, telling him something was wrong. Fear coated his tongue with a metallic tang.

“Do you feel that?” Tamlin murmured.

“Feel what?” Fabian asked.

Just as quickly as the feeling came, it passed. A sour taste hung in the back of Tamlin’s throat, burning all the way to his stomach as he swallowed. Tamlin took a deep breath, trying to track down the scent trail again.

“It’s time,” Lucien interrupted, pointing to the bobbing lantern lights along the wall.

Tamlin remained still, stretching his awareness as far as he could — past the miles of heavily wooded forests, beyond the silent manor, all the way to where the wall once stood.

“Tam,” Lucien said, bringing a hand down on Tamlin’s shoulder.

He pushed further, fighting against the limits of his power as his awareness reached Aoide’s cottage. He closed his eyes, picturing the squat but well-kept house in his mind. He searched for any sign of distress, but could find no trace of it.

“It’s now or never,” Fabian said, shifting his weight between his feet.

Tamlin took one last breath before he turned away. As planned, he changed his features to resemble the beast, but did not allow himself to fully shift. His claws pushed through the scarred skin of his knuckles, his jagged antlers crowning his head like a vicious crown. Tamlin felt the beast looking out through the slits of his pupils, his eyes glinting with a primitive violence.

Fabian turned away, grimacing at the sight of Tamlin’s transformation. Lucien’s face hardened, but he did not balk as Tamlin became something that was not quite the beast, but not himself either. Grotesque, angry, hungry.

“Mother save us,” Fabian said, under his breath.

Fabian left their observation point first, walking into the torchlight illuminating the exposed stretch of land in front of the gate. Lucien and Tamlin remained in the shadows, waiting for Fabian to negotiate with the guards.

“Oleksander,” Fabian called out, waving a hand to the guard manning the gatehouse.

“Fabian,” Oleksander shouted, “Bel’s not in the mood for visitors tonight. If you’re here to discuss a trade, come back next week.”

“I’m not here to trade,” Fabian said.

A few of the other guards along the wall gathered closer, eyeing Fabian suspiciously. Two males knocked an arrow in their bows, the muscles in the forearms twitching as they assessed the situation. They scanned the horizon, searching for threats tucked away in the forest. Aside from Oleksander, most of the males were young, no more than half a century old. Tamlin could smell the anxious spike of caution as they prepared for an assault.

“Then state your business,” Oleksander ordered.

“I am here on behalf of our High Lord. He wishes to parley with Bel.”

A peal of laughter cut through the tension, the males howling like hyenas. Lucien gripped the dagger at his side, his knuckles turning white at the insult.

“I think you’re hitting that jimsonweed liquor a little too hard, you old git,” Oleksander choked out between hysterics.

His cackle sent the males into another fit of laughter, slapping each other’s backs as they taunted Fabian, pretending to stumble around like a merry bunch of drunks. Fabian looked over his shoulder, looking for back up.

“So much for the plan,” Lucien whispered.

Lucien emerged from the darkened tree line, his stride languorous as he joined Fabian in the clearing. Lucien’s expression was frigid, but his golden eye sparked with the intensity of a wildfire.

“I suggest you listen to the git and open the gate,” Lucien said.

The laughter died on the males’ lips at the sight of Lucien’s red hair and fine clothing. The mood shifted from mocking to active alarm, the males drawing their weapons.

“Autumn Court!” one of the guards shouted.

Tamlin watched as one of the younger guard pulled back his knocked arrow, his fingers slipping as the corded hemp twanged. He watched as the arrow arced, aiming straight for Lucien’s chest. Tamlin surged forward and plucked the arrow out of the sky, snapping it in two in his claws.

It took a moment for the males to register what happened, their minds scrambling to comprehend Tamlin’s horrific visage. Tamlin watched as their jaws went slack, a hush settling over them. Not a single one of them moved, the whites of their wide eyes glowing in the torchlight.

Weak, incompetent fools, the beast grumbled.

“Open the fucking gate,” Tamlin growled. “NOW.”

A trumpet sounded in the distance as the gate groaned open, the males scrambling over each other to crank the wheel. Tamlin smelled their fear, like rancid meat left to rot in the sun. The beast purred, pleased by their servility.

“My apologies, High Lord,” Oleksander said, kneeling as they passed the gatehouse. Tamlin could not bear to look at him.

There was a familiarity to the camp, its layout near-identical to the war band encampments Tamlin knew from his youth. The bivouacs and tattered canvas tents closest to the gate housed the most junior of the militia, the grunts responsible for repairing and maintaining weapons, cleaning latrines, and caring for the horses.

Two training pits lined the path leading to the center of the camp, both filled with males looking to waste their gold on grudge matches. Although brutal on the surface, Tamlin knew that sanctioned barbarism was one of the few ways for the males to let off steam without ripping the camp apart.

The valuables were kept at the center of the camp, guarded by the most senior warriors. Tamlin trudged through the labrynthian network of tents, which grew larger as they drew closer to Bel’s center of command. It was much quieter there, the experienced warriors preferring the solitude of their private lodgings.

Tamlin ignored the unnerving silence that settled throughout the camp. He could smell the acrid scent of ammonia, a few of the younger males pissing themselves at the sight of their bestial High Lord. The older males tucked themselves away in their tents, wise enough to know trouble when they saw it.

Tamlin did not linger as he made their way to Bel’s tent, flanked by Lucien and Fabian. He did not want to draw undue attention to their visit, lest some cocky male decide to test their mettle against the disgraced High Lord. Tamlin did not care for the taste of blood, even less so when it belonged to his subjects.

The beast, on the other hand, was prepared to tear the camp apart. Tamlin felt it skulking around in his mind, waiting for a moment of weakness to seize control. It was difficult for Tamlin to keep the beast’s impulses in check, the sounds and smells around him like clarion call to that roiling pit of rage inside him.

As they approached Bel’s tent, two guards blocked the entrance, crossing their pikes in front of the tent flap. Tamlin sized up both of them, stony-faced and still. He wondered why Bel needed guards stationed outside her tent — if her males were growing weary of inaction, their stomachs rebelling against smaller and smaller rations.

“Unless you’d like that pike to replace your spine, I suggest you move,” Tamlin snarled.

Neither of the guards moved an inch. Tamlin drew close to them, his maw dripping with malice as he dared them to deny their High Lord. He snarled, expertly playing the tempestuous beast they all expected him to be.

“Let the bastard through,” a tinkling voice ordered from inside the tent.

Tamlin did not wait for the guards to step aside. He brought his elbow down on the larger of the two males, smashing his nose with such force that his face immediately bruised. The male crumpled to the ground, Tamlin’s attack as brutal and efficient as a lightning strike. The other male wisely stepped aside, keeping his eyes on the ground.

Fabian gave Tamlin a quick nod, a reminder to stick to the plan as they confronted Bel. He believed they could show no sign of weakness, offer nothing beyond their agreed terms. There was little room for error in navigating such a fraught and deadly partnership.

Tamlin paused at the entrance to the tent. How many times had he lingered outside his father’s tent, waiting for the silence that followed after he finished beating the chambermaid? Tamlin glanced down at the male he’d just dropped, a mound of purple-blue flesh where his nose once was. He could hear the stories they’d tell, whispers about their fiendish High Lord, cruel and grotesque. A nightmare to scare the youngest males into submission.

Tamlin couldn’t do it. Not as himself. He couldn’t walk into that tent and bend Bel to his will, expect her to hand over the males she cared for in his stead. But he could not let Beron cross that border without consequence, either. He was in this hellish place in the hopes he could stop his whole court from turning into a muddy, gruesome battlefield.

The beast sensed his hesitation and lunged for control, shoving Tamlin to the back of his own mind. Tamlin didn’t fight it. He let go, feeling himself snap and float above his body, tethered only by a thought — a set of dark eyes, a warm smile, a bubbling laugh.

Aoide. He would do what he needed for Aoide.

The beast tore through the tent flap, shredding the canvas with one swipe of its massive claw, stalking toward the table in the center of the room. It muddied the plush, ornate rugs that lined the floor, shaking the lanterns as a gust of wind sent the whole tent flapping.

It was at the head of the table that the beast found Bel, perched on a stack of books and sipping from a thimble. If she was frightened of the beast, she did not show it. Her ruby eyes shimmered with disdain.

“Look who finally pulled his head out of his ass,” Bel spat. “And I see you’ve brought along your sycophants.”

Fabian hung near the entrance of the tent, watching for any signs mutiny. News of what happened at the gate was rippling through the camp, whipping the males into a flurry of activity. It was crucial that they did not waste one moment, risking violence if they did not hurry.

The beast prowled around the table, circling Bel. Tamlin watched himself from above, finding it odd how he could still feel his body moving despite being detached. He could sense the anticipation in the room, smell Bel’s earthy scent, taste the salt and copper filling his mouth as the beast’s sharp canines bit into his cheek.

“This is how you greet your High Lord?” the beast asked, its voice rumbling through Tamlin’s chest like thunder.

“We have no High Lord,” Bel snapped.

The beast snarled, ready to pounce. Lucien placed a hand on the beast’s chest as if he meant to calm it, and bowed his head toward Bel.

Bel perked up at the sight of Lucien, her pea-flowered complexion turning rosier. Her iridescent wings buzzed as she floated over, her look of disgust turning to lasciviousness.

“And who are you?” she purred, zipping around Lucien like a troublesome insect.

“Lucien, Emissary to the Spring Court. We’re here to parley,” Lucien said.

“That sounds boring,” Bel sighed. “I was hoping for some bloodshed.”

“That can be arranged,” the beast barked.

“Don’t tempt me,” Bel shot back.

“Bel,” Fabian warned, “Don’t do this.”

“I’d much prefer she did,” the beast growled.

Lucien sighed. He uncorked one of the bottles of wine and poured three glasses. He pulled out a chair, motioning for the beast to sit.

“If the two of you are done with your cock-measuring contest, I’d like to discuss avoiding our mutual destruction,” Lucien spat.

“Aren’t you a saucy one?” Bel winked.

Tamlin watched the beast slink over to the chair and sit. It did not sip from the goblet of wine, preferring to lick its chops and simmer. Tamlin wondered what Aoide would think of this version of himself — whether she too, would grimace in disgust like Fabian had earlier.

“Go on then, emissary,” Bel sighed, already looking disinterested. She settled on a stack of books on the table and took a sip of wine.

“We have reason to believe Beron Vanserra is planning an attack on the Spring Court,” Lucien said.

“What else is new?” Bel muttered.

Lucien continued on, undeterred by Bel’s snide remark.

“High Lord Tamlin is willing to offer you a seat on his council in exchange for the support of your militia,” Lucien said.

“You expect me to hand over my males for some cushy position as his puppet? That useless dog left us all to rot. Try harder, emissary,” Bel rumbled.

The beast gripped the arms of the chair, splintering the wood under its claws. Tamlin felt the shards dig into his hands, but the beast only clamped down harder. Blood dripped on the carpet, a steady pat, pat, pat.

“In addition to a council seat, High Lord Tamlin is willing to provide weapons from his personal stores and a permanent garrison stationed at his second estate,” Lucien offered.

Bel picked at something underneath her minuscule nail. She didn’t bother to deign Lucien’s offer with a response, more interested in grooming herself.

“You’ll be granted the title of General to the Spring Court Army, and serve as the High Lord’s third, with council approval,” Lucien said.

“Now we’re talking,” Bel grinned. “I’m inclined to accept your offer.”

“We’ll draft terms-“

“Ah, ah,” Bel tsked. “I’m not finished. I’m inclined to accept, but only if the beast gets on his hands and knees in front of my camp and begs.”

Fabian abandoned his post at the front of the tent, his ice-blue eyes boring into the beast.

Stick to the plan, his eyes seemed to say.

If Tamlin gave into Bel’s demand, they risked being seen as weak, desperate. Kneel in front of her males and they’d connive and coup until they succeeded in overthrowing Tamlin’s reign. Fabian and Lucien both knew this — it was the reason for their little act. Tamlin would scare them enough to submit for as long as they needed. Make an example out of a few males, and save the rest of them from war and subjugation. If the beast tore a few of them apart, then it was a worthy sacrifice.

This is the role they asked him to play. The savage, brutish High Lord. The deadly, irrational beast. This is who he was told he must be in order to survive. To rule. To conquer.

Tamlin stared into the blissful nothingness that beckoned him, that black vortex that numbed the bone-deep ache within him. Ancient voices whispered to him of damnation, the retribution that awaited him. Centuries of bloodshed, betrayal, and cowardice. Generations of immoral debts, for which his suffering would serve as recompense. Offer his soul to it, and remain trapped in his own body. Become the beast, and forgo all hope of salvation. Feel nothing — no pain, no sorrow, no fear.

No beauty. No truth. No love.

He was so gods-damned sick of it.

Tamlin forced the beast to the back of his mind, banishing it to that endless pit.
He let himself settle back into his body, shifting his features back to that of the handsome high fae. Tamlin had made a promise to himself that it would be different this time. If he couldn’t make good on that now, he never would.

PATHETIC, the beast roared in Tamlin’s mind.

“Enough,” Tamlin said.

Tamlin rose from the chair, ignoring the worried looks that Lucien and Fabian exchanged. This was decidedly not the plan.

“We need you, Bel. We need your males. I will admit this to you, so long as you admit that you need us,” Tamlin said.

“We don’t need you. We never did,” Bel seethed.

“How long have your males sat idle since I restored the wards? How many weeks until your rations grow meager? How many of your poorly disciplined recruits will desert at the first sign of trouble?” Tamlin asked.

Silence settled over the tent. Bel took a sip of her wine, gazing downward as she swirled her thimble.

“I can give your males a purpose. I can redirect supplies to keep them fed and clothed. I can work with our allies in the Summer Court to train your warriors,” Tamlin said.

“I’m supposed to send them off as cannon fodder?” Bel spat. “Clothe them, feed them, and train them so they can die for your ruinous name?”

“So they can die with honor, Bel,” Fabian murmured.

“Fuck your honor,” Bel shouted. “What good is honor to a corpse? To a hysterical widow with children to raise?”

“I don’t know,” Tamlin said. “But it’s better than the alternative.”

Bel let out a bitter laugh. She floated over to Tamlin, flying close enough to his face that he could hear the patter of her tiny heart. She met his jeweled stare, both of them refusing to blink.

“Have your emissary draft the terms. But make no mistake, High Lord — it is you who is responsible for their lost souls,” Bel said, poking her finger into Tamlin’s chest.

“It always was,” Tamlin said.

Chapter Text

A bite of early Autumn air drifted on the humid breeze, sending a shiver down Aoide’s spine. She rested her head against the rough bark of an oak tree, the sharp nubs digging into her scalp. Above her, once-vibrant green leaves rustled, some of them prematurely floating and falling to the ground.

It had been difficult getting out of bed after her sleepless night. Adrenaline coursed through her at the slightest sound, her eyes catching on every shadow. Aoide was certain she looked like death warmed over. She felt like it too, her temples pulsing painfully as she tried to remember the lost moments that left her curled up on the floor like a frightened child.

Aoide poked at her memory like a tongue feeling for a loose tooth. She knew what losing consciousness felt like — the cold sweat, the ringing ears, the tunnel of black — all culminating into that gentle slide into non-existence. Here, gone, and back again.

Whatever happened the night before had been different. Her mind knew more than it was willing to tell her, a sensation that set Aoide on edge. She could feel that secret knowledge taunting her like a stubborn bud that refused to bloom. The more she tried to unravel it, the harder her head throbbed.

Phineas brewed her a tonic, which provided only momentary relief. None of the usual herbs seemed to help, stumping both Aoide and Phineas. He insisted she remain in bed, prescribing copious amounts of tea made from willow bark and feverfew. As soon as he left, Aoide dressed and headed off to meet Tamlin.

The weekly trek through the forest had become one of Aoide’s favorite routines. She was seldom alone, her days filled with endless appointments. She had come to learn that healing was a noisy profession, filled with the cries of sick children, the complaints of ornery patients, and the bellows of recent widows. Aoide began to understand why Phineas enjoyed the quiet so much.

Tamlin’s manor was peaceful. She had never lived in a quiet home, her family frequent entertainers for the sake of her father’s business. Even when there were no guests, there were staff whirling around, preparing for a dinner party or soirée.

Neva was always buzzing with activity, too. Before the curfews, Aoide had spent raucous nights out in the city with Hal and his troupe of artists, returning to her bed only when the sun began to rise. Rowdy taverns, packed dancehalls, seedy pleasure houses — Aoide had experienced it all, devoured every salacious detail and let it inspire countless compositions.

When Tamlin appeared in the clearing, he hardly made a sound. Aoide could smell the cedar and lilac before she could hear the sound of the brush parting, or see his prowling figure. There was something about his silence that comforted her, steadied the constant thrum of her pulse.

Aoide did not dare disrupt the quiet tension that grew between them as Tamlin made his way toward her. She didn’t know what to say, not after what happened between them in the music room. It seemed impossible to Aoide that such feelings could exist between them. That her wanting was reciprocated. To speak of it felt like sacrilege, as if the sound would wake some sleeping god who would deem her unworthy.

The first thing Aoide noticed as Tamlin approached her was his beard — or the lack thereof. In that bright morning light, Aoide felt like she was seeing him for the first time all over again. The golden stubble on his cheeks caught in the sun, sparkling like grains of sand. She’d never noticed the curve of his top lip or the angular cut of his jaw. Tamlin’s skin radiated like the warm glow of a candle in a dark room. Aoide’s mind flashed back to the half-melted wax on her desk from the night before, a beat of pain thumping in her head. Aoide’s teeth ground together as she pushed away the sharp ache.

Tamlin was next to her in a blink, as if he could sense her discomfort. His hand rested gently on the base of her neck as his emerald eyes scanned her from head to toe.

“Is something wrong?” Tamlin asked. His usually calm voice peaked with worry.

“I’m fine,” Aoide said with a wave of her hand. “You shaved your beard.”

“You don’t like it,” Tamlin said, his expression surprisingly sheepish.

Aoide felt him shiver as she brought her hand up to his cheek, running her thumb over the stubble. She smirked, enjoying how easy it was to rile him.

“It’s different,” Aoide said.

“Different in a good way?” Tamlin asked.

He turned his head and kissed her palm. Aoide’s breath hitched at the feeling of his soft lips pressed against her skin.

“I didn’t realize my opinion on your grooming habits mattered to you,” Aoide responded.

Tamlin trailed another kiss on her wrist before taking her hand in his, weaving his strong fingers between hers. He looked down at her, the corners of his lips quirking at her subtle jab. Tamlin leaned closer, his lids hanging heavy over his brilliant green eyes.

Just as Aoide’s lips parted, she felt the ground drop from her feet, her stomach following after. She squeaked, clamping her mouth shut as Tamlin chuckled. Aoide should have been embarrassed, but she was too delighted at the rumble of his laugh to care.

“You did that on purpose,” Aoide lightly chided.

“I thought you’d appreciate a little mischief, troublemaker,” Tamlin said. His smirk had progressed into a shameless grin. Aoide’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of it.

“Is that meant to be a challenge, beast?” Aoide asked. She quirked a brow, a nonverbal challenge that seemed to rile something within Tamlin. She watched his pupils grow larger, only a thin slice of green iris visible.

Aoide took his reaction as a personal victory. She dropped his hand and walked across the estate, letting her hips sway with each step. Aoide could feel the heat of his stare, those blown pupils dark and full of want. Aoide rode that intoxicating blend of power and desire all the way to the manor.

Although Tamlin had tidied the manor to prevent further decay, there was still a wildness to it. Wildflowers and clover took over the stone pathways, cut back only enough to allow Aoide through. Birds nested in sheltered crannies, their young crying out for their mothers. Ivy crawled on every surface, the deep green leaves shuddering with the breeze. Aoide pretended she was a fertility goddess and the delightfully unmanaged estate was her fruitful palace.

Aoide strode into the music room, surprised to find it already occupied. Lucien leaned over a table set in the middle of the room, accompanied by a familiar-looking faerie. The piano had been pushed aside, as if it was merely set dressing for whatever business they were conducting. Aoide noticed the windows lining the wall were still cracked, some of the fissures spidering across several panes.

The faerie froze as he registered Aoide’s humanness. She wondered what gave it away — was it her round ears, her complete lack of grace, or something else?

“Human,” the faerie whispered, as if he had just discovered the last of a near-extinct species. His pale eyes grew wider as Lucien glanced up, gave Aoide a nod, and said nothing more.

Tamlin cruised into the music room, lightly resting his hand on Aoide’s back. She felt his fingers graze the row of buttons that ran down her spine, her posture going rigid as he fingered a few of the delicate clasps.

“Aoide, meet Fabian. He’s one of the council members,” Tamlin said, nodding toward the faerie.

“I remember you from the village,” Aoide said. She bowed her head and curtsied politely, unsure how to react to Fabian’s unsettling stare.

Fabian’s brow furrowed at her comment, as if he was trying to place her. He crossed the room in a few strides, drawing close to Aoide as if he was in a trance. She noticed his rich and furrowed complexion, like the bark of an ancient tree, and found herself fascinated with the way it crackled as he moved.

Tamlin edged around Aoide, blocking her with his body. Fabian reacted suddenly, jerking back as if he hadn’t realized how close he’d gotten to her.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, but not to Aoide.

Aoide placed a hand on Tamlin’s shoulder, gently nudging him away. Tamlin relented, albeit with some resistance, but did not leave her side. She joined Lucien at the table, looking over his shoulder at the curling piece of parchment in his hand.

“What’s all this?” Aoide asked.

“Council business,” Tamlin replied.

Aoide took a closer look at the documents on the table, running a hand over a well-worn map of the Spring Court. A few markers had been placed along the borders shared with another faerie territory marked as “Autumn Court”. More markers were huddled around in another location she didn’t recognize, somewhere deep in the Spring Court wilds.

Soldiers, she realized.

Aoide felt her stomach churn at the thought of another war. She noticed that there were no markers along the border with the Mortal Lands, which remained sparsely detailed compared to the rest of the map. Neva wasn’t even on the map, a whole sea away from the simulated suffering that Lucien and Fabian played out as they shuffled around the markers.

Aoide picked up one of the figurines and studied it closely, noting the fine detail work. She could see the little pointed ears and a tiny sword clasped in the warrior’s hands. She wondered how many souls one marker represented. How many lives she held between her fingers, so easily discarded.

“That’s not a toy,” Lucien said. He plucked the figure from her hands and placed it back on the map. His golden eye clicked relentlessly, scanning the map as if he was watching a battle unfold in real-time.

“Is Amun here, too?” Aoide asked. She glanced around the room, but could not see the wispy male. She wondered if he’d seen prophecies of war and whether anything could be done to stop it.

“She knows Amun?” Fabian asked. He looked between Lucien and Tamlin, dumbfounded by their lack of awe.

“She was the one who convinced him to join,” Tamlin said.

Fabian looked at Aoide again, his gaze lingering on her scar. Aoide turned away, running the back of her knuckles over the puckered flesh. It was easy to forget it was there, especially when neither Tamlin nor Lucien seemed to pay it any mind.

“I’d advise keeping her away from Bel,” Fabian said, idly moving a marker around before returning it to its previous position.

“I’d advise keeping everyone away from Bel,” Lucien muttered ruefully. Fabian let out a quiet snort in agreement.

“Who’s Bel?” Aoide asked. She turned to Tamlin, who was also focusing on the map in front of them.

“Another council member,” Tamlin said, providing little in the way of details. “Why, Fabian?”

“She has a fascination with humans. She likes how…unpredictable they can be. Not to mention they have a particularly strong reaction to pixie dust,” Fabian explained.

“Pixie dust?” Aoide asked, her voice ringing with a troublesome chime. The look of curiosity on her face seemed to trouble Tamlin, who frowned down at her.

“Don’t get any ideas,” he warned her, his voice low. Aoide tried not to tremble at the sound of it, or the way his eyes darkened in warning.

“How else will I maintain my air of unpredictability?” Aoide asked, wagging her eyebrows.

“Do you two mind flirting somewhere else?” Lucien barked, his voice thin with frustration.

She noticed that Lucien was a bit more disheveled than usual, his fine clothes rumpled and his brilliant red hair mussed. He’d barely said a word since she arrived, his focus glued to the map in front of him.

“What’s got your britches in a twist?” Aoide prodded.

“Why don’t you both take a break? Walk the grounds, get some fresh air,” Tamlin said. He left Aoide’s side and gave Lucien a firm pat on the shoulder.

Although it sounded like a suggestion, both Lucien and Fabian responded to it like an order, abandoning their posts around the table. Lucien shot Tamlin a mildly displeased look before retreating to another room, leaving the two of them alone.

“Is he alright?” Aoide asked, cocking her head toward the closed door.

“Lucien will be fine,” Tamlin said. Aoide caught the flash of worry that twisted his mouth before the mask of calm returned. “Would you like to play something?”

“Actually, I was hoping we could talk,” Aoide said.

She pulled out a chair and sat at the table, careful not to disturb any of markers on the map, lest she feel Lucien’s wrath. Aoide patted the chair next to her, motioning for Tamlin to sit.

“Talk about what?” Tamlin asked, slipping into the seat next to her.

“You, mostly. I know so little about you,” Aoide said. She pulled out her notebook from the satchel slung on the back of her chair and cracked it open.

Tamlin shifted in his seat, trying to sneak a glance at her scrawled handwriting. “There’s not much worth knowing.”

“Then it shall be a quick conversation,” Aoide said, holding the notebook close to her chest.

“What’s in there?” Tamlin asked. He reached out a hand to snatch the book from Aoide, but she only grasped it tighter.

“Questions,” she said coolly.

Tamlin leaned back in his chair, the wood groaning under his weight. A bemused grin graced his lips. “Is this an interrogation or a conversation?”

“That depends on you,” Aoide said, mirroring Tamlin’s graceful repose.

Tamlin was silent as he assessed her. A beam of sunlight shone through the windows, setting his golden hair aglow. It was a miracle that Aoide summoned enough self-control not to toss the notebook across the room and jump on him right then. But Iris’ frustratingly accurate words rang in her head —

And what do you know of this friend?

Not much, judging by the sheer number of unanswered questions in the notebook.

“Go on then. Ask your questions,” Tamlin said. He crossed his arms, his muscled biceps visible through the thin cotton of his tunic. Aoide made it a point not to look at them.

She cleared her throat and peeled the book off her chest, searching for an easy question to get him comfortable. Although he looked relaxed, Aoide could see the ridge of his jaw pulsing.

“What’s your favorite color?” Aoide asked, crossing the question off with a quill.

“I don’t have one,” Tamlin responded.

“Then make one up,” Aoide said. “And don’t say green,” she added, jabbing the quill in Tamlin’s direction.

Tamlin leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Why not?”

“You’re the High Lord of Spring. It’s cliche,” Aoide said as she scribbled in the margins of the notebook. She thought of his sparkling verdant eyes and couldn’t think of a more beautiful color.

To his credit, Tamlin seemed to take the question seriously. He rubbed the side of his face, the stubble bristling under his touch.

“Brown,” he said, after a few beats of silence.

“Brown? Your favorite color is brown?”

Tamlin took a strand of her hair between his thumb and forefinger and twisted it. She felt her scalp tickle. “What’s wrong with brown?” he asked.

“You’re no fun,” Aoide sighed.

Tamlin gently tugged on the end of her hair before he dropped the strands. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Fine,” Aoide said. She tossed the notebook on the table, the pages splayed open. “A question for a question seems fair enough.”

“Why the piano?” Tamlin asked.

“My mother thought it was more ladylike than the harp or a flute. You also can’t run away in the middle of the night with a troupe of vagabond musicians if your instrument is eight hundred pounds,” Aoide said.

She recalled how her mother used to brag about how playing piano had given Aoide her excellent posture and her delicate fingers. As if appearances were the only thing her talent was good for.

“Is that what you wanted to do? Run away with a merry band of musicians?” Tamlin asked.

“It was one of my more impractical daydreams,” Aoide admitted, a bit embarrassed by how foolish it sounded. “Why don’t you shape-shift more often?” she asked, eager to move on from the thought.

“It requires a considerable amount of magic and concentration to take another form. It’s not just a parlor trick. Every fiber of my being, right down to my very essence, reforges itself into something new,” Tamlin explained.

Aoide wondered if Tamlin realized what a gift it was — to be able to change himself. To soar far above all his troubles, watch them grow smaller and smaller as he drifted on an updraft. To let the current of a clear, cold stream pull him into the endlessly churning sea and never look back. To hide in the petals of a budding tulip and gorge himself on sunshine and nectar.

Perhaps he was too responsible for those sort of idle fantasies. She supposed a High Lord could only neglect their duties for so long before there were consequences.

“Why did you help me that night in the forest?” Tamlin asked.

Aoide chewed on her bottom lip, trying to think of a good answer. “Because you were dying and it was the right thing to do,” she said.

That was partly true. It’s what Aoide had told Phineas, but it was not the only reason. Something inside her snapped like a broken bowstring when she saw the beast in that clearing. It hadn’t been a conscious decision, rather an impulse that she could not find the strength or common sense to deny.

Aoide knew Tamlin could hear the thump, thump, thump of her racing heart as she recalled the beast’s miserable groans. She had never let herself consider that the beast had been Tamlin all along — Tamlin bleeding to death. Tamlin crawling toward her, his green eyes begging her to do something. Tamlin’s labored breathing warming her face as she tied off the stitches, his body limp and pale.

Aoide looked away, blinking rapidly until her eyes stopped burning. She flipped through a few pages in the notebook, pretending to consider her next question. There was one that stuck out more than the rest, the letters traced over until the ink bled through the page.

“Have you ever been in love?” Aoide asked, her voice no more than a whisper. She wiped at the smudged words with her forefinger, too afraid to look at Tamlin.

“Yes,” he said.

Aoide tried to swallow the lump forming in her throat, but found her mouth had gone dry. She stared at the question, the letters blurring as her eyes grew unfocused. She felt an ache form between her ribs, squeezing painfully with every breath.

It was foolish to be disappointed by his answer. He was a five hundred year old faerie for goodness sake. Of course he had his fair share of dalliances, likely with faeries far more beautiful and practiced than she. Aoide knew from her father’s tales that the fae were much less inhibited when it came to such relations.

Aoide felt herself growing smaller with every moment of silence that ticked between them. It was Tamlin’s turn to ask a question, but Aoide could not stop herself from knowing more, even if it turned her insides into liquid.

“What happened?” Aoide asked.

It took everything within her to look up from the table. When she did, Aoide found that she did not like the way Tamlin looked. His body was both crumpled and stiff, as if it physically pained him to speak of such things.

“She found someone else. Someone who could give her what she needed,” Tamlin said.

“I’m sorry.”

Liar, Aoide thought. She wasn’t sorry — not one bit — and that made her feel miserable and guilty.

Her mind drifted to the room with covered canvases and the portrait of Tamlin. She tried to quell the jealously that roiled in her gut. The idea that someone else had come to know him so intimately, memorized the exact shade of green to paint his eyes made her want to scream.

You’re not special, she told herself. She let that thought sear itself into her mind.

“Have you ever been in love?” Tamlin asked.

“No. At least, I don’t think so,” Aoide answered, her tone more indignant than she intended.

She stood up from the table and walked to the windows, her eyes catching on the destroyed section of the garden. She felt that black pit within her chest pulse as she thought of Hal begging the city watchmen to just kill him and be done with it.

“I find it hard to believe that you did not have suitors back in Neva,” Tamlin said, cautiously edging toward her as if she would chew him up and spit him out if he got too close.

“Of course,” Aoide said. “My mother harangued every eligible bachelor for miles.”

“And not one of them interested you?” Tamlin asked.

Aoide pulled her shoulders back, ignoring the weight of Tamlin’s presence behind her. “Marriage did not interest me,” Aoide said.

She turned to find Tamlin closer than she’d expected, his face mere inches from hers. She couldn’t bear to look at his lips, knowing how they felt pressed against hers. Aoide turned her attentions elsewhere, her eyes tracing the hairline cracks in the window.

“What about you, High Lord? Where’s your suitable wife?” she asked.

“Marriage is nothing more than a formality for the fae. The only truly lasting covenant we honor are mating bonds,” Tamlin said.

Aoide wrinkled her nose. “That sounds so-“

“Animalistic?” Tamlin said, taking the words out of her mouth. “It can be, if the male is a brute. Not that either faerie in a mating bond has a choice. It’s pre-determined by the Mother Goddess.”

“And you have a mate?” Aoide asked, the word like acid on her tongue.

“I don’t know. Some faeries spend centuries alone before they find their mate. Others die having never met them,” Tamlin said.

Aoide turned to Tamlin. He was staring at the gaping hole in the garden. “That’s terrible,” Aoide said.

“I’m not sure it is. My parents were mated, though for the life of me I don’t understand why. My father was a traditionalist. A hateful, violent slaver. When he wasn’t beating humans half to death, he was torturing his offspring,” Tamlin said.

Although his tone was cold and measured, Aoide could feel the heat of an inferno, hot enough to boil blood, burning somewhere deep within Tamlin. Slaves had likely built this manor, scrubbed the tiles under her feet until their knees bruised, died under the yolk of brutal ownership. She wondered what those restless souls would think of her — if they could look past the veil of oblivion and see a human woman traipsing around the manor like she owned it.

“But my mother,” Tamlin said, his voice going soft, “my mother was kind, gentle-“

“Lonely,” Aoide murmured. Tamlin’s eyebrows knit together as he looked down at her. “I could feel it in her composition. It’s a beautiful piece, the bits I’ve transposed, but it’s…haunting,” Aoide said glumly.

Tamlin brushed a stray hair off Aoide’s neck, the feeling of his delicate touch sending a shiver through her. “What about your family?” he asked.

“You’ve already met my Uncle Phineas—“

“The human male with the crossbow,” Tamlin nodded.

“Yes, though normally he’s not so…hostile. He and my mother are similar. Serious, exacting, quiet. My father on the other hand,” Aoide said with a rueful laugh.

She could almost hear his thunderous laugh now, echoing down the tiled hallways. Aoide would do anything to see him swinging his mother around in a clumsy dance, the two of them giggling like fools in love. Only her father, with his impish grin and ribald humor, could bring that side out of her.

“My father is loud and foolhardy and delightfully charming. He could look at a muddy puddle of water and wax poetic about how the oily surface reflected the light. It made him an excellent art dealer, but a terrible businessman. I suppose I should thank my mother for ensuring the Achlys coffers were always full.”

How many evenings had Aoide crept past her father’s office to find her mother amending the books? She’d work late into the night, adding missing zeroes and balancing the accounts until the oil lamp ran out of fuel. It reminded her of Uncle Phineas, hunched over his desk while he polished the joints of a prosthetic limb until they were perfectly smooth.

Aoide hadn’t said goodbye to her mother. Maybe it was better that way. To see her mother’s face, the look of despair and disappointment etched into her dark eyes, would be like looking in a wretched mirror.

“Achlys — is that your surname?” Tamlin asked.

“Yes. My mother always thought it sounded too harsh, like we were a family of warlords or mercenaries,” Aoide said.

“Aoide Achlys,” Tamlin said, his voice quiet and reverent. He turned to Aoide, resting his large hands on her waist and pulling her closer.

“Tell me yours,” Aoide said.

She tucked her arms against him, running her fingers over the gold embroidered vines that adorned his tunic. She breathed in his scent, a heady mix of fresh cedar, sweet lilac, and earthy soil. She ignored the impulse to bury her face in his chest.

“Glyndŵr,” Tamlin said.

“Tamlin Glyn-dŵr,” Aoide said, stumbling over the strange syllables. It was unlike any name she’d heard back in Neva, but beautiful nonetheless. “Glyndŵr,” she repeated, letting the constants settle in her mouth.

Tamlin gave her waist a firm squeeze, kneading the soft flesh with his fingers. Aoide heard a quiet rip, followed by the feeling of a sharp claw grazing a bare slice of skin above her hipbones. Her core turned molten at the thought of Tamlin using those claws to tear her clothes to shreds.

Aoide looked up, her heart skittering at the sight of Tamlin’s fervent stare. Slowly, agonizingly, he lowered his mouth to meet hers. She felt his stubble rub against her soft skin, delighting in the sensation. Aoide parted her lips, letting his tongue sweep over hers, tender and languorous. She cupped Tamlin’s jaw between her hands, pulling him closer.

She heard herself whimper, a needy whine, as Tamlin pulled away. He nuzzled his face into the crook of her neck before biting down on the fleshy part of her shoulder. Aoide gasped, throwing her head back as Tamlin licked his way up to her earlobe.

“Aoide,” Tamlin groaned, his voice hoarse and breathy.

“Tamlin,” Aoide responded, struggling to say his name between panting breaths. She squeezed her thighs together, trying desperately to quell the throbbing heat between her legs.

“Do you think of me when you are all alone in that little cottage? When you lay in your bed at night-“

A sudden, excruciating stab of pain cleaved through Aoide, like a dagger had been thrust right through her skull. She pushed away from Tamlin, stumbling backwards as black spots clouded her vision. She tasted blood, coppery and warm, filling her mouth.

A series of images flashed in her mind — the candle melting on her desk, wax dripping over the edge and hardening on the floorboards. Two pairs of polished leather boots, one pair well-worn and the other impeccable. A knife with an obsidian hilt, the silver lettering on the scabbard glowing in the dim light.

A particularly vicious throb knocked the air out of her lungs, her whole body tensing in agony. Aoide dropped to her knees, rocking back and forth. She pressed the base of her palms against her temples, trying to relieve the immense pressure building inside of her head. She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stop herself from crying out—

“Tamlin,” she sobbed. “My head-“

She felt Tamlin scoop her up in his arms, cradling her close to his chest as he winnowed to the bedroom. Faintly, she could hear the bang of a door being thrown open, panicked voices shouting over one another, as she writhed on the bed.

She knows something, a voice whispered. She must.

She’s had enough.

Tell us where he keeps them. Tell us what he uses them for—.

“Please,” Aoide begged. “I don’t know anything. I-I don’t-“

Who taught you that little trick? Who-

Aoide felt a set of hands hold her down. She thrashed as hard as she could, but their grip grew tighter, forcing her deeper into the feather mattress. She felt her chin hit something hard, her jaw already aching from the forceful contact.

“STOP,” Aoide screamed. “Don’t touch me.”

In the corner of her awareness, Aoide sensed him. Despite her delirium, she knew it was Tamlin’s rough, strong hands that cradled her head, felt him press his palms against her forehead while he whispered her name, over and over again, like a prayer.

A quiet hum reverberated through her body, silencing the deafening roar that pounded in her ears. A pleasant, tingling numbness travelled from the bottom of her feet all the way to her scalp. Every muscle in her body went limp, the pump of blood slowing and cooling in her veins.

Aoide felt herself begin to drift, like a petal on the breeze, tethered only by the feeling of Tamlin’s thumb stroking the scar on her cheek.

—

Tamlin woke on the side of a grassy hill, the first rays of the sunrise warming his face. His skin was damp with morning dew, the droplets beading and rolling off his chest. Slowly, he dragged himself into a sitting position, an ache settling between his ribs.

The mourning doves cooed in the nearby brush, their solemn calls accompanied only by the gurgle of a nearby stream. Tamlin hobbled over, cupping handfuls of water and rinsing the taste of blood from his mouth. The silver minnows followed his fingers, nibbling at the bits of flesh stuck under his nails.

The beast slumbered, tucked in the darkest corner of Tamlin’s consciousness, gorged on the blood and terror of whatever poor creatures crossed its path. He was grateful for the silence, the burden of his magic lighter after a night of utter devastation.

Tamlin shored up the last of his strength, winnowing back to the manor before the sun rose over the horizon. The estate grounds were silent, aside from the persistent whirring of Lucien’s golden eye.

He was waiting for Tamlin in the foyer, tapping his foot impatiently like an overworked and underpaid governess. Tamlin ignored the sharp look on his friend’s face, heading straight up the grand staircase and plopping onto the unmade bed.

“And good morning to you, too,” Lucien grumbled. He ripped the sheet off Tamlin and gave his ear a flick. Tamlin let out a weak growl in reply, too exhausted to manage a fiercer rebuff.

“Where’s Aoide?” Lucien asked.

“Home. Safe,” Tamlin wheezed, his sore ribs screaming with effort. Lucien squeezed the bridge of his nose and let out a deflated sigh.

Tamlin should have came back after winnowing Aoide, but he could barely think straight. He’d been so close to losing it, the beast roaring at the sound of Aoide’s cries like a clarion call. It had taken every bit of self-control not to tear himself apart, his heart about to burst from the sudden jolt of adrenaline coursing through him.

Aoide fought like hell as Lucien and Fabian held her down. She clawed and kicked like a caged animal, so fierce and terrified that Tamlin ordered them to stop. He couldn’t bear the sight of it, even as her body seized violently.

When he pressed his palms to her forehead, conjuring all of his power to try and heal her, he felt it — like someone had poured molten ore in his skull. He could taste the blood that dribbled down the back of her throat, filling her mouth. The pain was unbearable, nearly driving him mad. The memory alone was distressing enough to rob the air from his lungs.

As soon as she’d been stabilized, Tamlin brought her to the cottage. It was dangerous to cross into the Mortal Lands, but he could not leave her weak and delirious in the middle of the forest. There was no other option than to winnow into her bedroom, quickly and quietly, before anyone noticed his presence.

Carefully, he tucked her under the homespun quilt on her narrow bed, brushing a few stray hairs from her face. He marveled at her fierce beauty, relieved to see her at ease. He ran the back of his knuckles over her freckled cheek, memorizing the shape of her prominent nose, the exact shade of her rosy lips, the way her dark eyelashes curled.

He could spend another five hundred years staring at Aoide and it would still not be enough.

Tamlin found himself lingering in the spartan room, shamefully poking around the belongings on her desk. A few worn books on various surgical procedures and medicinal plants, a set of surgical tools, a stained apron slung over the chair, and a small mirror covered with a black chiffon scarf.

He thumbed through the open trunk at the foot of her bed, finding some personal effects, a handful of composition books, and the triptych he’d seen all those weeks ago. It was hard to believe that the sum total of Aoide’s life had been reduced to a few practical belongings. There was almost nothing of sentimental value, aside from the miniature portraits and a letter he’d found hidden in the pages of a notebook.

This is wrong, Tamlin thought, but he couldn’t stop himself from unfolding the parchment. He ignored the guilty feeling that unsettled his stomach, telling himself that there could be useful information about Neva, or her family, or the piano.

The letter was vague and sparse on details, only mentioning the piano briefly. It seemed her lady-in-waiting, Veronique, was involved in her father’s art business. If Lucien could get in contact with Veronique through his source, look deeper into the allegations that the Achlys’ were involved in smuggling, they may turn up something useful. Tamlin was not convinced Aoide’s father had obtained the piano through strictly legal means, especially if it had come through Montesere.

“Tamlin?” Aoide croaked, the bed shifting as she stirred awake.

Tamlin slipped the letter between the pages of the notebook and jumped to Aoide’s side before her eyes fluttered open. She was wan and bleary-eyed, but seemed no worse for wear, aside from the bruise forming on her chin.

“I’m here,” Tamlin said. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, her skin warm and damp with sweat.

“You shouldn’t be,” Aoide said. With great effort, she pulled herself up to face Tamlin. “If Phineas finds you here-“

“He’ll shoot me with that ash arrow,” Tamlin said. “Or he’ll try.”

Aoide let out a small huff and winced. “I wouldn’t risk it. I have a feeling my uncle is a good shot.”

“Noted,” Tamlin said. “You had us all scared.”

Aoide shrank, as though she was ashamed. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened. Ever since last night-“

Aoide stopped, her face twisting into a grimace. She let out a strained sigh, as though she was struggling to finish her sentence. Her face grew flushed, sweat collecting on the ridge of her brow.

“Don’t push yourself,” Tamlin said, gently nudging her to lay down. He wasn’t sure he could withstand seeing Aoide suffering again.

“Listen,” Aoide said, her voice growing thin. “Something odd happened to me last night. I was sitting at my desk and then…”

For a moment, Aoide’s sparkling eyes glazed. Tamlin felt his stomach plummet to the floor at the sight of her blank expression, like a candle being snuffed out. He gave her shoulder a light shake, which seemed to awaken her from her stupor.

“Was I…what was I saying?” Aoide muttered.

“What happened last night?” Tamlin prompted her.

Aoide clamped her eyes shut, her body beginning to tremble. “I’m trying to tell you, but I can’t.”

“Why not?” Tamlin asked.

“Because I can’t remember,” Aoide said, pressing her palms against her closed eyes. Tamlin could feel her heart begin to pound again, the scent of her fear radiating off of her in nauseating waves.

“It’s okay,” Tamlin said, pressing his hand to her forehead. “You need to rest,” he cooed, channeling his power to soothe her pain.

Aoide let out a sigh of relief as the healing magic took effect. She settled on her side, drawing her knees to her chest before she drifted off to sleep. He wanted to crawl into bed next to her, wrap himself around her small, vulnerable body and hold her. He needed to feel the soft curve of her back against his stomach, nuzzle his face in the crook of her neck and let her scent wash over him.

But Tamlin couldn’t do that. He needed to get as far away from the cottage as possible before the flicker of rage burning within him ignited. There were two faeries capable of such memory manipulation, and only one cruel enough to use it on a human.

You failed. You could not protect her, the beast purred. Only I can keep her safe.

Tamlin ground his teeth together, feeling the beast bearing down on him again. He barely made it out of the cabin, feeling himself begin to shift as he stumbled toward the dense tree cover. Moments after crossing the border, the beast wrested control, and Tamlin obliged. He needed a little taste of oblivion. There was too much tension and power coursing through him that was in need of release.

He spent the rest of the night letting the beast do as it pleased, which seemed like the lesser of two evils at the time. The pinched look that Lucien was giving him made Tamlin rethink that decision.

“You can’t just run off like that,” Lucien hissed. “You scared Fabian half to death.”

Tamlin flopped on his side, turning his back to Lucien. “Please, Lucien. Save it for another time.”

“We don’t have time, Tam. The piano arrives in one week. Bel’s troops are hopelessly disorganized. And now Aoide is suffering from some mysterious attack—“

Tamlin sprung off the bed, a swell of rage coursing through him. His claws ripped a hole in the mattress, feathers fluttering around them as Tamlin paced the room. Every muscle in his body screamed from exhaustion. Lucien stepped back, eyeing the door.

“It’s no mystery,” Tamlin seethed. “You and I both know what it looks like when a mind has been re-arranged.”

Lucien blinked. “You think Rhys had something to do with it?”

“Aoide said something odd happened to her last night, only she couldn’t remember what. It seemed like when she tried to recall it, her mind was…fighting it. Like someone had wiped her memory,” Tamlin said, the words hissing out between his clenched teeth.

Lucien cringed at the thought. “Perhaps he had a good reason-“

“Listen to yourself. Making excuses for that bastard. Is it because he holds your pretty little mate over your head like a-“

“Do not talk about Elain that way,” Lucien warned, his voice low and rumbling. The air faintly crackled around him as embers sparked and turned to ash.

Traitor, the beast hissed.

Tamlin pushed away the thought. He couldn’t fault his friend for defending his mate’s honor, nor did he envy the position Lucien was in. A position they both had a hand in creating, but a difficult one nonetheless.

Tamlin slumped on the edge of the bed, the last of his energy drained from his sudden outburst. Lucien’s posture relaxed, though he kept his palm on the hilt of his dagger.

“What good reason could Rhysand possibly have for invading Aoide’s mind?” Tamlin mused.

Although Tamlin was loathe to admit it, Lucien had a point. Rhysand could be vicious to his enemies, but Aoide was an innocent human. To cross into Mortal Lands, risk undoing the delicate peace that existed between their kind—

He did it to put us in our place. To show us he can, the beast growled.

There was a part of Tamlin that wanted to believe that Rhysand had done it for sake of petty grievances. It would be much easier to deal with him that way. To fuel the centuries-old blood feud with more righteous hatred, let it curdle the remaining parts of his soul until violence was the only viable solution. How gratifying it would be to show Feyre she had had chosen the villain, the sort of male who shatters minds for the sake of it.

But hadn’t Rhysand tried, albeit in his own arrogant way, to get through to him? He’d visited a few times before it all went to hell, trying and failing to convince Tamlin to care enough about his miserable life to ward his lands. It hadn’t worked, but he had tried.

“He was rather…distraught over Elain’s visions,” Lucien admitted.

Aoide, the piano, and Beron. There was something that connected them all — something that Rhysand had begun to piece together, or had been trying to prove. But why did he target Aoide? What could she possibly know that warranted such a brazen and risky mission?

“Rhysand knows something we don’t,” Tamlin said.

A bad position to be in, especially when it came to the Night Court. Many believed the precious jewels and minerals buried beneath its thin, rocky soil were its most valuable resource, but they were wrong. It was knowledge, particularly in the form of hushed whispers and ancient secrets, that maintained Night’s influence over Solar and Seasonal Courts alike.

“It has to be about that damned piano. I searched all of the Night Court libraries, looking for any mention of it. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing,” Lucien said, clearly exasperated by the amount of effort it took.

Tamlin got the feeling that the information they were looking for would not be found in books, nor any recorded histories. If the piano was special, an object of significant magical power, it was likely wiped from their collective memory.

“I found a letter when I brought Aoide to her cottage. Her lady-in-waiting works as her father’s assistant. If we can make contact with her, convince her to do some digging-“

“We can try and trace the piano’s origins back to the faeries who sold it to him.” Lucien murmured. “If it was smuggled goods, there might not be much to go on.”

“It’s the only lead we’ve got,” Tamlin said. “Unless you think you can glean some information from Rhysand.”

Lucien shook his head. “I doubt he’ll be willing to tell me anything, especially if he’s figured out about Aoide’s visits. I find it more likely he’d subject me to the shadowsinger,” Lucien said, his eyes growing dark.

“Then we’re on our own,” Tamlin said.

Lucien sighed, taking a moment to collect himself before grabbing his ripped coat off the back of a chair. Aoide had torn the arm clean off as Lucien tried to restrain her. If Tamlin hadn’t been so terrified, he would have laughed at the shocked look on Lucien’s face.

“We have one week,” Lucien said, his expression grim. “Any chance the ship sinks on the way here?”

Tamlin let out a soft snort, throwing himself backwards and landing on the torn mattress, a few feathers flying out. He listened to the sound of Lucien’s footsteps padding out the door.

“Lucien,” Tamlin called out. “Thank you.”

The footsteps stuttered, if only for a brief moment, before they echoed down the hall and out the front door.

Chapter Text

“We did all we could,” Phineas said solemnly. “It is a difficult procedure, even under ideal circumstances.”

Aoide scrubbed at the stubborn blood stains on her apron, the fabric piling at the friction. She had been at it for an hour, hunched over the wash basin until the water grew cold. A whirl of thoughts occupied her as she soaked, scoured, and wrung out the cotton. Phineas gave her a pat on the shoulder, a comforting gesture, but Aoide was not upset. Much to her horror and disbelief, she was fascinated by what she had seen.

One of the villagers had sustained a wound to the chest and miraculously lived long enough to hobble into the town center, the dagger still lodged near his breast bone. They had done everything according to the latest surgical techniques recorded by eminent scholars on the Continent, but it hadn’t been enough. The wound had been too deep and the patient had waited too long for adequate treatment.

Aoide never got used to the look in a person’s eyes before they died. There was always a flickering moment, a flash of fear before the calm, that unsettled her. The man, who Aoide later found out was named Sivan, had looked right at her before he passed on. Through the haze of the poppy milk, he seemed to recognize he was dying. Sivan grabbed at her apron and tugged like a child yanking on his mother’s skirts as foamy blood sputtered from his mouth.

Aoide wanted to look away. She should have been focusing on clotting the flow of blood or suturing the wound, but she couldn’t. His panicked eyes made a silent demand and Aoide abided.

I see you, Aoide thought. You will not die alone.

Phineas asked the family whether he could conduct an autopsy for educational purposes. Such grave wounds were not common during times of peace, but they were frequent and deadly enough during wartime to justify developing effective treatments.

“Every failure is an opportunity to learn and improve,” Phineas insisted.

The family, although reticent at first, agreed. Aoide had been surprised at their willingness. Far too often, families of the deceased accused Phineas of black magic or perversion. Aoide learned the hard way that objecting to such accusations only made the situation worse.

“Hideous, foolish girl,” one bereaved mother spat at her. “We see your mark of evil and rebuke your influence in our village.”

She had meant Aoide’s scar, which always drew attention during their appointments. The men who had survived the war with Hybern believed their disfigurements were a badge of honor, often comparing their battle scars and swapping grand stories of their triumph over death. The men assumed that Aoide’s scar had a similar story, one of heroism and perseverance in the face of impossible odds.

Aoide allowed their assumptions to persist, though not without some guilt. Her scar had been a punishment — a reminder of her greatest failure, her moral shortcomings, rather than a symbol of her bravery. She survived, but the cost of her life had been paid by others. The thought was enough to deter her from lifting the scarf off the mirror and facing whoever looked back.

Coward, Aoide scolded herself. She could poke around someone’s innards but she couldn’t bear to look at her own face.

The autopsy had been worthwhile. It was the first time Aoide had seen the inner workings of the human body. Phineas’ books made it seem like the body was an orderly system, with each organ clearly and meticulously sectioned off from the others in bright pinks and reds. The reality has been far messier and more crammed together than Aoide expected, a mass of nearly unidentifiable muscle and tissue. Phineas allowed her to take her time identifying each organ and system, until he was satisfied with her anatomical knowledge.

The dagger had pierced Sivan’s lung, the cavity filling with too much air and blood until it killed him. Phineas had worked quickly and efficiently, but death had been faster. Had the dagger pierced just a centimeter over, it would have missed any vital organs, slipping between his heart and diaphragm. Aoide poked at her chest, mapping out her own anatomy. She felt a phantom ache, as if she’d been pierced with the dagger.

“Has anyone survived from a chest wound?” Aoide asked.

“A few, yes. I’ve treated non-penetrating chest wounds with great success. Penetrating wounds are much harder, but if you are fast enough, then it is possible.” Phineas said. “We have a few books on the subject in the cottage. There are some fascinating records dating back to antiquity.”

When Phineas was finished examining the lung, the cadaver was neatly re-assembled and sewn up, the incision running from collarbone to groin. Unlike the surviving men in the village, Sivan would not get to show off his brutal scar and brag how he’d given death the slip.

Phineas was certain they had done the best they could given the circumstances, and Aoide believed him. But what could they have done with a little faerie magic? Tamlin had eased her suffering with nothing more than his touch. Although her memory hadn’t returned, the pain had vanished.

If she had brought Sivan to the border, begged Tamlin to help him, would he had lived? How many humans died from injuries and infections that could have been easily healed?

And what could the humans teach the faeries about tending to their land without the aide of magic? Humans had cultivated fruitful farms in poor conditions, managed through harsh winters and dry summers. With their shared manpower, villages on either side would be rebuilt in half the time.

It seemed a terrible shame. There was no wall bisecting the lands, no armed sentries guarding the borders. The only thing that kept the humans and the faeries separated were ancient inclinations, ancestral fears and generational mistrust ingrained in them since birth.

Neva had been a city of foreigners, positively brimming with conflicting cultures, practices, and beliefs. Those differences occasionally caused friction, and plenty of folks had their prejudices, but on the whole Nevans much preferred to focus on what they shared. It was what Aoide found most beautiful about her home.

Perhaps it was naive to think she could bring a little bit of the Nevan spirit to the Mortal Lands. Asking humans to find common ground with their own kind was one thing, but with faeries? Only the threat of their shared annihilation had brought them together in the past. There was not a single city or territory where their kinds mingled during peace.

Aoide rung out her apron one last time, hanging it over a chair near the hearth. Before she retired to her room, she glanced at her Uncle Phineas, who had spent the evening searching every surgical book in his collection for any mention of chest wounds. Whenever a patient died from a rare condition or disease, Phineas would become obsessed with finding better treatments. It would occupy every part of his mind until he was certain he learned all there was to know.

Phineas had never met her father. Aoide was certain the two of them would have gotten along, much to her mother’s chagrin. Phineas had left Neva just months before her father started courting her mother, and passage to the Continent was expensive. At least, that was the excuse he gave to Aoide. She was certain Phineas couldn’t bear to be away from his work long enough to permit a trip.

It was strange to think the same man who cared so deeply for his patients was willing to shoot a nearly-dead faerie with a crossbow. Phineas was reasonable, calm, a touch passive — but even he disliked faeries enough to kill one for simply existing. That was how deep the fear had eroded their souls. It was what they would need to overcome if humans and faeries were to live in harmony.

She considered telling Phineas about Tamlin right then, blurting out the truth just to see his reaction. The secret had begun to weigh on her, growing more burdensome each time she returned from one of her visits.

It was impossible to feel heavy around Tamlin. She felt at peace next to him, and not just when they were making music together. His hands never seemed to be far from her, and she was all too eager to feel them curled around her waist. Aoide could always sense something simmering away under his cool exterior. It thrilled her to feel his green eyes tracking her every movement, his gaze focused intently on her. He responded to her every word, every breath, every flutter of her heart, even if his expression revealed nothing.

The suitors Aoide’s mother forced upon her never listened to her the way Tamlin did. They were far too busy taking stock of her finery, or the extravagant furnishings in their townhouse. She hardly got the chance to speak, the men often babbling for hours about foolish business ventures, properly tailored suits, or their inane opinions on the Nevan tax system. It was always startling when they proposed marriage. Some stated their intentions before Aoide had opened her mouth to introduce herself.

But you don’t even know me, Aoide used to think. You don’t know me at all.

“That’s what marriage is for,” her mother told her. Aoide laughed the first time she said it, only to realize from her mother’s stony expression that she was not joking.

None of the men seemed particularly fond of her. They lavished her with gifts, whispered indecent thoughts of her beauty when her parents weren’t looking, made grand shows of their courtly intentions, but there was no longing in their stare. She was certain they’d shuffle her off to some second estate far away in the country as soon as she was with child, while they did as they pleased in her home and with her family’s money.

Salazar had been the worst of them all. She had known him since she was a child, and though he was only a lowly corporal at the time, his ambitions were well known among the Queen’s Guard. Their interactions had been brief at first — cordial bows, compliments on her piano playing. She couldn’t stand the smell of his sour cologne or the way he parted his slick black hair.

As Aoide came into pubescence, and Salazar rose through the ranks, his advances became more aggressive. Suddenly, he was not just at the balls and soirées, but luncheons and dinners too. He would stalk around the ballroom, following Aoide and her friends as they stumbled through waltzes, their limbs too gangly and the steps too unpracticed. He’d always find a way to sit across from her at dinners, staring at her with his dull brown eyes. After, he would corner her in the corridor, complimenting her relentlessly while Aoide found any reason to retire early.

Aoide stopped playing piano for a while. She hated the way he’d sneak up on her while she sat on the bench, her back to the door. He’d lay a pudgy hand on the back of her neck and lightly squeeze it when he thought no one was watching.

“What a pretty little songbird you are, Miss Achlys,” he used to whisper, his hot breath on her ear. Aoide wanted to scream, but she found she could not conjure enough breath to do so. Instead, she would freeze like a doe spotted in an open field, waiting for the horror to pass.

Her father caught him once. Salazar had sat next to her on the piano bench, his thigh pressed against hers as he rubbed the silk of her pink day dress between his fingers. Aoide looked away, focusing her attention on the wall of paintings, wishing she could leap into one of the landscapes and never return.

“Thaddeus.”

Salazar jumped up, giving her father a too quick bow. “Ambrose. I was just telling Aoide-“

“Why don’t you join me in my office? I have a piece I think you may be interested in,” her father said, his voice thin with irritation.

Aoide waited until she heard her father’s office door shut before she crept down the hall, pressing her ear to the wall.

“What are you doing?” her father hissed. She had never heard her father speak in such a tone.

“I thought I made my intentions clear,” Salazar said, his voice measured. “I am courting your daughter.”

“She is thirteen, Thaddeus. You may court her after her debut, along with the other suitors,” her father said.

“She may be only a bud now, Ambrose, but it will be I who plucks the bloom,” Salazar said, his voice low and rough.

Aoide heard the scrape of a chair on the wooden floor, followed by the thump of heavy footsteps. She ran, all the way up the staircase, down the hall and into her room. Frantically, she locked the door, double checking the key had latched before crawling under her bed. It was Veronique who found her hours later, coaxing her out with the promise of hot cocoa.

Aoide never asked what happened between her father and Salazar that evening. She didn’t want to admit that she’d been eavesdropping. Salazar’s visits became less frequent afterwards, though Aoide still suffered through his lingering presence at balls. He would glare at her from the corner of the room, refusing to dance with the dozens of eligible ladies who approached him. The memory alone was enough to make Aoide nauseous.

She should have kicked him between the legs when she had the chance.

Aoide wondered what her life in Neva would’ve been like if she didn’t need to marry. Perhaps she would have run off with a group of musicians, touring the Continent and beyond. Or maybe she would have taken over her father’s business, working alongside Hal and his posse of bohemians and artists. Veronique would remain at her side, pursuing her own interests, both of them supported by the Achlys estate.

Aoide felt an ache for that imagined future, knowing it would never be. Even if her mother had given up on finding her a suitable match, Nevan society had its limits. Women of Aoide’s standing enjoyed lives of leisure, but those lives did not belong to them. They were part and parcel of their family’s fortune, another valuable possession amongst the gold and jewels.

If Tamlin had been a man, he would have been betrothed before he was able to walk. Lords were highly sought after, and not just for their fortunes. Although her father had a level of influence within Nevan society, his wealth couldn’t buy pedigree. The union between her parents had been beneficial to both in that sense. Her mother’s family descended from a long line of aristos, but their fortune had been squandered over generations. What one had, the other needed. From that practicality bloomed love, the sort that endures and grows more tender with age.

Aoide could sense an unpleasant thought rising to the surface of her mind. Something she had managed to ignore all week, a truth that she was afraid to recognize.

Somewhere out there, probably in a distant and remarkable faerie city, was Tamlin’s mate. The faerie who had been created for him by a goddess. Aoide envisioned someone lithe and graceful, their limbs long and toned with muscle. She imagined the way their cascade of hair trailed down their back, the glossy strands swaying as they strutted around the manor grounds. Their voice would be as soft as velvet, low and sultry, and they would smell of cinnamon and geranium. Powerful, elegant, and immortal.

Would Aoide shake her fist at the sky and demand that Tamlin was hers if his mate appeared one day? Surely a goddess wouldn’t take kindly to a blaspheming human. It wasn’t like Aoide could demand this Mother reconsider. The dye had been cast half a millennium ago, long before Aoide had taken her first breath.

Aoide lit the candle in her bedroom and dressed in her night gown. She ran her fingers through her hair, pulling at the knots that had begun to form in the growing locks. Aoide had forgotten how troublesome hair could be, and considered cutting it off again. She’d need to look in the mirror to do it.

Maybe another time, Aoide thought.

Aoide pulled the quilt up to her chin, letting the candle burn on the sill. She hadn’t been able to sleep in the dark since that night. She slipped her hand under the pillow, feeling for the serrated knife she kept tucked away. Before she let herself doze, Aoide made one small request of the goddess.

Just give me a little more time with him, Aoide begged. My life is nothing more than a blink in the eyes of eternity. A little more time is all I ask.

That night, Aoide dreamed of endless fields of pink camellias and purple heliotropes.

—

Tamlin and Fabian found Lucien sitting in the music room, his feet propped up on the table and a piece of parchment in his hand. The evening sun had just slipped below the horizon, the last beams of light fading into the blue dusk.

“Alive and in one piece,” Lucien smirked. “Does this mean the first council meeting was a success?”

“It certainly happened,” Fabian said under his breath.

The council meeting had gone as expected, which is to say that not much had been achieved. They convened at the second estate after Bel griped at the original plan to meet at the manor. Fabian wanted to refuse, insisting the manor was more neutral territory, but Tamlin was curious to see how Bel’s males were conducting themselves.

Lucien’s reports of disarray had been accurate. Some of the males treated their new accommodations as an opportunity to laze about, missing their early morning drills and neglecting their camp duties. The old sentry uniforms Tamlin had sent to Bel were sitting in a pile in the middle of the estate, not a single male donning the evergreen and gold threaded tunics and coatees.

They had helped themselves to the weapons stores and the pantries, both of which were cleaned out. Tamlin should have known giving a horde of bloodthirsty, starving warriors the run of the second estate would only end in pillaging. He didn’t bother to venture into the wine cellar, knowing full well that his father’s collection had been guzzled and pissed out on the first night. Tamlin hadn’t minded that — the less earthly evidence of his father’s existence, the better.

Fabian and Tamlin settled in the brightest and cleanest of the drawing rooms, deciding to forgo the pomp and circumstance of the more formal dining room. The mahogany table had been overturned and the curtains slashed to pieces anyway, which did not seem the sort of atmosphere that was conducive to collaboration.

Selene arrived at the estate first. Tamlin had not met the female formally, leaving Fabian to convince her to join the council. She was a Brùnaidh, known for their strength and diligence when tending to their lands. Her wispy hair was the color of cornsilk, her skin bronzed from long days of labor under the warm Spring sun. She brought a basket of milled wheat, a gift which Tamlin kindly refused. Selene looked to Fabian, who gave her a sympathetic shrug and guided her to the settee closest to the window.

Amun arrived next, the curtains framing the windows fluttering as he drifted in on the nectar scented breeze. He brushed his perpetually wind-swept hair away from his delicately featured face, giving Tamlin a short bow. It was more deference than Tamlin expected, but a show he was grateful for. He knew he needed to impress Amun, given his hesitancy to join.

Amun peered around the room, looking for something. “Will the human not be joining us?” he asked, his voice like a rasp of wind blowing through the trees.

“Human?” Selene whispered to Fabian.

“I’ll explain later,” Fabian said, patting Selene’s hand.

“Aoide has obligations to attend to in the Mortal Lands,” Tamlin said.

“She will join us next time,” Amun said, with a nod of his head.

Tamlin bristled, his canines pinching the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. He wasn’t sure if Amun’s statement was an order or a prediction. Fabian’s eyes flicked between them, the air in the room growing stagnant.

“Aoide will do as she pleases,” Tamlin responded.

Amun smirked. “That she will.” He settled in a high back chair, folding his hands neatly on his lap, unbothered by Tamlin’s silent stare.

Tamlin felt his claws poke his fisted hands, fighting the unexpected urge to throttle the male. It was a brutish inclination, but one he found difficult to ignore.

Don’t act as if you know her, Tamlin thought, the words sharp and bitter. He swallowed before he could spit them at Amun. A petty squabble is not how Tamlin wanted to start their first meeting, though he had no doubt one would likely ensue between Bel and her chosen target.

As anticipated, Bel was the last to arrive. She appeared a whole half an hour later than the designated meeting time, flanked by two doltish males. He recognized one of them from the camp, his nose still crooked from when Tamlin’s elbow met his face. The male kept his eyes on his worn boots, refusing to look at his High Lord.

Obedient little cur, the beast purred.

“Have I kept you all waiting?” Bel asked, her voice breezy and low. Fabian grumbled something unintelligible, making Selene shift in her seat. Amun seemed wholly unimpressed by the obvious attempt to shift the power balance in Bel’s favor.

“Not at all. We were just about to start,” Tamlin said coolly. “It appears you have your hands full, what with all the males lying about,” he added.

A subtle dig, but an effective one. Bel’s face twisted into the approximation of a smile, the toothy grin a little too vicious. Tamlin kept his expression neutral, but the beast hummed with satisfaction. He wished Aoide had been there to witness it.

With a sharp flick of her wrist, the males at Bel’s side dismissed themselves, closing the drawing room doors behind them. Bel perched on the arm of an upholstered chair, her ruby eyes glinting with malice.

Four sets of eyes settled on Tamlin, all of them waiting for a grand speech or an eloquent declaration. He realized how much he’d come to depend on Lucien for such diplomatic fanfare, allowing his friend to speak on his behalf for far too long.

Say something, you fool, the beast growled.

“Thank you for coming,” Tamlin said, the words coming out too fast. He took a breath, thinking of the leisurely way Aoide spoke, her voice gently rising and falling. He channeled that self-assured calm before opening his mouth again.

“I know the creation of this council came as quite a shock. But I can assure you, that you all been chosen for a reason. Each of you have been selected for an important task,” Tamlin explained.

“Some more important than others,” Bel muttered. Fabian shot her a pinched look, which Bel pointedly ignored.

“I will be looking to each of you to provide guidance on your respective expertise. If we are to rebuild our court, we will need to start with keeping everyone fed,” Tamlin said, looking to Selene.

“It is my honor to serve on this council,” Selene said, bowing her head. Fabian gave her an encouraging pat on the back, the gesture reddening her heavily freckled cheeks.

“Of course, food alone is not enough. We’ll need to rebuild most of the villages and resume trade as soon as possible,” Tamlin said, jerking his chin on Fabian’s direction.

“We already have a plan for that,” Fabian said, speaking to the group. “We’ll focus on the villages to the west first, resettling folks as we repair the salvaged cottages.”

And getting them as far away from the Autumn Court border as possible, Tamlin thought.

Amun nodded, as if he could hear Tamlin’s thoughts. “That is all well and good. But what of the Spirit? All will be for naught if we do not redeem ourselves in the eyes of the Mother.”

“Fuck the Mother,” Bel spat. “She abandoned us long ago, along with our sorry excuse for a High Lord.”

Amun clicked his tongue at Bel’s irreverence, which only seemed to goad her. Her papery wings began to buzz, her pink skin blossoming into a violent shade of red. “Why should we trust you anyway, beast? What’s stopping us from plucking that foolish crown right off your head and claiming this land for ourselves?” Bel asked.

Fabian gripped the hilt of his sheathed dagger. “Speak of treason again, and you will learn the might of the beast-“

Tamlin held a hand up, urging Fabian to settle. The male shrank at the gesture, realizing he had played right into Bel’s hand. Fabian plopped down on the settee next to Selene, the shame of his misstep etched into his craggy complexion.

Selene twirled a strand of her pale golden hair around her finger, her hazel eyes downcast. Amun seemed disinterested in the whole ordeal, preferring to focus his attention on the tiny cyclones forming in the palm of his hand.

“If you cannot take me at my word, perhaps a bargain will convince you,” Tamlin said.

All four of them perked up, the mere mention of a bargain enough to rouse their interest. Bel’s furiously droning wings lifted her off the chair, her diminutive form floating toward Tamlin.

“What sort of bargain?” Bel asked, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.

Tamlin ignored the look of mild horror Fabian was boring into the back of his head. “I will leave that up to you. Each of you will be granted one bargain. One reasonable bargain,” Tamlin said, amending his offer based on the look of pure delight in Bel’s eyes.

“Not you,” Fabian said, pointing at Bel. “You’ve been granted far too many gifts by our High Lord already.”

Bel opened her mouth, readying a fierce protest, but thought better of it. Appearing greedy in front of her fellow council members would not win her any favors. If she was to make a play for influence, she’d need at least two others to agree with her. She had strong armed her way with Tamlin, but such tactics did not yield results when it came to politicking.

“End the tithe,” Selene blurted, her voice shaking. “I will continue to serve on this council only if you commit to abolishing it.”

Tamlin looked at Selene, then at her small basket of flour — enough for two small loaves of bread. Bread that could feed a few starving faeries for a day. He realized her gift had not been out of kindness, but of fear. Fear that her meager yields would not be enough to satisfy her High Lord.

“Consider it done,” Tamlin said. He felt the magic of their bargain solidify, a thread of power weaving together and connecting the two of them in a solemn oath. Something seemed to lighten in Selene, her rounded shoulders lifting. She looked to Fabian, who gave her a gentle smile.

Tamlin looked to Amun, who was stroking his chin in thought. Tamlin’s stomach lurched as Amun’s quicksilver eyes met his, as if Tamlin’s body already knew his bargain.

“As High Lord, you will attend every major seasonal festival and conduct yourself accordingly. Including Calanmai,” Amun said.

Godsdamned Calanmai. The most vile and debaucherous of all the seasonal festivals — a night Tamlin despised since adolescence. He’d rather Bel gut him from throat to groin than participate.

His father forced him to attend his first Calanmai after discovering a bundle of damp nightshirts stowed away in Tamlin’s armoire. He’d started having strange dreams, waking in the middle of the night to find himself wet and his heart racing. He had been too embarrassed to let the chambermaid launder them, though at the time he did not realize the source of his shame.

His brothers had teased him relentlessly for weeks, parading his soiled pajamas around the manor for all to see. They ordered one of the younger slave girls to his room one night, dressed in a tattered cotton nightgown with faded pink flowers embroidered along the lace edges. Tamlin sent the trembling girl away, her gasping sobs of relief echoing down the corridor for all to hear.

“She took one look at his tiny prick and wept,” Ealar howled. Pàdair mimicked the sound of her cries, a few of the other slaves shrinking at their obscene humor. Tamlin never saw the girl again.

On the evening of Calanmai, his brothers donned nothing but a piece of muslin slung low around their hips. Their muscular bodies were decorated with whorls of indigo applied by the blessed hands of the priestesses. In the distance, Tamlin could hear the pounding of a hundred bodhrans, their relentless rhythm calling to faeries far and wide. Smoke curled and drifted into the pitch black sky, signaling the start of the Great Rite.

Once the Rite had been performed, Pàdair and Ealar fucked every female they could get their forceful hands on, their eyes glazed with lechery from the yohimbe smoke. The females were eager to offer themselves to the sons of their mighty High Lord, hopeful their union would result in a betrothal. His brothers did not seem to differentiate between cries of pleasure or pain as they ravaged their chosen females, their gurgling mewls indecipherable from the groaning chorus of undulating bodies.

The smell of the burning bark scorched Tamlin’s lungs as he felt his blood course southward against his will. He’d never seen a naked body before, aside from his own. He felt flesh, slick with sweat and reeking of concupiscence press against him, sweeping him up in the crowd and threatening to crush him.

Tamlin pushed and shoved his way out of the center, stumbling into the relative calm of the forest, afraid of his own arousal. He hunched against the trunk of an oak tree, gasping for air, begging for anyone to come and save him from this nightmare.

That was how she found him. At the edge of forest, his hand cupping himself over his pants, wishing it away. Her coal-black eyes widened with wicked delight at the sight of him.

“The youngest Glyndŵr,” Amarantha purred. “What a delightful surprise.”

He hated Amarantha from the moment he met her. His father had forced Tamlin and his brothers to demonstrate their martial prowess in front of her legion of males, proving to their Hybernian allies that the Glyndŵr line produced the mightiest of warriors.

“The little one may be your fiercest progeny yet, Teàrlach. Don’t let him get too roughed up in that war band of yours,” Amarantha cooed. “I like my consorts pretty.”

His brothers beat him to a pulp after they returned home. Tamlin made it a point to avoid Amarantha on subsequent trips, the scent of rancid blood and cloying vanilla radiating off her in stomach-turning waves.

She must have been searching for him that night. It would have been nearly impossible for her to track his scent, the air thick with pungent smoke and sweat. Amarantha wrenched his head upward, squeezing his rounded jaw with her razor-sharp talons. Her red hair cascaded down her pale, naked body. Tamlin did not dare look anywhere but at those cold eyes, did not wish to know what would happen if he glanced at the swell of her breasts, her taut stomach, the curve of her hip. He did not want to feel what the yohimbe would demand of him.

A wayward male stalked toward Amarantha, grabbing her by the neck and pulling her back toward the frenzy. Amarantha hissed at the male, but did not fight off his vulgar advances. The male ground himself into her rear as Amarantha stared at Tamlin, her scarlet lips parting to expose a row of sharp white teeth.

“Let the boy watch,” she crooned. The male grunted and bent Amarantha over—

Tamlin closed his eyes. The sound of her moan was drowned out by a deafening roar that ripped through him. He felt his soft body stretch uncomfortably, the tender muscle and sinew cracking and popping into a familiar form.

Run, the beast growled.

Tamlin obeyed. He ran until the sun burned across the pink horizon, until the bonfires were nothing more than ash, until his feet had grown bloody and numb. He did not return home for three days. His mother sent out a group of sentries to drag him back to the manor, bruised and starving.

Tamlin realized the drawing room had gone silent as Amun waited for his reply. He had promised to grant any reasonable bargain, and he could not find a justifiable reason to deny such a humble request. It was, after all, Tamlin’s duty to ensure their lands remained fertile.

He had no choice.

“It is a bargain,” Tamlin said. Amun bowed his head and Tamlin swallowed the bile rising in his throat. He looked to Fabian, who seemed to notice the strain in Tamlin’s voice.

“I want for nothing other than the restoration of these lands,” Fabian said. “You do not need to bind yourself to a bargain on my behalf.”

“Bootlicker,” Bel hissed.

“Think about it,” Tamlin said. Fabian gave him a quick nod.

The rest of the meeting focused on rationing the remaining grain and flour to keep folks fed through the next harvest. Bel insisted her males needed more than their current allotment, which spurred a few dozen arguments that Tamlin struggled to mediate. After three painful hours of futile bickering, the meeting was adjourned. Plans were made for a second meeting to discuss progress on infrastructure and plans for Samhain.

Tamlin and Fabian relayed this all to Lucien, who let out a low whistle in response. He sunk back in his chair, rapping his knuckles against the table.

“Have you heard anything?” Tamlin asked, jutting his chin at the piece of spelled parchment in Lucien’s hand.

“Nothing, aside from this morning’s message,” Lucien said. The message his contact had sent earlier had been vague.

Initial contact confirmed. Will follow up with information once obtained.

“It’s not too late for me to winnow,” Lucien said. “It’ll take a few jumps, but-“

“No,” Tamlin said. “We need you here, keeping an eye on the Autumn Court border.”

Lucien’s golden eye whirred as the music room grew silent. Fabian pulled out a small bottle from his coat pocket and took a sip, handing it to Tamlin. Tamlin eyed it suspiciously, giving the lip of the bottle a sniff.

“It’s not jimsonweed, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Fabian said.

Tamlin took a swig, the liquor burning pleasantly down his throat. The taste of honey and charred wood lingered on his tongue. He passed the bottle to Lucien, who obliged the offering before handing it back to Fabian.

Fabian always seemed to have a bottle on him, though it did not appear to interfere with his effectiveness. He would not be the first male in a war band who turned to drink to get through the day, and he would certainly not be the last.

“Jimsonweed? Is that what you gave me last time?” Tamlin asked. “I thought it was going to kill me.”

Fabian chuckled. “It can have that effect. Many Urisk see it as medicine. Many centuries ago, it was used to summon spirits of the dead who were tethered to unsuspecting faeries, allowing them to make amends and permit the soul to pass onto its eternal reward,” Fabian said.

Tamlin shivered, thinking of his mother’s gurgling voice and Feyre’s hollowed eyes. “And you believe this?” Tamlin asked.

Fabian shifted in his seat, his gaze growing unfocused. “I’ve seen far too many dead males with pikes in their throats not to,” Fabian murmured. He took another swig from the bottle before tucking it away in his coat pocket.

Tamlin had been lucky to only see his mother and human Feyre. He didn’t want to consider just how many lost souls clung to him after years of serving in his father’s war band. He’d have to spend a lifetime drinking the noxious liquor to help all those wayward souls. Tamlin began to understand why Fabian kept a bottle of it in his cabin. If all of that was true, then why had he seen Aoide in his hallucination? Feyre, he could understand — it had become clear months after their escape from Under the Mountain that the female he loved had never returned from that endless black.

But Aoide? He could hear the thrum of her tenacious heart now, miles away in her dark cottage. If he concentrated hard enough, he could conjure her scent, drawing it towards him on the breeze and filling the manor with sweet jasmine and woody vetiver. Perhaps Fabian had been mistaken.

Tamlin left Fabian and Lucien in the music room, retreating up the grand staircase to his bedroom. He buried himself under the blankets, ignoring the sinking feeling in his gut as Feyre’s warning rang out in his mind —

Doomed to repeat. Doomed to break. Doomed to die. 

Chapter Text

It wasn’t possible.

What Aoide was seeing must have been a mirage. A bit of faerie trickery, one of Tamlin’s expert glamours that weaved light and magic together to fool her feeble human eyes. Or maybe it was all just a vivid dream, and she’d wake in her narrow bed to find Phineas cooking her porridge over the crackling hearth.

But she had already awoken in the humble,
clean cottage, her mind at peace after a pleasant night’s sleep. She had waded through endless fields of flowers in her dreams, the air nectar-sweet and warm. She had been alone, but not lonely, accompanied by the hum of the insects and tiny creatures underfoot. The waist-high grass parted for her, leading to a small, round boulder. Plain, but perfectly smooth and cool to the touch. When she ran her hand over the limestone, she heard hundreds of voices, all of them chanting the same three words in strange harmonies:

Human
Healer
Music-maker.

Those words were the last thing she heard before she opened her eyes. She rose from her bed and grabbed the fife off her desk, feeling inspired by the song the voices sang. The composition she wrote was short and simple, but precise in its evocation. The plucky notes weaved over one another, like the dried grass and flowers Amun used to create Litha charms. The tone was light and soft like Spring breeze, and as tender as the kiss she pressed to Tamlin’s lips on that hillside weeks ago.

She dressed in her cleanest cotton gown and saw Phineas off, waiting for his form to vanish on the horizon before setting off to meet Tamlin. He appeared close to her, fizzing into existence with his hands already on her. Tamlin pressed his warm, rough palms to her temples, searching her face for any signs of distress.

“Not even a hello?” Aoide teased. Gently, Tamlin cradled her face between his hands, slowly turning her head side to side, his brows knit together.

“How is your head? Any pain?” Tamlin asked, ignoring her prod.

“I’m fine. Whatever you did last week worked. I haven’t had a headache since,” Aoide said, placing her hands over his. Her fingers barely reached his knuckles and Aoide tried not to think of what those long, strong fingers could do to her.

“And your memory?” Tamlin asked.

“Still missing,” Aoide admitted. “But I’m okay. I promise.”

Tamlin’s supple lips curved downward. Aoide stood on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss on each corner of his mouth, his scruff tickling her mouth.

“Thank you,” she told him. “I didn’t get a chance to say it last week.”

She felt Tamlin’s stiff posture relax under her touch. He bent closer to her, stroking the scar on her cheek with his thumb before kissing the spot between her dark eyebrows. He trailed another on the tip of her nose, followed by a chaste kiss on her lips. Tamlin pulled away, his jeweled eyes flitting over her face in silent wonder.

So much had changed since the first time they met in those woods. Aoide recalled how he used to pull away from her touch, always keeping an arm’s length away from her. He’d avoid meeting her eyes and kept his responses to her questions curt, never lingering in her presence for longer than necessary. Slowly, she had chipped away at that heart of stone. The look he gave her that morning was filled with such worry and affection it made her chest ache.

After their kiss, there had been no turning back. Not a single time after that fateful day had they gone without holding each other during Aoide’s visits. Touching Tamlin, and being touched by him, felt as natural as breathing. Those brief moments held her over for the week, until she could see him again and feel the heat of his golden skin, the pressure of his fingers squeezing the curve of her hip, the rub of his stubble against her cheek.

He winnowed them to the Spring Court, his silence giving no hint to the surprise that awaited Aoide in the music room. He hung back, meandering in the hall as Aoide pushed open the doors and froze in shock.

Standing in the middle of the sun-bathed room was a piano. Her piano.

Aoide took a step toward it, then another. She floated across the room, holding her breath as she drew closer to the center. She passed the table, which was still covered in maps and crinkled parchment, without so much as a glance. Beams of sunlight warmed Aoide’s face, the birdsong outside growing quieter as she approached her terminus with solemn disbelief.

The piano looked like it belonged there, framed by the trespassing vines and vibrant wildflowers growing in the garden. Slowly, she circled around it. She recognized the once-foreign carved flowers as native blooms to the Spring Court and adjoining Mortal Lands. She could name them all, recognizing their shapes from her trips to the forests surrounding the cabin and Tamlin’s manor. Bluebells, snowdrops, hyacinths, tulips, alliums, daffodils, crocuses, primroses, hellebore and roses. Dozens of roses, all of varying species and sizes. She used to trace their shapes with her fingers, making up silly names for the blooms she did not know and imagining their scents.

Aoide breathed in deeply, the earthy and spicy smell of aged mahogany filling her nose. That smell had been burned into her memory after spending countless days sitting in the drawing room, playing until her eyes were too fatigued to read the sheet music.

Her piano had been one of the few belongings she actually cherished. She never cared much for the dresses that Veronique used to lovingly mend and admire. She enjoyed a good bottle of wine, but she never relished in the taste like her mother. Even her father’s art collection, magnificent in its size and diversity, was merely a passing interest to Aoide.

Music was all she ever needed. Aoide wouldn’t care the townhouse was taken away, if all her fine dresses were reduced to rags, if she never ate a good meal again. As long as she had music, she would survive. It fed her soul, sheltered her heart, kept her mind open to finding beauty in all the most unexpected places.

She felt the sting of tears threaten the corner of her eyes as she extended a hand. She was afraid to touch it, terrified that one brush from her fingers would dissolve the illusion and she would be left with nothing but empty space.

Slowly, she ran the tips of her fingers over the keys, their creamy patina just as velvety as she remembered. She smiled at the chipped E key, the corner cracked and broken after Aoide got a little overzealous with a bottle of expensive brandy. Her father wanted to send it for repairs, but Aoide refused to part with the piano long enough for it to be fixed. She pressed the chipped key, the room filling with its bright and vibrant ring.

“It’s real,” Aoide whispered in amazement.

“Did you think it was a trick?” Tamlin asked, leaning against the door frame. “Because your bargain was pretty clear on those.”

Aoide abandoned the piano, striding toward Tamlin and knocking him back with a fierce hug. She buried her face in his broad chest, her tears wetting his tunic. She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed with every ounce of strength, her fingers digging into the straps of muscle that ran down his back.

“Thank you,” Aoide said. She swallowed the sob forming in her throat. “I don’t know how you did it, but thank you.”

Tamlin enveloped her in his muscled arms and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Lucien did most of the work.”

“I’m sure I’ll never hear the end of it,” Aoide grumbled.

Tamlin chuckled, pulling her tighter against his rippled torso. They clung to one another, like a raindrop clinging on a mighty oak leaf. There was something intimate about their embrace, more than any of their previous entanglements. Aoide was not driven mad by that base flame of desire, that primal hunger to feel, to taste, to command Tamlin with her touch. She did not wish to see him bend before her, panting and desperate.

No, the feeling that held her there was a quiet, sedate one. It radiated through her, like the boom of a double bass, and settled in her bones. Iris had taken one look at her and known what Aoide had denied from very moment her eyes met his. She could not breath as she put a name to the sensation.

Love.

She loved Tamlin.

It almost slipped right out of her mouth. It would have been so easy to say. But Aoide would not ruin this perfect moment. It was safer to tuck that secret feeling deep within her, keeping it pure and whole. She knew Tamlin could never feel the same, not with a mate waiting for their destined paths to cross. He may want Aoide, might enjoy her company for a few months or years, but they would not have forever.

It would be better this way. When it came time for them to part, Aoide could walk away with her pride intact. Tamlin wouldn’t feel any obligation to spare her heart. And her secret would remain hers, flawless and untouched by her grief.

I love you, I love you, I love you, her mind chanted in a relentless repetition. I love you, I love-

“As much as I enjoy this,” Tamlin murmured, his lips pressed against her hair, “Why don’t you play me something?”

Tamlin dropped his arms, but Aoide did not let him go. She held him for a beat longer, afraid he’d take one look at her face and know her secret. When she gathered enough fortitude to walk away, she did not look up from her feet.

She knew exactly what she wanted to play. Aoide returned to the piano, propping up the lid and peering inside. Everything looked in perfect working order. It was a miracle that nothing had been damaged in the voyage overseas. Aoide recalled the rough waters and how took her weeks to stumble across the deck with some confidence that she would not fall over. Not even the intricate carvings on the body showed any signs of damage.

She gave the soundboard one last look. Her eye snagged on something wedged between the piano strings. It had certainly not been there when she left Neva — she took excellent care of the instrument, chipped key aside. She grabbed it, realizing it was a folded piece of parchment as she held it between her fingers.

Her heart leapt at the thought of Veronique leaving her another hidden letter. She unfolded the white parchment, eager to see what her dearest friend had written.

Her stomach plummeted to the ground when she read the angry handwriting scrawled across the page.

FOUND YOU.

—

The sound Aoide made was quiet and brutal, like the last gasp a warrior breathes before succumbing to his wounds.

When she turned, it was not Aoide looking at Tamlin. Something was strange about her eyes. They shined with a primitive fear, like a rabbit caught in the maw of a fox. Tamlin was well-acquainted with the look, had seen it etched across hundreds of faces — some animal, others not.

He felt the hairs raise on the beast’s back, his own body mimicking the anxious response. There were no threats Tamlin could sense. He stretched his awareness before Aoide’s frantic heart could sputter out its irregular beat, but found nothing.

It was instinct that drove him near her, grasping her trembling body between his clawed hands. There was not a single coherent thought that passed through his mind, except for one —

Protect her, the beast growled.

Aoide’s sweet scent withered under the metallic tang of her fear and something…else. Something Tamlin had never scented on her in the months they spent together. Sulphur and charred antimony, like a struck match.

Anger, Tamlin realized. Potent and irritating to his sensitive nose, he felt his own rage kindle deep within his chest. It wouldn’t take much for the beast to push into his mind and seize control. It took every ounce of self-control to keep the impulse to shift at bay.

“You need to take me home. Now,” Aoide demanded. Her hands curled into fists, a piece of parchment balled in her palm.

“What’s happen-“

“Now,” Aoide snapped, her voice like a bolt of lightning scorching a tree.

Tamlin did not have the strength to deny her.
He could feel the blaze of fury roiling inside of her, ready to lash out at any sign of resistance. The beast bristled at the tone of her voice, bowing its head at the aura of wrath that radiated off her like an ancient goddess of war.

This is all wrong, Tamlin thought. He took one look at Aoide’s glower and felt himself begin to spiral. She was supposed to be happy. They were going to spend the day playing music together, proving Elain’s visions of doom wrong. And when the sky warmed to a gentle spray of pink and orange, he would bring her into the garden and kiss her senseless.

Before the ground fully materialized, Aoide slipped from his grip, like water through sieve. She did not spare a glance back at him, storming toward the cottage.

“Aoide, wait.”

Tamlin tried to winnow next to her, reaching for her arm. His mind stuttered to catch up to his lurching body, which ricocheted backward and hit the ground in a brutal snap. The force of his descent knocked the breath from his lungs, leaving him sprawled and gasping for air. His ears rang with the sound of his own voice —

And I will not prevent you from returning to the Mortal Lands.

Their godsdamned bargain.

Aoide’s head whipped around at the sound of his body colliding with the ground. Pitifully, Tamlin struggled to pull himself to his knees. The bargain pommeled him into the ground, like the crush of a hundred males trampling him. Tamlin dug his claws into the dirt, fighting the instinct to bow to its magic.

“Please don’t leave,” Tamlin rasped miserably.

Her face flickered before it went cold again. He watched her posture shift, her shoulders drawing back until she was nothing but hard angles. Tamlin felt the magic begin to fray as he crawled toward her, his body screaming as the bargain knocked him prone. He felt it bear down on him, squashing him like an ant under a boot. His bones creaked from the pressure as the pain cleaved through him.

The beast howled in agony. Get up, weakling, it snarled. Stop her.

Tamlin felt power course through every muscle and sinew as he tore his way across the ground. The pure, unadulterated magic of the beast coursed through him, the hot pump of his blood making him dizzy. His vision narrowed, his peripherals growing dark as he focused on dragging himself, inch by inch, in Aoide’s direction.

It was going to kill him. The harder he fought, the more the bargain’s magic punished him.

He wanted Aoide to run to him, hold him like she did all those weeks ago. He needed to feel her gentle hands petting his ratty fur, hear her whispered pleas demanding he survive. If he could just get close enough to her, just touch her one last time—

Aoide turned away. Tamlin could smell the salt of her tears as they plinked on the ground.

“This…whatever this was, it cannot continue. Do not follow me. Do not come looking for me. You have fulfilled all your obligations. I-“

Aoide choked, a whimper escaping her throat before she cleared it.

“I am ending our bargain.”

Tamlin felt an agonizing snap as final threads of magic gave way. The pressure lifted and floated away, along with his remaining strength.

“No,” Tamlin gasped. “Don’t do this-“

“Forget about me,” Aoide sobbed. “Forget I ever existed. For your own sake.”

GET UP, the beast roared.

Tamlin couldn’t feel anything, his limbs tingling with numbness as he rebounded from the crushing force of the bargain. He watched her walk away, listening to the swish of her skirts as she floated farther from him. An overwhelming emptiness swallowed him, his heart free-falling into nothingness. He reached out to grab the ragged ends of their bargain, trying to repair their magical bond with his own power.

Doomed to repeat. Doomed to break. Doomed to—

He felt his magic graze something. A delicate, gossamer thread, thinner than a fiddle string and as weak as a strand of hair. The thread grew longer with every step Aoide took, unspooling itself until the tension threatened to splinter it. Carefully, his power twined itself around it, fortifying the wispy strand.

And with his last breath, Tamlin gave it a feeble tug.

Chapter Text

Aoide groaned as a beam of morning sunlight cut through the dingy curtains. Slowly, she sat up and rubbed her lower back, which ached from sleeping on the floor. It had seemed like the safer option when compared to the pock-marked mattress and lumpy gray pillow. She had taken one sniff of the sheets and decided she preferred hard wood.

The inn was filthy and loud, but it was cheap and the room was private. She couldn’t risk lodging in the barracks on the first floor, even though it would have saved her a few coppers. There were too many men, their leery eyes lingering on the occupied beds like foxes looking for their next meal.

The room had a small window facing the only road that ran through the hamlet, a perfect vantage point to spot Salazar’s men if they came looking. If they had managed to cross the sea, Aoide doubted her little escape would deter them. It wouldn’t take long to scour the entirety of the Mortal Lands before they found Phineas’ village. Aoide could only hope they remained ignorant of her uncle’s existence, or that her vague letter was enough to keep Phineas on his guard.

He knows I was here.

I have taken a few pieces of gold from the coin purse in the armoire. I promise to pay you back as soon as I can.

Thank you. Tell my parents I forgi love them.

The letter had been hasty and sloppy, but Aoide had run out of time. She was beginning to understand how little of it she truly had, how her life in the Mortal Lands was not the start of something, but the end. She had been too distracted by all the newness, the beauty and strangeness, the momentary peace. All of it turned bitter and rotten by the slow leak of her past seeping into the present, her future.

Her father had told her she’d be safe with Phineas. She wondered if he knew it was a lie when he said it, or if her father maintained some semblance of hope that the nightmare would end if she disappeared. Aoide had wanted to believe it too. She had mourned her life in Neva, thinking it died the moment she got into that carriage. But Salazar would never stop. Hadn’t he told her as much on that wretched night?

She could feel his hot breath on her ear now, those damp lips brushing against her skin.

“There is no place in this world where you can hide from me. No bastard or prince who will protect you. No future that does not end with you bound to me. You may be a whore, Miss Achlys, but as long as you remain a useful one, I will see to it that your pretty head remains on your shoulders,” Salazar said.

“Let her go,” Hal begged. “I’ll tell you what you want to know in exchange for her freedom.”

That had gotten a howl out of Salazar and his cronies. Their laughs made Aoide nauseous, her throat burning like someone had poured acid in her mouth.

“Her freedom is not yours to barter, boy. You’ll tell us what we want to know, and whatever is left of you will be left out for the strays,” Salazar spat.

And then the sound of crunching bone, the wet slap of skin and muscle giving way, the persistent drip of blood. The last thing Aoide remembered was watching a thin stream of blood slowly crawl toward her as Hal screamed the names of his friends, all conspirators in a plot to challenge Salazar’s grip on the city. Artists, musicians, revolutionaries who had given Hal a place to stay in the boarding house, so long as he kept careful watch over the printing press hidden away in the basement. Shelter in exchange for broadsheets filled with secret codes hidden amongst high society gossip, agricultural forecasts, and local advertisements.

The broadsheets Aoide had coerced him into printing instead were angry, blunt, treasonous. An outright declaration of Salazar’s villainy, including her refusal of their betrothal in no uncertain terms. Aoide didn’t have time for secret meetings, months-long planning, and piecemeal rebellions. Her freedom would be taken away all at once, and she’d be forced to watch it happen to her fellow citizens from under Salazar’s thumb.

The city watch found her in Hal’s bed two days after the broadsheets were dropped from the rooftops and shoved under front doors. She and Hal had buried Neva under reams and reams of Aoide’s angry diatribe, and led Salazar right to their doorstep.

Aoide thrashed and cursed as Salazar dragged her by the hair across the floor. He slashed at her thick, dark braids with a dull kitchen knife. She fought so hard that the blade slipped and cut into her cheek, deep and jagged. When he was done, he kept her pinned to the floor, one hand squeezing the back of her neck as he pressed her face into her own blood and hair. He wanted her to feel his weight, his strength. How small and insignificant she became with his knee between her shoulder blades.

The names Hal gave that night resulted in ten public hangings in the city square. Aoide wasn’t able to see out of her bruised, swollen eyes, but Veronique had. She told Aoide she would never forget the sight of their feet swinging, how long it took for their bodies to still. Aoide should have wept, but she felt too wrung out to muster it.

Aoide felt that black pit of despair swell, her breath growing short at the sensation. She couldn’t let it happen again. Too many people had already paid the price for her recklessness. If Salazar hurt Phineas to get to her, or worse—

Stop thinking, she told herself. Just keep moving.

Aoide dressed in the clothes she pilfered from Phineas’ room, rolling up the too-long pant legs and belting the oversized shirt. She wrapped herself up in a cloak and pulled the hood over her head. Before she slipped out the door, she left a copper on the desk for the poor soul responsible for cleaning the room.

The first few steps were the hardest. Aoide would have preferred to curl up underneath the bed and disappear, but she had neither the funds to sustain herself nor the tolerance for filth to do it. The only option was forward, toward the docks where she would sneak on a merchant ship. She ignored the strange sensation in her gut, as if something was tugging on an invisible string inside of her. The feeling grew fainter with every step, fading into nothing more than a sour feeling in her stomach.

She had gotten lucky the previous day, hitching a ride with a caravan driver who mistook her for a young boy. Aoide remained silent for the entire ride, hunched in the back of a carriage. The roads closer to the port were much quieter that morning, but Aoide couldn’t stop herself from looking back every few steps. She kept off the main road, skulking through the forest like a wounded animal.

It was half a day’s carriage ride to the docks, which meant Aoide would be walking through the woods for the better part of two days. She only hoped there was an inn along the way, and a cheap one, too. Aoide wasn’t equipped to huddle against a tree and wait for sunrise, her leather satchel filled with only the essentials. Fresh undergarments, pearl earrings she could pawn, and the sum total of her earnings she made as a healer’s apprentice.

She would have burned the rest of her possessions, wipe any sign of her existence from the cottage, but there wasn’t enough time. Phineas would try to convince her to stay, thinking he could make good on his word to protect her, but Aoide had already witnessed what happened when Salazar got his hands on noble men like Phineas and Hal.

He broke them. He enjoyed it. Aoide wished she could grow claws like Tamlin, puff out her chest and roar like the beast. She imagined all that raw power, that elegant and feline predaciousness bearing down on Salazar and wiping that arrogant grin off his face. She wanted him to know what it felt like to be so afraid that death felt like a welcome embrace.

Aoide felt the hot flush of anger pulse through her. Salazar had already destroyed her life once — was that not enough? She didn’t understand why he was so fixated on her when there were plenty of unscrupulous or desperate ladies willing to marry him. Women with large dowries or uncles with political sway, not to mention the marriage opportunities abroad.

And yet, Salazar was willing to chase her across the sea, all because she had the gall to say no. It was almost hard to believe the extent of his villainy. Aoide lifted her foot and kicked a loose stone with all her might, sending the rock flying into the trunk of an oak tree.

A dozen wrens scattered and for one brief moment, Aoide looked for a set of green eyes amongst the feathers and beaks, before she remembered—

Please don’t leave.

All that festering anger hissed into a cloud of vapor, floating away on the wings of the last wren circling above her. Aoide gripped the strap of her satchel and trudged on, defying the nagging tug in her gut.

Just keep moving, she told herself.

Aoide didn’t deserve that beautiful, fragile existence. She was a weed amongst a sea of tulips and hyacinths, choking out any flowers that dared to grow beside her. It was better to tear out the roots before they grew too vast and strong. Before Tamlin found out what she’d done. It was easier to make him hate her for other, more forgivable reasons.

If she was superstitious, she’d understand Salazar’s letter as a sign from that faerie goddess. Hadn’t she just asked for more time? Maybe Aoide had insulted her by thinking she was important enough to demand the ear of the divine.

Maybe she was becoming a little superstitious.

None of it mattered. Whether it was bad luck or godly intervention, the outcome was the same. She would get to the docks, figure out a way to secure passage on a ship, and go…somewhere. Anywhere. A place where she could dissolve into nobody — a face without a name. She could find work as an apprentice, carve out a quiet life for herself. All she had to do was keep moving.

—

Tamlin didn’t need to open up his eyes to know he was being dragged across the manor courtyard. The back of his head was familiar with the feeling of the uneven stones, having been bashed into the ground by his brothers many times before. He cracked one eye open, supposing he should care if some vicious creature had gotten a hold of him, ready to dispatch their miserable High Lord once and for all.

When he saw Lucien’s streak of red hair billowing in the wind, he almost wished it was a Naga or the Puca instead. It would save him the trouble of trying to explain himself.

Tamlin wasn’t really sure what happened, anyway. Aoide had seen something in the piano — a crumpled piece of parchment in her fist. Whatever was on that parchment upset her enough beg Tamlin to forget her. As if he had a choice in the matter. The constant throb between his ribs, that persistent tug would not let him. No matter how hard he pulled, he felt nothing on the other end, like a fishing line plunging to the bottom of a wine-dark sea.

Every time he got close, Aoide slipped away. There was always an intrusion, an enemy casting shadows over their brief moments together. The karmic wheel spun, yet nothing changed.

Doomed to repeat.

Gods, he was sick of hearing voices in his head. If it wasn’t Feyre’s apparition whispering idle threats, it was the beast roaring at him. What he wouldn’t do for some silence. Maybe he’d get lucky and Lucien would bash his skull on a rock up the pathway to the front door.

How humiliating, the beast grumbled.

Lucien’s golden iris glanced out of the corner of his eye, as if he’d sensed Tamlin stirring. With a scowl, Lucien dropped Tamlin’s legs, letting his feet thump on the stone walkway.

“Why must I always find you in a state? Just once, I’d like to show up to the manor and find you sipping tea or reading a book,” Lucien griped. “Hell, I’ll take half dead in your own bed over this.”

“Where was I?” Tamlin asked. His voice was nothing more than a thin rasp.

Lucien crossed his arms, towering over Tamlin and blocking out the sun. The light set Lucien’s hair aglow, the reds and golds smoldering like liquid flame.

“Dangerously close to human territory. By all rights, you should have an ash arrow sticking out of your throat. Consider yourself lucky,” Lucien said, extending his arm.

Lucky to be alive, doomed to repeat his mistakes. That was what Feyre’s apparition was trying to warn him about. Not a threat, a prediction.

Tamlin stared at Lucien’s hand. If he took it, would he doom Lucien, too? Or was it only Tamlin who was cursed to remain unchanged, trapped in this immortal body? He would try to protect the human woman, and fail. Something would break — his heart, or maybe her neck. And then another piece of his soul would turn fetid and die, left to rot inside of him for eternity.

Knowing this did nothing to stymie his desire. Perhaps that was his curse; to know his existence would end in tragedy and to continue on living. To hold her supple body in his arms, feel her midnight stare, taste her want. To have it all turn to ash in his mouth and blood on his claws.

He should give up. He’d done it before, knew how tempting that tranquil numbness could be. Refuse Lucien’s hand and slip back into that other nature for good this time. Listen to Aoide and try to forget her, forget himself.

She had given him hope that it all could be different.

No one had done that before. Not his mother, with her quiet fortitude. Not Lucien, who had been his fiercest and most loyal friend. And not Feyre.

Especially not Feyre. Their relationship had been marred by fear from its very inception. Feyre had been repulsed by the beast, terrified for her life and the safety of her family. And he had been afraid of failing his court, of Feyre’s resentment, of her love, of living under the rule of faeries far too much like his father.

Of himself, at the end of it. Fear and hatred bloodied the soil in which their love was planted. Was it any wonder it died before it bloomed?

Do not fear. That is what his mother had told him in that jimsonweed liquor hallucination. He was beginning to understand why.

There was no fear with Aoide. There was only possibility, startling in its ceaselessness. She was light and music, filling the darkened corners and abandoned hallways. She was trouble in the way that turned the mundane thrilling. Aoide was all the things that made living a worthwhile endeavor.

Gods spare him — he loved her. More than loved her. He needed her. And if the Mother was to punish him for it, so be it. Let Her try to take Aoide away, let Her succeed. Tamlin would revel in those moments between the tragedy and when they ended, so would he.

Tamlin grabbed Lucien’s hand, letting his friend help him to his feet. As Tamlin stood, Lucien’s gaze drifted for a moment, his gold eye clicking relentlessly, his stare focused on Tamlin’s chest.

“Where’s Aoide?” Lucien asked.

Tamlin was halfway to the music room before Lucien was behind him. He made a beeline for the piano, propping up the wooden cover and looking for anything remotely out of place.

“Tamlin,” Lucien repeated. “Where is she?”

Lucien stopped short when he saw the piano. Tamlin had neglected to mention it arrived a day earlier than expected, pulled by an enchanted carriage Tamlin sent to the docks. He was going to tell Lucien eventually. Tamlin wanted Aoide to be the first to see it, let her play to her heart’s content before Lucien insisted it be squirreled away or destroyed.

Another plan gone horribly awry. Lucien looked like he was about to throttle Tamlin, and perhaps he deserved it.

“Aoide is gone,” Tamlin said. “She saw the piano, or something inside of it, and she left.”

Lucien looked back to the piano. Cautiously, he approached it, as if it would explode if he got too close. Gingerly, he petted one of the keys, shivering as his finger grazed the ivory.

“Bone,” he cringed. “Human bone.”

Tamlin had noticed that, too. It was not unusual for faerie-made instruments and tools to use human bone before the treaty. Even in death, humans were to be made useful. Buttons, toys, fishhooks, pins. Whatever was left of them after their bodies were sent to the burn pits was collected by their brethren slaves and made anew. There was a field of heliotropes where the pits used to be, the soil rich and fertile from the ash.

Everything about its construction screamed Spring, including the bone keys. But Tamlin had never seen the piano in his five-hundred and eleven years, never saw his mother play it. Could it be older? Tamlin knew there was more to the piano than it was willing to reveal. Hidden away in its carvings, nestled between its strings, it held a secret.

“You have to bring her back,” Lucien demanded. “Maybe if she plays-“

“She doesn’t want to come back,” Tamlin said.

Lucien sighed, pressing the base of his palms to his eyes. “Then you’ll have to make her.”

Tamlin laughed, bitter and flat. “Make her how, Lucien? Should I drag her back and lock her away? We already tried that, and all it resulted in was misery.”

Tamlin wouldn’t force Aoide back. He swore this time he would be different, and he intended to keep his word. He would find out what made her run and he would fix it. Whoever he had to kill, whatever riddle he had to solve, he would do it. And when she returned to him, he’d carry her out into the garden and worship her between the sweet grass and wildflowers.

“Aoide isn’t Feyre,” Lucien said.

A shot across the bow, but Tamlin felt no flame-licked rage or pump of fury boiling his blood. Truth settled within him, cold and clear as the streams running through his lands.

“She isn’t Jes, either.”

Lucien’s whole body sparked for a brief moment, the room growing hot as his golden skin warmed. Then, a curl of smoke rolled off his shoulders. He strode over to Tamlin, but his eyes were focused on the space between them.

“You’re right,” Lucien said. “She’s something else entirely.”

With one elegant finger, Lucien plucked something in mid-air. Tamlin felt his chest twang, like a fiddle string rung too tight around its peg. He rubbed at his breastbone, feeling the sensation reverberate through his body, both pleasant and unsettling.

“What-“

The gentle fizz of magic drew their attention to the table. While Tamlin reeled from the feeling coursing through him, Lucien tore across the room, snatching the piece of enchanted parchment in his shaking hand.

“The official provenance for the piano,” Lucien murmured. “Or at least what was recorded.”

“What does it say?” Tamlin asked.

The parchment crinkled under Lucien’s grasp. Tamlin was unable to move, a coil of dread freezing him in place.

“There’s no mention of its creation. Only two recorded owners including the Monteserens, from what she could find.”

Tamlin gripped the corner of the piano, the wooden carvings digging into his palm. Lucien’s face went deathly pale, and Tamlin felt that dread grow into a mighty, churning wave waiting to crash overhead.

“Who, Lucien?” Tamlin asked, despite already knowing the answer in his gut.

The enchanted parchment burst into flame, before gently descending to the floor in blackened scraps.

“Hybern.”

Chapter Text

In the shadow of a squat building, Aoide watched as groups of grizzled men shuffled wooden pallets to and fro. The briny air was still and threateningly humid despite the Autumn chill on the wind. Dark, heavy clouds hung over the brackish waters in the distance, threatening the ships returning from their voyages across the sea.

If she closed her eyes, Aoide could have sworn she was back in Neva. She had spent many nights near the docks with Hal, watching the twinkling lights on the departing ships blink out of existence on the black horizon. They’d spend hours crafting tales about the distant lands they would travel to and the decadent spices, silks, and gems they would bring back to Neva. The world seemed so open and free then, an endless expanse of pleasure and possibility at their fingertips. Neither Hal nor Aoide had any intention of leaving Neva, but they enjoyed the fantasy of the unknown.

Aoide felt her stomach pang with hunger as she recalled the smell and the sounds of the night markets near the docks, the narrow streets lined with vendors. It was one of Veronique’s favorite places to go when Aoide managed to convince her to shirk her duties for a night. Veronique would spend the whole evening in the garment district, running her fingers over fine silk chiffon while Aoide and Hal stuffed themselves with sweets.

The two days travel to the docks had been pure misery. There were no decent inns on the road, at least none that Aoide could afford with her meager savings. Three coppers were all she had for food, just enough for a flavorless bowl of broth at a near-derelict tavern. She patted her coin purse, which was growing as empty as her stomach.

Two days on your own and you’re barely holding on, Aoide thought. Pathetic.

Aoide felt a knot form in her stomach at the thought of what lay ahead. She had been entirely focused on getting to the port, but the real hardship would begin after the voyage. She had no idea where she was headed and wouldn’t have a copper to her name. Would there be a healer willing to take her on as their apprentice? Or would they see her for the spoiled, sheltered noblewoman she was and turn her away?

With a slow breath, Aoide pushed away the spike of panic pulsing in her temples. She had made it this far with only a few changes of undergarments and a handful of coins. Once she snuck her way onto a ship, she’d wait until their voyage was underway and beg the captain not to throw her overboard. Elmier had taught her enough knots to be useful, and she could barter her services as a healer when the men inevitably came down with illness. She’d swab the decks if she had to — whatever was necessary.

Aoide would have at least a month to figure out a plan before they made landfall. She had rebuilt her life once already, and she could do it again. A gentle, low voice whispered in her mind —

You escaped. You survived.

Rolling her shoulders back, Aoide pushed away the memory of sitting on Tamlin’s bed, his hand between her knees and his green eyes shining. The salt air burned her eyes, tears misting in the corners. She ignored the tugging sensation in her chest, the one that begged her to turn around. But Aoide knew that there was only heartbreak waiting for her at the end of that tether, and she would not be fooled again by her naive heart.

So she took a step, and then another, her stride determined as she crossed the shipyard, darting between stacked crates and avoiding the men as they unloaded the ships. She wound her cloak around her body, shielding herself from the wind whipping off the water. With every determined crunch of pebble underfoot, Aoide kept her eyes focused on a quiet brigantine bobbing on the docks. It was the fastest ship in the port and large enough for her to slip below deck unnoticed.

Halfway across the yard, Aoide ducked behind a pallet of canvas sacks. Her lungs burned and she realized she had been holding her breath. Her knees began to wobble as she crouched, waiting for the steady stream of sailors to disperse before she climbed up the rope ladder and found a storage room to huddle in.

A voice cut through the whir of the breeze, firm and masculine—

“She is to be brought to the tavern if found. The reward is fifty sovereigns if she is brought in unharmed,” the voice said.

There was something familiar in that lilting accent, as warm as the sun-baked cobblestones in Neva. It struck Aoide like the clapper of a bell, her whole body ringing in response.

“Unharmed but not untouched, eh?” a gruff voice responded. A chorus of chuckles and whistles followed, and Aoide fought the urge to gag.

Slowly, Aoide peeked over the pile of canvas sacks, feeling the ache of adrenaline course through her. In the near distance, she could see a dark haired man dressed in a black doublet with a violet sash and a pair of leather gloves. A dagger was strapped to his hip, his hand resting unnaturally on the pommel. In the other hand, he held up a piece of parchment, showing it to a group of sailors. He was flanked by two other men in matching doublets, both tall and stout.

Aoide didn’t need to see his face to know who it was. She could recognize that mop of brown hair from miles away, the curls tucked behind his small ears. There were plenty of nights she pushed those dark tendrils from his face, the lids of his blue-green eyes growing heavy with lust.

What she didn’t understand was why Hal Drakos was wearing the Nevan city watch uniform.

She should have made a break for it, ran for the brigantine while the men were distracted, but Aoide couldn’t move. She felt like she was sinking, as though the pebbled beach would swallow her whole. The roar of blood rushing was loud enough that she didn’t notice the man behind her until his pudgy hand came down on her shoulder.

“What’s a runt like you doing skulking around the docks-“

She responded like a cornered animal, her whole body whipping around hard enough to send her stumbling backward. Relief rushed through Aoide when she saw an unfamiliar face staring at her.

The stocky sailor stopped mid-sentence as Aoide’s hood fell away. She got a good look at the man, relieved to see he did not don the black doublet. By all accounts he looked like an ordinary seaman, his salt-burned face ruddy from the sun.

“Yer a lass, then,” he said, readjusting the cap on his head, revealing soft tufts of thinning hair. His eyes narrowed as if he was trying to place her. “A familiar lookin’ one, at that.”

Aoide’s mind scrambled. “I’m looking for my father,” she said quietly, careful not to draw more attention. “His name is Elmier. Perhaps you recognize the family resemblance.”

A complete and blatant lie. Although most of Elmier’s hair was grey, his beard was still reddish blonde, and his eyes bright blue. Aoide felt her head begin to pound as the man’s brows furrowed.

“Don’ know an Elmier,” he said. The man turned around, waving a hand at another sailor. “Hey Victor!”

Shit.

Aoide dared a glance back at Hal, who was still talking to the group of men by the water. She pulled the hood of her cloak over her face, her eyes darting around for another place to hide. It became hard to breathe as a prick of panic bloomed in her belly.

“Y’know a fella named Elmier?” the man shouted. Aoide cringed, huddling behind the stack of canvas bags. A bead of sweat ran down the column of her back despite the chilled air. All the noise was bound to draw attention, but she couldn’t find anywhere to hide.

“Elmier? Haven’t seen him in a while,” Victor said as he made his way across the shipyard. “Who’s the girl?”

“Says she’s Elmier’s daughter.”

“I’m sorry to have troubled you,” Aoide said. “I’ll be on my way.”

“Now hold on there. Haven’t I seen you somewhere?” Victor asked, placing a hand on Aoide’s arm.

“No,” Aoide snapped.

She tried to wrench her arm away, but his grasp only grew tighter as his dark eyes shined with recognition. His round face loomed over her as the corners of his mouth drew upward in a horrible grin.

“How would you like to make twenty-five gold, Donal?”

Aoide thrashed as another set of hands grabbed her, both men grinning like cats who caught a canary. The sense memory of that night came hurdling back, her body thoroughly convinced that she was back in that boarding house, pinned to the floor while she watched them torture Hal. She kicked and spat, flinging her body against the men as they carried her across the beach.

“Stay still, will ya? Make it easier on yerself.”

Aoide bit down on something and tore, her mouth tasting of copper. When hit the ground, she felt the air leave her lungs.

“Damned bitch is rabid!” one of the men shouted between curses.

The last thing Aoide saw was the toe of a boot arcing toward her face.

—

It was an unusually quiet evening on the manor grounds, the sounds of chirping insects and cooing birds silenced by the steady drizzle of rain pinging against the roof. Not even the moon was visible behind the thick, grey curtain that hung over Spring, as if the Spirit knew this was no occasion for pleasant weather.

“This is a terrible idea,” Lucien said.

By the look on Fabian’s crinkled face, he seemed to agree. The three of them stood around the table in the music room, the maps and parchment on the table pushed aside. In their place sat a single bottle of jimsonweed liquor and a glass.

“Do you have a better one?” Tamlin asked.

Lucien crossed his arms. “I do not.”

“Then I’d appreciate if you could keep the comments to a minimum,” Tamlin growled.

Tamlin was well aware their plan was ill-conceived, but they were out of options. Learning the piano had come from Hybern seemed like a breakthrough at the time, but with the king dead and his court in a free fall, there was little they could do to further their line of inquiry. Lucien had no contacts on the island, nor did either of them have any interest in cultivating relationships with the very faeries who sought to destroy them only months ago. Rhysand and the other High Lords already believed Tamlin to be a Traditionalist sympathizer, and he was not eager to give the Night Court any more fodder to rip his lands apart. Not when things were finally getting better.

Together, Tamlin and Lucien sifted through an endless stream of correspondence Tamlin had saved between his father and Hybern. Though perhaps saved was too strong a word — forgotten seemed more appropriate.

After his father’s body was in the ground, Tamlin glamoured the manor, tucking away the westernmost wing in the largest pocket dimension he could muster. His father’s private rooms were disguised to appear as a dead end, a pointless hallway adorned with flower vases, tapestries, and a little bench in front of a window. For centuries, it remained glamoured, only the faintest whiff of pipe smoke and leather lingering in the hallway.

Neither of them had gotten much sleep. Lucien out of obligation, Tamlin out of desperation. Every minute he was not focused on the piano, he was thinking of Aoide. Their last moments together rolled through his mind relentlessly, a nonstop re-examination of what she said, how she looked. Anything that could help Tamlin figure out what the hell happened.

It took everything in him not to go running after her. The beast was near feral at his inaction, all snarls and roars whenever Tamlin’s mind slipped back to that night. But Aoide had been clear in her demands — do not follow her. Forget she existed. He could feel the thread of magic tugging on him with each breath, his sense of her growing fainter. Gone was her scent, replaced by the must and mildew of his father’s abandoned study. There was no sign of her anywhere in the manor, as if she had never been there at all.

Except for the piano.

So Tamlin read letter upon letter, decree upon useless decree, looking for any mention of a piano. The craftsmanship and the materials were undoubtedly Spring, or closely mimicked enough to pass for the real thing. The aura of magic it exuded was both familiar and strange, though neither Tamlin nor Lucien could place it. There was more to the piano than met the eye, some secret power waiting to be unleashed. Something Rhysand had pieced together, in part or in full, from Elain’s visions.

It felt well and truly hopeless, the two of them sitting on the floor next to reams of parchment, until Tamlin came across a letter tucked between a knee-high stack of documents recording the outcome of every tithe for centuries. The ink was the color of dried blood, the lettering ostentatious with its curling script.

Teàrlach,

What a thoroughly disappointing response from a dear friend and ally.

We shared a vision once. It is the same vision our sorcerer champions now. You may disagree with his means, but once you witness his effectiveness, you will reconsider.

Keep the gift. Consider it a symbol of our future alliance and inevitable victory, borne of timber and bone.

I’m sure Aine will enjoy it.

-A

Tamlin tried to read the letter again, but he couldn’t stop his hand from shaking, the script blurring as the room began to tilt from under him. The sensation was akin to falling, only Tamlin could feel the hardwood underneath him. He tried to breathe, but found all the air had been sucked out of the room, the wood-paneled walls pressing in on him, threatening to crush him.

It didn’t matter that Amarantha was dead. All it took was a letter, her initial, to send him plunging back to that forest clearing on Calanmai, Hybern’s training ring, Under the Mountain—

He could feel the cold metal around his ankles, how it bit into his skin. There was not a single moment Under the Mountain that he was free from her torment. She chained him to the floor of her bedroom, naked and kneeling, and forced him to watch as Rhysand pleasured her every night until Tamlin’s body betrayed him. It was only when the shame of his arousal was evident that she would relent, her coal-black eyes boring into him while Rhysand finished her.

And once she was sated, Amarantha would make Rhysand pluck the most intimate memories of Feyre out of Tamlin’s mind, twisting and blurring his memory until it was Amarantha kissing him in that moonlit field on summer solstice, Amarantha crying out as he moved inside her, Amarantha pinned against the wall, her slender neck under his teeth. She would shriek in delight as Rhysand projected those altered memories in her mind, the sounds of her cruel laughter haunting Tamlin’s dreams.

Night after night, they would degrade themselves until the very mention of Rhysand filled Tamlin with such guilt that all he could do was become stone, inert and unfeeling, and wait for the pain to pass.

When they returned to the Spring Court, all he wanted was to replace those ruined memories with new ones. He needed to feel Feyre’s touch and know it was her hands, her mouth, her body moving with his. Foolishly, he believed she wanted the same. He built his walls of stone taller, stronger — his own personal fortress. He realized far too late that he had entombed himself within that stone, trapped and alone.

“What did you find?” Lucien asked.

Tamlin felt his mind stretching across time, back to the present moment. His tunic was soaked through with sweat, his tongue fat and dry in his mouth. When he opened it to speak, a strange sound escaped, choked and ragged. Mercifully, Lucien took the letter from Tamlin’s trembling hand without another word.

“Timber and bone,” Tamlin croaked his voice thin and quiet. “A gift made of timber and bone.”

Lucien swallowed thickly. “Plenty of things are made of timber and bone.”

An attempt at being diplomatic, but the look of pity etched across Lucien’s face made his words ring hollow.

“We’ll destroy it,” Lucien said, a crackle of embers igniting from the tips of his fingers. “Set the damn thing on fire-“

“No,” Tamlin said.

Lucien’s brows knitted together, but he extinguished his flames. “Are you sure?”

“I have sacrificed enough of my future to the past,” Tamlin said. “The piano belongs to Aoide now.”

Lucien folded the letter and tucked it away. “Do you truly believe she will return?” Lucien asked.

“I have to,” Tamlin said.

Lucien’s golden eye clicked slowly as he surveyed Tamlin. “We’ve reached another impasse then,” Lucien said. “Unless you plan on raising Amarantha from the dead to interrogate her.”

“Something like that,” Tamlin muttered.

Which brought them to the jimsonweed liquor and Tamlin’s terrible idea.

“Once you drink it, there is no going back. You will have to wait for the hallucination to pass,” Fabian warned him. “The only way out is through.”

“I know,” Tamlin said, eyeing the bottle like it was a drawn weapon.

“I can’t guarantee the spirit you’re looking for will be summoned,” Fabian said. “The ritual is more like opening a door than sending a letter, from what our ancestors understood. Whoever wishes to speak will come forward.”

“This is insane,” Lucien sighed. “We don’t even know if this ritual is real or just folkloric nonsense.”

“It’s real,” Tamlin said. “I saw my mother last time. And Feyre — human Feyre.”

Aoide, too, Tamlin thought. He kept that to himself, still unsure of what it could mean.

Lucien paled at the mention of the mortal Feyre, his eyes growing distant, as if it meant something to him. Fabian poured a glass of the noxious liquor and Lucien gagged, the fumes potent enough to bring tears to Tamlin’s eyes.

“The larger your well of power, the less you’ll need. From what I could gather from tradition, the jimsonweed uses a faerie’s innate magic to forge a pathway between the planes. In small doses, it feels akin to the effects of faerie wine. But drink too much and you’ll find yourself on the wrong side of the veil,” Fabian warned.

“I understand,” Tamlin lied.

“We should leave,” Fabian said, looking to Lucien. “It can be disorienting for the partaker to have others around. Blurs the lines between what is real and what is…other.”

Lucien nodded, giving Tamlin a long look before following Fabian out of the music room. As soon as the door shut behind them, Tamlin downed the glass, fearing any hesitation would remind him of all the ways it could go wrong.

The liquor burned its way down his throat, settling in his stomach like acid. Tamlin felt his vision double and he closed his eyes, riding the tide of his nausea as his body rebelled against the poison. It felt like his head had filled with air, the throb of his temples pounding like the drums on Calanmai. Gritting his teeth, Tamlin waited for the feeling to pass, familiar with the sensation from the first time he drank the concoction.

When the agony finally subsided, he braced himself to face Amarantha one last time, his whole body as tense as a bowstring. When he opened his eyes, he felt his breath skitter away at what waited for him.

Dozens of bodies, cramped together like cattle, their blackened skin wrapped in tattered, filthy cotton. Children clinging to their rail-thin mothers, males that were no more than charred skin and bone. The smell was overwhelming, sweet and acrid, like a raging forest fire.

All of them staring at him, the whites of their black eyes glowing, their mouths hanging open in a silent howl. And all of them with ears not quite human, not quite fae.

Chapter Text

A frigid splash of water hit Aoide’s bruised face, violently ripping her from the murky blackness. She gasped for air, the filthy water filling her nose and mouth, making it difficult to breathe. She felt a boot nudge against her sore ribs, pushing her on her side as she coughed up mouthfuls of water.

A face loomed over her, unfamiliar and blurred. Aoide blinked away the saltwater from her eyes, the weight of unconsciousness still clouding her mind. She wavered between states, her vision tunneling as she struggled to remain conscious. A rough hand yanked on her hair, forcing her into an upright position against a barrel. Aoide tried to wriggle away, but found her hands and feet bound with coarse rope.

As the room came into focus, Aoide took careful note of her surroundings. It was dark and damp, the stone underneath her cool to the touch. She was surrounded by barrels stacked all the way to the ceiling. Rats scurried into the shadows, their beady eyes watching her in silent alarm. Above her, she could hear the creak of floorboards and a steady thrum of muffled voices.

A basement, Aoide realized. She recalled Hal mentioning a tavern, which meant they hadn’t brought her very far. It was impossible to tell how long she’d been unconscious for, but it couldn’t have been more than a few hours, her face still throbbing from the force of a boot hitting her cheek.

“The Nevan whore, in the flesh,” the unfamiliar man said coldly.

He loosed a dagger from the scabbard on his hip and pressed the flat of the blade under Aoide’s chin, forcing her to meet his simmering gaze. Aoide resisted the urge to flinch, refusing to give the bastard the satisfaction of her fear. He squinted and tilted his head, assessing her like a prized broodmare.

“I’ve stuck my cock in prettier corpses,” he chuckled lowly. “Though I suppose you’re not without your…merits.”

She felt cold steel rip through her soaked cotton tunic, her chest bared as the man leered at her. Aoide spat in his smug face and he cursed before giving her a kick in the ribs. She felt something crack underneath the steel toe of his boot, but she couldn’t help her grin.

“Foul bitch,” he seethed, wiping his face with the sleeve of his black doublet. “You’re lucky Salazar wants you in one piece.”

“That’s enough, Dawes,” said another voice.

From the shadows, a second man emerged. Aoide’s eyes strained to make out his form in the dim basement, but as he drew closer she recognized his casual gait from her memory. The man named Dawes made a face indicating his displeasure, but he backed away.

And in his place stood Hal Drakos, donning the black and violet doublet, as handsome as the night they danced on Aoide’s eighteenth birthday. Gone was his infectious smile, replaced by a cold, disinterested stare. Under his blue-green eyes hung purple half-moons, the only color on his pale face. The city watch uniform was buttoned up to his neck, his whole body tense and upright as he looked down at her beneath his dark eyebrows.

It was strange to see him in a uniform, a far cry from the casual tunics she was used to seeing him in. Gone was the breezy, flippant Hal, the man who bucked tradition and stuffiness at every turn. In his place stood a poorly rendered portrait of a man who lost everything.

Aoide’s eyes traveled downward, catching on the gloved hands hanging stiff at his side. She tried to fight away the memory of his mangled fingers and the sounds of his bones splintering underneath the pommel of a sword, the feeling of his slippery blood coating the floor.

“Let us know when you’re done with her, Drakos,” Dawes said with a vicious smirk. “There’s not a decent tavern or whorehouse for miles and the men are getting restless.”

Aoide leaned over and wretched, the sore muscles heaving weakly. Hal remained perfectly still, his lips curling in disgust as she coughed up more salt water on her torn tunic. There could be ten men up there from the sound of their jeering. Her body began to tremble with a potent mix of fear and adrenaline as Dawes retreated up the stairs.

A moment of terrifying silence stretched between Aoide and Hal, the two of them alone in the basement. She couldn’t bear to look at him, the sight of the city watch uniform making her feel ill with anger, which in turn soured to guilt.

She had done this to him — forced him into this life.

When he lurched toward her, she could not stop the scream of terror that rattled through her. The sound riled up the men upstairs, who pounded their feet and cheered at the imagined harm Hal was causing her. Aoide thrashed against her bindings, her foot meeting Hal’s chin and stunning him for a moment. The pain seemed to shake something loose in Hal, his tense posture softening as he rubbed his chin.

“Fuck, Aoide,” Hal hissed, his gloved hands groping clumsily at the rope around her ankles. “Stay still.”

Aoide stopped her thrashing and watched as Hal’s stiff fingers looped around the knots, pulling the rope loose from her ankles.

“You’re helping me?” Aoide murmured.

Hal stopped. When he looked up, his face was one of revulsion, his lips pressed in a firm line. “What did you think I was doing?”

What had she thought? Surely, Hal was here for the sake of vengeance. She had ruined his life, after all.

“But you’re…the uniform,” Aoide said, her mind still racing too quickly to form a coherent thought.

Hal preened himself, running a gloved hand over the violet epaulettes. “Rather dashing, isn’t it? Salazar might be a tyrant, but he has great taste in tailors.” Hal said. “Now turn around.”

Aoide didn’t move. She was too shocked by the flicker of the old Hal shining through the shadowed version that loomed over her just moments ago. Up close, she could see the faint beginnings of a wrinkle between his brows, a few silver curls tucked behind his ears.

“Hal-“

“I’ll explain everything later.”

He pulled on her shoulder and turned her around, fumbling with the rope tied around her wrists. Aoide wondered about the state of his hands underneath the gloves, but decided to keep her curiosity to herself. She knew from her time working with Phineas that amputees could be sensitive about such questions.

“Later? Why are you here, Hal? And why are you wearing a city watch uniform?” Aoide asked.

“I’m saving you, obviously,” Hal said. “Now I’d appreciate if you could act a little more damsel in distress and a lot less reluctant noblewoman.”

Hal tossed the rope aside and stood up. He walked to the opposite side of the room and moved a few barrels, exposing a door that Aoide hadn’t noticed before. He cursed as a few rats scurried under his feet before cracking the door open and peering outside.

“I don’t understand,” Aoide said. “Why are you helping me? You should hate me.”

Hal closed the door. His back curved inward in shame. “I did,” he said quietly.

Aoide recalled Veronique’s letter all those months ago, how he’d stormed out of the townhouse when he realized Aoide had abandoned him. The guilt had eaten away at her, little by little, that black pit next to her heart growing larger each time she thought of him.

“What happened?” Aoide asked.

“I don’t remember all of it,” Hal admitted. “There was a lot of drinking after…that night. It helped with the pain.”

Aoide wasn’t sure if he meant the pain from his shattered hands or his heart.

“I guess I was down by the docks one night when some of Salazar’s men picked me up. They thought I knew something about where you’d gone,” Hal said. “When they realized I was as clueless as they were, they dumped me in front of the townhouse. Apparently, the jail was too full to accommodate a drunk. Veronique found me there the next morning.”

Hal perched on a barrel and stared at his hands. Aoide noticed that only a few of his fingers moved, the rest as stiff as a mannequin.

“It was then I realized that Salazar was still looking for you. I guess we should have know he wouldn’t give up that easily. So, Veronique and I hatched a plan. Our best shot at warning you was to stick close to Salazar. I convinced him that I hated you enough to join the watch willingly, and when he found you, I would avenge myself,” Hal said, tucking his hands behind his back.

“You must have been very persuasive,” Aoide said. “The men listen to you.”

Hal’s face darkened, his eyes drifting to the dirt floor as if his stare could drill a hole right through the ground and swallow him whole.

“Those men are no better than street dogs,” Hal scoffed. “They respond to only one thing — fear. I gave them something to be afraid of.”

“What did you do?” Aoide whispered.

The flash of anger on Hal’s face was palpable. To subject himself to Salazar’s schemes, stand shoulder to shoulder with the men who tortured him, terrorize his own people for her sake…

“What I had to,” Hal croaked, his eyes wet and shining.

“I didn’t ask you to do that,” Aoide said.

“I don’t see anyone else here jumping at the opportunity to save you,” Hal said, his voice tense and cold.

Of course not — Aoide had made sure of that. She hadn’t bothered to explain herself to Tamlin and left Phineas with nothing but a vague note. She deflated at Hal’s tone, realizing what an ungrateful ass she was being.

“When Salazar heard the piano sold, it sent our plans into disarray. He brought the buyer’s assistant in for questioning, thinking your father had faked the sale documents to make it look less suspicious. They insisted it was for a noble across the sea,” Hal said. “Some hoity-toity looking to purchase it for his wife.”

Aoide felt her cheeks warm. To think of Tamlin calling her his wife felt borderline obscene, especially now.

“Then the bribe came through. Whoever was buying it was willing to part with hundreds of sovereigns just to get the piano through the Nevan port,” Hal said. “Not even your father had that kind of money, but Salazar was convinced. He was ready to send the entire cavalry over, with him leading the charge. But I persuaded him it would cause too much of a stir. Better to send a smaller force and draw you out with the note.”

“Like lighting fire to a rat’s nest,” Aoide said. “And I was stupid enough to fall for it.”

Hal crossed the room, kneeling next to Aoide. “You were smart enough to run,” Hal said. “I knew you wouldn’t just wait around. It would be easier for me to intercept you at the docks and get you on a boat. One headed somewhere far away.”

Hal reached into his pocket, the fingers scooping awkwardly as he dug. Aoide looked away, too afraid to see what was in his hand.

“When you came to the boarding house that night, you wanted to run away together, but I was too busy playing the rebel,” Hal said softly.

Aoide shook her head, blocking out the memory. She had gotten on her hands and knees and begged him, but Hal refused. He wanted to remain in Neva, fight Salazer’s tyranny alongside his countrymen. Leaving would be akin to treason in the eyes of his fellow rebels.

She had slept with him that night. And while he held her in his arms, drunk on lust, Aoide persuaded him to use the printing press and set their city on fire under the guise of the cause. Why plot and plan when they could strike right then, expose Salazar for the controlling bastard he was? She had twisted his want and guilt for her own purposes.

“Hal-“

“I paid off one of the sailors to put aside room on one of the smaller ships. Had to double the bounty on your head for anyone to consider it,” Hal grumbled. “Greedy assholes.”

A hundred sovereigns. No doubt a near inconceivable amount for a starving artist like Hal. Or a formerly starving artist, Aoide supposed.

“How did you get that kind of money?” Aoide asked.

“That doesn’t matter,” Hal said, waving away Aoide’s question like a troublesome fly. “What matters is that I have a ring and a new life waiting for us across the sea.”

Aoide looked down at Hal’s hand, a small silver ring glinting in his open palm. All she had to do was let Hal put it on her finger. Isn’t that what she wanted? Their plans were almost identical — sneak on a ship and make a run for it, only now she wouldn’t have to do it alone. Together, she and Hal could salvage what Salazar had destroyed all those months ago.

It would be the smart thing to do, the prudent thing.

“No,” said Aoide.

Hal faltered. “What do you mean no?”

What did she mean? She had spent the past three days determined to see her plan through, but there was something about hearing Hal speak it aloud that made her doubt. Perhaps it was her stubborn refusal to do as she was told, but Aoide could not follow through with it. She could not bear the thought of marrying Hal, play-acting the dutiful wife. Any life she forged with him would be a lie, one that would slowly smother her until freedom felt like a prison.

“I can’t,” Aoide said.

“You can’t leave? Or you can’t marry me?” Hal asked.

“Both,” Aoide said.

Hal grabbed Aoide’s shoulders as if he could shake the sense into her. His face turned grave, an expression that did not suit Hal’s casual handsomeness.

“Salazar’s men have orders to board you on the first ship back to Neva. Do you understand what he plans to do when you arrive?” Hal asked.

“Force me into a convenient marriage to bleed my family’s wealth and connections dry for his own personal gain?” Aoide said coldly.

Hal laughed bitterly. “No, Aoide. He’s found a much more powerful bride for himself. He’s king consort now. And once he gets his hands on you, he’s going to charge and execute you for treason.”

Aoide’s ironclad resolve trembled. “What?”

“Turns out you were right. A beautiful, proud noblewoman slandering a tyrant in the broadsheets is the perfect catalyst for full-scale rebellion,” Hal shrugged.

“But the hangings-“

“Made things worse for Salazar. People can only live in fear for so long. Eventually, they get angry,” Hal explained. “And when that anger hit a fever pitch, you became a symbol.”

“The Nevan whore,” Aoide muttered, recalling Dawes’ mocking voice.

Hal shook his head. “That may be what Salazar’s men call you, but the rebels have a different name. Songbird.”

Aoide huffed in surprise. “Who the hell came up with that?”

“Veronique,” Hal said.

Aoide’s jaw went slack, earning a smirk from Hal. “Veronique?”

“She had little choice. When your father was arrested and charged with aiding and abetting a fugitive, Veronique started attending meetings. She’s the one that convinced me to join the watch as a spy.”

Aoide felt her stomach drop. “My father,” Aoide said softly. “Is he…”

She couldn’t say it, wouldn’t let herself think that word. Aoide couldn’t stand to look at Hal, fearing what his grim expression might reveal.

“Still alive, somehow. His execution gets
miraculously delayed every time the date draws near,” Hal said.

Relief coursed through Aoide. “Leave it to my father to charm the executioner. What about my mother?”

“You know Sarai. She’s put on a brave face through it all, managing to keep the estate solvent by selling pieces from your father’s private collection with Veronique’s help,” said Hal.

Aoide had no doubt her mother would survive. She was always willing to do what her father wasn’t, even if it infuriated Aoide. “That’s good. Smart,” Aoide said with a nod.

“I assume the grave looking man who was poking around the docks earlier is her brother?” Hal asked.

“Phineas was here?” Aoide asked. “Where is he?”

“He beat you to the docks by a day. I convinced him to keep his head down and wait for a letter from me. He was rather discreet about the whole thing. I don’t think any of Salazar’s men noticed him,” Hal said.

Aoide loosed a sigh. Of course Phineas had come looking for her — she should have expected that. He had sworn to her parents to protect her, and Phineas was not one to go back on his promises. Aoide didn’t want to consider what would’ve happened if Salazar’s men got a hold of him. Hal had likely saved his life by sending him away.

It was hard to believe that Hal, once so carefree and loafing, had planned all this. He wasn’t the sort to plan his breakfast if he could help it. But this scheme took careful thought and execution, patience and the wear-with-all to do what was necessary. It was strangely flattering.

“Get on the boat with me. Please,” Hal begged.

The desperation in his voice made Aoide doubt, if only for a moment. Her people thought her a hero, a martyr for the cause. What had she done to earn that reputation? She’d spent the past few months running from the consequences of her actions, pretending everything she feared was in the past, safe from causing further harm.

But Salazar wasn’t content just to see her suffer. It wasn’t enough to shackle her with the bonds of marriage, force her to play the noblewoman, make her charm high society while he choked the life out of her home, her people. Charging her with treason would ruin the Achlys name, destroy all of her father’s hard work. Executing Aoide would end her family’s line forever, the last dying branch of a once-mighty oak.

Aoide would not let it stand.

“I won’t run away again, Hal. I built a life here,” Aoide said. “And I won’t let that bastard take it away from me.”

“Is it worth dying for?” Hal asked.

Aoide drew back her shoulders and pushed the damp strands of hair from her face. Her body ached as she straightened her posture, but she held strong.

“Yes,” Aoide said with a determined nod. “But I don’t plan on dying just yet.”

“I don’t like the look on your face,” Hal said, his voice more of a groan.

Aoide grinned. “What if I told you there was a place that even Salazar would hesitate to follow me? A place so ancient and dangerous that most humans have the good sense to stay away?”

“You can’t be serious,” Hal said. “You want to hide in faerie territory?”

“Not hide,” Aoide said. “I want every single one of Salazar’s men to watch as I cross the border.”

“They won’t be able to follow,” Hal murmured. “Not without risking their lives. Or starting a war.”

Hal’s face turned contemplative. He chewed his bottom lip, considering Aoide’s plan.

“Do you think they’re foolish enough to try?” Aoide asked.

“Salazar is a prideful man, and he’d certainly send us all to die for the sake of it, but his men are cowards,” Hal said. “They won’t do anything without his explicit approval, and even then, they’d hesitate to face a faerie.”

“It’ll work, then.” Aoide nodded. She felt like a fool for not thinking of it earlier, but she had been too terrified to think straight. Too scared to admit to Tamlin what she had done.

“To convince them that you’re more trouble than you’re worth? Yes, I suppose so. But I don’t see how abandoning you in faerie territory improves your chances of survival,” Hal said.

Aoide took a deep breath in and looked Hal squarely in the face. For months, she had been living a double life, her time with Tamlin dreamlike in its absurdity. If she was going to convince Hal, she would have to tell him the truth.

“You were right about the piano. My father wasn’t the buyer,” Aoide said. “But it wasn’t a noble, either. At least, not a human one.”

Hal went still, his dark brows drawing together in confusion.

“The buyer is a faerie. The High Lord of the Spring Court,” Aoide said. “And he is my lover…I think.”

Hal’s eyes widened. “You think?”

It felt strange to call Tamlin anything other than his name. She was taking liberties by claiming him as such, but it gave Aoide a thrill to say it aloud, tell someone what she had been afraid to admit to herself only days before.

“We never got the chance to discuss it,” Aoide said. “What with the note and the abandoning him in a clearing.”

Hal let out a sharp breath and shook his head, chiding Aoide with an exasperated look. “You really are your father’s daughter,” Hal said. “Seducing a faerie. Absolutely ridiculous.”

“I didn’t seduce him,” Aoide said, crossing her arms in mock objection. “I simply was myself.”

“I don’t think you understand how tempting you are, Aoide Achlys,” Hal said ruefully.

Hal slipped the ring back in his pocket and extended his hand. Aoide took it, noting how cold and hard his fingers were — not skin and bone. Once standing, Aoide pulled her cloak closer, realizing how exposed she was. And even though Hal had seen her naked countless times, she found herself embarrassed at her state of undress.

“I haven’t disappointed you, have I?” Aoide asked.

Hal snorted. “You think I’ve been pining for you all these months? Dreaming of the day we may be together once again?”

“Isn’t that why you’re here?” Aoide asked, quirking a brow.

“I’m here because I’m your friend,” Hal said. “In fact, I’ve taken a lover of my own. She was the one who insisted I do things properly and marry you before sweeping you away to some faraway land.”

The way Hal spoke was familiar, a mimic of a well-spoken, even keeled woman. Even the words he chose were oddly recognizable—

Aoide gasped. “Veronique.”

Hal smirked, his cheeks reddening as if he was picturing their red-headed friend in his mind, her wild curls and serious gaze.

“Were you two — when did — what?” Aoide said, still shocked by the revelation.

“Nothing happened until after you left. I was in a bad way and she helped me. We helped each other, actually,” Hal said, a bit sheepish.

Aoide felt like an idiot. She should have been jealous — her lady-in-waiting and her former lover — but all Aoide felt was relief. Her friends had moved on without her, not only surviving in the wake of her destruction, but thriving, fighting, loving through it all. They had rebuilt their lives, as she had, and kept moving forward despite the pull of their shared past.

Aoide wrapped her arms around Hal, squeezing him with all her remaining strength. “I’m happy for you both,” Aoide said. “And furious that Veronique would even consider letting you marry me.”

She felt Hal return the hug, patting her on the shoulder in a way that Aoide could only interpret as friendly. “She loves you above all else. If us marrying meant keeping you safe, then she was glad for it,” said Hal.

Lightly, Aoide pushed away from their hug. Hal assessed her, that trademark look of a bad idea glittering in his blue-green eyes. “Now, when was the last time you rode a horse?” he asked.

“Never,” Aoide said. “Spoiled Nevan ladies ride in fancy carriages, remember?”

“Well,” Hal said, grinning. “Then today will be a first for you, Lady Aoide.”

—

They wanted something from him. Tamlin didn’t understand how he knew this, but he felt it with all the certainty that the sun would rise come morning. They stared at him from the corners of their wide eyes, their faces turned away from his. Their anticipatory stillness felt familiar, almost animal to Tamlin.

It was difficult to get a sense of how many there were from a cursory glance. More than two dozen, but less than a hundred, from what he could tell. The music room was claustrophobic, some of them pressed against the wall, children so close to their mothers they appeared as one entity. And their skin, charred and fragile, like blackened parchment.

All of them avoided the piano, giving the imposing wood a wide berth, the only space in the room that wasn’t occupied by a body. Each of them turned their backs to it, and the ones closest seemed to curl their bodies away from the piano like a birch tree shedding its bark.

When Tamlin moved across the room, their eyes followed. When he breathed, he felt them inhale, their chests rising and falling in perfect harmony. And when Tamlin opened his mouth to speak, their jaws hung wide open but they remained silent.

“Who are you?” Tamlin asked.

He spoke no louder than a whisper. As one, they shrunk away, their bodies rippling like a dark swell of brackish seawater retreating from the shore. They clung to one another, a trembling mass of skin and bone, folding themselves inward as if to disappear completely.

Although they did not speak, Tamlin understood. It had been five hundred years since he’d seen a slave, but the scent of their fear was something he would never forget — worse than a sun-baked battlefield littered with dead warriors. It was as though you could smell their souls decaying, every order and demand atrophying another piece of their humanity.

As a child, Tamlin had been afraid of the slaves. They shuffled around the manor like living dead, their eyes never meeting his. They would hang in his periphery, looming in the corners of every room, waiting for a command. It was difficult to keep track of them, an endless stream of unfamiliar faces. Tamlin had never seen the same slave twice, though the reality of that fact eluded him for far too long.

“Why are you here?” Tamlin asked.

They seemed confused by his question, a few of them shuffling from foot to foot.

“You summoned us,” a small, twinkling voice whispered.

It came from nowhere, but the room quickly filled with its echo as dozens of voices repeated the answer. The voices blurred and mashed together until they united as one, their eerie harmony unsettling Tamlin.

Did they mean the jimsonweed? Fabian had said Tamlin’s magic would create a pathway, open a door that anyone could walk through, but he had been expecting Amarantha. He figured she would relish in haunting him once again, one last chance to make Tamlin squirm.

Then again, Fabian had mentioned that only souls tethered to the living could cross the veil — souls with something left to say. If there was truly justice in the afterlife, perhaps Amarantha was in a place which one does not escape.

A comforting thought, but one that Tamlin would not let himself indulge in for too long, fearing what it meant for his own soul.

But if that was the case, who were these half-fae tethered to? There hadn’t been half-fae slaves in the Spring Court, at least none Tamlin could recall. He knew such forced intermixing happened in the Black Land, but his father would never allow it in Spring, not without consequences. His father believed “sullying” faerie blood was a crime punishable by death, for the human and faerie alike.

Slowly, his stomach began to churn. The question that burned in his mind disgusted him. Tamlin wished he could forget it, wait for his hallucinations to pass, or maybe try to knock himself out again.

He had to know the truth. Not just for Aoide’s sake, but for his own.

“Who is your master?” Tamlin asked.

Again, they did not answer. Instead, they turned, their blackened faces staring directly at Tamlin. The first one to raise their arm was a child, his chubby finger pointed directly at Tamlin. His other hand was curled into a small fist, his thumb in his mouth.

“No,” Tamlin whispered desperately.

The others raised their arms and pointed as if in reply. Dozens of fingers, the skin black and sooty, pointed right at him. Tamlin was going to be sick, the jimsonweed liquor burning his throat as it rose. He drifted toward the crowd, examining their gently pointed ears, their charred skin. Tamlin could not stop himself from making his way to the center of the room, the piano calling to him. It was the same feeling as when Aoide found him in that clearing. One look from her dark eyes was enough to pull him from the edge of the abyss, tempt him to come closer, closer—

The half fae parted for him, bowing their heads as he passed. It sickened him, the sight of their obedience, how they trembled as he drew near. Tamlin had become too used fear, his title demanding it. Everyone he cared was scared of him, and sometimes for good reason.

Tamlin stared at the piano, counting all fifty-two white keys. Keys made from bone. His eyes scanned the room, counting the tops of heads, confirming what he already knew.

Fifty-two slaves.

The piano hadn’t been just a gift. It had come with a request, one his father had declined. History made mention of dissent amongst the Traditionalists, though Tamlin never understood why. They were united in their cause, more so than the other courts of Prythian, yet their alliance shattered.

There was only one reason his father would break an alliance with Hybern. Spring bows to no one, his father used to say. Not even to Hybern’s sorcerer king, nor his general.

The request his father denied hadn’t been a request at all. It had been a proposal, and the piano a dowry. Fifty-two slaves, their souls imbued within the bone keys. More than enough slaves to run his father’s estate, preserved for an imagined future, a horrid return to the past. A promise that the Traditionalists would reign again under a new Spring, one ruled by a Hybernian general.

The pounding in Tamlin’s head grew louder, the steady beat reminiscent of the drums on Calanmai. The thrum demanded his attention.

A coldness settled within him as he reached out his hand, one finger grazing the bone keys. The crowd lurched violently, a cacophony of pained grunts cutting through the silence. He could hear teeth scraping together as they ground their jaws to powder.

Tamlin pressed the chipped key. The note rang as clear and bright as a bell, and the room descended into chaos. They grabbed at him, pulling Tamlin down with a strength that surprised him. Several pairs of hands fisted the fabric of his tunic, ripped at his golden hair, clawed at his eyes. They surged toward him like water wraiths during a feeding frenzy, ready to devour him.

He should’ve felt panicked as they piled onto him, the weight of their bodies making it difficult to breathe. They tore and pounded and screamed at him, their hideous sobs crackling with grief as soot filled Tamlin’s eyes, his nose, his mouth. Dozens of bodies piled high, all of them sacrificed by Amarantha after the War.

She had killed all her slaves, but trapped their souls, chained even in death. He could not begrudge them their vengeance. He did not care if it was at his expense. It was only a hallucination, and though he felt the pain of their jagged nails digging into his skin, the beat of their fists against his ribs, he knew it would end. What he suffered was only a fraction of their anguish.

The only way out is through, Fabian had told him.

He had promised his citizens that not a single slave would set foot on his lands ever again. Tamlin was adamant in those first few decades that Spring would be a court defined by its future, not its past. Change was the very essence of the land. Eternally budding flowers, tender shoots of sweet grass, the damp heat of midday, the dewy cool of dawn. Death giving way to life, a constant rebirth. Court of the shapeshifting High Lord.

Tamlin had changed more in a few months than he had in five hundred years. Is that what being human felt like all the time? He wondered how they had fooled themselves into thinking the fae were superior. They were stagnant, and had been for millennia.

Tamlin could feel his tunic being torn to shreds before they stopped, their fists hovering over him and their heads tilted. He could not see what they were looking at, but he could hear it — the breathy sound of a wooden flute playing a sweet song.

Their fists turned to opened palms, their skittering fingers pulling Tamlin upright, pushing the wild strands of hair out of his eyes. They preened him, fussing as his mother used to do with the collar of his shirt. Finally, they parted, melting away into shadow.

Standing in the doorway was a figure cloaked in black, the fabric ruffling as she drew nearer to Tamlin. In her hand, a rosewood fife. She walked toward him, the roll of her hips demanding his attention. He could see the outline of her form as the moonlight illuminated the thin sheath of silk that covered her from head to toe.

This isn’t real, Tamlin reminded himself. That isn’t Aoide.

She hovered over him, placing a gentle hand against his cheek as he kneeled before her. Her touch felt warm and soft as she stroked his chin. Her scent washed over him, mellow jasmine and woody vetiver, a hint of mineral and brine.

“It could be real,” she whispered. “You could have me.”

Tamlin shivered at the sound of her sweet, lilting voice, every syllable like sunshine and birdsong. It lulled him into a delightful trance, the world around him softening and falling away.

He grabbed onto her thighs, the skin supple under his claws. Tamlin could not resist the temptation to bury his face between them and kiss her soft flesh. The silk stuck to his damp face as he pulled away. He tugged on the back of her knees, forcing her to kneel with him.

It could be real. He could have her, just for tonight. Tamlin lifted the veil over her head. Greedily, he took in every feature on her round face, ready to kiss her eyes, her nose, her scar —

No scar. Her rosy cheek was perfectly smooth, devoid of its character. It made her face look incomplete, unreal in a way that unnerved Tamlin. He ran his thumb over the flawless patch of skin, the illusion wavering.

“You’re not Aoide,” Tamlin murmured.

Her eyebrows scrunched together in disappointment. “Of course I am.”

The words hummed against her lips. He felt a tug, sudden and hard, squeeze the air from his lungs. Not-Aoide cupped a hand around his jaw and pulled him closer, pressing her forehead against his.

“Don’t you love me, Tamlin?” she asked, her voice turning desperate.

Another yank, even stronger than the first, pulled within him. He felt Not-Aoide’s grip grow tighter, her thumbs pressing into his cheeks.

“Protect me,” she begged. “If you leave me here, I will die.”

Tamlin looked down at his chest and saw a strand of golden light twanging in the darkness. It extended well past his sight, deep into the forest beyond the estate gardens. He felt its pluck reverberate through his body.

Lucien had seen it, too.

Tamlin could sense Aoide — the real Aoide — on the other side of that strand. She was throttling toward him, moving far too quickly not to cause alarm. He tried to pull away, but Not-Aoide clung to him.

“Murderer!” Not-Aoide shrieked.

Tamlin gripped her hands, pulling her clasped fingers from his face. He kissed each palm and placed them in her lap, before wiping away her tears. It wasn’t Aoide, but their likeness made it impossible to treat her cruelly.

Tamlin delayed only a moment, steeling himself for what he would have to do. Tenderly, he tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear, his heart aching at the sight of her quivering mouth.

“I’m not sure what you are, but I am sorry,” Tamlin said.

Power rippled through the room, a current of air slicing clean through the hallucination. Black smoke leaked from the fatal wound through Not-Aoide’s chest, her black eyes cold and shining.

The beast leapt through the shattered glass windows, its viridescent eyes focused on the nearing horizon. Every strap of muscle, every surging pump of its thundering heart brought it closer to Aoide, who pulled and pulled on the golden tether. Like a star falling from the sky, the beast burned through the night, its massive claws tearing the ground beneath it.

Through the crackle of forest thicket, the beast could hear her labored breath, taste the salt of her sweat on its tongue. Wildly, her heart beat in unison with the clomp of hooves. Ten horses, give or take, and the sounds of whooping hollers giddy with violence not far behind.

The beast hurdled over a patch of boulders, splashed through a clear-running stream, the cold water wetting its golden coat. Alongside the beast ran foxes and rabbits and deer and field mice and all manner of creatures, both predator and prey. The towering oak trees creaked as the wind whipped through the leaves, angry and unforgiving.

As the beast crested over the final hill, it saw her. Aoide clung to a horse as black as midnight, her arms wrapped around its strong neck. An arrow whizzed by, but neither Aoide nor the horse were deterred. She gritted her teeth, her obsidian eyes dead set on the path before her.

Behind her, nine human males followed on horseback, some with bows drawn and others brandishing swords. They attempted to flank her, but Aoide’s horse was too fast, too agile as she guided it through the dense spinney. Her short hair lashed against her windburned cheeks, making her look like a madwoman.

And when she saw that streak of golden fur she smiled, sharp and wide, her manic laugh cutting through the steady beat of hooves.

Troublemaker, the beast crooned, before crashing through the males.

Chapter Text

Aoide had never heard a sound quite like it.

The thunderous rumble of hoof beats, the jeers of a near-dozen men taunting her, the sound of Hal’s horse huffing as he tore through the thicket. She clung to Sigurd’s velvet black neck, remembering Hal’s final instruction —

Do not look back. No matter how much you want to, you keep going.

The plan she and Hal hatched was a simple one. He would use the hundred sovereigns he set aside for their voyage to get the men good and drunk, regaling them with a tale of vengeance so foul that Aoide didn’t wish to know the details. He would ply the barmaid with enough gold to keep the ale flowing, drinking the barrels dry. When the ruckus upstairs got loud enough, Aoide would sneak through the cellar door to the stables.

It was midday by the time the men were completely inebriated, which meant Aoide could not tarry. She would have to ride straight through to the Spring Court border. It had been a day’s ride by carriage, but with only herself and her meager belongings, Hal guessed she could get there by nightfall.

Hal was already at the stables reeking of ale and smoke, saddling up an impressive black gelding when Aoide arrived. She watched as Hal moved around his horse, buckling and strapping the saddle as if it were second nature. She had only seen Hal this focused a few times in her life, usually standing in front of a piece of parchment, hands black with charcoal dust. She wondered if Hal had given up on portraiture completely — if it was too hard to return to that side of himself after their brush with tragedy. Aoide knew firsthand that they were only left with two choices after that horrible night: change, or die.

“We don’t have much time. The men think I’ve gone to relieve myself. Come here and meet Sigurd,” Hal said, waving Aoide over.

The horse was a stunning creature with a shining coat of blackest midnight. He wasn’t the largest horse in the stables but he was well-groomed and muscular, no doubt a reliable steed. It was clear the horse was comfortable around Hal, seemingly unbothered by the way he flitted around him.

“Sigurd is one of the best horses in the cavalry,” Hal said, giving the horse’s neck a solid pat. Sigurd let out a satisfied nicker and tossed his head back.

“Then why’d they give him to you?” Aoide asked. She couldn’t resist one last jab.

“No one wanted him. He can be a little spirited with the other men,” Hal said with a self-satisfied smirk.

Slowly, Aoide brought her hand up to Sigurd’s long snout and gave him a gentle rub. He looked right at her, his dark almond eyes assessing what sort of human she was. There was a noble dignity in his stare, a steadiness that put Aoide at ease, though she had no doubt that a good buck off the beast would prove fatal.

“We have that in common, Sir Sigurd,” Aoide said. She ran her fingers down his short mane, petting his glossy coat as he softly whickered.

“Let’s get you in the saddle. I’ll talk you through the basics,” Hal said.

He guided Aoide to the side of Sigurd, boosting her up as she threw her leg over. Sigurd remained calm as Aoide settled in the saddle. As Hal tightened the stirrups around her boots, Aoide petted Sigurd’s long neck, gripping the saddle horn with her other hand until her knuckles went white.

“Right,” Hal started. “Keep the reins in your hands at all times. Back straight, toes pointed up and your feet pressed into the stirrups.”

Aoide nodded, grabbing the reins as Hal fussed with a few straps. Hal listed off another dozen instructions, talking Aoide through how to guide Sigurd with her legs. Her head began to spin as she realized how poorly their plan could go, how dangerous it was to send her racing off into the night. If she couldn’t get Sigurd to cooperate, or if she lost control…

Sigurd pawed the ground, kicking up a bit of straw as if he felt her fear. Aoide tensed up, feeling unsteady as the beast moved beneath her. The horse shifted from hoof to hoof and Aoide lost her balance, sliding off the saddle.

“Calm, boy,” Hal said, giving his horse a hard pat on his neck. “Same goes for you, Aoide. He’ll sense if you’re getting scared.”

Aoide took a settling breath and tried to ease her rapidly thudding heart. She had never been good at hiding her emotions, her eyes always giving away her disgust or her excitement. She learned early on that it was better to tuck her soft parts beneath an aloof exterior, balancing between coy interest and cold disregard. It was the only way to keep her suitors at an arm’s length.

Don’t let them see you frightened, her mother used to tell her. And never let them know you are pleased.

Aoide shoved her fear behind that curtain of cool detachment and with it, all her doubts. Sigurd was a bow and she an arrow, unthinking and unfeeling, dead set on hitting her intended target. There was only forward, only one possible outcome Aoide was willing to consider.

She would make it over that border, right into Tamlin’s arms. And when Salazar’s men fled, she would tell him the truth.

From the distance, Aoide could hear the muffled shouts of Salazar’s men. A few of them must have wandered outside and stumbled around in search of Hal. She had hoped for more time, but Hal’s lesson would have to do.

“Drakos! Get back here and unlock the damn cellar,” Dawes shouted. “We want to see the whore.”

Hal muttered under his breath, guiding Sigurd out of the stables. By some stroke of luck, they were just out of sight from the tavern, hidden behind the trees. Aoide kept her eyes focused on the rapidly darkening horizon. The chilled Autumn air seeped through the tear in her tunic, sending goosebumps down her arms. She did not dare risk a glance back at the tavern, knowing full well what horrors awaited her.

“I’m ready,” Aoide said, giving a resolute nod to Hal.

“That’s good,” Hal said. “Because we’re out of time.”

Hal gave Sigurd’s rear a solid thwack and he reared before lurching forward in a gallop. Aoide let out a strangled shriek, but quickly clamped her mouth closed. Her body bobbed aggressively, and for one terrifying moment, she thought she would fly right off.

Quickly, she clamped her legs around Sigurd’s body and leaned into the surging movements according to Hal’s instructions. The world flew past her in blur of yellowing leaves and fading sunlight as they raced down the dirt road. They moved impossibly fast, much faster than any carriage Aoide had ever been in. A powerful gust of wind hit her face and sucked the air from her lungs.

It took a few miles for her to adjust to the sensation. Aoide recalled the first few weeks on the ship to the Mortal Lands, how she learned to roll with the swell and shift her weight as the ship keeled against a wave. Riding Sigurd was not all that different, though she still found herself flinching as they cut into the forest and weaved through the oak trees.

She wondered if it was similar to how Tamlin felt when he became the beast. Did he awe at his primeval power, marvel at the way his glorious body moved with such predatory grace? Did he indulge in the feeling of a cold breeze ruffling his golden coat?

It had been three days and Aoide missed Tamlin in a way that frightened her. She could still feel that persistent tug deep within her, a reminder that he was far from her. Aoide didn’t want to consider how it would’ve felt to never see him again.

Seeing that silver ring in Hal’s hand turned something over in Aoide. It was a feeling she was not sure what to make of. All Aoide knew in that moment was that she could not be with Hal, not even for appearances. It felt like a betrayal. Her mind could not overrule her heart in this matter.

Her mother had taught her that feelings were a fatal flaw in a woman’s design, a tool in the hands of cruel men. Perhaps her mother had been right. Aoide could almost forgive her for it, knowing that she had done it to protect Aoide in the likely event she was wed to a ruthless noble. Such ill-suited marriages were common among the Nevan peerage, a remnant of days long past as the rest of the city moved forward. Wealth and influence still reigned supreme, and those with it were solely concerned with acquiring more.

She had never known a man who hadn’t wanted something from her. Even Hal had been attracted to Aoide’s status, a glimpse into a life that he had been deprived of solely due to his parentage. He let her escape into his world for a taste of the forbidden — a noblewoman in his bed, a muse for his portraits. She didn’t hold it against Hal. In the end, she had used him for her own benefit, too.

Tamlin had never taken anything from her, didn’t want anything she was unwilling to give. Aoide had revealed parts of herself to Tamlin she wouldn’t dare show a suitor. He treated every kindness she had shown him as some rare and miraculous gift. The way he looked at her in silent assessment made her shiver — a feeling only second to watching him play the fiddle.

For the briefest of moments, Aoide closed her eyes as Sigurd deftly maneuvered around the forest path. She pictured the clearing she had come to know so well, with its shady trees and moss-covered rocks, the sound of birdsong greeting her as Sigurd flew over the trickling creek. She imagined Tamlin leaning against a tree, his flaxen hair and shining eyes waiting for her, ready to pluck her off Sigurd’s saddle and whisk her away to his manor, far away from Salazar’s men and their vulgar threats.

She was still a good deal away from the border when she heard them hollering. Hal had done a good job in getting the men thoroughly drunk, but Aoide knew he wouldn’t be able to hold them off forever. It was essential to their plan that Salazar’s men witness her cross the border. Hal planned to remain at the front of the pack to slow them down, but the sound of their hooves told Aoide they were closer than she expected.

Aoide felt her teeth begin to chatter as the sound grew louder. With a solid squeeze of her legs, Sigurd huffed before breaking into a furious gallop. She made a note to insist Hal feed him as many sugar cubes as he wanted for the rest of his life.

Sigurd was faster than the other horses, but Aoide was not nearly as skilled as their riders. If it hadn’t been for the ale, she had no doubt that Dawes would have been on her before she got anywhere near the border.

For a seemingly endless number of miles, they played a game of cat and mouse. Aoide guided Sigurd to cut a path through the thick patches of bramble, trying to shake the men before they crested over the hills and through the valleys. The men called her every horrid name they could think of, shouting all the things they would subject her to if they got their hands on her.

They were trying to frighten her, make her uneasy enough to slip up, but Aoide had been trained from the age of eleven to navigate a man’s worst impulses. She expected their brutality, as certain as the night turned to day. She would not let those lessons fail her now.

Aoide kept her eyes focused on the path in front of her, ignoring the men as they flanked her sides and grabbed at her. Sigurd seemed to respond to her relentless focus, pumping his powerful legs faster between labored huffs. It was only when she saw the twinkle of Phineas’ cottage that Aoide felt the barest shred of relief, a feeling which quickly passed as Dawes’ horse nudged against Sigurd.

“Come here, cock-warmer!” Dawes screamed.

Dawes must have outpaced Hal. She could smell the stench of ale on his breath. His grubby hand pawed her cloak, pulling her back as he balled it in his fist and yanked.

Aoide felt herself slip off the back of the saddle. She was going to fall if she didn’t do something. Dawes’ horse would trample her before the other men caught up and made good on her threats. There would be little Hal could do to stop it without exposing his own treachery. She didn’t think she could survive watching Hal get tortured again.

Aoide gritted her teeth and turned away from Dawes’ grasp. Sigurd followed her command, vaulting over a downed tree and past the clearing at a breakneck pace. She was thrown in the air, landing hard on her rear before wrapping her legs around Sigurd.

Aoide focused on that feeling in her gut, picturing a thread that travelled all the way to Tamlin’s silent manor, and gave it a tug. She felt the weight of that pull, as if something tangible waited for her on the other side.

Nothing. No fizz of magic, no sight of his golden hair or emerald eyes. It was only her and Dawes, inches away from one another as they raced through the bramble.

“Tamlin!” Aoide shouted. “TAMLIN!”

She tugged again, harder this time. Sigurd whinnied as she squeezed him, and against all odds, he sprinted forward. Tears streamed down her face as the wind burned her eyes. With trembling hands, she let go of the reigns and tore at the clasp around her neck, letting her cloak fly behind her. She heard Dawes curse, giving Aoide a few precious strides before his horse throttled forward again. Unable to grasp the reigns, Aoide leaned forward and wrapped her arms around Sigurd’s neck.

They were close to the border now. She wasn’t sure if the men could feel it — that tingle of potent, ancient magic hanging in the air. It didn’t seem to deter Dawes, who grunted louder than his horse as he tried to flank Aoide again.

“I’m going to kill you myself and fuck your severed head, you stupid cunt,” Dawes rasped, his voice crackling with rage.

Out of the corner of her eye, Aoide saw his twisted grimace, the look of pure malice on Dawes’ horrid face as he gritted his teeth. He was close enough to pull on Sigurd’s reins, his arm reaching, fingers brushing —

Aoide felt him before she saw it — the flash of gold arcing through the dark forest. Felt the pull of his presence, the weight of his bestial power calling to her like the unrelenting current of a tidal wave. Her blood thrummed with the lingering impulse to run and hide as the wind churned and the ground trembled underneath them.

She lost her breath at the sight of him. He radiated a pure golden light, as though the sun itself had fallen from the sky and tumbled toward them. Every inch of his body rippled with muscle, pulsing with each stride. His eyes flickered with rage, twin green flames burning through the night. Atop his head, a crown of jagged antlers led the charge.

Not Tamlin. The beast.

Relief bubbled in Aoide’s chest, her laughter coming sharp and hard. Dawes’ horse slowed as he stared at the beast, slack-jawed.

“What the hell is-“

The impossibly loud thud of bodies colliding spooked Sigurd as the beast plowed right through Dawes. The force of air that whooshed past her drove Sigurd wild, bucking Aoide into the air before she landed hard on the ground.

She felt her lungs flatten. The rib that Dawes kicked in the basement made a miserable crunching sound as Aoide tried to suck in mouthfuls of air. The pain was mind-splitting, but she was alive. She ran her fingers down her torso, feeling for any ruptures or blood, but found none.

You’re fine, she convinced herself. Just a broken rib.

The world around her descended into hell. The beast launched itself into a tangle of limbs, both man and animal, as Salazar’s men tried to run away. The horses shrieked, throwing riders from their mounts and scattering into the forest in all directions. Men cowered at the sight of the beast, some of them following the horses, preferring to risk their luck in the dark forest.

She had never witnessed the full might of the beast. When Tamlin had told her the faeries were scared of him, she didn’t understand why. He had always been gentle with her. One of the men managed to shoot off an arrow, the wood splintering as it hit an invisible barrier around the beast. Another tried to bring a blade down on the beast’s neck only for it to fly from his hands and end up lodged in a tree trunk.

The beast swiped at the men with its razor sharp claws, cutting a few of them down as though they were nothing more than chaff in a field of wheat. It wouldn’t take long before the beast shredded the men apart, leaving nothing but bloody viscera in its wake. The men trampled over their fallen comrades, some of them trapped under their steeds as they tried to flee. They wailed as the beast brought his claws down on them, its talons aiming for a familiar mop of curly hair.

“Don’t hurt him!” Aoide shrieked, clamping her eyes shut at the sight of Hal’s blood spilling on the ground.

The sound of their terror lulled. A stillness settled. Aoide opened her eyes to find the men clinging to each other, pressed against a pile of boulders as the beast pinned Hal to the ground with one massive paw.

“TRESPASSERS,” the beast growled. “Leave my lands or die.”

The men trembled as the beast spoke. Aoide could hear Tamlin’s voice beneath the terrifying rumble, crackling with anger.

“Fuck,” Hal said, letting out a labored breath.

The beast turned its head toward Hal, giving him a long sniff before baring its foamy maw of jagged teeth. Hal flinched, looking away from the beast. His eyes begged her to do something, but Aoide was struggling to keep upright.

“That’s a faerie,” one of them men squeaked.

Dawes’ face paled, white as the cotton sheets Phineas used to wrap the deceased before burial. “B-by order of the Nevan crown-“

“Do not speak to me of your Queen, human,” the beast sneered. “Her word holds no authority here.”

The beast tightened its grip on Hal, who writhed under its paw trying to free his pinned arm. Hal gasped as one of the claws cut through his doublet and ground him into the dirt.

“Give us the whore and we’ll be gone,” Dawes said, pointing at Aoide with a shaking finger.

The beast flicked its slitted eyes toward Aoide, its tail swaying as it appraised her. The flame of rage burning in its eyes softened as the beast relinquished its grip on Hal and stalked toward her.

She held her breath as the beast circled her, growing closer with each loping step. Aoide drew back her shoulders, ignoring the sensation of bone rubbing together. She wanted to bury her face in its chest and let loose a great, heaving sob of relief.

The beast nuzzled against her, curling around her body like a possessive house cat. Aoide’s skin thrummed from the contact. Fear and excitement braided together, a new sensation that left her stomach in knots.

“Troublemaker,” the beast chuffed, its breath warming the shell of her reddened ear. “What have you gotten yourself into?”

Aoide took one look at Salazar’s men and smiled, relishing in the stupid look on their cruel faces. Even Hal looked dumbfounded, as if he couldn’t believe Aoide seduced such a fearsome creature.

“I resent the insinuation, beast. I have done nothing to these men,” Aoide cooed.

The beast’s rough tongue ran up her neck, licking the fine sheen of sweat that coated her skin. She thought of that afternoon in the music room and how Tamlin restrained himself. What the beast wanted from her was driven by a pure, primal desire. It made her tremble as the men shrank away in disgust.

“Faerie fucker,” Dawes said, his lip curling in revulsion.

“Shut the hell up before you get us all killed,” Hal spat, lying perfectly still on his back.

“Listen to the maimed one,” the beast said coolly. “Lest I rip out that tongue of yours and shove it down your throat.”

A few of the men clutched the daggers sheathed on their hip, but none made a move to draw their steel. By the shaking of their hands, Aoide wasn’t sure any of them had the nerve to keep the blade steady enough to be effective.

“Will that be before or after you shove your faerie cock down hers?” said Dawes, grinning like an arrogant fool.

The beast unraveled itself from Aoide, stalking towards the men with bloodthirsty intent. A growl rumbled in the beast’s chest like a thunderstorm on the horizon.

“Don’t kill them,” Aoide pleaded.

The desperation in her voice seemed to give the beast pause. It stopped its marauding stride, its tail flicking. The men breathed a collective sigh of relief before Aoide felt the fizz of magic fill the air.

Before she could blink, Dawes was gone —vanished into thin air. The men were as equally stunned by the sudden empty space. It was only when they looked at their feet that they noticed the small, wriggling body in the dirt.

“You are nothing but a WORM,” the beast roared. “You are lucky I do not ground your pathetic little existence into the dirt with my foot for daring to look at her.”

“Turn him back!” one of the men pleaded. The others echoed the urgent plea, some of them falling to their knees in an attempt to scoop him up.

“Leave this place and never return,” the beast growled.

Dawes winked back into existence, still writhing on the ground as the beast returned him to form. The men hauled him to his feet, dragging a half-conscious Dawes through the forest in a bow-legged retreat.

All except Hal, who was brought to his knees before he could take a step. His body trembled as he bowed deeply, his nose grazing the dirt.

“Not you,” the beast said. “You stay.”

The beast slinked toward Hal, towering over him like a god looking down on a fearful supplicant.

“What did you do to her?” the beast growled.

“Tamlin,” Aoide said, her voice low. The beast’s ear flicked backward, but it did not stop.

“I didn’t do anything,” Hal sputtered.

The beast snapped at Hal. “Then why is your foul scent all over her? Why is she bare? Why can I taste her fear?”

Aoide pulled the scraps of her tunic around her exposed chest, her body flushing at the realization that she had been half naked the whole time. Tamlin had seen her—

“I-I,” Hal stuttered, “I would never-“

“Tamlin!” Aoide trembled. “Stop this now.”

“Answer the question, human. If you harmed one single hair on her precious head, I will turn you inside out and string you up by your innards for the carrion to feast on,” the beast roared.

“I did everything I could,” Hal pleaded. “Tell it, Aoide-“

“You failed,” the beast seethed. “You failed and now you will die.”

“Enough, Tamlin,” Aoide commanded, stomping her foot into the dirt. “Release him now before you make a villain of yourself.”

For one agonizing moment, the three of them hung in that delicate balance. Aoide could sense the beast straining, the pull on the tether spooling tighter and tighter, like a fish being pulled to the surface of a pond. She gave it her own yank, hoping Tamlin was on the other end.

Slowly, she watched as Tamlin returned to himself. The beast’s body contracted, seizing against the shift. Aoide felt a pulse of pain travel through the space between them before Tamlin let out a shuddering gasp of relief.

His cascade of golden hair blew in the wind swirling around them, churning up the fallen leaves. Tamlin curled into himself, as if he would collapse right in front of Hal. His fists were clenched, the claws coated in blood. Hal was too stunned by the shift to do anything other than stare. Aoide couldn’t blame him — it was all she could do, too, as Tamlin made his way across the clearing.

He staggered forward, his glorious fae body shining with sweat. He was completely naked, every muscle swollen and throbbing with power, his wide chest heaving with exertion. Aoide reached out her hand, her palm extended. The space between them narrowed until Aoide could feel the heat radiating off his skin.

“Do you see it?” Tamlin asked, his trembling fingers plucking at the air.

She was not sure what Tamlin was seeing, but she felt it — the same tug that had nagged her for days.

“What is that?” Aoide gasped, clutching at her chest.

None of them heard the bolt whistling through the air before it lodged itself in Tamlin’s shoulder. And then another, right through his thigh. Tamlin loosed a pained grunt, slumping to the ground as he tried to grab the bolt. When he hands grazed the wood, he groaned in agony.

Phineas emerged from the edge of the clearing, another bolt drawn and aimed at Tamlin’s crumpled body. Phineas’ arms were shaking, but his serious face was grim with determination as he raised the crossbow.

Aoide leaped forward, covering Tamlin’s body with her own as Phineas’ hand squeezed the trigger. She heard Hal scream her name before the bolt whizzed by her ear. The shot went wide, hitting an oak tree before skittering into the darkness.

There were sounds of a struggle, ending in the crossbow clattering to the ground. None of that mattered to Aoide. Her focus shrunk to the size of a pinhole as the forest around them fell away. She cradled Tamlin’s head in her arms and pushed the golden hair from his waxy face. Tamlin’s eyes fluttered open at her touch, his consciousness hanging by a thread.

“You were right. He is a good shot,” Tamlin said.

“Developing a sense of humor on death’s door?” Aoide asked.

The weak smile he gave her made Aoide’s chest throb.

“Better late than never,” Tamlin said, his voice fraying as he slipped into unconsciousness.

Aoide swallowed her sob, a steely quietude settling in her mind. She shored up the last of her focus, willing away the exhaustion that threatened to consume her as the past three days bared down on her. Three days without a decent meal or bed, and a cracked rib that may or may not have punctured a lung.

She had saved him once before, back when she was an untrained apprentice. His wounds were far deeper than the last time and he reeked of booze and char, like he had been standing in the middle of a bonfire. She felt for his pulse and found it weakening with every passing moment.

“Phineas, prepare the cottage. We need a sterile surface and as much gauze as we have in our stores. Hal, I’m going to need your help moving him,” Aoide said, her voice sharp and loud.

Phineas and Hal stared at her pitifully, wasting precious moments Aoide would need if Tamlin was to survive the night.

“Now!” she shouted, her fury burning bright and hot in her chest.

—

It had been centuries since Tamlin felt the burn of ash wood coursing through his veins. It set the entirety of his being on fire, as though his blood had been mixed with caustic poison and set alight. Every pulse of his heart pushed more of the poison through his body, his wounds refusing to clot.

He felt himself drifting between the peaceful black and raging pain, each moment more jarring than the next. The only thing that kept him steady was the sound of Aoide’s voice demanding he stay with her.

She barked orders at the two males and they listened, scurrying around her as she worked on his ruined shoulder and his shredded thigh. Both of the males needed to hold him down as she pushed the barbed arrowhead through the torn muscle and sinew with one swift tug.

The roar that thundered through Tamlin as the ash wood travelled through his body did not shake Aoide’s concentration. Through his tunneling vision, Tamlin could see her serious gaze, her dark eyes narrowed as she packed the wound with steady hands.

The bolt in his thigh was more troublesome. He couldn’t manage to stay awake as she wedged out the arrowhead, unable to push it cleanly through his leg as she had done with the first one. Losing consciousness felt like a mercy as she methodically extracted the splintered wood embedded in his leg.

When he came to, Tamlin found himself in an unfamiliar bed. The spartan room was quiet and still, with only the fading light of day illuminating the dim corners. The threadbare mattress was too narrow for his brawny frame, his back pressed against the cold plaster wall.

The bandages wrapped around shoulder and leg were sticky with blood, the wounds still fresh as his body burned off the effects of the ash wood. If Aoide hadn’t removed the splintered wood in totality, the wounds would never heal correctly. His head pounded like a relentless bodhran, a familiar side effect from the jimsonweed liquor that made the light too bright and every sound too loud.

To make matters worse, Tamlin was not alone. Sitting in the far corner of the room with a crossbow cradled in his arms was Aoide’s uncle. The look in his dark eyes was nothing short of surly as he pointed the tip of the crossbow at Tamlin’s chest and drew back the bolt. He recalled Aoide mentioning his name was Phineas, a good tidbit of information if Tamlin was to avoid dying at his hands.

The other male dozing against the doorframe flinched at the sound of the crossbow, fear flashing in his round eyes before he shoved the drawn bolt toward the floor.

“Enough with the damn crossbow,” the male muttered.

A surprising gesture, considering the beast threatened to hang him by his entrails. Aoide’s lingering scent clung to his bloodied black doublet. Tamlin considered it a mercy that he was too weak to do anything but pull himself upright, hissing as the wound on his shoulder re-opened. Killing the male now would only cause him more trouble.

“Where’s Aoide?” Tamlin asked.

“That’s none of your concern,” said her Uncle Phineas.

“She’s resting in her room. It was a long three days for her, and a longer night trying to keep you alive,” the other male said.

Tamlin stretched his awareness beyond the room. Aoide was not far from him, only a thin wall separating them. He was relieved to hear the steady beat of her heart and the slow exhale of her breath. It taunted him, begging him to punch through the lath and snatch her away like the devious faeries of old.

“What do you want with her?” Phineas asked.

Phineas’ features were much sharper than Aoide’s, lacking the pleasant roundness of her cheeks and the soft slope of her chin, but their eyes were startlingly similar. They reflected the dim light like polished obsidian, endless and mesmerizing.

It was the same question Aoide asked him in the music room. The question that changed something between them, like the first buds of Spring pushing through the thaw.

Last night changed everything again. Seeing Aoide half naked and badly bruised was enough evidence for the beast to do as it pleased, consequences be damned. If it hadn’t been for Aoide’s pleas, the beast would have killed every last one of those males — gut them from neck to groin and leave their shredded bodies on the border as a message.

And once the beast’s bloodlust was sated, it would have taken Aoide back to the manor and plumbed the depths of her want until they were both left undone. Tamlin could still taste the salt of her skin on his tongue, feel her tremble as the beast licked the back of her neck. He ignored the churning desire blooming in his stomach as he addressed the males.

“I will give you the same answer I gave her. I want only what Aoide wishes to give me,” Tamlin said.

A lie that was once true. He had meant it when he said it to Aoide in the forest, had abided by her every desire and whim faithfully. Now, Tamlin was certain Aoide would always leave him wanting more — wanting everything.

“Is that supposed to be some sort of fae trick?” Phineas asked.

“No tricks. The bargain I granted Aoide forbade it,” said Tamlin.

The other male cocked his head to the side. “A bargain?”

“To the faeries, the terms of a bargain are magically binding. She played the piano in my manor and I kept her safe from harm. Aoide was free to leave when she wished, and I could do nothing to prevent her. No tricks, no traps. A fair exchange for saving my life,” said Tamlin.

“That night…” Phineas trailed off, his face crinkling in recognition.

“She broke our bargain three days ago and returned half-naked with that one’s scent all over her,” Tamlin said, jutting his chin at the curly-haired male.

“What exactly are you implying?” the male hissed, shooting a disgusted look at Tamlin.

“I am not implying anything,” Tamlin said. “I am merely stating the truth.”

The male’s nostrils flared as he abandoned his post in front of the door and charged toward Tamlin’s bedside.

“I placed myself at the whims of a fucking despot to save her. Do you have any idea what I went through to get here? What Aoide went through back in Neva?” the male seethed.

He ripped off the black leather gloves on his hands and threw them at Tamlin. He was missing several fingers and the ones that remained were badly mangled. Attached to the stubs of his knuckles were poorly sculpted fingers made of wood and metal, none of them looking particularly useful or comfortable.

The male turned his back to Tamlin and stared at his feet, contempt ringing clear in his voice as he spoke—

“Do not insult me by lumping me together with the rest of those bastards. I would have preferred you turn the whole lot of them into worms and left them to eat rotten shit for the rest of their miserable existence.”

Phineas remained silent, his eyes rapidly moving between the two of them.

“You were supposed to take her abroad. What happened?” asked Phineas.

“She didn’t want to leave,” the male shrugged. “And you know as well as I do that Aoide is not one to be strong-armed into anything.”

“Stubborn,” Phineas said, shaking his head. “Just like Sarai.”

“Aoide thought that if she could get over the border, Salazar’s men would retreat. I agreed, though I didn’t expect her faerie lover to be so…brutal,” the male said, shivering.

Phineas’ eyes flashed with concern as he glanced at Tamlin, assessing him anew. Tamlin did his best to reign in his reaction, the suggestion that he and Aoide had lain together making his skin feel tight.

“I know that name,” Tamlin said.

“Salazar is the head of the Nevan city watch,” the male said, sneering as he said his name.

“And her betrothed,” Phineas added solemnly.

Her betrothed. The words hit Tamlin like a frontline charge, crushing his lungs until he found it hard to draw breath. He thought of the triptych, how long Aoide’s hair had been compared to the short crop he’d grown to favor — a Nevan tradition for recently bedded wives, or so she had told him.

“Aoide is…engaged to be married?” Tamlin asked.

“Was,” the other male said. “He’s since married the Queen. He’s got quite the talent for social climbing.”

Phineas seemed surprised by that. He stood up from his chair, pacing the room as he stroked his well-groomed mustache.

“What does he want with her if not marriage?” Phineas muttered.

“He wants to make an example of her,” the male said, stealing a worried glance at Tamlin. “By executing her for treason.”

The room took a delirious tilt. Tamlin sprung from the bed, his wounded leg folding under him. He grabbed onto the small desk pushed against the wall and dug his claws into the wood to prevent himself from tumbling forward.

“I’ll kill him,” Tamlin growled, using all his strength to keep himself upright.

The human male scoffed, drawing up to his full height and crossing his arms. “I brought Aoide here to prevent bloodshed, not cause more of it.”

“And you think a border will stop him?” asked Phineas.

“Any formal action he takes against the faeries would need full council approval and the Queen’s official seal. There is little appetite to start a war on behalf of a woman,” the male said with a shrug.

“Aoide is not just any woman,” Tamlin said, the wood underneath his claws splintering.

Aoide’s uncle stared at the desk, observing his claws not with fear, but curiosity. Tamlin felt the beast bristle at the attention, unsure of what to make of it.

“On that we agree,” said Phineas, his midnight eyes shadowed as they rose to meet Tamlin’s green ones. “Damaged pride is a powerful motivator for a man like Salazar. He’ll find a way. You need to convince her to go with you, Mr. Drakos—“

The door to the bedroom swung open, slamming into the wall and sending specks of plaster dust into the air. In the doorway stood a red-faced Aoide, her eyes lingering on Tamlin’s bare chest before they darted away. It was not the time nor the place, but Tamlin couldn’t help but feel a little smug as her face flashed pink. He doubted the males noticed it, for her coy blush was quickly replaced with a sneer.

“Discussing my future without me?” Aoide asked.

Although her tone was cold, Tamlin could feel the fire raging just beneath the surface. Phineas must have too, for he pressed his lips together in a thin line and remained silent.

“You need your rest,” the male said, his voice tight with worry. He reached out a hand, one that Tamlin desperately wanted to swat away, but Aoide beat him to it. The male shot her a wounded look, which Aoide disregarded as she looked at Tamlin.

“Sit,” Aoide ordered, pointing to the rumpled bed.

He didn’t have it in him to deny her, concern and frustration swirling in her eyes. Tamlin retracted his claws, leaving a deep gash in the wood.

Phineas and the male watched them with silent alarm as Aoide kneeled on the bed next to him. Slowly, she peeled back the bandages and examined both of his wounds. Tamlin’s skin buzzed at her closeness, the feeling of her gentle touch calming him.

A bruise was blossoming under her left eye, her deep terracotta skin turning purple-blue from the sizable welt. She leaned to her one side, her body unusually tense as she moved around the room, grabbing a glass bottle filled with honey and wine and fresh bandages.

“Were you going to let his wounds fester into an infection?” she snapped at Phineas.

Phineas remained still, watching Aoide closely as she wet a clean piece of cotton with the solution before pressing it to the wound on his thigh. The solution burned so fiercely that stars flashed behind Tamlin’s eyes.

“Sorry,” Aoide said tenderly, winding fresh gauze around his thigh. If she was unsettled by his state of undress, only a knotted sheet slung low over his waist, she didn’t show it. Her focus was singular as she treated him, relegating him to just another patient.

“Phineas, could you hand me the suturing kit? The stitches in his shoulder won’t hold for long.”

Phineas did not move. Aoide clicked her tongue in annoyance before she reached for a small leather bag on the desk. Phineas snatched it from her grasp, giving Aoide a grim look.

“What are you doing?” asked Aoide. She grabbed at the bag, but Phineas pulled it away.

“Go pack your trunk. I am putting you on the first ship leaving port,” Phineas said. “Today.”

“No,” Aoide thundered. “I am not going anywhere.”

She yanked the bag from his hand and turned away, her mouth set in a frown. Phineas grabbed her by the shoulders and shook as he shouted at her.

“Don’t you understand, you foolish girl? I cannot protect you any longer,” he rasped.

“He can,” the male said, pointing at Tamlin.

Both Phineas and Aoide’s heads snapped to Tamlin, who gripped the mattress hard enough to rip a hole through the fabric.

“No,” Tamlin said. “I can’t.”

Aoide let out a quick huff, the shock on her face quickly twisting into anger. She shook out of Phineas’ grasp and adjusted the sleeves of her cotton nightgown. Her jaw worked, tensing and grinding, but she did not say a word as she stared at Tamlin.

It hurt Tamlin to say it, poked at a wound much older and deeper than the one on his shoulder. For five hundred years, Tamlin had roared and clawed and shredded his enemies apart, driven by one simple impulse — to protect. That was his duty, and the beast his mighty weapon, bleeding and bruising and burning with unending rage. And when there was no enemy left to gut, no villain to sate its fury, the beast fed on Tamlin’s fear, growing hungrier and hungrier.

He couldn’t stop Amarantha from murdering Feyre. He couldn’t stop Hybern from seizing his court. And if Elain Archeron’s visions were to be believed, he wouldn’t be able to stop Beron, either. An attack on the border from the Mortal Lands would topple Spring, once and for all.

Tamlin looked away, shame squeezing his heart as he looked to the curly-haired male. “I cannot protect her from a full scale attack, if it comes to that,” Tamlin said.

“That’s bullshit,” Aoide said, stomping across the room to his bedside. “You protected me last night. You protected me every day I spent in the Spring Court.”

Tamlin stood, the rush of blood making him dizzy as he loomed over her. She turned her face up at him, her eyes glistening with tears.

“And it almost cost me my life,” Tamlin said, stroking the scar on her cheek. “It almost cost me yours.”

“You saved me,” Aoide said, placing her hand over his and squeezing lightly. “And I saved you, too.”

A tear slid down her face, rolling over Tamlin’s thumb. He felt himself breaking apart at her despair, the bitterness in her cracking voice.

“I will not force her to leave with me,” the male said.

“You are willing to hand her over to a faerie beast?” Tamlin asked. “One who cannot stay his claws?”

The male’s eyes smoldered before they went flat. Phineas did not voice his disagreement, his shoulders cowing in resignation as he slumped in his chair.

“It’s my life,” Aoide said. “Their will has nothing to do with it.”

She pulled away from Tamlin and left the room, a hand cupping her side.

“You two do not understand what dangers my lands pose,” Tamlin said to the males.

“I know that certain death awaits her if she stays here. If Mr. Drakos is unwilling to take her, then you are my only option,” Phineas said. “With you, at least she has a fighting chance.”

"This is a mistake,” Tamlin said.

Phineas shook his head. “The mistake was not killing you when I had the chance,” Phineas said.

Aoide’s uncle retreated to the common room, sitting in a chair in front of the hearth and watching the last embers crackle and smolder. Tamlin dragged himself across the room, his aching body heavy with exhaustion from the jimsonweed.

The curly-haired male stood in front of the door, blocking Tamlin. “For the record, I do not trust you. But I do trust Aoide, and she believes you can keep her safe,” he said.

“Move, human,” Tamlin growled. “Before I remind you what it feels like to be under my foot.”

The male hesitated, as if to show Tamlin that he was not afraid of the beast, before moving to the side. The scent of his fear was pungent and sharp. Tamlin let his good shoulder nudge the male into the wall before hobbling into Aoide’s room.

She did not turn to face Tamlin as he entered. Furiously, she shoved her belongings into a trunk and hoisted it off her bed, cringing as she twisted her body. She pushed past Tamlin, limping right out the front door without so much as a good-bye to her uncle or the curly-haired male.

It all felt too familiar to Tamlin. The resentment, the fear, the capitulation. Another human woman stolen away by a vicious faerie. A coil of dread tightened in his gut as he followed her out the front door.

She did not say a word to him as he winnowed to the manor, his magic straining to compress time and space around them. They hung between the folds of reality, Aoide’s grasp tightening as they landed in the manor gardens roughly.

The moment their feet hit the overgrown grass, Lucien was bounding out of the manor, his red hair flowing behind him like the banner of an opposing army.

“Where were you—“ Lucien stopped short. “Mother above, you two look like hell.”

“Save it,” Aoide snipped, ripping her arm from Tamlin’s before heading straight into the manor.

Lucien’s eyebrows raised. He shot a surprised
look at Tamlin, which he pointedly ignored. Tamlin wasn’t sure he had the patience for Lucien’s fiery quips.

“Aoide,” Tamlin said lowly, following behind her as she raced up the stairs.

“I don’t understand you,” Aoide said, whirling around and stabbing Tamlin’s chest with her finger. “I thought you cared for me.”

“I do,” Tamlin said, bracing himself against the banister.

“You have a strange way of showing it,” Aoide snapped, poking him again.

“That’s enough,” Tamlin growled.

Aoide was undeterred. “I felt you trying to pull me back. For three damn days, my heart ached for you. And when I returned, you wanted to send me away.”

Aoide’s finger curled into a fist, ready to knock Tamlin flat on his back. He could sense her anger, righteous and ready to strike whoever dared to come within range, friend or foe. It didn’t matter that Tamlin only wanted the best for her, that he was willing to forgo his own desires for her safety.

Tamlin grabbed Aoide’s thin wrist, wrapping his hand around hers. She fought against him, a futile endeavor even in his compromised state. She was rabid with fury, a wounded animal lashing out until she expended the last of her will.

“Stop this,” Tamlin ordered her, his voice sounding more austere than he intended.

“Or what, High Lord? Have I finally proven to be too troublesome for you?” Aoide asked, her question like a dagger pressed against his heart.

“Your trouble I can tolerate,” Tamlin said. “But your senseless anger I cannot abide.”

Fresh tears streaked down her face, her proverbial dagger poised for the fatal strike. Tamlin prepared himself for a noblewoman’s fierce retort.

“Send me away then, if that’s what you want. It’s what everyone else does,” said Aoide.

Tamlin sensed Lucien’s presence at the bottom of the stairs, his hand wrapped around his dagger and flames sparking from his fingertips. An unspoken threat hung in the air, a reminder of what Lucien had failed to do the last time a human female dared challenge the authority of the High Lord.

Never again — never with Aoide.

“What I want is you out of those rags and in my bed,” Tamlin said tightly. He pulled her closer, breathing in her scent deeply. “But you reek of that male.”

Aoide reeled back, clamping her mouth shut. He felt her wide eyes drift to his mouth, a shameless blush working its way down her neck, before she schooled her expression. A dozen unsaid words flowed between them, the flame of Aoide’s anger giving way to arousal.

“Fine,” Aoide said, pulling her arm from his grasp and turning away.

“Where are you going?” Tamlin asked, following after her.

“I am going to take a bath,” she said coolly. “And when I am done, we will discuss this over supper like civilized adults. I expect to be treated like a lady for as long as I am a guest in your manor.”

Tamlin stopped short, the sudden change in her demeanor giving him whiplash.

“You…you are asking a High Lord to prepare you supper?” Tamlin asked dumbly.

She craned her neck, giving Tamlin a mischievous smile. “It’s the least you could do before I let you ravish me.”

“And that’s my cue,” Lucien said, turning on his heel and heading for the door.

“Wait,” Tamlin said, bounding down the stairs toward Lucien. He waited until Aoide disappeared from his sight before speaking. “The piano. It’s worse than we thought.”

Lucien sighed. “Of course it is. Lead the way, then.”

Although the hallucinatory effects of the jimsonweed had long faded, Tamlin hesitated to open the music room door. He hadn’t the time to fully grasp what he had seen the night before, but he knew he never wanted to witness their charred corpses ever again.

Tamlin took a deep breath and pushed the door open. The room was empty, peaceful. Nectar-sweet air floated in through the smashed windows, the shards of glass reflecting the early evening light, setting the room aglow.

The piano had a dreadful magnetism, its heavy aura drawing on Tamlin like a minnow trapped in a whirlpool. He wanted to board up the door and let the ivy and wisteria reclaim it. Let it become another room in the manor he dare not step foot in.

But there were fifty-two souls tied to the piano. Fifty-two innocents bound to Tamlin in eternal servitude. A grim legacy that refused to die — one Tamlin thought he ended when he became High Lord.

It put all of Amarantha’s hatred into startling perspective. She was twice scorned — once by his father, then by himself. Denied her throne and her consort by her supposed allies, leaving her with only one choice—

Destroy them all.

Tamlin hated that he understood her. It had driven him mad in those first weeks after they returned from Under the Mountain. How closely related love and anger were, how thin the line was between devotion and obsession. There was no emotion he could trust, no moment of passion that didn’t feel like the precursor to rage. Amarantha had broken him, and he had been too stubborn to admit it.

The only way out is through.

Tamlin told Lucien everything — almost everything. He spoke of the slave dowry, how his father refused Amarantha’s bid for the throne, about Aoide’s escape from Salazar’s clutches, how close the beast had been from causing a diplomatic nightmare. He decided to leave Not-Aoide out of his retelling. It was still unclear to him why she had appeared in the hallucination. It was foolish, but Tamlin did not want to give Lucien any reason to believe Rhysand’s invasion was justified. To Lucien’s credit, he waited until after Tamlin finished before cursing a blue streak.

“I knew that fucking monstrosity was cursed,” Lucien said. “I’d set it on fire if we didn’t risk damning their souls with it.”

Tamlin followed Lucien back down the hallway, finding it difficult to keep up with his friend’s determined stride. He was still dressed in only a sheet, which bunched around his sore leg as he limped down the hall.

“Breaking the enchantment on the piano will be difficult,” Lucien said.

“What about Helion?” Tamlin mused.

“He’s too close to Rhysand. We’re better off trying to break it without him. Let me speak to Jurian.”

“I suppose he would have…intimate knowledge of such enchantments,” said Tamlin.

Lucien smirked. “I think Vassa would have preferred him as an eyeball.”

“She’s not the only one,” Tamlin muttered.

Tamlin heard the quiet shuffle of slippers and the twinkle of silver. When he looked up, he found his breath had been robbed from his lungs.

Standing at the top of the stairs was Aoide, her skin flush and warm from her bath. Her dark eyes were lined with black kohl, her lips stained the same color of the wild cherries that grew in the manor groves. Her hair, wet and shining like a raven’s feathers, was pulled away from her round face with two silver barrettes.

Slowly, she slinked down the stairs. The dress she wore left little to imagination, obscuring only the most vital parts of her anatomy. The rest of her body — her soft stomach, the delicious curve of her hips, the roundness of her rear — was on display, a carnal buffet that Tamlin greedily devoured.

Mine the beast purred. All mine.

“You may want me in your bed, High Lord, but that doesn’t mean you need to parade around in the bedsheet,” Aoide cooed, her voice like liquid midnight.

Tamlin glanced down at himself, forgetting his state of undress in all his stupor. With what little power remained, he glamoured himself a green and golden embroidered waistcoat with matching trousers. Atop his head sat the weaved crown Aoide had made for him in the village, the petals and leaves perfectly preserved.

“Forgive me, my lady,” Tamlin said, bowing his head.

Aoide’s lips parted, but she quickly tamped down her surprise, her mouth pulling into a thin line.

She was playing a game — the haughty noblewoman looking to put him in his place. That was fine by Tamlin. He had five hundred years of practice playing the ruthless High Lord.

In the formal dining room, Tamlin magicked the fine linen and silverware and lit every candle. In the center of the table sat a tender cut of venison, flanked with dozens of traditional faerie dishes, each more sumptuous than the next — a spread that would impress even the most fickle of nobility.

Like a well-trained lady, Aoide kept her face bland as she turned to him.

“Well,” Aoide sniffed. “Escort me, won’t you?”

Chapter Text

Aoide watched the whorls of steam rise from the bath and float away, carrying the floral-scented vapor out the broken window and into the balmy Spring evening. Thick vines of sweet wisteria clung to the walls of Tamlin’s bathroom, the purple petals falling and floating around her. She traced a path through the flowers, sending them spiraling over the surface of the water, mesmerized by the patterns they formed.

Everything ached. It had been a struggle to climb into the high-walled porcelain tub with her broken rib, but a worthwhile endeavor. The hot water soothed her swollen feet, her throbbing torso, the pain slowly melting away.

Phineas performed a thorough examination after Tamlin was deemed stable, ensuring Aoide had no serious internal injuries, but there was little to be done about a broken rib. No tonics she could drink, no miracle cures to knit bone back together. The only remedy was time.

Phineas was quiet during his examination, his dark eyebrows drawn together as he gently prodded her ribs. He checked her for head injuries and applied a salve to the welt underneath Aoide’s eye, ever the diligent healer. It was only after Phineas was certain Aoide was okay that he looked at her with that stern expression, the very same her mother used to give her after every ball and dinner.

“I don’t know where to begin,” Phineas said, running a hand down his tired face.

“I’m sorry,” Aoide said.

Phineas shook his head. “No, you are not. Do you remember what I told you the morning after I found you in the forest?” Phineas asked.

“That you are not my master?” Aoide quipped.

“That you are not the only person who bears the consequences of your actions. What will Mr. Drakos do now that he’s implicated in your escape? What would have happened to our villages had that faerie spilled enough human blood? What would I have told your mother if you died?” asked Phineas.

Aoide couldn’t stand Phineas’ disappointment. It was etched in his face, in every wrinkle as his mouth drew downward. She had seen the expression hundreds of times on her mother’s face, some of them deserved. To see it from him felt worse. She ignored the stinging pain in her ribs as she curled up in her bed, preferring to face the blank plaster wall.

“You never asked me what happened that night in Neva. Neither did my parents. After he was done beating me and torturing Hal, Salazar left me in the city market. Hundreds of my countrymen stepped over my body, thinking I was just another unlucky courtesan caught in a raid,” said Aoide.

She’d never forget the feeling of the cobblestone road growing warm from the sun, her blood turning sticky and tar-like as it congealed. It took her all morning to crawl toward a shady corner, where she promptly collapsed. Veronique had come looking for her at the docks, concerned that Aoide hadn’t returned home for the past three days.

“Do you know what my mother said when they finally found me?” Aoide asked.

The floorboards creaked as Phineas shuffled, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He did not speak.

“She said I should be grateful that Salazar beat my face until I was unrecognizable. That if anyone found out I was left to die on the streets like a common whore, my father would die of shame.”

Phineas jerked back. “I didn’t…Sarai never mentioned that.”

“Of course she didn’t,” Aoide said, her stomach clenching as she swallowed a sob. “I disgraced our name. Better to send me away and pretend like it never happened.”

“You were sent here for your protection,” Phineas insisted.

“I was sent here to be forgotten,” Aoide said quietly.

Silence cloaked the room, smothering Aoide with all the shame and frustration she had tried to keep at bay.

“We will discuss this tomorrow,” said Phineas. “Rest for now.”

Aoide wished it was just anger that roiled inside her, pure and cleansing. She wanted to feel the self-righteous fury burning in her heart, that blinding emotion that set all her shadowed doubt into stark relief. But mingled in all that frustration was that empty, swirling pit of despair — that black hole of sorrow in her chest growing bigger.

Phineas’ words seared into her not because they were cruel, but because they were true. She had run away at the first sign of trouble, endangered Hal and her family, nearly gotten herself killed with some foolish plan. Aoide believed she had done it for the right reasons, a high-minded ideal on behalf of her fellow Nevans, but what was the outcome?

More trouble for the people she cared for, more danger to anyone who dared get close to her. She would think herself cursed, if she believed in such nonsense.

Sleep came easy, much to Aoide’s surprise. It was impossible to fight her exhaustion any longer. Her sleep was deep and dreamless. She awoke to the sound of muffled voices, and when she heard Tamlin’s growls, she burst into Phineas’ room to find Tamlin half-naked. Everything spiraled from there, her anger and regret like a flame to a tinderbox.

What was wrong with her? It was like she had been possessed back at the cottage by some ancient goddess of wrath, snapping and thrashing until she barely recognized herself. Aoide felt rung out by her own anger, mortified by the display of her childish rage. She had almost hit Tamlin, like a frustrated toddler deprived of her favorite toy.

Tamlin should have sent her away. It was clear that her status as a fugitive would only cause him grief. She was a risk to his court’s stability, especially if Phineas was right about Salazar’s damaged pride. There were no soldiers protecting the border with the Mortal Lands. If Salazar was able to shore up support, Tamlin would not have the forces to repel him.

Aoide couldn’t allow herself to think that way. She had to trust Hal’s assessment that the Queen would not give into Salazar’s madness — that one woman was not worth the effort. Neva was only one city on the Continent, after all, and the humans had little conception of what lay beyond their borders. She hoped their ignorance was enough to keep them in check, the risks too large and unknown to make full-scale war worthwhile.

For now, she was safe. It was more than she was owed, especially after how she treated Tamlin. He risked his life for her, and all he got in return was her ire. He should have been furious with her, not just for what she had done, but what she failed to tell him.

Tamlin knew about her betrothal. She overheard them discussing it as she lurked outside the door, the subtle hurt in his voice as he asked whether Aoide was engaged to be married. A deception that Aoide allowed to persist from the beginning of their friendship.

He didn’t know the rest of the horrid story — the damage left in her wake back in Neva. Her very image continued to sow chaos, even as she was hundreds of miles away. Denying Salazar his vengeance may keep the hope of the rebellion alive back home, but who paid the cost?

It was all too much for Aoide to consider. Her thoughts swirled around like the bath water circling the drain. With a wash cloth, she scrubbed her skin until it felt raw, washing away days of sweat, dirt, and blood.

Tamlin’s blood, most likely. There had been so much of it. She could hear his moans of pain still rattling around her head. The only thing worse than his suffering was his silence, those scattered moments were his head lolled and Aoide was certain that she had lost him. But he continued to come back to her, roaring as she pulled another splintered piece of ash wood from his body.

Every bit of her healing skills were put to the test. Aoide couldn’t fathom how healers functioned during war time, the endless stream of bodies they tended to as the fighting dragged on for days, years. It was something she hoped she never had to witness, a future she would do anything to avoid.

A future her actions may have hastened.

Aoide shivered, the bath water gone tepid. Slowly, she climbed out of the tub and let the evening breeze cool her skin. Goosebumps crawled down her arms, the bracing sensation clearing her mind. Carefully, she made her way across the tile floor, leaving puddles of water behind her as she returned to Tamlin’s bedroom.

From the corner of her eye, she sensed movement. Another body in the room. Without thinking, Aoide whipped around, nearly slipping and tumbling to the ground. She caught a glimpse of skin, wet and and flushed, before she realized —

It was her reflection. She had forgotten about the three panel mirror in Tamlin’s room. Aoide froze, covering her bare body with her arms as she stared at herself, the candlelight twinkling around her.

How many months had it been since she’d seen her reflection? The last time had been back in Neva, when her face was too bruised and swollen to fully open her eyes. Perhaps that had been for the best — she didn’t wish to know what her mother meant when she described her face as unrecognizable.

There were parts of her that were familiar. The slope of her hips, the roundness of her backside, her soft belly, the feminine swell of her bosom. She was a bit leaner, though she chalked that up to her Uncle Phineas’ humble stews and the lack of good wine or ale.

Her eyes were darker, sharper than she remembered, two obsidian daggers poised to strike. A purple-blue splotch formed under her eye, the perfect companion to the bruises that marked her ribs. Her mother’s nose, proud as a hawk’s beak, arched like the descent of an arrow shot from a master’s bow. Dark eyebrows framed her face, their seriousness offset by the permanent quirk of her lips, one of the few physical traits she inherited from her father.

None of these features were her most prominent, at least not anymore. Not compared to the scar.

The tissue was thick and fibrous, a jagged line of pink cutting across her once-flawless cheek. It was an ugly thing, a hideous mark — but her hatred for the scar went beyond just the superficial. She would never be able to look at her reflection again without thinking of Salazar. The scar he gave her was a brand, a reminder of what he did to her. Every person she met would see it and wonder what she had endured and if she deserved it.

There is no place in this world where you can hide from me.

Not alone, not even when she looked in the mirror. Aoide wanted to look away. Better yet, smash the glass into hundreds of tiny shards and sweep them away into the bin. She couldn’t stomach the thought of this face being kissed by Tamlin, stroked gently by his thumb, admired by his emerald eyes.

Instead, she stepped back and took in the whole of her reflection. Aoide forced herself to look this new version of herself. She saw an animal trapped inside of her, ready to bolt at the first sign of danger. A survivor who thwarted Salazar twice, stymied the course that fate set for her. A woman who hurt those she loved, and was hurt in return. The human. The healer. The music-maker.

She could feel all those versions of herself expand and compress, fighting for dominance. It wasn’t clear which one would win in the end, whether there was a future where she could be all those things. What she did know was what she didn’t want to be—

The millstone around Tamlin’s neck. The angry, resentful human. The selfish troublemaker who leapt before she looked.

Aoide opened up her trunk and pulled out the traditional Nevan gown, the one her mother had made for her on her twentieth birthday. She ran her fingers over the gauzy silk, admiring the fine craftsmanship as Veronique used to do. To the best of her ability, Aoide performed their usual ritual — lining her eyes with smoky kohl, reddening her lips with rouge. She pretended it was Veronique’s delicate fingers blotting off the excess, wishing more than anything her friend was there beside her.

Aoide did not dawdle at the mirror a moment longer than necessary. She feared if she stared at herself too long, she’d lose her nerve. For that night, she would play Lady Aoide, the charming dinner guest of a powerful faerie High Lord. What she would become after they supped — she did not know.

What I want is you out of those rags and in my bed.

The thought sent Aoide pacing down the hallway, her dress whispering behind her. She nearly tumbled down the stairs when she saw him. He was speaking to Lucien in a tense whisper, his green eyes hooded with concern. When he looked up at her, his golden hair tousled and the bedsheet slung dangerously low around his waist, Aoide could not stop the slew of indecent thoughts that paraded through her mind.

Tonight, you are a proper lady, she reminded herself. A modest, proper lady.

Aoide felt the heat of Tamlin’s molten stare, the gold flecks in his eyes glowing like smoldering embers. She gripped the bannister, her knees wobbling and her rib throbbing with each careful step. Despite the pain, Aoide kept her face placid — just as her mother had taught her.

It was all worth it to see the look on Tamlin’s face, his eyes lingering on every tempting slice of skin exposed by the sheer silk of her dress. She watched as his jaw worked, the muscles tensing and flaring as she reached the last step.

Lucien glanced between them as Aoide drew close, giving Tamlin a solid pat on the shoulder before he headed out the door. Tamlin didn’t bother to say good-bye. He didn’t seem to notice Lucien was there, nor did he register his sudden absence.

It was only the two of them in the manor, the sounds of chirping insects filling the silence between them. Aoide was having trouble thinking of something to say, her mind too focused on the spray of fine golden hair that trailed down Tamlin’s navel and past the threadbare bedsheet wound around his waist.

She couldn’t bear to be around him like this. It was too difficult to keep her improper thoughts at bay, her restraint wavering with every quiet moment that ticked between them, his eyes never leaving her face.

“You may want me in your bed, High Lord, but that doesn’t mean you need to parade around in the bedsheet,” Aoide said.

The metallic fizz of magic filled the air and before her very eyes, the bedsheet transformed into a handsome green doublet and matching pants, delicately adorned with golden vines and leaves. It was the sort of masterful embroidery that would make Veronique gasp with delight.

But it wasn’t his fine clothes that caught Aoide off guard. Instead, it was the humble crown that wreathed his lordly head — one made of dried flowers and grasses, enchanted with some sort of magic to preserve the colors of the petals.

It was the crown she had made him back in the village. He had kept it all this time.

“Forgive me, my lady,” Tamlin said. He bowed his head, the very vision of a courtly noble.

Something caught in Aoide’s throat, her eyes burning with phantom tears. She swallowed her reaction, afraid of what would follow if she allowed herself to crack. Through the double doors at the end of the hall drifted in the divine smell of fresh bread and roasted meat, along with a dozen other delicious spices she could not place.

“Well,” Aoide said, holding out the crook of her arm, “Escort me, won’t you?”

Tamlin hooked his arm around hers and guided her toward the formal dining room. The table was dressed in fine white linen and covered in serving trays heaping with food. Rainbow carrots roasted to perfection, fluffy mashed potatoes dressed with fat, yellow pats of butter, golden fried kippers piled high, vibrant greens dressed with candied nuts, decanters full of red wine, and a glistening cut of seared venison.

Aoide hadn’t seen a spread like it. Not since she left Neva. It had taken time to adjust to Phineas’ rustic stews and the lack of variety in the commoner’s diet, though she had never gone to bed with an empty stomach. The banquet Tamlin had prepared was a feast fit for royalty, one Aoide would heartily indulge.

Tamlin pulled out a high back chair for Aoide and motioned for her to sit. Silently, Aoide slide into her seat, surprised to find Tamlin’s chair right beside hers. It was departure from the traditional seating arrangement, and significantly more intimate than she had expected.

Tamlin’s thigh brushed against Aoide’s as he settled in his chair. In front of them appeared two plates stacked high with food, ready to be devoured. The serving trays on the table remained untouched, nothing more than set dressing to impress.

“Quite a generous spread for just the two of us,” Aoide remarked as she cut into her venison, the knife passing through the tender meat effortlessly. “I hope I haven’t put you out, High Lord.”

“Of course not. This is merely standard fare for the faeries,” Tamlin said coolly.

Was he…teasing her? It was too difficult to tell based on his stoic expression. Something in his tone was lighter than usual, a twinkle of a laugh threatening to spill from his lips.

Aoide took a bite of the venison and nearly moaned. Everything on her plate was spiced to perfection, a medley of flavors she had never experienced before. It took every ounce of self control not to shovel the plate directly into her mouth. Her stomach grumbled, unsatisfied with her dignified bites.

“Is everything to your liking?” Tamlin asked, pouring Aoide a short glass of wine.

Aoide took her time swirling the wine, savoring the small sip she took, sweet and warm. Immediately, she felt the wine pleasantly dull her senses, the vintage much stronger than she was accustomed to. A second sip heated her cheeks, her face undoubtedly ruddy.

“It’s not anything like the Nevan diet, but it is sufficiently delicious,” Aoide remarked, her tongue fat and heavy from the wine.

They ate in silence, their arms occasionally brushing as they cut into their venison and scooped up forkfuls of potatoes. Aoide was grateful for the quiet as she recuperated from the buzz of the wine. By the end of dinner, the feeling mellowed, leaving her comfortably sated.

As soon as she set her napkin down, the table magically cleared itself, leaving no trace of the banquet.

“Dessert?” Tamlin asked.

Before Aoide could answer, a single slice of decadent chocolate cake and a spoon appeared in front of them. Tamlin scooped up a bite of cake and held it up to Aoide’s mouth, a smirk played across his lips.

So he was teasing her.

Aoide parted her lips and took the bite, her eyes focused solely on Tamlin’s as she ran her teeth down the spoon. She let out a hum of pleasure as she pulled away, a sound that sent Tamlin upright, the chair squeaking as he stood from the table. The cake vanished along with the rest of their supper.

“Perhaps a walk in the gardens to settle ourselves,” Tamlin said, already halfway across the room.

I win, Aoide thought, unable to contain her smile.

—

The dewy Spring evening did nothing to temper the desire that pounded within Tamlin. He tried to focus on the honeyed breeze, the cool air against his cheeks. Desperately, he tried to settle the blood rushing through him, the sensation making him dizzy as he made his way through the hedge maze.

Aoide was not far behind him, the quiet rustle of that damned dress like the wings of a butterfly as she struggled to keep up with him. Tamlin tried to slow his pace, but whenever he idled for too long he found himself thinking of that little sound she made, sending him striding across the grounds once again.

Gods help him. He hadn’t felt this way since his debaucherous days in the war band, always half-drunk on sex, bloodshed, and faerie wine. Back then, he had lain with any willing participant he could find, eager to discover all the pleasure one could find in another’s touch. His hunger had been insatiable, a common experience for a faerie male coming into full maturity. It had scared him, the intensity of that want, just as it did now.

Aoide deserved more than that. After everything she had been through, she was owed a night of peace — a hot bath, a good meal, and a full night’s rest. She didn’t need him pawing at the buttons on her dress. She needed time to recover, space to set her mind at ease after whatever trauma those vile males had subjected her to. He couldn’t think of it without his stomach turning sour.

Tamlin reached the center of the hedge maze in record time, the sound of trickling water easing his mind. He sat on his mother’s bench and stared at the silvery waters dribbling from the statue’s tilted jug. How many afternoons had he passed here with her, staring up at the statue’s demure smile? How had he never noticed the prominent vein in the marble cutting across her flawless face like bolt of lightning?

Aoide rounded the corner, her face pink and her breath airy as she sat on the bench next to him. By the grace of the goddess, she kept an arm’s length away from Tamlin, though even that was not far enough away to keep his indecent thoughts at bay.

A peaceful silence settled between them as Aoide caught her breath. It was an exceptionally beautiful night, the moon bright and full, the clear sky full of twinkling stars. The blooming mirabilis let off their lemon-scented nectar, the perfect accompaniment to Aoide’s jasmine and vetiver. Tamlin closed his eyes and breathed deeply, delighting in her scent and how it mingled with his own.

It was a different sort of silence to the one they shared in the dining room. Tamlin’s mind had raced for the entirety of their meal, a constant calculation of how to behave. It was a performance, one meant to catch the other in an act of poor taste.

They had no need for such high society plotting in the garden, surrounded by all that wild and natural beauty. The heft of their respective titles and the years of ruthless training had been left with the fine linen and the silver. Here, they were Aoide and Tamlin — no more, no less.

“I suppose I owe you an explanation,” Aoide said softly.

Tamlin looked at Aoide, her eyes focused on the statue ahead of her.

“You owe me nothing,” Tamlin said.

Aoide let out a huff of air through her nose and shook her head. “I owe you my life.”

“A debt which you’ve repaid,” Tamlin responded.

“A debt I would have never incurred had I not been so impulsive,” Aoide said ruefully.

She looked at Tamlin, her dark eyes wet with the threat of tears. “You should be angry with me,” she said, her voice wavering. “I left you in those woods when you begged me to stay, and then I came hurtling back like a cannonball. My uncle shot you. Twice.”

“I’ve suffered worse,” Tamlin said with a shrug.

Aoide’s face flickered with an emotion Tamlin could not name. “I am not a good person, Tamlin. I think…I think I might be cursed.”

Join the club, he wanted to say. But Tamlin held his tongue, sensing there was more that Aoide needed to say. She bit her lip and chewed, as though her mouth was fighting her mind for control. Tamlin placed a hand over her fist, the fabric of her dress bunching as she clenched her fingers.

“You already know I was betrothed, back in Neva. This whole time I misled you,” Aoide murmured.

Tamlin scoffed. “If you think I care about your betrothal-“

“It’s not about my betrothal,” Aoide said, the words coming fast and sharp. “It’s about what I did when I found out.”

“Found out?” Tamlin said, the words snaking between his teeth. The thought of Aoide being forced to marry—

No, he couldn’t lose his temper. Aoide didn’t need to deal with his rage right now.

“My parents agreed to the marriage without my knowledge. I found out about it the broadsheets and I-“

Aoide stopped herself and grimaced, as if the words were painfully lodged in her throat, refusing to come out. She stood from the bench, her body taut as she walked toward the statue.

She looked so small, and Tamlin had to deny the convincing urge to wrap himself around her. But the threat was not external. There was no enemy to slash and bleed. Whatever hurt Aoide suffered had rooted within her, molded itself to her very essence. A sort of self-inflicted torture Tamlin wouldn’t wish on anyone.

He didn’t know how to help her. Hell, he didn’t know how to help himself. What could he possibly say? What could he do other than listen, serve as witness to the ache no one else could see?

Aoide whipped around, her saucer-like eyes wet and shining. “Salazar — it’s not that he’s mean, or greedy, or unpleasant. Well, it’s not just those things. It’s that he enjoys breaking people. He broke me. He did it to Hal, too. And it’s my fault. There are ten Nevans dead because of me. More, probably, with the rebellion.”

As she paced the garden, Aoide told Tamlin the story in its entirety. Salazar’s dishonorable courting, the night she left her parents’ townhouse, the naive plan she and Hal devised, Salazar’s attack, her eventual escape, all the way to the current state of Neva — why Hal, that male with the obnoxiously powerful scent, did what he did. Tamlin did his best not to snap a fruit tree in half from the anger that tunneled into him, leaving an endless channel of sadness in its wake.

He knew this story, not just as the faerie trapped under Amarantha’s claws, but as the monster gorging itself on fear. Would she hate him if he told her all the things he’d done?

Aoide returned to the bench, slumping next to him. Her body was heavy, her head bowed as she leaned against him. There was a question lingering in Tamlin’s mind — something she had not explained in her retelling.

“Why did you run?” Tamlin asked.

It was as though the question physically pained Aoide. Her voice was hollow as she spoke, no trace of her warm lilt to be found.

“I was scared,” Aoide said.

“Should I be offended that you think I can’t handle a few hapless human males?” Tamlin asked.

“It’s not that,” Aoide said, kicking a pebble with her slipper. “I was scared that you would think I was too much trouble. That I…that I wasn’t worth it.”

Send me away, then. It’s what everyone else does.

Tamlin took Aoide’s hand and pressed a kiss to her clenched fist. “You can cause me all the trouble you’d like. It’s nothing I can’t handle,” he murmured, his lips still pressed to her knuckles.

Aoide shook her head. “None of this would have happened if I did what was asked of me.”

“You’re right. It would have never happened and you would still be miserable,” said Tamlin. “A cage is a cage, gilded or not.”

“Perhaps the cage feels a little less suffocating if freedom comes at the expense of others,” Aoide mused.

“I assure you, it does not,” Tamlin said. He heistated as Aoide looked to him, waiting for him to explain.

“I never wanted to be High Lord. When my family was killed, my hand was forced. And for several centuries, I did what I thought I was supposed to do, behaved like all the High Lords before me. You’ve seen first-hand what good that did for my court,” Tamlin said, gesturing to the dark lands beyond them.

He dropped Aoide’s hand, clenching and loosening his fists as his claws threatened to push through his scarred flesh.

“You think your misery is a fair price for the safety of those around you. But the problem with misery is that it infects everything. Even those you sought to protect. I did many foolish things, subjected myself to my own self-inflicted misery because I thought it would save those I cared for from their own pain,” said Tamlin.

“You had good intentions,” Aoide said.

“And that makes it better?” Tamlin asked.

“It makes it forgivable,” Aoide responded.

“Forgivable to who?”

Aoide’s eyes dropped to the ground. She was still for several moments, her brows drawn low over her eyes in thought. It was not a question Tamlin expected an answer to. Or, perhaps one he did not want an answer to.

“I suppose there are things for which we cannot always atone,” Aoide concluded.

“Scars we carry with us for the rest of our lives,” Tamlin echoed.

He reached out his hand, stroking her cheek with his thumb. Aoide looked up and their eyes met for a brief moment. Shining deep within those obsidian depths was an acknowledgment. Feelings of knowingness flowed between them, crystallizing in the silence they shared. Aoide placed a hand over his, cupping his palm to her face.

“You think I am not angry with you because I do not understand. But I understand you all too well, Aoide Achlys,” Tamlin said softly.

And then, like the sun peaking through the darkest of rain clouds, Aoide smiled.

“Strange to think a measly human could have so much in common with a faerie High Lord,” Aoide teased, her brow quirked playfully.

“I don’t think anyone who’s ever met you would use the word measly,” Tamlin said.

“Is that so?” Aoide said, her small smirk progressing into a shameless grin. “How would they describe me?”

Tamlin could not stop his twinned smile. “Brave, if not a little foolhardy. Clever, but never dishonest. Kind, genuine-“

“All right-“

“Beautiful,” Tamlin said. “Endlessly, shockingly beautiful.”

Aoide snorted.

“You find that funny?” Tamlin asked.

“You’re a faerie,” Aoide said. “I find it hard to believe you could find my kind beautiful.”

“And why is that?”

“Don’t be coy. You’re…flawless. Frustratingly so,” Aoide said, a blush creeping down her neck.

Tamlin shrugged. “You spend five hundred years surrounded by flawlessness and it loses its charm. It’s unnatural, really,” said Tamlin.

Where else in nature did perfection exist? The most beautiful of flowers, the mightiest of mountain ranges, the most peaceful of creeks — none were without their flaws.

Aoide rolled her eyes, a childish gesture that warmed him. How anyone could find her lacking in beauty or charm was beyond him. Everything that happened to her, all the hardship she survived, the moments of joy she experienced, were all etched into her body.

“What makes you such a good judge, anyway? When was the last time you looked in a mirror?” Tamlin asked.

Aoide stiffened, the grin fading from her face. “Tonight, actually. That mirror in your room caught me off guard.”

Tamlin regretted the off-handed jab immediately. “And what did you see?” he asked.

“I’m not sure,” Aoide said. A moment passed before she shored up another smirk. “What do you see?”

“I’ve already told you, troublemaker,” Tamlin said, his voice low and rough.

“Tell me again,” Aoide murmured. “Maybe this time I’ll believe it.”

“Better yet,” Tamlin said, taking her head in his hands. “I’ll show you.”

Tamlin kissed her and the whole world sighed. It was tender at first, merely just the feeling of her soft mouth against his, but then she ran her tongue over his bottom lip and Tamlin felt that thunderous thrum of want beating within him once again.

Tamlin pulled away. “This is unwise,” he said, his voice low and rasping. “You’ve had a long few days. You need rest.”

“To hell with wisdom,” Aoide said, her voice gone breathy. “I need you.”

Tamlin could deny her once, twice, but not a third time. He felt the beast rumble within him, the spike of arousal like the peal of a bell, calling it to the forefront of Tamlin’s mind. He denied the beast’s attempt for control, shoving it to the darkest reaches of his mind. There could be no one else but him and Aoide tonight.

With one swoop of his arms, Aoide was underneath him, nestled into the high sweet grass. Her chest heaved at the sudden change in position, her scent flaring like a field of jasmine set alight — smoky and ambrosial. She stared up at him, a soft huff of surprise passing through her supple lips.

Tamlin let his eyes roam over her body, admiring each freckle that marked her skin. Lovingly, he traced the splotchy outline of her bruise, channeling a bit of his power into her. Aoide sighed in relief as his magic healed her broken rib, the purple marks disappearing under his touch.

A necessary salve, if he was to have her like he wanted. He brought his mouth down on her breast, only the thin silk of her dress between his tongue and her nipple. Aoide let loose a gasp, her hands tangling in his hair as she tugged on the strands. With his tongue, Tamlin flicked the firm bud as he palmed her other breast, kneading the tender flesh. Aoide’s back arched, bringing her close to him as he ran a sharp canine against the sensitive skin, his tooth snagging on the delicate fabric of her dress.

Aoide wrapped her legs around Tamlin’s waist and with a solid rock, she was on top of him. Her round face was flushed red, strands of hair pressed against her face as she panted. The look of power in her eyes as she straddled him was intoxicating. He could feel the beckoning heat between her legs. Tamlin’s skin prickled at her hungry stare, ready to let her do with him as she wished.

Tamlin brought his hands down on her waist, rolling his hips against her, his whole body aching to feel her riding him. His cock throbbed, the seam of his pants straining against the swell of his manhood. He felt his claws poke out of his knuckles, the sharp talons getting stuck in the bunched fabric around her hips.

Aoide clicked her tongue. “Patience, beast. You don’t want to ruin my dress, do you?”

Slowly, Aoide rose, placing one slippered foot on Tamlin’s chest. She kept him pinned to the ground, his heart pounding against the sole of her shoe. Her nimble fingers ran over her pert breasts, the silk completely transparent from Tamlin’s saliva. Her hands worked downward, undoing the hidden clasps running down the slope of her hips.

The dress fell to the ground in a heap. It was impossible not to stare at her beautiful form. Her complexion, like burnished bronze, glowed under the moonlight, goosebumps forming as a gentle breeze kissed her. Tamlin devoured the sight of her naked body with his eyes first, his chest tightening at the swell of her ample bosom, the soft roundness of her belly, her fleshy thighs. And at the apex of her legs, a slit of dark pink beckoned him, hidden beneath the downy thatch of hair, begging for his fingers, his mouth, his cock.

He needed to taste her. Tamlin grabbed Aoide’s ankle and pressed a flurry of kisses up her leg, throwing her thigh over his shoulder as he sat up. Aoide’s knee buckled but he caught her, squeezing her rear as he ran the tip of his tongue down her slick core.

The taste of her settled on his tongue. The salt of her arousal was tempered with an earthy musk, honeyed and warm. He pulled her down with him, her cunt perched on his face as he licked and sucked and nipped, the taste of her driving him wild. Her throaty moans were the only encouragement he needed as he burrowed into her, his tongue feathering against her inner walls. He squeezed her hips as she canted against him, leaning back to allow Tamlin full access.

“Tamlin,” Aoide gasped as he pressed his tongue against her, sucking on the swollen nub.

Hearing Aoide say his name was too much for him, the spark of lust in his blood now a raging fire. A mix of his saliva and Aoide’s wetness dripped down his chin as he fucked her with his tongue.

It wasn’t enough. He needed to feel those nimble fingers tangled in his hair, his skin against her skin, his cock moving inside her. The only parts of himself that existed in that moment were the places where they were joined together as one.

As though she had read his mind, Aoide pulled away, sliding herself down his body as she tore at the buttons of his doublet. Tamlin didn’t care if she ripped them to shreds, a button or two flying off into the grass as she worked her way down, licking every bit of exposed flesh, her warm tongue leaving a wet trail down his torso.

She lingered against his firm stomach, kissing along the seam of his pants as her fingers slowly, painstakingly, worked on the clasps. To have her mouth so close to his swollen cock was tantamount to torture. She paused at the last clasp, running a single finger down his center, her eyes gazing lustfully at the shape of him. She palmed him through the fabric of his trousers and Tamlin cursed, wriggling under her teasing touch. Every nerve in his body fired off in response, leaving him lightheaded.

“You asked me if I’ve thought of this all alone in my little cottage,” Aoide murmured, her voice crackling like a raging bonfire.

Tamlin’s hand flew to the last button on his trousers. Aoide grabbed his wrist and squeezed, pinning his hand. He writhed, eager for any friction against his aching length.

“What did I tell you?” Aoide cooed. “Patience.”

She brought her free hand to her glistening core, pressing two fingers against the swollen bud. With her other hand, she pressed Tamlin’s palm against his tented arousal, massaging him through the fabric of his trousers.

He watched as she pleasured herself, her other hand guiding his own self-enjoyment. He grew jealous of her delicate fingers, how they knew every little spot that drove her wild. He would dedicate himself to that glorious slit of flesh until he knew how to get her off with only his hands.

“You followed me into my dreams,” Aoide said, her voice no more than a breathy whine. “Every night, I’d wake up with my hands between my thighs wishing it was you. Needing you.”

She dipped two fingers inside of herself, bucking at her own touch as they disappeared to the knuckle. Tamlin’s stomach tightened as he watched her fingers withdraw, only for Aoide to slip them inside herself again, grinding against her own hand.

The thought of Aoide touching herself as she thought of him was too much for Tamlin to resist any longer. He freed his hand from her grasp and tore the last button on his trousers, his cock springing over the edge of his underwear.

“Naughty beast,” Aoide drawled. “What am I going to do with you?” she chided.

With a swift tug, Aoide freed Tamlin’s legs from his trousers and underwear, tossing them aside as she stared at his cock. Tamlin felt a pulse of excitement travel through him as her tongue passed over her lips, wetting them as her dark eyes glowed with want.

Softly, she cupped him, her hand gently working his cock. She ran her thumb over the crown, the tip wet with precum. Tamlin shivered, his whole body quaking from one touch. She brought her lips closer, pressing a soft kiss to the head.

The feeling of his cock sliding down her throat sent stars bursting behind his eyelids, his mind struggling to keep up with the pleasure his body felt. He hit the back of her throat and Aoide softly gagged, the vibration of her surprise traveling down his length. The groan Tamlin loosed was akin to a growl, course and loud.

She withdrew, the chilled air a surprisingly pleasant feeling on his wet, warm cock. Aoide took a shuddering breath before she brought her mouth down on him again, this time pushing past the bit of resistance and taking him fully into her throat.

“Fuck,” Tamlin groaned, her palm cradling his balls as her head bobbed. He felt her tongue roll over him as she sucked his cock, setting a relentless pace as she took him, again and again. Her eyes, watery and glazed, never left his.

Tamlin fisted the grass, yanking it out with his claws as Aoide’s cheeks hollowed. He felt the world narrowing around him, his focus limited to his pulsing arousal and her mouth. Tamlin grabbed her chin roughly, pulling her pursed lips away before she could take him again. Aoide gasped, her whole body slick with sweat.

He held her there, letting the coiling tension inside him loosen just enough to think straight. Tamlin wasn’t ready for their coupling to end — he didn’t want to give into that shuddering crescendo yet. There was so much more he wanted to do to her, parts of her he needed to feel and taste and caress.

“Not like this,” Tamlin said. “I need to feel you. I need to be inside you.”

Aoide tugged on his hair, claiming his mouth with her tongue. He tasted himself on her lips, his carnal claim on that lewd mouth of hers. She pulled back, panting and lustful.

“Then take me,” Aoide said, a fiercely lascivious grin on her beautiful face.

Tamlin flipped her on her stomach, tugging on her hips until she kneeled before him, her palms pressed to the ground. She presented herself to him, arching her back to accentuate the delicious curve of her rear. He dropped to his own knees, his manhood eagerly standing at attention.

They hung together in that moment, Tamlin’s cock poised at her swollen entrance. He listened to the sound of her shallow breathing, the anticipation building as she waited for him. Tamlin gave himself a stroke and shuddered. Slowly, he guided the head of his cock toward her, running the tip down her center once before pulling away. Just from that graze alone, he could feel the brush of his climax threatening to overwhelm him.

“Please,” Aoide begged, her voice muffled as her face pressed into the grass.

The soft pleading in her voice, the scent of her desperate need sent Tamlin rocketing forward. Her velvet warmth squeezed him as he glided past her tightness, her whole body quivering as he bottomed out.

Fuck.

Tamlin hissed out a tense breath, forcing himself to hold back his orgasm. As he pulled himself out, Tamlin stared at her swollen cunt. Her center dripped with the mix of their shared arousal, his cock coated in her wetness. Growing impatient with his dallying, Aoide loosed a gravelly moan and ground against him, her rear pressed against his groin as she took him again. The sensation made Tamlin lose his breath for a moment, before rebounding and surging into her again.

Their pace quickened. Each time he buried himself in her, Tamlin felt her hips stutter from the force. Her inner walls fluttered around him, her mewls turning into chest-racking sobs of pleasure as their merciless pace grew more harried.

It was no longer just his own bliss that Tamlin felt. Although he could no longer see that golden thread, that twanging strand of magic between them, he could feel it pulling. It drew them together — not just their bodies, but something deeper, intangible. He felt the rub of her soul against his, a graze of ephemeral lightness settling within him with every thrust.

Aoide’s orgasm crested, caressing his own arousal as he pumped himself into her. His hand moved from her hip and wrapped around her low belly, angling for that swollen nub. He grazed it with his fingers and felt Aoide buck. Another stroke sent Aoide over the edge, the guttural sound of her climax like the triumphant ring of a war horn. He kept going—kept stroking that pulsing bud, firm and steady.

Her body sang to Tamlin, a thousand pinpricks setting his own body alight with profound and unbearable pleasure. He could feel something unfurl within his chest, a tightly wound part of himself unravelling after five hundred years. He listened to the sound of Aoide’s strangled cries as her orgasm racked through her. He held her tightly against him as he thrusted into her one last time.

Tamlin’s release washed over him, bright and sharp, demanding the whole of his attention. He pulled out just before he finished, the warm gush coating Aoide’s back and sliding down the curve of her ass. Tamlin shuddered through the last of it, his whole body wobbling. He collapsed next to Aoide, pulling her back against his stomach, their sweat and his seed damp against his skin.

He held her there in his arms, pulling her small, soft body against him. Tamlin placed his palm over her chest, feeling the rapid beat of her heart. His own thumped in perfect unison.

Gods, he felt incredible. Not hollowed and raw as he usually felt after a particularly savage romp. He felt so incredibly full, his body filled with the most remarkable lightness. He pressed his nose into Aoide’s neck, breathing in her scent. He could get addicted to this feeling, drunk on the peace that settled within him as he listened to her ragged breathing turn soft.

Why had they denied themselves this for so long? It was clear it was what they were made to do. The way they had fit seamlessly together, two parts of a larger whole. The oneness they shared — a feeling Tamlin had never experienced in all his centuries of encounters.

Sex seemed too crass a word for what they had done to each other. He would have given anything to be inside her mind in that moment, feeling what she was feeling, thinking what she was thinking. Simply being near her would never be enough.

Neither of them spoke. There was nothing that could be said with words that they hadn’t shown with their bodies. Gingerly, he traced soothing circles across her back, down her arms. Aoide sighed, snuggling into him, her knees pulled close to her chest.

Tamlin held her well into the night, keeping her warm in his embrace. Together, they drifted off into a state of half-waking, half-dreaming where neither was sure what was real and what was imagined.

When Tamlin woke, he found himself bound tightly in a cocoon of thick, woody vines. Small thorns dug into his skin, a few pricking him as he shifted. Aoide was still safely wrapped in his embrace, her body chilled and dew-dropped.

Careful not to wake her, Tamlin ran a claw down their prickly nest, freeing them from its thorny embrace. When he stood, Tamlin found the entirety of the garden had been overrun with roses. Massive, heavy buds of all colors and varieties had grown over every surface, their vines wrapped around tree trunks and hanging from once-bare trellises. Fissures formed in the ground, giving way to tender, green shoots, their roots spidering across the garden and toward the manor. Tamlin snatched a bud and pressed his nose to it, surprised to find it did not smell like a rose.

Sweet, earthy, a bit briny.

Aoide.

He breathed in the flower’s scent deeply, his long-standing hatred of roses waning. Tossing the flower aside, Tamlin scooped up Aoide’s slumbering form and winnowed to his bedroom, tucking her shivering body beneath the downy comforter.

Silently, Tamlin padded down the stairs and prepared her a cup of tea, a mix of preventative herbs after their coupling. He drained a glass himself before winnowing back to her bedside.

Aoide stirred as he placed the teacup on the side table. Groggily, she reached for his hand, tugging at him.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

Tamlin felt his heart ache, knowing he could not spend all morning pressed against her. There was so much he wished to tell her, so many questions he wanted to ask. He lingered for a moment, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“I have to patrol the border. Make sure the wards held after…last night,” Tamlin explained.

Aoide sighed, gulping down the brew and wrinkling her nose. “Pennyroyal and…silphium?” she guessed.

“Yes, how did you-“

“Healer, remember? The midwife in the village taught me a few different blends for contraception,” Aoide said. “Thanks, by the way,” she added, a coy blush warming her cheeks.

“Rest, now,” Tamlin said. “I won’t be long.”

“You better not be. Because I am in desperate need of a good, long cuddle,” she mumbled.

Aoide settled under the covers, sighing as she burrowed into the feather down mattress. With one last kiss on her cheek, Tamlin flew out the shattered balcony window, sunlight on his back and the wind rustling his feathers.

Chapter Text

The first thing Aoide noticed when she woke was the silence. Then, it was the impossibly plush mattress and the soft cotton sheets. Warm morning light shone in the airy room, much brighter than the dim mornings she was used to.

Aoide bolted upright, remembering where she was all at once. Not the cottage — Tamlin’s bedroom. He had tucked her under the downy comforter as dawn broke over the horizon, promising to be back soon. Something about wards and…

Last night.

Aoide’s whole body flushed with a tingling heat. She buried her face into the pillow, recalling the shameless sounds she made, the feeling of his hands on her waist. That thing he did with his tongue against her—

She threw the blankets off the bed, racing to the bathroom to run a cold bath. Without hesitation, she dunked herself under the water, trying to clear away the muddle of thoughts that clouded her mind. Her lungs rioted against the freezing water, every sore muscle in her body tensing as the ice pricked her flesh.

Aoide felt like a deflowered maiden all over again, unable to think of anything else. At some point, she had woken to him softly crying her name in his sleep, his manhood firm against her back. He held her in his arms all night, the warmth of his body protecting her against the Spring dew.

Her heart fluttered at the sound of his voice saying her name, so full of wanton desire. She’d never forget the sight of him underneath her, worshipping her with his mouth, each nip and lick like an urgent prayer to his goddess. It had made her giddy to see him lose himself, that gruff exterior melting away to something raw and vulnerable.

Something had opened within him last night. It was not the sort of door one was able to close, forever a portal into another’s soul. Aoide wondered how many other locked doors he contained, and what lay hidden behind them.

There was only one remedy for her single-mindedness. Her head was going to burst if she let it all rattle around for too long. She needed to get it all down on parchment, map it across eighty-eight keys. Give all those thoughts and feelings the space they needed to breathe and exist outside the confines of her mind.

In a flurry, Aoide hopped out of the bath and grabbed a stack of parchment and a quill from her trunk. She needed to capture it all on paper, afraid if she dallied too long, the muse would slip away and she’d be left with nothing but a fading memory.

As she hastily buttoned up her dress, Aoide jotted down a few ideas, a scramble of notes and half-formed refrains. She wasn’t sure it was possible to capture the warmth that radiated from Tamlin’s body, the ease with which he picked her up, the rasp of his labored breath.

His restraint.

Even in the throes of their shared passion, Tamlin had been gentle with her. His touch was never forceful, as though each kiss, every stroke was a tender request. She didn’t know it could be that way, their bodies speaking and responding to each other with such ease. For the first time in her life, Aoide doubted whether she could capture such feelings in song.

She wondered what it would take for Tamlin to lose control. Slip into that version of himself he kept hidden from her. To feel all that raw power, hand herself over to its whims. Her stomach twisted, though whether it was from fear or excitement, Aoide couldn’t be sure.

The thought was distracting enough to send her tripping over the tangle of vines that crisscrossed down the hall, a near-fall that Aoide barely recovered from. When she looked up from her piece of scribbled parchment, she gasped with delight.

Hundreds of roses, some fully blossomed and others no more than green buds, adorned every surface. She couldn’t take a step without leaving crushed petals in her wake. The sharp thorns scraped against her bare ankles as she tiptoed her way down the hall. Peeking through each door, Aoide could see every room was similarly overrun with roses, their sweet and clean scent drifting through the manor.

She stroked the velvety petals, the flowers quivering under her touch. The manor looked as if it had been left abandoned for centuries, left to be reclaimed by nature. It was exactly how she imagined a faerie palace would look when she was a child. Her father would regale her with tall tales of wondrous, wild lands filled with dangerous creatures with a taste for fair maidens. She supposed his stories weren’t all that far-fetched, after all.

It wasn’t until Aoide rounded the corner that she heard the voices. Quickly, she scrambled back, pressing herself against the wall. She sucked in a breath, hoping the sound of her racing heart would not give her away.

“Where the hell is that mongrel?” a twinkling voice demanded.

“You can’t just barge into the High Lord’s manor,” another responded, their familiar voice rumbling with rebuke.

“I’m the general of his fucking army. I can go wherever I please, kindling.”

“Well, I’m his second and I am firmly suggesting you leave before he returns and swats you away like a troublesome flea.”

Fabian, Aoide realized. She didn’t know the other voice, which sounded strangely seductive despite its vulgar tone. Vaguely, she recalled Fabian complaining about another council member — a pixie named Bel.

“I woke up with a thorn in my ass. I think that entitles me to be a thorn in his, don’t you?”

Aoide knew better than to peek around the corner. If she was wise, she would creep back to Tamlin’s room, lock the door, and wait for his return. And although Aoide considered herself intelligent, she was also impossibly, foolishly curious.

Goaded by that nagging desire to know more, Aoide silently poked her head fron behind the wall and looked directly into two ruby eyes glinting with cunning.

“Well, well,” the pixie crooned. “You’re certainly no beast.”

Aoide couldn’t swallow her small gasp of delight in time. She marveled at the pixie’s papery wings, how they droned like a hummingbird’s, her lithe body small enough to fit in the nook of her palm. Her skin, a gentle snow pea pink, was shockingly beautiful, second only to her delicately upturned eyes. Aoide didn’t know whether to blush or blanch at their simmering intellect.

The composition practically wrote itself — Flight of the Pixie Queen, she would call it.

“A human,” she grinned, her teeth thin and sharp as suturing needles. “And a delicious one, at that. Where has that brute been hiding you?”

As the pixie spoke, the edges of Aoide’s awareness blurred. She felt like a tom cat lounging in the sun, gorged on blissful contentment. Aoide purred as the pixie gave her cheek a featherlight caress, every pore in her skin tingling with pleasure.

Aoide heard Tamlin before she saw him, the manor walls trembling from the furious beat of his claws striking the ground. He was between them in an instant, a hand wrapped tightly around Aoide’s forearm as Tamlin pulled her behind him.

“Don’t touch her,” Tamlin growled, bestial rage rumbling in his chest.

Pressed between the wall and Tamlin’s back, Aoide felt that pleasant numbness pop, followed by a deafening ring in her ears. She admired the exaggerated swell of his muscles, potent magic sizzling just under his skin. Atop his head sat a wreath of antlers, their velvety softness betraying razor sharp tines. Aoide suppressed her blush as she admired their proud upward curve.

“Just when things were getting interesting, too. What a bore,” Bel said, saccharine and mocking.

“Why are you here?” Tamlin asked.

“Look around, whelp. Your whole court is buried under thorns. We had to hack through a goddamn nest to get here,” Bel said.

“I’m working on it,” Tamlin said, his jaw flaring from tension.

“And just how are you doing that?” Bel quipped. “Shouldn’t you be consulting with your council? Or was one meeting enough for you to abandon us?”

Aoide nudged Tamlin aside. He kept a clawed hand on her arm, his grip keeping her steady.

“The whole court is like this?” Aoide asked, looking to Tamlin. “What could have caused it?”

Tamlin’s eyes flicked to hers. Aoide saw the corner of his mouth twitch upward, a brief crack in his stoic expression, before his mask returned.

Oh.

Oh.

“Oh!” Aoide said, her whole body flushing. She felt Tamlin give her arm one last squeeze before he let her go.

“Fabian, summon Selene and Amun at once,” he said.

“But-“

“You heard him, second. Run along and fetch the others,” Bel said, waving her hand as if she was dismissing a manservant.

Fabian grumbled something under his breath before he shuffled out the front door. Bel looked at Aoide with a devious grin. “How will we ever entertain ourselves? Perhaps the human—“

“Absolutely not,” Tamlin said. “You can flap those little wings all the way to the dining room and wait for the others.”

Bel rolled her eyes, making her protest known, before she hovered down the stairs. From the entrance, Aoide heard the distinct fizzle of magic before Lucien materialized.

“Godsdammit. This was my nice cloak,” Lucien muttered as he yanked the deep scarlet wool from the thorny underbrush. He glanced up, his mild annoyance twisting into unrepentant disdain. “Why is she here?”

“Council meeting,” Bel hummed as she floated right past him. “Be a dear and fetch the good wine,” she said, giving Lucien a pat on the head.

Lucien shot Tamlin a scowl before silently burning a path right through the thorny vines and marching toward the root cellar. In his absence, a momentary calm settled in the manor.

It was the first time they’d been alone since their night together. As Aoide turned to Tamlin, she found it difficult to look at him without her heart skittering. His hair ran down his chest like rivers of liquid gold, his tanned skin the color of freshly pressed olives. Atop his head, a triumphant crown of antlers, the perfect wreath over his beautiful face.

The space between them, a hand’s breadth, might as well as been a mile wide. Aoide felt rooted to the spot, as if the vines had crept up her legs and tethered her to the ground. It was Tamlin who closed the distance, gently tugging her chin from left to right.

“She didn’t do anything to you, did she?” Tamlin asked, his eye catching on the fading bruise on her cheek.

“I felt a little strange for a moment, but I’m okay,” Aoide said, taking a hold of Tamlin’s hand and giving it a squeeze. Tamlin sighed, his stormy expression easing. He ran the back of his knuckles down Aoide’s cheek, his touch tender.

“What you felt were the effects of pixie dust,” said Tamlin.

Aoide recalled Fabian mentioning it, though at the time she thought they were teasing her. “How does it work? I didn’t even realize it was happening,” Aoide asked.

“Dust is a bit of a misnomer. Think of it more like spores. Pixie colonies function as a hive mind. Powerful pixies like Bel produce more magic, capable of influencing those around her to feel certain…sensations. If most of the colonies hadn’t been wiped out, Bel would likely be the matriarch of a large hive,” said Tamlin.

“Wiped out?” Aoide asked.

“Pixies were hunted for centuries into near-eradication. Faeries would trap them, harvesting their magic for their own use.”

“So Bel is one of the last of her kind,” Aoide murmured. “That’s awful.”

Tamlin opened his mouth and promptly shut it. He let out a small huff through his nose, his expression warming. “How do you manage it?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“The way you see the world with such kindness. Bel had you in her thrall,” Tamlin said, his brows drawn low over his verdant eyes. “And you feel sympathy for her.”

“To be the last of your kind…I can’t imagine how lonely that must feel,” Aoide said.

Tamlin plucked one of the roses hanging above Aoide’s head, pinching the vibrant blossom from its thorny branch. He pressed the flower to his nose, breathing in deeply before tucking it behind Aoide’s ear.

“Do you really think that we did this?” Aoide asked, patting the flower in her hair.

“Yes,” Tamlin said with a firm nod.

Aoide ignored the flash of heat that rolled through her body. “Yes? That’s all you have to say?”

“Yes,” Tamlin repeated, taking Aoide in his arms. “And I don’t regret it. Not for a moment. Not even if it means I have to contend with the council. I do regret that you were blindsided by all of this,” Tamlin said.

She felt his hand rest on the base of her skull, turning her face upward. Aoide could have melted in his arms right then, her knees buckling at the sight of his supple mouth so close to hers.

“It’s not the worst morning after I’ve had,” Aoide said. She wrapped a strand of his golden hair around her finger, giving the tress a tug. “Though we should talk about last night. What it meant. What all this…means,” Aoide said, her voice gone low.

Something akin to worry gleamed in Tamlin’s green eyes. Before Aoide could reassure him, both of their attentions were brought to the front door, where Fabian, Amun, and another faerie waited patiently for acknowledgement.

“We’re holding the meeting in the dining room,” Tamlin said, relinquishing his grasp on Aoide. “Make yourselves comfortable.”

“There’s no such thing as comfortable with that little devil around,” Fabian groused.

“Aoide,” Amun said with a short bow, his wispy voice like a cool breeze against her face. “I thought you might be here. Will you be joining us?”

She could feel Tamlin’s stare, sense the rapid pace of his thoughts. If it weren’t for the three pairs of fae eyes tracking her every move, she would kiss the wrinkle forming between his brows and ask what troubled him.

“I’m not sure it’s my place. Being a human and all,” Aoide said, glancing at Tamlin from the corner of her eye. She tried to read his expression, but found only a wall of stone, cold and detached.

“I’ve always found the human perspective to be a refreshing one,” Amun said.

“Spend a lot of time around humans?” Tamlin asked, a strange rigidness to his posture.

“Not particularly. Though the ones I’ve encountered recently are exceedingly memorable,” Amun said, tilting his head.

Aoide felt a twang of tension between them, each word a carefully placed attack, every question an accusation. It was an atmosphere she hadn’t felt since Neva. Every dinner she was forced to attend was a constant tete a tete, each ball a battlefield. The constant peacocking of nobles grew tiresome, especially when she was at the center of it.

It was the first time she felt grateful for her lessons. Her mother had been skilled at navigated such traps, always leaving her adversaries wondering who she favored and who she loathed.

If she were to agree with Amun, it would put Tamlin in a difficult spot. Aoide wasn’t sure why Amun was using her as a wedge, angling for some shred of influence over the council, but she couldn’t simply give into his request, despite her curiosity. But, if she were to be taken seriously, she could not cow behind Tamlin.

“What do you think, Fabian? As Tamlin’s second?” Aoide asked.

Fabian looked surprised, his ice-blue eyes widening before they glanced between Tamlin and Amun.

So Fabian senses it, too, Aoide thought.

Fabian cleared his throat, casting his gaze downward in thought. “A human emissary could be a useful addition,” Fabian said, stroking his craggy chin with his thumb.

“Very well then,” Aoide said. “If you think I will be useful.”

“I’m sure you will be more than merely useful,” Amun said, the coolness of his quicksilver stare snagging on something in Aoide’s mind.

“Fine,” Tamlin said, curling his fists before tucking them behind his back. “Let me introduce you to Selene. She’s responsible for the harvest,” Tamlin said, cocking his head toward to the sullen faerie half-hidden behind Fabian.

“It’s a pleasure,” Aoide said, dipping into a modest curtsy.

Selene said nothing, acknowledging Aoide with only a subtle nod, her hazel eyes focused on a particularly vibrant blossom near Fabian’s foot. Her pale blond curtain of hair fell in front of her face, shielding her from Aoide’s curious stare.

“Shall we?” Amun said, his sly smile sending a flutter of anxiety through Aoide.

She felt Tamlin’s hand on the small of her back, his wide palm giving her a reassuring pat. She hoped none of the others noticed her blush, especially as Tamlin clasped one of the buttons on her dress she had missed, too busy jotting down her composition to get dressed properly.

“We shall,” Tamlin said, his eyes narrowing like a marauding wolf.

——

Tamlin closed the manor door, resting his forehead against the cool wood as he sighed. He cherished the moment of silence, feeling properly routed after hours of relentless diplomacy.

He hadn’t gotten a foot in the door before Bel was off on a tirade, demanding double and triple rations for her males in exchange for clearing the overwhelming thicket covering their lands. It was a surprisingly modest request, considering how thick the briar had gotten.

He had observed the overgrowth as he flew over his lands earlier that morning, in awe of the magic that thrummed across his court. Tamlin could feel the rush of the rivers crisscrossing the wilds as if it was his own blood pumping through his veins. The chitter of birdsong pattered alongside his beating heart. The breeze ruffled through his silken feathers, like a kiss from the Spirit itself.

The roses, although remarkably beautiful, posed a problem. They had overrun the wheat fields, which would make for a challenging harvest for Selene. If they wanted to fill their stores before Samhain, it would take a concerted effort from Bel’s males to clear the land. Tamlin wasn’t sure they could spare the bodies on the border, but he’d need to risk it — his court needed full bellies if they were to survive an attack from Autumn.

Beron likely had his hands full anyway, with Samhain just around the corner. The High Lord of Autumn was a bastard, but the Vanserras had always managed a grand celebration for the holiday. It was said their bonfires could be seen from the Spring Court border, the smell of char hanging over the wilds for days after.

Not a moment after they had settled on a plan for clearing the brush had Amun brought up plans for Samhain. Aoide, who had remained quiet for the first half of their meeting, her dark eyes pinging between Bel and Tamlin, perked up at the very mention of the word.

“What’s Samhain?” she asked, her excitement evident.

“It marks the end of the harvest season,” Selene said, her voice barely more than a whisper.

“It’s one of the eight high holidays. Although not as important as Calanmai, it is essential to ensuring strong yields,” Amun said.

Tamlin gripped the arms of his chair at the word — Calanmai. He could feel the beast rouse, all too eager to bare its claws at the very mention of that damned holiday. Aoide hadn’t seemed to notice the wood splintering under his fingers.

“And will there be music?” she asked.

“Of course,” Amun said, his grin sending a cold bead of sweat trickling down the column of Tamlin’s spine. “And if we’re lucky, perhaps our High Lord will indulge us with a few reels.”

“You must,” Aoide said, placing a hand over his clenched fist. “I’ll bring my fife! We can play that song you taught me.”

The feeling of her small, soft hand over his clenched fist was the only thing that kept Tamlin from shifting. The roar in his head had grown so loud it was difficult to hear the conversation, the other council members animated as they discussed their plans for the holiday.

“I’ve been saving a rare vintage for a special occasion,” Bel said, cooing at Lucien. “But it is an awful big bottle to drink on my own.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage,” Lucien grumbled, refusing to move from his post, preferring to lean against the wall than join them at the table.

“We’ve rationed the sugar, but I think we’ll have enough for a few sambocades,” Selene murmured.

“I like mine with raspberries,” Fabian said, nudging Selene gently.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Selene replied, a blush spreading across her tanned face.

It had been well over a year since Tamlin celebrated any of the high holidays, longer since he’d actually enjoyed himself. The last time had been Summer Solstice—

Blue-grey eyes, heavy and hooded from faerie wine. Bodies spinning and blurring around them, their euphoric dancing in step with chaotic beat of the drums. Magic coursing through the land, through his very marrow, fortifying his soul. Will o’ wisps setting the field alight as their lips brushed—

“We’ll need to decide on where the hold the festivities,” Amun said. “None of the villages are in good enough shape.”

“What about here?” Aoide asked, looking to Tamlin. “The gardens should be plenty large enough, don’t you think?”

The broad smile that split across Aoide’s face gave Tamlin’s heart a squeeze. He could feel her excitement, the quickened pace of her blood. Her scent blossomed, sweet jasmine and mellow vetiver settling over the room. Her fathomless eyes, their impenetrable darkness, swallowed all the grief welling up inside of him.

He could not bear to see her smile falter — not after everything she had told him last night. Tamlin could not heal all the sorrows she had endured. He wasn’t sure he was capable of keeping her safe from those who wished her harm.

But he could make her happy. Even if only for a moment.

“Yes,” Tamlin said, his voice hoarse. “Of course.”

Lucien clicked his tongue in protestation, but said no more.

“We’ll need to clear the briar,” Aoide said, the chair skidding behind her as she stood. “Come to think of it, we have some medicinal herbs that may be of use to you, Selene.”

Aoide held out the crook of her arm, her face bright and flushed as she looked down at Selene, who shrunk behind Fabian.

“The stores are low on feverfew and rue,” Fabian said, leaning in as he spoke gently to Selene.

Selene looked to Tamlin, her hazel eyes peeking from behind her wall of cornsilk hair. He realized she was looking for his dismissal, an adjournment to their meeting.

“I think we’ve managed enough business for the day,” Tamlin said.

“For some of us the work is just starting,” Bel muttered, draining her thimble of wine. “I expect at least five bottles of your finest at Samhain, High Lord.”

With the furious buzz of her wings, Bel was out the front door, eager to draw blood elsewhere. Cautiously, Selene hooked her arm around Aoide’s, the two of them heading straight for the gardens. Tamlin could hear the sing-song of Aoide’s voice and the surprising hum of Selene’s as they padded down the hall.

“High Lord, eh?” Fabian said. “Seems like the sprite is warming to you.”

“No doubt thanks to the charm of your human,” Amun said.

A growl rumbled in Tamlin’s chest, to which Amun responded with a self-satisfied grin, his form turning to vapor before drifting out the open window. With the council disbanded, Lucien pushed off the wall, leaving the dining room without another word.

Fabian and Tamlin spent the rest of their day watching Aoide and Selene as they grazed through the gardens, fighting through the thicket as they tied bundles of hyssop and chamomile for drying. Aoide looked perfectly as ease amongst the overgrowth, working side-by-side with Selene as if they had known each other their whole lives.

“Amun was right. She does have her charms,” Fabian said.

A peal of laughter cut across the gardens, only it wasn’t the twinkling lilt Tamlin had come to cherish. From the front steps, he could see the flush on Aoide’s cheeks, a wry smile edging the corners of her lips as she gently batted Selene with a bundle of flowers, before letting loose her own airy chuckle.

“Do we have any of Bel’s males stationed near his cottage?” Tamlin asked.

“You don’t trust him?”

“Just a feeling,” Tamlin said, ignoring the beast’s raised hackles. “Likely nothing.”

“I’ll see if she can spare a patrol,” Fabian said, a better second than Tamlin deserved.

By the time Fabian and Selene left, the sun was hovering over the horizon line, moments away from dipping out of sight. The sky, ripe and pink as a peach, cooled to a deep blue. The land hummed with nocturnal activity, a peaceful end to the chaos of their day.

“Are you alright?” Aoide asked.

Tamlin lifted his head, which had been resting against the closed manor door while he parsed through the council meeting, his head still buzzing.

“I’m fine,” Tamlin said, rubbing the red spot on his forehead.

“I hope I didn’t overstep,” Aoide said, fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. “Perhaps I was a little too excited about Samhain.”

Tamlin crossed the room, eager to be near her away prying eyes. He took her hand in his, pressing a chaste kiss to her knuckles.

“It was a good suggestion. I wish I had thought of it myself,” Tamlin said.

They’d need to take extra precautions, but it would be a good first step to reminding his subjects that their court was more than just blighted villages and rubble, and their High Lord more than just a snarling beast in a crown — a bit of revelry to ward against their collective grief and fortify themselves as they rebuilt their lands.

“I suppose we better start preparing then,” Aoide said, beaming from ear to ear. “Why don’t we practice that reel you taught me?”

She slipped from Tamlin’s grasp, heading down the hallway toward the music room. Tamlin was too distracted by the pleasant daydream of Aoide playing her fife alongside his fiddle, the bonfires raging around them as they danced and caroused through the night, to remember what awaited them in the music room.

He caught Aoide in his arms as she stumbled back, a small gasp escaping her lips. In the center of the room was the piano, left untouched by the trespassing vines and roses that had overrun the rest of the manor. Any bud or leaf that dared try to encroach was reduced to a brown husk, the room littered with yellowed leaves and brown petals.

“I guess this means you haven’t told her,” Lucien said, his back to them both. He crushed a dried rose in his hands, the bud turning to ash in his palm.

“Tell me what?” Aoide asked, her eyes wide with concern.

“It’s cursed,” Lucien said.

“Lucien-“

Lucien whipped around, his brilliant mane of red hair like a fire arrow streaking across the night sky.

“Don’t growl at me. She deserves to know,” he said, his golden iris burning with all the intensity of a wildfire.

“What do you mean cursed?” Aoide asked, her voice cracking.

“Not like this,” Tamlin shot back at Lucien, charging across the room with his claws drawn. “Not tonight.”

“Shall we wait for a perfect Spring day? Perhaps over tea?” Lucien seethed, undeterred by Tamlin’s looming figure.

“Are you two going to tell me what the hell is going on before you rip each other to shreds? Or shall I come back at a more convenient time?” Aoide snapped.

Tamlin pulled back at the sound of Aoide’s frustration, her scent blazing through the room.

“I’m sorry,” Tamlin said.

“Just tell me what’s going on,” Aoide said, tears welling in her eyes. “Tell me whether it’s my fault and how I can fix it.”

All the crackling tension deflated at the sound of Aoide’s dejection, her narrow shoulders caving inward.

“It’s not your fault,” Tamlin said. “It’s mine.”

Tenderly, he guided her to the chaise. Tamlin perched himself on the edge, unable to look at Aoide’s crestfallen face without his heart breaking.

“What do you know of the War?” Tamlin asked.

“Very little,” Aoide said sheepishly. “Humans fought for their freedom, alongside some of the faeries.”

“That’s right,” Tamlin said. “I’ve already told you my father was a Traditionalist. He was also Hybern’s closest ally.”

He heard Aoide swallow hard at the name — Hybern. The scent of her fear, cloying and metallic, made Tamlin’s stomach turn.

“When the War ended, the Traditionalists were ordered to release their slaves. My father abided, but many did not. Hybern did not. He, along with his general, killed their slaves instead.”

“Sick bastard,” Lucien muttered.

Aoide shot upright, her skin pebbled with goosebumps. Tamlin could feel her body begin to shake, the tremors starting in her hands and travelling down her legs.

As if some part of her — some deep and ancestral knowledge — understood the truth before he spoke it. Tamlin tried to swallow the bitter taste of her dread as it coated his tongue, but found it too strong to ignore.

“His general, Amarantha, used the bones of his slaves to make the piano, binding their souls to it as a gift. A dowry.”

The words were like poison in his mouth. Aoide’s head whipped to the side, her breath fast and shallow. Her eyes, wide with panic, flicked to the piano as the full realization dawned on her.

“No,” she said quietly.

“A dowry for my hand,” Tamlin choked out. “A proposal my father rejected for the sake of his own pride.”

The truth hung over them like a sodden blanket. Not even Lucien could muster a witty retort to lighten the horror that settled in their silence. Aoide stood, drifting across the room like a phantom. Her hand hovered over the keys, her fingers trembling, before she pulled away.

“I’m sorry,” Tamlin repeated, a paltry offering.

“Sorry? What on earth do you have to be sorry for?” Aoide said, turning around to face him. She kneeled in front of him, tucking a strand of his hair behind his ear. He shivered at her touch, warm and soft.

“It was supposed to make you happy,” Tamlin said, grinding the words between his teeth to stop himself from breaking apart. “All I’ve done is ruined it for you.”

Aoide cupped his cheek, forcing his eyes to meet hers. “You haven’t ruined anything, Tamlin. Don’t you see?”

Delicately, she stroked his face, wiping away a tear he hadn’t realized had been shed.

“All this time…all my life, I’ve had a piece of your story. A terrible, ugly piece, but a piece nonetheless,” she murmured. “A piece I’ve loved and cared for, that brought me joy when I desperately needed it.”

Aoide stood, reaching out a hand to Tamlin. Woodenly, he took it. She tugged, pulling him upright despite his legs protesting.

“And together, we’re going to fix it. Give it the happy ending it deserves.”

The certainty in her voice, the conviction with which she spoke, did something strange to Tamlin’s chest. A lightness — the same lightness he felt as they held each other through the night — filled him once again.

Goddess, save me.

He kissed her, the salt of her tears and the taste of her sweet mouth undoing him. Her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him closer. And if it weren’t for Lucien, he would have laid her down among the crushed petals and dried vines and stroked her, kissed her, loved her, until she screamed for him.

Aoide pulled away, the huffs of her ragged breath sending a pulse of arousal through him. Lightly, she pushed off his chest before running a hand through her mussed hair.

“It can be fixed, right?” she asked, looking to Lucien.

“We’re sure as hell going to try,” Lucien said.

“Good,” Aoide said. “What’s next, then?”

“There’s a five hundred year old human who has a rather…intimate knowledge of such curses,” Lucien said.

Aoide jerked back, before letting out an exasperated laugh. “And he’s willing to help us?” Aoide asked.

“He’ll do it on one condition,” Lucien said. “He wants to meet you, Aoide.”

“You told Jurian about Aoide?” Tamlin snarled.

“I didn’t have much of a choice,” Lucien said with a dismissive shrug.

Fool, the beast growled.

“Why does he want to meet me?”

“Jurian’s accumulated some influence here. Marrying a well-bred woman with connections to the Continent would stretch that influence across the sea,” said Lucien.

Aoide paced the room, chewing on her bottom lip until it turned red. “I’m not sure I’d bring the right sort of influence,” Aoide said quietly. “What with me being a fugitive and my father soon to be executed.”

“Jurian is Vassa’s courtier, and likely to be her general. That gives a certain amount of leeway when it comes to pardoning criminals.”

Aoide ceased her pacing. “You can’t possibly mean…you are referring to Queen Vassa of Scythia?”

“Yes,” Lucien said. “It just so happens she is cursed as well. Formerly bound to a death god’s lake, forced to turn into a firebird during the day,” he said, waving his hand as if the story was old news.

Aoide turned pale, before rebounding with a small smirk. “And here I was, thinking we were special,” she said, nudging Tamlin with her shoulder.

“Why doesn’t he marry Vassa, then?” Tamlin grumbled.

“A queen is more valuable as a maiden than a bride. Besides, I doubt the Scythians would take well to a centuries old foreign commoner ruling over them,” Lucien said. “It’s also exceedingly possible that it’s all just a cover for something else.”

“Something else?” Aoide asked.

“Perhaps he wishes to make Vassa jealous. Or you jealous,” Lucien said, jerking his chin toward Tamlin. “There could be any number of plots he’s considering.”

I’ll reduce him to nothing more than an eyeball again, if he tries, the beast snarled.

“He’d really do such a thing? Isn’t that a bit petty for a centuries old human?” Aoide asked.

“A couple centuries never stopped a faerie from being petty,” Lucien said. “You spend five hundred years as an eyeball, I think you’d feel owed a little fun at our expense.”

“You really think he’d be able to clear my name?” Aoide asked.

“At a minimum, he’d be able to grant your family safe haven in Scythia,” said Lucien. “Once we break Vassa’s curse, of course.”

“I’ll do it,” Aoide said. “I’ll…entertain him. But nothing more.”

Tamlin fought the urge to wretch at the way she said that word — entertain.

“You don’t have to do this,” Tamlin said. “We can find another way.”

“But this is the easiest, isn’t it?” Aoide asked.

“Yes,” Lucien said. Tamlin shot a look of pure icy rage at his friend.

“Easiest for us. That does not make it any easier for you,” Tamlin said.

“It’s nothing I haven’t managed before,” Aoide said, her eyes growing distant. “If Lucien is right and Jurian becomes Vassa’s general, having him on my side could save my family’s name and lift the curse. We can’t afford to forgo his expertise.”

Tamlin hated this. Hated this whole plan with every fiber of his being.

“I’ll need a proper dress. When will he and Queen Vassa be arriving?” Aoide asked.

“Jurian’s on a scouting mission for Greyson right now. We’ll plan for a fortnight from today.”

Aoide nodded once, sharp and sudden. “That’ll do.”

Chapter Text

“You have such beautiful hair,” Aoide sighed, weaving Selene’s pale golden strands over one another in a complicated loop. It was a knot Elmier had taught her. A turks head, he had called it, though Aoide was certain this was the first time it was used to braid a crown atop a faerie’s head.

Aoide found herself envious of Selene’s lustrous curtain of hair. How it shined under the Spring sun during her visits. She made a point to stop by the manor every afternoon, helping Aoide cut through the thick vines and errant roses that remained in the garden.

Sometimes they chatted idly, other days they were content to listen to the birdsong. Selene indulged Aoide’s frequent questions about the Spring Court and faerie customs. In turn, Aoide told her stories of Neva, and what life had been like on the Continent.

Between Selene’s visits, Aoide worked on a few unfinished compositions. Tamlin had tucked her piano away in a pocket dimension, a concept Aoide struggled to wrap her mind around. In its place, he left the white piano she had become accustomed to during her earlier visits. Aoide tried to play earlier, but found herself frozen in the doorway, staring at the space where her piano once was.

She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it — the cursed piano. Aoide had always known the keys were made of bone, and it being a faerie-made instrument led her to assume the worst. But to know dozens of souls were trapped in there, their very essence imbued into the keys, chained in eternal servitude?

That was a fate worse than death.

Aoide should have been disgusted. Any sensible human would see it for what it was — the last vestiges of a horrific, violent legacy. Still, Aoide couldn’t help but think there was a karmic symmetry to it all. Their souls had travelled from the pits of despair to the height of nobility, spanning centuries of human history.

Had her father known the truth? Is that why her mother couldn’t stand to listen when she played? Or had they, too, been oblivious to its terrible secret?

Aoide never heard the full story of how her father obtained the piano. An oddity for Ambrose Achlys, who usually relished in the chance to make himself out to be some trickster folk hero.

It was hard to fathom that the piano came into her possession by chance, traveling across a sea to its rightful place on a lark. The alternative — that there was some higher power pulling the strings — did nothing to settle her mind.

Aoide wondered what Tamlin thought of it all. She wanted to ask him, but she hardly saw him. He spent the week since her arrival working tirelessly to clear the briar alongside Bel’s males, only dropping in to check on Aoide under the cover of night.

She cherished those quiet moments, the early dawn gilding his golden hair as he perched on the side of his bed. It took her eyes a moment to adjust, his figure no more than a shadow, but she’d know the feeling of his touch anywhere.

“Good morning,” he would murmur as he cupped her cheek, her mind dream-addled and hazy.

He looked so tired, the events of the day weighing on him. Aoide had no idea if he slept, or if such human limitations were beyond him.

“Stay,” Aoide would croak each time, tugging on his tunic.

He never did. Instead, he stroked her hair until she could no longer fight sleep, his only good-bye a kiss on her forehead as he flew out the balcony, denying himself a moment’s rest.

Aoide always woke to find his side of the bed cold and empty, the sheets pulled tight around her. She would have felt neglected if it weren’t for the limericks he left scattered all over the manor, a bit of company as she wandered the halls and snooped through long-forgotten rooms. She had no idea how he managed to think of them all, each rhyme more inventive than the next.

The limericks from that morning had been particularly rousing, perhaps in celebration of the Samhain festivities set to take place later that night. She had found the first tucked beneath her pillow, another on the music stand, and the last folded on top of a delicate green silk dress in the armoire of an empty bedroom.

She had compiled them all, turning his poetry into lyrics and composing a tune to accompany them. Aoide planned to give him the sheet music that night, a small token of her appreciation, in hopes they could play it together as they danced and imbibed.

“Are you nervous?” Selene asking, her strong fingers running over the edge of the braid.

“Nervous for what?” Aoide asked, looping a few in her own hair.

“This is your first faerie holiday, isn’t it?” Selene asked.

Aoide smoothed out the wrinkles in her dress, the fabric glowing in the dim candlelight. It took all of her courage to look across the room at the mirror as she fastened her silver barrettes. She had been sneaking glances at herself all week in an attempt to build a tolerance to her own reflection, though it always stung to find herself staring back.

She saw Selene in the glass too, in all her tanned and freckled beauty. An inner light seemed to glow within Selene, as if she had absorbed some of the sun as she worked the land. It was a strange sight to see herself next to Selene, a scene few humans could have imagined before the Wall fell.

“Do you think me being human will cause a fuss?” Aoide asked.

“Faeries in the Spring Court are a bit…sensitive to humans,” Selene said, her voice wavering.

“Because you’re so close to their borders?” Aoide asked.

Selene fiddled with the hem of her dress. “Not just because of that,” she said quietly, before withdrawing into herself.

There was a sadness evident in Selene’s voice, a faraway look glazing her hazel eyes. Aoide knew there was a story buried between her slouching shoulders, but one not suited for such an occasion. Selene was a gentle soul and Aoide didn’t wish to upset her, especially not after she’d kept Aoide company all week. She wondered whether Tamlin had put Selene up to it — someone to keep her from getting into too much trouble in his absence.

Curling smoke drifted through the open window, the scent of charred wood and ash following closely behind. The distant hum of chatter grew nearer, the bonfires coaxing faeries from the farthest reaches of the Spring Court.

What started off as a low thrum of activity escalated to a full-blown din, the gardens filled with the sounds of merriment as Aoide and Selene finished their preparations.

“It sounds like the festivities have begun,” Selene said. “Are you ready, Lady Aoide?”

Selene stood from the vanity, her dress a sheath of white cotton with yellow flowers embroidered along the edges. Its simplicity complimented Selene’s long, lithe body and her effortless grace as she headed toward the door. It was like watching a doe trot across an open field, all lean muscle and finesse.

Aoide did her best to keep up with Selene’s smooth, striding steps, but found herself lacking in preternatural poise. It was easy to forget how small and clumsy she was, the solitude of her week making her less aware of her body.

“I told you to call me Aoide,” she said, looping an arm around Selene’s toned bicep. “Enough of that lady nonsense.”

Selene frowned. “Is that not what you are? Have I misunderstood your human customs?”

“It is,” Aoide conceded, “But it’s far too formal to call a friend by their title in private company.”

Selene’s eyebrows shot upward. “Friend?”

“Is that not what we are?” Aoide asked, a smirk curling the edges of her lips.

Selene blinked, the only sign of surprise on her otherwise placid expression. A beat of silence passed between them, leaving Aoide wondering if she had violated some fae custom herself.

“It is,” Selene finally spoke, giving Aoide an elegant nod.

“Good,” said Aoide. She snatched her fife off the side table. “Now why don’t we see what all the fuss is about?”

Together, they descended the grand staircase. The raucous buzz of revelry grew louder as they neared the entrance, accompanied by the roaring sounds of bonfires and the aroma of good food and drink. Aoide found herself hesitating as they stood in front of the double doors of the manor, the long-forgotten feeling of anxiety making her palms clammy.

The last ball she attended was over a year ago. Not even the nobles dared to celebrate beyond small soirées after the Wall fell, too frightened of Salazar’s decency laws. She was unpracticed in her dancing, uneducated in traditional faerie customs, and sure to cause a fuss from her presence alone. Selene wouldn’t be able to smooth over all her shortcomings.

The only thing worse than a wallflower is a sore thumb, her mother used to lecture her. Do not embarrass your father.

Her stomach churned at the memory. She didn’t want to make a fool of herself in front of Tamlin’s court — the ridiculous human pretending to be a part of his world.

Aoide took a deep breath, picturing Tamlin waiting for her somewhere in the crowd, fiddle tucked beneath his chin. She longed to hear him play, to see the scrunched look of concentration on his face as he worked through a challenging piece.

Aoide threw open the manor doors, determined to brave the crowd. She expected a similar sight to the Nevan balls, all pomp and tradition. The nobles loved nothing more than their self-stratification, their hierarchies shifting as the night progressed. Something as simple as a tacky necklace or misplaced compliment could sabotage a whole generation of social machinations, each affair a high-stakes game of who’s who.

What greeted her looked more like the rowdy taverns Hal frequented with his friends.

Faeries of all colors and creeds mingled in the blazing firelight, their fae luster shining under the pale moon. There were far more guests than she expected, the grounds packed from hedge to hedge with bodies — some small and delicate, others brawny and wide.

It was strange to see the garden so full of life. Aoide could feel the drone of their excitement in the air, the flowers and greenery blooming brighter than ever before, their joy enriching the land.

Her eyes caught on a clutch of blue-skinned females, their glossy cape of hair the same color as quill ink. They whispered to one another, their wholly black eyes searching the crowd as they giggled. Their freckles twinkled like the stars above, as if they had been crafted from the night sky itself.

A group of Urisk huddled around a bottle of liquor, doling it out in small glasses and drinking deeply. One of the smaller faeries gagged, the others laughing as they patted him on the back.

“That’s m’boy,” an older faerie cheered.

Some of them took to dancing, their bare feet tangling in a complicated rhythm, only the pounding beat of drums keeping them in time. Others joined their dance around the bonfires, their hands linking and unlinking as they weaved a seamless web.

None of them seemed to pay her any mind, which suited Aoide just fine. She shamelessly searched the crowd, looking for Tamlin, but coming up short. From the corner of her eyes, Aoide saw a blur of pink. Bel hovered in front of her, clad in the smallest dress she had ever seen.

“A girl’s night without me?” Bel pouted. “How you wound me, human.”

Bel’s skin glowed a sultry fuchsia, her red eyes glittering like the sparks flying from the bonfires. Aoide felt her senses dull, the hum of laughter growing muffled.

“I’ll have to find a way to make it up to you,” Aoide said, her words slurring. Selene gave her arm a pinch, the pain clearing the fog from her mind.

“Let’s find Fabian,” Selene said, “Before Bel convinces you to strip naked and frolic with the nymphs.”

Bel rolled her eyes. “Spoilsport.”

Selene kept Aoide upright as they moved through the crowd, her legs still weak from Bel’s influence. A few hushed whispers followed them as they passed, but Aoide ignored them, refusing to indulge their curiosity with more than a cursory glance.

They found Fabian at the edges of the braying crowd, leaning against the broad expanse of a willow tree, a small carving knife in hand. He straightened the moment his ice-blue eyes landed on Selene, who only gave the slightest bob of her head in return.

“Selene,” he said with a solemn bow. “And Aoide,” he added, as if he hadn’t registered her presence.

“I hope you were able to find the sambocades,” said Selene. “They’re always the first to go.”

Fabian smiled. “Thanks for the extra raspberries.”

Selene’s complexion warmed. The conversation sputtered out, the two of them unable to fill the silence.

“You two should dance,” Aoide said, supplying their excuse for wandering off together.

“And leave you on your own? What sort of friend would that make me?” asked Selene.

“Fine,” Aoide said, “We shall dance all together, then.”

Fabian shook his head, chuckling. “I don’t dance.”

“Just one,” Selene blurted. “For old time’s sake.”

Aoide could hear Fabian swallow, the two of them sharing a look she could not decode.

“Okay,” Fabian said, tucking the blade away. “For old time’s sake.”

The three of them joined the dancers, though Aoide found it difficult to keep up with them. Selene and Fabian danced in thrilling unison, reading each others’ minds before they took each step. She found herself watching as they spun in tight circles, cutting through the boisterous crowd like a hot knife through butter.

Aoide let herself drift into the background, surrounded by unfamiliar faces. She left it to the will of the masses push her through the garden, following the drifting snippets of conversation as they passed. A few faeries kept their distance, but most were too drunk and merry to care about an interloping human.

In the distance, she saw a streak of scarlet red hair.

“Lucien!” Aoide shouted, her voice drowned out by the roar of the fires. She tried to nudge her way through the crowd toward Lucien, but quickly lost sight of him.

She was handed a glass faerie wine, which Aoide heartily indulged. The warmth of the drink spread from her stomach to the tips of her fingers and toes, a pleasant dullness hindering her senses. She wasn’t afraid as she was consumed by the crowd, her eyes searching every face, expecting to meet two green emeralds, but to no avail.

It was then that she heard it — the dissonant chime of a bow pulling against strings, its sonorous wail cutting through the din. Aoide’s ears perked at the sound of it, trying to track its origin.

The bow crashed against the fiddle, deft fingers playing with such rapidity and finesse that Aoide knew it had to be Tamlin. She whipped around, trying to hone in on his song, seeing only the backs of heads much taller than she.

A hush spread over the crowd, a circle forming in the center of it all. Aoide slipped through, thankful for her small stature amidst the long and lean faeries. She weaved and ducked, whispering her apologies as she fought her way toward the music. The drums began to rumble, a fine accompaniment to Tamlin’s reel. With one last push, Aoide broke through the crowd.

And there he was.

Tamlin looked resplendent in his mossy green coat, his flaxen hair glowing like molten gold. His brows were drawn over his closed eyes, the corners of his lips twitching as he focused on his song. Aoide watched his strong fingers press the strings, the fine muscles and tendons in his arms flexing.

The crowd was silent while he played his masterful tune. She held her breath as the composition increased in intensity, the beat of the drums relentlessly thumping against her feet. Aoide felt the tug deep inside her, pulling her closer to him with every stroke of the fiddle.

It was only when his song finished that Aoide was released from his spell, the glint of his green eyes finding hers immediately. His broad chest rose and fell as he looked down at her, the whole world falling away.

“Well,” Tamlin said, his voice low. “Are you going to play that little flute of yours, human?”

Aoide felt her face warm, a sea of eyes rolling toward her, flickering with primeval anticipation. Her skin tingled from the attention, a feeling she had grown unaccustomed to since arriving in the Mortal Lands.

She hadn’t an audience in ages.

“Is that a challenge, faerie?” Aoide asked, returning Tamlin’s heated stare with a dimpled smirk.

His grin was animal. Aoide felt her pulse quicken at the sight of his sharp canines, the image of them sinking into her thigh. She flashed with heat at the thought, and Tamlin’s eyes darkened, the black of his pupil consuming the golden-green irises.

She felt like a lion tamer, coaxing her predatory companion, tempting him, daring him to forgo his better nature and ravage her. But Tamlin made no move to sweep her away as Aoide lifted the fife to her mouth and rested it on her bottom lip.

The song sighed out of the fife, a tune that was loping and long at first, but quickly rose in pace and difficulty. Aoide’s fingers fluttered as she focused on the complicated flourishes. There could have been hundreds of eyes on her in that moment, but she did not let them bother her.

A viola chimed in, followed by what sounded like a lute, though a kind she was not familiar with. Their music blended with Aoide’s, the sound of feet thumping against the ground, growing loud enough to drown out the fife. The world around her swayed, the faeries resuming their dancing.

As Tamlin took a step toward her, Aoide found all the air leaving her lungs, the song dying on her lips. He took her right hand, and someone else took her left, forming a swirling chain. The circles shifted, and Aoide found herself between two faeries she did not recognize, moving endlessly in a series of unfamiliar steps.

Through it all, Tamlin kept his eyes solely on her. He moved through the crowds effortlessly, his golden hair glowing in the firelight like the sun itself had woven the strands from purest light. They drew close, then drifted farther away, though they always returned to one another, their hands grazing for one brief, wonderful moment.

There was no telling how long they danced. Aoide felt drunk from the magic fizzing all around her, relying on her ever-changing dance partner to keep her gliding in the right direction. It was Fabian who twirled her like a spinning top right into Tamlin’s arms, where she remained for the rest of the song.

The fires burned on. Aoide’s feet ached from striking the ground with such force, her mind dizzy with jubilant delight. Her laughter came fast and ragged, unable to catch her breath as she struggled to match Tamlin’s pace. She felt herself grow lighter as he pulled her against his rippling form, her soles barely grazing the grass.

It wasn’t until she felt the cool air against her bare shoulders that she realized Tamlin had swiftly guided her away from the crowd, the sounds of merrymaking fading away. Strands of hair stuck to her face, damp with sweat. She shivered from the chill, which Tamlin quickly remedied with a flick of magic. The breeze warmed, gently kissing her skin.

Tamlin pulled her closer, her cheek pressed against his chest, the thunderous beat of his heart matching her own. She felt a current of air form around her, that feeling of weightlessness Aoide was certain she would never get used to.

When her feet brushed the ground, she found flowers underfoot. Pink camellias and purple heliotropes. A whole field of them, swaying under the moonlight.

Just like her dream all those weeks ago. The same night she pleaded with that faerie goddess, bargaining with her for more time.

Aoide’s body moved, racing down the side of the hill, her legs wobbling. She needed to know if that strange boulder was in the middle of the field. Maybe there would be some sign, a response to her request. Proof that this was real, that she was meant to be there. That all the misery she endured, all the sorrow she had caused was for a reason—

It wasn’t there. In her dream, it had been at the exact center. A perfectly round limestone boulder, cool to the touch. Embarrassing as it was to admit it to herself, Aoide was disappointed.

How stupid, she thought. Why would a faerie goddess give a damn about me?

She felt Tamlin beside her, his path to the center a remarkably graceful descent compared to Aoide’s harried pace.

“Looking for something?” Tamlin asked.

It would be ridiculous to tell him about her dream. That she was looking for an acknowledgement that what she felt for Tamlin wasn’t doomed. That love was a worthwhile endeavor, even for a human.

Instead, she asked Tamlin a question.

“Do you believe in fate?”

Tamlin’s eyes flashed, the only sign of his alarm. One of his tells, she realized. The smallest of fissures in his wall of stone, but a notable one.

“Humans call it fate. Virtuous faeries would call it the will of the Mother. Regardless of its name, all of fae society is predicated on the idea that it exists,” Tamlin deflected.

“But what do you believe?” Aoide nudged.

Tamlin’s mouth twitched, a quick purse of his lips before he made his face passive.

“That if such a force exists, I fear I’ve angered it,” he said.

His voice was quiet. The words floated by, drifting with such lonesomeness and defeat that Aoide felt a tear stinging in the corner of her eye.

She swallowed her sadness away. “I think I was meant to be here.”

Tamlin blinked slowly. “What?”

Aoide felt a lick of embarrassment heat her face. She shouldn’t have said that, but the words had come out of her mouth before she had the chance to think better of it. She couldn’t stop now, with Tamlin staring at her like that.

“When I met Amun, he told me the Spirit told him of my arrival. I wasn’t sure what to make of it. But now with the piano? What are the chances that all of this is just coincidence? That your piano—“

“Not mine,” Tamlin said tightly.

Aoide couldn’t stop the stream of thoughts flying out of her mouth. “That I was meant to bring it to you so I could help you fix it.”

Tamlin’s posture became strained, a stiffness settling in his shoulders. The High Lord making himself known, a firm line that he did not want crossed.

“It’s not your job to fix anything,” Tamlin said. “It’s my father’s legacy, a stain on our history.”

“You…don’t believe I’m here for a reason?” Aoide asked, her voice higher than she intended.

Something flamed in Tamlin’s eyes before he bit down hard, the muscles in his jaw flaring from tension. Aoide felt shame flush through her.

“Forget it,” Aoide said, scrambling for the words. “I’m worked up from all the dancing and saying foolish things.”

Tamlin’s gaze grew unfocused. He stared at the space between them, seeing something that wasn’t there. He didn’t say a word. Aoide wanted the ground to swallow her whole, leaving no trace of her existence.

“I wrote something for you while you were away this week,” Aoide said, eager to change the subject. She reached into a hidden pocket in her dress, pulling out the folded square of parchment.

Tamlin’s chest heaved. He did not move an inch, his body all hard lines and angles, as solid and immovable as a piece of carved marble.

The parchment trembled in her hands as Aoide opened her mouth to sing.

In the land of the Spring Court fae
A dark-eyed beauty came to stay
With one look, she charmed their Lord
His thoughts of her most untoward
And in his bed she was left to lay

The taste of her like sweet fae wine
On her blossom did the High Lord dine
Until from her lips, came his name
His wild heart eager to be tamed
Covering his land in bud and vine

Patient was she for his return
For she alone his heart did burn
All her desires he would abide
And please her ‘til the morning light
In hopes her love he’d earn—

Tamlin grabbed her wrist, his green eyes hooded. Magic crackled around them, the metallic zing of his power overwhelming Aoide’s senses.

“I’m taking you back to the manor,” he said roughly.

“What-“

—

She was angry with him. Tamlin could feel her every emotion, all of them written so clearly on her face, evident in her scent. Her desire, frustration, shame — such a potent bouquet that it made the beast snarl awake.

When she sang, her voice delicate like the petals of a blooming iris, he could feel it. A nagging thought, a single word clawing its way through his mind and begging to be heard.

M—

No.

“Where are you going?” Aoide asked tersely. “You’ve been dodging me all week.”

Lucien had asked him the same question earlier that day as they worked side by side, clearing the briar from the farthest reaches of the Spring border.

“You’re avoiding Aoide,” Lucien said, lobbing over the accusation apropos of nothing. “Why?”

More than anything, Tamlin wanted to be with Aoide, idling their days away with music and lovemaking. It was near-impossible to be around her without that constant drone of his desire threatening to turn him into a lustful brute. He wanted to shut the world away behind the manor doors and forget anyone but Aoide existed.

“I’m not avoiding her. There’s work to be done,” said Tamlin.

“Grunt work,” Lucien said, cutting through the thicket with his saber.

“Work is work. Bel needs all the help she can get. It’ll show her males I’m not afraid of getting my hands dirty,” Tamlin reasoned.

A wisp of Lucien’s flame drifting on the wind, catching on the tangled nest of thorns and setting them alight. Quickly, Tamlin smothered the fire, directing the winds away from the flames.

“Looks like your schedule just cleared,” Lucien said, crossing his arms. “Now talk.”

“I should patrol the border,” Tamlin said, intent on avoiding Lucien’s interrogation.

Lucien blew out a tense breath. “Do you know what I would do to be in your position right now? To have Elain waiting patiently for my return? For Elain to look at me the way Aoide looks at you? Instead, she is miles away with the shadowsinger panting close behind. And there’s nothing I can do about it.”

Tamlin froze at the sound of Lucien’s despair, the hard edge of his anger roiling under the surface.

“That’s different,” Tamlin said. “Elain Archeron is your mate, equal to you in body and soul.”

Lucien barked out a laugh, bitter and low. “Seems like Aoide can handle you just fine.”

Tamlin felt a spike of anger flare through him, hot and sharp. “But can she handle the beast?”

The fire in Lucien’s eye flickered. “You’re scared you’ll hurt her.”

A statement, not a question.

“Yes,” Tamlin said.

Tamlin knew Lucien could scent it on him — his need for her. Lucien’s gold iris clicked away as it bore into Tamlin’s pained expression.

“You won’t,” he insisted.

“How can you of all males say that to me? You saw what I did to Feyre. You tried to stop me and I refused to listen,” Tamlin growled.

Lucien didn’t back down. “You’re different. Better. And I’d hazard a guess it’s because of Aoide, not in spite of her.”

Tamlin stared down his friend, who refused to slouch under his glare. “You do not understand. All I do is ravage and debase-“

“Enough with the self-pitying bullshit,” Lucien snapped. “Aoide is human. Your time with her is ticking away, and you’re here wasting it.”

Tamlin recoiled at the thought — one he had purposefully avoided. He felt something heavy and sour settle in his stomach.

“Don’t make my mistake,” Lucien said, fingertips blackened with soot. “Don’t waste a minute of it.”

Tamlin knew that the sound of heartbreak in his friend’s voice was not about his scorned mating bond with Elain Archeron.

He was thinking of Jesminda.

“You’re right,” Tamlin conceded, knowing he would not win this argument. There was never anything he could say to Lucien to soothe that wound, still agonizingly tender after all these years.

“I know I am,” Lucien grumbled, tugging his waistcoat and patting down his wild red hair. He turned to leave, but Tamlin interrupted his winnow.

“Will I see you tonight?” he asked.

Lucien glanced from the corner of his eye, a frown forming. “I’m spending Samhain with Jurian and Vassa,” he said, before vanishing into thin air.

Tamlin spent the rest of his day as a kestrel, flying over his lands as he tried to shake the restlessness from his bones. That same restlessness came flooding back as Aoide’s dark eyes shot daggers at the back of his head.

“I cannot be near you right now,” Tamlin said, his heart ratcheting against his ribs.

“Why?” Aoide asked. “I thought after that night in the garden that you…that we-“

A growl worked its way from the depths of his chest. Tamlin pressed the base of his palms against his eyes, trying to relieve the pressure in his head as the beast ran a claw down his mind. Tamlin curled his hands into fists, letting the sharp edge of his talons dig into his flesh.

“The more I am around you, the less tolerant I am of your absence. My desire for you is all consuming. There is not a night that I do not dream of you. Sometimes, I would prefer to remain in those dreams, spending the rest of my days sleepwalking by your side,” he said.

He heard the growing patter of her heart, the rhythm of her blood as it raced in her veins. It called to his own, beating in unison. As always, Aoide led and Tamlin followed.

“But you are human, Aoide. You are so gentle and alive and fragile. What I want from you—“

Tamlin choked on his words. The scent of jasmine floated over, cloaking everything with its sweet and mild scent, demanding he turn around and face her.

“What I want from you,” Tamlin sighed, “Is none of those things.”

“What if I want those things, too?” Aoide asked, the flare of her scent heady and intoxicating.

“Don’t-“ Tamlin hissed. “Don’t tempt it.”

He heard the sound of her slippers whispering against the tile. The weight of her presence tugged on him.

“I trust you,” Aoide said. “I trust the beast.”

He whirled on her, though it wasn’t Tamlin who snarled as he pinned her against the mirror in his bedroom, the glass fogging from his ragged breath. One glance in the mirror revealed the gaze of the beast, hungry and desirous, staring back at him through his fine fae visage.

The beast could taste her arousal in the air. It breathed it in, reveling in the sweet musk of her want, the bitter undertone of her trepidation as she stared at him with those wide, unending eyes. The beast buried his face in the crook of neck, a sharp canine dragging against her lightly throbbing pulse.

Delicious little troublemaker, the beast crooned. How eager she is for her ruination. How she pleads for her defilement at our hands.

“Tamlin,” Aoide moaned, her head lolling back. The beast rolled its warm tongue across her collarbone, tasting the salt of her skin.

She speaks your name as if it is the only word she knows, the beast hummed.

“Say it again,” Tamlin said, running a claw over her peaked nipple, circling it through the fabric of her dress.

He felt her back arch, the soft roundness of her low belly pressed against his taut stomach. His favorite part of her — how he wished to knead it with his palm as he sheathed himself inside her.

Flushed and pink, Aoide gasped for air. Her eyes, glazed with unabashed lust, grew heavy, but her lips quirked in a devious smile.

“Make me,” challenged Aoide.

A demand he could not, for the life of him, ignore. Tamlin freed her breast from the green silk dress. He pinched her pert nipple between his claws, her body trembling as he rolled the firm bud with a sharp talon.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” she panted. “You’ll have to make me beg, beast.”

Something snapped within Tamlin — the tenuous leash of control. He was still in his body, but it was not his hand that swooped under Aoide’s leg and parted it to the side, pressing her supple thigh against the glass. One hand kept her restrained as the other burrowed under the folds of her dress, expecting to find the edge of her panties. Instead, his thumb brushed against her already slick core, the heat of her against his skin.

Goddess, preserve him.

She quivered under his touch, swallowing a whimper as her hips bucked. He knew what she wanted, could feel her silent demand as she clung to him, her body rolling against his.

But first, he would do what she asked — he would make her beg.

The beast licked his fingers once, savoring the taste of her, before plunging them past her parted lips. Aoide’s eyes danced with mischief as she moaned, her warm tongue lashing over his fingers. She bit down hard, the swirl of pleasure building within the beast’s chest and coursing southward.

Devour her, the beast demanded.

With no will left to wield against the beast, Tamlin grabbed her chin roughly, wrenching her face to the side and sinking his teeth into the tender base of her neck, hard enough to leave a mark.

Aoide’s cry made his cock twitch, the pleasant heat of arousal jolting through him. She did not fight against his iron grip as he pressed himself against her, looking for any friction he could find.

The beast felt her fingers fumble with his belt as he lavished the red bite mark on her skin with his hungry mouth. Aoide dipped her hand beneath the waistband of his pants and gave him a hard stroke, her delicate fingers surprisingly strong as she pulled him free from his breeches.

Her touch was rough, clumsy in its urgency. She stroked him once, twice, the throb of his swollen manhood pulsing against her silken skin. Neither of them bothered to shed their clothes. He picked Aoide up, digging his claws into the curve of her backside. She wrapped her thighs around his middle and squeezed hard enough that she trembled from the effort.

Before Aoide could seize control, he drove into her. She yelped, her teeth digging into her bottom lip to quiet the sound of her shout. He felt her surprise, the way her inner walls tensed around him. She gripped onto his muscled biceps, the only purchase she could find as he took her against the wall.

The beast delighted in the feeling of her warmth. Something in his chest fluttered as he lifted her off his cock, his fingers pressed into the flesh underneath her thighs. Before she could rebound, he brought her down hard.

The groan that wracked through her was low and raw — no trace of her usual charming lilt. Aoide ground against him, greedy for more. He kept her pressed against the cool glass of the mirror, the beast in full control of their pace.

More, more, more, the beast chanted.

The word was like a war drum pounding away in his head. His body began to stretch, the feeling of sinew and muscle swelling with potent magic. Not a complete shift, but notable enough that Aoide grew smaller in his shadow. Whatever limit she had, he surpassed it, hitting some deep part of her that made Aoide hiss.

She was at his mercy as he hastened his tempo, but she refused to give him what they both wanted. Her lips pressed into a firm line, the sound of her rapturous pleasure turning into a shameless whine. Sweat collected on the ridge of her brow, her forehead crinkling as she clamped her eyes closed.

He loved seeing her this way — utterly lost to her own bliss. Gone were all traces of the well-trained lady, or the coy troublemaker. The little game they played, the alluring temptress and the reticent recluse, had been left to the wayside. Every inch of her was alive, humming under his command. There was a ferocity to the way she arched against him, always pushing the upward curve of his cock deeper.

Mine, mine, mine, the beast roared.

“Mine,” Tamlin echoed in a rasping shudder.

Aoide’s dark eyes snapped open, a flicker of her cresting orgasm burning within their depths. With all the force he could muster, he bucked into her again, his eyes rolling back as he glided into her, soaked with her wetness.

“Mine,” he repeated, gritting his teeth as he held his climax at bay, full to the hilt.

Aoide stifled her throaty mewl, but there was no hiding the scent of her orgasm as it neared. A warmth shuddered between them, growing in its intensity, a golden light cutting through the darkness of the bedroom. He didn’t need to look down to know it was that thread of magic, the one both he and Lucien had neglected to acknowledge despite their painful awareness of its existence.

And for the briefest of moments, Tamlin had the sensation of his pleasure twining with her own, the feeling of her body becoming his. The ache of him inside her, the thrill of both pain and pleasure making her delirious. The utter lack of control she had as he rammed into her, besotted with desire. The way her center burned with a white hot need, as if she might combust if he didn’t fuck her hard enough. Gods, she was incredible. He felt her apex throbbing against him, the pressure building insider her as he canted, again and again, each stroke more powerful than the one before it. Their skin glistened with sweat, every muscle in his body screaming.

More, more, more, her body seemed to whisper back to him. Mine, mine—

“Please,” she groaned. “I need-“

With one last thrust of his hips, he snarled.

“Mine.”

“Tamlin!” Aoide gasped, her whole body quaking as he pulled her tight against him. He felt her tense around his cock, her nails cutting into the flesh of his arms as she let loose a strangled sob of relief.

Unlike last time, he couldn’t hold off his own release, letting the sensation wash over him as he finished inside of her. Tamlin felt the beast’s power recede like a mighty wave leaving the shore, his knees giving way as the two of them fell into a heap on the cold, hard tile.

It was the sound of her uneven breathing that brought Tamlin back to his body, the heaviness of his hulking form like an anchor dragging his soul back to earth. He felt her crawl over to him, curling in the space between his splayed arm and his chest, both of them shaking like the last of the oak leaves clinging to their branches.

The ringing in Tamlin’s ears was replaced with the sounds of revelry from the gardens. The festivities continued to rage on, even as the fires grew smaller. How long had they been here? It could have been minutes, hours. Whole days could have passed him by, and Tamlin would be none the wiser.

All week he had denied himself the pleasure of her company, knowing what clawed within him, desperate and dangerous.

Ma-

“We should get back to the gardens,” Tamlin said, his own voice sounding far away.

“It sounds like they’re getting along just fine without us,” Aoide heaved between breaths. “I’m sure Lucien would happily disrupt our peace if something went awry.”

His friend did have a knack for intervening during an intimate moment. There was nothing more that Lucien enjoyed than catching others flatfooted. He supposed every fox needed to keep their wily instincts sharp, and who better to practice on than a beast?

But Lucien was supposed to be in the Mortal Lands.

Tamlin jolted upright, his dim awareness sharpening like a honed blade. “Lucien was here?”

Aoide frowned. “Of course he was.”

“You’re certain you saw him?” Tamlin asked, his voice urgent with concern.

Aoide sat up, a worried look blooming on her flushed face. “I saw him in the crowd. I called out to him, but he mustn’t have heard me.”

Tamlin grabbed Aoide’s shoulders. “But you saw his face, right? You know for a fact it was Lucien?”

“I-I didn’t,” Aoide stuttered. “His back was turned to me. But I haven’t seen many faeries with hair like his.”

Tamlin knew of one.

Eris.

“Godsdammit,” Tamlin cursed, tucking his tunic into his breeches hapharzardly. “Stay here.”

Aoide let out an exasperated huff.

“You know damn well I’m going with you,” Aoide said, tugging her dress down around her hips.

Tamlin didn’t have the time to argue with her as he tore down the manor stairs and into the garden, heading straight for Bel. The crowd parted for him, the sea of joyous faces leaping out of his way as he barreled through them.

If Eris saw Aoide—

If he told Beron—

If he told Rhysand—

No. Tamlin couldn’t let himself lose control in front of his court. He needed to find Bel, or Fabian, and get Selene to take Aoide far away. Hell, he’d hand her over to Amun if he had to. His heart, still thumping away from their coupling, felt like it was going to burst in two.

He found Bel at the center of it all, one male pouring her a glass of wine and another draped across the table, as if he was preparing to be consumed alongside the dessert.

“We have a breech,” Tamlin said to Bel, keeping his voice low. “Autumn Court.”

Bel, much to her credit, relinquished her grip on the splayed faerie immediately.

“Shit,” she muttered. “How many?”

“Just one. Eris Vanserra,” Tamlin said, the name snarling from his lips.

“You’re making a scene,” Fabian said, placing a firm hand on Tamlin’s shoulder. “Smile, for goddess’ sake.”

Tamlin did his best approximation of a toothy grin, though from the look on Fabian’s face, it was unconvincing.

“Tell your males to fan out. Sweep toward the Autumn Court border,” Tamlin said, the order snaking between his clenched jaw. “Make it discrete.”

“If he’s still here, I’ll find the bastard,” Bel said, her nostrils flaring. “What do you want us to do with him if we can track him down?”

“Kill him,” Tamlin growled.

“And start a war with Autumn on Samhain?” Amun whispered, floating in on the breeze. “Most unwise, High Lord.”

Kill him, too, the beast chuffed.

“He’s trespassing—“

“He’s a potential ally,” Amun said. “There’s no one who wants Beron Vanserra dead more than his own sons. Kill Eris, and lose your chance of deposing Beron bloodlessly.”

Tamlin hated that Amun was right, that smug expression on his finely featured face like a dagger to the gut. It took every bit of self-control not to roar at him.

“Bring him to the garrison,” Tamlin said. “We’ll let Lucien deal with him.”

Bel grinned, wicked and sharp. “A most commendable plan, High Lord.”

Tamlin turned to leave, only to find Aoide glowering at him.

“And where do you think you’re going?” she asked, her voice alarmingly sweet. Selene stood behind her, huffing as if she had been running after Aoide.

“I’m going to find that bastard.”

“No, you’re not,” she said. “You are going to stay right here and trust your council to do their job.”

“I need to keep them safe,” Tamlin said, gesturing to the crowd.

“You need to show them there’s nothing to fear,” Aoide shot back, a calm willfulness in her tone.

Tamlin looked to his council, all of them avoiding his stare. A tacit agreement.

“She’s right,” Fabian said, breaking their sober silence. “Let Bel’s males put their training to the test. Amun and I will keep an eye on the garden perimeter.”

“And I’ll keep everyone’s glasses full,” Selene said. “Get the band to play a reel. Keep your guests distracted.”

“Ask me to dance,” Aoide said to Tamlin, leveling him with a look that made him feel like a grunt in the war band.

Trust me, her expression seemed to say.

Moments ago she had been begging for him, completely undone by his hands. Tamlin had been a fool to think he was the one in control. She had done it for him, just as much as herself. Given him the chance to loosen the collar he kept on the beast, that all-consuming hunger temporarily sated. Much like she had when he played the fiddle alongside her piano.

The fear and the anger fizzled out of him as she waited patiently for his response. The council remained locked between them, rapt as they waited to see who would give in first.

Words failed him, as they so often did. A part of him warred silently on his behalf, advising him to show no weakness. All he could muster was a bow, to which Aoide responded with a deep curtsy, before sliding around him and guiding them into the crowd.

Aoide led him in a two-step, though she made it look as if it was Tamlin who directed her graceful steps, spinning her once, twice, three times.

“This is wrong,” he gruffed as Aoide pulled him close. “I should be out there hunting him down.”

Aoide increased their tempo, matching the rapid beat of the reel. “Appearances are just as important as reality,” she told him. “How would it look if the beast tore off into the darkness, snarling and angry?”

“I’m their protector,” Tamlin said, twirling her around.

“There are other ways to protect them than tearing your enemies to shreds with your bare hands,” Aoide lectured. “Diplomacy can be as deadly as a blade when used correctly.”

“And you know this how, exactly?” Tamlin asked, quirking his brow.

“I was an unmarried noblewoman, Tamlin. How I appeared was all that mattered. It was my only weapon,” she said. “My mother knew that. She trained me to use my charm to fool every man in Neva.”

There was something cold in Aoide’s face, a hardness that made Tamlin’s chest burn, but she didn’t stop.

“Let me help you the only way I can,” she said, looking up at him through her dark lashes.

The beast purred, a troublesome idea blooming in his mind.

Before he could doubt himself, Tamlin kissed her, his mouth moving languidly against her own. He pulled away at the feeling of her tongue stroking his.

“Tell me, Aoide,” he breathed. “What do you think they see in us?”

“Hope,” she said. “Hope that there is still time for music, and dancing, and joy,” she murmured. “Even for their High Lord.”

I love you, he wished to tell her. The words settled in his throat and refused to leave his mouth. The last time he said it, everything went to hell. And here he was again, dancing on the edge of a precipice, one miscalculation away from disaster.

He let the moment pass. Let it slip between his fingers liked a damned fool.

“Hope is good,” he said stupidly.

“Hope is everything,” Aoide responded.

They danced until the last of the fires died, ash drifting on the breeze. It was the buzz of Bel’s wings that broke their stride, both of them too afraid to look away from one another’s stare.

“No sign of him,” Bel reported. “We’ll do a full search when the sun rises and double the patrols.”

Tamlin gave her a swift nod, dismissing the rest of the council as the festivities waned. He should have been stark-raving mad, ready to tear his lands apart, the beast roaring at his inaction.

But there was none of that as he looked to Aoide, who beckoned him to follow her through the gardens, past the manor entrance, and right into his bed.

“Promise not to disappear in the morning?” she asked, stripping herself nude before slipping under the downy comforter.

Tamlin felt a tug on his heart as she watched her nestle under the covers. He made a mental note of the image, determined to never forget the sight of her naked in his bed.

“I promise,” he murmured.

Chapter Text

Leaning back on the piano bench, Aoide rolled her wrists in smooth circles, the small muscles and tendons sore from her relentless practice regimen. It had been ages since she played like this — whole days dedicated to brushing up on the fundamentals or fine tuning a new piece. Her old piano teacher would have brought the cane down on her fingers if he heard how sloppy she’d become.

It’s called tickling the ivories for a reason, Miss Achlys. Do not beat the poor instrument into submission, like some common street thug, she could hear Master Rupert muttering.

Master Rupert would have worked himself into a tizzy if he knew how well some of those common street thugs played at the taverns. Men who did not have the luxury of spending their days perfecting their form, but could get a whole bar room of people dancing until midnight.

It was in those taverns that Aoide understood what music could do. She knew the theory long before she’d ever seen it in practice. The way a song could touch some long neglected part of yourself, fill a hole you hadn’t realized had formed.

Playing alone never measured up to the experience of the taverns, the energy that formed between musicians as they performed together. Aoide imagined it was the closest thing to magic that most humans ever experienced.

It had been another quiet day on the manor grounds. The afternoon sun hung heavy over the well-manicured gardens, deep burgundy roses blooming and swaying over the once-scarred landscape. The repaired windows in the music room were left open, the warm breeze turning brisk, the only sign of Autumn in the land of eternal Spring.

Like clockwork, a cup of tea was placed beside her, followed by a quick kiss on her cheek.

“Is that a new composition?” asked Tamlin.

He pressed his thumbs between her shoulder blades, massaging the tense muscles. Aoide let herself relax into his touch, sighing as he worked on a small knot in her back. She took a long sip of her tea, savoring the blend of elderflower and lemon. It was nothing like the black coffee she used to drink in Neva, but she enjoyed it nonetheless.

“Yes,” she said, covering the name of the composition with a blank sheet of parchment.

Love dream wasn’t the most subtle of names, though Aoide knew she had nothing to be ashamed of. Still, she believed every woman was entitled to a few secrets.

Even if Tamlin could scent her emotions from a mile away.

“Play it for me?” Tamlin murmured, kneading his way down her back. He peppered a few kisses across her shoulders, his scruff tickling her bare skin.

“Your council is going to think me a distraction, High Lord,” Aoide said. “I saw a very large stack of missives waiting for you in the library.”

There had been a constant stream of letters sent to the manor after Samhain. Farmers and land-owners looking for an intermediary to settle land disputes, requests for more grain or medicines, the occasional thank you, and the much more common complaint. Aoide had sorted through them daily, often sitting at Tamlin’s desk in the library and thumbing through the stacks.

“They’ve monopolized enough of my time today,” said Tamlin. “You, on the other hand, have been woefully neglected. Bel threatened to fly over here herself to keep you occupied.”

Tamlin’s lips trailed up the base of her neck, lingering on the sensitive spot behind her ear. Aoide shivered. She could feel his lips draw back in a small smile, satisfied with her reaction.

“For my entertainment? Or her own?” Aoide said with a smirk.

“Fabian and I decided it was best not to find out,” said Tamlin.

He picked up his fiddle from the stand, twisting the pegs and giving the strings a tentative strike. Once he was satisfied, he gave Aoide a nod, picking up where they left off the day before — a piece of faerie music they’d danced to during the Samhain celebrations. Tamlin overheard her humming the melody in the bath and decided it was only right to teach her the whole piece.

Tamlin kept true to the promise he made on Samhain. There was not a night they did not crawl into bed together, and not a dawn they did not awake in each other’s arms. She had come to love the sound of the mourning doves cooing and the steady puff of Tamlin’s breathing, how it stilled her mind after another night of vivid dreams.

Sometimes, Tamlin would whisper in his sleep, his whole body tense and coated in a thin sheen of sweat as he fought through his nightmares. He never talked about it, though Aoide noticed a change in his fiddle-playing after a particularly rough night. Whatever upset him was worked out on those strings, the weight visibly lifting from his hunched shoulders after a few songs.

Most mornings they padded down to the galley together, Aoide still wrapped in the bedsheet, and ate breakfast while they spoke of their plans for the day. Tamlin seldom made it through his cup of morning tea and scone before he was off to the second estate to convince Bel not to storm the Autumn Court border, or touring the villages with Fabian to settle disputes among his citizens.

There were those rarer times when they indulged a different sort of appetite. One which never seemed to cease despite their ardent attempts. All it took was an innocent caress or a heated stare before they found themselves tangled together, a constant give and take.

Aoide wasn’t sure what she enjoyed more — making Tamlin beg, or letting the beast have its way. She supposed it never really mattered in the end, both of them usually reduced to a panting heap.

There was no part of her that Tamlin did not know intimately, hadn’t stroked with hands, hadn’t worshipped with his mouth. Aoide, too, had come to know all the things that made him quiver, taking the time to learn just how he liked to be touched and kissed.

Their lovemaking felt a little different that morning — more urgent, desperate, perhaps in light of Jurian’s impending visit. Tamlin had claimed her as his, snarling her name in a way that reduced her to a feral animal, and just as their first coupling ended, another began, a perk to the male fae anatomy Aoide had enjoyed thoroughly. They made it as far as the dining room before his tongue was inside her again.

“You’re not going to stay for breakfast?” Aoide asked, still catching her breath as Tamlin magicked a clean tunic and pants over his impeccably sculpted body.

“Why bother with breakfast when I’ve already had my dessert?” Tamlin asked.

The way he looked at her sent another throb of want through her, one she knew Tamlin could sense, but for the sake of their sanity he did not indulge her. Tamlin fixed his mussed hair with a swipe of his hands and winnowed off to the garrison before Aoide could think of a sufficient quip, the drone of lust making her slow to respond.

Aoide spent the rest of the day at the piano composing her new piece, a song to memorialize the strangely quotidian routine they had crafted for themselves. A taste of a life Aoide was too afraid to admit she wanted — one she was certain would be denied.

There were too many threats darkening their horizon to consider such ridiculous fantasies. Bel hadn’t found Eris Vanserra, a name Aoide had come to loathe hearing. Tamlin had kept mention of him to a minimum, but what he had told her made Aoide’s stomach turn.

It was over dinner that Tamlin and Lucien explained the whole affair, giving Aoide a thorough history of the border with the Autumn Court and the threat their pigheaded High Lord posed to Tamlin’s lands. Beron had been High Lord since Tamlin’s father’s reign, and their constant goading had resulted in centuries of petty grievances.

Beron was unwilling to let bygones be bygones once Tamlin became High Lord, always testing the bounds of their respective courts. Spring’s proximity to the Mortal Lands made it a valuable territory, especially for those faeries who were eager to challenge the limits of the treaty now that the Wall was destroyed.

“I have several brothers, each crueler than the next, but none as slippery as Eris. If he hasn’t told our father about you yet, I can only assume it’s because he gains more from withholding the information,” Lucien mused, moving his food around the plate.

“Do you think he would try to harm me?” Aoide asked, hating the way her voice trembled at the thought.

“Eris? I doubt it. My father, on the other hand? He’ll try anything, especially if he thinks we’ll hand over Spring on a silver platter to protect you,” said Lucien, each word dripping with disdain.

“Beron can try all he wants. But I will not let him succeed,” Tamlin said, the metal fork bending beneath his clenched fist.

Aoide tried not to linger on figuring out what Lucien meant by anything. She’d spent the morning after that dinner staring at the map covered in Fabian’s wooden figurines, noting how few of them dotted the landscape. How exposed their southern border with the Mortal Lands remained — a constant risk, especially with Salazar still scheming somewhere on the Continent.

Usually, the piano was enough to prevent those paralyzing thoughts from creeping into her mind. When that didn’t work, Aoide resorting to boring herself into submission, working through a dense retelling of the War that Lucien had lent her. He thought it would be helpful for her meeting with Jurian, give her a sense of his character, but the cramped text and obscure references to long-dead faeries made Aoide’s head spin.

There was far too much history that the humans remained willfully ignorant of, wiped from their collective consciousness out of pain or fear, or both. Even the best libraries on the Continent had little documentation on human history prior to the War, and what remained was usually waterlogged or half-burned, locked away behind glass cases to preserve the delicate vellum.

By all accounts, Jurian was a legendary fighter, a shrewd tactician, and a ruthless general. It would take more than batting her eyelashes or showing a bit of skin to charm a man like that. From the sound of it, he was well-acquainted with the art of seduction himself, using his own wiles to dupe the faerie Clythia.

The description of her ritualistic murder spared no gory detail. It was clear that the faeries saw Jurian as a villain despite his just cause. It was far too easy to discount Clythia’s sadism, gloss over the horrific context that created men like Jurian.

A man willing to do whatever it took to free his people. No price was too high to pay — not even his soul.

Aoide hit an off note, the sound of it shaking her from her spiral. She could feel the phantom sting across her knuckles, another rap from her piano teacher’s cane.

Tamlin’s fiddle playing came to an abrupt stop. She could feel his eyes searching her, his nostrils flaring as he took note of her scent. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, some ancient inclination awaking within her.

“What’s troubling you?” he asked, concern wrinkling the space between his brows.

“Am I not allowed to make a mistake without something being wrong?” Aoide asked, a bit sharper than she intended.

The corner of Tamlin’s mouth quirked downward, a silent indication that he was certain something was amiss. Gingerly, he set the fiddle back on the stand, joining her on the bench. There was hardly enough room for his hulking form, his muscled thigh pressed against the thin silk of her dress. She felt his knee nudge hers, a gentle request — an open door, one which she was free to walk through or lock up tightly.

Try as she might, Aoide could never hide from those emerald eyes. Their clear, shining depths demanded her honesty. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him as she slowly unraveled her tightly wound layers.

“Jurian and Queen Vassa will arrive tomorrow,” Aoide said, lightly tapping a few keys.

He complimented her simple melody with a harmony of his own, a trio of notes he had picked up from watching her play.

“All you have to do is say the word and I will send them away,” Tamlin said.

He would do it, too. Aoide knew he dreaded the plan just as much as she did — maybe more. The thought of becoming Lady Aoide for anyone else but him, fawning over a man she did not know while Tamlin watched…

She didn’t want him to see that side of her. All breathy and alluring, draped over whatever eligible bachelor was thrust in her direction. The cold calculations she performed, the way she catered to their desires.

But it was too good of an opportunity to waste.

“And where would that leave us? Cursed piano aside, Jurian and Vassa are powerful allies. They could help keep my family safe,” said Aoide.

“There are other methods we could pursue,” Tamlin said. “Salazar’s neck snaps the same as any other man,” he added ruefully.

No doubt what Salazar deserved, but killing him would come with a cost.

“I’m tired of people dying at my expense. Even petty tyrants like Salazar,” Aoide said.

“Then we find another way,” Tamlin said. “We could bring your family here.”

Aoide snorted, a sound her mother would have despised. “My mother hates faeries, my father is likely to be hanged any day now, and Veronique…Veronique is part of the Nevan resistance. She would never abandon our people. She’s better than that.”

Better than me, Aoide thought.

As if he’d read her mind, Tamlin wrapped his calloused hand around hers, pressing a tender kiss to her palm.

“Having Jurian and Vassa’s support would be good for Spring, too,” Aoide said. “With the Wall gone, it’s only a matter of time before a few curious humans find themselves on your lands.”

“If they’re anything like you, I welcome their intrusion,” Tamlin said.

“Do you really mean that?” Aoide asked. “If humans crossed the border, you would allow them to remain?”

Tamlin’s easy smile faded. He stood from the bench, walking toward the open windows, a ponderous look on his face. She found herself admiring the way his tunic pulled against the broad expanse of his back.

“When the War ended, no one was happier than me to see the slaves freed. My brothers were furious with my father for letting them go. They thought the slaves should have been put to death. As hateful as he was, my father was a stickler for tradition, and the conventions of warfare dictate the losers wholly capitulate to the victors. Anything less was dishonorable.”

It was easy to forget how old Tamlin was — how much he’d witnessed. An unfathomable amount of time for Aoide to wrap her mind around. He was a mighty oak, and she no more than a wilting crocus.

“I was a child, then. Too naive to understand why the humans wouldn’t want to live in the Spring villages, or build their own on the unsettled land. But then the Wall went up, and that was that. Years later, I realized why they agreed to seal themselves away. There was too much pain etched into these lands. Too much shame,” said Tamlin.

“Humans have much shorter memories than faeries,” Aoide said, joining him at the window.

She kept her focus straight ahead, watching a group of starlings nesting in the hedges. Aoide felt that prickling awareness as Tamlin stared at her.

“Humans intrinsically fear us— it’s imprinted into your very marrow,” he said, twisting a lock of her hair between his thumb and forefinger. Her scalp tingled pleasantly.

“And yet, here I am. A human living in your manor,” Aoide said, doing everything she could to stop her voice from wavering.

Tamlin murmured his assent, a deep hum rumbling from his chest.

“There is a lot of bloody history we’d need to overcome if humans and faeries were to live in harmony. Centuries of fear and prejudice,” Tamlin said. “There’s the added difficulty of finding someone to speak on behalf of the humans in the Mortal Lands. There is no Queen or council we could appeal to.”

“But there are farmers and merchants. Surely they would see the benefit of trading with their closest neighbor?” asked Aoide.

“Convincing them to sit at the bargaining table could take years of diplomacy,” Tamlin said.

“Who better to sway them than a queen like Vassa or a war hero like Jurian?” Aoide asked.

Tamlin tilted his head to the side, another habit she’d noticed earlier in the week. A sign that he was mulling something over.

“You’ve…thought about this,” he said.

“How could I not?” asked Aoide. “I may be from the Continent, but the Mortal Lands are my home now. I have a vested interest in seeing it thrive.”

She looked up at him, watched the way his chest rose as he took a sudden breath in and held it. A soft gust of wind blew and set the curtains fluttering, the cool breeze kissing her face.

“And what about Spring?” he asked, low and soft. “Do you consider my lands as part of this new home of yours?”

The question caught Aoide off guard. The way he said the word home with such tender longing. She felt that black pit, that void where all her guilt and sorrow remained, swirl deeper inside her chest. It tunneled within her, leaving her unable to speak.

She let the silence tick on a beat too long, and Tamlin pulled away.

“You’ve made a good point. It’s something we’ll need to discuss during the next council meeting. I’m sure Fabian and Selene will have thoughts,” he said, monotone and hollow.

Tamlin turned to leave, but Aoide grabbed his arm, her fingers wrapped around his tensed bicep.

“Wait,” Aoide said. “I didn’t mean-“

“Forget it,” Tamlin said, shaking her off. “It was a foolish question.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Aoide said. “It’s just that I-“

“You will return to the Mortal Lands as soon as it’s safe,” Tamlin said, his body growing rigid.

Aoide felt the sting of rejection warm her face. “Will I, now?”

“Of course,” Tamlin said. “It would be improprietous by human standards for an unwed woman to live alone with a male, wouldn’t it?”

“I didn’t realize my reputation was of your concern,” Aoide said, crossing her arms. “Tell me, High Lord — is it not improprietous by faerie standards to bend that unwed woman over the breakfast table and taste her?”

Tamlin whipped around, his eyes gone wide with alarm. A slice of air followed in his wake, knocking the breath from her lungs. Aoide could hear the glass windowpanes rattle from the force.

“I suppose we shouldn’t be sharing a bed now, either?” she pushed. “Wouldn’t want Sir Jurian to think me a woman of loose morals.”

“I don’t give a damn what that conniving bastard thinks,” Tamlin snarled, his lips curling over sharp, white teeth.

“Good,” Aoide said, voice thin with irritation. “Neither do I. So let’s stop with all the propriety nonsense.”

Tamlin flinched, the fire in his eyes banking. The broad expanse of his shoulders caved inward, his regret evident in his posture.

He took her in his arms, resting his chin atop her head. She could feel the beat of his heart against her cheek, how it raced like a runaway steed. Aoide placed the flat of her palm across his breastbone, matching her breath to his.

“I’m sorry,” he said, stroking her hair. “I don’t know why I said that.”

Aoide sucked in a breath. She was being a right shrew, and she knew it. He had asked her a question and taken her silence as a rejection.

“No,” Aoide sighed. “It’s not your fault. I’m just a bit on edge,” she admitted.

“You still haven’t told me what’s bothering you,” Tamlin said, pulling away enough to look down at her.

Aoide chewed her lip. “This plan with Jurian. It’s exactly the sort of thing I tried to avoid back in Neva.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Tamlin said, running his hands down her arms in a soothing rub.

“I know,” Aoide said. “I want to. I want to help however I can. But…what if this is all I’m good for? That in order to be useful, I have to become the woman my mother wanted me to be?”

Tamlin was silent, waiting for her to piece together the unsaid fears that had taken root over the past week.

“That I-“

Aoide winced at the thought forming.

“That I should have married Salazar and plotted his downfall behind enemy lines? That I wasted an opportunity to help my people?”

There it was — the truth. Like a dagger in her hand, one she plunged into her own chest and twisted until it hurt to draw breath. Tamlin’s expression was pained, his soft grip on her growing a bit tighter, as if her words had struck him, too.

“You are not a tool, Aoide. Your freedom is not a bargaining chip to be used and discarded to benefit others. You are not a prize to be dangled in front of potential allies, nor a sacrifice to be bled on an altar,” Tamlin said.

“Then what am I?” Aoide asked.

Tamlin tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. He ran the back of his knuckles across Aoide’s cheek, tracing the line of her scar with such tenderness it made her knees buckle.

“You are whatever you choose to be,” Tamlin said. “Not for my sake, not for your mother’s, not for anyone other than yourself.”

The sound of a small cough interrupted them, though Tamlin did not fully relinquish his grip on her. Both of them looked to the doorway to find Selene edging around the corner, her tanned fingers gripping the door jamb.

“Selene,” Tamlin said, “Is there something I can do for you?”

Selene stepped into the room, her hazel eyes focused on her feet as she bowed to Tamlin.

“Apologies for interrupting, High Lord, but it was Aoide I was hoping to steal away,” Selene said. “One of the healers in the village is running low on salves, and Aoide mentioned the gardens here have a few useful herbs.”

“Of course,” said Tamlin.

He let her go, and for one terrifying moment, she felt hopelessly adrift. What he said — that it was her choice — she wasn’t sure what to make of it. For the first time in her life, Aoide wished someone would tell her what to do.

With a small shake of her head, Aoide cleared her mind. She crossed the room, graciously taking Selene’s crooked arm in hers. She spared only a backward glance at Tamlin, who nodded in encouragement.

“Lead the way,” Selene said.

—

As soon as Aoide’s footsteps faded from earshot, Tamlin found himself marching down the hallway like a warrior preparing to face his death.

His mind was quiet with grim determination as he stood in front of Feyre’s studio. The closed door seemed to mock him, the wood grain smiling smugly. There was no room for hesitation as he reached for the knob and swung the door open.

The smell of must and turpentine hit him like a charging wall of shield-bearers. He gritted his teeth, pushing through the invisible barrier, and stepped into the room. The dust stirred around him, as if the whole room sighed. His eyes darted, tracking the slightest sway of the white sheets, expecting Feyre to step out of a shadow and run a blade right through him.

Nothing — only stillness. Silence.

Tamlin took a deep breath in, the fine dust tickling his sensitive nose. A slice of light peeked out from the tightly drawn curtains, leaving the rest of the room cloaked in near-darkness. A narrow path cut through the center of the room, with stacks of paintings piled high.

Striding across the room, Tamlin pulled the curtains back and opened the window, letting in the fresh air and sunlight. He spotted Aoide in the gardens, her dark hair poking through the greenery as she worked beside Selene.

He thought back to the first of Aoide’s visits when he found her in Feyre’s studio, oblivious that she wandered right into the beast’s den and poked it with a stick. He’d been dangerously close to losing control, still volatile from all those months of living only to shred, and bleed, and devour. Back then, the only thing that kept him from death was his own immortality, his body cursed to continue on as his soul withered.

He’d been selfish to make that bargain, and Aoide far too naive. Everything was so fragile then — his self-control, their tenuous acquaintanceship, her trust. Still, she faced the beast, armed with a dimpled smirk and a few clever quips, and managed to charm it into submission, reducing the fearsome creature to a purring house cat.

The way she looked at him earlier, all that self-loathing and desperation, terrified him. It was the same look Feyre gave him as she begged him to listen to her—

“Just let me help you- let me work with you—“

“I am drowning. And the more you do this, the more guards...You might as well be shoving my head under the water—“

He’d lost it that day. Almost killed Feyre. She never looked at him the same again.

Tamlin gripped the ledge of the window, letting the dread wash over him, ignoring the impulse to bury it deeper. He could not allow the beast gorge itself on his guilt, let it kindle the flame of his undying rage any longer.

He couldn’t bear to touch Feyre after his blow up. Any time he drew close to her, he could smell the metallic zing of her fear, her sweet scent curdling in his presence like rotten milk. It followed him everywhere, made him so sick he couldn’t bring himself to eat.

Feyre’s visits to the Night Court were both his only reprieve and his greatest torment. His appetite returned, but everything he ate turned to ash in his mouth. Sleep came easy, but the nightmares were endless. He was surrounded by sentries but felt impossibly alone.

At the time, he believed Feyre was enduring a similar hell, reliving their time Under the Mountain, suffering under Rhysand’s control. It was the only thing that got him through it — their shared misery. She had bargained away her freedom to save him, was killed because she loved him, and overcame death to be with him. For those sacrifices, Tamlin could withstand anything.

Or, so he thought.

Devotion soured into obsession, and love turned into fear. From there on, Tamlin became an easy target, primed for manipulation. If it wasn’t the beast jockeying for power, it was Hybern, or Ianthe, or Feyre. All of them knowing just what strings to pull to make him dance.

Lucien saw it all — tried to warn him, good friend that he was, but Tamlin’s mind was a wreck. The thread of sanity that kept him together frayed and frayed, until it became too hard to think, letting pure animal instinct control him.

Tamlin went into the last battle against Hybern ready to die. Wanted it, actually. He always believed his last moments would be on a battlefield, covered in muck and blood. It was the only respectable death a war band brute like him could hope for.

He threw himself into the middle of it, left his flank wide open to attack, but the killing blow never came. Hybern’s horrific creatures were bloodthirsty, but undisciplined. They broke their lines, fought over kills, and stumbled once overwhelmed. To an unseasoned warrior, it must have looked like chaos, but Tamlin could read a battlefield like a seer could divine the future from bones and stones.

It was in that bone-crunching, boot-squelching, shuddering mass of agony where the world made sense to him. There, on that battlefield, was his chance for a hero’s death, a way for him to leave this world with a shred of dignity.

Fate denied him that honor, leaving him with two choices: live the rest of his immortal life as a lord without a land, or die as the beast and drag Hybern’s ilk to hell with him. An easy choice for a warrior, a burden he gladly shouldered.

But when death finally came for him, as the beast trembled in its cold grasp, Tamlin found himself fighting for one last moment — one last chance to see the fiercely beautiful human who begged him not to die.

That precious moment turned to hours, days, months. He found himself idly fantasizing about the future, a life filled with music, laughter, sex, joy, comfort—

A life spent beside Aoide.

Steeling himself, Tamlin turned from the window and got to work. He put aside the blank canvases first, stacking them into neat piles according to size. Then, he sorted through the landscapes and portraits, wrapping them in sheets of brown butcher paper he found stowed away in the closet, tying them with twine.

He didn’t let himself linger on the contents of the paintings for long, especially when it came to the portraits. Whenever he found himself hesitating, he turned the painting face down, covering the canvas in paper and waiting for his breath to return.

He worked diligently, focusing on the process of stacking, wrapping, and tying. There was something soothing about the rhythm, and he gave himself over to it like a priestess performing a holy ritual.

His mind drifted to the composition he overheard Aoide playing earlier, doing his best to whistle along to the tune.

“That sounds familiar.”

Tamlin bolted upright, the canvas in his hands clattering to the floor. He hadn’t noticed how late it had gotten, and was too distracted to hear Aoide padding down the hall.

She stood in the doorway, wiping her hands on a dirt-stained apron, curiosity gleaming in her midnight eyes. Tamlin felt a flash of shame burn through him, as if he was a child who had gotten caught stealing sweets from the kitchen.

Aoide breezed into the room, picking up the canvas from the floor. It was one of the last left unwrapped, an unfinished landscape of the manor grounds. She held it up to the candlelight, her gaze growing serious as she examined the painting.

“Good composition, nice use of light, charming attention to detail…The proportions are a little off, but it looks like they were trying to sort that out,” Aoide mused.

Seeing her hold Feyre’s painting did something strange to his heart. Twisted it, until the pain was so great Tamlin thought he might pass out.

“I didn’t hear you,” Tamlin croaked. “How long were you standing there?”

“Only a moment,” Aoide said, lowering the landscape and tucking it under her arm. Without another word, she turned on her heel and walked down the hall.

“Where are you going?” Tamlin asked, hurrying after her swift steps. He tripped over his feet, his legs disobeying his commands.

She walked right into the music room, heading toward the unlit fireplace. Carefully, she placed the canvas on the mantle, stepping back to make sure it was centered. Tamlin made it as far as the door, finding himself unable to take another step.

“She must have cared for you very much,” Aoide said quietly.

“What?” he managed to sputter out.

Aoide made a small adjustment, tilting her head to the side as she observed her handwork. “The female you loved. The one that left you. She painted all these, didn’t she?”

He watched how the muscles in her neck strained, her posture ramrod. Tamlin felt a cold bead of sweat run down the column of his spine.

“Yes,” he said, struggling to formulate more than a one-word response. “How did you know?”

Aoide’s chin dipped, so slight he almost missed it. He was grateful he couldn’t see her face, knowing that the smallest look of her disappointment would shatter him right where he stood.

“The portrait she painted of you. She managed to get the color of your eyes just right,” Aoide murmured. Tamlin thought he might vomit right then and there. “I hope you’re planning on sending the others back to her,” she said.

“I…don’t know what I was planning to do,” Tamlin admitted.

“You can’t sell them on her behalf, and you can’t destroy them. Send them to her, and let her decide their fate. She is their creator, after all,” Aoide said.

Slowly, Tamlin crept closer to her. He couldn’t stop himself. Like a moth to a flame, he reached for her, yearning to feel the warmth of her skin against his.

“Aoide,” he whispered. He winced at how wretched he sounded, hated that there was nothing he could say to explain himself.

His fingers brushed her shoulder, and Aoide stepped out of his grasp.

“I was thinking about that question you asked me earlier,” said Aoide.

Tamlin bit down on his tongue, hard enough that his mouth filled with coppery taste of blood. Perhaps he should get on his hands and knees, beg for her forgiveness before it was too late — before Aoide was smart enough to leave again.

“I want my own cottage, somewhere close to the villages. I’ll need a horse too, and some gold for healing supplies. Anything I make from bartering my services will be used to pay my debts, of course.”

Her words rolled off him like droplets of rain on an oak leaf.

“I…what?” Tamlin managed to stutter.

Aoide turned, her round face tight with determination. “I’d like to petition the council for an official position as your human emissary, as well. I can’t provide references, but I’m willing to prove myself however they see fit.”

Tamlin tried to swallow the lump forming in his throat and nearly choked. “I don’t understand, Aoide. What-“

“You said I can be whatever I choose to be,” Aoide said, pulling her shoulders back. “So, when all this curse business is over, and Salazar is…dealt with, I’d like to continue my work as a healer, and serve as your emissary.”

Tamlin’s mind reeled as he tried to understand.

“You want to live here. In the Spring Court,” Tamlin repeated, utterly dumbfounded.

“In my own cottage,” Aoide specified. “Making my own coin.”

Tamlin set his jaw, realizing he’d been standing there with his mouth open for an embarrassing amount of time.

Say something, you cretinous oaf, the beast chuffed.

“Okay,” Tamlin said, placing his hands on the curve of her hips and giving them a squeeze. “On one condition.”

The corner of Aoide’s lip twitched upward.

“Name it.”

Tamlin pulled her close, her supple bosom pressed against his stomach. He could feel her pulse quicken, but she remained still.

“You visit your High Lord once a week and play his piano,” Tamlin said.

Aoide blinked one, twice.

And began to laugh.

He felt her chuckle reverberate through her chest, ghosting across his skin like dozens of butterfly wings. He tasted it, too, as she tugged on his hair and pulled him into an open-mouthed kiss.

Her laugh was warmer and brighter than any spring sun he’d seen in five hundred years. He wanted to bathe in it. Drink it. Fill himself with the sound of it. Let it echo through him until it became part of his very essence.

To be the cause of it only made it that much sweeter.

“Deal,” she breathed, resting her forehead against his.

Chapter Text

Aoide took her time getting out of the bed on the day Jurian and Queen Vassa were to arrive.

Tamlin had long since risen when she finally dragged herself into the bath and back out again. She found a cup of tea and a scone at her bedside, which she proceeded to pick at until her stomach rioted against her.

Reluctantly, she brushed her hair. She kept her face clean of any rouge or kohl, unable to commit to the vixen persona she’d so readily embodied for Tamlin. The dress she chose from her trunk was one Veronique had selected for her — a stuffy white and cobalt blue gown, one befitting of her former station.

Aoide donned the appalling number of layers the ensemble required, struggling to close the clasps that ran down her back. From the balcony, she heard the rustle of feathers.

The spring breeze sent her skirts fluttering as Tamlin took his high fae form behind her. His fingers traced the line of buttons down Aoide’s dress until they landed on missed clasp. She felt him linger, giving the exposed skin a featherlight caress before buttoning her up.

“You missed one,” Tamlin said.

It always surprised Aoide — how all it took was one touch, the soft rumble of his voice, the warmth radiating from his skin to rile her. Her response pleased Tamlin to no end, though he never said anything. His eyes would lightly crinkly whenever he sensed her longing, their emerald depths twinkling like two flawless gems. Sometimes, he would crack a wry smirk, which would only make her want him more.

“You’re trying to distract me,” Aoide said.

Tamlin’s mouth was close enough to her ear that she could feel the warmth of his breath. His lips grazed her skin as he smiled. She felt the sensation travel down her spine like tiny arcs of lightning.

“And if I am…” Tamlin trailed. “What then?”

“A lady never tells,” Aoide said.

The look he gave her was not wholly himself. There was an animal curiosity that gleamed back at her, a house cat flicking its tail. Aoide knew that the smallest nudge would send them both tumbling into bed.

It was becoming impossible to deny them. The words that were burning inside her, the flames growing higher and hotter each time she ignored them, adding more fuel to the inferno raging in her blood.

I love you.

Aoide tried to fasten the silver barrettes in her hair, but found her hands would not stop shaking. It had started earlier that morning. She thought it was a side effect from her relentless piano playing, but rest had done nothing to quell the tremors. They got worse as the day went on, each hour that passed bringing her closer to Jurian and Queen Vassa’s arrival.

She struggled to close the clasp. Tamlin covered her shaking hand in his, steadying them.

“Let me help,” he said, gently enough that Aoide had no choice but to yield to him.

Carefully, he reached around her and pulled the short strands of her hair back, tucking the barrettes behind her ears. A squire readying his knight for battle.

Tamlin’s hands came to rest on her hips. She leaned into his touch, letting her back rest against the broad expanse of his chest.

“You say the word-“

“And you’ll make them leave. I know,” Aoide said.

Tamlin silently assessed her, looking for the gaps in her armor, her soft spots — preparing himself to act as her shield. It made her feel capable of anything knowing that he would be beside her. That if she needed him, he’d be there.

In all her wildest fantasies, she never expected loyalty from a lover. It was common for Nevan nobles to have affairs. Most married men kept mistresses in their homes in the countryside. Others had the audacity to send their wives away to the second estate instead, forever doomed to live in marital exile.

But the pull she felt, that constant yearning for Tamlin’s nearness, a feeling he seemed to reciprocate, meant that he was never far from her.

Aoide looked at herself through the mirror. She let her eyes wander upward to meet his reflection. They should have looked ill-matched, but she found herself admiring how they complimented each other. He was golden light, and she the long shadow, two halves of a whole. One did not exist without the other.

She met his hungry stare through the glass. Watched as he brushed the hair off her neck and brought his mouth down on the only sliver of skin that peeked through the high collar.

She felt his tongue roll against her, warm and languorous. Aoide could not peel her eyes away from the mirror as his lips traveled up her neck and across her jaw, leaving a trail of kisses in his wake. A petal of exhilaration unfurled in her stomach as she watched him lavish her reflection with his mouth, like she was watching a private moment between strangers.

“As nice as that feels,” Aoide sighed, “They’ll be here soon.”

“They can wait,” Tamlin murmured.

That small petal bloomed, the wanting too overwhelming to ignore. Aoide braced her palms against the vanity as she shifted against him, tempting his desire for her.

She felt his body react to the soft curve of her backside, every muscle going taut, his growing hardness pressed against her back. He cupped her breast, his calloused fingers kneading her through the thick layers of the dress. His other hand traveled across her waist, down her hips, stopping only once he reached her center. She knew he could feel the growing warmth beckoning him, his low moan a response the feeling of her heat against his hand.

And then his fingers were diving beneath her dress, eagerly yanking at the ludicrous amount of fabric. He pressed firm circles over her damp underwear, both of them sighing as they moved against one another.

Aoide luxuriated in the feeling of his touch. She closed her eyes and moved with his fingers, riding his palm as hard as she could bear it. Not enough to quell her need for him.

She felt a hand grab her chin, wrenching her jaw upward, pinning her against him.

“Open your eyes,” Tamlin growled softly.

Aoide gasped as a talon tore the fabric of her underwear in two. He pushed her shredded underwear to the side, exposing her sex to the mirror. Gently, he dragged the sharp edge of his claw down her slick center, then back up again. Aoide felt heat flush through her, turning her complexion rosy.

“Look at you,” Tamlin breathed, focused solely on his hand and her cunt. She watched as his claws retracted. His finger slipped inside her and massaged her inner walls, lustful admiration glazing his stare. Slowly, he slid his finger out, swirling it against her bud.

Aoide had never felt more wanted in her entire life. She was burning for him, hot enough that she’d burst into flames if she didn’t feel more of him — another finger, his thumb rubbing her apex, his thick cock buried inside her.

“I want you to watch,” Tamlin snarled, obeying her growing need as he dipped a second finger inside her. “I want you to see what you look like when I fuck you.”

A shudder wracked through her. If Aoide had any good will left with that faerie goddess, she needed it then. Blood pounded in her ears, the cadence of her thumping heart matching the rhythm of Tamlin’s fingers.

“Seems a shame we don’t have an audience,” Aoide teased, her voice little more than breath.

A tight growl, and then a third finger pushed inside her. Aoide felt like she’d been plunged into an ice bath, her body trembling with adrenaline. His fingers were covered with her arousal, each thrust within her soaking them more, making it easier for him to glide against her.

Her need for him was like massive wave threatening a keeling ship. She could get lost in the endless sea of her desire, sinking deeper and deeper, refusing to come up to the surface. Her lungs burned as she gasped for air, his fingers making her feel lightheaded as they curled inside her.

“Gods,” Tamlin ground out. “Is that what you like? Being watched?”

Words were of little use to Aoide as she imagined it — pairs of eyes peering out from the darkness, watching the way he undid her, bearing witness to the madness that threatened to consume her. She felt her core pulse in excitement at the thought, tightening around his fingers.

“Troublemaker,” Tamlin hissed, bending her over the vanity.

She felt his fingers tangle in her hair, pulling at the same tresses he’d so delicately parted before. Through the glass, she watched as Tamlin unbuttoned his pants with one hand.

“I’ll take you in front of the whole damn court,” Tamlin said. “But only I get to taste you.”

He stroked his long, beautiful cock in his free hand, taking his time as he worked himself over. The pressure inside her was getting too much to bear, and he knew it. Aoide canted against the edge of the vanity, needing something, anything, to relieve her need.

“Only I get to feel you,” Tamlin rumbled.

She felt the head of his cock brush against her slick center. Her stomach clenched in anticipation.

Tamlin pulled on her hair, craning her neck until the cords of muscle running down her back twinged. Aching, throbbing need thrummed under her skin as he held her, the two of them wild-eyed and frantic, possessed by a frenzy.

“Only I get to make you cum,” Tamlin snarled into her ear. “Say it.”

All rational thought eddied from her mind as she watched him through the glass, his expression gone completely feral. Only endless, all consuming black looked back at her.

It was the truth. Their time together was a tightly wound bud, doomed to rot on the vine before it ever bloomed. Tamlin would find his mate and live for centuries in fated bliss after their time was through. His life had begun far before hers, and would march on for hundreds of years after she died. But for Aoide?

For Aoide, there would never be anyone else.

Aoide met his darkened gaze. She made sure he watched as every word hissed between her lips.

“Only you, Tamlin.”

A low growl echoed through Tamlin’s chest. It seemed to come from the beast itself, a primal sound that made every hair on Aoide’s body stick straight up.

With one hand fisted in her hair, and the other on her hip, Tamlin guided her onto his cock. He took his time as he entered her, torturous in a way that pleased her.

Watching the face he made as he filled her to the hilt was its own reward.

Tamlin rolled his hips and Aoide responded in kind, the two of them gasping as they moved as one. She wanted to feel all of him, wanted him to hold her close enough that there was no ending nor beginning between them. She wanted all he could give her. Needed a way to forget all the forces that conspired to pull them apart.

“More,” Aoide said, her voice hoarse.

Tamlin impaled her, the vanity rattling as she took him. She felt the head of his cock hit the deepest, most tender part of herself, filling her until she was certain she would burst. The unbearable pleasure built within her, became so overwhelming that the denial of her orgasm pained her — a sensation that undid the remaining shreds of her sanity.

Aoide witnessed her sobbing moan through the mirror, but she didn’t recognize herself. She plummeted deeper into a freefall. Near her, she heard glass tumble and shatter beneath their feet. Her throat was raw as she called out his name.

It was the only word she could muster — his name. Tamlin, Tamlin, Tamlin. The feeling of it on her tongue was her only anchor to their world.

She lived and breathed for this moment — the sense of wholeness. Of oneness. No longer Aoide and Tamlin, but something else. Something new and perfect and eternal, unsullied by her grief or shame. Something she could only sense a flicker of before both of them tumbled over the edge together.

Aoide knew she was shouting, could feel her orgasm tunneling through her, but she could not hear the sounds of her guttural cries over the ringing in her ears. She saw Tamlin’s climax wash over him a moment later, a grimace of pleasure twisting his flawless face as he finished inside her.

He covered her body with his own, wrapping himself around her. The heat between them was hotter than molten ore, their bodies still joined as if they’d be re-forged anew. The weight of his brawn was the only force in the universe that kept her from falling apart.

“You’re going to drive me mad,” Tamlin groaned. “Utterly, completely mad.”

She felt him pull away, a void forming where they were once joined. Aoide clung to the edge of the vanity, afraid if she let go that she would float away. Right out the balcony window and up, up, up—

Carefully, Tamlin removed her shredded underwear and pressed a warm, wet cloth to the back of her thighs, moving upward toward her center in loving strokes. He held the compress against her, soothing the ache. It smelled of rose water and honey, calming the rapid beat of her heart. Once she could feel her legs again, Aoide pushed herself off the edge of the vanity.

Wordlessly, they fixed each other’s mussed hair and rumpled clothes, their touch tentative so as not to tempt their appetites again. She felt him looking down at her as she tucked his tunic beneath the waist of his pants. His fingers fiddled with the barrettes in her hair, securing the fasteners once again.

“Aoide,” Tamlin murmured. “I…”

Her fingers ceased their movement, but she did not look up.

Don’t, Aoide wanted to say. Please, don’t say it.

Not then. She wasn’t ready to hear it. Not when she’d be flirting and fawning over Jurian in a few moments. Aoide wouldn’t be able to go through with it if Tamlin said it.

She held her breath and stared at her trembling fingers, waiting for the moment to pass.

“I should see how far they are,” Tamlin said, looping his belt before turning away from her.

Aoide’s hands hovered in the empty space before she dropped them at her sides. “Is there a reason Lucien hasn’t winnowed them?”

“Human stubbornness? Or, perhaps Jurian enjoys the idea of us waiting around all day for his arrival,” Tamlin groused.

Aoide supposed there was something to be admired about Jurian’s pettiness. A human couldn’t overpower a faerie, but he could inconvenience them. Pick at their patience little by little, until he figured out the sore spots. A well-placed insult or benign rumor left to spiral would reveal how his prods had eroded their foundation.

Lucien’s book had been helpful, in the end. It was clear that Jurian derived some level of enjoyment from these subtle acts of rebellion. Unfortunately for Jurian, Aoide was no stranger to such games.

Tamlin shifted into a peregrine, a form Aoide noticed he seemed to prefer, and flew out the window. A few flaps of his blue-grey wings and he was soaring high above her, his sleek body diving toward two figures in the distance. One of the horses kicked up as Tamlin pulled out of his breakneck plummet. A familiar male voice shouted their displeasure, while the other remained silent. Lucien and another man — Jurian, most likely. Queen Vassa was nowhere to be seen.

Tamlin rose into the clouds before landing on the edge of the balcony. Somehow, his wholly green eyes conveyed his smug mischief, a bit of payback for Jurian’s attempt at control.

“I saw them,” Aoide said, extending her arm. His talons wrapped around her forearm and she carried him inside. Before her eyes could sense his movement, he was back to himself, one hand still wrapped around her wrist. “No Vassa?”

Tamlin glanced at the afternoon sun growing low in the blue sky. “Too early for her,” Tamlin said. “She only appears in her human form after nightfall.”

“Of course,” Aoide said, feeling a bit foolish. “Shall we welcome our guests, then?”

“Do I have a choice?” Tamlin grumbled.

“No,” Aoide said sweetly.

Tamlin huffed out a laugh. The rain clouds gathering in his eyes cleared. “You always know just what to say.”

“Let’s hope Jurian thinks the same,” Aoide muttered under her breath.

“It’s not your wiles I’d be worried about,” Tamlin said, his expression growing serious once again. “It’s Lucien. Poor bastard will have to listen to Jurian all the way back to the Mortal Lands.”

Aoide choked. “Was that…a joke?”

Tamlin grimaced. “Not a very good one, if you have to ask.”

A smile cut across Aoide’s face. “A vast improvement, compared to your previous attempts,” she said with a gracious nod.

Tamlin’s tightly drawn mouth softened into a smirk. Aoide felt her stomach flip at the sight of his pleased expression. She’d been too distracted by the look on his face to notice as they drifted down the staircase and out the front door.

On the edge of the vast gardens trotted in Lucien and Jurian, still far enough away that Aoide couldn’t make out the finer details of their appearance. Drawing in a deep breath, Aoide rolled her shoulders back, her body as straight as an arrow.

“I’m sorry you have to see me like this,” Aoide murmured.

Before she could doubt herself, Aoide took a solid step off the front porch and walked toward Jurian like a solider marching against the cavalry. As she made her way across the well-manicured lawn, Aoide plucked a rose from its branch, rolling the thorns between her fingertips.

You can do this, she told herself. One last time, then never again.

Lucien and Jurian halted their horses at the edge of the grounds, both dismounting before meeting Aoide in the middle of the lawn. Aoide kept her eyes low, curtsying deeply as they approached her.

“I don’t remember the last time a lady curtsied for me.”

Aoide rose, clenching her jaw as she prepared to face the vicious war hero she’d spent the week reading about. She wasn’t sure what she expected, but Jurian…

He was much younger than she anticipated. Handsome, by Nevan standards — dark lustrous hair, brown eyes, tanned skin. His fine clothes were tailored well enough to complement his masculine form, a physique Aoide was certain would impress most maidens.

Jurian was exactly the sort of man her mother would have thrown her at until he grew tired of Aoide’s coy flirtations — just enough to get him interested, but nothing more.

Jurian bowed deeply, his toffee eyes lingering on the scar across her cheek. Aoide waited for the look of disgust or shock, but neither came.

“Should I be flattered that the lady has been rendered speechless?” Jurian said.

Aoide felt Tamlin’s heavy presence looming behind her. She didn’t turn around — the grim look on Lucien’s face told her all she needed to know.

“Jurian,” Lucien said, eyes focused solely on Tamlin. “Let me introduce you to Lady Aoide of Neva.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Jurian said, extending a hand.

Aoide placed her palm in his and let Jurian press a kiss to her knuckles. She felt Tamlin bristle at the gesture.

“Apologies,” Aoide said, tilting her head. Her dark eyes shined, appraising Jurian. “When Lucien told me you were over five hundred years old, I thought you’d look a bit more…”

“Decrepit?” Jurian said with a smarmy grin.

“I was going to say mature. Though, I must admit, I pictured you as little more than a palmful of dust in Lucien’s hand,” Aoide said.

“I take it you’re pleased, then?” Jurian asked.

Aoide let her eyes drift over Jurian. Her hooded gaze traced over all those parts a man prided himself on, giving special attention to the belt around his waist.

“You’ll do,” she said coolly.

Jurian let loose a wolfish chuckle. “Aren’t you something?”

“I think the word you’re looking for is trouble, Sir Jurian,” Aoide said.

“Oh,” Jurian said, leaning in. “I bet you’re that, too.”

Lucien’s jaw ticked, which only seemed to goad Jurian more.

“You’re going to make me blush,” Aoide said, refusing to reel back at his invasion of her space. She fanned her face, a demure smile on her lips.

“Something tells me it takes more than just a few words to get you riled up,” Jurian said.

Beneath his teasing tone was something cold. Aoide could feel it slithering around her, winding itself tighter and tighter. Jurian was trying to see how far she’d take their tete-a-tete — see how much it would take to provoke Tamlin, too. A technique right out of her mother’s training. One Aoide could do better.

Gently, Aoide tucked the rose in Jurian’s breast pocket. She admired the perfect bloom, stroking the deep burgundy petals. She felt three pairs of eyes on her, each set focused on her slim fingers.

“I think you greatly underestimate the power of one’s imagination,” Aoide said, looking up at Jurian through her dark lashes. “Why don’t we plumb the depths of yours? Perhaps a walk in the hedge maze?”

Jurian’s chest swelled under her touch. A faint blush spread across the bridge of his straight nose, which he quickly doused with a sharp grin.

“Sounds delightful,” said Jurian. He held out a crooked elbow.

As they turned to leave, Aoide felt the softest tug in her chest. A glance from the corner of her eye was the only acknowledgement she gave to Tamlin as he watched her walk away.

His expression was as cold and barren as the rocky face of a mountain. His eyes, though focused solely on her, had a faraway look. A familiar sight from their first days together — one Aoide never wanted to see again.

Only you, her mind whispered to him. Only you, Tamlin.

Aoide wasn’t sure how long he watched them before he retreated back to the manor, a disgruntled Lucien at his side. It was not until they were deep in the hedge maze that Jurian spoke.

“The little rose trick was a good one,” said Jurian.

“Trick?” Aoide asked as innocently as she could muster.

Together, they wound around the dead ends and false corners, heading straight for the center of the maze Aoide had come to know like the back of her hand.

Jurian’s eyes slid to hers. “Come now. There’s no need for the act any longer.”

Aoide waited until they were at the end of the maze, taking her time as she perched herself on the edge of the bench before deigning Jurian with a response.

“I thought the act was what you were interested in. Unless Lucien was right, and your search for a well-bred wife was just pretense?” Aoide asked.

Jurian stood in front of the fountain, blocking out the afternoon sun as it sunk lower. The sky warmed to a pinkish-yellow, the light gilding Jurian’s profile in a way that made him look princely, if only for a moment.

“I wouldn’t begrudge your advances,” Jurian said, plucking the rose from his pocket and breathing in its scent. “Though, I suspect if a well-bred woman like yourself wanted a husband, you’d already have one.”

He tossed the rose into the fountain and joined Aoide on the bench. She watched as the bloom floated for a moment before sinking to the bottom. Only a few petals lingered on the surface, swirling around the trickling water from the statue’s tilted jug.

Jurian had read her like a book. Ironic, considering she had read his own cover to cover.

“Is it time for the dramatic reveal? Have you come here to save the damsel from her faerie captor?” asked Aoide, quirking her brow for emphasis.

Jurian’s face betrayed nothing. When she looked into his eyes, all she saw was their frigid depths.

“Any rational man would be concerned about your well-being. A human woman serving as the companion to a faerie beast? A tragedy waiting to happen,” said Jurian.

He shook his head in mock shame. Aoide ignored the flash of irritation roiling in her stomach. She didn’t much care for Jurian’s accusations of her servility, nor the way he said the word beast.

“And you count yourself among the rational?” Aoide said, her words clipped.

“When the situation calls for it,” said Jurian. He leaned back on the bench and folded his arms, the very picture of arrogant bravado.

“I am here by choice,” Aoide said, flattening out the ruffled lace edges of her skirts. “And I serve no man or faerie alike.”

“We all serve someone, Aoide. It’s much better to know your keeper than to live in ignorance of their machinations,” said Jurian.

Aoide leveled her own cold stare back at him. “And who is your master, Jurian? Queen Vassa?”

“She wishes,” Jurian muttered, puffing up from his careless slouch. “Vassa and I share a common goal.”

Aoide knew that preening look. She had seen plenty of men who thought they could hide their heartache behind their senseless peacocking. One mention of Vassa, and Jurian became putty in her hands.

“And you share a common bed, as well?”

Jurian’s mouth twitched. The only sign that her barbed words hit their intended target.

“Lucien has a lot to say about me, doesn’t he?” Jurian said breezily.

“Oh, Lucien made no mention of your…entanglement,” Aoide said, waving her hand. “I suppose he thought it wasn’t worth mentioning.”

“And what makes you think that?” Jurian asked.

Aoide smiled, just like her mother had taught her.

“I suspect if Queen Vassa wanted a husband, she’d already have one.”

Jurian’s eyes narrowed. A too-toothy grin spread across his lips. Aoide wondered if it was the same face Clythia saw as he tortured her to death. She grasped the edge of the bench, readying herself.

“You are trouble, aren’t you?” he said.

Jurian stood from the bench and looked at Aoide anew. He ran the back of his knuckles over his scruffy face, his jawing ticking in thought.

“Tell me, Lady Trouble — does your beast of a High Lord have any interest in the Mortal Lands?”

“He is no beast,” Aoide said, “And he has no interest in conquering, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Oh, I know that much. Teàrlach was a right bastard, though the youngest of his hellish brood never seemed to harbor the same sentiments about our kind,” said Jurian. “But Spring has become a pariah, and I imagine the food stores are running lower by the hour.”

Aoide remained silent as she tried to parse out Jurian’s end goal. If he knew Spring was weak, would the humans look to push their luck and challenge the faeries for their goddess-blessed lands? Jurian was a talented general after all, more than capable of marching a force of humans into Spring and seizing what they wanted.

“If you are looking to discuss trade terms, I’d have to refer you to the High Lord’s council—“

“I want to know what you think, not a cadre of kowtowers,” Jurian interrupted.

It was Aoide’s turn to snort. “You haven’t met Bel.”

Jurian’s face grew serious, and Aoide understood why men had followed him into battle. There was an otherworldly sense of command about him — like the earth itself rose to meet his feet.

“Do you believe the faeries here are willing to work with the humans across the border?” he asked.

Is this was what he was after? A human’s take on the situation in Spring? She had to admit that it was nice speaking with another of her kind after two weeks among the faeries, but it was a gamble on his part to ask her. What did she know of Spring that Lucien didn’t?

Tamlin — she knew Tamlin. Perhaps not better than Lucien, but in a different way. A human way.

“My uncle lives just over the border. He’s a healer. Most of his patients are men who lost limbs in the Battle of Hybern,” Aoide said. “Salves can’t help a shattered leg. But magic…”

Aoide plunged her hand into the fountain’s cold waters. From its depths, she grabbed the rose. She rested the sodden bloom in the crook of the statue’s hand.

“And what of the Spring villages in need of repair? Surely, they could use the help. Extra forces along the border with Autumn would keep us all safe,” Aoide mused. “I think we need each other, Sir Jurian. So, if the faeries are not willing, I’ll need to convince them.”

“And you think you’re capable?” Jurian asked. Not with condescension, but curiosity.

“Was my performance earlier not enough evidence?”

The answer seemed to satisfy Jurian, who nodded. They stood in silence, the two of them watching as the sun dipped below the tree line, the warm spray of pinks cooling to a deep purple-blue. Aoide wasn’t sure if she’d won their little game, but she got the sense that Jurian could not deny her usefulness.

“It’s your turn to tell me something, General,” said Aoide.

Jurian’s brown arched. “Is it now?”

Aoide swallowed the lump in her throat.

There was a question that had nagged her throughout her reading. Jurian had done what she failed to do back in Neva — laid with the enemy, fed her power fantasies, waited until it was the right time to strike — and did so without mercy.

“Seducing Clythia,” Aoide started, “Killing her.
Was it worth it?”

The question hung in the chilled breeze. Aoide felt the weight of the silence sink deep into her gut.

The price of his vengeance claimed more than Clythia’s life. It had stolen Miryam, stolen his future, his very soul. Left him in a centuries-long limbo, crystallized in a single moment for eternity.

Jurian’s vulpine grin flattened to a thin line. His eyes shined like the edge of a sharpened blade. “We won the war, didn’t we?” Jurian asked.

He was dodging her question, but Aoide wouldn’t let it rest without a real answer.

“At the cost of your freedom,” said Aoide.

“We won the war,” Jurian repeated, each word barbed. “That is all that mattered.”

Aoide opened her mouth to volley another retort when she noticed an ember burning a small hole in her dress. A dusting of ash followed, coating Jurian’s dark hair with grey flecks.

A streak of purest fire broke across the hazy dusk. The air sizzled with unbearable heat and reduced the newly budding flowers around them to burnt husks. It hurt Aoide’s eyes to look at the blistering ball of light, but she couldn’t turn away as she spotted two blue eyes and molten feathers.

“What is that?” Aoide whispered, her eyes tearing as she watched the creature’s graceful descent.

“Vassa,” Jurian said breathlessly.

—

“Cauldron boil me,” Lucien muttered. “No wonder Salazar wanted her in his pocket.”

Lucien fetched two glasses and magicked a bottle from thin air. Tamlin recognized the distinct smell of firewine, a spirit that was near-impossible to find outside the Autumn Court. Lucien helped himself to the tawny vintage, unceremoniously slugging a glass back before pouring one for Tamlin.

Tamlin held the lip of the glass to his nose, savoring the smell of rain-soaked earth and charred timber. How Lucien managed to get his hands on a bottle was beyond him. As far as Tamlin knew, Lucien hadn’t stepped foot in his ancestral lands in centuries.

At least, not willingly.

Swirling the glass, Tamlin watched as the last rays of sunlight filtered through the curtains. Although he couldn’t see Aoide, he could hear the steady patter of her heart, smell her scent lingering on his skin and mixing with his own. He decided it was best not to eavesdrop for the sake of Aoide’s privacy, if not for his own sanity.

“She was bred to become a powerful man’s wife. Did you expect anything less?” asked Tamlin.

“She’s not like that with you,” said Lucien, his golden eye whirring with close observation.

“She doesn’t need to be,” said Tamlin.

I’m sorry you have to see me like this, she had whispered to him. The crackle of despair in her voice knocked the wind right out of him. By the time he figured out what to say, she was already halfway across the lawn, gliding over the manor grounds like she owned them.

Aoide maneuvered around Jurian’s scheming intellect with swanlike grace. Beneath her elegant posturing was a warrior’s precision, her words as deadly as a blade. The beast licked its foamy chops, satisfied by the sight of a predator playing with its food.

Tamlin couldn’t help but notice how well-suited they looked together — raven-black hair, skin the color of warm terracotta, their dark, all-seeing stares. Two of a pair, brought together through the power of a centuries old curse.

“You and Aoide seem to be getting on well,” Lucien said. “Is there a room in the manor you haven’t defiled yet?”

Tamlin took a long sip of the spirit, letting it warm his tongue. Aoide’s desire had been insatiable as of late. One look from him, and her need was whispering to his own, tempting him ever closer.

That damned word pounded louder and louder, but he did not listen.

“You’ll need something stronger than firewine if you expect an answer from me,” Tamlin said.

“Careful now,” Lucien said a rueful smile gracing his fine features. “That almost sounded like a joke.”

“Aoide seems to think my sense of humor is improving,” said Tamlin.

Lucien’s brow raised. “I should thank her for being such a good influence. You were becoming a real bore, Tam.”

“Where’d you get the firewine?” Tamlin asked.

“It was a gift,” Lucien said, admiring the bottle.
“From Elain.”

“You’ve seen Elain Archeron?” Tamlin asked.

He’d never forget the sight of her wet, trembling body. A fawn in a den of wolves, his red-headed friend the only decent male among them. He didn’t blame Elain Archeron for her revulsion, but Tamlin hated what it did to Lucien. To be forced to watch her violation at the hands of a despot — to know that they both played a role in the whole affair.

Tamlin would have reduced the entirety of Hybern’s isle to blood and ash if it had been Aoide forced into the Cauldron. Skinned them all alive and left them to the carrion, their cries for mercy a warning to anyone who thought to harm her.

And if he ever came across Salazar — if that cretinous worm dared trespass on his lands — he’d do much, much worse.

“Elain’s spending time at the Day Court cultivating rare orchids in the palace gardens. I had business with Helion and we…crossed paths,” Lucien said, tracing a line of claw marks in the table’s veneer. “I mentioned Samhain and the firewine and I guess she remembered. She sent a few bottles to Greyson’s manor. Apparently, Helion has quite the collection,” said Lucien.

“And you’re sharing it with me?” Tamlin asked.

Lucien’s lips pulled upward, but there was no joy to be found in his mirthless grin. “Better than drinking it alone.”

The faintest of memories drifted back to Tamlin, one that had faded since Lucien’s arrival in the Spring Court a few hundred years back. He’d spent the first quarter of a century after Jesminda’s death in a near-catatonic state, sleeping for weeks at a time. A shadow of the charismatic male Tamlin knew only in passing.

Every few months, Tamlin would meet Eris at the border. Tamlin would assure Eris that Lucien was still alive, which was enough for the Autumn Court heir. On rare occasions, he would bring Lucien a gift from their mother — a new silk vest, finely crafted throwing knives, autumn leaves preserved behind glass.

One Samhain, Eris brought a bottle of firewine. A good one, judging by his reluctance to hand it over.

“Don’t let him guzzle the damn bottle,” Eris said, saying nothing more before winking out of existence.

Tamlin found Lucien in the library in his usual spot — in front of the fireplace, his feet propped on a footrest and a book in his lap. He didn’t bother speaking to Lucien. He seldom responded those days, too busy living in the past. Instead, Tamlin let the firewine do the talking.

Immediately after popping the cork, Lucien was at the edge of the table, his hair matted and wild.

“Where did you get that?” he asked, his newly forged eye glowing.

“A gift from your mother,” Tamlin said, placing two glasses in front of them.

“My mother,” Lucien said, face as pale as the full moon.

Tamlin poured Lucien a drink and nudged it toward him with his knuckle. Lucien only stared at it, eyes searching for a message at the bottom of the glass. Pouring another for himself, Tamlin held up the libation to Lucien, who was surprised by the gesture but indulged Tamlin nonetheless.

“I won’t be a happy drunk,” Lucien warned Tamlin.

Tamlin only shrugged. “Better than drinking it alone.”

A few hundred years later, and there they were again, commiserating over a bottle of firewine. Their immortal bodies remained unchanged, but the centuries of blood and loss and Tamlin’s own stubbornness had altered the fabric of their souls irrevocably.

“You alright, Tam?” Lucien asked.

“I’m sorry,” Tamlin said, the words coming fast and hard.

Lucien blinked, confusion furrowing his brow.

Tamlin took a breath, channeling the soft and calm way Aoide spoke to him, and started again.

“I’m sorry for not listening. For asking too much of you. For…everything.”

Slowly, Lucien placed his glass on the table. The silence pained Tamlin as he watched Lucien weigh his apology, deciding whether Tamlin was worth the effort of forgiveness.

“You were a fool. A damned fool,” said Lucien, voice like rough hewn stone. “But for what you did for me all those centuries ago. For how you’ve treated Aoide-“

Lucien’s eyes travelled upward, meeting Tamlin’s stare.

“And for what I know lays in your heart…I forgive you, Tam.”

Tamlin let out the breath that was burning in his lungs, begging to be released. For the first time since Feyre’s departure, Tamlin looked at his friend and did not shrink from the wisdom in his eyes.

The smell of cinders filled the room. Tamlin’s nose tingled with the overpowering scent of char and flame. Although the sun was far beyond the horizon, the sky glowed with a ferocious brightness.

“Always with the grand entrances,” Lucien chuckled, shaking his head. “I hope you’re ready.”

Before Tamlin could assess his preparedness for the notoriously stubborn firebird, Aoide was bursting into the music room, dark eyes alight with wonder.

“Did you see her?” she asked, her skirts billowing around her.

Aoide headed right for Tamlin and pulled him to the window. She watched Vassa’s fire arched across the horizon, an angry wound cleaving the dusky calm in twain.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Aoide said with quiet deference.

“Me neither,” Tamlin whispered, never taking his eyes off Aoide. He scanned her, looking for any sign of her distress, but found not a hair out of place. “Are you…did anything-“

“I’m fine,” Aoide said, eyes glinting with determination.

She turned from the window, taking up a position in the center of the room. Tamlin watched as she became that other version of herself, all hard angles and sharp edges.

“Well?” she asked, jutting her chin to the space beside her.

Though Tamlin was the one wearing the crown, he heeded Aoide’s command with all the solemnity of a subject kneeling before his sovereign. He could feel Lucien’s smirk from across the room, his obedience an enjoyable sight to the male who’d once called him High Lord. Tamlin didn’t care — he’d march into the pits of hell if Aoide asked him.

Aoide curtsied deeply as Vassa strode into the room. Her eyes flickered like two blue flames, skimming over Tamlin with well-trained disinterest. Jurian slunk in after, keeping a few steps behind Vassa’s proud promenade, a surprising show of respect from the usually irreverent male.

Tamlin made no such sign of veneration. Neither did Lucien, who slouched against the wall, content to watch as the humans performed their customary adulations.

“Welcome, Queen Vassa,” Aoide said, her elegant neck dipping low. “It’s an honor.”

Vassa’s golden brown skin glowed with a warmth that was not quite human. She smiled graciously at Aoide, her reddish-gold hair smoldering like hot embers. A few flecks of ash settled in Aoide’s dark hair as she stood over her.

“I must admit, it’s nice hearing my name spoken with a Continental accent. Especially a Nevan one,” Vassa said, her lilt not all too different from Aoide’s.

“Don’t let it get to your head, firebird,” Jurian said, grinning like a devil. “She curtsied like a good little lady for me, too.”

Each word dripped from Jurian’s mouth with a sickly sweetness. Tamlin tucked his curled fists behind his back, the tips of his claws snagging on his gold embroidered coat.

“Jurian,” Lucien said, voice low with warning. He placed a hand on Jurian’s shoulder, gripping hard enough to wrinkle his silk shirt.

“Of course, we left all those formalities behind us in the hedge maze, didn’t we?” said Jurian.

The room grew stuffy as the air stilled to a threatening calm. Every nerve fired off within Tamlin, every muscles contracting with pent up fury, as the beast gnashed and clawed and roared within him.

Contemptible lout, the beast rumbled. Butcher him, bleed him—

A soothing finger brushed over Tamlin’s clenched fists, trailing the sharp curve of his claws, beckoning him. When he looked at Aoide, he only found mischief swirling in the black eddies of her gaze.

Play along, her eyes seemed to say. Indulge me, beast.

Aoide turned her attention back to Jurian. She managed to look down her nose at the arrogant male despite his superior stature.

“I suppose five hundred years is a long time to go without practicing your manners, Sir Jurian. If you require a reminder on how to speak to a high born lady, I’d be more than happy to oblige,” said Aoide.

Razor sharp teeth clamped down on the beast’s neck, silencing its blood-curdling roar. Only silence followed in its wake as Aoide offered Tamlin the killing blow to Jurian’s ego.

“Jurian needs no reminder, Lady Aoide,” said Tamlin, his even-keeled voice foreign to his own ear. “He never had any manners to begin with.”

Vassa threw back her queenly head and let out a hearty chuckle. Her complexion flickered like a living flame as she looked at Tamlin.

“Lucien didn’t mention you were funny,” Vassa said, her lips curling over her white teeth.

Jurian shook off Lucien’s grip, helping himself to a glass of the firewine. “You’re the only one laughing,” he grumbled.

Lucien snatched the bottle from Jurian’s hand before he could pour himself another. “Save some for the rest of us. Wouldn’t want to be accused of being a lush and a scamp, would you?”

“Let him drink the whole bottle, if it makes him more tolerable,” Vassa said, joining the two males at the table.

She didn’t bother to pour herself a glass. Instead, she took a dignified sip straight from the bottle, her face turning rosy after one taste of the strong brew.

“Easy for you to say. You don’t have to listen to his drunken snoring,” Lucien muttered.

“You faeries do love to complain about your superior senses,” Vassa said, rolling her eyes. “Tell me, Lady Aoide, does your High Lord gripe as much as this one?”

“Gripe?” Lucien sputtered. “I do not gripe-“

“You gripe like a fish swims,” Jurian said, nudging Lucien in the ribs with his elbow.

“Like his life depends on it?” Vassa asked, guessing at the punchline.

“I was going to say incessently,” Jurian said. “But I like your answer better.”

Lucien scoffed, launching into a flurry of rebukes aimed at the amused humans. They paid Tamlin and Aoide no mind as they descended into bickering, passing the firewine between them.

“Do you think they…” Aoide whispered, quiet enough that only Tamlin could hear. “You know,” she added with an impish look.

Tamlin watched as the trio lobbed soft-hearted insults back and forth, each taking turns prodding each other. Lucien seemed to enjoy every moment, his cunning well-matched against Vassa and Jurian’s respective wits.

There was an ease with which they taunted one another, knowing when to pull their proverbial punches, the balance between them never tipping too far in one direction. It wasn’t all too different from the give and take between him and Aoide.

But Tamlin knew Lucien only had room for one in that bleeding, aching heart of his — and Elain Archeron finally seemed to be warming to him.

“Why?” Tamlin asked, leaning in low. “Are you interested in joining?”

Aoide’s face flushed pink, but she did not look away. “Watch it, beast,” she said, “Or you’ll find yourself with more than you can handle.”

She lightly batted his chest. Tamlin grabbed her hand and pressed it against his heart, letting her feel its thunderous beat.

“You have no idea what I can handle, troublemaker,” Tamlin said, the rumble of his voice reverberating through her palm. Her breath hitched as it passed through her parted lips.

“Only you,” Aoide said, her own pulse quickening to match his, their desire a secret song between them. “Remember?”

“If you’re both finished denigrating my character, perhaps we can get to the reason for our visit,” Lucien said, voice smarting like a whip striking bare flesh. “Tam?”

Reluctantly, he dropped Aoide’s hand. She recoiled, as if she, too, had forgotten they had company. She gave Tamlin a curt nod, a signal that she was ready for whatever may come.

Tamlin extended his power past the folds of their present reality, reaching deep into the pocket dimension where he kept the piano stowed away. It thudded into the room, its foreboding aura making both Jurian and Vassa flinch in disgust.

Slowly, Jurian made his way over to the piano. He reached out a steady hand, tracing the detailed engravings, eyes simmering with hatred.

“Fifty-two souls,” Jurian breathed. “Fifty-two slaves denied their freedom.”

Tamlin watched as Aoide’s shoulders curled inward. She focused on the tiles underneath her feet, shame weighing heavy on her.

“I hope you made that heinous bitch suffer as you slaughtered her,” Vassa spat.

Tamlin recalled the weight of Lucien’s sword in his hand. The glint of its magically honed steel. How it pierced the base of Amarantha’s skull. The sound of bone crunching, then wet squelching as he pushed the blade through the soft matter of her brain. The taste of her warm blood in his mouth as he bit down on her neck and tore and tore and—

A collective shudder passed through the males in the room. No one wanted to remember what happened Under the Mountain. Especially not Jurian, who had been forced to watch every evil act Amarantha committed from her hateful finger.

“We’re not here to rehash the past,” Lucien said, his sun-warmed complexion gone pale.

Numbly, Tamlin registered Aoide’s presence as she drifted to his side. He tried to swallow the rancid taste of blood lingering on his tongue and nearly choked.

“Tell us how to help them,” Aoide said quietly. “Please, Jurian.”

Jurian slumped in a chair, pouring another round of firewine before speaking.

“You’d need the cauldron to resurrect them,” said Jurian. “The very same cauldron that vanished from the face of the earth after Hybern’s defeat.”

Tamlin felt a prickle of frustration behind his eyes. Another dead end, another impossible roadblock for them to surmount. It was beginning to feel pointless.

“So you’ve come all this way, made us bow and scrape at your feet for what, exactly?” Tamlin muttered.

“A faerie High Lord gets his hands on a cursed piano, and in it, the souls of fifty-two innocents trapped for eternity,” Jurian rasped. “You’re lucky I don’t seize it from you by force, beast. My help was nothing more than a courtesy.”

Tamlin barked out a laugh. “Seize it from me? And how exactly would you manage that?”

“Watch your tone,” warned Vassa.

Silence cloaked the room. Only the faint whirring from Lucien’s golden iris measured the interminable quiet. Several minutes passed, but Vassa never dropped her fiery gaze.

Holding her chin high, Aoide stepped in front of Tamlin, her small body dwarfed in his shadow.

“What if we don’t wish to resurrect them?” Aoide asked. “What if we free them? Undo the spell that keeps their souls bound?”

Jurian shifted in his chair, stroking his scruff. “It’s possible, but…”

“But we’d need Helion,” Lucien said. “Not an option.”

“Not an option?” Vassa asked, cocking her head to the side. “Seems like he’s the only option.”

Lucien looked to Tamlin, his expression grim. “It’s a risk. If he makes any mention of it to Rhys—“

“A risk we’ll have to take,” Tamlin said, nipping any further discussion of Rhysand in the bud.

He felt Aoide’s curious stare, but refused to indulge the silent question he knew was burning in her mind. “Now if you’re through with wasting our time—“

“How did such a repulsive creation end up here, anyway?” Jurian asked. “I didn’t pin you as a collector of the macabre.”

“The piano is mine, actually,” Aoide said. “My father bought it from a faerie in Montesere. He is — was an art dealer in Neva. He was one of the few merchants on the Continent with special privileges to trade across the Wall.”

“He must have been quite the talented merchant,” said Vassa, approaching the piano. “The Queens did not negotiate such privileges with the faeries lightly.”

“You said he was an art dealer,” Jurian said. “What happened?”

Aoide shifted her weight between her feet, hesitating before she spoke. She glanced at Tamlin, who gave her a small nudge.

“He’s been wrongly imprisoned by Thaddeus Salazar, the head of the Nevan city watch,” Aoide said, “And king consort.”

“How thoroughly unsurprising,” said Vassa. She ran a finger over the lid of the piano, examining the fine craftsmanship. “Queen Camille was always the treacherous sort, even before she betrayed me.”

Vassa flicked the dust from her finger. Her skirts whispered across the floor as she approached Aoide, taking her delicate, trembling hands in hers.

”Tell me, Lady Aoide. What is your father’s name?” Vassa asked.

Tamlin was surprised to find something softer in Vassa’s voice — sympathy.

“Ambrose,” Aoide said. “Ambrose Achlys.”

Vassa’s face fell before a mask of utter calm schooled her features.

“Your father is Ambrose Achlys,” Vassa repeated, all traces of her warm accent gone deathly cold.

Tamlin could scent the fear and hatred radiating off Vassa in potent, sulfuric waves. Lucien’s head jerked toward her, nostrils flaring as he registered the smell.

Aoide stiffened. “You know him?”

“Know him?” Vassa asked, her voice quivering.

From the corner of his vision, Tamlin watched Jurian place his palm on the pommel of his dagger. Tamlin took a half step in front of Aoide, the small hairs on the back of his neck raising in alarm.

Finally, the beast crooned. A reason to tear that smug bastard limb from limb.

Vassa’s ochre complexion glowed with an aggressive glimmer. The fury in her cerulean stare was brighter than the bonfires at Samhain.

“His was the last face I saw. The last face all the girls saw before—“

Vassa’s whole body contracted in pain. Lucien and Jurian scrambled to her, but Vassa held out an open palm, halting them.

“Before what?” Aoide whispered.

“Before we were bound to Koschei’s lake,” Vassa choked out.

Tamlin felt the whole room flip on its axis. They all hung in that cold realization, a tendril of dread wrapping around his heart and squeezing.

Do you believe in fate?

No.

Gods, no.

Aoide’s father was a traitor to his own kind. A smuggler of humans, not of priceless faerie relics. He hadn’t gotten that damned piano from the Monteserens. He’d been fencing it for Koschei the Deathless.

And it ended up on Tamlin’s doorstep, courtesy of Aoide.

“I knew it,” Jurian seethed. “I knew something was off about her.”

Jurian’s unsheathed dagger rang with violence, knuckles white as bone from his iron grip on the silver handle. He held his arm across his body and settled into a warrior’s stance, readying himself.

Tamlin felt the swell of adrenaline sweep through him, every bone and sinew aching against the strain as he ignored the impulse to shift.

“Put down the dagger,” Tamlin snarled.

Jurian’s hand twitched as he stared hatefully at Aoide, refusing to move an inch.

“Jurian,” Vassa barked in pain. “Don’t be a fool.”

Gods, Tamlin wanted to kill him. Run his claws down his center and let his miserable guts spill on the marble tile. Soak his fur in the spray of Jurian’s bloody agony until he begged Aoide to make him stop.

“You heard her, Jurian. Don’t push it. Not now,” Lucien said, fire wreathing his head in a crown of flames. “Ready the horses. I’ll winnow her back to Greyson’s-“

“And leave the girl here? We should be bringing her back to the Mortal Lands in chains,” Jurian simmered

“What crime has she committed?” Tamlin growled.

Jurian flinched, but his grip only grew tighter on the dagger.

“She could know something,” said Jurian.

“Fucking hell,” Lucien hissed.

Tamlin felt his claws push through the scarred skin of his knuckles. Blood dripped on the floor in a steady plink, plink, plink as he glared at Jurian.

“Touch her and die, human,” said Tamlin.

“Enough!” Lucien roared.

A column of pure white fire erupted from Lucien and shot to the coffered ceiling, charring the frescoes to black. Lucien’s body was wholly subsumed by the hellfire, his skin molten like the lava flows of an ancient volcano.

Jurian stumbled back and fell to the ground, temporary blinded by the sheer light of Lucien’s fire. Even the firebird yelped as the room grew hotter than boiling oil.

Tamlin yanked Aoide behind him, shielding her from the heat as it burned the fine blonde hairs from his skin. Summoning every ounce of his power, Tamlin sucked all the air from the room, depriving Lucien’s blaze from the one thing it needed to burn hotter, brighter—

The flames were smothered instantly, like a flickering candle meeting the cold embrace of a snuffer. Before the humans could register their lack of breath, Tamlin flooded the room with a cool spring breeze.

The scent of honeysuckle and rosehip floated through the music room as the four of them stared dumbfounded at Lucien.

“Well,” he said, adjusting his crumbling waistcoat. “Looks like I finally found a way to make you imbeciles listen to me.”

Chapter Text

Aoide wanted to scream.

She felt the howl of pain building inside her, clawing its way up her throat, raw and bloody. The taste of copper and salt coated her tongue, thick and viscous like bitter molasses.

Aoide swallowed. She buried the cry of anguish deep within her, fed it to that swirling, throbbing pit of despair where her heart once was. She felt its icy blackness spread, infecting her with numbing gloom.

A veil fell over the world around her, separating Aoide from her body. From everything. It was as though someone had hollowed out her soul and let it blow away, lost forever to the lush glens and silvery waters of Spring.

Her father was a slaver. Her father. The man who had let her sit upon his knee while he told her stories about lands so strange and beautiful she could hardly believe they existed. Who would sing silly tunes as Aoide played the piano, making her laugh so hard her belly hurt. Who looked the other way when he caught her sneaking in through the servants quarters smelling of wine and smoke.

The same man who tried to marry her off to a cruel and abusive despot, only to smuggle her out of Neva with surprising ease — as of he’d done it countless times before.

Aoide let the truth sink like a stone dropped in a still pond. Her mind rippled in every direction at the implications of her father’s crimes. Everything she owned, every sumptuous meal she’d eaten, all the balls she danced at, the privileges she enjoyed — all paid for by innocent women like Queen Vassa. While she was carousing around Neva, drinking and sleeping around to her heart’s content, women were being boarded on ships and forced to serve as playthings for a death god.

Hands were holding her. Guiding her to a chair. Familiar hands — ones that had stroked and caressed her. Hands that had protected her. Shredded apart vicious enemies. Plucked the delicate strings of a violin.

Aoide trembled hard enough that her teeth chattered. It was impossible to get a breath down, her chest heaving against the boning in her dress. The lace collar suffocated her, a phantom hand squeezing her neck tighter, tighter—

She’s in shock.

A good slap will set her to rights.

If you lay so much as a finger on her-

Would you two kindly refrain from trying to kill each other for five godsdamned minutes?

Says the bastard who singed my nice shirt.

Drink this, Aoide.

A glass was placed in Aoide’s jittering hand. Her palms, slick with sweat, gripped the glass.

Mechanically, she raised her arm and brought the glass to her lips. One sip of the liquid fire had her gagging. She felt her blood heat, chasing away the cold grip of her despair.

“Good,” Tamlin said gently. “Just breathe. Nice and steady.”

Tamlin rubbed her back in firm, soothing circles. His hands were her only waypoint as she returned to her body, the weight of her cursed existence dragging her back to reality.

Slowly, the room came into focus. The char of Lucien’s extinguished flames hung in the air, smoke curling from the shoulders of his blackened waistcoat. He helped Queen Vassa into a chair, who managed to look dignified despite her grimace.

Jurian kept his hateful stare solely on Aoide, his caramel brown eyes simmering with disgust. They pierced through her like she was made of glass, and all the horrible things that festered inside her were on display for his brutal assessment.

He’d pulled his blade without hesitation. It had shaken Aoide, how quick he was to draw blood — her blood. Such was the depth of his hatred for Koschei, and his love for Vassa. Aoide wondered if Salazar’s men had felt the same as the beast tore through their ranks, no mercy to be found in its startling green eyes or foamy maw.

“I want him out of my court, Lucien,” Tamlin rumbled.

Aoide smelled the metallic fizzle of magic swirling around the room. Jurian seemed to sense it too, his jaw twitching in response.

“I’m not going anywhere until that one answers some questions,” Jurian said, gesturing at Aoide. She wasn’t sure how a finger could point so disdainfully.

“The girl is in no shape for an interrogation, Jurian,” Queen Vassa snapped. “Leave it be.”

Some part of Jurian deflated as Vassa stared at him, the flames in her cerulean eyes dancing like a burning pyre. An order — not as his friend or lover, but as his queen.

“Leave it be, Vassa? After everything, you expect me to just leave it be?” said Jurian, voice craggy and abraded.

“You heard me the first time. And the second,” Vassa hissed.

Jurian’s laugh chilled Aoide to the bone.

“Her father sold you to a death god, for fuck sake!” Jurian said, completely exasperated.

“The queens sold me,” Vassa said tightly. “Ambrose—”

Vassa’s beautiful face twisted. The small muscles in her face trembled as she fought to speak. She choked on her words, only a strangled whisper escaping her lips.

“Don’t,” Lucien said, soft and quiet. He placed a hand on Vassa’s shoulder. It was the first time Jurian’s eyes left Aoide, noting the tender gesture as if he, too, could conjure a column of flames.

Aoide had to do something. She’d been sitting there, dazed and afraid, as the floor dropped from under feet — as her whole world followed. And though she had no involvement with her father’s misdeeds, there was a debt owed. A moral obligation to right such a grievous wrong.

“There’s no need for an interrogation,” said Aoide. “I’ll tell you everything I know. Admittedly, it’s very little.”

If Jurian wanted information, she would give it to him. She had nothing to hide, except for her shame — and she was done doing that. There was still a chance to turn their disastrous day around. She needed to convince Jurian that she could be trusted, or at least prove she was useful enough to be kept alive.

Aoide pressed her back into the wooden chair, shoring up the remnants of her dignity. She looked to Queen Vassa as she spoke, ignoring the feeling of the males in the room watching her every move, each of them looking for something different.

“You travelled to the docks in a worn carriage. Ramshackle, even. You were boarded on a ship called Credence, where you were kept in one of the storage rooms below. The captain’s name was Elmier. He fed you, told you stories. Taught you a few useful knots.”

It was clear from the way Vassa’s shoulders caved in that she had made the same voyage. Had seen the blue horizon, watched her home grow small and unimportant, and knew, just as Aoide did, that her life would never be the same.

Only Vassa as a prisoner, and Aoide a free woman.

“You travelled to Koschei’s lake by boat?” Lucien asked Vassa, though he know she could not answer. “His lake would need to feed into the sea, then. That narrows a few things down.”

“How do you know all this?” Jurian asked, eyes narrow and snake-like. Gone was the hatred and in its place, a cautious wariness.

Aoide heard the wood of her chair whine as Tamlin gripped the edge. Small splinters formed under his claws.

“Before Thaddeus Salazar became consort, he was my betrothed. I rejected the match publicly, and as punishment, he beat me within an inch of my life and left me to die in the street,” said Aoide. “That was after he tortured my friend in front of me. Hal was part of the Nevan resistance seeking to end Salazar’s reign of terror on the city. Salazar saw an opportunity to crush their rebellion, and he took it.”

“You don’t need to do this,” murmured Tamlin. “You have nothing to prove, Aoide.”

Aoide’s heart strained at the sound of his concern, but she did not falter.

“My father secured passage on a merchant ship bound for the Mortal Lands shortly after. He feared Salazar would either force the marriage to avoid looking weak, or accuse me of conspiring with the Nevan rebels and hang me along with the others,” Aoide continued on, ignoring her churning stomach.

The room fell deathly silent. Aoide felt Jurian’s eyes linger on her scar, and she knew he was imagining all the unspeakable things she’d endured. No longer a lady or a villain, but a victim.

“I was going to ask Queen Vassa to help clear my father’s name,” Aoide said, swallowing the bile rising in her throat. “But now I think he’s exactly where he should be.”

Jurian gruffed, and something softened in his snarling expression. “On that, we can agree, at least.”

“Satisfied?” Tamlin asked. “Has she suffered enough for you, Jurian?”

Aoide felt raw. Like she had laid right down on the table and sawed through her chest, the truth laid bare like an autopsy. Jurian strode across the room, cold determination echoing with each step as he marched toward the table.

“I have a few questions, actually,” Jurian said, pulling out a chair and sitting across from Aoide.

The bite of a growl rose from Tamlin’s chest. He must have sensed it — the unyielding authority in Jurian’s posture. Tamlin loomed behind her chair, both hands wrapped around the wooden arms. The impressive swell of his muscles strained against his embroidered tunic, quaking with restraint. Lucien went rigid, his gold eye watching Tamlin closely.

“It’s okay,” Aoide said, craning her neck to look at Tamlin.

She placed a hand over his, giving him a reassuring squeeze. Tamlin looked at her for a long, silent moment before he yielded. Aoide wasn’t sure how, but she felt it — like their bodies had some silent conversation that not even she was privy to.

“Go on, Jurian,” said Aoide, turning back to the churlish general sitting across from her.

“You had no suspicions of your father’s crimes at all? No house staff going missing?” Jurian asked. “Scullery maids, ladies in waiting?”

Aoide thought of Veronique. Her friend had once been from a wealthy family, but Veronique’s father gambled away their fortune. Eventually he fled the city, saddling her mother with his unpaid debts. Veronique became Aoide’s lady-in-waiting shorty after, sending all of her income back to her mother. Veronique had been ten years old at the time, only a year older than Aoide.

Veronique could have been like Vassa. Sold off to the highest bidder to settle her father’s debts. But Aoide’s mother had offered Veronique a chance the only way she could, and she had become akin to a sister.

It was the kindest thing Aoide had ever seen her mother do. She sometimes wondered if her mother’s efforts would have gone to better use finding Veronique a husband instead.

“Our staff was well-cared for. Most worked their whole lives in my father’s remit, until they were married or old enough to retire,” said Aoide.

“What about nobles? A rash of ladies being sent off to marry foreigners?” Jurian asked. “Lords and princes from distant lands offering their hand to your friends?”

“I didn’t have many friends within high society, but most of the ladies within the peerage remained in Neva.”

Neva was considered a paradise for those in the upper crust. There was no other city within mortal borders with such unfettered access to all the luxuries a human could reasonably indulge. Foreigners married Nevan women and became Nevans themselves for the opportunity to attain wealth and prestige.

Few were successful. Those who had power did everything they could to make sure it would not be wrested from their bloodlines by upstarts and con men. Her father had been an exception.

“Did your father discourage you from making friends within the peerage?” Jurian asked.

“Hardly. My association with…lessers was always a sore spot for my mother,” said Aoide. “Though I never saw them that way.”

“She sounds like a joy,” Jurian muttered.

Aoide ignored the insult, knowing she had said much worse growing up. There was not a soul in Neva that didn’t shrink from Sarai Achlys as she paraded down the halls and marched across ballrooms. She was always on a war path, working toward a better position, figuring out an angle that would benefit her father’s business. Perhaps, if she weren’t her mother, Aoide would have admired her. There were few Nevan ladies who were more capable of turning every weakness into an advantage.

“Do you think she knew?” Lucien asked delicately.

“She handled the books for my father’s business. If my father was being paid for his treachery, then it’s possible she figured out something was amiss. But my mother despises anything faerie. She couldn’t stand to be in the same house when I played the piano, so I doubt she’d stay in a marriage with a man working for a faerie death god.”

“You played the piano often?” Jurian asked.

“Every day,” said Aoide.

“And nothing strange ever happened?”

Aoide chewed over the question. There would be days when playing was almost trancelike — music flowing through her like a coursing river. Sometimes, an image would come to her, but she thought that was normal. Hal often spoke about a similar feeling when he painted, a spark of inspiration consuming his every thought, compelling him to work on a piece until it was finished.

“No,” Aoide said, “Not particularly.”

“Magic works differently in the human lands. It’s more muted. At least, it was when the Wall still remained,” Lucien said.

“I haven’t played it since its arrival in Spring…” Aoide murmured. “Do you think if I played it here—”

“You’re not doing anything with it until we know more,” said Tamlin.

“But—”

“He’s right,” Jurian said. “Let me give you some advice. Human to human. Do not tempt forces you do not understand. Especially not faerie magic.”

Aoide’s first instinct was to chafe at Jurian and Tamlin’s rebuff. It was her piano, after all, and she wanted to help.

Then again, it was the first time Jurian and Tamlin had agreed on anything. Though neither let it show, Aoide felt a bit of tension between them dissipate. So, Aoide decided to let it be.

For now, anyway.

“Is that all?” asked Aoide.

“If that’s all you know, then yes,” Jurian finally said.

“Very well, then,” said Aoide, pushing her chair out from the table.

“You mentioned an uncle across the border,” said Jurian. “Any chance he knows anything?”

“He never met my father, but my mother wrote to him often. I’ll pay him a visit,” said Aoide.

“Do that,” said Jurian, “And let us know if you find out anything interesting.”

Outside, the wind blew violently through the mighty oaks and the squat fruit trees. Aoide felt the whole manor quake, the glass windows trembling in their panes.

“Why don’t I escort you to your horse, Jurian? Sounds like a storm is brewing, and I’d hate to see you get caught in it,” Tamlin said, his green eyes darkening.

“Safe travels,” said Aoide, dipping her chin once before striding out the door and down the hall.

As soon as Aoide was out of their sights, she quickened her pace, panic threatening to overwhelm her. She stumbled up the stairs, her dress tangling around her ankles as she scrambled down the hall and into the bedroom.

Would it always be like this? Always striving for goodness, only for her redemption to be denied? Always shouldering the burden of the past as she toiled toward a better future?

Furiously, she tore at the buttons running down her back. She didn’t want to know how many girls her father smuggled to pay for that dress. Perhaps one for each of the buttons she ripped as she peeled the dress off her body. With a swift kick, she sent it across the room, leaving it in a defeated pile on the floor.

Her father was a villain. What did it mean if she still loved him? Missed him? Wanted to believe that he had a reason for selling those girls to a supposed death god?

Aoide supposed it made her naive.

Made her angry, too.

Angry enough to open her trunk, rip out all the fine clothes Veronique had packed for her, and start tearing the delicate fabric to shreds. No silk was safe from her ire as she tossed the bits into the fireplace, watching the flames jump.

Her life — all of it — had been a lie.

And still, in Neva, they paraded around her image. Veronique had made her a symbol of liberation. Aoide could have laughed at the bitter irony of it all, had she any sense of humor left. She wasn’t sure she’d ever feel like laughing again.

At the bottom of the trunk, she found the triptych. She picked up the pocket-sized set of portraits, the polished silver frame weighty in her hand.

She stared at her father’s charming smirk. There was a youthfulness to him that not even his thick mustache could offset. A lightness in his eyes, a troublesome idea always ticking away behind them.

Aoide used to hate how much she looked like her mother. A near-perfect mimic, identical except from her smile. That she had learned from her father, practicing his smirk in the mirror until she saw some part of him reflected back.

She recalled the look on her father’s face as he closed the carriage door. His round face had been hollowed out, purple half moons hanging heavy under his hazel eyes and cheeks darkened with stubble. Despite it all, he’d mustered a small, sad smile as he said his good-bye.

All I wish is for you to be happy.

Her hands began to shake again. Harder than they had all day. Before she could think, Aoide curled her fist around the triptych and threw it with all her mite.

As the silver frame hit the wall, the door to Tamlin’s room opened. The triptych narrowly missed Tamlin’s gold wreathed head and clanked loudly on the floor, the glass shattering. He did not flinch at the near-miss.

“Shit,” Aoide said, wincing. “Sorry.”

Tamlin scanned the room, his eyes catching on the pile of half-destroyed dresses. Slowly, he bent over and picked up the triptych. He glanced at the portraits, then at her — not with annoyance, or worry, or pity, but with silent understanding.

He stalked toward her, his smooth strides both graceful and predacious. Aoide felt the weight of his brawn as he cut across the room, pulling on her like she was a petal and he was a swift breeze. He had a natural gravitas, an aura of power that radiated from every pore of his golden skin that made Aoide shiver in anticipation.

Tamlin plucked a decorative vase off the side table and held it out to her. It looked small in his calloused hands, his tan knuckles peppered with small, white scars.

“Do it again,” he said.

Aoide jerked back in surprise. “What?”

“You heard me,” said Tamlin. “Do it again.”

Though his voice was as soft as velvet, there was a dark undercurrent brewing beneath. Every syllable and consonant echoed across the room with undeniable command.

“You can’t be serious,” said Aoide.

Tamlin pushed the vase into Aoide’s shaking hands and stepped back. There was no wry smile or humorous glint in his emerald eyes.

Aoide stared at the vase, admiring the delicately painted flowers and the gold leaf rim. It was likely hundreds of years older than she was, a priceless artifact that would fetch a high price in the Mortal Lands. She wrapped her trembling fingers around the elegant neck of the vase, picturing her own neck and the five bruises that had marred her skin after Salazar strangled her.

She thought her father was a good man. Different from the cruel bastards like Salazar, or the opportunistic suitors who ogled her from the corners of their eyes. Her father had been the only reason Aoide had remained unwed and unshackled for so long.

And then, he went and promised her to Salazar. Aoide struggled to wrap her mind around it in those days after the announcement. None of it made any sense to her at the time.

But what if Salazar knew something about her father’s misdeeds? What if her father was imprisoned not to punish Aoide, but because he’d lost his only bargaining chip?

You may think your father allows these silly games because he loves you, but that love will only result in your misery.

Aoide focused on a fixed point on the wall, channeling every emotion, every doubt, every fear that plagued her into the vase. With a deep breath, she lifted her arm and threw it as hard as she could, a spike of pain traveling down her shoulder as she heaved. She grunted, ugly and rough, as the vase flew from her fingers.

The ceramic exploded. The blowback of dust and fragments made Aoide jump back in surprise, shocked by the destruction she’d caused.

Tamlin remained unnervingly still, never once looking away from Aoide. From the ether, he summoned a small statuette of a fae male lounging on a settee. Another beautiful piece, crafted from what Aoide could only guess was precious ivory.

“Again,” he ordered, tossing the statuette in her direction.

Clumsily, Aoide caught it against her chest. It was much heavier than the vase, and it took both of Aoide’s trembling hands to raise it above her head and hurl it against the wall. Just like the vase, the statuette shattered, leaving a sizable hole in the wall.

Tamlin summoned two glass goblets. Then a clay serving bowl, a stained glass lantern, endless teacups and fine china. All of them reduced shards in a growing pile of debris. It was only when her arm was too weak to lift that Aoide stopped.

Panting, she slumped on the edge of bed, her thin chemise damp with sweat. She glanced at the mirror to find a wild woman looking back — skin flushed, loose strands of hair clinging to her tear stained face, eyes wide and dark.

Not a trace of her father’s smile to be found.

“Feeling better?” asked Tamlin. He leaned against the bedpost, the cascade of his soft, golden hair shining in the moonlight.

“A little,” Aoide admitted sheepishly. “Sorry for the mess.”

With a flick of his wrist, the pile of broken glass and shattered ceramic vanished from sight.

“What mess?” asked Tamlin, the faintest of smiles tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Aoide felt a brief lightness in her chest. It was these small, quiet moments with Tamlin that she cherished the most. A brush of their hands, a flush in their cheeks, a half-smile. A secret, subtle language only they understood.

“Do you…want to talk about it?” asked Tamlin.

The words came out clumsy, but Aoide felt their sincerity. There was something about the tentative way Tamlin asked that made Aoide look away, a blush staining her cheeks. She played with the hem of her chemise, trying to keep her hands busy enough to quell the tremors.

“I don’t think I can. Not yet, anyway,” said Aoide.

Tamlin kneeled before her. He took her hands in his warm, steady grasp. Worry creased between his brow as he looked up at her.

“Aoide,” he said, throat bobbing. “What your father did is not your burden to bear. And I will not stand by while you destroy yourself to redeem him.”

Aoide swallowed the sob that caught in her throat. She knew he was right, but hearing it spoken so plainly felt like a slap.

“I have to make this right. I won’t be able to live with myself unless I do. You understand that, right?” asked Aoide.

Tamlin flinched, as if he felt the same sting of truth.

“I do,” said Tamlin. “Better than most.”

Of course he does, thought Aoide. His father had been a Traditionalist — had fought a war to keep her kind enslaved. If anyone could understand what she was feeling, it was Tamlin.

“Which is why we’ll face it together,” said Tamlin, green eyes wet and shining. “All of it.”

Aoide felt that frustratingly tender tug between her ribs beckoning her. She leaned into the sensation, pressing a kiss to Tamlin’s mouth, which he heartily reciprocated. In it, she hoped he could feel all the things Aoide wanted to say but couldn’t.

Not yet.

Maybe she didn’t need to say it all. Tamlin hadn’t made any grand declarations of love, either. There had been plenty of moments where she thought he might, where he seemed to be waiting for a sign that she wanted him to.

Perhaps he knew already. Could scent it on her like her arousal or her fear, and didn’t see a point in such a futile confession. She wondered which was more painful — to hold such a feeling in their hearts and never speak it, or to surrender themselves to it, knowing it would be stolen from them.

Tamlin rested forehead against her, breathing the same air as her, their hearts beating as one.

“I can hear Lucien’s very insistent foot tapping down the hall,” sighed Tamlin. “And I don’t think he has any intention of leaving before I talk to him.”

“Go, then,” said Aoide, “Before the griping begins.”

“I can hear you,” Lucien bellowed from down the hall. “And I do not gripe.”

Tamlin let out a soft snort. He pressed an all-too-brief kiss to her scarred cheek, his lips soft against the jagged skin, and stood. He crossed the room in a few long strides and gave her one last glance as he closed the door.

Before the paralyzing grief and the numbing despair could set in, Aoide stood from the bed and grabbed her fife off the desk, heading straight for the balcony. She marveled at her rosewood fife in the moonlight, admiring the fine detail work. It was the only object in her possession that she had truly earned — the only one worth keeping.

She listened to the chirping crickets and the trilling frogs, the soft ruffling of the silk curtains, and the hiss of the honeyed breeze blowing through the trees. A balm to soothe the aching void that throbbed in her chest.

Aoide thought of the composition Tamlin’s mother wrote, bittersweet and tender, and did her best to replicate it on the fife. The song she played was no more than a whisper, honoring both the mourning of her past life, and the longing for a future she feared would never come to pass. Death and rebirth, decline and renewal. A perfect accompaniment to the peaceful hum of eternal Spring.

The shadows, which twined and shuddered around her, seemed to agree.

—

We have that delicious little morsel all worked up and waiting for us, and you choose to spend your night with the fox? Pathetic.

For once, Tamlin found himself agreeing with the beast. He couldn’t deny the thrill of watching Aoide rage against her grief, hair wild and eyes wide like a feral animal. It was the same look he’d seen the night she came throttling back to him on horseback, nine males chasing after her, life and death hanging on the balance.

Gods, how he wanted to taste her. Surrender to the fury thrumming in her veins and let her do with him what she wished. He wanted to feel the lick of the inferno blazing inside of her, see how long he could last against her indomitable will, until she had him clinging to the last shred of his sanity, begging, pleading for her—

“Everything all right up there?” asked Lucien.

Tamlin sucked in a breath. The pull of Aoide’s aura hung over him, intoxicating enough that he’d wandered down the stairs and into the music room in a daze. A part of him was still in the bedroom, head cradled in the curve of her supple thighs, her fingers tangled in his hair. He rolled his shoulders back, trying to settle the hunger clawing within him.

Lucien stared at him expectantly.

“Aoide needed to work a few things out,” said Tamlin, breezing past his friend and into the music room.

Quickly, Tamlin magicked the piano away to the deepest, darkest corner of a distant pocket dimension, eager to dismiss the cursed monstrosity from view. Out of sight, but never out of mind.

Lucien’s lips thinned to a frown. It was the look of a male who carried the weight of his own father’s misdeeds as though they were chained to his soul. Tamlin supposed the three of them formed quite the miserable trio, all saddled with generations of karmic debt.

As a child, Tamlin wondered whether cruelty could be inherited. If there was something in his father’s blood that flowed through him, marking Tamlin the same way he was marked as the heir to Spring.

It had felt like a curse the first time the beast snarled in his mind, telling him to bite down on Ealar’s neck and tear out his throat, or drive his claws through Pàdair’s chest and twist until he felt his heart burst.

Tamlin remembered watching as his father beat his mother with the crystal wine decanter while his brothers shoveled venison and roasted carrots down their throats, not once looking up from their plates. The only thing that had stopped him from killing his father with his bare hands was the defeat in mother’s eyes, pleading with him to look away.

But unlike Lucien and Tamlin, who had known to fear their sires long before they could name the emotion, Aoide had loved her father. It was evident in the way she spoke about him, childlike admiration glimmering in her dark eyes. She’d been willing to play along with Jurian’s schemes to save her father from execution, only to be rewarded with betrayal.

“Is she…” Lucien trailed off, as if he thought better of the question he was going to ask. “Do you think she’s going to be okay?”

Aoide had looked so small and broken sitting across from Jurian— like a light went out within her, and all which made Aoide herself withered and fell away, leaving only a shell behind. A shadow of the female he’d come to know as intimately as the back of his hand.

Tamlin had gotten sword wounds to the gut more pleasant than seeing her like that. He could handle her anger, knew how to hone her rage into a deadly weapon, but her despair?

In all his five hundred and eleven years he’d never found a way to deal with his own anguish. He didn’t know the right things to say. If there was a right thing to say. All he could think to do was hold her tight against him and snarl at anyone who dared get close.

Mine, the beast rasped. My ma-

The sweet sound of Aoide’s fife broke the oppressive silence that settled in the music room. He couldn’t place the song that floated down the hall, airy and quiet, but something about it gnawed at him, like a half-hazy memory he struggled to recall.

Play it, she had told him all those weeks ago, when Tamlin found her in Feyre’s studio and the walls of his own grief started to close in. And as ridiculous as it sounded, it had worked.

Perhaps he didn’t need to know the right things to say. Maybe all they needed was music — to play what could not be spoken. To create something beautiful out of their shared pain and give their sorrow a greater purpose.

“We’re going to find a way through it,” said Tamlin. “Together.”

Lucien’s grim expression eased. His eyes, both golden and russet, searched Tamlin’s face with a look bordering on admiration.

“Just…tell her to go easy on the furniture,” said Lucien.

“But the frescoes are fair game?” Tamlin asked, pointing up at the blackened ceiling. “Since when have you been capable of that?”

Lucien refused to acknowledge the charred paint that flaked and floated around them, the once peaceful depiction of the lush Spring wilds and the fluffy white clouds scorched to black.

“It’s a recent development. Must be Vassa’s influence,” Lucien said, waving the question away a little too nonchalantly.

“Lucien,” Tamlin started. “The amount of magic—“

“Let’s keep to the current crisis at hand,” said Lucien.

He gave Tamlin a sharp look that compelled him to drop it. But Tamlin knew what he felt. That power…

For centuries, they’d all assumed Eris was the Cauldron-blessed heir to the Autumn Court throne. The Vanserra brood had always known their rank, and none of them dared challenge Eris to upend their stratification. They were willing to kill Lucien to improve their own stations, but taking a shot at Eris was a quick way to certain death.

Though Lucien made no attempt to hide his dislike of the eldest Vanserra, Tamlin had done his best not to piss Eris off. It had been Eris, after all, who told Tamlin to get to the border, Lucien’s brothers in hot pursuit. A kindness Tamlin was sworn never to tell Lucien, though he never understood why.

A bond in blood had formed that day. A covenant far more ancient than friendship. Kin killing was the most taboo of sins for a faerie, and as he watched Lucien draw the blade across Cedric’s neck and tasted the spray of Atlas’ blood in his mouth, Tamlin knew they would be forever linked in this shared atrocity.

An inheritance crisis between Lucien and Eris would tear Autumn apart. If Eris was using his assumed status to curry favor with the Night Court, Lucien’s claim would upend that, too.

And make Elain Archeron the future Lady of Autumn. Another pie for Rhysand to stick his finger in, another court ripe for the plucking. Whether it was Eris or Lucien who succeeded Beron, it didn’t matter. Rhysand would weasel his way in and make Autumn a shield with which to bash Spring into submission.

It all left Tamlin with one question — why then? Lucien was several centuries old and had never shown the signs of High Lord inheritance in the past. What had changed?

The look on Lucien’s face said it all. Tamlin felt the wisdom in what Jurian said only moments ago —

Do not tempt forces you do not understand. Especially not faerie magic.

“What are we going to do about Helion?” asked Tamlin.

Lucien sighed. He pulled out a chair and sat at the table, resting his head on his propped hand.

“My relationship with Helion is strictly business. I could write to Elain, instead. He seems to have a soft spot for her,” said Lucien.

Tamlin raised a brow. “And you’re content to let her live in his palace all on her own?”

Although Helion Spell-Cleaver’s lordly title was new, his reputation was well-known among the courts. He’d tempted many males and females over the centuries. Some he convinced to stray from their marital beds, and others to let him join. He was not the first High Lord to indulge in such casual liaisons, but one of the few who did it so brazenly.

“Not that sort of soft spot. Helion has some rare books on seers. He has a special interest in the Sight. Most seers came from the Day Court, before their bloodlines were nearly wiped from existence,” Lucien explained.

Tamlin had never met a seer in his five hundred and eleven years. It was a rare ability, and for good reason. It was too easy to get lost in the past or future, unmoored from the present. To wander endlessly through all that was, and all that could be. Those with particularly strong acuities were coveted by high lords, and were often the first to be killed when their predictions were found to be inaccurate.

“I thought she was cultivating orchids,” said Tamlin. “Or perhaps Rhysand has finally realized her usefulness?”

Lucien tensed. Tamlin could scent burnt antimony on the breeze and sweat forming on Lucien’s palms. It was an uncommon smell on his most loyal emissary, but not entirely foreign to Tamlin.

Lucien was hiding something.

Tamlin rounded the table and placed his palms flat against the surface. He loomed over Lucien, keeping a close ear to the sound of his heartbeat — waiting for the faint stutter of dishonesty.

“Why is Elain Archeron really at the Day Court, Lucien?” asked Tamlin. “And don’t feed me that lie about tending to the gardens.”

Lucien kept his focus in front of him, cool disinterest schooling his fine features.

“Things have been tense in the Night Court, as of late. Feyre and I—“

Lucien paused, eyeing Tamlin for a moment. Waiting for a reaction, he realized. Tamlin kept his face neutral, surprised to find that the usual wave of nausea that accompanied any mention of Feyre Archeron never came.

“We thought it was best for Elain to spend some time away, considering her…temperament,” said Lucien.

A diplomatic response, though he should have expected that. Whether Lucien was playing the role of emissary on behalf of Night or Spring, Tamlin couldn’t be sure.

“Tense?” asked Tamlin.

Lucien shifted in his seat. Slight, but noticeable. “Rhysand is growing concerned about Koschei’s influence,” said Lucien, still skirting around the truth.

“And what does that have to do with Elain Archeron?”

Lucien ran a hand down his face and for the first time all day, Tamlin noticed how tired his friend looked. It was a bone-deep exhaustion, one that casted a filmy haze upon every waking hour, blurring the lines between what was real and what was imagined. Not even sleep was a relief, for every dream turned into a nightmare.

Tamlin knew the feeling well.

“All of Elain’s visions seem to be connected to Koschei. Rhysand had her scrying to see if she could find anything useful, but Koschei can See her, too,” said Lucien.

Tamlin felt his blood still. The cool Spring breeze halted, the air growing thick and oppressive.

“All of her visions?” asked Tamlin, the words like chips of gravel in his mouth.

Lucien swallowed. “Tam-“

Tamlin felt his skin grow tight. Dense muscle and sinew stretched unpleasantly as magic coursed through every fiber of his being. The beast took to pacing the darkest corners of his mind, readying itself.

“The visions Elain had about Aoide…” Tamlin breathed. “You knew.”

Lucien paled. “Let me explain.”

Traitor, the beast growled.

Tamlin gripped the edge of the table, his body trembling, straining to keep itself within his high fae form. Cracks formed in the table, spidering out in every direction, as though the wood had been struck by lightning.

“You knew Aoide was implicated in Koschei’s schemes. That’s why Jurian and Vassa were here today,” Tamlin growled, his voice like the boom of a cannon.

Lucien pushed off the table, his chair skittering behind him as he stood. Embers danced on the edge of his fingers as Lucien shored up his own power. Tamlin could feel how deep the well of his magic ran, and his own responded in kind.

“I suspected,” Lucien said. “But I didn’t know how she was involved. Today proved those suspicions were correct, but I didn’t think—“

“Did Jurian and Vassa know about these suspicions?” snarled Tamlin. “Or did you betray them, too?”

Lucien’s face flickered. “I told them only what they needed to know.”

I’ll do as any good emissary would. I’ll tell Rhysand precisely when he needs to know.

Tamlin felt the cold, sharp clarity of truth settle within him, like a blade slipping between his ribs and piercing right through his heart.

His clawed fist gripped the front of Lucien’s shirt. “And what about Rhysand?”

Lucien remained silent, but the guilt etched into his face said it all.

Pure animal instinct took over as Tamlin drove his friend’s back against the wall, pinning him in place. Lucien let out a huff of surprise, stunned by the quickness with which Tamlin had moved on him, but made no attempts to fight it.

“You told him about Aoide. That’s how he found her. That’s why he violated her godsdamned mind—“

“He gave me his word that she wouldn’t be harmed,” Lucien said, biting down on the words as though they pained him.

Liar, the beast roared.

“And you believed him?” Tamlin snarled between his clenched teeth. “I hope you had a good fucking reason.”

“I did it for Elain,” Lucien roared, his voice crackling like a forest fire.

Tamlin loosened his grip at the sound of rage and despair in Lucien’s voice, heat radiating from his skin as if the sun itself burned within him.

“Elain was scrying day and night. She wasn’t sleeping. Wasn’t eating,” Lucien said between ragged breaths. “She said she could feel Koschei waiting for her in her dreams.”

Tamlin felt Lucien begin to tremble, though he wasn’t sure if it was from fear or fury.

“She’s my mate,” Lucien said, his voice breaking. “I couldn’t just let her waste away. I thought if I told Rhysand about Aoide, maybe he could figure out Koschei’s plans without using Elain.”

“Why lie to me?” asked Tamlin.

“Because I knew you’d do anything to protect Aoide,” said Lucien. “Sacrifice anything to keep her out of Rhysand’s grasp.”

Tamlin felt his anger fizzle out. He let go of Lucien, letting his feet thunk to the floor. Lucien’s knees wobbled for a moment before he rebounded.

He wasn’t wrong. Tamlin would have never agreed to let Rhysand rifle through Aoide’s mind. He’d done everything in his power to shield Aoide from the truth of the piano, from becoming another pawn in a centuries-long plot for total domination.

But it seemed fate, or the Mother, or whatever cosmic force decided such things had a different plan in store.

What would he have done if Rhysand had found something buried within Aoide’s mind? If Aoide was not just implicated in Koschei’s schemes, but a willing participant? To what end would Tamlin go to keep her safe?

To whatever end was necessary, the beast chuffed.

Tamlin shivered at the thought.

“When it became clear that Aoide didn’t know anything, I begged Feyre to send Elain away for her own good, and she agreed. Helion offered to help Elain. They’re trying to find a way to shield her from Koschei’s awareness. If Elain gets near that piano — if she sees Aoide…” Lucien trailed off. “It could undo the progress she’s made.”

“We don’t have a choice, Lucien,” said Tamlin.

“I know that now,” murmured Lucien. “But can you blame me for trying?”

There was no sign of his usual bravado, no cunning grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. Lucien was a fox in a trap, and yet he’d still managed to play them all against one another for Elain’s sake.

He’d done it for his mate. Tamlin despised that Aoide had gotten swept up in it, but he couldn’t fault the male who had stood by his side as he did far worse in the name of love.

“And if we find out something useful from our meeting with Helion? Will you be reporting it to Rhysand?” asked Tamlin.

“That depends,” Lucien said, drawing his shoulders back. “If we discover something that can keep Elain safe, I won’t hesitate to do what is necessary.”

So the fox grew a spine, the beast hummed. At least we know where his true allegiance stands.

“Make the meeting with Helion,” Tamlin gruffed, striding past Lucien and down the hall.

“Tam, wait—“

“I think it’s best you leave now, Lucien,” Tamlin said as he swung open the front door.

Lucien looked as though he’d been slapped. He slunk toward the door, but paused in the threshold.

“I’m not going to apologize for what I did,” said Lucien as he glanced over his shoulder, gold eye whirring.

“I’m not asking you to,” said Tamlin.

Lucien gave him a curt nod, but remained in the doorway a moment longer. “You should tell Aoide.”

“Tell her what, exactly?” asked Tamlin.

“How you feel about her,” said Lucien, as if it were obvious. “Before it’s too late.”

“Have you told Elain?” Tamlin shot back.

Lucien let out a bitter huff of laughter.

“Touché,” he muttered, before winking out of existence.

Tamlin lingered in the empty foyer, restlessness settling in his bones. From his pocket, he pulled out Aoide’s triptych. The glass had been shattered, but the paintings beneath remained untouched. He ran a finger over her portrait, down her rosy cheek, her sly smile, her curtain of raven black hair.

He thought of Not-Aoide from his jimsonweed hallucination — her scarless face and the black smoke that curled from the wound in her chest. A chill ran through him at the memory of her terror, how she clung to him and begged him to stay.

Tamlin removed Aoide’s portrait from the frame and tucked it in his breast pocket. He stowed the other portraits away for safe keeping in the same pocket dimension as the piano.

Silently, he climbed the stairs and crept into the bedroom. Aoide was sprawled out, still half-dressed in her chemise as if she’d collapsed on the bed and fell asleep instantly. Carefully, he slid beneath the sheets and stroked her cheek.

Lucien wasn’t the only male willing to burn the world down for the female he loved. Tamlin just hoped they found themselves on the same side when it all went to hell.

Chapter Text

Lounging in the long, cool shadow of the late Spring afternoon, Aoide watched Tamlin sail across the sky. His blue-grey feathers ruffled as he dove through slow moving clouds, his speed made only more impressive by the graceful way he arced overhead.

She could watch him fly for hours, his small body free from all the forces that kept her earthbound. What she wouldn’t give to be up there beside him, all their problems and worries far below, and only an endless expanse of blue ahead of them. Why he chose any form other than a peregrine, or a lark, or a starling was beyond her.

Tamlin had insisted they take a day to clear their heads before visiting Phineas. He’d grumbled something about reminding Jurian that faerie High Lords were not at the beck and call of some petulant human — not even five hundred year old war heroes. Aoide was too ashamed to admit that she was grateful for the suggestion, if only to allow her to delay the inevitable for a few more hours.

The paralyzing look of defeat mixed with utter disappointment on Phineas’ face as Aoide stormed out of the cottage had plagued her dreams. How would he react when she told him that her father was a faerie death god’s crony? That her mother may have been a part of his dealings? Anyone in their right mind would find the story absurd. She could hardly believe it herself, had it not been for the way Queen Vassa had crumpled when she heard her father’s name.

Aoide wished she could take to the skies and flap her wings once, twice, and glide on the updraft, shrugging off her mortal life once and for all. But Aoide had already tried to outrun the past, and all it had done was trample over the people she left in her wake. No matter what she did, trouble grew ever closer, biting at the back of her heels like a rabid dog.

Leaves rustled above her, a few floating and falling around her. Aoide looked up, expecting to find two lidless green eyes peering back at her. Instead, she found Tamlin in his high fae form, one leg dangling as he sat against the trunk. The spindly branches of the willow tree creaked under the weight of his flawless, hulking body. The sight of his chiseled stomach and the fine blonde hairs that trailed below the waist of his pants never failed to make her blush.

His curtain of gold spun hair shined in the sun-dappled light, making her breath catch in her throat. She ignored the way her stomach lurched at his effortless beauty.

“You’re hovering,” Aoide said, her voice sing-song.

“I’m just checking in,” said Tamlin.

Aoide lightly rolled her eyes. “And as I told you the last three times, I’m fine.”

Tamlin’s lips pulled into a thin, straight line. It was his subtle way of calling her bluff, though he didn’t push her on it. He slipped from the tree branch and silently landed on his feet, a surprising achievement considering his brawn.

He settled next to her, nestling between her and the willow tree.

“What are you working on?” asked Tamlin, pointing to the mess of parchment cradled in her lap.

“I’m taking another pass at your mother’s composition,” said Aoide.

Several passes, if she was being honest. Iris’ music book had been helpful, but there were still sections that made little sense to her. Movements that would be nearly impossible to play without sprouting a third hand.

Something had clicked as she played the song on the fife the night before, but Aoide struggled to articulate it on the page. Every time she got close to cracking the code, the thought seemed to flit away from her.

Tamlin plucked one of the pieces of parchment, squinting his eyes before handing it back to her.

“Sorry I can’t be of more help.”

“Your mother really never taught you to read music?” asked Aoide.

He shifted, nudging her foot with his own. “She didn’t teach me to play, either. I learned from the males in the war band. I didn’t see her much after I was old enough to hold a sword.”

Tamlin seldom spoke of the past, and even less of his mother. Aoide never pressed him on it, mostly because the faraway look in his eyes made her chest ache. Neither of them were strangers to the feeling of an old wound being prodded, and Aoide wasn’t eager to put him through that pain.

But something had changed between them last night — another hidden door opened, another glimpse of what could be, if only one of them was brave enough to cross the threshold.

“Do you miss them? Your family, I mean,” she asked, as delicately as possible.

“I…” Tamlin trailed off. He opened his mouth, then promptly closed it.

“I didn’t mean to pry—“

Tamlin wrapped his fingers around hers and squeezed lightly. “It’s okay.”

A breath huffed out of Tamlin as he turned his face upward, sunlight warming his honey complexion.

“Would you think me cruel if I told you I’ve tried to forget them?”

The words came soft and quiet, no more than a whisper, but they sunk like an anchor plunging into a wine dark sea.

Hadn’t she done the same when she first arrived in the Mortal Lands? She would have preferred to blot the past from her mind, leave only a dark hole where her memory used to be. Anything to forget her family, and the shame that threatened to wrap around her throat and squeeze until she couldn’t breathe.

“No,” she murmured.

“I didn’t shed a tear for my father or my brothers when they died. They got what they deserved. Vengeance for a blood feud they started because my father grew too old and too fearful. But my mother-“

Aoide watched the words catch in his throat, the thick cords of muscle tensing. She stared at his profile, admiring the angle of his straight nose, the curve of his strong jaw. A form so perfect that she was certain it had been crafted by the hands of that fearsome faerie goddess herself.

His emerald eyes burned with hatred, then went flat and empty.

“I’m sorry,” said Aoide.

It was all she could muster. A paltry offering.

“It was a long time ago,” said Tamlin. He cleared his throat and turned his face to meet her stare. “And a story for another day.”

Aoide drew in closer and cupped his cheek, the scruff on his cheeks scratching against her skin. Tamlin turned his face and kissed the inside of her wrist, his lips lingering on the pulse point.

“Play me something,” he murmured, looking at Aoide through his hooded eyelids.

Her stomach flipped. “What do you want to hear?” asked Aoide, voice gone breathy.

Tamlin dropped her hand. He shuffled the parchment on her lap into a neat stack, and handed them to Aoide. In their place, he rested his head.

“Play me what you’ve got so far,” he said, his verdant stare filling her chest with the feeling of a hundred butterflies flapping their wings.

Aoide took in the scent of honeysuckle. Focused on the feeling of the dewy grass tickling her bare ankles, the sight of Tamlin’s hair splayed across her lap, the strands curling like streams of warm honey. Once her mind was settled, she took a small breath in and brought the fife to her lips.

She did not fret over the parts of the song she did not know. Let herself fill in the blanks with what felt right. Tamlin began to hum, the low bass of his voice the perfect accompaniment to the airy fife.

The world beyond the willow tree ceased to exist. They were in a universe of their own — where there were no ghosts of the past haunting them, no villains knocking at the door. Just her and Tamlin, enjoying the shade of the willow, surrounded by the tranquil sound of birdsong and the trickling creek.

She felt Tamlin turn his head, burying his face in her lap. He pressed a kiss to the curve of her thighs, his mouth warm through the cotton of her day dress.

Human.

Aoide stuttered, her breath catching as a voice, mild and sweet, whispered in her ear. Like the wind was singing along with her tune.

Tamlin’s hand drifted beneath her gown, his fingers tracing the seam between her thighs. Slowly, they travelled upward, swirling across her skin like smoke from an extinguished flame.

Healer.

Another whisper. The gentle breeze blew the short locks of her hair back and kissed the nape of her neck. The lick of cool air sent a shiver down her spine.

Tamlin’s fingers skimmed the edge of her undergarments, toying with the hem. Aoide gasped into the fife, the sound thin and whispy from her sloppy embouchure. She pulled the fife away from her mouth, her back arching against the base of the willow tree.

“Tamlin-“

“Keep playing,” Tamlin ordered, not bothering to lift his head, which was burrowed in her skirts. Aoide felt her heart squeeze at the gruffness in his voice.

The breeze picked up. Aoide lifted the fife to her mouth once again. Tamlin’s fingers drifted to her center, rubbing firm but languid circles over her undergarments. Heat began to pool between her legs as he pressed his middle and forefinger to the small bundle of nerves, blood coursing southward.

The willow leaves trembled, echoing the hiss of pleasure that passed through her lips.

Music-maker.

A finger slipped beneath her undergarments. Tamlin gave her a teasing stroke before parting her. The moment his fingers felt her slick core, he let out a low groan. Aoide bit down on the rosewood fife, stifling her moan.

“Gods, Aoide,” murmured Tamlin, his voice muffled by her skirts. “I could eat you alive.”

His teeth clamped down on her thigh, sharp canines digging into her tender flesh through the fabric of her dress. Aoide’s yelp rang through the fife, a sharp whistle that made Tamlin chuckle.

The wind whipped across the gentle hills, blowing the grass flat. The willow groaned, its sprawling branches threatening to splinter. Above, birds sought shelter from the vortex that threatened to blow them off course.

The current of wind sucked the air from Aoide’s lungs and left her gasping as she tried to get a breath down. Tamlin’s strokes became relentless, and all Aoide could do was give herself over to their steady rhythm.

“Tamlin,” she managed to pant out. “I-“

“Not yet,” Tamlin rasped, withdrawing his fingers. “I want to taste you as you finish for me.”

He kneeled between her splayed legs. With one swift tear, he pulled her free from her undergarments and tossed the shreds of cotton aside. For one long moment, all he did was stare at her exposed center, eyes glazed with a predatory lust.

“Well?” Aoide breathed. “Are you going to put that mouth of yours to use? Or perhaps the beast is all talk—“

Tamlin let loose a growl, his broad back curling forward. He slipped his palms beneath the curve of her rear and brought her hips to his mouth, as if he meant to drink her like a glass of faerie wine.

One swipe from the flat of his tongue and Aoide nearly lost it. A second lick, and she was crying out, so close to the crest of her orgasm it pained her—

In the distance, branches crackled. Tamlin was on his feet, claws drawn in silent alarm before Aoide could make sense of the sound. Her mind reeled at the sudden change in her position, her back flat against the hard ground.

“Show yourself,” Tamlin roared, loud enough that the earth quaked under his feet in response.

A form appeared from the forest thicket. A slice of pure midnight, coat glimmering in the afternoon sun like stars in the night sky.

And out into the clearing trotted Hal’s horse.

—

The gelding was a near-perfect specimen. Strong and well-tempered, its dark almond eyes held a certain intelligence that even the beast could not deny.

A fine steed, it hummed in admiration.

“I can’t believe he made it all this way,” Aoide said under her breath. She the horse a pet between the eyes. It nudged her hand in reply, knickering softly.

Slowly, Tamlin circled the horse. The steed looked no worse for wear. There were small sores forming where the saddle chafed, but Tamlin quickly remedied that with a touch of his hands. The horse gave a kick, but quickly mellowed as Tamlin removed the saddle and tossed it to the side.

“Hal was right about you,” Aoide said, speaking softly to the gentle beast. “You are the best horse in the cavalry.”

“This is the horse you were riding that night,” said Tamlin.

The image of Aoide clinging to his strong neck roused the beast. Tamlin would never forget the sight of it — how it made his heart pound hard enough he thought his ribs might crack.

“Yes,” said Aoide. “After Sigurd bucked me, he ran off. I guess he’s been wandering around Spring since then.”

“You rode him like a maniac,” said Tamlin.

Aoide tossed her head back, laughing. “I rode him like a fool. It was the first time I’d ever been on a horse.”

“What?” Tamlin growled. “That spineless human put you on a horse and sent you off—“

“Hal wanted to whisk me off to goodness knows where with a wedding band on my finger,” said Aoide. “The foolish escape plan was my idea.”

Soft rebuke rang in her voice. A demand to back down, Tamlin realized.

“You could have died,” he grumbled.

“Could have,” Aoide said with a smirk. “But didn’t.”

Tamlin couldn’t fathom what it would felt like if she did. If the beast had come roaring past the border to find her flung from her horse, neck at an odd angle, dark eyes gone blank in the same way Feyre’s had as Amarantha brought the heel of her shoe down again, again—

It took a moment for the pain in his chest to subside enough to draw breath.

Thank the Goddess she was alive. There with him, despite the forces threatening to tear them apart — despite her own mortality. The ever ticking clock, reminding Tamlin just how little time they had.

Don’t make my mistake, Lucien had told him. Don’t waste a minute of it.

He looked down at Aoide. His beautiful, clever, and endlessly troublesome Aoide. Try as he might, he could find no fault with her. No fire of rage left to burn through him, demanding the world bend to its will.

Tamlin knew he should be upset at her for being so reckless. Perhaps, if they had a a few centuries together, he would waste a couple days being cross with her. Huff and puff, like arrogant males so often did when they were reminded how powerless they truly were.

But Tamlin didn’t have the privilege of being mad at Aoide for things that had not come to pass. There was far too much ahead of them, and so little time to do it.

Before she could protest, Tamlin scooped her up and sat her atop the horse. She yelped, her legs tightening around the noble beast. Tamlin couldn’t help but laugh at her suprise, delighted by the sound of it.

“What are you doing?” she huffed, grasping at his shoulders to steady herself.

Tamlin grabbed her hands, guiding them to Sigurd’s neck for stability. “Teaching you how to ride the right way.”

“The right way?” asked Aoide, head cocked in question.

“Bareback.”

Aoide flushed, and Tamlin could scent her body warming with arousal once again. Her face grew redder, the blush traveling down her neck. A sight Tamlin would never tire of.

“I just had my tongue inside of you, and that’s what makes you blush?” asked Tamlin. “The mere thought of riding me?”

“Not so much the riding, but the idea of you teaching me how you like it,” said Aoide. “Talking me through it.”

Gods, this woman.

Tamlin set his jaw. A desperate attempt to keep the desire to smirk at bay. If she saw so much as a twitch, Aoide would pounce on it. And he’d be all too willing to show her exactly how he liked it.

“You have a filthy mind, Miss Achlys,” he said, doing his best to sound cold and disinterested.

From the smug look on Aoide’s face, she didn’t buy it for one moment.

“Lucky for you, then, that you benefit from it,” Aoide said, voice purring with trouble. “And for your information, High Lord, I’ve never gotten any complaints on my technique before,” she added with a wink.

“This is serious,” said Tamlin, tone as dry as bone, a contrast to the wolfish grin he could no longer suppress.

Aoide arched a brow. “So am I.”

How much longer will you be able to stand it, asked the beast. To deny us our ma—

Tamlin gave the beast a quick, forceful shove into the darkest recesses of his mind. Without another thought, he pressed a hand to Aoide’s back and she straightened in reply, drawing her shoulders together under his touch.

“Back straight,” said Tamlin. “Your legs are the only thing keeping you astride, so you’ll need to keep a good grip around him.”

He made some adjustments to her positioning, taking his time to ensure her form was solid. Tamlin heard Aoide’s heart jump at his every touch, though her face remained passive as Tamlin stepped away to inspect her.

Something riled within him at the sight of her atop her midnight steed, her chin held proud and aloft, like an angel of death about to ride into battle to claim the souls of the dying. Aoide looked at him from the corner of her eye, danger glinting in their endless depths.

The look of a female who males went to war for. A female whole armies were willing to die for.

“Enjoying the view?” she asked.

“Hold onto his mane,” said Tamlin, ignoring her jab. “Lightly,” he amended.

Aoide obeyed, though not without giving him a look that made him burn with want for her.

“Start with a walk,” said Tamlin, unable to keep his voice from going husky.

With two quick squeezes of her thighs, the horse moved forward. Aoide lurched, nearly falling after a few steps. Before she could tumble, Tamlin halted Sigurd.

“You’re tensing,” said Tamlin. “Keep your back straight, but stay loose.”

“Straight, but loose,” she muttered. “Because that’s helpful.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a terrible student?” asked Tamlin.

Aoide’s slight scowl turned to a grin. “Only every piano teacher I ever had.”

He could see it in his mind. A young, precocious Aoide, her hair still long and cheek unscarred, just like in the portrait he kept close to his heart.

“I pity those poor souls,” Tamlin responded, adjusting her posture with a touch to her low back. The softness in his voice betrayed his stoicism.

She rolled her eyes. “They were paid a handsome enough stipend to deal with me,” said Aoide.

“Perhaps you needed a stronger hand to guide you,” challenged Tamlin. “Keep you on your best behavior.”

Tamlin couldn’t resist giving her backside a pinch. Aoide twitched, quickly reigning in her squeak. She turned to him, trouble glinting in her eyes.

Two can play at that game, her stare seemed to say.

She leaned forward, peering down at Tamlin through her dark lashes. Everything within him roared to pull her off that damned horse and finish what they had started under the willow tree.

Her voice cooed, dripping like hot candle wax on bare flesh.

“Then why don’t you put those strong hands of yours to use and—“

Tamlin gave Sigurd a strong pat on the rear, sending him forward in a sudden trot. Aoide kept herself perfectly aloft, her hips moving with every roll and dip like a ship riding a wave.

And as that self-satisfied smirk graced her perfect mouth, he directed a gust of wind to send the skirts of her dress fluttering, and a cool breeze to kiss that delicious rear of hers. Right where her skin had reddened from his pinch.

The sound Aoide made — half-shriek, half riotous giggle — had his blood singing in his veins.

“I’m going to get you back for that!” Aoide shouted.

Laughter bubbled out of Tamlin like a fount. “You’ll have to keep up with me, then.”

The shift to his peregrine form was smooth. His body had grown used to taking the form after the last few weeks. He couldn’t deny that he had a preference for falcons, enjoying the feeling of cutting through the crisp air like a hot knife through butter. The distance helped clear his mind, and the cold breeze soothed whatever embers of rage still kindled within him from time to time.

With a few easy flaps of his wings, Tamlin took to the skies. The ride he had in mind wasn’t long, but it would be a challenge for a new rider — though he knew Aoide enjoyed being kept on her toes.

Tamlin kept ahead of Aoide, but never allowed the updraft to drag him from her sight. She kept pace with relative ease, and despite a few stumbles, she managed to follow without major incident. He swelled with pride at her finesse, the determination in the little line that formed between her dark eyebrows as she focused on the path ahead.

It never ceased to amaze Tamlin how capable she was — this fragile, fearless little mortal. How her softness betrayed the strength within her, made all those around her underestimate the power she held. Like a blade, she only sharpened against the whetstone of adversity, never backing down from a challenge.

And looked damn good while doing it.

The clearing wasn’t far from the manor, and equidistant to the largest of the resettled villages. Tamlin had scouted it on one of his morning patrols, and immediately set to razing and leveling the land. The ground was fertile, the loamy soil perfect for a small garden of medicinal herbs and flowers. A small creek cut through the land, its clear running waters filled with silver minnows and croaking frogs.

But his favorite feature was the oak tree. Its wide, gnarled trunk was several arm-widths across, wizened from centuries of slow, arduous growth. It was one of the oldest trees in Spring, its roots deep and strong, spreading over several miles and into the forest thicket beyond the clearing.

Tamlin caught a gust of wind that sent him spiraling downward. Aoide tugged Sigurd to a stop and cupped a hand over her eyes, watching his descent. It thrilled him to feel her eyes on him, watching with silent wonder.

As his talons grazed the curling grass, Tamlin shifted. His body sighed in relief at the release of pressure. Silently, he helped Aoide down from Sigurd, who meandered toward a patch of sweet grass and indulged in the warm breeze after a long ride.

Tamlin watched as Aoide took in the peaceful, sloping landscape, her dark brows drawn together in confusion.

“You brought me to a field,” said Aoide. “A beautiful one, but…why are we here, exactly?”

It was a rare treat to have the upper hand. Too often did Tamlin find himself at Aoide’s mercy. And though he’d always found enjoyment relinquishing control, there was a different sort of pleasure in making her squirm.

Tamlin couldn’t resist dragging out her confusion for a bit longer. He paced the cleared field, fists tucked behind his back.

“It’s an ideal location. We’d have no trouble digging a well. The soil is fecund, and the location is central to both the manor and the villages,” said Tamlin.

Aoide was silent. Her dark eyes searched him.

Tamlin continued on, unable to suppress a smile.

“I was thinking the hearth would be placed here,” he said, tracing the area with his foot. “And a private room for patients to the right. The garden would do well here, in the front. The creek bed is far enough away to prevent flooding.”

Aoide blinked rapidly. “You…”

She cleared her throat. Aoide looked away, but Tamlin could smell the salt of tears gathering in her eyes. It gave him pause — not the reaction he’d expected or hoped for.

In three long strides, Tamlin was next to her. He gathered her shoulders in his hands, forcing Aoide to look at him. Anything to quell the sinking feeling in his gut.

“I’ve upset you,” he said, regretting the surprise. “It‘s too much, isn’t it?”

“No,” Aoide said, voice cracking. “I just…didn’t expect this.” She looked up at him, tears welling and racing down her cheeks. “I didn’t think it would come to pass.”

Perhaps Tamlin was getting ahead of himself. There was no guarantee of the future. Everything that lay ahead of them seemed only to point to disaster.

Perhaps he didn’t care.

He’d spent five hundred years too afraid of what was to come. Had let joy slip through his fingers because he was terrified to hold on to anything good. What had it gotten him?

“I told you,” said Tamlin, holding back his own tears. “We’ll face it all together.”

Aoide let out a huff of breath and wiped the tears from her face. “Do you really think the faeries would accept me as a healer?”

“It would be rather arrogant for them to begrudge the healer who saved their High Lord twice,” said Tamlin.

A smile cut across her face, bright and sharp.

“A horse and a cottage,” said Aoide, dreamily. “Now I just need to make my own coin.”

Something swelled within his chest — a mix of pride and…hope. Hope that this time, he could defy the odds. This time, the good things would be here to stay.

“There’s one thing you’ve forgotten, though,” said Aoide, slipping from his grasp.

Slowly, she traced the outline of the cottage, pacing the space that would soon be hers — her home.

“Oh?”

Aoide ceased her steps. When she turned, there was only mischief to be found on her tear-stained face.

“The bedroom, of course.”

Mother above.

“I haven’t forgotten,” said Tamlin, voice tight, the seam of his pants tighter.

“Good,” said Aoide, her warm skin flushed. “It would be an awful shame to let those riding lessons go to waste.”

“Practice makes perfect,” growled Tamlin.

Unable to resist any longer, he launched himself at her and sent them both tumbling into the grass.

Chapter Text

Aoide despised winter.

Heavy, wet flakes of snow clung to the barren trees and turned the horizon into a slurry of grey. It had been early Autumn when she left, the land still blanketed in rich hues of gold and red. Now, the forest was eerily still and skeletal, a husk of what it once was.

The few weeks Aoide spent in eternal Spring spoiled her. She was ill-prepared for the ride to Phineas’ cottage. If it hadn’t been for the warm current of air Tamlin magicked, Aoide was certain she would have frozen to death on the ride to the border.

Tamlin sailed on the frigid breeze, green eyes focused ahead. His grey-feathered body was barely visible among the clouds, inured to the hostile winds and sleet. He’d insisted Aoide make the journey by horseback to familiarize herself with the path.

“Just in case,” Tamlin told her.

Just in case, because Bel received reports of dead sentries left at the Autumn Court border, charred arrows through each of their eyes. The three unlucky souls had been missing since the breach on Samhain, sent into the wilds to track Eris Vanserra.

Bel arrived at the manor without her usual cadre of foot soldiers in tow, her pea flower complexion wan.

“No signs of torture,” she reported.

“A small mercy,” Fabian murmured.

If fire arrows through the eyes were the Autumn Court’s idea of mercy, Aoide didn’t want to know what brutality looked like to the fae.

An emergency council meeting was called at the manor. Bel and Fabian spent the night hunched over a map of the border, moving wooden figurines around in futility. Amun made sure all three sentries were given proper burial rights and Selene brought the news to their wives and children. Both returned to the manor weary and quiet.

Tamlin stood stony-faced in the corner and listened as Bel and Fabian bickered. There was little they could do to keep the border protected. No amount of reshuffling the figurines would get them what they really needed—a militia twice the size of Spring’s current retinue.

Aoide kept quiet as she wrapped her mind around troop movements and defensible areas, how long it would take for assistance from Summer to arrive, whether there was any chance in hell they’d be willing to help.

Never once did Tamlin order her to leave. “If you’re going to be part of this council, then you’ll need to know these things,” he told her.

It was what she should have been doing in Neva. Working with the rebels instead of spending her nights drunk in some flophouse. She could have been useful—fed them information plied from the loose lips of suitors and society ladies, or found sympathetic nobles with enough gold to support the rebellion.

Hal never asked those things of her. She got the sense that Hal’s connections with the rebellion were only made with mutual benefit in mind. He needed a place to live, they needed someone to print their broadsheets.

Aoide couldn’t stand to see Spring razed by a cruel male on a power trip. Though Aoide knew nothing of war, it was clear that Spring would suffer too many losses if Autumn attacked. They were unprepared in every sense of the word. Their only chance of survival was to convince Beron that an attack on Spring would cost Autumn more than they were willing to sacrifice.

The grim look on Tamlin’s face told Aoide that there was little cause for hope. If the unimaginable happened, Aoide would do what she could. Perhaps her efforts would prove just as fruitless as Bel and Fabian moving wooden figurines across a map, but it was better than doing nothing.

“We should ready healing supplies. Sanitary gauze, cleansing solutions, tinctures for pain relief,” Aoide suggested.

It was the first and only contribution she made the whole night, and the one time Tamlin looked at her with something other than despair.

“We can organize a group of healers in the village to help,” said Selene.

“There are few healers left in Spring,” Amun said quietly. “Even less with healing magic.”

The horror settled heavy on her shoulders. Aoide hadn’t seen battle wounds before. Shattered legs, broken arms, a few lost fingers, but never severed limbs or disembowelment. The closest to war camp healing she’d come was the night Phineas shot Tamlin.

The sheer amount of blood—the way he cried out her name as she pulled the barbed bolt through his muscled thigh with all her strength—

Her hands hadn’t stopped shaking.

She’d been grateful to get off manor grounds, a temporary respite from the dread hanging over Spring. Aoide soon regretted her haste as Tamlin hurtled into the copse of trees, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

The metallic zing of magic burned her nose. Tamlin’s shift from falcon to High Fae was too quick for her to detect. It always made the breath catch in her throat as he stood before her, the mite of his presence making some small, human part of her tremble.

His magic was growing more potent by the day. Power radiated from Tamlin like the pluck of a double bass. Even with her dull human senses, Aoide could feel it. Sometimes, she could have sworn she saw it, a faint golden glow like a halo around his head.

“What’s happened?” asked Aoide.

Tamlin frowned. He helped her down off Sigurd, one arm wrapped around her waist. “It’s that male,” he said. “It seems he’s been living with your uncle.”

Relief, then guilt flashed through her.

That male. Hal had stayed in the Mortal Lands. She supposed he didn’t have much of a choice. He’d slipped Salazar’s leash. Any questions from Salazar on how his men failed would surely expose Hal’s treachery. Returning to Neva might as well be a death sentence.

“You know his name,” Aoide lightly chided. “The plan remains the same.”

“Like hell it does,” said Tamlin. “I’m coming with you.”

Aoide rolled her eyes. “So you can glower at him? This isn’t an interrogation.”

The corner of Tamlin’s mouth quirked upward. As smooth as the icy floes floating down the creek, he slid his hand down her back and pulled her close.

“I thought you liked my glowering,” he murmured.

Aoide lifted her chin. “Are you jealous, High Lord?”

Tamlin drew his face close, eyes searching her own. “Would you like me to be, Aoide?”

She shrugged. “Perhaps.”

Tamlin’s smirk bloomed into a feral grin. “I suggest you run along now. Before I haul you back to my bed and do things to you that would make another male’s touch feel woefully inadequate.”

He slipped from her grasp like the breeze moving through the barren oaks. Aoide watched Tamlin catch the updraft, circling far above her as a falcon once again. Need keened in her blood, a song that never hit its crescendo. The burden of that desire rode her, a tension she couldn’t seem to ease. A nagging feeling, like forgetting the name of an old friend or losing a tooth and prodding the emptiness with her tongue.

Sigured tossed his head back, as if he knew his beloved master was near. She led the night-black mare through the thicket, the path to the cottage still familiar despite the naked trees and ankle-deep snow.

It was near-dusk by the time Aoide spotted the cottage. The windows were dark and the curtains tightly drawn, but smoke curled from the chimney in steady puffs. A gentle current of air nudged Aoide forward, signaling it was all clear ahead.

Using his wind magic had become a habit of Tamlin’s—a cool breeze when she was hot, or a warm gust after she got out of the bath. A kiss on her cheek as he flew out the balcony window each morning, or a swipe of the hair that fell in her eyes as she played piano. It gave her enough courage to cross the clearing, knowing what she must do.

Jurian wanted information. Aoide did, too. If she could give Jurian what he wanted, get him to trust her, it would give Spring leverage. Jurian was a legendary general with a growing militia at his disposal, but they stood no chance against Autumn alone. Their closest human allies were a sea away. They’d never make it in time if Autumn attacked.

Spring served as a useful buffer. If Jurian was as savvy as the history books made him sound, he’d see it was in his best interest it stayed that way. Perhaps there were other faerie territories capable of keeping Autumn in check, but were they willing to go to war?

Fresh snow crunched beneath Aoide’s feet. The curtains ruffled as she approached the cottage and before she could knock, the front door flew open.

Hal’s face was bone-white. Dark stubble dotted his cheeks and his curly hair was askew. Aoide recognized the shirt he wore as her uncle’s, the sleeves a bit too short.

“What the hell are you—“

Hal stopped short at the sight of Sigurd. His midnight steed flicked his tail, pleased at the sight of his old master.

“Is that any way to greet the best horse in the cavalry?” Aoide said.

Hal blinked, then quickly rebounded. His hand, more metal and wood than bone and flesh, landed heavy on her shoulder. The finely crafted fingers were surprisingly dexterous as they yanked her inside, black dust staining her dress.

“You shouldn’t be here,” said Hal.

She did her best not to gawk at Phineas’ work. The metal sprockets and levers mimicked the small muscles and tendons, a significant improvement from the purely cosmetic prostheses. It must have cost a fortune to obtain the parts.

With great effort, Hal removed his mechanical hand from her shoulder. One of the mechanisms caught on her dress and left a small tear.

“Where’s Phineas?” asked Aoide.

Hal shifted on his feet. “He’s in the village seeing patients.”

Phineas was late. Her uncle would never risk the long, cold walk back in the dark unless it was absolutely necessary.

Aoide pulled out a chair and sat at the table. “I’ll wait.”

“Are you sure that’s a good—“

“It’s about my father.”

The wind groaned and rattled the windows. Hal looked as if he was going to be sick. He grabbed two glasses from the hutch near the hearth and the bottle of brandy her uncle kept stowed away.

“If you’ve come here with plans of trying to rescue him from Salazar’s clutches, then save your breath. It’s not possible,” said Hal.

“As far as I’m concerned, that’s where he belongs,” said Aoide.

The words hurt coming out. Like a whip cracking against flesh, they seemed to wound Hal too, who flinched at the coldness with which she said them.

“No one belongs there,” said Hal grimly.

She supposed Hal knew that all too well. They both did. Aoide ignored the hungry, black void in her chest and the way it seemed to swell at her self-inflicted misery.

Aoide looked away from Hal to the mess of parchment on the table. Half-finished pastorals, scrawled portraits—a poor imitation of what his work used to be. She hated herself for thinking it, even more so for her part in it.

“You may think differently,” said Aoide, voice hoarse, “After I tell you what he’s done.”

Aoide told him the bare minimum—that her father was involved with smugglers and the Queen of Scythia had gotten tangled in his web. Any information she could offer would be the first step in securing an alliance between the Mortal Lands and Spring. If they failed, Autumn would annihilate them both.

Hal stared at the fire roaring in the hearth, two fingers of brandy left untouched. The reflection of the fire danced in his unblinking eyes. He remained that way for several minutes before he came back to himself.

“Salazar was right, then. The faeries were never going to sit idly by while the humans lived freely,” said Hal.

“That doesn’t give him the right to torture his own people.”

Hal’s eyes flickered with rage. “I never said it did.”

Aoide tried and failed to banish the memory of Hal’s mangled hands from her mind. What had Hal done to gain Salazar’s trust so quickly? The thought made Aoide’s stomach lurch.

“I lied, you know,” said Hal. “When you asked me why I came to rescue you.”

In the distance, the sharp caw of a falcon sang on the wind. One whistle in return and Tamlin would come barreling through the front door.

“Why, then?” Aoide asked.

“I wanted to see you alive. I knew you were, but I needed to see you for myself,” Hal whispered. “I thought…that night, I was certain that you…”

Hal shuddered. He drained his glass and grimaced. One whiff of the spirit was enough to tell Aoide it was not brewed for enjoyment, rather to numb the pains of Phineas’ patients before he re-set bones or abraded wounds. A far cry from the bottles she used to swipe from her father’s private office and pass around whatever cadre of lost souls Hal managed to string together.

It might as well have been a lifetime ago.

“I dream about your hands,” admitted Aoide. “Sometimes, they’re not even yours. They’re mine, or Veronique’s or…Tamlin’s hands.”

Hal clenched his fists as if it was a reflex. Only some of the fingers moved as he willed them. “I haven’t told Veronique anything about that night. I tried to, before I left. But I couldn’t do it.”

The mere mention of her dearest friend had Aoide’s stomach twisting into knots. Had Salazar’s men returned to Neva? Did they seek her out, inform her that the last they saw of Hal, he was trapped under the claws of a vicious faerie beast? Did they mock her as they called Aoide a faerie fucker?

“We survived,” said Aoide.

“It doesn’t feel like it. I think some part of me died that night. And I—“

Hal cleared his throat. “I don’t think I’ll get it back.”

Salazar broke Hal. Enjoyed it. It must have been a different sort of torture to work for the monster. For Hal to bow and let Salazar believe he’d won—to serve as his minion and risk turning into a monster himself.

He’ll find a way, Phineas had warned her.

It would never be enough for a man like Salazar. There was something rotten within that man’s soul, if he even had a soul at all. Becoming consort only served to embolden him.

Queen Camille was always the treacherous sort, said Vassa. She was a good match for Salazar, then. They would tear Neva apart, if they didn’t destroy each other first.

Who was worse, she wondered? How much would it take to set Salazar and Camille at odds? Was the Queen smart or cruel enough to cut the dead weight if he became a liability?

A plan began to take shape in Aoide’s mind. A way she could fix everything. Jurian wanted information, but what if Aoide could get him something better? A bargaining chip—a scapegoat.

Tamlin was going to hate it.

Hal and Phineas would, too.

Another shrill scraw broke the silence. Her uncle appeared in the doorway of the cottage, purple half moons hung below his obsidian eyes. Phineas’ pale face went ashen at the sight of her. Though his hair was neatly parted and his beard trimmed, he stood with a defeated hunch.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Phineas said, still clutching his leather bag.

“Funny,” said Aoide. “Hal said the same thing.”

There was no humor in Phineas’ face. It was the same expression her mother used to make when she caught Aoide sneaking through the kitchen as the staff prepared breakfast.

“Then I suppose it would be a waste of my time to tell you and that faerie flying overhead to leave?” asked Phineas.

Aoide cringed. “I asked him to stay out of sight.”

Phineas’ eyes slid to the trunk he kept near the front door, the crossbow safely tucked inside.

“Don’t you dare,” warned Aoide.

Her uncle did not budge and neither did Aoide.

Hal sighed, plucked another glass from the hutch, and doled out a generous serving of brandy in each cup. Then, he pulled out a chair.

“Sit, Phineas,” Hal said. “Aoide has quite the story to tell.”

——

The summons came a mere twenty minutes after Phineas’ arrival. Quicker than expected and a sure sign of trouble.

Tamlin dove through the thin, grey clouds and flew right through the open window. The shift from falcon to High Fae was more a reaction than a conscious effort these days. He’d been shapeshifting constantly to keep the ache of his magic dull enough to function.

Deeper, he reached into the indefatigable well of power and found only more waiting for him. The last time he’d felt a surge like this had been nearly five hundred years ago.

On the night he became High Lord.

There was no time to linger on that particular portent of doom. It seemed there was plenty already waiting for him, judging by the look on Aoide’s face.

Tamlin took his position behind her, one clawed hand on the back of her chair. The curly-headed male scrambled to the wall, nearly falling into the lit hearth.

“Fucking hell,” he shouted, “A warning, next time?”

“What do you think the whistle was for?” Aoide said, smug in a way that had the beast purring.

Phineas remained remarkably still. He kept his gaze low, though Tamlin doubted it was out of deference.

Despite her uncle’s composure, Tamlin could hear the runaway thump of his heart and the scent of his adrenaline tightly reigned. Steady nerves must have run through their family line, in addition to those depthless eyes.

“Does he know of this plan of yours?” Phineas asked.

Tamlin felt Aoide stiffen. Slight, but still detectable to his fae senses.

That little schemer, the beast crooned.

“Know what?” asked Tamlin.

Slowly, Aoide turned to him, a bit of mischief in her demure smile. “About that…”

From the corner of his awareness, Tamlin sensed something moving toward his head. He lifted a hand, catching the bottle without taking his eyes off Aoide. Some crude human spirit by the reek of it.

“You’ll need a sip of that. Or five,” said the human.

Tamlin placed the bottle on the table, attention fixed on a dangerously innocent-looking Aoide.

“I found a way,” she said, almost breathless. “It fixes everything.”

The male snorted. A flash of Tamlin’s canines had him slinking back to the corner of the room. Phineas’ hand twitched closer to a dinner knife than Tamlin cared for, though he couldn’t entirely blame the male.

“Aoide,” warned Tamlin. “We said we’d do this together.”

“I’m telling you, aren’t I?” Aoide challenged. “It’s simple, really. We hand Salazar over to Jurian and Vassa all wrapped up in a neat little bow. Jurian gets his answers and Vassa gets a bit of leverage. In exchange, they owe us a favor,” she said conspiratorially.

Dread flashed through Tamlin like flame to a powder keg. “What do you mean hand them Salazar?” he asked, though he was certain he didn’t want to know.

“Oh,” Aoide said, “That’s the fun part.”

There was a glimmer in her eyes that terrified Tamlin. As she laid out her plan, slowly and methodically, his terror only grew.

Jurian was to write a letter as the general of the local militia. His men found Hal half-dead on the border where he told them of the fugitive woman seeking refuge in faerie lands. The rest of the city watchmen scattered to the four winds, and Hal near-dead, the militia sought to raid Spring in search of her. With no reigning queen or discernible leader in the Mortal Lands, such action would not implicate the Continent in all-out war with the faeries. If Salazar happened to be present, not as a representative of the crown but simply a man in the right place at the right time, then the fugitive was his to do with as he wished.

Of course, there was no such raid. When Salazar arrived, he’d find the fugitive and the Scythian queen had some questions for him. What Jurian did with him afterwards…

Madness. The plan was utter madness.

Blood pounded in Tamlin’s ears. He fought against the whining edge of his magic, which sang to him like a blade unsheathed from its scabbard. Each thump of his heart was a command—

Protect. Protect. Protect.

“Your plan,” said Tamlin, the words dripping with hard won restraint, “Is to use yourself as bait?”

“And get us all killed,” gruffed the curly-headed male.

“No one is going to die because the plan will work,” hissed Aoide. She looked to Phineas, who had gone as pale as a corpse. “You said that Salazar would find a way. I won’t sit around and wait for it to happen. Luring him allows us to set up the chess board in our favor.”

The human thinks quite highly of herself, the beast huffed.

Gods, did she ever.

And Cauldron boil him, but some part of Tamlin enjoyed it. Scared the hell out of him, too. It was that arrogant streak, the spark of trouble, that had the beast licking its foamy maw in feral delight.

Go on, Aoide seemed to goad it. Try to outsmart me, beast.

She wanted a challenge. If she could prove the merits of her plan against the mind of a five hundred year old faerie, perhaps Hal and Phineas would be convinced. A bit of a show, but a strategic one. Which meant Tamlin had to play a role—the reluctant High Lord.

Tamlin slipped into that other version of himself. Cold, imperious, and disinterested, he loped around the table, dragging his claw across the surface. The males cringed at the sound of it. Their fear was potent enough that Tamlin nearly choked on it.

“Let’s start with the obvious question. What’s stopping Salazar from organizing another force of males to rival Jurian’s militia in his stead?” asked Tamlin.

“He already tried that,” said Aoide, “And what did it get him? His best men either half-dead or missing.”

“If they were smart, they got on the next ship out of the Mortal Lands and set their sights on Bharat,” muttered Hal. “Salazar does not tolerate mistakes. He likes getting his hands dirty. He’ll come.”

The shadowed look in Hal’s eyes had Tamlin biting the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. As irksome as the male was, he’d been willing to die for Aoide. Not once, but twice. Tamlin supposed that counted for something. Even if that cloying smell of his—pipe smoke, clove, and vanilla—gave Tamlin a headache.

“If Nevans are rioting, why would he leave and risk losing control of the city?” asked Tamlin.

“Because Aoide has become something of a symbol for the rebellion,” said Hal. “Capture her, hang her, and kill whatever shred of hope remains.”

The edge of the table splintered under Tamlin’s grip. “If he lays so much as a finger on her, I will rip it off and shove it down his throat,” he growled.

“Not if I do it first,” the male muttered.

Loathe as Tamlin was to admit it, he felt an ounce of respect for the male.

“What about your queen? Do you expect her to sit idly by while her consort is held captive?” asked Tamlin.

Aoide leaned back in her chair, weaving her fingers behind her head. “I don’t think the people of Scythia would be all too happy to discover their queen was sold to a faerie death god. Perhaps Salazar will find himself implicated and standing trial himself instead of his wife. I leave those particulars up to Queen Vassa.”

“And what if Queen Camille decides the Mortal Lands ought to be a part of her empire?” asked Phineas. “This land has existed without a queen for centuries. There is little stopping our brethren across the sea from changing that now.”

“Embroiling themselves in a war among the humans weakens their ability fend off faeries from Monteserre, Rask, and Vallahan. Neither territories sided with the humans before, unlike Prythian,” said Aoide. “Queen Camille can’t afford to fight a war on two fronts.”

Tamlin could see it now—the delicate game Aoide had set up in her mind. She’d mapped out a careful line of defense, one that her uncle seemed to consider. The stony-faced male had gone completely silent, eyes searching the wood grain on the table as if he could see the pieces on the board.

“It’s far more strategic to let the militias here sacrifice themselves and expend their own resources, all the while softening up what the queens really want,” said Aoide.

“And what, pray tell, is that?” Hal asked.

“Faerie lands,” said Tamlin. “My territory.”

Aoide grinned. “Exactly. Only the queens will find that the faeries and the humans on this side of the sea have decided there is mutual benefit in fending off continental influence.”

Delightful nuisance. How quickly she learns, said the beast.

He wasn’t sure if he should thank Lucien or throttle him for giving Aoide all those books on faerie conquest and the War. Tamlin supposed he was partly to blame. Aoide sat and listened to hours worth of strategy with his council as they discussed defending Spring’s borders, dark eyes alight.

“It’s a risk,” said Tamlin. “The whole plan hinges on predicting Salazar’s every move.”

“Then it’s a good thing I know him well,” said Aoide.

Tamlin leaned forward, eyes searching that deliciously haughty look on her face. “We’ll see about that, won’t we?”

The curly-headed male gawked. “You can’t seriously be considering this?”

“You know as well as I do that Aoide is not one to be strong-armed into anything,” said Tamlin. He gave Hal a sidelong glance. “I believe those were your exact words, were they not?”

The male made a small, exasperated noise but issued no further objections. Aoide grinned in return.

“What of Neva?” asked Phineas.

“They’ll be free,” said Aoide.

“Will they, now?” Phineas challenged. “How disciplined are those rebels of yours, Mr. Drakos?”

Hal pushed off the wall and stalked to the table. “What exactly are you implying?”

Chaos would reign once the rebels figured out Salazar was missing. There was a chance the mortal queen would act rashly. Unrest was contagious and the conditions were ripe for civil war. Handing Salazar over to Jurian may save Spring, but the cost—

The cost could be Neva.

Phineas’ eyes slid to Tamlin. It was the first time the male acknowledged him. They shared a look and Tamlin knew he’d come to the same conclusion.

“The faerie understands,” said Phineas. “What lengths good men will go to in the name of justice. You are playing with people’s lives—“

Aoide bolted from her chair. “The faerie is the only thing standing between you and the rest of Prythian. If Spring falls, there won’t be a good man left on this side of the sea,” she snapped.

There was a desperate look in Aoide’s eyes. Something animal trying to claw its way out. Tamlin knew that look. He’d seen it in his own eyes as the beast drank from the silvery waters of Spring, fur matted with blood and gore.

There would be loss and suffering and pain no matter what they did. Tamlin would not allow Aoide to carry that guilt on her own. He would not let it turn her into a shell of herself like it had to him.

“We have a contact in Neva,” said Tamlin. “We’ll get a message to your friend Veronique and let her know there will be a marked absence of tyrants in the city. If she has as much pull among the rebel cause as you seem to think, perhaps there’s a chance she could keep them in line.”

“You can reach Veronique?” asked Hal.

“Yes, but no letters. We can’t afford a paper trail,” said Tamlin. “It will need to be sent by word of mouth.”

Phineas’ coal-black stare cooled. Tamlin took his silence as the closest to approval he was going to get from the stubborn bastard. Another family trait, he reckoned. If Tamlin couldn’t scent his mortality, he might’ve confused Phineas for a faerie.

“Why didn’t I think of that,” muttered Aoide.

Tamlin nudged Aoide with his shoulder, but it did nothing to quell the worry lining her face. “Can’t let you have all the glory.”

Or shoulder the burden, he wished to say.

“You said no letters,” said Hal, plucking a piece of parchment from the table. “But what about a portrait?”

He handed the charcoal portrait to Aoide, who sucked in a breath at the sight of it. From over her shoulder, Tamlin could see it was a shaky rendering of a woman. Her rounded face was dotted with freckles and her hair was a mane of wild curls. Though her mouth was drawn in a serious line, her eyes twinkled with kindness.

“It’s beautiful,” breathed Aoide. “You really captured her.” She looked to Tamlin. “We have to get this to Veronique.”

Tamlin nodded. “I’ll see what Lucien can do.”

“Thank you,” murmured Hal. Tamlin knew he meant it.

Aoide folded the parchment into a small square and slipped it into her pocket, “Then it’s decided. We go forward with the plan.”

Neither male objected, though their silence was anything but enthusiastic. They were dancing on a razor’s edge and they all knew it.

Salazar was going to pay back every ounce of terror he’d wrung from Aoide and then some. The beast liked to play with its quarry before devouring it, and for once Tamlin wouldn’t stop it from having its fun.

“I do have one small suggestion,” said Tamlin. He scraped a claw again the rough grain of the table. “A minor detail.”

Aoide quirked a brow. “Is that so?”

Chapter Text

The nightmare began as they always did.

Aoide couldn’t breathe. Not with the hand around her neck, nor the knee between her shoulders. Knowing it was a nightmare did nothing to quell her terror. Blind panic turned her into an animal and she raged against Salazar’s grip, ragged nails splintering the rotten floorboards, scrabbling for purchase. It was a waste of precious air to fight, but Aoide would be damned if she didn’t try.

Plink.

A drop of blood hit the ground. Hal’s blood, likely. It welled as if the floor has sprouted a fresh wound, the ruby globule shining like a polished jewel in the lantern light.

Thick and bright and coppery, the bead of crimson rolled toward her. It travelled across the warped floor and over the clumps of shorn hair, a lonely supplicant on a pilgrimage across some long forgotten plain. As it grew closer to Aoide’s outstretched fingers, it forked suddenly to the left as if compelled by a divine hand.

Plink.

Another drop hit the floor and veered to the right. It left a thin trail of black blood behind it. The metallic scent turned fetid, reeking of crow-picked corpses and rot.

No. Not her usual nightmare. This was something different.

Plink. Plink. Pl-plink. Plin—

More drops of blood hit the ground, each one more foul-smelling than the last. They bent and bisected, forming sharp corners and points before whirling out of sight. Aoide tried lifting her head to get a sense of the pattern, but the more she fought, the tighter the vise around her neck grew.

She tried to scream, but a horrible sound wheezed out of her instead. Men laughed. The weight between her shoulders grew heavier, grounding her chest into the floor until Aoide could no longer draw breath.

“Beg,” the voice said, hot and wet against her ear.

The darkness beckoned. Death’s eternal chorus sang its siren song, lulling Aoide into the void where there was no pain, no memory, no fear. The same void that had formed in her chest, growing larger every day until it threatened to consume her.

Something broke loose within Aoide. Like a stone dislodged from a riverbed, her soul was pulled by some unseen current, ushered into a vast and unending sea. She grew cold. So, so cold.

And then she could see it all.

The squalid room, with its dingy corners and pock-marked walls. Hal weeping as weasel-faced men mutilated him. Salazar’s broad shoulders bent over a naked body. A woman’s body. Her body. Below it, an eight-pointed star burned into the floorboard like a brand.

Aoide jerked awake screaming. Her mind was far from her body when something warm and firm wrapped around her, so she kicked and clawed and shrieked until she heard a familiar voice.

“A dream,” they said, loud and steady like the pound of a drum. “It was just a dream.”

She sucked down a breath, realizing it was Tamlin who held her against his bare chest. That it wasn’t blood drenching her chemise, but sweat. Alive—she was alive and in Tamlin’s bed, not pinned to the floor in a Nevan slum wishing she’d just die already.

A shiver took hold of Aoide, though her skin was flushed. Stringing words together felt impossible. Instead, she held on to Tamlin like the last leaves of Autumn clinging to the branch and wept until her stomach ached.

When the last of her tears has been wrung, Tamlin scooped Aoide in his arms and carried her to the bath. Gently, he pulled at her chemise and paused when she flinched.

“You’re soaked through,” Tamlin murmured with brutal softness. “Let me help you.”

Aoide raised her arms and he tugged the damp cotton over her head. Though she’d been nude around Tamlin before, it was when she was crouched in the empty tub, her throat tender from screaming herself awake, that she felt truly naked.

The bath filled with a wave of Tamlin’s hand. White jasmine floated on the lemon balm and lavender scented water, warm and soothing. Aoide sank until only her nose remained above the water.

The nightmares were relentless. They’d come back in full force the moment Lucien’s spelled parchment left his hands. The message to his contact was brief and came with an order to burn the missive as soon as it was read. Along with it, a portrait to pass on to Veronique, evidence the message came from a trusted source.

A second letter was sent to Salazar with an official wax seal from Lord Graysen and signed by Jurian, setting their plan into motion. According to Lucien, Jurian was positively gleeful when he shared their plan to lure Salazar. A new villain for Jurian to direct anger toward rather than wallow in his own uselessness.

Tamlin knelt at the edge of the bath with a small bowl, wetting and lathering her hair with shampoo. His strong fingers massaged her scalp and worked down her sore neck in slow, methodical circles. Aoide fought the urge to flinch at his touch, papering over the memory of Salazar’s grip with Tamlin’s gentle touch.

It would take time for Jurian’s letter to land on Salazar’s desk, and even longer for the brute to make the voyage. They could do nothing but wait for Fate to come riding in on a fierce steed, hamfisting her execution order.

The water stayed warm thanks to faerie magic, but eventually Aoide was pruney. Tamlin wrapped her in a towel and sent a gentle caress of air to warm her goose-pimpled flesh before carrying her back to the bedroom. The sheets were magically cleaned and the pillows fluffed, another benefit of sharing a bed with a faerie High Lord.

The downside was the look Tamlin gave her as he settled beside her. There was something primal in his concern, a caged animal pacing behind those green eyes. He’d been looking at her that way since their visit to Phineas’ cottage.

Before Lucien sent the warning to his contact, Tamlin asked Aoide whether she wished to say anything to Veronique.

“Nothing written, of course. Something easy to remember,” he told her.

What was there to say?

I’m sorry for ruining your life. Thank you for loving me regardless. I’m a wretch and I don’t deserve an ounce of happiness. I miss you.

All of it pitiful and worthless. Hal didn’t need words. He made his love for Veronique clear through the portrait he sketched. The effort it took to grasp the charcoal in his fingers made the piece all the more meaningful. But Aoide couldn’t send a song across the sea. Words were all she had and they weren’t enough.

“No,” said Aoide. “That’s alright.”

Tamlin didn’t push—he never did. For once, Aoide wished he would. She was a coward deserving of judgement, but she got none of it from him. Just that worried look in his eyes.

“Let me end this,” said Tamlin, the candlelight casting his face in a savage half-shadow.

“And how would you do that?”

“Sink the godsdamned ship he’s riding in on.”

“And to hell with the innocents aboard?”

Tamlin flipped on his back, eyes focused on the ceiling with murderous intent. She watched as he chewed back a growl, jaw muscles flaring.

“There are other ways,” said Tamlin.

Something in his tone told Aoide he’d thought of many, many other ways.

“We’ve talked about this. Killing Salazar now leaves us with no leverage,” said Aoide. “We need to convince Jurian to bolster our numbers at the border.”

“Killing him would be a gift to us all,” grumbled Tamlin.

Aoide couldn’t argue with that. Salazar’s presence was a curse for as long as she could remember. He wormed into the Achlys’ orbit, found his way across ballrooms and around dinner tables just to be near her. Thaddeus made Aoide feel his power with the subtlest of touches—a lingering cheek-kiss, a hand on her back. Small violations, a slow undressing of her dignity. All of it sending a message: you are mine.

“You’re not the only one who wishes to see him suffer,” said Aoide. “He’ll get his due.”

If everything went to plan, that was. There was a chance it could all go horribly wrong, but it did no good to ponder how large that chance was now that the dye was cast. Having a centuries-old general and a fire-breathing queen was a mark in their favor, but Aoide knew better than to underestimate Salazar.

Aoide closed her eyes and tried to breathe through her panic before it bubbled up. The waiting was torture.

Thaddeus existed in her mind as a collection of sensations. The heat of his breath, the sour scent of his cologne. The inescapable weight of him. But it wouldn’t be the memory of Salazar she’d need to face. He would arrive in Spring, flesh and blood and hateful gaze roaming over her like she belonged to him—

Tamlin grabbed her hand and squeezed it hard enough to stop it from trembling. Her tremor had gotten bad enough that Tamlin no longer saw fit to ignore it.

Playing piano was impossible now. Most days, she listened to Tamlin play fiddle instead.

“Aoide.”

Magic whispered across her skin, its gentle hum coaxing her into a state of calm. She opened her eyes and there was Tamlin, skin glowing with the first light of dawn. His light enveloped her and like a drug, it made her body heavy and still.

I won’t watch you suffer, Tamlin had told her the first time he soothed her with magic. Not while I can do something about it.

Aoide ignored the hot flush of her shame. It wasn’t any different than the pain relievers she brewed for amputees or the laudanum Phineas prescribed them for sleep. Sometimes all a healer could do was give their patient a reprieve from pain. A little rebellion against the inevitability of suffering and death, a respite from their agony.

Sleep beckoned. The sort that was dreamless and timeless, a winking out of existence. Aoide let herself be pulled under its swell. Magic coursed in her blood, warm and rich as faerie wine, and rubbed against the void in her chest.

She could have sworn it shuddered in response.

——

Aoide looked beautiful.

Tamlin should have been accustomed to it by now, as one becomes accustomed to blooming flowers or the setting sun. But Aoide’s beauty was not a pretty vista or a forgotten centerpiece. It was a shock to the system, a shiny lure that demanded his attention.

Her softness was like a drug to an immortal, a sort of vulnerability that bordered on vulgar. Any faerie male with an appetite for females would delight in sinking their teeth into her mortal flesh. Goddess knows he relished every opportunity.

Day court finery suited her. The dress Lucien selected wasn’t all that different from the traditional Nevan gown Aoide wore the night she returned to Spring. The pale linen made her complexion look deeper, richer—and the cut of the fabric made the feminine curve of her hips impossible to ignore. Tamlin wondering whether Nevans were descendants of Day court slaves. Humanity had flung itself across the world after the Wall went up, eager to get as far away from faerie influence as possible, but culture persisted.

Organizing a meeting with Day was diplomatic torture. Helion insisted they visit his palace so they’d have access to his grand libraries, but neither Tamlin nor Lucien wanted to risk it. Bringing a human into a court that hadn’t seen mortals in centuries was asking for trouble, and Lucien was not keen to overwhelm Elain with the fanfare it would entail.

Whether Elain was grateful for her mate’s consideration was another battle altogether. The seer demanded she meet Aoide and see the piano for herself. None of Lucien or Helion’s appeals deterred Elain Archeron. In fact, their pleas served only to bolster her resolve, according to Lucien. It seemed the meekest of the Archeron sisters had developed quite the indomitable will.

“Something about her has changed,” Lucien confided over a glass of port. “Day has done Elain well,” he added with a hint of a smile.

When was the last time he’d seen Lucien happy? Tamlin was ashamed to admit that he couldn’t remember. His shame was magnified with the realization that he’d caused his friend so much of that grief and pain. He was happy for Lucien—truly, he was—but that happiness was shadowed by the fear of what Elain Archeron knew.

The last time he faced an Archeron, she made it clear that Feyre hadn’t minced words. Nesta Archeron cut him down to size with a few barbs. The beast hadn’t cared about the opinions of a once-human, but Tamlin heard it all and couldn’t help but agree with her sharp-eyed assessment.

“Elain hasn’t forgotten what you did for them. For her father,” said Lucien.

“He died nonetheless,” said Tamlin. How convenient it would be to blame him. Deserved, too.

Lucien frowned. “You can’t possibly hold yourself responsible for that.”

And yet, he did. Had Tamlin went about it all differently, put aside his fear and seen Feyre for what she’d become rather what she was, maybe things would’ve been different. Feyre would have left him regardless—Tamlin had no aspersions about the power of a mating bond—but perhaps she wouldn’t despise him. Perhaps his court wouldn’t be in shambles and his subjects wouldn’t resent his existence. Perhaps he’d be able to tell Aoide he loved her without it feeling like a death sentence.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. Too many alternate futures to ponder, and none of them did any good. Thank the Mother he wasn’t a seer. Tamlin wasn’t sure how anyone with the Sight remained firmly planted in the present.

In the end, Lucien was able to play Helion’s concern for Elain against him. If he didn’t want Elain’s fragile progress undone, then he’d leave her behind in Day and assess the piano in Spring.

“I don’t like lying to Elain,” said Lucien.

The part he left unsaid was that he’d risk her ire if it meant keeping Elain safe. Lucien was convinced Aoide would trigger a vision, giving Koschei a glimpse of what they were up to. Fear held a tight reign over the fox. Tamlin could see him struggling to find the line between protection and control.

It made Tamlin’s stomach knot knowing he walked the same line with Aoide. He should have told her everything weeks ago, that night in the garden when Aoide bared her own past. But he’d been a selfish coward. He needed Aoide. And that need would ruin everything.

So he let the opportunity pass, cursing himself and dreading Helion’s arrival much like a prisoner dreaded the executioner’s axe.

“How am I supposed to greet him?” asked Aoide, voice hushed and urgent as they waited in the music room. “Do I curtsy? Or is that too stuffy? Me being human, he’d probably expect—“

“No curtsy,” said Tamlin, a bit rumblier than he intended. He cleared his throat. “Helion isn’t an overly formal High Lord.”

Lucien snorted. “In fact, he’s known to be quite familiar.”

Aoide flushed. “You don’t mean—“

“That’s exactly what he means,” said Tamlin. “Helion has an admiration for beauty in all its forms. Especially if those beautiful things have…thorns,” he added delicately.

“Have you ever…?”

“No,” said Tamlin. “Not with him.”

Aoide’s face turned redder. The scent of her arousal did strange things to Tamlin’s heart. He relished in the rare moment of her lighthearted jealousy.

Lucien pinched the bridge of his nose. “Could you two refrain from seducing each other in front of me? Helion’s like a bloodhound and I won’t suffer adding a third to your little tête-á-tête.”

“I believe there’s another word for it when there’s three,” said Aoide.

Tamlin barked out a laugh. Lucien disguised his own with a tight-lipped frown.

“I thought humans were supposed to be prudes,” said Lucien.

“We still have brothels,” said Aoide. “It’s been said that the only difference between a Nevan pleasure hall and a tavern is a well-placed whisper and a handful of gold.”

“And to think you call yourself a lady,” Lucien said in a mocking titter.

Tamlin watched the jab land. He saw the glint in Aoide’s eyes dim, her face gone flat.

“There’s not much difference between a ballroom and a brothel, either,” she said softly.

Lucien paled. “I-“

Whatever he planned to say was cut short by the sky opening. It’d been a cloudy day in Spring, the threat of a shower on the horizon, but the grey finally parted and gave way to the sun.

No—to the High Lord of Day.

The three of them watched Helion arc across the sky. He stood in a golden chariot pulled by two snow-white pegasus, their wildfire manes whipping in the wind. Tamlin had never seen a pegasus in the flesh. Depictions of them were rare; traditional belief was that no faerie hand could capture their divine grace. Living for five hundred years meant there was little wonder left in the world, but seeing Aoide’s face as she looked at Helion’s chariot made Tamlin believe in a force greater than human or faerie alike.

“You didn’t tell me about the flying horses,” said Aoide.

“I believe there’s another word for it when they have wings,” said Lucien. Aoide gave him a playful slap on the shoulder.

Tamlin worried she forgotten how to smile in recent weeks. The threat of Salazar’s arrival cast a long shadow over both of them. He savored every moment of levity, knowing it was preciously finite.

Lucien went to greet Helion and escort him through the gardens like a good emissary. It was so easy to fall into the old pattern—Tamlin the burden, Lucien their saving grace. He still didn’t understand why he kept coming back to help, but Tamlin could not afford the guilt or pride to refuse it.

Helion was dazzling. Only Lucien was immune to his charms, seemingly out of stubbornness. The High Lord of Day was dressed in his usual attire: a simple, but elegantly made gown bedecked in a dragon’s horde worth of gold and jewels. Atop his head sat a seven-spired crown, each spike as finely honed as a blade. His amber eyes reflected the sun like pools of honey, dark skin warmed by an inner light.

Tamlin became hyper-aware of the manor in all its decrepit charm. He’d been to Day as a child and knew how impressive the royal palace was, with its hand-painted tiles and gold domed ceilings. Shame roiled in his gut at the state of his court. Had Helion’s insistent invitation to Day been an offering to save face?

“High Lord Helion,” said Lucien, with all the practiced poise of a diplomat. “You’re acquainted with High Lord Tamlin, of course.”

The prod of Helion’s magic was subtle, like the roving fingers of a curious lover. The beast bristled at the sensation, but Tamlin kept the instinct to push back under control. It was not all that unpleasant, if he was being honest. There was something about Helion’s aura, the nature of his magic, that called to Tamlin’s own.

“Of course,” drawled Helion. “He made quite the impression upon us all in Dawn.”

The last time he’d seen Helion was that disastrous meeting. Not his finest hour, not by a long shot.

Only up from here.

Or, so he hoped.

Tamlin knew of the High Lord of Day prior to his title—everyone did. Helion’s rakish appeal made him a topic of conversation at every ball and soirée, but few knew him beyond that reputation. Helion’s perverse accession under Amarantha’s reign was not a surprise; his spell-cleaving ability was always formidable. But what sort of High Lord would he be?

“And this,” said Lucien, eyeing Tamlin closely. “Is Lady Aoide of Neva.”

The touch of Helion’s magic lifted as the High Lord of Day turned his attentions on Aoide.

“I suppose we have you to thank for the turn in the weather,” said Aoide with a dimpled smile.

Helion tipped his head to the side, jewelry clinking like tiny silver bells. “A gracious human. What a rarity,” he purred.

“No rarer than a modest faerie,” said Aoide. She held out her hand, palm facing downward and wrist loose.

Helion stared at her hand in silent challenge. The room swelled with his authority, magic pulsating in the space between them, thick enough to choke on. If Aoide felt its demand to bow, she did not show it. Her arm remained aloft, fingers stilled.

Tamlin would have throttled Helion had he not let out a sonorous chuckle. The High Lord of Day took Aoide’s hand and brought it to his lips, those amber eyes half-lidded with amusement. Every second his mouth lingered on her skin was a mortal wound to Tamlin’s soul.

Aoide withdrew her hand and tucked it behind her skirt. Brutish male impulse had Tamlin reaching for it, stroking the spot Helion’s lips had been with his thumb, as if he could wipe away another male’s scent with his touch alone.

Lucien let out a breath. “Shall we—“

Magic punched through the air like a boulder launched by a trebuchet and crashed into them, raw and unrelenting. Time slowed to a series of images—the windows shattering into thousands of razor-sharp slivers, Aoide swaying, Tamlin tucking her safely within his grasp, Helion reaching for something around his neck, Lucien scrambling to get between them—

Kill, kill, kill, the beast chanted.

“Stop,” Lucien bellowed.

All four of them hung there in a tableau of chaos. The world shuddered, the space between heartbeats stretching into eternity. Tamlin’s mind knew something was wrong, but his body could not make sense of it until he felt the pop in his ears.

And then, standing before them as though she’d always been there, was Elain Archeron.