Chapter Text
The late afternoon sun slanted across the courtyard, catching on steel as Aelin launched her blade against Gavriel’s. Their sparring was fast, vicious, beautiful. Aedion lounged against the low stone wall nearby, watching with folded arms, waiting for his turn to join.
But Aelin was distracted. Her movements slowed—not from fatigue, but from something deeper. Something wrong .
She was in her Fae form today, her power simmering just beneath her skin. She had been learning to remain in this form longer and longer, allowing it to become second nature. She was enjoying the enhanced strength and speed she had access to in this form. She still couldn’t beat Gavriel, but she was finally able to put up a good challenge.
In this form her senses were sharper—more honest . And something about Gavriel had changed.
No. Not changed. Revealed .
It was his scent.
She hadn’t noticed it before—not like this. But now it struck her like a memory from long ago. The subtle tang of sun-warmed stone and wildcat, yes—but threaded through it was something familiar .
Something in Aedion’s scent.
Something in her cousin’s scent.
Her next block came a fraction too slow. Gavriel knocked her blade aside easily, then stepped back, waiting. Watching her.
“You alright?” he asked.
Aelin’s heart thundered. Her hand was trembling on her sword hilt. Her stomach churned.
She looked up at him, really looked, and then it clicked.
“You,” she whispered.
A crease formed between Gavriel’s brows. “What?”
Aelin shook her head, backing away. “I’m done for the day.” She sheathed her blade, movements stiff and jerky, before stalking off toward the castle.
Aedion caught up with her. “Aelin!”
Aelin looked up at him, shaking her head and dragging him into the castle alongside him.
“Meet me in the war room in ten minutes,” was all that she said to him before stalking off.
Ten minutes later, they were in the war room where Rhoe and Evalin sat over a cluster of intelligence reports.
Evalin rose the moment she saw them. “What is it?”
“I have something to tell you all,” Aelin said, voice low. “It’s sensitive.”
They all sat down in the chairs arranged in front of the hearth while Aelin took a deep calming breath. Looking directly at Aedion, Aelin blurted it out. “Gavriel is your father.”
“What?” Aedion spat. “Gavriel, my father? Are you sure? What the heck, Aelin!”
“I’m sure. You can’t smell it, not like this. But I can.” She pointed to her Fae face, glowing with fire-veined fury. “Your scent is in him. And his in you. It’s the same. Gods, I don’t know how I missed it before—how any of us did.”
Evalin blinked, then sat slowly, a hand pressed over her chest. “That explains a few things, actually. Your mother—my cousin—she never said who your father was. Refused, even though she was judged for it. She was so adamant about protecting the secret.”
“She said it was a secret worth dying for,” Rhoe murmured.
“She was right,” Aelin replied bitterly. “Because now it’s a vulnerability.”
Aedion’s jaw worked, but no words came.
Evalin looked to him, her eyes gentle. “She protected you, Aedion. In every way she could.”
“But Maeve could use this,” Aelin said, pacing now. “The bloodline. The bond between them. If Gavriel is his father, and Gavriel swore the blood oath to Maeve—could she try to claim Aedion through him?”
Rhoe’s expression darkened. “She’ll try. If anything, she’ll do it to get to you, Aelin. Her interest in you has always been highly suspicious. It’s why we’ve tried so hard to protect you from her all these years.”
Aelin stopped pacing and looked her father dead in the eye. “And she’s done the same thing—with Rowan.”
Evalin’s head snapped toward her. “What do you mean?”
Aelin lifted her chin. “Rowan and I are mates. Maeve must have known before either of us did. She sought him out during a very vulnerable moment in his life. Offered him the blood oath and he took it without question. Now she has two of her bloodsworn who are tied to the Terrasen line. To me.
“Gods,” Evalin breathed.
“She wove the web,” Aelin whispered. “And we’ve all fallen into her trap.”
Aelin got up and started pacing. “I don’t know what to do. When it was just Rowan, that was one thing. But if her plan is to get her claws in me through Aedion-- We can’t stand for that. It’ll be war. It’ll be either war or me. And if we go to war…”
Aelin couldn’t finish the thought. She felt her stomach churn. How was she going to face Rowan? Holy rutting gods.
“Aedion,” she said gently. He was staring blankly at a spot on the floor. “Talk to us. What are you thinking? How do you feel?”
Aedion leaned back in his chair, rubbing his hands over his face and then running them through his long, golden hair. He let out a groan. “I feel angry, and betrayed,” he said harshly. “But then as I process everything, I get it. I get why it had to be secret. I get why. It was all to protect me, to protect you, Aelin, and to protect Terrasen. But gods, I’m still pissed. What kind of male leaves a pregnant woman to fend for herself, leaves her unprotected?”
His words hit a nerve with Aelin. I left her , Rowan had said. She was pregnant and she begged me not to go and I left her .
“This…” Aelin started, not able to finish the thought. Something was troubling her, she couldn’t quite articulate it yet but the thought was there. She started pacing again.
“This is not a coincidence,” she finished, completely sure of it even though the pieces hadn’t quite clicked together yet. She paced back and forth in front of the hearth, willing the pieces to put themselves together.
“Fireheart, what is it?” her mother asked gently.
Fireheart . Rowan called her Fireheart. Her mate. Her mate who had once believed deep down that he had been mated to another, something that was impossible.
“Rowan… Gods, something’s not right. I think…” she couldn’t utter the words. They were too horrifying. “Do you think she could have done something to him? He said… He told me that he had once been mated to a female who was later murdered. She was pregnant, and Rowan was called away to war by Maeve, before he was bloodsworn to her. He chose to go. And she… Lyria was murdered while he was away.”
Aelin stopped pacing and sat, her stomach churning more as the pieces slid together in her mind. “I think I’m going to be sick,” she said, hanging her head down between her knees.
Her mother sat beside her and rubbed circles on her back.
“Aelin? Tell us, Fireheart.”
“He said he felt confused, about us being mates. That he was certain about it, but that he had also been certain about Lyria, and now he’s certain it wasn’t Lyria, but at the time he had been completely certain. And what you said, Aedion. That’s exactly what happened to him. What he did. He left his pregnant … mate? Lyria. She was pregnant and he left her unprotected. What if Maeve did something to him? Is that even possible? Maybe this is how she operates, how she breaks people to her will.”
“I don’t know, Aelin,” her father replied, gently. “I don’t know. But it looks like Rowan and Gavriel are unwitting pawns in whatever trap she’s setting. And the blood oath makes it unlikely that either of them will emerge from the game intact.”
“Shit!” Aelin barked. “Shit! Shit! Shit! I’m going to kill her. I’m going to kill that manipulative fucking bitch.”
“Aelin, Fireheart,” her mother said soothingly, rubbing her back again. “I know you’re upset. This is highly troubling. But please don’t go doing something rash that will start a war.”
“I know,” she said. “I know. Argh! I’m just so frustrated.”
Aelin turned to Aedion. “Is Killian still looking for volunteers for the patrol of the Fae territories in the Staghorns? Over in Allsbrook?” she asked.
“Yeah, why?” Aedion replied.
“I don’t know about you, but I need to get out of the castle for a few days. I could use a mission. What do you say?”
“Yeah. Me too. I could use some time away to clear my head.”
“Great. I’ll meet you at dawn at the stables, then.”
~~~~~~~~~~
The pre-dawn hush settled over Orynth like a held breath, the sky still painted in deep indigo as Aelin stood in her chambers, fastening her cloak and stuffing a few pairs of undergarments and a clean tunic into the saddlebag.
She moved quietly, careful not to wake Rowan. He lay asleep in the bed behind her, his silver hair spilling across the pillow like moonlight, chest rising and falling in the rhythmic cadence of deep sleep. She paused once—just once—to look at him. To feel that pull in her chest, that aching awareness of the bond between them. But she didn’t let herself linger.
She had work to do.
In her other saddle bag, she placed a heavy, leather-bound book she’d taken from the oldest shelves in Orynth’s library—its pages filled with stories in the old Fae language, written in curling script nearly identical to the markings inked into Rowan’s tattooed face, neck and arm. The book had whispered to her, even when the words made no sense. There was knowledge in it, waiting to be unearthed. Answers she might need. She hoped someone in the villages nestled beneath the Staghorns—some elder Fae who had lived long enough to remember the world before it had changed—might be able to read them.
She tucked a waterskin into the bag atop a coil of rope. Aelin scanned her supplies once more, then crossed the room to her desk and took up a piece of parchment.
Buzzard—
Aedion and I have gone to Allsbrook, near the Staghorn foothills with a patrol group. We are visiting some Fae villages there. We’ll be gone a few days—try not to brood into a storm while I’m gone.
Be useful.
—Aelin
She folded it once and left it on his bedside table, anchored with one of her silver hair combs.
Then she slipped into the hallway, the castle still cloaked in the deep silence of night. Her boots made no sound on the stone as she made her way to the stables.
The air outside was crisp, the stars beginning to dim in the east. Aedion was already there, his armor gleaming faintly in the torchlight, a few trusted soldiers mounted and waiting beside him. His wolfish grin flickered as she approached.
“Nice of you to finally join us,” he said.
“I had to write Rowan a love note,” Aelin muttered, tugging her gloves tighter.
Aedion laughed. “Is that what you’re calling orders these days?”
“I call it sparing him a meltdown.” She swung up into the saddle of her mare, adjusting the reins. “Let’s ride, General.”
Without another word, they turned their horses to the west, the gates of Orynth yawning open before them as the first blush of sunrise kissed the sky.
After passing over the Florine, the road to Allsbrook cut along the edge of the Oakwald, the ancient forest looming close on one side as the snow-dusted peaks of the Staghorns stood sentinel, tall and waiting, on the other side.
Aelin kept her eyes forward, the wind tugging her braid loose as they rode into the rising sun.
Rowan
Rowan awoke the moment sunlight spilled through the edges of the curtains. Not the sharp, blinding glare of midday—just the quiet glow of morning. He reached across the bed instinctively, already knowing what he would find.
Cold sheets.
She was gone.
He exhaled through his nose and sat up, running a hand through his hair as his keen eyes swept the room. The space where she had been standing last night—where she’d dressed in silence, slipped on her boots, strapped her sword to her back—was empty now, but her scent lingered in the air.
Faintly citrus, faintly embers. Hers.
Rowan glanced at the bedside table and saw the folded piece of parchment, anchored with a silver hair comb. His lips tugged upward, even as he shook his head. Gods, she could be infuriating.
He opened the letter and scanned the neat, slanted handwriting.
Buzzard—
Aedion and I have gone to Allsbrook, near the Staghorn foothills with a patrol group. We are visiting some Fae villages there. We’ll be gone a few days—try not to brood into a storm while I’m gone.
Be useful.
—Aelin
A quiet chuckle escaped him. Teasing, commanding, flippant—and layered with more care than she would admit aloud.
He folded the note and set it back beneath the comb.
She hadn't said goodbye. But that was her way. And truthfully, he wasn’t surprised. After the last few days—after everything with the assassin’s guild, the healing and truths unraveled—he suspected she needed the distance. They both did.
Rowan rose, stretching, his muscles still sore from the wound that had only recently healed. Sorscha had done her work well, and Fae blood had done the rest, but the echo of the pain lingered.
His thoughts drifted to Gavriel and Aedion. To Evalin and Rhoe. They all knew now—what he and Gavriel had never spoken aloud. That the lion was Aedion’s father. That Gavriel, once a proud male in Maeve’s cadre, may have been used as a pawn in her game.
Rowan hadn’t said a word when the realization hit. Neither had Gavriel. They’d simply… waited. Let Aelin and Aedion come to the conclusion on their own.
They had. And they’d needed space, too.
And now Aelin had taken herself into the mountains. Perhaps to search for knowledge, perhaps to breathe. Perhaps to run from the growing weight of everything settling around her shoulders.
She had told him to make himself useful.
Rowan got dressed, braided back his hair, and made his way through the halls of the castle toward the barracks. It was still early, but the sounds of training had already begun to echo across the courtyard.
He found Gavriel outside, watching a group of young Bane recruits spar with wooden blades. The lion warrior looked up at his approach.
“Let me guess,” Gavriel said. “She’s gone.”
“She left a note,” Rowan replied dryly. “Told me to make myself useful.”
Gavriel huffed a laugh. “That sounds like her.”
Rowan nodded toward the soldiers. “Thought we could run them through some proper combat drills. Lighten Killian’s burden for the week.”
Gavriel arched a brow. “You, volunteering for training duty? Gods help them.”
“They’ll survive.” Rowan smirked. “Mostly.”
The two of them spent the morning running the Bane through Fae-style drills—precise, disciplined movements meant to train body and mind. Gavriel roared instructions like a general possessed. Rowan, as ever, said little but made corrections with the calm, deadly patience of a predator. He knocked more than one sword from a young soldier’s hands with just a flick of his own wrist.
By the time the sun had reached its peak, Rowan left the field and wandered back through the halls of Orynth’s castle. The ache of missing Aelin gnawed at him, but he would not let it unmoor him.
Instead, he made his way to the library.
The scent of old parchment and dust wrapped around him the moment he entered. It was quiet here—quieter even than everything unspoken that swelled between them.
He spent hours with old volumes, their bindings cracked with age, the ink fading. Histories of Terrasen. He searched for anything that might give him a better understanding of the circumstances that led to Terrasen’s founding. The early days when Brannon first arrived on Erelia.
He wanted to understand the early history, and the events that had shaped the land into the integrated society it was presently. For somehow, unlike many other nations he had witnessed over his many years, Terrasen stood alone as a nation that had figured out how to build strength out of diversity.
Some of the books were in the old language, one Aelin had begun to decipher. He traced the markings slowly, remembering how they mirrored the lines inked into his own skin. Marks of history.
He didn’t know what the days ahead would bring.
But he knew she was preparing for them. And so would he.