Chapter Text
Rowan
The woods surrounding the bend in the Acanthus River were quiet, save for the wind rustling through the young leaves on the trees. Rowan stood on the edge of their small encampment just beyond the village’s outskirts, his eyes fixed on the flickering lights of the village in the distance.
The people there weren’t used to Fae. They stared, whispered behind hands, and offered prayers to the gods when he, Aelin or Gavriel passed. It wasn’t fear, exactly—it was unease. Distrust rooted in generations of stories and isolation. Still, Rowan kept his presence subdued, only going into the village when absolutely necessary.
The human Terrasen soldiers stationed with them had better luck blending in. They came and went more freely, listening, watching. It was one such soldier who brought the rumor: that a caravan was moving through from Rifthold, bound west to Morath.
That night, Rowan, Aelin, and Gavriel took turns keeping watch over the river crossing. They observed in shifts, hidden in the thick underbrush along the road that wound to the water’s edge. After hours on watch at near dawn, Rowan finally spotted the prison wagons.
Two of them. Iron-barred, their wheels clattering over the stones. The wagons were part of a larger caravan, four additional carts loaded with crates and guarded by heavily armed riders. Through the bars, Rowan saw gaunt faces and shackled limbs. Men and women. A child. All silent, their eyes hollow with fear.
Rowan melted back into the woods and raced for camp.
They moved quickly.
Within minutes, Aelin, Gavriel, and the Terrasen soldiers were roused. Quiet orders, weapons gathered, positions taken. They set up the ambush near a bend in the road where the trees grew thick.
It was swift and brutal.
Aelin dropped a wall of flame before the lead rider, halting the caravan in its tracks. Gavriel disarmed two guards before they could shout. Rowan flew to the end of the caravan and shifted, leaping into the fray with his sword in one hand and a wicked hatchet in the other. The traffickers never stood a chance. The battle was over in moments.
The prisoners were huddled in the wagons, too shocked to speak. Aelin approached them first, slowly, her flames dimmed to a gentle glow. “You’re safe now,” she told them.
Rowan tore off the wagon doors while Gavriel secured the traffickers. The captives emerged slowly, blinking into the dark forest lit by torchlight. Some wept. Others clung to each other, too traumatized to speak.
Aelin knelt beside a young woman who wouldn’t meet her eyes. “What’s your name?”
“Lina,” she whispered. “They took me from the river docks in Rifthold.”
One by one, they questioned the freed prisoners, gently and with care. Yarrow, a merchant’s son, had been grabbed on the road from Meah. A girl, Evangeline, had been taken from a brothel in Rifthold. None of them knew exactly where they’d been headed—only that the guards had spoken of Morath in hushed tones.
Rowan watched Aelin move among them, wrapping a cloak around a trembling boy, conjuring a small flame to warm their hands. A soldier brought water and food from their stores, while Gavriel oversaw the binding of the captured traffickers.
They questioned the smugglers under Rowan’s glare. The men were tight-lipped until Aelin began toying with fire between her fingers.
“They pay well,” one finally muttered. “We were told not to ask questions. Just that Morath always paid on time.”
“Who hired you?” Rowan demanded.
“Don’t know. We just get the directions from our boss.”
“Arobynn?” Aelin asked. The man flinched.
Aelin’s jaw clenched. She exchanged a glance with Rowan. “Check them all for poison once they’re bound.”
After securing the smugglers with Gavriel, Rowan stalked through the shattered remains of the caravan, every sense sharpened, his magic a low hum under his skin. The captives huddled together in the grass, some crying quietly, some sitting in stunned silence. All wore thick iron shackles around their wrists and ankles.
Not ordinary iron. The metal reeked of old magic. Worse—the shackles had no visible locks. No hinges. No keyholes.
Rowan knelt beside a young man whose face was drawn tight with pain. He inspected the iron bands encircling the man's wrists, his lip curling in frustration.
"No way to break these," he muttered, half to himself.
"They must be sealed with Wyrdmarks," Aelin said behind him.
Rowan turned as she approached, her face grim, splattered with blood and dirt. She held out a hand, palm up, and there—etched into her skin—was a neat line of blood.
"Wyrdmarks need blood to open locks like these," she said.
"Show me," he said.
Aelin dropped to her knees beside him. She let a single drop of blood smear over the iron shackle. Then, with a deft movement, she drew a symbol out of her own blood—a familiar one. Rowan felt the pull of power the moment the mark was completed.
The shackle gave a soft click and fell away.
The boy gasped and jerked his hands back, staring at his newly freed wrists like he couldn't believe they were truly his own.
"You'll have to do the same," Aelin said, tossing Rowan a clean dagger.
He caught it easily, eyeing the blade, then the shackles. Then he looked at Aelin, and something in his chest twisted. How had she known to learn such ancient symbols, such old magic?
Without a word, Rowan nicked the side of his palm, let the blood drip onto the nearest captive's shackle, and carefully traced the mark Aelin showed him.
The lock hissed, then fell apart.
One by one, they worked their way through the captives, blood mixing with dust and sunlight. Gavriel set to work using his healing ability to heal any captives who were badly injured.
Rowan kept his movements steady, precise. But every time a shackle dropped away and a captive blinked in stunned freedom, he felt something shift inside him—a quiet, searing rage at whoever had done this.
When the last captive was freed, Rowan healed his hand, surveying the field of iron and chains.
Aelin rose beside him, swaying slightly. Without thinking, Rowan steadied her with a hand at her elbow and took her hand, healing it.
She gave him a crooked smile. "Not bad for a buzzard."
He huffed a quiet laugh and squeezed her arm gently. Then he looked out at the freed captives, at the broken wagons and ruined chains.
"We'll make them pay," he promised her.
They sent a messenger to Rifthold at first light for Chaol and Nesryn. They needed Adarlanian guards to take the smugglers to the castle dungeons in Rifthold, and someone with authority to ensure they didn’t vanish en route. And they would need wagons and Adarlian officials to transport the freed captives back to their homes and take their statements.
The next evening, just as the dusk began to fall behind the trees, Yrene and Sorscha arrived on horseback, dust clinging to their cloaks. Rowan was the first to spot them, recognizing both of the healers from their previous encounters. He met them at the edge of the clearing.
“We saw Aedion just before he left for Melisande,” Yrene explained as she dismounted. “He told us about your mission to Morath and we thought you might be in need of healers on site.”
“Oh, thank the Gods for Aedion, and for you two!” Aelin exclaimed as they made their way into the camp. “It’s so good to see you again Yrene,” she said as she pulled the healer into a hug. “And you too, Sorscha. I only wish it were under better circumstances, but your timing is impeccable. Just yesterday we managed to ambush a caravan of traffickers and we are holding everyone in our camp. The captives have some minor injuries. We’ve been getting by with Rowan and Gavriel’s battlefield healing skills, but once you’re settled I’m sure there are a few that could use your help.”
Yrene
Yrene could still remember the way her stomach had twisted when they first arrived at the camp, the dusk light bleeding gold across the riverbend village. Even after all she had seen in her training, the sight of the freed captives from the caravan struck her heart like a blow.
With the freed captives settled near the fire pits, Aelin’s group was making do with spare blankets spread over the damp grass, makeshift pallets set up with what supplies they could scrounge. And the freed captives—gods, they were so thin. Hollow-eyed. Some children.
The camp had bustled as she and Sorscha hurried to unpack their satchels, their hands steady even as their hearts splintered. Cuts, bruises, burns. Sprains and deep muscle strains from being shackled too long. It was not the worst Yrene had treated, but the weight of it was different here—so many injuries born not of war but of cruelty. Of exploitation.
She watched as Aelin moved through the camp like a storm and a balm all at once, keeping people talking, keeping their spirits up even as they struggled to find food for the many mouths.
Yrene remembered how Sorscha’s face had tightened with grief as they treated a boy no older than ten whose wrists were raw from iron cuffs.
“You’re safe now,” Sorschsa had murmured to him, dabbing a salve over the wounds. “You’re safe.”
Hot stew simmered in a pot over the main campfire, and thick slices of brown bread were passed around. Rowan had somehow convinced the suspicious villagers to sell them enough supplies to feed everyone that day, though it had cost a small fortune. No one cared. Every bite mattered.
Still, Yrene could feel the villagers’ eyes on them. Peering from behind doorways and half-closed shutters. Murmuring to each other as they watched the Fae warriors and Terresen soldiers patrol. Their gazes clung not to the captives but to the threat they perceived: that these warriors would bring violence to their doorsteps. That whoever had organized the trafficking would retaliate.
Yrene understood their fear. But she also resented it, just a little. The captives deserved better than to be treated like burdens, like problems.
So she worked. She and Sorscha stitched wounds, brewed tinctures, replaced blood loss with rich soups and honeyed water. A young woman, Lina, sang lullabies when the youngest ones cried out from nightmares.
Each day, a little more color returned to the freed captives’ cheeks. A few smiles broke through. The camp began to feel less like a triage unit and more like a place where healing could start.
As Yrene sat by the fire one evening, wrapping fresh bandages around a girl’s ankle, she looked up at the rising moon. They were still so far from undoing all the darkness that had seeped into this world.
But here, tonight, under the stars and surrounded by the quiet strength of warriors who cared more than they dared show, Yrene felt the first breath of something new.
Hope. For a better world.
And she would fight for it with every ounce of strength she possessed.
~~~~~
The midday sun was bright and unkind when the riders appeared along the winding river trail the next day. Yrene straightened from where she had been mixing a cooling salve, her eyes catching the dust rising in the distance. Soldiers on patrol had already tensed, hands drifting to weapons, but Rowan, standing sentinel near the edge of camp, let out a low whistle and waved them down.
Friends.
Yrene wiped her hands on a cloth and stood as the group came into view—four Terrasen soldiers, grim and alert, riding in formation around three figures she didn’t recognize but somehow knew were important. She could feel the shift in the air, the way the camp itself seemed to hold its breath.
Aelin was already moving, swift as a flame across the clearing, her golden hair flying behind her.
The lead rider—a tall, broad-shouldered man with sun-bronzed skin and a mane of golden hair—swung down from his horse and barely had time to brace before Aelin collided with him.
He looked so much like Aelin, like two sides of the same coin.
Yrene looked away, giving them the privacy of the moment, but not before she caught the fierce, desperate way they clung to each other. Like a tether snapping taut after too long pulled apart. Aelin’s shoulders shook, though no sound carried, and Aedion buried his face in her hair, his big hands trembling against her back.
It was a long while before they pulled apart, and even then, Aelin kept one hand fisted in his tunic as if afraid he’d vanish again.
The others dismounted more slowly. Lysandra, raven-haired and elegant even after days on the road, embraced Aelin tightly, followed by a quieter, slighter girl—Elide, if Yrene remembered correctly from the plans Aelin had spoken of.
Rowan approached, clapping Aedion on the shoulder with a smile that was rare and real. Gavriel lingered back, his expression unreadable.
Yrene saw the moment Gavriel and Aedion’s gazes locked. The reunion was... different. No joyful rush. No outpouring of emotion. Just a long, heavy silence that said everything words couldn’t.
Gavriel stepped forward first. He held out a hand, broad and scarred.
Aedion stared at it for a heartbeat too long. Then, with a breath that seemed to rattle his ribs, he clasped Gavriel's forearm.
"Good to see you," Aedion said roughly.
Gavriel's answering smile was small, careful. "And you."
“Thank you for coming, for protecting my cousin,” Aedion said.
Gavriel gave a quick nod.
It was touching in a way that twisted something deep inside Yrene’s chest—a reunion weighted with pain, with history, with things unspoken. But it was a beginning.
Aelin wiped at her eyes with the heel of her hand, then turned, pulling Aedion toward the fire where Yrene and Sorscha had been working.
"Yrene," Aelin said, her voice still thick with emotion. "This is my cousin, Aedion Ashryver."
Yrene bowed her head politely. "It’s an honor."
To her surprise, Aedion gave her a lopsided grin that was pure mischief—and pure exhaustion.
"The honor’s mine," he said. "Thank you. For taking care of Aelin in Ilium. I heard you were the one who patched her up after her dramatic heroics."
Yrene laughed softly. "She’s a stubborn patient, but she heals fast."
Aelin rolled her eyes and nudged Aedion with her elbow.
"Come," she said. "You look like you could eat an entire ox."
"I might," Aedion replied as Lysandra and Elide caught up with them, each offering weary smiles.
The camp, which had been holding its breath, seemed to exhale all at once. Soldiers clapped shoulders, food was hurriedly prepared, and for the first time in days, a sense of hope—small, cautious, but real—stirred among them.
Yrene watched them go, a smile tugging at her mouth.
Hope, she thought again. Hope in every step they took forward.
Lysandra
Lysandra swung down from her horse, the muscles in her legs aching from days of hard riding. She barely had time to shake out her limbs before Aelin had flung herself into Aedion’s arms, their reunion fierce enough to make even the battle-hardened soldiers turn discreetly away.
She watched them for a moment, feeling something tighten in her chest. It was good to see Aelin and Aedion like this—to see how fiercely they loved each other without hesitation.
Rowan was the next to greet them, a sharp nod to Lysandra and Elide as he clapped Aedion on the shoulder. Gavriel’s arrival at Aedion's side was slower, more hesitant. Lysandra caught the way Aedion’s body tensed, the way Gavriel’s smile was carefully measured.
But they clasped arms in a warrior’s greeting, and managed through an awkward greeting.
Aelin pulled Lysandra and Elide into hugs before dragging the entire group toward the center of camp where the fire crackled and Yrene and Sorscha were tending to a handful of freed captives. Introductions flowed, easy and warm despite the exhaustion clinging to them all.
As they sat around the fire, Aelin, Rowan, and Gavriel recounted the ambush on the river—how the caravan had been intercepted, how they had easily overtaken the traffickers, how they had freed the captives. Lysandra listened intently, her fists clenching at the descriptions of the chains, the cages, the cruelty.
When the story finished, Lysandra stood, brushing her hands on her trousers. "Show me where I can help," she said.
Aelin nodded toward the largest tent near the trees. "Some of the younger ones are resting there. They could use company."
Lysandra made her way across the camp. Inside the tent, the smell of salves and damp earth mingled. Blankets were spread across the ground, small bodies curled beneath them. A few faces lifted as she entered, and she softened her stance, crouching low to seem less intimidating.
"Hey," she said quietly. "I'm Lysandra."
A few of the children blinked at her. One, a slight girl with tangled copper hair and bruises on her arms, stared openly.
Lysandra eased closer. "What's your name?"
The girl hesitated, then whispered, "Evangeline."
Lysandra smiled, sitting cross-legged on the ground. "That’s a beautiful name."
Evangeline shifted, her sleeves sliding up to reveal a mark on her wrist. Lysandra froze.
A black sigil. Inked crudely onto too-thin skin.
Recognition hit her like a punch to the gut. She knew that mark. Had worn it herself once, hidden under jewelry and gloves and shapeshifted forms. It was the mark of the brothel, of the life she had clawed her way free from.
Swallowing hard, Lysandra kept her smile gentle. "That mark..." she said softly, holding out her arm to show the girl, "I have the same one."
"I got out," Lysandra whispered, squeezing gently. "You can too, if you want. You don’t have to go back there. I’ll help you, take care of you."
“Why would you do that?” the child asked, tears welling in her eyes.
“Because someone helped me get out, and I am finally free. And I think I’d very much like to pay it forward,” she smiled kindly at the girl.
In the dim light of the tent, as the camp murmured and bustled outside, Lysandra held tight to the girl's hand—and to the fierce, burning promise that she would fight to make those words true.