Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

A thousand years ago, the world trembled.

The dark lord Erawan, last of the Valg kings, rose to conquer Erilea with horrors born from shadow and ruin. Kingdoms fell. Forests burned. Drums pounded. The skies wept ash. But in the final hour, hope was forged.

Elena Galathynius, the Fae princess, daughter of King Brannon and Mala Fire-Bringer, and her companion Gavin Havilliard stood against the darkness. Elena wielded a lock, forged by Mala herself at the cost of love and life, as a weapon against Erawan’s dark power.  She used it not to destroy, but to entomb: to bury Erawan so deep within the earth that he would never rise again.

Elena and Gavin went on to marry and become the first King and Queen of Adarlan, a territory gifted to them by King Brannon in thanks for their bravery, resourcefulness and sacrifice in facing and defeating Erawan.

And in the years that followed, peace bloomed.

Now, the kingdoms of Erilea thrive beneath a long, golden age of relative calm. Terrasen, once ruled by Brannon, stands strong under the rule of King Rhoe Galathynius and Queen Consort Evalin Ashryver, guardians of a realm that stretches from the great Oakwald Forest to the snow-capped Staghorn Mountains.

Theirs is a powerful kingdom, looked to as a model by other nations. Humans, Fae, and demi-Fae walk the same stone streets, drink from the same wells, and serve beneath the same banners. Tensions still flicker beneath the surface—ancient grudges and old blood do not forget easily—but even a millennia after the great war, harmony is a fragile treasure, and the people of Terrasen cling to it.

The other kingdoms of Erilea watch Terrasen with wary eyes. Adarlan grows ambitious. Melisande keeps its borders sharp and its messengers sharper. Across the sea, Wendlyn, ruled by Queen Consort Evalin’s kin, hides its strength behind diplomatic ties with neighboring Doranelle. And in Doranelle, the Dark Queen of the Fae weaves her ever-expanding web of machinations.

Still, for the better part of a millennium, no great wars have been fought. No gods have stirred. No demons have risen.

But peace, like fire, needs tending. And beneath the calm earth, ancient power still simmers. Waiting.

Unseen by most, a new flame has kindled.

A young princess has been born to Terrasen—Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, descendant of god and legend, heir to fire and blood, and the old magic that sleeps in the bones of the land.

And fire... does not forget.

Chapter Text

The courtyard of Orynth Palace was a riot of spring colors. Tiny, delicate blossoms from the first blooms of the season dotted the stone pathways, their vibrant hues a stark contrast to the cold grey of the palace walls. The warmth of the spring sun bathed the courtyard, its rays soaking into the stone beneath 8-year old Aelin’s bare feet.

She stood in the center of the space, giggling as small flickers of flame danced from her fingertips, weaving through the air like delicate ribbons of light. The flames were no bigger than a candle’s flame, but to Aelin, they were wondrous.

“Look, Mama!” she shouted joyfully, spinning around in a slow circle, watching the fire swirl and twist at her command. “I can make them dance!”

Her laughter filled the air, high and pure, a sound so full of innocence that it momentarily stilled the world around her.

From the marble bench near the fountain, Evalin watched her daughter. Her lips were pressed into a tight smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She wasn’t alarmed—yet—but her heart tightened at the sight of Aelin’s wild power. The flames, though small, flickered dangerously, a reminder of the immense, untamed energy that churned beneath Aelin’s skin.

Aelin spun once more, throwing her arms wide, a fountain of fire blossoming from her hands. One of the flames flew too far, trailing a small arc through the air before it landed near the edge of the hedge.

The hedge caught, a tiny puff of smoke rising before the flame began to crackle and spread.

Aelin gasped and immediately clapped her hands to her mouth. “I didn’t mean to!” she squeaked, wide-eyed with horror.

Evalin stood quickly, her graceful movements sharp as she raised one hand. Water from the fountain surged upward, quelling the fire in an instant. “It’s all right, Fireheart,” she soothed, her voice soft, though there was an edge to it that Aelin couldn’t miss. “You’re learning.”

But inside, Evalin’s worry grew. It was only a small spark, but it was a reminder of how dangerous Aelin’s gift could be. And she knew—this was only the beginning. Months later, the young princess of fire was banned from the Library of Orynth after accidentally burning a stack of rare books.

~~~~~

That evening, the royal court hosted a small, intimate diplomatic dinner with envoys from Melisande and Fenharrow. Aelin was expected to make her appearance, as was the tradition, with Aedion at her side.

Despite her youth, she carried herself with a quiet dignity, a princess raised with the weight of her lineage even at such a young age.

The dinner was elegant, with crystal goblets and silver platters laden with delicate morsels, but it was clear from the moment Aelin entered that the guests’ attention was drawn more to her than the meal itself. They were polite, as royalty must be, but the curiosity in their eyes lingered on Aelin’s flushed cheeks and the gloved hands she kept folded primly in front of her.

Throughout dinner, her laughter was light, her smile bright, but the tension hung in the air, thick and unspoken.

When the dinner was done, and the royal family retreated to their private chambers, the whispers began.

Aedion stood near Aelin’s door, straining to listen as Aelin took a spot by the window..

“So young to wield such fire…” one of the envoys murmured. “How long before she causes a real accident?”

“Will it be safe for her to attend court functions unshielded?” another voice asked, almost too casually.

“What if her fire grows even more powerful?” Aedion heard, his face hardening in a flash of anger.

Aelin’s flame was a power they couldn’t begin to understand.

~~~~~

That night, Aelin curled up beside Evalin in her chambers, the warmth of her mother’s presence a comfort after the strained evening. The room was cozy, filled with the scent of lavender and the soft flicker of candlelight casting gentle shadows against the walls. Aelin, still in her fine gown and matching gloves, snuggled close to Evalin under a thick blanket of furs.

“Did I do something wrong?” Aelin whispered, her voice small, her face pressed into her mother’s side.

Evalin’s fingers slid through Aelin’s hair, smoothing the wild curls as she always did when the child was upset. Her touch was gentle, but Aelin could sense the storm of thoughts that brewed beneath her calm exterior.

“No, Fireheart” Evalin murmured softly, her voice thick with a blend of tenderness and concern. “You didn’t do anything wrong. But your power is big, Aelin. It’s wild, just like you. And that can scare people—even when you don’t mean to.”

Aelin’s brow furrowed, and she bit her lip. “I don’t want to scare anyone.”

Evalin sighed, her fingers stilling in her daughter’s hair. “I know, Fireheart. But if you don't want to scare people, you need to learn how to control your fire.”

Aelin’s eyes fluttered closed, the sound of her mother’s words settling in her mind like a soft lullaby. “I'll try, mama. I'll learn to control my fire.”

Chapter Text

The Library of Orynth had always smelled like old parchment and wax. Dust motes floated lazily through golden summer sunbeams streaming in from the high, arched windows. It was quiet here, sacred. And for a girl who could not trust her own body, her own breath, her own magic—quiet was a rare and precious thing.

Aelin had kept the promise she made to her mother months ago. She tried to control her fire, but she didn’t know how. Sometimes just thinking about needing to control it caused it to flare up and burst out of her. Her control remained as erratic as ever.

Cross-legged in the center of the marble floor, a book open in her lap and her finger trailing along the words, Aelin was trying to sound out aloud. Her tutor had given up half an hour ago and left her to her “princessly silence.” Aelin hadn’t minded. She liked the quiet. She liked the books even more.

But the fire was growing again.

It always did when she felt... too much. And right now, she felt everything.

Frustration. The words were swimming on the page like fish slipping through her fingers.
Annoyance. Her dress was too tight, and the sun kept flickering in her eyes.
Loneliness. Her tutor had left the moment Aelin’s fingertips began to steam again.

The fire curled under her skin, clawing to be let out.

Aelin squeezed her eyes shut and counted. One. Two. Three. No. She wouldn’t let it win.

She forced her breathing to slow. Tried to think of the snow in the Staghorns, of the cool lake waters behind the palace. Tried to remember what her father had said about strength not being fire—but control.

And then she heard the voices.

Soft, dismissive. Two librarians walking down the second-story balcony of the library, arms laden with ancient, leather bound texts.

“She set her bedsheets aflame last week, you know. Right in her sleep.”

“That child is wild. And the way they all coddle her in the castle.”

Aelin froze.

“She’s eight. What happens when she’s older? When she starts truly burning?”

Her hands shook. The book trembled in her lap. The whisper of fire in her blood became a roar.

The book burst into flames.

Aelin screamed as fire flared out around her—her hands, the floor, the marble itself seemed to crackle with heat. The bookshelves to her left ignited like dry kindling, flames racing up the spines of centuries-old texts.

Screams echoed. The librarians bolted. Servants poured in, buckets in hand.

Aelin scrambled back, dress smoking at the hem. She hadn't meant to. She hadn't meant to.

Then her mother was there.

Queen Evalin’s water magic pulsed like a tide. With a sweep of her hands, water burst from the air itself and drenched the bookshelf.

The fire hissed.

And then... silence.

Aelin sat in a ring of scorched marble and ash, her hands blackened with soot, eyes wide and wild.

Evalin knelt before her, gently touching her face, searching her for injuries. Her gown was soaked. Her golden hair clung to her cheeks. Her voice was trembling as she whispered, “You’re not hurt?”

Aelin just shook her head.

Evalin's fingers tightened around hers. “It’s all right, my love. You’re all right.”

But behind the queen, two visiting foreign emissaries had emerged from some nearby stacks. Their faces were unreadable, but their eyes... their eyes were afraid.

And Aelin—burned, shaking, and small—saw it.

She saw what they thought of her.

Not a girl. Not a princess.

A threat.

~~~~~

Her mother called her Fireheart.

But to her court, to her people, she would one day be Queen. To them, she was heir to two mighty bloodlines and to a tremendous power. A power that was a gift or a weapon.

That had been the near-constant debate for the first eight years of her life. As she grew older and it became apparent that while she’d inherited most of her mother’s looks, she’d received her father’s volatile temper and wildness, the wary questions became more frequent, asked by rulers in kingdoms far from their own.

On days like this, she knew that everyone would hear of the event, for better or worse.

She was supposed to be asleep, and was wearing her favorite silk nightgown, her parents having tucked her in minutes ago. Though they had told her they weren’t, she knew they were exhausted, and frustrated. She’d seen the way the court was acting, and how her mother had put a gentle hand on her father’s shoulder and told him to take her up to bed.

But she couldn’t sleep, not when her door was cracked open, and she could hear her parents from their bedroom in the suite they shared in the upper levels of the white castle. They thought they were speaking quietly, but it was with an immortal’s ears that she listened in the near-dark.

“I don’t know what you expect me to do, Evalin,” her father said. She could almost hear him prowling before the giant bed on which she had been born. “What’s done is done.”

“Tell them it was exaggerated, tell them the librarians were making a fuss over nothing,” her mother hissed. “Start a rumor that someone else did it, trying to pin the blame on her-”

“This is all because of Maeve?”

“This is because she is going to be hunted, Rhoe. For her whole life, Maeve and others will hunt her for this power--”

“And you think agreeing to let those little bastards ban her from the library will prevent that? Tell me: why does our daughter love reading so much?”

“That has nothing to do with it.”

“Tell me.” When her mother didn’t respond, her father growled. “She is eight--and she has told me that her dearest friends are characters in books.”

“She has Aedion”

“She has Aedion because he is the only child in this castle who isn’t petrified of her -- who hasn’t been kept away because we have been lax with her training. She needs training, Ev -- training and friends. If she doesn’t have either, that’s when she’ll turn into what they’re afraid of.”

Silence, and then -- a huff from beside her bed.

“I am not a child,” Aedion hissed from where he sat in a chair, arms crossed. He’d slipped in here after her parents had left -- to talk quietly to her, as he often did when she was upset. “And I don’t see why it’s a bad thing if I’m your only friend.”

“Quiet,” she hissed back. Though Aedion couldn’t shift, his mixed blood allowed him to hear with uncanny range and accuracy, better even than hers. And though he was five years older, he was her only friend. She loved her court, yes -- loved the adults who pampered and coddled her. But the few children who lived in the castle kept away, despite their parents’ urging. Like dogs, she’d sometimes thought. The others could smell her differences.

“She needs friends her age,” her father went on. “Maybe we should send her to school. Cal and Marion have been talking about sending Elide next year --”

“No schools. And certainly not that so-called magic school, when it’s so close to the border and we don’t know what Adlerlan is planning.”

Aedion loosed a breath, his legs propped on the mattress. His tan face was angled toward the cracked door, his golden hair shining faintly, but there was a crease between his brows. Neither of them took well to being separated, and the last time one of the castle boys had teased him for it, Aedion had spent a month shoveling horse dung for beating the boy into a pulp.

Her father sighed. “Ev, don’t kill me for this, but -- you’re not making this easy. For us, or for her.” Her mother was quiet, and she heard a rustle of clothing and a murmur of, “I know, I know,” before her parents started speaking too quietly for her Fae ears.

Aedion growled again, his eyes -- their matching eyes -- gleaming in the dark. “I don’t see what all the fuss is about. So what if you burned a few books? Those librarians deserve it. When we’re older, maybe we’ll burn it to the ground together.”

She knew he meant it. He’d burn the library, the city, or the whole world to ashes if she asked him. It was their bond, marked by blood and scent and something else she couldn’t place. A tether as strong as the one that bound her to her parents. Stronger in some ways.

Chapter Text

The bells of Orynth rang in Beltane with music and sunlight. All of Terrasen had turned out for the celebration—the air thick with laughter, flower petals, and the sweet aroma of roasted nuts and honeyed pastries. Ribbons of spring green, sky blue, and pale gold danced in the wind, wound through trellises, wrapped around poles, tangled in hair.

Aelin hated every second of it.

From her place on the raised platform beside her parents, she smiled when expected. She curtsied politely. She accepted flower crowns and blessings with bowed head and composed grace. But inside—deep in the place where fire still burned beneath her skin—she was unraveling.

Aelin hadn’t used her magic in months. Hadn’t let it loose. Not once. Not even in secret.

Now 14, she had trained herself—painstakingly, silently—to shut the power down. To shove it into a box so tight and small she could barely feel it when she walked in her human skin.

And yet… the fire was never truly gone.

It waited.

Lurking behind every emotion, every impulse. The more she ignored it, the more it pulsed with fury beneath her skin. Especially in her Fae form, when she dared to shift. It was why she hadn’t shifted in nearly a month.

Why her smile today felt as thin as glass.

Once, it had been different.

On Beltane when she was younger, she would run rampant through the field before the gates of Orynth, the thousand bonfires burning. It was her night, her mother had said—a night when a fire-bearing girl had nothing to fear, no powers to hide. 

Aelin Fireheart, people had whispered as she bounded past, embers streaming from her ribbons, Aedion and a few of her more lethal court members trailing as indulgent guards. Aelin of the Wildfire.

She remembered the warmth. The laughter. The way the fire felt like freedom instead of a cage.

That girl was disappearing. Aelin of the Wildfire lost a little bit of herself every time she pushed her fire down. Every time she smothered her own flame.

The drums pounded louder. Dancers leapt into the center of the festival square, limbs flashing with ribbons and firelight. The Beltane fires would be lit soon—bright pyres meant to honor the turning of the seasons, meant to symbolize fertility, warmth, and renewal.

Aelin swallowed hard. She could feel it—the way fire answered fire.

The way the magic clawed at her chest like a caged beast.

Someone touched her arm.

Her mother, Evalin, graceful and serene in her sea-green gown, leaned in and whispered, “You’re doing well, my Frieheart. You may go down to join the children near the fires if you like.”

Aelin’s mouth dried. She wanted to shake her head. To run.

But people were watching.

Noble lords, foreign visitors, members of the Bane—even Lord Darrow with his stiff shoulders and cold eyes. Watching Aelin of the Wildfire , waiting to see whether she would ignite or remain in control.

So she nodded.

She stepped down from the dais, trailing a line of blue and silver ribbon behind her, and walked to the circle of children near the great pyres.

Her stomach flipped.

She looked up at the pile of kindling, stacked high with garlands of flowers and brightly painted wooden effigies of the sun and moon. Her heart pounded in her ears, matching the tempo of the drums.

The music changed.

The rhythm slowed, deepened. A heartbeat of sound that reverberated in her bones.

Magic. There was magic in the music.

Not hers. But it enthralled her, weaving together like threads in a tapestry. Like the threads of life itself.

It called to her fire like a spark in a dry field.

Her hand trembled.

Then, without warning, her knees buckled. Entranced by the music and the call of her flame, her magic snapped its chains.

The fire exploded out of her.

The pyre caught like it had been soaked in oil, flames leaping higher than they ever had before. The garlands vanished in seconds, the effigies scorched black. Screams rang out—not in joy, but in panic—as a tongue of flame whipped outward and caught a woman’s skirts.

The woman shrieked.

Aelin blinked in horror.

She couldn’t stop it . Couldn’t pull the fire back.

Then her mother was there, again, hands raised and glowing with water. A wave of mist rolled out from Evalin, quenching the fire on the woman’s dress before it consumed her.

Guards stepped forward. Healers rushed in.

Aelin stood in the center of it all, frozen. Smoke curling from her fingertips. Eyes wide with terror.

And around her, the crowd stared. No longer festive. No longer joyful.

Wary. Suspicious. Afraid.

Her father appeared at her side, his hand resting gently—yet firmly—on her shoulder.

Aelin didn’t look up.

She already knew.

The rumors would return. Whispers of danger. Of instability. Of wildness in the royal line.

Aelin didn’t cry. Didn’t speak.

But inside her chest, the flame that had raged for years flickered smaller and smaller… until it was barely a spark once more.

She would stifle it.

Even if it hollowed her out to do it.

~~~~~

There was no fire now.

Not in her bones. Not in her breath. Not even in her dreams.

Aelin had learned how to drown it.

It was harder than anyone could have guessed—to not burn. Every day since Beltane, she kept her jaw clenched and her fists tight and her back straight. Because if she loosened her grip for even a second, the fire might come roaring back, wild and furious and dangerous .

She didn’t shift anymore, even when her magic tugged and begged, even when her body ached to stretch into that other form. She stayed in her human skin, wrapped in plain dresses and quiet footsteps, tucked away in the far wing of the castle where no one could whisper or point or watch .

Her tutors didn’t mention it, but she could see it in their eyes—the hesitation. The wariness. The way their hands lingered just a second too long on the cold silver ink pot or the stone wall, as if they needed something grounding, something safe .

And she tried. Gods, she tried to be what they wanted. To be calm and clever and contained. She buried her fire deeper every day, locked it down in the dark corners of herself. She didn’t even let herself think about it.

Except when she was alone.

Except when she remembered what her mother used to say.

"Beltane is your night, Fireheart. A night when a fire-bearing girl has nothing to fear, no powers to hide."

But now, all she had was fear. And all she did was hide.

Sometimes, when no one was looking, Aelin would go to the empty gallery on the third floor—the one with all the paintings of the royal family and old ancestors with stiff collars and too-bright eyes. She’d sit beneath the huge window and press her palm to the glass, letting the sun heat her skin.

And for a moment, she would imagine it was her fire.

Just her. Safe and alone and burning.

But then the warmth would fade, and she’d remember. Remember the panic in her mother’s voice. The scorched dress. The gasps from the crowd. The word monster whispered like a curse.

She sat on the marble floor facing the portrait of King Brannon. Her fire would rival his one day, so she’d heard. King Brannon was a legend. A hero. How did he deal with it? How did he live with the writhing unrelenting flames under his skin? She wished she could ask him.

Aedion

Aedion didn’t understand.

He wasn’t supposed to—he knew that. Grown-ups talked around things, not to him, even though he saw and heard more than they realized.

But he saw Aelin. She was but an ember of the wild blaze she had once been.

He missed the way she used to barrel down the castle halls, ribbons streaming behind her like comet tails. Missed the way she used to sneak honeyed bread from the kitchens and convince him to help her hide it in the library for “emergency snacking purposes.” Missed how she used to laugh, loud and bright and totally, unapologetically herself.

Now she was quiet. Still. Careful in a way that scared him.

He tried to get her to come outside, to play swords in the courtyard or run in the field near the barracks like they used to. But she always said no. She barely looked him in the eye anymore.

And Aedion was starting to feel like he was chasing a shadow of the girl he once knew.

The fire was gone. Not just the magic— her . The real her. The wildfire cousin who’d once danced between the Beltane bonfires like she was one of them.

He remembered that night. How people had whispered her name like a promise.

Aelin Fireheart. Aelin of the Wildfire.

She’d run wild through the field before the gates of Orynth, embers sparking from her hair ribbons as she shrieked with laughter. Aedion and the others had followed, half-guarding, half-chasing, completely helpless against her joy.

Now, her room was dark and cold. No light. No heat. As if she was trying to erase herself from it all.

And he didn’t know how to fix it.

~~~~~

Evalin sat at the window when Aedion came into the parlor one evening, her hands wrapped around a cup of untouched tea.

“She won’t come out,” he said softly.

Evalin didn’t look at him. “I know.”

He wanted to scream. Wanted to grab the court by their collars and shake them for what they’d done to her. Not with swords or shackles, but with fear . With silence.

“She’s not dangerous,” Aedion said, voice shaking. “She’s just... Aelin .”

That made Evalin turn her head. Her smile was tired. “I know that too.”

But nothing changed.

Not yet.

~~~~~

Weeks later a letter changed everything.

It arrived one crisp morning, a missive from Doranelle. Rhoe took it immediately, his eyes narrowing when he saw the elegant script on the envelope.

It was a letter from Maeve, Queen of the Fae.

Rhoe waited until they were in the privacy of their chambers before breaking the seal, his voice soft but edged with distrust as he read aloud to Evalin. Aedion watched and listened with his enhanced fae senses from outside their chambers.

“Queen Evalin and King Rhoe,” Rhoe began, his voice heavy. “‘We have been watching your daughter, Aelin. Her power is vast, untamed, and... eternal. We would offer our training in Doranelle, for there is much potential within her fire. We suggest you bring her to us before the flames consume her. Maeve, Queen of the Fae.’”

Rhoe’s eyes flicked to Evalin, whose face hardened. “Maeve.” Her tone was clipped. Rhoe’s voice was low and reluctant. “She could teach Aelin control.”

“Control,” Evalin echoed bitterly. “But at what cost? Maeve does not offer her aid without expecting something in return.”

Rhoe’s gaze grew distant, as if contemplating the decision. “We can’t risk Aelin’s power going unchecked. And none of the Fae here are powerful enough to train her.”

Evalin turned to the window, staring out over the horizon, where the sun had begun to sink low in the sky, casting a faint golden glow over the land. “She’ll want more than Aelin’s magic. She’ll want her loyalty. And we cannot—will not—allow that.”

Chapter Text

The halls of the castle were silent at this hour, the kind of silence that hummed with things unsaid. Aedion’s boots made no sound on the ancient stone as he slipped through the corridors, his heart thudding with something he didn’t care to name.

He stopped at her door. He hadn't been here in months.

They spoke less these days. Saw each other less. Not out of anger. Worse—apathy.

Or what looked like it.

He knocked once. Twice.

No response.

He opened the door anyway.

Aelin was exactly where he expected her to be—curled up in the farthest corner of her room, tucked into the window seat, staring at the star-dappled night sky.

At 15 she was tall, but not awkward like many kids at that age. She was graceful.

She didn’t turn to look at him. She hadn't for a long time.

He crossed the room and stood before her, waiting. Watching her face, so still it could’ve been carved from marble.

“Boots,” he said.

Silence.

“You’re coming with me.”

She blinked. Nothing more.

Aedion sighed and crouched down in front of her, voice quieter now. “You don’t have to talk. Or smile. Or laugh. Just come with me. For a little while.”

No movement.

But then—finally—she shifted. Her feet hit the floor. She didn’t look at him as she reached for her boots.

The training grounds were lit only by the moon and stars, the torches along the walls long since guttered. The air was crisp with the last gasp of winter, but the sky was clear, the clouds distant.

Aelin stood at the edge of the sparring ring, arms folded tightly over her chest. Her posture was guarded, her face empty.

Aedion tossed her a wooden sword. She caught it with easy grace. Reflex. Nothing more.

“Don’t think,” he said. “Just move.”

She didn’t. Not at first.

So he lunged.

She blocked him in half a heartbeat, her eyes flashing with something sharp and vicious.

Aedion grinned. “There you are.”

Aelin didn’t reply. She moved.

It was not graceful. Not elegant. But there was precision to her footwork, to the way she kept her shoulders squared and her body coiled for speed. The princess had been watching for years. Studying.

But she’d never truly sparred .

Until now.

He didn’t go easy on her. And she didn’t want him to. He could see it in the tension in her jaw, the stiffness of her spine. She needed this.

For minutes that felt like hours, they circled and struck and blocked, sweat beginning to bead on their brows despite the cold.

And then, with a snarl, Aelin drove forward with a feint and slammed the flat of her sword against his ribs.

Aedion staggered back, breathless.

Aelin stood over him, panting, cheeks flushed, eyes burning.

And for the first time in months— maybe years —she smiled.

Just a little.

Just enough.

~~~~~

She returned to the yard the next night.

And again.

At first, it was just the two of them. Quiet sessions after dusk, long past when the Bane had cleared out. It became their routine through the seasons. The spring when she turned 17, Aedion brought her into drills with the Bane. Not as royalty, not as his cousin—just as a soldier in training.

She trained alongside men older than her, taller, stronger. They all underestimated her.

Only once.

She was fast. Deadly. Controlled. Not with fire—never with fire—but with blade and steel and the fury that lived beneath her skin.

The fury that had nowhere else to go.

The Bane respected her not because she was royal—but because she bled alongside them. Gritted her teeth and got back up. Took bruises without complaint.

Aedion watched her work herself to the bone. He didn't stop her. Didn't question it. He understood too well.

And slowly, the frozen wall between them began to thaw.

She started speaking during training—asking for critiques, analyzing maneuvers. She never smiled unless she forgot to hold it back. But she was present again.

Sometimes, Aedion saw her standing alone on the edge of the courtyard when drills were over, staring at the flame-pit torches.

Never lighting them. Never touching them.

But staring.

Aelin still suppressed her fire. Still avoided her Fae form.

But now, she had another outlet. A blade in her hand. Sweat on her skin. Her breath harsh and real and hers .

And Aedion knew—knew in his bones—that she wasn’t slipping away anymore.

She was sharpening herself.

Preparing for whatever came next.

And he would be there. By her side. Always.

~~~~~

The castle had never felt so loud.

Not with shouting or clashing blades or festival bells—but with whispers.

They slithered through the stone corridors like smoke, curling under doors, through keyholes, into every quiet corner.

And Aelin had grown quiet enough herself to hear them all.

She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. Truly. She’d only gone to the gallery for a moment of peace, of distance from the sweat and bruises of the training yard. But she’d taken the servant passage behind the long hallway near the council chambers—an old habit from when she was younger and used to race Aedion through them.

She paused when she heard her name.

"…she burned half the festival ground a few years ago, Darrow. You were there. You saw it."

Lord Sloane’s voice. Sharp as frost.

"She was a child," came Lady Marion’s reply. Quieter but seething.

"She’s seventeen now," Darrow snapped. "Nearly of marriageable age. And she still can’t control it."

"She hasn’t lost control like that in years," Marion said. "And her combat training—"

"I don’t care how well she can wield a sword. She was born with wildfire in her blood. And no one has taught her how to contain it."

A pause. Then: "If her own family won’t act, we must consider magical restraints. Quietly. As a precaution."

Aelin’s stomach twisted.

Another voice—a man’s this time, Lord Gunnar. He’d once gifted Aelin a rosewood hair comb. Aelin had kept it.

"She’s the heir to Terrasen. If word of restraints got out, there would be chaos. It must be done carefully, delicately."

"She’s a danger," Darrow said again. "Not just to herself. But to the future of this kingdom."

"Lord Sloane agrees," said Lord Gunnar. "As do I."

A huff from Lady Marion. “Mala help us. If you can’t see how wrong this is, we’ll deserve every bad thing that comes our way.”

Aelin stepped back from the wall like it had burned her.

They wanted to bind her. Restrain her. Because they feared what she might become. Not Lady Marion. But the others. They all agreed.

She should’ve expected it. She had expected it. But hearing it— knowing the people she’d grown up nodding politely to were planning her containment—was something else entirely.

She did not cry.

She ran.

She didn’t make it far. The corridor outside the passage opened onto the lesser hall—and there her father stood, mid-conversation with two advisors. He saw her instantly.

"Aelin," he said, brows lifting in quiet surprise. "I was about to send for you."

Her stomach dropped again.

"We’ve received word. The royal families of Adarlan and Eyllwe will be traveling to Orynth this spring—for Beltane."

She said nothing.

"They’ll stay in the palace, of course. You’ll be expected to join the festivities, offer them a warm Terrasen welcome. Princess Nehemia will be here. As I recall, you two got on quite well the last time the Ellwye royals visited us.”

Still, she said nothing. She had liked Nehemia. They’d become fast friends and still kept in touch with occasional letters.

Her father’s eyes sharpened. "I expect you to entertain Prince Dorian while he is here as well. Show him the castle grounds and perhaps the library. I’m told he’s an avid reader.”

Now her breath caught.

She’d met him once, years ago. Blue-eyed, golden-skinned, too polite for his own good. The Crown Prince of Adarlan.

She was nearing marriageable age. And politics cared little for affection.

The realization hit her like cold water: she was not being asked to entertain. Their parents were testing out the possibility of a courtship.

She forced a bow of her head, murmured, "Yes, Father."

And turned on her heel before the heat in her blood could boil over.

She didn’t return to her chambers.

Instead, she fled through the servant halls and out of the castle entirely, cloak flying behind her. Past the walls, past the training grounds, past the stables and the guards who called her name. She ran.

The Oakwald forest greeted her with familiar silence. The hush of leaves, the hush of her own breath. Here, the air didn’t whisper of marriage or magic or control.

Here, she could be nothing. Or everything.

She slowed only when she reached the heart of the woods, a stream glistening in the pale afternoon light. Her pulse thundered in her ears.

She hadn’t shifted in years. Not since Beltane when she was a child. Not since her fire became something to fear.

But now—

Now, with her human form taut with rage and sorrow, with the world expecting her to be someone else, she let go. Or she tried to.

The veil had once been effortless to punch through. Now it felt like that veil was gone. 

She couldn’t take her Fae form. What did that mean?

She didn’t think the Fae part of her was gone. That didn’t seem possible. And she could still feel her powers. They were just…dormant. Would they be forever? Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. She expected to feel relief at the thought, but instead she just felt sadness for the loss of that wild fire-wielding girl she had once been.

Chapter Text

The next morning, the halls were quieter than usual.

Not in the way Aelin had grown used to—the hush of courtiers pretending not to gossip, or servants gliding by with their eyes downcast. This was a taut silence. One stretched too thin over worry.

Aelin knew why the moment she stepped back into the castle through the garden doors, her clothes damp with dew and her hair wind-mussed and wild. She had fallen asleep in the forest, contemplating her Fae form and what it meant that she could no longer shift. It had been magical, peaceful, sleeping under the stars, the Lord of the North watching over her.

Her mother was waiting.

Evalin stood at the edge of the hall, arms crossed, face like carved marble. Her gown was unadorned, her hair braided in the old Terrasen warrior’s style. It was the only sign that she hadn’t slept.

Aelin braced herself.

But her mother said only, “Your father is waiting in the war room.”

No shouting. No fury. Which somehow made it worse.

Rhoe Galathynius stood at the map table, a goblet of untouched tea near his hand. His face was unreadable, the way it always was when he was balancing strategy and mercy.

Aelin didn’t speak. She simply stood there, letting the cold of the war room seep into her bones.

“You were gone all night,” Rhoe said at last.

She nodded.

“Do you know what that means, politically, when the heir to Terrasen vanishes the same day the lords begin whispering of magical restraints?”

Aelin’s jaw clenched.

“I didn’t run because of them ,” she said quietly.

“Didn’t you?”

She looked away. “I ran because I needed to remember who I was. Who I am. ” Her fingers curled at her sides. “They want to put chains on me. To decide who I’ll marry, what I’ll become. I needed space.”

Rhoe considered that. “And did you find it?”

Aelin looked up, her eyes steady. “Yes.”

A silence passed between them, the weight of it filled with too many things unsaid. Then her father nodded once.

“We also received another letter.”

She tensed.

“From Maeve,” Rhoe said quietly. “She has renewed her offer to train you in Doranelle.”

Aelin stared at him. “You’re considering it?”

“She is ancient, powerful. She could teach you what we cannot.”

“She’ll teach me obedience,” Aelin spat. “She wants my fire, and she wants my loyalty.”

“She is our kin, Aelin.”

“She is a dark queen known for her webs of schemes. She has had her eye on Terrasen since Brannon arrived here and established our kingdom. I won’t be the reason Maeve finally gets her claws into Terrasen.”

Rhoe’s silence said he didn’t disagree.

“She’ll twist me into something useful to her, and call it education.”

Her father sighed. “Your mother feels the same. But if things grow more dangerous here—if the court continues to turn—”

“I won’t be sent away.” Her voice was steel. “Not for safety. Not for politics.”

Rhoe nodded again, slower this time. “Then give them no reason to push us further.”

She didn’t answer.

“Go clean up. The court arrives in an hour. You will join me on the dais.”

~~~~~

The nobles had not expected her to appear.

Certainly not wearing the green and gold of her house, her crown braid tight and circlet in place, chin lifted like she hadn’t heard every cruel whisper in the last week.

Aedion stood at her side, arms crossed, daring anyone to speak.

Lord Ironwood’s eyes narrowed as she passed him. Lord Gunnar bowed, too slow. Darrow watched her like a hawk measuring for weakness.

She smiled at them. A blade’s smile.

As the court session began, she listened to matters of grain, trade, border patrols—all the dull business of rule. She said nothing, played her part.

But then Lord Sloane stepped forward.

“We would ask that Princess Aelin undergo magical testing,” he said smoothly. “Not for judgment. For her own safety. And that of the realm.”

The room went still.

Aelin met her father’s eyes.

He did not stop her when she stepped forward.

“You are suggesting,” Aelin said calmly, “that I, the heir to Terrasen, should be tested and bound— just in case I pose a threat?”

Sloane hesitated. “Only if it becomes necessary.”

“And who decides that?” Her voice rose slightly. “You? Darrow? The men who’ve never so much as held magic in their bones?”

Whispers erupted. Rhoe didn’t intervene.

“You forget,” Aelin said, stepping down the stairs of the dais, her steps echoing, “that magic is not a curse. It has been Terrasen’s legacy since King Brannon established our kingdom so long ago.”

She stopped in front of them. Her eyes burned. Not with power. Not yet.

“But if you fear what I am—then let me be very clear. I do not need fire to destroy you. I have blood and blade enough.”

She turned before they could speak.

Aedion followed close behind, his grin full of pride and menace.

~~~~~

Later, in the training yard, she stood beside him with twin wooden blades in her hands.

“I meant what I said,” she murmured, tossing one sword in the air, catching it. “About not needing magic.”

Aedion leaned against the post, watching her.

“You could’ve burned them all down.”

“I didn’t.”

“Because you’re better than that?”

“No.” She struck out at the dummy, hard enough to leave a dent. “Because I want them to watch me rise.”

Aedion nodded slowly. “Then let them watch.”

He moved to stand beside her, raised his own blade.

“Let’s give them something to be afraid of.”

Later that evening Aelin joined dinner with her family, and discussion of Doranelle returned. Evalin’s voice was calm but firm, as if she had already considered every angle and arrived at her own decision. 

“Aelin is not going to Doranelle,” she said, her gaze flicking between her daughter and Rhoe. “That is non-negotiable. Maeve will have her claws in Aelin the moment she steps onto Doranelle soil, and I won’t allow it.”

Rhoe opened his mouth to protest, but Evalin held up a hand, silencing him.

“I’m not done,” Evalin continued, her tone sharp. “However… perhaps there is a compromise to be made.”

Rhoe raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued but his expression guarded. “What kind of compromise?”

Evalin leaned back in her chair, folding her hands in front of her as she weighed her words. “If Terrasen is going to accept a fae trainer for Aelin, it must be someone under our terms. Someone who we can watch and supervise.”

Aelin felt a flicker of hope spark inside her, even as her suspicion remained. She didn’t trust Maeve and had no desire to walk into a trap, but the thought of being trained by someone who might understand her magic was tempting.

“And who do you propose would train her?” Rhoe asked carefully, his voice even but with an undercurrent of doubt.

“I have connections within Maeve’s court, through my family in Varese,” Evalin said quietly, her eyes flicking to Aelin for a moment before settling on her husband. “Perhaps they could arrange a Fae trainer from Doranelle to come here instead of Aelin going there. They would train her here, under our supervision, so that she’s not exposed to the political games in Doranelle.”

Aelin blinked, surprised. She had never considered that option, but the thought of staying in Terrasen while learning to control her fire seemed almost too good to be true.

Rhoe was quiet for a long moment, clearly weighing the risk. Finally, he spoke, his voice low. “And how can we be certain these fae won’t have their own agendas?”

Evalin’s eyes darkened with determination. “We can’t. But at least we can watch and be prepared. At least Aelin won’t have to throw herself right into the middle of whatever dark web Maeve is weaving for her.”

Aelin couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief. The idea of training in Terrasen, where she could be protected from the looming threat of Maeve’s influence, felt like a lifeline.

After another long silence, Rhoe sighed. “Very well. If Maeve agrees to this arrangement, we will bring someone in. But if there is the slightest hint of betrayal…” His voice trailed off, a clear warning hanging in the air.

Evalin nodded sharply. “I understand, Rhoe.”

Aelin watched the exchange, her heart racing. This was a chance. A chance to truly learn how to control her magic. A chance to have a future that wasn’t dictated by fear.

“Thank you,” Aelin said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I won’t disappoint you.”

“You’d better not,” Evalin said, her lips curling into a smile that held no humor. “The future of this kingdom is riding on you.”

And with that, the conversation ended, but a new tension had settled into the air, one that neither Aelin nor her parents could ignore.

Chapter Text

The months that followed were grueling.

Aelin threw herself into training with the Bane. With Aedion. With anyone who would spar with her, sweat with her, teach her something that might give her control of the storm inside her. Discipline became her armor. Focus, her shield.

She rose with the sun and trained until her limbs trembled. Aedion pushed her harder than anyone else, but he did it with quiet encouragement, with a steadiness that never faltered. 

“You’re stronger than this,” he told her one day, knocking her sword from her hand with a smooth twist of his wrist. “Stop treating your power like it’s a curse.”

She picked up the blade with shaking fingers, sweat soaking her shirt. “Maybe it is.”

He gave her a long, unreadable look. “Then use it like one. Let it be the thing your enemies fear.”

Aelin didn’t want to be a monster, though. She wanted to be strong, yes, but she also wanted to be beautiful and wild.

Evalin, meanwhile, began to reach out to her brother Glaston, King of Wendlyn, carefully broaching the topic of him helping to negotiate with Maeve to bring a Fae trainer to Terrasen who is capable of training Aelin. The letters were diplomatic, deliberate—each word chosen with precision. Rhoe assisted, drafting responses to any who expressed concern. They would not send Aelin to Doranelle, but they might find someone willing to come.

By early spring, Orynth stirred with preparations for Beltane.

Banners were unfurled. Bonfires built. Nobles began arriving from across the kingdom—and beyond. The royal families of Eyllwe and Adarlan were expected within the week. The palace buzzed with tailors, cooks, and servants scrambling to make every detail perfect.

And always, beneath the surface, the pressure of expectation.

Sloane and Darrow remained unmoved by the promises of foreign diplomacy. In council, behind closed doors, they pushed harder than ever for magical restraints. For "precautions." For contingencies.

One evening, Aelin found herself walking past the council antechamber. She wasn’t meant to be overhear—she knew that. But the door had been left slightly ajar, and the voices inside carried.

“…She may become unstable again,” Sloane was saying, voice low and oily. “It only takes one slip.”

“Beltane is the perfect cover,” Darrow murmured. “With so many foreigners, so many eyes—it would be easy to say the restraints were part of her attire. A jewel, a bracelet. She would not need to know.”

“She will burn this kingdom to the ground,” Sloane said, “and we’ll be the fools who let her.”

Aelin backed away before she could hear more.

She fled. Again.

The Oakwald welcomed her as it always did—shadowed and ancient, its hush a balm to her thoughts. She didn’t stop until she was deep within, heart pounding, lungs burning.

She told herself she just needed to clear her head. That was all. No fire. No fury.

But the moment she slowed, the air shifted.

A whisper of movement. A flicker of danger.

The arrow struck her shoulder first, sending her sprawling into the moss. Pain bloomed like lightning. She rolled just in time to avoid the second, but the third embedded itself in her thigh.

She didn’t see the assassin until he was on her.

His blade found her side, a deep slash meant to kill. She screamed—not in fear, but in fury. Her blood hit the earth. Her body shook and she felt the shift happening. Effortless and automatic. Her immortal power protecting her.

And then everything broke.

Flame erupted from her skin.

The assassin didn’t even have time to scream. Her magic incinerated him—bone and blade and flesh reduced to ash in seconds.

The fire didn’t stop.

It tore through the underbrush, igniting trees and ferns and layers of detritus. Aelin collapsed, and then—

Darkness.

She awoke hours later, lying in a pool of her own blood, her skin smeared with soot and ash. The forest around her was charred black.

But rain was falling.

A steady, heavy spring rain that hissed against the scorched earth, quenching the last of her flames.

Aelin lay there, staring up through the burnt canopy. She could feel the magic humming beneath her skin. No longer buried. No longer silent.

It had saved her.

But it had almost destroyed everything else.

And now, there would be no more hiding.

Not from herself.

Not from the court.

Not from the world.

It was Aedion who found her, lying there in a puddle of blood and ash. His roar echoed through the trees as he gathered her in his arms and ran—through ash, smoke, and the setting sun—back to the castle.

Healers worked by candles and starlight to mend her wounds. Aedion never left her bedside, while Rhoe sent riders from the Bane to inspect the damage to the forest and to ensure no fires remained.

As Aelin lay unconscious on the healer’s table, one thing became clear. Aelin could no longer hide from her fire—or the price of being Terrasen’s heir.

Chapter Text

Aelin’s dreams were made of ash.

Flashes of the assassin’s blade, of the arrow piercing her side, of the roar in her blood as the fire came. She awoke to the scent of wet earth and iron, her body aching with a pain so deep it had settled into her bones. Aedion was beside her when she opened her eyes, his face pale and tight with fury.

She was in her chambers, wrapped in bandages, warmth from the hearth and the sound of a storm outside wrapping around her like a second blanket. For a moment, she wondered if it had all been a dream.

It hadn’t.

“You were nearly killed.” Aedion’s voice was quiet, but not soft. “I found you just before nightfall.”

Aelin blinked at him.

“I was out checking the patrol routes myself,” he said. “I saw the fire—felt it from half a mile off. And then I found you in the clearing.”

She didn’t reply. Her body still trembled from the memory of the fire—how it had answered her so instinctively, how it had devoured the assassin before she even knew she’d called for it.

Aedion rose from the bedside. “Who was he? Did he say anything?”

She shook her head slowly. “He wore no colors. No crest. Just a hood.” There was something else. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Aedion waited for her, tensing in the chair he’d pulled up next to her bedside.

“Did he say anything?” he asked.

Aelin closed her eyes and tried to think back. She had been running. She had been mad about something -- Darrow and Sloane and their nefarious plans. She had felt the arrow to her shoulder first, and then another in her leg, she thought. And then what?

“He shouted out at me as he ran at me,” Aelin recalled. “After the arrows hit he ran in for the kill. Monster. He called me a monster before stabbing me in the side. He would have gotten me straight in the heart but I turned before he could make his mark.”

Aelin paused again, eyes closed. She took a deep breath. This was the part that was a little confusing. She knew she had shifted without trying, her body had acted on instinct. She remembered pain, but also fury. “Before I shifted, he said, ‘I’m going to have fun putting you down slowly, monster.’ And that was it. I did get a good look at his face as I was shifting. I could try to describe it to an artist if you think it would be worth it.”

“I think we should try, if you think you can remember,” Aedion replied, “and the sooner the better, before the memory fades or warps. But not now. Let’s get you some food and then the healers want you to rest.”

He left her then, already barking orders for servants to bring food and fetch the healers for the princess. Aedion had already ordered the Bane to investigate, and every path through the Oakwald was being scoured. But the assassin had left little behind—only a burned dagger hilt, blackened beyond recognition, and a melted arrowhead embedded in a tree root. Whoever had sent him had done so with precision.

And intent.

While Aelin healed slowly under the watch of Terrasen’s best healers, Evalin sat in the Queen’s parlor with a letter open before her. The seal of Wendlyn’s royal house glimmered in the morning light. Her brother had responded—cautiously supportive. He agreed that Maeve would need coaxing, but the idea of sending a trainer to Terrasen, to guide Aelin under the watchful eye of her family, was a viable path.

“It would offer protection,” Evalin said to Rhoe as he read over her shoulder. “And still grant her the training Maeve insists upon.”

Rhoe nodded slowly. “If Maeve agrees.”

“She will. Not out of kindness—but because even she won’t risk offending Wendlyn and Terrasen both.”

But they both knew the truth: if Maeve saw an opportunity to claim Aelin’s loyalty in the process, she would take it.

~~~~~

In the council chambers, the council convened that same week.

The incident in the Oakwald had already reached their ears, twisted through gossip and fear. Sloane leaned forward, voice clipped and cold.

“She destroyed half a clearing with a single outburst. What if it had been in the city?”

Lord Darrow gave a solemn nod. “This isn’t about punishment. It’s about protection. She is not just a girl—she is a weapon. And weapons must be sheathed.”

“She was attacked,” Rhoe snapped, standing from his seat.

“And she incinerated the forest!” Sloane replied. “That assassin is ash, Your Majesty. If she’d burned the Oakwald through to the river, it would be our people who suffered.”

Rhoe said nothing more. Evalin’s hand closed over his beneath the table, grounding him.

But the whispers had started again—dangerous, sharp. And Aelin, still pale and wounded, heard every one of them.

~~~~~

Aelin stood in the gardens days later, leaning against the stone wall, watching the petals of early spring flowers sway in the breeze. Her bandages were gone, but the ache in her side from the blade lingered. Aedion found her there, silent as a shadow.

“You need to be careful,” he said.

“I didn’t call the fire,” she replied. “It came on its own.”

“I know.”

He didn’t say what they both knew: that her magic had saved her life. But also made her more of a target.

She turned her face to the sun, letting its warmth wash over her. “I don’t want to be a weapon.”

“You’re not,” Aedion said. “You’re a wildfire. And fire can destroy—but it can also protect.”

She looked at him then, some of the pain in her eyes softening.

“And we’ll protect you,” he added, his voice fierce. “Whatever it takes.”

Aelin nodded, but said nothing.

Because deep in her chest, the fire stirred again—and it was no longer something she feared. It was something waiting to be understood.

Aelin made her way—carefully, under guard—to the gallery of the castle where she was to meet the sketch artist. The room smelled of parchment, dust, and the lingering bite of charcoal. A fire crackled low in the hearth, warding off the lingering chill of spring.

The sketch artist waited for her there, chairs set up near the portrait of King Brannon. He was an older man, with ink-stained fingers and spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose. He bowed low when she entered.

“Your Highness,” he said gently. “I’m ready when you are.”

Aelin sat in the tall-backed chair across from him, her fingers clasped in her lap to keep them from trembling. “I’ll do my best,” she said. “I didn’t see him clearly, but... I remember enough.”

The artist readied his parchment and charcoal. “Let’s begin with his build.”

“Average,” Aelin said slowly. “Not tall. Not particularly broad. He moved with the kind of balance you’d expect from someone used to slipping through shadows. Assassin-trained, probably. But he wasn’t someone who would draw your eye in a crowd.”

The artist began sketching. “And his face?”

Aelin frowned, trying to summon the image. “It was... disarmingly ordinary. Common. That was the unsettling part. He wore no mask, but his face may as well have been one.”

She leaned forward, voice lowering. “Ruddy skin. Like he spent time outdoors. His eyes were small—beady. The kind that flick around a room too fast. His brows were thick and sat low on his forehead. He kept his hood up for most of it, but I saw his face for a second. Just long enough.”

The artist's charcoal scratched against the page, soft and steady.

“He didn’t look like a killer,” Aelin said at last. “But he was. That face—bland, forgettable—was a shield. A mask he wore better than any glamour. That’s what I remember most.”

The artist nodded as he refined the sketch. After a few more questions, he turned the portrait around for her to see.

Aelin studied it in silence. The man in the drawing could have been anyone—could have blended in with merchants, travelers, or stablehands. That, she realized, was what made him so dangerous.

“Yes,” she said softly. “That’s him.”

“I’ll have copies sent to the guard and our northern outposts.”

Aelin nodded, her throat tight. As she stood, she glanced once more at the image.

He had nearly killed her. But now his face—so bland, so forgettable—would be hunted across Terrasen.

Chapter Text

Aelin’s recovery was slow but steady. The healers were cautious, but she insisted on returning to the training grounds within a fortnight. Her muscles ached, and her scars pulled with every movement, but she refused to let her near-death experience confine her.

Aedion welcomed her back with a sparring blade and a grin that held both pride and concern. The soldiers of the Bane gave her a respectful berth at first, but as the weeks passed, they grew used to her presence again—this time, not just as the princess, but as a comrade.

Word spread through the palace of new arrivals. The royal families of Adarlan and Eyllwe were due to arrive for Beltane, and the castle buzzed with activity. Banners were unfurled, guest chambers readied, and the kitchens worked from dawn to dusk.

The first to arrive was the royal procession from Eyllwe. Aelin waited at the palace steps beside her parents, resplendent in a deep green gown stitched with gold thread. When the carriages came into view, she stood straighter, heart skipping.

Princess Nehemia Ytger descended from the lead carriage in a flowing indigo robe embroidered with her kingdom’s ancient runes. Her dark curls were twisted back with golden cuffs, and her rich brown skin seemed to glow in the spring sun. She moved like a storm—purposeful, graceful, unstoppable.

Behind her followed her family—King Kwame and Queen Arina of Eyllwe, regal and composed. Her two younger brothers, both clad in dark blue tunics embroidered with silver thread, scanned the courtyard with wide eyes and quiet awe.

Aelin met Nehemia halfway across the courtyard, decorum forgotten.

“Nehemia,” she breathed.

“Aelin.”

The girls embraced tightly, the weight of the months apart falling away.

That evening, as festivities and formalities played out in the great hall, Aelin and Nehemia slipped away to the training yard. Nehemia grinned as she tossed Aelin a wooden staff.

“You’ve been training with swords too long. Let me show you how a princess of Eyllwe handles herself.”

Aelin caught the staff and rolled her eyes. “You’re going to bruise me, aren’t you?”

“Only a little.”

They sparred beneath the stars, laughter ringing through the air. Nehemia moved with fluid grace, every strike calculated but never cruel. Aelin matched her, learning quickly, finding comfort in the rhythm of movement and the camaraderie that had once come so easily.

Two days later, the Adarlanian delegation arrived. King Havilliard was stoic, his gaze sharp, and beside him stood his wife, Queen Georgina, her posture regal and her expression polite but distant. Dorian Havilliard, their eldest son, was tall, with midnight hair and startling sapphire eyes. His younger brother, Hollin, followed closely, eyes darting with poorly hidden mischief.

Dorian bowed with a flourish, and his smile was nothing short of charming.

“I hear you’ve read every book in the palace library,” he said after being introduced.

“Only the interesting ones,” Aelin replied, arching a brow.

“Good,” he said, smiling wider. “I was worried I’d have to compete with dusty volumes for your attention.”

They spent the evening exchanging favorite authors and debating plot twists over spiced wine and roasted almonds. He was quick-witted, clever, and—Aelin admitted privately—very handsome.

When Dorian mentioned his favorite novel, The Fall of Xandria , Aelin’s eyes lit up. “That was the first book that ever made me cry,” she confessed. “I stayed up until dawn, sobbing into my pillow.”

“I did too,” Dorian said, grinning. “Though I told everyone I’d just gotten dust in my eyes.” He smirked, “I don’t think they believed me, but it was worth the embarassment.” Aelin privately thought that Prince Dorian had probably never felt embarrassed once in his life.

~~~~~

The following morning, Evalin sat in the Queen’s parlor beside Rhoe, a letter from Wendlyn open between them. King Glaston’s elegant script confirmed what they had been hoping for: Maeve had agreed to send two of her Bloodsworn warriors to Terrasen. They would arrive later that summer, both to assist the kingdom in whatever ways the King and Queen saw fit, and to train Aelin in the use of her magic, and they would stay as long as deemed necessary to complete the Princess’s training.

Evalin frowned, rereading the letter. “The training is a relief. But we cannot forget they are Bloodsworn. Their first loyalty is to Maeve.”

Rhoe nodded slowly. “Which is why they must be watched. Always.”

“It goes beyond that,” Evalin replied. “The Bloodsworn are bound by oath and magic. If Maeve commands something of them, even if it goes against Terrasen’s interests or their own desires, they must obey. I’m still not convinced it is worth the risk. When I asked my brother to negotiate for Fae trainers to be sent here, it never occurred to me she would send Bloosworn warriors. There are lots of Fae trainers and magic instructors in Doranelle. There’s a reason she’s selected these two, and I don’t like it.”

“They’ll be close to Aelin every day,” Rhoe murmured. “Let’s think more on this before we reply.”

~~~~~

As Beltane approached, Orynth came alive with celebration. Bonfires were prepared in every square, flowers were gathered by the cartload, and musicians filled the air with lively tunes. It was announced that after the Beltane festivities, the palace would host a grand celebration of Aelin’s eighteenth birthday—a coming-of-age to mark not just her years, but her survival.

The city buzzed with excitement. Aelin, still healing, still watched, trained harder. Not just to protect herself—but because for the first time in a long while, she felt like she wasn’t fighting alone.

The spring sun poured through the high windows of Nehemia’s guest suite, casting golden light across the tiled floor and the low table set with lunch. Platters of Terrasen fare and Eyllwe delicacies filled the space between the girls: roasted roots and cheeses, spiced flatbreads and sweet rice wrapped in leaves.

Aelin sat cross-legged on a velvet cushion, a glass of chilled juice in her hand, watching Nehemia pick apart a piece of honeyed meat with a smirk.

“I still say your cooks don’t use nearly enough spice,” Nehemia said, popping the morsel into her mouth. “Everything tastes too... polite.”

Aelin laughed, letting her head fall back for a moment. “Welcome to the kingdom of restraint.”

Nehemia arched a brow. “Restraint isn’t a word I’d ever use to describe you , Aelin.”

Aelin hummed in agreement and took a bite of bread, chewing slowly before she asked, “Do you ever feel like your whole life is being planned for you without your say?”

Nehemia’s expression sobered. “Yes. Constantly. Especially now, when everything feels so... fragile.” She leaned forward, resting her elbow on the table. “Is this about Dorian?”

Aelin rolled her eyes, flushing. “You heard the rumors.”

“Everyone has.” Nehemia’s grin turned sly. “And you haven’t denied them.”

“I barely know him. He’s charming, yes. And pretty—annoyingly so. But our parents are already acting like this is some... inevitability.” Aelin plucked at the hem of her tunic. “And it’s not just the politics. There’s more.”

Nehemia waited patiently, sensing something deeper.

“I’m afraid,” Aelin admitted quietly. “Of being close to someone like that. Physically. When I was younger... I kissed a boy. It got heated. I lost control and burned him.”

Nehemia’s eyes widened. “You what ?”

“His neck and hand. Second-degree burns. He screamed.” Aelin’s voice was nearly a whisper. “He was too afraid to tell anyone what really happened, but I could see it in his eyes afterward. He never came near me again.”

“Aelin,” Nehemia said softly, “that wasn’t your fault.”

“I wanted it—wanted him . And my magic responded. I’m terrified it’ll happen again.”

Aelin swallowed hard and looked away. “The worst part is... I want that kind of connection. I read those Xandria novels. I’ve read them all. I want... intimacy. Desire. Someone to touch me and not fear me. Someone I don’t have to hide from.”

A silence fell between them, heavy with shared understanding.

Finally, Nehemia nudged her foot under the table. “Well. You could do worse than Dorian.”

Aelin gave her a sideways glare. “Please don’t encourage this.”

Nehemia grinned wickedly. “I’ve heard the rumors, too. About his...reputation.”

Aelin let out a groan. “Gods.”

“Rumor says he’s very talented,” Nehemia teased.

Aelin threw a napkin at her. “Stop. This is my literal nightmare.”

“I’m just saying, if you’re going to set someone on fire, you might as well pick someone who knows how to handle the heat.”

They both burst into laughter, the tension easing between them.

When their giggles faded, Aelin gave Nehemia a grateful smile. “Thank you. I didn’t think I could tell anyone that.”

Nehemia reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “You can always tell me. And one day, you’ll find someone who makes you feel safe and strong—and seen. Fire and all.”

Chapter Text

The castle’s library was a sprawling labyrinth of stone and scent—aged parchment and candlewax, endless shelves climbing high toward vaulted ceilings. Aelin had always found comfort here, but it had been years since she’d let herself linger.

She wandered between the aisles until a familiar voice called her name.

Dorian Havilliard stood near a reading table, a stack of books in his arms, a crooked smile on his lips. “I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”

Aelin laughed softly. “No. Just... reacquainting myself.”

He placed his books down and gestured to the seat across from him, and she took it. She glanced at the stack of old, musty volumes on the table, and eyebrow arched as she glanced back at Dorian. He chuckled. “I’ve been reading a lot of ancient epic poetry lately. The older the better. There’s something about the rhythm, the grandeur of it. The way they believed every storm or sword swing had the weight of destiny behind it.”

“Which ones?” she asked, intrigued.

He pulled a weathered leather-bound tome from the stack and opened it reverently. “This one’s from the Southern Steppes—centuries old. It’s about a warrior-queen who fell in love with the spirit of the moon.”

Aelin leaned forward, curiosity piqued. “That sounds tragic.”

He smiled. “The best ones always are.”

Aelin chuckled, but a sense of nostalgia washed over her as she scanned the rows of books. "I used to spend hours in here. But after... well, after everything happened, the librarians banned me from the library."

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “They banned you?”

“When I was younger I burned a whole shelf of books by accident when I got irritated with my tutor.”

His brows rose. “You burned books?”

“I was eight,” she said defensively. “And it was only a few!”

She nodded, her eyes briefly flicking to the high shelves. "Apparently, I was too much of a 'danger' to be around books." She shrugged, though her chest tightened. "Rumors started flying. People whispered that I couldn’t control my powers. Of course, no one cared to ask me. It was easier to let the rumors grow wild."

A silent understanding passed between them, a shared weight of unwarranted judgment.

“Well, if it helps,” Dorian said softly, “I’ve been trying to avoid most of the rumors myself.” He grinned, but there was something genuine in his smile, something that made Aelin's heart beat a little faster. “I think the last time I was at a party, I heard someone suggest that I was secretly a vampire.”

She laughed aloud. "A vampire?" Her voice dropped, playful. "Now that would have been an interesting rumor."

Dorian's eyes gleamed. “Well, if I were, I’d be a very poor one. I don’t get invited to nearly enough midnight banquets.”

Aelin smiled, feeling the warmth of his humor, but her mind wandered for a moment, a flicker of something else. She imagined what it would be like to kiss Dorian. There was something about the way he looked at her, so open and easy, the way he smiled that made her heart stutter. She caught herself before she could linger on the thought too long. What a strange, stupid idea.

“Anyway,” she continued, trying to ground herself again, “I missed this place. The quiet, the space to think.”

Dorian's voice softened as he lowered his book slightly. “I think it’s safe to say the library missed you, too.”

For a moment, it felt like something else, something more than just friendly banter, something that made Aelin wonder if this could be the start of something new. She pushed the thought aside. She had more important things to focus on. Still, it lingered in the back of her mind, like the distant memory of a dream.

They spoke for a little while longer, laughing and discussing books, before Aelin excused herself to return to the training grounds with Aedion and the Bane.

Their laughter echoed through the quiet hall, and something unspoken shifted between them. A beginning.

Later that day, Aelin returned to the training yards with Aedion and the Bane. Though her wounds were mostly healed, the memory of the assassin lingered in her movements. She threw herself into training with renewed purpose.

After sparring, she approached Aedion with a familiar glint in her eye. “Let me take a walk with Nehemia. Just to the forest’s edge.”

“No,” he said, arms crossed.

“Please. You can come with us—just stay a few paces back.”

With a begrudging nod, he agreed.

The next afternoon, Aelin and Nehemia strolled through the soft light of Oakwald’s edge. The air was tinged with the smell of fresh rain, the trees whispering ancient secrets. Along the path, they found little gifts—braided leaves, smooth stones arranged in spirals.

“The little folk,” Nehemia murmured, picking up a crystal feather. “They’re watching.”

Aelin smiled faintly but avoided looking toward the charred clearing where she’d nearly died. “I still dream about it,” she said softly.

Nehemia only squeezed her hand.

That evening, after dinner, they ran into Dorian and his friend Chaol Westfall in the hall.

“There’s a tavern not far from here,” Aelin said with a sly smile. “Care to join us?”

Chaol hesitated, but Dorian grinned. “Lead the way, Princess.”

The night was full of laughter and soft music, and for a while, the weight on Aelin’s shoulders eased.

As the night wore on in the cozy tavern tucked just off the castle’s main avenue, music drifted from a small corner stage where a trio of bards played a lively folk tune. The place was warm with laughter and soft candlelight, filled with nobles trying to pass as commoners and soldiers relaxing after a long day.

Aelin, flushed from mead and mischief, turned to Nehemia with a wicked grin. “We should dance.”

Nehemia arched a brow, setting down her mug. “Here? Among these sweaty brutes?”

“Exactly.” Aelin grabbed her hand, tugging her to the cleared space before the hearth.

The bards picked up their pace as the two young women spun into the crowd. Aelin laughed, tossing her head back, hair catching the firelight like molten gold. Nehemia matched her step for step, graceful and sharp, her dark braids swirling around her shoulders. They whirled and dipped with playful elegance, drawing cheers from a few of the patrons who recognized the princesses and hooted their approval.

Dorian, watching from the bar, chuckled into his drink. “I think the crown of Terrasen just challenged the laws of decorum.”

Chaol only shook his head, but the smile tugging at his mouth betrayed his amusement.

As the song came to an end, Aelin and Nehemia collapsed into each other’s arms, breathless and beaming, sweat-dampened and wild-eyed.

“We should do this every week,” Nehemia declared, fanning herself with her hand.

Aelin grinned. “Let’s make it a royal decree.”

The next morning, she padded barefoot into Nehemia’s chambers where breakfast awaited them on a tray. They lounged in a tangle of blankets, trading stories.

“My brothers are exhausting,” Nehemia said, sighing dramatically. “And my parents have already asked me about courtship offers from half the continent.”

Aelin laughed. “And you wonder why I hide in the forest!”

As Nehemia poured tea, Aelin’s eyes drifted to a small stack of books on the nightstand. Symbols unlike any she’d seen before adorned the covers.

“What are those?”

“Wyrdmarks,” Nehemia said, carefully. “Ancient symbols. They’re part of Ellwye’s old magic.”

Aelin sat up straighter. “Magic? What kind of magic?”

Nehemia traced a finger along one of the spines. “They were once used for protection, healing, even to open gateways between worlds. Some believe they can control fate itself, if used in certain ways.”

“Are they dangerous?” Aelin asked.

“They can be,” Nehemia admitted. “In the wrong hands. But most of the old knowledge is lost or fragmented. What we have now are remnants—scraps in old manuscripts and oral traditions.”

“You know how to read them? Will you teach me?”

Nehemia nodded. “If you promise not to burn the books this time.”

Aelin sighed, but smiled. “Dorian told you about that, did he?” 

Nehemia nodded as she took a sip of her tea. “Wyrdmarks are not easy to learn, but I will teach what I can while I’m in Orynth. If you visit me in Ellwye, I have more books there I can share with you. Why don’t we have lessons over breakfast in your chambers?”

Aelin agreed.

~~~~~

Dorian

Later that week, the castle hosted a reception for visiting Terrasen nobles. Dorian stood near the wine table, listening to Lord Gunnar boast about tax reforms when Nehemia approached.

“You Aderlanians always think conquest makes right,” she said sharply.

He stiffened. “That’s unfair.”

“Is it?” Her voice lowered. “Ellwye still bears the scars. You could make things right, Dorian.”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.” Dorian had no power, not yet. His father would be on the throne for decades more. He didn’t know what Nehemia was concerned about, but he thought he had an inkling. A memory from a meeting of lords last spring. Gods, that was a dull meeting. Duller than most.

He and Nehemia clashed—word for word, idea for idea. During one heated exchange, Nehemia had leaned into his space, poking his chest multiple times. He didn’t know how she made him feel like he was being looked down on when she was several inches shorter than him. When she left, determination in her eyes, Dorian couldn’t tell if he admired or resented her more.

The next morning, Dorian was walking through one of the palace corridors when his younger brother Hollin blocked his path. He started prattling on, trying to annoy him like he usually did.

Dorian turned, jaw tight. “Go back to your tutor, Hollin.”

But Hollin continued his prattling. Dorian tried to ignore him as he continued on his path to Chaol’s room. They were planning to have breakfast and then head to the training grounds for some sparring. Hollin fell in step beside him, complaining about how boring Orynth was and that Dorian needed to entertain him. Dorian shoved him off—sharply, more harshly than intended. A sharp pang of energy surged through him.

The window beside them frosted over with a sharp crack .

Dorian stared at the icy bloom spreading across the glass, breath catching.

What in the gods’ names was that ?

He told Hollin to go complain to their mother, that he was busy. Then he quickly padded off down the corridors, his mind trying to make sense of the sensations shifting within him, and that window.

Chapter Text

Dorian had barely slept since the incident with Hollin.

He’d told no one. Not Chaol, not his father. Gods above, especially not his father.

Magic wasn’t banned in Adarlan—not officially. But suspicion clung to it like smoke, and the court’s whispers could slice deeper than any blade. The King had made his disapproval well known, often speaking of magic as a dangerous relic of the past, a corruption better left buried. Even Chaol, loyal to the crown and steeped in its values, had once called magic "an unreliable weapon" over wine.

And now Dorian—Dorian, who had always been careful, always proper—had conjured frost from nothing.

He paced his chambers, eyes flicking to the frosted windowpane. The ice had melted in the spring sun, but the memory remained, sharp as a blade. What did it mean? What was awakening in him?

He needed answers. And he wasn’t sure where to turn. 

A pair of beautiful turquoise eyes filled his mind. Turquoise eyes and soft, pink lips. Since arriving in Orynth, he had wondered how those lips would taste. Would his lips feel as soft against his as he imagined they would?

~~~~~

In the council chamber, Aelin sat beside her parents and Aedion as they reviewed the latest letter from Evalin’s brother, King Glaston of Wendlyn.

Evalin tapped a finger on the parchment and explained. "Maeve agreed to send the two trainers, but the individuals she selected are two of her bloodsworn warriors."

"They will remain under her command," Rhoe explained, frowning. “Blood oaths are eternal.”

"Which is why we must be firm," Evalin replied. "They can come only if Maeve explicitly agrees their sole task is to train Aelin—and that they will not influence or interfere in our politics."

Aedion looked to Aelin. "Do you think she’ll accept that? Maeve isn’t known for playing fair."

Aelin sighed. "If she truly wants a foothold here, even through these warriors, she might. But I still don’t trust her. Or the warriors she’s selected."

Rhoe leaned back in his chair. "We’ll draft our own conditions and send them to King Glaston, then, and await her decision."

Later that week, Aelin stood in a sun-dappled courtyard with her mother, surrounded by members of Terrasen’s Fae and demi-Fae community—warriors, healers, magic wielders and non magical, and merchants from villages across the land. Some looked at her with awe, others with caution. All of them were curious.

After hearing about the blood oath, Aelin had become more curious about her Fae heritage. She never spent time in her Fae form anymore, but she was Fae, even with her human blood and her secondary human form.

Aelin had visited the Library of Orynth again with Dorian, and she had found what she was looking for in a reading room dedicated to the personal collection of King Brannon. Some of these books were so old that they had come from the Eastern continent with Brannon when he first came to Erelia. Aelin found several musty volumes about Fae history. There were even a few books in the Old Language. She brought them all back to her room, hoping to learn more about the ancient warriors and the customs of their realm. 

Interestingly, Dorian had picked out a few volumes about the history of magic and the gods to bring back to his guest room. Strange, for a Prince of a kingdom that had relatively unfriendly views on magic.

Among the Fae and demi-Fae, Aelin and her mother listened to their stories and asked questions about their lives. Aelin spoke openly about her own struggles—her fears, her confusion, her fire. They responded in kind, their words weaving a tapestry of connection that had never quite existed before.

For the first time, Aelin felt like she wasn’t just a girl with dangerous powers—she was part of something ancient and enduring. 

Her parents’ court in Orynth was entirely populated by human lords, ladies, and advisers. Aelin knew her parents had been distrustful of the Fae in Terrasen. Not because they had ever done anything wrong, but because of their fears that Maeve would try to infiltrate Terrasen through the Fae territories. But these were her people too. She would rule over all of them one day, and she wanted them to feel included.

Each morning that week, Aelin had joined Nehemia in her chambers with a steaming pot of tea and their books. The princess of Ellwye was a patient teacher, drawing symbols in the air, etching wyrdmarks onto parchment as she explained their meanings.

“Wyrdmarks can enhance,” Nehemia said, showing Aelin a mark for strength. “Or protect, or reveal. But some... some were used to control. To bind."

Aelin traced the elegant shapes with her fingers, absorbing their history with awe.

“You’ll be good at this,” Nehemia said. “You’re already so attuned to power.”

Aelin smiled. “Coming from you, that means a lot.”

Aelin found the wyrdmarks confusing. But with Nehemia’s guidance, by the end of the week she could correctly form and identify several symbols.

One crisp evening, Aelin found herself alone in one of the smaller parlors, her fingers dancing lightly across the keys of the pianoforte. The melody was soft, half-forgotten, something she’d learned as a child. 

She often turned to music for steadiness and connection in times of turmoil. During those years of withdrawal, when she had been too scared to leave her chambers and focused on nothing but learning to control her magic, she had often turned to music. She had even had a pianoforte moved into her chambers so that she could practice without leaving her rooms.

The pianoforte welcomed her fingers, and she let them wander across the keys. The melody came soft, then strong—one her mother had taught her when she was still small enough to fit on Evalin’s lap.

She was halfway through the song when she sensed him.

Dorian stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching her with that half-smile.

"You didn’t tell me you could play," he said, smirking.

Aelin lifted her hands from the keys. “I don’t, not really. I just remember pieces.”

He walked in, settling beside her on the bench. “Well, I don’t remember anything beyond a few butchered scales, and I’m thoroughly offended that you’re better than me at this too.”

She teased, “I’m better than you at most things, princeling.”

Dorian clutched his chest dramatically. “Wounded. But I’ll have you know, I can out-recite every tragic poem in the palace archives.”

“Oh gods, don’t tempt me to test that. I can already feel the sonnets coming.”

He grinned. “Only the swooniest ones, for you, princess.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet here you are, stuck with me. On this very narrow bench.”

Their shoulders brushed. His eyes sparkled with mischief—until something softer flickered beneath.

When he leaned in, there was laughter in his breath and warmth on his lips.

She kissed him back.

For a moment, it was just that—softness and music and fire beneath her skin. No thrones, no magic, no shadows waiting to strike.

Just a girl and a boy, and the storm outside the window.

Desire pooled in her stomach as his mouth brushed hers again, teasing, curious. Her fingers gripped the edge of the pianoforte bench to steady herself, but her mind spun.

It felt good. Gods, it felt so good to want and be wanted. To be kissed like this—not out of duty or pretense, but because he wanted her.

But beneath the warmth, beneath the fluttering in her chest, a ripple of nervousness curled tight.

She remembered the boy from years ago. The one who had kissed her in the gardens during a festival. How her fire had sparked in response to her excitement—how it had singed his skin. How he’d looked at her with fear afterward.

Aelin pulled back slightly, just enough to catch her breath. Just enough to remind herself that even this—especially this—came with a cost.

“If you’re not careful, I might set you on fire, you know,” Aelin teased. Their faces were still close. Close enough for her to feel his soft breath against her cheek.

“I like a little danger,” he said, winking. “Keeps life interesting.”

Aelin rolled her eyes, but her heart was racing. And despite herself, she smiled and leaned in for another kiss.

The next morning, after her breakfast and Wyrdmark lesson with Nehemia, Aelin strode out to the training grounds to meet Aedion. She would be turning 18 in two weeks, the week after Beltane, and then she would be invited to join the Bane as a soldier. She needed to keep up her training to meet the Bane’s elite standards.

Upon greeting Aedion, she noticed him cock his head and give her a look. 

“What?” she asked.

“You and Dorian?” he inquired, half a smirk forming on his lips.

“How did you--? Oh,” she replied, reminded all at once of Aedion’s keen Fae senses. “Please don’t say anything, Aedion,” Aelin begged. 

She liked Dorian, and she enjoyed kissing him. A lot. But she was well aware of the pressures on both of them regarding courtship and marriage. And even though she enjoyed him greatly, she didn’t think she would ever truly think of him as more than a friend. Maybe a lover. 

“Don’t worry, kiddo,” he chuckled. “I won’t blab. I’m just glad you’re finally getting some action.”

“Ewww! Can we not talk about this!” As much as she loved Aedion, he was like her big brother. She knew that he had taken many lovers, both male and female. He was 22, handsome, and a prince and general. But this was not a topic she wished to discuss with him.

“Fine, Aelin. But if he breaks your heart, I’m going to break him.”

Aelin rolled her eyes. “You’re such a territorial bastard.”

“It’s my job to protect you. I take it very seriously.”

The training drills Killian put them through that day made Aelin’s muscles ache. She wanted nothing more than to go soak in a hot bath with her favorite novel, but Aedion insisted on an extra run. 

They ran through Oakwald, Aelin falling farther and farther behind. She couldn’t keep up with his enhanced Fae speed when she was in her human form. She thought about trying to shift, but then remembered what had happened the last time she had shifted in Oakwald. She shuddered at the memory.

On their walk back to their chambers, Aelin inquired about the investigation into the assassin.

“We have no leads yet, but the portrait will be key,” he replied. “We’re currently waiting for the artist to finish making enough reproductions to send to all the kingdoms in Erelia. The assassin could have been from anywhere.”

Aelin frowned. She supposed she wasn’t surprised that they had made no progress. She wondered if they would ever learn who was behind the attempt.

Aelin had plans to meet Dorian in the gardens after dinner, so she headed to her rooms. Finally she could take that hot bath she’d been looking forward to.

Later that night, Dorian and Aelin met beneath the flowering trellises of the palace gardens.

The sun was beginning to dip, casting long golden shadows across the flagstones. Birds sang low in the hedgerows, and the air was thick with the scent of blooming spring flowers.

They walked side by side, not touching, just talking.

"When did you first feel it?" Dorian asked quietly.

Aelin glanced sideways at him. “My magic?”

He nodded.

She took a long breath. “I was a child. Five, maybe. I got upset over something and the hearth burst into flame. No one was hurt, but… it scared me. It scared everyone.”

Dorian didn’t interrupt. He just listened.

“After that, my parents tried to help me learn how to control it but I never really did. I haven’t truly let it out in years—not like I did in Oakwald.”

Silence stretched between them, filled with rustling leaves and birdsong.

“You said magic isn’t banned in Adarlan,” she said softly. “But it’s not welcome either, is it?”

“No,” Dorian admitted. “My father’s made sure of that. Magic is seen as a threat, a tool that weakens a kingdom’s order. Chaol—he believes it’s dangerous. And maybe he’s right. But…” He hesitated. “It’s part of me too.”

Her head turned sharply toward him. But he only smiled, a little wry. “I’m still figuring it out.”

Aelin reached out and took his hand. They didn’t speak after that. They just walked.

Eventually, they found a secluded alcove hidden by a curtain of ivy and settled on the stone bench within it. The flowers around them bloomed in soft purples and whites, and the air was quiet.

She turned to him. He turned to her.

And then they kissed.

There was no pianoforte this time, no storm outside—only the garden, and the press of his mouth on hers, slow and sensuous.

His hands were gentle, but she could feel her fire simmer beneath her skin at his touch. She kept the fire tightly leashed as she leaned into him, savoring the warmth of his body, the taste of his soft lips.

Her heart raced, her body flushed. But this time, there was no flicker of flame. Only want and desire.

They stayed like that for a long while, tucked away from the world, lost in each other beneath the golden evening sky.

Chapter Text

Spring’s grip on Orynth had deepened into full bloom, and the city bristled with color and energy. On the night of Beltane, the entire capital thrummed with celebration.

Garlands of flowers swayed from lampposts and balconies. Lanterns floated into the darkening sky, each carrying a whispered wish. Music rang through the streets, and dancers spun ribbons along the palace green, their movements wild and mesmerizing.

Aelin stood at the edge of the ceremonial field, wrapped in a flowing gown of deep green and gold. The scent of jasmine and smoke lingered in the air. Nehemia stood at her side, her hair woven with golden chains and bright blue flowers native to Eyllwe. Dorian joined them a moment later, dressed in an embroidered tunic of navy and silver.

They laughed together, sharing honeyed wine from a communal flask as the fires were lit. Aelin made a flower crown for herself, and then for her friends. Nehemia leaned down and accepted her crown with grace. When she offered one to Dorian, he shook his head but eventually relented.

“There, now you’re the prettiest one here,” Aelin teased.

Dozens of pyres blazed in neat rows across the field, the flames dancing high into the star-strewn sky.

“It’s tradition to jump over the fires for luck,” Aelin said, grinning.

Nehemia arched a brow. “Is it tradition to do it slightly tipsy?”

“Absolutely,” Dorian replied with a wink.

Aelin grabbed their hands. "On three. One—two—"

They took off together, leaping over the crackling flames, laughter trailing behind them. The fire illuminated their faces, turning them into flickering, joyful specters.

Chaol stood off to the side, arms crossed, a faint smile betraying his disapproval. He watched as Dorian landed a little off-balance, only for Aelin to tug him upright, giggling. Nehemia stuck her tongue out at Chaol, who shook his head but didn’t move.

“Come on, Captain,” Aelin called to him. “Even you could use a little luck.”

“I have enough,” Chaol said dryly, but his eyes were warm.

The festivities continued deep into the night, with music and dancing beneath the Beltane moon. Aelin could feel the weight of the year lifting, if only for this moment—wrapped in firelight, friendship, and the thrill of something beginning. Her fire called from deep within, but safe within her human form she kept it pushed deep down.

The morning after Beltane, Evalin received word from her brother: Maeve had agreed to the terms. Prince Rowan and Lord Gavriel, two of her bloodsworn warriors, would come to Terrasen later that summer. They would train Aelin and assist the crown. Maeve gave her word that she would not order them to interfere in any way in the politics of Terrasen or any of the kingdoms of Erelia.

“It’s as good as we could have hoped,” Rhoe said, reading over the sealed parchment.

Aelin felt a mix of relief and unease. She had no idea who Rowan or Gavriel were—but she would find out soon enough.

That afternoon, Aelin and Aedion sparred in the palace training grounds beneath a sky streaked with the last trails of Beltane smoke. Aedion blocked her strike with a grin.

“You’re slow today,” he teased.

“Maybe I’m just bored of you,” she shot back, swinging again.

They broke apart, panting. Aelin wiped sweat from her brow and said, “So, these two warriors Maeve is sending—Rowan and Gavriel. What do you know about them?”

Aedion barked a laugh. “Prince Rowan is a legend. Brutal. Efficient. There’s a story about him killing a male with nothing but a table.”

“A table?” Aelin echoed. “What did he do, squish the male like a grape?”

“No one knows. Quinn, Orlon’s Captain of the Guard, used to tell all the stories. He was a huge fan of Prince Rowan. Regardless of how it happened, there’s no denying that the male is resourceful.”

Aelin blinked. “Well. That’s… comforting.”

“And Gavriel,” Aedion continued, adjusting his stance, “he’s called the Lion of Doranelle. His secondary form is a mountain lion. Deadly fast. Deadly strong.”

Aelin whistled low. “So Maeve’s not sending just anyone.”

“No,” Aedion said. “She’s sending her best. Which means either she respects us… or she’s watching closely.”

They resumed their sparring, but Aelin couldn’t help the flicker of curiosity—and apprehension—that stirred in her chest.

“Captain Westfall has agreed to assist with the investigation into your assassination attempt,” Aedion added. “I’ve briefed him, and he will be sharing the information and portrait with the city guard when he returns to Rifthold.”

“Good,” Aelin responded. “That’s kind of him. If our assassin is from Aderlan, that will be a big help.”

“The King and Queen of Ellwye have agreed to assign an investigator as well when they return to their homeland,” he continued. “They seemed quite shocked by the news of the attempt when we met with them. It seems they’ve grown quite fond of their daughter’s newest friend.”

Aelin smiled, thinking about Nehemia and Dorian and even Chaol. They had become friends. For the first time in her life, she had friends.

“Time for our run?” Aelin asked. Then she bolted toward the gates of Orynth headed toward the forest. Maybe this time she’d be able to keep up with Aedion.

~~~~~

The royal family of Adarlan departed after Beltane. The morning was subdued. In the gardens, Aelin and Dorian walked slowly beneath the flowering fruit trees.

“You’ll write?” she asked, brushing her fingers against his.

“Of course,” Dorian said. “I want to hear about everything. Your training, your wyrdmark lessons. Everything.”

“I’ll send you reviews of all the books I read,” Aelin replied and Dorian smiled softly.

They lingered there, quiet, the promise of summer heavy between them.

“I want to tell you something,” Dorian said at last. “About my magic.”

She looked up.

“I think it’s raw magic. Unshaped. It doesn’t follow rules.”

“What are you going to do?” Aelin asked softly.

“I don’t know,” replied Dorian. “I’ll have to figure out how to keep it hidden for now.”

Their lips met once more—sweet and lingering. There was no promise, no vow. Just affection and truth and the promise of friendship.

Nehemia’s family chose to stay longer in Orynth. Her presence, bright and unwavering, brought light into Aelin’s days. Together, they continued their breakfast wyrdmark lessons.

Each morning began with a quiet knock on Aelin’s door and ended in Nehemia’s bedchambers over tea and ink-stained fingers. The symbols grew more intricate. The meaning deeper.

One morning, as the sun streamed through the windows of Nehemia’s chambers, Nehemia handed Aelin a wrapped bundle.

“An early birthday present,” she said with a sly smile.

Inside was a beautifully carved staff made from dark Ellwyan hardwood, etched with delicate lotus flowers and letters that spelled a word in the Ellwye language--Elentiya.

“It’s from my homeland,” Nehemia said. “A symbol of friendship. Of strength. I thought… you should have something to remind you that you’re not alone.”

Aelin touched the staff with reverence, her throat tight. “Thank you. I’ll treasure it.”

Nehemia stepped closer and smiled. “This name is from my language. Elentiya. It means ‘Spirit That Could Not Be Broken.’”

Aelin blinked fast, the name settling over her like a second skin. “Elentiya,” she repeated softly.

They clasped hands—a promise between two young women, and two nations.

And looming on the horizon: Aelin’s eighteenth birthday. And her formal induction into the Bane. And later this summer, magical training with Maeve’s most brutal bloodsworn warriors.

Chapter Text

Aelin walked through the gardens with her mother after breakfast the day before her birthday. She had been spending so much time with Nehemia and Dorian while they were in the castle, she hadn’t realized how much she missed these quiet moments with her mother.

“I’m proud of you, Fireheart,” her mother said. “You showed true leadership today, with the Fae and demi-Fae.”

They rounded a hedge and made for the path that led through the flowering fruit trees.

“You know, before I met your father, when I was still living in Wendlyn with my family, I spent time at a border outpost for demi-Fae called Mistward,” Aelin’s mother recalled.

“What do you mean? Don’t the demi-Fae live among the humans and Fae as they do here?” Aelin asked.

“No,” her mother replied. “That’s why I was there,” she went on to explain. “The demi-Fae are not allowed in Doranelle unless Maeve deems them ‘worthy’ and Mistward serves as a training ground where demi-Fae can live and train in the hopes of gaining approval to enter the city. The Fae of Doranelle tend to be quite prejudiced against the demi-Fae. They call us “half-breeds.”

Aelin gasped. 

“They wouldn’t call us that. We’re royalty. A queen and a princess of the realm. But if we weren’t, we wouldn’t be allowed to enter Doranelle. I stayed at Mistward for months, trying to convince Maeve to change the rules. The demi-Fae aren’t welcome in most human settlements either. My brother has done what he can to make the demi-Fae more welcome in Wendlyn, but you can’t legislate people’s thoughts and attitudes.” Aelin’s mother sighed wistfully.

If Aelin thought she had despised Maeve before, now she truly did. “Do you think the Fae warriors who are coming will think less of me? I’m not even half Fae.” Aelin trailed off. If Rowan or Gavriel denigrated her for being part human, she wasn’t sure what she would do. But the idea of being treated differently because of something that a person had no control over made her blood run cold.

“I don’t know what they will be like, Fireheart, but they are Fae of Doranelle and loyal to Queen Maeve and they are both hundreds of years old.”

Aelin couldn’t imagine it. Being that old. Living that long. She knew that most humans with diluted Fae blood were unlikely to settle and have an immortal life. But she had heard her parents discussing it when she was younger. Even though there was less of it, the Fae part of her blood seemed stronger, perhaps just by chance, than the human part. How else could her  strong magical gift and a secondary form be explained? She was a human with one Fae grandparent and another Fae ancestor from a generation long, long ago.

Aelin’s mother chuckled softly. “When I was at Mistward, I worked in the kitchens as a scullery maid with a demi-Fae male called Emrys. He was a story-teller in addition to being the head cook of the fortress. And he became a good friend. I loved his stories,” her mother recalled. “We’ve kept in touch over the years. He met his mate at Mistward, Malakai. They are still there. I had hoped to go back on day to see them, but once you were born and Maeve requested you be brought to her, well… Needless to say I’ve never been back to that continent. Not to see my family in Varese nor to see my dear friends at Mistward.”

Aelin’s mother looked sad at the thought. “Did you ever invite them to come to Terrasen?” Aelin asked.

“I did, but they are committed to their lives at Mistward. Perhaps I could convince them to come for a visit though. It would be nice.”

They continued along the path, walking in quiet contemplation, breathing in the sweet smell of the flowering fruit trees. Eventually Aedion found them and pulled Aelin away for her final training session with the Bane before her official induction into the elite unit the next night.

The training yard echoed with the sharp clatter of steel, the sound as familiar to Aelin as her own heartbeat. The sky above was cloudless, the sunlight pouring down in golden waves that gleamed on the polished hilts of the Bane’s swords.

Aedion stood at the center of the yard, already rolling his shoulders and loosening up. His bronze armor gleamed, but he wore no helm, his long golden hair tied back at the nape of his neck.

"Try not to embarrass yourself, Princess," he called as Aelin strode toward him, her training leathers snug and worn from months of hard use.

Aelin grinned, drawing her sword. "Says the one who tripped over his own ego last session."

The soldiers lining the yard chuckled, some murmuring wagers under their breath. It had become something of a tradition to watch Aelin and Aedion spar—swords, wits, and wills clashing in equal measure.

They circled each other, blades raised.

"So," Aedion said casually, flicking his sword forward in a test strike, "have you kissed your prince goodbye yet?"

Aelin deflected with a laugh. "He’s not my prince."

"He is very much a prince," Aedion countered, grinning. "And from what I hear, he spent an awful lot of time kissing you goodnight before he left."

Aelin's cheeks warmed, but she didn’t let it distract her. She lunged, forcing Aedion to retreat a step. "You really should be more focused. You’re about to lose."

Aedion parried with ease. "I’ll start taking this seriously once you admit you miss him."

She rolled her eyes. "Fine. I miss him. Happy?"

"Immensely." Aedion winked, then spun into a feint that nearly caught her side.

They traded blows for several minutes, both sweating and grinning, before Aedion called a break. They sat on the edge of the sparring platform, sipping from their water flasks as the rest of the Bane continued training nearby.

"Any word on the assassin investigation?" Aelin asked, lowering her voice.

Aedion's face shifted, the teasing gone. "The sketch helped. Tern is his name—we think he’s connected to one of the independent assassin guilds from the southern reaches. No official bounty. He was paid under the table."

"By who?"

Aedion shook his head. "No traceable trail. Whoever wanted you dead didn’t want it leading back to them. But we’re still digging."

Aelin's fingers tightened around her flask. "Do you think it’s political? Someone trying to scare my parents into restricting me?"

"Could be. Or it could be someone who fears what you’ll become. Or wants to stop you before you can become it."

She looked out over the yard, watching two young soldiers practicing footwork. "I hate feeling like a pawn in someone else’s game."

Aedion nudged her shoulder. "Then stop being a pawn. Be the player. Tomorrow, you join the Bane officially. That makes you more than a symbol. It makes you a soldier."

Aelin gave him a sidelong glance. "You know, sometimes you sound like a wise old general."

He smirked. "Don’t get used to it. Now get up, Princess. I’m not letting you go easy on your last day."

They rose together, blades in hand once more. And as the sun climbed higher and the sound of steel rang through the air, Aelin Galathynius prepared to step fully into her future.

~~~~~

Aelin awoke to golden light streaming through the tall windows of her bedchamber. Her eighteenth birthday. The day she would officially be welcomed into the Bane, and the day her parents had been planning for over a year. But before the formalities, before the speeches and the sword salutes, there was one thing she wanted more than anything—time with Nehemia.

When Aelin arrived at Nehemia’s chambers, she found her friend already dressed in training leathers, staff leaning casually against her shoulder.

“No ink today?” Aelin asked, grinning.

Nehemia smirked. “It’s your birthday, Elentiya. No lessons. Only bruises.”

They laughed as they made their way to the palace’s training yard, still quiet in the early morning. The stone was cool beneath their boots, the sun just beginning to warm the courtyard walls. Nehemia tossed Aelin the staff—the one she had gifted her only days before.

“You said you wanted to learn how to wield it,” Nehemia said. “Now’s your chance.”

Aelin twirled it experimentally in her hands, testing the weight. It was heavier than her usual blades, but it felt right. Grounding.

Nehemia took her stance, dark eyes gleaming. “Try not to embarrass yourself, birthday girl.”

“Me? Never.”

The first clash was playful, more about form than force. Aelin had the agility, but Nehemia had the experience. Step by step, strike by strike, the tempo increased. Laughter rang between them as much as the sound of wood on wood. The staff spun in Aelin’s hands, her instincts sharpening, her footwork adapting to the new rhythm.

“You’re a natural,” Nehemia said breathlessly after a particularly clever feint.

“You’re just going easy on me,” Aelin replied, flushed with exhilaration.

“Maybe,” Nehemia said, tapping Aelin’s staff aside and sliding in for a mock blow to her ribs.

They broke apart, panting and grinning. For a moment, they simply stood in the golden morning light, the promise of adulthood resting lightly on Aelin’s shoulders.

“I’ll never forget this,” Aelin said quietly.

Nehemia stepped closer, placing a hand over Aelin’s heart. “You are ready, Elentiya. Not just for the Bane, or for any court. But for whatever future you choose.”

They embraced, warriors and friends. And with the day still unfolding before them, Aelin felt more herself than ever—strong, seen, and utterly unbroken.

“I’m going to miss you when you return to Ellwye,” Aelin pouted to her friend on their way back into the castle. And it was true. Even more than Dorian, she would miss her friend Nehemia. Nehemia was smart and kind and brave. She couldn’t have asked for a better person to call her friend.

“Well, you will just have to come for my birthday next year,” Nehemia replied.

“I’ve never travelled outside of Terrasen,” Aelin replied. “Not even with my parents. They’ve always considered it too dangerous.”

“Too dangerous for you, or for others?” Nehemia inquired. 

“Me, I think,” Aelin replied. “But probably both. My magic has been a problem for a long time.”

“Your magic is a part of you. Do not fear it, Aelin, for to fear it is to fear yourself,” Nehemia replied. “Perhaps the trainers from Doranelle will help, and you will be allowed to travel to my kingdom.”

“I hope so,” Aelin said. When she was little she had dreamed of travelling. Of seeing it all. She had hoped for an immortal life so that she could have the time. But Nehemia was right, she had come to fear her immortal blood. 

Later that afternoon, the sun was dipping low when Nehemia returned to Aelin’s chambers bearing a bundle of silk and jewelry.

“It’s time to get you ready,” Nehemia announced.

Aelin blinked at the gown—a deep sapphire blue, embroidered with gold thread and tiny star-shaped crystals. “Where did you get this?”

“My mother had it made,” Nehemia said with a shrug. “She said the Princess of Terrasen deserved something worthy of the gods.”

Aelin touched the fabric, awed. "It’s beautiful."

Nehemia helped her dress, fingers deftly braiding Aelin’s hair into an elegant crown entwined with golden ribbon. She fastened delicate earrings shaped like sunbursts, then added a golden cuff to Aelin’s upper arm.

“You look like a queen,” Nehemia whispered when they stepped back to inspect the final look.

Aelin swallowed hard, staring at her reflection. "I don’t feel like one."

"That’s because you’re still growing into her," Nehemia said gently. "But she’s there. I see her."

Aelin reached for Nehemia’s hand. "Thank you. For all of this."

Nehemia squeezed her fingers. "Happy birthday, Elentiya. May your spirit never break."

And when Aelin stepped out to join her parents and the waiting court, she carried that name with her, proud and unbowed—the fire of Terrasen in her heart.

The grand ballroom of Orynth Castle had been transformed into a sea of gold and green, the colors of House Galathynius. Tapestries lined the walls, and flickering candles floated in the air, casting soft light over the gathering of nobles and dignitaries from across Terrasen and beyond. Music flowed from a group of minstrels near the dais, cheerful and celebratory.

Aelin stood at the center of it all in her new sapphire and gold gown. Her hair was braided and pinned with sapphires, and she wore a circlet of gold at her brow, a gift from her parents that once belonged to Evalin in her youth. By her side stood Nehemia, beaming with pride.

As the music faded, the crowd parted to make way for Aedion, clad in ceremonial armor, the Bane’s insignia gleaming on his chestplate. He strode forward, his expression solemn but proud, and knelt before Aelin.

"Princess Aelin Ashryver Galathynius," he said, his voice carrying through the ballroom, "you have trained with the Bane and earned the respect of Terrasen’s elite warriors. It is now my honor, as Commander of the Bane, to accept your oath."

Aedion rose and presented her with a ceremonial dagger—its hilt inlaid with sapphires, the blade etched with the oath she had just spoken.

Aelin extended her hand for the dagger, using it to slice a deep cut in her left hand. The crowd gasped. Holding out her bloodied hand, she waited for her blood to pool until she heard the drops hit the floor. One drop. Two. Three. Then she swore her oath, steady and sure. "I swear to serve Terrasen and its people. I swear to protect, to lead, and to fight with honor as one of the Bane."

"Then rise, Aelin of the Bane."

Applause erupted as Aelin stood taller, the dagger gleaming at her hip.

King Rhoe stepped forward, raising a goblet. "To Princess Aelin—our daughter, our warrior, and the fire of our future. May Terrasen always rise."

"To Aelin!" the gathered lords and ladies echoed, their voices lifting in unison.

Dancers took to the floor as the music resumed, and Aelin found herself swept into the celebration. She danced with Dorian, with Aedion, even with her father, laughter and light surrounding her.

But later, as she stepped off the floor to cool herself with a glass of chilled wine, her smile faltered. Near a column, partially obscured, she caught the murmurs of a pair of Terrasen lords.

“...fire-wielder or not, that kind of power is dangerous.”

“She’s a weapon. A warrior. And what of the Fae warriors. I’m loath to consider what horrific skills they may teach her for the killing fields.”

Aelin turned away before they noticed her, her fingers tightening on the goblet.

Despite the glittering gowns and cheers, the weight of expectation and fear hadn’t left. The kingdom celebrated her tonight—but some still saw her as something to be contained, rather than trusted.

She inhaled deeply, letting the fire within her chest settle.

Let them whisper. She would give them something to talk about.

Nehemia was right. She needed to stop being afraid of her fire. Stop being afraid of herself. She didn’t care how unpleasant or arrogant Maeve’s trainers were. She could fight. She had proved herself now. She would learn from them how to wield her fire, and then she would be free.

Rowan

Rowan Whitethorn stood at attention in the marble-floored hall of Maeve's court, the breezes from the nearby rivers stirring the long silver hair tied back at the nape of his neck. Gavriel stood at his side, arms crossed, golden eyes narrowed as they waited for their queen to speak.

Maeve sat upon her throne in a gown of deep violet, her face unreadable as ever. When she finally addressed them, her voice was soft, but it carried like wind through a storm.

"You will go to Terrasen. The crown has agreed to my terms, and in turn, I have agreed to theirs. You are to train the princess. Protect her. And do nothing more."

Rowan exchanged a glance with Gavriel.

"What sort of training does she need?" Gavriel asked. "Combat? Discipline? Control over her fire?"

"All of it," Maeve replied. "You are not to meddle in Terrasen's politics, nor in their succession. Your loyalty will remain with me. But while you are there, you will follow the orders of King Rhoe and Queen Evalin."

Rowan clenched his jaw. Orders were orders. But there was a reason Maeve sent her bloodsworn—two of her strongest. She was watching something. Or waiting for it.

"She has raw power," Maeve continued. "It is growing. Unchecked, it will destroy her. Or worse, burn the heart out of Terrasen before she learns to wield it."

Gavriel bowed his head slightly, accepting the words.

Maeve looked at Rowan then, her gaze piercing. "You will be her blade and her shadow. Do not fail me."

Rowan gave the barest of nods. "We leave tonight?"

"At dusk," she confirmed.

“How long shall we stay?” Gavriel asked.

“As long as is necessary,” was her only reply.

As they turned to leave, Maeve's voice followed them.

"And Rowan and Gavriel—do not grow attached."

They said nothing until they reached the wide steps outside the palace, where the golden light of late afternoon stretched over the cliffs.

"You’ve heard of her, haven’t you?" Gavriel asked.

Rowan nodded once. "She’s fire-made flesh."

"Sounds like trouble."

Rowan’s expression didn’t shift. "They always are."

They packed light, swords and armor and the knowledge of centuries behind them. As the sun kissed the edge of the ocean, they mounted their horses and began the journey northeast—toward Terrasen, and the flame that waited there.

Chapter Text

The sun rose warm and golden over Orynth as the royal family of Eyllwe prepared to depart. Aelin stood beside her parents, her heart heavy as she clasped Nehemia’s hands in farewell.

“I’ll write,” Aelin promised.

Nehemia smiled sadly. “I’ll expect nothing less.”

Aelin pressed her forehead to Nehemia’s, the ache in her chest warning her that this goodbye felt too final.

Days later, Aelin stood at the gates of the Bane’s encampment outside the city, dressed in her armor, her hair braided back, her sword strapped to her side. Aedion gave her a sharp nod as she approached.

“Ready for your first patrol, Princess?”

“I’m not a princess out there,” Aelin said. “I’m a soldier.”

The scouting mission took them east, toward the borderlands near Ilium. The terrain was rugged, dotted with ancient trees and stone outcroppings. Aelin rode at the front of the scouting line, alert and focused. Her orders were simple: observe and report. Avoid confrontation. Mark any signs of disturbance.

As they moved through the hills, Aelin marveled at the sense of freedom that came with being away from the palace. There were no formalities out here—only instinct, training, and trust in her companions.

They camped at the edge of a craggy ridge, where Aelin spotted faint boot prints in the dirt. She crouched, brushing a finger along the edge of one.

“Not ours,” she murmured to the scout beside her. “These were fresh. Within a day.”

Aedion joined her, frowning. “Raiders?”

“Possibly. But they didn’t take anything. Just passed through.”

She marked the site on her map and moved on, cataloging symbols in the trees—coded signs the Bane used to communicate in the field.

By the third night, they’d found signs of small camps—abandoned, with fires still warm. Whoever moved through the area did so in a hurry.

“It’s as if they’re testing our response time,” Aelin said. “Seeing how far they can go before we notice.”

Aedion nodded, grim. “And now we know. That’s your first lesson out here: even when you see nothing, something is watching.”

Aelin didn’t sleep that night.

—

Mid-summer heat bore down on Orynth when word arrived: the royal family of Eyllwe had been attacked on their journey home. The news was grim—many guards were lost, and Nehemia had been slaughtered in the chaos. Her parents and brothers had survived the ambush, saved by a last stand from their elite guard.

The grief hit Aelin like a blade. She fell to her knees in her chambers, the staff Nehemia had gifted her clutched in shaking hands. Evalin tried to hold her. Aedion tried to speak to her. But Aelin could not hear them.

She cried until her voice gave out.

That night, under the silver glow of a full moon, Aelin and her family gathered in the palace gardens. Clad in ceremonial robes, they stood in a circle of light. Candles flickered around them as the wind whispered through the trees. Evalin lifted her voice first—low, haunting. The ancient Fae lament of Terrasen’s nobles echoed through the night, a song of sorrow and remembrance. One by one, Rhoe, Aedion, and Aelin joined in, their voices weaving into a harmony that spoke of loss, love, and the unyielding fire of memory. Tears streamed freely down Aelin’s face as she sang for her friend beneath the moonlight.

The next day, she reported for duty with the Bane.

Soldiers don’t get to grieve, she reminded herself. They move. They serve.

The small room in the castle’s lower levels was dimly lit by a few flickering candles. Aelin sat at a wooden table, her fingers drumming absentmindedly against the edge as Aedion and Killian paced back and forth. Aelin had just returned from preparing for another scouting mission she was to leave on the next morning.

Aedion crossed his arms, his posture tense. Killian, Aedion’s second in command in the Bane, leaned against the stone wall, his eyes focused on the floor. Aelin had suspected for a while that they were lovers. Their closeness was evident in their easy exchange of glances and unspoken understanding, but the weight of the conversation seemed to hang heavily over them now. This wasn’t the time for distraction.

“What do we know?” Aelin asked, her voice steady, though her stomach churned at the thought of Nehemia.

Aedion nodded, his gaze flicking toward Killian before settling on her. "The royals of Ellwye were ambushed as they attempted to leave Perranth and cross into Aderlan. The attackers were quick, well-organized. There was no sign of any skirmishes prior—they likely planned it the moment they set foot in Terrasen."

Aelin frowned, the pieces of the puzzle beginning to click together in her mind. "Who were they? And how did they get so close?"

"We don’t know yet," Killian answered, his voice laced with frustration. "The ambush happened just outside the forest, in a narrow pass. They were vulnerable there—no proper cover. But what we do know is that it was no random attack. These people were skilled, likely mercenaries, possibly even hired by someone with influence."

Aedion’s brow furrowed. “We’ve checked the usual suspects, but so far, we haven’t found any solid evidence linking the attack to anyone specific. There’s a rumor that the Assassin’s Guild may have been involved. They’re known for working with various factions, usually in exchange for gold. But they’re good and they never leave any trace.

Aelin leaned back, absorbing the details. "What about the Ellwye royals? The guards—did they manage to hold their ground?"

“Barely,” Aedion said, his tone grim. “Nehemia's family was nearly overrun. They lost a lot of men, but Nehemia’s father and brothers fought to the end. They managed to escape with some of the survivors, but Nehemia was... she was killed in the chaos.”

The pain surged up in Aelin’s chest, but she quickly suppressed it. Nehemia had been her closest friend, her sister in spirit. She couldn't afford to break now.

“Are there any leads on the assassins' whereabouts?” Aelin asked, her voice a little sharper than she intended.

Killian nodded. “We’ve sent a few patrols out to track any movement that might have been left behind, but nothing substantial yet. We’re still piecing things together.”

Aedion added, "The family is still in mourning. They’re shaken, especially Nehemia’s father. But we can’t afford to linger on the grief for long. We need answers.”

Aelin stood up and paced the room, her thoughts swirling. “Do we have any information about who might have hired these assassins? Someone with enough power to move them across borders?”

Aedion’s gaze hardened. “That's the next step. We’ve been trying to piece together the attack’s origins, but no one has claimed responsibility. That’s what worries me. It’s not common to ambush royalty and leave no claim behind. It’s almost as if someone wanted it to be a shadow in the dark.”

Aelin stopped in her tracks, an unsettling thought bubbling to the surface. “What if this wasn’t just an attack on Nehemia and her family? What if it was a message? A message to me?”

The room fell silent. Aedion’s eyes narrowed, his jaw clenching. He knew exactly what she meant. The political tension between the kingdoms had been rising, and the thought that someone would target the royals of Ellwye—Nehemia in particular—could be a means of rattling her. They would have to have been close enough to know about her friendship with Nehemia.

Aelin sighed deeply, pushing a hand through her hair. “What if this attack is connected to the assassination attempt on me earlier this year?”

Aedion’s eyes widened, and Killian straightened, his expression sharpening.

“You think it’s connected?” Aedion asked quietly.

“Why not?” Aelin said, her voice low and steady. “I don’t know who’s behind these attacks, but the timing of both the ambush and the attempt on my life—it's too much of a coincidence. Someone wanted us distracted.”

Aedion considered this, his expression unreadable. “You might be right. If there’s a larger force at play here, someone wants to keep us off balance.”

“Or dead,” Killian added softly.

Aelin met his gaze, her eyes steely. “Whoever is behind it, we’ll find them. And we’ll make them regret it.”

Aedion let out a long breath. “We’ll need to be cautious in how we proceed. If another kingdom is behind this—and connected to the assassination attempt—it could mean the beginning of a far larger conspiracy.”

Aelin didn’t flinch. “Then we’ll prepare for it.”

The trio fell silent for a moment, the weight of the conversation hanging heavily in the air. Aelin's mind whirred with possibilities, each darker than the last, but her resolve burned bright. She wouldn’t allow anyone—whether it was Maeve or someone else—to tear apart what she was building. She couldn’t.

"We'll make them pay for what they've done," she muttered, more to herself than anyone else.

Aedion gave a curt nod. "We'll make sure of it."

And with that, Aelin steeled herself for the battle ahead. Spirit that could not be broken. That was the name gifted to her by her beloved friend. She would not let her light go out.  

After the meeting, Aelin ran out to the Oakwald, where she had walked one spring day with Nehemia. They weren’t quite friends yet, back then. She owed Nehemia so much. Her beloved friend, gone too soon. 

Aelin kneeled on the ground in the Oakwald, the ash from her fires gone with the new growth of summer. She pulled out her dagger and sliced open her palm. “I promise you, Nehemia, I will find your murderers. I promise, I will avenge your death. I promise to protect your family and your kingdom, as you would have done mine, for as long as Iive.” Her blood pooled and then dropped onto the sacred ground of her people. One drop. Two. Three.

The next morning, Aelin left with her team on another mission, this time to Perranth. Aedion wasn’t with her for this mission, but she travelled with Killian and several other soldiers. 

Aelin guided her horse along a narrow path cutting through the tall grasses. Killian rode beside her, his expression unreadable beneath the edge of his hood, the Bane insignia glinting faintly on his shoulder clasp. Behind them, a small contingent of soldiers rode in disciplined silence, scanning the horizon for movement.

The city of Perranth came into view at the crest of the hill—stone walls, sloping rooftops, and the spires of the old keep that housed the lady of Terrasen’s most prosperous territory outside of Orynth. 

“How long has it been since you were here last?” Killian asked, his voice low as they trotted past a cluster of weathered stones marking the outskirts of town.

“Not since I was a child,” Aelin murmured. “We visited once during spring planting season. I remember the scent of wildflowers everywhere.”

“Let’s hope things are still blooming,” Killian said with a wry smile.

They were met at the gates by a local guard who saluted sharply and waved them through. Aelin dismounted in the courtyard and stripped off her gloves, her gaze already moving to the keep’s entrance.

Inside, they were ushered toward the great hall where Lady Marion and her husband Lord Cal Lochan awaited. Aelin remembered Lady Marion dimly—an old friend of her mother’s from the western territories, she had been Aelin’s nursemaid when she was younger.

Marion greeted them warmly, her face touched by age but still graceful, and her dark hair shot through with silver. She wore her nobility like armor, but her eyes softened when they fell on Aelin.

“Your Highness,” she said with a bow. “Or should I say, Lieutenant?”

“Just Aelin here,” she replied with a grin, accepting the woman’s embrace.

Cal Lochan bowed more formally, but his greeting held a note of sincerity. “We’re honored by your presence, Princess. We’ve seen more soldiers than visitors of late.”

“We’re just passing through,” Killian said, stepping forward. “Checking the border’s stability and any recent activity. We’re told this region has had increased sightings of travelers in the forests.”

Marion’s mouth pressed into a line. “Yes. Enough to keep people uneasy. Our scouts have found little trace of them though. They leave no trace behind.”

“I’ll want to speak with your scouts,” Killian said. “And check the pass to the Aderlan border. If anything’s coming through, I want eyes on it.”

Marion nodded, but then her expression lifted with a fond smile. “Before you go riding off, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

She gestured toward the side door, and a young woman stepped confidently into the hall. Slender and poised, she had dark hair and solemn eyes that met Aelin’s with quiet strength.

“You remember our daughter, Elide.”

Aelin blinked in surprise. Elide was around her age—seventeen or so, with the same weight of responsibility in her expression that Aelin saw in the mirror. They had met once, briefly, when they were little and Elide was staying in the castle in Orynth with her parents.

Aelin smiled, stepping forward. “It’s good to meet you again, Elide.”

Elide’s eyes brightened, and she looked to Killian, who offered her a quick, charming smile and a wink.

“Do you fight, too?” Elide asked, peeking at the sword on Aelin’s back.

“I do,” Aelin said. “And maybe one day, when we’re not riding patrols, I’ll teach you a few tricks.”

“She already bested the stable boy with a stick,” Marion said dryly, folding her arms.

Aelin laughed. “Then I’d better start training.”

They spent the afternoon speaking with local scouts, reviewing maps, and confirming the troubling signs of cross-border movement. Before leaving the keep at dusk, Aelin and Killian walked the battlements, their silhouettes cast long by the sinking sun.

“She’s a brave girl,” Killian said, his gaze still on the courtyard below where Elide practiced with a wooden staff.

“She reminds me of Nehemia,” Aelin said quietly. “That same quiet fire.”

Killian didn’t respond, but his hand brushed hers briefly in silent understanding before they turned to descend the stairs.

By dawn, they were riding again.

They visited the pass where the Ellwye royals had been attacked, discovering no new evidence. Signs of struggle abounded. 

Even though there had been days of rain, the tang of blood was still heavy in the air. Nehemia’s blood. The blood of her family’s guards and servants. Slaughtered in cold blood.

Kneeling in that mountain pass, one thought solidified in Aelin’s mind. Nehemia would have fought back. She was a warrior. She was strong. She stood up for her family, for her people. 

What if the attack hadn’t been an assassination attempt at all, but an attempt to kidnap her friend?

Aelin put those thoughts to the back of her mind. She would think on it later. Much later. Still, the grief remained. Buried, smoldering.

They made camp and slept under the stars that night, the Lord of the North looking down on them. The next morning they awoke before dawn and packed up, making sure to leave no trace. They started the ride back to Orynth, the weight of potential conflict stirring the wind that chased them across the grasslands

In the weeks after her return to the castle, a rider from the coast brought word: the ship bearing Rowan and Gavriel had landed in Suria.

Preparations began at once to welcome them to the castle.

Rowan

Far to the south, Rowan Whitethorn stood at the prow of the ship, sea spray misting over his pale hair. Gavriel stood beside him, quiet, his golden eyes fixed on the mountains that rose inland.

“So this is Terrasen,” Gavriel murmured.

Rowan nodded once. “It’s greener than I imagined.”

“We’re here to train a princess,” Gavriel said. “Not admire the landscape.”

Rowan’s mouth twisted into a faint smirk. “And to ensure Maeve’s influence stretches further, no doubt.”

“She gave her word,” Gavriel reminded him. “No politics.”

Rowan didn’t respond. His thoughts drifted instead to the letter Maeve had handed him, sealed with her obsidian crest. Inside, strict instructions: train the princess, observe the kingdom, and report only what was necessary.

The girl, Aelin Galathynius, was said to wield fire.

Rowan narrowed his eyes at the horizon.

He had seen what fire could do. And if the girl was anything like the rumors said, then Terrasen was about to be tested.

As the jagged coastline drew nearer, Rowan felt a strange tug in his chest—something old and buried, a whisper in his blood. The scent of pine and snow on the wind stirred memories he hadn’t known he carried. It felt… familiar. Right. As if this land had been waiting for him.

Home, a quiet voice said.

He scowled at the thought. Terrasen was not his home. It couldn’t be. And yet, deep in his bones, Rowan Whitethorn felt something shift.

He exhaled slowly as the ship creaked into the harbor.

“Let’s get this over with.”

Chapter Text

The morning mist clung to the paper as Aelin sat near her tent, pen in hand, writing to Dorian. The camp outside Ilium was quiet for now, only the distant murmur of horses and the occasional clink of armor breaking the silence.

Dorian,

I hope the summer has been kinder in Rifthold than it has here. The sun is hot as fire during the day, and the nights bite like ice. I miss Nehemia. I don’t know if that emptiness will ever dull. I keep seeing her face beside me in the training yards, feeling her fingers weaving flowers in my hair. I see her smiling in my room as she teaches me about wyrdmarks.

You’d laugh to see the pile of ancient Fae books I’ve hoarded in my tent. I found them in Brannon’s collection here—some so old they fall apart in my hands. Did you know the Fae once ruled swathes of the North? They shaped the magic like songs, like breath itself. There are stories that the flames of Mala were not always wild, but sacred. And that Brannon did not come to Terrasen as a conqueror, but as a guardian. I feel like I’m reading echoes of my own soul.

I can’t shake the feeling that the attempt on my life earlier this year and the ambush on Nehemia’s family are more than just tragedies. Two young women with power and position, attacked in the same season. What game is unfolding behind our backs, I can only guess. But I’m watching. I’m listening.

Aedion says I should rest more. But I find rest in motion. In fire. In silence.

Please send me your book reviews in your next letter. And say hi to Chaol!

Yours in friendship, Aelin

She folded the letter and sealed it with wax and the Terrasen seal, a mighty stag with eternal flame between his antlers. The next morning, she departed for the temple, riding alone across the streets of the pretty, storm-worn town. When she reached the edge of the temple, she dismounted and entered.

The Temple of the Stone stood as a stout and sprawling structure, its white granite walls worn smooth by sea gales and salt, perched on the edge of the cliff like a sentinel. Behind it lay the town of Ilium, its rooftops bright against the emerald countryside. But ahead, past the temple’s open terrace, stretched the endless ocean—blue-gray and roaring beneath a sky thick with summer clouds.

The temple was built, so legend claimed, around the very rock where Brannon Galathynius, first King of Terrasen, had first placed his foot upon the continent’s soil before sailing up the Florine River to its source at the base of the Staghorn Mountains. The rock remained, protected at the temple’s heart.

She passed beneath its arched entryway, carved from pale stone flecked with sea-silver, and walked into a central courtyard open to the sky. Ivy clung to the walls, and the scent of salt and pine clung to the wind. At the center of it all, on a low rise of smooth, sea-rounded stone, rested the First Stone itself.

A slab of ancient granite, veined with pearlescent silver and etched in markings of the ancient Fae language, it hummed with a dormant power that made the fine hairs on her arms rise. She stepped forward and placed her palm upon it.

There was no fire. No flash of magic.

But there was a hum—deep and ancient, eternal and familiar. Like the echo of a voice across centuries. Like home.

She knelt before it, her head bowed, and stayed there until the sun was high in the sky. Her fire stirred under her skin, but she did not summon it. Not here. Not yet.

One day soon, she would have to face it fully—stop containing it, stop fearing what it might do if unleashed. She closed her eyes and breathed in the ash-laced wind.

Would her fire ever be more than destruction? Could she claim it without fear?

The summer wind stirred around her, and the memory of Nehemia’s voice came like a whisper.

You are more than flame, Elentiya. You are the fire and the light beyond it.

“Not yet,” she whispered to the temple, the ocean, the gods. “But soon.”

Rowan’s Point of View

Prince Rowan Whitethorn stood at the gates of Orynth, the wind rustling through the pine trees as he and Gavriel were escorted through the palace courtyard. The journey had been long, but the moment his boots touched Terrasen soil, something shifted in his chest.

The castle loomed ahead, elegant and formidable, its banners catching the breeze. Orynth. A city spoken of in legend among the Fae. Its people, its rulers, revered. And yet, it was not grandeur that caught Rowan’s attention as they entered the great hall.

It was the feeling. Like slipping into water already warm, already known. Home.

King Rhoe stood tall, the scent of pine and old magic clinging to him. Queen Evalin beside him, regal and graceful, her presence somehow more commanding than her husband’s. Rowan had expected politics, ceremony, distance. What he received instead was welcome.

“Prince Rowan,” Rhoe said with a respectful nod. “We are honored by your presence.”

Evalin stepped forward with a smile that reminded Rowan of summer storms—beautiful, but charged with something ancient.

“We’re grateful my aunt accepted our terms,” she said. “You’ll find Terrasen no stranger to strength.”

Rowan bowed. “And I hope you’ll find me no stranger to service.”

Dinner followed in the royal dining room, a surprisingly warm affair. Gavriel, quiet but alert, joined Rowan at the end of the table as the king and queen discussed border security and scouting patrols. Rowan found himself watching Evalin as she laughed lightly with a visiting noble.

There was power in her—not raw, but rooted. Like an ancient tree whose strength had weathered centuries.

As they ate, Rowan’s thoughts drifted.

He had trained under Maeve’s harsh rule. Had spent decades in places where cruelty was commonplace and loyalty meant blood. But here… here was a court built on something different. A court of family.

And the Princess’s absence—Evalin mentioned her daughter briefly. Princess Aelin, a soldier with the Bane, an elite band of highly trained warriors, currently out on a mission. He had been utterly shocked.

A princess who fought beside her people. Who bled with them.

Rowan found himself intrigued, wanting to meet her.

Later, after dinner, Gavriel stood beside Rowan on the balcony overlooking the castle gardens. Moonlight bathed the leaves in silver.

"I should have told you this years ago," Gavriel said, his voice low. "I once took a lover while on a mission in Wendlyn, and Ashryver princess, cousin to King Glaston and Queen Evalin. I loved her for a season. But I was bade to return to Doranelle."

Rowan said nothing.

"Before I could return to Varese, she had gone. She was but 19 years old, and had moved here, to Orynth. I wondered if I would ever see her again. It was years ago now, but I hoped for it. And then Maeve told me of this mission, and I thought I might get my chance. I had no idea she had died. Years ago, apparently. And Evalin looks so much like her. Being here, in her home..." He exhaled. "It brings things back I hadn’t thought of in decades."

Rowan clapped a hand on his shoulder. "I am sorry, brother. I hope she has found peace in the afterworld.”

They returned inside as footsteps echoed down the hall. A man approached, tall with a warrior’s build, and long golden blond hair tied back at the nape of his neck. His eyes looked familiar, somehow. Turquoise.

Evalin beamed. "Ah, Gavriel, Rowan—this is my nephew, Aedion Ashryver. Commander of the Bane."

Gavriel froze. Rowan stared.

Ashryver.

Aedion looked between them with a feral half-smile. "It’s my greatest honor to meet you both,” Aedion said to them. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

And Gavriel, though he said nothing, turned pale as snow.

Holy rutting gods. Rowan just blinked once and thought: Mala help us.

Chapter Text

Rowan leaned against the stone balustrade of the eastern tower balcony, the night wind cool against his face. Orynth glittered beneath the moonlight, quiet and unsuspecting. Behind him, Gavriel stood motionless, his arms crossed tightly, his golden hair tousled by the breeze.

"He's my son," Gavriel said at last, his voice rough with disbelief. "Aedion. He's mine. I scented it on him the moment I sensed him walking toward us."

Rowan didn’t respond immediately. The truth hung heavy between them, as thick as any battlefield fog. "He doesn’t know."

Gavriel shook his head. "She never told me. I didn't even know she was pregnant. Gods, if Maeve—"

Rowan turned sharply. "Maeve will find out. You know she will."

Gavriel grimaced, his fingers tightening around the stone rail. "When we return to Doranelle, she will force it from me with the bond."

"And when she does," Rowan said quietly, "we’ll have to answer for it."

They stood in silence, the only sound the distant rustle of pine trees.

"We were sent here to train the princess," Gavriel murmured. "To support Terrasen’s court. Not interfere in its politics."

Rowan arched a brow. "And what do you think Maeve will see this as, when she learns one of her blood-sworn warriors has fathered a Terrasen prince? A high-ranking commander in its army?"

"She’ll see betrayal," Gavriel said bitterly. "She’ll wonder what I’ve hidden. What I could be hiding still."

"She’ll see opportunity," Rowan countered. "Leverage."

Gavriel’s eyes snapped to his. "Over Terrasen? Over Aedion?"

"Both."

The implications were staggering.

Gavriel ran a hand down his face. "I won’t let her use him."

Rowan’s tone was firm. "You may not have a choice. We need to make sure he’s protected. Even if he never knows the truth."

Gavriel turned away, staring out over the dark forests stretching to the horizon. "What if I want him to know? He deserves to."

"That’s not our choice to make. Not now. Not yet. Whether he deserves to know is not the question right now. Right now we need to focus on what will keep him safe."

A heavy silence settled once more. Finally, Rowan added, "For now, we focus on the princess. We do what we came here to do. And we wait."

Gavriel nodded once, but his shoulders remained tense. Rowan didn’t miss the way his gaze lingered on the direction of the barracks, where Aedion’s quarters were housed.

He didn’t blame him.

The bond of blood was not easily ignored.

And with Maeve's shadow looming over them, they would have to tread very, very carefully.

~~~~~

The sun rose high over the Staghorn mountains as Aedion led Rowan and Gavriel across the sprawling training grounds. The Bane had gathered, a sea of leather and steel, soldiers halting their drills to glance with open curiosity at the two towering Fae males who followed their commander. The wide, terraced fields were alive with movement: soldiers practicing sword forms, sparring in pairs, and hauling equipment under the watchful eyes of drill commanders. A golden haze of sweat and sunlight hung over it all.

“They’ve been eager to meet you,” Aedion said over his shoulder. “Especially after word spread that two legendary Fae warriors would be coming to Terrasen. King Orlon’s Captain of the Guard, Quinn, was a huge fan. He told many stories of your adventures and conquests. I always wondered if they were true,” he finished with a smirk.

Rowan took in the training field with a practiced eye, nodding silently. The soldiers here were lean, efficient, disciplined. Gavriel, ever more reserved, let his gaze linger longer, studying their posture, their rhythm. He hadn’t missed how many saluted Aedion with a respect that bordered on reverence.

The trio moved through the clusters of soldiers, and Rowan and Gavriel found themselves quietly noting the composition of the Bane. Not just humans—though there were many of them, hardened and disciplined—but also demi-Fae, some with pointed ears or odd-colored eyes, and even a few full-blooded Fae. All working side by side. Laughing, training, cooperating.

Gavriel leaned in slightly. “They live together here. Train together. No hierarchy of blood or race.”

They reached a central sparring ring, where the ground had been packed flat by thousands of boots. He gestured to the center of the training circle. “Well? Care to show us some of those legendary skills?”

Rowan and Gavriel exchanged a glance. Rowan unsheathed his sword and unhooked the wicked hatchet from his belt with a slow, deliberate smile. “Let’s see if legend lives up to reputation.”

Soldiers began to gather in a loose ring as Gavriel removed his cloak and stepped into the sparring circle with Rowan. The two circled each other like predators, the atmosphere thickening with the scent of steel and anticipation. And then—

They clashed.

Steel rang, sparks flew. Rowan was all lethal precision, every strike a storm. With his sword in one hand and the wicked hatchet in the other, he moved like a tempest given form—relentless, sharp, unyielding. Gavriel countered with golden grace, his strength tempered with years of experience. Neither held back. The watching soldiers shouted and laughed, cheering them on.

“Gods,” someone whispered nearby, “they’re beautiful to watch.”

Rowan heard it and nearly grinned.

Then, a horn sounded from the gate.

Rowan stepped back, sword low, eyes shifting to the cause of the commotion. A patrol unit had returned, riders dismounting and handing off reins to stable hands. Dust coated their cloaks, but they walked with the easy alertness of those who’d seen the wilds and made it back.

One rider, in particular, caught Rowan’s eye.

She dismounted with the effortless grace of someone born in the saddle, her braid swinging behind her as she passed her reins to a nearby soldier. The sun caught on her golden hair, streaked with road dust and sweat, and her voice rang out clearly as she greeted familiar faces.

Laughter followed her—genuine, warm. Soldiers reached out to clasp her shoulder, smile in her presence. She didn’t carry herself like royalty. She carried herself like a commander.

Rowan stared.

That was Aelin Galathynius.

She didn’t look at him. But she was magnetic. A star burning in daylight.

Gavriel, having noticed his companion’s fixed attention, murmured, "So. That’s her."

Rowan didn’t reply. He only lowered his blade, heart hammering with something he didn’t yet understand.

Because in that moment, with the dust swirling around her boots and the wind tugging at her cloak, Rowan knew: the stories hadn’t done her justice.

And as Rowan turned back to Gavriel, whose golden eyes flicked between him and the girl, Rowan knew.

Everything was about to change.

~~~~~

Aelin handed the reins of her horse to a waiting stable boy, exhaustion tugging at her bones but her mind buzzing with the thrill of the completed mission. The patrol had gone smoothly—quiet borders, no suspicious movement from Adarlan’s side, and a successful supply run to the outpost. Still, a week in Ilium’s summer heat had left her dusty, parched, and craving a proper bath.

She trudged through the familiar halls of the castle, nodding to guards and servants who greeted her with a mixture of respect and warmth. As she turned the final corner toward her suite, a steward approached, bowing slightly.

“Your Highness. Welcome home.”

Aelin gave him a tired smile. “Thank you, Teres.”

“Your presence is requested at lunch with Their Majesties and Prince Aedion. Your new trainers from Doranelle arrived this week while you were still on the road.”

Aelin blinked. “They’re already here?”

Teres nodded. “They await your company in the west garden dining hall at the twelfth bell. You’ve about an hour.”

Aelin offered a brisk nod and stepped into her rooms. As soon as the door shut behind her, she exhaled hard.

Maeve had kept her word, then. Prince Rowan and Gavriel, the lion of Doranelle —her trainers. It was finally happening.

She peeled off her dusty armor, tugged free her boots, and left a trail of gear behind as she entered her bathing chamber. The tub was already filling, the steaming water scented with her favorite blend of lemon verbena, jasmine, and lavender oils. Aelin sank in with a sigh that melted some of the stiffness from her shoulders.

The heat soaked into her bones, her mind drifting as she leaned her head against the cool edge of the tub. She tried to picture them. Fae warriors. What would they be like? Cold and haughty like much of Maeve’s court? Or as wild and untamed as the songs whispered about them?

Rowan Whitethorn was a name from stories—ice and steel, blood and wind. Gavriel, the Lion, golden and lethal. And now they were here, in her court, to train her.

To test her.

She stayed in the bath longer than she should have, skin flushed and pruned, but she couldn’t shake the coil of nerves tightening low in her gut. Her power itched under her skin, as it always did when she felt exposed.

By the time she rose, the steam had clung to every mirror and glass surface in the chamber. She wrapped herself in a towel and padded barefoot into her wardrobe.

Today, she wouldn’t wear her training leathers. Today, she was more than a soldier.

She chose a deep forest green gown with gold embroidery at the collar, the color reminiscent of Terrasen’s wild woods. The cut was elegant but fierce, sleeveless and fitted, hugging her curves and showing the muscle she’d earned through years of fighting and enduring. Around her waist, she buckled a slim gold belt, then fastened the ceremonial dagger Aedion had gifted her to her hip, just in case.

For jewelry, she kept it simple—a circlet of gold that nestled into her braid, and the Amulet of Orynth hanging around her neck. She wanted them to see her as she was: a warrior, a princess, and the future Queen of Terrasen.

When she finally stepped in front of the mirror, she studied her reflection with sharp eyes. She was no longer the child who had once cowered from her fire. She was no longer the girl who had been nearly killed in her own forest. She was Aelin who endured. Aelin who survived. Aelin who fought and burned and loved with the fierceness of the sun.

Let them come, she thought. Let them see who they’ve come to train.

She turned on her heel, spine straight, chin high, and made for the west gardens.

Lunch was waiting.

And so were the legends.

The garden dining room was smaller than the one used for court banquets, but no less regal. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, warming the carved stone floor and glinting off the polished silverware and fresh-cut roses at the table’s center. Aelin entered last, shoulders straight, chin high.

She’d chosen her dress carefully—a sleeveless deep green gown with gold embroidery along the bodice and sides, delicate but strong, a reminder of forest and fire. The absence of sleeves revealed the lean muscles of her arms—earned through years of relentless training. The dagger at her hip wasn’t ceremonial. It had seen use. Her braid was tight and woven with a gold ribbon that matched her circlet. She’d scented her skin lightly with a blend of lemon verbena, jasmine, and lavender. Comforting. Familiar. Herself.

Her mother and father stood as she entered, Evalin greeting her a warm smile and a hug. “Welcome back, Fireheart.” She lingered in her mother’s embrace. She had missed her. Her father nodded with that look that told her he was proud and wanted to hug her too, but was being kingly and stoic. Aedion was already seated, lounging like a lion, one brow raised in faint approval. And seated across from him—

Prince Rowan.

She recognized him instantly, though they’d never spoken. The tall, silver-haired warrior with pine-green eyes and a face carved in cool granite, a wicked looking tattoo trailing down one side to his neck where it continued on, hidden under his collar. He was sharp edges and silence and the kind of controlled power that vibrated through the room even while he simply sat there. Next to him was Gavriel, golden-haired and golden-eyed, a little easier in his bearing, but no less formidable.

Rowan’s eyes fixed on her. Not rudely. Not with arrogance. But with assessment. Curiosity. Aelin inclined her head toward both warriors before taking her seat beside Aedion.

"Princess Aelin," Gavriel said, bowing his head with genuine respect. "An honor to meet you."

"And you," Aelin replied smoothly, eyes flicking to Rowan.

Rowan gave a shallow nod. "Your patrol returned safely?"

"We did," she said. “Thank you for asking.”

Rhoe gestured for the food to be served—platters of roasted meats, summer fruits, fresh breads, and cheese. Aelin took her time filling her plate, listening as her father discussed the current training expectations and the goals for her summer regimen.

"We’d like to begin with a full assessment of Aelin’s physical and magical capabilities," Rhoe said, glancing at Rowan. "Your experience with magic wielders in battle will be invaluable."

"I’d like to start with her elemental training," Rowan replied without hesitation, voice low and firm. "Not just control, but endurance. Fire demands it."

Aelin felt heat rise in her chest, not from embarrassment, but anticipation.

Gavriel added, "And I’ll work with her on close-quarter combat. She’s already formidable with a blade, but I can refine her form—teach her the Fae style."

Evalin smiled at Aelin, a subtle glimmer in her eyes. "You’ve grown into everything we hoped for, Fireheart. This next step is yours to shape."

Across the table, Rowan studied her again, but this time... there was something different in his gaze. A flicker of something like understanding.

Aedion leaned closer to her with a smirk. “Try not to burn him to ash on the first day.”

Aelin arched a brow. “I’ll consider it,” she replied, a wicked grin spread on her face.

Rowan said nothing, but the edge of his mouth curved up ever so slightly.

The lunch passed in a measured, polite exchange of plans and expectations, but underneath it all, Aelin could feel the storm building. Training with these warriors—these legends—would test her, break her, shape her.

And she would rise to meet it.

~~~~~

Rowan took his seat at the long dining table, the midday sun casting golden light through the tall windows of the dining room. The table was dressed for elegance and diplomacy, with delicate porcelain plates, polished silverware, and arrangements of fresh roses. Gavriel sat to his right, his golden eyes calm but alert, while King Rhoe and Queen Evalin sat across from them, the picture of poise and power.

Rowan's attention, however, was snagged the moment Aelin entered the room.

She moved with the ease of a warrior and the grace of a queen, her steps light yet grounded, as if she owned every inch of the space. Her gown was a deep forest green, sleeveless and fitted to reveal the strength in her arms and shoulders. Golden embroidery curled like vines along the bodice and hem, catching the light with each movement. It was a clever balance of power and elegance, of beauty and brutal honesty. 

Rowan noted it all in an instant. She was both regal and fierce—and something in Rowan’s chest pulled taut at the sight.

Then her scent hit him.

Lemon verbena. Jasmine. Crackling embers.

Wild, feminine, and fierce. Power, deep, unrelenting, and eternal crackled under her skin.

Her scent wrapped around him like a tether, sharp and sudden, and so profoundly that he blinked.

Gavriel glanced sideways at him, catching the shift in his breathing. Rowan said nothing, only locked his jaw and kept his gaze level.

Rowan rose politely as she approached, as did Gavriel. Aelin greeted her parents, offered Gavriel a respectful nod, and then turned to him. Their gazes met for a moment, and then she took her seat next to her cousin.

"Princess Aelin," Gavriel said, bowing his head with genuine respect. "An honor to meet you."

Discussion began regarding Aelin’s training. Rowan kept his expression neutral, but inwardly, he marveled at how clearly the royal couple held command without arrogance. It was a trait he rarely saw in high courts.

Aelin had begun asking specific questions about their training schedule. Her tone was thoughtful, but there was an undercurrent of excitement, even impatience. She wanted to be challenged. But there was also something more. Something desperate. Rowan found himself intrigued.

She spoke like a soldier. Not just a royal playing at war, but a fighter who had earned her scars.

As the lunch progressed, Rowan listened more than he spoke. Observing. Calculating. Noting every glance between Aelin and her cousin, the way the Queen and King deferred to their daughter without condescension.

She was not what he expected. And somehow, more than he had hoped.

When their eyes met again across the table, he held her gaze for a beat longer than was proper.

And Aelin Galathynius, fire and ferocity wrapped in silk and steel, only smiled.

Chapter Text

Rowan

Aelin's training with Rowan and Gavriel began under the watchful gaze of the summer sun, the warmth doing nothing to ease the tension that simmered between the young princess and her new Fae instructors.

To Rowan's surprise, Aelin had insisted that she be allowed to continue her military training and duties as she trained with them. He didn’t think she would be able to manage it, physically or mentally. 

But when Rowan suggested as much, she replied coolly, "I've earned my place among the Bane. I'm not stepping back now."

Gavriel exchanged a glance with Rowan, but said nothing. Rowan, however, pressed. "Training with us is not a part-time commitment. If you want to learn control, you need to be focused."

"I will be," Aelin said coolly. "I’ve already told Aedion I’ll limit my missions. But I’m not abandoning my people or my responsibilities."

What she didn’t say—but what they all knew—was that she was not just a soldier. She was the crown princess. The heir of fire.

Rowan didn’t understand it. Didn’t understand why she clung to her role as a soldier when clearly she was destined for much more.

Rowan had taken to the skies in his hawk form later that day, gliding high over the Staghorn range. As the sun dipped down toward the horizon, the wind whispered through his feathers, the peaks beneath him bathed in gold light. For a few brief hours, he flew without weight, without worry.

But even the highest winds couldn’t keep his thoughts from circling the young woman with fire in her veins and a fortress around her heart.

Aelin

The morning sun was just beginning to stretch over the silver-and-emerald skyline of Orynth when Aelin emerged from the palace gates, still damp with sweat from her dawn drills with the Bane. Her leathers clung to her like a second skin, boots dusted with earth, braid darkened by moisture. Her muscles ached, but it was a good ache—earned.

Rowan was already waiting near the gates, arms crossed, his expression unreadable as usual. The early light glinted off his silver hair, making him look more statue than male. Aelin didn’t slow her approach, but she noted the pack he carried slung over one shoulder and the bright gleam in his green eyes.

"You're late," he said mildly.

Aelin raised a brow. "I'm ten minutes early."

"Late for what I had in mind," Rowan replied. Then, without further explanation, he turned and started toward the city’s edge.

Aelin matched his pace, curious despite herself. "Where are we going?"

"There’s a clearing near the Florine. I spotted it yesterday while flying. Remote. Quiet. Ideal for what we need."

"Flying?" Aelin repeated, casting him a sideways glance.

Rowan didn’t elaborate, only kept walking.

She frowned thoughtfully, eyeing the broad set of his shoulders and the effortless grace of his stride. What was his secondary form? Something sharp and cold, no doubt—built to hunt. She wouldn’t put it past him to be some kind of apex predator. Whatever it was, it suited him. Powerful, silent, and solitary.

She frowned. "How far?"

"Far," he said with a hint of mischief.

She groaned. "Let me guess—you’re going to make me run."

"It would be faster if you shifted."

Aelin came to a halt. Rowan stopped two paces ahead and turned.

"I’m not shifting," she said, folding her arms.

His brow furrowed. "Why not?"

"Because I don’t want to."

His jaw tensed, the shift in his stance almost imperceptible. "You’re Fae. This is part of your training. You can’t avoid it forever."

"I’m not avoiding it," she lied. "I just don’t need to shift for a run."

He looked at her then—really looked—and she hated that he could see too much. The way his eyes searched her face, as if trying to decipher a code she didn’t want him reading.

"You’re afraid," he said softly.

"No," she snapped.

Rowan didn’t respond. He just turned and started walking again, but this time more slowly, giving her the choice to follow or not.

After a beat, she did. Neither of them spoke for a while. Not about magic, not about shifting. Just the crunch of boots against gravel, the sound of Orynth slowly waking behind them.

But Rowan knew. And Aelin hated that he did.

And though she refused to shift, she ran beside him anyway—all the way to the clearing by the Florine.

As the river came into view, sparkling in the late morning sun, Aelin’s breath evened out from the exertion. Her mind, however, was anything but calm. She thought of Oakwald, of how she used to run as a girl in her Fae form, barefoot and wild through the ancient forest, the wind singing through the trees like an old friend. She remembered the feel of leaves brushing her skin, the pulse of magic dancing in her veins when the world had felt free and full of wonder. Before fear. Before fire. Before loss.

The memory ached, a ghost of freedom she wasn’t sure she could reclaim. But maybe, just maybe, she could try.

Rowan, barely out of breath, gave her a nod of approval as they reached the clearing. Aelin, hands on her knees, tried not to glare at him between gulps of air.

"You're not even sweating," she said accusingly.

"I could go another ten miles," he replied with maddening calm.

Aelin rolled her eyes and sank down onto the grass, letting herself cool. After a few minutes, Rowan approached her again.

"Try to shift," he said, not unkindly this time.

She stared at the grass, at the sunlight dappled on her arms. She closed her eyes and reached inward, to that place where her magic waited—hot, dangerous, untamed.

But the fear was there too. Tangled up in memory. Fire. Screams. Smoke.

She tried. Truly tried.

Nothing.

When she opened her eyes again, Rowan was watching her. He didn’t say anything. Just turned and looked out over the river.

The silence between them was heavy with everything unspoken.

Aelin’s past, and her fear of fire, was a tangle of grief and guilt she kept hidden behind a mask of arrogance and stubbornness. She knew Rowan could sense it. Knew he thought she was weak. That she wasn’t trying.

In truth, she was trying harder than he could possibly understand.

Rowan

Rowan’s frustration with her grew with each day she failed to shift. Their sessions became battlegrounds—not just of muscle and magic, but of will and pride.

"You're holding back," Rowan growled during one particularly heated morning.

Aelin’s teeth clenched. "Maybe because I don’t want to burn everything down."

He didn’t back down. "Maybe you don’t want to face your fire. Maybe you’re a coward, and you should stop wasting my time.”

The silence that followed was volcanic.

She stalked away, fire crackling around her fingers, leaving Rowan breathing hard and confused by the mixture of guilt, anger, and a sharp pull in his chest he hadn't felt since Lyria.

Rowan stood at the edge of the clearing, the wind tugging gently at his silver hair as he watched the river. His thoughts churned, as turbulent as the waters below.

He shouldn't have called her a coward. He knew it even as the words left his mouth, barbed and cruel. But damn her—she got under his skin in a way no one else ever had.

She was infuriating. Stubborn. Proud. Powerful. And utterly unlike any Fae he’d ever met.

What kind of Fae ran away from power? Who flinched from the gift of shifting, of fire? He didn’t understand it—couldn’t comprehend that level of denial. Every other Fae he knew would have relished it, reveled in it.

But Aelin—she recoiled from it. Not out of disdain, but something deeper. Something broken. Rowan had seen glimpses of it—in her haunted silences, in the brittle way she sometimes smiled, in the way her eyes seemed older than they should be.

She was afraid. Not of him, not of the training.

Of herself.

And that terrified him, too.

He didn’t like how she made him feel. How his instincts whispered not just to protect, but to understand. To soothe.

Lyria’s face flickered through his mind, bringing the usual pang. He had sworn he’d never let anyone in again. He didn’t deserve it. Not after--

But Aelin…

There was something about her.

Rowan exhaled, the breath long and ragged. He needed to push his confusing feelings deep down. Nothing good could come from considering what they meant. He was here for one thing. To train the princess. To do so, he needed to figure her out—needed to break through whatever wall she’d built around her flame.

And maybe, just maybe, she’d help him face the walls he didn’t even realize he’d built around himself.

As Rowan shifted to fly back toward the castle, breeze stirred the grass, and with it came another memory—cold and sharp. Maeve, her voice like silk over steel: Do not grow attached.  

The warning had been clear, and it had never unnerved him before.

But now, as he glanced down toward the golden-haired girl making her way on foot back to the castle, something about the memory unsettled him deeply.

Rowan didn’t return to the castle by foot. Once Aelin had left the clearing, walking back with slow, measured steps, he shifted into his hawk form and took to the sky, watching from above.

The flight was invigorating, his wings cutting cleanly through the warm summer air as he soared above the forested hills surrounding Orynth. The Staghorns loomed in the distance, a jagged crown of stone above the glittering sprawl of the capital. It should have calmed him, the familiar sensation of flight—but his mind still churned with the fire-haired girl who would not shift.

When he arrived at the castle, he didn’t head to the courtyard. Instead, he alighted in one of the trees flanking the high stone walls, tucking his wings tightly as he perched in the shade of rustling leaves. Below, the gates remained quiet, only a few guards on patrol. And in the distance, he spotted Aelin returning, walking alone across the grass, head held high.

Rowan watched her for a moment, unmoving.

Then, voices drifted up from an open window nearby. Low, clipped, tense.

"—cannot let this continue. The girl grows stronger by the day, and now the Fae warriors from Doranelle are training her—"

Lord Darrow’s voice. Sharp and sneering.

Another voice, one Rowan didn’t recognize, replied, "We should have bound her power years ago. Soon she will be flaunting it in our halls."

"Magic has no place in ruling Terrasen," Darrow said. "And now, with the Bane’s loyalty behind her and a court of magical creatures forming—do you not see the danger?"

A murmur of agreement.

Then Darrow added, quieter, but no less dangerous, "There are tools. Restraints. Artifacts. We could secure one discreetly—should her power become a threat."

Rowan’s talons dug into the branch.

"Aelin must be kept in check," said another lord. "She’s a girl with fire and too much pride. Magic has never served this realm well."

Rowan’s blood turned to ice.

They were plotting. Already.

Against the heir of Terrasen. Against the queen they claimed to serve.

Did she know? Was she aware of the vile opinions her parents’ court held of her?

His wings rustled slightly with restrained fury, but he didn’t move. Not yet.

He needed to know more. Needed to protect her.

Even if she didn’t trust him—he would not let them cage her.

Not while he still drew breath.

Dorian

The chandeliers of the Rifthold ballroom glittered like stars caught in a net of gold, casting the revelers below in a haze of amber and opulence. Music swirled from the quartet on the dais, the steady rhythm of strings and flute echoing through the vast marble hall. Perfumed nobles, masked and shining in their finest silks, drifted between tables laden with sugared fruits and overflowing goblets of jewel-toned wine.

Dorian Havilliard adjusted the silver half-mask that curved over his cheekbones and swept his gaze across the room. So many familiar faces, all draped in illusion—lace, jewels, and lies. Even Chaol, beside him in a midnight-blue coat, looked more princely than usual, though he scowled into his wine as if it had personally insulted him.

“I hate these things,” Chaol muttered.

Dorian smiled faintly. “You say that every time.”

“And I mean it every time.”

Dorian tilted his head, sipping from his goblet. The wine was sweet—too sweet—but it masked the bitterness at the back of his throat. These days, it was harder to forget what lingered behind the castle walls. Harder to pretend that a night of dancing and finery could wash away the power that rumbled deep within him. Power that was getting harder to keep confined, hidden.

But he played the part. For now.

A flash of movement caught his eye—spun gold and crimson silk, a woman weaving through the crowd like a whisper. Her mask was delicate, glittering like frost, with bright emerald green eyes the only observable facial feature. Her hair was brown, spilling in soft waves down her back. She approached as if she’d been summoned, her step light and unhurried, yet somehow inevitable.

Before he could step back or offer a polite excuse, she slid beside him, her hand brushing his arm.

“Your Highness,” she said, voice as smooth as velvet.

Dorian turned toward her, raising a brow.

The woman’s smile was sly and knowing. “May I have this dance?”

He didn’t recognize her—but something in her gaze made him nod.

She guided him onto the floor effortlessly, her touch practiced. They circled through the steps, spinning between lords and ladies cloaked in laughter and silk. Something about her presence set him on edge.

“You’re not here just to dance,” Dorian said under his breath.

Her grin widened, sharp as a blade beneath the elegance. “I never do anything just for pleasure.”

They twirled again, and she leaned in, her lips brushing his ear as the orchestra swelled.

“I have information,” she murmured, “about the one who tried to kill the princess in the north.”

Dorian’s steps faltered, barely enough for anyone else to notice.

Her grip on his hand tightened. “Don’t stop dancing. Smile and flirt with me.”

He did as she asked, falling back into the rhythm, masking the sudden surge of interest—and dread—in his chest.

“What do you know?” he asked, voice low, his eyes enticing.

The courtesan’s eyes gleamed behind her mask. 

Dorian frowned. “Give me a name.”

But the courtesan only smiled. The music reached its crescendo, and with it, their dance ended. She stepped back with a graceful curtsy, her crimson skirts fanning around her.

“Meet me at the docks tomorrow. You and your Captain. I’ll give you the information I have—if you can guarantee the reward and protection from retaliation.”

Then she was gone—vanishing into the glittering crowd as if she’d never been there at all.

Dorian stood frozen on the ballroom floor, heart hammering. Chaol appeared beside him a moment later, brows raised.

“Who was that?”

Dorian didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he turned his gaze toward the marble columns and high-arched windows, toward the north.

Toward Terrasen.

And Aelin.

Chapter Text

The clearing near the Florine River was quiet, save for the whisper of leaves stirred by the breeze. Rowan stood with his arms crossed, his eyes like flint as he watched Aelin stretch from her morning drills with the Bane. Her brow was damp, her breathing steady—but the tension between them hung thick in the air.

“You’re late,” he said flatly.

Aelin shot him a glare. “Drills went long.”

Rowan said nothing, simply turned and began jogging toward the trail leading deeper into the trees. “We’re running today. Keep up.”

Aelin followed in silence, her boots crunching against the forest floor. The river’s distant murmur grew louder as they climbed toward the high ridge Rowan had scouted. When they reached the clearing, he finally stopped, turning to face her.

“Shift,” he ordered.

Aelin’s lips thinned. “I can’t.”

Rowan’s eyes narrowed. “Try.”

“You don’t understand,” she snapped.

His voice was cold. “Because you’re not trying. Because you’re afraid.”

Aelin’s shoulders tensed. “You think I haven’t tried? You think I want this?”

Aelin’s fists clenched at her sides. Across the glade, Rowan’s voice cut through the humid afternoon air like a blade. Her breath steamed before her mouth, fire simmering just beneath her skin, but not enough. Not yet. Not the way he wanted.

“I am trying,” she snapped.

Rowan’s pine green eyes burned, his tone edged with the icy precision she’d come to loathe. “Then you’re a coward,” Rowan growled. “You’re terrified of your power, and you’d rather bury it than face it. You’re wasting my time.”

Something inside Aelin snapped at that word. Coward. 

The words struck like a slap. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” He stepped closer. “You’re afraid of your fire. You let it rule you—or worse, you suppress it. And you’re wasting my time.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you’ve run from your power every day we’ve trained. I know you flinch when I ask you to shift. I know you’re terrified of what you are, and if you don’t face that, you’ll burn this kingdom to ash—without even meaning to.”

Aelin didn’t remember lunging, only the impact of her shoulder hitting his chest, her snarl ripping from her throat. Rowan moved with immortal speed, grappling her as they crashed to the ground, a blur of fists and fury.

She struck low, sweeping his legs out. He easily deflected, flipping her over with brutal grace. They rolled, grappled, shoved—until rage overtook reason. Until the magic she so feared prickled down her spine.

Rowan pinned her, his teeth bared. “Shift,” he growled. The scent of her hit him—jasmine, lemon verbena and crackling embers, wild and sweet and powerful. 

“Go to hell.”

Something snapped. In him. In her.

With a guttural roar, Rowan dipped his head and bit her—hard—just beneath her collarbone.

Aelin screamed.

Blood, hot and sun-kissed, filled Rowan’s mouth, awakening something primal and long-buried. Not lust. Not power. Recognition. A thread pulling tight between them, humming with heat.

Aelin’s body bucked beneath his. Flame erupted from her skin, fire racing over the glade. Rowan leapt back, shielding his face as the inferno twisted into the sky, devouring trees, turning air into a furnace.

She stood in the center, glowing like the heart of a forge, hair wild with wind and flame, eyes glowing gold.

“There you are.”

She had shifted.

And she was panicking.

“Stop it!” she gasped, arms wrapped around herself. “I can’t—I can’t—”

“You can!” Rowan barked, stepping through the smoke. “Aelin, listen to me. Breathe. Call it back. You’re not going to hurt anyone.”

“I don’t know how—”

“Yes, you do. You’ve always known. The flames are yours, they are part of you.”

The flames surged, hungry and wild, but she clenched her teeth and closed her eyes. Her breathing slowed. Her magic stuttered.

Then—stillness.

Rowan exhaled. The smoke drifted up, exposing the blackened trees, the scorched earth.

He stared at her, awe slowly blooming in his chest. Power like this—raw, immense, ancient—he had never seen it. Not even in Maeve’s court. Not even in himself.

She was fire incarnate.

And she had no idea what she was. Who she was.

Aelin fell to her knees, gasping.

Rowan dropped beside her. Not touching. 

“Next time,” he said softly, “don’t wait for me to bite you.”

Her laugh was a broken thing, but it was real. And somewhere in his chest, something dangerous and uncertain stirred.

Maeve’s warning echoed again in his memory, cold and razor-sharp:

Don’t get attached.

But it was already too late.

~~~~~

The sun had barely crested the horizon when Aelin stepped onto the training grounds, the dewy grass crunching beneath her boots. The Bane was already awake, soldiers sharpening blades, running drills, and laughing in the early light. Gavriel stood apart, shirtless despite the morning chill, stretching with feline grace as he waited for her.

She joined him without a word, drawing her twin swords.

"You’re early," he said, offering a small nod.

"So are you."

They circled one another, eyes alert. Then they clashed. Gavriel moved with feline grace, every motion precise and powerful. Blade met blade, strike met counterstrike.

 Gavriel was stronger than anyone she’d sparred with in years. Aelin swung hard, fast—but he blocked her easily, his blade knocking hers aside. She stumbled back, breath heaving, and adjusted her stance.

"Again," Gavriel said calmly, his golden eyes unreadable.

She lunged. He deflected. She spun, tried to outpace him—but he stepped neatly aside and tapped her ribs with the flat of his blade.

Down she went, gritting her teeth as her back hit the training mat.

"You're not using your weight properly," he said, offering her a hand.

"I noticed," she growled, pushing up without help.

They circled once more, sweat dripping down her spine. Her muscles ached from yesterday's fire-filled chaos, but she refused to stop. Not when Gavriel had barely broken a sweat. Not when the eyes of other soldiers were occasionally flicking their way.

She went for a high feint, then a low slash—only for Gavriel to disarm her with a twist and send her tumbling to the ground again.

"You're stronger than this," he murmured, retrieving her sword. "But in your human form, you're at a disadvantage. You’ll need to adapt. Rely on technique, not brute strength."

Aelin picked herself up, panting. “Then I’ll adapt.”

Gavriel nodded once. “Good.”

The clang of swords echoed through the training yard, drawing glances from the Bane. Aelin noticed the mix of soldiers—humans, demi-Fae, even a few full-blooded Fae—all training together, seamlessly. There was no hesitation, no resentment. Just a shared rhythm and purpose.

Gavriel had noticed it too in the days since their arrival. Orynth’s strength wasn’t just in its bloodlines—it was in its unity.

As she stepped off the field, Aedion clapped her shoulder in silent approval before stepping into the ring. The soldiers paused in their drills, eager to watch their commander spar the legendary Fae warrior. Aelin slowed, glancing back only once as their blades met in a clash of silver and gold.

She slipped away to cool down and drink, leaving the two males to face off. She didn’t miss the way Gavriel looked at Aedion—pride, sorrow, something older and more painful than either of them dared voice.

They fought in silence, blades a blur.

Later that afternoon, as Aelin returned from her training session with Rowan, a summons arrived. Aelin and Aedion were to report to the castle. She ran off to the barracks in search of her cousin. 

They exchanged glances but didn’t speak as they made their way through the sun-dappled streets of Orynth.

In the king’s study, Rhoe and Evalin waited, dressed in court finery that did little to mask their alert, battle-tested gazes. Across from them, seated near the hearth, was a familiar figure in a crisp Adarlanian uniform.

Chaol Westfall stood and bowed. "Your Highnesses."

Aelin arched a brow. "Captain."

Rhoe gestured them to sit. "Captain Westfall brings news—about the attempt on your life, Aelin."

Chaol’s expression was grim. "There’s a lead. Dorian and I met a courtesan in Riftold with connections to the criminal underworld. She claims to know who orchestrated the assassination attempt."

Aelin leaned forward. "What does she want in exchange?"

"Reward and protection," Chaol said. "And she wants to meet in person."

Evalin’s eyes narrowed. "And you trust this source?"

"She gave enough details to be worth the risk. We wanted you to be aware. The woman is currently staying in the glass castle under the protection of the royal guard.”

Aedion’s jaw tightened. "Who is she?"

"Her name is Lysandra," Chaol replied. "And she’s very, very good at keeping secrets."

Aelin exchanged a glance with her cousin. Her pulse thundered.

Another step closer to the truth.

And maybe, just maybe, another enemy to unmask.

The sun was beginning to dip down closer to the horizon as Aelin paced.

Back and forth across her chambers, boots scuffing the worn rug, hair still damp from the hurried bath she’d taken to try to calm her nerves. Her muscles ached from sparring with Gavriel, but it was nothing compared to the restless churn in her chest.

A lead. An actual lead.

Lysandra. A courtesan with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue, who’d whispered the promise of truth into Dorian’s ear. Aelin could still hear Chaol’s voice repeating the name, could still feel the heat of her parents’ disapproval when she’d offered—no, demanded—to go to Rifthold herself.

Too dangerous, they’d said.

She was the Crown Princess. The heart of a fragile kingdom. Her place was here, not in Rifthold. Rifthold was quite possibly the most dangerous place for her to be, if the courtesan’s information was correct and her assassin had been hired from the Assassin’s Guild housed there.

But she refused to sit idle while others chased her would-be killers.

“You’re going to wear a hole in the carpet,” Aedion drawled from the doorway.

She whirled, glaring.

He stepped inside, arms crossed. “You’re thinking about going anyway.”

“I wasn’t thinking,” Aelin said tightly. “I decided ten minutes ago.”

Aedion grinned. “That’s what I was hoping to hear.”

She blinked. “You’re not going to stop me?”

“Hell no. I’m coming with you.”

Relief loosened something tight in her chest. “We’ll have to leave tonight.”

“Agreed. If we ask for permission, we’ll be locked in the palace until next spring.”

Aelin allowed herself a brief smile before the weight of what they were planning settled back over her. “We’ll need to keep this quiet. Pack light. Move fast.”

“I’ll handle horses. You handle your shadows.”

And with that, Aedion disappeared down the hall.

Aelin hesitated only a moment before turning toward the guest wing. The sun had risen high enough to cast golden light along the polished stone floors. A castle servant bowed low as she passed.

She found Rowan and Gavriel in their chambers, both already dressed in leathers, blades within easy reach.

Rowan looked up as she entered, brow furrowing. “Is something wrong?”

“I’m leaving,” Aelin said. “For a few days.”

Gavriel rose slowly from the bench where he’d been oiling his sword. “Leaving where?”

“I can’t tell you.”

Rowan’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not how this works.”

“It is now,” Aelin replied coolly. “I’m not asking for permission. I’m informing you.”

Rowan stepped forward, his voice low. “You’re planning something reckless.”

She folded her arms. “You don’t know that.”

He studied her a moment longer—then turned to Gavriel. “We’re going with her.”

Aelin’s jaw tensed. “No, you’re not.”

“You can’t stop us.”

“I’m not your queen,” she snapped.

“No,” Rowan said. “But we’re your trainers. And if you’re going somewhere dangerous in the middle of the night, then we’re going too.”

Gavriel merely nodded once, already strapping on his weapons.

Aelin looked between them, frustration gnawing at her.

Fine. Let them come. They didn’t know why she was leaving—didn’t know anything about Lysandra or the assassin or the fire she was chasing. And maybe it was better that way. Safer for them. Safer for her.

“Be ready by nightfall,” she said. “We ride for Rifthold.”

And then she turned on her heel and walked away, not waiting for a response.

Because in a few hours, she would be on the road to Adarlan.

Lysandra

Lysandra sat alone in a sunlit chamber high in the glass castle, the light filtering through the crystalline walls and casting fractured rainbows across the marble floor. It was beautiful—cold and strange, like living inside a gemstone. And nothing about it felt like home.

The tea on the table had long gone cold, untouched. Her fingers curled around the delicate porcelain cup anyway, needing something to hold onto.

The room was quiet, but beyond the thick glass she could hear the faint sounds of Rifthold: the murmur of court, the clatter of guards, the distant hum of the city she had once prowled like a shadow.

She had not walked those streets freely in weeks. Not since she had come forward with the name.

Not since she had whispered her truth to the Prince of Adarlan at a summer ball full of silks and masks and too many secrets. A name for a reward, for protection—and, in truth, for something far more valuable.

She had been moved into the castle the next day, under the personal protection of the royal guard. A precaution, they’d said, for her safety. And she had believed them.

Mostly.

The guards at her door changed every few hours, their silver and navy uniforms always pressed, their eyes always sharp. She hadn’t seen Dorian since the night she’d danced beside him and planted the seed of revelation in his ear. But she knew he was watching. Knew they were weighing her usefulness, her truthfulness.

Let them.

She had learned long ago how to make herself indispensable.

She wandered toward the wide window that overlooked the sprawling palace gardens. Somewhere down there, nobles schemed in quiet parlors and servants whispered rumors in kitchens. 

Arobynn Hamel would have laughed at her now. Would have claimed she was foolish to involve herself in things so far above her station. He slithered through the underworld of Rifthold, pulled strings and whispered commands. And she despised him for every chain he had ever wrapped around her life.

She had survived him. And Madame Clarisse.

More than that—she had endured. Shaped herself into whatever the world needed her to be.

A courtesan. A mask.

A monster.

She hadn’t used her shifting ability in years. Not since childhood, not since the first time her mother had caught her with claws instead of fingers and cast her out on the streets. She had buried that part of herself so deep she had nearly forgotten it was there.

But the magic was returning. Stirring again beneath her skin like a long-sleeping animal beginning to stretch. It called to her at night, whispering of freedom, of vengeance.

Of power.

So when Dorian Havilliard had looked at her with those tired, clever eyes at the summer ball, she had leaned in close and whispered a name.

The Terrasen princess.

Because Lysandra had heard things. From clients too drunk to keep their mouths shut, from assassins who liked to brag, from men who didn’t see her as anything but beautiful and silent.

But she was never silent. Never blind.

And now, protected in this tower of glass, surrounded by armed men and sharpened whispers, Lysandra waited for the delegation from Terrasen to arrive.

They wanted the truth?

She would give it to them.

Because she was done playing pretty.

Done playing pawn.

And for the first time in her life, Lysandra was about to choose her own side.

Chapter Text

Rowan

Rowan stood in his guest chambers, buckling the final strap on his vambraces while Gavriel checked their weapons one last time. Their departure from Orynth was quiet, calculated. No fanfare, no goodbyes. Only the whisper of steel and the dull thud of boots as they prepared to escort Aelin and Aedion on their journey.

Neither of them had been told the details. Only that the princess and her cousin were pursuing a lead. They had insisted on escorting them as an additional layer of protection. Rowan had questions, but Aelin hadn’t offered answers. And though it grated against every instinct he had, Rowan obeyed.

“Whatever this is,” Gavriel said, adjusting the straps of his traveling gear, “they’re not telling us everything.”

“They don’t trust us,” Rowan replied, voice clipped. “And I don’t blame them.”

Gavriel’s golden eyes flicked toward him. “Still. We’re not here to play politics. Our oath is to train her—not interfere.”

“Maybe it’s better then, that we don’t know the details.” He already felt the edge of something beneath his skin—like this was more than a simple journey. But they were sworn to protect. And so they would follow.

Rowan slid his sword into its sheath, then turned to Gavriel with a grim look. “Before we leave, there’s something you should know. A few weeks ago, I overheard a conversation outside one of the castle windows. Darrow and some of the other lords. They were talking about obtaining magical restraints.”

Gavriel went still. “Restraints? For who?”

“For Aelin,” Rowan said. “They’re afraid of her fire. Of what it might mean for Terrasen. They were talking about acquiring something that could suppress her power—just in case.”

Gavriel swore under his breath. “And you didn’t tell her?”

Rowan shook his head. “Not yet. She has enough on her plate. But it means we need to stay close. Watch. Protect her if it comes to that.”

Gavriel nodded grimly, then hesitated. “Do you think it’s connected? To this lead they’re chasing? Could those restraints have something to do with what she’s heading into?”

Rowan’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know. But I intend to find out.”

As they gathered the final pieces of gear, Rowan found himself quiet, distracted by thoughts he couldn’t fully voice. Aelin Galathynius had become a constant in his thoughts—fiery, defiant, maddening. There were moments when her scent alone seemed to reach inside him and crack something open. He told himself it was duty, frustration, responsibility. But that wasn’t all of it. He knew it.

He’d never met anyone like her. Never trained someone so powerful, yet so afraid of her own strength. It made him furious—how she resisted, how she pulled back when she could soar. But more than that, it made him curious. It made him care. And that… that terrified him.

He was beginning to feel a connection to her, something deeper than respect or responsibility. Something ancient, something dangerous. Maeve had warned him not to get attached. The memory of her cold voice echoed in his mind again, chilling and sharp. But he knew it was already too late.

Shit. He was in such deep, unending shit.

Aelin

In her chambers, Aelin stared down at the parchment one last time. Her handwriting was steady, the words precise:

Aedion and I are going to Rifthold. Please trust us. We’ll stay safe. We will return.

She signed it with her name and a drop of wax, pressing the Galathynius seal into it with shaking hands. Her heart thudded wildly as she left it on the table.

Her parents would be furious. But she couldn’t sit idle.

Not when answers waited.

Aedion was already waiting at the stables, two horses saddled and ready. The sky was still pale with early morning light, the city silent. They rode out through the southern gates, their cloaks drawn, their faces hidden.

At the edge of the Oakwald Forest, two figures emerged—one golden-furred, one a blur of gray wings.

Gavriel padded forward in lion form, regal and silent. Rowan circled above as a hawk, then landed in a shower of feathers, shifting fluidly into his Fae form beside them.

“You’re late,” Rowan said.

Aelin raised an eyebrow. “You flew. We didn’t.”

Gavriel returned to his two-legged form. “We’re ready.”

None of them asked questions.

And none of them knew what lay ahead—only that they were going together.

Even if Rowan and Gavriel still didn’t know the truth: that an assassin had tried to end Aelin’s life. That her return to Rifthold would be anything but simple.

Aelin tried not to bristle at Rowan and Gavriel’s presence, even though the tension curled tightly in her chest. She had wanted to do this with Aedion—just the two of them. She hadn’t wanted watchers. Didn’t want to be babysat. But Rowan had insisted, and Gavriel had backed him up, and something in Rowan’s expression had made her falter.

She didn’t want to trust him. But she was drawn to him all the same. Drawn to the sharpness of his mind, the steadiness of his presence, the scent of pine and snow that always seemed to calm and ignite her in equal measure. He wasn’t afraid of her. He saw her fire and met it with his wind and ice, not fear.

And gods help her, she didn’t know what to do with that.

She clamped down on the feeling, forcing her focus back to the path ahead. This was a mission, not a romantic escapade. And Rowan. Gods, he was hundreds of years old. An immortal. And she was an 18 year old who couldn’t control her own power. She was nothing to him. A coward, he had called her. Her instincts were tangled, her thoughts a mess. She didn’t have room for confusion—not now.

The Oakwald swallowed them whole as they rode into its shadowed depths.

And behind them, Orynth slept on—unaware of the secrets carried silently into the woods.

Rowan

That night, in the heart of Oakwald, Rowan didn’t sleep long.

Their camp was quiet, save for the distant rustling of branches and the steady breathing of the others. He lay beneath the stars, a thin layer of pine needles cushioning his back, and tried to will himself into rest. But when sleep finally came, it brought with it a dream he hadn’t welcomed in years.

Lyria.

Her laughter, soft and golden, echoing across an autumn glade. The way she used to run her fingers through his hair. The exact pitch of her voice as she whispered his name—Rowan, not Prince, not Commander. Just Rowan.

And then, as always, the blood. The broken body. The silence.

He jolted awake with a shuddering breath, heart pounding, sweat slicking his spine. The camp was still quiet. Gavriel lay nearby, and across the fire, Aedion snored softly beneath his cloak.

But it was her scent—jasmine and crackling embers—that pulled Rowan’s eyes to the edge of camp where Aelin slept wrapped in her cloak, moonlight painting her in silver as if Deanna was protecting her.

He hated this. Hated how she was starting to slide beneath his skin. How his thoughts circled around her, always returning. How her fire had begun to warm something in him he’d long thought frozen. The way she challenged him, infuriated him—and how her power, her presence, her courage, stirred something primal in his bones.

It made him feel disloyal. To Lyria. To her memory.

Lyria had been his mate. His heart.

But the pull he felt toward Aelin was different—more intense, sharper, unavoidable. He didn’t understand it. Couldn’t understand it. It wasn’t supposed to be possible.

And yet… something in him knew. Felt.

It wasn’t possible. And yet, something about it felt inevitable, undeniable.

It was stirring. Like a buried root pushing up through stone.

He wanted to rage against it. To deny it. But it was there all the same.

And that, more than anything, made him afraid.

He clenched his fists and closed his eyes, breathing in the cold, pine-laced air. But the image of Aelin sleeping by the fire lingered—untouchable, unknowable, and impossibly, irrevocably close.

Aedion

Aedion packed his saddlebags with practiced hands, his eyes flicking to the others as they moved through the quiet camp. Dawn filtered through the leaves, casting golden light over their modest campsite. Beside him, Aelin tightened the straps on her mare’s saddle, Rowan stalked the camp perimeter in silence, and Gavriel cooled a last night’s embers with a boot.

They were nearly ready.

He glanced toward the two Fae warriors again—Rowan and Gavriel. Legends, both of them. Stories he’d heard since he was a boy, tales told in war camps and whispered in noble halls. Warriors older than the kingdom itself. He’d imagined them as distant, aloof, untouchable.

And yet… last night by the fire, when he’d dragged stories out of them over salted meat and dried fruit, they’d laughed. Not often, and never without that Fae reserve—but they had. Rowan had even offered a tale so outrageous Aedion was still trying to decide if it was truth or deliberate bait.

They were not like the stories. But somehow, more real.

Still, what unsettled Aedion most wasn’t their prowess, their power, or their age.

It was the dynamic between Rowan and Aelin.

At first, he’d thought Rowan resented her. That their training had been brutal enough to crack bone and pride both. But now… now, watching them, he wasn’t so sure. There was something there—something unspoken. Tension, certainly, but also… something deeper.

When Aelin looked at Rowan, it wasn’t with disdain. And when Rowan looked at her… there was fury, yes. Frustration. But something gentler, too. Something careful, hidden beneath the layers.

Aedion didn’t know what to make of it. Didn’t know if he liked it.

He slung his pack over his shoulder and gave his cousin a long look. She was different around Rowan. Not weaker. But guarded in a new way. She was trying to keep something at bay—and Aedion had a sinking suspicion that Rowan Whitethorn was the thing she was trying not to feel.

And Rowan…

He watched her like she was a flame he didn’t know whether to shield or burn with.

Aedion mounted his horse, jaw tight. They were heading into danger. He had to keep his focus. They all did.

Still, he kept an eye on Rowan circling above as they rode into the woods. Just in case.

That night, after a long day of riding, they made camp beneath a thick grove of trees. The fire crackled low as they sat in a quiet circle, eating what little they had cooked—salted meat, bread, dried fruit. The silence stretched until Aelin, staring into the firelight, finally broke it.

“What’s the blood oath like?” she asked.

Gavriel looked up, surprised. Rowan’s expression remained unreadable.

Aelin continued, voice soft but steady. “In Terrasen, the sovereign is allowed one blood-sworn protector. For me, that will be Aedion. But I’ve never understood how it really feels. What it does to you.”

Rowan leaned back against a tree trunk, eyes gleaming in the firelight. “It’s ancient. Binding. It ties your soul to another. Their life becomes your life, their death your death. You feel them—in your mind, your heart, your very bones. It is not something entered lightly.”

“It doesn’t feel like servitude,” Gavriel added. “It feels like… purpose. Like a vow that echoes every time you breathe.”

“There’s more to it, though,” Rowan said slowly. “The oath can shift depending on the nature of the bond and the will of the sovereign. It’s magic, yes—but intention shapes it. Some oaths grant absolute obedience. Others are tempered with free will. A wise ruler chooses not only who to bind, but how.”

Aelin hesitated. “And what about Maeve? What was her intention when she claimed your oaths?”

Rowan went still. Gavriel glanced at him, then down at his hands.

“She binds for control,” Rowan said at last, voice quiet. “For power. She wants loyalty not out of love or respect—but because it gives her dominion. Our oaths to her were absolute. A leash with no slack.”

Gavriel’s voice was rough when he added, “And she chooses warriors she knows will serve her without question… or she breaks them until they do.”

Aelin’s brows furrowed. “So it matters. The purpose behind it.”

Rowan nodded. “It always matters.”

She turned back to the fire, her expression unreadable, but the weight of her thoughts hung heavy in the silence that followed.

Rowan watched her across the flames, wondering what choice she would make—and what intention she would carry with it.

Rowan said nothing more, but he didn’t look away.

And neither did she.

Chapter Text

After another day of swift travel, they had crossed into Aderlan and were setting up camp for the night. The forest was thick with mist when Rowan returned from a perimeter sweep, his steps quiet over the leaf-littered earth. He found Gavriel where he’d left him, seated near the embers of the dying fire, sharpening one of his blades. The rhythmic scrape of whetstone over steel was a low whisper in the hush of the forest.

Rowan dropped down beside him with a grunt, tossing a stick into the embers. The flame flared briefly, casting golden light across Gavriel’s face.

"Nothing out there," Rowan said. "No tracks. No movement."

Gavriel gave a nod, eyes still on his blade. "Good."

For a few minutes, they said nothing, letting the forest speak around them. An owl called softly overhead. In the distance, a creek gurgled in the dark.

Then Gavriel broke the silence. "You’ve been thinking about it too."

Rowan didn’t ask what. He knew.

"Aedion," Gavriel said, his voice low. "And what it means when he swears to Aelin."

Rowan ran a hand through his silver hair. "It complicates everything."

Gavriel sighed and finally set down the blade. "I should’ve told him sooner. Should’ve been part of his life from the beginning. But Maeve..."

"Would have never allowed it," Rowan finished for him. "You know how she operates. Everyone’s a pawn."

Gavriel nodded slowly. "And now? Now she’ll see this as a threat. My son, sworn to a foreign queen."

"To her niece," Rowan added. "Don’t forget that."

Gavriel gave him a sharp look. "That makes it worse. Maeve won't see blood ties—she’ll see Aelin building power. Aedion is a powerful general, a commander already respected. If he swears to Aelin, it sends a message."

Rowan shook his head. "And if Maeve lays a claim on him it would be a declaration of war on Terrasen and perhaps also Wendlyn. He’s loyal to Aelin, to Terrasen, general of their army, and a prince of Wendlyn as well."

"She doesn’t know Aedion is my son. Not yet."

"But she will, eventually," Rowan said darkly. "When we go back..."

Rowan stared into the flames. "Do you regret swearing to her?"

Gavriel didn’t answer at first. Then, quietly, "I regret not seeing her for what she was sooner. But I can’t change that. I can only make different choices now."

"Aedion is one of those choices."

"He’s more than that," Gavriel said. "He’s my redemption."

Rowan met his eyes. "Then we protect him. And Aelin. No matter what Maeve does."

They sat in silence again, the fire burning low. Allies now, in ways deeper than shared missions or old loyalties. Two warriors bound not just by blood and duty—but by the fragile hope that this time, they could choose the right side of history.

“How do we protect him when there’s no way to keep it from her? She’ll find out,” Gavriel signed, running his hand through his golden hair.

“We can’t, not forever,” Rowan replied. “But we can put it off. There’s no definitive timeframe for this mission. We draw it out. And in the meantime, we have to tell them. And Rhoe and Evalin. So they can prepare.”

“We can’t,” Gavriel said solemnly. “That would be interfering in their politics, and it’s forbidden.”

“Interesting. I wondered why Maeve agreed to that condition,” replied Rowan. “I think-- I wonder if she agreed to it to bind us from undermining her while making it look like she was conceding to Terrasen’s demands. Whatever the reason, they have to figure it out.”

The fire cracked, and the forest listened, silent and waiting.

Off in the distance, soft murmurs could be heard coming from Aelin’s bedroll, where she and Aedion sat side by side, leaning against one another. They could be siblings, they were so similar in looks and temperament. The familial bond between them was undeniable. 

Rowan wondered what they were plotting. 

He wondered how they would react when they finally realized about Gavriel. Rowan suspected it wouldn’t take long for Aelin to figure it out once she could spend more time in her Fae form. Any Fae would know within minutes of being in the same room as the two males. He supposed he had more reasons now to work with her on her shifting while they were on this mission.

Mala help him .

The fire crackled gently in the heart of the camp, its warmth warding off the cool evening air. The horses were tethered nearby, the forest hushed in the deepening twilight. Aelin sat cross-legged beside the flames, her face lit gold and red by the shifting embers. Aedion lounged close by, his back propped against a fallen log, sharpening a dagger more out of habit than need.

After a long moment, Aelin looked up and met Rowan’s eyes. “You deserve to know why we’re really headed to Rifthold.”

Rowan’s brows lifted slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.

"A few weeks before Beltane, someone tried to kill me," she said, voice even.

Gavriel straightened. Rowan didn’t move, but his expression hardened with sudden focus.

“In Oakwald,” Aedion added. “Near the southern border. She was alone.”

Rowan’s jaw flexed. “You were unguarded?”

“I’d gone to gather myself,” Aelin said, her voice tight. “To… breathe. I needed time away. I ran off without thinking. I shouldn’t have.”

Rowan stilled, a shadow flickering across his face. Gavriel's gaze sharpened.

“It wasn't just a random act,” Aedion added. “It was coordinated. Professional. And whoever did it left little behind."

A look passed between the cousins.

“The assassin was likely on his way into Orynth,” Aedion said grimly. “Aelin being alone in the Oakwald definitely made his job easier.”

“I nearly died,” Aelin said softly. “I was hit in the shoulder and leg with arrows and then the killer managed to stab me in the side. But I managed to shift into my Fae form. I’m not sure how, I haven’t been able to shift intentionally for years,” she said, making Rowan wonder what had happened to her that had impacted her shifting so fundamentally. Clearly once she had been able to do it naturally.

Gavriel’s eyes narrowed. “How did you survive?”

Aelin’s mouth twisted into something bitter. “In my Fae form my fires incinerated him, along with a large swath of the forest.”

The fire popped as silence fell.

She looked away, the memory flickering in her eyes like the flames before them. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t think. It was instinct. My fire—my magic—it erupted. One moment he was lunging at me, the next…”

She didn’t finish. She didn’t need to.

“Thankfully it was raining so the fire was put out. I would have bled out if I had been in my human form, but Aedion found me in time.”

Aedion reached over, placing a hand briefly on her arm. “There was barely anything left of him. Just ash.”

Aelin glanced at Aedion then, and their eyes held—a look heavy with meaning and memory.

Rowan leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his knees. “You incinerated a man with a thought.”

Aelin met his gaze. “I didn’t mean to.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Rowan said. “You lived. That’s what matters.”

“There was no trace to follow. No clues left behind. I saw his face, enough to create a portrait with a sketch artist. We later learned he was a mercenary named Tern from the Assassin’s Guild in Rifthold, hired anonymously. My parents offered a reward for information about him.”

“The King of Aderlan’s Captain of the Guard, Chaol, brought us a lead,” Aedion explained. “A courtesan has come forward claiming to have information about the man who hired Tern. She’s the reason we’re going to Rifthold. She wants protection and safe passage in exchange for the information."

Rowan let out a breath through his nose. "So that's where we're going. To question her."

Aelin nodded. "Her name is Lysandra. She's in Rifthold now, under the protection of the royal guard. My parents wanted to send a delegation, but I..."

"She insisted on going herself," Aedion finished, tone shaded with both exasperation and pride.

Gavriel gave a quiet grunt. "And you didn’t tell us because...?"

“We haven’t told anyone about the details of the assassination attempt, it’s been kept quiet for a reason,” Aelin replied coolly. “We don’t know who’s behind it, but it’s likely a leader of another kingdom.”

“Also we didn’t want anyone trying to stop us. We didn’t know who we could trust—not with something like this."

The implication was there. They suspected Maeve. He supposed there was no way for them to know that Maeve wouldn’t have hired some incompetent, human assassin. No. She would have sent one of her bloodsworn. One of them. Shit.

Rowan thought back to Darrow, and the conversation he’d overheard. Aelin was mistrustful enough to know that there were people within Orynth who could not be trusted.

Gavriel, quiet until now, finally spoke. “And you believe this Lysandra will lead us to whoever hired him?”

Aedion shrugged. “We have no other leads. If there’s even a chance she’s telling the truth, we have to follow it.”

Rowan studied Aelin in the firelight. Her shoulders were tense, her eyes shadowed. But beneath it all, she burned—not just with magic, but with purpose.

He understood, then, why she hadn’t told them sooner. Why she had gone to Rifthold under veiled excuses. Not just to protect herself. But to avenge the part of her that had been threatened.

Rowan looked toward Gavriel. “We find out who sent Tern. Then we make sure no one ever tries again.”

Aelin inclined her head in thanks. Aedion reached for another stick to poke at the fire.

For a while, none of them spoke. The night crept deeper, the stars wheeling slowly overhead.

Then Rowan asked, his voice soft and unreadable, "And if this lead turns out to be a trap?"

Aelin looked at the fire. "Then we fight our way out. Together."

And across the flames, Rowan nodded once.

Aelin’s eyes met his.

And she nodded.

Together.

~~~~~

Rowan stirred in the quiet stillness before dawn, dew clinging to his lashes and the faint scent of pine and earth filling his lungs. The canopy above was a curtain of stars slowly fading into the first grays of morning. He blinked against the soft haze of dreams and memory, his body still half-draped in the warmth of his bedroll.

There was peace here—unexpected and rare. No cold commands from Maeve echoing in his skull, no weight of courts or politics pressing against his chest. Only the forest breathing around him and the soft rustle of sleeping companions.

And something else.

He sat up slowly, his breath clouding faintly in the chilled air. The fire had burned down to glowing coals, casting faint amber light across the clearing. But it wasn’t the warmth of the fire that settled into his bones.

It was something older. Wilder. Sacred.

Rowan closed his eyes, letting the sensation wash over him.

Sunlight beneath the skin. Fire, not of destruction—but of life.

The warmth that pulsed through him now felt familiar and foreign all at once. It stirred memories of temple incense, of whispered prayers to Mala Fire-Bringer spoken in languages now lost. The fire goddess’s name echoed in his blood, as if her hand had brushed across him in sleep, leaving behind a spark.

A blessing.

He didn’t understand why. Didn’t know if it was truly her touch. But he felt it.

Felt Mala .

And he knew, in that moment, no matter what happened, no matter the consequences, he was where he needed to be. He would see this mission through.

Rowan opened his eyes and looked across the camp to where Aelin lay sleeping, her golden hair tangled against her bedroll, her breathing soft and even. There was fire in her too—not just her magic, but something more ancient, something holy.

He wondered if she felt the same call in her blood. If she knew what she carried.

Rowan let out a slow breath and ran a hand through his hair.

Mala's flame, he thought. And the storm drawn to it.

Chapter Text

The sun filtered through the trees in golden shafts as Aelin and Aedion emerged from the Oakwald, a mountain lion moving alongside their horses and a hawk circling ahead. The Florine River shimmered like a silver ribbon in the distance, winding its way through the forested hills toward Rifthold.

Aelin reined in her horse at the crest of a rise and stared down at the river. Gavriel and Rowan shifted and stood before her. "We'll follow it the rest of the way," she said, her voice steady despite the long days of travel behind them. "It'll guide us to the outskirts, although we’ll have to travel around the riverside villages."

Aedion pulled his horse up beside her, scanning the landscape. "We should be able to camp close enough to keep out of sight but near enough to scout the city once we reach the outer roads."

Gavriel pulled a water flask from his pack. "We’ll need to think about communication," he said. "Dorian is expecting someone to follow up on Lysandra’s claim. We can't just arrive at the gates unannounced."

"But we can’t risk word spreading through the city that we’re coming," Aedion added. "Especially if whoever hired Tern is still watching."

They all fell silent, the tension drawing taut as they considered their options.

“We could hire a messenger in one of the smaller villages,” Aelin suggested, although she wasn’t entirely sure she would trust the security of her message in the hands of an unknown foreign villager.

Rowan stepped forward, arms crossed. "I’ll go ahead. In hawk form, I can fly over the walls and deliver the message without being seen."

Aelin turned to look at him. "It’s dangerous. If you’re spotted—"

"I won’t be," Rowan said simply. "I’ve flown over more fortified cities than Rifthold. I’ll get in and out."

"And what message will you deliver?" Gavriel asked.

"Keep it simple," Aelin said, thinking. "Tell Dorian we’re coming, that we need discretion, and that Lysandra should be ready to talk. No one else can know."

Aedion nodded. "And we’ll camp on the western edge of the city, in the pine groves off the main road. He’ll know where that is."

Rowan gave a brief nod. He accepted the scrap of parchment Aelin scribbled on, rolling it and tucking it into a pocket inside his tunic. Then he turned without another word, his form blurring and shifting.

In one moment, the massive silver-white hawk launched into the sky, wings slicing through the sunlight.

Aelin watched until he was a speck above the treeline. Only then did she turn back to the others, the unease curling in her chest tightening with each beat of the hawk’s wings heading toward danger.

Aelin lingered by the riverbank after the others had started unpacking their supplies for the evening. Her eyes followed the distant form of Rowan soaring high above, a pale shadow against the deepening sky. The wind rustled the leaves around her, but her heart was calm—for the first time in what felt like days.

She hadn’t wanted him to come with her. Hadn’t expected him to insist, to stand at her side with that unshakable calm. But now, watching him fly ahead on her behalf, watching him take on risk not for orders or duty—but for her—something deep within her settled.

She didn’t say it aloud. Wouldn’t, ever, for about a thousand reasons. But the words formed clearly in her heart.

Mine. Together.

There had been too many days where she bore the weight of responsibility alone, too many nights of quiet despair. But now she had Rowan. Steady, capable, relentless Rowan. And despite the danger, despite the storm still ahead, Aelin couldn’t help the flicker of peace that bloomed in her chest. 

It’s nice, she thought, to have someone who sees me and is not afraid.

Rowan

The skies above Rifthold were thick with smoke and perfume, the scent of civilization masking the rot underneath. Rowan circled above the city, the pale moonlight gilding his wings as he soared silently over the rooftops. From this height, the city was a puzzle of slate and firelight, crowded streets tangled with movement, shadows flitting between gaslamps and carriages.

He had seen cities before, but Rifthold had a particular weight to it—a memory of conquest, of thrones built on bones. From the air, it was beautiful in a deceptive way, the kind of beauty that tried to distract from the blood running beneath the cobblestones.

The castle loomed like a crown atop the highest hill, gleaming faintly in the dark. Rowan circled once, noting the guards on the ramparts, the routines of the patrols. His sharp eyes took in every detail: the open archways, the places where light spilled too freely, the shadows clinging to the corners of the tower.

He waited until he was certain—until he saw Dorian leave his chambers, flanked by guards.

Only then did Rowan dive low, wings folding in as he slipped through a narrow tower window and landed silently on the polished stone floor.

Shifting into his Fae form, Rowan straightened in the dim light of Dorian’s room. It smelled faintly of books and cedar and the soft musk of a man raised with power but not ruled by it. He crossed to the writing desk and carefully removed the sealed note from inside his tunic—Aelin’s message.

He placed it beneath a paperweight of etched glass. Then, as silently as he came, Rowan turned and vanished back through the window.

Above the city once more, he caught the night wind and angled toward the forest where the others waited. But as he flew, his thoughts were not on the mission alone—they were on Aelin, on the note she had written with such precision and trust, and on the strange sensation that delivering it had stirred in his chest.

Rifthold had its secrets.

And now, so did he.

Beneath the wind and stars, Rowan’s unease deepened. Maeve had ordered him not to meddle in Terrasen’s political affairs. This was Adarlan, not Terrasen. But now, in the heart of a foreign empire, the words clawed back into his mind.

This wasn’t his fight. Or it hadn’t been.

But he had made it his. He was no longer just a scout. He had delivered a crown princess’s message to a crown prince. He had crossed into politics with the beat of his wings.

And the moment he stepped into that tower, into Dorian’s private space, he knew there was no turning back.

The air felt heavier as he flew. What would Maeve do, if she knew how close he was flying to the edge of her leash?

Chapter Text

Dorian

The pine groves on the western edge of Rifthold were hushed at twilight, the thick canopy above filtering the last golden light into dusky shadows. Dorian’s hood was pulled low over his brow, his cloak plain and unadorned. He had left the castle through a hidden passage accompanied by a trusted guard who awaited him at the end of the tunnel.

He didn’t know what he expected when he emerged into the quiet grove, but it wasn’t the sight that met him.

Aelin Galathynius stood just beyond the treeline, her cloak tugged tight against the chill, eyes sharp and calculating even in the waning light. Beside her, Aedion—broad-shouldered and silent, every inch the Wolf of the North. And behind them, two shadows cloaked in predatory stillness.

Dorian’s steps slowed as his gaze landed on the two Fae males. One with golden hair and amber eyes like sunlight on armor—Gavriel, he remembered the name from whispers—and the other, silver-haired, tall, and emanating a cold that prickled Dorian’s skin even from a distance.

Rowan Whitethorn. Prince of Doranelle.

Dorian had seen many dangerous men in his life. But the way Rowan watched him, with that unflinching intensity, made his instincts coil tight. It wasn’t hostility, not quite. More like scrutiny—the kind one might give a sword before judging if it was fit for battle.

“You came,” Aelin said, smiling radiantly.

“You asked,” Dorian replied, then took her hand in his and brought it to his lips. His voice softened, “And how could I refuse a queen?”

Aelin arched a brow but allowed the gesture, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Flattery, Your Highness?”

“Truth,” he said, releasing her hand and glancing toward the others. “Though I see you didn’t come alone.”

She turned to the group behind her. “Please allow me to make introductions.”

She gestured to the silver-haired warrior. “This is Prince Rowan Whitethorn of Doranelle. And the golden-haired one is Lord Gavriel, also of Doranelle. And you know my cousin, of course, Prince Aedion Ashryver. They are here in my service.”

Rowan inclined his head, though his sharp eyes remained fixed on Dorian. “Prince Dorian.”

“Prince Rowan,” Dorian returned evenly. “An honor.”

Gavriel, more relaxed in posture, stepped forward and offered a cordial nod. “And I am Lord Gavriel. I’ve heard of you.”

“Likewise,” Dorian replied. “Though not all of it flattering.”

The corner of Gavriel’s mouth lifted. “The same could be said of most of us.”

Aedion chuckled behind them, tension easing just a fraction. “He’s not wrong.”

Dorian’s gaze moved between the Fae males. He had expected muscle—perhaps even arrogance. But what stood before him was centuries of experience and quiet power wrapped in layers of caution. He was both intimidated and intrigued.

“I assume they’re not joining us in the city?” Dorian asked, glancing at Aelin.

“No,” she said, glancing directly at Rowan. He snarled.

“Why bring us, Princess, and not allow us to protect you,” he argued. “It’s why we came. If anything goes wrong—”

“I’ll handle it,” Aelin interrupted, her tone gentle but firm. “Plus I’ll have Aedion with me. He has plenty of practice putting up with my antics,” she teased. “You staying behind is the only way to honor Maeve’s orders not to interfere directly. You know that.”

Rowan’s jaw clenched, but after a long pause, he nodded. “I’ll monitor from above, then.”

Dorian raised a brow. “Is he always this cheerful?”

Aelin smiled faintly. “Only when he likes you.”

Rowan grumbled something in the old Fae language.

“I’ll stay here and make sure the area is clear for your return,” Gavriel added.

“Come on,” Dorian said, motioning them toward a moss-covered outcropping. “The tunnel isn’t far.”

As they walked, Dorian reached for Aelin’s hand. “I was sorry to hear of Nehemia,” he told her. “I’ve thought of you often these past months. She was a bright light.”

“She was,” Aelin replied, smiling sadly at him. “I miss her. It’s unbearable sometimes.”  She squeezed his hand before letting go. “Thank you, Dorian.”

They wove through the underbrush for a short time until they reached a half-buried stone grate nestled behind the tangled roots of an ancient tree. Dorian knelt and pulled it open.

“This leads into a set of chambers in the stone castle,” he said, not mentioning that it was his mother’s suite they would be entering. He trusted Aelin, but he had never met Rowan or Gavriel before, and the stories of them were brutal. “We’ll have enough time if we move quickly.”

Aelin nodded, already climbing down, Aedion on her heels.

Before Dorian followed, he glanced over his shoulder. Rowan stood next to Gavriel at the edge of the trees, head tilted slightly, no doubt already calculating vantage points for surveillance. His eyes flicked to Dorian once, curt and assessing, cold, before he shifted—just like that—into a massive hawk and launched into the skies, silent as a shadow. And where Gavriel had once stood, a tawny mountain lion prowled through the trees.

Dorian climbed down into the tunnel, heart pounding.

Lysandra

Lysandra sat with her back straight, hands folded in her lap, as Aelin and Aedion entered the room. It was a modest chamber in the guest wing of the glass castle, far from the gilded salons and opulent ballrooms. Here, behind guarded doors, truth could be spoken without masks.

Aelin took the seat across from her while Aedion remained by the door, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

“You asked for this meeting,” Aelin said calmly. “We’re here. Speak your piece.”

Lysandra studied her. The fire-kissed hair. The steady, queen’s gaze. She didn’t look like the girl she’d heard whispers of—she looked like something forged in fire. Something dangerous. And Aedion, with that wolfish intensity, looked every inch the warrior bred for war. But beneath his rigid posture, she sensed something else—fierce loyalty, not just to his queen, but to Aelin. The bond between them was undeniable, not to mention that they were two sides of the same coin.

“I came forward because I want protection,” Lysandra said plainly. “And because what I know is worth far more than silence.”

“You were under Arobynn’s employ,” Aelin said. “Why betray him now?”

Lysandra’s mouth tightened. “I was not. I am bound to Madam Clarisse. Arobynn has been my client for several years, and I despise him and Clarisse. I’ve been looking for a way out for as long as I can remember. Cleanly, permanently.”

“And you’re willing to name names?” Aedion asked.

“I already have,” she said. “Tern was sent after you, Princess. That’s not a decision someone like him makes without instruction.”

“Who gave the order?”

“I don’t know. But I know where the money came from. I’ve seen the ledgers. I can give you names tied to the transactions. That’s what I’m offering. In addition, I know the names and identities of many of Arobynn’s assassins, including the location of the Assassin’s Keep.”

Aelin leaned forward slightly. “And what do you want in return?”

“Freedom. A new life. Somewhere far from Rifthold. I want out.”

Aelin launched herself at Lysandra, dagger pressed against her throat. “Tell me why we should trust you, Lysandra? Couldn’t this just as easily be a trap. Prove you’re not wasting our time or leading us into something worse.”

Lysandra’s expression didn’t waver, although she could feel her heart racing. She felt the cool steel of the blade pressing in. “Because if I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have come to you first. I wouldn’t have named names. And because I’ve spent my whole life surviving in a world that eats people like me alive. This is the first chance I’ve ever had to choose something better. I won’t waste it.”

She watched Aelin carefully, trying to read the fire-bright queen. Even though she held a dagger to Lysandra’s throat, she couldn’t help but admire her—the way she asked hard questions, the way she didn’t flinch from suspicion. It was rare to meet someone so young who already bore the weight of a crown like a blade. And Aedion—Lysandra couldn’t help but note the way he never took his eyes off Aelin, even while guarding the room. He would die for her without hesitation.

Aelin studied her for a long moment and slowly moved the blade away. “I can offer protection,” she said slowly, “but only if you agree to move within Terrasen’s borders. Once there, I can guarantee your safety under our laws. I have no say over Adarlan, but I can request protection of Prince Dorian if you wish to stay in his kingdom.”

Lysandra’s brow furrowed. “Terrasen.”

“You’ll be under my protection,” Aelin said. “As long as you come through with the information we need, no one will touch you.”

The silence stretched. Then Lysandra nodded once. “Then I’ll go to Terrasen. Whatever it takes.”

Aedion’s posture shifted, ever so slightly. Approval, perhaps.

“There’s one more thing you should know,” Lysandra said softly. “About me, before we go.

Aelin nodded for her to go on.

“It’s not relevant, but it sometimes makes people wary and mistrustful of me, so I’m telling you because I don’t want you to think I’m hiding anything, but the information is personal.” Lysandra pinned Aelin and Aedion with her fiercest glare.

Aelin nodded again.

“I’m a shape shifter,” Lysandra said, barely above a whisper. “I haven’t shifted in years. Magic is frowned upon in Rifthold and shifters aren’t really welcome anywhere,” she went on. 

“You understand why I needed to tell you? If I didn’t, and you found out from someone else, well… This whole arrangement is based on trust. You’re trusting me that I’m telling the truth. And I’m trusting you, with information that could crush me if others knew.” 

Aelin rose, offering her hand. “I know a thing or two about being distrusted due to my magic,” Aelin smirked. “We’ll get you out of the city. And you’ll give us everything you know.”

Lysandra took her hand. “Everything I have. And I expect your word will hold.”

“It always does.”

They stood in silence a moment longer before Aedion opened the door, and the meeting ended—not with fanfare, but with an unspoken agreement that something had changed.

The courtesan had chosen a side.

And for the first time in a long while, Lysandra dared to hope it might be the right one.

Aelin

The tunnel’s exit gave way to the deep hush of the pine woods beyond Rifthold’s walls, where morning light barely pierced the canopy. Aelin stepped out first, heart still racing from the narrow escape. Aedion emerged right behind her, sword hand steady, eyes scanning the trees. Lysandra followed, cloak drawn tight around her.

They weren’t alone.

Rowan dropped from a branch like a wraith, silent and lethal, his arms crossed before he even spoke. Gavriel appeared a moment later, golden hair catching a shard of sunlight, eyes narrowed in sharp focus.

The moment Rowan’s gaze locked on Lysandra, something shifted in his expression. His nostrils flared once, and he took a step forward.

“She’s a shifter,” he said, voice low and cold. “You didn’t think to mention that?”

Aelin stiffened. “She’s under my protection.”

“She’s not human,” Rowan growled, stalking closer, his tone pitched just above a snarl. “And that scent—she’s masking it.”

Lysandra’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t come to you to be hunted like an animal.”

Rowan halted a foot away from her. “Then why are you hiding what you are?”

“I’m not,” Lysandra snapped. “But if you must know, I don’t use my ability. I haven’t in years. It’s been used against me my entire life. Most people—Fae included—don’t respond kindly to what they don’t understand.”

“She’s telling the truth,” Aelin said, stepping between them. “She was up front with me about her shifting. And if I’d wanted her dead, I would’ve let her face you without stepping in.”

Rowan’s glare lingered on Lysandra a moment longer before he turned his head slightly, the tension in his shoulders barely easing.

Aelin sighed. “We need to move. We’ve lingered too long.”

Gavriel, ever practical, glanced toward the rising sun. “Where?”

“The river,” Aedion answered. “We follow the Florine and set up camp somewhere remote. We’ll decide our next move from there.”

They moved fast after that.

Lysandra swung up behind Aelin on her mare, the woman’s arms looping lightly around her waist. She didn’t complain about the rough pace or the damp chill clinging to the morning air. Just held on as they galloped into the trees, away from the walls of Rifthold, away from the weight of the secrets they’d stirred.

Rowan shifted mid-stride, a flash of silver and white as he soared into the sky above them, hawk-form a shadow cutting through the clouds. Gavriel went golden-furred and silent at their side, pacing the horse with fluid grace, a big cat ghosting over pine needles.

They rode in silence for miles.

Only once they’d reached a remote glen near the Florine, surrounded by thick forest and the quiet murmur of the river, did they stop. Aelin slid down from the saddle, Lysandra dismounting behind her, gaze roving the trees warily.

Rowan landed moments later, shifting back with a rustle of feathers and cloth. He said nothing, just surveyed the area like a soldier calculating every exit.

Aelin let herself breathe.

But only for a moment.

The memory of Dorian lingered in her chest like a bittersweet ache. Seeing him again—truly seeing him—had struck something deep inside her, something she hadn’t realized had gone quiet. He’d smiled at her, kissed her hand, and in that moment, it hadn’t been the Prince of Adarlan greeting her—it had been her friend. The boy who’d given her books, and listened to her play the pianoforte.

He had changed, of course. Sharpened. He carried more weight in his eyes now, more careful silence in his movements. But the core of him was still there. And gods, she had missed him.

She had fought so hard to become who she needed to be—for her people, for her court. But seeing Dorian had reminded her of the girl who, for the first time in years, had laughed more often than she cried.

For now, she was just grateful—grateful that he was still himself, and still willing to help.

And grateful, too, that Rowan had been there to fly them across the sky, to shadow her from above without complaint. Or without too much complaint.

She glanced toward him now, his profile carved in moonlight, and her heart softened.

Even if they barely spoke the words, she knew.

She wasn’t alone.

Not anymore.

They made good time, pushing deeper into the wilds until the signs of civilization faded away. The Florine River glittered through the trees, and they set up a hasty camp among the underbrush. Only once a fire had been built and the horses settled did anyone speak.

Aelin sat with her back against a fallen log, Lysandra at her side, brushing pine needles from her skirts. The silence stretched.

“It was good to see him again,” Aelin said softly, to Aedion.

Aedion looked up from his spot beside the fire. “Dorian?”

She nodded, gaze distant. “He looked older. Tired. But he’s still him. I wish we had more time with him.”

Rowan, sitting nearby sharpening his blade, glanced over at her. 

Lysandra glanced between them, then back down at the fire.

Rowan shifted closer. “You trust him.”

“I do,” Aelin said. “With my life.”

Rowan looked skeptical.

“I haven’t known Dorian for long,” Aelin explained. “I met him shortly after the incident with Tern, when his family and the royal family of Ellwye came to Orynth for Beltane. Our parents,” Aelin cringed now at the thought, “were considering arranging a courtship between us.”

“I didn’t know that,” Aedion blurted. “Well, I guess he wouldn’t be so bad, all in all, if you have to have an arranged marriage.”

Lysandra smirked. “He is very pretty,” she cooed.

Aelin smacked Aedion’s arm. “I’m not marrying Dorian. Or courting him. Or anything of the sort. We tried that, and we’re friends. We always will be.”

Aelin turned to Rowan. His pine green eyes were fixed on her, his expression unreadable, but there was something underneath his stony exterior. A slight crinkle above the bridge of his nose. The hint of a frown. Aelin gestured to him and got up to walk away from the camp.

When they were far enough away so as not to be overheard by Lysandra, Aelin explained. “Dorian is a good person, and he has reason to help in this mission aside from his friendship with me,” she said. “While in Orynth he discovered that he is a magic wielder. He is to be ruler of  a kingdom where magic is looked down upon. The King, his father, has considered banning it. He’s been able to keep it a secret with the help of a healer in the palace who is discreet. But he knows he won’t be able to keep it a secret forever, and I think whoever wants to take me out will want to take him out as well when word gets out.”

Aelin looked up at Rowan, meeting his pine green eyes with hers. Her breath hitched for a moment and she focused on evening it out. 

Before she could compose herself Rowan took a few steps closer to her, placing his back to the others. He reached out and placed a surprisingly gentle hand on her shoulder and leaned in. “I trust your instincts, Aelin,” he said softly. The sound of his voice, so deep and gentle and so very close to her face, caused her heart to flutter unbearably. “I don’t trust Lysandra. Not yet. If she’s a courtesan, she’s well trained in duplicity. I don’t want to be double crossed.”

Alien took a slow breath as Rowan moved back, trying and failing to calm her racing heart. “I know,” Aelin sighed. “My instinct is to trust her, but she will have to prove herself.” 

They stayed a moment longer at the edge of the clearing until Gavriel cleared his throat. Making their way back to the group, he said, “We should arrange a watch schedule and everyone should get some rest before the sun comes up. Then we need to figure out our next steps.”

With that, Aelin made her way to her bedroll. They didn’t have an extra for Lysandra, so she offered hers to the courtesan and made do with her cloak. She’d slept on worse while out on patrols. At least there were soft pine needles layering the ground.

Rowan

Rowan stood alone at the edge of the clearing, the whisper of the Florine River murmuring nearby and the scent of pine thick on the air. The moon cast silver light through the branches, dappling the sleeping forms of the camp. Aelin, curled beneath her cloak. Gavriel, lying in lion form. Aedion sprawled by the fire with one hand on the hilt of his sword. And Lysandra.

But Rowan’s attention drifted beyond the perimeter. Beyond the trees. To the world they had just walked through.

The anti-magic sentiment in Rifthold still clung to him. The whispered fears of magic spreading unchecked, of power unbound. And in Orynth as well. The lords in the castle, Darrow’s council. And that cold, simmering intent behind their words. Magical restraints.

He’d seen it before—fear of what was different. In Doranelle, it had been hatred for mortals. In Erelia, it was magic that was the monster. 

They don’t understand what they’re playing with, he thought. And if they ever did get their hands on restraints powerful enough to hold someone like Aelin…

A muscle ticked in his jaw. She’d only just begun to trust herself. To try.

And then there was the matter of the prince.

Dorian Havilliard had been… unexpected. Graceful in the way he carried himself, measured in his words. But it hadn’t been his presence that left Rowan unsettled. It had been the way Aelin looked at him.

Familiar. Fond.

There had been something in her voice when she’d mentioned him earlier, something layered with memory and guarded affection. And when they’d parted, that brush of her fingers on Dorian’s arm—Rowan hadn’t missed the prince’s subtle lean toward her. Nor the slight falter in Aelin’s voice when she’d told him to be safe.

Intimate, she had said. Rowan hadn't meant to pry, but her hint—soft, half-spoken—had struck him like a blow.

They had been lovers once. Or close enough.

He inhaled deeply through his nose, trying to steady the coil twisting in his gut. It wasn’t jealousy. He refused to call it that. But it was… something. An awareness. Of how fiercely he’d begun to feel drawn to her. And how much he hated the idea of anyone else knowing what her fire tasted like. 

He squelched that innate, Fae part of him that made him want to rip out Dorian’s throat. 

Not a threat, he reminded himself. Not yours, he reminded himself. 

She could never be his. And he could never want that. He would never be worthy of another after he had failed Lyria in all the ways that mattered. And then, of course, there was Maeve, the queen he was bound to for eternity. The dark queen who wanted something of Aelin. No, she could never be his.

But the memory of Aelin’s scent—smoke and embers, jasmine and citrus—clung to his senses. He thought of the first time she’d lost control, how her power had poured from her like a tidal wave. How he’d bit her and felt the shift begin, how his blood had sung in his veins.

He’d never met anyone like her. And even now, as she slept with her hair tousled and a dagger nestled near her spine, he felt it again—that tether pulling taut.

Rowan exhaled and rolled his shoulders, turning his gaze back to the river, to the stars overhead.

The world was changing.

And in the heart of it stood a fire-bright queen and a prince who had once held her heart.

He didn’t know what it meant.

But he knew one thing.

He would let the world burn before he let them bind her.

Chapter Text

The fire crackled softly, sending curls of smoke into the morning mist as the group slowly came to life.

Aelin stirred first, stretching beneath her cloak and stifling a yawn. Across from her, Gavriel had already shifted back into his Fae form and sat quietly, sharpening a dagger. Aedion tossed a twig into the fire and reached for the kettle suspended above the flames, the scent of spiced tea mingling with the forest’s damp scent.

Rowan, of course, had been awake for hours.

Lysandra, wrapped in one of Aelin’s extra cloaks, was seated beside her, watching the fire with a calculating calm that didn’t quite mask the tension in her jaw.

As bread and cheese were passed around, silence gave way to purpose.

“We need somewhere to lay low,” Aedion said, chewing thoughtfully. “Somewhere we won’t draw attention, but close enough to Rifthold that we can keep eyes on the Guild.”

“There’s a warehouse in the slums near the docks,” he added. “It’s owned by a reservist from the Bane—he works as a merchant now. The place is usually empty. Quiet, overlooked. If we’re careful, no one will notice us there.”

Rowan considered it, eyes narrowed. “Close to the shadow market?”

Aedion nodded. “Walking distance.”

“That would give us access to informants, and a view of Guild movements,” Gavriel said.

Aelin glanced at Lysandra. “What about sending a message?”

“We need to let my parents know we’re alive,” Aelin added. “But quietly. No royal seals. No obvious messengers.”

“I know someone,” Lysandra said, her voice soft but certain.

They all turned to her.

“Nox Owen. I met him in Rifthold a few years ago, when he came for a competition. He’s from Perranth originally—his family still lives there, I think. He’s a trader. Clever. And most importantly—he’s not tied to any court or crown.”

Rowan raised an eyebrow. “You trust him?”

“I do,” Lysandra said firmly. “He helped me once. Could’ve used my situation to his advantage, but he didn’t. I don’t think he ever would.”

Aedion exchanged a glance with Aelin, then gave a small nod. “That might work.”

“If he’s still in the area,” Rowan added.

“Do you think you can find him?” Aelin asked, turning toward Lysandra.

She nodded. “I’m aware of the tavern he frequents. I’ve also spotted him at the Vaults before.”

“The Vaults?” Aedion raised a brow. “Isn’t that one of the seediest places in all of Rifthold?”

Lysandra gave a dry smile. “Seediest is generous. It’s a den of vice—fights, performances, secret deals, and things even worse if you’re desperate enough to look for them. But it’s also a place where people from all walks of life intersect. Fighters, mercenaries, information brokers. It’s noisy, filthy, and dangerous. The air always smells like blood and stale ale. But if you know how to navigate it, it’s a good place to disappear—or find someone. I have had to go there with Arobynn many times, he’s one of the owners.”

Rowan, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, gave her a narrowed glance. “And you trust someone who frequents that place?”

“He doesn’t anymore,” Lysandra said. “He initially came to Rifthold for the King’s competition at the palace but left before the competition ended. Something about corruption and it being too dangerous. Several of the contenders died in the palace.”

Aelin studied her carefully. “Do you think he’ll remember you?”

“I know he will.”

Rowan looked to Aelin. “If we use him, it still carries risk. Anyone delivering messages out of the slums might draw attention.”

Lysandra shrugged. “Less attention than a Fae warrior.”

That earned a low chuckle from Aedion.

Aelin smiled faintly, then nodded. “Alright. If Nox is who you say he is, he might be exactly what we need.”

“Then we send the letter through Nox,” Aelin confirmed. 

“And we tell them what?” Aedion asked. “We can’t say too much. We don’t know how many eyes are on the palace.”

Aelin’s voice dropped, quiet but firm. “We tell them we’ve found someone who may have answers. That when we return, we’ll bring truth with us.”

Later that day, after hours of weaving through the outskirts of the city, they reached the warehouse.

It was better than Aelin expected.

The structure was large—spacious enough to allow for weapons training and sparring without drawing attention. Tall ceilings, strong wooden beams, and reinforced windows covered in grime offered privacy and security. They would be able to continue training regularly, which Aelin insisted on. If they were going to be in Rifthold for a while, none of them could afford to grow soft. A schedule would be set, discipline maintained.

Above the main floor, a narrow staircase led to a small apartment tucked in the loft. It was dusty and bare, but it had working plumbing and a few bunks. More importantly, it was secluded.

Still, concerns lingered.

“This city is crawling with eyes,” Rowan said as he walked the perimeter of the warehouse. “Assassins. Spies. Anyone could be watching. If we stay too long, they’ll find us.”

“That’s the risk,” Aedion agreed, leaning against a crate. “But the slums are crowded. If we keep our heads down and move like locals, we can disappear into the noise. No one looks twice down here.”

“And if we need to move quickly,” Gavriel added, “we’re close to the river. There are escape routes if it comes to that.”

“You two will be at greater risk,” Aelin said, glancing over at Gavriel and Rowan. “There are not any Fae in Adarlan other than those occasionally passing through. You’ll stick out.”

“Then we’ll be careful,” replied Rowan. 

Aelin leaned against a support beam, arms crossed. She studied the warehouse, the team. This was their best option—for now.

“This will work,” she said finally. “We stay alert, stay hidden, and make our move only when we’re ready.”

As they dropped their packs and began settling in, Aelin watched the group move with quiet precision.

This would be their base. A fortress built not of stone or magic, but of determination, secrecy, and grit.

The fire had been lit.

And from this place in the shadows, they would strike.

As the sun sank low behind the haze of Rifthold’s skyline, a quiet rhythm settled over the warehouse.

Aedion stripped down to his undershirt, tossing his jacket onto a nearby crate as he set about reinforcing the rear entrance. Gavriel worked beside him, sleeves rolled up, the faint gleam of sweat on his brow. The two of them moved in near-silent tandem—one measuring, the other bracing beams and testing hinges for weaknesses.

“Not bad,” Gavriel said, testing the new crossbar they had fashioned for the door. “For a merchant’s warehouse, at least.”

Aedion grunted. “He was Bane before he was a merchant. He knows what’s worth securing.”

Gavriel gave a low chuckle. “Still. Never thought I’d be building defenses in a slum like this.”

“We do what we have to,” Aedion replied, his tone even. “Especially when the ones we protect are worth it.”

They shared a brief, quiet look—something unspoken passing between them. A bridge slowly forming, tentative but real.

Meanwhile, across the warehouse, Aelin adjusted the hood of her deep blue cloak, glancing to Lysandra beside her.

“Try to keep your head down,” she murmured. “We don’t want to draw any attention.”

“Don’t worry,” Lysandra replied with a small smirk, pulling her hood up to shadow her face. “Blending in is something I’ve had to master.”

The two women slipped out through the front, melting into the busy slum streets with the ease of shadows.

Overhead, Rowan soared in hawk form, his wings slicing the air in broad, sweeping arcs. He kept them in his sights, sharp green eyes tracking every alley and rooftop. The wind carried the stench of the city—salt and ash, refuse and sweat—but underneath it, he could still catch Aelin’s scent. Pine smoke. Wild magic. Something that always grounded him, even here.

From high above, he watched as Aelin and Lysandra navigated the crowd, bartering with stall vendors, securing food, blankets. Aelin’s posture was careful but unafraid, every inch the queen she was—cloaked in shadow, but unmistakable to anyone who truly knew her.

They moved fast and smart, never lingering too long in one place. By the time dusk swallowed the last rays of daylight, they were already making their way back toward the warehouse, goods in hand.

And from above, Rowan followed, his wings silent on the wind.

~~~~~

The tavern reeked of ale, sweat, and old smoke—an assault on the senses that made even Aedion wrinkle his nose. It was wedged between two crumbling buildings on the far edge of the slums, its faded sign swinging in the wind above the door: The Hollow Boar .

“This is where you think he’ll be?” Aedion asked, tugging the hood of his cloak lower over his brow as they stood in the narrow alley outside the tavern’s back entrance.

Lysandra, already dressed in cream colored pants and a loose fitting emerald tunic underneath a patched cloak, didn’t look back as she answered. “If he’s in the city, he’ll pass through here. Eventually.”

Aelin gave her a steady look, then nodded. “Then let’s go. If anything, at least we can have a few ales.”

As the three of them slipped in through the back, ducking into the smoke-hazed room where flickering lanterns illuminated stained tables and grimy faces, conversations died for a moment.

They didn’t sit. They didn’t order.

Lysandra led them to a corner, her eyes scanning the room with the ease of someone who knew how to see without being seen.

Aedion rested one hand casually on the pommel of his dagger, leaning against the wall behind them.

Aelin crossed her arms. “If this turns into a brawl, I’m not holding back.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” Lysandra murmured.

They waited for nearly an hour, the din of the tavern growing louder as the night deepened. A card game turned rowdy in one corner, a bard began tuning a battered lute near the fire. The stench of spilled drink and unwashed bodies thickened.

And then Lysandra straightened.

“There.”

Aelin followed her gaze to the door, where a tall man with dark hair and olive-toned skin stepped in, his grey eyes scanning the room with a practiced awareness. He looked about 25. His clothes were plain but clean, his movements efficient.

Lysandra moved toward the entrance, discreetly calling out a greeting. “Nox Owen,” she said.

His eyes found her, widened just slightly, and he made his way over without hesitation.

“I’ll be damned,” he said, voice low and rough as he reached them. “Never thought I’d see you again.”

“You always say that,” Lysandra replied with a small smile. 

He glanced over her shoulder toward her companions, and when his eyes landed on Aelin, something shifted in his expression—recognition, sharp and subtle.

“Why don’t you join me in our booth. I’ll introduce you to my friends,” Lysandra said, a warning look on her face.

Nox slid into the open spot next to Lysandra.

“You’re her,” he said softly. “The Princess of Terrasen.”

Aelin gave a small, tight nod. “And you’re smart enough not to say it louder.”

Nox’s mouth twisted into the ghost of a grin. “I’ve learned how to keep secrets. No bows, no titles. Just friends having some drinks. Maybe a game of cards?” He had a twinkle in his eye that suggested mischief.

Aedion inclined his head slightly. “That’ll do.”

Nox looked at him with mild surprise, then back at Aelin. “You’ve made interesting allies.”

Aedion crossed his arms. “We hear you’re trustworthy. We’re hoping that’s still true.”

“That depends on what you’re about to ask me,” Nox replied.

Aelin reached into her cloak and produced two folded letters, sealed with wax. “I need you to deliver these directly. One to the King and Queen of Terrasen. The other is for a man named Thallos—a Bane reservist and merchant in Orynth who owns a warehouse by the docks in Rifthold.”

Nox took the letters with care, sliding them inside his coat. “Direct delivery, no detours. Got it. I have connections heading north tomorrow. No questions asked, if the compensation is adequate.”

“We’ll pay,” Aelin said. “And we’ll owe you. You must hand-deliver the letter to my parents directly. Do not leave it with palace staff or courtiers."

“Got it. I don’t need coin,” Nox said after a moment. “But I wouldn’t mind being owed a favor by a future queen.”

Lysandra smirked. “Smart man.”

“Deliver the letters. You’ll receive your favor when you return—with their reply in hand,” Aelin said, her voice firm. “Not before.”

He looked at her, sharp and thoughtful. “And if they don’t reply?”

Aelin’s eyes glittered. “They will.”

Nox nodded slowly. “All right. I’ll head north with the morning caravans. Let’s say... a week from now. I’ll meet you here.”

“We’ll be waiting,” Aedion said.

Nox glanced at Lysandra, something fond in his expression. “You’re running with a different kind of pack these days.”

She shrugged. “I got tired of wolves who only knew how to bite.”

He smirked and turned away, vanishing into the crowd.

The trio enjoyed a final round of ale before slipping out the back entrance of the tavern and making their way through the slums toward the warehouse. Circling above was Rowan in his hawk-form, ever watchful, protecting them from the skies.

Chapter Text

The scent of autumn had begun to stir in the air.

Mornings now came cloaked in mist and the crisp bite of cold, leaves beginning to yellow and fall like quiet omens from the trees. From the small apartment above the warehouse, Aelin watched one drift by the cracked windowpane as she sipped lukewarm tea. Aedion and Gavriel were already downstairs, preparing for their next round of surveillance. It had been a long, quiet week, and the patience it required had frayed more than one temper.

They had mapped the movements of the names Lysandra had given—contacts of Arobynn’s, men and women tied too closely to the flow of coin, blood, and secrets within the Assassin’s Guild. Most of them were cautious. Too cautious. As if they suspected they were being watched. Aelin didn’t like it.

Rowan had taken the most dangerous task for himself—surveying the Assassin’s Keep from the sky.

“It’s too well-guarded for spies on the ground,” he’d said flatly when they debated it. “I’ll fly high, glide on winds. I won’t draw attention.”

And he hadn’t. Every night he returned with detailed descriptions—guards on the roof, the placement of wards, the patterns of movement.

Now, as Aelin pulled her cloak tighter and headed down the stairs to join the others, she found them around the wooden table near the warehouse’s central pillar. Gavriel was crouched over a rough sketch of the city’s slums and lower ring. Lysandra leaned over his shoulder, pointing toward one of the marked routes.

“—moves at dusk, always with two men, always with that cane,” she was saying. “But he never goes past the riverbank.”

“Patterned enough to ambush,” Aedion added. “But too close to public places for it to be clean.”

Aelin stepped into the light. “We’re not looking to ambush anyone. Not yet, anyway.”

Lysandra arched a brow but didn’t argue. Gavriel offered a short nod of greeting, and Aedion passed her a steaming cup of something that smelled vaguely like pine and cloves. Rowan had likely brewed it.

“He hasn’t returned yet?” Aelin asked, taking the mug.

Aedion shook his head. “Went out before dawn.”

“He said the keep’s gotten quieter,” Lysandra added. “Less movement.”

“Or better hidden,” Aelin murmured, setting the cup down. “They know someone’s watching.”

They were running out of time—she felt it in her bones. Something was coiling, tightening, shifting beneath the surface. If they were going to uncover who had ordered her death, and why, they needed to act soon. But recklessness was a privilege she could not afford.

And now the skies were changing, and Rowan was still out there, alone.

As if summoned by thought, the door creaked open and a gust of wind swept through. Rowan stepped in, boots silent, his cloak still clinging to the wind. His silver hair was windswept, his eyes colder than usual.

“They’re preparing for something,” he said without greeting. “Last night the torches burned late into the dawn. There’s new movement inside. And new faces.”

Everyone froze.

“What kind of faces?” Aedion asked tightly.

Rowan shook his head. “Didn’t recognize them. But they weren’t local. And they weren’t low-tier thugs.”

Aelin’s throat tightened. “You think they know we’re here?”

Rowan’s eyes met hers across the space. “I think they’re expecting trouble. Whether from us or someone else—I don’t know. But they’re preparing for something.”

A silence settled.

Outside, a breeze stirred, rustling dry leaves across the cobblestones.

~~~~~

The warehouse’s wide floor had been cleared of crates and debris, the towering beams above catching rays of mid-day sunlight that streamed through the dusty windows. With the place secure and quiet, they had decided it was time to train.

The sound of steel sliding from a sheath echoed through the space as Aedion handed Lysandra a small dagger. She took it with a mix of hesitation and curiosity.

“You’ve never wielded one before?” he asked.

“Not properly,” she replied. “But I’ve watched plenty of people die by them.”

Aedion didn’t flinch. “That’s going to change. You don’t have to be a warrior. But you’re not going to be defenseless, either.”

They began slowly—Aedion showing her basic grip, then walking her through simple defensive moves: how to twist away from a grab, how to pivot and slash in close quarters, how to aim for the vulnerable places.

Lysandra wasn’t graceful, not at first—but she was quick. Fierce. And unafraid to get close. When she knocked Aedion back a step after a particularly good move, he only grinned.

Across the warehouse, Aelin stood barefoot, arms crossed as Rowan paced in front of her.

“You’re not blocked,” he said calmly. “You’re afraid.”

Aelin scowled. “I’m not—”

“You are. And that’s fine. But we don’t lie to ourselves about it.”

She huffed out a breath and closed her eyes, reaching inward. That dark inner veil, that place between forms where the magic lived, the form lived—she’d touched it once. Shifted once.

And ever since, it had evaded her.

“I can feel it,” she whispered. “Like it’s watching me. Laughing.”

Rowan chuckled. His voice was gentle, just behind her. “It’s not laughing. You are. At yourself. You’re afraid of what it means if you reach for it and fail.”

She clenched her fists. “I’m not afraid to fail.”

“Then you’re afraid of what you’ll become if you succeed.”

Her eyes flew open to meet his—steady, unwavering. He was right, of course. He always was. He knew her inner demons better than she knew herself.

Rowan took a step closer. “Let go of the fear. Let go of the control. You can’t punch through it. You have to move with it.”

Aelin closed her eyes again. Slower this time, she reached inward. Not with brute force—but with trust. Hesitant, uncertain trust. She didn’t reach to conquer.

She reached to listen.

The power stirred, distant and quiet, like the soft crackle of fire beneath snow.

Not close enough. Not yet.

But for the first time, she didn’t recoil from it.

They sat on the steps leading up to the lofted apartment above the warehouse, the others busying themselves downstairs. Rowan handed her a damp cloth for her neck, and Aelin pressed it against her skin, letting the coolness ground her.

“You used to be able to shift naturally, as a child?” Rowan inquired.

Aelin nodded.

“What changed that?” he asked.

“Lots of things. Lots of people. When I was eight, I stayed in the Library of Orynth after my tutor left. I didn’t have any friends except Aedion, other children were too afraid of me. The library was my favorite place to go. I was learning to read and I overheard a librarian call me a monster. I was already so frustrated with having been left alone, and then that. I lost control and I burned a stack of rare volumes before my mother came and put the fire out.”

Rowan blinked.

“I didn’t mean to,” she said. “But the fire came so fast, so hot, I barely knew what I’d done. They banned me from the library after that. The only place I had ever truly loved, and I wasn’t welcome. I know in the grand scheme of things it wasn’t a big deal, but for a lonely child with no friends, it hurt. And the rumors hurt. I guess I started to see myself as the monster they all saw me as.”

She swallowed hard, gaze fixed on the warehouse floor.

“And then there was Beltane. When I was fifteen. I was supposed to light the ceremonial pyres—just a little flame, nothing grand. But the magic surged. The fire exploded into the sky. It melted half the offering platform. I singed the gowns of a court lady.” She gave a faint, dry laugh. “After that, no one ever let me near the festival pyres again.”

Rowan was silent beside her.

“I heard them talking, Rowan. Whispering through the palace halls when they thought I couldn’t hear. Calling me a weapon. A liability. A monster.” Her voice cracked slightly. “I know my uncle’s husband, Darrow, once suggested iron gauntlets. Something to... keep me in check.”

Rowan’s mouth tightened. “And your parents?”

“They refused. They always protected me,” she said. “But that didn’t stop the whispers. The fear.” She looked down at her hands. “Every time I use it, my fire, there’s a part of me that’s still that little girl surrounded by flames and screams. Still wondering if I’m ever going to be anything other than a danger to everyone I love.”

Rowan reached out, gently placing his hand over hers.

“You are not a danger,” he said firmly. “You are power. You are fire—but you are also control, and purpose, and heart. And you’re not alone anymore.”

Aelin blinked, the burn in her throat fierce.

“You don’t have to tame it in a day,” Rowan said. “But don’t be afraid of who you are, Aelin. Fire doesn’t destroy only—it warms. It protects. It cleanses. It lights the way home.”

She didn’t reply, not right away.

But as she leaned her shoulder against his, watching the gold-tinged light of late afternoon pour across the stone floor, she thought—just maybe—she could believe him.

~~~~~

The city breathed differently at night—thicker, slower, as if holding secrets close to its chest. Rifthold’s filth was quieter under moonlight, but no less sharp. Aelin slipped from the warehouse like a shadow, her cloak wrapped tight, her steps soundless.

No one stirred behind her. Not Aedion, who would have demanded to come. Not Lysandra, whose sleep was heavy these days. And not Rowan—if she was lucky.

Aelin moved quickly, weaving through the slums toward the Vaults, the dens of smoke and sin where the city’s darkest players came out to play. Her plan was simple: draw one of Arobynn’s dogs into a chase and take him down. Alive. She needed information, not corpses.

The Vaults pulsed ahead like a heartbeat of vice. It loomed like some hulking, breathless beast—a squat fortress with flickering lanterns at its entrances and iron-barred windows too high to reach. The bouncers at the front barely looked at her. Just another body come to bleed coin or pride or both.

Inside, the heat hit her like a wave.

Smoke—sweet, acrid, cloying—curled through the air. The scent of sweat and too many bodies pressed into one place clung to the stone. The sound of shouting and laughter rang off the vaulted ceilings like a symphony of sin.

Aelin kept to the edges, her eyes scanning as she walked.

Fighting rings took up the central floor, a crowd gathered around two shirtless brutes beating the hell out of each other for coin and sport. Spectators screamed bets while others shoved drinks into their mouths. Blood splattered the sawdust-covered floor, soaking into the wood.

Beyond them, rows of card tables stretched into the shadows, every seat filled with lowlifes and slick-handed cheats. The tang of spilled ale and sour luck hung thick there.

And in the corners, barely dressed women leaned into the laps of men who paid for their time with coins that disappeared as quickly as the girls’ dignity. The Vaults were everything she'd expected—more rot than gold, more power in the shadows than in the palace itself.

She scanned the figures loitering near the walls.

There—leaning against a support beam, speaking with a man in a hood. Mullen. She recognized his wiry frame, the lean muscle, the calculating eyes. One of Arobynn’s assassins. A monster in a den of them.

Perfect.

She didn’t look at him directly. Just let her hood slip back slightly as she moved through the crowd—long enough for him to glimpse her face before she ducked into a corridor that led toward the back exit.

He took the bait.

She didn’t glance back, didn’t hurry. Just moved with enough purpose to lead him where she needed to go—through twisting alleys and narrow streets toward the warehouses behind the docks.

He followed like a wolf scenting blood.

It wasn’t until the fourth turn that she heard his footsteps speeding up.

Aelin spun just before he lunged, twin daggers flashing from her sleeves. His blade met hers with a jarring clash, but she held her ground.

Mullen grinned. “Been a while since I hunted royalty.”

“You’ll wish you hadn’t,” she said, and struck first.

Their blades tangled in the dark. He was strong and quick, used to fighting in tight quarters. But she was faster, leaner, fueled by fury and years of training. He scored a slice across her ribs—shallow, but it burned like fire. She shoved her knee into his gut, elbowed him hard enough to crack his jaw, but he caught her cloak and slammed her into the alley wall.

The breath left her lungs.

She gasped, brought her dagger up to his throat—but he was already turning, driving her down—

A shriek split the sky.

A blur of silver wings collided with Mullen, talons ripping into his shoulder and sending him sprawling into the gutter.

Rowan shifted before he even landed, boots thudding beside her, sword already drawn.

Mullen didn’t move.

Rowan turned to her, eyes blazing. “What in hell were you thinking?”

Aelin staggered upright, breathless. “I was thinking we needed someone to question.”

“You were going to drag him back unconscious through the streets?”

“I had a plan.”

Rowan growled. “You could have been killed.”

“But I wasn’t,” she snapped.

He glared at her. She glared back, blood trickling down her side.

Finally, he exhaled and knelt beside Mullen’s limp form. “Next time, you don’t go alone.”

She swallowed, winced at the pain in her side. “Fine.”

Together, they lifted the assassin’s body between them and vanished back into the shadows of the slums—just two more phantoms in a city full of monsters.

Chapter Text

Mullen came to with a groan. His hands were bound, and the dark, cold stone beneath him was unforgiving. His eyes fluttered open slowly, adjusting to the dim light of the warehouse. The first thing he saw was Aelin—fire-haired, fierce, and sitting across from him with her arms folded. Rowan stood nearby, his presence commanding even without the sword in his hand.

Aelin’s gaze was steady, her lips pressed into a thin line. "Welcome back," she said coolly. "We have a few questions."

Mullen shifted, testing the ropes around his wrists. "I’m not a fan of your hospitality," he muttered, but there was no anger in his tone—just a low, dark amusement. "You want answers? You should have sent someone more... persuasive." He grinned, but the effect was tainted by the blood smeared across his teeth.

Aelin’s eyes narrowed. "I think you'll find we're persuasive enough."

"Not enough," Mullen chuckled again, his voice raspy. "Arobynn knows you’re here. He knows who you all are." He cocked his head to the side, eyes flicking from Aelin to Rowan. "Knows that your little band is getting too close to his interests."

Aelin’s heart skipped a beat, but her face remained impassive. "What else does he know?"

"He knows Lysandra betrayed him," Mullen added, his smile widening as Aelin’s eyes flicked toward Lysandra, who stood by the wall with her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. "You didn’t think he wouldn’t notice, did you? He’s always a step ahead."

Lysandra’s jaw tightened. Aelin studied her for a moment, then returned her gaze to Mullen. "So, you’re telling me that Arobynn knows everything? The attack on me, the plans... everything?"

"He knows enough," Mullen said, his voice dripping with mocking amusement. "And when he knows, you’ll all be dead before you even blink. The Assassin's Guild has eyes everywhere." He leaned forward slightly, his smirk never fading. "If you think you’re safe here, think again. Arobynn’s got spies in every corner of this city. And he’s sending someone soon."

Aelin’s pulse quickened, but she kept her voice steady. "Who is he sending?"

Mullen only chuckled again, a low, dark sound. "You think I’ll tell you? What, you think I’m still useful to you?"

Aelin stood up, her chair scraping across the floor. "You’re not. But you’ll be useful to someone else."

She stepped closer to him, her eyes glinting with a dangerous calm. "You’ve outlived your usefulness." Without another word, she struck him hard across the face, knocking him out cold.

Rowan watched her with a heavy sigh, a frown pulling at his lips. "You shouldn’t have done that."

"Shouldn't have done what?" Aelin replied, wiping her hands on her pants as if shaking off the encounter. "Let him live long enough to deliver more threats?"

Rowan opened his mouth to argue, but the tension in his shoulders said it all—he wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or frustrated. He was probably both.

~~~~~

The door to the Hollow Boar creaked open, and Nox stepped into the dimly lit tavern, his sharp eyes scanning the room before settling on the corner where Aelin, Aedion, and Lysandra were sitting. The small group had gathered quietly in the back, careful not to draw attention to themselves. It had been a week since they’d last met with Nox, and the atmosphere felt thicker tonight—tension hung in the air like the dampness of a coming storm.

Nox moved toward them with purpose, his every step deliberate. He wore the same cloak as before, hood pulled low, his face mostly shadowed. Without a word, he dropped a small envelope onto the table. The wax seal was intact, a slight flicker of candlelight reflecting off the surface as Aelin immediately recognized the markings.

Her heart quickened, and she reached forward to break the seal, her hands steady despite the anticipation thrumming in her veins. Aedion and Lysandra watched her closely, and she could feel their eyes on her as she unfolded the letter, the parchment rustling in the silence.

Our dearest Fireheart,

Your letter has brought us a sense of relief, though we cannot help but feel the weight of our concerns for you. We are beyond glad to hear that you are alive, though we are acutely aware of the dangerous path you walk. Your survival is a blessing, but please remember the responsibility you bear not only to yourself but to those who look to you—those who love you.

Your father and I wish we could hold you close, reassure you in person, but we know your mission must come first. We must trust that you are doing what is necessary for Terrasen’s future. However, I must remind you to be cautious. You have always had a fire in you, but it has never been just your strength that makes you remarkable. It is your wisdom and your ability to listen. Please, Aelin, listen to Aedion. His loyalty to you has never wavered, and his guidance is invaluable, especially now.

We understand the burden you carry, and while we are proud of your courage, we ask you to proceed carefully. We await your return with open arms and with hope for a brighter future, but that future must be built on solid ground—your choices matter now more than ever.

With all our love and strength,
Mother and Father

Aelin’s chest tightened as she read through the letter, the familiar handwriting of her parents striking a deep chord within her. Her eyes traced the words as if she could feel the comfort of her mother’s and father’s presence across the distance, though it was still far too great a divide. The letter was short, but it was enough—enough to reassure her that Terrasen was safe, at least for now.

Aedion leaned forward and read the letter over her shoulder, a deep breath escaping his lips as he took in the words. His face softened, but there was still an edge of concern in his eyes. He handed it back to Aelin, who folded it carefully, then handed it over to Lysandra.

"Good news," Lysandra said, her voice quiet, but she could see the weight of it in Aelin's expression. "Now we can move forward."

Nox stood by silently, his eyes flicking between them as the conversation continued. "What’s next, then?"

Aelin looked up at him, a new fire in her eyes. "We need you to deliver a message to Chaol Westfall, the Captain of the Royal Guard," she said, her voice firm.

“I know Captain Westfall,” Nox replied. “And the weapons master at the castle, Brullo. He oversaw the competition at the castle I participated in years ago.”

Aelin handed him the letter, thanked him, and they made plans to meet again. They finished their flagons of ale and headed back to the warehouse.

~~~~~

The knock came at dawn.

It was brisk, calculated—military.

Aedion was already halfway to the door of the warehouse before the second knock landed. Rowan, perched above in the rafters, watched silently, one hand already moving toward the dagger at his belt. Gavriel stood near the edge of the warehouse’s second-floor loft, quietly alert.

When Aedion pulled open the heavy door, Ress and Brullo stood on the threshold, clad in the black and gold uniforms of the castle guard. Their expressions were neutral, though Brullo’s eyes scanned the warehouse with clear curiosity.

“We’ve come for the prisoner,” Ress said, keeping his voice low. He smiled shyly at Aelin, cheeks tinged with pink.

Aelin appeared beside Aedion in seconds, her face unreadable. “He’s ready,” she said, nodding toward the corner where Mullen lay bound and gagged, slumped against a post.

Brullo stepped forward, glancing briefly at the others. “Your Highness,” he bowed. “And we’ve been instructed to give you this,” he added, holding out a folded piece of parchment sealed with wax. Aelin took it and broke the seal without ceremony.

Meet me tomorrow at dawn, near the eastern docks.
—C.

Her mouth pressed into a thin line as she folded the letter and slipped it into her cloak. “Take him,” she said, jerking her chin toward Mullen. “You might want to check him for poison. He’s been unconscious since we finished chatting.”

Brullo and Ress moved in, hauling the unconscious assassin to his feet. He groaned but didn’t wake. Aelin watched silently as they loaded him onto a cart outside and rolled away without another word.

The eastern docks were quiet the next morning—grey fog curling along the water’s edge, the scent of salt and rotting fish hanging in the air.

Aelin stood with her arms crossed as Chaol Westfall approached. Aedion stood beside her, watchful but silent. High above them, a dark shape circled once through the mist—Rowan, in his hawk form, sweeping overhead in a slow arc. Aelin didn’t need to look up to know he was there, watching, ready.

Chaol looked every bit the Captain of the Guard, but there was something different in his eyes. Weariness, maybe. Frustration.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, his voice sharp. “You shouldn’t have come back to this city at all.”

Aelin met his gaze unflinchingly. “We’re here for answers. And if those answers lead to keeping Dorian safe, then you should be thanking us.”

“Don’t you dare,” Chaol snapped. “Don’t act like you’re here for anyone but yourself. You come back, stir up the city, start fights in the Vaults—”

“I didn’t start anything that wasn’t already festering in the underbelly of this city,” Aelin shot back. “We’re cleaning up someone else’s mess.”

“You think I haven’t had men investigating these threats?” Chaol’s voice was low, angry. “You think Adarlan doesn’t know how to protect its own royal family?”

Aelin stepped closer, her voice cold. “I think Adarlan has looked the other way for years while monsters like Arobynn Hamel thrived. I think the palace has been too busy silencing dissent to see the rot under its floorboards. I’m not here to steal your job, Captain. I’m here to finish something that should have ended a long time ago.”

Chaol’s eyes narrowed. “And how long before you decide something else needs ending? You’re not just investigating anymore, Aelin. You’re interfering in Adarlan’s affairs. You’re pushing up against the very terms of the alliance agreement your parents signed. This—” he gestured toward the city, “—this is not your kingdom to command.”

Aedion’s jaw tensed, but Aelin held up a hand to stop him from speaking.

“You think I don’t know that?” she said, her voice quieter now. “You think I want to be here, in this place that took so much from me? I’m doing this because I have to. Because if we don’t stop what’s stirring, it won’t matter what agreements our countries signed. There won’t be a Terrasen. Or an Adarlan.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them, heavy with history, with trust both broken and unspoken. Finally, Chaol looked away, his jaw tight.

“I’ll send word if I find anything else,” he muttered.

Aelin nodded. “And we’ll do the same.”

He gave her a lingering look, then turned and strode back into the fog, vanishing into the gray morning. Overhead, the hawk wheeled once more before soaring off toward the city.

Beside her, Aedion said, “That went well.”

Aelin’s smile was humorless. “It went.”

They turned and headed back toward the warehouse, the first light of dawn just beginning to pierce the sky behind them.

Rowan

From high above the docks, Rowan circled in hawk form, wings slicing through the morning mist like a blade. The air was thick with salt and tension, and though the conversation below was muffled by the wind, he could read the body language all too well.

Chaol Westfall’s posture was tight with restraint, his tone sharp and accusatory. Aelin stood tall, arms crossed, every inch the queen she was born to be—but Rowan knew her well enough to sense the storm building beneath the surface. Aedion flanked her like a sentinel, jaw clenched, but kept quiet. It was Aelin who bore the brunt of Chaol’s words.

From above, Rowan saw it all—Chaol pointing, gesturing toward the city like it was some righteous bastion of law and order. As if the streets weren’t slick with blood the moment you looked too close. As if he had any idea what Aelin had endured just to be able to walk through those gates again without burning the whole place to ash.

Rowan’s talons twitched against the wind.

She’s giving everything to make this right, he thought. And still, he talks to her like she’s a threat.

When the conversation finally ended and Chaol strode away into the fog, Rowan circled once more, then tilted into a dive. His form shimmered mid-air as he shifted, landing in the alley just beyond the docks in his Fae body. He was dressed and armed before Aelin and Aedion even turned the corner.

Aelin was walking fast—angrily. Her jaw was set, her boots striking the cobblestones with purpose. Aedion glanced at Rowan as he caught up and gave a silent nod, a deference that said She’s yours right now.

Rowan didn’t speak. Just fell into step beside her as they cut through the narrow streets.

“He thinks I’m dangerous,” Aelin snapped, not looking at him.

“You are,” Rowan said evenly. “But not to the people you swore to protect.”

She stopped walking abruptly and turned to him. “He acts like I’m playing some game, like I came here to stir chaos just for the hell of it.”

“He’s afraid,” Rowan said. “And prideful. He doesn’t like seeing someone else do his job better than he can.”

She blinked at him. “You think I’m doing a good job?”

“You haven’t turned the city to ash,” he said dryly, the corners of his lips quirking up slightly. “That’s a win in my book.”

That earned him a weak smile, quickly extinguished.

“I’m tired of being treated like a threat,” she whispered. “I came back here to help. ”

Rowan stepped in front of her and took her hands. “You don’t need to prove yourself to him. Or to anyone. You’re doing what needs to be done—and no one else could.”

Her eyes searched his, fierce and vulnerable all at once. “Even if it means pushing the limits of our kingdoms’ alliance?”

“If that’s what it takes to keep your people safe, then yes.” His voice dropped. “You carry the weight of two kingdoms, Fireheart. Let the rest of us carry you when you need it.”

She exhaled shakily, and nodded.

A moment passed before Aelin took a step forward again, this time more slowly. Rowan stayed close, his shoulder brushing hers.

And above them, in the thick gray sky, the first hint of fall wind whispered through the alleys—cool, sharp, and foreboding.

Chapter Text

Lysandra

The morning light streamed in through the warehouse’s dusty windows, casting long golden bars across the floor. The air still smelled faintly of smoke from the hearth where breakfast had been cooked, though most of the food had long since been picked over. They sat in a loose circle around the table in the warehouse’s upper apartment—Aelin, Aedion, Rowan, Gavriel, and Lysandra.

It was Lysandra who broke the silence first. “If Arobynn really knows I’ve turned on him, it’s only a matter of time before he sends someone to finish the job.” Her voice was calm, but her posture was tight, her fingers clenching the edge of her chair. “I shouldn’t stay here.”

Aelin frowned. “You’ve already risked everything by helping us. I won’t let you be left defenseless.”

“I’ll go,” Gavriel offered, his voice low and sure. “I can escort her to Terrasen. If she’s under your protection, Aelin, then it needs to be formalized. I know the safe routes. We’ll avoid patrols.”

Rowan looked to Aelin, his brow furrowed. “We’ll be short-handed here if you go.”

“I know,” Gavriel said. “But if Arobynn thinks we’re foolish enough to let one of our own just vanish, he might be careless. And if the girl is as important as you say she is—” he glanced at Lysandra, not unkindly “—then keeping her alive is worth it.”

Lysandra lifted her chin. “I can travel. I won’t slow anyone down.”

“No one’s questioning your strength,” Aelin said gently. “But this is about making sure we don’t lose the only solid lead we have inside Arobynn’s house. I agree. You should go.”

They were quiet a moment, the soft sound of shifting chairs the only noise.

Then Aelin turned to Lysandra with a thoughtful tilt of her head. “You could shift for the journey. Something fast. Something wild. It would make travel easier—and you’d be harder to recognize.”

Lysandra went still.

Aedion glanced between them, brows lifting. “She hasn’t shifted yet?”

Lysandra hesitated. Then, finally, “The last time I shifted... I was a child. Maybe six. I turned into a tabby cat. When my mother saw me, she screamed, called me a demon. Threw me out onto the street that same night.” Her tone didn’t waver, but her fingers curled into fists in her lap. “After that, Clarisse made it very clear that my shifting was something to be hidden. Controlled.”

A heavy silence settled over the room.

“I always preferred forms with fangs,” Lysandra said, shooting a smirk at Rowan. “Somehow felt safer that way.”

Aelin stood and crossed to her satchel, pulling free a book. She flipped through the pages, stopping on one and setting it in front of Lysandra.

A large cat, snow-pale with heavy muscles and bright eyes, stared up at them from the page.

“A snow leopard,” Aelin said. “Fanged. Beautiful. Dangerous. But elusive. You’d travel fast and unseen.”

Lysandra traced the page with a fingertip, drawn in despite herself. She stared at the book open on her lap—the page with the snow leopard staring out, its eyes bright and wild. She looked up at Aelin, then at the others. “I’ll try,” she said softly.

Aedion, meanwhile, looked mildly horrified. “Can you maybe try something smaller first? Like a fox? Or a bird? Something that isn’t going to give me nightmares in my sleep?”

That earned a quiet laugh from Lysandra, and a faint smile from Rowan.

But Lysandra’s eyes remained fixed on the page. “If I’m going to start running for my life again, I may as well do it on four legs.”

Aelin reached over and squeezed her shoulder. “You’re not running anymore. You’re moving forward.”

“Do you need anything?” Rowan asked. “Privacy, maybe?”

“No,” Lysandra said, her shoulders squaring. “You’ve all seen worse. Might as well see this too.”

She stepped into the open space near the hearth, drawing a deep breath. The warehouse fell quiet, everyone watching. Aelin rested a hand lightly on Aedion’s arm as he leaned forward, eyes narrowed in curiosity.

Lysandra closed her eyes.

She reached inward, deeper than she had dared in years, toward the pulsing well of magic coiled in her blood. Fear flickered—but so did something else. Power. Possibility. She thought of the snow leopard’s grace, its fierce elegance, and pushed toward it.

Her body shimmered.

The shift was near-silent, save for a rush of wind and the faint creak of shifting joints. One moment, Lysandra stood barefoot on the wood floor. The next, a massive snow-furred cat padded forward, muscles rippling beneath the thick white coat. She blinked up at them with pale green eyes that still held a glint of humor.

“Holy gods,” Aedion breathed.

Lysandra’s long tail twitched once. Then, with utter feline arrogance, she sauntered toward Aedion.

“Lysandra…” he warned, backing up a step.

She didn’t stop. With an almost smug swish of her tail, she brushed her flank along his legs, purring deeply.

Aedion yelped. “Nope. No, no, that’s too weird. That’s still you in there—gods-damned, why does it feel like you’re terrorizing me?”

The snow leopard gave what could only be described as a snort and flopped down beside the hearth, curling into a lounging pose that was pure Lysandra.

Aelin was doubled over laughing.

Even Rowan cracked a grin. “I think she’s enjoying this a bit too much.”

“She’s a menace,” Aedion muttered, backing away and scowling. “A beautiful, terrifying menace.”

Lysandra flicked her tail in approval.

Aelin wiped tears from her eyes. “Welcome back, shapeshifter.”

The snow leopard lifted her head and rumbled in reply.

It was a new beginning—one of many, perhaps. But for the first time in a long while, Lysandra felt the power to shape her own story. Literally.

And she intended to use it.

Aelin

The mid-afternoon sun was bright in the warehouse windows, the low rumble of distant voices and clattering hooves barely reaching the upper apartment. A single lantern hung in the center of the room, casting flickering shadows over the gathered four: Aelin, Aedion, Gavriel, and Rowan.

Lysandra was asleep downstairs, still exhausted from her shifting. They had all agreed she would not be involved in this particular mission—not yet. Not when the enemy they were hunting knew her face.

Aelin stood with her arms crossed near the window, watching the stars blink faintly above the city haze. “We need something concrete,” she said. “We’ve danced around the edges for too long. If we’re going to bring this information back to Terrasen, we need names, accounts, documents—anything that ties Arobynn or anyone else to Tern.”

“The Keep won’t give it up easily,” Rowan said, leaning back against the wall beside her. “They’re too careful. I’ve flown over it almost every night this week—there are guards on every entrance, a rotating patrol on the roof, and wards inside the walls.”

Aedion pulled a roughly drawn map from his coat and spread it over the table. “The eastern wing is less trafficked at night—probably the dormitories. We could slip in there and move through the inner halls, if we time it right.”

“Unless the hallways are warded,” Gavriel said. He crouched beside the map, studying it with narrowed eyes. “Do we have anyone with information about the layout inside?”

Aelin shook her head. “We have rough maps based on Lysandra’s recollections from her time there—but she was never invited into Arobynn’s study or the records room.”

Rowan crossed his arms. “Even if we get in, we’ll need time. Someone has to stay on watch, someone else needs to look for the ledgers, and we can’t afford to get trapped.”

“We won’t,” Aedion said, his jaw tight. “I’ll go with you, Aelin. I can buy us time if we need to fight our way out.”

“You’re not going alone,” Rowan cut in. “I’ll fly to the roof and shift inside. I’ll wait in the upper halls. If anything goes wrong, I’ll give the signal.”

Aelin looked between them, her lips a tight line. “This is a high-risk mission. If Arobynn or any of his inner circle catch wind of this—”

“They won’t,” Gavriel said calmly. “Because we’ll cover every angle. Plus Lysandra and I will create a distraction at the edge of the slums, near the apothecary stalls, before we leave Rifthold for Terrasen. If it pulls even one of his men off their post, it may give you the opening you need.”

Silence fell, tension humming in the air.

“Then we do it tonight,” Aelin said. “I’ll shift into a shadow if I have to, but we get those ledgers. We get the truth. I want names, faces—who ordered Tern to kill me, who paid for it, and why.”

Rowan stepped closer, lowering his voice. “And when we have it—what then?”

“Depends on what we find,” Aelin replied.

“Tonight, then,” he said. “We hit the Keep.”

~~~~~

The moon hung low and sharp over Rifthold, the air heavy with the crisp edge of early autumn. Near the edge of the slums, just beyond the apothecary stalls, two shadows slunk through the darkened alleyways—one with sleek silver fur and emerald eyes, the other golden and massive, moving with a predator’s grace.

Lysandra, in her snow leopard form, brushed her whiskers along Gavriel’s flank, signaling the start. In perfect synchronization, they emerged into the main street with a wild snarl and roar, scattering vendors and customers alike. Chaos erupted as people screamed and dove for cover. One of the apothecary stalls went up in flames as Gavriel, with one deft swipe, toppled an oil lamp into a pile of dried herbs.

The guards from the Assassin’s Keep were drawn like moths to flame.

And the true mission began.

Aelin pressed her back to the brick wall of the alley beside the Keep. Aedion crouched at her side, every muscle tense, alert. Above them, Rowan circled in hawk form, his eyes scanning the rooftops and alleys, watching for reinforcements or surprises. He wouldn’t be going inside with them—his job was to keep the perimeter secure, and take out any threats if things went sideways.

Aelin’s heart beat fast—not with fear, but a strange electric anticipation. This would be her first time inside the Assassin’s Keep. The place she’d heard stories of, always lurking at the edge of rumor and fear, the center of Arobynn Hamel’s empire. 

They slipped through the eastern side entrance—an old, half-rotted servant’s door that Rowan had spotted during his flights. It was unguarded, just as expected.

Inside, the Keep was darker than she imagined, colder. The walls were lined with weapons, maps, and training schedules. Every step she took echoed with the unshakable sense that a thousand eyes had once watched from the shadows here. She could feel them—spirits of the broken and betrayed.

They moved fast.

Aedion took point through the inner corridors, following a map Rowan had memorized and relayed. Aelin’s fire whispered beneath her skin, pulsing with restless energy.

They reached the inner sanctum: Arobynn’s office.

The door was slightly ajar. That was the first warning.

Inside, the room was stark—mahogany shelves, a broad desk, and a wall of floor-to-ceiling scroll cubbies. It smelled faintly of leather, cloves, and steel.

Aelin moved toward the desk. She tugged open a drawer. Nothing. Another. Empty. She tapped the bottom. Hollow.

“There.” Aedion pried up the false bottom and pulled out a black journal.

They flipped it open—names, dates, payments. A note beside Tern’s name.

“For the girl with fire.”

It was too easy. She examined the desk, feeling every edge and crevasse with her hands. In the very back of the underside, with the drawer pulled out, there was a slight indentation. She pushed and pulled. Nothing. She pushed the drawer back in. Click. A compartment opened on the underside of the desk. Aelin didn’t look, she grabbed all the documents in the hidden compartment and shoved them into her satchel and grabbed the journal.

Then, a voice sliced through the silence like a blade.

“Well. I can’t say I expected the infamous Queen of Terrasen to come strolling into my office.”

Aelin turned slowly.

A tall man stood in the doorway, handsome in a way that felt too sharp, too calculating. His gaze met hers, cool and appraising. Arobynn Hamel. King of the Assassins.

They had never met before, and yet she knew without a doubt it was him.

“I wondered when I’d finally get to lay eyes on the girl who lit the world on fire.”

“You’re not exactly what I imagined,” Aelin said coolly, even as her magic stirred with unease.

“Most things aren’t.” His gaze flicked to the journal in her hand. “That book’s worthless, you know. Planted, just in case someone came poking around.”

“Then you just admitted you expected someone would,” Aedion said.

Arobynn smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Doesn’t matter now. You’re already caught.”

And then all hell broke loose.

An arrow shrieked from a hallway behind them. Not aimed at Aelin or Aedion—but a cry of pain echoed through the burning corridors just outside the office. Rowan.

Aelin staggered with a choked sound, her shoulder erupting with phantom pain. She dropped to her knees, gasping.

“Aelin—what is it?” Aedion was already at her side.

“Rowan—” she panted. 

A flare of pain surged through her again, searing down her spine.

Something inside her fractured.

Magic exploded from her skin in waves of molten heat. Her Fae form took hold without her willing it, fire igniting along her arms. The rage—terror—poured out of her like a flood.

“Get behind me, Aedion!”

The office burst into flame.

Arobynn vanished behind the licking fire, shouting orders, disappearing into the shadows like a ghost.

“We have to get Rowan,” Aelin said through clenched teeth. “Now.”

Aedion nodded, not hesitating.

They raced through the corridors, now burning, filled with smoke and panic. Aelin’s magic swirled around her like a storm, part shield, part weapon. They found Rowan slumped in a hallway, pale and unmoving, an arrow lodged in his chest—too close to his heart.

Aelin dropped to her knees beside him, fire flickering wildly around her. Her hands shook as she touched his face, willing him to wake.

“I’ve got him,” Aedion said, hauling Rowan’s limp form into his arms.

They fought their way out through collapsing beams and falling debris. The entire Assassin’s Keep was going down in a blaze of gold and fury.

By the time they returned to the warehouse, Rowan was still unconscious, feverish and slick with blood. Aelin hovered, wild-eyed and shaking, wrapping his wound with trembling hands.

“We need help,” she whispered. “Find Nox,” she said to Aedion. “Tell him to go to the castle and find Dorian. He needs to convince Dorian to send his girlfriend, the healer, Sorcha.”

Aedion didn’t wait—he was out the door and sprinting toward the Hollow Boar.

Nox was there. Drinking again.

Aedion grabbed him by the arm. “Come with me.”

Nox stood instantly, his face grave.

Aedion relayed the instructions.

Nox disappeared into the night without another word.

Back at the warehouse, Aelin sat by Rowan’s side, her magic low and flickering, holding his hand as the Keep burned—reduced to ash, but not without cost.

Chapter Text

The warehouse apartment was still steeped in chaos when Sorscha arrived. Her healer’s satchel swung from her shoulder as she stepped through the door behind Ress and Brullo, her usually serene face drawn tight with urgency. Chaol came in behind them, his eyes already narrowed, scanning the room for threats—or perhaps just signs of Aelin’s latest destruction.

Aelin didn’t move from Rowan’s side. Still in her Fae form, she crouched over him protectively, one hand braced on his chest. Her golden hair tumbled over her shoulder like a mantle of flame, her eyes fixed on Sorscha with quiet, dangerous intensity.

The moment Sorscha stepped into the apartment, Aelin blocked her path with a sharp glance. "He hasn't woken," Aelin said. Her voice was low, controlled. Dangerous. 

Sorscha swallowed. "I'll do what I can. Let me see him," she said gently. Her voice, somehow calm despite the tension, brought Aelin’s gaze to her fully. After a heartbeat, Aelin nodded and shifted aside.

Aelin led her to the bedroom where Rowan lay, unmoving and pale, a faint sheen of sweat along his brow. His breathing was shallow but steady. The arrow had been removed, the wound cleaned, but it was deep, alarmingly close to his heart.

As Sorscha knelt beside him and opened her satchel, Aelin hovered, arms crossed, every movement radiating protectiveness. Her magic simmered just under her skin.

Sorscha worked quickly. She peeled back the blood-soaked tunic and inspected the wound beneath the bandages Aelin had hastily applied. When Sorscha's hands brushed Rowan's bare chest, Aelin's lips curled almost imperceptibly.

"You need to let me work," Sorscha said gently. Aelin gave a single nod, stepping back half a pace but never looking away. The arrowhead had missed Rowan’s heart by inches, but the damage was deep, ragged. The bleeding had slowed, but Fae or not, the injury was serious.

Chaol turned toward Aedion. "What happened?" he demanded.

Aedion kept his voice even. "We were gathering evidence in the Assassin’s Keep. Arobynn confronted Aelin. Rowan was on lookout. He was shot while trying to warn us."

Chaol’s brows shot up. "And then she burned the place down?"

Aelin rose slowly, stepping into the conversation. "I didn’t go there looking to fight. But he attacked me. We were outnumbered. Rowan was nearly killed. I didn’t mean to, I just lost control."

Chaol bristled as he looked her up and down. "You’re in your Fae form. You’re drawing attention, Your Highness. Stirring up panic."

"I’m protecting my people," she snapped. "People who’ve been hunted through these streets like animals. If Arobynn—"

"This is Adarlan!" Chaol snapped. "And now the Keep is gone. Everything has to start over. That building held records we might never recover."

Aelin's voice dropped into a dangerous hush. "You didn’t even know where the Keep was until I arrived. Don’t act like you’ve lost some treasure trove of intel that you never had,” she replied. She couldn’t believe the nerve of him. 

“How many more assassins would have been sent after me? And possibly after Dorian? Do you think those leads will protect him once his magic is discovered?" Aelin could feel her fire emerging. It was no longer just simmering.

Chaol glared at her, jaw tight. "You’re interfering where you shouldn’t be. You’re not supposed to be waging your own war in our streets."

Aedion stepped between them, voice like iron. "Enough. You’ve said your piece, Chaol."

With a furious breath, Chaol turned away. "I need to make sure the fire doesn’t spread. You need to leave Rifthold, as soon as Rowan can travel. Otherwise, I’m going to the King. This has gone too far."

He left with Brullo in his wake. Sorscha, however, remained a few minutes longer, Ress staying to accompany her back to the castle. She carefully packed away her supplies and gave Aelin a soft look.

"He’ll recover quickly with his Fae healing. The wound was deep, but the arrow missed anything vital. A miracle from the gods, if you ask me. One inch and it would have been straight into his heart. He needs rest. At least a day or two."

Aelin nodded, swallowing against the knot in her throat.

Sorscha gave her a small smile and patted her arm. "He’s strong."

And then she too left, her presence vanishing down the stairs.

Once the door was closed and silence fell over the warehouse, Aedion turned to Aelin, arms crossed.

“You’re mates.” He said it gently, but firmly.

Aelin looked away.

"You felt it, when he was shot," Aedion said. "You buckled like someone hit you."

Aelin walked back to Rowan’s side and resumed her silent vigil. “It doesn’t matter either way. He’s bound to Maeve. Forever. He’ll have to go back to her.”

Later, when the moon had risen high above the Rifthold rooftops and the city began to sleep beneath its shroud of soot and silence, Aelin remained.

The apartment was dim, only the flicker of a single lantern casting golden shadows across the room. Aelin remained sitting on the bed for a long while, watching Rowan's chest rise and fall. He was still pale, still unconscious, but breathing steady now. She hadn’t shed her Fae form—couldn’t. The scent of ash and blood clung to her, and her magic still crackled beneath her skin like it was waiting for another fight.

She didn’t realize Aedion had stepped away until she heard his footsteps on the stairs, leaving her in silence.

For once, there was no one demanding answers. No fire to extinguish. Just Rowan. Her Rowan. She moved carefully, quietly, and with an almost embarrassed glance at the door—though no one was watching—she lay down atop the blankets beside him, curling in toward his warmth.

His body radiated heat, even in unconsciousness. And his scent—pine and snow—wrapped around her like a balm. Home.

Aelin tucked her head against his shoulder, one hand resting gently on his sternum over the bandages. “You’re going to be okay,” she whispered. “Please be okay.”

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of their breathing, hers easing with every heartbeat she felt beneath her palm.

She didn’t know when her eyes slipped shut. Only that at last, in the quiet darkness, Aelin Galathynius slept.

~~~~~

Rowan woke to pain.

It clawed its way up from his chest, sharp and insistent, and for a moment he didn’t know where he was—only that something had gone terribly wrong. His breath hitched as he tried to move, and then—

Warmth. A hand.

Not his own.

He blinked against the heavy weight of sleep and pain. The flickering hearth cast low, amber light across the small room. He knew it, vaguely—the apartment above the warehouse. But none of that mattered when his eyes found her.

Aelin.

She was sleeping next to him, surprisingly in her Fae form, curled up in the narrow bed, her face turned toward him, her golden hair falling in waves across her cheek and shoulder. One hand rested lightly on his chest, just over the wound, as though she could protect him even in sleep.

Her breathing was steady. Calm.

She looked like peace.

He felt anything but.

The last thing he remembered was the arrow slamming into him—then the scent of fire and the taste of her panic in the air. That gut-wrenching sensation in the bond they’d both tried to ignore for weeks now, the one that tethered her pain to his.

Gods, he had felt her magic as the world went black—blazing and frantic and raw. Had felt her reach for him through it.

Rowan swallowed hard, wincing.

She’d stayed. That alone should have steadied him.

But it only twisted the knife.

He shifted slightly, careful not to jostle her. Her fingers flexed at the motion but it didn’t wake her. She sighed in her sleep, her brow twitching. He knew her well enough to know that even in rest, she didn’t find true ease.

Not when the weight of the world was still squarely on her shoulders.

The bond between them pulsed softly—an ember barely glowing. Still alive, though they refused to speak of it. Still there, no matter how many times they danced around the truth of what they were to each other.

He reached out slowly, brushing a knuckle across her cheek.

“Mala help me,” he whispered.

He didn’t mean with the wound.

He meant her. This impossible, reckless princess who both infuriated and anchored him. Who’d burrowed into the heart he’d long since closed off and refused to leave.

She murmured something in her sleep, shifting closer, her hand sliding more fully over the scarred muscles of his chest. He tensed, then forced himself to stay still.

He wasn’t ready for this. For what came after. For what it meant that she’d lain down next to him, with all the fury and terror of that night behind her, and still chose this bed. Chose him .

And yet—he didn’t move away.

Couldn’t.

Not when the scent of her fire wove around him. Not when her magic whispered across his skin, familiar and painful and everything he didn’t know how to ask for.

Tomorrow, they’d have to leave. Tomorrow, they’d face the consequences.

But tonight… he let himself watch her sleep, as the ache in his chest became something entirely different.

Something terrifying.

~~~~~

Rowan woke late the next morning.

Aelin was seated beside him on the bed when he stirred, and Aedion stood at the window. The minute Aelin heard Rowan move, she turned.

Rowan blinked at them. “How long was I out?”

Aelin stood and stretched, yawning. “Two days.”

His brow furrowed. “And the Keep?”

“Food and water first,” Aelin said, walking out and returning a few minutes later with a glass of water and some breakfast. Aelin lifted the water to his lips. He swatted her hand away, grasping the glass himself and wincing as he did so.

“Just stop being an insufferable brute and let me help you, Rowan,” she said, swatting him back. 

Aelin then proceeded to feed Rowan breakfast, bite by bite, Aedion watching for a moment before smirking and walking out. Rowan couldn’t help but notice the roughness of her calloused fingers as they brushed across his lips. And when she finally looked up at him, her turquoise and gold eyes meeting his gaze, his heart nearly stopped in his chest.

Thankfully Aelin had shifted back into her human form. She wouldn’t be able to sense the subtle physiological changes in his body that only Fae senses could detect. 

Mala help him, he was in such deep, unending shit.

He wanted her. Badly. Wanted to ravish her wholly. He supposed Mala had answered his prayer, since presently he could barely move from the pain.

Somehow he made it through Aelin feeding him breakfast. She left to bring the dishes to the kitchen and he took the time alone to take a few deep breaths and try to calm his racing heart.

She murmured briefly to Aedion, and a few minutes later they both returned and filled him in on their escape from the Keep, the documents they’d gathered, the confrontation with Arobynn.

“The Keep is gone,” Aedion said with a faint grin. “You should’ve seen her. She lit it up like a solstice bonfire.”

Aelin grimaced.

Rowan wondered what had happened that had brought about Aelin’s shifting and fire. She still could not shift on command, which meant that she must have felt mortally threatened. Arobynn.

Then Aedion told Rowan about the healer, Sorscha, who was apparently Prince Dorian’s lover, and the meeting with Chaol. 

Rowan’s lip curled faintly. “Let me guess. He was grateful and gracious.”

Aelin let out a sharp laugh. “Oh, so gracious.” She held the glass of water so that he could drink. Rowan tried to 

He accused me of interfering in Adarlan’s affairs and stirring up trouble. Said the fire set their investigation back.”

“And he bristled like a slapped cat when he saw her in her Fae form,” Aedion added, smirking. “Didn’t like that one bit.”

Rowan frowned, eyes narrowing slightly. “He’s jealous.”

“He’s worried,” Aelin said, more carefully. “He’s still loyal to Dorian, and he’s doing what he thinks is best. But... he’s also blind to how much bigger this is than just Rifthold.”

They stayed for one more night, Aelin sleeping beside him in bed again. She had insisted she wouldn’t be able to sleep if she was worried he might need something.

The next morning they packed before dawn.

The warehouse had become a danger—not just a place of shelter and strategy, but a beacon for trouble. The assassin's keep smoldering in ruins had sent a message louder than any whispered rumor. Their presence in Rifthold was known, their mission exposed. Aelin could feel it in her bones, in the tension that lingered behind each movement, in the way Rowan's hand always hovered near his blade even in sleep.

Rowan moved slowly, carefully, still pale from the wound that had nearly killed him. But he was upright, armored, and as dangerous-looking as ever despite the faint stiffness in his movements.

Aedion watched him closely, jaw tight. “You shouldn’t be on your feet yet.”

Rowan raised a brow. “Try stopping me.”

Aelin, cloaked and armed, stood between them. “We don’t have a choice,” she said. “The longer we wait, the more likely it is that the assassins regroup and retaliate. We need to move.”

They agreed on a route out of the city—one that would keep them away from guards and known assassins' routes. Once beyond the Rifthold borders, they would no longer need stealth. They would sleep in inns, travel by less grueling roads. Aelin wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed.

The morning passed in silence, broken only by the clatter of hooves and the rustle of cloaks as they rode out. Lysandra and Gavriel had departed nights before. They should easily be back within Terrasen’s borders by now. The warehouse—now empty—was left behind like a discarded skin.

As the city shrank in the distance behind them, Aedion rode up beside her.

“We need to talk about him,” he said.

Aelin glanced at Rowan ahead of them, his cloak billowing in the wind. “What about him?”

Aedion’s voice dropped. “You know what. You’re mates.”

She said nothing.

“There are diplomatic consequences,” he continued. “Whether you acknowledge it or not. This isn’t just personal, Aelin. You’re a crown princess. You will be a queen of the realm. Every tie you make—every alliance you form—ripples beyond you. If you let this fester without dealing with it—without claiming it—”

“I know, but--” she said quietly. “I don’t know what to do. Regardless of my personal feelings, there are very few ways this doesn’t end in war with Doranelle. And I can’t--”

“It’s okay, Aelin,” he said. “I understand that it’s complicated. I don’t want to burden you. Just know I’m here for you. For anything.”

She nodded. “Thank you, Aedion.”

“Does he know?” Aedion asked.

“I don’t know,” she replied.

“That might be a good place to start,” he suggested.

He didn’t press her further. Not that day.

By the time they crossed the border into Terrasen, the sun had begun its descent and the air had cooled with early signs of autumn. They stopped in Perranth, in the warm, well-guarded manor of the Lochans. Warm meals. Clean beds. No ghosts in the shadows.

For the first time in weeks, Aelin let herself breathe.

Elide

The Princess and her two companions spent a few days recovering. Prince Rowan needed rest to recover from an injury. Elide didn’t fail to notice the way Aelin remained close to him—hovering in the shadows of his healing, guarding him with wordless devotion. Interesting .

Elide arranged a messenger to send word to the King and Queen of the group’s whereabouts, and plans to return to Orynth the following week.

Elide brought them tea one afternoon and stayed to help go through some documents Aelin had retrieved from the ruins of the Assassin's Keep. Names, numbers, codes. Payments. Orders.

The sun streamed in through the tall windows of her family’s sitting room, casting a golden hue across the weathered documents spread out across the long table. Aelin leaned over a parchment, brows drawn, while Aedion muttered curses under his breath at the crumbling ink on another page. Rowan sat nearby, reviewing lists of transactions and coded correspondence.

And Elide… Elide barely said a word.

She sat on the floor, legs tucked beneath her, a short stack of ledgers and letters balanced on her lap. Her dark eyes moved slowly, carefully, absorbing every mark. Her fingers trailed lines of cramped handwriting with quiet precision, lips pursed as she murmured names and dates under her breath.

No one noticed when she stilled. When she sat up a little straighter.

The page in her lap bore a list of aliases, trade routes, and coded symbols beside each name—so easily overlooked as the usual cloak-and-dagger nonsense from the Guild. But Elide had seen these symbols before. Once, in a diplomatic record her Uncle Vernon had hidden away. The same odd motif—a winged serpent curled around a sword.

Melisande.

Her heart beat faster, but she kept her voice steady when she spoke. “This name—L. Bardingale. It appears three times in three separate ledgers, always linked to different Guild payments.”

Aelin looked up. “So?”

Elide lifted another document, this one with the crest of a merchant company burned into the top corner. The company crest belonged to one of the most powerful merchants in Melisande, Benzo Doneval. “And here—this list of cargo. It came through ports only accessible to high-tier nobles or royal family members. There’s only one Doneval with that kind of access in Melisande.”

Rowan raised a brow, leaning forward. “Are you saying Melisande’s royal family is funding Guild operations?”

“I’m saying,” Elide said carefully, “that someone with close ties to the Queen of Melisande is either moving funds through aliases or shielding those who are. This alias—L. Bardingale—matches the initials of Leighfer Bardingale, who until recently was married to Benzo Doneval. Bardingale is a good friend of the Queen of Melisande.”

Aedion let out a low whistle. “That’s a hell of a reach, Elide.”

“Maybe,” she said softly. “But the handwriting on these ledgers matches a note I read from Doneval once when I worked for Vernon. And the symbols… I know them. He used them to mark which parcels could bypass inspections.”

They were all silent.

Aelin slowly pushed back from the table. “You’re saying this woman—Bardingale—might be behind some of the money that funded my assassination attempt?”

“I’m saying,” Elide replied, voice steady, “she’s the only name here that fits all the pieces. And if I’m right… then this wasn’t just a Guild hit. This might have been political.”

Rowan let out a long breath. “And Melisande has always eyed Terrasen’s northern ports.”

Aelin nodded slowly. “And they sent spies to Orynth when I was little, to assess whether I would be a threat to the Queen one day. If this is true… then this war’s already begun. Just in shadows instead of swords.”

Elide didn’t smile. She didn’t gloat.

She simply returned to her papers, eyes sharper than ever.

Chapter Text

The wind outside Perranth’s guest wing howled through the stone corridors like a restless spirit. But within the small bedchamber, the fire in the hearth crackled low, casting flickering gold over the sleeping figure in the narrow bed.

Aelin sat curled in the upholstered chair across from Rowan, knees hugged to her chest, chin resting on them. The blankets on the bed had been pushed down from his chest—he ran hot even now—but he slept soundly, steady breaths rising and falling, the bruises and wound beneath his ribs beginning to fade thanks to Fae healing and Sorscha’s skill.

She’d told herself she wouldn’t stay.

That first night, when he’d been pale and clammy, barely clinging to consciousness after they’d hauled him back from the ruins of the Assassin’s Keep, she’d told herself it was only temporary. She’d lie beside him to monitor his temperature, to feel the beat of his heart if it faltered.

But the nights had stretched on. And she hadn’t left.

Aelin closed her eyes and pressed her cheek to her knees. Gods, she was tired. She hadn’t slept properly in days—she could only truly fall asleep in those quiet hours when his breathing steadied and her own heartbeat slowed to match his.

She hadn’t meant for it to feel like this.

Waking with her hand curled against his chest. His scent—pine and snow and something uniquely Rowan—sinking into her skin. The way his body turned instinctively toward hers in sleep. As if even in unconsciousness, he sought her out.

And the way she hadn’t stopped him.

It was maddening. It was comforting. It was everything and too much.

They hadn’t talked about it. Not once. Not the nights they shared in the warehouse, or the flight from Rifthold, or the long days spent in this stone manor as he healed and she burned with every unspoken word between them.

She knew Aedion had been watching her more closely since Rowan was wounded, asking questions. She could only dodge so many before he cornered her again.

But it wasn’t just Aedion.

It was herself she couldn’t run from.

The feeling of Rowan’s hand brushing against hers in sleep. The way his lashes had fluttered the first time he woke to find her beside him. The small, agonizing flicker of relief in his eyes—followed by wariness. Distance.

She didn’t know if it was because he didn’t want to complicate things. Or because he already knew how tangled they’d become.

Aelin stood slowly, legs stiff from sitting curled in the chair, and padded over to the bed. She tucked the edge of the blanket over Rowan’s chest, her fingers brushing his skin just lightly enough to feel the warmth there.

He stirred, eyelids shifting, but didn’t wake.

“I don’t know what this is,” she whispered, barely breathing the words. “But I’m not ready to let you go.”

She hesitated.

Then, as quietly as she could, she crawled onto the bed beside him again, curling on her side with just enough space between them to keep the line uncrossed.

He shifted in his sleep, as if sensing her presence—and only then did his hand move, drifting toward hers under the blankets. Not touching. Just close enough to feel the heat.

Aelin stared at the ceiling.

And for the first time in days, her heart slowed. Her breathing deepened.

Between the silences, something was building. And they both knew it.

~~~~~

The road from Perranth to Orynth unfurled like a ribbon through the golden woodlands, skirting the edge of the Oakwald Forest. With each passing league, the scent of pine and autumn decay deepened. They traveled mostly in silence, weary but purposeful, the city behind them like a breath finally released.

Aelin rode at the front beside Rowan, who had finally recovered to full strength. Though he moved with the ease of a seasoned warrior, Aelin could see the slight tension in his shoulders—the wound might have healed, but the memory of pain clung like a shadow. He didn’t speak of it, and neither did she.

At night, they made camp in the quiet hollows of the forest. The air turned crisp, the stars sharp overhead, and the Oakwald whispered with secrets. But more than once, when they woke, they found that they had not been entirely alone.

At the first site, laid neatly atop a stone near the dying fire, were two delicate crowns. One was forged of golden-red leaves and tiny crystals that shimmered like embers—the crown of flame. The other, woven from pine needles and silver spider silk, shimmered like pine and snow.

Aelin had stared at them in silence for a long moment before picking them up. She whispered thanks to the Little Folk, knowing they were watching from nearby. She smirked at Rowan as she placed the pine and snow crown atop his head. “For a prince,” she said, giggling. “I think the Little Folk like you.” Rowan grabbed the crown of flame and placed it atop Aelin’s head. “For a princess,” he said. “I think they like you more.” Aelin wondered how many people in this world had ever been gifted a glimpse of Rowan’s lighthearted demeanor. She felt blessed.

At the second camp, there was a replica sword—tiny and delicate, its hilt wrapped in red berries—and beside it, a small ring carved from a piece of hardwood. Aelin turned it over in her palm, heart aching at the way the Little Folk saw her, what they were offering her: not only honor, but legacy. She tucked the gifts into her satchel and again offered her thanks.

On the third night, three small figurines sat just beyond the firelight. A hawk carved from ashwood, its wings outstretched. A wolf, sleek and fierce, crouched as if ready to spring. And a heart of flames made from colorful autumn leaves.

Rowan picked up the hawk with a faint smile; Aedion grunted and pocketed the wolf without a word, but his fingers lingered on its carved flank. Aelin picked up the final gift and examined it. Rowan handed Aelin the final gift. “Fireheart.”

“Thank you,” she whispered to the Little Folk.

Each night, Rowan and Aelin made their bedrolls close together. It had started out of necessity—her needing to monitor his recovery—but now, there was no excuse. Still, neither spoke of it. Not when their shoulders brushed beneath shared blankets. Not when their hands lingered in accidental touches. Not even when they woke facing each other, breath mingling.

The silence was a wall between them, filled with things unsaid.

Aedion noticed. Of course he did.

He said nothing, but he watched. Watched the quiet glances, the careful avoidance, the slow-burning tension that hung thick as smoke in the air. He saw the way Rowan looked at her when she wasn’t watching, the way Aelin’s voice softened when she addressed him. And the ache beneath it all—that pull neither of them seemed willing to name—was as obvious as the changing seasons.

As they crested a final ridge and Orynth’s white spires came into view, still miles off but rising proudly from the hills, the journey came full circle. Their path through smoke and shadow was far from over.

But here, in the quiet woods and with magic stirring like the wind, the truth of what lay between them had begun to take root.

Even if neither of them dared say it aloud.

~~~~~

The gates of Orynth stood open under the late afternoon sun, their golden filigree glinting as though the city itself had been holding its breath, waiting for their return.

Aelin slowed her horse at the top of the hill, the city sprawling before them in all its familiar beauty—white marble towers, red-tiled rooftops, the great palace gleaming on the hill like a beacon. The scent of woodsmoke, autumn leaves, and distant baking drifted up from the streets. She hadn’t realized just how much she’d missed it.

Behind her, Aedion gave a long exhale, his broad shoulders relaxing for the first time in weeks. Rowan, quiet and ever-watchful, surveyed the landscape like a predator returned to known territory. 

The moment they crossed into the courtyard of the palace, the doors opened—and then her mother was there.

Evalin Ashryver, radiant and regal in her forest-green gown, hurried across the cobblestones with Rhoe a step behind her. Aelin barely had time to swing down from her horse before she was swept into a fierce embrace that stole the air from her lungs.

“You reckless girl,” Evalin whispered fiercely, fingers tightening in Aelin’s hair. “What were you thinking, running off like that?”

“I had to,” Aelin breathed, her voice muffled by her mother’s shoulder. “We had to. There was a threat—”

“Of course there was.” Rhoe folded her in too, his arms warm and grounding. “There always is. But next time, try not to give us a heart attack.”

Aelin pulled back, breathless with laughter and tears. “Next time,” she promised.

Aedion dismounted and was pulled into a similar storm of hugs and half-chiding words. Then Evalin turned her keen green gaze toward Rowan.

“And you,” she said, walking to him, “thank you for keeping our daughter safe.”

Rowan dipped his head in respectful greeting, his posture instinctively stiff. “I did my best, Your Majesty.”

“We heard about your injury,” Rhoe added, stepping up beside Evalin. “Are you well enough to be traveling?”

“I am,” Rowan said. “Thanks to Aelin and Aedion, and a healer from the palace in Rifthold.”

They made their way inside, servants bustling to prepare food and baths, while the group gathered in a private sitting room. The warmth of the hearth was a comfort after weeks of cold forest air.

“There’s something else you need to know,” Aelin said, her voice turning serious as she knelt by a small satchel of documents. “Elide—while going through the papers we recovered—she found something.”

Rhoe and Evalin straightened at the shift in her tone.

“There are financial records,” Aelin explained, pulling out a sheet of paper, “buried within transactions. But Elide traced the trail, and she connected it to the royal family of Melisande with the Assassin’s Guild.”

Later, seated in the dining room over plates of roast chicken and lentils, fresh bread and cheese, the full tale came spilling out.

Aelin and Aedion traded off recounting everything—Lysandra’s role and shifter form, the meeting with Nox, their infiltration of the assassin’s keep, Rowan’s injury, and the fire that destroyed it all.

Evalin’s face grew paler with every word. Rhoe said little, eyes narrowed as he processed each piece.

“And what of the captain?” he asked at last.

Aelin gave a humorless smile. “Chaol Westfall was more concerned about protocol than the fact that someone tried to kill me. He accused me of meddling in Adarlan’s affairs.”

Rhoe’s jaw tightened. Evalin let out a long sigh. “Of course he did. The boy doesn’t know how to think outside a uniform.”

“They’ll recover from the fire,” Aedion added. “But not without damage to their credibility. The guild is scrambling now—and we brought back enough documentation to start linking some very important names.”

After dinner, the exhaustion finally hit. Even Rowan, still silent and watching, looked ready to drop.

They all said their goodbyes and parted ways for the night.

Chapter Text

The moonlight spilled through the windows of her chambers, painting silver patterns across the walls. Aelin lay tangled in her blankets, eyes fixed on the ornate ceiling she’d once stared at as a child. She’d scrubbed herself clean in the royal baths, eaten real food, and was safe—truly safe—for the first time in weeks.

And yet sleep would not come.

The bed was too soft, the walls too quiet, and the space too empty. She could feel it like a physical absence: the missing weight of the warrior who’d been beside her every night since Rifthold. Who had almost died in her arms.

She tried closing her eyes again.

Flames licked at the edge of her mind. The assassin’s keep burning. The guttural cry Rowan had made when the arrow pierced him. The phantom ache in her shoulder. Her hands clenched the sheets.

She sat up.

Within minutes, she was padding barefoot through the quiet halls, wrapped in a thin sleeping robe, her hair loose down her back. The guards gave her curious glances, but none dared stop her. Everyone knew the crown princess walked where she willed.

She reached his door and paused.

The door cracked open before she could knock. 

Rowan stood shirtless, hair mussed from sleep, a faint scar still red near his heart.

His brows furrowed. “Aelin?”

She glanced past him into the room, then looked up at his face. “Can I come in?”

He didn’t say anything, just stepped back to let her in. The door shut behind her with a quiet thud.

Aelin walked to the middle of the room, unsure why she suddenly felt nervous. Rowan remained by the door, arms crossed over his chest. His body was tense. Guarded.

“This isn’t like the warehouse,” he said carefully. “We’re in a palace now. People talk.”

She turned to face him fully, arms loose at her sides. She shook her head, “I can’t sleep.” It was the closest either of them had come to touching on that topic they so carefully avoided.

His jaw tightened. “You’re the Princess of Terrasen. You can’t be caught sneaking into a male’s bedchambers. Especially not mine.”

She rolled her eyes and flopped into one of the chairs near the hearth. “It’s not about that. I’m not here to scandalize the palace.”

“It will look improper,” he murmured half-heartedly.

“Please, Rowan? Just for tonight?” It was a lie. She knew she would be here begging again the next night. And the next.

Rowan studied her, eyes softening just a fraction.

“I won’t sleep otherwise,” she said, trying for a smile. “And you know what a pain I am when I’m tired.”

That earned the faintest of snorts from him. “You’re a pain when you’re well-rested too.”

She grinned. “So I can stay?”

Rowan sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Go back to your chambers. Leave a window open for me. I’ll meet you there in ten minutes.”

She nodded, and turned to go—but paused at the door. “Thank you, Rowan.”

~~~~~

The sun had long since dipped below the walls of Orynth, its final rays casting gold along the worn stones of the Bane’s training yard. Aelin stood alone at the far end, her blade still in hand, breath misting in the cooling autumn air. Her muscles ached from hours of drills and sparring—but she welcomed it. She needed the ache. It kept her grounded.

Rowan had watched her the entire time from a secluded spot in a tall pine tree.

That night, after the others had cleared out and the yard had gone still, Aelin found him on the palace ramparts. He leaned against the stone ledge, eyes fixed on the stars above the city, wind tugging his hair back from his face. She didn’t need to announce herself; he felt her before she even stepped into the light.

“I’m not used to seeing you so quiet,” she said.

He gave a faint huff of laughter, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not used to feeling so… unmoored.”

Aelin moved to stand beside him. The chill in the air nipped at her skin, but she didn’t mind. Not with him there.

They stood in silence for a while before Rowan said, “We should talk about it.”

She didn’t ask what he meant.

Instead, she whispered, “I know.”

A nod. Almost imperceptible.

Aelin turned to face him. “I’ve been avoiding it. We both have.”

“It’s not something either of us asked for or expected,” Rowan said quietly. “And yet, it’s there.”

Aelin crossed her arms. “I was terrified,” she said. “When you were shot. I felt all of it. Every bit of it. I think I’d been successfully avoiding admitting what this is, what we are, until then. But after that it was unavoidable.” She paused and then added, “Aedion noticed.”

Rowan nodded. “I felt it too,” he admitted. Then added, more carefully, “Your fear when your fire exploded in the Keep. I felt every bit of it before I collapsed. The whole thing terrifies me and confuses me in equal measure.”

Aelin swallowed and just waited. She could tell there was more he needed to say.

Rowan looked out over the city again. “I was mated once, or I thought I was. To a female named Lyria. I believed with every part of me that she was my mate. I knew it. But you can only have one mate, and now I think it couldn’t have been her and I don’t understand, because I had been so sure.” He paused, letting that sink in.

“I loved her—and she was taken from me, slaughtered by enemy forces while I was out seeking glory in battle. The guilt, the rage… it nearly destroyed me. She begged me not to go. She was pregnant and I left her. I was arrogant and stupid and I left my pregnant--” He faltered on the last word.

“Now, everything I believed about Lyria feels like a lie. I feel like I am disrespecting her memory to have such feelings for another. Feelings that surpass even those I had for her. I can’t bear it. The shame it makes me feel.”

The words hit harder than she expected. Aelin stepped closer, placing a hand gently atop his. “It wasn’t a lie. You loved her. That matters.”

“I’m not asking you to feel anything. Or to claim this bond, to claim me. I’m 18. I have years before I know whether I’m going to settle or have a human lifespan. Even if we could claim each other without starting a war, I’m not sure I would feel ready for that. But I need to know if we’re walking through this together—or if I’m on my own.”

Rowan turned to her then, his expression a tangle of grief and tenderness. “You are not alone, Aelin. Not in this. Not ever.”

Her throat tightened. “I want you in my life, Rowan. However I can have you. To whatever end.”

He let out a shuddering breath, the wind stirring his silver hair. “To whatever end, Fireheart.”

Aelin leaned her head against his shoulder, eyes closing. “We’re both a mess.”

His arm slid around her, anchoring her there. “We are. But perhaps we can find a way out. Together.”

They stood beneath the stars in silence, neither ready to speak more truths, but both willing to carry the weight of the truths they had shared. Together. 

~~~~~

The inn was modest, nestled between a baker’s and a weaver’s shop in the southern quarter of Orynth. The scent of rising bread mingled with the soft hum of a loom as Aelin made her way up the narrow staircase.

Lysandra opened the door before Aelin reached it, eyes tired but bright. “You’re late,” she said with a smirk.

“I’m royalty. I arrive when I please,” Aelin shot back, but her voice was warm.

They settled into the room—sparse but clean, with only a narrow bed and a low table by the window. Aelin took the chair, Lysandra the edge of the bed. For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Lysandra said, “He should have died. Arobynn. You don’t know how long I imagined it, how many nights I prayed for it. And he still lives.”

Aelin didn’t respond right away. She knew that hatred, knew it intimately.

Lysandra’s voice was quieter now. “He’ll come after me. Somehow. I know it. Even here, I’m not safe.”

“He may try,” Aelin said. “But he won’t succeed.”

Silence again. Then Lysandra looked up. “Let me help you. Don’t keep me on the sidelines.”

“I wasn’t planning to.” Aelin smirked. “Keep practicing your shifting. Hone it. Explore the forms that call to you.”

“And then?” Lysandra asked, brow lifting.

“I want eyes and ears everywhere. People trust what they see. A cat, a bird, a rat—no one questions them. I want you to consider being my spy.”

Lysandra blinked. Then, slowly, a grin spread across her face. “You want a shifter on your payroll.”

“I want you ,” Aelin said. “Because you’re smart, and brave, and because you already know what it means to survive.”

Lysandra’s grin faltered. “He always told me I’d never be anything more than what he made me.”

Aelin reached across the table and took her hand. “Then let’s prove him wrong.”

Aelin pulled a small, worn leather pouch from beneath her cloak. She dropped it onto the table between them with a solid clink .

Lysandra arched a brow. “What’s this?”

“The bounty my parents placed for information on the assassin Tern,” Aelin said, resting her elbows on the table. “It’s yours.”

Lysandra blinked, then laughed softly, though there was no humor in it. “I wasn’t expecting a reward.”

“You more than earned it,” Aelin said, voice steady. “Along with your safety. And your freedom.”

Lysandra stared at the pouch for a long moment, fingers brushing the drawstring but not pulling it open. “It feels strange, to be paid for something that—” She shook her head, letting the words fall away. “I didn’t help you because I wanted money.”

“I know,” Aelin said gently. “But this isn’t just payment. It’s a symbol. Of a line drawn. You never have to go back to what Arobynn made of you. This gold—it’s yours to begin again.”

Lysandra’s throat bobbed as she swallowed, then reached for Aelin’s hand instead of the gold. “Thank you,” she said, her voice hoarse. “For seeing me. For giving me a way out.”

Aelin squeezed her fingers. “It’s not a way out. It’s a way forward .”

And for the first time in a long while, Lysandra’s eyes glimmered—not with anger or pain, but hope.

~~~~~

The field behind the barracks had long since been claimed by the Bane for training, but at dawn it was empty—save for Aelin and Rowan.

Mist clung low to the earth as Aelin stood on the frost-glittered grass. Rowan watched from a few feet away, arms crossed, his expression neutral, but his eyes... proud. Guarded, but proud.

Aelin took a breath, then another.

And shifted.

It was seamless now. Her Fae form glimmered in the early light, golden hair loose down her back, fire flickering faintly over her skin before fading. She flexed her fingers. Her fire. Controlled.

Rowan gave a low whistle. “You’re starting to show off.”

She grinned. “You’re just mad it took me less than a week.”

He snorted but stepped closer. “Now that you’re in control of the shift, we need to focus on shaping your fire. You can’t let it rule you.”

She nodded.

“What does it feel like? Your power?”

She blinked. “Like... a well. Like drowning.”

He didn’t speak for a long moment. “How deep does it go?”

She looked at him, truly looked. “Is there a bottom?”

Rowan looked at her, perplexed. You’ve never felt the bottom?

You’re answering my question with a question.

Yes, for all Fae, even those with the strongest abilities, there is a bottom.

“I’ve never felt it,” Aelin replied aloud. “But then again, aside from when I was very little and my fire was limited to a few sparks, I have never tried to use my fire. It’s always happened accidentally, or unintentionally.”

“Let’s talk about siphoning.” He crouched, drawing a crude diagram in the dirt. “Your power is like a well. If you draw from it all at once, you’ll burn out. Or worse—lose control. You need to learn how to pull small streams from it. Let it build. Direct it. For those with more significant gifts, we have to siphon our power regularly to take the edge off. It helps to practice small things regularly. Lighting the hearth fires and the lanterns in the castle, for instance.”

Aelin looked skeptical. “If I tried to light a lantern in the castle, I would probably burn the entire hallway.”

“That’s why we’re going to practice precision,” Rowan replied.

He pulled out a candle and held it out in his hand. “Light it,” he said.

“What? And no,” Aelin barked.

“Start small. One flame. Don’t force it. Just… reach for it like you would your sword.”

“Can you just put it down and move away? I’m going to incinerate you!”

“You won’t Aelin. You can’t hurt me.” He said it so confidently. 

She wanted to wipe that smug look off his face. Arrogant bastard.

“How can you be so sure? You have seen that I have no control whatsoever,” Aelin replied.

“You do, sometimes. At the Keep, you didn’t burn Aedion, or the documents in your satchel. You didn’t burn your clothes or weapons or hair.”

“That’s not exactly a ringing endorsement. You’re going to die a very painful death, you know. At least it will be quick, I suppose. It only took a half a second when it was Tern.”

Rowan pocketed the candle and approached Aelin. “I know this is hard for you, Fireheart. And I know you are trying. Trust me when I say that you will not hurt me. I am not Tern. And Tern did not have my abilities.”

Taking the candle from his pocket, he lit it with a flint and handed it to her. “Hold the flame up to my hand,” he instructed her.

“What? Why?” she stammered.

“Just do it, Aelin,” he said, giving an exasperated sigh. 

Aelin held the candle up a few inches away from his outstretched hand.

“Closer,” he requested.

She moved the flame an inch closer.

Rowan rolled his eyes. With his other hand, he reached out for her hand and guided it until the flame was touching his skin. He didn’t flinch or show any signs that the flame was affecting him in any way.

“I can take away the wind, make it so the fire has nothing to feed on, like a shield against flame.”

His eyes scrunched in concentration for a moment and then his hand was encased in a thin layer of ice. “Or I can shield myself this way, but it’s much less comfortable.”

Aelin laughed brightly.

“Rowan Whitethorn! I dare say we are well matched for this task. I hope you can encase your entire body. You might need it,” Aelin replied.

Are you ready to try now?

She nodded.

Aelin took a breath. She reached inside herself to the flame simmering just beneath the surface of her skin. She concentrated, focusing on drawing out a little, tiny flame.

It did not work. Her flames erupted out of her. When she looked up at Rowan he was fine. Untouched. Just as he had promised. But his hand that had been holding the candle was dripping with hot wax. The candle was entirely gone.

  Not surprising , she thought.

Rowan  made her try again, and again, and again. He seemed to have an unlimited supply of candles.

“Now,” Rowan said softly, voice low and steady, “instead of opening the floodgates—take what you need. No more, no less. You don’t let your sword swing wild when you fight, do you?”

She shook her head.

“Then don’t let your magic. Think of it like a blade. Cut away just what you need, clean and precise.”

Aelin furrowed her brow, focusing inward. She pictured her power not as a roaring blaze, but a glowing forge—full of fire, yes, but shaped and held.

Slicing off what I need, she thought. Not letting it consume me. I am its master. I am in control.

A soft flame bloomed.

Her eyes flew open. The candle flickered to life, steady and warm.

Rowan didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

Aelin tried another. And another. By the time she lit the sixth one, she was sweating and shaking, but grinning so widely her cheeks ached.

“I didn’t incinerate you,” she said, breathless.

Rowan chuckled. “I’m almost disappointed.”

She swatted his arm, then leaned against him, letting herself bask for a moment in the victory. His arm slipped around her waist, steadying her.

“You did well, Fireheart.”

“Thanks for not giving up on me.”

“Never,” he said simply. “The power is yours, Aelin. Not the other way around. You command it—it doesn't command you.”

And this time, she believed him.

“Let’s go get you something to eat. That’s the next lesson. Magic takes a lot of energy, and you need to eat to replenish your stores. You’ll likely be very hungry today.”

“In that case, I’m going to the kitchen in search of hazelnut chocolate cake,” Aelin chirped.

Rowan scoffed. “Sugary confections have little to offer your body in the way of nutrition. You need real food.”

Aelin rolled her eyes. “Fine, Buzzard. I’ll get my cake after lunch.”

Buzzard?

Yes, you’re hovering and annoying me like the buzzard you are. Don’t deny it .

Chapter Text

The great doors of the Orynth Library creaked open as Aelin stepped inside, the cool, quiet hush of the stone interior swallowing the sounds of the city behind her. The scent of dust and ink, of vellum and old wood, wrapped around her like a shroud—familiar, comforting, and heavy with memory.

She had been banned when she was eight after lighting a shelf of ancient, irreplaceable volumes on fire. It was an accident, of course. But it felt harsh, the ban a punishment for not being able to control something that was barely even hers yet. Now that she was in search of some very old books, she felt a tinge of sympathy for the librarians from ten years ago.

Now she came and went as she pleased. Let them try and stop her.

Row after row of towering shelves passed beneath her fingertips as she made her way to the easternmost wing—where the oldest books were kept. The texts bound in dragonhide and stitched with thread so fine it was said the Fae had spun it themselves. Books dating back to the time of King Brannon. She passed beneath the arched inscription at the top of the stone lintel: Memory Shall Not Fade.

It took some convincing for the ancient librarian to grant her access. Eventually, the old woman waved her through.

The chamber was dim, lit by only a few flickering candles and high, arched windows that barely let in the overcast afternoon light. Aelin pulled her cloak tighter around her and stepped inside.

She searched for hours.

Book after book. Fable after fable. History twisted into legend and legend blurred with myth. Her fingertips grew smudged with dust, her eyes bleary from the dense, cramped text.

Some of the volumes were written in the old Fae language—graceful, curling symbols inked in silver and gold. She paused more than once to trace them, breath catching at how they mirrored the markings of Rowan’s tattoo. The shame of his past, the story of him and Lyria, laid bare across his skin in that language. She thought of him as she'd last seen him, training quietly in the courtyard, that wicked looking tattoo a stark contrast to his tan skin. She saw his tattoo much differently now that she understood the anguish and shame behind it. She wished he was here now—he could read these for her without needing to squint at the worn translation notes scrawled in the margins.

Eventually—on a cracked and brittle page deep within a tome titled The Fall of the First Empire —she found it.

Goldryn.

The sword of flame, forged in the heart of a volcano and cooled in the sacred pools of Mala’s temple. A weapon that was said to burn only in the hands of one born of fire, and one that could not be wielded by darkness. It had been gifted by Mala herself to her beloved, King Brannon Galathynius.

She read the passage over and over again, heart hammering.

And beside it—sketched in ink faded almost to nothing—was the ring. A plain, golden band. It shimmered faintly even through the dust, the ancient runes dancing like embers. According to the text, it had belonged to Athril, friend of Brannon and beloved of Queen Maeve.

The three had travelled together to find the wyrdkeys. But Brannon and Athril took the wyrdkeys to keep them from her. Brannon fled with the keys across the Great Ocean where Maeve would not follow. She would not forgive her lover for taking the wyrdkeys. Athril died, slain by her own hand. The wyrdkeys were never seen again.

And the ring, the sword—they had vanished with Brannon.

No mention of where the relics had ended up. Only that they were lost to time.

Aelin sat back against the stone wall of the library chamber, the weight of the book still in her lap.

So the Little Folk had not simply left them random gifts. They had left her relics connected to Maeve. Symbols of fire and sacrifice and legacy. The legacy of her ancestor who had defied Maeve beyond comprehension. The sacrifice of a lover she killed in rage and retribution.

And if they’d left her replicas …

Then somewhere, the originals must still exist.

She traced the sketch of the ring with one finger, her mind racing.

As she left the library, the candlelight flickering over the ancient stone walls behind her, Aelin Galathynius held the names of her ancestors, Brannon and Mala, like flames in her chest—and vowed to find the relics.

Wherever they were.

~~~~~~~~~~

Rowan

The Orynth moon hung low and pale in the sky as Rowan slipped the tunic over his head and set it neatly on the chair beside his bed. The castle was quiet at this hour—peaceful in a way that always made him uneasy. Too quiet. Like the calm before a storm.

He ran a hand through his silver hair. His body still ached faintly from the wound that had nearly killed him, but it had healed—thanks to Sorcha, thanks to Aelin and Aedion.

He leaned against the edge of the washbasin, jaw clenched.

Mates.

They’d said the word aloud, finally. Not in full, not cleanly. But they’d circled it. Acknowledged what had been growing between them like wildfire through dry grass. And now, every time he looked at her, it roared in his blood.

Rowan opened the window and took a breath of the night air, crisp with the coming of autumn. Then he shifted, bones cracking, wings slicing through the shadows.

He shouldn't be going to her.

He’d told himself he wouldn’t go again. Told himself that the line between protecting her and needing her had blurred too much already.

But he didn’t veer away. He flew.

The castle roofs passed beneath him like jagged teeth, and the warm golden light of her chambers came into view ahead. She always left the window unlatched now.

Because she knew he’d come.

Gods damn him, he was a fool.

He touched down with barely a whisper, the worn stone cool under his talons. The window swung inward, and he stepped into the quiet of her room, shifting back into his Fae form before his boots met the floor.

Aelin was asleep. Peaceful.

He stared at the bed where they’d laid together night after night since returning from Perranth. Where she’d curled up beside him and rested her hand over his chest, like she was still worried his heart would stop beating if her hand wasn’t an ever steady presence.

Rowan scrubbed a hand down his face and sat in the armchair near the hearth, staring into the dying fire.

You’re a fool, he told himself. You came to her bed and now you can’t stay away. 

But how could he refuse her, when she’d looked at him with those eyes—so fierce and scared —and begged him to come?

He could have said no.

He didn’t want to.

Her presence beside him quieted the memories. The screams from his past. The blood on his hands. The losses.

And for her… he suspected it was the same. They didn’t speak of the bond, not after that night on the ramparts. Didn’t speak of the way his magic reached for hers constantly now, like a tether pulled tight between them.

She hadn’t let go of it.

Neither had he.

But neither had they taken it. Claimed it.

Rowan leaned his head back against the chair and closed his eyes.

He would lie beside her again tonight, and not touch her. He would keep the line drawn, even as the part of him—the primal, aching part—screamed to break it.

And when she woke from a nightmare and reached for him in the dark, he would hold her, and pretend it was only for her sake.

Even if it destroyed him.

The next morning Rowan stood at the edge of the training field behind the palace, arms crossed, the early morning light catching on the frost glinting across the grass. Aelin was already waiting, standing on scorched earth from yesterday’s training session. The air around her shimmered faintly—fire already stirring beneath her skin.

“Again,” he said, voice calm but commanding. “And this time… don’t stop. Not until you find the bottom.”

Aelin’s golden hair glinted like a blade unsheathed as she turned toward him. Her jaw tightened, and without a word, her flame emerged.

The fire that erupted was not the wildfire of her early days. It was honed now, molten and fluid, like the movement of a sword in expert hands. Yet Rowan could see the strain already—how tightly she gripped that control, how much she feared letting go.

But she had to let go.

“More,” Rowan said. “Let it all out.”

Aelin gasped, the fire roaring higher. Her eyes shone with golden light, her hair catching flame but not burning. The blaze swelled around her, thick and blinding, turning the world into a sea of flame.

She was magnificent. A goddess reborn in the body of a queen.

And still, the magic kept coming.

“It doesn’t stop ,” she said through clenched teeth. “I’ve tried, Rowan—I can’t find the bottom.”

She was shaking. Her knees buckled slightly.

Rowan didn’t hesitate.

Wind and frost unfurled from him like wings. A shield of air and ice wrapped around his body, spinning into a crystalline vortex that repelled her flames with a hiss of steam. The fire parted around him—not out of reverence, but because his magic would not allow it to touch him.

He walked forward, eyes locked on hers.

Aelin blinked. “Rowan—what are you doing?”

“I told you,” he said quietly. “I’m not afraid.”

The inferno screamed around him, but his shield held strong—unblemished, immovable. As he reached her, frost kissed her skin where his power met hers, flame and snow swirling in a dance older than time.

Rowan beheld all that Aelin was and is, and he was not afraid.

And neither, finally, was she.

He reached up, cupping her face. “You are magnificent, Fireheart,” he whispered, his voice a soft wind in the storm.

Her eyes shimmered with fire and something more vulnerable beneath it. “I can’t stop it.”

“Yes, you can. It’s yours . Not some wild force working through you. You command it. It obeys.”

Her flames crackled louder, heat rising as panic flared.

She shook her head once, tear-tracks steaming down her cheeks. “It never has before.”

Rowan leaned his forehead against hers. “Because you were afraid. But you don’t need to be anymore. You are not dangerous. You’re limitless. And I am with you.”

A moment passed. The magic surged again—and this time, Aelin didn’t fight it. She shaped it.

It flowed back toward her like a tide, burning gold and fierce, but contained . Mastered.

The flames faded.

The scorched earth steamed in the silence that followed, and Aelin sagged against him, her breath ragged.

Rowan caught her easily, strong and solid and utterly unharmed.

“You walked into a blazing inferno,” she murmured.

“I did,” he smirked.

Aelin huffed a soft, disbelieving laugh. “You’re insufferable.”

For a moment they just stood there, together, catching their breath.

“I didn’t feel a bottom,” she whispered after a moment. “None at all.”

“I know,” Rowan murmured.

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.

Chapter Text

Allsbrook castle lay nestled in a quiet valley at the foot of the Staghorn Mountains, its rooftops dusted with late-autumn frost that glittered in the pale morning light. Pines swayed in the wind just beyond the town’s edge, where the Oakwald forest pressed close, as if keeping vigil over the slumbering peaks. Smoke curled from chimneys and the scent of woodsmoke and cold earth greeted Aelin as she and Aedion rode into the town square.

Ren Allsbrook was waiting for them at the manor steps, his twin blades sheathed at his back. The sight of them brought a flicker of a smirk to Aedion’s mouth, and Ren returned it with a nod of shared understanding between the two former rivals.

"You're early," Ren said, brushing a hand through his wind-tousled hair. "I would’ve had warm bread waiting if I'd known the Princess was so prompt."

"I’m just a soldier on patrol today, Ren. And princess or not, I’d never pass up warm bread," Aelin replied with a wink, sliding down from her horse.

Lord Murtaugh joined them a moment later, bundled in a thick wool cloak, his steps slower than they once had been, but still sharp-eyed and warm-faced.

"Aelin," he said, and the way he said her name made her heart hitch. The last time she’d seen him had been years ago when he and his wife, Lady Allsbrook, stayed at the palace in Orynth for Council meetings. He had been one of her favorite visitors to the castle then. He used to sneak her candied hazelnuts from the kitchens and slip her extra biscuits when her nurse wasn’t looking.

"I remember all those sweets you used to sneak me," she said with a small grin.

“Is this who we have to thank for your insatiable sweet tooth?” Aedion chided good naturedly.

Murtaugh chuckled. "I remember a certain little girl hiding under the table at council meetings, usually with crumbs all over her face," he teased.

They embraced briefly, then entered the warmth of the manor.

That afternoon, they laid out maps on a large oak table in the Allsbrook library, candles flickering over the inked lines of mountains and foothills.

Ren pointed to the base of the range, drawing a line along a forested stretch near the western edge. “There are two known Fae villages here, tucked into the western gap,” he said. “They don’t welcome many outsiders—though they’ve been quiet allies since the Bane began reclaiming this area. There’s rumor of a third village, deeper into the gap, close to Wolf Tribe territory on the other side of the Staghorns.”

“Perfect,” Aelin murmured. “We’ll visit the two marked villages in the gap, and maybe someone there will know about the third.” 

“Any reason?” Murtaugh asked, brow raised.

“Personally, I’ve made a point to make the Fae feel more included in Terrasen’s affairs,” Aelin replied. “We’re a kingdom of humans, Fae, and demi-Fae. Our policies should reflect everyone’s needs.”

“This mission aligns with the Bane’s duties to patrol the borders,” Aedion added. “We haven’t had any issues with the Wolf Tribe in years, but it’s best to keep an eye on things.”

They left the maps for the night and retreated to the hearth in the manor’s drawing room. Murtaugh poured mulled wine, and Ren tossed another log on the fire.

Aelin pulled the ancient book from her satchel and curled up in an armchair near the hearth. 

“That book looks older than me,” Murtaugh joked when he noticed what Aelin was reading. 

“This is an old book of tales from the earliest days of Terrasen,” Aelin replied. “It’s written in the old Fae language. It contains stories and history from the time of Brannon—maybe even earlier. I have been trying to read it but my knowledge of the old language is pretty abysmal so I haven’t made much progress.”

Lord Murtaugh studied the worn leather cover. “Old Fae... it’s rare to find anyone who still speaks it, let alone reads it. At least on this continent.”

“Yeah,” she sighed. “I was planning to ask Prince Rowan to help me with it since I’m pretty sure he knows the old language, but we haven’t had a chance to look at it yet.”

“Been too busy burning down buildings in Rifthold?” Ren piped in. Aelin knew he was teasing, and stuck out her tongue at him. Even though they were human, the Allsbrooks had magic in their family. In fact, Ren’s two older sisters had magical abilities and spent time away at a magical training school. They had always been much more comfortable than other human nobles with Aelin’s magic and Fae heritage.

“That’s not very ladylike of you,” Aedion chided.

“Then it’s a good thing I’m a soldier and not a lady,” Aelin chided back.

Aelin took a sip from her cup, the spices warming her chest. “There is a connection, I think. To what happened to me, with the assassin. There’s something going on, some kind of plot or conspiracy. I just know. We just need to figure it out. And I think there’s a connection, somehow, back to Brannon or something that happened during his time. So I’m trying to read up on my history.”

Murtaugh was silent for a long moment, staring into the flames. Then he said, “There’s one ancient Fae who might still be alive. Goes by the name Conlaoch. They say he knew Brannon himself, but he hasn’t been seen in decades. He moved away from the village in the gap where he lived when I was a boy. You could ask about him when you go out to patrol the villages.”

“That is really helpful. Thanks, Murtaugh. I knew there was a reason you were always my favorite of my father’s Lords,” Aelin teased.

The fire crackled on, and outside, the Staghorns stood in silence, the wind whispering secrets from their ancient slopes.

The next morning the wind howled and light flurries drifted through the trees as Aedion and Aelin rode, their cloaks pulled tight, the hooves of their horses crunching over frozen ground. Aelin remained in her Fae form, her golden hair braided back and her sharp ears alert beneath her hood. It felt natural now—being in this form for long stretches—and though the cold bit at her cheeks, her fire simmered just beneath her skin, keeping her warm.

They traveled in silence at first, listening to the wind, the creak of pines, and the occasional snap of a branch as they made their way deeper into the Gap. Patrols here were rare. The terrain was difficult, the villages spread out and often well-hidden—by design. These were the borderlands, where Terrasen faded into the no-man’s land that brushed against the wild northern reaches claimed by the Wolf Tribes.

By midday, they reached the first of the Fae settlements, a village built into the side of a hill, homes carved into the earth and covered in turf and vines that had long since died back for the winter. The people watched them approach with wary eyes.

“They don’t trust us,” Aedion murmured, glancing toward a female who slipped back into her home at the sight of them.

“They don’t know us yet,” Aelin replied, dismounting. “That’s going to change.”

Their reception was chilly but not hostile. Aelin introduced herself simply as Aelin Galathynius—and while the name drew some raised brows, it did not win her favor. Most of the villagers had lived in relative isolation for centuries, untouched by the politics of courts and crowns. They nodded, offered curt greetings, and answered few questions.

Still, Aelin made mental notes as they passed through the first two settlements and then that third border settlement. She learned faces and names, asked about their needs and the dangers they faced during the winter. She offered her presence again and again without forcing anything. And privately, she promised herself she would get herself assigned to these patrols whenever she could.

“These villages have never had a reason to trust a crown,” she said to Aedion as they camped that night, a small fire crackling between them. “We’re going to give them one.”

Aedion nodded, leaning back on one elbow. “They’ll come around. They’re survivors—just like the rest of us. But if you keep showing up, they’ll remember.”

In the third village, they asked about the ancient recluse but no one seemed to know anything. Or they were being skittish. As they mounted their horses to make the journey back to Allsbrook, a female called out to them. “You’re Aelin Galathynius, descendent of Brannon?” she inquired.

“Yes,” Aelin said quietly. 

“You’re looking for the ancient one?”

“Do you know where he is?”

The female pointed a gnarled finger east, toward a ridge that loomed far beyond the current map’s edge. “You’ll find an outcrop with three standing stones. From there, follow the deer paths. You’ll know it when you see it.”

The next morning, Aelin and Aedion rode out early. They passed beyond where the marked trails ended, their horses navigating narrow ridgelines and frozen creeks. Pines loomed overhead, a light snow blanketing every inch of earth that hadn’t been disturbed by passing animals or the occasional windswept gust.

And there—just as the old woman had said—stood the three stones.

Aelin dismounted and ran a gloved hand over one. The stone was worn smooth by time, marked faintly with what might have once been Fae script.

“We’re close,” she murmured.

Aedion turned toward the mountain beyond. “What do you think he’s like? Someone who knew Brannon?”

Aelin’s gaze sharpened as she looked toward the hidden ridge. “Old, and wise I hope, that is if he’s still alive.”

The wind carried her words into the trees as they pressed onward.

A light snow clung to the steep ridgeline as Aelin and Aedion approached the small dwelling tucked into the mountainside, nearly swallowed whole by trees and bramble. The trail had vanished miles back, the forest thick with silence. Not even the Little Folk ventured this far up the mountainside. 

The hut was made of stone and timber, smoke curling from its crooked chimney into the pale sky. A pair of wind-chimes—made of bones and feathers—sang in the crisp breeze. Despite its age, the cottage looked well-kept, the stones sturdy.

They dismounted and approached with caution, but before Aelin could knock, the door creaked open.

A Fae male stood in the doorway. He looked no older than thirty—broad-shouldered and tall, with high cheekbones, rich brown skin, and long, black hair braided down his back. But his eyes… his eyes were ancient, grey as a stormy sea. He studied her first, then Aedion, then returned to her again with faint amusement.

“I was wondering when someone would come asking about the old days,” he said in a smooth, ageless voice. “

Aelin blinked. “How did you—”

“Come in, Aelin Galathynius, and your companion,” a faint smile adorned his lips as he stepped aside and let them in.

The interior was warm and dimly lit by a hearth built deep into the stone wall. The scent of herbs and woodsmoke filled the air. Books and scrolls were stacked in uneven towers. Old weapons, dulled with time, hung along the beams. And sitting atop the mantle was a carved statue of a stag—her family’s sigil.

“You knew Brannon,” Aelin said, voice quiet with reverence.

“I fought beside him,” Conlaoch replied. “Though he was far more interesting than I ever was. Sit, sit. I’ve not had visitors in years.”

They sat by the hearth, and Aelin pulled out the ancient book, the leather binding soft with age, the Fae script scrawled like ivy across the pages. “I was hoping you could help me read it,” Aelin explained. “I was never taught the old Fae language.”

Conlaoch turned it carefully, brows raising as he read.

“This is no ordinary tale. This is one of the first. Perhaps the last written before we lost much of our history.” He looked up at her. “Where did you find this?”

“It was in the Library of Orynth,” she said. “Tucked away in a corner.” 

He gave a low chuckle. “As all good things often are.”

“It was from Brannon’s personal collection of books that he left to the library when he faded into the afterworld.”

Over the course of the next two days, Conlaoch read to them by firelight. His voice was deep and clear, flowing over the old Fae tongue and translating into the Common as Aelin jotted down every word she could with ink and parchment. Aedion mostly listened, quiet and attentive, sometimes sharpening a blade or leaving for a few hours to hunt for their meals.

The stories painted vivid, harrowing portraits of the world before.

The First Valg War, a cataclysm the world barely survived.

The forging of alliances between lifelong friends Brannon and Athril and with Athril’s lover, Queen Maeve.

Their adventure to retrieve the wyrdstones—and the subsequent betrayal. Maeve had desired to possess the wyrdstones. To use them to attain unmatched power over mortals and Fae alike.

Brannon and Athril’s desperate plan to take the wyrdkeys to a far away land where Maeve, for some unknown reason, dared not travel.

Athril and Maeve’s heartbreak, the betrayal that ended with his blood soaking the stone at her feet.

Conlaoch’s voice trembled once when he reached that part. “She killed him,” he said quietly. “In retribution. He did not have the keys, but he had helped Brannon get away with them. Tricked her. And Brannon… Brannon fled across the sea, leaving everything behind.”

The book referenced the wyrdmarks—symbols of a magic not born of this world, capable of terrible and wondrous things. 

The mention of wyrdmarks brought up memories of Nehemia. Had she known about this? She had known about wyrdmarks. Maybe she knew something. Something dangerous. Something someone powerful did not want her to know.

The book spoke of the Valg and their realm of endless darkness. Of how they came to this world through the wyrdgates, of the terror they wrought—possessing minds, feeding on despair, twisting even the strongest Fae into shadows of themselves.

“They are parasites,” Conlaoch said. “They do not simply kill. They consume. And unless one is protected, their darkness can take root in the mind. Twist it. Control it.”

Near the final pages, a tale unfolded of a fire so strong it could defeat the Valg--the power of a Fae beloved and blessed by the goddess Mala. And a sword—Goldryn, forged in fire and blessed by Mala, its ruby hilt said to burn brighter when facing darkness. It was a weapon against Valg.

And a ring. Simple. Golden. Elegant.

“Athril’s ring,” Conlaoch whispered, running a reverent finger over the faded ink. “It was a family heirloom. The last heirloom of his bloodline. It was blessed with the magic of the goddess Silba. It shielded his mind. Kept him safe from the Valg’s reach.”

Aelin glanced up from her notes. “Does it still exist?”

“If it does,” Conlaoch murmured, “then it is likely lost to time.”

When the reading was done, Aelin pressed the book back into his hands. “Keep it,” she said. “You loved it too much to part with it now.”

Conlaoch’s eyes shimmered with gratitude. “Then I shall guard it well, Aelin Galathynius.”

“I can’t thank you enough, for your help and your hospitality,” Aelin replied, clasping Conlaoch’s hands in hers.

They left his cottage the next morning, the sky a pale gold as the sun crested the ridge. Aelin looked back once—at the reclusive old warrior, at the warmth in his golden eyes—and wondered how many more truths like this had been lost to time.

Aelin and Aedion made their way back to Allsbrook, where they reconvened with the rest of their patrol group for the trek back to Orynth. Back along the base of the Staghorns and the edge of the Oakwald to the crossing of the Florine River. 

As they traveled, Aelin again was blessed with small gifts from the Little Folk. One night, another owl, snowy white, made of feathers birch twigs. The next, a replica made of twigs, bark and moss that Aelin probably would not have recognized but for her visit there on a patrol a few months prior--the Temple of the Stone in Ilium.

Chapter Text

Aedion

The chill in the wind did nothing to cool the heat boiling in Aedion’s veins when he returned to Orynth. He stalked through the stone halls of the castle, barely aware of the guards and courtiers stepping quickly out of his path. Rage kept his steps fast, steady. He wasn’t even sure what he was going to say—only that the words needed out. Needed him to hear them.

Gavriel was standing on one of the open balconies overlooking the training yard, where the Bane sparred below under the afternoon sun. The golden-haired Fae warrior looked statuesque, unreadable as always. But something in the set of his shoulders shifted as Aedion approached.

“You knew,” Aedion said, voice low and shaking. “You knew and you said nothing.”

Gavriel turned. His expression wasn’t cold. It was—haunted.

“No,” he said quietly. “I didn’t know. Not until I saw you in the castle that first day.”

Aedion’s fists clenched. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not,” Gavriel said, his voice rough. “I had no idea. Your mother never told me. Not once. I never even suspected she was pregnant when I left for Doranelle.”

Aedion’s voice turned brittle. “Convenient.”

“No,” Gavriel said sharply. “No, Aedion. Not convenient. Devastating. Because if I had known—if I had known —I would have done everything differently.”

“What could you have done differently?” Aedion asked, bitter. “You’re sworn to her !”

Gavriel hesitated. And in that pause, Aedion saw enough.

“She would have taken me,” Aedion said. “Used me. Twisted me. That’s why my mother never told you. That’s why she died protecting me.”

“I know that now,” Gavriel said, barely above a whisper. “I see it every time I look at you.”

Aedion’s throat closed. He hated the ache that bloomed in his chest. Hated the part of him that wanted to believe the sincerity in Gavriel’s eyes.

“You look just like her,” Gavriel said, his voice cracking. “Gods, it undoes me, how much.”

Aedion looked away, the fury shifting into something colder, deeper. “It doesn’t change anything. You’re still sworn to Maeve. And that means when you return to her, she’ll pull it from you. You won’t have a choice. And then she’ll know. She’ll know everything.”

Gavriel’s jaw tightened. “I would do anything to stop that from happening.”

“But you can’t,” Aedion snapped. “Because you’re hers. Just as much now as you were then. And I can’t trust you.”

A beat of silence.

Gavriel spoke softly. “I wish things were different, Aedion. I’m not asking you to forgive me. I am bound to her, and there is nothing I can do to change that. But I can help you now. Help prepare you for whatever you may have to face in the future. Even if you have to face me.”

The thought made him shutter. To have to fight against his own father in battle. Aedion turned to go, fury too tangled with grief to sort through. “I’ve spent my whole life protecting Aelin from her , all of us, my mother most of all, have made sacrifices to protect Aelin from her . And now, because of you, she’ll have her claws in me. And that means she’ll have her claws in Aelin. Just like she’s always wanted.”

He walked away before he said anything more.

Behind him, the wind stirred, but Gavriel didn’t follow.

Rowan

The bed was too soft. It always was, but it had grown familiar over the past few nights. Not because of luxury or comfort, but because of the scent—jasmine and embers, wildflowers and flame. Aelin.

Rowan lay still, one arm resting across the space where she should have been. He hadn't meant to get used to this—to her absence and her presence, both. Sleeping in her bed while she was gone to Allsbrook had felt strange at first. Now it felt like the only place where the silence didn't bite so sharply.

He hadn’t asked to stay. Hadn’t meant to stay. But the first night, with sleep elusive and thoughts running wild, he’d found himself in her room, then beneath her blankets, lulled to sleep by the lingering imprint of her.

A fool, he thought now as he sat up, scrubbing a hand through his hair. A fool for letting himself get this close. And still he stayed. 

It would only hurt more later. He knew that. Knew the only way out of Maeve’s trap. It would not be a happy end for him. Maybe he deserved it. For not knowing. For leaving and not protecting. For failing his duty. 

The fire in the hearth had long since burned to embers. He rose, stretching, and wandered into the sitting room where the shadows clung a little more tightly.

There, on the low table where she'd left them, sat the two replicas—the sword with its ruby-red hilt and the golden wooden carved ring of simple design. Gifts left by the Little Folk on their journey back from Perranth, as mysterious as they were unmistakably crafted with intent.

Rowan crouched beside them, frowning slightly as he reached out but didn’t touch.

The sword glinted in the firelight, light catching in the red berries like liquid flame. It wasn’t a real weapon—no edge, no weight for true battle—but even as a replica, it had a presence. A hum. A memory that lingered in the air like a name forgotten on the tip of his tongue.

Something about it prickled the edges of his mind.

He narrowed his eyes. It felt like something he’d seen before. In dreams? In a memory buried too deep to reach? But when he searched for it—nothing. Just the sense that this blade should mean something.

But it didn’t.

Not yet.

He shifted his gaze to the ring. Simpler, but no less significant. The Little Folk had chosen these things for a reason, and if Aelin had sensed any answers in them, she hadn’t said.

Rowan leaned back on his heels and exhaled slowly. He was still there, brow furrowed in thought, when the door opened behind him.

“I missed that look,” Aelin said, her voice soft with amusement.

He turned sharply—only to find her standing in the doorway, windswept and travel-worn, her cloak dusted with mountain dirt. Her smile was tired, but warm. Real.

He stood in a breath, crossing the room before he’d thought it through. He didn’t pull her into a hug. Just looked at her, searching her face, cataloging everything he’d missed in her absence.

Her eyes softened. “I missed you too.”

Only then did he wrap his arms around her, holding her tightly against his chest.

“I kept your bed warm,” he murmured against her hair.

Her laugh, quiet and hoarse with exhaustion, made something in his chest ease. “Glad to know you're useful for something.”

Soon after, they curled together beneath the covers, the fire crackling low. Her head found his shoulder. His hand found her waist. Familiar. So gods-damned familiar it hurt.

They lay in silence, the kind of quiet that felt like it had earned its place.

“I met someone,” she said, voice low.

Rowan looked down at her, brushing a strand of hair back behind her ear.

“In the Staghorns,” she went on. “An ancient Fae male named Conlaoch. The villagers said he’s over a thousand years old.”

His brow lifted. “Still alive?”

“He’s... more than that. He remembered Brannon. He knew him.”

That made Rowan sit up slightly. “And he talked to you?”

She nodded. “I brought an old book with me. The one in the old Fae language. He read it aloud, translated it while I took notes.”

“What did it say?”

Aelin swallowed. “Stories. Warnings. It told of the first Valg war. Of Brannon and Athril’s travels. Of Athril’s lover, Queen Maeve. Of Goldryn, and a ring that belonged to Athril.”

Rowan glanced back toward the sitting room, where the replicas still rested on the table. “You think those are meant to be them?”

She nodded once. “The Little Folk left them for me on purpose. They’re always looking out for me. Ever since I was little.”

Rowan stared into the darkness, thinking of the sword and the strange hum of familiarity that had pulsed through him just moments ago.

“The sword,” he said. “It tugs at something in my memory—but I don’t know what it is. Just… a shadow of something. A whisper.”

Aelin took his hand beneath the blankets. “Maybe we’re both remembering things we never knew to look for before.”

He held her tightly. “Whatever this is… whatever it becomes... we’ll face it together.”

She nodded, eyes already fluttering shut as sleep tugged at her. And still, he remained awake, listening to her steady breaths and staring into the darkness.

Aelin

The morning air was crisp and thin, edged with frost that glittered across the sparring yard. Aelin stood at the center of the Bane’s training field, stretching the stiffness from her limbs. Her breath curled in front of her face in the early chill, her body already humming with anticipation.

Resuming her training with the Bane had been a necessity—not just to keep her edge sharp, but to anchor herself. After the revelations of the past weeks—the truth about Athril and Brannon, and Maeve, and the sword and ring left by the Little Folk—she needed something that tethered her to the present. Something tangible. And there was nothing more grounding than the sting of sweat, the burn of tired muscles, and the crack of steel against steel.

Throughout the morning, Aelin sparred with some Bane reservists who were in Orynth for their monthly training drills. Ren offered her a sharp grin when their blades clashed. In her human form, he made her work for it even though he was no match for her in her Fae form. Aedion shouted encouragement—or insults, depending on his mood—from the sidelines. And Gavriel, ever patient, waited for her after the rounds to resume their own combat practice. His golden shield clashed against her blade with a force she could only respect. He never went easy on her, and that was exactly what she needed.

But it was Rowan who pushed her further still.

Every afternoon, after the training yard had quieted, they moved to a small, enclosed terrace on the castle’s eastern wing—private, protected from curious eyes, and shielded by Rowan’s magic.

Here, they worked on control and precision.

“Again,” Rowan said now, his voice steady and cool as the wall of wind he summoned between them.

Aelin stood at one end of the terrace, five unlit candles arrayed before her.

Control, not force.

“Take just what you need,” Rowan instructed, his voice low and sure. “The power is yours. You command it. Not the other way around.”

She felt the heat inside her—ever-burning, coiled like a beast waiting to strike. Her instincts wanted to burn bright and high, but that wasn’t the point.

Not anymore.

She imagined a blade slicing off only what she needed. A sliver of flame, nothing more. She extended that heat outward with care, breathing steadily as the first candle sparked to life.

Then the second. Third. Fourth.

The fifth flared.

All five flickered steadily.

Rowan’s mouth quirked into a rare smile as his winds snuffed out the flames. “Good. Again.”

They repeated it over and over, until she could light them with half a thought, one at a time, in sequence or all at once.

It helped. The regular use. She could feel it in her blood, how the power didn’t press so hard against her ribs, didn’t rage in the back of her throat like a wildfire demanding to be freed. Using it didn’t make her weak—it made her stable. Clear.

She wondered—had she made it worse, all those years spent forcing herself not to use her gift? All the fear, all the guilt? The restraint had been a cage, not true discipline.

The next phase of training was harder.

Rowan stood beside her one afternoon, watching as she called flame to her hand and fed it into the brazier before her. A full blaze roared within.

“Now take it back,” he said quietly.

She blinked. “What?”

“You created it. You can unmake it. Draw it into yourself.”

That sounded dangerous. It felt dangerous.

Still, she nodded. And began.

It took days. Weeks. A dance of will and strength. Of heat that didn’t sear and control that didn’t falter.

When she finally did it—drew the flame into herself, felt it crawl beneath her skin like silk and lightning and then vanish into her core—she stood trembling with exertion. Rowan didn’t speak. Just placed a steadying hand at her back, quiet pride in his pine green eyes.

The world had begun to feel different, more manageable. Less like a powder keg waiting for the spark.

One cold winter morning a few weeks later, as she passed through the training yard, she caught sight of Killian speaking with a group of Bane captains near the map boards. Curious, she approached, her braid damp with sweat from morning drills.

“We’ve had movement in Ilium,” Killian was saying. “Scouts think it’s quiet, but we need a strong patrol presence there. Volunteers?”

“I’ll go,” Aelin said before she could think twice.

Killian blinked. “You?”

She shrugged. “It’s been a while since I got out of Orynth. Sounds like a nice trip.”

Killian laughed under his breath. “It’s a frozen marshland, Your Highness.”

“Still sounds better than court meetings.”

He grinned. “You’re on the roster.”

As she walked away, Aelin felt the fire coiled within her, steady and warm. For once, it didn’t frighten her. For once, she felt ready .

Chapter Text

The wind off the Ilium coast was sharp and biting, thick with salt and snow. Winter had settled deep over Terrasen, and even the sea was not spared. The waves crashed harder against the cliffs, spray turning to frost on the rocks. The skies were a silver gray, heavy with the promise of more snow, and the wind howled through the crags like a warning.

Ilium was a coastal town perched on Terrasen’s southern border, just before the lands sloped into Adarlan. The buildings were sturdy, salt-worn things, clustered like barnacles against the rock face, huddled together for warmth. From their camp perched on a high ridge outside the town, Aelin could see the craggy shoreline stretch on endlessly, the water below churning with icy fury. Brine hung on the air, mingling with the ever-present cold.

The patrol group had left Orynth four days ago, traveling south over icy roads, their breath fogging with every step. Rowan and Gavriel had accompanied them—not just as guards, but so Aelin’s training could continue uninterrupted. In this weather, magic was more than a weapon. It was survival.

That night, they made camp in the half-ruined stone outpost that overlooked the cliffs. Snow dusted the crumbling walls and gathered in the corners, but the central fire blazed hot and bright, warming the chill that crept in from the sea.

Aelin had done more than just build a fire. She had conjured half a dozen small flames and hung them in the air like lanterns—floating orbs of warm golden light that bathed the camp in a cozy glow. The soldiers muttered their thanks as they set up their bedrolls, grateful not to have to gather wood.

“If you keep that up, you’ll be very popular on winter-time patrols,” teased Killian, who was commanding this patrol.

Aelin stood apart from the others, her breath a white cloud in the frozen air, her hands alight with flame. Her Fae form felt more at home in this biting cold than her human skin ever had. Still, she preferred the warmth. She always had.

“You’re making it look too easy,” Rowan said as he approached, snow crunching softly beneath his boots.

“Jealous?” she teased, holding one of the floating flames in her palm before letting it rise again to join the others overhead.

Rowan gave a small huff of amusement and tossed her a practice staff. “Let’s see how easy it is after sparring.”

They trained until the stars began to emerge in the frost-laced sky. Every swing of her staff sent heat rippling off her skin. Every block and counter was met with Rowan’s usual unrelenting precision. Their magic wove between them—his air and ice, her fire and fury. Opposites on the surface, but slowly learning to dance together.

By the time they paused, Aelin’s muscles ached, her body gleaming with sweat despite the cold. She collapsed onto a flat stone beside the fire, snow melting where her body touched.

Rowan sat beside her, still barely winded. Typical. He watched the flames overhead thoughtfully before speaking.

“You’re improving,” he said, his voice low. “Controlling the fire, using it with finesse. You’ve come far.”

“Was that an actual compliment, Rowan Whitethorn?” Aelin teased.

Rowan huffed a laugh. “Yes, but it also happens to be true,” he replied. “You seem to be a natural at using your magic in battle. It’s almost instinctive for you. Your years of weapons and hand to hand combat training probably help with that. Your control is getting better too.”

Aelin flexed her fingers, fire sparking at her fingertips. “I think… not using it for so long made it worse. All that time, trying to confine it, thinking that was control. It was more like a dam, the fire was always burning just under the surface.”

“Magic doesn’t like being ignored,” Rowan said. “The pressure for release builds. The more you use it, the more it understands you. The more it becomes a part of you.”

She tilted her head, considering. “And what about you? Did it always obey?”

Rowan gave a soft laugh. “No. It took years of losing control to learn how to keep it. I had time—centuries. You’re doing it in months.”

She stared into the flames dancing in the air. “It still scares me sometimes. The depth of it. What happens when you reach the bottom? Then your magic is gone?”

He was quiet for a moment before saying, “There’s something the Fae call carranam .”

Aelin looked over at him. “What does it mean?”

“It’s a magical bond. Between two Fae who share and balance each other’s power. It’s... rare. Deep. A partnership in magic, but something more. It allows them to share strength, to shield each other. It can be life-saving—or dangerous.”

“Have you ever had one?” she asked, voice soft.

Rowan shook his head. “No. But I’ve seen what it can do. It’s a permanent bond, a tether that doesn’t break.”

Aelin watched the wind toy with the small fires she’d left suspended in the air. One flame flickered too hard and almost guttered out—until she reached out with her magic and steadied it, feeding it just enough heat to stay alight.

“It sounds like a lot of trust,” she murmured.

“It is,” Rowan replied, his voice barely above the wind.

The silence stretched between them again. The fire crackled, and somewhere far below, the sea pounded the rocks. But here, amid the snow and stars and floating flames, the cold could not touch her.

She looked down at her hands—stronger now, steadier. Her power no longer roared like a storm waiting to escape. It moved through her like breath, no longer a burden she had to cage.

Maybe it was the magic. Maybe it was Rowan. Maybe it was both.

But for the first time in years, she felt like she was becoming something more than just a weapon.

She was becoming herself.

~~~~~

The Temple of the Stone was carved directly into the cliffside overlooking a frozen ravine, as old as the land itself. Its worn columns and high-arched doorway bore no sigils, no sign that it belonged to any god. And yet the power that pulsed in its stones—ancient and quiet—set the hairs on Aelin’s arms rising the moment she stepped through its threshold.

She came alone.

She had waited until dawn the next morning, when the light was softest, her boots crunching through fresh snow as she made the climb from their camp outside Ilium. The coastal wind howled around the peaks, but within the temple, the world fell silent. Stone and shadow swallowed her.

She made her way to the central chamber where the altar sat—just a massive slab of black rock, smooth from ages of weathering, its shape worn from time and devotion. The fire within her stirred at the sight of it.

Aelin reached into her tunic, retrieving the Amulet of Orynth and placing it on the stone.

“King Brannon,” she said quietly. “I know you’ve spoken here before.”

The silence stretched. Her power hummed beneath her skin.

She closed her eyes, pressed both hands to the altar, and let her fire rise—not in fury or destruction, but reverence. It spread through her like breath, like light.

A shimmer in the air. Then a voice, warm and steady, drifted through the stone like flame caught in crystal.

“You look younger than I thought.”

Aelin stared at the sea, even as her stomach tightened. “But just as good-looking, right?”

Brannon chuckled. “We would have had fun together, you and I. I had my friends send you a message for a reason--Maeve.”

“I suspected as much,” Aelin replied. “Can she be killed?”

The king’s head whipped toward her. “She is old, Heir of Terrasen. She was old when I was a child. Her plans are far-reaching--”

“I know, I know. But will she die if I shove a blade into her heart? Cut off her head?”

A pause. “I don’t know.”

“What?”

Brannon shook his head. “I don’t know. All Fae may be killed, yet she has outlived even our extended life spans, and her power… no one really understands her power.”

“But you journeyed with her to get the keys back--”

“I do not know. But she long feared my flame. And yours.”

“She’s not Valg, is she?”

A low laugh. “No. As cold as one, but no.” Brannon’s edges began to blur a bit.

But he saw the question in her eyes and nodded for her to go on.

“Does the power ever get easier to handle?”

Brannon’s gaze softened a fraction. “Yes and no. How it impacts your relationships with those around you becomes harder than managing the power--yet it is tied to it as well. Magic is no easy gift in any form, yet fire. … We burn not just within our magic, but also in our very souls. For better or worse.”

“The sword and the ring. They are here for you. Your fire will find them. Your fire is the key.”

She sucked in a sharp breath.

“Maeve hunts the wyrdkeys,” Brannon said. “With all three, her power would be eternal. Limitless. Not even death would claim her. She would have the power to shape and twist life itself to her will. She would become a god—and not a benevolent one. She must not get them, at any cost.”

“I read the stories,” Aelin whispered, her throat dry. “Conlaoch read them to me.”

“Then you know Athril gave his life to stop her. And I took the keys far across the sea where I knew she would not follow. But she hunts still. She schemes.”

“Why me?” she breathed. “Why has she always wanted me ?”

“Because you are the only one who can give them to her.”

Silence. A heartbeat of stillness.

Then, “You must find the lock. In the Stone Marshes of Ellwye. Take Goldryn and Athril’s ring. Find the lock and you will have what you need.”

Her flame flickered with understanding.

“Only the one blessed by Mala Fire-Bringer can wield the lock,” Brannon said. “ Only you .”

The final piece fell into place.

Aelin gasped, her breath a cloud in the frigid air. Her fire coiled in her chest, humming with a pulse that wasn’t quite her own. A bond—ancient, molten, and absolute.

She was the heir of two mighty bloodlines. While on her mother’s side she was descended from Queen Mab, Maeve’s sister, on her father’s side she was descended from King Brannon and his beloved, the goddess Mala Fire-Bringer.

And of course, Maeve had known it all along.

Her chest rose and fell rapidly as the implications settled in. Why she had been hunted, manipulated, broken and rebuilt again and again. Why her flames were so vast, so deep that her well felt bottomless.

Because it was meant to be.

She had the power of a goddess beneath her skin.

Aelin placed the Amulet of Orynth back around her neck as she stood from the altar. “I’ll find the lock,” Aelin swore aloud, voice steady despite the tremble in her hands. “And I’ll make damn sure Maeve never lays her cursed hands on the keys.”

Aelin let her fire trail out in front of her as she turned and walked through the temple. Her flame flickered in her chest, drawn toward something unseen.

Aelin followed it.

The passage sloped gently downward, the air growing colder, older. It felt like descending into time itself. The torches along the wall sputtered as she passed, though no wind stirred them—only her presence, and perhaps something more.

Her fire led her to the end of the passage, where she found a stone door. No handle, no keyhole. Just bare stone carved with a single, ancient symbol.

Aelin froze.

It was the mark of Brannon--a diamond with 2 arrows piercing its side and a vertical line down the middle. 

Aelin raised her palm. Her fire flared—not outward, but inward , pressing toward the stone as if it knew .

The mark glowed, and unbeknownst to her, the same mark glowed on Aelin’s forehead, above her brow.

With a low grinding sound, the door sank into the ground.

Beyond it was a chamber of black rock. The walls glittered with veins of silver and red, as if fire had been carved into them. And in the center, on a raised pedestal shaped like rising flame, rested the sword.

Goldryn.

It was the most beautiful weapon she had ever seen.

Long and elegant, the blade gleamed with a golden hue, etched with runes so old she couldn’t read them. Its hilt was wrapped in dark red leather and at its base sat a large ruby, perfectly cut and pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. The air around it shimmered with warmth, not harsh, but welcoming.

Alive.

Her flame surged. Reached. Yearned.

She stepped forward, not daring to blink.

And there it was—beside the sword—resting in a shallow stone dish: the ring.

A simple band of pale gold. It looked unassuming, humble, and when Aelin put it on she felt … nothing. But it was definitely Athril’s ring, so she kept it on.

The moment her fingers closed around the hilt of Goldryn, her magic sang .

Not a roar. Not a cry. But a chorus—high and haunting and true . She could feel the blade responding, awakening. Like it had been asleep for centuries, waiting for her.

The heat of it rolled up her arm and into her heart. Not burning— welcoming .

And in that heartbeat, she knew: this was no ordinary sword. It had been made for one purpose—one wielder. A sword to slay the darkness that could not be slain.

A sword of flame.

She slid it from the pedestal. The weight was perfect. Balanced. Familiar in a way no weapon had ever been before. She fasted its sheath on her back, atop her other sword..

Aelin turned back toward the passage, Goldryn strapped to her back, the ring secure on her finger. Her flame danced around her shoulders, as if triumphant.

Ailen stepped out of the temple into the bright, morning light, Brannon's mark still illuminating her face. Aelin felt it before she could see it. Ilium was aflame.

Chapter Text

Smoke rolled low through the winding streets of Ilium.

Aelin burst from the Temple of the Stone at a dead sprint, snow crunching beneath her boots. The mark of Brannon still burned brightly on her brow, warm even in the bitter wind. Goldryn thudded against her back with every stride, the ancient sword as heavy as the moment she’d found it in the shadows of the temple.

The scent hit her first—burning timber, scorched cloth, melting oil. Screams came next, mingled with the crackle and roar of fire tearing through the heart of the coastal town.

Aelin reached the edge of the square and stopped dead.

Several buildings were already half-consumed by flame, roofs caving in, walls blackened and groaning. The fire was spreading—jumping from thatch to thatch, catching on carts and awnings and crates stacked too close together. It would consume the entire town square. People ran with buckets from the well. Some cried. Some just stood and stared, frozen in fear.

Aelin didn’t hesitate.

Her magic unfurled, molten and ready. 

“Come to me,” she whispered, mostly to herself. “Mine to command. Mine to consume.”

She was the heir of Brannon. She was blessed by Mala. The fire heard her. And the fire obeyed.

The fire bent toward her. A long strand of it yanked free from a burning cart and raced toward her, curling into her well of power.

She pulled harder.

It poured into her, licking up her arms, coiling around her spine like a dragon ready to rest its head on her shoulder. Aelin gritted her teeth and held it tight, sweat breaking across her brow despite the chill.

The buildings still burned. Two children were shouting for their parents near a well. A horse reared in its harness, eyes rolling white. The fire hadn’t stopped—it had slowed , but it wasn’t done.

Aelin darted forward, leaping over debris, yanking more fire into herself. She dragged it from a collapsing rooftop, from the base of a burning wall. Her magic strained under the weight of it, her knees buckling as she took on more and more.

The air was thick with heat and ash. Her vision blurred. Her magic throbbed. Was this the burnout?

Still not enough.

She reached again. Another building had caught—flames licking down its side like hungry teeth. Aelin bared her own teeth and pulled.

The fire fought this time. Snapped and snarled and sank claws into the structure like it had no intention of letting go.

“I said come to me! ”

The mark on her forehead flared brighter. Her magic surged, and the flames jerked free, shrieking as they were wrenched from wood and rope and oil.

Into her.

Deeper.

Hotter.

Aelin cried out, staggering. She was still pulling, even as the magic began to sear her from the inside out.

The fire was nearly gone.

But not all of it.

Not yet.

She was the heir of Brannon. The bearer of Goldryn. The fire was hers to command.

She just had to survive it.

Aelin stood on the cobbled stones of Ilium’s square, the scent of brine and smoke wrapping around her like a suffocating shroud.

Her arms trembled. Her lungs felt as if they’d been scorched raw. Her magic screamed, a warning cry echoing deep inside her— burnout, stop, stop—

But she didn’t stop.

She couldn’t.

Not when the fire was still devouring the town around her. Not when terrified children huddled behind overturned carts. Not when the sky itself had turned orange and black with ash and despair.

She had almost reached her limit. Almost. She had told herself that before—had believed it a hundred times. Had thought this, here, was the bottom of her power.

But now—standing in the center of the storm, her back to the sea, her heart aching with the weight of everything she hadn’t yet done—

She knew .

This wasn’t the bottom.

It was a trap door. A false barrier she had mistaken for the end because part of her had wanted it to be the end. Because if her power was insignificant, if it had limits, then maybe she could pretend she wasn’t what the world whispered she was. Maybe she could pretend she wasn’t the fire-bringer. The weapon. The queen who might burn too bright and leave nothing but ash behind.

But she was .

She always had been.

Aelin opened her eyes. Her mouth parted as the understanding settled in her chest—not like fire this time, but like sunrise.

She had made herself small to survive. Had tried to cage this fire, bury it under layers of shame, of fear, of doubt.

No more.

Not today.

Not ever again.

She reached deeper.

Past the threshold.

Past the antechamber she had believed was the bottom of her well.

Down into the molten core of what she was.

And it answered.

The fire didn't just flow into her—it sang. The roar in her ears became a symphony, ancient and powerful. Magic surged from her like a tide, glorious and wild and whole . Her spine straightened. Her hands steadied.

Aelin Galathynius stood.

The flames still clinging to buildings faltered.

And then—like candles snuffed by wind—they went out.

One by one.

Street by street.

The air turned cold again as the last ember vanished. Smoke still curled toward the sky, but the fire was gone . Entirely. Not a single flame remained.

The town square fell into silence.

And in that silence, Aelin let out a breath.

The mark of Brannon on her brow still burned, casting golden light across the soot-streaked stones. Her hands glowed faintly with residual heat, her body radiant with the fullness of her power.

She had found the truth of her fire.

And it did not burn her.

It was her.

Rowan

Smoke still curled from the charred remains of buildings as Rowan and Gavriel sprinted into the square, the sky thick with ash and heat. But it was not fire that met them. It was silence—and awe.

Aelin stood at the center of the square, a new sword with a bright ruby embedded in its hilt--Goldryn!--strapped across her back, her arms lowered at her sides as flames flickered harmlessly in the air around her like trailing ribbons of light. Her forehead was illuminated with a mark on her brow, an ancient symbol he did not recognize. The fire was gone, the inferno smothered, absorbed.

Holy rutting gods. She had taken on flames that had engulfed a significant part of the town square. She had saved the town, with its tightly cramped houses, from complete destruction.

Rowan’s heart stuttered.

But Aelin. She was falling to her knees.

He ran.

"Aelin!" His voice cracked like a whip through the hushed square.

She turned her head slowly at the sound, her skin still glowing with residual heat. 

Rowan was there before she hit the ground.

He caught her, hissing as her skin burned against his own, scorching through his shirt. His wind rose instinctively, swirling icy tendrils around her to cool her body. Even in her unconscious state, her power played with his, shooting threads of flame to swirl with his wind.

"Gods-damned fool," he whispered, brushing a sweat-slicked strand of hair from her face. "What were you thinking?"

Behind him, Gavriel knelt, his golden eyes scanning Aelin’s body for injuries. "Is she—?"

"She’s okay," Rowan said. "She didn’t burn out. But she’s hot enough to scorch steel. She took in an enormous amount of fire."

Killian and the others from the patrol arrived moments later, gaping at the partially-ruined square and the female who had single-handedly stopped a wildfire from consuming a town.

"Find a healer!" Rowan barked. "Now!"

The soldiers dashed off.

Minutes passed before one of the soldiers returned, panting, a villager in tow. “This way,” the woman said, gesturing for Rowan to follow. 

Rowan scooped Aelin into his arms, her body still dangerously hot. Gavriel followed close behind.

“There’s a healer staying on the edge of the harbor cliffs,” she said as they walked. “Blessed by Silba. You’re lucky, she’s just passing through. This town doesn’t have any magically gifted healers.”

The cottage was small and tidy, whitewashed with deep blue shutters that matched the sea. A young woman opened the door, her face drawn with concern but calm, competent. She had golden-brown skin, curling dark hair tucked into a loose braid, and steady hazel eyes.

“I’m Yrene,” she said, already stepping aside. “Put her here,” she said, pointing to a bench near the fire.

Rowan hesitated only long enough to tug off his scorched cloak and lower Aelin onto the cushions. As he did, he began removing her weapons—daggers hidden beneath her belt and boots, the heavy weight of Goldryn from her back. The moment the blade touched the ground, the firelight flickered brighter.

“She won’t need these right now,” he muttered, setting each piece down with care, his jaw clenched.

Gavriel watched Rowan for a long moment, then stepped back toward the door. “You’ll take care of her?”

Rowan didn’t look away from Aelin, simply nodding in reply. Gavriel slipped out the door, giving Rowan some space.

Yrene ran a hand over her face, neck, and chest. “She’s not burned out,” Yrene murmured, “just exhausted—drained. She’ll be fine. She’s strong. But we need to get her cooled down. I’m going to draw a bath for her. We’ll need some ice.”

“I can take care of that,” Rowan replied, a layer of frost coating his hand as he brushed it across Aelin’s brow.

Yrene left to fill the bath as Rowan continued to use his icy winds to cocoon Aelin and sooth her flames.

Rowan stripped Aelin of her boots, her heavy cloak, the outer layers of her soot-streaked tunic. Her body still radiated enough heat to make the air shimmer.

“Carry her back to the bathing chamber,” Yrene said briskly. 

He didn’t hesitate. He lifted Aelin again and followed Yrene to the stone-walled room. A tub waited, already filled with cool water. 

“Lower her in. Gently.”

He did. Aelin barely stirred as her limbs met the icy water, but her body hissed like steel plunged into a forge. Steam billowed into the air.

Rowan extended his magic, and a thin layer of frost formed instantly along the surface. He added more until the water steamed slightly from the heat rolling off her.

Rowan knelt beside the tub, his hands braced on the rim. He focused, calling more ice and cold. He kept his gaze fixed on her flushed face, watching for any signs of pain.

When Yrene returned with a small glass vial, Rowan surged to his feet.

“Pain tonic,” she said. “She’ll need it now.”

“She’s unconscious,” he growled.

“She can still swallow.” Yrene uncorked the vial, braced a hand behind Aelin’s head, and gently tilted it back.

As the liquid poured into her mouth, Aelin gagged, her throat working against the taste. Rowan snarled, ice cracking through the air.

Yrene didn’t flinch. “You need to let me work.”

Rowan didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

“She’s going to be fine,” Yrene said gently. “But you hovering over her is making it hard for me to help her.”

His gritted his teeth. But he stepped back.

Only a step.

Yrene arched a brow but returned to her work. Rowan leaned against the stone wall, arms crossed tightly over his chest, eyes never leaving Aelin.

“Her body temperature seems to be regulating now,” Yrene said. “We need to get her out of the wet clothes and dry her off,” Yrene said calmly. “Can you take care of that while I prepare some more tonics and some tea?”

Rowan nodded.

“There’s a guest room across the hall,” she said. “You can put her in the bed there once she’s dried off. Towels are there,” she said, motioning.

Then she departed, leaving Rowan to figure out how he was going to manage the task of stripping his unconscious mate of all her clothes without ripping Yrene to shreds the next time she came back.

Aelin had put out that whole fire.

And it still hadn’t burned her out.

She had burned through all those artificial limits and barriers she had tried to put on her powers over the years.

Gods help them all… she was still only beginning to understand what she was capable of, and she wasn’t done yet.

Chapter Text

Aelin awoke to the scent of salt on the air and the faint creak of wooden beams above her. Her body felt heavy, like stone left too long in the sun, but not in pain. Just… drained. Tired.

And warm.

A shift beside her made her turn her head, sluggish and slow. Rowan sat in the chair by her bedside, slumped forward with his arms crossed on the mattress, forehead resting on them. He’d pulled the chair as close as it would go. As if he couldn’t bear even a foot of distance.

His hair was a tousled mess, silver strands falling over his face. His sword leaned against the wall within easy reach next to Goldryn, and a small basin of water rested near her bed.

Aelin smiled faintly, her throat dry.

“Buzzard,” she croaked, voice raw and hoarse.

Rowan shot upright so fast his chair scraped back. His green eyes were wide as he leaned over her, scanning her face.

“You’re awake,” he said softly. “Thank the gods.”

“You look like you haven’t slept,” she murmured, voice rasping. “Again.”

“I slept,” he lied. “Sort of. You’ve been out for a day.”

She blinked slowly, letting the words settle. “Only a day?”

“You pushed yourself too far.” Rowan sat down again, closer this time. His voice was tight, quiet. “Your body needed to recover. You scared me.”

Her heart twisted at the rawness in his tone.

“I thought…” she swallowed, her throat aching. “I thought I was going to burn out.”

His eyes darkened, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I could feel it coming,” she said. “The edge of it, like I’d walked to the very rim of a cliff and was leaning over. But then—” she paused, staring past him, remembering the moment, “—I reached down again, and I realized… I wasn’t at the bottom.”

Rowan’s brows furrowed slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I thought I’d hit the bottom of my well of power.” She looked at him again, something distant and wild in her expression. “But it wasn’t the bottom. It was just… a door. An antechamber. And beneath that…”

He waited, silent.

She exhaled. “It felt endless. Limitless. As if I’d been afraid to look too far down all these years. As if I wanted my power to be smaller.”

Rowan’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “And now?”

“Now,” Aelin said quietly, “I’m not afraid anymore. I think I’m ready to be who I was always meant to be.” She looked at him, turquoise and gold eyes unwavering. 

“Fire-bringer,” he murmured reverently.

A hush settled between them. Only the whisper of the wind and the distant waves outside the cabin broke it.

Rowan brushed a strand of hair from her face. His fingers were cool against her fever-warmed skin.

After a beat, his eyes flicked to the sword resting on the far wall—Goldryn, its red hilt gleaming even in the dim light.

Rowan’s voice was softer this time. “That blade—it was with you when we found you. Is it Goldryn?”

Aelin shook her head. “Yes. It’s Goldryn. And it’s mine now.”

He looked back at her sharply. “How did you find it?”

Aelin hesitated. Then, “I went to the Temple of the Stone.”

Rowan’s brow arched.

“I spoke with Brannon,” she added, watching his expression carefully.

His breath caught. “Brannon… as in—?”

“Yes. My ancestor. He… spoke to me. Through the stone.” Her hand moved absently toward her chest, remembering the way the mark had burned bright on her brow. “He told me where to find Goldryn. And the ring.”

Rowan’s mouth parted slightly, but he said nothing.

“He said only the heir of Brannon could retrieve them. That Mala blessed me.”

Rowan leaned back slightly, his face unreadable. “Brannon gave you Goldryn.”

She nodded.

“And the ring?” he asked. “What is it?”

“A weapon,” she said. “Of a different sort. It protects the mind from darkness.”

Rowan stared at the ring, then back at her. “And you just… walked into the temple and he gave them to you?”

Aelin smiled faintly. “More or less. He also told me some stuff about Maeve.”

“What did he tell you?” Rowan asked.

“Rowan,” Aelin replied, reaching out and placing her hand in his. “I don’t think I should tell you. Not while you’re still bound to her.”

Rowan looked down at their clasped hands. “I am bound to her forever,” he said darkly.

Aelin let go of his hand, reaching up to brush her thumb over Rowan’s cheek. “We’ll see about that,” she replied, a slight quirk to her lips. “Brannon gave me a task to do. Something I need to find,” Aelin explained.

“I will go with you,” Rowan said. “Please, Aelin. You do not have to tell me what it is you seek, or where you’re going. But let me protect you. Let me help you. You do not have to bear this task alone. We can face it together.”

She met his eyes. “Together?”

Rowan didn’t hesitate. “To whatever end.”

A silence fell between them again. Then Rowan stood, brushing her hair gently from her brow. “I’ll get you something to eat. And tea. Don’t move.”

Aelin rolled her eyes. “Yes, Buzzard.”

Rowan smiled faintly as he left.

Moments later, the door opened again, and a young woman stepped in. Warm, tan skin, keen brown eyes, and a confidence that radiated from her even as she carried a small satchel of vials and cloths. “I’m Yrene Towers,” she said with a kind smile. “And you’re the hero who saved the entire village.”

Aelin smirked. “Fire’s kind of my speciality,” she replied.

Yrene moved to her side, checking her temperature and pulse with practiced efficiency. “You’ll be fine. Just exhausted. That much power running through your body would’ve fried someone else.”

“I’m tougher than I look,” Aelin said.

Yrene grinned. “I can tell.” She dipped a cloth into a basin of clean water and gently wiped Aelin’s brow. 

“Thank you for looking after me,” Aelin replied. “I’m lucky Ilium has such a gifted healer.”

“Oh I’m actually just passing through. It’s part of my travels after training at the Torre Cesme.”

Aelin’s eyes widened. “You trained in the Southern Continent?”

Yrene nodded. “Six years.”

“I read stories about it as a girl,” Aelin murmured. “I actually always wanted to train as a healer,” Aelin said wistfully. Conjuring a single drop of water to her hand, Aelin went on. “My water gift is but a drop, and well, queens don’t become healers, is what I was told. I’d still love to go there, one day. The Southern Continent always seemed like a place of… healing. Peace. Magic.” 

Yrene laughed. “Sometimes. But it’s a hard place too. Ancient, full of secrets.”

“Tell me a story,” Aelin said.

Yrene paused. “There’s a story I heard, while I was studying. Just before I left the Torre, about creatures called the Kharankui.”

Aelin frowned. “I don’t know that name.”

“Giant spiders,” Yrene said quietly. “Said to be handmaidens to a Valg queen. Dark, twisted creatures from another world.”

Aelin stilled. “A Valg queen?”

“An old tale,” Yrene said. “According to the tale, they were stationed in the Southern Continent by their queen ages ago when they first arrived in this world, and they await her return.”

“Do you think the story was true?” Aelin asked. “Did you ever see any of these Kharankui?”

“I know the story was true because I met one,” Yrene replied, meeting Aelin’s gaze. “While I studied at the Torre, I befriended a prince, one of their ruk riders. He asked me to accompany him to investigate sightings of Kharankui outside of their normal territory.” 

“My healing power comes directly from Silba. It’s a power that can be wielded against Valg. The prince and I flew on his ruk and found the Kharankui near a village near an old Fae fortress, long since abandoned. Long story short, we were captured, but I vanquished the Kharankui. It was quite an adventure!” 

“Wow,” Aelin replied. “You’re my new hero, Yrene Towers!”

The two women laughed at that. Yrene reached for Aelin’s hand to check her pulse again. Her fingers brushed the ring on Aelin’s hand—and stilled.

Her head snapped up. “This ring…”

“What about it?” Aelin asked, already wary.

“It’s been blessed,” Yrene said slowly, her eyes distant. “I can feel it. There’s a power inside it… healing. Protective.” She swallowed. “It’s been blessed by Silba. I would recognize that power anywhere. It’s the same as the power that resides in me.”

Aelin stared at her hand. At the ancient ring Brannon had left for her. “Silba?”

Yrene nodded. “Silba only blesses those meant to heal or protect others.” She gave Aelin a steady look. “This ring wasn’t just meant to guard your mind. It was meant to guard your heart.”

Rowan returned then, his arms full of food and a steaming pot of tea. “What did I miss?”

Yrene stood, offering him a smile. “Your princess is stubborn, powerful, and incredibly lucky.”

Rowan set the food down. “I could’ve told you that.”

Aelin just leaned back, a quiet warmth blooming in her chest—different from the fire that usually burned there.

A ring blessed by Silba. A sword meant to kill darkness. A lock made for her alone.

The gods had plans for her.

And she would not run from them anymore.

~~~~~

The morning sun cast a golden light over the rocky coastline of Ilium, its rays sharp against the winter chill that lingered in the sea wind. Aelin stood at the doorway of Yrene Towers’ small stone cottage, her cloak fluttering around her like the last remnants of flame as she watched the waves crash below. The town behind them was quieter now—still healing, still mending, but the worst of it had passed.

Rowan was buckling the last of their packs, his expression tight with the focus of a warrior who had something to protect. Which, she realized, he did. And it was her.

She stepped inside once more, the hearth’s warmth still glowing low in the fireplace. Yrene was laying out a satchel on the table, her travel cloak already on. “You might enjoy these,” the healer said softly, offering Aelin two worn books wrapped in linen. “I brought them from the Torre.”

Aelin’s brow arched as she took them. One was marked with a silver sigil—stylized spiderwebs framing the title Histories of the Valg . The other bore inked markings of Wyrdmarks and an old crest she didn’t recognize. “You just happened to bring these with you?”

Yrene smiled wryly. “Call it intuition. Or maybe I just knew someone would come along who needed them more than I did.”

Aelin clutched the books to her chest, her voice quiet but sincere. “I’ll return them to you. In Fenharrow.”

The healer’s expression softened. “I’ll be with my mother there. She runs a healing house in the capital. After I visit Rifthold, that’s where I’ll be.”

“I hope to see you again, Yrene Towers.”

“I’m counting on it, Aelin Galathynius.”

They embraced briefly. Aelin didn’t usually allow that kind of softness, not with people she barely knew—but something about Yrene invited trust. Perhaps it was her calm, or the way she didn’t ask for more than Aelin was willing to give.

When Aelin stepped back outside, Rowan had their horses ready, saddled and waiting. Gavriel and the patrol had been working in the village, helping the townsfolk repair homes and distribute supplies. They would rendezvous at the northern crossroads within the hour.

“Everything ready?” Rowan asked, offering her a hand up.

Aelin nodded. “Yrene’s heading out today too. Rifthold first, then Fenharrow. She gave me books from the Torre—about the Valg and Wyrdmarks.”

Rowan’s brows lifted slightly, but he simply said, “Then I suppose we have more reading to do.”

She gave him a look. “You mean I’ll read while you hover.”

He smirked but said nothing as he mounted. The wind picked up, the scent of salt and ash lingering, woven into the fabric of their cloaks.

As they rode through the craggy streets of Ilium, past the smoldering ruins and half-rebuilt homes, Aelin’s fingers brushed over the leather-bound book in her pack. The fire may have passed, but the storm was only just beginning.

She was ready now. Truly ready.

And she would not face it alone.

The journey back to Orynth was quieter than the trek south had been.

The fire-ravaged town of Ilium faded into the distance behind them, smoke no longer staining the skies, though its memory lingered like the ash on Aelin’s cloak. The Florine River shimmered in the late winter light as they crossed it, the sun casting fractured golden reflections on its surface. Aelin rode at the front of the column, Rowan beside her, both of them cloaked and gloved against the bite of the cold. Her skin no longer glowed with fever, but the fire within her still simmered, banked and smoldering beneath her ribs.

The patrol traveled a northern route that hugged the winding edge of the Oakwald Forest. Towering pines and gnarled oaks rose on their left, the forest dense and ancient and filled with a stillness that felt almost reverent. Somewhere in those woods, the Little Folk watched.

And they left their signs.

At the first camp, Aelin discovered a small, intricate figure resting in the crook of her saddle: a model of a volcano made entirely of forest materials. The base had been carefully constructed from dark twigs, bark curls stacked to mimic the shape of a mountain. Bits of red berries and dried flower petals formed delicate lava streams down the sides, and gold-thread moss shimmered faintly in the firelight. It fit in the palm of her hand, fragile and precise.

She turned it over with wonder, brushing a finger along a ridge of pine needle flame.

“The Little Folk again?” Rowan asked beside her, watching her expression.

She nodded. “They’re watching me.”

At the second campsite, nestled in the roots of a frost-dusted oak tree, she found a white owl. Its wings were crafted from layered birch bark and tiny, pressed leaves. The eyes were twin amber-colored beads, and downy tufts of dandelion fluff gave it the illusion of softness. Silent wisdom. A guardian. The symbol of Silba. Aelin tucked it gently into her satchel, something catching in her throat.

The last gift came on their final night before reaching Orynth. It had been left beside her bedroll, gleaming faintly in the starlight: a miniature mountain range, unmistakably the mountains of Morath. She recognized the stark mountainscape from a diplomatic trip she had taken with her parents when she was little, before her parents had discouraged her participation in such endeavors. Shards of slate and charcoal-colored stones had been arranged with moss and twisted bits of root to form jagged peaks. Blackberries, shrunken and wrinkled with frost, nestled in the valleys like dark, watchful eyes.

Rowan picked it up, frowning. “Is it a warning?” he asked quietly.

“It’s the mountains of Morath,” Aelin murmured. “And the volcano. They’re telling me where I must go next.”

He didn’t question it. Didn’t argue. Just stood beside her, silent and steady, as the cold wind swept through the trees.

Chapter Text

The gates of Orynth loomed ahead, the pale winter sun catching on the battlements and banners as if even the stones themselves recognized her return. Snow still clung to rooftops, but the chill in the air didn’t cut quite so deep—not with the warm crackle of anticipation buzzing through Aelin’s veins.

The scent of pine and snow welcomed her home. Rowan rode at her side, hood down, wind brushing through his silver hair, while Gavriel and the rest of their patrol brought up the rear. The road behind them was still edged by the forest, the little folk's latest gifts tucked safely in Aelin’s saddlebags: a volcano, an owl, and the mountains of Morath.

Word had clearly traveled faster than their horses.

A crowd had gathered beyond the gates, lining the cobbled street in front of the palace. Townsfolk and soldiers alike cheered as they passed. Aelin sat a little straighter in the saddle, the weight of Goldryn warm against her back, the ring snug on her finger. They were waiting for her.

“The Fire-Bringer,” someone murmured. 

“Aelin of the Wildfire,” another murmur.

“She saved the entire town of Ilium,” a guard was explaining to some curious passers-by.

Gods, she could already feel the eye-rolling about to begin.

Beside her, Rowan rode silently, his hood pushed back despite the chill, silver hair catching in the breeze. He didn’t miss the tightness in her jaw. “You’re not used to being the hero, are you?”

She shot him a flat look. “No. I prefer my legends sung a few centuries after I’m dead.”

Rowan snorted. “Too bad. You’re going to have to get used to it.”

Aedion was leaning against a column just inside the courtyard of the palace gates, arms crossed, looking far too pleased with himself. He straightened when he saw them, his grin wolfish. “Well, well. The Fire-Bringer returns.” He swept into an exaggerated bow. “Our very own savior of Ilium. Queen of Wildfire. Heir of Fire. Did I miss one?”

Aelin swung down from her horse, cheeks burning—not from embarrassment, but from the sheer absurdity of it all. “You’re not seriously calling me that.”

“Oh, I’m not calling you that,” Aedion said, pushing off the wall. “But the people in the taverns are. There’s even a song. Heard it last night.” He cleared his throat dramatically. “ ‘Fire in her veins, and light in her hand, she saved the coast with a warrior’s stand…’ ” He grinned. “There’s more. Verses, even.”

Aelin groaned. “Please stop.”

Aedion’s laughter boomed. “You’re lucky I like you, cousin. I almost sang the part about your ‘golden fire eyes’ and ‘lips that command flame.’ Real poetry, that one.”

She elbowed him as they walked together toward the palace steps, but she couldn’t quite hide her smile.

Aedion clapped her on the shoulder. “One particularly enthusiastic bard almost cried singing about your ‘burning golden gaze.’”

Rowan, who had dismounted behind her, raised a brow. “Burning golden gaze? I’m going to need to hear that version.”

“Oh, there’s a part about her ‘kiss of flame’ too,” Aedion added with a wicked grin. “Very moving.”

Aelin gave them both a withering look. “I hate both of you.”

Rowan grinned. “We’re proud of you.”

That took her a little off guard. She blinked, looking between her cousin and Rowan, both smirking in their own insufferable ways. But there was warmth beneath the teasing. And pride. Real pride.

“New sword?” he asked, his eyes dropping to the sword strapped to her back.

Aelin nodded, drawing it just enough to show the hilt. “Goldryn. It was a gift. From King Brannon.”

“A gift from King Brannon?” he questioned, eyebrows raised.

“What can I say?” she teased. “Apparently the old king has taken a liking to me.”

Aedion whistled. “Gods, it’s stunning. Feels like a weapon straight out of one of those old tales.”

Rowan stepped closer, gaze narrowing slightly as he studied the blade. “It’s Fae-forged. Ancient. I can feel the power in it.”

Aedion’s teasing faded. “You’re really leaning into the whole chosen-one thing, aren’t you?”

Rowan said quietly, “She’s not leaning. She is .”

Aelin huffed, trying to brush it off, but her cheeks warmed anyway.

Rowan just smirked, clearly relieved to see her with some color in her cheeks again. Aelin didn’t miss the way his eyes lingered on her, full of quiet pride. They’d all seen what she had done in Ilium.

They passed into the palace, and already, servants bustled with warm food and drink, couriers bearing reports of damage and rebuilding. Yet, for one brief moment, with snow melting beneath their boots and laughter echoing up the halls, Aelin let herself believe this could be something close to peace.

The Fire-Bringer had come home. And the flame was just beginning to rise.

The warmth of the castle enfolded Aelin the moment she stepped through the front doors. Though she’d only been gone a few weeks, the scent of pine and snow made something deep in her chest ease. The tension of travel, of fire and frost and burden, eased—but only slightly.

She still bore the weight of Goldryn on her back.

They were barely through the entrance hall when a voice called out from the grand staircase.

“Aelin?”

Aelin turned, surprised—and then grinned.

“Elide,” she said, stepping forward as the black-haired girl descended the steps, skirts trailing behind her. “I didn’t know you were in Orynth.”

“I was waiting for you,” Elide said softly, a little breathless as she reached the landing. She curtsied—out of old habit, Aelin thought—then straightened with a small, nervous smile. “I… There’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you. Something important.”

Aelin noted the way Elide’s fingers twisted together, her subtle glance toward Rowan and the others still trailing behind.

“I’d like to hear it,” Aelin said gently. “But after I’ve scrubbed the battlefield off me and put something warm in my belly. Breakfast tomorrow?”

Elide nodded immediately. “Of course. I’ll wait for you in the garden dining hall?”

Aelin squeezed her hand in thanks. “Done.”

Rowan waited until Elide was gone to murmur in her ear, “Didn’t even get past the door before someone wanted a meeting.”

Aelin groaned as they headed toward the royal wing. “I’m the princess, Buzzard. It’s literally my job.”

“Your job is also to rest before you burn yourself out again.”

She didn’t argue, especially not when they reached her suite and she found the hearth already lit and a hot bath steaming in the bathing chamber. Rowan peeled off her cloak, the weight of her weapons and armor quickly following. He helped her out of the outer layers with a soldier’s efficiency, though his hands lingered at her waist, his breath warm against her ear.

She bathed in comfortable silence, her head resting against the cool side of the enormous tub. Her body, despite her protestations, was still tired—her magic spent but stable. By the time Rowan had bathed and dinner was brought up—a hearty roast with root vegetables and crusty bread—they’d changed into soft nightclothes and curled up on the divan in front of the fire.

Rowan had moved some of his things into her chambers while she was in the bath. There had been no fanfare about it. No more games. The bed was his now, too.

Aelin took a sip of wine, her bare legs stretched over Rowan’s lap. “Can I ask you something?”

His hand paused where it had been idly stroking her ankle. “Anything.”

“The blood oath.” She looked into the fire, then met his gaze. “You never talk about it. Not really. But I know it binds you to Maeve. I want to know exactly what she told you when she sent you here. What her orders were.”

Rowan went very still.

He set down his goblet with precision, expression unreadable. “When Queen Maeve called me to her throne room, she told me I was to travel to Terrasen. She said that the crown, your parents, had come to an agreement and that she was to provide Fae trainers capable of training the princess. She said, ‘You are to train the princess. Protect her. And do nothing more.’”

“Gavriel asked about the details of your training. Maeve ordered us to provide training in combat, discipline, and control over your fire. She then added several constraints. She said, ‘You are not to meddle in Terrasen's politics, nor in their succession. Your loyalty will remain with me. But while you are there, you will follow the orders of King Rhoe and Queen Evalin."

“She told us to leave right away. When Gavriel asked how long the mission would last, she said only, ‘As long as is necessary.’ Then she ordered us not to grow attached. That was the extent of it.”

Aelin raised an eyebrow at the last part. “How does the oath constrain you?” she asked. “That last part, even if Maeve didn’t know about Gavriel and Aedion, or about us being mates, the attachments are there. They can’t cease to exist simply because she orders it so.”

“The oath binds me. I cannot defy her orders directly. But there is leeway, especially the farther we are from her. For instance, when she says we are to stay as long as is necessary, it is up to us to determine how long it is necessary for us to stay.”

“Could you stay forever, if you deemed it necessary?” she asked.

“No,” he replied quietly. “That would not work. There will come a time when, even with the most liberal interpretation of ‘as long as necessary,’ my time here will be over. Or she will send word and order us to return. And then we will be faced with the consequences of our choices.”

“Consequences?” Aelin asked.

Rowan simply shrugged. “Every choice has a cost.”

She was silent a long moment.

“I’ve made my choices.” His voice was rough, eyes like frozen steel. He looked at her, something unspoken passing between them. “The oath binds me, yes. But my loyalty—my heart—is yours.”

Aelin set her goblet down. She leaned forward until their foreheads touched.

Silence settled between them, heavy but not unwelcome.

“If Maeve gave you any secret orders, orders she instructed you not to share with me or my parents, would you be able to tell me of their existence, even if you could not tell me the directive itself?”

After a moment, Rowan exhaled slowly. “If Queen Maeve gave me an order bound by the blood oath, I couldn’t speak of it—unless it served her to allow it.” His jaw clenched. “But I haven’t kept anything from you.”

She studied him for a long breath, then nodded once, accepting it for now. But the question lingered, unspoken between them, as the fire popped softly in the hearth.

And in the warmth of the firelight, with the night wrapped around them, Aelin leaned into Rowan’s arms, breathing in his scent, the quiet promise of what they were building together—even with shadows still looming on the horizon.

Tomorrow, she would meet with Elide.

Tonight, she would rest.

~~~~~

The garden dining hall of the palace was quiet in the early morning, sunlight just beginning to spill through the tall windows and gild the worn stone floors in gold. Aelin had arrived a few minutes earlier than expected, her thick cloak protecting her from the chilly winter air that still lingered, even inside. With a flick of her fingers, she sent a small thread of fire arcing toward the empty hearth. It caught instantly, crackling to life and filling the room with flickering warmth and dancing shadows. The growing flames added a comforting glow, chasing away the morning chill and making the space feel less like a cold stone castle and more like a home.

She wrapped her hands around the mug of hot tea in front of her and let the warmth soak in.

Elide Lochan slipped into the room moments later, her stride quick but steady. She was bundled in a heavy green cloak, cheeks flushed from the cold. Aelin offered her a smile and gestured to the seat beside her.

“I ordered the honey rolls,” Aelin said. “Figured you deserved something sweet if we’re diving into politics and treachery before noon.”

Elide gave a small, grateful laugh as she sat. “I’ll take it. Especially with what I found.”

Aelin arched a brow and leaned in slightly. “Go on.”

Elide pulled a few neatly folded pages from her coat, smoothing them out on the table. “I’ve been going through everything I copied from the Assassin’s Keep—cross-referencing it with records I’ve, ah… borrowed from my uncle Vernon’s study when I was still in Perranth.”

“Brave,” Aelin said with a sharp, approving grin.

Elide dipped her chin. “I knew there was something off about the Guild. Something more than just unmarked shipments. And I was right.”

She tapped a name circled on one of the documents—Duke Perrington.

Aelin’s brows lifted. “You’re telling me the Guild has ties to Morath?” Aelin thought back to the replica of Morath the Little Folk had left her just days before. They knew. Somehow, however their magic worked, they knew about Perrington.

“And not just ties,” Elide said. “Vernon was corresponding directly with Perrington. Coded letters, back and forth. Most of it is vague, but there are too many references to 'shipments' and ‘testing sites’—and too much money moving around—to be coincidence.”

Aelin went quiet, the weight of the implications settling between them like snow.

“I think the Guild is trafficking people. I think they’re sending them to Morath,” Elide said softly, her voice tightening. “And I think Vernon knows exactly what Perrington is doing with them.”

“Using them for experiments?” Aelin murmured, her jaw tightening. 

Elide nodded. “It’s why I came to you. I wanted to make sure this reached the right hands. And… I thought you should know my uncle may be more than just a cruel opportunist. He may be part of the machinery behind all of it.”

Aelin stared down at the pages for a long moment. “You’ve done good work, Elide. Dangerous work. You might’ve just uncovered a thread we can follow straight into the heart of Morath. Do we know anything about the victims? The people who’ve been taken?”

“No,” Elide replied. “There’s not a lot of information about the individuals. We might want to look into missing persons. The bulk of the operation seems to be based in Adarlan and Melisande. I’d bet they’re taking people who won’t be missed, though. There might not even be any reports of them having gone missing.”

Elide’s expression was fierce despite her quiet demeanor. “I want to help however I can. Whatever you need.”

“You’ve already helped more than you know,” Aelin said, folding the pages gently and tucking them into her coat. “And I’m not about to let Vernon Lochan or any of the bastards tied to Morath get away with this. I’ll talk to my parents. See if we can use diplomatic liaisons in Adarland and Melisande to look into missing persons who may be connected to this.”

As the breakfast platters were set down before them—flaky rolls, roasted fruit, and hot tea refilled—Elide finally smiled again.

But Aelin’s mind was already spinning, already calculating the next move. If the Guild and Morath were connected… it was time to start pulling at every thread. Hard.

Chapter Text

The war room was quiet except for the crackle of the hearth, warmth spilling into the drafty corners of the castle. Afternoon sun streamed through the stained-glass windows, casting red and gold light across the long oak table, where Aelin sat with her parents, the King and Queen of Terrasen, their gazes solemn.

"I still don't like it," Rhoe Galathynius muttered, brow furrowed. "Sending a diplomatic envoy into Melisande without strong ties could provoke more trouble than it solves."

Evalin, seated beside him, folded her hands in her lap. "Adarlan has already pledged its support for the investigation. They made it clear during Beltane that they’re willing to help uncover the extent of the Guild’s involvement in the attack on you. And their help led to discovering Tern's involvement."

"And the witness," Aelin added. "Lysandra. She’s here in Orynth now, and she’s loyal. Her information about the Guild lines up with Elide’s notes and everything we've pulled from Arobynn’s files."

Rhoe tapped the edge of his cup. "Still—Melisande is... a different matter. And even Adarlan, while supportive, may be less receptive to our requests considering the tensions that arose when you were last in Rifthold, Aelin.”

Rhoe’s gaze was soft and loving, nothing harsh in his tone. But he spoke the truth. Aelin hadn’t considered the repercussions of her final conversation with Chaol before leaving Rifthold. She had been so worried about Rowan, and she had lashed out. She should have been more diplomatic with him, even if his accusations had been uncalled for.

“I suppose you’re right,” Aelin conceded. “Maybe we need to patch things up with Captain Westfall. And it probably wouldn’t hurt to reaffirm our commitment to our peace agreement with the King. Perhaps we should send someone with some credibility in statesmanship and diplomacy, along with Elide. How about Lord Murtaugh? He and Elide could be the official face of the delegation. They are both nobles and he is well known, well liked, and trusted by foreign courts.”

“Lord Murtaugh is a good choice,” Evalin replied. “Ren would have to travel with him. He’s getting older and can’t get on the way he used to.”

“Fine,” Aelin agreed. “So, Lord Murtaugh, Ren, and Elide, with Lysandra accompanying her as her maid.”

“That will be fine for Adarlan,” Rhoe stated, “but Melisande has not agreed to cooperate with the Guild investigation. Ties are so fraught with Melisande right now that we didn’t even ask them.”

"Then we send the delegation under a cover mission," Aelin said, leaning forward. "An envoy to ‘strengthen ties’ between Melisande and Terrasen. Nothing to alarm them. But if ties are fraught, it could be reasonable that we might put out feelers to see about improving relations. While they’re there, Elide and Lysandra can dig deeper."

Evalin arched a brow. "And you think Elide and Lysandra are up to this task?"

Aelin nodded. "With Lysandra as her maid, she’ll have reason to keep close to Elide. And Lysandra’s shifting gives them options. Elide has experience navigating court politics. She’s been compiling evidence for months. She won’t go in blind."

"Let Lord Murtaugh and Elide engage Melisande’s royals in diplomatic exchanges. Let the royals of Melisande think it’s a show of goodwill from a lesser house. And while they’re distracted—Elide and Lysandra will do what they do best."

Rhoe exchanged a glance with Evalin.

"There’s more," Aelin continued. Her voice dropped. "We’ve always suspected that the Guild isn’t the real power behind this. They take jobs for gold—nothing more. Someone’s paying them. Organizing it. We’re trying to discover who is the real power behind it, and it looks like there may be actors within Terrasen involved.”

Evalin's eyes sharpened. "Who?"

Aelin hesitated, then said, "Vernon Lochan has been careful, but Elide found records. He has links to the Guild’s movements. If he’s part of this, it goes deeper than we thought."

Rhoe’s fingers curled into fists on the table. "You think someone in our court is behind the trafficking?"

"I think there’s a conspiracy rooted in several kingdoms," Aelin said. "And I think it’s possibly connected to things I’ve overheard in the past—plots about magical restraints, about capturing and controlling magic. It’s not just about money. It’s about power."

The king and queen sat in heavy silence for a long moment.

Evalin finally spoke. "You’ve given us enough to act. We’ll approve the mission. Quietly. Officially, it’s a diplomatic visit."

Rhoe gave a slow nod. "Unofficially, it’s a hunt."

Aelin leaned back, relief flaring in her chest. "Thank you. I’ll make sure they’re prepared."

Evalin stood, walking over to the hearth. She looked into the flames, then turned to her daughter. "Be careful, Aelin. If this conspiracy has roots in Terrasen, there will be those who would do anything to keep it buried."

Aelin met her mother’s gaze and nodded. "I’ll be careful.”

~~~~~

Aelin’s sitting room was warm and golden with the late afternoon sun, the hearth crackling pleasantly as logs hissed and popped. A tray of sweets—tiny tarts filled with spiced apple and honeyed nuts, soft sugar-dusted cakes, and delicate pastries folded with cinnamon cream—sat between three goblets of deep red wine.

Elide Lochan stood near the fire, arms crossed somewhat nervously, her dark eyes drifting to the other woman lounging with effortless grace on the settee. Lysandra, in typical Lysandra fashion, had made herself right at home, a lemon tart balanced on her knee and a smirk curving her mouth.

“So,” Lysandra said, breaking the silence as she looked Elide up and down—not judgmentally, just… sizing up. “You’re the one who snuck into Vernon’s records.”

Elide nodded, a bit stiffly. “And you’re the shapeshifter who survived Arobynn Hamel.”

Aelin, reclining on a chaise between them, let out a soft snort. “Gods above, can we not start with claws? You’re going to be spending a lot of time together, and I’d rather not have you biting each other’s heads off.”

Lysandra arched a brow. “Who said anything about biting?”

“You could shift into something with fangs,” Elide said evenly.

A beat of silence. Then Lysandra laughed, loud and delighted. “Oh, I like you.”

Aelin grinned. “There it is. Now sit down, both of you. We have plans to make.”

The tension dissolved as Elide eased into a chair, and Lysandra leaned over to pour her a glass of wine. “You’ll need this. We don’t plot anything around here without a little red in our veins.”

“And sugar,” Aelin added, popping a honeyed nut into her mouth. “Lots and lots of sugar.”

Elide accepted both with a small smile. “This is the first time I’ve done something like this. The politics, the spying. But I’m ready. I want to do something that matters. I want to stop them.”

“You will,” Aelin said quietly. “You already have.”

They dove into the planning then. Aelin explained everything—how Adarlan had agreed to support the investigation, how the royal family of Melisande remained cagey and difficult to reach through official channels. How they needed eyes and ears inside the court, and Elide would be the perfect noblewoman to play the part, with Lysandra posing as her maid.

“Lord Murtaugh and Ren will be part of the official envoy,” Aelin continued. “They’ll handle the diplomacy. You two will be eyes and ears. Find out anything you can about missing persons in the two kingdoms.”

“And if things go south?” Lysandra asked.

“Then you shift and haul ass out of there, and then we burn everything down,” Aelin said, deadpan.

Elide blinked. Lysandra laughed again.

“I really do like her,” she said.

As the evening wore on, the maps and documents began to give way to stories, laughter, and increasingly dramatic toasts with what remained of the wine.

Elide and Lysandra were deep into a debate about what sort of persona Elide should adopt for the diplomatic mission—confident noblewoman or cunning, wide-eyed innocent—when the door opened.

The conversation halted instantly.

Rowan Whitethorn stepped into the room, silver hair tousled from sparring, his black tunic clinging to every sculpted inch of his chest and shoulders, two of his knives strapped across his back, and his expression its usual cool, unreadable calm.

Until his eyes landed on Aelin.

She arched a brow from where she lounged, her head pillowed in Lysandra’s lap. “You’re interrupting extremely serious strategizing.”

“I need a few more of my weapons,” he said mildly, stepping toward the rack by the wall.

Elide sat up a bit straighter, pretending to sip her wine as her eyes roved the warrior-prince from head to toe.

Lysandra didn’t even pretend.

“Hello, Rowan,” she purred, dragging out the vowels with wicked amusement. “Are you sure you’re here for your weapons and not for us?”

Rowan gave her a flat look. “Unfortunately for you, I’m spoken for.”

Aelin smirked. “Poor you. Stuck with me.”

His answering grin was the brief, rare one he saved just for her, a flash of heat and softness.

Then he slung a few blades over his shoulder, nodded to the two women, and murmured, “Don’t let her drink too much wine.”

As the door shut behind him, silence reigned for a heartbeat.

Then—

“Well, now I see why you’re always in a good mood,” Lysandra said, tilting her head thoughtfully. “What a tragic, tragic fate. That mouth. Those arms.”

Elide, ever composed, merely smiled. “He seems very… focused. Devoted. And those tattoos down his neck?”

Lysandra sighed. “It’s honestly rude of you not to share him more.”

“Oh gods,” Aelin groaned, though she was laughing, cheeks flushed. “Please stop.”

They didn’t.

“What does he look like when he takes his shirt off?” Elide whispered.

Aelin let them have their fun, laughing along—because it was funny, and because they were a little tipsy, and because gods, it felt good to just be with friends like this.

She had never really had this—nights of laughter, soft camaraderie, women who saw her as a friend. She hadn’t even known how much she’d craved it, how much she’d needed it.

But even as she laughed, even as she rolled her eyes and made a joke about how Rowan was lucky Lysandra hadn’t shifted into a dragon and eaten him already, something curled in her chest.

That grin he’d given her. The one that set her soul alight every time.

It meant everything. He meant everything.

And yet… Maeve. The blood oath. His duty. His history.

Aelin sipped her wine again, the taste dulling as that thorn buried itself deeper.

Rowan had chosen her—time and again. But there were pieces of him bound up in Maeve’s claws. And though they danced around it, though they shared nights and dreams and small pieces of forever, there was always that edge of uncertainty. That sliver of fear, sharp and cold.

Would he always choose her? Could he?

She shook the thought away before it could twist further. Tonight wasn’t the night for doubt. Not with these women beside her, not with plans in motion, not with the world just beginning to shift beneath their feet.

Aelin raised her glass. “We need a few toasts. To terrifying Fae warriors who are too pretty for their own good—and the girls who know better than to let them steal all the credit.”

Lysandra and Elide whooped their agreement.

“To noblewomen with daggers hidden in their skirts,” Lysandra declared.

“To ladies’ maids with sharper claws than their ladies,” Elide added, lifting her glass.

“To scheming ladies, loyal friends, and the best damn desserts in Orynth,” Aelin finished, before throwing back the last sip.

Rowan

Aedion was waiting in the courtyard behind the castle when Rowan arrived for their match.

“What took you so long?” Aedion teased. “You’re getting slow.”

Rowan snorted, “I’d have been on time if your cousin and her friends hadn’t spent ten minutes admiring me like a show pony.”

“What?” Aedion asked as they stepped into the sparring circle.

Rowan stepped up, lazily raising his sword. “Aelin invited Elide and Lysandra to her rooms. I had to grab a few of my blades and they were in the middle of their… meeting.” He rolled his eyes. “There was wine. And pastries. And very little shame.”

Aedion barked a laugh and wiped sweat from his brow. “Gods, I bet they ogled you like a piece of meat.”

Rowan gave him a deadpan look. “Your cousin was the least subtle about it. I think Lysandra asked if I glow when I take off my shirt.”

“I mean… do you?”

Rowan shook his head with a muttered curse, raising his sword to go again. But Aedion wasn’t reciprocating just yet. He stood quiet for a moment, sword resting lightly at his side, something softer in his expression.

“I’m glad,” Aedion said at last.

Rowan turned, brow raised.

Aedion glanced toward the castle, where smoke curled from the chimneys. “That she has them. Friends. Girls her own age who get her. Laugh with her. Scheme with her.”

Rowan nodded once, the quiet understanding between them needing no words.

Aedion gave a small, wry smile. “She never really had that, you know? Not since she was a child. Not since everything went to hell.”

“I know,” Rowan said quietly. “She deserves it.”

They went back to sparring, but the pace was more relaxed now—practiced footwork and familiar movement.

“You’ve seen those three together, right?” Aedion said between jabs. “They’re definitely up to something. Plotting.”

“Of course they’re plotting,” Rowan said, spinning and catching Aedion’s next blow with a flick of his blade. “They had wine and cake. That’s practically code for world-altering plans.”

“I swear I heard the word Melisande mentioned in the hallway.”

“And diplomacy. Which, coming from Aelin, probably involves at least three fake identities, two seductions, and one explosion.”

Aedion laughed. “You joke, but I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Their blades clashed again, rhythm rising.

Rowan grunted. “I hope Lysandra and Elide know what they’re signing up for.”

“I think they do,” Aedion said, ducking a strike and lunging. “And I think they’d go to the ends of the earth with her if she asked.”

Rowan blocked him with a smirk. “That’s what makes them dangerous.”

They sparred a few minutes more, then called it with matching nods and sweat-damp hair.

As they toweled off and re-sheathed their blades, Aedion gave Rowan a sidelong glance. “Are you part of that now too?” he asked, “Her court, her circle?”

Rowan looked toward the castle again, toward the suite of rooms where Aelin was likely already drafting plans over coffee and pastries.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “I want that, but--”

He didn’t have to say anything more. He knew Aedion understood. They were all caught up in something greater than any one of them. How it would all turn out in the end--only the gods knew the answer.

Chapter Text

The morning air was brisk, fresh with the scent of pine and the whisper of winter on the breeze. Aelin stood at the castle’s arched gates, her arms folded tightly across her chest. The stone courtyard was alive with motion—carriages being loaded, horses groomed and readied, the quiet murmur of guards preparing to ride. Above them, the Terrasen banners snapped proudly in the wind.

Lysandra adjusted the fastenings of her plain traveling cloak, the kind a servant might wear, though her regal bearing remained untouched by her disguise. Beside her, Elide stepped carefully, her onyx eyes sharp with anticipation. Murtaugh and Ren conferred with one of the royal guards nearby, while Aedion stood off to the side, arms crossed, surveying the preparations with the coiled tension of a commander about to ride into battle.

“They’ll be well protected,” Rowan said beside Aelin, his voice low and reassuring. “Aedion won’t let anything happen to them. And Ren is formidable.”

Aelin nodded, but her stomach twisted. There was something weighty about this departure, something that clung to the air like ash.

She turned to Elide and Lysandra, drawing them aside with a small wave.

“I want you to find a healer named Yrene Towers when you reach Rifthold,” she said, slipping two sealed envelopes into Elide’s hand. “She trained in the Torre Cesme on the Southern Continent and she’s returned to work with her mother. She helped me in Ilium—she’ll help you too.”

Elide studied the letters, tucking them carefully into her cloak. “Messages?”

“One for her,” Aelin confirmed, “and one for Dorian.”

She paused, then added, “If you come across Nox Owen, offer him whatever reward he asks for in exchange for information about the Guild or missing persons. Lysandra knows him,” she explained to Elide. “He helped us when we were in Rifthold before. He’s originally from Perranth.”

Elide’s lips quirked. “Is he the handsome trader you mentioned once?” Lysandra snorted in response.

“I will set both of you on fire,” Aelin muttered, but warmth bloomed in her chest at the teasing. This—this connection, this quiet strength between women—was something she hadn’t had as a girl. So many of her days in the castle had been spent alone, with only silence and shadows for company. These moments, simple as they were, felt like something rare and precious.

Across the courtyard, Aedion gave a sharp whistle and waved them over. Time.

Aelin reached forward and hugged Elide fiercely. “Be careful. You’re strong,” she whispered. “Don’t forget that.”

“I won’t,” Elide murmured, her voice steady.

Lysandra leaned in next, resting her forehead briefly against Aelin’s. “We’ll bring back what you need,” she said. “And we’ll make you proud.”

“You already do.”

Ren and Aedion mounted their horses along with the other guards accompanying the group, and the last trunk was fastened to the carriage roof. Aedion rode to the front of the line, a broadsword slung over his back. His presence, flanked by Ren and half a dozen royal guards, was both a symbol and a shield.

As the envoy began to move, Aelin and Rowan stood silently on the castle steps. Carriage wheels creaked. Hooves clattered. The gatehouse doors groaned open.

Aelin watched until they were little more than dark shapes against the horizon, until the wind tugged at her hair and the silence returned.

Then she turned and walked back into the castle to prepare for her day.

~~~~~

The sting of cold wind kissed Aelin’s face as she stood in the open training yard just outside the barracks. Her breath misted in the crisp winter air, the scent of pine and snow swirling around her, but the heat rolling off her skin made the chill feel like nothing at all.

Across the clearing, Rowan lifted a brow, a smirk ghosting his lips. “Ready, Princess?”

She bared her teeth in a grin. “You’re going to regret saying that.”

Beside them, Gavriel leaned against a low stone wall, arms crossed, golden eyes sharp. He was content to observe—for now. But Aelin knew he’d join soon enough. Training with two Fae warriors who had centuries of battle experience between them had once been a daunting thought. Now, it felt like a challenge she craved.

After saying farewell to Elide, Lysandra, Aedion, Ren, and Murtaugh, Aelin had thrown herself back into service with the Bane—helping organize efforts to rebuild Ilium and patrol the border territories of Terrasen. But when she wasn’t in training or out on missions with the Bane, she was here, learning to fight in ways she never had before—with her fire, not just her blades.

Rowan summoned a shard of ice with a flick of his wrist, the long spear-like dagger catching the sun. “Shield,” he said.

Aelin didn’t hesitate. Fire roared to life in a shield before her. The ice dagger struck and hissed as it melted on contact.

“Too slow,” Rowan said.

Another dagger, then another—one aimed high, one low.

This time, her shield curved, flame bending to meet them. But the second dagger cracked against her ankle.

“Dammit,” she hissed, already building her next wall of flame.

Rowan gave her a wicked smile. “You’re getting better.”

“Don’t flatter me, Buzzard.”

He hurled three more daggers in quick succession. Aelin narrowed her focus and imagined the heat coiling from her core, pushing outward. The fire snapped up in a dome—complete, solid, and round as a bubble. The daggers struck harmlessly.

Gavriel let out a low whistle. “That’s new.”

Aelin smiled. “Just getting started.”

And she was. For weeks now, she’d been learning to shape her fire into more than just blasts of destruction. Rowan had taught her to build shields—at first small, then larger. Flat planes, then arcs, and now full domes that encircled her, and others if she wished, in flame and heat. She could adjust the intensity, make the outer layer burn bright enough to deter any approach, or temper it down to an ember’s glow.

Soon, she was no longer only defending herself. In one particularly grueling session, she’d extended a shield around Gavriel as he crouched beside her, shielding both of them from a hail of ice daggers Rowan sent their way.

“Again,” she said now, lifting her arms.

Rowan cocked his head. “Tired yet?”

“Not even close.”

He gave her what might’ve been a look of admiration—or challenge—and conjured a ring of ice shards around him. With a flick of his hand, he sent them soaring. Aelin’s fire shot upward like a cyclone, spiraling around her as she molded it with her will.

The shield rose, widened, curved—

And when the ice met fire, steam exploded outward in a great cloud that drifted like mist through the trees.

When it cleared, Aelin stood in the center, a ring of flame dancing at her feet. She let it flicker and fade, drawing the power back into herself with steady breath.

Rowan gave a slow nod. “Your control’s improving.”

“I’m starting to trust it,” she admitted quietly, brushing a strand of hair from her flushed face. “Starting to trust myself.”

There was silence for a moment, the wind rustling through the evergreens.

Rowan stepped closer. “Then let’s see how far you can push it.”

Aelin smirked. “Try me.”

They trained until the sun dipped below the horizon, until her muscles trembled and sweat soaked her shirt, and her flame danced like a second heartbeat within her. She was still learning—still evolving. But with each passing day, Aelin Ashryver Galathynius became not just a crown princess, not just a soldier.

She became a weapon. A shield. A flame forged anew.

And she would burn for her friends, for her people—for Terrasen—until there was nothing left standing in the path of freedom.

The fire in Aelin’s bedroom hearth crackled softly, casting a warm amber glow across the chamber. The wind outside howled faintly through the mountains, but within the walls of the castle, everything was soft and still. 

Aelin and Rowan had taken to dining in Aelin’s chambers in the evenings after training. Aelin was teaching Rowan about wyrdmarks as they made their way through Yrene’s books. 

Aelin lay nestled beneath a mountain of blankets, her head pillowed against Rowan’s chest. One of his arms was wrapped lazily around her waist, his other hand idly stroking up and down her back as she read aloud from Histories of the Valg . Her voice was low, calm, the rhythm of it nearly lulling them both to sleep—but the words were anything but comforting.

“There are repeated references to the Kharankui,” Aelin murmured, turning the fragile page carefully. “They served a Valg queen—never named—who some believe still walks the world in darkness and shadow.”

Rowan shifted, glancing down at her. His shirt was unlaced and half-forgotten; her bare legs were tangled with his under the furs. Between them, the second book— Wyrdmarks and Their Origins —lay discarded, its contents forgotten in favor of this darker tale.

“That’s the same name Yrene mentioned,” Rowan said, brow furrowing. “The giant spiders who served something old.”

“Something ancient,” Aelin whispered. “Something that even the Valg kings feared.”

She turned the page again, her fingers calloused from training. “Listen to this,” she said, reading slowly:

“The Kharankui were handmaidens to a Queen of Darkness, who fled her king-husband’s court in the World Beyond. She crossed through a gate of darkness to this realm, bringing with her secrets and horrors that would seed the land in silence.”

Rowan’s fingers tightened briefly on her waist. “A queen who fled her husband…”

Aelin’s mouth went dry. Her heart thudded in her chest.

She closed the book slowly, staring into the flames. She couldn’t help but think that something didn’t add up. Brannon had said that Maeve was already ancient when he was just a child. That she was not Valg. But what if… what if he was wrong?

Aelin didn’t share these thoughts with Rowan. She was hesitant to share when it came to her theories and deductions about Maeve. She just gazed at his handsome, stark face as the thoughts connected in her head.

If she was this queen, if she came here from another world not as a conqueror, but as a fugitive, what did that mean? How did that fit in with her schemes and plans?

And if her theory was correct, and Maeve was this queen, then it meant she had been scheming and planning for a very long time. Since before Brannon’s time. Before Elena. Maybe even before Terrasen had a name.

They sat in silence for a moment, the fire crackling low.

And in that quiet, surrounded by flame and shadow, the two of them continued reading—princess of flame and prince of ice—unraveling the truths buried deep in the forgotten histories of the world.

Truths that might one day save them all.

~~~~~

The wind off the northern mountains still carried a bite, but it had softened in recent weeks, tempered by the slow but certain bloom of spring. Buds had begun to push through frost-hardened earth, and the trees along the outer courtyards of the palace were showing the first hints of green. Early spring had come to Terrasen, tentative and new, and with it, the promise of change.

Aelin stood near the window of her chambers, arms wrapped around herself, watching as golden sunlight spilled over the rooftops of Orynth. A few early-blooming crocuses dotted the gardens below, defiantly purple against the thawing soil. 

On the small table by the fire, the Little Folk’s gifts were carefully arranged: the delicate owl of feather and bark, the jagged mountain ridge made of obsidian-colored stones and dark lichen. And the volcano—twigs and blackened pine cones sculpted to resemble its uneven cone, a crown of crimson berries ringed around the top like lava.

She had stared at the volcano gift the longest when it had first appeared at their campsite all those weeks ago. Back then, she’d thought it an oddity, maybe a warning. But the more she looked at it, the more a memory from her studies whispered in her mind—a dormant volcano in the southern reaches of the Deserted Land. A place about as far from Orynth you could go and still be in Erilia. Noll. That was its name. And within it, buried deep beneath rock and flame, stood a temple to Mala Fire-Bringer.

Aelin sank into her chair, resting her chin on her knees, curling her legs beneath her. Her gaze lingered on the miniature volcano.

The Little Folk had left it intentionally. Just as they’d left the replica of the Morath mountains. Just as they’d left the owl—watchful and wise.

They were pointing her toward something. A path. One that led from Orynth to Morath, and on to Ellwye and Noll. She’d thought she might be done traveling for a while. But this… this felt like the beginning of something new. Of the next step.

Brannon’s voice echoed in her memory, from that strange, sacred moment in the Temple of the Stone. He had told her to go to Ellwye. To find the stone marshes. To find the lock. That with it, she would have everything she would need. Need for what? To defeat Maeve? For some other purpose? Only the gods knew, she supposed.

Regardless, it all lined up now. The Temple. Ellwye. Noll. Morath.

And the fire. Her fire.

The power sleeping inside her had awakened fully in Ilium. It was not a fluke, not a final surge. It was her birthright . And perhaps Mala’s temple would hold something more—another truth, or a deeper understanding of that gift. Of why the gods, and the Little Folk, had marked her so.

She exhaled, brushing her fingers along the table’s edge.

It would be a journey, longer than she liked. Dangerous, even. But the path was becoming clear. Ellwye. Noll. Morath.

Aelin Galathynius was being nudged once more. And this time, the stakes would be higher than ever before.

She’d tell Rowan tonight. He’d protest. Worry. Maybe fight her on it. But she knew he’d go with her. Knew he’d protect her back—just as she would protect his.

For now, though, she reached for the replica of the volcano, cradling it gently in her palm.

“Mala,” she whispered, “I hope you’re ready. Because I’m coming.”

Chapter Text

Yrene

The city of Rifthold had changed since Yrene Towers had last seen it. The spires of the glass castle still shimmered like a shard of sunlight piercing the sky, but there was a darkness in the streets. Rifthold hummed with life—stalls open late into the evening, quiet murmurs and guarded laughter echoing in the taverns, and cautiousness in the eyes of its people.

Yrene stood at the window of her room in the quiet inn she'd selected—The Kingfisher, a modest yet elegant building tucked a few streets away from the castle gates. It was close enough to reach the glass castle on foot, but far enough for a measure of privacy. She had written to the head healer, Amithy, weeks before her arrival and received a kind response inviting her to tour the healing compound within the castle.

She arrived that morning just after the castle’s gates opened, her satchel slung over her shoulder and her hair pinned neatly beneath a silk scarf. The guards had her name on a list and waved her through with polite nods. The interior of the castle gleamed with polished marble and sunlight streaming in through stained glass.

The healing compound was located in the lower levels of the stone castle, surrounded by stone courtyards and herb gardens. Amithy met her at the entrance, a tall, aging woman with a wrinkled face and a shrewd gaze.

“Welcome to Rifthold,” she said warmly. “We’ve heard of your training at the Torre Cesme. We’re honored you’ve come.”

“I’m grateful for the invitation,” Yrene replied, bowing her head.

After a brief conversation, Amithy introduced her to one of the younger castle healers, a quiet, soft-spoken woman named Sorscha. She had pale brown hair and a gentle grace about her, her hands always moving—adjusting a stray bandage, tucking a jar back into a shelf, checking the level of water in a kettle.

Sorscha smiled shyly but brightly. “I’d be happy to show you around, if you like. There’s quite a bit to see.”

“I’d love that,” Yrene said, intrigued by the quiet confidence in her voice.

They spent the next few hours moving through the healing compound. Sorscha explained how they organized supplies, the methods they used for tending wounds, sickness, and long-term care. Yrene asked sharp, curious questions—how they dealt with magical injuries, what their access to herbs was like, and how many healers trained here each year.

“I read your essay on fire-damaged lungs,” Sorscha said as they passed through a sunlit hallway. “It made me rethink how I treat smoke inhalation.”

Yrene blinked in surprise. “You read my work?”

Sorscha nodded, a little embarrassed. “I asked Amithy to request some scrolls from the Torre. Yours stood out.”

Yrene smiled then, touched and flattered. “You’ve no idea how much that means to me.”

By the time the tour ended, the two women were already chatting like old friends. They stepped into the castle’s garden just as the sun reached its apex, casting a golden glow over the flowering trees and carefully pruned hedges.

Sorscha led her toward a small bench tucked beneath a blooming magnolia tree. “I come out here during my breaks,” she said. “It’s the one quiet spot left.”

They sat together, the air perfumed by spring blossoms and the gentle hum of bees moving through the garden.

“You remind me of some of the women I trained with in Antica,” Yrene said. “Brilliant, quiet, but strong as steel.”

Sorscha blushed but said nothing, only plucked a magnolia bloom and turned it in her fingers.

And as they sat there in the warm spring sun, two healers from two different worlds, the seeds of friendship took root—quiet, steady, and strong.

The sun had climbed higher into the sky as Yrene and Sorscha chatted not just about healing, but about their home kingdom. It turned out that they were both from Fenharrow. Sorscha had come to the glass castle to receive healers’ training in exchange for service in the castle. The two women remained on the bench beneath the magnolia tree, laughter and thoughtful conversation weaving between them like old friends. The scent of spring hung in the air—fresh grass, blooming flowers, and the distant promise of rain.

Footsteps on the flagstone path made them both turn.

Crown Prince Dorian Havilliard and Captain of the Guard Chaol Westfall strolled through the courtyard, speaking in low, easy voices. Their conversation fell away as they noticed the two healers. Dorian smiled as they approached, his sapphire eyes warm and curious.

“Good afternoon,” he said pleasantly, his gaze settling on Sorscha with obvious familiarity before turning to Yrene. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Sorscha stood and offered a small bow. “Your Highness. Captain.” She gestured to Yrene. “This is Yrene Towers, a healer visiting Rifthold. She has recently returned from the Southern Continent where she trained at the Torre Cesme.”

Dorian’s brows lifted in genuine interest. “Torre Cesme? That’s quite the journey.”

Yrene stood to greet them, offering a polite nod. “It’s an honor, Your Highness. Captain Westfall.”

Chaol inclined his head, his expression politely guarded.

Dorian smiled warmly. “And are you here on a diplomatic mission? Or visiting Rifthold for a longer stay?”

“I’m traveling for a time,” Yrene said smoothly. “But I was eager to see the castle’s healing facilities. Sorscha has been kind enough to show me around.”

“Magic is rare even on the Southern Continent,” Sorscha added quietly, “but Yrene is gifted. She’s trained as a magical healer.”

At that, Dorian’s gaze sharpened slightly, and Yrene saw something flicker behind his eyes—something powerful. The subtle shift in energy around him, like the way heat shimmered over hot sand. Her stomach dipped.

She tilted her head, curiosity flaring. “You’re... magic-touched as well, aren’t you?”

Dorian stiffened slightly, as if unused to being asked so plainly. “I am. It manifested recently.”

“Fascinating,” Yrene murmured. “Your power has a distinct feel. Controlled, but immense.”

Chaol, who had remained silent until now, flinched—barely a movement—but it was enough. Yrene’s sharp eyes caught it.

She turned to him, polite but pointed. “Captain Westfall, do you have an opinion on magic?”

Chaol’s jaw tightened. “I have concerns,” he said slowly, measured. “There are no checks in place. No way to ensure those with power use it responsibly. I’ve seen what it can do. What it has done.”

Yrene’s posture straightened. “That’s a view born of fear, not knowledge.”

His brows furrowed. “It’s a view born of reality.”

Yrene held his gaze. “I’ve traveled across the Southern Continent. In Antica, in Fenharrow, even in Eyllwe—magic exists, and people manage it responsibly. In fact, prior to coming to Rifthold I visited Ilium and witnessed the Princess of Terrasen extinguish a house fire that had engulfed an entire city block. Save for those few buildings, she saved an entire town from ruin and destruction. Most kingdoms understand that power doesn’t corrupt by nature. People do.”

Chaol’s mouth pressed into a hard line.

“Aelin did what?” Dorian barked. “She extinguished an entire house fire?”

“An entire block of house fires,” Yrene corrected.

Dorian whistled. “She’s such a show off,” he teased. “I’m going to have to write and tell her as much.”

Yrene turned back to Chaol. “I find it surprising,” she said, tone cool but not unkind, “that a captain of the guard in a capital city of a vast kingdom would cling to views that isolate and divide. Magic isn’t the enemy, Captain. Ignorance is.”

Sorscha coughed delicately into her sleeve, and Dorian looked as if he were trying very hard not to grin.

Yrene softened her stance just a bit. “You’ve seen the worst of it, I imagine. That doesn’t mean the worst is all there is.”

Chaol exhaled through his nose, but nodded. “Point taken.”

Yrene gave him a graceful smile. “I’ll take that as a victory.”

Dorian chuckled then, stepping forward. “Well, I, for one, am grateful to have more magical allies in this city. And I’d be honored to hear more about your work at the Torre, Yrene.”

“I’d be glad to share,” she replied.

As the conversation turned lighter, and the four of them walked beneath blooming cherry trees, Yrene glanced back at Chaol. She didn’t mind disagreement—she’d dealt with far worse—but she hoped that, like the rest of this shifting kingdom, he might come around.

Even stone could crack and bloom with time.

Aedion

Aedion had only been to Rifthold a few times before, and each time had been during peaceful stretches when there were no wars, no unrest—just the hum of official duties for the royal family. He had been a young soldier when he first made the journey, and every time he returned, the city felt different, yet the same. Rifthold was a place of quiet chaos, where the beauty of the glass castle and the bustling city around it masked the darker things that slithered in the shadows. It was a city of hidden alliances and betrayals, and Aedion had always been wary, even when his visits had been nothing more than ceremonial.

Today was no different.

The delegation of Terrasen arrived under a veil of diplomacy. Aedion’s focus remained squarely on his companions—especially Lysandra and Elide. Elide had been to Rifthold far less often than he had. And Lysandra was still a traitor and enemy of the Assassin’s Guild. They were both keenly aware of the dangers the city posed, particularly Lysandra if she were recognized. She had taken precautions before entering the city, shifting her appearance to avoid anyone recognizing her. Lysandra was no longer Lysandra in Rifthold—she was Celaena, the name she had adopted for her time here. Even though Aedion trusted her completely, he knew the tension weighed heavily on her.

As they approached the gates of the glass castle, Aedion noticed the glances of passing soldiers and nobles. The city, in all its pristine glory, hid its secrets well, but Aedion could sense the simmering undercurrent of tension—tension that seemed to settle in the pit of his stomach. He glanced back at Lysandra, her features now completely altered. Her eyes held a nervousness that betrayed her calm exterior, though she kept her head held high.

"Keep your head down," he said to her softly, even though he knew she didn’t need the reminder. She’d seen enough battles, enough political intrigue, to understand the dangers of being noticed. She needed to remember to play the part of a servant. She only nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line.

They were ushered into their guest suites in the castle, Lysandra entering through the servants’ passages. The grandeur of the rooms felt as cold as the glass walls surrounding them. But Aedion didn’t mind—he knew it was all part of the game. He’d spent enough time in Rifthold to understand that nothing here was ever as it seemed. And even as they settled in, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something darker lurked beneath the polished surface.

After they were settled, Lysandra—now Celaena—suggested they take a walk to get their bearings. Aedion didn’t protest. He was grateful for the chance to stretch his legs after the long journey. It was considered improper for maids to be seen entering and exiting the castle with nobility, so Lysandra had shifted into a perfect imitation of Elide, which seemed to amuse Elide to no end.

Lysandra was quiet as they walked, leading him to one of her favorite bakeries in the city, a warm, familiar spot where the smell of fresh bread and sweet pastries hung thick in the air. The city had its rough edges, but for a moment, it felt normal, almost like home. The bakery was a sanctuary, a quiet refuge from the madness that was bound to come.

"Tell me you’ve got a plan, Elide ," Aedion said, grinning as he took a bite of a warm pastry.

Her eyes flickered with amusement, but she didn’t answer right away. "I always have a plan," she replied, but there was something in her tone that made Aedion wonder if she truly did. The tension around her was palpable, like a storm waiting to break.

Once they finished their pastries, Lysandra led him to a tavern—one she knew well, the Hollow Boar. It wasn’t the most reputable place in Rifthold, but it was where they were most likely to find Nox Owen. 

Inside, the air was thick with smoke, the low murmur of conversation filling the space. Aedion’s eyes swept over the crowd, scanning the room for anything out of the ordinary. The atmosphere shifted when he saw the familiar figure of Nox Owen sitting at a corner table, a drink in hand. Nox was the type of person who always seemed to know everything that was going on, and right now, Aedion needed answers.

They walked over, and Nox looked up, a sly grin creeping onto his face. "Well, well," he said with a raised eyebrow, "if it isn’t the Terrasen delegation. What brings you to my little corner of the world?"

Lysandra— Elide —leaned against the table, her voice smooth. "We need information, Mr. Owen, is it?”

Aedion introduced Nox to Elide , explaining that she was a noble from Terrasen.

“Elide Lochan?” Nox asked. “From Perranth?”

Elide simply nodded. “We’re interested in information on missing persons, in and around Rifthold. We’ve heard rumors, and we need your help to find the truth."

Nox’s eyes narrowed, his gaze flicking between the two of them. "And what do I get for helping you with that? Information like this isn’t free."

Aedion wasn’t surprised. Nox was a man of business, and Aedion had learned long ago that people like him didn’t give up anything without a price.

"We can offer you gold," Aedion said. "Unless there’s something else you have in mind?"

Nox hummed thoughtfully, his fingers drumming on the table. "Gold is always nice,” he said. “I already have an IOU in my pocket from the crown princess. I think, for this, I’d like a favor from the future Lady of Perranth.” He fixed Elide with an assessing look.

“Go on,” Elide replied.

“I may have gotten into a spot of trouble in Perranth. It was back during my youth, a period of rebellious indiscretion,” he explained. “Point is this. I can’t return to Perranth without this past indiscretion coming back to haunt me, and I’d very much like to get out of this shithole and settle down in the family home my parents left me.”

“You’d like a pardon?” Elide inquired, brow arched.

“Yes. You give me a guarantee of a pardon, and I’ll help you with the information you’re looking for. I have the perfect contact for you, actually.”

“I’ll need details, regarding all the pending charges against you, when they arose, that sort of thing,” Elide said a bit haughtily.

“Yes, milady,” Nox replied with a smirk. “I’ll write out the details and have them sent to you by messenger tomorrow. You’re staying at the castle, I presume?”

Elide nodded.

“Fair enough,” Nox replied. “Now how about a drink and a round of cards?”

They all shared a round of drinks, and as the night went on, the conversation turned to more mundane matters—card games, banter, and the dull hum of city life outside. Aedion let himself relax for the first time since arriving in Rifthold, even if just for a few hours. The stakes were high, but for now, they were on the right track, with a lead on a contact who could get them the answers they were looking for.

When they returned to the castle later that evening, the halls of the glass castle felt even colder, the weight of what lay ahead pressing down on Aedion’s shoulders. The quiet tension in the air was only just beginning. Soon, they would begin their true work in Rifthold. But tonight, at least, they had a bit of peace. And that was more than they could have hoped for.

Aedion couldn’t help but wonder what the coming days would bring, and what new dangers Rifthold held beneath its glittering surface.

Chapter Text

Rowan

The map on the table was old—cracked in the corners, edges curled and faded with time—but Aelin traced her finger over it like it was something holy. Her knuckle hovered near the painted peaks of the Staghorn Mountains, then drifted down the Oakwald Forest to the Avery and Acanthus Rivers before stopping near the ash-dusted region of Morath. Her eyes didn’t lift from the parchment.

Rowan stood on the other side of the map, arms crossed over his chest, watching her. The firelight cast shadows across her face—beautiful, impossible Aelin, who had grown quieter these last few days, who had smiled less, whose laughter had become edged with something unreadable.

Like she was solving a puzzle too complex to share.

Like he wasn’t part of the answer.

He hated that thought. And yet she had invited him here.

“So,” he said, voice low. “You’ve made a decision. You’re going.”

Her golden hair was braided back in a simple twist, her posture easy. But Rowan had learned to read every flicker of tension in her spine, every shift in her breathing. She was not relaxed. Not at all.

“I think I have to,” Aelin murmured. “The Little Folk pointed me to Morath, and Elide found evidence linking Duke Perrington to the Guild. Morath is his Keep. Then the volcano replica—” She swallowed, finally glancing up at him. “I think that was meant for Noll.”

“Noll,” Rowan repeated, trying not to grimace. “You want to go to a temple in a volcano surrounded by molten lava? And Morath. And don’t forget the stone marshes in Ellwye. A sunken city haunted by ghosts.”

“I think I need to go to all three,” she said, voice steadier now. “Brannon mentioned a task in Ellwye. But other things are pulling me that way. Brannon told me that Mala is guiding me, so it makes sense that her temple might hold some information or tool that I need. Noll and Ellwye are both in the south. Morath is on the way. It’s all pointing in that direction.”

Rowan’s jaw tightened. She watched him carefully, waiting for the protest.

And it came. “Aelin, Morath isn’t just a name on a map. If what you suspect is true… If Perrington is experimenting on magic wielders to develop magical restraints that can bind your fire power, that is the last place you should go.”

“I know,” she said, quietly. “But I have to.”

He studied her again, not the princess of a kingdom, not the fire-bringer or the heir of fire. Just her. Aelin. His Fireheart. And he saw it now, so clearly. The space between them. The things she wasn’t saying.

“You’ve been distant lately,” he said, his voice softer, raw. “Is this why? Are you trying to work out how to leave without me?”

Her eyes flared. “No,” she said, fiercely. “Rowan, I would never—”

“You don’t have to protect me from your plans,” he interrupted. “Or from your fears. I told you I’d follow you into hell, and I meant it.”

She went still. And then, “I wasn’t sure you’d want to. Considering what--who--I might be going up against in the end.”

Rowan stepped around the table, closing the distance between them. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair back from her cheek.

“You think I’d let you go alone? After everything? After Ilium?” He shook his head. “We go together. Always. To whatever end.”

Her throat bobbed. “Then I want you with me. Together. To whatever end.”

Silence stretched between them as they stood there together, so close that one small step would close the distance between them. He wanted to take that step. Gods he had wanted to desperately for so long. To kiss her, to hold her, to claim her. But for all the lines they had crossed, this was one they would not go near. Not now. Perhaps not ever.

Rowan cleared his throat, taking a step back. “You should ask Gavriel,” Rowan said. “He will want to help, and he’s steady. Strong. And gods know we’ll need someone who can hold a shield while you’re playing with fire and monsters.”

That earned the ghost of a smile. “I’ll consider it.”

“I hate this,” Rowan murmured. “The space between us. Watching you carry all this weight. Like it’ll break you and you’re just waiting to let it.”

“It won’t break me,” she whispered. “Not as long as you’re with me.”

He cupped her face in his hands, gently, reverently. “Then don’t pull away. Not from me.”

Aelin leaned into him, resting her forehead against his. “I won’t,” she said. “But there are things I can’t tell you. Things I shouldn’t tell you. And it’s killing me.”

“I know,” he replied dully.

They stayed like that—burning quietly in the stillness—while the map lay open behind them, and the path ahead shimmered with both ruin and hope.

~~~~~

The royal council chamber was warmed by early spring sun, slanting golden light across the long wooden table where Aelin sat with her parents. Evalin wore her usual mask of composed curiosity, but Rhoe leaned forward, hands clasped as he studied his daughter.

She had rehearsed her words, turning them over in her mind like blades being sharpened. But now, faced with the weight of their concern, she hesitated.

“It’s not just a whim,” Aelin said at last. “Brannon spoke to me in the temple. Something happened to me there, I can’t explain it but it felt… significant. And he tasked me with something—he gave me Goldryn and the ring that was once Athril’s, and he told me of an artefact hidden in the stone marshes of Ellwye. He said that once I have it, I’d have all I need. And the Little Folk left me… clues. Their first clue led me to Brannon. And now a volcano, and the mountains. I believe they’re pointing toward Noll, Morath.”

Rhoe’s brow furrowed. “Those places are very far away, Aelin. Noll? You could run into Ironteeth witches and who knows what other kinds of dangers on the way. Why not send scouts?”

“Because it’s not information that just anyone can find,” she said. “It’s about me. About what Mala and Brannon are trying to show me. Mala is guiding me. I’ve felt… nudges. And I think Rowan has too.”

Evalin’s eyes flicked to her daughter at the mention of the prince. Her parents knew that Rowan was her mate, but she hadn’t really spoken of him to her parents since that revelation. Gods that felt like ages ago and yet it had really only been a handful of months.

Aelin continued before they could interrupt. “Rowan isn’t blessed by Mala, but he swears he feels her sometimes.”

Her parents were quiet for a long moment, and then Rhoe said softly, “You’ve been through so much, Aelin. If you go—”

“She won’t be going alone,” Evalin cut in gently. “You would take Rowan, I assume?”

Aelin nodded. “And Gavriel. Maybe. I haven’t asked yet.”

“That’s two warriors blood-sworn to Maeve,” Rhoe said, his voice heavy with unease. “If you’re traveling to places that hold information Maeve seeks, you need Terrasen’s warriors. Not warriors loyal to someone who has her sights on you and the knowledge that apparently only you can retrieve.”

Evalin sighed. “He’s right, Fireheart. Maeve has had her sights on you since you were born. Before then even, perhaps. You yourself admitted that she may have manipulated Rowan into taking the blood oath. And it can’t be a coincidence that he’s your mate, Aelin. I can’t help but worry that you're walking right into whatever trap she’s been carefully constructing all these years.”

“I know,” Aeline replied quietly. “I have thought of all that. But I still need to go. To see this through. I’ll take Aedion. And whoever else you want to send.”

Her mother smiled faintly. “That’s all we ask. That and regular messages every week telling us where you are. And where you’re going if your plans change. If we don’t hear from you, we will send a regiment of soldiers to find you.”

Aelin nodded.

After another pause, Rhoe finally nodded. “Very well. You have our permission. But be careful, Aelin.”

“I will,” she promised, though the weight in her chest told her that what lay ahead would require more than caution.

As they rose from the table, Evalin reached for her hand. “Mala may be guiding you, but remember, Fireheart—gods do not always weigh the full cost of their plans.”

Aelin met her mother’s gaze, her own steady. “I know. But I trust the Little Folk, and Brannon, and Brannon trusted her. I’m going to see it through.”

~~~~~

Aelin sat cross-legged on the hearthrug, a map unrolled between her and Rowan, the parchment covered in notations, trails, and inked circles. Her fingers toyed with a piece of charcoal as she traced the route from Orynth to Morath, then on to the Deserted Lands, and finally across the Gulf of Oro to Ellwye.

“My parents agreed,” she said softly, not looking at him. “With conditions.”

Rowan raised a brow where he sat against the couch, one knee drawn up. “Conditions?”

She nodded. “They want Aedion to come, and a small group of Terrasen’s soldiers. They said they wouldn’t let me walk into a quest to retrieve information Maeve has sought since the time of Brannon with only two of her blood-sworn to guard me.” Her voice was steady, but there was a tightness beneath it.

Rowan studied her carefully, quietly. “They’re not wrong.”

Aelin finally looked at him. “I told them about Brannon. About what he said in the temple. About Mala. And that I’ve felt her—her presence, her guidance. I told them Mala seems to favor you, too.”

Rowan inclined his head slightly, a quiet sort of acceptance passing between them.

“I told them about the Little Folk’s gifts. About the volcano. And that I think it’s Mala’s temple in Noll.”

She exhaled slowly, forcing her hand to remain steady as she sketched a mark on the map. “I think this journey... it’s part of something larger. Brannon set it in motion, and Mala is still guiding it.”

Rowan reached for the map, his fingers brushing hers as he steadied a corner. A shock of warmth shivered through her hand at the contact. She didn’t move away.

“Then we go,” he said. “You, me, Gavriel—”

She opened her mouth, but Rowan cut her off, voice low and sure. “You should ask him. You and Aedion deserve his protection. He would want to be there.”

Aelin’s throat tightened. “I’ll ask.”

There was a long pause before she added, “We don’t have to wait for Aedion to return from Melisande. We could send word. Meet him near Morath.”

Rowan nodded. “Tell him where and when. He’ll be there.”

Aelin reached for her writing kit, opened it on the rug beside her. “I’ll write him now.”

Rowan stayed silent, watching her dip her pen into the inkwell, her firelight-gold hair spilling over her shoulder as she leaned over the page. 

Aedion—

After Melisande, I need you to meet me near Morath. I’ll tell you more once we’re together, but we will be journeying far and long. Meet me in the village in the bend of the Acanthus, just north of the border with Fenharrow. There’s an inn near the river crossing. Rowan and I will meet you there. Probably Gavriel, as well.

If Elide, Lysandra, or Ren wish to come, they are welcome. But you must make it clear: this journey will be dangerous. We’re following signs that could lead us straight into the dark schemes we’ve been avoiding all these years. I wouldn’t ask this of you if it wasn’t important.

Also—bring warm cloaks, sharp blades, and your sense of humor. We’ll need all three.

Stay safe.

– Aelin

She sealed the letter before her thoughts could wander too far. Too close to where her heart already strayed.

When she glanced up, Rowan’s eyes were still on her. His face unreadable. Stoic. And handsome as hell.

She wanted to kiss him.

Gods, she wanted to kiss him—every breath, every heartbeat was a silent cry for it. But she didn’t. Wouldn’t. Not while Maeve held the bond. Not while there was any chance she might regret it later, or worse, that he might.

She turned away to add the letter to tomorrow’s outgoing dispatches. “It’s done,” she said lightly.

“Good,” Rowan murmured.

But she didn’t look back. Couldn’t. Not with the way her chest ached, with how much of her she was holding back.

Tomorrow, they would plan more. Tomorrow, she would seek out Gavriel. Tomorrow, she would walk deeper into the fate the gods and her ancestors had written.

But tonight, she would breathe through the ache. 

~~~~~

The sun poured in through the tall windows of the castle’s guest wing, gilding the stone corridors with spring warmth. Aelin found Gavriel in his chambers, his long golden hair tied back, prepared for a day of training.

“I need to speak with you,” she said, and though her voice was quiet, Gavriel turned with the alertness of a seasoned warrior.

“I’m planning a journey,” she began, “to Morath, Ellwye, and Noll.”

Gavriel studied her face, sharp-eyed and solemn. “Far away places. What’s the reason?”

She told him—about Brannon’s task in Ellwye, about the Little Folk’s nudge toward Morath, and about the volcano replica that had ultimately revealed Mala’s temple in Noll. She told him of the fire in her veins, the push she had felt for weeks, and how she believed this journey wasn’t just instinct—it was guided. Brannon’s words. Mala’s gifts. 

“It would have consequences for you,” Aelin added softly.

“Maeve,” Gavriel reponsed.

Aelin nodded. “She’s looking for something. Information about something Brannon and Athril took from her.”

“I swore to Maeve,” Gavriel said slowly, “but my son is of this land. I will not fail him. Whatever the cost.” He paused. “Even if the cost is my life. I am prepared for the consequences, whatever they may be.”

Aelin nodded, throat tight. “There could be danger. We don’t know what we’ll find, only that I must go.”

“Then I will go with you,” Gavriel said without hesitation. “For you. For Aedion.”

The words filled her chest like a steadying breath. “We plan to leave in a week. Rowan and I are coordinating the supplies and travel route now. We’re meeting Aedion near Morath.”

“Then let’s get ready,” Gavriel said, rising to his feet with a glint in his golden eyes. 

Aelin rose beside him, already calculating everything they’d need. Maps. Supplies. Gold. Weapons.

Because the road ahead would be long—and the fate of more than one kingdom might lie at its end.

Rowan

The king’s study was brighter than Rowan expected for a late spring afternoon, sunlight spilling through arched windows and catching on the polished wood of the long table. He and Gavriel stood side by side, the faint scent of pine and parchment thick in the air. Rhoe and Evalin sat across from them, not as monarchs today—but as parents.

Rowan could feel the undercurrent of the meeting before a word was spoken. He’d sensed it in the silent summons from a castle page, in the way Gavriel had stiffened beside him as they approached the doors. This was about their daughter, their Fireheart.

“Thank you both for coming,” Evalin said gently, her turquoise and gold eyes that matched her daughter’s landing on each of them in turn. “We know Maeve’s blood oath holds sway over you. That it has shaped your mission here.”

Rhoe’s gaze was steel. “But we also know Maeve’s instructions. That you were not only to train but also to protect Aelin. That you were to follow our orders while on this mission.”

Rowan nodded once, Gavriel doing the same. “Yes, King Rhoe.”

“Then here is our command,” Rhoe said, folding his hands on the table. “You are to protect Aelin. With your lives, if necessary. You will guard her, ensure she returns safely—and you will not pry into the knowledge she seeks. Do not ask about the artifacts she may find, the power she may uncover, the truths she might learn. The less you know, the safer she will be. The safer all of us will be.”

Rowan felt the weight of those words settle like armor across his shoulders. Not mistrust. Caution. Clever, measured caution from a king who loved his daughter—and who understood just how dangerous knowledge could be, in the wrong hands.

“We understand the risks,” Gavriel said, voice low. “And the consequences of our actions and choices.”

Evalin added softly, “She’ll need both of you for protection. But if something happens… if Maeve ever compels you to speak—you cannot betray what you do not know.”

The silence that followed was heavy with understanding.

Rowan inclined his head. “Our blades are hers to command. But our thoughts… will stay where they belong.”

A brief smile touched Rhoe’s face, pride and sorrow etched in equal measure. “Then may Mala guide you. And bring all of you home.”

Home . Rowan noticed that the word felt right. One day, if the gods saw fit, maybe he would get to call this place home. It already felt as such in his bones and blood. 

Chapter Text

Elide

Elide closed her chamber door holding a letter delivered to the palace that morning. She didn’t have to guess who it was from.

Nox.

She unfolded the parchment slowly, scanning the neat script as pale light filtered through the tall windows. The list of his offenses was surprisingly short—no murders, no blood debts, no cruel bargains. Just petty theft. Pickpocketing, some coin purses here and there, lifting trinkets from merchants and once, years ago, swiping silver from a minor noble’s traveling party. The worst was a break-in at a merchant’s estate in Perranth when he was barely older than a boy. She read it twice to be sure, then folded the paper and sighed, relief rising through her like a tide.

She could all but hear her mother’s dry, unimpressed tone: “That’s it?” Lady Marion had never been one to waste time punishing desperation. The noble and merchant could be provided restitution and the rest of it could be written off as time served.

Elide rose from the bed and dressed quickly, pulling a soft green cloak over her shoulders before heading down the corridor to find Aedion. She caught him as he was just about to leave his chambers. He turned at her approach, brows lifting in question. He opened his door to usher her inside.

“Nox’s letter came,” she said quietly. “Tell him we agree to his terms. My mother will have no issue with granting the pardon. It’s nothing that can’t be forgiven.”

Aedion nodded once. “I’ll set up the meeting. Do you want to be there?”

“Yes.” She looked out the window toward the pale blue morning. “We need his information sooner rather than later.”

“I’ll handle it.” His voice softened, that brotherly concern flickering in his eyes. “You’re sure about this?”

“I’m sure,” Elide said. “He’s not a threat. He just wants security. And to return home. Don’t we all?”

They shared a knowing look before she excused herself, returning to her suite where Lysandra was already waiting, seated on the edge of the chaise with a steaming mug in her hands.

“Your dress is laid out,” Lysandra said with a smile. “I took the liberty of pressing it. Can’t have you looking anything less than diplomatic perfection.”

Elide smiled, heart lighter. “Thank you. I’ll need your help getting into it.”

Lysandra helped her into the gown—a sleek, dove-grey and silver creation embroidered with ivy and mountain lilies, symbols of Perranth. Her hair was drawn back in a braided crown, elegant but not ostentatious. Lysandra fussed with a stubborn lock of hair, then stood back to survey her with a grin.

“You look like a noblewoman and a spy all at once. I approve.”

Elide rolled her eyes fondly. “Thank you, Celaena .”

They laughed softly, but it faded as the reality of the day’s responsibilities settled over them. Elide took a steadying breath. “Ren and Lord Murtaugh should be waiting. The Adarlanian envoys will be expecting me. Are you coming?”

“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” Lysandra replied, smirking. “I’ll be the fly on the wall.”

“If Lord Westfall says anything sexist, give him a good buzz in the ear,” Elide said, grinning. “I’ve heard he’s a right prick.” And then she closed the door behind her.

Lord Westfall of Anielle and Lord Havilliard of Meah were to be the principal negotiators for Adarlan in the discussions. The irony of Chaol Westfall’s father sitting at the table of peace negotiations was not lost on her, nor the Havilliard name—Dorian’s kin, though distant. But it was a start.

Peace, true peace, required uncomfortable alliances. It required compromise. Elide had learned that already, and she would learn it again. She squared her shoulders and stepped into the chamber where Ren and Lord Murtaugh waited with scrolls and ink.

The time for backroom whispers was done. It was time to speak.

~~~~~

Murtaugh’s chambers were filled with the warm scent of burning cedar from the hearth, but the mood in the room was anything but relaxed. The four members of the Terrasen envoy gathered around a modest table, untouched tea cooling beside them as they unpacked the morning’s tense diplomatic exchange.

Lysandra, back in her Celaena guise, leaned against the window ledge, arms crossed. Her eyes still held the sharpness of the fly she’d shifted into earlier to infiltrate the private council chambers unnoticed.

“Well,” she began, voice dry, “that was one of the more irritating meetings I’ve eavesdropped on.”

Ren, seated across from her, let out a grunt of agreement. “That’s putting it mildly.”

Murtaugh, still in the formal attire he’d worn for the summit, removed his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Let’s go over it fully. No emotions—just facts.”

“Facts?” Lysandra echoed with a bitter smile. “Westfall called Aelin a barbarian. Accused her of bringing ruin and chaos the last time she stepped foot in Rifthold.”

Elide, seated nearest the fire, stiffened. “What exactly did he say?”

“He described her confrontation with the Assassin’s Guild in detail—though conveniently ignored the evidence of crimes and conspiracies she uncovered,” Lysandra said, her voice cooling. “Claimed she acted without restraint. Said her powers were destructive and uncontrolled. He seemed particularly scandalized by the fact that a woman wielded such power.”

Murtaugh’s jaw clenched slightly. “He spoke with the confidence of someone who’s never fought for anything but his ego.”

“And then Havilliard,” Ren added with a low growl, “How dare he accuse Terrasen of intentionally stirring trouble between Meah and Ilium. He claimed Terrasen was enabling some plot on the part of Ilium to expand Terrasen’s borders into Meah.”

“It’s a ridiculous accusation, and he knew it. They’ve got no proof,” Elide said sharply.

“None,” Murtaugh agreed. “And when I pressed Lord Havilliard for evidence—documentation, reports, even witness statements—he admitted he had nothing. Not even rumors from trusted sources. Just ‘concerns,’ as he put it.”

Ren smirked faintly. “You asked that question perfectly. Like a tutor scolding a slow student.”

“And then you offered to compensate Adarlan for the fire cleanup,” Lysandra said, finally letting herself smile. “I thought Westfall was going to choke on his own self-importance.”

Murtaugh’s tone was crisp. “Aelin’s actions saved lives. Still, offering compensation was the right thing to do. We’ve always tried to act in good faith, even when others haven’t.”

“You made that clear,” Elide said, her voice soft with admiration. “Especially when you reaffirmed our commitment to the peace treaty. That we were here in good will, and expected the same from Adarlan.”

Murtaugh inclined his head. “And I made it clear we welcome concerns—but only if brought with evidence, not accusations spun from thin air.”

“They underestimated you,” Lysandra said, shaking her head. “They thought they could shake us. Twist Aelin’s legacy into something shameful. But you held the line.”

Ren raised his glass of cooling tea. “To our grumpy old fox.”

Around the table, they nodded—not diplomats and nobles, but a tight-knit band of dreamers fighting for the truth.

Aedion

The morning air in Rifthold was still cold, despite the hints of spring warming the edges of the sky. Aedion marched through the cobbled streets with Elide at his side, her dark eyes sharp and alert, and Lysandra—currently in the form of a sleek black Labrador—padding obediently at his heel. They’d risen early, the tension from yesterday’s diplomatic meeting still clinging to the air like soot.

Nox had sent word the night before, instructing them to meet at a small, tucked-away bakery on the edge of the merchant quarter—coincidentally, the same place Aedion had been dragged to by Lysandra their first day in the city. The memory of it curled warmth through his chest, but he shoved it down. This was business.

The scent of fresh bread and honey greeted them as they arrived, sunlight casting golden light through the bakery windows. Nox was already waiting at a corner table, leaning back in his chair with a mug of coffee in one hand and a lazy grin on his face.

“You’re early,” Aedion said, giving him a look.

“I’m punctual,” Nox replied smoothly. “You’re just paranoid.”

“Reasonably so,” Elide said, stepping forward. “Do you have the names?”

Nox set his mug down. “Not yet. First, I want to know I’ve got that pardon in hand.”

Elide reached into her coat and pulled out a folded parchment, sealed with the Lady of Perranth’s crest. “My mother will agree. The charges were minor—petty theft, mostly. You’ll be cleared. This document outlines the agreement on the part of Perranth. A formal pardon will be issued as time allows and will be sent to you here once it is officialized.”

Aedion watched as Nox’s expression shifted, just slightly—something like gratitude hiding beneath his usual smirk. He tucked the letter into his coat and gestured toward the back of the bakery.

“I brought someone I think you should meet.”

They followed him through a small door and into a quiet alley behind the bakery, where a young woman stood waiting, arms crossed over her chest. She was tall and striking, with sleek black hair pulled into a tight braid and dark eyes lined in thick kohl that gave her an almost feline sharpness. Her tunic and armor bore the crest of the Rifthold city guard.

“Nesryn Faliq,” Nox said. “She’s one of the few in this gods-forsaken city who actually gives a damn about what’s happening to the people in the slums.”

Tall, with an arresting, serious face and sleek black hair pulled into a braid, she radiated quiet strength. Her olive skin was set off by the kohl lining her eyes, emphasizing her heritage from the Southern Continent. She didn’t move as they stepped into the alley.

Elide stepped forward and extended a hand. “Elide Lochan, of Perranth.”

Nesryn accepted it with a brief nod, her gaze flicking next to Aedion.

“Aedion Ashryver,” he said.

Nesryn’s gaze narrowed slightly, her arms still crossed. “So you’re from Terrasen,” she said, voice calm and cool. “Why are you here?”

Aedion met her stare evenly. “We’re part of a diplomatic envoy. But we also came with a separate mission—unofficial, but sanctioned. We’re seeking information on suspected human tracking that we believe may be tied to a larger conspiracy. Rifthold is a known node in that network.”

“And I’m supposed to trust that?” Nesryn asked, arching a brow. “That you’re just here to help out of the goodness of your hearts?”

“You’re smart to ask,” Elide said. “We believe there’s a link between what’s happening here and what’s happening across the continent. Morath, Melisande, even Terrasen. There was an attack on our crown princess last year. She nearly died. That is what initially led to our investigations, but what we’ve found so far has revealed concerns far greater than just her life. If there’s something festering in this city, we want to dig it out.”

Nesryn studied each of them in turn. “And what happens with the information I give you? What’s your plan?”

“We use it to find the people responsible,” Aedion replied. “We’re not here to make speeches or draw attention. We want to stop whoever is behind this. If it leads to trials or names getting exposed—good. But mostly, we want the missing found.”

Elide added, voice lower now, “And the ones behind it brought to justice. No matter who they are.”

Nesryn’s eyes flicked to Nox, then back to Elide. “He vouches for you. That’s the only reason I agreed to this meeting.”

“And we don’t expect you to trust us fully,” Elide said gently. “Just to give us a chance.”

A pause. Then Nesryn nodded slowly.

“I’ll help. But I want full transparency. If I bring you information, I want to know what you’re doing with it. And if I ask to be kept in the loop, I expect updates.”

“Agreed,” Aedion said.

“Fine. I’ve noticed people going missing,” she said finally, her voice smooth but firm. “People no one cares about—immigrants, migrants, sex workers. Most guards ignore the calls for help in the poorer districts. I joined the force to change that.”

Elide took a step closer. “You think it’s part of a larger operation?”

Nesryn nodded. “It’s the vulnerable who are going missing. No one cares about them. No one notices.I think someone’s targeting them. But I don’t have the resources to investigate on my own.”

“What information have you gathered so far?” Elide asked.

“I have a log. Whenever I notice or hear of someone missing from the slums, I write it down. Who they are, description, any details about their disappearance. I’ve been hoping a pattern would arise, but so far it’s just a long list of victims.”

“Would you share it with us?” Elide asked.

“I’ll let you look at it, copy the information down. But I will keep the log for myself,” Nesryn replied. “I plan to keep collecting details and information until I have something concrete to take to my superiors.”

Nesryn gave Elide a description of her fathers’ house and asked that she come by later that evening after her patrol shift. Elide agreed.

“There may be a connection to magic.” Aedion offered the tip in the hopes that divulging some of their intelligence would build trust. “The disappearances may be connected to people who have magic, or have magical bloodlines,” he explained further.

Nesryn nodded in thanks. “I have to get back to my guard post. I’ll see you later.” And then with feline grace she departed the alley and disappeared into the crowded streets.

Elide

The palace page looked slightly alarmed when Elide asked to request an audience with the Crown Prince. Perhaps not many visitors requested a private lunch with Dorian Havilliard, especially not minor nobility from Terrasen. But the request was sent, and to her surprise, a response arrived not an hour later: the prince would meet her in one of the smaller courtyards near the eastern wing. Discreet, quiet, with a covered veranda and a single stone table tucked beneath flowering vines.

Elide dressed with care—not for opulence, but for quiet diplomacy. She wore deep green, the color of Terrasen’s forests, and tied her hair back with a simple silver ribbon. Lysandra, still in her Celaena disguise, gave her a wink and a reminder to smile. 

When she arrived, Dorian was already there, dressed in sapphire blue, dark hair wind-tousled, but neat. He stood when she approached, and his smile was warm, if cautious.

“Lady Elide,” he greeted her. “I admit I didn’t expect your note. But I’m curious.”

“I hoped you might be,” she said, and sat when he gestured to the seat across from him. A light lunch had been laid out—bread, cheese, fruit, and tea. Simple, but pleasant.

They exchanged brief pleasantries—weather, the journey from Terrasen, her impressions of the palace—and then she reached into her cloak and withdrew the sealed letter.

“Aelin asked me to give this to you,” Elide said, setting it before him. “She wished me to deliver it directly.”

His brows lifted slightly, but he took the envelope with care, running a thumb over the seal. “I am glad to hear from her again,” he said softly, almost to himself.

He didn’t open it immediately. Instead, he leaned back, gaze lingering on her. “There are rumors,” he said. “About Ilium. Fire that engulfed a whole city block. That Aelin appeared out of nowhere and quelled it.”

“They’re not rumors,” Elide said. “It’s true. She did it. She saved lives that day.”

Dorian studied her face. “And paid a cost?”

“Magic like that always has one,” she said carefully. “But she recovered easily enough.”

A silence stretched between them, heavy with more unspoken questions. Dorian tapped the letter against the table once, twice.

“I can guess,” he said, “that your delegation’s goals in Rifthold aren’t strictly diplomatic.”

Elide’s lips twitched. “Let’s just say we’re wearing two faces. The formal one, and the one with teeth. I imagine the letter explains our goals, at least in part.”

Dorian’s grin was faint. “Then I suggest we talk more privately. You, me, and Aedion. Tomorrow night, my private study. It’s more secure.”

Elide nodded. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

“Dorian, please,” he said. “You’re a confidante of Aelin’s. I trust her implicitly. I think we can drop the formality.”

She smiled. “Dorian.”

“Well, that’s one letter delivered,” Elide commented, with a sigh. “Now I just have to find a random healer Aelin befriended who happens to be traveling through Rifthold right now, and my commitments will be fulfilled.”

At that, Dorian’s eyes lit with recognition. “A healer? Do you mean Yrene Towers? If so, you’re in luck. I met her just the other day, actually. She’s staying at an inn nearby.”

Relief blossomed in Elide’s chest. “You can put us in touch?”

“Absolutely. Ask for the healer, Sorscha. She’s one of the palace’s resident healers. Have her summoned to your chambers—she’ll know how to connect you with Yrene.”

Elide made a mental note of it. “Thank you. Aelin will be glad to know Yrene is safe.”

Dorian’s gaze drifted toward the blooming wisteria hanging from the veranda’s edge. “It’s strange,” he murmured. “So many pieces moving at once. But I get the feeling we’re all about to collide again.”

Elide nodded, her expression solemn. “I think the same.”

They lingered a while longer, the conversation drifting to small talk. When she rose to leave, Dorian stood with her.

“Until tomorrow night,” he said.

“Until then,” Elide replied—and walked away knowing she’d just added one more ally to their growing web of quiet rebellion.

Elide returned to her chambers to find Aedion and Ren waiting for her with Celaena .

“What happened?” she asked, sensing the tension in the room. “Is everything alright?”

“I’ve received a letter from Aelin,” Aedion replied. “You’d better have a seat.”

Chapter Text

The morning mist still clung to the cobblestones when they gathered at the palace gates, the great oak doors swinging open in silent farewell. Aelin stood next to her horse, the faint scent of lilac and woodsmoke curling in the air—a breath of early spring that couldn’t quite warm the chill coiling in her chest.

Beside her, Rowan adjusted the straps on his pack, his expression calm, unreadable, save for the glance he kept throwing her way. Gavriel stood a few paces off, already astride his bay stallion, his face set with quiet focus. Around them, six of the Bane—handpicked by Killian—waited in their saddles, silver and green cloaks rippling in the breeze.

Evalin brushed her gloved fingers down the neck of Aelin’s horse, her touch lingering.

“I wish you didn’t have to go now,” her mother murmured. “I wish… I could have had you home for Beltane. And your birthday.”

Aelin’s throat tightened. “I’ll celebrate on the road,” she tried to joke, but it fell flat. She cleared her throat. “I’ll miss it too. I’ll miss you.”

Evalin’s arms wrapped around her tightly, fiercely. “Come back in one piece. Both of you,” she said, her voice trembling as she looked from Aelin to Rowan.

Rhoe stepped forward next, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “We’ve written ahead to the Duke. Sent an official request for a diplomatic meeting,” he said, quiet and grim. “There’s a Terrasen outpost a few miles from the border. You’ll resupply there and meet with one of our scouts before heading into Adarlan. Remember to send reports weekly. And send us an update when you meet up with Aedion.”

“I’ll be careful,” Aelin promised, though her fingers trembled around the reins, “And I’ll write. Every week. I promise.”

When her parents stepped back, giving her space, Aelin felt her control slip. The moment she turned to look out over the long road to the horizon, she felt her vision blur.

Last year, she’d celebrated Beltane dancing around bonfires with Nehemia, Dorian, and Chaol, laughing as they’d adorned themselves with crowns of flowers. Nehemia had braided blossoms into her hair. And she had given her the name Elentiya. Aelin swallowed a sob and looked up at the sky.

Rowan must have felt the shift in her. He didn’t speak, just came up beside her and brushed his thumb over her cheek, wiping away the solitary tear that escaped. He nodded and helped her into her saddle. 

Aelin wiped her eyes and straightened. “Let’s go.”

With a clatter of hooves and a rustle of banners, they rode out—Aelin, Rowan, Gavriel, and the Bane warriors moving as one. The city fell away behind them, the white palace fading into stone and fog. Ahead lay the long road south, through the forests, along rivers still swollen with meltwater, and into the lands that bordered the Adarlanian territory of Morath.

Rowan shifted into hawk form, wings slicing the air as he rose above them, a sentinel in the sky.

They would travel for weeks. Through wild country, through Perranth and then past the Endovier salt mines and the Ferrian Gap, where they would travel along the Avery River until it branched off from the Acanthus, where they would wait for Aedion. 

The path ahead would be long and dangerous. But she would face it with fire in her veins.

And Nehemia’s memory in her heart.

~~~~~

The castle at Perranth rose like a memory out of the spring mist, perched on a gentle hill that overlooked Perranth Lake. Budding trees lined the road up to the gates, and beyond them, the familiar green hills of Terrasen rolled like waves to the horizon. Aelin had always thought Perranth beautiful, but now—in the early spring—it felt like a balm. 

Marion and Cal Lochan welcomed them with open arms. Marion embraced Aelin fiercely at the gates, whispering how grateful she was that she and Elide had become such good friends and how happy she was to see Aelin safe and whole. Gavriel bowed politely, Rowan stood tall and silent, and the Bane warriors were ushered into the guest barracks with hot meals and dry beds.

They stayed two nights, re-supplying and resting before the journey would take them across the border and into Adarlan. On the second morning, a letter arrived.

Aelin found Marion in her sun-warmed study, her eyes scanning the parchment with a mixture of pride and concern. She looked up as Aelin entered, her expression soft.

“It’s from Elide,” Marion said, holding out the letter. “She’s struck a deal with a man named Nox Owen. He’s requested a pardon for some petty crimes—mostly thievery—in Perranth.”

Aelin took the letter, reading Elide’s careful script. She smiled faintly at the note’s neatness, at the way Elide’s tone had grown firm, assured. “He’s clever,” Aelin murmured. “And honorable. If he’s working with them now, it’s because he sees value in their cause.”

Marion nodded. “He’s not a danger to Perranth. If you agree, I’ll sign the pardon.”

“I do,” Aelin said, and then sat at the desk to write a reply. She folded it neatly and sealed it alongside Marion’s letter, then wrote another short note to her parents, informing them of their planned departure from Perranth the next day. She kept it brief, but not cold—just enough to let them know she was safe, and that her mission continued.

She left the letters with Marion and returned to the guest chambers they’d been given.

Rowan stood near the window when she entered, watching the dusky light spill over the Perranth hills. The fire in the hearth had burned low, and shadows danced on the stone floor.

Aelin closed the door behind her. For a long moment, neither of them said anything.

Then Rowan turned.

“You’ve been quiet,” he said softly. Rowan studied her, the tattoo on his face stark in the firelight. “You miss them. Your parents.”

Aelin nodded, throat thick. “I miss Nehemia, too. I’ve been thinking about her a lot. It was around this time last year that she arrived in Orynth, along with Dorian’s family. I was still recovering from the attack. Gods, I can’t believe it’s been a year, but at the same time it feels like a lifetime ago. I can’t believe she’s gone.”

“Maybe it will be good for you to go to Ellwye, for more reasons than just Brannon’s task,” Rowan suggested.

“I was supposed to visit her,” Aelin said dully. “She invited me to come to Ellwye this spring. But instead of embracing my friend, I’ll be laying stones at her grave.”

She turned away from the window, sinking down onto the edge of the bed.

“We’ll cross into Adarlan tomorrow,” she said. “And I don’t know what we’ll find. But I can feel the weight of it already.” She looked up at him. “Do you ever feel like you’re on the edge of something terrible, and you have no idea if you’ll come out of it whole?”

Rowan sat beside her, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. “Yes,” he said, voice low. “Every day since I met you.”

Aelin let out a shaky breath, leaning into his shoulder. “You’re not supposed to say that. You’re supposed to say, ‘It will be fine. We’ll be fine.’”

He huffed a laugh against her hair. “We will be fine. But I won’t lie to you. The road ahead is dangerous.”

“I know,” she whispered. “But I’m glad you’re with me.”

She felt him press a kiss to the crown of her head, felt the warmth of his power curl around her in a quiet embrace.

Tomorrow, they would ride into Adarlan, into the unknown.

But tonight, in the ancient castle of Perranth, she let herself feel the ache of what had been lost—and the fragile hope of what might still be saved.

~~~~~

The wind that greeted them at the Ferrian Gap carried the bite of the mountains and the scent of the Avery. Aelin pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders as the group rode down the final ridge, revealing the glittering silver ribbon of the river below and the modest village nestled against its banks.

They set camp just outside its borders, a grove of trees offering some seclusion. The Bane warriors—six of Terrasen’s finest—moved with practiced ease, stringing up tents and lighting cookfires. Rowan, now in his Fae form, returned from his aerial scouting and landed beside Aelin with silent grace. Gavriel followed a few paces behind, his keen golden eyes always watching.

“We’ll head into the village at first light,” Rowan said. “Rest, resupply. No signs of danger nearby.”

Aelin gave him a tight nod. “Let’s hope it stays that way.”

But of course, it didn’t.

The witches came just after nightfall.

It began with the wind shifting. A wrongness to it. Like the forest holding its breath.

Then came the ironteeth.

Thirteen of them.

Aelin and her companions were on their feet before the witches could land. Goldryn was already in Aelin’s hand as the witches descended into the clearing, landing in a half-circle that cut off the exit to the riverbank. Their iron teeth and nails glinted in the firelight.

At their center stood their coven leader.

Pale hair braided tight, golden eyes glowing, she looked like death given breath.

“Well,” Aelin said, voice sharp as her sword. “You must be out for a pleasant evening ride.”

The leader sneered, her mouth full of gleaming iron. “We were looking for throats to rip out.”

Rowan and Gavriel stepped in behind her. The Bane had weapons drawn, their expressions hard, steady. But Aelin did not need them for this.

The coven leader stepped forward. “And it looks like we found a few.”

“You found the wrong camp,” Aelin said.

The coven leader sneered. “We’ll see.”

Aelin didn’t wait for the first move.

Flame erupted around the witches in a blinding ring—no ordinary fire, but one forged in the pit of her soul. White-hot, consuming, endless. The witches flinched back as the heat roared between them, cutting them off from every escape route. The grass blackened, the trees behind them sizzled with heat. Some of the Thirteen snarled. Aelin didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“You came into my camp,” Aelin said, her voice low and dangerous. “You threatened my people. If I wanted, I could end you all right now.”

Aelin raised her hand, fire pooling in her palm, ready to release it.

To incinerate them all.

The witches hissed. Some tried to test the flames, only to recoil at the blistering heat.

And then—she felt it.

A soft pull inside her. Gentle. Familiar.

Like a hand on her shoulder, a breath on her neck.

It came from deep within.

A feeling she couldn’t name. A sense of wait . Of not yet .

The fire flickered—not from doubt, but restraint.

She breathed hard, staring into the coven leader’s burning eyes.

The coven leader snarled, baring her iron teeth. “We are the Thirteen. And this isn’t over. We will find you again, Fire-Bringer, and next time you won’t be so lucky.”

“Tell me your name, coven leader,” Aelin demanded as she slowly lowered the ring of fire.

“I am Manon Blackbeak, Heir to the Ironteeth Witch Clan, and you just made a deadly enemy, Princess.”

Aelin lowered the ring of fire until the witches could pass.

The coven leader, Manon, held her gaze a heartbeat longer, then lifted her hand. With that silent signal, the Thirteen leapt into the air one by one, the flames parting just long enough to let them escape. 

As the fire died down, Aelin stood breathing hard, her hand still raised, her power thrumming like a live wire beneath her skin.

Rowan stepped beside her. “You didn’t kill them.”

“No,” she said, lowering her arm. “Not tonight.”

“They’ll come back.”

“I hope they do,” Aelin said quietly. “Next time, I might not feel so merciful.”

The night returned to silence, but the air still sizzled with the memory of flame—and of enemies who would not forget.

Chapter Text

Elide

Elide sat beside Aedion in the prince’s small private study, her fingers wrapped tightly around a leather folder containing the notes she had obtained from Nesryn, along with the list of names she and Lysandra—currently masquerading as Celaena—had been able to cross reference with the palace’s archives on genealogy and magical families. She didn’t miss the unease in Aedion’s posture, the way his hand rested casually near the dagger at his side even within the safety of the glass castle. And she didn’t blame him. What they were about to reveal was dangerous. Explosive.

Dorian Havilliard, Crown Prince of Adarlan, entered with quiet grace. His blue eyes flicked between them, searching, measuring. He took his seat across from them and nodded for her to begin.

“I’ve brought the information we discussed yesterday,” Elide said, sliding the folder forward.

He opened it and began scanning the pages. “These are all... missing persons?”

“Yes,” Elide said. “Disappeared over the last six months. Some further back. A city guard collected logs during their patrols. Most are from the immigrant quarters, slums, or low-born magical families. But look at the names my servant and I matched.”

Dorian turned the pages slowly. His jaw clenched.

“Some of these families have ties to the old bloodlines,” she explained.

“Magical families,” he murmured.

Elide nodded. “We believe these disappearances are connected. That someone is targeting people with magic. We think it’s a coordinated effort.”

“By who?”

“We suspect Duke Perrington,” Aedion said flatly. “We suspect he’s been conducting experiments on these people. Possibly with others—there’s evidence linking Melisande’s royal family and a noble from Terresen, Elide’s uncle Vernon.”

“We don’t know the extent of the conspiracy yet,” Elide explained. “And we don’t have evidence of our suspicions about Perrington’s experiments. But that’s the direction the evidence is pointing. We think the Guild’s involvement has been to kidnap and transport the victims.”

Dorian leaned back in his chair, gaze unfocused. “Gods.”

“We think they’re developing magical restraints,” Elide continued. “They want to control magic wielders.”

A silence stretched between them. Dorian closed the folder.

“This morning,” he said quietly, “a member of the King’s Council—the Lord of Meah, a Perrington loyalist—proposed a ban on magic.”

Elide stiffened. Aedion swore under his breath.

“They want to use Aelin’s fire in Rifthold as justification,” Dorian said. “They’re arguing that magic needs to be controlled. That anyone with power should register in a national registry. And that anyone caught wielding unlicensed magic be jailed or... fitted with restraints.”

The chill in the room was sudden and sharp.

“It sounds like anyone who has developed this magical restraint technology would be well situated to earn a pretty penny, should that policy pass,” Aedion said darkly.

Dorian nodded once, slowly. “I won’t let them pass this law. But I need more than suspicions to stop them. Can you get me proof? Anything I can bring to my father to show their misdeeds?”

“We’re working on it,” Elide said. “We have leads. Our next step is in Melisande. Stall the vote as long as you can.”

“Work fast,” Dorian said.

Elide stood. So did Aedion.

Dorian’s voice softened as he looked at Elide. “Thank you. For trusting me.”

She held his gaze. “You’re not your father, Dorian. And Aelin trusts you. That’s why we came to you.”

“On another note, Dorian,” Aedion added, “I know you’re keeping your magic secret right now, but it might be time to think about going public. It could send a message against Perrington.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Dorian said. “It might be time for a grand reveal.”

~~~~~

Elide stood by the window of her guest chambers in the Rifthold palace, gazing out at the grey morning. She rubbed her arms, the quiet weight of what she knew pressing down on her. It wasn’t just about Melisande anymore. It wasn’t just about pretending to be a diplomat.

At Prince Dorian’s suggestion, she sent for Sorscha. When the healer arrived, Elide offered her tea and gestured for her to sit.

“I need to find someone,” Elide said softly. “Her name is Yrene Towers. She trained at the Torre Cesme, and I believe she’s staying in the city. I believe you know her?”

Sorscha blinked. “Yrene? Yes—she’s here. She’s staying at an inn not far from the palace. I’ve met her recently. Why?”

Elide hesitated only a moment. “She’s important to someone I trust. And I have something I need to bring her. Can you take me to her?”

Sorscha didn’t press for more. Together, they slipped out of the palace through a side door and into the winding streets of Rifthold. The inn was tucked behind a wine merchant’s storefront, a humble building that smelled of bread and candle wax.

Yrene was in the common room when they arrived, her honey-gold hair pinned back loosely, a book open in her lap. She looked up in surprise.

“Sorscha?” she asked, standing.

Sorscha smiled. “Hi Yrene, it’s so nice to see you again. I’ve brought you a visitor.”

Elide offered her a weary smile and reached into her cloak. “I’m Elide Lochan of Perranth, friend of Aelin Galathynius. Aelin asked me to deliver this to you.”

She handed Yrene the letter. The healer’s eyes scanned the lines with growing intensity, and when she was done, she looked up slowly.

“Well this is all very disturbing,” said Yrene, looking up at Elide. “Let’s go up to my rooms.”

Once ensconced in the privacy of Yrene’s inn suite, Yrene asked, “how recent is this information? Is it true? Perrington is working with the Assassin’s Guild to traffick humans? To what end?”

Sorscha gasped.

“It was just a theory when Aelin wrote that letter,” Elide responded, gesturing to the parchment in Yrene’s hands. “However, since arriving in Rifthold, we’ve gathered more evidence that points in that direction. Nothing definite yet, though we’re still working on it.” 

“My diplomatic envoy came to Rifthold in part so that we could find out more about the trafficking,” Elide explained. “We are headed to Melisande next. There is a connection to all this there. However, we just got word that Aelin is headed to Morath. After Melisande, we are to meet her and go together. But there’s more. We think Duke Perrington is involved in something horrifying. The people who are being taken—of the ones we’ve been able to identify and research, they all have magic, or magical lineages. We believe they’re being transported to Morath to be experimented on.”

Yrene’s expression darkened. “Experimented on?”

Elide nodded again. “Magical suppression. We’ve tracked the disappearances, and the pattern is too precise to be coincidence. They’re testing something. Preparing for something.”

Sorscha’s face went pale. “That’s what those rumors were about… the disappearances in the lower wards.”

Elide met both their eyes. “We don’t know how many victims there are. But, if this turns out to be true, and if we are able to rescue any of the victims—if there’s even a chance we can save someone…”

“You’ll need healers. I’m going,” Yrene said immediately. “If people are being used like that, I’ll help.”

Sorscha nodded as well, her face resolute. “Me too. I’ll request leave from the palace. I’ll tell them my mother is sick and I need to go tend to her for a time.”

“You won’t need to come with us to Melisande,” Elide said. “But meet us on the Acanthus in two weeks. There’s a village located at the bend of the river just north of the border with Fenharrow. We’ll send word when we reach the crossing.”

Yrene reached across the table and took Elide’s hand. “Thank you for telling us.”

Elide gave her a small, sad smile. “Thank you for agreeing to come.”

Lysandra

The Terrasen retinue departed Rifthold the next day, having wrapped up their official and unofficial business. Two weeks of travel later the capital of Melisande greeted them with warm spring air and carefully measured smiles. Courtiers and officials flanked the long entrance road to the palace, their pastel silks and muted gemstones echoing the refinement the kingdom prided itself on. Elide kept her chin high, seated beside Ren in the polished carriage, while Murtaugh and Lysandra—disguised once more in her Celaena form—followed in a second. Aedion rode on horseback at the front of the caravan, looking every part the General-Prince of Terrasen.

The royal family of Melisande welcomed them with choreographed politeness, the Queen herself offering rehearsed phrases of peace and alliance. Rooms in the western wing of the palace were prepared for them, complete with flower arrangements and sweets carefully chosen to reflect Terrasen’s colors.

They took a day to settle and orient themselves to the capital city. Elide, taking her maid with her under the pretense of needing a servant to carry packages, walked around the main square and surrounding commercial areas. 

Back at the castle, Elide spread out her documents on a polished desk in her chamber. "There," she whispered, tapping a name with a fingertip. Leighfer Bardingale. The Queen's closest friend and advisor, and the thread tying a dozen shady businesses together. Elide handed the compiled list of her known associations to Lysandra.

“Let’s find out what she’s hiding,” Elide said.

Lysandra gave her a quick, wicked grin and stripped off her outer layers. A moment later, a sleek black Labrador retriever padded out of the room with noiseless grace, slipping into the twilight streets of Melisande’s capital.

The hunt didn’t take long. Lysandra tracked the locations on the list one by one. On the second day, outside a quiet office building near the palace, she caught the scent she was looking for. Bardingale. The woman stepped into the building flanked by two assistants.

Lysandra shifted into a fly, buzzing unseen into the air above, landing at last in Bardingale’s perfectly styled hair, just above her left ear.

She nestled in, unseen. Unheard. But she heard everything.

Hours passed. Meetings came and went. But then—finally—a man arrived. One of the Melisandean nobles from the Queen’s inner circle. The door shut.

"...Adarlan is closer than ever," he said. "One of Perrington’s allies on the council proposed the magic ban last week. We just got word this morning. They’re using that girl’s fire in Rifthold as justification."

Lysandra stilled. Aelin.

Bardingale laughed softly. "And our Queen is ready to follow suit. Once Adarlan enacts theirs, we’ll pass ours within the month. The public wants peace and order—this gives them the illusion of both."

"And the restraints?"

"Already being made in Morath," Bardingale said. "Thankfully Perrington’s research seems to have worked. My investment is about to pay off. My shipping company will distribute the restraints across the continent. We’ll make back our investment and then some. And once magic is restrained everywhere… well. The playing field becomes much easier to control. Maybe Lochan will even be able to convince those bastards in the north to put them on the fire-breathing bitch before she burns the entire continent to ash."

The nobleman gave a low chuckle. “Let’s hope so. Has he had any more luck with the Terrasen lords?”

“No. It’s still just Darrow and the three others he’s been able to convince. Lady Lochan is pushing back and she has a lot of sway,” Bardingale replied.

“Should we have our Guild friend pay her a visit?” the nobleman inquired.

“Not yet,” Bardingale replied. “Let’s see how things play out with Adarlan first.”

Lysandra stayed until nightfall, hiding in Bardingale’s hair as she moved from meetings to her carriage to her private suite. Only then did she escape, slipping out the window and into the velvet night, her wings beating with fury.

She returned to the palace, transformed back into Celaena in the shadows of the courtyard, her pulse still thrumming with rage.

Elide was waiting, pacing in her nightdress by the open terrace.

“We need to talk. The whole group. Now.”

Chapter Text

The innkeeper was kind enough, though nervous, especially around Gavriel and Rowan, whose presence seemed to draw uneasy stares. There weren’t many Fae wandering Adarlan’s backroads, and even fewer who kept company with a blonde female warrior whose eyes sparked gold when she was annoyed.

They’d been in the river town for two days when Aelin and Rowan decided to stretch their legs with a walk through the bustling market square. The river breeze kept the early summer heat at bay, and the streets were crowded with vendors shouting over one another, children chasing dogs, and fishermen hauling in their day’s catch from the Acanthus docks.

Aelin drifted toward a stall selling cheap trinkets and jewelry, but paused when she caught a low, heated argument unfolding in the shadow of a stone fountain.

“…I’m telling you, they’re proposing it in the capital. Magic registration. Full ban if it passes the second hearing,” one man said, voice rough with disbelief.

Another snorted. “And I suppose you think that’s a bad thing? After what happened in Rifthold?”

“They put that fire out, didn’t they? And who even started it—no one knows for sure.”

“Please,” a woman interjected. “Everyone knows it was that fire witch from Terrasen. That princess. I heard she destroyed an entire city block—burned it to ash.”

“Don’t be daft. The building that burned down was a cesspool of killers and thieves.”

Aelin felt Rowan tense beside her.

She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just listened.

“The proposal came from one of Perrington’s allies,” the first man continued. “The Lord of Meah—he said we needed ‘order,’ said magic was a threat to the common folk.”

“Order?” the woman laughed coldly. “More like fear. My cousin’s boy has wind magic. What happens to him if this passes?”

“They’ll register him,” the second man said. “That’s all. Just so the guard knows who to watch.”

“And if he uses his magic?” she shot back. “Even by accident? He’s just a boy. He can’t control it yet.”

No one answered.

Rowan’s hand brushed hers—an anchor more than anything.

Later, in the privacy of their rented room at the inn, Aelin paced. Rowan sat on the edge of the bed, arms crossed, watching her with a calm that didn’t reach his eyes.

“This isn’t just fear-mongering,” she said. “It’s political groundwork. If Adarlan passes a magic ban…”

“Others will follow,” Rowan finished.

“Exactly. And we know Perrington’s been developing magical restraint devices through Morath.” She paused. “What if this is the plan? Stir public fear. Ban magic. Restrain or arrest anyone who defies it.”

Rowan’s jaw tightened. “Weaponize the fear, the tools, the system. Someone stands to make a lot of money off those devices.”

Aelin threw herself into the armchair, head in her hands. “And I’m the spark they’ll use to justify it all.”

He moved to her side, crouching low. “You’re not the spark, Aelin—they’re looking for an excuse. They’d have found another if it wasn’t you.”

She met his gaze. “But it was me. And now people like that boy—wind magic or no—might end up shackled for the rest of their lives.”

Rowan touched her cheek. “Then we find a way to stop it.”

That night, after composing letters to her parents and to Ellwye’s royals, Aelin took up her pen again and scrawled one final note:

Dorian, I’ve heard the rumors. If it’s true—if they vote to pass the ban—you have friends. You have me. Terrasen stands with you. Never forget that. Write if you need anything. I’ll be in Ellwye at the palace with the royal family soon. Go to Orynth if you need a safe place.
Aelin.

She sealed it with wax and the Terrasen stag insignia, praying it would reach the prince before the tide turned fully against him.

That night, the tension between her and Rowan reached a quiet, aching crescendo. They sat together on the bed, shoulders pressed close, gazing out the window at the silver-touched rivers.

“I don’t want to say goodbye,” she said, her voice hoarse.

“I don’t either,” Rowan replied.

They had stopped pretending, at least here, that this journey wasn’t their last together—for a while. Gavriel had already spoken of returning to Doranelle soon. Rowan hadn’t said it aloud, but she could see the truth in his eyes.

He shifted beside her, and after a long pause, he spoke. “There’s not much more Gavriel and I can teach you. You know that. The rest—your power, your choices—that’s yours now. Our mission… it’s done.”

She didn’t interrupt. She couldn’t.

“But the oath,” Rowan continued quietly, “it’s pulling us back. Stronger each day. If we don’t return soon, we’ll be in direct defiance of Maeve. It’ll… break the bond.”

Aelin turned sharply toward him. “You could break the blood oath?”

“Theoretically, yes. It can be done, although I’m not aware of it ever having happened before,” he replied.

“Why not?” Aelin asked.

“Because the likely consequence is death,” Rowan explained.

“What? If you don’t obey her, then you die? That’s barbaric!” Aelin exclaimed. “That’s not the way blood oaths have ever worked in Terrasen. Not that I know of. I’ve never even heard of that.”

Rowan thought for a moment, reaching for Aelin’s hand and taking it in his own. “That’s because the nature of the blood oath depends on the leader offering it, and their intentions when they make it. For your leaders, the oath has come with the intention of service to the kingdom and its people. For Maeve, the intention is complete submission.”

Aelin scoffed.

“If one of Maeve’s  blood-sworn warriors defies a direct command, the blood oath gets broken, severed. And the severing process is grueling. They would not survive it. That is the cost of outright defiance.”

Aelin shuddered beside him.

“I can feel it already—like pressure in my chest. Gavriel too.”

Aelin’s heart splintered as tears began to fall down her cheeks. “Then go. You have to go back.”

He searched her face. “Not yet. There is still enough leeway in the orders she gave. But soon I will have to decide.”

“Decide what? Rowan—”

“I would stay, Aelin. I would stay and damn the consequences. She'll use me against you, Aelin. I couldn't bear it.”

“No,” she said, tears welling. “No, you can’t. I couldn’t bear it if you died because of me. Even if it means going back to Maeve. Maybe… maybe we’ll find another way.”

He rested his forehead against hers. “Okay. But don’t think for a moment I’ll stop finding a way back to you.”

“You won’t be able to, Rowan,” Aelin replied. “You’re bound to her and there is nothing you can do. But I’ll find a way to you. I promise. I’ll never stop until I find a way. Even if it takes me a thousand years.”

They stayed like that, bathed in moonlight and heartbreak, holding onto each other and onto a hope neither dared to speak aloud.

~~~~~

The waters of the Acanthus ran wide and slow, reeds curling along the banks as Aelin and her companions traveled southward. They had left the bustling inn behind, exchanging it for silence, woods, and the hush of wind threading through budding branches. The smaller village near the river bend loomed just a day’s ride ahead. They would camp there and wait for Aedion.

They didn’t stay in the village itself. Too many eyes. Too much risk. Instead, they camped in a wooded clearing on a hill just beyond the outskirts. It overlooked the silver-gray ribbon of the river, and from its heights, Aelin could see the rooftops of the village, the pale plume of hearth smoke, the winding roads leading away.

She spent most of her days poring over the books Yrene had given her. The first she re-read in its entirety: Histories of the Valg . She took notes. Every account of the Valg, every description of their magic and their possession techniques, their society and hierarchy, she traced again and again.

But it was in her transcription of the ancient Fae stories she heard translated by Conlaoch that something new stirred.

Late one afternoon, while Rowan and Gavriel hunted, Aelin sat at the edge of their camp, her notebook open on her knees. She reread the same tale for the fourth time—a story of a Fae warrior who begged his queen to allow him to swear an unbreakable oath, though such an oath had never been practiced before. The first such oath, it was said. An act of loyalty, of boundless devotion.

She whispered the translated words aloud: “ I offer you this eternal oath so that you may bind yourself to me, your rightful true queen, until the end of your days. ”

Three words repeated in her head like a struck bell: rightful. true. queen.

Aelin stared at them, heart slowly beginning to hammer.

What if the queen who offered such an oath were an imposter? What if she had taken the throne through deception, through lies spun like silk? What if she were not the rightful, true queen at all when she offered an oath?

Aelin’s breath caught. If Maeve was Valg—if she had possessed a body, taken control the way the Valg kings once had—then the oath, the one offered to Rowan and his other bloodsworn companions, would have been sworn not out of love or loyalty, but trickery.

And that would mean every blood oath sworn to Maeve since… every binding… was founded on a lie, a material misrepresentation.

And if Maeve was an imposter, who was the rightful queen?

According to the old tales, Maeve had ruled with two sisters, Mab and Mora, who had long since faded into the afterlife. For the Fae, succession was always matrilineal. Mab, Aelin’s great-grandmother, had two grand-daughters, Evalin, and Aedion’s deceased mother. And Aelin wasn’t sure about Mora. Mora’s bloodline was more prolific. Rowan would know, but Aelin did not want to ask him. Not about this. 

But it occurred to her that if Maeve was an imposter, her mother, and then Aelin, had more right to that throne than Maeve ever did.

~~~~~

Night fell gently on the wooded clearing beyond the village, the moon slipping through leaves to cast silver shadows across the tents. The fire had burned low, only embers now, and most of the camp lay quiet. Rowan held the flap of their shared tent open for Aelin, and she stepped inside with a soft yawn.

He followed a moment later, ducking through and settling beside her atop the thick bedrolls and blankets they’d laid down over pine needles and moss. Aelin tugged off her boots and rubbed at her calves, sore from a long day of walking and reading.

“You’re quiet,” Rowan said after a moment, folding his arms behind his head and gazing at the tent’s canvas ceiling.

“I’ve just been thinking,” Aelin replied. “About everything I read today.”

She leaned back against Rowan’s chest as he draped an arm around her waist, pulling her into him. “I wanted to ask you about something tonight.”

“What’s that?” Rowan replied.

“Tell me about your family, and growing up in Doranelle. What was it like?”

“My parent were very old when they conceived me. I was their only child in the millenia they’d been mated. They faded into the Afterworld before I reached my second decade. My uncle took me in, raised me with my cousins.”

“You have cousins?” Aelin asked.

Rowan scoffed. “Too many. Mora’s line was always the most widespread, and my meddlesome, gossiping cousins make my visits to Doranelle…irksome.”

Aelin laughed, trying to picture a young, brooding Rowan growing up with a bunch of meddlesome cousins.

Doranelle is a beautiful city. It’s a stronghold of stone built on a massive island, with natural moats encircling stone walls. It’s surrounded by forests and mountains. The island is in the center of several rivers, and the waters rage around the city. There’s a waterfall whose base floats mist into the air. And the streets are full of musicians and dancing and vendors selling hot food and drinks.

“Including meat on a stick?” Aelin teased.

“Yes, that’s where I go to find meat on a stick ,” Rowan replied, poking her affectionately.

“Do you think your cousins would like me?” Aelin asked.

Rowan huffed a laugh. “Unfortunately, yes, I think you would fit right in with some of them, especially with the snooping,” he replied. “Gods, I would hate to see what would happen if you, Sellene, and Enda were in a room together. I’d never have a moment’s peace.”

“Oh I hope I get to meet them some day, then,” Aelin teased. “What about your uncle, tell me about him.”

“Why the sudden fascination with my family?” he asked.

“Stop being difficult, Buzzard. I just realized I don’t know anything about them, about your life there,” she said. “You know everything, my parents, Aedion, you’ve seen Orynth and the castle. I just wanted to have a picture in my head of what it might be like, what you might be like, when you’re there.”

Rowan leaned his head down gently atop hers. “I don’t want you to picture me there,” he whispered. “We’re here right now. Just picture me here, with you.”

Chapter Text

Yrene

The spring air in Rifthold was still cool in the mornings, the streets damp with dew and alive with early vendors. Yrene pressed a hand to the worn leather pouch at her side as she moved through the market with purposeful steps, her cloak drawn close to keep attention away from her face. There wasn’t much time left, and the supplies she needed might raise questions if anyone looked too closely: tinctures for pain and swelling, crushed valerian root, cloth wraps for burns, and vials of her own healing tonics. She tucked them carefully into her basket, nodding politely to the apothecary who made no comment—just took her coin and returned to stirring a bitter-smelling brew.

Sorscha had already left the castle by then. The moment her leave had been granted, she’d packed a single bag and taken the quietest route to the inn where Yrene was staying. The two of them had slipped easily into quiet rhythm—shared tea in the mornings, worked through inventories in the afternoons, reviewed their travel plans by lamplight. 

The small room she shared with Sorscha at the inn had transformed into a makeshift infirmary over the past few days. Dried bundles of plants hung from beams, medical books and vials crowded every surface, and a kettle of warming tea sat on the windowsill beside a half-finished letter.

Sorscha sat cross-legged on the bed, her brown eyes fixed on the mortar she was grinding with rhythmic care. The castle healer had been granted a month’s leave after her request was approved two days ago. She hadn’t said much about the process. Yrene had seen the quiet tension in her shoulders ease the moment she walked out of the palace gates. But she could tell that some part of Sorscha was still back in the castle, a part of her heart remained behind with the prince.

Yrene marked off one more item with a charcoal pencil, then leaned back against the wall. "You really got the entire month?"

Sorscha nodded, stirring her tea absently. "They didn't ask too many questions. I told them I needed time to tend to family matters in Fenharrow. It’s not entirely a lie."

Yrene gave her a small smile. "No. It’s not."

"You’re sure we have everything we’ll need for Morath?" Sorscha asked, pausing her grinding.

Yrene nodded, tightening the drawstrings on one pouch. “I’ll get the rest on the road if needed. I’m used to traveling light.”

Sorscha gave her a small smile. “It still feels… unreal. That we’re going. I wonder what we’ll find--who we’ll find--when we get there, and what condition they’ll be in.”

Silence settled between them for a while, the soft crackling of the fire and the rustle of pages filling the room as they both pondered the horrific possibilities.

Yrene hesitated, then asked, "How is Dorian? You’re lovers, right?"

Sorscha’s hand stilled on her mortar. She didn’t look up. 

“I won’t tell anyone, Sorscha,” Yrene went on. “I know these things can be… complicated. But I’m a very perceptive person. I notice things.”

Sorscha simply ground the herbs in her mortar as she stared into its depths. “I worry for him. Every day.”

Yrene waited.

"He tries not to use it. His magic. But sometimes he can’t help it. When he’s angry or frightened… it leaks out. I’ve been making him an iron tonic," Sorscha admitted. "We decided together it was safer—for him, for everyone. It helps dull the magic. Keeps it buried."

There was guilt in her voice, quiet and sharp.

"You were trying to protect him," Yrene said gently.

Sorscha nodded slowly. “I was. I hated doing it. But with the magic ban proposal being whispered about in the council, and the rising fear among the nobility… we thought it was the safest option. Only Princess Aelin, Chaol, and I knew about his magic. And now you. He doesn’t want anyone else to know. Not until… not until he understands it better."

Yrene’s eyes widened. “You think they’d target him?”

Sorscha’s fingers curled around her cup. “He told me about the attempt on the Terrasen princess’s life last year. Because of her magic. They came for her in the dark, like cowards. If they find out what Dorian can do—what he is —I don’t know how long he’d last. Not everyone in the castle would stand beside him.”

The words sat heavy between them.

“I didn’t realize it was that bad,” Yrene murmured.

“The fear runs deeper than most will admit,” Sorscha said. “They think magic will tear the kingdom apart. They blame it for everything they don’t understand.”

Yrene sipped her own tea, then asked the question that had lingered all evening. "Are you in love with him?"

The question hung between them, warm and tender in the flickering firelight.

Sorscha didn’t answer for a long time. She just stared into her cup, her lips pressed into a thin line. At last, she said softly, "I don’t see how I could ever be a queen."

That was all she said. Yrene didn’t press her. But Yrene saw the truth in her eyes anyway. And she understood. She only reached across the table, placed her hand atop Sorscha’s, and gave it a gentle squeeze. 

Outside the inn, the streets of Rifthold slumbered. But inside, two healers prepared for war.

~~~~~

Yrene checked the list for the fourth time that morning, cross-referencing it with the bags neatly stacked at the foot of the bed. Her satchel of healing supplies, Sorscha’s carefully labeled herb packets, the map of Morath folded into a hollowed-out anatomy book. Everything was ready. Or as ready as it could be.

Beside her, Sorscha tied off the final pouch of dried foxglove and tucked it into her cloak pocket. “If I’ve forgotten anything,” she said quietly, “I suppose we’ll just improvise.”

Yrene offered a smile, though her fingers were tight around the handles of her satchel. “You’ve packed like someone who’s been preparing for war.”

Sorscha gave a soft snort. “Isn’t that what this is?”

A knock at the door startled them both. Yrene exchanged a glance with Sorscha before standing and opening it slowly.

They both froze.

Dorian Havilliard stood in the doorway, cloak pulled low over his face. Behind him, in the shadows of the hall, Chaol gave a subtle nod, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

“I had to come,” Dorian said softly. "May I come in?" 

Yrene stepped aside, allowing him to enter. Sorscha stood, surprise and something else—something warmer—flashing across her face. He entered without a word, and Sorscha was already moving toward him. She only looked at him, as if trying to memorize every line of his face.

"You shouldn’t be here," she said, though her voice was soft.

"I had to see you one more time," Dorian said, striding to her. "Sorscha, please—don’t go to Morath. It’s too dangerous. I know it’s selfish. I know this mission is important. But I’m scared for you.”

Chaol shut the door quietly and stood near the window, giving them space.

Sorscha shook her head. "That’s why I must go. We need to be there—for them. The victims. We’re needed."

Finally, Dorian exhaled shakily. “I’ve been thinking of leaving. The court thinks it would be for diplomacy, but it wouldn’t be. Not really. I need to learn to control this power. And no one here can help me.”

Yrene’s brows lifted. “Where would you go?”

“To Terrasen,” Dorian said. “Or Doranelle, if I can get permission. Somewhere I can find someone to train me. Someone like Rowan.”

Sorscha’s eyes widened. “You’d leave the kingdom?”

“I might have to,” he said. “With the magic ban proposal gaining traction, I don’t know how long I can hide. And if they find out…” He didn’t finish.

Yrene’s heart softened. "That’s the right choice. You’re trying to control something you barely understand—and suppressing it will only make it more dangerous when it does break free. You need to train. It’s part of you. You need to learn to rule it, or it will rule you."

Dorian nodded slowly, then turned back to Sorscha. "Come with me. Please. We can go together." He was begging.

She reached out, brushing his cheek. "You know I can’t. Not when I might be needed more elsewhere. They’ll need us in Morath."

He hesitated, pain plain on his face. "Then I’ll go with you. I’ll protect you."

Chaol stepped forward. "Absolutely not. It’s too risky. You’re the crown prince."

Dorian clenched his jaw. “Aelin is going.”

Chaol flinched at the mention of the Terrasen princess. “Aelin’s reckless and impulsive,” Chaol spat. “Plus she is heavily guarded by two full blooded Fae warriors, and her cousin Aedion, and a regiment of Bane soldiers. You wouldn’t have that kind of protection.”

Dorian looked back at Sorscha, resignation sinking in. For a long moment, the world seemed to fall away as their eyes met.

Then he kissed her.

Yrene turned away, catching Chaol’s eye. She tilted her head toward the door. "Let’s give them a moment."

They stepped into the hallway and then descended to the inn’s lounge. Rain tapped at the windows as Yrene poured them both a cup of lukewarm tea.

She didn’t waste time. "If you really care about him, you’ll help him."

Chaol looked at her sharply. "I am helping him. I’ve been protecting his secret for over a year."

"That’s not enough," Yrene said. "Keeping his secret doesn’t teach him control. It doesn’t help him manage it. He needs guidance. He needs to understand his power—not fear it. If you keep shielding him from that, it’ll destroy him from the inside."

Chaol’s mouth pressed into a tight line.

"He’s not a monster," Yrene continued. "He’s a person. And he’s terrified of what’s inside him. If you want to protect him, walk through it with him. Help him find someone who can teach him."

They sat in silence as the tea grew cold. Upstairs, footsteps moved softly.

Chaol stared into his cup. "He’s all I have left, you know."

Yrene’s voice was gentle. "Then help him become who he’s meant to be—not just who you expect him to be."

When Dorian and Sorscha appeared in the lounge some time later, red-eyed but composed, neither spoke of the goodbye that had just passed. 

“When you come back,” he whispered, “I’ll be here. I’ll make sure of it.”

Sorscha didn’t answer. She only closed her eyes.

And in the silence that followed, none of them said what they feared most—that not all of them might survive long enough to see that day come true.

Chapter Text

The inn at the riverfront village was the best the area could offer, which wasn’t saying much. It was clean, if a bit drafty, with warped floorboards and windows that rattled when the spring winds picked up. Aelin didn’t mind. It was a place to rest after long days spent on horseback and longer nights spent on bedrolls on the forest floor. Rowan and Gavriel rotated patrols outside the village, though most nights they all returned to the inn to sleep.

The villagers were wary of them. Not hostile—just distant. They greeted Aelin, Rowan, and Gavriel with careful nods, but few lingered to talk. Children were called back to their mothers when they strayed too close. The villagers kept to their own.

When Beltane came, Aelin thought for a moment that things might change. That there might be music, dancing, a feast to celebrate spring's arrival.

There wasn’t.

The villagers built a single bonfire on the outskirts, far smaller than the roaring fires of her childhood memories. No one jumped the flames. No wreaths of wildflowers adorned doors. No ribbons were tied to tree branches for the Little Folk to find. People simply stood around the fire, speaking in low voices, before turning in for the night.

Aelin watched from the shadows at the edge of the gathering. She didn’t feel anger. Only sadness—a deep, aching grief for what had been stolen from them all. The fear of magic had carved out too much: traditions, trust, joy.

When the bonfire burned low and the villagers shuffled back to their homes, Aelin found Rowan waiting outside the inn. He said nothing, simply held out a small satchel he’d prepared and  tilted his head toward the woods. 

Gavriel stayed behind, sensing perhaps that this was not his place.

They walked into the forest under a sliver of moon. The trees were waking from winter’s grip, their new leaves emerging. It smelled of damp earth and blooming things—of beginnings.

They found a quiet glade where the trees bent close together. Aelin knelt at the base of a mossy oak and opened her satchel. She placed a small bundle of wildflowers — gathered from the meadow near the riverbank — beside the roots. Beside it, she laid a strip of pale blue ribbon, a few candied nuts wrapped in cloth, and a silver coin polished to a bright gleam. Rowan knelt beside her, his presence a steady warmth at her side. He added his own offerings.

When they returned to the inn, the last embers of the villagers' bonfire had gone out. But in the woods, Aelin thought she heard a faint rustle—as if something unseen had accepted their gifts.

A whisper of hope, carried on the Beltane wind.

~~~~~

The village seemed to shrink a little more each day under the wary stares aimed their way. Aelin could hardly blame the people. With powerful Fae warriors lingering in their midst—it was a miracle the villagers hadn’t packed up and fled entirely. But they'd stayed too long, she knew. Restlessness crackled in the air like a storm about to break.

It was late afternoon when Rowan returned to the inn, a bundle wrapped in brown paper tucked under one arm. Aelin glanced up from where she sat sorting supplies for their departure tomorrow.

Rowan tossed the bundle onto the table before her with a smirk. "Happy birthday, Fireheart."

She blinked. "You remembered?"

He gave her a look that said he remembered everything about her.

Curious, Aelin unwrapped the package—and gasped.

Inside was a small, lopsided chocolate cake, and nestled beside it, a neat row of rich, glossy chocolates. She stared at them as if they might vanish. "Where—? I've been looking all week. None of the vendors had any."

Rowan leaned casually against the table. "Had them specially made."

Her jaw dropped. "You… You what ?"

Rowan shrugged, the picture of nonchalance. "I might have let slip to the baker that if the Fire-Bringer didn’t get her chocolate, she might get so cranky she'd raze the entire village to the ground."

Aelin laughed—a real, bright laugh that filled the little room. "You buzzard," she accused.

Rowan's mouth twitched upward. "I only spoke the truth."

She picked up a chocolate and held it out to him. "Here. Try one."

He recoiled slightly, as if she were offering him poison. "No, thanks."

"Come on ," she cajoled, waving it closer to his mouth. "It's my birthday. You can't refuse me."

Rowan crossed his arms. "I don't like sweets."

"One," she insisted, her voice dropping into that coaxing tone she knew he had no defenses against. "Just one."

Rowan stared at her, then at the chocolate. Finally, with a grumbled curse, he plucked it from her fingers and popped it into his mouth.

He chewed. Swallowed. Gave her a perfectly blank look.

"There," he said dryly. "I ate one. Your birthday wish is fulfilled."

Aelin threw back her head and laughed again, the sound making the dusty beams overhead seem a little brighter. She tucked the remaining chocolates safely away and looked up at him, her heart full.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

Rowan only gave her that small, rare smile—the one he saved just for her—and reached out to brush a crumb from her cheek, his touch lingering longer than necessary.

Tomorrow, they would leave. Tomorrow, the road would call them onward toward more danger, more uncertainty.

But today—today, she had chocolate. Today, she had Rowan.

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.

Chapter Text

The stars were just beginning to peek through the velvet dusk when Aelin found Aedion leaning against the battered fence at the edge of camp, a half-eaten apple in hand and his eyes on the dark river.

He didn’t turn when she approached, though she knew he heard her. Knew he felt her, the way they always could with each other.

Aelin slid onto the low stone wall beside him, stretching her legs out, the cool night air brushing her skin.

"Elide told me everything," she said softly. "What you learned in Melisande. About the magic bans. About Leifer Bardingale's company and the restraints."

Aedion’s jaw tightened. "It's worse than we thought," he said. "They aren't just talking about registering magic users. They're making a fortune from it. They're setting up for a complete ban."

Aelin nodded slowly. "And Vernon Lochan's involved too."

Aedion let out a low curse under his breath, tossing the apple core into the brush.

"We'll use what you gathered. Ren and Murtaugh should be getting everything to my parents now." She hesitated, tracing a finger along the rough edge of the stone. "You did good, Aedion."

Aedion glanced at her then—his cousin, his queen, his sister in all but blood. His mouth twisted into something like a smile. "Didn’t feel like it. Being there, hearing them talk about restraining magic-wielders, enslaving them like they’re livestock to be penned up... I wanted to burn the whole place down."

Aelin chuckled without humor. "That's how you know you're on the right side."

For a moment, they sat in silence, the river whispering past.

Then Aelin said carefully, "There's something else you should know."

Aedion turned fully to her now, brow furrowed.

"Rowan and Gavriel," she said, picking her words carefully, "after the Morath mission… they'll likely have to leave. Returning to Doranelle. Maybe sooner if Maeve summons them."

Aedion's face didn't change. Not much. But she felt the ripple of tension through him, sharp as a drawn bowstring.

"They don't want to leave," Aelin added quietly. "But the blood oath. It’s pulling them back. Their mission here is basically done and they can’t pretend otherwise. If they don’t go back, the blood oath will sever and they’ll die."

Aedion stared out at the water again, his arms folding tightly across his chest. "They have to go, then. They don’t have a choice. And you’re telling me I don't have much time," he said at last.

She nodded. "If there's anything you want to say to Gavriel... now’s the time."

Aedion's throat bobbed as he swallowed. For a heartbeat, he said nothing. Then: "Part of me wants to tell him to go to hell. That he had his chance years ago."

"You could," Aelin said, not unkindly. "You’d be within your rights."

"But..." Aedion muttered, running a hand through his hair. "Part of me... I don't know. Part of me wonders if I’ll regret it if I let him leave without—without trying. And I know in my heart this whole mess wasn’t his fault."

Aelin bumped her shoulder gently against his. "You’re not alone in that," she murmured. "Family's messy. Forgiveness is even messier."

The stars shimmered above them, silent witnesses to the war raging in Aedion's heart.

"I don't know if I can ever forgive him for not being there when I needed him most," Aedion said roughly. "But I don't know if I can stand letting him leave without him knowing I don’t blame him--not really."

Aelin slipped her hand into his, squeezing hard. He squeezed back, and for a long moment, they simply sat there, two battered souls leaning on each other in the dark as the river flowed on beneath the stars.

Rowan

Rowan stood near the edge of the clearing, watching the river shimmer under the late-morning sun. The freed captives clustered together in the camp behind him, some beginning to help with meals and chores around the camp. 

Aelin was at the center of it all, directing and cajoling as only she could. He watched as she moved seamlessly through the group, talking with the victims, comforting those who needed it, answering questions. There was no doubt she would make an excellent queen one day. 

It made Rowan’s heart ache to think about it, because he knew he would not be there by her side no matter how much he wanted, no, needed to be. There was no escaping his blood oath. The only way to be freed from a blood oath would be for the king or queen holding the oath to die, and Maeve had already outlived even the most ancient Fae alive today. She might truly be immortal. 

No, there would be no escaping it. And soon he would have to leave Aelin--leave her in the midst of growing conflict on her continent. He didn’t know how he would do it--the leaving. But the pull of the blood oath was getting stronger, and it would become excruciating if he didn’t leave soon.

The crunch of hooves on the hard-packed earth pulled Rowan from his thoughts and drew his attention.

He turned, hand instinctively brushing the hilt of his sword, as a regiment of Adarlan’s royal guard appeared over the rise—marching in tight formation, armor gleaming, banners snapping.

At their head rode a familiar figure.

Chaol Westfall.

Rowan relaxed a fraction but didn’t lower his guard entirely. Beside him, Gavriel straightened from where he’d been piling up the iron manacles and chains, his golden eyes narrowing slightly. Across the camp, Aelin lifted her head and smiled—tight, sharp—as she spotted the approaching force.

Chaol swung off his horse as he neared, his face grim, his eyes scanning the camp with a soldier’s precision. They landed on Rowan briefly, then Gavriel, and finally Aelin, who strode forward to meet him.

"You brought an army," Aelin said by way of greeting.

Chaol shrugged. "You found a traffickers' ring operating on Adarlanian soil. It deserved an appropriate response."

Rowan followed as they met halfway, staying a step behind Aelin’s right shoulder, silent, watchful.

Chaol turned to the men behind him. "Round up the smugglers," he ordered his captain. "Chain them and put them in the wagons. We leave in two hours for the journey back."

Rowan watched as the soldiers dispersed efficiently, weapons drawn. Within minutes, the captured smugglers—some still bloodied from the ambush days ago—were dragged from where they’d been imprisoned and shoved into prison wagons.

"Thank you," Chaol said quietly to Aelin, his voice carrying only to their small circle. "I’ll make sure it sticks. These scum will see justice."

Aelin only nodded, arms crossed over her chest.

"Nesryn is on her way," Chaol added. "She’s bringing an emergency response team. They're going to take statements, help the victims. Maybe find out where the rest of the missing are."

Rowan felt Aelin stiffen slightly beside him.

"That's good," she said. "But we think we know where the rest of the missing are, and we’re leaving as soon as Nesryn arrives."

Chaol's brows lifted. "Where to?"

Aelin smiled grimly. "We’re going to Morath."

Chaol’s face shuttered, hard and cold. "Aelin, don’t. Let us handle it. We can mobilize the army—it’ll take some time, but you shouldn’t. This is Adarlan’s problem to deal with."

Rowan felt the temper brewing in Aelin, the refusal coiling tighter inside her. He rested a light hand on the hilt of his sword, an old warrior’s instinct. Not from threat—from readiness.

“I appreciate the concern, Chaol, I really do,” Aelin drawled, “but I am on an approved diplomatic visit on behalf of the King and Queen of Terrasen. If, while I’m in Duke Perrington’s keep, I happen to uncover missing and exploited people, I will be freeing them.”

“We can’t wait," Aelin said flatly. "Whatever is happening at Morath—it's accelerating. If we sit back and hope Adarlan's army gets its act together in time, it’ll be too late."

Chaol’s jaw locked. "You’re risking everything. Including peace between our two kingdoms.”

"No," Aelin said, her voice low and lethal. "I'm protecting everything."

For a long moment, no one spoke. The river murmured in the distance; the wind tugged at cloaks and banners.

Finally, Chaol exhaled sharply through his nose. "I’m still sending word ahead to Rifthold to request that the King authorize a regiment of Adarlanian soldiers. General Narrok is stationed not far from Morath.”

Aelin inclined her head—an acknowledgment, not an agreement.

Without another word, she turned on her heel and strode back toward the captives, toward the camp, toward whatever came next.

Chaol watched her go, then gave Rowan a grim, resigned look. "She’s not going to change her mind, is she?"

Rowan only smiled faintly. "Not when she knows she's right."

Chaol snorted and turned back toward his soldiers, barking orders.

Rowan watched Aelin disappear into the swirling campfires and tents, her hair a blazing banner against the darkening sky, and thought that whatever lay ahead at Morath—whatever nightmare awaited them—she would face it head-on.

And he would be at her side, every step of the way.

~~~~~

The midafternoon sun cast long shadows across the battered field when Nesryn Faliq arrived the next day.

Rowan stood beside Aelin and Gavriel as the group of city guards and emergency responders rode in—a dozen strong, all clad in the blue and silver uniforms of Rifthold's finest. Their armor gleamed, their formation neat and professional, a clear message to any who might think to challenge them.

At their head rode Nesryn herself, her face cool and composed, her dark hair pulled back tightly, her sharp eyes scanning the camp before she even dismounted.

Rowan watched Aelin's mouth twitch in approval. Nesryn wasted no time.

Sliding from her saddle, she strode toward them, pausing only long enough to nod crisply before turning to Aelin and Rowan. "We’ll take it from here."

"Good," Aelin said, stepping aside, ceding the ground easily. "You’ll need thorough statements if any of them want to press charges."

Nesryn nodded once, and within moments, her officers fanned out across the camp.

Some moved to the freed captives, gently but firmly guiding them to an area where makeshift tables and benches were being set up. Others began organizing supplies, medical care, food.

Rowan watched Nesryn approach the nearest cluster of survivors—a group of young men and women, gaunt and bruised—and crouch down to speak to them at eye level. Her voice was low, her words carefully chosen. Within minutes, the tension in their bodies eased.

A true soldier, Rowan thought. And one who knew how to wield both blade and voice to heal what could be healed.

Across the afternoon, the officers took statements from every victim willing to speak, recording names, origins, the circumstances of their abductions.

Patterns began to emerge.

Rowan stood with Aelin as she flipped through a hastily scribbled roster one of the guards compiled.

"Most of them have magic," Aelin murmured, her finger trailing down the page. "Or come from magical families."

Rowan's mouth tightened. "Targeted."

"Deliberately," she agreed, a cold fury lacing her voice.

The logistics of moving so many freed captives were daunting, but Nesryn managed it with a level of efficiency that impressed even Rowan. She coordinated wagons and horses, arranged fresh clothing and food, and oversaw the construction of a temporary caravan.

Those taken from Rifthold would be returned to the capital for care and reintegration.

Those from neighboring territories or other kingdoms would have arrangements made for their safe passage home—a process that would take days, maybe weeks, but one Nesryn promised to see through.

By nightfall, the camp was a different place.

Less a battlefield, and more a station of wayward souls waiting for the next part of their journey.

Rowan watched as Nesryn gave a final set of instructions to her officers, her stance precise, unwavering. Then she approached them once again, brushing dust from her gloves.

"It will take time," she said, glancing between Aelin, Rowan, and Gavriel. "But they'll be cared for."

"Thank you, Nesryn. Your information helped us. Now that you’re taking care of the victims, we’re going to start preparing to leave this camp," Aelin said, her voice low and sincere. “We’ve already stayed here too long, and we have other places we need to be.”

Nesryn only nodded, the slightest flicker of emotion passing through her otherwise unreadable face. Gratitude, maybe. Or pride.

Rowan inclined his head slightly in respect. The true war, Rowan thought, would be decided by what they saved as much as by what they destroyed.

Aelin

The morning after Nesryn and her officers had fully taken over the camp, Aelin stood by the edge of the field, watching the steady work unfold. Victims gathered in small groups, some resting, some talking softly with the guards. Relief, tentative and fragile, rippled through the camp like a cautious spring breeze.

Rowan, Gavriel, and Aedion joined her, the three of them forming a small circle just beyond earshot of the busy camp.

"We’ve stayed long enough," Aelin said quietly, glancing between them. "Nesryn has it under control."

Rowan nodded, his arms crossed over his chest. "The longer we linger, the greater the risk we’ll draw attention—especially with Morath so near. Perrington is probably suspicious already, since his most recent delivery never arrived."

Aedion, still dust-streaked from the journey to reunite with them, looked toward the horizon. "Where should we go?"

"We should head west," Aelin said. "Any further south, and we’ll have to cross the mountains to reach Perrington’s Keep. Let's head west past the mountains and then south to get a bit closer. But not too close. We'll find a place to camp that’s close enough for scouting missions."

“Perhaps it would be wise to have the healers stationed a bit farther out, with a few of the soldiers, to keep them out of harm’s way,” Rowan suggested.

Aelin nodded and smiled, but her chest tightened. This group—it would soon change again. Rowan and Gavriel would not stay forever.

"Yrene and Sorscha will remain here for another day or two," she said, "to help Nesryn and the guards. A few of our soldiers can stay behind with them and then set up an outpost half a day’s ride from our location."

Rowan nodded, his green eyes steady. "Good. They’ll be safer."

Aelin exhaled. "Let’s start packing up camp then, and leave before noon."

They dispersed to their tents, each moving with brisk efficiency.

As Aelin stuffed the last of her belongings into her worn pack, she paused, glancing once more at the camp. Yrene knelt by a cluster of children, Sorscha carefully checking a bandaged wound. Nesryn stood nearby, issuing calm orders to her officers.

Hope flickered in Aelin’s chest.

They had saved these people. But the work was not done. Morath loomed ahead—a greater darkness yet to face.

And Rowan. He was here with her, but not for much longer. That goodbye was going to be the hardest goodbye she’d ever been forced to make. She shook her head and let out a breath. Now was time for action, not tears.

Squaring her shoulders, Aelin got to work.

Chapter Text

For two days, the mountains of Morath loomed like jagged teeth against the gray sky as Aelin and her companions travelled towards the forest that lay beyond.

They moved slowly, their horses picking careful paths along the craggy trails that wound down from the foothills. The air grew colder the closer they traveled to Duke Perrington's Keep. Even the land seemed to recoil from the darkness emanating from the cursed stronghold.

By the time they reached an acceptable site--a shallow valley tucked behind a dense cluster of boulders and trees--the sun was already sinking low.

Aelin dismounted, stretching her legs as she surveyed the area. It would serve well enough. It was well hidden from view and close enough to the Keep to give surveillance teams access.

"Fan out," Aedion ordered the Terrasen soldiers, his voice crisp. "Establish the perimeter. Aelin, set the fires low."

“I can make them smokeless, too,” she replied.

“Show off,” Lysandra teased.

The men moved swiftly, setting up tents, unrolling supplies, and driving stakes into the hard ground. Two of their original ten soldiers had remained behind with Yrene and Sorscha, assisting with the transport of the trafficking victims to Rifthold. 

As camp took shape, the core of their group--Aelin, Aedion, Lysandra, Elide, Rowan, and Gavriel--gathered near the fire. The flames were kept deliberately small although they were plenty warm thanks to Aelin’s precise control.

Aelin knelt by the fire, tracing a map in the dirt with a stick. "The Keep is here," she said, drawing a rough square, "and we're here, about three miles west. And Innish is here, about ten more miles west, on the coast of the Gulf of Oro.”

Rowan crouched beside her, scanning the crude map. "The land between us and the Keep is treacherous. Large rock outcroppings, sudden cliffs. It will be difficult to approach on foot without alerting sentries."

"We need eyes in the sky first," Gavriel said, looking to Rowan. "See if there's any movement or patrols we can anticipate. Then we can establish safe ground routes.”

"I can help with that," Lysandra said, rolling her shoulders. “I’ve been practicing a falcon form.”

"I'll go in my hawk form," Rowan said. "Lysandra, your falcon form will blend well in these skies."

Lysandra smirked, already picturing the flight. "Good. I've been itching for a proper stretch of the wings."

Elide, seated on a flat stone, pulled her cloak tighter around herself. "Just be careful. Even in animal forms, you can still get hurt or caught."

"We'll keep high," Rowan assured her. "We’ll go together first. I’ll show Lysandra how to stay out of bowshot, and we won't linger. Just enough to map the patrol routes and entrances."

Aelin's mouth tightened as she studied the rough landscape. "We can't afford mistakes. If they suspect we're here, they'll fortify the Keep even further--or worse."

Rowan brushed his knuckles against her hand, a brief, silent reassurance.

"Tomorrow at dawn," Aedion said, glancing at Lysandra and Rowan. "Fly out, get the lay of the land. Gavriel and I can work on our extraction plans--in case things go sideways."

“What should we do tomorrow?” Elide asked, gesturing between herself and Aelin.

“I have something for us to work on,” Aelin replied. And with no further explanation, she stood up, brushing dust from her hands. Her heart thudded with the familiar thrill of looming danger--but it was tempered now by a heavier weight: the captives they hadn't yet saved. The horrors they might still uncover inside Perrington's Keep.

~~~~~

The first tendrils of dawn mist curled over the camp as Rowan padded silently toward the meeting point near the outer edge of their encampment. The world was hushed, the only sounds the faint rustle of tents and the quiet snorting of horses still half-asleep.

Lysandra was already waiting, cloaked in a heavy traveler's coat against the chill, her green eyes sharp with anticipation. She offered Rowan a quick, eager smile.

"Ready?" she asked, her voice a whisper of excitement.

Rowan nodded. "A few things before we go," he said, drawing closer. "Stay high. If you see anything unusual--extra guards, strange wards--mark the spot in your mind and pull back. Don't linger."

Lysandra nodded seriously, the mirth slipping from her face.

"Watch the land, too," Rowan added. "Look for patrol paths, supply wagons, troop movements. Anything that might hint at a weak point. Today we’re trying to get as much information as we can about the layout, and movements in and out.”

"Got it," she said, already rolling her shoulders in preparation for the shift.

Rowan gave her one more firm look. "Stay close to me. If anything feels wrong, we head back immediately. No risks today."

"Understood, Commander," she teased lightly, but there was steel beneath her words.

Satisfied, Rowan gave a brisk nod, then let the shift take him. Bones snapped and muscles twisted as he folded into the lean form of a white-tailed hawk. Beside him, Lysandra shimmered and shrank, becoming a sleek, golden falcon.

They launched into the sky with a burst of wind, rising swiftly through the mists toward the pale light cresting the eastern peaks.

As they soared toward Perrington's Keep, Rowan's mind drifted back to the night before.

After dinner, he and Aelin had stayed up long after the others had gone to bed, huddled together beneath the small, floating orbs of fairy-light flame she had conjured. They had pored over Yrene's book of Wyrdmarks again, studying each symbol with meticulous care.

Aelin had been tense, her worry plain as she traced one passage after another with her fingers. She couldn't shake the fear that the captives they'd freed had been shackled with Wyrdmarks for a reason--and that the Keep might be even more heavily warded.

She had made Rowan go over every symbol, every note, searching for signs for protection or other useful spells that might give them an advantage. They had whispered together for hours, her body warm against his side, the flickering firelight casting a soft halo around her golden hair.

When sleep had finally claimed her, Aelin had curled into him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Her head had rested over his heart, her hand tangled in the fabric of his tunic.

Rowan beat his wings harder, slicing through a pocket of cold air. He could still feel her there--could still smell the jasmine of her hair, could still hear the steady rhythm of her breathing against his skin. 

He knew his time with her was coming to an end. He wouldn’t think on it, not while he was on a mission. But as Aelin’s breathing had evened out and her body had relaxed into slumber, he had stayed awake trying to memorize every sensation of that moment. 

Ahead, the dark silhouette of Perrington's Keep began to rise from the craggy landscape, stark and forbidding against the blood-tinged sunrise. Rowan angled his wings, signaling to Lysandra.

It was time to see what evils lurked behind those black walls.

~~~~~

The sun had barely crested the jagged mountains when Rowan and Lysandra returned to camp, returning to their Fae and human forms. Aelin had been sitting by the fire with Elide, the book of wyrdmarks out between them, a steaming cup of tea growing cold in her hands.

Rowan's face was grim, his strides quick and purposeful. Lysandra followed close behind, her expression tight.

"Well?" Aelin asked, standing as they approached.

"We have a problem," Rowan said without preamble.

The rest of their group gathered quickly--Aedion, Gavriel, Elide, and a few of the soldiers, drawn by the urgency in his voice.

"We spotted a host of soldiers," Lysandra said, running a hand through her still-tousled hair. "At least two hundred of them, approaching the Keep from the south."

Aelin blinked, stunned. "Two hundred? Already?"

Rowan nodded, crouching beside the fire to trace a line in the dirt next to their map. "Here. They're about a day's march away from the Keep."

"That doesn't make sense," Aedion muttered, crossing his arms. "Chaol couldn't have gotten word to the King that fast--and even if he did, there's no way they could have mustered and moved troops this quickly."

Aelin's stomach twisted. "Unless... the soldiers aren't there for us."

Rowan's green eyes gleamed coldly. "They could be loyal to Perrington, or the King knows exactly what's happening here and is backing it."

A heavy silence fell.

"They were Adarlanian soldiers?" Elide asked quietly.

"Their banners were Adarlan's," Lysandra confirmed.

Aelin paced a few steps away, her mind whirling. Allies or enemies? It hardly mattered.

"We can't trust them," she said, turning back to the group. "Not without proof."

"Agreed," Gavriel rumbled.

Aelin studied the rough lines Rowan had drawn. "We need to know if they're reinforcing the Keep or moving through it."

Rowan rose to his feet. "We'll have to get closer. Tonight. Lysandra and I will go back. This time at dusk. Gavriel you could make it through the terrain on the ground in your mountain lion form."

Lysandra cracked her knuckles. "Ready whenever you need me."

Gavriel simply nodded.

Aelin clenched her fists, feeling the heat flicker at her fingertips. "One way or another, we're going to find out what they're planning."

And if they were enemies?

She would burn them all to the ground.

They spent the rest of the morning looking over the maps of Adarlan Aelin had brought with her for the mission from Orynth. Rowan and Lysandra marked the information they had gathered thus far, including potential routes to and from the Keep. 

Gavriel and Aedion worked together to mark potential routes to Innish from the Keep and from the camp. They would also have to map out safe routes to a secondary location for the healers. Aelin couldn’t help but notice that things seemed easier between them. 

The moon was high over the mountains when Rowan, Lysandra, and Gavriel returned from their evening mission. Pale silver light bathed the rocky outcrops, casting long, distorted shadows across the uneven ground.

Aelin was already waiting near the perimeter, cloaked against the chill. The fire in her hand was a faint, steady orb, low enough not to be seen from afar but bright enough to guide them home.

Rowan landed first, shifting smoothly from hawk to male with a soft flash of light and barely a whisper of sound. Lysandra landed near her tent and hopped inside to shift and put her clothes on before joining the rest. Gavriel appeared from the rocks beyond.

Aelin’s sharp eyes swept over them. "Well?" she asked without preamble.

Rowan shook his head slightly, grim. "It’s concerning."

They gathered around the fire, its glow illuminating the tension etched into each of their faces. Gavriel crouched, elbows resting on his knees, his lion-bright hair catching the light.

"Nearly all the soldiers are equipped with iron," Rowan said quietly. "Iron weapons, iron armor. Even some of their shields were reinforced with it."

Aelin inhaled sharply. Iron--designed to nullify magic. Designed to neutralize beings like them.

"They're preparing for more than just human enemies," she said. It wasn’t a question.

Gavriel nodded grimly. "And I overheard something."

"Two captains were speaking on the battlements. They said something about 'Perrington’s orders.' Nothing about the King."

“That could be nothing,” said Aedion thoughtfully. “In Terrasen, it’s not uncommon for Lords to move troops around within their own territories. It is concerning, but it’s not definitive.”

“You’re right, Aedion. It’s not definitive,” said Aelin. “But I have a feeling. The timing, all the iron. Either Perrington is going rogue here, or worse, the King has endorsed this whole awful operation.”

“Either way,” Rowan added, “the Duke now has a host of 200 soldiers who are protected against magic.”

Aelin looked toward the dark shape of Perrington’s Keep looming beyond the hills, as if she could see through the stone to the evils festering within.

"We need more time," she said, her voice like tempered steel. "Before whatever he’s planning can be unleashed."

Rowan reached out and touched her shoulder--just a light brush, a reminder that she wasn’t alone.

Chapter Text

The fire crackled low in the center of the tent, casting golden light over the tired, tense faces gathered around it. Aelin sat cross-legged on the worn carpet with her hands clasped beneath her chin, eyes flicking from Rowan to Aedion, then to Elide and Lysandra. Gavriel stood near the flap, arms crossed, silent and watchful.

They’d been at it for over an hour--mapping possibilities, discarding strategies. None of them were good enough. Not when over two hundred soldiers armed with iron were marching toward the Keep. Not when Narrok himself was expected to arrive within a day.

"We need to pull Narrok away," Aelin said for the third time, rubbing at her brow. "But what would be big enough to get him to turn around a leave?"

"We could fake a fire in the supply wagons?" Aedion offered, frowning. "Or... stage a skirmish to the west in Innish?"

"They’d send a unit," Rowan countered, his voice calm but firm. "Not Narrok himself. He's not going to risk coming out over something he can delegate."

"And if we attack too openly," Gavriel added, "we risk giving away that we’re already here. And without magic we’ll be easily overwhelmed."

The silence was thick. Aelin tapped her fingers against her knee.

Lysandra leaned forward, chin propped on her fist. "What if we didn’t try to draw him out?"

Everyone turned to look at her.

"What if," she said slowly, "we tricked him into thinking he was being summoned... by the King?"

Aelin sat up straighter, her pulse quickening. "What do you mean?"

Lysandra nodded, eyes gleaming now. "I’d have to see him first. Study his walk, his voice. But if I could shift into Perrington, I could give Narrok different orders. He’d obey Perrington."

“You’d have to sneak into the Keep to see Perrington up close,” Aelin replied. It was a dangerous idea. Reckless. But the longer Aelin sat with it, the more it made a dangerous sort of sense. If they could get Narrok to leave, they could choose the ground--and the moment--to strike for their rescue operation.

"You’ll need to get a close enough look without drawing attention," Aelin said. "And quickly."

"I can fly over again," Lysandra said. "But I’ll need more than a glimpse from the air. I’ll have to go inside. Maybe as a rat, or a spider. Something small."

Rowan was already shaking his head. "Even the lowest levels of the Keep have guards. You might need help from the inside."

Elide straightened at once. "The laundresses," she said. "When we passed through the servant’s village on the eastern slope, I saw a wagon unloading linens. If I go with them tomorrow, I can slip inside."

"You’d pose as one of them," Rowan said, brow furrowing. "Dangerous."

"I’m not helpless," Elide replied, her voice steady. "If Lysandra’s going to pull off the shift, she’ll need clothes. I can get those. A shirt and pants, maybe even boots."

Aelin smiled slowly. Clever girl.

"That gets us everything we need," Aelin said. "Lysandra sees Perrington. Elide gets the clothing. And then we get Narrok to leave under the pretense of a summons from his king."

Gavriel ran a hand through his hair. "And what happens when Narrok realizes it’s a trap?"

Aelin met his eyes. Her smile didn’t waver.

The fire crackled louder as silence fell over the tent once more--but this time, there was a feeling beneath it. A pulse of something sharp and focused. A plan had been born. The game had begun.

~~~~~

Lysandra darted from shadow to shadow as a rat, her small body clinging to the jagged stones of the Keep's lower walls. The night was quiet, a sliver of moon casting pale silver light across the fortress. With care, she slipped through a drainage grate barely wide enough for her whiskers. Inside, the Keep was cold, damp, and laced with an acrid stench.

She moved swiftly through the cracks and gaps, hugging the stone foundations, her tiny heart pounding. It took her over an hour to find him--Duke Perrington.

He sat in a high-backed chair beside a roaring hearth in what appeared to be a war room. Maps and letters cluttered the table before him, but Lysandra focused on the man himself. She crept into a corner and hid underneath a small firewood rack, watching.

He was a tall, rotund man, with dark, obsidian eyes and red hair that was thinning at the temples. His skin looked waxy and pallid. Lysandra had taken on more grotesque forms before, she supposed. 

She watched him for hours, studying the twitch of his jaw when he was displeased, the way he laced his fingers when listening. She memorized the rumble of his voice, low and gravelly, tinged with an accent she didn’t recognize.

More than once, a captain entered the chamber and whispered reports to him. She caught fragments: movement from the south, preparations for the arrival of Narrok.

But one moment stuck in her memory.

A pair of soldiers flanked a reinforced door down a side hallway. Every half hour or so, servants would enter or exit the door, which appeared to lead to a descending stairwell. No one spoke near it. No one lingered. Marks glittered faintly across the arch of the threshold from some strange, ancient language. Whatever was down there was important.

By the time she slunk out again, the Keep's layout was etched into her mind: the central corridors, the storage chambers, the guarded door, the servant’s paths and ventilation shafts. She retraced her route and vanished into the woods.

Back at camp, Aelin, Rowan, Aedion, Elide, and Gavriel rose as Lysandra padded into the circle, still in rat form. She shifted before their eyes, bones lengthening, fur retreating.

When she stood in her human skin once more, she wore a grim smile.

"I saw him. And I saw enough of the Keep to sketch a full layout," she said, brushing back her hair. "There's something hidden in the lower levels. Guarded. Marked with those strange symbols from your books, Aelin. Whatever is down there, it’s important."

Aelin stepped closer. "Do you think you can do it? Become him?"

Lysandra inhaled slowly, closed her eyes.

Then her body began to shift.

It was slower than her usual transformations--deliberate. The tent fell silent as her limbs thickened, her features twisted and sank into new angles. Her skin turned a sickly pale, her hair lightened, receded. When she opened her eyes again, the face of Duke Perrington stared back at them.

Elide gasped. Rowan stepped forward, studying her critically.

"Gods," Aelin murmured. "It’s him. To the last detail."

Lysandra--Perrington--smiled, the expression wrong and cold on that borrowed face. 

The fire cracked, spitting embers into the dark. The war had shifted again. And this time, they had a weapon Narrok would never see coming.

~~~~~

Elide had never worn such a threadbare cloak or carried such a heavy bundle of laundry in her life. She kept her head down, walking with a slight limp to mimic the woman beside her, a real laundress who hadn't even blinked when Elide joined their ranks at the edge of the village that morning.

The guards at the gate barely spared the laundry wagon a glance as they passed. Elide kept her heart steady, even as it threatened to gallop out of her chest. The outer walls of Perrington’s Keep loomed like jagged teeth overhead, dark against the gray sky.

Once inside, the laundresses made their way down a narrow hallway, past thick stone archways lined with smoky torches. They were assigned to various tasks--scrubbing, pressing, folding--and Elide did her best to keep her head down and move like she belonged. She avoided speaking, letting others fill silences with chatter. It was easy enough to pass as one of them--small, tired-looking, forgettable. Elide had always had a way of knowing just how to adjust her appearance and demeanor to make people think exactly what she wanted them to think.

Hours passed in a haze of steam and coarse linen. Just as she was beginning to think she’d failed her mission, one of the overseers barked at her. "You. Girl with the limp. Take this to the lower levels."

A large bundle of clean laundry was shoved into her arms. A guard appeared to escort her, and they descended narrow, winding stairs until they reached a thick iron door flanked by two armored sentries. The guard who'd brought her grunted something Elide couldn’t make out, and the sentries stepped aside.

The door opened with a hiss of ancient hinges.

The air inside was fetid. Cold. A place where sunlight hadn’t reached in years. She followed the guard down a corridor lined with barred cells. And in those cells--

Elide almost dropped the laundry.

Dozens of prisoners. Huddled figures in ragged clothes. Some looked barely conscious; others watched her with blank, hopeless stares. These were the people who had been taken. She knew. They were fitted with manacles around their wrists-- the manacles covered with those strange symbols.

The guard led her to a small side room before turning away to walk toward the guard’s station.

Elide hesitated. She dumped her load of laundry in the nearest bin, then moved, fast as she dared, back down the hall. As the guard’s footsteps faded, she ducked near a cell where a dark-haired woman sat with her back to the wall, her expression wary but alert.

The woman was fitted with the usual wrist manacles, but she also had a neck and ankle fittings covered in the symbols. Elide eyed her then whispered. “What’s your name?”

The woman’s eyes sharpened. "Kaltain. Who are you?"

"A friend," Elide said quickly. "Help is coming. Just hold on a little longer."

Kaltain’s lips curled faintly. Not quite a smile. But close.

Before the guards could return, Elide turned and hurried back to the laundry room. Moments later her guard returned and they made their way silently back to the stairs and out of the basement.

Back in the laundry, Elide’s hands trembled as she sorted through folded garments. But eventually she spotted a large, fine black shirt. Moments later she came across pants with the same insignia she’d seen Perrington’s men wearing. Both clean and freshly pressed.

She tucked them into the hidden pouch sewn inside her cloak, then gathered up another bundle of sheets and made her way back to the upper levels. No one stopped her. No one looked twice.

By sunset, she was with the departing wagon again. She kept her face shadowed, eyes downcast, and her mouth shut as the cart rattled away from the Keep.

Only when the towers vanished behind the trees did she dare exhale.

She stayed in the servant’s village until true darkness fell. Then, under cover of night, she slipped into the woods. It took hours to reach the camp in the dark, but when she finally emerged into the torch-lit perimeter, the guards recognized her and let her through at once.

She was half-frozen, aching, and smelled of sweat and soap.

But in her cloak were the clothes they needed.

And in her heart, a fire was building--hot and fierce. The kind that could burn a Keep to the ground.