THE THRONE OF HONOR AND

BLOOD
THE MORTAL FATES
BOOK 2

J BREE

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 THE THRONE OF HONOR AND BLOOD
THE MORTAL FATES #2
Copyright © 2024 J Bree

Cover Illustration by Annteya @annteya_art

Cover Typography by Laura Frazier
Edited by Tashya Wilson
Interior Artwork by Katie Helem
Map by Andrés Aguirre Jurado @aaguirreart

J Bree has asserted her right under the Copyright Act, 1968, to be identified as Author of this work.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by
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Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the
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THE THRONE OF HONOR AND BLOOD/J Bree – 1st ed.

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*The Throne of Honor and Blood is a full-length MF epic fantasy romance
with material that may be difficult for some readers.
This book will end on a cliffhanger.
It is recommended for 18+ due to language and sexual situations.
Book 2 of a 3-book series.

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 CONTENTS

PART ONE
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
PART TWO
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty One
Chapter Thirty Two
Chapter Thirty Three
Chapter Thirty Four
Chapter Thirty Five
Chapter Thirty Six
Chapter Thirty Seven
Chapter Thirty Eight
Chapter Thirty Nine
Chapter Forty
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 PART ONE

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 PROLOGUE

Prince Roan Snowsong, Heir Apparent

to Fates Mark
As my senses return to me, I hear the small, unassuming sounds of
woodland creatures scurrying through the underbrush—claws scratching
along bark as small feet carry tiny bodies through busy work.
Drip-drip-drip. That sound is distracting, but due only to the slow
cadence, the way I expect it to speed up or falter in some way, and yet the
slow, plopping sound of a thick liquid landing in a puddle of its own
making doesn’t falter. It’s distracting, but I push it out of my mind.
Leaves rustle in the gentle breeze, and with every sway, the ancient
pillars above me whisper to one another in a language lost to me… lost to
my kind, but not forgotten. Birds call out morning greetings to one another,
quiet peeping sounds of countless animals unfazed by my bleeding
presence, each of these sounds so familiar to me, and yet their presence fills
me with despair.
I’ve died and made my way to Elysium.
There’s no other explanation for the sounds of life around me—not with
the devastation that has befallen the Southern Lands—and I’ve failed. My
wife, my father, my prince, and my fate… I’ve failed them all. Hundreds of
years of training and combat, and none of it mattered when treachery lay
within our own numbers.
The witches attacked us at the fae door, thousands of them lying in wait
as though they knew we were coming, and the ambush was unavoidable.
Prince Soren commanded our group, only a handful of soldiers
accompanying us, and after hours of bloodshed and death, I was separated
from the rest and gravely wounded. The only refuge to take cover was the
looming line of dark trees and something from within beckoned me.
Pushing aside generations of rumors and whispers of the forest of madness,
I stumbled towards it with determination only to come upon unspeakable
horror at the edge of the tree line.
Well-accustomed to war and bloodshed, my gut churned violently at the
sight of the field of carnage laid out before me.
At least a thousand high fae soldiers lay in haphazard, gruesome pieces
with no other signs of conflict. Innards spilled, flesh torn, mouths gaping
open in the male’s last screams though an eerie silence lies over the
carnage, their deaths were clearly an excruciating torture that defies reason.
Rooted to the spot in my revulsion, it’s only the steady flow of blood
from my own wound that forced me to move once more and as I passed the
corpses, I recognized enough of the dead soldiers to be sure it was the
battalion from Yris Soren sent for. We assumed the males were never sent,
another of the regent’s deadly games, but instead his own guards have been
decimated by some evil I have no name for.
The raving witches didn’t dare follow, instead halting at the perimeter of
the killing field as though they too fear the magic wrought there. Their jeers
and snarls at my escape followed me into the forest but there’s no chance of
my rescue now. Even if the fae responsible for those atrocities is gone, no
high fae would ever come searching for me here, not even Soren himself.
When I finally collapsed only a few feet into the murky woods, the blood-
loss claiming me, I knew my demise was inevitable.
No one makes it out of the forest of madness intact.
Regret fills me, clouding my mind further. I wasn’t expecting to find
such lucidity in my journey to Elysium, but perhaps this is the fate of those
without the ashes to aid their journey. Will I ever reach the gates, or am I
cursed to dwell in this forest, filled with sorrow for those who would
welcome me in the Fates-promised resting place?
 Pain washes over me once more, a gasp of agony wrenching from my
lips, and the truth lies plainly before me.
Every person I love… I’ve failed them all.
“Fates guide my hand, steady this soul to this plane and not to the
finality of Elysium. Let us keep him here on the path set before him, as you
command, and keep the balance of this world in check.”
The melodic syllables wash over me like the warmth of the healing
baths after a long and treacherous journey through the worst blizzards of the
Shard, soaking into my bones until the despair is wiped away.
Though at first the words are indistinguishable, the prayer in the old
language slowly comes within my grasp. Spoken perfectly, with no accent
or tripping over the unwieldy intonations that still fall clumsily from my
own tongue even after half a dozen centuries using it, it’s soothing to my
fractured state, until the anomaly of its use finally hits me. The prayer is
spoken as though by one of the First Fae themselves, unmatched in skill,
and of the handful of high fae who still know the language, none speak it
that way.
Hands press against my side, and the answering pain that lances through
my body wrenches me from my musing and slams awareness into me. I’m
alive. That feeling is real, physical, and not just the agony of my failures.
The dripping sound steadily blends until it's more of a gush, and I realize
it’s my own blood, pouring onto the forest floor.
My eyes finally open, my vision clouded, and a groan falls from my lips
once more. My limbs are too heavy to move, my head lolling uselessly on
my shoulders as I struggle to gain control of myself. When I finally fix my
gaze on my companion, my groan turns into a snarl.
A witch.
Leaning over my corpse-like form with her hands delving into the
wound in my gut, she fixes her eyes on the cleaved flesh as the silken rope
of her mousy braid spills onto my armor. She ignores my savage, if
wordless, warning as she works. I strain to lift my arms, to shove her away,
to flee from her before she casts her evil against me, but they don’t move
from my sides, utterly useless.
The witch’s lips still move with her pleas to the Fates for my safety as
she works diligently, disregarding every aggressive sound I make. Words
are impossible; no matter how I form them in my mind, I can’t free them
from my lips, and instead I groan and snarl at her like an animal.
 When her eyes begin to glow, I almost lose the last scraps of my senses,
sweat breaking out over my forehead and a tremor taking over my declining
form. Her magic flows through her hands and into my body like bolts of
lightning shooting down my legs in unstoppable fury. The pain that blooms
is excruciating; bursts of white light dot my vision, and my heart quickens
in my panic.
Without so much as a glance in my direction, she switches to the
common language to address me. “You must stay calm, lest you bleed out
before I have a chance to repair the veins. You’re lucky no arteries were hit
by those arrows, a close call narrowly avoided by the Fates’ mercies.”
Sweat drips down my temples, and my tongue is clumsy in my mouth as
my head lolls again without my direction. A canopy of leaves dances above
me, peaceful even as I’m tortured by this Fates-cursed female, and the
insanity promised by this cursed place creeps into my mind, intent on
claiming me.
“You followed me… into the forest of madness… to prolong this
torture? No use… I won’t tell you… anything. You'll never get out alive…”
From the corner of my eye, I catch her shaking her head at me again,
but her words are as steady as ever. “If the forest let you in, Prince Fates
Mark, then you mean me no harm. Rest assured, the trees led me to you to
ensure your survival. They know of the importance of your future, as do I,
with our fates so deeply intertwined.”
A shot of dread runs through my body, a reaction I can’t even attempt to
mask, but I wrench myself away from the panic that follows.
She can't know my fate.
No one can know the entirety of my fate, not now and not ever. The
moment those cursed words fell from the Seer’s lips, I sealed them away
inside myself, rejecting them entirely. I’ve told no one—no one—that
impossible future, and even when Airlie questioned me, I gave her half-
truths. No matter the cost, it will not be my fate.
The witch is lying.
She works diligently, seeming ignorant of the maelstrom within me, and
her magic pulses out once more, bathing my wound in that cursed light.
Before I can find the words to reject her, she speaks once more.
“The Fates do not give us kind and pleasant paths to walk. It’s not their
way. Someday, Prince Roan, you will come to accept this, just as I have
accepted that the time of the Favored Children is drawing to an end and the
line of the Eveningstar witches with it.”
At the sound of my name on her lips, fingertips of icy dread trail down
my spine. My head grows lighter, my mind rapidly spiraling into panic of
what this could mean, only to be slammed back into the present mess I’m in
by the unrelenting agony of my wound as she pushes against it. Her
movements are unforgiving, almost torturous, but there’s no questioning her
aid as I feel her magic healing me. Aided by her magic, the muscle weaves
together once more, and with every breath she takes her eyes shine brighter
still with power.
“Your son's life depends on your fate alone,” she murmurs to me.
My gaze snaps to meet hers, the steely look in her glowing eyes sharp
enough to cut me to the bone.
It does nothing to dampen my fury or scorn. “And what would a witch
in the forest of madness know of such things?”
The words slide out precariously, mixing together as blood loss and pain
roll through me in waves. It would be easy for the witch to claim ignorance
of them, but she glances up and speaks as though to the ancient woods.
“The trees are older than the Fates, cloaked in the patchwork of destiny
since time began, and they cannot be ignored by the high fae forever. The
death and decay of our kingdom angers the gods sleeping within, their pain
far greater than what the fae folk feel. Your people have forgotten, but the
witches of the Ravenswyrd have not, nor will we. You’ll follow the Fates’
designs whether you want to or not, Prince Roan, just as I will.”
The leaves rustle above our heads again, the wind playing in them
inconspicuous, and yet… I hear it then, a whisper of old that compels this
witch's hand. Does that make her worthy of my trust? Certainly not—no
witch could ever be held with regard now that Kharl Balzog has called them
to arms—but there’s a wisdom in her that curls my gut with shame at my
own limited knowledge.
“What is your name, witch?”
“Ellia Eveningstar, Maiden of the Ravenswyrd Coven. Our fates are
bound, Prince Roan. Your son will take no breath until you find my
daughter.”
Bold yet meaningless words.
I have no son. The witches cursed the high fae centuries ago, and no
child has survived birth in decades. My wife, Airlie, and I haven't even
discussed the prospect of children while such evil lies blanketed over our
kingdom. I know her fate—and mine—well, and I won’t let this witch twist
my mind with her cheap tricks.
As though reading my thoughts, she shakes her head at me, the low
tones of her murmured words fighting through the haze of my injuries to
take form in my mind. “The Elder of the Ravenswyrd Coven is still young,
with many years left until I become the Mother. The Fates have many
lessons ahead for us all to learn, may they choose mercy.”
The white pinpricks of light grow until my vision disappears entirely,
my consciousness slipping away, but one last thought follows me in my
desperation.
I will not betray Soren, no matter what my fate demands.

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 CHAPTER ONE

Soren
Though the courtyard looks more desolate than ever before, Yregar Castle
stands tall and unbreached amongst the debris of Kharl’s failed siege.
The acrid scent of burning witches clings to the back of my throat and
the smoke hangs low in the air. A fine layer of ash lies over the ancient
cobblestones like a mockery of the impending snowfall, every day growing
colder with autumn’s passing, but even as the death and destruction of the
battle spreads before me in a bleak display of the devastation of war, the
Fates sing triumphantly underneath my skin.
The firm hold I had over myself broke the moment Rooke stepped off
the inner wall, plunging to the grass below in what I assumed was a suicidal
act. There are still hundreds of unanswered questions between us, many
possibilities of her intentions for our entwined fates, but a frenzy has taken
me over that cannot be shaken.
The same crazed haze that gripped me as I rode out to stop the Outland
soldiers from killing Rooke at the destroyed outer wall lingers, and now, I
know nothing but the persistent demands of a mated Unseelie high fae
male; a seething rage at the mere idea of others looking upon her. The eyes
in the courtyard seem countless as they linger on my mate, their numbers
growing with my every step until rational thought slips beyond my grasp
and my focus centers on spilling blood.
Walking at her side, listening to the labored sounds of her breathing as it
grew dangerously ragged with every step, and forced to do nothing as she
pushed herself past her limits, I sensed something wake within me. The
steadfast grip I held myself in for centuries vanished as though it never
existed, leaving behind nothing but pure, possessive, enraged instinct.
The Unseelie high fae beast seethes within until I forget about my
throne, my kingdom, everything I’ve fought so hard for. There's nothing but
the sound of my Fates-blessed mate’s heartbeat in my ears, the steady
thrumming tune stoking the fire within me until I give myself over to my
most base form. The one the Unseelie Court so desperately pretend doesn’t
exist within our kind as they drape themselves in their finery and sip their
fairy wine in crystal glasses.
Perhaps I truly am nothing but a savage prince.
Whether it’s that or the Fates finally taking control of my mind, weary
of waiting for my acceptance, a killing rage clouds my vision until I see red
at all who may be a threat to her. I can’t think of anything but getting her
away, coveting her, bundling her into my own chambers and securing the
doors against any who would dare approach her. Better yet, I’ll keep her
there until she knows she belongs to me, the defiance in her eyes as she
stared up at me and refused my hand and offer of help after the battle an
irrefutable challenge.
Rooke lies as still as death, caught securely in my arms when the last of
her strength finally failed her at the steps of the castle. Her cheek presses
firmly against the plate of armor covering my chest, her heartbeat a steady
drumming in my ears that I’ve never been able to ignore, the dark spill of
her hair cascading over my arms where it’s come loose from the leather
cord that secured her braid as she fought Kharl Balzog’s army.
I hold the blessed mate given to me by the Fates, one whom I’ve
scorned at every opportunity, and now I find myself at the mercy of every
one of her warnings, the consequences of my hatred and disgust for her
people coming to call.
Yregar’s courtyard falls deathly quiet around me.
Roan is far too adept at reading me to miss the Fates-altered state I’m
in, and with centuries of his own experience of mated compulsions, he’s
quick to intervene.
 Calling out to the soldiers in my stead, his voice is little more than a
buzzing in my ears over the possession driving me into the castle. “You
already have your orders, get moving. There’s nothing to stop Kharl from
sending another battalion to Yregar, and we need to be ready to defend our
walls once more.”
Stepping closer to my side, he uses the width of his shoulders to shield
Rooke’s unconscious form from the eyes of our soldiers. It should be a
welcome relief, and yet the ferocity that’s taken hold of me is incensed at
his nearness to us both. The churning in my gut grows more violent, the
seething fury at this entire mess and at myself filling my mind until no
amount of blinking can clear the rage-red from my vision.
Roan’s stance shifts slightly, as though he’s preparing for an inevitable
blow, but when his gaze flicks down to Rooke he curses softly.
“Get her inside and away from the witcheswane, Soren. We have no
healers to aid her,” he murmurs in the old language.
Witcheswane.
Cursing so viciously under my breath that the fae folk surrounding me
in the courtyard all scatter like startled colts, I shift Rooke higher into my
arms and storm the castle steps, but the situation doesn’t get any better
inside the marble walls. The stink of the oil coats everything around us, me
included.
Every entryway is guarded by it, and with every turn I take deeper into
the castle, I find more of it poured. My orders to protect all those sheltering
within in the event the inner wall fell has ensured there’s no safe place for
the witch who saved us all.
I take the stairs three at a time, and the castle comes alive around me
with calls for aid to clear a path, because I won’t wait for the time it’ll take
to clean away the oil. My feet slip as I reach the landing, my grip on Rooke
tightening to keep her secure in my arms, but it doesn’t rouse her. The
sickening feeling in my gut grows, the haze deepening until I can barely see
through the blood-red clouding my vision. The stink of the witcheswane is
consuming, cloying, sticking to the back of my throat, and it’s killing her.
She might be dying right now in my arms, and there’s nothing I can do to
stop it.
This area of the castle is more drenched than any other, and not because
it houses my own chambers, but because a few doors down lie my cousin
and her infant son. I’ve seen thousands of witches die a writhing and
screaming death thanks to the oil of the witcheswane, and the haze grows
deeper in my mind as the image is replaced with Rooke’s own death.
My stomach lurches violently.
“It's everywhere, cousin,” Tyton murmurs bleakly, an echo of my own
frustrations. With every step, the damage blooms farther across Rooke’s
face.
There’s no time to hesitate.
I stride toward the Snowsong chambers, ignoring my cousin's scathing
curses even as Roan calls out to me once more, “It’s even stronger down
there, Soren, what are you thinking!”
I don't bother adjusting my hold on Rooke’s unconscious body as I
pause at the doors, no guards on the outside but a hive of soldiers and maids
within, and I call out, “The siege is over and Kharl’s army is dead. Send
Firna to my rooms and get the maids cleaning the witcheswane away! Now,
Airlie!”
When I turn back to my own chambers, Tauron is already there, shoving
the doors open himself, his hands slick with the amber oil as they come
away from the wood. When I snarl in his direction, he bows his head and
tucks his hands behind his back as he presses himself to one door to form a
shield between Rooke and the offending substance. If only it were that
simple, but his actions mark the shift in my household.
My chambers are off-limits even to my family, with only minimal staff
allowed past the reception rooms to clean, but within minutes there are
dozens of maids in the living area, Firna herself in the center of them all,
her eyes sharp and her words stern as she directs her staff. When her gaze
flicks to Rooke’s form in my arms, her mouth tightens and her commands
grow more urgent, and the maids become frenzied in their efforts to scrub
the poison away.
Roan sighs heavily when Airlie appears, putting up a hand as if he can
stop her interference, but my cousin is a force of nature all her own.
“There isn't any witcheswane in here, Firna. The soldiers coated only
the doorways. Soren doesn't keep anything worth protecting, and there’s
only the oil spread by our footsteps.”
She turns to look at Rooke before her gaze snaps up to mine, her no-
nonsense scowl faltering at my unchecked rage, before she says carefully,
“You need to put Rooke down so we can get her out of her robes, Soren.
You need to give her to me to be cleaned up while you scrub the poison
from yourself. Her life, and your fate, depend on it.”
My hands only tighten further around my mate, my lip curling into a
sneer in Airlie’s direction. For once even Roan doesn't argue with the
savagery I direct at his beloved wife, but Airlie stands tall and true,
unaffected as she meets my ire unflinchingly.
“Whatever it is you’re feeling, it can wait until Rooke is safe. Your
clothing is covered in poison, cousin, and it’s seeping into hers from your
hold. You’re hurting her.”
Her words pierce the savage haze of my mind, and my gaze drops back
down to where Rooke’s reddened skin grows deeper and angrier where
she’s pressed against my chest.
Thousands of witches’ faces flash into my mind, all those I’ve seen die
from the poison of the weed so toxic to their kind, and a cold sweat breaks
out over my forehead at the horrifying imagery. Bile burns at the base of my
throat, my head swimming, and it’s almost impossible to grapple with the
maelstrom inside me. Almost.
Ignoring the screaming joy of the Fates at our connection, I force myself
to step into the room next to mine and gently place my Fates-blessed mate
onto the bed there. The stark, white linens are instantly ruined by the filth of
the battle, but it’s the smears of the amber liquid the moment I lay her down
that sends a bolt of panic into my bloodstream. She’s covered in poison.
My limbs grow cumbersome with the tension filling me, my feet
planting themselves firmly in place until it’s impossible to move away from
the bed no matter how much sense my cousin might be speaking to me. The
urge to shield her from their view, to covet and hoard her for myself is
almost impossible to overcome, only her dire condition that forces my
Unseelie high fae mate urges into submission.
Firna edges her way carefully around the bed, murmuring quietly to the
maid at her side as she gives firm orders for supplies, and it’s only once I’m
sure there’s no danger to Rooke in the room that I fix my own gaze onto to
her once more.
The blackened blood of our enemy is streaked across her face, but
where her skin was pale when she dropped on the courtyard steps, it’s now
burned, the flesh blistering from the remnants of the witcheswane on my
armor.
 My cursing only grows more vicious and colorful the longer I look at
the damage I’ve done to her. Despite the grime of war covering her, there
isn’t a single mark on her from the battle itself… only from my hold on her
and the poison I’m coated in.
She’s prevailed against everything… except the mate given to her by the
Fates themselves.
The mere thought of stepping out of this room is too much. I fight with
it for a heartbeat, but my gaze is fixed on my Fates-blessed mate.
It takes a strength I didn’t know I possessed to pry myself away.
Airlie simply nods as she moves past me toward the bed. “I’ll help Firna
get her cleaned of the poison, Roan will oversee the castle being cleaned,
Tyton and Tauron will see to the sentries and soldiers, to be sure we’re not
taken by surprise with a second attack. You need to bathe and rid yourself
of the poison while we fix this mess. You must trust us all, cousin—you're
not thinking clearly right now.”
There's no doubt of that.
I don't know how any of them can think clearly right now, not while her
skin is blistering before our eyes. Her wounds alone propel me away from
the bed and her vulnerable form. Then my feet slow, and I pause in the
doorway as the Fates’ screaming breaks through the haze of my mind and
renders me useless. I'm commanded to stay here, to stay with her.
With little more than a stern look in my direction, Airlie swiftly takes
action, her fingers deft and knowing as she begins to pull the silver pins out
of Rooke’s robes to loosen them.
Roan is careful about his approach to me, but his hand is firm as he
takes hold of my shoulder to drag me out of the room. His gaze stays on the
floor, never once lifting as the women work to strip Rooke down, and it’s
only the wall coming between us that finally tears my own gaze from her.
My touch was scalding her; even with layers of clothing between us,
every inch of her skin that pressed against me is burned and raw.
“She's fine—” Roan starts but I cut him off with a snarl.
Anyone else might stop there, but he continues as though I’m not
trembling with unspent rage. “She's breathing, her heart is steady in her
chest. Listen to it, you can hear it as well as I can. There are no other
healers in the castle who can help her, it’s best to do as Airlie says. Let them
tend to her while you clean yourself. Airlie would never allow her to be
harmed, and I'll guard this room in your absence myself. On my son’s life,
no harm will come to her, Soren.”
When I finally meet his gaze, his eyes are unwavering in his solemn
face. My questions are useless; I know better than any of them how dire our
situation has become, but my desperation doesn’t see reason and I ask them
regardless.
“Are there no other healers? Nothing we can do but clean her and hope
for the Fates’ mercies? They owe me no good will, Roan, you know that as
well as I do. Fuck, they could take her just for my insolence, and there’s
nothing I could do about it.”
He shakes his head, shifting carefully around me to close the door
behind us and leave the women to their dutiful work. He probably hopes
concealing Rooke and her injuries will help to clear my addled senses, but
it’s no use. I can't move any farther away from the door.
The Fates themselves demand I stay.
Glancing around at the maids dutifully scrubbing the witcheswane from
my chambers, I find Roan and, surprisingly, Reed waiting in my reception
room. Every muscle in my body tightens as I prepare myself to lunge at
him, not just another male too close to my Fates-blessed mate but this one,
whom she favors. Keenly aware of my volatile state, Roan throws himself
in front of me to block the soldier from my view.
Reed ducks into a deep bow, his words clear but urgent. “My apologies,
Your Highness, but there’s someone I know of who could aid the witch.”
The Outland soldier doesn’t attempt to enter my chambers any farther
than the door he lingers before. Roan growls at him, frustrated he caught
my attention, but my eyes narrow as Reed rushes to explain himself.
“The female who runs the orphanage. When Rooke gave out her elixirs
to the children there, she had some knowledge of healing. I'm not sure the
extent, and it could be a futile task⁠—“
“Go.” I cut him off. “Find her and bring her to me, throw her over your
shoulder if you have to, just get her here now.”
Reed bows deeply and strides off without another word or moment
wasted. I glance down at my armor once more, as though simply looking at
it will clear the witcheswane from my body.
Roan tries to reason with me. “I understand how you’re feeling⁠—”
Yet another snarl torn from my chest unbidden interrupts him, but Roan
simply lifts a hand as though it’s a peace offering. “I’m the only one within
the castle who might come close to understanding how you're feeling right
now, Soren, but you need to stop and consider your actions.”
Why he thinks I’m capable of that reasoning is beyond me. “The Fates
are fucking laughing now! She stepped off the side of that wall as though it
were nothing,” I hiss at him, and he nods.
“I saw. I also saw your reaction to it. You think I don't understand what
it feels like to be sure that the Fates are about to take away the very mate
they handed you? My path might look different to yours, but I understand
that feeling very well, and your reaction right now is the first glimmer of
hope I've had in this entire cursed situation so far.”
The haze lifts a little, and the severity of Rooke’s words to our greatest
enemy sinks a little further into my mind, the room sharpening around me.
“She's going to kill him. She's going to kill Kharl Balzog and end the war.”
We’re interrupted by a gasp from behind the door. “It looks as though
she was torn in half.”
Bile climbs up the back of my throat as my chest constricts, the walls of
the room closing in on me. I stared down certain death at the hands of
Kharl’s armies steady and true, but those words almost bring me to my
knees.
Torn in half.
Roan grimaces at the sorrowful murmurs and answering murmurs of his
wife. Firna’s dismay at the scarring covering Rooke from her time in the
Northern Lands is clear to our keen hearing, and the panic for my mate’s
safety that was beginning to subside ignites once more.
Roan grips either side of my face, forcing my gaze to meet his before he
says in the old language, “Listen to me, Soren.”
My vision blurs once more, my senses scrambled, and my breathing
grows ragged. Sent by the Fates themselves, the monsters she faced were so
horrifying that a single image of them alone was enough to change my
uncle’s plans. Torn nearly in half, she survived only to return here and die at
my hand from that fucking poison.
“There’s much we need to do in the wake of the battle, but it’s
imperative that you clear your mind and find yourself on the right path once
more before Rooke wakes.” Roan’s voice is unwavering, breaking through
some of the chaos that consumes me with his surety. “Your kingdom needs
you thinking clearly, and you haven't been since we arrived in Port Asmyr
to find the mate the Fates gifted you.”
 He gives me one last stern look, his hands still tight on my shoulders.
“Go. Clean the witcheswane from your body, send your armor to be
scrubbed at the barracks, and burn your clothing. Take the time to clear
your head, Soren. I’ll wait here for the healer, and I’ll guard Rooke for you,
just as I guard Airlie and our son. There's already too much for you to make
amends for without adding poisoning her simply for your own compulsions
to that list.”
I take a single deep breath and then force my feet to move, even as the
savage Unseelie high fae male that I am at my core rankles against it. The
Fates rage at me, but they can fucking rot for all I care now, the cursed path
they’ve set before Rooke and I a miserable thing. Another breath, and I’m
striding away, deeper into the chambers to my own bathing rooms, now
determined to rid myself of the witcheswane and control my senses before
the fury consumes what’s left of me.

I SCRUB until I’m certain there’s no trace of poison left, and then once
more for good measure. Every inch of my body, my hair, even my
fingernails; I’m vicious in my actions until my skin stings from the rough
work. As the blood-lust haze finally lifts from my mind, the gut-wrenching
and unavoidable truth solidifies.
The sharpness in Rooke’s silver eyes flashes in my mind once more, a
reminder unbidden of the strength of the witch the Fates have tied me to,
but my gut hollows out at the dangers that lie before us.
The Fates have chosen a mate for me who will defend this kingdom
without hesitation or mercy, as steadfast in her convictions as I am in my
own, and though she’s nothing like the mate I was imagining for the long
centuries I waited for her, now I can’t fathom a better candidate.
I almost killed her.
My enemies are countless, and my resources have been steadily eroded
over the centuries of war. My uncle’s reach is far greater than any of us
would like to admit, and the moment he hears of what happened at Yregar,
he’ll adjust his own campaigns to target Rooke. He commands the armies of
the Southern Lands, all the resources of the Unseelie Court at his disposal,
while we have only the soldiers within Yregar and those farther south in the
Outlands.
All good fae folk in the Southern Lands would kill Rooke without
question, lest they be found guilty of treason for hesitating.
No matter how swiftly her actions have changed the opinions of the
castle, my household still waits with bated breath for my orders. They take
their cues from my own actions just as surely as they follow my command,
and whatever I do now will define the rest of Rooke’s life within the
Unseelie Court. If I were to choose to send her back to the dungeons, they’d
accept my orders as their prince and their lord, but there’s no doubt I would
lose their respect.
None of my soldiers expected to survive this battle, not after the High
Witch’s magic blasted a hole in the outer wall. When the gate of the inner
wall began to groan and buckle under the pressure of the witches, every
solider under my command prepared himself for death, the loss of the
castle, and all those sheltering within. Not an act of submission or a lack of
spirit, but simply resignation to the outcome the long centuries of war has
so frequently yielded for us all.
None were expecting Rooke’s power or her strength.
When I return, I find Airlie standing before Rooke’s unconscious form
as she shields her from my sight with a defiant light in her eyes. Every inch
of her body is tense, as protective in her stance as she has ever been with
her son as she stares at me. She’s unrepentant as her gaze drops to trace
every inch of my body and uniform to assess the state of my cleanliness,
ignoring my own churlish glare back at her.
Firna still fusses at the bedside with the supplies the maids brought at
her command. Even through the stone walls and with the distractions of
bathing, I listened carefully to every sound within my chambers. No one
was allowed access into the rooms in my absence; instead a tray was passed
over the threshold to the Keeper under Roan’s stern guard.
Regardless of my trust in them all, or the close bonds we share, their
presence is intolerable to me.
“Everyone out.”
Gaze firmly averted, Firna bows her head as she obeys instantly without
question. She’s obviously interacted with more than a few mated high-fae
males in her time, and she knows me better than most. The Fates command
my actions as I’m caught up in a maelstrom of possessive and vicious
compulsions, the seething frantic nature eased off but the ire still simmering
below the surface.
Airlie is not so easily cowed. “If I leave this room, cousin, know that
I’m taking Rooke with me.”
When my only answer is a snarl her gaze turns icy, her own anger a cold
creature far removed from the searing heat of my own. “So Rooke stepped
over the battlement to defend the castle and you just… decided that you'll
have her now? I don't think so, Soren. That’s not reason enough for me to
leave her under your care. You’ve already proved yourself incapable of
reason when it comes to Rooke.”
Roan mutters furiously under his breath from where he’s standing guard
further in my living area, his foot tapping impatiently as he waits for Reed
to return with the possible healer.
“It’s not for you to decide, Airlie. I’m the heir to the Southern Lands,
and the Fates gave her to me. You’ll do as I command.”
She scoffs at me and shakes her head, unmoved when a sneer curls at
the corner of my lip. “Rooke doesn’t trust you, Soren, and she’s not some
spoil of war you have claim over! I’m not leaving her here while she’s so
vulnerable, I'll care for her until she wakes. As soon as the maids are
finished clearing away the witcheswane, Roan can move her into our
chambers.”
With a growl I take a single step forward, ignoring the commotion as
Roan lurches into the room with us. The snapping of my hold on my temper
is strong enough to compel him here to protect his mate, but Airlie holds my
gaze, as calm and steady as any soldier staring down an impending battle.
“He won’t fucking touch her. She’s not leaving this room.”
Airlie’s eyebrow quirks up at me. “Oh. Oh, cousin, what’s come over
you? Has Rooke’s valiant rescue of our castle finally bought her your
favor?”
I don’t move an inch, but the air around us thickens with tension, and
Roan steps between us, a blank mask over his features as he attempts to
reason with his wife. “Now isn’t the time for pettiness, Airlie. We’re only a
short distance away—Rooke is safe here with her Fates-blessed mate.”
Never one to back down easily, Airlie turns narrowed eyes on her
husband and snaps, “Rooke said she would rather ‘walk until her feet bleed’
than ride Soren’s beast of a horse back to the castle. You told me that! She
used the last of her strength to ensure she didn’t have to be in his presence,
so how can I, in good conscience, leave her alone with him while she’s in
such a sorry state?”
Roan hesitates long enough that I answer for him.
Through gritted teeth, I snarl, “There are dozens of newly arrived
Outland soldiers here. They didn’t witness the battle as the rest of Yregar
did, and any one of them could decide to take matters into his own hands.
She’s in danger because of their blind hatred.”
Hurried footsteps ring out down the hallway, obscured by Airlie’s scoff
at me. “Don’t you mean your own blind hatred? Taking your anger of the
war out on your own Fates-blessed mate, when all she’s done is help us to
fix our misguided ways? I'm not blameless either, cousin. When you
dragged her home, I saw her as nothing more than an agent of Kharl Balzog
arriving here to take my son from me, but she proved herself to me. She has
given so much of her knowledge, time, and patience to us all, Soren, simply
to be obedient to the Fates’ demands of her. You have given her nothing but
scorn and contempt, no matter the truth laid out before you. She trusts me,
and I won’t fail her. On my son’s life, I’ll keep her safe.”
The chamber doors open in a rush before the footsteps come to a halt in
the empty living area. Whether Reed and his healer heard any of the
confrontation, they stay silent as they wait.
Roan casts a look between his wife and me before he calls out, “In here,
there can be no delay.”
Reed steps into the doorway, his eyes steadfast on the marble floor even
as he waves the female ahead of himself, and the snarling beast within me
crows at the submission. If he looked upon Rooke right now with the
camaraderie the two have shared in my presence before, in my current state,
I would rip his throat out and offer his blood to the land, the first of many
sacrifices I intend on making under Rooke’s begrudgingly given guidance.
Still, he hovers in the threshold of the room as though he’s standing
guard over my Fates-blessed mate, and irritation ripples down my spine.
The bonds of the friendship between them are strong enough that he
believed her warnings. He let her out of the dungeons, a treasonous act from
the Outland’s most loyal soldier in Yregar’s hour of need.
My gaze lands on Airlie once more, and I switch to the old language.
“The only reason you’re not in the dungeon right now for treason is my
fated bond with Rooke. Don’t speak to me of trust, cousin.”
 Tension rolls in waves from Roan, and for the first time, I see Airlie
hesitate. I turn to Reed’s choice of a healer to give my cousin the space to
mull over my words.
I need to be sure they sink in.
The part-blood female who runs the orphanage has always been
respectful yet frosty toward me and all other high fae, a careful distance she
has placed between herself and everyone else but one I've always respected.
I understand its origin. The poor treatment of the children is something I've
worked diligently to change, but old prejudices are difficult to stamp out.
She bows deeply to me, then to Roan and Airlie as well. Airlie simply
nods and gestures to the bed without turning away from me. “We appreciate
your help, and any guidance you may have.”
The woman is a little less frosty with Airlie, probably thanks to all the
gifts Airlie has seen taken down to the orphanage over the many years since
her first son was taken from her, and though Roan was always the one to
deliver them, this woman seems inclined to good favor with my cousin.
She hesitates, but when I also gesture toward the bed, she steps around
it, a hiss leaking from between her lips when she sees Rooke’s face. Thanks
to Airlie’s protective stance, I can't see what damage lies there, but the
image of those burns and blisters flashes into my mind, compelling me half
a step forward.
Airlie’s stance shifts, her arms uncrossing and her fists propping onto
each of her hips. She shifts tactics, never one to back down. “Whynn needs
space to work, Soren. We need an accurate assessment, not one fueled by
panic at the hands of a snarling high-fae prince wracked with guilt.”
Her insult falls flat, though I stop my advance, leaving the female to
look over Rooke for now. She doesn’t attempt to touch her, simply surveys
the damage at a respectful distance while Airlie and I stare each other down.
“I’m not guilty for taking the future and wellbeing of my kingdom into
consideration at every turn, Airlie! How could I call myself a good king for
my people if I didn't question her actions? She didn’t tell us the entirety of
her fate.”
Whynn carefully crouches over the bed, lifting the sheet and murmuring
prayers to the Fates under her breath at whatever further damage she finds.
My skin itches with the need to shove Airlie out of the way to see it for
myself, and Roan shifts into a protective stance of his own as he prepares to
intercept me.
 “You wouldn't have believed her anyway! You would've seen it as some
trick she devised in her evil plan.”
Airlie breaks off for a moment and takes a deep breath, her shoulders
rising a little before she pulls herself together with a long and slow exhale.
Her eyes are clear and her gaze unflinching when she finally fixes it back
on me.
“I’m not being unreasonable, cousin, I'm trying to prevent you from
doing further damage. Why would I attempt to separate you from her? I was
the one pushing you to trust her in the first place. From the moment my son
was born and I gave her my trust, Rooke has protected me above all else,
and now I must do the same for her. Take your ego out of this for a moment
and think clearly. If she wakes and finds herself in your rooms, under your
guard, there's every chance she’ll use her magic and rip apart another wall
of Yregar just to get away from you.”
It should be far more alarming to me how little I care about Rooke’s
magic destroying this castle. I’m willing to lose the entire royal wing to her
temper if it means keeping her here.
The pointed sound of a throat clearing interrupts us, and Airlie finally
turns away from me to face Whynn, the shift in her body revealing Rooke’s
face and the angry blisters there. The patches of damage have doubled in
size during the time I’ve been away from her, spreading farther down her
neck until they disappear under the white linen shift she’s been changed
into.
Her skin is clean, the grime of the battle wiped away, and her hair has
been freed from the braid and brushed. It’s clear Airlie has taken care to
make her friend presentable even in her current state of injury, affection in
the actions that makes the seething mess of my gut writhe even more.
Whynn looks between the two of us before finally settling on me,
bowing respectfully once again, but I find myself irritated at her delay to
just tell me what aid she can offer.
She looks as though she would rather cut her own hands off than deliver
me news. At her words, I know why.
“There’s nothing that can be done for witcheswane injuries, only
prevent any further exposure and wait for the body to heal itself. In a way,
she's lucky she's sleeping, and I'll be praying for the Fates’ mercies that she
stays that way until the worst of the damage has healed.”
 Roan curses under his breath, a sentiment I can’t utter thanks to my own
jaw clenching violently.
I have to pry it open to speak. “Is there truly nothing that can aid her,
not even for the pain?”
The female glances down at Rooke with a small cringe as she shakes
her head. “Not that I know of. Nothing that I've learned in my time in the
goblin lands, and the healing arts there are far more advanced than most.
For any other ailment there are certainly options but witcheswane was aptly
named; any of witch blood are utterly defenseless against it.”
She hesitates again before glancing to the pile of Rooke’s robes in the
corner of the room, then she nods her head at it. “I know you’re still
cleaning, but that’s too close for the poison while she’s in this state. I would
also open all the windows and clear it from the air—anything you can do to
rid her of its residue as quickly as possible.”
She hesitates again before leaning down, pressing a gentle and careful
hand against the edges of the burns on Rooke’s face where the skin is angry
but not blistered. Rooke shifts in her sleep, her brows pinching together,
and Whynn carefully shifts her hand away.
“Witches don't heal as fast as the high fae do. The blisters will linger for
three or four days before they finally dissipate.”
Airlie grimaces and nods her head. “Should we be trying to wake her to
eat? High fae need sleep to heal, but are witches different? Fates curse this
wretched poison! I should’ve asked Rooke more about how many
differences there are between witches and high fae while I had the chance.”
I let my own agreement with her statement simmer in my mind rather
than saying it out loud, uninterested in my cousin's scathing reply at such an
admission.
Whynn simply shakes her head. “You’re the same in that regard, though
there’s a healing brew that can be prepared that works for all fae folk,
regardless of their bloodlines. It could aid her when she does wake, if only
to regain her strength.”
She glances in Firna’s direction, where the Keeper stands guard in the
corner now, having handed off Rooke’s robes to one of the waiting maids
and scrubbed her hands clean once more.
“If I might make a suggestion,” Whynn says, and when Airlie nods
eagerly, she continues, “If you began preparing the brew now, you could
distribute it to the villagers and those who've taken refuge at Yregar. That
way, the remedy will be fresh no matter when Rooke wakes, and the
villagers could perhaps regain some of their condition after such a trying
time.”
The rations have been so low for so long that the fae folk of Yregar are
in a haggard condition. Even I’ve lost weight during the past few months of
restricting my own portions and handing off even the small amount I’ve
been giving myself to Airlie at every chance, first for her pregnancy, and
now for the wellbeing of her small son.
I nod my head at Firna. “See to it, and see to the villagers—be sure that
all available aid is given. I want a full report. The wagons from the Western
Fyres should be arriving within the next few weeks, and the supplies on it
are vital to Yregar’s survival in the coming winter.”
There are only two more deliveries due before the winter solstice and
the Goblin King's arrival at Yregar. Though repairing the alliances our
bloodlines once held has always been a priority for me, I never had any
hopes of success until Rooke’s intervention.
Firna bows deeply to me, and then Whynn follows her out. Reed
hesitates for a moment before Roan commands him to stay put and face me
for his treasonous act.
Disapproval is etched into Roan's face, but it’s not directed at me, only
at the events that led us all here. Reed bows his head, standing sure and
ready for whatever consequences he faces. Even his own death.
The only person looking as though they might fight me for his life is
Airlie, though she keeps her mouth pressed firmly closed for now. A wise
decision.
I finally turn away from Rooke to face the Outland soldier, and he bows
deeply to me in complete submission.
“You live and breathe at my mercy. You’ve been given such grace
because of your loyalty to Yregar and to Rooke when my own blood-lust
obscured my good reason. This is the one and only pardon you'll ever
receive, the only one I'll ever give out, but know that any further infractions
will mean your life. Now go and see to the cleanup efforts with the rest of
the soldiers before I change my mind.”
Reed bows again and strides out of the room without so much as a
glance in Airlie's direction. Roan’s face doesn’t change as he watches him
go, his gaze lifting to meet mine before he nods sharply at me in acceptance
of what he sees there.
 Silence follows in the Outland soldier’s wake, Rooke’s heartbeat the
only sound, steady in my ear, and then Airlie murmurs meekly, “Thank you,
cousin. I am in your debt.”
My own words back to her are scathing, frustration at myself but also at
her for forcing me into this position. “I didn't do it for you, and I meant
every word, Airlie. If you ever do something like that again, you’ll suffer
the same fate, bloodlines be damned.”

OceanofPDF.com
OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER TWO

Rooke
I wake to the ghost of hands firm against my chest, pressing me back into
the pallet beneath me, except the bedding is too soft, and it consumes me.
My skin is stretched tight over my bones, aches blooming within them until
they balance on the very edge of shattering. My eyelids are so heavy I don’t
have the strength to open them, my throat is so dry that every breath burns
the raw flesh there, and my stomach burns with bile at the complete
deficiency that comes with such catastrophic use of magic.
No witch was made to wield magic like that. I know this better than
most, and yet the Fates continue to demand it of me.
With every breath I become more aware of myself, the throbbing nature
of the pain that rolls over me with every beat of my heart until I’m sure I
must be bleeding out. Every inch of my body feels exposed, raw, and my
heart thumps violently in my chest as I desperately try to figure out what
injuries I've woken with.
A lancing? That’s the most common wound during the fall of cities,
with glass and fragments from the building raining down on the streets. No,
my throat is clear of blood, and my limbs are clean. My mind is addled but
functioning; it can’t be an enduring, the wound of the Fates when soldiers
come before the Ureen and fall into the madness that eventually claims their
lives. There’s no way that I could still feel like myself if that's the injury I
bear.
Another wave of pain washes over me, cleansing me of rationale once
more, and the chaos takes over until my mind is a panicked stream of
consciousness. I’m completely senseless, nothing but my most base form.
Where am I? What camp am I in? Where is my brother? Where are my
family, my friends, the people who have loved me and cared for me for all
these many decades, where are they while I’m trapped in such pain?
The Ureen have decimated the Sol Army so many times that resources
are always finite. I've never woken up on a pallet by myself after a battle;
there’s always somebody else lying here with me, and even if I’m the only
one who’s sustained injuries, my brother is always with me… or Stone.
Hanede, Qhin, Cerson… someone should be here with me.
Why am I alone?
The more I lose myself to these thoughts, the harder the hands on my
chest pin me to the bed. They’re not my family, though, not comforting to
me, even as the Fates sing under my scars. Panic grips me tighter but, no
matter how I fight it, I’m trapped in my mind.
Something snaps inside me, and a sob cleaves from my chest, a
desperately wretched sound. Through the white-hot pain, I feel the pressure
disappear, as though I’ve been cast out into the rolling waves once more.
A hand presses against my skin, soft but firm on my neck, and my face
is tilted, words murmured into my ear in coaxing drawls. I don’t understand
them. I don’t understand any of this.
Where am I?
Where is Pemba?
Are the Ureen here? They’ve come for us again, consuming everything
in their path as they hunt us, hunt me, panic in my chest and the Fates
dancing in my scars; they must be here for us again. They’re dancing under
my skin at my back and my stomach—they’ve never done that before. What
wounds do I have now, what new hell have I woken to? Why does every
inch of my body ache and… burn?
How have I been burned during the consuming destruction, the
unmaking? The monsters of the Fates don’t burn. They destroy, annihilate,
return to sand and dust until they have taken everything… but they don’t
burn.
 Voices murmur, but my mind is slow to understand their words. The
language is ancient, as old as the kingdoms themselves. I haven’t heard it
used like this in such a long time, not since my mother and my father, but
they’re gone. Only my brother speaks to me in that language, and only
when he wants to share secrets no one but the two us could possibly hold.
A prayer for my soul, as soft and soothing as a lullaby.
A prayer for my peace and my sanity, to bring me out of this hell I’m
trapped within, to lead me out of the darkness of my mind.
Even without the hands pressing me to the pallet, my body settles once
more at the melodic verses.
A prayer to see me back into the safety of this castle, for me to wake
from the terror that grips me, the words murmured over and over and over
again at my bedside as a vigil is held.
The chaos calms, and I hear the forest’s song, intertwining with the
prayers until my heart threatens to burst once more from the joy and the
grief I hold. If I can hear the trees so loudly, then I’m lost to all who love
me, stumbling toward the pyres to the gates of Elysium.
I want to go home. Please, let me go home, I don’t want to live in fear
anymore. I need to find my brother and my friends, I need to find those I
now call family, and I need to go home.
But there is no home anymore.
No matter how the trees sing in my heart. I have no home, none of us
do, we are lost, we've been lost for so long. We once found our home in
each other, but now I’m lost to them too.
More prayers murmured. More prayers to save me, to lead me back to
the world that goes on around me regardless of the torture I’m locked in.
Prayers to the Fates that I've done enough, to let me be free of my own
fate, to hand that task on to another, to let him take this pain and make it his
instead. To let me recover from the war that I’ve returned from instead of
fighting in a new one, because he can carry the weight of the High Witch’s
death alone.
Promises that I’ll see the forest once again, that I can return home, that
he’ll take me back there if only I wake up.
Promises I cannot believe.
WHEN I FINALLY WAKE AND escape the clutches of my worst
memories, I have no idea how much time has passed.
The worst of my pain has gone, though being in my body is still an
uncomfortable experience. Every inch of my skin feels tight and new, every
muscle squeezed until I’m sure I’m about to split open under the pressure,
each breath a battle as I fight to expand my lungs.
Panic dances along the edges of my mind, the echoes of the nightmares
still flirting with my destruction until I’m fighting a battle with the chaos
that lives within me.
Every shield I constructed against my traumas has come down, and now
I’m at the mercy of the Ureen, the war, and lessons of submission to the
Fates that I learned by the most brutal means. They’re quiet within me now,
though, dormant in a curious way.
I glance around to distract myself, as much as I can without moving and
causing myself more pain, and it takes me a moment to figure out why the
walls around me are blue, the ceiling white, and everything is so… stark.
My head jerks to the side, expecting pallets and healing supplies, but I find
nothing. I should be looking at my brother’s pallet, always nearby no matter
how long this war has raged on. His boots and his cloak should be there,
because he would never ride out without me. This alone tears my mind out
of the haze it was trapped in and thrusts me into the present.
I am no longer in the Northern Lands.
I’m not a soldier serving alongside my friends, and there’s no one here
to hear my groaning and fuss over me. Tears begin to fill my eyes, and I
want to curse myself. The ice around my heart has been shattered, and now
I’m stuck with the true repercussions of war. Facing Kharl Balzog, the male
who murdered my family with a single command just to defy the Fates and
instead only sealed them, has truly broken something within me.
“Tell me which of your elixirs will fix this.”
My heart stops in my chest, and a groan tears from my lips. I curse
myself for not realizing the Fates are calm and quiet within me because the
mate they chose is standing guard over me, offering pain relief out of guilt.
 I take a steadying breath before I heave myself into a sitting position,
my arms trembling with the effort and yet another groan escaping me. My
gaze clashes with Prince Soren’s as he stands abruptly, his usual scowl
etched on his fearsome face.
He takes a single step toward the bed before I lash out. “I’m in no state
to kill you or curse your bloodline—there's no need for such dramatics.”
Wiping a hand over my forehead, I let out a shaky breath at the cold
sweat there, earned simply for sitting up. I must look pitiful, but thankfully
my words stop his advance. Perhaps the Fates have decided I’ve endured
enough torture, though I doubt the reprieve will last long.
I count three heartbeats, violent enough that I worry my ribs might
break, before he speaks once more. “I’m not threatened by you, or the
power you wield. I was going to stop you from getting up. There’s no need
for you to overexert yourself when we’ve barely wrestled you from the
grips of Elysium.”
Even with carefully restrained fury shaping every word coming out of
his mouth, something has shifted in his tone, something curious that I can’t
quite put my finger on. Thoughts clouded with anger and pain, I put the
anomaly aside as I shake my head at him, pressing my back against the
pillows until they support me more comfortably. The small action of sitting
up has taken almost all my energy, and I find myself unable to pretend
otherwise.
My gaze flits over the room once more, this time to distract myself from
him. “You seem to have redecorated the dungeons. I suppose there wasn't
enough of a Celestial feel down here, though with all the dust and grime
I’m not sure white was the wisest choice, especially considering how fussy
you all are.”
He steps back and then, haltingly, sits once more as though no amount
of cushions will bring him comfort. When he doesn’t answer me and the
silence stretches on between us, I’m forced to look at him, just to be sure
he’s not drawing his sword to be done with me.
My friend Cerson, the Mother of the Elmswyrd Coven, once told me
that the Fates carved the Unseelie high fae out of moonstones. Their looks
were as perfectly alluring as those precious stones that charge with the
energy of the lune, and witches couldn’t help but covet them both. It was
nothing but idle gossip at the time but now it feels like a curse laid over me.
 Looking at Prince Soren now, as he sits tense and serious in the corner
of the room, crushes my very soul. If the Fates carved him, they did so to
destroy me, a weapon of the cruelest design. I’ve spent decades honing and
cultivating my skills only to be laid to waste in the lands I was driven from
by my cursed fate. Worse still, I lay here languishing in my pain, and he
witnessed the undoing of my mind and the healing of the damage I
sustained.
My temper runs hot, and I scoff at the rigid way he's holding himself, as
though he’s waiting to defend against an attack. The high fae truly have no
idea how magic works if he thinks I could wield right now.
He ignores my spite but finally answers me. “These are the crown-
consort chambers… by the Fates’ commands, they’re yours.”
Indignant, I shake my head at him. “I want no part in your games,
Prince Soren. Perhaps with more rest I’ll be open to sparring with you
again, but right now I find I have nothing left to give you.”
His mouth tightens, his vicious look growing wilder and more violent,
and I prepare myself for a gruesome death at his hands. “Which elixir will
aid your healing and remove the pain? If you believe nothing else I say,
believe this—I won’t let you rest until you answer my question.”
My hand trembles as I lift it, the last remnants of the effects of the
witcheswane still there, and then I shrug. “I suppose I'll never rest again
then, because there isn't an elixir that can help this. You chose your weapon
against Kharl’s army wisely, Prince Soren. There’s no cure or easing of it,
only bearing it.”
His mouth tightens even further, a feat I didn't think was possible.
There's no telling how many days I've lain in this bed. He's no longer in his
armor, though his sword is secure on his belt, and there are no signs of
witcheswane in this room.
“I’m not convinced this isn’t just an act of stubbornness. What
assurances do you need to take an elixir to sleep while the last of your
injuries heal?”
At the absolute gall of this prince, a chuckle wrenches out of my lips, a
dry and mean sound. “Why are you so concerned with my pain now? If you
were expecting me to wake up and continue offering you peace and
neutrality, then I’m sorry to bear bad news, but I have none left to give you.
Those creatures who murdered my mother, my father, my brothers and
sisters, the babies and elderly, every last member of my coven, they took
the last of my patience with them as their corpses burned. Kharl Balzog
murdered them all, simply for the fate I was given to rescue this kingdom
from the ignorance of your kind. High-fae arrogance turned you all away
from your purpose and, because of that, I was dragged out of my forest,
kicking and screaming, by the Fates. Now I return here to end the war only
to be met with your contempt and obliviousness.”
My voice breaks, but I ignore it, too far gone in my anger not to unleash
it on him, but he doesn’t move to stop me. “I accepted that my fate is
unavoidable before I left the Golden Palace, but now I find myself furious
once more, so whatever punishments you have put aside for me, whatever
trials and commands you have left to demand of me, I suggest you do so
now, while I don’t have the strength to give you exactly what you deserve
instead.”
There’s no denying it's a threat.
It’s the first time I’ve acted the way he expects a witch to, reckless and
foolhardy in my pain, especially considering how weakened I am. Fury rolls
off him like waves that break over me, but I’m unmoved by it, and him. The
Fates have cursed me with this male, but a fire has been ignited within me
to be sure he finds my presence just as vexing, if only for now.
Instead of killing me or calling the guards to throw me back down in the
dungeons for treason, he takes a seat once more, his back rigid as he seethes
across the room at me. His gaze never leaves me, unflinching in his guard.
“Go back to sleep—the Fates know you need it. You can regale me with
your promises of death when you’re no longer sweating through each
word.”

WHEN I WAKE AGAIN, the pain has lessened to an annoyance. I have a

brief moment of confusion as I stare up at the white marble ceiling, crisp
and clean and nothing like the roughly hewn stone of the healer’s quarters
or the cavernous enclosure of the dungeons. Then I realize.
The castle of Yregar still stands.
The Fates’ pull is no longer dancing along the scar I brought back from
the Fates War, a good sign that Prince Soren is no longer taking up his guilt-
laden watch over me. Instead, the soft swish of a page turning in a book is
the only sound to be heard in the otherwise silent room, as Airlie occupies
herself.
As a high fae, the princess doesn't need to look at me to know I'm
awake. The shift in my breathing is more than enough to alert her. One
danger of spending too much time with the high fae is their swift
knowledge of the rhythms of your body, thanks to their keen senses.
“Soren told me you weren’t happy to find him standing guard over you,
and so I insisted he leave. I managed to kick him out for a while, but I’m
sure the soldiers are all cursing my name for it. He’s been in the sparring
rings for hours. Roan is worried he’ll kill someone.”
She has a dark yet mirthful sort of lilt in her voice, not quite smug but
certainly satisfied. Whatever confrontation I missed during my recovery,
she clearly got some of the justice she was hoping for when she let me out
of the dungeons.
When I pull myself up into a sitting position, there's no rush to aid me
this time, and a slow sigh ekes out of my chest. Airlie trusts me to know my
own limits, or perhaps she's just not one to fuss after anyone who isn't her
son. It’s a relief, and some of the sharp and sore edges inside me soften a
little more.
Once I’ve found a comfortable position that doesn’t irritate my newly
healed skin, I meet Airlie’s assessing gaze with a firm nod, one a soldier
gives their commander in the depths of war to prove themselves. Airlie sits
in the armchair looking every inch the high-fae princess that I’m sure her
fussy mother ingrained into her, wearing an elegant and perfectly styled
dress in the Celestial blue of her royal lineage, diamonds in her ears and
around each of her wrists, and heeled, nightmarish boots trimmed with
ribbons on her feet. With her hair curled where it falls over her shoulders
and the smug smile tugging at her lips, she’s every inch a royal high fae of
undoubtable standing.
I’m also quite sure she’s a loyal friend, one I’m lucky to have found in
such an unwelcoming place.
The words are clumsy and cracked as I force them out of my dry mouth,
a little tacky from healing and thirst. “I don't see the need for an armed
guard watching over me while I’m barely able to lift my arms, let alone
Prince Soren himself doing it. If the task could be entrusted to his cousins
for so long, why make such a drastic change? Surely there’s a banquet or a
ball he should be planning.”
It’s needlessly cutting, I’m well-aware Prince Soren has done more for
the kingdom and the fae folk here than most royals have ever bothered to,
but whatever changes took place in him while I was sleeping haven’t
happened within me. The cold and vicious vitriol he spewed before sending
me back to the dungeons while Kharl Balzog’s armies advanced is still clear
in my mind, and no matter his guilt-soaked pride, I won’t accept this
pandering.
It’s not the first time I’ve been faced with the fickle and twisted moods
of the high fae.
Airlie’s smile stretches wider as I continue in my cold assessment of her
cousin. “I guess I’ve broken out of the dungeons twice now and rendered
Tyton unconscious on both occasions—perhaps he thinks he’ll be more
adept at stopping me… although such arrogance shouldn’t surprise me.”
Her head cocks a little, a tell that she’s listening to something outside of
my own hearing, but she replies easily enough, “It’s a little bit more
complicated than that, I’m afraid, though Soren most certainly deserves
every drop of your anger for his pigheaded ways. No, my cousin has found
himself in the very peculiar position of wholeheartedly believing that
you’ve been speaking the truth this entire time. He now has to accept that
he’s poisoned his entire household against you, putting your safety at risk
no matter what new commands he’s given.”
I rub a hand over one of the healing patches of skin on my arm, tight
and sore. I couldn’t hazard a guess at what these new commands might be,
not with how fickle and volatile the prince has proved to be.
Airlie’s fingers rub absently at the worn leather of the book in her hand.
“Soren’s last excuse for keeping you and your shared fates as far away from
himself as he could possibly manage has just been quite spectacularly
blown to pieces. He’s scrambling to figure out what he’s going to do to
remedy this mess before the winter solstice.”
I don’t think that male is capable of scrambling.
It’s certainly not something I can fathom, but Airlie seems particularly
pleased about it, so there has to be some truth there. Even after two
centuries amongst the Seelie Court, unraveling the high-fae way of thinking
is still a confusing and fraught endeavor.
 “There’s no remedy for our fates, only acceptance and obedience. I've
already told Prince Soren that I’ll do as they command. He might as well
leave me in the dungeons until the solstice so I can find some peace while I
wait.”
Airlie clicks her tongue at me, shaking her head with a particularly
gleeful shine in her eyes that should certainly worry Prince Soren for the
plans she might be devising against him.
“Don't be so defeatist, Rooke! It's unbecoming and unlike the witch I
call my friend.”
No matter the light tone of her voice, the truth of her words stings. I
don’t want the reminder of just how much the Fates War has changed me or
the damage I still bear no matter how whole I might look on the outside. I
glance away from her as though I can hide my shame from myself, but it
doesn’t lessen.
The farce of meekly enduring the dungeons and the mistreatment of the
high fae was nothing more than a childish act of malicious compliance. A
shameful sort of submission, the more I think on it, pretending that I’d
accepted that my fate was unavoidable, and so I sat down there in the
depths of the earth like a sullen creature, furious and resigned to the
wickedly cruel web the Fates weave.
My brother would be horrified if ever he heard such a thing, and my
chest throbs with the pain of leaving him behind
Silence settles around us once more, comfortable and contemplative. I
stretch up one of my hands and rub it against the side of my face, the skin
there still tender and new.
“Soren was covered in witcheswane, soaked in the vile weed, and when
he carried you up here, it soaked through his clothing into yours. Your face
bore the worst of the effects, pressed up against his chest like you were, but
there was also damage to your shoulders and down the left half of your
body. We spoke to Whynn, but she said there was nothing we could do to
help you.”
I nod my head, wincing at the taut form of my muscles as I pull at them
with the movement. I stretch out my fingers before me, flexing them
carefully before I reach down the length of my body until my back pops, a
groan shuddering out of my chest despite my efforts to hold it in.
Airlie winces at the sound. “I’ve already sent Firna to bring up some of
the healing brew. Whynn instructed the kitchens on how to make it, and it’s
already fortified the villagers. There'll be some up here for you soon. Soren
is just finishing up with Prince Roan, and then I expect you'll be fussed after
until you want to scream. Male high-fae mates do love to make a nuisance
of themselves.”
I quirk an eyebrow at her, and she smirks back at me. “I always thought
it was a compulsion of the Fates that made them so, but Roan insists it's an
Unseelie thing. He was so sure that Soren was going to shove me out of this
room when he first brought you in, we’re both still shocked he held on to
some restraint. It's the first time my husband ever stood between Soren and
I during a disagreement. My cousin wasn't very open to my help until your
nightmares began, and then he had no choice but to accept my presence
here.”
Grimacing, I rub a hand over my face as scraps of memories piece
together. The lowly murmured promises, the desperation in his tone, the
prayers to the Fates on my behalf. All of it is nothing more than flashes
strung together into a confusing mess, but one thing sharpens, and I’m
overcome with a horrifying moment of clarity.
I swallow roughly, but it does nothing to shift the lump in my throat.
“Tell me he didn't send word to the Northern Lands. Fates above, promise
me he didn’t do that, Airlie, please.”
She pauses, and then curses under her breath. It’s the only warning I get
before the bedroom door is almost ripped from its hinges by the force of
Soren opening it.
The cold and beautifully refined prince I’ve observed since arriving to
Yregar is gone and left in his place is someone else, someone who fits the
title of savage far better than the other ever did. The scar running down his
face is pulled in tight as a snarl sits on his lip, likely a permanent fixture
now that the Fates have made their demands unavoidable for him. His
hands are a bloodied mess from the sparring ring, a shirt streaked with red
thrown over him, as though he was in a great rush to get back up here to
torture me further.
His eyes are sharp as he takes in my condition, and it's a relief to see the
cold edge still in his expression. Whatever frantic panic Airlie claims he had
was clearly just wishful thinking, and I'm still on familiar, stony ground
with him.
My relief is short lived when he speaks in a curt tone, not bothering to
feign ignorance to our conversation. “I’m sending a messenger to the
Northern Lands. I’ll find your brother.”
My gut churns at the very idea of him searching out Pemba, bile
creeping up the back of my throat until I’m sure I’d be sick if it hadn’t been
days since my last meal.
Airlie startles at the horror now etching its way across my face and
hisses at Prince Soren, “This is why I wanted you to move her to my
chambers! She’s been awake a handful of breaths, and you're already
upsetting her. Leave us, cousin⁠—“
I interrupt her, “Don’t send word to my brother. Don’t send any
messengers to the Northern Lands to speak my name. I might be tied to you
and your people by the Fates, but my brother isn’t. You’ll find no allies in
the Sol Army or the healers there if they find out what you’ve done to me
and I’ll be sure to tell them all if you dare try.”
I force myself to hold Prince Soren's gaze with my own no matter how
desperately I wish to look away from the Celestial-blue depths of his eyes.
The Fates sing insistently within me even as my gut churns at the very
thought of word of my situation here reaching the Northern Lands.
Frustration burns bright in Soren’s eyes, searing me to the bone, but I refuse
to drop his gaze and cower before this male.
Airlie glances between the two of us again and then calls out, “Ah,
Firna’s here with your broth. Soren, you'll have to move out of the doorway
to let her in… Soren! The remedy is for Rooke’s healing.”
Cursing the Fates under his breath, he finally looks away though, much
to my dismay, he steps around the bed to take up residence in the other
plush chair in the corner.
Firna bustles in and sets out the tray on the small bedside table. Her
eyes are shrewd as she takes in my pallor and mutters unhappily at the state
of my skin.
I brush her off. “It’ll only be another day or two before there’s no
remnant of the damage left.”
She nods and presses a small mug into my hands, the fragrant scent of
the stewed marrows, crushed seeds, and healing herbs wafting up to my
nostrils. It’s perfectly brewed, and I’m impressed with Whynn’s work.
“If there's anything that needs to be changed or adjusted, let me know,
but Whynn assured me that this is an exemplary batch. She picked the one
to bring up.”
 I smile my gratitude before I take a sip of the tea, the warmth of the
liquid leaching into me and spreading throughout my body with its healing
magic. It can't touch the damage of the witcheswane, but it certainly does
help to repair some of the exhaustion of the magic wielding and to
strengthen me after my days in repose.
“She's done an excellent job. Thank you, Firna and please pass my
thanks to Whynn as well. I’ll come down to speak to her myself just soon as
my legs are steady once more.”
Firna clicks her tongue at me. “There’s no need for such a journey, nor
any reason to hasten yourself out of this bed. Whynn warned me healers
make the worst patients and I should be firm with you to stay here for at
least another few days.”
There’s absolutely no way I'm going to spend even another night in this
room, but I smile serenely and sip from the cup without comment, ignoring
Airlie’s knowing smile. She's far too adept at reading me, considering the
short length of our friendship so far. Perhaps it’s a skill honed by being
surrounded by high-fae princes and the stubbornness they all hold, and
learning to understand everything that isn’t being said.
Firna makes her excuses and bustles back out with the tray, happy with
her work, and I finally catch a glimpse out of the doorway. From here I can
clearly see Prince Soren's reception rooms, the doors left open in his haste
to return to his guard duty. My stomach churns, and my urgency to leave the
consort chamber doubles instantly.
“Airlie, I’ll see you at dinner,” Prince Soren says, and though Airlie’s
eyes flick disapprovingly in his direction, she doesn’t question his clear
dismissal, simply shifting her sleeping son back into the sling across her
chest and then standing carefully.
She ignores his glare as she approaches the bed and tugs me into a
gentle embrace, careful not to brush against the newly healed skin.
“Thank you for keeping your word to protect my son. I’m sorry you
were injured in the process, and if there’s anything I can do, please don’t
hesitate to ask. Swear to me, Rooke, anything at all.”
I might be calling her on that soon to get me the hell out of this room,
but for now I simply nod and watch in silence as she leaves, closing the
door firmly behind herself to encase Prince Soren and I together once more.
Whether he's waiting for her to truly leave or doesn't feel the need to
speak to me, he lets the silence grow between us. I place the mug on the
bedside table and settle back into the pillows, pushing my magic and
carefully poking and prodding at myself to see whether I can flee this room
now or if I'll need another hour to be sure on my feet.
“Is your magic gone, or are you recovered? How long does it take to
replenish after use like that?”
I take a careful breath before I answer his questions, centering myself
until some of my anger lifts. “I’m certainly not at full strength, but I'm no
longer defenseless, if you're inquiring as to whether or not it’s safe for you
to argue with me right now. Perhaps it's best to keep your insults to a
minimum.”
I don't have to look at him to know he doesn't take that well, the
seething silence stretching back out between us.
When he speaks again, it’s through gritted teeth. “Do you have enough
magic to conceal our conversation or not?”
That draws my attention, and my gaze meets his. I find the same stony
face and cold eyes, but I let my magic out around us regardless, easier than
breathing.
He waits until I nod curtly to him before he speaks, just to be sure the
magic will hold. I instantly wish I lied and feigned inability.
“You called for your brother during the worst of your nightmares. I have
messengers who can travel across the seas safely and soldiers already
prepared for the journey. Why shouldn't I bring him here?”
My brows pinch together as I stare back at him, but his own expression
doesn't change.
I shake my head, an incredulous laugh falling from my lips. “Why
would I endanger him like that? Why should I ask that of my brother, and
what fate do you wish to place on the last of my bloodline where my life
isn’t enough?”
He glances out the window, the image of the outside skewed by magic.
His jaw flexes as he gnashes his teeth. “Airlie was speaking the truth. I’m
not here to ensure you don't escape or to force some punishment on you, I'm
here to guard you.” I frown once more, but he doesn't look away from the
window. He continues, “My uncle’s assassination plans were interrupted by
the image the Sol King sent from the Northern Lands of the monsters of
fate.”
My chest constricts, but he continues. “Prince Roan was subdued by his
grandson’s safe arrival, an undeniable gift you gave the high fae. The
soldiers’ tales of the battle have spread throughout Yregar, but that’s no
promise of your safety. Until you can defend yourself once more, you’ll
stay here. I’ve removed the witcheswane from the castle, and the stores in
the armory have been locked away. I alone hold the key to access them.”
He pauses, and the intensity in his eyes grows stronger until my skin
itches under the scrutiny. There’s no sign of approval or even acceptance in
their depths, only grim determination. That worries me more than any other
emotion. I’ve seen it in far too many soldiers' eyes over the years to doubt
the danger it may well pose for me.
“I will send soldiers to Port Asmyr to escort your brother to Yregar. No
harm will come to him, on my bloodline, I swear to you.”
I shake my head at him, furious that he will never just listen to me. “I
will not have my brother here⁠—”
He cuts me off with a snarl. “You begged for him. For three days, you
lay in that bed, thrashing and screaming and begging to see him.”
I swallow roughly and look away, wounds that never seem to fully heal
opening in my chest once more. Leaving the Sol Army behind almost killed
me, the five years of peace having done nothing to soothe the ragged
damage to my mind, and yet I’d dragged the time on because I knew how
painful the separation would be. The ice around my heart was my only
protection, and now it’s gone, leaving me with the devastation the evils
wrought.
The piercing edge of his gaze is too much right now, too knowing, as he
takes in every inch of the grief and loathing at my situation that must be
written on my face. His own mood sinks lower until a malevolence forms in
the room with us, despite my own attempts to keep the conversation civil.
I’m thankful that I haven’t reopened the mind connection between us.
Anything that aided him in seeing through me would be a dangerous
weapon but the blessed gift of the Fates to speak to one another in such a
manner would surely prove to be my undoing.
“I’m fine now. It was nothing but memories, terrors long gone. I'm sorry
if I put the castle at risk, or exposed any weakness to your uncle for your
claim to the throne.”
At that, he stands abruptly, and my hand turns on reflex, shifting until
the magic point at my elbow is exposed and I’m as close to putting a hand
to the hilt of my sword as I can get in this moment.
He sees it and still doesn't comment on the threat.
 “I don't give a Fates-filled fuck about the castle right now. You held off
three battalions of witches to preserve Yregar’s wall, slaughtered them
single-handedly, and stopped the High Witch himself from storming the
castle and killing all of those sheltering within. If you want your brother
here, I’ll find him. If you want every witch in the Northern Lands and the
Sol Army, I’ll bring them here to you.”
There it is.
The high-fae prince has suddenly found himself indebted to someone
below him, and perhaps a bit of guilt has finally entered this male's body,
along with his indignance to find himself in such a position.
He’s about to find himself in a much worse one.
“My brother is not tied to you with my fate, Prince Soren, and if you
learn nothing else today, then let it be this—Pemba Eveningstar would
happily rip the Fates open once more and face an army of Ureen alone to
keep you from me. His assessment of you was formed by the rumors of
your temperament alone. Imagine his determination if he found out you
threw me in a dungeon and coated the castle in witcheswane? There would
be no reason excusable to him. There would be nothing you could offer him
to soften his judgments, no assurances, no promises, no apologies. You
could hand him the throne of the Southern Lands itself, and he would still
rend you limb from limb for me and die laughing as the monsters of the
Fates consumed him. Do not send a messenger. If you wish to repay me for
my defense of your castle, I will accept nothing else—don’t ever speak my
brother's name again.”

OceanofPDF.com
OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER THREE

Soren
Every breath feeds the seething malevolence within me as I carve my way
through the remaining soldiers in the sparring ring. Curses sound around me
as my weapon arcs in a perfect sweep, sparks bursting at the impact of my
blunted training sword against the others with every strike. I see the
resignation in their eyes before I cut them down one by one, but it’s not
cowardice.
I’ve decimated them all for days without fault.
Ash still lies over the courtyard, a stark reminder of why we’re training
in the first place. The funeral pyres burned yesterday after days of hard
work to prepare them, the fires lit under the solemn vigil of the entire
household, save Tyton as he watched over my sleeping mate. Everyone
came out to pay their respects to the dozen men lost, their sacrifice a
reminder of how close we all came to perishing.
The shift in opinions of my Fates-blessed mate wasn’t the slow ripples
that usually cascade down through the courts. No, the battle of Yregar and
Rooke’s lone defense at all costs eradicated the scorn for her in an instant.
Not a single murmur of contempt or suspicion was uttered, even as the
smoke of the funeral pyres curled through the ruined streets of the village.
 As the last of my opponents falls, Tauron arrives with his brother in tow
and murmurs to Roan about the state I’m in, but I push their incessant
concerns from my mind as I dismiss the soldiers and pause long enough to
drink something, then pour the last of the water over my head. It does
nothing to quench my real thirst, but then nothing has.
With water and sweat still running down my face, I snap at Tauron in
the old language, “Who’s guarding her?”
I don’t have to say her name; my Fates-blessed mate is in every room
with me now, every conversation and every interaction. They all tip-toe
around the idea of her as though I’m the twitch of an eye away from
bloodshed at her existence… or perhaps in her name.
My cousin stares at me before he answers, squaring his shoulders and
preparing himself for my impending rampage. “Reed Snowheart.”
The full force of my ire lands on Roan with a growl, and he grimaces,
holding up a hand as though he has any chance of placating me. “Airlie and
Firna are there, too—he’s guarding from the door.”
I don’t like it and, worse, I loathe that I feel that way.
There’s nothing that can distract me from my fury either, only questions
that plague me further. No matter my attempts, Rooke refused to say
another word to me about her brother, and I was forced to leave my
chambers before I did something stupid, like rage at her the way I’ve been
cursing the Fates for days.
It was to the chagrin of Roan and the newly appointed commander of
Yregar’s barracks, Kytan, that I returned to the sparring rings, but no
amount of training has been able to burn the violence from my veins.
Roan has spent many long centuries learning how best to distract me
from bloodshed, though the hesitance in his voice speaks volumes for my
volatility since the witches attacked Yregar. “The builders are clearing the
rubble this morning. We’re heading down to assess the damage. If you need
some hard labor as a distraction, Soren, it would be more productive than
this carnage.”
He flicks his hand out at the many spatters of blood spat out by my
soldiers, thanks to the countless injuries I’ve dealt out. My gaze traces them
and then flicks to Kytan, but the commander is silent as he waits us out. His
expression is unreadable as we speak around him without his
understanding, though he stands in a fighting stance by force of habit alone.
He was born to a loyal and strong noble family, and as a later-born son with
no chance of gaining a title, he chose the life of a soldier under my
command centuries ago.
I picked him out of the ranks for a leadership position after many cases
of proving himself, and when Corym was killed in Kharl’s first attack on
the outer wall, he was the obvious choice to take over. He's been careful
never to disrespect the man whose ashes might still be on their journey to
Elysium.
With nothing left to offer the soldiers here but pain, I shove my training
sword back into the rack and grab my shirt from where I threw it off, the
charcoal color of it hiding some of the blood streaked over me. I glance up
at the lines of windows on the castle overhead, but the thick marble and
stone muffle any conversations in there from my hearing. There’s no telling
what secrets Rooke might be revealing to Airlie while I’m down here, but I
doubt she’s speaking of the Northern Lands or the truth of her time there.
Tauron and Tyton both shift on their feet as they watch me, their gazes
like an itch over my already raw presence, and the sneer I direct at them
thickens the already suffocating air around us all. Everyone waits, teetering
on the edge of my madness, but I have nothing left to give any of them. No
pretense of civility, no acts of a refined prince—it’s all gone, once and for
all.
That was never truly me in the first place, the toeing of the line set out
before me by the Unseelie Court in order to win their favor and keep my
father’s throne. I spent centuries trying to avoid any further loss of lives
within my family, and it’s all been for nothing. Nothing but my uncle
carving his way into the kingdom like a fucking poison, and now I have an
even bigger problem to deal with.
My eyes flick back up toward the windows of my chambers, and I could
pluck them out for the slip. Unbidden, an image of the Ureen slips into my
mind, and the ripple of horror working its way through my muscles is
impossible to avoid. The tales of those monsters don’t do them justice, and
the sickening roil in my gut grew at that rendering the Sol King had brought
to life and the possibility that it’s a pale comparison to the real thing.
Rooke fought against them, closely enough that she was grievously
injured. Healers are always sent to the front lines in battles, and no matter
how good she is with a sword, those—things—are made from depraved
magic that could come only from the will of the Fates being broken. The
Fates sent me a witch for a mate, one beloved by the very land beneath my
feet, but not before they crafted her into a weapon.
Even such a fleeting thought of her has my teeth gnashing together, and
I’m certain there’s a barbarous sort of look on my face that will keep
anyone with good sense clear of me.
Cursing the Fates under my breath once more, I snatch my sword from
the rack and buckle it to my belt, then bend to shove an extra dagger into
my boot before slipping another into the holster on my forearm. It’s far
fewer weapons than I usually carry but, with many hours of manual labor
ahead, I need to be able to move.
Tauron mutters unhappily about my carrying so many blades but as the
scowl on my face grows vicious, Kytan is the one to step in. “Once I get the
sentry duties reassigned, I’ll take over the guard watch. There’s no use
assigning more training, and with enough rotation we can be sure no lapses
occur.”
Lapses.
That’s one way to describe the friendship Reed has struck up with my
Fates-blessed mate, strong enough that he committed treason for her and
willingly submitted himself to the consequences. A jerk of my head is all I
can manage in Kytan’s direction, but it’s enough, the male calling out
orders and the courtyard filling like a hive once more at his command.
“Soren, I wouldn’t have left him with her if I thought⁠—“
I cut Roan off with a growl. “I’m working in the village until I can open
my mouth without swearing violence on the Fates for this fucking mess.
Don’t speak to me about reason until I can find some.”

LONG AFTER THE sun has set and my arms burn with exhaustion after
the days' work, I arrive back in my chambers to find the crown-consort
chamber empty and Roan standing in my reception room with a resigned
look fixed on his face that might just be as permanent now as the fury is on
mine.
“Your Fates-blessed mate returned to the healer’s quarters the moment
she finished her first proper meal. Kytan called for me to come and attempt
to sway her when she refused to stay here, but it seems Rooke woke from
her healing sleep with very little patience for any of us.”
I fix him with a glare, and he shrugs again, relaxing slightly when I
don’t immediately hurl a chair at his head. “I escorted her down there, but
even when her legs almost buckled from the effort, the determination in her
eyes left no room for argument. For what it’s worth, she was vicious toward
Kytan and I as well, so her ire isn’t directed solely at you.”
It doesn’t help, not even a little bit, but I dismiss him without another
word, intent on cleaning myself up and stalking down to the healer’s
quarters to see for myself that she’s still alive.
Roan hesitates at the door. “My father and his soldiers are returning to
Fates Mark in the morning. Airlie has arranged dinner for us all—we’re
going to name our son before his grandfather leaves.”
He doesn’t wait for me to answer him, and I stay under the hot stream of
water until some of the bloodlust haze lifts again. If it will ever lift entirely,
there’s no telling, but for now, I’m spurred on by the possessive
compulsions lingering within me. Any fae folk dumb enough to put
themselves between the Ravenswyrd witch and our cursed fates’ demands
will pay a heavy price.
When I finally make it to the Snowsong chambers, I feel the pull of the
Fates in my chest, and my teeth grind together. The soldiers guarding the
doors bow deeply to me as I pass them, the ever-present tension thickening
the air around me. My entire household holds its breath, with good reason.
Every attempt to calm the storm in my veins has proved it’s an impossible
task.
Stepping into Airlie's reception room, I find it in a very different state of
chaos than the one that rages within me. Dozens of maids and seamstresses
bustle about with militant vigor, and Rooke stands in the middle of it all
looking vaguely horrified, her arms stretched out as the women fuss over
her. Despite the harrowed look in her eyes, she's in far better condition than
when I last saw her. There’s no sign of the witcheswane damage, her legs
steady and sure beneath her, and even some color to her cheeks. The healing
brew has definitely helped her, even if it couldn’t heal her wounds. She
looks tired and irritated, but alive.
She's back in robes, but not the black ones she fought in days ago.
Trimmed with green embroidery of oak leaves and vines, those had proudly
declared her an Unseelie witch of the forest. The robes that wrap her body
now are dyed a dark, regal silver, the exact hue of the formal color of the
Celestial household. The same needlework has been replicated along the
hemlines only in another shade of silver, one that matches the hue of
Rooke’s eyes perfectly. The pins she brought with her from the Seelie Court
hold the bands together, and the garment is tailored to fit her perfectly,
clinging to the swell of her hips like an invitation.
A growl over my shoulder is all it takes to have the soldiers retreating
and closing the door firmly behind them. Despite the fabric covering every
inch of her skin all the way to her neck, there’s never been a more alluring
female to wear the Celestial colors—my colors. I’m both enraptured and
overwhelmed by the urge to murder my own soldiers for looking at her.
Fates curse this fire that grows wild in my blood, but she’s my mate—
mine—and no other should lay eyes on her like this.
The seamstresses all cluck over her as Airlie stands beaming in the
doorway, all of them ignorant of the danger I’ve become. Instead, the entire
room is beaming with satisfaction at their good work, all but Rooke herself,
who looks like she's been forced at the edge of a sword into letting them
play dress-up with her.
Stalking over to Airlie to put an end to this display before it gets
someone killed, I cut my plan short when the sickly-sweet tones of Aura's
voice drift from further inside the chambers, directing the kitchen staff
about the dinner table. Airlie glances up to meet my enraged look with an
overly meek one that doesn't suit her at all.
Her voice pitches low enough that Rooke and the other lower fae can't
hear it but the high fae all will. "Take a breath, cousin, I’m doing as you’ve
commanded me to. I'm working very closely with my mother to change the
perceptions of your Fates-blessed mate to ensure the entire household
knows exactly how high we hold her in our regards. That starts with
clothing that's appropriate for her and family dinners, those we share blood
with and those who are yet to come into the fold. Who better to twist the
perceptions of the court than one of their own? Mother is always thrilled at
the prospect of honoring the Celestial legacy with her lavish tales of
greatness."
I hear Roan's father's cutting tone, as he says something to his son's
mother-in-law, and the true chaos Airlie has incited for us to stew in over
wine and Firna's perfectly cooked feast becomes clear to me.
By the ashes, someone is going to die tonight.
 Rooke turns to Airlie, a grimace on her face that disappears in an instant
as one of the seamstresses straightens to beam at her. Rooke nods her head
as she listens diligently, a welcoming sort of kindness rolling off her in
waves as she smiles warmly. The female has done exceptional work; Airlie
is favored amongst a coveted group of skilled workers, but no matter how
much she deserves the respect Rooke is showing her, my gut still clenches
at the sight of it on my mate's smiling face.
It has rankled me from the moment she arrived at Yregar—the grace
and humility she shows everyone but the high fae. She looks at the soldiers
with respect now, in the aftermath of the battle, her assessment of their
actions a positive one. It's only the royals and the highborn she takes issue
with, though even that comes from her humility.
My Fates-blessed mate has looked over each of the fae folk within
Yregar and judged them on their own merits… or lack thereof.
The corner of Rooke's mouth twitches before she calls to Airlie in a
calm but firm tone, "I'm not wearing the blue. The black is suitable and, if
necessary, the silver. Two sets of robes are more than adequate, Princess.
Thank you for your kind gift, but don't waste any resources on me."
Airlie waives a hand at her, the other clutching her son to her chest
confidently as she glides around the room in her own far more elaborate
skirts. She shares a look with Firna, the two of them very happy with their
handiwork.
Silver pins catch in the light as Rooke moves down from the small step,
and I'm struck by the full view of her, my entire body freezing in place as
she moves effortlessly. The robes are modest, with all the swaths of cloth,
but easy for her to move in, a functionality made clear when she fought in
them with a weapon in each hand. She looks different than the high fae and
the other members of the household, set apart by more than just her customs
and her abilities.
The boots on her feet are the same ones she wore in the battle, made
from soft but sturdy brown leather and shined to perfection while she slept.
They're a foot soldier's boot, that of a traveler who has spent hundreds of
hours journeying, and even the silver buckles look well-aged. She stands
easily in them, and the slight shifting she once attempted to hide is now
nowhere to be seen. I don't know if all witches hold footwear in such
contempt or if that's just a quirk of hers.
 A genuine smile lifts the corners of Airlie's mouth as she says with a
smothered laugh in her light tones, "Let's sit and eat, shall we? We wouldn't
want our dinner growing cold while we argue the endless value of a full
wardrobe."
My cousin has dozens of dresses and gowns, not out of her own desires
but her mother's. Every time the Unseelie Court arrives at Yregar, Aura
brings bags and bags of clothes to her daughter. Everything straddling the
line between what Airlie will consent to wear and how Aura would like to
present her daughter to the court. It's the culmination of centuries of
negotiation and contempt between the two of them, now boiling down to
such petty compromises.
My cousin directs Rooke to sit at her side and Roan on the other,
leaving the rest of us to pick our own places. She's usually stricter when
dining with more than our usual numbers, but she's clearly determined to
pretend this evening doesn't require so much formality.
I take the seat next to Rooke. The pressure in my chest at her presence is
like a vise choking me that eases only in close proximity and, worse still,
the snarling fury inside me rankles at the presence of the other males at the
table with her. Is this the future the Fates have cursed me with?
Whatever it takes to get this night over with without bloodshed or a
broken table, I'll do it. After everything Airlie and Roan have done for me,
and for their son, I’ll endure this torture. It truly is torture, as well, with the
careful way Rooke holds herself in her seat to be sure to never brush against
me or catch my attention at all. It’s no longer the peaceful way she did it
before, no, these are the actions of a female who would love nothing more
than to watch the flames of the Fates consume me.
My face sets into a scowl, every inch of my demeanor unpleasant, but
despite my surliness, Airlie beams at me like I've just offered her a great
honor. When she gestures at the maids, plates filled to the brim are placed
before us, just as Tauron and Tyton finally stumble in.
At Airlie's glare they both murmur apologies to her and bow to me
respectfully before they take their seats, the formality thanks only to Aura’s
and Prince Roan's presence. Neither of them seems surprised to see that the
two elder high fae have joined us, so either Airlie warned them, or they're
masking it well.
As we eat, there's no hesitation in my mate despite the tension that
lingers. Her manners are nothing short of perfect, better even than Tauron's,
as he rests his elbows on the table and simply stares, unrepentant, at my
aunt when she casts him a disapproving look.
The quiet around the table lasts for less than a minute before Aura clears
her throat delicately, a fake smile on her face as she addresses Rooke, "I
understand you're reluctant to switch to the high fae way of dressing. It
must be very strange after such a provincial previous life. However, we will
need to slowly acclimate you to more appropriate fashions. You'll be taking
on the Celestial name, after all, and it should never be sullied by inferior
displays."
Airlie grits her teeth, her hands tightening on her cutlery, but Rooke
doesn't react. Whether she came here tonight prepared for the worst or she’s
always ready to go toe-to-toe with the highest echelons of high-fae royalty,
Aura’s insults do nothing to her cool temper.
She tilts her head as though considering, keeping up the act for as long
as it takes to finish her mouthful before she replies, "I understand that I'll be
required to wear high-fae fashions for my Fates-blessed union to Prince
Soren at winter solstice, and I've already agreed wholeheartedly to that.
However, it's difficult to work in the healer’s quarters with so much fabric
and volume. It's important to me, and for the overall health of the castle, to
continue to repair and replenish the gardens and restock the supplies. If
there should be any further attacks, more refugees brought in, or any other
women expecting who need assistance, there are countless ways that I can
aid the people of Yregar and the kingdom. Healers are essential to the
running of a castle, and I think it's nothing short of a miracle of the Fates
that Yregar has prospered so well without one for all these years, a great
credit to the Celestial family and their hard work."
She plays the political game just as skillfully as my cousin. Even Tauron
looks impressed with her answer for a moment before his gaze darts away
almost guiltily. He catches my glare and bows his head slightly. There’s
undeniable skill in the way Rooke quietly put Aura in her place while
extolling the qualities of the castle and those within. Nothing about her
tone, her words, or her manners could possibly be questioned. She's
watched the high fae of the Seelie Court closely to learn such things.
The elder Prince Roan frowns at her, a knife in his hands. She very
pointedly doesn't let her gaze drop as he points it in her direction somewhat
threateningly, but it takes every inch of my already frayed control not to
snap at the male, the knife in my own hand held firmly in my grip.
 "My son said you’re Kharl's fate, that you're going to be the one to kill
him and end the war. Why didn't you just do it? If you were already
brandishing some magic stick that was cleaving the witches in half, why not
kill him and be done with it so we're not stuck dealing with these stinking
creatures of his for years to come?"
Aura wrinkles her nose at the prince of Fates Mark, but Rooke regards
him the same way she did my aunt, respectfully and openly. She places her
cutlery down and laces her fingers together in her lap as she forms an
answer, the picture of peace, even as the high-fae males surrounding her
clutch the blades in our hands as though we're moments away from drawing
blood with my cousin’s finest silverware.
Airlie taps her foot and clicks her tongue in disapproval, but when Roan
covers one of her hands with his own and pointedly flicks his gaze in my
direction, she relents with a carefully smothered gulp.
Rooke ignores us—ignores me—and takes this chance to prove herself
to Prince Roan, speaking clearly, directly, all while holding his gaze with no
sign of deception on her face. "My fate is very clear. My union to Prince
Soren, in his tradition and mine, will take place before Kharl's demise at my
hand. If I chased after that male, looking to change the fate set out before
me, anything could have happened to Yregar and the soldiers protecting it.
A single act of my arrogance against the Fates’ commands could have cost
more lives, and the dozen already taken was too many. If I succeeded in
killing him, the consequences would have been far worse than whatever
stench comes from the armies that plague this kingdom. I bear many regrets
in my life, and that choice is not one of them."
It's another strong statement. Tauron ducks his head, as though he can
hide his opinions from us all, but Tyton and Roan both watch my hands
closely, waiting for my temper to snap.
I knew the moment our eyes met across the ports that she would change
everything, but I never expected it to look like this.
The elder Prince Roan narrows his eyes at Rooke before glancing at
Roan. He trusts his son's word, knows the male he raised and the morals he
fostered in him, so when Roan gives him a decisive nod, he turns back to
Rooke and inclines his head to her respectfully.
"All good folk of the Southern Lands must bow to the Fates, and your
humility to follow them, even when the bloodlust of a soldier took you
over, is a credit to you and your future husband. Fates Mark and the
Outlands stand behind the true Celestial king. This union, however
challenging, doesn't change that."
Rooke bows her head deeply to him, a hand clasped against her chest in
the same gesture she made to the Goblin King and his soldiers. The same
she makes to a handful of fae folk who aren’t me.
"Strong words from a noble prince. I appreciate your kindness, Your
Highness."
Aura watches this entire exchange with keen interest, her eyes sharp on
my reactions, but when the witch looks back toward her, my aunt raises a
glass.
"To the wedding, may it bring about true joy and prosperity in our most
worthy kingdom."
Rooke’s gaze turns sharp, whether in response to my aunt’s words or her
presence in the first place, I can’t tell. Then, with only a fleeting glance at
me, she schools her features into a carefully blank mask as she raises her
own.
With a smirk at me, Airlie clears her throat delicately. “To Rooke, for
seeing my son here safely. It’s an honor to have you all here to name him
but, without Soren’s Fates-blessed mate, this night would surely have never
come to pass.”

OceanofPDF.com
OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER FOUR

Rooke
No matter how beautiful Princess Aura is, there's no mistaking the ugly
heart that beats within the older female's chest, the cutting look in her bright
blue eyes as she stares around the dinner table at each of the guests. The
way that she weighs each word before she speaks it screams manipulation,
and I’m forced to listen to her twist every interaction to her liking.
She embodies all the terrible qualities of the Unseelie Court royals that I
once thought was nothing more than rumor and petty gossip. Devious and
absurdly obsessed with themselves, creatures of the dark and cold who
might not have hearts beating in their chests, disguising their depravity with
masks of heartbreaking beauty as they weave their wicked webs.
I’ve traveled enough in my time to know these assumptions are not
universally true of any folk, no matter how tempting that belief might be to
hold. Every creature that exists craves something, and the high fae still
crave warmth and love.
Watching Aura as she looks at her small grandson with distaste, you
wouldn’t guess it.
“You can’t hold a naming now, like this,” she says, her words stilted and
a smile still plastered across her lips, but cracks are beginning to show in
her eyes.
 She glances around and quickly discerns she’s the only person with
protests, the smile slowly slipping away as the mask comes off. I begin to
doubt that many folks outside of this group ever deny the whims of this
female, and her entitlement rankles at the insult of enduring it now.
The baby stirs in his father’s arms, woken by his grandmother’s
outburst. He’s held confidently and comfortably as Roan eases the
discontent in the small boy as he wakes. His perfect and tiny dark curls
peek out of the blanket he’s wrapped in and tug at my heart, competing with
the tug of the Fates toward the mate they chose for me.
The damage of the witcheswane may not be visible to the eye anymore,
but the bone-deep exhaustion still holds me in its vicious grip and makes
the Fates’ demands more difficult to ignore.
Airlie steps up to her husband’s side with a cold smile on her face.
“Roan and I decided that we want his naming to be meaningful, and for us,
that includes Prince Roan being here. Our options are limited, and with the
Outland soldiers returning to Fates Mark in the morning to ensure the
kingdom’s safety, we’re moving with urgency. I’d rather have Prince Roan
here and a small group in attendance than the entire rest of the Unseelie
Court but not my son’s beloved grandfather.”
She speaks of the man with affection, and that emotion is reflected back
to her in the older man’s eyes, the same Unseelie high-fae blue as the rest of
the royals, except his son and small grandson. Both of them bear the golden
Seelie eyes from Roan’s mother, a princess from the Northern Lands who
was fated to live in the snow with her most beloved husband while he
worshiped her every breath to the last.
These are stories from Airlie, of course, murmured tearfully to me in the
first days of motherhood as we’d admired her infant son together. Though
Roan’s mother’s death was many years ago, the respect that Airlie felt for
her mother-in-law and still has for her father-in-law is nothing short of
admirable. The way the males within her family trust her to deal with her
own mother but will clearly back her up at a moment’s notice also shows
her as a power to be reckoned with.
Some of my own apprehensions about the future of the Southern Lands
ease, because if the baby turns out half as good and noble as his mother and
father are, then the future of the Unseelie high fae looks brighter.
Aura’s eyes flash at her daughter, her shoulders tightening and her voice
hissing from between her clenched teeth as she snaps, “It’s the first royal
high-fae child to be born in eight hundred years, Airlie. You can’t just hold
a naming in your chambers, in a depressed and darkened castle, in the
middle of the moon cycle. It’s inappropriate, and the Unseelie Court will
have much to say about it!”
The princess shrugs irreverently and tucks her hand in her husband’s
elbow, close to her son’s feet. Her fingers carefully stroke the tiny knitted
socks, Celestial blue with snowflakes and stars painstakingly stitched into
them, a loving gift.
Often the maids and servants will bring small trinkets of affection to
give to the little prince, beaming at the princess when she murmurs her
thanks to them. She’s kind to all who are trusted with her son, and it’s a key
part of why my respect for her continues to grow, the longer we spend as
friends.
Aura opens her mouth again, but Prince Soren steps forward, holding
out his hands to Roan, and the prince beams as his close friend passes along
the baby. For someone I assume has very little experience with babies, he
holds the child with confidence and a lump forms in my throat at the sight.
His stance softens as he takes on the weight, cradling the little boy to his
chest and murmuring small assurances under his breath as the child settles
once more. It's another large vote of confidence, one I can't so easily ignore,
not with the ache that comes to settle in my chest.
A common rule amongst healers is that babies can tell if the person
holding them is malicious or vile. There are exceptions, of course, and the
small prince squawked and fussed the entire time his grandmother held him
in my presence. The woman always grows exasperated at being forced to
placate the squirming bundle and quickly hands him off to a maid with an
unhappy grumble.
I trust his intuition more than most.
Prince Soren murmurs prayers in the old language, a long and exalting
request for a life filled with abundance and joy. It's different from the
prayers witches say for our own young but beautiful all the same, and at the
mention of caring for the land, I sneak a glance at Airlie only to find her
shooting me a look of her own. The smile on her face is bright, fulfilling her
promise to me to teach her son better to ensure the high fae return to their
former greatness and heal the land of the damage they wrought.
Tauron and Tyton both stand with their hands clasped in front of
themselves, their heads bowed respectfully as they listen. Both of them
were oddly silent and respectful during the dinner, mostly playing buffer
between Airlie's mother and Roan's father. Their affection for their cousin
and her child is in every tense line of their backs as they listen to Prince
Soren's solemn prayers to the Fates.
When he reaches the oaths of the parents and the time to speak the
child's name into the world, Prince Soren looks up and meets Airlie's eyes.
Tears fill the princess’s eyes as she beams in pride before he looks to Roan.
"Prince Roan Snowsong of Fates Mark, Lord of the Outlands and heir to
the Snowsong household, what name do you give this child and heir to the
Southern Lands, our great kingdom?"
Roan takes a small breath before he says clearly and concisely, "Raidyn
Snowsong-Celestial, Heir Apparent to the Snowsong family and the
Celestial bloodline alike."
There's small ripple of confusion in the room, emanating entirely from
Aura, but the parents both beam at the baby with pride as Prince Soren
makes the mark of the Fates over the child's chest with his fingers, a small
seed of power lingering from the action even as his hand moves away once
more. I'm not sure the high-fae prince realizes that he put magic into his
words, sealing his protection over the baby as one would the most precious
gift.
For a man claiming to be nothing but a savage, he handles the baby with
the utmost care.
Prince Soren looks at the baby for a heartbeat longer before he switches
to the common Unseelie language. "Welcome to the family, Raidyn. We've
been waiting for you for a very long time."
Airlie chokes on a small burst of laughter, tears now flowing down her
face freely, as Soren makes an oath of his own design over the small child
in the common tongue, quiet assurances of fixing the kingdom and leading
his people to greatness once more to ensure that this little boy has a good
life. He promises to be a good ear for him to seek out, to watch over him
and guide him in his parents’ stead should he ever need it, his homes open
and all his riches at Raidyn’s disposal should the little boy ever be in need.
He looks up at Roan and waits until his friend nods before he passes the
baby carefully to Tyton. The high fae prince accepts the bundle happily,
cooing under his breath as he rocks him and makes his own blessings. His
promises are far more fun than his cousin’s, but the oaths of guidance and
affection run true.
 When it's Tauron's turn, the surly prince brings a far more somber and
serious mood to the mix, promising protection and encouragement,
unwavering loyalty and retribution ensured should anything ever befall the
small prince. Roan nods through it, happy with the strong and loyal
sentiments, an honest look into what the prince feels for his family.
When he's finished, Tauron hands the baby to his grandfather, and the
elder Prince Roan cuddles the child against his chest with ease. He murmurs
to his grandson in the old language, prayers of thanks to the Fates for seeing
him here safely and others of great gratitude to see his late wife's eyes
staring back at him from the small face. His oaths are strong and regal in
the same way as Prince Soren's, but they end on a far more personal note.
"Your grandmother's legacy will never be forgotten, and I won't let her
down. I'll stay at your side until you are grown and a strong male who can
stand all on your own. I'll protect you as I've protected your father and your
mother. I'll teach you all the ways to be a good male and to care for our
people. The Outlands will someday be yours to rule, long after I'm gone. It's
a heavy burden, my grandson, but I'll prepare you for it. I know that any
child born of my son and his Fates-blessed mate will flourish into a strong
and capable male."
Airlie lets out a delicate sniff, her hand tucked into her husband's elbow
tightly as they look on proudly. Every word of Prince Roan's blessing is
spoken from the heart, an oath to be present above all else, and their relief
at hearing it is palpable. When I see the love in his eyes as he looks down at
his grandson as though he never wants to look away, a lump forms in my
throat.
When he finally looks at Aura, he grimaces but eventually does hand
Raidyn over.
Aura holds the baby as though he's a sack of writhing firebugs and she's
afraid to get burned. She speaks formally in the old language, her passage
recited and without emotion as she stares at the baby prince. There's a ripple
of frustration through the room at her callousness, though none seem
surprised by it, and I wonder…if he bore his mother's blue eyes, would his
grandmother be less frosty? I find I can't stand the woman enough to put too
much thought into deciding the cause of her attitude.
When Aura finishes her prayer, she moves to hand the baby back to
Airlie, but the princess takes a step back and gestures at me.
 Aura stares at her, aghast, but no one else in the room reacts. It was
obvious when Airlie invited me to the naming that I was to be involved in
the ceremony, but her mother never seems to put much thought into her
daughter's wishes, always assuming she'll get what she wants instead.
Aura glances around the room, and at everyone's continued silence, she
makes a disgruntled noise and practically shoves the baby into my arms. As
she steps away, she makes a show of wiping at her dress as though I've
covered her in filth, but that sort of petty behavior isn’t worth my attention.
At her careless treatment of his most precious son, Roan growls under
his breath, a savage noise, and steps toward her threateningly, but I accept
the baby easily and bounce him a little to absorb the rough handling without
disturbing his good spirits. My arms scream in pain at the sudden
movement, my breath catching in my chest, but my vision stays clear
enough that I’m not concerned about his safety in my care.
With my years of training, my reflexes are better than most, and I'm
confident handling even the smallest of babies, steady even when their
grandmothers are irreverent pieces of dragon dung. I send Airlie a
reassuring look, and she lets out a small sigh, one hand still clutching
Roan's arm.
Firna's assessment of the female isn't just accurate, it's perhaps too
lenient, and the Unseelie Court member might lose a limb if she displays
that sort of idiocy around me again. Despite the Ravenswyrd way, I’ve done
a lot worse to those of higher station, and Aura may very well learn that the
hard way.
I look back down at Raidyn and collect my thoughts once more, pulling
myself back into the ceremony at hand. I’ve thought long and hard about
what blessings to give this small prince. This naming ceremony is one of
many I've taken part in but it feels heavier than any before. Breaking the
curse that hung over him in the womb, waiting to claim his life, changed
me. I stopped being a Witch of the Woods when I left the Southern Lands,
but it was this baby’s arrival that truly ended my time as soldier of the Sol
Army. He brought me home to the trees and my fate, acceptance finally
blooming within me at all that I’d left behind when I journeyed back here.
My blessing is as weighted in this moment as the rest, and I find the
words fall easily from my lips with a raw sort of honesty that can't be
softened in the old language.
 I murmur, "May you have a long life, fruitful and resplendent. May you
know only the highest of joys and the most peaceful of times, to be carried
safely through the end of this war, protected fiercely by the most capable of
households, and may this conflict be the only one you know in your time."
Raidyn coos and smiles at me, his eyes bright, and I can't help but smile
back, the words taking on a life of their own as they continue to stream out
of me. "May you remember the old ways and honor the earth, as it will care
for you in return. May you guard this kingdom and the people within it as
the First Fae did before you. May you live strong and true to yourself,
guided by the strongest bloodlines, the people who love you just as the stars
love the clear winter sky."
I hesitate, not looking up at any of the subdued royals around me, before
I make the mark of the Fates against his brow. I push my magic into it, just
a little, as I seal my own protections within him just as Prince Soren did.
The mark binds to his body and wraps him up in gifts bestowed by two
fated mates, and the golden hue of his eyes glows a little brighter.
Soren’s gaze is like a branding heat on my skin and the Fates practically
squirm with joy beneath my scars at his attention, but as the air grows
heavy around us, I turn away from him, rocking Raidyn gently as though
the action is for his comfort and not my own. The tiny prince is perfectly
content in my arms, cooing sweetly at me as the novelty of so many faces
surrounding him keeps him in good spirits despite the late hour.
Swallowing around the lump in my throat, I rock him in my arms before
I utter the last of my blessing to him. "May you remember the trees that
stood in our kingdom long before we did, and may you let them guide you
on your path, never faltering from the Fates and their intentions for you.
May they be kind and fair to you and grant you a loving mate and a long
life together. The will of the Fates is a heavy burden to bear, but one that
will bring you much honor, if only you submit to them."

IN THE COLD, dark space of the healer's quarters, I find myself plagued
by the demons that run riot in my mind, waking in a cold sweat racked by
tremors that keep me from springing out of the bunk. No matter the time or
distance between us, the war that wages on in my head is as real as the
Ureen ever were.
My heart thumps violently in my chest, and my lungs burn with every
breath, a sob choked down and smothered out of existence.
The dreams are far more terrifying than anything my imagination could
come up with, because every last thing I see is a memory. Every sight,
smell, and sound has been embedded into my psyche, a wound that won't
heal, and though I ran to the Southern Lands and thought myself safe,
they've found me once more.
Rising from the bunk, I'm slow to dress. I fight to keep my actions
steady despite the panicked surge in my blood. My body still aches, and my
eyes itch at the lack of proper rest, though the effects of the witcheswane
have finally subsided.
I brew a cup of tea to ready myself for the morning chores in the
garden, then sip it down quickly as though it's the elixir of life. Alas, it's
nothing more than chamomile, and my nerves are far too exposed to be
soothed by its properties.
I'm guarded by the high-fae soldiers, but they stay outside the healer's
quarters, no eyes on me as I go about my day, and that in itself feels like a
victory. I still garner too much attention from the household, but there's a
curiosity in their looks now, an emotion they probably held before but were
too afraid to show.
I busy myself with weeding and tending the plants, my own stores of
magic slowly creeping back into my veins. I happily push it into the earth,
humming old and long forgotten songs of the forest under my breath as I
move. There are so many plants here now that it's quite an undertaking to
keep them in peak condition, but I enjoy the tasks, my mind relishing the
hard work.
Around midday I hear the elder Prince Roan and his Outland soldiers
gather in the courtyard around the other side of the castle, well-wishes and
salutations called out from the household to see them off safely. I murmur a
prayer of my own for them to the Fates, hoping they're feeling kind to us all
today. It's heartfelt, and not just because he's family to Roan, Airlie and
their son, but because he is a good male, and that's a rare occurrence no
matter which kingdom you stand within.
Not long after, the door to the healer's quarters opens and shuts firmly
and soft footsteps shuffle out to the garden. Airlie appears with Raidyn in
her arms, the outward appearance of a calm and happy princess.
I read her moods now as clearly as those of the tumultuous men around
her, and so I let her sit in the garden with me for a moment to collect herself
before I stop my work to join her.
She inclines her head in greeting, but when she doesn’t offer an
explanation, I attempt to coax one out of her. "Is there something that I can
help you with, some wrongs that we must make right together?"
The corners of her mouth twitch upwards but the smile never takes root,
a frown falling over her delicate brow as she looks up at me. "I'm hiding
from my mother for a little while. I knew your presence would keep that
female from following me, so I’m using that to my advantage. It's quiet and
nice as well. The smell of the garden is so familiar and yet such a rarity, I
keep finding myself wandering down here."
I carefully dust off my hands and take a seat a few paces away from her,
gesturing at the dirt covering my robes from my work as she gives me a
questioning look. She shakes her head at me, but the small smile finally
stays put.
"Are you going to get into trouble with Prince Soren for avoiding her? I
thought she was using her position on the Unseelie Court to force you into
enduring her presence."
She sighs and adjusts her son in her arms so she can feed him. The
happy baby sounds soften some of the anger in her face as she strokes the
small cap of dark curls on his head then traces the point of his tiny ear.
"I think he was pretty close to killing my mother himself and bearing
the consequences. She's certainly outstayed her welcome, but with Yris
closing their doors and locking up half the Unseelie Court, she has no better
options. There's certainly no other castle with enough protection to house
her safely, not unless we sent her to Fates Mark, and I would never do that
to Prince Roan."
My eyebrows slowly creep up, and Airlie nods when she sees my
expression. "We heard the news the same day that Soren imprisoned you
once again. Not to make excuses for him, but it was a very trying day for
the household. Tyton and Tauron's mother is one of those imprisoned, as
well as my father, but he won't care about being trapped there. If anything,
he'll enjoy the holiday away from my mother's demands. We seem to be at a
stalemate, waiting for the winter solstice and your nuptials to see what the
regent will do next."
 We fall back into a relative silence as I think over her words. I've met
the regent only once, when he traveled here and I was dragged in front of
the Unseelie Court as a spectacle for them all, but he hadn't seemed as
dangerous as they all say. A skillful ruse, his docile demeanor has surely
been a hardship for such a barbarous male to uphold for so many centuries
but no matter how cunning his disguise, I won't fall for it. The damage to
the kingdom cannot be borne without someone being held accountable.
"My mother asked why we named my son Raidyn and not Roan. It's
tradition to name the firstborn sons in the Snowsong family for their fathers,
and every heir for centuries has been given that name, a mantle all its own."
Airlie rubs a hand over her son's soft cheek, but as she looks down, there's
sorrow seeping out of her.
She doesn't need to say another word.
Prince Roan, her firstborn son, was sent to Elysium on the funeral pyres
after the curse took him from her. Raidyn's birth and survival doesn't
change that fact; the past is still etched into the stones of history no matter
how many years pass.
She blinks back tears, swallowing roughly as she glances back up to
smile at me. "Roan and his father both agree with me; we've already named
a son Roan and honored the tradition of their bloodline. Naming Raidyn the
same thing feels worse than distasteful to me, it’s abhorrent. Nothing—and
no one—could ever replace my firstborn but, no matter how many times I
explain that to my mother, she just keeps nagging me. She doesn't even care
about the traditions of the Outlands, and yet she's picking away at this,
regardless.”
Staring out at my garden, it takes me a moment to collect myself to
ensure my tone is level enough to hide some of the fury brewing in my gut
at her mother, but I also refuse to diminish the actions of that vile female.
“What a terrible burden she wishes Raidyn to bear, to grow up in the
shadow of his brother instead of the light of his own making. Bringing a
child into the world after the loss of another is an unpredictable and heart-
wrenching joy that already holds many difficulties. Don’t let your mother’s
selfish desires demean the honorable path you’re walking; steady and true,
no matter how painful it may be. Raidyn is a very lucky boy, to be loved by
a family who longed for him and fought so ferociously for him… he’s not a
replacement, but an addition to your family.”
 She clears her throat again as the tears threaten to choke her once more,
and then says, quiet but firm, "My son existed. He mattered. We longed for
him for centuries, and he'll live in my heart forever. Even if my mother
forgets, Roan and I...we won't."
I have to swallow against the lump in my own throat, rubbing her
shoulder for a moment before I turn back to my garden, letting her feed her
son in the peace and quiet of the carefully tended garden. Her eyes slip shut
as she takes deep breaths and calms her heart once more, Raidyn's small
gulping sounds the only noise to be heard in the quiet. It's soothing, healing,
and yet I know it's a bittersweet joy for them all.
Firna's rage and contempt at Aura becomes ever more understandable to
me as time goes on. Far more than a vain and shallow thing, Aura would
happily sacrifice every good part of her daughter for the sake of their name
and the reputation it holds, a vile way to be.
Eventually Firna comes looking for her princess and ushers her back up
to her rooms, sharing a concerned look with me at Airlie’s general
demeanor. I send her off with the promise to visit them both the next day
with cups of healing tea and old stories of magic and lore. Both are topics
that Airlie is eager to learn more about, and it puts some color back into her
cheeks, a small smile creeping over her lips as Firna mutters her own
kindnesses to her.
I contemplate stalking my way through this castle to find that high-fae
female and enact the dozen tortures I could easily bestow upon her, though
every last one of them would probably cost me my life. Being a sitting
member of the Unseelie Court is a cloak of protection Aura can wrap
around herself even as she lashes out and tears everyone to ribbons just to
see what colors they truly bleed.
I despise the woman.
In the late afternoon, and as the chill of the evening begins to roll in,
there's a knock at the healer's quarters. When I call out, Roan steps in and
nods at me firmly in greeting as he lets the door swing shut behind him.
I step away from the stove where a pot of water still boils, the first
roiling bubbles collecting there as I prepare myself another tea. As I meet
his grave eyes, I gesture toward the chairs at the workbench, but he shakes
his head.
With a fist clasped to his chest, Roan bows to me. "I wanted to come
and thank you for attending my son's naming and for everything you've
done for our family. My father reminded me this morning that the Fates
bring us exactly who we need in moments of dire urgency, and I truly
believe that you've been brought here to save my family and this kingdom.
It would be remiss of me not to offer you my gratitude."
Surprise ripples through me, warming my coldest depths. He's the first
of these males to ever say such a thing to me, and I clasp my own hand to
my chest to bow back to him with the same respect.
"It's an honor to offer my aid, and an even greater honor to be able to
speak oaths over your son's name. I meant them and intend to uphold every
word."
He nods again, no smile gracing his handsome face as he looks around
the healer's quarters once more. His eyes catch on the small comforts that
have crept in, but he still looks deeply unsatisfied with my situation.
"I'll speak to Firna about furnishing this place properly. We can send for
anything you need with the next wagons from the Western Fyres—they
should be arriving soon and heading back shortly after. We’ll make this
place more comfortable for you… especially if you intend to stay down
here."
There’s no force in the Southern Lands great enough to convince me to
move into the rooms set aside for Prince Soren’s mate. With his presence a
constant threat and the weakened state I was in, the few waking hours I’d
spent in that bed were bad enough. The bunk here might be uncomfortable,
and the entire room too drafty, but I’d choose to sleep in twelve inches of
snow with no tent over the luxury of his chambers.
I hold up my hand, dismissing his proposal. "There have been many
offers, from many kind and considerate fae folk, but my tastes are simple.
So long as I have wood to burn and a garden to toil in, I'm happy."
The frown between his brows deepens a little, but he lets it go, taking
me at my word. Silence falls between us once more. It’s not uncomfortable,
but the longer he lingers, the more my curiosity sparks.
He's not brash like Tauron, nor contentious despite his prince’s
commands. His conversation isn’t as forthcoming or welcoming as Tyton’s.
He doesn't throw his birthright or status around but he still holds himself in
great dignity, even standing side by side with the heir to the Southern
Lands. I wondered, for a time, how the Fates had put this quietly strong and
powerful prince with an unstoppable force like Princess Airlie, but the
longer I spend around the two of them, the more I understand it.
 "You used the last of the earth's magic to repair the walls of Yregar."
It's not a question but a statement, and I shrug at him, nothing to hide.
"It seemed the best course of action, rather than wait however many weeks
it would take to repair the damage by hand. If I've done something
wrong⁠—"
He holds up a hand of his own to stop me, as direct and no-nonsense as
I am, thankfully. "It was a powerful act of magic and very forward thinking.
You clearly have a good head on your shoulders, and we're in desperate
need of that around here. Is it possible for your magic to repair more once
you've recovered, or was that a feat of power from the earth alone?"
My brows drop, and I lean my hip against the workbench and stare at
him, following his line of thinking with ease. "My magic is strong enough
that I could take part in the restoration of the village, but I'm a few days
away from performing such magic without tapping out completely. I'd have
to do it in sections and rest in between, and I'd need some supplies. I'm
more than happy to help where I can."
His own brow furrows, and his face becomes a mirror of mine as we
mull over the plan together, negotiating the finer details. "I'll have to bring
it to Soren first, of course, but are there any concerns you'd need raised with
him?"
I blow out a breath. "I can use the rubble and destroyed remnants of the
houses to repair those less damaged. The supplies don't have to be new—
my magic can manipulate and fix such things, but I'm hesitant to do much
more than one or two of the buildings a day. Even that will drain my stores,
and I won't be at full power if we're attacked again."
He nods and looks down at the stones, his gaze tracing the cracks within
them until it moves to the hand-woven rug. "Could you give another
sacrifice to the earth to restore yourself if they came back?"
His tone is respectful, the question clearly stemming from a lack of
knowledge and not the probing that precedes an entitled demand. I’ve
endured enough of the latter to be sure of when a high fae is wheedling for
their own gains.
Shaking my head firmly, my rueful expression is sincere. "It's dangerous
to wield that sort of power too often. It was an act of desperation—I knew
that Kharl would take the castle if I didn't. The earth gives abundantly, but
it's running out of power. It needs a few centuries of care and nourishment
before we'll be able to rely on it as a source."
 He nods again, curtly this time as though he's come to a decision, and he
steps toward the door without another word, leaving as swiftly as he
arrived. The soldiers guarding the door pull it firmly shut behind him, the
room slipping easily back into the serenity that soothes the ache that still
lies buried in my heart. As I move back to the stove to finish brewing my
tea, Roan’s words echo in my mind and the ache turns into something
weary.
The high fae have lost countless generations of their own history, just as
they’ve forgotten their magic, and the wealth of knowledge they must
regain to have any hope of restoring our kingdom is staggering in scale
alone. How they’ve survived this long is a mystery to me and though they
may not deserve the help I’ve extended to them so far; it appears Airlie isn’t
the only one determined to remember the ways of old.
A smile tugs at the corners of my lips as I absently hum an old lullaby, a
curious hope warming the coldest reaches of my blood. If I succeed in
completing my cursed fate, an unquestionable surety no matter how
impossible it may still feel, the future of the kingdom and all those fae
within doesn’t look so bleak.
But first, they all must learn and with no other options, it’s clear I’m the
one who must teach them; no mean feat. Rebuilding the village is a start.

OceanofPDF.com
OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER FIVE

Soren
Dozens of soldiers, servants, and workers all stand in the ruined village
square, watching in awe as Rooke performs her acts of magic. Her palms
stretch out before her as though directing the flow of power to follow her
will, and her eyes flash bright as the stones around us rumble and roll
slowly toward each other. One by one, the stones stack up, filling the hole
and binding themselves together until the wall stands solid before us once
more.
The screeching of the rocks grating against each other is an assault on
my keen hearing, many of the high fae around me wincing and clutching at
their temples, but the onlooking crowd doesn't utter a single harsh word
about Rooke as she works. Wonder drenches the tones of the voices around
me as the crowd finally bursts into murmurs amongst themselves, their eyes
reverent as Rooke’s power emanates throughout the bleak streets. It's the
same wonder that I felt when I found the patch of grass after Rooke arrived
at Yregar and, unbeknownst to me, began feeding her magic into the land in
sacrifice, only now there's no question of who has gifted Yregar with new
life.
The debris around the building begins to tremble before the fine,
powdery dust lifts into the air and flows to fill the spaces between the
stones, the remnants of the mortar being recovered and put back to use as
her magic glows brighter. It seeps into the mortar, the dust hardening and
binding once more as a rumble runs through the structure, and I can feel the
fortifications she's laying as though her magic is whispering directly to me.
Hearing her name ringing around me as the household stands in awe of
her grates on me, but the ferocity of my possessive temper centers on the
males, their murmured praises for her fueling the maelstrom within me. Jaw
clenching violently as I grind my teeth, I shove the Fates’ command out of
my mind. No matter how hard I try to keep my ire from my expression, the
telltale pinching sensation around my scar speaks volumes of my failure
and everyone around me shifts nervously on their feet.
The murmurs grow quieter, but they don’t cease entirely; they can’t, not
while the majesty of Rooke’s magic shines before us all.
When Roan first brought this idea forward, my scrutiny of his plan was
no longer fixed on Rooke's motives or concerns of the wrath she could
inflict on Yregar with her power. Instead, the potential risks to my Fates-
blessed mate for performing such magic ate away at my sanity.
She walked onto the battlefield to face Kharl’s armies alone.
If the situation wasn’t so dire, I would’ve refused, but there are dozens
of damaged buildings, some beyond repair, and winter is fast approaching.
The decision was made to start with the old bakehouse, which has three
households attached and two dozen villagers who call it home. Yregar's
builder discussed options with me, but he made it clear we need to move
with haste.
Aware of the rage threatening to overtake me at any moment, I spent the
morning in the sparring rings to burn off some of my temper and, by the
time I walked to the healer’s quarters, I was ready to negotiate with Rooke
without risking bloodshed between us. Unrequested suggestions of
reparations from my most loyal—and opinionated—household still rang in
my ears as I stepped into the cramped room with barely more than a knock
of warning, but I should’ve known better.
Rooke never acts how I predict she will, the way that any high fae
would.
Clearly expecting my arrival, she was dressed and ready for work, the
healer’s quarters scrubbed clean and organized into militant efficiency. One
look at the seething resignation on my face, and she simply nodded and
gestured for me to lead the way before a single word was pried from my
lips.
When I hesitated, disbelieving that she wasn’t forcing me to negotiate
with her in an attempt to make me grovel, she raised a single eyebrow and
stared at me with ice in her steely gaze.
“I have no time to hear your empty reassurances or scathing promises,
especially those impossible for you to keep.” Her tone was flat,
emotionless, and it hid the contempt the words held in the old language.
Now that we’re in the presence of my household, my Fates-blessed
mate still addresses me respectfully and with the formality befitting my
title, but she maintains a firm distance between us that renders my work in
the sparring rings useless. It’s impossible to decipher if my fury is at my
own inability to stay the ashes away from her or at the cold distance she’s
maintaining with ease, as though the Fates’ demands aren’t tugging at her
relentlessly as they do me. Does she even feel their insistent pull, or am I
alone in this cursed situation? She doesn’t show any signs of discomfort in
my presence unless she’s sure no one is watching, and even then, it’s clearly
a reaction to the prospect of me getting closer to her, not at the absence of
her body against mine.
The latest torture of the Fates’ demands is the worst so far.
They stalk my every waking moment with her image, only for my
dreams to be filled with sounds the witch might make underneath me, the
fire she could bring to my chambers with that temper she hides so well, and
what her skin might taste like when she’s shaking apart in my arms.
It's far easier to hold myself in check when she's so cold and formal and,
with my household following my lead, every action and word must be
chosen with care. There’s no room left for further missteps; the Unseelie
Court must view her as the best option for my consort on the throne, or
we’re all dead.
Generations of high fae have been given riddles and lessons to parse,
and it’s widely accepted that fates are never as simple as they may seem.
There are far too many ways a fate can be interpreted for all of the royal
egos and scheming nobles to simply accept Rooke as their new queen, even
by the Fate’s commands, but there’s no doubt in my mind that the kingdom
will be destroyed if I fail. Whether by the Ureen or the regent’s callous rule,
either outcome can only spell doom for the Unseelie fae.
 Gasps ring out as the snapped and damaged beams Rooke requested
begin to lift into the air, silver lines of magic running down the structures
until they bond together. The same materials, but now something new—
something better—in their place. Seemingly effortlessly, she replaces the
main beams and structurally reinforces the bakehouse until only the
thatching of the roof is left to repair to seal the building from the harsh
winter chill. There’s much cleaning to be done before the families can move
back in, and furniture to replace too, but it's a good start.
When her hands finally drop back down to her sides, there's a cheer
amongst the watching household, and Airlie calls out enthusiastically.
Rooke turns to give her a wry smile, her face paled from fatigue, just as she
warned Roan, the task clearly more taxing than her languid motions
portrayed. My gut clenches and my scowl deepens.
At my curt nod, Kytan directs the soldiers back to their stations, and the
builders quickly move on to their work. Airlie and the other members of the
household who ventured down here to watch the display of Rooke's power
all begin to walk back to the castle, the entertainment finished for the day.
Rooke follows them slowly.
Every step she takes on the uneven cobblestones is carefully considered,
the toll her magic has taken evident in her caution. As I watch her pass, the
arduous journey she took after she saved Yregar flashes into my mind
unbidden and the ravaged mess of her wounds haunt me. A growl rumbles
out of my chest, frustration at both her condition and stoic refusal to accept
any aid from me. I smother the sound enough that Rooke doesn’t notice, but
the high fae do, backs snapping straight and movements becoming harried
around me as they scatter like Fates-cursed ashes on the wind.
Across the rubble of the village square, Roan jerks his head at some of
the soldiers to escort Rooke back safely, and Reed stands at his side without
lifting his head from the bow he’s folded in. He doesn’t so much as flinch in
my Fates-blessed mate’s direction, but my temper doesn’t ease off. It
doesn’t matter that he’s given her a wide berth; I see the way she seeks him
out in the crowd, and the indignant huff she lets out when he avoids her
gaze.
I see it all, and my hands itch with the need to make him bleed.
Seeing his soldier become the target of my ire, Roan steps between us,
blocking Reed from my vicious glare, and gestures from the stable yards to
the castle. “The fae door lies in a pile of ash outside the gate, untouched as
you commanded, but we should make our own assessments.”
My eyes narrow at him, but Roan just stares back at me, unrepentant,
until I finally stalk off. When I glance over my shoulder to glare at Reed
and ensure he’s not following us, Roan moves to block the male again,
cursing me under his breath in the old language.
At the stables, Ingor holds out the reins for Nightspark, and the stable
hands scramble to prepare Roan’s and Tauron’s horses, my cousin
appearing at my side with a scowl of his own. There’s no telling what has
caught his ire, but my own temper is too short to deal with his, and we ride
out of the courtyard without a word.
At our approach, the sentries open the gates to reveal the remnants of
the fae door, the charred oak branches twisting out of the earth and the
magic that once powered the door now absent. I circle the burned-out pit
twice, but there’s nothing left but ash, no danger of Kharl resurrecting it.
Roan watches me closely, and when I jerk my head at the eastern side of
the wall, he nods easily. We ride around to where the Lore River runs past
the castle, the water still rushing by unhindered and unchanging. There are
no other signs of new life, no fae flowers restored once more, chirping of
birds, or water sprites in the river this far from the Ravenswyrd, but the
patch of grass at the edge of the orchard still grows. It's a sign of the
greatness our kingdoms could return to, if only we listen to the old ways
and honor them once more.
I’ll have to stop cursing the Fates for their twisted games first.
Once we return to the castle grounds, our horses set a slower pace as we
reassess the remaining damage and the needed repairs when Tauron finally
breaks the silence, muttering in the old language, "What do you think your
uncle is going to do to stop your coronation? It's all well and good for us to
rebuild Yregar, but the real urgency for the winter solstice isn't the cold
snap. If we fail to hold your wedding to the witch, then we'll have to wait
another full cycle of the seasons to adhere to the Unseelie Court laws, and
the war could be lost in that time. You don't truly think he's just going to
hand it over, do you?"
Roan sends him a reproving look; this entire trip an attempt to distract
me from my anger, and nothing could ruin that work faster than mention of
my uncle’s treachery. He’s wrong though—if anything, the reminder of
what failing could cost me is a sobering thought.
 I answer him carefully, even with the secrecy of the old language to
cover my words from prying ears. "With every resource at his disposal, he'll
fight us. We should never forget he hides behind luxuries and pretend
smiles, his appropriateness and the softness that he offers the Unseelie
Court—every last bit of it is a mask to hide his teeth, the same ones he'll
sink into our bared throats the moment our guard slips. My guess is that he
intends to keep the Unseelie Court away from Yregar for the winter solstice
and the wedding. As we speak, his courtiers and ardent followers no doubt
have their noses buried in the tomes of old law to find some way to stop the
wedding. If my suspicions are correct, he'll be using his own dubious
connections to send more challenges our way."
Tauron's eyes meet mine and the corners of his mouth drop, but I've had
my suspicions that the battle here wasn't entirely in retribution for Raidyn's
safe arrival and the curse breaking.
It was an attempt to stop my fate from coming true.
Roan huffs, the reaction slowly turning into a chuckle, and then a proper
laugh. When I glower at him, Roan shrugs back at me with far less concern
than he’s given me for days.
Glancing between Tauron and I, he has a smile playing on his lips. "You
both heard what Rooke said to Kharl, didn't you? He thought himself
formidable enough to defy the Fates and walk away from that act
unscathed, invincible where the Sol King wasn't. His survival was nothing
but the proof of his failure to kill every witch in her coven. He sealed his
fate once and for all in a single act. It sounds to me like your uncle is under
the same delusion that he can defy the Fates and their commands for your
rule just because he craves your power. The male might hold Yris and the
throne for now, but no matter his ambitions, the Fates are not on his side."
Tauron shakes his head. "After centuries of speculation, we've found
something that Kharl offered the regent in exchange for his complacency. A
way to break a fate without consequence and gain a crown that could no
longer be in question."
Silence falls between us once more, the sound of our horses’ hooves
against the cobblestones echoing through the vacant streets of a village once
bustling with life but now a gutted remnant awaiting restoration.
My eyes stay trained on the inner wall, its newly reinforced gate
standing before us as a beacon of hope for my household and my people
alike.
BY THE END of the week, we're directing a portion of the villagers back
into their homes, the Grand Hall emptied of half of the population in a
single sweep. Each family to leave will be secure within the repaired
buildings, and we're able to redistribute supplies from the castle into their
homes and ensure that their lodgings aren't just secure, but also warm
enough to keep them safe during the winter.
One of the maids, Tyra, leads her mother and younger sisters through
the castle doors, and when they all bow in my presence, I speak.
"Your homes have been restored and the walls are secure. Yregar will
prevail, no matter the raving madness Kharl Balzog sends to our gates."
I've reassured them all many times in the past, but a new light shines
within their eyes, a confidence there after our first real victory against the
High Witch in centuries.
Rooke comes up from the healer's quarters to see the villagers off as
well, offering her help to any who look shaky on their feet. Her eyes are
sharp as she watches over the entire crowd protectively, as though
responsible for their safety, her title of Mother fitting. It's clear she cares
deeply for the lower fae, and though none of them have offered her
kindnesses in the past, it changes nothing in her own attitude toward them
in return.
The female who runs the orphanage, Whynn, stops to speak to her, the
two of them murmuring quietly to one another about the children and any
care they may need, a clear trust between them. Rooke's hands are gentle as
she looks over one of the toddlers, a small rash on the boy's belly easily
visible as he squirms in his caretaker’s firm grip. My Fates-blessed mate
presses a hand against the inflamed flesh for a moment, rubbing a little
before checking his mouth and murmuring gentle and calming words to the
boy.
When she strides off in the direction of the healer's quarters, I have to
stop myself from following her, no longer fighting just the Fates’ pull
between us but my own newly ignited obsession with her. Irritation
scratches at the edges of my sanity, my shoulders tightening, and the
soldiers standing guard around me all shift on their feet under my glower.
 The flow of villagers continues unhindered by my temper, though most
give me a wide berth on their way out. Whynn stands and waits patiently,
oblivious to my infuriated scrutiny and the battle I'm waging to keep myself
in check, her children surrounding her in a subdued group. The very
obvious high-fae bloodlines of some of them only deepen my descent into
rage, and I’m forced to turn away from them before I do something stupid.
A distraction from high-fae arrogance and cruelty arrives just in time.
The sentries call out from the top of the walls, their words clear to me but
not the lower fae surrounding me. A hush overtakes the villagers, terror
filling the crowd with its acrid stench no matter how many soldiers stand
guard around them.
Holding out a reassuring hand, my voice carries through the fraught
silence with ease. "Messengers arrive to the gates with news, their work
throughout the kingdom ensures our safety. There’s nothing to fear. Yregar
is well guarded, and if we come under attack again, we'll defend its walls
just as we did the last time."
There are mumbles and whispers of agreement, showing their trust in
my word after the last battle, but they move slower now, too shaken to be
placated easily.
The gates of the outer wall open and allow the riders through
unimpeded, no signs of the enemy in their wake. Then the tell-tale fire
ignites in my blood once more, and I force myself to watch as they ride past
the folk moving back into their homes instead of turning back to Rooke, my
gaze finding her only once they're safely within the courtyard. She’s tending
to the child in Whynn’s arms, but both of them have eyes on the
approaching messengers.
Fyr arrives first, riding his horse straight to the stable and sliding from
its back in a hurry. He stumbles over his feet to bow deeply in front of me,
his gaze darting around at the crowds in the courtyard and then to Roan
behind me.
With a firm look, I halt his hasty advance. "I'll hear you out in my
reception rooms. Go there now and wait for me."
Fyr bows again then hurries up the steps, and Rooke's eyes catch on his
urgency, interest in them appearing and disappearing just as quickly. She
may tuck herself into the healer's quarters and claim to be happy there
tending to others, but a soldier's heart beats within her chest. The
righteousness that comes from standing your ground for a cause greater
than yourself can't be wiped away, no matter what she once thought herself
to be.
Another scout rides forward as swiftly as Fyr, but he dismounts from his
saddle with a little less haste. He bows deeply to me and gives his news
without concern for the crowd, an easy task to be done with without
preamble.
"The supplies will arrive tomorrow, maybe the following day if the
weather turns. The goblin soldiers have escorted the wagons through the
kingdom, just as they did the last time, and they brought a wagon of their
own once more. A gift for your—the witch." The scout stumbles over the
last few words, apprehension in his eyes as he meets my gaze.
They're all unsure how to address her, even after her actions saving us
all. My fury isn’t helping them to figure it out either, but I have nothing to
give any of them.
With a curt nod, I dismiss him, and the final messenger, Lior, steps
forward looking haggard and weary. There’s dirt and blood streaked on his
riding clothes, a bruise on his cheekbone, and several of the weapon sheaths
on the harness over his chest are empty. This wasn’t an easy journey for the
male. When his foot catches on the uneven cobblestones and he staggers,
one of the soldiers lurches forward to catch his elbow.
With a scowl at his condition, Rooke steps toward him, likely to offer
aid, but the messenger wasn't here for the battle and reels back from her in
horror, only to find his escape halted by the soldier holding his arm. Rooke
doesn't look offended, she simply stops and holds out her hands, a universal
offering of peace. A calm sort of kindness radiates from her even as disgust
curls his lip.
My own reaction is far less understanding, a sneer curling my own lip
as I step toward them both, and Lior immediately ducks into a bow, regret
rolling off him in waves. My own frustration fuels the rage in my reaction,
and when Rooke turns and looks at me expectantly, it deepens, twists, and
triples in size. My anger is at the Fates and, worse, myself.
There are far too many eyes taking interest in this display, and Roan
steps up to my side as though he’s ready to restrain me the moment I lose
my head, taking over when it’s clear I’m biting back a slew of rage-blinded
curses.
"Zamyr, see Lior up to Prince Soren’s reception rooms. Rooke can see
to his wounds there while he gives his report."
 The soldier bows to Roan and me immediately before he marches the
messenger into the castle without question. Rooke turns to me, her face
carefully blank in that mask of calm immovability that she wears within the
view of my household. The corner of her mouth twitches, a grimacing and
joyless thing, but she stays silent as she bows deep enough to be respectful
but with no clasped hand over her heart before she follows Roan’s direction
without a word.
The entire courtyard watches her leave.
Tyton follows her up the stairs as though she’s a beacon of light he can’t
keep his gaze from, and the most primal part of me roars at his infatuation.
Tauron shoots me a glare, but when Roan and I follow them without another
word, my cousin’s shoulders rigid with fury as he watches over the last of
the villagers leaving the Grand Hall.
In my reception rooms, Lior is still shaking. Rooke takes his fear in
stride as her eyes glow silver and her magic washes over the messenger, his
skin returning to good color in an instant under her competent ministrations.
Fyr isn't so worried by the magic or the witch casting it. A keen interest
lights up his own gaze as he watches the abrasions disappear and tremors
that rock Lior's slight frame ease.
When he notices my arrival, Fyr bows once more, his foot tapping
against the rug in a nervous twitch, but at Roan's reproving glare he stops it.
I wait as long as it takes for Lior's hand to stop trembling before I
address him first. "What news do you bring?"
He lets out a shaky breath, pulling himself upright once more and
glancing at Rooke before he speaks, as though questioning her presence, but
Roan was unerringly adept in sending her here. Even in my frustrated state,
I'm intent on gauging her reactions to the news of the kingdom. Throughout
her disastrous stay here, it’s been clear that the best way to learn anything of
my mate is to watch her and listen to the words that slip between the cracks
of her scathing and frustratingly apt retorts.
"Kharl's armies have pushed the line of the Witch Ward border once
more, claiming more land into their hold. The direction they're moving
makes it clear they intend to attack Yrell and take the castle. The forces they
sent to Yregar are a tiny portion of their overall numbers, and they march
there now in earnest."
I curse under my breath in the old tongue, similar sentiments spilling
from Roan and Tyton, but Rooke stays silent as she works. Her hands are
steady and sure, even as the horrors of the war are laid out before her.
Lior takes another deep, steadying breath. "Prince Mercer has begun to
move a portion of his people out of the city, sending them into Elms Walk
to take shelter. He seems to think they're safer there rather than trapped
within the walls if the witches breach them."
That's not what Prince Mercer is doing, but Lior isn't to know that.
Better for all the kingdom not to know the depths of callousness that male
has stooped to, lest panic overtake the lower folk and riots ensue.
Bracing myself, I ask, "How many in number ride to Yrell?"
Lior hesitates, as though keeping such information to himself might stop
it from being true, but then words tumble out of him in a rush. "Ten full
battalions, double what they used to take Yrmar, and each battalion is led by
one of his generals, strong in magic and a powerful soldier in their own
right. One of them is the male who led the charge at Yrebor, the one who
parted the lake with his magic alone so the armies could breach the castle
walls."
Rooke's eyes narrow, the slightest sign of discomfort with this
information, before she leans away from Lior and the glow eases from her
eyes, her work complete. She stands and, when Roan gestures at her to stay,
she moves over by a wall, her gaze flicking toward the door. When I
dismiss only Lior, she settles herself there without comment.
There's no telling when Kharl's armies began their march from the
Witch Ward, but the move feels like the High Witch is trying to prove to
himself, and perhaps the kingdom, that the battle at Yregar was nothing but
a small anomaly in their long list of accomplishments.
We might lose Yrell in retaliation for the lives we saved at Yregar.
After centuries of slowly advancing the boundaries of their captured
territories, such a concentrated effort feels far too pointed to be coincidence.
Kharl Balzog has never been a male to move without being sure he can win,
so this is either a slip—his first in centuries—or he's been preparing for it
long enough to be confident in the attack.
Roan and Tyton both scowl, but Rooke's expression is unreadable as she
stands with her back against the wall on the far side of the room. She’s still
enough that one could almost overlook her, but the fury she held when she
faced Kharl and the death that rang true in her words was anything but
passive. She holds her emotions far deeper than most.
I turn to Fyr. "And your news?"
 "Hopefully it can't get much worse than Lior's," Tyton mutters under his
breath, but Fyr only cringes in return.
"The regent has accepted the invitation to your wedding and will bring
the entire Unseelie Court in his retinue with him to Yregar. All will travel
under his protection."
A frown pinches my eyebrows. I’m unsure why this news caused such a
hurried arrival, and Fyr grimaces as he leans forward on the balls of his
feet. "On my return, I met with an old friend. A loyal friend of great
importance."
A spy, one of the very few we have, and Fyr's careful description
includes no details, to prevent his friend's discovery. Tyton's magic still
blankets the room, but Rooke's presence is obviously worrying Fyr enough
to keep a careful tongue.
"The Sol King has replied to the regent’s requests for aid and sent an
emissary to Yris to meet with him. Though nothing has been said of their
meeting, the Sol King has now invited the Southern Lands to the summer
solstice rites, a gathering of the Royal Courts once more.”
My scowl deepens. The idea of the Royal Courts being held again is
both laughable and something I never thought I'd see in my lifetime. All of
the high fae courts in power
today are descendants of the First Fae, and while the Unseelie high fae
can all agree that the First Fae came to the Southern Lands, where they
came from is still a widely debated topic. Many say Elysium or the Fates,
others claim a land so far away it's been lost to our maps.
Long ago there were treaties of peace and prosperity shared amongst the
high-fae courts, remnants of the bonds shared between our courts that
formed in that unknown origin kingdom, and every hundred years or so
there would be a gathering of the Royal Courts. Each kingdom would take
their turn hosting an audience of all the courts to strengthen the bonds
between the royal high fae bloodlines.
Generations have long passed since the last gathering.
“The Sol King has invited all the reigning royal high fae, including
those of the Western Fyres, the Dragon Lands, and even as far as Elfenden
at the human borders. He hopes to host the kings and their courts within the
Golden Palace as an act of good faith, rekindling old loyalties and brokering
new treaties."
 Animosity and arrogance divided the courts, the Sol King must be truly
ambitious if he thinks he can reforge the alliances of old. His victory against
the Ureen might pale in comparison to this trial, should he succeed in
gathering everyone.
Fyr's eyes are steady on mine. "Whatever treaties or riches the regent
has offered, it appears the Sol King has accepted. The emissary has
remained in Yris… an Ancient."
A ripple of disbelief sounds in reply, and I can’t blame any of my
household for their reaction. Ancients are as fabled as the First Fae, the
children of those who first came to the kingdoms. All fae folk have long
lives, but to survive thousands of passing centuries and still walk the earth
now is incomprehensible. An emissary of the Sol King who is an Ancient
doesn’t bode well for us, nor for my claim to the throne.
If the Sol King backs the regent, the kingdom will fall.
Meeting Rooke's eyes across the room, I find nothing within them. No
emotions or recognition, no opinions at the mention of the king she served
under or the emissary I can barely believe exists. Just the same blank face
she showed as she listened to the details of my uncle's deceptions.
He accepted the offer knowing I'll be married and by rights have the
throne by the summer solstice.
Fyr continues, "The regent has campaigned for years to gain the ear of
the Sol King. From the moment the Fates War ended, he began extolling the
good work of those in the Southern Lands who fled our war to fight in the
Northern Lands and made no secret of it to those who reside in Yris. He
plans to use the invitation to the Royal Courts to form an alliance with the
Sol King and, with his backing, claim the throne once and for all."
Finally, Rooke's stoic facade slips. She scoffs and ducks her head as her
arms cross over her chest. Fyr glances at her, but she doesn't meet his
questioning gaze, her own firmly fixed on the swirling silver spires of the
plush rug underneath my desk. A small ripple of magic runs through the
room, the smallest break of her control, and I feel the simmering power she
holds within her once more.
Despite her derision, there’s no questioning the seriousness of this
threat; if my uncle gains the Sol King's favor, there's very little I can do to
win against their combined forces.

OceanofPDF.com
OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER SIX

Rooke
I busy myself with the first harvest of healing crops from my garden as I
consider the news of the messengers. No longer furious, Prince Soren
dismissed me as easily as he dismissed the haggard looking men in front of
him, but I’m not surprised by his change in attitude. There was much for
him to consider, much for us all to think about for the coming days.
The regent is a very clever man.
The Unseelie Court might be split firmly down the middle, as Airlie has
explained to me, even going as far as intricacies of each family's history and
loyalties, but if the regent were to gain the backing of the Sol King, the
Southern Lands wouldn't stand a chance against his campaign for the
throne. If the regent chooses to continue to ignore the plight of the lower fae
and part-bloods, there's nothing anyone could do to stop him.
Although every other kingdom and court once turned their back on the
Northern Lands after the Sol King broke his fate, there's no denying the
power he now wields.
When I left five years after the siege that destroyed the last of the Ureen
and half the Golden Palace, Sol City was still being repaired, but the Seelie
Court was thriving once more. There was more unity within the kingdom,
and the fae folk there were thriving. Cities were being rebuilt, villages
returned to, and the old ways tended to as the Fates commanded. The Sol
King has repaired the Fates, his heart is now whole, and the survivors of the
war are happy under his rule. The Seelie high fae never forgot their magic,
and if the Sol King were to come to this land and choose a side, it would
surely win.
The mere idea of Prince Soren interacting with the Seelie Court makes
me shudder. The only worse thought is the regent's honeyed tones leaching
into my mind unwanted. He’s a vile male I’d be happy to never interact
with again. I'd met dozens like him, with the ability to placate and draw
people in, to spin tales of majesty and wonder until they have everyone
eating out of the palm of their hand.
Airlie assured me that most of the sitting members of the Unseelie
Court were smart enough to figure that out for themselves, but that only
raises a different concern. If they're smart enough to see through the regent,
then they're willing accomplices in the downfall of the kingdom.
The workbench in my healer’s quarters is overflowing with my harvest
when the soldiers open the door once more and bow deeply as they admit
Prince Soren, tension filling me at his sudden appearance. The way my
heart thumps a little harder in my chest in his presence galls me, the ache
that settles there with every interaction like a curse I can’t escape, and I take
a deep breath to stop myself from sinking back into my ire and frustration.
Glancing down at myself with a grimace, I move to the sink to scrub the
dirt from my hands even as I’m forced to accept there’s nothing I can do
about the streaks that cover my robes. If I'm going to face this male and
fight whatever battle he has decided to wage with me this morning, then I
need to find myself on equal footing and with a clear mind.
I shouldn't care about something as shallow as some dirt, but the high
fae are fussy about appearances, and the hostile stalemate in which Prince
Soren and I have found ourselves means I don’t want to give the male any
grounds to find fault with my conduct. The entire situation is a mess, and I
really should be holding my temper in check, finding peace and some sort
of resolution between us both, but even as winter draws closer, I find I can’t
let go of my anger.
It’s not a good sign for the kingdom.
Our fates are going to be difficult enough without adding further
animosity. Kharl Balzog isn't going to simply surrender to his death at my
hands—right now that task seems insurmountable. And yet, Soren and I will
have to work together as the closest of confidants.
Drying my hands, I turn and bow to the prince with a carefully blank
face. He watches my movements with eyes that are far too sharp, and I
know that any twitch of my lip or quirk of my eyebrow is going to be used
against me. He’s always watched me closely, his gaze lined with searing
suspicion and dripping with contempt, but now there’s something else there.
Something predatory, something furious, and one wrong move may drive
this prince to leave a blood-soaked legacy in his wake.
"In your time in the Sol Army, did you ever speak to the Sol King?"
No greeting or other breath wasted on formalities. He jumps straight
into his interrogation. I'm not sure why it surprises me; perhaps it's the
careful way he's choosing his words and meeting my eyes, unflinching as
ever but without the animosity I'm accustomed to receiving from him.
Shrugging easily, I feign a casual air that’s foreign between us. "Of
course. All soldiers who serve in the Sol Army have spoken to the Sol King,
in the same way that I'm sure you've spoken to all within your own ranks.
He leads from the front lines and is a great warrior in his own right."
He nods and glances out the open doorway, as if called by my garden,
growing steadily outside. Every member of this household does the same
when they walk in, and it's as though none of them realize how much
they've missed nature. Being penned within the stone walls of these castles
and the villages surrounding them is unnatural. The forests may belong to
the witches, but the trees call to all fae folk.
As the furrow between his brows grows deeper, I move back to the
harvest in front of me, cringing a little at the state of the area. His gaze stays
fixed on me as I get to the busy work of cutting the roots and placing them
into the small sink to wash and prepare.
No parts of these plants will be wasted, even the paltriest of uses must
be respected, because tinctures and remedies other healers might deem
unimportant could be vital to us in the coming days. I've saved a soldier's
life with a single crushed fae flower petal, a silk handkerchief found
discarded in the melee, and a leather tie pulled from my own hair. I'm more
than adept at unconventional healing practices.
The sound of my knife hitting the chopping board and the swish of the
leaves as I separate each part of the plant fills the room and I leave Prince
Soren to his brooding.
 "Does the Seelie Court function the same way that our court does? Are
there ranks within the sitting members, and does the Sol King owe some
more loyalties than others?"
My mouth firms into a line but I keep my eyes on my work, listening as
he pulls out a chair and takes a seat. It's particularly arrogant of this prince
to just continue to come here and demand information from me. I suppose
this is the reality of my fate, to be stuck at the mercy of his whims and
commands.
"The Seelie Court is similar, and the royal families within it. They all
hold the respects of the Sol King, but they don't have the sway over the
throne that the Unseelie Court has. The functions of their court are rooted in
loyalties and traditions, not upholding laws. If the Sol King were to hold a
council as the messenger said, his court would be in attendance. Each
would no doubt have their own strategies and intentions, but the Sol King's
word is law. If he makes a decision, it's for all of the Northern Lands. They
bow to him, and him alone."
I watch Prince Soren from the corner of my eye as my words are met
with silence. He’s still scowling but he doesn't attempt to interrupt my work
as I move around. The tap switches on and off as I rinse the bunches, the
mounds of greenery slowly disappearing from the workbench and piling up
over the sink area.
After setting a large pot to boil on the stove, I add the roots and wait for
the bubbles to roil over the surface. Then I shift it away from the hottest
plates to bring it back down to a simmer at the perfect time. It took me a
week to figure out all the hot and cold spots of this stove and adjust to my
brewing accordingly, several cups of tea sacrificed in this process. It was
frustrating but necessary to protect the more delicate processes. Waste is
terrible even in a time of abundance, but when our resources are so finite, it
cuts even deeper to the bone.
A scowl of my own begins to deepen on my face as I consider the
perilous paths laid out before us by the Fates’ design, losing myself so
thoroughly in my thoughts that I startle when Soren speaks again, his words
barely more than a growl. “Whatever questions you have, now is the time to
ask.”
I arch an eyebrow at him. “And why would I expect an answer from
you? How could I possibly guess that you’re willing to tell me anything,
Prince Soren?”
 The Celestial-blue depths of his eyes are no longer the icy plunge into a
winter’s lake they once were. Now they’re a searing heat, a raging inferno
that wouldn’t leave behind ashes for the Fates’ journey, but I hold his gaze
easily. I’m not afraid of this male or his anger. I’m not afraid of any of
them.
He answers me in the old language. “You can cover us with your magic
again, can’t you? Do it and speak. There aren’t many options to get us out
of this Fates’ cursed mess, so if you have any, tell me.”
Whether he means our fated union or the situation his uncle is so
carelessly piecing together, I don’t know, but my magic eases out of me
regardless, encasing us both. Prince Soren's eyebrows draw in further as he
no doubt feels it spread through the room. I see the same look in his eye as
the one he gave me after I woke up in his chambers—concern for any strain
it might have on me. There's no need for it, creating a shield like this is less
taxing than the effort it takes me to draw breath.
When the scowling gets worse, I finally speak. "Why does the Unseelie
Court have so much power over the throne and who sits on it? I understand
they're all of royal bloodlines that trace back to the First Fae, but if your
father was king and you are heir, your word should be law, no matter who
holds the throne in your stead."
His jaw tightens, his teeth grinding together for a moment before he
answers. "That's exactly how it's supposed to be. A lot has changed while I
waited out my fate."
His words are an accusation, the extra two hundred years of waiting he
did at my defection from the kingdom one of my many supposed crimes
despite the Fates commanding him to wait, but when the only reaction I
give him is a cool stare back, he’s forced to let the issue drop.
His explanation is barely more than a growl, frustration pouring from
him in waves that make my skin itch. "The regent was supposed to work in
tandem with the Unseelie Court on any matters of the throne and the
kingdom until my coronation. Over the years, he's slowly tightened his grip
until he's effectively taken the throne and now rules without opposition.
There's no one left to question him—no one but me—and there was nothing
I could do about it without my Fates-blessed mate."
He stops short, turning away from me for a moment and staring at the
garden again as though trying to restrain his anger. Centuries of conflict,
death, and despair writhe within him and pour into the air between us as
frustration. The Fates wove our path with devastating precision, because
this prince would’ve destroyed me in a thousand different ways if he’d met
the witch I once was, with the Ravenswyrd heart alone. It was the Ureen,
the Fates Wars, and all the lessons I learned in the Northern Lands that will
see me through this Fates-blessed marriage of ours.
I find it far easier to look at him without his gaze on me. He's dressed in
his more casual clothing, but still far more formal than anything I'd be
comfortable in. Far too many layers and finery, even as subdued as he is.
The charcoal gray of his shirt complements the width of his shoulders,
the exacting embroidery of the Celestial crest against his chest in the perfect
blue to match his eyes, and a single diamond-set medal of valor sits at his
throat, used as a button for his cloak, something that would look gaudy on
another male and yet is so fitting on him. His pale hair, worn shoulder-
length as Unseelie fashion expects, frames the beauty of his face, and every
inch of this male screams danger to me. Danger I can’t help but stare at,
transfixed, the Fates’ demands irresistible within me no matter my true
thoughts on such a male. I find myself struggling to breathe at the sight of
him, and in my desperation to remember his arrogance and his ire, I picture
the way that he dragged me to Yregar behind his horse as though I was
nothing more than chattel myself.
Even as I grasp desperately to those memories, others spring to mind,
the complicated mess of my fate stretching out between us.
The frantic look in his eyes as he slammed Nightspark between Prince
Roan's forces and me. His bowed head as he sent his own prayers to
Elysium for the soldiers who were killed by Kharl's attack. The anguish in
his eyes every time he looks at the destruction of the village and the
condition of the fae folk there. The reverent and soft hands he used to cradle
his cousin's most beloved son, the oaths he spoke over the boy that were as
strong as any I could give.
I might have a long list of grievances with the male, but he's the only
high-fae prince I hope to see ruling over this kingdom. There's no greater
compliment I could give a high fae, though it pains me to admit it.
Pemba would have a lot to say, if he heard me utter such words.
Soren turns back to me, his mouth set. "The regent’s plans to keep the
throne began when he took Yris, only hours after my parents and their
household was murdered. He called those of the Unseelie Court who
resided in Yris into attendance and effectively took their soldiers and
resources and made them his own. Yrell, Fates Mark, and Yregar are the
only remaining independent households—us, and the Goblin King."
I've never been to Yris, but I know it's the castle my father once spoke
to me about, glittering white marble sitting at the very edge of cliffs that
make it seem as though it floats in the air. It's a place that seems impossible
to enter, and yet the last king and queen were murdered in their beds and
their entire household with them—everyone except their son.
I don't know the details, having never asked Airlie for clarification, but I
wonder now how old Prince Soren was when they were killed. There are
too many conflicting tales shared between the fae folk to be sure, and the
longevity of the fae skews memories even further. No matter the honesty
he’s offering me now, something tells me now isn’t the right time to ask
Soren himself.
Glancing down at the work before me, I murmur, “It seems incredibly
short-sighted to side with a male who doesn’t have the Fates’ blessings on
his side as you do. What could he possibly offer them to take such a risk?”
His gaze flicks toward the door, my magic shimmering before it. I don’t
need to test it to know that the barrier is holding, but with the severity of his
gaze I’m expecting him to question me about it or to accuse me of
something.
Instead, he turns to me with that same fire and says in a clear and
forthright tone, "I have reason to believe my uncle has committed his own
forms of treason against the kingdom, far beyond his complacency and
apathy toward the lower fae and part-bloods."
My hand stills as I’m trapped in the intensity of his stare. Placing the
knife on the bench, I step around the workbench to give him my full
attention. His blue eyes are cold as he stares at me from across the room, his
face stern but for once unguarded. This is the first time he’s said this to me
so openly, in words that defy any attempts at other interpretation, and it
marks a shift between us.
Whatever else may be going on, I’m to be trusted with this.
I nod slowly, my own face pulled into a stern mask, and Soren
continues, "I have reason to believe that the regent is colluding with the
enemies of this kingdom to ensure
he keeps the throne. I've also come to believe that he knew of Kharl
Balzog's misguided beliefs and thought there was a way to defy the Fates
without consequence. This meeting with the Seelie Court and the Sol King
is just a side-step for him, not straying from his goals in the slightest. He's
simply trying to find a way around the Fates instead of breaking their
commands."
My brows furrow, and I let my gaze trace the cold stone walls that
surround us once more. I stop at the prayer above the door.
If I'm sure of nothing else, I'm confident the Sol King won't tolerate any
sort of conversation of breaking fates. Millions of fae folk died as the
consequences of his actions, and there’s nothing—nothing—the regent
could do to convince him to utter a single word about how he did something
so inconceivably impossible as breaking his fate. In the almost two hundred
years of my service, I witnessed dozens of deaths at his hands for attempts
to question him or learn more of how he did it. He guarded that secret like
the world depended on it... because it did.
It still does.
The talons of darkness and the gut-wrenching screeches of the Ureen
slash through the farthest reaches of my mind, a shiver running down my
spine that Soren takes notice of, but he waits me out until the moment of
trauma has passed.
I murmur, trying to steer my mind away from my darkest memories,
"Other than going to the Northern Lands and getting the backing of the Sol
King, how else could the regent take the throne from you without the
backing of the Unseelie Court? Princess Airlie said it's at a stalemate and
has been for centuries... that's not likely to change, is it?"
Soren stretches his legs out in front of himself, the formal lines of his
uniform elongating the pose so he looks impossibly large in my presence.
He's as tall as all high fae but his shoulders are wider, years of honing his
body into a weapon adding layer upon layer of muscle to his body.
He's not an opponent I'd take lightly in the sparring ring.
"My uncle has been trying to garner favor with the Goblin King for
centuries but never made progress. He's invited the Seer to Yris a dozen
times, but she fled to the Northern Lands after the Fates War ended, and
theirs are the only votes still unaccounted for. Without swaying any of the
votes already taken, his time ruling the kingdom is running out. The law
states that my coronation can take place only after I'm married to my mate,
as directed by the Fates."
He takes a deep breath and glances down, his gaze catching on the
colorful rug, but there's no disapproval or scorn as he looks it over. I feel
protective of all the items I’ve been gifted by the household staff, each
handmade and thoughtful, especially in a time of such scarcity, but he
doesn’t react to any of it. Some of the rage he came down here with has
eased, as though talking about it without any contention from me has cooled
some of that fire.
"He's going to try to kill us both the moment our fates are fulfilled, or
do something that would force me to abdicate. If my suspicions are correct,
he's more involved in the war than merely ignoring the kingdom and
leaving the aid efforts to the rest of us."
It's very careful wording but the meaning is clear, resounding around the
room like the clash of swords. The regent is under suspicion of colluding
with Kharl Balzog, and his nephew is planning to deal with his treason in
the chance that the Unseelie Court dismiss it.
My own simmering rage at the male grows hotter in my belly, my magic
writhing within me as though called on by my fury. Hundreds of thousands
of people have died here for the sake of a throne.
I've never understood the desire for power that grows inside people like
that. I heard my fate to marry this male before me from the Seer, and I ran
from that path before the words even had a chance to settle in the temple
around me. The prospect of a crown was like a shot of ice straight into my
veins and, even now, I want to lash out at the Fates as the walls begin to
close around me, a strangled scream trapped within my throat.
Soren watches my no doubt changing expression but his own stays fixed
in that same stern mask, heartbreakingly beautiful even as the white slash of
the scar runs across his otherwise unmarred skin. It’s a constant reminder
that he’s not the same as his uncle, a spoiled prince intent on a kingdom and
a throne won through deviousness and the bloodshed of others.
I nod at him again, slowly letting out a breath, and I force my tone to
stay even. “Did you come here for answers to your questions alone, or are
you open to my input? I have a few suggestions.”
He doesn’t react or move for a moment, his gaze unwavering, and then
finally he nods. “I have more questions, but I’ll hear you out.”
How kind of him. My hackles rise but I push them back down. He’s
clearly making an attempt; I can point out his terrible approach another
time.
“You should focus on the other issues and leave the regent to his games.
You have nothing to be concerned about when it comes to the Sol King. The
regent is outmatched, both in cunning and resources, and in a short amount
of time he’ll find himself at a dead end.”
He doesn’t like this suggestion, but he doesn’t immediately bite back
either, instead he seems to take measured breaths until he can speak civilly.
“The Sol King offered him a place at the Royal Courts.”
I tilt my head at him, my eyes narrowing. “He sent his messenger to
Yris. As far as the Seelie Courts are concerned, that’s the home of the
Celestial royal line. Your uncle has twisted this to his advantage, there’s
nothing truly in it.”
He mirrors my actions, the narrowing of his eyes like a taunt. “He sent
an Ancient, surely that’s cause for concern. Just how much do you know of
the Seelie Court and the allegiances of the royals?”
I raise a shoulder at him in a half-shrug. “Enough.”
“Enough to see us through my uncle’s twisted plots,” His tone is
scathing, derisive, like he assumes what he’s asking is impossible, so very
little faith he has in me thanks to his deeply rooted prejudices.
I hold his unforgiving gaze with a cold look of my own. “Perhaps.
Certainly enough to advise you on this. What you choose to do with that
knowledge is up to you.”
When he has no reply, I turn away from his ire and get back to the
important work before me. If he isn’t going to accept my advice even after
everything I’ve done for Yregar and those within, I won’t waste my time
here. Scooping up piles of the chopped plants before me, I add them to the
water and fuss over the mixture until I’m confident everything is in order.
When I turn back to the chopping board and my knife, Soren is still
stretched out in his seat, studying my every move. “I have watched
hundreds of my father’s loyal supporters be swayed by the regent and his
silver tongue. I’ve been forced to endure centuries of his games as they
eroded the Unseelie Court and poisoned this kingdom, and I’ve been forced
into the role he designed for me.”
When I begin chopping again, unwilling to speak to him despite the
admission, he continues. “No witch could ever know the inner workings of
the Unseelie Court, even before Kharl Balzog brought his war to our
kingdom. I was unaware that the Seelie Court was so different to ours in
this regard.”
He’s closer to a real apology for his contentious dismissals, and I reward
his efforts with the slight incline of my head. “The Seelie Court was the
once same—the Fates War changed that. It changed a lot of things in the
Northern Lands.”
He nods slowly, his jaw moving as he clenches it. “If I sent one of my
messengers to the Northern Lands on your behalf, is there someone in the
Seelie Court they could seek out to be sure of the Sol King’s intentions?
Your life is at risk if the Sol King chooses to back my uncle, just as surely
as mine is; are there any fae your trust, with good standing amongst the
royal high fae, who would choose your safety above all else?”
He’s trying very hard not to say Pemba’s name, I can read that on the
male as clearly as I can read winter’s approach in the air of my garden. With
a wry look, I nod to him again. “I sent word to the Northern Lands weeks
ago, rest assured that I speak now with certainty. There were a dozen
different signs in your messenger’s report that proved that to me.”
His eyebrows twitch downwards before he can smother the reaction,
and I send him a scathing smile. “Prince Soren, if you think I need a horse
and a willing rider to speak to those I’ve left in the Northern Lands, then
you really have no idea just how badly you’ve underestimated me. I was
dragged here behind your horse willingly. I sat in that dungeon willingly.
Every single action taken upon me here has happened because I allowed it
to. Your opinions of me and my motives are irrelevant to me—I’m here
because the Fates command it, and I won’t stray from the path they have
designed. The scars I carry are reminder enough of what will come if I fail.”
His eyes flick down to my waist, and a curse falls from his lips in the
old language, vicious and irreverent to the Fates in a way I’ve never dared
to be. I could certainly utter some curses of my own for his reaction though,
that someone has told him of the damage that lies underneath my robes.
With the high fae’s obsession with beauty and perfection, there’s no chance
of this prince ever finding something appealing in me.
The same can’t be said of me for him, and whether that’s a blessing or a
curse is debatable. If I had any question of the Fates misspeaking, or
perhaps if there’s another Prince Soren out there waiting, the way that I find
myself turning toward him no matter how desperately I want to shun the
male ruthlessly answers me.
The Fates picked out this male perfectly for me, somehow knowing that
his face alone could tempt me from my long-held fury at the Unseelie
royals, and no matter how many weeks I've been in his presence, still my
chest constricts at the mere sight of him.
 It's a shame the Fates didn't give him such weaknesses for me.
I turn back to the stove to fuss with the pot in a distraction from the
bleak turn of my thoughts, and the despair surely in his. "I suppose we have
to ensure that your relations with the Goblin King continue to improve. You
might want to speak to your household to treat him appropriately and with
great respect at the winter solstice."
He huffs out a breath and I turn back to see his eyes sharp on the
planters outside, his shoulders tense as he holds himself carefully in check
once more. "Centuries of conflict can't be forgotten with a single banquet.
The distrust of the goblins runs far too deep within the high fae, too many
conflicts and ignored calls for aid. The Unseelie Court could finally shift
out of the stalemate if I show that male any deference, only to my
detriment. His presence at Yregar will be suspicious enough."
I move the pot from the heat entirely, watching as the steam curls into
the air, fragrant but not entirely pleasant, the perfect potency for the small
batch of tincture I've successfully brewed.
Raising a single eyebrow, I speak without looking up at him. "I'd advise
you to start your campaign to change their thinking now, because if I were
to place my bets on which households will aid us in defeating Kharl and
destroying his armies, the Goblin King is the only one who has shown
promise so far. He hasn’t forgotten magic… he still speaks to the trees.”
The silence my words are met with is heated, writhing with frustration
and misplaced fury, and I keep my gaze away firmly on my work until
finally I hear Soren leave, the door shutting firmly behind him. My hands
are steady despite the roil of my stomach and the wrenching ache in my
chest, and the Fates keening beneath my scar only take another heartbeat or
two to subside before I can focus my thoughts on far more pressing
concerns than my Fates-blessed mate’s ire.
Regardless of his contention, the answers he gave me have left me with
much to consider. Regardless of whether the high fae deserve my help, the
heart of a Favored Child could never leave the kingdom to suffer without
aid. The regent may relish in the twisted games of rumor and intrigue, but
he’s not the only fae who wields such power and the very beginnings of a
plan weaves together within my mind.
AFTER OUR FRAUGHT CONFRONTATION, I'm not expecting to be
called to Prince Soren's chambers any time soon. The Fates have different
plans for me, though, and in the early hours of the next morning my chores
in the garden are interrupted by one of the maids, a frantic look on her face
as she mutters apologies and instructions to follow her with haste.
When I arrive, the soldiers knock on the door for me before allowing
me in. There’s no sign of conflict or danger, and I pass through Tyton's
magic barrier the moment I step into the reception room. As the magic folds
me into its grasp, the room sharpens around me once more and I find
Soren's closest family already in attendance.
Airlie sits in one of the more comfortable armchairs by the wall, her
eyes meeting mine and gesturing at the chair next to her in invitation to sit.
Her mouth is tight with worry, no easy smile for me, and my shoulders
tighten as I take the seat.
Roan stands at Soren's side, the two of them pouring over the map
embossed on the desk and ignoring my arrival as they murmur together as
though alone. When I shoot Airlie a questioning look, unsure why my
presence was demanded with such urgency, she grimaces.
"More news from Yrell. Prince Mercer will lose the castle if we don't
offer them aid. A call for aid could be sent to Yris—the Royal Guard and
Unseelie Court soldiers are plentiful there—but the regent would only deny
the request. Prince Mercer didn't even try. He knew what the answer would
be, because he sided with Prince Soren in the split of the court and this is
the consequence he’s facing."
The room falls into a heavy silence once more, more than a few looks
sent my way until Tyton finally turns to address me. "The trees told me to
call on you for aid. They say it's the way of the Ravenswyrd to help when
no one else will, and they speak of you as though you'll hold back Kharl's
army with nothing more than your will. Is the shield you cast here the way
of your people, or a defense you brought home from the Northern Lands?"
My stomach drops.
There's a fine line between wanting to pass on the history of my coven
to ensure they don’t fall into oblivion, and excruciating pain at their loss,
still as gut-wrenching today as it was when I found the coven murdered.
There's a part of me that crouches over every scrap of memory I have left to
guard it malevolently, jealously, and to lash out to any who might attempt to
share it with me. As though such an act could harm the souls of those
who’ve already traveled on the ashes to Elysium, untouchable now and
perfectly safe, no matter my own sore heart.
The careful silence in the room around me says there's clearly far too
much of this honesty in my gaze.
I answer him, pushing myself despite my reservations. "All Ravenswyrd
witches are taught such magic, but some are more adept than others. I've
always had an affinity for shields. My brother, too."
Tyton frowns at me and cocks his head. "Your brother... the older one
named after an owl?"
It's not a mocking tone, just inquisitive, and I think the voices of my
dead must still ring in his ears from our journey into the Ravenswyrd
Forest. I wonder if he sees the fae flowers growing there every time he
closes his eyes, or if that affliction is mine alone.
I murmur, "Yes, that one."
Airlie hums under her breath, and she strokes her son's cheek, shifting
him a little bit. When she sees he's fallen asleep, she fixes her dress once
more. "I can't imagine you as a younger sister. Why do females take
positions of power within covens but never men? And how then did Kharl
become the leader of a witch army? It makes no sense to me."
Roan and Soren both finally look up from the map, clearly interested in
my answer, but in one corner, Tauron scowls as though he's still fuming at
my existence, oblivious to the somber air of the room.
"Witches believe that males are more likely to be overtaken by power
than women. We’ve always been matriarchal. Crone, Mother, Maiden. The
seat of power always rests within the line of the womb. Kharl is a testament
to that belief but, unfortunately, anyone can be turned from the true path by
a charismatic and impassioned leader. Unrest was sowing within the covens
for some time due to the treatment of the forests."
It's not an accusation, but a simple statement of fact, yet Roan leans
forward and presses his hands against the Stellar Forest in the Outlands.
"The witches left our forest centuries before the war. They weren't run out,
there was no conflict, they simply got up and left one day. Whose fault was
that?"
 There's no accusation in his tone either, but I defend all the same. "I
can't know the specifics of their reasoning—I know only of the witches I’ve
spoken to, and I can give you a hundred different reasons, each as gut-
wrenching as the last."
Prince Soren stares at me and gestures a hand for me to continue. I stand
slowly, approach the desk, and press my hand against the Loche Mountains,
where the temple once stood.
"For millennia, a Seer lived within this temple and guided the fae folk
of the Southern Lands through the many paths that they should walk. All
Seers were born of the Loche Coven, their magic tied to the truths of the
Fates and seeing far more clearly than any others. This Seer was brutally
tortured and murdered by Kharl, for giving him his fate—death at the hands
of a Ravenswyrd witch."
The high fae sit captivated by my words, all bar Tauron who stares at
his own hands with rigid shoulders and a deeply cut scowl over his brow.
"The Loche Coven petitioned for centuries to reinstate the rites, holding the
high fae accountable for not honoring their own traditions and abusing the
land. Mother Loche traveled to Yris dozens of times to speak with the king,
only to be turned away. When Kharl came for the covens, she denied him,
but there were other witches who chose to abandon the forests and follow
him."
An old story but a difficult one, complicated and barbed so that it lashes
out to harm me as I tell it. This is one of a dozen wrongs I returned to the
Southern Lands to make right, a path I strayed from as I wallowed in the
dungeons in my own misery. The high faes’ poor treatment of me made it
easy to hide down there, and shame creeps under my skin for my own
callous inactions.
I'll do better now, whether Prince Soren truly believes my innocence or
not.
I clear my throat and continue. "It's easy to believe a lie when it's
crafted against the injustices you face, and though I may not look upon the
witch armies with empathy, I'm also not oblivious to their reasoning. The
madness that overtakes Tyton at the edges of
the forest I once called home is but a whisper compared to the
maelstrom of agony witches have had an ear to for centuries. The
imbalance, the raping of the land, the constant cycle of taking but never
returning... Kharl may be nothing more than a power-hungry agent of war,
but he found a source of pain and exploited it for his own gains. He has
destroyed the witches with his efforts to claim power and gain sovereignty
over the high fae."
The room is quiet and respectful enough as I press my fingers against
the map’s etchings of the mountains once more, a prayer sent to the Fates
for the safety of the Seer's soul in Elysium. Her story is one I know as well
as my own, murmured to me a dozen times over the course of the Fates War
like a prayer and a promise in one.
Her death won’t go unanswered.
Soren stares at my hand before his eyes shift toward the silver embossed
lines where Yrell is marked. The Witch Ward is not marked permanently on
this map, but a simple taped line encircles Ymar and the forests to the
northwest to signify where the boundary of Kharl's conquered territory
currently lies.
"If we ride to Yrell to offer aid, can you shield the castle the same way
you shielded Yregar?"
Tauron’s head snaps up to glare at me, but I ignore him to answer. "I
can, but it would be more difficult using my own power and without anchor
talismans. Not to mention, Kharl will probably be expecting me to journey
there and could retaliate against Yregar while I'm gone.”
Tauron's lip curls, but Soren ignores his cousin's ire as he stares at the
map, more thoughtful than ever. "Kharl's troops move slowly without
horses, and we can make it to Yrell first if we ride out today. What aid
would you be able to provide to the castle that would make it worthwhile
for us to take you along?"
I'm not sure I want to go along, particularly with Tauron staring at me as
though he's imagining my gory death at his own hands, but the melting of
the ice around my heart has ignited my own sense of justice once more and
reminded me of the promises I've made.
I glance between Roan and Soren before I cross my arms. "I can offer
magic, but my power isn't infinite. Knowledge, of course, but you don't
need help with planning out a defense. I know some of the offensive magic
the armies could be using... I'm sure you all know about death curses and
blood callings?"
I receive a lot of grimaces and curt nods in reply, smothering a cringe
within myself at what horrors Kharl has subjected this kingdom to.
 Looking down at the map again, I sigh and shake my head curtly. "The
problem is, I don't know the area or the layout of the castle and its
surroundings. I chose the anchor points for the shield of Yregar because I’d
lived here long enough to know what would work best for this particular
castle. I haven't seen much of the Southern Lands, and so my knowledge is
limited. I could be more of a hindrance to you all than a help."
Roan's eyebrows slowly creep up his forehead, a small show of surprise
at my ruthless honesty, but I've never claimed to be reckless with my life or
any other.
Tyton stands and steps up to my side as he stares down at the map.
"Why did you put the shield around the inner wall and not the outer one?
Why protect just the castle when we all know that you probably prefer the
villagers to the high fae?"
There's no probably about it.
I shrug, unyielding even under their scrutiny. "I was restricted by my
supplies. I had only enough talismans to cover the inner wall. I would need
at least three times as many to cover the outer wall, and it was more
important to me that the shield hold strong against whatever magic Kharl
wielded."
Constructing another shield, or casting without an anchor, isn't an option
for Yrell, not if the battle were to last more than a few hours. Though it
sickens me to the depths of my stomach, there is another option I can offer
them all.
I take a deep breath as I push my discomfort down. "How much
witcheswane do you have access to? If you want to save Yrell, our best
chance is to start there."

OceanofPDF.com
OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER SEVEN

Soren
Without the fae door the journey to Yrell is long and arduous, and to beat
the witches there, we can’t make camp along the way. This is the true test of
Rooke and her time as a soldier, of how well she can stay on her horse
riding at full pace for the entire journey, but from the moment I give my
command, she doesn’t utter a word of complaint.
The path we take cuts through the farming plains and around Selkie
Lake before we reach the forest at Elms Walk. The trees that grow within
that forest aren't as fabled as the Ravenswyrd, but they still have a
reputation. The fact that Mercer sent his people fleeing into them is enough
proof for me that whether or not he sent for aid, the prince desperately
needs it.
Many folk wander into the midst of those towering giants never to
return.
Centuries ago, we assumed an infestation of feral banshee or wraiths
attacked when the opportunity struck. After traveling within the
Ravenswyrd, I have a different theory, one that is impossible to explain to
the high fae or any who’ve forgotten magic but impossible for me to ignore.
Maybe the trees judged those lost as unworthy to journey through safely,
the old magic unforgiving, and there’s only doubt left.
 Tyton has never reacted to the trees in Elms Walk.
Perhaps they just don't like him in the way the trees in the Ravenswyrd
forest do. Whether that’s a blessing, I can’t decide, but for now I’m
confident Rooke can move through any forest within the Southern Lands
unimpeded, and us along with her.
The sun begins to peek over the horizon as we reach the edges of the
desolate farming plains and travel through the small, abandoned villages
that litter the threadbare road to Yrell. White clouds of my breath stream
into the frigid early morning air before disappearing into the mist
enveloping us.
When it’s clear some of the smaller horses are flagging, we make a
short stop at the lake to let them rest and drink. Silence hangs heavy over
the soldiers, only the sounds of the horses breaking through the desolation
that surrounds us. While there are no signs of the witches passing through
here or anything to suggest unwanted company now, the battle ahead is a
sobering task.
What more can Kharl throw at us, what rage did the confrontation with
Rooke inspire him to now, and how many fae folk must die because of it?
As she stretches her legs from the long ride, Rooke looks across the
calm water with sharp eyes. By her own admission she's never been this far
north, her experience of the Southern Lands concentrated within the
Ravenswyrd Forest and now Yregar.
Gazing around, I try to see the lands through her eyes, but all I feel is a
furious sort of sorrow. The land surrounding the lake is barren, a shadow of
the lush and abundant life it once boasted. There are no water sprites
playing in the shallows as they should be, no reeds or lilies growing at the
edges, no birds singing in the now dormant trees. There were once fish in
the lake as well but, in their desperation, the people of Lancon, the large
village along the lake’s northern side, gutted it when other sources of food
ran out.
The lake itself is now barely more than wastewater. A dank, rotting
smell that was never here before emanates from the stagnant liquid. Tyton
wrinkles his nose, but his eyes are filled with sorrow rather than disgust, a
mournful look we all share at the decay of the beauty that once was.
Rooke strokes a hand down Northern Star’s neck before she places her
flask back in her pack and steps away. She glances at me carefully, and then
the others, before she walks to the lake’s edge. Her boots sink into the mud
and the edges of her robes graze the water there, dark patches climbing as
the fabric grows heavy and wet, but she doesn’t seem concerned; the furrow
in her brow is directed at the land. The prayer she murmurs in the old
language is a promise of restoration, an apology for the time it has taken for
her to come to its aid, and an oath to return the kingdom to greatness once
more.
There's no way to fake the reverence in her tone and, for the first time, I
see exactly what the witches have fallen away from, all the ways Kharl has
changed them. For the first time, I feel some responsibility for that.
Born and bred for this war, I was hardened by my parents' deaths and
spurred on at every defeat we’ve suffered under my uncle’s crippling rule.
His tightened grip on the Unseelie Court and its soldiers has forced me to
navigate this conflict with nothing more than the resources of the castle that
I call my home, thousands of losses over the centuries, and a vicious hatred
for the witches that blinded me to reason.
I want to curse the Fates all over again for their blighted ways.
My voice is harsh with frustration as I snap, “We need to get moving, or
the witches will beat us to Yrell and this journey is all for nothing.”
Tyton and Roan both nod decisively and swing back into their saddles,
and Rooke finishes her murmuring before doing the same, obedient and
speedy under my command. She’s already a far better soldier than most
outside my employ. Even knowing her hesitancy to follow my command,
she defaults to it now as the battle looms.
The horses’ hoofbeats echo around the lake as we skirt the edges of it
for hours, nothing but a long expanse of water guiding us. When we finally
get the first glimpse of Lancon Village, I’m relieved to see the walls there
still standing and no smoke on the horizon.
The fae folk manning the watchtowers are ready to defend against any
witch who might come calling, shouts ringing out at our advance but not
alarms. All my soldiers wear the Celestial gray of our formal uniforms, and
Alwyn holds up my banner, lifting it well before we arrive to send
reassurances of who comes calling.
The regent’s guards wouldn’t receive such a warm welcome.
Stopping before the gate, I hold out a hand to stop them opening it and
call out, “We're riding through to Yrell. The witches descend in great armies
to take the city after we held them off at Yregar.”
 Rooke’s eyebrows twitch where she sits, her horse flanking mine but
respectfully a step back. I can tell that she’s surprised I'm sharing this
information, but the lives of the fae folk within are at risk. If Yrell is taken,
this is the next large concentration of fae folk.
“Any who wish to seek safety at Yregar should prepare for the journey
there. The women, children, and vulnerable must consider leaving
immediately, especially if there aren’t enough horses to carry them all.”
The males at the watchtower murmur amongst themselves before they
call down their gratitude and offers of assistance to us, dozens talking over
each other in their excitement.
I dismiss them. “Make your own preparations here and keep your watch
sharp. We'll ride back through when the battle is done. If Yrell falls, we’ll
escort who we can back to Yregar, but you need to be prepared.”
There’s apprehension at my words, both at the watchtower and within
my own ranks, though my own soldiers are trained well enough that I'm
confident I’m the only one who can feel it so glaringly.
This village was once a thriving concentration of fae folk, dozens of
high fae choosing to live here to enjoy the outlook over the lake and the
close proximity to Yrell. It boasted a thriving marketplace filled with
artisans and traders from across the kingdom, renowned and highly sought-
after. I haven't been within the walls in centuries, but many have fled or
been lost to the war. If the entire village should need to evacuate, the fifty
soldiers we travel with may very well be outnumbered five-to-one, a
strategic nightmare but one we’ll navigate.
As we leave, directing the horses around the outer wall, I'm careful to
check the perimeter to ensure there are no signs of breach or decay in the
stone. There's no doubt the witches would take it next and leave the Blood
Valley for later. Kharl always attacks where the loss of life and despair is
felt the most keenly. The witches of the Blood Valley left the Southern
Lands long ago, and to take that forest would be as simple as enveloping the
boundaries into their own, but the blood-sport isn’t there to push Kharl’s
armies into action.
When we reach Elms Walk, the horses naturally falter as the ground
changes condition beneath them, slowing their pace as we weave through
the winding path. I'm forced to hold myself differently in the saddle, and the
aches of the long ride begin to make themselves felt. I push them aside as
anticipation creeps down my limbs.
 The Fates have promised an end to this war, and I won’t falter, not any
longer.

THE TREES in Elms Walk might not speak to Tyton, but it becomes
glaringly obvious that Rooke hears them. Her eyes, once sharp as she took
in the sights of the ravaged kingdom, now have a soft quality as she looks at
the sleeping forest.
Sleeping is the only way I can describe it.
It's not dead and decayed like the rest of the lands, but there are no true
signs of a thriving ecosystem here either. It's as though everything got up
and walked away when the trees decided to take a nap.
We saw signs of fleeing fae folk but none of a struggle, just footprints
here and there and a lost item of clothing snagged on branches, small
enough that a child in someone's arms must have lost it.
As the sun begins its descent, the day creeping into later afternoon, my
Fates-blessed mate murmurs quietly in the old language to me, observant
enough to know that it's the way to communicate without my soldiers
understanding.
“If the witches take Yrell, they'll have Elms Walk as well.”
I give her a decisive nod, my focus on my balance in the saddle as
Nightspark moves swiftly over some fallen logs. We’re riding slow enough
now that conversation isn't impossible, but with the terrain as rough as it is,
a single slip of concentration could find you unseated and trampled
underfoot.
Rooke doesn't wait for questions or more information, murmuring in the
old language but not to me. Instead, she speaks to the trees.
“I offer you a great sacrifice, as I have offered to the Ravenswyrd, the
Lore River, and every other great entity I find within the kingdom. I offer
you my loyalty and my care, my magic and my life. Protect the fae folk
who seek refuge here. Protect those who are driven out of their homes and
into your boundaries. Do not let the witches pass freely, the ones with
death’s violent poison rotting within their hearts. They have abandoned
their true calling—the earth and our nurturing ways. They have betrayed the
Favored Children."
Something stirs.
There’s a rumble within the forest that defies explanation, and I know
the trees heed her call. No words form to describe the eerie feeling that
floods me except that my heart races, the thirst for battle and blood filling
my limbs until I’m desperate to draw my sword and ride out to hunt Kharl’s
advancing armies before they make it to the forest to begin with. The magic
in the air spooks the horses, several of the soldiers grunting and cursing as
they fight to rein them back in before chaos ensues.
I glance at Roan, but his eyes are on Rooke and, when I look past him to
Tyton, my cousin’s eyes have begun to glow.
“The Favored Child has returned to us," he murmurs in the common
tongue, and I mutter my own curse.
“I need him sharp of mind for the battle ahead," I grind out between
clenched teeth, but Rooke continues her prayer in the old language as
though she doesn’t hear me.
“The Fates are returning the kingdom to the old ways, and your rest will
end. The fae folk will remember the ways of old once more, but these
poisoned witches cannot have entry, not those who follow the Betrayer. Not
the witches who’ve never lived within the forests and who don't know the
madness that has taken root within their minds at the loss of everything we
hold dear. For the Favored Children lost, I beg you, do not let them pass.”
She shifts in her seat and pulls out a small dagger, the ceremonial
Celestial blade that Airlie handed her in the cells. She doesn't slash open her
wrists this time, instead nicking her palm, and with a few spilled blood
drops, her sacrifice is given.
The rumble grows louder.
“The trees will not let them take the Favored Child. The trees will not
be betrayed again.” Tyton’s words are still otherworldly, his voice not his
own as it vibrates with power and an anger that has held strong, deep within
the bowels below, for centuries.
We feel the trees awaken.
Rooke continues to murmur her wishes to the forest, asking for safety
for those innocents within and to stop to any witch who might dare to seek
entrance with ill intent. She offers the people of Yrell the greatest form of
protection she can, and with so few resources at our disposal, it’s a defense
we could have never hoped for.
Her blood is so strong and her name is so powerful that the old gods
wake at her command, ready to do her bidding. They know that any
promise that falls from her lips will be fulfilled, generations of trust behind
every syllable. My heart clenches violently in my chest, my breaths painful
Though my own blood means less to such beings, I shift in my saddle
until I can grip one of my own daggers and slice open my palm, then let my
own sacrifice fall to the ground.
Tyton does the same, then Roan, and then Reed.
One by one, each of the soldiers follow Rooke’s lead and my own, until
every fae riding through has offered blood to the trees here. For the first
time, I feel the simmering of magic within my gut, and I know for sure what
it is. Whether it’s an offering from the earth, or the sacrifice has unlocked it
within me, I have no idea, but my frustration at the Fates, myself, and my
bloodline doubles. If we never forgot in the first place, we wouldn’t be here,
begging the trees for their aid.
Rooke’s gaze flits over to meet mine, and she bows her head at me
respectfully, approving my action of sacrifice without prompt.
She speaks in the common tongue for every high fae who rides with us
to hear. “The forest accepts our sacrifice, and the witches won’t find safety
here. No matter what happens at Yrell, they won’t take this forest, as they
have been unable to take the Ravenswyrd.”
A plan takes root in my mind, simple and yet, if it works, it could be the
salvation of countless fae folk. Could it really be as easy as escorting Rooke
to every forest within the kingdom and having her speak to the old gods
within? Could the Ravenswyrd name alone shelter the fae folk of the
kingdom until I can finally rid us of Kharl’s armies and the poison he
spreads?
The trees begin to thin in front of us, and the first vestiges of stone and
iron take form, slowly growing clearer until Yrell’s outer wall looms before
us. The castle was the envy of many within the royal families, a jealousy
taking hold at Prince Mercer and his bloodlines for residing in such a place.
Yrell was once second in beauty only to Yris, a castle carved out of
glittering white marble and surrounded by a thriving city and pastures of
land beyond the wall. Wildflowers grew everywhere, a cacophony of colors
that survived long into autumn and even through the first clutches of winter.
Fae flowers once grew in abundance around the wall, creeping up the sides
of it as they took root amongst the mosses there.
The castle now stands bleakly amongst the mist. The fae flowers are
long gone, the mosses have rotted and, even in the dying light of day, the
marble doesn't shine the way it used to. The city is a shadow of what it once
was, the glorious jewel of the high-fae royalty squandered.
Preparations for the attack are well underway, large iron spikes jutting
out of the ground surrounding the wall and dozens of sentries lining the
watchtowers. The wall has already been soaked with the witcheswane,
Prince Mercer heeding the messengers I sent out before us.
Whether it was our victory that spurred such compliance or simply his
loyalty to my claim doesn't matter. The coating is strong enough to make
Rooke flinch before we even get close to it, shifting in her saddle at the
proximity. I have to remind myself that she's here to help and how vital that
could be, because the anticipation curling in my gut demands I spill blood
at the pain etching into her face with every step closer we take.
She mumbles under her breath, and white light flashes in her eyes as she
crosses the line of poison. She winces, whatever magic she used getting her
over that line but not without pain.
When our horses halt and the guards open the gates, Roan frowns and
murmurs in the old language, “Kharl will be able to get over that too, won't
he? And his generals, if they’re decent with magic?”
Rooke nods, her voice fighting to stay even as she replies, “Any with
strong enough magic can cross it, but his raving armies will be halted by it.
Without a shield in place to hold them back, it's the best protection for the
castle. If we can keep them from overwhelming the gate, then it's a matter
of picking them off with the archers and other artillery.”
Roan nods and ushers her ahead of him through the gate, away from the
substance so toxic to her. I keep close to her side. She glances at me, as
though checking I’m not about to shove her from her horse or draw a blade
across her throat, but then settles into her saddle. I ignore the flash of
irritation I have at the reaction.
There are no forces waiting to greet us and see us through the city, no
time for such adherence to protocol, and I once again approve of Prince
Mercer’s priorities, a novelty. The streets are deserted as we ride through
them, except for the lines of soldiers preparing the defense.
 The city is far larger than that of Yregar, the houses starting at the outer
wall and climbing into the air around us, four and five stories common with
the booming population. Though there are many planters and gardens
around us, they’re all barren without the adherence to the cycle of life, and
the gray cobblestones lie devoid of the color and vitality that once bloomed
here.
When we reach the inner wall, the gates are already open and Prince
Mercer waits on a horse at the lowest steps, soldiers surrounding him with
hundreds of quivers filled with arrows sprawled around the courtyard as
they prepare to hold off the witches.
His eyes flick toward Rooke, but he bows deeply to me without a word,
his voice clear across the yard as his own household pauses at our arrival.
“Our deepest gratitude for your aid, Your Highness. The people of Yrell,
who all serve you most humbly and obediently, are honored at your great
mercy to ride to us in our darkest hour. Our loyalty to the true Celestial line
is unwavering, and with good reason.”
It’s closer to admitting that he loathes my uncle than he’s ever come
before, the prospect of losing his castle loosening his tongue, but no one
amongst the crowd lets out so much as a whisper about it. They’re all
terrified of the death marching toward the city.
I incline my head in return. “Your loyalty has never faltered. Whatever
aid I’m able to offer the great to people of Yrell is yours.”
I gesture to Rooke, a sneer curling my lip for those still staring at her
with contempt. “My Fates-blessed mate has traveled with us. Her
knowledge of the witches’ weaknesses and her own great skills of war will
be an invaluable aid to Yrell. Kharl Balzog himself fled at the sight of her in
the Battle of Yregar, and the power she wields was our salvation there.”
Prince Mercer's eyebrows creep up, and he reluctantly bows his head in
her direction, a brief jerk but an attempt nonetheless. “A force strong
enough to send Kharl fleeing is a powerful thing indeed. I look forward to
your nuptials and coronation after such a long wait.”
Mercer is a very clever man, showing respect but gouging Rooke’s
reputation in the same breath by questioning her long absence. He could
live and thrive in Yris with such tactics, and I’m tempted to drag his rotting
corpse behind Nightspark for using that tone with my Fates-blessed mate
even after my warning.
 Rooke takes it without comment, bowing back to him respectfully,
though her eyes are cold.
I’m not so forgiving, and neither is Roan, his eyes narrowing
dangerously at the Prince of Yrell. “Rooke’s aid is a generous offering to
Yrell and our kingdom, one she gives freely and with mercy far beyond that
shown to her by the high fae. Any slight against her is a slight against
Prince Soren, treason I’ll be the first to rectify.”
There’s a moment of pause, Mercer still carefully avoiding looking at
Rooke entirely lest the Snowsong heir and I see the contempt he has for her,
but then the sentries call down warnings of the advancing armies, and
Rooke shifts subtly in her saddle, an irritation that we’re wasting the final
moments of preparation we have on high-fae posturing.
It’s not about that, though.
Like icy fingers wrapping around my throat, I know with absolute
certainty, her life is more important to me than every high-fae royal in this
city combined, no matter how loyal or old their bloodline might be. The
hold I have over my temper quickly grows precarious and the possessive
nature of a mated Unseelie high fae writhes within my blood. As though she
knows of the storm raging within me, Rooke refuses to meet my gaze as she
ignores my attempts to reach out to her through our mind connection.
Ignorant to the conflict plaguing me, Mercer clears his throat. “We
should make haste. The witches will be here by dawn. Come, Prince Soren,
let me show you what preparations we've made to defend Yrell's greatness
from the stinking masses."

OceanofPDF.com
OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER EIGHT

Rooke
Soren rides toward the outer wall with Prince Mercer, Roan and a handful
of soldiers from each household in tow, leaving me behind with Tyton in
charge of Yregar’s soldiers. I wait, still in my saddle, until he directs me to
dismount and follow him, the rest of the soldiers from Yregar moving
without the need for a command.
As we step into the great hall, I shift my way carefully around until I
stand beside Reed. He gives me a fraction of a smile before it disappears,
and he flicks stern eyes away from me as though it’s a crime to meet my
gaze.
“We're not supposed to talk. You should go back to Prince Tyton’s side
and do as he instructs.”
Scowling, I send a sidelong look to the prince. “Who said we’re not
allowed to speak to one another? No one told me.”
Tyton looks over his shoulder at us both, huffing under his breath at us.
“I don't care who either of you speak to so long as you're discussing the best
ways to defend Yrell, the only task of importance right now.”
I don't need that reminder but the soldiers around us all drop their gazes,
directing their interest away from the Outland soldier and me. Why we had
it in the first place is baffling.
 I raise an eyebrow at him. “Is our loyalty in question, Reed? If Yregar’s
salvation wasn’t good enough to sway the high fae of my integrity, then
nothing ever will be, and may the Fates have mercy on such ignorant fae,
because I have no patience left to coddle them. Saving Yregar by falling on
your own sword for the greater good was more heroic than sitting by while
the castle fell for the sake of following a misguided order. Any who
question it, or Prince Soren’s humility in his mercy, should remember that
they’re alive to do so thanks in no small part to you.”
It's maybe a little dramatic in its wording but I know how to dance
around the high fae and their convoluted ways as well as the next lower fae.
Alwyn meets my eye with a quirk of his own mouth and an approving look
before his head ducks away once more. Whatever the household may gossip
about Reed's actions, the soldiers who stood steady on the walls respect
him.
Reed doesn't answer me though, never one to question the royalty he
serves, and I turn back to Tyton with a hard look, daring the male to
question me. “I'm going to look at the inner wall and pace it out. There are a
few obvious fixes I can think of that won't take much time or resources, but
I need to be sure they’ll work.”
He waves a dismissive hand. “Take Reed with you if you're so intent on
being friends. Alwyn, too. Try to contain some of your fire to direct at the
witches, though, there’s no use wasting it on the rest of us just because
you’re at the end of your tether.”
There’s an amused lilt to his voice, but when Reed steps closer to my
side once more, Tyton’s demeanor changes, hardening until there’s no
question of his seriousness. “You're guarding Rooke, not Yrell. Her safety
comes before all else. Ensure that no harm comes to her, or it’s your head. I
speak with the full authority of Prince Soren and the Celestial line—any
soldier who disregards her safety is enacting treason and will face the full
consequences.”
A hush settles around the courtyard at his words, a firm declaration after
Prince Mercer’s own hesitance at my arrival. I glance around but find no
obvious rebellion to his command; either the soldiers were prepared for it or
are loyal enough to Soren to accept it without question.
Reed bows deeply in return. “On my life, no harm shall come to Prince
Soren’s Fates-blessed mate.”
 I want to roll my eyes at the high-fae pomp and pageantry, irritated that
it’s needed in the first place. Despite my frustrations, I watch it play out
without so much as a smirk. Tyton is making a display of this to assure my
safety, I won’t be an ungrateful idiot about it. My mother raised me better
than that.
The soldiers from Yrell and Yregar clear out of my path as my escort
and I move hastily to the gate, no time left to waste on the opinions of
Prince Mercer’s household. The courtyard is still a hive of activity and,
though there’s some disdain mixed in with the curious looks we get, no one
has time to question Tyton’s commands.
I reinforce the gates with ease, pouring my magic into the ghastly iron
and renewing the ancient hinges crafted by the First Fae, just as I did back
at Yregar. The well here is taller and longer, but the structure is made the
same way and easy to navigate, my eyes slipping shut as my power flows.
“How much energy does this magic cost you, especially after you've
just given a sacrifice to the forest?” Reed asks, his gaze shrewd as it lingers
on the glowing expanse of my hands against the iron.
The horrid metal makes my skin tingle, but it’s far easier to handle than
the disgusting witcheswane that soaks everything around me. “The sacrifice
to Elms Walk was nothing more than a show of good faith, a taste of the
power we hold and will someday go back to returning to the land. A true act
of sacrifice requires a lot more blood than that.”
Reed’s mouth tightens, his reply curt. “I remember.”
I keep my eyes closed and pull away only when the last of the
fortification takes hold. As I step back, the strength of the ancient stones
radiates before me. There's no visible change to the gate but it could stand
sure against ten thousand witches pressing against it, or a blast of power
from Kharl himself.
The city is far larger than Yregar, still simmering with life though
hidden away, and as I look out over the thousands of houses nestled
between the two walls my gut clenches violently. Only the high fae within
the castle will be saved by my magic cast here.
Striding back to the crowd, I call over to Tyton, “I need to see the outer
wall as well. I need to ride back out there.”
He glances at the sentries on the inner wall then waves his hand at me,
ushering me on. “Move quickly. Prince Soren will begin directing the
soldiers and no doubt he’ll place you inside the inner wall. I don’t want to
spend the last hours before the witches arrive chasing you around Yrell.”
I’m nodding and swinging into my saddle before he finishes his
commands, Reed and Alwyn following suit as we ride out together, passing
the thriving hive of the courtyard and riding back through the derelict
streets. The surrounding outer wall is at least three times bigger than
Yregar’s and impossible to hold a decent shield around without anchors or
risking burning myself out too quickly, but that doesn’t mean I can’t
reinforce it to hold off the masses if they use the same tactics.
Soldiers line the streets, hundreds of them with barrels of witcheswane,
pouring the poison onto the flagstones. My head begins to spin as the vile
concoction coats everything around me, my vision beginning to darken as I
hold on to my consciousness by a thread. My escorts curse under their
breaths, but I keep my focus on the task ahead.
When we finally arrive at the outer gate, I lean forward in my saddle
and place my hands on the iron slabs without hesitation, the metal a hot
brand decimating the layers of my skin because of my weakened state. The
charred scent of my flesh chokes me, and I blink back tears as my magic
fights to work despite the nullifying properties of the metal.
Reed seethes at my task, snapping at me, “I'm supposed to be protecting
you, Rooke, and I’ll drag you onto the back of my horse and up to the castle
if you don’t stop that.”
“The soldiers will have a dozen things to say about that,” Alwyn drawls
in reply, but I ignore them both as I finish my work.
Pulling my hands away, I wince at the raw flesh left behind and then
nudge Northern Star away from the gate now that I’m satisfied it will hold.
Reed hisses at me, scowling at the injury, but I lift a shoulder in a half-
shrug. “At least we know that the protections are adequate, and if the
generals come with the intention of fighting, they're going to be held off.”
Alwyn glances between us before he reaches into the pack on his horse
to pull out a wad of bandages and his water flask, fussing with them for a
moment before he presses the dampened cloth into the damaged flesh of my
palms.
The soldier seems hesitant to speak to me but, as a low hiss ekes out of
my clenched teeth, he mutters, “Is there a chance the generals will fare
better around the witcheswane, or will they all weaken this easily?”
 I thank him quietly before I nudge Northern Star with my knees,
pushing her back on the path to the castle at a slower pace than our trip
down here. Even her steady gait jolts my hands, and the pain whites out my
vision for a moment. As I struggle to stay coherent, Reed and Alwyn flank
me, their horses nudging Northern Star between them.
Funneling my attention away from my pain and into something
productive as a distraction, I answer, “I'm still recovering from the ravages
of the earth's power, so I'm more affected by the witcheswane right now, but
it's effective on any witch. There's no cure or immunity. There's nothing
Kharl can do to lessen the effects or to heal himself if he is shot with an
arrow dipped in the poison. It’s the greatest limitation of my kind. No
treatment has ever been effective in this land or any other.”
Bile climbs up my throat and cuts off my words, forcing me to slow my
breathing. Inhaling through my nose and exhaling through my mouth in a
long stream, I repeat the actions again and again until we reach the inner
walls.
I climb unsteadily from Northern Star’s back, Reed’s hand firm on my
elbow as he catches me, careful not to jolt my damaged hands.
Tyton takes one look at me before cursing viciously under his breath,
but I shake my head at him. “The gates are secured and the witcheswane is
working. With a limitless supply of that stuff, Kharl and his armies stand no
chance.”
A ripple of excitement works its way through the soldiers surrounding
us, anticipation for the battle ahead filling them as they hear my words and
see the truth of them bleeding out of my flesh.
Tyton huffs at me. “It’s certainly not limitless, but Prince Soren has
always ensured Yrell is well stocked. Kharl would have to lay siege for a
turn of the seasons before we’d get close to running low.”
With a glance at my hands, he scowls and snaps, “Get inside the castle
and away from it. You've done enough, the rest is for Prince Soren and the
soldiers to take care of.” He nods at Reed to follow me.
As I walk up the steps, I see Prince Soren and Prince Mercer arriving
back with their soldiers, grim looks on their faces as they begin directing
everyone around them. The torches lighting up the courtyard catch against
the icy tones of their hair and the frigid winter of their eyes.
I'm not so concerned about this battle, even with the extra forces and the
preparations Kharl will have made. Prince Soren and his soldiers are
immovable and righteous in their defense of the entire city and not just the
high fae at the center.
I’ve seen determination like that fight the monsters of the Fates and win,
and I know it’s far more powerful than any magic Kharl wields.

WITH MY PALMS burned to a crisp, I'm not much help in the great hall
and, if anything, as Kharl’s armies march toward Yrell, my presence is a
terrifying thing to the household sheltering there.
Reed shadows my every movement, never letting me out of arms’ reach
as we move through the crowds of high fae taking shelter within the castle,
and as my footsteps slow he directs me to speak to the Keeper of Yrell, a
stern high-fae male who turns to us with dripping derision. I don’t know
which bloodline he comes from or whether he’s a noble, but he looks down
at me as though I’m one of the stinking masses converging on this city.
When it’s clear I’m not going to drop my gaze or lower my head to him
in submission, the keeper snarls at me through clenched teeth, “Prince
Mercer has put aside rooms for you all. I’ll escort you to your lodgings.”
It clearly pains him to be forced to address me, even with so little
respect. Every line of his body is trembling with the tension he’s holding
within, and the words are uttered so begrudgingly that I don't bother to offer
him any thanks in return.
Reed catches my elbow again as we follow the keeper, the grip not
supporting my weight but an assurance he’ll catch me if I succumb to the
witcheswane. I slow my breathing and take care with my steps to ensure
that doesn’t happen. I’ve spent far too much time being carried around by
high-fae males since I returned to the Southern Lands.
The journey to my room stretches on but, as we climb up dozens of
never-ending staircases and get farther away from the poison, the clearer
my head becomes. Though I’m grateful for that, my focus then shifts to the
pain in my hands, and it’s difficult to ignore the throbbing.
When we reach the top of the castle, Reed growls under his breath but
waits until the keeper sees us into the guest wing and scurries away before
he turns to me with tightly restrained fury. “This is about as disrespectful as
they can possibly be while still satisfying their requirements as a host.
Everything he said to Prince Soren about your wedding was a lie—the male
is a blood-guzzling harpy intent on draining everyone else before spilling a
drop of his own.”
I wave him off, wincing at the movement, and carefully make my way
to the bathroom to wash my hands of any remnants of the poison. ”I don't
understand why high fae are so fussy about lodgings within castles. The
room is clean and dry. The bed is large, and the sheets appear to be clean.
The bathroom is well maintained and stocked with everything I’ll need to
bathe comfortably. What else matters?”
Reed grumbles under his breath, stepping to the large window and
giving me his back while staying close, offering privacy but with my
protection as the priority. “You’re their future queen. Any disrespect they
show you is for Prince Soren as well, and all those who back your claim to
the Unseelie throne. We left Yregar to bring Yrell aid when no one else
would, and they want you to sleep up here? It’s disgraceful.”
Pressing one of the hand towels against the ravaged flesh of my hands, I
step back out of the bathroom to join him at the window and find that it’s
actually a door of sorts. The glass panels run all the way to the floor and
pull open to reveal a small balcony. There’s no furniture or decoration, and
the slabs of stone are in desperate need of a good scrub, but the view of the
city and outer wall is far better up here than it was even on the inner wall,
the perfect vantage point.
When I mention that to Reed, he moves two of the armchairs out there,
muttering unhappily about the state of them and then refusing to allow me
to sit until he’s sure the chair I’ve chosen is in better condition than the
other.
Even once I’m comfortable, my hands cradled in my lap and my ankles
crossed to relieve some of the discomfort of wearing shoes for such a long
time, the Outland soldier doesn’t take his own seat. Instead, he rests against
the wall beside the open glass door panes, staring out at the advancing
armies of Kharl’s loyal witches. There’s a surly air about him that wasn’t
there before, one that reminds me of the last time we waited for an
oncoming battle together.
As tempting as it may be, I don’t want to linger in the past and on the
actions that led us here. It doesn’t serve Reed or I to remember the dungeon
or the seething fury he directed at me before Airlie arrived to free me. I’m
still not convinced he was actually angry at me and not just furious at the
witches for once again threatening the kingdom.
Distracting him is easy enough, relating to the soldier within him is
second nature at this point. “I once slept in the wreckage of N’Tyri, a city in
the Northern Lands. There was dust and debris everywhere, the bodies of
my friends and innocent fae folk around me, and I wore clothing that had
been on my body for a week. A few little holes in a chair older than I am
because a moth made a meal of it? I’m not concerned, Reed. Better for
Prince Mercer and his household to show us their true intentions now than
to fall victim to acts of their dissent later.”
Silence follows, and I take a moment to stare into the darkness at the
first glimpse of the army marching toward us, their torches and the glow of
their magic lighting up the night. The clouds that followed us here, heavy
with a threatened downpour, still hang low, another obstacle to factor into
the battle ahead. It’s miserable to do anything in the rain, fighting for Yrell
and all those within will be a misery for the soldiers to endure.
Reed takes a hesitant step forward, his eyes shifting between me and the
advancing armies, before he finally takes his own seat. He’s positioned it so
he’s covering the door and can keep me in view as well as the marble and
glass balustrades of the balcony, in case some creature climbs up here intent
on my demise. My brother did the same back in the Northern Lands no
matter where we were or who was with us, and a familiar pain blooms in
my chest.
“Prince Roan’s mother was from N’Tyri. Princess Nayda followed the
war closely before her death and grieved the loss of it deeply.”
My gaze meets Reed’s. “I didn’t know she was an Auron high fae. Roan
still has kin in the Northern Lands who survived, though they all reside in
the Golden Palace now.”
He nods back, his head tilting as though he’s listening to something, but
he keeps up with the conversation well enough. “He still speaks to his aunt
Princess Sabyl often. She begged Nayda not to visit even when the princess
was homesick and desperate to see them all. Her family thought Fates Mark
was safer for her than the war in the Northern Lands.”
Grief digs its claws a little deeper in my heart, all that we’ve needlessly
lost for the whims of others, but I turn my attention back to the murky
outlook before us once more. Now isn’t the time to get lost in the past, not
while the horrors of the present advance steadily.
 Reed’s eyes narrow, and when he catches me watching him from the
corner of my eye, he begins to describe what extra details he can see.
“The numbers are greater than what Fyr estimated… or maybe their
numbers have grown. There's at least one more extra battalion’s worth of
soldiers than we were expecting. Prince Soren is moving his soldiers to
where they’ll be most useful amongst Mercer’s and dousing the last of the
wall with the witcheswane. Yrell has enough in their stores to mark a full
perimeter, and the wagons went out an hour ago.”
The archers have begun filling in the sections of the wall they have
access to, and each holds quiver after quiver of arrows, an endless supply,
and all of them coated in the poison. Once it hits the bloodstream, even a
small nick can be enough to cause death as the body struggles to fight off its
effects and weakens over time. Any witches that flee this battle but have
been struck may very well die on their journey back to the Witch Ward.
How Soren has acquired so much witcheswane is a mystery to me, one
that eats away at the back of my mind, along with a dozen other
unanswered questions about my own mate. The lands have been depleted
for centuries, long enough that the high fae had stared in wonder at deer in
the Ravenswyrd, and yet somehow my Fates-blessed mate could provide his
ally with thousands of gallons of this poison?
When I finally murmur this to Reed, he scowls hesitantly back at me
before I shake my head at him. “If you're betraying your people by
answering me then save your breath. I don't want you getting into trouble
again.”
Bitterness leaches into my tone, my headache and the frustration of the
pain in my hands sharpening every last one of my edges. Reed clears his
throat, then again more insistently when I ignore him until I’m driven to
look at him. Holding up a finger, he circles the two of us and my brows
furrow at him for a moment before I realize what he's asking me for.
The moment my magic encases us, he speaks. “Stellar Forest. The
witcheswane grows in the Stellar Forest in abundance. It’s Seelie magic,
and a secret known only to Prince Soren’s most loyal supporters. Prince
Mercer doesn't know where the supply comes from or where the plant
grows, but Prince Soren has been stockpiling the poison in Yrell for
decades in preparation of Kharl’s advances.”
Seelie magic.
 For it to be such a secret confuses me, because the entire kingdom
should be grateful of any protective measures that are able to be taken
against their enemy, but Reed scowls down at his boots for a moment, fury
rolling off him in waves.
“Princess Nayda still held her magic—the Seelie Court never forgot
their ways.”
I nod, knowing that better than any within this kingdom, and his brows
pinch together as he works to find the right words for the dark and blood-
soaked history carved within him like a wound.
“Kharl has sent witches to Fates Mark on scouting missions relentlessly
since he took Yrebor from Prince Venyr, just as he sends them to the goblin
lands and every other seat of high-fae power within the kingdom. The
witches first scaled attack hit a dozen villages at once, and the Outland
soldiers were forced to spread out. Prince Roan and his father were
ambushed, pinned down trying to save the fae folk at the edges of
Irongrave, and it was clear the witches weren’t concerned about losses to
their numbers. They would happily lose a hundred just to kill one high-fae
soldier while the Snowsong princes were loathe to lose a single lower fae
villager. After days of this assault, Princess Nayda felt the call of the Fates.
She heard them better than any other, heard her son’s fate in their whispers,
and she left the safety of Fates Mark immediately. No one could stop her,
not even Princess Airlie.”
He stops for a moment to collect himself. “Princess Nayda rode into the
Stellar Forest, her magic spread out like a beacon calling the witches in
after her, and they followed as though possessed by the allure. When they
caught up to her, deep amongst the trees, we were riding out to meet her,
but it was too late. Her magic killed an entire battalion of the stinking
witches, but the power tore her apart.”
The raw pain on the elder Prince Roan's face flashes into my mind, his
murmured promises to honor his late wife as he stared into the little prince’s
golden eyes like his grandson is a gift from the Fates. The child who
wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for his grandmother’s sacrifice, life and loss
twisted together in a joyous agony, as it so often is.
“I don't know the words for such magic, but it was as though Princess
Nayda laid a death curse on the earth as she died, on the witches and the
forest itself.”
 I glance at him, my own eyes narrowing at his choice of words, and he
stumbles over them to explain himself. “I think her death, and the witches
she took with her, became a sacrifice to the land. Anywhere that the enemy
fell, witcheswane sprang forth in abundance. No matter how we harvest it,
it always returns. It won’t grow anywhere else, no matter how hard we’ve
tried. Princess Nayda’s final act to save her son and the line of Snowsong
was a curse on the witches and a gift to the kingdom she grew to love like
her own.”
I've never heard of such a thing happening before, but the way he
describes it makes me nod in return. “Dying acts of magic within the high
fae are unpredictable. The most power any will ever hold is always in a
time when the veils to Elysium open and the souls begin their journey. The
magic returns to the earth, but it’s still formed by the spirit that held it. If
she died in such a violent and desperate way, for the love of her son… that’s
a powerful act of magic and a gift she has given us all.”
Reed swallows again and nods. "Roan said the same thing to Airlie on
the night of the battle at Yregar, that his mother was watching over them
and their small son and that she would ensure nothing would harm them.
She waits in Elysium with their first son, holding all of them safely within
her magic even now.”
I let the barrier slip away from us, the night clearing around us once
more just in time to see the outer gates close behind a horse-drawn wagon.
The perimeter of poison has been laid. Shouts ring out through the air,
unintelligible to me, but Reed leans forward in his seat as he looks out at
the long lines of buildings climbing into the air in the city.
The footsteps of the witches are a low humming murmur as they
trample everything within their path. Thousands of raving soldiers,
traveling for hundreds of miles, powered by their insanity and ideology.
There are a dozen different strategies we could’ve employed if we had
more time and resources but, for now, as I look around, Yrell’s survival
hinges on the integrity of the wall. Built a millennia ago by the First Fae,
it’s never been breached before.
That's going to have to be enough.

OceanofPDF.com
OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER NINE

Soren
The scent of Rooke’s burning flesh lingers in the air, driving me further into
my blood-soaked fury as my grasp on sanity slips.
Oblivious to the new danger his household faces, Yrell’s prince
dismounts and orders his horse to be tended to, arrogance lacing every
word. When a group of his soldiers give up their pretense of respect and
chuckle amongst themselves about the state of Rooke’s hands after she
touched the poison-soaked iron, Mercer’s lip twitches upwards, and the last
of my patience snaps.
I take two steps in the direction of their laughter, my hands already fists
at my sides, because I need their blood on my knuckles to slake some of
this churning rage, but Roan cuts my advance off to save their pathetic
hides.
Tyton curses so viciously that Mercer stops his hasty retreat, pausing on
the courtyard steps to look back at what could’ve caused my cousin’s
outburst. He can hear his soldiers as well as we can, he just doesn’t find
anything wrong with what they’re saying.
As he swaggers toward them with a smile on his face, they all stare at
the Snowsong prince with apprehension and thinly veiled distrust. His
golden eyes may set him apart from every other high fae, but the strength of
his bloodline is indisputable. He outranks everyone in this courtyard except
Mercer and I, and even Mercer would hesitate before crossing the heir of
Fates Mark.
“I don’t know why you’re all laughing so hard at a female’s injuries,
especially when it’s your lives that are forfeit if we choose to abandon Yrell
for your insults. The Ravenswyrd Mother is risking her life to protect
hundreds of thousands of high fae lives within this city at the risk of her
own fate, and for a kingdom that would happily cut off her head merely for
the silver in her eyes.”
One of the soldiers is dumb enough to sneer at Roan, his tone dripping
with disgust. “The battle isn’t going to be won by a witch! No matter her
fate, their kind are no match for the high fae.”
Roan shifts on his feet, a careful and calculated movement as silence
falls around him. Slowly, as though we’re not balanced on the edge of
Kharl’s siege, he looks each of the soldiers over as though assessing them
only to find them all wanting.
With a cold smirk of his own, he says, “How about you step into the
sparring ring with that ‘pathetic little witch’ and we see just how superior
you truly are against her kind? After the battle is won, of course, by your
future king’s command and the guidance of his Fates-blessed mate.”
The soldier rolls his shoulders back, not enjoying Roan’s challenge, but
his gaze flicks in my direction as I approach them both before he bows at
me in submission. “I would never bring harm to Prince Soren’s Fates-
blessed mate or the future of our kingdom. My loyalty lies with the true
Celestial line.”
Mercer’s gaze is searing as he takes in every inch of me standing there,
dressed for war to defend his home and birthright as though it were my
own, but I ignore him entirely.
Instead, a cold smirk stretches over my lips as I lean into the soldier and
enjoy the tension that fills him as he fights the urge to shrink away from my
ire. “I don't think there’s any risk of harm befalling her in that match. Not
even if you clutched your sword and she had nothing but her hands and her
wits.”
A ruddy flush slashes over the soldier’s cheeks, the sharp lines of the
high-fae bone structure only making the color stand out more boldly, but
before his household can react, Mercer lifts a hand for quiet and calls out,
“The witches are upon us, and if you waste time standing around gossiping,
then Yrell will surely fall. Move as you have been commanded and fight as
though every second is your last. If our city falls, all is lost.”
The courtyard bursts back into hurried movement as though the Fates
themselves have spoken, the whispers silenced for now, though I suspect it
won’t take long for them to begin once more.
I take the stairs up the inner wall two at a time, ignoring Mercer's final
calls for attention as he retreats into the castle. Following the soldier who
thinks himself good enough to defeat Rooke, I make short work of the trip,
and the battlement empties at my arrival. It’s not my intention to kill the
soldier, or even to speak to the idiot, but he blanches and scurries away like
a gutless worm as I find a good vantage point. Below us, the city prepares
to defend itself should the outer wall fall.
“The witcheswane covers everything, Your Highness. Every stone in the
city is slick with it, just as you commanded.”
Yrell’s commander stands with his chest puffed out and a conceited grin
on his face, the polished and unmarred plate of leatherbound iron looking
more ceremonial than functional on the male as he waits for my approval.
The rest of the soldiers here are far less jovial, aware that, while Mercer and
his most trusted males might be safe enough within the confines of their
bloodlines, the rest of them are not. The front lines are a very different task
when you’re the ones manning them.
I didn’t need the commander to tell me the poison is everywhere; the
stink of it fills my lungs with every breath until I’m sure I’ll never be rid of
it. Every surface between the two walls of Yrell glows amber in the light
cast by the soldiers’ torches, the darkening of the stones of the walls a
warning as clear as the slick danger of the cobblestones beneath our feet.
Witcheswane fills every last one of my senses, and a steady beat of dread
thrums inside me.
Not for the first time, I push at the barrier Rooke placed between our
connection but to no avail.
Frustration burns me, but there’s no time to seek her out or send Roan to
check on her. Turning on my heel without dismissing the commander, I look
past him at the castle and the streams of high fae flowing into the doors to
seek refuge there in the final hours before the siege. Too many wear armor,
too many are choosing to hide rather than defend their home and the
kingdom.
 Mercer himself was eager to relinquish the strategy and warfare to me,
though that had nothing to do with my competence or abilities. Any
Celestial royal could’ve ridden into the city and taken command of the
defense with his blessing, the cowardly prince content to lead his household
from the depths of his castle and far from the bloodshed.
As my gaze lingers on those bodies shoving at each other to get into the
castle, something brutal and wild wakes within me. This is the true measure
of how far we’ve fallen. No remnant of the First Fae and their glory to be
seen, great enough that the fae folk followed them into the kingdoms to live
under their rule.
Prince Mercer didn't even open Yrell Castle’s great hall to his people.
When I told him it was a worthy measure, he dismissed me easily.
“There's not enough room in there, and I won't be separating women and
children for fear of a greater mess to clean up at the end. If the witches take
the outer wall, they'll die together as families and reunite in Elysium. A cold
comfort but the only I can offer.”
Mercer’s apathy for the fae folk only spurs me on.
Moving the soldiers around, I weave my own forces in with Mercer’s to
be sure my commands are followed. Without need for my direction,
centuries of battles fought together, Roan takes over command of the outer
wall. The commander mutters indignantly at the shift in leadership but no
one questions the Snowsong heir. To do so now, on the precipice of Yrell’s
darkest hour, would be treason and there’s never been any doubt of my
merciless approach, or my most loyal support. Whether they like it or not,
Roan’s word is final.
There’s no time to dwell on thoughts of the Unseelie Court’s prejudice,
Mercer’s cruelty, or even the reproachful gleam in far too many high-fae
eyes around me. Kharl’s forces will use our division to tear down Yrell’s
walls and take the city from us, a future I cannot allow to happen.
The dread lingers, images of Rooke’s burned flesh assaulting me with
every blink and her screams raking at my mind with cruel talons until the
driving need for victory consumes me. There are no other options for Yrell;
we will defend, we will win, and I’ll get my Fates-blessed mate out of this
weed-soaked nightmare.
The rhythmic sound of the soldiers marching toward us grows louder
with every breath, building until it echoes through the empty streets, and as
the first rays of the morning light peek over the horizon, they finally come
to a halt before the witcheswane lines. The loss of the rhythmic beat of their
footsteps can barely be heard over their snarls and manic grunts, the
writhing sea of bodies darkening the already desolate outlook.
I look closer at them now than I ever have before, picking over each of
the faces on the front line, but where there was once a seething rage inside
me at the animalistic madness etched into their features, there now lies a
cold, furious clarity. These creatures deserve death as an act of vengeance
and mercy, to end the suffering at Kharl Balzog’s bidding.
The generals who ride alongside them deserve pain and suffering before
their demise. Their compliance is in their clear eyes, their chins free of the
black spittle the soldiers all ooze out, the bright white colors of their witch
markings glowing against their skin like markers in the early morning light.
They chose this war.
They abandoned their forests.
Shouts of alarm ring out before they abruptly stop, Mercer’s soldiers
panicking as bursts of white light begin breaking through the dark masses.
Magic crackles through the air as balls of power spring to life in the hands
of the raving masses, the shrill squeals of a war cry deafening as they rally.
One of the soldiers flings their magic toward the stone wall, and then
hundreds of the projectiles rain down on the ancient stones uselessly and
bounce off.
The strength of their magic was stolen by their High Witch, and yet they
still try to wield it as though compelled.
The generals move to the front line, fanning out as they overtake the
perimeter, stopping only as they reach the eastern side of the wall where the
forest grows thick. The male who stops at the edge stares into the tree line
before calling out orders, a small band of the soldiers breaking off from the
battalions to delve within Elms Walk without second thought. Mournful
silence takes over the wall, Mercer’s soldiers unaware of the sacrifice that
was given and Rooke’s insistent pleas for protection. The unease that has
the males here shifting on their feet gives me hope that perhaps while
Mercer is a self-serving, weak excuse of a male, his soldiers might be of a
different ilk.
I meet Roan’s gaze across the battlement with a curt nod, and he follows
me toward the staircase as the soldiers stand at the ready under Tyton’s
command. Yregar almost fell because I didn’t trust the Fates and the path
they laid out before me; Yrell won’t suffer the same treatment.
 The only true way to defend the wall is to decimate the sieging army.
Rooke has woken the forest, the soldiers here are ready to pick off as many
of the raving masses as they can before they can cross the witcheswane, but
I won’t be trapped behind a shield this time.
Before my boots hit the steps, screams rend the air, stopping me in my
tracks. It’s like nothing I’ve heard before, not their frantic war cries or the
manic screeching of their deaths at the end of my blade. This is terror,
blood-curdling hysteria that blocks out every other sense in its totality. The
horror befalling the soldiers is going to be spoken about in the halls of Yrell
for generations, the tale growing only more fabled as the screams die out all
at once and the silence settles once more.
The trees heeded Rooke’s call, their vengeance after centuries of neglect
swift and brutal.
“What in the fires was that,” one of the soldiers murmurs, leaning
forward on the turret and breaking formation as he tries to see into the thick
woods and the darkness within.
“That was the first act of war that Rooke laid for Yrell—a gift of
protection for all that walk within the trees. The High Witch’s armies can't
take the perimeter of Yrell if they can't enter the forest, and your future
queen ensured no safe passage for any who answer that Fates-cursed
bastard’s call.”
A stunned silence follows Roan's words, a smugness rolling off him as
he studies the lines of witches before us. Orders are called out, the words
indistinguishable from here, but a group twice the number of the last
ventures into the trees. There’s no delay this time, screams filling the air
once more and dozens more soldiers sent into the forest to die. The general
commanding that battalion seems eager to sacrifice his soldiers just to test
how many lives the forest will take at Rooke’s command.
The Fates begin singing in my chest, the lullaby of sweet death handed
out to those who seek to destroy my kingdom and all those within. The
raving masses writhe and squirm before breaking apart, the generals
moving their forces, and a break in their lines solidifies before us, a feat
we’ve never achieved before. The first signs of victory solidify before us.
Meeting Roan’s triumphant gaze with a cold smile of satisfaction of my
own, we descend the stairs two at a time only to find Prince Mercer
scowling in the courtyard. The sounds of the witches being torn apart by the
old gods who live amongst the trees has drawn him out of the safety of the
great hall, the color leached from his face as the soldiers guarding him
murmur their concerns at his presence. A handful of his household huddle
by the door, all of them watching my movements with evident desperation.
“I sent my people in there; hundreds are taking refuge away from the
battle. Are they dead already?”
The prince’s voice is terrified, but only for his own wellbeing, and my
mouth firms into a vicious line. Calling my own soldiers to my side, I’m
distracted from my fury at him as the first sprays of arrows from the outer
walls begin to fall. The screeching of the witches waiting at the
witcheswane line competes with the dying screams of those within Elms
Walk as the archers hit true to their targets. Every arrow is coated in poison,
thousands soaking at every battlement, and with every true shot we claw
back the safety of the city.
As I stride past the castle steps, Mercer calls out to me, a shrill tone
trembling his hasty words, “Prince Soren, are my people dead? What
creature hunts within the forest?”
Swinging into my saddle without sparing him a glance I snap back at
him, “It doesn’t matter what lurks within Elms Walk. The people you sent
in there were nothing more than bait to distract the witches and give
yourself more time to prepare the troops. Don’t pretend otherwise.”
Every eye that followed me now quickly averts, the household who
follow this male shying away from the horrifying truth of his tactics. Color
blooms at the tops of Mercer’s cheeks, impotent fury igniting in his eyes as
his cruelty is laid bare.
I dismiss him with a shrug. “Without securing a perimeter, Kharl’s
forces are at a disadvantage. No matter how much stronger we are, the high
fae have never been able to compete with the vastness of their armies or the
reckless abandon with which Kharl will sacrifice his soldiers. My Fates-
blessed mate couldn’t give us more soldiers, but she could weaponize the
very land our enemy seeks to take from us. The fae folk of Yrell are under
her protection now. The High Witch and his raving armies have nothing on
the power of the Ravenswyrd Mother and the trees of our kingdom who
sing to her. The high fae forgot, but that ignorance ends here.”
WITH THE SOUNDS of the troops above us loud in our ears, I spur
Nightspark on and lead my soldiers through the tunnel. At the backside of
the castle, in the depths of the garden and obscured by bracken and debris,
hides the entrance to Yrell’s greatest weapon and safety measure. The tomb
in the garden has an opening barely wide enough for the horses to get
through, but the tunnel is wider, easily accommodating our height and
numbers even on horseback.
The pressure of the hot air around us threatens to be a distraction, but as
the path slowly begins to curve upwards, the screams of the witches grow
louder around us. Centuries of battle make it easy to distinguish the sounds
of them breaching the witcheswane line and advancing to the wall. We
listen as the crawlers begin their ascent, more arrows fired as commands are
called out. Hundreds of sacrifices the generals willingly make to take the
city.
I soak it all in, every scrap of information I can absorb, even as we ride
hard through the tunnel, battle after battle of lessons culminating until we
reach the opening, the light ahead filtering through until we step out at the
side of Elms Walk behind the witches and the general sacrificing his people
to test the old gods.
I flick a dagger against the leathers of my thigh and let some blood drop
from there to the ground, murmuring a prayer for safe passage, and that’s all
it takes to further incite the unseen beings that live within the oaks. The
leaves begin to shake around us no matter how still the air is, and the
singing grows louder as the witches around us scream, clutching at their
heads as they fall to the ground. The voices rend the air as they rave out
their madness, black lines glowing on their faces and black spittle leaking
from their grimacing lips.
The fury of their forests for their betrayal can no longer be ignored.
This section of the battlefield has the least amount of archer coverage,
and the moment the high fae see our horses rise from the tunnel, pouring
out of the earth as though by magic, they cease firing at the battalions
waiting beyond the witcheswane line and instead move to deal with
crawlers inching their way up the walls.
The general lifts his sword just in time to catch the swing of mine, a
grunt forced out of his chest as he struggles to stay in his saddle. The hood
covering the black tresses of his hair falls back to reveal silver eyes sunken
deep in the male’s face, the white lines of his own witch marks standing out
clearly as his lip curls at me. There's no iron covering his body, no
protections from my sword, and so when I swing again this time in a fake
action, he lifts his arm only for my dagger to lodge between his ribs, a cry
of agony ripping from his chest before he begins calling for his soldiers.
Roan calls out warnings from behind me as my soldiers swarm the
general, pushing his horse backward to trample his own men. The general
clutches his side, and I'm forced to deal with the madness around me
instead of following his retreat. The sapphire embedded in the hilt of my
sword glows as I hack at the witches, their magic popping and sizzling
around me but nothing more than a party trick. Once, it sent a shot of fear
into the blood of any Unseelie high fae, but I know better now.
I’ve seen the true power a witch can wield, and these soldiers have but a
shadow of it.
The general hisses through his teeth, his horse skittish as its eyes roll,
and it snorts as he hauls it back. I fight through the witches at Nightspark’s
feet, my soldiers pushing on around me to hold back more of the masses,
but my eyes are steady on the general. When he lobs an orb of searing light
at me, I lift my shield in time to block it. The projectile was barely more
powerful than the balls of power the raving soldiers employ, a questionable
tactic, especially as magic thrums in the air around him. His lips move, the
true strength of his magic channeled elsewhere, and even facing me fails to
deter him from that task. Our trap gave us the upper hand to begin this
battle, but they came equipped with their own strategies.
Shouts ring from the outer wall above us. More arrows rain down, and
some of the high-fae soldiers are forced to hold up their shields to block the
friendly fire, curses ringing through the air as the maelstrom of the battle
grows. Visibility deteriorates rapidly as the magic thickens, and the song of
the Fates reaches a deafening pitch in my ears, a warning I desperately try
to heed, but there's no telling what foul magic the witches are casting.
Screeching sounds below me, and then Nightspark whinnies in a shrill
protest, stomping and thrashing as one of the witches climbs around his
neck. Its legs wrap around the iron armor plates that protect him, and the
stink of its flesh as it burns is putrid, but it doesn't let go. Even as it screams
in agony, its mouth opens and latches on to Nightspark’s neck, and I'm
forced to drop my shield to defend him. I take the dagger from my thigh
holster and plunge the blade into the witch's neck, then pry him off. My
hand seals over the horse’s wound as I shove the dead witch away, the
crunching sound of the body hitting the ground swallowed by the chaos
around us. Blood wells up from the wound and seeps through my fingers,
but Nightspark doesn't bolt or rear in terror. My faithful beast trusts me
implicitly, even as I'm forced to pick up my shield once more and let go of
the gaping wound to shove away bodies as they come forward.
From the corner of my eye, I see one of the witches clasp one of the
deadened trees, not a strong oak of Elms Walk, but deadwood on the
periphery. The raving soldier climbs into the branches, the wood cracking
underfoot, and flings itself onto Roan's back. Its gnarled fingers rake his
leatherbound armor, the witch desperately fighting to dislodge him while
others at his feet threaten to overwhelm his horse.
The masses are far more dangerous when you're on foot, and with no
chance to get to Roan before the swarm consumes him, I palm a dagger and
throw it, watching its arc through the air before it embeds itself at the base
of the witch's spine, an instant death. Slumping, the witch falls from the
back of his horse and takes one of my favorite blades with it into the
writhing masses. The other witches don’t pause, instead climbing over its
corpse to shove closer still to the Snowsong prince. Roan doesn't stop
swinging, and he cuts through the masses as they hurl themselves into his
path to their own demise, oblivious to everything in their mania.
From the ground, it seems as though there's another fae door open with
endless streams of witches coming through, but no calls ring out from the
walls and this has always been the reality of the witches’ numbers. They’ve
always been exponentially higher than our own, difficult to grasp until
we’re fighting them off.
The first of the crawlers makes it up the wall, Yrell’s soldiers not fast
enough to keep picking them off, and the sounds of close combat eat up
their desperate calls for aid. Hasty movement on the outer wall catches my
attention as the soldiers swiftly block off sections with iron cages before the
witches can overrun the battlements and open the gates. The archers shift to
fight them off, the steady cover lifting from the battlefield, but the
swarming masses grow steadily until there’s no stopping them from getting
to the top. One and then a second at first, only to grow in numbers, five,
eight, a dozen, then the first section of the wall is breached.
Dozens of soldiers call out from around the wall, the first of the ground
troops preparing for the fight to enter the city, but if the gate is opened,
we’ve lost.
 With a slash of my hand through the air, I call out to Alwyn, who nods
back as he rides out of the melee and feigns a retreat. Dozens of raving
witches stream after him, thoughtless and crazed, long streams of them
following him straight into the forest as though they’ve forgotten the fates
of the others in there. No screams follow, maybe the old gods rest once
more, but a path through the battlefield finally opens before me, and I find
myself staring at the general once more. Hundreds of witches lie dead
between us, the ground churned up and spoiled with the toxic blood and
rapidly rotting corpses, but he doesn’t spare his fallen soldiers so much as a
glance.
I kick Nightspark, and he pushes on regardless of his wound, strong and
relentless beneath me as his hooves crush everything in our path. When I
lift my sword to the general this time, he doesn't have the energy or the
reflexes to stop me, his eyes widening even as his lips continue to move in
his chant as he watches my sword descend. The last vestiges of his magic
snap as his head is cleaved from his body. My own shoulder, still weakened
by the continuous force, holds sure as bolts of pain shoot down to my
fingers before the limb finally numbs out again.
The other generals still line the perimeter of their battalions, none of
them advancing, as though they are waiting for our defense. Roan and a
handful of the soldiers make it to the base of the wall to protect it from
more crawlers, fanning out to mirror the witches leading the raving soldiers,
our strength against their numbers, our experience against their zealot
nature. Without the generals here I’d be confident in our success without
question, but there’s more to Kharl Balzog’s planning than what lies before
my eyes.
Calls for more archers ring through the air, horror drenching every
word, and as I jerk my head around to see the target that has shaken the
high fae along the wall I hear the first sounds of wood screeching in protest
as the ground beneath me shudders. More frantic screams from the walls as
my eyes focus on the monstrosity before me, a machine of war almost the
height of the wall itself and unlike any the Southern Lands have ever seen.
Dozens of witches work methodically within the structure’s confines, and I
can only guess at its function. Aged wood beams and pylons, thick ropes,
and the glow of magic binding it all together, and the fervor that takes over
the battalion at its reveal is deafening.
 One of the generals lifts a hand, the magic within him reverberating
through the battlefield, and the machine makes a popping sound. Ropes
snap and pull, wood screeches as it moves, and then, like arrows of
unspeakable size and destructive power, a ball of fire arcs through the air
and over the wall. As the booming sound of the flaming stone decimating a
building resounds, screams fill the air. I have no doubt of the destruction
being wrought, and this machine has the power to level the city if left
unchecked.
Cold clarity washes over me.
Kharl Balzog has found allies outside the Southern Lands, and they
gave him this machine. It’s not just my uncle supporting the witches in this
war.
As I ride toward the machine, I find that the general I killed may have
been the one using his magic to shield the catapult from our view, but the
other generals are holding a barrier to keep us from it. I shove the eerie
feeling of fingers creeping down my spine out of my mind, the innate gut
feeling of being tested in a game where I alone am restricted to a fraction of
the board while my enemies can view the entire thing.
Nightspark skirts an invisible perimeter, the wall of magic separating us
and the witches crawling over the wooden structures. They all have black
markings on their faces, but they don't screech and scream like the others.
Their eyes are clearer as they glance in my direction as though checking
that the barrier is holding. Whatever madness Kharl uses to twist their
minds, it hasn't hindered them from learning how to operate the machine.
The pylons swing back down, ropes are reattached and pulled toward
wheels and pulleys, and a boulder-sized piece of coal is heaved into the
scoop with a flash of magic, the tiniest amount that crackles at the witch
holding it as flames come to life over the coal. When the magic snaps again,
it’s followed by a popping sound as the ropes snap and another ball of fire
arcs through the air, screams of warning sounding from the fae soldiers in
the booming crash as another building is hit.
The design of the shield is different to Rooke’s, no pillars digging into
the earth where she had laid her talismans, and even as ignorant of magic as
I am, the barrier feels weaker. If they die, their magic will surely go with
them.
Heaving my shield back up, I spur Nightspark on, his blood still warm
as it runs down the leathers of my pants and my boots to the ground below.
It's not enough to risk his life yet, but if I can't seal it back up soon, it will.
Three more generals target the wall, each of them surrounded by the
raving witches, but in the time that it took me to kill the first general the
archers continued their own defenses, piles and piles of dead witches with
poison tipped arrows protruding from their bodies. Those who weren't hit
with a killing shot lie writhing in agony on the ground, their skin slowly
changing to a gray-green as the toxins take hold and they choke on their
own spittle until finally their hearts stop and death takes them.
We're still outnumbered greatly, but the odds are slowly shifting in our
favor. With every swing of my sword and thump as an arrow hits home
around me, we claw our way closer. The wall may have been breached, but
it still stands strong, and more archers finally arrive to cover the eastern
section.
There’s a screeching noise within the forest, then the sound of hooves as
Alwyn finally returns to the battlefield, a haunted if determined look in his
eyes. The dozens of witches that streamed into the forest after him are gone.
“Kill the generals,” I call out, and then again, louder, as the archers all
take aim.
Roan answers from somewhere behind me, and then a hail of arrows
falls from the sky. Though two generals are fast enough to shield
themselves, the third drops to the ground, one hand clutching the arrow
protruding from her throat. Her hood falls open, and a splash of auburn hair
spills onto the ground as her silver eyes stare up at the sky, sightless in
death.
I cleave a path through the forces as the generals call out for more
troops. Roan rides past me, skirting the edge of the witcheswane line that
holds off their barrier and creates a divide on the battlefield. He rides
toward the general farther ahead, determination burning in his eyes as he
holds up his shield, another ball of power bouncing away uselessly as the
witches fight to keep him at bay.
I hear wood creaking behind me, the witches beginning to load the
machine once more. Kicking Nightspark again, I push harder, swinging my
sword and cleaving through more of the witches, the steel of my blade
sharp and deadly.
This general steps out of his saddle willingly as I arrive, his mouth
turning up into a sneer as he draws his own sword. The blade shines with
power as he lifts it, and his lips still move in the chant to hold his barrier.
 He's taller than the last opponent I faced, and the shape of his brow is
different, but the silver of his eyes is the same. That color alone no longer
lights up a rage inside me, but the loathing shining within them does, as do
the white lines of his witch marks. He chose to follow Kharl; he chose the
ruination of his own people and the kingdom as a whole. He chose this path
while thousands of others were forced to kneel.
He chose death, and I’ll give to him, gladly.
Arrows sing through the air around me again, screams for aid on the
wall to whatever the next mounting attack is, but I slide out of Nightspark’s
saddle easily, and shouts of alarm join the cacophony that consumes us all.
Sword in hand, I leave my shield secured across the horse’s back as
protection from any stray arrows. When I advance on the general, the cold
grips of the Fates’ commands for retribution wash over me, and when I
reach the witcheswane line I step over it without hesitation.
The soldiers on the wall might be horrified, but they’re quick to act,
arrows streaming down as they pick off every last one of the witches who
attempt to swarm me in their general’s defense. The male doesn't call for
more backup, just steps through his own shield, a sneer curling his lips as
he lifts his sword to charge, confident that his magic assures him a victory
against me.
Lifting my own sword, I catch his blow with ease, and the sound of
steel clashing rings through the air, but he moves into another attack
without pause. After centuries of facing the maddened rabble of Kharl’s
twisted armies, this is the first time I’ve faced a true swordsman amongst
his soldiers. He must have years of proper training under his belt, and the
fight is a true dance as we come to blows. Attack, defense, attack, defense,
over and over again, sizing each other up as we each wait for the other to
stumble.
His blade shines with magic, but not enough to overpower me, and it’s
clear most of his power is being funneled into the perimeter around the war
machine. As we circle each other once more, I notice Alwyn at the edge of
the perimeter, fighting witches on foot. He’s waiting for the moment the
barrier falls and he can kill the witches within. He screams in fury, and I
hear the popping sound of an axe falling, ropes snapping, the next line of
arrows too slow to stop the catapult from firing again.
A ball of light arcs through the air and the general hesitates, his
attention caught elsewhere for a second. It's all I need to change the next
swing of my sword to behead him the same as I did the other general. With
a single swipe, another enemy of my kingdom is dead at my feet.
More arrows rain down on the battlefield around me, dozens landing in
the midst of the screaming witches. I look up in time to see Roan run his
sword through the last general, and the magic surrounding the catapult
vanishes in an instant. The operators scream as they jump down from the
wooden contraption only to find Alwyn awaiting, cutting through them with
brutal swift actions.
When he steps away, caught between staring in horror at the machine
and watching for more of the soldiers, the witches still left in the battalions
finally break ranks and flee in all directions. There are a few hundred of
them left, but without their commanding generals, the soldiers descend into
chaos. My soldiers still on horseback ride after them as the archers on the
wall fire streams of arrows to slow the enemy down.
Some of the witches are mindless enough to flee into the forest, death
still waiting for them there, and I look up at the outer wall of Yrell and see
Tyton and Reed flanking Rooke on the battlement. Her eyes are glowing
brightly, and her hands bleed as she holds them out. Her magic holds the
final ball of fire suspended in the air, the flames slowly burning out, and
then she shifts the ball forward, pushing and pushing it even as a frown
begins to form between her brows.
When it finally hovers over the catapult, her magic disappears in a rush,
and the boulder drops to crush the machine. As fragments of wood spray
out, a white glow sparks in the center of the pile and quickly catches fire,
and soon the wreckage is consumed by flames, ensuring none of Kharl’s
forces can attempt to reclaim it.
The piles of the dead lie waist deep around us, blackened blood coating
my armor in its stinking film, the sounds of retreat still echoing around us,
but the siege has been held off and battle for Yrell is won.

OceanofPDF.com
OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER TEN

Rooke
Every inch of my skin itches. My hands throb, and my eyes burn from the
effects of standing in this witcheswane-drenched city, but Yrell stands tall.
The high fae have won.
Prince Mercer’s soldiers still give me a wide berth, but the change
within the ranks is undeniable. My involvement in this battle was far from
minor. Though the high fae won the battle without my aid, Soren and Roan
killing three of their generals and decimating their forces, it would’ve taken
months to repair the wall if the machines had succeeded in damaging them.
Yrell would’ve been left vulnerable to a second attack, no doubt Kharl
Balzog’s plan.
The closeness of Yrell to the Witch Ward is the city’s greatest weakness
in this war.
When I saw the flames in the catapult, I turned to Reed and demanded
he bring me down here, brushing aside his hesitations. When we made it
down the second flight of stairs, we met Tyton on his way up to find us.
He and Reed both flank me now on the wall as I watch Prince Soren and
Prince Roan both climb back into their saddles, the stone at our feet
groaning as the outer gates open. As the princes ride back in they pass a
band of Yrell soldiers, riding out to chase the fleeing witches alongside the
soldiers of Yregar with Alwyn at the helm.
Tyton leads me back down the inner side of the wall and opens the iron
gate, then ushers me through, Reed staying close behind, no longer holding
my elbow to keep me steady now that there are so many eyes on us, but he's
hovering, nonetheless. When we reach the bottom, he swiftly directs me
away from a large puddle of witcheswane, my feet stumbling underneath
me.
Prince Soren’s eyes are sharp on me as he watches us both walk toward
Northern Star. Covered in witch's blood and the debris of war the way he is,
it takes a moment before I see the blood dripping to pool beneath his horse.
My feet stop as I look at him. “Are you injured?” The words tumble out
of me in a rush.
His eyebrows flick upwards, the scowling prince looking far less
foreboding in an instant, and the slashing scar that cuts through his high-fae
beauty only adds to the charm. He glances down at the gore-spattered
length of his torso as though checking for some dire wound he somehow
missed before cursing under his breath.
“It's Nightspark's blood, not mine. One of the witches tore a hole in his
neck.”
He’s never been overly affectionate toward any other horse in my
company, but there's always been a deep respect between him and this
beast. When his hand presses over the wound again, the horse snorts
unhappily, and he murmurs quiet promises to have it seen to promptly.
Maybe it’s the gentle tones, or the way the horse takes him at his word and
settles under his care, but I’m drawn to them both.
Reed curses as he’s also forced to step toward the horse, shadowing my
every move, muttering under his breath, “That beast will take your hand off.
The prince's horse is not one to suffer ministrations from anyone but Prince
Soren, and maybe Ingor, if he’s feeling charitable. Fates’ mercies on
whichever stable hand is tasked with caring for him.”
When I look into Nightspark’s large brown eyes, dark eyelashes framing
them beautifully, though barely distinguishable against his black coat, he
doesn’t seem so beastly. His blood isn't visible until it hits the cobblestones
below but it's dripping at a steady rate, enough that I’m willing to get bitten
to help him.
 I hold his gaze with my own, unfalteringly calm as I let him adjust to
my presence. When he snorts unhappily but doesn’t immediately lash out at
me, I push aside my own pain to offer him my hand. He sniffs at it, not
happy with the interaction, but still he doesn't snap his teeth, which is
permission enough. When my damaged palm slips onto his neck, my
fingers almost brush the leather of Prince Soren’s gloves as he moves his
hand away from the wound, and the maelstrom of my poison-addled mind
reaches a new peak.
The male hates me, and the Fates alone keep me at his side, so why in
the ashes am I so keenly aware of the stillness in his body? With narrowed
eyes, he watches me carefully with no malice in his gaze but, as the fraught
air thickens around us, the depths of his affection for this beast becomes
painfully clear.
This isn’t just a useful or preferred horse; Nightspark is a ward of my
Fates-blessed mate.
I let my magic out gently, softly, in the way that all animals and skittish
folk need, letting it slowly build until I’m steadily healing and he’s never
had the chance to notice. Pushing my magic into the wound, I stop the flow
of blood and repair the blood vessels, and then weave together the torn
muscle.
Careful to do only what’s absolutely required, I stop the damage from
getting worse and begin the healing process. I take away the pain, pulling it
into myself and adding it to the heavy burden already within me.
There’s a push at my shoulder, and my eyes slip open to find Nightspark
nudging at me with his nose as he demands a scratch, his own form of
thanks. A smile stretches across my lips, my eyes itching now more than
ever, but I gently rub the backs of my fingers over the soft velvet of his
muzzle. It’s the only patch of my hands whole enough to give him what he
demands without compounding the agony tearing me to shreds.
I don't want to meet Prince Soren’s gaze, every inch of me too exposed,
but when I move to turn away, he catches my arm. Though my mind is still
a hazy mess, I notice he’s removed his gloves. His fingers are impossible to
shake, and I don’t have the strength to try. They’re gentle enough, more
confusion swirling in my gut and the sensation only deepens when my gaze
catches on the bundle of clothing now balanced on Tyton’s pack.
The clasp sitting on top is Soren’s and the furs make it easy to
distinguish it’s his cloak I’m looking at, but when I glance back to him, I
find he's also removed his riding jacket and the plates of armor that covered
his legs. The drops of witcheswane that inevitably covered him thanks to
the melee are now gone.
A lump forms in my throat as my eyes sting but I dismiss it as a reaction
to the pain in my hands or a relief to escape any further injury. Such an
emotional response to basic kindness can only be a result of my weakened
state and not a softening for this male. He doesn’t deserve an inch of my
regard, no matter how the Fates sing beneath my scars.
“Reed, help her up. She’ll ride with me.”
Even with the strength draining from my legs, I move to brace myself
with my foot on his foot to swing myself up behind him but it’s no use. The
vile poison has taken its toll and no amount of my determination can stop
my legs from giving out. It’s Soren’s grip on my arm alone that saves me
from collapsing on the cobblestones at Nightspark’s feet.
Reed looks carefully at the prince before he steps over to me, hands
firm on my hips as he lifts me without trouble to sit behind Soren. Though
he’s patient with my clumsy movements to get settled there, he steps back
the second I'm seated, as though touching me burns him. He ducks his head
deeply into a bow and, confused, I glance up to find the audience we’ve
attracted.
The soldiers of Yrell watch every part of this interaction, a gallery of
assessing eyes, and idly, as I struggle to keep my wits about me, I notice the
clear differences between them and the soldiers of Yregar. There’s an
arrogance there that’s baseless, as far as I can tell. An assumed superiority,
simply for their bloodlines, but I can already see the cracks that have begun
to form.
The performance Reed is putting on makes sense.
Soren clicks under his tongue and Nightspark moves at his command,
the pace far slower than when we rode here, but still I struggle to stay
seated. I don't know where to put my hands. They hurt too much to simply
grip Soren’s waist, but my balance is hampered by my pain, so not holding
on at all isn’t a wise option.
Soren doesn’t give me the chance to come to my own decision. Hooking
his hands behind my knees, he slides me closer to settle me against his
back. One of his hands stays around my leg, holding me securely as the
warmth of his firm grip seeps through the layers of my robes to sink into
my skin. Vaguely, I think the Fates approve of our closeness, but there’s too
much chaos in my mind to tell.
The stink of the witch's blood is horrific, none of the high fae
exaggerating their distaste for it. The toxic concoction of magic Kharl feeds
into his soldiers rots in their blood before they're even dead, and a vile
stench bursts from their corpses instantly, but the witcheswane smells even
worse to me. It radiates from the cobblestones and reaches me even up here,
and there are remnants of it on Nightspark’s legs from where he rode
through the puddles that line Yrell’s outer wall.
My stomach churns, and I have to pull all my focus into myself to be
sure I don't vomit all over Soren's back, swallowing over and over again to
keep it at bay. My eyes screw tightly shut, and my legs squeeze to keep me
from falling. I barely feel the nudge of another horse riding up beside us
before the teeth-snapping sound of Nightspark’s ire breaks through my
concentration.
Prince Tyton begins to murmur, “Whatever you need to say to Prince
Mercer, do it quickly. The witcheswane is draining her, and it’ll do far
worse if we don't get her away from it soon."
Soren tenses underneath my cheek, and a hand presses against the back
of my neck, pushing me into him as Tyton holds me on the horse securely.
The horses move faster now that I'm supported, Nightspark lashing out as
he's forced to ride abreast of the others. When I hear the gates ahead open, I
blink my eyes to clear them, but it’s no use.
As we come to a halt before the castle, I slump, hands catching me in an
echo of the fight at Yregar, and darkness envelops me once more.

THE MONSTERS HUNT ME.

Consuming, destroying everything in their path. They hunt us, hunt me,
hunt the magic in my blood that’s older than the Fates themselves. Panic
blinds me, steals the air from my lungs, a shot through my bloodstream and
into my heart until it races faster than my feet could ever carry me.
Or maybe my eyes are shut.
 Have the Ureen descended on the camps? Have they followed us out of
the cities and fallen onto the makeshift lodgings of the evacuees? Why else
would I be sleeping when those apparitions still hunt?
They hunt me, they hunt Pemba, they want our blood and our power,
they want me more than a hundred thousand cities filled to the brim with
high fae. They just want me.
“Rooke… Fates mercies, Rooke, wake up!”
My eyes fly open, and an agony-filled gasp tears from my lips as my
hands shove at the wall before me, bright bursts of stars filling my vision as
the pain rocks me. My gut churns, my throat working to keep the bile down,
and the gasps torn from my chest sound more like sobs than breaths.
“Mercer will come looking if I keep the barrier up for much longer,
Soren.”
Mercer. I know the name, and I know where I am. The nightmares have
found me again, and the witcheswane robbed me of any semblance of
control, ashes curse the fucking weed. Tyton sounds worried, but Prince
Soren’s answer is instant and snarled.
“Mercer can die at the end of my sword for all I care, the barrier stays
put until she’s awake and aware again.”
Hands circle my wrists, prying my hands from Prince Soren’s chest, but
no matter how hard I try I can’t clear my vision or find my voice. The
waves of pain replace my torment, rendering me useless even with my mind
functioning once more. I fight to slow my breathing, the gasping sound
awful and raw as it bounces around the decrepit room.
Soren tucks my hands back onto my chest and secures them with one
hand. My mind latches on to the rasp of the callouses on his fingers against
the soft skin of my wrists, the tremors still shaking me, but some of the
panic recedes as I divert my attention. He’s avoiding the burned flesh of my
palms, curious, and with every breath more sensations flood my awareness.
Soren is pushing against the mind connection, but opening it to him now
and exposing more of the damage within me is unthinkable so I move my
fractured focus elsewhere, desperate to find purchase as my sanity still
threatens to slip through my fingers. I’m on a bed, still clothed, but my
boots and cloak have been removed. The mate the Fates have chosen for me
sits at my side to restrain me, but no other hands touch me. It’s too
dangerous to use my magic now, so Tyton is the only other presence I can
be sure of.
 When my breaths slow but remain labored, my hair is brushed away
from my face before Soren presses two fingers against my throat as though
checking my pulse. High fae can hear heartbeats, the prince has no healing
training that would explain the action, and he’s being far too gentle with
me. Is there some royal high fae here he’s trying to sway?
My stomach clenches again at the thought of more eyes on me. I have
no shame for my injuries or the processes of healing, but it’ll be impossible
to keep my temper if any of the high fae mention my nightmares or any
errant details of this cursed experience. If any of them make light of the
Ureen and what they did to me, what they did to all those I love back in the
Northern Lands, I’ll become the witch they all fear me to be.
Blinking rapidly, I fight to clear my eyes and see for myself who is in
the room, but the white light remains. My heart pounds so hard I can feel it
in my throat but with every beat that the blindness remains, the action
grows more violent.
“He holds a seat on the court⁠—“
“Fuck the court. Hold the barrier or die.”
My nightmares still crouch at the edges of my sanity, they always have,
waiting for the moment my defenses slip and they can overwhelm me once
more. As the Fates writhe under my scar at his seething snarl, the reminder
of what the Ureen did to me severs the tenuous grip I have on my senses.
An icy flood of terror washes over me, and what little awareness I had of
the room disappears under the echoes of the Ureen’s unearthly screeching.
I know nothing else until the vile stench of selkie-salt overwhelms me.
My chest tightens to stop me breathing any more in, but one lungful is
all it takes. My mind is instantly wiped clean of anything but the desperate
need to get away from the putrid smell, the light finally clearing from my
vision as my innate drive for survival kicks in. There’s no real danger from
the salt, an effective cure for hysteria and one I’m baffled the high fae have
at their disposal when even fairy wine is scarce in their stores.
“You’re dead if she doesn’t take another breath soon, Snowheart.”
My gaze flicks to Soren, his lip curled into a snarl that’s far more
familiar to me than the gentle hands that still lay on me, and I have to
wrench one hand away from his grasp to push the salts away from my nose.
He lets out another growl but this time I watch his gaze flick down to the
vial, then to the male holding it there, his ire not directed at me.
 Reed stands at my side, Roan scowling at his shoulder, but it’s the
Outland soldier who grasps the vial, and with a knowing look in my
direction he wedges the cork back into the glass and stows it. A thousand
tales of woe pass between us, the shared experience of grunt soldiers in a
war we have no power in that formed our tentative friendship in the first
place, and the hold I have on my senses firms.
“She’s awake, Your Highness.”
The fingers still pressing at my throat shift to turn my chin, forcing my
gaze back to Soren, but it’s only once the first shuddering exhale rattles
through my chest that some of the tension eases from the air around us.
With another deep breath my senses sharpen, and I find we’re back in the
room that Prince Mercer’s keeper assigned me to. I lay on the bed, a musky
scent surrounding me that I welcome over the alternatives, and only a
handful of the ancient standing lamps have been lit, their weak glow barely
illuminating the room.
Tyton stands by the door, deep frown lines cutting through his usual
jovial features, and his magic encases us all in its protection. Reed and
Roan have already taken off their armor, though both still have their cloaks
on. There’s no blackened blood or poison on either of them, another
anomaly, and they share a long, grave look as I focus on getting myself
under control. Keeping my gaze away from Soren seems like the best
course of action, the Fates still dancing wildly under my scar at the heat of
his body so close to mine.
A knock at the door startles me, the jolt of surprise jarring my raw
hands, and I have to bite my lip to keep a gasp of pain from escaping me.
Soren curses viciously again but Roan cuts him off, snapping at Tyton,
“Tell that miserable Fates-cursed male that we’ll be down when we’re
ready. Tell him that a lowly keeper ordering a Celestial prince to do
anything isn’t just poor manners, it’s treasonous. I’ll happily deal with him
on Soren’s behalf.”
Even with my short time at Yregar outside of the dungeons, I know that
any high fae who dared to call Firna a “lowly keeper” would swiftly find
themselves answerable to Prince Soren. Her close relationship with Airlie
and her grandmotherly ways with Raidyn make it obvious that Roan holds
her to the same regard, and the dusk-adder poison that drips from his every
word is reserved for this keeper in particular.
 No maids or servants within our household seal their gaze to the floor in
terror as the high fae pass, not the way those here at Yrell do. Every fae I’ve
met has been wary and desperate. Food scarcity and war explain that well
enough, but none have looked at the high-fae princes or soldiers with terror.
This household is a window into the cruelty of unchecked Unseelie high-fae
arrogance, and if Prince Mercer is a loyal supporter of Soren’s claim to the
throne, then I don’t hold much hope for those who live within Yris.
Tyton cringes but moves to the door without question, stepping through
the barrier and answering it as Roan instructed. His body obstructs the room
from whoever has come calling, and his words to them are blocked by his
magic, so there’s no way to know just how much of Roan’s ire Tyton is
channeling or softening.
Reed blows out a breath, ducking his head into a bow as he steps back.
“I’ll go to the kitchens. There’s less chance of Rooke’s food being tampered
with if I see the staff there myself. I won’t tell them who it’s for.”
With a soft groan I sit up, avoiding putting any pressure on my hands,
and remind myself with the single action of my absence from training,
something that will need to be remedied before I lose my hard-won skills.
The sound catches all three males’ attention, Reed’s head jerking up as
Roan startles forward, his hands outstretched as though warding off some
invisible foe.
Grimacing, Soren reaches out to me with both hands, and I flinch before
I can stop myself. He freezes, his body turning to stone at my side as my
shoulders hunch forward protectively to protect the center of my chest from
a blow. The selkie-salt cleared the nightmares that gripped my mind, but my
body hasn’t broken free, and my instincts scream danger to me.
The air thickens around us both.
I hate everything about this moment. The loaded silence, the feel of
their gazes on me, the searing pain in my hands, the breath they’re all
holding as though I’m moments away from falling into madness once more
—all of it threatens to be my unmaking and, after everything I’ve done to
submit to my fate, I can’t allow that to happen.
“Thank you, Reed, but I don’t need much. Water and something sweet?
Sugar will help.”
There may not be any medicinal reason for it, but it’ll help my mood, if
nothing else, and the high fae don’t need to know the details. I learned early
in my time serving in the Sol Army that a task is often all a soldier needs to
give them agency once more and defuse an impossible situation from
escalating. The task I assign myself is to get off this bed and away from
Soren before he snaps. I need less of an audience before I attempt to stand,
the potential for a shameful display when I’ve already had my worse terrors
exposed to them all a gut wrenching prospect, and Reed’s offer makes the
request easy to give.
The sound of my voice breaks the hold they were all in, and Reed bows
once more, then strides out of the room without waiting for orders from
either of the princes.
Roan glances at Soren before he turns to me and nods curtly. “Prince
Mercer is expecting us all to join him in the great hall. The celebration is
already starting there. I’ll go down and make our excuses. Mercer saw your
hands just as clearly as the rest of the soldiers did, he can’t expect you to
endure his whims and the gallery of his household after you were injured in
defense of his people."
I glance down at the ruby-charred skin and the blisters already fully
formed before I shake my head. “We came here to save Yrell and stop Kharl
from gaining more purchase on the kingdom, but there’s another battle
ahead. You said we can’t afford to lose a vote of the Unseelie Court. Why
not strengthen the bond to be sure it’ll hold?”
“Fuck Mercer,” Soren snaps, but Roan shoots him a look before he turns
back to me.
“Mercer is an important ally who we need to keep favor with until the
regent is removed from power and Soren is on the throne.” Despite
addressing me, his stilted tone is for the infuriated prince. “Your
selflessness is admirable, Rooke, but no loyalties in the kingdom are worth
risking your safety. Yrell’s walls stand because of your defense, but we’ll
need to find better ways of protecting you before the next attack. This
cannot happen again.”
He’s probably referring to my hands, but a flush creeps over my cheeks
as the wrenching gasp I’d let out springs back into my mind. “May the
Fates have mercy and give us more time before Kharl Balzog strikes again,
but my hands will heal. There’s no need for any confrontation. I’ll join you
all in the hall for the festivities. I’d like to clean myself up, though, if
there’s time?”
The scowl on Roan’s face darkens before he nods again. “Take as long
as you like, they can wait.”
 He steps forward to hook a hand around Soren’s elbow and all but drags
him from the bed. Keeping my gaze averted from them both, I don’t see
Soren’s reaction to the forceful action as I carefully shuffle from the bed
and stalk to the bathroom on surprisingly steady legs. I hear Soren’s
grumble at Roan perfectly though, and I nudge the door with my hip with
haste to seal myself out of the male’s proximity.
I’d scorch my hands all over again for a proper soak in a tub but, no
matter Roan’s assurances, I don’t want to drag this night out. Instead, I use
my magic to numb some of my pain and carefully wash my face and arms
and re-braid my hair before sweeping a hand over my robes to switch them
out for a clean set.
The high fae are always dressed in their luxurious and elegant attire
when entertaining like this and, in my robes, I’ll stand out. They’re made to
ensure I have a full range of movement, the color chosen to hide the mess
that healing can often make, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to wear any
shoes but my boots tonight.
Avoiding the mirror until the last possible moment, I force myself to
check for any missed spots. A lump forms in my throat as I’m overwhelmed
by my grief thanks to my raw, exposed state. The witch staring back at me
isn’t the regal or breathtaking beauty of the high fae, but she wears a
shadow of my mother's face, an ancient wisdom shining in the silver depths
of my eyes that once shone in hers too. The dark tresses of my hair belong
to my father, and the dark eyelashes framing my silver eyes, sootier than my
mother's, are another gift from him, one that he bestowed on Pemba and
me.
I see my brother staring back at me as well.
My heart throbs with the same pain I felt when I left the Northern
Lands, the intensity blinding me until I have to clench my jaw viciously to
stop myself from screaming. Pressing a hand against my chest, I push
against that wound, as visceral as the throbbing in my hands, and I turn
sharply away from my reflection. It's far easier to avoid looking at myself
than to remember all the things I left behind, all those whom I miss so
deeply.
Extending my hand, there’s a pop of light and then my ribbon appears in
my palm, an old comfort that I slip into the pocket of my robe. With my
defenses shattered, I need all the help I can get to keep my mind from
tumbling into the abyss of terror-soaked memories I’ve done my best to
forget. I let the tips of my fingers rub the stained threads of embroidery for
a moment before I step back out of the bathroom.
Only Prince Soren remains.
Tyton’s sound barrier still lines the perimeter, so he can’t be far, and
there’s a tray on the small table by the window that says Reed made it back
here, but Soren’s eyes alone track me as I cross the room to my small
supply bag. He doesn’t move or say a word, just watches me with the same
seething scrutiny he always has but without the vitriolic accusations at
every turn.
When I pull out the small bundle of bandages, grimacing at the finicky
task of wrapping my hands myself, he finally speaks. “I’ll do it.”
I scoff as he steps toward me. “You know how to bandage wounds?”
He plucks the bandages from my grasp with care, a stark contrast to the
glower he levels at me. “Yes.”
A single word, growled at me in his most menacing tone, and yet the
Fates dance under my skin like he’s offered me his highest praise or even a
portion of his kingdom to rule over as my own. When I hide my flinch with
a grimace, he stops again, his hand tightening around the bandage.
He doesn’t lash out at me, instead standing just out of my reach and
watching me far too closely after this Fates-cursed day. It’s only when I
take a deep breath, forcing my shoulders to roll back and relax, that he
begins to unwrap the bundle.
As he takes my wrist in hand and moves my arm into position to wrap,
he says in a low tone, not unlike the one I used on Nightspark to coax the
beast into a submissive state, “This is the last time you’ll endure proximity
to witcheswane. Any who question that will die by my sword. The Fates
have decided that humbling me is the only true path to save the kingdom
and the fae within.”
“You needed that lesson.”
The bitter words tumble from me easily but so does his reply. “I’m
aware.”
Surprise halts my reply, ensuring my compliance as his fingers press at
my wrist, gently adjusting my hands this way and that as he assesses the
sorry state of my skin. “I was taught by soldiers, who learned the skill from
healers, but only basic techniques intended to get the wounded to their
capable hands with a pulse. If I’m doing it wrong, tell me and I’ll fix it.”
 My eyes narrow as I press my lips together, sealing the long stream of
pointless retorts that threaten to spill out. I give him a sharp nod instead. He
wraps the bandages slowly, his fingers surprisingly deft as he holds sections
until he’s working his way to my fingers. I don’t want to speak to him, but I
can’t go out and face the waiting scrutiny without some use of my hands, so
I’m forced to give him directions.
“The wraps are good, and my wrists are secure, but my palms need
more pressure and my fingers tighter still.”
He scowls at his work. “Any tighter and it’ll hurt.”
I shrug. “It already hurts. I’ll have more use of my hands if they’re
tighter and I can use my magic to ease them instead.”
I can feel the heat of his glare, but I refuse to look away from his hands
and, after a moment, he does as I ask, his mouth tightening with every pass
of the bandages until finally he’s pinning the end down at the back of my
hand. The pressure is grating, worse when I move, but with a deep breath I
ease my magic into my hands to burn the edge of my pain away.
“You don’t have to do this.”
I move each of my fingers slowly, testing the bandages and finding
them secure. I arch an eyebrow at Soren and extend my arm, my sword
appearing with another pop of light. His jaw clenches as he grinds his teeth,
but I ignore him. This is reckless and a little spiteful, a shameful game to
play that I’m too old to excuse, but still I push at the male to see how long it
takes for the guilt to give way and the scornful prince to return to torment
me.
The sword swings easily in my hands, my movements slower than usual
but still effective. “There, proof there’s no need to worry on my behalf. I
might not win against you or a soldier under your command in this state,
but I can certainly defend myself against any of Prince Mercer’s males. I
didn’t see any worth my concern, did you?”
He doesn’t pry his jaw open to answer me, instead waiting until I put
my sword away before he strides to the door and opens it, gesturing for me
to go ahead. Just outside, Tyton blinks at his cousin’s seething fury and
cringes, glancing at me as though checking that I’m still breathing.
“Someone is going to die tonight. I’ll put a sack of gold on that bet.”
Roan cuts him off, “No one would take it. One look at him, and they’re
all going to run screaming. Let’s get this over with.”
OceanofPDF.com
OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER ELEVEN

Soren
Rooke's nerves haven’t improved since she woke from the terrors, her
movements stiff and her eyes vigilant, as though expecting an attack. As we
make our way down the staircase, her feet are steady once more, but her
pallor is awful, almost as pale as my own, and her calm demeanor is gone.
No matter how well she's holding herself together, or the assurances she’s
given, it's all a carefully crafted act to hide the toll today has taken on her.
The soldiers stationed within the castle all drop their gazes from her as
we pass, but it’s not respect or fear of my reaction that compels them. It’s
disgust, and with every step that rings out on the marble floor, Mercer’s
death at my hands grows more violent in my mind. The castle is older and
far grander than Yregar, but Mercer has turned it into a pale comparison of
Yris, his own little court to hold sovereignty over.
It’s pathetic.
An undercurrent of fear runs through the halls, which are inlaid with
silver and polished to cold perfection, but it’s fixed on the wrong male.
Roan watches my Fates-blessed mate as closely as I do—as we all do—
and when I slow my pace down at Rooke’s labored breathing, he shoots me
an irate look. Forcing her to endure this ostentatious gathering of Mercer’s
household under the guise of a celebration is the final straw for him, and
now his ire is a seething fury bubbling at the surface, ready to spill over at
the first twitch of an eyebrow in the wrong direction. He’s spent too many
years on the receiving end of petty court games and the disrespect that can
cost thousands of lives if mishandled; the civil war with the Briarfrost
bloodlines that tore the kingdom apart can attest to that. The Outland heir is
going to spill blood tonight and call it on my behalf.
I’ve already lost the battle of holding myself in check, he can join me in
tearing Yrell apart for all I care.
Reed glances between us both, his gaze never once touching Rooke as
he senses the animosity and knows what will come of it. With a very careful
sort of preparation, he shifts into a fighting stance even as we walk. Rolling
his shoulders back and checking that all his weapons are secured within
easy reach for the fight ahead, his gaze moves over the soldiers we pass as
though he’s counting them, tracking where they are and what weapons they
hold. This is the difference between the Outland soldiers and the arrogant,
spoiled males under Mercer’s command.
Reed is prepared to die here, with honor and by our side, without
question. He’s also going to be sure to kill as many of our enemies as
possible on his way to the ashes, holding out until the very end. The dozens
of soldiers we pass don’t change that conviction in him; if anything, they
only push him further.
His bearing hardens as we come to the doors of the great hall, proving
beyond a doubt that I made the right choice showing him mercy for his
treason, no matter the precedent it set.
If only I could convince the Unseelie nature within me of the same
thing.
The possessive rage that took hold in my gut when we met at the outer
wall and it became clear they rode down on Northern Star there together
was slaked only by Reed’s bowed head and total submission to my
command. It certainly didn’t help that Rooke held on to him easily as he
helped her onto Nightspark behind me, while I was forced to drag her into
my body rather than allow her to fall from the horse.
When Rooke’s feet falter at the door, the tiniest slip, we all freeze, but
none of us reach out to help her. With her flinches and the guarded way
she’s holding herself, any attempt to offer her aid would surely become a
spectacle, and it’s not worth the risk of revealing her weakness to Yrell.
Roan meets my eye, his jaw clenching, and he gives me a curt nod as he
forces his shoulders to relax, cloaking himself with the air of the unaffected
prince once more.
The soldiers at the doors bow deeply to me before they move to open
them, our arrival announced to the party. We step into the great hall, now
bustling fervently with life, as though the occupants’ deaths weren’t
thwarted only hours ago at the city gates.
Prince Mercer’s household is made up of at least a thousand royals and
nobles, all of them in attendance, dressed in their finery as they dance
around each other and play their twisted games. Dozens of tables laden with
food are set out, but the fare is far more sparse than these numbers need. It’s
the only sign of the desperation the prince has found himself in, the only
one that can’t be hidden in lace and diamonds and silken words.
Prince Mercer’s servants must spend countless hours ensuring the plight
of the kingdom doesn't show within the halls of Yrell. Every surface is
immaculately clean, every luxury he affords himself has been meticulously
cared for now they’re not so easily replaced, but no amount of hiding will
fill hungry bellies when the food runs out.
We cross white marble floors inlaid with silver and blue, weaving into
the Celestial crest that declares this castle one of our many ancestral homes.
It was given to Mercer by his father, and his father before him, the mantle
passed on for his bloodline to be the caretaker of the city and the fae folk
within.
Instead, he throws banquets and sits before his spoiled household like
an indulgent hag-spawn while his people suffer outside the iron-infused
gates.
I've been here when the Unseelie Court has called to stay, and though he
doesn't treat the regent with any more respect than he treats me, there’s a
caution to his tongue that’s absent now, an awareness of my uncle's games
and the viciousness of his temper. Ignoring calls for aid is the very least of
the regent’s arsenal, and we all know it.
The crowd in the great hall is too meek to approach me or my
household. Whether cowed by the fury that must be sitting stark across my
face or Rooke’s presence at my side, they never let their eyes truly gaze on
me, their stares only ever making it to my feet as they watch our entrance.
I stalk across the room, Roan in my wake while Tyton and Reed flank
Rooke between them as I commanded. When the room returns to its
frivolity without regard, my cousin steers my Fates-blessed mate to a table
of food to get her away from the conflict about to erupt.
Mercer bows deeply to me, an arrogant grin crossing his face as he
gestures around. “The battle is won, Your Highness! There’s no need for
such a somber look while we celebrate the demise of the filthy witches.”
His eyes flick toward Rooke, and Roan mutters under his breath, the
crowd around Mercer’s seat thinning at his angry tone.
I hold out a hand to stop him as I stare around the room, my cold gaze
shifting slowly over the household here, and my own arrogant high-fae
mask slips into place. We have the attention of the entire room, though only
those nearby can see the curl to Mercer’s lip as he baits me into a conflict.
“Only a handful of men lost, thanks to my strategy, the walls still
standing because of my Fates-blessed mate, and the forest protecting your
people, thanks to her sacrifice. It seems you owe us both quite a lot, Prince
Mercer.”
A hush falls over the crowd, a thousand people in the room but with
high-fae hearing none of them missed my words or the intent behind them.
This isn’t how they were expecting the evening to play out—I never usually
aim for the throat of any member of the Unseelie Court, but things have
changed drastically.
The time for enduring petty games is over.
Prince Mercer is careful not to look at Rooke again. His eyebrows
twitch downwards, uncertainty filtering into his stance before he inclines
his head in the slightest of bows. “You have my gratitude for coming to the
aid of Yrell when no one else would. We are in your debt, Your Highness.
Your mercy isn’t a gift any within my household will forget, no matter how
long the Fates bless us to serve this noble kingdom.”
Prince Mercer serves himself first, his bloodline second, and whoever
will keep his goblet full of fairy wine third. He sides with me because I’m
further up his list of priorities than my uncle is, not because I top it.
One of the servants carefully approaches me with a goblet, a cowering
female with a fine tremble in her hand. Pausing to look her over before I
accept the drink, I note bruising in the shape of fingerprints at her wrists
that’s all too familiar to me after centuries of my uncle’s rule in Yris. The
servant startles when I finally thank her, and scurries away.
Prince Mercer might be one of the better princes in the kingdom, but
that doesn't mean he's a good male. I judge every royal on the condition and
temperament of their staff. Mercer fails on all accounts. He may be lord of
the entire territory and those within it, but he respects the high fae alone.
The royals and nobles all stand around and smile happily at him, but the
lower fae aren't so lucky.
One of the soldiers at his side swaggers closer, a goblet already in his
hands as he comes to Mercer’s defense. Prince Matyr is Mercer’s cousin
and an egocentric asshole at the best of times; he’s cunning and cutthroat
and has no loyalty to anyone but himself. He reminds me of my uncle, an
unforgivable sin.
He drawls to us both in a pompous tone, waving his goblet around
though he’s sober. “I heard rumors from your soldiers of the skill your
Fates-blessed mate has with a sword, Prince Soren. I was disappointed we
didn’t get to witness it today! Might I suggest a friendly match between us?
A display of the witch’s prowess against the skill of the high fae will surely
lift the spirits of Yrell and the royal bloodlines within.”
Cold fury slips into my bloodstream as easily as poison from a witch’s
barbed arrow, red bleeding into my vision at the gall of this spineless
excuse of a male. Reed moves to block Rooke more fully from the crowd as
Tyton ducks his head to relay Matyr’s words to her in a mocking tone.
Roan’s eyes narrow as they meet mine, and every soldier of Yregar in
attendance pulls themselves into a defensive stance as they prepare for the
cost of Matyr’s game.
The royals of Yrell are oblivious to it all.
Mercer’s smile grows wider and one of his eyebrows tweaks up. “Prince
Soren always has enjoyed the sports of war, why not? If the witch wishes to
ingratiate herself to our people, then we should involve her in our fun and
welcome her with open arms. I would never allow the future queen of our
great kingdom to feel unwelcome.”
Mercer and Matyr both saw the effects of the witcheswane on Rooke,
every eye of the household was on me as I carried her up the stairs. Rumors
spread through the castle faster than a hoard of dragon riders on a dark hunt
that her magic was drained from protecting Yrell and the action killed her.
Half the royals were happy at such a prospect, the entire lot of them
ungrateful banshee dung, but the soldiers felt differently.
They all know who saved them; without the witch they have been
defenseless.
 “Matyr is a pathetic excuse of a male, Rooke, don’t judge the rest of the
high fae by his actions,” Tyton says in the common tongue with a sneer,
pointedly speaking loud enough that there’s no denying his taunts are for
the entire room. “He sat inside the inner wall and avoided the bloodshed
today. Now he wishes to dispel the rumors of his weakness by fighting
someone who did act and bears the price.”
Reed scoffs and shakes his head. “The only thing he’s proving is just
how spineless he truly is. Shameful.”
Matyr's face sets in a sneer, and some of the high fae surrounding us
whisper behind the backs of their hands as a cacophony of gossip begins to
build. The opinion of this crowd isn’t yet made, arguments made for Rooke
just as fervently as those against her. I’m too blinded by the furious haze at
the murmurs around me to see Rooke’s approach, but the tug of the Fates in
my chest and the soft footsteps of her worn leather boots demand my
attention. Reed shadows her, almost stomping in his tension, but Rooke
looks at Mercer serenely.
She meets my eye with a respectful bow before she turns to Matyr. “I
accept your challenge. What are the terms?"
Mercer’s eyebrows rise higher, his smirk widening as he lets out a
gleeful sound. The asshole is probably already three or four goblets of fairy
wine into the festivities, and that lapse in judgment may end his life tonight.
Matyr scoffs at Rooke. “There are no terms in sparring. We fight until
someone… wins.”
He rolls the word around on his tongue as though it’s a distasteful
substitute for the one he truly means; my Fates-blessed mate dead at his
hand. His gaze flicks over her stature, smaller than the high fae, and the
hands ravaged at the defense of his city with a smirk dancing at the corners
of his lips. I curse the Fates that she’s not at full strength and wielding her
sword the way she did at Yregar. I'd tell her to hack off the male's head and
be done with it.
With a scowl, I meet her gaze, but she doesn’t relent, and I’m forced to
accept her judgment on this. If she says she can fight, then she can, and if
she falters, I’ll kill Matyr and be done with the entire evening.
Rooke’s finally mouth twitches into a lopsided smile, more of a grimace
than anything else. “Every sparring match should have terms, or else you'll
find yourself bleeding at the end of my sword. Are we using blunted
instruments or are you trusting me to hold myself back from the killing
blow?”
Roan chuckles at my side, and I don't try to fight my own smirk at her
confidence, a thunderous look overtaking Matyr’s expression as his hand
moves to rest on the pommel of his sword. His fingers tighten over the
jewel inlaid amongst the filigree there, the weapon crafted for show first
and use second.
Matyr clearly loses his wits as he hisses, “I'll hold myself back from
breaking the Fates with your death, witch, and when you submit, you will
kneel at Prince Mercer’s feet to beg him for his mercy for daring to enter
Yrell with silver eyes in your head."
Whatever happens in the dual, his breaths are numbered.
Roan offers Rooke his own sword, but she shakes her head curtly and
reaches up to unclasp her cloak from her shoulders. Reed holds out a hand
to take it from her, tucking the fur-lined fabric over his arm. The robes she
wears are the set from Airlie, the fabric crossing in complicated patterns
over her chest and banding around her arms, a small slit running from wrist
to elbow.
When she extends her arm, there’s a brief pop of light, and then her
sword appears in her damaged hand, gasps ringing out around the room at
her casual proficiency in magic. If I wasn't already intimately aware of just
how tired Rooke is, the fact that she rolls her eyes would be marker enough.
Her patience with us all is well and truly thin.
She holds the sword easily in her hand, no sign of the pain she must be
in, and I take the chance to get a closer look at the weapon. The Seelie steel
catches in the light, not ornate or extravagant by any means, but it's far
sharper than any of the training blades we usually spar with. The only
decoration is a single emerald secured within the cross-guard where the grip
meets the blade, the deep hue of it matching the raw gem of her scepter. It’s
an unusual place for a stone, but I haven’t seen enough Seelie weapons to
know if it’s their design or hers.
She rolls her shoulders to loosen them and check for any tightness in her
movement, the same checks any soldier would do, and yet my gut curls at
the sight of it. The Fates are silent within me, but the echoes of her screams
only hours ago still ring in my ears. The thought of her trapped in those
nightmares again is unthinkable, especially here.
 Rooke murmurs a prayer in the old language, Roan and Tyton both
chuckling at her sincere words. A smirk stretches over my lips that I’m sure
will haunt Mercer long after this night is over.
Matyr, ignorant of the language and overconfident like the worst fools
always are, scoffs and calls out, “The Fates can't help you now, witch.”
Tyton sends him back his own lopsided grin. “She's praying for your
survival, not hers, idiot.”
A smattering of laughter echoes around the room, Tyton having far more
friends here than the rest of my family put together, thanks to his easygoing
nature, only slightly hindered by the rumors of his madness.
When Rooke opens her eyes once more, determination in the set of her
mouth, she steps away from the shelter of my household and into the
cleared area set out before the thrones. The swirling patterns of silver and
blue on the marble floors form a perimeter, and the crowd shifts to the very
edges of it as they jostle for a good vantage point.
Prince Mercer steps back to the small ornate chair sitting in front of the
Celestial thrones, set a respectful distance away but clearly at the head of
this household. There's another seat beside it, and I share a look with Roan
before I take it, the arrogant look still fixed on my face. The scar makes it
worse, the crowd all hesitant to look in my direction as the savagery rolls
off me in waves.
Mercer bows his head to me, waiting until I incline my own before he
calls out, “Begin!”
Matyr immediately lunges at Rooke, a stupid show of force, and she
side-steps him easily. Her body spins and her sword never lifts to catch his
as she simply dances past him then watches as he recovers. If she were at
full strength, it would have been as easy as running him through while his
back was turned, but the move requires speed. The sharp edge to her eyes is
cautious, but only about her only injuries and limits.
This fight isn't about winning at all costs.
This is a show of who’s truly at the helm here, and it certainly isn’t
Prince Mercer or his recklessly useless cousin. Better for my witch mate to
force Matyr to stumble with each swipe while she dances effortlessly
around each of his attacks, wearing him out while showing the room that
their expectations of her are baseless and stupid.
Roan chuckles under his breath and leans toward Tyton, making a show
of murmuring, “It's like watching a child against a sword-master. She's
going to wipe the floor with him.”
I want to spar with her and see how she fairs then, at full strength and
without this pretentious audience. Better yet, no audience at all.
At his words, Matyr’s wife, Savyn, lets out a choked gasp. Chuckles and
horrified murmurs sound around the room, but there's no denying his
observation. At every lunge from the male, Rooke twirls away perfectly, the
two of them engaging in a perfect show as the household watches on. It’s
impossible to look away, even as I know I should be studying the crowd to
see which of the royals and nobles are falling into line at this show and
which grow more resentful. With any luck, Tyton is watching, or maybe
Reed, but I have the feeling we’re all enthralled by the graceful arc of
Rooke’s blade.
We rode through the day and night to get here, then fought the witches
without a moment of rest between. Rooke lost consciousness from the
effects of the poison and the toll of using her magic, waking in pain a few
hours later without the benefits of high-fae healing. It’s with the Fates’
blessings that she’s even standing right now, and yet she cuts Matyr down
with ease. Every inch of this female is a reckoning for this kingdom, her
silver eyes shining with ferocious determination, and Mercer’s household
see it too.
A growl tears from my chest at their eyes all on her like this, watching
her in awe, and I’m struck with the urge to get her out of this room, this
castle, this territory, and back to Yregar where she belongs. With me, my
people, in my chambers where no one else can behold what is mine.
Her blade slices the air, the first of an attacking motion, and Matyr is
forced to lurch to the side to block the move, his feet stumbling. Rooke’s
sword sings sweetly as it cuts through the air again, this time slashing his
shirt buttons. Savyn lets out a shrill shriek as the first few drops of blood
the hit the marble, a commotion in the crowd as she puts on a terrified show
of her own, but my gaze stays true to my Fates-blessed mate in her victory.
Matyr lets out a startled yelp, but Rooke is as unstoppable and merciless
as a blizzard rolling in. Swipe, swipe, swing, the high fae catches the first
two blows but misses the third and is taken to the ground at the force. With
the next swing, I'm sure for a moment that Rooke is about to behead him,
but with a heroic show of strength with such damaged hands, she halts her
movement abruptly, leaving her sword pressed at the side of his neck.
Blood wells there under the unforgiving edge of her steel, but she doesn’t
say a word to him, simply stares down and waits.
A fine tremble of rage works its way down Matyr’s body while Rooke
stands as steadfast as the Augur Mountains themselves, enduring every
hardship no matter the petty opinions of the royal high fae. Her silver eyes
are as sharp as the blade in her hands, and she allows the subdued quiet of
the room to talk for her. One of her eyebrows slowly rises as the silence
stretches on, broken only by Matyr gasping pathetically for air at her feet.
"I yield," he says finally, through clenched teeth, and a smirk stretches
across my lips.
The applause is divided, though loud, thanks to Tyton and Roan. There
are others looking at my Fates-blessed mate with a new appreciation, but
their gazes flick to me before dropping entirely.
Rooke ignores it all as she removes the blade from Matyr’s throat and
stretches out her arm, and then the pop of light puts it away. She nods at
him, clearly the closest he'll get to a respectful bow from a competitor, but
he only grimaces in reply. When the applause grows louder at Rooke’s
honorable retreat from her defeated opponent, Matyr finally scrambles to
his feet and storms off, shoving at Savyn when she throws herself at him.
Pure, unadulterated rage flashes across Rooke’s face before she catches
herself, fixing the blank mask there once more, as though his callous
actions haven’t lit a fire within her.
She steps back over to where Prince Mercer and I sit and bows deeply
to me and me alone before stepping back to join the others. My gaze never
leaves her as Reed hands over her cloak. When her hands shake, Roan takes
it back from her and sets it around her shoulders, murmuring praises for her
form. He speaks as though she’s a soldier, and it calms some of the tension
within her. She gives him a stern nod and tucks her hands into the folds of
the fabric, as though hiding them from the light will ease some of her pain.
"I can see why the Fates gave you that one," Mercer says dismissively,
as though his own spoiled cousin wasn't just decimated by an exhausted and
injured lower fae so effectively.
I look over the crowd, gaging their opinions and then deciding I don’t
give a Fates-filled fuck for them.
They'll kneel before her whether they like it or not.
"The Fates gave me ‘that one’ because she’s going to kill Kharl and end
the war. I've never met a high-fae female who could swing a sword with
such precision or use magic the way she can. Kharl doesn't stand a chance."
I project so much confidence in my words, I almost believe them myself.
“It's true she's an unstoppable force, but Kharl has been playing games with
us for centuries while building his armies, waiting for the opportune
moment to strike. There’s every chance today was both a retaliation and a
test. How will the high fae respond to machines of war from other lands?
How will we fare against his generals, those with magic, where we have
none? There’s only one witch who stands at our side, but she can’t fight the
entire Witch Ward alone.”
Mercer's eyebrows pinch together before he lets a smile slide across his
face, his gaze dancing over his wife, who is entertaining some of the upper
members of the household. Their marriage was determined by the Fates, as
all high-fae royal unions are, and there's a real affection in his eyes as he
looks at her. The Fates don’t always bestow love or even peace. Mercer
should count himself very lucky to have both, instead of just being smug
that I don’t.
“Such a great sacrifice you’re going to undertake for your kingdom and
to win your crown. I thought the slash across your face was your biggest
trial to become king, and yet now, to be forced to tie yourself to one of
them… to wed it, Your Highness. The Fates have chosen a cruel path, yet
your feet move steadily upon it, the true makings of a king! Your uncle only
hides in his castle, crouching over his riches with a wall of guards between
him and the rest of us. Yrell stands with the true Celestial king!”
He declares it proudly, his voice lifting at the end, and the room
applauding. His household stands crowded before us, dressed impeccably
and clutching at their silver goblets with vacuous smiles on their faces. The
staff line the walls, their eyes cast down as though watching any part of this
evening would land them on a whipping post.
Rooke studies all of this, her eyes seeming to catch on the same details
as mine. I watch as the air around her becomes malevolent. I’m sure this is
how the Fates look as they make their decisions on who lives and who dies,
and what trials we should suffer between. When her gaze lifts to mine, I see
vengeance and bloodshed waiting there.
Prince Mercer just made himself a very adept enemy.
My temper alight, I fix a smile on my face that’s nothing but a baring of
teeth as I lift my own goblet. “To the Fates, may they forgive us for the
arrogance that stole our magic from us, our obsession with our own image,
and our unquenchable lust for power. May their great mercies look kindly
upon our kingdom once more and lead us out of this bloodshed and horror.”
Some of the royals and nobles call out their approval, already too drunk
on the fairy wine to understand exactly what I’ve said, but no one in the
crowd dares to question me as they all lift their goblets. I survey them all,
never softening my gaze as I assess just how many of them are gritting their
teeth through this show of loyalty.
Only when I’m sure I’ve made my point perfectly clear do I let my gaze
land on Rooke. There’s a goblet in her hand, raised to her lips already as she
downs it all in one go, though it appears she was barely given an inch to
begin with. Yrell’s rations are as tight as Yregar’s have been, but others in
the crowd are having their glasses refilled for the third time.
The servants have been instructed to give the witch a wide berth.
It's clear Mercer has every intention of ignoring her now that his
spectacle is over, no lesson of her skills or competency learned. The
banquet grows more raucous by the minute, and the prince seems content to
sit back and enjoy the evening without acknowledging the reason his castle
stands.
I tilt my head to catch the attention of one of the servants and make no
effort to conceal my order. “Bring my Fates-blessed mate a seat. Prince
Mercer seems to have forgotten his manners, and there's nowhere for her to
sit with me while we both enjoy the festivities.”
Mercer’s eyes bulge as he startles, his head jerking around to stare at
me, aghast. The low murmurs of the crowd pause for a moment as none of
them dare to speak. Whether they’re afraid of my carefully displayed anger
or of missing out on the show, I couldn’t guess.
Rooke doesn't react, her eyes meeting mine before she glances at the
arm Roan has extended to her as he throws his own birthright into the fight.
She’s careful not to show any hesitancy as she takes it with her bandaged
hand and allows him to escort her to me. The crowd skitters away from
them both, their path widening as though by force.
No matter Prince Mercer’s opinions of the Outlands, there’s no
mistaking the power of the Snowsong name. Jaw clenching as he watches
the two of them move steadily across the room, he barely holds himself in
check.
The servants move with silent urgency and place a seat next to mine, set
a little back and smaller than my own. It’s the customary position for my
Fates-blessed mate before our marriage but I have no intention of leaving
any room for the truth of my fate to be twisted. Ignoring Mercer’s indignant
muttering, I grab the arm of Rooke’s seat and drag it forward until it’s
positioned at my side.
Equals by marriage, as the Fates command.
It's not customary for me to stand at Rooke’s arrival or to see her seated
but it certainly is for Prince Mercer. A spiteful sort of satisfaction takes root
in my chest as I watch a muscle in his cheek twitch violently, his arrogant
pride shredded before his household. Still, he waits until the last possible
second before he finally submits.
My gaze is iron-clad as he pulls himself to his feet and gestures at the
seat as though such a thing costs him dearly. Rooke stares at him for a
moment before her steely gaze flicks to meet mine and she bows again, her
hand clasped over her chest in the most respectful action. It’s the first time
she's bowed like that for me, and though it’s nothing more than an act for
the high-fae eyes trained on us, I can’t contain the heated tendrils of
pleasure that spread down my body.
When she takes her seat, Mercer all but throws himself back into his
own, and Roan turns on his heel to stand at Rooke’s side. He could call for
another chair, but instead he stands guard over her with a haughty look on
his face. It’s the same one his father wears, the derision that comes from
living in such a harsh environment and being forced to listen to pampered
royal families whine about frivolous nonsense.
The music begins to play but the nervous shuffling of feet is the only
sound the crowd makes for a moment or two before finally conversations
pick up around us. The longer we sit, the more attention we draw, and the
more uncomfortable Prince Mercer becomes.
I take a malicious sort of pleasure in watching him squirm.
Rooke’s hands are clasped loosely on her lap, the serene look on her
face as practiced as any I've seen. She's not uncomfortable here amongst the
high-fae royals, and I know now with certainty she’s spent more time in the
Seelie Court than she’s admitted. She's too practiced at overlooking her own
thoughts and concerns as she presents a blank mask to all those who might
use weakness against her. She sits as regally as any princess, her form and
execution as precise as Airlie’s. It’s only the clothing Rooke wears that
distinguishes her from my cousin, marking my Fates-blessed mate as not
only a witch, but a soldier primed for war.
 “Your uncle will never give up a throne for her, and the Unseelie Court
won’t force him,” Mercer murmurs over the rim of his wine goblet. The
effects of the elixir have finally soaked through enough of his indignant
mood to loosen his tongue.
I turn to him, and he gulps at the brutal death brewing in my eyes.
“They’ll side with me if they want to survive Kharl’s campaign, and at
some point he’s going to set his sights on Yris. Do any of the court truly
think the High Witch would take the Southern Kingdom but leave the high
fae’s seat of power alone? If we don’t stop him, he’ll take our territories and
castles, one by one, and leave the seat of the Celestial throne until last, but
he will take it. Any who are foolish enough to think otherwise, or to use the
war for their own gain, will find themselves answerable to the Fates when
I’m through with them. The only mercy I’ll have is a funeral pyre and the
ashes.”
It's as close to accusing the regent of colluding with Kharl’s tyranny as
I've ever gotten, carefully chosen words with very little detail, but Mercer
understands me all the same, gulping as he turns away, the frivolity wiped
away until there’s nothing left but the bitter high-fae prince who’s witnessed
hundreds of thousands of deaths.
His eyebrows pull down tight. “I want Kharl Balzog dead and every last
one of the raving cunts he controls gutted along with him. I suppose if it
takes a witch to do it, we all have to accept that.”
A pulse of fury bursts out of me, the tables and chairs rattling violently
as a murmur of terror ripples through the crowd. Mercer’s chair is shoved a
few inches away from mine, but Rooke’s stays put.
Magic. My magic, power I’ve never had control of and barely knew
existed.
Mercer stares at me, aghast, his eyes flicking over me as though he’ll
find remnants of a curse or some creature who cast instead of me, but when
all he finds is my enraged gaze, his own flicks to Rooke.
The worst possible action the Fates-cursed male could take.
He startles at my growl, eyes lifting back to mine as the color leaches
from his face and his head drops into a bow. The room is silent, holding its
breath, and the only person unaffected by my magic and my rage is Rooke.
She sits comfortably at my side, resolute in her own cool observation of the
high fae around us, calmly ignoring my savage actions.
 Even Roan is side-eyeing me, though he’s probably more concerned
with getting Rooke out of my path and then fighting at my side if Mercer
calls his soldiers to arms. Mercer doesn’t though, instead moping at his
brow and murmuring, meekly, “My apologies, my prince. I don’t know
what’s come over me.”
The ripples of gossip and harried looks that fan throughout the hall
around us take on a careful nature, the tone becoming respectful and more
than a little afraid as the household finally realizes the danger they were in
all along. My blood lights, but not with anger or even vindication at their
submission. No, it’s magic that floods my veins now as I look around the
room at the cowering high fae. Power I’ve barely recognized before, it now
flows through me as though eager to take back my kingdom, if only I can
learn to wield it.

OceanofPDF.com
OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER TWELVE

Rooke
It becomes painfully clear to me that no matter what new freedoms the
Battle of Yregar and my defense of Yrell might award me, privacy is not
one of them.
After the shameful display of Yrell’s so-called soldier in the sparring
ring, I endured an hour by Prince Soren’s side, observing the spectacle
playing out in the hall, before he sent me back to my room with a
contentious look in Mercer’s direction, as though baiting the prince to
question him. No one in that hall would dare, I’m sure, after what already
played out, and as Reed escorted me away from the revelry, I heard more
than a few high fae let out a sigh of relief, as though it was my presence at
fault and not their prince’s behavior.
Exhausted, I had no energy to argue with Reed when he took up watch
by the door. I collapsed on the bed in a heap, boots kicked off but my cloak
still wrapped around my shoulders. When I woke to find myself under a
soft, cloud-like blanket, tucked neatly under my chin despite the immense
volume, Reed was still standing guard. Worse still, Soren stood at the glass
doors looking out over the city, dressed to ride out while I was languishing
in bed.
 No words were spoken as I rose and cleaned myself up, nor when I
returned from the bathroom ready to leave. Soren scowled at my hands until
I flipped my palms up for his inspection, the skin now pink and new. The
sensations from them are no longer pain but discomfort, a tingling fire of
rawness that's almost worse than the agony. The only treatment for it is
distraction, and luckily I have plenty of that around me.
I raise an eyebrow at Soren, not willing to break the stalemate, and he
turns on his heel with a jerk of his head at Reed to get moving. The silence
feels loaded, dangerous, but I’m corralled between the two males down the
stairs and out of the castle without contention, the servants all skittering
away from us as though repelled.
Roan, Tyton, and the rest of the Yregar’s soldiers wait for us in the
courtyard, already in their saddles, faces stony as they watch Mercer’s
household with sharp gazes and weapons ready to be drawn. Soren shares a
look with Roan and walks me to Northern Star, then helps me into my
saddle and waits until he’s sure I’m able to hold the reins comfortably
before he climbs into his own saddle. Yregar’s soldiers move seamlessly to
envelop us in formation, becoming a wall of smoldering fury, just waiting
to ignite, that has Yrell’s soldiers shifting on their feet.
My temper shortens dramatically as Mercer makes his way down the
stone steps with a smile pasted on his face and dozens of the nobles of his
household spilling out after him. His faked joy would be more believable if
his movements weren’t so rigid or if he could hide the tremor in his voice a
little better.
“I look forward to joining you at the winter solstice, Your Highness. I'm
sure the wedding will be the talk of generations to come, a party like no
other. I wouldn’t miss it for the Fates themselves.”
If the Sol King were here with his ability to smell a lie, I'm sure he
would find every word Prince Mercer is saying true, though the intention
behind them is impossible to miss. He sees no good coming of our marriage
—none except satisfying the Fates’ demands. There's a sick joy emanating
from him, his own arrogance spilling forth at the prospect of his future
king’s humbling fate.
Taking a deep breath to calm my temper, I work through each of my
muscles to release the tension in them until I have control of myself once
more. When I finally roll my neck, I catch Reed giving me an inquisitive
look, but he turns sharply away.
 Soren doesn’t glance in Mercer’s direction as he clicks his tongue at
Nightspark, directing his horse out of the courtyard with that haughty
expression he wears so well. “Perhaps you should focus on training your
soldiers so you survive the journey to Yregar instead of concerning yourself
with parties. Yrell was always a jewel in the Celestial crown, it’s a shame to
see it fall to such disgrace under your command.”
There’s a sputtering, indignant noise behind us, but I follow Soren’s
lead and keep my gaze on the city before us as we ride out, the gates of the
inner wall closing behind us with a deafening crunch. The city is lifeless
before us despite the early morning hour, unusual even as the icy promise of
winter’s grasp grows more prominent. Autumn is in its last days though the
landscape before us has barely changed, the trees dormant from long before
I stepped back on dry land at Port Asmyr, and still now they sleep.
Thoughts of the winter solstice distract me from the impossibly quiet
streets. With barely two moons left until the high-fae marriage ceremony,
my gut clenches at the prospect, a maelstrom of conflicting emotions
bubbling there. It feels too far away, the threats of Kharl Balzog’s armies
and the tenuous hold that Soren has on the Unseelie Court filling me with
an urgency that writhes beneath my skin until I feel as though I might burst.
Though something has clearly shifted with Soren, two months is not
enough time to find peace with the prince, and our union is doomed to be
filled with bloodshed and grief. A vise-like grip squeezes my heart at the
mere thought of binding myself to this high-fae male, with his savage
beauty and vitriolic hate for my people. The chivalry he’s begrudgingly—
and sometimes spitefully—given me since my hatred for Balzog was
proven has only given the pain of my sorrow more precision.
When the gates of the outer wall close firmly behind us, Soren lifts a
hand to move the soldiers single file to ride through Elms Walk. The trees
are quiet, peaceful, and despite the concerns that eat at me, the corners of
my mouth lift into a soft smile at their song. My eyes slip shut, and with
every deep breath I feel the life and vitality that’s returned here, the
sacrifices made and traditions honored after so long. The blood of the
raving witches is a rotting poison to the land, but the spirits of old who live
amongst the tall oaks have still found something within them. Perhaps it
was their death alone that the trees consumed.
My eyes stay closed for the rest of the journey through the forest,
trusting Northern Star to follow Nightspark as I slip into meditation, but
when we step back out of the trees and I glance around once more, it’s clear
I’m the only one who enjoyed the ride. Deep lines are cut around Alwyn’s
mouth and his lips are pressed tightly together, a haunted look in his eyes as
he shakes himself off, and Reed shares the look with him. Tyton scowls at
the open land before us, his lips moving, but if he’s speaking it’s too low for
me to hear. He spoke to the trees on our journey here but there’s none of the
peace I feel written in the furrow on his brow.
Despite my assumptions that the rest of the ride back to Yregar would
be as harrowing as our journey to Yrell, the urgency that drove our horses to
their limits is gone, and we ride at a far more measured pace.
Soren stays close to my left and Reed flanks me on the right, half a
stride behind as though guarding me should anything attack. The Outland
soldier’s eyes have continued to stay carefully away from me, and as
daylight burns around our path through the barren kingdom to our home, an
itch creeps along my neck and shoulders that I have to force myself not to
fuss over.
When he first arrived at Yregar, Reed effectively brought me out of my
stupor, the solidarity in his unwavering gaze easing some of the pressure in
my chest, yet now he avoids me so resolutely that shame trickles into the
cracked foundations of my mind. I can't seem to let go of it, the gut-
curdling writhing mess within me at the high fae standing witness to my
mind breaking open, and I abhor the exposure of the horrors left carved into
my soul by the Ureen.
It’s made worse by Soren’s close proximity, silent and unreadable as he
is. The shift from his loathing to the insistent way he’s shadowing my every
move only deepens my discomfort until my skin is crawling with the need
to retreat, hide, find my center once more. I find myself longing for the
dungeons and the connection to the earth, the steady flow of my blood and
the song calling me home.
When we stop for water at the lake just south of Lancon Village, Reed
takes Northern Star’s reins from me with a bow before he scurries away
under the guise of tending to her. Struggling to keep the irritation from my
face, I stalk away from all the high fae to find some peace at the water’s
edge, though it’s barely ten steps from them all. I know better than to
separate myself entirely, frustration not blinding me to the dangers of the
kingdom. It’s a fruitless attempt anyway, no solitude awarded to me despite
my efforts.
 Soren’s gaze is a searing brand on my back as he follows me to the
water, his presence unavoidable, but I refuse to acknowledge him as I take
in the scenery. The lake is a stinking swamp, the mud reeking of rot and the
water murky at best. When we first rode through, the high fae all stared at
the expanse of water mournfully as a deep longing rippled out of each of
them. That alone would’ve told me of the great decline here, but the land
keens beneath our feet, a sorrowful song of all that’s been destroyed.
Giving magic to the land here isn’t a wise choice, but a little blood
spilled with a promise to return is unquestionable, especially for a
Ravenswyrd witch. My heart aches to give a true offering, one that would
repair, but the devastation is too far-reaching and I’m no help to the
kingdom or the fae folk within if I burn myself out at every opportunity.
The nick is small and at the side of my hand, the only undamaged flesh
easily accessible to me, and I wait for the few drops of vibrant red to land
on the mud before I seal the small wound back up. In the old language I
promise that the Favored Child has returned for them all, and I won’t allow
this torture to continue.
It's not until my murmured prayers to the land have finished that Soren
speaks up, sticking to the old language. “It would have to be a miracle of
the Fates to see the lakes return to the glory they once held. I’d reassure the
land that I’ll restore them soon as well, though I don’t think it would take
my promises as kindly as it does yours.”
Pushing back to my feet, I turn in his direction but keep my gaze from
him. “The kingdom isn’t going to be ‘restored.’ There's no such thing as
erasing the damage done, but it can be healed and a new sort of glory
nurtured in its place. The trees haven’t forgotten what once was, and they’re
angry at the state of the kingdom, but they’ll always accept a true sacrifice,
no matter who gives it.”
He steps forward with the same careful movements he’s adopted around
me, and my irritation at them all deepens until anger grows hot within me,
intensifying with every breath. I need to hold it in check; there's no point in
leveling such rage at these males, because it’ll only convince them of my
treachery once more.
A seed of doubt takes root in my mind. I've shown this male my rage a
handful of times now, even threatened him when I first woke to find him
guarding me, and still he defended me against Prince Mercer and his
household. The rage he felt at Prince Mercer's attempts to shame and
belittle me was undeniable.
Guilt is certainly a powerful motivator.
Soren stands quietly at my side and I shift my gaze over the water again,
the edge of the sorrow softening and the dark clutches around my heart
easing a little. The land heard my promises and believes me, every action I
take to keep my word strengthening the bond between us. I won’t allow this
to continue.
When Soren holds out his hand to me, I glance down at it as though a
weapon is sure to appear there. I don't flinch this time, thank the Fates. A
flush creeps over my cheeks at the memory. As the monsters of the Fates
ravaged my mind, none of my reactions to him were within my control.
When my eyes stayed fixed on his palm, the prince murmurs in the old
language once more, “This kingdom will be rebuilt through our shared fate
and sacrifice. You don’t have the blood to spare right now.”
I realize he's asking for the dagger still in my hand, and I pass it over,
releasing it the moment that his fingers touch the hilt. He slices his palm
easily, blood freely flowing from the slice and landing in the putrid mud at
our feet. The effect is instant and almost violent, a viciousness long
forgotten waking up at the taste of his blood.
As his skin begins to glow, it’s evident there’s more than just a whisper
of power in Soren’s veins. I saw that well enough last night, but though the
male makes the same promise to the lands as I did, the earth doesn’t accept
his sacrifice. With a rumble beneath the lake that sends ripples to the edges,
anger bleeds into the edges of my mind as the land demands more.
Soren feels it as well, his brow furrowing. The high fae forgot their
magic a long time ago, long enough that I feel his hesitation. He knows it’s
there; he searches for where his power lies, but he has no idea how to give
the land what it craves. How far the high fae have fallen. Sorrow fills me at
the waste their arrogance has wrought.
Carefully, I reach over to take his wrist, ignoring his potential anger in
the face of the desperate hunger that cries out beneath our feet. When I
finally glance at him, I find no scorn for me on his face, and that emboldens
me to reach for him with my magic as well, using our connection as a guide
until I find, deep within this prince, the magic of the Celestial high fae.
It’s an unwieldy and impossible sort of magic that has always baffled
me, untapped for generations, but just as potent as the magic the First Fae
brought to the lands a millennia ago, to take the kingdom for themselves
and call it their own. Grasping the edges of it, I coax it out of him and into
the land, funneling the smallest amount to seal more into his promises than
any high fae has given in a very long time.
When I finally let go of his mind and step away, I find we’re no longer
alone. Roan stands at the edge of the lake, Reed only half a step away, the
two poised to strike. Behind Reed, Tyton stands looking less worried as his
gaze traces the water before us, but one hand still rests on pommel of his
sword. How they plan to fight against the land and magic itself, I couldn’t
guess, but to question them right now with the tension thick in the air would
be foolish.
Soren’s eyes are still shut tightly and Roan curses in the old language.
“Tell me you’re still in there, Soren.”
Concern that one of them is going to attack me for daring to incapacitate
their prince begins to take hold and my stance shifts subtly, catching Roan’s
attention. He jerks his head at Reed. The Outland soldier takes a careful
step closer, and when there’s no reaction, he takes another, creeping forward
until he’s planted himself between Prince Soren and me.
Reed finally meets my eye with a clenched jaw. “He's glowing like a
fucking candle! You’re wounded, and I have no idea how much magic you
have left after yesterday. My orders are to protect you from any threat, even
if it’s Prince Soren himself. I’m not disobeying my command ever again,
Rooke, even if it’s this one.”
It’s difficult to keep the exasperation from my face. “The glow isn’t a
concern. Prince Soren gave a sacrifice—blood and magic. Before they
forgot, the high fae did this for centuries. There’s no danger here, for me or
anyone else.”
Roan’s eyes meet mine, disbelief in them, plus an edge of scorn that
takes me by surprise, but he answers me in the common tongue. “Soren
would have our heads if he knew that we stood by and allowed him to harm
you with his magic. He has no experience with it, and the whole ground just
shook like an earthquake, just like last night! Did you not feel it?”
I didn't feel a thing except unbridled joy at the power within my Fates-
chosen mate and the gift he gave to our land. My gaze drops to the reeds at
the edge of the lake, and a smile tugs at the corners of my mouth when I see
new buds of life there. The water is still murky, but the air smells different
now. It smells like life, like potential, like the tides have finally turned and
this horror will come to an end. The Fates’ promise of a kingdom united
will come true.
Glancing at Roan once more, I give him a decisive look. “I’ll guide him
back out of this.”
I get a sharp shake of his head in return. “There's no need to take that
risk. Soren can figure it out for himself. Just step away, Rooke.”
With the same amount of force it takes to cleave a witch's head from its
shoulders, I watch Soren pull himself back from the terrifying edge of
madness he’s balanced on until finally he succeeds. The pressure within my
chest eases, and his magic recedes into the cavernous depths within him, as
unreachable again to him as his heart is to me.
When his eyes open once more and his gaze fixes sharply to mine,
there’s a triumph there and a savage determination that has the Fates
dancing wildly under my skin once more. It’s the look of a king, ready to
claim a throne through blood and magic, and finally the kingdom has hope.

THE FARMING PLAINS that surround Yregar are as barren now as they
were when I arrived back to the Southern Lands, dragged behind Soren’s
horse like chattel. When it became clear to the high fae that I wasn’t going
to slow them down or expire suddenly in my saddle, Soren set a steady yet
swift pace, and I have no trouble keeping up.
When the last of the destroyed villages is behind us and the destitute
farming houses begin to crop up around us, Soren finally slows the horses
to a walk. When I glance over, he’s not watching me with the same scrutiny
I’ve itched under since we left. Instead his gaze is fixed on Nightspark’s
neck where his hand strokes gently over the jagged lines of the sealed
wound. The longer I watch them, the clearer it becomes that this pause is
for his beloved horse.
Irritation at myself creeps over my skin for the gentle creed of the
Ravenswyrd witch that primes my heart to soften at the gesture.
Reed continues to shadow my every move, just as steadfast as the
moment we arrived to Yrell, and the curious way he still keeps his gaze
from ever touching me frustrates me to the point that I'm tempted to
confront the soldier just to get him to stop. It shouldn't bother me so much,
especially considering the audience we’ve been stuck in the center of, but it
eats at me. More than anything else, I'm irritated because finding middle
ground with him was far easier than with any of the rest of the high fae.
I spent two hundred years in the Northern Lands, surrounded by
hundreds of people I loved dearly, and the easy friendship I found with
Reed eased some of the loneliness I’ve found in the isolation of Yregar. To
have that friendship torn away now, and for no discernible reason, is yet
another cruelty against me.
Prince Soren’s voice startles me out of my distracted thoughts. “How
did your father come to know the language of the goblins if the Ravenswyrd
witches never left the forest? How did any of your coven know the different
languages you were taught in such isolation?”
A scowl pinches my brows. Not at Soren for asking, though I’m
shocked at his interest in my family, voiced without scorn and distrust
dripping from every syllable, but at the fact that he’s asking in the old
language, a tactic to conceal the conversation from those around us.
All the soldiers who ride with us are his most trusted, he made that clear
before we rode to Yrell. If only those who’ve proved their unwavering
loyalty to the true Celestial heir surround us, why is this simple query a
secret?
I pause but eventually, the words form easily on my lips. “My father
wasn't born a Ravenswyrd witch. He was given his fate as a gift by the Seer
for a great sacrifice he gave in a time of dire need. It cost him dearly, and
yet he gave it to her with no hesitation and an open heart. Her gift was to
lead him to the forest and to my mother.”
Soren doesn't immediately reply to me, silence falling around us once
more, but not an uncomfortable one, not as it could have been. The horses’
hoofbeats crunch against the deadened ground, the debris of harvests that
never came to fruition still lying where the farmers abandoned them, as
though the land paused the natural processes of decay to highlight the death
that has overtaken the kingdom.
“Your father must’ve known of the war if he traveled through the
kingdom to be with your mother.”
It strikes me that he didn’t ask about the coven my father was born into
but, instead of scorn, I’m filled with pity. The high fae forgot about the
greetings and customs we once shared, how to show respect but also how to
learn who you’re conversing with before you misstep grievously. Soren has
no idea he’s bumbling around and crushing his kingdom underfoot. I’ve
seen him interact with the fae folk of Yregar; I know this is ignorance and
not contempt.
What a sorrowful state to be in.
My reply is simple. “It’s customary for most able witches to have
children from the moment they’re wed, a blessing of the Fates to bind
themselves together. When a Maiden of a coven is wed, however, she
usually waits until the mantle of the Mother is passed on to her. My parents
were married for many centuries before Pemba was born.”
Maybe it's the softening of my heart toward his gentle treatment of
Nightspark, or the ghost of his fingers, rough with calluses but gentle
against the skin of my wrist as he bandaged up my damaged hands, but the
stories of my family come easily enough.
“Pemba and I always guessed that's why they had so many kids in such
quick succession—both of them were eager after waiting for so long to start
a family. My mother always unfalteringly did what was expected of her as
the Maiden and then the Mother. She wore the mantle well.”
I can't think of a single selfish thing she ever did. No matter how many
years she longed to bring children into the world, she stood by our
traditions and waited.
His face is easy to read, the careful workings of his mind displayed in
the line of his lips pressed together and the furrow of his brow, but it's only
when he asks his question that I realize how delicately he's dancing around
my fervent warnings. The threats I gave him should he ever speak of my
bloodline are clearly still ringing in his ears.
“Is it customary for witches to have such large families?”
My heart throbs in my chest as I shrug. “Not any more customary than
any other fae folk. My mother was an only child, but my father had a litter
of siblings and dozens of cousins on call, a thousand stories of the mischief
they all got up to in their growing years that he would tell us all. Family
was important to him; the chaotic, joyful, protective love that’s shared
between blood. I think my mother envied that a little, her own childhood far
more orderly and subdued, and so they spent their centuries together
dreaming of a big brood of mischievous children of their own.”
In the silence that follows I realize he’s hesitating to ask more questions
and I send him a tight smile. “I was one of eight. Pemba was the oldest,
then me, and then six more after, all the way down to my newborn brother.
He died in my mother's arms in our home, the same one he was born in.”
My throat closes a little at the admission slipping out of me, swallowing
back my tears roughly. Soren’s jaw tightens for a moment as he grinds his
teeth together and it strikes me that his anger is a reaction to my pain, fury
at the senseless murder of my family and a drive for vengeance. I know the
expression well after two hundred years of seeing it on Pem’s face.
“In the kitchen,” Soren finally murmurs, and I nod.
It was their bloodstain that I pressed my palm against as I prayed to the
Fates under his watchful eye, my mother slain there as she held my baby
brother. He’d barely entered the world before he was sent on the ashes to
Elysium with the rest of our family and coven.
Soren’s eyes are cutting as they take in the barren lands that surround
us, the sharp line of his mouth pulling in further as we pass the derelict
farms. His attention catches on the structures that once housed the fae folk
who farmed the lands and lived here for generations. Whether they were
forced out by the witches or the land’s destruction, it's impossible to tell,
but the result is the same. A lifeless expanse of land that would break even
the most hardened of hearts.
“How much do you know of the goblin lands?”
Glancing up, there’s no accusation on his face and I’d wager that Reed
hasn’t disclosed Prince Gage’s real identity. I try to push aside the unease
that fills me, despite my own guiltlessness. It's no fault of mine that none of
the royal high fae have taken the time to learn the goblin tongue or anything
about the family that rules over those lands. Even the military insignia for
each of the ranks and the crest of the royal bloodline were foreign to Soren
and his household, but purposefully omitting the identity of the Briarfrost
heir feels deceitful, a ripple of discomfort working its way down my spine.
“I knew a lot about King Galen and the land he rules before I ever left
the forest and served alongside many of his exiled people in the Sol Army.
I’m surprised you don’t. Even with the accords signed, you still hold
sovereignty over those lands, and it's baffling to me that you’ve chosen not
to learn their language, their customs, or anything about the fae that King
Galen rules over.”
Soren’s mouth pulls in tight, the scar making him look bloodthirsty. The
air around us doesn’t change or thicken with rage though, and I see his
mood for what it truly is and not just what it first looked like to me. He’s
seething with frustration, a roiling and impotent sort of fury that remains
unspent within him no matter how large it’s grown over the centuries. He’s
been bequeathed the Celestial name and the supposed right to rule over the
kingdom but given very resources or knowledge to actually do so. This isn’t
just his uncle’s doing, or even due to the early demise of his parents.
I was taught the foundations of being the Ravenswyrd Mother long
before my coven were murdered. I knew how to deliver a baby safely into
this world before I menstruated for the first time. I could speak fistfuls of
languages, cast a shield, reset a bone, dance under the solstice moons as my
magic flowed into the earth as a great sacrifice and honoring to the land that
sustained me, all of it before my body had begun the natural cycles that wax
and wane with the earth.
I knew the names of all the covens within the Southern Lands, and the
magic they wielded. Countless lessons of their practices and beliefs, how to
act with dignity and respect, how to listen to conflicts and find resolution,
how to provide care in all aspects to those within my care. I knew about the
plentiful riches of the Stellarwyrd and their gardens, the unwieldy danger of
the Mistwyrd’s curses, and the Elmswyrd’s unbreakable connection to the
ley lines. I knew of the Brindlewyrd’s ability to speak with the Fates and the
honor of bearing Seer’s that they hold. The curse of Banshee’s Call was
drummed into me long before I ever saw a banshee, and the dangers of
walking amongst those trees unprotected is a lesson I could never forget.
I knew the power and design of blood magic, the history of the Blood
Valley, and the inconceivable acts of sacrifice that the kingdom has received
in its history, all of such magnitude that only the Bloodwyrd coven could
answer such a demand.
Every thread of knowledge given to me weaves together to form the
witch I am now; the Ravenswyrd Mother, a Favored Child who rode to war
and longs to return to the forest.
Why was he never taught any of this? Why did the high fae of the
Southern Lands forget their magic in the first place? No wonder frustration
is eating him alive; my blood is writhing in my veins at all the questions
that lay before me unanswered.
Soren clicks his tongue at Nightspark as the surly beast snaps at Tyton’s
horse, a warning not to get too close, and he waits until they walk
peacefully once more before he answers. “My father harbored many
contentious beliefs against the Goblin King and all fae under his dominion.
After the war with the goblins and the loss my grandfather endured, the
Celestial royals scorned the Briarfrost bloodline and any loyal to it. I
learned that hatred from my father and believed the evils he claimed of
them to be true… all the high fae did. No Unseelie fae has ever dared to
show sympathy or kindness to goblins for fear of the consequences.”
It’s an arduous admission, the words slow to come and his face as fierce
as it has ever been, and my own reply is carefully pieced together. “It's
difficult to admit that people we love and admire are flawed, just as we
are… especially when their loss feels like the greatest injustice of all.”
A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, the fury on his face diminishing,
and he shrugs with an insolent air about him, looking every inch a Celestial
prince, though it doesn't fill me with disgust like it once did. “I doubt the
Ravenswyrd Mother or your father who journeyed so far to find the love
promised to him by the Seer made such grievous errors as the arrogant high
fae have.”
Shock ripples through me.
There’s no mistaking the respect in his tone, and as warmth spills into
my stomach I raise my eyebrows at him with a small shrug of my own. “I
have great pride in my coven, and Ravenswyrd is the name I most often
speak of, but there are other bloodlines I have that aren’t so virtuous. The
coven my father was born into was torn in half when
Kharl Balzog came to the Southern Lands. Witches my father loved
dearly chose to answer his call and take part in his war. They fell into his
lies to take over the kingdom
through magic and blood and chose the Betrayer over their own blood;
their witch marks won’t burn black. The same children my father once told
me tales of are now destined to die at my hand for the evil they’ve
wrought… and I’m glad for it. No matter how much pain it brings me, I
can’t hide from that truth or else it will consume us all.”
Though I know Roan and Tyton can both understand our words and are
surely listening whether they want to or not, they keep their reactions to our
conversation minimal. Tyton rides at Soren’s side but with a serene look to
him that is a sure-fire sign he’s lost in his own mind, listening to the song of
the forests. The shift in the formation was a calculated move to keep him
within his cousin’s protections, but whatever danger they fear he’s in, Roan
and Soren leave him alone.
 Roan rides before us all and keeps the soldiers in line as he stares at the
horizon before us, his family only half a day away even at this slowed pace.
He breaks the pretense of privacy only when Soren continues his
questioning about the Briarfrost, something about his interest rattling the
Snowsong prince.
“You spoke to King Galen as if you knew of his family—you said his
wife was a healer. Do you know her name?”
Roan looks back at Soren with wide eyes, making it clear he’s hasn’t
just been privy to our words but listening to them intently. Soren ignores
him, nothing about his stern demeanor changing, and I take my cue from
him.
“Queen Khya is a renowned healer, known in all the kingdoms for her
knowledge and abilities.”
He nods firmly. “And if I wanted to greet her, how would I do so
respectfully in the goblin tongue?”
Roan shifts in his saddle uncomfortably, but Soren continues to
pointedly ignore him as he copies each of the sentences I recite to him.
We spend the rest of the slower journey working through more of the
goblin language. I’m forced to admit that Soren is a good student, capable
and competent even when faced with my rigorous tutelage. He accepts my
critiques of his pronunciation, listening intently when I explain how to
make the harsh sounds of the goblin tongue best.
Greeting King Galen and his wife with such respect will win more favor
than any Celestial king has secured in many centuries. The Fates have never
been wrong, even if the path before us is ruthless and full of pain. Hope
blooms in my chest, a fragile and precious thing, and I’m strengthened in
my belief that the kingdom will finally be saved.

AFTER ARRIVING BACK to Yregar after nightfall and a fitful night of

sleep, I wake to a maid knocking at my door and the sounds of the goblin
soldiers marching through the gates as they escort the supply wagons from
the Western Fyres. Calls from the sentries manning the walls announce their
arrival, the castle quickly coming alive with hurried preparations, and even
my witch ears pick up the commotion clearly enough to take notice.
Scrambling out of the small bunk as I call out to Tyra to acknowledge
Soren’s summons, I swipe a hand down myself to shift into my robes and
shove my feet into my leather boots before I walk out briskly to meet them.
The soldiers standing guard by the wall and milling around their quarters
are no longer concerned that I'm attempting to escape Yregar, and no one
sounds the alarm as I stride past them all.
Soren and his household are already waiting on the front steps of the
castle, watching as the wagons and accompanying soldiers enter the inner
wall. My Fates-blessed mate looks well rested and assured as he scowls at
the wagons. As I join the high fae there, he bows his head slightly to me in
respect, and dozens of the others do the same as though on command.
Airlie smiles warmly and waves me over to stand at her side. Set back a
little from her husband and cousins, her position is clearly one of protection
not superiority, and Soren gives her an approving look as she ushers me into
her side. The soldiers guarding her close around me without a command,
each bowing their heads to me respectfully before turning their attention
back to the gates ahead.
Though Firna stands at Airlie’s shoulder, Raidyn isn’t with them her,
presumably still upstairs under the watchful eye of one of the maids. I’d
wager that Reed is guarding the Snowsong heir as well, the only high fae of
Soren’s trusted circle missing from the crowd.
Yregar’s keeper wrings her hands as she prepares to direct the intake of
the provisions. She seems more nervous than last time, the only one in the
household to still stare at the oncoming wagons with apprehension.
When I shoot her a thoughtful look, she carefully eyes the princes
surrounding us before murmuring back to me, "A lot more supplies were
ordered this time, with a lot more at stake if they didn’t arrive, and the
journey was more difficult after the attack."
My eyebrows rise a little, and she nods her head towards one of the
messengers. "My son has told me how much the kingdom has changed
since Yregar's victory."
I glance at the messenger, and upon closer inspection, I see the familial
resemblance between the two of them, the shape of their chins and the
slight hood to their eyes. There's also a great pride that emanates from Firna
anytime her gaze lands on the messenger, and I'm not sure how I missed
their relation before.
The gates of the inner wall open before us, and a hush falls over the
household as we stand in silence and watch the wagons roll through. The
thirty high-fae soldiers who surround the provisions on horseback are each
in various states of exhaustion, some even clutching at wounds.
I scowl as I run my eye over the entire group, carefully ensuring none of
them need immediate care, but they're all holding themselves in their
saddles well enough for now. Bodies continue to stream in behind them, fae
folk all in haggard condition but none seem concern by the goblin soldiers
escorting them. Prince Gage rides at the rear of the escort, his focus on the
lone carriage rolling in under heavy guard.
Its design is starkly different to the others, closer to a carriage than a
supply cart, and it draws attention from the household crowded around the
courtyard. My stomach clenches at the sight of the carefully covered
windows, my gaze flicking to Soren’s form, but the ferocity of his focus is
on the soldiers for now.
One of the males dismounts and hands his reins off to a stable boy
before stepping before Soren and bowing deeply, a hand clasped over his
heart.
When the prince inclines his head, the soldier’s words ring out loudly
for all the household to hear. "The supplies are all here, Your Highness, and
everything is accounted for. We were attacked three times by Balzog’s
forces between the Goblin Lands and Yregar, but we were able to defeat
them without losing any of the supplies or soldiers."
Soren nods, his eyes shifting toward the haggard group of fae folk, and
the soldier continues, "We found these fae making their way from Yrell and
offered them safe passage to Yregar. Hundreds have left the city and travel
to Yregar to seek refuge. Word of your protection and great mercies has
spread; there’s no question of their loyalty to the true Celestial heir."
Those three words have been thrown around a dozen times in the last
few days but the small gasps and murmurs amongst the crowd speak
volumes. Loyalties and allegiances are being drawn, the language of those
who back Soren changing now that his Fates-blessed union draws near. The
high fae who once danced around the issue are now stating proudly who
they intend on following. With the Fates writhing under my scars in
pleasure at his close proximity, it’s another thread pulling toward the prince
I’ve been tied to.
When Soren dismisses the male, stern acknowledgments of his good
work slip easily from the prince, and the entire courtyard murmur their own
agreements. These wagons are the difference between survival and
starvation for all of Yregar, and the soldiers have completed the most vital
task as well as saving more fae folk along the way.
At their prince’s command, the servants and maids of the castle descend
on the wagons to begin unpacking them with rigorous efficiency. Firna
takes the lead, directing her staff with a shrewd eye, and she shoots Soren a
quick glance before directing her staff away from the carriage still guarded
by the goblin soldiers.
Soren glances at me with a hard but expectant look, the heavy weight of
the household settling over me as I meet his eye carefully. There's no
suspicion in his gaze, but the tenuous middle ground we’ve found has me
bowing to him deeper than I usually do before I address the goblins.
Stepping forward, I clasp a hand over my heart as I bow to Prince Gage.
He returns the gesture, smiling brightly at me when we both straighten once
more. He doesn't seem concerned by any of the scrutiny or the potential war
that could break out from his father's gift to me, his pose relaxed as his tail
weaves in the brisk morning breeze as though playing.
His voice is roughened by the goblin language, but the laugh in it is
clear enough, "Well met, Rooke. I'm glad to see you looking in better spirits
than when I was last here."
I glance down at my robes, the only thing that's truly changed, and a
smile tugs at my lips, smothered only by my hesitance to draw any further
suspicion toward the goblin. Soren watches us both with a searing glower,
his jaw tight, as though he’s carefully holding himself back.
"I'm not sure if the news reached the goblin lands by scouts or
messengers yet, but I'm sure the trees have told you that Kharl Balzog and
his forces laid siege to Yregar. I offered my aid then, and in Yrell only days
ago, and it's impossible to cast effectively when wearing high-fae fashions."
All three of the goblin soldiers chuckle, and Gage glances over my
shoulder at the high fae of the household. "I suppose your husband-to-be
has warmed up to you now that he knows the power you wield and what it
can do for him."
 A very pointed question framed as a statement, poking away at my
safety and treatment the same way he did last time. This prince is desperate
to throw me in one of those wagons and ferret me back to the goblin lands.
His people respect my name far more than the high fae ever have, and if it
weren't for my fate, I'd probably take him up on the offer.
With a glance over my shoulder, I make a show of smiling at the
household there before I answer. Every action in this performance is for
them, and some of the tension around me eases as they follow my lead,
their trust in me now strong enough for that at least.
"You'll be happy to know I even have a rug on my floor now, and boots
that don't make my toes bleed. Life is wonderful."
The goblin prince lets out a dismissive noise, his hand cutting through
the air but a smile still on his face. "You should be dripping with diamonds,
every last one of them exalting you. They should know who you are and fall
to their knees at your feet."
His words rattle around in my head and trip over memories, the skin
around my eyes tightening just a little as I wonder just how much Prince
Gage has heard of me from the trees. He holds himself casually, but his tone
is serious, no matter the playful act he’s putting on for the eyes on us.
Finally, I wave a hand in his direction with that same careful smile on
my face that we both share. "I don't want such things, Your Highness.
Come, we've played our games with the high fae and their sensibilities long
enough. Shall we truly set the banshee off amongst the sleeping babies?"
He watches me closely but nods, happy to move at my direction, and he
motions for me to follow him around the carriage. I learn that the windows
aren’t just covered with curtains but also with magic, no sounds or signs of
life within detectable to even the keenest high-fae hearing. Whether for the
girl's comfort or to conceal her from the high-fae soldiers I don't know, but I
doubt the soldiers ever suspected the goblin king’s “gift.”
Gage murmurs to me quietly, discreetly despite the ignorance of those
around us to the goblin language, "My mother saw to her wounds, but she
couldn't heal the damage to her mind, no matter which language we tried.
She has her suspicions about some limitations the female might have, but
I'll let you make your own assessments, unimpeded by my mother's best
guesses."
My eyebrows pinch together but I nod, and he slips a key from his
pocket and unlocks the door, then opens it just wide enough for me to
squeeze into the carriage. I hesitate, my good sense kicking in about the
assumptions the household must be making right now.
I glance back at Soren and call out to him, "I'll be one moment as I
inspect my gift."
He scowls at me, his jaw clenching as he grinds his teeth furiously, but
something about our conversation yesterday must still play in his mind,
because he inclines his
head at me in permission. None of the soldiers move, but their gazes
follow me as I slip into the carriage until the door shuts firmly behind me. I
have no doubt the goblin soldiers are now the fixation of that attention, a
standoff in the courtyard that will be gossiped about for days to come, but
my own attention becomes fixed on the huddled and shaking female in front
of me.
I sit on the opposite bench and lean back into the cushions, pushing
myself away from the trembling female to give her as much space as the
confines will allow. Holding myself deathly still, I slow my breathing until
there's nothing threatening about me. As a healer, one of the most
unfortunate sides of my work is helping damaged and abused folk through
the most difficult of times, the wake of what was done to them mentally
often more difficult to repair than the physical injuries. I have learned how
to become nothing in their presence, to melt into the scenery and observe
until I can gain their trust.
The female is most certainly high fae, and I let my magic slowly inch
into the space between us, the smallest amount that would be undetectable
to any but a very skilled witch. There's the barest trace of pixie within her,
and it raises more questions about the circumstances of this woman.
She's blond, her hair naturally falling into perfect curls as the easy
beauty of the high fae graces her even in her traumatized and disheveled
state. She's covered by clothing of the goblin fashions, the colors less flashy
than those favored by the high fae but the cut of the dresses similar. There's
a scar on the back of her hand, facing out at me as she clutches the bottom
half of her face. She's trying to stay silent, to hold in her sobs, and I'm
careful not to meet her bright blue eyes as she stares at me in horror. In
these situations, eye contact can seem aggressive, and I never want her to
sense danger from me. The tears spilling down her cheeks dance wildly as
she trembles, and I let my calm demeanor fill the space between us.
 I figure out exactly what the goblin prince was alluding to when there's
a crash outside, cursing and calls for aid as one of the boxes of provisions is
dropped and the household moves quickly to remedy the situation, but the
female doesn't startle at the sound.
Waiting until her eyes slip closed again, I speak to her in the common
tongue without warning and loud enough to startle her, "I'm here to offer
you aid, can you tell me your name?"
Still no reaction. No flinching or twitching, nothing at all.
When her eyes open once more and her gaze darts back to me, I move
slowly, so slow that even after her initial jolt, she doesn't react, and I make
the sign for healer with my hands. Her eyes fix on them as though a beacon
of light shines through the darkness.
The woman is deaf.
Whether she's mute as well, I'm not sure, but I speak with my hands,
and recognition fills her gaze as she understands me perfectly.
“My name is Rooke and I am a healer. The goblin prince has brought
you to me for aid, and I will care for you until you say otherwise. You are
safe with me, I swear on the Ravenswyrd Forest and the old gods who walk
there, no harm will come to you while you're under my protection.”
I give her a moment, not wanting to rush her, and when her hand finally
drops away from her face my heart clenches in my chest at the raw beauty
staring back at me.
All the high fae are beautiful, there's no debating that fact. Seelie,
Unseelie, those from the Western Fyres and the Dragon Lands, all of them
are blessed with the ability to strike you dumb with a single glance at such
perfection, but there's something about this female that drives a knife into
my gut, an innocence marred by abuse. Finally, as her hands begin to move
in conversation back to me, the answer hits me.
She’s younger than any of the other high fae I’ve met.
That small amount of pixie heritage means the curse didn’t claim her
life at her birth, and there's every chance she was dumped at an orphanage
to hide some royal’s secret of a long-forgotten affair with a lower fae. She's
only a few decades old and has already known abuse, something awful
happening to her between her birth and the goblins finding her.
Her hands spell out heartbreak, and I find myself desperate to draw my
sword and behead some of the high fae myself. It will probably be a long
time before I find out which one is responsible for this, but I'll happily take
my pound of flesh when I do.
“I'll be a good girl. I won't make a noise or try to run away, please don't
hurt me. Please don't send me back to them.”
Her eyes are frantic and her movements are jerky, though she signs
fluently and without any of the indicators of someone taught later in life.
Every inch of her body screams at me in a stream of contradictions; stay
away, don't leave me, don't touch me, help me, let me go, don't let me die.
A sorrow takes hold of my heart while rage begins to simmer in my gut.
How in the Fates-great-mercies am I going to move her into the healer's
quarters without traumatizing her further? The entire courtyard is writhing
with the curious and downright nosy eyes of the entire household, dozens of
soldiers, both high fae and Prince Gage's. With centuries of unease and
contempt between them, to simply step out of this carriage with her is to
risk starting a war between the goblins and the high fae—blood will be
spilled without a single question answered.
I look over her once more, a soft and open expression pasted on my
face, and the decision is easily made. This trembling female has the full
scope of my protection, and no path forward is too difficult for me to
maneuver. Whatever it takes, I'll see her through this.
I sign back to her, “I'm going to take you to my healing quarters so we
can get you cleaned up and resting safely. Is there anything that you need
before we go? Are you hungry, thirsty, are you in any pain?”
She shakes her head, her hands clutching at her rail thin arms for a
moment, fingers digging into the fabric there before her hands move back to
me, desperate now someone finally understands her.
“I'll be good. I don't need much space, and I'll sleep on the floor. I'll do
whatever you say, your willing slave, just please don't send me back there.
I'll do anything you ask of me.”
I don't believe them to be responsible, but I ask anyway, “With the
goblins? Why are you afraid to go back to their lands? Whatever has
happened to you, I’ll care for you and deal with your abuser.”
She shakes her head, and her hands move quickly. “Yris. Please don't
send me back to Yris.”

OceanofPDF.com
OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Soren
The goblin soldiers, as immovable as ever, stand guard around the carriage.
I recognize enough of the male’s standing before us to guess the same
battalion has journeyed to Yregar, fierce scowls fixed on their faces as they
wait under their commander’s order. The leader guards Rooke inside the
carriage as she collects her gift from the Goblin King, no sign of what it is.
I loathe standing cluelessly by, but her warnings still ring in my ears,
impossible to ignore.
No alliance can be made with the goblins unless the kingdom is restored
and the high fae return to the old ways. With Mercer proving himself to
potentially be more of a hinderance to me in the oncoming conflicts than
aid, my hopes of forming an alliance with King Galen shifts to a priority.
My command to my entire household went out before we came to meet
the goblin soldiers and was clear; every fae under the goblin king’s
dominium is to be treated with the same respect as any noble of the
Unseelie Court.
Tauron wasn’t pleased but accepted my order, and Tyton was less
concerned. Unsurprisingly, Roan seethed with fury. His family has a long
and blood-soaked conflict with the Briarfrost bloodline, and the signing of
the accords has done little to appease his call for retribution. When he
realized I won’t be swayed from seeking out this truce, he bit back his
vitriol and now stands at my elbow, feigning his best behavior while his
eyes drink in the soldiers in as though searching out some threat or
deception to dismiss my plans as misguided.
Airlie pointedly doesn't watch the carriage, an unspoken display of
complete trust in Rooke’s actions for all the household to see. Instead, her
gaze traces the supply carts as the food is unpacked. Dozens of bags of
grains, vegetables, and fruits, slabs of cured meats and countless barrels of
various liquids, each item protected by magic on the long journey. The
order was double the last, anticipating more fae folk arriving at Yregar
seeking refuge and safety. Firna and Airlie also have hopes to start the
preparations for the arrival of the Unseelie Court and the festivities of the
winter solstice and my marriage.
The two final wagons, laden with building supplies, wait farther back,
each of them holding enough goods to make repairs on the rest of the
damaged buildings without the aid of Rooke's magic. We'll move the
newcomers into the Grand Hall for now, but with the supplies here and the
builders eager to start, it won’t be long before more homes in the villages
will be ready for them.
The lead goblin soldier oversees the unloading of those building
supplies carefully, and when Firna is happy with the provisions being
transported, she directs the refugees into the castle. The fae folk are all
haggard looking, exhausted, many of them injured.
There's a knock at the carriage door, and the goblin soldier opens it.
Rooke steps out with a somber look on her face, and I take half a step
forward without thinking before I halt my advance. I’m forced to grit my
teeth through another of their interactions, but keeping my temper becomes
more difficult with every passing second. Whatever the goblin soldier is
saying to Rooke, she’s deeply troubled by it, and no amount of conversation
eases her concerns. Finally, she nods to him, but none of her tension eases.
I share a look with Roan over Airlie's head, and Tauron shuffles on his
feet at my side, eager for confrontation as he always is. Rooke strides back
to me and when she bows deeper to me than ever before, my teeth almost
crack under the pressure of my clenched jaw. She doesn't make a show of
looking around the courtyard at any of the household—none of this is a
spectacle to her anymore. This is entirely for me.
What in the Fates-filled fuck is in that carriage?
 "I need to speak with you for a moment— privately, Prince Soren."
It’s as close to pleading as I’ve ever heard from my Fates-blessed mate,
and instead of satisfaction my gut roils at the sound. Murmurs sound around
the courtyard as I incline my head to her, my eyes still sharp on hers, but
she lets out a breath at my agreement.
Her magic spreads out around us before Tyton has a chance to offer his
own, the shimmering line of it encasing us in a small bubble, and though
speculation runs rife through the crowd, no one seems too concerned by this
use of her magic. My soldiers are accustomed to it from Tyton, and the
household now trusts my Fates-blessed mate.
Rooke waits as long as it takes for her shield to take form around us
before she straightens to meet my eye, her posture widening as though she’s
preparing for a battle. "The Goblin King didn't send me a gift. He sent me a
victim of the regent and his castle."
The roiling of my stomach grows violent, and my brows furrow tightly,
but she doesn't lose her stride. “The goblin soldiers warned me last time
they were here—they told me they found a high-fae prisoner being
transported across their lands. The Goblin King dealt with the assailants
but, no matter their attempts, they couldn't get any sense out of the female."
My feet move without thought only to stop as Rooke holds up a hand,
her eyes imploring. "The goblin soldiers have done nothing wrong. I've
spoken to her myself, and all she will speak is a plea not to be sent back to
Yris. She's terrified and traumatized."
She hesitates, glancing around the confines of the shield before she says
hesitantly, "To most, she will seem high fae, but I sought out her lineage
with my magic and found royal bloodlines with the barest trace of pixie.
She looks solely high fae, but she’s only a few decades old, maybe four at
most."
We both know exactly what stupidity caused this mess at the expense of
the female, and a curse falls from my lips. The shield conceals the vitriol
from my household as I seethe at the Unseelie Court’s perverse obsessions,
their arrogance rearing its heads once more at the expense of this
defenseless young female.
Rooke hears me out and nods, a hand running down the center of her
robes and catching on one of the pins there, a soothing action as she
attempts to hold back her own temper.
 "If I had to guess, I'd say that a royal high-fae female gave birth during
the curse to a live baby and discovered that, somewhere along the line, a
family member had a relationship with a lower fae and hid it, only to have it
potentially exposed by this child. Wherever they dumped the baby, the
female has been horrifically abused and is now at the mercy of her rescuers.
The Goblin King has healed her and seen to her care, but his people were
unable to communicate with her."
I scowl at her. "They have translators in the goblin lands. Could he not
speak to her and find out more?"
"She's deaf and, I think, possibly mute as well. The goblin lands have a
different form of sign language, and the healer who was tending to her
didn't know the high-fae way."
I’m struck once again by the knowledge and sheer competence of my
Fates-blessed mate. She has dozens of ways to communicate with fae folk
of all kinds tucked into her belt to provide the best care she can anyone she
serves.
No wonder she’s looked down upon the high fae at every turn.
Her thoughts don't seem to spiral the way mine do; instead she focuses
on the tasks ahead. "I need to get her out of the carriage and into the healer's
quarters without traumatizing her further and without your soldiers
attacking the goblin soldiers, assuming their guilt. I understand that,
politically, this is a delicate situation and could be viewed as the Goblin
King disobeying the accords, but he's done right by this female and the
kingdom. The plants that he sent me were a gift but also a test of how
accepting Yregar would be. This is a great amount of trust he's placed in me
and my ability to navigate this with you without besmirching his people."
Turning away from her abruptly, I say, "Let down the shield."
Her eyes narrow, but she does as I command, face becoming carefully
blank as the sights and sounds of everything around us sharpen once more
and all eyes stay firmly affixed on us.
The goblin soldier leading the group watches me closely, and I incline
my head at him. "Thank you for seeing my kinsfolk across the kingdom
safely, a generous gift to my Fates-blessed mate. We’ll care for the female
and ensure that no further harm will come to her. Be assured, whatever
justice we may serve for her treatment will be swift and sure.”
Rooke translates for me, and the goblin soldier jerks his head into a
bow, deeper than before. His reply is confident as it rings through the
courtyard, regardless of its indistinguishable nature to those who watch on.
I can pick out a few words that Rooke shared with me yesterday, and more
that sound familiar, even if their meaning is out of my grasp. Finding any of
the harsh tongue recognizable feels like a victory to me.
“He says he looks forward to returning at the winter solstice and seeing
our progress with the female then. He kept a close watch on her while she
stayed in the healer’s quarters and has grave concerns that more harm could
befall her. Despite his concerns, he knows she’s safest with her own folk
and is reassured by your words."
Concern is definitely on his face, clear as day, and murmurs begin
around the courtyard as the household finally figures out what lies within
that carriage.
I turned to Tauron and murmur in the old language, "We need to escort
the carriage to the entrance by the healer's quarters and keep soldier
presence to a minimum until we get the female in the carriage settled there."
His own scowl back to me is just as confused as the rest, but he nods
and steps forward, interacting with the goblin soldiers through Rooke
without malice or question.
Airlie glances at me and speaks in the old language. "A female? The
Goblin King gifted Rooke a female?"
Her tone is carefully blank, but I know that disgust is filling her, and I
put an end to it quickly, not needing a new headache or campaign from my
cousin right now.
"He gifted Rooke his trust to negotiate the return of a lost high-fae
princess. Someone at Yris did this, and when I find out who, there will be
grave consequences."
Tyton scowls, his hand rubbing over his chest, and he murmurs under
his breath in the common tongue, for everyone of high-fae hearing to hear,
"The Fates are singing. The trees are unhappy, but the Fates are weaving
regardless."
It’s a warning from the trees, or maybe the Fates themselves, but I don’t
have the patience or the time to give his words much thought. Leaving
Tyton on the steps as his eyes grow hazier, I step down into the courtyard to
follow the carriage around to the healer’s quarters.
As I dismiss the household, Airlie and Roan watch me, both frowning
after the carriage as though tempted to follow, but Rooke’s warning rings
clear in my mind. "We don't want to overwhelm the female. If her
mistreatment was at Yris, then seeing any of the Unseelie high fae could
cause her more distress.”
Rooke opens the garden gate and hurries ahead into the healer's quarters
before ducking back out with a small blanket. She murmurs quietly to the
goblin soldier before he unlocks the door, and she steps into the small
confines.
When she steps back down, the female follows her, blanket pulled up
tight over her shoulders and framing a blond halo of curls. Though she’s
taller than Rooke, she hunches over and trembles in terror, and my Fates-
blessed mate finds it easy to bundle the female into her arms and coax her
swiftly across the cobblestones. As they weave through the planters and up
the steps. I turn to Tauron, my orders for him dying on my lips. Shaking just
as hard as the female is, my cousin’s own skin is pale and clammy as he
swallows.
I glance around at the goblin soldiers, but there’s no indication of what
has happened here. Grasping Tauron’s shoulder, I’m about to shake him to
clear the terror that has taken hold of him, but he turns to me at my touch,
his voice cracked and broken as the confession tumbles from his lips.
"They were singing my fate, cousin. The female is my mate."

TAURON DOESN'T SPEAK another word, his color growing worse the
longer we wait. We stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the goblin soldiers
outside of the walled garden, and there’s no murmuring inside the healer’s
quarters as reassurance, only the sounds of footsteps and the swishing of
fabric as they move. The longer the silence holds, the deeper the itch digs
into my skin as we're forced to wait with no information about the health of
the cowering female or her state of mind.
Tauron’s mate.
At eighteen, my cousin was given a fate by the Seer so terrible it
changed his heart. He was once as content as his brother, quick to laugh and
easygoing even in the most suffocating years of our childhood in Yris. The
moment he walked out of the temple with a scowl on his face, a seed of fury
had been planted that grew larger over the years, spreading as it wrapped
around every part of him until he himself became a thorny, vicious male to
everyone around him.
The goblin soldiers don't understand the common tongue but the
sentries on the inner wall do, so I switch to the old language. “Go to my
reception rooms and wait there. I'll stand guard here until Rooke has the
female settled and I’ll see what more she can tell me. Whatever information
she gives us, we’ll use it to find out who is responsible. Her pain won’t go
unanswered, cousin, I swear it on our bloodlines.”
He swallows roughly, his eyes still glued to the roughly cut doorway of
the healer’s quarters as he lingers for a beat. When there’s no change, he
finally forces himself into some semblance of a bow and leaves. His gait is
uneven, almost drunk looking, and the high-fae soldiers sparring outside the
barracks nearby all stare at him curiously.
The goblin soldiers don’t react to his awkward exit, not a single glance
in his direction, and the sounds of the household unpacking the supplies fill
in our silence once more. The sound of a chair scraping the floor inside the
healer’s quarters startles me, but there’s nothing else, and I have to remind
myself that traumatizing the female isn’t worth assuaging my curiosity, nor
is infuriating my already ferociously tempered mate.
Distracting myself, I go to the empty carriage and glance inside to find
it up to royal standards, with plush cushions on the seats but also a blanket
and the remnants of rations left behind. Rooke wasn’t showing the goblins
any favor; they really did see the female through the kingdom with the best
care they could offer her. My anger grows thunderous, and I force myself to
look away before someone notices and assumes the goblins are at fault.
There’s only the high fae to blame, and maybe the Fates for the path
they’ve set us on.
Footsteps sound, and I glance up in time to see the door to the healer’s
quarters open a fraction, just enough for Rooke to squeeze through before
she quickly eases it shut once more. The stern look on her face hasn’t
changed, but she strides forward confidently and stops before the lead
goblin soldier, then bows deeply to him once more. She murmurs quietly,
and he speaks respectfully back, despite the anger they both have
simmering just below the surface.
Rooke glances at me and bows again, deeper, even without the eyes of
my household on us all. “I have offered the goblin soldiers Yregar’s
hospitality should they wish to stay, but they’re eager to begin their journey
home. They will rejoin the rest of their troops outside the outer wall now.”
The weight of my cousin's fate is heavy across my shoulders. Any
kindnesses they showed to the female, they showed to the Celestial
bloodline, my household, and my closest family. The decision to find
common ground with King Galen and his people was made months before I
met Rooke, born out of desperation for Yregar, but it’s been proved the
right one at every turn.
Looking beyond the tales of my childhood and the gossip of the
Unseelie Court, I can trust only my own experiences and the loyalties I’m
shown.
When I turn to the goblin commander, he stares back at me with keen
eyes and an expectant air as he waits me out. Rooke is the only one to react
as I hold out my palm to him, her eyebrows twitching before she has the
chance to smother the reaction to my offer of respect.
"My deepest and sincerest gratitude for bringing the female to us. Rest
assured, she’s safe here at Yregar and will be cared for as I would my own
bloodline."
The goblin soldier clasps my palm with his own as Rooke translates, a
firm nod of acceptance with it, but his eyes narrow the smallest fraction as
though he doubts my convictions. Though it sets my teeth on edge, the
briefest glance at the female was all it took to see the abuse inflicted on her.
If I were the soldier, I wouldn’t put much stock in my words either.
He replies to me without glancing at Rooke, and she translates his
words. "The Goblin King will be traveling to Yregar at the winter solstice
and we’ll return with the last convoy of wagons then too. Your soldiers
fought well and their defense for the fae folk they found fleeing never
faltered, a credit to their lord. We’ll offer the same protections to any we
find on our journey home, shelter in our lands until we can see them here
safely. This war has gone on for too long. It’s time for Kharl Balzog to
answer for his crimes and a competent king to rule over the Southern Lands
once more."
His words are chosen carefully, a master who could weave effectively
within the Unseelie Court, and I incline my head at him, respects paid and
no further questions to ask. It’s an offer of allegiance, but only once I’ve
proved myself further, the trust we’ve established tenuous at best.
 Rooke steps up to my side, and we watch the goblin soldiers escort the
now empty carriage back through to the courtyard, not pausing as they
swing onto their horses and depart. Her shoulders are tense, a scowl across
her face as she stares at the sentries still on duty on the wall.
Murmuring in the old language, I say, “The inner doors of your quarters
are already guarded by my most trusted soldiers, I’ll have more stationed
around the outer perimeter of your garden as well. If the female is settled
enough to be left alone for a moment, we need to figure out what in the
Fates-filled fuck we're going to do."
Her mouth pulls in tight, struggling with something for a moment
before she shrugs. "I’m not sure what you’re suggesting, but the female is
under my care and protection now. If there’s some family you’re hoping to
hand her over to, know now that I’ll do everything in my power to protect
her."
Rather than inciting a war, as I’m sure she was expecting, her words
release some of the pressure in my chest and I turn to meet her eyes. "We
can agree on that, because the female is Tauron's Fates-blessed mate, and
whoever is responsible for this mess is going to find themselves at the end
of my sword, royal or not."
She blanches, clearly not having heard my cousin's admission, before
she cringes and rubs a hand over her face as she mumbles under her breath,
"By the ashes, a high-fae prince as a mate when the mere mention of Yris
has her sobbing in fear? The Fates are testing us all."
My jaw clenches violently, and I give her a sharp nod. The hand rubbing
over her face only rubs harder as she lets out another unsteady breath. She
steps away from me, and my body shifts in discomfort at her distance, but
she begins to pace in front of me as she ruminates. Her answers are usually
faster than this, but with such large stakes, she’s clearly putting more
thought into this decision than any I’ve seen her make so far.
The Mother of the Ravenswyrd coven stands before me, not the soldier
of the Sol Army or the healer of the forest desperate to go home. The
straight line of her shoulders as she holds her posture perfectly is rigorous,
the curls that have escaped her braid enchanting, and even with the pinched
look on her face, fire fills my blood as I’m struck by her beauty.
It isn’t the high fae sort of pretty, the polished and fake exterior as
shallow as a puddle—this is the beauty of a forest older than any other. The
type of beauty that hurts you to look at for too long but is unbearable to
look away from. This is the real and the true, and the Fates have led me to
her, bound us together in a blood-soaked promise of better things, if only
we fight for them.
Once again, a violent possessiveness fills me, regardless that she hates
the very air I breathe.
Unaware of my plight, Rooke finally stops pacing and turns to me, her
gaze sharp. Her lips purse in that way they do when she’s trying not to
stumble over high-fae arrogance with her no-nonsense approach.
Impatient, I gesture my hand to her in permission. "Whatever it is, just
say it. The only answers I have right now involve blood and pain."
Her mouth tightens as she squares her shoulders. “I've seen a lot of
these sorts of cases in my time. Cruelty isn’t limited to the Unseelie high
fae or those of royal blood, it’s a disease of the heart that inflicts all manner
of fae folk. There are many, many ways that we can aid this female on her
path, but it will require a lot of work and patience… and strict boundaries
that all must follow."
My brows pinch together. "What are you suggesting?"
She blows out a breath and turns away from me again, her robes flaring
around her as she moves, but the soft leather of her boots is silent on the
cobblestones. She wears them like a second skin, moving with ease, and the
foreign look of them strikes me once more. With all the straps and gold
clasps, they scream Seelie fashion, and jealousy writhes in my gut again.
Shunning the Unseelie high fae style of clothing is understandable.
Most designs are impractical for her position and work within my
household, and even I have a very selective wardrobe compared to most
royals, but the idea of her wearing another high fae royal's colors is
intolerable.
“I understand that Fates-blessed mates are something to honor and
treasure, to be held above all else, and that Tauron's word in this situation
holds far more weight than my own but we must tread carefully. The
mention of their fate to her right now is risking a descent into a madness she
may not recover from. I’ve only been able to speak with her briefly, but
she’s eager to prove her use to me and to embed herself within my good
graces. She seems to think that if she doesn't, I'll send her back to Yris."
My eyes lift back toward the early morning sun, which slowly creeps up
in the sky. There’s no guessing what Tauron is thinking right now, only that
the sight of his mate and her condition has sickened him. There's every
chance Tauron is going to rail against this fate just as steadfastly as I have
my own, a futile endeavor that will surely only cause more heartache.
"Do you know Tauron’s fate? The exact wording of it? Sometimes the
Fates leave room for… interpretation. I won’t cause her more pain if it can
be avoided,” Rooke murmurs in the old language, her eyes flicking back up
to mine, and I'm struck again by the silver hue of them.
"He never told us his fate, not a single word of it. We knew it must
involve a mate, because all high-fae royals are told of whom they must wed.
The Fates have always woven our bloodlines together as they see fit, but
Tauron never told us who, or what other tasks were required."
Her eyes narrow. "And your fate is to marry me, take your throne, and
end the war?"
With my unflinching gaze fixed on her, I nod slowly. "And yours is to
marry me and then kill Kharl Balzog."
She cocks her head and shakes it a fraction, "Almost. My fate is to
marry you in your tradition and mine, and then to hold Kharl the Betrayer
accountable for his actions. All the death and suffering he's wrought will
bring about his demise by my hand. I suppose we should be relieved to find
that the Fates aren't asking something truly impossible to complete."
A first attempt at a joke between us, but the reminder of her role in the
war is unpleasant, my reply harsher than I intend. "He turned and fled at the
mere sight of you—I don't think it's as impossible as you're making it out to
be. The Fates were right in their choice of champion, no matter how much I
might wish to be holding the sword he dies on instead."
After a tense moment of silence, Rooke turns from me and makes her
way back to the door, calling out over her shoulder in the old language,
“Tell Tauron I'll guard her with my life.”

OceanofPDF.com
OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Rooke
Trembling with every step, the female keeps her eyes cast downwards and
her feet steadily moving forward despite the tremors that ripple through her
body in waves of terror-soaked panic.
Despite her submissive position and calm appearing demeanor, her
mind is working overtime, without a question of a doubt. She holds herself
in readiness, preparing for a blow, and as we make it farther into the
healer’s quarters, she sees the stove burning brightly. A ripple of horror
works through her slight frame but disappears in an instant, as though she
didn’t mean to react in the first place. A deep fury sinks into my gut at why
such a routine household tool would fill the girl with terror.
I get her as far as one of the roughly hewn chairs before I seat her
carefully, easing her body down and wishing I still had the far more
comfortable lounge seat that was brought down for Airlie to sit in while she
breastfed. One of the maids removed it for cleaning after a particularly
blood-soaked healing session for one of the kitchen staff who'd slipped with
a blade, and it has yet to be returned.
As I ease away from her body to sign, the female doesn't wrap her hands
around her arms as I'm expecting her to. Instead, she sits rigidly and as still
as a statue, staring before her, clearly focusing her attention and respect on
me. She never dares to meet my gaze, as if doing so would be a great insult
to me.
I move my hands slowly at first, but even as I sign faster, her
comprehension stays secure. “These are my healer’s quarters. I alone
reside here. You’re safe and under my protection. Are you injured in any
way?”
Her eyes stay fixed on that point before me as her hands move to
answer me, “No, Mistress, I’m whole and able to work. I’ll do anything you
ask.”
I regard her. The long tresses of her hair are similar in color to the white
blond of Airlie’s, but that’s the only similarity between the females. The
hacked edges of the locks look as though someone took to it roughly with a
pair of shears, the ends uneven and unkempt. Despite that, there’s a natural
shine to the length, and soft curls that would be the envy of many. No
matter her treatment, it’s impossible to deny her high-fae bloodline and the
magnificence that comes with it.
Signing carefully to her, I say, “I'm going to make a pot of tea as I am
thirsty, and I find the brew calming to my mind. I have much to think on
now, but would you like a cup as well?”
She doesn’t glance at the stove, the solitary reaction she had to it clearly
the only one she’s going to let slip. “I don’t need much food or water, and
I’m well accustomed to sleeping on the floor. I have no plans of causing
you, or anyone else within the castle, any trouble or harm. I can live on the
scraps for the compost, and even then just a few, so that the cycle of the
garden is not interrupted. I swear, Mistress, I’ll be no trouble to you.”
I move away from her slowly, each step measured as I keep my gaze on
her, but not because I don't trust the girl or think she’s going to harm me. If
she speaks, I don’t want to miss it, and my only real concern for violence is
what she might do to herself.
The healer’s quarters aren’t properly prepared for such a fragile guest,
and there are many ways this young female could hurt herself if she so
chose. If she suspects the stove is going to become an implement of her
torture, if she has endured such horrors before, I’ve no doubt that ending
such pains before they begin is an appealing prospect.
In my two hundred years of service in the Sol Army, I never once
considered taking my life to end the horrors that filled me, and yet there’s
not an inch of judgment within me as I factor such a possibility into my
care. Her story is not mine and, while I am intent on ensuring her safety, I
won’t judge her for any action she might take.
The world is a cruel place, and I won’t add to such tortures to her.
With water bubbling on the stove top, I pull out one of the simplest
teapots that I have. The brown clay it’s formed from was pressed together
by hand before it was fired, and fingerprints of the fae who crafted it are
still visible in the work. It’s my favorite in its uncomplicated design, the
sort of useful object that reminds me of home.
I‘d never use it with Airlie or any of the high fae. Their sensibilities are
different to mine and though it may seem like a harsh judgment or some
sense of superiority on my part, it’s not. Long ago, I learned that the
differences in customs between all fae folk require a thoughtful approach,
but that doesn’t mean that one way is right or wrong, simply different.
The high fae covet beautiful things, and to be offered them is a mark of
respect. They value the time and care that goes into great artisanship, but
while I can appreciate such things, I don’t covet them in the same way.
There’s no superiority in me for that either, no moral high ground I stake
myself upon. There are far too many pressing concerns to worry about, like
seeing to the healing of this wounded female.
Carefully, I pour the healer’s brew into the two mugs and test their heat,
adding a little water to cool them. My fingers run over the rough clay of the
mugs with a small smile, their makeshift design oddly soothing to me, and I
fuss with the tinctures until I’m satisfied they’re perfect.
There's a small table to one side of the chairs, and I carefully place one
mug down next to the trembling female before I sign, “If the tea isn’t to
your tastes there are others I can brew, but I’d like you to try that one first
and see what remarks you might give me. I suspect I’ll be entertaining
another high fae soon enough, and I’d like to know whether the brew is of
good quality for her tastes as well.”
The longer my hands move and the more explanation I give, the clearer
it becomes just how important being useful is to the girl and perhaps how
vital it has been to her survival so far. At the mention of a potential visit of
another, one who might judge such things, her head nods emphatically. The
determination that lights in her eyes is almost manic, as though she’d drink
a bowl filled with dusk-adder poison and selkie salts should I put it in front
of her and claim it for the good of another.
 She drinks the tea in three gulps, and I find myself relieved that I
checked the temperature, no concern in her for whether it scalds her tongue.
She swallows without pause and the liquid only lingers in her mouth long
enough for the taste to truly take hold before she's swallowing it down. The
whole cup is drained in a matter of a heartbeat.
“The taste is a little bitter but the notes of fruit ease some of that and
the crushed bloomery aids the slip of the liquid.”
My eyebrows hit my hairline.
I don't bother attempting to hide my facial expression; her own gaze
hasn’t once lifted from the space between us that my hands move in. I gave
her the task of testing to ensure she drank the tea, not to test her for skills,
but even as hurriedly as she’d downed the brew, she’s assessed it to
perfection. The notes of the bloomery are so minuscule that hundreds of
other well-trained healers would have missed such a thing.
Her palate is incredible.
“The princess doesn’t mind a bitter taste. She’s well versed in tea
drinking. Thank you for your assistance—have you done much testing of
teas and tinctures before?”
Her eyes flick from side to side, just a little—the only reaction she has
—and her face remains carefully blank. Her gaze never truly lifts or lowers,
just moves from one hand to the other, and yet it’s the first sign of
movement from her. She barely blinks, the rise of her chest with her breath
is suppressed, every basic function smothered as though she’s hoping that
by taking on a statue-like form, she can cease to exist in my mind.
“I have worked for a kitchen before, and I am adept at such tasks,
Mistress. I know many plants and poisons. I can test your food for you if
you are concerned. My constitution is good, and you will not lose my work
at such testing.”
I keep my own mug clasped in my hands and prop my elbows on my
knees in the picture of casual. My shoulders are relaxed and my stance is
languid, open and reassuring, but none of this eases her. Small steps
forward, the path ahead a long one.
When I lean down to place my cup on the small table, she doesn't flinch,
simply waits with the illusion of calm until my hands begin to move once
more. “That is a very useful skill to have. Brewed poisons are difficult to
detect.”
 Hands flying before her in a frenzied jumble of explanation, as though
she speaks without thinking, her reassurances build before me.
“I know that dusk-adder venom doesn’t have a taste, but a feel in the
mouth can detect it, and the roots of the bronbutter plant will always spark
along the tongue, no matter how they are prepared, and that enough of it
would kill a high-fae male should he consume it. I know of dragon's blood
and how to disguise it, that if a drink is too sweet, it masks many horrors
within, and that a brew burned and offered with apologies is often hiding a
bitter friend. Mistress, I’ll do your bidding even if this is the task that you
require. I swear to you, I’ll do whatever I need.”
My hands move slowly before me once more, carefully but
emphatically, a stark change from her harried movements. I hope my
message to her comes through with that calmness clearer than any wording
I could choose.
“You’ll stay in these quarters, with me, for as long as you choose. No
fae folk may enter without my permission, and I’ll grant it to none but those
who you find acceptable. My protections of you are complete and
unquestionable, and any who offer you threats of violence will be dealt with
by my hand.”
My words may be hollow to her for now, without any experience or
trust between us yet, but I give them to her regardless. I can’t prove myself
to be honest and true without first expressing my intentions to her.
“My name is Rooksbane Eveningstar. I am the Mother of the
Ravenswyrd Coven, a Favored Child of the ancient forest and a Witch of the
Woods. The Fates have burdened me with a great purpose, one that has led
me far throughout the kingdoms. My protection of you is absolute, and none
shall cross it without grave consequences.”
I sign my name to her carefully, first spelling it out and then with the
sign I was once gifted by another. My brother, Willow, and I were playing
by the river on the edge of our small village when a traveler stumbled upon
us both there and collapsed before a single word had passed between us. I
didn’t feel fear at his approach; the forest protected us from any who meant
us harm, and I’d rushed to aid him.
After long weeks of care from my coven, the traveler left us in good
health but not before he gifted me the sign for little crow in thanks for my
aid. I suspect my dark hair and the wiry nature that I held as a twelve-year-
old playing amongst the trees inspired him, but I still hold it in the same
honor now as I did then.
“You may address me as Rooke. Can you tell me your name so that we
may begin to know one another?”
Finally, her face changes a little as she swallows, and her hands spell in
the alphabet first and then the sign, the two forms of her name.
“Thea.”
Nothing else, no clues to which family she may have come from or who
instilled such terrors in her. Simply Thea.
“Well met, Thea.”
She ducks her head in a small bow, her gaze dropping back to the floor,
and I clear away our now empty cups. Keeping my own gaze close to her
huddled form in case she wishes to speak with me further, I can’t help but
wonder about the origins of the female and what events led her here, her
name compounding the mystery for me tenfold. That she has endured
horrors is unquestionable, but someone, at some time, cared for her. I have
proof of that.
The sign for her name is cherished one.

SETTLING Thea into my rooms and reassuring her at every turn is far
harder than I was hoping but, after a few short days, we find a peace to
work within. My hands move slowly as I speak with her, steady as I attempt
to coax more information from her, but it’s slow work and best done
sparingly. After the first week, the only success I can claim is that, with
every desperate plea Thea offers me, the plan of how best to aid her grows
clearer for me.
“I’ll be a good girl, I’ll do anything you want! I’m quick at learning, I
swear I’m not stupid just because I can’t speak or hear.”
I meet her eyes with a firm nod. “I know you’re not stupid, Thea, I
would never think such a thing. You’re safe here with me. I’ll never send
you back to that city, I swear on the Fates themselves. Please sit and rest
for a moment, it’s been a long day.”
 The furrow in her brow deepens, but I move away from her once more,
going about my work and giving her some space to herself. She spent the
day cleaning the cupboards and scrubbing the floor, her anxiety easing only
after I relented and gave her the tasks. She’s efficient, fastidious, and pauses
only if I insist upon it, usually to force some food or water into her.
As always, I keep my gaze close to her in case she wants to speak with
me, but she sits calmly in the chair across the room from the workbench,
observing my actions as though searing them into her memory. I have no
doubt she’ll be able to mimic them with little warning or tutoring required.
It’s a useful, if heartbreaking, skill to have, one acquired through trauma.
Tyra, one of Firna’s most trusted maids, arrives around midday each day
with food for us both, and before she leaves today, I request a tub filled with
warm water to be brought down for Thea. She still isn’t comfortable leaving
the healer’s quarters, and the closest bathroom, the one in which I bathe, is
down the hall. A dozen high-fae soldiers stand guard over us both outside
the doors, a terrifying prospect she isn’t ready to endure.
Tyra bows deeply to me, her tone polite. “Shall I bring down fresh
clothing as well? Princess Airlie has already collected some options for
Thea, she’s most anxious to help you both however she can.”
Warmth spreads through my chest, a smile tugging at my lips as a sigh
escapes me. I’ve wondered how Roan is faring with his spirited wife and
sent more than a few prayers to the Fates on his behalf. Not one to ever shy
away from difficult tasks or any issue that troubles her tight-knit family
here at Yregar, Airlie must be at her wits end being kept so far away from
Thea. No one has disregarded my request for solitude, though, not even the
stubbornly impassioned princess.
I’ve spent far too much time considering what to do about that shift, and
how deeply it could damage me if this all proves to be a high-fae strategy,
as I suspect.
Considering Tyra’s offer for a moment, I shake my head. “I have
something else in mind for her for the time being. Please let Airlie know I’ll
come and see her soon to discuss my plans for Thea’s care.”
The maid leaves once more, and it's not long before there's a steaming
tub in the corner of the room, a select few maids trusted to bring it in. None
of them look even a little bit high fae, though I place myself in front of
Thea while they’re with us. The maids all bow their heads to me
respectfully and with genuine warmth in their eyes, all of them sorrowful at
the trembling form of my patient.
When they’ve finished their work and leave us, Thea stares at the tub as
though she's afraid a banshee is about to rise from the water and scramble
our minds. I move back to my work while I wait her out, small tasks that
keep my hands busy and the unintentional pressure of my gaze off Thea. It’s
important not to make a fuss or demands on her, but I know the offer of a
bath is far more tempting when the water is already sitting before you.
I turn to her and sign, "The clothes you’re wearing are quite lovely and
a gift from the goblin people, but they are impractical for a healer.”
Her gaze flies up to meet mine, her hands hasty. “I’m no healer,
mistress, I would never tell such a bold lie.”
Hands moving slow and sure, I sign back to her, “You aren’t a healer
right now, but you’ll be staying here with me, and there’s always plenty of
work to be done. If you’re willing to learn, I’m willing to teach. The
Southern Lands are dangerously short on competent healers.”
She shakes her head emphatically. “There’s no good to come from
training someone like me in the ancient and sacred arts of healing.”
Another clue to the abuse she’s endured, and I tuck it away for later
inspection. Right now my focus must lie in giving her something to focus
on, something that feels familiar. Even in her most panicked pleas, she is
clear in her abilities to work hard and be useful to me no matter the task
assigned. Focusing on that desire to work without causing her harm may be
the key to reaching her. Learning how to bind wounds, prevent infection,
and correctly identify illnesses is “work” for her to engage in without
exploiting the trauma of abusive labor that drives her. In time, she can build
on the skills and take pride in her abilities, but for now my only aim is to
put her mind at ease so I can build trust with her.
Though I’m careful with my words, I also refuse to lie or mislead the
female. “There are certain protections that come with being a healer. You
would always have that safety in the future, even if the Fates separate us.”
When her eyebrows pull down tight, panic flaring across her face once
more, I reach out to squeeze her hand and get her attention. “If you learn the
art of healing from me as my apprentice, then you can care for the
household here. It would be a great service to me to know that the fae folk
here would have aid even when I’m called away from Yregar for other
imperative tasks.”
 Indecision wars across her face, and she wrings her hands obsessively,
stark fear rolling from her in waves. Watching her, I interrupt only when
I’m sure that she’s stuck in her terror of making a misstep and not in fear of
the work itself.
“Would you like to keep the dress or swap into the healer’s garb? You
may find the extra fabric cumbersome to our work, and I have other, more
appropriate clothing for you to wear while you’re here with me.”
Some of the tension eases out of her, and when I don't immediately walk
over there and drag her to the water myself, she seems to calm down a little,
slowly unfolding from the chair. I've chosen every word with care. It's clear
that the only part of becoming my apprentice that she’s balking at is the title
of a healer, the respect she has for the work of my kin spurring her
rejection.
By framing my offer as hard labor, her clothing as impractical, and any
rejection as a trial to me, she becomes more than willing to comply. It pains
me to use her traumas in this way, but her safety and comfort are my
priority.
Hesitantly, she steps over to the tub, her hands shaking as she slowly
pulls the dress away from herself. I wave my hand for a moment to catch
her attention and then sign, “I can step out into the gardens and give you
privacy, if you’d like? There’s no need for me be in the room while you’re
exposed if you’re uncomfortable.”
She shakes her head vehemently and signs back to me, hands moving
swiftly, “I don't want the soldiers to come in.”
I scowl at the door for a moment. The soldiers are there for our
protection and haven’t attempted to enter, but if they knock while I’m
outside, Thea won't hear it. Stepping out would leave her exposed, even if
there were only good intentions involved. Perhaps caring for this female
will be enough to convince Soren to allow me a lock on that door and some
assured privacy, at least in the short term.
I sign to Thea, ”I can stay here with you and keep my back turned. You
can clap your hands if you need my attention. Take as long as you like to
have a nice soak and get cleaned up. It was a long and hard journey across
the kingdom with the goblin soldiers, and you’ve done much work here with
me since you’ve arrived. I'm sure you’d like to be comfortable again.
She looks down at her hands for a moment, splaying her fingers, before
she signs haltingly, “I've never been so clean. Have I dirtied myself
already?”
A lump forms in my throat but I swallow around it, careful to keep my
face blank. Her eyes are pinched at the sides but keen on my face, adept at
reading all the silent ways we communicate, not just because of her
deafness, but her trauma as well. Any sign of the disgust I feel at her
abusers could be mistaken as a feeling I have toward her, and gaining her
trust now is imperative to her wellbeing.
“You’re definitely not dirty, Thea, and even if you were, there's nothing
to be ashamed of about your situation. Sometimes I enjoy a warm bath,
simply for the pleasure of immersing myself, and I thought maybe you
would enjoy the same thing. If you wish to just change from the goblin dress
into the slacks I have for you, then we'll do that.”
She glances at the water and the layer of bubbles rippling over the
surface of it, her eyes still pinched and distrust shining within them. “I've
never had a warm bath before. The goblins tried, I think, but I was too
scared. One of the ladies gave me a rag and a bucket to scrub myself with. I
was terrified when they washed my hair, but they were kind. Far kinder than
I deserve, and I'm very ashamed of how I treated them. I couldn't think
clearly, I was so scared.”
It’s the most she’s said to me of her journey here or her own emotions.
Hope lights up within me that perhaps I have been able to gain some of her
trust. With my face carefully serene, I nod to her and bear witness to
anything she might wish to say.
When she finally nods back and begins to strip away the dress, her
hands tremble violently and when I offer her my assistance, she accepts.
The state of her body is familiar to me in a sickening way, a battlefield of
scars not unlike my own, though the war she’s endured was not of her own
choosing. Layer upon layer of white lines dance across her pale skin;
myriad weapons have been used to carve into her. I recognize the markings
of some of the blades used, but dozens of other scars could have been made
in a variety of ways.
Bile creeps up the back of my throat at the sight. She's only a few
decades old, and yet this is how she looks. Some of Tauron's surly
demeanor becomes excusable to me, despite his pigheaded insistence of my
guilt. If the Fates gave him any whispers of what abuses his mate would
endure before he found her, that knowledge must’ve eaten away at him over
the centuries until he became the twisted and vicious male before us today.
 Thea lets out a sighing gasp as she steps into the tub, sitting in the water
and pulling her knees to her chest as she makes herself small. Without
pause, she grabs the cloth and the small cake of soap and starts washing
herself with them, and I wince at the roughness of her manner. Her hands
scrub so hard that I’m afraid her skin will split open, red patches blooming
in the wake of the cloth as she works over her arms first. The water doesn’t
change color—there was no dirt on the female—but still she scours her
limbs.
I last a minute of watching before I step up to the tub, and she freezes,
her eyes wide as her gaze collides with mine. With a tight smile, I sign to
her and wait until she nods hesitantly before I pull a stool up to the edge of
the tub and take the cloth from her, setting it aside. I fill a pitcher with water
and pour it carefully over her head, tilting her chin to be sure none gets in
her eyes. I choose the lavender oils, verloch distilled for its calming
qualities and perfect to help ease a troubled mind, and I lather up the golden
tresses of her hair.
I hope small acts of gentle caretaking will establish trust between us but
in truth I wash her hair because I want her to experience a form of service
directed toward her, to show her that she’s worthy of the water’s warm
embrace and a gentle approach to getting clean. My movements are slow,
every action soothing, and I sign to her before I lift the pitcher to wash out
the oils.
Her hair shines under my gentle ministrations, the pressure in my chest
at her condition easing with every lungful of the verloch, and slowly her
shoulders lower a little. She’s still sitting rigidly, easy to spook, but she
doesn’t flinch when I offer her my hand to climb back out of the tub. When
she moves to take the towel from me, I hold it up in offering, and she steps
into it without question, allowing me to wrap it securely around her
shoulders before I find another for her hair.
Once she’s dried and dressed in healer’s robes, I sit her before the small
stove and brush out her hair, tidying up the ends with a sharp pair of
scissors and a keen eye. When I ask what style she might like for me to
fasten her hair into, offering a choice from the limited number I’ve learned
over the years, Thea stares at me blankly, so I choose a braid for her. It’s
more complicated than the one I wear myself, but it feels fitting for the
quietly beautiful female. She thanks me profusely when it’s done but
refuses to look at her reflection when I offer, and then she moves to the
workbench to get back to cleaning the shelves for me.
There's a long path ahead for her, difficult and full of heartaches I’m
sure, but the Fates demand our obedience and whatever help I can offer, it's
hers.

WHEN TYRA ARRIVES in the healer’s quarters with orders for me to see
Soren in his reception rooms, it takes much reassurance from us both to
settle Thea back into her daily tasks. None of her protests are ever obvious,
or even clearly stated, but the ripple of her fear is unmistakable. Tyra is
quick to divert her attention back to their work, and when I finally step into
the hallway, I’m immediately flanked by two of Soren’s soldiers.
Their eyes stay on the marble at our feet until the door is firmly closed
behind me. They bow their heads respectfully before they escort me through
the cold halls of the castle. There’s no sign of conflict along the way—we
barely see a maid or two—but I keep my curiosity to myself.
When we arrive, the two soldiers standing guard at the door bow to me
before opening the door and revealing the shimmering wall of Tyton’s
magic barrier. No sound makes it through the shield, the room blurred into
smudges of colors, and with a slow breath of preparation I step through.
"—of all the moves you could take against the regent, this is possibly
the most reckless, Soren—” Tauron cuts himself off, pointedly glaring at his
own feet rather than looking in my direction.
Silence falls, and the tension in the room thickens until I’m choking on
it, my wrist itching to flick and split open my sleeves, and I struggle to hold
myself in check. It’s more than a habit, the stance every witch serving
within the Sol Army has carved into their very soul during the early years of
training, but the action would no doubt been taken as a threat.
Roan stands at Soren’s side and looks down at the map carved into the
surface of his desk while Tyton sits next to his brother across from them
both. Kytan, Alwyn, and Reed all stand along the wall, and while Kytan and
Alwyn both look at me and bow their heads in greeting, Reed doesn’t look
in my direction, just ducks his head in a half-hearted nod. It’s infuriating,
this hot-and-cold treatment of his, and my mouth firms into a line as my
temper lights.
When I move to stand with him, Soren narrows his eyes at me before he
gestures to the armchair Airlie usually sits in. On the other side of the room,
it’s as isolated as I can be while in attendance. No one speaks until I’m
seated, the room suffocatingly silent as their gazes follow me.
All bar Reed.
Soren pegs his cousin with a cutting look. “The regent has a spy within
this castle, we’ve known for years. If I take a group of soldiers with me,
he’ll know before we reach the farming plains.”
Tauron’s jaw clenches as he glances at Tyton but from the look on his
face, his brother isn’t going to protest Soren’s plans. The other males don’t
look happy about it, but none are eager to argue with the prince about it.
“If Rooke and I leave in secret and ride unhindered, we’ll make it to the
Brindlewyrd Forest and back in a handful of days.”
My eyebrows rise, intrigued by the possibility of seeking the forest out
and curious about what has compelled him to plan such a journey. The
animosity clouding the room stops me from questioning him now, my lips
pressing together firmly as I wait the princes out instead.
The vicious edge to my Fates-blessed mate’s stare on his cousin is
immovable, no matter how much Tauron seethes. His anger makes no sense
to me yet, but he gnashes his teeth with his gaze fixed on the rug at his feet,
as though looking up will get him killed. If any of the contempt that lingers
in the air shows on his face, I’m certain it will.
Pressing his fingers against the carved map, Soren says with ice-laden
impatience, “If the other forests act as vehemently as Elms Walk did, it's
protection I can offer my people without risking Yregar’s safety. I won’t be
swayed from this plan, Tauron.”
Frustration builds in my stomach that he hasn’t actually told me his
plan, though I’m clearly expected to go along with it. Soren doesn’t so
much as glance in my direction; his gaze stays fixed unwaveringly on his
cousin. From the fighting stances I can see around the room as they all hold
themselves at the ready, this argument has clearly gone on for a while and
skirted the edge of violence.
Roan doesn't question Soren, his mouth downturned as he scowls at the
map. “There's a cluster of villages in and around the Blood Valley as well.
If those trees hold the same abilities, we can protect a lot of fae folk within
their confines. It's not as dense as the Ravenswyrd Forest but spans about
the same distance. Thousands could find shelter there and live comfortably
until Kharl Balzog is dealt with.”
Tauron scoffs and leans forward in his chair. “It doesn’t matter—no fae
will willingly live in the Blood Valley. The trees can offer protection from
raids, but winter has already begun. They can't just sleep amongst the trees
in the snow, not for months on end without preparations. It’ll take years to
build villages there.”
It won’t, but my own temper lights as he utters his contempt for the
Blood Valley and I choose to keep that information to myself.
“There are already villages within those forests, Your Highness.”
Roan and Tauron both look at Reed, scowling at the Outland soldier and
his shoulders straighten under their scrutiny, but he continues regardless.
“Rooke told us that all the witch covens once lived within the forests before
they were driven out. We saw the village in the Ravenswyrd. Even if the
others have fallen into disrepair, it’s still a start.”
They turn their gazes on me as one, all but Soren, who scowls at his
cousin, and Reed, who’s back to staring at his feet. My temper grows hotter
at his dismissal and I bite my tongue, ignoring the expectant looks as
though they’re waiting for me to add something, but I find I have nothing
left to give them.
A slight smile stretches over Tyton’s lips. “The witches who turned their
backs on the old traditions will be furious. To have not only the forest
denying them entry but their homes sheltering those they hunt? They’ll be
enraged.”
Tauron cuts him a look, but Soren ignores him. “We’ll leave in a few
days, after preparations have been made discretely. Tyra can be moved into
the healer’s quarters to care for Thea and to hide Rooke’s absence for now.
I’ll pull back from training duties and begin discussing with Firna how
much correspondence I have to get through.”
Roan nods, seeming happy with this, but Tauron shakes his head and
blows out of breath. “And if the two of you get attacked along the way?
There are still raiding parties, despite what the messengers may deliver. If
one of the witch scouts spots the two of you, an entire army could mobilize.
Fates mercies, Balzog himself could ride out after you both.”
Roan shrugs. “Two horses travel faster than an army. Even surrounded
by witcheswane, Rooke fought better than any of Balzog’s generals. I’d
prefer if Soren took extra soldiers, but I understand his thinking… and I
agree with it. Without the Celestial colors, the two of them should pass as
scouts. The regent often sends them in pairs, and many of our own travel
together from time to time.”
He looks at the soldiers and gestures to them, inviting their opinions.
Alwyn blows out a breath and rocks on his heels as he glances at each
of us before he says, “Prince Soren has ridden into swarms of our enemy
and walked out without a single scratch to show for it. His Fates-blessed
mate can swing a sword better than most of his soldiers can, and she wields
magic unlike anything I’ve ever heard of. If anyone should ride out alone
for this task, they’re the most likely to succeed. Our messengers all fair well
around the kingdom because of their knowledge and experience; Prince
Soren and his Fates-blessed mate are arguably unmatched.”
When we turn to look at Kytan for his own opinion, he hesitates and
side-eyes Alwyn before he speaks. “I have my own apprehensions, but
they're not much help here. Sending the true Celestial heir and his Fates-
blessed mate feels like we’re risking the lives of the two most important fae
in all the kingdom needlessly. If the task is one only Mistress Rooke can do,
I’d rather we send someone else to escort her.”
Tauron nods, meeting Soren’s gaze with determination. “I'll go with her.
I’ll guard her while she completes her task, and I’ll get her back to Yregar
safely. Kytan's right, there's no reason to take such risks with your life.”
I’d rather sit and rot in the dungeons again than travel with Tauron.
Tyton huffs, shaking his head with a lopsided smirk at his brother. “The
forests would eat you alive for your contempt. Even with a Favored Child
under your guard, they’re not so forgiving as the Ravenswyrd Mother is,
and they do not like the disrespect we’ve shown the ways of old.”
Tauron scoffs dismissively and snaps, “Even better, I can go and
apologize to the trees. They’ll like me well enough if she rides at my side,
and I’ll learn how to cater to them while we’re at it. By the fucking ashes,
the lows we’ve stooped to now, to be forced to negotiate with plants.”
When Tyton shoots him a glare, he doesn’t attempt to look sheepish at
his brash comments. He does, however, curl his lip at my growl.
“Your arrogance is astounding, Prince Tauron.”
He shakes his head. “I have no intention of speaking to you.”
Despite his deliberately blank tone, my already lit temper heats further.
“Then what am I doing here? Standing around trying to piece together
whatever the ashes you’re arguing about while you all talk around me, it’s a
waste of my time. I have far more pressing duties to attend to.”
My words land like a blow, his body flinching and his eyes finally
lifting to meet mine with every inch of loathing he has roiling within. I stare
back at him, refusing to back down, and Roan mutters under his breath as
Soren stands suddenly. Tauron finally glances away, his head dropping back
into a bow before his cousin, but I continue watching him to be sure he
doesn’t do something stupid, like attack me.
Soren nods at the soldiers, and they leave without question.
The moment they breach the magic barrier Soren snaps, “Rooke and I
will ride to the Brindlewyrd Forest to make a sacrifice there and see if the
trees will offer protection to the fae folk of the kingdom. Thanks to our
victories at Yregar and Yrell, the Kharl Balzog’s raiding war bands have
intensified and there are thousands of fae folk fleeing, their lives forfeit if
we don’t do something, not to mention the villagers without protection even
if they choose to stay. If we succeed with the Brindlewyrd, we’ll ride to the
other forests to do the same. Roan is in charge of Yregar while we’re gone,
and his command is final. Tyra will stay with Thea and take over her care,
and my orders remain the same. Rooke’s decision stands—no one else is
allowed to enter the healer’s quarters.”
An uneasy silence greets his words, and I straighten a little, rolling my
shoulders back as I prepare for whatever malevolence Tauron is about to
throw at me in retaliation.
His jaw locks down tight, and when he speaks, his words are hissed out
between gritted teeth. “What exactly does the witch think I'm going to do to
the female?”
I stare at him before shaking my head. “I don't think you're going to do
anything to harm her intentionally, but her fear is so great right now that
even offering her kindnesses could be viewed as an attack. The next few
weeks are about building trust and reassuring her that no matter what
happens, her life and safety are not at risk.”
Prince Tauron mulls it over, chewing on every syllable that left my
mouth as he digests them all and still finds me wanting. “She shouldn’t be
stuck down there—it was your kind that did this to her in the first place!”
I stand, ready to leave this room, but not without addressing his baseless
assumptions. “There are no witches in Yris, only high fae, and I would
never abandon a child for a bloodline she has no control over. My kind
doesn't do that. I understand your rage, Prince Tauron, but when you find
yourself clear of mind once more, please remember that regardless the
disrespectful treatment you’ve afforded me I'm helping your Fates-blessed
mate. It’s the Ravenswyrd way to give aid to any and all who require it,
without question or payment required. Mate or not, I won’t let you in to see
Thea until your attitude changes, because all I see before me now is a bitter
man who heard his fate and let it poison him. I won’t let you harm the
female any more than she already has been.”
He stands and manages one step toward me before the room bursts into
chaos. Roan steps around the desk to shield me with a severe look on his
face at the same time that Soren rounds the other side of the desk, heading
straight to Tauron with savage precision in his eyes.
I don’t wait for the bloodshed, ignoring the snarl Soren gives Tauron as
I step to the door now that the meeting is over. “I don’t have the time to
feed your ego, and I certainly don’t have the patience. I’ll take my leave to
see to Thea, because I’m the only one here who had the forethought to learn
how to speak to all fae folk, not just the ones I think are important or
worthy of my time. “

OceanofPDF.com
OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Soren
A week after Thea’s arrival, while preparations are still underway for my
and Rooke’s journey, the consequences of Prince Mercer’s cowardice arrive
on our doorstep. As the sentries hail their approach, I watch from the
window in my reception room as the large band of high-fae males pass
through the gates of Yregar. Princes and lords, every one of them highborn,
and they draw a crowd of onlookers as they ride through the village and
into the castle’s courtyard. Ingor and his stable boys accommodate the
horses easily, the stalls only ever used to a third of their capacity at any
given time.
When I finally step into the courtyard to greet them with a handful of
my household, the males stand in the perfect lines of battle-ready soldiers.
None of them are wearing armor, but most have swords buckled at their
sides and myriad weapons strapped to their bodies, including bows and
quivers full of arrows, as though they’re prepared for war. With packs laden
on each horse, they've come, prepared to stay.
Roan studies them all carefully, his face stern, and Tauron strides out of
the castle to join us with a solemn look of his own. I haven’t seen or spoken
to him since Roan and Tyton were forced to pry me off him in my reception
rooms, and I’m not eager to speak to him now either.
 My fingers still itch with the need to bleed him out for threatening my
Fates-blessed mate.
Myron, Prince Mercer’s nephew, steps forward and bows deeply to me,
clearly the chosen representative of the group, and when I nod to him, he
addresses me respectfully. “We’ve ridden out to join the ranks of your
soldiers, if you deem us worthy of such training, Your Highness.”
The entire group is still as death, white faces carefully blank, not an
inch of hesitation amongst any of them even as the silence of the courtyard
stretches around them. My soldiers watch on, their gazes as sharp as my
own on the newcomers, but there’s a thread of relief there too. Fifty high
fae soldiers are worth five hundred raving witch soldiers on foot in the
battlefield. Under competent command, fifty more soldiers could defend
five times that behind the castle walls.
I meet Kytan’s eye, and he steps forward and slowly walks through the
rows of the males with a critical eye before coming back to stand at my
side. “Once you join Prince Soren’s ranks, there's no discharge. This
becomes your life and your purpose until the war is over or your death,
whichever comes first. Should we win the war against the witches only to
find ourselves facing a new threat, you’ll stay loyal at his side.”
It’s a probability, not a possibility, because my uncle isn’t going to give
up the throne willingly. Better they all know it now than regret their choices
later, but there's no reaction amongst them. No questions, no hesitance,
nothing. They all stand motionless and ready.
Turning to Kytan and Reed, I gesture at them to move to the barracks.
“Training starts now. I don't care how long you've ridden, the witches won't
wait until you've rested to attack our people and take whatever spoils they
deem their own.”
The soldiers clasp their hands over their hearts and bow to me as one,
folding in half in respect, and the first seeds of hope begin to take hold
within me.
Fifty extra soldiers.
This could certainly prove to be a blessing from the Fates. I move
towards the barracks behind the castle to watch as the assessments begin
under Kytan's critical eye.
Roan joins me, looking on for the first few soldiers before he steps
forward to assist, giving his own opinions and assessing alongside Kytan.
The commander accepts the help and opinions easily, the two of them
splitting up the males between them. I reserve my own judgments for now.
A flash of dark hair catches my eye, and I turn to see Rooke in her
garden, the noise of the barracks having caught her attention. She stands
and studies the newcomers. When she notices my attention, she pauses as
though she is struck by my gaze. It’s a stupid thought; she’s never struck by
me no matter how sharp my barbs are, but the stillness within her at my
presence shifts something in me.
I motion for her to join me.
Eyes narrowing slightly before she covers it, she nods slowly and then
lifts a single finger to indicate that she needs a moment. She ducks back
into the healer’s quarters, presumably to reassure Thea that she's not
disappearing altogether, and when she steps back out, her cloak is wrapped
around her shoulders. None of my soldiers take any notice of her. None of
them dare.
Tauron’s bloodied face took two days to heal without Rooke’s
assistance.
She comes to stand at my side with a slight bow, her eyes critical on the
group as Roan begins the next assessment. Her stance is different here,
wider and more centered, as though she’s the one facing an opponent in the
rings, and it’s almost impossible to keep my focus away from her. I’m too
aware of her, the sound of her heartbeat in my ear and the scent of her skin
wrapping around me until my blood burns in my veins.
One by one, the men tap out even as Roan goes easy on them, but it’s
the torture of standing at my Fates-blessed mate’s side that fixes a scowl on
my face, not the state of the males before me. The respectful distance she’s
always maintained between us is quickly becoming an insurmountable
chasm, my temper and her deeply unaffected nature working steadfast
against our shared fate.
"Roan's footwork is exceptional. He's far better than most," Rooke
comments in the old language, and I give her a curt nod back.
"His father was an excellent teacher. Prince Roan suffers no fools or
spoiled sons, and he never would’ve allowed Roan to leave the Outlands if
he wasn't confident in his abilities."
She nods but her gaze remains on the soldiers in front of us, tracing
Kytan and Alwyn as the two of them murmur together quietly. She can't
hear what they're saying, but when they start directing the beaten soldiers,
it’s clear they're ranking each of the newcomers, deciding who needs to go
to basic training and who is suitable already for sentry work.
Reed and a handful of the other experienced soldiers begin setting up
the training targets for the assessment of their shooting ability, a necessary
skill for anyone who takes the wall. We watch as Tauron joins them, taking
up a bow while he calls out demands to the soldiers. Roan splits the males
into smaller groups and directs them to Tauron as he finishes with them in
the sparring rings. No one has picked up a sword yet, and that will be the
true test of their training, how adept they were in the first place and whether
they've kept those skills sharp. Relief floods me as the first batch of males
let loose their arrows and all land true in their targets.
Rooke hums happily under her breath, nodding as though relieved, and I
turn away from the assessment for a moment to watch her instead. “Are you
as good with a bow as you are with your sword?”
Her eyebrow quirks at me, a smirk in her voice. “You’re terrible at
conversations, Prince Soren. Are you ever going to speak to me without
demanding something?”
I shoot her a hard look, furious that she can find humor so easily while
I’m holding on to my sanity by a thread. “I was unaware you wanted to
speak to me at all. I thought it was my command alone that forced you to
suffer my presence.”
Her scoff is barely audible, but the shake of her head is there for all to
see. “I’m not sure where you got that idea. I’ve already told you that I alone
decide my actions, and I’ve offered you many chances to speak civilly with
me. You’re the one obsessed with power—what use is that to a Favored
Child?”
My jaw clenches in frustration at her riddles and I turn to her. “No one
even knows what that is.”
She stares at me, her eyes sharp and ancient. “You’ll learn.”
Something stirs within me—something I once would’ve called
suspicion or my temper, but now I see it for what it is. My magic reacts to
her words, her presence, the power she holds. The ways of old might be lost
to my people, but our magic remembers, and it wants her as desperately as
the Fates-cursed haze within me does.
She feels this response in me, her eyes widening a fraction before she
looks away, fixing her gaze back on the display before us as though it’s the
easiest task she’s ever undertaken. It’s impossible for me to look away from
her, and I want to curse the Fates all over again.
"I wouldn’t fare so well in these trials. Your bows are far shorter than
the Seelie design, and there's every chance I’d fail miserably until I
adjusted. I've never held a bow so short—it takes far more strength to pull
those strings back."
My gaze finally follows hers back to the assessment, as though by her
command, and both of us watch as the high fae males use the bows with
ease. "Are all Seelie bows larger, or just those given to part-bloods and
lower fae?"
I've never seen the larger bows myself, but I know their design. The
messengers who traveled between the kingdoms painted a terrifying picture
of the Sol Army, a vast ocean of fae folk clothed in blood-red with
sunbursts over their chest and helmets of finely crafted Seelie steel inlaid
with the same gold that dripped over the entire kingdom, their armor etched
with designs of ancient ferocities.
The tales we heard of their mastery were as fierce as they were glorious,
the battalions as destructive as the Fates themselves when commanded by
their king. Even at the lowest point of the Fates War, when the Sol King
was pushed to his most desperate acts, the messengers were in awe of the
weapon he’d mercilessly honed to protect his kingdom.
To think that my mate was a part of such a golden expanse of strength
has my Unseelie nature writhing in fury in my gut. I loathe the idea of her
having served another king, every inch of her mine alone to covet, and there
isn’t a drop of shame in me for such a feeling. The Fates gave me this
female, and I to her, and it’s probably for the best that she didn’t arrive in
the Southern Lands in the uniform of the Sol Army, because it’s hard
enough keeping my temper without that image in my mind.
It may take a century or two before I accept that fact.
Ignorant to the deeply jealous turn my mind has taken, Rooke watches
each soldier draw his bow and fire, resulting in more rows of perfect shots
to prove the first set weren’t a fluke. Kytan joins Tauron in the assessment,
the two of them discussing foot placement despite the winning shots.
When the silence stretches between us, Rooke turns back to me with
those same assessing eyes before she extends her hand to me. The slit up
her sleeve opens to reveal the length of her forearm. She moves slowly,
prepared to stop if I protest, but my eyes get stuck on the golden hue of her
skin, the same color that’s slowly fading from her face with each passing
day in this winter-bound kingdom we share and away from the Seelie sun
that kissed her in the first place.
There's a tiny flash of light at her elbow, the smallest pop, and then in
her hand is a bow only an inch or two shorter than she is. Carved out of
golden oak with sunbursts decorating the shaft, it boasts letters painted in
blood-red down the length of it that I can’t decipher, and the string catches
the sunlight with its golden shine, the material unknown to me. Her hand
fits perfectly in the grip and the lower tip of the weapon rests against her
boot in a tiny indent I never noticed before. The weapon was clearly carved
for her alone, a thing of beauty and not just a simple tool of war as her
sword is.
Her fingers flex around the wood as though she’s enjoying the feel of it
in her hands after a time without it, and then she meets my gaze and holds it
out to me. My own hand dwarfs the grip, and I find it far heavier than I'm
expecting. There’s nothing light or flimsy about it, but when my fingers pull
back the string, it moves with ease.
Cautiously at first, when I don’t protest, she adjusts my grip and form
with confidence. She’s careful about not touching me as she moves the base
to rest on my boot as it had hers and then she adjusts my stance until she's
happy with it. The bow is very obviously too short for me, but with her
tweaks, I can test the weapon affectively.
At her nod, I let go of the string, and it snaps perfectly back into place,
as though it was never pulled. The ease of drawing it back doesn't affect its
power, the design of it masterful to say the least. Such a design would level
the advantages of the high fae over the fae folk on the battlefield, growing
the numbers of the Sol Army in their darkest stretch of the war.
Roan's eyes meet mine across the courtyard, his eyebrows raised at the
bow, but I ignore him as I hand it back to Rooke. Her fingers rub the hand
grip, as though petting it lovingly. When the light pops at the inside of her
elbows once more to stash the bow back to that unknown place where she
hides a small portion of her secrets from the world, she sighs deeply before
settling back against the stone wall to watch the soldiers.
Her face stays carefully blank, and curiosity eats me, a frustrated sort of
madness at not knowing her every thought. "What do you think of them?
Tell me which ones you would send back to basic training and which you
would move forward to sentry duty."
 She looks at me from the corner of her eye for a moment, apprehension
in her movement, but when she finds no deception in me, she turns her
attention back to the sparring. Murmuring quietly in the old language, she
offers me her opinions on each of the soldiers.
When all I offer her in return is a curt nod of acceptance and limited
questions, she grows bolder and points out more. She even critiques Kytan's
footwork, pointing out a weak point in the soldier that not many would pick
up on, much less dare to bring attention to. When I accept her opinions
without argument, she casts a careful look at me before giving me a
warning of Tauron’s temper, the way his movement become rash when he’s
goaded in the right way, and the blind spot to his left when the fury takes
his over.
All of this from the healer who never wanted to take up a sword in the
first place.

TERROR.
Ice-cold, vicious, consuming fear that blinds me and robs me of my
senses, I don’t know where I am or what horrors I face, only that I face a
fate worse than death if I don’t escape this nightmare. I’m frozen by the
panic drenching my sweat-soaked body, my limbs splayed out in a rigid
formation as though I've been staked out naked in a blizzard as a sacrifice to
the Fates for their mercies.
The thunderous sound of my racing heartbeat drowns out any sound
until the sharp knock against my chamber's door fractures the silence of the
room, wrenching me out of my paralyzed state and leaving me disoriented.
“Prince Soren? Your Highness, it’s Mistress Rooke⁠—”
I’m off the bed and halfway across the room before the words form
meaning to my addled mind, flinging the door open to find Firna’s panic-
stricken face as she wrings her hands at my threshold. She blanches as the
door bounces against the wall at my vehemence and I’m out the door before
she recovers to scramble after me, tripping over her own tongue in
explanation.
 “She’s screaming, the same when she was here healing from the
witcheswane, but none are allowed to enter her chambers because of
Mistress Thea. The guards didn't know what to do, I didn’t know what to
do⁠—”
The guards posted around the castle drop their gazes as I stalk through
the hallways and down the flights of stairs and Firna is forced to jog to keep
up with me, a jumble of words still spilling from her lips, but by the second
set of steps I can hear the commotion of the panicked onlookers in the
hallway outside the healer’s quarters. I don’t know what look was fixed on
my face before, but as we round the corner and see the crowd fretting at the
edge of Tyton’s sound barrier, a growl rips out of my chest, so loud that the
crystal chandelier hanging above us rattles. Firna’s answering gulp rings in
my ears.
As one, the guards and maids all turn toward me only for the maids to
blanch and drop their gazes and scandalized gasps to break through the
murmurs of concern. It’s then that I realize the keeper’s reaction was
probably at my state of undress and not the fury with which I barreled
through the door. Not one to routinely stalk through the castle naked, I don’t
feel the chill of the early winter night even covered in sweat from the
nightmare, and the marble floors might as well be a plush carpet, for all that
my bare feet register.
After a fraught pause, as though no one wishes to attract my attention
and find themselves bleeding out at the unreasonable ire of my Unseelie
mated nature, Firna finally snaps out orders to the maids and they scatter
without a word of what they’ve heard from behind the closed door. Reed
and the other soldiers recover from their stupor at my appearance and bow
deeply, their backs to the solid oak door and their eyes firmly downcast.
Tyton scrubs a hand over his face, not a sound to be heard through the
shimmering wall of his magic, and he says in the old language, “I swear on
our bloodline, cousin, she’s unharmed and sleeping. It’s the same terrors as
Yrell, but with Thea in there with her I didn’t know what else to do.”
He flicks a hand at his magic, his words drenched in despair, but it
clears some of the haze from my mind. That magic is all the protection he
could offer her but it’s no small gesture. The shame and horror that rolled
off her in waves at Yrell when she found us all watching churns my gut, the
thought of her feeling that at this crowd has another growl inching its way
up my throat.
 When I stride forward, Tyton tugs at his cloak until the thick swathes
slide from his shoulders, and he flicks it onto mine and pulls the lapels
together, securing it there. My shoulders are wider than his, and it doesn’t
sit well but it stands up to the task well enough.
With a careful look, he murmurs, “If Thea wakes… better for you to
have something covering you. No telling what trauma she bears.”
When my cousin steps away from me, Reed glances up to meet my eye,
hesitating before lifting up a small vial of selkie-salts. “Prince Tyton sent
for me.”
I pluck it from his fingers and breach Tyton’s sound barrier before
anyone else can speak up to delay me further. Every second wasted out here
eats away at my sanity, but the true test of my endurance hits me only as the
magic envelops me within its confines.
Rooke’s screams almost take me to my knees.
Blood curdling terror, sobs wrenching from her chest that rattle her
bones with their ferocity, and misery slides over my skin at the desperate
cadence of her pleading. I can barely make out any of the words, half of
them in languages I don’t speak, but there's no mistaking the fractured mind
of a soldier thrown into memories of battles long-since ended.
I unlock the door and ease it open with care, aware that Thea could
wake and be startled at any moment, but there’s a frantic edge to my
movements. The room is dark, only the small stove casting a little light, but
I find Thea sound asleep on a pallet by its warmth, while Rooke’s writhing
form is tucked into the small bunk carved into the back wall. The innate
mated reaction within me at sound of her sobbing is like nothing I’ve ever
felt before, blind rage and desolate misery warring within my chest, and my
hands shake as I reach for her.
What in the ashes happened to her in that cursed war?
“Pem—“
More gasp than substance, her brother’s name evaporates into the air as
I get hold of her shoulders, her hands snapping out to wrap around my
biceps, and she clings to me as though I’m her only chance of salvation.
Something moves in my chest, a great shift that began at the sight of her at
Port Asmyr and has now settled into place. No matter how unbearable it
once was, I know that this is the male the Fates designed me to be, and
there’s no going back. The king I envisioned myself to be someday is gone,
a childish dream all along, and instead this Fates-blessed mate of mine has
woken my most base form for the kingdom to grapple with. The thick haze
of my fury lifts a little, enough that I can find some humor in my uncle’s
calculating plan going awry.
The mantle of the Savage Prince fits me perfectly.
Rooke’s frantic gaze fixes on mine, eyes widening when she finds me
waking her and not the brother she guards so fiercely. Her lip trembles
invitingly as she swallows, and ashes curse me for noticing such a thing
while tears run freely down her cheeks. The urge to taste them has me
tightening my grip on her, but she doesn’t react to my rough handling. Her
eyes are unblinking as she stares straight into my soul in the anciently
ageless way she has that defies reason.
I’m struck dumb by her, pinned by the warmed steel of her gaze, the
sharpened edge of it gone and the ravaged pieces of my Fates-blessed mate
laid bare before me. Rage at her condition wars with possessiveness, the
desire for this version of her just as resolute as that I feel towards the soldier
and the healer. Worse still, a writhing sort of satisfaction rolls through me
that I’m here with her now to see her through this while no other can.
She blinks, and as suddenly as it was woven around us, the spell is
broken.
Jaw clenched with the effort, I force myself to step back and put a few
paces between the two of us, and she lets out a shaky breath. Biting my
tongue to keep a stream of vicious curses from spilling from my lips, my
gaze remains fixed on Rooke as she pushes the blankets away from her
body. My eyes have adjusted to the darkness of the room, and I’m tortured
by the vision of her legs, bared to the thighs where her shift has ridden up
with her thrashing.
With another breath, this one slow but steady, she stands, and the white
linen falls back into place to cover her to her ankles. I've never seen an
image more inviting, even from the corner of my eyes as I dare not swing
my gaze in her direction, and I’m suddenly intimately aware of how little
clothing there is between us. Her heartbeat is still a frenetic pattern, loud in
my ears, and I focus on it to reclaim my sanity, proof that she’s grappling
with the remnants of nightmares while I’m leering over her.
I wish I felt more shame about it, but everything about this witch pushes
me to the very edge of reason.
She takes a third deep breath, this one steady, before she sweeps a hand
in front of herself and her shift melts away and transforms into her robes.
I’m expecting the charcoal color she usually favors but, instead, Celestial
silver settles over her body, and finding her draped in my family's colors
pleases me more than I should admit.
When she rolls her shoulders back, my gaze snaps to her unbidden, and
the deep shadows fixed within her eyes are unbearable to me as she stares
back unflinchingly. There's more honesty in this moment between us now
than ever before, no pretenses or carefully thought-out designs of how to
portray ourselves best, and there’s no denying that the ravages of war within
her are an echo of my own wounds.
She glances down at my hands, her brows pinching a little, but when my
gaze follows hers, I find a tremble there, my reaction to her terror when it
woke me. I hadn’t noticed, the same way I hadn’t thought to put on clothes
or reassure my household that there was no need for their concern. Nothing
mattered to me but reaching her.
When I look back to Rooke, she swallows, then again, as though she
can't dislodge a lump in her throat, and I know I should say something to
her, anything, but words are impossible. To misstep now would be to break
this witch, a task I focused on with single-minded determination for weeks
and yet, now that I stand with her most fragile heart and mind in my fist, I
know with every fiber of my being that to break her is to break me.
When the stillness stretches between us, resolve finally settles over her
face, and she glances at the fire before gesturing to me, quickly and in
succession until I realize I understand some of the movements. She's not
signing to me in the way she does with Thea; instead she’s using the signs
of a Sol soldier. Most of it doesn't make sense to me, but a few of the
movements translate to the Unseelie signs, and I understand she's asking me
to step outside into the garden with her and away from the fragile girl who
could wake at any moment.
I nod and go to the door, pausing there when she doesn't immediately
follow me, instead moving to the stove and fussing until there’s a kettle of
water put on to boil. It's not until I see her pull out two cups and start setting
out a collection of vials of dried herbs that I trust she'll follow me, and I
finally step into the cold night air as she instructed. The stone is icy against
my bare feet but the frantic desperation that drove me to her staves off the
cold.
The stone bench nestled along one of the walls overlooks the thriving
garden and is the obvious choice of seat, but even the small handful of steps
it would take to get there is too much. Too much distance, too far away, too
many steps to get back to my Fates-blessed mate, and instead I sit on the
steps.
Pulling the door mostly shut behind me to keep the chill from disturbing
Thea, I focus on a small sliver of light that breaks into the garden from the
small stove, burning through the night. It settles onto the blanket of snow
already falling out here, as if in defiance of winter’s icy grip on my
kingdom.
Rooke appears with two cups steaming in her hands, her heart beating
steadily in her chest once more. She doesn't startle at the sight of me
huddled on her step, wrapped in Tyton’s charcoal cloak like a wraith; she
simply eases herself deftly down beside me without spilling a drop.
Carefully handing a cup to me, she blows at the rising steam from her own,
and the calming scent of the tincture fills my lungs with warmth, flooding
my veins and slowing my heartbeat to keep pace with hers.
“I'm sorry this keeps happening, Soren.”
If I were speaking to any other soldier, I’d keep my eyes turned firmly
away from their face in respect at the difficulty of broaching the topic of
such damage, but the Fates themselves could not command my gaze away
from her. I don't feel the Fates’ pull towards her right now, but I don't need
it.
I don't need anything but to possess this witch.
Words finally form and take life in a gentle tone I didn’t know I
possessed. “Don’t apologize to me—not for this nor for anything else that’s
happened since you returned here. I don’t want it.”
She doesn't seem to hold the same compulsions that I do, her own gaze
fixed firmly on the cup between her fingers, the steam gently rising in the
frigid night air. When she takes a sip, I remember the cup in my own hand
and take one as well, the honey-sweetened liquid smooth on my tongue. I
don’t know if it’s her skills in the brew or the warmth of her body alongside
mine, but I finally get a firm grasp on my senses once more.
“What do you want then, Soren? If you have accepted your fate and no
longer wish for my death, what’s left for you to crave?”
I've never been so sure of her weaving her magic over me as I am in this
moment and yet I feel no shame as the truth spills from my lips. “I want
what I've always wanted. I want my croí.”
 The chuckle that wrenches from her chest is a dark and terrible thing,
broken and desolate. “Your croí is long gone, Prince Soren. The Ureen
consumed her and left this behind.”
She waves her hand over herself, and I catch her wrist in a firm grip, her
body stilling at my side as though turned to stone at my touch. I murmur,
“Airlie told me you reassured her that no matter the damage, Thea’s path
isn’t a circle and she’ll find her way out of the darkness… do you not think
the same for yourself?”
Her skin is warm, the thrum of her pulse soothing underneath my
fingertips, and her answer is whispered in the old language, beautiful
despite the agony behind her words.
“My path is the same as it has always been, littered with obstacles no
fae should ever be forced to endure. A journey through blood-soaked
battlefields I never wanted to stand upon, giving away pieces of myself I
can never reclaim, and still finding myself insufficient. No matter how
darkened the way, I could walk it blinded and maimed, because it’s the only
way I’ve ever known. My feet have never faltered, even when at first glance
it may appear so.”
Any high fae would make such a statement with arrogance, and yet she
says it as though it’s a terrible burden she has borne for us all, and with
every fiber of my being, I know that it is.
Carefully, I place her wrist on her own knee before I force myself to let
her go and clasp my hand around the cup once more to ensure it doesn’t
find its way back to her skin unbidden.
“I walk it with you. I have since the very beginning, whether you could
see it or not… or whether I could too.”
She takes another breath, glancing in my direction as she drains the last
of her cup. Setting it to one side, she doesn't stand. Instead, her legs stretch
out before her. She presses her hands to the stone step on either side of
herself and relaxes as though preparing herself for a long night sitting on
this stone beside me, and I do the same.
Not another word passes between us but, hours later, I find myself
furious at the early morning rays when the sun finally breaks over the
horizon and the day begins around us, the quiet peace between us shattered
in an instant as the demands of our kingdom beckon once more and Rooke
is forced back into her quarters to heed their call, leaving me the grapple
with the ice that settles in my bones at her departure.
OceanofPDF.com
OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Rooke
As the winter solstice grows closer, I focus all my attention onto Thea as
Yregar transforms into a hive of activity around us. I welcome the
distraction from the maelstrom of my mind as the preparations for our
Fates-blessed union continue around the castle. I spent years wondering
what it would be like to meet Prince Soren in person, never daring to
ruminate on the finer details. After I returned to the Southern Lands, months
passed as I fought to prove to the stubborn male that I wasn’t one of Kharl
Balzog’s generals here to destroy the Unseelie Court and snatch his throne.
Now, weeks of my temper distracting me have come to an end and all
that’s left to consider is how in the ashes I’m going to wed this male in the
traditions of my coven without destroying myself in the process. Even if
I’m able to make the required arrangements, how will I make it through the
ceremony without tearing my heart in half?
The prospect seemed far less difficult before my nightmares drove him
to me in the middle of the night, his fierce expression and halting
admissions softening some of the sharpened spikes within me as we shared
a pot of soothing tea and whispered secrets. After losing far too many hours
of sleep, I finally wake one morning before dawn with a clear head for the
path before me. Brewing yet another pot of soothing tea, I drink it by
myself with parchment and quill in hand while Thea sleeps peacefully. By
the time she rouses, my message is on the ashes to the Northern Lands and
the task of my fate is set in motion.
May the Fates be merciful and not lead me to regret my decision.
The new recruits continue their training under Kytan’s and Roan’s
watchful eyes, regardless of the snow that has begun to fall. One
particularly frosty morning, I take a break from my efforts in reinforcing the
frames over the garden beds to watch the sparring rings, relieved to see
some serious improvements in their techniques under their competent
tutelage.
No matter our progress in other areas, Thea stays within the confines of
the healer’s quarters. Even the thought of going outside into the walled
garden I’ve worked so hard to cultivate is abhorrent to her, tremors
enveloping her any time I bring it up. Seeing my charge filled with anguish
drives me to make accommodations for her, and it takes only a few days for
a routine to form.
Intent on establishing clear boundaries for her to grow secure within, I
divide the daily duties of the healer’s quarters and take all the garden work
for myself while the tasks of processing the harvest become Thea’s
responsibility. She’s an adept student, frighteningly so, and my own work is
quickly overshadowed by her fastidious attention to detail.
Tyra offers to stay inside with Thea while I’m in the garden and,
surprisingly, Thea readily agrees, the two of them signing rapidly about the
tasks I’ve set. The early signs of a friendship play out before me, and I’m
careful to make space for it. Tyra is gentle with the female but speaks to her
as though she’s another fae under the employ of the castle with no
formalities to trip over, and Thea thrives under such care.
Secure in the knowledge that my charge won’t be startled by the
approach of any stray member of the household, I go into the healer’s
gardens only to find a high-fae prince waiting there for me. Sitting on the
small stone chair with his mouth already pulled into a grimace, Tauron
clearly knows the details of my newly implemented routine.
When he resolutely ignores my presence, I set about my tasks without
comment. The earth is already frozen, forcing me to gently push my magic
into the soil as I work, easing life and fortitude into the plants to ensure they
survive the dormancy taking hold. Humming old lyrics and lullabies under
my breath, I let the busywork become a balm to my soul after so many days
within the castle, and it’s easy enough to forget Tauron’s seething presence
altogether.
His voice breaks the quiet peace, the melodic sounds of the old
language softening some of the anger his words hold. “My fate was a mate
—tortured, terrorized, and abused, and that I couldn’t shield her from that
violence. For hundreds of years, I’ve waited to find her, and all this time, I
assumed it was witches who were responsible for her suffering.”
My hands stay busy as I check the fastenings of the structure over my
thriving patch of solarys-tears, a rarity in the Southern Lands. The golden-
leafed bushes are prone to frostburn and are known to struggle in harsh
climates, but the cuttings Gage brought were in perfect condition, and so far
the crop is faring well. The plants were a very generous gift from the
Goblin King, and I’m well aware of the significance of such a gesture, even
if the high fae appear to be oblivious to it.
I turn my body just a little bit to acknowledge that Tauron has spoken,
slowly to be sure he doesn’t leap to any ridiculous conclusions of my
intentions. “If you’re here to interrogate me and uncover some nefarious
ruse I’ve crafted against the high fae, I can assure you there’s no mistaking
Thea’s responses or reactions. Firna has spent some time here with us as
well as Tyra, they can both attest to the truth of my statement. Unseelie high
fae are responsible for her torment, and their crimes against her are
prolific.”
The silence that greets my words is charged, as volatile as unspent
magic at the fingertips of a bumbling high-fae novice, and when I glance in
his direction, I find his jaw is clenched and a violent look has spread across
his face. It’s the same one he’s directed at me a dozen times already, but the
moment my gaze meets his he turns away from me sharply with a muttered
curse.
I’m not scared of this prince. I never have been, but I’m also certain I’m
no longer the desired target of his violence. I’m not naive enough to think
he’s changed his mind or thinks well of me, but he’s backed down, if only
to ensure Thea’s care isn’t hindered by his doing. His back is against a wall
right now and desperation is a curious—and dangerous—thing.
“When we found you at Asmyr, I thought nothing could be worse than
your silver eyes and the stink of your magic, but then Tyton began talking
about that cursed forest more.”
 The words are barely a whisper, though loud enough for my hearing. He
means them for me, even if his gaze has taken on a dreamy unfocused
quality as he stares at the white dusting of snow.
The longer I work without giving him any scrutiny, the easier his words
seem to come to him. “The Seer didn’t give me an amount of time I’d be
forced to wait, like Soren had, or any lessons the Fates were trying to teach
me at her expense, and yet with every day that passed, I knew I was failing.
Every village gutted and burned, every blood-soaked traveling band we
found, all of the carnage of the witches taunted me. The horrors my Fates-
blessed mate was surely enduring at the hands of your kind… and yet now
she stays in the healer’s quarters, calmed only by a witch’s presence and
terrified at the mere sight of a high fae. My own people are to blame for her
terror, and every assumption I’ve held as truth is a lie.”
It’s the first time he’s uttered the word witch without it coming out like
a curse, self-loathing dripping from every syllable instead. I stare at the wall
for a moment as I’m almost overtaken by a broken chuckle, pressing my
lips together until I’m sure it can’t escape me.
The Fates are masterful, but viciously cruel, in their weaving.
It took Hanede Loche, a Brindlewyrd witch and one of my closest
friends in the Sol Army, centuries before he could look at any high fae
without his lip curling and vitriol pouring from his lips. Pemba was better
about holding his tongue than our friend ever was, even in our first years in
the Northern Lands, but he struggled not to show his disdain even as we
served alongside thousands, including high fae, in the Sol Army. I watched
them both overcome ignorant hatred, I saw them confronting and accepting
the good and evil that exists within all fae folk and letting go of the
prejudices within their hearts.
I’ve watched the lessons of the Fates play out before me a hundred
times over, and so I can look upon Prince Tauron, with his anger and
loathing, and see the male underneath it all who can be set on the right path
forward if he chooses. His choices regarding Thea, so far, have been to
adhere to my guidance and to seek me out when he’s sure it won’t harm his
Fates-blessed mate. I can feel the desperation roiling within him to help the
female he’s never spoken to and barely laid eyes on.
While other fae are usually given vague fates, puzzles to decipher and
navigate carefully, I’ve long since come to terms with the fact that the Fates
were so explicit in their wording of my fate for a reason. The witch who
grew up in the Ravenswyrd was incapable of the task set before me, and the
moment the Seer spoke my fate in her temple I ran to the Northern Lands
without thinking twice. The Fates ensured the Sol Army would cut me in all
the right places, to shape and mold me to the exact design this kingdom
needs to bring the fae here back from the edge of despair. I’m so very tired
of being what the Fates need me to be, a lesson for everyone else to learn at
my expense, and yet my feelings and opinions mean nothing here.
It’s the Ravenswyrd way to give until my last breath.
I glance up at the sentries manning the wall once more. The males are
all staring down at the village splayed out before them with an unerring
intensity as they monitor the work being done and wait for calls of attack.
The village forms in a perfect image in my mind, as if the wall were made
of glass, the people waiting in the streets for their rations and the builders
moving from house to house as the final repairs are made.
If only those concerns were all I had to deal with.
Turning back to my task, I push my hands into the cold depths of the
dirt and let my magic flow into the ground in offering to the plants there as I
keep my tone even and calm. “I suppose of all the assumptions you could
have made, it wasn't misguided. If the Seer didn't give you any indication of
her situation, how could you know any different?”
He lets out a sound that’s something akin to a chuckle, much like the
one I bit back, drenched with despair and hopelessness. “There you go
again, offering kindness and mercy where none of us deserve it. For what
it’s worth, I’m sorry for my treatment of you. It felt like a betrayal when
Soren brought you back here, and no matter what evidence was presented
before me, I couldn’t accept you. It didn't matter to me that the Fates had
bound the two of you together—it felt as though my cousin was spitting on
the torture of my mate, and for me to show even the slightest civility to you
seemed the same.”
He shakes his head and finally meets my eyes. “I thought about telling
Soren about my fate, doing something to make him understand why we
couldn’t trust you. A thousand times I was tempted, but the words could
never pass my lips. It was my greatest shame, to be told by the Fates I’m so
unworthy of their mercies, and that my mate would suffer because of it⁠—”
He breaks off abruptly, his fists clenched where they rest on his knees,
his body trembling with unspent rage. Even now, I don't feel threatened by
him.
 I let the silence stretch a little longer, turning his words over in my mind
until finally the sense that I’ve had of this mess becomes clear enough to
share. “Your fate says you couldn’t save Thea from the abuse happening to
her… not that she can’t be healed from its effects or protected from
anything else happening to her in the future.”
I glance up to find his eyes sharp and his gaze narrowed on me, but he
doesn’t speak a word. Gradually, I step away from the garden beds to sit on
the bench beside him but leave a considerable amount of space between us.
“She likes to be busy. I think it’s a consequence of her trauma, and
perhaps it’s easier to make peace with the damage of her mind if it’s
occupied elsewhere. The stronger the trust between the two of us grows, the
more she shares with me. She has a very keen mind, quick thinking, and
picks up new skills with great precision and only a single instruction. I'm
sure she’s been overlooked because she’s deaf, but there hasn’t been a task
assigned to her that’s been too complex for her to complete.”
Tauron stops breathing next to me, his body turning to stone as he hangs
on my every word. These tiny scraps of information are still far more than
the sedate and clinical assessments I’ve passed on to Soren. For such a man
to swallow his pride and explain himself to me to ensure her safety and
well-being… it's revealing.
“Soren said she’s working with you… she enjoys it? She never comes
out to the garden. We’ve kept watch to be sure to move the guards out of
her sight if she does come out.”
A lump forms in my throat, the tone of his voice tugging at something
inside me. “She’s found peace here, so far. I’m not sure I can call it
enjoyment yet, but we’re working on it. She’s very happy around Tyra,
though, I think they’re becoming friends. She doesn’t wish to come out to
the gardens yet, though now that I can assure her she’ll be alone, maybe
that will tempt her.”
He nods, blowing out a breath as he stares at his hands. With his
shoulders slumped like this, I’m tempted to look for signs of bleeding, but I
know the wound he carries is internal.
I clear my throat. “She doesn't enjoy high-fae finery. Airlie has tried to
send down dresses for Thea but stopped when we found they only
distressed her. She also prefers plain foods, though she can be coaxed into
trying new things. She has a sense of humor, though we’ve only found it in
the last few days. If you hear nothing else, I say to you today, Tauron, let it
be this—with the right encouragement, she’s been able to form bonds of
trust. I’m sticking to the assessment I gave Prince Soren. There's a long
road ahead of her, but with every passing day, I become surer the path she
walks is not a circle. She’ll find a way through the darkness she’s been cast
into. With patience and time, I believe you’ll be able to gain her trust. I
know that you’ll find a way to meet her on her path and walk alongside her
as the Fates command. We can’t save her from what was done—she alone
must do that—but that doesn’t mean all hope is lost.”
In the silence that greets my words, the sounds of the soldiers walking
along the inner wall and the murmurs of the barracks only a few dozen feet
away are quiet to my hearing, but I suppose Tauron can hear them all
perfectly. I look at the high-fae prince for just a moment to be sure I haven’t
stumbled over some trauma of his, only to see him swallow roughly and
duck his head. His gaze is trained on the cobblestones beneath our feet, the
path kept meticulously clean.
When it’s clear he has nothing else to ask me, I get back to my work and
focus on the structures until I’m sure they’ll hold even through a night of
snowfall. As I stand and move on to the next garden bed, I glance over my
shoulder once more to find Tauron gone, no sign left that he ever came
down to speak to me of his darkest pains.

TWO DAYS after Tyra moves into the healer’s quarters, I’m woken by a
sharp rapping of knuckles against the door hours before dawn. I’ve been
expecting this day to come, not knowing the finer details as Soren kept
them to himself to ensure the journey couldn’t be discovered by his uncle’s
spies, but the moment my eyes open, a steadying peace settles over me.
Dressing quickly and collecting my small satchel, I bid Tyra and Thea a
quick farewell and then slip out to find Tauron and Reed waiting for me in
the hall, Alwyn and Kyton standing watch instead of the usual guards. I nod
to them both respectfully, confident in their protection of my charge, and I
gesture at Tauron to lead the way.
Reed falls into step at my side with a bowed head, looking up only once
we round the corner and find the stairwell empty, none of the usual guards
present as though this has all been carefully orchestrated, because it has. To
keep Yregar safe for these long centuries with such finite resources, there’s
no doubt Soren has been meticulous in his planning.
The courtyard is as empty as the castle halls were, and when my brows
pull in a little, surprised there’s no sign of Soren or our horses, Reed leans
closer to me to murmur, “There's a tunnel that leads out of Yregar, similar
to the one out of Yrell. Prince Soren waits for us there.”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “So you can still speak to me? I thought
perhaps you’d been struck by some terrible curse but, alas, you’ve just been
avoiding me for your own reasons. It's almost impossible to keep up with
the ways of the high fae. You’re all as fickle as the Fates themselves.”
He has the decency to look embarrassed, lifting a hand to rub the back
of his neck as his gaze drifts to Tauron’s rigid form in front of us. The
prince doesn’t seem to take any notice of our conversation, and I enjoy the
tenuous stalemate we’ve somehow come to after his visit to my gardens.
Reed says, haltingly, “There have been many rumors since the witch
armies arrived to Yregar and I… assisted your escape to come to our aid. I
thought it best to find some distance. Prince Roan agreed.”
I frown at him, ignoring the arm he holds out to assist me through the
barren and rocky gardens at the back of the castle, despite my feet slipping
dangerously. “How exactly was guarding me at Yrell keeping your
distance? Or is it simply through your eyes and your respects that you must
treat me like a diseased thing?”
His cringe grows, embarrassment turning into shame as he glances
around us once more. If I was still a Witch of the Woods and nothing more,
maybe I would show him mercy and let this drop, but I learned a long time
ago not to let these sorts of quarrels fester.
“I’ve never cared about the opinions of the spoiled high fae who spend
their time gossiping in the courts, but considering you’re Prince Soren’s
Fates-blessed mate, I thought it best for the whole kingdom if I showed a
little more discretion around you.”
Discretion.
I certainly wouldn’t call his frosty treatment that, and frustration
bubbles up inside me until I want to scream at him. “We’re friends, Reed,
not lovers in some secret tryst!”
The color leaches from his face, and when I glance at Tauron, I find his
shoulders rigid with tension. When he glances back at us, I raise my
eyebrows at him, daring the male to question me, but Soren has taught him
well the consequences of provoking a lit temper.
Reed’s murmurs turn desperate, almost hissing out of his mouth. “The
prince himself had a lot of questions about what convinced me to side with
you, and so I won’t act so… familiar with you until things settle down.”
“Soren doesn’t care,” I reply, flinging out a hand in exasperation, but he
only gives me a sardonic look back.
“He never cared before. Prince Soren has made it very clear that you
have quite a lot of his attention now, Rooke. In fact, I would say you're the
center of it.”
As we reach a crumbling, decrepit tomb at the far edge of the long-dead
garden, I wave my hand at him dismissively again, even as the Fates dance
beneath my scar with their own opinions of his claims. “I have no intention
of spending the rest of my days at Yregar avoiding interacting with anyone
the Unseelie Court might find fault with just to appease Soren.”
Reed shakes his head at me, eyeing the tomb warily as though afraid
Soren is about to stalk out of it, enraged. “You should consider your Fates-
blessed mate a little more, Rooke. If not for your own sake, then maybe for
the rest of Yregar.”
I throw my hands up with an incredulous huff. “He left me in a dungeon
after dragging me behind his horse for days!”
Reed shrugs. “And I was the one to pull the doors shut.”
“At his command!”
Our feet hit the cracked stone steps of the tomb, and Reed seals his lips
shut, giving me a curt look when I huff at him once more. Tauron stops at a
large door that’s barely ajar and ushers me through the tiny sliver, but only
Reed slips through after me as the prince takes up watch without a word of
farewell or comment on our argument.
The small hallway carved out of stone is only a handspan wider than
Reed's shoulder width, and it descends into the earth. Reed carries a torch in
one hand as he leads me through. I’m barely able to see past him, but there's
only a dark hallway winding before us. When we finally reach a giant iron
door, he twists carefully to hand me the torch and pulls on a set of gloves
before he grapples with it, grunting at the unwieldy weight of the metal.
The door opens into a much larger tunnel with several paths leading
outwards, and in the large meeting space we find Soren waiting with our
saddled horses and a lit torch in hand. The air is warmer here, thicker, and
stale despite the slight draft rustling the hemline of my robes. Maybe it’s
that discomfort that refuses to let my temper cool off.
Soren’s eyes narrow at Reed, who keeps his cast downwards. It doesn’t
matter that my stomach is still a complicated mess after our last interaction
—my restraint snaps, and a grumble of my own bursts from my lips.
“I’m not going to be told by any male who I am allowed to converse
with, and I won’t be forced into solitude for the sake of your feelings, Fates-
blessed mate or not. Whatever assumptions you’ve made are best forgotten
now, Soren.”
I raise an eyebrow at him, refusing to look away even as Reed curses
under his breath with his eyes still firmly focused on his feet.
Soren’s gaze is as unwavering on my own. “I never asked for your
solitude. You can befriend any female you wish⁠—“
I cut him off before he can continue with his games, “I served in the Sol
Army for almost two hundred years. For the majority of that time, I slept
surrounded by other soldiers of my battalion, half of them males, with no
concerns of courtly decorum. My bedroll was wedged between my brother
and a high-fae prince we served with, hundreds of fae folk around us. I
won’t be told who I can speak to or be friends with.”
Soren’s lip lifts a fraction but he bites back the sneer threatening to
escape him. “Which prince?”
The smile I give him in return is a cold and deadly thing. “One who
remembers the Favored Children and turned his back on his own people to
fight with the lower folk because he could see through high-fae bullshit.
Perhaps the Unseelie Court could learn a lesson or two from such wisdom.”
“Who?”
I ignore his snarled question and swing myself into Northern Star’s
saddle, then take up the reins and click my tongue at her to get her moving
through the tunnel, undeterred by the darkness ahead. Soren has no choice
but to follow, cursing under his breath until Nightspark takes the lead once
more and the rigid lines of his shoulders take over my line of sight as he
leads me through the tunnel in silence.
Dawn has broken by the time we reach the opening, nestled in the
farming plains outside the outer walls of Yregar and hidden by a slumbering
oak tree still clinging to life, the light almost blinding after the long journey
with only a single torch to guide us. Small flurries of snow dance in the
breeze around us, but the ground has yet to be covered, the remnants of
dead grass still littering the decaying land.
Soren’s gaze is sharp on our surroundings as our horses set a steady
pace to the Brindlewyrd, his lips still pressed firmly together. There’s anger
in the rigid way he’s holding himself, no longer the cold and aloof prince in
my presence. I thought our journey would be an amicable one, at the least,
but tension snaps between us as thick and dangerous as raw magic wielded
by an inept fool.
The snow begins a more concerted effort around us as the farming
plains slowly peter out, and by the time we come across the first small
village, there’s a fine powder dusting everything around us. Still, Soren
scours the area as though searching for something. When he finally notices
my keen assessment of him instead of the dilapidated buildings, he lifts a
shoulder.
“It feels different. There's something here.”
I can’t say the same, but I nod, watching him. There’s no denying the
pull I feel toward him any longer, even when he’s stumbled over my temper
once again, and I have to force myself not to stare at him for too long.
Soren lifts a hand to his chest, the scowl on his face pulling the scar
across his lips tight. “I can feel it in my chest.”
Magic. The high-fae type that runs thick through his veins. I've gotten a
glimpse of it a handful of times, but it's as mysterious to me as it's ever
been. Even after the feats of incredible power I witnessed in my years in the
Sol Army, I don't have a grasp on understanding the gifts of his people.
It makes no sense to me that Unseelie high fae lost their magic in the
first place, but to see him humble himself to it, to listen to the power long-
abandoned in his bloodline, sends a ripple of anticipation through my gut.
His eyes flash they meet my own, as if he felt that sensation as well.
I murmur to him, my tongue clumsy under his intensely beautiful gaze,
“The Fates are never wrong. They may not be kind to us, but the tapestry of
our lives has been woven for centuries, threads pulled together to cast this
exact moment. The kingdom is healing because of our loyalty and
submission.”
He nods slowly, stretching down to stroke Nightspark’s neck
affectionately. The wound from Yrell is neatly healed, barely a scar to show
for it, but his fingers are soft regardless. Silence stretches between us once
more, but it's comfortable, peaceful even, and I'm able to focus my attention
on the village without holding myself on guard against my Fates-blessed
mate.
The dilapidated buildings at the edge would be impossible to inhabit
without extensive repairs, but when we cross inside the village walls, we
find the buildings there not simply abandoned but burned to the ground.
The acts of violence occurred centuries ago, and yet a chill runs down my
spine at the sight of the destruction, the smoke of my own village burning
filling my lungs in an instant.
The scowl on Soren’s face cuts deeper as the sounds of the horses’
hooves on the cobblestones echo through the barren streets. There isn't a
single building untouched, and fury writhes within me at the senselessness
of the Betrayer’s war.
When we reach the opposite edge of the village and pass through the
other side of the wall, the remnants of the funeral pyres are still there like a
warning, dozens of them. An old prayer falls from my lips, sorrow
drenching my tone even as fury trembles within every syllable. My gut is a
maelstrom of sickening rage, and though Soren may not realize it, a
Favored Child forced to witness the cruelty and ugliness of war is a
dangerous creature.
“There are hundreds of villages like this.”
I speak through clenched teeth. “How does the Unseelie Court ignore
this? How can they paint you as a villain for fighting back against this
wanton destruction?”
A dry chuckle spills from his lips, a dark and dangerous thing I’ve never
heard from him before. “How did the Unseelie Court accept my uncle
sitting on my father's throne when all signs pointed to his treachery? There
isn't a single servant in Yregar who journeyed there with me from Yris who
doesn’t know, and yet the high fae dance around the truth, too obsessed
with themselves to care about anything but their own comfort.”
It can't be as simple as that; nothing is ever as simple as that. If I've
learned anything in my time moving amongst the arrogant and beautiful
royals of the Northern Lands, it's that no matter how irreverent and flighty
the high fae look, beneath the surface, they’re as complicated as any other
fae folk. The heartbreaking beauty they wear just hides it a little deeper.
When I don’t reply, Soren steers the conversation back to his demands.
“How are you planning on killing Kharl Balzog? How did you plan to kill
him when you came back to the Southern Lands in the first place? You say
trust the Fates, but you can't simply wait for them to deliver him to you.”
I tuck my cloak tighter around my body, layering the lapels against the
chill that's taken me over. It’s not the snow swirling around us, but the cold
fury within me that holds me trapped in its clutches.
“I didn’t think it wise to return here clearly marked as a solider. I had
many offers of escort, but I thought it was better to come alone, in case you
saw the soldiers with me as a threat against your kingdom. Truthfully… I
was numb from the war and didn’t really care what happened to me along
the way home. The decay of the kingdom sparked the embers of life within
me, and then Raidyn’s birth set it alight… it gave me purpose once more.”
This veers dangerously to stories I don’t want to share with this male,
not even now that he’s accepted our shared fate, but as I watch him dance
carefully around the threats I tactlessly sneered at him when I woke with the
screeching death call of the Ureen still ringing in my ears, something
softens within me.
“I have wondered why no one came with you. It plagues me now. My
offer to send to the Northern Lands for you still stands, and I’ll meet the
ship at Port Asmyr myself.”
The bleak chuckle that spills out of me is an echo of his, and my
shoulders quake with the force of it. His gaze is piercing, but I don’t move
my head to meet it. No telling what secrets he’d find there.
“My escort would’ve included three witches, and each of them loathes
the Unseelie high fae for what they have done to the forests and covens
here. One barely made it through his time in the Sol Army without finding
himself before the Sol King for treason for his contempt of the high fae. If I
allowed you to send for them, how could you possibly hope to win the
Unseelie Court’s favor with such fae folk in your household at my request?”
He doesn't answer me, and our journey continues in silence.
As night falls around us, he doesn't stop to make camp, confident in my
ability to keep up after the hard ride to Yrell. Instead, he stays in the saddle
as he retrieves the flask tucked into his pack to drink his fill, and when he
sees that I haven't reached for mine, he holds it out to me. I attempt to wave
him off, but he pushes it toward me with a scowl on his face, and finally I
take it, not bothering to voice my protests at his demanding behavior.
When I hand it back to him, he watches me as he fastens the lid and
stows it away, a smolder burning within the icy depths of his eyes as my
tongue swipes over my bottom lip. Warmth spills into my belly, another
sign that perhaps the Fates weren't too far off in their weaving, and I force
myself to look away from him.
“How many soldiers sought to escort you back here?”
I swallow roughly but my mouth is still too dry. “Five.”
His jaw flexes as he considers this. “Are they friends of yours or simply
soldiers you served with?”
The smile I send him is small but true. “They’re all family to me. I…
survived the war because of them.”
He nods slowly and clicks his tongue at Nightspark, finally picking up
the pace a little and signaling the end of such conversations in that very
arrogant high-fae way of his. I would find it frustrating, but I’m growing
accustomed to it and can appreciate the efficiency. I never did enjoy the
labor of fussing after egos and giving out meaningless platitudes, and if the
ice of his manner eases a little, I think I’ll appreciate it even more.
When dawn breaks, I see the first hazy shadows of the Brindlewyrd
Forest before us, the call of the trees building within me as they welcome
me home after so many centuries of longing. Even as the Fates writhe with
joy beneath my scar, my heart breaks until every breath feels as though my
chest is cracking open. No matter the blood in my veins, I’m not the witch
the trees here think me to be.

OceanofPDF.com
OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Soren
Before I met my Fates-blessed mate and found myself humbled by her
knowledge of the Southern Lands, all the forests within the kingdom felt the
same to me—dark, barren, waiting. The drain of sustaining fae folk without
reciprocation and the steep cost of high-fae arrogance left them no choice
but to sleep, though I didn’t have the words to describe the sensation before.
I didn't understand any of it but, with my magic curling in my gut and my
mind now open to ancient beings beyond my understanding, the frenetic
buzzing in my blood makes sense.
What we’ve felt within the trees is anger. Seething fury simmering
beneath our feet, a tremble of power at the edge of release, the deathly
silence of retribution promised with a god-like patience. The consequences
of the First Fae arriving here and their descendants forgetting everything
trembles below my feet. The first true step to winning against Kharl Balzog
and his blood-soaked allegiance with my uncle is remembering, honoring,
and paying back a blood debt to the trees.
From the moment I heard the screams within Elms Walk, I knew the
power this kingdom holds, long forgotten, and to wield that power could be
the difference in this ashes-cursed war. After centuries of being forced to
play the games of the Unseelie Court and to stroke the egos of those who
stayed loyal to me, speaking to the trees is not an ominous task.
The moment we breach the tree line of the Bridlewyrd Forest, a weight
settles on my shoulders, a grunt forced out of my chest unbidden as I’m
forced to absorb the blow without being wrenched from my saddle. Rooke
shoots me a look as I jerk around to check she’s unharmed, but whatever
magic has assaulted me has spared her. I open my mouth but, before any
words can spill from me, the forest speaks to me like a poisoned arrow shot
straight into my heart.
You are not welcome here, Celestial prince.
Rooke’s frown deepens as she glances around. Her eyes are still clear,
no magic shining through them, and she doesn’t have that dazed look on her
face that Tyton often wears yet, even without her usual murmured prayers
in the old language, it's clear she's communicating with the forest,
bargaining with it on my behalf. I take a deep breath, my eyes slipping shut
as I focus on my magic and that weight still pressing down on me. As
though floodgates open inside me, the cacophony of the forest’s song fills
me all at once. Deafening without volume, intelligible without words,
there’s no describing the experience other than magic.
For the first time, I hear it speak clearly, if softly, in the back of my
mind.
Celestial blood. He cannot be forgiven, no Celestial can have safe
passage under our canopy.
Beads of sweat gather over my brow at the effort to grasp those words,
but when I open my eyes once more, I find Rooke’s eyes narrowed at me,
questions in her gaze I have no answers for. Her eyes flash silver as she
calls on her magic, my gut clenching at the bright light. My concern isn’t at
her use of magic anymore but the danger this may pose to her. There’s no
one in this forest with us, not a sound or sight for hundreds of miles, but the
same instinct that plagued me at the village closer to Yregar lingers now.
Something’s wrong.
Entwined with my magic, my skin tingles as Rooke funnels her own
magic into the earth beneath us, an offering of power to ease some of the
hunger of the forest, but a demand for answers as well. She’s stronger than I
could’ve ever imagined, nothing like the raving masses, and a thrill works
through my magic at the sensation of hers. It wants her, as I want her, and
though I have no experience or idea of what I’m doing, I don’t hesitate to
hold out my hand. Mirroring her actions, I push at my magic like I did at
the edge of Selkie Lake when the power there took over me.
The distant whispers of the trees become a thunderous roar in my ears,
and another vicious grunt is forced out of my lips as it cleaves through me,
but I hold true in my saddle thanks to centuries of experience at taking a hit
and keeping my head no matter how violently it thumps.
Why has the Favored Child brought a betrayer to us? Our children are
gone.
Rooke’s answer is no longer in my ears, but resonates in that same
strong tone in my mind. Soren Celestial is not the Betrayer. He may have
forgotten, but he’s remembering now, and he leads his people to remember
as well. We won’t allow these crimes to go unanswered for.
A rustle scatters through the leaves in answer, not unlike Elms Walk, as
the trees wake, but this feels different. There's no relief at the Favored Child
returning, only gut-wrenching sadness. Mourning, but not the quiet
contemplation that happened in the Ravenswyrd surrounded by the fae
flowers. This mourning is violent, enraged, and no matter who she is, the
forest won’t accept Rooke’s word as proof of my honor.
Favored Child, look at what he’s done to us.
She glances around us as the leaves begin to tremble again, the fury
building as though the trees prepare to defend themselves against me, but
when I follow the path of her gaze, I can’t find anything of concern.
Overgrown shrubbery, logs covered in moss, fallen leaves slowly returning
to the earth; I don’t understand what they’re urging her to see. From the
pinching around her eyes, I don’t think Rooke does either.
Frustration floods me, and the decision is made in an instant. Reckless
or not, it doesn't matter, because without an agreement of safety from the
forest, the fae of this kingdom are all but dead. The Celestial kings have
failed them too many times— I’ve failed them too many times— all for the
sake of power and the whims of my uncle.
I won’t fail my Fates-blessed mate anymore.
Eyes widening, Rooke opens her mouth to stop me, but it’s too late. I
shove at the confines of my magic, at the small vent that allows a slow
stream of power to eke out in sacrifice, and the structure shatters. Whatever
bound the power in the first-place dissolves under my indignant attack, and
power pours out of me into the earth below. As though struck by lightning,
my blood sets fire, and my veins burn as my skin writhes under the
scorching heat.
The world around me melts away, and I gasp desperately for air.
Blinded, I grip my reins uselessly, and Nightspark whinnies in protest at my
sudden jerking movement. My last coherent memory is the desperate sound
of my name from Rooke’s lips before I drop, descending into a white light.
It’s impossible to tell if I'm still in my saddle or if I fall onto the forest
floor. Maybe the roots of the trees wrap around me to pull me into the
depths of the dirt and take me as a sacrifice instead of my magic or my
blood, but none of it matters. Nothing matters except proving myself to this
ancient forest and surviving to save my kingdom from my uncle’s callous
designs.
The last feeling I have of my body is my limbs being pushed and pulled
in every direction, as though the trees attempt to pull my skin apart. My
breath is drawn into my lungs, my head spinning, but nothing else exists as
the trees scour every inch of my being in their search for something,
something. They guzzle my magic down, gulping the wealth of power
within me to take more than I would’ve ever imagined, and yet it’s nothing
compared to the cavernous void left behind by my people turning their back
on the old ways. I let them take every drop I can possibly give to the earth,
and it doesn’t help one bit.
The trees squeeze at my skin further and further, until I'm sure every
bone in my body has been ground to dust, my skin split open, and my blood
poured into the ground beneath me. It feels like I've stepped through a fae
door only to be thrown into another, and another, over and over again, the
magic eating me alive.
When I’m sure my mind is about to fracture completely, everything
stops.
For a fraction of a second, I'm sure I’ve arrived at the gates of Elysium,
panic shooting through me. Then, as suddenly as it stopped and my vision
was torn from me, I’m thrown back into the forest, but Rooke is nowhere to
be found. Before I can feel alarm, the forest floods my mind.
Bear witness; this is our betrayal.
A memory. The deep pain of the forest says that centuries have passed
but every detail of the betrayal is as clear before my eyes as if it were
happening right now. Dozens of witches stand before me, easily identifiable
by their silver eyes and the robes they wear, though none of them look
anything like Rooke’s. In shades of ashy whites and purples, they’re not
dressed for healer’s work or war. Instead, this is a coven in their forest, long
ago when it was still theirs to call home.
I don’t understand what I’m seeing, or how I’m seeing it, but the
conversation grabs my attention.
“We have to go up there to her. We can't just leave her there,” one of the
men cries out, but another raises his hands.
“She's dead already, we all felt it! What are we to do, crawl up there and
find ourselves murdered along the way? Think clearly, Url, there's no
saving a corpse!”
One of the women wrings her hands, casting a look over her shoulder,
lips trembling. “We need to leave now, before they get here⁠—”
Another female cuts her off, her voice shrill and a cruel scoff dancing at
the end of every barb she throws out. “And go where, Maeryn? Unrest has
been growing for centuries among amongst the witches, the Bloodwyrd
coven torn in half by the promises of that ashes-cursed male, the Elmswyrd
have already abandoned their forest, and those of banshee blood are
heading south at King Galen’s promise of sanctuary. Even if we choose to
believe the promises of a high-fae king and do the same, we’ll never make
it past Irongrave or the Forge! There’s no point trying to avoid the Outlands
altogether, the Mistheart territories are overrun with the raiding parties⁠—“
“We must head south! We have to leave now,” the trembling woman
implores, her voice still hushed as she steps forward with her hands cast out
wide, and the others glance around at each other warily.
Blood darkens her sleeves in large patches, dried tears tracking down
her cheeks and dirt streaking her robes as though she took a hard fall. The
witch marks on her face glow bright, a clean white color, and though I’ve
never seen the symbols before, I understand them—Maiden.
The moment the word forms in my mind, the forest whispers back to
me, correcting me. Mother.
She hasn’t held the mantle of that role for long, hours at most, and she’s
so young. Even with the timelessness of fae folk, it’s easy enough to see in
the softness of her cheeks, a layer of childhood coddling that hasn’t been
whittled away by womanhood yet. She’s terrified and, from the hesitance in
her eyes as she looks around at her coven, she’s struggling to accept her
new role. The mantle was passed down by the death of someone within her
bloodline, likely her own mother, and the urgency building around her is
irreverent to her grief.
Whatever the coven’s thoughts of her, she tries to reason with them even
as she glances over her shoulder and speaks with a quaking voice.
“Whatever our choice, if we don't leave now, it’ll be too late.”
It already is.
A whistling sound pierces the air, the only warning before one of the
women cries out, an arrow tipped with ravens' feathers protruding from her
chest. She stumbles, her hand clutching at her wound and smearing the
black oil of poison over her skin as the crowd lurches away from her in
horror. With a final gasp, she drops to the ground, and the gurgling sound of
her drowning in her own blood-filled lungs peters out, the poison killing her
in seconds.
The clearing descends into chaos, screams of terror broken only by
commands roared by the few who keep their wits about them. The air
electrifies with magic, and the taste of it, of real power, is like the sweetest
goblin wine, melting on my tongue as my blood craves more. The hunger
within me becomes deranged, twisted in its ravenous needs, and it’s only
the urgent demands of the forest that keep my attention on the bloodshed
before me.
The witches scramble to defend their coven, but arrows fly irreverently,
poison spattering the ground. When the first of Kharl’s ground soldiers
arrive, black spittle running from their mouths and the marks on their face
glowing black, the Brindlewyrd witches reel in horror at the sight of them.
The same disgust ripples through me; how I ever thought witches were all
the same is beyond me. Kharl’s soldiers don’t even look fae anymore, or
even wraith-like, in their twisted decline. Madness shines bright in their
eyes, the silver dulled and muddy, and their movements are animalistic as
they charge into the clearing.
The magic of the coven bursts around us, but there are too many raving
soldiers, the same problem the high fae have faced a thousand times, and
hundreds swarm them like a plague. With the defending witches having
nothing but sharpened blades in their hands, the attack quickly becomes a
massacre, and I’m forced to watch the coven fall. My gut clenches at the
violence, a whisper in my mind reminding me that the Ravenswyrd coven
suffered the fate.
My vision shifts.
 The realization that I’m seeing through the memory of a fae and not
only the forest hits me with the force of a battering ram as the fae stumbles
away from the clearing, the shock of the attack wearing off and survival
instincts kicking in. They glance down to regain their footing, and I see feet
far smaller than my own—a child.
A child watching as the coven is slaughtered. My gut clenches,
somewhere, somehow, and the unspent rage of the forest trembles within
me. The forest isn’t just mourning the Favored Children as the Ravenswyrd
does, it mourns the future stolen from it.
Hands suddenly grip their shoulders and wrench the child around, a
gasp of terror torn from their chest, but the child recognizes the male. An
uncle, kin, someone he looks up to and wishes to be like someday. A father
figure after his own was lost in the early days of the Betrayer’s arrival.
The male’s voice is desperate, a command and a plea at once. “Take
Hanede and run. Run.”
The child shakes his head, letting out a whimper barely audible over the
screams of his coven being slaughtered, and the male’s fingers dig into his
shoulders as he shakes him.
“You must take him, Moyr. If you don’t, the relic is lost and our coven
with it, our promise to protect the forest broken. Go west until the tree line
ends, and then north until you hit the Lore River. The Ravenswyrd lies
beyond and the Favored Children will take you in—their magic and creed
will see you safe. Go now, Moyr, run!”
He shoves Moyr away, his silver eyes glowing as the air snaps with
magic, and he throws himself at the closest raving witch with a roar.
Moyr’s feet slip on the moss underfoot, a gasp ripping out of his lungs
once more as he stumbles, and when he turns back, he finds his uncle has
drawn a blade and fights against a group now, black blood coating his arms
and ground around them churned up from the melee. He’s stronger, faster,
and better with the blade than they are, four of them dying at his hand
without much strife, but then more arrive.
Watching on in horror, Moyr’s legs turn liquid underneath himself as
their numbers grow. Six, seven, a dozen of them, more and more, they pile
onto his uncle, and finally he falls, screams of manic victory arcing through
the air and drowning out the sounds of the assault. His uncle lets out one
last cry of anguish, then a gurgle as he chokes on his own blood in his final
moments.
 Moyr runs.
He runs with ice in his veins at his uncle’s death, with his heart
pounding in his chest so hard he thinks it might explode, he runs until his
feet turn numb and he’s certain he’s somehow taken flight. He runs until he
thinks he might vomit from the efforts.
When he reaches the small marshlands, the freshly melted snow and ice
there giving life to the stink of decaying underbrush, his feet slip again on
the mud, and the terror flooding him renders his limbs clumsy as he falls
into the thick mess, his body landing with such force the air is knocked
from his lungs. It does something to his mind, jars it into functioning again,
and he looks around the forest with clearer eyes the moment he’s able to
draw breath.
Footprints all around him, small ones, dozens of them.
Children.
The children of the coven have run this way, all who could get out, all
who had parents to send them away while they held off the raving witches
for as long as they could. The coven sent their most beloved deep into the
trees for protection while they stood steadfast in the face own demise, never
faltering as they bought the children precious seconds to flee. Even as I
think this, the solemn song of the forest fills my mind, proof there’s no
salvation here.
This forest isn’t as strong as Elms Walk, nor as violent as the Blood
Valley, and none are as powerful as the Ravenwyrd. The Brindlewyrd is
tired, utterly depleted where it’s given everything to the witches here to
keep them fed and well despite the waning rites.
It can’t defend them anymore.
Looking around desperately as he searches for more signs of the
children or any others who may follow him, Moyr finds his feet again, and
relief floods him when his legs hold steady as he pushes on. He knows he
must run fast, but he needs to be quiet, small, to blend into the scenery so
that the raving witches are unable to see him. He needs to be enveloped by
the forest in the way that only a witch born here can be.
Screams of his dying coven follow him, a woman yelling curses with
every ounce of power she holds, until the sound cuts short. The sound of
Moyr’s panting is loud but not enough to drown out the sounds of the
attack. More gurgling, the whistle of arrows through the air, wood
splintering as magic hits the trees and blows them apart, the forest howling
in agony as its coven fights back with every inch of strength they have and
yet still not enough to save them.
The boy's feet slip again, and he turns his body in an attempt to catch
himself. Instead he collides into another body, one cloaked by magic to be
invisible, and he lands on the dampened forest floor. A whimper trembles
out of his throat, sure he’s been found, only for a whisper to stop his panic
in its tracks.
“It's me, Moyr! It’s Hanede! Be silent or they’ll find us.”
Fates merciful weaving, the first sign of light within the darkest day of
their coven, he’s found the Loche boy. Scrambling to his feet once more,
ignoring the mud now covering him, he looks the boy over for injuries only
to be struck by how small he is, how young, and yet Hanede is as calm as
the Brindlewyrd Mother was. He took after her far more than his sister, the
trembling girl still wearing her Maiden robes as the raving soldiers tore her
apart.
Moyr turns and vomits at their feet.
Hanede doesn’t move or make a single sound, and when Moyr
straightens, there’s no disgust on the boy’s face as he blinks up at him. He’s
clutching the relic of the Brindlewyrd, a scepter carved from white ash with
a large purple gem set into the top. Thanks to the magic of the relic, it’s
barely longer than the boy’s arm but the power of the Brindlewyrd Coven
sings through it regardless, the stone glowing brightly at the boy’s
command.
Hanede shouldn’t be able to hold it, let alone wield it—no male should
—but Moyr doesn’t need to see the blood staining the wood to be reminded
of how the relic came to be in the boy’s possession. He feels it in his blood,
as all in the coven will. Regardless of who is left of their coven, the line of
the womb has ended.
Moyr glances up to see Hanede’s lip tremble before his forearm swipes
across his eyes, bloodshot, though no tears fall. Six years old, he’s
practically a baby, and yet he’s pulled himself together enough to get the
relic here safely. The power and majestic nature of the Loche witches didn’t
end with the death of the Mother; Hanede is still here to guide them, no
matter how small he may be.
They must make it to the Favored Children. Only then will the
Brindlewyrd Coven live on.
 Moyr grasps Hanede’s hand tightly and steps closer so the boy’s magic
can keep them both out of sight, and he gently takes the lead. He knows the
way out of the forest well, and he follows his uncle’s instructions, wisdom
given with his dying breath. He fought to buy them time to get out, and
Moyr won’t squander that sacrifice.
But it’s too late.
As the trees around them begin to thin out, they also whisper a warning,
but their meaning slips past the boys.
They have betrayed us.
The trees have whispered such things for centuries, angry at all fae folk
who’ve turned away from the old traditions and no longer honor the seasons
passing to keep the magic within the kingdom strong, but now they whisper
fervently, they have betrayed us all.
Hanede gasps, clutching at Moyr’s hand and halting their advance.
At the edge of the forest, a battalion of high fae soldiers waits, as still as
the winter morning in their saddles as the sounds of the dying coven still
ring out of the depths of the trees. Moyr's lungs seize in his chest at their
beauty, impossible to look at, a phenomenon Soren has never felt in the
presence of a high fae before. For a moment, the boy thinks they've come to
help the witches and to kill those who have come for his coven.
Then the first of the fleeing children crosses the tree line.
Spatters of blood mar the front of her robes, her feet caked in mud and
cuts running over her bared arms. Gwyn is eleven, terrified, and she sobs as
she runs with a haphazard motion of limbs. Moyr can’t look away from her,
his friend, a female he’s known his entire life, and so the first arrow that
strikes her in the chest takes him by surprise as well.
The grunting-gasp noise she makes ricochets through his skull as
though he’s the one who’s been struck, and he can’t move, can’t make a
sound as his gaze swings up to the group of high-fae soldiers waiting there,
arrows nocked only to release at the leader’s hand signal.
Gwyn’s body thuds to the ground, her eyes staring sightlessly at the sky,
and bile burns in Moyr’s throat as arrows stream towards the trees, more
bodies fall… the children, Fates mercies, dozens of children arrive at the
edge of the trees and are slaughtered by the high fae waiting there. A scream
lodges itself in Moyr’s throat, impossible to let out, his heart a violent
cacophony in his chest, and Hanede’s hand squeezes his fingers so hard the
bones bend.
 One of the soldiers turns towards Moyr and Hanede, staring right at
them. They stop breathing, terrified as they realize their mistake.
The high fae cannot see them, but they can hear them.
He glances down at Hanede to find wide eyes staring up at him in terror,
his lip trembling, and a sense of calm washes over him suddenly. His
responsibility is to his coven and the Mother who leads them all. Moyr will
protect her son, and the relic of his coven.
Motioning at Hanede to stay silent, he waits until the boy jerks his head
in the semblance of a nod before he presses a hand over his chest, magic
flowing between them. Moyr doesn’t have a lot but the forest knows, and
it’s desperate to help them however it can. It boosts the paltry offering Moyr
gives Han and masks the sounds of life within his body that only the high
fae could possibly hear.
Then, with bravery no boy of twelve years should have, Moyr steps out
of the invisible barrier and into the view of the soldiers.
As the arrows rain around him and strike his chest, the last thing Moyr
sees is the cold apathy in my uncle's eyes as he gives the command to enter
the forest, to hunt any surviving children, to be sure none are left alive.
With no ashes to speed his journey to Elysium, Moyr dies, surrounded by
dozens of children, and the Brindlewyrd Forest will never recover from
their loss.
It will never forget the Celestial prince who did this.

CONSCIOUSNESS SLOWLY RETURNS TO ME, and awareness of two

things floods me instantly; smoke that fills my lungs and complete darkness
engulfing me. As disorientated as I am, for a moment I’m sure the smoke is
a funeral pyre burning and my mind is surely trapped in the memory of the
horror that tore the heart out of this forest. Then the pounding in my head
intensifies and becomes impossible to overlook, more pain assaulting me as
I gasp and jolt my aching bones. Surely I was crushed under something, or
fell from a cliff, from how miserable I feel as my eyelids finally flutter
open.
 The canopy of trees and clear winter night sky above are as familiar to
me now as the halls of Yregar, as welcoming as any home could be, and the
song of the forest thrums a steady beat within my own heart. That I can feel
so wretched and at peace at once must be an act of magic—an impressive
one.
Letting out another groan, I roll slowly and hoist myself up into a sitting
position. My stomach lurches and my mind scrambles from the pounding
there. I cradle my head in my hands and fight a wave of gut-wrenching
nausea, sure that my skull has been cleaved in two. My vision blurs, whites
out, corrects itself, then again before I manage to collect my wits.
“Lay back down, Soren. Take rest while you can.” Rooke’s voice is low
and soothing, like a balm, and I reach toward the sound without looking up.
I need her—not her healing or coddling, just her voice and her presence,
because if this is the state I’m going to die in, then I want her close by.
Cold fingers caress my temple gently and, even with my eyes closed, I
see the flash of light before some of my pain lifts away, her magic melting
like ice against my skin. It’s a small pulse, droplets of her power, but I can
finally meet her eyes and feel the soft fur of her cloak where I’m clutching
her shoulder desperately.
“Don’t waste your magic on me.”
My voice is harsh in my own ears, but Rooke doesn’t react beyond her
fingers stroking my temple in a soothing rhythm as she murmurs back,
“That’s all I can spare for now, but I couldn’t leave you to bear this pain
alone, not after what you’ve done for the forest.”
I grimace. “A single sacrifice is nothing, Rooke. Nothing to this forest,
or the kingdom. You should leave me to endure the pain ten-fold for what
the high fae have done.”
I know I must look thunderous in my frustration, but she stares at me
unflinching, calm even in the face of my anger. She’s never been afraid of
me, or anything. No matter the danger she’s faced, it’s only her nightmares
that ever get the better of her, and no shame in that. I wonder if she’s always
been so valiant, or if facing the monsters of the Fates has rendered all other
foes powerless.
The crackle of the fire catches my attention, the popping sounds stark in
the stillness of the night. I glance over to find the horses tethered securely to
a tree, buckets of water and oats at their feet. Nightspark is snorting and
fussing at Northern Star’s side, but it’s a content sound as he rubs his
muzzle affectionately against her flank. She eats slowly, the bucket still full
as he lets her get her fill first, and only when she moves away to drink does
he finally take his turn.
There’s a line of magic surrounding us, the snow falling at a lazy but
steady pace marking the edge with a sharp line, and only the smoke of the
fire can pass through the barrier. Tyton has never had that sort of control,
and yet Rooke kneels comfortably between my legs, hands stroking away
the worst of the pain with distraction and shows no signs of struggle with
the magic being cast.
There’s a small tent behind Rooke, its open flap showing our packs
stowed away there, and a single bed roll laid out already, the other still
secured to Rooke’s pack as though she intends to keep watch by the fire all
night. My expression doesn’t change, the pain still furrowing my brow and
concealing any twitches or ticks that would normally show, but my Fates-
blessed mate has surely been watching me more closely than I ever
would’ve guessed. Closer than I deserve, because she didn’t just make note
of the dangers I might pose to her. She’s keenly aware of my ego and my
arrogance, clearly sensing the indignant churn of my gut souring my
enjoyment of her coaxing petting, the uncontainable reaction I have at the
mere idea of leaving her out here to keep watch while I sleep and heal.
She leans forward until she blocks my view of the tent, her other hand
coming up to lace through my fingers that are still clutching my head. “You
need to sleep, Soren, and not just because I hate to see you in pain like this.
Your magic is drained and must be treated like a wound; sleep is the only
remedy for this affliction. I’ll cast sparingly while you’re depleted, but
there’s no use dragging this out. I’ll keep you safe. On our fate, I swear it.”
Her expression is solemn in the way of a good soldier, unflinching at the
task at hand, and I try to memorize every inch of her features as yet another
facet of my Fates-blessed mate is revealed to me. It was reckless of me to
pour my magic into the earth, rash in a way I’ve never allowed myself to
be, but the weight of the forest’s disapproval was unbearable. Even now my
fingers itch with the need to avenge, to make right, because I’ve never been
a male of cheap words. I’ve made a promise, and I’ll keep it, for the forest
and my Fates-blessed mate and the countless other fae folk whose lives
were torn apart by this war.
Rooke’s fingers rub gently at a soft patch of my hair, one finger finding
the point of my ear and tracing down it a little as she pets me, and I curse
my pounding head and churning gut that stop me from being able to
properly enjoy such treatment. Or, better yet, take advantage of it and find
some soft patches on her to claim for my touch. Her skin is pale in the
darkness, but the freckles still dance across her nose and small curls lay
over her temples where they’ve escaped her braid. I’ve never craved the
touch of another more in my life, never been so desperate to keep a female’s
attention, and despite how exposed we are right now, keeping her gaze
trained solely on me is the only concern my pain-addled mind can grasp
right now.
As though listening to my thoughts, the forest murmurs in my heart, a
small tempo change in the thrumming there, and the little boy’s face flashes
in my mind. I see him as clearly as I see Rooke before me, as though the
forest lost him only hours and not many centuries ago.
A curse bursts out of me, and Rooke moves her hands away from me in
a rush, frowning as she scours my face for whatever ailment has overcome
me, but I shake my head curtly, squeezing my eyes shut as I grab her hands
and press them back where they belong. I turn my cheek into her palm,
growling under my breath in frustration at the piercing jolt of pain bouncing
around my skull that the movement causes.
When I can form words again, I mutter, “I recognized the high-fae
soldiers responsible for this… all of them. My promise to the forest stands
for as long as I draw breath. No mercy for the Betrayers.”
Rooke’s head tilts, her eyebrows drawing even further together before
she blows out a slow breath. “The forest showed you the coven’s demise…
that’s why it forged a connection with you. No wonder you’re in so much
pain. I know the tale of what happened here well enough.”
“Kharl killed the coven, but it was my uncle’s command to kill the
children. They slaughtered them all.” I almost choke on the bile that creeps
up my throat again.
I lean away from her as disgust and shame for my bloodline threaten to
break my tenuous grasp on my temper. Her hands slip from me, but she
doesn't move away. Sitting back on her heels, she kneels before me with my
legs on either side of her, her heartbeat steady in my ears, a reminder to
keep my wits about me.
Rooke stares back at me for a moment, as though considering her
answer, before she replies, “Almost all of them… one made it out alive.”
“Hanede.” His name falls from my lips easily.
 Rooke swallows roughly and nods, finally glancing away from me as
though even the sound of it pains her, and my stomach drops violently. “Did
he make it to the Ravenswyrd Forest? Did he die there with your family?”
She clears her throat, still looking away. “He made it to my family, long
before I was born, and my father saw him safely to Port Asmyr. Hanede
never forgot the gift of sanctuary my family gave him, or the passage to
safety. When my brother and I arrived in Sol City, he was one of the first to
greet us.”
The desolation in her voice rakes at me, compelling me to reach for her
again and find some way to comfort her. I push one of her stray curls away
from her temple and cup her cheek just as she’d cradled mine, and her
breath catches in her throat. Satisfaction, or maybe victory, heats my blood
at her reaction, doubling when a light blush creeps along her cheeks. She
doesn't feel the same compulsions of the Fates as I do, that much is clear,
but she feels something for me.
She clears her throat delicately, her voice just a little breathy. “You have
to sleep, Soren. The magic drain will only get worse if you don't take care
of yourself.”
My eyes are searing as I hold her gaze, shoving the pain aside. I
certainly want to take care of something, but sleep isn’t my main concern.
She raises an eyebrow, staunchly ignoring her own reactions. “There's a
long journey ahead of us, no matter what path we choose. I don’t want to
knock you out, but I will, and it’ll be easier on me if you’re in the tent.”
Glancing at the single bed roll already set out, I see the validity of her
plan. I stand slowly, relieved when my legs are steady underneath me, but
when I hold out my hand to Rooke she shakes her head.
“I’ll keep watch tonight.”
I give her a hard look back. “Under no circumstances am I going to
sleep while my Fates-blessed mate sits out here alone in the cold. No matter
how fucking ignorant and cruel I’ve been in the past, I would never leave
you like that, croí.”
Rooke scoffs as she shakes her head, a hint of her blush returning. “I’m
not a delicate female, and I’m well-versed at guard duties. If anything, I’ll
enjoy the time to myself. I’ve missed long, peaceful nights amongst the
trees.”
She looks up at the sky with a softness to her eyes, a longing to be out
here. It wouldn’t be a hardship for her, and a good Fates-blessed mate
would leave her, trusting her word and allowing her to make her own
decisions, but I’ve never claimed to be one of those.
Taking her elbow in my hand, I all but drag her to the tent. She huffs
when I gently push her inside and follow closely behind so she can’t just
step back out. The tent is tall enough for her to stand, but I have to hunch
over, my head pounding at the angle and demanding I make quick work of
getting us both settled for the night. I ignore her indignant muttering as I set
up her bedroll next to mine, the edges overlapping in an entirely impractical
way.
I have no intention of letting her pull it to the far side, even the
handspan of space that would put between us would be intolerable, and
there’s too much pain writhing within me at the loss of my magic stores to
play along with that farce.
With a huff, she tries one last time to convince me. “This forest isn't like
the Ravenswyrd, I don't know if we can risk sleeping at the same time⁠—"
Growling in my pained irritation, I cut her off. “We can, and we will.”
I know nothing of the promises of trees, only the madness they can
inspire in my cousin and the screams of the deaths their loyal rage can
induce, but I know I speak the truth. I stretch out on my bed roll and then
hold Rooke’s gaze with a demanding tilt to my brow until finally she lies
down next to me. When I continue to stare at her with protest she sighs and
shifts until she’s pressed against me, our bodies touching from shoulder to
ankle. Even with layers of clothing between us, some of the pressure in my
chest eases off at having her this close.
My mind scatters with each pulse of pain, slipping in and out of
consciousness over the next hours, but unable to rest properly. Rooke shifts
and twitches next to me, also unable to fall asleep, and when she finally sits
up, I grit my teeth, ready to argue with her to keep her here. Instead of
retreating, I watch as she pries off her boots and wriggles her toes in her
thick woolen socks before she lies down once more with a sigh. A smile
tugs at my lips at the relieved sound, the steady beat of her heart slowly
coaxing me to sleep.

OceanofPDF.com
OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER TWENTY

Rooke
I wake before dawn from a fitful sleep, my heart thumping wildly in my
chest. My rest was dreamless, thankfully, my body only responding to the
hard plains of Soren’s body pressed against mine. His arms band around me
tightly, his face buried in the back of my neck, and I’m glad I’m not facing
him as a blush creeps over my cheeks.
Centuries of dealing with males of all dispositions under my belt, and
yet still my Fates-blessed mate is proving to be something else entirely,
truly carved by the Fates to be my downfall. The desolate tone he described
the forest’s pain with washes over me once more, tugging mercilessly at my
heart. The closer we walk beside each other on our fates path, the more I
grow to understand this male.
That alone would soften my resolve—such is the Ravenswyrd way—but
his ferociously protective and possessive actions filled me with warmth and
longing that can’t be deterred. Demanding not only my affection but my
safety in his grievous state, I found myself craving more of his branding
focus.
After centuries of hearing about the other forests within the kingdom
and the heartache of the covens desperate to return home, the mourning of
the Brindlewyrd is almost too much to bear. Elms Walk was sleeping when
we arrived there, the Ravenswyrd was glad to welcome me home, but this
forest trembles with its need for retribution, the magnitude of which is
humbling.
Worse still, the confusion it felt at my presence and the way it scoured
my body for answers reopened old wounds, ones that never fully heal. I
should’ve expected it; I’m well versed in the anomaly the Fates War made
of me, but the underlying rage the forest holds was jarring. As a Favored
Child from this land but not these trees, I shouldn’t have so much
Brindlewyrd blood within me nor the seal of this coven’s magic, which
bound my torso back together and now lies on my skin forever like a brand.
How could I ever hope to explain to a forest in this state that I’m
Ravenswyrd by birth, but my veins became a writhing brew of magic and
blood given freely in my most desperate hour? Without Hanede, the only
witch strong enough to wrestle me back from the gates of Elysium and
whose blood now flows in my veins, I would’ve died in the war.
How desperately I wish he were here and could hear the forest that still
mourns his family as fiercely now as it did when they were first taken from
it. He often shared his fears with me that, because he left as a small child,
maybe the trees would resent him for abandoning them, but there’s no
denying it only longs for him to return home.
When I check Soren’s breathing to distract myself away from my
somber thoughts—still steady and slow, like all the other times I’ve
checked on him throughout the night—there’s no denying he’s the reason I
struggled to sleep well. I was trained to wake at the first ripples of danger,
the calm before the storm, and the greatest storm of all lies beside me,
unaware of the state of panic he’s put me in.
He didn’t just make an offering of his magic to the forest, he
hemorrhaged his power into the land like a vein split open instead of merely
severed, impossible to repair, and the forest responded by guzzling it down
and demanding more. It poured until I was sure there was no magic left, and
then it poured more. The depth of the Celestial heir’s power is
unimaginable, and I can only guess how deeply it was locked within and
how long his bloodline has ignored it. If the Unseelie Court had any idea
what this male is capable of, I doubt the regent would have so much
support.
Anxiety blooms in my gut, my limbs growing restless with the need to
do something. If he wakes up now, fully recharged, as high fae are
sometimes known to do, he’ll be a danger to himself and everything around
us. To wield so much power, so suddenly and with no training, he’s more
dangerous than a death curse and able to wreak far more destruction than
Kharl Balzog has ever cast. I thought I’d seen everything in the Sol Army,
but I’ve never faced something like this before.
A witch's power develops over decades. Pemba and I left the forest with
very little power between us, and the witch I’ve returned home as is
drastically different, not just for my experience but for the power in my
veins. Pemba was barely able to call on his power beyond the rites, our
childhood protecting us from ever needing to cast with more than that. He
learned to wield his magic with the same ferocity that he learned to wield a
sword. I’ve learned every inch of my power and its reserves within myself,
every corner in which magic hides within me to be used as a last resort. I
know the source of my power and the abilities unique to my bloodlines,
then I learned when to wield it and when to hold it back.
The only time I've seen Soren use his magic has been in sacrifice to the
forest and the oath he laid over Airlie and Roan’s infant son. What if he
doesn't know how to hold it back? I have seen the devastation wrought by
his temper and borne the brunt of it. Putting magic behind such ferocity…
Yregar would be rubble within a week.
“Why are you shaking? Did you dream again, croí?”
Even as my blood heats at him calling me that again, I startle at the
sound of his voice, then again at his hand as it snaps out to catch my arm as
though he’s afraid I was falling from some great height and not lying beside
him on a bedroll. His jaw clenches, and his eyes are still half closed as they
roam over my face in a searing assessment. When all I do is stare back at
him, still shocked at the protective reaction, he pulls me closer with a
growl, stopping just before he would have pressed me entirely against him.
The dark, seething demand contained within his gaze is overshadowed
but the glow of his magic that has another shot of panic lighting up my
blood, and in the darkness of the tent, the bright current of magic
illuminating the Celestial blue of his eyes is unmistakable, poised on the
brink as it waits for the next chance to be let out.
I wait a heartbeat, though a thumping one, before I shake my head. “No
nightmares, only my concerns for you. How are you feeling?”
His expression barely changes; if we weren’t so closely confined within
the small tent, I probably would’ve missed it, but I’ve surprised him. The
air around us thickens, the Fates dancing wildly underneath my scars, but
my focus stays firmly on his condition and not the way his breathing is
slowly turning ragged. Despite my resolve, I lift my hands to cup his face
and watch as his eyes turn molten, the current of power flashing brighter
and washing over me in a caress.
It takes an unearthly strength to keep myself focused on the issue at
hand and not let myself be washed away by it, but he sees my battle, and a
smirk stretches over his lips. I’m struck dumb by his allure, pinned by the
heat of his gaze, and breathing suddenly becomes a difficult task.
“There’s nothing for you to be concerned with, croí,” he drawls, my
breath catching in my chest at the rasping tone and the longing that name
awakens in my chest.
I didn’t know this male was still capable of making such inviting
sounds, the memory of his lust-soaked demands through whispered through
our mind connection before I learned of my fate are still clutched closely to
my heart no matter how many years have passed. My thighs clench
instinctively, my whole body freezing in place in anticipation under his
gaze, and Reed’s sage warning to me flits back into my mind as, the truth
laid bare; I doubt if even the Fates could sway his attention from me right
now.
His gaze drops to the hollow of my throat, where my racing pulse must
surely be visible, and I break free of the spell his eyes put me under,
muttering a stern curse at myself. Taking a shaky breath, I press my fingers
to his temple, just as I did last night, and let a small pulse of my magic soak
into his skin. His magic swells up instinctively to meet it, to take it and
make it a part of his own stores. His eyes are still trained on my throat.
“Your magic⁠—”
My words are cut off by my gasp as his restraint snaps. With a growl, he
pulls me into his body and buries his face in the exposed skin of my neck,
then takes a deep lungful of my scent, like a priory-wolf. We’re both still
fully clothed, fur-lined cloaks wrapped around our bodies to stave off the
night’s frost, but the hard plains of his body are as distracting as I’m sure
his skin would be pressed against my own.
His arm moves to pillow my cheek as his body wraps around mine, his
other hand grasping my hip to tuck my body firmly into his. The moment he
has me draped along his chest, his thigh slides effortlessly between mine,
the pleats of my robes, designed for movement on the battlefields, perfectly
accommodating. A gasp wrenches from my lips at the ease with which he
moves, my own hands clutching at his shoulders as though desperately
clinging to a ledge as I’m swept away. His nose traces underneath my ear, a
careful action, and I swallow roughly around the arid wasteland he’s made
of my throat.
Another growl rolls through his chest gutturally, and my hands slide up
to his shoulders, the tension coiled and dangerous within the muscle stacked
there. No matter how slow and considered his movements are, he’s holding
himself in check with the very last of his restraint.
When his fingers trace the silver pin holding the bands of fabric
together at my hips, my magic swells in my chest, and his reaches out to me
as though called by it, the force of it rippling over my skin in a wave of
power. It’s a good feeling, a pleasurable one, but I freeze, and his head jerks
up to meet my gaze with a scowl before he glances at the opening of the
tent.
My gaze stays firmly trained on him, the only true danger we face.
“Soren, your magic has changed, and you're going to be a danger to us all if
you can't control it. I’ve seen cities torn apart by inexperienced fae who
held only a fraction of your power.”
I shift as though to move back—some distance from him would be
helpful to my senses—but his arms tighten and keep me in place. He
frowns. His scar makes the expression look angry, but I can read his mood
with far more precision now, and I know he’s concerned. My hands move to
press against his chest, my instinct to console him with my touch, and he
tugs me closer, though it’s impossible.
“My magic doesn't work, not unless the forest calls it out of me. It’s
always been… dormant.”
His throat flexes under my fingers as he speaks, and I find myself
absently rubbing my fingertips underneath his jawline, a soothing motion
for myself. “It won't be dormant anymore, Soren, you've woken it up, and
I'm not sure you understand how much power you have.”
He stares at me before the corner of his mouth tugs into a wry smile, the
arrogant edge to it making me want to scream, but not in the usual ways.
“I’m not afraid of my magic, croí, or learning to wield it. If there's enough
power between us to level the battlefield, we can wipe the dark stain of all
the Betrayers from our kingdom forever.”
 How easily the Betrayers slips from his lips, how straightforward the
conflict in our kingdom has become for him, now that he hears the song of
the forests in his heart, and my own clenches at the future he paints so
clearly. I was once quick to count victories, hopeful and naive, but the Fates
have never set a clear path for me. Nothing has ever come easy to my
Celestial prince either.
Soren’s gaze flicks down to my throat as I swallow again, his tone a
lust-soaked rasp. “Tell me how to control it, and I’ll do it. You have more
power than anyone I've ever known, and if I have so much power to
contain, there’s no better fae to instruct me.”
It isn’t a compliment but a statement of fact in his mind, and yet a blush
creeps over my cheeks. I hope his eyesight isn't as good as his hearing, but
then his fingers trace the heat lingering on my cheeks and as his eyebrows
quirk up.
I rush to distract him. “I had an entire childhood in the forest to learn
control, and still it took an extra decade in the Sol Army for me to become
effective in wielding magic beyond healing and shields. I’m not suggesting
you cast your magic, Soren, just learn to hold it in check, so the next time a
high-fae prince sparks your temper, you don’t tear down the castle around
us all.”
The bright glow of magic in his eyes flares, the tent lighting up in a
blue-stained blaze. “Mercer deserved to be bled out for how he spoke of
you—if we’re discussing control, then the fact that I didn’t cut him down
proves how much I have.”
I pointedly ignore the flutter in my belly at his words, my own control
thankfully iron-clad. “He said nothing worse than what I heard from you
and your own household, Soren. You can’t expect the fae folk to put aside
their prejudices easily just because you’re fated to me. If I held you all to
that standard, Yregar would be barren.”
His jaw clenches, and his words are considered when he finally replies.
“We weren’t all born with the Ravenswyrd creed in our hearts, and I have
no intention of allowing any fae, of any bloodline, to speak to you like that.
I’ve failed you, as I failed my kingdom, but I won’t fail you any longer. If
controlling my magic is as difficult and dangerous as you say, I’ll pour it
into the land until I can hold it in entirety without risk.”
As though listening, the leaves outside rustle in the breeze in an
approving sound, and a pressure builds in my chest so powerfully that I
force myself to steer the conversion another way. If I don’t, I might do
something stupid like kiss him, in a forest in the middle of a war-torn
kingdom without any guards or concerns for the consequences of our
impulses.
“High-fae magic is different to the magic witches wield. I can explain to
you what it feels like for me, but it could be completely different for you.
No matter how many high fae I’ve spoken to over the years, I’ve never
gotten a grasp of how your magic forms or how to cast it.”
I pause with a sigh, but when he only watches me with the same
intensity as he’d listened to the phrases in the goblin tongue, I continue. “I
work with my magic, but it doesn’t belong to me, I am simply a keeper of
it. Power moves through the land and my veins in a constant cycle of give
and take, an honoring of the land that gives us life”
He tilts his head, considering. “It makes perfect sense to me that you
can’t understand high-fae magic, with the selfless way you interact with
your own. My magic is mine, and the ripple that cast out at Mercer’s
insolence proves the power of a high fae is jealous, possessive, and self-
serving, and I’m no exception.”
I narrow my eyes at him, disbelieving. “Jealous? Of what?”
The molten look in his eyes burns into a searing, seething heat, the fury
there so familiar to me now that I have no reaction to it even as he speaks
through clenched teeth. “Many, many things. The idea of even my closest
friends and family looking at you fills me with a rage that ignites my
blood.”
Betrayer.
I jolt as the forest’s whisper breaks through the hazy quiet of the tent,
ice flooding my veins and the fury in Soren’s eyes deepening as he stares
back at me.
Betrayers, the forest whispers again, and Soren rolls us both deftly, his
body slotted perfectly against mine as he covers me completely like a
shield. His shoulders are twice the width of mine, his presence
overwhelming in the small confines of the tent now that he’s shifted back
into his preferred role of a warrior so brutal his own people labeled him
savage. My throat dries as his eyes shine brighter, electrifying like lightning
as he calls on his magic, even after my warnings.
When he curses, I push my own power deep into the earth for answers
only to find that high-fae soldiers have crossed the tree line.
IF I HADN'T FELT the sacrifice Soren gave to the forest or the magnitude
of power that revealed itself, I wouldn't be able to tell any difference in the
male by how he moves. We’re on our horses in under a minute, me using
my magic to store the tent in my holding space rather than wasting time
packing it up. The longest delay was the brief pause as I shoved my feet
into my boots, cursing myself under my breath for taking them off in the
first place.
Soren doesn't react, his face set into a foreboding scowl, but when he
clicks his tongue to get Nightspark moving he murmurs, “If you’re able to
conceal us without using up your magic, then cast now. The high fae are out
of my hearing, but they won’t be for long, and your safety is my greatest
concern. We’ll ride past them undetected.”
I nod, and a glow lights the trees around us from my eyes flashing as I
draw on my magic. The perimeter of magic that sheltered us as we slept
shimmers back around us as we set a brisk pace, but despite the large area it
covers, Soren rides firmly at my side as we let the forest guide us. He no
longer needs me to relay the trees’ instructions; their song is as loud in his
ears as mine, and as we make our way north through the heart of the forest,
the leaves rustle in our wake as though the trees shiver with rage.
The whispers of the Betrayers arriving wasn’t a warning. With every
step of the horses, the maelstrom of indignant fury grows, and even if I
weren’t a Favored Child and Soren hadn’t forged a blood oath with the old
powers that live amongst the trees, the song would still be a demand for
vengeance for the blood senselessly spilled here.
The terrain grows rocky as we get closer to Loche Mountain—named
for Hanede’s bloodline to honor their devotion and service to the Fates—
and Soren is forced to take the lead as the path narrows. He casts me a look
but doesn’t falter. As the path begins to cut into the mountain and a rock
wall towers over us, I watch as my Fates-blessed mate’s shoulders tighten
with every step forward, the other side of the path dropping away until a
valley of dense trees appears below. At first I think he shares my distaste for
heights, but then he slows Nightspark with a firm tug of the reins and tilts
his head slightly, a common tell for high fae as they listen to something out
of my hearing.
When Soren glances at my magical barrier, I nod to him. “It’s holding
well, no fae can see or hear us. Are we close?”
He doesn't answer for a moment, his head still tilted, but as he slows
Nightspark to walk the path before us, it gradually widens. The moment it’s
big enough, I move Northern Star to walk alongside Nightspark and find a
makeshift path cut perilously down into the valley that makes my gut
clench. Heights in the chaos of battle are one thing, but this is something
else entirely.
My unease is interrupted by Soren finally answering me. “My uncle’s
guards are here scouting. They’ve found a band of goblin soldiers, at least
two dozen. It's hard to count a large group, especially with goblins in their
numbers. They’re in the valley. No one has drawn weapons yet, but the
goblins aren’t backing down. The high fae don’t tolerate that sort of
contention.”
His comment about counting the fae throws me before I realize he can
hear their heartbeats, and one major physiological difference that separates
goblins from other fae folk is the extra chambers their hearts. As a healer,
it’s common knowledge for me, and it must be for high fae as well.
A frown tugs at Soren’s lips as he clicks his tongue and directs our
horses towards the descending path, another jolt of dread striking my gut
even as I watch him closely. Something else has caught his attention, and
whether it’s the conversation in the valley or some other danger
approaching, I can’t say, and I’m frustrated at my disadvantage. Halfway
down the path, our field of vision finally drops below the canopy of the
trees only to find least a hundred soldiers in a standoff, no weapons drawn
but clearly ready to shed blood.
From this distance I don't recognize any of the high fae, but Soren
clearly does, cursing under his breath. Surprise flares in my gut when I note
Prince Gage riding at the helm of the goblin soldiers. The supply wagons
will be beginning their journey back from the Western Fyres now and, while
he’s not bound to escort them to Yregar, he’s been vehement about checking
in with me and ensuring my safety. His willingness to begin conflict with
the high fae when such a tenuous beginning of an alliance has formed
between the Briarfrost and the true Celestial heir concerns me. It feels
reckless, and I’ve never suspected him to be that.
 “Fates fucking ashes,” Soren mutters under his breath, and a ripple of
irritation works itself down my spine that I can't hear what’s being said.
Soren watches the exchange rabidly, the cold demeanor he usually
wears now gone. I force myself to study the soldiers, though there’s only so
much I can assess without hearing them.
Gage calls out something, and ripple of outrage works through the high
fae soldiers, their hands slipping to rest more openly on their swords. My
breathing slows instinctively. I take a headcount and find sixty high fae to
forty goblin soldiers, and I know where my bets lie on this conflict, no bias
skewing my answer. The goblin soldiers haven't moved a single muscle,
poised in their saddles as they stare down the high-fae riding party before
them.
Soren casts me a chagrined look. “How long have you known that the
goblin soldier speaks the common tongue?”
I send him a wry smile back. “As long as I've known him, so only a few
months.”
He nods slowly, jaw moving as though he’s chewing on his words
before he spits them out. “And how long have you known that he’s King
Galen’s son?”
Inclining my head in a mirror of his actions. “From the moment I saw
the badge on his uniform that declared him a Briarfrost heir. His name is
Gage, though until he introduces himself to you properly, I’d suggest
adding a ‘prince’ before that.”
When silence greets my answer, I turn to see how angry he really is, but
it's only frustration tightening his lips. “He’s the first Briarfrost to enter the
gates of Yregar since the war broke out.”
I shrug. “His father trusted you enough to send him to Yregar, then
again with Thea. The path to peace is paved with sacrifices and strong
allies, and there’s no greater loyalty than one you’ve fought an entire
kingdom to claim.”
Soren looks at me, probably hearing the thread of emotion in my words,
the vehemence of my beliefs, before something in the clearing below
catches his attention again and his head inclines as he listens intently.
After another minute of silence, my patience wears thin. “What are they
saying?”
He blows out a breath as though he'd forgotten my limitations. “Prince
Gage is leading his soldiers to Yris and demanding an audience with the
regent. My uncle has been desperate to have the Goblin King on his side for
years, and his guards know better than to deny the prince, but they don't
want his soldiers going along as well.”
My gaze tugs back to Gage. Nothing about his stance suggests he’s
eager to interact with the high fae beyond spilling their blood. “I’d be very
surprised to find out the Briarfrost were going behind your back to the
regent.”
Soren stares down at the male for another heartbeat, his scar pulling at
his lip as he scowls. “Drop your magic.”
I hesitate, but his gaze back at me is steady. “I don't believe he would
either. King Galen allowed the supply wagons because of you, he sent his
son to Yregar to ensure your safety, and I’m keenly aware that their
loyalties hinge on you. It’s what initially drove me to begin to learn the
goblin tongue—allies who will protect you from the Unseelie Court without
question are far more valuable to me than those who bend to whichever
king strokes their ego. Something else has happened.”
He doesn’t wait for my answer, moving Nightspark forward, and I drop
my magic with a curse as I ride after him, trying not to look at the tenuous
state of the path we ride on. The moment my magic disappears, the high-fae
soldiers all look up as one, calls of surprise ringing out.
Gage moves only to hold up a fist, a silent command to his soliders to
hold their positions as he watches the high fae before him. He doesn’t look
at us until Soren and I reach the clearing, his gaze swinging to meet mine
first as he lifts a hand to press over his heart in respect and bows to me as
we approach. The high-fae soldiers mutter curses and vitriol at his defiance,
but Gage ignores them and turns to bow to Soren afterwards, drawing clear
lines of his allegiance.
Gage meets my eyes without faltering, switching to the goblin tongue.
“I know how this must look, Rooke, but I swear to you, my loyalty lies with
the Favored Child now as it always has.”
I bow back to him, the same as I always have, and though there’s some
relief in his eyes, it lasts only a second before he turns back to the high fae,
a vicious look appearing on his face when he finds them sneering at us both.
Any last traces of the warmth Soren showed me this morning are long
gone as he faces the high-fae soldiers, maneuvering until I’m positioned
between him and Gage. Carved from ice, he sits glowering on Nightspark
and stares down the soldiers. More than a few shift nervously under his
contemptuous glare. No matter how they might look down on him in their
arrogant games, being faced with the Savage Prince and his ire is not a fate
any wish to endure.
“Norok, I find you skulking around once again. Strange that you’re
never forced to draw your sword against those laying waste to the kingdom,
even without hearing the warnings of the trees. If I didn’t know better, I’d
suspect treason.”
Hiding my surprise, I realize the high-fae soldier smirking at Soren is
the one who stumbled across us during the fateful journey from Port Asmyr
to Yregar. “If anyone is guilty of treason, it’s you, Savage Prince. Rolling
around in the mud with a witch. I suppose you’re ready to bend for Kharl
and the rest of his stinking cunts.”
“With all my respects to you and the accords, Prince Soren, but if he
speaks another word like that about your Fates-blessed mate, I'm going to
commit war crimes. If the lieutenant at his side doesn’t take his eyes off the
Ravenswyrd Mother, I’ll bleed him out and let the forest feast on whatever
paltry power his blood can offer it,” Gage says before switching to the
goblin tongue to address me.
“I have no choice but to go to the regent, Rooke. Only the Fates
themselves could drag me before that male.”
The writhing of the Fates beneath my own scars isn’t necessary; he’s
chosen his words carefully but wisely, and I nod. “Threads are moving, and
the war grows before us. My feet are unfaltering on my own path. Soren
and I will aid you however we can.”
He shakes his head, his face stern and his tail lashing behind him
viciously. “There’s no aiding this journey. I go to Yris ready to die there.
Leave now, and I’ll kill these soldiers to keep the Unseelie Court from ever
knowing you were here.”
Norok stares Soren down, a taunting smirk on his lips as though daring
him to act, and my time for answers is quickly running out. “Tell me now,
Gage. Why go to Yris? With a tenth of a battalion under your command,
against that many high fae, are you prepared to die for the task at hand… or
hoping to?”
Gage glances over his shoulder at the goblins there waiting before he
chooses his words with care, masking even from them. “I’ve waited a long
time for the Favored Child to return, but time has run out and my own fate
is in danger. The regent is waging war against the true Celestial king and
those loyal to him. My mate will die at his hands for refusing to submit to
the false king.”

OceanofPDF.com
OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER NINETEEN

Soren
Betrayer, the forest whispers into my mind, kill the Betrayer.
Urgency sinks into my blood, more potent than the strongest fae elixir
until every heartbeat floods me with the need to avenge this forest and the
children taken from it. The seething frustration I’ve learned to live with has
come untethered inside me and none of these guards know they stand
before a very different prince. None of them can hear the forest’s demands
for retribution.
I push my magic back into the earth below, a ripple running through the
trees and rustling the leaves, but Rooke and Prince Gage don't look in my
direction as they murmur to each other in the goblin tongue. None of the
goblin soldiers react either, though I'm sure they all hear my oath to the
forest with their magic still alive and well.
No betrayer will escape me. All shall pay for the children lost.
Not just the children of the Brindlewyrd, but all the children in the
forests and the villages my kingdom. Every innocent life taken by blood-
lusting, power-hungry, arrogant, callous tyrants will be paid for in blood.
No death can undo the damage of those who began this war with little
regard for any of the fae folk who suffer for it, but for the Betrayers to live
freely while the forest mourns its children is unthinkable.
 Norok shifts uneasily in his saddle, glancing up at the canopy of trees
and then back down to me. “I suppose you feel at home in these places now
that you found one of those muddy creatures to fuck.”
Pulling my face into my usual cold smirk, I nudge Nightspark forward,
and silence takes over the clearing once more. No one else dares to move,
all eyes on me as I strike a leisurely pace over to my uncle’s guard. As
dread thickens the air, I wonder how many of them are truly loyal to my
uncle and how many are just going along with his plans in their own
desperate search for power.
I wait until Nightspark stands alongside Norok’s horse, teeth snapping
violently in its direction, before my smirk takes on a derisive edge. "I think
it's important to set the right precedent, Norok, and I thank the Fates for
sending me my mate exactly how she is, especially when I finally have the
opportunity— no, the responsibility— to ensure her safety and protect her
reputation in the Unseelie Court.”
Norok scoffs under his breath. “The reputation of a witch? There’s no
such thing⁠—“
He's cut off by my sword, his eyes widening a fraction before I cleave
his head from his shoulders, a seamless action of drawing my sword and
swinging it that only the most seasoned soldier could attempt to evade, and
Norok certainly wasn’t that.
The gasps and shouts of horror almost drown out the thud of his head as
it hits the forest floor, the warmth of his blood spraying me. His body stays
rigid in the saddle as the muscles reflexively clench and hold him still but,
after a moment, the rest of his corpse follows his head to the ground. The
mosses and fallen logs are stained with his blood as it gushes out, the last
sounds of his heartbeat peter out in my ears, and the forest consumes his
blood.
Somewhere in the depths of the darkness behind us, a rumble of
approval breaks the goblin soldiers out of their stunned stupor, three of
those standing in the front line jerking their horses forward instinctively. A
garbled command rings out, but I'm already moving Nightspark forward,
my sword tight in my hand and the forest thrumming in my ears as it pushes
me forward and I hack my way through their numbers.
Take from them, leave their blood behind, the Betrayers who stole from
us.
 None of the high fae soldiers here were amongst the group that rode
with my uncle that blood-soaked day, but they and their brothers, cousins,
and friends all share the same beliefs and callous nature of the Betrayers.
These guards wouldn’t question the orders of the regent, even to slaughter
innocent children.
The goblin soldiers hold their line as the high fae group splinters in two;
those who draw their weapons against me, and those who intend to run.
They don’t get far as magic hums through the air. When their beasts refuse
to move forward, one of the fleeing guards slides from his saddle only to
slam into Rooke’s wall of magic.
When only twenty soldiers remain, I pause to look around at those left
cowering at the edges, staring in horror at their fellow soldiers lying in
pieces around them, their blood covering me and my sword is still in my
hand. I'm sure the worst of their nightmares is painted on my face.
The goblin language is murmured behind me, and then, like a gift from
the Fates, Rooke's voice comes through our mind connection as the wall she
built between us comes down properly after almost two hundred years. This
will only make it more difficult to go into Yris and find Gage’s mate. Do you
have a plan, Soren, or has the forest taken over your senses?
It’s her soldier’s tone, no scorn in it; she’s making her assessment and
ready to form a battle plan. I want to kill Norok all over again for speaking
of her in such a disgusting way, and when I turn Nightspark to walk back to
her, satisfaction floods me at the sound of his bones crunching under the
horse’s hooves. The high-fae soldier might be unable to feel it, but it’s
satisfying to treat him with such contempt even in death.
“The regent has already declared war against us, but I won’t leave any
allies behind. My uncle might be disloyal, but it’s not a Celestial trait.”
I’ll protect Prince Gage’s Fates-blessed mate from any of the soldiers
hearing, but they both hear my statement for what it is, and Prince Gage
bows his head to me, deeper than ever before. I know well the agony of
being kept from my mate. If there were ever a time to prove myself to the
goblin king and his heirs, then this is it.
Rooke looks between the two of us and then to the cowering high fae
soldiers ahead, her eyes apathetic as they briefly flick over the carnage
wrought by my hand. Then she murmurs a prayer to the forest in the old
language, an offering of the blood on my behalf and promises of the
Favored Child. As one, the goblin soldiers bow their heads in reverence to
her words, but Prince Gage doesn't censure them. Instead, he watches her
with that same look that drove me insane at Yregar but that I see clearly for
what it is now.
Awe; total reverence to be in the presence of a Favored Child. I wonder
if Rooke knew I'd learn exactly what it means to be a witch of the
Ravenswyrd Forest so soon after her warnings.
Watching the soldiers carefully, I send to Rooke, When Prince Gage’s
title is revealed to the regent, my uncle won't risk starting a war with King
Galen by denying him access to Yris or killing him, but he won’t let a band
of goblin soldiers in so easily. If his mate is in imminent danger then it’s
best to send them back to the goblin lands.
She gives me a curt nod and then speaks to Prince Gage, a few of more
of their words making sense to me. He meets my gaze to bow his head
again before calling out commands, and the soldiers move seamlessly. The
horses of the slain guards are easily rounded up, and the goblin soldiers
each take a set of reins to lead them out of the Brindlewyrd, calm even as
their rider’s blood seeps back into the earth.
Gage smirks at me as he gestures to them. “It's not theft from the
Celestial crown if the true heir gifts them to us.”
I scoff back. “I doubt the regent will agree.”
His smirk turns vicious, a baring of sharp teeth. “He can take it up with
my father.”
With a chuckle, I turn back to the soldiers left alive and enjoy the horror
on their faces at our exchange. “You’ve proved yourselves too spineless to
die with your comrades but still traitorous to the true Celestial line. The
greatest punishment any of you could have would be to return to Yris to
explain yourselves to your false regent and see what mercies the male
you've chosen gives you. March on.”
Rooke’s magic disappears, and the soldiers scramble to move back into
formation, far too many trembling hands between them. Pathetic and
frustrating, to know that fracture lines like this run through every formation
of my uncle’s guards, but their numbers have grown unwieldy, just like
Kharl Balzog’s raving masses.
Ignoring their terrified looks, I move Nightspark to take the lead. The
path to the fae door is easy to find with the mountain ahead, and the trees
murmur as the forest consumes the sacrifice, their song still a call for
vengeance, but my actions have appeased them. I pause to wait for Rooke
to join me. At her hesitation, I cast a look over my shoulder and find the
goblin prince frowning at her as well.
She speaks in the common tongue, no sense in masking her words. “I
don't trust any of these soldiers to ride at our backs without one of us
finding a blade thrust between our shoulders.”
Prince Gage makes an indignant noise. “Then I will ride at the back,
Rooke, there’s no way in this Fates-blessed land that you would ride at the
rear. Honestly, it’s though you think Prince Soren and I were raised by
selkie sprites or something!”
Humor laces his words, no matter how much truth he instills in them,
and the soldiers all watch him warily as his horse trots to the back with little
more than a nudge of his knee. A Briarfrost heir amongst them, he might as
well be a dragon for how wary they all are now. The Goblin King has
always been a fearsome prospect, his armies larger and better trained than
any under the regent’s command, and the Unseelie Court has never had any
knowledge of his family. His son could be a very dangerous foe.
Rooke huffs under her breath, ignoring my raised eyebrow until finally,
with another huff, she clicks her tongue and Northern Star comes to travel
beside me. The sound of horse hooves digging into the hardened earth
echoes around the trees but not a single high-fae soldier dares to murmur a
word, and Rooke keeps our conversation minimal and concealed,
satisfaction lighting up my blood at the return of her voice in my mind.
You understand more of the Unseelie Court than I could ever hope to
grasp. I’ll default to you in Yris, and I’ll only act without communicating
with you first if my hand is forced.
Warmth blooms in my chest, a mirror of the warmth of her body against
mine in the tent as I finally held her in my arms. The scant few inches of her
skin pressed against mine had curses littering my mind, fury at many layers
there were between us.
I don't care what you do in Yris, who you insult or murder. I couldn’t
care less about any of that, just so long as you survive and we get out of
there. Your safety means more to me than every bloodline in the court
combined.
It would be easy to pass off such a thing as the Fates command and not
my own conviction, but the look I give Rooke leaves nothing in question.
She holds my eyes with her own, unflinching and open just as she had been
after her nightmare. A thousand conversations pass between us unspoken
before finally she blinks and nods, as though a solemn oath has formed
between us.
If you're open to my help, I have a few suggestions… I can't leave this
connection open, but if you need me, you can push against it, as you have
before.
My gut clenches at the rejection, no matter her offer of compromise. I
longed for her voice for two centuries, mourned the loss of it like a grievous
death, and I’d rather face the Unseelie Court weaponless and all at once
than lose it again.
Hands tightening on the reins, I force my tone into something that
resembles civility. Why won't you leave it open?
She glances up the sun breaking through the foliage above us, as though
avoiding my eyes. The trees have begun to thin out, and the deadened
farming plains roll out to the east while Loche Mountain looms before us.
The fae door there is the fastest way to Yris, and only a short ride away.
The Ureen damaged far more than just my body and there are many,
many monsters that live within my mind. I have no intention of inflicting
them upon you. One of us grappling with them is taxing enough.
The wall begins to slowly build back up between us, and I curse under
my breath that we're surrounded by high-fae soldiers, that we ride to my
uncle, that I don't have the chance to argue with her to demand she lay those
monsters out between us so I can face them with her and destroy them for
daring to stalk my Fates-blessed mate.
When we return to Yregar, you’ll open it. When we have the protection
of our home and household again, you’ll give me those monsters to carry
with you.
She doesn’t react, and the wall between us becomes firm.
We push on to the fae door and our awaiting fate, the farewell of the
forest sweet in my mind as it consumes the Betrayers left behind in pieces
as sacrifices to the old powers here.

STEPPING through the fae door is far easier now that I’ve felt the power
of the Brindlewyrd Forest pulling me into old memories. No matter what
royal protocol dictates, I step through the fae door first and risk taking an
ambush rather than sending my Fates-blessed mate ahead of me. Rooke
doesn't question me, and when I meet Prince Gage’s eyes, he nods back
solemnly.
As my vision clears, the immeasurable outer wall of Yris appears before
me, and I find hundreds of my uncle's guards armed to the teeth waiting for
us, the regent’s spies as adept as ever. My jaw clenches at the sight of my
cousin Ayron, who leads them. His uniform is the slightly off-blue they all
wear as an insult to my claim to the throne, a proud declaration of their
allegiance for all who lay eyes on them. They don’t react to me, not even as
I move closer, and after only seconds, Rooke appears behind me.
They react to her, a ripple of disgust and sneering working through their
numbers that she ignores as she urges Northern Star to my side.
One by one, the guards who survived my anger are marched through on
Prince Gage’s orders. Even twenty-to-one, they don't put up a fight, and we
stand in a silent stalemate. A thousand guards stare indignantly at us until
Prince Gage finally steps through on his horse, no reaction at the army
before us as his horse maneuvers deftly to flank Rooke’s other side.
He speaks in the goblin tongue slowly, choosing simple words so I
understand his meaning. “It appears someone in Yris still speaks to the
trees.”
Ayron moves his horse forward, his eyes shining with victory, and he
speaks in an arrogant drawl. “We heard the terrible news, cousin, I can
barely believe it. Surely you didn’t commit treason and attack the…regent’s
guards?”
He pauses over the regent’s title, a taunt to provoke me. I'm keenly
aware they use the title king’s guards in Yris, although never in my
presence. But my uncle isn’t the only one with spies.
I look at each of them, the small band who lead the rest the confidence
in asthmatics as they stare at us grating.
“It’s not an act of treason to defend my Fates-blessed mate. Even bought
and paid for as it is, the Unseelie Court can’t argue that. Either they agree
the law is upheld, or the court descends into chaos.”
Ayron chuckles under his breath, the soldiers surrounding him all doing
the same, and it rankles me how relaxed they all are. Whether or not they
see us as a danger, they’re supposed to be the kingdom’s defenders, the
power of the Unseelie Court, but Ayron sits far too comfortably in his
saddle for me to ever think of him as powerful. His horse ducks its head
down to fuss at the grass like the spoiled creature it is, clearly not bred for
war, and he doesn’t spare it a glance.
“I suppose you’re here to plead your case to the regent? I warn you,
cousin, you won't find many sympathetic ears. Everyone knows your
temper well, and bringing your pet witch here to demand we put it on the
throne… well, you’re losing supporters by the hour.”
Prince Gage cocks his head, staring around at the soldiers before he
speaks in the goblin tongue again. I can make out a few of the words, but
not enough to be sure of his meaning, only that he's unhappy with the way
that they're speaking about my Fates-blessed mate. Rooke sits in her saddle,
her heartbeat steady and her gaze unwavering, but I see the way it moves
across the soldiers. Meeting my eyes with her mouth tight, the assessment
she makes is close to mine. If their numbers were not so great, we would
decimate them, but to fight against a thousand high fae soldiers without
desperate cause risks more than just our own lives.
Ayron’s lip curls in Prince Gage’s direction, disgust dripping from him
just as thick as his feelings for Rooke. “If you sold yourself out to the
Goblin King, you'd think he'd give you more than a single soldier. No help
to you here.”
One of the soldiers we dragged back here finally grows a spine and calls
out. “This is Prince Gage, the goblin king's son. He wants an audience with
the regent.”
Ayron stares at us for a moment, then looks at Prince Gage a little more
closely now that his bloodline has been revealed. “I heard a rumor that one
of the soldiers pants after your Fates-blessed mate. Do you share her? Is
that how you bought the Goblin King’s loyalty, by passing around your
witch?”
Whether she's sick of being spoken about like a piece of meat or trying
to avoid the bloodshed the last male sparked by referring to her in that
manner, Rooke tilts her head at the wall looming before us, the city beyond
concealed entirely.
“The Fates wait on us, and I have no intention of standing here idly
while you pile wood onto your own funeral pyre. Either escort us to an
audience with the regent, or move so we can make the journey alone. The
ashes know how little I care which you choose, but do so now.”
 It's a beautiful thing, watching the irreverence she throws at him with
contempt on her face. Shock ripples through Ayron’s expression and
quickly melts into rage, a sneer curling his lip until his face is a grotesque
mask. He digs his heel into his horse until the beast steps closer to Northern
Star, Nightspark snapping his teeth and bringing them to a halt before I can
decide to kill the male.
His voice is shrill as he screams at her. “No filthy forest-born fuck
commands me! No matter what the Fates have promised you, no crown
placed on your head can change the hut your mother spat you out in or the
weakness of you blood. You should ask this part-blood what happened
when his great grandfather tried to bring a goblin into the court, panting
after her just because the Fates commanded their union. Hundreds of
thousands died because he bred with it and wanted to give the little
creatures his titles. Now the Briarfrost bloodline is all but gone, watered
down because he was weak.”
Gage doesn’t react, as immovable in his saddle as his soldiers had been,
and that keeps my temper under control. I might not understand exactly
what it means to be the Ravenswyrd Mother or a Favored Child, but my
croí holds knowledge the Unseelie Court could never dream of, and she was
unerring in her support of the goblin prince. Earning the loyalty of a male
unaffected by this arrogantly baseless pageantry, even when its barbs are
carved to dig into his flesh alone, is well worth the trip to Yris. The fact that
Gage is so quick to come to Rooke’s defense, no matter which fae is
threatening her, eases the task of stepping into the castle I’d rather never lay
eyes on again.
Looking around slowly, her chin never lowering for a second, Rooke’s
more beautiful and noble than any high-fae princess I’ve ever encountered.
“The respect I hold for my Fates-blessed mate grows tenfold with every
word out of your mouth. To think he’s spent centuries dealing with this… I
wouldn’t last a week listening to such childish whining from weak males
begging for my ire just to feel important.”
Ayron’s face slackens, and fury-fueled crimson climbs further up his
neck as he sputters. A slow smile stretches across Rooke’s lips, as she
watches him flounder. “A male who plays pretend on a throne can’t hold
sovereignty over me, no matter his bloodline or how many royals are
willing to side with him. If you’re continuing this pointless drivel to find us
in contempt of your regent, then take my words to him. Just know that I
submit to no one but the Fates, and even they were unable to best me.”
At her words, a ripple of unease moves through the guards, and I feel it
as well but due only to the way she paints the target on herself, deflecting
their blows from Gage and me. Her censure is a greater weapon than any I
could wield, their indignation igniting easily at her irreverent nature. Gage
rolls his shoulders back, the first movement he’s made and a calculated one,
gazes shifting to him and seeing how effortlessly he’s prepared himself to
fight at her side. My own glare at Ayron hasn’t faltered, and the male
figures out that we’re not afraid of him—that his intimidation tactics are
only fueling the burning fury within.
“I’ll be the first to spit on your corpse, cousin. Hopefully, your dear
uncle Solas kills you the moment you set foot before the throne to face him
and this farce will finally end,” he mutters, low enough that Rooke won’t
hear it, but the slight catch in Gage’s breathing says he certainly does.
Ayron lifts a hand, and the guards move into formation, the twenty
males who survived my bloodshed melting into the battalion as it moves to
surround us. Riding this close, I’m able to pick out more familiar faces, and
I move closer to Rooke instinctively. Despite my derision, there are dozens
of males within the ranks who are skilled with their swords, and Ayron is
smart enough to place them alongside my Fates-blessed mate in warning.
Prince Gage murmurs again, his voice vibrating with a rage that crosses
the language divide, and Rooke shrugs as she answers him. He’s unhappy
with her answer and moves closer to her, his leg brushing hers with every
stride. She doesn’t react at first, but as the tension around us grows, she
murmurs to him again, glancing over at me.
When the goblin prince glances to me, I speak plainly to him,
unconcerned with the thousand high-fae ears listening. “By the conditions
signed within them, any who dare an attempt to harm Rooke forfeit their
protections under the accords, and your defense of my Fates-blessed mate
no matter the consequences speaks volumes of the Briarfrost bloodline.
King Galen and Queen Khya are clearly far more adept at rearing sons than
any royals or nobles of Yris.”
Some of the regent’s guard are visibly deterred by my warning, while
others light up as though challenged. The goblin prince stares back at them,
a taunting edge to his gaze that says he’s prepared for whatever lies ahead.
OceanofPDF.com
OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER TWENTY

Rooke
My heart flutters and my stomach is a tumultuous mess as the gates of Yris
open to reveal the fabled high-fae city. My breath catches in my chest, the
gasp soundless to me, but Soren’s eyes flick briefly in my direction as
though he’s checking for a wound. Gage stays by my side, seeming
unaffected by the sight, and he ignores the ire rolling from Soren at his
proximity to me. How they can both act this way without regard for the
beauty of the city is beyond me—my mind has been rendered useless by
Yris.
My father often described the sprawling cities of the Southern Lands,
and the magnificent castles at the center of them, to me and my siblings as
we grew up. He described their transcendental beauty with such detail it
was hard to believe his time traveling was centuries prior, a testament to
how deeply their visage was etched into his memory. Though many of his
descriptions were difficult for me to grasp, a little Witch of the Woods
who’d never left my beloved forest, he wove his tales with such skill that
part of me always longed to see those castles carved out of unforgiving
stone, balanced on edges of cliffs in ways that defied the order of nature,
and filled with high fae of unspeakable beauty.
 Almost two hundred years in the Northern Lands, and yet I never saw a
Seelie city in its full glory. Pemba and I arrived at the ports to find Sol City
overrun with fae folk fleeing the Ureen attacking in the northern territories.
The south marketplace was almost impossible to walk through on your
own, and soldiers lined the path from the docks to the Golden Palace, a
necessity to move imported supplies. The palace itself was always
overflowing, with millions of fae folk from every kingdom answering the
call of the Sol King in his most desperate hour and joining the Sol Army.
No matter how many battalions were deployed, it was common for soldiers
to be forced to sleep in the castle’s entry hall, beds stacked closely together
and no privacy.
Every city my battalion was deployed to had already fallen victim to the
chaotic ruin of the Fate’s monsters when we arrived; buildings shattered,
bodies strewn everywhere, all the ancient glory of the First Fae’s legacies
blown apart by the consuming those beasts did. Immeasurable death and
destruction, there was no beauty to be found and never the disposition to
find it. The Golden Palace itself was partially destroyed in the final battle,
and an entire section of the outer city wall was reduced to rubble. By the
time I left to seek out my fate, repairs were underway to restore the majesty
that once existed there.
Staring upon the beauty of what the First Fae built for the Unseelie
Court and the fae folk who followed them here, there's no sign that a blood-
soaked war has waged in this kingdom for over a thousand years. The
cobblestones leading into the city show no signs of wear, no weeds grow
through the cracks between each cut stone, but the grass on either side is
green and lush. Trees line the path, swaying gently in the breeze, and
though there’s a chill in the air, it’s clear winter hasn’t yet taken hold this
far north.
Like Yrell, houses are built all the way to the wall, but that’s the only
comparison I can draw. Marble and white stone form the walls, slate tiles
top the roofs, and large oak doors grace every building, no luxury spared for
the inhabitants even so far from the castle itself. Every window is lined with
boxes filled with fae flowers, and the front gardens are overflowing with
abundance, fenced neatly in that orderly way the high fae covet. Though the
rows of houses are dense, the streets are immaculate as far as I can see, and
fae folk go about their business, unfazed by the gates opening and the
soldiers arriving.
 This place is untouched by the devastation of the rest of the kingdom.
Ayron barks out an order, his voice harsh in the face of such splendor,
and the sun seems to shine brighter on us all as the horses walk forward. As
if heeding his call, the city folk move off the streets with their eyes cast
downward, but they're not afraid, not in the way they have been everywhere
else. Hope blooms in my chest, hope that this is the future of the Southern
Lands when Soren is crowned and Kharl Balzog’s war is put to an end. This
is the peace and beauty that all fae folk deserve, the dignity of a quiet life
without pain and wanton violence, the driving force that compelled me to
seek out my fate.
The moment Northern Star passes through the gates, the illusion
shatters.
My breath is no longer caught in my chest, but trapped there, my hand
rising to claw at my throat as panic floods my veins. The brightness of the
sun’s reflection on the idyllic houses blurs until all I can see is the star-burst
brightness of air deprivation, my skin crawling as it stretches over my bones
too tightly, and the next gasp is audible to all those around me no matter
their bloodlines.
There’s no visible change, but my magic is screaming within me,
begging me to escape this vile aberration I have no words for. My heart
thumps loudly in my ears, and another wave of panic washes over me. I’m
defenseless against its ferocity. My hand drops from my throat to claw at
my chest, my fingers scrabbling against the fabric there. When one of my
fingers catches on a silver pin, the end slashes the tip, and blood runs from
the small gash but it’s the pinprick of pain that breaks through the panic of
my mind.
The cold arrogance of the regent's guards as we walk through the eerie
streets is abhorrent, preening in their saddles as the city watches them pass
with hollow stares. They sneak glances in my direction as though they can’t
see the panic consuming me, too intent on gloating about the beauty
surrounding us while the rest of the kingdom slowly decays. The Southern
Lands decays because it has life. This has nothing. I feel lightheaded in my
seat, panic fluttering in my chest once more. Stars burst before my eyes,
and my fingers flex on the reins as I try to feel the leather and center
myself, but I'm numb.
When I feel his presence pressing against the wall in my mind, I turn to
Soren, the careful act we’ve put on around the regent’s guards forgotten,
only to find him stoic in his saddle. He doesn't react, not to the abhorrent
scene around us or the panic that spills through to him the moment I ease
the wall down for him. His only action is the careful grip he has on his reins
as he uses Nightspark to corral Northern Star, ensuring she’ll ride on
without faltering at my breakdown and I’m humbled by his ability to hide
his horror, clear through our connection though he holds it back from me.
I let out a shaking breath, too rattled to be frustrated at myself for
showing such weakness around the battalion escorting us, and when I ease
the wall down, Soren’s voice floods my mind. Take a deep breath, the
feeling will pass.
Impossible, there’s no growing accustomed to this. Who has cast this
evil, Soren?
He still doesn’t react, but my hands steady from a shake to a fine
tremble with carefully measured breaths as he continues, All the evil in this
kingdom leads back to the regent and Kharl Balzog. No doubt my uncle has
wrought this.
He retreats, but I keep the connection open, drawing strength from his
calm presence where mine has been thrown beyond its limits. Panic
continues to ebb and flow within me as we ride deeper into the confines of
the walled city, pressure building until I’m sure I’ll be crushed by it. Every
tree my eyes land upon is an assault, sunlight catching on leaves that dance
in the wind, but they're hollow, empty, they’re nothing.
When we reach a marketplace, the fae folk all stop and bow to the
passing procession, grotesque smiles stretching their lips as their eyes stay
unblinking on the cobblestones at their feet. They're living but dead— their
hearts beat in their chests, but they’re empty; no life, no magic, no spirit,
nothing. I’ve never heard a whisper of a curse that could do this, the magic
unfathomable to me, and my mind sharpens as I focus on that instead of the
trembling of my hands.
When he sees I’ve regained some wits, Gage murmurs to me in the
goblin tongue, his voice hoarse, “No wonder they all follow the false king.
You’d have to be as deranged as a Betrayer to endure this, and they've all
lost their minds.”
The cadence of the goblin tongue hides the scorn and derision there
from those unaccustomed to the language, but I hear it, and the thread of his
own panic. He holds on to his sanity as tenuously as I do.
 Soren casts me a look, and when I translate for him through our mind
connection his reply fills me with dread. The castle is the same, but the high
fae who live here have forgotten their magic. It’s never felt this… bleak to
me before.
I’m almost jealous of how easy it seems to be for my Fates-blessed mate
to hold his composure while I’m thrown into chaos, scrambling for sanity.
My magic hums in protest in my chest, and I let it out to flood my limbs
and steel me once more. Northern Star huffs, just as spooked as I am but
trained to follow Nightspark regardless, thankfully, or the consequences to
my panic would surely be greater.
We endure hours of this torture, the roads seemingly endless before
finally there’s a break in the row of houses and the rushing sound in my ears
proves to be more than just my pulse. A rock wall appears as if from
nowhere with a large waterfall cashing into a lake at the base, the
tumultuous cadence drowning out the last sounds of the horses' hooves
against the cobblestones as we veer from the road onto the earthen path
around the lake. The waterfall flows steadily into the lake on the far side,
but the edge we ride toward is like glass, a thousand shades of jade and
turquoise dancing across the expanse as the sun shines on it.
The trees growing along the water’s edge are lush and green, fae
flowers sitting stark white against their brindled trunks, and my stomach
swoops at the anomaly of them growing there. No matter the grievous
patterns the patches of those sacred flowers bloomed within the
Ravenswyrd forest, they comforted me with their presence. No fae flower
should grow where magic has been violated like this, the gentle sway of
their stalks like an omen.
The sheer breadth of the rock wall is magnificent, the peak obscured by
the clouds it plunges through easily, and it’s only when the guards step onto
the ledge cut into the base of the rock wall that I realize the path we’re on.
Bile creeps up my throat as the water laps at the horses' legs and my heart
falls into an unsteady rhythm as the first of the guards pass underneath the
waterfall.
When the path narrows, we’re forced to ride single file across the
perilous ledge. Soren directs Nightspark to take the lead while Gage falls
into line behind me without either of them uttering a word, our horses never
faltering to wade through the water. The ends of my robes dip into the lake
and grow heavy as Northern Star pushes forward and ducks behind the
curtain of water at the last moment as the path hooks sharply around into a
tunnel roughly carved into the stone.
Blinking against the plunge into darkness, my chest tightens at the mass
of high fae wedged into the confined space, but the guards push forward
regardless. The torches hanging sporadically from the walls burn without
smoke, the flames blue at the center but shifting to a bright silver at the
flickering edges that barely illuminate the tunnel. There’s magic here, a
whisper running through my blood as my own power calls out to it, but the
dampening effects of the cursed state of Yris still churns in my gut, even
when the cramped tunnel opens suddenly into a large cavern.
After the ride through the roughly carved space, finding an exquisitely
carved marble arch with heavily armed high fae standing guard is jarring.
Larger torches are lit over the two pillars of marble connected with a silver-
marled arch, intricate carvings of runes and an inscription in the old
language proudly declaring this fae door a creation of the Celestial
bloodline. Sapphires set into the stone, the design a record of constellations
in the winter sky, some the size of my fist, and they cast ribbons of blue
light reflected from the torches burning above. The same crest proudly
displayed on Soren’s cloak is etched into each of the pillars and sealed with
silver, no mistaking that the First Fae are responsible for this breathtaking
feat of power.
The murmurs of the guards behind us are little more than gravel in my
ears but, as Nightspark steps closer to Northern Star, Soren’s shoulders
straighten in a subtle shift unmistakable to any capable soldier. Gage’s do
the same, one hand lying casually on the pommel of his sword while the
other strokes his horse’s neck soothingly. When we’re pushed forward once
again, he uses his knees to steer the piebald mare.
“No point holding off forever, cousin. Your uncle has already heard of
your wanton violence and is most anxious to have this entire mess dealt
with,” Ayron states with a curled lip.
His gaze carefully traces over me again, seeming to search for a weak
point, somewhere to carve me open and bleed me out, but I stare back at
him with cold fury. The carefully blank mask I usually favor is out of my
reach, and Soren’s face is more thunderous than ever as Nightspark takes a
single step forward, the crack of his iron-shod hoof against the cavern’s
stone ringing in my ears painfully. Ayron doesn’t falter at the threat,
confident his bloodline or position within the regent’s ranks will keep him
alive.
Is he really your cousin? The only other royals who claim such close
ties with you are those in your household. Or is this some sort of high-fae
taunt I’ve never heard of?
Even staring the male down, Soren answers. He’s my mother’s cousin
and the reason Aura has survived countless infractions against Airlie and I.
Thanks to the Unseelie Court laws of succession, this is the male heir to
Aura’s seat on the court.
More reason to loathe the male. The soldiers standing guard at the fae
door all bow to Ayron as he rides ahead and disappears through the arch, the
sapphires flashing brightly but no sound to be heard. The rest of his
battalion move in a clear formation of ranks, and the soldiers behind us
push us forward until we're forced to step through as well.
This fae door goes only into the castle, no need to push the magic to a
certain destination, Soren says finally, glancing at me.
I nod back and, without another word, Soren steps up to the fae door
and clicks to Nightspark under his tongue. The horse snaps at the one of
guards as they pass, and the male flinches back. My gaze never lowers as
Northern Star steps up, far more subdued than her usual demeanor, and we
step through the fae door. Despite the drastic difference in structure, the
magic works the same as the others; pressing, sucking, swirling pressure
that tests every inch of my sanity before finally, the world sharpens before
my eyes with a jarring clarity while my head spins dangerously.
It takes me a few rattling gasps to acclimate to being this far above the
clouds. The air is thinner, freezing my lungs with every breath, and I hear
Gage taking the same gulping breaths behind me. Both of us are children of
the forests, his goblin blood demanding his feet stay firmly planted on
stable ground and not up here on the cliffs so high they seem to laugh at the
Fates even as they reach out to them. The mist lying on the stone before us
is a taunt, a stark declaration that the clouds envelop this mystic castle that
defies reason.
Soren is eerily quiet, and as Northern Star comes to a stop at his side, I
glance over only to find him staring at the castle walls before us. His
expression is completely shut down, his mind blank through the connection,
a void as gut-wrenching as the city now below us had been.
 For a moment, panic floods me, sure the vile magic has somehow dug
its claws into him as well and whatever the regent has done to the fae folk
down in that city, he’s cast on Soren. Without his full stores of magic, he's
far easier prey, but then I hear Gage curse in the goblin tongue next to me
with a thread of desperation in his tone that startles me. My gaze snaps
away from Soren but, before it gets to Gage, I see exactly what caught their
attention while mine was focused inward.
My blood turns to ice.
Yris’s castle looks exactly as my father once described, utterly
breathtaking. With walls of pure white marble, veins of silver running
through, it shines in the bright winter sun like a solstice moon. The stone
walls are stacked in layers on top of one another with turrets and battlement
dividing them, dozens of stories climbing even higher into the sky until
there’s no chance of seeing the top level. Huge silver shields are fixed into
the wall before us over the archway into the building, each larger than the
tallest tree of the Ravenswyrd and bearing the crests of the Unseelie high-
fae royal bloodlines that stretch back to the First Fae themselves: Mistheart,
Snowsong, Briarfrost, and Celestial. The sheer, monumental scale of the
castle is unfathomable to me, as are the thousands of high fae milling
around in the courtyard as though nothing is wrong here.
The mist makes it difficult to see the pools of blood that cover the white
stone path at first, but it can’t hide the bodies. Hundreds of dead fae folk
hang from the first row of turrets, some beaten but whole while others have
been torn to pieces with hooks piercing through the flesh to display the
grisly results, their blood running down the marble and staining the water
we stand in with their senseless murders.
Ayron smirks over his shoulder as he drawls, “Welcome back to Yris,
Prince Soren.”

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 PART TWO

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OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Soren
Almost a thousand years have passed since my parents were brutally
murdered along with their entire household and, during that time, I've
returned to Yris only twice. Both times were at my uncle's command, a
wielding of the power he’s desperate to retain as he plays his devious
games, and it was only ever the threat of violence and death to my
household that could drag me back here.
Staring up at the gruesome symbol of my uncle’s tyranny, I take in the
senseless bloodshed that appears to have become routine for the kingdom's
most revered castle. Built by the unfathomable power of the First Fae on
top of the largest mountain in the Southern Lands, the castle looms amongst
the clouds. The sun reflects off the white marble walls and catches on the
silver shields inlaid with sapphires proudly bearing the royal family crests;
the Mistheart, the Snowsong, the Briarfrost, and the Celestial who rule over
them all. It’s truly a sight to behold, the rumors of its’ majestic beauty so
great that the other high fae courts sneer jealously at its’ mention, and yet
none of that matters as hundreds of fae folk hang from the walls in
gruesome pieces.
We’re forced to remain at the entrance facing the horrifying statement
while the last of the soldiers pass through the fae door behind us. Gage’s
face is hiding none of the killing rage taking over the goblin prince, and
when he growls something to Rooke I’m forced to intervene.
“There are those amongst Yris who speak the goblin tongue—ladies in
waiting, servants, and maids. Their loyalty is to the households they serve,
without hesitation, or else their own bloodlines are forfeit.”
Gage doesn't turn to look at me as he nods curtly, his gaze still fixed on
the bodies, and after a brief pause, Rooke’s voice sounds in my mind.
He said this was what drove him here, only that, so his mate hasn’t been
risked by his words. She isn't up there—I’d wager it was the strength of her
terror and grief at this that she couldn’t hide from him.
A weight settles in my chest at her knowing tone; she couldn’t hide the
pain and terror of her coven’s murder from me, either. Images flood my
mind unbidden, fae flowers growing deep in the Ravenswyrd Forest that
mark each of the fallen witches there, dark stain of blood on wood slats
where the baby murdered was in his mother's arms, acts of bloodshed and
horror that broke my Fates-blessed mate and reformed her into the witch
here with me now.
Kharl Balzog thought to thwart the will of the Fates but he only
succeeding in securing it by forcing a Favored Child from her forest—
words that meant nothing to me only a few short months ago, and yet now
I’m certain that my kingdom balances at the edge of them.
With one last look at the hanging bodies, I search for distinctive features
that could aid us in identifying the victims later, before turning away from
the calculated spectacle entirely. There’s no good to come from showing
weakness to the Unseelie Court. Those loyal to my uncle writhe with
speculation, and any hesitation could condemn another household to this
torture.
Prince Gage’s gaze lingers on the dead who show signs of goblin
heritage, his ire at the murder of his people unsurprising, and as the regent’s
guards all chuckle and murmur around us, it becomes clear to me that the
regent intends on accusing me of colluding with the goblins against the
Unseelie Court.
Roan’s contentious opinions of the Goblin King were passed down to
him from his grandfather who fought the Briarfrost long before the accords
were signed, and even he’s always begrudgingly admitted King Galen is
good to his people. When Kharl Balzog began to wage war in the Southern
Lands, King Galen opened his borders and sent out word that all goblins,
part bloods, and allies to his people were welcome in the Briarfrost
territories and urged them to seek refuge from the war under his protections.
Is there any language that isn't as widely spoken here? Do they speak
the old language?
Rooke doesn’t glance in my direction, her face now carefully fixed into
a cold mask like my own as she stares at the guards, one by one. She studies
their faces, then the crests on their chests, before finally taking in the
medals each bears. I know which of these males can swing a sword, but my
Fates-blessed mate is making her own judgments in her usual considering
way.
Only a few, but my cousin Sari is one of them. When we last spoke of her
progress, she was learning her eleventh language and she often translates
for her father. She took an interest in learning the Seelie tongue years ago
and once she was fluent, she moved on to the goblin tongue, the old
language, and so on.
Rooke’s gaze moves down to the marble beneath our feet to trace the
Celestial seal carved there, the same crest splayed proudly over the chest of
every royal of my bloodline. Ayron is taking his time moving the males
under his command, arrogance in the rigid form he’s taken in his saddle as
he forces us to wait here amongst the dead.
Why do you have a soft spot for Sari? She seems like a nice enough
female, but you don't seem like the type of male who enjoys spending his
time coddling naivety.
I certainly don’t, but my cousin has always been a precarious challenge
for us all to navigate. Sari is spoiled and naive, but she’s willfully ignorant
to her father’s true treachery, much like a child who choses not to grow up.
I’d rather not get her mixed up in any of this—she has a tendency to meddle
simply to try to find something fun to do.
Rooke's gaze flips down to Ayron’s chest as he approaches, and her
expression doesn't change but as open as we are to one another right now, I
feel a ripple within her as her power stirs. Before I can question what it’s
reacting to, she reaches out to me again. Who gives out titles and medals
here? Do any of them mean anything, or are they the regent’s way of
showing favor to the bloodlines most willing to suck up?
Her tone is scathing, and it’s the first time since we walked through that
cursed fae door that I find it difficult to keep the cold mask rather than a
smirk on my face. If recognition for service to the kingdom and heroic acts
of behalf of the throne were only bestowed at the regent’s pleasure, I’d have
no medal but, as it is, I have quite a collection.
When he first took my father’s throne in my stead, it was Aura and
Prince Roan who forced the regent to uphold the traditions while his grip on
Yris and the Unseelie Court was still tenuous. He soon realized that the
longer the traditions held, the longer he could keep the throne without
contest and that time eroded my resources.
Curiosity claws at me when she doesn’t react to my words, or offer any
insight to her own service, and from the corner of my eye I see her lips
tighten. No Ravenswyrd witch would ever accept payment or reward for
acts of service, the Favored Children always offer aid to any and all who
require it. What feat is awarded with this medal?
She sends me a perfect image of one of the soldier’s chests further down
the line, her control of our mind connection far beyond my own, but I forget
my surprise at her abilities as a chill runs down my spine. Turning to seek
out the soldier bearing the medal, my hands tighten reflexively on
Nightspark’s reins and when he snorts at the tug, Rooke glances over.
That's a witch rune, Soren. Old and long forgotten—as it should stay.
I still don't have control of myself, and Ayron reaches us, a frown on his
face, but my gaze stays glued on that silver disc. The symbol is the one I
found carved into the flesh of one of my father's guards, the first clue of
who helped orchestrate the murder of my parents and their household, my
theory spurred on by the impression of that same symbol on my uncle's skin
that he dismissed as a scar.
My suspicions were all but confirmed by the glow of that same archaic
design on one of Kharl Balzog’s raving soldiers.
Ayron finally rides back through the group to take the lead once more,
pausing to gloat at me and egg my anger on. “They haven't had the chance
to clean the hall yet from the last executions. They weren't expecting us
back so soon—we thought you’d at least attempt to evade us after such
blatant treason!”
When I ignore his jibe, he looks over to Prince Gage, smirking, before
his eyes flick back toward the wall. “Do you see any of your family up
there? All of them are traitors to the throne, so I suppose you must.”
Rooke murmurs a quiet prayer under her breath in the old language, a
promise to restore the kingdom and return to the traditions of old, and I
silently send my own prayers along with hers.
 Gage’s gaze finally leaves the wall, his movements slow, with the
arrogance only a prince could have, and he meets Ayron’s gaze with an
unrepentant look, not cowering an inch.
He speaks in the common tongue, slowly, as though Ayron might
struggle to understand him despite the clarity of his tone, no accent to be
found. “May the Fates have mercy on you all when you reach the gates of
Elysium, because I have none to give you.”
His tone is that of his father, a king’s command that a male like Ayron
could only dream of producing. He doesn’t like it either, some of the
gloating arrogance slipping as his lip curls again.
As the doors of Yris swing open, Ayron tries desperately to claw back
the upper hand from the part-blood prince who’s dug under his skin.
“There’s plenty more of them inside, goblin. With any luck you'll be up
there too by the end of the week, and we’ll be saved from having to look at
such a vile creature.”
He turns his horse and kicks it sharply, calling out orders to the guards
and taking the lead once more. When he rides into the castle, Rooke scowls
at the rest of the soldiers as they follow him through on their horses, but
Northern Star follows Nightspark easily, the two of them a perfect pairing.
The castle is five times the size of the city below, so large it’s
impossible for me to navigate it even after a childhood here. You could
walk on horses for days on end and still not reach the other side.
Thankfully, the wisdom of the First Fae is unquestionably sound, and when
we get to the main chambers, we find yet another fae door waiting, as finely
crafted as the last.
One of the guards riding at Rooke’s side hisses at her, “I can see tremble
of fear in you, witch, now you know the true power you're up against… the
glory of the Unseelie high fae.”
Gage snorts, but Rooke looks down at her hand slowly before holding it
up, cocking her head as though confused. “It looks perfectly steady to me.
Are you mistaking my disgust for fear? For people who've lost their magic,
you’re quick to drain the earth of its power. No wonder the trees are so
quick to heed my call and hunt you, thirsty for your blood.”
A ripple works through our escort, and the guard’s gaze flicks to mine
for just a second, a twitch at the edge of his brow. A chuckle falls from my
lips. “A testament to how the Fates have been angered by the high fae, that
the forest woke up for my Fates-blessed mate and tore her enemies apart
with little more than a suggestion.”
He grimaces, and his heel digs into his horse’s side viciously as he
snaps, “Don't be ridiculous. I'm not afraid of a witch who talks to fucking
trees.”
A snarl tears out of my chest unbidden at his tone, but Prince Gage
laughs, a dangerous sound. “You should be afraid. The Favored Child has
returned, and all will face her justice.”
The guards break away to clear a path for us to the fae door, only
handful staying closely at our sides as we approach Ayron. The guard who
questioned Rooke leans forward to take her reins as if to lead her through
the fae door but, as his hand almost touches her, my magic lashes out,
taking us both by surprise as it slams into his body with the force of a
battering ram. He lands with a hoarse gasp, his bones crunching, but I level
a glare at Ayron alone as the rest of the males gape at me.
“The next male to touch my Fates-blessed mate dies. By the Fates
command, I won’t hesitate. Back off.”
My voice trembles with power, my eyes flashing so bright with magic
that the glow of them reflects in Ayron’s widened gaze. Shock, fear, and
disbelief move like a wave through my uncle’s guards, gasps wrenched
from the male’s quickly devolving into panicked muttering.
Finally my idiot cousin recovers, cursing under his breath as he fights to
regain the advantage he assumes he has. “The regent waits on us all, get
moving and leave the filthy creature to her Savage Prince. They’ll both die
at the true king’s feet regardless.”
Ignoring him, I push Nightspark forward and send to Rooke, Wait at
least three heartbeats before you follow me through; I’ll kill any fae stupid
enough to try an ambush before you get there, and Prince Gage will cover
you here.
I feel her disgruntled reaction before she answers me, I’ll follow straight
away and cover you rather than leave the obstacle in the way of the regent's
plans without cover. I’m just as capable as Prince Gage is.
As the power of the fae door envelops me, I send back to her, You’re
infinitely more important to me, croí. This isn't about ability, there’s no
doubt of that. This is about value. I've lost nearly everyone I've ever loved
to this male. I won’t lose another.
THE CASTLE HOLDS chambers for every royal and noble household of
the Unseelie high fae, each larger than the entirety of Yregar, as well as
spacious guest wings, dozens of barracks, and no less than thirty grand
halls, one for each seat of the Unseelie Court. The King’s Chambers is the
largest, far grander than the others, and crafted with the most ornate riches
of the Celestial bloodlines. Though the regent holds the throne in my stead,
by Unseelie law the King’s Chambers have been mine since my father’s
death.
One of the very first acts of aggression against my claim to the throne
was my uncle seizing them.
I step through the fae door into a courtyard covered by a glass dome, the
sky above bright blue. The top level of the castle is so far above the cloud
line that even I take a moment to get my footing, long centuries since I was
last forced here. There’s a fountain carved out of the rock, the sounds of the
moving water falsely peaceful, but the fish and water sprites that once lived
there are long gone. Everything about this castle is beauty frozen in ice;
perfectly stunning, and dead inside.
Stables are set off to one side, immeasurably larger than those at Yregar,
and I pity any of the beasts stuck up here for any length of time. The stable
hand grimaces as Nightspark snaps his teeth at the male, almost losing a
finger as he takes the reins from me. Any sympathies I was tempted to feel
for a part-blood male stuck under the regent’s command vanish when
Rooke comes through the fae door behind me and he sneers in her direction,
snapping out a command for one of his workers to see to Northern Star as
though tending to her horse is a task below his standing.
The fae door flashes behind us and Prince Gage rides through, but my
attention stays on Rooke as she stares down at the male with a carefully
apathetic expression, one that sets my teeth on edge when she directs it at
me. The male doesn’t notice, or care, and he huffs impatiently while I step
around to help my Fates-blessed mate from her saddle.
When Ayron grimaces at the action, Prince Gage snaps, “If I hear one
more word out of any of your mouths about how low other fae folk are in
comparison to the high fae, you’re going to lose that face of yours that
you're so obsessed with. If a male treating his Fates-blessed mate with
respect is acceptable only after marriage, then we’ve stumbled on the
reason everyone looks so fucking miserable here. Have you all forgotten
what it means to be decent and found yourselves barred from your wives'
chambers because you're too busy trying to fuck your own reflection?”
Scoffing, he shakes his head before turning to bow to Rooke with an
apology for speaking so crassly in front of her. She inclines her head back
to him politely with the quirk of her own eyebrow, a murmured reply in the
goblin tongue that has Prince Gage smirking back at her. A ripple of
irritation runs down my spine at their camaraderie, but the doors to the
King’s Chambers open, and a far greater issue forms.
Lord Vyrain Mistheart leads a group of the regent’s guards to meet us,
his eyes fixed on me with loathing roiling in the depths of their muddy blue
hue. I had no doubt I’d be forced to endure this male’s presence again in my
lifetime, but when he sidesteps to stand before Rooke, I send a silent prayer
to the Fates that whoever Prince Gage’s mate is, she’s somewhere else in
the castle, because blood will be shed here. Gallons and gallons of blood.
Rooke takes note of the rows of medals lined neatly across his chest, far
more than any of the other guards, and her shoulders roll back reflexively
now that she knows they’re not just for show. She stares at him as though
he's not a dangerous male but merely an obstacle in her path that will be
easily dealt with, but Vyrain ignore her as he stares me down.
“Hand over your weapons. You cannot go before His Majesty the
Regent armed and posing a threat.”
Prince Gage doesn't look at Vyrain’s medals, crossing his arms. “No.”
Still Vyrain stares only at me, bloodthirsty excitement gleaming his
eyes, as though he's imagining peeling the flesh from my bones, a task he’s
not unfamiliar with, thanks to his service as my uncle’s right hand. “Refusal
is an admission of treason, and all of you will face the consequences.”
Rooke glances at me but, when I refuse to look away from the male
threatening her, she murmurs in the goblin tongue with Prince Gage as
though none of the guards around us are a concern to her. I know each of
the males here; the only one who would last longer than a single strike of
her sword is Vyrain, and she has no reason to be wary of him, not when I’m
ready to cleave the head from his shoulders the second he so much as
flinches at her.
 The longer Rooke ignores his demands, the greater the tension grows
around us and, when the muscle in Vyrain’s cheek twitches, I smirk at the
ashes-cursed male. He scorns any who are loyal to me, he doesn't like
females who give their opinions freely, he loathes magic and the fae folk
who cast it, and the witch standing before him has every one of those
qualities. The smirk on my face is more teeth than humor, sharp enough to
rip out his throat if he threatens her once more, but I’ve been trapped under
the pretenses of the Unseelie Court for too long to keep my scathing
response to myself any longer.
“How exactly are you going to take the magic from their veins? Their
swords are the very least of your concerns,” I say, my voice as cold as ice,
and the twitch in Vyrain’s cheek grows more violent.
As the other guards shift uneasily, Ayron saunters forward. “Their
veins? My, my, cousin, we’re not so eager to dismiss your little temper
tantrum. It’s clear you’ve been playing with magic now that the Fates have
cursed you with this… blessed mate of yours.”
The arrogant air he’s wrapped himself in might be more impressive if he
wasn’t casting careful looks toward Vyrain as well, more than a little fear
beading sweat along his forehead. My uncle’s antics have clearly pushed
even his most loyal lapdogs to question their roles and safety within his
household.
Gage, having ignored our interaction, finally gives Rooke a curt nod and
reaches for his sword, unbuckling the sheath from his belt easily. The
leather scabbard is etched with the Briarfrost crest, but the vines that trail
down the length are of goblin design. The grip of his sword is the same
design as mine, with a large sapphire embedded in the pommel, but a string
of misshapen pearls is wrapped around the cross-guard. The small trinket is
secured tightly enough that it doesn’t move as he holds out the weapon,
shifting at the last moment to hand it to Rooke instead of the waiting
guards.
With a pop of light, it disappears from sight.
Shouts ring out around the courtyard as the soldiers act immediately,
hands reaching to grasp our arms. I ignore their grips entirely as Vyrain
lunges toward Rooke with his fist raised. Dragging the three males holding
me forward, I throw myself in front of her, taking the blow. My head snaps
back with little more than a grunt.
 Rooke doesn't attempt to fight the hands grabbing her, and neither does
Prince Gage, both planting their feet on the marble securely and ready to
move if they need to. The guards holding me readjust their grips, as if it's
possible for them to restrain me, but my focus stays on Vyrain and the
brutal expression on his face. When he cocks his arm back again, though
my magic stays firmly within my grip, the air around us comes alive.
The mountain that holds the greatest castle of the Southern Lands,
standing tall for centuries unnumbered, trembles.
It writhes beneath our feet, shaking so hard that the glass ceiling above
us makes an ear-splitting crack and the marble at our feet screeches as it's
forced to move in ways it never has before. Cries of terror sound throughout
the sprawling, unfathomably large castle. We don’t have earthquakes in our
kingdom, we’ve only ever heard tales from Elfenden of the acts of the Fates
that can shake entire civilizations at their foundations, and my heart thumps
violently in my chest.
Vyrain stumbles back and away from me, his gaze finally shifting from
me to gape at my side, and it’s only when I glance at Rooke that I realize
the shaking is an act of magic. Her eyes are alight, the blank mask over her
face turning fearsome, enraged, the patience of an altruistic Mother pushed
to the limit, and she stares at Vyrain with a fury that would scorch the earth.
“You will not touch him again.”
Her voice vibrates with the power of the trees, ancient in the way that
only the forests of my kingdom can be. I felt the truth in Rooke’s words
when the Brindlewyrd took over my mind; the forests were here long before
the First Fae arrived, and the Favored Children are older than the Fates
themselves. They may have accepted us into their lands, but now they’re
holding us accountable for the destruction we have wrought.
After a heartbeat of silence, her face shifts back into its cold mask
before she speaks again. “Prince Gage, son of King Galen of the Briarfrost
bloodlines, has entrusted me with his sword, a vestige of the First Fae
passed down through his family. This is an act of good faith, one that none
of you have earned, and if you chose answer with scorn, I’ll be forced to
intervene.”
Vyrain finally shakes himself free of his shock, cursing before he spits
on the ground at her feet and turns to walk away from us all. A growl rips
from my chest and I stalk after him, dragging the guards with me as they
scramble to gain control of me and fail. They might have an easier time if
their hands weren’t shaking quite so hard.
I glance back to find Rooke’s treatment isn’t as callous as mine. The
males who hold her look as hesitant as ever but, as the doors open to reveal
extravagant chandeliers still swinging from the force of her magic, it’s no
longer distaste that causes them to falter but fear. Gage walks behind her,
watching the guards’ hands as though his own body isn’t being wrenched
around, and even as we step into the Unseelie Court’s midst, he doesn’t
look away.
The King’s Chambers are large enough to entertain five thousand royals
and nobility with room for banquet tables overflowing with food, servants
waiting on their every need, and a grand marble floor to dance on. There’s
an orchestra pit carved out at the far end, the acoustics of the room
thoughtfully designed for the most joyous of festivities, but the only noise
that can be heard now is our footsteps.
The room is far from empty, hundreds of high fae in attendance in all
their finery, but none dares to make a sound, and none wear the true
Celestial blue.
The tables are laden with enough to food to keep Yregar fed through a
full winter, dozens of servants moving through the room with large serving
trays to keep their masters' cups overflowing with fairy wine, and honeyed
scents of fae elixir fill my lungs with every breath. No expense has been
spared for this display of power; the males all dripping with their families'
riches while the females all wear silver coronets with sapphires and white
diamonds nestled into their hair, their eyes lined with white kohl to draw the
hues of their irises out further.
They all track our path as if taken by a compulsion, the sound of their
heartbeats thunderous in my ears because, while most here are as calm as
they've ever been, others are struggling to hide their reactions as they stare.
With every step, my jaw tightens until I’m sure my teeth will crack under
the pressure. The last time I stood in this room, my father sat on his throne
as he listened to fae folk who’d lost their villages. They spoke of violent
attacks by rabid and raving witches, their witch marks black and their eyes
manic as they pillaged their way through the kingdom.
When the last of the crowd parts and my father’s throne is revealed, I'm
almost brought to my knees by the strength of the fury within me. Blood
rushing through my ears drowns out the other sounds, my vision blurring no
matter how I blink to clear it, and my chest tightens until my ribs are
immovable cages.
The bodies of dozens of fae folk lie in pieces on the floor, laid out with
precision to mimic my parents' corpses and those of their slain household. A
sheen of sweat breaks out over my forehead. My uncle has been waiting for
a confrontation with me like this for a long time and, by the triumphant tilt
to his eyebrows, it's going exactly the way he wants it to.
Sari smiles at me brightly from her seat at his side, and I spare my
cousin a cursory glance. The tiara nestled carefully on her head is
surrounded by perfectly curled tresses, a kingdom’s riches of jewels shining
from her head, so much time and effort put into her appearance today only
for the hemline of her dress to be heavy with blood, her shoes ruined by the
stain that covers everything between us.
The last time we met, we were attacked as we rode from Yregar to the
now-destroyed fae door, and the look of horror on her face at the bloodshed
and violence was a crack in the spoiled princess mask she’s always worn,
but she wears it perfectly now. The guard standing at her side is the same
male who journeyed to Yregar with her, preening as he stands by the throne
as though his position as the regent’s lapdog holds any honor.
My uncle clicks under his tongue as though dealing with an unruly
child. “Nephew, you are such a disappointment to me and to your kingdom.
After all the centuries of waiting, to commit to such treason against all
those loyal to you…all of it for nothing.”
I keep my gaze away from Sari, just as I always do, and it takes me a
moment to convince my jaw to loosen enough to speak. “What treason are
you accusing me of, Regent? How is it treasonous to defend my kingdom
against those who've come to take it from us, uncle, while you sit on my
throne?”
A frown pinches Sari’s eyebrows, and she glances toward her father,
looking childlike as she defers to him. Casting me a placating look, she says
in her sickly sweet tone, “I know you have been forced to bear many
sorrow, Soren, but Father is only acting for the wellbeing of the court and
our kingdom. You have to understand, there are grave concerns about the
true allegiances of your Fates-blessed mate… and now you’ve brought
Rooke to Yris with a goblin prince in your company. Father has done a lot
for you, cousin.”
 Sari always did lack good sense in all areas outside keeping herself in
the regent’s good graces. From the corner of my eye, I see Gage’s lip curl in
fury at her but Sari doesn’t spare him a glance—she never looks at fae folk
in her father’s presence. The guard standing over her sneers at him instead,
adding kindling to the heat of the goblin prince’s rage. I’m not sure how
long he’ll hold himself back while we’re forced to listen to the so-called
noble acts of a betrayer while his own Fates-blessed mate’s life hangs in the
balance, thanks to all these gullible and selfish creatures.
Sari’s eyes flick back to Rooke and then I watch as she attempts to
divert the course of our confrontation, sliding the spotlight away from the
goblins and her father’s accusations of treason. “When I came to Yregar to
stay with you, you said that you had concerns about the witch and so, when
I returned to Yris, I spoke to Father about sending messengers to the
Northern Lands to enquire after her. I thought you’d be pleased with me,
Soren? I was only trying to help.”
My uncle glances down at her, his expression never changing, but Sari
settles back in her seat and presses her lips into a firm line, as though she’s
been scolded thoroughly. Nothing about the room changes, but there’s still a
shift, an awareness, as though all of those in attendance wait for the next
display of bloodshed to begin.
After a fraught beat, he turns back to me. “The War of the Witches will
soon be over, and our kingdom will return to the glory we once knew. The
Sol King has agreed to discuss terms of alliance, and his emissary will be
enjoying the hospitality of the Unseelie Court for some time. I’m eager to
see what truths he has to give us about the witch; your own vague claims of
her true allegiances have only caused the Unseelie Court further concern.”
At the sound of footsteps, my head jerks toward the so-called emissary
only to have the air squeezed from my lungs.
The male is most certainly soldier of the Sol Army; the gold of his cloak
so bright it looks like woven sunlight against the dark umber of his skin.
The sword hanging from his belt is decorated with a delicate filigree across
the grip that matches the handles of the knives strapped to his thighs, all
finely crafted for beauty and deadly use. His head is shaved, and tucked
behind one of his sharply pointed ears is a gold disk, sitting flush against his
scalp with sunbursts that fan out to cover a third of his head. One of the
tendrils curls against his temple and is the exact same shade as the gold
color of his eyes. It’s a crown of the Seelie design, extravagant yet no doubt
functional.
The finery is a statement of his lineage, but it’s the unblinking gaze and
timelessness of his gaze that gives me pause. The Ancient stares at us with
apathy, disinterest even, and the frown on my uncle's face grows until he’s
scowling at the soldier. A thrum of triumph sounds in my chest that he’s
misjudged Rooke and isn’t getting the spectacle he was hoping for.
Before I can truly enjoy his misstep, a screeching sound that defies all
reason fills my ears and sends icy terror flooding my veins. My heart
thumps violently, bile jumping up my throat, my entire being screaming at
me to flee, then the wall between my mind connection with Rooke slams
into place.
When my heart instantly calms and my mind is my own, I know without
a doubt that this pain is what Rooke hides from me, a remnant of the war
she fought in, and sound was that of the Ureen.
This soldier sees all of her panic and stands across from us both,
unconcerned by the pain he’s causing. The soldiers holding my arms all
mutter as though they can sense the power writhing beneath my skin,
responding to the sheer depth of my fury and demanding the lives of them
all.

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OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Rooke
Overcoming the paralysing effects of my terror is almost impossible and it’s
only by the ashes great mercies that I’m able to keep myself from vomiting
when I finally wrench my mind free from the memories of the monsters that
still hunt me, no matter how many years have passed since that last of their
stain was washed away from the Northern Lands. The beat of my heart
against my ribs is still a violent pounding when I meet the Ancient’s gaze
from across the room, the expanse of marble between us strewn with blood
and gore.
A fabled warrior of the Northern Lands, he’s served in the Sol Army for
more centuries than the fae in this room have taken breath combined. The
Fates writhe beneath my scars at this echo of the past, threatening to rob me
of my sanity once more.
The first time I ever laid eyes on this male was across a grand hall as
luxurious in design as this one, though instead of the stark colors of the
Unseelie high fae, we were surrounded by the riches of the Seelie Court,
golden suns decorating every surface to proudly declare it the property of
the Sol King.
When I left the Northern Lands, I never imagined I’d see him again.
Certainly not like this, with hundred of Unseelie high fae eyes greedily
drinking our interaction in and passing their judgements on us both as
though they know anything of either of us.
Heartbreakingly beautiful as all high fae are, it’s not by the crest on his
cloak that sets Phaedra apart from the Unseelie high. It’s not the dark hue of
his skin, nor even by the thick scars running down one side of his throat.
Instead, it’s the menacing air around him, the feeling of a power that has
walked the earth for too long, something that should no longer be here and
yet, by the will of the Fates, here he is. He’s lived for so long that the
mannerisms of the fae have left him and now he’s as unknowable as the
trees deep within the forests calling me home.
As old as the rule of the high fae, when he fixes his unblinking gaze on
me a thrill of panic runs through my blood in response. Despite the city
below rattling my senses, seeing Phaedra standing before the regent thrusts
me back into being the soldier I was for two long and blood-soaked
centuries.
Soren shifts on his feet beside me as though he means to step in front of
me to block the Ancient from my sight, but the guards hold him back. I
could curse myself for leaving the wall down between us, the slip of terror
between us the exact reason I insist of leaving it in place. When a growling
warning rumbles from Soren’s chest and more of the regent’s guards step
over to him, I snap out of my stupor. I need to regain control of the
situation, and fast. The scent of blood still coats the back of my throat, and
our survival here depends on our ability to play the twisted games of the
high fae courts.
Princess Sari hesitates as her gaze roams over Phaedra, but she speaks
in the same bright tone. “Soren, this is Phaedra of the Seelie Court. The Sol
King sent him as an emissary, and he was kind enough to stay at Father's
request.”
Phaedra doesn’t acknowledge the princess’s words or the introduction,
instead he stares at me with his eerily unblinking gaze until I'm sure Soren
is on the edge of losing control. Even Gage shifts on his feet, seeming
uncomfortable with the piercing scrutiny the Ancient directs at me as the
silence stretches on.
Ayron steps forward and clasps a hand over his chest as he bows deeply
to the regent, a smirk stretching far too comfortably over his lips. “The
witch spoke treasonously of you and the entire Unseelie Court, Your
Majesty. She claims you hold no sovereignty over her and I have grave
concerns about the intentions that brought her here before you today.”
Murmurs break out and, though I catch only a few words, I’m sure
Soren is being subjected to hundreds of lines of gossip, and yet he doesn't
falter and neither does Gage, both of them watching Phaedra carefully. The
Ancient’s gaze stays fixed on me for a moment longer before finally it
shifts, and Soren’s deplorable cousin flinches back as it lands on him.
Being the sole focus of a male as old as the kingdom, who’s seen
civilizations built up and torn down, learned and forgotten languages as old
as our history books go back, isn’t a pleasant experience. Even the Sol King
looked upon him carefully in the Fates War, commands given with a
particular respect not often afforded to other soldiers.
In a voice as cold as ice, Phaedra says, “This is the soldier you wish for
me to speak of?”
The regent inclines his head. “Word from the Northern Lands is that the
soldiers of the Sol Army are enlisted for life. From the moment my nephew
brought the witch before us, I have feared she’s a deserter; I want no part in
harboring a traitor.”
The cloying sound of his voice pours over me like honey, a saccharine
tone that sets an ache in my teeth. Even without high fae hearing, I know
there’s total silence across the gathered crowd. Tension lies heavy in the
room as they all stare at the Ancient in fear-soaked wonder.
I choose my words to him with care, slipping easily back into the Seelie
tongue as I bow and the guards ease their grips to allow the respectful
gesture. “Well met, Phaedra. I’m sorry you’ve taken such a long journey, so
far from home, just to bear witness to the petty trials I face here.”
Phaedra moves suddenly, the guards holding me flinching as gasps ring
out around us, but the Ancient only takes a step forward. “They’ve called
me here to name you a traitor.”
I nod slowly, holding his gaze with my own. My breath catches in my
chest until finally he turns to stare at the regent. His eyes hold nothing but
that unsettling blankness.
Following his gaze, I find Sari staring at him with far less fear than the
rest, and I reply to him in the Seelie tongue. “The Northern Lands may have
learned many lessons of what power lies within the lower fae, but the
Southern Lands still have far to journey on the path back to the ways of
old.”
 When Sari opens her mouth and begins to relay this to her father,
Phaedra holds up a hand, and a pulse of power emanates from him. The air
is sucked out of our lungs, the guards’ hands tightening on my arms as the
room falls into panic only to freeze the moment he speaks again.
“If I wanted Solas Celestial to understand my words, little faeling, I’d
speak them to him. The high fae might have the ability to hear what isn’t
intended for them but, in the Courts of the First Fae, disrespect like this
would cost you your life. I act now at the Sol King’s command alone.”
Her face red, as though she’s struggling for air, Sari jerks her head into a
nod, and the power eases. She coughs for a moment before clearing her
throat and smoothing a hand over the front of her dress like she can make
up for the misstep. No one else in the room dares to speak, barely a breath
to be heard.
After another pause, Phaedra turns back to me and returns to the Seelie
tongue with ease. “Have you found the path to your fate? Months have
passed since King Rylle granted your discharge. There are many who wait
on your action.”
A stab of guilt spears my heart, and I swallow roughly, nodding to him
when words would give away far too much of the heartache and longing
that fills me. Satisfied, he turns back to the regent as he ignores the
thousands of eyes drinking in every inch of his image gluttonously. He’s
long since grown accustomed to such scrutiny.
“At his discretion, King Rylle released a small number of soldiers from
the ranks of the Sol Army after the Fates War ended. The Ravenswyrd witch
was one of the fae granted a dismissal, as an act of gratitude for her
honorable service to the Seelie Court and to ensure her fate is fulfilled.”
He doesn't gesture in my direction, but I feel the tidal wave of gazes
crashing over me as the attention of the hall fixates of me. Just as
significant, I feel the shift in the room as my value within the Unseelie
Court suddenly skyrockets. The regent must be writhing in fury.
No sign of it shows on his face, a sedate look fixed carefully in place as
he inclines his head at the soldier. “As I'm sure the Sol King is aware, my
kingdom is in the midst of a war, bloody and violent enough that we were
unable to send aid during your own turmoil. I think only of my kingdom
and the safety of my people, and to know that my nephew’s Fates-blessed
mate is held in such esteem by the Sol King is heartening after so much
devastation within our court.”
 A subtle shift in his words, he’s meticulously picked over the interaction
between Phaedra and his daughter and adjusted his position. It’s the sort of
cunning that makes my teeth ache, the type that makes me want to run
screaming from any sort of high fae court. No one speaks the truth, and
every interaction is as hollow and empty as the cavernous void I carry
within me, the never-healing wound of the Fates War.
Phaedra studies the throne and the regent more thoroughly. “A warning
to you all, and one you will heed; No fate shall ever be broken again. Rylle
won’t hesitate, nor submit to the courtly manners. Any attempt to harm the
witch will be met with the full force of the Sol Army.”
His declaration is met with silence, not a whisper to be heard.
Soren’s mouth tightens at the twitch of the regent’s eyebrow, but after a
heated pause, another honeyed smile stretches across the man’s lips. “What
a sorry state of affairs we’ve fallen into. My nephew might have thrown her
into a dungeon but, rest assured, Rooke is a welcome guest of Yris, and I
intend on seeing her fate through to the very end.”
The hands clutching my arms drop hastily, and both guards step away
from me to stand closer to Soren and Gage, as though the Ancient would
forget their earlier actions so swiftly. I roll my shoulders back carefully,
testing how much movement they’ll allow before caging me once more, but
even Vyrain has stopped sneering in my direction, thanks to the regent’s
statement.
Soren’s relief at my sound mind and the hands no longer grasping
roughly at me tumbles through the mind connection when I ease the wall
down a fraction, but I have no doubt it won’t last long as I send through to
him, finding Gage’s mate and offering her aid will be far easier if I’m not
interred in the dungeons. Whatever games the regent intends on playing
with me, enduring them may get us out of here faster.
He shows no outward reaction but his ire and frustration is a seething
heat. Absolutely not, Rooke. I won’t leave you scour this monstrosity of a
castle alone and unprotected. The regent will have a blade already
sharpened for you back, no matter his empty words to the Ancient.
Good thing I’m well-adept at such games. Trust that I’ll see us through
this safely, Donn.
The name slips out of me unbidden and I’m quick to move the wall
back into place before he can react, both to it and my plan.
 At my prolonged silence, the regent smiles so widely at me that the
sharp points of his teeth are bared in a garish facade of charm that makes
my skin crawl. “I fear after the treatment you’ve received from Prince
Soren, there’s no hope of seeing my nephew happily married and on the
throne of the Southern Lands. Why would such a noble witch choose to stay
with this savage prince? I’m offering you the aid of the Unseelie Court to
complete your fate; to wed Soren in name alone and then to kill Kharl
Balzog. Once the kingdom is safe once more, I’ll see you safely back to the
Northern Lands. Surely you long for the life you left behind there.”
My heart clenches in my chest and I raise my chin, aware of the eyes
greedily drinking in this display. I refuse to accept or bow to this vile male.
Every breath I take is weighed down by the blood he’s spilled, the fae folk
he’s murdered lie butchered between us, and with every passing heartbeat
the grin on his face grows wider.
Finally, Sari pastes a smile back onto her face and says to the Ancient in
a sweet tone, “My father’s guards can see Rooke to the guest wing
alongside your own, Your Highness, you must be anxious to see to her
safety.”
Phaedra doesn’t look in her direction as he answers, his tone the same
bone-chilling monotone he used with her father. “I have no intention of
spending my time with the lower fae, especially after centuries of enduring
it. Treat her with respect somewhere else.”
Soren shifts on his feet, a small movement, but it draws my gaze to the
same door Phaedra came through as it opens, Soren’s ear no doubt having
picked up on approaching footsteps long before mine ever could. My blood
burns with magic in response to the fae arriving before any make it within
my eye line.
The regent doesn’t look toward the footsteps or the pulse of magic that
washes over us. “Not to worry, I have plenty of allies housed within the
castle who are willing to take you into their care. Some would even say
they’re eager to spend time with the Ravenswyrd Mother.”
The crowd parts to allow the newcomers through, and my heart
clenches violently in my chest as Soren hits the marble with a sickening
thud, then Gage does the same, the coven’s magic knocking them both out
cold. My own magic floods me, shielding me from the attack, but their
magic doesn’t reach for me; instead it skirts my body as though wary to
touch me.
 There are no signs of Soren or Gage being wounded by their falls, but
my gut churns regardless as one of the witches steps forward with smirk. “I
never thought I’d see the day—a Ravenswyrd witch who’s left the woods.
No wonder you’ve found yourself at the mercy of this pathetic prince,
you’re too weak-minded to fend for yourself.”
With his witch markings glowing blood-red and a curl to his lip, there’s
no mistaking what magic flows through this male’s veins, and the troubles
we face at Yris rise to a new, horrifying high as the bloodwitch grins at me.

THE MAGIC that shook me to my core in the city below still hangs in the
air here, but the high fae in attendance are both alive and complicit in the
regent’s theatrics, despite how rigidly they stand or how unerring the
silence of the room. Gone is the fear of magic that had them gasping at my
control slip earlier, and the murmurs at Ayron’s claims of danger—
ridiculous, considering who now stands amongst them.
A dozen witches of varying age and appearance, I recognize none of
them, nor can I find anything familiar about them besides the wealth of
magic pooled between them. Clad in fighting robes, the construction similar
to mine but with far more leather bands reinforcing the stress points, clearly
designed for the type of blood shed and war mongering only a bloodwitch
could know. The group stands more like a troop of soldiers than a coven,
but the blood-red witch marks scored across their faces declares them all
bloodwitches with much blood spilled between them.
Instead of relief, I’m sickened by the color of those lines. Black witch
marks mean Kharl Balzog has distorted their minds, the blood rotting in
their veins as he funnels their power and takes command of their bodies.
The bright red of freshly spilled blood means these witches chose to be
here, chose the regent as their ally, and choose to wield their blood magic at
his command. They’re arguably the most dangerous type.
I address the male at the front of the group in the old language. “What is
your name, witch, and what coven do you hail from?”
He scoffs and responds in the common tongue, “Of course a Favored
Child would still speak the language of the dead. Did your Mother teach
you?”
In answer to his mocking tone, I shed my pretense of a peaceful healer
and shift into my own soldier’s stance with a stony glare at the male. With
my arms crossed behind my back, each hand gripping the opposite wrist,
and my feet planted firmly at shoulders’ width, the pose is a threat of power,
and slipping into it is still second nature after so long in the Sol Army.
As if reminded of his own king’s honor by my form, Phaedra’s eyes
flick down to Soren before he fixes the regent with his unerringly severe
gaze. “Their fate will be fulfilled, by your design or with the Sol King's
intervention.”
The regent only inclines his head. “Of course, Prince Phaedra, but
precautions must be taken to ensure the safety of the witch. My nephew
took her prisoner, refused to grant her any grace by their shared fates, and
he surely won’t stop until he’s killed her and destroyed the kingdom. Baylor
is merely assisting me to lock him in the dungeons, as well as the goblin
prince he’s brought along with him. I have no intention of forcing the witch
to endure his whims and violent moods any longer.”
Biting back a snort at his obvious pandering, I have to remind myself
that this male is adept at manipulation and, while he’s feeding my hatred of
him gluttonously right now, I can’t let my guard slip. Any opening, and
he’ll strike, a patient male after so many centuries of waiting.
Phaedra turns away without another word and leaves by the door
through which the witches just entered. When the regent dismissively flicks
his hand at the guards surrounding Soren and Gage, they stoop down and
lift their unconscious forms between them and carry them out.
My eyes stay fixed on the male witch at the front of the group—Baylor
—as magic emanates from him and surrounds me in a gesture that can’t be
seen as anything but threatening.
The regent waits until Phaedra is gone, the two bowing guards by the
door closing it firmly behind the Ancient, before he addresses me again.
“This is Baylor Fray, a witch of the Bloodwyrd coven. You’ve been
admiring his handiwork around my castle. We found far too many loyalists
to your Fates-cursed mate, and he’s been assisting me with dealing with the
traitors.”
The grotesque pieces of fae folk before us take on a horrifying new
light, and the witches grin garishly between themselves as my gaze moves
down to the piles of flesh and congealed blood. Still, I say nothing to
answer the regent as the Fates writhe beneath my scar. Their demand for
justice is paltry compared to the need for vengeance taking root within me.
Even if my fate were something else, something gentle and sweet, I would
still be standing here preparing to take up my sword once more.
Finally, Baylor steps forward, sweeping a hand before himself as though
beckoning me. “Come, let’s leave the high fae to their courtly duties. I
know you’re more accustomed to sleeping on the dirt in a decrepit and
rotting forest, but I’m sure you'll find your rooms here suitable.”
His magic presses against my skin, testing my limits and pushing until
I'm forced to step forward or fight this male. My magic is best kept away
from him for now and so with a prayer to the Fates for a merciful journey to
Elysium for the regent’s victims, I take my first step. The regent smirks and
flicks his hand again to command the musicians to play, and all at once the
hall comes to life.
The high fae take their cues from their chosen regent without question
and fall back into their revelry as though it never halted. The servants move
around the room seamlessly, their serving platters overflowing with wine
and spirits, and bell-like sounds of laughter grate on me as I’m forced out of
the room. They all ignore the death at their feet, the maniac prince on the
throne, and the blood-red markings on the witches’ faces as they surround
me to escort me out.
With little traction thanks to the polished marble, my boots slide in the
blood and make a sickeningly wet sound with every step. It’s difficult to
even guess how many were slain here so callously. Even the servants
disregard the gore, showing no empathy for those lost in the pursuit of
power.
The guards by the large door open it without looking at Baylor, and I
suspect the witches are treated with as little respect as the rest of the fae
folk here, acknowledged only when the regent has use for them. The group
don’t react though, even after watching them bow to the Ancient as he
passed, and they lead me through a long hallway without a word. Under yet
another glass ceiling, my eyes water at the searing brightness of the hall as
the sunlight hits the marble and almost blinds me with its power. There are
no furnishings or decorations, no finery on display, only doors every now
and then that we walk by without pause.
Dozens of the regent's guards are posted, two at each door, and it’s
telling that none of them spare a glance at the witches. The coven has been
here long enough to not garner even a cursory stare, the web of lies the
regent has cast over the entire kingdom a convoluted mess. The male
doesn’t have a drop of honor within his cold heart.
“All of this fuss over a fucking Ravenswyrd,” the female at my side
mutters, and one of the others snickers.
“I’d rather her than a Mistwyrd throwing curses at us. Fuck, or a
Stellarwyrd—I can’t stand the cold.”
A male behind me chuckles and drawls, “An Elmswyrd bitch would’ve
been nice, at least to pass the time. By the blood, I miss painting those soft
little witchlings red when I’m through with them.”
Icy rage wipes my mind free of my temper, washing everything away
until a crisp clarity is left behind. I haven't had to deal with prejudices like
this in such a long time, and I loathed every minute of it when I did. How
much would I enjoy telling these vile males that any Elmswyrd witch I’ve
ever known and loved would eat them alive, and certainly not in the way
they're all snickering about like children. But it’s not the right path to take. I
remind myself of Gage’s Fates-blessed mate, stuck somewhere in this
ashes-cursed castle, and stick to productive topics.
“How did bloodwitches come to be under the thumb of a high-fae
prince? Blood magic was never intended to be controlled by any outside of
your coven—the Bloodwyrd teachings are clear about that.”
The hallway finally ends only for yet another endless marble tunnel to
open before us. More guards stand every few paces, silent and unmoving as
we walk past them. The swishing of our robes and the sound of boots
echoes throughout the sparsely furnished space, no carpets or tapestries to
soften the stark expanse.
“What in the ashes would a Ravenswyrd whelp know of my coven?
Your lot were too busy bending to sprites and pandering to forgotten tree-
gods to know the bloodshed and carnage we’ve endured,” the female at my
side says.
Taking a measured look at the high-fae guards still ignoring us, I almost
wish I were back in that great hall dealing with the regent’s twisted games
of distorting the truth than listening to witches who let their grief and anger
twist them. Especially if they’re going to spout this hag-shit at me.
My lips curl into a slow smile as I turn to the witch, cold and cruel.
“Your robes look awfully plain without the Bloodwyrd mark, but you're not
allowed to wear it anymore, are you? If you don’t follow your Mother, you
can’t truly claim to be anything more than a witch with access to blood
magic... though your skill in casting will remain questionable at best.”
She lunges at me, her fingers curled into claws as she aims for my throat
at the same time as her magic slams against my skull only to find the shield
I hold there impenetrable. Well versed in sparring against easily provoked
fae, I sidestep her easily and watch her scramble to keep her feet. As she
spins on her heel to charge at me again, there’s a manic look in her eyes, the
same one in the raving armies under Kharl Balzog’s command, and it’s only
the red glow of her witch marks that prove her mind is still her own.
Cursing under his breath, Baylor shoves himself bodily between us.
“She’s baiting you, Greer, and you’re being stupid enough to let her. We’ve
endured this castle full of high-fae cunts for too long to slip now. Think of
the forest, of our blood returning home triumphant at last.”
Even his deep growl can’t hide the longing in his words, and a chuckle
falls from my lips. “If you can't wear the colors of your coven, you certainly
can't call the Blood Valley your home anymore either. Is that what the
regent promised you? To get the Betrayer to wipe the last of your coven out
and leave the forest for the pathetic dregs left over?”
Baylor stops so abruptly, I assume I’ve stoked his rage enough for the
male to forget his plans as well, but then he turns to a door cut out of the
marble to our left and raises a hand. A pulse of magic shoots through the
silver keyhole. With a loud crunching noise, the lock unlatches and the door
swings open before us, a warm flood of air seeping out of the room.
“I’ve never spilled the blood of my coven, and I never would. I've
played this game for more centuries than you can imagine, and I’ve made
choices you could never hope to understand. I won't falter now. I’ll have my
forest back, even if I have to gut every worthless Favored Child to get it. I
mean, I almost have, haven’t I? You’ll be dead by the end of this war, and
I’ll have a full set under my belt and a new witch mark to declare your
bloodline gone by my hand.”
Before I can respond, his magic shoves me into the room. The door
snaps shut behind me, and the lock slides into place with a deafening thud
that still can’t drown out the thunderous rush of blood in my ears. My
churns violently, bile rushing up my throat as my knees give out and I
collapse to the ground so hard my teeth rattle.

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 CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Soren
Head pounding and stomach churning, I wake with the same force with
which my consciousness slammed back into my body back in the
Brindlewyd Forest, and the gasp wrenched from my chest echoes as it
blends into the frenetic pounding of my heartbeat. I blink to clear my head,
only to find the muted white in my vision is stone hanging overhead. Not
the same blinding white marble as the rest of the castle, the white hue
flickers with orange from the lit torches, and it centers me.
Even as monstrously huge as Yris is, there are very few places in the
castle lit by torches, and only one that could explain the draining weight of
iron pressing down on me, the sensation less taxing now that my magic runs
riot through my blood. With every breath, my head clears a little more until
I can hear dozens—no, hundreds—of other heartbeats. They mix with sighs
and groans of pain, the shifting of bodies forced together in close quarters,
and the multitude of sounds such a large group makes even when no one
dares to speak a word.
“I suppose we should be grateful we're not trapped underneath the castle
in a dirt pit, as is the Celestial way.”
Turning my head, I find Prince Gage sitting in the cell next to mine,
staring at the regent’s guards with the calm of an oncoming storm. While
there are larger cells housing dozens of high fae wedged together, we’ve
been interred in the singles, but it isn’t an act of deference. The guards have
no idea of the protection my magic now offers me and that to be wedged in
with other high fae cowering from the regent’s guards would be a far
greater torture than the muted effects of the iron cage. With barely a hand-
span of space around me, there isn’t enough room to stand and, instead, I
choke down a groan as I pull myself up to sit with my back against the
rough stone wall.
My body feels strange until I realize my weapons and cloak are missing.
It's colder here than it was in the King’s Chambers but nothing to worry
about until winter arrives, weeks from now, and I have no intention of being
trapped down here for that long. The pressure in my head compounds as I
look around the rest of the cells. My aunt, Tylla, sits huddled in the far
corner looking haggard and thin with her arms wrapped around herself as
she sleeps, and I pick out Airlie’s father, Rydern, easily enough but the
longer I look, the more restless my limbs grow. It’s a bleak story painted,
and not for the woeful state of the prisoners. While I count hundreds of high
fae, there isn’t a single part blood or lower fae, just the Briarfrost prince
alone, and only because he’s protected by his father's name… for now.
“The forest isn’t making any demands to keep us preoccupied. We
might not fare so well.”
I speak carefully guarded words, but he understands me well enough,
shrugging as his tail moves leisurely around as though patiently waiting to
strike. “It's the principle of it. Aren’t you going to ask where she is?”
A chuckle works through the males standing guard over us, but I don’t
hesitate to answer, every word from our lips a move in the game. “My uncle
intends to use her as a bargaining chip. It’s obvious he's not going to lock
her down here with us. She’ll be imprisoned in one of guest chambers to be
sure he can stand before the Sol King and tell him that I alone mistreated
the witch.”
Gage stares at me before nodding and staring back at the guards, who
are listening to every word, before he speaks slowly in the goblin tongue.
“Your uncle is stupid to think the Sol King would believe such lies.”
The Ancient’s unearthly gaze flashes in my mind, the careful way
Rooke regarded him as she spoke to him, every word chosen with caution.
I’m forced to answer Gage in the Unseelie common tongue, but I want
no secret made of my words. “I’m not sure I have such faith in the Seelie
Court and where their allegiances will lie, but I trust my Fates-blessed
mate’s word on the matter.”
Rooke has never acted recklessly, even when her actions at first
appeared so. She stepped off the inner wall at Yregar because she knew that
she alone could defend the castle from Kharl Balzog’s army, thanks to her
magic and sword skills. She broke out of the dungeons to seek out Airlie
and see Raidyn freed from the curse that clung to them both, and even when
faced with the Goblin King’s suspicion, she spoke up to win him over,
saving Yregar and all the fae folk within from starving to death over winter.
If she says the Sol King isn’t going to side with my uncle, then my
focus remains on our endless obstacles elsewhere.
Gage meets my eye with a curt nod. His own wary view of the Ancient
must align with mine. He speaks again, switching to the common tongue.
“Are there more high-fae soldiers stationed in the other castles? We were
taken through the barracks to get here.”
I shake my head. “All the armies of the Unseelie Court are here, except
those loyal to me and strong enough to stand on their own—the battalion at
Yregar, a small number at Yrell, and the Outland soldiers.”
He looks around at the other cells, bursting at the seams with cowering
high fae, and then back to me. “There are more goblin soldiers than high
fae.”
That gets the attention of the guards, a subtle shifting of their weight
from foot-to-foot, but I speak as though I don’t see it. “The goblin numbers
have recovered since the accords were signed, where the high fae haven’t.”
He nods, turning to face the iron bars encasing us both. “The witches’
curse over the land has never touched the Briarfrost lands, and not through
lack of trying. Kharl Balzog might be strong, stealing magic from the
covens, but he knows nothing of goblin magic… or high fae.”
I lift a brow at him. “Neither do I. No Unseelie high fae do either.”
The goblin prince grins back at me. “The Briarfrost all remember, and
we remember why the rest of the high fae turned away from magic in the
first place. The regent has come begging to my father hundreds of times for
alliance and aid, twisting the truth until it bends for his purpose, but we see
through him, as we always have. We know what happens to goblins in this
city and the handful of bloodwitches he’s somehow acquired won’t be
enough to change the course of this war, no matter the atrocities they’re
capable of.”
 Bloodwitches. I’ve never heard of the term before but it explains the
color of their witch marks, and a nervous hush rolls through the dungeon at
Gage’s words. Gulping, clearing throats, heartbeats thumping an unsteady
beat. The guards continue to shift on their feet as Gage weaves a web of
protection around us all, a masterful design that is perhaps the greatest
warning of the power the goblins hold that I’ve witnessed so far. Centuries
away from the Unseelie Court, and yet those of the Briarfrost bloodline
haven’t lost their edge, sharpened to a fine point and ready to bleed out any
who dare cross them.
Gage turns away from me, his gaze a vicious brand on the guards, even
through the iron bars and, once he’s sure the possibilities of facing the
goblin armies have sunk in, he strikes the final blow. “If anything happens
to the Favored Child under the regent's care, the Briarfrost will have control
of Yris before the winter solstice. Our loyalty has always been to the Fates,
the kingdom, and the trees. We’ve spent centuries waiting to learn which
Celestial prince was worthy of the throne, all while our armies grew in
numbers and prepared to wage war. Prince Soren and the Ravenswyrd
Mother are far from alone—the Fates have ensured that.”
One of the guards pushes away from the wall and stalks out of the
dungeons as though being chased by a cluster of wraiths. None of the other
males attempt to hide their reactions either, most watching Gage a little
more closely now, though there are some who still sneer at him. Their trust
in my uncle is impressive; if only such loyalty was shown to the true
Celestial line and not the male who killed his own brother to steal his
crown.
When the quiet of the cells holds fast, I push against the wall in my
mind only to find that, while I can feel that Rooke is alive, that’s it. I could
push for more, but there’s no urgency right now, at least not for me, and
distraction could get her killed. Instead, I focus on my magic.
Mindful of Rooke’s warning, I’m slow to reach for it at first and instead
learn where it lies within me, gently prodding to gauge how much of it there
is, what it feels like when left alone. Awareness of the iron bars caging me
slips away and, after what feels like hours of assessment, I reach for it.
It answers me easily, a ripple working through my blood until it reaches
my heart and causes it to stutter, but I grasp tightly to it even as my lungs
burn in my chest and the pressure threatens to tear my body apart. Rooke
pushes against the wall between us, but now I’m the one holding it up,
keeping this pain away from her as I claim what is mine. Unflinching,
unrelenting, immovable, I hold true, and all at once the tension breaks, the
power yielding to me and the violent roil bubbling down to a simmer once
more.
My eyes flick open as I push my magic out, casting it around the cell
until finally it shimmers around us. The marble at my feet shines with a
blue hue, and gasps ring out around us until all at once they’re cut off by the
wall of power I have built. A pride I haven’t felt in centuries floods me, the
same I felt the first time I stepped into the sparring ring and knew my
dedication to training had rendered me unmatched. There’s a long road
ahead to master wielding my magic, but I’ve never shied away from hard
work.
With a long exhale I turn to face Gage, the magic surrounding us both
and able to obscure our words from the rest of the cells, as I’ve seen Tyton
and Rooke do thousands of times between them.
His skin sallow and eyebrows raised sharply, Gage whips back his tail
as though startled. “What in the ashes is that?”
I scowl back at him before looking at the magic, the guards hazy
beyond its bounds. “I can’t be absolutely certain it's soundproof, so choose
your words with care. It’s the first time I’ve cast… anything. On purpose, at
least.”
He gapes at me openly before cursing, shaking his head as though trying
to shift a fog. “I can’t hear anything outside the barrier, it's holding true, but
that’s not—you've cast through iron, Prince Soren.”
I shrug back with a derisive chuckle. “Rooke does it all the time—she
proved iron is useless with enough magic.”
He blinks at me, his eyes slowly narrowing. “That's true, but she’s also a
Favored Child, the Ravenswyrd Mother. Fates fucking mercies, Celestial,
she cast the unmaking of Ureen in the Fates War, of course iron means
nothing to her!”
The exaltation in his tone breaks my grip on my temper and my sanity,
her name spoken with such reverence that I’m suffused with the need to
bleed him out to ensure he never sets eyes on her again. My spine snaps
straight as I turn toward him, a snarl bursting out of my chest with a
violence that rattles the bars between us. He stares at me for a heartbeat,
unflinching but cautious, before his head drops slightly, never breaking our
eye contact. It’s respectful, an acknowledgment that Rooke is mine alone.
 “I was commanded by the Fates to wait until the Favored Child returned
to the Southern Lands before seeking out my mate. Only then could the
kingdom be saved from the Betrayer’s campaign and the whims of all those
who’ve forgotten. The command of the Fates alone has kept me from
coming here to find her and take her far away from this place. My respect
for your Fates-blessed mate is for her birthright, her abilities, the tales of
her time in the Sol Army, and for her bonds with my own fate. To get my
mate out of Yris, I’d walk barefoot and bloody through the ashes to the
gates of Elysium at Rooke’s suggestion. I am no threat to your claim, and
I’ll gut anyone stupid enough to threaten it.”
He doesn’t lower his gaze, his eyes clear, intimating that he’s prepared
to put action behind his words without second thought. I give him a curt
nod and turn away, forcing my lungs to work evenly until the fury-haze
clears. I don’t know how long I’ll have to bear this shortened temper, but
only those prepared to swear oaths as strong as that one will survive it.
I watch the shadows of the guards moving beyond my magic until I can
speak again without snarling. “What do you know of her time in the
Northern Lands? How did you hear of it?”
From the corner of my eye, I see the long look he gives me, his answer
slow but honest. “I heard of it the same way I’m sure you heard tales, only
my people listen to stories about all of the soldiers and not just the high
fae.”
His careful approach makes sense, but I’ve already accepted that my
bloodline is responsible for countless injustices. “Tell me something. Do
you know how she was injured?”
He nods, and his brow furrows at the expectant look I give him. “How
exactly did that tale of the Fates War slip your notice? Although… I
suppose it makes sense. You would’ve never imprisoned her had you known
who she was. Actually, a lot of your actions make sense now. My father will
be relieved.”
“Tell me.”
He hesitates before sending me another long look. “I’m not sure that’s
wise, Prince Soren. Not right now, in this castle, with Rooke already
separated from us. I will say that I want to run that Ancient through with my
sword for speaking about her like that. She deserves far more respect, and
no one in that hall knows that better than him.”
 When I seethe with frustration, Gage steers the conversation back to his
other concerns. “Most fae will never wield enough magic to cast through
iron, and even those who can need extensive training. I felt you get stronger
as you were sleeping but—I didn’t think—how much more of this power do
you have?”
I shrug, too frustrated at my ignorance to keep feeling pride in my
efforts. “I have no idea the depths of what I'll be able to do someday, but for
now it's enough to convince the forests that I’m not a Betrayer so they’ll
wake at Rooke’s command without attacking us both.”
There’s a flurry of movement outside of the lines of my magic as more
guards arrive, their faces blurred beyond my recognition. I want to push
Gage about his knowledge of the Fates War and Rooke’s service there, but
time is running out. Our priorities have to be the same, or we’ll fall to my
uncle’s games.
“Is she safe?”
Gage’s eyebrows creep up his forehead. “I woke from the magic once
we were out of the King’s Chambers, but I could hear her still, and she was
perfectly fine⁠—”
I cut him off. “Not Rooke.”
He pauses carefully, eyeing the magic barrier, before finally he gives me
a sharp nod. “As safe as any can be in this Fates-cursed shithole.”
Despite myself, a dry chuckle falls from my lips. “I’ve never heard
anyone call it that. Everyone else seems to think it’s a wondrous marvel to
covet and crave.”
He shrugs. “It’s just a castle, and a dead one at that. Yregar is far better,
even with all that Balzog’s hordes did to it. Ashes above, Yrmont would
have you lot weeping in envy at first glance.”
I haven’t heard that name in centuries, the fabled castle in the Briarfrost
Territories no high fae outside of King Galen’s bloodline has seen, much
less stepped foot in, for generations. Dozens of descriptions were recorded,
whispered about, questioned and scoffed at, but the true nature of the castle
slipped from our memories the same way our magic did, lost in time thanks
to our arrogance and the turmoil that stems from it.
Gage stares at his hands, flexing them, before he glances back up at the
guards beyond my wall of magic. “The stories I've ever heard coming out of
this castle from my people are indescribably cruel, and the violence against
my mate is even worse. I don't care how fucking pretty it is, I’ll level the
entire mountain for the things that have been done to her within these
walls.”
I curse under my breath, shaking my head as my hands fist at my sides.
The blood-soaked scenes the regent curated as a welcome for us are so
commonplace here that none of the fae folk still freely roaming the castle
looked bothered by it, but that only makes me angrier. How cold they’ve all
grown, how selfish and cruel to sit back and allow the regent to take
everything from this kingdom and the innocents within.
Gage’s gaze flicks over my face, the tight press of my lips the only sign
of the precarious grip my magic is held with, and says quickly, “My father
made it clear that he sides with Rooke in all of this but, if you’re true to
your fate, and to her, then the semantics of it all don’t really matter, do
they? If she stands at your side, then the Briarfrost follows your command.”
I don’t have a chance to answer him or to feel relief at his words as my
magic slips away, and the barrier hazing our view of the dungeon
disappears without a sound. Blinking away the mist from the sudden clarity,
we find dozens of guards now surrounding our cells with Ayron standing at
the forefront of them all.
My snake of a cousin stares through the bars at Gage, loathing roiling
unmasked across his features. The goblin prince stares back with the same
disregard, and the sharp end of his tail stays pointed at the high fae prince
despite the way it slowly sways, an adder waiting to strike.
“The regent warned us all—your reign will destroy the Unseelie Court
and all the high fae hold dear, but I honestly thought you'd wait until you
held the throne before you launched your first attack.”
Moving with exaggerated swagger, he takes the stool from the wall and
places it in front of the iron bars. It’s close enough that the vile metal must
be singeing his skin, but he ignores it as he sits, the tip of his sword almost
brushing the marble floor. He sets his elbows on his widened knees, hands
hanging loosely between them, and leans forward, staring at Gage as though
he's a peculiar fae and not a prince of higher standing.
“Did you decide to form an alliance with these green fucks before you
found the witch, or after? I suppose it doesn't matter, does it. Either way,
you’ve chosen to bed beasts instead of your own kind.”
I let my head drop back on my shoulders, stone crunching against the
back of my skull with its rough texture. “When was the last time you drew
your sword for something other than butchering innocent fae folk?”
 The smirk on Ayron’s face grows, a devious look lighting up his eyes.
“You know half of these traitors tried to switch sides when the regent came
to lock them up? He has enough votes to change the law, but why bother?
What use are the old laws against true power? He won the throne from you
centuries ago, a task far easier than you could possibly imagine. Now all
that’s left is to dance around one last fate… then finally, the time of waiting
is over.”
A smile as cold as any that have graced my uncle’s face stretches over
my lips. “Then what, Ayron? What happens when you give unlimited power
to that male and let him act without recourse? Butchering his own people,
locking up royals and nobles without question, seizing armies to command
as his own, letting a madman spill magic across the kingdom and bring it to
its knees simply for his own gain… what happens when that male rules it
all without contention?”
There's no hesitance in Ayron as he shrugs, ignoring the murmurs
breaking out in all the cells around us, gasps of fear, agreement,
helplessness, despair. “Then I suppose we see if your little goblin friends do
have enough power to come at Yris. And we gut the last of the witches until
all that's left is high fae… as it should’ve always been.”
Growing like a fist in my chest, magic trembles through my words as
it’s done to Tyton’s a thousand times before. “The witches were here first.
They were in the forests before we came to this kingdom, and they'll take it
back from you. The time of the high fae is coming to an end.”

TRUE TO HER WORD, Rooke keeps the mind connection between us

closed off, but it's different than how we existed for the two long centuries
she spent in the Northern Lands. I can feel her now, and whether that's
something she has allowed or due to my new connection with my own
magic, it doesn't matter; I'm grateful.
As long hours crawl by, I find myself pressing against the wall between
us more often than not, hoping only to feel her there and never pushing for
more, and I discover a lot about the hidden storm that rages within my
Fates-blessed mate. Despite her demeanor always exuding a level of
serenity that eats at me, there’s a seething rage within her heart, and my
own magic responds to it in an unexpected way. It rages with her,
predictably, but it also quietens down, as though stopping to bear witness to
her pain.
There’s no way of telling if this rage always burns in her or if something
has happened, and my imprisonment suddenly becomes unbearable without
my uncle’s guards lifting a finger. There are countless reasons a witch
would feel rage in this castle, all of them justified, but very few things
pushed my Fates-blessed mate to the edge of her temper in Yregar. What
fresh nightmares are the high fae unleashing on her now?
Staring through the iron bars with loathing rolling from me in waves, I
let the possibilities play through my mind, and my blood-lust grows with
every passing second. Ayron stares back at me like he’s enjoying every
second of my fury, as though being the target of my ire is exactly what he’s
always craved to be.
Shifting uncomfortably on their feet at the contempt hazing the room,
the rest of the regent’s guards all share looks between themselves the longer
Ayron and I square off. The high fae in the cells are less concerned with my
temper, probably hoping it sees them freed soon, and they murmur quietly
amongst one another. That’s how I learn a vital piece of information—that
witches are living freely within Yris.
The regent stopped trying to hide his treachery within this castle a long
time ago.
The loudest voice in the cells belongs to Valo, Vyrain’s cousin, and a
Mistheart prince whose territories were stolen by Kharl Balzog and made
into the Witch Ward. He was a pampered prince, nothing like his brother,
which is both a blessing and a curse. Where Vyrain's ability on the
battlefield would be of great use to me, his loyalty to my uncle is
unforgivable.
“I never thought I’d share the same fate as the fabled Celestial heir,” he
drawls, waving a dismissive hand at one of his cousins as she hisses at him
to shut up.
Ayron ignores him, his gaze fixed to Gage’s tail as though it will tell
him the workings of the goblin prince’s mind and keep the castle safe from
the Goblin King’s wrath.
I look at Valo as one of the other lords locked in the adjoining cell
mutters furiously, “We’re all stuck in this cursed pit, no point trying to win
favor on the path to the ashes.”
“This isn’t about favor, Dryss, you sulking shit,” snaps Valo, shaking his
head vehemently. “It’s only Prince Soren and I who’ve found ourselves
with treacherous family members who are willing to sell out their own
blood—no, to spill it!—all to claim something that was never theirs. Venyr
was eaten alive by a fucking death curse, that putrid magic grinding him
into nothing, and Vyrain was the architect of at all! He'd rather watch Kharl
Balzog shit all over our family's covenant than to see it belong to someone
else.”
Ayron chuckles. “I’d rather gut Aura and that little cunt she birthed than
see her take up space on the court. If half the high fae in this dungeon had
the gall to admit it, they'd say the same thing about whichever kin stands
between them and a seat.”
Gage scoffs and shakes his head, his eyes steady on the iron bars. “So
says every spineless fuck who ever existed. I’d slit my own throat before
taking a blade to my brother, or any of my sisters. I’m tempted to break the
accords and spill your blood just for suggesting it.”
Ayron shrugs, the curl of his lip shifting from gleefully arrogant to
disgust. “No matter what high fae titles your part-blood father had the nerve
to give you, the real Briarfrost line died out generations ago. You're not high
fae, and all that green shit makes you weak.”
“I'm killing that one… let Rooke know as well,” Gage says in the goblin
tongue, choosing simple words but speaking fast enough that it still takes
me a moment to figure out what he said.
I answer in the common tongue. “I’ve been planning his death for
centuries. You’ll have to reach him first.”
Gage turns to me, the sharp points of his teeth stark against the hue of
his skin as he grins. “I look forward to besting you in that contest. His
throat is marked for my blade.”
Ayron rises from the stool slowly, as if unfurling, but his dramatics are
lost on the two of us; nothing about that male is concerning in the least. He
takes a single step forward before stopping abruptly as doors at the end of
the dungeons open. The large oak panels scrape along the stone as they
have for countless generations, and a hush falls over the cells. The
prisoners’ fear burns on the back of my tongue and lies heavy in the air; the
horrors of what the high fae here have seen my uncle enact has certainly left
a mark on them all.
 Footsteps ring off the cavernous walls and two steady heartbeats join
the already crowded din; a male and a female. There’s only so much I can
learn from sound alone, but it’s clear the male is far taller than the female,
and I’d guess she’s lower born as he doesn't attempt to slow his gait.
Instead, she's forced into a jog to keep pace with him as they move toward
us.
When they finally round the corner, Gage stiffens before glaring at my
cousin's guard, the same scowling male who stayed behind in Yregar with
Sari as both protector and spy. It's not my cousin standing with him, and
instead, he escorts her handmaiden, Malia.
Ayron snickers under his breath, standing up from the stool to clap a
hand against the guard’s shoulder as the male gloats loudly. “I couldn't help
but come down and see it for myself—the mighty Savage Prince finally
where he belongs.”
More chuckles ring out, but I ignore them for Malia. She keeps her gaze
as far away from Gage as possible, but he stares at her, transfixed, carefully
taking in her face before he checks the rest of her body as if for wounds.
She’s a part-blood, the green hue of her skin a testament to her goblin
ancestry, and that alone could explain his interest, but I get a sickening
feeling in my gut.
As a bastard born of the regent, Malia is in a precarious position,
serving her half-sister; the regent never lets them live for very long. Malia
has perhaps survived the longest, as useful as she is demure and
subservient. She never looks at any high fae, her eyes permanently
downcast, and the regent seems to enjoy watching a part-blood female
crawl at her half-sister’s feet.
If this is the blessed mate Prince Gage is bound to by the Fates, then
she’s in far more danger than I first suspected… exponentially so if the
regent finds out.
Malia steps forward, her hand shaking as it comes closer to the iron
bars, but even as she flinches in pain, she doesn’t falter. Only when the
crisp bundle of paper tied neatly with an off-blue ribbon has been set
carefully on the stone next to me does the shaking female finally step back.
I share as much blood with her as I do with Sari and Airlie, and yet she’s
never once looked at me, nor have I pushed to speak with her, thanks to the
threat of her father.
We have the same color eyes; the true Celestial blue.
 Ayron jerks his head in her direction but Sari’s guard shrugs back to him
easily. “The princess is most distressed that her beloved cousin is ‘at odds’
with her father. The brainless little cunt hasn't figured out he’s on borrowed
time, and she’s been whining about coming down here. The regent shoved
her at the Ancient to shut her up. I can't wait until she's shipped to the
Northern Lands and I'm not stuck babysitting the overgrown brat anymore.”
Malia takes another step back with her head bowed until she stands at
the guard's side, hunched in on herself as though attempting to fade into his
shadow and disappear. Gage seethes at my side, finally staring at the guards
instead of the female, and I curse the Fates for being so cruel to us all.
When the guards finally finish swapping stories, Sari’s guard snaps his
fingers as he walks away, as if commanding a hound to his side.
The other guards all chuckle and murmur amongst themselves,
bolstered by the interaction, but I wait until the door swings shut before I
pick up the letter. The scent of Sari’s hand oil clings to the paper, filling the
cells with the light notes of cherry blossoms and oranges, and her
penmanship is just as airy as it swirls in azure tones.
Dearest cousin,
Rest assured that I’ve taken Rooke into my care and I’ll see that she’s
kept safe in your stead. She’s joining me and some of my good friends for
dinner tonight, and tomorrow we’ll tour the gardens together! Take heart; I
won’t leave her side, and no one would dare gossip about her in my
presence. I look forward to becoming the fast friends I promised Rooke we
would be. The Fates guide us all, Soren, remember that. Father is only
acting for the kingdom’s safety, and at the Fates command, this awful war
will be over with, and we’ll all live happily here in Yris together.
I let out alone frustrated a sigh and shove the papers back into the
envelope then toss it onto the cell floor next to me. I don't know what's
worse; the idea of going to dinner with anyone Sari proclaims a friend, or
the thought of my uncle selling off his only daughter to the Northern Lands
in payment for my throne.
Either way, the rage in Rooke’s heart makes far more sense to me now.

OceanofPDF.com
OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

Rooke
It takes some time to calm the turbulent grief that threatens to consume me.
I stand, one fist pressed against the closed door and my breaths ragged, until
my legs are steady beneath me once more. I wasn’t prepared to have old
wounds torn open like that, a passing comment treated as nothing more than
petty gossip by those whose hands drip with the blood of my coven.
In the decades after we arrived in the Northern Lands, Pemba would
often voice his burning need to hunt down the Betrayer and all who follow
him. He trained with single-minded determination and, with every new skill
he learned in the Sol Army, he would picture how he would use those skills
against the witches who dared murder the Favored Children.
My own motivations to learn the brutal arts of warfare came from
watching far too many soldiers die from the wounds of the Ureen, my focus
shifting from fleeing my own fate to keeping my new friends alive. If I'm
completely honest, I’d hoped that, if I saved enough lives, perhaps the Fates
would spare me and find a new path for me to walk. No matter what
impressive skills of swordplay I learned or how many I saved through the
knowledge of my departed coven, I was always motivated by my fear of
marrying the so-called Savage Prince.
 Why have the Fates given me this task when so many others crave
vengeance? Why must I be the one to look those witches in the eye and hear
their contempt for the covens and the forests? Haven’t I done enough,
haven’t I endured enough?
When the torment finally lifts enough that I can breathe once more, I
take stock of the room I’ve been shoved into and find I’m the only occupant
—thank the ashes for the Fates’ small mercies. With a large bed draped in
white silks and plush Celestial blue rugs at my feet, the room isn’t opulent
in its design, but housing me here clearly isn’t an act of aggression. There’s
a large bathroom, a fireplace, and even a small sitting area under one of the
large windows overlooking the rooftop, spanning as far as my eye can see.
Velvet curtains soften the walls, oak furniture brings warmth to the space,
and there isn’t a speck of dust to be found. The room is a welcome chamber
for honored guests.
But no amount of luxury can mask the cloying air of decay that blankets
Yris.
Knowing now that it's not just the regent and those high fae stupid
enough to follow him that pose a danger to me in this castle but
bloodwitches as well, I cast a shield around the room and take another
moment to collect myself. Soren and I have come too far, and have too
many lives depending on us, to stumble now. I know everything I need to
know about my Fates-blessed mate and the Unseelie Court, about the regent
and the Betrayer. I know what path the Fates have truly set me on and
though I came to the Southern Lands refusing the offers of aid, intent on
keeping all those I love out of yet another war, Baylor Fray cannot be left
unaccountable any longer.
A stack of wood sits inside the fireplace, conveniently ready for use,
and my gaze settles on the writing desk at the far end of the room, a small
ink pot sitting stark against the light oak wood. I’m across the room before
I’ve thought the act through, the large white quill unused but dipping into
the glass pot to take on the ink with ease, and a small white card set out as if
corresponding with other high fae via messenger is common here.
It takes me a few minutes to scrawl the bloodwitch’s name and his
crime onto that small card, not due to the space but for the pain those words
cause me when written so plainly. I step over and light the fire with my
magic, a small spark quickly consuming the wood. As I blow on the ink to
dry it, I think the message through one last time, but Soren’s words fill my
mind.
Your safety means more to me than every bloodline in the court
combined.
That statement is about to be tested, no doubt vigorously. With a deep
breath, I crouch over the fireplace and flick the card in, then watch as the
glow of the flame consumes the ink and its message and sends it on its way.
Burning brightly, the fire can’t compare to the scorching rage within my
gut.
I wait until every last scrap of the parchment has burned away, leaving
nothing but black ash, before I take another breath, my magic flowing
through the flames and connecting me to the land that welcomed me in my
hour of greatest need. Anger consumes my mind as I wait, but I let myself
feel it all, everything I desperately hid from for so long, just to be sure it
doesn’t eat away at my good senses. Finally, the crackle of magic breaks its
hold over me. With a soothing ripple of the air around me, a pulse of power
swirls the ashes of my card out of the direct heat and onto the tiled hearth,
dancing around slowly until they form words.
By the ashes, it’s done. To the gates, Æfanya.
My heart clenches violently in my chest, a lump forming in my throat as
I bend down to dash the words away before I grow too attached to them and
lose myself to memories of days long gone.
A knock on the door stops my descent into panic, my stance shifting
immediately into a defensive form as I stare across the room. My shield has
obscured my task from any who might have been watching me, but I flick
my hand at the fire to put it out before dusting the ashes away from myself.
I push through my shield a little for more information, but aside from the
two guards already standing by my door, there’s a lone female waiting
impatiently there.
As I cross the room, she knocks again, a quick pattern that speaks
volumes of her opinion of being left waiting. I’m tempted to turn around
and ignore her, but I came to this Fates-cursed castle for a reason. I’ve
chosen to call for aid, and this is the task lying before me now; petty games
are beneath me… mostly.
With a pulse of magic into the lock, the door opens with a sharp creak,
and the female has to step back hastily to avoid being hit by the solid oak
panels. I step under the arch of the frame and find a breathtakingly beautiful
high-fae woman staring at me with a carefully blank expression, dressed
entirely in the off-blue color that loudly proclaims her allegiance to the
regent. She’s Unseelie through-and-through, but there’s something alluring
about her, a beauty that outshines even the other high-fae royals of the
court. She holds herself with an ease I’m struggling to find for myself in
this cursed castle.
Though I take a moment to assess her, her gaze never moves from my
face, as though there's nothing about me that interests her. She was probably
present in the grand hall, watching on as Soren, Gage and I were escorted
in, but there’s something about her stare that digs beneath my skin. I have
no explanation for it, the Fates are silent underneath my scar, but I can’t
deny it.
When I raise an eyebrow at her silence, she finally speaks, her tone
sedate to the point of parody, though I don’t know who she’s mocking.
“Princess Sari would like to invite you to join her for dinner this evening, in
her chambers with a few of her dear friends. She’s been looking forward to
spending more time with her cousin’s Fates-blessed mate and is eager to
welcome you to Yris.” Her voice is as carefully controlled as her face, not a
speck of derision or disgust in it, but the guards behind her share a smug
look.
I raise an eyebrow back at her. “Is this an invitation… or a demand?”
Her face doesn’t change, but there’s a heavy pause before she answers,
“There are many within Yris desperate to find themselves dining at Princess
Sari’s table. It wouldn’t even occur to them to question her invitation.”
I nod back slowly. “I’m sure none of them are witches, or anything
other than high fae, nor are they in such a precarious position as I am.”
She nods her head slowly before tilting it and gesturing at the guards
without turning to face the males. “Princess Sari would never force her
beloved cousin’s Fates-blessed mate to join us, but no doubt her father
would hear of her disappointment.”
A warning or a threat, I don’t know, but I nod regardless. “I look
forward to joining you all.”
She nods and steps fully into my room, letting the door swing shut
behind her. My shoulders roll back in preparation for an attack, but she
looks around, as though assessing how I’ve spent my time so far. She
doesn’t spare the fireplace a second glance, and when she’s satisfied with
whatever her task was, she turns to me with a cold look on her face.
 “Much has changed in the court since you saw the Snowsongs’ little heir
safely into the world. A handful of high fae in Yris have already fallen
pregnant, but concerns still linger for the lives of their unborn children. Tell
me, witch, did you lift the curse only for those loyal to Soren, or will the
rest of the high fae be spared the horror of burying more infants torn from
our arms by your kind?”
I cock my head at her, my magic spilling out toward her instinctively,
but she's not talking about her own child, that much is clear. Now that she’s
out of the guards’ sight, she’s no longer hiding her disgust at being in my
presence, a vicious loathing roiling beneath her skin that shines clearly
through her eyes.
“Curious that you have bloodwitches housed within the castle, walking
freely amongst the high fae, and yet you come to question me. Any fae who
can wield magic could answer this question for you.”
Her lip curls upwards and her eyes flash with rage as she bites out her
answer, holding her temper by a thread. “Bloodwitches with ties to Kharl
Balzog, the very male responsible for the curse. Just answer me—can all
high fae birth live children, or just the Snowsong bitch?”
My temper thoroughly, I raise an eyebrow as her pretense slips away
and leaves behind a desperation that clings to her words. “Are you going to
introduce yourself to me? Coming here seeking my knowledge without
offering me a simple act of respect is deeply misguided. I don’t care what
bloodline you bear or how much influence you wield, I owe you nothing.”
She steps forward, her face a furious mask, and my stance widens
instinctively. My wrists flick upwards to part my sleeves at my elbows and,
though her eyes flick down toward the action, she doesn’t understand the
purpose and dismisses it easily. We stare each other down, rage coming off
her in waves. The tension builds until I’m certain there’ll be bloodshed,
only for another sharp knock on the door to cut through the seething silence
in the room.
Neither of us look away, and I assume she’s going to ignore the
interruption but, when one of the guards calls out a command to get
moving, her breath catches in her chest. My eyes narrow at her, but the
blank mask slips easily back over her face even as she shakes herself, as
though in her fury she forgot they were out there.
Shifting on her feet, she straightens her back and murmurs to me in a
controlled tone, “I'll see you to Princess Sari’s chambers.”
 She turns on her heel, her ferocity gone as the door opens and she nods
to each of the guards waiting there. She strides out of the room, not pausing
to see if I’m following, but it’s clear she doesn’t need to. When I stay still
and watch her leave, one of the guards steps toward me, clearly ready to
drag me should I refuse to go.
The never-ending hallway of white marble and bright fae lights digs
further under my skin now that I don’t have the bloodwitches to distract me.
It's too clean, coldly pristine and vacuous; I’d have gone insane living in
this place myself. Maybe this castle is the reason the regent has become
such a twisted male.
The female walks confidently ahead, ignoring the guards and I as we
follow her through the maze of marble, and I focus on memorizing the turns
we take so I have some hope of navigating this castle should it come to that.
When she turns sharply at the end of yet another expansive hallway and
we find a fae door, I scoff and mutter under my breath, “For fae with no
idea how magic works, you're awfully shameless about draining the
kingdom’s dwindling reserves.”
The female doesn't acknowledge I've spoken, despite the irate tremble
running through every syllable. Instead, she grasps a handful of my cloak
and steps through the fae door without hesitation. Despite my distance to
the threshold, the magic envelops me and casts me through alongside her.
I've never seen a fae door work so effectively, and my feet stumble
when we step out the other side, clumsy in my shock. The journey is
surprisingly less taxing than the others have been, as though there’s a river
of magic flowing between these fae doors and drifting down. The other fae
doors feel more like being cast into the ocean during a raging storm, nixies
clutching desperately at your ankles as they try to drag you under.
The female doesn’t wait for me to collect myself, turning on her heel yet
again and striding away, forcing me into a brisk pace to keep up. There are
no windows in this hallway, and the walls are carved stone rather than
marble. The air feels different here, not so thin, and it’s clear we're
somewhere deeper within the heart of the castle. The hallway opens into a
cavernous room, three times the size of Yregar’s Grand Hall, with dozens of
stalls set up and vendors calling out prices. The area is writhing with fae
folk, and as a bead of cold sweat runs down my spine, I take in the horror.
High-fae lords and ladies move around the market followed obediently
by their part-blood and lower-fae servants, their eyes downcast. Rows and
rows of supplies, food, and trinkets… it’s like nothing I’ve seen so far in the
Southern Lands. Nearby, a dressmaker measures a regal looking female, the
stall overflowing with reams of fabric in every color, though the regent’s
blue is prominently featured. A jeweler's cart has dozens of females
standing before it, fawning over new trinkets but, no matter how long I
stare, not a single coin changes hands. None of the vendors ask for
payment, they simply bag up whatever the high-fae request and bow their
heads.
My magic tucks tightly into my chest as though rejecting the scene, but
I force it out just to be sure of what I’m sensing. The moment it touches one
of the merchants, it recoils, snapping back toward me with sickening
despair. Dead but still functioning, the vendors are nothing more than
animated corpses.
The female keeps her hand on my cloak as she tugs me forward, her
own eyes staying steady ahead as though none of the horrifying show
before us registers with her. I struggle to bite back the bile creeping up my
throat, and I’m glad we skirt the edge of the market. If I were forced to
walk through it, I’d surely lose control of my magic and decimate this
horrifying room to bring those fae folk some peace.
Some of the male high fae call out, and the female turns to smile at
them, her face transforming. My breath stutters in my chest as the beauty of
the Unseelie hits me full force. She's stunning, heartbreakingly refined and
every inch the embodiment of high-fae beauty, but my skin crawls to see
her contrasted with the victims of immeasurable high-fae cruelty.
She leads me into a small alleyway, quiet and airy. I can imagine
children running down it, or sprites playing in the draft, but there's nothing
here; it’s as empty as those fae folk were. When we reach another fae door
at the end, I step through it willingly—anything to get away from the
marketplace.
When our feet touch solid stone once more, this time, mine are steady
beneath me. I find myself staring at a large oak door carved with the
Celestial family seal. There are roses painted around the edges of the frame,
vines curling between each bloom, and the brushwork is exquisite. I know
without a word being spoken that these are Princess Sari’s chambers.
The guards standing by the door open it without bowing, and when we
step forward, the guard standing inside the chambers calls out, “Lady
Loreth and the witch have arrived, Your Highness.”
 Glancing down at me, he quickly adds, “Prince Soren’s Fates-blessed
mate, that is, Your Highness.”
There’s murmuring and rustling from farther in the chambers, and I take
stock of the room as we wait. It’s filled with the sort of opulence that only a
spoiled child would choose, overbearing and gluttonous. Flowers cover
every surface, silk bows and plush velvets, there’s a soft feel here despite
the marble walls. The longer I look, the more riches I find, stacks of crowns
with diamonds and sapphires set within, dozens of necklaces cast over the
tables as if the princess was interrupted while choosing which one to wear
today.
Footsteps ring out on the marble, and the Fates dance beneath my scars
as the princess herself steps into the room, her eyes lighting up as they
focus on me. Her dress is different, the crown swapped out with a small
coronet, and she looks far more relaxed than she did in the grand hall only a
few hours ago, sitting before the blood-soaked scene.
The same vacuous smile graces her lips. “Rooke! I’m so pleased to see
you again, though I must apologize—I didn’t intend on sending Lady
Loreth to collect you. You must forgive my tactlessness. She was simply the
closest to your chambers, and I was impatient to see you. Father refuses to
move you any closer to me. He’s determined to keep you in our most lavish
chambers, so I suppose there’s no good to come from my demands.”
I'm not sure why sending Lady Loreth is such an insult, beyond her rude
manner, but I bow my head at Sari. “There’s nothing for you to apologize
for, Your Highness. Thank you for your kind invitation, I look forward to
dining with you.”
A delighted smile stretches across her lips, and she inclines her head at
me in return, the same way Soren does to those below his standing. It’s a
respectful gesture, one that only stands out further as she waves a
dismissive hand at Loreth without looking in her direction. The female
doesn't protest as she leaves, disappearing down another long hallway as
though chased by wraiths.
As the door swings shut behind her, Sari scrunches her nose at me. “I'm
so sorry, I didn’t want her to seek you out, but she insisted. She wanted to
speak with you because of her sister's pregnancy, and I was caught up with
errands for my father. I hope she wasn't rude to you.”
I give her a curt smile. “She wasn’t very forthcoming on why she was
asking about the curse, so I’m afraid I didn’t ease any of her fears. I'm not
eager to forgive people who speak unkindly of Airlie and her son in my
hearing.”
The cringe grows on Sari's face as she glances away from me, putting
on quite a show, though not for me. Twelve high-fae males line the walls,
her father’s loyal guards, and they stare at us both, none daring to blink or
glance away. I doubt there’s anything this princess does without an
audience and her father’s knowledge.
Sari steps closer to me, her voice lowering as though sharing a secret
despite the keen hearing of the high fae. “When Soren abruptly cut ties with
Lady Loreth, she was quite heartbroken and spent much of her time
imploring any of his household to aid her in regaining his attentions. No
matter what she tried, he wouldn’t speak to her and explain why he no
longer favored her company.”
My gut clenches violently, and I struggle to keep my reaction to her
words concealed. I should’ve expected this, but after admiring the refined
beauty of the female, it comes as an even greater blow. A steadying breath
does nothing to stop the roiling of my gut as Soren’s cold eyes flash through
my mind, the expression on his face when he first saw me at Port Asmyr
and recoiled. If the refined beauty of Lady Loreth is what my Fates-blessed
mate desires, then our marriage truly is cursed. Cursed.
I nod slowly to Princess Sari and force a smile of my own. “I
understand it can be difficult to navigate such fraught situations, but I swore
an oath to protect the Snowsong heir, and I intend on holding it, no matter
the cost.”
Sari looks down at our joined hands as though she can feel the strength
of an oath given by a Favored Child, but no Unseelie high fae could know
the honor the prince was bestowed. “What a blessing for Airlie and Roan to
have such protections that others can only dream of! Their son will surely
prosper under your care.”
Her fingers squeeze mine before they slip away and she takes a step
backward, toward the door Lady Loreth just disappeared through. “Shall we
make our way into the dining room? With all the fuss this morning, I
haven't found the time to eat and now I find myself famished!”
A flash of red splashed across the white marble floor plays in my mind,
but I smile back at her, easily slipping back into playing high-fae games.
“Of course, Your Highness. I'm eager to meet your friends and learn more
about the beloved cousin my Fates-blessed mate dotes on so eagerly.”
RATHER THAN THE large and ornately decorated space that I’m
expecting, Princess Sari leads me into a far more intimate dining room that
feels almost homey compared to what I’ve seen of the rest of the castle so
far. The table itself seats six, and while Sari places Lady Loreth at the other
end of the table from the two of us, it doesn’t do much to distance me from
the female’s angry gaze.
The other guests are high-fae nobles, a male and two sisters, and they
arrive dressed in all their finery. Both women wear intricate diadems across
their foreheads, elaborate silver filigree wrapped around precious jewels,
and stacks of bracelets that chime like bells as they move, whimsical and
fanciful. The careful way they all look and speak to one another, smiles full
of teeth and half-truths, makes my skin crawl.
“You were right, Your Highness, she’s quite lovely. What a curious
blessing for Prince Soren! To be placed on such a difficult path only to find
the Fates have sweetened the journey,” the male says, his voice dripping
with that same honey tone the regent uses that sets my teeth on edge.
Sari smiles at him, but her reply is far more cutting than I think even the
princess may realize. “That is awfully kind of you to say, Lord Harlan,
however I imagine it’s rather uncouth of you to discuss Prince Soren’s
blessings outside of his company, lest someone assume you’re coveting
them for yourself.”
He doesn’t heed the warning, chuckling under his breath at her as he
leers down the table at me. “I mean no harm, Your Highness, only that the
witch isn’t what any of us were expecting! When the court returned from its
last horrifying tour of Yregar, the rumors of her sent the entirety of Yris into
a frenzy, but I see now it was all baseless. It doesn't matter whose taste
we’re speaking of, she's certainly not part banshee, part wraith now, is she?”
The very idea of having to sit here listening to them all discuss the way
I look is unquestionably loathsome, doubly so with Lady Loreth at the
table. Do they all know she’s the true image of my Fates-blessed mate’s
taste, a female he chose to entertain rather than submitting to the Fates
demands, or am I spared that particular embarrassment? I can’t be sure, and
instead of letting myself dwell on the sinking feeling in my gut, I turn to
Sari with a smile as I incline my head to her respectfully.
“I appreciate your defense of my reputation, Princess Sari, but I’m not
offended, nor do I begrudge any high fae their curiosity, though I’m happy
to clear up any lingering confusion. Prince Soren is steadfast in his loyalty
to his people, and in his efforts to ensure the safety of his kingdom, I bore
the price of Kharl Balzog’s tyranny. Our shared fate has been a fraught
challenge for us both, but we’ve stayed true to the Fates’ demands. I harbor
no ill will toward him or any other in his household for my time in the
dungeons, only relief that I’ve proved myself to be honorable.”
The lady seated beside me hums under her breath as though thinking,
her smile a devious one. “What a stroke of luck for us all, a fae returned
from the Northern Lands just as our beloved princess is about to embark on
her own journey there! We can't help but be curious about the Seelie Court,
after meeting the Ancient.”
All the focus shifts to me, too sharp and too sudden for my comfort, and
the Fates begin to writhe under my scar at their scrutiny. Even Lady Loreth,
who was carefully watching Princess Sari, fixes her gaze onto me with the
ghost of a scowl across her brow. I lift my own glass to my lips, pushing my
magic into the goblet first to ensure I’m not about to be poisoned. The
regent will no doubt wait until my fate is complete, but the seething edge to
Lady Loreth’s eyes isn’t quite so reassuring.
I sip my drink slowly, aware of the potency of fae elixir, and smile over
the rim at the princess. “I’ve spent much time amongst the Seelie Court, and
I've met many fae folk of the other kingdoms within the Golden Palace. I
have many stories I'm happy to share, if it should ease the princess’s mind.”
The male at my side chuckles as the female, Lodyr, speaks, her tone
simpering. “Oh, there are no concerns for Princess Sari—to be betrothed to
such a male is a great honor. We've heard so much of the Sol Army’s High
Commander and his efforts in the war—the only match better would be the
Sol prince himself!”
I glance at Princess Sari, but her smile hasn't changed, even if she
shakes her head at the woman. “The Sol prince is still barely more than a
faeling! Rooke knows that better than anyone—she was the healer who
delivered him.”
Lady Loreth’s gaze snaps back to me, her obsession with this topic
unabating, and I smile sedately at them all. “Prince Bane is four years old,
far too young to be thinking of marriage, though by all accounts he’s a
perfect heir to the Sol bloodline.”
Harlan crunches through his appetizers, biting only a few of the
vegetables before placing the knife and fork over the remnants on his plate.
He’s happy to waste more than half of the fare, as though food has never
been a concern here. Even in the Seelie Court, such a thing would be seen
as distasteful after the long war and the efforts required to keep a kingdom
from starving.
“What do you know of the High Commander? Have you spoken to him
in your time in the Northern Lands? As the queen’s own healer, I'm sure
you must have. What can you tell us of this fabled male?”
Frustration pours from Lady Loreth but I answer the male with a
pleasant tone. “I was housed within the healer’s quarters of the Golden
Palace during my enlistment in the Sol Army and provided care to the entire
castle. There’s no fae I haven’t met—no commander, no royal, even the
Ancient.”
Lodyr’s eyes flash at me from across the table before she grins widely.
“What a curious position for Princess Sari! Her cousin has gifted her a
friendship with ties to her new home, a wondrous opportunity, but your
careful avoidance of the question fills me with fears of the male’s
disposition.”
I lift my glass again, watching her over the rim. Acting as though I’m
drinking deeply while barely taking a mouthful is a skill I perfected in the
Seelie Court decades ago, one I’ve often used to ensure my senses remain
clear and calm even while the high fae devolved around me. This dinner is
going to become a messy affair and with haste, I’m sure.
Setting the goblet down with a smile, I shrug back at her. “Moving to a
peaceful and prosperous kingdom after such a long war sounds far more
agreeable to me than being trapped under siege. I’m filled with relief to
know Prince Soren’s beloved cousin will soon be far away from the
bloodshed and horror that continues to ravage the Southern Lands.”
Their eyes all widen a fraction, as though they’d forgotten Kharl Balzog
and the misery his raving armies have wrought within the Southern Lands.
They’ve been languishing here in this unbearably cold castle of unmatched
beauty and horror, untouched and removed from reality.
Sari’s hand comes out to clasp mine on the table where they can all see
it. When I turn back to her, she gives me the same soft smile. “I have no
concerns about the marriage. I'm eager to see my fate fulfilled, as we all
should be, and I know that the Seelie Court is a lovely and welcoming one.
The letters from High Commander have been quite reassuring.”
I nod and squeeze her fingers gently. “It’s a heavy burden to bear, but
being able to submit to the Fates and do as they ask is a relief.”
Harlan looks between the two of us, not enjoying the moment of
recognition between us. Clearly having come to this dinner with plans of
unmasking some secret hints or cultivating his own rumors to spread, he
pokes at Princess Sari. “Well, we're not quite so sure of this path to your
fate, though, are we?”
There’s no sign of tension in her face, but I feel it in her fingers, to be
called out by him like this, but she smiles easily. “My father has reassured
me that the High Commander fits all the Fates’ requirements—he was sure
of it before he suggested the match. Even the Sol King is certain of our
obedience. He wouldn’t have given his blessing if there were any question.”
“I didn't realize fates were discussed so openly in the Unseelie Court.”
Sari glances back to me and picks up her napkin, then presses it against
her lips as though collecting herself, but even this is a careful act. “They're
not usually so widely known until a Fates-blessed union goes ahead, but my
fate has caused a stir in Yris for many centuries. Harlan enjoys a good
mystery. That's why we're friends, and there’s hardly a dull moment
between us.”
Harlan grins back to her, preening, but I think my own assessment of
Princess Sari’s words is far closer to the truth. She's enduring his meddling
for some other reason, and I’d guess it’s at her father's command.
Lady Loreth downs the last of her fae elixir in one gulp, sets the empty
goblet down, and taps the rim once with a single finger. Instantly, a servant
bustles to her side to refill it. All the servants move here without needing a
command, as though they wait at the threshold, terrified of causing delay. It
sickens me, though thankfully the fae here are still alive and whole. I
couldn’t stomach food if we were being served by the others, the deadened
shells of fae who defy the honorable wielding of magic.
“The Fates aren't always so clear, and even a blessed match isn’t a sure
sign of happiness or fulfillment... but no doubt Sari will fare well with such
a noble and impressive male at her side.”
“Is he noble though? He’s a powerful male, without doubt, but we've
shared our own concerns of warmongering princes and the destruction left
in their wake,” Lodyr murmurs with a smirk, glancing around at each of us
only to freeze when her gaze lands on the icy fury in my own eyes.
Watching as the smile on her face slips, my words are blunt and severe.
“When the monsters of the Fates arrived at the Sol City, High Commander
rode out to meet them. The soldiers of the last stand followed with no
thought for their own lives, or the torturous demise coming to them. Their
only concern was for the safety of the city and to defend all the fae folk
trapped within. I won’t sit here gossiping about any fae of that standing, and
certainly not for the sake of dinner entertainment.”
The table is silent, the high fae all filled with tension, as though waiting
for me to strike one of them with my magic. When I pick up my goblet of
fae elixir, happy to pretend I didn’t just lash out at their vapid
thoughtlessness, they slowly relax once more. With a trembling hand, the
female picks up her own napkin to press against her lips, though I'm sure
this action is far more truthful than Sari’s.
I lean forward to squeeze the princess’s fingers again, but she smiles
sedately back to me. “I don't need any more reassurances. The Sol King
spoke to Father directly and assured him that the High Commander was an
excellent match. Any male who could walk before a Ureen like that is
surely a male worthy of a royal marriage, even if he isn't the heir to his own
bloodline.”
It wasn't a lone Ureen; it was a hundred of them. But correcting her
would allow an opening for the screeching sound of the monsters that
echoes in my mind, and to lose myself right now, at this dinner table
surrounded by these high fae, would surely put my own fate at risk.
As a distraction from my thoughts, I turn to the princess. “Your fate
didn't tell you the name of your mate?”
She sighs, shaking her head with a rueful smile. “Unfortunately not. I’m
one of many Celestial-born high fae to be given a puzzle instead of a name.
That alone would be troublesome, but, much to my Father’s
disappointment, my fate was also clear that my mate wasn’t a firstborn
royal. Thankfully, the Fates know best for us all, and Father has been
delighted by their humbling. The High Commander, and the prestige he
bears, is a far preferable mate than some I feared to claim. If the male is as
noble and true as you say, I have no concerns.”
Thankfully the rest of dinner passes with less contentious topics, though
it’s still an arduous undertaking, thanks to the prying of the high-fae guests
drinking steadily throughout the night. When the empty plates of our final
meals are collected by the servants, Harlan is slurring every word as he
babbles incessantly about one of the guards who offended him at the last
banquet. The sisters hang on his every word, but Lady Loreth stares down
the table at the princess and I with cold eyes.
Sari barely touched her fae elixir over the courses of our meal, sipping
as slowly as I did, and she looks at each of her guests before finally
stopping on me. When she finds me staring back at her with clear eyes, she
stands and clasps her hands over her chest as though overtaken with delight.
“Thank you for joining us this evening, Rooke, it was an absolute
pleasure to host you. I’m hoping I can convince you to join me for some tea
in the gardens tomorrow? It’s a great joy of mine, and I’m looking forward
to showing you the flowers we have growing there. It's been so long since
you were last in the Southern Lands, and Yregar is barren. I hope to prove
to you that our noble kingdom still has beauty within it.”
I stand with her, a tight smile on my face, but before I can accept her
invitation, Lady Loreth scoffs and mutters furiously, “While the Unseelie
Court all desperately cling to their seats and their lives, Princess Sari enjoys
tea in the gardens and growing her collection of jewels. Whatever are you
going to do in the Northern Lands if your new husband isn't prepared to
pander to your every whim?”
Sari’s face stays the same pleasant mask, but she pauses for a moment
too long to truly be unaffected. The jab is far more cutting than the female’s
other comments to Sari this evening, the fae elixir loosening her tongue
enough to let her frustrations spill out. Though Lady Loreth's accusations
aren't too far from the truth, I feel protective over Sari in a way that doesn’t
quite add up, but the Fates’ writhing under my scars has never led me
wrong before.
“I’d love to join you, Princess Sari, thank you for your kind offer. If it’s
not too much of an imposition, would you mind walking me back to my
room? Today’s journey was taxing, but I’m reluctant to say goodnight.”
Sari’s smile brightens once more, and she nods to me eagerly. She
barely bids her friends farewell, holding out her arm for me to take as she
guides me through her chambers. None of the guards from the dining room
follow us, but three others are waiting at the door and walk two steps
behind us as we make our way through the hallways.
 I'm curious at the absence of her handmaidens. Malia was always with
her when they stayed at Yregar, but I’m mindful of the guards behind us
and keep my curiosity to myself for now. We walk down yet another
seemingly endless corridor, only this one has dozens of beautifully painted
doors.
When she notices my interest in them, she smiles at me. “These are the
chambers put aside for my family after my parents married. My father no
longer resides here—instead he’s making use of the King's Chambers while
he’s serving in Soren’s stead—but we both saw fit to keep me here instead.
It’s all rather complicated and messy.”
The way she talks around such large issues with ease is a thing to be
marveled at, and no matter how childlike she may seem, there’s a
competent manner about her. She may very well be the greatest source of
information I have access to in this castle, and for Gage’s Fates-blessed
mate, I’m certainly willing to do far more than simply befriend this high-fae
princess.
"Prince Soren told me that you’re quite adept in languages, a skill we
share. I haven't met someone with such a firm grasp on a wide variety since
returning to the Southern Lands.”
Her eyebrows rise quickly and her smile deepens far enough that I see
the smallest of dimples in her cheeks, a tell that perhaps this smile is the
first real one I've seen from her. “I guessed that you'd be able to speak the
Seelie tongue even before you spoke with the Ancient, but I didn't know
there were more. Which others? Oh, how exciting!”
I cover my shock at her exuberance with a smile. “I have as many as
you do, fluently, and scraps of others. I’m well-versed in the old language,
the goblin tongue, Dragul… have you heard of Nautal? I learned that some
time ago.”
Her eyebrows rise again, the look of shock on her face as she grasps my
hand and turns to me, even as we continue walking. “I've never met
someone who can speak Nautal! I know a little, only from what the books
in the library could teach me, and by all accounts, the language is lost to all
but those who live in Elfenden.”
I nod back to her. “I met some fae folk from Elfenden. They traveled a
very long way to help with the Fates War, and I helped the two of them heal
from very old wounds. Ravenswyrd witches don't accept payment, but they
insisted on dining with my brother and I each time they returned to the
Golden Palace with their battalions. Over a few decades of sharing meals,
they taught me the language.”
She sighs, a sound full of wistful longing. “I’d love to speak it with you,
if you’re happy to share it with me? It’s been so hard to learn the
pronunciation from the old texts, I’m never certain if I’m getting it right,
and I moved on to something else in my frustrations.”
I nod, giving her a considering look. “What language are you working
on now? Soren says you can speak eleven fluently, a considerable
achievement. He speaks of your accomplishments with great pride, you
know, and the honor you bring to your family name.”
She stares at me for a moment, eyes a little too rounded, but her feet still
move steadily.
We reach the entrance to the first fae door on the journey back to my
rooms, and one of the regent’s guards opens it with a deep bow to the
princess, his eyes never shifting in my direction.
“I didn’t think Soren would ever speak favorably of me. I know he cares
for me, the same way he cares for all high fae, but he mostly puts up with
me. My father often puts him in a position where he has to endure my
presence while dodging attempts to smear his name and yank the throne out
from under him, so I don’t blame him for his.”
It takes me a moment to realize she’s slipped into the language of the
Nautal and that her grasp of it, as well as the pronunciation, is far better
than she was ever alluding to. I blink at her, too shocked for the ruse we’re
supposed to be keeping up, and she sees the slip before her guards do,
covering for me seamlessly. Her gaze drops away from mine, her shoulders
drooping a little, and she casts a bashful look at the males escorting us
through the endless hallways.
“I'm so sorry, Rooke, it seems my pronunciation is as terrible as I
feared. I always learn to introduce myself first, no matter the language, but
it seems I’ve butchered the niceties. Thank goodness you’re not a traveling
princess, insulted by my first attempts and our kingdoms’ alliance now lost
through my incompetence.”
I’ve watched the high fae lie to one another dozens of times, an art I
was taught by the same high-fae prince who taught me to ride a horse. In
the forest, where healing and traditions are revered above all else, a
Ravenswyrd witch would never have learned the careful way of speaking
only the truth but never directly. Where my coven would falter, the high fae
thrive as they circle each other in an intricate dance, finding all the ways to
say something between words and bring meaning to those unspoken.
My own smile doesn’t reach my eyes and I squeezed her hand gently.
“No harm done, Princess, I’m happy to be of service to you. Pronunciation
is always the most difficult part of learning a language so different to our
mother tongue, but I'm sure with some guidance you’ll fare well.”
A new light shines in her eyes as she steps toward the fae door, ignoring
the males standing around it. “If you don't mind, Rooke, I’ll keep hold of
your hand as we walk through to ensure we end up where we’re supposed
to be going. There are dozens of fae doors within the castle, and I’d be
distraught if you got lost while under my care.”
When I nod, she smiles brightly and takes the lead, guiding me to step
through the ash arch. The magic pulls at us both, her fingers firm on my
arm, and when we step back out into another hallway I don’t recognize it
but as the guards follow us through, they show no signs of concern with the
direction we’re heading. The Fates still thrum insistently within me, just as
they have since I arrived at Yris, and I take a steadying breath, reminding
myself that I’m on the right path.
Sari squeezes my fingers gently before letting them drop. “It was a great
embarrassment to misstep so terribly with the Ancient today. I’m desperate
to never make a mistake like that again. I don’t want to bring shame to my
father or our family.”
She speaks slowly in Nautal once again, but her accent is perfect and a
small grammatical slip doesn’t hinder the meaning of what she’s saying. It’s
another small offering, a test of my ability to deceive the guards and speak
more openly. I refuse to stumble again.
I murmur praises to her and small critiques, ones that are true but have
nothing to do with the actual words she’s speaking. It’s a messy,
complicated way of communicating but effective as she slowly begins to
slip more to me. When we turn down another hallway, the area becomes
more familiar to me, and I see we’ve come from another direction but will
still arrive at my rooms. Sari sees we’re running out of time and, confident
the flow of our conversation will hide her message, she finally speaks
plainly to me for what I’m certain is the first time.
“Father is going to kill Soren after you’re wed at winter solstice. We
need to get you both out of here.”
 Plain and clear, she makes no attempt to soften her words. This isn’t the
ignorant female Soren has claimed his cousin to be. I smile sweetly to her,
murmuring more pronunciations under my breath knowing well the guards
listen to every syllable from our lips but they don’t show any signs of
understanding her desperate message.
I offer Sari more praises and weave my answer to her into the false
lessons. “We’re here for a female—one of great importance. I wish to offer
her my protection.”
Sari stares at me for a moment, long enough that I’m afraid the guards
will notice, before she makes a frustrated noise under her breath and scrubs
a hand over the lace in her chest for a second, muttering under her breath
about how difficult certain syllables are. She’s heart-wrenchingly good at
this game, doubtless centuries of playing it under her belt, and I can’t help
but wonder how different the princess is to the performance she’s forced to
act out each day.
She’s forced to split her reply into parts, waiting on my critiques, but the
Fates scream within my gut with every line murmured to me. “Whoever
you intend on giving your protection to, I’ll find them for you. I'll bring
them to Soren and get you all out of Yris before it's too late.”
At my door, she grasps both of my hands in hers with a warm smile, but
her eyes are a little too tight to believe she’s truly happy. “I’m grateful that
you’ve been so kind as to help me, Rooke. Father does find it useful when
I'm able to translate for him, and I strive to always be an obedient
daughter.”

OceanofPDF.com
OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

Soren
When Ayron finally leaves the dungeons, the stoic formation of the other
guards eases and the air grows thick with their satisfaction. As they share
smug looks, they begin to speak openly about their treachery to the true
Celestial bloodline, all pretense now gone.
Their frivolity doesn’t last long, drying up the longer Prince Gage and I
ignore their antics. The mood shifts into confusion as we sit in our cells
staring blankly at the worthless males, and then it distorts into gall that
we’re not giving them the satisfaction of our anger or madness. None of
these gutless males is worth a single word, but they’ll all fall to the
retribution building within me.
I don't know what thoughts the goblin prince entertains to pass the time,
but I refuse to be idle or to ignore Rooke’s fears about my magic. My power
is returning to me in a slow trickle, and I refuse to fail my Fates-blessed
mate any further. After seeing Gage’s reactions to my paltry efforts at a
sound barrier, her urgency becomes my own, and I determine to strengthen
my control before the full extent of it returns. It’s deceptively easy to reach
out to my magic; I’m growing accustomed to the feel of it and its demands,
although when I test the boundaries of my control, I find the task far more
difficult.
 Namely, my magic ignores me. Only a few hours ago, it answered my
call easily, but now it wallows within my chest as though sulking, no
urgency to force its submission. I wouldn’t take that well in times of peace
but, now, trapped in this cell with Rooke at the mercy of my uncle’s
tyranny, I’m forced to wrestle with my own temper before I try again.
Painstakingly slowly, I coax it into flowing through my limbs at my
command, and I practice until directing the power at my will becomes
seamless. Then, impatient and arrogant as ever, I decide to test my control
and almost blow a hole in the dungeon wall.
The plan is simple enough; to think of something that truly enrages me
while I hold my magic firmly, only Norok‘s drawling comments about
Rooke flash into my mind unbidden, and the very suggestion of that male,
or any other, touching my Fates-blessed mate loosens my grip on my magic.
I spiral into a maelstrom of chaos as I wrest it back into the deepest pits
within myself.
In the cell next to mine, Gage turns to stone, my senses sharp enough to
sense him even with my eyes screwed shut, but I ignore his alarm as I fight
to keep the power within my grasp. With every passing minute, I slip closer
to the edge of oblivion but, finally, I get the magic stored away once more.
With a deep breath, I share a glance with Gage before I return to smaller
feats of practice.
As hours of this work drag on, fatigue begins to eat at me, but I refuse
to sleep without knowing Rooke is safe. I can feel her through our
connection, clearer now than ever before, and though she hasn’t tried to
contact me, I know she’s awake and her magic barrier is cast. Shields are
her strongest gift, and I’ve witnessed the power she wields, so this should
ease me, but it doesn't, not at all.
As the evening stretches on, the high fae in the other cells hunch into
themselves to get some sleep, and the sounds in the room finally whittle
down to beating hearts alone. Even Gage lets his eyes slip shut, though I
can’t be sure that he sleeps; I’ve never heard a sleeping goblin’s heartbeat
before.
When the changing of the guard happens, a sure sign of midnight, and
Rooke is still awake, a pulse of dread works through my blood. I push at
our connection, and satisfaction swells in my chest when she instantly lets
down the wall between us to speak to me.
Are you okay?
 I send back a surly feeling, frustrated at her calm tone while I’m
consumed by thoughts of her. I'm sure the path of our shared fate would be
far smoother if I could soften my edges for her, but she only sharpens them,
taking me to new heights with every interaction until I’m sure the drop will
kill me.
Why aren’t you sleeping?
This ruffles her more than I was expecting. It’s not anger at my tone or
frustration that I’m making demands of her again, but the emotion that
churns within her is so foreign to me that I can’t put my finger on it until
she finally answers. I’ll dream of horrors. I can hold my shields even
asleep, but wielding magic while I’m… in that state is not wise.
She’s embarrassed.
Stronger and more capable than anyone I’ve ever met, she still feels icy
shame at her terror and sense of helplessness, though she’s the first to
defend others grappling with traumas. This should be enough for me to ease
up on her, but, ashes curse me, I always want more from her.
Why you are so sure that you’ll dream? Because you're alone in your
chambers, or has something else happened? Was it the Ancient?
She’s slow to answer—slow enough that I prepare to pry it out of her,
but then finally she says, After the regent was done with his games, the
witches who used their magic against you saw me back to my rooms. One of
them admitted he was amongst those who deceived the Ravenswyrd
Forest… and murdered my coven.
It takes me a moment to register her words, then it tears through my
body like an act of the Fates themselves and a sickening realization with it;
my Fates-blessed mate is alone and unprotected in this nightmarish castle
with a witch responsible for the massacre of her family and the rest of the
Favored Children.
My rage overwhelms every one of my senses and tests my newfound
control to its limits, my chest seizing as fury burns through me. When the
blinding white finally recedes from my vision and my anger simmers back
down to a manageable level, I find that not only is Gage staring at me once
again but I’ve also caught the attention of the guards. Ignoring the frantic
murmuring of our captors, I shake my head at the goblin prince, unable to
give him an explanation in case it reignites my anger.
What did they say to you, I demand the moment I'm sure that whatever
her answer is, it won't have my magic leveling the entire castle.
 She’s quiet again, her pause long enough that sure I must've misstepped
again, but when she finally answers me, her words are softened with an
affection I’m not sure I deserve but crave desperately.
He threatened me, but it was nothing more than what I’ve heard before.
He also told me more of your uncle's plans—a knife in each hand, ready for
the backs of allies and enemies all the same, but I'm not sure either of us
was expecting anything different.
I certainly wasn't. Turning away from Gage, I stare at the ceiling where
the orange glow of the torches flickers and enjoy her presence even when
there are no words spoken between us. When the silence stretches on, she
begins to retreat. Whether she thinks I want her to leave or needs the space
herself, I don't know, but I push a wordless demand at her to stay put. I’m
prepared to argue with her until she relents, but she instantly moves back to
me in a way that steals my breath.
Tell me something, croí, a long story. There are many hours left until
dawn.
She hesitates, and I sense her carefully tamping down her shock, then
says, You don't need to stay awake with me, Soren. One of us should be well
rested.
Is there any way for me to keep the connection open between us while
you sleep?
She hesitates again. I don’t know. Maybe if we had more experience in
using the connection, but I can’t be sure.
I settle back into position, rolling my shoulders, but it does nothing to
ease the tight muscles. Sending her feelings of contentment and calmness, I
push at our connection to see what else I can sense through it and, though
she’s surprised at my presumption, Rooke shows me exactly where she is.
Curled up in one of the seats in a guest room in the king’s wing, shoes off
and cloak tucked tightly around her. I’d prefer her to be comfortable and
lying on the bed, but if she’s so concerned about falling asleep and the
nightmares overtaking her, this is tolerable.
I can feel her amusement at my assessment, the quiet way my surly
action pleased her, and I push at her again, a demand to be sure she survives
this night without more horrors to carry on her heavily burdened shoulders.
Tell me how you think we should fix the kingdom, croí. You said the
witches have suffered under the Celestial rule—tell me how, and what
changes should be made. The more complicated, the better.
 Shock floods our mind connection, but it’s no use feeling frustrated or
angry that she wasn’t expecting me to care about the witches, should they
ever return to the Southern Lands. My father ignored them, as did my
grandfather before him, and every other Celestial king for countless
generations. Her desires are simple—to restore the kingdom and aid all
those within.
Slowly at first, then with that reverence that fuels her endlessly, Rooke
explains the rites and rituals that once sustained the magic of the Southern
Lands, the agreement of the First Fae to uphold their duties, and where the
high fae have abandoned those duties. She describes the chasm we’ve
wrought within the earth, the way it screams in pain at our feet, and how
that pain had fractured the covens of this kingdom and made way for Kharl
Blazog’s seduction to take root. As the hours pass, I’m enraptured by her
vast knowledge and question her rigorously, enjoying the way she meets
every challenge with humble confidence.
As the sun begins to rise, Rooke sends me an image of it through her
window, a queasy feeling in her gut at the reminder of how high we are, and
she finds my command to sit back down immediately highly amusing.
When the high fae begin to rouse around me, Rooke sighs and sends
through her feelings of reluctant acceptance, saying that she needs to shut
off the connection to prepare for the day ahead.
I’m attending a high tea with Sari and some of her friends. I’ll be
working on getting us out of here, Soren, but don’t worry about me for now.
I’ll come to you the moment I can.
I let out a breath but, before I can warn Rooke of my cousin’s childish
temperament, she continues, The regent is playing an intricate game, sure
of the board, but he’s oblivious to half the pieces on it. He’s quite sure that
he alone holds power while the rest of us are merely pawns. I’ve sent word
to the Northern Lands—your cousin will be safe within the High
Commander’s household, and her father will learn the power he plays with
isn’t so easily seduced.
It’s difficult not to let my reaction to her words show on my face or
overwhelm our connection, but she’s so guarded about her time in the Sol
Army that I know very little, only tiny scraps of information that drive me
mad. You know the male?
Her mind empties out, all the warmth of our evening together
dissipating as though smothered in ice, and I’m instantly furious at its loss.
Her reply is detached, a monotone delivery as though the mere mention of
him is enough to thrust her back into the nightmares that haunt her.
I once lived within that household. It’s the one I left to return here for
our fate.
It hits me like a bolt of lightning from the Fates themselves, rending my
soul in two and fracturing every idea I’ve ever had about my witch-mate.
Torn in half.
My eyes fly open, my chest locking on instinct to trap the gasp that
threatens to tear free. There are hundreds of high fae within the dungeons,
their keen hearing no doubt taking note of every skip of my heartbeat, and
I’ve betrayed my Fates-blessed mate enough with my callous treatment of
her. No matter how thoroughly I’ve been rocked by her admission, I cannot
blow this iron cage to pieces. I can’t hunt her down, killing every guard and
treacherous fae who crosses my path, just to search her body for evidence to
confirm I’m right, no matter how desperately I need it.
The High Commander of the Sol Army lead the battalion known as the
ten-twenty-one, the fae who have come to be known as the soldiers of the
last stand. While the Seelie fae sought refuge within the Golden Palace, a
single battalion rode out to defend the castle against last of the Ureen,
prevailing against all odds though the toll was horrific. Of the full battalion
who rode out, only six soldiers survived the final battle, each of them
gravely wounded.
Only fae who could cast the unmaking served under the High
Commander.
It’s a concerning insight to the terror tucked within her mind that Rooke
doesn’t feel anything through the connection, or maybe she doesn’t register
it, but she’s silent and immovable while I collect my wits. I need to get her
out of here, and quickly. By the Fates’ fickle mercies alone, Rooke has
already stumbled upon Gage’s mate and begun her rescue from the regent.
I’m relieved, croí, and grateful you’ve offered aid to Sari. I suspect
Prince Gage’s mate is Malia, Sari’s half-sister who serves as her
handmaiden, and so long as they’re traveling together, their safety is
assured. Now we must focus on getting out of Yris—time may be working
against us, but the Fates are on our side.
A ripple runs through her mind, my words pulling her out of her blank
state. The regent plans on killing you before the solstice. Whatever his plans
are for completing our fates, he’s moving swiftly and we only have a
manner of days.
How she discovered that, I can’t guess, but I push my reassurance
through to her as my eyes squeeze shut. We’ll be long gone by then, croí.
On our shared fate, I swear it to you.
If Malia’s life is no longer in imminent danger, then my time of sitting
quietly in this cell is over and I have a dozen options to get out of this
cursed castle, requiring only a plan and my Fates-blessed mate to follow my
directions.
Rooke is silent, and the warmth slowly returns to our connection as she
thaws from the cold grips of her mind. As open as we are to each other now,
I feel the range of emotions she experiences as she works through
something. When her reply finally comes, it’s hesitant.
What will the regent do to the high fae in the cells if we leave them
behind?
My eyes open, and I find the guards staring at me as they did the entire
night. They’ll slowly rot and die down here. The regent has no intention of
letting any of them out. He doesn't care about the Unseelie Court and the
laws anymore, he cares only for satisfying our fate just far enough that he
can keep the throne.
She pauses, then she asks cautiously, Is there enough room at Yregar for
them all, if we can somehow free them?
Not a single one of these high-fae royals and nobles have given a Fates-
filled fuck about witches, or the fae folk outside of their own households.
After a night of listening to all the ways the high fae have failed the
kingdom, I have to take a deep breath before I can speak to her the way she
deserves.
None of them deserve such an honor.
She lets out a wry chuckle. I'm not sure any of them will find enduring a
witch’s company an honor.
In a dark tone, I send back to her, The honor is your consideration—
your company is out of the question, and any who request it will meet a
violent end.
THE MOMENT one of Sari’s attendants comes to escort her to the garden
tea party, Rooke closes the connection between our minds. Despite her
reassuring me that she’ll contact me if anything happens, I’m on edge the
moment the mental wall slides into place, and the Fates writhe in my chest
in what feels like protest at our separation. With every heartbeat, my
agitation grows, until finally Gage catches my attention, stretching out what
little the cage allows.
As he flexes his fingers, he murmurs in the goblin tongue, but I catch
only part of his meaning. “The Fates weave before us… we’re not spending
another night here.”
The day passes like an itch over my skin, crawling slowly as it eats
away at my sanity. I’ve gone days without sleeping while facing Kharl
Balzog’s raving armies, but in the maelstrom I didn’t have time to get lost
in my own thoughts. Even keeping watch for days on end isn’t as torturous
as staring endlessly at the same sneering faces. How in the ashes Rooke
survived weeks of this treatment is beyond me, and I can’t figure out why
my Fates-blessed mate hasn’t taken a swing at me for it at the very least.
The doors open, but when no footsteps or heartbeats signal a changing
of the guards, a ripple runs through the room. I wait for a murmur or hand
signal between them for some command. When there’s nothing, I share a
look with Gage through the bars. The frustration and blankly bored look
that he’s worn all day is gone, replaced by bloodlust etched into the curl of
his lip that speaks to how ready he is to carve these males to pieces.
From beyond the dungeon comes the tell-tale rushing sound of the fae
door there, and the rippling murmur of the prisoners curious about what’s
going on cuts off instantly, silence overtaking the dungeon. The air becomes
drenched in terror, but they’ve been conditioned to hide their reactions in
this tomb of a castle and, as if by command, their heartbeats all slow to
keep time with the approaching footsteps: thump, thump, thump.
Gage pulls himself upright as far as the mesh of iron running over his
head will allow, his eyes narrowing and his head cocking before he turns to
give me a severe look. I don't need to focus on the details; my uncle’s gait
and the sounds he makes as he moves were seared into my memory when I
was a faeling. I don’t recognize the males walking with him, but there are
four, all of them shorter than him and, by the sounds of the robes they’re
wearing, they’re witches.
When they round the corner together, I’m proved right.
 I’m struck by the red witch marks on their faces—I’ve only seen red
and white before. They’re dressed much like my Fates-blessed mate, though
their robes are in far worse condition and their boots are of Unseelie-fae
design. Two of them are related, I’d wager, while the other two don’t show
any similarities other than the color of their witch marks.
There’s no raving madness in their gazes, and no sign of the blackened
spittle of Kharl Balzog’s foot soldiers; these males pledged their magic to
the Betrayer willingly.
As they approach our cages, smirking, I reach out to Rooke and press
against the wall between our mind connection. She lets it down almost
instantly, her concern bleeding through, and I don’t waste time with
explanations. My magic pulses underneath my skin in a demand for release
that I hold back for now.
Pulling my Fates-blessed mate further into my mind, I show her the
scene before me by instinct alone. Which male threatened you? Was it just
one, or were they all involved?
She hesitates, taking note of the dungeons and the conditions we’re
being kept in, before she murmurs, None of these males are Baylor. They
taunted me with him, but he was the only witch to admit to killing my coven.
Taunted you? What did they say?
She sighs, the sound as clear across the mind connection as if she were
standing in front of me. A lot of prejudiced bullshit about covens that you
wouldn’t understand but that says a lot about any witch who believes it.
Baylor was the one who said he looked forward to having a complete set of
Ravenswyrd witches dead at his hands, and he’s not with the males there.
I don't care which male it was; any witch who stands with my uncle is
complicit with the Betrayer, and they’ll all die. For what they’ve taken from
my Fates-blessed mate, I hope to make it a particularly violent death.
“Oh, Soren, what a sight to behold—the Savage Prince brought to heel.”
My gaze finally moves from the witches to my uncle as he comes to a
halt before my cell. The guards are all bowing deeply to him, hands clasped
over their chests as they hold the position. It’s an act of complete
submission, one that he’s consuming gluttonously with a gleam to his eyes
that feels perverted. He makes them stay like that for far too long,
unblinking as he stares at me as though their display is something to gloat
over.
It sickens me.
 He barely flicks his hand to dismiss them all, but the guards straighten
and take up watch again, their gazes on every inch of the dungeons. The
witch at the front of the others steps forward and I feel his magic pour out
of his chest to weave around the bars until it surrounds the regent and my
cell while cutting everyone else out, the witches and Gage included. The
sound of heartbeats trained to keep a pattern and the grinding of Gage’s
teeth cease instantly as the barrier solidifies and conceals.
My uncle walks to the edge of the iron bars where the stool Ayron sat on
still stands, the layers of finery he drapes himself in swishing loudly
underneath his cloak. He and Sari both always sound as though they’ve
dipped themselves in a dragon’s hoard, jewelry chiming like bells as it rubs
together, but that’s the exact purpose. My uncle enjoys displaying every last
Celestial family heirloom as a taunt, a reminder that he can take everything
from me if he so chooses.
Rooke’s disgust ripples in my mind, and I remind myself that he can’t
take everything, not anymore.
“You’ve aided me greatly by appearing here without contest, Soren,
surely the Fates are smiling down upon me! I knew you’d have to come
back to Yris if you truly intended to marry that witch of yours, but I was
expecting some trials, at least. This seems a little too easy, some might say.”
I keep my breathing steady and my face blank, allowing no reactions to
feed into his perverted games. He’s building up to something, laying out his
pieces and coaxing me into the torture of his design. Playing along only
heightens his satisfaction when he lands the killing blow. I give him
nothing, but it doesn't matter; even that draws a smirk from his lips, and I’m
reminded that he looks far too much like my father. I usually avoid thinking
about it.
“The witch is something else, though, isn't she? We weren’t expecting
that from a female out of the forest of madness. I’ve had many witches in
my time—they taste different than the high fae. I'm sure you're already
addicted to the feel of caged magic beneath you, bending for you, and now
you’ll never go back to your own kind.”
My mind hollows out completely, and it’s only when calming waves roll
through me that I realize Rooke’s listening to my uncle speak of her like
that, and the void of my mind shifts into a a burning, reckless need to give
him a violent death. She murmurs reassurances to me of how little this
male’s words concern her, that his derision for her coven is disgusting but
not unusual and she’s accustomed to ignoring it. That doesn't help my
temper, but I hold it together for her.
A new light shines in his eyes. “Oh Soren, what has the witch done to
you? I can see you’re holding back your temper by the skin of your teeth,
but you’ve finally learned some restraint. I thought claiming the throne for
myself would be as simple as leaving you to kill the witch yourself, Fates
be damned, and yet…here we are.”
Speaking so casually about defying the Fates, my uncle doesn't seem
concerned about the consequences as he leans forward to stare at me. “It's
been a very long and winding path to arrive here, nephew, and not just for
you. For some time, I was unsure how I would cleave the kingdom out of
Kharl Balzog's grip. Mitigating the numbers of his armies is a loathsome
prospect, we can both agree on that, but your stagnant fate aided that as
well. With every year that passed, dissent has sown in the Witch Ward. It
was easy enough to find witches itching to break free of his command.”
He looks down at the rings on his fingers, the Celestial seal my father
once wore catching in the light of the lanterns as he rubs a finger over it.
“Sari has always been a good trading piece. It was simple enough to find
someone within the Sol King’s court to wed her. Finding a male high
enough to ensure an unbreakable allegiance who fit her fate was a far more
difficult task but, even then, the Fates have smiled upon me. My daughter
was given some fluidity rather than a name. The witches all talk about the
Fates as though they’re an intricate tapestry, countless threads weaving
together to create the picture of our kingdom. It certainly seems they favor
my design.”
The smirking tilt of his lips digs under my skin just as he hopes but,
when the violent clenching of my teeth is my only reaction, he pushes
harder. “Your Fates-blessed mate has been an interesting obstacle to
navigate. I was merely looking for an appropriate way to kill her, but with
every messenger who arrived at my door from the Northern Lands, the
more glorious her fables became and the higher her value climbed. I've been
warned at every pass that harming her is a death warrant, not just for me but
for the entire Unseelie Court. How much of your blessed little witch’s past
do you know, Soren?”
It’s a carrot dangled before me, and Rooke doesn't utter a word or send
me anything; she sits and she waits. I can't hide my frustrations from her,
but I don’t push them at her either. This isn’t the time or place.
 When I don't speak, the smirk on my uncle's face grows. “I hope you
enjoy the dungeon, nephew. I hope the iron bars caging you make your skin
crawl as I drag that witch back to the Northern Lands. Back to her brother, a
witch whose acts of war are so renowned that to look upon his sister with
anything but respect is a death sentence. These aren’t just hollow threats
either, Soren, the Sol King excused the male of treason for killing a Seelie
prince on her behalf. To think the mate you tossed in a dungeon has
garnered such considerable favor in the Seelie Court that even the High
Commander has made it clear he wants her home.”
The regent leans forward and watches my jaw clench so hard that my
teeth almost crack. “It took quite some convincing to get the male to accept
my proposal that he wed Sari and fulfill my list of demands, but I
discovered his greatest weakness… can you guess? Surely, you must. He
longs for that witch, nephew, desires her so greatly that he offered to secure
me a legion of soldiers to ensure she’s returned to him. In fact, he accepted
my daughter as his bride only if the witch came, too. Curious that you
should bring her back at just the right time… it’s almost as if he’s calling
her home.”

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 CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

Rooke
Without any sleep to soften my fury at her father’s twisted games, sitting
with Sari now in one of the many gardens of Yris is almost too much to
bear. Soren’s seething anger still claws at the wall between us, but when I
was summoned to the gardens I had no choice but to close our connection.
From across the table, the cold gaze of the Ancient keeps my head clear and
my focus where it needs to be. The table is filled with dozens of high fae
loyal to her wretched father, and a decadent spread of pastries and sweet
treats is set out before us all. The tea is pleasant enough, though with no
effects that could ease the storm brewing within my heart.
“Honestly, it's such a barbaric language! I don't understand why you
could possibly find interest in it.”
I glance at the woman speaking, a fan in her hand that is entirely
unnecessary with the chill of the oncoming winter in the air, but she waves
it as a form of performance to add weight and drama to her stories. Lady
Loreth lifts a cup of tea to her lips, ignoring the female while the male at
her side stares longingly at the beauty, not even attempting to hide how
much he desires her. A lot of the males at the table do the same, though I
can't blame them.
 “Considering I’ve spent some time this morning reading over the laws
of the goblin lands, the accords, and mountains of historical correspondence
to aid my father in his diplomatic efforts with the Goblin King, I’d say that
my interest in the language is certainly useful, even if it's beyond your
understanding,” Sari says primly as she refills my cup.
Setting it before me, she wears the same vacuous smile on her face that
she wore over dinner as she navigates the gossip and barbs of these idiots as
though she was born to do so. She’s clever and far stronger than anyone
could guess, that much is certain, but as she smiles at the woman trembling
next to the Ancient, I wonder if she could keep up the act if it were one of
her sisters that was carved to pieces on the marble floor. I certainly couldn't.
“What a terrible task for the regent, to endure dealing with those vile
creatures! He’s certainly facing many trials I wouldn’t wish on my worst
enemy,” the woman proclaims, letting out a small shudder before glancing
at one of the nearby guards with a coy smile.
Sari doesn't look at the guards. She weaves around the female’s asinine
games, and I appreciate her skill now for what it is. “I heard the Goblin
King has far more soldiers than we do, thanks to that awful curse. I fear it’s
in our best interests to hand the errant prince back until this situation with
my cousin is dealt with. Once Father has brought more stability to the
kingdom, he’ll surely bring the goblins to heel.”
The table all lean toward her, drinking in her every word, and she
coaxes them into her snare masterfully. The Ancient and I are the only
guests who look on without murmuring and shifting in our seats with glee,
drunk on the power the princess holds. The male seated with Lady Loreth
picks up his cup and holds it to his lips as he murmurs something too low
for my hearing.
Sari shoots him a disapproving look. “Now, now, Torvyn. Rooke is my
honored guest and was once a member of my betrothed’s household—any
disrespect you show her speaks volumes of your opinion of my future
husband. Father taught me that the loyalty of a wife must be absolute, as
must the obedience of a daughter.”
Torvyn blanches and turns to me, bowing his head and stuttering out an
apology. Distress pours from him. Sari’s tone never shifts from its usual
light and joyful cadence, but she wields her words with the might of a war
hammer.
 With another sweet smile to me, she says, “I’ll answer your question
regardless, Torvyn, it makes for good fun, and Rooke is far more intelligent
than any witch we’ve ever entertained. I'm sure she can keep up.”
She squeezes my fingers on the table where everyone can see as though
telling an old joke between friends, the familiarity forced, but I wonder how
many other hands she’s squeezed as she follows her father's demands. I
wonder how many witches she’s dined with, and how many of their hands
were stained with the blood of my family.
“When the Fates War first began and King Rylle sent out calls for aid, it
was just after my dear aunt and beloved uncle were horrifically murdered,
so there wasn't much we could offer. However, a small number of Unseelie
high fae chose to journey to the Northern Lands to fight against the
monsters of the Fates, and they still live within the Seelie Court. At first,
Father contacted the Sol King in the hopes that these brave males could be
discharged from his service and return home. King Rylle was reluctant—
their kingdom is still recovering from the devastation of the war, after all.
This obstacle proved to be a gift in disguise as Father then contacted the
High Commander and found a noble ally in the male, powerful enough to
receive my hand in marriage. All of this is to say… the Goblin King’s
forces won’t outnumber the armies of the Unseelie Court for much longer.”
She turns to smile at the Ancient, but he’s staring into the garden as
though his mind is thousands of miles away. The utter stillness of his body
and the power trapped in his chest bends the air around him, rattling the rest
of the guests at the table. They all avoid looking in his direction, and those
forced to sit next to him are stiff with fear, their movements awkward.
Lady Loreth places her cup delicately down in its the saucer and waves
off one of the servants about to fumble over himself to refill it, and I’m
forced to admire the skillful manipulation she uses to bend the conversation
in the direction she so desperately desires. “Whatever will your father do
without an heir, Sari? If he sends you to the Northern Lands to marry a
prince there, what will become of our kingdom?”
Sari stares down the table at her with hardened eyes, though her smile
never slips. “I’m sure my father is eager to become an Ancient himself and
never leave our good kingdom without a competent king again! His
dedication to the safety of the throne is resolute, and he’s already
considered such a fate. In his negotiations with the High Commander, it was
agreed that our firstborn son shall be returned to the Southern Lands when
he comes of age, to serve as heir to the throne and ensure the Celestial
bloodline holds true.”
A murmur ripples around the table, gazes brushing over the Ancient
carefully, and I realize they’re rattled by the prospect of accepting an heir to
the Southern Lands who’s of Seelie blood. I remember well Aura’s
treatment of Roan and her grandson, who bears his father's umber skin tone
and golden eyes. She was horrified at the prospect of the Unseelie Court’s
opinions when the Snowsong prince was revealed to them, and the same
disgust I felt for her then I feel for these high fae now.
Sari ignores them entirely, filling her plate with pastries as she stares at
Lady Loreth, but the female only smiles prettily back. “I suppose you don't
have the curse to worry about once you join the Seelie Court.”
I almost roll my eyes at her but, instead, I join Sari in staring down the
table at her though I’m certain my eyes show far more of my contempt for
her than the princess’s do. “The curse was broken. Should any high fae wish
to bear children once more, they won’t fall victim to Kharl Balzog’s magic
any longer, though there are countless other dangers in childbirth. Are there
any competent healers available in Yris? Perhaps your concerns should turn
to finding one.”
The table all turn to stone at my ire, shown so openly to them all, but
I’m ready to leave this table and this castle behind. The feeling gets worse
as Lady Loreth nods at me in victory rather than thanking me or even
acknowledging that I’ve allayed her fears. Lifting her cup to her lips, she
turns to the female next to her and strikes up another conversation, as
though I’m no longer worth her attention.
My magic writhes in my fingertips, forcing me to take a breath lest she
learn that my Ravenswyrd heart lies within a witch forced to take up a
sword and fight battles beyond her wildest dreams.
Sari makes a little happy noise in the back of her throat, her shoulders
trembling as she practically wriggles in her seat. “Such a gift you have
given the Unseelie Court, Rooke, and so selflessly! We’ll forever be in your
debt. I do hope that you enjoy your stay with us before Father sees us both
safely to the Northern Lands.”
She clasps my hand again, only this time she presses something into my
palm. Cold metal wrapped around a stone, the ring ornate enough that some
of the edges are sharp where they press into my skin. Sari ensures our fists
are clasped securely around it before lifting them from the table, giving my
hand a little shake in front of everyone as though declaring my victory and
demanding they all sing my praises. Only when her captive audience gushes
over us both does she let our hands fall to rest underneath the table together.
Preening under their fawning, Sari directs the conversation away from
me and draws their attention to the other end of the table with very little
effort. I take the opportunity to turn my wrist up and stash the ring away, a
risk, but not difficult to smooth over. The pop of light at my elbows is
smothered by my robes, and I let my eyes flash with magic for a moment to
cover it up just in case any of the guards caught a glimpse of it.
The male sitting on my other side tenses, but I press a napkin to my
cheek and murmur, “Apologies, my control sometimes slips when I’m
overtaken with emotion. It’s such a great honor to be of service to the
Celestial family. Princess Sari is a delightful host, indeed.”
The Ancient turns to look at me, the gold of his eyes searing as they
study my face. He clearly thinks far less of the Unseelie Court than the
regent hopes, and his gaze is cold as it roams over me before, eventually, he
turns away.

LINKING HER ARM THROUGH MINE, Sari leads me through the castle
and talks endlessly of the architecture and the furnishings along the way. A
small group of the high-fae females who joined us for tea walk a few paces
behind us, respectfully distancing themselves from the princess even as they
simper along with her every word. It’s distasteful; not one utters a true
opinion, they all agree endlessly with her. I'm surprised she hasn't gone mad
with boredom, existing so long surrounded by folk who only pander to her
every need.
“Are the Seelie castles like this one, or am I going to find myself
adjusting to far more than the heat?” Sari asks as she looks out the windows
that line the hallway, rooftops and clouds as far as the eye can see.
There doesn't seem to be any fear in her at such a prospect; if anything,
I’d guess that no matter what praises she sings of this castle, her own
distaste for Yris is akin to mine.
 “It’s quite similar—the Golden Palace, at least. I haven't seen much of
the other castles, only ruins, and I doubt the cities will be rebuilt in the
exact same fashion, if they choose to rebuild them at all.”
A somber hush settles over females behind us. It’s a testament to the
horrors of the Fates War that the mere mention of all that befell the fae folk
in the Northern Lands is enough to subdue even the high fae most eager to
claw their way into power.
“Will you take your entire household with you to the Northern Lands, or
only a select few? Are they just as eager to serve under a new king, or are
their hearts heavy at leaving Yris and their lives here?”
Sari lets out a long sigh, staring around at the luxurious furnishings
proudly displaying the Celestial crest that declares sovereignty over the
chambers to all who walk within. “I’ll take some of my household, but not
all. My father needs as many able guards as possible to fight the witches, so
I’ll be handed over to my new husband and taken into his care. I was
worried for some time that I wouldn’t be able to take my entire wardrobe
with me, or my jewelry, but there’s an entire fleet of Sol ships coming to
take me to the Northern Lands. My handmaidens are already packing for
me, but it’s proving to be a difficult task. Father has been clear that the
Celestial royal jewels must stay here, but I’ll take my own private collection
with me. It’s quite vast, but the High Commander told Father that he would
send however many boats I needed him to. He’s very close to the Sol King,
as I’m sure you know, and he promised that once we marry, my household
will be his and I’ll be welcomed to the Seelie Court with much fervor.”
Amongst the details and pandering layered as distraction, she hides the
answer; her sisters will travel with her to the Seelie Court. It’s the
reassurance I need, though how I’m going to explain this to Soren and Gage
as a boon for us all I’m not certain. If I can convince Gage of their safety
there, his Fates-blessed mate will be kept safest by going along with the
regent’s plans. All the regent’s daughters could be protected there while the
War of the Witches wages, then returned to the Southern Lands and the
Briarfrost territories once Soren has the throne and the regent’s reign of
blood and madness is over.
Convincing Gage to accept this plan isn’t an easy prospect but I have
time to figure it out.
I squeeze Sari’s hand gently. “I have no doubt you’ll be well taken care
of, though I’m glad to hear you’ll have some of your household with you.
Although, if none of your handmaidens speak the Seelie common tongue, it
might take them a little time to adjust. I can help you with that, if you'd
like?”
She smiles at me again, a genuine air to it. “I’ve been trying to teach
them, but it’s quite difficult with lower fae and part bloods… those without
your pedigree, I mean, Rooke.”
I smile back at her sedately, playing along with her condescending
words, and she continues, “Father did warn me that you would perhaps be
staying in my new household in the Seelie Court for some time, and that it’s
best for us to get along. I was quick to reassure him that any friend of the
High Commander is an honored friend of mine.”
Her father’s callous treatment of his own daughter sets my teeth on
edge, but I nod to her with a reassuring smile before focusing on our path to
the fae door. How any fae can navigate this castle without getting lost is
beyond me—the entire place is a warren of hallways too long in design and
fae doors hurtling you past miles of white marble. When we reach the
marketplace, we find it bustling with high-fae patrons and the shell-like fae
folk who serve them, just it was when Lady Loreth walked me through.
A shiver runs down my spine, but Sari ignores it all as she directs me
into the alleyway, her feet never faltering on the path to the oak structure.
She calls out a flippant farewell to her friends, dismissing them, and when
one of them murmurs a protest, Sari cuts her off sharply.
“Every inch of this castle is covered by my father and his guards. I am
perfectly safe no matter which trumped-up lower fae cur sends messengers
to our doors.”
Her arrogant tone is wielded like a sword with the precision of her
cousin, deadly and true. The female ducks her head into a bow and backs
off, the others all whispering amongst themselves about the interaction,
though none of them look happy about leaving our sides.
“I’ll see Rooke to her rooms to ensure she doesn’t get lost, and then I’ll
return to my own chambers to rest for the afternoon. It’s been a taxing
morning so far, no matter how wonderful the company. Yris is under my
father’s rule, and every inch of it is guarded by his loyal soldiers. There’s
nothing any lower fae could possibly do to harm me here. I’d never
question his love for me or the lengths he’s gone to for my safety.”
The guards at the fae door bow to her, smug looks shared between them
all as she feeds into their own deluded views, and she smiles brightly at
them as she turns her back on the females without another word. Her hand
grips mine tightly as we step through the oak structure, the magic
enveloping us easily.
When we step out into a tiny room, unlit and empty, I scowl for a
moment, but before I can get my bearings, Sari tugs my hand sharply,
turning me to face her. Her vacuous mask is gone. “This is the one place in
the Yris that father’s spies haven’t discovered yet, and we can speak plainly,
but we have only a minute before they’ll notice we’re taking too long to
arrive at the king’s guest chambers. I know all about the Favored Children, I
knew exactly who you were when I first laid eyes on you, Rooke, and I was
horrified at what my cousin was doing to you. I still want to kick him in the
teeth for it. Give the ring to Soren—by Unseelie tradition, he can't marry
you and complete your fate without it. Let him know it was Aunt Eldris’s,
and the best I could do without rousing suspicion. I have my sisters to think
of—two are still only faelings. I couldn’t risk leaving them to face my
father alone!”
Her words are clear but rapid, urgency stripping the sweetened tones
away to the bare bones of her tenor, and I find it a far more pleasant sound.
There’s no time to reassure her, or thank her, and when she grips my hands
tightly, despair bleeds into her words.
“I can get you to the fae door that transports you out of the castle, but
Father has called all the armies back to Yris. His guards are everywhere,
Rooke, more than ever before, and you’ll need a plan to deal with them. I
can show you the path to the dungeons to get you to Soren, but that comes
with even more risks. Tell me what I can do for you and it’s yours, but I
don’t— it’s hopeless here! It’s been a nightmare for centuries. I don’t know
what else to do.”
With a reassuring smile, I reach out to her with a careful hand and clasp
her forearm to steady her. When she takes a shaking breath, a smothered
gulping sound rattling in her chest at how hard she fights to keep her
composure, I gently push my magic through my grip and into her skin. She
startles for a moment at the heat, but I take the searing pain of the branding
into myself, pushing it easily out of my mind rather than hurting this poor
female any more than she’s already suffered. She stares in wonder at the
white flash of power in my eyes, and I nod to her slowly, my approval and
warmth washing over her frazzled nerves like a balm as she slows her
breathing down to a steady pace once more.
 I murmur to her in a low, soothing tone, “Don't worry about me,
Princess. My escape is already underway, and my concerns lie solely with
your plight. Go back to your rooms quickly, straight there without stopping,
and press you palm against each of your sisters to pass this mark onto them
as well. There’s enough magic for the four of you. Make sure you place it
somewhere easily hidden, and know that any fae within the Seelie Court
will know you each bear it. Do whatever you have to do to take your sisters
with you. You’ll all be safe there, Sari. On the Fates, I swear it. No one
would dare touch any of you in the Northern Lands while you carry the
mark of a Favored Child.”
Her composure slips, a haunted devastation that makes my gut churn
further, but in the blink of an eye it’s gone as she covers it with the type of
perfection required to survive here. She takes my arm again and directs me
back through the fae door, a fine tremble in her grip that I know well. It’s
my protection for her sisters that rattled her; someone finally seeing them as
worthy of basic dignity and offering them protection that she alone has
struggled to provide them. I squeeze her arm back, the only reassurance I
can offer her now, and I let the magic envelop us both.
When the fae door pushes us out this time, my heart clenches in my
chest as my feet slide into a braced position on instinct. We’ve come out
into the right room but, instead of the dozen guards posted down the
stupidly long halls, Ayron and a band of his smug soldiers wait for us there,
only their usual attitude is nowhere to be found. For a gut-wrenching
second, I think they’ve heard our conversation, that Sari was wrong and her
sisters will bear the price of her defection from her father’s command, but
then Ayron jerks his head at her to move apart from me.
When she slides easily away, he snarls at the guards, “Fyrn, see Princess
Sari back to her rooms and guard her there. The rest of you, grab the witch
but don’t harm her. We can’t give that goblin-bred cunt an excuse to lay
siege to the castle.”

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 CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

Soren
Without sleep, my magic returns to me at a crawl, but that only helps me to
further my command of it. Little by little, my familiarity with the power
that slumbered within my bloodline for generations strengthens until I’m
sure I won’t lose control. It’ll take a miracle of the ashes before I’m able to
wield it with any skill, but my household should survive the early days of
my Fates-blessed marriage while my Unseelie instincts demand bloodshed
for any who look upon what’s mine.
The Fates writhing in my chest breaks me out of my focus, the powerful
rushing a warning and a call to arms at once. Even with Gage’s claim that
our time here is rapidly coming to an end, when a murmur of discontent
ripples through the guards surrounding us, I can't help but reach out to
Rooke. The wall between our minds holds firm, but she’s there, unharmed
and prepared.
The shift is slow at first; an awareness in the air around us before they
all begin to shuffle on their feet, a futile attempt to ease whatever change
has taken place in them. No command to be heard, nor any signals visible
from my vantage point, yet soon they’re straightening themselves in
preparation.
 With every heartbeat, the tension in the room heightens until my blood
hums along with the Fates in anticipation. The high fae in the other cells
take far longer to sense the changes, but Valo sees it first, his gaze moving
along the guards as he nudges another male in his cell. By the time the oak
doors swing open, silence has fallen.
Glancing at Gage, I find he’s the only fae in the room who isn't
confused or trembling with trapped energy as he stares through the bars
waiting for the approaching guards to arrive at our cells. When a dozen
guards led by Vyrain step around the corner and into our view, a grin full of
sharply pointed teeth spreads across the goblin prince’s face. It’s triumphant
and threatening, the first sign of high-fae gloating I’ve seen on the male,
and nothing will enrage Vyrain faster, his derision for the lower fae and part
bloods well known.
“Don’t just stand around looking like snow sprites—open the fucking
cages and get them out,” he snarls.
The guard closest to the cages fumbles over himself to find the key, his
eyes wide as he glances at the males in the escort, but they stare back,
stone-faced, a wariness in their stiff stances.
“Would you look at that, Prince Soren! It's not so difficult for the male
to look at me directly. I wonder what’s sparked such contrition,” Gage
taunts Vyrain, his relaxed demeanor so genuine it’s jarring.
Without the fist to the jaw or the shove into the iron bars that I ‘m
expecting, Vyrain drags the goblin prince out of the cage, his only reaction
the deepening sneer on his face. His eyes flash with loathing as he
commands the other guards to take hold of me. There’s a pause before one
of the males is brave enough to follow his command, the blue light cast
onto the stone by the glow of magic in my eyes unsettling them all.
The escort takes position around us as they move us past the other cells,
murmurs running through the high fae there as they stare, wide-eyed and
trembling. We’re marched toward the fae door and, because they haven’t
shackled my hands or used magic to subdue me, there are a dozen different
opportunities to take their swords and kill them all. In front of me, Gage is
relaxed, his shoulders loose; he knows what has caused this change, and
that alone stops me.
“I have you marked for death. By the ashes, I will see you again, only
next time I won't be satisfied until your blood drips from my sword,” Vyrain
snarls, but Gage only throws his head back, roaring with laughter at the
acrid panic lingering in the air.
“Why wait? Draw it now… but you can't, can you? The high fae all
wander around this marble monstrosity thinking how important they are,
how noble and strong, and you've just had your weaknesses proved to you
again.”
My uncle's most dangerous guard doesn't react the way I expect, only
jerking Gage along until he can shove him through the fae door.
I spent less than two decades living in Yris but, as they were my
formative years, they saw the main areas of the castle engraved into my
heart. The path we take is direct to the courtyard, only two fae doors
required, and when we pause before the second door, I reach out to Rooke
again. She’s still calm and sure, which is unsettling, because I doubt she’d
feel that way were she standing where my uncle so eagerly strung up his
victims.
The Fates singing in my chest prove me wrong as we finally step into
the small alcove, the water still stained red at our feet and the guards frozen
in their positions as they clutch their shields and swords. The path we’re on
follows the insistent tug in my chest, drawing me to Rooke as though by the
Fates’ command, but when we round the marble wall, I finally see the
reason the guards all tremble.
A sea of black armor and star-studded shields lies before me, stretching
as far as the cliff-face will allow. Split between mounted and foot soldiers,
all are heavily armed and bear the Briarfrost crest. They stand deathly still,
not a word or a clearing of a throat from any of them, and the only tension
amongst their ranks is that of preparation. They’re ready to fight and die at
their king’s command.
It's difficult to look impressive while standing before the Unseelie
Court’s largest castle, but the Goblin King’s army manages it well. Their
numbers alone are breathtaking, answering any queries as to how they made
it into Yris; there’s no stopping this many soldiers without bloodshed, and
the results of that would be devastatingly far-reaching. Breaking the accords
is a far less favorable prospect when faced with the Goblin King's might.
When I turn to Gage, he’s already smirking at me. “I told you I was too
impatient to wait, but the Briarfrost bloodline would never leave me to my
fate without aid.”
 Vyrain leads us to the group my uncle sent out to meet this display, less
than a hundred high-fae males standing in a haphazard cluster with Ayron at
the front. My cousin has become the regent’s preferred lackey, but he’s too
stupid to realize he isn’t protected by that status and he’s been sent out as
goblin-fodder. Several of the high fae turn to look at us, but the Briarfrost
soldiers are immovable.
Rooke stands at the front of the crowd flanked by two guards, though
neither touches her. She doesn't look any different as she stares at the goblin
soldiers with a carefully guarded face, and it's only the tension in her
shoulders that warns of her anger. She looks over and meets my gaze before
she looks at Gage, and her lips pull in tight when the guards escorting us
move to keep us a distance apart.
I'm not surprised to find my uncle absent. The display before us is more
than just dangerous; it's humbling, and the regent has always been far too
arrogant to put himself in such a position.
“The witch is an honored guest of the regent. We intend to see her safely
back to her family and away from Prince Soren's abhorrent treatment. The
regent will graciously allow you to take the other two,” Ayron calls out.
In answer, one of the soldiers on horseback clicks his tongue, and his
beast moves forward obediently. Every step is slow, irreverent to the high
fae watching as he crosses the courtyard. A murmur of panic ripples in the
heartbeats of the high fae, a response they can’t tamp down. When the
soldier stops only a few paces away, he removes his helmet, and the
disbelief of the guards surrounding me is palpable.
He's clearly another heir of the Briarfrost bloodline, only this one looks
far more like King Galen than Gage does, and far more like the high fae
surrounding us than any of them would ever care to admit. The same black
hair, and an only slightly darker green hue than the Goblin King, he stares
down Ayron with Celestial-blue eyes that are his most striking feature, the
one causing the guards all to pause. When his lip curls at the sight of the
guards shuffling around at his approach, a row of sharply pointed teeth
peeks through his lips, as if he’s threatening to tear out every high-fae throat
before him. The guards’ tension finds a new height.
He swings out of his saddle and clicks his tongue at his horse again, and
the beast stands dutifully as he takes three more steps forward until he’s just
out of arms’ reach from my Fates-blessed mate. His gaze stays fixed on
Rooke, as though the presence of Ayron and the rest of the soldiers is
nothing to him. He clasps a hand over his chest and bows deeply to her, and
I’m not surprised when he addresses her in the Unseelie common tongue.
This is a message, and a warning, for us all.
“Mother Ravenswyrd, it’s a great honor to stand in your presence. I
wish only that we were meeting under better circumstances, though it’s a
privilege to be of aid.”
Rooke clasps one hand over her chest and bows deeply back to him.
“The honor is all mine, Prince Gideon. It heartens me greatly to call the
Briarfrost bloodline friends of mine, the songs of the forest strong in your
hearts and the Fates’ commands honored above all.”
Prince Gideon barely moves, but the air around them both shifts as he
preens under her graces, nothing like the calculating performances of the
royals within this Fates-cursed castle. His respect for her, on her name
alone, marks this meeting as a defining moment for the male.
He stares at her long enough that the males around me shift on their
feet, before a scowl tugs at his brow. “Are you unharmed? Was anything
taken from you that we should recover before we leave here? Please know
we’ll see you home safe, no matter how dark the path.”
Ayron snarls at him, “The regent has commanded⁠—”
“The Briarfrost don’t answer to Solas Celestial’s mewling decrees. He
should know that well by now. If he truly has good intentions, tell him to
come down here and lay them before me instead of hiding in his tomb that
stinks of rotting flesh.”
Ayron’s shoulders tremble with fury, and his temper snaps. With a snarl,
he lunges at them both. His hand reaches for his sword, and his ire focuses
on Rooke. I shake off the hands grasping me to go after him, but my cousin
doesn’t get a chance to draw his blade.
Before any of us register he’s moving, Prince Gideon’s sword presses
against Ayron’s throat.
The late afternoon sunlight hits the blade, and a searing beam of blue
light shoots from it due to the magic embedded into it. The stars engraved
into the Seelie steel make it impossible not to recognize. It was once held
by the first of the Briarfrost bloodline, a prince of the First Fae, and passed
down through the generations following the same path as the seat on the
Unseelie Court. When those of his bloodline rejected his Fates-blessed, the
first Goblin King wielded it during the conflict with such devastating
accuracy that it was given a new name by the Unseelie Court: Kin Cleaver.
 As every guard holds their breath, the Briarfrost prince stares at my
idiot cousin with a deceptive calm. “I would break every accord ever
written to cleave your head from your shoulders for the look you gave her
alone. It’s my respect for the true Celestial king that saves you from that
fate… but this is your only warning. The Ravenswyrd Mother is coming
with us, at her request, because she takes no command from you, nor me,
nor even Prince Soren.”
Ayron’s eyes are wide, his own Celestial-blue gaze unblinking on the
male, who holds himself as though he were carved out of marble along with
the castle walls. A single drop of blood spilled is all it would take to break
the accords, and then the regent would face the Goblin King’s armies before
his promised legion arrives.
Prince Gideon leans closer, his voice low and controlled with vigor that
screams of the fury burning within. “Call your guards to stand down and
send for all three of their horses, or the Briarfrost will take this castle and
every sniveling high-fae life within it. Now, you miserable cunt—I won’t
have the Favored Child waiting on the likes of you.”
He holds his position, forcing Ayron to flick his fingers at the guards to
get them moving but, when they do, Prince Gideon sheathes his sword and
holds out an arm to Rooke to escort her away from the high fae. She takes
it, smiling at the honorable treatment, and the prince maintains a respectful
distance between them as he leads her to his soldiers. His horse follows
them without a command and, being the size of Nightspark and covered in
black plates of armor, the beast easily shields them both.
Waiting only as long as it takes for Rooke to gain some distance from
the guards, I turn on Vyrain. “My sword⁠—”
He snaps over me. “You can have your freedom, nothing more⁠—”
My hand cuts him off, squeezing his throat at the same time that my
eyes light with my magic, though I keep it from lashing out. “The accords
stop King Galen’s sons from spilling blood, but there’s nothing stopping
me, especially now that my Fates-blessed mate is under their protection. My
sword, now, and each of the blades you took from Prince Gage and me. Our
cloaks, horses, and packs. The Fates won’t save you if there’s so much as a
scratch on any of the horses, you should know that by now.”
Gage’s eyes widen a fraction as he turns to look at the sneering male
whose face is reddening, his eyebrows rising when the silence stretches on.
“You took away Rooke’s pack as well? You should pray to the ashes there’s
nothing missing from it.”
Vyrain’s face is almost purple by the time Ayron snaps out orders to
retrieve our belongings, saving the male from the slow death he’d rather
endure than back down. I shove him away to take my weapons back and
slide them all into place, buckling my sword onto my belt as I turn on my
heel. I have no concerns about exposing my back to these treacherous
males; my focus is immovable on Rooke as I cross the distance between us.
I get one quick glance at her startled face as I lunge at her, grabbing her
arms and pulling her to my chest with a sort of desperation that even I didn't
know was writhing underneath my skin. All the anger and panic I felt at
being separated from her while she walked around this castle I’ve lost so
many within threatens to rob me of my hold on my magic.
She stiffens, her training such that she’s alert for the danger that surely
spurs my actions on, but when there’s none, she lets out a breath and wraps
her arms around my waist, exactly where they should be. She smells wrong,
like sickly sweet perfumes and flowery cups of tea, and my mind hazes
with the need to get her out of this place so she goes back to smelling like
magic and healing herbs, like the healer’s quarters at Yregar have smelled
since she took up residence there. Like home.
“Remember this moment clearly, brother, so we can describe it to Vahro
and Mahman in detail. I’m not sure there's better proof of the Fates
humbling,” Gage drawls in a dry tone, clearly to his brother, but glaring at
him would require easing my grip on Rooke, an impossibility.
“We need to move quickly,” she murmurs into my chest, her face
pressed there for a moment longer before she takes a breath and shifts away.
Biting back a snarl at Gage, I allow her to take the careful sidestep, but
my hands still clutch her arms to be sure she doesn’t go far. The horses are
led through the fae door, a guard cursing viciously under his breath as
Nightspark snaps his teeth at him, catching Rooke’s attention, and I use
their distraction to give my Fates-blessed mate a better once-over without
her dismissing the action or covering an injury for the sake of my temper.
Satisfied she’s unharmed, I shift until I’m shielding her entirely from
the high fae. Gage stays at my side, and Gideon before us, staring over our
shoulders with eyes of black ice. Rooke leans into me, a tiny shift, but it’s
enough of an invitation for me to slide my arm around her waist and tug her
into my body.
 If they harmed you in any way, I’ll kill them now. The accords won’t
break if it’s me spilling blood.
She shifts in my arms to look past me again but stays pressed firmly
against my chest. I learned the games of the high fae and how to play them
well long ago. Your uncle is watching us closely, but he’s not the only one
capable of weaving webs.

OUR HORSES MAKE their way through to the outer wall, the path
outlined with goblin soldiers who stand immovable, unblinking, and ready
with their shields. The streets of the city are empty, but the horrifying magic
is still thick in the air, a warning that the empty fae folk are still here, still
trapped within the walls to be mindless slaves to the regent. The sound of
the horses’ hooves echoes throughout the streets, the only sound to be heard
for hours as we all hold our tongues. The farther we ride, the greater this
display of power becomes to me.
Hundreds of thousands of goblin soldiers, enough that it’s impossible to
keep count with any real accuracy. I couldn’t have imagined the power that
has accumulated within the Briarfrost territories, and the precarious line
we’ve stood upon for centuries without knowing it becomes chillingly clear
to me. Even prior to Kharl Balzog casting the curse over the high fae over
the Southern Lands and chipping away at our armies, King Galen has
stayed loyal to the Celestial throne, but that was a choice of honor, not
capability. Our numbers have not been this great for many, many
generations.
Whatever legions the regent has been promised by the Northern Lands,
I’m not so sure he was prepared for this, either.
With a tremble in her hands, Rooke fares much the same on the ride out
of the city as she did on the way, with a sickened downturn to her mouth.
The magic here is like a slick oil over my senses, dulling everything and
impossible to ignore, and with her connection to the land as strong as it is,
I’m sure it’s even worse for my Fates-blessed mate. As we finally reach the
outer gates, the sun setting and painting the sky with long streaks of pink
and orange, she looks around at the regent’s guards.
 They stare back at us, eyes wary, as the black-and-silver sea of
Briarfrost crests rides out. Holding their own shields in hand, they can do
nothing but watch. The silence holds, none of them making their usual snide
comments about my witch mate, or gloating about the majesty of Yris. I’ve
never seen my uncles troops so subdued—this encounter with goblins is
clearly long overdue.
I nudge Nightspark toward Northern Star until Rooke’s leg brushes
mine with every step forward. When she glances at me, my face stays
carefully blank, but my Fates-blessed mate has been able to see through me
from the moment she set eyes on me. The firm line of my mouth is enough
for her to let the wall between our minds down, my words pushing through
to her without prompt.
Did you know King Galen had this many soldiers?
Her reply is even, but I can feel how unsettled this city makes her. I
heard tales, but it’s certainly impressive in person. Far more so than
anything I saw in that wretched castle.
She knows better than to underestimate her enemy, always so measured
in her actions, but her words don’t reassure me the way they should. We
come to stop before the fae door, Prince Gideon moving to direct his
soldiers and send scouts through first. He’s taking no chances with Rooke’s
safety, his gaze drifting back to her at intervals as though he’s keeping track
of precious cargo.
What’s concerning you, Soren? The magic of the city will soon be
behind us, its effects on my nerves with it, and I can share the weight of
your troubles. Whatever they are, they’re easier to manage between us.
A hundred concerns lie on my shoulders; most I’d never give her to
carry, but others need her consideration. Why hasn't the Goblin King taking
Yris before? If he holds this much power, why hasn't he taken the Southern
Lands for himself?
Gideon murmurs under his breath to his brother in the goblin tongue,
only a few words familiar to me, but it’s clear he’s giving him orders. As
another dozen soldiers march through the fae door in single-file formation,
Gage moves to take up position directly behind us once more.
Glancing at him over my shoulder, I interrupt them. “I’ll take the rear
and see Rooke through the fae door.”
Gage’s eyes narrow, but I look to Gideon. “The regent can’t do much
against your soldiers as they are, but the fae door can see one through only
at a time. If we’re forced to part, Rooke will be guarded by both Briarfrost
heirs, and away from this silver-gilded shithole. I’m not leaving her here, no
matter how briefly.”
Despite my curt tone and demanding words, he nods without contest
before jerking his head at Gage to switch places. Rooke accepts the change
in order seamlessly, stroking Northern Star’s neck with soft words of
reassurance only to be forced to do the same for Nightspark when he snorts
unhappily at her. With one last look over his shoulders at us both, Gideon
rides through the fae door and Gage follows him closely. After a beat,
Rooke moves through, and I wait only as long as it takes to be sure they’ve
made it through before I direct Nightspark to follow.
When we step out onto the base of Loche Mountain, the stain of Yris’s
magic evaporates, and the forest welcomes me back into its midst as though
no time has passed. Night has already fallen here, and snow dusts the forest
floor, churned up by the horses already. Rooke is flanked by the brothers,
her calm demeanor returned now that she’s out of Yris and breathing in the
forest air.
Rooke cocks her head as she watches the soldiers march through the
forest, careful to mind the path and cause no damage. When she turns to
Prince Gideon and inclines her head to him respectfully. “How did you get
the fae door to move this many? I didn’t think the magic could achieve such
an impressive feat, waning as it is.” She speaks in the goblin tongue but
pushes the meaning of the words to me.
Gideon bows his head to her respectfully. “A witch arrived at my
father's doorstep to offer her assistance. She was marked by your favor and
told my father she acted at your command.” His tone is drenched with
admiration, and it strikes me that I can hear that now, and not just the
harshness of the syllables.
Rooke nods. Her eyes flutter shut, squeezing tightly as though she’s
fighting off tears. Relief, joy, and longing floods her, powerful enough that
with the mind connection open my own chest warms with it. She swallows
roughly, clearing her throat, before she looks at me.
She’s one of the soldiers we once discussed. They’ve begun to send aid.
Gideon nods to her respectfully, understanding in the tilt of his mouth as
a ghost of a smile dances across it. I don't like the way his gaze lingers on
her, and there's nothing subtle about the narrowing of my eyes in his
direction. Rooke nudges Northern Star from between the brothers and rides
to my side, far more accepting of my demands now and able to read me
well enough to not require them in the first place.
Gage gets one look at me and snorts, murmuring in the common tongue
under his breath, “Rooke and I will have to teach you what each of the
Briarfrost insignias and medals mean, but—that large one in the center of
his chest? That proclaims him the heir to the Goblin Lands and the
Briarfrost throne, and the one next to it, over his heart? That’s the one
declaring him married to his Fates-blessed mate. I can assure you, his
overbearing treatment of Rooke is a mark of respect alone, because not only
is he stupidly obsessed with his wife, she’s also well-known for her
savagery. Gideon would find himself irreparably maimed for so much as
looking in another female’s direction, even Rooke’s… though she’d
probably hesitate before going after her.”
His brother turns to look at him with narrowed eyes, but his wry grin
dulls the harsh look. “Rhosh will find new and creative places to stick
knives in you, brother, if she finds out you’re scaring people away from her
again. Her retribution might even prove to be fatal if she finds out it was
within the Favored Child's hearing, although I didn’t realize you’re all on
such familiar terms. Here I’ve been on my best behavior, sure the true
Celestial king would accept nothing less.”
Even the way he says his wife's name is different than how he was
addressing Rooke, and some of my hackles simmer down. “Sitting in iron
cages together while the regent plays his games will do that, and I’d rather
gut half the Unseelie Court than listen to pandering.”
Gideon makes a sound of agreement, thoughtful for a moment, before
he turns back to his brother. One moment we’re staring at the coldly
calculating heir to the Briarfrost throne, the next he drops the pretense,
turns to his brother with a furious look, and smacks him on the back of the
head. The vehemence of the blow has me jerking Nightspark closer to
Rooke, even as a very familial rage streams out of Gideon’s mouth and
proves this attack is for Gage alone.
“Do you have any idea how fucking terrified Mahman was when your
soldiers came back without you? I could kill you for that alone, idiot, she
got onto a Fates-damned horse ready to ride after you herself! Good luck
talking your way out of this with Vahro—the entirety of Yrmont is tiptoeing
around his temper right now, all because his idiot son couldn’t stop for a
single second to think of a decent plan or, I don’t know, tell anyone where
he was going!”
Gage roars back at him, “That fucking madman was cutting fae up in
front of them all—taunting them— she wouldn’t tell me whether he hurt her
but I felt something. I’m sick of feeling her pain and not being able to do a
Fates-fucking thinking about it.”
“You're lucky the Favored Child sent for help, or Vahro would’ve
broken the accords to go after you himself,” Gideon snaps, leaning so far
over in his saddle it looks like he’s trying to hold himself back from
shoving his brother out of his own saddle and murdering him on the ground.
Ignoring the seething fury on his brother's face and his threatening
posture, Gage snarls back, “Good! What good are the accords to us now
that that fucking ghoul has climbed onto a throne that isn’t his? He deserves
to have this castle razed, and I deserve to be the one doing it!”
Gideon clicks his tongue at Gage as though scolding a child, and Gage’s
tail snaps out at him in a furious motion. Gideon turns his horse away and
takes a deep breath that shudders in and out of him, wrestling back his
anger at his brother as tenuously as I grapple with my magic.
When he turns to Rooke, his tone is level once more. “My apologies,
Mother Ravenswyrd, that you’ve witnessed such disgraceful behavior after
aiding my brother. The Briarfrost owe you a life-debt.”
She shakes her head, waving a hand dismissively at him as though he’s
not offering her something that countless fae folk would surely kill for.
“The Ravenswyrd don’t believe in such things. It’s a great honor for me to
help your family and to call you my friends.”
He smiles at her, though it’s still tight with fury at his brother. “Still, it
pains me to give you nothing but words of gratitude. Prince Gage almost
killed the queen with his antics, and I thought a warning of the king’s fury
would be wise. He needs as much time as he can get to prepare his
explanations wisely, preferably with more remorse than he’s currently
showing—” he turns to Gage “—Vahro will send you back to the borders to
deal with the stink of rot-blood if you can’t find some.”
His brother stares back at him with a defiant look. “I told the high-fae
fucks back there that I’d rather bleed myself out than spill your blood, but
I’m starting to change my mind. Only Rhosh is keeping you breathing right
now—I know better than to touch her toys.”
 Rooke presses her lips together as though fighting off a smile, but
Gideon is too busy snarling back at his brother to notice how amused she is
at their display. It reminds me of my cousins, back before the Fates twisted
all joy and levity from Tauron and the forests’ anguish weakened Tyton’s
mind.
“Next time, I’ll tell her to aim for your throat! Even Mahman would
struggle to fix that.”
Gage scoffs and turns away, and Gideon goes back to the soldiers
arriving through the fae door, his face no longer a cold mask, still
determined to see to our safety. When he’s satisfied at the numbers around
us, he calls out another command and takes the lead while Gage circles
back around to ride behind Rooke, all while the Brindlewyrd Forest sings
joyfully at our return.

OceanofPDF.com
OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

Rooke
Prince Gideon splits his forces, sending a large portion of them around the
outskirts of the forest to march back to the Goblin Lands. He chooses the
path for them to ensure the underbrush of the Brindlewyrd isn’t trampled,
stopping to press his palm against the trunk of one of the trees and
murmuring prayers to the forest for allowing us safe passage. The respectful
tones lighten my heart and appease the trees, their song joyful as we make
our way through them. A small sigh of relief slips out of my lips at the
peace washing over me now that I’m surrounded by trees again.
The soldiers march dutifully at Gideon’s command, surprisingly quiet
considering their immense numbers. None have spoken, but I saw lifted
brows and twitching lips on a few of the male’s faces as Prince Gideon
scolded his brother, indicating camaraderie between the princes and their
loyal forces. The respect and reverence with which the Goblin King was
spoken about by those in the Sol Army is also hard to forget.
Once the fae door and the mountain are far enough behind us that all we
can see is trees, Gideon slows his pace to walk in line with Soren and I. His
anger at his brother has simmered down, but the levity with which he’d
joked with Gage and I is also absent, and we’re riding with King Galen’s
heir once more. It’s not threatening, merely somber.
 “If it hasn’t already been made clear, Prince Soren, it’s the Briarfrosts’
intentions to form an alliance with the true Celestial bloodline once more.
My father has given orders for my brother and I to accompany you and your
Fates-blessed mate back to Yregar, along with our own battalions, and to
stay there under your command until you’ve wed your Fates-blessed mate
and reclaimed your throne from the regent. The kingdom has become too
dangerous for him to leave Aysgarth but Gideon will be here for your Fates-
blessed union on his behalf. Once the Betrayer has been dealt with and his
raving armies burned away, we can discuss the Unseelie Court and how our
kingdoms can prosper once more.”
He turns in his saddle to meet my eye, then Soren’s. “Whatever the
battle brings, the Briarfrost stand with the Favored Child and the true
Celestial king.”
Soren holds his gaze, the air heavy around them both, before he inclines
his head respectfully. I let out a breath, relieved Soren accepted the alliance
without misplaced suspicion. Standing before the regent has certainly
explained why this prince is slow to trust, but the loyalty of the Briarfrost
bloodline is the least of my concerns.
We stop at a clearing, and Gideon offers to make camp for the night.
Despite my protests, Soren insists, and when I shoot him a frustrated look,
he points out how long it's been since I last slept. Gideon calls out orders to
prepare camp, sending soldiers in every direction to mark a perimeter and
place their own bedrolls to sleep under the stars.
I envy them a night under the canopy of the trees, but I already know
Soren will drag me back into his tent. He picks out a spot close to the fire
Gage prepared, and setting it up is as easy as stretching out my hand, my
magic placing the tent exactly as it was put away. I cast a shield around the
entire camp, marking the sentry line of soldiers carefully and ensuring
they’re protected from the falling snow.
As I take a seat by the fire and stretch my hands out before it, I try not
to think about that morning of waking up pressed against Soren’s chest, his
face buried in my neck, the desperate pull of his hands. My cheeks heat,
especially when Lady Loreth’s face pops into my mind unbidden, but the
princes all ignore my rosy complexion as they sit around the fire with me.
Soren looks around carefully. “How many soldiers are in your
battalions? Yregar has plenty of space to house them, but preparations will
need to be made for your stay with us.”
 Gage answers, still subdued from his brother’s anger. “Goblin battalions
are the same as the those of the high fae—five hundred fifty-five troops in
each, including commanders. A little over eleven hundred will ride to
Yregar.”
Gideon's mouth turns down, and his gaze drops to the forest floor as
though he can see the cavernous void in the land’s magic stores. “The rites
for the winter solstice should ensure the next harvest will grow, but I
wouldn't expect the land to truly begin to recover for another few years.
We’ll send for more supplies to be escorted across the borders to Yregar,
and our own fields can see Yregar through until they arrive.”
I smile warmly at him before Soren has the chance to respond. “I both
welcome and greatly appreciate your participation in the solstice rites.
Finding a way around the loss of magic has been a tricky task.”
Gideon gives me the same delighted smile he has each time I show him
respect; as though it’s a novelty to him. Gage's gaze lingers on Soren, but he
doesn’t speak, instead pressing his lips together firmly. I worry what news
he’s heard from Yris, the consequences of our extraction, and as he scowls
at the crackling fire before us all, my reassurances seem so hollow. When I
notice his sword missing from his belt, I cringe and hold out my hand until
it appears in my palm.
“I'm sorry I’ve held on to it,” I murmur as I hand it to Gage.
He takes it with a shrug, ducking his head into a bow as he buckles it
back at his side. “No need for apologies, Rooke, I’m thankful you kept it
safe. It was my grandfather’s, and it’s a great honor that my father gave it to
me to wield.”
It’s the most subdued I’ve seen the goblin prince, and I can’t help but
attempt to reassure him. “They’ll be safe soon, Gage. On the ashes, I swear
to you they’ll be safe.”
He glances at me before giving Soren a guarded look, one that spells
trouble for me. “I trust you, Rooke, but this is my Fates-blessed mate. How
can I trust a male you left behind?”
Soren cuts in, his tone savage, “Especially one eager for your return.”
His face is cold and unreadable, and I stare back at him, dumbfounded.
The gall of this male to question any part of my life in the Northern Lands
is unprecedented but, as his magic reaches toward me, I’m reminded that
losing my temper with him may have disastrous consequences for us all.
 I choose my words with care. “I left behind a life I built after Kharl
Balzog took everything from me. When I accepted my fate and made plans
to return here, I made sure there was no question of my intentions or any
hopes for my return there. Whatever tales the regent has heard or, more
likely, fabricated from baseless gossip, they’re irrelevant to the path we now
walk together.”
I take another careful breath before I add, “It’s also not true—the High
Commander isn’t pining for me—but it certainly works in our favor to have
your uncle believe so. Your cousin and her sisters are now safe because of
the assumption their vile father has made.”
Gage makes an unhappy noise in the back of his throat, but it’s Soren he
levels a glare at. “They’re all his cousins, Rooke. Succession laws don’t
change facts, whether the Unseelie Court like it or not.”
I still. In the muddle of this conversation, my mind has revealed itself to
be a mess of traps, traumas, and blind-spots, and my heart lodges itself in
my throat for misstepping so terribly. Malia is every bit as worthy as Sari is,
no matter the Unseelie Court’s opinions on the matter. My face tightens and
my head bows at the carelessness of my words.
Soren speaks before I can find the right ones to apologize. “They’re all
Celestials by birth, but the regent has always terrorized his daughters born
outside of his Fates-blessed marriage. Doing anything to claim them as fae
of my bloodline would only spur him on.”
Gage shakes his head, ignoring the look of censure his brother levels at
him. “It hasn’t worked though, has it? Treating them like they’re nothing
hasn’t stopped him from killing them off just to satisfy his cravings for
power and submission.”
Soren stares across the fire at him, the weight of many eyes on us all as
the soldiers listen in. Even the forest stills. This Celestial prince has proved
himself worthy through blood and magic, but can he prove himself here as
well? Every declaration of alliance from the Briarfrost has been to me first,
our marriage paving the way, but it can’t remain solely for the Favored
Child forever.
“I’ve watched my uncle kill thousands, forced to sit by and do nothing,
or close to nothing. My blood and my people murdered while I was told to
learn patience, all of who deserved better than the deaths they endured. I’ve
made a lot of mistakes, I know that, and some have been worse than others,
but what else could I have done? Not just for my cousins, but for the entire
kingdom—what other options did I have? I have loyal soldiers, but not a
legion’s worth. Yregar has been reduced to a shadow of what it once was, in
part because we’ve taken in as many fleeing fae folk as we could, and the
land was too depleted to provide for us. I have no blood left who can ride to
my defense. No matter how deeply I felt the unease of the kingdom and all
that was wrought in my family’s name, without an understanding of magic
or our traditions, I couldn’t even guess at how far the high fae have fallen…
not until Rooke returned. What would you have had me do, Gage?”
The goblin prince has no answer, and the silence stretches between us
all, my mind turning over his words. Gideon glances into the thicker area of
the trees, listening to his soldiers, but he doesn’t move, his gaze never too
far from his brother.
When Gage groans and rubs a hand over his eyes again, I murmur, “I
gave Sari enough magic to cover her and her three sisters. The mark will
hold.”
Soren’s gaze snaps over to me. "Sari has four sisters.”
My heart clenches. “She told me three.”
I swallow roughly as Soren turns to Gage with a snarl. “Who? Who did
he kill?”
Gage slumps, pressing his hands against his temples, as he murmurs,
“Belle. It was her death that sent me to Yris.”
Magic ripples out of Soren, a harmless reaction but I glance at him
quickly to be sure it’s not the first sign of danger. His eyes burn, his jaw
flexing as he grinds his teeth, but he watches Gage as the goblin prince rubs
his temples. With the tension in his shoulders and the way he’s sitting so
rigidly, it’s clear he’s reaching out to his mate to confirm her safety.
I share a look with Gideon, his mouth a firm line, and when Gage
doesn’t move, he sighs deeply. “As angry as I am at him, his fate has been
centuries of enduring torture… the worst kind, feeling the terror and pain of
his mate and being commanded by the Fates to do nothing. Even Vahro will
find mercy for his stupidity. The fact that he didn’t run to Yris the second
you arrived at the border of our lands was an act of strength none of us
anticipated.”
Wincing, I struggle to find an answer for him, and Soren surprises me
by answering Gideon himself. “The Fates had important lessons to teach.
There are too many generations of unrest within the kingdom to set out
clear paths for us all, and instead we had to know the true price of failure.”
 A shiver runs down my spine as the screeching echoes of the Ureen
sound clearly in my mind, though years have passed, because the monsters
of the Fates will never truly stop hunting me.
Eager for a distraction, I reach my hand up again and, with a pop of
light, reveal the ring that Sari secreted to me in my palm. Soren turns to
stone next to me, and I hold it out to him. He stares at the ring before
finally, hesitantly, taking it from me. Sari made it clear that it was his
mother's.
“Princess Sari gave it to me and said it was the best that she could do
without rousing suspicions, though I don't know enough of Unseelie high-
fae traditions to understand what that means.”
Soren looks down, his lips pressed firmly together, but Gideon looks at
his brother before murmuring in a somber tone, “High-fae royals are
expected to have members of their bloodline present at their weddings and
receive their blessing over the union. It’s stupid—they marry only by the
Fates’ command—but tradition demands it. In lieu of their direct blessing,
an object of their bloodline can be present instead.”
Soren wraps his fist around the ring and moves his gaze to the fire
before us. “That tradition began the first war within the Southern Lands.
When the Briarfrost heir was first given the fate of marrying a goblin, none
of his family would give their blessing.”
Gideon studies Soren, his eyes guarded, and the soldiers around us
remain quiet as they listen in.
“His name was also Prince Gideon—the high-fae tradition of honoring
the First Fae has held the names of our ancestors safe from fading with the
passing of centuries. When none of his family would give their blessing, he
married his wife without them and disappeared into Aysgarth with her. A
few soldiers of the Briarfrost bloodline went too, but most of his family
stayed in Yris and claimed he was a traitor to us all. Another high-fae prince
took over his seat on the Unseelie Court, which he successfully contested,
and eventually those Briarfrost who stayed in Yris rode back out to the
territories to try to claim it back from Prince Gideon and his family.”
He looks up at the Prince Gideon before us with a quirk of his eyebrow
and drawls, “They weren’t very successful, clearly, underestimating their
own blood… as I have.”
He doesn't say that to point out the superiority of their kind, as other
high fae might; instead it’s in the same way that he bluntly agreed that
Sari’s sisters are all his cousins, regardless of his uncle's opinions. His
pandering to the Unseelie Court in years past had very little to do with his
own opinions. Every choice has been fraught, a delicate line he walked to
keep himself in their good graces, the only thing stopping his uncle from
wresting the throne from his grip once and for all.
I murmur to him, “Your cousin is very talented at languages and at
acting, and she’s protecting her most loved ones with elaborate
performances that—as far as I can tell—have become her entire existence.
She told me the regent plans to kill you after we complete our fate, and she
was ready to help secrete us all out of Yris and do whatever we needed that
she could provide. She’s also quite angry at you, so when you’re reunited,
I’d avoid reminding her that you put me in a dungeon, if I were you.”
Gideon chuckles, the first time he’s done so at Soren's expense, but my
Fates-blessed mate ignores him in favor of staring at me with a heavy gaze.
His hand tightens on the ring again before he holds it back out to me,
clearly for safekeeping, though my heart threatens to skip a beat at the
action. Taking it, I get my first proper look at it before I hide it away. Closer
to an item I’d choose for myself than most of the jewelry I’ve seen the
Unseelie Court display, the filigree band mimics branches woven together
to clasp around a large sapphire. Perfectly Celestial blue, the stone, on
closer inspection, is flecked with tiny white dots that perfectly align with
the stars of Soren’s family crest. It’s beautiful, painstakingly crafted, and
though the flecks might be imperfections to others, the effect is stunning to
me.
“Do you truly intend to marry at the winter solstice? It's that
requirement of the Fates alone stopping your uncle from killing you,” Gage
says, lifting his head finally with somber eyes.
Soren’s eyes narrow dangerously. “I don't care what my uncle's plans
are. Nothing is going to stop our marriage. Even if he crawls back here with
the legion he's sold his daughter for, Rooke and I will be wed.”
As Gage’s gaze moves in my direction, a pulse of magic bursts from
Soren, and the goblin prince freezes. His face pulls into such a look of
caution that I begin to wonder what their time in the dungeons looked like,
and I cast the high-fae prince a careful look. Gideon shoots Gage a
disapproving one at the same time, as if both of us are scolding unruly
children. There’s a fraught moment, tension in every line of each of the
males.
 Gage turns from his brother and says, in a careful but urgent manner,
“We shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss concerns for that legion the regent has
been promised… especially if there are bloodwitches amongst them.”
“What’s a bloodwitch?”
Even Gideon looks at Soren in shock, finally breaking his scowling at
his brother. “You don’t know what bloodwitch is? How is that possible?”
Soren glances at me, but I’m also shocked at this gap in knowledge. He
says, “Unseelie high fae barely recognize that different covens exist, let
alone that there are different types of witches.”
I groan, running a hand over my face, but after sharing a look with
Gage, Gideon nods slowly. “My brother was right; this explains much of
your behavior. This is good news—Father will be relieved.”
When my eyebrows raise, not the response I was expecting, Gideon
shrugs back to me with a crooked smile. “Prince Soren had no idea what a
Favored Child was when he put one in the dungeons. He doesn't understand
magic or the passing of the rites. How can you blame him for disrespectful
actions when he's ignorant to them in the first place?”
I nod slowly. “It’s one of the reasons I found my anger at the Yregar
household softening, and how I've made peace with the path our fate has
taken us on. Most of the high fae I've encountered—outside of Yris of
course—have treated me far more agreeably after some carefully thought-
out lessons.”
When silence falls around us once more, Soren stares at each of us until
finally, Gage speaks. “Each forest in the Southern Lands has a coven
attached to it and bears the name of that coven. A few have changed names
thanks to the high fae, such as Elms Walk, but considering that coven’s
name is the Elmswyrd… they’re not so difficult to figure out. The Blood
Valley has bloodwitches within it.”
Soren nods slowly for a moment before shrugging. “So, it's the name of
a coven?”
Gage holds his gaze as he shakes his head. “No, it’s not just a name, like
Favored Children aren’t just Ravenswyrd witches. Witches born directly
from the Bloodwyrd Coven, the line of the womb unbroken, are also
bloodwitches. The magic they wield is… barbaric, to put it mildly, and
those red witch marks they bear? They’re trophies of their most heinous
acts. The tales of their coven’s warfare are… well, if even half of them are
true, they’re second only to the Ureen in rampant bloodlust and maniacal
destruction.”
I level Gage with a warning look. “The Favored Children were created
by the forest first, but the bloodwitches came next, and they were born of
the same magic, at the dawn of the Fates. Their Mothers have never
forgotten our traditions, no matter the battles they’ve waged.”
Avoiding the irate look his brother gives him, Gage inclines his head at
me in apology, which I accept easily, turning back to Soren. “As I know it,
the forest made Favored Children first as caretakers but as time went on,
and the Fates formed, it became clear that the land needed more than the
gentle care my coven could give it. It needed those who could sacrifice and
feed blood into the land… whether it be their own, or the blood of those
who’ve wronged them. Only with that mixing of blood and magic could the
land heal and cycle the way it requires— the way it always has.”
Soren’s scar pulls taut as he scowls, thinking through my words, and
when he replies, he’s far more careful with his tone and word choice than
Gage was. “And these protectors of the kingdom have chosen to side with
Kharl Balzog, the Betrayer?”
When I turn further toward him, he leans closer instinctively, as though
by my command, an intoxicating idea, but this lesson of the history of our
kingdom and the witches within is far too important for my Fates-blessed
mate to learn. “None of the witches who chose to follow the Betrayer bear
the sigil of the Bloodwyrd Coven. They can't claim themselves as true
Bloodwyrd witches—none who disobeyed the Bloodwyrd Mother's
command can.”
His eyebrows draw in. “If the coven is supposed to sacrifice for the
land, where are the true Bloodwyrd Coven now, and why have they left the
kingdom to face Kharl Balzog alone?”
I shrug. “The Bloodwyrd Mother was given her fate by the Seer as a gift
for helping her in the time of great need. Her fate was to take her coven and
leave the kingdom, to wait until her blood called her home. She chose the
Northern Lands and answered their calls for aid, and while her covens were
never enlisted, they fought alongside the Sol Army while maintaining their
own freedoms. The Fates War proved to have many opportunities for
witches of their skill-set to flourish.”
His eyes flare at me, and he glances at Gage. The goblin prince’s
expression remains stern, his lips pressed firmly together, when Soren
answers. “My uncle found bloodwitches who want Kharl Balzog gone
enough to side with the high fae… and they'll call the coven home.”
Gideon grimaces and runs a hand over his brow, then glances around at
his soldiers. A deadly stillness has overtaken them all. Soren notices it as
well, pulling himself up straighter even as he leans closer to me, his body
heat washing over me despite the chill of the night air, but he keeps his gaze
on Gideon as the goblin prince makes his assessment.
Finally, with an apprehensive look at the Celestial heir, he says, “The
Bloodwyrd numbers were decimated before the Mother took them from
their forest. If we're lucky, and they're still low, their return won't tip the
war in the regent's favor.”
Soren nods slowly before glancing down at me. “And if we’re not
lucky?”
Prince Gage answers for his brother. “Then the kingdom is about to get
the biggest blood sacrifice in its history, because the magic they wield is the
stuff of nightmares.”

WHEN I STAND UP, stretching out my back and rolling my shoulders,

Soren gives the goblin princes a decisive nod before standing along with
me, scowling at the forest, though it’s quiet to my ear. Preparing myself to
finally get some rest, it takes me a moment to convince my legs to work,
and Soren takes my elbow to lead me to our tent. Gage moves off to his
own tent for the night, casting a shield around the structure after Gideon
starts murmuring about him being a spoiled prince and rolling out his own
bedding next to the fire.
I’m exhausted, but the prospect of falling asleep and potentially opening
myself up to nightmares makes my gut clench, and my feet drag to the tent,
heavy with apprehension. Soren doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care to question
my hesitance, but when we reach our lodgings, he stops at the opening and
looks down at himself unhappily.
His clothes are covered in a mixture of dirt and dust; days of traveling
only to spend endless hours locked in the cell has certainly taken its toll.
My own robes haven’t fared much better. I refused to bathe in the rooms set
aside for me, even with my shield, not wanting to leave myself exposed and
vulnerable if one of those bloodwitches came back for me. I certainly don't
smell, but the whispered insults of the high fae when I first arrived at
Yregar play in the back of my mind.
Filthy witch.
The insult is far more cutting now that Lady Loreth’s beauty flashes in
my mind, haunting me in a way I refuse to let become habit. Rather than
allowing myself to wallow in that unsettling realization, I push my magic
into the earth below and allow it to map out the forest for me. Its song
welcomes me home, thrumming under my skin and begging me to stay.
The Brindlewyrd Forest is nowhere near the Lore River that runs
through the Ravenswyrd, but there’s a small cluster of hot springs nearby,
warmed by the same ley lines of power that give magic to the fae doors at
the base of the mountain. I push my magic farther, but the forest assures me
that only the Briarfrost soldiers, Soren, and I are within its boundaries.
I send the image of the hot springs to my Fates-blessed mate, and his
fingers tighten on my elbow, a small shift. Before I can attempt to parse and
defuse whatever grave error I’ve made with him now, he turns on his heel
and stalks back to Gideon. His hand is still tight on my elbow, and he drags
me along. The goblin prince doesn't want us leaving the boundaries of his
soldiers protection but Soren isn’t willing to have any males nearby as I
bathe and neither of the princes are quick to back down.
Stepping away from their quickly escalating conversation, I move to the
packs on our saddles and fuss with them before Soren comes and takes his
off altogether. He strokes a hand over Nightspark’s muzzle affectionately,
then takes my pack and slings it over his shoulder before directing me along
the path, ignoring my indignant protests. The forest leads him, murmuring
happily when he eases his grip on his magic to let drops of power fall with
every step we take, the famished land gobbling it up.
With the peak of winter only days away, my breath comes out in white
clouds the deeper we walk into the thick lines of trees. Soren’s gaze is as
cold as the air, his mouth a firm line. The warm demeanor that saw me
through a long night of fighting sleep is now nowhere to be found, a
scowling high fae prince left in its place. As we pass the last of the goblin
soldiers standing sentry, Soren gives him a respectful but stern nod as we
walk past. The soldier bows to us both with a quick jerk of his head, and his
tail flicks toward us curiously as Soren directs me along.
 The ground shifts from firm path into slick mud as we get closer to the
springs, our steps chosen carefully and slowly. Soren’s fingers tighten on
my elbow to stop me from slipping, guiding me onto a cutout section of flat
rocks that branches out until we find ourselves standing on a small shelf
that gives way to a plunge into the hot springs.
A thick layer of mist sits over the glassy surface, rising from the heat
that warms the air pleasantly, though the chill has taken hold in my bones
and isn’t eager to let go. There are smaller pools cut out by piles of smooth
stones, far too neatly to be a natural occurrence, and lush greenery growing
over the far side.
Soren drops his pack onto the stone shelf and lets go of my elbow,
giving me a stern look as he approaches the water's edge with the same
approach with which I’d imagine him sidling up to a dragon. He scowls
down at the pristine water, and a thrill of joy runs over my skin when he
sends a pulse of magic into the pool and my own reserves delight in it.
When he straightens back up and turns to me, I raise my eyebrows at
him.
“There are hot springs all over the kingdom that would burn you alive
the moment you hit the water. Only an idiot would jump straight in.”
I ignore his curt tone. “I wasn't thinking about that. Since when have
you been able to use your magic like that? Or at all, really?”
He goes back to his pack, unclasps his cloak, and lets it fall from his
shoulders. The charcoal color of his linen shirt and riding trousers offers
some aid in hiding the evidence of our arduous journey since we left
Yregar, but he definitely looks as though he's been sitting in a dungeon cell.
He’s never been fussy about his clothing in my experience, but he’s also
never been one to arrive at my door covered in mud either. Clearly some
high-fae fussiness has stuck with the so-called Savage Prince.
“I wasn't going to dismiss your concerns about my control, especially
considering how many high fae were intent on pushing me into a rage in
such a short amount of time.”
He still hasn't demanded answers about the life I left behind in the
Northern Lands, and I haven't mentioned meeting his ex-lover, but none of
that seems very pressing as he starts unbuttoning his shirt, his demanding
gaze holding mine. The full force of his beauty hits me at once, the exact
reason I’ve avoided looking at him too closely when I’m not seething mad
at the male, and my knees threaten to give out. He doesn’t ask me if I want
to bathe alone, or offer to look away as I undress, but that makes it easier to
slip back into my role as a soldier.
It's only when he reaches the last button that he finally breaks our
searing eye contact to glance around the forest with a scowl, and I’m
reminded that I’m no longer a soldier and he’s nothing like the males I
served with. Blanching, I duck my head as I move away from him.
He growls under his breath, but I don't look up to see his expression,
pulling off my own cloak and settling it beside his. The stone is warm
underneath my touch, the perfect temperature for lying on and stretching
out like a creature of scales under the sun, and it’ll see me back to our tent
nicely.
My hand slips to the silver pins at my waist, but Soren growls again,
closing the gap between us faster than my eyes can track. He snatches my
wrist tightly to pull me back up. That would be bad enough, only he drags
me toward himself the moment I’m steady, my hand hovering far too close
to the expanse of his chest, now bared to the waist. There’s a thatching of
scars over his ribs, like talons tore at him, and marring on a high fae is rare
enough that it’s likely the injury nearly killed him.
My own scars are in the same spot, though mine wrap further around
my body and the skin there shines with magic that defies reason.
I swallow around the lump in my throat and whisper to mask the
thready quality of my voice, my mouth arid. "I thought you’d want to move
with haste to get back to the soldiers’ protections, but I can wait until you're
done, if you prefer."
He loosens his hand around my wrist, but he doesn't move away, his
fingers tracing the slit of my sleeve up to my elbow in a languid caress. My
breath catches in my chest. He reaches up with his other hand to touch the
pin at my waist, the tines loose where I’d begun to pry at it, and without
hesitation he tugs it free. When I finally look up to meet his gaze, his eyes
darken, and his chest expands with each breath until he’s looming over me
like I’m prey.
“I’m already at the limits of my control—don’t turn away from me
now.”
The rasping tone is drenched with need and chill is burned from my
bones in an instant, my gut warming and my knees threatening to buckle
underneath me, but he refuses to let me go, his gaze unflinching holding
mine. The icy depths of his eyes have turned molten, burning bright as they
threaten to consume me in their heat, but my blood is already alight.
Flexing my hand to let his drop, I shift away from him to pull out the
rest of the pins until I have a fistful of them and the fabric straps have
loosened. My hand brushes the skin of my belly and the band of roughly
mottled skin that wraps around it, a sobering reminder of exactly what I'm
unveiling for this perfect high fae prince. He’s carved as if from marble, and
the most exquisite of all their designs. I haven't kissed the male yet, nor
learned whether he holds any true affection for me. He could see the
wreckage laid before him and scorn me once more.
Whatever lust is on my face, he sees something else there too, my
hesitance peeking through, and he grips the side of my neck with the same
ferocity with which he’d lunged at me when we were reunited only hours
ago and pulls me in to meet his lips.

OceanofPDF.com
OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

Soren
The thick bands of scars around Rooke's stomach explain much of the
horror that leached into Airlie and Firna's voices but seeing the proof of just
how close my Fates-blessed mate once was to the monsters of the Fates is
sickening. My magic pushes out towards the injury as though compelled,
feeling the magic still woven beneath the surface that holds her together and
a gut-wrenching truth ripples through me; her body will never truly heal
from the wound and the magic alone keeps her alive. I don't understand
how I know it but Rooke shouldn’t be standing before me now, no one
survives what she has.
She’s shy about them and it’s unsettling to see her act that way. My
calm and humble mate, who stands unmoved by the petty games of royals
or the raw realities of the deathbed, refuses to meet my eyes now I've seen
the damage she bears from the war. When she finally steps out of the thick
bands of fabric to stride into the hot springs, she doesn’t wait to see if I'll
join her or if I'll turn away in disgust but the Fates themselves couldn’t pry
my gaze away from her.
She doesn't look back to watch me undress as I'd watched her, instead
ducking under the water to swim in the small area of the deeper pool. The
moonlight shines on her skin under the surface, drawing me towards her as
the Fates have tugged at me this entire time. As she resurfaces, her hair
shining down her back and her eyes shut as droplets of water in her
eyelashes, a soft smile curves across her plump lips and there’s color in her
cheeks with the warmth of the springs. I've never seen such an enthralling
sight.
I want her with a desire that shakes the ancient power in my bloodlines.
From the moment I accepted not only her true motives but my own fate to
be with her, I accepted that I craved this witch with every drop of my blood.
She’s nothing like the high fae I’ve spent so many centuries enduring, an
unquestionably noble and powerful fae from a forest of madness that covets
her the way I now covet her. Any fears she may have about my desires for
her changing after her scars were revealed to me are unfounded; the only
thing they've done spurned me on. To know how close we were to ruin only
drives me to ensure she never gets that close again.
I slide into the pool in the same spot she did and finally she turns back
to me, her eyes fluttering open and her face carefully expressionless. It's not
just the wall between our mind connection that’s gone up, her defenses have
as well, piecing herself back together to be sure that if I scorn her now
she’ll still be able to walk the path set before her. Such is the strength of my
Fates-blessed mate.
The reflection of the moon stretches between us like a path laid out in
white, but when I move towards her in the water she turns away again,
swimming to the ledge and a vial of oil appears in her hand. The scent she
usually wears drifts in the warm air between us as she rubs the oils into her
skin, scooping up handfuls of the water to wash it away again until her skin
is shining.
"I see you haven't set out your own soaps. I'm not sure you'll enjoy
smelling of violets and cloves."
The rasp of her voice, pitched low threatens to be my unraveling and
victory lights my blood when she doesn't move away my approach. I can
stand easily in the pool, the water not yet reaching my chest but she has to
stand on one of the flat stones to have it lapping at her collarbones. When I
lean towards her to take the vial a shiver runs down her spine, a soft sigh
slipping out of her lips, and through the clear water I watch as her nipples
tighten.
"I only want to smell of my mate, though I can think of far better ways
to achieve that."
 Shivering again at the rough rasp of my voice, she lets out a shuddering
breath and watches as I tip the oil into my palm. She stares transfixed at me
rubbing it over my chest and arms just as I’ve been. When her tongue peaks
out to swipe against her bottom lip, a growl rumbles out of my throat and
her eyes flare at the sound, leaning closer as though compelled.
There’s far more dirt over me than there ever was on her, and it takes
twice as long to get myself clean but when she moves to wash out her hair,
her back arches and my body turns to stone as I watch her. Each time she
lifts her arms threatens to expose her nipples to the chilled air but each time
they get close she shifts to keep them under until I'm sure she's teasing me
with them on purpose.
As I bend to duck my own head under the water to scrub at the dust of
the dungeons still clinging to my hair, she speaks again. "It’s a relief to
know we’ll survive the winter solstice without too many concerns, I did
have my doubts. I know I'm not to your tastes."
Stopping my actions now will only lead to oils running into my eyes, so
I'm forced to continue scrubbing rather than ducking my head back under
the water. "What would you know of my tastes? You've never asked me and
I’m starting to think your vision is impaired."
Her mouth hardens and the look she gives me is the same frustration she
usually reserves for high fae stupidity. "I dined with a lot of Sari’s friends in
Yris; one of them was Lady Loreth."
I could curse myself and my cousin and half the Unseelie Court to the
ashes at the careful tone she’s now using with me. I slick my hair back just
enough to be sure I'm not going to end up blinded by my refusal to duck my
head back under to wash it out, but I have no intentions of letting Rooke
think I'm avoiding this topic.
"One female I briefly distracted myself with in the centuries the Fates
demanded my patience doesn't tell you a thing of my tastes."
She raises an eyebrow at me. "You're right, I should’ve asked Sari to
point out any others to be sure.“
When I don't have an answer for her, she turns back to me with an
expectant look. "Are you not concerned with my tastes?"
I grit my teeth, aware the sharp points of them will peak through with
every word bitten out of my mouth but I can't contain the snarl. "If you
want any male you've ever stood in the presence of to live you won't speak
to me of any of them."
 She raises an eyebrow at me again, only this time the corner of her
mouth tugs upwards along with it. “That doesn't seem very wise, Soren, nor
fair, especially since I had to sit through several meals of antagonization
without responding."
"Who said you couldn't respond? You could’ve killed her for all I care."
I duck my head under the water finally to wash the oils out but not
before I see her startled look, her brows pinching in and she doesn't notice
or react to my approach as I swim closer to her, happy to take the
opportunity.
When my head breaks the surface she says to me, calm in her tone but
her face still scowling sternly. "You spent weeks convinced I was here to
kill all good and noble high fae and now you're standing there telling me I
should’ve killed that female simply for being everything I'm not? My
concerns for the kingdom are returning by the minute."
She’s naked and glowing under the moon, smelling like home and all
the fantasies I’ve gone to bed with a dozen times, scowling at me with the
promise of a fire trapped within that I want underneath me more than I want
air. The fact we’re talking about another high fae is intolerable, and when
she opens her mouth again I reach her my hand, clasping the side of her
neck again. A gasping sigh eeks out of her as a pull her into my chest, her
hands flattening against my skin and pressing there just as the long lines of
her body press against me. So much skin; all of it mine to taste, and covet,
and savor.
I pull her closer, my head dropping down until my lips get within a
whisper of hers and my breath fanning over her skin. She lets out a low
moan drenched in longing against my lips and my palm squeezes at her
throat gently, my fingers flexing and enjoying the rise of her magic under
her skin as it squirms within her.
"You’re nothing like any high fae, not like anything I once thought I
wanted; you’re more, so much more that I couldn’t have hoped for the Fates
to bless me with a mate like you. You could kill any high fae now, such is
my trust in you. I’m the one who can't be trusted, because the thought of my
cousins, who I would kill and die for, standing in your presence makes me
crave their blood. The goblins are now our greatest ally and our only chance
of gaining the throne back and every smile you've given Prince Gideon
makes me want to peel the skin from his bones. The idea of another holding
your attention, let alone your affection, fills me with a fury that could rival
the Fates. The mere mention of another wanting you back in the Northern
Lands has me prepared to march over there the moment Kharl Balzog falls
dead by my sword."
Her whisper is instant, breathy and drenched in disbelief. "My sword;
the Fates command it so."
With a growl, I lean forward until our lips touch, my fury whispered
into her skin, "And I’ll resent the Fates until the end of time for giving this
task to you instead of me. For giving you any of these tasks, not because I
think you can't but because I don't want you to. I don't want the soldiers
looking at you; the respect they show you and the admiration, it should fill
me with pride and yet all it does is ignite the possession within me. I'm
going to hate every fucking second of this, and the moment our fates are
complete, I won't be turning my back on you or our marriage. I'll be taking
you far away from every other fae until I can bear you in their presence
again. I expect it to take a century or two."
Her mouth opens but I swallow whatever words she had to give me,
surely a protest and I’m done with those. Moaning as she kisses me back,
she pushes up to her toes as she drags me closer to her body, kissing me as
though she feels every bit of the consuming possession writhing within me.
As though meeting that female tore her mind in half just as surely as my
uncle’s taunts of the High Commander ruined me.
My fingers flex at her throat and another moan slips from her lips, her
body surging in a wave towards me as the hard length of my cock presses
against the soft skin of her lower belly. The tip brushes against her scar, a
firm ridge of friction, and another growl rumbles in my chest. When my
other hand gets a handful of her perfect ass she gasps as I lift her, moving us
over to the rock wall between the two pools. I set her on top of it, both of
my hands moving down to wrap her legs around my waist, my cock finding
the heat of her pussy and sliding through her lips as my hips jerk forward.
She moans, the sound like a drug, and I curl a fist into the wet tresses at the
back of her head, tilting her head to deepen the kiss and taste the wanton
hunger in her.
I take every one of her reactions gluttonously, hungry for more and my
hips push forward again desperate to sink inside of her. Her hands grasp my
arms, locking around the muscle there as though she needs to be anchored
in place or else the pleasure will sweep her away. I pull away to bury my
face in her neck, licking and sucking the soft skin there as she pants
desperately, moaning and squirming against me until I lift my head again.
There’s a sultry look in her eyes as she meets my gaze, unblinking as
she glances down between our body and her hips pushing forward as
though she craves the hot length of me inside of her just as surely as I do. I
follow the path her gaze and a groan tears out of me. Pushing her back with
my chest, I all but crawl over her body to taste more of her skin, sucking
one of her nipples into my mouth as my hips push forward again, the slide
of her pussy down the length of my cock a sweet torture after centuries of
waiting.
She writhes on the stone wall, her hips wriggling despite the weight of
my body trapping her and more gasps wrench out of her lips with every
little movement. I’m determined to taste every inch of her skin, laving her
with my tongue and leaving a trail of bite marks as the sharp points of my
teeth pressing against the softness of her skin.
When she shifts her hips again, I assume she’s looking for more friction
something to get her closer to the peak of pleasure, but her hand slips
between us and wraps around my cock. My teeth to dig a little further into
her skin as groans wrench from both of us, the taste of blood blooming in
my mouth. Running my tongue over the pinpricks left behind, I jerk away
and look down to find a sight impossible to look away from.
She has no trouble gripping a sword but my cock is thicker than her
wrist, reaching past her scars and her belly button beyond. She makes a
breathy noise as she squirms against me, and all I can think about is having
her squirming like that while she's impaled on my cock.
Betrayer.
My arms snap around Rooke, pulling her closer to my chest as she
freezes, her eyes flying open to stares up at me. I can't hear anything, the
forest empty around us up to the boundary of the camp but as I scowl out at
the darkness beyond the trees, it whispers again, Betrayer’s.
With a snarl, I lift Rooke off the wall back up into my arms and stalk to
the edge of the hot spring, my body curling around her protectively. Her
eyes flash white as she lets her magic pour from her body to plunge into the
ground, her arms tight around my neck as she allows me to haul her around
while she figures out how close to danger we are.
When I step back onto the rock ledge, I set her back down onto her feet
and she murmurs, “Raving witches.”
 She swipes a hand down herself and instantly a clean set of fighting
robes appears on her body. Reaching out to her pack, a pop of light flashes
and it disappears while I’m furiously tugging clean clothes on at her side.
She slips a fresh pair of socks on and shoving her feet back into her leather
boots, and as she buckles her cloak over her shoulders she murmurs to me,
“They’re traveling at the edge of the forest; they've already lost numbers
trying to gain entrance.”
Furious at the interruption and the idea of Kharl Balzog's armies
touching Brindlewyrd soil, I can only jerk my head into a nod as I get my
own boots on. I shove my cloak over my shoulders, cursing the damned
thing, but it’s the only thing that can cover the evidence of my desire for my
Fates-blessed mate.
Rooke reaches a hand out and puts my pack away in that same holding
space, the languid and sultry look gone from her eyes. Even though I’m
furious at its loss, I know it’s for the best; those eyes are for me alone and if
either of the goblin princes or their soldiers catch even a glimpse of her, all
our work to build trust would be gone in an instant.
Rooke doesn't comment on the malevolence thickening the air around
me or the firm grip of my fingers at her elbow as we make the precarious
path back to the camp, but I can’t stop until she’s back within the protection
there. Pouring my magic into the land, the forest shows me a far greater
number of raving foot soldiers than I was expecting; thousands streaming
around and their direction impossible to discern now they’re desperately
trying to gain access to the forest but finding themselves denied. The other
goblin soldiers haven’t reached the far side of the forest yet but their
numbers are still far greater, and there’s no need to ride out after them.
We’re safest staying within the protection of the trees for the night.
When we reach the sentry, Prince Gideon stands with him scowling
furiously and relief in his eyes when he sees the two of us. Rooke pauses to
murmur reassurances but I only endure enough to know Gideon isn’t riding
off after his soldiers before I drag my Fates-blessed mate back to our tent.
Nudging her in ahead of me and snapping it closed behind me, I let out a
long breath to soothe some of my anger but it only takes my next breath in
to be hit with Rooke’s scent still clinging to me to set my mind spiraling
back into violent plans.
Some of this anger is directly from the trees, the connection to the land
siphoning it into my mind, but the melding of it with my own has created an
unwieldy beast to tame. The tent isn’t secure or private enough, even with
the band of Rooke’s magic circling it, and it’s almost impossible to calm the
enraged Unseelie high fae need within me that demands I kill every male in
the camp just so I can taste her without risking another seeing what’s mine.
Rooke stretches out her hand and our packs appear in the corner before
she lays down on her bed roll easily. It takes me countless deep breaths to
be able to do the same but when I finally do, she moves until our arms press
against one another. It’s intolerable and impossible to be so close without
demanding more, tugging her arms until she’s laid across my chest and
though it doesn't fix the burning fury that the Betrayer’s would come here
again, it pushes it far enough to the back of my mind that I can attempt to
sleep.
Though she settles against me easily, there’s a twitching energy that
doesn’t ease in Rooke and it takes until enough of the anger has burned
from my veins before I can think clearly enough to push at our mind
connection. She hesitates, still unsure of keeping it open, but slowly eases
the wall down. She’s calm, sure in our protections, and ready for the
journey home, even if we’re forced to cut our way through Kharl Balzog’s
grotesque armies. There’s no sign of the unease keeping her from sleep—
except one thing.
Glancing down the length of the bodies, I send through to her, take your
boots off.
She tenses a little, a flurry of new emotions moving through the mind
connection too quickly for me to get hold of them, but when I move like
I’m going to sit up and remove them— because I am— she finally sighs
and does it herself. Her toes wriggle in her socks as she lies back down,
settling herself on my chest again, and her eyes close with far more ease.
She’s asleep almost instantly.

I’M WOKEN by blinding panic; heart racing in my chest, breath trapped,

muscles seized until finally I take a casting breath the sound of it loud in the
quiet confines of the tent and awareness comes flooding to me in a rash it's
not my panic but Rooke’s.
 I’m reaching for her before I realize what's happening, my magic
thrown out of my chest prepared to tear apart whatever caused this
nightmare but it comes up short at the edge of her her second barrier and
only finds the goblin soldiers within. The first barrier holds true, keeping
the sounds of her terror from the rest of the camp, but I add my own
alongside it to be sure it doesn’t falter.
My hands are too rough as I grasp her arms but she doesn’t react,
doesn’t rouse at all, the sobs wrenching from her as though from the deepest
depths of her soul. My hands shake but the fear isn't my own, flooding
between us until both our hearts race at the same frantic speed. She warned
me of this, hid it away as much as she could, but it only turns my stomach
further to think of her waking alone in this state, tormented by horrors that
never leave her.
Dragging her back into my arms, they band tightly around her to press
her face into my chest while my fingers dig into the dark tumble of her hair.
I feel the moment she wakes up, the jerk of her whole body and her arms
claw instinctively at me as they always do before she realizes the terror is a
long gone foe, that she’s safe here with me no matter how many hunt us.
The gasping fear gives way to a tremble as she tries to contain her sobs
but even when she tries to move away from me I only tighten my grip,
tucking my face into her neck with fingers stroking through her hair. My
other hand presses against the mottled line of scarring on her back as
though holding a fresh wound. With the ferocity of her sobs, my fingers
press deeper, willing it not to split open and spill out her organs just as her
emotions flood our mind connection and lay in great pools around us. With
deep, steady breaths I force my heartbeat to slow, the beat of it underneath
her ear unfaltering, and soon her own heartbeat soothes to match it. Steady
and slow, I send calm and safety through the mind connection to her until
the sobs subside and all that's left of her terror is the wet stain of her cheeks
and my shirt.
She slowly builds the wall back up between us until I'm not overrun by
her emotions and only have my own to grapple with, the worst of which is
my blood-lust for any who’ve harmed her. While I wait for the last of the
tremors to subside, I distract myself by planning how I'm going to convince
Prince Gideon to split the remaining goblin soldiers once more; the majority
to escort Rooke back to Yregar safely, while the others return to Yrell with
me to hunt those ashes-cursed fae down. The apprehensive way the goblin
prince’s spoke about Bloodwitches doesn’t give me pause; no matter what it
takes me, I’ll kill every last one of them.
“We’re needed in Yregar,” Rooke murmurs to me, her fingers softly
stroking my chest.
The only acknowledgment I can give her is a rumbling sort of grunt, my
jaw too tight to consider words. She handles it far better than any female
I've ever interacted with, far better than I deserve. Her fingers moving to
rub against my chest so close to where her face is pressed. The stroke of
them is soothing, coaxing the fury to lower down to a simmer until a new
problem arises as I crave that stroking over every inch of me. Pressed
against me how she is, there’s no hiding the fact either, not that I want to.
My uncle’s taunt sounds in my head again, one of far too many males
talking about her like a piece of meat that I've endured in the last few days.
My hands clutch her tighter again, pulling her further into me but instead of
complaining at my boorish behavior, she hums under her breath as her
fingers move to stroke my neck in those same soothing motions. My eyes
slip shut, desperate for more. Nothing ever feels like enough with this mate
of mine.
Eventually she sighs, my grip easing up just enough to allow her to sit
up and the dark cascade of her hair falling between us has my fingers
itching to be buried in it.
“There’s a long ride home ahead of us but the sooner we get it over
with, the sooner you’ll be a real bed again. I’m sure Your Highness has
missed your own soft mattress, being reunited with it might ease some of
this snarling attitude.”
Chuckling at her teasing, I’m rewarded with a soft smile and her fingers
stroking absently at my chest as though she’s driven to touch me. The hot,
slick feel of her sliding over my cock flashes into my mind and I can't help
but plunge my hand into her hair, cupping the back of her head to pull her to
me. She sighs as I surge up to swallow it and she opens her mouth without
hesitation, kissing me with all the hunger she had last night. Tongue and
teeth and desperation, she melts into me perfectly, a storm brewing under
our skin that craves release.
Breaking away, the gasp she lets out is the sweetest sound, like air isn’t
worth the loss of my lips on hers and instantly I want to give it to her;
again, more, everything she could ever desire from me. Her needs are mine
to crave, covet, fulfill and revel in.
 When I’m sure my voice will be anything but a lust-soaked snarl, I
press my forehead to hers, my nose running alongside hers and crowing at
the hitch in her breath. “We’ll return home to our bed, in our chambers, in
our castle to our household that awaits us.”
The dazed look on her face gives way to another knowing smile that
flirts at the edges of her lips and she murmurs under her breath, “Who
would’ve thought you could share so well, Prince Soren? I wonder what
sparked such a turn of opinions.”
She shifts as if she's going to move away but my arms stay locked
around her, forcing her to stay pressed against my chest for a little longer,
the air thickening around us as she senses the shift in my mood to more
serious topics. Her hesitance last night still itches at me and I want no
questions to plague her of what our life together will entail.
“The escort you called for aid, your family… I don't want to offer them
a place in our household.”
Her eyes shutter a little and she swallows, nodding a fraction as far as
the tight grip in her hair will let her. She accepts my words as easily as she’s
accepted every order I’ve given her while in command, as though it isn’t a
heartbreaking revelation. It won’t be, and I don’t let the pain linger.
I push up to press my lips against hers again, far more chaste than the
last we shared, then pull back to murmur, “A place in our household would
place them below the high fae— that’s unacceptable for those who saved
your life. I’ll make them members of your family that you’ll bring to Court
with you instead. When my uncle is dealt with, and all those who backed
him are gone, I’ll give them seats on the Court as well. There are more than
five families that will be wiped out in entirety, the choice is easy.”
She stares at me, her heart thumping in her chest so violently I can feel
it against my own. “The high fae aren’t going to accept witches in the
Court, let alone holding seats.”
I drop the grip on the back of her head to take her chin instead, tilting
her head to be sure she sees my determination and the absolute truth of my
words. “I don’t give a fuck what the Unseelie Court accept; they’ll obey my
command or they’ll die. We’re in this mess because of their obsession with
themselves, their arrogance, and their spite. That ends now. They’ll return to
the traditions of old and the new laws that protect all fae folk, or they die.”
She stares at me, unblinking as though moving will break a spell she’s
trapped in, but the longer I hold her gaze the deeper my convictions sink
into her. Swallowing roughly, she ducks her head as she blinks rapidly, and
I cup her cheek as I kiss the crown of her head.
“The Unseelie Court will submit to their king and queen. The way
things have been done for centuries has almost cost us this kingdom; I’ll
end it once and for all. Any who question your escort, question you and
only those loyal to us both will survive the coming months. I’m not waiting
for Khal Balzog’s death; I intend on setting the precedence of what
questioning you, or I, will result in from the moment we return to Yregar.”

OceanofPDF.com
OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER THIRTY

Rooke
The silence of the soldiers as we walk is unsettling at first, no murmurings
or camaraderie, and I don't realize how closely the Briarfrost princes are
watching me until Gage sends me a lopsided grin. “It's respect, Rooke.
They understand the importance of seeing the Ravenswyrd Mother and the
heir to the Celestial throne back to Yregar safely and to talk amongst
themselves could cast our entire territories in a bad light, an unforgivable
infraction.”
Soren doesn't react to his words but he’s treated each of the soldiers
respectfully, if a little standoffish, and I have to remind myself that his own
upbringing only discussed King Galen's forces as a threat.
We ride through the day and despite Soren's disapproving growls in my
direction, I refuse Prince Gideon’s offers to make camp again at nightfall.
The raving witches circling the tree line and my concerns for Thea’s fragile
state have me desperate to return home.
Riding straight through the night, the first signs of dawn peek through
the thinning trees as we reach the edge of the Brindlewyrd forest. The song
of the trees turns mournful to see us go. When the trees reassure us all that
the Betrayer’s are either dead or gone, Soren sends his gratitudes deep into
the earth alongside mine and sealing it with his oaths to return soon. Gideon
watches these actions, carefully taking note of the reverence in Soren's tone
and the easy way he takes my instruction, but when I meet his eyes he only
gives me a firm nod and continues onwards.
There’s dead raving witches along the perimeter and signs of their
numbers in the churned ice, but no signs of their armies as we make our
path to Yregar. It's a peculiar type of sorrow to walk back through the
kingdom escorted by the goblin princes and their soldiers. With Soren
watching my every move, the branding possession in his eyes that leaves no
questions of his intention, I’m forced to mask my sorrow but that’s an easy
task thanks to the despair that surrounds us, horror at every turn.
Through our mind connection, Soren warns me of the smoke longer
before I can smell it myself and Gideon calls out a command to move the
formation around us. He takes the lead as Gage drops back, the soldiers
easily shifting until Soren and I are ensconced in the middle. I’m surprised
Soren doesn’t protest but when I glance at him, he meets my gaze as he
carefully moves Nightspark closer still.
Sending his words directly into my mind, his tone is the same growl, my
uncle made it clear that all his plans hinge on you. I'm not worried about
them killing you, only that they’ll kidnap you.
He speaks of strategy but my mind easily flashes with the feel of his
arms as he desperately pulled me into his chest, nothing political about that
moment. I wouldn't allow them to take me any quicker than I would allow
them to kill me, nor you, Soren. I’m far more capable than you seem to be
giving me credit.
He shoots me another dry look. You risked every high fae soldier
between the dungeon and Airlie's chambers to help a princess who lashed
out at you at every chance, blaming you for a curse you barely knew the
design of. I have no doubt that if my uncle and his guards arrived before us
now with an innocent life pressed against a sword, you’d be quick to hand
yourself over.
My heart clenches in my chest, his worry echo of one I’ve heard a
thousand times over— whispered, murmured, barked, and screamed, every
variation of it possible and all of them ignored because that’s the
Ravenswyrd way. I’ve decided that’s the truth of why the Fates chose me
for this task, knowing that turning this high fae prince’s heart away from the
hatred, cruelty, and anger of the Court he was born in would take an
indeterminable strength and endless sacrifice.
 The Fates tested me against their monsters and though I came out of that
war as a shadow of myself, I never did falter from the path, no matter the
battle laid out before me.
Prince Gideon begins to slow pace even further down to a slow ambling
walk shooting a look over his shoulder at Soren and my Fates-blessed mate
gives him a curt nod, clicking his own tongue at Nightspark. Northern Star
follows them closely, riding to join Gideon at the front as the soldiers make
a path.
Carnage lies before us.
Smoke curls in dark plumes from the snow in the shape of fallen bodies
but only ash remains of them. Footsteps churn the ground of dozens of
horses yet no bodies of those either, only the signs of blood sprayed out and
dozens of dead witches but all that remains are impressions on the snow and
the ashes where bodies and blood once lay.
Soren scowls around, his eyes lingering on the burned blood spatters.
“Witches killed by their own.”
Gideon frowns around at all before casting a careful look at me. “There
are very few who can wield the power to burn the bodies in this way.”
Soren meets his gaze before looking at me as well but I nod to them
both easily. “It's uncommon but not unheard of. The blood-rot has been
burned away, that should allay your fears; the witch responsible cares for
the land.”
There’s a pause but only as Soren looks where I’m pointing before he
nods firmly. When Gideon calls commands to get us moving again, we ride
alongside him, taking in every inch of the kingdom as the devastation
continues before us. Each attack is in clusters, a few dozen cut down and
burned away, all in a clear path that moves towards Yregar.
When it suddenly veers off to the north, towards the Lore River and the
Ravenswyrd Forest beyond, Gideon's scowling gaze follows the path. "I can
send soldiers to follow and ensure the forest is safe.”
Far more dramatic than I need to be but determined to ease their
concerns, I reach out a hand to send a pulse of power into the earth, calling
in the forest of my heart and finding it safe. “No need; a sacrifice was made
and safe passage was granted. The Ravenswyrd is in no danger.”
Gideon accepts this, calling out another command and the formation
shifting again but only to flank more along outside and close the gap our
departure left. Gage stays further back without complaint, deferring to his
brother not just with ease but respect.
There are very few second-born sons I know who wear their position
with such confidence, unconcerned with missing out on the mantle of
power passed on to a brother instead. I wonder idly if their sisters have the
same confidence and easy loyalty to Gideon and his birthright.
The wreckage of the snow stops abruptly leaving behind only perfectly
untouched snow as it falls steadily around us, but the tension doesn’t ease
from the princes. My own tension is anticipation, knowing what’s to come
and desperate to reach the witch. It’s late in the afternoon before I feel the
Fates begin to hum beneath my scars. Softly at first, it quickly builds until
my heart is threatening to burst with the song of the trees. All of them, the
forests of the Southern Lands sing with such rapture that ever the Fates are
humbled by it.
Gideon frowns, glancing down to me. “The trees are filled with… joy?
They’re ecstatic.”
Soren scowls for a moment, looking around for evidence of what act
could send the forest into a frenzy but I already know it well. I feel the
magic awakening under my feet with every step forward, the sacrifice of
blood and magic, the long journey home that’s finally come to an end.
Then I see her.
A red cloak stark against the endless white blanket of snow, her hood is
drawn over her head but she turns as she senses us arriving. The sob I’ve
held back for hours tears from my chest at the mere sight of her, throwing
my reins to the side and swinging my leg over my saddle before I realize
I’m moving. Soren lurches at me as I slide down, avoiding his grasp and
ignoring the snarl he lets out at me as I run towards the female. The snow
crunches underneath my boots, dangerously slippery but I’m moving too
fast to be concerned.
Her own shout of joy rings out, her hood falling as she dashes towards
me and a tumble of golden curls falls out, “Æfanya! Ashes mercies,
Æfanya!”
Neither of us slow down as we reach each other, our bodies colliding
with such force that we’re almost thrown to the ground but neither of us
care. Soren’s vicious cursing speaks volumes on his opinions but she laughs
as I sob, tears on her own cheeks as she wipes at mine.
 It’s hasn’t yet been a year since I last saw her but it feels like centuries,
and the desperation in Cerson Crane’s grip as she clutches back at me says
she feels the same way.
“I told Han you needed to do this alone, Æfanya, yet the moment that
stupid ship sailed away with you I regretted ever uttering those words. I
couldn’t sleep, none of us have— well, not none of us, but the scaly asshole
doesn’t count! He was too busy hunting high fae to worry about much else,
he’s turned into an even grumpier dick without you. I’m almost certain
Seph was on the very edge of marching here herself to drop them all off to
you. She told Rylle to come crawling, begging for your forgiveness for
whatever slight the Court made against you that would have you leaving
them.”
I choke on the laughter bubbling out of me at the long stream coming
out of her mouth, never once taking a proper breath. Slipping back into
speaking the Seelie common tongue with her and gossiping about our most
beloved family is as easy as breathing to me. “She knew it was my fate to
return, she gave her blessing just as her husband did.”
Cerson shakes her head at me, grinning wildly, “Listen to me, Æfanya,
there’s more important things to be said and I lost myself for a moment. The
rumors about that male spoke of terrible things but he’s staring at us both
right now like he’s plotting how he’s going to slit my throat and then fuck
you in the mess, just to be sure you’re his alone. He’s far more magnificent
than any of the whispers implied, look at that scowl he’s giving me;
delicious! I clearly have much to teach the gossips of the Unseelie Court
about the true qualities of a male to admire.”
I take a deep breath, willing the blush heating my cheeks to ease as I
murmur over my shoulder to the scowling prince in question. “Soren, please
don’t learn to speak the Seelie common tongue, at least not until Cerson can
learn some manners.”
She throws her head back and laughs, her dimples cutting deeply into
her cheeks. The trees come alive around us with the sound, waking from
their winter slumber to marvel at the wondrous sight; an Elmswyrd witch,
overcome with joy and kind-spirited ribbing. I only wish my Fates-blessed
mate wasn’t staring at us both like he’s going to yank one of Cerson’s arms
off for daring to touch me.
I pull away from her, my hand slipping into hers as I turn us both
towards the scowling prince in question. My breath catches at the ire roiling
in the depths of his eyes.
Cerson leans closer to me to murmur in the Seelie common tongue, her
tone still light enough to hide her deviousness, “The Exalted is going to
have a lot to say about him… and to him… and at him while he’s swinging
a fist at his head. Well, if he’s lucky it’ll be a fist and not his sword.”
Pressing a hand over my eyes, I take a deep breath to center myself and
put aside the very real complications heading our way. “Prince Soren, this is
Cerson Crane; a very dear friend of mine who seems to have lost her
manners on the long journey here. Hopefully she finds them again soon.”
Cerson shrugs, her dimples still flashing. “Don’t count on it, Æfanya. If
centuries in the Seelie Court didn’t cure my insolence, nothing will.”
I heave out a sigh. “I know you’ve met Prince Gideon already, this is
Prince Gage and the Briarfrost soldiers escorting us back to Yregar.”
She smiles at them as well. “What luck, I was just heading there myself!
The path is overrun with vile creatures, it slowed me down a little but I
won’t leave any of their stink behind.”
Gideon frowns, glancing around. “Is your camp nearby? We’ll escort
you there first, then get back to the path.”
“No camp; I just finished up a small task for my Æfanya and I came
here to meet with you all to make the last of the journey back to Yregar…
they’re eager to have you both back there.”
Gage looks alarmed. “No horse? You’ve just been walking around the
kingdom, on your own, without an escort or a sword or… anything?”
Cerson smiles up at him with the same warmth she offers everyone, the
one that often finds male’s in trouble. They mistake it for an invitation; the
Seelie Court learned that lesson in a very violent way. The soldiers all shift
on their feet, the first sign of nervousness I’ve seen out of them on our
journey and I don’t need to open my mind connection with Soren to feel the
tension filling him, wary instantly in response to their discomfit.
“I was a child when my coven left the Southern Lands, I’ve missed it
greatly. The song of the forests has welcomed me home and guided me to
where I needed to be.”
Soren doesn’t know what to make of this and Gage is just as perplexed.
Gideon, having met Cerson already, is enjoying their confusion as much as
I am but Cerson’s fingers squeeze mine gently as she catches my attention
again.
 “I went to the Ravenswyrd, Æfanya. It welcomed me home, just as you
said it would. Just like Pem said.”
The tears in her words are as thick as my own and I lift her hand to
clasp it in both of mine. “Of course it did; it welcomes all its children
home… even if they don’t bear the coven’s name.”
She chuckles, blowing out a breath and tipping her head back to watch
the flurries of snow dancing above our heads. “It was just as perfect as you
both told me. I slept under the stars there, lulled to sleep by its’ song, and I
woke up with a peace in my heart I’ve never felt before.”
She’s a Favored Child?
I startle as Soren’s voice sounds in my mind and I smile at Cerson to
cover the slip. Cerson is married to my brother. She can’t become a
Ravenswyrd witch because of her responsibilities to her own coven but the
forest knows where her heart lies. It would never greet my brother’s mate
without the warmest welcome.
I squeeze her hand again, taking a step back towards my horse intent on
leading her with me. “It’s not so far to go; even after the long journey here,
Northern Star will happily carry us both.”
Soren is out of his saddle and catching my wrist before I can take a
second step. “You’re riding with me.”
Cerson’s eyes widen as he takes hold of my hips, forcing me to drop her
hand or risk dragging her along with me as he lifts me onto Nightspark’s
back. I have no idea how he plans on climbing into the saddle in front of me
but he then turns back to Cerson and inclines his head to her respectfully.
She’s stunned by the action, enough that she allows him to help her onto
Northern Star without contest. It’s a distinctly respectful act, as though he’s
seeing to the wellbeing of a high-born princess, and I feel a flutter in my
chest.
Once he’s sure Cerson is settled and confident on my horse, Soren
climbs onto the saddle behind me as though I’m a child, taking up the reins
and clicking his tongue to get his beast moving again as though he hasn’t
been a demanding ogre about it all. Prince Gideon, fighting a grin and
losing, calls out commands for the soldiers to take their positions again
while Gage blinks at us all in shock.
WHEN WE COME across out first live war band of raving foot soldiers,
Prince Gideon’s soldiers are swift and brutal in killing them before we get
close enough for me to catch the blood-rot scent of them. I’m not surprised
when they burn the corpses with their magic, only that they’re so swift to do
so. Each of the males are paired off, moving seamlessly together to deal
with the witches and turn them to ash before their poison can sink its teeth
into the land.
Frozen as it is, the dirt is solid even after the skirmish and Gage waits
until the last witch is dead before he climbs down from his own horse to
check the ashes carefully. Cerson watches him keenly, the soft beauty of her
face hiding its edge, but when the goblin prince glances up at his brother
before bowing to Soren and me, she’s visibly pleased with his words.
“There’s no damage; a small sacrifice will ease the fears but there’s no
damage to see to.”
One of the soldiers cuts his palm without waiting for a command, the
harsh syllables of the goblin tongue masking some of his respectful tones
but the prayer is a strong one. The land drinks his blood and his power
voraciously, as hungry for goblin blood as it is for all fae folk though it’s
been far longer since this stretch of the kingdom tasted it.
As we move off once more, Gideon changes the battalion's formation
with ease until one battalion is riding defensively and the other is ready to
pursue any of more Kharl Balzog’s soldiers we come across. Cerson rides
alongside Nightspark and though Gideon takes the lead position, his horse
is only a stride ahead of us. Gage does the same behind us until Soren and I
are surrounded at all angles. It doesn't sit well with me and though I don't
complain about it out loud, Soren still shakes his head at me.
“I know nothing of the magic of those witches siding with the regent
wield; if he sends them after us intent on dragging you back to him, there’s
no telling what lengths they’ll go to.”
Cerson glances between him and Gideon, her smile still dimpling her
cheeks. “My Æfanya would never accept such protections without causing a
fuss.”
 Soren's arms don't change from where they are around me and his voice
comes out too harsh to be called a drawl, but it heats my blood in the same
way. “She can fuss all she likes, the trip to Yregar will pass like this
regardless.”
We walk in silence, but Cerson only lasts a minute before she moves
Northern Star closer to us, declaring brightly in the Unseelie common
tongue, “I like him.”
I smile at her. “I’m glad.”
“Hanede’s going to hate him.”
My smile grows wider. “I know.”
Cerson ignores the amused murmurs from the Briarfrost princes, her
grin bright. “Your seething shadows of ‘back-the-ashes-away-from-my-
Æfanya’ will fucking loathe him… coin toss on the grumpy old shits; it’ll
depend how he fares when the bloodshed begins.”
Surprisingly, Gage comes to Soren’s defense with a huff under his
breath. “No concerns there; he cut down almost two dozen high fae soldiers
alone on our way to Yris. They were stupid enough to make comments
about the Favored Child and it cost them all dearly.”
Cerson’s eyebrows rise, and she hums approvingly, sending me a look
that makes my cheeks heat. The fastest way into her good graces is my
protection and loyalty to me. She’s never been my concern, it’s the rest of
my family who will be far more difficult to appease and my Fates-blessed
mate has never been one to simper after fae to win their favor.
Soren shakes his head at Gage, casting a look over his shoulder at him.
“They were weak, nothing more than the regent’s preening goons enjoying
power given to them instead of earning it.”
Cerson’s gaze flicks back to me, her eyes far too bright. “Well, has he
bested you? Sparring is the true test.”
His arms turn to stone around me, probably enraged at the idea of
swinging a sword at me now, even a blunted practice one. Cerson’s
eyebrows slowly raise as I hesitate, but her question is far more revealing
than any of the males around us realize.
It takes me a moment to collect myself before I sigh and murmur, “We
haven’t sparred.”
Cerson nods slowly, as though she guessed this already. “His choice or
yours?”
“Mine.”
 Her eyes widen a fraction before she covers the action, nodding slowly.
“Interesting. One of those grumpy shits owes me a large satchel of gold… I
thought it would take longer to pry it out of her.”
I sigh. “I’ve changed my mind; you can go back to the Golden Palace
now.”
She throws her head back as she laughs, but Soren doesn’t react, the
same scowl on his face and his firm hold on me never loosening for a
moment.
The joy of the earth slowly declines the closer we get to Yregar until
there’s no sign left of it, only the aching void left behind. Though the snow
covers everything around us, the farming plains look as bleak now as they
did when I first saw them. After sleeping in the Brindlewyrd, it’s startling to
notice how severe the depletion of magic is. Even the air tastes different.
Cerson slowly shifts in the saddle, her discomfort growing with every
step forward. Her eyes trace the abandoned farmhouses and settlements as
we go through, the burned shells that once housed generations of fae folk
and now lay in ruins. When we reach the same abandoned village Soren and
I travelled through on our way to the Brindlewyrd Forest, her smile is long
gone and a grimace sits in its’ place, her dimples no longer joyful.
“Vile, disgusting creatures,” she murmurs under her breath, leaning in
the saddle to look at our path.
The cobblestones are especially uneven beneath the horses' hooves and
as I follow the path of her gaze, I realize it’s uneven because the poison of
slain witches' blood was left here without being burned away. The rot Kharl
Balzog puts in it has eroded the stone.
"There's nothing we can do," Gideon murmurs under his breath, loud
enough Cerson and I hear him. "There were areas in the Briarfrost
Territories affected before we knew what the magic would do to the land
but nothing grows there now, no matter how much we try."
Cerson's mouth firms unhappily. “Some things serve as a reminder of
magic wrought for purposes no witch should ever wield. The earth doesn't
want anyone to forget, even after this war is won and the scourge has been
burned away. It wants us all to remember the cost it bore while we worked
out our petty differences.”
Magic spreads from her body, casting with the ease of all witches with
many years under her belt. Cerson cut her teeth in the Fates War and
throughout the Seelie Court, no better place to practice restraint and waging
war. The earth excepts her power hungrily even though she sprinkles the
barest taste of it around, sure not to lower her reserves too far.
As her magic simmers back down to hide beneath her skin once more,
she smiles at me with a mournful edge. “I look forward to the winter
solstice. It will be a great honor to ease the pain of the land and give it the
magic it deserves… maybe then it won’t be forced to claw us with such
hunger.”
The tension in Soren's arms grow as we ride closer to the small crest
before Yregar, a sure sign of trouble ahead. Gideon motions at his soldiers
to change positions with his hands until we're at the center of their numbers
once more. We keep the same measured pace for another mile before I
smell the smoke that first alarmed the high fae princes and another before I
can hear the battle still waging on.
I can move onto Northern Star with Cerson, I send to Soren but he gives
me a curt shake of his head, his arms tightening around my waist as though
certain I’m planning on throwing myself from this horse.
My soldiers are picking off the last of the witches. Gideon is being
cautious in case there’s an ambush waiting for our return or another war
band finds their way here as quickly as the goblins traveled to Yris.
I’m aware that Kharl Balzog can’t wield the same magic as Cerson, but
I nod back to him knowing such cautions are sound. Arrogance is what got
us into this mess in the first place.
The ground begins its’ steady incline and we hear the footsteps of
soldiers thunderous as they ride towards us. Gideon calls out a command to
the goblin soldiers to stand down though he casts a careful look in Soren’s
direction as he does so and as we finally reach the top of the crest, we find
hundreds of dead witches. Their witch marks are charred black in their
death, the oozing rot of their blood and spittle the same awful shade as they
lay in the snow with sightless eyes and gaping mouths turned up to the sky.
They’re as ghoulish looking in their death as they are in the raving
madness, and the silence turns solemn.
Cerson grimaces as she looks down at them, her lip curling as she
reaches out a hand to burn the bodies as we walk pass and murmuring
prayers to the Fates to apologize for the horrifying rot seeping into the
earth, though no fault lies with her.
Soren doesn't pause or question the action, clicking his tongue at
Nightspark to push us forward towards the approaching high fae. Roan,
Tauron, and handful of Yregar's most loyal are wary as they take in the vast
expanse of goblin soldiers that surround us. The horror on Roan's face is
almost comical as he looks between Gideon, Gage, and Cerson, but Soren is
quick to put an end to any questions before they can even be raised.
Murmuring under his breath in the old language, “The Briarfrost are
allies and guests of Yregar. Cerson Crane is a member of Rooke’s family.
To question any of them is to question me. We’ve traveled for days under
the threat of Kharl’s armies and the regent’s guards, I’m not in a forgiving
mood.”
Tauron and the soldiers all bow their heads straight away but Roan's
face shutters, his head a little slower to drop in respect than the rest. Before
anyone can question or confront him, he turns his horse to lead the way
through the gates of the outer wall.
As we move past the burned remains of the fae door Cerson eyes it with
great interest before turning back to look over the village, her shoulders
rolled back in her head held high as we walk through the cobblestone
streets. The repairs have continued in our time away but there’s still signs of
damage everywhere, the black stains of witch-ash giving the houses a grimy
feel.
The villagers stare at the soldiers with undisguised fear as we pass,
many ducking back into their houses and away from such a display of
power. Gideon and Gage both ignore it, moving to allow Prince Soren and I
to ride at the front, but Cerson sighs at the haggard state of them all.
The inner gates open slowly, the soldiers of sentry duty along the inner
wall staring down at the goblin soldiers with confusion that’s far more
obvious than they usually show in front of their prince. Soren frowns at
them, turning to Roan with a glare but the Snowsong heir jerks his head at
the castle’s courtyard in answer.
Hundreds of high fae wait there, nobles and royals alike, as chaos
ensues at our arrival.
Soren stares at them all in disbelief, his arm pressing me into his chest
as though sure I’m in danger, and Cerson chuckles at him, pleased with his
overbearing ways.
“A wedding gift for your impending nuptials, Your Highness; those high
fae still loyal to the true Celestial King rescued from Yris and brought to the
safety of Yregar.”
OceanofPDF.com
OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

Soren
Every one of my uncle’s prisoners are standing before me in the same
haggard state they were when I last saw them in the dungeons of Yris. I
swing out of my saddle, clearing a healthy amount of space around
Nightspark with a single severe glare before I help Rooke and hand the
reins off to Ingor. Gideon helps Cerson down from Northern Star before I
can reach her but with this many fae jammed into Yregar’s courtyard, I’m
willing to let him so I can keep Rooke closely tucked into my side.
Firna has already begun calling out orders to see the high fae into the
castle, dozens of my soldiers already helping her to direct the crowd, but the
arrival of the goblin soldiers has thrown the crowd into a state of panic.
Tauron curses viciously under his breath as his horse shies away from one
of the weeping high fae ladies, her ear-piercing shriek cut off as she faints at
the sight of the goblin soldiers streaming in through the inner gate behind
us.
Gideon calls out commands to redirect his battalion and his face is set in
the cold, aloof mask once more as the attention of Yregar focuses almost
entirely on him. It’s not just that he’s a fresh face and they’ve seen Gage
here before, it’s his unmistakably high fae appearance that has them rattled
so surely.
 As he dismounts, Roan glares at both of the Briarfrost princes as though
he's finding an open section of skin to bury a knife and I snap at him in the
old language, “This is the path the Fates have set out before me and I’ve
found it far better than the one I hoped to walk. The Briarfrost bloodline are
backing us where dozens of others have turned us away, even after
generations of contempt shown to them. I know where my loyalties lie, you
must decide if yours are as steadfast as you’ve always claimed them to be
but do it quickly, because I won’t hesitate to protect my kingdom.”
He turns to meet my gaze, both of us ignoring the shock slackening
Tauron’s face at my words. His family lost a lot in the conflict with goblins,
but holding onto his anger and contempt for the sake of his grandfather’s
memory will only get us all killed now. If I can accept my own kin’s fault in
the bloodshed, so can he.
When Roan finally bows his head to me, I switch to the common
language. "When did Kharl’s war bands attack? Was this the first one or
have there been others?"
He pointedly doesn’t look at anyone but me, handing his reins to the
stable hand when the male makes it over to us. "It's the first time they've
tried to attack the castle but they’ve been unusually active in the kingdom
for days. Something’s happened out there, we assumed they found out you
and Rooke were traveling without an escort."
Rooke hums under her breath, sharing a look with Cerson where she
stands wedged protectively between Gideon and Gage. “It was our sacrifice
to the Brindlewyrd Forest. The bodies we found on our way out were all
attempts to enter, they seem desperate to find a way in."
Cerson huffs, her eyes sharp on the high fae still causing a fuss around
us and clearly unimpressed with their behavior. "It's they don’t listen to the
forests anymore; they’re not upset about losing access to them."
Rooke stares at her, shocked, before blowing out a breath and nodding
slowly. Cerson giggles at her and when I shoot her a look, she shrugs.
"They can’t get to the fae door without entering the forest."
Cerson taps a finger against her chin theatrically, ignoring the
affectionate eye roll Rooke gives her. "I wonder how much angrier the
Betrayer will be when he realizes he’s lost access to all of them?"
I freeze, all eyes turning to look at the witch, but she just shrugs back.
“That disgusting male cast his own magic on them to send his raving army
here— the very least I can do is cut him off… when we face him on the
battlefield, I’ll see he faces true retribution for defiling sacred relics of this
kingdom.”
Gideon and Gage both cackle gleefully but Roan just stares at her,
scowling but far less contentious than the one he wore.
Tauron asks carefully, “How is that possible? How you know the old
magic of the First Fae?"
Rooke cringes but Cerson answers without anger at whatever ignorance
in my cousin’s words. "It's Elmswyrd magic, actually. My coven taught the
high fae how to create fae doors in the first place."
With the last of the high fae seen into the Grand Hall, I take Rooke’s
elbow to direct her into the castle and Kytan waits inside the entrance with
Reed, Firna, Airlie and, surprisingly, Aura.
Yregar’s commander bows deeply to us both. “When we heard you
were taken to Yris, we assumed the worst, Your Highness. We were much
relieved when the trees informed Tyton of your return journey.”
Airlie steps forward to embrace Rooke, a smug smile at the corner of
her lips that spells trouble but she spares me from her gloating for now. “I
was unaware you were on a rescue mission, cousin, or that you were
opening our doors to all.”
Gage scoffs under his breath, muttering in the Unseelie common
language, “I'm not sure he particularly wanted to house them all here but
the regent’s insanity hasn’t given him much choice.”
Blank looks of shock stare back at him, a smirk tugging over my own
lips.
“Airlie, this is Prince Gage Briarfrost, King Galen’s son, and this is his
brother, Prince Gideon; the heir to the Briarfrost throne. Along with their
battalions, they’re staying at Yregar with us for the foreseeable future and
are my welcome guests.”
Gesturing to the witch still smiling pleasantly from between the goblin
princes with a curt nod, I continue. “This is Cerson Crane, a member of
Rooke’s family and household. She, very graciously, journeyed back to the
Southern Lands to aid our escape from Yris and transported the rest of the
Unseelie Court still loyal to me back here, as well. She will be treated with
the same respects as any royal; my word on this is final.”
Meeting each of my household’s eyes firmly, I almost do a double take
at the awe in Aura's eyes as she stares between Cerson and Rooke.
Wringing her hands with eager energy, her entire body is turned in their
direction as though waiting for an opening to fawn over them. I turn to
Airlie for an answer to this drastic change of heart only to find her gaping at
her mother as though she doesn’t recognize her.
My aunt steps to Cerson and grasps both her hands. “Such a long
journey, we must get both of you taken care of! Let me see you to one of
the guest wings, Cerson, where you can prepare for dinner. My daughter is
an excellent host and we dine in her chambers for our meals as she’s loathe
to leave my little grandson, even as he sleeps peacefully.”
Rooke stares at Aura with suspicion and Cerson doesn’t have to look at
her sister-in-law to feel it, the dangerous smile growing on her face. “Are
the guest’s chambers far from Rooke’s? I must admit, I’m reluctant to leave
her side after so many months of separation. If there’s too much castle
between us, I'm sure I'll become a nuisance of myself.”
Airlie glances between the impending mess before us, ready to cut in
and offer up her own guest chambers to keep the witches close together, but
I’ve had more than enough of this.
Grasping Rooke’s elbow, I attempt a level tone at my aunt and fail
miserably. “Cerson is staying with Rooke and I. Airlie, please see Prince
Gideon and Prince Gage into the guest chambers on the Celestial side of the
castle and Aura… you can help Firna with the new arrivals.”
She bows deeply to me and moves off without question, stepping into
the Grand Hall as though she’s always this helpful and not a nightmare for
her daughter and I at the best of times. I don't bother looking in Airlie's
direction as she bows to Gideon and Gage happily, my fingers still clasped
on Rooke’s elbow as though there’s a danger of her slipping away from me
if I let go for even a second, and Cerson follows us without a word.
Rooke waits until we’re climbing the first set of stairs before she
murmurs, “Not that I intend on arguing with you over every little thing,
Soren, but I did promise my protection to Thea. Leaving her down in the
healer’s quarters by herself is unsettling.”
“I’m sure not as unsettling as me reducing this entire castle to rubble
will be if I have a magic slip.”
She sighs, casting me a stony look as she finally pulls her arm from my
grasp. “Your efforts at learning control have been nothing short of heroic
and we both know it. I can't just abandon her down there.”
I incline my head at one of the maids as she walks past and she bows
her head respectfully at the three of us, a small smile on her face as she
rushes off to her duties. Cerson smiles at her as well, dimples cutting deeply
into her cheeks.
“I'm not sure it’ll hold if I'm startled awake and you're nowhere to be
found.”
I don’t mention her nightmares that only one to bring them up but if she
refuses to see good sense, I’ll use whatever I have to ensure she’s at my
side. She grimaces at me, her mouth sealing shut and glances back at
Cerson to find her looking around the castle. The way she's pointedly
ignoring our conversation is respectful but in the way of family, the true
sort of respect that comes from a deep underlying affection. The warnings
of the rest of her family’s opinions still ring in my ears.
Her husband is the only fae I care about winning over, and ensuring his
wife is only treated with the utmost respect is a good start. Keeping the
gazes of all the unmated males in Yregar from her will probably also gain
me favor, already proving difficult as the guards all shift and turn slightly in
her direction as we walk.
The soldiers standing guard over my chamber bow and open the doors
for us, both staring at the ground when I glare at them for their lingering
gazes. Rooke gives me a careful look, but Cerson strides ahead of us both
and makes appreciative noises at the design of my chambers. I haven’t
touched anything here since I moved in centuries ago and only Firna is
allowed in here to clean, but it’s furnished with all the opulence of the
Unseelie Court’s designs.
Rooke hovers awkwardly, unsure of what to do, and I scoff at her,
pushing open the door to the queen consort's chambers and gesturing to
Cerson. “If there’s anything you need, please let Firna or one of the maids
know and we’ll see to it.”
She shoots Rooke a look, wiggling her eyebrows, before she bows to
me respectfully. “Rest assured, I over-pack and there’s very little I could
possibly have need for.”
I’m not surprised when she flicks her wrists and her sleeves split the
same way Rooke’s do but when a sword appears in her hand with a pop of
light, my eyebrows hit my hairline. Made with Seelie steel, the pommel is
cast in gold with intricate carvings in the grip and dozens of jewels lie
nestled in the design. There’s a kingdom’s worth of riches in that weapon
alone.
 “I know you told me not to bring you anything but couldn't bear the
thought of you swinging the other one around.”
I frown at her but Rooke steps forward and takes it with a sigh, her hand
fitting the grip perfectly though she doesn’t move to unsheathe the blade.
“I swear you're trying to split me open and lay my insides out today, and
after all these months away, I was expecting a far kinder reception,” she
mutters under her breath, but Cerson laughs.
“I’m doing no such thing! I just want to be sure that when you cleave
Kharl Balzog’s filthy head from his shoulders you do it with your own
sword and not whatever random one you've brought along with you.”
Rooke chuckles, shaking her head. “I did no such thing and you know
it. Even the thought of swinging this one at raving witches makes my skin
crawl, I don’t think I can do it.”
Cerson shrugs as she kisses Rooke’s cheek, bowing her head to me
before she steps into the queen consort chambers, shutting the door firmly
and a sound barrier wraps around the room.
When Rooke avoids my gaze, I place a hand on the base of her spine
and steer her further into the chambers to our room. When I take my cloak
off to hang it up, I do the same with hers, then both of our swords as well.
When I turn back to her without commenting on the extravagant blade, she
hesitates and opens her mouth only for her gaze to flick back to my
reception room as the door opens and half my household arrives to see me
for orders.
I step forward, grasping her cheek. “I need to speak to Kytan to see the
goblin soldiers housed comfortably and ensure my expectations for their
treatment are clear. Whatever plans we make to deal with my uncle and the
Betrayer, they’ll happen after the winter solstice tomorrow. Everything can
wait until then.”
She nuzzles into my palm a little, and I can’t help but duck down to
press our lips together, enjoying the sound of her breath catching. “Go
enjoy a long bath. I’ll try not to kill half the castle while you’re gone.”
KYTAN AND ALWYN listen to my orders for the barracks and my
commands regarding the goblin soldiers with bowed heads as they stand
before the desk in my reception room. Tauron and Tyton sit in the two
armchairs set off to one side while Roan seethes by my side. His gaze stays
firmly away from where Gideon and Gage stand by the wall, a small
concession, and Reed stands between them and the door further into my
chambers as though he’s guarding Rooke from them both even now.
The animosity hasn’t been so thick in this room without Rooke and
Tauron’s involvement for centuries and it’s no wonder Kytan keeps
glancing at Roan like he’s expecting the Snowsong Prince to take a swing at
someone. Alwyn doesn’t dare look up, but his shoulders are tight and his
hands are fisted at his side as though he’s struggling not to stand
defensively.
Glancing down at the map before me, my mind stays firmly on the war
bands of witches and the Bloodwitches groveling at the regent's feet. “Add
the goblin soldiers into the sentry duties as well, but no more than a
hundred at a time and keep them posted outside of the castle.”
Kyton nods firmly. “I’ll have them moved into duties first shift
tomorrow so they can recover from the journey here.”
Gage glances at Gideon before he says, “They don’t need the rest.
Better to have enough eyes on the walls than risk being caught by surprise
if Kharl Balzog is as incensed about the fae doors as I wager the ashes-
cursed male is.”
Kytan freezes, his eyes widening, but when he glances up to me I nod
firmly. “All of the Briarfrost soldiers speak the goblin tongue and the
Unseelie common language. Ensure the soldiers all know that if they’re
stupid enough to disregard my commands, I’ll hear about it.”
“Of course, Your Highness, my apologies.”
Roan huffs at his apology. “No need to apologize for the Briarfrost’s
dishonesty, Kytan.”
Gage sends him a warning look. “No one ever asked what languages I
speak. I don’t owe anyone an explanation but the goblin king.”
Tauron looks at Roan before sending Gage a careful look of his own.
“What about Prince Soren? Do you owe him an explanation?”
Gage returns his gaze with a hard one of his own, not backing down an
inch. “Now that we’re allies, I do and I’ve already given it to him. When I
escorted the supplies to Yregar, I kept to the accords and the goblin king’s
commands to see to the Favored Child’s welfare. There’s nothing left for
you to question.”
Roan cocks his head to the side. “Why do you call her that instead of
her name? It sounds like you’re waiting for the right moment to kidnap the
witch and take her back with you; it’s what you’ve wanted all along.”
The sounds of Cerson leaving her rooms and calling out for Rooke
freezes everyone in place, listening until the two witches are back inside
Cerson’s magic as they get ready for dinner together.
Looking around the room, I level each of the males with a cold glare.
“I’ve given the goblins sentry duties because I’d rather have them guarding
Yregar’s walls than dealing with petty squabbles inside its’ castle walls. The
only exception to that is guarding Rooke or Cerson, but I have no intention
of leaving those duties to anyone outside of this room. You’re all my most
loyal and trusted fae; don’t make me question that.”
I dismiss Kytan and Alwyn and they both bow again as they depart,
leaving Tyton as the only fae looking unfazed as the rest shift on their feet.
They scowl around the room at each other, and the animosity thickens the
air. The tension builds rapidly until my reception room feels as volatile as a
death curse jammed in a box, waiting to unleash its’ horror on us all.
When the door to Cerson's room opens again, I speak low enough that
only high fae ears can hear my warning, “If any of you think to do
something stupid that puts my Fates-blessed mate or her brother’s wife in
danger, it won't take an act of the Fates to see you wiped from this
kingdom.”
Tauron bows his head easily, as do both goblin princes though they
pause briefly, their eyes still locked on Roan. The Snowsong Prince shoots
me a look before finally bowing his own head, right as Cerson steps into my
reception room. Clearly sensing the malevolence in the room, she breezes
past it with little more than the quirk of an eyebrow in my direction.
Chatting happily with Rooke, she’s wearing brightly colored robes covered
in intricate embroidery and the bands of fabric plume out the same as high
fae skirts do.
Roan leaves without another word but Tyton stands to greet her with a
bow, a smile on his own face to match hers as he murmurs an offer to show
her the Snowsong chambers. She accepts brightly, her hands clasped behind
her back like Rooke does when she’s thinking, and the goblin princes both
follow them out. Tauron leaves with a side-long look in my direction and a
quick bow to Rooke as she steps into the room. My gaze stays fixed on his
retreat for another heartbeat, only turning back to my Fates-blessed mate
when she moves towards me. My other concerns disappear in an instant.
Struck dumb by her, all I can do is watch as the blush grows on her
cheeks at the heat in my eyes, but she looks like every last fantasy I’ve ever
had wrapped in the forest green robes. Made of buttery-soft silk, the silver
leaves embroidered over her chest and sleeves match the pins she favors,
and her eyes, perfectly.
She’s covered from her neck and wrists all the way down to her boots,
yet the way it curves around her chest and hips is obscene. When she closes
the distance between us, a soft smile of her face at my reaction, the skirt
fans out the same as Cerson’s but not as dramatically, the hemline brushing
the carpets with their length.
When it becomes clear words are impossible for me, she glances down
at herself with a shrug. “Cerson rifled through my wardrobes before she
came but I fear her tastes are far more elaborate than my own. I’m sure I’ll
be overdressed at every opportunity.”
Scowling at her depreciating tone and with a rumbling growl, my hands
span her waist to pull her into my chest and our awaiting household is all
but forgotten. Her lips take on a sensuous curve and she reaches out to clasp
my arms, rising onto her toes to meet my lips. My temper cools as my focus
on her becomes lascivious, the scent of her skin filling my lungs with every
breath and driving me further into madness.
When my hands slide further down her body, my intentions clear, Rooke
pulls away with a gasp. “Everyone is waiting on us and we really can’t
leave Cerson unattended for too long. She’s thriving on my pain and
suffering, I’m sure my penance for insisting on traveling here alone.”
My scowl returns, both at her pulling away from me and her concerns to
the other witch, but she only shakes her head. "We all became very close
during our service, and Cerson spent months trying to convince me to
change my plans before I returned here. It's all an inevitable response to her
fears for me."
Her voice is filled with affection, enough that it rankles me to see it
pointed in anyone else's direction, but I find solace that her eyes are soft to
me alone. It takes me another deep breath before I can let her go, my hands
clutching at her hips desperately as I convince myself she's right, and that
we do need to be elsewhere. Rooke hums soothingly under her breath, her
hand moving from my arms into my own as she tucks herself into my side
agreeably. How she takes all my demanding actions so well is a mystery to
me.
As we step through the open door to the Snowsong Chambers we find
our household and guests staring around at each other with an air of
confrontation. Rooke's sighs softly under her breath and the exhausted edge
to it pulls a snarl out of me stern enough that every male in the room drops
their head into a bow. Cerson watches them all with a very amused smile on
her face, inclining her head at me graciously. Whether it's merely a
respectful gesture or recognition for my protective actions over her family, I
can't tell.
Airlie steps out of the nursery with her fussing son in her arms, sharing
a frazzled look with Firna. The Keeper clicks her tongue at the infant,
making disapproving noises that Raidyn only giggles at as he’s passed over
to her, before she takes him back in with a stern warning of missing his
bedtime and keeping his poor mother awake all night. He finds that most
amusing, as well.
When my cousin turns back to her guests with a smile, she glances
between Rooke and I with raised brows. “My, my, so much has changed on
such a short journey. You have much to catch me up on!”
I shoot her a stern look but the smile on her face only grows wider and
then she shocks me by holding out her hand to Gage. “Princess Airlie
Celestial, it’s an honor to meet you properly and to welcome you to dine
with my family.”
He stares at her hand for a second before he takes it and shakes it as
though she's just another soldier. Cerson cackles from where she’s watching
on at Gideon’s side, both of them amused at the goblin prince’s behavior.
When Airlie only blinks at him, he jerks his head in Roan’s direction. “I
know better than to kiss another man's wife, royal or not. My mother taught
me better than that.”
Gideon shakes his head at his brother and steps forward to take Airlie's
hand as well bowing over and rather than shaking it or kissing it. "Please
forgive my brother, he's had a very trying week and it’s made his usually
respectful manners disappear."
Rooke huffs under her breath and shoots Cerson a look. "That seems to
be the case for many of us. Let's all just do our best to enjoy our dinner
without resorting to bloodshed."
 The doors open and prove that may be an impossible task as Aura steps
through, flanked by her husband and a seething Reed. I shoot Airlie a look
but her teeth are clenched tightly together she stares at her parents,
bickering as they make their way in to the dining room with little regard for
anyone's reactions or protests. Recovering quickly, she leads everyone into
the dining room and by the informality of the seating, I’m confident she’s
on my side when it comes to the goblin princes.
When Reed moves as though he’s going to take up watch, still scowling
at Aura's back, Airlie waves a hand at him. "I'll be insulted if you don't eat
with us, Snowheart."
He glances to me but when I nod he slips into the seat next to Cerson
easily, giving her a polite smile before dipping his head at Roan
respectfully. The maids bring out dishes laden with food, enough to see
those at the table fed and not a single crumb more, and my cousin murmurs
her praises to the females, her tone warm. Aura does the same, her own tone
far less affectionate, but her husband sneers at the dishes as though he hasn't
been sitting in a dungeon cell for days with barely any rations.
Airlie steers the focus away from him with ease, turning to Gideon with
a smile. “I had no idea that King Galen had sons before Rooke came to
Yregar; there isn't ever any news from your lands but I know we’re to
blame for that. Soren’s been learning the goblin tongue but I fear lack of
sleep is preventing me from doing the same for now.”
Gideon gives her a polite smile back. “We have three sisters as well.”
"And do they look like him or were the other’s cursed with the same
fortune as you?"
The table stills in shock at Rydern and I turn to Aura's husband with a
fury that ripples out of me just as dangerously as my magic when it follows
suit. He startles as it washes over him, clawing at his skin in a threat as I
struggle to stop it from tearing his throat out.
When I finally yank it back into my chest, I snap at him, "Leave, now."
He all but flees from the table, scrambling up from his seat without
looking at Aura or Airlie. Rooke picks up her goblet and takes a mouthful of
the goblin wine, as though she's trying to forget the male spoke in the first
place, but Gideon shrugs at her. "I'm both aware of the high fae's opinions
of my family and not the least bit offended. All my father's children are
proud of their bloodlines, as they should be. Fates help that male if he
survives long enough to meet the rest of the Briarfrost heirs."
 Gage picks up his own goblet, murmuring under his breath, "It'll take
more than the Fates to save him from Khylla."
Airlie's mouth has firmed into a furious line but her tone comes out
carefully even. "My father was also vehemently opposed to my Fates-
blessed union and is most distressed that my son has inherited his father's
eyes."
"He's a miserable, self-obsessed cunt, and he should stay in the guest
wing with the rest of them until he learns some fucking manners," Tauron
snaps, and though Aura startles at the vehemence, she doesn't argue with
him, and the table falls silent as we eat.
When Gideon finally chuckles under his breath, I raise an eyebrow at
him. “The Fates are certainly fickle in their weaving. I spent years in
Aysgarth being tormented by my cousins for looking this way, furious at
being so different to my siblings, only for the high fae here to applaud it.
Ashes above, my torment only stopped when Khylla caught wind of it.”
Gage cackles gleefully, ignoring the careful looks Reed and Roan both
send him. “When half a dozen children showed up at Mahman’s door
clutching broken bones and bleeding wounds, she… took care of it.”
Gideon sends him a conspiratorial look, his grin roguish. “An important
lesson for all involved; it’s unwise to piss off the healer tending your
wounds, and never tell Mahman when there’s trouble because she’s
infinitely more terrifying than Vahro.”
Rooke smothers a grin in her napkin, nodding along I send her a
questioning look. “Our family was the opposite. My mother was peaceful
but while my father chose that path, it didn’t come naturally to him. He
used to tell Pem it was ‘the joy of the forest life’, though he often said it
through gritted teeth.”
Gideon smirks. “It’s good to know that this face can be used against the
arrogant within the Unseelie Court.”
“It’s your eyes,” Airlie murmurs, sipping at her drink and sharing a look
with Tauron. “The Court have always been obsessed with the true Celestial
blue. Soren and I have them, a handful of others. To see a male they reject
and despise with them… it makes it impossible to forget you’re descended
from the First Fae just as they are, just as all of high fae blood are.”
Cerson grins and shares a look with Rooke. “The Unseelie Court does
seem to be clinging to their prejudices rather tightly. It was difficult
convincing some of them to come with a ‘filthy witch’. I was hoping it was
merely shock and not a guiding belief, but if they’re not planning on
accepting the new order of things here, their days are numbered.”
Cerson looks around the table carefully, smiling warmly in the way a
predator coaxes its prey before making the killing blow. “Of your future
queen’s family, please know that I’m the reasonable one. The others spent
far too long in the trenches of war, dealing with endless high fae arrogance
and idiocy. It’s left them all a little… unhinged. If you value your life, don’t
ever disrespect my Æfanya. Hanede Loche has more pardons from the Sol
King for treason under his belt than most of you have noble deeds, and
every one of them was for killing some prince who thought he could
question a Favored Child.”
Hanede.
Rooke’s head drops as she looks to her hands, a fine tremble there at the
mention of the little boy the Brindlewyrd mourns… only that was centuries
ago and he’s no longer a witchling but a male. One who has my Fates-
blessed mate on the verge of weeping over at the mere sound of his name.
Tension ripples across the table but I ignore it, my attention solely on
Rooke.
“He’s the one you left behind? That’s why the forest welcomed you…
because⁠—“
She cuts me off quickly, her tone filled with an ache that ripples through
our mind connection despite the wall between us and seizes my lungs. “The
injury I bore from the Fates War should’ve killed me. If anyone else found
me in that state, it no doubt would have, but he alone had the ability and the
determination to save me.”
Gage’s eyes flick down to her waist as though he knows of it too. How
that’s possible, I don’t know, and all the options are intolerable to me. A
snarl tears out of my chest at him but surprisingly, he bows his head and
looks sharply away from her.
Rooke doesn’t seem shocked at the respectful gesture, she’s clearing her
throat again like she’s trying not to cry but with her own head turned away I
can’t know for sure. “There are very few witches with enough magic to be
able to see me through such wounds and even less fae with blood I’m able
to receive. The Brindlewyrd Forest recognized Hanede's blood in my veins
and welcomed me home, assuming I was of the Loche bloodline. My family
helped him to the Northern Lands safely. He’s never forgotten that selfless
act and when my brother and I arrived at the Sol City he was the first to
greet us. He never let a single person speak poorly of me."
Cerson nods, shooting me a hard look. "There were those amongst the
Sol Army who knew of the power of Favored Children and Hanede spent
quite a lot of time ensuring none got their hands or influence on my
Æfanya. He owed the Ravenswyrd witches a life debt and he intends on
killing anyone who so much as side-eyes her."
Gideon’s eyes peel back, the whites bright around his irises, and he
leans into his brother to mutter under his breath, “I’d rather walk dick first
into the jaws of a starving Ureen than anger Rookesbane Eveningstar so
we’re safe if that witch is on his way here as well, but I don’t know about
the rest of them.”
Eyes narrowing at them both, Reed is the one to ask, “Why do you say
Rooke’s name like that?”
Gideon’s eyebrow quirks upwards, turning to Reed with an assessing
look. “It appears the goblin lands aren’t the only area your messenger’s
neglect to bring you news. Are there any tales of the Fates War you have
heard?”
Roan bristles, as does Tauron, but Reed shrugs. “We heard how many
lives were lost, how close the kingdom came to ruin. We heard of the battles
won, the Sol King’s efforts to seal the tear in the Fates, and how the Ureen
were unmade. I also heard quite a lot about the exiled dragon riders, and the
prince who leads them.”
Rooke looks at Reed and he grimaces, blanching a little as he scrambles
to save himself from her frustration. “The only tales that were brought back
from the Fates War were those of the high fae soldiers. I heard all about
Prince Stonefyre’s triumph in N’Tyri and the turning of the tides. He was
one of the soldiers of the last stand, he walked out of the Sol City and
defeated the last of the Ureen. He was the first Dragul high fae prince to
complete the Trials in generations!”
“Prince Stonefyre, I’m dying right now. The Fates are calling me to the
gates, Æfanya, I’ll meet you there,” Cerson says as she shakes with
laughter, wiping her eyes on her napkin.
The goblin princes both murmur to each other in their own amusement
at this but the rest of the table is as confused as I am, listening intently to
figure out where Reed has misstepped.
 Rooke finally sighs at the Outland soldier, disappointment seeping from
her pores as she shakes her head. “Of course you’re obsessed with the
dragon rider prince. Of course his tale is the only one you found merit in.”
Cerson, still shaking with the aftereffects of her amusement looks
between the two of them. “If it’s the Trials you’re interested in, you should
know that Pemba Eveningstar also holds the rank of Exalted.”
Silence falls over the table.
Roan recovers first, his own fascination for the dragon riders as strong
as his soldier’s. “A witch completed the Trials? But— how? Why?”
Cerson smiles at him, sharp as a knife. “By accident, mostly. The way
of the Ravenswyrd Coven is as fearless and heroic as any Dragul, and
though Rooke was quick to point out Hanede’s treason, be warned that the
turning of the tides first started because a gutless, ashes-cursed commander
gave orders to leave N’Tyri and all those within behind. Rooke was healing
soldiers, pinned down in one of the old districts, but Pemba refused to
abandon her. He led the defection of the nine-eighty-one… the battalion
that won the first battle against the Ureen in the centuries of the Fates War.”
My suspicions are proving true with every word, Roan’s eyes flaring as
his gaze flicks to Rooke but she listens to Cerson with an expressionless
face. “How many of your escort were in the nine-eighty-one?”
Rooke’s mind is hollowed out until the aching void draws me to press at
the wall, but her voice betrays none of that pain. “Three but when the
battalions were redrawn, all five served in the ten-twenty-one.”
We all know that number well, even Aura and Airlie share a look. The
Fates War waged with such ferocity for so many centuries that the Sol Army
was forced to number their battalions and the soldiers alike, moving them
around and replacing their forces as the death toll climbed horrifically each
year. Entire battalions were wiped out with such regularity in the early years
that the Sol King was forced to send out his calls for aid, the offer of
sanctuary that the witches of the Southern Lands were forced to take.
The ten-twenty-one was the battalion of the High Commander and the
soldiers of the last stand.
Roan’s gaze flick to Cerson, his head bowing a fraction in respect. “You
fought in the last stand?”
She smiles warmly, with no sign of the scars such a feat would surely
have left behind. “I did. The ten-twenty-one is a family of bloodshed and
honorable sacrifices, so ensure you’re all mindful of my warnings.”
 When the only response to her words is a subdued, stunned silence,
Cerson turns back to me with a chuckle. “Are you regretting your invitation
to us yet? You probably should be.”
My hand drops to clasp Rooke’s under the table, her fingers cold against
mine and her mind carefully blank as she avoids the open wounds still
weeping within her heart. “No. I don’t care if you all loathe me and make
my life difficult at every turn; you’re my Fates-blessed mate’s family and
the entire kingdom will know it. No high fae are above you, by law you’ll
answer to Rooke and I alone, though I’ve already given her my word to
leave your command to her.”

OceanofPDF.com
OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

Rooke
It's difficult to ignore the interested looks around the table but Soren's hand
stays tucked in mine firmly, his fingers warm against my own. Cerson's leg
nudges mine under the table gently but her warning before dinner, stern as it
was, did little to prepare me for this conversation.
"You told me you were coming back to complete your fate, that you've
accepted it, but how can that be true if you're still desperately hiding from
the truth of that war; the role you played in it and what it cost you?”
There's no one else who can call me quite like Cerson can, perception
and a sharp mind covered with a smile and beauty that even the high fae
can't deny. Though there were a few slips of his magic Soren kept his
temper well and I'm surprised at his ease as he left his household to
question us both. Even as his protective rage grew at Cerson for resurfacing
old wounds, he never once looked at her with the same ire he gives
everyone else freely, a fact that the rest of his household hasn't missed.
Airlie beams at her cousin every chance, chatting happily with both the
goblin princes and Cerson at every opportunity. Her body leans into her
husband, his attitude far less joyful, and her gaze firmly away from her
mother. Aura desperately tries to gain her daughter's attention and when
she's rejected at every advance, she turns her focus onto Cerson and I. Roan
finds this more suspicious than anything else said but I'm just as
dumbfounded as the rest of the table.
When she gushes at Cerson's descriptions of the impending rites I
finally lose my restraint. "How exactly are you going to aid Cerson with her
sacrifices if you can barely contain your derision and witches and magic?"
I watched this female go head-to-head with her daughter and her
nephew dozens of times, never one to back down from her position, but the
book she gives me could only be described as humbled. "As Soren has
commanded all of his household to change their opinions and return to the
traditions of the First Fae, I am eager to follow his command."
Soren looks at her from the corner of his eye, his scar pulling viciously
at his lip as he frowns at her. "I didn't expect you to be so ardent in your
attempts."
She sips at her wine goblet her gaze shifting slowly around the table and
landing on her daughter, still ignoring this entire conversation with a cold
shoulder, before she turns back to Cerson. "I left the Unseelie Court and
Yris behind when my grandson was born, but little did I know that my
escape came moments before it was too late. Your efforts to bring the rest of
the high fae loyal to my nephew saw many whom I have a great affection
for to safety."
Cerson picks up her own goblet drinking far deeper than Aura does
before she answers. "Hopefully your husband can find himself as
submissive to his king as you are, and you won't end up losing him still."
Aura hesitates for a moment, her fingers tracing against the tablecloth,
in her words are soft enough that they are barely audible to those without
high fae blood. "The Fates were not kind enough to give all Celestials a
Fates-blessed mate they could find happiness with. The one I care for is in
no danger from a treasonous death."
This grants Aura her daughter's attention finally, Airlie’s eyes widening
as she turned in her seat, and Soren's fingers tense against my own but the
door opening to the chambers proves his concern is not with the interests of
his aunt.
Roan leaps to his feet and Kytan strides towards the dining room with
two goblin soldiers at his side. I grit my teeth, ready for whatever petty
differences have sparked an incident within the barracks, but Yregar’s
commander quickly bows to Soren without preamble.
 "Another war band of raving witches arrived to the outer wall. The
soldiers on sentry duties killed them and the Briarfrost soldiers burned the
bodies but there are signs of more."
Soren shoots a look at Roan then Gideon and they’re all striding out of
the room with barely a command thrown over their shoulders. Nudging
Cerson gently, she follows me as I stand and smile warmly at Airlie.
She sends me an amused look back. “Soren will be furious if you leave
these castle walls, Rooke. It’s probably unwise with the regent’s plans for
you.”
I hold up a hand to stop any of the glaring male’s left behind from
voicing their own protests. “I’m taking Cerson down to the healer’s quarters
to meet Thea and ensure she’s doing well. If we’re about to defend the
castle from another siege this might be my only chance and I’m already
anxious to see her.”
Tauron’s eyes shutter, his defenses slipping into place easily as Airlie
and Tyton both glance at him but I incline my head to Airlie with murmured
thanks for her hosting, and lead Cerson back out of the Snowsong
chambers. Gage and Tauron follow behind us, just as I was expecting,
leaving Reed and Tyton behind to watch over Airlie and her sleeping son.
“No one has entered the quarters while you were gone, and Tyra has
only left briefly for provisions and to check in with Firna. She said
everything was going well… whatever that means.”
I nod back to Tauron. “It’s a slow path, but Tyra is excellent with her
and not just because she’s able to sign. She’s adept at sensing her fears and
moving her away from them. Once we have a good foundation of trust with
her, we’ll start working through them instead, but for now creating a
peaceful and safe environment for her is the best course of action.”
He gives me a curt nod back, his jaw tense as he grinds his teeth in
frustration, but when we arrive at the healer’s quarters he dismisses the
guards there with ease, taking up watch on one side of the door without
argument. Gage stands on the other side, his tail subdued as it curls around
him, and he nods firmly to me.
I knock, knowing Tyra will hear it and warn Thea, waiting a moment
before I open the door and step through first. The females are both sitting at
the long work table, their plates from dinner stacked up and ready for
cleaning though they’re too busy chatting to get to the task yet, and they
both smile at me, though Thea seems hesitant at the gesture.
 I smile back, blocking the door frame as I pause for a moment. I’ve
returned and brought a good friend of mine back to Yregar with me. Cerson
is a witch returned from the Northern Lands, although she’s not a healer
she has endless knowledge and skills that would be a gift for you both. Can
we join you both for some tea before bed?
Thea glances at Tyra but the maid nods back to her with a reassuring
squeeze of her arm thrown in for good measure. I wait until she’s taken a
deep breath, her nerves now bubbling into the calm space and taking it over,
but Cerson glides into the room as though she doesn’t feel it. Her smile is
genuine and warm as she slowly approaches Thea, leaving a generous space
between them as she greets her warmly.
Thea still trembles a little at the sight of her, but she's able to duck her
head in greeting, and my own hands move swiftly to distract my young
apprentice.
I'm sorry I was gone much longer than we first intended. I fear we’ll be
forced back out of the castle again soon but my priority is the safety of
Yregar and all within.
Thea watches my hands, rubbing her own on the apron tied neatly
around her waist, but it’s the only sign of distress in the otherwise healthy
looking female. Her hair is braided down her back, and she’s wearing
healer’s robes but in Celestial blue, no doubt a gift from Airlie.
We've kept the garden safe for you, Mistress Rooke. When the snow
began to fall with much more ferocity, we've kept close watch and adjusted
the frames as they’ve needed.
My eyebrows raise at Tyra and a small smile dimples at her cheeks as
she signs her answer to me, sure to keep the Thea in the conversation. We've
been taking small walks around the garden as well, Mistress Rooke. It's
been challenging at times but Thea has been incredibly determined to
ensure that you returned to a perfectly maintained quarters.
I'm not surprised to learn that stepping into the garden required the
nudge of gaining my approval but the fact that Thea’s telling me about it
without the drenching terror that plagues her feels like a small step forward.
Tyra ducks out of the healer’s quarters with the promise of finding
something sweet to indulge in, bowing to me on her way.
Cerson moves around my shelves as easily as she did in the Golden
Palace, collecting vials and putting a kettle of water on the stove to boil.
She hums under her breath easily, an old lullaby that tears my heart to hear
after a night of revisiting my pain, but I hum along with her. She sends me a
shy smile, realizing what she’s done but I shake my head, catching her hand
in mine to squeeze gently.
Taking a seat, Cerson gently questions Thea about her experience at
Yregar so far, smiling at her hesitant answers and offering her reassurance.
This is my home now too, at least for the time being. I hope to return to the
forest once this business with Kharl Balzog is over with.
Cerson begins pouring out our tea, slipping back into our habits easily
but Thea scowls at the table between us before slowly repeating the
Betrayer's name. I've seen mention of the male before. Is there trouble with
him?
Cerson pointedly doesn't look in my direction, sliding the cup and
saucer over to Thea before she replies. There’s much conflict with the male.
Do you remember where you saw mention of him?
Thea’s brows pinch as she lifts the cup to blow the steam rises she looks
nervous but not much more than she usually does. I smile at her in
encouragement as Cerson hands me my own cup.
Thea stares out the door out to the garden, closed firmly to keep the
winter chill out, before glancing back. I recognized some of the plants in the
garden. A lot of them grew in Yris too. Some of them are magic, aren’t they?
Cerson nods back to her sedately, not showing any frustration for the
avoidance of her question. There’s magic in all living things but some of
those plants hold far more potential than others certainly.
Thea’s teeth worry at her bottom lip, a newly revealed nervous habit
that wasn't on display before I left but a good sign of her growing comfort,
that she’s able to show nervous behavior without fear of punishment. The
crackling of the fire and the soothing brew of the tea helps the calm to wash
over me and a sigh heaves out of my chest as my shoulders finally relax. I
enjoy the quiet for a moment, and the peace of not being observed so
closely as I have been for days.
Kharl Balzog is going to teach the high fae how to live forever.
Cerson blinks at Thea’s hands for a moment before looking up at her
face but when she sees the surety in the female, she turns to me. Her mouth
moves for a moment but no sound comes out, aghast at such a plan.
I blow out a breath, signing to them both, I did hear rumors in Yris of
how desperately the regent wants to reign over the Southern Lands
indefinitely. He certainly was eager to auction his only daughter off, certain
he didn’t require an heir.
Cerson shakes her head. Has the male not met any of the Ancients?
Living forever is not the joy I'm sure he expects it to be.
I shrug. Phaedra is staying in Yris at the moment.
Cerson snorts, an undignified sound for such a striking female but it
only brings an answering grin to my own face. And how are the Unseelie
Court managing around the Ancient?
Not well. He’s not very interested in any of their tea parties or games.
Cerson blinks at me before descending into laughter again, the sound of
it ringing through the air. The door opens and Tauron holds it wide for Tyra
as she slips back in with a tray balanced between her palms. Only his arm is
in our view, and only to be sure the maid makes it through the threshold
without hurting herself, but I hold my breath as I watch for Thea’s reaction.
She quickly stands, rushing to Tyra to steady the small female and help her
to the table, her head lifting and her shoulders tightening a little as she sees
the high fae prince guarding the door.
She doesn’t scream or crumble at the sight of him, only ducking her
head and hurrying back to the table. Without hesitation, the door shuts
quietly and seals them both into the carefully secluded safety once more.

WE WAIT LONG ENOUGH for a new set of guards to be stationed

before we make our way back up from the healer’s quarters, Tauron and
Gage flanking us in silence. I assume they didn't interact all that much
while they stood guard, a truce of some kind forming over their shared
interests in Thea’s wellbeing.
When we arrive to the first set of stairs Tauron stiffens before moving
swiftly in front of me as Gage does the same to Cerson, only to curse under
his breath a moment later.
"They’re back from scouting. Prince Soren will see us all in his
reception room."
I nod easily, taking a breath as I feel the Fates writhe under my scars in
warning. My hand slips back into Cerson's, an old habit, and she frowns at
the rugs as we walk, no longer staring around the castle as she considers
Thea’s warning.
No one knows for sure how Ancients come to be in their state of
assumed immortality but there’s no telling if Kharl Balzog has figured it out
or if this is just another lie. I don't know how old he is or anything about his
life before he came to the Southern Lands. There’s very little ever said
about the male himself, except his eagerness to wield terror, violence, and a
horrifying death on us all.
When I murmur this to Cerson in the Seelie common language, she nods
back to me. "I was considering the same question but any fae I can think of
who might know have long since traveled on the ashes. Leave this to me,
Æfanya, keep you attentions on the solstice rites ahead. I’ll speak with
Hanede; if he doesn't know someone, he might have a place we can start.”
I nod easily, humming under my breath as we arrive to the reception
room. Glancing around, it's clear this is a war council and not a household
meeting. Gideon stands at the wall and bows his heads respectfully to
Cerson and I as we step over the threshold. Tauron moves to sit with Tyton
in their usual seats before Prince Soren while Roan stands at Soren’s side
with a scowl permanently etched over his brow.
His sour demeanor could easily be attributed to whatever news has been
reported to cause this hasty meeting but when Cerson and I follow Gage to
stand with his brother, the scowl deepens in our direction, only easing off at
Soren's stern look.
Gideon murmurs, “There were two other war bands but they were easy
to deal with. They were pursuing Prince Soren’s messengers here, with
news from Yris. The regent is assembling his armies and preparing for
battle; the legion he’s bargained you for has already set sail.”
A shiver runs down my spine and I roll my shoulders back to hide it.
Cerson’s hand slips into my own and squeezes my fingers but I keep my
face carefully blank as I turn back to find Soren staring at us both
expectantly.
I don't like the feel of their eyes on me waiting for some assessment,
and I shrug carefully. "My opinion on the matter hasn't changed; my
concerns lie with Kharl Balzog."
Tyton cocks his head to one side, the only Celestial prince not scowling
in my direction. "Any legion sent to the regent comes under Kharl Balzog's
armies, don't they? Unless he's aware of the regent's plans to break away
from their alliance."
Tauron shrugs. "He'd be an idiot not to and surely has a plan for that
already but for now the raving war bands still avoid Yris and the regent's
guards throughout the kingdom."
Soren holds my gaze with his own, his fingers pressed on the map
before him and Roan watches him carefully but he ignores it for now, his
focus entirely on me. "What are we going to do if the legion is full of
bloodwitches, called home as the Fates demanded?”
“Pray,” Gage mutters, only to be elbowed by Gideon.
I put aside their antics, no matter how much it eats at me. “I’m already
taking care of the regent’s pet bloodwitches. A plan is already in motion.”
Even Tauron turns in his seat to look at me. Cerson is the only person
unmoved by my words, her fingers still warm and secure against my own.
Gideon glances around at each of the princes but when the silence
holds, he turns back to me. “I know you hold a lot of respect for the ways of
old but I’m not confident that the desperation to return home and see the
kingdom freed of Kharl Balzog hasn’t moved the hearts of others. The
suffering of the forests is enough to shake the resolve of even the most
steadfast witches.”
Tyton nods along with him and, surprisingly, so does Tauron but Roan
still scowls in Gideon's direction and not on my behalf.
“If I might interject,” says Cerson shooting me a look before she
continues. “Aside from seeing to the winter solstice, what are our offensive
plans for war, rather than just the defensive? Is there anything already in
place for dealing with the Betrayer or are we starting from scratch? I find it
best to have a clear view of the situation before throwing around ‘what
ifs’.”
Gideon nods to her and Soren moves a bundle of paperwork from his
desk to reveal the map in its entirety. “The Witch Ward is growing by the
day. When the witches attacked Yrell it was a test of our allegiances and
how Rooke would fare against the war machines they’ve procured. There
are many offensive plans we’ve discussed but none of them were worth
pursuing when my Fates demanded Rooke's involvement."
Cerson nods slowly, sending a careful look to me, but Soren continues
without stopping. "Now we’re aware Kharl Balzog's power is boosted by
magic he steals from the witches under his command, any plan we put
forward to kill the male should start with lowering the numbers within his
armies."
Cerson looks around at each of the males in the room before she
answers. "Do you know any of the bloodlines his armies come from, the
covens they once lived within? Is there any indication of the source of their
magic? Rooke and I both left the Southern Lands with limited knowledge of
the Betrayer, knowing what we are facing is vital to this task."
Tauron's brow furrows and he looks down at his hands clenched into
fists in his lap. "Why did you leave the Southern Lands if you didn't
understand the war and what Kharl Balzog was doing?"
My brows raise slowly but Soren doesn't react further than the
tightening of his lips, his scar standing out further where it cuts through his
lip at the action, but Tyton casts a mournful look at his brother.
Cerson answers him with a firm look, "I was only a child when my
Mother led our coven out, I couldn't have been more than twelve years old.
Rooke and Pem were a bit older but the forest kept them removed from the
worst of the war and their father sheltered them from it. I know which
covens made it to the Northern Lands but we can't make an accurate
assessment of the power the male wields without knowing what his magic
source looks like now."
My brows pinch in as I step away from the wall, catching everyone’s
attention as I cross the room to stand with Soren to look over the map. Roan
shifts around the desk to make room for me easily, my Fates-blessed mate
watching me closely as I press my fingers into each of the forests. There’s
something about the grooves digging into my skin that helps me focus as a
web of magic, broken oaths, and betrayal weaves before me.
"Hanede is the last of the Brindlewyrd witches so we’re not going to get
zapped by anyone," Cerson says with a lilting tone. "And we won't face any
Favored Children."
I heave out a sigh, rubbing a hand over my eyes before looking back
over to her mournfully. "They cast a curse on this land strong enough to kill
every high fae baby at birth for centuries."
Cerson stares across the room at me as the horror of my words sinks in,
her hand clenched the pleats of her robe and disgust etched into every inch
of her face. "Fates fucking ashes."
Roan watches her closely, his mouth tightening at the reminder his
firstborn son, but the suspicion he’s been directing at her eases off. There’s
no doubting her palpable disgust at Kharl Balzog's cruelest tactic. Tauron
and Tyton both sit with their heads bowed respectfully, as do Gideon and
Gage. The curse never touched the goblin lands, filled with lower fae and
part bloods, and it was the high fae's obsession with the bloodlines that
allowed the curse to have such effective destruction.
Cerson finally murmurs, "Mistwyrd witches; that's what it would take to
cast a curse of such magnitude and horror— a lot of them. I'm glad Qhin
went to Elysium without knowing such a thing existed by her magic and
bloodline, ashes guide her."
I swallow roughly, my head dropping down to take a moment, and then
up to meet Soren's watchful gaze. "The Mistwyrd Mother. She died in the
last stand... the line of the womb ended with her.”
Gideon curses under his breath, shaking his head mournfully, and Gage
murmur prayers for her safety in Elysium. Cerson sends them an approving
look for their respects, adding her own prayers softly.
“Is the Mistwyrd relic safe? The forest will want it returned.”
Glancing up, Tyton’s head cocks to the side as it does when the forest’s
whispered demands take over him and Cerson’s eyes flare. Pushing away
from the wall, she inches over to the prince as though approaching an
unyielding dragon but he doesn’t take notice of her until her fingers wrap
around his wrist. Her eyes glow brightly, my own magic flaring in response,
and Tauron shoots Soren a concerned look but my Fates-blessed mate
ignores him.
“It’s safe… and it will return home soon, along with the other relics. My
Æfanya didn’t tell me there was a shade amongst your family; what a
curious bloodline for you choose.”
Tyton’s eyes focus on her hand first, his gaze moving up her arm before
landing on her face. He stares with a blank expression for a heartbeat before
his own eyes flash with magic.
Tauron turns frantically to me and I hold up a hand to ward off his
panic. “I wasn’t certain; but it is only the Ravenswyrd forest that speaks to
him. I’ve done my best not to incite panic amongst the fae folk of Yregar
and there’s only so many revelations I can unleash on this household at a
time.”
Her mouth downturns at me, her eyes still fixed on Tyton’s as they stare
into each other’s eyes as though gazing through to the soul. “A shade is a
blessing.”
 “Undoubtedly, but the high fae have grown unaccustomed to magic,
Cerson. Knowing he’s with shade could’ve gotten him killed before⁠—”
I break off abruptly, but Soren speaks easily to fill in, “Before we found
the path the Fates have laid out for us all. Is Tyton in any danger from
this… shade?”
Cerson doesn’t look away as she answers, swaying slightly but finding
Tyton follows the movements easily. “No danger. A shade is… a spirit of
the trees, I suppose you could call it but it’s a gift from the forests to aid in
times of desperation. It’s rare; I’ve only heard whispers and all were about
witches. It lives within the fae alongside their magic, giving a voice to the
forest so all can hear its’ commands. The Blood Valley had one once.”
Gage nods. “The Ayswyrd, too. Our Vhivahro spoke with it at length to
fix the problem, too many soldiers stationed nearby who cared little for
covens and trees. Vahro still talks about it like it was an act of the Fates, he
was young when it came to our lands.”
Soren stares at them both before his gaze flicks back to Tyton, but he’s
still willingly pinned under Cerson’s intensive inspection. Her magic
streams around them both, rolling around the room in waves as she gently
tests the bounds of Tyton’s own magic in a test of how much power is the
prince’s and how much is the shade.
Glancing back down to the map, I move my fingers to press against Port
Asmyr where it sits under the shadow of the Augur Mountain. There’s a lot
of open plains between Yregar and the seaport, the Lore River and the
Ravenswyrd nearby, and the bumps of villages and settlements run the
whole distance. Most are abandoned but not all, the defenseless fae who
bear the cost of all the Betrayers’ actions.
Soren murmurs to me in a low growl, frustration threaded through every
word, "The forest has sent a shade to us to speak of the pain we’ve inflicted
upon it, Kharl Balzog has witches who can unleash death curses, a legion
that contains bloodwitches who’s magic so horrifying that the goblin
princes shudder to think about it sails here at my uncle’s command, and we
must face them all of them to see our kingdom saved?"
I sigh as I shrug. "The Fates are demanding quite a lot from us, it seems.
I never expected differently."

OceanofPDF.com
OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

Soren
Messengers and scouts arrive at Yregar's gates throughout the night, some
in better shape than others. With every new fae standing before my desk, a
disturbing image of the conflict building throughout the kingdom is woven
and our time of respite in Yregar grows shorter.
I send Rooke and Cerson to get some rest, refusing my Fates-blessed
mate's protests with a firm reminder of the winter solstice rites we’ll be
undertaking at dusk tomorrow. Though her magic is unquestionably vital to
the kingdom’s recovery, I’d be demanding she rest no matter what
tomorrow held for us both. Regardless of how capable and competent she
is, I’m keenly aware of the Ravenswyrd nature of my wife. No matter how
honorable the ancient ways of the Favored Children, I’ll not allow her to
sacrifice herself for the sake of our kingdom. No longer will I allow her
selfless giving to come at her expense; the covetous and selfish Unseelie
high fae nature writhing with jealousy within me is more than capable of
guarding holding boundaries for her.
Gage, Tauron, and Tyton all take their leave as well, leaving Roan and
Gideon to listen to the news alongside me as the situation grows fraught.
Gideon sits across from him, his arm resting on the armrest and his chin
propped against his fist as he scowls down at the swirling silver lines of the
plush rug, deep in thought.
“The witches sent forces to the Brindlewyrd forest after you left there,
Your Highness. None have survived attempts to enter it, the same as Elms
Walk. They’re traveling south, following the goblin king’s armies back to
the goblin lands.”
I glance up at Gideon but his face hasn’t changed, still staring at Fyr
with narrowed eyes as he’s regarded all the messengers so far. Feeling my
gaze on him, he turns to shake his head.
“The Betrayer has sent thousands to our borders, only for them to die at
the hands of the Briarfrost armies. There’s no need for your concerns,
Prince Soren. The Betrayer isn’t going to send the full might of his numbers
to our door before he’s dealt with you and Rooke, of that I’m certain.”
Roan looks up at the goblin prince with a narrowed gaze of his own.
“Your forces are the bigger threat to his campaign; your numbers alone
make your armies more formidable, let alone the condition of your soldiers.
He’s better off targeting your territories before you have more time to
grow.”
Gideon waves him off easily. “That may have once been true but now
he knows that Rooke is alive, and he’s seen first hand what she’s capable of,
there’s no doubt to me that he can feel his fate balancing over his neck like
an executioner’s blade. That’s where his focus will lie.”
Roan’s shoulders tighten but when he glances at me, I can only scowl as
I shrug back. “The Betrayer ran the moment the shield went up. Besides,
you heard Hamyr; the regent is sending his own forces to the ports to
exchange his daughter for the legion he’s sold her for, far greater numbers
than an escort for Sari would ever require. If Kharl Balzog knows there are
witches returning to the Southern Lands, wielding blood magic and eager to
reclaim their forests, he needs the protecting of his raving soldiers’ numbers
to fend them off instead.”
When I dismiss Fyr and send him to the kitchen for provisions, the
room falls into a fraught silence at the prospect of the goblin king’s borders
being compromised. With a groan, I scrub a hand over my face as though
there’s a way to wipe away the trials we face if only I rub hard enough.
"With you and your brother here, will your father lead the defense if the
raving armies try to breach your borders?"
 Gideon stares across at Roan, his eyebrows raised as he levels with a
cool look in return. “My father isn’t the only Briarfrost capable of leading
soldiers left in Aysgarth; my sisters Khylla and Khari have held the borders
with their battalions since the Favored Child returned to the Southern Lands
and the Betrayers attacks became more frequent. While my youngest sister,
Khyos chose to follow my Mahman’s path to become a healer, she’s also
more than capable of taking up arms… in fact, Vahro often says we should
send her out on negotiations, such is the ferocious nature of his youngest
child. Gideon’s wife is a decorated commander who holds no interest in
sitting in a castle on our throne as a pampered queen, as are both her
brothers, and we have dozens of cousins and uncles who hold positions;
several of them rode out to Yris with me."
My teeth clench. "So, I've managed to offend more of the Briarfrost
household by not recognizing them?"
A smirk stretches across Gideon's lips but the friendly edge to it stops
me from snapping back. "I wouldn't worry so much about it, they were
more worried about getting Gage out of there than the niceties of royal
protocol. Why did you aid my brother? If your household still bears such
spite for goblins and this alliance beyond saving your own skins, why not
leave my brother to his own stupidity and hope to find yourself with less
Briarfrost heirs holding claim to a royal bloodline?”
Roan's eyes narrow at him but the Snowsong prince isn't stupid, despite
his contentious attitude towards the goblins. Answering Gideon's question
lays out more of my motives and plans for the kingdom in the future,
leaving no question between the two princes sitting before me, and should
Roan continue to push at the boundaries of my command, Gideon will
surely be swift to intervene.
"My father tried for centuries to broker an alliance with the goblin king,
but he never lost the prejudices of the high fae. I have no doubt when he
approached King Galen it was that distaste that saw him turned away. The
Fates demanded I wait almost a thousand years to find my mate and take
my throne, a lesson in patience, but the truth I needed to face was how
arrogant and misguided the high fae have become. We claim ourselves
better than the rest of the fae folk, and yet we offer them nothing in return
for their submission to our rule but the promise of violence and death,
prolonged senseless suffering, simply so the royals and nobles can play
their games."
 Gideon nods slowly, no point questioning my words for their truth, and
he tilts his head a little as he listens to the soldiers outside my door
swapping their positions and indicating how close to dawn the night is
growing. The morning of the winter solstice will soon break, my Fates-
blessed union fast approaching, leaving only the recovery of my father's
throne left sitting on my shoulders.
It's Rooke's task of killing Kharl Balzog that weighs most heavily on
me. No matter her skills and abilities, the ruthlessness of the Betrayer and
the callous treatment of his own people singles him out.
"Gage wasn't born the first time my father came to meet you here at
Yregar."
I glance up to Gideon but he's still watching the door closely, a dark
scowl over his brow and his lips flattened into a tight line. Roan watches
him, shifting in his seat uncomfortably before he's glancing at the door but
there's nothing there.
Gideon speaks as though he doesn't see the action. "He had no idea that
your Fates-blessed mate was Rooke and that the Favored Child would
return. He arrived at Yregar to make his assessment of the new king he now
served under the accords only to find a son mourning. He came home and
told Mahman he'd never seen a high fae prince care so much. All of
Yregar’s soldiers were loyal to you despite how young you were, the
villagers too, and the Keeper glared at my father with such a vehemence as
though she was protecting her own child... He still chuckles fondly about it
today."
It's a startling view of that meeting, so different from my own
perception of that meeting. "I thought he hated me. It looked as though he
found me wanting and left us all behind."
Gideon shrugs. "If he offered you an alliance then you would've always
questioned if he was just another member of the court trying to win your
favor while you were at your lowest. Then Gage was born, and we knew his
fate. He could hear his mate and knew she would be in danger if there were
any question of change in the goblin lands, and this held him off further."
A wry smirk tugs at the edge of my lips. "And then I put a Favored
Child in my dungeons."
Gideon chuckles in his breath. "And then you put the Favored Child that
we waited on for centuries in your dungeon. My father was enraged for
weeks, he could barely stop himself from bringing the entire Briarfrost
army to Yregar and leveling this castle on her behalf. He didn't expect you
to bring her to the goblin lands, and he certainly wasn't expecting Rooke to
decline his offer for sanctuary. It's changed much of our approach, as did
your aid to my brother and your defense of Rooke."
He blows out a long breath, sitting back in his seat as his head thumps
heavily against the cushion. "Our victory, or our demise, hinges on the
legion."
I rub a hand over my face as if it’ll shift my fatigue, but Roan lets out a
huff of his own at Gideon. "You and your brother have spent every
opportunity pointing out how disrespectful and stupid the high fae are for
questioning the Favored Child, but it's acceptable when you do it?"
Gideon doesn't turn in my direction as his chin drops to stare back at
Roan, his eyes hardened. The air between them simmers with distrust and
ire, but it’s no longer seething. I have no intentions of mediating them
forever. If I want them to act as though they’re my closest allies, then I can't
expect Roan to walk on eggshells around the goblin princes forever; he
certainly doesn’t to the rest of our household.
"The Mother of the Bloodwyrd Coven might as well be an Ancient for
how long she’s lived. She was once as wise and noble as Rooke claims her
to be, but she’s watched generations of her coven grow, live, and die. She’s
wrought so much death but she’s endured horrific betrayals and violence to
her coven and her bloodlines. That changes a fae. It was once as simple as
steering clear of the Blood Valley and ensuring you never spill the blood of
a Bloodwyrd witch but even before my father’s reign, that was no longer
enough to evade a violent death. The things those witches have done..."
He trails off, hesitating for a moment before he turns back to me, his
brows pulled low and his tone stern but imploring. “No matter what you did
to her, Rooke forgave you. She understood your reasons, your motives, and
she can look past it all for the good of the kingdom because her ego won’t
get in the way. How do we know that her Ravenswyrd heart isn't going to
lead us all to ruin because our idea of returning the kingdom to greatness
doesn't match up to the Bloodwitches?"
Roan watches him carefully, just as he has from the moment we rode
back to Yregar but there's an edge of something else this time. “How do you
know so much about them?”
Gideon rubs a hand over his face, mirroring my action as he blows out a
breath. “I can still barely believe that none of you do but I'd wager you'd
recognize their acts of war if I listed them. I've seen Bloodwitches turn on
their coven. I’ve seen them falling into a raving madness much like the one
Kharl Balzog wields, only their lust is for blood alone, tearing themselves
apart in their desperation for the taste. Fates fucking ashes, forget the rest of
the coven, if I told you the horrors the Reborn family inflicted alone⁠—“
He stops for a moment, his head tilting as he considers something
before turning back to me. “In the year after Kharl Balzog took the
Brindlewyrd Forest, one of the Unseelie armies was decimated at the edge
of the Raveswyrd."
Roan's eyes snapped to mine, widening until the whites of his eyes
almost glow as they take over his face. He’s never spoken a word about
what happened to him inside the forest of madness while we fought off the
raving witches on the southern edge of the tree line, and if it weren’t for the
haunted look in his eyes at the mention of that day, I’d assume he bore no
memory of it.
That was the same day we were ambushed, and he almost died,
stumbling into the Ravenswyrd Forest. He was sure his life had come to an
end, only to walk back out with his mind still intact and his wounds healed.
When the aid the regent swore he would send never arrived, we assumed it
was another of my uncle’s games. It was only after we found Roan, alive
but disturbed as he sat before the field of slaughter, that the horrific
circumstances of the guards’ demise was made clear to us.
More than a battalion's worth of high fae soldiers in the regent’s colors
were hacked to pieces, a death so blood-soaked and violent it turned even
the strongest stomach amongst our group. We’d never seen such magic;
bodies contorted, eyes burst as though squeezed, the stink of their blood
still steaming against the frozen earth as the slow beginning to summer
hadn’t thawed it out enough to readily accept the sacrifice.
The forest was eerily silent, the darkened tree line irreverent to the gore
and violence laid out before it, no matter how deeply it shook us to our
cores. The air tasted different, the ground losing its surety beneath our feet,
and the hum of magic in my blood that I passed off as simply intuition
warned me to make haste back to Yregar; something else had been called to
arms.
“How many witches did it take to cast that… carnage,” Roan mutters.
Gideon stares back at him, his eyes solemn, and he lifts his hand to hold
a single finger up.
 "There’s only one witch that I know of capable of that magic; Daire
Reborn, born from the line of the womb and wields like no other, he is but
one of their bloodline. His nephew, Oskar is covered from head to toe in
witch markings, the sigils that proudly proclaim the bloodshed he’s
wrought… none of this to mention the females, far more merciless than the
rest! Isya, Davyna, Lyna⁠—”
He stops as though collecting himself, and his gaze is solemn and
unerring when he finally lifts it to meet mine. “Prince Soren, I’m not
questioning Rooke’s command. I’ll follow the Ravenswyrd Mother as
though the Fates themselves are instructing me, but you need to speak to
her and ensure she’s not relying on the ways of old to see us through this
conflict. If they're being called back here by the witches left behind,
promised bloodshed and power… that’s where our concerns should lie.
We’re all dead if we don’t."

WITH THE BRIARFROST heir’s warnings still ringing in my ears, I

crawl into my own bed alongside my sleeping Fates-blessed mate just
before the break of dawn. She doesn’t rouse, even when I can’t help but tug
her into my arms, tangling myself up in her perfection until she’s splayed
across my chest. That alone forces me to sleep rather than take advantage of
the large bed and complete privacy we’ve finally found together.
I wake only a few hours later to find that while her scent clings to my
sheets, the bed is empty next to me. Her cloak hangs beside mine on one of
the hooks by the door, left behind and the only sign she was ever in my
room in the first place. The snarling, writhing Unseelie nature within me
loathes that but I can argue with her about that later, when my magic isn’t
rumbling in my chest unhappily.
Sitting up with a snarl, I send through to her, where are you?
Without a single thread of surprise, an amused feeling flows back to me,
but Rooke’s answer fills me with anything but humor. Airlie spent hours
teaching me the traditions and expectations of a royal wedding. Given
you’re not supposed to see me today, waking together this morning didn’t
seem appropriate.
 Fuck the customs. I’m not asking again, croí; tell me where you are.
If it were any fae but Airlie who told Rooke, I’d kill them for filling her
had with the asinine and overbearing fancies that generations of high fae
royals have added to the ceremony. Despite the ridiculously elaborate
additions, there’s only three customs required to ensure our Fates-blessed
union is binding; oaths to the Fates declaring our commitment to one
another as submission to their commands, the blessing of my bloodline, and
the exchange of a ribbon to symbolize the weaving of the Fates design.
There’s no reason for us to be separated now and the possibilities of
something happening to her now send ice through my blood.
I see that the comfortable bed isn’t helping your disposition; I fear for
the good and noble high fae of Yregar.
Throwing myself out of the bed and stalking into my robe, I’m careless
as I dress in whatever clothing my hands land on. As I shove my feet into
my boots, I don’t even attempt to soften my irate reaction to her
disappearance from Rooke.
Fates mercies on this castle if I have to hunt you down, croí.
The warmth of her affection floods through to me, my heart clenching
violently but none of my sharpened temper softening, and finally she
answers me. I’m in the temple speaking to the Fates, ensuring they’ve been
adequately thanked for setting this path out before me. Come find me,
Donn.
Growling as my blood heats, I grab her cloak and then my own as I
stride out of my chambers. I don’t need the layers for warmth but the sound
of her pet name for me whispered in those breathy tones of hers, directly
into my mind and my soul… I throw my cloak over my shoulders with
jerky movements for coverage alone as I stalk to the temple as though the
monsters of the Fates purse me.
Stay right where you are, croí.
The soldiers stationed around the castle all watch my path, unflinching
and sure, but their presence only drives me further into madness until I
finally leave the endless staircases and hallways behind me to reach the
impressive oak doors of the temple. Shoving them open without pause, it’s
only when my gaze lands on Rooke’s bowed head that I finally slow my
approach.
With her eyes closed, her lips move though no sound escapes them, a
long prayer that never falters just as she hasn’t. The idea of her thanking the
Fates for me after everything I've done sits like a weight on my chest,
bending my bones until they threaten to break under the pressure.
As I move slowly towards her, I turn my gaze away only for it to land
on the ribbons hanging from the ceiling in preparation for the ceremony this
evening. My mouth turns down at them all, too many memories and terrible
possibilities lie over those strips of silk, ancient unions that have passed into
Elysium now for the most part. Only a handful of my direct bloodline still
live after the events of the war and my uncle's treachery, and now only
Airlie and Roan's ribbons fail to turn my stomach with blood-soaked
memories.
Better to watch Rooke pray with a gaze that reveals the depth of my
obsession with her than to fall into an abyss of my most tormenting
memories, every horror my loved ones endured in their final moments
before Kharl Balzog's ambitions took their lives.
When she finally lifts her head, her eyes are sharp as they fixate on the
ribbons above us like she can't stop herself. My gaze wrenches unwillingly
away from her to land back on the yards and yards of silks, woven carefully
and steadfastly by many skill hands. The Celestial silver and blue
surrounding us bear the prayers of generations of my bloodline, handcrafted
at birth and displayed with pride for Fates-blessed ceremonies such as this.
"I didn't know the high fae used ribbons as well."
When she only swallows roughly, like the words have hurt her, I can’t
help but question her. "Do you have your parents' ribbons in the box with
your ceremonial robes? I'll hang them myself, and the rest of your bloodline
as well, if you have them."
It feels like such a paltry offering, so small and insignificant in the wake
of her own generosities but she swallows roughly at my offer. She's a
difficult female to read sometimes, her reactions and comments always
surprising me but I’m slowly beginning to understand her. Without selfish
desires or vanity, she doesn’t covet anything or dance around her own ego
in any decisions, an entirely foreign perspective to my own. It’s no wonder
her presence here has been so humbling for us all.
Her gaze slips back down to the marble for a moment before she clears
her throat delicately, as though she can shift the emotion there as well.
"Witches don't display our ribbons. Thank you for the honor of sharing your
tradition but I have no ribbons to give you. Not for this."
 She does have a ribbon; it was tied to her scepter when she fought
Kharl's armies. She removed it, slipping the silk into the hidden pockets of
her robes, and I've seen her reach for it several times since as though she's
reassuring herself it's still there.
Reading the silence between us as well as ever, she sighs. "Ribbons are
exchanged in the witch tradition, the first gift in the marriage between those
binding themselves together. My mother's ribbon burned on the funeral
pyres with her...as did my father's and every other Ravenswyrd witch bound
to another."
My eyes drop down to her pocket as the countless possibilities of that
ribbon filter through my mind, each more unbearable to me than the last. A
seething pit of jealousy writhes in my gut, every inch of my body filled with
tension as I wait for her answer and my anticipation claws at me as I wait to
discover who I'll be hunting for the transgression of touching my wife and
daring to call her their own.
My wife. She's already mine, ceremony be damned.
I could blame the Unseelie nature within me but there isn't a seed of
doubt in my mind at my reactions to her. No matter what blood circles
within my veins, which family crest I wear or the name I bear, no matter
who raised me and taught me the ways of the world; one look at the female
before me and I would covet her. My rage will cower the Fates themselves
if any other fae feels possession towards her and to think she might return
their affections is intolerable.
Still without meeting my gaze, Rooke murmurs to me, "I couldn't sleep
when I first arrived to the Northern Lands. I could barely eat. I worked
endlessly in the healer's quarters and then only when it became clear that
my exhaustion could risk the safety of others, I’d retire to the rooms that
were set aside for me on my arrival. My brother was worried.”
She pauses for a moment before a wry smile stretches over her lips.
“Well, worried isn’t a strong enough word for how Pem felt about it. He
would stay with me, speaking for endless hours about anything and
everything to keep me company. He would ravenously and obsessively
discuss topics he once hated if it meant I might tire and finally rest. I was
plagued by a grief I didn't know how to process, stuck in a land I didn’t
understand, with fae who interacted far differently than my coven and
family did… and they all knew exactly who I was. They all wanted
something from me and it’s only ever been my nature to give whatever is
asked of me."
Kharl's armies arriving at Yregar's gates once more could not tear me
away from this conversation. Her voice is strong and sure, but her eyes have
taken on an almost dreamy quality as she stares around the temple, her
demeanor an echo of Tyton's shade when the forest speaks through him, and
yet I know these words are her own; steady and true.
My elbows rest on my knees as I lean in towards her, nothing about my
pose princely, and there's no hiding the tension within my core. I'm every
inch a soldier before her now, nothing but a male of the sword waiting for
orders on who I'm to kill as I hang on her every word as though it alone will
sustain me.
No matter how refined and formal her own posture is, her feet are
planted firmly on the marble, her own chest directed towards the door as the
only point of access. Her own instincts are honed as keenly as mine, my
match in every way. It’s never been the high fae way to covet such a female
and yet I'm enthralled by her, unable to look away from such strength. Her
beauty steals the air from my chest until I'm certain I’ll never take a deep
breath again, but I'd rather die than look away.
Unaware of the fervor overtaking me, Rooke's words are unfaltering.
"Hanede suggested to my brother that he find a familiar task to ease my
mind, something small and routine but complicated enough to force my
mind to focus on it alone. He took us into his care from the moment we
arrived at the ports and he thought a task of my coven would bring me some
comfort as we navigated our grief and acclimated to the Seelie Court."
She stops and swallows again, a sigh coming from the depths of her
chest as she centers herself once more. Turning away from the ribbons she
finally meets my eye and there's more emotion in her gaze than I've ever
seen before, more than the carefully contained grief and rage, more than the
small whispers of joy I cling to desperately, jealous of any other who might
draw it from her. There in the perfectly Celestial silver of her irises is my
Fates-blessed mate in all her glory; strong and kind and sure. She’s
everything I've ever longed for, and I’m humbled by her.
Her voice drops to a whisper, nothing more than breath, and if I were
standing I'd be taken to my knees by it. "It's a tradition of the Ravenswyrd
to craft ribbons for our marriage ourselves. The process starts when a witch
has found their love and while Pemba offered me many other tasks for
distraction, it was the only one that worked. My brother had grave concerns
about why I weave one in the first place but I was finally able to sleep, even
in the worst days of the war… it brought me comfort."
She stops for a moment, leaning forward just as I have and her head tilts
away from me just as color slowly blossoms on her cheeks at her
admission. The weaving in her pocket wasn’t just a distraction, but a gift for
her Fates-blessed mate; always intended for me. She ran from her fate but
maybe she clung to those few short, precious months we spent getting to
know each other through the mind connection between us as tightly as I
have.
No matter her own insistences to keep me out, maybe her terror wasn’t
at her fate to marry me but the death of Kharl at her hands. I haven’t had the
stomach to admit to myself yet that the reason I clung to my bitter and
stubborn mistrust of my Fates-blessed mate was how much I missed her.
Those two hundred years of silence between us still lay like an aching
wound within me and when she opened her mind to me for a brief moment
to prove she truly was my croí, I assumed the worst of her motives and
actions.
She nods to me firmly, one soldier to another, before the wry tugging at
the corner her lips starts again and I’m captivated by it. "You don't have to
learn how to weave ribbons; I'm not expecting one in return. Having a
tradition sprung upon you at the twilight hour is never a blessing and I keep
myself from expecting such things."
She shouldn't, she should hold me at far higher expectations than any
other. By every right this female should look upon me now and find me
wanting, just as I was so sure the Fates did when, in truth, it was a gift to
the little witch of the woods who grieved her family. She needed that
precious time to find herself and prepare herself for what momentous and
awful task they set out for her.
The shame I feel for the way that I’ve treated her is nothing on what I
feel for cursing the Fates every day for the last two hundred years,
begrudging them for that grace they gave her. No matter what else happens
in this war, I’ll prove myself to the Fates and to Rooke. Whatever the cost,
neither will ever find me wanting again.
My voice is gravel and filled with hard edges, not even close to the
warmth I want to show her. "Can I see the ribbon now or do I have to wait
for the ceremony tonight? I’m quickly discovering I’m not a patient male
when it comes to my mate and the customs of the high fae are grating on
me.”
She sends me another of her amused looks, the tilt of her lips a taunt.
"It's not the Ravenswyrd way to enforce secrecy and elaborate games… but
my ribbon isn't traditional. I think it's best if you see it at the binding. You'll
have far too many questions and this isn’t the place to answer them."
I cast her a curious look and she shrugs. "It became a way to record my
journey, to capture my history so it didn't slip through the cracks of the
Fates War as so many other things did. At first, I wove the forest and my
life there in my grief. Then my journey to the Northern Lands, my time
training, all the soldiers and fae folk I healed, the many friends that I
made⁠—"
She stops abruptly, swallowing roughly. Her hand trembles where it
presses against her thigh as though she's reassuring herself the ribbon is still
tucked away in the hidden pockets of her robes. I want to reach out and
comfort her, to pull her into my arms and ease the pains of the war that still
ravages her. Her screams still echo in my mind unbidden, the devastation
and pain all too familiar to me, but the careful distance she’s maintaining
between us now is as immovable as the wall between our minds.
She swallows roughly. "I wove Ureen as well, I should warn you of that.
Perhaps I should find a different ribbon⁠—"
The thread of panic in her tone breaks my control and I reach over to
take her hand, barely holding myself back from tugging her into my arms.
Nothing but a chaste touch, this time it feels different. This touch is simply
for her or, if I'm honest with myself, for me. Reassurance that she's here,
and that she's mine.
"I’ll accept nothing but that ribbon, no matter which creatures and
horrors of the war lie there. Whatever burdens you carry, they're mine to
hold with you. I want every part of you."
A truth that lays my own heart at her feet and yet the words are
unstoppable. I didn’t know I was capable of such vulnerability, and it
threatens to send ice coursing through my blood to be so utterly exposed but
one glance at Rooke dispels any defensive impulses. She’s as open to me
now as she’s ever been, unflinching and true.
With a slow nod that breaks the hold of her gaze over me, her reply is
careful. "And I'm to have every part of you, as well, just as the Fates
command."
 "Whether you want me or not, croí, you’ve had me from the moment
you first whispered in my mind. There is no other path before us both now,
and I thank the Fates for that mercy."

ROAN WATCHES me tuck the ribbon into my pocket with a frown, but
when he glances up to meet my gaze his eyes are clear once more. "I've
secured the guest wings and posted guards heavily throughout the castle; an
even split between the goblin soldiers and Yregar's own. Airlie was quite
sure to let all the high fae noble and royals know that the first sign of
dissent is a death warrant."
I give him a firm nod, my hand tugging at the collar of the stiff shirt
Airlie insisted on as it strangles me, and the row of medals sitting along the
Celestial blue fabric chime like bells with my every move. Roan's eyes get
stuck on them just as surely as my own get drawn to the sound, and his
brows tugged closer together as he claps a hand on my shoulder.
"Nothing is going to stop this union, Soren, not even the Fates
themselves at this point."
I huff at him, reaching up to tug one last time at the collar, and mutter
furiously at him, "You sound as though you're seeing me off to the pyres,
and you really shouldn’t tempt the Fates."
He smirks at me, tugging at my arm to get me walking to the temple as
though I'd need any encouragement. Every soldier along our path bows
their head respectfully, a charged silence taking over the castle in
anticipation, and the Fates hum in my blood as they feel their commands
finally being answered.
The full royal regalia includes a heavy cape secured to my shoulders
and it dances behind me with every step like a veil, the formality of the
outfit chafing me far more than the luxuriously soft fabric ever could. I'm
most comfortable in high fae fashions, being all I've ever worn, but that
doesn't mean I pick the fussy styling that my status usually comes with.
Riding breeches and sturdy linen shirts with a cloak thrown over it all, I
dress for comfort and ease of movement.
 I understand entirely why my Fates-blessed mate was so deeply affected
by the dresses Airlie offered her, no matter how simple they seemed to a
Celestial. I'm not quite as understanding of her distaste for shoes, the
softened leather she favors looks far more comfortable than my riding
boots, yet she loathes the feel of them. Whether it’s a quirk of hers or a
peculiarity of all witches, I’m unsure.
When I notice Roan glancing down at my medals again my mouth pulls
into a grimace, my scar pulling at my lip uncomfortably. "What's wrong
with them? I'd rather you tell me now before Airlie cleaves my head from
my shoulders when we get there."
He glances back up at me, the furrow easing from his brow some, and
he slips into the old language to answer me. "I'm just reminded of the
goblin princes' words last night, of the Bloodwitches and his warnings. The
regent might be delighted with this wedding going ahead but I don't think
Kharl Balzog will be so happy. No doubt he has plans to stop it."
I shrug back to him. "As you said, the Fates themselves couldn't stop it.
The extra war bands in the kingdom speak volumes but there's enough
goblin soldiers within these walls to take care of an entire legion of raving
madness."
I’m pushing at his issues with the Briarfrost bloodlines on purpose, but
other than a small tightening of his jaw Roan, only gives me a curt nod in
return. "I don't have to be friends with the goblin soldiers or the princes
who lead them to know we’d be in a far more precarious position if they
weren’t here. No matter my feelings on the actions of their ancestors, I can
at least admit that."
We turn to find the Fates Temple within the castle at the end of the hall
and the hum of the Fates grows louder in my veins. Airlie spent a lot of time
deciphering the books of the old law she first unearthed after Rooke broke
the curse. I'd sneered at them, calling them nothing but old stories made up
for children, but they were a far more accurate depiction of the way the high
fae used to honor the land and give to it as we once swore oaths to do. The
castle was built to honor them, no question about that, and it’s made the
task of the rites a far easier prospect than I first feared.
The Fates temple within the castle is on the first level, something that
used to confuse me, but now makes perfect sense. Large panels of brightly
colored glass cover an entire wall and paint out scenes of the first fae
arriving in the kingdom, the shields of the royal families, and the forests
that stood tall for centuries already passed. We may have forgotten the
witches were here first, but our bloodlines clearly once knew.
As we approach the door I murmur back to him, "I'm not so happy with
the actions of my own ancestors, either. This entire war could’ve gone in a
very different direction if we could wield our own magic. How many
generations of high fae would still be here?"
Roan swallows roughly, pausing for a moment at the door and heaving a
great breath. "My father has said that for years. He said it before my mother
died, but it only made things clearer to him after the witches took her from
us."
I blow out another breath of my own before I nod to the soldiers
standing at the door. They both bow back to us as they push them open, no
need to call out our arrival to the small group waiting for us there because
they all turn as one to greet us. Tauron and Tyton flank Airlie at the base of
the small podium while their mother, Tylla, stands with Aura off to one side
as she clutches at her arm dramatically. A few steps away from them and
guarded by Reed, Firna rocks Raidyn against her shoulder as the baby
sleeps there, content and peaceful.
Gage stands on the other side of the aisle, giving me a firm nod as I
meet his eye, before he turns back to the large panes of colored glass as he
ignores Tylla’s murmurs. She’s not saying anything contentious about the
goblin prince, but it’s certainly not friendly gossip and her mouth snaps shut
at the glare I level at her.
Stepping in effortlessly, Roan grunts, “I’ll never understand how the
Unseelie Court can be saved from violence and brutal death only to risk
certain death biting back at those who aid them. If I had my way, they’d still
be in Yris’ dungeons wasting away.”
Aura glances up at the ribbons of my bloodline hanging overhead, but
the only ones of importance lie in my pocket, and somewhere in Rooke's
possession. Soldiers line every wall and corner of the room, armed and
watchful, and though my aunt keeps staring at them mournfully, she doesn't
make any protest.
I moved to stand in front of Airlie, facing my cousin and acknowledging
her respectful bow with an incline of my own head. Her eyes move over my
appearance assessing only, smirking at my scowl, but she doesn't make any
protests as silence falls in the temple wants more. My eyes trace a path
upwards to the ribbons I stared at only hours ago with Rooke but instead of
grief, I feel determined.
Roan looks up to follow my gaze, his own brows pinching together
when he notices the absence of my ribbon, but when he glances down at
Airlie, she only smiles back to him. I've known my cousin since her birth,
there's no way I was climbing up and retrieving that ribbon without warning
her first, knowing full well her anger would level the castle she was caught
unaware, and she had her own surprises for me.
“After consulting with Cerson about the witches' traditions, I’ve made a
few adjustments to the ceremony. Better to get the union complete with
haste than risk any interruption and it’ll be difficult enough getting you
through today without adding vows and oaths on top of it.”
I’m not just prepared to speak the oaths and make my vows, I’m eager
to but when I snapped my protests to her doubts of me, Airlie only grinned
back with one final taunt.
“You’ll see, cousin.”
As the last rays of sunlight stream in through the windows, bright beams
of color flood the temple and give the space an ethereal look that humbles
even the proudest of high fae with its brilliance. Airlie reaches over to take
Roan's hand in her own, tears in her eyes the beauty of this moment.
Looking over to Firna and her small son, she swallows to keep them from
falling.
The last high fae wedding I attended was theirs, though the ceremony
took place in the temple in Fate’s Mark, at the top of the mountain in the
Outlands and with a lot more royals in attendance. An elaborate and lavish
affair every inch the spectacle Aura demanded, all the truly mattered was
the Fates-blessed union my cousin entered with the prince she loves so
dearly. Never have I thought I'd be so lucky.
The Fates are practically screaming in my blood and when I finally hear
the footsteps of Rooke's approach. A ripple of awareness works through the
small gathering, the high fae shifting on their feet and straightening their
spines. My own shoulders roll back as I stare at the panes of glass for a
moment longer, repeating the promise I gave the Brindlewyrd Forest in my
mind, as though such a reminder could ever be needed.
When Tauron's eyes flick towards the door a growl bursts from my chest
unbidden and his gaze drops to the floor, ensuring I see my Fates-blessed
mate first. I'm certain all the high fae realize I'd prefer to be the only one to
look upon her for the entire duration of this ceremony, but seeing her
entrance alone will have to suffice.
My cousin's interest becomes clear as Tyra and Thea step into the room
first, the terrified female still trembling a little and her eyes firmly on the
marble at her feet as the maid gently guides her over to stand near Gage on
Rooke's side of the temple. Tauron can't help but turn towards her though he
keeps his gaze lowered, and Tylla murmurs with Aura in confusion over the
beautiful high fae female. Neither of the princesses recognize her, shocked
at her entrance, and thankfully they don't notice the tension rendering
Tauron to stone either.
My attention is pulled back to Rooke's approach as more steps ring out.
In the absence of her own bloodlines to see her welcomed into my arms, my
Fates-blessed mate is flanked by Gideon and Cerson at her request. The
female was an obvious choice, family by the Fates command, but the show
of respect to the Briarfrost family is anything but a political move by
Rooke, though it certainly will gain her more favor with them.
Gideon stands beside her with a look that speaks of the king he'll
someday be to his people, the readiness within him to spill blood on her
behalf, while he's careful not to look at or touch her. He meets my eyes with
a firm nod, dropping a step behind the two females protectively as they
make their way over to me.
My heart thumps violently as I finally allow myself to look at her, my
breath seizing in my chest instantly. Instead of a high fae dress, Rooke
wears her mother's robes spirited out of the Ravenswyrd Forest on that
fateful day I sneered at her traditions and pain.
Her hair is covered with a hood, small tendrils peeking out to frame her
face, and though her face is respectfully solemn, her lips curve upwards as
she meets my gaze but I'm too busy drinking her in to think of returning her
smile. As white as any wedding attire of my own traditions, the intricate
embroidery of oak leaves and fae flowers dance along her robes in patterns
that make no sense until Rooke makes her way towards me and my heart
stumbles in my chest.mThe construction is in the same vein as her fighting
robes, bands of fabric held together with pins, only there's far fewer panels
and they're held together in a seemingly precarious fashion. I'm assaulted by
flashes of her arms, her shoulders, her thighs, red bleeds into my vision and
my teeth almost crack under the pressure of my jaw as my mind becomes a
haze of seething demand.
 There are too many males in this room, too many eyes that could graze
her, how many guards has she passed between our chambers and the temple
dressed like this, I'm going to make an unfathomable sacrifice to the Fates
by spilling the blood of hundreds⁠—
I warned Gideon; he instructed his soldiers to ensure none watched us
pass and Cerson has cackled the entire way here. At least we're not both
naked as you first feared though, right?
Her breathy tones whispered into my mind don't help this situation at
all. If anything, they make it worse, and I lose my senses further. When
Airlie murmurs something far too knowing to her husband, I snarl at Roan
and he drags Tyton and Tauron over to stand with Firna to put some much-
needed space between my Fates-blessed mate’s bared skin and the males in
this room.
Gideon walks behind the witches the whole way, stopping only when he
reaches his brother’s side, but his head never bows, his glare around the
temple as fierce as my own. He also doesn’t so much as flinch in Rooke’s
direction, which is surprisingly helpful because my entire state of awareness
centers on her to the point of madness. If Kharl Balzog attacked right now
I’d be too busy planning out Reed’s murder for ever considering himself
Rooke’s friend to keep her safe.
Airlie begins the long-winded exaltations to the Fates, respectful as we
should be but impossible to appreciate while the warm scent of my mate is
so close to me. How the ashes witches endure this is unfathomable to me,
and outside where a gust of wind could shift that fabric from her body—
cutting my thoughts off with a snarl, Airlie barely skips a beat in her prayers
and Cerson lets out a very delicate cough to cover what I’m sure would’ve
been raucous laughter at my expense.
When Airlie all but shoves my mother’s ring into my chest, forcing me
to take it and do what little I must in this ceremony to satisfy the Fates
demands, Rooke turns to face me and my magic bursts free from my chest
as the slits of the robe part with her movement. The high fae all make noises
of protest as they startle but Rooke and Cerson both stand tall as the power
washes over them easily. Even as Rooke’s fingers slide into mine and
squeeze gently, I’m stuck glaring at the slit up her thigh and seething at the
image of it wrapping firmly around my ears as I taste her.
Cerson waits until I’ve slipped the ring onto Rooke’s finger before she
leans carefully into my Fates-blessed mate’s side with a solemn look on her
face, the deep ashy colors of her robes setting off the golden hue of her hair
perfectly. "I take it you didn’t warn him, Æfanya?"
Rooke's lips tug up in the corners as she lets out a small huff and
murmurs back to her in the old language, "I tried; he was stubborn and said
there was no need, he trusted me no matter what this involved."
A small fracture of amusement breaks through her serious demeanor,
but then Cerson looks to Airlie with an expectant expression. When my
cousin nods back to her firmly, she holds her palms out and her eyes glow
brightly as her magic washes over us both. I’m expecting an oath or a
blessing over our union, instead the Fates temple and Yregar disappear
entirely as we’re thrown into the ley lines that run underneath the land in an
instant.

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OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

Rooke
Though the sun has set, night hasn't settled amongst the ancient grove that
will always be my home, no matter how many centuries pass. The fae
flowers glow as though the sun's rays still shine upon them, undeterred by
the light dusting of snow that falls thanks to the protection of the dense
canopy of the trees overhead. The song of the forest grows louder in my
mind with every beat of my heart, and my blood sings in answer.
Soren stares around at the shadows lingering among the trees with
respect as they grow larger with every breath. It's becoming clear to me that
guessing my Fates-blessed mate’s reactions is a fool’s errand, because
despite my fears of confrontation, he hasn’t faltered for a second. Not about
our binding or our journey here, his ire only ever pointed at the males
bearing witness to our marriage.
With a deep breath of the cold night air, Cerson turns back to me with a
look of peace that echoes within my blood. There's sorrow there as well,
there could never be a moment shared between my family without the grief
we all share, but to stand in this forest together, in the kingdom we all
desperately wanted to return to, there's too much joy between us to fall into
despair.
"Did you choose a ribbon, Æfanya?"
 Smiling at her almost languid tone, the peace of the forest intoxicating
after centuries away from its’ embrace, I nod as I turn back to Soren. He
watches us both carefully now, the scowl that fixed itself across his brow
the moment he saw the ceremonial robes finally easing off, but his eyes are
still searing as he steps back to me. He doesn't reach out to clasp my elbow
as I'm expecting, or even to take my hand as his own ceremonies demand.
Instead, he bows his head reverently as Cerson murmurs the prayers of my
coven.
When she reaches the oath to the line of the womb, my grief threatens to
overwhelm me. There should be a dozen names listed and yet it's only my
own she speaks. I repeat the names of all the witches who should be here
today bearing witness to my Fates-blessed union in my mind. Though I
acknowledge them all, it's my mother and my sister's names that linger, as
heavy on my shoulders now as the robes I wear with pride.
As if compelled, my gaze is drawn over to the clusters of fae flowers
surrounding us. Soren follows my action but it's not until I swallow back
my tears at Tawnie's flowers that he knows the reason I've turned my
attention away from Cerson. His hand slips into mine, his mind pressing
close to the wall between our connection as he offers me comfort, and my
fingers clasp firmly around his.
"By the Fate's command, you will be bound together by oath, sealed
with the magic of the forest, with the blessings of the Favored Children."
Cerson watches Soren carefully as he reaches into his pocket and pulls
out a ribbon. My own eyebrows rise at the Celestial blue slip of silk, the
intricate embroidery swooping into the script of the old language, and I
recognize it straight away. I hadn't noticed it missing from the ribbons
above our heads but there’s no mistaking his namesake ribbon. Crafted by
his mother at his birth, it’s no longer stored carefully away amongst
heirlooms that date back generations of his family. It holds as much
significance to the Celestial prince and his bloodlines as the one I crafted.
His own eyes barely graze my ribbon as I pull it out, but I have no
concerns. If anything, it's a relief. The horrors of the Fates are such that you
can't help but recoil from them. No matter how many decades I spent facing
them, the impulse to flee never left me and if he recoiled in horror from
their image woven into the silk now Cerson would probably mistake the
action for a rejection of our binding and throw a ball of flames with his
head.
 Her naturally grinning face solemn, Cerson takes the ribbon and
motions to us until we lift our clasped hands to her. With murmured prayers
over us both, she weaves our ribbons together as she tightly binds us
together. The words are older than kingdom, older than the Fates
themselves, and her voice trembles with the power of the forest as it feeds
its magic into her as though she’s nothing but a vessel for it to use.
There are only three witches left who could perform such a union
without the magic of the forest tearing them apart. I haven't had the heart to
tell Soren that Hanede Loche stared me down at the port in the Northern
Lands and told me he’d rather slit his own throat and bleed out without ever
seeing his forest again than bind me to the Savage Prince. Cerson’s
marriage to my brother allows her the grace of the forest, as well as the
power of her coven to protect her, but I’m glad she’s with me today.
Soren's hand tightens on my own as I begin to sway on my feet, the
song deafening in my ears as it beckons me, calling out in exaltation. The
power of old that came to sleep here eons ago and brought us forth from the
trees to and tend to it, an offer of kindness and warmth in exchange for
protection, it’s the source of magic so strong that only the Favored Children
could be trusted to hold it.
As Soren's own magic is pulled from him his eyes glow brightly, a gasp
wrenching from his lips at the magnitude of what the forest demands of him
in sacrifice. He glances down at me but there’s still no hesitation in him as
he lets his power bleed freely at the forest demands. Something deep within
my chest breaks; a question still gripped tightly within myself at this fate
that I was given, and this high fae prince answers. As I’m overwhelmed by
the urge to scream at the Fates, he stands unflinching beside me, determined
in his trust of me and the path laid out before us. The steadfast and sure
Mother who was broken by the horrors of the Fates War, now I have the
strength of this prince at my side to complete our fate.
My magic pours alongside Soren’s until I feel every inch of it gone from
my body, the singing of the earth building into a violently guttural scream
in our ears, so loud and pain filled as the void below opens and demands we
fill it but generations have passed and there isn't enough left in all the veins
of the fae folk within the kingdom to fill such a need now but it's a start.
When the last of my magic absorbs into the ground, Soren's own magic
gone with it, there's a moment of quiet around us. The absence of my magic
doesn’t lighten me and instead drags me deeper towards the earth as though
my body wishes to follow my magic down, another form of consumption by
the land but aberration to our beliefs. The forest watches us reverently as I
lean against Soren, the binding of our hands helping me keep my feet.
Glancing up, his jaw is tightened but he holds us both up without any other
signs of strain.
Cerson’s eyes are a little too wide to say she’s unaffected by the
magnitude of the sacrifice she’s witnessed. She was expecting the strength
of my magic, though seeing it in action is far more humbling than the idea
of it, but it’s the way the Celestial prince’s power held true for so long with
my own that’s given her pause. There are very few magic wielders who can,
she knows as well as I do.
The rushing sound of my blood moving through my veins fills my ears,
the song of the forest quieting back down to a soft hum and the night still
around us as though allowing us all a moment to breathe it in. There's life
here still, the blood of my coven ensuring that magic within the forest has
held true. The trees grow strong, the moss covers the ground, and the fae
flowers bloom year after year. Crickets may sleep the winter away but come
the spring they’ll dance and call amongst the trees as they have from time
immemorial. We’re lulled into utter peace, unprepared for the effects of our
sacrifice.
The trees in the kingdom wake.
In a rush, the forest floods us both with its’ magic, the give and take of
the rites fulfilled, and the gasp that wrenches out of Soren's chest is an echo
of my own, a desperate sound as though it was pull from the depths of our
souls. The land takes our sacrifices, and with them our promises to return to
the cycles our magic has always demanded of us, and the long sleep it fell
into with despair is finally over.
The Favored Children have returned.

WHEN THE FOREST'S euphoria recedes and my mind clears once more
I find myself blinking in Soren's direction, blind to anything else
surrounding us. Our hands are still bound together but at some point during
the maelstrom of our sacrifice to the land Soren has shifted to now stand
before me, his unbound hand clasping my waist. There's a dazed look in his
eyes, so foreign to the usual sharp edge, and the awe that softens his face is
undeterred by the jagged edges of his scar.
My ears are still ringing from the rush of magic and blood through my
veins, and I barely hear the sounds of Cerson's robes swishing as she takes
her leave and disappears from the Ravenswyrd Forest with a pop of magic.
Soren doesn't move or question her departure, his focus unwavering on me
even as his chest heaves and his breath grows ragged. Every prayer Airlie
had murmured in the high fae traditions, oaths strong as the First Fae
themselves, now seem so paltry in the face of this prince's possession. His
softened edges sharpen with every breath until his eyes burn me with their
molten demand, one only I can fill.
Shifting towards him, the tug at my wrist reminds me of the ribbons
binding us together and my gaze drops to the silk. Woven together as they
are, the difference in their designs are stark but beautifully complimentary. I
lift my free hand to trace the silken edge, my heart thumping violently in
my chest as my gaze lingers on Soren. After a long moment regarding each
other as the forest seems to still around us, he finally looks down to the
lengths of silk. While mine details the long path I walked to become the
witch standing before him, his is the perfect silver of his bloodline, the
royal lineage that defines him, even now as he carves out the path to his
own fate.
Is it done?
I swallow roughly at his languid tone, forcing myself to find my voice
to answer him. "Almost; I need to rebind our ribbons… then the ceremony
is complete, our fates sealed."
He gives me a curt nod, his gaze searing as he watches me carefully tug
at the silks until they come undone. My hand is uncharacteristically shaky
as I wrap my ribbon around Soren's forearm, unable to stop myself from
lingering over particular designs when my fingers come across them. I
swallow roughly when my thumb presses against the Ravenswyrd oak
leaves stitched right beneath the binding points, one at either end of the
length. It wasn’t by design, none of the embroidery was ever planned out,
but I’m not surprised by the pattern. The Fates have always worked in
endless cycles; my harrowing journey to become the witch capable of
besting Kharl Balzog began in the Ravenswyrd, and it only seems right for
my Fates-blessed marriage to begin here too.
 When I finally tug on the knot sitting on top of his wrist to be sure it's
firm, I move to put the Celestial blue ribbon in my pocket for now,
forgetting for a moment that I'm still wearing the ceremonial robes. Soren
makes a rumbling sound of disapproval deep in his chest as he takes it from
me, his hands gentle but firm as he tugs my arm out to bind my own
forearm with surprising skill. The movements are slow and measured as he
copies my actions, but when he tugs on the knot it holds true.
I flex my hand briefly, my muscles shifting underneath the crosshatched
pattern, but rather than restrictive, the pressure is comforting. Soren doesn't
move forward as I test the limits of the binding, his gaze searing against
every inch of my face and unerring until, finally, I lift my gaze to meet his.
The spell holding him back breaks instantly.
With the speed and precision only the high fae could employ, he hauls
me into his arms and seals his lips against mine with a guttural groan that
sounds as though it’s being torn from the very depths of his soul. Answer
the savage sound with a sigh, I melt into him as my arms wind easily
around his shoulders in a desperate bid to keep him as close to me as the
Fates will allow.
Content to stay here under the moon with his tongue sliding against
mine in an erotic promise of what’s to come, it’s only when the possessive
glide of his hands over my body reach the slits in my robes to find nothing
but skin beneath the heavy bands of fabric that a vicious snarl erupts from
his chest and he breaks away from my lips.
“Tell me where I’m taking you before the Fates strike me down for
breaking my oaths only moments after making them.”
One hand slides up to cup the back of my head, his fingers too firm to
be a sweet gesture, and when I smile back at him with more of the
amusement that drives him to the very edge he snarls, “Now, croí.”
My magic falls away from my body to tug at him and lead him to the
largest of my coven’s huts at the center of the clearing. I can’t say the name
of it out loud without risking the tenuous grip I hold over myself and we’ve
already lost too much of ourselves and each other to the bloodshed and
violence we never asked for. I accepted my fate before I returned to the
Southern Lands but the moment my heart opened for this prince, the pain of
what we’d missed out on was almost unbearable. I’m grateful for Cerson’s
efforts in carving out this moment for us.
 Soren takes the guidance well, his stride unfaltering as his arms press
me further into his chest. There’s an undeniably desperate edge to his
movements, a silent fear that I’ll disappear the moment his grip eases, and
so instead he attempts to bind our bodies together as surely as our ribbons
had woven together. His chest is a tantalizing prospect of firm muscle and
when I break away from him with a low moan, running my tongue over my
sensuously bruised bottom lip, he moves to sink his teeth into the curve
where my neck meets my shoulders with a growl. Stopping just short of
breaking the skin, his tongue chases after the burn, soothing over the tender
flesh in a worship that has my breath catching in my chest.
Startled by his first step on the wooden slats that climb up to the small
stoop of the hut, my eyes flare wide as he shoves the door open without
lifting his attention from his primal mark on my exposed skin. Orbs of fae
light glow around the room softly, hiding enough of the heart-wrenching
memories of this space to leave room for the joy I feel at being here again.
Only Cerson could know how to achieve such a feat; she knows the making
of the monsters who run riot in my mind, their vile touch corrupting the joy
and comfort of my home despite how desperately I long to be here.
There’s a double bed roll laid out, covered in pillows and blankets, silks
and furs set out for our marriage bed. Inky-black in color, my heart tugs
even as my breath catches at the rasp of Soren’s teeth along my jaw. His
ministrations are proving to be an effective distraction, even the forest’s
gentle hum fading from my mind when he nuzzles the softest skin behind
my ear, letting out a satisfied rumble as he takes a deep lungful of my scent.
I can’t help but wonder if he can smell how much I desire him, if the
heightened senses of the high fae can tell him that every inch of my body is
alive for him and the ice that once surrounded my heart is nothing but a
distant memory. The heat of his gaze across the Fates Temple has lit my
blood on fire and now I’m consumed by it.
With the earthen clay walls and the thatched ceiling, the hut is nothing
like the regal spaces of the high fae and for a fleeting moment I worry
Soren will find it wanting, but he doesn’t spare it so much as a glance as he
goes to his knees on the bed roll, his arms still tight around me. My thighs
squeeze his sides tightly as he falls forward only to catch himself with one
arm seamlessly, shifting to lay me out on the bed roll with insistent hands.
Even in the muted light, the Celestial blue of his eyes are brimming
with demand; a high fae prince who would face the wrath of the Fates
themselves to possess me, only he has their commands behind his every
move and what a blessing that is. Shifting against the plush bedding, the
hems of my robes split open and the cool night air dances along the exposed
skin of my thighs.
The guttural sound that bursts free from Soren takes me by surprise, my
gasp turning into a moan when his hands move to clutch at the creamy
expanse of skin, his fingers frantic at first but then moving to stroke at the
sensitive flesh. When a soft sigh ripples out of my lips, his gaze meets mine
again. The ghosts that follow me no matter where I roam must still linger in
my gaze because his brow furrows for a moment over his hooded eyes, but
when my thighs part in invitation, the slits of my robes open even further,
leaving only a single panel of linen to cover my core, a possessive snarl
rumbles out of his chest.
My blood ignites, joining him in the delicious maelstrom he’s consumed
by, and when he kisses me again, I moan at the taste of magic on his lips.
Rather than covering my body with the hard lines of his own, Soren
holds himself above me, balancing between one arm and his knees as he
maps out the edges of my robes in a sensuous exploration designed to
torture me, I’m certain. My fingers thread through the silken cascade of his
hair, desperate to draw him closer, to feel his weight against me and find
some relief from the wanton desire engulfing every sense I hold, but his
control is absolute as he moves to lick and suck his way down my neck. His
magic, wild and unrestrained, follows in his wake. It settles against my
skin, intent on leaving its’ own brand as it soaks into me and binds us
further.
I didn’t know such a thing was possible.
Gasping as I writhe beneath him, I clutch at his shoulders as desperately
as I cling to my senses. My struggle is hindered by the endless layers of
clothing between his skin and mine, the linen of his shirt rough and
unforgiving. The high fae favor their buttons, laces, layers, and bindings, all
of it intolerable to me and my own magic flares to life at my frustration.
His brows raise as his clothing melts away, disappearing at my wordless
command easily, but the grin I shoot him is filled with satisfaction as I
finally feel the heat of his skin with the glide of my hands over the
unyielding muscle along his shoulders. When I move to remove my robes
as well, he catches my wrist in a firm grip, his magic bright in his eyes.
 “Leave them. I’ve waited centuries for this moment, croí; don’t deny
me the pleasure of undressing my Fates-blessed mate now that you’re
finally mine to savor.”
His words are drenched with a dark desire, a possession that seethes as
violently as his hatred of me once did. I let my hand fall back to the pillows,
the slits of the robes opening a little as I move and the swell of one of my
breasts shifts free to spill out, my nipple tightening the moment it’s exposed
to the air.
Magic flares in his eyes, the thatched ceiling trembling above our heads
as a wave of power rolls out of his body, but I’m too distracted by the heat
of his skin against the exposed expanse of my own as I writhe beneath him.
A tease I never anticipated, the strips of fabric that remain of the robes hide
very little and far too much.
Soren’s teeth graze over my collarbone, nipping at the swell of my
bared breast before he sucks my nipple into his mouth with a groan. His
movements are as languid as his statement promised; he intends on savoring
every inch as though it’s possible to consume me entirely.
There’s a particular pleasure in knowing this prince is mine by the
Fate’s command. I’ve never coveted anything, never allowed myself any
such selfish desires, but this moment—and this male—are mine alone. Any
doubts I had of his desires are burned away by the hard length pressing
against my thigh as he works his way down my body.
With a tug he exposes the rest of my chest, the fabric bunching between
my breasts, and he immediately ducks down to lave the other nipple with
his attention, my core clenching at the rasp of his teeth carefully over my
sensitive flesh. No matter my whimpered pleas, he continues his slow path
down my body until my frustration has me writhing beneath him, my thighs
rubbing together to find some relief but only deepening the ache within me.
When he finally flicks the panel of my robes away from my core, I
moan so loudly I can’t help but blush at the sound. He smirks back at me
with the satisfaction only a mated male could have at driving his Fates-
blessed wife to the edge of madness. Scowling back at him, I open my
mouth to protest only to have him kiss me, swallowing my groans when he
finally slides two fingers deviously into my weeping pussy.
Slowly at first, a pace that could drive me to murder, soon he’s pumping
three fingers steadily into me, the friction perfect and more than enough to
send me over the edge after all of the teasing and petting he’s showered me
with.
Then he hooks his fingers sharply upward and I come so suddenly, and
with such intensity, that I lose my senses for a moment, only vaguely away
that he’s murmuring praises to me as he watches me gush all over the
bedroll we’re sharing. When the waves of pleasure finally abate he kisses
me again, deep and slow, only pulling back when I’m sure I’ve lost all my
senses.
“Tell me who you belong to, croí.”
Languid, my tongue heavy almost as though I’d overindulged on fairy
wine, I have to focus to keep myself from tripping over my words as I rasp,
“By Fates command, I’m yours.”
Rather than pleasing him, he growls dangerously at my response as his
fingers slide through my slick pussy lips, the orgasm he’s drawn out of me
already dripping down my thighs. “Fuck the Fates. Tell me who you
choose, who you fought for, who you came back to this kingdom for.”
My eyes squeeze shut as his fingers slip back inside me, moving slowly
for a moment before he does that wicked hook motion he’s determined to
destroy me with and my stomach clenches when his thighs stop my own
from closing around the indescribable pleasure. He watches it all with
rapture, drinking it in as his own desires are pushed to the side, and when
he’s finally had enough of delaying his own pleasures, he shifts forward
without ever stopping the perfect torture of his fingers. Only once he’s lined
himself up does he let them slip out, empty for only a second before his
hips are driving forward in a relentless push.
Groaning at the girth of him stretching me out, I’m moaning wantonly
by the time he’s fed my pussy the entire length. He pauses for a moment,
looking down at me with a fierce look before he palms my hips gently and
leans down to capture my lips in a blistering kiss once more. My magic
sings to his, just as my blood does, and my heart, and every other inch of
my body and soul but there’s no need for concerns. The desperate
possession in his eyes says everything about his own feelings and it eases
the answer to his demand out of me.
You, Donn—I returned to you.
Eyelids flaring quickly before they drop down, I feel the savage desire
take over him and his soft handing proves to be nothing but a ruse as he
straightens he uses his grip to move me on his length, meeting his every
thrust until he’s pounding into me. Every rhythmic bounce of his hips
against my core sends bursts of light before my eyes until I come again,
letting out a guttural scream of my own as my pussy clenches around him
and draws his release out alongside mine.

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 CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

Soren
As the sun rises and dawn breaks over the forest there’s joy within in the air
I've never felt before. It's not just the bone-deep satisfaction cloaking me, or
the fact that the Ravenswyrd Forest recognizes me as one of its’ own now,
but the return of life to the air we breathe. If this is the way kingdom should
always have been, there’s no wonder we've become such miserable
creatures. There's a peace within me I've never felt before, a violent and
vicious need that’s finally been answered, and as the rustling sounds of my
Fates-blessed wife moving behind me whisper in my ears and the calming
aroma of her tea fills my lungs, the smile that stretches over my lips is pure
satisfaction that she’s mine.
I’ll never truly have my fill; even after an entire night of tasting every
inch of her, I’m desperate for more.
The moment I've taken my throne and Kharl Balzog and the rest of the
Betrayers have been held accountable for their crimes, this is where I’m
bringing Rooke. I'm sure I can convince the forest to keep everyone out no
matter their intentions, just while we seek respite and solace for ourselves
for a century or two, just as I’ve promised. Maybe then I’ll be able to bear
other males in her presence without my magic lashing out and killing them
for daring to exist around her.
 An earthen mug appears before me, steam curling from briefly before
disappearing into the frigid morning air, and I take it with murmured praises
as Rooke folds herself onto the step beside me. With my linen shirt
buttoned haphazardly covering most of her frame, the Celestial blue hue of
it makes her eyes shine even brighter as she looks out at the dense line of
trees before us. My view of her is captivating, holding me entranced as she
lifts her own mug to her lips and blows against the piping hot brew. It's only
when I see the flush growing over her cheeks that I realize how impractical
it is for her to be sitting on the front steps of this hut in the early hours of
the winter morning wearing very little.
Cursing under my breath, I tug my cloak from my own shoulders to
wrap it firmly around hers, earning myself a haughty sigh that heats my
blood and warms me despite the cold morning air.
"Now you're sitting out here naked in the snow, how is that any better?"
Her sultry and amused tones are more dangerous to the fate of our
kingdom than she could ever realize. I would do anything to hear it again,
and the idea that another may have had the pleasure of coaxing them from
her could incite a war with the Northern Lands. I'm not capable of reason or
discretion, only a determination to covet her entirely.
"Airlie told me that our marriage would surely soothe the sharpened
edges of your temper but I’m starting to doubt that," she murmurs,
chuckling quietly under her breath as she leans further into my side.
There’s a quiet within her now that has nothing to do with the forest and
everything to do with me, my greatest achievement yet. I hadn't noticed the
cold of the morning but the warmth of her body against my own is startling,
a reminder of all the skin and perfection now covered by my clothes, and
with a growl I lean forward to capture her lips with my own. I can taste her
amusement on her tongue, feel her own satisfaction at our Fates-blessed
marriage and the sacrifices given to the land, and as she melts against me,
I’ve never been so sure that every inch of this witch was made for me alone.
Her hands clutch at my arms to steady herself only for her fingers to
pause over the ribbon still bound over my arm, breaking away from my lips
as she brushes her fingertips gently against the careful stitches there.
Swallowing roughly, a pulse of magic pushes out of her and into the fabric.
The silk ripples like the surface of a lake dapples with light, and the small
smudge of dust I hadn’t noticed falls away as though repelled. She moves to
do the same with my namesake ribbon on her wrist, a layer of protective
magic placed over them both, before she glances up at me with an
unusually shy demeanor.
“Once bound, witches don’t take their ribbons off… unless they’re
forced to. I don’t expect⁠—“
I cut her off, my tone too harsh but the idea of her questioning my
commitment to her in any way draws the surly Unseelie high fae male right
back out of me. “I’m not taking it off. It’ll go to the ashes with me, and the
first person stupid enough suggest I remove it can serve as a warning to the
rest of the kingdom. Anyone who attempts to remove either of our ribbons
will meet a death so violent the goblin princes’ will have a new demise to
fear, by the Fates I swear it.”
Her eyes soften, tears filling them easily, a mournful look that cracks
open my chest to dig into my blackened heart, and I cup her face as gently
as my scarred and calloused hands can manage. “I was wrong. About you,
your people, and countless other things. I’ve wronged you in ways I can
never atone for, but I didn’t stand before the Fates to bind myself to you at
their command alone.”
She hums under her breath to me, a soothing sound of satisfied
agreement, but my words still feel so… paltry in comparison to all that
she’s shared with me, all that she offers without ever asking for anything in
return.
"When we rode out to Port Asmyr at the Fates command, I was
expecting to find a Seelie Princess waiting for me there. I was eager to
complete my fate and to see my kingdom saved from the bloodshed and
violence, but I was secretly apprehensive, consumed by my concerns."
Glancing over to her, I find Rooke staring back at me with clear eyes
and a thoughtful expression. I have her full attention, and no other concerns
to interrupt us, a rare blessing that I refuse to squander. "I never tolerated
the fussy nature of the royals and nobles of the Unseelie Court. I have many
females in my life that I respect greatly, and cherish, but there are very few
who could endure the very base nature of me, the one my uncle has used
against me at every opportunity. While some of that behavior is surely the
Unseelie high fae way, much of my so-called savage demeanor is mine
alone."
Her hand is warm as it slips into mine, our fingers threading together
easily, and my thumb rubs over one of her knuckles just to relish the
softness of her skin there. When the sword calluses on her palms brush
against mine own the image of her in the sparring rings flashes within my
mind and my blood instantly heats. Coaxing her into a friendly match
settles itself firmly amongst my priorities.
Clearing my throat, I bare what little of my soul I have left to my croí.
"If I arrived at the port to find that Seelie female I thought the Fates were
leading me to, I'd be living a miserable life. Even if I somehow manage to
wrest the kingdom out of the regent's clutches and deal with the Betrayer
without your help, I would still be trapped in a marriage with a female who
couldn't possibly see every terrible inch of the male that I am and not
simply accept it, but relish it. Even when you're frustrated at me, your eyes
light with a fire that I want to consume us both. You're the wisest fae I've
ever met, and the strongest, both in character and temperament. I've never
been humbled so effectively, half the time without so much as a single word
between us, and yet you achieve that feat with far more regularity than my
arrogant high fae temper can withstand.”
Her eyes grow wet as she chuckles, the sound of it more of a sob that
opens up new wounds inside me. Cupping her cheek reverently, I brush
away her tears when they begin to fall, and my voice drops to a rasp.
"You're the most beautiful woman I've ever laid eyes on, I knew it from the
moment I first saw you. I was struck speechless at the mere sight of your
face, my desire for you so consuming that when I finally realized you were
a witch, I felt as though I betrayed my entire kingdom for craving you with
the ferocity that I did."
Her tears still falling steadily, I can’t help but stoop down to capture her
lips in a slow demand, a growl rumbling out of my chest when her tongue
caresses mine without hesitation. When I pull back, my gaze caught on the
pink patches over her cheeks, I whisper against her lips, "How a Favored
Child born with the Ravenswyrd heart could ever love a male with a
temperament such as mine is unfathomable to me…surely a blessing from
the Fates I don’t deserve."
Tucking her into my side, I’m content to simply soak in the early
morning air with her, and though we sit in a serene silence for several long
moments, the smile that grows on her lips is teasing, despite the shadows
that linger in her eyes. “My grandmother threatened to banish my father
from the forest and our coven on my parent’s wedding day.”
My spine snaps straight as I shoot her a look of disbelief, but she only
tugs at her bottom lip with her teeth as she nods, a nervous sort of
amusement filling her at sharing this with me. “Papa saw my mother in the
ceremonial robes and lost his senses. In his versions of the tale, he can’t
recall what happened next, only that he launched himself at the nearest male
who dared to look at her and lost all his good senses. In my mother’s
version… well, it took three males and a bucket of icy water from the river
to pry his hands from the poor male’s throat.”
Despite how much I’m enjoying her light tone, I can’t keep the growl
from my own. “Those robes are an act of war… their intention is surely a
form torture so merciless I cannot believe that the noble and guileless
Favored Children would be responsible for their design.”
Her head drops a little as she clears her throat. “My father thought so,
too. He told Mama that he’d be sent to the ashes early if I were ever to wear
them. He attempted to sabotage them countless times over the years, utterly
irreverent to the timeless traditions of the coven when it came to his
children. Pem and I both—we got Papa’s temper for sure. I think the Fates
knew we’d need it to see us through our time in the Northern Lands.”
Her voice cracks and she turns her face into my chest, no words left
within her for such tales. Refusing to push her, I lean back against the door
of the hut to settle her more comfortably on my chest. I pull the fur-lined
collar of my cloak up to nestle against her face as she rests her ear over my
heart. When my hand plunges into the soft tresses spilling across my chest
she hums happily under her breath, stretching out a little before she settles
into me. There's no reason to move, nothing so urgent that it could pull me
away now, and when her breathing evens out I let my own eyes fall shut as
well, the forest's song lulling us both to a dreamless sleep.

THE HUM of the forest wakes me.

Rooke sleeps across my chest, my cloak wrapped around us, and she
doesn't rouse when the forest's song changes tone. There's no concern or
panic in the sound, so I know we’re not in danger, but Rooke is naked in my
arms and the idea of anyone seeing her like this is intolerable. When the
forest's tone turns welcoming, it's clear Cerson has returned.
 My concerns shift from Rooke’s nakedness to my own, with no
intentions of letting another female lay her eyes on me. Every inch of me
belongs to my Fates-blessed wife alone, the greatest blessing the Fates have
given me.
I carefully move her from my chest, stroking her hair and murmuring
quietly to comfort her when she stirs. Once she’s settled back to sleep, I
stand and pull some clothes back on, whatever is close enough to grab
without taking my eyes off of Rooke. I've never seen her look so peaceful,
certainly not sleeping thanks to the monsters who still hunt her, but there’s
no mistaking the effects of her forest.
By the time I'm stepping down from the hut, Cerson rounds the corner
with a harried edge to her movements. I pull the door until it’s mostly
closed behind me and she meets my questioning gaze with a grim look, the
first real marker of a soldier I've seen in the female. I've never questioned
her capabilities, even before knowing which battalion she served within, but
she stands before me now with all of the friendly smiles and joking light in
her eyes gone she reports with the seriousness of any good messenger.
"My apologies for returning so soon, Prince Soren, but circumstances
have forced my hand. It’s become clear disloyalty and treasonous intent
hides within Yregar. Whatever approach you choose to take with any royals
and nobles found to be responsible, the soldiers should be dealt with
immediately and without mercy. Better yet, let me do it for you."
Dread pools in my gut, not at the prospect of dealing with the high fae
but the escalation of the war as it builds around us. I’ve waited for this
moment for many long centuries, biding my time without a drop of true
patience, yet knowing that my croí will be standing beside me on the
battlefield is an entirely different torture, one I’m unprepared to endure. My
unease is only heightened by the sounds of stirring in the hut as Rooke
wakes without me beside her, my focus sharpening on her protectively
despite the safety of the forest.
Mouth tightening into a firm line, my words are a reminder to myself
more than Cerson. "War waits for no one, no matter how deserving. Has
there been an attack or news from the kingdom?"
Cerson glances up as Rooke steps out the hut, her fighting robes neatly
wound around her body thanks to her magic and though I am grateful for
the ability and the privacy it affords her there's still a discontent bubbling in
my blood at the ease with which our time slipped through our fingers.
 "No truer words spoken, because no one deserves better than my
Æfanya. We must make haste, I’m afraid. There are wounded soldiers
waiting on our return, one of whom bears dire news from one of King
Galen’s battalions."
Rooke’s face is wiped clean of the peace I was just admiring, her
expression now grave as she nods curtly to Cerson in return.
Our bags are still tucked further into the hut and I leave them both
behind to murmur with one another solemnly as I retrieve them. Far too
many centuries of training between us, they’re still neatly packed and ready
for our sudden departure. Looking up to me as I return, Cerson regards me
curiously while Rooke reaches out to me, a pop of light flaring at her elbow
as she stows our bags away.
"I would give you more time to say goodbye to the forest, but you’re
needed rather urgently," Cerson murmurs, a mournful look across her brow,
but Rooke only shakes her head.
"I’ll see it again soon, I'm sure. It’s by the forest’s design that I’m eager
to see to the wounded; it impressed that nature upon all its Children."
As I step back into Rooke’s side my stomach clenches, both at the
words that sound as though the forest speaks them and at the magic building
around us all, but when she looks up to me, I give her a firm nod of my
own. Waves of power wash over me, as unstoppable as the fiercest
snowstorm of the Outlands, and our trip back to Yregar is as unbearable as
the last.
When our feet land on solid ground once more I find Cerson has
brought us straight into the Grand Hall, our household already waiting for
us there. Rooke curses under her breath and moves away from me before
the scent of blood that fills the room registers to me. Flicking her wrists to
call on her magic, her satchel of healing supplies appears in her arms with a
small burst of light.
"Are there more to come?"
Gage, who's elbows-deep in a gaping would tearing through Kytan's
stomach, jerks his head to a goblin soldier splayed out on the second pallet.
"Just these two, and thank the ashes for that. An act of the Fates that Prince
Roan reached the commander only moments after he was injured to stem
the blood flow, and yet another blessing that Gideon was nearby. My
brother may be shit at the true art of healing but he’s kept the commander
from bleeding out before I could offer my aid.”
 Rooke ducks around to kneel at Gage’s side, her eyes sharp she assesses
the gravity of Kytan’s wound. She offers quiet praises to the Briarfrost
prince for his efforts so far but he looks relieved when she moves to take
over from him, the two of them murmuring to each other quietly as they
switch positions. The hand-off is slow, every movement considered as
instruments and gauzes shift from hand to hand, all so the commander
doesn't bleed out. The entire room lets out a long breath when Gage steps
back to leave the healing to Rooke.
"I thought to bring Thea up with me for a valuable introduction of the
healing arts, but Prince Roan thought it unwise," Cerson murmurs as she
moves around Kytan's body to get a better look.
Rooke answers without turning from her work. "Once I have the
bleeding under control we can move him to the healer's quarters and Thea
can observe then. There are far too many high fae here, and in the rest of the
castle… let alone whoever was responsible for this.”
"Rest assured, Mother Ravenswyrd, the traitors have already been dealt
with."
My gaze drops back down to the injured goblin soldier who spoke only
to find his eyes solemn as he regards me, his jaw tightening with a pained
grimace. A hulking mountain of a male, he’s unusually tall for a goblin with
a shoulder span to match. No tusks protrude from his mouth but a tail lies
on the pallet by his leg, limp and lifeless. Black hair cropped close to his
scalp, his thick eyebrows are the same dark hue where they furrow over his
charcoal-tinted eyes.
Gage's eyes are the same color but it’s the only similarity they bear, no
other clear familial resemblance that my admittedly untrained eye can
discern. Scars run up and down his arms, bared to the elbow thanks to the
rolled up sleeves of his tunic, and though layers of his uniform have been
removed, emblems lie proudly over his chest where they're stitched into his
tunic. There's no Briarfrost crest, clearly the male isn't a member of the
royal family, but there's a large crest centered that stands out amongst the
rest that I haven't seen on the soldiers here at Yregar.
Whatever his bloodline is, it’s an important one within the goblin lands.
With both hands clasped firmly over a wound on his own stomach, his
green-hued skin is slowly taking on a gray pallor as he waits for a healer to
become available though it only takes another brief glance at Kytan to
guess it may still be some time. With very little knowledge of goblins, it's
impossible for me to judge how dire his condition is, but Gideon doesn’t
look too concerned for him— for now.
Inclining my head at the soldier respectfully, he freezes at the very basic
act of respect and I have to tamp down my temper as my frustration builds.
When his eyes flare wide in shock, glancing over at Gideon.
The Briarfrost heir steps forward with a grim expression of his own as
he looks over the soldier. "This is Varkesh Khalsor; a member of my wife’s
family and, by Fates command, my own. He serves as the Second in her
battalion, a male I trust with her life which, as I’m sure you’re aware, is the
highest praise I could give a soldier. His head for battle is unmatched, as is
his skill with a sword.”
My brow furrows as he lists the male’s connections and merits as
though he’s advocating for the male let he lose his life, covering the soldier
with his own birthright as protection. Varkesh can’t be responsible for
Kytan’s injuries, my household wouldn’t be regarding him with such
concern if there were any suspicion of his involvement, but there’s no
denying this introduction is far more thorough than any other Gideon has
offered me.
When the tension in the room only heightens, Gage glances over to me
with a stern look. “Rhosh sent ‘Kesh for aid. Her battalion was escorting
fleeing fae from the Mistwyrd Forest through to the Briarfrost territories but
they were overrun by raving soldiers at the edges of Banshee's Call, forcing
them to take refuge there. The witches won’t cross the tree line, but we
already heard news of the regent’s guards advancing. The Unseelie Court
has declared the Briarfrost in breach of the accords for coming to Yris and
with the legion arriving to the port, they’re moving to the border to lay
siege against the goblin armies. Even if Rhosh can hold off Balzog’s
stinking soldiers, ashes only know how many guards the regent will send…
or the making of the legion.”
Ice floods my veins as a Rooke's own alarm bleeds through our mind
connection, though when I glance over she's still focused on Kytan's dire
injuries. His pallor is far more familiar, his coloring almost identical to my
own as are most Unseelie high fae, and it's becoming evident that he'll need
more than just sleep to prise him from the gates of Elysium.
Surprisingly, it's Roan who fills in the rest of the somber details. "The
sentries saw Varkesh arriving to the outer wall, injured and riding alone
thanks to the raving hoard surrounding the battalion. Instead of informing
their commander or sounding the alarm, a dozen of the new recruits from
Yrell chose to take matters into their own hands. There were two goblin
soldiers on duty in the same section but the gutless traitors used the
distraction to overcome them. Both males were murdered and now await
the funeral pyres."
He pauses for a moment as I curse viciously under my breath at the
senseless waste of life, not just desperately needed soldiers but of Fae folk
willing to risk themselves for the rest of the kingdom.
When my furious muttering finally runs its' course, he continues as his
gaze shifting back to Kytan, "They used the outer stairs to avoid detection,
going down to meet the injured male with swords in hand. Kytan heard the
clash of steel and sent soldiers back to the castle to alert us of what was
going on while he went down himself to stop the traitors. The accords still
hold, Soren; Kytan may still pay the price, but he stopped the miserable
cunts from spilling even a drop of goblin blood."
Varkesh grunts as he shifts, scowling at Gideon when he attempts to
take a look at the gash still open beneath the soldier’s fingers. "I would've
finished them off myself—wound be damned—if it weren't for those
dragon-dung accords! Your commander cut them down with ease, far more
skilled than they could ever hope to be. It was only their numbers that
forced him to take the blow for me, as resolute in his protections as he was
valiant. I owe the male a life-debt."
I'm shaking my head before he finishes the sentence. "Any debts will be
paid by me; to ride to Yregar for aid only to find a sharpened blade waiting
for you here is a shameful act.”
Eyes flaring wide again, his chin lifts and despite his worsening
condition, the pride in his expression is unquestionable. It deepens as
Gideon clasps a hand over his heart and bows deeply to me, the approval in
his eyes only dampened by the rigid line of his shoulders as tension coils
within him.
I glance over at Cerson. “Are you able to transport the battalion? If so…
are you willing to do so?”
Her eyebrows raise and when the high fae mutter under their breaths at
my deference a wry smile tugs at the corner of her lips. “If they were
trapped anywhere but Banshee’s Call I could, but I’d still be delighted to
offer you all my aid.”
 Scowling at her riddles, my gaze drops back to Rooke reflexively, and
she answers me plainly as she works. "There are no ley lines under that
forest, but she could get us close, which afford me more time. Gideon and
Gage did well to save Kytan’s life but it'll be a few more hours before he's
stable enough for me to ride out. The wound is deep, and he's lost a lot of
blood."
Turning back to the goblin princes, I find Roan staring at Gideon with a
guarded expression before he speaks in a careful tone, each word slowly
prised out of his lips, "To ride out now would leave Yregar at great risk,
especially if the regent knows Soren and Rooke have wed. What will you
do if Prince Soren says no?"
The Briarfrost heir holds Roan’s gaze but his expression isn't conflicted,
no anguish digging into his face at such a prospect. Turning slowly to
regard each fae in attendance, he only answers when his gaze finally meets
mine, his words clear and firm. "Gage and I were ordered by our father to
stay at Yregar, to offer our support to Prince Soren and the Favored Child
until the throne is secured and Kharl Balzog is deposed. If the true Celestial
heir chooses to stay at Yregar and prioritize the fae within the walls here, I
won't question his command. The Briarfrost soldiers will obey his orders
and stay."
The weight of his words settles over me, but Gideon turns back to Roan
as he continues. "I'll ride to Banshee's Call now and face the raving armies
alone to get to my wife. Then I'll fight the high fae battalions at her side
when the regent's guards arrive. If we somehow triumph, I'll submit myself
to my father's mercies and accept the consequences for my treason without
question. Ashes mercies, I'll face the Fates themselves if I must; I will not
abandon my wife. My oaths are to Rhosh first; my throne, my bloodlines,
and my own existence will always come second to her."
At the resoundingly stunned silence that follows his brother's blunt
declaration, Gage smirks and lifts a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. "I told
Prince Soren he was stupid obsessed with her. This isn't some revelation, at
least not to me nor any other goblin. He declared the same loyalties proudly
in his oaths at the Fate's Temple on his wedding day, with no concerns for
how it might be received nor any apologies for the pandemonium he
caused."
He turns to me, his tone dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Vahro
spent almost a decade enduring the whining concerns of the rest of the
royals at Aysgarth, but he's never faltered in his decision that Gideon has
always been, and will always be, the true Briarfrost heir. Then Rhosh set a
banshee off amongst the sleeping babes once and for all by refusing to
apprentice with Mahman in the healer's quarters and took up a sword
instead. She worked her way up the ranks, all without ever accepting the
shortcuts that her title could give her, and when she was named a
commander through her own hard work the entire fucking kingdom finally
figured out that Gideon's sappy, obsessive, love-sick state isn't a threat to
the throne because his wife is a ruthless cut-throat who's unwaveringly loyal
to the Briarfrost throne and all fae under my father's rule. Vahro wouldn't
even call Gideon's actions treason; he'd kill anyone who dared."
Gideon turns back to me, no hesitance or remorse to be found in his
expression, and my own reply is easy. “I’d no sooner leave your wife such a
fate than I would my own; assemble your soldiers. Time may not be on our
side but—ashes mercies—I have to believe the Fates are.”

OceanofPDF.com
OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

Rooke
When Cerson lets slip that the closest ley line she can transport us to lies in
the Mistwyrd Forest right at the border of the Blood Valley, I'm expecting
the uproar from the Briarfrost princes. Soren's staunch and steadfast defense
is far more surprising than it probably should be by now. Unable to look up
as I stitched the last of Kytan's flesh back together, I had listened while
Soren made his expectations clear.
"We'll still have half a day of riding ahead of us and half a dozen
villages along the way. We don't have to enter the Blood Valley to make it
to Banshee's Call, we can skirt around the edge of it."
Gage's scrubs at his forehead as he blows out a breath, his voice far
harsher than he usually takes with the Celestial heir. "You didn't even know
what blood magic was, Soren, there's no way to describe to you how
dangerous this plan truly is. If that murderous cunt has managed to
convince the regent that he can bring the bloodwitches home, then surely
he's figured out how to walk within the valley. We're no good to Rhosh if
we're dead."
Roan nods his head with a scowl on his face as though furious to be
agreeing with the Briarfrost but he's looked apprehensive about the journey
from word go.
 "I've seen their handiwork up close before and I agree that it should be
avoided at all cost."
Cerson glances down to me before she shrugs. "Unless you’re prepared
to ride through the night and risk the witches finding a way into Banshee’s
Call in that time, this is our only option."
Gideon slashes a hand at his brother. "I'd sooner face Oskar Reborn and
risk his blood mist before I abandoned Rhosh. If you're so terrified, brother,
then just stay behind and assist with guarding Yregar."
With a scathing look back, Gage murmurs, "There's no way you love
that bloodthirsty wife of yours that much brother. No one could love a fae
enough to face that… beast willingly."
Cerson stands abruptly and begins to usher everyone out the room, her
gaze lingering on me but I keep my focus on the neat row of stitches across
Kytan's stomach where it’s best served. When her attention moves to the
grayed pallor of his skin, she cringes. She's spent enough time lingering in
my various healer's quarters and guarding me as I've worked to know the
outcome is not looking all that good for Yregar's commander. The true cost
of war is that there's nothing else I can do for him now while we have
hundreds of lives at stake. With the wound now carefully bound shut, it's
the best that I can do for now and will have to be enough.
Rather than allowing Cerson to see him out of my presence, Soren waits
at my side to escort me up to our chambers with little more than a haughty
look at the grinning Elmswyrd witch. After leaving a long list of care
instructions for Kytan, I let my Fates-blessed mate lead me back upstairs,
my elbow grasped gently in one of his large calloused hands.
There's no hiding the tension coiled within me from him, and even as
we change into riding clothes I feel as though I am close to wriggling out of
my own skin. Still, Soren's is nothing.
By the time I'm sitting on Northern Star's back, dressed in fighting robes
and the Fates writhing beneath my scar, the Briarfrost battalions are in
formation and ready to ride out. Every soldier is sitting tall in their saddles,
armed to the teeth and not just ready to ride to their princess’s defense, but
eager. The air is thick with anticipation, not a single soldier looking hesitant
at the journey we’re about to embark on. Both princes sit in the saddles with
stoic faces, no sign of apprehension or concern on either of them.
Cerson directs her horse to walk next to me, Soren flanking my other
side as we ride through the gates of the inner wall. Moving such a large
group comes with certain restrictions but the short ride to the snow-covered
farming plains won’t delay us any more than saving Kytan’s life had, both
necessary compromises. Gideon had accepted Soren’s command on both
issues easily. Eager as he is to reach his wife, he’s not a foolish male.
As we work our way through the village towards the outer gate, I see
Tauron hesitate to Yregar behind for the first time. He accepted Soren’s
command to ride out easily, never one to shy away from battle, but even
knowing that his brother is remaining in Yregar to take command of the
household, the long look he gives the stone walls of the castle is undeniably
full of longing and pain.
Cerson sees it and catches my gaze with a grin. "I think Thea is going to
be a wonderful healer, Æfanya. She's certainly picked up the delicate art of
brewing tea far quicker than any high fae I've endured."
It's a high compliment but, misreading the amused lilt in her voice,
Tauron's teeth clench viciously as he snaps at her, "Why come here if you're
going to be forced to endure the high fae? Surely the peace in the Northern
Lands is preferable to the raving war bands and the Unseelie Court."
Soren turns his head just far enough that his cousin can see the snarl on
his lip but Cerson is unperturbed. "This is my home, just as it’s yours. I’ll
burn the stink of Kharl's magic out from every witch myself if that's what it
takes to restore the kingdom to what it once was and return to my forest.
Given the Fate’s commands, there's not much I can do about the Unseelie
Court except to teach the lot of you better. I'll admit it's tiring after centuries
of sorting out the Seelie Court but such is the life of a witch."
Tauron frowns at her but Soren's lips move, his words to low for my
ears, and his cousin's head bows instantly. Cerson is happy to leave the
topic behind but there's a tension laying over us all that wasn't there before
and I heave out a sigh.
"Thea is definitely showing promise and Tyra has been excellent with
her. The long path ahead of us certainly isn't looking quite so bleak."
Cerson nods agreeably. "Whatever happened to the fae who hurt her?"
Even Soren turns to stone in his saddle as the males all react to the
reminder of Thea’s abuse but I answer honestly. "We still don't know who’s
to blame but they’ll be held accountable the moment we do."
She nods again, rolling her shoulders back before turning in her saddle
to peg Tauron with an icy look, one that forces even the strongest soldiers to
hesitate. "I know a witch who can find the truth of her bloodline with ease;
no pain or torment involved. The moment Rooke took the girl into her care,
she became my ward as well and that means it's my duty to hunt the
disgusting fae who harmed her. If you learn to play nicely, I'll let you help
but just know that whatever death they receive, it‘ll be a slow one."
Glancing over, I smile at her and Cerson tips her head back to laugh at
me, the sound bright and warm as it weaves around us all. Even as the snow
falls steadily, dusting my shoulders and the hood of my cloak, the land
breathes in the sound and rejoices that she's home once more.
Tauron doesn't have a reply for her but Roan mutters quietly, "You’re
far too happy considering the task ahead."
Cerson shrugs. "If I let the prospect of death and war diminish my joy
I'd be a morose creature like the rest of you and what a terrible thing that
would be! My Æfanya couldn't possibly handle any more scowling soldiers
in her midst."
She casts a sidelong look at Soren and when he resolutely ignores her
she grins at me instead, wriggling her eyebrows until I struggle to hold back
my own chuckle at her antics. Reed glances between the two of us and then
risks a look at Soren, only to find Cerson’s teasing hasn’t caught his temper
at all. After so many fraught months, the Outland soldier is clearly shocked
but it tugs at my own heart desperately. Soren’s unquestioning acceptance
of Cerson goes beyond what he’d offer my closest friends and fellow
soldiers; he treats her with respect he expects any fae to show my brother's
wife, regardless of her standing by the Court’s standards.
Cerson leans into my side, switching to the Seelie common tongue to
murmur to me, "How is he going to stand by and watch you wage war
against the Betrayer as the Fates command you? He really has no idea
what's coming, does he?"
I feel the icy fingers of guilt stroking in my belly as I shake my head at
her, my chest tightening painfully. When the outer wall begins to loom
before us I finally reach out to Soren through our mind connection, fighting
to keep the blush from my cheeks when he lets me in without pause.
What’s troubling you, croí?
Taking a deep breath to settle the writhing nerves in my gut, I keep my
gaze ahead as I speak. When I first returned to the Southern Lands, I had no
intention of ever calling for aid. I left my family behind and avoided
speaking of them here to keep them out of this war but… I’ve endangered
more lives with my stubbornness, my fears of losing anyone else blinding
me. There’s a lot I haven’t told you yet, Donn, and I’m finding now that
we’re riding out, I regret that.
He’s silent for a moment, the mind connection solemn, before his
answer almost takes me to my knees. You owe me nothing, croí. Not a
single answer to any question, no matter how desperately I want to know.
When you’re ready, I’ll hear whatever you have to say, but for now our
focus should be on the task ahead.
I clear my throat, wishing it were really that simple, but I nod anyway
and build the wall back up between us as the battalions’ stream out into the
farming plains and ease back into formation meticulously.
The moment the gate closes behind us Cerson reaches out and, with a
pop of light, her scepter appears in her hand. Roan stares at it for a moment
before he gives her a curt nod, Gideon and Gage both doing the same.
When Soren gives her a firm nod, she lifts her scepter easily and transports
us all at once. As the magic of the Elmswyrd Coven flows over me,
magnified by the currents of power running deep within the earth, it pushes
my mind to the very brink of what I can tolerate before I find myself at the
edge of the Mistwyrd Forest, the scent of death lingering in the air.

JOURNEYING BACK to the Ravenswyrd the first time on my return to

the Southern Lands has been my greatest heartache but riding through the
trees of the Mistwyrd and feeling the desolate agony within them is an
unbearably close second. Though there are still Mistwyrd witches alive
today, their Mother is gone and with no Maiden left behind, the line of the
womb has ended.
The time of the Mistwyrd has ended.
Five years have passed since Qhin Falorn journeyed on the ashes to
Elysium and yet the pain of the trees mourning her loss pains me as much
now as it did when she first died. My aunt’s Fates-blessed mate and the
holder of a relic, she was amongst the witches who looked out for Pemba
and I when we were finding our feet in the Northern Lands. She had a
particular gift for guiding witches to find their own paths without
impressing her own beliefs on them, despite how strong her convictions.
When I saw my own short-comings as a Mother and a voice for the witches
within the Seelie Court, I sought her out and she welcomed me into her
coven’s practices as an honored guest. I didn’t just admire her wisdom or
feel gratitude for her aid, I loved her as I did any other member of my
extended family.
The mourning of the trees here isn’t the violent call for vengeance we
were greeted by the Brindlewyrd with, yet its solemn tune is an ache that
sinks so deeply into my bones there no hope that I’ll ever be able to dig it
out. The Mistwyrd Coven was torn apart, first by those who chose to
abandon the Betrayer and then by the Fates war and the Ureen’s consuming.
There’s no vengeance here for the trees to seek out, no Baylor Fray walking
the kingdom with blood still dripping from his vile hands, only the
devastating result of the Fates weaving,
Wiping my eyes, I find Soren’s softened gaze far too dangerous to linger
on and instead look over to find tears streaming down Cerson's face
irreverently. When our gazes meet, a sob bursts out of us both and draws the
eyes of many soldiers around us as all.
"Qhin would hate this. She would be so mad at me for sitting here and
sobbing.”
I lift my shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “’Mourning is not for those
who have passed, but an act of honor, a mercy for those left behind to find
solace’, she told me that once, and when I asked her where she learned such
thing ,she told me that war teaches far too many lessons, whether we’re
prepared for them or not."
Silence falls around us once more and though the song of the trees is
painful I let my eyes slip shut as we work our way through the heavy snow
along the border. It slows us down, enough that I begin to worry we won't
arrive in time, and when the soldiers ahead call out to announce we’ve
come across to the first village, the sombre air still clinging over the
battalion in a wave sends dread curling in my gut.
Even with the blanket of snow there are still signs to warn us of the
carnage ahead but with Qhin’s forest so loud in my blood, I struggle to steel
my heart against the devastation of war. We arrive to the small wall running
along the outside of the village and find the large wooden gate hacked to
pieces, a thick layer of snow covering the wreckage. Corpses litter the
streets and alleyways, frozen solid and the blanket of white hiding some of
the horror of the death they endured but nothing can truly soften the blow of
bodies torn open and ripped apart by the raving madness of Kharl Balzog's
soldiers.
Generations ago this village surely prospered but now it’s nothing but
ruin. Gideon gives Soren a curt nod as he sends a band of his soldiers
around the village to look for any survivors but I already know it's a futile
task. They'd surely be able to hear the heartbeats of any fae folk hiding
within but there's no delay in being sure as another group begins to pile up
the dead to see them on the ashes safely. Cerson and I both murmur prayers
to the Fates, the only kindness we can offer these fae in their passing, but
it's Soren himself who lifts a hand to burn the bodies with his magic alone.
Somehow he's casting through intuition alone and it's only my respect
for the dead that stops me from questioning him. The vicious edge on his
stern face can only speak of the bloodshed he's planning for all those who
came here and wrought this carnage, with the wealth of power in his veins
he may prove unstoppable if he can command it.
The goblin soldiers are as stoic as ever as we get back to our path to
Banshee’s Call but the somber air holds over them all. We reach the next
village only an hour later to find the same carnage waiting for us there;
violent, senseless deaths. The goblin soldiers work without hesitation to
look for survivors and see the fae safely on the ashes, but the pressure
building inside of me has my fingertips itching to reach for my scepter.
Kharl Balzog is nowhere to be seen, any use of my magic is unwise, yet the
urge is impossible to ignore entirely.
We ride on, pushing our horses hard through the snow, but we still have
hours left before we reach Banshee’s Call when the soldiers ahead call out
to bring us to a halt once more. The Fates writhe beneath my scars in
warning, icy dread digging deep into my gut. Glancing around, there’s no
signs of danger but when I lean into Soren’s side subconsciously, he’s
sitting like a slab of marble in his saddle.
What is it? What can you hear?
Instead of answering me, he widens our connection as though inviting
me into his own mind, just as he had while the regent taunted him back in
Yris. Sliding carefully through to his mind, no matter how welcome I am
here, there’s no way to describe the feeling that washes over me except
fractured. Before I can lose myself in the implications of the ease he’s
wielding his power with now, the murmurs of Gage and his soldiers distract
me, as clear to me as they are to my Fates-blessed mate.
 "I've never seen marks like this before. Even if they’re wielding curses,
it shouldn’t look like this."
I translate the goblin tongue to Soren, and then tack on the end,
whatever it is, Cerson and I should see it. Between the two of us, we can
recognize most magic sources or at least where to search for answers.
Soren nods curtly to me, the surly change in his demeanor abrupt but
reassuring. He’s not taking anything for granted, not even the smallest
possibility left to chance, and even when he motions to Gideon to lead us
through he orders Reed to stay close to Cerson’s side as we make our way
through the mounds of snow to Gage.
There's a roughly trodden path cut through but my field of vision is
mostly white, the beginnings of a snowstorm quickly building around us,
and it only makes the scene before us more startling when we come over a
small crest and find the wide patch of charred earth Gage stands on. A
dozen horses wait obediently at the edge as the goblin soldiers all circle the
land, staring down at the damage. Murmuring amongst themselves, none of
them have any answers for what magic has caused this. I share look with
Cerson, but neither of us hesitate to slide from our saddles to join them, the
princes all following closely behind us.
The moment my feet cross the blackened line, I feel it.
The same aching hollow unsettling feeling that Yris filled me with, the
marker of Kharl Balzog’s ruinous casting, only a thousand times worse with
the ravenous destruction it craves. Like a disease, it settles over my body in
a rush as it looks for points of entry to consume me and my mind almost
shatters at the sensation, thrown back into the jaws of the monsters who
hunt me.
I vomit before I can choke back the bile.
Turning on my heel at the last possible moment, I manage to save Soren
from bearing the brunt of it but my own boots don’t fare so well as my
stomach spasms uncontrollably. The rush of blood in my ears is deafening,
second only to the screeching of Ureen where it’s carved so deeply within
my soul that there’s no cutting it out. I feel nothing but the fear, know
nothing but my pain, and it’s only when Soren’s mind floods into mine to
shove the terrors away from me that the world sharpens around me once
more. Crushed in his arms, my face is buried in his chest and an awful gasp
wrenches out of my lips as I finally take a breath.
 Gideon rushes over to us, his words clipped but disjointed to me in my
panicked state. “Move her back over the line, Soren, away from this vile
magic. It’s abhorrent, bad enough for us but witches’ connection to the land
ensure they feel its’ pain keenly.”
Soren can see the shadows in my mind and knows the true reason this
magic is tearing me apart, my terror spilling through our connection and
poisoning his mind as surely as it does mine. His hands stay clutching at
me, his own heart thumping under my ear, but he moves at the Briarfrost
heir’s direction and when the magic no longer touches me some of the panic
lifts from me.
Cerson’s hands are clutching at Reed’s arms as though they have a mind
of their own, a tremble running through her even as he leads her further
away from the magic.
With a shaking voice, she chokes out, “What in the Fates has he done?
Æfanya, what has that male done now? It was— it felt like⁠—”
Soren cuts her off before she can say it, one of his hands lifting to cup
the back of my head like he’s afraid the sound of their name could break me
open again. “We’ll ride around it. Get the soldiers moving, there’s still a
long journey ahead and we don’t have time to waste.”

OceanofPDF.com
OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

Soren
The closer we get to Banshee’s Call, the greater the tension within the ranks
grows. Every jaw is clenched, fists tight on their reins, and not a single
murmur can be heard. Every village we’ve passed was already gutted by the
raving soldiers, and when we reach the edge of the Mistwyrd and slowly
descend into the valley, an eerie silence takes hold.
We’re not in the Blood Valley yet, but we’re close enough that I can
taste the tang in the air. I was barely more than a feeling the last time I
journeyed through the valley, and I thought it was that lingering aroma that
the forest here its’ name. I know better now, a shiver running down my
spine unbidden as the memory of the mounds of flesh flashes before my
eyes.
It’s the scent of blood magic, the power of the Reborn that lingers
despite their Fates-demanded exile from their ghoulish forest.
The moment our battalions leave the shadow of the trees, Rooke begins
to relax in her saddle until she alone rides with absolute peace. It's surely a
miracle of the Fates after her reaction to the Betrayer's magic. I watch her
carefully, no mean feat given the pace we ride with and the snowfall
building around us. If the stillness within her isn’t that of a soldier firm in
their convictions, adjustments will need to be made for the battle ahead, but
I’m forced to shift my focus away from my croí as we’re hit by an ice storm
out of the blue.
Gideon calls out commands, but his words are consumed by the storm,
unintelligible even with high fae hearing. The depth of the snow we ride
through quickly grows to be waist-deep, and I can’t see further than half a
horse's length before me. With my gut clenching violently at the danger
we’re in, my hand quickly bands around Rooke’s arm to ensure I don’t lose
her in the melee, and a plan quickly forms to pull her onto Nightspark to sit
before me in the saddle, but my decision takes a moment too long.
By the time I sense the magic hanging low in the air, it’s too late.
We cross the shimmering line of power, invisible until the horses cross
into the trap. My hand tightens around Rooke’s arm, all but dragging her
further into my side in my haste, but she leans into my body without pause
as she assesses what in the ashes we’ve just fallen prey to. Only when I’m
sure she’s not planning on disappearing from my side do I move to do the
same.
There’s no malice or danger in the magic that mine can detect, nor any
indication of what purpose it was cast for, except that it follows a path
ahead that we now have little choice but to follow. When there's nothing
else I can discern from the magic barrier, I turn my attention to the
battalions to ensure we haven't lost anyone, either to the snowstorm or some
danger I'm unaware of.
There's no alarm among the goblin soldiers but lined up as they are it's
easy enough to count their numbers to ensure that all are accounted for.
Roan and Tauron are scowling in their saddles beside me, tension in their
shoulders as they shift with jerky movements to take in the white holding
space we’ve stumbled into. Reed’s horse stands behind Rooke and Cerson,
in the gap between their own horses, and his hand rests on the grip of his
sword, prepared to defend them both at the first sign of danger.
Gage and Gideon are less obvious in their discomfort, as stoic as their
battalions are as they both wait on my command.
Cerson mutters in the Seelie tongue furiously at Rooke’s far side, her
lips pulling tight when our gazes meet before she gives me a curt nod,
steady and sure. Despite our numbers, the battalions have crossed the magic
line in their entirety thanks to the ice storm. No snow falls around us,
protected by the shield, but any relief I may have felt is quickly squashed by
the cluster of horses secured to a lone tree at the edge of the valley. Covered
in the regent’s crest and off-color blue, there’s no question of whose forces
have beaten us here.
Roan curses viciously under his breath, muttering furiously in the old
language, “It’s a trap, Soren, and we've walked right into it."
Tauron ignores Roan's statement, no answer for it regardless, and his
eyes stay fixed on the secured horses before he finally speaks. “The snow is
still deep here, why would they risk themselves by leaving their horses and
venturing on foot?”
Rooke turns to give him a thoughtful look, nodding slowly. “I would
wager the Regents guards were not the ones who tied those horses. Cerson
and I have both tried but the shield holds for now. I could break it but
there's the potential it could drain my own magic sauce and I won't risk
leaving us vulnerable.”
Moving forward is our only option; the words hang heavy in the air
between us. Jerking my head at Gideon and watching as he moves his
soldiers into formation around us, I glance back down to Rooke and take a
moment to humble myself to the Fates once more for giving me such a
mate.
The judicious way she dances beautifully around my command is an
education of its own. Always the calm and sure Favored Child, she sets
herself apart from my rule, while diligent in her efforts to never appear
contentious or overstep. I'm glad she’s mindful about setting the precedence
of our rule because those same prudent displays are beyond me right now.
With every passing day with her at my side, the Fates great wisdom is
proved to me. Ashes curse me for taking so long to see it, wasting precious
time our kingdom didn’t have to spare.
The boundaries of magic that we're stuck within follow the path to the
valley below. Though the magic of the shield ensures snow no longer falls
on us, it doesn't stop our field of vision from being completely obscured by
the bleak white, no doubt by design. The horses move steadily, though far
slower than our original pace. We never had any intention of going through
the forest here, even with the small amount of time it would save us.
Gideon’s jaw tightens as the air grows heavy with every step deeper into
the valley but when he glances over at me, his head bows respectfully.
Though quick to raise hell with his brother, Gage rides at the back of the
group with a fierce look of his own as he takes in the stark white
surroundings poised and ready to strike. Though I haven't yet seen either of
the Briarfrost heirs fight, I have no question of their capabilities.
I feel the moment we cross the tree line and enter the Blood Valley, the
aroma that sat meekly on my tongue like an after-taste blooms into the full
spectrum of rich, hot blood. My heart begins to pound in my ears like a
drum, a steady beat that compels me to hunt for more, growing as though
spurning me on.
More than the savagery of the Unseelie high fae, the demand for
sacrifice and blood is an unquenchable thirst I don’t want to contain, and it
only halts when Rooke lets the wall down between us. Like a cork popping,
the haze slowly drains out of me now the pressure is released, and I feel her
falter, though the feeling within her mind can only be described as an awed
disbelief.
There’s a long pause as the horses continue to walk unaware of the
maelstrom within me. Then my breath catches in my chest as the land
begins to sing beneath us, only this song is like nothing I’ve ever heard
before. This isn’t the exaltation of the Ravenswyrd or the slow-waking of
Elms Walk, it’s not even the mourning throes of the Mistwyrd or the
demand of vengeance the Brindlewyrd calls out to me with. This is
something far, far worse.
A dark fury wakes within the kingdom, and it demands blood.
As if by command of the Fates themselves, the clatter of high fae bodies
clad in armor running and the labored breathing of panic thunders through
the tunnel towards us. Gideon shifts the soldiers again around us, a
protective wall between my Fates-blessed mate and the males are stupid
enough to trap us in here forming just as the hoarse shouts ring out.
“...dozens of them...still have magic... where have the others... break
formation...green tailed fucks⁠—”
Some of the tension eases from Gage’s shoulders as he lets out a low
chuckle. “It appears the regent’s guards were unprepared to meet Princess
Rhoshani Briarfrost, Crown Consort to the Heir Apparent to the Briarfrost
throne, Prince Soren. I must admit, I can't blame them for their terror,
shameful as it may be; she certainly is an experience.”
While a ripple of amusement sounds in reply, Rooke uses the distraction
to pull her arm out of my grasp with an insistent tug and, with a pop of
light, her sword appears in her outstretched hand. Cerson and I aren't
surprised to see the golden blade, but Gideon and Gage both stare at it with
an awe that would fill me with pride if it didn't gall me to have them
looking at her in the first place. Roan and Tauron both Stare at it for a
moment before their gazes flick up over to me.
Reed’s mouth drops open, gaping at the sword for a heartbeat before
finally he mutters a long and colorful curse under his breath, low enough
that only the high fae will hear it, before his words shift into a rapid report
that’s soaked in admiration.
“That sword is a relic of the First Fae—they once called it the Dawn
Breaker. The Sol King awarded it to the High Commander after the turning
of the tide, and he wielded it against the Ureen in the last stand. It was
renamed Fate’s End, in recognition of battle and all the lives lost. How in
the ashes has Rooke come to hold it?”
I glance down at the sword again, a hand moving to rest on the grip of
my own, but Roan answers, “Her brother. Cerson said Pemba Eveningstar
was instrumental in the turning of the tides. He’s the High Commander of
the Sol Army and his wife brought the sword to Rooke to wield now against
Kharl Balzog.”
Reed’s next stream of curses are cut off by the path before us finally
widening, revealing a cluster of high fae guards huddled together in a
haggard state. I don’t take notice of the path or what more of the forest is
within the larger space. The moment they turn to face us, eyes wide and
manic, their focus centers on my wife and my grip on my sanity breaks at
once.

THE THRUM of my heartbeat in my ears drowns out the sounds of the

regent’s guards pleading with the Fates to grant them mercy as I cut them
down. Only the last two have the opportunity to draw their swords and
actually swing the steel in my direction, using their fellow soldiers' deaths
to their own advantage but it does nothing for them. No matter of minutes
all that is left of the males is the heat of their blood against my face, their
throats slit, stomachs run through, and their blood pouring into the earth a
sacrifice.
 Welcome home, the trees whisper to me, you have brought our Favored
Child home, you spill blood of the Betrayers to honor us. Welcome home,
Soren Celestial.
Each of the forests speak distinctly, each of the ancient woodlands
bearing its’ own history and purpose within the kingdom, but none of the
differences are quite so striking as the Blood Valley but deep within Soren’s
bones he feels how right that is. The purpose of this forest, and the reason
the trees brought forth the coven in the first place, is explanation enough.
Why shouldn’t the trees be protected? Why shouldn’t it take the blood and
magic it deserves, when those who give it now have taken so much from us
all?
Let the blood pour, wash the kingdom clean of the Betrayer’s rot, start
anew with fresh blood.
Singing their praises of my work, the trees consume the guards’ blood
faster than it pours from their bodies. The churned-up ground is eager to
accept the sacrifice I give it, and though the trees accept it all gladly, the
ache within the forest doesn’t abate. The high fae have taken so much from
the land and from these trees, the price must now be paid.
My chest heaving, and my sword still gripped tightly in my hand, I turn
at the sound of more footsteps and the hold on my senses, precarious as it
is, keeps me rooted on the spot only as long as it takes to find more of the
regent’s guards heading our way. Tauron snarls out my name but with a firm
kick Nightspark is leaping over the bodies of the fallen guards, the trees
eager to add more to the piles.
Swing—slash—hack.
Months of holding myself back, even as every fiber of my being
demanded I strike, it all comes bursting out of me as a roar of fury echos
within the bounds of the shield, and the males who came here today to kill
my allies bear the price of that restraint. My sword is painted red, coated
and dripping, as the forest eggs me on with a righteous demand I refuse to
ignore.
“What in the ashes has happened to him? What evil has been cast to
overcome him like this?”
When the last of the guards fall from my sword before me, I turn to look
towards the unfamiliar voice and find more goblin soldiers have joined our
ranks. Less than a third of a battalion, it's the female standing in the center
who spoke and now stares at me with a guarded expression.
 With her helmet tucked beneath her arm and the black steel plates of
armor spattered with an unholy amount of gore and mud, Rhosh is
everything and nothing like Soren had presumed Gideon’s Fates-blessed
wife would be. For one, even sitting atop her horse it's clear she’s at least a
head shorter than Rooke. She's also a part blood; with white-blonde hair
braided much like Cerson’s falling over her shoulder and a glow to her
green hued skin it only takes me a second to hazard a guess. It's clear she
has more than a little pixie heritage, the deep purple hue to her eyes is an
obvious marker.
While she's busy making her own assessment of me, her piebold
mare snaps its teeth in Nightspark’s direction as though looking for a fight.
Gage groans under his breath, a deeply frustrated noise, before he whistles
through his teeth and the mare straightens back up obediently.
“You're spoiling her again, Rhosh, you'll only live to regret it when
Celestial’s beast takes a chunk out of her neck. Nightspark only likes his
Prince, the Favored Child, and her own mare. Gideon and I learned that
well on our return to Yregar.”
She shoots him an irritated look but it's over before it starts when her
gaze swings back to me. “I think we have far greater issues to contend with
than Pom’s terrible attitude this evening. Like perhaps the true Celestial heir
falling into a blood haze, an act I didn’t think was possible! What dark
depths of a wyvern pit have the bloodwitches cooked up this time? Ghastly
things!”
Pain blooms in my chest at once, the song of the forest amplifying the
ache tenfold, and its edges are sharp enough that I raise a blood-soaked fist
to press against the steel of my breastplate, the pressure helping some. From
the corner of my eye, I see Rooke doing the same, the golden sword now
sheathed at her side.
Cerson pushes her horse forward, catching the goblin soldiers’ attention
as she directs a frosty smile at Rhosh. “I must disagree, Briarfrost. I’d be far
less concerned with the defense Prince Soren is waging on your behalf and
far more mindful of how you speak of witches within their own home, if I
were you.”
Gideon glances between the two females as he directs his horse to his
wife's side, reaching out to take her hand in his own, undeterred by her
gauntlets as they no doubt get in the way. “Beloved, I'm relieved to find you
alive and well.”
 It takes me a moment to realize he's speaking in the goblin tongue and
yet, with our mind connection open the way it is, Rooke doesn't have to
translate the words for me to understand them now, the meaning slipping
easily between us.
The surly look to Rhosh’s eyes softens a little as she lets out a shaky
sigh, but the news isn’t good. “We’ve lost almost a hundred soldiers so far,
and a dozen of the fae folk we came to bring aid. The raving armies were
easy enough to dispatch once we stowed the fae folk within the safety of
Banshee’s Call, but then the regent’s bastards arrived, more of them with
every passing hour, and bloodwitches stand within their ranks.”
She lets out another breath, this one long and slow, before she turns
back to Cerson and bows her head to her, switching to the Unseelie
common tongue once more. “My apology, Mother Elmswyrd, I let my grief
get the better of me. Too many good soldiers lost at the hands of witches
who can't walk amongst their own trees anymore, such as their betrayal. We
were forced to move the fae folk into the Blood Valley because it proved the
only place to escape their magic.”
This catches Rooke's attention. “They’re wielding blood magic here? Is
that how your soldiers died?”
The female stiffens in her saddle, shifting awkwardly before answering
in a halting tone. “Yes, Mother Ravenswyrd, there are a dozen Betrayers
amongst the regent’s guards here. Most of them have clearly lost their
connection to the forest and their blood magic is waning, but even a scrap
of that power is deadly to most.”
The anger that lights up within Rooke almost sends me back into the
hazy blood rage, the forest’s demands still running through my own veins.
She’s silent and as still as death in her saddle as Rhosh tells her tale of woe
over again, only this time with more detail. Tauron and Gage map out
where the forces are surrounding us and plan out how to recover the rest of
the goblin soldiers and the fae they’re protecting, before finding a way back
out of the forest without coming across another bloodwitch.
Cerson and I both watch Rooke carefully, the only two who know of the
devastating heartache that bloodwitch has caused my Fates-blessed wife.
It's clear she hasn't heard a word said around her when she finally speaks to
me.
I would never do anything that would risk your life or our shared fate.
I’ve walked the path set out before me by the Fates themselves with steady
feet; this decision isn’t a hasty one. Baylor Fray cannot be left wielding
blood magic against the innocent fae in the kingdom any longer.
I look up to meet her gaze and find that whatever goodwill I’ve gained
with the forests of the kingdom to now hear their songs, they love the
Favored Child far more. There's an aura around her now that glows with
ancient power, the natural flush to her cheeks thanks to the cold deepens
until the possessive heat ignites within me once more, only heightened by
the resolve in the silver depths of her eyes. Her decision is made; I can go
with her or I can leave her to her task, but nothing will change that she rides
to the vengeance of her family.
The Fates may have given you alone Kharl Balzog’s death but I would
never leave you to face that son of a pixie-whore on you own. For your
family’s blood spilled, we'll let the forest take its fill.

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 CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

Rooke
The song of trees within the Blood Valley is an enthralling call to arms that
thrums deep in my heart, basking in the joy of the most noble task ahead. It
welcomed me so fervently into its embrace and I can’t help but wonder if
the Briarfrost princes can hear it, because surely if they heard the noble and
reasonable nature of their demands the goblin princes would change their
minds.
The air grows heavy around us as the trees writhe with joy, exulting in
the return of bloodwitches and it's clear that the time for us to hear one
another out, to find common ground, is over. Soren’s gaze snaps to mine as
he gestures for me to return to his side now he’s made his sacrifices.
The trees of the Blood Valley like the Celestial heir but it’s no wonder.
For your family’s blood spilled, we'll let the forest take its fill.
As his words stay fixed firmly in my mind, I wonder again where high
fae power comes from. What is its source, its origins, where did the high fae
come from, who created such cold beauty as though desperate to destroy me
completely? How can he cast with such ease when it took me decades to
learn the same tasks?
The ribbon bound around my wrist presses firmly against my skin, a
symbol of the Fates-blessed union we entered, I can’t help but wonder how
Soren can know these oaths and make these declarations without second
thought?
Watching my path, my Fates-blessed husband waits until I have
Northern Star standing alongside Nightspark before he gives his command.
“The fae folk will be escorted back to the safety of the goblin lands.”
Gideon gives him a sharp nod in return. “Rhosh will lead us back to
where they've taken shelter. It would be the Briarfrost’s honor to host you
all at Aysgarth.”
“There are a few different options I can use around Banshee’s Call to
see us safely out of harm's way. Once we have the fae folk in our
protections, we can make the decision of which ley line to access,” Cerson
says, her tone still icy cold.
Reed is still shooting us both glances when he thinks we won't notice
but at the abrupt change in Cerson’s voice, his head jerks up. He regards her
for a moment, though there's nothing to see, before his gaze drops back
down to the sword at my hip. His interest in the blade is both plain to see
and the exact reason I’d left the blade behind when I returned here.
But as my hand drops to rest on the grip unbidden, I have to admit it
does comfort me to hold it again. It’s the exact reason Cerson brought it to
me, she knows well that any sharp sword could kill the raving armies and
the Betrayer who leads them, but no other sword reminds me quite so much
of my blood.
Rhosh takes the lead with Gideon riding close by her side, and we ride
beneath the shield, forced to follow its path. The bright, endless white of the
snow is still all we can see of outside, the ground slick here where the air
warms and the ice is melting.
The power hangs low overhead until we reach the base of the mountain,
and the path begins to widen as it carves its way through the valley. Though
heavy, the magic doesn’t feel oppressive to me. Without the steep decline to
manage and careful not to disturb the magic, I trace the magic back to its
original source. My own affinity with shields makes the task a simple one
for me. When you’ve spent two hundred years learning how to design,
manipulate, and shatter them with such precision it’s second nature to me
now.
The shield leads through to the other end of the valley, where a
Brindlewyrd witch waits respectfully at the boundary of the forest.
 Clicking my tongue, I push Northern Star forward to ride at Rhosh's
side. “Were the fae folk and their protection left within the shield? Or did
you find yourself under its coverage after you found them a secure
position?”
Rhosh startles at the sound of my voice, recovering well and smoothing
a hand down her own fiery horse’s neck to soothe the reaction to her own
frazzled state. “None of the fae folk could be convinced to travel further
into the Blood Valley. There are abandoned hearts just inside the borders of
the forest, they're being guarded there.”
She can barely look in my direction, her fear confusing to me, but I give
her a curt nod and drop back to Soren with pursed lips, trying to keep the
sharp retort from spilling out and risking the lives of those innocent
villagers by inciting conflict. From all that I’ve heard of this female, I
assumed we would be fast friends just as I was with the rest of the
Briarfrost but I've long since learned not to entertain fruitless endeavors.
Unless, of course, it's by Fates command.
How has that caught your ire, croí? The expression you wear makes me
feel vicious and without mercy.
I glance over at him with a slow smile, the type I know he covets.
Ignorance that is wielded like a weapon always catches my ire, Donn. The
Blood Valley offers those fae protection and yet they cower as far from the
heart as they can manage. It's disrespectful to the trees, abhorrent after all
they’ve done for us—for all of us.
A lump forms in my throat, forcing me to swallow around it rather than
choke on the mass. Connected the way we are, Soren feels it all with me
and his own mouth sets into a firm line. Someday all the kingdom will
respect the forests and the trees, croí. I will not rest until that is the legacy
of our reign. I swear to you, our bloodline will never forget the trees.
The lump only grows larger, definitely not the time nor place to think of
such things, but maybe while hunting one of the witches responsible for the
murder of my family is truly the only good time to think about it.
No one will know the truth of my tears.
Though I desperately crave to see the forest as we journey through,
when the heartache brewing within me threatens to consume me I force my
eyes to slip shut, the song strong in my heart as I take in the strength of the
Valley.
 “You know, Kharl Balzog isn’t the first male blinded by power to
venture into the Southern Lands and attempt to claim the throne as his
own.”
I tilt my head in Cerson’s direction, acknowledging her, but I know the
story well and this lesson isn't for me.
She continues without any input, apathetic to their opinions right now.
“The first brought along his armies, hundreds of thousands of fae marched
from beyond Elfenden, with creatures we’d never seen before. The First Fae
hadn't finished building the first of their castles yet, they barely had a
kingdom to say they ruled over it, but they fought these fae off to keep the
land as their own…. But then another fae came with his armies, and then
another, and soon the First Fae were overrun by those who wished to take
what they had claimed, and swore to take care of… do you know what
happened then?”
I open my eyes to find they all watch Cerson with keen eyes, even
Tauron, and she smirks at him, not the sage teachings of the Ravenswyrd
Mother but instead the apt lessons of the Elmswyrd Mother with far more
sharp claws beneath her sultry looks than anyone ever realizes.
“The First Fae approached the Ravenswyrd Witches in their forest when
they first arrived to the Southern Lands, they made agreements with them to
honor the earth and the trees. The high fae had always upheld their duties,
but now the safety of the kingdom was in question so they went to the
Favored Children for their council.”
A smile dances at the corners of my lips, chasing away the desolation
that ate away at me. Up ahead on the side of the mountain, a sheer cliff of
rock where nothing should survive, we find fae flowers growing. Though
most are the white and blue blooms that once grew all over the kingdom,
there are blood-red fae flowers mixed in amongst them. At the center of
each lies a black seed pod, with a hundred different medicinal uses, but
these belong to the forest and no matter the look of wonder in our eyes as
we passed them by, they are not ours to touch.
“The Favored Children met with the latest warmongering fae attempting
to claim this kingdom for themselves, ready to negotiate so they all could
live peacefully on the land that was ready to provide… and that fae chose to
murder a Favored Child instead of seeking peace. It wasn’t the First Fae
who avenged her; it was the Bloodwyrd.”
 Cerson looks over at me again, the ice finally thawing from her eyes as
well, the reminder of our histories and the strength we have always held
firmly wiping away her anger for now. When she reaches out her hand I
take it easily, squeezing her fingers gently before I move to grip the reins
once more.

WITHOUT HIGH FAE HEARING, the best protection I have is my

connection to the forest. With Northern Star obediently following
Nightspark’s direction, I keep my eyes firmly shut as I enjoy the forest’s
song. I’m not taken by surprise when the wave of magic washes over me,
only by the vehemence of Roan and Tauron’s vicious cursing in the old
language that startles me out of my forest-induced serenity.
Whether any of the high fae sensed the magic masking the encampment
from us, I don't know; the only thing perfectly clear to me is that our
messengers have greatly misjudged how many guards the regent has within
his armies, and the number he’s sent out to face King Galen.
Across the valley floor, at the northern edge of the forest’s boundary,
lies a small cluster of abandoned huts. Rhosh and her most trusted soldiers
saw the fleeing fae folk to these structures, leaving behind a small number
of her battalion for protection. She then created not one, but five separate
diversions with the remainder of her soldiers. Splitting up was never her
first choice, and she’s lost good soldiers along the way, but the forest is
certain; the fae folk are alive and unharmed, but they’re no longer alone.
In the entrance of the valley stands thousands of the regent’s guards, our
soldiers outnumbered at least six-to-one.
“We should retreat while we can, wait for the cover of night to come
back for the fae folk,” Tauron murmurs to Soren after a moment of stunned
horror from them all, and though I can tell they’re all deeply conflicted
about leaving the fae folk like this, they all consider his suggestion.
All except Soren, who tilts his head to meet my gaze but when I nod
firmly back, he simply clicks his tongue to get Nightspark and Northern
Star moving forward together once more, reaching out to stroke my mare’s
neck and murmuring praises to her.
 Roan and Tauron both mutter curses under their breath at him, the only
reaction either of them seems to be capable of at the moment, but they both
have much to say of his nonchalant attitude and secretive behavior. It’s not
entirely his fault; he has no knowledge of what action I’ve taken and the
safeguards in place but he knows that I’m absolutely certain it will work.
Whether he truly does trusts me without question now, or the trees whisper
their own assurances of my safety to him, I’m not sure but when his hand
drops to rest against my thigh, my cheeks flush at the possessive action.
Steady in our approach, I see signs of carelessness and wanton damage
everywhere, clearly this isn’t their first time traveling through. We pass
evidence of campsites, poorly built and abandoned, rudimentary yards
fenced off for horses. The area has somehow become a military outpost for
the regent, without Soren or his allies learning of it. Sound strategy, it's
obvious why he chose it in the first place. At the mere suggestion of
housing fae folk within the Blood Valley, I was met with scorn and
suspicion for not holding the same fears and superstitions of the forest as
the high fae. There’s no safer place to assemble and hide the might of the
Unseelie Court’s armies.
I’m achingly adept at recognizing the look of a soldier ready to die;
Tauron wears it without pride or fear as he stares straight ahead at the small
crowd beginning to form a makeshift ‘welcome’ for our arrival. Reed is also
prepared to fight but with less willing acceptance of his own demise. With a
newly kindled fear in his eye I’ve never seen before, Roan stares around at
the battalions though it quickly becomes clear he's picking out the
bloodwitches, wincing every time he spots another.
Spread out amongst the high fae, the solitary assignments of the
bloodwitches confirm they’re nothing but tools in this war, pawns of the
regent’s waiting to be put to use. The Bloodwyrd Mother would be
disgusted by them.
Gideon directs his horse to ride closely alongside his wife’s, his posture
rigid in the saddle. He's careful never to step in front of her, his respect for
her unfaltering even given the circumstances, and the twitch of a nerve his
jaw is the only sign of his distress. Rhosh’s face is set like stone. Gage is far
less stoic as he stares around the battalions, his mouth tightening as we pass
them all by and he takes count. I’d rather not know the answer.
We stop before the crowd as a group, Soren and I shifting to the front,
with the Briarfrost battalions flanking us. In the eerie stillness that’s taken
hold of the Valley now the snowstorm has broken, the air is still icy despite
the magic holding us within. The trees around us are awake, the long sleep
they require over winter abandoned after too many centuries without
sacrifice. A complete serenity settles over my shoulders, like the warmth of
a cloak clutched tightly against the cold.
“You remembered, little Mother Ravenswyrd! How kind of you to find
me an Elmswyrd bitch to play with, I supposed she’s your peace offering to
beg for your life?”
My blood chills at the reminder, my calm demeanor gone, but when my
temper lights with depthless ferocity, I realize instantly the feelings are
Soren’s, his ferocious reaction to my family being disrespected spilling
through our mind connection.
I’ve never been so certain that this male is worth every minute that I
spent hiding in the dungeons of Yregar. If only I didn't have quite so many
fae to convince the truth of those words.
Cerson looks over to me, cold fury still on her face. The longer we look
at each other, the more she takes in until she knows every inch of my
reluctance, the reservations I've held from the moment I accepted my fate to
return here, and the sheer relief I feel that this chapter of my journey is
complete. There’s guilt entwined with that, but for now, Baylor Fray must
be held accountable for what he’s done.
“I’d prefer if you didn't warm her up for me, Ravenswyrd. I prefer to
break my mounts myself. Although… the Bloodwyrd has returned to the
Southern Lands, their blood has called them home. Maybe the Elmswyrd is
better off spent there, ensuring their welcome is warm— and wet.”
Staring down at the Betrayer, every inch of unerring Mother that I am,
his penance has already been decided and his death meticulously planned
out by my brother. With every word against his wife, that justice grows
stronger and my temper cannot ruin this. To falter now would be to fail
Pemba, and I’d rather dive into the jaws of a Ureen… again.
Unaware of the thrumming beat of my heart in my ears, his death
playing out over and over again, Baylor stands before us with an arrogant
smirk stretched across his lips and eyes that linger on Cerson for far too
long. For now, Ayron is nowhere to be seen, and I hope it stays that way, but
the deplorable Lord Vyrain is once again flanked by a handful of guards he
commands, glaring at Soren from beside Baylor. The bloodwitch looks far
too impressed with himself, as though this allegiance and this gathering is
some great victory he’s won.
I suppose for a male who once called himself a Bloodwyrd witch yet
only bears one witch mark, this probably is his first opportunity to earn a
sigil. The one carved down his cheek declares him banished from the
Bloodwyrd Coven, never to claim the coven as his kin again.
He sees me staring at the glowing red lines and the smirk on his face
turns into a garish grin. “How well do you know the customs of blood,
Ravenswyrd? Once you're dead at my hand, I'll bear the sigil of your dead
coven so all will know I ended the Favored Children! Lord Vyrain has been
explaining the twisted family trees of the Unseelie royal high fae as well. If
I kill the Savage Cunt along with you I'll claim two sigils in one fell
swoop.”
The flash of those sigils in my mind paired with the taunting pride in his
voice has my gut clenching, and if I have to listen to the male any further
I’m going to vomit. Swinging out of my saddle and stepping towards
Baylor and Vyrain, I ignore the eyes that widen in panic around me as Soren
follows my actions, staying a few paces behind me. Our most trusted
household try not to react as they flank the true Celestial heir, but I’m
certain that while there are many dangers I’ll no doubt face on our journey
home, I’m not being reckless.
This is an act of love, grief, and solace.
This will see my family rest, after almost two hundred years of waiting.
I’m used to performing under the intense disapproval of the males
around me, centuries of experience under my belt already, and by the ashes
great mercies, I’m about to get a whole lot more of it but it’s too late now.
With a deep breath, I call on my magic and it answers instantly. A shot
of power through my veins so powerful the forest rumbles in approval, the
ground shifting beneath our feet as the roots of the trees shift and writhe
with joy. Pushing the pulse into the palm of my hand, I watch the skin split
open under the pressure and send a steady stream of blood tumbling to the
earth below. My heartbeat stutters for a moment before it recovers,
thrumming steady as it picks up its tempo, waiting until the pace is perfect
before I begin the blood call, weaving my magic first like a web around me.
The call to arms was taught to me before I could walk, the actions
taught in games and jest, the oath whispered like a prayer to the Fates
before bed, quizzed at every opportunity, praises showered upon me for
speaking the oaths as old as the forest I stand within now without
stumbling.
Like moths to the flame, the bloodwitches all walk away from their
battalions to stand before me. Impossible for a Bloodwyrd witch to ignore,
even those exiled feel the pull of the command and gather nearby. Exactly
where I want them; none should escape this.
Recovering finally from his stupor, Baylor throws his head back and
roars with laughter, the sound incredulous and hysterical. “Oh,
Ravenswyrd, I’m going to enjoy watching Oskar peel the flesh from your
bones. He wields the mist and the carnage, did you know? Imagine the
torture he’ll enact on some arrogant, demanding cunt who thinks she can
tell a bloodwitch to come to heel!”
His hands clench into fists at his sides as the sigil on his face glows a
little brighter. He takes one menacing step forward only to falter, stumbling
back as the trees song becomes an enraged roar. My heart grows louder in
my ears to match it, my gaze cold as I stare Baylor down, and the ancient
prayer slips past my lips. A whisper at first but growing and growing until,
finally at the top of my voice, I recite the blood call.
The forest answers immediately, The blood will return. The Favored
Child’s call won’t go unanswered.
The bloodwitches edge even closer as the pull of the blood call winds
around them, but Baylor stares at me, his jaw slack until indignant rage
lights within his eyes. “You think you deserve my loyalty, my servitude?
The arrogance of the Favored fucking Children; what have the Ravenswyrd
ever done for me?”
Screamed, begged for mercy, bled out—and then died. All at his hand to
prove himself to the Betrayer, and now he’s fled to the high fae, begging at
their feet for scraps. The words stay trapped within my throat, paralyzed
now with the magic still cycling through my body and lighting me up until
I’m a beacon, not of light but of power.
Of blood.
There’s a piercing whistling sound, like wind forced through a pipe,
then a rushing—gushing—sucking noise, and then⁠—
A female appears, her robes rustling but her body unerringly still. She
stands to my far left, the beauty of her face drawn tight now in anger as her
gaze flicks over the bloodwitches crowding around me. A tumble of black
hair in loose waves falls over her shoulder, dark lashes frame her silver
eyes, and her full lips are stained red, a blush over her cheeks to match. Her
robes are a soft blue hue, far kinder than the frosty Celestial shade I’ve
grown accustomed to, and when Baylor scowls at her, Ahana stares back at
him with the long, cold stare of her blood.
“A Mistwyrd? Why the fuck is some Mistwyrd bitch⁠—“
Ahana takes a single step forward, her robes shifting with the motion
and the disgraced bloodwitches all scatter like the gutter rats of Yris that
they truly are.
The black fighting robes are far more distinctive than my own, no
questioning the declaration they make. With boning stitched into certain
areas for structure and a leather binder around her stomach to assist in
wielding; the blue stitching of the sigil over her heart the only marker left to
say she’s a Mistwyrd witch.
“I am Ahana Reborn. I answer the Favored Child’s call.”

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OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

Soren
There's an eagerness in the air around us from the regent’s guards as they all
stare between Rooke and I, as though we're a spectacle they've been waiting
for, the taste of it vile on the back of my tongue. There are far too many
smug smirks lingering on their faces, whispers running through the crowd,
and ignorance to the magic unfolding before us.
"Fates fucking mercies," Tauron mutters, his voice hoarse as he stares at
the Reborn witch but my eyes stay fixed on the ashes-cursed male who
murdered the Favored Children.
The whites of his eyes glow bright as he gapes at Ahana, all the
bloodwitches do. They look at her like she’s the Fates in flesh form, and as
the words declaring her allegiance to my croí echo through the valley
around us, time seems to slow.
The song of the forest that fills my heart shifts, grows, and I feel its
demands with a new sense of clarity. As still as the dead, every muscle in
my body is drawn tight as something awakens within the trees. Something
old, and forgotten, something that will no longer accept being ignored.
A pulsing beat, like that of a drum, washes over me. More than a sound,
it melts into every inch of my being until my heart beats in the same rhythm
and my magic surges in waves to match. It calls for blood, an inescapable
demand building rapidly and my own magic responds by rallying against
my restraint with such vehemence that a pulse bursts out of my chest.
When Cerson's protective gaze snaps away from Rooke to land on me,
her eyes widen as she hesitates. The action grounds me, a reminder of the
danger my slip could pose, and I let some of my magic fall away from me
as a sacrifice to the earth. No matter how desperately we may need that
power to escape this, I can't attempt to wield it if I lose my senses to the
forest now exulting its witches return.
Glancing over, I find Gideon and Gage each flanking Rhosh as though
they expect Ahana to slit her throat and bathe in her blood for fun. No one
dares reach for a weapon, not even to rest their hand against a sword grip,
yet they’re poised and waiting for her to strike at the sound of her name
alone.
Roan murmurs in the old tongue, his tone harrowed. “The legion
arrives, Soren. We need to get Rooke out of here before it’s too late.”
My brow furrowing, I glance at him then back at Reed only to find the
same tension within the Outland soldier as their heads both tilt and I realize
they can hear the legion marching—but I can’t. I can’t hear anything over
the demanding beat of my own heart, the cadence aligned with the song of
the Blood Valley as its blood returns.
The rushing sound of magic breaks through the forest’s lust for blood,
and another witch appears at before us. The female already wears the black
robes, the stitching gold, and the blood-red glow of her witch marks are
searingly bright. Her head snaps to look over at Rooke the moment her feet
hit the ground, her eyes mournful and her voice strong but full of ghosts.
“I am Ashtor Ollwyn, born of Reborn blood. I answer the Favored
Child’s call.”
Gasps ring out around us, more of the regent’s guards looking confused
at this magic and the response the Reborn are receiving as they arrive, but
then another witch appears, and another, and another.
“I am Faryll Reborn. I answer the Favored Child’s call.”
“I am Talamyr Kato, of Reborn blood. I answer the Favored Child’s
call.”
“I am Moryn Reborn. I answer the Favored Child’s call.”
One by one, the Reborn answer Rooke’s call, all while the marching
legion arrives at the regent’s command. Our fates balance on a knife’s edges
while the trees sing out in delight to welcome its blood home.
 Dressed in fighting robes and leather boots, the red witch markings that
fan across their skin and glow with their magic stand stark against the
consuming black of their uniform. The entrance of the valley before us
quickly fills, the soldiers breaking off into neat battalions. No matter my
unwavering faith in Rooke, fingers of icy dread clutch at my gut as the
battalions grow in number; six, seven, eight, more.
The wall of power forming before us is unquestionable, not at all what I
was expecting. They don’t move like the raving witches we’ve fought off
nor with Rooke’s fluidity, a skill she’s honed to perfection. They march in
the perfect lines of elite soldiers, only each of them moves with the
assurance of a commander, as if held to their own command and by chance
their purposes are the same.
There isn’t a single weapon to be found on any of them, a sobering sight
that stands out against the shining black armor of the Briarfrost and the
silver of my uncle’s guards. They’re not stony-faced like the goblins are
either, cold but assured as they form into orderly battalions by the
thousands. There’s only one word that can describe them all succinctly;
ravenous.
Another gasp draws my attention back to the arriving Reborn, this one
from Gideon as he dives in front of Rhosh, bumping into Gage as he does
the same to protect his brother’s beloved wife as though she were his own.
No bloodwitch has moved to attack them, no reason for their panic that I
can see, not until the witch standing only arm’s reach away from them turns
back and the force of her magic hits me.
No doubt a Reborn, the waves of power that roll from her are an endless
assault, though not an act of wielding. Far too much power to be contained,
the overflow spills forth with every heartbeat.
“I am Davyna Reborn, born of the line, and I answer the Favored
Child’s call.”
Ice runs down my spine as I recognize her name from Gideon’s fervent
warnings. The Reborn around her all incline their head respectfully, only
Rooke standing at the center of them all with her head high and her
shoulders rolled back.
Obviously feeling the magic but not grasping the gravity, Vyrain snarls,
“Am I going to have to stand here and listen to them all pander after that
bitch?”
 Baylor’s face grays instantly, his knees buckling underneath himself as
though his life drains with his color, and when Vyrain opens his mouth to no
doubt insult all the witches arriving, Baylor dives at the male, taking him by
surprise and to the ground.
“No fae speaks to a Reborn of the line like that and lives, you miserable
fuck; Davyna wields enough blood magic to end all our bloodlines!”
Another of the bloodwitches steps up to address the fabled Reborn,
bowing his head and speaking to the ground rather than looking directly at
her. ”We had no idea of your history with the Ravenswyrd Mother; we
would never act against the Reborn. Our agreement with the Celestial King
hinges on the Savage cunts death, not hers.”
With her back to us, I can only see the firm line of Davyna's shoulders
and not her expression but after another heartbeat of silence, she turns on
her heel and strides away from the male, leaving him frozen in terror.
Her path cuts directly to Rooke, her gaze moving over the Briarfrost
battalions as she walks, then each member of my household, before finally
it lands on me.
Though her assessment lasts only a second, my skin feels as though it’s
been scoured to the bone but her demeanor gives nothing away.
When she stops at Rooke’s side she turns to face my Fates-blessed wife,
her face unchanging as she reaches out a hand towards her and I turn to
stone. Every instinct within me is screaming, demanding I dive between
them, because no matter the experience or training of the soldiers around
us, there’s no question Davyna is not only the greatest threat, but a true-
born predator just waiting for her next fill of blood.
Her fingers grasp Rooke’s wrist, slipping between the slits of the fabric,
and when she lifts her arm, the fabric falls away to reveal my namesake
ribbon bound firmly around my croi’s arm.
Ashes curse me, but with the struggle to hold myself back, I can't
contain the snarl from tearing out of my chest at the eyes the land on that
sacred symbol of our binding. Roan and Tauron both freeze at my side,
preparing themselves for the retribution such a disrespectful sound will
afford me, but Davyna doesn't spare me a glance.
Her gaze moves between the disgraced bloodwitches and the high fae
soldiers they stand amongst, before finally she addresses the male who
dared approach her. “It appears you’ve all forgotten the way of old; by Fates
command, Celestial is a Reborn now, too.”
 My chest constricts as though squeezed by a vise, the air wrung out of
me until my head lightens. The confusion blanketing over all the fae
watching quickly devolves into panic at her words, but Davyna continues,
her voice as merciless and violent as the Fates themselves. “Say it again,
Betrayer, only this time without the quaking voice. If you're going to
declare war against my blood, do it with your head held high. It'll only
make the assai sweeter.”
The male blanches, his mouth gaping as he sputters, “An assai? But—
who⁠—“
The forest’s song is a screaming ecstasy, the sound of more witches
arriving cutting his panic off, only this time a dozen appear together. All
wear the same fighting robes, the stitching blood-red to match their witch
marks. They all face Rooke, their focus on her unwavering, and my skin
threatens to split open under the force of their magic, just as Rooke’s palm
had to begin the blood call.
Davyna’s hand slips away from Rooke’s arm, her voice carrying over
the stupefied horror arresting the valley with ease. “The Bloodwyrd Coven
returns to our kingdom to answer the Favored Child’s call. Our blood has
called us home.”

THE TENSION BUILDING grows fraught until finally one of the Reborn
witches snaps something in the Seelie common tongue, moving around the
others until he steps to the front and I get a good look at him. His features
are similar to Davyna’s, sharpened cheekbones and jawline. His hair is dark
and with some length to it, but the sides are shaved close to his scalp to
reveal the sigils carved there.
The blood-red glow of his witch marks cover every inch of his skin, the
designs hatch intricately across his face and down his neck to declare the
acts of war he's waged for his coven. His eyes are almost black in color, a
ring of blood-red glows around his silver irises framed by hooded lids and
dark lashes, and a scar runs through his bottom lip and down his chin.
The Reborn male’s eyes move around the crowd watching on, assessing
the number of goblin soldiers and the positions we have them stationed in.
He barely glances at Vyrain, utterly dismissing the male as he does all the
regent’s guards.
When his gaze finally meet Rooke’s, the red glow of magic flares,
power igniting within him at the mere sight of my wife that has my magic
writhing in response.
Temper alight, Vyrain calls out to me with a smirk, “Who would’ve
thought you’d claim your throne by taking a witch to bed? It appears the slit
the Fates bound you to is rather popular."
Rage; red, hot, and writhing as it consumes me.
It's only the splash of heat across my face that slams awareness back
into me and the horror before me sharpens into complete clarity. The red
haze over my vision isn't my temper taking hold once more nor is the
spiraling swirl of magic around me, my own come free of its restraints.
Vyrain and his battalion are gone.
Every high fae soldier who stood behind the bloodwitches is gone.
Baylor and the other disgraced fae now stand marooned in a crimson sea,
the blood seeping into the churned forest floor and answering the demand
of the land.
There's no bones or flesh, no marker of where each high fae perished,
nothing but the heated stink of blood. It's sprayed far enough that it covers
the horses and all the riders sitting at the front of our battalion, and Baylor
is covered entirely.
Blood rushing in my ears, my mind still struggling to grasp the scene
playing out before me, another of the Reborn shifts away from the group to
stand directly before Rooke, his eyes cold even as they glow red with his
blood magic.
When Roan shifts on his feet, Gideon doesn’t react from where he still
stands covering his wife, only whispering in a hoarse tone for high fae
hearing alone, “That’s Ignis Reborn… his brother Jamis is behind him, and
the mist-wielder is Oskar. If you want to live through this, Snowsong, then
don’t draw any attention to yourself. Those slashes along their faces mark
the royal high fae bloodlines they’ve ended.”
My gaze flicks as though commanded to the lines carved onto Ignis’
face casting a deep red glow over his features, catching to pool within a
multitude of white scars he bears. Much like Davyna, power emanates from
him in waves, too much for his body to contain without it spilling forth, and
my own magic rises to the surface in response. Physically, he looks every
bit the nightmare Gage warned the Reborn to be, but standing before them
now, it’s their magic that promises every word of the rumors rings true.
Rooke stares back at him, solemn but with the same respect she shows
all fae folk.
Oskar watches my croí obsessively, the swell of magic within him
jarring. He’s just reduced an entire battalion of high fae to a liquid offering
to the land, yet far more of that violent power is ready to strike at his
command. My gaze catches on the witch marking carved into the triangle of
skin between his thumb and index finger, glowing red with power. Careful
not to turn my head too far, I find the same one on all of them; an oak leaf
glowing blood red.
Ignis dismisses all the high fae royalty before him entirely, his eyes only
on Rooke as he bows deeply to her. He doesn’t clasp his hand over his
heart, and she doesn’t bow back to him, instead holding her hand out to
him. He takes it, pressing the back of it to his forehead.
Then he kisses it.
As he straightens back up, it doesn’t escape my notice that his thumb
rubs over that same spot but before my magic lashes out, he speaks in the
old language.
“Are you certain, Mother Ravenswyrd?”
She swallows, a pained action not one of fear, and she nods, holding out
the hand he isn’t clutching. With a pop of light, a cluster of arrows appears;
thin ash with raven’s feathers for thatching. The tips are missing, the shafts
splintered and stained with blood, some marked where they went through
their victim to bury into the ground as they fell.
Every Reborn turns as one to stare at those arrows, their magic surging
out of them to wash over us all. Ignis reaches to take the splintered pieces
of wood from Rooke’s palm gently, the careful action at odds with the
trembling fury in his voice.
Still covered in Vyrain’s blood, Baylor chest heaves in his panic as a
rambling plea falls from his lips that he surely doesn’t believe could save
him. “A drop of Reborn blood and you’d listen to a Ravenswyrd over a true
bloodwitch? I was the one to call you home!”
The response is instant; every Reborn witch turns their backs on us, and
their stances fall seamlessly into a fighting position. The pulsing beat grows
louder, a call for blood my magic still strains to answer, and the wood of the
arrows creaks dangerously in Ignis’ tightened fist as he stares at Baylor with
violent intent.
"Every true bloodwitch knows the way of our coven, our forests and the
reason they gave us life. No matter the cost, the Reborn always answer a
Favored Child's call... but this one, Betrayer? This Favored Child could ask
for the blood in my own veins and I’d open them for her without question."
Baylor glances over Ignis’ shoulder at Rooke, his eyes peeled back so
far that even at this distance I can see the mania dancing within the white
globes. None of the Reborn like his gaze touching her, snarls tearing out of
them, and Jamis moves to cover my Fates-blessed mate from the male
entirely.
When Ignis takes a step back to Baylor every bloodwitch stares at him
as though he speaks for the Fates themselves, hanging on his every word as
they wait for his command for blood.
Lifting the arrows, he plucks one from the pile and his witch marks flare
before he snarls, “Estri.”
Casting it to the ground with the vehemence of an executioner swinging
a sword, he grips another, taking a step as his magic flares again.
“Violet.”
Swish, step.
“Thatch.”
Swish, step.
“Clove.”
Swish, step.
“Tawnie.”
Gut clenching, my gaze snaps to Rooke at the same time as Reed’s does
at her sister’s name, the meaning of this ceremony growing clearer.
Swish, step.
“Willow.”
Swish, step.
His magic builds with every arrow he reads and his voice trembles with
the power threatening to burst out of him. “Ellia; not of blood but by the
Fate’s command.”
A pulse of pain breaks through the heavy cover of magic. Eyes unerring
on Baylor, Oskar takes two steps to the side to gently push Davyna out of
his way, taking her place at Rooke’s side.
 He speaks to her in the old language, a soft sound as though coaxing a
startled mare. “It’s almost over, Æfanya, you’re almost finished.”
She shakes her head, her voice as desolate as the state our kingdom has
fallen into and soaked with tears. “I though I could this but—I can’t.”
“You will. For two hundred years Pem dreamed of this, cousin; I won’t
let you falter now. We’ll do it together— for him.”
She lets out a shuddering breath, she finally turns back to me with tears
brimming in her eyes. The Reborn surround her at every angle, a protection
of blood even I can’t question, and I stare back at her, unflinching and true.
Reborn or Ravenswyrd, none of it changes a thing for me; she’s mine above
all else.
With a deep breath, she turns back to her blood and her robes shift,
melting into the black robes of her blood with the forest green stitching to
honor her mother’s coven. Oskar stares at her with adoration and a vicious
sort of pride, and the love of blood that he has no qualms in displaying
openly.
Wielding the magic of the Reborn and dripping with power, I don’t
suppose he’s concerned with the opinions of others and any weakness his
family ties could be to him.
A cracking sound catches my attention, the wood of the last arrow
splintering under the pressure of Ignis’ grip, and as I turn towards Ignis my
skin burns with the intensity of his magic as it blasts out of him. He holds
the arrow up to Baylor’s stricken face, etched with horror as the truth of his
actions and my Fates-blessed mate’s family are laid bare for all his blood to
bear witness.
His voice trembles with magic, with grief, with the rage that spurns his
vengeance on. “Daire Reborn, who followed his fate to the forest of the old
gods. You’ve spilled the blood of the coven, a witch born from the line of
the womb. This assai will see my brother and his beloved to rest in
Elysium.”

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OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER FORTY

Rooke
Oskar’s hand wraps tightly around mine as though he can feel the blinding
pain in my chest that threatens to rob me of my senses, but true to his word
he offers me his strength now to see me through the rites. My father
deserves an assai that is whispered about for generations to come, and all of
his blood have come to ensure it.
The pain is a familiar one; it’s always torn my heart in half to hear any
fae speak my father’s name. Every story of blood-soaked battlefields and
violent death ever told about my father are undoubtedly true, the fear his
name strikes justified, but no one speaks of the reasons behind his actions.
The kingdom has forgotten the conflicts between the covens, the high fae
who disrespected the forests, and, worst of all, the Bloodwitches who
turned from the ways of old to betray their blood.
Only the Reborn know Daire as the honorable son who hunted the
traitorous blood who murdered his parents until he could bring them peace
with an assai. The brother who gave up his childhood to raise three younger
brothers and a little sister, just a toddler when their parents were murdered,
protecting them above all else. The cousin who answered the call to arms
without question when any he called kin were threatened. The blood the
Bloodwyrd Mother loved dearly; a pillar of strength within her coven and
unwaveringly loyal to her, who was honored by the Fates to have a Favored
Child as his blessed mate.
The Reborn witch who couldn't bear his children to feel pain, who
would argue with my mother any time we required her healing to ensure he
could take that burden from us. Happiest surrounded by his children, he
died in the forest trying to reach my mother and my infant brother, Estri. A
dozen arrows tipped in witcheswane buried in his back, his blood magic
gone by the forest's command, and still he crawled to them both until his
last breath.
Baylor lies contorted before Ignis as my uncle wields the power of
sacrifice in honor of the brother he lost. The forest gave my father's
bloodline the gift of blood magic to ensure the safety of our forests and to
answer the call of the old gods and there's no escaping the vengeance of the
Reborn. Thousands of lesions carve Baylor’s body as Ignis draws out the
pain of his death, nothing will ever heal the loss we’ve endured. When his
screams finally abate and his blood flows freely into the earth, Ignis turns
back to me with eyes brimming with our shared grief.
I take a long breath to steady myself.
The magic that settles over the valley to hold the soldiers entranced isn't
woven by a witch, that much is obvious to all the Reborn staring at the
frozen battalions curiously. At first, I assume it's wild magic; no matter how
depleted the kingdom is, it welcomes the Bloodwyrd Coven home with
such exuberance that it seems the most likely choice.
It's only when I hear the tremble of power in Soren's voice that I know
it's him, his warning vicious even though he addresses our closest friends
and allies.
"If any fae speak or interrupt the assai, the Reborn won't get the chance
to kill you for the act; I’ll offer your blood to the land in sacrifice for daring
to disrespect the bloodline of my Fates-blessed mate."
I swallow roughly, then again when Soren presses against our mind
connection, offering me his strength os though he can see how close I was
to breaking.
I've sung the reverent prayers of the assai far too many times in the two
centuries of war I've endured, every note of it engraved in my heart so
deeply I should’ve never worried about faltering but I still clutch at Oskar’s
hand desperately. I led the song for his mother's assai, stepping in to honor
my Aunt Isya when he couldn't, and the pain of his grief still eats at his soul
so keenly that he understands my hesitance well. They all do.
When I begin the prayer, calling for those who bear witness to the
sacrifice in my father’s name, the Reborn answer me.
I feel the surge of power from the Mother and the Maiden, though I
can’t see either of them now, surrounded as I am. At just eleven years old,
Iryna is surrounded by her own protective circle of Reborn where the
Betrayer’s gazes could never hope to land on her.
She already knows the prayers of the assai with a heart-wrenching
precision, and as I stand with her brother’s unwavering protection beside
me, her magic weaves into mine to honor my family's lives, taken from us
long before she was born.
I almost falter at the sharp pain that lances my chest, and my cousin
Rask hears the slip, taking up my other side to sling an arm over my
shoulder as he joins Oskar in offering me their strength.
The magic at our feet builds into an earth-shattering crescendo, the
wells of power buried deep within the earth opening in preparation for the
sacrifice. Movement catches my attention and I turn to find my aunt being
escorted down the orderly lines of the battalions by a lone high fae prince in
a sea of witches.
The moment the Bloodwyrd Mother crosses the boundary into the
valley, the ground trembles in awe as the fabled Bloodwyrd Mother returns
to stand within her forest once more. The Unseelie high fae have no idea of
the power returning to the kingdom, nor the true malevolence she’s capable
of, but they’ll soon learn.
The princes behind me all gasp as they feel fissures within the deepest
recesses of the earth knit back together. The healing of our rites at the
winter solstice pales in comparison to the effect of the assai and I'm
thankful when the last of the prayers rolls from my tongue as the lump in
my throat doubles in size. My mother would be honored by this act of love
that's given so much life back to the land in her name.
Even as the reverent song comes to an end, the war drums are loud
within my blood. A gift of the Reborn, the relentless beat ensures our magic
casts in harmony as we cleave our enemies apart. The lump in my throat has
grown so large it's almost impossible to swallow around, humbled by the
gathering in honor of my father and his blood.
Every Reborn who still draws breath, no matter their coven, is here.
 Jamis turns back to me, the red glow of his magic brighter now than
ever before. Ignoring his son’s arm tight around my shoulders and his
nephew’s hand squeezing mine, his own hands are gentle as he clutches my
cheeks and presses a kiss to my forehead.
"You were your father’s greatest joy, and now you are mine. You
honored them, as you always have, and I'm proud of you, my heart," he
murmurs in the old language, uncaring of the audience we have though I’m
sure they're at a loss for words to see a Reborn witch doting on his treasured
niece.
His warm tone disappears the moment he looks up to my cousins,
speaking in the Unseelie common tongue once more. "You have your orders
and Auntie Irys was clear; no Betrayer leaves this battle alive. Go earn
yourselves some new sigils and see the ritual sealed with a sacrifice
befitting our blood. Show your cousin the honor she deserves for finding
the Betrayers and calling us home for our blood’s assai.”

ISOLATED HERE in our kingdom of ice and storms, they had no grasp of
the danger their ancestors put them in when they gave up their magic.
The air is a hot, red mist in an instant, as screams of terror and pain ring
out in the wake of the Reborn.
The hold Soren’s magic had over the regent’s guards slipped away the
moment the rites of the assai ended, but even without it rendering them still
the high fae have no ability to outrun the Reborn. There's no need for the
battalions of Bloodwyrd soldiers to join the battle, despite the numbers
within the Unseelie Armies. The Reborn decimate them.
Rask gives my shoulders half a squeeze before he joins the fray, a
raucous laughter spilling from his lips as his magic glows bright, leaving
Oskar and I the only Reborn left out of the bloodshed.
After a long moment of watching the sacrifices made before us Oskar
speaks, not bothering to turn towards Soren but clearly addressing my
Fates-blessed mate.
“If you’re so afraid of your wife disappearing on you, Celestial, you
might as well stand with us both. Maybe then you’ll see the power she
wields and how little you have over her decisions, should she choose to join
her blood in the spill.”
My heart clenches in my chest, but Soren answers him easily, his tone
far more civil than the one Oskar offered him. “I won’t interrupt the assai,
but if she goes in there without you at her side, I’ll follow her in. That’s the
best I can do.”
The day has taken a heavy toll on my emotional state and the hold I
have over myself, evident when my chin trembles in answer.
Oskar turns to regard Soren with a cold stare. “If I’m not at her side,
you can be sure that I’m dead. Step forward already, you’re shaming our
blood with all this hesitation.”
Soren only makes it three steps.
His head snaps to one side as though he hears something, before he's
taken to the ground, a shimmer of magic rippling out before Soren
disappears as well.
My heart clinches in panic, before my mind catches up and I feel the
magic lingering there. With a sigh, I reach out my hand and flick my
fingers, easily shattering the shield that Hanede Loche instructed before the
Briarfrost armies and our closest allies have the chance to truly react to the
true Celestial king disappearing.
Though I'm sure seeing him grappling with one of my oldest friends is
not going to be taken much better.
Sending them all a warning look, Oskar is the one to wade into the scrap
and yank the Brindlewyrd witch away.
“I don't give a fuck who you are or how long we served together, Loche,
I’ll add your blood to Uncle Daire’s assai without hesitation if you threaten
a Reborn of the line again.”
Hanede snarls at him, diving towards Soren again, only this time he’s
stopped by my magic as I place a shield between them both. It’s for
Hanede’s safety, just as surely as for Soren’s because Oskar doesn't give
empty threats.
Muttering curses under her breath, Cerson steps over to stand by
Soren’s side, crossing her arms over her chest before pegging Hanede with
a look. “We discussed this, Loche, there's nothing you can do about
Æfanya’s fate.”
Hanede snarls again, my stomach dropping as the depth of his rage
becomes clear to me and a sense of foreboding washes over me.
 Oskar shakes his head. “Don't speak to Cerson like that either, Loche.
‘By Fates command’ means until the ashes, just because Pem isn't here
doesn't mean his wife is unprotected by his blood.”
Soren’s gaze snaps to mine and I look away but it only gets worse. Of
all the secrets I’ve kept, there’s the only one I didn't want them to find out.
Hanede turns on his heel, his lip curled, and he speaks with an earth-
shattering clarity, his eyes glowing with magic. “Will you offer that same
enduring protection to Celestial? When their fates are complete and her
blood is the sacrifice the kingdom feeds on, is he still a Reborn after Rooke
is dead?”
He turns back to me, not waiting for Oskar to answer him, and none of
the anger on his face lifts. "Why would you return, Æfanya? Why would
you come back here and accept such a fate before we could find a way out
of it for you? The forest told it to me the moment I arrived, it mourns you
already!”
I can't return his gaze, nor Oskar’s, and Soren’s would be the most
painful of all. Instead, I look up to Cerson who understands my decision
better than anyone else ever could.
“I should’ve died in the last stand. Pemba saved my life at the cost of
his own, after following me out to face the Ureen. I spent five years after
Pemba’s death trying to find a reason not to follow him on the ashes… and
it was only after accepting my fate that I found it. Such is the cruelty of the
Fates, but my feet will not falter. I’ll kill Kharl Balzog… and taking his life
will end mine.”

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 ALSO BY J BREE

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Novellas

The Scepter
The Sword

The Trilogy

The Crown of Oaths and Curses

The Throne of Blood and Honor

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 The Bonds That Tie
Broken Bonds
Savage Bonds
Blood Bonds
Forced Bonds
Tragic Bonds
Unbroken Bonds

The Mounts Bay Saga

The Mounts Bay Saga
The Butcher of the Bay: Part I
The Butcher of the Bay: Part II

Hannaford Prep
Just Drop Out: Hannaford Prep Year One
Make Your Move: Hannaford Prep Year Two
Play the Game: Hannaford Prep Year Three
To the End: Hannaford Prep Year Four
Make My Move: Alternate POV of Year Two
The Hannaford Prep Complete Series

The Queen Crow Trilogy

All Hail
The Ruthless
Queen Crow

The Unseen MC
Angel Unseen: An Unseen MC Novel

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 ABOUT THE AUTHOR

J Bree, International Best Selling Author of The Bonds That Tie Series writes across a range of
genres from Dark Contemporary Romance, Paranormal Romance and Epic Fantasy.

J Bree creates worlds that keep readers on the edge through her plot driven characters and
suspenseful twists and turns.

She lives on the coast of Western Australia in a city where it rains too much, dreaming about all of
her book boyfriends and raising three beautiful children with her partner.

Visit her website at http://www.jbreeauthor.com to sign up for the newsletter.

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