#rpov

All he’d had to do was leave a false trail from the docks through the city and into the busy market square, then turn back to the harbor and wait. Wait for Whitethorn to appear, and guide him straight to the princess.

By that very night, he’d done just that.

Lorcan had to be careful to keep out of sight, to keep the wind at his back and his scent out of Rowan’s path, but before long, his quarry was in sight. That fire-breathing-bitch-queen, arrogant as ever. She was with two others; one, the male who was currently guarding the roof, the other, a human female, with a scent like figs and mint. Soon, the female peeled off from the group, her path headed towards that monstrosity of a castle.

While Lorcan didn’t follow her, he made sure to memorize that unusual scent to keep tabs on her later. Then he followed them back to this warehouse hidden deep in the slums, and the apartment hidden within.

It had all been so easy, so simple. He’d been the one who trained Whitethorn, after all. Lorcan knew how the male worked. He just hadn’t expected him to be this vulnerable without his magic. The idiot hadn’t even bothered to fortify the warehouse when they arrived.

Probably too distracted by the princess’ lips. Or her legs.

It hadn’t slipped Lorcan’s notice that when the lights had gone out, they were both in the same room. A room that contained only one bed.

Disgust rippled through him, disgust and fury. All Lorcan wanted was to slide off his perch, rush into the warehouse, and root the two birds out of their nest. But he had to wait, wait until he could catch them off guard, until there wasn’t a sentry to warn them of his approach.

For even now, without magic, Lorcan couldn’t be completely sure that he could overpower Whitethorn. The easiest way, the only reliable way, would be to separate them. To capture the princess and hold her hostage, ensuring that Whitethorn would stand down. While he negotiated for the keys.

In the meantime, Lorcan could scout out the city, discover its weaknesses and patterns and hidden pathways. So he could plan his attack.

So as the whispers in the bedroom quieted, and even the memory of candlelight had vanished, the warrior slid off the roof and onto the street below. Letting himself be consumed by the night and trying his best not to think of just how completely and utterly alone he was.

Without a nation, without a queen.

All he had left was his purpose, and he would follow it through to the bitter end.

···

Rowan awoke to an empty bed, Aelin’s scent swirling all around him, fresh and clean as the daylight streaming through the window beside him. He could hear her shuffling about the kitchen, filling a kettle with water and lighting the stove.

Rowan turned and stretched, his muscles pulling and tightening in all the right places. It had been wonderful to finally sleep in a real bed, with space lie down properly, instead of curled into that rutting wooden box.

His body and mind felt settled, comfortable, and it wasn’t just because he was finally well-rested. For the first time in over a month, Rowan had slept without a single nightmare.

There were no screams on his lips, no haunting images behind his lids, sweat on his limbs, bile in his throat. Nothing.

Rowan almost felt tears bud in the corners of his eyes, the relief was so intense. He wouldn’t ever let Aelin get away from him again. So long as she wanted him, so long as she needed him, he would be there.

Rowan listened as another set of feet entered the kitchen. There was a moment of silence as the two demi-Fae regarded each other, a moment where Rowan prepared to intercede if necessary. But then he heard Aedion say, softly, “There are mushrooms somewhere.”

“Good,” Aelin said, only the slightest edge to her voice, “Then you can clean and cut them. And you get to chop the onion.”

“Is that punishment for last night?”

A sound like cracking eggs, then, “If that’s what you think is an acceptable punishment, sure.”

Aedion’s voice seemed somewhat cheerier. “And is making breakfast at this ungodly hour your self-imposed punishment?”

“I’m making breakfast because I’m sick of you burning it and making the whole house smell.”

Aedion laughed quietly, then shuffled forwards, the sounds of a knife on a cutting board starting from the other side of the wall.

“You stayed on the roof the whole time you were out, didn’t you?” Rowan could hear the smile in Aelin’s voice, and he felt his lips twitch in response.

Pots clattered, and butter began to sizzle. “You kicked me out of the apartment, but not the warehouse, so I figured I might as well make myself useful and take watch.”

Rowan found himself nodding with approval. The male had crossed the line, but at least he had made himself somewhat useful. But remembering what he had said to Aelin last night…it was enough to make his hackles rise.

Rowan forced himself back to calm as Aelin said, “We both have atrocious tempers. You know I didn’t mean what I said, about the loyalty thing. Or about the half-human thing. You know none of that matters to me.”

It was definitely the best apology he was going to get. And far more than he deserved.

A short hesitation, then, “Aelin, I’m ashamed of what I said to you.”

“Well, that makes two of us, so let’s leave it at that.” There was a moment when all Rowan could hear was the scrape of a metal whisk in a glass bowl, then, “I - I understand, Aedion, I really do, about the blood oath. I knew what it meant to you. I made a mistake not telling you. I don’t normally admit to that kind of thing, but…I should have told you. And I’m sorry.”

Another tension-filled silence. Aedion was holding a knife…

Rowan kept himself very still, until finally, “That oath meant everything to me. Ren and I used to be at each other’s throats because of it when we were children. His father hated me because I was the one favored to take it.”

A pause was filled with more sizzling from the pan, now with what Rowan was pretty sure were fresh green onions. “There’s nothing that says you can’t take the oath, you know, Maeve has several blood-sworn members in her court.” Aelin said. “You can take it, and so can Ren – only if you want to, but…I won’t be upset if you don’t want to.”

“In Terrasen, there was only one.”

“Things change. New traditions for a new court. You can swear it right now if you wish.”

Against his will, Rowan felt his teeth grit together. This pause felt even longer than the others.

“Not now. Not until I see you crowned. Not until we can be in front of a crowd, in front of the world.”

Rowan couldn’t help but feel a bit relieved. He couldn’t begrudge Aedion the blood-oath, but still. He wanted Aelin to himself, for just a little bit longer.

Aelin dumped the mushrooms in the pan. “You’re even more dramatic than I am.”

Aedion snorted. “Hurry up with the eggs. I’m going to die of starvation.”

“Make the bacon, or you don’t get to eat any.”

Then the two cousins started to laugh, and this time, Rowan really couldn’t help the smile that sprang to his face. Their laugh was one of such old friendship, Rowan knew that he was no one to get between them. Knew that these petty disagreements were nothing to the depth of their relationship. The last two children of Terrasen’s throne. The two survivors.

Rowan breathed, then turned to rise from Aelin’s queenly mattress to see about some breakfast.

···

An hour later, they were all fed and watered and were now standing in a wide clearing among the stacks of crates, the late morning sunlight slanting through the windows near the high ceiling of the warehouse.

After breakfast, Rowan had finally gotten around to fortifying the apartment. Aelin had already done a pretty good job with it, heavy locks on all the windows, two types of barrier at each entrance, a carefully disguised exit down the back stairs hidden behind the kitchen, and a first floor that, for all intents and purposes, appeared to be that of a completely abandoned warehouse. There was no indication at all of what lay above.

From the inside anyways. There were six windows on the first floor, all half-width, and four more in the apartment above. Rowan was itching to scout the vantage points from the surrounding buildings, to check what could be seen from the outside.

But after spending half an hour carefully going over every lock and seal, Aelin had dragged him down to this clearing hidden in the center of the warehouse. And Rowan couldn’t deny that he was intrigued to see how Aelin had held up her training this past month, and to find out whether the northern wolf’s bark was worse than his bite.

Rowan and Aelin started with stretches, and after a few minutes she threw him a sparring stick and they started their routine warm up from those misty mornings in Wendlyn’s mountains, falling back into a pattern as warm and familiar as waking up in a bed suffused in her scent.

Sparring with Aelin was glorious. Even with the time spent holed up on the ocean, her movements were fluid and luscious and deadly. She flew between poses, the sparring stick a deadly extension of her arm.

Watching her move, their eyes locked together – it made him want to knock that sparring stick aside, shove her into a wall and peel off that tight black suit –

Rowan breathed deep, his eyes flickering shut for second. And the momentary distraction allowed Aelin to get behind his guard and rap him on the chest hard, her eyes glinting.

Rowan growled at her.

Aelin had always been a formidable swordsman – even during that time after he’d collected her from Varese, when she was drunk and dirty and so, so broken. However, she was now stuck in her human form.

So after a few minutes of easy sparring, Rowan executed a series of cuts and slashes that pushed her back into a defensive position, then when she was distracted finding her feet, Rowan knocked the stick out of her hands.

Aelin smiled wickedly at him, her eyes promising revenge as she turned to collect her sparring stick. Before she could unleash any of it on him, Rowan turned back towards her cousin, and after assessing his balance, strength and agility, began instructing him in a few complex maneuvers.

The male was tired, and clearly distracted by all that had been unveiled over the past few hours. And he was also in pain. He hid his grimaces as best he could, but every time a movement stretched his left side, his teeth would grit. And no matter how careful he was trying to be, his movements off his left side were slow and strained.

Rowan hid his exasperation best he could, even if he knew that Aelin had noticed the exact same details from across the clearing, and was not pleased with her cousin’s pigheadedness.

After half an hour with Aedion, Aelin stalked over from where she had been exercising and said, “I think that’s enough for today.”

Aedion stiffened, ready to make a rebuttal. Rowan held in his growl, his eyes flicking between the two cousins.

A moment passed in silence, then Aedion’s eyes narrowed, then turned back to Rowan. “I heard a story,” the young wolf drawled, “that you killed an enemy warlord using a table.”

Aelin spoke before he could, “Please,” she scoffed, “Who the hell told you that?”

“Quinn – your uncle’s Captain of the Guard. He was an admirer of Prince Rowan’s. He knew all the stories.”

Aelin’s eyes slid to meet Rowan’s, and he smirked at her, bracing the sparring stick on the floor. Her lips twitched, her eyes twinkling with surprise. “You can’t be serious,” she said. “What – you squashed him to death like a pressed grape?”

Rowan choked. “No, I didn’t squash him like a grape.” He shot her a smile. “I ripped the leg off the table and impaled him with it.”

“Clean through the chest and into the stone wall,” Aedion said.

“Well,” said Aelin, snorting, “I’ll give you points for resourcefulness, at least.”

Aedion rolled his neck. “Let’s get back to it.”

Aelin’s lips pursed, and she shot Rowan a look that said, Don’t you dare kill my cousin. Call it off.

However, Aedion wasn’t so slow-witted to miss the look that passed between them. The general’s jaw tightened even as his fingers tensed around the sparring stick. “I’m fine.”

“A week ago,” Aelin said, “you had one foot in the Afterworld. Your wound is still healing. We’re done for today, and you’re not coming out.”

“I know my limits, and I say I’m fine.” The demi-Fae’s words were tight, terse. Rowan found his lips spreading into a slow, sly grin. Aedion met his eyes, his brow tightening.

If he wanted to play, Rowan would play. The cub needed to be taught a lesson.

Aelin groaned, but kept her distance. Rowan found that he was grateful – if she intervened this time, it would take even longer for this to be resolved, and then who knows when it would finally be settled.

Rowan had nearly a full second’s warning before Aedion attacked, a simple feint to the right and swing low. Rowan dodged efficiently, deflecting and positioning to the offensive. Off-balance, Aedion swung his stick upwards on instinct, deflecting Rowan’s blow. Rowan let the young wolf hit the next blow, his lips tugging upwards almost against his will. This would be even easier than he had expected.

Rowan made to sweep Aedion’s legs out, but the wolf twisted out of the way just in time, stamping hard enough on Rowan’s stick to snap it in two and simultaneously making to swing his stick right into Rowan’s face.

Rowan ducked, grabbing the two halves of the stick in his fists and going low, swinging at the general’s legs. Aedion didn’t see the move coming, and had no time to react before he was flat on his back, gasping for breath and tears winking in the corners of his eyes as pain arced through the partially-healed wound in his side.

Rowan was already in place, one half of the stick pressed into the male’s throat, the other in his abdomen, a snarl echoing in his throat.

Aedion was just blinking beneath him, astounded. Rowan made sure his words were quiet enough that Aelin, with her human ears, couldn’t hear him. “Your queen gave you an order to stop – for your own good. Because she needs you healthy, and because it pains her to see you injured. Do not ignore her command next time.”

The muscles in Aedion’s jaw flickered, eyes blank.

Rowan’s eyes narrowed, fury licking at his bones. He pushed the sticks in a little bit harder. “And,” he added, “if you ever speak to her again the way you did last night, I’ll rip out your tongue and shove it down your throat. Understand?”

The general’s jaw seemed to relax slightly, the anger fading from his eyes. His words were hardly more than a breath, “Understood, Prince.”

Rowan stood and backed away, then whirled around as a bright, “Hello!” sounded from the doors to the warehouse.

A beautiful woman with piercing green eyes and flowing black hair was striding into the warehouse, her steps controlled and powerful, but not in the way of the warrior. More in the way of the wildcat.

This must be Lysandra.

Rowan relaxed slightly. Lysandra shut the rolling door behind her, boxes and bags in her arms. She moved like a cat too – soft and silent on the cobbles. No wonder Aelin was using her to spy on Arobynn for them.

She took two steps into the warehouse, then stopped in her tracks, her eyes meeting Rowan’s. Before they could do any more than look at each other, Aelin had stepped around him and was grabbing bags from Lysandra’s arms and steering her into to the apartment above.

Within half a minute they were both gone, the door behind them shutting with a soft click. Rowan turned back to Aedion, who was easing himself up from his sprawled position on the ground.

“Is that Lysandra?” Rowan asked.

“Not too bad on the eyes, is she?” The wolf’s eyes flashed.

Rowan snorted. “Why is she here?”

Aedion began prodding his side, checking to see if the stitches were still intact. “She probably has information about Arobynn.”

Rowan held in a grimace, shutting out the name of that bastard assassin to keep it from distracting him too much. “Yet she doesn’t want you to hear it?”

“I think she finds everyone but Aelin boring,” Aedion said, an edge in his voice. “Biggest disappointment of my life.”

But Rowan didn’t care about this arrogant male and his conquests. For the first time in a long time, she had found someone. Not a warrior, not a cousin. Someone she could keep for herself. He smiled, just a bit. “I’m glad she found a female friend.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Aedion’s brow furrow, wondering at the change. Rowan let the softness fall from his face, turning his gaze back to the prince. “Aelin’s court will be a new one, different from any other in the world, where the Old Ways are honored again. You’re going to learn them. And I’m going to teach you.”

This was why he was here, he reminded himself. To form the foundation of her court. To make sure it would be strong.

“I know the Old Ways.” Aedion scoffed.

“You’re going to learn them again.”

The general pulled himself off the ground, his shoulders set back as his expression steeled. “I’m the general of the Bane, and a prince of both Ashryver and Galathynius houses. I’m not some untrained foot soldier.”

Rowan gave a sharp nod, a concession. This was a prince – he could not forget. “My cadre, as Aelin likes to call them, was a lethal unit because we stuck together and abided by the same code. Maeve might be a sadist, but she ensured that we all understood and followed it. Aelin would never force us into anything, and our code will be different – better – than Maeve’s. You and I are going to form the backbone of this court. We will shape and decide our own code.”

“What? Obedience and blind loyalty?” Aedion wasn’t taking the olive branch, but Rowan wouldn’t let the sharpness in his tone get to him, not when he was so close.

He felt the weight of his words as he said, “To protect and serve.”

“Aelin?”

Rowan met Aedion’s eyes, and the wolf’s did not quaver. “Aelin. And each other. And Terrasen.”

Aedion held his gaze for another moment before looking away, but Rowan knew that the young demi-Fae understood. That Aedion knew that what they were daring was something that no one had dared for a very long time. If ever. And that their success would require more than just strength or bravery or strategy.

That this precious, fleeting thing could be stronger than iron, than rock, than the very mountains thrust up from the depths of the earth.

But only if they forged it together.

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Then there were the scents of the city. Rancid and foul place that it was, there were still some pleasant things to be found – such as the soft clouds of flour from a corner bakery just beginning to wake for the morning rush, burning sage and melting candlewax, a lavender sprig wilting in a nearby window, and –

And then he tasted it. The barest hint of jasmine, lemon verbena, and flickering embers. The scent of home.

The oath in his chest seemed to purr with delight.

Aelin was here. She was right here –  

But she wasn’t alone.

Rowan could hear the quiet steps of one– no, two others. The first was small and light-footed, probably a young mortal woman, who smelled of mint and some kind of southern spice…almost like pepper and fig leaves. The other was a male, perhaps a young demi-Fae. Though his movements were quiet, his steps were far heavier, marking him at over 6 feet.

There was also the scent of blood about the male, which had Rowan’s hackles rising. But it was old and sour – likely an old wound whose infection had only just begun to heal over. And as their movements were light and unhindered, their conversation free and open, Rowan wasn’t particularly worried that a fight was brewing. But still, his guard stayed up.

The man’s true scent spoke of warm furs and roasting chestnuts and…and something else, something almost…familiar.

His thoughts distracted, trying to place the strange smell, Rowan unthinkingly shifted his stance, causing the soft scrape of leather on stone to echo through the fog.

And the tension in his body ratcheted to new heights as he felt the group fall abruptly silent.

All was still. Rowan’s hands began to sweat.  

What if she wasn’t happy to see him? What if she ordered him back to Wendlyn?

Rowan did his best to rally his thoughts, as he slowly made his way forwards through the mist. Making sure that each of his movements were choreographed far in advance. He didn’t want to surprise them, particularly that strange male, whose scent he still could not place…

And then Rowan was breaking through the fog, and he could finally see them, could finally see her. Vaguely he heard the male and the young woman say something to each other, but Rowan couldn’t tear his eyes or ears away from the cloaked woman standing stock-still barely a dozen feet from him, her lovely scent billowing with shock.

Aelin’s face was covered with a hood, so he couldn’t see her reaction to him, couldn’t know if she recognized him. But then she was taking a hesitant step forwards and loosing a shuddering breath and a small, whimpering noise that was almost a sob. And suddenly, Rowan felt all of his worries disappear as easily as the morning snow beneath the midday sun.

It was Aelin. And of course she didn’t hate him, of course she was as relieved to see him as he was to see her.

And then she was running, running straight into his arms and Rowan could feel his every muscle, his every bone all the way through to his soul, sighing in relief. Relief that she was here, that they were together again. Relief that he was touching her once more.

Rowan grabbed Aelin and pulled her into his embrace, his arms wrapping completely around her small frame as she buried her head into his neck. He curled around her, breathing in her scent as if it were the last drops of water in a blistering desert, as if it were a life-saving elixir. As if her scent alone would take him from the brink of hell.

Rowan didn’t realize truly how much he’d missed her until that moment.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Rowan registered that she was crying.

“How did you get here? How did you find me?” Aelin pulled just far enough away that he could see the edges of her face beneath the hooded cloak; the pointed chin, the delicate nose, those beautiful, upturned lips –

Rowan slowly found his voice. “You made it clear my kind wouldn’t be welcome on your continent. So I stowed away on a ship. You’d mentioned a home in the slums, so when I arrived this evening, I wandered until I picked up your scent.”

As he spoke, his eyes scanned over her, carefully assessing.

She was changed. Even though only a month or so had passed since he last held her, Aelin seemed different. Older. She carried herself with more weight, more authority.

His mouth tightened. “You have a lot to tell me.”

She only nodded, gripping his shoulders even harder. And Rowan couldn’t say he was displeased with that.

Rowan carefully raised his right hand, and brushed it against the softness of her cheek, tucking a lock of golden hair behind her ear. “But you’re not hurt,” he said softly, needing to make absolutely sure. “You’re safe?”

Aelin just nodded again, burying her face in his chest.

Rowan felt as though the city could fall apart around them, and he would not move one inch. He would never be able to hold her for long enough.

“I thought I gave you an order to stay in Wendlyn.” It was almost a tease.

“I had my reasons, best spoken somewhere secure.” He didn’t like to evade the question, but he couldn’t speak of Lorcan in such an exposed place. So instead he changed the subject, “Your friends at the fortress say hello, by the way. I think they miss having an extra scullery maid. Especially Luca – especially in the mornings.”

Aelin laughed lightly, squeezing him once again. As if making sure he was real.

But tears still streamed down her cheeks, and Rowan found that he couldn’t keep his worry down any longer. Perhaps she was injured, and was keeping the truth from him, trying to keep him from worrying –

“Why are you crying?” he asked, trying and failing to push her back far enough so he could read her face.

She refused to move a single inch.

“I’m crying,” she sniffled, “because you smell so rutting bad my eyes are watering.”

Rowan let out a roar of laughter, the sound so wild that he heard the vermin in the alleys go silent. And the gaze of Aelin’s two companions really started bore into him.

But Rowan payed them no heed as Aelin finally pulled away from him, a wry smile curving her lips. “Bathing isn’t an option for a stowaway,” he said, finally letting her go, but flicking her nose before she could sidle out of his reach.

Aelin shoved him right back.

All Rowan wanted was to push her in return – to touch her, poke her, prod her, until she was snarling and writhing and snapping her teeth.

But the demi-Fae male at the other end of the alley was eyeing him carefully, his scent a potent mix of worry and aggression and protectiveness. And Rowan knew that he wouldn’t be patient for much longer.

“Are you just going to make them stand there all night?” Rowan asked.

“Since when are you a stickler for manners?” Aelin slung an arm around his waist, as if she was worried he would disappear on her. Neglecting, of course, to remember that it was she who disappeared on him, and not the other way around.

But instead of fighting the point, Rowan just put his arm around her shoulders as together, they turned and walked back to where her companions were waiting for them.

As they approached, Rowan fully turned over his attention to the two strangers, carefully cataloguing their every move, scent, and sound. Taking note of the muscles they favored, each blade hidden beneath their clothes.

The woman, an archer if ever he’d seen one, looked out of place. As if she were desperate to get out of their hair. The male, however, looked as though he wouldn’t move for all the world.

His every gesture thrilled towards Rowan, his instincts screaming at him challenge him, to measure himself against him. And as Rowan drew closer, he finally placed that familiar piece in his scent – or at least he thought he did.

The demi-Fae smelled of Aelin, the scent layered and complex. His first thought was that they were sharing a bed, an idea that clanged through him, uncomfortably. But the scent was too old, too deep – and once Rowan spotted that golden hair, that fair skin, he knew that he must be looking at the face of Aedion Ashryver.

Aelin’s cousin.

His face was mostly covered, but from what Rowan could see, the bones were strong and sharp. Unforgiving. But the male was young, barely into his twenties, and he was still coming into his power.

The Fae blood in his veins was strong, stronger even than Aelin’s in some ways. Rowan couldn’t tell if he could shift – but if he could, Aedion Ashryver might even be strong enough to rival any in Maeve’s court. Perhaps strong enough to rival even him.

And Rowan knew that Aedion wanted to find out. Wanted to challenge him. To prove himself, to Rowan, to their queen.

Rank would have to be established.

No matter the male’s strength, he was still but a boy. And though he was reportedly a fine warrior, Rowan was one of Maeve’s war-torn lieutenants, was Aelin’s bloodsworn. Her Second.

Aedion would have to find his place. Rowan could only hope that he would do so gracefully, without bloodshed. He doubted it would much endear him to Aelin if he killed her cousin in some ill-begotten contest.

Aelin pinched Rowan’s side, and as he hissed in response, Rowan realized that the two of them had been locked in a stare. So Rowan casually broke their gaze and pinched Aelin’s shoulder right back.

He had been playing these games for a long time, had been playing them well before Aedion’s grandfather, and his father, and his father before him, had been more than a flicker in his mother’s womb. Touching Aelin so informally, refusing to acknowledge that challenge burning in Aedion’s eyes – they were signs of dominance, attempts to put the boy in his place.

And Aedion knew that. But he didn’t say anything as Aelin turned back towards the group, saying, “Let’s get inside.”

But the other woman, the archer, was edging away from the group, her eyes flickering between him and Aedion. “I’ll see you later,” she said, not seeming to refer to anyone in particular. And she barely waited a moment for a reaction before sidling into the shadows and out of sight.

Rowan stored his curiosity away for another time as Aelin pulled him forwards through the mist, and they headed deeper into the slums. Aedion fell carefully into step behind them, and Rowan could sense that the male hadn’t given up. Far from avoided, their confrontation had been delayed, allowing the roiling tension between them to build and build and build.

Rowan tried to keep himself from looking forwards to it. To ridding the boy of his arrogance, and cementing his own place with their queen. He didn’t succeed.

Together, the three of them walked through the night, Rowan keeping careful note of every sound, every flicker of movement, every strange scent. And this far into the slums, there were many of those. He did his best to ignore the rot and filth and vomit.

He also tried to keep himself from focusing too much on that empty space between his body and Aelin’s, the way that it seemed to crackle with energy. The way that he wanted to make it disappear.

No matter how many resolutions he made, how many times he told himself that he couldn’t pursue her, that it would be a mistake to let themselves get any closer, it all seemed to go up in flames the second her eyes locked with his. The second her scent curled in his nostrils.

But he didn’t have a choice – he had to keep control of himself.

They walked together until they came upon an unremarkable wooden warehouse, and Aelin fell to a stop. For a moment, they paused while Rowan examined it – making note of every entrance and exit, every window, every dimension. Only once he was absolutely sure the building was empty did Rowan step aside, allowing Aelin to unlock the rolling metal door and enter.

Tugging him by the hand, she led him through a large storeroom, mostly empty besides a few stacks of wooden crates that smelled of ink, and towards a wooden staircase that led to the second level, where Rowan guessed they would find her apartment.

But whatever expectations he had unconsciously formed, once Aelin turned the lock on that bright green door and revealed her home to him, Rowan knew that there was no way he could have ever anticipated this.

The apartment was fit for a king. Plush, luscious couches, mahogany furniture, hardwood floors topped with soft woolen rugs, a carved marble fireplace, and just so many books. They were everywhere, on the large dining table at one side of the room, stacked on the floor by the couch, on shelves framing the fireplace, atop the mantelpiece – even piled high on one of the soft armchairs.

Aelin had carved out an oasis for herself, right in the middle of the least likely place imaginable.

While Rowan examined the apartment, Aedion had moved in from behind them and was now standing beside the fireplace, his hood still up, hands within easy reach of his weapons. Not that it would make a difference.

From what Rowan could see, there were at least two bedrooms and a kitchen in addition to this larger, shared space. But before he could make a thorough survey of the building, Aelin was tightening her grip on his arm and saying, “Aedion, meet Rowan. Rowan, meet Aedion. His Highness needs a bath or I’ll vomit if I have to sit next to him for more than a minute.” Then she was dragging him into the next room and shutting the door behind them.

For the life of him, Rowan didn’t know why it made a difference, this being alone with her. A simple closed door. But it did.

They were now in what Rowan could only suppose was her bedroom. Aelin was leaning against the closed door, and he could feel her studying him.

Rowan turned, studying her right back. Her lithe body was clothed in some tight-fitting material, though much of her silhouette was still obscured by that damned cloak. Along with most of her face.

But he didn’t miss it as Aelin bit her lip.

Against his will, Rowan’s eyes slid to her mouth, his blood running hot as the space between them went taut.

“Take off your hood,” Rowan said, his voice rougher than he intended.

Aelin crossed her arms. “You show me yours and I’ll show you mine, Prince.”

He pursed his lips, then yanked back his hood. “From tears to sass in a few minutes. I’m glad the month apart hasn’t dimmed your usual good spirits.”

“Your hair! You cut it all off!” She rushed towards him, pulling off her own hood as the distance between them closed. And it took all of Rowan’s self-control not to reach out and touch her again.

She was even more beautiful than he remembered. Rowan didn’t know if that was due to a fault of memory, or if she actually had become more stunning during the month separating them, but he didn’t much care.

Her gold-and-turquoise eyes still pierced him through, and even though she no longer had her magic, they still seemed just as molten. But for some strange reason, she had decided to dye her hair a flat, uninteresting shade of red. It was dull, and did nothing for her pretty skin.

He wanted to scowl at it.

“Since you seemed to think that we would be doing a good amount of fighting here, shorter hair is more useful. Though I can’t say that your hair might be considered the same. You might as well have dyed it blue.”

“Hush. Your hair was so pretty. I was hoping you’d let me braid it one day. I suppose I’ll have to buy a pony instead.” She cocked her head, her eyes dangerous.  “When you shift, will your hawk form be plucked, then?”

His jaw clenched, nostrils flaring. Aelin barely kept her laugh in.

Rowan tried to change the subject, turning to look over the lavish bedroom. “You weren’t lying about your taste for luxury.”

That was an understatement. The space was beautiful and warm and welcoming – and not only because it was filled to the brim with her scent.

Candles dotted every surface, casting a soft warm light. The bed was in the corner, beside the entrance to an attached bathroom. And Rowan was sure that it would be more comfortable than any bed he had ever slept in. Across the room was another marble fireplace, the door to a very large closet, and a window gracing the adjacent wall. Along with yet more books.

“Not all of us enjoy living in warrior-squalor,” she said, grabbing his hand again. Rowan gave up on conversation and instead closed his fingers around hers. Another moment passed while they just looked at each other.

Those eyes – they were full of secrets. Of stories.

Rowan opened his mouth to demand that she explain everything, to explain why her cousin was here, why she seemed so heavy with worry, why the city was teeming with Valg – but Aelin cut him off before he could speak, pulling them into the bathroom.  

She flitted about the room, lighting a few candles by the sink and on the ledge above the tub, saying, “I meant it about the bath.” She twisted the faucets and plugged the drain. “You stink.” She bent to grab a towel from the small cabinet by the toilet.

Rowan was starting to worry that she was purposely avoiding telling him what had happened this past month. His voice was flat as he said, “Tell me everything.”

Aelin was silent, grabbing a green vial of some gritty power and another of what he thought was an oil, and dumping generous amounts of each into the rising bathwater, turning it milky and opaque.

“I will, when you’re soaking in the bath and don’t smell like a vagrant.”

“If memory serves, you smelled even worse when we first met. And I didn’t shove you into the nearest trough in Varese.”

She just glared at him. “Funny.”

Rowan’s face almost split into a grin. “You made my eyes water for the entire damn journey to Mistward.”

“Just get in.”

Chuckling, Rowan obeyed her, and began the long process of undressing. Before he could wonder whether she would be staying to watch him strip, Aelin turned from the room, shrugging off her cloak and unstrapping her various weapons. But she neglected to shut the door behind her.

Rowan stripped anyways, discarding his clothes carelessly on the floor and placing his weapons atop the cabinet, next to all those mysterious bottles and vials. By the time she was done with him, she’d probably have him smelling the like a gods-damned flower shop.

Rowan just sighed, lowering himself carefully in the tub and shutting off the faucets. He had to keep himself from groaning at the delectable warmth – the hot bathwater was almost as pleasant as the relief of holding Aelin had been.

But only almost.

A few moments passed as Rowan began the sorry task of scrubbing away at the thick layer of dirt and grime covering him. All the while trying desperately to keep himself from listening too closely to the sounds of cloth on skin coming from the bedroom, as Aelin pulled off that tight black suit of hers and changed into something more comfortable.

It made Rowan wish that Aelin had drawn a colder bath.

By the time Aelin returned, the water was so clouded by soap and dirt that he doubted she could see anything beneath.

He could feel the weight of her gaze on him, her eyes flowing over all his exposed skin. But Rowan didn’t acknowledge her, instead continuing to scrub at his check and shoulders, splashing water on his face.

She only handed him a washcloth, saying, “Here.” And he wasn’t sure, but her voice almost seemed rougher than usual. Rowan just dunked the cloth in the water and began rubbing it over his face, his neck, his chest.

Aelin was still looking at him.

Another moment passed, and then she mutely handed him some lavender soap. Rowan sighed in resignation, accepting his fate. He would just have to smell like a flower shop – Lorcan would be shocked to see him now.

Then Aelin sat on the curved lip of the porcelain tub and began to speak.

She told him of her journey across the ocean, of the plans she had made and of losing her magic. Of arriving in Rifthold and immediately setting after Arobynn, and learning of what had happened here through the spring – of Dorian and Chaol and Aedion, and what they’d lost in the wake of the king’s wrath. How she’d discovered that Dorian was now possessed by a Valg. How she’d failed to kill him, but managed to save Aedion from certain death. She told him of meeting Nesryn, the woman from earlier, who was a pretty great shot. And of getting to know Lysandra and Evangeline, who were still trapped under Arobynn’s thumb.

She spoke very little of Chaol, and whether she had let him back into her life. And she said nothing at all of her plans for the future. But Rowan knew that he would have to be satisfied with what she did tell him. At least for now.

By the time her story of demons and danger and deceit was done, Rowan was nearly finished washing himself, and the bathwater was considerably less warm. Once again, Rowan found himself mourning their missing magics. Aelin would be able to keep the bath warm with less than half a thought.

Rowan absentmindedly raised the soap to his head, thinking to wash his hair with it, when Aelin squeaked. “You don’t use that in your hair!” she hissed, quickly standing up and rifling through the cabinet of bottles and vials.

Rowan scowled, seriously considering dolloping the lavender soap on his hair while she wasn’t looking. But patience won out.

“Rose, lemon verbena, or …” Aelin sniffed at the glass bottle. “Jasmine.” She squinted down at him.

Rowan just looked back up at her. Do I look like I care what you pick?

She clicked her tongue. “Jasmine it is, you buzzard.” She moved to stand just out of sight at the head of the bathtub, and before he really realized what was happening, Aelin had already dumped some of the sweet-smelling tonic on his head and her hands were brushing the top of his head, rubbing in the soap.

Rowan knew that he was supposed to stop this, knew that this was far, far too intimate. Knew that this was coming very close to breaking all of those careful rules he had set for himself.

But the second he felt her touch, all his resistance crumbled to dust.

Her fingers weren’t rough, but they weren’t too gentle, either. Aelin found exactly the right amount of pressure as she massaged the soap into his scalp, moving from his hairline to his ears to his neck and back again.

The scent of the oil wafted down towards him, mixed in with her own scent. And without thinking, Rowan took in a slow breath, luxuriating in the scent. It felt as though his face was being caressed with the taste of night-kissed jasmine.

Aelin’s fingers began playing with his hair. “I could still probably braid this,” she teased. “Very teensy-tiny braids, so – ”

Rowan growled, more out of habit than real irritation. He couldn’t help but lean into her touch, closing his eyes as he felt his whole body relax.

“You’re no better than a house cat.”

Rowan couldn’t even summon the will for a rebuttal. Instead, he let out a low noise in his throat, a sound of pure pleasure. It might as well have been a purr.

Rowan hardly cared.

He knew he’d probably yell at himself for this later. But Rowan also knew that he wouldn’t trade this feeling for anything. And no matter how upset he might be in a few hours, he knew he would never regret it.

Just as Rowan was beginning to wonder whether Aelin’s fingers were starting to prune, she spoke up. “You haven’t said anything about your magic.”

He tensed, and Aelin’s hands stilled. “What about it?”

Rowan felt her lean down to peer at his face, her hair sliding from behind her shoulders to stroke the back of his neck. It sent a warm shiver down his spine.

“I take it it’s gone,” she said. “How does it feel to be as powerless as a mortal?”

He opened his eyes, his brow falling into a scowl. “It’s not funny.”

“Do I look like I’m laughing?”

“I spent the first few days sick to my stomach and barely able to move. It was like having a blanket thrown over my senses.”

“And now?”

“And now I’m dealing with it.”

She poked him in the shoulder. “Grumpy, grumpy.”

Rowan snarled in annoyance – but it was more at the fact that she had removed her hands from his scalp than because of her teasing. Aelin only pursed her lips and pushed down on his shoulders, silently asking him to dunk his head underwater.

He did so, and by the time he emerged, Aelin was standing and holding out a bath towel for him to use. “I’m going to find you some clothes.”

“I have – ”

“Oh, no. Those are going right to the laundress. And you’ll get them back only if she can make them smell decent again. Until then, you’ll wear whatever I give you.”

“You’ve become a tyrant, Princess,” he said, taking the towel from her.

Aelin just rolled her eyes, turning away from the bathtub just as Rowan stood up, water sloshing everywhere. She didn’t look back at him, moving straight across the bedroom and directly into the huge closet.

Rowan was somehow simultaneously disappointed and very, very relieved. He didn’t know if he would be able to control himself if she saw him – her long looks were already heavy enough as it was.

But still, there was that other voice. The one that wanted her to see all of him. Just as he had already seen all of her.

Rowan shook himself slightly, then began toweling off. Thinking cold thoughts.

Once he was mostly dry, Rowan wrapped the towel tightly around his waist and walked through the bedroom, and into the absolutely massive closet. Only to find Aelin crouched on the floor, staring at the open drawer in front of her.

For a moment, Rowan just looked at her in confusion. But then he remembered.

All those years ago, before the king, before Endovier, Aelin had lived in this apartment with Sam. Right before he had been killed.

These must be his clothes.

“You don’t have to give those to me,” Rowan said, soft as he could.

Aelin started anyways, twisting in place to face him. For a moment, she only stared at him. And Rowan wasn’t sure if it was because of the scent of the dead boy swirling around them, escaping from the dresser full of his old clothing, or because Rowan had taken her off guard, but Aelin’s look was dazed. She looked completely at a loss for words.

She swallowed, then finally spoke. “Clean clothes are scarce in the house right now, and these are of no use sitting here.” She pulled out a pale shirt and held it up. “I hope it fits.”

Rowan looked at it apprehensively, then took it. Sam had been an eighteen-year-old mortal when he died, and his clothes definitely reflected that. Rowan had his doubts about ‘fit.’

Aelin quickly looked away from him, her face carefully blank as she rifled through the drawer for undershorts and pants. “I’ll get you proper clothes tomorrow. I’m pretty sure you’ll start a riot if the women of Rifthold see you walking down the streets in nothing but a towel.”

Rowan huffed a laugh that he hoped didn’t sound forced. He knew that Aelin would never stop mourning that boy, no matter how long she lived. But it was different now, being here. Where she had last seen him living and breathing.

It made it so much more real. That she had loved, and lost. Just as he had.

And Rowan couldn’t help but feel as though he were intruding.

But instead of pulling away, and leaving Aelin to wallow in that guilt and sadness alone, he stepped forwards, under the pretense of examining the contents of the closet. Thinking to help her the only way he knew how – with distraction.

But soon, he found himself entranced by them. So many luscious fabrics, exquisite embroideries, soft furs… “You wore all this?” He looked at her with wonder.

She nodded, quietly getting to her feet. Rowan flicked through a few of the garments, eyeing the tunics and dresses and shirts – some of which were the finest he had ever seen. “These are … very beautiful,” he admitted.

Aelin’s voice was soft. “I would have pegged you for a proud member of the anti-finery crowd.”

“Clothes are weapons, too,” he said, remembering all those times he had been stuck at court dinners, parties, festivals – with all that careful maneuvering. Fae playing games with each other for centuries, whole generations.

He continued searching through the closet, but then paused when he glanced a luxurious gown of pure black velvet. Its sleeves were made of tight, sheer silk, the neckline skimming just below the collarbones. And while the font was completely unadorned, the back nearly took his breath away.

A great, golden dragon roared down the spine of the garment, rendered perfectly in glittering metallic threads. Spraying a torrent of golden fire up to the neckline where it poured over the dress’ shoulders. It was so detailed that each scale was perfectly visible, as the serpentine dragon curled down the skirt of the dress to rest on the hemline, where the tail swung around the edge of the garment, as if lazily brushing the floor.

Rowan loosed a breath. “I like this one best.”

Aelin reach out a hand to brush to soft velvet sleeve. “I saw it in a shop when I was sixteen and bought it immediately. But when the dress was delivered a few weeks later, it seemed too…old. It overpowered the girl I was. So I never wore it, and it’s hung here for three years.”

As she spoke, Rowan ran a finger down the golden spine of the roaring, furious dragon, marveling at the rippling texture. “You’re not that girl anymore,” he said softly. “Someday, I want to see you wear this.”

Aelin looked up at him, meeting his gaze. The gold in her eyes just as molten and burning as the flames of that golden dragon.

“I missed you,” she breathed.

And the vulnerability, the pure openness he could see in her eyes made something in his gut clench tight. This was exactly what he was afraid of. Why he made all those gods-damned rules in the first place.

“We weren’t apart that long.” His voice was cold as ice.

Aelin scowled. “So? Am I not allowed to miss you?”

Rowan’s jaw clenched, and guilt was already swirling in his stomach for the lie he knew he had to tell. “I once told you that the people you care about are weapons to be used against you. Missing me was a foolish distraction.”

Aelin’s face darkened. “You’re a real charmer, you know that?”

When Rowan didn’t say anything, Aelin swallowed and pushed the clothes into his arms. “You can get dressed in here,” she tossed the words at him like a blade, walking out of the closet without another word.

Rowan made sure she didn’t see the way her tone had cut into him.

He breathed deep, shoving away those emotions to deal with them later. It didn’t matter if she thought him cold, or heartless. Not if it kept her safe.

So Rowan breathed again, and began trying to worm his way into a dead man’s clothes. Trying not to let that bother him too.

As practical as he was, the last thing Rowan wanted to do was put on the clothes of the mortal man Aelin’s had loved, and who loved her. It was like forcing himself into someone else’s love story, the unwelcome addition. The replacement that nobody wanted.

He stretched the undershorts over his thighs, and then carefully shrugged his way into the pants. They were too short, but they fit. Barely.

The shirt however was another story. Just looking at it Rowan knew that it would be too tight. So instead of risking tearing it, Rowan figured it would be better to go barechested.

He walked back into the bedroom to find that Aelin had gone into the bathroom. From the sound of it, she was washing her face. But this time, she had closed the door.

Rowan tried not to read too much into that gesture.

When she returned, her face darkening at the sight of him in the comically-small pants, he held the shirt out to her, saying, “The shirt is too small. I didn’t want to rip it.”

Aelin took it from him gingerly, then just looked at it for a moment, her expression unreadable. “I’ll go out first thing,” she said softly, then breathed in through her nose, quick and sharp. “Well, if you don’t mind meeting Aedion shirtless, I suppose we should go say hello.”

Rowan shook his head ever so slightly. “We need to talk.”

Aelin’s hackles instantly rose. “Good talk or bad talk?”

“The kind that will make me glad you don’t have access to your power so you don’t spew flames everywhere.”

“That was one incident, and if you ask me, your absolutely wonderful former lover deserved it.”

Rowan’s lips twitched, remembering. Remelle had certainly deserved it. And if Aelin hadn’t intervened, Rowan might have ended up doing something he would have regretted. Like murdering Remelle.

On second thought, maybe he wouldn’t have regretted it so much.

Aelin just sighed, “Now or later?”

“Later. It can wait a bit.”

She pursed her lips, then nodded, turning towards the door to the great room. Where Aedion was waiting for them.

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Aelin on her knees. Maeve towering before her, darkness wafting in deep pools around her feet. Black iron everywhere, keeping her chained to the floor. Keeping his queen locked in place.

Lorcan and Rowan appeared beside Maeve, whips clutched between their fingers. Aelin looked at him with betrayal in her eyes, and Rowan had to watch as he and Lorcan cut her skin to ribbons. As they cut her just like the men of the salt mines had cut her. As her master had cut her.

Maeve just laughed.

And that was usually when the screaming began. They were Lyria’s screams, but they fell from Aelin’s lips.

Rowan knew they were loud, knew the sounds coming from his queen were enough to echo through the castle, to shake its very foundation. But somehow, in the dream, he felt distant. Removed from them.

The sounds of her agony brushed his face like rose petals. Like a silver mist.

Cool. Soft.

And yet they made his heart pound through his chest, hammer and chisel on stone, splintering it apart. Piece. By. Piece.

Even now, he could still feel those screams radiating through his very being. Rippling through his soul like a rung bell. It felt as though their tender sound would never leave him.

It made Rowan want to tear out his own throat.

But instead, he slowly sat up, taking in slow breath after slow breath. Trying in vain to calm his pounding blood.

Rowan had been in Mistward for eight days now. Eight long days, and eight even longer nights. And he still hadn’t gotten used to sleeping in an empty bed. He wasn’t sure he would ever get used to it again.

It felt wrong to sleep in this bed without Aelin by his side. A bed they had shared for months, long enough for Rowan to get used to balancing himself on the edge of the mattress. Long enough for him to get used to hiding his desire from her, particularly in the mornings.

Her scent still lingered, almost like a friendly ghost haunting the stone alcoves. But soon, even that would be gone. Along with her muddy boots and lent garments.

Rowan had always slept on the side of the bed facing the door, providing Aelin as much protection as he could – even in his sleep. Aelin got the window side, where often, the moonlight would stretch its fingers across her golden hair, marking it with silver.

Now, it felt like an invasion to spread out, to brush against her side of the bed. To touch her moonlight.

So Rowan kept to his edge, and let the moon mark the empty space where his Fireheart used to rest.

For a while Rowan just lay there, letting himself be completely useless. Wallowing. But as the minutes slid past like hours, and Deanna finally slipped below the horizon to allow Mala to stretch her golden fingers over the land, Rowan dragged himself out of bed and prepared to face the day.

Each piece of steel he strapped to his clothes felt heavier than the last.

Rowan wandered down to the kitchens, his boots silent in the fortress corridors. It was still early, and Mistward was quite awake yet. But the kitchens, as usual, had been bustling with energy long before dawn.

From the top of the stairs, Rowan could hear chopping vegetables, the quick opening and closing of the bread ovens, the cursing of burnt fingers. The melody of Luca and Emrys preparing for the breakfast rush.

Rowan slid in as quietly as he could, grabbing a mug of stew and snatching a loaf of bread when Emrys’ eyes were averted, then retreated to a back corner to wolf it down.

“Hurry up with those vegetables, Luca! No time to waste – the stock should have started simmering over 15 minutes ago!”

“I’m sorry Emrys, it’s just that Elentiya used to deal with this.” Luca frantically shoved the mixed vegetables into a pot, and moved on to carving at a mysterious slab of meat. Roast duck, perhaps?

“I know I know.” Emrys said, exasperated. “Just get it done. Malakai will be down in a minute to take you away, and then I’m going to have to finish this all myself.”

As if the old male had summoned him, Malakai appeared in the entranceway, his lined face haggard with missed sleep. He nodded at Rowan, then snuck behind Emrys to embrace him.

“See? What did I say,” Emrys teased, a smile in his voice, “Now I’ll be without both my helpers to get breakfast on the table.” He snuck a kiss on his mate’s cheek, then twisted out of his grip to stir a massive vat of scrambled eggs, grabbing a handful of chopped chives from Luca’s cutting board and tossing them in.

Luca started working more furiously than ever, cutting bread into slices and portioning soup into bowls. Malakai reluctantly let go of his mate, then, surprisingly, looked up at Rowan.

“Prince Whitethorn,” he cleared his throat lightly. “Thrain has asked if I would join him beneath the fortress today, to help install the new iron gate. And Randall is over at the healer’s compound this morning, so – ”

Rowan frowned. He thought he knew where this was going. “ – would it be alright if you took Luca on patrol this morning?”

Rowan sighed. It wasn’t like he had anything more important to do. He gave the male a small nod, then said, “Emrys, if you need him this morning, it can wait until after breakfast is done.”

The old male didn’t even look up from the stove. “Thank you, Prince Rowan. Now Luca – ” Emrys gave the young male a daunting list of instructions, the boy’s face noticeably paling.

Malakai nodded at Rowan once again, kissed his mate, grabbed one of Luca’s slices of bread and cheese, then disappeared out the kitchen door, presumably to head for the tunnels beneath the fortress.

Rowan finished eating just as the demi-Fae began to arrive, told Luca he would be back in an hour, then left out the back door and headed into the forest, his limbs stretching into a slow, loping run.

This wasn’t the first time he had taken charge of Luca’s training since his return to Mistward, and he was starting to realize that he rather liked the young demi-Fae. No matter that he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He was almost like a very, very young Connall – always full of questions, and going around with that naïve, bright-eyed innocence. So impressionable.

His run slowly transformed into a sprint, his muscles burning with exertion.

It was strange to feel the boy beginning to warm up to him after all these months. Finally opening up, and asking all those questions burning on his lips. And it was nice that Malakai and Emrys seemed to trust Rowan with him, even if it was just to guide him through the basics of sparring, or run with him around the borders of the fortress’ lands.

Rowan knew that Malakai and Emrys were at least a little bit confused as to why Rowan was back, but they hadn’t asked too many questions, for which he was grateful. Malakai and the other leaders wanted an update on the events in Doranelle and to know the Queen’s response to the Adarlanian attack, but all Emrys wanted to know was whether Elentiya was all right.

Rowan told them as little as he could, saying that he had informed Maeve of the details of Adarlan’s attack on the fortress, that she was responding accordingly and would keep them informed through the usual channels. He told them that Elentiya was on her way back to Adarlan, and that he was here on his queen’s orders.

Rowan just didn’t specify exactly which queen had ordered him to return, and they did not ask. But somehow, he thought that Emrys suspected. That male seemed to be able to see through anything.

Rowan felt that Emrys and Malakai were wondering why he hadn’t gone with Aelin, but they didn’t say anything. And for that, Rowan was even more grateful. Because he didn’t have an answer to give them. He barely had an answer to give himself.

Rowan knew that Aelin hadn’t been telling him the whole truth on that pier, but he hadn’t wanted to push. She deserved her space, deserved to go back to Adarlan alone, with a clean slate and without a hulking ass like him hanging on her coattails at every moment. Even if it drove him completely insane.

Rowan’s feet pounded into the earth as he sprinted through the trees. Maybe this morning he would reach as far as the sea.

By the time they said goodbye, the captain’s scent had completely left her own. There was no trace of him left. But that didn’t mean that she didn’t still want him, or that when Rowan saw her again, the scent wouldn’t have returned.

There was also that prince, the Havilliard boy. They were friends, at the very least. And surely a match between their two houses would be politically advantageous. The first daughter of Brannon Galathynius, and the first son of Gavin Havilliard, combining their houses? Certainly something Aelin would be considering.

Rowan ripped past a patch of thorns, their barbs digging into the skin of his forearms. He didn’t pause.

Aelin had only mentioned her cousin a few times, just in passing, but Rowan had heard of Aedion Ashryver. Knew all the stories about the wolf of the north. Even knew about the rumors that had circulated, several times over, that a marriage would be arranged between the two of them.

It could be a smart match, the two cousins. Aedion was respected and admired throughout the western continent, and beloved by his people. It would solidify Aelin’s position within Terrasen, and secure her more support within her nation. He even had his own legion of soldiers he could promise to her cause.

Rowan’s breaths were sharp in his throat. He pushed himself even harder.

Then there was the matter of her former master. Aelin had never been clear about her relationship with Arobynn Hamel, whether he was father, brother, or…lover. The word turned Rowan’s stomach.

He was now practically flying through the trees.

Aelin had told him that she needed to go to Adarlan alone because Rowan would be too much of a distraction, that he would only make things harder for her if he went with her. And that was true, at least in part. But Rowan thought that the real reason she wanted to go alone was because she needed to deal with Chaol and Arobynn without him there to complicate things.

Arobynn… Rowan sighed, gritting his teeth. Rowan wasn’t sure he had ever desired the death of another human being more than he had Arobynn Hamel’s.

Aelin had been so hesitant, so reluctant to say anything about her former master. But those scars spoke volumes.

He had chained her, had abused her, manipulated her, and then beat her bloody. He had tortured and killed her lover. Her Sam. And then he had sent her to the salt mines, where she was whipped and starved and had nearly been destroyed.

Rowan wanted to tear Arobynn limb from limb, wanted to rip out his fingernails and chain him up in the dark and leave him there until he started to lose grip on what was real and what wasn’t. There was no torture too extreme, no punishment that he didn’t deserve.

But if Aelin decided to forgive him, decided to let that monster back into her life, Rowan would have to live with it.

And it killed him.

Killed him to have her headed over that sea, towards enemies who had already nearly succeeded in killing her, and who had tried over and over and over again. And most of all, it killed him because he had no idea when he would see her again. No idea if he would ever see her again.

His legs kept pushing him forwards, his lungs fighting to keep up.

She didn’t want him. Aelin didn’t want him by her side.

Another ragged breath.

He would learn to live with it. Would learn to deal with that burden.

In. Out. Forwards.

Aelin would marry another, be it for love or politics. And Rowan would be there for her no matter what. That was the promise he had made, and that was the promise he would keep.

So he ran, pushing through the undergrowth until he could feel the sea air on his cheeks, until the wind whispered of caves and sand and foam and spray. Rowan sprinted right up to the cliffs, jerking to a stop.

He looked out over the deep blue water with sharp, determined eyes. As if he looked hard enough, he would be able to see her on her little ship, sailing away from him across the blue ocean.

But of course, the sea was as empty as it always was.

His breaths ripped through his chest, but before they calmed, Rowan had already shifted into his hawk and was soaring through the sea-tossed air. Heading back over the trees he had just run between.

This run had become a part of his routine. And while he told himself it was just exercise, he knew that it was really so he could run over the paths he had spent so much time with Aelin on. So he could feel like she was still with him, even fleetingly.

What had taken him nearly an hour to travel on foot took him barely minutes in the air. And soon, he was swooping down over the fortress and shifting to land on his feet outside the kitchen door to collect Luca.

Ever since the battle, the ward stones had been useless and silent, the barriers permanently fallen. Rowan had spent some time examining them, and though he could find no obvious flaw in the ancient stone, he also could find no remedy. Their magic was simply spent, and it would not come back.

As a result, the residents of Mistward had spent a significant amount of time and energy on designing replacements to secure the fortress; higher walls, stronger battlements, sturdier outer gate, larger drawbridge. These improvements were well underway by the time Rowan had returned a week past, and he had gladly thrown himself into the effort.

Even now, as he waited outside the kitchen for Luca to arrive, he could see various workers laying the foundation for the new gate and battlements, and others pulling a large wagon filled with quarried stone for the outer wall. Rowan would likely spend his afternoon among them, either with the men in the small quarry a mile or so away, harvesting stone blocks, or with those who were currently building the scaffolding to contain the stones as they were laid in place.

He wasn’t exactly looking forwards to it. The days were getting hotter as summer grew nearer, and though the day had barely begun, it already was promising to be sweltering.

Luca finally appeared at the door, Emrys’ voice calling from across the room reminding him to be careful, and that he would see him in the evening for the dinner rush, and to stay safe. Rowan disguised a small smile.

Luca glanced up at him briefly, then jerked his eyes away and skittered out of the entrance, making for the fortress gates. Rowan followed without a word.

“Malakai told me I was supposed to run the southern perimeter, and then work on my sparring forms.” Luca’s eyes met his, then flitted away again. Luca’s scent was mellow, buttered toast and apple slices, but right now it was sharp with anxiety and excitement.

Rowan nodded at the boy, and they took off towards the south, passing by sentries who waved and smiled at Luca, but didn’t seem to know how to greet Rowan. Most looked down and away, or raised their hands in half a wave which they quickly gave up on. Rowan ignored them.

Public opinion of him had shifted since the battle, but not by that much.

They ran in silence for a while, Rowan alert and watchful, though they found nothing of interest. Luca was demi-Fae, but since he couldn’t shift, they were confined to a much slower pace than Rowan was used to. Meaning a run that would have taken him minutes, took them over an hour.

By the time they stopped for water, Luca was panting, but determined. Rowan handed the boy the water skin, which he eagerly gulped down. Rowan stripped off his light cotton shirt, now soaked in sweat, and hung it up on a branch at the edge of the clearing.

Luca’s voice floated over to him, “Do you think Elentiya is ever going to come back?”

Rowan paused for a moment. “I don’t know, Luca. But I don’t think so.”

His brow was furrowed. “How long are you going to stay here then?”

“I don’t know that either.”

The boy almost laughed. “I used to think that you knew everything.”

“No one knows everything.”

Luca shook his head slightly, glancing around the forest, his lips curved upwards into a sly grin. “But I still thought you did – well, if not everything, then at least everything important. Bas – ” Luca’s voice stumbled a bit over the other boy’s name, “he tried to tell me different, but I refused to listen to him.”

Rowan’s heart sunk. Bas. He had been so young, only a little bit older than Luca. He hadn’t known any better, had just wanted what everyone did – to be accepted. To be safe.

“I killed him, did you know that?” Luca’s gaze turned to Rowan’s. “I was the one who killed him.”

Rowan nodded. “I guessed.”

His eyes jerked away again, his feet scuffing the earth. “I still forget that he’s gone, sometimes. But it was the right thing – what I did. Wasn’t it?”

Rowan sighed, frowning slightly. Luca looked back up at him, worried. “The world is a complicated place,” Rowan said finally. “Answers are almost never as easy as that. But yes, Luca. I think that you did the right thing.”

The boy’s face darkened, and for a long moment, he didn’t say anything.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

Rowan let the silence continue, just waiting. Knowing that he might be the only person who could soothe this ache for the young demi-Fae. It was a responsibility that he didn’t take lightly.

“Sometimes – ” he broke off, and though his face was turned away, Rowan could see that his eyes were lined with silver. “Sometimes I wonder whether I still want to become a warrior.”

Rowan considered his answer carefully before he responded. “Warriors are many things, Luca, not just soldiers. Malakai has been a warrior all his life, but his days are filled with the duties of a leader, not with violence.”

“That wasn’t really what I meant.”

Rowan waited.

“I meant – I’m not sure why I’m doing this anymore. I mean why do I even want to be let into Doranelle? It doesn’t seem much better over there than it is here.”

“Then let me ask you a question in return,” he said plainly. “Do you think that what you’re learning is worthwhile?”

Another pause. “Yes…” Luca said slowly. “Or at least I think so.”

“Then I would say don’t worry about whether or not you will pass your tests, and be let into Doranelle.” Rowan turned, and began walking through the clearing, scanning it over. “Many demi-Fae come here, and spend all of their time wishing to be somewhere else. Then when they don’t achieve that goal, they end up lost, and angry.” Rowan grabbed a long, sturdy stick from the ground and turned back to the young demi-Fae. “Instead focus on what you are in control of.”

Rowan threw the stick over to Luca, who caught it just before it smacked him in the face. The boy wiped at his eyes, then nodded.

“Are you ready?” Rowan asked.

“Yes.”

“Alright.”

Rowan guided him through the basic sparring forms, grabbing another stick for himself as they staged mock battles. They exchanged choreographed blows until the sun began to pull them into midday, and they returned to Mistward.

Luca traipsed off to join the other young sentries, and Rowan spent the rest of the afternoon toiling over a ten-foot section of the new outer wall, laboriously hauling piles of stone and fitting them into place with smeared vats of pale-grey grout.

It was hard, physical labor. The kind that filled your muscles with a satisfying soreness at the end of the day. But it did not fill his mind.

Instead, Rowan spent the afternoon mulling over his conversation with Luca.

That boy really did have a way of worming through other people’s barriers.

But it was more than just that. It had almost reminded Rowan of living in his uncle’s house, when he was still learning the fighting arts and was recovering from the deaths of his parents. He had been surrounded by cousins, both younger and older. And today with Luca – that is what it had been like back then. Learning and teaching alike, giving comfort and advice when asked.

It was a time so distant, it felt strange in Rowan’s mind. Like they were the memories of another, completely separate person. Someone who didn’t exist anymore.

But this morning, he had reappeared. If only for a moment.

It was like putting on old clothes, made unfamiliar by time. The memory stretched tight over his new frame.

Rowan realized that he missed Sellene and Endymion and all the rest, missed their mess and chaos, and the countless children underfoot. It wasn’t likely he would see them again anytime soon. Nor that their meeting would be under anything resembling decent circumstances.

When they ate dinner that evening, Luca sat at Rowan’s table. They didn’t say anything to each other, but Rowan recognized the gesture for what it was.

And that night, when Rowan finally curled up at the edge of his mattress, his thoughts fell to family. To children. And what they would look like if he shared them with Aelin.

Rowan gritted his teeth at the idea, but he was unable to banish it. And so those thoughts coaxed him slowly to sleep, where he lay in the fortress of stone, surrounded by silver mist.

Just barely out of reach of the moonlight.

···

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Rowan shifted in mid-air, landing hard on his heels and already drawing the wind towards him from all directions, searching for anything, any whisper of a dark form, flitting between the oaks, quick as a shadow –

But there was nothing. Only the memory.

Rowan began to run, following the trail westward. Even though Lorcan had passed through these trees barely a few hours ago, the wind couldn’t sense him. He was already gone, miles and miles ahead. Out of the reach of Rowan’s wind.

As the trail solidified before him, Rowan’s stride lengthened, his footing becoming more sure with each step. And he longed to be able to shift again, to use the wind to propel him over the land.

He could fly so much faster than he could run, but then he risked losing the scent – a chance he could not take. So instead Rowan dug his feet into the earth, tearing through the forest mists. A predator on the hunt.

Only one thought in his head.

Why in rutting hell was Lorcan Salvaterre trying to get his attention?

···

Fenrys wasn’t there when she found out.

He was out on a run, hunting through the forests around Doranelle. Chasing down after whispers of the forest-spirits. He knew they were here: the elemental beings, as ancient as the very stones and mountains and valleys. Older than history – than time itself.

Fenrys would hear them in the night – sounds of crashing rock and tearing metal, the felling of trees when no wind blew. Still fighting their ancient wars, either uncaring or ignorant of the affairs of lesser beings. But Fenrys had never seen them, nor did he know of anyone who had.

Every now and again, he would glance a fairy or two. One of the Little Folk, going about their little-great-deeds. But it was never when he was looking for them.

It was something he and Connall used to do as young ones – charge through the forest, hunting for fairies. For the heroes of the tales their mother would tell them, over glasses of sweet fruit juice on lazy summer afternoons. Stories of battles and warriors and the hidden magic of the land. To this day, Fenrys didn’t know whether the stories were true, or if she had made them up herself.

He knew it was only purposeless distraction, and one that he would likely pay for when he returned. But he just had no idea how much.

So no, Fenrys wasn’t in the palace when Maeve found out.

But Connall was.

···

The trail was nearly a straight shot through the woods, barely deviating for trees and boulders. Lorcan was really hauling ass. And as he drew closer and closer to the coastline, and the little market town that was waiting for him there, Rowan felt his suspicions begin to grow.

It was nearing evening when Rowan finally began to hear little signs of approaching civilization – the neighing of horses, the soft thumps of an axe chopping wood. But the trail pushed on, breaching the edges of the trees, following over the cobbles through the market, out towards the end of the main street, until it came to a stop. Right at the end of the long wooden dock.

Rowan stood at the brink, right where the path met the sea. And he could feel fury coiling in his gut.

Lorcan had left. And Rowan thought he might be able to guess where his former commander was headed. But before he decided anything, before he made a plan, he needed to be absolutely sure.

Rowan turned on his heels, headed back into the village. His cloak was pulled high over his head, hiding much of his face. He let his body fall into a slump, hiding its powerful shape. Evening was coming on, and if he kept his movements sloppy and wide, he could be just another traveler, coming to wet his throat with watered-down ale.

Outside the pub, a young maid was lighting the lamps, her hair neat and apron clean. When she looked up at him, Rowan caught the glint of sharp eyes. Maybe he wouldn’t even need to go inside the tavern.

“Hello miss,” Rowan said, ever so slightly shifting his accent, letting the words fall from his mouth like marbles. “Might you be able to tell me where I could hire passage on a ship?”

Her face twisted shrewdly, and she gave him a quick once over as she straightened and said, “Depends on where you’re goin’. And how much coin you’ve got t’ spend.”

Rowan nodded, making sure to keep his clothes hidden with the cloak, knowing that an accidental glint of silver from one of his hidden blades might be enough for her to call for help from inside the tavern. And that last thing he wanted was trouble. “When was your last ship headed for Adarlan? And when will you be expecting the next one? It doesn’t have to be fast, or comfortable.”

Her expression tightened, but she answered reasonably enough. “We get a fair few ships headed to the western continent this time o’ year – the sheep’ve just been shorn and ships head that a-way bearing wool to trade for furs from the north, and steel from the south. I’m pretty sure we had a ship go through this morning.”

“And the next?” Rowan prompted, his expression schooled into neutrality.

“If you ask around the dockyards, I’m sure you might find another ship headin’ that way – once the tide comes in. And if not, then I’m sure there’ll be another come tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” Rowan slipped the girl a coin. “By chance, you didn’t catch another traveler come through here today, heading the same direction – asking questions? Tall, dark hair, harsh look?”

The shrewd look fell into a scowl. “Maybe. Either way, my answer’ll cost more’n just a copper.”

Rowan slipped her another couple of coins, and she pocketed them. But her scowl didn’t soften.

“I might’ve seen your man. Came through around mid-morning, in a massive rush. Massive man, at that. Huge. Musta been six, nearly seven feet? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man that tall. And he nearly knocked me over coming in the pub to ask after passage to Rifthold. Kept his face covered though, so I couldn’t be sure.”

Rowan nodded again, but before the maid could turn to leave, he asked, “Oh – and do you happen to know a place where I could send a letter?”

“If you give it to me, I can get it to my mother and she’ll give it to the courier when he comes ‘round in the mornin’. You gonna come in for a pint?”

The maid held open the door, and Rowan followed her in, thinking it much easier to just go along with the girl, and far too wrapped up in his thoughts to come up with a polite refusal that wouldn’t leave her even more suspicious than she already was.

The tavern wasn’t bustling, but it was far from empty either. A few farmers sat at a table in the far corner, enjoying a few beers after a long day’s work, while a few younger boys, perhaps their sons, were laughing and joking across the room. There were a few other individuals – travelers like himself, or people who lived and worked in the village. But the majority of the bar was filled with sailors – teasing and joking and climbing all over each other, celebrating their last night on dry ground for many weeks to come.

Rowan headed for a quiet corner, flagging down the waitress and settling onto a creaky wooden bench. He ordered some bread and ale, which she had brought over in mere seconds, and he began to pick at it mindlessly.

There could be no doubt. Lorcan was heading for Adarlan, for Rifthold. For Aelin.

Maeve had sent him to go after Aelin. And she had ordered him to pass by Mistward, Mistward specifically, so that Rowan would be drawn into the conflict. Maybe they were planning on using him to get to Aelin, to follow him in order to find her.

The question was, why only Lorcan? Where were the twins? Gavriel? Vaughan? Would they follow Lorcan? Were they already headed for Adarlan?

Rationally, Rowan knew that Aelin was safe. That she was still somewhere in the middle of the ocean, on her way to Rifthold. But it took all of his self-control to keep himself from shifting right there, in the middle of this tavern filled with mortals, and fly out into the ocean skies to find her.

What really worried him was the idea that he would get there too late. That even if he got on a ship right at that moment, he would get to Rifthold after she had already been found, taken, overwhelmed. The idea that there were already forces there, waiting to seize her.

And no matter what, Lorcan would arrive in Rifthold hours or days before Rowan would be able to, and well before Aelin could read any letter he sent. Not that he even knew where he could send a letter. All he knew was that she used to own a hidden apartment in the slums, and that for the past six months, she had lived in a stone tower in the castle.

It seemed unlikely that she would return to either. Both were compromised, the castle being an obviously insane choice. Unless of course she had something hidden up her sleeve that she had kept from Rowan. Which felt distinctly possible. And Arobynn had to know about the apartment. She had nowhere safe to go, and Rowan had nowhere safe he could send a warning.

So the only way he would be able to tell her about Lorcan would be to go there himself. To break his oath.

Rowan knew that he could, and without much difficulty at that. But it still felt wrong – a violation of trust. If he left Wendlyn without being told to by Aelin, he would be going against her wishes. He would be taking advantage, both of the flexibility of their bond and of her trust in him.

And it definitely didn’t make things any easier that he so desperately wanted to leave in the first place. It felt like he was exploiting the opportunity to be close to her again, no matter how rationally necessary it might be. And there was a chance that she might not forgive him for it.

But no matter how much that might sting, he couldn’t live through following her requests to the letter, and Aelin dying because of it.

So, Lorcan was headed for Rifthold. And soon, Rowan would be heading there as well.

Rowan tore into the bread, newly reinvigorated. He didn’t see any reason to return to Mistward, there wasn’t anything there worth sacrificing another day for. But he did feel bad about leaving without any notice. Deserting Emrys and Malakai, and…Luca.

So as he ate, Rowan dug out a piece of paper from his pack and began to write.

Emrys,

I’m sorry. Something came up. Tell Luca to remember to practice swings off his left side just as much as his right, I don’t care if they hurt more.

When I see her, I’ll tell her you say hello.

Then he folded up the paper and sealed it, leaving it unmarked. Hopefully, even if someone – such as that suspicious maid – opened the letter to see what it said, what he wrote would be meaningless.

He spent the rest of the evening listening to the sailors’ conversation, until he heard mention of a crew headed for Rifthold. The barmaid hadn’t lied – it was a ship bearing crates of wool heading to Adarlan to trade for steel. This was their last night ashore, and they were setting sail sometime in the early morning, just before the tide shifted.

So Rowan waited a few minutes more, then left the waitress his fee, gave the maid his letter, and walked out into the lamplit village, his jaw squared and his shoulders set. Determined.

···

Fenrys returned to broken furniture. Splintered wood and broken glass. Twisted metal and shattered stone. That was the first thing he noticed.

The second thing he noticed was the silence. It stretched its fingers through the walls and corridors and archways, until it brushed through to his skin. Until it was the only touch he could feel.

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

Where there should be sound.

The third thing he noticed was the bodies. Their touch was even colder than the quiet. There was no red, no black. None of the usual gory signs of death. Just nothing. An absence.

Fenrys worked his way through the wreckage, his hands empty of feeling, his heart a stone in his chest. His intestines resting somewhere near his toes.

Until he reached their rooms, and found Connall in a dark huddle across the sea of space, and he was still breathing and it felt like Fenrys could breathe again too, but then Connall spoke and sound returned to the world, “Why did he leave? Why did he leave us?” and his voice was so full of fear that Fenrys felt tears sprout from his eyes like wings.

“Who?” Fenrys asked. “Who, Con? What happened?”

But then the palace stones began to thunder, and the questions that had seemed so important only a moment ago fell from his mind on a scattered breeze.

···

Rowan flitted into a dark alleyway around the back of the tavern, and once he was sure there was no one there to see, he shifted into his hawk and flew out over the small village.

From his eavesdropping earlier, he had learned that the ship headed for Rifthold was an old galleon vessel near the edge of the docks, bearing white and yellow flags. It had a large enough cargo bay that hopefully Rowan would be able to find a place to stow away, but wasn’t so large that the journey would take even longer than it should. Which was already far, far too long for his liking.

Rowan circled high above the ship a few times, making sure that he appeared as nothing more than just another sea bird, hunting for its dinner. Although most of the crew, including the captain and first mate, appeared to be drinking away their pay on the floor of the tavern in the village, the ship wasn’t completely empty.

His winds told him that at least three men were asleep below decks, their rumbling snores echoing through the wooden beams. But a few lamps still shone, and with their light Rowan could see a few flickering shadows just beneath the upper deck that made him think not all of the sailors were yet asleep.

So Rowan would have to be extremely careful in making his approach.

He waited for long minutes for those lights to vanish, and shadows to disappear. And the second they did Rowan was sailing down among the rigging, twisting and turning around the sails and masts until he could be absolutely sure that there weren’t any watchful eyes to mark his presence.

Then Rowan was swooping down into the maze of rooms below decks, making sure to avoid the various sleeping quarters, kitchens, and officers’ cabins. Heading towards the hold at the very bottom of the ship in as straight of a path as he could.

Rowan found a dark corner behind a case of flour and barrel of barley, and then shifted back into his Fae form. Once they passed the halfway mark between Adarlan and Wendlyn, magic would stop working, and he wouldn’t be able to move between forms. He had to find a place he could hide in during the day that was large enough for his Fae body. A task far easier said than done.

A ship like this had a crew in the dozens, and quarters were cramped all to hell. Every piece of available space was used, from every corner to closet and even the toilets. Only the captain would have room to stretch his legs, and even then, it was barely by a few feet. Nothing like the space he would need in order to not attract attention.

Rowan looked over the hold once again, scanning for anything that could possibly be large enough. Then he nearly huffed a laugh when he realized exactly what he needed to do.

···

When morning came, Rowan was crammed into a wooden case lined with wool. The back panel carefully pried out and its nails removed, but then leaned carefully back into place to allow him a quick exit. And the majority of the wool was now taking a trip down the coastline.

He had spent an hour or so that night carefully removing armfuls of the fiber and tossing it overboard, using his wind to propel it from the shipyard and out to sea, leaving only just enough room for himself. It was crammed, scratchy, uncomfortable, and smelled like sheep dung, but it would do.

Now, as the ship slowly meandered its way through the reef and out into open ocean, with the occasional shouts and curses of the sailors toiling above, Rowan had nothing to do but think.

For the next month.

It might just be the longest month of his life. At least he couldn’t complain about not having enough time to plan.

Aelin certainly would have a strategy, and by the time he reached her, she would have been working away at it for nearly two weeks. And while he could only guess at her aims, he knew that when he reached her, he would do whatever he could to help her reach those goals.

The question was, should he reach her at all?

Rowan knew he needed to warn her about Lorcan, but once he was actually in Rifthold, that could be done in many ways – not just by contacting her in person. And deep in his bones, Rowan knew that Lorcan had dragged him here on purpose. That the male had wanted him to follow, to pursue. There were faster ways to travel from Doranelle to the sea than to go by Mistward.

So wouldn’t it be playing right into Lorcan’s hands to join up with Aelin? Giving him exactly what he wanted?

Lorcan wasn’t familiar enough with Aelin’s scent, nor with the city of Rifthold, to track her down by himself. He would be digging in the dark – except for the trail that Rowan would give him, as easily as handing over their lives like so much coin.

Perhaps Rowan could go to Rifthold, warn Aelin anonymously, and track down Lorcan by himself. And the faster he rid himself of his former commander, the sooner Rowan would be able to reunite with his Queen.

The pain of that future made him physically flinch.

And it wasn’t only the idea of being in the same city, or even just on the same continent, as Aelin and not being beside her. It was the thought of Lorcan, Lorcan, his commander of nearly three centuries, someone he had almost once thought of as a brother, or even a friend, Lorcan, as someone he needed to dispose of.

Someone who was his enemy.

It was a heavy, uncomfortable weight. It felt strange, and wrong, to have someone he had so trusted become such a dangerous enemy. No matter how necessary he knew it might be, Rowan couldn’t really think of killing him.

It would be like destroying a part of himself, an old part, but a necessary one.

Without Lorcan, he wouldn’t have become the person he was today, wouldn’t know the things he knew, or understand what he now did. About war and sacrifice and leadership and teaching.

Lorcan had been a pillar in his life when he needed one. And while Rowan hadn’t loved him, he had respected him.

And now they were enemies.

Rowan scowled, the crate somehow becoming even more uncomfortable.

What he did know was how Lorcan worked, how he operated. If Rowan did decided to reunite with Aelin, then he would have to keep his distance. Because Lorcan was expert at finding pressure points, and using them to his advantage.

Lorcan already knew that Aelin had turned Rowan away from Maeve, knew that Rowan had chosen her over his oath, over his life.

Idiot. He was such an idiot when it came to her.

If Lorcan found out that there was anything more, that there were other, deeper feelings –

No, Rowan could keep his distance. He could keep those thoughts under control because he had to. Not only because they did no good, but because they might get Aelin killed. Or worse, captured and taken back to Maeve.

But Rowan knew that he wouldn’t be able to deal with Lorcan without her – that he wouldn’t be able to return to Rifthold without reuniting with her. No matter how much easier it might be to keep her safe if he stayed away.

The only thing that was keeping him sane was the thought that at the end of this journey through hell, stuffed in this tiny rutting box that smelled like dung, unable to lay down properly for weeks, was an image of Aelin’s face. Even if she wasn’t happy to see him, even if she didn’t forgive him breaking his oath.

For the first time in weeks, he was heading towards her, instead of away.

So Rowan curled up and turned on his side, and tried to get some sleep, as the shouts of the sailors above him faded into the rising dawn.

···

Across Wendlyn, Emrys was stirring a large pot of rabbit stew, listening to the potatoes crackling as they fried on the stove. It was a lot of work, feeding this many people each and every day. But Emrys loved it, caring for this large family of his. Making sure they were all fed. Taking in strays.

Aelin Galathynius had been such a stray, and he couldn’t say that he didn’t miss her. But he knew that she was where she was meant to be, doing what she was meant to do. No matter what that prince said, or how much he tried to hide, Emrys knew that Aelin had survived her encounter with Maeve, that they both had escaped. Together. And now she’d moved on to other – perhaps even greater – foes.

Even when she was all the way across the ocean Emrys was worried about her.

The old male just sighed, then shuffled over to the counter to begin chopping scallions to add to the stew.

But before he could start, he was interrupted by the afternoon courier, bearing a letter for him – of all people.

Emrys wiped his hands off on his apron, and took the letter from the boy’s fingers. It was unmarked, but the paper was old and worn. As if it had lived in someone’s saddlebags for some time.

Emrys ripped it open, then read through it. Unable to keep a smile off his face.

That scoundrel.

He began to untie his apron, then headed out of the kitchen to go find Luca. Emrys couldn’t really find it in himself to be disappointed in the prince, even if he had abandoned them. Had left Luca with his grief and his guilt.

The boy had finally told him and Malakai about what had happened, and they had talked and cried together into the wee hours of the morning. Even so, Emrys had really hoped that Rowan might be there to help Luca through that grief. He knew that Luca had too.

But it was not to be. Perhaps they might see each other again, in years to come. Perhaps Rowan might even be their king one day.

Emrys almost wanted to laugh. He could already see the scowl that would twist Malakai’s face when he told him the news. Rowan, gone off to chase the future. Leaving them to tend to this little piece of the present.

When Emrys told Luca what was in the letter, the boy smiled too.

···

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The years passed, and time started to become meaningless. Courts rose and fell, warriors grew into power and others’ names were lost to time. The male built a company of soldiers to rival any throughout the land. They suffered loss, betrayal, and battles too numerous to count. But they stood strong through it all.

Until a princess of fire sailed in from across the sea, and stole his brother away.

Now his queen was lost, was blinded by her own desire for power. And for the first time in his long life, the male was unsure of the way.

A choice lay before him, two paths diverged. And time was running short for the decision to be made.

The male closed his eyes, letting his tense shoulders drop.

Both roads were fraught with darkness and difficulty. One would take him across the sea, and label him a betrayer, an oath-breaker. The other would chain him in place, to a throne whose foundation he was worried had already begun to crack. One would take him from his queen forever, but might save her from herself. The other would allow him to stay by her side, but only to watch as her greed slowly destroyed her.

One breath in, one breath out. Slow and even.

Lorcan Salvaterre opened his eyes to examine the golden ring in his palm, those two paths appearing before him, closer than ever.

And he had no more idea of his decision than he had from the beginning.

His feet shifted on the floor, rasping slightly on the stone. The sound was quiet, but it was just enough to cause his queen, asleep across the room, to stir.

Lorcan’s breath caught in his throat.

The moment stretched, twisting and pulling under the pressure. And he knew that his time had come.

But which? Which? Which?

The bedcovers ruffled, a slow sigh escaping his queen’s pink lips. Her face was clear, relaxed. And she was just as beautiful as the first moment he had beheld her. A dark majesty, like black cliffs of stone overlooking the sea, like the violence of dark water tossing itself at their feet.

Lorcan breathed deep, closing the golden ring in his fist.

And he darted from his queen’s chamber, slipping into a run. The fastest of his life.

···

Rowan lifted a spoonful of stew, then let it drip back into the wooden bowl, its soft trickling echoing between his ears.  

He had been sitting in the kitchens for what felt like hours, but by the movements of the sun, it couldn’t have been more than a quarter–, or maybe half an hour. If he was being generous. And he was not in a particularly generous mood.

Rowan was exhausted.

Not, in-need-of-a-few-hours-sleep-and-then-he-would-be-fine exhausted. More fall-asleep-standing-up exhausted. Sleep-for-three-days-straight exhausted. And it was only made worse by the fact that he knew he wouldn’t be sleeping well anytime soon.

Today had been a quarry day, and after his morning run, Rowan had spent hours under the baking Wendlyn sun, slowly coaxing rock from the earth. His magic had helped, as with it, he could make blades of ice to cut into the stone, shaping it like clay. It was far quicker, but it was just as exhausting as doing it the normal way, with arms and back and legs.

It had gotten to the point that Rowan was desperately catching minutes of rest here and there, lying awake for hours begging for sleep to come. But the nightmares just wouldn’t leave him be. And both the source of all the trouble and its only antidote was now over a month away. Even if he left that very moment.

He was too tired to even be properly angry with her.

Rowan raised the stew to his lips, swallowing the mouthful somewhat gingerly. It had gone cold. He just sighed, and swallowed another.

It had now been ten days and over two hours since he had last seen Aelin.

Luca rushed into the kitchen, knocking over a chair and causing Rowan to slosh soup all over the wooden table. The boy just grabbed something from the storage area beneath the sinks, and then rushed right out again. Rowan frowned at him.

It took him quite a bit longer than he would’ve ever been willing to admit, but eventually he realized that Emrys, who was scrubbing the stove clean at the other side of the room, was smothering a fit of laughter at his expense. And failing.

Rowan’s frown deepened as he wiped up the mess. Emrys started laughing even louder.

At least the room was nearly empty.

But honestly, he was past caring.

Rowan was patting at his damp shirt when Emrys walked over to him, bearing a washcloth and a fresh bowl of stew, steaming slightly in the light from the open door.

“Here,” he said, already walking back over to the stove. Rowan held in a sigh as he mopped himself up, then gratefully started spooning the warm stew into his mouth.

Rowan and Emrys were the only two people remaining in the kitchen. Now that the rainy season was over, Emrys’ evening storytelling was getting more and more rare. Demi-Fae now spent their evenings out of doors, taking walks through the woods and eating below the stars.

Though he didn’t miss the wet weather, Rowan couldn’t say that he didn’t miss the evenings spent with everyone sprawled in front of the hearth, listening and laughing and crying as Emrys spun his tales. It reminded him of listening to his mother, curled up next to her in bed. The sound of her voice lulling him to sleep.

Something he desperately needed now.

A clatter sounded from the front of the room, startling Rowan from his trance. It was only Emrys, who had now moved on to the dishes, and had dropped a bowl when moving them to their cabinet to be ready for breakfast in the morning.

Once again, the old male didn’t miss Rowan’s reaction. But he didn’t say anything, instead moving to wipe down the counters and tabletops. Another moment passed while Rowan finished his stew, then stood to wash his bowl and put it away with the others.

But Rowan knew Emrys’ silence wasn’t going to last.

And sure enough, just as Rowan put the bowl in the cupboard, the old male spoke up.

“Luca told me he liked training with you the other day.”

The statement was tentative, probing. Rowan didn’t say anything.

Emrys pursed his lips, even as he continued rifling in the store cupboard for some hard-to-reach item. Another breath, then, “He said that you talked about Bas.”

Still, Rowan kept silent.

Emrys sighed. “In the weeks after the battle, Luca…” he trailed off, eyeing the bags of potatoes and onions he was supposed to be counting. “He retreated into himself. He wouldn’t talk to us, to me or Malakai. I know that we aren’t his parents, that we have no right to him. But Luca doesn’t have anyone else. His mortal parents abandoned him, and he never knew his Fae parentage…” he trailed off again.

Rowan found himself nodding to fill the silence. “You care for him,” he said softly. “Anyone could see that.”

Emrys’ eyes met his for a moment, then turned back to the potatoes. “He has become a part of our family. And to have him hide from us in that way…it was hard.”

Rowan nodded again, his brow furrowing as his thoughts began to twist. Where was Emrys going with this?

The male seemed to rally himself. “So I need to know, what happened to Bas? Was – was he really the one who betrayed us to the soldiers?”

Rowan frowned. “Luca didn’t say?”

Emrys scowled. “You weren’t here for those weeks after the battle, you didn’t see. At first, the whole fortress was in chaos, so wrapped up in healing and recovery and relief. And you – you had other things you were paying more attention to.”

Rowan’s face twisted in acknowledgement. He wasn’t sure he’d spent more than five minutes away from Aelin that week.

Emrys continued. “But then, once everything began to calm, Luca went silent. He wouldn’t eat, wasn’t sleeping. Eventually he just came back, like nothing had happened. But it was too delicate. We were afraid to ask him, to push it.”

Rowan nodded. Emrys looked at him expectantly. “What happened to him?”

Rowan steadied himself, then began to explain. By the time he was done, Emrys’ eyes were lined with silver.

“So he killed him?” the male’s voice was soft, heartbroken.

Rowan nodded, and Emrys turned back to the onions and potatoes, cutting off the growths that had sprouted, and tossing away those that looked close to rot. Distracting himself.

“To think, a few months ago I never would’ve thought that I would see you so calm.” Emrys said, almost sardonically. “The state that girl was in this spring – and you two fighting like alley cats. Always at each other’s throats.”

He stood, hauling the discarded vegetables to the compost heap, and moved on to the case of fresher vegetables that had been carted in a few days ago from a nearby farm. “And yet by the end, I thought you two inseparable.”

Rowan averted his gaze just as Emrys glanced up, his eyes sharp. Rowan knew that there was a question there, one that he had no intention of answering.

Emrys voiced it anyways. “And when do you think we will be seeing her again?”

Rowan gritted his teeth. Emrys seemed to sense an uphill battle.

“I – I need to know that she is alright. That she’s going to be alright.”

“No one can know that.”

Emrys frowned. “What will she be facing in Adarlan? Does she seek to confront the king – ”

Rowan cut him off. “Elentiya, has not shared her plans with me. Nor would she have a reason to. I serve another. She is on her own.”

Emrys’ face tightened, but he took it with grace. They were silent for another long moment, or at least until Emrys began tossing sweet peas and lettuce and leeks into a pile, murmuring about old greens and dishonest farmers.

But before Rowan could escape back to his rooms, to see if perhaps he could finally get some rest, Emrys stopped him once again. “In that case, how long do you think you will be with us, Prince?”

Rowan sighed, stalling in the doorway. He’d been avoiding this question too. “I’m not sure.”

Emrys raised his eyebrows. “Won’t your queen be summoning you soon? Now that your training with the girl is done?”

Rowan gritted his teeth. He couldn’t say anything to the old male, no matter how trustworthy he might seem. “Our Queen has ordered me to stay and assist with the repairs around the fortress, and I will stay until she orders me otherwise.”

“And you have no idea when that will be?”

“None.”

“So…” Emrys started, “While you are here…would you consider training Luca?”

Now it was Rowan’s turn to scowl. He should have known that this was where Emrys was heading. And for some reason, the offer set a wave of melancholy though him. Strong enough to take him by surprise.

“I know that the boy is not up to your standard, but when he came back from his run with you yesterday – he was different. Lighter.” When Rowan didn’t say anything, Emrys continued. “You helped him.”

Rowan shook his head, “I didn’t do anything that anybody couldn’t have.”

“Maybe so, but – ” Emrys dusted off his pant legs, making to stand. "You’ve made yourself one of the finest instructors I’ve ever seen come through here. You made that girl into what she is. And Luca was always talking about how much he wanted to go to Doranelle, to escape, and become a great warrior of the land.”

Emrys’ eyes twinkled. Rowan was still shaking his head.

“Just – please consider it. For Luca’s sake.” Emrys threw the remaining vegetable scraps onto the compost heap. “We only want him to be happy.”

“I know, but – ”

“But what, Prince?” Emrys’ eyes seemed to bore into him. “What is keeping you? If you must stay here, might you not be useful, as more than just a workhorse in the quarry?”

Rowan’s breath was tight in this chest. He wanted to say that Luca deserved someone better than him. To say that he would only disappoint, that he could never give the boy what he really wanted. Particularly since he so obviously looked up to Rowan.

But the real reason he was so reticent was because it was exactly what he wanted. In a different time, and in a different place. To settle, and build a home. To rebuild and teach and heal, from a lifetime of hurting.

It was so close.

But there was a massive, impassable cavern between here and there. Because Aelin was not with him. And the world around this fortress was far from peaceful.

War not only threatened, but snapped at their heels. Waiting to strike. Rowan could feel in it his bones. There were far too many storms to weather, and enemies to defeat, before that future could possibly be his.

So Rowan only said, “I will think on it, Emrys. And I will agree to spend time with him in the mornings. But just remember, I have no idea when I might be called away. It could be tomorrow or months from now. I can’t make any promises.”

Emrys nodded. “I didn’t really expect you to, Prince.” And he turned back to the storage cupboards, sealing things up for the night.

Rowan turned to leave, but then paused. “And Emrys – you could see about trying to talk to the boy again. Im not sure – but I think he might this time.”

Emrys gave him a small, but warm, smile. “Thank you, Prince.” And Rowan walked out.

···

Rowan jerked from sleep, his body shuddering uncontrollably. This time, the dream had been different. Had been worse.

Instead of him torturing Aelin, and listening to Lyria’s screaming, he had to watch as Aelin gave up. As she let the grief and pain overwhelm her, and she retreated into that shell of a person she had been when they first met.

Maeve threatened to have Cairn whip him, a punishment he had borne numerous times. Pain that, under the circumstances, he would take gladly. That he would take and be grateful.

But Aelin could not take it.

When Maeve threatened to whip Rowan, Aelin gave in. And she handed over the Wyrdkeys.

And Rowan could only watch as the dark queen laughed and laughed and laughed. And destroyed everything in the world that he loved.

It was knowledge that Rowan kept locked up so tight it could only come out in his dreams. The knowledge that Aelin would hand over the Wyrdkeys for him. It was their greatest weakness, their bond. But Rowan couldn’t see what he could do about it.

They were both weaker, and stronger, together. It was a problem he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to solve.

Rowan breathed, calming his wracked body, then stood up and began pulling on fresh clothes and strapping on his many blades. He shifted, then tore out the window and into the waiting sky.

It had been a few days since his conversation with Emrys, each of them longer than the last. It was like he was walking upstream, fighting against the rushing current. Time flowed around him like molasses, sticky and slow and uncomfortable as all hell. But pass it did.

It had now been nearly two weeks since he had last seen Aelin. It felt like a year.

Each of the past three mornings, Rowan had trained with Luca. Guiding him through the bare bones of his morning routine. Even though it had only been a few days, Rowan could already spot marked improvement in the boy’s endurance and speed. In quiet moments, when laboring around the fortress, Rowan even caught himself planning lessons for the boy. Figuring out what would suit him best.

But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake the sadness that filled him whenever he corrected the boy’s stance, or reminded him to keep his core muscles tense. Nor could he escape the increasing feeling of foreboding whenever he thought about the future.

This tense peace was not going to last much longer, he was sure of it.

And as he shifted his wings to turn back towards Mistward, Rowan’s conviction was all but confirmed.

For wafting towards him on the western wind, was the unmistakable scent of Lorcan Salvaterre.

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