#sall

The explosion erupted with a thundering roar, overpowering the hiss of the water as flames blinded the view of the target and engulfed the air with heat.

It was only their second meeting, and Rowan had given up on fixing his hair after the explosions. Aelin also noted that the targets were progressively getting less hard—the blocks of ice increasingly bigger, and her goal went from slowly melting it to merely making sure he saw some of the water before it evaporated.

“You should take a break. I’ll reinforce the magic barriers in the meantime,” he said.

Every day, he did it repeatedly. As if it meant nothing that Aelin’s magic could wreck barriers this strong in a few blows.

In fact, in all her clumsy explosivity, Rowan had never shied away from her magic—he seemed to be almost drawn to it, which made her relieved and scared at the same time. Relieved because, after witnessing so many people become terrified of her after displaying her magic, her name was thrown around in a way that portrayed her as either a god or a monster—but not with Rowan. With Rowan, the first teacher who wasn’t even remotely scared of her, Aelin was just herself.

But what did it mean?

That’s the part that got her terrified. Because something—whether it was a bond or a tendon—snapped in that drawing room when their magics touched, and it was with the sole person in the world that felt completely at ease with her magic.

Rowan felt it too. He got the types of bond mixed up due to some physical attraction he might be feeling for her—could she blame him?—but he’d figure it out soon.

In desperate need of a deviation from her own thoughts, Aelin said, “It’s hard to believe you’re this patient in the military.”

“That’s because I’m not. My mate gets a special treatment.”

“Would you stop?”

“The bond will still be there whether I stop or not, Princess.” Rowan tilted his head and stopped his work to peer at her. Something about her expression made him sigh. “But you’re not comfortable.”

“I’m not comfortable because we’re not mated.”

Rowan nodded, and a flash of disappointment and longing passed in his eyes, quicker than she could register, and he said, “I shall stop, then.”

The ache in her chest felt foreign, since he was finally granting her wishes. Aelin just wanted for Prince Rowan to forget about this without hurting him in the process.

“C’mere,” she said, tapping the patch of floor beside her. “In your many, many years, have you ever met a mated demi-Fae?”

“Just once, this couple from Mistward,” Rowan said as he sat next to her. “But my experience in Doranelle isn’t a good standard. I hear that things are less… segregated in Terrasen. Better.”

She frowned. “You guys truly don’t mingle with demi-Fae?”

“That issue is both social and personal, I’m afraid. Indeed, the demi-Fae that are allowed inside Doranelle don’t get to frequent the same places I usually do—which are among the high command of the military and in sporadical nobility parties my family coerces me to attend. With that in mind, I don’t mingle,” he said, using the exact wording of her question, “I constantly avoid social interactions—full-blooded or demi-Fae.” He sighed at her aghast expression. “Therefore, the only demi-Fae I see on a daily basis, unfortunately, is Lorcan.”

Doranelle’s one and only Grand General, while Rowan was “just” a regular general.

“Unfortunately because you’re from a deeply prejudiced land, or because you don’t wish to interact with Lorcan?”

“Both.”

“I see.” Aelin blinked, her gaze unfocused as she processed what she heard. She knew what the demi-Fae’s situation was in Doranelle, but it was always presented to her during meetings, as an statistic. Listening to Rowan’s point-of-view on the matter felt like a punch to the gut—while Aelin herself was a queen in the making, the kitchens were the furthest her own people could get inside Doranelle’s castle.

Once more, Aelin was glad she wasn’t Prince Rowan’s mate. As decent as he appeared to be, she did not want to be associated with the likes of him—personally or politically.

Aelin straightened, her chin high as she snarked, “At least you have a diversity token. I guess being the most powerful demi-Fae male alive is enough for Maeve to look past his unclean blood.”

Rowan shifted, still sat on the floor, his eyes careful as he analyzed Aelin’s expression. “To ensure there’s no misunderstanding…” he trailed, “I’m throughly repulsed by Maeve’s policies against the demi-Fae—which Sellene is already rectifying.”

“Oh, yes, and I’m throughly moved by your silent disagreement.”

His eyebrows rose up. “I beg your pardon?”

It hadn’t been even half an hour after Rowan’s calming exercise, but she could already feel the agitated fire beneath her skin, boiling the blood in her veins from indignation alone.

“How dare you imply that you were not complacent, in your mulberry silk tunic that was most likely stitched by an overworked demi-Fae seamstress. Your aunt,” Aelin spat the word, “built an empire founded on the exploitation and degradation of people like me, and yet you want me to believe you’d ever spare me a second glance, were it not for my title?”

“I would.”

She frowned, trying to see through that fog of anger. “What?”

“You doubted I’d look at you twice, and I’m telling you I would.” Rowan sighed. “As an unessential prince with no decision-making power,” he said with a pointed look, “I find it most practical to make changes from within. Small and well-measured acts of rebellion tend to be the most effective when you’re close to the people actively making the decisions.”

Aelin examined his open expression and wondered if he was trying to deceive her, or if he truly believed himself. “But it was not you who rebelled against her, was it? Maeve was killed by the people you vowed and failed to protect.”

“I suppose she was.” Rowan locked his jaw, his eyes growing distant.

˜˜

Their next few encounters got a lot less awkward once Aelin got those opinions off her chest, thank Mala.

Once she had learned the basics when it came to intensity, range, aim and everything else, she asked to pick the lesson’s activity for once, just in time to get the materials ready before they met again at The Dueling Hall.

“Easy,” he warned when her flames got too hot, too fast.

“Hush.” Aelin wiped the sweat off her brow, fatigue weighing down her limbs each minute she had to keep the flames at a controlled and gradually higher intensity—she wasn’t melting ice anymore, the stakes were too high. “I’ve got it under control, you Buzzard.”

“The same way you did when you shattered my mug?”

Aelin rolled her eyes at him, and her flames got involuntarily higher after his jab, making a shard blow off her candle holder, ruining its practical use.

She groaned and tossed it aside, along with the other overburnt ceramics. “This one was your fault. Don’t suffocate the artist!”

“It was useless before you ruined it. You’re a fire-wielder. You don’t need candles. Why on earth would you make a candle holder?”

“Because I have the fire, not the scented beeswax.”

“I’m not following.”

“You’ve never lit up a scented candle before? Those ones that release a fragrance when you light them up.”

Rowan stared at her, seemingly struggling to process this information. “But candles are for light. Why are you adding smell to the light?”

The brute. Aelin wouldn’t even bother with him this time. She threw a piece of clay at him for another round—she refused to leave this place without a clayware creation of her own.

“Don’t make anything too intricate in case you burn it again.”

“You are the worst teacher ever. You’ve got absolutely no faith in me.”

“I have faith that you’ll become a proficient wielder someday, not immediately after you overburned four pieces of clayware in a row.” He pondered over his next words while opening a hole into the ball of clay. “Think about it this way: this is a safe space for you to make mistakes. You’d rather learn from them here than when the stakes are high.”

She couldn’t argue with that. “Are you speaking from experience?”

Rowan tilted his head, his hands pausing their work as his gaze grew unfocused. “Nothing ever happened at work, though my family does like to recall some embarrassing stories from time to time.”

“Do tell!” she asked with a little too much excitement, wide-eyed.

Rowan chuckled and looked back at his mug-to-be as he recalled. “In my pre-teen years, I used to practice my healing magic with animals. This one time, my mother’s Asterion mare was having a difficult birth. It took ages for the veterinarian to arrive and she was under so much stress, so I decided to send a soft breeze towards her and—“

Rowan winced.

“And what?” Aelin set aside her chunk of clay and leaned forward, unashamed to show her eagerness.

“I blew down the entire stable.” He looked down, the slightest hue of pink tinting the tips of his ears.

Aelin cackled, her shoulders bending forward as her laughter filled the dueling hall. Rowan regarded her with a funny expression her aching ribcage didn’t allow her to decipher.

“It’s not that funny,” he said with mock-indignation.

“Were any animals hurt?”

“Just a few scrapes I healed immediately after.”

“Then it is absolutely hilarious.”

Chuckling, he shook his head and shaped his mug’s handle with a string of clay. “I’m sure you have even worse stories.”

“Worse? Yes. But not funnier in a million years.” Aelin looked down to her work and resumed shaping it. She needed something to do with her hands if she was going to talk about it. “The extent of my power was supposed to be kept a secret until I was of age, but it was impossible to do it when I couldn’t control it at all, so soon I was being watched by the entire world. If I accidentally blew up a wing of the castle, shortly other kingdoms would fund local rebels or demand restrictions on my use of power in treaties. Or maybe Maeve—the creepiest of all—would send my mother another letter requesting to meet me. The pacing and worrying was a constant in my youth—will she try to kidnap me next? How much power can I wield without having other kingdoms trying to harm or kill me?”

To her relief, Rowan didn’t show any pity. “It’s twisted and messed up. If anyone can learn how to navigate this, it’s you.”

Aelin didn’t feel like there was anything else to say, so she didn’t. Her soon-to-be ceramic was already shaped, and so was Rowan’s—she couldn’t tell by how done it looked, but by how equally ugly it was from the others he gave her to fire.

Aelin appraised it while starting with a low intensity of her fire.

While she tried to achieve the best shape she could for her work, Rowan’s mugs were done as soon as it looked useable enough. If the handle fits his hand, the bottom is flat enough to stay still and the hole is deep enough to hold his coffee, it’s done.

“Easy,” Rowan warned when her flames grew a bit higher.

“Shut it,” she hissed.

They were both kneeling, one on each side, hovering over their potter’s work.

“I better have a new mug after this lesson, Princess.”

“You could’ve had three new mugs by now if you’d help me out a little.”

“If I were helping you out ever since the lessons started, you’d be turning the clay into dust, not merely shattering it.”

Aelin wanted to sneer back, she absolutely did, but she was halfway into it and not a single shard had popped off the ceramics. As if Rowan had sensed it too, his attention was now wholly on their work.

A bit more. Increase just a bit more intensity, slow and steady—

A small, outer piece of Rowan’s mug handle fell off and, without thinking, he lowered down her flames.

“Gods,” he said, stupefied with his unintended help. “I wasn’t thinking—“

She shushed him, still focused on the flames. Now that he had set the perfect amount, she’d just have to keep it.

Keep it

Keep it

Steady

Rowan breathed, “Just a bit more and—“

A small shard of Aelin’s own piece fell off.

“Don’t,” he said. “It was nothing. Minimal damage. Just keep up like this.”

She did exactly that, rubbing her face as she swayed on her knees from fatigue; still, she willed her fire to stay and act exactly as she commanded.

“Do you think it’s done now?”

“Don’t hush it.” His eyes were glued to the nearly done clayware. “We’re almost there.”

Aelin couldn’t bear to count the time. The amount of time she had to spend burning these things, controlling the fire so it wouldn’t break, was tiresome in the least. This was the longest she stayed without seriously tearing their work, and her other two attempts weighed down on her now.

“I think you can put it off now—slowly,” Rowan said.

Aelin complied her shoulders relaxing each time she decreased her fire, but still trying to maintain a steady rhythm.

She heaved a loud sigh and threw herself on the floor.

“Congratulations, Princess.” Rowan beamed at the ugliest mug she’s ever seen. His fingers wrapped around the gap in the handle as he mimicked lifting it to his mouth and said, “You’ve just burned functional enough clayware.”

She ignored his sass and grinned to herself, facing the ceiling. “Thank you.”

He laid as well, beside her, and handed her his mug. “You should have it. It’s your accomplishment.”

“But you wanted your mug so bad!” She said as she turned to face him. He did the same.

“I didn’t want the mug itself as much as I wanted for it to be whole by the end of the lesson.”

“Thank you,” she said, holding the mug with both hands with a small smile, as if it was something precious. She set it down and reached for her own creation. “You shall have mine, then. It’s only fair.”

Rowan chuckled. “Thank you for the lovely… miniature wand?” He laid it on the palm of his hand—his very large hand, in her defense.

Aelin gasped. “It’s a spoon!”

“A spoon,” he trailed, saucy yet cautious with her gift as he gently trailed his finger along it.

“Of course. You always carry so many knifes around, but I’ve never seen you carry a spoon,” she teased.

“How wise of you.” The corner of his lips twitched, but he was the kind of man that clamped down even the tiniest of smiles. “I’ve gotten too comfortable with my weapons lately. Finding a way to harm someone with this will be a good exercise.”

She didn’t doubt he would.

˜˜

In all her twenty-one years, Aelin had never grown to love her flames.

She’d feared them and their potential to harm.

She’d felt amused by them at the time she’d accidentally set some of Lord Suria’s papers on fire, when he drafted a proposal for a law that pissed her off.

She’d embarrassed herself among burnt books and under the gaze of an enraged librarian.

At best, she respected herself and her gift.

But right now, Aelin loved it.

The wind blew away her hair as she ran and twirled around the beach, the sand soft and loose under her feet while she opened her arms wide for the flames to dance on them.

Her chest felt so big and wide it didn’t feel like that at all—it felt as if it’d opened itself to welcome the entire world inside of her, and Aelin and this beach were one and the same.

I love this. I love this. I love this.

And Aelin wasn’t the only one affected. For the first time, she’d seen Rowan allow a full grin to sneak past his grumpy defenses. He sat on the sand the entire time, but Aelin could feel him sending more wind towards her when nature slowed it down.

She couldn’t tell how she was able to discern which particles of the wind were his and which weren’t, but some primal part of her did—a concern meant for the four walls of her room, not the beach.

She’d never felt as carefree—it felt as if her entire existence narrowed down to this, and she was made to feel to the bone the magnificent synchronicity between the wind and her fire.

Aelin opened her arms wider and ran where Rowan was, laughing at his antics when he played with the wind against her.

Rowan. He watched her every move—today, always—and she knew it was all because of him. Aelin wouldn’t go so far as to claim that her new newfound skills and confidence with her flames were his accomplishment more than her own, but it was impossible to deny that she wouldn’t be like this right now if it wasn’t for him. Her training wasn’t even complete, but she felt so grateful already.

Aelin laid on the floor beside his seated figure, but she couldn’t bring herself to put her fire down—it stayed low atop her body, like a small, living bonfire.

Rowan put one hand through the flame, unafraid and without touching her body, the way one did with steam before a hot bath.

“People usually make camp fires at night,” he teased, “not when the sun’s still high.”

“It’s so windy.” She smiled, her eyes closed. “I like how it tingles the flame.”

Rowan immediately sent more her way. She gave him a close-lipped, grateful smile.

Then he threw the smallest, most obnoxious block of ice at her. It turned to steam before it grazed her skin.

“You brute!”

He did it again.

Aelin frowned and grew the flames higher.

He chuckled. “I won’t bite.”

“I find it hard to believe you.”

Rowan’s expression slacked, the awareness of their exchange’s underlying meaning all over his face. He swallowed. He gave his eyes one second to wander over her before he turned to face the sea.

“We were supposed to be in the middle of combat training by now.” He gave her a pointed look. “You haven’t even crafted a passable sword yet.”

“Gods, s’fine.” Aelin lifted her forearm and waved a fire sword.

“A minimally passable sword is much sharper”.

“Isn’t it enough that the sword will be burning things? You also want it sharp enough to cut the fabric between the realms?”

“I actually wanted it to look like a sword more than a pole, but I wouldn’t object it if you made it happen.”

Aelin groaned and put her fire sword down. Despite his own insistence that they get some work done, Rowan laid down beside her, on the sand. They silently enjoyed each other’s companies, keeping that same dynamic where their magics gently played with each other like rippling sea water blending into the sand.

As a princess of a ruthlessly cold kingdom, if Aelin had known beaches could be this fun, she would’ve come here as soon as she landed in Wendlyn—it was either Rowan’s doing, or beaches in Suria were extraordinarily lame. Perhaps both.

He didn’t bring her here for fun, but to make her ready for adverse circumstances. Beaches were made of sand, water and wind, and all three of them could change Aelin’s fire, so she was supposed to be getting acquainted with those changes and reshaping her powers to accommodate them without losing efficiency in battle. A very important exercise, one she’d completely focus on was she not having the time of her life today.

It seemed like he was willing to forgive her for it, by the way his calls to continue the lesson progressively decreased once Aelin tugged her tunic off her pants and started to run with the wind.

Every time he ignited her flames further, Rowan’s scent came with the breeze, as if it didn’t unsettle her by default. At first, she thought that it was part of a cheap ploy to win her, wearing a cologne that smelled like pine and snow, two of Terrasen’s symbols. But then the scent lingered after he got wet or sweaty, and her theory fell apart because no cologne could withstand their training sessions.

Rowan naturally smelling like her home was a disfavor to her attempt to ignore that tug in her chest when he was near.

When Aelin rolled to her side, he was already watching her.

She watched him back, unabashed.

She watched how the sunlight made his gray eyelashes look holy, and how it blessed his skin in the form of a tan. How beautiful that skin tone looked along with the pink of his pillowy lips.

“Do you ever feel as if our magics are kindred?”

Rowan reached for Aelin’s aflame hand and stroked its back with his thumb.

“All of the time,” he said in a tone that was too quiet, almost muffled by the waves on the shore.

She traced her thumb along his palm. “I do too.”

“We could try.” He closed his hand, keeping her thumb trapped inside it. “We’d cross out one out of two.”

Mates or carranam, is what he didn’t say.

He never freed her from his palm. The one place most Fae used to test a carranam bond. She wasn’t ready to do it yet, bare her mind to him, stay at her most vulnerable, then face the consequences of having two bonded royals from kingdoms that antagonize each other.

But when it was just the two of them in a little breakable heaven, she almost followed the commands from her aching heart to just do it and get it over with.

“I—“

Rowan let go of her hand after the silence that led to a stammer.

“You don’t trust me,” he said. Not a question nor an accusation, though it pained her to see the crestfallen look in his eyes.

“There’s different ways to trust someone.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

Aelin lifted her hand to his cheek, her thumb moving in idle circles against it. “I trust you, but some things are bigger than that,” she whispered.

Rowan didn’t look convinced, but didn’t want to argue or demand anything from her. She scrambled her mind for other ways to get her point across, but all it did was pause on the very method she hopelessly tried to avoid.

She kept her stare locked on his as she let go of his face and slowly, making sure he understood every step of the way, tilted her head back until her throat was arched and bared before him.

“Aelin,” he breathed. Not in reprimand or warning, but… a plea. It sounded like a plea.

Ever so tentative, Rowan slowly wrapped a hand around her neck, letting his thumb trace the length. She briefly closed her eyes and arched it further, a silent invitation.

He lowered his head to her exposed neck and hovered a hair’s breadth away.

Rowan let out a soft groan and grazed his teeth against her skin.

One bite, one movement, was all it would take for him to rip out her throat. His elongated canines slid along her flesh—gently, precisely. In order to keep from running her fingers down his back and drawing him closer, Aelin clenched the sand like she’d do to her bedsheets, but all it did was slip through her fingers and leave her with nothing to hold on to.

“No one else,” she whispered. “I would never allow anyone else at my throat.” Showing him was the only way he’d understand that trust, in a manner that only the predatory, Fae side of him would comprehend. “No one else,” she said again.

He let out another low groan, answer and confirmation and request, and the rumble echoed inside her. He reverently trailed pecks from the spot below her ear to her collarbone, and Aelin’s whole body was aware of it, from her agitated core to the goosebumps breaking through her skin.

Rowan closed his teeth over the spot where her lifeblood thrummed and pounded, his breath hot on her skin.

She shut her eyes, every sense narrowing on that sensation, on the teeth and mouth at her throat, on the powerful body trembling with restraint above hers. His tongue flicked against her skin.

She made a small noise that might have been a moan, or a word, or his name. He shuddered and pulled back, the cool air kissing her neck. Wildness—pure wildness sparked in those eyes.

Then he thoroughly, brazenly surveyed her body, his nostrils flaring delicately as he scented exactly what she wanted.

Aelin threaded her fingers through his hair and pulled his lips to hers—once she did it, Rowan didn’t hold back. Every flick of his tongue was demanding, the fingers on her waist near crushing, as if she’d escape his grasp any minute.

This… Aelin couldn’t say she never saw it coming. She’d been attracted to Rowan ever since she first laid eyes on him, even though attraction on itself doesn’t dictate her actions, and the situation they were in complicated things.

However, in that moment, there were no kingdoms or ghosts to haunt her.

There was no avoiding Rowan or the way his nearness messed with her mind and body, so Aelin’s new vow to herself was that whatever happened now stayed between them, the sand and the sea.

His touch boldened, reaching up to her side boob and breastband as he ravaged her neck. One lewd whimper, and Rowan used his wind to block any noise from leaving their little bubble—every sound she made for him was his alone.

Aelin tucked his tunic off his pants and sneaked her hands inside it. His heated skin was barely noticeable compared to when Aelin felt muscles she hadn’t known existed.

His abs felt so hard under such soft skin, it reminded Aelin of the most delicious chocolate bar, with smooth lines dividing neat ridges—

Stop it, a voice that sounded akin to her conscience interrupted her thoughts.

She shook the comparison aside and guided his mouth back to hers. Fae males—once Aelin allowed him on her neck, he hang onto it like his favorite toy.

Aelin lifted her hips, and the way his own ground back against where she was sensitive the most tore a moan out of her, even with her clothes on.

“Are you sure?” Rowan rasped quite gentlemanly, given the state they were currently in.

In response, Aelin burned his linen tunic into ash.

And then loved her—maybe not with his heart, but with his teeth, tongue and other body parts that fit even more perfectly, which felt just as nice for now.

In fact, it felt so good even the gods might envy her choice of lover.

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