Elide whispered, "I would hide you. In Perranth. If you. . . if you do what you need to do, and need somewhere to go. . . You would have a place here. With me."

His eyes snapped open, but there was nothing hard, nothing cold about the light shining in them. "I would be a dishonoured male - it'd reflect badly on you."

"If anyone thinks that, they would have no place in Perranth."

His throat bobbed. "Elide, you need to-"

But she rose up slightly, replacing her mouth where her fingers had been.

The kiss was soft, and quiet, and brief. Barely a grazing of her lips against his.

She thought Lorcan might have been trembling as she pulled back. A heat bloomed across her cheeks. But she made herself say, surprised to find her voice steady, "You don't need to answer me now. Or ever. You could show up on my doorstep in ten years, and the offer would still stand. But there is a place for you, in Perranth - should you ever need or wish for it."

Something like agony rippled in his eyes, the most human expression she'd seen him make.

But he leaned forward, and despite the marshes, despite what gathered in the world, for the first time in ten years Elide found herself not at all afraid as Lorcan caressed her lips with his own.

The castle of Perranth still had a tower, Lorcan's finely honed battle instincts noted as he slowly but purposefully made his way up the marble steps. Odd. He would have thought Elide would have had it destroyed as soon as she came into her birth right, rather than let it serve as a constant reminder of the captivity she'd endured. Remembering the story she'd once told him, he scowled at the obsidian pillar, as crude as an industrial chimney amongst fine townhouses when it was against the background of the opulent sky, and splendid castle.

He wondered if she'd learned how to read yet. Surely she must have; a Lady couldn't get by without essential literacy.

He winced to himself. Yes; that was who she was: Elide Lochan, Lady of Perranth. A strong but stern leader, he'd heard from the whispers of her adoring people. A girl who'd walked through the worst of the war that began twenty years ago when she was a child, and come out the other side a changed woman. A woman who wore her scars as proof of her survival; a woman who refused to be looked down on, or cosseted. The woman who still led the way in witch and human cooperation. The woman who had gained support for Aelin and her court not by her non-existent magical prowess, but by being completely and wholly human, despite her witch blood.

She was not Marion, the escaped slave girl he'd agreed to protect as a way to get into Morath, as alike as the cunning minds were.

She was a Lady, and one of the most respected members of the Court of Terrasen. He could not mistake her for a helpless little girl. Not again.

As he came up to the wrought iron gate, he grunted at the guard on watch, who was eyeing him warily. He made sure to keep his hood up, disguising the points of his ears, but he knew that his overall demeanour was intimidating, none the less so when coupled with the preternatural stillness he'd learned as a child, and the overall size of him.

He said smoothly, eloquently, "I'm here to request an audience with the Lady of Perranth." The guard's eyes widened as the man assessed the calm authority in the statement, and finally, the tendril of darkness curling from beneath the hem of his cloak as he walked, like delicate fingers reaching out to snag on the cobblestones. They drifted to and fro in the wind, and as they stroked the ground centimetres in front of the guard's feet, the man took a surreptitious step back.

However, his voice was calm and steady. Decisive, even, as though he respected his Lady's law and order enough to still enforce it in the face of fear. "Her Lady cannot receive visitors immediately upon request," he intoned. Lorcan stifled a snarl. "But I can contact her and see if she'd wish to meet you as soon as possible."

Lorcan nodded. His throat bobbed, unseen by the guard, deep in the shadows of his hood. "Yes." He said distantly, as he felt his mind start to drift, as it had done far too often in these past few years - a drop in the ocean for him, a lifetime for her. He forced himself to speak politely: being aggressive towards her citizens would not be viewed as an act of peace. "That would be appreciated."

The small sitting room he was led to was a far cry from fancy, but nor was it a dump. The word to describe it would be. . . cosy, he presumed. A warm, cosy, friendly atmosphere for the cunning but loving Lady to meet her guests.

I have seen how little respect men have for anything they think they are entitled to.

He hoped that although his faith in the goodness of others had been long destroyed, hers had somehow been repaired by her court of dreamers, that had once promised to remake the world. He hoped that this kindness and goodwill she'd exhibited, was perhaps not an act of faith, but a way of her actively seeking that goodness. A way of knowing that unlike her, those victims who never stopped being beaten had someone to turn to, a place of refuge to stay in.

Once, the thought would have made him sick. Now a hole in his heart that once held his withered conscience ached profusely.

He had been led in here by the guard once the man had returned, stating that the Lady of Perranth would see him soon, and until then he was to wait here. Two other guards had stripped his of his cloak, and rifled through his clothes. They'd not even blinked at his pointed ears, and inhuman countenance, instead thoroughly and methodically stripping him of anything that could hurt their Lady.

Of course they didn't. These were palace guards - and they were in Terrasen. These men had had ten years to get used to having a Fae king, and to see the long hidden Fae of this continent slowly but surely come out of hiding. Of course they didn't blink at him.

Somehow, he had forgotten just how fast the world could change.

His heart started beating a hateful tattoo as he heard the unmistakable clacking of footsteps down the hall. He looked up as the door swung open, and opened his mouth to say something-

But it wasn't Elide who stepped through the door.

Instead, it was the Fire Breathing Bitch Queen of Terrasen herself, whose gold-rimmed eyes sparked at the sight of him amongst all the finery. What had seemed cosy before suddenly seemed. . . different. So human and petty and breakable, especially in the same room as Aelin of the Wildfire and the most powerful Fae male known in existence. All these trinkets would shatter like falling rain, all these cloths and fabrics would burn like finely chopped matchsticks.

She clicked her tongue and drawled, "Considering I haven't found you trying to kill me in the past ten years, and that no one knows I'm here and not in Orynth, I'm going to presume you're here for her."

Neither of them needed to confirm who her was.

Lorcan didn't say anything, knowing that she didn't expect a response. Instead he took the chance to study the queen, admittedly curious over whether the rumours of her Settling were true or not.

Aelin's face still had that same wicked temperament to it that it had ten years ago, when she was just a nineteen year old assassin trying to rally an army. That crackling energy had never quite faded either, and it was still enough to make anyone nervous about dealing with her, wondering if she'd use them as fresh kindling. But Lorcan could never quite get out of his head the image of her from when they'd finally dragged her out of Maeve's stronghold: bloody, defeated, and so exhausted her very figure seemed bowed. She still sparked and burned like a raging wildfire, but. . . There was control there. There'd been control before, keeping a leash on the inferno of bitterness and anger at the world, but there was a tighter one here. And still she strained desperately against it.

Perhaps because now there was more bitterness and anger than the old leash could take, and Whitethorn and Gavriel's son had each ensured she didn't burn down the world.

But her face. . . It was older, there was no doubt about that. Well fed, and healthy, skin as golden as ever, body still lithe and movements still fluid. Even in her human form, she walked with a feline grace. Lorcan wasn't sure whether this meant she had stopped aging, or if her power just kept her sustained.

Aelin cocked her head, and it was only then that it occurred to Lorcan that she might be studying him too.

Foolish - foolish male, for letting his guard down like that.

But he had no more time for self loathing, for the bitch had opened her mouth again, and was speaking. "I think I'll leave you to it," she said, and didn't wait for a response before she was gone. her footsteps clacked just as loudly and determinedly as they had on the way in. Stupid - stupid for ever thinking the steps had been hers, stupid for thinking Elide could be that loud, that brash, that. . . assured. The girl he'd known had never left anything to chance, checking and double checking her pall of lies and deception.

Sure enough, softer footsteps came this time. He sniffed the air for a second, not wanting to take any chances, and something in him cried out at the scent. It had been ten years, but he would never forget it, nor the girl he'd known, and cared for enough to face Maeve again in order to keep her safe.

But the girl he'd known, and the woman who opened the door and went to stand in front of him, were two very different people.