A/N: So, like I said, here's the first chapter of Hidden, posted with the prologue. I know the prologue was a little ambiguous, but it'll become less confusing in time. Now, on with the story!

PART I: HIDE-AND-SEEK

CHAPTER 1

It was the scream that woke Raiden.

He stirred, feeling the unfamiliar chafe of silk sheets against his bare legs. He blinked, squinting against the harsh morning sunlight filtering in through the windows. This wasn't his room—this was far too ornate and grand to be his room, expansive and outfitted with luxury as it was, from the canopy bed to the vanity laden with jewels and cosmetics.

Raiden froze. Noticed the head of ebony hair on his chest, the nearly-nude body sprawled out beside him.

Noticed the maid standing at the foot of the bed, her cheeks pale, a hand clapped to her mouth. She'd been the one to scream.

Raiden swore, and Syeira stirred beside him, her eyes opening, then widening with alarm. "Rai?" she croaked. "What is it? Why are you still here?"

"We've got company," he muttered, and she bolted upright. She was in nothing but her undergarments, Raiden himself in nothing at all. Syeira whitened, grabbing a sheet and pulling it to her chest.

The maid shrieked again.

Guards burst into the room, their hands on the hilt of their swords. They'd heard the maid's scream, it seemed. Raiden let out another torrent of curses as the guards stared at them, their mouths slack-jawed at the sight of him in the bed of the half-naked heir to the Crochan Crown.

Syeira just sat there, frozen. They were in so, so, so much trouble.

And it was at that precise moment, when Raiden realized that they were in deep, deep shit, that the shit became even deeper.

Because it was at that precise moment that Syeira's father—Dorian Havilliard, King of Adarlan—burst into the room, hair rumpled from sleep, looking frantic.

Raiden cursed again. Beside him, Syeira looked as if she wanted to die.

But it only got worse from there, because right on Dorian's heels was Syeira's mother, Manon, the Crochan Queen.

He didn't swear that time. The look in Manon's sharp, golden eyes was enough to make him nearly piss himself. He knew that Syeira had those same eyes, but she'd never looked at him like that—like she wanted to eat him.

For a long, endless moment, they all just stared at each other: guards, maid, king, queen, princess, and son of the Captain of the Guard. Raiden swallowed.

"Hey," he tried. "How… How's the weather today?"

Dorian stared at him. "Get," he ground out, "the hell out of my daughter's room."

Frost glazed the windows of Syeira's bedroom, and Raiden reflected that the shit, deep as it was, had just deepened another ten feet.

"All of you," Dorian roared, whirling to face the guards and the maid. "Get out."

They all filed out of the room, shooting Raiden and Syeira curious, half-horrified glances. Dorian and Manon stood there, the former fuming, the latter with her iron teeth snapped into place, her claws out and gleaming.

I am going to die.

"Why aren't you moving?" Syeira hissed.

He swallowed. "My—my trousers…" he began, inclining his head toward the vanity all the way on the other side of the room, where his pants had hastily been thrown over the mirror. If he wanted to get them, he'd have to walk right in-between the King of Adarlan and the Crochan Queen.

Manon tilted her head, turned around, and picked up his trousers, letting them dangle from her fingertips. "Come and get them, Raiden Westfall."

Raiden sent a pleading look to Syeira, but she didn't meet his eye. He slid off the bed uncomfortably, wrapping a blanket around his lower half. His undershorts… Had he even been wearing undershorts the night before?

He pinned the blanket in place with one hand and took the trousers with the other. "Thanks," he said, offering the queen a wry smile.

She didn't match it. Her lips peeled back to expose her canines.

He attempted to put on his pants without letting the blanket fall, which almost—but not quite—worked. Raiden suppose that was another thing to put on his resume: I once accidentally revealed half my ass to the King of Adarlan and the Crochan Queen.

"So," he said. "The weather. I guess it's not too good, huh?"

"Rai," Syeira hissed from across the room.

But Dorian didn't get a chance to throttle him, because at that moment, the door swung open with a bang, and Raiden's father stormed into the room.

Oh, yes. The humiliation wouldn't be complete without a visit from Chaol Westfall.

Chaol was panting. "I heard a scream," he said. "Is everything alright?"

"No," Dorian said crisply. "No, actually, it's not, Chaol."

Chaol seemed to notice Raiden for the first time. His face went the color of puce as his eyes flicked to Syeira in the bed, a sheet pulled up to her chest.

He didn't say anything. He opened his mouth and closed it several times, gaping like a fish out of water.

"Look," Raiden said. "I think there's been some miscommunication here."

"Oh, really?" Manon purred. "Go on. Explain."

Raiden scratched the back of his neck. "It's just… You know, some fun. Nothing permanent."

Wrong thing to say. Wrong, wrong, wrong thing to say.

Dorian Havilliard's hand closed around Raiden's throat so fast that he hardly had time to react, to dodge, as the King of Adarlan slammed the son of his Captain of the Guard against the wall.

Syeira screamed as she launched out of bed, clad only in her brasserie and undershorts. "Let him go!" she shrieked, pounding on her father's arms. "Let him go! Dad!"

Dorian let go of Raiden, and he fell to the floor, gasping and clutching his neck. Shit, the king was strong. And lethal.

"Pull yourself together, Syeira," Manon snapped. "That's enough."

Raiden cowered against the wall. The king wasn't even breathing hard. His eyes were alight with cold, icy, blue fury, his hands curled into fists at his sides. Raiden couldn't decide who to be more afraid of—the magic king, or the witch queen.

As it turned out, he didn't have time to contemplate it much further, because Chaol grabbed his son by his ear and yanked him to his feet. "Dorian, Manon," Chaol said, a muscle in his jaw ticking. "I sincerely apologize on the behalf of my son."

Neither one said anything. Chaol kept his firm grab on Raiden's ear as he dragged his son out of the Crochan Princess's bedchambers, shoving him into the hall.

Raiden wasn't sure if he'd ever seen his father this angry in his entire life.

He sat in a chair in his father's office, still shirtless. His father was glaring at Raiden from across the desk, his bronze eyes sparking. "What," Chaol Westfall said between gritted teeth, "exactly, was the thought process behind this stellar move?"

Raiden crossed his arms, giving Chaol a cocky, arrogant smile. Eat me, you bastard. "To take the edge off. Why else?"

Chaol glowered. "What the hell is wrong with you, Rai?"

"Nothing. Like I said, it was just to take the edge off. No harm done."

"No harm done? No harm done?" His father's face had gone purple. "You slept with the heir to the Crochan Crown, Raiden!"

"Multiple times, actually," he said.

Logically, Raiden knew that he shouldn't dig himself in any deeper. His father was already going to flay him alive. But gods help him, he hated Chaol. Hated him. Had since Raiden had been branded a wild, no-good mischief-maker at seven years old by his father, bound to end up in a shallow backwoods grave.

Chaol was about obedience, honor, discipline. Raiden was about raising hell.

His father's knuckles whitened. "Multiple times?"

Raiden gave him a smug grin, just to piss his father off. "Since spring."

It was autumn.

His father pinched the bridge of his nose. "Tell me you're joking."

"No. But I can tell you a joke, if you'd like. Have you ever heard the one about the three-headed fishwife and the wyvern?"

"Do you know what the consequences of this could be?" Chaol shouted, slamming his fist down on his desk. "You'd be lucky if you only got exiled from the castle, Rai. I'd be lucky if I didn't lose my job."

"Good thing I've always been a lucky hand at cards, then."

"This isn't a laughing matter, Raiden!"

"I should hope not. I never laugh about cards."

Chaol's eyes flashed. "Is it possible for you take anything seriously? Anything at all?"

Raiden's temper frayed. "What do you want me to say, Chaol? That I'm terribly sorry? That I love Syeira, that she's the sun and I am the stars, and our love will last throughout all eternity?"

"Gods, no." Chaol paled. "You don't love her, do you?"

Raiden scoffed. "Of course not. And she doesn't love me."

Lies. Lies, lies, lies. What was it about being around his father that made Raiden lie his ass off, made him present himself in the worst way possible?

"You'd better hope so, Raiden," Chaol said. "Because if there's anything more than that, you're in for a hell of a shock."

His heart twisted, but he forced a smile. "Me? Get attached? Give me some credit, Father, will you?"

Chaol's face darkened, making the jagged scar on his cheek stand out like a livid white line. "Get out. Just—Get out, Raiden. I don't want to have to look at you for another second."

"The feeling is mutual," he snarled, shoving back his chair. He threw open the door, slamming it shut behind him.

His father's words echoed in his head. You're in for one hell of a shock.

He pushed the thought aside. He'd deal with that when the time came. For now, Raiden had to take care of the mess at hand.

Step one, he thought, find a gods-damned shirt.

Syeira was dead.

After Chaol and Raiden left, she was left standing in the cold in her undergarments. Her mother was shooting daggers at her, but her father…

Her father refused to meet her eye. It hit her like an arrow piercing her chest.

They all stood in awful silence, thick enough that Syeira felt as if she were choking.

"Here," her mother said, clearly, cuttingly, slowly, "is what is going to happen. You are going to get dressed. You will meet us in our chambers in exactly fifteen minutes. One second later, and there will be consequences beyond your wildest dreams. Do you understand?"

She swallowed. "Mom—"

"Not another word, Syeira," her mother said. "Not right now."

Her mother strode from the room, her father following her. He hadn't looked at Syeira once.

She swallowed, left alone in her room. Raiden's shirt was still on the floor by her foot, and she picked it up, inhaling his scent. He always smelled like southern spices—like cumin and cayenne, probably a result of his mother's southern heritage.

Oh, Raiden. What have I gotten you into?

She swept a hand across her cheek. "Pull yourself together," she told herself harshly, unconsciously repeating her mother's words from before. "You are the Crochan Heir. Pull yourself together."

She worked quickly, folding Raiden's shirt and setting it on her bed. She dressed in a red tunic, braiding her hair haphazardly, swiping a line of kohl around her eyes. Appearances were everything.

When she emerged into the corridor outside her bedroom, her guards were gawking at her. She narrowed her eyes at them. "Something to say to me, boys?"

"N-no," one stammered. "Of course not."

Syeira had always thought it was ridiculous that these humans were guarding her—humans that were afraid of her. If she was attacked, she would be her own best line of defense, not these mortals.

She made her way down the hallway, stopping at the doorway to her parents' chambers. It had been exactly fourteen minutes.

Syeira took a deep, steadying breath, and knocked.

A maid opened it. She bowed her head. "Your Highness," she murmured, before allowing Syeira in and exiting the chambers herself. She must've had orders to leave as soon as Syeira arrived.

She tiptoed through her parents' rooms. For the chambers of a king and queen, they were somewhat subdued. Five rooms: the bedroom, the parlor, the study, the bathroom, and the closet. It was the study that Syeira had loved most as a child, the row upon row of her father's books, smelling of leather and ink.

But her parents were waiting in the parlor, the room outfitted with the pool and card tables, various chairs scattered about. It was flush with light from the window, lemony sunlight falling in dappled shadows across the plush red rug. Her father had his back to her, gazing out the window, and her mother was leaning against the wall, examining the glimmer of her iron claws.

"Sit," her mother said without looking up.

Syeira did as she was told. She would bear this beating, but she would not take it lying down. You are the Crochan Heir. You can do this.

"What you did today," her mother said, speaking slowly, "was not simply foolish. It was inconsiderate, imprudent, thoughtless, and unwise."

"Sure you don't want to throw a Thesaurus at me and be done with it?" Syeira snapped.

Her mother met her gaze, and her golden eyes were so sharp that they seemed to delve beneath her skin, drawing blood. "Watch your tongue, Syeira Crochan-Havilliard."

Syeira's fingernails dug into the sides of her chair.

Her father spoke next, and the way his voice sounded—so cool, empty, and hollow—killed Syeira. She and her father had always been close. He had been the one to hold her after the ice had first exploded around her in a maelstrom of snow and sleet when she was six years old. She'd thrown a temper tantrum at her nursemaid, wailing and shrieking and pounding her fists. Daggers of sharp, frozen ice had exploded from her palms.

The way her nursemaid had looked at her…

"Don't be afraid of it," her father had told her, kissing her forehead roughly. "I love you, Syeira. You will go on to do great things. Do not be afraid of the power you possess."

Now, she couldn't help feeling that everything had changed.

"Is this a new occurrence?" Dorian Havilliard asked dully.

Syeira wished desperately that her parents didn't have the ability to scent lies like a bloodhound.

"No," she whispered.

"Are you a virgin?" her mother asked blatantly, matter-of-factly.

Syeira closed her eyes. "No."

A choked, strangled noise from her father at the window. Her mother's golden eyes had turned into daggers aimed for Syeira's heart.

"How many?" her mother said. "Just Westfall, or more?"

"Only Rai." It had always been only Rai. There had never been anyone else.

"How long?" her father said from the window.

"Depends." She moistened her lip. "Depends on what… on what you're asking."

Her mother let out a low, cruel laugh. "You know exactly what we're asking, Syeira. Don't make us spell it out loud."

She set her jaw. "Since spring."

Her mother raised an eyebrow. "How did you manage to hide your scent for that long?"

"Perfumes. Baths." Anything and everything, she wanted to say, but didn't. "Oils."

She was not prepared for what her mother asked next.

"How many times in your bed?"

Syeira froze. "I… Why the hell do you want to know that?"

"Because," her mother said calmly, "I need to know precisely how much damage you caused. Now tell me how many times he took you in your bed."

Across the room, her father's breath snagged.

"It… it didn't usually happen there," Syeira said, her stomach flipping. "Only two or three times. We tried to be careful."

"Careful," her mother mocked. "Not exactly the word I'd use."

"I'm sorry, alright? I made a mistake. I get it."

"No, not alright," her mother snarled. "You are the heir to the Crochan Crown, Syeira, not some peasant girl waltzing the streets. You are a gifted, deadly magician set to inherit one of the largest countries in the world. It was not one mistake; it was a mistake made over and over again. You don't get to do that. You have a duty to your country, and to your people."

"To what?" Syeira said, getting to her feet. Her cheeks were hot, almost stinging. "To keep celibate? To remain some innocent, pretty little virgin? Come on. Were either of you virgins when you ascended to your thrones?"

Her parents were silent.

"That's what I thought," she said, disgusted.

Her father's voice cut through the room like a whiplash. "You are fourteen years old."

"So?" she challenged.

"So," her father said, whirling around, a fury of ice cold enough to freeze flame, "you don't get to make that kind of decision. You don't get to decide when and who to let into your bed."

"Well, guess what, Dad?" Syeira cried, throwing her arms out. "I just did."

"Watch your tongue," her mother growled.

"Or what?" Syeira said.

Her father stared at her for a long, long time. "I'm writing to Rowan. This is unacceptable."

She recoiled as if she'd been slapped. "Uncle Rowan?"

"You," her father said, "are going back to your rooms to pack. You're going to Terrasen. Maybe he can drill some sense into you. Distance will do you good."

"You can't do this!" Syeira said, her eyes wide with terror. Not away from Rai. Never away from Rai.

"Oh, yes, we can," her mother said. "Watch us."

"Rowan Galathynius is a madman," she said.

"King Rowan Galathynius is a hero," her father snarled. "You should be so lucky as to have him give you the time of day."

"Dad," she begged. "Please. Don't do this."

"Go pack your bags, Syeira," her father said, already headed for his study, for his parchment and ink. "You're leaving tomorrow morning. And so is Raiden."

"Dont," she said, her voice trembling. "This isn't his fault."

"Honestly, Syeira," her mother said, tone laden with disgust. "I'm fairly certain you didn't force him into your bed."

Ice swirled around her feet. "Don't. Please."

"Control yourself, Syeira," Dorian said. He didn't even bother to halt his footsteps, or turn around. "And get out."

Syeira looked at them both, at her cruel, impassive mother, at her father, so rarely provoked into a fury, and spun on her heel, shoving the door open and kicking it shut hard enough to rattle the door frame.

You think I'm deadly, Mother? You think I'm a child, father?

Just wait. Just watch me.

Raiden went back to his room at the castle, dressing and cleaning himself up quickly. He looked like shit. He and Syeira usually knew better, but they'd gotten drunk at a feast last night, swiping a bottle of wine from one of the tables. Their heads had been so cloudy that they hadn't considered the possible ramifications. All he remembered of the previous night was a flash of Syeira, golden eyes, sable hair, and tanned, sugary skin.

And now, because of it...

I am never, Raiden thought, drinking again.

Which was probably a lie. But the declaration made him feel better, anyway.

When he came back out into the hallway, people stared and pointed at him, whispering through cupped hands. He felt a trickle of anger in his stomach. He knew what people would likely say about him—that he was looking for a crown, that he was bored, that he'd taken advantage of her. None of which was true.

He decided to go to the breakfast hall to look for Syeira, but she wasn't there. He grimaced. Manon and Dorian weren't at their usual high table, either; only the other three Crochan-Havilliard children were seated at the expanse of mahogany set high and far above the rest of the tables.

As he walked in, halting on the threshold of the enormous oaken doors, people turned to look at him, murmurs rippling through the crowd like a wave. At the high table, the three remaining Crochan-Havilliards—Orion, Calynn, and Bevyn—turned to glower at him.

The combined force of their glares almost made him recoil.

All of Manon and Dorian's children scared the shit out of Raiden, Syeira included. The heir to the Crochan Crown might've been the scariest of all. He'd seen her invoke icy blasts before, and he'd never been able to get the picture out of his head, much as he'd tried.

But she wasn't the only one. Thirteen-year-old Orion, set to inherit the Crown of Adarlan, even looked terrifying: a shock of silver-white hair, pale blue eyes, and iron teeth and claws that gleamed with lethality. He was the only male to ever get those iron accessories, and it was speculated to be a result of his parents' respective magics fusing together.

And then there was Calynn, only twelve but still thought to be the beauty of a family notorious for its looks. One golden eye, one blue eye, and a sheet of black hair streaked through with white. She was stunning, but clever. She might not have displayed any indication of powers, but that didn't mean she wasn't deadly.

Even seven-year-old Bevyn, known for little more than mischief and tricks played on portly nobles, was enough to send a shudder down Raiden's spine. The boy was a living portrait of Manon, with the same silver hair and amber eyes, and that cruel, conniving smile.

Syeira didn't inherit that. Her smile was softer, quieter, almost contemplative. He supposed that she must've gotten it from her father.

He exhaled and turned around, ducking sharply out into the corridor. He couldn't go back to his rooms, not when he knew his mother was probably already tracking him down. He couldn't face the look on Nesryn Westfall's face.

Where the hell was Syeira?

Chaol had been brutal, but Raiden wasn't an idiot. He knew he'd gotten the easy receiving end, and he'd left Syeira to the wolves. His mouth tightened as he took an unconscious set of twists and turns, passing by woven tapestries and suits of armor, glass windows and scurrying servants.

He pushed open a door without really thinking and found himself in the gardens, autumn air kissing his skin.

He'd always thought the gardens were the most beautiful part of the castle. Now, the leaves of the oak trees were touched with burnished crimson and gold, the branches and bark shivering, waiting for the winter to come. The wilting of the garden was a sight to behold, petals and pointed leaves strewn across the path like breadcrumbs. His breath fogged on the cool air, hovering tendrils of pale smoke.

He glanced back up at the castle, half-imagining that he could see her waiting in the room. Which was idiotic—Raiden wasn't prone to that kind of woe-is-me melodrama. But still he couldn't quench the worry in his stomach.

She had been the one to kiss him.

It was at her birthday party last spring. The entire castle had bursted with life, rolls of satin spilling out at the royal family's feet, crowns and tiaras and jewels ordered specially-made. The celebration itself had been a sight to behold, dancing and laughing and clapping until the early hours of the morning.

Raiden had been best friends with Syeira for as long as he could remember. He'd grown up with the Crochan-Havilliards, traveling with them to Crochan Country and Rifthold as they alternated years spent in their distant homelands. He was only a year older than Syeira, and despite everything, despite the fact that she was a powerful, aristocratic witch of Crochan, Blackbeak, and Havilliard blood, despite the fact that Raiden was the lowly son of the Captain of the Guard, they had fit. Inseparable from day one.

Syeira told him everything. He knew all there was to know about her. He knew the minute she'd discovered her powers. He knew how much she hated the crown on her head, how she feared ever living up to her parents, the very definition of larger than life. And Raiden had told her everything in return—how much he hated his father, how much recklessness and wildness pumped through his veins, how much he hated to disappoint his mother.

That night, she had dressed in red, the color of the Crochan and Adarlanian crown. Her dress was so red, so over-the-top crimson and carmine and scarlet that he'd stopped short, the wind knocked out of him. Rubies were woven into the satin and silk, and the neckline swept low enough to make breathing difficult.

When she'd first walked into the hall, heads had turned to look. Conversation died. Silence rung throughout the hall.

It hadn't been Raiden that she'd come to for a dance. It had been foreign ambassadors and dignitaries, the prince from Wendlyn and even young Channon Ashryver, two years younger but set to inherit the throne of Terrasen.

He'd lasted an hour before he couldn't stand it anymore, taking refuge in the gardens.

His feelings had changed long before that night, but that was the moment when he knew.

He'd stood in the sanctuary of damp earth and fresh springtime air for a long time. Hours, even. Raiden knew he couldn't go back in there, and he knew that he couldn't watch her. Not even tonight, but for the years of courtship and inevitably a marriage alliance that would follow. Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius had as good as named the son of Aedion and Lysandra Ashryver his heir.

He decided to tell his father that he wanted to enter the military. He was a year young, only fifteen, but his father's connections could help him in that world, even if it couldn't help him in others.

He'd found a place on a rough stone bench, tipping his chin up to look at the stars. There had always been some comfort in the quicksilver disaster overhead, the mess of fine-spun mercury.

And then he'd heard her voice.

"Rai?"

He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing skittishly in his throat. Syeira was standing at the edge of the path, still wearing that gods-damned red dress.

He didn't say anything as she sat down beside him.

"You left," she said.

"Yeah."

"Why did you do that?" Her voice sounded almost hurt. "It was my birthday party, Rai, and you just left."

"I'm sorry." That wasn't a lie. He was sorry. For everything.

She set her jaw. "What's wrong with you tonight? Why are you so quiet? You're never quiet."

Raiden kept his gaze pinned to the stars. "I'm leaving."

"Yes, I know. You just left my party. Why—"

"No," he said, halting her words. "I'm leaving for good. I'm going into the army."

Syeira froze. It was as if every muscle in her body had gone rigid. "What?"

"I'm going to join the army," he repeated. "My father's right. It's time that I start doing something productive with my life. I'm fifteen."

"Since when have you ever thought your father was right?" she said. "What the hell, Raiden? Where is this coming from?"

"I don't belong here, Syeira," he said, turning to her for the first time. Her features were hard—furious. An icy wind swept through him, and he wasn't sure if it was nature, a chill, or Syeira's magic.

"Of course you belong here. You've grown up here."

He shook his head. "I don't… I'm not like you. We come from very different places in life. And I think you know that."

"None of that shit has ever mattered to me," she snapped. "It doesn't matter to anyone in my family."

"Oh, really?" He laughed.

"Stop it!" she cried, getting to her feet and crossing her arms. "What's gotten into you?"

He felt something break inside his chest as she stood there in the garden, framed by the light from the ballroom, her eyes bright, her lips twisted into a scowl. "I have to go," he said, getting up to leave.

Her arm caught his shirtsleeve. "Raiden. Stop."

"Why the hell should I, Syeira?"

"Because," she said, and kissed him.

The world had tilted on its axis. She was cold, laced with veins of heat. She tasted like cedar and wine and ice, and though Raiden knew he should stop, knew he had to stop, he couldn't quite bring himself to do it.

Now, back in the present, he stood before that same stone bench and sat down on it, surrounded by the flowerless, thorny stems of roses. He plucked one from a scraggly bush and twirled it in-between his fingers, watching it blur and stumble and whirl.

If it had been bad that night in spring, it had only gotten worse. Maybe he should've gone into the military after all.

He dropped the stem on the ground and crushed it beneath the heel of his boot. There was no future for him with the princess of Adarlan and Crochan Country. He didn't need his father to tell him that.

Syeira didn't pack. She went back to her rooms, locked the door behind her, laid down on her bed, and stared up at the ceiling.

Or at the fabric cover of her canopy, anyway. It was red, embroidered with gold, made of velvet so thick that it crinkled beneath her fingertips. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. She couldn't think of Raiden—wouldn't think of Raiden. So she thought of King Rowan instead.

He'd ascended the throne through marriage. Years ago, before Syeira was even born, he'd been in love with Aelin Ashryver Galathynius. Syeira hardly knew anything about Aelin. She knew that both her parents had known Aelin personally, and there'd once been a rumor that Syeira's father had been romantically involved with the Fae queen-to-be, but Syeira had never paid that whisper much heed. Rumors were easy to start and difficult to end.

Aelin had done the unthinkable. She'd collaborated an army big enough to drive Erawan, the Valg King, into hiding, though he hadn't been destroyed completely. She'd passed the Wyrdkeys to Syeira's mother for safekeeping, and she'd married Rowan Whitethorn, the Fae whom she'd been rumored to love so dearly.

And then Maeve, the Fae queen from Wendlyn, had arrived, sweeping Aelin up when the fire-bringer was at her weakest and vanishing with her. Aelin, apparently, had sacrificed herself to save others.

They'd never found Aelin. They'd looked for years, and there were rumors that people were still looking, even now. But she and Maeve had both disappeared, and her newly-wedded husband, Rowan, had taken the throne through marriage.

Syeira had seen the Fae king a handful of times. He never came to visit at Rifthold, and certainly never in Crochan Country. He remained in Terrasen, and on the couple of occasions that Syeira had gone to visit, he'd left a strong impression.

Bitter. Hard. That was the only way Syeira could think to describe him. They'd had a feast at the palace in honor of her family's visitation once, but Rowan had stayed on his throne, staring distantly off into space. There was something unnerving about his eyes. It was like he was constantly looking for something—or someone.

He didn't marry again, despite the urging of advisors. Instead, he named Aedion Ashryver, cousin and close friend of Aelin, the heir to Terrasen. Aedion had married a shapeshifter named Lysandra, and the line of inheritance would pass down through them. The Fae king was said to have centuries of life left in him, but it had often been speculated that he would step down before long. Syeira's parents had said as much.

"He can't just abdicate," her mother had said.

"Sure he can," her father had replied. "Aedion would make a fine king. Rowan shouldn't be forced to carry that burden forever."

"And what else would he do with his time? Round up Gavriel and Fenrys and go off to Wendlyn, searching for a dead woman?"

A pause. "You really think she's dead?"

"Think about it, Dorian. Aelin was strong. There's no way in hell that she would've let that Fae queen hold her for a decade and a half unless she was out of the picture entirely."

"What if there was some other reason?"

"Such as?"

"I don't know, Manon. I don't think any of us were really ever able to predict Aelin, even you."

"Even so. Rowan can't just step down. Do you really think that's what she would want? What she intended?"

"Shit, Manon."

"The truth is hard sometimes, Dorian," her mother had said. "Aedion Ashryver might be able to take the throne in theory, but the best person for the job is Rowan. You and I both know it."

"It's killing him," her father said softly. "I saw it when we went there. It's killing him to be stuck in a palace when all he wants to do is find her."

"She's gone, Dorian. I think it's about time we all realized she isn't coming back."

Rowan was unhinged. He might have been a good king, but Syeira had heard the rumors about him. He was unpredictable, cruel, and merciless.

She couldn't help wondering why on earth, out of all the places to go, her parents would send her to the court of a king broken by the death of his wife.

It was nightfall before Syeira dragged herself up from her bed. She grabbed a cloak and ducked out into the hallway, slipping past her guards with a stern look and descending a staircase. Somehow, she knew where she'd find him.

Raiden was out in the gardens, sitting on a stone bench. He looked as if he'd been there for a while—he was still, expression impassive.

Syeira didn't know the exact moment when she first started to notice him as a boy. Not as her friend, but as something different entirely; something that sent her veins humming and her mouth curling upwards. He'd always been handsome, with his dark skin, bronze eyes, and a shock of dark, reddish hair, but at some point, he'd changed. Grown taller, his shoulders broader, his voice deeper. She'd found herself regarding him differently, no longer sure how to act around him, how to talk or how to laugh.

"Hey," she said quietly.

He nodded. "Hey."

She sat down beside him. He wasn't wearing a jacket or cloak; just a shirt and a pair of trousers. "You must be freezing."

He shrugged. "Not really."

They both stewed in silence for a minute. "Why so silent?" she asked. "You've barely said two words. Where's the bravado of this morning?"

He winced. "About that…"

"Yeah, about that." She nudged him. "'How's the weather?' Really, Rai?"

"It was an honest question. Autumn in Rifthold can be quite unpredictable."

She laughed, resting his head on his shoulder, and he wrapped an arm around her instinctively. Cumin and cayenne. She knew that she shouldn't be doing this, that her parents might actually kill them both if they saw her with him. But she was leaving for Terrasen in the morning, if against her will. Who knew the next time she'd be able to do this?

"Listen," she said, her throat closing up. "I…"

"You're leaving," he said flatly.

She blinked. "How did you know?"

"Call it an educated guess." He set his jaw. "Where are they sending you?"

"Terrasen. Apparently, I'm supposed to spend some time with Uncle Rowan."

He arched an eyebrow. "Really?"

"My gut tells me that there's another reason, too. My parents don't do anything for convenience. They always have ulterior motives."

"Bastards."

"I think so." She hesitated. "What—what are your parents doing to you?"

"I don't know. I haven't talked to them since Chaol hauled me into his office, yelled at me for fifteen minutes, and told me he couldn't stand to look at me anymore."

"Lucky."

"Your parents were that bad?"

"Worse."

Raiden swept a hand over his face. "How soon are you leaving?"

"Tomorrow morning." She wrapped her arms around her shoulders. "I'm to go to Orynth."

He shook his head. "It wouldn't surprise me if my parents sent me off to the Southern Continent, if it's any consolation. We have connections there."

She grabbed his hand, lacing her slender fingers through his. "Just promise me that we'll see each other again, okay?"

He sighed. "Syeira—"

"Promise me. Even if it's a lie. Promise."

He turned to look at her, his bronze eyes dark and pained. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I promise," he whispered, and kissed her.

It was such a filthy lie that they were probably going to hell, joined by Hellas himself, but at that moment, Syeira couldn't bring her broken heart to care.

A/N: Here's the end of this chapter! Chapters for me are pretty unpredictable-this one is 6k words, but the next one will probably only be 2k. It just depends on the plot line. Anyway, thank you all so much for reading, and let me know what you think so far!

-bearsbeetsbattlestargalactica