A/N: Ok, I know, I suck. It's been way too long. But the thing is... I kind of realized I won't be able to update this anywhere near as consistently as I have been in the past, which sucks, but is kind of a fact of life. So I decided that while I usually write one or two POVs per chapter, I'm going to be doing all three from here on out: the plot lines in Rifthold, the Cambrians, AND Sollemere. Which means you get chapters that are 12,000 words like this one (it was legit like 30 pages on Google docs. DEAD). Anyway, the reason for this is so that you all can keep updated on all of the plot lines without forgetting them in the gap before updating. So, yes, I'll be updating less frequently, unfortunately, but when I do, the chapters will almost certainly be upwards of 10k words. (It's been a while since I wrote like that, so... *cracks knuckles* Here we go...)

Anyway, thank you to everyone who reviewed, and thanks to everyone who was patient enough to wait on me. I know it's taken me like, FOREVER. I'm going to start writing the next chapter today, promise! :)

Hope everyone's New Year is going well so far! Here's to 2017!

RECAP (realized that I didn't do this for last chapter because I am a stupid flake, sooo sorry): Syeira is currently in Rifthold, having been sent there after an... unfortunate... intrigue with Raiden Westfall. She met Lysandra and Aedion Ashryver, and recently had some harsh truths about the past and the present laid out on the table. Now, Syeira must confront a new reality, which involves coming wars, new magical/clinically insane abilities, and a long-lost child of the king of Terrasen and the lost queen.

Meanwhile, Leta has agreed to let Vaughan take her to Varese, on the condition that she be allowed to decide whether to accompany him to Terrasen or stay in Wendlyn once arriving there. After Leta's outburst with Maeve, monsters are beginning to hunt her, and her trek has turned from a journey to a run for her life and her freedom. She has a tentative peace with Vaughan, but he's definitely hiding something (like how he killed his own sister), and he insists that she's a princess (which is ridiculous, obviously. *wink wink*). She, too, has to grapple with a new reality, and figure out where her own unique abilities place her in the world.

Raiden is imprisoned in Maeve's court, and he's recently met the queen, Aelin Galathynius. The throne room was a strange depiction: he saw a chained wolf slumped on a dais, and another chained Fae named Kasper sort-of-advocated for him for some reason. Raiden doesn't know what to think about his new situation... But he definitely wishes that he'd gone to Antica, like he was supposed to, instead of arbitrarily hightailing it to Wendlyn. (We've all been there. Jk.)

Enjoy!

(Also, if it's any consolation, I put Fleetfoot in this chapter. Dogs and cats are literally my only purpose to living life tbh.)


PART 2

Finders-Keepers

CHAPTER 10

A knock sounded at the door; a heavy thump-thump that startled Syeira from her restless dreams.

She'd dreamt of the snake—vivid, raw nightmares, the asp coiling and writhing. He'd spoken to her, asked her questions, but Syeira hadn't answered. She'd promised Lysandra and Aedion that much.

Syeira didn't know whether Lysandra or Aedion believed her about the snake, or how much stock they put in her flickering visions. But they hadn't outright discredited her, and while they'd been suspicious, they'd listened to her story.

"Don't speak to the snake anymore," Aedion had warned. "It might be a trap—from Maeve, or one of her cronies. Gods know she has a deep foothold in ancient, forgotten magic."

Syeira had blinked at them, digging her fingernails into the arms of the chair. Aedion's office was homey, slightly musty. It made her forget the horrors waiting outside his door.

"You… You don't think I'm crazy?" she'd asked, voice quivering.

Aedion and Lysandra had exchanged glances. "I've seen and heard stranger things," said Aedion at last, steepling his fingers.

He didn't answer her question directly, and Syeira didn't dare ask again. She'd learned the hard way that the answers you got weren't always the ones you wanted.

She was still shaken to the core by Aedion and Lysandra's story from yesterday, and she'd barely begun to process the ramifications. She'd shoved it aside, stuffed it into a box labeled untouchable. She'd deal with it later—or never, depending.

Now, bathed in early morning sunshine streaming in through her windows, Syeira stifled a yawn. She was in her bedroom at the castle, a modest room tucked away in a forgotten crook in one of the northern turrets. She suspected that Aedion and Lysandra wanted her out of the way while they and Rowan dealt with the burst of power—and its creator.

The knock sounded again, and Syeira grimaced, shoving the covers aside and getting to her feet. She grabbed a silk robe off the back of a chair near her vanity, worming her arms through the sleeves, and stalked over to the door. She pulled it open, irritated, but her complaints faded on her lips as soon as she saw who stood before her.

Elide. Elide Lochan, Lady of Perranth—the girl that had managed to make Lorcan Salvaterre love her.

Syeira had seen Elide a few times in passing, on diplomatic business and court functions. She was the wealthiest, most influential person at court, save for Aedion, Lysandra, and Rowan himself; the proprietor of a huge swath of land with its own mountain range. The woman was slender, with skin like dogwood blossoms and eyes of liquid dark, her ebony hair pinned high on her head with a silver pin. She held a slender wooden walking cane, and favored one leg a bit.

She didn't look to be a day over eighteen. Not what I was expecting, Syeira thought.

"I don't suppose you remember me," Elide said. Her voice was high and clear.

"I do," said Syeira. "Lady Elide."

The noble smiled. "I stand corrected." She peered in her room. "May I come in?"

Syeira nodded, and Elide stepped through the threshold, taking a seat on her messy bed and leaning her cane against the wall. Elide knotted her fingers. "I…" The lady took a deep breath. "I'm not sure if you're aware, but General Aedion and Lady Lysandra met with the king, myself, and a few other advisors after they sent you up to your room. They relayed some of the information that you'd given them."

Syeira's cheeks flushed. Excellent; now all of Terrasen knew she was a lunatic. "And?" she said, words barbed.

"I believe you," said Elide, surprising Syeira. "And Rowan seemed to have some ideas as to where your snake was coming from."

There it was again, that first-name basis with the king. "Oh?"

"Nothing too concrete," Elide said. "We'll need more information."

Syeira hesitated, chewing her lip. "It came again last night." In her dreams, but it had felt so real, so lifelike, that she was certain it was another visitation. "I didn't say anything—just like Aedion said."

"And what did it say?" asked Elide, folding her hands in her lap. As if she really cared, really believed Syeira.

"It asked who I was," Syeira answered, gazing out the window. From her angle, she could see the mountains, snowy-capped and slate-gray, stark against the white winter sky. "Asked where I was—who I was with. Whether I could get a message to someone."

"What was the message?"

"The same as last time," she said. "That we needed to find…" Syeira stopped, suddenly certain of Elide's motives. "Lorcan Salvaterre."

Elide's breath hitched.

"That's why you came here, isn't it? You wanted to know what I knew." Syeira looked hard at the Lady of Perranth, her eyes slitted.

"I had other reasons."

"But that was the main one, wasn't it?" When Elide didn't answer, Syeira snorted. "Of course. Well, you'll be disappointed. The snake didn't tell me anything more about Salvaterre. It didn't say anything new at all; it got frustrated after I ignored it and left."

Elide nodded. "Don't misunderstand me," she said after a brief pause. "We're all most concerned about the… New threat."

"Threat? Aedion said it was a salvation."

"Possibly," she conceded, tone carefully neutral.

"They want to go after whoever it is, don't they," said Syeira. "They want to go on a witchhunt."

Elide sighed. "The council is divided," she said. "And for good reason. We have nothing but speculation, and leading a war party into Terrasen after a power that big…" She shuddered. "The fallout could be devastating. If it is who we think it is—"

"Rowan and Aelin's daughter," Syeira clarified.

"—then we have a dilemma," Elide finished. "If the child grew up in Maeve's exiled court, it could very well have formed an allegiance with her."

"Some people think it's better to leave the power where it is," Syeira guessed. "If they're working for Maeve, it might be best to leave it untouched."

"Have you ever played chess, princess?"

Syeira nodded. "Of course."

"All of the figures have point values," said Elide. "Pawns are worth one, knights and bishops three, rooks five, and queens eight. The king is worth the game." She paused. "Going after this power would be like adding a new player to the board with an unknown point value, unknown talents—not just editing or breaking the rules, but reconstructing them."

Elide didn't look like much, but Syeira suddenly had the feeling that beyond the lady's demure front was a mind of steel and iron.

"They're already on the board, though," said Syeira. "Wouldn't it be better to at least… Neutralize them? Get a feeling for them, something?"

"I agree. But…" Elide ran her fingers over the blanket. "In the past, when power like this has been introduced, it has led to heartbreak and destruction." Syeira stiffened, remembering her grandfather and the Wyrdkeys, his own blood and body poisoned and tainted by the Valg. "Magic always comes with a price, princess. The more power, the bigger the cost."

Elide sounded as if she spoke from experience, and Syeira wondered what else the lady concealed beneath the tip of the iceberg.

Syeira sat down beside Elide. "Why do you want to know about Lorcan Salvaterre so much?"

"You know that," said Elide. "Lysandra and Aedion told you the whole story."

"They told me how he betrayed Aelin," said Syeira. "I thought you hated Lorcan."

"I don't hate him," Elide said tiredly, scrubbing her face with the heel of her palm.

"Why?"

"The king wants to see you down in his throne room in an hour," Elide said, rising and assuming a stiff, blank expression. Syeira narrowed her eyes. "Get dressed—I'll be waiting outside."

Elide strode from the room, door closing with a soft click behind her.

Fine—message received. Syeira had pushed too far.

She went over to her closet, plucking a dress off one of the hangers. It was one of her favorites, a deep vermilion with a gold brocade. Syeira smiled. She loved the color red—not only was it the shade of her two nations; it was a color that demanded to be noticed, felt, and feared.

Elide was silent as she led Syeira through narrow, curving hallways, down flights of stairs and through balconies of curved arches. The castle was stunning, though this half was not made of ice, but rather of stone.

Yet as Elide took a left, the floor became carpeted in a blanket of smooth snow that crunched beneath Syeira's footsteps, her breath fogging on the air. Syeira's own gifts with ice vibrated in her chest, resonating with the magic at work.

As they drew closer and closer to the throne room, the winter effects increased. Pine trees and holly bushes sprouted from the ground, berries bloodred and perfectly formed. Birds, rabbits, and squirrels darted through the underbrush, somehow at home within the palace of stone. It was as if the king of Terrasen had created an entire wintry forest within the bounds of his fortress, complete with the accompanying wildlife.

Elide came to rest at a pair of towering double doors made entirely of ice, her shoulders squaring. Her eyes darted to Syeira. "I've heard of your temper," she said.

Syeira bit back a snarl. What was it with everyone censoring her? She didn't need a leash; she was fourteen, for gods' sakes, not four.

"I'm not asking you to tamp it down entirely, princess," Elide said, surprising Syeira. "Strength is good in a ruler. But…" Elide pursed her lips. "Just remember the people in this castle, and remember the strain that Rowan has gone through in the past few days. He's just found out he might have a child on the other end of the world."

"I know," said Syeira crossly.

"There's a difference between holding your own and being cruel," Elide said. "I just thought I'd remind you."

And with that, the lady of Perranth heaved open the doors.

The throne room was… exquisite.

The ground was completely covered in snow save for a single jade carpet runner going right down the middle of the room. The domed ceiling stretched high above them, made of windows stained silver and green. Sixty-foot pine trees sprouted from the floor, and deer skittered through their thick trunks. The wall to her left was covered entirely in holly, the wall to her right in flowering poinsettias.

There were long tables on either side of the carpet runner, each made of silver, and countless benches and sofas spread throughout. Nobles decked in furs and wrapped in blankets milled about, talking to each other in hushed tones. Their children skipped around their skirts, many of them clustered near a small frozen pond in the right corner of the room—an ice-skating rink, right in the middle of Rowan's throne room.

So Dellie had been right after all.

At the back center of the room were two thrones, each made of stags, antlers stacked on top of one another to make two enormous chairs. Only one of them was occupied. Candles were scattered everywhere near the thrones, at the foot and head; some floating in midair. Strangely enough, they were unlit.

And sprawling out on his throne, ancient and massive and radiating power and grace, was Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius, King of Terrasen, an antler crown studded with emeralds and diamonds set atop his head.

He was stony-faced, his pine eyes hard and sharp. A wicked tattoo streaked down one cheek, another wrapping around his throat like a collar, and two more peeked out from his sleeves. It was written in some kind of ancient language; Syeira didn't know what. Silver hair streamed from his temples to his mid-back.

Of all things, a golden dog sat at the foot of his throne. At Syeira's entrance, the dog leapt to its feet and started barking.

All heads in the room turned to Elide and Syeira.

"Follow me," Elide murmured, and they both strode down the carpet side-by-side, a hush falling over the room. Even the scrapes of the ice skating faded.

Murmurs buoyed around Syeira—that's her, that's the princess of Adarlan; I heard she's a witch; have you seen that mother of hers, of course she is; I hear she's got enough power to make Rowan fear her; I hear she's got no power at all—and she clenched her fists, ignoring them. Screw them. They didn't know her or her family.

Elide halted about ten feet away from the throne and sank into a deep, elegant curtsy. Syeira followed suit, though she didn't lower her chin.

Syeira hadn't lowered her chin once in her life.

"Rise," Rowan rumbled, his voice echoing in the room. Syeira had already risen, but Elide straightened, leaning on her cane with an ashen pallor to her cheeks.

"Hello, Majesty," said Syeira.

Rowan didn't say anything for a moment. His eyes flicked up and down her form, as if he were assessing her for strengths and weaknesses, chinks in her armor.

The dog leapt down from the steps, bounding over to Syeira. It woofed gleefully, tale wagging and batting around her legs.

"Get back here, Fleetfoot," Rowan said, irritation gracing his features.

The dog did no such thing. It nuzzled its wet nose into Syeira's palm, licking her hand.

"Hi, doggy," she said, something inside of her softening in spite of herself. She rubbed the dog's head, her fingers scratching his scalp. The dog let out a woof and flopped down on the ground, putting its paws in the air and exposing his stomach.

Syeira met Rowan's gaze, raising a brow. "Some guard dog you've got."

"He is a pretty fearsome beast," Aedion Ashryver said, making his way to the throne, Lysandra at his side. The general's lips quirked. "We have to drug him most days to keep him from killing all the children."

"Enough, Aedion," Rowan said.

"No, no," Syeira protested. "I want to hear more about this dragon."

"You have a wyvern living in your castle, Your Highness," Rowan said flatly. "I am quite certain that you can gain any desired knowledge there."

Laughter rippled through the sea of people.

Syeira's mouth tightened.

The king rose from his throne, and Fleetfoot turned over, getting to his feet and loping over to the heel of his owner. Rowan glanced down at the dog with a wry, resigned smile before meeting Syeira's gaze.

"I've heard about your visions from General Aedion and Lady Lysandra," Rowan said, "but I'd like to hear them from you."

Syeira shifted on her feet nervously, the attentions of the throne room sinking into her skin like miniature steel fishhooks. "I'm sure that they've relayed all relevant information."

He studied her for a moment. "I want any updates on your visions immediately, is that clear?"

"It could be nothing," she said weakly.

"Are you lying to me, Syeira?" Rowan's tone had taken a dangerous edge. "Did you lie to myself, the general, or the lady?"

"No, of course not," she said, cheeks heating. "Give me a little credit, would you?"

"I'm inclined to think that you are not displaying the signs of a madwoman," said Rowan. "You have Crochan, Ironteeth, and Havilliard blood in your veins. There are no limits to what might be possible."

She hadn't considered that. The first one especially tugged at her. Crochans were known for their seers and visionaries—what if she'd gotten a hint of her maternal grandfather's gifts instead of her mother's Ironteeth ones?

"Your parents sent you to me for a reason," Rowan went on, bending down to ruffle his dog's tawny fur. Fleetfoot's tail wagged, her tongue lolling. His mouth quirked in faint amusement. "And it wasn't just to stifle a romantic intrigue."

Syeira had suspected as much. Neither her mother nor her father ever played one angle at once. They were too smart for that. Although she didn't appreciate the fact that he'd said as much in front of the entire court; resentment boiled in her veins as a chuckle rippled through the crowd.

"They want me to train you," said Rowan.

She's suspected as much there, too.

"And that's precisely what I'm going to do."

She hadn't seen that one coming.

"What—" she sputtered, blinking. "What about… everything else?"

Rowan went still, his hand stopping along the ridge of Fleetfoot's fur. He straightened, his limbs fluid and graceful. "The war is not over, princess," he said simply, his eyes glinting with malice and a cunning that was dark, clever, and very, very old. "And you're going to need to be strong to survive it."

She balled her fists. "I am strong."

"Not strong enough."

The throne room inhaled as one. Syeira's blood rose from a simmer to a boil, and every rational thought and Elide's plea for kindness disappeared from her head. Rowan turned, his point made, and began to ascend the steps to the throne dais.

No. No one turned her back on her.

Syeira did what she did best. She went for the kill shot.

"I thought you trained Aelin, too."

She could've heard a pin fall to the snow. The room went from quiet to dead-silent. Even the birds rustling in the treetops stilled.

Rowan froze, his chest hitching. "What?" he whispered hoarsely. He didn't turn.

She'd won. She knew it, and she reveled in it, the cruelness in her blood rising up in song. "You trained Aelin Galathynius, didn't you?" she drawled. "Your training didn't seem to make her strong enough then. What makes you think it'll be any different for me?"

Rowan sucked in a sharp breath.

"I mean," Syeira continued, feeding on the looks of shock plastered on every face in the room, "she's gone, isn't she? Those are the facts. And she clearly wasn't strong enough to make her way back."

In hindsight, Syeira supposed that she should've seen the assault coming. She should've prepared herself if she were going to lash him with words like that—should've had her magic at the ready, her senses sharpened and alert.

But when the attack came, she didn't even manage to raise a single snowflake.

She shrieked, the ground whipped out from under her, as the wind yanked her upside down, dragging her up, up through the air, the limbs of the pine trees whipping her cheeks. She screamed hoarsely as stone and glass flew by her face, birds bolting as she soared, dragged upward by that merciless wind—

And halted to a stop just mere inches from the top of the cupola, more than a hundred feet in the air. She let out a panicked, frightened sob.

And then she fell.

Her trip down was even faster than her trip up; she plummeted to the ground at the speed of light, the green carpet runner growing larger and larger with every descent. Shrieks and chaos erupted below, nobles scattering, a dog yelping and barking. She could already feel her bones crushing, her skull splintering…

She halted inches from the floor, her nose no more than centimeters away from the carpet. Her whole body was trembling.

The wind released her again, and she fell the last inch or so, chin banging on the ground.

She didn't move—couldn't move. Her joints had frozen, her heart thudding painfully in her chest. The throne room had gone silent again.

There was a muffled click, click as someone strode forward on the carpet, and a painful jab as someone's boot toed her chest.

She turned her head, quavering, and saw Rowan Galathynius standing above her, his eyes unforgiving and cold.

She'd never seen someone's eyes look like that before. It scared the hell out of her.

He knelt down beside her until his face was inches away from hers and hissed, "Get the fuck off my floor."

He withdrew as Syeira scrambled to her feet, shoving the skirts of her dress down with some difficulty. She stared at him, lower lip quivering.

"Aelin Galathynius is the strongest person I have ever met," Rowan said, his voice no longer raw and frayed but rather cool and impassive. "She sacrificed herself—a selfless, honorable sacrifice." He shook his head and disgust and turned his back on her. "You aren't worth the shit on the bottom of her shoe."

"Fuck you," Syeira snarled without thinking.

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wanted to slap a hand over her face. The courtroom gasped in unison, taking a step back.

Rowan, however, simply took a seat on his throne. He ignored her. "I'm going to teach you, Syeira, like it or not. And I won't make it pleasant." He propped his chin in his hand, Fleetfoot snuggling by his feet. Traitorous dog. "Now get out. You're testing the limits of my patience."

Syeira wanted to scream at him, wanted to throw a temper tantrum, but…

She wasn't completely stupid. If she went for another kill shot, she wouldn't leave that throne room alive, and her sister Calynn would ascend as heir.

She squared her shoulders and spun on her foot, striding back down the carpet. She hated him. She hated her parents for sending her to him; she hated Aedion and Lysandra for so much as speaking highly to him.

She wished she could talk to Rai. He'd hate Rowan, too. She was sure of it.

Syeira threw open the door and stepped out of the throne room. Her hair was disheveled, her favorite dress ripped, and there was a rather unsightly scab on her chin.

But she plastered an expression so fierce on her features that her scrapes and bruises were hardly noticeable.

Rowan thought she was weak?

Just try me, you bastard. Just try me.

"I don't understand you," Vaughan said to Leta, shaking his head as he piled kindling on top of the soggy logs. "You can summon magical flame that can freeze a man's fingers off, but you can't manage a campside fire?"

Leta glowered at him. "The wood is wet," she said, picking up a twig and shaking it off. "It won't light."

"You could dry it off, you know," Vaughan said. "You have water powers—I've seen them. Just leach the water from the logs."

"I don't have that kind of control," said Leta. "I'd end up making this forest a desert."

"Now that," Vaughan said with a grin, "is something I'd pay to see."

Leta rolled her eyes, but her lips curled rebelliously all the same. She'd been traveling with Vaughan for three days now, and while they flew during the day, they made camp at night in their Fae form, huddled around a weak, sputtering fire.

She'd tried to give Vaughan's coat back the day after he'd given it to her, but he'd refused. He told her that she looked like a drowned cat anyway, and at least with his jacket she looked like a warm drowned cat.

She'd scowled, but been grateful all the same. She liked Vaughan's jacket—liked that it was warm, but also that it smelled of cloves and smoke, that the leather was somehow rough and soft against her skin at the same time. She fell asleep with her nose tucked in the lapels. She'd begun to corrupt the scent with her sweat and perspiration (she desperately needed a bath), but she clung to the shreds she had left.

Leta had begun to learn a bit about Vaughan. He was similar to Lorcan in that he kept his secrets close to his chest, and the bit that he did diverge left more questions than answers. But so far she'd figured out that Vaughan and Lorcan had been soldiers together; an elite order that served Maeve.

She'd figured out that Maeve was a queen, too. That was about when Leta had stopped listening.

It might all be lies anyway.

But beyond the basics of his history, Leta had begun to pick up on other things about Vaughan—for instance, that he never let down his guard, alert even in sleep.

She'd noticed the faint freckles across his cheeks, nearly hidden by his stewed-tea skin, and the bump in his nose; the scar on his neck. She'd noticed how he never seemed to sit still, even for a moment, always jogging his leg or tapping his fingers against his knee. He was never quiet, either; he was always humming. It drove her insane.

Leta didn't like him, but she'd begun to understand him.

Sitting in their meager camp in the Cambrians, Leta drew her knees up to her chin. She was dying to ask him about his sister, but she held back. If he wanted to tell her, he would.

She wouldn't want someone pressing her about her own secrets. Leta had enough shameful things locked up in the ashes of the cabin where they belonged.

"Once we get to Terrasen," Vaughan said, "there are people that can teach you control."

"I'm not going with you to Terrasen," Leta corrected. "I'm staying in Varese."

He waved a hand. "Of course. If we go to Terrasen."

"And we won't," she added. "Because I'll be staying in Wendlyn."

He cocked his head. "Why?"

"Why?" she sputtered.

"From what you showed me earlier, it doesn't look like you've particularly enjoyed your stay in Wendlyn thus far," he said. "Why wouldn't you want to put even more distance between yourself and… the witch?"

"None of your business."

"I'm curious. Enlighten me."

"Let it go, Vaughan."

"I don't think so."

"Are you always this—" she trailed off as Vaughan's eyes widened.

"Leta, shut up for a second," he whispered.

She wanted to bite back at him, but she held her tongue. A change had come over him—he got to his feet, silent and fluid, reaching for his bow.

She got to her feet as well. Her knees trembled.

Vaughan's casual, easy demeanor was nothing but a whisper, and he slung his quiver of arrows over his shoulder. He had a warrior stance.

She sniffed the air, hoping for a scent, and caught one. Old, musty—odd. Something fundamentally wrong, the reek so strong that she almost retched.

And that was when the beast dropped.

It was enormous, eight or nine feet tall, with black, leathery wings and a mouth full of jagged, yellowed teeth. Its claws sunk into the mud, and it fell directly on the fire, putting it out instantly, smothering the flickering flames.

They plunged into darkness, but Leta's Fae eyes adjusted immediately. The beast turned its eyes on her, lips peeling back in a cruel smile.

Before she could so much as blink, the earth split in two beneath the beast, a canyon opening up in the ground. She backed up, but it didn't faze the monster; it just headed right for her leisurely, wings flapping as it advanced.

"Get away," she warned, her voice trembling. The power in her was bucking, demanding to be released…

She didn't want to—not again. She'd felt so hopeless, chained to her power—

The beast moved faster than even her superior eyes could register, claws digging into her stomach. She swallowed her scream, holding a hand out. She didn't dare to back up. That wouldn't work with this monster; it was not Mohana, looking for submission.

Twang. An arrow embedded itself in the monster's wing. It barely seemed to notice.

Leta's senses stretched out, searching as always for water. Within a moment, she found it: beneath Vaughan's trench was a river.

She tugged on it, yanked a wave twenty feet tall up from the ground. If she smashed it over the beast's head, she'd crash it overtop of herself as well. Vaughan was on the other side of the trench, safe, though he was shouting something, his voice hoarse with warnings…

At least she'd save him. She wasn't worth it anyway.

She brought it down.

Water collapsed on her body, and the creature shrieked, but it was too late. They were both swallowed by the wave, and she didn't fight the river as it enclosed her, knocking her off of her feet and shoving her backwards, back colliding with a tree trunk.

The monster was swept away, its primal cries turning garbled, and Leta didn't try to breathe or swim, not that she could.

I'm afraid of the water.

She let herself give into the darkness.

She felt someone's hands press down on her chest, hard, someone breathing into her mouth, and she sat up straight, turning over and retching silt and freshwater. She hurled, panting, her hair streaked with curdled vomit.

"Thank the gods," someone muttered as she sucked in lungfuls of breath, her chest heaving.

Vaughan. He'd brought her back.

"Let go of me," she rasped. He did, and she shoved her silvery hair out of her face, shivering. Her teeth chattered.

Vaughan had dragged her to the other side of the chasm, where the ground was only slightly damp from rainfall, not her tsunami. Pine trees sprouted all around her, and she saw the hulking body of the dead monster, dripping blood black as tar.

She wasn't dead. Leta supposed she should feel some sort of joy, but she couldn't scrounge up any kind of feeling at all.

"What the hell was that, Leta?" Vaughan said. "You know that I could've killed that thing in about five minutes, right?"

"No," she said, closing her eyes. All she wanted to do was sleep.

"Leta. Look at me."

"Go away, Vaughan."

"I'm not going anywhere, love, so you'd better start talking."

She lay back on the ground, scooting away from the pile of vomit. The wound in her stomach was already stitching itself up, pulling itself together. "I'm tired."

"Bullshit. Get up, Leta."

She didn't move. She couldn't scrounge up the energy.

"Look at me."

Leta pushed herself up, meeting his gaze. He wasn't worried, oh no—he was furious. His chestnut eyes sparked with rage, his lips pressed so firmly together that they almost disappeared.

"You could have breathed underwater," he said. "You could've swam—you could've commanded the currents to move yourself to the surface. You let yourself drown. What the fuck?"

"I got overwhelmed."

"Bullshit."

"You said that already."

"I'll say it again if you don't start giving me some straight answers."

Leta didn't have the fight in her. She wished that she did, but she didn't. Her chest felt hollow and empty; cold.

Vaughan snarled, shoving himself to his feet and yanking a piece of flint from his pocket. There was a scraping sound, and a crackling noise as the fire lit. "Get up."

She did as she asked, ambling over to the fire and sitting down beside it.

"Take off my jacket."

"No."

"I'm not dicking around."

"I like this jacket," she said. "I'm keeping it."

Vaughan pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm not going to take it for good. I need to dry it—you'll freeze otherwise." He grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck. "Unless you can figure out how to leach all the water from your clothes, you're going to have to dry them out over the fire. You'll catch a chill, and I don't need to cart a feverish Fae halfway across the country."

Leta glanced down at herself. She imagined a warm breeze floating through her; imagined water droplets pooling in her hand.

She held out her palm, and they did just that. The water came out of her clothes, floating on the wind into her cupped hand. The water slid through her fingers, falling to the ground. A puddle of marsh water formed, swimming with algae.

"There," she said. "Dry."

A muscle ticked in Vaughan's jaw. "Leta—"

But she was already turning over on her side, her eyes closing. "Leave me alone, Vaughan. Please."

A beat, then a sigh. "You're going to be the end of me. You do know that, right?"

Leta didn't reply. She was already fast asleep.

"Wake up."

Leta didn't want to wake up. She didn't move, didn't stir.

"Your breathing changed. I know you're awake."

She cracked open one eye. Vaughan was standing above her, his lips white and furious. "Let me sleep," she said, rolling over.

"We have to get moving. That ilken tracked us here, and I wasn't able to tell." Something in his words sounded worried, a note of dissonance that gave her pause.

She propped herself up on her elbows. Her head was throbbing, an ache so persistent that it felt as if a spike were driven through her head.

The sky was streaked with pink, dawn scraping across the horizon. The fire was nothing but a heap of smoking, charred ashes, and she could see the dead body of the beast across the trench, sodden with water.

"What happened last night?"

"You were there," she said tiredly, shoving herself to her feet. She wobbled unsteadily before straightening.

"Why did you let yourself drown?"

"I didn't know that I could breathe underwater," she said, avoiding his gaze. "I lost control."

"Leta—"

"Why do you even care, Vaughan?" she snapped at last, though it had no bite. "I'm nothing special. I told you that already. I'm not a princess. I'm not anyone."

"Enough with the pity party," he shot back. "Whether you believe you're a princess or not, your gifts alone are enough to make you extraordinary."

"I don't want them."

"Tough. You've got them."

"That doesn't mean I have to use them," she said. "Maybe I'm not meant to be anything. Did you ever think of that, Vaughan?"

"I said it before, and I'll say it again," he said. The ground rumbled, pebbles skittering into the trench with a rattling sound. "Everyone is something."

"Just take me to Varese," she said, putting up a hand. She didn't have the energy to fight.

Every time she used her magic, she felt that reserve swirling beneath her, demanding to break free. She'd let it the day she met Maeve—and regretted it. She'd sent powers to every corner of the earth, calling demons and enemies, a come-and-get-me when she couldn't even lift a sword.

She didn't want it. Any of it.

Vaughan stared at her, eyes hard. "Do you even want to know what that beast was?"

No, she thought, but he was already answering his own question.

"It was an ilken—a Valg. A demon that fought on the wrong side of a war that almost killed off the entirety of Erilea a decade and a half ago. Aren't you just the least bit curious as to how it got here, what it's doing so far away? How it survived at all when its side lost?"

"No."

"You're a terrible liar, love."

And that time, love didn't sound like an endearment at all.

"Stop it," she said. "Why do you even care?"

"I promised to take care of you."

"Maybe you should stop making promises that you can't keep."

"Dammit, Leta—"

"I've had enough. Take me to Varese."

"Honestly—"

"Take me to Varese now."

"For gods' sakes—"

"This wasn't our deal! Take me to the capitol."

The earth shook. "Listen to me."

"Vaughan," Leta said quietly, calmly, the earth stilling beneath her feet, "if you don't take me to the city right now, I'm going to leave and get there myself. I don't need you. I can figure out a way."

"You'd get lost in a second."

"Maybe that's preferable to being here with you."

They held each other's gazes, each of them riled with anger, their fury swimming in the thin autumn air.

She wasn't going to back down. She was done.

"You deserve more than that."

She blinked. Whatever she'd been expecting Vaughan to say, it wasn't that. "Excuse me?"

"You deserve more," he said, "than some half-assed suicidal sacrifice in the middle of the Cambrians. Don't throw yourself away because you think the going's gotten a little hard."

"Gotten a little hard? Gotten a little hard?" Her voice went shrill. "Are you kidding me? My life's been nothing but hard!"

"So you grew up with an Ironteeth," he dismissed. "I've got news for you, love: you're not special. You've been given a shot at something better. Not everyone's so lucky."

"Stop. Calling. Me. Love."

He grinned wolfishly, lips peeling back in a snarl to reveal his fangs. "Love."

Leta growled as the soil around them began to shake, the rocks bouncing as Vaughan shook the forest floor.

She rose a hand, and silver fire erupted from the trench, so cold that the ground frosted over, icicles forming on the trees around them. The air filled with tinkling as ice slicked over the dirt and plants, freezing it solid. The earth quieted.

Just as quickly as it came, the fire disappeared. The ice began to melt almost instantaneously.

"See," Vaughan said, crossing his arms and smirking. "You don't want to give that up, do you?"

She picked up a fallen pinecone and hurled it at his head.

A jagged piece of stone spiked up from the ground, a shield of solid rock, blocking her pinecone no more than an inch away from his face.

"You're insufferable."

"Thank you."

She turned. "I'm going to Varese by myself. You can stay here and rot, for all I care."

He rose a brow. "Sure that's a good idea?"

"Better than being stuck with you."

He shrugged. He didn't look particularly bothered.

She shifted, her Fae form vanishing in a burst of light. She let out a harsh, shrill caw and flapped her wings, soaring up high, high above the ground.

She looked to her right and saw the mountains, stretching out endlessly in an expanse of gray.

She looked to her left and saw Vaughan in osprey form, clicking his tongue at her. You can't get rid of me this easily.

Leta willed the wind to propel her. She'd continue to head north; eventually, she'd hit the shore. From there, she could follow the beach until she found a river, and make her way to Varese.

Maybe she'd stay in her animal form forever. She didn't want anything to do with Fae or humans.

She'd make friends with the squirrels. They seemed like friendly creatures.

The wind caught her wings, shoving her forward at the speed of light. She left Vaughan far, far behind.

Raiden did not particularly appreciate this turn of events.

He sat in his jail cell, crouched on a bed of moldy straw. The dungeon at the palace in Sollemere was made entirely out of iron: floors, bars, and cots; shackles and collars. Pure iron, black and soul-sucking.

He was the prison's only inhabitant save for a hulking, shadowy form in the corner. The other prisoner hadn't said a word since Raiden had been brought in a day earlier.

His head was still spinning.

Aelin was alive.

He'd stared at her after she'd admitted it. Of course he'd known that if the queen were alive, if she were anywhere, it would be here, at Maeve's court. Of course he'd known that the woman bore a remarkable resemblance to Aelin, down to the Ashryver eyes and golden coloring. Of course he'd known that it made sense, clicked into place.

And yet… It had shaken him to his core.

"I've been under Maeve's jurisdiction for nearly seventeen years," the queen had said, business-like as ever. "I've been her slave. I've become very good at it—surviving like this." Her lips twisted bitterly. "I sneak pinches of herbs from the kitchens and scraps of cloth from the laundry. It's important, especially when people like you come to my door looking like bloodied slabs of meat."

Raiden's mouth had opened and closed, flopping like the flappy sole of a poorly-made shoe. "But…" he stammered. "This isn't a cell."

Although to him, it was somehow worse. It was as small as a cell, outfitted with nothing but a splintery wooden cupboard, the wobbly table on which he was outstretched, and a pile of damp hay in the corner that he supposed was her bed. The walls and floor were made entirely of dirt, as if this was some hollowed-out underground bunker deep below the surface. It was oppressively dark save for a few sputtering tallow candles.

"Oh yes it is," she said grimly. "See the chains?" She lifted her arms for emphasis, and the iron rattled and clanked. "Maeve knows I won't try to escape, not as weak as I am, not with forty bloodthirsty Fae in her throne room ready to cut off my head. Not with the leverage she's got on me."

"What leverage?" Raiden asked, knitting his brows.

But as Aelin opened her mouth to answer, a knock sounded on the crude wooden door. Without waiting for an answer, the blond Fae from the throne room strode into the not-cell.

Raiden recognized him. Kasper.

"It's time to go," Kasper said, addressing not Raiden but Aelin. "They'll notice he's missing soon. He's been gone an hour."

"Why are you here?" blurted Raiden.

Kasper's gaze flicked coolly to him. "I brought you here."

"Take him back," Aelin said, lifting the bowls and pots of herbs and bandages and shoving them back into the cupboard. She limped a bit, and Raiden saw lash marks on her calves.

"But—" he began.

"No buts," said Kasper, yanking Raiden off the table. "Time to go, unless you want to lose your head. I risked enough getting you here as it is."

Raiden blinked. "Why did you?"

"Because you would've died otherwise," Kasper answered, propping open the door with his foot. "That's why."

Kasper was already shoving a wobbling Raiden out the door when Aelin spoke up.

"Kas," she said. Her words were strained, somehow small. Broken. "Be careful, okay?"

Kasper gave her a small smile. "When am I not?"

And then they were in a dark, dirt-packed hallway, door thudding shut behind them, heading for a set of mud stairs.

"Keep up," Kasper barked, his brief flicker of gentleness gone. He ran up the stairs, and Raiden panted, struggling to match the Fae's unnaturally fast, brutal pace. They reached a solid, heavy door, and Kasper shoved it open.

They came out into a graveyard. The sun shone hot and bright above them, slamming its rays into the dusty ground. Marked and unmarked gravestones jutted up from the soil, some crumbling, others gleaming. About fifty feet away was the palace, looming up oppressively.

Raiden glanced behind him. They'd come out of a tomb.

And that was when he understood: Aelin's living situation was far worse than a jail cell. She was living in a grave.

"Come on," Kasper growled, grabbing Raiden by his shirt collar and hurling him forward.

The Fae led Raiden through tiled halls, down and up staircases, past mosaic murals and sandstone columns, until they came to the iron prison. He'd thrown Raiden into a cell, slammed the door shut behind him, and snarled, "Stay put."

"I thought Aelin said she was going to help me," Raiden said, but Kasper ignored him, heading for the stairs and climbing them two, three at a time. As if he were late for something.

And then Raiden had been left alone, a faint plip-plip the only sound to be heard for miles, or so it seemed.

What leverage?

A day later, and Raiden still didn't have the faintest idea. He didn't even know who Kasper was; he was too busy being starving, bruised, and bored.

He lifted his head and looked at the shadowy prisoner in the corner, separated by about three or four cells. "Hey," he said, waving a hand in a halfhearted gesture.

The prisoner snorted. "Hello, Captain's son."

His hackles rose. "Who are you?"

The prisoner edged a few inches into the meager light spilling in through the barred, glassless windows. He was handsome, but possibly even worse off than Raiden: his golden hair was crusted and thick with the brown russet of dried blood, his elegant cheekbones swollen and puffy, one onyx eye closed shut. Infected pus oozed from wounds in his chest, arms, legs, and face. His lips were split and bleeding freely.

He, too, was wrapped in chains.

What had he and Kasper done to warrant them? And why wasn't Kasper in a prison cell along with them?

Too many questions with no answers.

"If I told you," the prisoner rasped, "would you believe me? Or know my name?" He spat into the dirt. "Not likely."

"I know more than you think."

The prisoner chuckled.

"I grew up at Morath," Raiden said. "On the battlefield."

The prisoner exhaled. "Did you, now." He paused. "And you… saw… the commanders?"

"Every one of them," he confirmed. "My own father was a commander."

A beat. "My name is Fenrys," the prisoner said. "Twin brother to Connall, member of Maeve's cadre."

Raiden blinked. "Then why the hell are you chained up?"

"That," said Fenrys, his shackles tinkling as he adjusted his position, "is a very long story."

"Well, I don't know if you've noticed, but we've got nothing but time."

Fenrys's bloodied lips twisted into a smile. "So it seems now."

"Oh, right," Raiden said. "I forgot. You Fae and your cliche 'I have lived a thousand lifetimes.'"

"Your impression of us is uncanny."

"I'm thinking of taking my talents on the road. I'll hire a full-on caravan, charge three gold coins just to see me."

Fenrys's lips twitched. "I advise keeping your day job."

"You know, it's funny, my mother said the same thing."

The Fae tilted his head at Raiden before relenting. "I'll tell you bits and pieces, Captain's son, but nothing more. This story is only half-mine to tell."

"You did get imprisoned for it," Raiden pointed out. "Doesn't that constitute a little more than half?"

"Depends on the way that you look at it."

There was a long, pregnant pause, and then Fenrys spoke.

"About sixteen years ago, twins were born here. In Sollemere." Fenrys studied the ground. "Powerful twins. And one of them showed… unusual gifts. Dark gifts."

"Dark gifts," Raiden repeated.

"Gifts of death," said Fenrys. "One of them showed powers of light—a beacon. The other was a vacuum. One fed off of triumph, the other off of loss."

"Sounds like it's right up Maeve's alley," mused Raiden.

"No." Fenrys coughed, blood spattering onto his elbow. "Both of these twins were more powerful than Maeve. Their powers combined together could be… lethal. One, she could withstand. Both?" He shook his head. "She wanted a beacon, not a vacuum. So she commanded that the other infant be disposed of immediately."

Raiden's stomach turned.

"And she gave that job to me. I knew the mother of the twins," said Fenrys. "And she was… devastated." He hesitated. "I knew the father, too. He wasn't here."

Raiden took that to mean, more or less, that he was dead.

"I couldn't kill their child," Fenrys said. "Maeve is a bitch. My story of service to her is a long, complicated one, but I never did anything without resentment building." Another cough. "So I did what I could. I took the infant into the mountains. There was an old witch living there, exiled for killing one of her own kind. The witch was cruel, but the girl would be safe there.

"I gave the baby to the witch," he continued. "And I told her the name that the child's mother had given her. The witch would not be kind to the girl, but no one would dare tangle with an Ironteeth. The girl would grow up fearful but safe." Fenrys hesitated. "I told the witch if I ever came back and found so much as a scratch on the girl that I'd kill her where she stood."

"You came back?" Raiden said. "To check on her?"

"Yes. Every year or so until we came to Sollemere. Then, the distance became impossible."

"And when did you come to Sollemere?"

"About a decade ago." Fenrys let out another hacking cough. "After Rowan Galathynius triumphed on Morath and swore to hunt Maeve down and kill her." The Fae's lips twitched. "That was the best day I'd had in a long, long time. Until Maeve decided to run like a little bitch instead of fight."

"Is the baby still… alive?"

Fenrys leaned his head back against the wall. "I don't know," he said hoarsely. "I think so. I never told anyone what I'd done, not even the girl's mother. It would only endanger lives."

"And that's why you're here?" Raiden demanded. "How did Maeve find out?"

"She felt a trickle of power. Maeve can feel gifts like no one else, and she felt some of that deathly vacuum in the Cambrians. She tortured me, and though I didn't confess, she already knew." Fenrys growled. "She hunted down the girl with the intent to kill her."

"You think she might've survived," Raiden guessed. "Because of how powerful she is."

"The girl sent a lightning bolt of power throughout the world so strong that every Fae in Sollemere felt it," said Fenrys. "Maeve came back empty-handed, and she refused to give anyone a straight answer about what had happened."

Raiden stared at the iron walls, at his lovely iron birdcage. "You said there were twins," he said slowly.

"A girl and a boy."

"So if the girl went to the batshit Ironteeth… what happened to the boy?"

"That," Fenrys said, "is not my secret to tell."

"But you said they were both more powerful than Maeve," Raiden insisted. "Couldn't the boy have had the potential to destroy her?"

"Yes."

"Then why the hell didn't he?"

"Not my tale to tell."

Raiden balled his hands into fists. "And what about their mother? Who the hell gave birth to them?"

Fenrys grinned, baring his scarlet-stained incisors. "I'm not going to tell you anything else, Captain's son."

He groaned. "Whose story is it to tell, then?"

"If they want you to know," said Fenrys, "they'll come to you."

Raiden narrowed his eyes. "I'll trade information."

The Fae snickered. "Oh, I'm sure."

"You've all been cut off with everything that's happened in Erilea. Aren't you the least bit curious as to what's happening?"

"The rest of the court is well-informed," said Fenrys, stretching. "Maeve has members of her court in every major city and country in Wendlyn, Erilea, and the Southern Continent."

"The rest of the court?"

"Of course I don't know anything. My loyalties have always been compromised." Fenrys smirked. "I'd be curious, but I'm not revealing any more of that story to you."

Raiden scowled. "Great."

"Patience, little one," said Fenrys drily. "You'll find out soon enough."

Soon enough. Raiden would figure out if Aelin was serious about jailbreaking him soon enough. He'd determine who Kasper was and what he'd done soon enough.

Raiden was not a patient person.

"I do have a question for you, however," Fenrys said, speaking up when Raiden least expected it. "How the hell did Connall and Jacan get their hands on you? They were in Wendlyn. Your father is the king of Adarlan's captain of the guard. There's an ocean separating you from your home."

"I don't see why I should tell you."

"Because allies in this court are a powerful thing, Captain's son."

Raiden frowned at the Fae. "If you must know," he said, "I was supposed to be on my way to Torre Cesme in Antica."

"How did you end up in Wendlyn?"

"I jumped on the wrong ship, it seems." He held up his hands. "Oops."

Fenrys shook his head. "Why were you on your way to Torre Cesme in the first place? I thought your parents were the honorable, serve-your-country types."

"Not me. I'm the raise-hell-and-laugh type."

"So it was a punishment." Fenrys wrinkled his forehead. "What did you do?"

What the hell. "Slept with the king's daughter."

Silence. Silence, save for a faint dripping noise in the dank, damp dungeon.

And then Fenrys howled.

Laughter exploded in the cells as the Fae roared, doubling over and coughing with the effort. "You did what?"

"I slept with the king's daughter. Several times, actually—we were… together. But Dorian caught me in her bed—actually, Manon and Dorian both caught me in her bed. It kind of went downhill from there."

Fenry's laughter, if anything, increased. "Dorian—and—Manon—Crochan—caught you—in their—daughter's—bed?" he wheezed.

"It was hands-down the worst experience of my life," Raiden affirmed dourly. "All this ball-and-chain stuff?" He shook his head. "Pales in comparison."

"Oh, what I would have paid to see the look on their face," Fenrys panted, clutching a gaping wound in his side. He looked up and grinned at Raiden—not a defiant, reckless grin, but a friendly smile.

It made something in Raiden's chest squeeze. No one had ever been that nice to him. Not since…

Not since Syeira.

"I think you and I might get along after all, hell-raiser," Fenrys said, pantomiming holding up a glass to him.

And even though Raiden knew it was crazy… Knew that it was crazy, and he was stuck in a dungeon, in this crazy place with an imprisoned queen and twins of vacuums and beacons…

"Yeah," he said, grinning back tentatively. "Maybe."

Leta stopped a few hours later. She ate a vole and a fish in her condor form, snapping them down within seconds, and then shifted back into her Fae form, seeking out a boulder at the edge of a clearing.

She didn't even bother with a fire. She just sat there in the darkness, staring out at nothing.

She'd dropped the winds after about five minutes, satisfied that Vaughan was behind her. So what if he'd made an alleged promise to Lorcan? That wasn't her problem. She wasn't something to be bartered or bargained over; she was a human being.

Or… not a human being. Fae.

Leta tipped her head up to look at the stars. Clouds obscured the night sky, a thick veil of charcoal, tendrils of mist coiling themselves around the moon.

What would she even do in Varese? Work as a barmaid? Sell flowers in the middle of the street?

She liked that last option. It had a certain romanticism to it.

She found herself yet again wishing for her ruined maps. Terrasen—that country of pine and snow to the west, in the north of Erilea. The name tugged at her chest, as if saying, remember. Remember me.

But that was wishful thinking. She wasn't that crazy, not yet.

Maybe it would be best to get out of Wendlyn, to distance herself further from Maeve and the memories of the cabin. She wouldn't go to Terrasen, if only on principle. No, perhaps she'd head for Adarlan, or Eyllwe. Even Melisande or Fenharrow.

She had nothing tying her down, no tethers attached to her body. She only had to get out of this gods-forsaken mountain range before she could buy a flower cart and sell daisies and roses for a copper in the streets.

It was a good future. She could plead to others that she was a magicless Fae, a weak Fae. They'd leave her alone. She'd never tell anyone about Mohana, or her cabin, or the string of lunacy that had led her out of Wendlyn.

Those were her secrets to keep.

Then she heard the growl.

It rippled through the clearing, deadly and edged. Leta got to her feet, fear racing through her veins.

A pair of eyes glittered in the underbrush, yellow pupils bright and deadly.

It stepped out into the clearing, and she had to stifle a scream.

It was an ilken. Another one of those terrifying winged beasts, with those lethal fangs and clawed feet and hands.

Leta reached for her magic, for that silver fire, but stopped as she saw two more ilken emerge from the forest.

Three of them. Three of those freaking monster things.

She didn't bother to stifle the scream this time.

The ilken leapt at her, her own stomach wound from the previous day hissing, and its talons sunk into her arm.

She hurled her fire at the beast, and it shrieked, falling back as ice crystals mounted on its skin, spiderwebbing across its body.

In a matter of seconds, the ilken had turned to an ice statue.

The other ilkens snarled, recoiling, and five more came out from the underbrush.

One down, seven to go.

She could do this. She didn't need anyone.

She rose her hands, and the silver fire slammed down, attacking the ground. The frost spread through the fprest, climbing up the bodies of the ilken, but a few were too smart for that. While three of them froze into those eerily perfect sculptures, four of them flew up, their wings shoving them up into the sky.

Leta's breath came in sharp, uneven pants. She wasn't a warrior. She couldn't do this, couldn't fight

Yes, she could, dammit. She had to.

She could feel the airways of the ilkens' lungs. She focused on one to her left, clenching her fist. The ilken scrabbled at its throat, plummeting to the ground as it choked. It landed with a thump in the bushes.

And did not get up.

I just choked the air from something's lungs.

There was no time to think. Another two ilken emerged, and Leta drew up water from a puddle by her foot, fashioned an arrow in midair, froze it with her silver fire, and sent it directly for another ilken's heart.

Another one down.

She relished in her silver fire, making a circle around herself, the flames licking at her heels. It didn't freeze her, however; it seemed to talk to her, to whisper in her ear.

It trickled over the ground, freezing and killing, whole trees withering. This was not the petty echo it had been even earlier that day; this fire was a sickness, devouring the life of plants and trees and animals.

Sorry, squirrels.

But she wasn't fast enough. Even as she sent arrows of frozen water and choked the air from creatures' lungs, she was inexperienced. It was not second-nature to her; by the time she'd taken down ten of them, there were fifteen more to take care of, fifteen more advancing and creeping closer.

More kept on coming.

She was only one against an infinite number.

Until the arrow thudded into an ilken's heart.

It wasn't made of wind, or ice. It was made of wood.

Within a millisecond, arrows embedded themselves in eight more of the ilken, perfect kill-shots. They dropped to the ground like stones.

Leta turned around, going white. Vaughan stood on the boulder behind her, his quiver half-empty. He grinned at her. "You can't get rid of me that easily, love."

She couldn't stop herself from smiling.

Before she faced the ilken again, three more had dropped dead, arrows poking out from their bodies like a porcupine's quills.

But they didn't stop. There were more of them—more and more and more.

"Vaughan," Leta said, whirling around. "Shift."

He raised a brow at her. "Come again?"

"Shift," she snarled, wreathing her body in that same crackling silver fire. "Now."

His eyes widened, and he disappeared in a flash of light.

"Go high!" Leta shouted, and he did, flapping his wings and ascending higher and higher. Not fast enough: she sent a pulse of wind to kick him up into the sky. Vaughan cawed in annoyance, but she didn't care.

Twenty ilken? Fine.

She'd freeze the whole damn world if she had to.

She unleashed her fire, a wall of it a hundred feet high slicing through the clearing, freezing ilken from where they hovered above the ground, their cries falling silent as they tumbled. Thud-thud-thud-thud.

They shattered as they hit the soil.

Seventeen years ago, Vaughan had been at Mistward.

He'd seen Aelin take down the Valg princes with her golden flame.

And for a second, looking at Leta…

Seeing her wrapped in fire…

He'd thought she was Aelin.

He watched the ice rippling through the forest, trees withering and dying, deer turning to statues, the life leaching out of the woods. He couldn't help thinking that this was not natural. This was a lack of light—a lack of life.

A fire that had no warmth or glow.

Aelin, what have you done?

It took only a breath to kill them.

Leta reeled back in the fire, sucking it back into her chest. She was trembling as she brought the fire back in for good, the ilken dead and gone.

The ice immediately began to recede, to melt. But unlike last time, the foliage didn't heal. The water slipped off of the dead bodies, trickled from the tree trunks, but the undergrowth was dead and black.

Somehow she knew that nothing would ever grow here again.

An osprey flapped down beside her. A brief flash of light, and then Vaughan was there, assessing the carnage with an unreadable expression.

"I killed the forest," Leta whispered.

"Not all of it." Vaughan leaned back against the boulder, scrubbing his hand across his face. "It spread maybe three miles."

"I killed three miles of forest," she said, horror sinking in.

"You need to be trained," said Vaughan, swallowing. "As soon as possible."

"Where the hell can I go?" she said, dragging a hand through her hair. "To Doranelle?"

"No. You need to go to Rowan Galathynius."

"Who is Rowan Galathynius?"

"A very old, very powerful Fae," Vaughan answered. "Three centuries. He used to serve with Lorcan and I."

Her heart thudded in her chest. "Where is he?"

"In Orynth, last I heard," he said. "In Terrasen."

She shook her head. "No. No, I'm not going so that you can try to tell me I'm some princess—"

"Look around, Leta," Vaughan snapped, and her mouth shut. "This isn't just about you anymore. If you don't get a handle on this power, you're going to cause some serious destruction. This is only the beginning."

She stared at the ground. It had the consistency of ashes—dead, withered ashes. The kind that had no soil left.

There would be no more life here.

"Take me to Terrasen," she said, sounding hollow even to her own ears.

Vaughan studied her for a moment before nodding.

She reached down and retrieved a handful of frozen ashes. What have I done?

The next morning, Raiden was shaken awake by a vicious growl.

He jerked upright in his cell, straw digging into his back. The door to his cell swung open, and he saw the cruel Fae from before—Jacan—standing outside, smirking.

Across the corridor, in the place of Fenrys, was the wolf he had seen at first in the throne room, bound and shackled and clothed in blood.

As the wolf turned, revealing the same onyx eyes as Fenrys, Raiden started. The Fae's animal form must've been the canine creature.

Jacan stalked into the iron cage and unlocked Raiden's shackles, dragging him out by his ear. Raiden yelped as the Fae threw him to the ground, kicking him in his ribs.

He heard a dull crack, and the sound of someone screaming. It took Raiden a moment to realize it was the sound of his own voice.

"Let's go," Jacan said, and Raiden dimly saw another two Fae dragging the wolf-Fenrys up the stairs. Jacan did the same with Raiden, his knees colliding painfully with the stone as he was yanked out of the dungeon.

Connall was waiting in the hallway, arms crossed. "Maeve is waiting," he said, words clipped. "Hurry up."

What is happening what is this pain oh gods no please help…

Connall, Jacan, and the rest of the Fae guards dragged wolf-Fenrys and Raiden through the hallways, tiles scraping at Raiden's skin. He tried to get up, to run, but Jacan seemed to find it far more amusing to drag him by his hair.

If Raiden ever got out of here, he was going to shave his head bald. Fuck, it hurt.

They finally reached the doors to the throne room, and Connall threw them open, Jacan and the guards hurling Raiden and Fenrys onto the floor. Raiden heaved, panting, his rib throbbing. "Motherfucker," he wheezed, his cheek pressed to the ground.

Jacan's boot slammed into his ribs again, eliciting another crack. "Language," the Fae said, smiling.

Fenrys snarled.

The throne room was crammed full of Fae, and Raiden's heart stopped in his chest as he beheld the spectacle before him.

Kasper was held down on the floor, ten different Fae holding his chains. His shirt had been shucked off, his back exposed to the audience of murmuring Fae nobles.

His back…

So many scars that Raiden didn't know where to begin to count. Some white slivers, others red pockmarks, some newer, some older. Some infected, some healed, the scar tissue bumped and raised. Lash marks, as if from a whip.

And that was when he saw Maeve standing over Kasper, a whip in her own hand.

There was a commotion out in the hallway, and then Aelin was thrown into the room as well, kicking and thrashing. Her hair was unbound, her eyes wild. But as soon as she came into the throne room with its broken piano and shattered windows, as soon as she saw Kasper, she stopped fighting.

She went bone-white. And whispered, "No."

Something in Raiden's chest squeezed.

"It's funny," Maeve said, lips curving back to reveal a smile. "Yesterday, I got word from my loyal guards that our dear prisoner had been taken from his cell. And why?" Her court hung on her every word like dogs begging for table scraps. "So he could be healed." Her eyes rested on Raiden. "Isn't that right."

He didn't say a word. He didn't dare.

"Don't," Aelin rasped, struggling to get forward. By some miracle, she wrenched her way free of her guards. "Please, punish me instead. I was the one. Please."

"No," Kasper said hoarsely, speaking up for the first time. His green eyes were haunted and hollow.

"The boy is right," Maeve said, examining her fingernails as Connall grabbed a fistful of Aelin's hair, slamming her to the ground. Crack.

Raiden would never be able to hear that sound again without remembering this—without remembering this courtroom, this day.

Fenrys rumbled a warning, snapping his jaws and struggling to get free. "Punishment must be exacted on the guilty party," Maeve said, smiling. She strode forward and hooking her clawed nail underneath Kasper's chin.

She tilted his head up, smirking wickedly. "Everything has a price, dear boy." She gripped his chin, her nails so sharp that they raked trails of blood, and pressed her lips to Kasper's, the kiss brief and territorial.

"Get the fuck away from him," Aelin snarled, already up again, grappling against her chains.

"I don't think so, little would-be queen," Maeve said boredly. "Connall, restrain her."

Connall smirked. "With pleasure."

He took his dagger from a sheath at his belt and slammed it through the queen's hand, pinning it to the floor. Slicing through layers of bone.

The queen didn't scream. She went white, sweat breaking out at her temples, but she didn't so much as whimper.

Raiden didn't know how he managed. He retched.

"Consider this a warning," Maeve said. "And a reminder. Kasper, dear, your punishment will be fifty lashes. And as for you, Aelin…" Maeve's eyes went cold. "Your punishment will be watching me whip your son."

There was nothing but white noise in Raiden's head.

It was broken by the sound of the first lash of the whip as it sank into Kasper's back.

Aelin screamed—a scream that sliced through Raiden's chest, his heart. A scream that resonated, that carried. A scream that rattled the stars.

Kasper was bloodied and broken when he came to Fenrys's cell later that day.

He knew the captain's son was watching, and he didn't particularly care.

"Do it again," said Kasper, looking dead in Fenrys's eye.

The wolf nodded. "Lay down."

In the other cell, Westfall straightened, his back going straight as a ramrod. "What's going on?"

Fenrys shot Kasper an uncertain look, and Kasper shrugged. "Tell him. I don't give a fuck."

His back was still bleeding. He hadn't gotten the lashes bandaged yet.

He still felt Maeve's mouth searing his.

Bitch.

"There are old rituals," said Fenrys heavily. "Rituals among the Fae to communicate with each other's mates."

"Soulmates?" Westfall echoed. The boy's face had the pallor of ashes, as if he'd finally realized that he was to blame for the whole damn mess.

"Close." Fenrys took the twig of out of his pocket—the ancient twig, taken from a blessed tree in Doranelle. "Our partner for life in a very basic, very inherent way. There are rituals that you can perform to speak with your mate in your animal form. The rest of the world is blind to you; you can only see your mate. And you can talk to them telepathically."

"You've been trying to tell someone where we are," Westfall breathed.

"The rituals are dangerous," said Fenrys, "because if you try them and your mate is not yet living, you will die." He glared at Kasper, but Kasper didn't care. He'd known the risks when he'd done it the first time. "Kasper was lucky enough to survive."

"So why hasn't anyone come yet?"

"Because, idiot," Kasper snapped, "I don't know who and where they are. I don't know where their allegiance lies. All I know is their name."

Syeira.

She was beautiful—lovely. She had a fire and fight in her eyes that he envied. Not that it mattered.

Kasper was going to hell anyway, and soon.

"I don't have much time," Kasper snapped. "Do it, Fenrys. Now."

The old Fae set his jaw but nodded. He took the old twig, already stained with Kasper's blood, and drew a series of words in the Old Language—a spell. Long-forgotten by most, but not by the ancient members of Maeve's cadre.

It was deemed too dangerous to attempt most of the time, but Kasper had long since stopped giving a fuck about danger.

He'd long since stopped giving a fuck about anything.

Syeira hadn't come out of her room at all that day.

She stayed beneath her covers, wrapped in blankets.

Weak. Maybe… maybe she was weak.

It was twilight when the snake appeared again, that golden asp coiling on the corner of her blankets.

It didn't slither, or hiss. It didn't do anything but stare at her opaquely.

What do you want? she thought to it.

The snake didn't answer for a moment. It seemed to droop, as if it were wearied, tired. Exhausted.

Tell Rowan Galathynius that he has a son, the snake said, and disappeared.

A/N: Yeah, I know. This chapter was... sad. But I promise things are about to get real badass in Sollemere soon. (Lorcan isn't far-off, and Raiden is actually going to be useful for something. *cinematic gasp*)

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You guys are AWESOME! (Also, lol. I didn't mean to be that transparent about Kasper, but it's ok. He's gonna end up being a lil cinnamon roll, I promise.)

Going to write the next chapter right now! *looks up at sky fearfully and clasps hands in prayer*