A/N: A day late, and I'm still not satisfied with this chapter, but... idk? It's here? (Honestly I am a liar but I'm still kind of impressed that I'm only a day late lol I Need to Whip My Priorities in Shape But What Else is New.) In other news: I'm still not over The Foxhole Court (seriously to anyone looking for books to read this summer read the All For the Game series and come shriek to me about it; that being said be warned: it'll set off like every trigger in the book so if you're sensitive I Do Not Recommend), and I've recently gotten into Skam, and holy cOW it's so good. HIGHLY RECOMMEND, especially to my fellow angsty high school students.
*clears throat* Now, actual,, relevant,, content,,
I'm still going to try my best to get the next chapter out by Wednesday, but next chapter is more or less when the entire world actually goes to hell (on a whole 'nother level), so... we'll see? If I'm a couple of days late (which is a definite probability), don't be surprised, but I am going to Try.
Thanks again to all reviewers: you guys are the best! *hugs*
RECAP: Calynn and Sorrel are en route to the Crochan Kingdom via wyverns. Fenrys was taken by Maeve; Raiden was shot by Cairn, and Nox had to amputate one of Raiden's arms to stop the infection. Nox, Emery, and Raiden are on their way to Erilea to warn the ruling parties there about Maeve and try to get armies to get Fenrys back. Dallie can tell the future after she was resurrected, but for whatever reason, she finds snatches of peace when Orion is around. Syeira recently woke up, free from Valg possession, only to find herself in a Valg camp in the jungle, face-to-face with Erawan himself. Leta and Vaughan are in Eyllwe, investigating reports of Valg activity in the south. They recently met Tarik, the Crown Prince of Eyllwe. Lysandra, Aedion, Bevyn, and Channon are on their way to Wendlyn to bargain for forces from Galan (again). Kasper recently woke up from his comatose state, only to discover that Syeira was gone and possibly dead/possessed by the Valg.
Again, not really satisfied with this, but oh, well. Enjoy! :D
CHAPTER 25
CALYNN
Calynn had half-imagined that the Frozen Wastes would be white: the color of snow, the color of winter, the color of wedding lace. But they weren't. The Wastes were gray.
There wasn't snow so much as a gloss of frost slicking over the craggy rock, shiny and gravel-toned. The Wastes were a mess of slate stone, bunching in boulders and mountains, dipping at ditches and valleys and trenches. Bits of the rock were covered in scraggly weeds—clumps of heather and wild grass.
Occasionally, Callie caught a glimpse of a herd of goats, or the odd caribou or turkey vulture, but most of the Wastes were a desolate lack. There weren't even the pine forests that characterized Terrasen's northern slopes; just stone and more stone.
Make no mistake, Callie. Being born and raised in a place of cold and quiet breaks something fundamental inside of all of us. It's just a matter of what.
Calynn could not help but wonder what had broken inside of Sorrel—what had broken inside her mother.
The Western Wastes were no longer wastes: the curse had ended, and the land was slowly being rehabilitated, turned back to its former, fertile state, crops sown over the decomposing bones of the past. But these Frozen Wastes had always been frozen, as far as Callie knew.
There had been no Brannon to plant and cultivate the Oakwald Forest, no Gavin and Elena to raise cities of triumph. No one had claimed these wild stretches of land.
And for a moment, Calynn wondered what could be done with a place like this. If someone claimed it, could the land be tilled? Could cities claw their way up from the stone? Could quarries and a fur trade compensate for a lack of crops in alliances with other kingdoms?
Three days after they left Rifthold behind, just north of the Ferian Gap, Sorrel came to an abrupt halt in the air, yanking on her wyvern's reins.
Calynn fought to bring Hadain to a stop, pausing at Sorrel's side. She opened her mouth, about to ask a question, before she saw it.
Below was a valley of sorts, carved out between two mountain ranges. The valley was blanketed in thick snow—and dead bodies.
Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. All clad in armor, their skin gone gray and indigo, blood long since dried. Lumpy snowdrifts likely covered more.
"What," Sorrel whispered, "happened here?"
Calynn surveyed the field with clinical detachment. "Death," she answered, and before Sorrel could reply, dove Hadain down, right into the field.
"Callie, wait!" Sorrel called, coming after her.
Hadain landed in the snow, and Calynn slid off her back, landing with a crunch in the snow—right on a severed arm.
It was so quiet in the Wastes. There was nothing to make noise or sound; nothing but the whisper of the howling wind, wreaking vengeance for these deaths.
Callie liked the sound of the wind.
She leaned down, picking up the detached arm with her glove, and examined it, blinking twice. "Sorrel," she said. "This armor has a Melisande make."
Sorrel had gone the color of curdled milk. She dismounted her wyvern. "Callie, put that down."
Calynn did, only to reach down and dust off a pile of snow covering a corpse's chest. Icy, burning cold seeped into her fingers. "These are soldiers from Melisande," she said. "All of them."
Sorrel stared at her, mouth opening and closing as Calynn started unstrapping the helmet of one of the soldiers. "Callie, stop."
"Sorrel," Calynn said. "Think for a second. What are soldiers from Melisande doing this far north? And why are thousands of them dead?" She tucked the helmet under her arm. "Either Erawan has something to do with this, or there's another enemy we have to worry about. And we need proof."
Sorrel reached up and fisted a hand in her hair. "You're not bothered by this?"
"By what?"
"The field of dead bodies?"
Calynn surveyed it. "Of course I'm sad," she said. "I mourn them all."
For some reason, the words tasted like a lie in her mouth.
Sorrel seemed to sense it was a lie, because her eyes narrowed, but she didn't say anything else. They stood there, at an impasse, facing off.
Calynn turned away. "I'm going to scout the rest of this field," she said, facing the crisp, cold wind as it streaked her cheeks. "You're welcome to stay here. We should be ready to leave in an hour or so."
"Calynn," Sorrel said.
"Death doesn't bother me," Callie said. "It's a fact of life. Some of us die sooner rather than later. It is what it is."
Sorrel shut her mouth, and Callie turned away, walking down the field of cadavers.
She paused at one. A brown-skinned woman, with open eyes gone milky. Her skin was starting to rot, though it'd been preserved by the cold, and her chest had been carved open.
Something stirred deep in Callie's gut. An answering call—though to what, she didn't know.
But it was just a flicker, and after a heartbeat, it was gone.
Callie took the dead woman's dagger, emblazoned with the crest of Melisande, tucked it into her belt, and walked on.
—
DALEKA
Daleka had dreams.
They were not the sort of dreams that Dallie had, the fuzzy whispers of a subconscious. These dreams were raw, and vivid, and some gut instinct told her that they were real.
In this dream, a woman with ebony hair and violet eyes was speaking to a gray-skinned creature with a pair of obsidian ram's horns curling up from its head.
The gray-skinned thing could have almost been human, were it not for its horns and eyes—wholly black and all-consuming. She almost looked like a woman, and some voice in Daleka's head whispered that she was, once, a long time ago, and then her name had been Loralie.
"Let him go," Loralie said.
She and the violet-eyed woman were in a clearing, a camp of pitched tents in the distance. The foliage was foreign; ferns and trees and species of plant that Daleka had never heard of before, let alone seen; grasslands of exoticism that stretched on for miles.
It was evening, sky the shade of a rotted plum, and Daleka was a corporeal form in the bushes, crouched close to the ground; watching.
The violet-eyed woman turned to Loralie, and Daleka realized, with some surprise, that she had the pointed ears and fangs of a Fae. "Why would I do that?"
Loralie lounged against a tree, sharpening her claws with a hunting knife. "What use do you have for him? He has not spoken a word since you took him from the human boy."
The violet-eyed woman curled her lip. "Love," she said, the word so bitter that Daleka recoiled. "He used to be a warrior."
"Love can strengthen," Loralie remarked, brandishing obsidian teeth sharp and filleted as a piranha's. "You should have taken the Westfall boy, too. You could have used him as an incentive for Fenrys to play along. Taking him out of the game was rash."
The Fae snarled. "Raiden Westfall was a thorn in my side," she said. "He was the one that enabled Aelin's escape. I will not make that mistake a second time."
"But," Loralie pointed out, "now you have broken yet another weapon. Daggers can shatter, Maeve, and you have shattered Fenrys. He will not recover from Raiden's death. No one recuperates from that kind of heartbreak and loss."
Daleka sucked in a sharp breath.
"For a monster," Maeve—Maeve—said, lip curling, "you are pathetically human."
But Loralie had turned, and she was not looking at Maeve, nor at their foreign surroundings. She was looking right at Daleka's phantom form, hiding in the grass.
"Ah," she said quietly. "We have an eavesdropper."
Maeve stiffened. "Where?"
But Loralie was prowling forward, closer, eyes narrowed. "It has been an age since I have seen one of you," she said to Daleka. Her smile was sweet: almost nostalgic. "I wonder who brought you back to life, little seer."
"Seer?" Maeve demanded. "Impossible."
"Not impossible," Loralie corrected. "Simply improbable. As all things are." She reached out and grabbed Daleka's hand, and though Daleka recoiled, she felt Loralie press something into her palm.
"Who are you touching?" Maeve insisted. "I can't see anyone."
"I know you cannot," said Loralie. "But I can." Her hand tightened on Daleka's. "And now it is time for you, little oracle, to go."
The scene before her disintegrated into a thousand shattered pieces, and Daleka sat bolt upright in the infirmary, breathing hard.
Within her, Dallie was screaming.
Daleka unfurled her palm.
In it was a single crushed, foreign flower from the fields of far away. The bloody imprints of claws were etched into her skin.
She screamed—Dallie screamed, out loud this time, fighting to take over in that moment of pure, unadulterated fear—and for some reason, her scream sounded like Orion's name.
—
RAIDEN
"Alright," Nox said. "Question number one. What the hell is this thing?"
Nox, Emery, and Raiden stood outside the country cottage, packs slung over their shoulders, staring at the odd, reddish, spotted deer-hybrid creature that had ferried Emery and Raiden to Nox.
Emery winced. "I don't know."
"How did you find it?" Raiden said, walking forward—and almost falling flat on his face. His balance, once finely tuned, had turned upside down. He had difficulty managing a straight line, or walking on any uneven ground.
"I didn't," she said. "It was—do you remember the gray monster riding with Maeve? The one with the horns?" Raiden nodded. "After Maeve rode off, and you were… incapacitated, the monster did something. Called the buck forward. I asked it to do things, to help me, to get to Nox, and it did. Like it understood me."
Nox eyed the reindeer-thing suspiciously. It was currently munching on a patch of daisies in the front yard. "I don't trust it."
"It's our best shot at getting to Erilea quickly," she said. "I bet it could take all of us." To be fair, the buck was fairly large; easily twice the size of a normal deer.
The night before, they'd all gathered around the kitchen table, Nox pulling down a map from the wall. "Alright," he said, tapping a spot on the parchment. "Here's where we are."
To Raiden's astonishment, the map had been of Wendlyn. Nox was pointing to a spot near the northern coast, brushing up against the forest that covered the western slopes of the Cambrians.
"Bullshit," Raiden and Emery blurted out in unison.
"Um," Nox said. "No?"
"There's no way," Raiden said. "We were—thousands of miles east of Doranelle. Easily. There's no way that we're in Wendlyn, let alone west of the Cambrians."
"I promise, you are."
In the present, they continued to stare at the deer as it pawed the ground, snacking on flowers. It seemed delighted by the varieties that sprouted in the gardens of Raiden's cottage; it snuffled happily every once in awhile.
"Emery," Raiden said. "It is possible that the—gray thing—charmed the deer? To carry us faster, I mean?"
"I guess," Emery hedged.
"And you said the monster is traveling with Maeve?" Nox said. "That doesn't make sense."
"It's not really its motives that concern me," Raiden said, hobbling forward. "Emery, if this gray thing could charm us to move faster—doesn't that mean that she could charm Maeve's merry band of misfits to travel quicker, too?"
Emery paled. "And you think…"
"When Aelin and Kasper escaped two years ago," Raiden said, "Kasper left Sollemere in ruins. Charred ashes, actually." He chewed on his lower lip.
Nox cursed. "That's a pretty powerful motive for revenge."
"Exactly," Raiden said. "If Maeve is headed west as fast as we are—faster, even—then we might already be too late to warn Erilea."
"There no point in hedging what-ifs," Nox interrupted. "Cross that bridge when we get to it. We'll ride this—whatever this is—to Varese, hitch a trip on a ship back to Erilea, and warn the others. If this thing is as fast as Emery says it is, we should be able to get there by nightfall."
Emery peered up at Nox. "Are you sure you want to come?"
"Don't get second thoughts on me now," Nox said, a corner of his lips tugging wryly.
"No, I mean—" She gestured back at the cottage. "You might never see this place again. That doesn't bother you?"
"No," Nox said quietly. "It doesn't. This was never a permanent solution. It was never home."
Raiden wondered, briefly, if Nox had ever had a home at all. He didn't know the story that hung between Nox and Emery—something about a dead sister, he presumed—and he didn't want to know.
He'd had enough secrets and sins for a lifetime.
Oh, the teenage melodrama, a voice sang in the back of his head. It sounded suspiciously like Fenrys.
"Come on," Raiden said, voice oddly rough. "Let's go."
—
SYEIRA
Two years ago, Syeira had seen Kasper strip off his shirt—had seen the whip lashes etched into his skin, and wondered what that felt like, rope biting into skin, again and again.
Now she knew.
Erawan had decided that he would not kill her—not yet. He wanted to break her himself.
She was a slave, designated to manual labor: constructing temples and sacred buildings for demons, bleeding and sweating, slipping to her knees fifty-three times a day, an iron collar around her neck.
Occasionally, she had to serve the Valg commanders: refilling their glasses, bearing their lascivious gazes that made her feel as if her skin was crawling with miniature arachnids; forcing herself to remain still as they jeered at her and slapped her ass.
If one of the overseers thought that she was too slow, or inept, or inadequate, they whipped her. Tied her to a wooden post in the square, for the rest of the Valg to watch, and stripped apart her skin.
Syeira refused to scream.
It hurt—holy fuck, it hurt—but she would not give them the satisfaction of breaking her.
When they bound her to the post, she recited their names in her head.
Dorian, Manon, Orion, Calynn, Bevyn, Kasper.
All the reasons why. In the moments when she wanted to throw her head back and scream, she remembered the smell of his skin—pepper and rosemary—and the precise angle of his smile. The exact shade of his eyes. The timbre of his voice.
She remembered his back, so covered with scars, and thought, If it did not break him, I will not let it break me.
Syeira remembered Aelin, and how she, too, had been whipped as a girl—made a slave in the salt mines.
And so she refused to scream.
She lost track of the days. She lived in a ditch at the fringe of the camp with the other women slaves, all buzzing in Eyllwe. She knew a few words from her lessons, but not enough. Not nearly.
Syeira woke at the crack of dawn every day and worked until late into the night. She'd once thought that healing had ruined her noblewoman's hands.
She was wrong. Her hands now were cracked and bleeding, covered in scabs that would likely scar, some of them oozing pus that meant infection. Syeira knew some of the plants in the jungle from her time at the healer's academy in Antica, and she slapped on poultices as best as she could, but there was only so much she could do with limited time, resources, and overwhelming, bone-deep apathy.
Hours blurred. Life dragged.
She went to sleep curled up on the hard ground, pretending she was on a ship drifting in the sea, and Kasper's arms were around her.
One day, the overseers handed her a mop and a bucket of brackish water, shoving her into a line of resolute, stony-faced women, headed down into the temples that had been built beneath the ground.
The temple complex was enormous, and only half of it was above-ground. Most of it splayed beneath her feet, crawling through the loamy soil of the jungle. Syeira had seen Valg commanders and foot soldiers coming to and from the tunnels, and servants hauling vats and jars and baskets of laundry, but she had never been down there herself.
She hadn't wanted to. She'd… had no desire. Not to face something like that.
Now it seemed she would have no choice.
As she descended the stairwell into the tunnels, overseers on either sides of their motley procession of slaves, chains and collars rattling, she could not help but look up at the sun, soaking in its last warm, muggy rays.
She didn't speak as the slaves branched off, led to separate hallways. The air was dank and stale here, walls slick with beads of moisture.
Soon enough, she was alone, save for a single overseer.
"Clean the floor," he said.
Before her was a corridor that stretched on for what seemed like miles, lined with doors. The mop in her hand became leaden.
"I—" she began, but the Valg was already retreating, turning down another hallway.
Were it not for the heavy collar around her neck and the chains bound between her ankles and wrists, she would consider making a run for it.
Syeira swallowed thickly. The weak flames in the torches pinned to the walls sputtered.
She dipped the mop into the bucket. Slopped it onto the floor.
She slipped into a rhythm: pushing the mop across the floor, dampening grime and grit and dust and what looked, horrifyingly, to be bloodstains.
As she worked, as blisters formed on her hands, she imagined what Kas would say if he were here now. Afraid of a little dirty work?
"Dorian," she whispered. "Manon. Orion, Callie, Bev. Kasper. Raiden. Dallie, Aedion, Lysandra, Rowan, Aelin, Leta. Elide, Lorcan. Gavriel. Vaughan. Evangeline."
And that was when she heard it. The scream.
Later, Syeira would be thankful for the scream. It gave her a warning—a moment to steel herself as a taloned hand thrust open one of the hallway doors and hurled a girl onto the stones.
The girl shrieked, clawing at the door as it slammed shut. She was bleeding—blood everywhere, crimson staining her hands, her legs, her stomach and cheeks.
The blood was red, stained with bits of black.
"No!" she cried, slamming her hands against the door. "Give her back! Give her back! Gi—"
She was cut off, suddenly, by a cough that wracked her whole body.
When it stopped, she had a mist of red on her lips.
Syeira didn't think. She just dropped the pail and ran.
The girl scrambled backwards, looking up at her fearfully, but Syiera put up her hands placatingly.
"I won't hurt you," Syeira said. "I swear it on my life."
The girl pressed herself against the wall.
Syeira tugged at the collar on her neck. "I'm a slave here," she said. "Let me see. You're bleeding. You need help."
"Y-you c-can't h-help m-me," the girl stammered, her teeth chattering. She was a tiny thing, skin and bones, with the honeyed complexion and corded braids of someone from the south. "They—they took her."
"Took who?" Syeira said, kneeling. Inching closer.
The girl's eyes fluttered shut. "I d-didn't know," she whispered. "They did something to me. To my baby."
Something cold and heavy settled in the pit of Syeira's stomach.
"They said that they'd help me," the girl said, mumbling now, half-asleep. "Nobody wanted me anymore. Nobody wants a whore with a baby. They just want the whore part. They took me—said they'd help me. I woke up—here. They made me drink things. Said they were making my baby stronger." The girl opened her eyes, reaching out and clutching Syeira's wrists. Her eyes were like lanterns, hazy and gold. "That is not my baby. That is not my baby."
Syeira wanted to throw up. Wanted to vomit all over the newly-polished hallway.
Instead, she shoved the feelings far, far down, just as her mother had taught her, just as she had taught herself, and became cold and unfeeling and detached.
"Are you still bleeding?" Syeira said.
The girl smiled hazily. "Maybe. Sure."
Syeira let out a breath. "I'm going to heal you," she said. It would cost precious strength, but it was the quickest, fastest, most reliable way of dealing with this particular problem. "Alright?"
"Not worth it," the girl slurred.
"Of course you are. Everyone is," said Syeira, and before the girl's eyes had a chance to shut permanently, pushed.
The girl stiffened, as if she'd been slammed over the head with a saucepan, as the pain seeped into Syeira. The world blurred, made woozy by the girl's temporary blood loss that Syeira absorbed, as her own heritage and gifts replenished and healed.
"Your eyes," the girl whispered, and Syeira realized that her irises must have seeped to her whites, creating solid orbs of gold.
She didn't know how much longer it was that Syeira finally dropped her hands, slumping back against the wall, a fuzzy taste in her mouth.
"There," Syeira said, voice echoing and faraway. "You'll be alright."
But then a voice came from the doorway. Silky. Velvety-smooth.
"Princess Syeira," Erawan drawled, stepping forward from the mouth of the hallway with his flanked entourage. "What a lovely surprise. You've been keeping secrets from me."
—
LETA
Leta and Vaughan were given a suite of rooms in the western wing of the palace—walls and floors made of sandstone, glossy and cool, patterned with bright colors and stones; sprawling lounges and exquisite rugs; fronds and vases made of stained glass spun thin as expensive china.
Their quarters shared a sitting room and a study, but they each had their own bedroom and bathroom.
They were assigned servants and given the night to refresh themselves; a messenger appeared and informed them that His Majesty the King would speak with them in the morning. Leta smiled, dismissed her maid, and drew a bath herself.
She sat in the tub, soaking in the hot water, washing the grime of the road off her skin. When she was finished, she slipped into a pair of loose cotton pants, a sleeveless shirt, and toweled her hair dry, letting it fall around her shoulders in damp ringlets.
Before she left the bathroom, she peered at herself in the mirror—at the scars on her cheeks, dusting her shoulders; spiraling and curving down her arms. At the Stag of Orynth tattooed on her back, a memory of stars.
She was alone. And in that lonely moment, she allowed herself to be weak.
She pressed her hand to the glass. "I am afraid," she whispered. "Give me strength."
There came no reply.
Leta let her hand drop, wiping her eyes, and left the bathroom, blowing out the candle on the countertop.
She found Vaughan in the sitting room, wearing nothing but a pair of trousers, his own hair damp from the bath.
For a moment, she just stood there, staring. His damp hair fell around his shoulders (it still needed cutting), and the patch of brown hair on his chest was slick, plastered to his skin.
The tip of his curved ears poked through his hair, silver hoops winking.
He turned around and froze. His throat bobbed.
"Hi," he said hoarsely.
She bit back a smile, curling up in the chair across the table from him. There was a bowl of dates in the center, and she took one, sniffing at it. "Hi."
"I think you're supposed to eat those, not smell them."
Leta set the date down. "I'm not hungry."
Vaughan tilted his head back, studying the mosaic pattern of fish on the ceiling.
"What are you thinking?" Leta asked.
He raked a hand through his hair. "A lot of things."
"Such as…?"
"Such as," he said, "I forgot how much I love flying with you."
Her cheeks pinked. "Yeah? What else?"
"I'm remembering that I don't particularly like the south," he said. "I'm from a warm climate, you know. The aroma of fish rotting on a hot day is not a sweet one."
Her nose wrinkled. "I can imagine."
"I'm also," he said, "thinking that I do not particularly care for Tarik."
"What? Why?"
"Call it a gut feeling."
"That's ridiculous," she said. "He was nice."
"He's a fake."
"He's a courtier," she pointed out. "I'm a fake, too."
"No," Vaughan said. "No. You might act nicer at some times than others, but you're always yourself, Leta. You don't have sixteen different skins hanging in your mental closet."
Something hard settled in her stomach, but she didn't say anything.
You're right, she thought. I don't have sixteen different skins. I have thirty-two.
"I should get to sleep," she said, getting to her feet. "We have to meet a king tomorrow, after all."
"Good night, love," Vaughan said, but he wasn't looking at her—he was gazing out the window at the silver spattering of stars.
"Good night," she said quietly, and slipped back inside her room.
Leta had difficulty falling asleep that night. Maybe it was because, with her Fae ears, she could hear Vaughan through the walls, his breaths just as interrupted and awake as hers.
—
The next morning, Leta rose with the sun, splaying out the dresses she'd packed on the bed, running her fingers along the hem of each one.
Impressions were everything, and Aelin had taught Leta that how she dressed, what kind of jewelry and shoes and hat she wore, mattered. It sent a message—what kind of person she was, what kind of person she would be.
For a moment, Leta considered strapping on a corset, dressing in the style of high fashion in the north, but she quickly set that idea aside.
Instead, she donned an ivy-colored dress that grazed the floor, thin and sheer. Corsetless. It cut to the waist in the back, exposing her tattoo.
She pinned her hair up with a single silver clip on top of her head, allowing a few tendrils to curl at her collarbone, and grabbed a handful of silver earrings.
No makeup. No shoes, either.
Her ears and fangs were left for the whole world to see, the sleeves of her dress trailing past her hands like phantom spirits. She was a wild thing.
She did not play by their rules of courtesy and ring-around-the-rosy deportment. Leta played by her own rules.
When she looked in the mirror one last time before she left, sliding a silver ring on her toe, her ankles tinkling with bangles, she smiled.
She tucked knives into the sheaths in her wrists, in her ankles, and slid a misericorde in her hair, the emerald-studded handle winking. Just in case.
Outside her chambers, Vaughan waited in the parlor, munching on a date.
He, too, had taken no pains to hide any inch of his ancient lethality: his hair was held back with a leather cord, and he wore a leather doublet and trousers, laced boots coming up almost to his knees.
A sword was strapped on either side of his hip, each anointed with three daggers apiece, and a bow and arrow hung on his back, polished and gleaming.
Both of them, she thought, were meant for where the world came to an end.
He grinned at her. "Shall we?" he said, extending an arm.
"Let's go meet a king," she said, taking his hand.
—
TARIK
Tarik waited in the throne room, thoughtfully tugging on the cuff of his sleeve.
His father lounged on his throne, his face unreadable. That was nothing new; Tarik had never been able to read his father, much as he might wish he could. The statues in the Great Hall could take pointers from Haneul Ytger.
"Tari?" a small, quiet voice said at his elbow.
He didn't have to turn. Nehe stood beside him, her brow creased faintly. She looked lovely as ever, clad in gold, her hair corded into a dozen miniature braids coming down her back.
She was thirteen, but their father was already planning to marry her off. Not out of malice—Haneul was kind, but practical first. An alliance with the Southern Continent found its way above Nehe's happiness on Haneul's private scale.
Tarik still wasn't sure how his scale was measured. Not yet.
He'd figure it out one day, he was sure.
"What do you think of the princess?" Nehe said.
"Are we talking about you," Tarik said, "or Leta Galathynius?"
Nehe screwed her mouth to one side, unamused.
"Leta, then," Tarik said, lips twitching as he leaned against the wall. Peasants filtered into the throne room, begging his father for new legislature, for clemency; for a dozen more chickens for their coop. "Truth be told, I don't quite know yet."
"Yet?"
"She's difficult to read," said Tarik. "Incredibly so." He tugged harder on his sleeve. "And dangerous."
"I've heard the rumors," said Nehe. "They say she and Kasper Galathynius are the most powerful Fae in Erilea." She frowned. "I saw her entrance, though. If that's the best she can do—"
"Oh, I doubt that very much," Tarik said, thinking back to Leta. What made her dangerous, he thought, was her subduedness. She had the feel of the air just before a storm, reeking of metal, the sky roiling a purple-gray. It was a matter of when the rain began to fall, not if. "Her little flip coming into the palace, I think, cost her nothing—the tip of the iceberg when it comes to what she's capable of. I saw Rowan Galathynius at Morath once, and if his children are more powerful than he is—" He lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug he didn't feel.
"I'd like to see her, then," said Nehe. "I've heard that she can control silver fire that freezes things to their death. D'you think she'd show us?"
"Maybe if you asked nicely," said Tarik, laughing.
She elbowed him. "It isn't so ridiculous."
"If I were Leta or Kasper Galathynius," Tarik said, "I'd want to keep that power a secret for as long as I could. Better to keep us stewing, wondering what they've got and what they've don't, than to let us know immediately."
Her gaze slid to his. "Clever."
"Isn't it?"
But at that moment, conversation in the expansive, domed throne hall stopped abruptly, words and sound still echoing off the woven tapestries hanging on the gilded alabaster walls. Heads swiveled, as one, to stare.
Tarik stopped.
Leta Galathynius walked into the throne room, and there was nothing about her that looked human.
Silver hair: wild and untamed. Eyes that glowed like spirits of their own, fire dancing in the ring of gold, blue fathomless and cold as the deep. Bare feet that slipped over the mosaics dotting the floor, ears that curved up, studded with silver; a dress that cut down to her waist. A study in stars inked on her back.
There was something—cold, he thought, about her. Remote. Removed. Wild, unbridled.
Behind her prowled Vaughan Zamil, armed to the teeth and grinning, watching Leta closely with almost—protectiveness.
Tarik narrowed his eyes.
Leta halted before the throne, offering Haneul a smile that did not reach her eyes. "Your Majesty," she said, kneeling. This time, Vaughan followed suit.
"Rise," Haneul said. He had stiffened, sizing up a potential threat.
And Tarik understood, then, in a way he had not before:
To make enemies of the royal family of Terrasen was to sign a death writ. To make allies of them was to forge a shield of charmed steel.
Leta straightened with impossible grace. "Your Majesty," she said. "It is an honor."
Haneul stepped down from the throne. "The honor," he said, examining her, "I think, is all mine. I have heard a little of your past, Highness."
To her credit, she didn't so much as flinch. "It is not the past that matters, Majesty," she said, "but what we choose to do in the present."
"Wisely said." Haneul looked at Vaughan. "Who is this?"
Tarik knew he'd told his father who Leta's companion was—but this was the way that Haneul operated. Disarming, attempting to catch his opponent on uneven footing. Tarik did it often himself.
"My name is Vaughan Zamil." The Fae flicked his gaze up from Haneul's feet to the top of his head, clearly unimpressed.
Tarik found himself a bit envious. He'd never had the guts to do something so blatantly disrespectful.
"And who is Vaughan Zamil?" said Haneul.
"A former member of Maeve's cadre," Vaughan said, examining a point on the wall behind Haneul. "Now in the service of Her Highness."
"Her Majesty the Queen of Terrasen, you mean," said Haneul.
"No." Now Vaughan looked right at Haneul, and it made a tragicomic picture. The Fae had at least a foot and a half on the king of Eyllwe, and he seemed wholly unbothered by the crown on Haneul's head. "I meant what I said. I am in the service of Princess Leta, not her mother, not her father; not her brother. I am hers."
Haneul smiled broadly, flashing white teeth. "Is that so?" he said, laughing a bit.
Neither Leta nor Vaughan laughed. Leta's face hadn't so much as flickered.
"Well," Haneul said, looking around at the rest of the room. "Those excepting Her Highness, her guard, and my children, you are dismissed. Those of you that I have mentioned"—he made his way back to his throne as members of his court filtered out, shooting the remaining few curious glances—"it seems we have a few things to discuss."
—
LETA
Leta's heart wasn't working properly.
It tapped a sporadic, uneven beat.
She stood in front of the king of Eyllwe, listening to him talk about the sightings of monsters to the west, and the disappearances that had been plaguing his people; the massacre of villages to the northwest, near the border of Melisande.
"Is it assumptive—preemptive of me, even—to assume these are the doings of Erawan?" said Haneul, knotting his hands behind his back as they examined the maps on the wall. "Perhaps. But I saw Erawan's rise—fought at Morath, even, though I realize you were not there, like my son."
To that, Leta could only reply acridly, "No. I was not. Neither was my brother."
The look in her eyes was enough to make Nehemia Ytger II recoil across the room, shrinking back.
Haneul had introduced his children briefly: my son and heir, Tarik, and my daughter, Nehemia. His ever-present smile had grown taut. Named after my beloved sister. Your mother knew her, I believe.
Leta had bowed her head. She did. She told me to offer you her sincerest condolences, and to say that Nehemia was one of the true great rulers of this world, and she has mourned her death every day since she died.
That was enough for Haneul to blink quickly several times. He changed the subject abruptly, and Leta felt a tug in her chest—she'd had enough pain from Kasper's unconscious state to imagine the pain of losing a sibling, and it was not a pain she cared to contemplate.
But even through that discussion, through the talks that led to plans of heading off to examine the land to the northwest the next morning, she couldn't stop thinking about what Vaughan had said.
I am hers.
And then it was—
—it was his hands pressed flat against her bare skin, spanning her waist, his mouth on hers, her fingers in his hair, grabbing and tugging and this is safety, this is right, this is—
Impossible. It was impossible, now.
She would not bring heartbreak.
And perhaps that was why, when Nehemia II—called "Nehe"—said, "I should like to come with them on this expedition, Father," and Tarik said, "As would I," Leta said, "I would be delighted if both of you would come."
Tarik grinned at her. "I confess," he said, "talk of my father attempting a match between us has been struck enough that I had tried, a bit, to picture you in my head." His smile widened as pink dusted her cheeks—in Terrasen, too, the possibility had been mentioned. "I could not have done you justice now, I see."
"Well," she said. "Perhaps I will have the chance to get to know you better during this witch hunt of ours, Your Highness."
She couldn't see Vaughan's reaction. Not that she cared. Because she didn't.
Haneul observed them carefully, but she saw a flicker of approval in his eyes. A marriage into the Galathynius bloodline would no doubt be advantageous—especially if future heirs caught any of the gifts swimming in her blood.
They departed the throne room with plans for leaving for the northwest the next morning, accompanied by an entourage of fifteen, plus the prince and princess and their personal guards, and Vaughan's silence spoke volumes.
When Leta got back to their suite, she stepped into her room, laying down on her bed and staring at nothing.
Her heart felt like it was breaking, and she closed her eyes, pressing her face into her pillow to muffle her hitching breaths.
In, out. In, out. In, out.
—
CHANNON
Channon did not have a face.
Once he did—once, he had a set of features, completely unalterable. This is my nose, my chin, my eyes, my brow. These are my hands, my feet; my arms. My legs.
And then he'd begun to shift.
On the rare occasion that Channon felt masochistic enough to look in the mirror, he never knew if his was the face he'd been born with. Had his eyes always been this bright—had he somehow unconsciously made his cheekbones higher, his shoulders broader?
Channon was handsome, devastatingly so, but he had no idea if his was a face he'd unconsciously molded himself.
The world, for Channon at least, was made of clay. It could be sculpted and manipulated by the form he wished to take. The ground was not made of stone; it was made of shifting grains of sand and sinkholes, constantly ebbing and giving way beneath his feet.
He stood on the boat, watching the waves below, and closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of the sea.
He could understand the ocean, just as Channon could understand and empathize with any liquid. They had no definite shape: they took the shape of their container. Definite volume; definite matter, but no shape.
On the deck below, Bevyn scampered along the rope nets, his cropped white hair blown in the breeze. He was a demon, Channon thought wryly—already the sailors had been grumbling complaints about the youngest prince's behavior. They'd woken up to find their doorknobs locked from the outside, come back to their cabins to find their pillows covered in sticky syrup; taken a drink of ale from the wooden barrel only to find it was brackish seawater, spewing it all over the deck.
Channon couldn't bring himself to resent the little prince. It was nice to know that there was someone left that felt light-hearted enough to play pranks on sailors.
His eyes found his father, poring over a table and discussing something official with a handful of officials on the upper levels of the deck, his mother beside them.
Smiles had come easier from them since Dallie had woken up and allowed herself to be tugged into their embrace, but they were still hard-won.
Channon dug his fingernails into the deck, and only when he heard the sound of splitting wood did he realize his fingers had morphed into deadly-sharp talons, now wedged inches deep.
"Fuck," he said aloud, yanking his talons out.
And just as he did, he heard it.
"Land!" someone shouted from the crow's nest, dangling over the railing precariously. "Up ahead!"
Channon shaded his eyes. Quick, to arrive in Wendlyn—they'd been sailing for a week, when the voyage usually took two. But then again, their ship had been streamlined, and a wind-blessed Fae had taken the helm, propelling them across the sea.
The shore stretched out before them, sandblasted and dry, the shore rocky with sandstone and granite. Varese was inland, set on a river like Rifthold, and they'd have to ride for a few days to reach the capital.
For now, a port town stretched before them, growing larger on the horizon by the second.
The buildings had a foreign architecture; all flat roofs and arching windows, roof shingles a curled crimson. The cobblestoned streets were patterned, vines of flowers draped across walls, and the air, even from afar, smelled of spices: sharp, tangy scents that stung the inside of Channon's nose.
So this was the land that had swallowed up Raiden; that Channon's father had been born in. Warm and browned and strong: it had, Channon knew somehow, withstood the test of time against the odds. The Ashryvers had held it upright when it should have crumbled long ago.
The ship reached the dock, swaying as sailors hurled anchors over the side, and Channon watched from the railing, his hands shoved in his pocket. Subdued—unobtrusive. People generally preferred Channon that way, he'd realized. He was an anomaly, something they did not quite understand, and they liked him better in their peripheral vision.
He was content to stay there.
Aedion and Lysandra found their way to the gangplank, where an official in the armor and colors of Wendlyn was waiting, smiling genuinely, his eyes crinkled.
"Welcome," the official said, bowing with a sweep of his cape. "My name is Silas, the mayor of this little town."
Little town, Channon thought, was an understatement. But then Silas probably knew that.
"I am Aedion Ashryver," Channon's father said, returning the bow. "General of Terrasen."
"And I am Lysandra," said Channon's mother, "Lady of Lysander."
Silas raised a brow at the name of Lysandra's territory—but only for a moment. Channon, in that brief second, gave the man a bit of credit. Most people raised more than a brow.
"I am honored to welcome you into our fair city," said Silas, "though I understand it is not to be for long, unfortunately."
"No," Aedion said. "Tomorrow, we must go east to Varese. I have business with His Majesty in the capital."
"Of course," said Silas, though Channon had no doubt he was curious.
Channon yawned, drowning out the rest of the conversation, scouting the people that had come with Silas. There were a handful of guards, most of them helmeted and armored. Nothing interesting there—just the run-of-the-mill lackeys.
But behind Silas, on the edge of the dock, was someone that did warrant notice. A Fae.
He was slim, for a Fae, or perhaps that was just Channon's skewed perception of his father, grandfather, Rowan, Lorcan, and Vaughan. Slim, lean with muscle instead of broad, and laughing, white canines glinting. His skin was browned, his eyes upturned, slanted just a fraction.
He was talking to a few sailors on the dock and laughing, though Channon, for whatever reason, didn't think he was a sailor himself. His hair was cropped close to his ears, silver glinting on his ears and hands, and Channon caught a hint of a tattoo snaking up from his collarbone—
He turned, suddenly, and looked right at Channon. And smiled.
Channon flushed, pink rising to his cheeks, and the Fae cocked his head, sniffing. Surprise flickered in his eyes.
"Channon?" Lysandra said, interrupting Channon's reverie.
Silas did a double-take, reassessing Channon. "This is the shapeshifter boy?"
"That's me," Channon said, stepping up to the gangplank, his hands still in his pockets. His dark hair buffeted around his cheeks—it hadn't been cut in weeks, and he'd forgotten to cut it—and he blew it aside, irritated.
"My, my," said Silas. "I've heard rumors, but I did not know if they were true." He smiled at Lysandra and Channon. "I would love to see one of you shift sometime."
"You know my mother and I," Channon said. "A regular parading troupe."
Lysandra stepped on her son's foot, and Channon's facial expression didn't alter a bit. "Excuse my son, mayor," she said. "He gets a bit sea-sick, and it makes him short-tempered."
"Ah," Silas said, nodding. Never mind the fact that Lysandra was clearly lying through her teeth. "Well. We can escort you to a private set of quarters for the night—I presume you set off tomorrow?"
"That's what my father said," Channon replied.
Aedion's hand closed on Channon's shoulder, squeezing. "Tomorrow, yes. At first light, if possible."
Silas gestured to his guards, who led Aedion, Lysandra, Bevyn, Channon, and their own entourage of security off the boat, over to a set of horses. Aedion's hand dropped from Channon's shoulder as he began to discuss arrangements for horses, saddles, and travel supplies with Silas, and Channon dropped back from the crowd, eyes scouting the throng of sailors clotting the docks.
The Fae boy had hopped up onto a barrel, and he was looking right at Channon, a roguish grin pulling at his thin lips.
He wasn't attractive in the classical way—he had a scar slicing through his eyebrow, a handful on his cheek, and a mostly-healed burn snaking its way up his neck. One of his eyes was bruised and swollen, his cheekbone puffy and swollen.
His knuckles were scabby and bruised, and the knife peeking out of the top of his boot didn't seem like it had done a lick of good.
Even so, for whatever reason, Channon found himself walking over to the Fae, his hands still wedged in his pockets, as his parents played nice with Mayor Silas, talking accommodations and weather; maps and travel ponies.
Channon halted about fifteen feet away from the Fae, leaning against the spindly wooden railing snaking down the dock.
"You've been staring at me," Channon commented.
The Fae rose a brow. "And you've been staring back."
Channon didn't refute his statement; there was no point. He had been. Channon inclined his chin toward the Fae's scarred knuckles. "You should wrap your hands. Bruised knuckles are a bitch to fight with."
"And what," the Fae said, eyes raking over him from top to bottom, from Channon's polished leather boots to his embroidered doublet, "do you know about fighting, shapeshifter?"
Ah. Either the Fae had smelled him, or he'd heard Silas's comment.
"My father is a general," Channon pointed out. "I know a sight more than a scrappy street rat." Though Channon had admittedly never been in a fight himself. He preferred words as his weapons.
The Fae's teeth glinted. "Careful."
"I see your pointy ears, never fear," Channon said, grinning. "Sharp fangs don't scare me."
"They should."
"Alas."
The Fae's lips twitched, and he dismounted the barrel. He was taller than Channon had thought—tall and rangy. Scrappy, indeed. "What's your name, shapeshifter?" the Fae said, tugging on Channon's shirt collar with his index and middle fingers.
"I'm sure you heard my mother."
"I did," the Fae allowed, "but I want to hear it from your mouth."
Channon shrugged. "I don't have a name. You need a face to have a name."
"I see your face," the Fae said, grabbing his chin. His fingers were long and spindly, and Channon's breathing caught. He wasn't quite sure why. "Too pretty, if you ask me. I'd use those skills of yours to make your lips a little less full. You look half a girl."
Channon stiffened—the thoughts were a little too close to his reverie on the boat. He wrenched away. "I don't do that—change my features. Not on purpose."
The Fae studied him for a moment. "Why do you keep your hands in your pockets? Did someone smash your fingers?"
"Why do you have a burn on your neck? Did someone throw a vat of acid in your face?" Channon snapped.
The Fae laughed. "Clever."
Channon breathed out through his nose, reigning in his temper. "Sorry."
"Somehow," the Fae said, "I don't think that's entirely true."
Now it was Channon's turn to laugh. "No. Maybe not."
The Fae paused, examining him for a moment, and stuck his hand out. "My name is Alekos."
"Channon!" Lysandra shouted. "Time to go!"
Channon half-turned, starting to walk backwards. He let Alekos's hand dangle in midair, offering a two-fingered mock-salute instead. "You can call me Channon," he said, and ran away.
When he looked back, midway through mounting his horse, he saw Alekos staring right back at him, hand still extended, waiting for a confirmation that would never come.
—
KASPER
"Say that again," Rowan said quietly.
Kasper froze in his chair, fingers tangled in knotted golden snarls.
They'd all gathered in the infirmary again—Rowan, Aelin, Kasper, Dorian, Manon, and Orion, gathered around Dallie's bed. It was the middle of the night, the sky twilit and spattered with quicksilver, candles flickering mutely on end tables and drawers.
Kasper half-thought someone should carve out a conference room in the healers' quarters, complete with chairs built to house the frames of warrior Fae.
Dallie curled up on the bed. Orion sat beside her, cleaning her palm with a rag and a bowl of water, rubbing ointment on her claw marks and wrapping a bandage around her skin. There was a thin, dangerous set to Orion's mouth, his claws glinting.
"Raiden," Dallie whispered hoarsely, "is dead."
Dorian inhaled sharply, even though Dallie had told them the same exact thing moments ago.
Kasper's skull rung. Dead, dead, dead.
Two years ago—a lifetime ago—he had carried Raiden to his mother, crumpled in his arms, and watched as Aelin stitched him back together.
Two years ago, Kasper had watched him venture out into the wilderness, untrained and unarmed, without more than a single goodbye.
"Are you sure?" Manon said, speaking for those that could not.
"I had a dream," Dallie said. She didn't meet their eyes; she was staring at the crumpled, wilted flower on the nightstand. "Of Maeve. And a woman—a thing—named Loralie. They were talking—about Raiden, and Fenrys. Something about Fenrys being a shattered dagger, or something, and…" She chewed on her lower lip. "Something about Fenrys being in love with Raiden."
"What?" Aelin said. "What?"
Rowan was silent.
Aelin whirled on him within seconds. "Did you—did you know something about this?"
"Fenrys isn't picky," Rowan said heavily. "If you're asking if I knew that, then yes." He rubbed his forehead. "I didn't—I didn't know that Raiden wasn't picky, either."
Wasn't. Past tense.
"It was real," Orion said, speaking up for the first time. They'd come running at his summons—one of the healers had roused him; Dallie had been screaming his name inarticulately for near half an hour. He'd cursed them all—why didn't you get me sooner, you idiots—before running to the infirmary.
They'd found him like that, holding Dallie to his chest as she grabbed his shoulder, sobbing into his skin.
"How do you know?" Dorian snapped, pacing, raking his hands through his hair.
"Because she has claw marks on her skin," Orion retorted. "And a foreign species of flower in her palm. She was there. She has a power we don't understand. She's not insane."
"Calm down, Orion," said Manon, rubbing her forehead. "We know she's not insane."
"I won't tell Chaol," said Dorian. "Not without a body. Not a fucking chance."
"You might never get one," said Orion. "He might go the rest of his life believing his son is still out there—"
"And that," said Dorian, "is better than knowing a certain death."
"Is it?" Orion challenged, standing up. "Because I don't think you get to make that call. Chaol and Nesryn deserve the truth. Both of them."
"Orion—"
"You would want to know," said Orion. "If it was me, or Syeira, or Bev or Callie that was dead in a ditch somewhere"—Dorian visibly flinched—"you would want to know."
"No," Manon said. "No, I would not."
People turned to stare at her in surprise.
Her face was immovable as stone. She didn't say another word.
"I wouldn't either," said Rowan, his voice gravelly.
"I would," Aelin said.
Rowan looked at her. His skin was almost gray. "I speak from experience, Aelin," he said. "I would not want to know."
"So do I," Aelin said. For once, her voice lacked her usual fire: it was carefully detached. "You forget. I watched that bitch take away my daughter when I was still bleeding."
Rowan went white, and Dorian fisted a hand in his hair, cursing.
"You can tell the future," Kasper said, staring at Dallie.
She blinked, looking back at him. "I—yes."
Kasper glanced at Orion. "Leave."
"No," Orion growled.
Kasper stood up. He felt wooden—made of something not living. Made of something still.
Days ago, he had woken up in a bed in the infirmary, so weak he could hardly move, and learned that she was gone.
We think, Rowan said, that she's been taken by the Valg—that they put a collar around her neck. That they possessed her.
It was funny, Kasper thought. He'd experienced such exquisite pain. He'd been whipped, made to watch his mother scream. He'd been bound and shackled, treated less than a dog.
But he had not known…
Her eyes were like fireflies.
Her skin smelled of soap and herbs, basil and tarragon and hellebore and rosemary and thyme and others he could not name.
A pair of green socks, Kasper thought, and he understood, finally, what she meant.
You can look and look and look for something, she'd said, but that doesn't mean you'll find it. Not at all.
He had never gotten the chance to kiss her.
He'd wanted to. He'd wanted to kiss her, and other things, until he dulled her sharp mouth enough that he could look her in the eyes and tell her everything.
I was the snake.
You are my mate.
I have known, since the first time I saw you—I have known who and what you are. And I have loved you since.
I am in love with you.
In the end, it was love that gave him the greatest pain. The bite of the whip slicing his back like a Yulemas ham was nothing compared to watching it do the same to his mother—or listening to his mother's screams as she watched Maeve beat him, as she cried over his bruised, bloodied back.
It was nothing—nothing—compared to hearing that Syeira was gone, and she might never come back, and he was such a worthless piece of shit, and—
He loved her, from her sharp mouth to her soft heart, steel resolve and scars and all, mistakes notwithstanding, because she was something precious, and wholly unique, like a flower that bloomed at night, and—
And he had not been able to save her.
More power than he knew what to do with, and he'd never been able to save the people he loved when it mattered—he was worth shit on the bottom of someone's shoe, if that, and he could feel it, still, that pain, a visceral knife in his stomach, plunging upward.
Kasper didn't understand how they could speak rationally.
He wanted to scream until his vocal cords were ripped from his throat.
All he wanted to do was look for her—no. He wanted to find her.
He wanted to leave—was going to, until he realized that his legs were weak from days of lying comatose, and would not obey his commands, and he was barely able to walk short distances even still, and Chaol was gone, still searching for Syeira.
The moment he got his feet under him—the moment he did—he was getting the fuck out of Rifthold to get her back.
He didn't care if she loved him back, if she hated him. He was going to bring her back.
Which was why he really, honest-to-gods-and-truly, did not give one single fuck about what Orion Crochan-Havilliard had to say.
He shoved Orion aside, and to his delight, Orion stumbled. Kasper stalked forward, slamming his hands down on the wooden dresser at the end of Dallie's bed. "You say you can tell the future," he said, jabbing a finger in her direction. "Where the hell is Syeira? Where is she?"
"I—it doesn't work like that," Dallie said, lower lip trembling.
"The fuck it doesn't," Kasper snarled. "You know where Raiden is? You tell me, right now, where Syeira is. I want a set of fucking coordinates. Or, if nothing else, tell me if she's still alive. If she's still her."
"Enough," Orion said, shoving his chest.
Kasper reached out, sharp as a whip, and caught Orion's wrist. He met the witch prince's eyes with unflinching coldness. "I am not afraid of you," he said. "But you should be very, very afraid of me. Do not start a fight with me right here, right now, or you will not walk out alive. Do you understand?"
Orion slitted his eyes. "Is that a threat?"
"No," Kasper said. "It's a promise." He let go of Orion's hand, and someone swore as they saw the burned, mottled skin on Orion's wrist.
Kasper had burned Orion—burned his skin so badly that an acidic scent now scalded the inside of his nose. He hadn't—meant to.
But he couldn't feel sorry for it.
For his part, Orion didn't even look bothered, as if he hadn't felt the pain.
"You—" Manon started, stalking forward, but Kasper halted her with a look.
"I'm sure," he drawled, "that people are afraid of all of you. And I'm sure that to some, you're very intimidating. But I don't particularly give a damn about your shiny teeth or your shiny claws, because before you can get within a foot of me, I will burn you to a crisp where you stand, so I suggest employing some of your legendary common sense and staying the hell away."
Silence.
Kasper pivoted back to face Dallie, who was clutching a pillow, white as snow. "Now. Orion, kindly vacate the premises. Dallie, tell me where she is."
"It doesn't work that way," Dallie said, quavering. "I told you. I don't get to choose what I see."
"Try." He narrowed his eyes. "Try, for once in your life, being useful."
"What is this, an interrogation?" Orion said, stepping in front of Kasper, effectively blocking Dallie from his view. "She gave you her answer. It's a no. Accept it and move on. You're not the only one with a cross strapped to your back, so get over your melodrama."
Kasper rose a single hand, flooded with veins of lightning. "Get. Out. Now."
"Kasper," Aelin said, shoving forward. "That is enough. She cannot tell the future at will. Enough."
He turned a cold, impassive gaze on Aelin. She had fire in her own hand.
Dorian and Manon were staring at him, fury slashing their cheeks.
Rowan was just—looking. Like he'd never seen Kasper in his life before.
"This is not the son I raised," Aelin said. "This is not the son I raised."
"You're right," Kasper said coldly, dropping his hand, sparks winking out. "This is the son Maeve created when she forced my head between her legs."
The wall broke.
And all the glass shattered in the room.
Kasper realized a second later that it was because Rowan had recoiled so violently that he had crashed into the wall behind him—crumbling it.
His control on wind had slipped, and now the glass from the windows, the pitcher of water, the cups and glasses and vials, lay in shards of glass, poultices and water dampening stone, leaking and ebbing.
Aelin let out a whimper.
It was such a terrible noise, that sound of heartbreak: the echo the ground made as it slid and tilted beneath her feet.
Kasper shoved himself out of the room, ears ringing, before he could hear another word—see another person's gods-damned face.
He was done.
He was done, for today, with truths and revelations of love. They cut too deep.
—
RAIDEN
The stag was a blur as it bolted through the plains of Wendlyn, dust kicked up beneath its heels, grasses whipping at Raiden's shins.
He was strapped to the front of the buck—literally strapped; a rope bound his waist to Emery's. He wasn't balanced enough to ride without help. Not with only one arm.
It made an awkward picture, Raiden in front, Emery behind him; Nox trying desperately not to fall off the stag's ass. But the stag was fast—shit, it was fast, blurring the surrounding landscape.
Nox was right. By nightfall, they found themselves in Varese.
It was dark out, and the three of them—plus the stag—stood on a hillcrest, looking at the sea of lights and buildings below, the scent of smoke and sounds of laughter vaguely winding their way up the hill.
"We'll camp here tonight," Nox said. "Tomorrow, we make our way inland."
Raiden didn't help Nox and Emery make the camp, not that he would be much use if he had. Instead, he sat on a hill and listened to the music and the voices, the clatter of hoofbeats in the streets.
He wondered, looking up at those stars—at the Stag of Orynth, ever-present—what he would find in Varese.
Or perhaps what would find him.
A/N: Tentative next chapter update: Wednesday (?)
REVIEW THANK-YOU LIST TIME! :D
cindykxie
Guest (Glad you caught the thing with Sam. ;) All the words Dallie wrote on the wall in the barn will eventually be dialogue. It's gonna be fun)
Fabulous Purple Princess
fairymaster
EmpressofAlderly18 (You'll definitely eventually get more Manorian parentage as this beast of a fic progresses. As far as Orion/Dallie goes... their relationship is a sloooooooow progression, considering Dallie is still smol, but it'll eventually... move forward ;D)
AELINASHG
pomxxx
Guest
BookBabbles (Yes, the lock thing has DEFINITELY not been resolved. You guys are all going to hate me when this ends lol *hides*)
Bianca di' Angelo1 (YES OSCAR WILDE IS MY BITCH. As far as the reunion for Nox and Aelin goes... that one's a while coming, I'm not going to lie, but you'll get lots of Nox like "holy shit this is Aedion Ashryver her cousin and wait what the fuCK wHO the hELL is rOWAN and kASPER she has kIDS" pretty soon if that's any consolation ;))
Stars-Guard (I'm actually going to underline and italicize this one because I'm sure a bunch of people are in the same boat.
THEIR CURRENT AGES
Kasper, Leta, and Raiden: 17
Syeira: 16
Orion: 15
Dallie: 11 (Like I said it's a friendship right now bc she's smol lol)
Channon: 14
Bevyn: 9
Let me know if I'm missing anyone that you still want to know!)
pjo-hp-tog-mi (OHMYGOD I KNOW LoS I WASNT PREPARED I WASNT READY I DIDNT KNOW IM STILL NOT OK LIKE,, I THINK YA AUTHORS THINK I'M ACTUALLY MORE MENTALLY STABLE THAN I ACTUALLY AM,, BC IM NOT,, I MEAN LETS BE REAL. BUT ANYWAY. I'm so glad and legit touched that your sister is reading this (!). And as far as Tarik goes... he is... interested... not gonna lie... sorry... (I'm a caps lock addict too it's ok)
Annimiraye (AWWW)
keep . the . hope (asdfghjkl (p.s. it got weird about letting me write your url sry))
jmdaily13 (x2 AHH) (Ah, yes. The note-sending. ;D)
ShiroisKing1304
19sweetgirl96 (Hmm... I might separate this after I'm done? That's a good idea. So glad you liked it! :D)
Tschüss, Freunde! (I'm trying to learn German this summer and failing miserably lol) HOPEFULLY I GET THE NEXT CHAPTER UP BY WEDNESDAY!