ILLIA:
Illia hid on the battlements.
The world had not condensed itself into clear, understandable lines as of yet-hadn't written itself back into a language she could speak. The sky had turned grey and foreboding, and she watched the small figures of delegations below leaving-the lords of Suria, Ansel, Rolfe. Illia's presence at the Gathering had never been a guarantee. Maybe that would cover her absence at the good-byes.
In truth she didn't really care.
She almost wished for Elena-Lena was about the only person she could stand as she pieced herself together. Ander had left before she got dressed, darkened by his own shadows, to check in with his own family. So she was alone.
Illia didn't realize the person who joined her was someone she could stand until he propped his elbows on the battlements next to her, leaning onto them as he scanned the view below. Not Fenrys, Aedion, or her father.
Dorian.
The king said quietly, his eyes still on the horizon, "Not your best night?"
Illia let out a broken half-laugh-half tears.
"What am I for, Dorian?" she asked.
The words spilled out in a torrent of unchecked emotions-in a thousand thoughts she could never voice to anyone else, because Dorian did not depend on her. Not the way everyone else did. Dorian was a king and he didn't need her to take his crown, and he stood looking at her with that king's understanding in his Ander eyes, and she fell apart in the safety of his gaze. "What am I for?" she got out, through a rush of hot, acidic tears. "What is-is all this power for? Why am I here when the fight is already over? I have spent every single day of my life for the past six years dying to know why why why, what is it worth, and why do I have it, and I am losing it, Dorian. I am losing it." The words rushed out in a breath of air and for a moment she had nothing. Silence reigned. Then, the words cracking slightly in her chest, "I don't know if I can hold on for much longer."
Not with the only anchor she'd ever known stepping away.
If not today, then when his lifetime faded-though with that power growing, day by day, simmering in her veins, roaring, churning, she wouldn't last those scant seventy years.
Illia was losing it. Had been losing it since she offered it up six years ago with a fragile, twisted sort of hope: do your worst. Try and take it. Try to reach the bottom of the pit that is not a pit but an abyss-I dare you.
They hadn't. Had done things Illia truly could not put into words trying, but they hadn't, and ever since, she had not been able to outrun the knowledge that she was on borrowed time.
Dorian looked at her for a long moment. Silver lined his eyes. Then he stepped forwards, and pulled her carefully-with the caution that came with a precise understanding that she may be in no place to be touched right now-into his arms.
Something in her spine stiffened, then released, and she was held.
It was far from the first time he'd held her, but it was by far with the most understanding.
Dorian smelled like Ander, and he was solid-always had been. Illia had never known Dorian as anything but unyielding. He still spat magic and ran a country with a firm, iron-veined grip, could stand in a world full of immortal warriors and have his place, had a romance with a witch-queen spanning over three decades. Dorian Havilliard was not to be trifled with. He was strong enough to make her feel small, and Illia was thankful.
"You should tell them," Dorian said quietly.
Illia whispered, "My father knows."
She'd never said that, either. That when Rowan looked at her it was like how Lorcan sometimes looked at Eliana-with the precise kind of pain that came with knowing they were on borrowed time.
And of course, Aelin Ashryver Galathynius knew a few things about existing on borrowed time.
Dorian was silent holding her. Thinking the same thing.
"Why don't you tell us what happened?" he asked.
"Because you cannot change it," she said. "And it will only hurt you more if you know."
"More than it is hurting us now?"
Illia was silent. Dorian hadn't released her. His words brushed the curve of her ear as he said, very quietly, "You know what we've been through, Birdie."
She knew what they'd seen. She knew they could take a lot.
Illia said, "It is because of what she has been through that I cannot tell her."
He got it in that moment, even if he spared her saying anything. She felt the catch of his breath with her own. She closed her eyes for a moment, dreading it, unable to stand it-
His arms tightened around her and held fast.
"How long," he asked, a break in his voice.
Illia didn't open her eyes.
"Long enough," she whispered.
Long enough to fracture far more than bones.
Illia just held on.
These days it felt like she would drop anchor wherever she could, for however long, no matter how quickly the storm was coming. So many storms were coming, whirling around her, and things were breaking and cleaving and spinning, and the hurricane had taken root in her thoughts, in a million different thoughts-the nameless threat and Saskia and Ander's marriage and you won't get married for a long time and the scars and Sanders and six years ago and the lies she had buried herself in and the crown and the nation and the journey ahead and she was running out of time.
It was too much sometimes. It just was.
But she had survived. He had saved her-countlessly, in so many ways. And for now, at least, Ander was here, and they had one more adventure ahead, one last mission, another chance to make as vast as a difference as possible. Illia was going to make a mark on this world. It would know her name from this coast to the furthest shores-no matter what she survived, or how long she had, or how soon she ignited, she had to try. It was who she was.
She had to tell herself she was not afraid.
Dorian seemed to be searching for words, and finding none, and she was so tired of being hurt. So tired of battling.
So she asked, "Dorian, when did you fall in love with Manon?"
She felt the lines of his surprise trace his body. He blinked, and she pulled back, brave enough to meet the sapphire gaze once more. No questions-Dorian Havilliard understood when not to ask questions. Was far enough removed and not territorially inclined enough to refrain from them.
He said, slowly, "I'm not sure."
Illia arched a brow.
He shook his head slightly. "You are frighteningly like Aelin when you do that."
"Everything my mother does is frightening."
"I'll be sure to tell her you said that."
"She'll be proud. Tell me."
Dorian blinked. Then, he said carefully, "The first time… it was borrowed time. And we knew it."
"Did you?"
"It was the end and the beginning of the world, Birdie. When the world reforms, there are only so many foundations one can leave unbuilt. And we knew that. The Witch Kingdom-it had to be built again. Rifthold had to be built again. And the both of us and all of our pieces, so did we. You can only find so much of yourself in another person before you have to put those pieces together yourself."
Illia was left near breathless by the simply stated words.
Dorian went on, "I left first. She left. We let each other go."
"How did it start again?"
"I realized I did not have to be with her to survive. But I also realized when I woke up in the morning… she was who I wanted to live my life with. And so I abandoned my son with his uncle, dragged my sorry ass to her palace and told her as much."
"And she left you crying on the doorstep."
"That would be Manon's style," he said, smiling.
"Except when it comes to you."
"I think I realized I loved her when I realized she was the exception. That we were both the exception-that no matter how cold the world was, she was warm, that no matter how angry we were with everyone else, we were never furious with one another. Love exists on a different level than all else. Love is simply greater than all of the rest of it. Manon is the person who makes the rest of it cease to matter."
Illia could have cried. It hit differently, than witnessing her parents, all these years, than falling so in love herself-to have it said so succinctly by someone in exactly the right place to say it-it was like hearing a symphony for the very first time. "And you are her person," she whispered.
And Dorian said, "and Ander is yours."
She didn't deny it. She just said softly, "I don't think anyone could ever love anyone enough to drown out all of Terrasen and Adarlan."
"Tell that to Gavin and Elena."
"History does so love to repeat itself," she said. "Gavin and Elena may have been at war, Dorian. But they were not at war with each other."
It was a day for truth-telling.
"Even if it was all borrowed time-I am grateful," Illia said. "I am grateful for all of it. For all of this." She swept a hand across the battlements, towards the glittering city below. "My life," she said, slowly. "My life is a terrible thing to leave. Because I have known more light within it than someone four or five times my age. I have known more love and more adventure and more stories and more history than I could have dreamed of, and I am grateful. And I have found someone, who makes the hurricane go quiet. Even if… even if he is just as borrowed."
Dorian was watching her with silver in his gaze.
"Gods," he whispered. Then, again, thickly: "Gods, you are so like her."
Illia was held for a moment by a gaze which went deeper than she could have anticipated.
Dorian shook his head. "She died for this," he got out. "To put an end to all this bullshit-she died for it and would have died again."
"And if she had not, I would never have existed in the first place," Illia said evenly.
"But this is not the end, Illia. This is not where this goes. This is not how history repeats."
"Dorian," Illia said. "If I could learn to have fear itself bow to me, I would. But I cannot. Neither can Aelin Galathynius, or Rowan Whitethorn, or you. My mother may have died or almost died or whatever bullshit Elena pulled her out of the river for-I just know, Dorian, that she did that so I could have even the barest chance of being born, that she did that for Terrasen, and for hope, and for everything I represent, and get to be, and am honoured to be. I will be Terrasen's over anyone else's for as long as I live, and that is my honour, and my right, and that is what she died for. So maybe it's bullshit, that we can't erase history-maybe it's bullshit that I'm still in pain. But that is why I cannot tell her, and that is why Ander and I are an impossibility. You would have died, too, Dorian. You were ready to. So don't judge me for doing the same. Don't judge me for living for what my mother died for."
The words came out angrier than she wanted them to. Lighting crackled briefly along her veins. She caught her breath, eye to eye with the King of Adarlan, and he said, "Illia Galathynius, you will be a formidable queen."
Illia blinked. Then, "Thank you."
Dorian shook his head. "I cannot judge you. Not for keeping secrets-not for choosing your country over love."
"You've done the same."
"Oh, the same, and worse, Birdie." Dorian exhaled, running a hand over his face. "It's been a long fifty years."
"But you're grateful for them."
He studied her, a smile coming slowly to his features. "Yes," he said at last. "I am."
Illia smiled.
Dorian shook his head. "You're far more skilled of an actress than you let on."
"That's what makes me good. You won't tell them." Not really a question.
Dorian studied the cobblestones for a long moment, then exhaled. "As a friend, I should. As a father-I hate that you haven't. But, as a king…"
Relief eased in Illia's chest. "Thank you."
"I know what it is to have to bury the past to keep going, Illia," the king said. "But at a certain point, it will always unearth itself."
So she had noticed.
"I'm leaving soon anyway," Dorian said. "Do me a favour and please ensure my sole heir makes it home in at least two pieces."
Illia half smiled. "I will. You know he's coming back."
Dorian caught the meaning, nodding slightly.
"I'm sorry, Illia," he said. "For so many things. I don't know if that helps you or hurts you further, but I am sorry."
Illia's chest tightened. "Thank you," she managed again.
Dorian took hold of her again and kissed her forehead. Illia closed her eyes once more.
In another life, Dorian would have been her father, too-in another lovely, impossible world, where Ander got to call Aelin "Mama", and the man before Illia became another father in name and not just actions.
As if on the same line of thought, Dorian took her face in his hands. She opened her eyes, gazing into his own familiar ones, and he said softly, "Daughter of my heart."
Her throat welled up with tears.
"Father of mine," she whispered.
They both wished for the world the royalty in them understood they would never have.
Dorian kissed her temple, and let her go.
Illia stood watching her country for a long time, and was grateful.
Grateful for a palace full of people who loved her. Grateful for this nation. Grateful for the time she'd had, and had before her now.
Grateful for the person who made it all fade away.
One last adventure.
She turned to find him standing there, watching her from the stairwell entrance, almost shy. He gave her a dimpled half-smile. Illia wished absurdly to kiss the dimple, then remembered that kissing him remained a piece of another blissful, impossible life.
"Better?" he asked.
Illia nodded.
"Let's go," she said.
Her first order of business: tracking down the friend who had traversed an entire world to see her and then wound up getting greeted by her first magical episode in six years.
Saskia opened her door. "Sensed you coming. You have strange friends, Illia."
Illia smiled. "You have seen the family we were born into?"
Saskia rolled her eyes, stepping aside as Illia came in. "Never mind. How are you feeling?"
Illia lifted a shoulder, dodging the question. "How are you feeling?"
Saskia flashed the barest smile. Illia pulled a sachet from her pocket and offered it to her. "Ginger tea," she said. "I heard it helps."
Saskia lifted the tea to her nose and inhaled. "Oh, Illia. When did you have time for this?"
"Yesterday."
"Oh," Sanders said, appearing in the sitting room doorway. "Hello."
Saskia swept the tea instantly out of sight and nodded to Illia. "I have to go finish packing."
Then she left them notably alone.
Illia exhaled, tugging at her sleeves. "Hello."
"Hello," Sanders said, a little wary. Someone, probably Mary, had tracked down some clothes for him, and he'd washed up. He looked older than she remembered, which made sense, because she felt ancient.
"Let's take a walk," Illia said.
She led him through back corridors. There was a farewell luncheon of some kind going on, distracting most of the important people still within court, so all they had to avoid was being seen. Once on the grounds, they walked out towards the city outskirts, trailing the river, making small conversation.
"How's your father?" she asked.
"Oh, stubborn," he said. "Still alive, still kicking." He pointed to the arching rooftop of the Royal Theater, the river reflected in its hundred windows. "That's a gorgeous theater."
"It was a wedding gift from my father to my mother," Illia said.
Sanders blinked. "Your father… gave your mother a theater."
"And a library. This is why I don't talk much about them overseas," Illia said. "That's their casual behaviour."
"I'm sure that never gets boring."
Illia nodded, pausing on one of the smaller bridges arching over the water. "They're wonderful. And… a lot."
Sanders was quiet as he leaned over the rail next to her."I imagine it can all lead to... outbursts."
Illia shifted her weight. "I'm sorry, Sanders. That couldn't have made you feel welcome."
"No, love. I deserved it." Sanders watched the water, quiet.
Illia drew in a breath, inhaling the cool edge of the spring night. "If it were my country, and a stranger came, however well-intentioned, and wanted to cross out one of my nation's cultures-I wouldn't let them do it, either, Sanders. No matter the circumstances. It wasn't my call to make. And for that, I am sorry."
Sanders blinked. "Illia. You have nothing to be sorry for."
Illia glanced down at her hands. "If only that were true."
"Love. If I walked around with half of what you have going on, I would be rutting insufferable."
Illia had to smile.
Sanders waved a hand towards Orynth. "Saskia's been telling me about some of this history. Fucking fascinating. Oh, and you failed to mention that you happen to be a literal legend on this continent."
"Legend is a stretch."
"Literally everyone here knows your name. How do you define legend?"
Illia poked him. "Maybe your uncle riding into battle on a stallion and challenging your aunt to single combat."
"Your mother," Sanders said, "apparently rode into battle on a fucking stag. And then actually bluffed her way into saving our entire gods-damned world."
Illia nodded.
"Fucking iconic," Sanders exclaimed.
"Sanders," Illia said. "I fucking missed you."
Sanders threw an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, planting a kiss to her temple. "I missed you, love."
They walked like that, Sanders' arm around her shoulders, her own around his waist, just two old friends wandering along the river. She'd never really had old friends like this before. She never got to have them back.
Sanders said quietly, "You broke a promise, you know."
"And which one was that?"
"You promised me you'd be okay, and you're not."
Illia exhaled. "You're right," she said at last. "I'm really not."
They paused again. Illia sat down on one of the stone benches lining the waterfront. A few of her citizens passed by at intervals, nodding and smiling at her, and Illia managed a few smiles back as Sanders sat down. He leaned back against the bench. "Ander's kingdom and your kingdom have one hell of a history."
Illia almost could have laughed. "You have no idea. Did you know his grandfather murdered my grandparents?"
Sanders blinked. "No."
Illia drew in a breath, studying the water. "Slit their throats in their sleep. By way of an assassin, but still. My mother was eight. She was sleeping between them."
"Shit."
Illia said, "My mother counts Ander's father as one of her best friends, but Terrasen does not forget."
"I always assumed you two would ride off into the horizon together. I knew there was complications, but…"
Illia shook her head. "We never had that option. Not even for a moment."
"I'm sorry, love."
Illia glanced down at her hands. "Well. I had warning. How is your wife?"
Sanders grimaced. "Oh, she's pregnant again."
Illia broke into a grin. "Again?"
"Yes, and I've left her with three children and one on the way, and you've just reminded me that she is actually going to tear off my balls when I come back."
"Elara wouldn't."
"Oh, not to you," he assured her. "No, Lara's a fucking ray of sunshine with everyone else. Her beloved husband, on the other hand…"
"You worship the ground she walks on."
"With good cause," he said cheerfully. "We've got only girls so far, and I hope to all the gods your mother hasn't told to fuck off they're all like her. Oh," he said, pausing. "I haven't told you."
"Told me what?" she asked.
"We named one of them for you," he said.
Illia fell quite silent and went very still.
Sanders smiled sheepishly. "She's five now. Illia Violet. We call her Viv most often, but all the same-you saved all of us, Illia, and she and Daisy wouldn't exist if you hadn't come when you had, and-"
Illia cut him off by tackling him in the fiercest embrace she could manage.
Sanders went quite still, nearly tipping off the bench, but she held fast, whispering through her tears, "Thank you. Thank you."
Sanders relaxed, returning the embrace. "Well, love," he said softly. "It's you we have to thank."
Illia just held on, crying, because he had reminded her all at once that it hadn't been for nothing.
She had done some good in this world, and that could never be taken from her.
"Ander and I are leaving," she said, later, as they wound back towards the palace. "With my Ashryver cousins. We're searching Doranelle for answers about what's causing all the violence."
"What you believe to be causing the uprisings in my land."
Illia nodded. "But you could stay. Mary and Mila are headed to the Southern Continent to search the libraries there. You can avoid most of the legends around here if you go with them, or you can join Brig."
Sanders crossed his arms as he considered. "Your continent has considerably more records than mine."
"Unless you visit the Fae kingdom."
"Oh, because I'm going to stroll into the Fae lands," Sanders said mildly.
"Sanders, you just about did."
Sanders half smiled. "My daughters are going to love this story. I've gotten quite a bit of material for the bedtime arsenal." He waved his hands, setting the scene. "The young princess who disappeared, the warrior who found her, the shapeshifter and the general, the immortal and the Lady of Perranth, the witch and the king, the fire-breathing queen, their legendary children-though of course the girls already know about you."
Illia smiled. "It's a very good story."
Sanders said, "It's all well and good to admire fairy tales. But I cannot say I would want to be a part of one."
That echoed in her soul.
"I love them," she said. "With everything I have and everything I am, I love them."
"But you love Ander more."
"Not more," Illia said immediately. "But I cannot imagine my life without any one of them. Gav is an idiot but he's brave as all hell, and loyal-there is no one better to have in a fight. Mary is luminescent, but when you talk to her you understand that there is so much more to her-that she is so sharply intelligent. And Brig-Brigan is the most thoughtful person I know. He is wholly good. And Elena is mine."
"Yours?" Sanders echoed, half smiling.
"Mine," Illia repeated, and offered no further explanation. "And then you have my parents."
"Legends."
"Yes," Illia said. "Legends. But also Aelin and Rowan. My mother has an obsession with chocolate. My father only dances on special occasions. They tease each other mercilessly. Once on Lena's birthday my mother and Mary ate the entire cake by themselves. My father once flew to Rifthold and back when I was learning to play the pianoforte because I wanted to learn this symphony I'd heard at Yulemas, and the sheet music only existed at the theater."
Sanders was quiet, watching her.
Illia said, "I cannot hurt them by telling them. The legends could stand it, but my parents should not have to."
"I cannot imagine, Illia. I truly can't."
"Everyone wants me to be better," she said. "I want to be better. But I'm not-I want to be fine and I'm not. And Ander wants to be fine and he's not. And if I was ready to tell them…" She held up her scar-less hands helplessly. "But I'm not."
"You know what you told me once?" Sanders asked.
Illia exhaled, slowing down. "What did I tell you?"
"Well I was fussing about losing my mind because Lara was pregnant, and you turned to me-all of nineteen-and informed me that if I could not recognize happiness when I saw it, I was either undeserving or I needed to get my head out of my arse."
Illia smiled. "I was not wrong."
"One," Sanders said. "I had known you for about two weeks at the time, all of which was time spent on a warfront."
"And that was when you fell in love with me."
"Obviously. But two, I looked at you for about thirty seconds and came up with a theory."
"And what was that?"
"You don't take your own advice," he said evenly.
Illia blinked.
"Don't be fussed, love, it's a common affliction amongst the wise. But you have happiness laid before you, and I am not sure you are going to reach for it."
His eyes, brown, warm, and familiar, rested on hers with complete understanding. He knew all the stakes and all the risks and everything she had endured and still believed her happiness was within reach.
Illia hadn't bothered with such a basic concept as "happiness" in….well. At least six years.
"I get the impression your mother doesn't take her own advice, either," Sanders said.
"Oh, she doesn't," Illia said. "With one exception."
"And that is?"
"She tells people to rattle the stars," Illia said. "She actually did."
"At least you take her advice."
"The Aelin survival guide," Illia said, arm in arm with Sanders as they wound slowly back towards the palace. "Always take her advice."
"You're not about to introduce me without having previously reconciled, are you?"
"I'm not trying to get you killed." Illia sighed. "I also need to tell her I'm leaving, in addition to making excuses for losing control."
"Love, everyone knows you're leaving. You have literal wings."
"I missed you."
Sanders pulled her close. "And I missed you. I think I will stay-I've a better chance of finding answers out here."
"I'll talk to Mary. Though I warn you I'm abandoning you with her and the woman who is in all likelihood going to marry her once Mary figures herself out, and who also happens to be Ander's surrogate little sister and the daughter of his godsfather."
"Illia, has anyone told you your family is overcomplicated?"
Illia laughed out loud.
ROWAN:
Aelin and Illia were arguing.
Rowan would've known even without the mating bond that Aelin was in a fiery temperament. She and Marion had been sniping at each other over breakfast, impatient after days of the palace being filled with all the nations in their world and Illia's outburst the night before. The bickering was not uncommon, given that Aelin and Marion were nearly the same person. Illia and Aelin, however, were another matter. All of his family went head to head on occasion. When Illia and Aelin argued, it was never over something trivial.
It took almost a force of nature to get his birdie furious. After the slip last night, and the day full of official farewells and duties wherein all of them were forced to smile and pretend nothing was wrong, the fight seemed almost inevitable. When Illia went toe to toe with her mother, and got Aelin as upset as she was, the court tended to run for cover. Rowan actually came across Ren Allsbrook nearly breaking into a run as he fled the east wing. The man made a decent attempt at not appearing frightened. A decent attempt, but not a perfect one.
The rest of the children were in the sitting room, every one of them with a shield up. Illia had returned in the afternoon and none of them had strayed far from her since. Elena was dealing cards for a game with Marion. Brigan was shooting uneasy glances at Aelin's bedroom door. Gavriel was frankly standing guard.
"It's been a pleasure knowing you, Papa," Elena said from the floor. He ruffled her hair as he passed, then knocked, shields up, at his wife's door. "What?" twin voices demanded.
He eased into the room, warrior instincts raised. The room was both stiflingly hot and breezy, a combination of both of the women leaking magic within it. Aelin was standing by the fire, hair wild over her shoulders, in one of her flowered dressing gowns, shooting sparks. Illia in contrast stood by the window, hair half out of it's braid, her clothes in the same disarray as if she'd survived a windstorm.
"I'm checking to see if everyone is still alive," he said.
"Clearly," snapped Aelin. Illia's eyes flashed, but she bit her tongue. Fireheart, he said down the bond, and Aelin softened nearly imperceptibly.
"Can I get anyone some water?" he asked pointedly.
Aelin said, "Illia wants to go to Wendlyn."
Illia closed her eyes, still biting her tongue.
Wendlyn.
"For how long?"
"It depends," Illia said. "On how long it takes."
"On how long what takes?"
"She won't tell me," Aelin bit out.
"Because I can't," Illia said. "And we've been around and around with this debate, and you both know me well enough to know that if I could tell you, I would."
Leaving, again. Illia didn't just crave space. She needed it, for some terrible reason Rowan could never bring himself to put into words, a reason he was trying his level best not to take personally. Rowan shifted tactics. "When will you go?"
"Tomorrow or the day after. We sail with Galan."
Aelin threw up her hands. "I am surrounded by schemers."
"And where do you think she gets that from, love?" Rowan asked, a note of gentleness, but Aelin wasn't having it. "You just got back," she said.
"I'm not exactly asking your permission," Illia exclaimed.
Dangerous, dangerous ground-mother and daughter, queen and princess, magic to magic, and in one of those ugly equations, Illia had the upper hand.
Aelin's eyes flickered. Illia met the gaze, her own eyes crackling, but fell silent.
Aelin said tightly, "I need to know you have yourself under control."
Both Rowan and Illia took the blow of the words. His breath caught. Illia seemed to curl in on herself, her hands flickering to her wrists.
"It was a slip-up," was all she said.
"One to match the new scar," Rowan said, unchecked. Illia's glare flashed to him. "You trained me," she said evenly. "You know I have control."
"I know your magic responds to your emotions, Birdie. What I do not know is how you are feeling."
Her eyes flickered.
Six years ago she had come home scarred. A smile on her face. A shadow in her eyes. He had never known why-had not been able to bear asking. Ander didn't speak of it, either. Rowan knew the prince loved his daughter with all he had. If he was not telling the story, it was unspeakable.
And Rowan had walked the world for far too long not to be able to imagine, in vivid detail, what might have happened.
But Illia had no visible scars. She had never told anyone. Rowan could see only two reasons for it. The first that she was simply not ready to speak of it. The second, that she knew it would break them.
He didn't care. He wanted to know. Illia had not lost control in nearly a decade. Her hold on her magic rivaled his own, and her own power was far more vast. He did not want whatever was hurting her to keep on hurting.
"What happened?" he asked, for the first time.
Aelin had gone utterly still. She had drawn her own conclusions, he knew, their quiet conversations few and far between. Illia was an unrivaled joy and an unrivaled fear.
Lorcan had said quietly, "When that girl ignites, the whole world will know it. Are you prepared for that, Rowan? Are you prepared to watch her lose control of that much power?"
Rowan hadn't hit Lorcan in about thirty years, but just then, he nearly had.
Rowan needed answers. Rowan needed to understand. If Illia was hurting to the extent of losing control, he had to know, because he was not going to lose her to it.
Illia said evenly, "I slipped up."
That was all Aelin. "Not what I asked," Rowan said.
Illia's eyes flickered to her mother, then to him. She shrank further in on herself without any movement, her eyes shuttering, a lightning edge coming to the air.
"I can't tell you that, either," she said tightly.
"Illia," Aelin began.
"Mama, please," Illia whispered.
Ilia hadn't begged in ten years, either. Aelin fell silent. They all stood in silence, Ilia's jaw set as she stared determinedly at the floor.
"Will Wendlyn help?" Aelin asked.
Rowan felt Illia's exhale in his own bones.
"Yes," she said. "I think it will."
Aelin just nodded. Her arms were crossed over her chest. Sometimes watching Aelin and Illia made Rowan feel as though time had twisted, and it was not the queen to whom he had been married for thirty years before him, but the stubborn princess facing off against her own shadow. Illia had been ancient since she was born, but now and again-she was Aelin, exactly as Rowan had found her.
So he said, "Don't make too much trouble."
Illia half smiled, a mask of a gesture. "That, I cannot promise." She inhaled, glancing back to her mother. "I am sorry to go so soon," she said. "But… I don't think I will be going again."
Aelin softened instantly. "Why not?"
Illia just shrugged a single shoulder. "Ander is needed."
Oh.
They'd run out of time.
I am grateful. For the time that we had. Even if it was all they would have. For a moment, his daughter was Aelin, standing before him with the certainty that she was out of time. That what little they had shared-such a slim margin of the decades since, such a fragment of everything they had shared, the children and the kingdom and the summers and the holidays and the laughter, a life beyond his imagining-that first, small, near intangible amount of time, she had been grateful for it.
Illia had twenty years with Ander. Longer. Twenty years in the shadow of their crowns, but she had had them, and now she was standing before Rowan with the same look in her eyes-the certainty that it was over.
He felt nearly as helpless now as he had then. More so, because Illia was so entirely her own, and in truth there was little he could do for her. Her life, her heart, her choices, they were her own-they were what Aelin had nearly died for, what they had battled for, what he had hunted his bride across continents for. Illia was the future. Her life, her freedom, had been worth ten times every bit of struggle.
And yet she was still facing their own pain.
Illia just smiled slightly. "Won't you be glad to have me around? Or are you completely exhausted by me already?"
"Exhausted," Rowan said, straight faced.
Aelin just wrapped Illia in a fierce embrace. Illia was still for a moment, then she buried her face in her mother's shoulder. They came together like the sun and the moon, wholly different, and yet belonging to one another completely. They belonged amongst the stars.