ANDER:
Sometimes he studied thunder.
Thunder was a crack, and a tremor. It was as if someone took a cleave to the heavens and struck-a blow that sent a crack through their sky, and the echo shook the world. He knew the growling roll of distant thunder, creeping in slowly, almost mistaken for the shift of someone in the room above or the grumble of a palace cat. The decrescendo that came with the sound of great, nonexistent boulders grinding against each other. He knew what it was to stand at the heart of a thunderhead, and feel the tremor shake his bones, feel the sky cleave above him, an earth-shaking, ear-pounding cleave, a lion's roar of the clouds.
When Illia grew angry, it was the heart of the thunderhead that accompanied her-not a clap, but a cleave, a wild collision directly above them. And then-lightning.
Faster than a blink sometimes. A mere flicker, enough to make one wonder if there had been a strike at all-a flash through a window that left him unbothered. Then there was lightning: hair raising, acrid tasting, blinding lightning, the cleave that the thunder signaled-striking with a tear of light and fire, leaving wreckage behind. Illia crackled with it. She left sparks that raised all the hair on his arms and carried with her the strange and acrid scent of it, coating his tongue, leaving his instincts on edge: danger.
She brought rain, too-the hush song of a thousand drops colliding with the forest, great summer leaves yielding to the water, streams and rivulets meeting the forest floor in a symphony of rushing water. The white torrents pounding the earth flat beneath their force, the dribbles along rooftops, the lullaby water that hushed the most stubborn sleeper into dreams-Illia was every storm in turn, summer and spring and autumn, fierce and torrential, soft and smouldering.
She'd been sixteen when she inked the lightning onto her forearm. Branch lightning. Ander had memorized the strikes and formations himself: the single forking white-hot strand, the nonsensical, eerie balls that almost floated over forest floors, and the intricate weaving of branches. They reminded him so much of the great trees in Oakwald that even natural storms began to make him think of trees. They made Illia think of nature, too-the branches of the inked lightning bloomed a constellation of plants. One for every member of her immediate family.
For Aelin, kingsflame. For Rowan, the slim needles of pine. Thistle for Gav, lily for Mary, oak leaf for Brigan, rose for Lena. And then, quietly, one for him, at the very base of the tattoo-not a plant but a snowflake, a small branch of frost.
Her world was green and growing, and Ander was an outlier, but he was inked on her skin as in her heart, just as she was inked onto his.
Ander examined the tattoo in the mirror.
He'd told no one, including her, that he had it. He'd gotten it a continent away, after he found her. After the enchantment masking each other's true scars had locked in, he knew there would be no returning to their childhood way of being around each other-careless, barefoot, shirtless, shift-dressed. They were shy of each other again because their skin had become a reminder of a trauma neither could address. In that faith, he'd inked her lightning onto his ribs.
Why? Ander was still not entirely sure. It reminded him to like his body again, for one thing-it was a choice he could make for it. It was a reminder that the vanished scars were not. It was something of her that may outlast whatever they could be.
Ander frowned at the tattoo.
They were leaving in the dawn. He'd already said his goodbyes-to all of the court, Illia's siblings kissing and hitting him in turn, Aelin fussing vaguely, then, to his immediate family: Yrene and Chaol, Yrene kissing his hair and reminding him firmly to eat and shoot straight, Chaol hugging him far too tightly, ruffling said hair, and also reminding him "not to be too like your father." Fletch had been more composed, Mila had sniffled slightly-he'd wished her the best back at the Torre with Mary, where she bloomed-and Reve had tackled him.
"Don't get into too much trouble," Ander ordered him.
"I really can't promise that," Reve said cheerfully.
"Good hunting."
Reve's eyes flickered as he clasped Ander's forearm. "Good hunting, prince."
Finally, to his father-another wordless embrace at first. Both men enjoyed talking. When it came to it, their most profound conversations did not include words.
"It's not long enough," his father said quietly.
"I know."
"Come home," Dorian said, and then pulled back, looked his son in the eyes and said, "If this is all the time you have-take it. Don't leave with any regrets, Ander. Come back when you're ready, and not before."
"Thank you," Ander had whispered.
Now he stood frowning at his tattoo.
If this is all the time I have, why am I wasting it?
Why were they holding each other apart? Why were they in pain? What were they waiting for?
He was going to show Illia this gods-damned tattoo.
Ander yanked his shirt back on, ignored his boots by his already-packed bag-his trunk was returning to Rifthold without him-and stormed down the hall.
Illia's rooms were empty. Ander's magic prickled up his spine, snowflakes of indignation. Her bags were packed by the door, and Mary, Lena and Mila were already headed south, their absence making this usually-shared space feel even emptier. Well, he didn't have Fae scents, but he could still track her down. Maybe she was with the Ashryvers.
Ander hurried up the staircase. If he cut across the battlements, he could not only look down at the courtyards below but avoid a tangle of hallways. He ran, nearly tripping over one of the sleepy golden dogs lining the hallway, bursting up the staircase unwitnessed- but the battlements were not empty.
No, Ander found himself face to face with the person he had been avoiding this entire time.
Manon.
The witch blinked, but she didn't flinch, or move. Ander knew a lot of immortals. Fenrys, for instance, played into an "older brother" kind of role-he had a youthfulness which they all caught up to. But Manon was not "to be caught up to". She had always been untouchable, forever beautiful, forever young, appearing around Ander's age, yet somehow ancient as the stars.
He couldn't very well turn and run.
Manon said quietly, "Hello, prince."
"Manon." Already a bite of the word. He could almost hear Illia-you are being ridiculous.
This is who I have to blame, Illia.
Manon exhaled. "So you're not past this."
"Do you really expect me to be?"
"We were fond of each other once, prince."
" 'Once' I didn't know you were the reason I grew up without a mother."
Manon's eyes flickered. Pain.
Ander inhaled.
She could have defended herself. But she didn't. Maybe she knew he would only attack her further. Maybe Manon was a better study in irrational anger than he gave her credit for.
Instead she said quietly, "I am sorry Anne died, Ander. I am truly sorry."
Ander stilled at his mother's name.
The words came, unchecked. "No one talks about her."
"I didn't know her very well, Ander."
"Are you sorry?"
"What would you like me to say, Ander? She was-" Manon stopped, but he could have filled in the words. My replacement.
Manon had sacrificed for Adarlan, too. Had sacrificed for all of them.
Ander whispered, "I know you didn't kill her."
Another flicker of those burning gold eyes. His own matched. Leftover demon blood or a genetic quirk, none of them would ever be able to say-and he just hid, because it was easier than questions or truth.
Manon said, "I didn't. But I was there."
And if she was not exactly the reason Anne was dead, she could have been the reason she lived.
But if Anne lived, Ander's father and the witch before him would not have had their second chance.
Ander, in that moment, would have given all he had for twenty years with Illia. For ten, or five, or one. Anything but the scant months before them. Sacrifice was cyclical-it came around again and again, demanding cost from generation and generation. Dorian Havilliard and Manon Crochan had found their second chance, and they had not wasted it.
Would Ander ever be brave enough to fight for the love he had, for however long, if he had not witnessed his father fight for his? How much of himself did he owe to the witch before him?
Ander said, "I understand. Better than you think. And-I believe you are who he needed."
Manon's face was, for a moment, open with surprise. And she almost smiled-a smile Ander remembered chasing in childhood, elusive and crackling, hard to coax out of her but always satisfying.
Ander drew in a breath. "I'm not done being angry."
"I know."
"I deserve more of the story."
Manon nodded.
"Take care of him," Ander said. "When I'm gone."
Manon said, "You'd better come back with answers, prince."
"I will."
Manon said, "Don't waste it."
Ander ran into her on the way down the stairs-almost literally. Illia blinked at him, Evangeline's three year old on her hip, Adelyn's head nodding with sleepiness against Illia's shoulder. "Where did you come from?" Illia asked, a smile tugging at her lips.
He almost kissed her, right there in her mother's palace, barefoot as he was, and her with her niece in her arms.
But he didn't.
Not because he wouldn't-but because it was still, barely, too soon. They had an entire journey alongside her cousins ahead. Ander didn't want witnesses, or sneaking around a ship, or awkwardly putting distance between each other with all those people around. He just wanted her.
"I've resolved to be less stupid," he said, rather breathlessly.
Illia shifted Addy in her arms. "Oh, do tell."
"I talked to Manon."
"About damn time."
Ander shook his head. Some of the bubbles in his blood were ebbing slightly. "I'm still angry."
"You do have a right to your emotions."
"Just not to tormenting the wrong people with them."
Adelyn yawned. Illia pressed a kiss to her niece's auburn curls. "I've volunteered to put this one to bed. I've made her swear not to get any bigger while we're gone."
"I would take that very seriously, Miss Adelyn," Ander informed her. Addy blinked sleepily up at him with her mother's citrine eyes. Illia smiled.
She was so natural, with a child in her arms, that something in his chest twisted, and he was reminded, again, of the impossibility of sharing that future with her.
He would not waste this time.
Illia was watching him, her gaze deepening, and he lost his breath.
"I should go," she whispered.
Ander nodded.
Neither of them moved. The pull, the anchor, stronger than ever.
"See you tomorrow," she managed.
"Tomorrow," he said.
A promise.
ELIANA:
The shadows traced the hallways like lace, strung heavy and delicate through the palace. It was quiet now, the air heavy with goodbyes, everything soft and silent and echoing with the whispers of the departed.
Eliana walked barefoot along the dusky hallways, running her fingertips gently along the walls as she went, a tune winding through her mind. Her shadows had slipped from all sentiment of safety. Instead of disappearing into their depths, she walked within them, clinging to the familiar grey and cloaking herself from notice.
She lifted her skirts as she slipped up the stairs, the stone cool and smooth beneath her feet. Lysandra's laughter carried up towards her through the staircase window. Ellie paused and looked out onto the gardens. Aedion and Lysandra were dancing, quiet and unnoticed, to music only they could hear. The moonlight painted them in silver as Lysandra rested her head on Aedion's chest. He said something quietly to her, and she laughed again.
Ellie smiled.
She stepped into the hallway full of guest rooms they had all been occupying. Now that the outer circle had departed, the air was that of her sitting room at home-an open, shared space. Ellie paused before an open door, finding Iris cross-legged on Evangeline's floor, looking up at her older sister as they talked. Ev's husband was reading on the other side of the sofa, fitting quietly and perfectly into the tapestry of their lives. Ellie moved on unseen. Within the next open doorway Carter and Brigan played cards, both of them frowning over the cards, surrounded by a comical amount of their siblings' baggage. Reve was perched on one of the trunks, surrounded by study materials, cursing as a thick volume of Eyllwe script. The last open door belonged to Ellie's parents. She paused again, watching her mother bent over a book with one of the Havilliard dogs curled at her feet, her father coming behind her and handing her a mug of steaming tea. Elide smiled, lifting her face to her husband as he kissed her, reminding Ellie of a thousand nights at home, her day starting as theirs ended, all of them surrounded by stories.
They were fleeting moments, every one of them far too wild to sit still for very long, but Ellie had always loved them.
The other doors were shut, those within quiet and asleep, but Ellie didn't knock on Saskia's closed door. She just slipped inside.
Saskia was in her nightgown, the only light within the space coming from the fire, hugging a pillow as she stared out the window.
Eliana joined her silently, curling up next to her on the sofa, and resting her head on her sister's shoulder. She knew Saskia was crying, but she didn't say anything. Most of the time tears were only for those who shed them. After a few moments, her sister drew in a long, shaky breath, and Ellie reached for her hand. She took it and turned it over in hers. Saskia had callouses from holding swords and scars from saddling wyverns: warrior hands.
Ellie whispered, "Maybe having a baby won't be as bad as you think."
Saskia turned and looked at her sharply, dark eyes flashing. Eliana met the gaze. She was not afraid of shadows, nor of the Lochan, dark-eyed stare. She had also never had her suspicions confirmed, and she lost something of her breath as it sank in.
Saskia breathed, "How did you know?"
"Because I know you," Ellie said. "I know that Gav is upset because you aren't speaking to him, and so are you. I know you haven't been feeling well. I know you keep disappearing. And we're all in a fight, and you're not running directly towards it."
Saskia exhaled. "I really thought I was more subtle."
"You are to everyone else," Eliana said. "I'm omniscient."
Saskia dropped her head into her hands. "Oh, gods, Ellie, I've messed up."
"You didn't do this on purpose."
"I mean. I was there."
"Well, so was Gav." Ellie studied her. "Whom I'm guessing you have not told."
Saskia exhaled. "I can't. Take a wild guess as to why."
"Because he's Gav."
"Exactly. Gods, I miss him. I miss me, E. I miss knowing where I'm going."
"How long-"
"Not long. Seven or eight weeks. But I've got a month, maybe two, before everyone knows."
Ellie's stomach dropped. "Saskia. Please don't go."
Saskia shook her head. "Don't worry about it."
"Saskia-"
"Eliana," Saskia said, suddenly sounding exactly like herself-which was to say, a lot like their mother. She took Ellie's face in her hands, pinned her with her gaze and said evenly, "I will go nowhere without telling you."
"Promise me," Ellie whispered.
"I swear it. On our grandmother's grave."
That was a very important grave. Ellie swallowed, lifting her hands to Saskia's. "Promise me you will take care of yourself," she said.
"I swear. But you have to do the same."
"I pro-"
"Eliana," Saskia said. "They are on your ground."
Ellie exhaled.
Saskia said, "You are a Lochan. Darkness itself bows to you. Don't let the shadows forget it-but don't be stupid. Swear you won't go running into a battle you cannot win."
"I swear."
Saskia nodded. "Good. If you get so much as a scratch I will hunt you down and kill you myself, massively pregnant or not."
Ellie laughed. "Warning heeded."
"Brig had better take good care of you."
"He mentioned you told him as much."
"Well," Saskia said. "I'm nothing if not an older sister."
Ellie said, "I think you'll be a very good mother."
Saskia's breath caught audibly. "Thank you," she managed.
"You're the moon and I'm the stars, we're better together," Ellie said.
Saskia cringed. "Oh, my fourteen-year-old self thought she was such a poet."
"She was brilliant," Ellie said. "My point is that you had better not go anywhere."
"Our parents won't let me. I'm re-training in the running of Perranth."
Eliana tilted her head. "I'll be running Perranth."
Saskia's lips twitched. "Remind me how that was decided without either of us actually talking about it. I know, Ellie. But I offered. It is something to do-and I want to take care of home while I can."
"Everything is changing," Eliana said.
"I know," Saskia said. "But at least we get to go on."
MARY:
The roses Lena had painted four years ago were still winding over her doorframe.
Mary studied them, her Fae vision cutting through the dim golden glow of her bedroom, the roses smudged by time and the angle of Mary's vision as she rested her chin on Mila's stomach. Mila's fingers traced lazy circles on Marion's back, and Mary sighed, closing her eyes.
"I can't believe you got us a sidekick," Mila said, half asleep.
"Illia got us a sidekick," Mary said into Mila's shift, eyes still closed. "Not my fault. Besides, it gives us a male companion who is not a grumpy immortal."
"Our token male contingent."
Mary lifted a lazy hand. "Exactly."
"Do you think," Mila said thoughtfully, "this is Illia's way of keeping an eye on us?"
Mary opened her eyes. "Well, I do now."
Mila laughed, the vibrations echoing through Mary's head, which she lifted begrudgingly as she sat up in bed. Mila was buried in Mary's pillows, golden brown hair slipping from it's braid, her eyes shining bright and clever in the light of the single candle. Mary waved a hand, and another pair bloomed with fire on the other bedside table.
"Do you really think she's watching us?" she asked.
Mila blinked. "Not really. I'm with you."
Mary raked a hand through her hair, waves of silver spilling everywhere. "But is that the only reason-"
Mila pushed herself upright. "Sparks, why is this bothering you so much?"
"I just-" Mary exhaled helplessly. "I feel like no one trusts me."
Mila blinked. "That's-"
"Not true. I know that's not true. But everyone is being useful, and I am going to be wandering around the Southern Continent, ornamental, hunting in libraries I have already spent hours doing nothing in."
Mila blinked. "Do you not want to come with me?"
"No," Mary exclaimed, almost shouting. "No, of course I want to come with you. You-you're-" Mary almost never lost her words, was renowned, in fact, for having far too many of them, but here she fumbled. "You are everything," she said, a lame excuse of a word, but Mila smiled slightly.
"I'm a little fond of you, too, you know," she said gently. "I thought you liked learning the healer's work."
Mary nodded. "I do." It was a challenge, far harder than any of her flames, and it felt far more useful, besides. "But I won't become a healer, Mila. That's your calling. It's not mine. Something is coming for us-something has changed, and I cannot-I cannot stand here and ignore the fact that I do not know my place in all of this."
Mila was quiet, watching her.
Mary tugged at her hair, a habit of her twelve-year-old self. "I will never rule."
"Not that you couldn't."
"Maybe, but gods above, I don't want to. And the throne was only ever Illia's anyway."
"Mm," Mila said quietly.
Mary paused at the note in Mila's voice. "You're worried about Ander."
Mila sighed. "He is my brother. He's all Adarlan has, Mary. Adarlan cannot give him up, and never could. Here-it would be hard on everyone, but if Illia left, they would have Gav, or you. Ander is Adarlan's only option."
"But he and Illia should be together." A true statement of the obvious.
"You think so?"
Mary lifted a shoulder. "Something changed between them on their last journey, and even before then… Lena sensed it. They are part of each other."
"Wonder what that's like," Mila said, taking Mary's hand and kissing one of its callouses. A shiver traced Mary's spine as she smiled.
"Do you know what Gav said, when I was born?" Mary asked.
Mila's delicate fingers traced over Mary's palm. "Tell me."
"He said I had story eyes," she said. "From the stories of Elena and the gods. A completely odd detail for him to fixate on, but he did, and my mother told him someday that meant they might write stories about me, too. But I haven't done anything worth writing a story about yet."
"You are twenty years old and will probably live for centuries, Sparks."
"Do you know what my mother accomplished by the time she was twenty?"
"Mary," Mila said, poking her straight in the chest. "This is your problem. You're looking for your problem? This right here is your problem."
"I don't-"
"Shush," Mila said.
"I-"
"Marion," Mila said. "Love of my life. Darling of my heart. We have to be up at the actual crack of dawn tomorrow, and it will take far longer than tonight to fully delve into how much you love and admire your mother while being deeply impacted by the pressure of her legacy. And we have a very long time on the ocean to discuss, in detail, everything of your mother's history that both shapes you and holds you back, and everything you're going to do about it in the future, all right?" Mila kissed her, pulled up her covers, blew out the candles and settled immediately into sleep, leaving Mary blinking at her in the darkness.
Damn. If she hadn't found the best one.
"All right, Yrene," Mary whispered.
"I heard that, Aelin," Mila said, half into her pillow.
Mary stuck her tongue out at her.
Mila said sleepily, "I heard that, too."
GAV:
He stood at her door in the middle of the night like a gods-damned idiot.
It wasn't supposed to be like this, damnit. It was supposed to be him and Saskia taking off together, on wyverns and wings, to go track down the trouble and eradicate it. It was always them.
Instead he was standing at a closed door, and for the first time in nearly six years, he did not think it would open.
When he was eighteen he'd showed up at the same door. It was a family Yulemas party. He was drunk. Saskia had scanned him head to toe, shook her head and said, "You're an idiot, Gav."
"Your idiot," he said, only slightly slurred.
She'd let him in.
Once she'd arrived, and thrown books around his room, half in tears, demanding to know why the world was devoid of any information about shadow-jumpers, pacing until she wore herself out and collapsed onto his bed and cried. He'd held her. They'd moved on together.
He'd suffered a loss of his men, and she had stayed up with him, all that drunken night and the horrible next morning. She had flown all the way in from the Witch Kingdoms once, furious about something Manon had said-a thing that turned out to be unimportant in the morning, but he was who she'd come to, and he never forgot it.
They did not hide from one another. They knew each other's worst and weakest moments. Most of the time, they revolved around each other, around unceremonious exits and arguments. Did they bring that out in each other? Or were they both just children stumbling in the dark, afraid to admit the fact of their fear?
What had changed so irrevocably that he was on the wrong side of her door?
Something had to give. Gav knew that. But he'd also assumed he would have some semblance of what had actually given way.
Gav raised his hand to knock.
Oh, he did not like this person. He did not like this male standing here in the middle of the gods-damned night at the door of someone who had dismissed him. She left, fine. She left him. That did not give him the right to stand at her door like a forlorn puppy.
He was leaving very early anyway.
Gav sighed, running a hand through his hair, then turned and wandered back to his room.
The last of the goodbyes took place in a silvery spring dawn, the white towers of Orynth glistening in the half light.
"You'll link up with the Bane in the lower Staghorns," Aedion said, as Gav adjusted his sword. "We're going by the north route," Gav replied.
"Calvost Station?"
Gav nodded.
Aedion half smiled. "What the hell is in Calvost Station?"
"Answers," Gav said.
"Gods, if only your mother had not passed this particular trait on to every single one of her children," Aedion sighed. "Don't burn down anything of significance and please make certain my son returns in one piece."
"Aedion, nobody could tear that boy apart."
Aedion grinned. "That's all his mother. Illia," he said, and Illia stopped as she passed, looking innocently up at him. "Aedion," she mimicked.
"Rattle the stars," he told her. Illia smiled, standing on tiptoe to kiss Aedion's cheek, then brushed his arm and swept past.
"How many weapons do you have on you?" Lorcan was asking Eliana. Gav glanced over to where Ellie stood, her hands resting on her hips, replying evenly, "Twelve."
Elide kissed her. Then she turned to Brigan and kissed him, and said something quietly to him that Brig met with a solemn nod.
Iris was vainly attempting to extricate herself from her mother's embrace, Ev standing by with a smile and her arm around Mary. Chaol was here in his chair, deep in conversation with Aelin, while some of the males loaded the carriages headed for Adarlan and the port. Dorian was smiling at Mila and Yrene. Gav was looking anywhere but at Saskia, who had appeared and immediately smothered her sister in a tight embrace.
"Rifthold is leaving," Dorian called. Ander promptly tackled his father in a fierce, unkingly embrace. Gav grinned as Dorian extricated himself, swatting at his son, and the men embraced with a final laugh, and a last exchange of soft-spoken words.
"Look who showed her face," Brig grinned, as Lena appeared, the exact opposite of a morning person, scowling at anyone.
"It's the sun herself," Rowan said, grabbing hold of Lena, who shrieked and squirmed out of his embrace. Gav strode over to her, dared to pick her up, and kissed her. "Cause trouble, hellion."
"I hate you all," Elena said.
The Westfalls were next, Mila hugging and kissing her brothers and parents, then Aelin tacking Chaol and Dorian in a fierce embrace until, with shouts, waving and spurts of magic, the carriages headed towards Rifthold rolled away, carrying Dorian, Lena, Fletch, Reve, Chaol and Yrene with them. The brothers hung their heads out the carriage windows, shouting and waving, Lena hanging out of her own carriage to flip them rude gestures. Gav watched her gaze meet Illia's, and something deep passed between them.
They'd always been like that, Illia and Lena, connected by some sense of burden Gav would never understand. His parents, and at this rate especially his mother, would probably never die, and even if they did, Illia was born for Terrasen.
Mary and Mila were leaving next. Sanders, their apparent travel companion, had not been introduced to Gav's parents as of yet. av was about ninety percent sure his mother knew there was someone lurking around the palace, but she apparently trusted her children enough to know if she needed to know him, she would. Gav's theory: had Illia not lost control when Sanders arrived, he would have been eating dinner with them last night.
Gav and Illia had a bit of an understanding: they did not give each other shit about emotional shit. They were just there when someone needed to cry.
In any case, Sanders was joining them on the outskirts of Orynth. Gav didn't know what Illia had said or done to make that arrangement happen, but it was probably better that Mary and Mila had a witness. There had been an adventure in a bar in the former Wastes that met Galathynius standards by a long shot, and Gav didn't want to haul an intoxicated Mary out of a bar fight she was most definitely winning for a second time.
Iris, Brig and Ellie were checking over their supplies. They were publicly on a research trip. No one knew what exactly they were researching, but then no one ever did. Gav's mother was embracing Mary, everyone's parents in conversation, and Gav was running out of supplies to check over.
He looked up and her gaze was on him.
So. Were they going to talk or not?
Saskia hesitated, and then she crossed the square towards him.
Gav went still. She was wearing deep blue, a cloak wrapped around her, her hair pulled back for flying. She would be tracking her parents by air while they travelled overland, back towards Perranth. Was she so desperate to avoid him that she would be sitting all of this out?
She stopped before him. She was cloaked, her familiar scent evading him completely, and he almost asked her to drop her shields.
Saskia said, "I really need you not to die."
Gav blinked.
"All right," he said.
Saskia nodded, drawing her cloak closer around her.
"I'm sorry," she said, and something in his chest gave. Sorry? She was sorry? What was she even sorry for? What was even happening here? "Saskia," he began.
"Are we heading out?" Carter asked, brushing past.
"In a minute," Gav managed.
Saskia glanced back towards her family. "I should go."
"Saskia, I don't-" Gav struggled for words. "I'm-if I did something-"
"No," she said immediately, her hand resting on his arm, the touch sending sparks up his spine. "Gav. You haven't done anything."
"Then why-"
"Gav," Mary shouted. "If I die in Antica won't you wish you gave me a proper sendoff?"
"Shut up," Gav yelled back.
Saskia glanced down at the cobblestones. "I'm sorry," she said again.
"Saskia," he said, almost a whisper.
And then she kissed him. So fast it left him breathless. "I love you," she said. "No matter what happens. But don't wait for me, Gav."
And then she was gone, hurrying back towards her parents, leaving him blinking after her.
"What was that about?" Carter asked out of nowhere. Gav almost leapt sky-high. "Shit's sake," he exclaimed. "Remind me not to teach you any more spy tactics."
Carter nodded. "I will keep that in mind. Are we leaving?"
"Gavriel," Mary yelled, climbing into a carriage. "Regrets! For the rest of your immortal existence!"
"Yes," Gav said, still staring after Saskia. "Yes. We're leaving."
He turned back towards his family. Brig's gaze found his, full of meaning-the layers of the task they were all taking on.
The world was full of more important things than Saskia Lochan. Gav embraced his family, said his goodbyes, made his promises. He and Carter shifted, both of them taking on winged forms as they took on the open sky.
There were plenty more important things, but just then, Gav didn't care about any of them.