"Thank you for looking out for me," she murmured into his chest, her breath warm against Rowan's skin. He made a faint sound of thanks, of dismissal, and then felt Aelin soften against him as her body went lax with sleep.

Rowan's POV:

Rowan had a problem.

It had been three days since Aelin's burnout, and he still couldn't look at her without remembering how it had felt to have her pressed against him, her head on his chest and his fingers in her hair.

Rowan had made sure to keep to his side of the bed these past few nights, but that hadn't stopped him from thinking about it. It had taken him a century to even look at another female without thinking of Lyria, and even then he'd never felt any desire towards them. With the lovers he'd taken since then, it had been as simple as scratching an itch, an instinctual need that had allowed him to lose himself and forget the misery of his own existence. And yet, when Aelin had taken his hand, warmth had pooled in his chest. A heat that wasn't of flames or magic or desire, but the simple comfort of physical touch. Even breathing had become easier.

Even once Aelin had started to recover from her burnout, Rowan had kept her confined to his rooms for the past three days, an order that had been met with a stream of snarls and complaints from the princess. She had insisted she was fine, even though it had been only yesterday that she'd been able to sit up without whimpering.

And yet, having Aelin there hadn't been as painful as Rowan had thought it would be. He'd found himself growing used to her presence, to her endless questions and snarky comments, to the distant warmth of her body that somehow reached him even from the other side of the bed. He'd developed a bad habit of listening to her heartbeat, of searching for it in the steady, peaceful silence they often slipped into while he poured over documents and maps and reports.

He'd become so used to having her at his side that when he'd left, it had felt like there was something missing, an empty space beside him that belonged to a girl with a sharp-tongue and wild, untempered flames.

It had been only for a few hours, the time it took him to fly to the coast and back, where another demi-Fae corpse had been found. The urge to find whatever vile creature had done it and shred it into ribbons with his magic had been demanding enough that only the thought of Aelin, alone and still vulnerable from her burnout, had him returning to Mistward.

He'd made the mistake of mentioning it to Aelin, who'd immediately demanded he take her there so she could examine the scene herself. He'd told her there was no need, which was the truth. The corpse had been the same as the others: a husk of a body, the only sign of injury the dried blood coating it's nose and pointed ears. He'd even gone to the town they'd visited, and while the villagers had been pleased to offer information when they'd seen the bag of gold at his hip, they still hadn't noticed anything that would hint at where the creature was hiding.

Before he'd left, Aelin had made a passing comment about it being her birthday, and that him leaving her alone for a few hours would be present enough. She'd seemed indifferent to the whole matter, as if the passing years were inconsequential. Perhaps they were, if she was one of the demi-Fae granted immortality.

Still, the reminder of how she young she was had been jarring. The power she possessed, combined with her bravado and unwavering arrogance, made it easy to forget that she was barely more than a child. That she had been a child, when they'd shoved her in those mines and tried to break her. And yet, she'd survived. Only nineteen, and Aelin had already faced a brand of darkness designed to break even the oldest and toughest Fae warriors.

She had emerged from Endovier with scars and demons that would never truly fade, but she still possessed that fire that had slumbered in her bones. It was awake now, roiling beneath her skin, waiting to be unleashed. And with it, an inherent warmth, a kindness and light that even Endovier had been unable to take from her. A light that had flickered to life in her eyes at the sight of the chocolates Rowan had brought her yesterday.

He'd told her it was because he'd been insulted that she deemed his absence a proper birthday present, and had refused her attempts to embrace him. Still, when she'd gone to use the wash room, she'd managed to sneak up behind him and plant a kiss on his cheek. He'd shrugged it off, wiping his face with a snarl, but perhaps a part of him had allowed her to get past his defenses.

Like he'd said, it was a problem. Because now, standing in the sunlit clearing with Aelin as his sparring partner, Rowan needed to focus. Especially since he was tracking Aelin's every movement, and had noticed the fire in her gaze, waiting to be unleashed after days of being kept dormant.

Good. He wanted to play with it.

Aelin had said she wanted to go outside. Insisted on it, actually. For days. And Rowan had told her that when she recovered, he'd make her life a living hell.

He wasn't one to break his promises.

"Your magic lacks shape," he told her, and Aelin stiffened at his tone, at the promise of violence he knew was teeming in his gaze. "And because it has no shape, you have little control. As a form of attack, a fireball or wave of flame is useful, yes. But if you are engaging a skilled combatant— if you want to be able to use your power— then you have to learn to fight with it."

Aelin groaned, but he ignored her. "But you have one advantage that many magic-wielders do not: you already know how to fight with weapons."

"First chocolates on my birthday, now an actual compliment?"

Rowan went still at her tone, at the smirk that accompanied it.

The more you talk, the more I'm going to make you pay in a moment.

He didn't bother speaking the words aloud, but by the glint in Aelin's eyes, the amused curve of her lips, he knew she'd understood him.

Apologies, master. I am yours to instruct.

Brat. Aelin's smirk turned vicious at the silent insult, as Rowan growled at the arrogance and amusement lacing every unspoken syllable."Your fire can take whatever form you wish— the only limit being your imagination. And considering your upbringing, should you go on the offensive—"

"You want me to make a sword out of fire?" She asked, interrupting Rowan before he could finish, eyebrows raised.

"Arrows, daggers— you direct the power. Visualize it, and use it as you would a mortal weapon."

Aelin swallowed, her confidence wavering, and Rowan could sense the fear rising in her at the challenge. This was what she was afraid of, he realized. Not just the depths of her power, but the idea of what she might do if she learned to control it.

Afraid to play with fire, Princess?

Rowan smirked as Aelin's flames flickered to life in response to his taunt, to the lick of ice and wind he sent skittering across the cleaning to her.

You won't be happy if I singe your eyebrows off.

Try me, Rowan dared her, wanting to see what Aelin was capable of without her self-imposed barriers. "When you trained as an assassin, what was the first thing you learned?"

"How to defend myself," Aelin answered, the fire in her gaze flickering as she finally understood why Rowan was so excited for their lesson today.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

•••

Aelin was failing miserably, but at least hurling ice daggers at her was proving to be more fun than watching her light candles in the ruins.

They'd been at it for an hour, and Rowan could already sense that Aelin was ready to make good on her promise to burn his eyebrows off.

He'd made the rules clear. A small, controlled shield. It was all he wanted, and then he'd stop his assault. But only that shield, not the wall of fire he knew Aelin was dying to unleash.

Still, she managed to restrain herself, even as each of Rowan's daggers found their mark.

Aelin's breathing was ragged, her skin soaked in sweat and blood from the cuts the daggers had made, and Rowan sensed her mind edging towards defeat.

He growled at her, at her eagerness to give up. That was her problem. Not a lack of control, but her fear of pushing her magic to the limit. It had almost killed her on Beltane, and it would happen again if she didn't move past it.

"Try harder," he snarled, sending two daggers of ice at her. They glistened in the sunlight as they spun through the air, missing Aelin by a hair as she rolled out of the way.

"I am trying," she hissed, fire crackling in her gaze.

"You're acting like you're on the verge of a burnout," he said, conjuring another dagger of ice as he spoke.

"Maybe I am," she said, even as her gaze didn't leave the dagger spiraling above his head, her fists clenched at her side.

Rowan scoffed, shaking his head. "If you believe for one moment that you're close to a burnout after an hour of practicing—"

"It happened that quickly on Beltane."

"That was not the end of your power," he said, unable to comprehend how oblivious she was to the true depths of her power. "You fell into the lure of the magic and let it do what it wanted— let it consume you. Had you kept your head, you could have had those fires burning for weeks— months."

"No." That word was Aelin's only response, and Rowan found himself infuriated by her eagerness to dismiss the strength of her magic.

"I knew it. You wanted your power to be insignificant— you were relieved when you thought that was all you had," he said, the accusation in his voice clear and merciless. Just like the three daggers he threw at her, one after another.

Aelin raised an arm, gritting her teeth as she willed that shield of fire into existence. But there was no sizzle of ice against flame, only the sound of Aelin cursing as each of the daggers buried themselves in her forearm.

"Stop hitting me! I get the point!" She screamed, clutching her arm where the daggers had left three thin cuts, her fingers bloody.

Rowan didn't listen. If Aelin wanted to hide from her power, she would have to face the consequences. He sent dagger after dagger flying through the air, and each one found it's target. Her shoulder, her torso, her leg.

Aelin whirled and rolled and dodged, each movement accompanied by more swearing. She raised her bloodied arm again and again, each failed attempt at summoning her shield followed by a hiss of pain. She shifted to the left to avoid two daggers, just as the third one caught her across the face. Aelin snarled, brushing a hand over the thin scratch it had carved along her cheek.

He had sensed her rage rising with each failed attempt to control her magic. She was angry at him, yes, but it she was even more furious at her power's unwillingness to cooperate with her. It was hers, and she wanted to control it. Not the other way around.

There.

The next shard of ice vanished in a hiss of steam before it could strike her forearm, as it met the shield of flames Aelin had willed into existence. And there was awe in Aelin's eyes when she saw the shape her fire had taken, and pride too. For herself, for that simmering shield of fire.

Rowan grinned, a hint of pride creeping into his own voice. "We're done for today. Go eat something."

But when Aelin's gaze met his, there was no exhaustion or fear, only controlled, burning strength. "No," she said, every syllable tingling with power. "Again."