Once Upon a Time

by LA Knight

Wolves in human skin. A Beast and a lost maiden. A sanctuary in a storm. A prince of Elven blood. Sacrifices, debts, honor, & oaths. Ten long, beautiful years, and all the stories that fall within. A collected fic series; currently on book 13. Updates when I can because hey it's a pandemic. Early access available on Patreon.

117. Dark Caverns of the Heart

Author's Note: sorry I'm late, I've been so busy. Here's the next chapter! Whoo-hoo! And I'm dying of an allergy attack, Blegh. I hope I don't have to call out of work. I feel sick…Anyway, let me know what you guys think, okay? Huggles and birthday wishes to you all (because yesterday was my birthday)!

.

.

Chapter One-Hundred-Seventeen
Dark Caverns of the Heart
that is
A Short Tale of What Might Be a Dream (or Not), Christmas, What Was Summoned by the Cheese, Hangover Cures and Tombs, Secrets of the Red Dragon, the King's Decision, Shaohao the Romantic, Awakening, the People's Love, and Zhenjin's Bargain

.

.

"Nuada…" That voice. Soft, gentle, rich with amusement. Sleepy and affectionate. That voice…And the sweet fragrance of roses and lilies. That voice and that scent, the terrible familiarity of them, sent shards of cold iron ripping through his chest. "My love, wake up. It's almost dawn. The invasion will begin soon."

Nuada's brows furrowed as he battled through the haze of sleep. Invasion? And who…? So familiar, and yet…And how…?

His eyes snapped open as the identity of the speaker crystallized in his mind like a blade of ice. A gaze like topaz knives slashed to the woman stretched out in the bed beside him, swathed in a silk nightgown the color of champagne diamonds. His heart jerked sideways in his chest, convulsing against his ribs until he thought it would burst out of him. The breath strangled in his throat. For a moment he could only stare up at her. Agony coursed hot as live coals through his veins.

The legendary Elven warrior's hand trembled when he reached up to touch a soft, scarred cheek with gentle fingers. Curls as dark as sable brushed his skin. Black lips silently shaped the name, "Dylan?"

Her smile lit him up like starlight, a wash of icy burning through his blood, as she covered his hand with hers and nuzzled her face into his palm. "Good morning. I know it's still dark but it's Christmas morning and we're going to be inundated in about fifteen minutes so I thought we could sneak some alone time before that. Although yes, I know," and her voice turned teasing, "an Elven prince fears nothing, and sneaking is beneath his pointy-eared dignity. But I think this time, discretion might be the better part of valor."

"But…but…I don't understand. You're…you're…" He couldn't remember. Whatever protest had formed in his mind whisked away, forgotten. He struggled to recall something of what was happening here, but nothing presented itself. The Elf knew who he was and he knew the woman in front of him, and he knew they were in Findias in his chambers—in his bed, which Dylan would never have allowed before their wedding, not like this—but that was all he could remember. "What's happening?"

Her bright smile sent an odd pang through him. "It's Christmas morning. We have," she shifted closer, brushing her fingers against the line of his jaw, "fifteen minutes before the horde comes crashing down on us. Maybe. Possibly even less. What do you think, Your Highness? Can you display those skills you're so proud of in fifteen minutes?"

"I…but…" This couldn't be. Dylan would never ask…

Something wasn't right here. White-blond brows furrowed as the prince tried to think, tried to make sense of the conflicting information in his mind. And why did looking at her make his heart twist in his chest? Why did it hurt to breathe in her perfume, see the shine of light on her hair? Why did his skin practically burn when she covered his hand with hers and turned her face into his palm? Why…?

The wrenching and the tearing. As if something precious had been ripped out of him. The empty silence that echoed his cries back to him when he called to her across the abyss.

Agony pulsed through his chest once, twice in time with his heart. He drew a breath that knifed through him. He shook his head. Words sat heavy on his tongue, but they had to be said.

"You're dead."

She blinked, the smile slipping from her face like a ghost. "What?" Then her eyes widened and he felt himself being drawn into a gaze the misted blue of rainswept lakes. "Nuada, that was a bad dream. I'm alright. You just had another nightmare."

He shook his head. "No…no, I felt you…I felt you die. Felt you leave me." The words were thick in his throat. He pulled his hand back. Gods, he could still feel the warmth of her skin against his. "This isn't real. It's some sort of trick. Someone is trying to play a trick on me, deceive…hurt…"

"Nuada," Dylan said sharply. His head jerked up and their eyes locked, moonlit blue and sunlit topaz. "Listen to me. I'm going to tell you what you told me on our wedding night." Her gaze flickered when he flinched almost imperceptibly at the words. "Listen. I swear on the Darkness That Eats All Things that I would never, ever try to hurt you, not like this. Never like this. I swear this isn't a trick. It's not a lie. You had a nightmare. That's all." Her fingertips ghosted over his cheek with all the gossamer weight of butterfly wings. "Just like you do every night."

He shook his head again. "No. We're not married. I would remember…" He would remember the ceremony; would be able to picture her in her gown looking so beautiful it made him hurt; be able to recall the sound of her voice speaking the marriage vows. He would've remembered that first night of lovemaking and pleasure when they chased her shadows and his away—together. But there was no memory of any of it.

Careful, inexorable pressure lifted his face to look at her once more. Whoever she was, she looked like Dylan. That cascade of dark curls, the fey-like eyes of silver and blue. Every scar striping her face in bands of pearl and silver and rose against the cream of her skin, every tiny laugh line from countless smiles, every wrinkle around her eyes from the nights upon nights of crying herself to sleep. But…

"I would remember," he murmured, wishing this were real, wishing the woman watching him with such heartbroken eyes was his lady returned to him again. But she couldn't be, it was impossible, Dylan was…"I would remember us."

Shifting onto her forearm, the illusion of Dylan leaned forward. The neckline of her silk gown draped against her chest; a layer of white scar tissue spilled over the top, identical to the scar Dylan had from where she'd attempted suicide as a girl. The illusion—the dream? The glamour?—cocked her head and her hair spilled in a curtain around her—just as Dylan always did.

The breath spiked through Nuada's chest. He shook his head. "You're not real."

He should shove her away, he thought. Draw his sword…except he wore only sleeping trews, and there were no weapons at hand. And besides…he didn't want her to pull away, illusion or not. Not when Dylan's scent flooded his senses, not when this mirage looked so much like the woman he would never hold in his arms again. She wasn't real, but this was most likely a dream—how else could the vow to the Darkness have been spoken without consequence?—so did it truly matter?

"Am I…" He swallowed, and it was like swallowing glass. "Is this a dream? You can't be real, this must be a dream."

Dylan laid her hand against his face and he bit back a sound of bone-deep pain at the touch that seared him to the marrow. "Don't I feel real?"

"I…" Without conscious thought his hand covered hers. Felt the warmth of blood flowing beneath soft skin. His eyes drifted closed as the tip of one finger smoothed over the delicate point of his ear. He shuddered. "I would remember."

She shifted closer. Shades of Annwn, he was drowning in her nearness. She sounded like Dylan. She looked like Dylan. She acted like Dylan. Dylan, whom he would never see again. Dylan, the one he'd failed. Dream, it had to be a dream, no glamour could fool him so completely, and he knew she was dead, he'd felt her die—

A warm press of lips, silk and fire, seared away the thought. This kiss. He knew it. He recognized it. Dylan's kiss. This was a dream. No enemy could know, could imagine what her kiss felt like, tasted of. No one could imitate the gentle slide of her lips over his, the caress of her breath, the sweetness of her sigh as he succumbed to illusion, to grief, to desperation. So long as he kissed her, eyes shut tight against the world, she wasn't dead. She couldn't be dead. Not when the fire of her still came to him, warming him, chasing away the chill and the pain. Not dead. Not his lady. Not his beloved.

"Wake up. Wake up all the way and remember. Don't you remember?" Dylan breathed against his mouth. "Nuada, please remember us. Wake up."

And the memories flooded in, as if they'd been waiting for him to drop his guard, to stop fighting the pull of what he truly wanted. Memories of Dylan swathed in moonbeam velvet with pearls and rubies and gold, so beautiful, and they spoke their vows under the Eildon Tree and she wore his ring and they danced and the joy in him burned hot as a newborn start; he and Dylan, alone now in their sanctuary beneath New York City save for the candlelight and the scent of a rosewood fire, the shadows soft and sweet around them; and more memories and more, of late nights talking before the fire and helping to rebuild the northern villages and playing with the ewah cubs and their honeymoon, traveling all over Bethmoora to show her its wonders. And more and more, blurs of memory smearing across his mind so quickly he could make no sense of them. He gasped against her mouth. Shuddered as hope and despair twined together in his chest, raking him. He shook his head.

"But I felt it," he murmured, more to himself than to her. Words too soft and feeble to push away the dream-memories. "I felt it. They took you from me." His mouth trembled and Dylan's expression flooded with sorrow, with tenderness. She brushed her fingers over his cheek, a gentle sweep of agony and warmth that dragged the words from him. "I couldn't save you."

He'd lost her. He'd lost her and now his own mind tormented him with images of her, with dreams of a future that could never become reality. How often had he dreamed like this in the wake of loss? When his mother died. When his sister deserted him. When his people were butchered by humans. When Yukihime, the one he hadn't even told Dylan about, died in his arms. And now he dreamed of futile futures again.

Nuada squeezed his eyes shut, though he hadn't the strength to pull away from the touch of the dream-woman beside him. He fought the burning in his eyes as tears threatened. Icy knots twisted in his belly. His heart knifed sideways in his chest, struggling to beat past the weight of the grief. Was he to have no peace? No succor?

Please, he prayed silently, though he didn't believe anyone could hear him. And if they could, who would listen? The Fates? The old gods? The High King of the World? For his sins, all had turned their faces from him. Even the High King. Yet Nuada couldn't fight back the words, Please, please…I cannot bear this. I cannot. Please, can I have no peace? Is there no comfort even in dreams? Please…

A strange warmth kindled in his chest, a warmth he'd felt only rarely in the last several centuries—most often with Dylan. As if soft light spilled across his skin like the gentle glow of the stars, a promise, a presence, comforting despite its silence. The ache in him faded a little, eased by the warmth. The cold knot of hurt in him dissolved slightly. Nuada found he could breathe again, that he was no longer choking on the pain.

He opened his eyes to see the dream had changed a little: Dylan had slipped out of bed and now wore a thick, velvet robe wrapped around her. The faintest threads of dawn light touched her shoulders and burnished her hair. It had been dark moments before, and he hadn't felt her get out of bed. He no longer lay in bed in sleep-clothes. Now he stood watching her move toward the door leading to the front room of his suite, dressed once more in his customary scarlet and sable. But things were strange in dreams and—

And then everything inside him went still when a plaintive voice as high and clear as the trilling of a flute called through the rowan-wood door, "Máta, can we come in now?"

Another voice stopped Nuada's heart when it cried, "Yes! We want to open presents!"

Nuada sucked in a breath as the world tried to spin away from him, as the dream turned foggy and stranger yet. It didn't feel like a dream any longer. It felt like…like…But he couldn't find the words to describe what it was like as he realized that while he was no longer in the large four-poster bed he'd only moments ago shared with the illusion of his lost lady, now someone who looked just like him sat up and stretched, popping the kinks from his spine. Silver-haired, golden-eyed, with the moonbeam skin of a Bethmooran Elf and the royal scar etched across his features…It looked like the prince, but…

"Áta, can we come in now?" A third voice called, lisping a little. "It'th Chrithmath!"

"Prethenth, Áta! Prethenth!"

The Elven prince fell back a pace as his doppelganger laughed and climbed out of bed, snagging the black velvet robe Dylan offered. "All right, all right!" The doppelganger called, grinning as he and Illusion-Dylan made their way to the door. "Now is this any way for young princes and princesses to behave?"

The door burst open and four Elven children scrambled into the room. The two smallest, barely reaching Nuada's knees, immediately plastered themselves to Dylan's legs—a pair of toddlers in matching red linen nightclothes. They rubbed their cheeks against Dylan's knees, yanking on her bathrobe and lisping about "prethenths." The other two rushed for Nuada's double, seemingly intent on tackling him to the ground. Instead the illusionary prince scooped up first one, then the other. A boy and a girl, the real Nuada realized numbly, something warm and soft and gentle flooding his chest. They were already dressed for the day. They couldn't have been more than five centuries. The dream-Elf hoisted them high off the ground to the accompaniment of delighted squeals.

"Princess Boann," he said. "Prince Balor. I hold you both fast. Do you surrender to my superior forces?"

The little princess shook her head. She had curls, Nuada saw. Thick and bouncing, just like Dylan's, but a rich coppery gold color. He'd seen that color on one other child before—Iúile ingen Barinthus's half-human baby. Not Elves, then. Half-Elves. The princess cried, "Never!"

"And you, Prince Balor? What say you?"

The young prince raised both fists over his head. "I stand with my sister! And I call upon my kinsmen to aid me! To me, my kin! To me!" When nothing happened, the prince sighed and turned to peer at the pair of toddlers clinging to their mother. "Hey! Seán! Scáthach! You two are supposed to save us!"

Seán and Scáthach exchanged sleepy glances—Nuada realized their eyes were a deep sapphire blue flecked with gold—and stuck their thumbs in their mouths. Balor groaned; Boann merely giggled and kicked her legs. The dream-Nuada laughed and shifted the pair of them, so that Boann sat upon his shoulder and Balor settled against his opposite hip. "Mind your heads," he said as they ducked under the doorframe and headed into the front room.

Dylan took Seán and Scáthach's hands and the toddlers tugged her toward the door. As she shifted to push her hair out of her face, her robe fell open, and the real Nuada's heart lodged in his throat at the sight of her in her nightgown, eyes alight with joy, belly gently rounded with child. A child like the four that had crashed into the room, desperate to open Christmas gifts.

Nuada's child.

But could it be? How? How, when she…? And yet somehow, the doubts fell away, and he felt something sweet and pure soothe his heart. This future would be his. These little ones would be theirs. And Dylan would be in his arms again.

Somehow.

.

Becan pulled Brighid behind him as the growling and snarling from under Mistress Dylan's bed grew louder. The serpentine creature that had so recently threatened to eat the two brownies giggled as the blood-red, slitted eyes beneath the bed began to grow. Becan clutched his knife.

Suddenly the slim, black-and-white striped thing cried, "Wait a minute! Wait a minute!"

The growling abruptly ceased. A somewhat nasal, dry voice issued from under the bed. "What? What?"

"Look!" The creature straightened, giving Becan a chance to study it more closely. It was a strange, skinny, oblong thing sort of shaped like a cane with a curved handle. Golden, reptilian eyes framed by impossibly long, silky black lashes stared at the glass container of forchetta cheese that Becan had pulled from his mistress's refrigerator. The disproportionate lips curved upward into a vivid, scarlet smile that revealed very even, very white, very sharp teeth. "Why, that's forchetta! My favorite!" The snake-creature rushed past Becan and Brighid and scooped up a handful of the soft, white cheese—covered in a soft black and green fuzz in places—in its slender, black hands. "Oh, hmmm. Delicious. Darling," it crooned to the thing under the bed. "You must try some. It's perfectly aged."

From under the bed scrambled what at first looked like a scaly, burgundy rabbit with a head shaped like a football. Clawed hands grasped for the cheese as the rabbit-creature approached on broad, up-curving feet with no toes. The thing shoved fistfuls of moldy cheese past its thin, corpse-blue lips.

"Oh, boy. This is the stuff," it mumbled, shoveling more mold and cheese. "Mmmm. How did you know we liked this stuff?"

It took Becan a moment to realize the scaly rabbit was talking to him. He cleared his throat. "My mistress said if ever I needed to find her or if I thought she was in trouble, to set out this container near her bed, and someone would come." The brownie hesitated, then asked, "Are you who she meant?"

"Hmmm?" The snake-thing paused in the middle of daintily plucking crumbs of cheese from the carpet. "Well, I suppose it would depend on who your mistress is and what she might want with the pair of us."

"Her name is Dylan Myers," Becan said.

The snake-creature gasped, clapping its slim hands to its bizarrely proportioned face. The scaly, red rabbit choked on a mouthful of forchetta and stared at the brownie for several long seconds.

Swallowing, the rabbit-thing demanded, "Dylan? Dylan's in trouble?"

"Oh, that child would be," the snake muttered. "Mischief seems to still be her favorite pastime." Wiping its hands on a napkin it pulled seemingly from nowhere, it focused those luminous serpent-eyes on Becan. "Now, dear snackling, be a good little morsel and tell us everything you know about whatever trouble Dylan has managed to get herself into now."

.

Nuada bolted upright, gasping for air. He flinched as pain lanced his temples and his gorge rose. It took him several long moments to remember how to breathe and how to keep from being violently sick. Ugh, how much had he had to drink?

"Here," a familiar voice mumbled. Nuada peered through the haze of sleep, pain, and hangover to see Francesca gently setting a glass of something peach-colored that smelled of tropical fruit in front of him. She'd tied back her curly, black hair in a loose ponytail. Despite the freckles and darker hair, and despite the fact that her nose turned up when Dylan's was actually crooked, she looked so much like her younger sister in that moment that it made Nuada hurt. "I went home—Wink said I could use Dyl…her magic ring; he said you wouldn't mind—and got some stuff for you and John," she added. "I knew you guys would be hurting when you woke up." She hesitated. "Do you mind? I gave it back to him right away so…you're not angry, are you? I didn't mean any disrespect."

He closed his eyes to push away the dim light from the candles. Sighed. The dream…That horrible, agonizing dream. It had seemed so real, so sweet, so perfect in sleep, but now…how could it be true? And on top of that, now he had this horrible, agonizing headache in counterpoint to the savage throbbing behind his ribs. He didn't know if he minded or not. He didn't know anything just then.

Desperate to change the subject, he muttered, "What is it?"

"One of my sister Gardenia's all-natural hangover cures. Syrup of cherries for the pain, peach and apple juice, milk and bananas to settle your stomach, strawberries and kale for any nutrients you might've thrown up. It's all organic, no chemicals, you won't get sick. Drink it, you'll feel better."

From across the table, a barely-conscious John moaned feebly. "Ugh, I'm gonna be sick."

"Puke outside," Francesca replied, voice firm but still gentle. "Try not to freeze to death. There's a nice smoothie waiting for you when you get done."

"Okay," John mumbled, and staggered out of the room.

Francesca smiled fondly after him before she sank into his vacated seat and propped her elbows on the table. She pointed at the glass in front of Nuada with her chin. "Drink that. It'll get rid of your hangover. Or at least help a lot. So, Wink says the blizzard will blow out in another twenty-four hours. Then you're going after her…right?"

He took a sip from the tall glass. The contents were smooth, cool, and frothy. The moment the first swallow hit his stomach, the rolling in his belly eased a little. A few more swallows and the pounding in his temples began to fade. He nodded but didn't speak.

"What are you going to do? When you find her, I mean."

Nuada stared into the peach-colored contents of his drink. Sighed. He'd thought about this while deep in his cups. Surprisingly, he still remembered what he'd come up with. When he'd described it to John, the mortal had actually wept.

"I mean to make her a tomb as beautiful as a palace," he whispered. "White marble encased in magic, so it will never wear away beneath time or the elements. A cairn of diamonds, and lily-scented candles lit night and day. Roses will climb over it and embower her. I will set it in the center of the garden I made for her, and lay a path of roses and snowdrops like a river of ivory. And carved into white Bethmooran gold will be the words, Here lies Lady Dylan Myers of Central Park, Fionntrá, Éas Ruaíd, Inber Scéne, Macha Chroí, and Luácha Hanráhan, a treasure among mortals, jewel of Bethmoora, heart's beloved of Nuada Silverlance."

There had only been four other women in his life who had been taken from him who deserved such monuments. His mother had one, designed by his father, though Nuada had never actually seen it. He'd been too badly hurt to attend the queen's funeral and those rare times he'd had the courage to try visiting his mother's grave, the king had forbidden it. Vassa had been buried with her kin in the frozen fields of Zwezda. Shana'kin's ashes lay scattered in the rain forests of Iara. And then there was Yukihime…But she had made him promise on her deathbed to build her no monument or tomb, but to let her fade back into the winter snows.

And now there would be one for Dylan. He hadn't told her of the secret he'd slowly been crafting over the last few weeks in honor of their betrothal, what he'd been building for her at Renvyle, the island where he'd grown up. And now instead of finishing what he'd begun there, it would be a tomb he built for her in the heart of the gardens in Findias.

The pain that ripped through him then sliced deep as a knife of poisoned iron, punching through muscle and bone to find his heart. He sucked in a strangled breath. The dream…or whatever it had been…That was the life he and Dylan had dreamed of. Happiness. A family. Children. The life he'd begun building toward at Renvyle. But now…now it could never happen. Even though a cruel sliver of hope pricked his heart, drawing blood, he knew it couldn't happen. Not now. Because she was gone…Gone, and with her the hopes for this future, for children with rose-gold curls, a son named for his father and another son named for her brother, a daughter with a courageous heart and another with such a sweet face. And whatever child or children had lain in Dylan's womb in the dream, growing, hopes becoming reality…There was no future with them, either. Gone. It was all gone. All of it, all hope for that family, that future, it was gone, as she was gone.

Yet it had seemed so real. And the hope it had stirred, the longing…surely that couldn't be nothing but vain fantasy. What if…what if his lady was alive—somehow? What if Tsu's'di was right? Could Dylan be out there, somewhere, waiting for him? He'd told her once he would crawl over iron shards and broken glass to find her if she were ever taken from him; that he would walk barefoot through Hell. He could do that. If she was out there, he could do that.

But he'd felt her die. He'd felt her being torn from him, not just from this world or from his life, but from his very soul. Even now he bled from that heart-wound. Iron and broken glass and hell were no obstacle to him…but death surely was, and death was what stood in his way.

Nuada sighed and closed his eyes. "And I'll carve a claddaugh into the stone myself, so that all who look on her tomb will know that my heart is with her always."

After a long moment, Francesca cleared her throat. "That's really beautiful. I think…I think she would've liked that."

He said nothing. There was nothing to say.

.

"How long before I can get out of here?"

Dylan paced from one cerulean-fire torch to another, swinging her arms. Whenever she passed a torch, she tapped it lightly. It gave her something to focus on besides how absolutely boring it was being stuck in her own mind. After exploring a few of the memory-doors spaced along the corridor, she'd quickly grown impatient waiting for Prince Shaohao to show some hustle and heal her enough to bring her back to consciousness.

Shaohao smiled. The Red Dragon of Dilong sat tailor-fashion on the cool, black marble floor. Glistening copper thread spread in a strange, web-like shape between his splayed hands. "My youngest son has more patience than you, mortal-who-should-have-been-a-cat, and he's only three-hundred years old or thereabouts. Be still and be quiet like a good minion. Stop poking at things. If you can't keep your hands to yourself," he added when she made a growling sound, "sit on them."

"I'm not your minion."

"Being one of my minions is a fascinating career path," Shaohao replied, slipping two fingers through a loop of thread and tugging. Suddenly the web took on a funnel-shape. "Ah; splendid. At any rate, you really should give it a go. I've never had a mortal working for me before."

"Not happening, Your Imperial Highness."

"Oh, pooh. Why ever not? Aren't I dashing enough for you?"

"You're a high-functioning sociopath with a sadistic streak who hates women," Dylan replied, still pacing.

The Dilong prince giggled. "Keep saying lovely things like that and you'll give me a big head." Then he frowned. "And I don't hate women. I love women. They're so…" His teeth flashed and he gave a little shiver. "Delicious." Dylan made a face, but didn't think Shaohao noticed. "As for the rest of it, though—I like. Do continue."

Dylan slumped to the floor, stretching her legs out in front of her with a gusty sigh. Shaohao wasn't going to hurt her, even if he wanted to. That was a certainty. And he seemed to respect her candor, even to enjoy it, so long as she tiptoed around the subject of his brother. So she replied, "Don't hate women? You've murdered how many of your wives and concubines? Your daughters? And you're trying to kill your sister."

Shaohao's bronze eyes glittered and he raised an eyebrow. "The pestilence? Well, of course. Because she is exactly that—a disease upon the House of Ti-Lung that must be extirpated before it can wreak too much havoc on our kingdom. As for my daughters…" He trailed away, staring off into the distance. For just a moment, an expression of terrible pain twisted his features. He squeezed his eyes shut. Sucked in a sharp breath. His voice was brittle with regret when he whispered, "It had to be done."

She stared at him. "Why?"

"To protect my kingdom. My people. My family. I warned each of my wives when we wed—there could be no daughters. I didn't care what they had to do to ensure the birth of sons, but there could be no daughters. I warned them…but they didn't heed me, and so I did what had to be done, even to the raking of my heart."

He turned to her, and there was a disturbing lucidity in his eyes that sent ice skittering down her spine. "You think I don't know what my little dragon thinks of me? You think I don't know that my father, my mother, everyone thinks me mad because of what I've done for them, for my people? I know what they think. I know what my own people whisper behind locked doors at night. The Red Dragon, they call me, and mar-dragon, the one who thirsts for blood."

He smirked, and the lucidity faded, replaced by that mad gleam. "Well, unlike most of my kind, it seems I've come to enjoy the dulcet tones of my enemies screaming for mercy. Helps me sleep well at night. That and the company of my lovely wives."

Dylan swallowed. She wasn't sure what she'd expected as an answer to her question, but that hadn't been it. Had Shaohao always been insane? Zhenjin had told her insanity ran in their family, but maybe something had triggered it in him. Maybe he'd been normal once upon a time. But when he'd spoken of his daughters…

Even to the raking of my heart…

"You loved them," Dylan ventured into the silence.

Shaohao snorted. "Don't sound so shocked, O Mortal Who Somehow Resembles Moonlight. Even madmen have hearts to love, to break." His voice softened to silk and shadows. She couldn't see his expression, but she thought the insane gleam had dulled at least a little. "Even madmen tremble as the blood pours from their daughters' tiny cut throats; as the breath struggles in their little chests. Even madmen weep as they are forced by honor and duty to destroy something so infinitely precious and irreplaceable as the pieces of their own hearts." He drew in a long, hard breath. Cleared his throat. Held up the tangle of thread, now in the shape of a butterfly. "Ah, lovely. I'd wager you can't do this."

But she wasn't about to let this go. It made no sense that Shaohao would reveal such vulnerability to her—unless he was so crazy he didn't realize how dangerous that could potentially be. But that didn't fit with what she knew of him. Shaohao was foxy, sly. Mad he might've been, but he wasn't stupid, or he wouldn't have survived this long.

"I probably can't," she replied with a casual shrug belying her interest. "Your Imperial Highness, if I may ask…why did honor compel you to make such a terrible sacrifice?" This was a gamble. She expected him to spit out more rage, more half-mad fury at her. But maybe he wouldn't. He was sharing this with her for a reason, and every instinct said to push it. "I mean no disrespect," Dylan added, "but—"

"Insanity runs in the blood," the Dilong prince whispered. He didn't look at her; he stared at the butterfly woven of silken threads trapped in the cage of his fingers. "It poisons my family line. It spared my father, and Zhenjin, and some others, but it lurks beneath the surface, waiting for a moment of weakness, waiting for us to let it in. It hides in our blood…but so does foresight. And one without the other is a curse beyond enduring. You know that idea that madmen don't know they're mad?" His smile came sharp and bitter. "Sometimes we know. Sometimes, in those rare moments of lucidity when our history writes itself again and again inside our skulls, we know, and we clutch at our madness in the hopes that the weight of our honor and what it has cost us does not grind us to dust and blood and screams of horror."

Dylan pushed to her feet. The longer she spent here, the more her leg ached, so she moved with excruciating slowness, using the wall for support. Once steady, she murmured, "You regret what you've done—"

Shaohao sighed, half-exasperation and half-amusement. "Do not pretend to understand or believe. I know you don't. I know you're trying to ferret me out, to try and find weaknesses in me. You already know my worst. I will give you no others. But perhaps if my little dragon won't listen to me, he'll listen to you, his precious moonlight. Now," he clapped his hands together, and Dylan jumped and had to bite back a yelp. The thread butterfly came unraveled with a few quick flicks of the prince's fingers. "I think it's high time you stopped pestering me. Wake up."

"What?"

"You heard me. Wake up."

Dylan felt a tug behind her breastbone and another behind her navel, like someone slipping a hook under her skin and yanking. Pain exploded in her chest and stomach. Fire seared up into her throat. She gasped, choked, clutching at her throat. The walls around her wavered, black marble fading to gray shadows. Her nails scraped against the floor as she tried and failed to crawl away from the pain, from Shaohao's soft laughter. She heard stone crack. Felt something inside her shift and grate, scraping like hot coals against her back. Dylan screamed until she thought she would choke on the pain…

.

Princess Nuala slipped into the king's informal receiving and stared at the chests being packed by her father's servants. Baffled, the princess skirted around the bustling servants and headed toward the king's open bedchamber door.

Her father stood in the center of the room, his valet—Iriall the Banquet Keeper, the king's chamberlain—offering him a chainmail shirt of gold-washed faerie metal nearly identical to the one her brother usually wore into battle. He'd trimmed his beard and done his hair in traditional warrior braids; his boots had been freshly polished and his clothes freshly pressed. But he looked tired, the princess reflected. An old warrior king past his prime, yet still strong in his twilight years…even when that strength served only as a burden.

"Father?" Nuala stepped fully into the room. "Father, what are you doing?"

The king sighed. Donning the chainmail shirt—careful of the magnificent stag-crown rising above his head—he gestured to Lord Iríall, who bowed and quickly left the room, taking the handful of maids and other servants with him. Iriall closed the door quietly behind him, leaving the king and his daughter alone.

Uneasy, Nuala eyed her father. "Áthair…why are you preparing for a journey?"

Balor sighed again, the sound heavy with grief. "My daughter…you know what I must do now."

Golden eyes flew wide as the princess realized what her father meant. He was going after Nuada, to drag him back to Findias for execution because Dylan was dead and surely that would drive him mad with the heartache. Nuala had felt her brother's discovery of the mortal's demise. It had lanced her heart with actual physical pain, as if talons had bit deep and tried to rip her heart in twain. She'd rarely felt anything like it from her brother. That last time had been several decades ago when he'd wandered mortal Japan during one of the great mortal wars. She hadn't known the reason for it, and he'd refused to share, but it was after he'd returned briefly from that journey—sick in his bones with some strange human poison, the darkness freshly staining his mouth and the skin around his eyes—that his heart had turned dead and cold, and he'd begun to seek the third Golden Crown piece in earnest.

Perhaps the king was right to assume that his heir would turn once more to bloodshed and war in the wake of this pain. Nuada had proven this to be his typical recourse over the centuries. Vengeance and murder seemed to soothe his grief in a way Nuala didn't—couldn't—understand. But…but surely something of Dylan's legacy remained. Surely Nuada wouldn't dishonor someone he loved so desperately. Dylan had never wanted war, although she had always said if it came, the fae should fight. They shouldn't assume…

"He might not do as you suspect," Nuala protested, twisting her fingers in her skirts. "Should we not give him the benefit of the doubt? He is grieving, yes, and in pain, but that doesn't mean he will throw his honor away. We should wait for him to return—"

"After he has massacred humans protected by our laws? After he has broken his oath to me, shattered the truce yet again, and tossed aside honor and duty like the feckless rogue he once was?"

"We don't know that he'll do these things. He has surprised us these past moons again and again. What has been gained by making assumptions? Nothing! How often have we been wrong? How often have we shamed ourselves by casting blame where there was none?" Nuala went to the king and took his hands in hers. The silver and wood of his false hand was warm and smooth under her touch. "Father, please…Please don't give up on Nuada yet. Give him a chance to prove us wrong."

The old king drew a deep breath that seemed to hurt him, then let it out slowly. "Do you say this for his sake…or for your own?"

Hurt punched Nuala in the ribs. She swallowed the hurt, the insult, and put it aside. Now was not the time to reveal weakness. Her voice held only the faintest edge when she replied, "You cast doubts on me now, Áthair? When I have always proven honorable and faithful to you? You cast aspersions on me?"

Balor looked away. The shame was stamped clearly across his features.

"Forgive me, Daughter. You are right, of course. You have never given me cause to doubt you or your honor. Very well. In three days' time, I will go to the first village where your brother meant to stop, a place called Broch Toruch."

Nuala's heart lightened just a little. "Lallybroch. Nuada has friends there, people who will help him through this grief."

"That…would be well for him. I will go and see what changes this heartbreak may have wrought in him before I pass my judgment. And you? What do you sense from him?"

A soft sigh from the princess. "The same—agony. Anguish. He blames himself for this. He blames others, but mostly himself. He feels he should have protected her better. Forced her, perhaps, to remain in the mortal realm while he traveled. There is anger," she admitted, "but it is tempered by his pain. He will not speak to me."

Balor said nothing. He didn't have to. Nuala knew that her twin's refusal to answer her mental calls spoke volumes against him. Yes, Balor had agreed to give the crown prince a chance to prove he was no danger, but Nuala had no idea if it would do any good.

.

"What is taking so blasted long?" Zhenjin demanded as he circled his brother for the umpteenth time.

Shaohao sighed without opening his eyes. "Patience, you insufferable child. And stop circling me like some cantankerous buzzard; last time I checked the royal archives, you were not a vulture in another life." The older prince shifted where he sat tailor-fashion on the cavern floor. His dominant hand hovered just over an unconscious Dylan's heart. "These things take time."

"She looks the same," Zhenjin said. And that hurt, because "the same" meant beaten, battered, brutalized. Her face still sported too many vicious cuts to number. Her nose still sat lopsidedly on her face. The Dilong heir couldn't see beneath the bandages swathing Dylan's body, but she hadn't roused even a bit. She still lay wrapped in bandages, wearing a too-large silk tunic belonging to Shaohao—her own clothes had been too badly damaged to be salvageable—magically levitating an inch off the ground to spare her flayed back while the Red Dragon worked his magic.

But it had been nearly three days of constant healing trances and outpourings of Shaohao's magic. Why had nothing changed?

"She isn't," Shaohao replied. "Did you suddenly develop the ability to see through walls since last we spoke, hmmm? I've already repaired much of the internal damage. Her lacerated organs are being held together by magical sutures and the healing there is well under way. We've splinted and strapped her broken bones and they're healing well, too. The lashes on her back are also half-healed; in a few moments she'll be able to be set down on the floor. Which is just as well, because I'm about to wake her up just as soon as—"

Bronze eyes snapped open. A gleam of half-mad delight shone in their depths as Shaohao's gaze slid past his younger brother to fix on something behind him. Zhenjin turned even as Shaohao practically crooned, "O Jewel Among Firebirds, Queen of my Raptures, at last you've returned to me."

"Golden Sparrow!" Zhenjin cried as his brother's wife came slowly into the main cavern space. She bowed low to him.

"Imperial Honored Brother," she murmured. "I have come at my lord's request." And with that she straightened and moved past him to kneel beside her husband. "My love, you heal this mortal?"

"A favor to dear Zhen-Zhen," Shaohao replied, focusing on the human lying in front of him. "A bit of a chore, but the poor little kit asked so politely. And there were tears involved. I felt as if I'd kicked a puppy. Once the waterworks start, I'm like wet clay in his hands. He can make of me what he wishes. It's a bit pathetic, but there it is."

Golden Sparrow touched gentle fingers to Shaohao's cheek, tracing over a scar the Dilong prince had there—one Zhenjin had given him, incidentally. "There is nothing pathetic about you, my bold dragon. You have a good heart."

Zhenjin forcibly bit back a demand as to whether they were talking about the same man. A good heart? Shaohao? Hardly. But instead, the crown prince only said, "Brother."

Shaohao flapped a hand in his direction. "Busy wooing at the moment. Please be quiet, if you don't mind. I haven't seen my wife in weeks." His smile curved into a sharp grin. "And oh, how I have missed her."

"Shaohao!" Zhenjin snapped.

"Ugh. Relax, di-di. I'm coaxing your precious moonbeam or whatever she is out of the ensorcelled sleep as we speak. You don't even need true love's kiss. Lucky you, since the bitch doesn't love you anyway."

Something hot wormed its way into Zhenjin's belly. His fingers convulsed into fists. "Do not call her that."

Shaohao rolled his eyes, but he ignored his little brother and focused on Golden Sparrow. "It's so sad. He's smitten with the human. Keeps sniffing at her heels even though she keeps kicking him in the face. I'd kill her if he didn't love her so much. And throwing prostitutes at him won't solve a thing; the boy's practically a monk. Half the time I'm surprised he even knows what women are. Ah, well. I suppose I can understand his hopeless infatuation." He lightly tapped Golden Sparrow's upturned nose. She smiled. "After all, you wouldn't give me the time of day for an eternity but I won you eventually, my sweet little bird."

"I think I'm going to be ill," Zhenjin said flatly.

His brother sniffed. "That's because you have no sense of romance. No wonder your little star-bubble or whatever you call her hasn't fallen for you yet. You've no grasp of seduction. Romance. Poetry. Poetry and presents are the things to woo women. Which reminds me," he focused on his wife. "I've been thinking. We slaughtered a camp of human bandits on the way here but I'm certain some of them escaped and I thought perhaps I could bring you one of their hearts, but I can't decide what color ribbon to wrap it with. Which would you prefer: scarlet, for the color of our passion," he kissed the tip of her nose, and a blush flooded her cheeks, "or gold, for the color of your radiant plumage?"

"Gold, if it pleases my lord," she replied with a gentle smile, fingering the golden feathers braided into her hair. "It stands out better against the red."

"Shaohao!"

Bronze eyes slashed toward the other prince. "Do you mind, you ungrateful urchin? I am trying to come up with a suitable present for my beautiful wife. I only need one more second, if you please." He turned back, the fury melting away, and brushed a kiss across Golden Sparrow's mouth. "One moment, my dearest love." Turning back to Dylan's prone body, he sighed. "Really, it's not as if she's going to expire on the spot. She isn't a pail of milk, for pity's sake. Calm yourself. Ah…" Shaohao's smile took on an edge of cruelty. "Time to wake up and return to the land of torture and nightmares, little star-bubble."

.

Dylan's eyes snapped open and she bolted upright. Agony exploded across her back and she hunched, muffling a scream behind clenched teeth. Where was she? Her eyes wouldn't focus—everything blurred in smears of gray, brown, and black—and when she did more than squint, spears of pain thrust deep into her eye sockets. Had Sréng done something to her eyes, she wondered, squeezing her eyes shut? Why couldn't she see? And she'd just been somewhere else, hadn't she? A dark place, lit with faerie light. Someone had been with her…Shaohao. The Red Dragon. But he was insane, he was dangerous, she couldn't have been with him. It had to have been a dream or…or something. Where was she now?

"She'll reopen her wounds if she keeps flailing like a beached carp, Zhen-Zhen," a cold, familiar voice echoed off the walls. Dylan flinched from it, but it came from everywhere, all around. Fresh pain flared, spilling hot across her back. Something warm and wet trickled over her ribs. Cold air touched her chest and she flailed, the pain splintering through her chest and stomach, and she tried to scream but her throat was hot and swollen and only a hoarse croak emerged. "I'm not joking, little brother. As amusing as it is to watch her…what is that human phrase? Flop on the deck like a fish? She's going to do herself harm if she doesn't stop. It took a great deal to patch her up even that much; the mending is still fragile."

"My love, be kind," a new voice. Strange voice. It hushed and shushed like embers sprinkled with water, warm and rich and old. Very old. "She's frightened. She can't see anything. My dear," the voice drew closer, somehow warming Dylan. A woman's voice. "My dear, you must be calm. You're safe now. You are absolutely safe with the three of us, I swear on the Black Dragon That Devours All Things."

"Dylan," another voice, so familiar…not Nuada…not John…who? "Dylan, everything is all right. Be still, my moonlight. You are safe, I swear to you."

Moonlight. My moonlight. Only one person called her that—Zhenjin. He was here, he was with her. Somehow. Everything was all right. He wouldn't tell her it was if it weren't true. Zhenjin was her friend. She was all right. Peace, a sense of safety, and that strange warmth flooded Dylan's veins, pushing back the pain. She struggled to breathe evenly with her aching chest and swollen throat. Eventually managed to breathe deeply, slowly. But she still couldn't see and opening her eyes hurt terribly. And Shaohao. Shaohao was somewhere nearby. Not perfectly safe then. Couldn't let her guard down yet.

She jumped, bringing fresh lances of pain snarling through her body, when a careful hand touched her arm.

"Peace," that voice said softly. The woman, who was she? "Peace, mortal whom my brother loves. Peace. You are safe. Be still. Now that you are awake, I can help a bit with your sight. Your eyes have been in the darkness for a long time. Tell me if this hurts."

Fingertips touched her closed eyelids. Warmth seeped through the skin, surrounding her eyes and wrapping them in gentle heat that soothed the ache. After a long moment, the fingertips pulled away. The warmth receded.

"Try opening your eyes now."

She did. The room was dim, still a bit fuzzy. No, not a room. She was in…in a cave. Gray and brown stone lit with a low fire that burned away the chill of the cavern. Beyond the main cavern space, Dylan heard the low moan and howl of high winds. A winter storm. Inside, the cave was snug and dry. She realized she half-reclined on a jatai silk bedroll—she recognized the magical Japanese silk from when Nuada had shown it to her—covered in blankets. Bandages swathed her stomach and chest underneath a partially open silk tunic. More bandages wrapped one shoulder. Her bad knee. Several fingers and both wrists. When she experimentally wiggled her toes, she felt the stiffness of broken toes taped to whole ones. And her head ached abominably.

But she could see. Both eyes worked. She could breathe well enough that she wasn't struggling to stay conscious. When she touched her face, she found scabbed-over cuts crisscrossing nose and cheeks, forehead and chin in familiar patterns—lacerations following the paths of her old scars—but no new disfigurements and no obvious fractures in her face or the rest of her skull. No disfigurements to the rest of her body that she could see or feel. No missing limbs, no missing fingers or toes. And she was alive. Somehow she'd survived Sréng's tortures.

Dylan lifted a hand to brush back her hair and her questing fingers jolted back from the short, ragged locks. She tried to raise both hands to touch her hair, but throbbing pulsed through her right shoulder. She lowered that hand and grabbed at her hair with the other. Where there had once been curls that had fallen unbound to her waist, there was now a shorn cap of frizzy, unevenly chopped locks. Only the hand she clapped to her mouth kept the horrified gasp behind her lips.

A shadow and movement from the corner of her eye. Dylan yelped and jerked back, raising her arms to shield herself. Enemy! Sréng, he was here, somehow he was here, he would—

Strong but very gentle hands closed around her forearms, careful of her bandaged wrists. Dylan cried out, tried to yank away. The hands lowered her arms to reveal a familiar face. Zhenjin. Yes, Zhenjin was there. Zhenjin wouldn't hurt her. Zhenjin was a friend, he loved her, he would never hurt her.

"Zhenjin…?" Dylan rasped. He nodded, kneeling beside her. "Zhenjin."

"I'm here. You're safe now. The bandits are dead. We killed them all, and you're safe." He let her arms slip from his grasp and his emerald gaze focused on something behind her. He nodded toward whatever had caught his eye. "You were badly hurt, but my brother healed your wounds. With some rest, you should be all right."

She turned to see Shaohao standing barely half a dozen paces away. He grinned when he met her eyes and she had to fight the instinct to lean back. The prince inclined his head to her and then looked to the woman kneeling only a few feet away between him and Dylan.

Small and plump, her ink-black hair was swept up into a bun framed by long, thin braids with golden feathers woven into them. Her dark eyes sparkled when she offered Dylan a smile. She wore a simple Chinese tunic and trews of crimson and bronze. Simple or not, even Dylan could tell they were expensive. She was pretty sure they were jatai silk, just like the bedroll. The woman's smile revealed dimples in her cheeks.

"Nín hăo."

"Uh…um…hello?"Dylan was pretty sure that was what nín hăo meant in Chinese. She glanced at Zhenjin, who looked more than a little uncomfortable. He cleared his throat.

"Allow me to introduce Her Imperial Highness, Princess Jīnsè Máquè Ti-Lung, wife of Shaohao Hóng Lóng Ti-Lung—my sister-in-law, Jīnsè, also called Princess Golden Sparrow."

"Please, call me Golden Sparrow. You are the one my honored husband has told me of, the mortal my honored brother is so very fond of."

It took several moments for Dylan to comprehend that this adorable young woman with the feathers in her hair and the kind, sparkling eyes was married to Shaohao. Her gaze darted between Jīnsè and Shaohao before she managed to drag her eyes to Zhenjin. The Dilong heir pressed his lips together as if trying to force back a smile, then glanced at his brother. Shaohao sighed.

"Come, Fire of my Nights." He held out his hand to Jīnsè, pulling her to her feet. "Let us leave the two lovebirds alone, shall we?" Shaohao tucked the petite woman—not an Elf, Dylan realized; she didn't have pointed ears or scales like Shaohao and Zhenjin—and led her toward one of the cave exits. Darkness lay just beyond the opening in the stone. "I have missed you sorely, O Winged Goddess of my Heart…" Shaohao's voice faded as the pair slipped through the rock and disappeared.

Dylan swallowed. "Did he just call her…?

Zhenjin shrugged, discomfited. "My brother is considered quite the romantic…when the mood is on him. You needn't fear him," he added softly. "I have made it clear to him what…what you mean to me." Dylan nodded without looking at him. She stared at her lap. Her hands fisted in the silk blankets that were inexplicably warm; it was awkward with her splinted fingers. "Dylan?" Zhenjin reached out. Touched two fingers ever so lightly to her knee. "Are you…will you be all right?"

Suddenly her mouth trembled. She bit her lip, winced at the sting. Sréng had done that. Her face was still healing. Everything was still healing. What Sréng had done would last. She would bear scars…and her hair…had Sréng done that? Had that monster hacked off her hair in yet another attempt to dehumanize and degrade her? Or had Shaohao, for efficiency's sake? What did she look like?

"Do you have a mirror?" She didn't want to see her face cut up, her hair hacked short, bruises mottling her skin. But she needed to see. "Something I can look at myself in?"

The prince sighed and drew the chokutō at his hip. The polished blade gleamed mirror-bright. He hefted it, breathed a breath shimmering with heat and magic across the Dilong bronze. Offered it to her with the blade laid flat across his palms. Dylan leaned forward, trembling, wondering what she would see in the surface that suddenly shone clear as silvered glass.

Bruises. Cuts. Her face was so similar to the night she and Nuada had met. But the cuts were wider this time, more ragged, uglier, many of them deeper. The scars would be worse. Her nose was even more crooked now after being broken by Sréng. And her throat and neck were blue and purple with bruises. She looked like she'd been beaten. Her eyes showed that she'd been tortured. She looked battered. Brutalized. Because she had been brutalized. She…

She didn't realize she was crying until Zhenjin took the sword away and pulled her into his arms. She burrowed against him, her friend and now her protector, strong and warm and gentle. Buried her face in his chest and sobbed and sobbed, choking on the rising hysteria, clutching at his sleeves. Zhenjin stroked her shorn hair and murmured reassurances. But he wasn't Nuada, and he wasn't who she wanted, and although he promised that she was safe and that all would now be well, and even though she knew he would give his life to protect her, it took a long time before her tears dried away.

When the storm of crying and fear abated enough for her to breathe and think, she sighed. Cleared her sore throat. Looking into Zhenjin's eyes, she thought of the deal she'd made with Shaohao. She remembered it now. She remembered everything about that time with the Red Dragon locked away in her mind. For healing her and saving her life, Zhenjin would give Shaohao a head start and she…she would "give herself a chance," as the prince had put it, to fall in love with Zhenjin.

Only not now. Not yet. Because what Shaohao wanted, she couldn't do without speaking to Nuada first. And she wanted her prince, wanted him here with her where she could hold him and be held by him, where he could comfort her and she in turn could offer comfort because what must he be going through? How long had she been missing? And she missed him so fiercely it was almost an ache.

"I want Nuada," she croaked, and almost hated herself when shadows filled Zhenjin's eyes.

But he smiled for her and stroked back her hair. Nodded. "Then I will see he is brought here for you after our current blizzard blows over. Until then we're stuck here so for now, rest. I'll bring you something to eat, shall I?"

She nodded. "Thank you."

Zhenjin brought her bandaged hand to his lips and kissed the bruised knuckles gently. "Anything for you."

.

The storm raged for another day. Nuada touched no more alcohol, but busied himself tending to the sick and injured as Dylan's family did, under the command of the healers. More than once, one of the wounded asked after Dylan, and the agony in their prince's eyes told them what had befallen her when Nuada could find no words. Only one of the injured pushed beyond that.

"Where is Her Ladyship?" The grizzled Elf Dylan had tended upon her arrival, Master mac Éssit, struggled to sit upright.

Perhaps a thousand or so years older than Nuada, he bore scars from the old wars—one that slashed from temple up into his hairline and one that carved across a milky, blind eye—and fresh wounds from the bandit raids. Dylan had been the one to tend the savage lacerations to his arm, saving much of the muscle and preventing infection so that one day, Master mac Éssit would regain nearly full use of the limb.

"Is she well?" The old Elf demanded.

Nuada didn't know what the old man saw in his eyes, but something too sorrowful to be rage and too sharp and hot to be mere sadness filled the single eye.

"They killed her, didn't they? Those beasts." Mac Éssit gritted his teeth and clenched his good hand into a fist. "She was a sweet thing. A kind little thing. She had a good heart. A fae heart. Those bastards…those bastards."

When Nuada shifted away, mac Éssit's hand flashed out and gripped his wrist. The prince raised his eyebrows. Said nothing. Only waited for whatever the old man had to say.

"When you ride out—because I know you will, Sire—I want to come with you. Her Ladyship saved my arm. She saved me from a life crippled and useless on my farm. She risked so much for us…it isn't right. I want to ride with you."

The Elven prince sighed. Memory flickered in his mind, recollections of that not-dream, that vision or…or whatever it had been. It kept returning to him, pricking him like iron thorns with the hope that Dylan might yet be alive. The hope he'd felt while watching the strange vision had felt so real, and even now it soothed him. Surely there was a chance…?

But he knew better. She was dead, and he would be riding out when the storm blew over to bring her body back. There might be danger along the way. He would risk no more hurt to his people.

After a long moment, he met the old warrior's eyes. "My friend—if I may call you such—you honor me and my lady's memory. But you are wounded yet and we may meet enemies in the forest on our way. I would not have you harmed because your injuries prevented you from fighting at your best. I do not doubt the strength of your courage or your heart," Nuada added when mac Éssit opened his mouth to protest. "But it is folly to expect peak physical prowess from a wounded warrior. Besides, while I am gone, someone with some grasp of tactics and strategy needs to remain, to organize Lallybroch's defense, should those demons return."

He didn't like it; Nuada could see that. But at last the old man nodded. Nuada moved to stand up when the other Elf added, "I am grieved for your loss, Your Highness. We of Lallybroch doubted your choice in the beginning, but Her Ladyship proved herself a friend to us. I am sorry for what has happened."

Nuada cleared his throat. How many more condolences would he be forced to endure? Simply the thought of it sent pain lancing through his temples and scraping like iron claws behind his breastbone. But he nodded to the old Elf.

"You have my thanks, Master mac Éssit."

When could they leave? When could he go and bring Dylan back? It would help nothing, but…but perhaps it would. Perhaps bringing her home would soothe the raw ache in his chest.

But Nuada knew he was fooling himself.

.

The Bethmooran prince and his comrades gathered themselves the next morning, ready to set off in search of the bandit camp. Few in the village doubted what would become of the bandits once the Silverlance found them. His love for Lady Dylan had been as plain to them as a campfire in the dark. Thrice-cursed king's treaty or no, he would bring them all to justice. Anyone who looked into his eyes knew he was not quite sane as he saddled his horse and mounted, face a stony mask carved from white marble. Only the scarlet of his gaze—warring with a sickly topaz-gray—showed the battle waging within him. But his people were certain how it would end. The prince would do the right thing, and put those dogs down like the beasts they were.

Nuada could feel the weight of his people's regard as he waited for Günther, Kamaria, Dastan, and Taran to mount up. The four came from kingdoms that didn't honor Balor's blasted treaty. If they needed to fight, to defend themselves, they would not be punished for doing so.

Petra Myers led a white arion mare out of the tavern's stables. Nuada's heart squeezed at the sight of Maeve, the horse he'd found for Dylan—gentle enough for an inexperienced rider, with a sweet heart and a wry sense of humor—being led by his lady's sister. Maeve's head hung low, her mint-green mane just brushing the snow. When she drew near Nuada where he sat astride Lòman, the black stallion stretched out his neck and nuzzled her briefly. Petra vaulted into the saddle with a warrior's ease.

Behind her, the whelp clambered into the saddle of a horse provided by the tavern owner. Nuada hadn't had the heart to take offense at his presence. John was Dylan's twin. He had a right to be there, loath as the prince felt he should have been to admit it. But he was too tired, too sick in his soul to care one way or the other, honestly. Perhaps later he would care, but for now…no.

Wink, Lorelei, Erik Ashkeson, and Tsu's'di all climbed into their saddles. The water-horse Nuada had gifted the young guardsman with at Christmas tossed its mane; the water that dripped off the slick, wet strands froze when it touched the ground. Behind him, Dylan's retinue of guards all mounted up. Nuada studied each of them with dull interest. Somehow he knew that they would not stop him if combat became a necessity. They courted death, charges of treason…but then his gaze landed on young Guardsman Loén. Guardswoman Fionnlagh's brother, left to rot in Bethmooran prison because the king had forgotten about him, guilty only of being paired with Siothrún, the guard that had left Nuada for dead on Midwinter's Eve. Rescued, Nuada remembered, because Dylan had used her Crown-granted boon to beg the king to free him the night she'd been elevated to peerage.

The Butcher Guards valued loyalty. More so, the prince thought with quiet bitterness, than the king did, apparently.

His thoughts were interrupted by two small forms bursting through the tavern's front doors. They stopped a few feet shy of Lòman's wicked sharp hooves. The arion stallion snorted, blowing steam in the ewah cubs' faces. Tsu's'di made a sound that was half-sigh, half-growl and moved to push between his siblings and the prince. He froze when Nuada held up a staying hand. He fixed his gaze on the children.

"What are you two doing out here?"

"We wanna come with you," 'Sa'ti said, folding her arms across her chest and staring up at the prince with a mix of defiance and pleading in her eyes. Beside her, A'du nodded. Nuada's grip on Lòman's reins tightened. The arion stallion stamped one hoof.

*Perhaps…perhaps you should let them,* the stallion murmured for the prince's ears alone. *She was the closest thing the cat-foals had to a dam. It is their right that they should go and retrieve her body with you. They will be safe enough in the care of so many warriors, surely. And if any scent danger, we can send them back through the trees.*

Nuada didn't bother to sigh. He didn't have the energy. He'd barely had the energy to order Lòman saddled and to tell his friends and comrades what he meant to do. The Butchers assigned to him had tried to argue that he couldn't possibly be allowed out into the forest where stray humans might roam, not in his present state of mind. To Nuada's vague surprise, it had been Uaithne—the leader of Dylan's retinue of guards—who'd told Nuada's guards they could all enjoy an extended vacation in Hell if they thought the rest of them were going to let the Butchers stop the prince from bringing Dylan back.

Uaithne and the rest of Dylan's guards had insisted on accompanying him: Ailbho, Uaithne's young partner, barely past the first years of adulthood, soon to be married, and brokenhearted over what had happened to his charge; Onóra and Ailís, both of whom held themselves with the stiffness of two warriors desperately holding in some deep grief; the taciturn Gráinne, and her usually talkative and acerbic partner Fionnlagh, who hadn't spoken a word since being told Dylan was dead; and young guardsman Loén. Wink had simply saddled his mount and now sat astride the massive bull-horse, waiting for his prince's orders.

"It is not safe for the pair of you," Nuada murmured, voice rough with exhaustion. It took what little remaining strength he possessed not to shout at the cubs, order them from his side. He wanted to send them to the stables with their little water-ponies so he wouldn't have to see the grief and confusion in their eyes. It hurt to look at them. And it was true; the woods weren't safe. He would be damned if he allowed them to be harmed after promising his truelove he would look after them. "Where we go is no place for children. Go back inside now."

"We're not dumb little kids!" A'du cried. The stamp of his foot belied the sentiment, but Nuada couldn't seem to dredge up the wry smile the child could normally pull from him. "We should go, too! We're her vassals, we should go, too!"

Behind Nuada, Prince Günther and Prince Taran exchanged uncertain glances with Princess Kamaria and Prince Dastan, but Nuada was grateful none of them spoke. He'd always been considered a little too lenient with his servants. This was a special circumstance, however. The children were grieving. And they were more than servants.

Still, Nuada forced some sharpness into his voice when he replied, "I said no, and that is the end of it, A'du'la'di Ewah. I am your prince and you will obey me. Do you understand?"

A'du bit his lip and stared at his feet. He said nothing. But tears welled up in 'Sa'ti's eyes. She wiped at her face and then reached towards Nuada, grasping one of Lòman's stirrups. She sniffled.

"We gotta go with you. What if…what if something bad happens? We gotta help you."

A'du nodded. "What if you don't come back? We should go, too. Then we can protect you from bad guys and you won't…you won't…" His face crumpled and he dropped his gaze to the snow again, refusing to look at Nuada as tears trickled down his cheeks.

There was something cold and painful and sharp lodged in the Elven warrior's throat. They were afraid for him. They'd already lost their parents once upon a time, lost their new mother, and now they feared to lose the man they looked to as a father as well. Even though it seemed as if his bones weighed him down like millstones, Nuada swung his leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground. He knelt in front of A'du and 'Sa'ti. Looked each of them in the eye for a long moment.

"I know what is in your hearts," he murmured. A'du sniffled, but he couldn't keep his gaze on Nuada's; it dropped back down to the snow. 'Sa'ti scrubbed at her face again. "Believe me when I say that I know your grief well. I would not go if it wasn't needful. But the forest is too dangerous for cubs, and I…" Nuada swallowed hard. Groped miserably for the right words. "Do you think Dylan," her name burned in his throat and bruised his tongue, "would want you to risk such danger? She always wanted you safe. It would dishonor her memory for me to allow you to come into the woods. But I swear to you both that I will do everything in my power to ensure I return."

'Sa'ti's head jerked up. "But what if you can't? What if something bad stops you?"

A'du nodded.

Nuada gripped their shoulders gently. "I will fare better in the wilds knowing both of you are safe. You have both sworn your allegiance to me. That means you must obey. Will you be forsworn, or will you both do as I ask?"

After a long moment, the cubs nodded. A fraction of the weight that seemed to press on Nuada's chest eased. He pushed them lightly in the direction of Francesca, who stood in front of the door watching them with sad, red-rimmed eyes. The scaled mortal, Davio, stood silent and protective at her side. Francesca tucked both ewah cubs against her and nodded to the prince. He canted his head to her. She would look after them while he was away. It was what her sister would have wanted, and the Elven warrior knew she would see it done.

What Dylan would have wanted…Did he have the right to presume what that would've been? Did he have the right to make decisions for her anymore, now that she was…Pain sliced through him, bitter and sharp and so cold it chilled him to the marrow. He'd spoken the words aloud but the truth still crushed him. A pathetic and agonizing hope still flickered somewhere inside him, an ember he couldn't quench, no matter how painful.

She wasn't coming back. He had to accept that.

Back in the saddle, Nuada forced himself to sit straight and tall, as a prince should. He nodded in the direction of the winter-bound forest. He looked every inch the Elven prince, but his voice came low and tired when he commanded, "Let's move out."

.

Time passed slowly in the caves where the Red Dragon had set up his camp, but pass it did, minutes bleeding into hours and at last into a day and a night until the next day dawned slow but clear of storms.

Zhenjin waited at the entrance to one of the smaller caves, his back to the opening while Dylan carefully washed away the dried blood, grit, and dirt of the last five days. The steaming water from a hot spring stung in the deep, raw abrasions on her wrists from the ropes Sréng had bound her with and burned in the half-healed lashes on her back and the cuts on her face. Shaohao had healed what he could; Dylan didn't doubt that, though Zhenjin had tried to insist Shaohao fix more of the damage. But nearly all of the older prince's magic had gone into repairing the fatal wounds deep inside—the lacerated and ruptured organs, the nicked or severed arteries, the important damaged bones like her vertebrae. It had been obvious to her when she'd finally gotten a good look at Shaohao that he was dead-tired. And the fact that he'd spent that much magic on bringing her back literally from the dead…Dylan didn't know what to think.

Now she sat up to her shoulders in deliciously warm water, careful not to lean back against the slick stone walls of the spring, and let the heat soak the pain out of her body. Eventually the sting of water in her cuts blended with the bite of the hot water to the point she could ignore it. It felt nice to be clean. It felt nice to be somewhere she could let the tears run down her cheeks without having to worry about maintaining a brave front for young servants or concerned hound pups or her prince. The only one who would know she cried was Zhenjin, and he wouldn't blame himself for her pain.

Dylan bit back a sigh at the thought of her friend. What was she going to do about him? Shaohao had made her swear on the Darkness to fulfill the demands of their bargain. Even if he hadn't, she'd never have dreamed of double-crossing him. Breaking your word to the fae was a quick way to die in a very painful manner.

One of the terms of the agreement had been to postpone the wedding for two months, until the full moon at Beltane. That, she could do. Nuada wouldn't mind, since it was the cost of her very survival. But the second condition…

She needed to talk to her prince about it. She needed to talk to Zhenjin about it, too. But not yet, because if she told him now, when he was so tightly wound up, he'd go looking for his brother and try to beat him into forgiving her the oath and allowing her to renege on the deal. Shaohao wouldn't do that; he'd made that clear. And Zhenjin attacking him would only result in her friend getting hurt.

Thankfully she hadn't seen Shaohao in the last twenty-four hours. He'd left her alone with Zhenjin—probably more to help push his plan forward and make her fall in love with the dragon Elf rather than for her sake, but she didn't care—and he'd gone off to enjoy spending some alone time with Golden Sparrow.

Well, whatever Dylan was going to do about her deal with the mad Dilong prince, and whenever she was going to do it, now was the time to get out of the hot spring before she turned into a prune. Hauling herself out of the water, she grabbed a towel and quickly dried off before slipping into the clothes Golden Sparrow had given her—a simple silk tunic and trews similar to the ones the Dilong princess herself wore, only in black. Honestly, Dylan preferred black right now. It felt right to wear it after what she'd seen in Sréng's camp. The murders. The senseless butchery. The victims of his sexual depravity, most of whom were only teenagers—or the fae equivalent, anyway. Just thinking about what she'd seen, what he'd shown her, made her stomach roil. Somehow that was worse than the things he'd done to her, the physical tortures he'd put her through. Feeling so helpless when confronted by something so disgusting and evil…

Dylan forced the thoughts away. She would deal with all of that later. She'd talk it over with Lóegaire, the Elven mind-healer in Findias that Nuada had asked her to start seeing. Maybe—maybe—she would even talk about it with Nuada when she saw him. But maybe not. It would only hurt him to have further proof of what the king was forcing their people to endure.

Once dried and dressed, wrapped in a cloak against the chill, she ran her fingers through her tangle of hair and tried to ignore the stinging in her eyes. Her hair was disgusting now. It seemed like such a vain, stupid thing to be upset over—it was just hair—but she'd always loved her hair. She'd been trying to keep it long like her mother's because her mother had loved to play with Dylan's hair, had always seemed to be wishing it was longer, thicker, that there was more of it to mess with. And now someone had chopped it all off because of what had happened in the bandit camp. She hadn't asked if it had been Sréng or Shaohao. It didn't matter. What mattered now was that her hair was ragged, tangled, short, and ugly.

What would Nuada say? Perhaps it was stupid to wonder, to worry…but she couldn't help it. He'd loved brushing her hair at night. And she…she'd loved her hair. Now it was just another thing stolen from her.

And what would Nuada say about the rest of it? Her bargain with Shaohao? The things she'd done in Sréng's tent?

"Dylan." Zhenjin's voice, sharp and low, pierced the miserable fog of her thoughts. She looked over to see him standing tense in the entryway that led from the smaller cave to the larger network of caverns beyond. "You should come out. Quickly. But watch your step, the rock is slippery."

Frowning, she made her way across the damp flooring toward the Dilong prince. Only when she reached the split in the rock that led to the rest of the caves did she catch the whispering sounds that had put him on alert.

"Shaohao Ti-Lung, by the authority vested in us by His August Imperial Majesty Emperor Huizong Ti-Lung of Dilong we place you under arrest…"

Dylan grabbed Zhenjin's sleeve. Beneath the silk, the prince fairly vibrated with coiled tension desperate for release. Dylan whispered, "Isn't that your brother? Hôu Junjï?"

Zhenjin nodded. "They're being wise about this. If anyone else in our hunting party said those words to Shao—even Gaôzu—Shaohao would simply kill them, but he is very fond of Hôu Junjï and won't hurt him unless backed into a corner. We need to get out there. Will you come?"

After only a second's hesitation, she nodded. Shaohao was crazy. Dangerous. But they had struck a bargain with him, and he was to have a head start in exchange for her life. If they didn't get out there, fast, this could turn into a bloodbath.

She clutched Zhenjin's hand. She felt him tense at her touch, then force his muscles to relax. Pretending she hadn't noticed, she said, "Come on."

They made their way through the twists and turns of the cave passage that led back to the main cavern. The stone was cool and dry under Dylan's bare feet; the slap of her wet feet on the rock echoed off the stone. They didn't try to be quiet. They wanted Zhenjin's brothers and everyone else that had come with them—Princess Kamaria of Nyame, Prince Dastan of Shahbaz, Prince Taran of Annwn, and Prince Günther of Álfheim—to know they were coming. Everyone knew Shaohao, mad though he was, was no fool. He wouldn't surround himself with fools, either. So the others would know that whoever was coming wanted to be anticipated.

Still, Zhenjin hesitated just before the last turn in the passage leading to the main cavern space. He turned to Dylan, barely visible in the light of the fire they'd left lit in the cavern. He jerked his chin back the way they'd come. He wanted her to linger behind, just to be safe. The dragon Elf would signal her when it was safe to come out.

Dylan nodded. Squeezed Zhenjin's hand in a silent request for him to be careful. They didn't know how his brothers would react to his attempt to protect Shaohao or what they would make of the bargain the two princes had wrought.

Zhenjin stepped out into the cavern, leaving Dylan waiting in the shadows.

.

"And here I was beginning to feel neglected."

Shaohao stood in the center of the cavern space, arms folded. Irritation glittered in his metallic eyes. Inexplicably, his shirt was open. A pair of bedrolls laid out beside the fire were oddly rumpled. And if Zhenjin wasn't mistaken, a woman's under-dress lay in a crumpled heap beside one of the bedrolls. Ah. So that was why his brother looked so annoyed. But where was Golden Sparrow? No doubt hiding. If his brothers found out she was here and word got back to their father…

"Zhen-Zhen, do explain our bargain to these idiots so I can get back to my previous engagement." Shaohao glared with something akin to hatred at Gaôzu, though his expression softened to one of wry affection when it shifted to Hôu Junjï. He didn't seem to care much one way or the other about the ljósálfar and Welsh princes, Nyame princess, cave troll, or the rest. "You have no authority here, little princes. And neither do you lot," he added with a snarl, fixing his gaze on the assembled warriors, all with weapons at the ready.

"I do."

Zhenjin froze halfway between his brother and where Dylan stood hiding. Had she recognized that voice, dark and soft with menace? Had she ever seen Silverlance in a rage? Had she been cognizant enough during that very first night of blood and pain to realize what sort of faerie tale beast had come to her rescue? Would she be afraid of the lethal emptiness that now dwelt within that glacial topaz gaze?

Nuada stepped forward, slowly unsheathing the spear at his back. The shaft lengthened with a hiss of leather binding against the prince's black gloves. The silver blade almost seemed to sing as the lance cut through the air in lazy circles while the Tuathan prince walked toward Shaohao.

"Azurefire," he said in a voice so soft Zhenjin could barely hear him. "He is your brother, but he is our enemy. Look away, and I will put an end to him. You needn't bear witness."

Shaohao snorted. "Oh, please. I realize you've probably had a very trying few days, but idle boasts only serve to make you look like a bore." He feigned a yawn. "You're not going to kill me, little Elfling. Zhenjin won't let you."

At that, Nuada fixed the other prince with a look that gutted him. Weakness flooded Zhenjin's legs and he staggered forward a step, uncertain whether he meant to go to his brother or his friend. The sheer agony in Nuada's eyes was a terrible promise. There was nothing the prince wasn't capable of at this moment—nothing. Including killing Zhenjin if the Dilong heir got in the other man's way.

"Silverlance, you don't understand—" Zhenjin began.

Nuada cut him off. "You have no idea what's happened in these last days, do you? You have no idea what the enemy has done. What his allies," he pointed the spear at Shaohao, who raised a lazy brow, "have done—do you? Do you have any idea what sins lie on his conscience? What blood stains his hands? If you knew, you would cut him down yourself."

Zhenjin shook his head, baffled. "What are you talking about? You mean the human bandits?" Rage flooded Nuada's eyes, but the other prince didn't flinch from it. "We killed them. All of them, I'm nearly certain. First we freed their captives. Then we unleashed dragonfire upon them all and turned their camp to ash."

Scarlet eyes flashed to Zhenjin's face. "You did what?" Strangely, the news seemed to hurt the prince. Nuada's gaze turned distant, horror stealing across his features, and he shook his head slowly. The point of the spear drooped. "You have no idea what you've done."

The Dilong prince frowned. "What? What have I done?"

"Dylan was there," Nuada breathed, so low the words hardly seemed to carry any sound. "They…they killed her. His allies," and the spear that had begun to sink a little shot up again, "they butchered my love—"

"Nuada."

That voice. Soft, gentle, rich with love. Zhenjin would have happily cut off a hand to hear Dylan say his name with such adoration. He wanted to turn to her, wanted to see the tender expression on her face and pretend for one moment she looked to him with such love. But he didn't dare take his eyes from the man who looked as if he'd taken a troll's fist to the belly, whose grip on the Silverlance wavered, whose eyes flickered between hellish crimson and aurulent hope.

The color drained from Nuada's face and after a long moment, the scarlet leached completely from his eyes. His jaw went slack. Zhenjin sensed more than saw Dylan draw abreast of him, coming closer and closer to her prince. A swift glance from the corner of Zhenjin's eye showed him that Dylan only had eyes for Nuada. She kept walking; she didn't seem to notice the puzzled, wary stares of the fae behind Nuada, or the fact that her prince was pointing the Silverlance at her, or the cold look on Shaohao's face as he watched things unfold.

There was a scuffle from within the group; Zhenjin's gaze darted toward it. A man—he vaguely recognized Dylan's twin brother—came rushing to the fore, white as a ghost. Behind him came a felinoid youth Zhenjin also recognized. Only the grip of a mortal woman Zhenjin didn't know stopped Dylan's brother from racing toward his twin. She muttered something in the man's ear. Whatever it was made him subside. Both humans had tears on their cheeks. The youth hovered behind them, watching.

"Nuada," Dylan murmured. "It's all right. Shaohao isn't our enemy…right now," she added, scrupulously honest. "He saved me. It's okay. For right now, everything's okay."

Zhenjin saw Dylan jump when the Silverlance clattered to the stones; it had slipped from Nuada's numb fingers to crash to the ground. The fae behind the Tuathan prince stared at him. The legendary Elven warrior had actually dropped his weapon.

Nuada strode forward and yanked Dylan into his arms, burying his face in the tangled mass of her hair without a sound. Dylan hugged him back, then yelped when his grip tightened.

"Ow, ow, ow!" She cried. Nuada released her immediately, gaze stricken, staring down at her while she tried to peer over her shoulder at her own back. "Ouch. Be careful, my back and ribs are kind of messed up."

"I'm sorry," Nuada croaked. Dylan turned back to him. Her expression softened at the numb shock on his face. It seemed all he could say was, "I'm so sorry. I…I'm sorry. Dylan…Dylan?"

In answer, she threw her arms around him again. Pushed her face into his chest. "It's okay," she murmured. "It's okay now."

Still as if in shock, he enfolded her in his arms and held her, careful of what wounds lay hidden under her tunic, pressing his lips to her shorn hair and murmuring soft things none of them could discern. Perhaps he spoke so softly to hide any tears that might have crept into his voice or spilled down his cheeks. Zhenjin couldn't be sure. The only thing he knew was that, with very little effort, he could loathe his friend for the way Dylan's entire focus seemed to encompass Nuada and block out everything else in this moment. But it wasn't Nuada's fault that the mortal loved him so. It wasn't anyone's fault. It was simply how things were.

"Well," Shaohao interrupted, planting his fists on his hips. "Now that we've established I didn't kill anyone we don't all want to see dead, I suppose I must play the good host and offer everyone refreshments. There's stew if anyone wants any. Except you," he added, pointing at Günther. "No stew for you, you uncultured swine. I haven't forgiven you for trying to cut out my tongue."

Günther growled, "Then perhaps you should have kept your tongue in your own mouth instead of my sister's."

Shaohao buffed his nails on the shoulder of his open shirt and said oh, so casually, "Don't hate me simply because she wanted me. I'm irresistible. It's that famous dragon's tongue." A forked tongue flicked between the fangs bared by his savage, mocking smile. "But don't take my word for it. Ask Princess Nótt. Or even better, ask Her Highness, Princess Eir."

Günther snarled and lunged for Shaohao. Only Princess Kamaria, Prince Taran, Prince Dastan, and Prince Gaôzu managed to hold him back while he roared obscenities at the Red Dragon. Shaohao grinned and turned to wink at Zhenjin.

"See how easily I make friends, di-di?"

"I wouldn't call slandering the princess of another kingdom and insinuating you slept with another man's wife making friends, Shao," Zhenjin muttered. Raising his voice, he cried, "I call truce until we've sorted everything out. You will behave," he added, pointing at his brother.

Shaohao laughed. "What will you do if I don't? Have your mortal…what is that phrase? Ah, yes, have her spank me?"

Without looking away from Nuada's face, Dylan called, "Your Imperial Highness, if you don't stop harassing everyone, I won't spank you; I'll shove that stewpot so far down your throat, you'll excr—"

"Yes, yes," Shaohao replied hastily. "I quite understand, very impressive. Now be a good little kitten and go scamper off with your man while the rest of us decide how much blood needs to be spilled in order for my Zhen-Zhen to fulfill his part of our bargain. Go on, scat. You're an adorable nuisance. Be gone. And take your mortals and your pets with you."

Dylan looked past Nuada to the woman and Dylan's twin watching her with disbelieving eyes. The cat-youth who served as her young guard seemed on the verge of tears. A soft, happy look filled Dylan's face. She held out her hands to them, and the humans raced to her, grasping her hands as if they never meant to let go. The cat-boy followed after, grinning. Dylan glanced at Zhenjin, who canted his head; they would be all right, and it would better to hash this out without Silverlance being distracted by the miracle of her appearance here. So Dylan turned to Nuada. Indicated the passage she'd so recently come from with a nod of her head. The four of them followed her to it, leaving Shaohao and Zhenjin to face the royals watching them warily.

Zhenjin cleared his throat once the group had departed. "Now, this might take some explaining—"

As per usual, Shaohao ruined all of the other prince's carefully laid plans by clapping his hands together and exclaiming, "Well, I could hardly let the love of my little brother's life die at my feet, could I? So in exchange for a head start, I saved her life. Try to stop me, Zhenjin dies, devoured by the Darkness That Eats All Things. Any questions?"

.

.

.

.

.

.

.