Plick. Plick. Plick.

Cenric rolled onto his left side and tugged the blankets closer around him, ignoring the continuous drone of dripping rain, the rhythm as sure as any metronome. Crisp, humid morning air wafted around him, carrying the scents of fresh spring grasses and loamy soil as the sounds of milling wildlife echoed quietly in the distance.

This place was peaceful, teeming with life and far from the reaches of his home.

The harsh winter that had encapsulated the forest had rapidly given way to encroaching spring, the frozen wasteland thawing as life bloomed in its place. He'd never realized how out of touch with nature he'd been before coming here, when he'd spent all his time in his cozy, soft, dry room in Velaris.

Plick.

This was certainly preferred.

He'd fled here from the Riverside Estate after his infuriating confrontation with his mother, so livid with her stubbornness and coddling that he'd winnowed the first place that came to mind, the Steppes. He had arrived in a distant corner of the wilderness just as the sun began to set, far from any camps or roads. So remote, in fact, that he hadn't seen a single battalion of guards patrolling.

No, it had only been himself and the silence.

Plick.

And this damned rain.

Cenric groaned as the gentle tapping increased in tempo, the rain beginning to come down in a heavy torrent, creeping through the small hole in the canvas roof of his tent. The newest hole he'd yet to patch.

And since he flatly refused to use his powers, simply on principle . . .

Sighing, he rolled from his cot and shuffled toward the leak and the nearly full bucket beneath it, watching the water ripple as each new drop hit the surface.

He realized he felt a bit like his tent, mostly intact but filled with little wounds, ones that left messes when the weather turned sour. Messes that had nearly cost the lives of those around him.

He'd heard nothing about Valka since the news that she'd disappeared without a trace from the camp soon after healing. The notion had left him uneasy. Where had she gone? And why hadn't she left at least a message of some kind?

A simple note of "I'm frolicking off to nowhere, please write!" would have sufficed. He'd earned that much respect and friendship from her . . . hadn't he? He shook his head.

He hadn't made any attempt to inform her of his little disappearing act either. Fiddling with the sleeve of his tunic, he felt a blush creep up his cheeks as he thought on the female, on her bright silvery eyes and long tapered waist—he shut the thoughts down immediately, cursing his own male feelings. She owned him no explanation.

But to just disappear . . .

The Rite was over and from what he had gathered the rebellion over with it, peace having been finally restored. Why, then, had she left?

He toyed with the thought as he released his sleeve and instead hefted the bucket up, water sloshing, and strode towards the canvas flap. Perhaps she'd fled after the majority of her clan had been eradicated, waiting for the storm to blow over before returning.

Mother knew his Court held no harsh feelings towards her after her help, that there were no divides in her loyalty. No doubt Nesta was likely searching for the female at that moment, trying to pin down where she'd run off.

Maybe he'd travel to a nearby camp and see if any news had surfaced. It wouldn't hurt to look.

Throwing his tent flap back he tossed out the bucket onto the ground only to have the water immediately deflected in all directions, the droplets sizzling against an invisible, hastily formed shield. He lowered the bucket and narrowed his eyes at the dark leathers and broad wings before him.

"What do you want, Dad?"

Rhys peered curiously at him, violet eyes twinkling in amusement as he took in Cenric's tent, the same look he'd given it the last dozen times he'd managed to find him after he'd moved his camp. He'd stopped trying to be subtle about changing locations, it had done him no good in avoiding his father.

He had found him almost immediately after he'd first set up camp, approaching him with a variety of reasons why he should come home and that he was being unreasonable.

Cenric had had none of it.

After being tossed out on his ass after the third time his father had relented on trying to persuade him to come home and had settled for the guise of checking up on him.

"To make sure my son hasn't been eaten by beasts or succumbed to his own lack of hygiene," he wrinkled his nose at Cenric, nodding at the haircut he'd decided to give himself when it had finally gotten too long, "or his new-found barber skills."

"If you're going to stand there and insult me then get the hell out," he pointed toward the forest with his free hand, the bucket limp in the other.

Rhys rose his hands in surrender, nodding at the inside of the tent. Cenric rolled his eyes before stepping to the side to let him enter. His father would only sit outside and make a nuisance of himself if he didn't, and Cenric didn't particularly want any worse of a headache than the one he already had.

Trailing after, he watched as his father quirked a brow at the dripping hole and sent a questioning glance back at Cenric. He only stared back, his face hard.

Rhys shook his head before lowering himself onto the makeshift stool made from a tree trunk at the base of Cenric's cot, tucking his wings in close behind him.

"I see you've found a new spot to camp," he glanced around the tent, a small smirk forming on his lips, "at least this one isn't on a floodplain."

Annoyance sparked through Cenric as his shoulders tightened. He hadn't stopped to consider where he was setting up camp that time, only that he was actively trying to avoid his father-

"If you'd stop showing up, I wouldn't have to keep moving."

"And not know if my son has been whisked away by the mountain gnomes off to a land of enchantments? Certainly not."

Perhaps he would just chuck his father out to the elements.

"Clearly I haven't been," Cenric turned, making his way to a pile of belongings he kept on the far side of the tent, digging through the stockpile of powders and medicines he'd packed, looking for the one that eased head pain. "So you can go. Send Azriel next time, at least he doesn't insult me."

He'd seen Cassian and Azriel a handful of times since his departure. The former had been even more of nuisance than his father and the latter was less annoying and far less invasive.

Cenric didn't miss the sigh that slipped through his father's lips before his snapped his fingers, various supplies and containers of food appearing on the narrow cot.

His patience flagged.

"I told you I don't need you bringing me supplies," even if the scent of his favorite soup that Nuala made wafted to his nose, "I've made my choice to leave and I would greatly appreciate it if you would respect that. I don't need her attempting to coddle me from a distance."

Cenric wasn't such a fool to believe his father and uncles' various appearances hadn't been directly correlated to his mother trying to check up on him, to try and patch what she'd so easily shattered.

He needed nothing sullied by her hands.

"This isn't from your mother. Elain sent it—she's worried herself sick over you."

"I highly doubt that."

His father rested his head on his hand, watching Cenric knowingly as he continued to rummage through his belongings, even as his head throbbed with each movement. He needed to sleep it off, to ignore it until the edge softened.

"You know you'll drive yourself to madness if you keep avoiding using your magic," Rhys nodded at the dripping hole in the tent, as well as the numerous others he'd attempted to repair by hand. "As much as I commend your attempts at trying to throw away being my heir it's not going to serve any purpose other than making you ill."

"I don't want your damned throne or your blood." He'd been avoiding using magic since he'd sworn off his birthright, even if power prickling beneath his skin was continuously searching for a way out. "Get the hell out and take your supplies with you."

Rhys sighed and straightened, crossing his arms over his chest. "Cenric."

"Don't 'Cenric' me," he griped, "you're wasting your breath."

He'd meant every word of it when he'd sworn off his birthright and he'd be damned if he didn't stand by that. His annoyance was causing power to surge beneath his skin, eroding away the cool barrier of control he'd erected around his emotions to keep his magic from lashing out.

He turned his attention from his father, ignoring him as he stood from the makeshift stool. He grumbled when he heard him move towards his cot instead of out of the tent.

Where was that damned powder?

Perhaps if Elain wanted to send him care packages she could pack him something that he could use to deter his father from coming around. Or better yet, something that would keep his father from continuously finding his camp-

"She loved this book," Cenric whipped his attention to Rhys as he picked up a leather-bound tome from the makeshift bookshelf Cenric had erected beside his cot, his violet eyes softening with memories. "I haven't seen it since you threw it through that window."

He watched as his father flipped through the tome, as well-loved and tattered as it had been the day Celeste had read it all those years ago.

His fingers fumbled with the keys, lacking the grace to bounce between the chords needed for the piece, the sound nearly choked and dissonant as he struggled along, willing the notes to come out the way they were supposed to.

Clank. Screech.

He groaned, having missed the chord again. If his fingers were just a bit longer-

"Impressive."

Perched on the chair next to the piano, his sister bit into an apple, munching noisily as she flipped through a book illustrated with intricate, detailed sketches of monsters, her wings splayed out behind her as she basked in the sunlight pouring through the high bay window.

"I thought you were supposed to be playing music, not just banging on the keys." Another bite, followed by a slurp as she sucked on the juices, watching him with lowered brows. "If I wanted to hear obnoxious noise I'd just go talk to Cassian."

Cenric flushed, sending his sister a glare.

"It's not my fault my hands are too small."

"Sounds like an excuse to me."

"I'd like to see you do better!"

"I don't play piano, remember?"

No, she didn't study any instrument for that matter, having refused to learn any when their parents had suggested it. She preferred swordplay and chess, ever the tactician at her mere 7 years, romping about the yard scanning for her next battlefield.

Even the vocal and dancing lessons their mother had been able to convince her to try were hard-pressed to keep his sister entertained.

She waved her apple at him before tossing upwards and catching it. "Not my fault you picked something you aren't good at."

"That's why I'm practicing!" He gestured wildly at the keys, half tempted to ball up the sheet music and toss it at her head, especially with Nuala and Cerridwen in the kitchen and absent to see the act. "And what are you even doing?" A nod to the book.

"Studying monsters and how to tame them," she crunched again, running her free hand over the pages, "can't build an army of beasts if I don't know how to bargain with them."

He raised a single brow at her.

And what he was doing was senseless.

He rubbed at his eyes, exhaustion settling in. Perhaps he'd practice more later, when a certain someone went to bed and wasn't there to heckle him about what he wasn't good at. He rose to leave when she turned her attention from her book back to him, brow scrunching.

"Hey, wait a minute, where are you going?"

"To do something else."

"You're giving up that easily?"

"I'm no good at it," his grumbled at her, grumpiness settling in. "Remember?"

"Wasn't that why you were practicing? Isn't that what you just said?"

He puffed his cheeks in annoyance, she was always throwing what he said back in his face like she knew everything. Sometimes she was such an insufferable know-it-all.

He wanted sweets and a walk. Maybe he could take a stroll through the gardens, go find Elaine and see if she'd bake him some cookies before dinner, and sneak him just a few.

"Whatever, Celeste. Maybe I'll pick up painting or studying weird, pointless things like you do."

Something like hurt flashed across her face, her features contorting for just a moment as she stared him down. He flinched at the look, bracing himself for fury he'd just unleashed upon himself.

Instead she rolled her eyes, slamming her book shut and plopping it into the chair as she rose and strode toward him, her small hands grasping his as she dragged him back to the bench. "Don't be such a baby."

She patted the seat before sliding onto the bench herself, scrunching her nose as she glanced through the music, eyes roving as she tried to decipher it.

"What are you doing?" he asked cautiously, awaiting her sarcastic reply. He was not in the mood for her taunting and only wanted to be doing anything else other than looking at the contraption before him.

"Waiting on you to sit and teach me, grumpy," she looked over a shoulder at him, head quirked just so, "Mama says the best way to learn something is to teach someone else. So teach." She gestured to the instrument, tapping her foot impatiently against the wood of the bench.

"You hate piano."

"Yes," another nod toward the ivory keys, the sunlight reflecting off the buttons on the front of her dress, "but I love you. So show me."

Something warm bloomed in his stomach, a soothing sensation that placated his annoyance with the instrument. That she loved him enough to sit through something she had no interest in . . .

"You're being serious."

"Dead."

Surprise filtered through Cenric at the sudden offer but he said nothing as he immediately slid onto the bench next to her, eager to show her. How long had he been trying to convince her to learn? He'd offered to teach her numerous times in the past and each time she'd declined. She'd told him no so many times he'd given up, and the fact that she had suggested it at all . . .

"Well, are you going to sit there with your mouth hanging open or are you actually going to show me something?"

He immediately slammed his mouth shut, his mind weaving through the various lessons he'd had, the tricks taught to him at the beginning. He internally crafted a lesson plan, since he did know best after all.

"Just so you know," he attempted to smooth his hair back, only leaving it more rumpled than usual, before cracking his knuckles, "I'm kind of a pro at this."

Celeste rolled her eyes. "Don't let it go to your head, stupid."

He deflated, though none of the joy left him.

"Right."

He spent hours walking her through what he knew, carefully directing her where to place her hands and to remember words like staccato, crescendo and tempo.

She'd nodded her head, surprisingly focused as she followed his lead picking out a tune slowly with her right hand, her brow scrunched as she tapped her foot in time, counting each beat.

Mom and Dad are never going to believe this, he thought with mirth, swelling with pride that he'd convinced his sister to do something with him that she swore she'd never try.

The lesson was winding down as he watched her play, the tempo and tune nearly correct but her wrist still limp, it would be a few more lessons yet but she was getting it. He felt better, his confidence restored in his ability.

Stopping her playing Celeste turn her head to him, her gaze unwavering.

"Cenric."

"Hmm?" He was wondering if he should start teaching her chords next, or perhaps rig something so that her short legs might reach the pedals . . .

"Don't give up on the things you love so easily." His thoughts halted as his attention snapped to her, the words of wisdom taking him by surprise. She nudged him once before rising, "I'll never tell you this again but you're really good. Don't let anyone say otherwise."

Heat flooded his cheeks as he sheepishly rubbed his head. Approval coming from Celeste was high praise indeed.

She pursed her lips, her violet eyes almost becoming distant as she walked back to her book and swept it up into her arms, running her fingers against the spine of the book. "Is it so bad to be strange?"

The pain that had flickered across her face earlier filled Cenric's mind as shame coated him like oil. He'd snipped at her in anger, frustrated with his own shortcomings. He knew his sister struggled to relate to others their own age and his comment had been entirely uncalled for.

She peered those doe eyes up at him, a flicker of the loneliness and isolation that she never let anyone else see shimmering there. You're my only friend, she'd told him once late in the night when she'd snuck into his room to sleep with him after her a hard first day of lessons with the other children. You're the only one who understands.

It was his job to protect her, to keep that sad look from filling her normally bright and mischievous face, a job he took very seriously. He made a mistake but decided in that moment it wouldn't happen again.

He reached a hand out for her, sweeping her into a tight embrace.

"No, not at all," he squeezed her once, her own small arms snaking around his waist, "I'm . . . sorry I made you feel that way. You're perfect the way you are."

She nodded her head into his shoulder, some of the tension easing from her wings as she pulled away, her face less hollow. Strolling toward her book she lifted it up and flipped through the pages. "I am weird," she muttered, more to herself than to him, her face growing contemplative.

Cenric didn't know how to respond, knowing that'd he'd caused this bit of withdrawal in his sister, stirring up the seclusion she already felt. He was about to get on knees to beg her forgiveness, to try and remove that look from her face when their fathers booming voice echoed through the halls, calling for them.

Their family was home.

"Celeste—" he wanted to say more, to try and mend the wound he'd unintentionally inflicted. She snapped the book shut again her shoulders straightening as she looked towards the hallway where the sound of their parents' footsteps echoed.

"You're right, I am perfect and you should be sorry, Cenric," she turned her attention to him, her mouth quirking in the way that had his hair standing on end at the trouble about to be wrought as all traces of sorrow vanished from her features. "So here's your punishment." She looked towards the large bay windows before smiling ferally and, with all the might her small arms could conjure, hurled the book.

It sailed through the panes with a resounding smash, shards of glass flying in every direction. Cenric watched in mute horror as the book tumbled to the riverbank, his mouth agape.

She winked at him, then whirled for the doorway.

"DAD!" She was already running, her skirts swirling around her legs, "CENRIC THREW MY BOOK OUT THE WINDOW!"

Cenric's father flipped through the book with a small smile, the beautifully sketched monsters no doubt peering up at him from the pages. He should know, considering how many times he'd flipped through that book on his own.

Cenric had taken full blame for the window and the lecture that had come with it, though he'd been certain his father had known exactly who had actually chucked the tome through the glass.

To his surprise she'd never said a single thing about feeling weird to him again after it, something he'd once considered a victory, believing she'd finally seen there wasn't anything wrong with her. He'd only discovered years later that hadn't been the case. Instead, she'd taken to burying those thoughts deep inside of her, either deeming him uncaring or untrustworthy enough to share them.

The pain in his head throbbed.

She'd gone so far as to wander in the underground tunnels of Velaris to deal with her thoughts, the only place she'd never permitted him to follow; not that'd he or any of his family had known that was where she'd been wandering off to. No one knew she'd been playing there in the evenings, assuming she'd been spending her time at the little candy shop near their entrance.

It'd been the first place she'd snuck off to after her powers had emerged, after their family had decided keeping her hidden was the only way to keep her safe until they figured out what to do. It had been where they'd taken her.

He watched his father set the book down with reverence, ensuring it was far from the dripping water.

"It's my fault she started wandering in those tunnels," Cenric muttered unprompted as he dug his palms into his eyes, the memories swirling. "I should have followed her, should have kept an eye on her like I promised to."

He should have pressed it, should have followed her regardless of her protests. He could blame the rebels as much as he wanted but he'd been the one who'd failed her.

The power beneath his skin swelled, threatening to boil over.

A hand clamped down on his shoulder, a gesture of comfort that halted the rising magic. His father stood next to him, a strong and steady presence.

"I miss her."

"So do I." A gentle squeeze. "It was never your fault, Cenric." He looked up at his father, his violet eyes full of a sorrow that was ancient and deep. A sorrow that only a parent who failed to protect their child might feel.

It wasn't yours either.

The holes in the tent above him closed, the tang of magic filling the space as his father sealed them. He was only trying to help as he always did, even if he was an ass about it most of the time.

He'd never really been angry his father. Perhaps he too could be mended like those holes.

Cenric sighed, relenting.

"I'm taking the soup, but only because Elain sent it."

Rhys chortled, nodding his approval.

"As glad as I am that you're accept your poor, worried aunts gift it's not the only reason I'm here."

He quirked a brow in question.

"I know you're still sore about what happened with the Rite-" Cenric cut him a sharp look, preparing a rebuttal against any argument or persuasion he was about to make. Rhys raised a hand to stop him, "let me finish first."

He closed his mouth, listening.

"Regardless of what the Camp Lords said as far as I, Cassian and Azriel are concerned you passed the Rite," he nodded towards the pile of hastily draw sketches he'd created and left out on the floor, sketches of lilies entwined with the Illyrian symbols that he hadn't bothered to hide from his father, "and shouldn't be denied the honor of the tattoos. If you're willing, we want to give them to you. They are rightfully yours."

Surprise flitted through Cenric at the prospect, having come to terms with the bitter truth that he would never receive the markings he'd so desperately wanted in honor of his sister. And even though he hadn't won them in the eyes of the camp lords his father and uncles had seen his merit. The only opinions that had every mattered in the whole mess anyway. And since they were offering…

"When?" He said it with a bit more excitement than intended. He tried to school his features into neutrality.

Rhys smiled knowingly. "Whenever you're ready."

"Now," he locked gazes with his father, accomplishment beginning to bloom in his chest, "I want them now."

His father gave another small laugh.

"Good thing I already sent Cassian and Azriel to gather the supplies then, I told them to meet us here at sundown."