"Deep breath."
The needle pierced his skin, the biting sting of salt in the ink burning through Cenric as he released a controlled breath and fisted his hands beside him. The pain felt good, felt right. He remained motionless as the needle rose and dove into his flesh again and again, each prick a validation of what he had faced and what he had overcome.
Every stinging jab was a reminder of all that was lost and what remained to be gained.
It was the pain that he savored as he told her stories, the ones they all remembered and the ones that only the two of them had shared in, the bond that only two siblings as close as they had been might have known.
He told the stories of their joys and the stories of their laughter, of the tears they had shared and the bitter sorrows they'd faced. He'd told the story of the first time he'd held her, marveling at her tiny, beautiful wings as his father placed her in his arms, and of the last adventure they'd shared. He whispered the tale of her last words to him and the last time that he'd seen her, the way her eyes had before the fire that she had been was extinguished.
He ground out the guilt that he felt, the blame he wore like a scar, wept over the overwhelming ache of missing a piece so vital.
He didn't miss the scent of tears that had filled the tent as he spoke, the smell of others entwining with his own.
He said nothing of it.
Instead he continued to speak, sorrow and longing lacing every word, every memory that he still held onto so dearly. For she would not return but he would finally be born anew. Sorrow would not rule him any longer, instead he'd continue living, thriving, if only to honor her memory.
Another particularly sharp, satisfying sting raced through him and he smiled, relishing the ache and the relief it brought with it.
It was Azriel who worked above him now, his hands the lightest with the ink. He worked in silence as he carefully drew out the patterns across his shoulders and spine, tapping the needle rapidly as he brought the images to life.
They'd been at this for hours since sundown, his father beginning the process before trading off with Cassian then Azriel who now filled out the finer details. Cassian and his father now kept watch, vigilant as they listened to every word that escaped Cenric's lips.
His family had come to do this for him.
Not for idiotic Illyrian honor or glory, not out of pity, but for him. And for her.
He tried not to dwell on his mother as another searing prick raced down his spine, unwilling to yet acknowledge the fury that remained when he thought of her. She had made her decision and he would stand by his own, even as his father and uncles stood around him in a circle of strength.
"Do you need a break?" His father's voice resonated across the quiet tent, the sound of crickets reverberating in the shadowed wood outside. Cenric hadn't realized how quiet it had become since he'd finished his stories.
"I'm fine," he adjusted his shoulders slightly, pleased with the dull ache that remained there. "Keep going."
"I'm about to start on your spine," a prod at the tender point in the middle of his back, where the needle's prick would be the most painful, "are you certain?"
"Yes," he settled once again onto his cot, burying his face into the sheet beneath him, listening to Azriel as he poured more of the dark liquid into his vials, no doubt mixing in the salt that would set the ink. "I want this finished."
Rhys watched his brother tap the pigment into his son's spine, his hands careful as he traced out each line with incredible precision. The hours slipped on as the lilies his son had selected blossomed across his skin, intricate swirls twining around them.
Perhaps pride was too weak of a word for what he felt.
Cenric had always stirred a sense of honor in him, in knowing that the wonderful boy before him was his offspring, but having watched him through the Rite and how he had grown in the past weeks . . .
No, pride was certainly too weak a word.
Glancing sidelong, he took in the form of his brother leaning casually against one of the poles of the tent, Cassian's face was shadowed but failed to hide the redness of his eyes from the tears he'd unashamedly shed as Cenric spoke. The salty brine that had filled the tent as the words and stories of Celeste flowed from his lips, his whole reason for even getting involved in this mess.
Rhys doubted his own were much better.
The only one who hadn't shed tears was Azriel, stone-faced and impenetrable as always, wholly focused on the needle and ink beneath his hands.
Feeling his gaze, Cassian glanced up and nodded, no sign of his usual shit-eating grin to be seen. This had been the right choice. His brother been adamant about giving Cenric the tattoos, refusing to acknowledge the bullshit claim that he hadn't earned them.
Rhys had agreed wholeheartedly. There had never been a doubt in his mind.
His son had earned every last stroke of ink and more. Few would have survived the wounds that had been inflicted on him, even with Feyre's healing blood, and even fewer would have walked away without lingering injury.
He was a force to be reckoned with and he would only grow stronger with time.
Rhys hadn't forgotten about the slim, sharp-featured female who'd pulled through the hellstorm either, even though Valka had been missing for months now. Nesta's search had been almost frenzied as she tore apart the Steppes trying to find her.
It left Rhys troubled, even more so with his son deeming it necessary to advertise his discontent by squatting in the woods like some hermit with a vendetta. While the rebellion had simmered down to silence something was still wrong, even with the Ironwood clan all but eradicated.
They'd found nothing, no clipped wings, no propaganda, not even the barest hint of unease, as though the whole thing had simply been erased.
He's taking it well, a voice in his chimed softly in his thoughts, sending his very soul purring as her presence filled him. Feyre's mind pulled close, no doubt watching the inking across Cenric's back through his eyes. His mate had been a mess since their son's departure.
Are you surprised? he cooed back, prodding gently at her presence, wrapping around the light and life that was his mate. Even if they had agreed that she wouldn't spy on this.
She paused.
He's lost weight.
That's what happens when you live off gopher balls and shrew tails for months.
Rhysand.
It's true.
He felt her irritation seeping, as though she'd throw a filthy gesture his way and make off before she stopped, contemplating as she watched their son.
He hasn't been using his magic.
No, but he's found a newfound passion for hair styling, he replied, unable to suppress his amusement. I think he has a bright career ahead of him since he's sworn off being heir.
Cassian had nearly laughed himself hoarse when he'd seen Cenric's jagged haircut, biting down so hard on his knuckle to try to suppress it that Rhys thought he might snap a tooth. Even Azriel had had to excuse himself briefly to assemble the supplies upon seeing his nephew.
At least he'd managed to convince the boy to sit still while he evened out the worst of the chunks.
Prick. You're not even listening.
I'm listening, I'm just aware what arrogance and bullheadedness Illyrian blood breeds. He's not going to die from a little malnutrition.
He'd never been terribly worried about his son's fury, knowing what youth and male stubbornness resulted in; he'd seen enough of Cassian's fits in his lifetime to know exactly how they played out. Convincing his mate otherwise had been nearly useless, however.
It will drive him mad if he doesn't use it.
Or he'll sneeze one day and blow the top off a mountain, Rhys countered, trying to soothe the panic, though he saw the validity in it.
Feyre grew quiet before inquiring almost sheepishly, Did he at least take the soup?
Under the pretense that it was from Elain.
Which it hadn't been, not that his son needed to know that little detail. Elain had served as a wonderful scapegoat for the various things that Feyre kept sending to Cenric, trying to figure out how to mend that gap that had formed.
He felt his mate deflate, her magic swirling in bright, wispy waves. He'd never grow tired of her company, of the way she soothed the worst parts of him and bled light into the darkness.
I wish he would speak to me.
Rhys wrapped his magic around her, sending soothing shadows to embrace her.
He will, give him time to sort things out his way.
I hope you're right.
I'm always right, and also incredibly handsome. Lucky you.
A zap of sharp energy flared through him that made him jump, earning a questioning look from Cassian.
Prick.
It was the wings he saw first, the sharp curved lines spread in fine black bands just where they would have sat had he been born with them, where they had spread, broad and proud, from his sister's back, rendered with a talon at their apex curving just over the tops of his shoulders. The stylized lines flowed low down his back, bleeding at the bottom into Illyrian curls and vines blooming with night lilies and adorned with stars.
Azriel had done a magnificent job.
Cenric turned the mirror in his hand and twisted to see the reflection in the glass behind him, soaking in the way the tattoo looked, the rightness of the swirling design. He knew he'd be sore for a while but it was something he looked forward to.
"Thank you," he said to Azriel as he handed him back the small hand mirror he'd been using. His uncle only nodded, taking the glass from him.
"You sure you want to give that back to Az?" Cassian's voice had immediately returned after the tattoo had been finished, full of cheeky snark. "You might want to keep it for the next time you decide to give yourself a haircut."
Cenric only rolled his eyes before reaching for his shirt and tugging it deftly over his head, hissing as the fabric slid over his raw back, deciding the comment wasn't worthy of a response.
His father apparently didn't feel the same.
"Brave words coming from the male who sliced his favorite part open while trying to prune for that female in the Greenhill camp years ago. What was her name? Arin?"
"Adalia," Azriel corrected, beginning to pack up the supplies.
Cassian barked a laugh.
"Hey, at least I was willing to try it, fortunately we all know Nesta prefers—"
"Do. Not. Finish that sentence." Cenric held up a single finger, cutting his uncle off with a grimace. There were some things that were better left unsaid; better left unthought of.
"Embarrassed, Cenric?" Cassian's mouth broke out in a wide grin, he'd always relished mortifying his nephew. "I'm surprised you're not more accustomed to it with your parents always going at it like bunnies."
Oh, he was accustomed to it and had seen enough of it to last a lifetime, but it didn't mean he wanted to discuss such things, especially not with them. He cut his father a long-suffering look, willing him to cease his uncle's rambling. Rhys only shrugged unashamedly.
"What can I say? Your mother is beautiful, and you wouldn't be here if not for it."
Cenric couldn't help the heat that flared to his cheeks, of all the mental images he had no need for . . .
"Besides," Cassian goaded, locking eyes on Azriel's turned back, "we all know Elain's got her preferences too, huh Az?"
"She prefers that she can actually find it if that's what you're asking."
Cenric choked as Rhys hid his mouth behind his hand, spluttering and failing to hide the escaping laughter.
"Oh, somebody's feisty tonight," Cassian grinned, tilting his head. "Got anything else up your sleeve?"
Azriel turned back to him, shrugging. "I hope you have a good time in Marchedor tomorrow."
Something sour entered Cassian's eyes at that, his lips down turning in annoyance. "Right, because you're too busy matching tablecloths and napkins to be bothered to go to this emissary meeting."
"You're the one that offered to go."
Cenric blinked.
"What meeting?"
They all turned their attention toward him.
"There is to be a meeting on the continent about the slave trade," his father ran a hand through his hair, pushing the locks back into place. "There's been a lot of commotion surrounding the trade routes since one of the leaders met an unfortunate end, leaving his entire collection of ledgers and maps in our allies' possession."
"Yes, and apparently some vigilante and their crew has managed to take down half of the trade routes in a couple of months." Cassian sucked on a tooth. "Apparently they've shit-wrecked numerous vessels and have freed hundreds of slaves. Good thing too, considering how much coin is being poured out of our coffers to support the effort."
"Who is it?" Cenric inquired, having nearly forgotten about the efforts their Court and Prythian as a whole were giving to try and resolve the crisis.
"No idea," Cassian shook his head, his hair brushing his shoulders, "and I don't care as long as they're getting the job done. Makes life easier when we can just focus on what's happening within our own borders."
"I'm just glad we're making progress, we'd hit a standstill for a while there." Rhys stretched his neck. "Amren was pleased when she got the news."
"Because she wasn't going to have be shipped down to the continent to assist because of it," Cassian grumbled, "Unlike some of us."
"It's a day-long meeting, I think you'll survive."
"And if not, at least the rest of us will have some peace and quiet." Azriel muttered, packing away the last of the needles.
"If I die you'll be one groomsman short."
"Put one of the horses in a suit," Cenric offered, chuckling as he watched his family around him his heart lighter than it had felt in years, "no one will be able to tell the difference."
Nesta narrowed her eyes as she rose from her crouch, the cool night breeze flowing around her as she squinted down the wooded path, the singing crickets her only company.
There was nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
No trail, no sightings, no clues that could have even hinted to where Valka had gone. And her mother wasn't talking - the green-eyed snake that called herself a lady had only clung desperately to Nesta, begging that she find her missing daughter.
It'd taken all her self-control to not turn her to ash, to not wipe her from existence.
The woman had never had a single mark against her, not a speck of blood marring her soft, feminine hands, nothing . . . even though she'd reared every last male that had egged on the rebellions, had singlehandedly molded each and every one of them. She was too clean.
And with Valka's sudden, unexplained disappearance . . .
Nesta adjusted her dagger at her hip and pulled her cloak close, her eyes searching the darkness. She had to find Valka, to ensure that the female was alive, that she had escaped whatever fallout had come with the collapse of the Ironwood clan.
Where could she have gone?
Stepping back onto the path Nesta began making her way back to the Upper Ridge outpost, towards the milling camp mothers and bright fires that burned like beacons on the far cliffs. Something in the air was wrong, like an undercurrent of decay dancing on the wind's very breath.
She'd felt it for a while now.
At first it had been a tick, a small feeling of off-ness that she couldn't pin down and that she'd shaken away. Now it grew, louder and more pronounced as the days dragged on. Grew denser as peace reoriented itself in the camps and chaos fell away.
Something was hunting, and had been for a very long time.
Nesta walked with calm, calculated steps up the inclined path, her shoulders lax and steps slow, listening as the crickets around her begin to silence, flickering out one by one like doused candles.
She didn't bother to turn as she felt the presence slink behind her, its steps mimicking her own, the gait nearly identical, only keeping her casual pace as mile after mile passed behind her.
It was watching, beginning to shift as it reformed itself, its body lither and smaller now than when it had first begun to track her. It was clever.
She clamped down on the mating bond that strung between her and Cassian, dampening it so it was near silent. She didn't need him putting his bossy, overprotective nose in the middle of this. Only a little further . . .
She feigned exhaustion, stretching her arms above her head and craning her neck before trekking off the path and toward the camp she'd set up outside of the outpost, close enough that she could hear the warriors' revelry fading as they turned in for the night.
Her night was just beginning.
It was unfortunate that the creature thought itself too clever for her as she stepped over the branches she'd laid down hours ago, unfortunate that it couldn't control itself when she sliced her palm and sent droplets splattering to the dirt, forcing it into a state of bloodlust as it surged for her and immediately froze midair, trapped in the markings she'd hidden in her camp.
Turning, Nesta kept her features neutral as she took in the formless, shadowy face, the snarling razor-sharp teeth and blank, gleaming white eyes the only discernible features.
Shadow lurkers.
Beings she'd once bolted from in fear in her first year in the Steppes when they'd tried to eat ancient creatures that fed on the lives of lost wanderers, parasites that hid in every corner of the forest, who missed nothing. She'd made a habit of using them to her advantage since.
"Now that you're here," she murmured slowly, pulling out the vial of heron's blood, salt and crushed antler she'd concocted specifically for this purpose, "you'll answer my questions." She flicked the tiniest droplet of the potion from her finger onto the creature. It howled in agony.
"Yes!" it cried in the voices of the dying, a thousand whispers from all directions and none, keening in pain. "Just no more!"
Nesta's eyes burned like liquid starlight in the moon's glow. "Where is Valka?"