“I remember,” he says, quiet but firm.
“Then we will be those Fae to the Legion. We’ll finish them. Rescue my sister. Avenge the Grove. Make this world something my Amara can look upon without sorrow when she rises.” I pause, the air thick with the weight of it. “We’ll strike when nightmares are strongest.”
A sharp grin curls my lips. “Within the long, terrible dark.”
***
As dusk approaches, the Blades fill their bellies with as much as they can fit. Battle is a beast, after all and the beast must be fed.
My warriors still struggle with the lack of meat. Never before have they eaten so much green. So many nuts and beans and things better suited to the small creatures that scurry through the branches than to Fae warriors. Yet even they, like me, will admit quietly, whenno one’s listening, that the food is not terrible. It fuels us as well as any spiced rack of meat. And the bread… gods, the bread. Warm and soft and light as air. I’ve never tasted such a thing.
And the way they cook it together. No servants scurrying through dark, crowded galleys. No barked orders or clanging trays. Just people gathered around a great fire, working side by side. Each offering something, a skill, a herb, a steady hand, to make the work faster, the food richer. Then they eat together, too. Around that same fire. Talking, laughing, singing. Sharing.
So different from the long, cold banquet tables of home, the silence between my father and the crone stretched on and on, while my warriors dined in the depths of the fortress.
The memory makes me ache for Pariseth. For the home Amara built for us there, brief, yes, fleeting as a dream, but real. She brought her world to ours, showed us what it could be if we simplychoseto see each other.
Pale Mother, she is in everything now. Even with centuries of memories behind me, lifetimes before she ever drew breath, she eclipses them all. I can barely recall a world that did not have her in it.
I sit on a long bench, surrounded by Tenders and Mordorin alike, shoulder to shoulder, bowls cupped in our hands as we eat. I cannot remember a time when human and Fae sat this close without blades drawn, without hatred coiling between us.
And still, there is calm. A stillness before the storm, one that hums through us like a held breath. I can only credit it to the Tenders’ influence, another thing we are not accustomed to. There has been no sparring, no taunting, none of the blood-hungry rituals that usually seize us before battle. No snarling, no frenzy, no dogs frothing at the mouth for war.
Only quiet. Only peace, the strangest omen of all.
But I know, despite the rituals and this unnatural calm, when the hour comes our ferocity will rear. Fangs bared, wings flared, smoke and shadow answering our call. Even now the thought prickles my skin; every nerve hums with it. My body aches for battle and I cannot deny my nature. War walks beside me as surely as the void does.
With my bowl empty, I lift my head and spot Solena by the great bubbling pot set over the fire, ladling another portion. She straightens, eyes drifting to a cottage below where a candle flares in the window, its light brightening with the dusk. Before she moves I rise, close the space between us, and take the bowl from her hands as gently as I can.
“I’ll take it,” I say. “I must speak to him, anyway.”
“Good,” she breathes, half a sigh, half a laugh. “He’s as surly as you are at the moment.”
“He wants to go to battle,” I tell her.
“He can barely walk,” Solena replies.
“A fact he refuses to accept,” I say.
She frowns. “He is not the only one who wants to go.”
“I need you here,” I say, firm. I ignore her small huffs and the way she pouts as if I haven’t already told her this a thousand times. “The Grove needs protecting, and if Amara wakes, I want it to be you she sees.”
Solena’s jaw tightens. Reluctantly, she nods. “I know. I will do what you ask. That does not mean I’m happy about it.”
I incline my head and turn toward the cottage, the bowl warm against my palms.
Each step grows heavier than the last, and my mind tangles with words that refuse to come. Gratitude wars with guilt, gratitude for his sacrifice, guilt for what it’s cost him. He’s fought beside me for centuries, through every tide of blood and fire. Since our youth, a youth I can barely recall beyond flashes of laughter, booze, and victory. There were battles against minotaurs, wraiths, harpies… even the occasional siren bold enough to test us. Never once did he falter. Never once too wounded to raise his blade. Not until now.
I reach the door, an evening breeze stirring the dust at my feet. It should be nothing, air and earth, but it feels like an iron wall, holding me back.
The bowl in my hands is cooling fast. Whatever words I cannot find, my friend at least deserves a hot meal. I tighten my grip to hide the tremor in my fingers, then reach for the handle and turn.
The door creaks open, groaning on its hinges. Twilight spills into a wide room divided by hanging curtains. The air tastes of sickness, scrubbed clean but still clinging to the walls. This is where they keep their ill and wounded.
Jars and vials fill a cabinet along the far side. Herbs and drying flowers sway gently from their hooks, and rows of potions and pungent-smelling balms line a long, worn table. Beyond one of the drawn curtains, I glimpse two bare feet, pale as moonlight, resting at the edge of a cot, a pair of weathered leather boots placed neatly at the foot of the bed.
The silence is deep enough to press against my ribs. When those pale toes twitch, I swallow hard.
