He's not brash like Tauron, nor contentious despite his prince’s commands. His conversation isn’t as forthcoming or welcoming as Tyton’s. He doesn't throw his birthright or status around but he still holds himself in great dignity, even standing side by side with the heir to the Southern Lands. I wondered, for a time, how the Fates had put this quietly strong and powerful prince with an unstoppable force like Princess Airlie, but the longer I spend around the two of them, the more I understand it.
"You used the last of the earth's magic to repair the walls of Yregar."
It's not a question but a statement, and I shrug at him, nothing to hide. "It seemed the best course of action, rather than wait however many weeks it would take to repair the damage by hand. If I've done something wrong?—"
He holds up a hand of his own to stop me, as direct and no-nonsense as I am, thankfully. "It was a powerful act of magic and very forward thinking. You clearly have a good head on your shoulders, and we're in desperate need of that around here. Is it possible for your magic to repair more once you've recovered, or was that a feat of power from the earth alone?"
My brows drop, and I lean my hip against the workbench and stare at him, following his line of thinking with ease. "My magic is strong enough that I could take part in the restoration of the village, but I'm a few days away from performing such magic without tapping out completely. I'd have to do it in sections and rest in between, and I'd need some supplies. I'm more than happy to help where I can."
His own brow furrows, and his face becomes a mirror of mine as we mull over the plan together, negotiating the finer details. "I'll have to bring it to Soren first, of course, but are there any concerns you'd need raised with him?"
I blow out a breath. "I can use the rubble and destroyed remnants of the houses to repair those less damaged. The supplies don't have to be new—my magic can manipulate and fix such things, but I'm hesitant to do much more than one or two of the buildings a day. Even that will drain my stores, and I won't be at full power if we're attacked again."
He nods and looks down at the stones, his gaze tracing the cracks within them until it moves to the hand-woven rug. "Could you give another sacrifice to the earth to restore yourself if they came back?"
His tone is respectful, the question clearly stemming from a lack of knowledge and not the probing that precedes an entitled demand. I’ve endured enough of the latter to be sure of when a high fae is wheedling for their own gains.
Shaking my head firmly, my rueful expression is sincere. "It's dangerous to wield that sort of power too often. It was an act of desperation—I knew that Kharl would take the castle if I didn't. The earth gives abundantly, but it's running out of power. It needs a few centuries of care and nourishment before we'll be able to rely on it as a source."
He nods again, curtly this time as though he's come to a decision, and he steps toward the door without another word, leaving as swiftly as he arrived. The soldiers guarding the door pull it firmly shut behind him, the room slipping easily back into the serenity that soothes the ache that still lies buried in my heart. As I move back to the stove to finish brewing my tea, Roan’s words echo in my mind and the ache turns into something weary.
The high fae have lost countless generations of their own history, just as they’ve forgotten their magic, and the wealth of knowledge they must regain to have any hope of restoring our kingdom is staggering in scale alone. How they’ve survived this long is a mystery to me and though they may not deserve the help I’ve extended to them so far; it appears Airlie isn’t the only one determined to remember the ways of old.
A smile tugs at the corners of my lips as I absently hum an old lullaby, a curious hope warming the coldest reaches of my blood. If I succeed in completing my cursed fate, an unquestionable surety no matter how impossible it may still feel, the future of the kingdom and all those fae within doesn’t look so bleak.
But first, they all must learn and with no other options, it’s clear I’m the one who must teach them; no mean feat. Rebuilding the village is a start.
CHAPTER FIVE
Soren
Dozens of soldiers, servants, and workers all stand in the ruined village square, watching in awe as Rooke performs her acts of magic. Her palms stretch out before her as though directing the flow of power to follow her will, and her eyes flash bright as the stones around us rumble and roll slowly toward each other. One by one, the stones stack up, filling the hole and binding themselves together until the wall stands solid before us once more.
The screeching of the rocks grating against each other is an assault on my keen hearing, many of the high fae around me wincing and clutching at their temples, but the onlooking crowd doesn't utter a single harsh word about Rooke as she works. Wonder drenches the tones of the voices around me as the crowd finally bursts into murmurs amongst themselves, their eyes reverent as Rooke’s power emanates throughout the bleak streets. It's the same wonder that I felt when I found the patch of grass after Rooke arrived at Yregar and, unbeknownst to me,began feeding her magic into the land in sacrifice, only now there's no question of who has gifted Yregar with new life.
The debris around the building begins to tremble before the fine, powdery dust lifts into the air and flows to fill the spaces between the stones, the remnants of the mortar being recovered and put back to use as her magic glows brighter. It seeps into the mortar, the dust hardening and binding once more as a rumble runs through the structure, and I can feel the fortifications she's laying as though her magic is whispering directly to me.
Hearing her name ringing around me as the household stands in awe of her grates on me, but the ferocity of my possessive temper centers on the males, their murmured praises for her fueling the maelstrom within me. Jaw clenching violently as I grind my teeth, I shove the Fates’ command out of my mind. No matter how hard I try to keep my ire from my expression, the telltale pinching sensation around my scar speaks volumes of my failure and everyone around me shifts nervously on their feet.
The murmurs grow quieter, but they don’t cease entirely; they can’t, not while the majesty of Rooke’s magic shines before us all.
When Roan first brought this idea forward, my scrutiny of his plan was no longer fixed on Rooke's motives or concerns of the wrath she could inflict on Yregar with her power. Instead, the potential risks to my Fates-blessed mate for performing such magic ate away at my sanity.
She walked onto the battlefield to face Kharl’s armies alone.
If the situation wasn’t so dire, I would’ve refused, but there are dozens of damaged buildings, some beyond repair, and winter is fast approaching. The decision was made to start with the old bakehouse, which has three households attached and two dozen villagers who call it home. Yregar's builder discussed options with me, but he made it clear we need to move with haste.
Aware of the rage threatening to overtake me at any moment, I spent the morning in the sparring rings to burn off some of my temper and, by the time I walked to the healer’s quarters, I was ready to negotiate with Rooke without risking bloodshed between us. Unrequested suggestions of reparations from my most loyal—and opinionated—household still rang in my ears as I stepped into the cramped room with barely more than a knock of warning, but I should’ve known better.
Rooke never acts how I predict she will, the way that any high fae would.
Clearly expecting my arrival, she was dressed and ready for work, the healer’s quarters scrubbed clean and organized into militant efficiency. One look at the seething resignation on my face, and she simply nodded and gestured for me to lead the way before a single word was pried from my lips.
When I hesitated, disbelieving that she wasn’t forcing me to negotiate with her in an attempt to make me grovel, she raised a single eyebrow and stared at me with ice in her steely gaze.
“I have no time to hear your empty reassurances or scathing promises, especially those impossible for you to keep.” Her tone was flat, emotionless, and it hid the contempt the words held in the old language.
Now that we’re in the presence of my household, my Fates-blessed mate still addresses me respectfully and with the formality befitting my title, but she maintains a firm distance between us that renders my work in the sparring rings useless. It’s impossible to decipher if my fury is at my own inability to stay the ashes away from her or at the cold distance she’s maintaining with ease, as though the Fates’ demands aren’t tugging at her relentlessly as they do me. Does she even feel their insistent pull, or am I alone in this cursed situation? She doesn’t show any signs of discomfort in my presence unless she’s sure no one is watching, and even then, it’s clearly a reaction to theprospect of me getting closer to her, not at the absence of her body against mine.
