“I need him sharp of mind for the battle ahead," I grind out between clenched teeth, but Rooke continues her prayer in the old language as though she doesn’t hear me.
“The Fates are returning the kingdom to the old ways, and your rest will end. The fae folk will remember the ways of old once more, but these poisoned witches cannot have entry, notthose who follow the Betrayer. Not the witches who’ve never lived within the forests and who don't know the madness that has taken root within their minds at the loss of everything we hold dear. For the Favored Children lost, I beg you, do not let them pass.”
She shifts in her seat and pulls out a small dagger, the ceremonial Celestial blade that Airlie handed her in the cells. She doesn't slash open her wrists this time, instead nicking her palm, and with a few spilled blood drops, her sacrifice is given.
The rumble grows louder.
“The trees will not let them take the Favored Child. The trees will not be betrayed again.” Tyton’s words are still otherworldly, his voice not his own as it vibrates with power and an anger that has held strong, deep within the bowels below, forcenturies.
We feel the trees awaken.
Rooke continues to murmur her wishes to the forest, asking for safety for those innocents within and to stop to any witch who might dare to seek entrance with ill intent. She offers the people of Yrell the greatest form of protection she can, and with so few resources at our disposal, it’s a defense we could have never hoped for.
Her blood is so strong and her name is so powerful that the old gods wake at her command, ready to do her bidding. They know that any promise that falls from her lips will be fulfilled, generations of trust behind every syllable. My heart clenches violently in my chest, my breaths painful
Though my own blood means less to such beings, I shift in my saddle until I can grip one of my own daggers and slice open my palm, then let my own sacrifice fall to the ground.
Tyton does the same, then Roan, and then Reed.
One by one, each of the soldiers follow Rooke’s lead and my own, until every fae riding through has offered blood to the trees here. For the first time, I feel the simmering of magic within mygut, and I know for sure what it is. Whether it’s an offering from the earth, or the sacrifice has unlocked it within me, I have no idea, but my frustration at the Fates, myself, and my bloodline doubles. If we never forgot in the first place, we wouldn’t be here, begging the trees for their aid.
Rooke’s gaze flits over to meet mine, and she bows her head at me respectfully, approving my action of sacrifice without prompt.
She speaks in the common tongue for every high fae who rides with us to hear. “The forest accepts our sacrifice, and the witches won’t find safety here. No matter what happens at Yrell, they won’t take this forest, as they have been unable to take the Ravenswyrd.”
A plan takes root in my mind, simple and yet, if it works, it could be the salvation of countless fae folk. Could it really be as easy as escorting Rooke to every forest within the kingdom and having her speak to the old gods within? Could the Ravenswyrd name alone shelter the fae folk of the kingdom until I can finally rid us of Kharl’s armies and the poison he spreads?
The trees begin to thin in front of us, and the first vestiges of stone and iron take form, slowly growing clearer until Yrell’s outer wall looms before us. The castle was the envy of many within the royal families, a jealousy taking hold at Prince Mercer and his bloodlines for residing in such a place.
Yrell was once second in beauty only to Yris, a castle carved out of glittering white marble and surrounded by a thriving city and pastures of land beyond the wall. Wildflowers grew everywhere, a cacophony of colors that survived long into autumn and even through the first clutches of winter. Fae flowers once grew in abundance around the wall, creeping up the sides of it as they took root amongst the mosses there.
The castle now stands bleakly amongst the mist. The fae flowers are long gone, the mosses have rotted and, even in thedying light of day, the marble doesn't shine the way it used to. The city is a shadow of what it once was, the glorious jewel of the high-fae royalty squandered.
Preparations for the attack are well underway, large iron spikes jutting out of the ground surrounding the wall and dozens of sentries lining the watchtowers. The wall has already been soaked with the witcheswane, Prince Mercer heeding the messengers I sent out before us.
Whether it was our victory that spurred such compliance or simply his loyalty to my claim doesn't matter. The coating is strong enough to make Rooke flinch before we even get close to it, shifting in her saddle at the proximity. I have to remind myself that she's here to help and how vital that could be, because the anticipation curling in my gut demands I spill blood at the pain etching into her face with every step closer we take.
She mumbles under her breath, and white light flashes in her eyes as she crosses the line of poison. She winces, whatever magic she used getting her over that line but not without pain.
When our horses halt and the guards open the gates, Roan frowns and murmurs in the old language, “Kharl will be able to get over that too, won't he? And his generals, if they’re decent with magic?”
Rooke nods, her voice fighting to stay even as she replies, “Any with strong enough magic can cross it, but his raving armies will be halted by it. Without a shield in place to hold them back, it's the best protection for the castle. If we can keep them from overwhelming the gate, then it's a matter of picking them off with the archers and other artillery.”
Roan nods and ushers her ahead of him through the gate, away from the substance so toxic to her. I keep close to her side. She glances at me, as though checking I’m not about to shove her from her horse or draw a blade across her throat, but thensettles into her saddle. I ignore the flash of irritation I have at the reaction.
There are no forces waiting to greet us and see us through the city, no time for such adherence to protocol, and I once again approve of Prince Mercer’s priorities, a novelty. The streets are deserted as we ride through them, except for the lines of soldiers preparing the defense.
The city is far larger than that of Yregar, the houses starting at the outer wall and climbing into the air around us, four and five stories common with the booming population. Though there are many planters and gardens around us, they’re all barren without the adherence to the cycle of life, and the gray cobblestones lie devoid of the color and vitality that once bloomed here.
When we reach the inner wall, the gates are already open and Prince Mercer waits on a horse at the lowest steps, soldiers surrounding him with hundreds of quivers filled with arrows sprawled around the courtyard as they prepare to hold off the witches.
His eyes flick toward Rooke, but he bows deeply to me without a word, his voice clear across the yard as his own household pauses at our arrival. “Our deepest gratitude for your aid, Your Highness. The people of Yrell, who all serve you most humbly and obediently, are honored at your great mercy to ride to us in our darkest hour. Our loyalty to the true Celestial line is unwavering, and with good reason.”
It’s closer to admitting that he loathes my uncle than he’s ever come before, the prospect of losing his castle loosening his tongue, but no one amongst the crowd lets out so much as a whisper about it. They’re all terrified of the death marching toward the city.
I incline my head in return. “Your loyalty has never faltered. Whatever aid I’m able to offer the great to people of Yrell is yours.”
I gesture to Rooke, a sneer curling my lip for those still staring at her with contempt. “My Fates-blessed mate has traveled with us. Her knowledge of the witches’ weaknesses and her own great skills of war will be an invaluable aid to Yrell. Kharl Balzog himself fled at the sight of her in the Battle of Yregar, and the power she wields was our salvation there.”
