He steps forward with the same careful movements he’s adopted around me, and my irritation at them all deepens until anger grows hot within me, intensifying with every breath. I need to hold it in check; there's no point in leveling such rage at these males, because it’ll only convince them of my treachery once more.
A seed of doubt takes root in my mind. I've shown this male my rage a handful of times now, even threatened him when I first woke to find him guarding me, and still he defended me against Prince Mercer and his household. The rage he felt at Prince Mercer's attempts to shame and belittle me was undeniable.
Guilt is certainly a powerful motivator.
Soren stands quietly at my side and I shift my gaze over the water again, the edge of the sorrow softening and the dark clutches around my heart easing a little. The land heard my promises and believes me, every action I take to keep my word strengthening the bond between us. I won’t allow this to continue.
When Soren holds out his hand to me, I glance down at it as though a weapon is sure to appear there. I don't flinch this time, thank the Fates. A flush creeps over my cheeks at the memory. As the monsters of the Fates ravaged my mind, none of my reactions to him were within my control.
When my eyes stayed fixed on his palm, the prince murmurs in the old language once more, “This kingdom will be rebuilt through our shared fate and sacrifice. You don’t have the blood to spare right now.”
I realize he's asking for the dagger still in my hand, and I pass it over, releasing it the moment that his fingers touch the hilt. He slices his palm easily, blood freely flowing from the sliceand landing in the putrid mud at our feet. The effect is instant and almost violent, a viciousness long forgotten waking up at the taste of his blood.
As his skin begins to glow, it’s evident there’s more than just a whisper of power in Soren’s veins. I saw that well enough last night, but though the male makes the same promise to the lands as I did, the earth doesn’t accept his sacrifice. With a rumble beneath the lake that sends ripples to the edges, anger bleeds into the edges of my mind as the land demandsmore.
Soren feels it as well, his brow furrowing. The high fae forgot their magic a long time ago, long enough that I feel his hesitation. He knows it’s there; he searches for where his power lies, but he has no idea how to give the land what it craves. How far the high fae have fallen. Sorrow fills me at the waste their arrogance has wrought.
Carefully, I reach over to take his wrist, ignoring his potential anger in the face of the desperate hunger that cries out beneath our feet. When I finally glance at him, I find no scorn for me on his face, and that emboldens me to reach for him with my magic as well, using our connection as a guide until I find, deep within this prince, the magic of the Celestial high fae.
It’s an unwieldy and impossible sort of magic that has always baffled me, untapped for generations, but just as potent as the magic the First Fae brought to the lands a millennia ago, to take the kingdom for themselves and call it their own. Grasping the edges of it, I coax it out of him and into the land, funneling the smallest amount to seal more into his promises than any high fae has given in a very long time.
When I finally let go of his mind and step away, I find we’re no longer alone. Roan stands at the edge of the lake, Reed only half a step away, the two poised to strike. Behind Reed, Tyton stands looking less worried as his gaze traces the water before us, but one hand still rests on pommel of his sword. How theyplan to fight against the land and magic itself, I couldn’t guess, but to question them right now with the tension thick in the air would be foolish.
Soren’s eyes are still shut tightly and Roan curses in the old language. “Tell me you’re still in there, Soren.”
Concern that one of them is going to attack me for daring to incapacitate their prince begins to take hold and my stance shifts subtly, catching Roan’s attention. He jerks his head at Reed. The Outland soldier takes a careful step closer, and when there’s no reaction, he takes another, creeping forward until he’s planted himself between Prince Soren and me.
Reed finally meets my eye with a clenched jaw. “He's glowing like a fucking candle! You’re wounded, and I have no idea how much magic you have left after yesterday. My orders are to protect you from any threat, even if it’s Prince Soren himself. I’m not disobeying my command ever again, Rooke, even if it’s this one.”
It’s difficult to keep the exasperation from my face. “The glow isn’t a concern. Prince Soren gave a sacrifice—blood and magic. Before they forgot, the high fae did this for centuries. There’s no danger here, for me or anyone else.”
Roan’s eyes meet mine, disbelief in them, plus an edge of scorn that takes me by surprise, but he answers me in the common tongue. “Soren would have our heads if he knew that we stood by and allowed him to harm you with his magic. He has no experience with it, and the whole ground just shook like an earthquake, just like last night! Did you not feel it?”
I didn't feel a thing except unbridled joy at the power within my Fates-chosen mate and the gift he gave to our land. My gaze drops to the reeds at the edge of the lake, and a smile tugs at the corners of my mouth when I see new buds of life there. The water is still murky, but the air smells different now. It smells like life, like potential, like the tides have finally turned and thishorror will come to an end. The Fates’ promise of a kingdom united will come true.
Glancing at Roan once more, I give him a decisive look. “I’ll guide him back out of this.”
I get a sharp shake of his head in return. “There's no need to take that risk. Soren can figure it out for himself. Just step away, Rooke.”
With the same amount of force it takes to cleave a witch's head from its shoulders, I watch Soren pull himself back from the terrifying edge of madness he’s balanced on until finally he succeeds. The pressure within my chest eases, and his magic recedes into the cavernous depths within him, as unreachable again to him as his heart is to me.
When his eyes open once more and his gaze fixes sharply to mine, there’s a triumph there and a savage determination that has the Fates dancing wildly under my skin once more. It’s the look of a king, ready to claim a throne through blood and magic, and finally the kingdom has hope.
The farming plainsthat surround Yregar are as barren now as they were when I arrived back to the Southern Lands, dragged behind Soren’s horse like chattel. When it became clear to the high fae that I wasn’t going to slow them down or expire suddenly in my saddle, Soren set a steady yet swift pace, and I have no trouble keeping up.
When the last of the destroyed villages is behind us and the destitute farming houses begin to crop up around us, Soren finally slows the horses to a walk. When I glance over, he’s not watching me with the same scrutiny I’ve itched under since weleft. Instead his gaze is fixed on Nightspark’s neck where his hand strokes gently over the jagged lines of the sealed wound. The longer I watch them, the clearer it becomes that this pause is for his beloved horse.
Irritation at myself creeps over my skin for the gentle creed of the Ravenswyrd witch that primes my heart to soften at the gesture.
Reed continues to shadow my every move, just as steadfast as the moment we arrived to Yrell, and the curious way he still keeps his gaze from ever touching me frustrates me to the point that I'm tempted to confront the soldier just to get him to stop. It shouldn't bother me so much, especially considering the audience we’ve been stuck in the center of, but it eats at me. More than anything else, I'm irritated because finding middle ground with him was far easier than with any of the rest of the high fae.
I spent two hundred years in the Northern Lands, surrounded by hundreds of people I loved dearly, and the easy friendship I found with Reed eased some of the loneliness I’ve found in the isolation of Yregar. To have that friendship torn away now, and for no discernible reason, is yet another cruelty against me.
Prince Soren’s voice startles me out of my distracted thoughts. “How did your father come to know the language of the goblins if the Ravenswyrd witches never left the forest? How did any of your coven know the different languages you were taught in such isolation?”
A scowl pinches my brows. Not at Soren for asking, though I’m shocked at his interest in my family, voiced without scorn and distrust dripping from every syllable, but at the fact that he’s asking in the old language, a tactic to conceal the conversation from those around us.
All the soldiers who ride with us are his most trusted, he made that clear before we rode to Yrell. If only those who’ve proved their unwavering loyalty to the true Celestial heir surround us, why is this simple query a secret?
