“Soren doesn’t care,” I reply, flinging out a hand in exasperation, but he only gives me a sardonic look back.
“He never caredbefore. Prince Soren has made it very clear that you have quite a lot of his attention now, Rooke. In fact, I would say you're the center of it.”
As we reach a crumbling, decrepit tomb at the far edge of the long-dead garden, I wave my hand at him dismissively again, even as the Fates dance beneath my scar with their own opinions of his claims. “I have no intention of spending the rest of my days at Yregar avoiding interacting with anyone the Unseelie Court might find fault with just to appease Soren.”
Reed shakes his head at me, eyeing the tomb warily as though afraid Soren is about to stalk out of it, enraged. “You should consider your Fates-blessed mate a little more, Rooke. If not for your own sake, then maybe for the rest of Yregar.”
I throw my hands up with an incredulous huff. “He left me in a dungeon after dragging me behind his horse for days!”
Reed shrugs. “And I was the one to pull the doors shut.”
“At his command!”
Our feet hit the cracked stone steps of the tomb, and Reed seals his lips shut, giving me a curt look when I huff at him once more. Tauron stops at a large door that’s barely ajar and ushers me through the tiny sliver, but only Reed slips through after me as the prince takes up watch without a word of farewell or comment on our argument.
The small hallway carved out of stone is only a handspan wider than Reed's shoulder width, and it descends into the earth. Reed carries a torch in one hand as he leads me through. I’m barely able to see past him, but there's only a dark hallway winding before us. When we finally reach a giant iron door, he twists carefully to hand me the torch and pulls on a set of gloves before he grapples with it, grunting at the unwieldy weight of the metal.
The door opens into a much larger tunnel with several paths leading outwards, and in the large meeting space we find Soren waiting with our saddled horses and a lit torch in hand. The air is warmer here, thicker, and stale despite the slight draft rustling the hemline of my robes. Maybe it’s that discomfort that refuses to let my temper cool off.
Soren’s eyes narrow at Reed, who keeps his cast downwards. It doesn’t matter that my stomach is still a complicated mess after our last interaction—my restraint snaps, and a grumble of my own bursts from my lips.
“I’m not going to be told by any male who I am allowed to converse with, and I won’t be forced into solitude for the sake of your feelings, Fates-blessed mate or not. Whatever assumptions you’ve made are best forgotten now, Soren.”
I raise an eyebrow at him, refusing to look away even as Reed curses under his breath with his eyes still firmly focused on his feet.
Soren’s gaze is as unwavering on my own. “I never asked for your solitude. You can befriend any female you wish?—“
I cut him off before he can continue with his games, “I served in the Sol Army for almost two hundred years. For the majority of that time, I slept surrounded by other soldiers of my battalion, half of them males, with no concerns of courtly decorum. My bedroll was wedged between my brother and a high-fae prince we served with, hundreds of fae folk around us. I won’t be told who I can speak to or be friends with.”
Soren’s lip lifts a fraction but he bites back the sneer threatening to escape him. “Which prince?”
The smile I give him in return is a cold and deadly thing. “One who remembers the Favored Children and turned his back on his own people to fight with thelowerfolk because he could see through high-fae bullshit. Perhaps the Unseelie Court could learn a lesson or two from such wisdom.”
“Who?”
I ignore his snarled question and swing myself into Northern Star’s saddle, then take up the reins and click my tongue at her to get her moving through the tunnel, undeterred by the darkness ahead. Soren has no choice but to follow, cursing under his breath until Nightspark takes the lead once more and the rigid lines of his shoulders take over my line of sight as he leads me through the tunnel in silence.
Dawn has broken by the time we reach the opening, nestled in the farming plains outside the outer walls of Yregar and hidden by a slumbering oak tree still clinging to life, the light almost blinding after the long journey with only a single torch to guide us. Small flurries of snow dance in the breeze around us, but the ground has yet to be covered, the remnants of dead grass still littering the decaying land.
Soren’s gaze is sharp on our surroundings as our horses set a steady pace to the Brindlewyrd, his lips still pressed firmlytogether. There’s anger in the rigid way he’s holding himself, no longer the cold and aloof prince in my presence. I thought our journey would be an amicable one, at the least, but tension snaps between us as thick and dangerous as raw magic wielded by an inept fool.
The snow begins a more concerted effort around us as the farming plains slowly peter out, and by the time we come across the first small village, there’s a fine powder dusting everything around us. Still, Soren scours the area as though searching for something. When he finally notices my keen assessment of him instead of the dilapidated buildings, he lifts a shoulder.
“It feels different. There's something here.”
I can’t say the same, but I nod, watching him. There’s no denying the pull I feel toward him any longer, even when he’s stumbled over my temper once again, and I have to force myself not to stare at him for too long.
Soren lifts a hand to his chest, the scowl on his face pulling the scar across his lips tight. “I can feel it in my chest.”
Magic. The high-fae type that runs thick through his veins. I've gotten a glimpse of it a handful of times, but it's as mysterious to me as it's ever been. Even after the feats of incredible power I witnessed in my years in the Sol Army, I don't have a grasp on understanding the gifts of his people.
It makes no sense to me that Unseelie high fae lost their magic in the first place, but to see him humble himself to it, to listen to the power long-abandoned in his bloodline, sends a ripple of anticipation through my gut. His eyes flash they meet my own, as if he felt that sensation as well.
I murmur to him, my tongue clumsy under his intensely beautiful gaze, “The Fates are never wrong. They may not be kind to us, but the tapestry of our lives has been woven for centuries, threads pulled together to cast this exact moment. The kingdom is healing because of our loyalty and submission.”
He nods slowly, stretching down to stroke Nightspark’s neck affectionately. The wound from Yrell is neatly healed, barely a scar to show for it, but his fingers are soft regardless. Silence stretches between us once more, but it's comfortable, peaceful even, and I'm able to focus my attention on the village without holding myself on guard against my Fates-blessed mate.
The dilapidated buildings at the edge would be impossible to inhabit without extensive repairs, but when we cross inside the village walls, we find the buildings there not simply abandoned but burned to the ground. The acts of violence occurred centuries ago, and yet a chill runs down my spine at the sight of the destruction, the smoke of my own village burning filling my lungs in an instant.
