The scowl on Soren’s face cuts deeper as the sounds of the horses’ hooves on the cobblestones echo through the barren streets. There isn't a single building untouched, and fury writhes within me at the senselessness of the Betrayer’s war.
When we reach the opposite edge of the village and pass through the other side of the wall, the remnants of the funeral pyres are still there like a warning, dozens of them. An old prayer falls from my lips, sorrow drenching my tone even as fury trembles within every syllable. My gut is a maelstrom of sickening rage, and though Soren may not realize it, a Favored Child forced to witness the cruelty and ugliness of war is a dangerous creature.
“There are hundreds of villages like this.”
I speak through clenched teeth. “How does the Unseelie Court ignore this? How can they paint you as a villain for fighting back against this wanton destruction?”
A dry chuckle spills from his lips, a dark and dangerous thing I’ve never heard from him before. “How did the Unseelie Court accept my uncle sitting on my father's throne when all signs pointed to his treachery? There isn't a single servant in Yregarwho journeyed there with me from Yris who doesn’t know, and yet the high fae dance around the truth, too obsessed with themselves to care about anything but their own comfort.”
It can't be as simple as that; nothing is ever as simple as that. If I've learned anything in my time moving amongst the arrogant and beautiful royals of the Northern Lands, it's that no matter how irreverent and flighty the high fae look, beneath the surface, they’re as complicated as any other fae folk. The heartbreaking beauty they wear just hides it a little deeper.
When I don’t reply, Soren steers the conversation back to his demands. “How are you planning on killing Kharl Balzog? How did you plan to kill him when you came back to the Southern Lands in the first place? You say trust the Fates, but you can't simply wait for them to deliver him to you.”
I tuck my cloak tighter around my body, layering the lapels against the chill that's taken me over. It’s not the snow swirling around us, but the cold fury within me that holds me trapped in its clutches.
“I didn’t think it wise to return here clearly marked as a solider. I had many offers of escort, but I thought it was better to come alone, in case you saw the soldiers with me as a threat against your kingdom. Truthfully… I was numb from the war and didn’t really care what happened to me along the way home. The decay of the kingdom sparked the embers of life within me, and then Raidyn’s birth set it alight… it gave me purpose once more.”
This veers dangerously to stories I don’t want to share with this male, not even now that he’s accepted our shared fate, but as I watch him dance carefully around the threats I tactlessly sneered at him when I woke with the screeching death call of the Ureen still ringing in my ears, something softens within me.
“I have wondered why no one came with you. It plagues me now. My offer to send to the Northern Lands for you still stands, and I’ll meet the ship at Port Asmyr myself.”
The bleak chuckle that spills out of me is an echo of his, and my shoulders quake with the force of it. His gaze is piercing, but I don’t move my head to meet it. No telling what secrets he’d find there.
“My escort would’ve included three witches, and each of them loathes the Unseelie high fae for what they have done to the forests and covens here. Onebarelymade it through his time in the Sol Army without finding himself before the Sol King for treason for his contempt of the high fae. If I allowed you to send for them, how could you possibly hope to win the Unseelie Court’s favor with such fae folk in your household at my request?”
He doesn't answer me, and our journey continues in silence.
As night falls around us, he doesn't stop to make camp, confident in my ability to keep up after the hard ride to Yrell. Instead, he stays in the saddle as he retrieves the flask tucked into his pack to drink his fill, and when he sees that I haven't reached for mine, he holds it out to me. I attempt to wave him off, but he pushes it toward me with a scowl on his face, and finally I take it, not bothering to voice my protests at his demanding behavior.
When I hand it back to him, he watches me as he fastens the lid and stows it away, a smolder burning within the icy depths of his eyes as my tongue swipes over my bottom lip. Warmth spills into my belly, another sign that perhaps the Fates weren't too far off in their weaving, and I force myself to look away from him.
“How many soldiers sought to escort you back here?”
I swallow roughly but my mouth is still too dry. “Five.”
His jaw flexes as he considers this. “Are they friends of yours or simply soldiers you served with?”
The smile I send him is small but true. “They’re all family to me. I… survived the war because of them.”
He nods slowly and clicks his tongue at Nightspark, finally picking up the pace a little and signaling the end of such conversations in that very arrogant high-fae way of his. I would find it frustrating, but I’m growing accustomed to it and can appreciate the efficiency. I never did enjoy the labor of fussing after egos and giving out meaningless platitudes, and if the ice of his manner eases a little, I think I’ll appreciate it even more.
When dawn breaks, I see the first hazy shadows of the Brindlewyrd Forest before us, the call of the trees building within me as they welcome me home after so many centuries of longing. Even as the Fates writhe with joy beneath my scar, my heart breaks until every breath feels as though my chest is cracking open. No matter the blood in my veins, I’m not the witch the trees here think me to be.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Soren
Before I met my Fates-blessed mate and found myself humbled by her knowledge of the Southern Lands, all the forests within the kingdom felt the same to me—dark, barren,waiting. The drain of sustaining fae folk without reciprocation and the steep cost of high-fae arrogance left them no choice but to sleep, though I didn’t have the words to describe the sensation before. I didn't understand any of it but, with my magic curling in my gut and my mind now open to ancient beings beyond my understanding, the frenetic buzzing in my blood makes sense.
What we’ve felt within the trees is anger. Seething fury simmering beneath our feet, a tremble of power at the edge of release, the deathly silence of retribution promised with a god-like patience. The consequences of the First Fae arriving here and their descendants forgetting everything trembles below my feet. The first true step to winning against Kharl Balzog and his blood-soaked allegiance with my uncle is remembering, honoring, and paying back a blood debt to the trees.
From the moment I heard the screams within Elms Walk, I knew the power this kingdom holds, long forgotten, and to wield that power could be the difference in this ashes-cursed war. After centuries of being forced to play the games of the Unseelie Court and to stroke the egos of those who stayed loyal to me, speaking to the trees is not an ominous task.
The moment we breach the tree line of the Bridlewyrd Forest, a weight settles on my shoulders, a grunt forced out of my chest unbidden as I’m forced to absorb the blow without being wrenched from my saddle. Rooke shoots me a look as I jerk around to check she’s unharmed, but whatever magic has assaulted me has spared her. I open my mouth but, before any words can spill from me, the forest speaks to me like a poisoned arrow shot straight into my heart.
You are not welcome here, Celestial prince.
Rooke’s frown deepens as she glances around. Her eyes are still clear, no magic shining through them, and she doesn’t have that dazed look on her face that Tyton often wears yet, even without her usual murmured prayers in the old language, it's clear she's communicating with the forest,bargainingwith it on my behalf. I take a deep breath, my eyes slipping shut as I focus on my magic and that weight still pressing down on me. As though floodgates open inside me, the cacophony of the forest’s song fills me all at once. Deafening without volume, intelligible without words, there’s no describing the experience other than magic.
