For the first time, I hear it speak clearly, if softly, in the back of my mind.
Celestial blood. He cannot be forgiven, no Celestial can have safe passage under our canopy.
Beads of sweat gather over my brow at the effort to grasp those words, but when I open my eyes once more, I find Rooke’s eyes narrowed at me, questions in her gaze I have no answersfor. Her eyes flash silver as she calls on her magic, my gut clenching at the bright light. My concern isn’t at her use of magic anymore but the danger this may pose to her. There’s no one in this forest with us, not a sound or sight for hundreds of miles, but the same instinct that plagued me at the village closer to Yregar lingers now.
Something’s wrong.
Entwined with my magic, my skin tingles as Rooke funnels her own magic into the earth beneath us, an offering of power to ease some of the hunger of the forest, but a demand for answers as well. She’s stronger than I could’ve ever imagined, nothing like the raving masses, and a thrill works through my magic at the sensation of hers. It wants her, as I want her, and though I have no experience or idea of what I’m doing, I don’t hesitate to hold out my hand. Mirroring her actions, I push at my magic like I did at the edge of Selkie Lake when the power there took over me.
The distant whispers of the trees become a thunderous roar in my ears, and another vicious grunt is forced out of my lips as it cleaves through me, but I hold true in my saddle thanks to centuries of experience at taking a hit and keeping my head no matter how violently it thumps.
Why has the Favored Child brought a betrayer to us? Our children are gone.
Rooke’s answer is no longer in my ears, but resonates in that same strong tone in my mind.Soren Celestial is not the Betrayer. He may have forgotten, but he’s remembering now, and he leads his people to remember as well. We won’t allow these crimes to go unanswered for.
A rustle scatters through the leaves in answer, not unlike Elms Walk, as the trees wake, but this feels different. There's no relief at the Favored Child returning, only gut-wrenching sadness. Mourning, but not the quiet contemplation thathappened in the Ravenswyrd surrounded by the fae flowers. This mourning is violent, enraged, and no matter who she is, the forest won’t accept Rooke’s word as proof of my honor.
Favored Child, look at what he’s done to us.
She glances around us as the leaves begin to tremble again, the fury building as though the trees prepare to defend themselves against me, but when I follow the path of her gaze, I can’t find anything of concern. Overgrown shrubbery, logs covered in moss, fallen leaves slowly returning to the earth; I don’t understand what they’re urging her to see. From the pinching around her eyes, I don’t think Rooke does either.
Frustration floods me, and the decision is made in an instant. Reckless or not, it doesn't matter, because without an agreement of safety from the forest, the fae of this kingdom are all but dead. The Celestial kings have failed them too many times—I’vefailed them too many times— all for the sake of power and the whims of my uncle.
I won’t fail my Fates-blessed mate anymore.
Eyes widening, Rooke opens her mouth to stop me, but it’s too late. I shove at the confines of my magic, at the small vent that allows a slow stream of power to eke out in sacrifice, and the structure shatters. Whatever bound the power in the first-place dissolves under my indignant attack, and power pours out of me into the earth below. As though struck by lightning, my blood sets fire, and my veins burn as my skin writhes under the scorching heat.
The world around me melts away, and I gasp desperately for air. Blinded, I grip my reins uselessly, and Nightspark whinnies in protest at my sudden jerking movement. My last coherent memory is the desperate sound of my name from Rooke’s lips before I drop, descending into a white light.
It’s impossible to tell if I'm still in my saddle or if I fall onto the forest floor. Maybe the roots of the trees wrap aroundme to pull me into the depths of the dirt and take me as a sacrifice instead of my magic or my blood, but none of it matters. Nothing matters except proving myself to this ancient forest and surviving to save my kingdom from my uncle’s callous designs.
The last feeling I have of my body is my limbs being pushed and pulled in every direction, as though the trees attempt to pull my skin apart. My breath is drawn into my lungs, my head spinning, but nothing else exists as the trees scour every inch of my being in their search for something,something. They guzzle my magic down, gulping the wealth of power within me to take more than I would’ve ever imagined, and yet it’s nothing compared to the cavernous void left behind by my people turning their back on the old ways. I let them take every drop I can possibly give to the earth, and it doesn’t help one bit.
The trees squeeze at my skin further and further, until I'm sure every bone in my body has been ground to dust, my skin split open, and my blood poured into the ground beneath me. It feels like I've stepped through a fae door only to be thrown into another, and another, over and over again, the magic eating me alive.
When I’m sure my mind is about to fracture completely, everything stops.
For a fraction of a second, I'm sure I’ve arrived at the gates of Elysium, panic shooting through me. Then, as suddenly as it stopped and my vision was torn from me, I’m thrown back into the forest, but Rooke is nowhere to be found. Before I can feel alarm, the forest floods my mind.
Bear witness; this is our betrayal.
A memory. The deep pain of the forest says that centuries have passed but every detail of the betrayal is as clear before my eyes as if it were happening right now. Dozens of witches stand before me, easily identifiable by their silver eyes and the robes they wear, though none of them look anything like Rooke’s.In shades of ashy whites and purples, they’re not dressed for healer’s work or war. Instead, this is a coven in their forest, long ago when it was still theirs to call home.
I don’t understand what I’m seeing, or how I’m seeing it, but the conversation grabs my attention.
“We have to go up there to her. We can't just leave her there,” one of the men cries out, but another raises his hands.
“She's dead already, we all felt it! What are we to do, crawl up there and find ourselves murdered along the way? Think clearly, Url, there's no saving a corpse!”
One of the women wrings her hands, casting a look over her shoulder, lips trembling. “We need to leave now, before they get here?—”
Another female cuts her off, her voice shrill and a cruel scoff dancing at the end of every barb she throws out. “And go where, Maeryn? Unrest has been growing for centuries among amongst the witches, the Bloodwyrd coven torn in half by the promises of that ashes-cursed male, the Elmswyrd have already abandoned their forest, and those of banshee blood are heading south at King Galen’s promise of sanctuary. Even if we choose to believe the promises of a high-fae king and do the same, we’ll never make it past Irongrave or the Forge! There’s no point trying to avoid the Outlands altogether, the Mistheart territories are overrun with the raiding parties?—“
“We must head south! We have to leave now,” the trembling woman implores, her voice still hushed as she steps forward with her hands cast out wide, and the others glance around at each other warily.
Blood darkens her sleeves in large patches, dried tears tracking down her cheeks and dirt streaking her robes as though she took a hard fall. The witch marks on her face glow bright, a clean white color, and though I’ve never seen the symbols before, I understand them—Maiden.
The moment the word forms in my mind, the forest whispers back to me, correcting me.Mother.
