Avoiding the irate look his brother gives him, Gage inclines his head at me in apology, which I accept easily, turning back to Soren. “As I know it, the forest made Favored Children first as caretakers but as time went on, and the Fates formed, it became clear that the land needed more than the gentle care my coven could give it. It needed those who could sacrifice and feed blood into the land… whether it be their own, or the blood of those who’ve wronged them. Only with that mixing of blood and magic could the land heal and cycle the way it requires— the way it always has.”
Soren’s scar pulls taut as he scowls, thinking through my words, and when he replies, he’s far more careful with his tone and word choice than Gage was. “And these protectors of the kingdom have chosen to side with Kharl Balzog, the Betrayer?”
When I turn further toward him, he leans closer instinctively, as though by my command, an intoxicating idea, but this lesson of the history of our kingdom and the witches within isfar too important for my Fates-blessed mate to learn. “None of the witches who chose to follow the Betrayer bear the sigil of the Bloodwyrd Coven. They can't claim themselves as true Bloodwyrd witches—none who disobeyed the Bloodwyrd Mother's command can.”
His eyebrows draw in. “If the coven is supposed to sacrifice for the land, where are the true Bloodwyrd Coven now, and why have they left the kingdom to face Kharl Balzog alone?”
I shrug. “The Bloodwyrd Mother was given her fate by the Seer as a gift for helping her in the time of great need. Her fate was to take her coven and leave the kingdom, to wait until her blood called her home. She chose the Northern Lands and answered their calls for aid, and while her covens were never enlisted, they fought alongside the Sol Army while maintaining their own freedoms. The Fates War proved to have many opportunities for witches of their skill-set to flourish.”
His eyes flare at me, and he glances at Gage. The goblin prince’s expression remains stern, his lips pressed firmly together, when Soren answers. “My uncle found bloodwitches who want Kharl Balzog gone enough to side with the high fae… and they'll call the coven home.”
Gideon grimaces and runs a hand over his brow, then glances around at his soldiers. A deadly stillness has overtaken them all. Soren notices it as well, pulling himself up straighter even as he leans closer to me, his body heat washing over me despite the chill of the night air, but he keeps his gaze on Gideon as the goblin prince makes his assessment.
Finally, with an apprehensive look at the Celestial heir, he says, “The Bloodwyrd numbers were decimated before the Mother took them from their forest. If we're lucky, and they're still low, their return won't tip the war in the regent's favor.”
Soren nods slowly before glancing down at me. “And if we’re not lucky?”
Prince Gage answers for his brother. “Then the kingdom is about to get the biggest blood sacrifice in its history, because the magic they wield is the stuff of nightmares.”
When I stand up,stretching out my back and rolling my shoulders, Soren gives the goblin princes a decisive nod before standing along with me, scowling at the forest, though it’s quiet to my ear. Preparing myself to finally get some rest, it takes me a moment to convince my legs to work, and Soren takes my elbow to lead me to our tent. Gage moves off to his own tent for the night, casting a shield around the structure after Gideon starts murmuring about him being a spoiled prince and rolling out his own bedding next to the fire.
I’m exhausted, but the prospect of falling asleep and potentially opening myself up to nightmares makes my gut clench, and my feet drag to the tent, heavy with apprehension. Soren doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care to question my hesitance, but when we reach our lodgings, he stops at the opening and looks down at himself unhappily.
His clothes are covered in a mixture of dirt and dust; days of traveling only to spend endless hours locked in the cell has certainly taken its toll. My own robes haven’t fared much better. I refused to bathe in the rooms set aside for me, even with my shield, not wanting to leave myself exposed and vulnerable if one of those bloodwitches came back for me. I certainly don't smell, but the whispered insults of the high fae when I first arrived at Yregar play in the back of my mind.
Filthy witch.
The insult is far more cutting now that Lady Loreth’s beauty flashes in my mind, haunting me in a way I refuse to let become habit. Rather than allowing myself to wallow in that unsettling realization, I push my magic into the earth below and allow it to map out the forest for me. Its song welcomes me home, thrumming under my skin and begging me to stay.
The Brindlewyrd Forest is nowhere near the Lore River that runs through the Ravenswyrd, but there’s a small cluster of hot springs nearby, warmed by the same ley lines of power that give magic to the fae doors at the base of the mountain. I push my magic farther, but the forest assures me that only the Briarfrost soldiers, Soren, and I are within its boundaries.
I send the image of the hot springs to my Fates-blessed mate, and his fingers tighten on my elbow, a small shift. Before I can attempt to parse and defuse whatever grave error I’ve made with him now, he turns on his heel and stalks back to Gideon. His hand is still tight on my elbow, and he drags me along. The goblin prince doesn't want us leaving the boundaries of his soldiers protection but Soren isn’t willing to have any males nearby as I bathe and neither of the princes are quick to back down.
Stepping away from their quickly escalating conversation, I move to the packs on our saddles and fuss with them before Soren comes and takes his off altogether. He strokes a hand over Nightspark’s muzzle affectionately, then takes my pack and slings it over his shoulder before directing me along the path, ignoring my indignant protests. The forest leads him, murmuring happily when he eases his grip on his magic to let drops of power fall with every step we take, the famished land gobbling it up.
With the peak of winter only days away, my breath comes out in white clouds the deeper we walk into the thick lines of trees. Soren’s gaze is as cold as the air, his mouth a firm line. The warmdemeanor that saw me through a long night of fighting sleep is now nowhere to be found, a scowling high fae prince left in its place. As we pass the last of the goblin soldiers standing sentry, Soren gives him a respectful but stern nod as we walk past. The soldier bows to us both with a quick jerk of his head, and his tail flicks toward us curiously as Soren directs me along.
The ground shifts from firm path into slick mud as we get closer to the springs, our steps chosen carefully and slowly. Soren’s fingers tighten on my elbow to stop me from slipping, guiding me onto a cutout section of flat rocks that branches out until we find ourselves standing on a small shelf that gives way to a plunge into the hot springs.
A thick layer of mist sits over the glassy surface, rising from the heat that warms the air pleasantly, though the chill has taken hold in my bones and isn’t eager to let go. There are smaller pools cut out by piles of smooth stones, far too neatly to be a natural occurrence, and lush greenery growing over the far side.
Soren drops his pack onto the stone shelf and lets go of my elbow, giving me a stern look as he approaches the water's edge with the same approach with which I’d imagine him sidling up to a dragon. He scowls down at the pristine water, and a thrill of joy runs over my skin when he sends a pulse of magic into the pool and my own reserves delight in it.
When he straightens back up and turns to me, I raise my eyebrows at him.
“There are hot springs all over the kingdom that would burn you alive the moment you hit the water. Only an idiot would jump straight in.”
I ignore his curt tone. “I wasn't thinking about that. Since when have you been able to use your magic like that? Or at all, really?”
He goes back to his pack, unclasps his cloak, and lets it fall from his shoulders. The charcoal color of his linen shirt andriding trousers offers some aid in hiding the evidence of our arduous journey since we left Yregar, but he definitely looks as though he's been sitting in a dungeon cell. He’s never been fussy about his clothing in my experience, but he’s also never been one to arrive at my door covered in mud either. Clearly some high-fae fussiness has stuck with the so-called Savage Prince.
“I wasn't going to dismiss your concerns about my control, especially considering how many high fae were intent on pushing me into a rage in such a short amount of time.”
He still hasn't demanded answers about the life I left behind in the Northern Lands, and I haven't mentioned meeting his ex-lover, but none of that seems very pressing as he starts unbuttoning his shirt, his demanding gaze holding mine. The full force of his beauty hits me at once, the exact reason I’ve avoided looking at him too closely when I’m not seething mad at the male, and my knees threaten to give out. He doesn’t ask me if I want to bathe alone, or offer to look away as I undress, but that makes it easier to slip back into my role as a soldier.
It's only when he reaches the last button that he finally breaks our searing eye contact to glance around the forest with a scowl, and I’m reminded that I’m no longer a soldier and he’s nothing like the males I served with. Blanching, I duck my head as I move away from him.
He growls under his breath, but I don't look up to see his expression, pulling off my own cloak and settling it beside his. The stone is warm underneath my touch, the perfect temperature for lying on and stretching out like a creature of scales under the sun, and it’ll see me back to our tent nicely.
