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I glare at the sword catcher and contemplate lobbing an apple at him next.

Riven says, “I can forgive those earlier attempts because she didn’t know who I was then.”

“Then it’s a good thing I missed this time,” I say sarcastically.

“You’ve made me a liar.” His nostrils flare, anger contorting the planes of his face into something terrifyingly sharp. “I read your story a thousand times over the last six months, and I never once believed you were the villain.” He sighs, shaking his head, almost in disbelief. “I convinced myself your coven wrote you to be such an evil, soul-sucking hag to mask the truth of what you’re really like.”

I fold my arms across my chest. “And what’s the truth?”

“You tell me.” His gaze bores into mine, and it unsettles me.

I want to tell him his assessment is correct. I’ve only taken one life, and it forever altered the fabric of my being and beliefs. I’ve come to believe all life is precious—not just creatures or mortals, but every living thing, including the lands we walk upon. My heart aches at the mere thought of how much pain the Fae Isles must be in, how desperate his lands must be for relief. Relief I can grant it by risking my safety.

“It’s written all over your face, Gwyn,” he says softly. “You want to help my people and my lands. So what’s stopping you?”

Fear.

I am afraid of being found by my coven.

Afraid of bloodying my hands, of being forced to kill again.

That poor girl⁠—

“You said earlier you would never be used by your coven again,” Arkyn says. “Is that who you’re afraid of? Did they hurt you?”

I reach for the ribbon looped around my throat.

Riven tracks the movement, eyes darkening. “I am one of the Seven, little witch. If they threaten me, they threaten the entire council. You will be safe in my kingdom. I promise you that.”

Ava’s words come barreling back to me, kindling a yearning for a feeling I can’t quite name but long for regardless.

You deserve a life filled with laughter and joy, a life filled with hope and love, a life beyond exile.

My knees tremble. His words are exactly the type of bargain she encouraged me to make with him. There’s a flutter of something new deep in my belly, as beautiful and fragile as a butterfly’s wings—hope.

“A bargain, then?” I ask, holding his stare. “If I help you save the Fae Isles, you will grant me asylum to remain in your kingdom with explicit protection from my coven?”

He studies me for a long moment. I swear the trees sigh as he removes his dagger and slices open his palm. The sun shines a little brighter through the leftover storm clouds as he hands me his blade to do the same, and I do, wincing at the hot slash of pain across my flesh. The ground rumbles beneath us in joyous laughter the moment he clasps his bloodied palm against mine and whispers, “So it shall be.”

A buzzing sensation warms my blood and licks down my spine—the unmistakable signal that our bargain’s mark is forming there. The next time I see my back in a mirror, it’ll be inked with the symbol of our pact.

I survey him, curious where his matching mark might appear. Across one of his corded forearms? A powerful thigh? His firm chest?

I mentally shake myself. His firm chest? Really, Gwyn.

I have no way of knowing; marks like these are never predictable in their placement.

Our matching palm wounds stitch themselves shut a breath later, a perk from the magic of the bargain, and I’m relieved I won’t have to bear another scar.

“Grab your belongings,” Riven says curtly, sheathing his dagger. “Time is of the essence.”

“I don’t have much,” I say, heading toward the cottage. I pause, glancing over my shoulder at Arkyn. “But first, let me clean up that wound of yours. Wait inside while I fetch the necessary ingredients.”

He looks to his king, who dismisses him with a wave, and swiftly strolls across the yard and into the cottage. I beeline to the flower garden. The footsteps squelching against the wet ground behind me are confirmation enough I’m being followed. I ignore them and finish the short trek to the garden where I grab a little bit of yarrow (to stop the bleeding), marigolds (to reduce inflammation), and lavender (to prevent scarring).

“You do know he’ll heal on his own, don’t you?” Riven asks, peering down at me.

“Well, infections work fast, and I can’t promise Achlys’s claws are the cleanest when he’s in raven form,” I say, climbing to my feet and shoving past him. I toss over my shoulder, “Wouldn’t want your sword catcher to catch an infection instead of a blade for you, now, would we? Who would protect you when an evil soul-sucking hag like me inevitably stabs you in the back?”