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She thought of the rot that leaked from him, his desire to leave this place. The stars wove them together for a reason.

Anya hovered closer. But her elation at seeing her old friend Caspian gave way to horror. In her memory, he was a quiet and troubled boy who had tried to escape his fate by running to the human realm. That was where she and George had met him. Traveled with him. Mothered him, in what way she was capable, not being of a naturally mothering sort.

But Anya had not expected to find him in such a state.

His chambers may have been spared from the battle, but they had not been spared from the Prince of the Below.

Thorns curled around the room as if they had broken free of his will and run wild with rage. All the mirrors were shattered. The bookshelf was overturned and broken. And Caspian lay on his messy bed, moving in a nightmare, a silver crown with a sapphire at its center clutched in his hands.

She bobbed closer. That crown was of Winter make. And there, on his wrist, just below the golden rose bracelet she had gifted him, the one that gave him power over thorns, was a bracelet of briars and ice.

A bargain bracelet.

She searched the room again. Anger? Rage? Fury? What emotion elicited this destruction?

There was only one answer.

Heartbreak.

She wanted to change from this mote of light and wrap her arms around him. To demand answers and make those responsible pay. But she could not reveal herself, not yet. She had to be careful to avoid Sira’s notice. She was tempting fate as it was.

Anya vowed she would return, to help him in what way she could. Guilt consumed her for having left him alone for all these years. For not thinking more of the boy in the desert, despite how often George brought him up. It was one of his many tactics to convince her to take him to the Vale.

This time, she would help Caspian. Someone in Winter had done this to her dear friend. And gods help them when she found out who.

Anya soared over the Vale, as quick as the rays of the sun. And what she saw disturbed her.

She went to Spring first, where she discovered there had been a great war. The War of Thorns, they called it. A brutal clash, where the Below attempted to overtake the seasonal realms. Apparently, the campaign was led by Sira’s heir.

They called him the Prince of Thorns. How he must hate that name!

But there were always wars, and that did not disturb her nearly as much as what she discovered while searching for Spring’s high ruler. He was not in Florendel but raging across the realms alone, sword bloodied against any he deemed monstrous. His silver armor was stained with blood. His city left unattended and in ruins. A vigilante.

Then came Summer, where a child sat upon the throne and the true ruler drank himself numb in a pub, drowning the pain of his lost kin. This was a prince who had once used his blessing to save the realm—only to wash away its memory with every cup. A fool.

Autumn was next, where she heard whispers of a prince who fled in battle, hiding as a sacred library burned. She found him sequestered in an old bookstore as outside, a host of guards searched for him. A coward.

Last she went to Winter. The chasm was new, and it pulsed with power. Such magic they created together. And then she sailed over the tundra, where the rage of the citizens was palpable. Our high prince, manipulated by the Below, the people spat. And she found this prince not in his realm but on the edge of hers. Alone, wandering. The Sworn Protector of the Realms. And she knew he was the worst of all, a prince who had betrayed his people and his heart. A traitor.

Four absent princes, their subjects forgotten as they licked their own wounds. This was who she had left her realm in care of? These princes were no better than beasts. This night had shown her as much.

Just before dawn, she arrived at Castletree. Cloaked and angry, she did not even bother to dismiss her human disguise.

With a wave of her hand, she revealed again her daughter’s bonds, the four beams heading toward Castletree.

The high rulers had returned to the castle. Dread coiled in Anya’s chest. It was true. They were Rosalina’s mates.

She stood before Castletree, taking a single moment to take in its grandeur. Despite the high princes’ failings, the castle looked as bright and alive as the day she had left. Pink and green leaves fluttered on its branches, and the bark was brown and healthy.

Yes, she would bring Rosalina and George here.

But first, she had to put her realms in order.

She did not need to knock; Castletree would always open for her. But she did anyway. It seemed only polite after being away for so long.

A young girl with white hair answered. Her eyes widened as she took in Anya. “Ah, hello? Castletree is not accepting visitors.”

Not accepting visitors? Why, in her day, Castletree was a haven for any and all citizens of the Vale.