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darkfromday · 5 years

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nightseeing

terribly late, but delivered with love--another lunoct short! at least it was before April HA

for lunoctweek2019 day 05, prompt “My heart won’t let go.”

It’s a good thing Altissia is beautiful and easy on the eyes, because Noctis can’t sleep.

He lingers now on the balcony of the Leville’s luxury suite, looking out over the winding streets with their twinkling lights and the canals and the dark, sleek gondolas gliding through the water. It’s now about two in the morning—or at least it was close to that last time Noct checked his phone. He’s been watching long enough for many of the gondoliers to hop off their rides and head home, for the shopkeepers to drag their carts away, and for plenty of young couples to share one last lingering kiss before they part for the night.

That last makes Noctis scowl.

With very little left to watch, he turns his attention to Camelia Claustra’s estate, the building that’s actually occupied most of his thoughts tonight. The Secretary’s property is not too terribly far from the hotel, but for the past three days it’s felt a million miles away. Regardless, Noct finds himself scanning every window he can see. Finding the conference room he spoke with Secretary Claustra in was easy; it’s almost directly across from the luxury suite, give or take hundreds of feet. An easy warp when he’s fully rested.

No, what’s difficult is trying to guess how far away her room is from that conference room. Which of the many windows might have her behind it. Whether the curtains or the decorations or lights might show him the way to who he wants to see most.

Something manic in Noctis has him checking the position of the guards who patrol just inside and outside the gates to the estate and—they’re gone.

Why aren’t they out? Are they switching shifts?

Even the idea is like a tree of lightning down Noct’s back. In less than a second he pulls his Rune Saber from the Armiger and brings his arm up to throw…

“I hope you aren’t meaning to warp at two in the morning.”

“Shit!” Noctis loses his grip on his sword. Luckily, a quick wrist movement banishes the blade before it goes over the balcony and possibly stabs an innocent night owl. When he gets control of his heart, breathing and blush, he turns to face his company. “Ignis, you couldn’t have knocked on the window?”

“I did,” Ignis says, with no small level of amusement. “Twice.”

Oh.

“Well—” he starts off, and then shakes his head, looking back out at quiet, mocking Altissia. He has no idea what excuse he was going to try and make anyway.

Ignis doesn’t push; he’s never been the type. He joins Noctis at the balcony, and they look at the stars together for some minutes. The environment and the lack of judgment about his insomnia makes him relax. It almost feels like when they’d stargaze as kids, spending hours outside making up new constellations, before Noct got older and Iggy got busier and Noct started dreaming about sharing the night with someone else.

Eventually Ignis does venture a few words. “You’ve slept either poorly or not at all since we arrived in Altissia one week past, Noct.”

“I’ve… had a lot on my mind.”

“I have no doubt. But as your right hand, and as your friend, I hope you are comfortable sharing whatever’s on your mind with me. Preferably before warping off gods-know-where in the middle of the night.”

Noct’s blush deepens. “It’s not… I trust you, Iggy, you know that. But this… isn’t so much on my mind as…”

…as on my heart.

Not words he’d ever be caught dead saying. Not even to his first friend. Not even to the empty air.

Ignis’ gaze follows Noct’s. When his green eyes alight on a certain window with white curtains he murmurs, “Ah.”

“It’s been a week since we got here, and three days since I spoke to Secretary Claustra. Three days since I swallowed my tongue and kept quiet about her having Luna in the same building without offering us the chance to meet. I thought she’d at least tell Luna where we were staying, so maybe she could meet us here, but…”

“But there’s been no sightings of her from any of the citizens of Altissia outside of brief press conferences. I know.”

He doesn’t have to say, Prompto and Gladio and I have checked, because Noct hears it in his voice anyway. It makes him feel warm, that they checked around town for him, that they have tried as hard as he has to bring himself and Lunafreya Nox Fleuret together.

It just hurts, too, because none of them has had any luck, and at this point it feels like the gods themselves are giving Noctis the finger.

“The notebook was good. Is good. But I haven’t been saying much lately and neither has she. I think it’s because we both expected to be together by now.”

“Nothing would please us more than that, Noct. But you mustn’t rush into danger in the name of seeing Lady Lunafreya. Altissia is still under the Empire’s watchful eye, and we’ve already heard whispers about the High Commander’s presence. He may be at his sister’s side now.”

“I know!” Noctis exclaims, then curses under his breath and clenches his fists, repeating his words more quietly. “I know.”

“Yet you’re still ready to choke down an ether and go the distance,” Ignis notes with disapproval.

“It’s not as easy as nodding my head and going back to bed, Iggy! I can’t keep wandering around town and pretending I’m more interested in gambling or seeing Luna’s dress than I am in seeing her.”

His hands are sweating. He rubs them over his pants to dry them off, and doesn’t give in to the urge to pace.

“I don’t know how much time is left before the Rite—all I know is that it’s not right now, and there’s no guards out there for once. Why shouldn’t I at least try and see her tonight?”

His adviser purses his lips. “I’m not averse to a nighttime adventure. But there’s too much information we don’t have. It is unlikely, but what if Secretary Claustra is arranging a meeting between yourself and Lady Lunafreya now, and your action derails that meeting?”

Noct shakes his head. “That’s a chance I’m willing to take.”

“And this can’t wait until you’ve gotten some rest?”

“No, it can’t wait!” Noct declares. “Iggy—please. I’ve waited twelve years to speak to her face-to-face. I’ve waited five years to tell her that she’s the most important woman in my life. I can’t wait any longer. I can’t sleep knowing she’s a few buildings away. I can’t keep pretending she’s not important to me. My heart won’t let go—not when she’s so close.”

His whole face is red when he finishes speaking. It’s the most he’s talked about his feelings in years; especially his feelings for her. Perhaps it’s that naked honesty which causes Ignis to sigh and remove his glasses, pointedly polishing them for much longer than they need.

“We can discuss this more once my glasses have been properly cleaned. It may take some time; I can barely see you as it is out here.”

Noctis wrinkles his nose at first—but his confusion quickly wears off as Iggy takes slower and slower swipes with his handkerchief. “…Gotcha.”

He has the Rune Saber back out and aimed at the estate windows two seconds later. One… two…

He warps.

His landing isn’t the best.

To his credit, he doesn’t miss and fall to his death, but it’s not a silent point-warp either. No, Noct ends up smacking his shoulder hard against the white-curtained window and muffling swear words as a shadow in the room darts up and turns on the lights.

Or—one light, in a spherical shape around what looks like a hand.

Is that a spell? Light magic?

Noctis’ heart starts racing. He knows he should hide, but he stands stock still on the very edge of the window as the curtain gets pushed aside, and—

—it’s worth it. Luna’s bewildered but beautiful face peers out at him.

They have an identical moment of quiet surprise: Noct at correctly guessing which guest window out of dozens might be hers, Luna at seeing Noctis at all, much less outside her window at close to three o’clock in the morning. Then Noct grins, because even though his shoulder is throbbing he feels light and warm and untouchable.

I made it. I made it.

“Noctis?” Luna mouths. She bends down to unlatch the window, and he looks away quickly, blushing hotly at the flash of cleavage and thigh he unintentionally gets. Her nightgown is very… daring.

Of course she was asleep. Why didn’t I wait like Iggy said…?

Then the window’s open, and there’s no more time for panicked thoughts or lusty thoughts or any thoughts that aren’t tell her why you’re here at 3 AM, you idiot.

“Luna…” He fumbles for words beyond her name. “I… I’m so happy to see you.”

She blinks at him for a moment, then smiles so brightly he feels even warmer than before.

“Noctis! I don’t know how you found me, but it is a joy to see your face.”

A jolt of bravery leads Noct to reach for her closest hand. Yes, he can see her now, but he wants to touch her, take her somewhere quiet where they can catch up for a few hours, just like any other engaged couple could.

Luna nearly duplicates the gesture, but hesitates with her hand halfway out. “What has brought you here this evening…?”

“I wanted to see you,” he replies instantly. “I wanted to talk to you. Well, and…”

She slips her hand in his and urges him to go on with one lifted blonde eyebrow. In exchange for her bravery, Noctis brings his lips down to brush her hand, and gestures to the roof with his free hand.

“I wondered if… did you want… would you like to come up to the roof with me? Just to talk, a-and to look at the stars and the city.”

While blushing, Luna glances between Noct and the ground, and then between the ground and the twinkling stars in the quiet summer sky. Noctis doesn’t dare breathe too loudly in case she politely declines his offer and closes her window in his face—but seeing the way her blue eyes sparkle just like those stars, he should’ve known that was unlikely.

“I would love that,” she says. “Just let me grab some robes for the chill.”

“Sounds good,” Noctis agrees. He’s pretending to be casual, but his insides shiver and leap with excitement—and, he abruptly realizes, with his own chill. He forgot to put on proper clothes over his nightclothes before warping across the city.

“Er, hey Luna… mind grabbing more than one set?”

#lunoctweek2019 #lunoct #noctluna #Darkday writes fanfic #Final Fantasy XV #this is super late and I'm super sorry #so lol what happened was I started a fic for the same prompt and then ten days later realized 'this is trash'#and promptly started earlier this evening on *this*!#hey get it? sightseeing but at night? nightseeing? I'll stop #nightseeing

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cicada-bones · 4 years

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The Warrior and the Embers

Chapter 32: The Battle for Mistward

Sorry for the wait! (and sorry that im posting this in the middle of the night - again.) This one was really hard!

Also - its a monster: over 8,000 words. But I really hope you enjoy! (sorry in advance about the angst! but y’all already know how this goes down, so you really should be prepared).

Masterlist / Ao3 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

Early that morning, Rowan hadn’t been able to get back to sleep.

He’d woken up shaking and sweating, his dreams fading behind his eyelids. This time however, as he held Aelin’s dead body in his arms before the burning mountain cottage, it was Namonora’s words that echoed through him.

You must save her, but not for you.

She is different. She could be something different.

You cannot let that girl die.

Rowan’s silent vow in return still ached in his very bones. Because when he’d agreed, he hadn’t really been promising Namonora. He’d been promising himself – swearing that he wouldn’t let his blood oath be the reason for her death, no matter how it tortured him. No matter how it twitched and writhed in his chest.

It had been an acknowledgement of what he knew he wanted, deep down.

Rowan wanted to be sworn to Aelin, not Maeve. To serve her, and be in her court, and at her side. Always. Rowan wanted to give Aelin the blood-oath. And it wasn’t only because she deserved it, or because she needed him.

It was because he wanted to do something good. Because he wanted to be good.

Rowan hadn’t been good in centuries. He couldn’t have recognized good if it had stared him in the face. But now, with this princess, with this Queen just within his grasp, Rowan found that he wanted to be who she needed. To follow the old ways.

To be good, once more, before he died.

Aelin sighed lightly, and turned over on the bed, her golden hair twisting around her shoulders.

Her scent wafted around him, all-encompassing. Overwhelming. That familiar desire coiled in his gut, the desire to reach out and touch her. To reach out and claim her. To bite her, in that lovely space between her neck and her shoulder, or at the tips of her ears. To bite her all over.

Rowan was sure that he would be able to recognize her scent anywhere. That even in a crowded ballroom, he would be able to find her from scent alone. That he would be able to track her down from thousands of miles away.

But it was more than just scent – in the back his mind, or perhaps somewhere deep in his chest, he could sense her. Could feel her presence. In the weeks they had spent breathing in each other’s scents, they had become bonded. No matter how far away she was, Rowan would be able to feel her there. Feel her close.

Rowan closed his eyes, despair joining the desire smothering his limbs. The world had now shown him just exactly how good life could be, and it was about to take it all away.

And Rowan could see it all, could see every detail of that alternate future. It teased him, a delicious fruit just out of his reach.

In that other world, Rowan would leave Wendlyn with Aelin. He would help her form her court, would stand at her side. If she wanted, he could help her take her revenge, or regain her throne. In that other world, he could claim his lands and title, and he could make his suit with her. He could offer her wealth and men and material, and in that other world, he might be able to profess what he felt for her. And maybe, in that world, he could find out if she returned those feelings.

But that wasn’t the world they lived in.

Rowan breathed deep through the fury that rose up in his chest. But he wasn’t angry at Maeve, or the other blood-sworn, or even the gods – not really. He was angry at himself. At how weak he had been. How shortsighted.

Rowan threw off the blankets and strode over to the window where he immediately shifted and soared out into the blackness.

The winds were cold and dark and unexpectedly silent. Usually, the sky was alive with the sounds of the night-creatures; filled with the hoots of hunting owls, skittering mice, foxes playing in their holes, and bats gliding atop wind-rivers, scooping up bugs or pieces of dropped fruit.

But there was only quiet, and Rowan was uneasy.

He decided to take a sweep of their perimeter, his mind still consumed with thoughts of Aelin. But what he found there sent all those worries right out of his head.

···

Rowan roughly shook Aelin’s shoulder, relieved when her eyes shot right open. “Get your sword and your weapons, and hurry,” he said, already halfway across the room, slinging on a shirt and padded overcoat. He could hear Aelin doing the same, her breaths coming quick and copper tinting her scent.

“I think we’ve been betrayed,” Rowan continued, now sliding daggers into position along his forearms, shoulders, and thighs.

“They’re coming tonight,” Aelin breathed.

When Rowan turned to look at her, her eyes were wide as she stared out their small window at the silent forest and the advancing line of black. A darkness that blotted about the stars, blacker than the night.

Rowan’s teeth gritted together. They had only minutes to wake the fortress and get everyone into position.

“I did a sweep of the perimeter,” he said, stuffing a knife in each boot. “It’s as if someone told them where every trap, every warning bell is located. They’ll be here within the hour.”

“Are the ward-stones still working?” Aelin began braiding her hair, then strapped Goldryn across her back.

“Yes – they’re intact. I raised the alarm, and Malakai and the others are readying our defenses on the walls.” He’d intended to wake the old male before Aelin, but found Malakai already up and sitting at his desk, staring into a small fire, the empty bed neat and untouched.

Now, Rowan could only be grateful that they had left Emrys with the healers, no matter how it pained Malakai to be separated from his mate.

Rowan strapped his own sword across his back, alongside the hatchet and hunting knife. Aelin was now pulling on her boots, and her voice was hard as she asked, “Who would have betrayed us?”

“I don’t know, and when I find them, I’ll splatter them on the walls. But for now, we have bigger problems to worry about.”

Aelin’s eyes twitched back to the open window, where the darkness on the horizon had spread, devouring the stars, the trees, the light. Her voice was tentative as she said, “…what is that?”

Rowan’s mouth tightened, becoming a thin line. “Bigger problems.”

···

Minutes passed in a flurry of activity. Malakai took up his station behind the battlements, where he could control the flow of information and direct their movements through the battle. A few of the younger, less capable sentries were sent deep into the castle, guarding the emergency escape tunnel. A few more stood by the entrance, front lines for when the soldiers broke through the front gates.

However, the vast majority of the demi-Fae stood atop the battlements, clutching bows between white knuckles and shaking fists, readying themselves to launch volleys of arrows and pour vats of pitch and oil. Rowan and Aelin stood at the helm of the paltry force, each carrying bows of their own, and trying their utmost to emanate waves of confidence. It wasn’t working.

The men were scared. Rowan had done his best to shield them from the knowledge of their fate, but he couldn’t hide it all. They knew the numbers. They knew their chances.

The ward-stones were the last line of defense before the fortress itself, and Rowan had no idea how long the magical shield would last under an assault by the dark creatures. It could be minutes, could be seconds.

Either way, Mistward couldn’t outlast them forever. And when the creatures broke through, two hundred soldiers at their heels, the demi-Fae would have to face them head on. They didn’t have enough arrows to guarantee the deaths of even half Adarlan’s forces. No matter what, they would soon be facing hand-to-hand combat against an enemy clad in iron and wyrdmarks.

Once they ran out of arrows, the sentries would leave the battlements, one by one, and enter the courtyard – where they would wait. Wait for the gates to be breached, so they could use the entrance as a bottleneck. Wait for the fighting to commence.

With each breath, the darkness on the horizon drew closer, bringing their doom along with it.

The wind gave Rowan barely a few moment’s warning before dozens of animals began to stream past the walls of the fortress, fleeing the veil of blackness. Claws clicked over stone, wings flapped overhead, fur and feathers and scales blending into a medley of creatures, all led by the Little Folk. And though they were barely more than a gleam of nightseeing eyes at the edges of the flock, Rowan could have sworn that they kept glancing toward the woman at his side. To the princess.

Barely seconds after the last of the Little Folk disappeared into the woods, heading up into the mountains to safety, the veil of darkness touched the circle of stones. It rested against them, a dark cloud hovering in wait.

“As soon as the barrier falls, I want you to put arrows through their eyes,” Rowan said to Aelin, though his eyes were forward, scouring the woods for their arrival. “Don’t give them a chance to enthrall you – or anyone. Leave the soldiers to the others.”

Rowan still couldn’t hear or see anything to indicate the presence of the soldiers, but he remembered the strange effects the darkness had. It could easily shield an army from sight or sound.

Aelin nodded, gripping her bow more tightly. “What about magic?”

“Use it sparingly, but if you think you can destroy them with it, don’t hesitate. And don’t get fancy. Take them down by any means possible.”

As he spoke, a reek began to rise from behind the barrier, the smell of death and dust and carrion. The demi-Fae around them began to shift in their positions, murmuring uncomfortably. Their sense of smell was nowhere near as sensitive as Rowan’s – but still, they could hardly not notice the otherworldly stench seeping from the blackness. A smell straight from the lands of Hellas.

A few straggling animals darted from the tree line, their limbs awkward and disjointed, foam bubbling from the corners of their mouths. Aelin’s voice floated up from beside him, her words hollow and detached. “Rowan – they’re here.”

As if she had conjured them herself, the creatures emerged from the darkness, halting barely five yards from the ward stones. They were dressed in all black, their tunics slightly open to reveal the stone torques choking their necks. Their veins bled black, their talons sharp and polished, their eyes piercing the fortress like dark blades of obsidian. The cloud of fear around them was so intense Rowan could barely taste anything in the air other than copper.

And once they emerged from the darkness, he almost felt as though he could feel them, a harsh pressure against his skin. Like rough cotton, or unpicked wool. Three distinct presences that pushed on his soul.

Rowan started slightly. Three, not two. Three.

Aelin seemed to realize this at the same time he did. “But the skinwalkers – ”

Her voice cut off as that male, that beautiful male from before, smiled. It was a look born of knowledge, and of familiarity. A look directed straight at Aelin.

Rowan felt the energy in his body alchemizing, intensifying. Shifting from raw power into violent intent. He wanted to kill that creature. He would kill him.

A rabbit bolted from the bushes, racing for the path between the ward-stones. But before it could make it, a whip of darkness lashed out and passed over the animal. It appeared to have no more substance than a shadow, or a cloud of smoke, but the rabbit fell mid-leap. Its fur matted before their very eyes, even as its flesh shrunk, drying up over its now-prominent skeleton.

Rowan held in a shudder. Together, the creatures were much more powerful than apart. He and Aelin had barely escaped the clutches of one of them, even with the help of the skinwalkers. Together, the creatures had the power of a lesser god. Together, they would crush them.

Even as this truth seeped into Rowan’s bones, the demi-Fae all around him stirred, some cursing in surprise and horror.

Rowan collected himself. “The barrier cannot be allowed to fall,” he said to Aelin, though he made sure that the surety and confidence in his tone could be heard by all. “That blackness will kill anything it touches.”

Even as he spoke, the darkness stretched its reaching fingers around the ward-stone borders, encasing them completely in a cloud of pure black. The blanket blotted out everything, the stars overhead, the forest around them – even the wind was stilled. The only light in the fortress came from their torches and candles, a paltry hint of orange in a world of pure black.

The barrier began to hum violently, sparking and buzzing, almost in agitation. But it held. However, Rowan couldn’t feel particularly grateful for it. They were now entirely cut off from the outside world.

It was as if they had been transported to hell itself.

Aelin shifted at his side, a spark of gold in the darkness. She winced in pain as her ears sharpened to points and her canines pricked her lips, but her focus remained undiminished.

Then, Narrok stepped lightly out from the edges of the trees.

He was undeniably their leader, honed and scarred and powerfully built. He moved with a lithe power, making his authority obvious and indisputable. Narrok’s gaze passed over the demi-Fae, pausing on Aelin, and coming to rest on Rowan.

For a moment, they looked at each other. Measuring and weighing.

Rowan half-expected the male to make some speech, to parlay and offer them a choice between yielding to the king’s power or death. To break their morale. But then, Narrok drew his iron blade and swung it towards the ward-stone gates, a delighted look on his face. And there was nothing Rowan could do as a whip of darkness snapped out and struck the invisible barrier.

Before they had time to strike again, before Rowan even had time to register the effect this assault had on their only magical line of defense, he was moving back towards the gates, shouting for the archers to ready themselves, for them to use whatever magic they had to shield against the oncoming darkness.

There was another strike, and the barrier rippled, the air shuddering around them as if it were a physical thing – a stone in an earthquake, the inside of a drum. The ward-stones began to whine in protest.

Behind him, the demi-Fae were moving into position, their terror barely smothered beneath their desperate preparation. In front of him, Aelin was the only thing standing between the fortress and the ward-stones. The only one who had not moved.

“Aelin,” Rowan snapped, and she looked over her shoulder at him. “Get inside the gates.”

Her face didn’t change, and her legs didn’t move. Instead, she met his gaze in that way only she could, her eyes filled with fire and fury, and slung her bow across her back. When she raised her hand, it was clothed in a glove of flame.

Rowan felt panic begin to seep into his bones.

Aelin’s words were measured. “In the woods that night, it balked from the flame.”

“To use it, you’ll have to get outside the barrier, or it’ll just rebound against the walls.”

“I know,” she said quietly, and Rowan had to actively stop himself from sprinting towards her and dragging her back behind the gates.

“The last time, you took one look at that thing and fell under its spell.” The darkness lashed once again, and the barrier groaned in response, placing a dark emphasis on his words.

Still, Aelin did not move, and Rowan stepped once towards her, his blood spiked with adrenaline. Copper swirled all around them, but surprisingly, none of it seemed to come from Aelin. Her scent was completely blank. This did not comfort him.

“It won’t be like last time,” she said, her eyes on Narrok and the creatures. “I don’t know what else to do.”

But before he could shout at her, before he could say that she didn’t need to sacrifice herself, that she didn’t need to atone for anything, that they still had time to escape together – before he could admit that he didn’t know what to do either, a cry echoed through the fortress behind him.

A chorus of shouts joined it, yells of pain and surprise. Calls for aid. Cries of Rowan’s name. Then the unmistakable screech of metal on metal, the clash of steel and iron. The sound of battle.

And it was as if he were far away, as if he were submerged in water or deep beneath the surface of the earth, as someone said, “The tunnel! They’ve been let in through the tunnel!” and a hope Rowan didn’t even know he had crashed about his ears.

They had been betrayed. And the betrayer hadn’t just undone the traps and bells, hadn’t just guided the army around their makeshift protection. They had shown them the escape tunnel. And now the armies of Adarlan were crawling up from within, creeping through the underground network of tunnels and right into the belly of the castle. The ward-stones were far too occupied with the threat from above to even notice the one the snuck up from below.

The sounds of death and combat grew ever louder, but Rowan did not move. He couldn’t. Not while Aelin was still set on her path.

“Rowan – ” her words were cut off by the sound of yet another strike against the barrier stones. And another. Flakes of granite began to fall from the pillars, a shower of dust and sparks. The groaning grew in intensity.

The barriers wouldn’t be able to hold up much longer. And Aelin knew it. She began to take a few halting steps towards the stones.

A vicious growl ripped through Rowan’s chest. “Do not take one more step – ”

He moved towards her, but Aelin didn’t halt her advance. Screaming had begun from inside the fortress, and Rowan felt like he was being ripped in two.

He grabbed her elbow, forcing her to look at him. “That was an order.”

Aelin knocked his hand away. “You’re needed inside. Leave the barrier to me.”

“You don’t know if it’ll work – ”

“It will work,” she snarled. “I’m the expendable one, Rowan.”

His words were barely legible through the growling escaping from his chest. “You are heir to the throne of – ”

“Right now, I am a woman who has a power that might save lives. Let me do this. Help the others.”

Aelin’s eyes pleaded with him. And they were the eyes of a Queen, of the Queen that he wanted. His Queen.

And she wanted everything that he did. Wanted to be good – to do something good. After all that had been taken from her, all that had been done to her and denied her, she still wanted to help. Wanted to be worthy of her name.

No matter how it tore at him, how could he deny her that?

Aelin had the best, the only chance against those creatures. Yet the determination in her eyes worried him. It wasn’t a resolve born of a desperate fight for survival. No, her eyes spoke more of sacrifice.

I’m the expendable one, Rowan.

Rowan looked at the ward-stones, at the fortress and the sentries scrambling to help below. Weighing, calculating.

If he forced her to run, he would be taking away everything she wanted to be, everything that she was. He would be betraying her, in the deepest, most essential way. And he just couldn’t do it. Even if it meant that the hopes of thousands died, right here, right now. Because it meant death either way.

So instead of asking her to run with him, instead of begging her to hide behind the wooden gates, he did the harder thing. Made the more difficult choice. The words hurt as they slipped out.

“Do not engage them. You focus on that darkness and keeping it away from the barrier, and that’s it. Hold the line, Aelin.”

Her eyes did not change, and her scent was clean of fear as she nodded and said, “Understood.”

“They will attack you the moment you set foot outside the barrier.” Rowan released her arm, and it felt like a stone removed from a dam. ““Have a shield ready.”

The scent of her magic rose, cloaking her body in flame and smoke. “I know.” Aelin said, and she turned away from the fortress, away from the demi-Fae. Away from him. Turned to face the enemy that would likely kill her.

Rowan could help but linger. Couldn’t help but wait and make sure that she survived those few crucial moments, even while those screams tore at his eardrums.

Aelin walked out over the patch of yellowing grass, drawing her golden sword, the sword of Brannon, in her right hand, while Mala’s flames enveloped her left. As she walked her flames grew even brighter. Slowly, the Heir of Fire passed beneath the stone arches and into the darkness beyond.

Rowan tore his eyes away, even as plumes of flame and blades of darkness began to clash on the other side of the barrier. He tried his best to forget, tried his best only to think of what he had to do now. To think that if he could kill enough soldiers, that if she could hold off the creatures for just long enough, then maybe they could all flee.

Rowan turned and began to run back through the gates and into the interior courtyard, rallying the sentries to his side. They blocked the gates behind them, and he left two guards with orders to alert him or Malakai should the barriers fall, and darkness reach the castle.

The rest ran with him through the stone passageways down deep into the belly of the fortress, where blood streamed on the walls and ran in puddles on the floor. Where the dead were already piling up.

Rowan drew his sword in one hand and his hatchet in the other, and threw himself into the fray.

It was hell, but it was a familiar hell. So Rowan endured.

He took up position at the head of their makeshift phalanx, directly before the mouth of the tunnel, and there he stood as time began to flow like bees and honey – thick and slow and yet also swift and jerky and filled with action.

This was the part of battle that Rowan was used to. The part that he was most comfortable in. He sword hand did not falter as it rent through flesh, felling soldier after soldier as they poured up from the depths of hell.

Still, he couldn’t be everywhere. The tunnel was wide enough that Adarlanian men could slide past the touch of his steel, and reach the demi-Fae behind him. Rowan couldn’t protect them all, no matter how much he may want to.

And so he had to listen as the demi-Fae sentries tired, and began to fall. It only made Rowan fight harder, swing his limbs swifter, but he knew that even he would soon begin to tire. That this steady tide of soldiers wouldn’t falter until far after Mistward had been overcome.

Minutes passed as hours, and after some unknowable stretch of time, Rowan was pulled aside by Luca, of all people.

The boy was breathing heavily, a cut on his temple streaming blood into his eyes, marking his brow with gore. “It was Bas.”

Rowan started, but Luca just took a shuddering breath, his light eyes shadowed with devastation. “It was Bas who betrayed us. He – he wanted power. And…a home. A place. They told him that they could give it to him.”

The pain in the boy’s voice nearly broke Rowan’s heart, but all he could manage was to place a hand on Luca’s shoulder, hopefully communicating his sympathy without words. Then he pushed the boy behind him, forcing him back up the tunnel and into relative safety, and rejoined the battle.

Bas had chafed against the inferior position of the demi-Fae more than most. He’d risen in the ranks at Mistward fairly quickly, earning himself the admiration of many of the younger demi-Fae, and the respect of most of the older. Even Malakai had liked and trusted Bas a great deal. But it’d meant that Bas always wanted more. And Mistward couldn’t give it to him.

Rowan knew from the agony in Luca’s scent that Bas had already met his end. He could only hope that the boy hadn’t been the one to do it. Could only hope that the stains on this child’s soul were not yet so black as to be irreversible.

That they would live to see the light of day, so that the boy would have the chance to heal, and forgive.

So, with each swing of his blades, Rowan hoped.

···

Gavriel’s paws pounded into the earth, his breaths ripping through his lungs in pained, ragged bursts, his limbs heavy. They had run through the day, night, and day again. Had run until they met up with Lorcan and Vaughan, and then had run some more. And they hadn’t stopped once.

It was starting to weigh on him. But now, with the sounds of battle and the feel of that strange darkness all around them, Gavriel knew that it had been worth it. That they had reached the fortress just in time.

Unless, a dark voice whispered in the back of his mind, you’re too late. Unless they’re both already dead.

Rowan and the princess. The two people he had come to help. To save.

Ahead of him, Fenrys and Connall’s wolves sprinted forwards through the trees, down the hidden path they all knew would lead out of the mountains and down into the secluded valley that concealed the fortress. They whipped around each other, the black and white wolves, playful to the end.

Above, Vaughan flew in osprey form, his great wings cutting through the mists overhead. Behind, he could just hear Lorcan pounding through undergrowth, his Fae legs fighting to keep up with the four-legged creatures. Even so, Gavriel, Fenrys, and Connall had only had to adjust their speed very little to accommodate the male – Lorcan’s massive height was enough to nearly make up for the differences in stride.

Though they had been running together through most of the night, they hadn’t said one word to each other. Perhaps it was because there was nothing more to say. They had all decided to come. Had all answered their friend’s desperate call.

It felt strange. Different, to choose to be together. To travel and fight and work together by their own volition, wholly and completely. It spoke of something…new. New and dangerous.

Then they reached the crest of a hill, and the stone castle spread out beneath their feet.

It had been barely a month since Gavriel had last been at Mistward, and yet now, the male barely recognized it. It was shrouded in a cloak of thick darkness, through which he could only barely see the hint of broken stone and yellowed grass. The towering barrier stones looked old and cracked, and the dark magic that encircled the fortress was clothed in sparks of bright, vibrant gold - the only light in the utter blackness.

Four figures stood before the gates, and Gavriel could only assume that the strange darkness came from them. All around them, he smelled copper and death and carrion, a stench so potent and intense he felt his hackles rise despite himself. And though the figures stood on two legs as men, and were clothed in the guise of men, Gavriel knew, deep in his gut, that they were as far from human or Fae as a thinking creature could be. That they were demons.

The creatures did not turn at their approach, but the darkness began to spread towards them regardless – like blood in water. Gavriel felt himself slowing, almost subconsciously. Ahead, Connall and Fenrys stopped in their tracks, avoiding the touch of the dark mist, out of fear or knowledge – Gavriel wasn’t sure.

But before Gavriel could do anything, before he could shift or speak or even growl, a piercing light breached the black. A golden blade of fire that cut through the darkness like a knife in butter. And through the breach, Gavriel could just see the image of a figure wrapped in gold. A woman, whose scent spoke of ash and spice and citrus.

The flames formed a tunnel through the darkness, and then the wolves were running. Sprinting through the black as fast as they dared. Vaughn swooped down to join them, and then Lorcan was passing Gavriel, dark limbs joining fur and feather in the golden flames.

But Gavriel was hesitating.

Not to follow his fellow blood-sworn through the breach, but to leave with them. To enter the fortress, and leave the woman behind.

Fenrys and Connall were already gone, and he could hear their furious growls shaking the foundations of the castle as they joined the battle within. Vaughn was circling the battlements, surveying the perimeter before joining them, and Lorcan was forcing open the wooden gates, making to follow the wolves into the depths of the castle.

None of them had spared the woman a glance. Had not acknowledged her, or thanked her, or thought to make sure she was alright. Perhaps, in another world, Gavriel would have done the same.

But instead, he paused, the golden tunnel disintegrating at his back.

The princess was in pain. Her face was splattered in gore, her sword hanging limply in tired limbs, her eyes clouded with exhaustion. She coughed up blood, and it shone in the grass.

But still, her words were fierce. “He’s inside,” she choked out. “Help him.”

Gavriel didn’t have to know her to know that she was begging. That she was desperate for Rowan to be safe, desperate for him to survive. Gavriel didn’t have to know her to know that she loved him.

“Go,” she wheezed through broken lungs. “Go.”

Still, he hesitated. Could he allow this woman to sacrifice herself? Could he allow her to die here, alone and without help?

The sounds of death echoed from the stone building, and Gavriel took a step towards the castle. And another.

The darkness swirled around them, barely held back by the woman’s shields of flame. And Gavriel knew that there was nothing he could do. If he stayed, he would only be able to die alongside her. His magic was nothing to those creatures. He could be of no help.

But in the fortress, he could ensure that Rowan survived. For this princess, he could make sure that Rowan lived. And he could bear witness, could remember her sacrifice, her bravery, for the remainder of his too-long life. He could do her that honor.

So Gavriel turned away from perhaps the bravest woman he had ever known, and dove through the gates and into the waiting battle below.

···

Rowan was far from exhausted, and yet his thoughts were scattered, his limbs slow and unsure. Most of his attention was far away from this dark and bloody tunnel, up at the stone gates, with the female that was risking everything to keep the fortress from being overrun.

No, Rowan was not exhausted. He had fought for far longer and in worse conditions. But the demi-Fae were. Each of their swings were slower, weaker. It took more effort each time they faced an enemy to fell them, especially as soldiers continued flooding the fortress, an unending stream.

Rowan yanked his sword from the gut of a falling soldier, his dagger already slicing the neck of the next, when a deep growling shook the stones of the fortress.

Relief, deep and profound, threatened to bring Rowan to his knees.

Many of the demi-Fae around him froze in fear as twin wolves leapt down the staircase, closing their massive jaws around the necks of enemy soldiers. Massive wings flapped, and then white light flashed and a glowering, dark-eyed male was before him, already swinging a sword to decapitate another solder.

Vaughan merely nodded grimly at him before taking position on his left side, never one to waste words. Beyond him, the wolves were nothing short of lethal, not bothering to shift into Fae form as they tore through enemy ranks.

The demi-Fae began to rally once more, taking up arms once again with more vigor than Rowan had yet seen. Now it was the soldiers from Adarlan who looked fearful. Who blanched and stumbled, wide-eyed in the darkness.

That was all Rowan needed to see before he was running, sprinting back up the stairs and dodging the bloodied and worn demi-Fae. Dread clenched its fingers around his quick-beating heart. Darkness had not yet fallen, the stones of the fortress still stood, which meant that she had to still be breathing, that she had to still be holding the line, but –

A mountain cat skidded to halt on the stairwell before him and shifted. Rowan took one look in Gavriel’s tawny eyes before he demanded, “Where is she?”

The male’s eyes tightened, almost imperceptibly, and he held out one arm. As if to stop him. “She’s in bad shape, Rowan. I think – ”

And Rowan was shoving aside his oldest friend, already sprinting up the stairs. Not waiting to hear the end of that sentence. Not waiting to find out what he had allowed to happen to the princess. To his Queen.

Another towering figure appeared on the steps before him – Lorcan.

Even Lorcan had answered his call. Rowan shouldered past him without a second glance – the time for gratitude would come later, and the dark-haired demi-Fae didn’t say anything as Rowan rushed headlong to the battlement gates.

What he saw there nearly drove him to his knees.

The wall of flame was in tatters, but still protecting the barrier. But the three creatures…Aelin was standing in front of them, hunched and panting, sword limp in her hand. They advanced, and a feeble blue flame sprang up before them.

They swiped it away with wave of their hands. Another flame sprang up, and her knees buckled. The shield of flame surged and receded, pulsing like the light around her body.

She was burning out. Why hadn’t she retreated?

Another step closer and the creatures said something that had her raising her head. Rowan knew he could not reach her, didn’t even have the breath to shout a warning as Aelin gazed into the face of the creature before her. And there was absolutely nothing behind her eyes. No fire, no fury. No life.

A wave of emptiness replaced the panic strangling Rowan’s limbs, and it felt as though all of the life vanished from his body. She had lied. She had lied to him. And this realization hurt almost as much as the knowledge that they were about to die.

She had wanted to save other lives, yes. But not her own. She had gone out there with no intention of coming back. Of surviving.

Fury rippled, deep in his gut. He would not, could not, allow it. Even if she had succumbed to her grief, Rowan wouldn’t allow her to just vanish. To let herself be annihilated.

Rowan took in a breath – to roar, to run, to call his power, but then a wall of muscle slammed into him from behind, and tackled him into the grass. And though Rowan shoved and twisted and writhed, he couldn’t do anything against the four centuries of training and feline instinct that had him pinned.

Gavriel knew him, had helped train him, had worked with him for centuries. And Rowan could do nothing to thwart him. Could do nothing about the magical shield Gavriel had raised, nothing about the muscled limbs clenched around his arms and legs.

They both watched as the creature took Aelin’s face in its hands, and her sword thudded to the ground, forgotten.

And Rowan was screaming. Screaming as the creature pulled her into its arms. Screaming as she stopped fighting. As her flames winked out and as the darkness swallowed her whole.

Gavriel held him through it all, keeping him from sprinting through those broken gates and into that blackness that destroyed worlds. The blackness that was well on its way to destroying his.

Rowan was aware of Lorcan lingering behind him, a dark presence at his back. He had no room to wonder why. Why he stayed. Why he watched.

Rowan writhed in Gavriel’s grip, and the barrier fell.

It fell without ceremony, without sound. One second it was there, a dark, crackling energy, and the next it was gone. Had winked out of existence as easily as the sun passes behind a cloud, or a fog fades at break of day.

Rowan hurled his power at the cloud of darkness with all the force he could muster; summoned gales of winds and storms of ice, but nothing could pierce it. The cloak of darkness held, a black shroud that hid his Queen from him. And it did not advance.

Though the barrier had fallen, the creatures did not attack. The darkness did not move. And Rowan thought he knew why.

The creatures and Narrok had captured a prize far greater than the demi-Fae. The joy of feeding on her was something they planned to relish for a long, long while. He had felt their joy as they consumed the female in the caves, had sensed the curling anticipation of the male that had chased them through the woods and into the arms of the skinwalkers.

The creatures fed on pain and suffering, and hers was far greater than any they could’ve possibly imagined.

Minutes passed, and though Rowan did not stop his useless assault on the darkness, time felt stagnant. Nothing changed. The sounds of the battle raging beneath them did not slow, nor did Gavriel’s grip on his shoulders slacken. And Aelin did not succumb.

Rowan wasn’t sure how he knew: he just did. Aelin was still alive. Her heart still beat, and until it stopped, he would fight. With everything he had, he would fight.

Even as he began to hear that soft, warm female voice. Beckoning to him. Calling him to her, begging him to join her. Saying that if only he came, she could live. If only he came, they could be together again, forever. If only he came, she would forgive him for everything, for all of it.

It tore him to shreds. And the minutes ticked by.

“Rowan,” Gavriel murmured, tightening his grip on Rowan’s arm. Rain had begun pouring. “We are needed inside.”

“No,” he snarled. They didn’t understand. It didn’t matter. Nothing else mattered but the girl dying in that dark. Dying alone. Thinking that he had left her to die alone.

“Rowan, the others – ”

“No.”

Lorcan swore over the roar of the torrential rain. “She is dead, you fool, or close enough to it. You can still save other lives.”

They began hauling him to his feet, away from her. “If you don’t let me go, I’ll rip your head from your body,” he snarled at Lorcan, his commander. The male who had taken him in, who had trained him. Who he had traveled with through the long centuries.

But Rowan said it anyways.

Gavriel flicked his eyes to Lorcan in some silent conversation. Rowan tensed, preparing to fling them off. They would knock him unconscious sooner than allow him into that dark, where Lyria’s beckoning had now turned to screaming for mercy.

It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real.

But Aelin was real, and was being drained of life with every moment they held him here. All he needed to get them unconscious was for Gavriel to drop his magical shield.

“Let go,” Rowan growled again, preparing to strike.

But then a rumbling shook the earth, and the three of them all froze. Beneath them, some huge power was surging, so massive and primordial it set the ground trembling. So massive that Rowan felt it in his very bones.

They turned toward the darkness. And Rowan could have sworn that a golden light arced through it, then disappeared.

“That’s impossible,” Gavriel breathed. “She burned out.”

Rowan didn’t dare blink. Her burnouts had always been self-imposed, had always been born of that iron cage, the bars that she hadn’t been able to rid herself of. That she had clung to, through all these long weeks.

The creatures fed on despair and pain and terror. But what if Aelin could let go of those fears? What if she walked through them, and learned to embrace them?

As if in answer, flame erupted from the wall of darkness.

The fire unfurled, filling the rainy night, vibrant as a red opal. Lorcan swore, and Gavriel threw up additional shields of his own magic. Rowan didn’t bother. They did not fight him as he shrugged off their grip, surging to his feet.

The flame didn’t singe a hair on his head. It flowed above and past him, glorious and immortal and unbreakable. It embraced him. Welcomed him as a friend.

And there, beyond the stones, standing between two of those creatures, was Aelin, a strange mark glowing on her brow. Her hair flowed around her, shorter now and bright like her fire. And her eyes – though they were red-rimmed, the gold in her eyes was a living flame.

The two creatures lunged for her, the darkness sweeping in around them.

Rowan ran all of one step before she flung out her arms, grabbing the creatures by their flawless faces – her palms over their open mouths as she exhaled sharply.

As if she’d breathed fire into their cores, flames shot out of their eyes, their ears, their fingers. The two creatures didn’t have a chance to scream as she burned them into cinders.

She lowered her arms. Her magic was raging so fiercely that the rain turned to steam before it hit her. A weapon bright from the forging.

He forgot Gavriel and Lorcan as he bolted for her – the gold and red and blue flames utterly hers, this Heir of Fire. Spying him at last, she smiled faintly.

A Queen’s smile. Full of relief and friendship and care and tenderness. It was a smile he wanted to look at for hours. A smile he wanted to see every single day until the day he died.

But there was exhaustion in that smile, and her bright magic flickered. Behind her, Narrok and the remaining creature – the one they had faced in the woods – were spooling the darkness into themselves, as if readying for attack. She turned toward them, swaying slightly, her skin deathly pale. They had fed on her, and she was drained after shredding apart their brethren. A very real, very final burnout was steadily approaching.

The wall of black swelled, one final hammer blow to squash her, but she stood fast, a golden light in the darkness. That was all Rowan needed to see before he knew what he had to do. Wind and ice were of no use here, but there were other ways.

Rowan drew his dagger and sliced his palm open as he sprinted through the gate-stones towards Aelin.

For even if it was all for nothing, even if he couldn’t help her, even if it made no difference at all whatsoever, he would at least be by her side. Neither of them would be alone. They could be together, as the darkness consumed them.

Rowan reached her, panting and bloody, and he held out his hand for her to take.

They were carranam, and he had come for her, just as she would have for him. And Rowan saw in her eyes that this would work. That she believed it too. He didn’t know if his power was strong enough, didn’t know if they would survive.

He didn’t know, but he hoped.

Aelin held his gaze as she grabbed her own dagger and cut open her palm, right over the scars that marked her blood-oath to avenge the death of her friend, her oath to save her nation.

And even though she knew he could read the words right off her face, she still asked him, “To whatever end?”

Rowan just nodded, and she gripped his outstretched hand, joining them. Blood to blood and soul to soul. He wrapped his other arm around her, grasping her tightly and feeling her heartbeat on his skin, the contours of her body against his. He leaned close and whispered softly into her ear, “I claim you, too, Aelin Galathynius.”

The wave of impenetrable black descended, roaring as it made to devour them. But they were together, no longer alone. They had both survived horrific things, had both weathered darknesses much greater than the one they currently faced.

So Rowan was not afraid of that crushing black, not with the Queen in his arms. The woman who had lit up his night. Who made him want to live once more.

Rowan breathed deep, and let the barriers within his mind fall, one by one. And he felt as Aelin’s mind entered his, felt as her fire flickered in his veins, her power new and bright and hot.

She drew his power into her, and it flooded out of him in a great rush, Rowan letting it flow freely between them as their blood dripped down their entwined arms.

Her well of power was near-empty, but its sheer size still astonished him.

It was fathomless, an enormous, hollow expanse. Was as vast as the sun – as the very core of the earth. She was the Heir of Fire, the Heir of Brannon, and she had no equal.

Rowan felt vulnerable in a way he never had before as Aelin sucked his magic from him. Vulnerable, but completely unafraid. To her, who’d had nothing and no one, who had been left completely alone, he gave the one and only thing he could. Himself.

Aelin’s knees began to buckle as the weight of their shared power took its toll, and Rowan held her in place, supporting her body while her mind bore the immense weight of their combined magics.

Then, Aelin struck.

The black wave had not even hallway fallen before Aelin shattered it apart with an arc of golden light, leaving Narrok and the remaining creature gaping.

She didn’t give them a moment to recover. Aelin reached into Rowan, drawing his power into her own body, his ice and wind and lightning becoming fire and light and heat in the alchemy of her blood. And then it exploded out of them in a torrent of golden flame.

Together they burned, surrounded by the force of a thousand stars. Embers crackled in the air all around them, flickers of flame like millions of fireflies. It was like standing on the surface of the sun.

Narrok and the creature were shrieking, and the sounds tore up his eardrums, a blade digging in and twisting. He and Aelin clung to each other as she crammed the light down their throats, burning up their black blood.

There was a sudden silence. And before he was destroyed completely, Narrok looked at Aelin, his eyes piercing her deep. For a moment they stared at each other, seeming to exchange something. A final goodbye.

Rowan clung tight to Aelin, keeping her anchored to him as the light around them intensified, becoming so bright it was actually painful. But Rowan forced his eyes to remain open. Forced himself to watch.

Aelin called the light to her, bending it to her will. And then she forced it into the creatures, pouring all of that beautiful, golden light into every shadowy corner of them.

The ironclad expression on Aelin’s face did not shift as she stared back at Narrok, and burned him to dust and ashes.

The remaining creature only managed to crawl two steps before he succumbed as well, a silent scream frozen on his dark face as he was incinerated.

Slowly, the light and flame receded, and Aelin’s exhausted mind fell away from his own. And all that remained of Narrok and the three creatures were four Wyrdstone collars steaming in the wet grass.

Their bloody palms fell apart at last, and Rowan felt Aelin’s soul slip out of his grasp. He shivered, suddenly cold.

Rowan looked up for the first time, and found that the darkness was completely gone, utterly eradicated. And though Aelin had burned as hot as a falling star, the trees around them were still green, the mists still chill. Towards the east, Rowan could just see the faint rays of dawn beginning to peek around the mountain peaks. The tips of Mala’s fingers stretching to greet them, washing the last of the darkness aside.

Aelin swayed slightly, utterly spent, and Rowan wrapped his arm around her more tightly, guiding her over the uneven grass and up the blood-spattered steps, towards their rooms. But before they left, Rowan leaned over and scooped up the stone collars, sliding them onto his swordbelt.

Gavriel and Lorcan were already gone, presumably to assist below. The sounds of battle had died down, the clash of metal and shouts of pain dwindling into silence. The fortress halls were quiet and empty as they walked side by side.

The second Aelin’s head hit the pillow, she was dead asleep.

Rowan pulled off her boots, rolling her over in order to pull the blankets out from underneath her. Then he tucked her into bed, carefully arranging the covers over her sleeping form.

But before he left the small stone chamber, his fingers found their way into her golden hair. Rowan smoothed the golden strands back behind her ears, gave her one last, lingering look, and walked out.

...

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