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Chapter Text

Aurora is born at night, amidst the agonizing cries of her mother and the icy apathy of her father.

“A female,” he hisses with disdain. “What use can she be to me?”

Her brothers look at her with a sigh of relief: there will be no contest for the throne with her.

The last Vanserra screams louder than the wind howling outside, drowning out the rain and the Lady of Autumn’s ragged breaths.

The family’s magic greets her with a held breath. It welcomes her into a house of cards, steeped in the sharp scent of ash that already reeks of betrayal.

(If anyone had paid enough attention, they would have noticed the fireplace flames violently stirring to the rhythm of the screams).

It will take many years before the High Lord realizes the mistake he made that night.

“She doesn’t seem to be breathing properly,” Duncan murmurs, barely audible amid the noise in the room.

Rarely seen, barely heard.

The third son of the Autumn Court prefers the darkness of his room and the company of his sword to anything else. In his solitary existence, he’s learned to notice the things others overlook.

His sister, indeed, struggles to breathe in her first moments of life, soft whimpers of pain escaping her tiny lips.

“It’s normal,” the healer assures. “She’s just adjusting.”

Nissa refuses to hold her. A constellation of failures marks her path as a mother. She knows what happens to females in the Autumn Court. A daughter isn’t worth the pain she would bring.

Reagan, the sixth and last son ever loved by the Lady of Autumn, looks at his sister, fragile as only newborns can be, and finds himself sending a silent thank you to the cauldron that the twins died before she was born.

Naill and Corentin were, without doubt, the cruelest of Beron’s sons; the flow of blood intoxicated them like the heaviest of incense.

Reagan never thought he’d be grateful to Lucien for killing his own family.

He’s not proud to admit he thinks of his mother’s son often. Not every day, but with a consistency that borders on guilt.

Lucien was like a soft cloth laid over broken glass. He was hurt just by existing.

The only ally Aurora might ever have had among the vipers of a court that knows only violence and reeks of ruin.

But the world is not a fair place.

Lucien is gone, and their sister will never know true kindness.

Eris watches as his father leaves the room, declaring that he has better things to do, and suffers for his mother, who turns away, refusing to speak the child’s name when asked.

At two hundred and five years old, with a broken engagement behind him, he is the eldest of the Vanserra children—the only one with a true claim to Beron’s throne.

His gaze meets Barjan’s icy blue eyes.

Barjan, with his wild beauty and a laugh loud enough to shake mountains, is the smartest of his brothers. The only real threat to Eris’s future, and his brother knows it.

Brajan, who at that moment is challenging him to do something. To take the situation in hand when no one else will. Opposite sides of the same chessboard.

Go on, your move, heir.

His brother’s intelligence is diminished by the arrogance that has always blinded him to the most obvious facts of life. Eris is not an unknown pawn stuck in place, hoping to score some points.

No.

Eris is the damn queen of the game.

Gently, he takes the baby from the healer’s arms. She yawns softly, resting her head against his chest, where something trembles.

“Aurora,” he says, looking at her. “Her name will be Aurora.”

-.-

Aurora takes her first steps on a floor that creaks under the weight of hatred.

Her legs are thin, and her gaze carries the innocence of someone who doesn’t yet know that love, in some homes, is never a given.

She walks, stumbles, laughs, and gets back up.

Reagan follows as best he can, a hand always ready. He says, “Good job,” “Again,” “Go,” and for a moment, he almost believes it in the role of the guide.

Duncan cleans his sword, his gaze occasionally drifting from the blade to the scene before him. He says nothing. Doesn’t move. His eyes are bright, but held back, like someone watching a memory as it happens.

Sometimes Reagan speaks, words that bounce in the air like hollow coins. Duncan doesn’t answer. Doesn’t always listen.

“I saw the healer go into our mother’s room,” he murmurs at last, without lifting his gaze. His voice is flat, like he’s reporting something read in a distant book.

Reagan clenches his jaw. His hand stretches toward Aurora, who’s trying to stay on her feet. He doesn’t look at Duncan.

“I know our father spent the night with her,” he says, the words like stones on his tongue.

They say nothing more.

Aurora walks, stumbles, laughs, and gets back up.

-.-

Aurora’s first word isn’t “mother” nor “father.”

It’s a broken, unripe sound that falls from her mouth like something stolen from silence.

She says it while stumbling, as she does with everything, her mouth still sticky with milk and distraction.

It happens by chance, like all the things that hurt slowly.

Aurora looks at him and says, “Ris,” with the cruel ease of childhood, unaware of what she’s just done.

Eris stays there, book open, and the heart beats loud enough to be felt.

-.-

Neither Beron with his golden crown and his flame, nor Nissa with her deadly beauty, shows the slightest interest in her education.

At best, she receives cold stares when she fidgets too much at the table. (She hates the clothes they force her to wear; if only they were looser, maybe she could breathe.)

At the age of five, she fell into a ditch.

She remembers screaming and crying until exhaustion took over, convinced she would die there.

It’s Barjan who finds her. Hours later, trembling and still tangled in thorns.

He finds her by chance. No one had noticed she was missing.

That’s when Aurora knows for certain: her parents don’t care about her.

The thorn-pricks on her skin mirror the bleeding of her heart.

-.-

Later that evening, Barjan returns with a jar that smells of ginger.

He doesn’t say a word as he kneels beside her to tend her wounds, even as her sobs slowly fade.

“Rest, Rora,” he says gently. “I’ll come back tomorrow to check on you.”

Maybe someone does care, after all.

-.-

Aurora sits beneath the dining room table, between the carved legs of chairs that smell of wax and old wood.

In her hand, she holds an almost-whole cookie—the kind the cook keeps on the top shelf, for after lunch. But she doesn’t feel like waiting or asking. The bag of cookies is hidden in her apron, her cheeks are full, and her eyes are fixed on the door.

The silence in the room is only an illusion: somewhere, there’s the clink of dishes, a door slamming, the sharp tone of an adult voice. She stays perfectly still, holding her breath every time someone walks by.

Then a figure stops in the doorway.

Duncan.

He looks at her without saying a word. She, mouth full and eyes wide, stares back like a cornered animal. She doesn’t speak well yet, but it’s clear she’s already searching for an excuse, or maybe a prayer.

Slowly, he kneels.

He pulls out a cookie and sits beside her.

Breaks it in half. Eats one piece, then offers her the other.

“You’re good at not getting caught,” he says softly. He doesn’t even look at her. “Keep it up.”

She watches him for a moment, then nods. She doesn’t smile, but she relaxes. Sits a little closer, back against the wood, her feet still not touching the floor.

Outside, the palace continues its performance of rules and sharp voices.

Under the table, there is only silence.

(Chocolate has never tasted that good again.)

-.-

One day, it snows. 

Aurora shrieks with joy and drags Eris outside. 

He watches her skip down the road, leaving tiny footprints behind.

“Careful, Rora. If you get hurt, Barjan’s going to kick my ass,” Eris says, not sounding particularly concerned for her safety.

Aurora drops to the ground and starts gathering snow for her castle. 

She piles up fragile, white mounds while Eris watches with a faint smile.

Together, they build a snow castle, their hands moving fast and sure. 

“We’ll protect it from the bad guys,” Aurora says with conviction. “I’ll be the warrior, you’ll be my squire.”

Eris lifts the corner of his mouth in a small smile. “Very well, my lady. What are your orders?”

They play until Eris’s clothes are soaked through with ice and Aurora is too tired to walk on her own.

“Goodnight, soldier,” her brother says as he tucks her into bed. “It was an honor to fight by your side.”

In that moment, Aurora decides it’s the best day of her life. 

(Even centuries later, even when the echoes of war feel less like a game, even when soldiers die and castles fall.)

Eris strokes her hair.  “I’ll always protect you, Rora.”

Yes. 

The best day ever.

-.-

At seven, she learns to wield fire. 

A prodigy, some servants whisper. 

Her brothers begin to look at her with suspicion. 

Beron doesn’t smile. He narrows his eyes and orders her to her room.

She thought she’d learned to live with rejection. 

She realizes there’s no limit to how much pain a heart can hold.

-.-

Barjan leads her to the horse with a calm that feels impossible in a palace full of heavy silences. 

“Put your foot here,” his voice is low, like a shadow brushing skin. 

She climbs into the saddle, muscles tense, heart pounding like an ancient drum.

The horse moves slowly, uncertainly, and Barjan walks beside her, his hand brushing her back, a steady presence in a world that often feels like it’s falling apart.

“Don’t think,” he whispers. “Let the horse guide you.”

She closes her eyes, the wind tugging at her red hair, and for a moment, time stops. 

She’s suspended, between earth and sky, between who she wants to be and what she’s allowed to become.

The horse moves forward, slowly, and for the first time, Aurora feels like she can breathe without a weight on her chest.

-.-

Unlike her brothers, Aurora doesn’t want to rule. 

Confined within the court’s walls, she’s never seen anyone but her relatives. 

She builds a life away from her father’s gaze and her mother’s coldness. 

She dreams of green fields, an endless sea, and a starry sky above her.

Aurora’d be lying if she said loneliness never caught her off guard. She sits in her room, surrounded by toys she’ll never use, flipping through books still too complex for her.

She has no friends, and her brothers rarely visit the main estate, each busy with their own affairs. 

Still, Reagan brings her flowers. 

“For my little flame,” he says, lifting the corner of his mouth.

Aurora smiles, toothless, and gently takes the lilies from his hands. 

She wonders if this is what being loved feels like.

-.-

She learns to tame her power early. 

She was angry. Her mother had made her wear a hideous yellow dress that clashed with her red hair and amber eyes.

“Focus, Aurora,” Duncan says behind her. 

“I can’t stop it!”

“Yes, you can. You need to calm down. Don’t panic like a child.”

Aurora wants to scream that she is a child, damn it! But she’s too busy holding back the destruction—inside and out.

The heat builds, an invisible fire crawling through her veins. 

Aurora squeezes her eyes shut, breathes deeply, tries to hold back the red wave rising within her. 

The flames tremble, twist, then finally settle, leaving behind a scorched, splintered tree—a poor witness to her rage.

“Do it again,” her brother says sharply.  “And try not to burn me alive this time.”

-.-

Aurora meets her father’s true face when she’s fifteen. 

(She likes the color blue and the scent of lilies. She doesn’t know much about the world, but she dreams of it often.)

She tells Beron she doesn’t want to marry. 

She tells him she wants to explore, learn, see the world, and do many other things.

Then, suddenly, fire lashes from his fingers, wrapping around Aurora’s hand in a cruel embrace. 

Pain dances, vibrant and vicious, burning deep into her skin, turning every breath into a whisper of agony.

“You are a Vanserra,” Beron sneers, “and a girl. There is no place for you except the one I decide to put you in.”

Her brothers watch in silence.

Aurora leaves the room without ever taking her eyes off her father. 

She’s read enough books to know. 

A soldier never turns their back on the enemy.

-.-

Later that night, Eris finds her. 

He looks at her for a long moment, then pats her head and hands her a jar of ginger salve. 

She doesn’t say a word.

The echoes of a broken promise scream between them.

-.-

“Don’t cross your legs, a lady doesn’t do that.”

“Don’t raise your arm like that.” 

“Stop laughing so loudly, it’s not proper.”

“Fix your dress. Stop being so sloppy.”

“For the love of the Cauldron! Take smaller steps when you walk, Aurora!”

Every gesture is a tile in the mosaic shaping her into the perfect person, the ideal wife. 

A flawless woman.

She wonders if she’ll ever find a place in the life others have designed for her.

-.-

“You’ll make a wonderful wife, Aurora,” her mother says from the couch. 

“And what if I don’t want to be a wife?” she asks. “What if I want something more?”

An emotion flickers in Nissa’s eyes, too quickly to be caught, the echo of a distant memory.

“There’s nothing else you could want.”

-.-

They say she looks stunning in the green dress her mother chose for her. 

They say they could be mistaken for sisters.

Aurora smiles, satisfied, as flames dance along the folds of the gown, 

turning bright green into blazing red. 

The fire consumes the fabric slowly as she walks away.

Only ashes remain.

-.-.-

At twenty, she discovers she has another brother. 

(To be precise, she learns she has three more, but two are dead. So, they don’t count.)

She finds out by accident, behind the bookshelf in Barjan’s study, a portrait of a male with red hair and rust-colored eyes.

She wonders why Barjan kept a stranger’s portrait hidden in his study. 

When she asks, her brother tells her the truth.

And that’s how Aurora meets Lucien.

Lucien, who never fit into the Autumn Court. 

Lucien, who lost the love of his life and killed two brothers in a single day. 

Lucien, who walked away from his family and never looked back.

A feeling crashes over her like a flood. It spreads, fills her, and blurs her vision.

Envy.

-.-

Beneath the starry veil, Aurora gazes at the sky, her eyes shining like stars that peer into the infinite.

Each glimmer is a dream, a secret wish dancing among the constellations.

Her heart beats in rhythm with the universe, while her mind drifts through distant galaxies.

In that cosmic silence, she finds her voice.

In dreams, she discovers what it means to be alive.

Reagan, beside her, whispers tales of magical portals and mythical beings, of forgotten gods and brave soldiers.

Aurora watches the sky as her brother’s voice gently cradles her.

The stars whisper promises of unexplored worlds.

Where her soul can soar free, and her dreams can bloom unchained.

-.-

Aurora knows what sex is; Her mother explained this to her in a cold conversation to outline her duties as a wife. There was no room for affection or understanding in those words, only a rigid sense of duty and what was expected of her.

It does not provide any information other than that of "what goes where".  Aurora felt sick immediately after Nissa left the room.

However, her horizons broaden when she meets Duncan and a courtesan in the courtyard.

She runs to Barjan in tears. His older brother looks up at the sky, sighing, forced to explain that "No, Rora. Usually, weapons are not needed for sex."

The next morning, at breakfast, Barjan smiles with satisfaction at Duncan's black eye.

-.-

Aurora rides through golden fields, the sun brushing against her skin. A young fae, with wheat-colored hair and eyes as green as emeralds, walks in the opposite direction. He hums an unfamiliar tune, a melody that dances in the air.

He is beautiful.

Their eyes meet, and Aurora feels warmth rise to her cheeks. He smiles at her—a smile that lights up her heart like a sunbeam. Few words are exchanged, but Aurora’s heart drums like a festival.

The young man bends down, picks a daisy, and offers it to her. Then he bows and walks away, whistling once more.

And if, in the days that follow, Aurora finds herself humming a folk tune, well, that’s nobody’s business but her own.

(She still thinks of that young male, wondering if he’s still whistling, despite the horrors of the world.)

-.-

“Have you ever been in love?”

Eris freezes at the question, the silence in the study growing heavier. It’s just the two of them, as it often is, wrapped in a quilt that speaks louder than words. They hardly talk anymore, not since Beron burned her hand, leaving scars that time hasn’t erased.

But Aurora can’t stop thinking about the boy with the gentle smile and the daisy tucked away in a drawer.

“Why do you ask?” Eris’s voice is a whisper, a thread of sound breaking the stillness.

“It’s rude to answer a question with another, brother.” Aurora smiles.

“Not when the question is personal, sister.” Eris looks at her, his eyes a stormy sea.

Aurora doesn’t reply. She stares at him, her heart pounding. Eris sighs, rubbing his tired eyes.

“If you’re talking about Duncan and that woman, I can assure you it wasn’t—”

“No!” Aurora raises her voice, her cheeks flushing red. “I’m not talking about… well, that,” she clears her throat, embarrassed. “I was just curious.”

Eris meets her gaze, then leans back in his chair, a bitter smile on his lips.

“No, I’ve never been in love with a woman.”

“Oh,” she says, disappointment weighing on her heart. Maybe she should’ve asked Reagan.

“But I was engaged,” Eris continues, and Aurora’s head snaps up, eyes wide.

“Engaged?” Her voice is a whisper of disbelief. “To whom?”

“It doesn’t matter who. It was an arranged marriage. Neither of us wanted it.”

“Why didn’t you go through with it?” Aurora’s curiosity is palpable, her hands nervously clasped.

Eris looks away, pain flickering across his face.

“Because, like in your books, the best stories always have great villains.” He sits on the floor beside her, his presence a quiet comfort. “But know this: what happened to us will never happen to you,” he says firmly. “They’ll have to kill me first.”

“I have no idea what happened.”

“And please, don’t ever ask.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not ready to be the villain in your story.”

-.-

Nissa invites her to tea.

She entrusts the task to a maid, as one might do with someone who no longer fully belongs to the house. A gesture flawless in its formality, yet impersonal, leaving in the air a faint aftertaste of distance.

The scent of jasmine mingles with the silence, while sunlight filters softly through embroidered curtains, casting delicate patterns of light across the parquet floor.

Her mother sits beside the large window overlooking the woods, her gaze lost among the branches, as if listening to a conversation only the trees can understand.

They exchange a few words, carefully chosen, or perhaps tossed like dried flowers.

“You’ve become beautiful, Aurora.”

“Thank you, Mother,” Aurora replies with quiet grace, her tone free of surprise or delight. She has learned to bridge distances with composure.

“Being as beautiful as you are isn’t always a blessing.”

Nissa finishes her tea with a measured gesture, then sets the cup down with the care of someone who wishes to leave no trace.

She rises without a word, crosses the room with impenetrable elegance, and disappears beyond the door, wrapped once more in the silence from which she came.

Aurora remains alone, surrounded by the fading scent of cold tea.

-.-

She finds him leaning over the balcony, motionless, his hands resting with quiet force on the wrought iron rail, which, under the moonlight, looks carved from shadow. His gaze is fixed, drawn beyond the edge of the garden, where the night breathes slowly among the trees.

The air is cold, almost hostile, soaked in a dampness that seeps into the bones like a doubt kept silent for too long.

Aurora approaches without breaking the silence, the way one would near an animal that might bite if startled. She stops beside him, her side just grazing the warmth of his body, and follows his gaze with quiet intent.

Down in the garden, between leaves that seem to listen, Duncan and Barjan stand close.

They speak in hushed tones, leaning toward one another like conspirators beneath a complicit moon. There’s something in the way they move, too careful, too deliberate, that tastes of a shared lie.

“What are they doing?”

Eris doesn’t answer right away. A flicker crosses his face, barely noticeable. His jaw tightens, then loosens again, as if he had swallowed something bitter.

“Nothing, ‘Rora.” He says at last.

His voice is calm, even gentle, but there’s a dissonance in it, like a piano gone slightly out of tune in an otherwise perfect room.

“Let’s go inside. It’s cold out here.”

-.-

At the age of forty, Aurora makes her first friend. 

“We have guests today,” Beron announces one morning at breakfast. “Stay in your quarters, Aurora.” 

“Yes, Father,” she replies. “The last thing I want is to embarrass you.” 

The first thing is to kill you. 

Reagan whispers that she’ll tell her everything once the guests are gone. 

So, Aurora finds herself reading in the silence of her quarters, while her brothers accompany their father to a meeting where she is not welcome. 

On any other day, this would have driven her mad—she might have even set something on fire. But today, she is a soldier going off to war, saying goodbye to the love of her life. 

She doesn’t know when—or if—she’ll return. She doesn’t know if all that will remain of her existence will be just an echo in the universe, or if, even upon returning, she’ll still be the same person. 

“Why does the future terrify me?” 

“Because you don’t know what it holds. The known is comforting, even when it’s uncomfortable.” 

Her heart is a battlefield, where fear and uncertainty clash with hope and love. Every goodbye is a fragment of eternity, a piece of soul breaking off and drifting away, while the future remains an enigma and the present only fleeting. 

Something brushes her hair, distracting her. Annoyed, she shifts and returns to her book. 

Damn insects, she thinks. 

But the sensation persists, sliding down her neck, then back to her hair. She stands, ready to crush them—or burn them to ash. 

She sees nothing. She listens, straining for the familiar buzz, but hears no sound. With a sigh, she resumes reading. 

The moment her eyes return to the page, she throws the book aside. 

The thing flies off before the novel even hits the floor. 

The dark being pauses, as if not wanting to frighten her. It remains still, letting her observe it. It seems incorporeal, a black thread floating in the air. Looking closer, it’s not as large as it first appeared. 

It looks almost… like a shadow, but solid. 

She’s not stupid, and she’s read enough books to know there’s a damned Shadowsinger in her house. 

Aurora watches the shadow closely, noting how it moves with an almost hypnotic fluidity. The presence of such a powerful and mysterious entity is both unsettling and captivating. 

She mentally reviews everything she’s read on the subject. What does she know about Shadowsingers? 

They are rare. 

They are dangerous, and their shadows are lethal. They are weapons that constantly wrap around their master’s body, leaving only when that master draws their final breath. 

Perhaps sensing Aurora’s thoughts, it coils gently around her wrist—a reassuring gesture. She shivers, but not from fear. 

It feels almost like a connection. 

“Shouldn’t you return to your master?” 

It stirs, as if irritated: I do what I want.

She knows she should go find the man and return his shadow—at least let him know he’s lost one. 

But she’s selfish, and she likes the little black thing that wraps gently around her hand. 

Aurora curls her lip into a smile. “I think you and I are going to get along just fine.”

-.-

It's difficult to hide the shadow.

It follows her everywhere, when she reads or walks, and watches her sleep.

It hides in the folds of her dress, under her hair, or in the darkness of corners.

Instead of being irritated by it, she finds it reassuring.

-.-

She names it Mathila. 

Rebel, in the old tongue. 

Aurora chooses a feminine name because only a woman would have the courage to reject the role she was born into. 

They fit together perfectly.

-.-

Aurora scratches at her hair, annoyed. “I don’t understand why I have to wear these stupid flowers,” she grumbles, trying in vain to pull them out.

The painter, an elderly man with a thick white beard, frowns as he observes the scene before him. “Perfect, perfect,” he mutters, adjusting his canvas and paints. “Please, take your positions.”

Barjan, the tallest, positions himself at the back, trying not to look too imposing. Eris, irritated, moves to the center, giving Barjan a shove.

Meanwhile, Reagan is still in front of the mirror, meticulously fixing his hair. “Just a moment, just a moment,” he repeats, ignoring Duncan’s impatient sighs.

Duncan, looking thoroughly bored, stares out the window. “I can’t wait for this to be over,” he mutters.

“Reagan, stop,” says Eris, trying to maintain his central position. “This person will never start drawing if you keep acting like a female.”

Aurora turns to glare at Eris. He raises his hands in mock surrender.

“If you touch your hair one more time, I’ll kill you,” Duncan growls, and this time, he almost sounds serious.

Reagan rolls his eyes. “I’d like to see you try,” he says, finally taking his place beside Aurora and tucking away his little mirror.

“Barjan, could you bend down a little more?” asks the painter, trying to perfect the composition.

Barjan crouches further, making Eris look even smaller. In response, Eris stomps on his foot, forcing him to step back, and the painter pauses again.

Duncan lets out a frustrated yell. “If you don’t stop, I swear I’ll set you on fire.”

Aurora sighs. “Barjan, stand behind Reagan before our brother decides the throne looks more appealing than usual.”

“I might,” Duncan grumbles.

Aurora pats his shoulder. “I know, brother. I know.”

-.-

The painting is hangs in the north corridor.

She sees her mother stop to look at it from time to time, her eyes sad.

(Only centuries later will Aurora understand that Nissa wasn’t mourning the children in the painting, but the ones who weren’t there.)

-.-

She is aware that her magic surpasses that of her brothers.

They know it too.

She senses it in the tautness of Duncan’s shoulders during training. In the way Eris’s jaw tightens as she effortlessly conjures a wall of fire. In the furrowed intensity of Barjan’s gaze, when her anger thickens the air, Reagan slightly distances himself from her in those moments.

Like a shadow dancing through flames, her power is a constant presence, a whisper of a coming storm. To them, she is a danger lurking in the folds of fate, ready to rise with the force of a hurricane.

And yet, she loves her brothers too much to challenge them. Besides, no one would ever accept a female as ruler.

In any case, she’s always preferred swords to fire.

-.-

The halls of the palace glow with golden and amber lights, and the air is thick with the spicy scents of cinnamon and clove, mingling with the sound of forced laughter and shallow conversation. 

Aurora stands in the most remote corner of the hall, her heart heavy as stone.

To her, these gatherings are torment—a theater of falsehoods where her parents play the part of perfect hosts, and her brothers are paraded like trophies before the daughters of Lords. 

All Aurora wants is to return to her room, to take refuge in the pages of her books. But she knows Mathila is hiding somewhere nearby. Her invisible presence is a comfort on this suffocating evening. 

As she watches Reagan charm a young woman, she senses movement beside her. A male approaches, hair dark as night and eyes blue as a winter sky. 

“May I have the honor of a dance?” he asks, his voice deep and gentle. 

Aurora hesitates for a moment, then nods. “Yes, of course.” 

He takes her hand and leads her to the floor. The music shifts into a slow, sweet melody, and Aurora lets herself be carried by the fluid movements of the dance. 

She feels her brother’s eyes on the male’s hands. Aurora tries not to blush; she’s never been touched like this. Never. 

“You don’t seem very happy to be here,” he says, leaning closer. 

Aurora flushes at the inappropriate closeness. “I’m not made for these kinds of events, my lord.” 

“Call me Dain, Aurora.” 

Their faces are very close now, and she doesn’t like the way he’s looking at her. His grip tightens when she tries to pull away politely. 

“Please, step back,” she says quietly. “I didn’t give you permission to use my name.” 

The male smiles with a shadow of malice. 

“Why not? You find these parties dull, and so do I,” he says, letting his hand slide from her waist.

“Maybe we can find a way to make the evening more… interesting.” 

Aurora stiffens, her eyes darting around in desperation, searching for one of her brothers. But before she can call for help, Dain cries out in pain and jerks his hand back. 

“Something stung me!” 

It takes Aurora a second to understand. 

Mathila. 

“Excuse me, I need some fresh air,” she says, quickly stepping away, murmuring a quiet thank you to her invisible friend. 

Aurora flees to the balcony, her heart pounding. She tries to breathe deeply, but the discomfort from Dain’s actions makes her nauseous. She leans on the railing, trying to calm herself. 

Suddenly, a hand grabs her arm roughly. She spins around to find Dain, who has followed her. 

“What did you do to me, witch?” he growls, shaking her.

“Nothing! Let me go!" she tries to free herself from his grip, but this seems to increase Dain's fury even more. The gentle expression of a few moments earlier has been replaced by anger.

"Do you know what I do to people like you?" he brings her close to her face, "I make them scream until they pass out." The smell of wine reaches her brain.

The look he gives her is obscene; his eyes are fixed on her cleavage: "If you collaborate, you could enjoy it."

Dain suddenly finds himself on the ground, plugging his bloody nose.

Only the sudden pain in her hand makes her realize that she has hit him straight in the face.

"Nice punch," Eris's voice surprises her.

"Eris," she exhales, tries to explain, but her brother raises his hand, interrupting her.

"Go to Reagan and stay with him; he'll take you to your room."

Duncan and Barjan appear behind their older brother, with their eyes fixed on Dain.

"We'll take care of him."

Dain lets out a moan of fear and begins to recoil pathetically. Barjan throws himself and grabs him by the hair.

"Run, Dain? I'm sure if you collaborate, you could have fun," he growls.

"Go, Aurora," Eris urged.

She doesn't need to be told twice and runs away, but not before hearing Duncan's hoarse voice.

“I’ll break every finger you've touched my sister with, and I'm going to make you swallow it.”

-.-

Aurora lets Reagan guide her back to her room. He stays while she changes into more comfortable clothes. Once she’s on the couch, Reagan takes her hand to examine it. 

“That must’ve been quite a blow,” he says, trying to lighten the mood. Aurora gives him a weak smile, but inside, all she feels is the urge to cry. She can’t forget the feel of that man’s hands on her. 

She feels so dirty. 

Reagan must have noticed something in her expression, because he pulls her into a tight hug. 

“You were incredible,” he whispers. 

She doesn’t know if it’s the gentle touch of her brother or his amber eyes—so much like her own—looking at her with such tenderness, but she breaks down in tears, letting all the emotions of the evening pour out. 

“Why would anyone do something like that?” Aurora sobs. 

Reagan sighs. “Because everyone loves beautiful things. And if they can, they take them for themselves.  You, sister, are one of the most beautiful creatures in all Prythian.” 

“I’m not!” Aurora protests. “There are fae far prettier than me.” 

Reagan gives her a doubtful look. “Believe me when I say you’re so beautiful it sometimes catches me off guard,” he says, taking her injured hand. “You might even be prettier than Eris’s ex-fiancé, and that’s saying something.” 

“Is that supposed to excuse what Dain tried to do?” Aurora asks, her voice trembling. 

“Absolutely not,” Reagan growls. “But after tonight, everyone will know better than to touch you without your consent.” 

A soft knock interrupts them. Eris peeks in, his expression serious but satisfied. 

“Everything alright?” 

Aurora nods, tears still in her eyes. Eris enters, followed by Duncan and Barjan. She doesn’t feel the slightest bit sorry at the sight of blood on their clothes. 

“Did you kill him?” 

“In the end,” Duncan says, his gaze devoid of remorse. 

Aurora knows she should feel something—horror that her brothers just killed a male, maybe disgust at the crimson staining her white carpet. 

Yet, all she feels is relief. 

“Good.”

-.-

That night, Mathila wraps around her like a blanket. 

“You knew my brothers would come, didn’t you?” 

In response, the shadow tightens slightly, a black thread brushing gently against her cheek.

-.-

Duncan places a sword in her hand. The weight of the blade makes her arms dip slightly. 

“If you want to keep hitting men, you need to learn to fight like one.”

-.-

Their family grows. 

Aurora wakes that morning with a strange feeling, as if someone is tap dancing beside her bed. She opens her eyes to see Mathila, fluttering like a ballerina. With a theatrical gesture, Mathila floats beside her. 

There, right next to her, a small shadow moves timidly. 

“Where did that come from?” 

Mathila twirls proudly around the little shadow, who seems confused by the world around it. 

It’s mine, can’t you see?

“Is that your child?” Aurora asks, bewildered. “Shadows can give birth now?” 

She must have said something offensive, because Mathila starts yanking her hair. Aurora yelps in pain, but her cheeky shadow doesn’t let go of her long red curls. 

“Alright, alright, it’s your child!” she exclaims, trying to swat Mathila away. “Let go, I’m sorry!” 

The little shadow responds with a shy movement, like a wave. Mathila stands proudly beside her offspring, who begins exploring the room with curiosity. 

The tiny shadow passes in front of the mirror and, startled, jumps back, knocking over a vase—soil spills across the floor, shards of terracotta flying everywhere. 

Mathila rushes over and seems to scold the little one, who looks full of remorse. 

Aurora lets out a hysterical laugh. So, this is her life now. 

“Alright then. Welcome to the family.” 

She names him Forter. 

It takes courage to be born into this world.

-.-

She has never felt at ease beyond the royal quarters.

Not among the daughters of nobles, who spend their days embroidering and whispering intrigues with voices light as smoke. Not among the courtiers, who bow too quickly and speak too easily, their smiles are wax masks, their words knives hidden in velvet gloves.

They taught her how to smile with grace, how to offer her hand for a waltz, how to lower her gaze without ever seeming weak.

But no one taught her what to do with the thoughts that burn inside, with that thirst for truth no book can quench.

Aurora has no friends.

Only shadows that whisper.

They slither behind columns, nestle in the lace of the ladies’ gowns, and hide between courteous greetings and carefully measured phrases. They speak softly, but never softly enough to escape her.

They say she is as beautiful as she is strange.

Perhaps she is.

-.-

“Lord Krow has asked for Aurora’s hand in marriage,” Beron says that evening.

They gather for dinner in silence, just like the night before, and the one before that.

Eris lowers his fork. “Lord Krow is four hundred years old. Aurora just turned fifty.”

Beron waves a hand dismissively. “He’s a good match and a loyal ally. We need him.”

“Since when do you need allies?” Barjan cuts in. “You never cared before.”

“Now that I have a daughter,” Beron replies with disgust, “the only thing she’s good for is a political marriage. The fact that she’s young is just a bonus.” he gestures toward her.

“You should thank me for waiting this long. I’ve been turning down proposals for at least ten years.”

It starts as a hum—faint, imperceptible.

“Then turn this one down, too!” Reagan snaps. “You don’t need allies, and Aurora doesn’t need a husband.”

The argument continues, voices rising, while she remains silent.

“Lord Krow is a good man,” Nissa says. “He’ll treat you well.”

“Lord Krow is a pig,” Duncan growls. “A vile man. Everyone knows how he treats his lovers.”

Her hands grow warm, and the silverware heats in response.

“A little discipline never hurt anyone,” Beron sneers. “Maybe it’ll finally knock those foolish ideas out of her head.”

He turns to Aurora. “I’ve already accepted. The wedding will take place in a month.”

There’s something that happens when the right amount of magic isn’t released:

It explodes.

The fire erupts with a muffled roar, flooding the room with incandescent fury. Flames lick at Beron, missing his face by inches. Barjan grabs Nissa by the arm and pulls her away, while the others are already backing away from the table.

Backing away from her.

The flames dance wildly, consuming every corner, every shadow. The massive wooden table becomes a blazing pyre, its legs twisting and snapping under the relentless heat.

The curtains catch fire in an instant. The fabric disintegrates in seconds, windows shattering under the pressure. Leaves turn to ash, branches crackle like broken bones.

The sky turns a deep crimson as the fire continues its destructive dance, devouring everything in its path.

Guards scream in the distance, their voices lost in the roar of the flames.

Aurora moves toward her father. Just a few steps, and he’ll be dead.

She advances. The fire reflects in her eyes, a mirror of the fury consuming her. Each step brings her closer. Each breath is a silent vow, a cry for vengeance.

The blow comes suddenly, sharp, precise, unstoppable.

The world blurs. The flames become dancing shadows as she collapses.

As she loses consciousness, the last thing she sees is Duncan’s face.

A tight jaw. A flicker in his eyes that lasts less than a breath.

Held-back pain. Unspoken guilt. A choice already made.

“I’m sorry.”

Then, darkness.

-.-

When Aurora wakes, she’s in her room. Morning light filters through the curtains, casting shadows on the walls. Her head is heavy, her eyes burn.

Around her wrist, a silver bracelet glints in the light—cold and unmoving. She tries to remove it, but it won’t budge.

“You can’t take it off,” says a familiar voice, making her flinch.

Aurora turns to see Duncan beside the bed, and her other brothers scattered around the room. They’re all watching her.

“Father put it on you while you were unconscious.”

“What’s going on?” Aurora asks, her voice raw with anguish.

Duncan hesitates. The silence between them is thick with tension.

“It’s linked to Beron’s magic. It blocks your fire. As long as he lives, you can’t use your powers.”

“Take it off. Now,” Aurora commands, her eyes blazing with fury.

“We can’t, Aurora,” Barjan says. “Only Father can.”

“You let him do this?” Her voice is a sharp whisper, full of betrayal.

Eris scoffs. “You were destroying half the palace. You nearly killed us.”

Aurora rises from the bed, her bare feet touching the cold floor.

“A power like that is dangerous.”

“Dangerous to me, or you?” she growls.

The silence that follows is deafening. The betrayal burns hotter than any fire she’s ever wielded.

“You know what I think? I think you were more than happy to let Beron put this thing on me,” she steps closer, “I think you saw your chance to eliminate a threat to your claim to the throne.”

No one dares respond.

She grabs a vase and hurls it at Barjan, who barely dodges it. The terracotta shatters against the wall.

Aurora’s lips tremble. “Cowards,” she spits.

“Aurora,” Reagan tries to approach, but she grabs a book and throws it at him too.

“Out!” she screams now, hurling objects without aim. “I don’t want to see you again!”

Now she’s holding a knife, but her brothers are already one step out the door.

The last pair of eyes she meets are Eris’s.

“To me, you’re all dead.”

-.-

Tears of frustration fill her eyes, sliding down her cheeks like salty pearls.

Forter wraps around her wrist, clutching the silver bracelet. With a gesture of defeat, he withdraws, fluttering away like a breath of wind.

She was confined to the darkness of her room for days, waiting for the moment to get married. The thought of marriage burns her; her mouth tastes like ashes.

"I have to get out of here," she whispers, "I can't stay. I would rather die."

Mathila and Forter flailed like crazed splinters around her, forming a whirlwind of dark energy. They fly back and forth, going everywhere in the room. Books fall in their wake; The curtains move with the echo of the wind created by their movements.

Then, after what seems like an eternity, they stop. Their forms begin to tremble.

They shatter, fragmenting into smaller and smaller fragments. The shadows divide and multiply, one after the other, like drops of ink that spread in the water. One, two, three, four, until she can no longer count them.

Shadows form a dark mass around the room, enveloping it in an eerie embrace.

Whispers fill the silence.

-.-

Leaving the palace is easy with the shadows at her side

Reaching the Summer Court is a different story. 

She travels for days, the map of the continent clutched tightly in her hands, shadows cloaking her from predators. 

No supplies. Just a few clothes and a dagger, she hopes won’t see daylight. Hope, though, is a fragile thing out here.

She’s never crossed Autumn’s borders before. But even through the fear, her heart drums with fierce anticipation.

She’s close. So close.

Aurora keeps walking.

-.-

“Where are you going?” 

“Far away.” 

She boards the ship without a second thought. Pays the captain with the few coins she brought and settles into a shabby cabin. She sits on the bed. The shadows dance happily around her. 

The air smells of fish, and the dust makes her nose itch terribly. 

It’s perfect.

-.

After three weeks at sea, the stillness of the ocean is suddenly broken by the majestic appearance of a ship, an imposing shadow on the horizon. 

The ancient wood groans under the weight of time, while the crash of waves against the hull fills the air like a distant drum. 

On deck, armed soldiers line up, their sharp eyes scanning every corner like hawks ready to strike. 

Aurora’s captain exchanges a few words with what appears to be the commander of the second ship. 

“The queen is aboard. We need to inspect the passengers,” the commander says. “Security measures.” 

Aurora watches silently, her shadows hidden from all eyes—a secret only she can feel. But her mind is in turmoil, untrained in controlling the power within her. 

When a soldier approaches for inspection, her agitation unleashes her darkness. 

Suddenly, they surge like inky serpents, swift and silent, wrapping around the man’s neck and dragging him down with terrifying force. 

A male grabs Aurora by the waist, slamming her against the wall. 

“Let me go!” she kicks and struggles. 

“What’s going on here?” a female voice cuts through the chaos. 

“Your Majesty,” a soldier pants, “these things attacked us.” 

The queen is a fae of extraordinary beauty, with long black hair cascading like silk over her shoulders. She watches Aurora with caution, her crimson gown flowing like a wave of silk. Her gaze locks onto the shadows restraining her soldiers. 

“Release her,” the queen commands firmly. “You. Come with me.” 

She boards the other ship without waiting. 

Aurora has no choice but to follow. 

The queen leads her into a set of luxurious chambers—a stark contrast to the damp, creaking cabin Aurora had slept in for weeks. The scent of incense clings to the air, thick and heady, and the walls are cloaked in silk and gold, with embroidered tapestries that seem to whisper stories of power and blood.

Aurora keeps her shoulders square, her expression still.

The queen doesn’t sit. She stands at the center of the room, radiant in a red gown that hugs her like flame. Her hair is dark as spilled ink, her skin pale and glowing in the candlelight.

“What are you, girl?” Her voice is calm, but it leaves no room for lies.

Aurora’s throat tightens. “They call me a Shadowsinger.”

A pause. A flicker of something curious—sharp—in the queen’s eyes.

“What’s your name?”

“Aurora,” she replies, keeping her voice steady, though her pulse is anything but.

“You’re not from around here, are you, Aurora?”

The way the queen says her name feels like both a warning and a test.

“I’m from Prythian,” Aurora says, her voice barely above a whisper.

The queen arches a brow. “You’re far from home.”

Aurora shrugs, masking nerves with apathy. “That was the point.”

The queen glides forward. Her gown trails behind her like liquid fire, and her eyes, violet, endless, never leave Aurora’s.

“And do you have any talents beyond that little light show?”

Her gaze drops to the shifting shadows coiled around Aurora’s boots, twitching like they sense the danger.

Aurora thinks of her fire, buried deep beneath her skin. The bracelet on her wrist feels like it's burning now, as if warning her not to speak.

“No, ma’am,” she says. “None.”

The queen tilts her head. “Do you even know who I am?”

Aurora swallows hard. “The queen of… this place,” she answers, gaze dropping. She hates how small her voice sounds. Her shadows mimic her discomfort, curling tighter around her ankles.

The queen laughs. Not unkindly. Not kindly either. A crystalline sound that makes the room feel smaller.

“If you boarded without knowing where you were going, you must be running from something dangerous.” 

“I was in a hurry to leave,” Aurora admits, her heart pounding. 

The queen studies her intently. “I have a proposition for you,” she says, circling her with grace. “I have a group of people with… certain abilities. Soldiers who protect and serve kingdom.” 

She sips her wine, the dark red liquid glinting in the candlelight. 

“Someone with your talent would be useful.” 

“You’re offering me a job?” Aurora asks, incredulous. 

“I’m offering you the freedom not to depend on anyone,” the queen replies, tilting her head. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? I saw the dagger in your pocket. I recognize that hunger in your eyes.” 

“What’s the price?” Aurora asks, knowing there’s always a price. 

“Your loyalty. To me, and only me.” The queen’s voice is a whisper that sends a chill down her spine. “I’m offering you something many would kill for,” she smiles, revealing sharp teeth. “You’re the only female I’ve ever made this offer to. That means you’re special.” 

“I don’t think I’m special.” 

“Oh, but you are. Your shadows took down six of my best soldiers in one strike. Imagine what you could become with the right guidance.”  She tucks Aurora’s hair behind her ear. “You’d be unstoppable.” 

“I don’t want to be unstoppable,” Aurora says. “I just want to be free.” 

The queen takes Aurora’s face in her hands. “Power and freedom go hand in hand, little shadow.”

She’s so close now, her scent overwhelming Aurora’s senses.

“So, what’s your answer?” 

Aurora swallows and stares into those piercing violet eyes. 

She doesn’t know how or why, but her head begins to nod in silent agreement. 

The queen steps back. 

“I’m glad you accepted, Aurora.”

She leads her out of the chambers.

“A guard will escort you to collect your things. Then we’ll return home. We have much to prepare.” 

(In hindsight, she’ll realize she couldn’t have chosen differently—even if she’d wanted to.) 

“I still don’t know your name.” 

The queen looks at her, violet eyes devouring her. “My name is Maeve,” she says, smiling like a wolf.

“Welcome to Doranelle.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 3, PART 1

Iris’s Sword.

Legends speak of it as a weapon unlike any other: a gleaming blade capable of cutting through any substance, from the hardest steel to the most unyielding stone. No armor can withstand its strike, no barrier can hold against it. They say it has the power to burn through darkness itself.

No one ever discovered how Iris Vanserra came into possession of such a weapon. If Aurora were a little less cynical—if she believed, even faintly, in maternal love—she might have imagined the sword as Mab’s final gift to her exiled daughter, cast off to a distant continent.

But Iris was a Vanserra. Resentment and hatred were the fire in their blood—elemental, seething, inevitable. Vengeance was their shared tongue, their truest inheritance.

It was far more likely that Iris had gone to Wendlyn to steal the sword, to tear it from the hands meant to wield it in protection of Mab’s new line and claim it for herself. A sacred weapon, wrested from its purpose, now wielded by a bastard daughter across the sea.

Aurora holds a deep respect for that long-dead ancestor.

Iris had declared that only the daughters of House Vanserra could wield the blade. But since no High Lord had sired a daughter in centuries, the issue had never arisen.

Until Aurora.

She makes no apology for never having shown interest in the sword. After all, Beron had never let her near it.

As he loved to say, a woman’s only duty was to master embroidery and bear as many heirs as possible.

(Look at me now, Father).

She shakes her head, her gaze resting on the palace she had called home for fifty years. A wave of nausea rolls through her, her heart growing heavy.

As a child, she used to believe that if she climbed high enough up the towers, she might touch the sky.

Now those same towers seem like stone talons, reaching for her, trying to pull her back into the past she is determined to leave behind. Even after two hundred years, she still feels the weight of the invisible chains that tie her to these walls.

Aurora exhales, steadying herself.

It is time to meet her brother.

-.-

Eris is as beautiful as the dawn and so cold that he makes the morning frost envious.

Theirs is a whispered tale, two souls stained by the shadow of a father who could never be called such. When everything she believed to be beautiful on this planet was nothing more than a mere semblance of safety and comfort.

She was too young to understand the evil the world is capable of, to see the violence lurking beneath the damp, moss-covered soil.

Yet, despite knowing nothing, if they had asked her what color she would give to love, she would have answered, "My brother's eyes."

Eris is the only one among his brothers who carries the sun in his gaze—a kaleidoscope of gold, silver, and burning orange.

It is disconcerting, overwhelming, disarming, the feeling of inadequacy that begins to pervade her under her brother's scrutiny.

And nothing enrages her more than that.

Theirs is a wound that never closed, steeped in bitterness and laced with regret. She can still taste it: sharp on her tongue, acidic in her throat.

How do you explain to a child that the only person she ever entrusted her heart to would end up destroying her?

She once thought that no one could ever fill the void that only he could.

(She still thinks so).

Eris rubs his nose, looking tired.

"Let me get this straight," he begins, "You became a soldier."

(Technically, Cadre and fleet Commander. But you don't need to know that traitorous bastard.)

"Yes."

"You betrayed the Queen of Doranelle to join the Queen of Terrasen."

"Our cousin, Aelin."

"And now, the Queen of Terrasen is at war with your old sovereign and half of Erilea?"

(They are demons from another universe. Again, you don't need to know that.)

"You make it sound more tragic than it is."

Eris lets out a laugh, tinged with a hint of hysteria.

"You don't need a sword, you need an army."

"I'm not interested in Prythian's soldiers," she says, "They live in a world of cookies and unicorns, weak," she shrugs, "The Iris's Sword is much better."

Her brother gives her a dirty look, "You once wanted to be part of the Autumn army, you hypocrite."

She smirks, "When you don't know your options, you settle for crumbs."

"You know that insulting me won't make it easier to get that sword, right?"

"Oh, I know," she smiles, "but it's so much fun to make you angry," she waves her hand, "As for the sword, I can always take it by force, High Lord."

"Are you threatening me, princess?"

She chuckles, tilting her head, "You call it a threat, I call it an inevitable turn of events," she smiles cheerfully, "So, where is it?"

He looks at her exasperated, his eyes full of frustration.

"You never cared about that thing," he insists, "What changed now?"

"After two hundred years, I have the right to change my mind," Aurora retorts, "It's mine, I want it."

Eris gives her a sideways look, his amber eyes filled with suspicion. "You're not going to tell me, are you?"

She remains silent.

He sighs, a deep, resigned sound.

"It's not here."

Aurora holds her breath, heart pounding in her chest.

"What do you mean it's not here?" she growls, "It's the family sword."

"And it stayed in the family," he lowers his voice, "sort of.”

"If it had stayed in the family, it would already be in my hands," she snaps angrily, "It passes from female to female, it's the tradition."

"Oh, forgive me," he says sarcastically, "I'll just go back in time and tell Amarantha's soldiers they can take everything except that sword," he bears his teeth in a fierce grin. "While you were living the life of an elite soldier, our people were dying."

"Your people, not mine," Aurora retorts, "and if you think my life was a walk in the park, you're sorely mistaken," she bares her teeth, her voice vibrating with suppressed emotion. "You have no idea what I've sacrificed to be where I am today. But I'm not here for a heart-to-heart with you. The sword. Where is it?"

Eris rubs his face, looking incredibly tired, "When the witch died, our mother claimed it for herself. And when she left, she took it with her."

Aurora clenches her fists, "I need more context here, Eris," she growls, "Are you telling me that our useless and weak mother stole the sword that was meant to be mine and took it, where?"

He looks at her despondently, "It's at the Day Court."

The sentence tastes like death.

"She married High Lord Helion."

Aurora bursts out laughing, no joy in it, "That social-climbing bitch," she breathes, "Let me guess, our father's body wasn't even cold yet, and she was already out of the castle. I bet she didn't even say goodbye to you."

"More or less."

"Why did you let her take it away?"

"Because you weren't here!" he snaps angrily, "We thought you were dead, Aurora. What's the point of having a sword meant for the Vanserra female if the female in question hasn't been seen for two hundred years?" he waves his hands furiously, "Even our mother is a Vanserra female, or have you forgotten that she and Beron were cousins? I couldn't do much to stop it. When our father died and you didn't come back, I didn't care a damn about the fate of that cursed thing," he collapses into the chair, his shoulders slumping forward.  

He looks up to meet her eyes. "Why didn't you come home?"

Why didn't you come back to me?

"There's no place for me here," she replies calmly, "There never was."

I didn't want to come back. Let me go.

Despite the centuries that have passed, he seems to read her as well as ever. He presses his lips together and nods, sighing, "I'd say that's on me," he admits quietly, "It's on all of us."

Aurora decides not to join his pity party. She doesn't have the time or the desire to console her brother for his sins.

She sighs, "Why did our mother take the sword?"

Eris chuckles, "She talked about new traditions," he says sarcastically, "And that future Vanserra females had the right to learn to defend themselves if they wanted to."

"Now you're kidding me," she snaps, "Where was this readiness of spirit two hundred years ago?" she spreads her arms, "And what does she intend to do with it?" she widens her eyes in horror, "Please, don't tell me she had a child with Helion," she says, appalled, "I might vomit."

Her brother snorts, "The situation is much worse," he says, "The sword is for Lucien and Elain Archeron’s daughter, Annabelle. She's almost five years old, and our mother proudly announced that she would give her that sword when she was ready," he clicks his tongue, "Lucien was so moved," he sneers in disgust.

Aurora rubs her temples, "Who the hell is Elain Archeron now?" she growls in frustration.

Eris sighs, "You've missed a lot, sister. Sit down. This will take some time."

-.-

Elain Archeron is the mate of Aurora’s bastard brother.

(Yes, that was a surprise.)

Elain Archeron is none other than the sister of the High Lady of the Night, Feyre Archeron: the mortal who saved all of Prythian; the very same woman Aurora’s brothers tried to kill. More than once.

Wife and mate of Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court, the most powerful of all the High Lords. Ruler of the Illyrian territories, whose warriors make up the core of the largest army in all the Seven Courts.

Rhysand is a close friend of Helion.

Helion is the loyal and devoted husband of the woman who bore Aurora and her brothers.

Aurora wants to set something on fire.

Burn Prythian to the ground until nothing but ash remains in her wake.

She takes a deep breath.

“Why is nothing ever simple with you?” she growls. “Why are you always a problem?”

Her hand slams against the desk. The sound echoes.

She points a finger at Eris, her voice sharp as steel.

“You will write to our mother,” she commands. “You will tell her I’ve returned, and that I want the sword back. Because it is mine by right.”

She leans in, eyes blazing.

“You will remind her that she had no right to take it from the Court, and no authority to decide who should wield it.”

Eris casts her a sidelong glance.

“And if she says no?” he murmurs, lips pressed into a line. “What if I don’t want you to have that sword? Have you considered that?”

“Then I will go to the Day Court and raze it to the ground.”

Her smile is all teeth now.

“That sword will return to Terrasen with me. And anyone who dares to stop me will lose their head before they can take a single step in my direction. I will watch their blood run, and I will enjoy it,” she says. “Even yours, brother.”

Amusement glimmers in her gaze.

“Do you think I’m walking toward death, Eris? I am the one who brings it.”

Maybe she’s spent too much time around people as unhinged as she is to no longer grasp the weight of her own words.

Fenrys would have high-fived her, laughing like a madman.

Gavriel would have sighed, while Rowan rolled his eyes and muttered something like “Kids these days.”

Lorcan would’ve given her a look: something between pride and grim approval.

Vaughan wouldn’t have even looked up, too absorbed in whatever he was sketching at the time.

But she is not in Doranelle.

Her brother’s face turns pale, then green. His eyes flicker with something startlingly unfamiliar.

Pity.

“What did they do to you?” he whispers, devastated, crumpling like a marionette with its strings cut. The look he gives her holds no fear. No revulsion.

Only sorrow.

“What did they do to you?” he repeats, voice hoarse and breaking.

No one has ever dared to feel sorry for her.

She has wandered too long through the fog of battlefields, until even the idea of pity has sunk so deep within her it feels unreachable, buried in a well she may never draw from again.

She knows the sound of pity. She’s tasted it in the tears of those who begged her for mercy.

Covered in dust and blood, the last thing they ever saw was the glint of her amber eyes. Eyes that hold nothing in common with Eris’s, or with any of her brothers’.

Where there are sunrises and sunsets, she is an eclipse that never ends. Her light is buried in an abyss whose beginning and end she can no longer see.

That is the price of her choices: a ragtag family of assassins and a handful of shattered hopes she no longer knows how to mend.

"You can choose, Eris," she says. "You can continue to be the brother who turns away. Or you can help me."

"And when you die?" he asks despondently, his head drooping slightly, "It would still be my fault."

"I haven't been your responsibility for many years."

Eris presses his palms to his eyes, his lips tight. When he lifts his head, his eyes glistening, "I'll write to our mother," he mutters. "If that's what you want." he gives a trembling smile. "I like my head exactly where it is."

"Thank you, Eris," she says, standing up. "I won't forget this. Terrasen won't forget this."

She turns to leave the room.

"Aurora?" Her brother's voice stops her.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry."

"I don't know what to do with your apologies."

-.-

Her power hums inside her, happy to be back where it belongs. Her magic pulses, powerful, in the very air, she can almost taste it, sweet like honey.

She feels it; it prances, wanting to be used.

Soon.

If she doesn't want the sword to kill her, she must be able to channel it. She can't afford to lose even a bit of her power.

Aurora walks through the palace corridors. Each step echoes in the vast solitude of the place, a dull sound bouncing off the stone walls.

She feels like a ghost.

When she enters her old room, the dust dances in the air, tickling her nose, and everything seems unchanged, suspended in an eternal present.

The book she left on the nightstand is still there, a wooden sword sticks out from under the bed, a reminder of when war was a game, and the worst wounds were only inside her.

She doesn't even remember what it was like to be that child.

She leans on the bed, her eyes stinging. The shadows come out of their hiding places, humming with joy at being able to roam where they please.

Mathila wraps around her wrist in a reassuring grip.

You are not alone.

-.-

A cold hand touches her shoulder. Aurora's eyes snap open, a fierce growl escaping her lips. She grabs the stranger by the throat and slams him to the ground with a dull thud, straddling his chest.

She doesn't have a knife, but her teeth will do.

"Aurora!" Barjan's voice booms in the room, making her turn sharply. The person beneath her groans a muffled and desperate sound.

"What have you become?" Reagan groans, "Stone?"

Instantly, Aurora releases him. Her heart pounds fiercely in her chest. Reagan rises with effort, rubbing his reddened throat. Their eyes lock for a long moment, silence broken only by their ragged breathing.

He sighs, "I had forgotten."

She raises an eyebrow. "Forgotten what?"

"How beautiful you are."

Aurora scoffs and steps away, her footsteps echoing in the room. She looks at Barjan, who has made his way through the furniture, his imposing figure filling the space.

When she was young, she always considered him the tallest person in the world. Then she met Lorcan. And now Barjan doesn't seem so imposing anymore. Or maybe it's she who is no longer powerless.

Perhaps both.

His eyes, blue like the sky, hold her in place, as they always have. If Eris is the sun, Reagan and Barjan are the dawn and dusk that accompany him.

They smell of trees and dry leaves, of lilies and ginger. They smell so much of life that, for a moment, she feels dizzy.

"'Rora," Barjan says, smiling, his voice a deep rumble. She doesn't return the courtesy. His smile fades slightly. "You look well."

"What are you doing in my room?" she asks, ignoring any pleasantries. "Don't you know it's rude to wake a sleeping female?"

"Eris told us you arrived last night," Reagan says, his voice becoming an excited whisper. "Is it true you lived in Doranelle?"

Of all her brothers, Reagan has always been the most fascinated by stories from across the ocean.

As a child, he was the one who whispered to her about impossible soldiers and giant monsters. On one of those nights, she decided being a soldier was much better than being a princess.

(She should have told him to go to hell and learned to embroider like any respectable lady).

She sighs, "Yes."

"I have so many questions for you," he says excitedly. She bares her teeth, and he steps back slightly.

"Let's get one thing clear," Aurora says, her voice a hiss. "I'm not here for a walk down memory lane with you. I'm here because I need the Sword of Iris, which is currently in our mother's hands. As soon as I retrieve it, I'll return to Erilea."

"Eris told us about that too," Reagan mutters, his porcelain face blushing slightly, "I don't think it's a good idea," he looks away.

The only thing about Reagan that has always unnerved her: he has never dared to take a stand with anyone.

While her brothers fought for the throne, he avoided conflict and hid in his rooms to read poetry.

Not that he didn't want power, they all did. But he never had the tenacity to fight for it.

Even now, with her in front of him, he doesn't dare to tell her what he wants to say.

She scoffs, "Luckily, I don't care what you think," she retorts, "This isn't my first war, you know?"

Barjan scoffs, she gives him a sideways look, "What?"

"Two hundred years may have passed, but you're still the same girl angry at the world," he bares his teeth, "Too blind to listen to those who know more than you."

Barjan has always been a different tune. Perhaps the same as Eris—only they’ve always danced to different rhythms.

Eris is cautious, elegant, attentive to every detail; Barjan is a hurricane, a cataclysm that never backs down, no matter what he destroys around him.

That’s why Eris has always been the rightful ruler.

Arrogance always carries a price. For Barjan, it was the throne.

Fury rises within her. "And you know more than me, huh?" she growls, the temperature in the room skyrocketing. Barjan's eyes widen, and he takes a step back. Reagan swallows.

"Damn, I had forgotten," Reagan murmurs.

A knock on the door distracts them from their loving reunion, but she doesn't take her eyes off Barjan.

"Call me a child again, and you won't be able to walk anymore," she bares her teeth.

"I'm glad to see you've reunited," Eris's voice comes from the doorway. "Come on, breakfast is ready."

-.-

Duncan arrives in a flurry of black and iron, a menacing shadow against the sky.

Eris had told her that he is now in charge of the army.

‘We got rid of all of Beron's generals; someone had to replace them.’

She's not sure Duncan is the best choice. Soldiers can change loyalty like the most unfaithful of whores. The balance tips between who pays them more and their loyalty to Eris.

Something tells her it wouldn't take much to overthrow the fragile government they've built in these few years.

She has no intention of staying to see who wins.

Duncan looks her up and down, his hand on the hilt of his sword. "So, you're alive."

"Turns out I'm hard to kill."

-.-

Aurora scans the dining room. The last time she was here, she left it in flames.

She holds back a smile.

The family portrait is still there, untouched. Shame.

She’s not in it, of course. Beron never thought to commission a new one after she was born. They’re all there. Even Lucien.

Maybe her mother insisted. Or maybe Beron just didn’t care enough to spend gold hiding the face of the runaway son.

She’s surprised she never noticed the stranger’s face in the dining room portrait—at least not until she saw the same face again in the painting in Barjan’s study.

Her thoughts had been more focused on the fact that she wasn’t there.

Seeing all her brothers—even the ones she never met—gathered around their mother had made her heart feel as small as a glass marble.

Now, she’s deeply grateful not to be part of it.

Better to be the forgotten mistake than the name spoken out of duty.

Better to stay outside, where at least you can breathe.

The silence at the table is heavy, interrupted only by the sound of cutlery scraping plates. The air is full of tension as if every breath could shatter the fragile calm.

"Have you written to our mother?" she asks Eris, breaking the silence.

He swallows before answering, "I'll send her a letter first thing this afternoon."

Aurora nods in acknowledgment, "So, she left," she begins.

Duncan scoffs, the sound a mix of frustration and resignation. "She didn't even take her clothes: she just walked out the door and never came back," he sneers, "Now she's at the Day Court, living her best life with her favorite son."

Eris sneers, the disdain evident on his face, "No surprise she always preferred him to us; he didn't have Beron's blood."

Reagan lowers his gaze, his hands trembling slightly as he grips the table. He has always been the most attached to Nissa. The pain and suffering reflect in his liquid amber eyes, despite his face remaining a mask of salt.

"When she and Helion got married," Duncan says, clenching his jaw so tightly that the muscles in his neck strain, "We weren't invited to the ceremony, only to the dinner."

What an affront.

"Why weren't you invited to the ceremony?" she asks.

"Because no one wanted us there," Barjan says, his voice a low growl. "No one wanted the Vanserras to ruin their mother's happiest day," he mutters. "The dinner invitation was a pathetic move to avoid offending us. Well, it didn’t work."

"It's not her fault," Reagan says, his voice a whisper loaded with repressed emotion, "She suffered more than any of us at Beron's hands, she protected us as best she could," he lowers his head, "And our relationship with the other Courts has little to do with her, we all know that."

"Then why haven't you met her since she left, Reagan?" Eris asks irritably, his tone as sharp as a blade, "Maybe because you know her best wasn't good enough," he says provocatively.

"I said I understand her, not that I forgive her," Reagan retorts, his voice firm, "I'm just saying that if anyone has faced the true nature of the monster that was our father, it's her."

Silence.

"We are not made to be loved," Aurora sings, quoting a phrase Beron said many years before, "Only to be feared."

Duncan raises his glass, "To Beron," he says, "May his soul rot in hell."

Aurora, along with the others, raises her glass in response.

May you be damned for eternity, old bastard.

After a moment of tension-filled silence, she resumes chewing, the sound of food being crushed between teeth filling the air.

"I need to dock the ship," she says nonchalantly. "Does this court's port have a spot big enough?"

Reagan chokes on his wine. "What ship?"

"The one I arrived on," she scoffs. "Did you think I swam here from Erilea?" She looks at Eris. "My companions are waiting for my return."

"You joined the Doranelle fleet?" Duncan asks, frowning, "That's admirable."

"Yes," she shrugs, "But now we're under Terrasen's command."

"We'll make space," Eris reassures her, taking a sip of wine and glancing at her sideways, "I had no idea you liked the sea."

"How could you know?" she mutters, "The only time I left the Court was when I left for good."

Silence.

"'Rora,' Reagan begins, but she shakes her head.

"No," she says firmly, "I don't care what you have to say." She waves her hand. "When Nissa gives me the sword, I'll leave for Terrasen immediately,” her voice echoes in the deathly silence of the room. Her brothers don't dare move, even to eat.

"On that note," she continues, "If I don't survive, I've arranged for my body to be burned, and my ashes scattered at sea. You'll receive a letter informing you of my passing," she concludes, resuming eating calmly.

Reagan slams his cutlery down, the sharp clatter echoing through the room. He rises abruptly.
"Excuse me," he mutters and strides out. Aurora watches him until the heavy doors close behind him. Her jaw tightens.

Barjan keeps his eyes on his plate, lips pressed into a thin line. Duncan appears as indifferent as always, but his gaze never leaves her.

She wonders what he's thinking.

"Is that it?" Eris asks quietly. "A letter?" His eyes burn with words he hasn’t said, with things he never did. "Our little sister dies, and all we get is a damn letter?"

"It’s all you can have," she replies, her tone even.

"It’s not enough," Eris snaps. "A letter isn’t enough, Aurora."

"What should I do then?" Her voice hardens. "The sea voyage takes three weeks, Eris. Do you have any idea how disgusting a decomposing body gets? It's a mess, that's what it is."

"I don’t care," Eris growls. "Worms, no head, I don’t care. This is your home. I want you here." He looks at her, his eyes tormented, "I want a place where I can visit my sister when days are harder than usual. Can you at least grant us that?"

Aurora sighs, "Eris-"

"'Rora,' Barjan's voice interrupts her. She turns to look at him. Her brother's blue eyes shine slightly in the candlelight. He licks his lips. "Please."

If she's ever heard a plea, this is one.

It’s not that she truly cares. Once she’s gone, it won’t be her problem anymore. It’ll be her brothers who’ll have to deal with the aftermath, arguing with others, fighting over where Aurora should rest.

What does it matter?

She’ll be nothing but a shell, and the weight of grief won’t be hers to carry.

"Alright," she concedes, "I'll ask to be brought back to Prythian. To you."

Eris relaxes and nods quickly, "Thank you."

Duncan leans forward. "Do us a favor and stay alive," he says to her, "I've gone mad having only these three idiots for company. I don't want the number to drop by one permanently."

I'm sorry; I love you.

"I'll see what I can do."

I won't forgive you, and I hate you.

(I love you too.)

-.-

The afternoon is wrapped in a light sea mist as Aurora takes a rowboat to reach her men. The rhythmic and reassuring sound of the oars cutting through the water is accompanied by the salty scent of the sea filling the air.

"Change of plans, ladies!" she shouts, her voice rising above the rustling waves. "We need to dock."

Her men don't question her; they immediately get to work with the efficiency of those who have faced a thousand battles together. The wood of the ship creaks under their feet as they move quickly.

Aurora gestures for Wolly to follow her into her cabin, the sound of their footsteps echoing on the deck.

"We have a problem," she begins as soon as the door closes behind them, the wood creaking slightly. "I need to stay here for a few days."

Wolly chokes, coughing as he struggles to catch his breath from the sudden shock. “Aurora, we don’t have time,” he says, his voice rough and ragged, eyes shadowed by deep, dark circles. His dark hair is tousled, the unmistakable mark of sleepless nights, and his unkempt beard adds a weary neglect to his face.

Aurora understands—she hasn’t been sleeping well either.

“I know,” she growls, frustration thick in her tone. “But I’ve hit a setback. The sword isn’t where I thought it was.” She bites her lip, hesitant. “My brother promised to help me.”

"Where is it?" his eyes bore into her.

"My mother has it."

"The same mother who never cared about you?"

"Yeah."

"We're screwed."

-.-

"This ship is huge!" Reagan exclaims excitedly, "I've never seen one this big."

"It's a warship, Reagan," she replies in a bored tone as the wind tousles her hair. "It has to be big for the cannons."

(It's my fleet, I built it. Are you proud of me?)

"Even the Summer Court's ships have cannons," he retorts, "But they're not this big. How do you go fast with all this weight?"

She shrugs. "The Whitethorns can control the wind," she points to Alexus's silver hair as he pulls the sail, his muscles straining under his tanned skin. She smiles, "Weight has never been a problem."

The salty scent of the sea and the smell of salt-soaked wood fill the air while the wind carries the sound of flapping sails.

Reagan's eyes widen, as big as saucers. "It's magnificent," he sighs, looking around in wonder.

Aurora feels her eyes soften against her will.

Despite their less-than-happy history, Reagan is the sweetest thing she's ever dealt with.

He's always preferred poetry to swords, stories to actual battles.

Even when Beron's shadow loomed over them like a death sentence, Reagan had always wanted to see the beauty in the world.

This doesn't make him any less of a male; it makes him better than all of them.

But she'll never admit it out loud.

(She finds resentment reassuring in her life filled with stupid decisions).

-.-

The sun sets on the horizon, painting the sky in hues of gold and soft pink.

Aurora walks slowly along the dusty path winding through the village that borders the trail she once rode horseback upon.

Each step stirs a faint cloud of dust that settles on her worn boots. The air is heavy with the scent of damp earth and moldy wood. The only sounds are her labored breaths and the ticking of her shoes against the stones.

She remembers the children peeking shyly from windows to greet her, the women pausing from their trips to the well to smile warmly, and the little park bursting with flowers where she used to rest.

Now, the houses lie mostly in ruins. Empty windows stare out like lifeless eyes, watching the world with sorrow. One house’s roof has caved in, and the garden has become a tangled mess of decay.

So, this is Amarantha’s legacy, she thinks, ruins and silence.

Pressing onward, Aurora reaches the village square. At its center stands the stone fountain, though the water no longer flows. The statues adorning it are broken—some headless, others missing limbs. She sits on its edge and closes her eyes.

Her mind drifts to the face of a boy with a gentle smile.

She wonders if he still has a tongue to sing or if it was torn out, as beautiful things often vanish in the cruelty of war. She finds herself hoping that the only trace left of him in this world isn’t a dried daisy, left to gather dust for more than two hundred years.

As she rises to leave, the deadly silence is broken by the whistle of a familiar tune—a popular song whose words have long been forgotten.

-.-

"We haven’t talked about Amarantha yet," she says at dinner, her voice slicing through the silence like a knife.

Her brothers freeze, cutlery suspended mid-air. Eris pales, the color draining from his face.

"What do you want to know?" Barjan asks, voice tight. "She locked us under a mountain for fifty years."

"Oh, I know that," she replies, her tone nearly flippant, a stark contrast to the seriousness of the subject. "What I don’t understand is how one person managed to imprison High Lords and their entire courts. You were saved by an illiterate human girl. If I were you, I’d be humiliated."

"Watch your mouth," Duncan says coldly, his gaze like ice. "That illiterate human is now the High Lady of the Night."

"A title doesn't change history," she retorts. "One female locked you up, and another freed you. There's something poetic about that."

"What you find poetic," Eris says, his voice a low growl, "Is a female who devastated our cities, robbed us of everything, even our dignity." He growls at her, "You have no idea what you're talking about."

Maeve has made the Queen Under the Mountain piss herself.

In comparison, the deceased female seemed like a puppy angry at the world.

Amarantha had a purpose; Maeve is bored.

Aurora has a lot to say, but she doesn't have the strength or the desire to explain the disgusting turn her life has taken.

"You're right," she says instead, "I have no idea."

After all, what are fifty years of imprisonment compared to two hundred of slavery?

Just because you don't have walls doesn't mean you're free.

-.-

“Did you ever try to free us?" Duncan asks her.

"No," she says, brutally honest. Not a moment of hesitation.

Duncan nods, "I would have done the same."

-.-

That night, her feet led her to the North Wing.

Her footsteps echo in the silence, a solitary rhythm accompanying her thoughts. The air is cold and damp, carrying the scent of ancient stone and dust.

The shadows move quickly, finally free to fly as they wish. A part of her feels guilty for preventing them from manifesting as they want, but showing them to the world would raise a conversation with her brothers that she's not ready to face yet.

She stares at the painting, two hundred and fifty years old, and doesn't recognize herself. If she didn't have that day etched in her memory, she would call the painter a liar, one with so much imagination that he painted her with daisies in her hair and a sky-blue dress.

She would label him as mad for portraying her so innocently, with a porcelain face without blemishes and an untainted soul.

Now she is corrupted, broken, stained, and dirty.

The girl in the painting had dreams so big they couldn't be held in mortal hands. She gave them to the sky one night in a field of lilies and then buried them along with her companions in the bloody soil of a battlefield.

It was the day when the consequences of her actions hit her so hard they took her breath away.

(When everything collapsed around her, she genuinely believed someone should have sent her a signal, a warning of how dangerously she was sinking).

She considers herself foolish for not realizing it in time when she could have stepped back and run even further away.

Yet, she doesn't find the strength to regret it.

Besides being a liar, she's also greedy. For what, she's not sure. She only knows she can't satisfy that hunger that demands more.

And maybe that's precisely the problem with the damned like her.

When you no longer have a soul to feed, nothing can satisfy you.

-.-

Nissa responds to Eris's letter the next morning.

The paper is glossy, an ivory white that reflects the sunlight streaming through the window. The emblem of the Day Court stands out in relief, golden and shiny, while elegant black calligraphy winds sinuously along the page.

She writes that she would be delighted to speak with Aurora over lunch in a week. Enclosed with the letter is a formal invitation to Annabelle's birthday party scheduled for two weeks later.

The invitation is only for Aurora. There is no mention of the sword.

Her mother is an idiot if she thinks Aurora will stay in Prythian for a stupid party.

"What game is she playing?" Aurora asks Eris irritably. "What's the point of inviting me to her half-breed niece's birthday?"

Eris gives her a sideways look. "I'd advise you to avoid such language in their presence. You wouldn't be welcomed."

"You know what I give a crap about," she mutters, frowning at the paper as if it had committed the gravest offense against her life. "I don't want to go."

"You have to," Eris retorts. "Go there, have lunch with our mother, and return with the sword. Just be nice to her."

"It's more likely I'll learn to fly than start treating her nicely," she says, her face tense and hands nervously gripping the edge of the letter.

She knows Eris is right, but the idea of facing her mother fills her with a mix of anger and frustration. She didn't cross the continent to attend a damn birthday party.

She's regretting every choice made in the last hundred years.

"Fine, I'll go," she says firmly. "If she does something I don't like, I can always stab her."

"That's the right spirit."

-.-

Aurora is in the ship's hold, surrounded by crates of supplies and barrels of fresh water. The salty smell of the sea mixes with the damp wood and stored spices. The sound of waves crashing against the hull is a constant, almost hypnotic background.

As she arranges the last supplies, she hears light footsteps approaching. She turns and sees Barjan, his red hair shining in the dim lantern light, his blue eyes like pieces of the sky on a stormy night.

"Do you want to take a walk?" Barjan asks, his voice low and uncertain.

She hesitates, the weight of a broken relationship crushing her like a sick ant. Barjan sways in anticipation, tilting his head hopefully.

She doesn't know what she sees in that look, but she can sense the sacredness of the moment. She breathes it in the salty air surrounding them, in her brother's eyes, and in the time that starts to flow more slowly, like in slow motion.

So, she nods and lets him lead her onto the deck.

They walk in silence for a while, the cold wind tousling their hair. Barjan stops near the railing, looking at the horizon. "I'm sorry," he finally says, his voice barely a whisper.

Aurora clicks her tongue, "That's all you know how to say," she says, "I'm sorry," she mimics her brother, "I don't give a damn about your apologies," she leans against the stern mast, continuing to look at the horizon, "I don't know what to do with them because more than two centuries have passed, and I've moved on. And so have you, without me."

"That doesn't mean I'm not sorry for how things went between us," Barjan retorts, irritated, "I'm sorry I did nothing that night, and I'm sorry I lived all this time without you in my life," he says passionately, "I wasn't there with you, Aurora, and I'm sorry. I'll never stop saying it."

She exhales slowly and rests her head on the wood, "I hate you to death," she murmurs, "I hate you all so much I can't put it into words. You let Beron erase me, confine me," her brother's eyes shine with unshed tears, "And yet, I can't find the strength to hurt you," she reflects.

Her declaration of hatred is sincere, but so is her affection. It's an internal conflict that torments her but also defines her.

When Aurora tells Barjan that she hates and loves them simultaneously, she's not just stating a fact. She's expressing the duality of her existence.

“Every time the desire for revenge threatens to consume me,” she says, her voice cold, measured, “I remember the ginger ointment you used on the bruises Beron left. I remember Eris teaching me to read. Reagan, who never once hid how much he loved me.”

She lets out a sharp, bitter laugh. “And Duncan—he was the first to put a sword in my hand. Everything I’ve become, I built on what you all gave me.”

She looks at him, eyes hard. “I’m tired of being angry. But I can’t stop. Do you understand that?”

He nods, quietly. “If anyone in this family ever needed protecting, it was you. When you lost control, we got scared.” He swallows. “So, we let him put that abomination on your wrist. I won’t forgive myself for that.” He glances at her, hesitant. "You deserved more than a family like ours."

"You're right," she says, "I deserved much more."

With a breath that catches slightly in his throat, he steps forward. He hesitates, just a flicker of uncertainty, a pause that says more than words ever could, before wrapping his arms around her.

"I missed you," he murmurs, his voice rough, like it’s been scraped raw by time and silence.

Aurora stays still, rigid in his embrace. Then, with slow, deliberate movement, she tilts her head slightly, bringing her lips close to his ear.  

“Try something like that again, and I’ll burn you where you stand. Clear?”

Barjan stiffens. “Yes.”

“Good.”

-.-

Aurora hears him before she sees him.

His footsteps fall with deliberate precision—too measured to be accidental, too steady to be indifferent. Duncan has never needed haste to command presence.

“Care to spar?” he asks.

His voice is calm, restrained, always holding something just beneath the surface.

“Why?”

“To see how much you’ve changed.”

She studies him briefly. There’s nothing to decipher: Duncan’s expression remains steady, serious. But his gaze sizes her up, and that is enough.

“Very well.”

Duncan draws his sword with effortless grace, as natural as adjusting a collar.

Aurora stands unarmed.

“Not taking a weapon?” he asks, one eyebrow slightly raised.

“I don’t need one.”

He strikes first. A low, cautious cut. She shifts slightly—barely a movement, but it’s enough.

He presses forward. Two swift slashes, then a twisting strike aimed at her throat. But Aurora is already elsewhere.

Her movements are precise, fluid, like the body of a dancer who has rehearsed every step a thousand times.

Duncan quickens the pace. Each blow is faster, sharper. No longer testing but probing for a weakness.

Aurora does not retreat. She flows with him, anticipating every step, responding to every motion, her movements controlled. She doesn't push too hard; it's more of a warm-up for her, but her brother is quick enough to keep her entertained.

Then Aurora sees it.

A sliver of opening. A subtle tilt of his wrist. She moves.

Her hand grips his forearm, her hips pivot sharply, and with a clean, decisive motion, she unbalances him.

Duncan falls.

Aurora remains standing, breath steady, eyes calm. She looks down at him.

He lies on the ground and then meets her gaze.

“I didn’t know soldiers fought like this in Doranelle.”

Not a challenge, but a quiet statement. Yet in his pale eyes flickers an unspoken question.

Aurora lifts the corner of her mouth, a faint, knowing smile.

“Only me.”

Without a flicker of hesitation, she pivots and sends a precise, brutal kick to the side of his head. The impact lands with merciless grace, Duncan’s neck snaps back, his skull slamming against the ground.

His eyes flutter once, then roll shut.

Silence.

“Not so nice getting hit when you're not expecting it, is it, brother?” she murmurs, speaking to the unmoving body before her.

What a shame to have thrown the bracelet into the sea.

It would have looked good on Duncan’s wrist.

-.-

Lumaris has always been her favorite village in the entire Court.

The streets are alive with merchants displaying their goods, voices overlapping in a chaotic chorus. The scent of freshly cut wood blends with exotic spices and freshly baked bread, creating a warm and inviting aroma.

Aurora wanders through the market stalls, each step revealing something new. The wood carvings capture her attention, telling the stories of Lumaris's artisans. Each carved figure seems to have its own life, a hidden story in the polished wood.

As she bends over a statuette of a phoenix, the colors of the sunset reflect on its surface, creating fascinating plays of light. The setting sun bathes the village in a warm orange glow, casting long shadows on the stone walls of the houses. The market crowd is a bustling river, the hum of conversations blending with the inviting scent of spices and freshly baked bread.

A movement at the edge of her vision catches her attention. She turns slowly, curiosity piqued. An Illyrian male, who seems out of place. His dark hair is like a shadow against the sky, and his hazel eyes scrutinize everything with an unsettling calm. From her position, Aurora can see the hands scarred by silver streaks that wrap around him like jewelry.

His black wings, majestic and imposing, would be impossible to ignore if it weren't for—

Well, fuck.

Shadowsinger.

Her breath catches. A shiver runs down her spine as she watches him. It's as if time has stopped, leaving only him and the twilight around him.

She has never seen another Shadowsinger before. 

Aurora leans against the wall, partially hiding. She wants to study the secrets hidden among the shadows and hear their whispers as if they were hers.

Her palms begin to sweat, and she feels short of breath. Every fiber of her being screams to get closer to him, touch him, and feel him nearby.

(She wants to ask him if he also struggles to control his shadows.

If people fear him as much as they fear her.)

Aurora takes a trembling step back, her shadows stirring, mirroring her emotion.

"We have to go," William says, bringing her to reality.

"Just a moment," the whisper is lost in the wind.

She follows his figure until he disappears around the corner. Her legs tremble, and she collapses against the wall, her body hitting the ground.

"Aurora," William crouches beside her, concerned, "Are you okay?"

She licks her lips and swallows, looking at where the male disappeared.

"I don't know."

-.-

“So that’s where you come from,” she whispers into the darkness. “And you walked away from all that beauty?”

Mathila spins, wordless, like the memory of a forgotten song.

-.-

Aurora doesn't tell William, but the next day, she returns to Lumaris.

She heads to the market, retracing exactly the steps of the day before, until she positions herself in the same spot where she had seen him. The sun is high in the sky, and the shadows stretch lazily as the hours pass.

As the day progresses, the market comes to life and empties, the voices fade, and the stalls are dismantled, a clap of thunder rumbling in the distance.

She stays until the sun sets, and her teeth chatter from the cold and rain.

The Shadowsinger never arrives.

-.-

She returns to the ship, cold and drenched.

Distant voices catch her attention. Laughter and shouts irritate her ears. She flings open the door and finds her men playing cards with Eris and Reagan.

She doesn't have the strength to deal with this.

"You cheated!" Lucas yells at Reagan, "There's no way you won that many times in a row!"

"Looks like someone can't handle losing," Reagan sings smugly, "Want a rematch?"

"What's going on here?" Aurora asks, entering the room. Her men stand up abruptly, nearly knocking over their chairs in their attempt to come to attention.

The room is in chaos. The tables are covered with playing cards, half-empty glasses, and liquor bottles. Scraps of food and bits of paper are scattered on the floor, and the air is heavy with the smoke of candles burned down to the base.

"Commander, play with us!" Alexus shouts, "Lucas is losing all his money to your brother."

She shakes her head. "Not tonight."

"Sorry guys, but we and your Commander need to talk," Eris smiles acidly, "Don't you think, sister?"

Reagan gives her a meaningful look. Aurora groans internally, another thing she hadn't anticipated. She's losing control, and she doesn't like it.

She turns to look at her brothers; the smile gives way to a cold stare. "I think so," she says through gritted teeth, "Come with me," she orders, her tone brooking no argument.

Ramos whistles softly, "Someone's in trouble," he whispers to Joshua, who starts to chuckle.

Aurora spins around to face them, and they immediately stop laughing. "Clean up this mess," she growls, "Or when I come back, you'll be scrubbing the deck with your tongues, I don't care if it's the middle of the night." She slams the door behind her.

She looks at her siblings furiously. "Why are you here?" she snaps, striding towards her room, her brothers following quickly.

"We didn't see you today, so we came to find you," Reagan says, following her through the door, "But you weren't here, and your men were playing cards, Fleet Commander," he spreads his arms to indicate the large study that incorporates her room, "I think you owe us some explanations."

She collapses into the chair, "I don't owe you anything," mutters, "I didn't think it was important for you to know."

Eris snorts incredulously, "You didn't think it was important to tell us you're one of Aelin Galathynius's generals?" he asks, "You told us you were part of a fleet, not that you command it."

"I told you everything that matters," she replies calmly, "Our cousin needs help, and I was tired of serving that lunatic Maeve. When I switched to Terrasen, my men followed me," she waves her hand nonchalantly.

"Do you realize how absurd this situation is?" Eris asks, shaking his head in disbelief, "You have an army, and you didn't tell us.” He spreads his hands as if to grasp something invisible, "What numbers are we talking about?"

Aurora hums thoughtfully, "When I left them, there were two hundred," she says, "Maybe fewer now, I don't know what's happening on the other side of the continent."

"That's why you don't want our soldiers," Reagan reflects, "You already have your own to think about."

She nods, "These people have been fighting together for over a century, and they're good. Adding outsiders would increase our numbers, but they don't know those lands as we do, nor do they understand our strategies. They’d only waste our time. Besides, if I arrived with a fleet of ships, it would draw attention. I want to rely on the element of surprise," she concludes, "I don't want them to see us coming."

Eris raises an eyebrow, "I'm impressed," he says, "I still think it's stupid that you don't want more men, they could come in handy."

She shrugs, "The Shadow's Fleet has never lost a battle," she says proudly, "I don't intend to change that."

Reagan suddenly chokes on his saliva, "Excuse me," he croaks, "Did you say, Shadow's Fleet?"

Eris puts his head in his hands, muttering curses in her direction.

Aurora furrows her brow, "You know it?" she asks, confused.

"Everyone knows it!" her brother explodes, "You're the commander of the fucking Shadow's Fleet?" he widens his eyes and looks at his feet. "Oh, holy Cauldron," he whispers, "I'm inside the Shadow's Fleet," he squeaks.

"Technically, you're inside a ship."

"It's the same thing!" he exclaims, "If this is a dream, don't wake me up," he murmurs reverently. In front of Aurora's incredulous gaze, her brother starts looking around, the perplexed look from before replaced by completely enamored eyes.

She turns her gaze to Eris, who still has his face in his hands.

"What's his problem?" she asks.

"He's a fan."

"I have so many questions," Reagan says, "So many."

"Breathe, Reagan," Eris tells him, "You're making a fool of yourself."

Reagan lunges at him and grabs his arms, "Our sister is the commander of the best fleet in the world, Eris," he whispers frantically, "I'm allowed to freak out."

"We're not the best fleet in the world," Aurora denies, "Our best strategy is to improvise and hope for the best. I've lost count of all the times we've almost died."

"The Summer Court has been trying for years to replicate your battles, just to understand how you managed to win in situations of complete disadvantage," Reagan says, his eyes shining, "You're a legend," he concludes warmly.

Aurora raises her hands, almost frightened by her brother's reaction, looking to Eris for help, but the bastard doesn't seem willing to intervene. He stares at the ground, looking like he's been hit on the head. Suddenly, he snaps his head up and meets her eyes.

"Aurora," he begins, "I need you to be completely honest with me," he says, "Are you part of the Cadre?"

Reagan, still clinging to Eris's arms, nearly faints. He grips it tighter as if his life depended on it. He turns his head slowly in her direction.

"Are you?" he asks softly, his eyes wide as saucers.

Aurora sighs.

"Yes," she admits.

Reagan makes a sound like a dying animal and lunges towards her, causing her to recoil in fear. But her brother grabs her hands, "Forget what I wanted to ask about the fleet," he says frantically, "Tell me everything you can about the Cadre. How are you chosen? They say you're an army; how many are you? How - "

"Okay, enough," she interrupts sharply, "Stop it right now," she pulls away from his grip violently, "control yourself."

"Sorry," her brother's breath is labored, "It's incredible."

"Impressive indeed," says Eris, "How did you do it?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

“Oh, come on,” Reagan pleads. “All the books I’ve read barely mention you.”

“Thank the Gods for that,” Aurora snaps, her eyes blazing with fury. “A blood oath takes everything from you, even the freedom to choose. For centuries, I was nothing but Maeve’s puppet.”

She pauses, licking her dry, cracked lips. “The things she made me do. She—” Aurora grits her teeth, cutting herself off.

“No, Reagan. I don’t want to talk about it.”

The silence hangs heavy, almost alive—thick as a fog that doesn’t just obscure the path, but makes you forget there ever was one. Moments ago, Reagan’s spirit burned with wonder. Now he stands hollow-eyed, lost in a quiet storm of disbelief and pain.

Time falters. The universe seems to hold its breath, drawn to the gravity of her words. In that suspended sliver of eternity, Aurora feels something shift inside her. A burden loosens, if only slightly.

For the first time, she dares to give voice to the shame she has carried in silence.

She stands before those who helped unravel her life and admits to being weak.

(How ironic, don't you think?)

Reagan opens his mouth, then closes it again, pressing his lips together.

He turns toward the large map Aurora has pinned to the main wall. It’s covered with small colored flags—red, black, purple, green, and blue—alongside hastily scribbled notes: tactical ideas, potential maneuvers, and countermoves.

“What do the red flags mean?” Reagan asks, stepping closer.

“They mark the witches,” Aurora replies, rising and joining him.

Eris follows, moving to stand on her other side.

“They’re allies of Morath,” she continues, pointing to the black flags. “Here,” she gestures to the barren territory that once belonged to the Ironteeth Clans, “this was their homeland. But the land went sterile. Everything started to die. They say a Crochian witch cursed it before she was killed.”

Her fingers trace the map lightly. “The Ironteeth scattered across the continent, though they never strayed far from the ruined lands. And when magic vanished, so did they—from the mortal realms, at least. Morath promised them their land back. I don’t know how Erawan intended to manage that—but in return for their allegiance, he gave them something. Flying, fire-spitting monsters, crafted for war.”

She glances at her brothers. “A witch on a broom is bad enough. But an entire army of them with aerial weapons?” She shakes her head. “That’s a nightmare.”

“I have even more questions now,” Reagan mutters, frowning. “Witches fly?”

“Yes,” she confirms, “but that’s not what makes them dangerous. Their teeth sharpen into blades. Their hands become iron claws. An angry witch will gut you clean in two,” she says grimly.

“I’ve never met one,” she adds, pointing toward the purple flags scattered across Doranelle. “They’ve never crossed the Great Ocean—not to Wendlyn, not to Doranelle. Small mercies, I suppose.”

Her hand sweeps back to Erilea, landing on a cluster of blue flags.

“Adarlan,” she murmurs. “The new King, Dorian Havilliard, is our ally now. But his father…” She trails off, shaking her head. “He was a tyrant. Built prison camps, locked away anyone who wouldn’t bow to his rule, especially people from Eyllwe.”

She points to the southern part of the map.

“It started small. A few prisoners of war. No one important. Then it grew—an entire people, then a whole kingdom. Adarlan’s forces invaded Terrasen in the dead of night. They butchered the royal family. Only Aelin survived. She was eight when she fled.”

Her voice softens to a whisper. “You should’ve seen Orynth in its prime. It was breathtaking. Like something from a dream.”

Her jaw tightens. “It took just one night to destroy it all. One night to wipe one of the greatest kingdoms from the world.”

Her fingers brush the map, resting gently on the worn edges. “Maeve stopped us from helping,” she says, her voice sharpening. “We stood by while Adarlan built its empire, year after year, and did nothing.”

She stares at the faded ink.

“I did nothing.”

Eris touches her shoulder, "You couldn't have done anything anyway."

“I know,” she exhales, her fingers curling into a fist. “But that’s why I’m here.” Her voice hardens. “Maeve and Morath have no intention of letting Aelin take the throne.”

She huffs a breath, eyes distant. “You should see her. So young, and yet her power… it makes the stars tremble. And still, she doesn’t crave conquest. All she wants is to go home and to free Erilea from its oppressors.”

Aurora looks up, fire simmering behind her gaze. “I believe a fairer world can be born through her, and I have no intention of turning my back on that.”

"And the other Cadres?" Eris asks cautiously, "Are they with her?"

"Not all of us," she murmurs, "But even if we were, we're only seven."

She looks at Reagan, whose eyes widen slightly. "We're not an army, and we're not invincible. This could end badly, which is why I need the Sword."

"What will you do with it?" Reagan asks.

Aurora's eyes fix on Doranelle. With a determined gaze, she presses her fingertip against the faded writing. Wisps of smoke curl up from the map, swirling around her hand. When she finally withdraws her finger, a burnt hole remains where the Golden City once stood.

"I’ll burn them all.”

-.-

“I can’t believe you kept this from us,” Barjan says, a mixture of disbelief and irritation in his voice. “Got any other secrets you’re hiding?”

Aurora shrugs lightly, unfazed. “Nothing that would interest you.”

Barjan bristles, but his vehemence feels clumsier than threatening. After four hundred years, you’d expect a bit more finesse in one’s insults.

Duncan takes a calm sip of wine, eyes fixed on the glass, though a faint trace of joy flickers behind his steady gaze.

“I fought a Cadre and walked away alive,” he murmurs, more to himself than the room. “I’m invincible.”

-.-

The capital of the Day Court is so like Doranelle that for a moment, Aurora thinks she never left Erilea.

Diurmin is a city of majestic golden palaces, their facades reflecting the sunlight in an almost blinding glare. Each building seems to compete in splendor with the next, creating a panorama of opulence that makes her uneasy. The streets are wide and paved with white marble, with bubbling fountains and well-tended gardens adding a touch of green and freshness.

(She almost expects Maeve to jump out from behind a corner and tear her throat out.)

"Aurora," her mother's voice reaches her from behind like a death sentence. She stiffens, feeling a shiver down her spine. "It's been a long time."

She sighs, trying to calm herself. "Mother," she turns to meet Nissa's blue eyes. There is a strange feeling of familiarity and distance at the same time. "I must say your invitation surprised me."

Nissa is as beautiful as ever. Aurora has never understood how people could say they looked alike. Nissa is elegance personified, with her graceful movements and regal bearing. On the other hand, Aurora feels as rigid as a sword, always ready to fight.

Her mother smiles, a small and trembling thing, "How are you?" Nissa asks, her voice betraying a slight hesitation.

The question takes her by surprise. Nissa never cared, and Aurora grew and grew until she learned how to live in the shadows. That was their relationship; they didn’t care for each other.

(She would like it to stay that way, thank you very much).

"I'm fine," she says calmly, maintaining a neutral tone. Her mother gestures for her to sit at the table, and she does so calmly, trying not to show the tension she feels inside. "I heard about the wedding," she says, "congratulations."

"Thank you," Nissa smiles, "we both wanted it for a long time."

"And where is your adorable husband?" Aurora asks, trying to keep the conversation light.

"I thought it would be better if we had lunch just the two of us," her mother says, "we have a lot to talk about."

Aurora raises an eyebrow, feeling a wave of suspicion. "Is that why you invited me? To talk?" She leans forward, trying to read Nissa's intentions. "Did you think I would come here, and we would do what? Have a loving chat about the years spent apart?"

Nissa looks away, and Aurora notices a shadow of sadness in her eyes. "Is it so bad that I want to see my daughter after two hundred years?"

"It wouldn't be bad," Aurora replies, feeling a knot in her stomach, "if I were your daughter."

"You are," Nissa says firmly, "you are all my children," she clasps her hands around her dress.

"Curious," Aurora sings, feeling a wave of bitterness, "the last time I saw you, you agreed to lock me in a political marriage. Not exactly what a loving mother would do."

"I made mistakes," Nissa admits, lowering her gaze, "but that marriage was your chance to leave."

"I created my chance," Aurora says calmly, feeling the anger rise within her. "I should thank you; if you had loved me, I might never have had the courage to leave," she smiles bitterly, "and I would still be like Reagan: crying over your fucking ghost.” She narrows her eyes. “Do you remember him, right?"

Nissa swallows, and Aurora notices the trembling of her lips. "I love you. And I love your brothers," she says, "it wasn't easy for me."

"Don't play the victim card," she points a finger at her, feeling her hand tremble slightly, "Take responsibility for your actions. You're here, beautiful and happy, with your new family, your favorite son, and a husband who loves you. You didn't care at all about the ruins you left behind," she claps her hands in a derisive applause, feeling a wave of satisfaction, "you couldn't have done worse even if you tried."

Nissa looks down, her lip trembling slightly. "Aurora," she begins. "I'm sorry," she sobs.

"Cut it out," Aurora bursts out, feeling the anger turn into a dull pain. "It's not me you should apologize to," she points out. She waves her hand, trying to stay calm. "You and I have nothing to talk about."

Her mother sobs silently, her hand gripping the porcelain cup. "I tried," she moans softly. "I wrote hundreds of letters to your brothers. I apologized so many times I've lost count." She wipes her eyes with a silk handkerchief. "They never responded."

"You didn't invite them to your wedding," Aurora retorts incredulously, feeling a wave of disbelief. "You're surprised they never responded? That was horrible of you."

"I thought they wouldn't come!" Nissa retorts, "The relations between the Autumn Court and the others are at best stormy. Your father made sure of that," she mutters, "and your brothers certainly didn't improve them. Only the Cauldron knows how many fights broke out during meetings because Eris can't keep his mouth shut."

"They have a bad temper," Aurora concedes, "but they would have come. Because they are your children and they love you, even Duncan."

Nissa scoffs, "The only person they've ever loved is you," she shakes her head, "They searched for you for months. Even when it became clear you weren't coming back, I know for sure that Eris would disappear from time to time to look for you," she looks at her from under her eyelids, "but you were very far away, weren't you?"

"Doranelle," Aurora says.

Her mother widens her eyes, then bursts out laughing. "Doranelle," she repeats softly, "such a long journey, all alone." She smiles sadly. "It must have been frightening."

"It was for a while, then it wasn't anymore." She adjusts herself in the chair, not knowing what to say. "I became a soldier," she admits uncertainly, "and now I'm under Queen Aelin's command, in Terrasen."

(See, mother? I can be more than a wife.)

"You always liked playing with swords," Nissa sings thoughtfully, "and reading. You were always hiding in Eris's study, studying his maps,” her gaze dropping to the floor, “I should have done more. I know that. But I didn’t have the strength.”

Her eyes lift again, full of quiet sorrow.

“You were strong enough for both of us. You left and never looked back. And I’m proud of you for that.”

She wipes her tears with a handkerchief. "I'm sorry and I'm proud that you are my daughter." She suddenly leans forward and grabs her hand. "Even if you say you're not."

Aurora sighs deeply, feeling a tumult of conflicting emotions inside her: compassion and anger mixed, creating a tight knot in her chest.

"I can't imagine how hard it was for you," she says, trying to keep her voice steady and controlled. "But that doesn't change anything. You're a stranger to me," she admits sincerely.

Nissa lowers her gaze, and Aurora sees a shadow of pain in her eyes.

Without overthinking, she reaches out and takes her mother's hand. Nissa's fingers are cold and trembling, and Aurora feels a shiver run down her spine. "Thank you for your words, they mean a lot," she says, trying to convey some warmth through the contact.

Your weak heart will be the death of you. Lorcan's voice echoes in her mind, annoyingly familiar and bothersome at the same time.

"I hope that with time you'll be able to forgive me," her mother murmurs, her voice broken with emotion.

"If I ever come back, you'll be free to try."

Nissa widens her eyes. "Are you leaving again?"

"There are unresolved issues I need to take care of," she hints with a smile. "Nothing you need to worry about."

I’m going to die, do you care?

If you knew, would you try to stop me?

"I know Eris told you about Iris's Sword," she says, trying to change the subject. "Will you give it to me?"

"It's yours, Aurora," her mother says, shaking her head. "I have no intention of depriving you of what is rightfully yours. I took that sword more to spite Beron's memory. I never really cared about it."

Aurora chuckles despite herself, "I bet he turned in his grave."

"I certainly hope so," Nissa admits cheerfully, with a smile that lights up her face. "A female owning a sword? He would have died on the spot." Her smile quickly fades, replaced by a serious expression. "I would feel better if you asked Annabelle’s permission before taking it."

"Mother-"

"I'll give it to you regardless of whether she agrees or not. It's yours, that will never change. But Annabelle has fire in her blood, too, so it's also hers," Nissa points out, with a determined tone and a firm look. "Please, talk to her."

Aurora sighs deeply, lowering her gaze. "Fine."

If she can lead an army, she can negotiate with a five-year-old.

Right?

"Excellent!" her mother exclaims cheerfully, clapping her hands. "I'll arrange for an extra place at dinner."

Nissa walks away with a determined step, her movements fluid and confident. Aurora follows her, a bit reluctantly, observing her mother with a mix of confusion and concern.

"I never agreed to stay for dinner," Aurora murmurs, shaking her head slightly.

"Lucien and Elain are at the Night Court, unfortunately, but I'm sure you'll get to meet them." Nissa claps her hands excitedly, her eyes sparkling with joy. "You'll get along, I’m sure."

"I don't think meeting Lucien is wise. I told Eris I'd be back by evening and-"

"You still like chicken, right?" Nissa interrupts, not giving her daughter a chance to respond.

Aurora tries to stop her, reaching out a hand towards her, but Nissa is already in motion.

"Mother, listen-"

"Hurry, dear, there's no time to lose. We need to get you ready," Nissa says, gently grabbing her arm and pulling her towards her.

"There are hours until dinner!" Aurora protests, trying to free herself from her mother's grip.

"That hair needs more than a few hours. How long has it been since you combed it?"

-.-

"If you touch my hair, I’ll cut your hands off."

"Don’t threaten the maids!"

"Too late."

-.-

In her defense, she has no idea how it happened.

One moment she was arguing with her mother, and the next she found herself at the table with a little girl who won't keep her mouth shut.

Her red hair contrasts with her slightly golden skin from the Court of Day. Annabelle's curious grey eyes watch her with rapt attention. Her quick mouth opens every second, revealing the small, sharp teeth barely emerging from her gums.

Annabelle would be adorable if only she stayed silent.

"Grandma says you're a soldier. Is that true?"

"Yes."

"Do you train a lot?"

"Yes."

"You're beautiful. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"Yes."

"Are you married?"

"No."

"How many people have you killed?"

"That's enough, Annabelle," Nissa interrupts. "Let your aunt breathe."

Aurora suppresses a shiver and looks at the tiny person with barely concealed disgust. This child, blood of her blood, daughter of a brother she has never met, and granddaughter of the male standing before her.

Helion, like all High Lords, is beautiful. His dark skin contrasts with the white tunic he is wrapped in. The thick gold bracelets reflect annoyingly in the candlelight.

"So, Aurora," Helion begins, "I always thought your mother exaggerated about your beauty, but I must reconsider." He squeezes Nissa's hand. "I can imagine where you inherited it from."

Her mother blushes, "Oh, stop it," she murmurs embarrassedly. Helion chuckles and leans in to give her a passionate kiss. "You're the most beautiful of all," he says, his lips on hers.

Please, someone kill me.

"Gross! I'm eating, Grandpa!" Annabelle dramatically points to her plate.

Thanks to the childish mood of children, who can say anything without ever being punished.

Hellion chuckles, "I apologize, Firefly." he winks at her, "I can't help myself when I have your grandma next to me."

"Mom and Dad get all sticky too," she grumbles annoyedly. "I don't understand why you need to kiss so much."

"You'll understand when you're older."

"Mom says the same thing." She frowns and then turns to Aurora, "Have you ever kissed someone, Aunt Aurora?"

She chokes on the wine she's drinking and starts coughing uncontrollably. "Oh," she gasps. "Um," she looks at her mother for help, but Nissa seems very interested in the answer, her eyes shining in anticipation.

"Yes," she admits uncertainly, "I've kissed someone."

Annabelle leans forward interestedly, "Who?" she asks, "Was he handsome?" 

"Very," she says embarrassedly, "His name is Kail; he's one of the princes of Doranelle." 

Her mother lets out a small, half-mouthed scream, "A prince?" she asks excitedly, "Tell me everything." 

Annabelle furrows her little eyebrows. "If you kissed him, why didn't you marry him?" Her big eyes look at her innocently.

Aurora takes a deep breath, unable to calm down. She doesn't want to talk about what she and Kail did in their free time, especially not with her mother.

"Being a soldier is a demanding job," she says through gritted teeth, "I don't have time for marriage."

"You can be a soldier and a wife at the same time, Aurora," her mother points out. "Having someone to come home to is as important as winning a battle."

"I don't need to get married, Mother," she retorts with so much venom that if she spat, it would corrode the table.

"What a silly thought!" Nissa retorts, "Have you never thought about having children? Think how beautiful they would be with a mother like you."

She slams the glass on the table; Nissa jumps at the noise. "Stop it," she hisses, "I don't want to get married. Or wasn't it clear enough when I left? I don't need a husband to be happy; I'm not you."

Nissa lowers her gaze. "I'm sorry."

"You shouldn't have said that." Helion's voice makes her turn in his direction. His jaw is clenched, and his cold eyes hold her in place. "Nissa is trying, Aurora."

"High Lord, with all due respect, stay out of it," she growls back. "The fact that you're married to her doesn't give you the right to interfere in my relationship with my mother. I have every reason to talk to her as I do; she knows it well." She bares her teeth.

"Aren't you tired of holding grudges?" Helion mocks her back. "You're an adult now; you've lived a life away from this place. It seems unfair to still accuse your mother of what happened when you were young. Especially when the blame falls on those damned brothers of yours."

The warmth of the room begins to rise gradually. She can feel her hands itching with the need to burn something.

She points a finger at him: “Dare say even one word about my brothers,” she murmurs darkly, “And you'll find yourself without the tongue.”

“I have no idea how you can defend them. They are insufferable-”

The flames of the candles rise alarmingly, trapping Helion in place as he stands paralyzed by the sudden heat.

“Shut up.”

“Enough!” cries Nissa, tears streaking down her face. “Please stop,” she sobs, standing up, trembling. “I need a moment,” and runs away; the sound of her steps echoes in the room.

Aurora moves to follow, but Hellion blocks her with a decisive gesture. “You've done enough,” he growls; his eyes blazing as he follows his wife.

“You made Grandma cry.”

Fuck, she forgot about Annabelle.

"I'm sorry," she says, her voice cracking. "You shouldn't have witnessed this."

"You threatened to hurt Grandpa." Aurora pinches her nose, trying to hold back her nerves.

"Sometimes I say stupid things when I'm angry."

"Do you get angry often?"

"Yes," she admits.

"I don't like it when you're angry, Aunt Aurora. You're much prettier when you smile."

"Thank you," she murmurs, embarrassed.

"You should apologize to Grandma and Grandpa," Annabelle continues with surprising wisdom. "And Grandpa should apologize to you because he insulted your brothers. That wasn't nice."

"No, it wasn't," Aurora murmurs, feeling small. "I'm sorry, Annabelle. I'll try not to get angry with Grandma anymore."

Annabelle pats her lightly on the arm. "It's okay. I get angry too. Once, I set one of Aunt Feyre's portraits on fire. Dad grounded me for a week," she says candidly, "Just apologize."

She's taking life lessons from a five-year-old. How pathetic she's become.

"Annabelle," she says, "I need to ask you something. I know Grandma had promised you her sword.”

The child's eyes light up. "Yes," she says excitedly, "When I'm big enough, Uncle Cassian said he would train me. I want to be the best soldier in all of Prythian."

Aurora's heart skips a beat. "Well, here's the thing," She hesitates, "I need that sword. It's been in the Vanserra family for many years," she tells her, "I was supposed to have it, but then I left, and it stayed behind."

Annabelle tilts her head, her eyes squinting in confusion. "So, you came to see Grandma just because you want her sword?" she asks. "Not because you wanted to spend time with her?"

Aurora opens and closes her mouth like a fish, unable to respond.

This little brat.

Somehow, she understands that pointing out that the sword is hers and not Nissa's wouldn't earn her any points with Annabelle.

"The relationship between me and your Grandma is very complicated," she says, trying to sound calm. "Yes, I came just for the sword."

Annabelle wrinkles her nose, disappointed. "That's not nice. Especially since Grandma was thrilled when she saw you accepted her invitation, she spent hours choosing what to wear."

She'll have it written on her tombstone:

Aurora Vanserra, Commander of the Shadow Fleet.

Reprimanded by a child.

May she rest in peace.

"Why do you want Grandma's sword?"

"Because bad people want to hurt my friends," she says, "I need to protect them."

Annabelle nods solemnly. "Uncle Cassian and Uncle Az are soldiers, too. They say fighting is scary."

"It is," Aurora confirms. "It’s when you're scared that you show true courage. You don't run away even when you want to. That's what a real soldier does."

"Are you scared, Aunt Aurora?"

"I'm terrified. But I can't leave my friends to fight alone; would you?"

"No," she presses her lips together and looks at her, eyes open in alarm. "Do you think Grandma's sword could help you defeat the bad people?"

"I hope so.”

"Okay," Annabelle declares after a long silence. "I'll give it to you. But you have to apologize to Grandpa and Grandma."

"I will," Aurora promises.

"And you have to come to my birthday party!" Annabelle quickly adds, "I want you to meet all my friends. And also come to Grandma's birthday party; it would make her very happy."

Aurora quickly calculates, “It's in two months, Annabelle! I can't stay that long.”

“You made Grandma cry,” she says as if that were enough.

Aurora clenches and unclenches her fists, reminding herself that she can't strangle a child.

“Listen,” she begins, “Try to imagine if my friends got hurt because I was here celebrating Grandma's birthday, instead of being with them. That would be bad, right?”

Annabelle presses her lips together, unconvinced. “But Grandma said you'd meet Dad.”

She'll kill her mother.

“Let's make a deal,” she quickly says, “I promise I'll come next year for your birthday and Grandma's birthday. And for all future birthdays too. I'll bring back the sword and teach you how to use it,” she smiles falsely, “I'm sure I'm much better than your Uncle Cassian.”

Her place in hell has been reserved for many years now; tricking a child is just the latest on her endless list of sins.

Annabelle raises her pinky finger. “Swear it,” she says solemnly.

Aurora grumbles, annoyed as she hooks her pinky finger with her niece's, feeling the small hand still greasy from the food just eaten.

Disgusting.

“Done,” says the satisfied child, “Now you can't break your promise,” clumsily getting down from the chair; short legs kicking in search of solid ground. “Let's go get the sword from Grandma.”

-.-

She returns to the Autumn Court, leaving behind insincere apologies and a promise she will hardly keep.

Aurora almost pulls the blade from her boot when her mother hugs her. Almost.

"Come back soon," Nissa whispers, "We'll be waiting for you."

"She promised with a pinky swear, Grandma!" Annabelle says happily, "It's sacred."

She shakes Hellion's hand harder than necessary. "Travel safely," is all he says to her.

Aurora nods stiffly, her grip on the Sword tightening. "Thank you," she murmurs.

Then she turns her back on that part of the family, which has nothing in common with her or her brothers.

She doesn't need a mother, and she doesn't need a niece. She certainly doesn't need another brother.

The ones she has are more than enough.

The five of them are more than enough for a family.

-.-

Aurora doesn’t allow herself to look at the sword until she’s safely back in her room.

It’s still wrapped in linen.

Her breath catches the moment her eyes fall on the ruby-encrusted hilt. The blade—slim and lethal, like a silk thread—gleams under the dim light. She runs a hand over it gently, her red hair casting flickers of fire across its shimmering surface.

The weapon hums with power. She can feel it—dark, ancient, seductive. A call that coils in her gut, sharp and consuming, until her heart feels like it might detonate.

She wants to burn the world. Reduce it to ash.

Every fiber of her being is pulled toward the sword, like a moth to flame, like the darkest hour of midnight drawn to the chime that marks its arrival. Terrifying. Familiar. Home.

In her mind, she sees the fire. Sees the flames swallowing the world whole.

And some part of her welcomes it.

Like an overwhelming wave, the sword offers the pull of surrender—a current that will carry her far out to sea, past the point of no return.

She knows this blade will drown her.

But if she’s going down, she’ll make damn sure to drag the enemy into hell with her.

-.-

Saying goodbye to her brothers is more painful than she imagined.

That morning, the port shrouds in a thin mist; the waves gently lap against the dock, a constant murmur that seemed to soothe the weight of the imminent farewell. Aurora stands tall, her back straight and her gaze fixed on her ship, the men hurrying to finish the last preparations before heading out to sea. She exhales slowly and tightens her grip on the sword’s hilt strapped to her waist.

I can do this.

“So, it's time,” Eris's voice makes her turn.

“Yes,” she murmurs, “Don't look so upset. I might think you care.”

He curls his lip upward. “Never,” he says conspiratorially.

She returns the smile and looks back at the sea. “It's a beautiful day,” she says, “Good luck for the start of a journey.”

Eris nods slowly. “You still have time to change your mind,” he says softly. “I have soldiers ready to depart. All I need to do is give the order.”

“Eris -”

“What if I came with you?” he asks impulsively. “I'll put Barjan in command.”

“If you came, I'd throw you off the ship before we even left the port,” she tells him. “I won't let you die just because you're too stubborn to let me go alone.”

“Then let Duncan or Barjan come with you,” he retorts, “They're just waiting for you to ask,” he pauses, “I've heard from the maids that Reagan has prepared a suspicious bag. Please, before you leave, check that he hasn't hidden somewhere,” he sighs, “He would die.”

“I'll ask William to do a double-check.”

“Thank you.”

Aurora observes Eris's tense jaw, his red hair tousled by the light wind fluttering in rebellious locks.

“You're not like him,” she says.

“What?”

“You're not like Beron.” She squeezes his arm. “Don't let anyone make you believe otherwise.”

Eris looks away, squinting his eyes. His breath is irregular, and, for a moment, it seems like words fail him. “Thank you,” he says in a hoarse voice, “I won't.”

It's not forgiveness, but almost.

This understanding flutters inside them, and, after so long, their hearts seem to beat in the same moment.

She opens her mouth before she can reconsider. “I wanted to ask you something.” She bites her lip. “I saw a Shadowsinger in Lumaris.” With a quick movement, Eris raises his head, and his eyes sparkle with alarm. “Do you know him?”

He raises an eyebrow. “He's an Illyrian and works for the Night Court,” he replies with a calm that hides worlds. “I had business to discuss with Rhysand; he brought him along.”

She holds back a smile, a wave of youthful emotions crossing her face like a sudden storm. “So, you know who he is,” she repeats. “What can you tell me about him?”

He looks at her carefully, his golden eyes watching her warily. “He's a beast with wings, what else do you need to kno-,” he stops. “Are you blushing?” he asks incredulously.

“Don't be ridiculous,” she denies quickly, looking away.

“No,” he points a finger at her, “Absolutely not. You can't find that Illyrian attractive, I forbid it.”

Aurora shrugs, “You can't deny he's very handsome.”

“Stop it,” he interrupts.

“Those shoulders.”

“I beg you.”

“His wings are huge.”

“Aurora Vanserra, do not make such allusions in my presence.”

She bursts out laughing, loudly. She leans on her brother for support as she giggles.

“There's too much cheerfulness in the air. Who died?” Duncan's voice makes them both turn.

“Just Eris being a drama queen,” she waves her hand. “I made compliments about a Shadowsinger I saw in Lumaris, and he got all worked up.”

“You have shitty taste,” Duncan tells her, “Azriel is an asshole.”

Bingo.

“Can you tell me more about this Azriel?” she smiles charmingly.

“No. Go to war and forget about him,” Duncan retorts gruffly before turning to Eris, “That bat needs to disappear.”

Eris nods solemnly, “I agree.”

She shakes her head, incredulous. “Seriously?” she asks. “I'm allowed to be curious. I've never met another Shadowsinger.”

“I said you need to get him out of your min-,” Eris tilts his head. “What do you mean by another Shadowsinger?”

She raises an eyebrow, a sly smile spreading across her face. “Did you think Maeve kept me just for my pretty face?”

Duncan makes a choking sound while Eris's eyes widen slightly. “You're lying.”

Aurora hums softly and calls the shadows from all the corners where they had hidden. The shadows, hidden in the darkest corners of the port, respond quickly to her call, as usual. They move sinuously, wrapping around her hair like smoke serpents, intertwining with the strands and creating an aura of mystery around her.

The shadows slide along her arms, enveloping them in an ethereal, almost protective embrace. Some of them detach, fluttering lightly in the air like black butterflies. One of them gets too close to Duncan, who recoils sharply.

Eris, despite his apparent calm, takes a step back, his muscles in tension.

“What the fuck, Aurora?” Eris snaps. “Why didn't you tell us?”

She shrugs, “I'm telling you now.”

A loud thud makes them jump.

“Oh,” says Reagan with his eyes fixed on the shadows, a heavy-looking bag lying at his feet, but he doesn't seem inclined to pick it up.

“Yeah,” echoes Barjan, arms crossed, “Oh.”

“I'd like to say I'm surprised,” begins Reagan, “But I have to admit it makes sense.” he squints. “The list of questions grows longer every day.”

She approaches the shadows following her, fluttering happily. Barjan stiffens when Mathila flutters a little too close to him.

“They won't hurt you,” she reassures him. “They were eager to meet you.”

Reagan clears his throat. “It's a pleasure,” he says, making an awkward bow. “I hope my sister treats you well.”

Every day is a battle with the mistress.

Aurora huffs, “Ungrateful bastards, that's what you are,” she mutters. One of them pulls her hair in retaliation, and she groans, “I'm sorry!”

Reagan's eyes are as wide as saucers.

“I really have so many questions.”

“Commander!” William's voice comes from the main deck, “We're ready to leave.”

“Coming!” she shouts back. “I'm afraid your questions will have to wait until I return, Reagan.”  

She turns to look at her brother, but he has placed the bag in her arms.

“Here are ointments and basic healing supplies. I also put in some scones, the ones you like, and a few bottles of water. You never know.”

Aurora looks incredulously at the heavy bag. “Thank you, I-,” She is interrupted by an equally sudden hug from Reagan.

“Please stay alive,” he whispers warmly. “I'm sorry, and stay alive.”

“I'll try,” she says, stroking his back.

They slowly pull away, and Aurora turns to Barjan. Without a word, he takes her in his arms, holding her tightly.

“I'm proud of you,” he leans in to kiss her temple.

Aurora then turns to Duncan, who watches her with a serious expression. He approaches and extends his hand. Aurora takes it, feeling Duncan's firm and decisive grip.

“Good luck, Commander,” he says gruffly, “Don't get yourself killed.”

“Thank you, General,” she smiles, leaning in and lowering her voice so only he can hear. “If we lose, Erawan might try to invade Prythian.” She murmurs, “Organize the army, spread the word among the Courts.”

Duncan nods slowly, “I will.”

Eris clears his throat, “Here,” he hands her a scroll, “I know you're an experienced soldier and don't need any help,” he says uncertainly, “But we thought we'd put our experiences together and write you some advice,” he shrugs, “In case you don't know what to do.”

“They're good points,” Duncan mutters. “Don't be stupid. Follow them.”

Aurora looks at the scroll, her eyes stinging. “Thank you,” she holds it to her heart. “I'll read it carefully.”

When Eris holds her in an embrace, it feels more like a truce than a gesture of affection.

“If you survive, do me a favor: don't disappear for another two hundred years,” he says, his voice hoarse, “Send a letter now and then.”

“I’ll see if I can find you a spot in my schedule,” she says, a trace of irony in her voice that doesn’t quite mask the bitterness. “Didn’t you hear? I might be around next year.”

Eris smiles slightly. “Really?”

“I made a pinky promise,” she smiles. “It's sacred.”

-.-

It is only when the outlines of Prythian fade on the horizon and the sky begins to darken that Aurora opens the scroll. The fresh sea breeze tousles her hair as she sits on a wooden crate, the sound of the waves crashing against the ship's hull providing a soothing background.

‘If you see an enemy running towards you screaming, move aside.’

‘If they hit you, hit back harder.’

‘Disinfect your wounds! Infections are dangerous.’

‘If something moves and you don't know what it is, set it on fire just in case.’

Aurora's laughter fills the ship's deck for hours afterward.

-.-

It’s not that the Vanserras aren’t made for love.

Perhaps it’s love that never quite fits inside a Vanserra heart.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 3, PART 2

After two weeks of sailing, they reach the waters off Orynth. It's a moonless night, the sky covered by dark clouds that hide the stars. The air is filled with the salty smell of the sea, mixed with the scent of wet wood and pitch.

Orynth is as beautiful as she remembered. Seen from the sea, the city stands out against the night sky, its sparkling lights reflecting on the still waters of the harbor.

Despite the years under Adarlan's rule, the capital of Terrasen shines like the most precious jewel.

Her fleet is already there, the silhouette etched with haunting clarity against the dusk’s fading light. From ship to ship, a chorus of voices carries on the wind, swelling like an ethereal symphony. One by one, dazzling lights burst forth, illuminating the fleet until hundreds of glimmering orbs danced across the rippling waves, as if marking their passage with luminous threads. 

"The Commander is back!" she hears someone shout, the voice breaking through the hushed anticipation. Applause erupts like a wave, resonating across the fleet with unrestrained fervor. The sound rises, unrelenting, a collective expression of loyalty and relief. "Notify Kail!" another voice commands, clear and commanding, cutting through the commotion. The words reverberate across the decks, carrying with them an undeniable sense of urgency. 

They sail slowly, weaving their path among the stately ships of her fleet. The air hangs heavy with the scent of salt and wood, yet to her, it feels revitalizing, like drawing her first full breath after years of suffocating silence. Being surrounded by the vessels that bear her colors feels like returning to herself. Prythian had weighed her down, an invisible burden she hadn't grasped until this moment of reprieve.

The glow of torchlight casts warm hues upon the familiar faces of her soldiers, illuminating eyes that have witnessed countless storms and triumphs. Each of them bears silent testimony to the battles fought at her side, their loyalty etched into their immortal eyes.

Her grip tightens around Iris's sword—a reflexive gesture, a quiet ritual that steadies her in these uncertain days. 

Burn them all.

"Commander, this way," a male with black hair calls out, leaning over the edge of his ship. He extends his hand toward her, his expression resolute. "Come with me." Without hesitation, she reaches out, her fingers gripping his with practiced confidence, and steps onto his vessel with a graceful, deliberate movement.

The journey continues, one ship to the next, her boots finding firm purchase on the familiar decks. Each transfer is seamless, her movements marked by the silent efficiency of someone who has done this countless times before. The torchlight flickers, casting fleeting shadows on faces she knows by heart, each soldier offering a nod of respect as she passes.

Then, she sees him. Kail’s face emerges from the shadows, his smile warm and unmistakable in the glow of the torches.

"Commander," he breathes happily, "I'm glad you returned in one piece."

"And I'm glad to find you alive as I left you, soldier."

They hug tightly, feeling the warmth of their bodies through the cold armor. Hidden in his shoulder, she allows herself a moment of weakness. "Tell me they're not dead," she whispers desperately.

"They're not dead," Kail confirms. "Your comrades are tough."

She exhales in relief, "Thank the Gods."

"Commander!" Lux's shout breaks her eardrums. “Don't leave us with Kail again. He's a terrible leader. He let us sleep past dawn. Can you believe it?"

"Shameful," she glares at Kail, "you've spoiled them."

He shrugs with an ironic smile. "I had to make them love me somehow."

"Lux!" William's shout comes from the nearby ship.

"Wolly!" the other shouts back.

"Lucky bastard, they haven't killed you yet," William laughs, running towards him. The clash of their bodies as they hug cracks in the night like thunder.

"What am I, rotten meat?" Kail mutters with a playful grimace.

Aurora pats him on the shoulder. "I missed you."

"Enough to give me a welcome-back kiss?"

"No."

"I tried."

-.-

Kail and Lux lead her and William to her cabin.

"So," Kail said in a low voice. "Do you want the bad news or the worse news?"

Aurora sat on a chair near the cabin table. "Did we lose many men?"

Lux sighs, "Almost a hundred." he snaps his fingers. "They halved us in one morning, on the shores of Eyllwe." His words are a blow to the heart. 

William curses, and Aurora shares the sentiment. "Why were you in Eyllwe?" she asks angrily. "I ordered you to come to Terrasen."

"Morath sent an army to burn the villages on the coast. We went to help," Lux tells her. "We didn't expect Maeve to send Doranelle's official fleet to help Erawan."

She was away for only three weeks.

Fuck.

Kail takes a deep breath before speaking. "The situation is bad. Morath's army seems invincible. Aedion lost four thousand soldiers five days ago."

"Four thousand?" she asks incredulously. "Aedion's Army is one of the best on the continent. How the hell is that possible? And where are the others?"

Kail nods. "The latest news had Aedion and Aelin a few days from here. They march towards Orynth as we speak; they should arrive by dawn."

Aurora listens carefully as Kail continues to explain the details of the information gathered by their informants.

Rowan and Aelin got married before the battle.

It's not a surprise to her.

The surprise is that they waited so long, those two stubborn ones.

But this raises another question.

"Why isn't Rowan with Aelin?" she frowns. "He's no longer under a blood oath like the others. The last time I saw Fenrys and Gavriel, they were hunting Lorcan. Did Maeve bring them back?"

"We saw Lorcan in Ellewey with the others, and he was alive enough to take down twenty soldiers with a butter knife. I don't know what happened after," Lux says. "We only know that after the battle, they all disappeared."

"Rowan said to talk to Aelin if you arrived before their return," Kail intervenes. "He said she would answer all your questions."

"Alright," she says, "I'll talk to our Queen as soon as she gets here."

"The situation is bad," Lux murmurs. "I never thought I'd say something like this, but I feel we won't win this time. If even with Aelin's power, we can't achieve a single victory, how many hopes do we have?"

Her gaze falls again on the Sword. "Much more than you think."

-.-

When Aedion arrives, she expects a small number of soldiers. Four thousand lost men aren’t a joke. Yet, her brother shows up with a huge army.

"Where did you pull them from?" she asks, astonished. "Are those silent assassins?" Her voice rises a few octaves in excitement.

"Aelin had a plan," he mutters, "A plan she didn't tell anyone about."

"Maybe there's hope," she exhales. "Kail and Lux told me the others aren't with you. Do you know where they went?"

"Ask Aelin," he growls in her face and walks away. She raises an eyebrow, confused. What did she do to deserve such behavior?

-.-

The answer is nothing. It's not her he's angry with. 

It's Lysandra. 

Aelin's shapeshifter, her friend, who’s now masquerading as the Queen of Terrasen. Because Maeve abducted Aelin on the shores of Eyllwe, Lysandra has taken her place. 

Lorcan sold her cousin's location to the Queen of Doranelle. But that move wasn't enough for Maeve. She released him from his oath, along with Gavriel.

But Fenrys? She took him and dragged him away with Aelin. 

And Lorcan, the pathetic bastard, seemingly had a change of heart. He’s joined Gavriel and Rowan in trying to bring the real Aelin back. 

Because of him, Aelin is imprisoned, who knows where. 

Because of him, Fenrys is back in Maeve's hands.

Because of him, Aedion is forced to command an army that expects to be led by the true Queen of Terrasen, powers included. 

"The soldiers are starting to ask questions," Aedion growls, his voice edged with fury. "They’re wondering why the Queen of Fire isn’t showing any fire," he says, casting a venomous glare at the shapeshifter now wearing his cousin's face. 

Pray that death finds you before I do, Lorcan Salvaterre, because I won't be merciful. 

"I'm going to find them," she says. 

"You will do no such thing," Aedion snaps, his tone sharp as a blade. "You’ll stay here, where we need you." 

"I can’t sit here doing nothing, Aedion!" she retorts, anguish tightening her voice. 

"Without Aelin, you are our best hope," he says, fixing her with a piercing stare. He gestures to the sword at her side. "Don’t think I don’t know what you’re carrying. I grew up on the stories of that weapon." 

"It’s insurance," she murmurs, her gaze darkening. "In case things spiral out of control." 

"Our queen is gone, and your Cadre buddies are too. I’ve lost nearly six thousand men in two weeks," he snarls bitterly, a shadow of disillusionment in his eyes. "We have already fallen."

-.-

Aurora feels Vaughan's absence more than ever in those days, a void weighing on her shoulders like a stone too heavy to lift. 

Vaughan had always been her safe harbor, the only one who could understand the fracture of her soul as if her heart were a puzzle only he could piece together. 

He was her refuge when Doranelle's walls grew more menacing than usual. 

Vaughan, with his silent presence and the rhythmic sound of his pencil on paper, always managed to make her feel less alone, like a balm soothing her shattered heart. 

But now, he’s gone. And no one else stands by her side. They’ve left her behind, and Aurora doesn’t know where to find the sliver of security she needs to face this war alone.  

So, without a clear destination, Aurora walks. 

The air is heavy, saturated with the acrid smell of smoke and iron, as if the entire world were burning, and her breath was just a faint attempt to endure. Her steps echo in the silence, mingling with the distant sound of weapons being cleaned and repaired, a noise that pulls her mind back to reality. 

She moves forward, turns, doubles back, and then starts again. She’s like a perfectly functioning clock missing its most crucial mechanism, the one that keeps everything in motion. 

There’s solace in the rhythm of the soldiers’ routines, a fragile semblance of normalcy amidst the chaos. The metallic clang of armor being secured, the soft hum of laughter winding through the air, and the low murmur of voices mingling with the deliberate cadence of hands at work—all of it weaves a tapestry of life unbroken by the world’s descent into ruin.

The crisp, biting air rushes into her lungs, sharp but invigorating. It anchors her, a reminder of her presence, of her survival. The frost-laden breaths she exhales feel like fragile victories, each one a defiance of the despair threatening to engulf her. 

Her steps are steady, unhurried. Each movement a quiet declaration that she endures.

She walks. She breathes.

And for now, that is enough.

(Sometimes, she feels as though she’s been dead for years, and no one’s had the courage to tell her.) 

-.-

Aurora’s shadows catch whispers, fragments of voices spreading like embers beneath ash. They speak of how the queen has never shown her firepower, a curiosity growing in the silence, fueled by the boredom that drives people to invent tales. 

But in this case, the rumors are rooted in something more tangible. 

“It’s a problem,” Aedion says, his voice as heavy as distant thunder. “A big problem.” He turns to Lysandra, a sarcastic smirk curling his lips. “Any ideas, Majesty?” he asks. 

She pretends not to hear him, ignoring the jab, and turns to Aurora with a gaze betraying a subtle worry. “We need to distract them with something,” she suggests, the idea already forming in her mind. 

“I’ll handle it.” 

-.-

“I just have to look at the fire?” Lysandra asks, doubtful. “But what will you do?” 

Aurora exhales sharply, visibly impatient. “Just do what I told you.” She addresses Aedion with a tone that brooks no argument. “Take her arm.” 

Aedion shoots her a glare but says nothing and does as instructed. They begin walking through the camp, with Aurora trailing a few paces behind. 

They reach the widest clearing, where a pyre burns at the center, surrounded by soldiers huddled for warmth. 

“It’s freezing here,” Lysandra exclaims. “Let’s see if we can warm up a bit.” 

She turns to the fire, and with a decisive gesture, it swells in size, roaring with fury. The flames surge, perhaps too much, forcing some soldiers to step back, startled by the risk of being burned. 

Aurora steps forward, her tone remarkably measured despite the tension in the air. “Thank you, Majesty,” she says, a faint smile on her lips. “We needed that.” 

A murmur of approval ripples through the soldiers, who cautiously edge closer to the heat. 

“Thank you,” Lysandra whispers to her as they walk away. 

Aurora shakes her head, her eyes fixed ahead. “You should’ve thought of this problem when you and Aelin crafted your grand plan.” 

Lysandra glances sideways at her, unflinching. “The plan involved you, too,” she replies calmly. “Sticking close to me, doing what you did today.” 

Aurora stops, her face growing taut. “Fuck you,” she snarls, her voice low and brimming with anger. “I’m no one’s pet. Least of all yours, shapeshifter.” 

Lysandra keeps her composure. “Aelin said you’d react like this,” she responds evenly. “That’s why we didn’t tell you. In the end, you’d step up on your own.” 

“I’m starting to see why Aedion’s so pissed at you two.” 

-.-

“Have you ever thought about what you’ll do after?” she asks in the darkness. The sound of waves breaks the night’s silence. “If we win, I mean.” 

“What would we even do?” William says, lying on the sand, arms crossed behind his head. “We’re soldiers. We wait for the next war.” 

“Hell, yeah,” Lux chimes in. “There’s nothing for me in Doranelle.” 

Kail shrugs. “I miss my home, but I’d miss the sea more,” he smiles. “I’d miss you all more.” 

“And you, Aurora?” Lux asks her. “Are you going to hang your sword on the wall?” 

She sighs. “I’ve done nothing but fight my whole life,” she says, shrugging. “Maybe I’ll take a vacation,” she jokes. “I promised my niece I’d return to Prythian for her birthday.” 

“You have a niece?” Lux asks. “Wait, you have a brother?” 

Aurora frowns. “I never mentioned it?” 

William chuckles. “She has five.” 

“Holy shit!” Lux bolts upright. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?” 

Aurora shrugs. “I was sure I did before we left,” she says, embarrassed. “We don’t have the best history,” she admits. “The desire for the throne always outweighed any love between us.” 

“Throne?” Kail repeats. “Did you say throne?” 

William doubles over laughing. “Aurora is a princess.” 

“Bullshit!” Lux sputters. “You mean a real princess? With a crown and frilly dresses?” 

Aurora stares at him impassively. “They were silk dresses and no crown. I usually wore flowers.” 

Lux looks horrified. “Silk? Flowers?” he asks. “Who the hell are you?” 

“I gave up my title a long time ago. And no,” she cuts off any questions before they start, “I don’t want to talk about it.” 

The last thing she needs is for her men to see her as some frivolous girl instead of their leader. 

“But—” 

“That’s an order,” she snaps, her words biting like a rabid dog. 

The sound of the wind amplifies the general discomfort, making the atmosphere even tenser. 

“Then it’s settled,” William says, breaking the silence. “When all this is over, we’ll sail the oceans again and strike terror into the hearts of our enemies.” 

“I’ll drink to that,” Kail says, raising a bottle of wine. “May ships explode in our wake.” 

Lux mimics the gesture. “And may the sea carry us as long as we draw breath.”

-.-

The sun is setting, painting the sky a blood-red hue that mirrors the gravity of their situation. Aurora walks down the castle’s corridor, her hand brushing absentmindedly against the cold, damp stone walls. Her footsteps echo in the silence, broken only by her heavy breathing as she heads toward the improvised war room. 

Aedion is bent over a tattered map, his face hollowed by exhaustion and frustration. On the wooden table in the center of the room lie scattered scrolls, writing tools, and abandoned food scraps, forgotten in the frenzy of relentless planning. 

The map displays the surrounding terrain, with frontline markings drawn in red, like festering wounds, and enemy positions sketched in black. Tiny figures represent troops, shuffled and reorganized in a desperate attempt to find a strategy that won’t lead to ruin. 

“Aedion,” Aurora calls for him, touching his shoulder. He looks up, his tired eyes filled with an abyss of despair. 

“I don’t know what to do,” he murmurs, his voice cracked with frustration. “Every scenario I map out ends in defeat.” 

Aurora steps closer, studying the map alongside him. “We can always move everyone within the walls. Orynth’s always held well against sieges by land.” 

Aedion shakes his head, advancing with a brusque gesture, as if pushing hope itself away. “And then what? If Erawan and Maeve don’t kill us, hunger will. We can’t keep deluding ourselves,” he exhales, “Without Aelin, we’re dead.” 

Aurora’s anger rises like a tide. “Bullshit,” she spits, her eyes blazing. “How many battles have you won without Aelin covering your ass? I’ll tell you: dozens. You’ve won dozens of battles without any help, Aedion,” she says, refocusing on the map, “And so have I.” 

He stares at her, confused. “What are you saying?” 

“I’m saying that with your soldiers, my experience, and the sword,” she grips the weapon strapped to her side, “We might have a chance to make it out alive. I’m not saying it’ll be easy, but we can’t keep hoping for a miracle to fall into our laps,” she moves a few tiny figures beneath the bridge connecting the castle to the city.

“If we can get enough ships here, I can easily hide them with shadows,” she says, shifting other figures to the opposite side. “Erawan and Maeve will be too busy figuring out where the attacks are coming from—right beneath them—to notice the rest of my fleet gathering behind them. If you deploy enough soldiers on the walls, we can strike from the front too.” 

“You want to surround them while they’re surrounding us?”, Aedion’s eyes widen in disbelief. “That’s impossible.” 

“Not impossible,” she counters heatedly. “Difficult, but not impossible.”

She gestures to the map. “Orynth has always resisted sieges because of its five levels of height. Each wall can hold a hundred soldiers. Five hundred soldiers raining down constant fire on anyone crossing the bridge. A narrow bridge, Aedion. There’s no way an entire army can march across it together.” 

“And the witches?” he presses. “They fly, Aurora.” 

“I’ll burn anything that flies too close,” she snaps her fingers. “I’m not as powerful as Aelin, but I can handle it,” she says resolutely. “And these lovely ladies,” she gestures at the shadows clinging joyfully to her command, “are eager to snap a few necks.” 

She’s already mapped it out in her mind, has already seen the moves, and has no intention of giving up. 

Aedion sighs, the weight of his thoughts seemingly overwhelming him. “You know, when Gavriel told me he had another daughter, I was furious,” he says, his voice low and reflective.

“Don’t get me wrong, I was already angry. I mean, I always thought my father was dead before I was born, and then I find out he’s alive, and he’s none other than the great Lion of Doranelle. One of my childhood heroes left my mother pregnant and alone,” he shakes his head, “I had every right to be pissed.” 

“I know it doesn’t change anything. But if you need to be angry at someone, be angry at me. I’m the one who kept it from him.” 

“How can I be angry at you when all you did was protect me from Maeve?” he asks, his tone softer. “You could’ve run to her and told her about me, but you didn’t. You didn’t even know me, and you put me ahead of your oath,” he huffs. “I’m angry with you because I’m jealous.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Don’t make me repeat it,” he says irritably, and silence stretches between them for a moment. “You’re the Commander of the Shadow Fleet, the legendary Shadowsinger of Doranelle’s Cadres. How could I ever measure up to that? I’m not surprised Gavriel took you in,” he averts his gaze. “When I see you all together, interacting, I feel small and insignificant,” he shrugs. “At the end of the day, I’m just a half-human boy with an army and a useless noble title.” 

Aurora watches Aedion silently for a long moment. Then, after considering his words, she smiles. 

“It’s easy to forget you’re only twenty-three,” she says, “Just as it’s easy to forget Aelin’s only twenty.” She steps closer to him, her smile softening. “Gavriel’s heart is big enough for both of us,” she says quietly. “I assure you, he would’ve loved you from the start if he had known about you.”

She grips his shoulder, her hold firm but affectionate. “And me,” she adds firmly, “I’m not even half as strong as you are.” 

Aedion huffs but doesn’t pull away from her touch.

“I’m serious,” Aurora insists, her eyes burning with unwavering conviction. “You never stopped looking for Aelin, even when everyone thought she was dead. I organized a pathetic funeral without bodies and moved on with my life. While I stayed with Maeve, even when I was free of the blood oath, you led a rebellion before twenty.”

She sighs, stepping back slightly. “Don’t be jealous of me, Aedion. You’ve accomplished far more in seven years than I have in two hundred.” She sits down calmly, the weight of her years pressing on her shoulders like a boulder. “I’m the one who should feel inadequate between the two of us.” 

“And do you?” Aedion asks, his brows furrowed. “Feel inadequate, I mean.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she scolds. “I’m one of the strongest soldiers in Erilea; I don’t feel inadequate to anyone.” She waves her hand dismissively, bored. “I said I should, not that I do.” 

Aedion chuckles, “Fair enough.” He sits beside her, a relieved sigh escaping his lips. “Thanks,” he murmurs, “I think I needed that.” 

“Anytime.” 

“I will not start referring to you as my relative, so that you know.” 

Aurora shrugs, a mischievous smile playing on her lips.

“As long as you stop denying it,” she pauses, “You’re not my favorite brother anyway. You’re fifth in line.” 

Aedion frowns. “How many brothers do you have?” 

“I’m sure I told someone.” 

-.-

“Can you do me a favor?” she asks him hours later. “Stop treating Lysandra like she killed your dog. You’re making her suffer.” 

“You treat her like crap, too,” Aedion retorts. 

“She’s not in love with me.”

 -.-

When Aurora wakes that morning, a rare sense of resolve steadies her—she feels ready to confront whatever the day might demand.  

Except for Manon Blackbeak.  

Manon arrives with a storm heralded by thirteen witches at her back, each mounted on a fearsome, winged beast with fangs sharp enough to slice through steel. The creatures’ leathery wings churn the air with deliberate, ominous strokes, their rhythm echoing like a drumbeat of impending destruction. As they draw near, the atmosphere thickens, heavy with an oppressive tension that presses against the skin. It feels as though even the earth beneath their feet has paused, unwilling to provoke the menace descending upon it. A suffocating silence blankets the camp, broken only by the faint whistle of the creatures' wings.  

Aurora can see it. Erawan's Aerial Fleet in all its dark glory, a nightmare made manifest.  

If death is their intention, she is determined to meet it standing tall, sword in hand.  

Aurora has heard enough of Manon Blackbeak to know one thing with unshakable certainty: failure to kill her would be the gravest mistake anyone could make. Those who tried and survived had better run far and fast—or they would not live long enough to regret it.  

Manon descends, her stride fluid, deliberate, every movement exuding authority and danger. Her eyes, gold and unnervingly sharp, are locked on Aurora with a precision that feels like a weapon in itself. No step she takes is wasted; every motion is honed, calculated, as if the world is her battlefield and she holds all the power. Aurora watches her approach, the air seeming to coil with anticipation, and steadies herself for what she knows is coming.

She might have ignited the witches in an instant, reduced them all to ash with a single spark of her fury—if not for the figure walking beside Manon. 

Dorian Havilliard. 

What in the world?

"Your Majesty," Aurora begins, striving for neutrality, though the disdain in her voice is impossible to mask. "A pleasure to see you again." Her gaze flicks dismissively to the witches. "What unusual company you've chosen." 

"Commander," Dorian replies with an enigmatic smile, one of those smiles that reveals nothing and hides everything. "May I introduce Manon Blackbeak and her Wing? They've offered us their assistance." 

Aedion chokes beside her. Lysandra presses her lips into a thin line. 

"How generous," Aurora murmurs. "Might I ask, out of sheer curiosity, why?" 

"Our reasons are ours alone," Manon sneers, her golden eyes gleaming with mockery as they land on Lysandra. "But your queen knows why." 

So, Manon knows that Aelin isn’t here. 

"You must be Aurora," Manon says, her smile wide and predatory, razor-sharp teeth glinting as her tongue slides lazily over their edges. Her golden eyes burn with cruel amusement. "I've heard wonders about you, Commander of the Fleet." 

"The same, Wing Leader," Aurora replies, feigning indifference, suppressing the shiver that runs down her spine. "Never thought I'd end up on the same side as the Ironteeth." She shrugs. "Desperate times, desperate measures, as they say." 

Manon doesn't let her win. Her silver hair ripples like flames in the wind as she smirks maliciously. "I'd rather die than be on your side, Fae," she spits with venom. "We're here only to honor the promise made to us by Aelin Galathynius." 

"Watch your tone, witch," Aurora growls, her voice low and dangerous, her eyes glowing like embers. "I made no such promise. I could decide that you're better off without your tongue". 

The darkness moves with purpose, a living force poised to unleash its fury. The silver-haired witch halts, her expression betraying no fear, only a flicker of surprise that breaks through her composed exterior.  

Her molten gold eyes narrow slightly, calculating, as though assessing the unexpected display before her. The air crackles with tension, the shadows pulsing like a heart, waiting for the moment to strike. Aurora holds her ground, the coiled darkness at her command, and for the first time, the witch’s cold, unyielding demeanor wavers—not in panic, but in something far more telling: curiosity.

"What are you?" Manon asks. 

"Your worst nightmare," Aurora hisses, her voice a blade of menace. 

Their gazes lock, an eternity compressed into a single moment, the air between them charged with an invisible electricity that hums like a taut violin string. 

"We can trust," Dorian interjects, his tone calm. "I vouch for them." 

Aurora casts him a sidelong glance. "If they betray us, it'll be your head to roll." 

Manon bares her teeth in a feral grin. 

"Thank you," Aedion cuts in, attempting to defuse the tension. "For your help." 

"Hold off on thanking us, human," Manon drawls, her gaze still fixed on the shadows dancing around Aurora, while her witches snicker mockingly. "Where do we settle?" 

"Wherever you find space," Aurora replies, her smile more of a grimace. Her eyes flick to the restless wyverns beside them. "But keep your pets in check. I’ve got enough problems as it is." 

"I make no promises," Manon retorts, her smile as false as a reflection in shattered glass. "They breathe fire, you know." 

Aurora meets her gaze, her own eyes glowing brighter. "So do I." 

-.-

"Any news of Aelin?" Dorian asks in the war room. 

Aedion shakes his head. "Nothing," he sighs. "Aurora and I have outlined a strategy in case the others don’t arrive in time." 

"And what would that be?" Manon’s voice cuts through the room from the far corner. She leans against the window, daylight pouring over her like a celestial being. 

She’s so beautiful that Aurora wants to punch her. 

"We attack from every possible angle," Aedion says, "until we thin their numbers." 

"And then?"

"Then I step in," Aurora chimes, her tone almost sing-song. "I suggest reserving the best seats. It’ll be an explosive show." 

"So, your strategy is to unleash senseless, bloody chaos until there’s nothing left?" 

"Exactly." 

"I like it." 

-.-

Connall appears like a fresh spring in an endless desert. He’s the gentle breeze that brushes against your skin after a day of oppressive heat, the long-awaited letter from home that seemed lost but arrives when least expected. 

She meets him while patrolling the wilds of Orynth. The moon's glow filters through the trees in the dead of night. 

“Aurora,” he says, “you’re looking well.” 

Aurora lifts her gaze, her heart skipping a beat for just a moment. “Connall,” she sighs, “did Maeve send you?” Her hand instinctively grips the hilt of her sword, betraying the calmness in her voice. 

“What if she did?” he replies, stepping closer. 

“Then you’re a fool to show up alone,” she retorts.

If Connall thinks he can best her in a direct fight, he’s sorely mistaken. 

“Would you kill me?” he asks, a hint of curiosity in his voice, as though the question were inevitable. 

“Yes,” she answers without hesitation. “It would destroy Fenrys, but he’s smart enough to understand.” 

Connall pauses, as if absorbing the weight of her words. His eyes drift, scanning the horizon before him. Slowly, his features soften, and an enigmatic smile spreads across his face, a rare smile that so closely mirrors his twin’s.

“Good thing Aelin sent me, then.” 

-.-

Aelin is free. 

“I didn’t know she was in Doranelle. Maeve ordered me to stay away, and so I did. I think she stopped trusting us after the trouble you caused her,” Connall says. “So, you can imagine my surprise when Gavriel and Rowan showed up at my regiment, dragging Lorcan along, threatening to kill me if I didn’t tell them where Aelin was,” he continues.

“Maeve kept her and Fenrys in chains for nearly two months. I couldn’t do much—the blood oath prevented me—but I sent soldiers to help, made sure they had assistance both inside and outside Doranelle,” he murmurs. “Only later did I learn that Fenrys broke the blood oath through sheer willpower. And I thought, ‘If he could do it, so can I.’”

He bursts into laughter. “It hurt like hell, but the feeling afterward was worth every punishment Maeve inflicted on me over the last hundred years. It was like breathing again.” 

“Let me get this straight,” she says. “You broke a blood oath, risking your life, just because your brother managed to do it?” 

“Yes.” 

“You’re an idiot.” 

Connall shrugs. “Once the oath was broken, I joined them, and Aelin sent me here. She said to be ready.” 

“Where did they go?” 

“No idea,” he says. “But it’s nice to be part of the same group for once.” 

“We always were,” she counters. “You’re the one who wanted nothing to do with us.” 

“It’s not easy living in the shadow of a brother like Fenrys, trying to carve out your own space,” he says, his voice low, almost reflective of a pain that’s never truly healed.

“Wherever we went, even as kids, he always managed to draw all the attention, while I stood there, invisible, following him like a mere shadow,” he murmurs, “When I finally became a member of the Cadres, I couldn’t believe it. Me, the one no one ever wanted, the twin who never shone, the child no one wanted to play with”.

His hands clench into fists, a sign of repressed frustration. “I’m not saying what Maeve did to me was right, but I liked being her favorite. It made me feel, for once, like I was finally something important. Something worth noticing.” 

Connall shakes his head. “Then, when Fenrys came back, he took even that small glory I’d earned. I was furious. Furious like I’d never been before. I wanted to scream, to fight for what I’d sacrificed so much to gain, but there was no room for me. When I asked Maeve why she preferred him over me, she said no one would ever choose a broken object over something new, perfect, bright, and shiny. I saw how Fenrys fit in with you all. How he found his place in your little perfect world, while I struggled to belong.”

Connall’s voice drops, his eyes fixed on some distant point as if trying to grasp something intangible. “I never got a pat on the back from Gavriel or advice from Rowan. And you never smiled at me.” His words are a painful confession, a silent cry of loneliness. “Not that I expected anything, but Maeve’s words felt so true, so real. So, I stayed away.” 

Aurora can’t help herself. She smacks him on the head, hard. “You, stupid child,” she growls, hitting him again as he curls up under the force of her blows. “You’re telling me everything you did was because you were jealous of Fenrys?” She grabs a nearby branch and throws it at him. “Maeve wanted nothing more than to pit us against each other. And you did exactly what she wanted, you idiot.” 

“I know! Okay?” he pants, covering his head. “Aurora, stop hitting me! I was stupid.” 

Aurora shoves him away. “You are the king of stupid,” she snaps, furious.

“Fenrys took your place to protect you. He never wanted to be in Maeve’s bed in the first place. And all you did was push him away. He needed you, Connall,” her voice starts to tremble. “Your brother was raped for a hundred years, and you did nothing.” 

“I KNOW!” he shouts. “I know I did nothing. I know he needed me,” he clutches his head in his hands. “I know, okay?” he gasps. “But I’m doing something now, Aurora. That must count for something,” he looks at her with eyes pleading for universal forgiveness. “Tell me I can still make it right.” 

“I’m sure Fenrys has already forgiven you. However, I was there when he returned from his meetings with Maeve. Gavriel was there, Rowan was there, even Vaughan was there at one point,” she shoves him again, more tired than angry now.

“And even if he never said it, the one person he always wanted by his side was you,” she says, pointing a finger at him. “You want to join our little group? You’ll have to earn it, damn it. You won’t hurt him again. I won’t let you.” 

Connall clenches his jaw. “You can trust me, Aurora,” he says. 

“We’ll see.”

-.-

Her body is smeared with sand, grime, and the remnants of the battlefield as she emerges from the ship’s hull. Her steps are heavy and purposeful as she heads back toward the castle. The past few weeks have been nothing short of a relentless spiral of challenges and shifting alliances, each moment demanding more from her than the last.

Surprisingly, the witches haven’t caused any trouble, though the soldiers remain terrified of the massive wyverns always shadowing them. 

They’re perfect in their element. Those creatures live and breathe death as if it’s their sole purpose. They’ve integrated so seamlessly into their ranks that Aurora often forgets they weren’t always part of it. 

That doesn’t mean she trusts Manon. Her presence scrapes against Aurora like sandpaper, leaving a raw, throbbing nerve. The shadows watch her and her companions, day and night. So far, nothing concerning has surfaced.

She’s hoping it stays that way. 

She has no desire to fight the Blackbeak heir. She’s not afraid of losing—she knows she’d win—but Manon would likely rip off an arm before dying, and Aurora needs all her limbs intact. Besides, she’s not sure she’d survive the aftermath, as Dorian would probably kill her on the spot immediately after. 

Aurora has no idea what the relationship between the King of Adarlan and the Wingleader is, nor does she intend to delve into it. It’s none of her concern, and she couldn’t care less about who Dorian Havilliard chooses to share his bed with.

Just as she doesn’t care about the situation between her brother and the shapeshifter, though it’s impossible to ignore the romance unfolding before her eyes. 

She’s convinced Aedion and Lysandra have resolved most of their conflicts, judging by the noises from her brother’s chambers. She hasn’t dared to knock and ask them to keep it down.

Aurora isn’t no one to interrupt their happiness. 

So, she says nothing as she watches Aedion toy with the shapeshifter’s hair and Lysandra blushing faintly under his attention. 

It’s genuinely sweet.

So sweet that an uncomfortable pang of envy wormed its way into Aurora’s chest, though she’d never admit it. 

Aside Kail, she’s never shared anything beyond physical intimacy with anyone. She’s never cared to, never felt the need. 

‘Don’t you want someone to come home to when the battle’s over?’ Nissa’s voice crashes into her mind like a tidal wave. 

It’s not that Aurora’s lying. She doesn’t care about marriage. 

But. 

There’s always a "but" swirling in her head when she sees the looks Lysandra and Aedion exchange over breakfast. 

There’s always an "if only" that haunts her for hours when she catches Dorian brushing Manon’s hand, thinking no one’s watching. 

And she stays silent, the pettiest of observers, wishing for something similar, even if just for a moment. 

Aurora is far from naive. She’s aware of her allure, of the glances and whispers that follow her, of the power she holds over the hearts of males. They would step forward willingly, eagerly, if only she gave them the faintest sign of interest. Finding someone to share the night with has never been a struggle—it’s keeping them that proves impossible.

Because she is too much.  

Her words cut too sharply, her temper burns too fiercely, and anyone brave enough to approach soon finds themselves retreating, unable to endure the storm.  

Even Fenrys, with his playful proposals and lingering stares, would never stay. Their centuries-long dance is a game, carefully choreographed, never meant to cross the threshold into reality.  

Perhaps this is her penance. For every transgression, for every reckless deed, this is her burden—to remain untouchable, admired from afar, feared in proximity, but never loved. Never held in the way she might secretly yearn for.

Forever a legend, but never a home.  

‘Wouldn’t it be nice to find someone who loves you for who you are?’ Nissa’s voice persists, relentless. 

Aurora only answers at night, when the camp sleeps and the stars shine silently, without judgment. 

‘Yes.’

-.-

Dreaming of her ten-year-old self, Aurora slips into a memory where the world seemed to fold in on itself, an infinite paradox—a small, fragile space that felt as expansive as the heavens. The room, both sanctuary and universe, held the weight of all her wonders and fears.  

In the depths of her reverie, glowing orbs emerge, ethereal and alive, swirling in graceful arcs as they weave their way from the core of her soul to the chambers of her heart. Their light pulses softly, as if whispering secrets only she can understand.  

Aurora doesn’t lament the limits of the universe she knows. The narrow borders don’t matter—they never have. She holds something greater within her, a boundless cosmos no map could chart.  

She is not defined by the breadth of the world but by the stars that illuminate her being, vast, radiant, eternal.  

-.-

Aurora jolts awake to the insistent pounding on her door. "Aurora! Wake up, they’re back!" Connall’s voice is sharp with urgency.

She doesn’t need to ask who he’s talking about.

Her heart pounds as she leaps from bed, dressing hastily. The morning air is crisp and fresh, the scent of wildflowers mingling with the smoky aroma of burning wood from nearby chimneys.

When they reach the castle, the war room is packed. The atmosphere is thick with tension, a mix of hope and dread. She knows Aelin has returned because Lysandra has resumed her original form. Aedion is in tears, clutching Aelin tightly. Rowan and Fenrys are deep in conversation with Dorian, while a dark-haired human girl stands apart with Manon, Lorcan at her side.

The fury Aurora has bottled up over the past weeks erupts like a volcano.

Before anyone can acknowledge her presence, she unleashes her shadows, slamming Lorcan against the wall. The room fills with shouts.

"Aurora!" Gavriel’s voice doesn’t stop her as she lunges for Lorcan’s throat.

"You," she snarls, her shadows binding his limbs. The crack of bones echoes through the room. "How dare you?"

To his credit, Lorcan doesn’t make a sound. He meets her gaze, remorseful yet cold as stone.

"I don’t need you to tell me I was wrong, girl," he hisses. "Our queen has forgiven me. You have no right to play judge and executioner."

Aurora’s eyes widen before she bursts into mocking laughter.

"Our queen?" she repeats, seething. "I should incinerate you where you stand, you bastard."

Her hand clamps around his face, heat seeping through her grip just enough to make him wince. The room’s temperature spikes, sweat trickling down her back.

"What is she?" Manon’s voice cuts through the chaos, distant yet sharp.

"Enough, Aurora!" Rowan intervenes. "He helped us. Let him go."

"No," she growls. "I want to hear it from his filthy mouth."

Her grip tightens, nails digging into his jaw as a thin line of blood trickles down his neck.

Lorcan manages a pained smile.

"Look at you," he murmurs. "You’ve come a long way, girl." He licks his lips. "I’m proud of you."

The statement stuns her just long enough for her to miss the blade pressing against her throat.

"Let him go," a soft yet firm voice commands.

Aurora tilts her head to meet the brown eyes of the petite human she doesn’t recognize. She hums lightly.

"And who might you be?" she asks, grabbing the girl’s heart-shaped face to inspect her more closely.

"Elide Lochan," the girl replies confidently, though the small knife in her hand trembles slightly.

Aurora gestures toward Lorcan with her head. "Are you fond of this beast, Elide?"

"Unfortunately."

"Let her go, Aurora," Lorcan snaps. "This is between you and me."

Aurora rolls her eyes. "Do you think me cruel enough to harm an eighteen-year-old?" She bares her teeth. "I’m not you."

"Enough." Aelin’s voice fills the room, commanding and resolute. "Lorcan has atoned for his mistakes. He helped me escape. Release him, now."

Aurora remains motionless, staring at her mentor. "You really betrayed Maeve?" she whispers. "You actually did it?"

Lorcan nods. "Maeve doesn’t deserve my loyalty," he says calmly. "I regret not seeing it sooner."

Without a word, Aurora releases her shadows, and Lorcan lands on his feet, of course. He rubs his bruised neck.

She jabs a finger in his face. "One misstep," she warns, her voice venomous, "and you’re worm food."

He nods. "Message received."

Aurora punches him in the stomach, and Lorcan doubles over, gasping for air.

"Damn it, Aurora," he wheezes. "Was that necessary?"

"No," she retorts. "But it made me feel better."

Rowan stifles a laugh with a cough. Fenrys, however, isn’t as discreet, laughing openly, his mirth filling the room without restraint.

Gavriel sighs.

Elide is instantly at Lorcan’s side, her slight frame almost invisible next to him.

"Are you okay?" she murmurs, her voice so soft it nearly vanishes in the silence.

Elide is so petite that beside Lorcan, she looks like a porcelain doll, fragile enough to shatter under a glance. He, a towering seven-foot giant, seems like a mountain bending to cradle her delicacy.

The odd pair is almost an illusion, a striking contrast both absurd and captivating.

Lorcan takes her hand with a tenderness that belies his imposing stature, pressing it to his lips with a smile that reveals the depth of his feelings.

"Always, my Elide," he says, his tone soft. 

Aurora watches the scene, a twitch pulling at her eye. "Are you kidding me?" she asks, incredulous.

Lorcan fell for a human in three months. Lorcan.

Fenrys drapes an arm around her shoulders.

"We’ve got a lot to catch you up on," he says, his light tone clashing with the tension in his muscles. He begins casually steering her away from Lorcan, while Gavriel wraps her in a light embrace, blocking her view.

They’re afraid you’ll kill the big, bad giant. Mathila’s whisper is meant for her ears alone.

She shoots a venomous glare at Lorcan. I still might, she thinks.

As she walks away, flanked by her father and Fenrys, she exchanges a glance with Manon, who flashes her a delighted grin.

"Remind me never to piss you off."

-.-

Once the tension subsides and everyone takes their place, Aurora allows herself a fleeting moment of relief, accompanied by the realization that they’re all together again.

Well, almost all of them. 

“We can begin,” Aelin announces. “First important update: we destroyed the Wyrdkeys.” 

Aurora chokes. “Excuse me?” she asks. “You destroyed them? How?” 

“A lot of magic and a bit of brute force,” Rowan replies with a grin. “Erawan and his Valg army are still here, but he can’t summon reinforcements from other worlds anymore. We made sure of that.” 

Manon raises an eyebrow. “How much magic are we talking about?” 

“I gave up part of my powers,” Aelin says, not the least bit regretful. “Those keys exploded like fireworks. It was fantastic.” 

Aedion curses. “Part of your powers?” he snaps. “Aelin, what the hell?” 

The queen shakes her head. “My power was consuming me,” she explains. “It had to be done. I was born to close those portals; that’s always been my purpose.” 

“And who told you that? The gods?” her cousin asks sarcastically. 

“Yes.” 

Holy shit.  

“You can’t be angry that Aelin closed the portals,” Rowan says coldly. “You should be grateful.” 

“Forgive me, General, if in the past months I hoped that with the arrival of our queen, we’d have a chance to win,” Aedion retorts. “Now we’re back to square one.” He rubs his face wearily. “You were our best shot.” 

“I’m not useless, Aedion. I’ve only lost part of my magic,” Aelin counters. “And our best shot has always been here with you.” 

The golden-ringed blue eyes of the Queen of Terrasen land on Aurora. Everyone follows her gaze. 

Aurora bursts into hysterical laughter.

“Me?” She shakes her head in disbelief. “You overestimate my abilities, cousin.” 

Aelin hums softly. “You’ve been channeling your power for two hundred years. If, when the time comes, you don’t set half the valley on fire, I’ll eat my shoe.” 

“Don’t get me wrong, I can cause a massacre. That’s the plan Aedion and I outlined for emergencies,” Aurora admits. “But it’s the last resort I’m willing to use because I don’t know if I can control it. I might very well kill us all. Are you willing to take that risk?”

“I’ve known you for over two centuries,” Gavriel interjects. “I trust you.” 

“So do I,” Rowan adds. “We trained you to maintain control in the worst situations. This is the worst.” 

“I’ve always been terrible at meditation, Rowan,” Aurora whines. “You know I made faces at you when you weren’t looking. I know you know.” 

Fenrys coughs not-so-discreetly, and Connall elbows him in response. 

“I pushed you beyond every limit,” Lorcan speaks up, drawing everyone’s attention. “I broke you over and over for a year. And even when you were on the ground with broken bones and a bleeding face, you never let your shadows intervene. You always controlled them.” 

“It’s different!” Aurora snaps. “Fire reacts to my emotions; Shadows have emotions of their own. They’re sentient. If I tell them not to intervene, they don’t.” 

Manon leans forward, her golden eyes scrutinizing the dark mass surrounding Aurora. “They talk?” she asks, intrigued. “They’re incredible.” 

We like her, the whispers fill Aurora’s ears as the shadows flutter slightly faster under the witch’s praise. We think she’s beautiful. Tell her, mistress! 

“They thank you,” Aurora grits out. 

Tell her, tell her, tell her. 

She rubs her face. “They want you to know they think you’re beautiful,” she snaps. “Happy now?” 

Very. 

“It’s only different if you believe it is,” Rowan says. “Your magic is sentient too, Aurora. Like your shadows. It responds when you call it and controls itself when you decide it should. You choose how to use it.” 

“I don’t think you’ll kill us,” Fenrys chimes in. He winks. “I’ll always trust you with my life.” 

“I didn’t even know you could control the fire until now,” Connall shrugs, utterly indifferent. “But if they say you can, that’s good enough for me.” 

“You trust me because you’re all insane!” Aurora exclaims. “We’re good at what we do because we come up with stupid ideas and aren’t afraid to try them. But this is by far the stupidest idea your minds have ever produced.” 

“Aurora,” Aelin’s voice cuts through her outburst. “We need you to unleash hell on earth if things get terrible,” she says firmly. “I know you can do it, and so do you. The question is: will you?” 

Aurora slumps her shoulders. “If the situation demands it, I will,” she concedes. “But only then.” She points a finger at Aelin. “And let it be on record that I don’t agree with this plan.” 

“Duly noted,” Aelin replies, satisfied. “I’m sure it’ll go perfectly.” 

“When we meet in the afterlife because I killed us all, I reserve the right to say I told you so,” Aurora mutters, sulking. 

Aedion pats her shoulder. “I trust you, too,” he murmurs. “But I hope to be very far away when you use that sword.” 

Aurora glares at him. “You’ll be the first person I look for before I use it.” 

“Would you kill your brother?” he jokes. 

“Remind me to tell you about my family when this is all over.” 

“Now that the most important matter is settled,” Aelin says, “let’s move on to the second point we need to discuss.” She gestures to Fenrys, who nods before standing and leaving the room. Aurora frowns in confusion. 

Rowan also rises. “We captured one of Maeve’s soldiers,” he says. “He was snooping outside the city gates. We thought he might enjoy joining us.” He grins, gesturing toward the door as Fenrys reenters, dragging a hooded male who stumbles over his feet, his hands bound with thick ropes. Fenrys roughly throws him into an empty chair, eliciting a groan from the faceless male. 

“Has he given you any useful information?” Manon asks. 

“Not yet,” Lorcan mutters. “I wanted to kill him immediately. He’s the worst kind of male, doesn’t deserve to live.” 

“We need him alive,” Rowan says. “He might tell us something about Maeve’s plans.” 

A bitter laugh escapes the bound male, the kind that rises from the gut and spills out as pure acid and malice. 

Aurora feels a pang in her stomach, her muscles frozen. 

She’s heard that laugh before. 

“I think our guest wants to speak,” Aelin says. “Fenrys?” 

The blond nods and pulls back the prisoner’s hood. 

Beneath the bruises, cuts, blood, and grime is the face that has haunted Aurora’s nightmares for fifty years. 

“May I present Cairn?” Rowan says, completely unaware of the storm raging inside her. “He’s part of the southern regiments, one of Maeve’s loyalists,” he smiles. “Considering he no longer has us to rely on, he’s settled for scraps.” 

“And he’s one of the vilest creatures to walk this continent,” Gavriel adds. 

“You’re making me blush,” Cairn mutters, his head lolling. “Are my deeds so legendary?” 

Fenrys punches him in the face. “Silence,” he hisses. 

“Tell us what you know about Maeve’s plans,” Aelin demands. 

“Why should I?” Cairn spits on the table. “You’ll kill me anyway.” 

“You can bet we will,” Lorcan says coldly. “The only good rapist is a dead one,” he mutters. 

Ah. 

Aurora wasn’t the only one.

She hides her trembling hands beneath the table. 

“Are you okay?” Aedion whispers.

She exhales shakily, her breath catching as her gaze fixes on the table's worn surface. The silence around her feels fragile, as if even the faintest sound could shatter it and draw his attention. She holds herself still, every muscle tense, her body instinctively shrinking from the possibility of being seen.  

She cannot bear the thought of Cairn’s eyes finding her. The weight of his gaze would be too much, a force she’s unwilling to endure. In this moment, she wills herself to disappear, to slip out of existence entirely, if only to avoid sharing this space, this fragment of time, with him.  

But when she looks up, Cairn’s eyes are already on her. 

“Hello, darling,” he says lewdly. “Miss me?” 

The entire room freezes. 

She doesn’t respond, her gaze locked on the muddy eyes of that immoral, vile creature. She suddenly feels filthy under his slimy stare. 

“Aurora,” Rowan’s voice draws her attention. His jaw is clenched. “Do you know him?” 

Cairn chuckles darkly. “Oh, yes,” he licks his lips, leering at her. “We met a few years ago, while the rest of you were far from Doranelle,” he smiles at Fenrys, who trembles beside him.

Out of the corner of her eye, she notices Lorcan rising to his feet.

“Your friend tastes delightful,” Cairn sneers. 

“What did you say?” Gavriel’s whisper cuts through the air like a distant echo, his chair scraping against the floor. “What did you just say?”

“You’re a liar,” Fenrys spits, his voice shaking. “Aurora wouldn’t have let you.” He turns to her, frantic. “Right?” 

She licks her lips, her mouth dry and tasting of burnt paper. “Ignore him,” she manages to say. “He’s playing with you.” 

Aurora stands abruptly, her shadows fanning out menacingly. She strides toward Cairn, grabbing his face and pulling him close. “I’d watch what you say,” she hisses. “Maeve isn’t here to protect you, and I’m not the one with my hands tied this time.” Her grip tightens, the satisfying sound of bones creaking under her fingers. “Talk.” 

He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes. “You smell even better than I remembered.” 

Aurora punches him square in the nose, blood spurting as his nasal bone shatters. His head lolls forward, blood dripping steadily, the creak of his chair the only sound in the room. 

“If you’re useless, I’m sure Lorcan will enjoy dealing with you,” she growls, stepping back. “I don’t have time to waste on worms.” 

“And here I thought we’d pick up where we left off,” he taunts, his voice singsong. “You should’ve seen how she trembled while I—” 

A snarl cuts him off, followed by a crash. Aurora turns to see Gavriel on top of Cairn, the chair splintered beneath them as they hit the ground. 

“I’ll kill you,” Gavriel roars, raining blows down on him. Cairn screams and wails, but no one moves to stop the general’s fury. “Bastard, son of a bitch,” Gavriel growls, grabbing Cairn’s hair and slamming his head against the stone floor. Blood pools beneath them as Cairn’s cries grow weaker. 

Gavriel’s fury is palpable, a storm barely contained, his movements sharp and deliberate as he closes in on Cairn. Aurora watches, her anger simmering beneath the surface, a part of her wanting nothing more than to let Gavriel finish what he’s started. Cairn deserves every ounce of pain Gavriel is ready to deliver, and Aurora knows it.

But necessity outweighs vengeance. They need Cairn alive, no matter how much it sickens her.

Her shadows wrap around the enraged male, firm yet gentle, holding him back. “Enough,” she says. “We need him.” 

“Let me go,” he snarls. “I want him dead.” 

Aurora rubs her face, exhaustion seeping into her voice. “Lorcan, get Gavriel out of here. He’s not himself.” 

“Lorcan, if you even think about touching me, I’ll skin you alive,” Gavriel shouts, kicking. “Let me go, Aurora! He—” 

“You don’t know anything,” she snaps, her anger flaring. “If I can stand in the same room as him without killing him, then you can control yourself and do the same.” She exhales sharply, turning to Cairn’s unconscious, unrecognizable form. “Rowan, heal him. We need him to talk.” 

Rowan doesn’t move, his jaw clenched as he stares at the barely alive body. “No,” he says. “Let him die like this.” 

“Have you lost your mind?” she asks, incredulous. “You brought him here to interrogate him. Dead men don’t talk, Rowan,” she insists. He doesn’t respond, instead returning to his seat with deliberate calm. 

“Fenrys, can you do it?” She turns to her friend, whose trembling hands cross over his chest in clear refusal. “Connall?” The dark-haired twin remains rooted in place. 

“Lorcan?” she asks, exasperated and slightly hopeful. 

“If I go near him, it’ll be to gut him and pull out his insides while he’s still breathing,” Lorcan growls. “I’ll enjoy tearing him apart.” 

Aurora throws her hands up in frustration. “Aelin, do you have anything to say?” 

The queen remains silent for a moment. “I don’t think he has any useful information for us, all things considered,” she finally says, turning to her allies. “Do you agree?” 

Dorian nods solemnly, while Manon grins, her iron teeth glinting. “My wyvern loves fresh meat. Give me the body when you’re done,” she chuckles darkly. 

If looks could kill, Cairn would already be dead under Aedion’s glare. 

Unbelievable. 

“Fine,” Aurora says. “I’ll do it.” She strides toward the dying man, but Fenrys blocks her path, stopping her midway. “What are you doing?” she asks. “Let me through.” 

“No,” he says grimly. “You’re not going near him.” 

Aurora takes a deep breath. “Listen,” she says. “Cairn didn’t rape me, okay? Maeve ordered me not to hurt him, and he tried to take advantage of the situation, but he didn’t succeed. I won’t insult your intelligence by saying what he did wasn’t serious, because it was. He cornered me and—” her voice cracks, and she shakes her head. “He tried to drug me. I stayed with William until he left.” 

“What he did to you is violence, Aurora,” Lysandra says softly. “He terrified you. He deserves to pay for that.” 

“And he will," Aurora repeats, her tone firm, though an edge of exasperation escapes her control. Her gaze shifts to Fenrys, steady yet imploring. "Please."

Fenrys’s jaw tightens, his composure wavering as the internal conflict plays out across his features. The tension in his stance betrays the battle within him—loyalty to her versus the primal urge to shield her from any harm, even at the expense of his resolve.

At last, he exhales sharply, the decision hard-won. "Fine," he mutters, his voice low and clipped, the words carrying both surrender and determination. His golden eyes meet hers, fierce and unyielding. "But I’ll do it. I won’t let you touch him."

His declaration leaves no room for argument, and Aurora can see in the tight line of his mouth that this is the only compromise he’ll offer. She knows him too well to push further. Some battles are better left unspoken.

“It’ll take time,” Rowan mutters, his voice taut with tension as he assesses the unconscious figure before him. “He’s in bad shape.” A faint smirk tugs at his lips as his gaze shifts to Gavriel. “Nice work.”

Gavriel’s growl cuts through the room like the sharp edge of a blade. “Not good enough if he’s still breathing,” he snaps, his words laced with unbridled frustration. His eyes lock on Aurora with a fury she has never faced before. “Let me go, Commander.”

Aurora clenches her jaw, her instincts urging her to hold firm, but she knows better. This isn’t just a demand—it’s an order from her superior. So, she releases Gavriel, the decision punctuated by the sound of his boots thundering against the floor as he storms out of the room, a force of nature unleashed.

The door slams behind him, echoing in the heavy silence that follows.

Aurora exhales, her sigh carrying the burden of unspoken words. “Call me when he wakes up,” she says simply, her voice steady despite the emotions swirling within her, “I need to check on the ships.”

Without a word, the others step aside.

No one follows her. 

-.-

Aurora watches the citizens gather their belongings as they hurriedly leave Orynth. Small boats sway on the sea’s surface, carrying women and children away from the city in search of safety. Their faces are weary, etched with pain and fear, while the salty wind lifts tattered clothes and hair as they head toward an uncertain future. 

The pretty witch approaches, her shadows whisper. 

She huffs. 

“I don’t like repeating myself, you know?” Manon’s voice arrives exactly when Aurora expects it. 

“What are you talking about?” Aurora mutters, her tone distant, almost dismissive. Yet her gaze betrays her focus, lingering on Kail as he cradles the red-haired child with practiced ease. The boy’s laughter soon follows—a light, melodic sound that seems to ripple through the air, incongruous against the weight of Aurora’s thoughts.

Her jaw tightens imperceptibly, her chest tightening with an ache she doesn’t fully understand. The sight of them stirs something deep within her, a pang that feels foreign, unwelcome.

'Still convinced you don’t want a family of your own?’, Nissa’s voice flits through her mind, light and teasing, but pointed. 

‘I have a family. Shut up.’ 

Meanwhile, Manon leans against the railing beside her, as if it’s her natural place. “I’ve already asked twice. But for the sake of diplomacy, I’ll repeat myself: What are you?” 

Aurora tilts the corner of her mouth upward, a smile that isn’t a smile. “I go by many names,” she explains, “but the title used in my homeland is Shadowsinger.” 

“Were you born this way?” Manon asks, gesturing to the shadows flitting around her, never tiring of following. “I’ve never met anyone like you.” 

Aurora shakes her head, her thoughts racing. “They chose me, centuries ago,” she murmurs calmly, her eyes fixed on the horizon. “We’ve been together ever since.” She absently strokes the iron railing beneath her, the sensation of metal vibrating in her bones. “As far as I know, there’s only one other like me.” 

“What do they do?” Manon interrupts her thoughts. “Besides breaking bones, I mean.” 

“Spy,” Aurora shrugs, the answer slipping out effortlessly. “I send them wherever I want, and they bring back what they see. Though they’re not as disciplined as I like others to believe.” 

We’re not messenger owls.

“Did you use them to spy on me?” Manon narrows her eyes. 

“Of course I did,” Aurora replies, surprised by the stupidity of the question. “Special surveillance, day and night. I don’t give much of my full attention; you should feel honored.” 

The witch scoffs. “I’ll console myself with the fact that you didn’t find a valid reason to kill me.” 

“I’m patient,” Aurora says cheerfully, “I’m just waiting for you to slip up so I can slit your throat.” 

“I’m almost tempted to do it,” Manon bares her sharp teeth, her smile a clear threat. “Just to see your face when I rip your heart from your chest.” 

“The shadows would break your arms before you could take a single step,” Aurora sings indifferently, her smile never reaching her eyes. “And remember, fire melts iron, witch. Don’t provoke me.” 

Manon curls her lips into a snarl. “I don’t like you.” 

“Then why are you here, bothering me?” Aurora snaps. “Go away and leave me alone. I’m sure King Dorian is missing you.” 

The witch falters at the comment but quickly recovers, her face transforming into an unreadable mask. “I was sent to inform you that the prisoner’s interrogation will take place tomorrow. His recovery is taking longer than expected. There were complications.” 

Aurora sighs, exhaustion hitting her like a whip. “Let me guess. Cairn woke up, opened his mouth, and Rowan punched him.” 

“It was the giant who hit him,” the witch muses thoughtfully. “And ‘mangled’ is a better word. He nearly castrated him. If Rowan hadn’t intervened, I doubt that male would still be able to piss standing up.” 

Lorcan needs to work on his temper. 

“What a shame,” Aurora says sarcastically, her smile twisting into a venomous smirk. “What did he say?” 

Manon remains silent. 

Aurora chuckles bitterly. “That bad, huh?” She brushes her hair from her face, the fatigue in her bones suddenly overwhelming. “Thanks for the update. I think I’ll head to my room and rest.” 

The witch nods and starts to leave, then hesitates, turning slightly as if she wants to say more but can’t find the words. “I don’t like you, but I respect you, Shadowsinger,” she says bitterly. “You’re violent and bloodthirsty, and that puts you high on my list of people I consider a threat.” Manon curls her lip into a cruel smile. “It’s an honor to be on that list; it means you’re worth my time.” 

Aurora doesn’t respond, her mind already elsewhere. 

“But if you let a male like that make you weak, then I am completely wrong about you,” the witch sneers, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. “And I don’t like being wrong.”  

With a final, indifferent glance, she turns away, her long silver hair cascading behind her, catching the wind like a banner of defiance.  

Aurora’s fists clench at her sides. The urge to shout after her, to deny the accusation, burns in her throat. She wants to scream that no one—not Cairn, not anyone—has power over her.  

But it would be a lie.  

Cairn had made her feel weak, stripped her bare of the armor she’d spent years forging. He had power over her because she had let him. She had allowed it the moment she let him into her mind, his venomous words unraveling her certainties, tearing apart the parts of herself even Maeve had failed to touch.  

The iron railing beneath her hands feels searing now, as if it, too, bears the weight of her shame.  

She, the Commander of the Shadow Fleet, had let a dishonorable soldier touch her. That truth scorches her, a wound that refuses to heal. And yet, she cannot afford to dwell on it. Not now. Not when the war demands every ounce of her focus.  

Cairn must live—for now. She needs him to talk, to give her something, anything, that could tip the scales in their favor.  

But how?  

If pain won’t break him, what will?  

Her gaze drifts westward, toward the imagined warmth of the Autumn Court. She pictures a quiet study, the crackle of a fire, the weight of a blanket on the floor.  

“What would you do, Eris?” she whispers into the void.  

The sound of waves crashing against the rocks is the only answer she gets. 

-.-

Aurora steps into her room and immediately halts when she sees Gavriel seated at her desk. His posture is rigid, his bloodstained armor catching the faint glow of the room's light. In his hands, the parchment her brothers had sent—a letter she had read and reread to the point where the words had become a part of her.  

His brown eyes flicker as they trace the familiar lines of text. Aurora's stomach churns, jealousy twisting into something nearly unbearable. That letter is hers alone. No one else has the right to hold it, to decipher the elegance of Eris's handwriting or the hurried scrawls of Duncan. No one.  

“What are you doing?” she snaps, her voice cutting through the charged air. “It’s personal.”  

Gavriel raises the parchment with maddening nonchalance, as if the words upon it mean nothing to him. “You’re a Vanserra first and foremost,” he recites, his tone calm, detached, each syllable stinging like a wound reopened. “‘Don’t ever forget it, ’Rora,” he finishes, placing the parchment back on the desk without a second thought. “What does that mean?”  

“A lot of things,” Aurora retorts sharply. She crosses the room and takes the letter from his hands, her movements precise, her grip firm. She folds the parchment carefully, tucking it beneath her uniform with a sense of finality.  

“’ Rora?” Gavriel repeats, his voice testing the name, though it carries an edge. “Is that what they call you in Prythian?”  

“Only my brothers,” she replies quietly, her hand instinctively rising to her chest as if to shield the name and connection from further intrusion. “You shouldn’t have read it.”  

“Your brothers,” he echoes with a scoff, sarcasm biting into his words. “I wonder what else you’re hiding from me.”  

Aurora rubs a hand across her face, trying to calm the rising tide of frustration. “I know you’re angry about Cairn,” she says tightly, “but you can’t treat me like a liar. I don’t deserve that, Gav.” Her voice wavers slightly, but her fists remain clenched. “You weren’t supposed to know. It wasn’t necessary.”  

“The hell it wasn’t,” Gavriel growls, standing abruptly, his frame casting a shadow that looms over her. “You should’ve told me. Just like you should’ve told me a lot of other things—like the fact that you’re a Vanserra.” His accusatory finger points at her like a weapon. “You looked me in the eyes and told me you didn’t have a family.”  

“I didn’t know you,” Aurora shoots back, her voice rising, trembling with restrained fury. “And I don’t owe you an explanation. My life before Doranelle is my business.” 

“But Cairn happened here,” he counters, his voice shaking with rage. “At our home. Why didn’t you tell me, damn it?”  

“You couldn’t have done anything. Maeve wouldn’t have allowed it,” Aurora snaps, her words laced with pain and defiance.  

“I would’ve found a way!” Gavriel roars, his teeth bared, his voice raw. “Just like I would’ve found a way to protect Aedion if I’d known he existed. But you decided for both of us. You kept him from me—my son.”  

Aurora’s anger ignites, and she screams back, her voice trembling with anguish.

“I protected him! Just like I protected you! If you’d turned against Maeve, she would’ve ordered me to kill you both. Then I’d be the one living with your deaths on my conscience!”  

“You protected yourself,” Gavriel snarls, each word slashing through her defences. “Because you’re afraid of being alone. That’s why you never left after the oath broke. A lost puppy, a coward.”  

The insult slices through her like a blade, and for a moment, the silence that follows is deafening. The air between them feels suffocating, an unyielding force pressing down on them both.  

Aurora’s lips part, but no words come out. Her chest feels heavy with the weight of unspoken emotions. Of all people, Gavriel was the last she expected to strike where it hurt most.  

Her voice, when it finally emerges, is sharp, unyielding. “Get out.”  

“Aurora—”  

“No,” she interjects, her anger manifesting in the faint wisps of smoke curling from her lips. “You’ve said what you think. That’s what friends do, right? They tell each other the truth, even when it hurts. Thank you for being honest with me.”  

“I’m your fa—”  

“My father is dead,” she interrupts coldly, her words a precise blow meant to wound. “You’re my mentor. Nothing more.”  

She forces herself not to acknowledge the pain that crosses Gavriel’s face, though it presses against her heart with unbearable weight. Her steps are deliberate as she turns and heads to the bathroom, her composure fracturing with each step.  

At the threshold, she pauses, her voice carrying finality as she slams the door behind her. “Do me a favor. Don’t be here when I come back. My patience has limits.”

-.-

Breakfast the next morning is a tense affair. 

The shouting from the night before had been so loud, so piercing, that anyone within the royal quadrant couldn’t help but hear it. 

Aurora has carefully avoided any interaction with Gavriel since waking, and as always, her shadows are more than willing to help. She’s certain Mathila is plotting the general’s untimely demise. 

He made you upset. He must pay. 

He didn’t say anything that wasn’t true, she counters, sipping her water. Let it go. 

Aelin clears her throat, the sound cutting through the charged atmosphere. “We need to figure out what to do with Cairn.”

Aurora feels the weight of the discussion before it begins. She had spent the entirety of last night consumed by it, tossing, turning, her mind trapped in a labyrinth of restless thoughts.

“I’ll handle it,” she says firmly, cutting through the room before anyone else can speak.

“Absolutely not,” Fenrys replies, his voice resolute, his chocolate eyes flashing with unrelenting defiance. “We’ll take care of it.”

Aurora meets his words with a glare, sharp as frost, the kind of look that freezes everything in its path. It’s not a glance she gives lightly, nor one she offers freely—it’s a weapon reserved for those who dare challenge her, a warning meant for adversaries.

Fenrys falters, unprepared for the piercing gaze she levels at him. A rare flicker of unease crosses his expression, sending a chill down his spine. Connall, standing beside him, stiffens instinctively, his grip tightening around the hilt of his knife. The soft groan of metal fills the silence, a sound that hints at readiness should the moment demand it.

Aurora doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t blame them for their unease. Her confrontation with Lorcan yesterday had been enough to remind everyone present of a single truth.

She is a storm contained within fragile limits, and it takes only the smallest spark to ignite her fury.

Her voice, cool and deliberate, slices through the tension in the room. “I said,” she repeats, her tone chilling, “I’ll handle it.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she catches Manon’s smirk—smug, satisfied, but unacknowledged. Aurora keeps her attention firmly locked on Aelin. “You’ll have your information by tonight.”

The silence that settles over the room is suffocating, thick with unspoken words.

"What are you planning to do?” Rowan asks, his voice low, his jaw tightening imperceptibly as he studies her.

Aurora leans back, her posture calm, controlled. Her hands clasp together as if to steady the weight of the moment. Her smile unfurls slowly, a calculated curve that carries purpose—a glimpse of lightning behind dark clouds.

“I’m going hunting.”

-.-

The cell where Cairn is imprisoned is a place of putrid silence, an abyss that seems to swallow all hope. The air, dense and stale, is saturated with dampness and decay, a mixture of sweat and mud clinging to the wet stones of the walls. Even breathing feels heavy, as if the air itself has been corrupted by the time that has consumed this forgotten place. Every corner exudes the rancid smell of rotting wood and mold growing undisturbed on the walls, feeding on the sweat of the imprisoned and the tears of the condemned. 

Rats scurry through the cracks in the walls and under the rusted beams, their eyes gleaming with a cruel light in the semi-darkness of the cell as they feed on whatever they find. The rustling of their tiny paws breaks the silence, a sound that vibrates in the stagnant air, while their teeth gnaw against the wood or their bodies fall into hidden tunnels.

Cairn is chained, his hands bound in rough chains that tear at his flesh. His eyes fix on her, piercing, as if they want to uncover a hidden secret. There is no fear in that gaze, only a silent question rising in the air.

“Well, look who’s come to visit me,” Cairn croaks, his voice hoarse and distorted by the dampness of his prison. “This isn’t a place for pretty girls like you.”

Aurora stares at Cairn with an icy expression, her face devoid of any emotion as she tosses him the flask. The gesture is quick and precise, without hesitation.

“Drink,” she says in a dry tone, the irony barely masking the contempt beneath the surface. “Don’t worry, it’s not poisoned. I’m not that magnanimous.” 

Cairn grabs the flask, his chained hand clutching the metal convulsively. He drinks greedily, without respect or grace, like a starving animal finally getting its share of food. The drops trickle down his lips, dark drops running down his chin and mixing with the sweat on his skin.

When he’s finished, he lets out a satisfied sound. “To what do I owe this visit?” he asks, leaning against the wall, his eyes scrutinizing her hungrily. “Gods, you’re beautiful.”

Aurora suppresses a shiver of disgust. “I’m asking the questions here, and you will answer.”

“Suck my dick, and I’ll tell you everything you want.”

She bursts into laughter without amusement. “Such a handsome face with such a rude mouth,” she tilts her head, feigning amusement. “You’re not in a position to make demands.”

“Pity,” he licks his lips, “because your body is the only thing I’m interested in.”

Aurora hums thoughtfully. “Do you want me so much that you’d give up your freedom?” she asks. “Because that’s what I’ve come to offer you.”

Cairn sneers at her. “Bullshit,” he laughs in her face. “You’ll kill me as soon as I give you the information. I’ve been playing this game much longer than you, girl,” he chuckles. “You should’ve let Gavriel kill me. You’re just wasting time.”

“Is that your final decision?” she asks, annoyed. “I thought you were smarter than that.”

Cairn furrows his brow, the dirt crusting in the wrinkles of his face. “You want me dead, why would you let me go?”

“I want a lot of people dead,” she promptly retorts. “And you, darling, are very low on my kill-priority list. Lucky you.”

“And what guarantees me that once you’re done with me, you won’t slit my throat?”

“Unlike you, I have honor,” she shows her pearly teeth. “If I say I’ll let you go, then I will,” she hisses.

“Your honor means nothing to me,” he evaluates her calmly, then snickers. “When Maeve arrives, not even your shadows will save you.”

“Maybe,” she admits, “but I won’t need them,” she hums, opening her palm, and a small flame comes to life, illuminating the semi-dark prison. Cairn’s eyes are lit just enough for her to see the fear within them.

She smiles mischievously. “There are many things Maeve doesn’t know.”

“Fire-bearer,” he murmurs, shocked. “You’re like that bitch of your queen.”

"Careful, Cairn," a low, almost animalistic rumble. "I might reconsider my offer if you insult my cousin again."

The shadows rise, grow, and stretch against the walls as if they are trying to grasp him. It is no longer just the flame speaking. Every corner, every reflection, every movement of light is manipulated to constrict, to suffocate.

She wants him to feel lost, weak, and alone.

She wants him to feel exactly what she felt when he trapped her against that stone wall.

"I won’t give you the information you seek," he said, his voice trembling imperceptibly. "Morath’s army is twice the size of yours. Go ahead, kill me. I’ll die knowing you’ll join me soon enough."

Aurora watches him with the cold eyes of someone who knows their superiority. "Ah, Cairn," she says with a malicious smile, "you don’t understand."

The fire vanishes entirely, but the shadows thrash even more wildly, like thirsty beasts. "I am Aurora Vanserra. Sister to Eris Vanserra, High Lord of the Autumn Court." She pauses briefly, letting the weight of those words settle on Cairn like a vice. "Of all his siblings, I am his favorite."

It’s not a lie.

"And, at this moment, his army is sailing toward Terrasen."

That’s a lie.

"Not just him. The High Lord of the Night Court has also decided to side with us," she smiles. "I don’t know if you’ve heard of Rhysand, but dealing with me is far less terrifying than dealing with him," she winks. "His army of Illyrians is lethal. I’ll enjoy watching them tear those Valgs apart."

Big lie. Huge lie.

But Cairn takes the bait like a fish on a hook. Every word that leaves her mouth feels like a blow to his skull.

Aurora looks at him, and her voice becomes a low whisper again, but so powerful it resonates like a strike in his mind. "Maeve has no idea how close her end is. And you, Cairn, are not ready for the future that awaits you. You have the chance to live a little longer before I find you and tear you apart. Do you really want to waste this opportunity for a queen who couldn’t care less about you?"

With a deep breath, he lets his arms fall to his sides, the struggle with his pride now lost. "Doranelle’s army will join Morath’s in two days," he said, his tone firm but marked by defeat. "They’ll reach Orynth within a week."

She already knew that.

"What else?"

"The witches," he says hoarsely. "They’ve built a weapon. They call it the mirror. I have no idea what it does, but Maeve is ecstatic about it."

She makes a mental note to speak with Manon later.

"And Doranelle’s fleet?" she asks. "How many will attack us by sea?"

"Your little soldiers did a good cleanup," he tilts his head. "It’s not Doranelle’s ships you should worry about, but Morath’s."

Damn.

She forces herself to keep her expression neutral.

"Anything else?"

"I’ve told you everything I know."

She gives him an evaluative look before inserting the key into the chains and detaching them from the wall. Cairn collapses to his knees, the irons still on his wrists. "You’re free to go," she says, turning and passing through the cell doors, leaving them open.

Cairn squints. "You’re not going to make sure I told the truth?"

Aurora suppresses a smirk. "Oh, I know you told the truth," she hums slowly. "You told me even more than I already knew. So, thank you," she says, stepping aside to leave the passage clear. "Now go," she gestures to the dark tunnel she knows leads to the edge of the beach. It’s a labyrinth of stone and mold, a nightmare for anyone unfamiliar with the castle.

"There’s one last thing," he tells her. "Tomorrow at sunset, there will be a gift waiting for you at the city gates."

She raises an eyebrow. "A gift," she repeats. "What kind?"

He shrugs. "I’m just a messenger."

The realization hits her. "You weren’t captured by chance," she murmurs incredulously. "You let yourself be found."

Cairn grins. "Surprise."

"Why didn’t you say anything yesterday?"

"The message was for your ears only. I don’t know what awaits you tomorrow, I just know it’ll make you angry," he smiles cheerfully. "I was ready to spit it in your face before dying, but telling you as a free man tastes much better, don’t you think, darling?"

Aurora returns the smile. "A deal is a deal," she says grimly. "But time is running out. You’d better hurry if you want a head start."

Cairn stops laughing. "What?"

"I’m giving you twenty seconds before I come after you," she says. "That’s generous of me, don’t you think, darling?"

"But you said—"

"I said I’d let you go, and so I am. I told you you’d live a little longer," she clarifies cheerfully. "I never specified how much longer."

"You—"

"You’re wasting time," she hums, a note of mockery slipping from her lips.

Aurora watches Cairn, a mischievous smile no longer hiding her satisfaction. His breathing is labored, and his body is taut like a string pulled to its limit, ready to snap. The scent of his fear envelops her senses, a mix of cold sweat and adrenaline burning her skin. It’s a sensation that intoxicates her, like a drug, a sweet poison that makes her even hungrier.

Seeing Cairn, with irons on his wrists, wounded and scared, makes her feel more powerful than ever before.

It will surely become her favorite memory.

"Start running.”

-.-

Aurora chases him through the dark tunnels of Orinth, where shadows consume every flicker of light, swallowing hope whole. She lets him slip away, only to close the distance again, her presence a chilling whisper against his skin, a promise of what’s to come.

She strikes when he least expects it—when the sun graces his face, and his breath steadies, the illusion of victory settles over him. Her hand clamps around his throat, slamming him against the unyielding stone. He thrashes wildly, his movements frantic, like a cornered beast realizing too late that escape is impossible.

Her lips curl into a smile, sharp and unrelenting. The predator has claimed its prey.

His screams echo through the tunnels, reverberating in her chest, each cry fueling the fire within her. The terror in his eyes is a salve, soothing wounds that have long festered in silence.

She wants him to feel it all—the fear, the helplessness, the agony that she and so many others have endured. She wants his pleas to fall on deaf ears, his suffering to mirror the pain he has inflicted.

She wants her face to be the last thing he sees, burned into his mind as terror consumes him.

(Many would call her actions dishonorable.

She doesn’t care.

Vanserras always get what they want.)

-.-

She sits motionless on the sand, her gaze lifted to the birds gliding effortlessly across the clear expanse of sky. Yet, the world she sees in her mind is veiled in muted grays, a storm heavy with unspoken pain.

There’s no sunlight breaking through the clouds, only the vivid memory of fresh blood on her hands. It stains the sand beneath her, defying gravity as it flows in slow, deliberate trails, carving unreadable patterns around her. The mingling of salt and iron fills her senses. 

With deliberate care, she begins to divest herself of the weight she carries. Her weapons, the silent witnesses of her rage, are placed on the motionless sand. Her jacket follows, discarded like a layer of armor she no longer wishes to bear.

Rising, she takes careful steps toward the water, the cool waves lapping against her ankles as she wades deeper. Reaching a small, jagged rock jutting from the shallows, she climbs it without hesitation and stretches out, letting the unyielding surface press against her back.

Aurora closes her eyes. The relentless hum of the world fades into stillness. The storm within her—chaotic, consuming—recedes, leaving behind an emptiness that chills her more than the sea ever could. The sun's warmth touches her skin, tentative and fleeting, and she sighs, longing for it to seep deeper, beyond the surface, into the hollow spaces of her fractured soul.

For now, she lies unmoving, suspended between the need to heal and the ache of simply being.

“Room for one more?” The voice startles her, and when she turns, she meets Fenrys’s brown eyes, a few meters away, waist-deep in the water. She must be more tired than she thought if she didn’t hear him approach.

She doesn’t answer, simply shifts to the side to make room for him.

“They’ll arrive in a week,” she says flatly, almost bored, as she continues to soak up the sun. “I’ve already told Aelin.”

“I know,” he replies, lying down beside her. “She told us.” He squints at her against the light. “I’m here to see how you’re doing.”

She licks her salty lips. “I’m fine,” she murmurs.

“Funny, I don’t believe you,” he says, propping himself up slightly. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” she repeats firmly. “Cairn is dead. Chapter closed.” She adjusts herself on the hard rock. “Next.”

Fenrys reaches out, takes a strand of her hair, and plays with it absentmindedly. “You know, Gavriel was right the other night. We would’ve found a way to make that bastard pay.”

Aurora narrows her eyes. “It wouldn’t have changed anything. Maeve wouldn’t have let you do anything.”

Fenrys exhales deeply, his arm sliding around her waist, pulling her gently closer. His face rests lightly against her shoulder, the warmth of his presence grounding her in a way words never could. “I wish you’d told me anyway,” he murmurs, his voice soft, almost fragile against her damp skin. “You shouldn’t have been alone.”

The unspoken question lingers between them: Who could understand you better than me?

Aurora remains silent, the weight of his words sinking into her without resistance. She doesn’t need to reply; the quiet between them speaks louder than anything she could say.

They stay in each other’s arms, still, as the sun gently warms their skin. For a moment, the world pauses, offering them a brief glimpse of peace.

-.-

"How’s it going with Connall?"

“It’s complicated,” he replies, brushing the sand out of her hair. “How’s it going with Gavriel?”

“It’s complicated,” she repeats in the same tone. “We haven’t been kind to each other.”

“You should talk to him. He’s not doing well.”

“Your brother isn’t doing well either. Have you talked to him?”

Fenrys doesn’t answer.

“Thought so.”

-.-

She reaches the edge of Orynth at sunset, just as Cairn had told her.

The cold twilight air wraps around her as she moves forward, her steps sinking slightly into the soft ground.

She’s alone; she hasn’t told anyone where she’s going.

Still a coward, Gavriel?

The shadows move ahead of her, sliding like specters among the forest’s darkness. They scan every corner, every crevice, but the small field of daisies is deserted. No traps, no presence. Just a wooden box in the center of the clearing, wrapped in a red ribbon. 

Aurora approaches with slow steps, her heart pounding like a drum. The air is still, heavy with a metallic scent that creeps into her nostrils. She picks up the note resting on top of the box. The elegant, precise handwriting freezes her blood.

See you soon,

Maeve.

The note slips from her hands. She lifts the package, feeling the unsettling weight of its contents. She unties the ribbon, which seems almost to resist her touch. Then, slowly, she lifts the lid.

The smell hits her like a punch. A nauseating stench, a mix of decay and sickly sweetness, invades her nostrils. She coughs, desperately trying to breathe, but her breath catches. With trembling hands, she pushes aside the paper wrapping the object, and what she sees rips a strangled gasp from her throat.

Aurora’s hands tremble as the box slips from her grasp, landing with a hollow thud that echoes in the stillness. Her body convulses, and she bends forward, retching onto the ground, the force of her anguish tearing through her.  

Sobs wrack her chest, raw and unrelenting. “No,” she cries, her voice breaking under the weight of her grief. “Oh Gods, no.”  

Vaughan’s lifeless eyes stare back at her, unblinking, as if they still hold secrets she’ll never uncover. His mouth is frozen in a silent scream, his face drained of color, gray and ghostly, a mask of death. Beside him lie two severed hands, their broken fingers curled in grotesque shapes, a testament to the horror he endured.  

Aurora’s groan escapes her throat, choked and guttural, steeped in pain so profound it feels like it might consume her.  

His hands. They cut them off.  

She wraps her arms tightly around herself, rocking back and forth as her agony spills out in an inhuman wail. The sound carries across the hills, a bitter melody that seems to pierce the heavens. Her strength drains away, leaving her hollow, her tears flooding the silence until the pain in her chest becomes unbearable. It shakes her to her core, threatening to shatter her very soul. She exhales, desperate to push the pain away, but the air offers no solace. The world feels too vast, too empty, and she is nothing more than a fragment—a faint echo of something that no longer exists.

Aurora remains frozen, her limbs refusing to move, her mind unable to accept the truth. Vaughan is gone.  

He died alone.  

The thought crashes over her like a tidal wave, cold and merciless, stealing her breath. She imagines his final moments, his eyes searching desperately for a friendly face, a hand to pull him from the abyss.  

But there was no one.  

She wasn’t there.  

“I’m sorry,” she whispers through her sobs, her hands clutching at the grass and the delicate petals of daisies scattered around her.  

And then she screams.  

Her voice tears through the air, shattering the sky above her.  

She screams, and the earth beneath her feet seems to ignite.  

She screams, and every fiber of her being tightens, stretched to the breaking point.  

When the anger finally replaces the pain, her flames have already consumed the field of daisies.  

Only ashes remain.

-.-

Gone. Vaughan is gone.

Aurora’s motions are slow, deliberate, almost unnaturally calm as she kneels beside his remains. Her hands move with reverent precision, lifting his head and hands as though each motion carries a sacred weight. She places them carefully in the box, arranging them with painstaking care. Her breath catches as she closes Vaughan’s lifeless eyes, her touch soft, imbued with an unspoken tenderness—a silent hope that, somehow, he can feel her love through the veil of death.

Her hands tremble as she shuts the lid, the finality of it pressing down on her. She rises slowly, the box heavy in her grasp, a burden that mirrors the weight inside her chest. The journey back to the castle is long, punctuated only by the sound of her footsteps on uneven ground, the creak of her shoes breaking the stillness. Each step feels endless, her strength stretched thin as the reality of loss settles over her.

Once in her room, she places the box on the desk. Her arms, strained from the weight of grief, give way, and she collapses into the chair. Her gaze lingers on the dark wood, her thoughts swirling, but her hands remain frozen. She cannot bring herself to open the box again—the pain would be unbearable.

What remains of Vaughan now is confined to a box, a reality she struggles to accept.

Aurora buries her face in her hands, letting silence envelop her. No words come; they remain lodged deep within her, unreachable, perhaps unnecessary. The rhythmic sound of her breathing fills the void, steady like the nights in Doranelle—familiar, comforting in its simplicity.

Perhaps Vaughan would have wanted this—a quiet goodbye, free of elaborate gestures, accompanied only by the natural rhythm of a world that continues to turn. 

-.-

She had always known she would never see him again. 

Aurora had made peace with the idea of a future where Vaughan wouldn’t be there with her, an absence painful but manageable. 

What she had never imagined was having to live in a world where he no longer exists. 

(She doesn’t know if she wants to.) 

-.-

Aurora knows how macabre it is to stay in that room, with a friend’s head sealed in a box. Every fiber of her being tells her she should get up, do something, anything. Yet she remains there, sitting on the bed, Vaughan’s notebook clutched to her chest, unable to let go. 

Even though he has already let her go. 

The sound of knocking on the door breaks the still silence of the room. “Aurora,” Rowan’s calm but firm voice cuts through the wood, “You didn’t come to dinner.” Pause. “Are you okay?” 

She doesn’t answer. Her eyes remain fixed on the box as if it holds all the answers and none, a constant in a world that keeps collapsing around her. 

“We’re coming in, girl,” growls Lorcan, his patience visibly worn thin. 

Her breath catches as if the air has suddenly become too dense to inhale. Her chest tightens, an invisible weight crushing her lungs. Her hands tremble, gripping Vaughan’s notebook, as the world around her blurs, reducing to a distant hum. 

Her heart races, pounding irregularly in her ears. The room seems to shrink, the walls closing in, suffocating her. A lump forms in her throat, preventing her from making any sound. 

He’s dead. He’s Dead. He’s dead. 

The sound of the knocks on the door blends with the chaos in her mind, amplifying the feeling of being trapped. Every fiber of her body is tense, ready to collapse under the weight of a panic she cannot control. 

Lorcan bursts through the door with a sharp, almost angry motion, as if the wood itself is to blame for the silence that greets him. Rowan follows, his steps more measured, but his expression darkens as soon as he enters the room. Both stop, struck by a pungent smell that seems to permeate the air. 

“What the hell is that smell?” Rowan asks, wrinkling his nose. 

Aurora doesn’t move. She doesn’t look up. Her eyes remain glued to the box on the desk, as if waiting for Vaughan to emerge, alive, to dispel the nightmare. 

Lorcan follows her gaze, his face hardening further. He approaches the desk with heavy steps, tension evident in every movement. “What’s in here, Aurora?” he demands, his voice sharp. 

Aurora exhales, a trembling breath that seems to break in half. Her arms shake as she clutches the notebook to her chest, as if it’s the only shield against the reality surrounding her. 

Lorcan lifts the lid of the box, and his face stiffens into an expression of pure disgust. “Fuck,” he mutters. He turns to Rowan, his eyes glinting with barely contained fury. “Fuck.” 

Rowan steps closer, his pace quick but not aggressive. He leans down to look inside, and his face contorts for a moment before he snatches the lid from Lorcan’s hands and slams it shut. “That,” he begins, but his voice breaks. “Vaughan,” Lorcan finishes, the word spoken with a gravity that seems to fill the room. 

Aurora lets out a strangled sound, and both turn to her, their faces tense.

“Take it away,” Rowan says, his voice firm but gentle, as he hands the box to Lorcan. “Warn the others.” 

Lorcan nods, his gaze still hard, but he obeys without a word. Rowan stays, his eyes settling on Aurora. 

“He’s dead,” she whispers, her voice cracking under the weight of unbearable pain. 

Rowan approaches cautiously, his movements measured, as if afraid to shatter what remains of her fragile composure. He sits beside her on the edge of the bed, careful not to invade her space. “Aurora,” he calls her name with a gentleness that betrays the urgency in his words, but she shakes her head, her hair falling over her face like a veil.

“He died alone,” she murmurs, her voice laced with a pain that cuts deep. “We weren’t there. They cut off his hands,” she adds, her voice breaking into a mix of bitterness and despair.

Her breathing grows labored as anguish overtakes her. Without hesitation, Rowan wraps an arm around her shoulders, strong but reassuring, pulling her gently toward him. Aurora leans into him, unable to fight the overwhelming pain inside her.

“I know,” he whispers.

“I want her dead,” she growls, fury igniting in her voice.

“So do I.”

She sobs quietly, her chest rising and falling convulsively. Her breath catches, the weight of her words still hanging in the air. “I know,” Rowan repeats, his arms tightening around her as if his embrace could hold together the shattered pieces of her soul.

Rowan guides her gently until they are lying side by side. Aurora buries her face against his chest, finding refuge in the warmth of his embrace. Her fingers weakly clutch at the fabric of his tunic.

“I know we’re at war,” she murmurs, her voice a fragile thread in the silence. “But I never thought I’d lose one of you.”

Rowan stays beside her, in no rush to respond. His chin rests lightly on her hair, while one hand tracks small circles on her back, a slow, steady gesture.

After a moment, his voice emerges, low and raspy, heavy with emotion. “I never thought so either,” he admits.

Aurora lifts her face slightly, her eyes surely red from crying.

“Tomorrow, I’ll get back on my feet,” she promises, her determination barely a whisper. “I just need tonight.”

“You’re allowed to feel this way,” Rowan counters. A pause. Then he adds, with a sincerity that makes him vulnerable, “I feel sad.”

Aurora lowers her gaze again, a tired sigh escaping her lips.

“We don’t have time,” she says, her voice just a little stronger, as if trying to convince them both. “I’ll cry again when it’s all over. I’ll sit under the stars and cry for a long time. But for now, we only have tonight.”

Rowan nods, even though she can’t see him.

“Alright,” he concedes. “When this is over, we’ll cry under the stars together.”

A moment of quiet settles between them, but it’s broken by the firm steps of Gavriel entering the room.

“I’ll take over now,” he declares, calm but resolute. His words are an invitation for Rowan to step aside.

Rowan watches him, hesitant. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he replies, his voice betraying his concern. Uncertainty is etched on his face, but he remains steadfast beside Aurora as if he must stay by her side.

Aurora, however, says nothing. She doesn’t even lift her gaze; the silence emanating from her is more eloquent than any words.

“You won’t keep me away from my daughter, Whitethorn,” Gavriel growls, stepping forward. “Go to your wife. I’ll stay with her.”

“Go,” Aurora says softly. “It’s okay.”

Rowan rises slowly, as if something holds him back, then nods reluctantly and leaves the room. Aurora doesn’t even turn as Gavriel approaches and sits beside her on the bed. His arms wrap around her firmly, and the warmth of his embrace spreads through her like a tangible relief to the weight of her grief.

She turns, letting herself be held, and rests her forehead against his chest, her breath trembling. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, her words fractured by an unease she struggles to express. “I shouldn’t have said those things to you.”

“I’m sorry too,” Gavriel replies, his voice a soft murmur. “I went too far. You didn’t deserve those words.”

Aurora closes her eyes, her chest rising in a deep, trembling breath. “Vaughan is dead.”

“I know,” Gavriel murmurs, holding her tighter as if the warmth of his embrace could mend the invisible wounds consuming her. “What can I do?”

“Don’t leave me,” her voice a fragile thread that breaks under the weight of despair. 

(Don’t die. I wouldn’t survive.)

“I have no intention of doing so.”

-.-

They bury Vaughan the next morning, under a sky streaked with the first rays of dawn.

Aurora stands there, beside the grave that now holds what remains of him. Her hands are tightly clasped with Fenrys’s. Their companions surround them, each motionless in respect and sorrow, as the morning wind carries the scent of the sea.

The hill they’ve chosen rises solitary above the ocean. The sky, painted with golden and rosy hues, stretches above them with an almost sacred calm.

It’s such a peaceful place; it feels like part of another world.

Vaughan would have loved it.

May beauty surround you even in the afterlife, brother.

-.-

“You idiot girl.” Lorcan lands a sharp punch to her jaw. Aurora staggers, takes a step back, then spits on the ground with disdain. With a quick motion, she tries to lunge, but he dodges gracefully with a sidestep.

“It’s the first lesson we taught you,” he says, feinting a direct blow to her face. She ducks just in time. “Dodge,” he growls, punctuating each word with a punch that whistles through the air.

Aurora pants, her breath ragged. “I am dodging,” she retorts, shifting her weight on her feet and lowering into a defensive stance. “I’m just a little distracted, you know, because of the war,” she adds sarcastically, jumping back to avoid a kick that could have doubled her over.

“Do you think the Valgs will give you time to focus?” Lorcan counters, grabbing her wrist with an iron grip and twisting it. Aurora bends forward, a muffled groan escaping her lips. “Clear your head, or you’ll get yourself killed.”

With a burst of determination, she grits her teeth and headbutts him square in the stomach. Lorcan lets out a choked grunt, bending slightly. “I won’t get myself killed,” Aurora snaps back, springing upright and starting to bounce on her feet, ready to counterattack.

“And you’re the one who’s distracted. Tell me, how many times have you thought about Elide during these two hours of training?” She taunts him with a mocking smile. “Two? Ten? A hundred?”

“Shut up,” Lorcan growls, lunging at her with lightning speed. But Aurora charges at him instead of dodging, slamming into him with full weight. The collision sends them both tumbling to the ground in a cloud of dust. For a moment, it’s all elbows digging, knees striking, and, shamelessly, hands pulling hair.

“Are you ashamed of your feelings?” Aurora grunts as Lorcan holds her tightly around the waist. She wraps her legs around his neck, squeezing with all her strength. “Surrender.”

“Never.” With an unexpected move, Lorcan bites her thigh. Aurora screams, letting him go and rolling away. In an instant, they’re both back on their feet, panting.

“You bit me!” she exclaims, outraged. “What the fuck!”

Lorcan wears a smug expression. “You have to use every weapon at your disposal.”

“In that case,” she says with a triumphant smile. The shadows move swiftly, hurling Lorcan out of the training area. “I win.”

“I hate you.”

-.-

You never truly grow accustomed to loss. 

It doesn’t matter how much time passes, how many scars you bear, or how far you’ve come. 

It always hurts.

-.-

Kail and Rowan face each other like wolves on the edge of a silent battle. Aelin stands a few steps behind her husband. 

"You can’t ask me to stand aside!" Kail exclaims, his gaze blazing, a mixture of wounded pride and restrained anger. "I’m part of this fleet," he insists, making a sharp gesture with his arm as if trying to cut through the air to make his declaration tangible. 

Rowan doesn’t flinch. "Kail, be reasonable," he replies, his voice holding the hardness of tempered steel, though a shadow of weariness lingers in his tone. "I have no children, and you’re next in line for succession." 

"There are other heirs!" Kail explodes, but Rowan shakes his head slowly, a denial that tastes of inevitability. 

"No one is as prepared as you to take command," Rowan says, and it’s as if every syllable is a boulder dropping onto Kail. His shoulders sag slightly, but he doesn’t yield. Aurora notices the subtle tremor running through his hands; it’s imperceptible but real. 

"I can’t leave them," Kail whispers, and in that sound lie the shadows of all he fears losing. "She needs me." 

Rowan regards his cousin with an expression laced with something between compassion and exasperation. "Aurora has plenty of capable soldiers," he says,"If I ask her, she’ll order you to stay behind." 

Kail laughs, but the sound is bitter, a stifled growl. "No, she won’t." 

Rowan then turns; his eyes meeting Aurora’s without hesitation. He bows slightly, formal but with a touch of urgency. "Commander," he begins, "I’m here on behalf of the city of Doranelle to request that the second in line of succession not take part in the battle." 

It’s no surprise. Aurora knew this moment would come; she and Rowan had already discussed it in private. 

She locks eyes with Kail. He smiles at her, one more defiant than hopeful. He’s certain she’s on his side, confident in his victory. Aurora takes a long moment. The answer weighs on her lips like stones. 

"Permission granted," she says.

Kail blinks, his face dimming into a mask of disbelief. "What?" he asks, a fractured whisper. "Aurora, how can you agree to this?" Kail’s voice is a finely honed dagger, aimed straight at her heart. "I’m your second-in-command; you can’t send me away." His words carry defiance.

Aurora looks at him with eyes long accustomed to concealing emotion. She crosses her arms over her chest, the gesture of a woman who allows no argument. "You’ll find out that I can." Her words fall like stones into a deep well, final and undeniable. 

Kail steps forward, frustration radiating through every fiber of his body. "What am I supposed to do?" he asks, "Sit locked in a room while you all fight?" 

Aurora tilts her head slightly, her words precise as an arrow. "No. You’ll leave with the last ship of citizens and escort them to safety." The calm in her tone is almost ruthless, and Kail seems to waver for a moment. 

"Are you joking?" he counters. 

Before she can respond, Aelin’s icy voice slices through the air, leaving no room for debate. "Aurora is entrusting you with the task of protecting my people, Kail. There is no greater honor." 

Kail lowers his gaze, the internal battle evident in the tension of his shoulders. "Yes, Majesty," he murmurs, but Aurora hears the echo of his disappointment, the venom laced in every syllable. "As you wish." 

He turns toward the door, but Aurora can’t let him leave without the final move. It’s a piece of the plan she cannot overlook. "Kail," she calls, her voice softer now but just as firm. He freezes, his body rigid. 

"Take Lux with you. You’ll need the help." 

Kail’s eyes widen in disbelief. "Lux will never agree," he says, his voice tinged with surprise and resistance. 

Aurora offers the faintest of smiles, a gesture colder than cordial. "Tell him it’s an order," she declares, every word carrying the weight of her authority. 

Kail remains motionless, and then his hands begin to tremble, almost imperceptibly. "Yes, Commander," he spits, before turning and storming out of the cabin with long, heavy strides. 

"There was no need to send Lux as well," Rowan’s voice reaches her before the silence settles down. There’s a subtle accusation, a thread of disapproval that digs under her skin. "I know losing Vaughan was a hard blow for you. But you can’t protect everyone." 

Aurora doesn’t turn immediately. "Not everyone," she murmurs at last, barely audible. "Only the ones who matter." 

-.-

Lux storms into the cabin like a tempest, accusations spilling from his mouth with the force of shrapnel. Aurora holds her ground, her voice rising above his fury. "This isn’t up for discussion," she shouts. "Either you follow orders, or you’re out of the fleet." 

From that moment, silence becomes their norm. And when Lux and Kail board the ship to leave, neither bothers to say goodbye. 

It’s the same with William. The order to assist the healers' stings, and his reaction, though less explosive, carries equal disappointment. 

"You’re not a warrior," Aurora points out. "You’re an enchanter. And you’re phenomenal with healing magic." 

"Without Lux and Kail, who’s going to watch your back?" William counters, his tone laden with defiance. "Did you think of that?" 

"Connall will," she replies. "Don’t question my decisions anymore," she says firmly, leaving no room for argument. 

"Your decisions have been stupid lately," William snaps, his frankness more bitter than bold. 

She doesn’t bother responding. 

(They can hate her, renounce her, hold eternal grudges. But they’ll do so breathing, and for her, that is enough to bear the weight of her choices.)

-.-

When she wakes up, there are those ten seconds when everything is fine. In those ten precious seconds, reality hasn’t yet seeped in. There are no absences to fill, no wounds to mend, no broken promises.

Just a fragile moment of peace, a golden bubble that bursts too soon. 

But for those ten seconds, everything is fine. 

There is no war. 

Her friends are safe. 

For just ten seconds, Vaughan is still alive. 

-.-

Aurora leans over the map, her breathing heavy as every detail of the routes fixes itself into her mind. Days have turned into hours, and time slips away like sand through her fingers. 

“Trouble sleeping?” Aelin’s voice surprises her, making her flinch slightly. 

Aurora turns, an eyebrow slightly raised. “I could ask you the same,” she replies neutrally, letting the silence stretch between them for a moment. 

Aelin sits beside her, her eyes drifting to the center of the map. “I was never here when I was a child,” she murmurs, her tone almost nostalgic. “My father forbade it. I spent all my time in the library or at the theater.” 

Aurora hesitates. She isn’t used to moments like these, so filled with normality amid chaos. Eventually, she lets the words escape. “I grew up studying my brother’s maps. I’d hide in his study, and he’d pretend to be annoyed.” 

Aelin observes her with interest, a smile tugging at her lips. “Which brother?” 

“Eris, the eldest,” Aurora answers, shifting slightly in her seat. “I’m the youngest of eight.” 

Aelin whistles, a low, impressed sound. “Your parents were busy.” 

Aurora shrugs, a hint of a smile betraying a touch of self-irony. “In the Autumn Court, it’s always wise to have backup heirs. The fact that only six of us are alive proves it,” she jokes.

A moment of silence falls between them, interrupted only by the distant sound of the wind. 

“How was it, going back home?” Aelin asks, her voice a mix of curiosity and caution. 

Aurora licks her lips, taking a few seconds before answering. “Like it is for everyone,” she murmurs, the words slipping out heavy. “Fucking traumatic.”

Her gaze drops to the map, her fingers tracing invisible lines. “But it was sad to leave again,” she adds, almost under her breath. “I hadn’t realized how much I missed the little things. The sound of dry leaves underfoot or the plum tarts I loved as a child.” She hesitates for a moment, then continues with a confession she hadn’t expected to make. “And I’d forgotten how much I’m like my brothers.” 

“Is that a bad thing?” The queen tilts her head, smiling. 

Aurora huffs, “Depends on who you ask.” 

“I’m asking you.” 

Aurora allows herself to think, her thoughts tangling with her memories. 

Eventually, she lifts her gaze and murmurs with a voice barely audible, as if not to break the air around them. 

“No,” she whispers. “It’s not a bad thing.” 

-.-

She doesn’t find it fair that the world keeps moving forward when her friend is dead.

Everything should stop, giving her time to heal.

And yet, the war arrives.

-.-

When they part, no words are spoken.

Only a silent, powerful promise passes between their gazes. A truth that binds them beyond language.

Stay alive.

-.-

The horizon darkens, shrouded in a veil of mist that swallows everything in its path. Shadows stretch and twist, moving with sinister intent as the enemy emerges from the gloom—an unstoppable force, like a nightmare made flesh with every step.

Endless lines of Valgs, hooded and cloaked in tattered robes, advance like an army of specters, each step a death knell echoing in the air. Their lances rise, grim and menacing, under the steel-gray sky—spikes of death poised to strike down any who dare oppose them.

When they reach the gates of Orynth, everything freezes. An oppressive silence, dense and tangible, fills the air, as if the world itself holds its breath. The army encircles the city, an unrelenting grip that spares no mercy. Torches flicker in the wind, casting eerie light on blackened armor, while the river below reflects fire and shadow, like a burning body writhing in the dark.

Aurora stands motionless beneath the bridge. Connall, at her side, watches the canal with icy calm, the boat swaying gently on the waves. The rest of the fleet disperses silently along the side river.

Her shadows cloak them—a temporary shield, a mantle that hides their presence. For now, they are invisible to the enemy’s eyes. But Aurora knows all too well it won’t last long.

For an agonizing moment, everything is still.

Then, the drum shatters the silence. A beat that grows, a roll that ripples through the earth and shakes the soul. One strike, two, three, until the ground above them trembles with the enemy’s approach.

Aurora grips the hilt of her sword with icy resolve, the cold metal grounding her in the inevitability of what’s to come the clash that cannot be avoided.

After more than two centuries, she allows herself to reach the core of her power. Aurora feels it surge, like a flood breaking every dam, overwhelming her.

Finally.

The sword in her hands glows with a fierce, living light, and in that instant, everything aligns.

“Holy shit,” Connall whispers, staring at the illuminated blade. “Your sword is glowing.”

Aurora breaks into a triumphant grin, adrenaline coursing through her veins. “Damn right it is.”

Then, from the darkness, the first Valg ship emerges, its black hull like a scythe cutting through the void.

Aurora holds her breath, her heartbeat quickening, every fiber of her being ready.

Twenty feet.

Aurora raises her arm, the gesture as decisive as the strike of a clock marking the fatal moment.

Ten feet.

She waits.

Five feet.

Her fist clenches, and the battle erupts.

-.-

As she feared, she could not maintain the shadows for long. 

A nearby explosion tilts the ship she is on, and her concentration breaks just enough for the darkness around them to dissipate into the air, inexorably revealing their position. 

From that moment on, they are forced to shift from an offensive strategy to one of pure defense. 

She and Connall fight as though they are one. He covers her back, and she returns the favor, but for every enemy they manage to bring down, just as many continue to pour in, relentless. 

Her gaze catches a group of Valgs trying to climb up the canal. She does not hesitate. Flames burst from her hands, incinerating them on the spot. 

It is surprisingly easy to resume using her power, even after all these years. The sword makes it feel natural. 

She still does not know whether this ease is a gift or a curse. 

"Nice shot," Connall growls, driving his blade straight into the neck of a Valg that got too close. "You wouldn’t happen to be able to do that again, would you?" he adds, nodding toward the ship advancing toward them. 

"Your wish is my command," she retorts with a faint smirk. A moment later, fire wraps around the vessel, devouring its wooden hull until it disappears in a cloud of ash. 

Connall rejoices. But his joy is short-lived. 

A screeching sound, sharp and shrill like a lament, forces her to lift her gaze toward the bridge. 

And that is when she sees it. 

A colossal tower looms against the sky, a monolith of sharp, merciless mirrors. 

The mirrors reflect light in countless directions, creating a dazzling glow that both mesmerizes and terrifies. 

The Valg push the tower forward along the bridge with brutal determination. The bridge trembles beneath their weight, their advance an unstoppable march. 

Aurora has no time to think. With a swift gesture, she summons a fiery power capable of reducing an entire forest to ashes—perhaps even more. The flames come alive, vibrant and fierce, and she hurls them toward the tower. 

Yet the flames do not burn, nor do they spread; instead, they ricochet back.

Just like a mirror. 

The air fills with heat and sparks as Aurora's magic turns against her. Her eyes widen in shock and Connall screams, "Abandon the ship!" 

Without a second thought, Aurora dives into the water below, the icy embrace engulfing her just as the ship explodes. 

For a moment, beneath the river's hushed surface, an eerie stillness prevails.

The water's trembling, translucent barrier refracts the flickering chaos above, where flames writhe with untamed fury. Crimson and orange hues penetrate the murky depths, casting distorted and ominous shadows that stain the underwater world in vivid, menacing tones. As Aurora struggles to find her bearings, fragments of wood drift toward her, plunging swiftly into the darkness only to rise again with jarring unpredictability.

She maneuvers with urgency, her movements precise and instinctive, narrowly evading a lifeless body ensnared in a net's cruel embrace. The twisted cords writhe like ghostly tendrils in the murky water, clinging to the figure as though refusing to let go. The sight sends a shiver far colder than the river's icy grip coursing through her, seizing her chest with an unsettling dread.

She manages to break through the surface, gasping for air as the cold wind bites at her wet skin. Her lungs fill with a desperate, aching breath, but the relief is fleeting. Before her, the ships—her ships—are consumed. Flames twist and roar against the dark sky, lighting the wreckage in a hellish glow. Debris scatters across the water, splintered wood and torn sails floating like ghosts.

Aurora watches, frozen, as the destruction unfolds.

That’s her fault.

She moves desperately back and forth, her movements erratic, her eyes wild with panic. "Connall!" she screams, her voice straining to rise above the chaos. "Connall!" The name tears from her throat, raw and hysterical.

But there is nothing. No reply, no familiar figure cutting through the haze. 

The air is suffocating, heavy with smoke that burns her lungs and blurs her vision. 

We can’t find him, Mathila’s voice rings out above the chaos.

"Keep looking!" she shouts.

Above her, the Mirror of a thousand Reflections continues its relentless advance. The Valgs have already crossed the bridge.

"No," she gasps, the word escaping her lips like a prayer denied.

Pivoting abruptly, she charges toward the riverbank. As soon as she reaches solid ground, she doesn’t pause—she doesn’t dare. She breaks into a full sprint, running harder and faster than she ever has before, driven by a singular, burning purpose.

She draws upon the core of her magic, channelling it into her limbs, willing her body to move faster than the world around her. The landscape becomes a blur, indistinct and fleeting as if she were tearing through a painting smudged by hurried strokes. But none of those matters.

Her mind fixates on one thing, one place: the castle. She must reach it before them.

Run, she tells herself, her heart pounding in tandem with the word. Run, run!

She is just steps away from the gate when she spots Aelin, tearing through the enemy ranks like a blazing force of destruction. Flames lick the air around her, and her sword moves with a precision that feels almost otherworldly, striking down anything in her path.

"Aelin!" Aurora shouts, her voice ringing out over the chaos. "The mirror! Don't use the fire against it!"

Aelin pauses just long enough to glance at Aurora, her expression fierce and questioning. "Why?"

Before Aurora can answer, the catapult unleashes its payload—a giant stone hurtling through the air toward the tower. The moment the stone hits the mirror's surface, it flips backward, rebounding with startling velocity. Chaos erupts among the ranks as the rock plummets back toward its origin. A soldier, too slow to react, is directly in the path of the hurtling boulder. A deafening crunch echoes as the massive stone slams into the earth, pinning the unfortunate male beneath its colossal weight.

"Oh, that’s why."

 -.-

Rowan’s keen eyes follow the trajectory of the massive rock, watching it plummet with crushing force onto a soldier caught unawares. The sickening impact echoes across the battlefield. Beside him, Fenrys erupts in a string of expletives, his frustration tangible. “What in the blazing hell is that thing?” he snarls, his voice cutting through the chaos.

Rowan’s jaw tightens, his body tense with unresolved questions. “I don’t know,” he admits, his tone grim, his attention shifting toward the battlefield’s unrelenting chaos. But then his gaze falls downward, drawn to her.

Aelin stands amidst the carnage, a picture of lethal elegance, her golden hair whipping through the air with each powerful motion. Rowan’s stern expression softens as he watches her, captivated. With a clean, unerring stroke, she beheads a Valg soldier, blood spraying in an arc that only seems to amplify her fierce beauty. Her blade flows through the air like it’s part of her—an extension of her indomitable will. Each movement is purposeful, devastating in its precision. A force of nature, unstoppable and unyielding.

And even amidst the destruction, she remains breathtakingly his.

Gods. How much he loves that woman.

Not far off, Aurora fights like a demon. Her sword catches the light, its surface gleaming like molten metal, while flames wrap around her wrists, pulsating in rhythm with her every breath.

Her shadows snake forward, swift and unyielding, coiling around the Valg's legs like living chains. The creature struggles, its movements jerky and futile against the binding grip. Aelin wastes no time. With the precision of a hunter, she plunges her blade deep into the Valg’s stomach. A guttural scream tears from its throat, but it’s short-lived. Flames erupt from the wound, consuming the creature from the inside out.

Fenrys, wide-eyed, watches in unabashed awe, a grin creeping across his face despite the carnage. "Thank the gods they’re on our side," he breathes, shaking his head as his expression turns dreamy. "Do you think now’s a bad time to ask Aurora to marry me?”.

With a swift, fluid motion, Aurora sweeps her sword in a lethal arc, unleashing a torrent of power. The gust that follows is searing, filled with embers and raw energy. Within seconds, all the Valg closest to her turn to ash.

Damn.

Aurora and Aelin, locked in the chaos of battle, somehow find a fleeting moment amidst flying arrows and clashing steel. With unshaken confidence, they pause long enough to exchange a bold, triumphant high-five. 

Rowan pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering something likely unprintable. Those two might conquer kingdoms, but he is almost certain they’ll be the death of him first.

“More are coming,” says Fenrys, pointing to the mass of Valgs surging forward. The mirror tower looms closer with every passing moment.

“We’re heading down,” Rowan replies quickly, giving the archer beside him a firm pat on the shoulder.

“Don’t miss your mark while I’m out there.”

“We’ll do our best, General.”

-.-

Lorcan moves with relentless precision, a force of nature carved from shadow and steel. His strikes are raw, merciless—a symphony of destruction that leaves Valg soldiers in shreds, their bodies scattered like broken dolls in his wake. Blood flows freely, pooling around his boots as his blade becomes an extension of his wrath. His dark eyes gleam with pitiless focus, devoid of hesitation or mercy. To cross his path is to court annihilation.

Through the haze of violence, a single thought pierces his mind: 

Elide.

It’s not merely hope but something deeper, something desperate. The image of her safe within the castle walls flits briefly through his consciousness, enough to tighten his grip and harden his resolve. The idea of harm befalling her ignites something feral within him, propelling his strikes to an even greater intensity.

But as shadows close behind him, danger encroaching, Lysandra bursts from the gloom—a predator unleashed. Her mountain lion form moves like liquid muscle, claws ripping through flesh with ruthless efficiency. The Valg attackers fall under her onslaught, their weapons useless against her feral rage. Bones snap, screams erupt, and blood sprays in violent arcs.

Lorcan spares her barely a glance, his voice low and rough. “Good timing,” he mutters, already throwing himself back into the fray.

Lysandra responds with a growl, rich with smug satisfaction, as she blends back into the chaos. 

-.-

Many things can be said about witches. But never that they are incapable of crafting a magical mirror.

Manon soars over the chaos of the battlefield, the wind roaring around her as Abraxos beats his powerful wings with swift precision. Her Thirteen fly in formation beside her, an unbreakable unit, loyal as ever.

From her vantage point, she scans the mayhem below until her sharp eyes lock on a familiar figure. Dorian. Surrounded by Valgs, their twisted forms closing in on him like a tide.

With a sharp command, she urges Abraxos into a steep dive. The wyvern’s descent is swift and ferocious, his massive form cutting through the air like a falling star. As they reach the ground, Abraxos snaps up one of the Valgs in his massive jaws, the sickening crunch of bones breaking echoing through the chaos. With a vicious shake, he tears the creature in half, splattering blood across the earth. Manon smirks at the sound, the kind of satisfaction only death can bring.

A torrent of fire erupts from Abraxos' massive jaws, engulfing the remaining Valgs.

“Need a hand, princeling?” she asks, her tone dripping with smug amusement.

“Never one to refuse, witchling,” Dorian replies, grinning as he sprints toward her. In one fluid motion, he leaps onto Abraxos’ back as the wyvern takes flight again, rising above the fray.

“There are too many,” Dorian mutters, glancing down at the writhing mass of Valg below. “Aurora’s ships exploded.”

She has no love for the Shadowsinger, but a part of her hopes the Fae survived.

If anyone kills her, it will be me.

Manon’s golden eyes narrow as she commands Abraxos into another dive, the wyvern’s wings slicing through the air with deadly precision. Her Thirteen follow suit, their mounts descending in a coordinated attack. The wyverns swoop low, unleashing torrents of fire that incinerate the Valgs below, only to rise swiftly before the enemy can retaliate. It’s a deadly game of speed and destruction, one they play with ruthless efficiency.

Dorian clings to Abraxos, his knuckles white as the wyvern twists and dives. “I’m going to be sick,” he mutters, his face pale.

“If you ruin my hair. I’ll kill you myself.”

The battlefield blurs beneath them, a storm of fire and dust, as Manon and her wyverns continue their relentless assault.

Dorian grips her shoulder tightly. "I saw Maeve and Erawan!" he shouts, his voice cutting through the roar of the battlefield. "They're over there!"

Manon narrows her eyes, straining her vision to focus on the distant hill he’s pointing toward. Amidst the chaos, she spots them, two solitary figures atop the rise, standing apart from the fray. Maeve, cloaked in her signature violet robes, and Erawan, his steel crown gleaming even from afar.

They are guarded by at least twenty soldiers. Other witches are positioned along the lines, covering them. Beside them are small replicas of the giant mirror.

Fuck.

“What do we do?” Dorian asks, his voice urgent.

“We find Aelin.”

-.-

Fenrys has never been one for faith or prayers. He’s never trusted celestial beings or divine interventions. But now, as chaos surrounds him, he finds himself praying—praying for his friends’ lives, praying for victory over the storm of enemies closing in.

Connall had been with Aurora at the start of the battle. A terrifying, icy dread twists in his chest, gripping his heart with brutal force. His thoughts spiral, his mind conjuring the worst, even as he fights to suppress it.

The battlefield blurs as his head spins, the weight of fear suffocating him.

Where is he? Is he—no, don’t think that.

The horrifying possibility digs its claws deeper, relentless and unforgiving. His twin should be with him, and the absence is a wound that Fenrys feels keenly, cutting through the noise of battle and lodging itself in his very soul.

As he runs alongside Rowan, each step is heavy with purpose and unspoken desperation.

They crash through the gates, where Gavriel and Aedion stand firm on the castle steps, their blades flashing amidst the carnage. Only remnants remain of the soldiers who had been stationed with them, their ranks decimated. Gavriel strikes down another Valg with grim efficiency, growling, “Running away already?”

Rowan doesn’t break his stride. “We’re going to Aelin and Aurora!” he shouts over his shoulder, his voice sharp and commanding. “Hold the gates. They cannot break through!”

“Why don’t you do it yourself, since you’re so good at giving orders?” Aedion snaps back, losing an arrow that finds its mark—dead center in a Valg’s eye.

“You’re on fire, kid!” Fenrys calls out, grinning as he rushes past.

“Is Aurora okay?” Gavriel pants, his sword skewering another soldier as he glances toward Fenrys.

“She’s killing everything in her path!”

“That’s my girl,” Gavriel mutters, a flicker of pride in his voice as he cuts down yet another Valg.

Blood splatters, bodies fall, and the battlefield roars with the sounds of steel and screams. Relentless, they push onward until at last they reach Aelin and Aurora.

Aelin stands tall, her breathing labored, but her gaze unwavering. She isn’t a queen. She is the queen.

His queen.

And Aurora, oh gods, Aurora is nothing short of breathtaking.

Her ruby hair glows even beneath the grime of battle, and the crimson and sooty streaks on her face only enhance her raw, ethereal beauty.

"I'm sorry, this is the spot for strong, independent girls," Aurora says, delivering a sharp punch to a soldier's face. She doesn’t even pause as she smirks and adds, "The spot for lonely, boring guys is over there, where Lorcan’s fighting." Her tone drips with playful sass, even as chaos swirls around her.

"She’s right, we don’t share kills," Aelin says. "But you’re welcome to clear the path for us, if you’d like."

"I always knew you two would get along," Rowan mutters, "But it hurts anyway."

His tone is heavy with resignation, but there’s a flicker of begrudging amusement as he watches Aurora and Aelin exchange a smug look, clearly unbothered by his lament.

Lorcan crashes down from the sky like a tempest, his blade cleaving a Valg in two with brutal precision. "This isn’t a bloody picnic," he snarls, his voice razor-sharp with irritation. "Less talking, more killing."

Fenrys glances around, the mirror tower looming ever closer to the palace entrance. "We need to go back," he says urgently, his voice sharp. "Gavriel and Aedion won’t hold out much longer."

Aurora’s usual humor vanishes, replaced by a flicker of concern in her eyes. "Are they okay?" she asks, her voice tense.

"For now," Fenrys replies, his tone steady but grim, "but they won’t be for long if we don’t help them."

Aurora snarls as a Valg lunges at her. She raises her hand, and the creature is instantly engulfed in flames, its screams filling the air before it crumbles to ash. "Let’s go."

Before they can take a step, Manon and Abraxos crash down from the sky, the wyvern’s massive bulk smashing into the ground and crushing the skull of a passing soldier. Blood pools beneath the shattered remains as Dorian jumps down from the saddle.

"We saw Maeve," Manon tells them, her voice curt and to the point. "She’s with Erawan, surrounded by soldiers. They’re hiding on top of a hill."

Aurora lets out a low, biting curse, the weight of the moment pressing heavily on her. Her fiery confidence falters, just for a heartbeat, replaced by the raw edges of uncertainty.

Fenrys watches her closely, and though he says nothing, he feels the storm raging within her. He knows the choice tearing at her rush to save her father and brother, who might not hold out much longer, or chase the vengeance that Vaughan deserves.

"I’ll take care of Maeve," Aelin says firmly, her voice unyielding.

"And I’m with you," Rowan replies instantly. They exchange a glance, a soft smile passing between them—a silent promise. "Always with you," Rowan murmurs.

“I can't wait to tear that bitch apart," grins Lorcan.

Dorian steps forward, determination etched into his features. "Let’s go. They’ll give us a ride," he says, gesturing to Manon’s winged squadron hovering nearby.

Aurora, who has remained silent, her head lowered, suddenly lifts her gaze. There’s fire in her eyes now, fierce and unrelenting.

There is a terrible beauty in her rage.

Turning to Aelin, she says in a low voice, "When you take Maeve’s head, tell her it’s from me."

Aurora extends her blade; her movements are fluid and resolute.

"Take this," she urges the queen, her voice firm yet laced with an undercurrent of earnestness. "It will serve you well."

Aelin shakes her head, her expression unwavering, her resolve etched in every line of her stance.

"Goldryn is the sword of my lineage," she replies, her tone carrying both defiance and reverence. "When I slay Maeve, it will be with my father’s blade."

Aurora gives a slight nod, a flicker of acknowledgment passing between them.

As Fenrys starts toward Aurora, he declares, "I’m coming with you." But Aurora shakes her head firmly.

"No," she says, her voice steady and unyielding. "Go with them. They’ll need you more. I’ll manage." To prove her point, she raises her hand, setting a nearby Valg aflame. The creature’s screams are short-lived, its body reduced to ash in mere seconds.

Fenrys clenches his jaw, hesitation flickering in his expression. "Protect our queen," Aurora insists, her tone brooking no argument. "If she falls, none of this will have mattered." 

Fenrys feels a heavy weight settle in his chest as he watches her turn away. Every instinct screams at him to stay, to fight alongside her, but he knows he must let her go. The ominous sensation gnawing at him only deepens, an unshakable sense that something terrible is looming.

“Aurora," he stops her before she can leave, his voice tight with urgency. "Where’s Connall?"

His friend’s expression falters, a crack in her usual confidence, and it’s enough to answer his question before she even speaks. “I haven’t seen him since our ship exploded,” she admits softly, her voice tinged with guilt. “I’m sorry.”

Fenrys squeezes his eyes shut, a sharp pain blooming behind them as his vision blurs. “It’s fine,” he says, more to convince himself than her, nodding quickly. “I’m sure he’s okay.” He takes a steadying breath, forcing himself to focus. “Go to Gavriel.”

Aurora hesitates for just a second before nodding, but as she turns to go, she glances back at him one last time. “Stay alive,” she commands, her voice firm despite the chaos.

Fenrys allows himself the barest hint of a smile, “You too,” he replies, watching her disappear into the madness, leaving him with the gnawing dread he can no longer suppress.

-.-

Gavriel refuses to show weakness, not when every second matters and the fate of this battle hangs by a thread. 

“What do we do?” Aedion asks, his voice strained, his breath catching as exhaustion threatens to take hold. “They’re surrounding us!”

Gavriel turns to face his son, and for a moment, the chaos around them fades. Aedion stands tall, defiant even in the face of overwhelming odds, his courage unwavering despite the weight of the battle pressing down on them. Gavriel studies him, and an ache blossoms in his chest—one he rarely allows himself to feel.

Aedion is his reflection, yet somehow so much more. He is stronger than Gavriel ever dared to be, braver in ways Gavriel could only imagine, truer to himself and those he loves. The pride that fills him is fierce, bittersweet, and undeniable—one of those rare emotions Gavriel has felt only a handful of times in his life.

Then his mind shifts, unbidden, to Aurora.

His Aurora.

She stands as a wildfire, untamed and unstoppable, a warrior who commands fear and admiration in equal measure. Yet, despite all her strength, Gavriel cannot banish the image of that vulnerable child she once was. He had vowed to protect her then, and that promise remains as unshakeable as the earth beneath his feet.

To the world, Aurora is a force of nature. To him, she is that same fragile soul who once stole his heart in Doranelle. She may not be his by blood, but there is something more profound, more unbreakable, that binds them. It runs deeper than lineage, embedding itself into his very marrow. 

She is his.

It doesn’t matter what others think, how they see her, or how the world views him. None of it matters.

Even if his name fades from history, reduced to a faint echo in the ballads of war, the pride he feels for his children, both born and chosen, will endure.

"Fall back!" Aedion yells, his voice cutting through the chaos. "They mustn't reach the gates!"

Gavriel pauses, his gaze sweeping the battlefield as a cold realization settles deep in his gut. The weight of the truth is heavy, undeniable, and it sinks into him like a stone. He swallows hard, forcing the lump of dread down.

The soldiers at Gavriel's side are barely holding their ground, their movements growing sluggish as exhaustion and injury take their toll.

For every Valg they cut down, two more rise to take its place, their guttural cries blending into the deafening chaos. The air is thick with the stench of blood and sweat, and the battlefield feels like it's collapsing inward under the weight of inevitable defeat.

Gavriel's sharp eyes track Aedion as his son breaks through the melee, slipping past the gates just in time. With the line collapsing around him, Gavriel takes a deep, steadying breath and steps forward. He plants himself before the gates, his back to them as if he alone can hold back the swarm.

Summoning every ounce of his strength, he raises his arms, his magic flaring to life.

A roaring wall of air erupts before him, shimmering and powerful, stretching wide to block the advancing horde. The Valg slam into it with furious force, their claws and weapons scrabbling uselessly against the impenetrable barrier. Their rage echoes as they are thrown back, time and again, unable to breach the defense.

Gavriel grits his teeth, the strain of maintaining the wall searing through him.

"Let it go!" Aedion’s voice tears through the chaos, raw and frantic. "Come with me!"

But Gavriel stands firm, his back to the gates, the unrelenting swarm of Valgs crashing against the barrier he holds with every ounce of his strength. He knows the truth and feels it like a heavy stone in his chest—if he retreats, the gates will fall before they can close.

He exhales a trembling breath, steadying himself. Of all the ways to leave this world, this is the one he chooses, protecting his son, safeguarding a future he knows is brighter than his own.

It is, without question, the best way to go.

Turning, Gavriel’s gaze seeks out Aedion, who is already in position, ready to lower the bars of the gate. Their eyes meet across the carnage, and Gavriel manages a faint, bittersweet smile. It’s a smile filled with love, pride, and the quiet resignation of a man who has made his choice. Aedion’s face shifts, panic flickering in his eyes as the weight of realization hits.

"I’m proud of you," Gavriel calls, his voice soft yet carrying through the din of battle. "I wish we’d had more time."

Aedion’s head shakes, denial warring with the acceptance that’s written all over his face. He knows. He knows Gavriel is right, even if he refuses to believe it.

"Close the gates, Aedion."

-.-

Aelin exhales sharply, her blade slicing through the air in a deadly arc toward Maeve. The queen of Doranelle smiles, cold and cruel, her voice dripping with disdain. "Isn’t it exhausting?" she sneers, the mockery in her tone a weapon of its own. "You’re losing.”

Aelin’s gaze sweeps the battlefield, her sharp eyes consuming every intricate detail, every collision of steel and surge of magic. Lorcan and Rowan move in tandem, twin tempests unleashed, their blades carving through the valg with merciless precision. Fenrys, a streak of argent fury in his wolf form, barrels through the fray. He is a whirlwind of fangs and claws.

Manon and her Thirteen are rending witches with ferocious elegance. Above, wyverns tear at the heavens with talons and wings, their fiery breath cascading downward in molten streams, the flames dancing perilously close to the glinting mirrors that stud the battlefield like fragile stars.

And Dorian—Aelin’s lips almost betray her, curving into a smirk—stands resolute, every inch the sovereign he was destined to be. The air around him crackles with frost as his icy magic surges forth, meeting Erawan’s churning darkness in a cataclysmic collision.

Their powers writhe and clash, an elemental war that rends the ground and makes the earth tremble beneath their feet as if the battlefield itself bows under the weight of their unyielding wills.

"It looks like we’re evenly matched," Aelin says, her voice calm despite the fire simmering beneath the surface. She darts forward, her movements quick and precise, dodging Maeve’s blade with ease. Her fist connects with Maeve’s stomach, the force of the blow making the queen stagger.

Maeve recovers, her snarl vicious. "There are no gods left to help you now, Aelin Galathynius," she hisses, her fury spilling into every word.

Aelin rises, unbowed and resolute, the fire within her flaring to an inferno that refuses to be contained. Flames twist and spiral around her legs and arms, vibrant and searing, as though her very soul fuels their blaze.

Her father’s sword erupts with fire, the molten glow transforming it into a weapon not forged by mortal hands, but by the will of the divine.

Aelin smiles, and Goldryn burns brighter.

“I am a God.”

-.-

Aurora moves like a tempest, her strides fueled by desperation and resolve, her heart pounding with the rhythm of war. Chaos unfurls around her, a whirlwind of destruction threatening to consume everything in its path. But she doesn’t falter, even as the cursed tower looms ahead, radiating power so volatile it seems to scar the earth with every pulse.

The battlefield is alive, a breathing nightmare, where victory feels as distant as the stars. Aurora pauses only to assess, her mind calculating through the haze of panic.

Her sharp gaze catches their forms in the chaos—Aedion has already passed through the towering gates, but Gavriel remains outside, his shimmering wall of air keeping the tide of Valgs at bay. He’s buying time for his son, standing as a lone sentinel against darkness.

He won’t survive.

The thought claws at Aurora’s chest, icy terror gripping her tightly. Her father, who swore never to leave her, now faces a fate she cannot bear to accept. But her fear sharpens into determination—a blade cutting through the suffocating fog—and Aurora propels herself forward, sprinting with singular focus.

She will not lose him.

As Gavriel lets the wall collapse, Aurora surges through the gap, her shadows erupting to replace the barrier, twisting and coiling like living tendrils of defiance. She grabs him, pulling him back with swift, precise movements, shoving him through the railings as the gates slam shut. The metallic clang echoes, sealing him behind safety, while her shadows strain to hold the enemy back.

Gavriel staggers, confusion etched into his features, but when his eyes land on her standing outside the gates, horror replaces disorientation.

“No,” he exhales, his voice trembling, desperate. “No, no, no, no!” He lunges against the bars, his hands gripping them, his voice breaking as he shouts, “Aurora, come back here!”

She stands firm, unmoving, her gaze steady despite the storm raging within her. The anguish in his voice swells as he turns toward his son.

"OPEN THEM!" he bellows, a command choked with urgency. "Open the gates, Aedion! Open them now!"

“It’s all right,” she says softly, her voice calm yet laced with finality. A fleeting smile brushes her lips, bittersweet, as she speaks her truth.

When her shadows begin to falter, flickering like dying flames, she meets Aedion’s eyes, offering him one last look filled with resolve. 

You have a chance. Don’t waste it.

Aedion’s throat works against the emotion threatening to consume him, but he nods firmly, bringing his fist to his chest in a silent salute. Aurora mirrors the gesture, her hands trembling even as her smile holds steady.

Her gaze returns to Gavriel, her voice breaking as she whispers, “I love you, Dad.” The words, foreign yet achingly familiar, fall from her lips with a weight that cannot be undone.

Gavriel slumps against the bars, his strength ebbing away as despair overtakes him.

“Please,” he chokes out.

Aurora doesn’t answer. Her gaze hardens, her purpose crystallizing in the face of the storm.

With unwavering determination, she grips the hilt of her sword, drawing on every ounce of strength buried within her. Iris’s blade ignites, blazing to life with a brilliance that lights the battlefield, its radiant fire answering her call.

And then, she charges forward.

-.-

She doesn’t know how long she slashes, cuts, kills, and burns her way forward until she finally reaches the tower of mirrors. She has no sense of time, no awareness of the minutes or hours lost in the chaos.

All she knows is that the sword is on the verge of exploding. And she fully intends to make it a spectacular blast.

Witches and Valgs block her path, but with a single flick of her hand, she incinerates them, their forms reduced to ash in an instant. Wielding the sword isn’t exhausting; it’s intoxicating. The power surges through her veins, heady and overwhelming. She feels invincible.

With a burst of momentum, she slides across the ground, slipping past the chaos and into the tower. Inside, the witches freeze, their gazes locking onto her in stunned silence. For one breathless moment, the world holds still.

She smiles—a fierce, triumphant smile—and raises her sword.

A witch lunges at her, screaming, “No!”

Aurora drives the blade into the ground, and power erupts from her like a tidal wave.

It is light, heat, home, pain, hope, and death at the same time.

She watches as the fire consumes her, devouring everything in its path. Flames coil around her, a relentless inferno, her clothes turning to cinders, her skin blackening and cracking. Smoke fills her lungs, thick and choking.

But it doesn’t hurt.

Her shadows rise, wrapping around her in a comforting cocoon. They cradle her as if to shield her from the inevitable.

With one final, desperate effort, Aurora channels what little remains of her power. The flames intensify, roaring higher, hotter until they scorch her very soul. Her face burns, her vision fades, and her grip loosens.

“So, this is the end,” she breathes, her voice soft, almost wistful. “It has been an honor to walk this earth alongside you.”

A phantom hand brushes her cheek, gentle and familiar. Mathila’s voice whispers, like the warmth of a summer breeze.

The honor was ours.

She closes her eyes.

The world explodes.

-.-

The first thing Aelin feels is the power. It resonates like a deep vibration in the air, humming across her skin, tangling in her breath. The hair on her arms stands on end, and a shiver crawls down her spine. It’s there, undeniable, electric. She tastes it on her tongue, sharp and metallic.

Maeve feels it too. A wave of raw, unstoppable power sweeps over the hill, its intensity paralyzing. Everyone freezes, their gazes drawn toward the distant battlefield. The air is so still, so heavy, it feels as though the earth itself holds its breath.

And then the tower erupts.

The explosion is deafening, a feral roar of destruction that splits the sky. Shards of stone and fire spiral upward before crashing down in a fiery deluge. Flames pour from the wreckage, surging forward like the unleashed fury of a broken dam. They consume everything in their path—grass, soldiers, trees—spreading with wild, unrelenting force.

Screams pierce the air, raw and guttural, as chaos unfurls.

Maeve stumbles back, her face pale and stricken. "No," she exhales, the word trembling on her lips. "No. No." She takes another step back, her voice breaking as disbelief gives way to terror.

Dorian seizes the moment, driving his blade into Erawan with precision and fury. From behind, Lorcan strikes, slashing Erawan’s throat in one swift, merciless motion. 

Erawan collapses, his body crumpling under its weight, choking on the blood that spills from him in gurgling, desperate gasps. The sound is wet, guttural, and final.

Aelin doesn’t move.

Her gaze is fixed, unblinking, on the destruction unraveling before her. The fire races across the field, relentless, engulfing everything it touches. It surges toward the bridge, and perhaps farther still.

"Aurora," Rowan whispers, his voice raw with disbelief. The name tumbles from him like a prayer, shattered and reverent.

Fenrys’s shoulders quake violently. The strength drains from his legs, and he collapses to his knees, the weight of it all driving him to the ground. His eyes, wide and disbelieving, refuse to look away.

"No," he moans, his voice breaking under the weight of grief.

Aelin doesn’t wipe the tears streaking her face. They burn as they fall, fueled by a rage so fierce it feels like it might consume her, just as the fire does on the battlefield. Her fury propels her forward, hot and unrelenting, and she charges toward Maeve once more.

Maeve, though, is too consumed by her defeat, staring in horror at the scene before her.

Aelin doesn’t hesitate. She grabs Maeve by her hair, dragging her down with a force that leaves no room for resistance. Her voice is a venomous hiss, sharp and unyielding.

"This is from Aurora."

With one clean, decisive stroke, she swings her blade, severing Maeve’s head.

-.-

It’s a strange experience, being dead.

The world feels upside down, twisted, and the pain is unbearable. The stench is overwhelming—a nauseating mix of decay and blood. The taste lingers on her tongue, ash and earth, bitter and suffocating.

She never imagined that breathing would be difficult after death. Does she even need air?

Her confusion deepens as she struggles to make sense of it all. Slowly, hesitantly, she opens her eyes.

Oh.

She isn’t dead.

She’s merely buried beneath the rubble.

The weight presses down on her, suffocating and unyielding, but it’s not the crushing finality she expected.

Not death. Not yet.

Her gaze snags on a shard of mirror lodged precariously beside her, the fractured glass offering a cruel glimpse of her reflection.

The sight hits her like a dagger to the gut, and bile rises uncontrollably. She vomits on herself, choking on the shock. Her face—she barely recognizes it. Charred and ravaged by fire, it’s a nightmare of seared flesh. That she can still see feels nothing short of miraculous.

She shifts, trying to move, but the numbness below her waist tightens its grip, unfamiliar and terrifying. Her feet—she can’t feel them. Panic bubbles in her chest, but she grits her teeth, forcing herself to focus. Summoning what remains of her dwindling power, she struggles to rise. Every movement feels like a battle waged against her own broken body.

Don't move, Mathila’s voice fills the air, sharp and commanding. Relief floods through Aurora, so overwhelming it nearly brings her to tears.

We're holding up the remains of the tower to keep them from collapsing on you! Don't move!

"Go get help," she croaks, her voice barely audible.

We can't, Mathila replies, her tone firm but laced with anguish. If we leave, you'll be crushed.

The strain proves too much. Her strength fails her as darkness closes in, and she collapses, unconscious, the faint taste of ash lingering on her tongue.

-.-

She has no sense of how long she remains there—hours, perhaps days.

To her, it feels like years.

Her power trickles back slowly, agonizingly so, never enough to free herself, only just enough to begin mending her back.

But the darkness claims her more often than the light. She spends more time unconscious than awake, lost in the void, teetering on the edge of oblivion.

The shadows keep her company, wrapping around her like silent sentinels.

Mathila’s soothing voice drifts through the suffocating stillness, a balm against the oppressive weight of this prison of mirrors and dust. It steadies her, grounding her in moments when despair threatens to swallow her whole.

We won’t hold out much longer.

Aurora closes her eyes tightly, her breath shallow yet calm. "It’s okay," she whispers, her voice soft, almost serene. "I’m ready." 

We aren’t. 

-.-

The sudden release of pressure snaps her awake, like surfacing from the depths of a dark ocean. Her shadows dissolve. She can hear them sigh with relief.

“We’ve got another body!” a sharp, unfamiliar voice bellows her.

I’m here. She wants to cry out. I’m alive

But the words won’t come. Her throat feels dry, raw, and her body too broken to cooperate. Even opening her eyes feels like an impossible task.

Rough hands grab her feet, dragging her through the debris. The jagged remains of the tower scrape against her as her head collides painfully with a rock. She groans, the sound faint but enough to make them pause.

“There’s someone alive here!”

Other voices erupt around her, overlapping in chaotic urgency. The sound of stone being shifted intensifies, the rumble of debris giving way filling her ears. And then it happens—a moment of pure, blinding relief.

The light touches her face.

It pierces the darkness she’s been trapped in, so stark and beautiful it nearly brings her to tears. Slowly, painstakingly, she manages to crack one eye open. Her blurred vision sharpens just enough to catch her rescuer’s face.

“Can you speak?” he asks, his voice urgent yet gentle. “What’s your name?”

The question echoes in her mind. Speak? How does one even do that? She searches for the answer, but her memories feel like fragments scattered in the wind.

“You’ll be fine,” the man says, his tone steady and sure, as if willing it to be true. “We’re going to get you healed.”

He crouches lower, trying to lift her without causing further harm. The movement is careful, deliberate, but her injuries fight back. He mutters a curse under his breath.

“Her back’s torn wide open,” he says to someone nearby, urgency hardening his tone. “It doesn’t seem broken, though.”

She wants to tell him it was broken. She had poured every ounce of her strength into that one point, knitting it back together just before it was too late. The effort left her spent, yet she had pressed on, focusing next on her face.

Still, she knows it’s far from healed. Her face must still be a grotesque mess.

Unrecognizable.

She realizes it doesn’t matter if she’ll be scarred for the rest of her life. 

The sun is so fucking beautiful right now.

-.-

When she wakes again, the world feels muted and sluggish. She’s in a tent, surrounded by the groans of wounded soldiers and the relentless hum of healers rushing to and fro, their hands swift, their faces lined with determination.

She tries to sit up, instinctively, but pain strikes like a dagger to her back, forcing her down as though she’s made of lead. Her body betrays her; she collapses, helpless, graceless, like a sack of stones.

The tautness of her skin pulls at her face—a painful reminder of the fire that kissed her too deeply. She grimaces, the expression stiff and unfamiliar.

“Good morning,” a soft yet vibrant voice cuts through the haze. She turns her head slowly, the effort weighing heavily.

Her lips feel like sandpaper as she tries to wet them, but the dryness persists. The woman steps forward, quick and purposeful, holding out a glass of fresh water. Aurora takes it, greedily gulping down the cool liquid. Relief washes over her, so profound she nearly cries. When the last drop is gone, she feels infinitely better. She silently vows to never take water for granted again.

“My name is Yrene,” the woman says warmly, her expression kind but attentive. “How are you feeling?”

“Burnt,” Aurora croaks, her voice raspy but laced with the faintest spark of humor.

Yrene’s chuckle feels like sunlight piercing the gloom. “If you can joke, you’re already on the path to recovery,” she remarks, leaning in to examine the charred remains of Aurora’s face.

“I don’t know how it’s possible, but your injuries are healing at an astonishing rate. Your entire body is recovering faster than I’ve ever seen.” She motions to Aurora’s back with a confident nod. “You’ll need physical therapy—months of training, most likely—before you’re walking on your own again. But I have no doubt you’ll do it.”

Aurora exhales a shaky breath, her thoughts clawing for clarity. “What happened?”

Yrene begins to carefully unwrap the bandages, the scent of medicinal herbs filling the air. “You were found three days after the tower collapsed,” she explains as she works. “Then, you’ve been unconscious for a week.”

Aurora sighs, the corners of her lips pulling into a bittersweet smile. “I’m sorry I missed the celebrations.”

Yrene pauses, her eyes shimmering with empathy as she lays a comforting hand on Aurora’s shoulder. “I can’t imagine what it must have been like, buried alive for that long. You were incredibly brave.”

Aurora wants to scoff, to tell her she’s no fragile child in need of coddling. But exhaustion weighs her down, sapping the strength she needs for defiance.

“Sounds like we won,” she mutters instead, her voice thin but wry.

Yrene’s smile brightens, her head dipping in agreement. “We did,” she repeats. Her hand presses lightly against her chest as she adds, “She saved us all.”

Aurora smirks faintly, the sharp edge of pride cutting through her weariness. “Our queen’s a badass,” she remarks, though the words come out softer than intended.

Yrene’s expression shifts, her eyes widening as she shakes her head. “Oh, Aelin did her part, but I wasn’t talking about her.” She leans closer, her voice dropping to a hushed, reverent tone.

“I meant Aurora Vanserra,” she murmurs, her eyes glistening. “She destroyed Erawan’s army when she blew up the tower, sacrificing herself.”

Aurora blinks, slow and deliberate, the weight of the words sinking in.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Finally, she exhales sharply, her expression caught somewhere between bemusement and resignation.

“Yrene?” she calls, her voice steady yet weary.

“Yes?”

“Get me a wheelchair and help me out of here.”

-.-

Despite Yrene’s protests, she helps Aurora settle into a wheelchair. Once secured, Aurora stubbornly waves her away. 

She still has her hands, thank you very much.  

Rolling forward, she navigates through the halls of the palace until she catches sight of William’s profile. His beard is scruffy, his hair a disheveled mess, and his eyes red-rimmed. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. 

She pushes herself closer until the wheelchair clips his legs. 

He jumps, startled. “I’m so—” he freezes mid-apology as he turns and sees her. 

Aurora clenches her teeth, then shoves the wheelchair into his legs again, forcing him to stumble back. 

“Before you idiots start planning a funeral,” she growls, “maybe double-check that I’m actually dead next time.” She exhales sharply, her irritation flaring. “I’d get up and punch you, but my back’s wrecked. Just wait until I’m on my feet, and—” 

Before she can finish, William grabs her. He hauls her out of the wheelchair, holding her close. 

He’s shaking, trembling so violently that she can feel it through every bone in her body. “You’re here,” he rasps, her name tumbling from his lips over and over like a prayer. “You’re alive.” 

“Yes, I’m alive,” she hisses, wincing as pain jolts through her. “And very sore, so could you maybe not hold me so tight?” 

He releases her immediately, guilt flashing across his face. His hands hover, as if wanting to cup her face, but the sight of her—charred, ravaged—makes his eyes flood with tears. 

“I should be furious with you,” he says, his voice cracking. “I hate you so much.” 

She rolls her eyes and sighs. “Someone told me I saved you all,” she says, gesturing vaguely with her hand. “You’re welcome.” She mock-bows in the chair, but the motion sends a sharp, searing pain shooting from her back to her legs. Her breath catches as the agony roots her in place. 

William steadies himself, his tears momentarily forgotten. “Let’s go,” he says firmly, moving behind her and gripping the wheelchair handles. “We’re getting you to the royal quarters immediately. I’ll take care of you myself.” 

He starts pushing, his voice rambling as he moves. “You’ll walk again in no time. I’ll make sure of it. I’ll get the best medicines, the best care…” 

Aurora slumps in the wheelchair, every movement draining her further. William’s voice washes over her—a steady stream of reassurances—and she lets herself float on it, too weary to argue. 

“Aurora?” he says suddenly, his tone sharper, almost panicked. “Please, don’t sleep. Don’t close your eyes. Stay awake for me, okay?” 

“I’m just tired, Wolly,” she mutters, her words soft and heavy with exhaustion. 

“I thought you were dead,” he whispers, his voice tightening. “Please, stay awake a little longer.” 

Keep your eyes open. Let me know you’re still here. 

So she forces herself to comply, though it feels like dragging her body through quicksand. “Where are the others?” she asks, her voice barely more than a breath. 

“They’re out,” he replies, hesitating. “Searching for your body.” He exhales, his pace quickening. “As soon as I get you settled, I’ll go tell them. It hasn’t been easy. I won’t lie to you about that. We’ve told Aedion it wasn’t his fault. We all told him. Even Gavriel.” 

“I’ll talk to Aedion,” she mumbles, her eyelids growing heavier. “He did the right thing.” 

“You will,” William promises, his tone softening. “But only after you rest in the beautiful bed I’ll prepare for you.”

-.-

She wakes, enveloped in warmth, but an unfamiliar weight pins her down. She instinctively tries to shift, but her body protests with a dull, aching resistance.

Cracking one eye open, she turns her head. Fenrys is asleep beside her, his breathing steady, soft snores escaping from his slightly parted lips. She grimaces.

Turning the other way, she finds Gavriel on her other side. His face is weary, marred by dark circles under his eyes. 

Quietly, she leans closer and reaches out, her fingers brushing against his face. His features soften under her touch, and he sighs, but he doesn’t wake.

“I should kill you,” a low, familiar growl slices through the stillness.

Aurora shifts her gaze to the foot of the bed where Lorcan stands, arms crossed, his expression a storm of restrained anger.

“What were you thinking?” he mutters, his voice a low rumble of frustration. “I didn’t train you to be reckless. This was stupidity.”

“Good morning to you, too,” she retorts, her voice rasping with disuse. “I need to use the bathroom.”

His brow arches sharply, unimpressed. “Go, then.”

She glances at the wheelchair stationed near the bed and then back at him, her face flushing with reluctant embarrassment. “I can’t do it alone,” she admits quietly.

The hardness in Lorcan’s eyes falters. His posture softens, his arms falling to his sides. He runs a hand through his hair, and for the first time, she notices the faint tremor in his fingers.

Wordlessly, he steps forward. With surprising gentleness, he eases her from Fenrys’s arms, careful not to wake him. Even so, the shift makes her groan softly, pain searing through her fragile body.

“I’m sorry,” Lorcan murmurs, and for once, she hears genuine remorse in his tone.

He sets her down in the wheelchair with painstaking care and adjusts her position. “Do you think you can manage on your own?”

She nods, sparing him a small, grateful smile before wheeling herself to the bathroom.

When she finally catches sight of herself in the mirror, her breath hitches.

Her reflection is a cruel reminder of her ordeal—a face marred by burns, patches of raw, peeling skin, and uneven scars. Her lips press into a tight line, but the grimace that follows only makes her features twist further.

The short trip leaves her utterly spent. By the time she returns to the bedroom, her body feels like lead, every muscle screaming in protest. All she wants is to collapse into bed and forget the world exists.

This time, it’s Gavriel who lifts her.

“Hey,” she murmurs as he settles her back onto the mattress. “Hi.”

He doesn’t respond. He lies down beside her, his arms rigid at his sides, his breathing unsteady. Lorcan is gone, his presence replaced by an almost suffocating silence.

“Gav,” she says, her tone sharper now, trying to jolt him from his quiet torment. “I said hi.”

His head shakes faintly, his lips trembling as he presses his face into the crook of her neck.

Aurora huffs impatiently, her hand smoothing over his hair. “For the gods’ sake, I’m alive, Gav. Stop crying.”

“It should’ve been me,” he whispers, his voice breaking against her skin. “It wasn’t supposed to be you.”

“If it had been you, you’d be dead,” she replies firmly. “And then what would happen to our precious family reunions?”

Her attempt at humor is weak, her smile faint, but it’s all she can manage.

“How do you feel?” he asks, his voice filled with quiet concern.

“Famished," she sighs, her voice heavy with exhaustion. "I could eat a horse."

A snort from behind makes her turn slightly, realizing Fenrys is awake.

"Only you," he mutters with a mix of exasperation and amusement, "would be hungry after almost dying."

"What happened after… well, you know," she asks.

"Aelin killed Maeve," Fenrys responds, his voice tinged with awe. "One clean stroke—took her head off. It was glorious.”

 The beginnings of a smile falter, shattering before they can fully form.

"Connall?" she asks hesitantly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Fenrys’s face darkens, his light dimmed.

"We found his body on the riverbank," he murmurs, his tone heavy with sorrow. "It was a beautiful funeral."

Oh.

“I’m so sorry”, she says, “I couldn’t save him.”

Fenrys shakes his head and pulls her closer, his embrace firm, unyielding.

"You’re alive," he says, his voice steady, filled with conviction. "I know that if he’d had a choice, it still would’ve been this way to save you.” His voice wavers, just for a moment, before his gaze hardens with quiet resolve. “And if I’d had to choose between you two, it would’ve been you,” he smiles. “Always you.”

His words carry the weight of loss and love, and she feels them settle deep within her, pressing against her chest.

She lets herself sink into the warmth, her body heavy with exhaustion but comforted by the closeness of her friends.

"I hope Aelin told Maeve that the strike was also from me," she murmurs, her voice steady despite the lingering ache.

"A promise is a promise," Aelin’s voice cuts through the room as she steps into the doorway, Rowan close at her side. His eyes gleam with relief, though his smile trembles, softened by lingering tears.

He strides to the bed and, without hesitation, shoves Fenrys off it, ignoring his indignant protests. Settling into the space he left; Rowan leans back as if it were always his.

"Why don’t you kick Gavriel out instead?" Fenrys grumbles from the floor, a mixture of offense and sarcasm dripping from his tone.

"Try to move me away from my daughter and see what happens," Gavriel growls, his golden gaze daring Fenrys to even attempt it.

Rowan, unbothered by their banter, moves closer, his emerald eyes softening as he leans down to kiss Aurora’s head. He wraps her in his arms, holding her tightly as if afraid she might vanish.

"I’m so glad you’re alive," he murmurs into her shoulder, his voice thick with emotion. "Please, don’t ever do that again."

Her lips twitch into a faint smile, amusement flickering briefly in her eyes. "No promises.”

FOUR MONTHS LATER

Aurora moves forward, her steps deliberate despite the lingering stiffness in her legs. Time stretches, unhurried and calm, as the shadows of war finally recede into the distance. Her scars are now gone, leaving her restored to the beauty Aelin insists makes her the envy of females across the continent.  

Yet, as much as her exterior has healed, there are wounds beneath the surface that demand more than magic to mend. Each step is a challenge, her muscles still learning to remember movement rather than the stillness imposed by her injuries. Yrene assures her the progress is steady, though the cane will remain her companion for a while longer.  

It’s a cane crafted by Gavriel himself, its sturdy design infused with his care and precision. Fenrys, of course, couldn’t resist painting it a vibrant pink—an act of mischief that earned him a sharp, satisfying whack.  

So, Aurora strolls through the streets of Orynth, with her pink cane, wearing her gleaming golden uniform with pride. Workers pause in their labor to tip their hats in respect, their faces etched with gratitude and hope. Children wave enthusiastically, their laughter ringing out like music on the wind, carrying the promise of brighter days ahead.  

“General,” someone calls from behind her, their tone a mix of urgency and respect.

Aurora pauses, her brow lifting slightly.

The title still feels foreign on her skin, despite the pageantry that came with it—the blare of trumpets, the roar of applause, the suffocating weight of expectation.

She had hated every moment of it.

Especially the part where everyone else had sworn the blood oath—and she doesn’t.

It’s not that she doesn’t trust Aelin.

But.

She has already placed her life in the hands of one monarch before.

Aurora isn’t ready to do it again.

Thankfully, her queen understands.

Even if the guilt of that refusal still clings to her, sharp and heavy, like a wound that won’t quite heal.

“Yes?” she replies, turning to meet the messenger’s gaze.  

“They’ve sent me to fetch you,” the person explains hurriedly. “They’re almost ready.”  

Aurora nods, her expression calm and composed, even as her mind shifts gears. She sets off toward the castle, her cane tapping lightly against the cobblestones. The land around the fortress bears the scars of the battle that changed everything—ashes replacing vibrant green, the faint smell of smoke and char lingering like a whispered reminder of the firestorm that ended it all.  

When Aurora steps into the main hall, she finds them waiting—impeccably dressed, standing in quiet anticipation. 

"You're late," snaps Lorcan. "Where were you?"

She regards him with a dismissive look, her tone cool as she replies, "Out for a stroll." Then, with a sly smile, she teases, "You seem a little tense."

Lorcan, resplendent in his ceremonial uniform, shoots her a murderous glare. "Get to your place," he hisses, his voice low and sharp.

From nearby, Fenrys chuckles softly, the edge of amusement tugging at his lips. "He's nervous," he whispers conspiratorially.

"I wonder why," she says with a sly chuckle, her teasing tone unmistakable.

Rowan turns, his sharp gaze cutting through the room like steel. "Silence," he commands, his voice low and steady, but carrying the weight of authority. Beside him, Aelin fights to suppress her amusement, her hand placed delicately over her mouth to conceal a smile that threatens to break free.

Aedion and Lysandra stand as a unified pair, their fingers intertwined in an effortless display of closeness. Aurora reflects on how her near brush with death has forged a stronger bond with her brother—a connection she’s surprised to value as much as she does.

As for Lysandra, well, Aurora isn’t quite warmed to the shapeshifter. Yet she knows the feeling is mutual; There’s something oddly reassuring about their shared ambivalence. They understand each other on that level, and maybe that’s enough for now.

Lorcan adjusts his uniform with a nervous gesture, the rigidity in his posture betraying the tension he refuses to voice. Gavriel steps forward, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder. Leaning in close, he whispers something—quiet, deliberate, and meant for Lorcan alone. The effect is almost immediate; the hard lines of his face soften, his breathing slows, and for a fleeting moment, he appears composed.

But it doesn’t last. As the first notes of music fill the air, his entire body tenses anew, the calm shattered like glass. His hand twitches by his side, and the faintest flicker of insecurity flashes in his eyes.

Elide is a vision of beauty as a bride.

Manon walks her down the aisle with a grace that seems almost otherworldly, each step deliberate and poised.

She would never have believed that Manon Blackbeack, of all people, would become attached to something as fragile as Elide.

And yet, it happened.

As they reach Lorcan, the witch leans in close, her voice a low, dangerous murmur.

"Hurt her, and I’ll gut you alive," she warns, her tone as sharp as the blade she no doubt carries. With that, she places Elide’s delicate hand into Lorcan’s massive one.

The ceremony passes swiftly, with Aelin officiating the marriage. She declares Lorcan and Elide husband and wife, with the blessings of Terrasen and the Gods.

"From now on, Lorcan Salvaterre shall be known as", Aelin pauses, her eyes briefly closing, her lips trembling as she struggles to maintain composure, "Lorcan Lochan”.

Fenrys’s shoulders begin to tremble uncontrollably, a poorly stifled laugh threatening to escape. Aurora bites her lip hard, desperately trying not to burst out laughing at such a pivotal moment. The effort proves too much to bear alone, and they lean into each other, drawing strength from their shared struggle to maintain composure.

"I'll have you cleaning the armory for a month if you two don't stop," Rowan hisses, his tone sharp and unforgiving.

"Forgive us, Your Most Serene Majesty, King of Terrasen, my lord," Fenrys retorts with a mock bow, his voice dripping with exaggerated deference.

Rowan's glare could probably cut through stone, but Fenrys, as usual, seems utterly unbothered. Yet Rowan doesn't push the matter further. Laughter is a rare sound from Fenrys since Connall's death, making it a soothing balm for those who hear it.

Grief, creeping in after the fleeting joy and celebration, has draped itself over them with a quiet, unrelenting weight. It lingers in the smallest, most piercing details: in the way Fenrys musters a joke, only for his eyes to hollow and his smile to falter as the absence of Connall strikes anew. In the silent ache of Aurora's stargazing, Vaughan’s once-familiar figure, pencil in hand, is no longer by her side, leaving only a void that the stars cannot fill.

The shadows whisper that Gavriel often slips into her room to watch over her as she sleeps.  

Rowan is plagued by merciless nightmares about Aelin being taken from him once more, only this time, he fails to reach her in time.

Lorcan patrols the castle’s perimeter four times a day. The lingering wounds of the war refuse to fade.

Some days bear an ache that cuts deeper when the weight of loss presses heavier against the heart. Yet, they are healing—slowly, imperfectly, like cracks in stone smoothed by the patient touch of time.

One day, the shadows of grief will yield to the light of remembrance, and their memory will no longer sting. Instead, it will bloom as a tender, wistful joy. A bittersweet hymn to the moments shared, a quiet gratitude for the gift of having loved and been loved in return.

The applause erupts like a crashing wave, thunderous and uncontainable, as Lorcan leans down to press a kiss to Elide's lips.

It’s not perfect.

Vaughan and Connall are still dead.

But it’s a start.

-.-

Her power crept back to her, slow and steady, like the faint promise of dawn on the horizon. At first, it was barely a whisper, a hint of light after the darkest night. But then it surged—a tidal wave crashing through her, unstoppable and unrelenting. It coursed through her veins, wrapping itself around her very being, and spilled into the air, an omnipresent force. Stronger than ever before.

It should have brought comfort. Instead, it left a jagged unease in its wake.

Yet what haunted her more was the blade. Iris’s sword never strayed far from her side.

She couldn’t bring herself to set it down, as if its absence would leave her hollow.

It makes her feel complete to have her on.

It makes her feel invincible.

(She has never been so scared of herself before.)

-.-

"Do you have to go?" Gavriel’s voice carries a note of disapproval. "You’re still healing."

Aurora rolls her eyes as she folds the last piece of clothing into her trunk. "Yrene said I could," she replies, snapping the lid shut. "I’ll finish my recovery in Prythian."

"They don’t have healers like ours," Gavriel grumbles under his breath.

Aurora plants her hands on her hips, her tone firm but tinged with exasperation. "My brother is a High Lord. Of course, he has skilled healers at his disposal," she says, waving a hand dismissively. "But I won’t need them. I need to keep up with my exercises, and when we see each other again, I’ll be walking without a cane."

"What will you do about your fleet? They’re lost without you," he insists.

Aurora starts to grow uneasy. "I put Kail in charge," she replies, pausing briefly. "Well, I told William to let him know, since neither he nor Lux is speaking to me."

It’s a sore subject she has no desire to confront. She has no intention of apologizing, and they have no intention of talking to her. That’s fine by her. They’re alive, and that’s all that matters.

So, as far as she’s concerned, they can go to hell.

"I don’t like the thought of you leaving us," Gavriel says, his voice heavy with reluctance.

Aurora sighs, a little dramatically, but her tone stays steady. "It’s not forever," she replies firmly.

"For how long, then?"

"As long as it takes."

Long enough for her mind to start healing.

Long enough to return to Orynth and rest without fear.

There’s a bitter irony in it—the city she loves, the one she mourns with every breath, now gives her nothing but nightmares.

Aurora knows she isn’t required to go back. Her recovery already made her miss Annabelle’s birthday, and her mother’s will pass while she’s en route to Prythian.

She doesn’t know how long she’ll be gone. Only that she can’t heal in a place where her ghosts still breathe down her neck.

At least long enough to keep Eris from complaining that her visit had been too short.

True to her word, she had written to him—telling him she was alive, recovering, though still far from healed. His reply, delayed by distance, had arrived exactly one month later.

Since then, they’ve exchanged four letters.

In his latest letter, he had put it plainly: “Even though you’ll miss our stupid mother’s birthday, there’s no reason you can’t stay a little longer.”

There’s no doubt about where Aurora inherited her remarkable ability to hold a grudge.

"I’d like to meet them," Gavriel says, his tone curious. "Your brothers, I mean."

Aurora freezes, momentarily at a loss for words. "I don’t think you’d like them," she mutters, her voice hesitant.

"You’re my daughter," he says gently. "They’re your brothers. Whether I like them or not, they’re family."

"That’s not a good idea."

Gavriel’s expression darkens, his brows knitting together. "You don’t want your brothers to meet me and Aedion?"

She let out a slow breath. “My family is a disaster. They resent one another, always scheming, always maneuvering behind closed doors.” Her eyes flicked toward Gavriel, her expression tense. “None of them would react well to your presence. I know exactly what they’d do. After all, we’re all children of the same father.”

Her voice remained composed, but there was a quiet strain beneath the surface.

“I won’t allow them to destroy what I’ve built here.”

“If you hate them so much, why do you keep going back?”

Aurora looks at him, confused. "I never said I hated them. They’re my brothers. I love them."

"You just said everyone’s trying to kill each other," Gavriel points out.

"Count me in on that," Aurora admits casually, as if talking about the weather. "I nearly slit Duncan’s throat once."

"But you care about each other," Gavriel says, brows furrowed.

"We’re siblings," she replies, fixing him with a look that says he’s missing something obvious. "I’d kill anyone who tried to hurt them."

Gavriel blinks, clearly struggling to reconcile her words. "I’m genuinely very confused."

"Of course you are," Aurora smirks, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "You’re not a Vanserra."

-.-

The day of her departure feels far lighter than the last time. There’s no looming danger, no quest to retrieve a magical sword, and no lives hanging precariously in the balance. Instead, it’s a farewell that borders on mundane. She hugs everyone—except Lorcan, who fixes her with a razor-sharp glare when she even attempts it.

Aelin steps forward, handing her a small mirror with a conspiratorial glimmer in her eyes. "Manon got this for you," she murmurs, keeping her tone low. "I’ve got an identical one in my room, so we can stay in touch. Just hold it and say one of our names." Then, leaning closer with a playful smirk, she adds, "I’ll wait a week before handing it over to Gavriel, so he won’t call you every single day while you’re in the sea."

Aurora stifles a laugh, slipping the mirror into her pocket with a grateful smile. "Thank you," she says softly.

As she ascends the gangway, she pauses at the ship’s edge and waves down to the group below. They wave back, their faces bright with warmth. "Come back soon!" Fenrys shouts.

When the port of Orynth disappears from her view, she lets out a quiet sigh. For the first time, the thought of leaving no longer terrifies her as it did a hundred years ago.

William steps up beside her. "Ready?" he asks.

Aurora nods, a smile spreading across her face.

"Ready."

Chapter Text

SECOND ACT

As always, Aurora arrives in silence.

The waters of the harbor shimmer under the last rays of sunlight, a river of liquid gold mingling with the long shadows of evening, as if the day were surrendering to the night in one final, aching embrace.

The ship slows, then comes to a halt. The ropes snap taut with a dry crack, the sails fold like weary wings, and the gangway lowers with solemn, almost ritualistic slowness.

Aurora moves, uncertain. Her cane taps rhythmically against the wood—a metronome marking her return.

Her gaze settles on the figures waiting on the dock, and her heart tightens. Her brothers stand out like strokes of color among the worn clothes and hollow faces of the harbor folk.

Reagan bounces on his feet, unable to contain his excitement; Barjan, by contrast, is a silent counterpoint. His shoulders, tense like drawn bowstrings, slowly relax, like a heavy cloak slipping to the ground. Duncan tilts his head in a gesture full of quiet respect.

After the darkness, the weight of ruins, the certainty that the end had already been written—now she is here.

Close enough to feel the warmth of her brothers, the same warmth that, years ago, had nearly killed her.

It is sweet and cruel at once, like an embrace held too tightly after a long absence.

And then there is Eris.

Seeing his face again is almost unbearable, a reminder that she still exists, that the world still exists, even if so much of her was left behind in those ruins.

“I’m home,” she murmurs, eyes damp.

Eris’s fingers brush her cheek, and that touch moves through her like a gentle flame. Her shoulders tremble, but she doesn’t fall.

Amber meets amber.

“Yes,” he murmurs in return. “Welcome back.” A fleeting smile tugging at his lips. “Nice cane,” he says.

A soft laugh escapes her—faint, but genuine.

What she feels isn’t relief; relief is too weak, too fleeting for this. It’s the overwhelming awareness that, against all odds, she is still alive.

 “Apparently pink suits me,” she murmurs, wiping her damp cheeks with the back of her hand.

Reagan wraps her in an embrace so tight it steals the air from her lungs. The scent of sun and leaves that clings to him overwhelms her.

“You’re alive,” Reagan whispers, his voice breaking against her hair. “Thank the Cauldron, you’re alive.”

“Hi,” she whispers back.

When Reagan pulls away, his eyes are glassy, like frost-covered glass, but the smile he gives her is pure light.

Then Barjan steps forward, his blue eyes immediately drawn to the cane in her hand.

His jaw tightens, and his face hardens.

Aurora shakes her head. “I’ll heal,” she says, her voice steadier than she feels. “It just takes time.”

Duncan approaches with a firm stride. His lips curve into the faintest smile, yet in his eyes, the weariness runs deep—settled like dust in a room long closed.

“Welcome back, Commander,” he says, extending his hand with ritualistic precision. “Or should I say General?”

Aurora can’t help the grimace that crosses her face. “Does it bother you that we’re the same rank now?” she retorts.

“Immensely,” he replies, looking her up and down. “Though from what I’ve heard, it was a well-earned promotion.”

“And what exactly have you heard?”

“Enough,” he murmurs, impassive. “If it were anyone else, I’d call it lies. But it’s you, so…” he shrugs, letting the final judgment fall to her interpretation.

Aurora doesn’t dare to ask for more.

Her leg now trembles visibly, a tremor spreading like a crack in glass. Her grip on the cane loosens, fingers too tired to hold onto the strength that had carried her this far.

Before the fall, Eris takes her hand, his touch unusually gentle.

“Let’s go,” he says. “We’ll take you home.”

Aurora turns to William, standing a few steps away.

“He’s coming with us,” she declares, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Eris casts him a glance, his expression a mask of quiet judgment. He seems ready to deliver a sharp remark, but the way Aurora looks at him—piercing, unwavering—stops him cold.

“Eris,” she warns, her gaze promising a storm.

“Fine,” Eris concedes through clenched teeth. “I’ll have a room prepared for him in the guest wing.”

“Thank you, High Lord,” William replies with a slight bow.

Aurora turns to him, her face lit by a tired expression. “Don’t be kind to him,” she says darkly. “Eris won’t return the favor.”

“I can be kind,” Eris protests, irritated by the comment.

Aurora shoots him a look so sharp it nearly draws a smirk from him. “No, you can’t. None of you fools can.”

Duncan snorts. “Says the pot to the kettle.”

Aurora lifts her chin. “At least I know when to shut up,” she counters. “Unlike all of you.”

“When did you say you’re leaving again?”

-.-

The fire crackles warmly in the grand tea room of the palace, its sound a soothing backdrop. Aurora sits beside William, her brothers scattered across the room, sprawled on the stiff velvet chairs that Beron had loved so much.

Beron had loved everything about his pompous palace, the pretentious grandeur that dripped from every corner. If it were up to Aurora, she’d burn the whole place to the ground, if only to spite him from beyond the grave.

“You owe us a favor, Aurora,” Eris says, lounging with practiced elegance, though his words are edged with irritation. “We suffered Mother’s wrath because of you.”

Aurora arches a brow. “And why is that?”

“Because you didn’t tell her you were going to war,” Duncan interjects, his frustration evident. “When word reached her that chaos was about to engulf Erilea, she stormed here with Lucien in tow, yelling, demanding to know how we could let you go off to die without lifting a finger.”

“Nobody lets me do anything,” Aurora snaps, the sting of defiance clear in her voice.

“That’s exactly what I told her,” Eris adds with a smirk, though the memory makes him flinch slightly. “And it made her even angrier. Lucien had to drag her away by force.”

“Why was Lucien with her?” Aurora demands, her curiosity piqued.

“Because Helion couldn’t come,” Barjan explains with a disdainful scoff. “No High Lord is allowed to enter another Court’s territory uninvited. Our mother can’t winnow, but Lucien does.” He sighs, annoyance threading through his tone. “That bastard has enough power to pull it off.”

“He’s the sole heir to the Day Court,” Reagan points out matter-of-factly. “I’d be surprised if he couldn’t.”

William furrows his brow, leaning slightly toward the group. “What’s winnowing?”

“Moving from one place to another instantaneously,” Eris answers lazily, waving his hand as though the subject bores him. “Only those with great power can do it.” He pauses briefly, his tone feigning nonchalance. “Like me.”

Aurora rolls her eyes, her patience wearing thin. William turns to her, curious. “Why can’t you do it, too?”

Aurora shrugs nonchalantly. “I never learned,” she admits. “But I could,” she murmurs thoughtfully, tapping her fingers against her leg. “It’d be useful in battle.”

Eris stiffens, his eyes narrowing sharply as he leans forward.

“Enough about battle,” he snaps, his voice cutting through the air like a blade.

The irritation spills into his features, the amber of his gaze blazing.

“You shouldn’t even be thinking about it. You almost died.”

William doesn’t hesitate, pointing a firm finger at Aurora before Eris can continue.

“I agree. I don’t want to hear you even mention battle for at least the next century. Months of patching you up were enough, thanks.”

Aurora waves him off dismissively, as though both their worries were nothing but an inconvenience.

“Don’t be dramatic. I survived, didn’t I?”

“Barely,” William counters, his glare unwavering.

Eris doesn’t look away, his jaw tightening further.

“That idiotic sword of yours nearly killed you,” he says, his voice low and fraught with a quiet fury. “I told you it was dangerous. I told you.”

Aurora’s fingers twitch at the mention of the weapon, resting at her side like an unspoken specter. She resists the urge to touch it, her lips pressing into a thin line.

“Yes, well,” she says flatly, her voice edged with defiance. “That idiotic sword won us the war. You can keep your warnings to yourself. I know it’s dangerous. I’m the one who spent three days buried alive because of it.”

The weight of her words lingers in the air, thick and oppressive. Slowly, Aurora pushes herself to stand, her movements deliberate yet betraying the strain in her legs. She grips the cane William hands her, offering him a nod of silent thanks.

“I’m going to my room to rest,” she says through gritted teeth, the tension evident in her posture.

Before she can leave, Reagan rises, his movements quiet but purposeful, the softness in his eyes a veil for the exhaustion that mirrors her own.

“I’ll come with you,” he says softly. “I could use the stretch.”

They walk side by side, their footsteps echoing lightly through the corridors.

“You shouldn’t be angry,” Reagan begins after a pause, his voice calm but weighted. “Eris is just worried, like the rest of us.” He hesitates, his throat working before he continues, “When the first letter arrived, the one you sent, we thought-”

His voice falters, the air between them heavy with unspoken dread.

“We thought it was that letter. None of us could open it for an entire day.”

Aurora doesn’t respond, her gaze fixed ahead. The measured tap of her cane reverberates through the hallway, filling the silence she maintains.

“It was such a relief,” Reagan presses on, filling the quiet with his words, “when we finally read it and realized you’d survived.”

His tone softens, his gaze slipping to her from the corner of his eye.

“When the news came that the war was over, your letter had already arrived.”

He breathes out a faint, hollow laugh.

“I always knew you were powerful, but I never realized just how much. You burned an entire battlefield, an entire army to ash, and—”

“Stop,” Aurora snaps, her voice cutting through his words like a blade. Her pace falters briefly, though she doesn’t turn to face him. “Just… stop.”

Everyone says they won because of her, because of what she did. But no one speaks of who else she incinerated in the blaze, not just Erawan’s soldiers, but theirs as well. Her own. Men and women who fought alongside her for freedom, who trusted her.

She burned them alive.

“I’m sorry,” Reagan says quickly, his tone quieter now, tinged with guilt. “I’m talking too much. As usual.”

“It’s not your fault,” she murmurs distantly, her voice soft and detached. The cane’s rhythmic strike against the floor resumes. “I’m just tired.”

They pass the dining hall, the soft glow of its grand chandeliers barely touching them as they move toward the royal wing.

“You’re home now,” Reagan says, his voice a whisper against the heavy stillness of the corridor. “You can rest as long as you need.”

Aurora doesn’t respond, though the words linger, fragile and wishful in the air.

Rest.

It seems nice.

-.-

“How was your return?” Gavriel’s voice carries clearly through the enchanted mirror, though his image flickers in and out with each movement he makes.

The sight of his half-bust reflected in the glass is almost comical, parts of him fading briefly as though the mirror itself isn’t quite sure how to hold him in place.

It’s strange, this way of speaking, though undeniably clever.

The war, if nothing else, had proven again that witches were allies worth keeping close.

“Quiet,” she says.

“How’s the leg?”

Aurora’s face twists into a grimace.

“It doesn’t hurt much anymore,” she admits, though her tone lacks enthusiasm. “But the trembling’s worse.” She presses her lips into a thin line, her frustration bubbling to the surface.

“I hate it.”

Gavriel’s lips flatten in response. “You shouldn’t push yourself,” he chides gently, though there’s steel beneath the words. “There’s no shame in admitting you need time.”

“I know,” Aurora sighs, her shoulders slumping slightly. “It’s just humiliating. Having to use a cane all the time or asking for help to get out of a chair.”

The room falls quiet, save for the subtle crackling of the fire in the hearth, a backdrop to the weight neither of them names.

“Is that truly what troubles you?”

The fire crackles gently, a distant presence as Aurora’s gaze lingers on the unsteady reflection in the enchanted mirror.

“No,” she says after a pause.

Her fingers tighten subtly around the armrest of her chair.

“It’s not just that. The war is over, we’ve won. And I feel happy, I suppose.” Her voice wavers, betraying the uncertainty beneath.

“But sometimes it feels foreign. Like the happiness doesn’t belong to me, like it’s something borrowed, a stranger in my own body.”

Her words falter, her brow furrowing slightly. “It all feels unreal, fleeting, like a dream. And sometimes nothing seems to matter.”

She stops, her fingers brushing against the cane that rests beside her. “Does that even make sense?”

“It does,” Gavriel answers softly, his tone deliberate but soothing. His brown eyes flicker with muted light as he shifts slightly, his image remaining stable but subdued within the mirror’s confines.

“It’s not unusual to feel disconnected after what we’ve been through. Some wounds heal quickly; others take far longer.”

The firelight catches the edge of Aurora’s profile as she turns her head slightly, her lips pressing into a thin line.

“I hope you’re right,” she murmurs, her voice edged with weariness. “I’m tired of feeling this way.”

“Flowers need rain to bloom,” he says, his tone layered with quiet encouragement. “Small steps, Aurora. Take the first. The others will find you as you move forward.”

She exhales deeply, as though her breath carries some of the weight she’s been holding. Her grip tightens against the chair as the familiar tremble in her leg begins its quiet assault. She stares at her own hands briefly, pale and strained.

“Small steps,” she repeats.

Gavriel’s smile blooms across the reflection, warm and steadfast, grounded even within the enchantment’s flicker.

“Exactly,” he affirms gently. “Small steps.”

-.-

After three weeks of relentless travel, the bed is almost too comfortable. The sheets are cool against her skin, but Aurora twists and turns, as if her body no longer remembers how to rest. Not that it matters.

Sleep bring no peace.

The silence of the room presses in around her, but it fails to drown out the echoes of ghosts she cannot shake. Her fingers brush the edge of the blanket, gripping it for a moment, as if it might anchor her.

Then she lets go.

She lies still, eyes open in the dark, her thoughts spiraling deeper into a labyrinth of memory and guilt. She wonders if this unrest is her new reality: a fragile balance between longing and resignation, escape and entrapment.

At last, she sits up. Her bare feet touch the cold floor, and the chill jolts her fully awake. She reaches for her rose-colored cane, fingers curling tightly around it. Her knuckles pale.

Tonight is not a night for sleep.

Her steps echo softly through the empty corridors. The wood creaks beneath her weight, every sound amplified by the stillness of the hour. She stops in front of Eris’s study. A warm light flickers beneath the door, and beyond it, the crackle of fire offers a steady, familiar rhythm.

“Small steps,” she whispers to herself, steadying her breath. Then, with a trembling hand, she knocks.

“Aurora,” Eris says, surprised, looking up from his desk. His pen hovers mid-air. “It’s late. Are you all right?” His gaze flickers briefly to her trembling leg, concern hidden behind his usual restraint.

“Yes,” she replies softly. The words are steady, but thin. Her fingers tighten around the cane. “I came to apologize. For how I reacted earlier.”

He blinks, clearly taken aback. His expression shifts, disbelief, then something quieter, harder to name.

Slowly, a crooked smile tugs at his lips.

“You?” he says, his voice laced with that teasing lilt she remembers too well. “Apologizing? I suppose war does change people.”

A faint chuckle escapes her. Brief, but genuine. The tension in the room eases, just slightly.

Eris leans back in his chair, folding his hands over his chest. His gaze softens as he looks at her, still standing, framed by firelight.

“You know,” Eris murmurs, a sharp-edged smile tugging at his lips, “it wasn’t exactly easy convincing the other Courts that it was time to begin preparing their armies.”

He pauses briefly, as if savoring the memory. “Tamlin nearly had a nervous breakdown.”

“Did they believe you?”

Eris shrugs, the gesture casual.

“Not at first. They looked at me like I was raving. But when word came that Hybern was ready to back Erawan, they started to listen.”

She frowns, eyes narrowing. “Hybern? What ties did they have to Erilea?”

“None. Not that I know of.”

Aurora gives a slight nod, but within her, the information settles with quiet precision.

“The funniest part, though,” Eris continues, a glint of boyish delight in his eyes, “was explaining how I knew. You should’ve seen their faces when I told them my sister, a Cadre, had warned me. From that moment on, they started treading so carefully around me.”

An uncharacteristically dreamy look spreads across his face.

“If the world holds any justice, it tastes exactly like this.”

Aurora blinks. “You’re weird.”

“I take little joy in what happens to me. Let me savor this one,” he replies.

She exhales, dry and bitter.

“At least my near-death experience served some purpose.”

Eris looks at her, and there’s no trace of humor now—only a shadow of reproach.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“It sounded like it.”

A tremor runs through her leg. She adjusts her stance subtly, refusing to ask to sit. But he notices.

His shoulders dip slightly. A small, silent surrender.

“How are you?”

She remains upright, spine straight, her face half-lit by the flickering glow. “I’m healing.”

“I wasn’t talking about your leg.” He tilts his head, eyes searching hers. “What happened, Aurora?”

She lowers her gaze. Her free hand moves restlessly, brushing the edge of a nearby table, then stills. She stares at the rug beneath her feet, watching the dust drift in the light like suspended ash.

“You already know.”

“I know what everyone knows,” he says quietly. “That Alein killed Maeve. And that you handled the rest.”

He turns toward the window, where the night stretches out like a black sea.

“I know it was a crushing victory. One of those the bards will sing about for centuries.” Then, more softly, “I know that I almost lost you again.”

She inhales slowly. Her grip on the cane tightens. “I’m here now.”

“I’m not so sure.”

She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to. Her brother has always understood her without words.

Part of her finds comfort in that. The other feels the slow burn of anger beneath her skin, coiled and waiting. The memory of his betrayal is a wound that never stopped bleeding.

But she chooses not to think about it. Not tonight.

Aurora’s gaze wanders around the room, memories creeping in at the edges of her thoughts. Her eyes catch on the towering bookshelf, overflowing with volumes she once loved.

Her chest tightens as an idea blooms.

Without a word, she limps toward it, pulling free a well-worn book. Lowering herself carefully onto the thick carpet at the foot of the couch, she leans her back against the upholstered fabric and looks up at him.

Her voice is barely above a whisper when she speaks. “Will you read something to me?”

For a moment, Eris doesn’t move. He stares at her, a storm of emotions flickering in his amber eyes, surprise, regret, something else she can’t quite place.

His throat works as he clears it.

“Of course,” he says, thickly. “I’d be glad to.”

He rises from his chair, his movements uncharacteristically hesitant, and joins her on the rug. Sitting beside her, his tall frame folds awkwardly onto the carpet, and he gently takes the book from her hands. As he opens it, she leans her head lightly against his shoulder, and Aurora feels his breath hitch, the quiet crackle of the fire filling the silence.

Slowly, he exhales, draping an arm around her, and begins reading with a calm voice.

(Even though she notices the slight hitch in his breath that strikes him every so often, or the way his grip on her shoulder tightens just a bit.)

Aurora allows herself to sink into the rhythm of Eris’s voice, the sound pulling her back to a time when things were simpler, when trust had not yet been fractured and love had not been burdened with regret. For the first time in years, the jagged edges of their history don’t seem as sharp.

Perhaps, their story can begin again.

From the pages of an old book and the warmth of a worn carpet.

-.-

The soft morning light spills into Eris’s study, reflecting off the polished dark wood and the faint embers still crackling in the fireplace. Duncan pushes open the heavy door, his usual air of mild exasperation etched across his face as he strides inside.

“Eris,” he begins, but the scene before him freezes the words on his tongue.

There, on the plush carpet at the foot of the couch, Aurora and Eris lie deeply asleep. Aurora’s head is tucked against Eris’s shoulder, his arm draped around her. The forgotten book lies open beside them, its pages curling slightly in the warmth of the hearth.

Duncan crosses his arms, his brows pulling together as he surveys the sight. After a moment of silence, he lets out a long, drawn-out sigh. He stands there, debating his next move, before shaking his head and muttering, “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

He vanishes, only to return minutes later with a tray in hand. Laden with warm bread, ripe fruit, and two steaming mugs of tea, it’s a gesture far more considerate than his perpetually sour expression suggests. Duncan places the tray on the low table with an audible thud, glowering at the siblings as though their very existence has inconvenienced him.

“If either of you has the nerve to complain,” he mutters darkly, “I’ll kill you both and call it an unfortunate accident.”

As Duncan contemplates whether to prod them awake with something sharp, Reagan strolls into the room, his usual carefree energy almost obnoxious in contrast to the tranquil scene. His eyes land on the tray, then on the sleeping pair, and he freezes, his face twisting into exaggerated indignation.

“Oh, I see how it is,” he announces, throwing his arms dramatically wide. “They get breakfast on the floor, and I get nothing? Truly, I am the forgotten jewel of this family.”

Duncan doesn’t even spare him a glance.

“You’re not forgotten,” he replies dryly. “You’re just insufferable.”

Reagan gasps, clutching at his chest like he’s been mortally wounded.

“This is favoritism, Duncan. Favoritism! Tea for them, and I’m left to starve in the cold, cruel halls like a neglected prince.”

“If you keep talking,” Duncan says, finally turning to glare at him, “you’ll be left to starve in the afterlife. And trust me, I’ll sleep better for it.”

Unbothered by the threat, Reagan sidesteps him. “Now, no need for violence. We should celebrate instead. This”, he gestures toward the sleeping siblings. “Is what I call progress.” 

Plucking one of the steaming mugs from the tray with a victorious grin.

“Delicious,” he proclaims after a sip. “As expected, you’re all bark and no bite, Duncan.” Reagan smirks, unfazed.

Duncan pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering something unintelligible as his attention shifts back to Aurora. She stirs slightly, her leg shifting uncomfortably beneath her, and for a moment, her face twists with the faintest shadow of discomfort. With a heavy sigh, Duncan crouches down and adjusts her leg in a more comfortable position. 

Reagan watches the scene, his grin softening as he settles onto the armrest of the couch. He sips the stolen tea, his gaze lingering on his sister. The humor of moments before evaporates as his voice drops to something quieter, more thoughtful.

“Do you think she’s okay?” he asks, though it’s clear he’s not just talking about her leg.

“I think it’s a miracle she hasn’t lost her mind entirely,” Duncan replies. 

Aurora’s eyes suddenly flutter open. “Who says I haven’t?” she quips, her voice hoarse from sleep.

Reagan lets out an undignified yelp and nearly drops the tea.

“How long have you been awake?” he demands, scandalized.

“Since Duncan walked in,” she replies smoothly, stretching as she settles back against the couch. “Thanks for fixing my leg, by the way,” she adds with a wink. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Duncan glares at her, his face reddening as he storms toward the door. “You’re all impossible,” he grumbles, slamming it shut behind him.

Reagan watches him go, chuckling as he takes another sip of tea. Then he turns to Aurora, shaking his head in mock disapproval.

“Honestly, I should’ve been invited last night. I would’ve brought snacks and better company.”

-.-

Aurora moves with purpose, the rhythmic sound of her cane tapping against the stone path fading into the soft hum of the surrounding greenery.

“I don’t think your brothers like me,” William says, his tone casual but his gaze steady on her movements. There’s a quiet attentiveness about him, born of months spent caring for her injuries, watching over her in moments of stillness.

Aurora glances at him briefly, her gaze sweeping the park before settling back on the uneven path ahead.

“They don’t like anyone,” she replies dryly, amusement flickering at the edge of her words.

William huffs a short laugh, the sound tinged with unease.

 “Not the reassurance I was hoping for,” he mutters, his hands burrowing deeper into his coat pockets.

Aurora pauses briefly, her cane steady as she glances at the cluster of wildflowers nearby.

“If they value keeping their heads attached to their shoulders,” she says, her tone dry but carrying a faint edge of amusement, “they’ll treat you with the respect you deserve.”

“Your family dynamic is intense,” he admits, his curiosity evident. “You swing between fierce affection and complete hostility. I swear I saw Duncan shove Reagan down the stairs.”

Aurora snorts at the thought, the sound abrupt but good-natured. “He probably thought Reagan was taking too long to get down,” she replies lightly, a faint smile shadowing her lips.

Chuckling, William adjusts his pace to match hers. “Most families resolve their issues over awkward dinners or drawn-out arguments,” he says thoughtfully, his tone shifting into mock seriousness. “Your brothers seem to lean more toward attempted murder.”

Aurora lets out a fleeting laugh, barely louder than the soft rustle of the breeze. “Welcome to the Autumn Court,” she says, her voice dry but not unkind.

William’s attention shifts to the flowers around them, his steps slowing as he seems to absorb the atmosphere. “It’s beautiful here,” he says softly, almost in awe. “I’d like to see the other Courts one day.”

Aurora clicks her tongue, a sharp, decisive sound. “Maybe we could visit the Day Court,” she says. “But the others? I doubt we’d be welcome.”

“Why not?” William tilts his head, curiosity lighting his expression.

Aurora’s smirk sharpens, her lips curving with a familiar wryness. “Remember when I said my brothers don’t like anyone? Well, no one likes them either.” Her brow arches, her tone deliberate. “Our name doesn’t exactly open doors.”

“That’s not fair.”

Aurora shrugs. “It’s reality. Our family doesn’t inspire trust, and I? Everyone knows what I am and what I’ve done, well, part of it.”

She exhales, her words weighed down by thought.

“Eris will try to use that, though. A connection with Terrasen gives him leverage, a political sway to unsettle the other courts.”

 Tilting her head slightly, her voice softens but remains steady.

“That’s how it works.” Her gaze darkens slightly, her tone hardening. “Here, power blinds everyone to what matters.”

“And that’ll destroy them,” William says, his focus unwavering.

“It will,” Aurora replies firmly, resignation threaded through her words. “Pride without unity is fragile. When it collapses—and it always does—it takes everything down.”

William’s tone softens. “It’s been a long time since you left. Maybe things have changed. They managed against Hybern, didn’t they?”

“Only because Rhysand begged them to act,” she says bitterly. “My father? He’d have let the world burn if Eris hadn’t stepped in.” Her words hang heavy in the air. Aurora’s grip tightens briefly on the cane before easing. “Beron would let it all fall apart just to make a point.”

William frowns, his focus intent. “Eris doesn’t seem like the type to act for the greater good.”

Aurora hesitates, her brow tightening as if weighing her answer. “His heart is in the right place, but he plays his games,” she admits softly.

Her gaze drops briefly to the path.

“I just hope that it won’t cost him his life one day.”

-.-

She left Vaughan's notebook behind in Terrasen. It waits on her desk, patient yet insistent, as though it knows she will return to it, unable to resist the pull to open its worn cover again.

She’s long since lost count of the times she poured over those elegant lines, tracing them as if that act alone could bring back the memory of his hands gliding over the page. The way his fingers would dance, deliberate yet fluid, has begun to blur at the edges of her mind, slipping further out of reach with each passing day.

You have a big heart, Aurora. Don't let the darkness take you.

“Small steps,” she whispers, her voice barely reaching the vast expanse above her. “Just watch me, ok?”

Perhaps, the stars blink a little brighter in reply.

-.-

Aurora had not left of her own will. The combined pressure of her brothers, Eris's cold determination, and Barjan's weary persistence had forced her to yield, albeit reluctantly.

"I can't allow our mother to return here," Eris had told her, his tone firm, unwavering. "I don't want her setting foot in this palace ever again. She is no longer welcome in my home."

Barjan had nodded in agreement, his expression heavy with concern.

"If you don't give her anything, she’ll come looking for you," he had said. "And that visit won’t be pleasant for anyone."

As usual, Duncan had added his sharp edge to the situation.

“The Cauldron forbids her from showing up with Lucien again,” he spat, voice thick with venom. “Do you remember the way he looked at us? Like we were monsters for sending our mother away. I swear, if he ever dares to judge us again, I’ll rip out his other eye myself, let’s see how righteous he feels then.”

She had already missed Annabelle’s birthday — a small mercy, or so she thought. The promise to attend had been enough of a burden; adding a pointless meeting with Nissa felt like a punishment layered on top of obligation.

And yet, here she is.

She walks through the Day Court uninvited, her steps deliberate, her expression unreadable. The palace rises ahead, golden and indifferent, and she approaches it with the joy of someone heading toward her funeral.

The young soldier who steps into her path, brimming with misplaced confidence, is just the final insult.

“You can’t enter here,” he says, his tone strained with a false authority that might work on someone less observant. His gaze betrays him, lingering a beat too long on her, a flicker of appreciation flashing across his features.

Aurora’s lip curls ever so slightly, disdain rising unbidden.

“I am Aurora Vanserra,” she says, her voice as cutting as a blade drawn from its sheath. “I’m here to see my mother.”

The color drains from his face, any hint of defiance evaporating under her gaze. “My Lady—uh, General,” he stammers, his composure collapsing. “I wasn’t informed that you were back in Prythian.”

Aurora tilts her head, the movement deliberate and sharp. “I don’t imagine keeping track of my movements is your duty, is it?” she says icily. 

Her stare turns colder, her eyes narrowing as she unleashes her infamous "Lorcan glare," the one that has reduced even the most hardened warriors to quivering wrecks. The young soldier is no exception. His hands tremble at his sides, his confidence shattering like glass.

“N-no, of course not,” he stutters, his words tripping over themselves as he tries to form a coherent sentence. “Forgive me, General. If you’ll allow me, I can escort you personally.”

“As long as it doesn’t waste my time,” she says flatly. “I have more important matters to attend to.”

Like my bed.

As the soldier scrambles to lead the way, Aurora follows with measured, deliberate steps, her irritation simmering beneath her calm facade. For a moment, Aurora wonders if unleashing her shadows to dance around him might make him faint outright. The thought brings a flicker of grim amusement, but she ultimately decides to show him mercy. 

They stop just before the towering doors, and he turns to face her, his expression blank momentarily as if unsure what to do next.

“This is the part where you announce me,” Aurora says, her tone sharp with irritation.

“Oh!” he exclaims, his face flushing as he straightens up. “Yes, of course!”

He slips into the room, the lively hum of laughter and conversations spilling briefly into the hall before the door starts to close behind him. Aurora stands still, but curiosity flares against her better judgment. Almost instinctively, she leans slightly forward to peek inside, but the door clicks shut behind Talon, cutting off the sight.

After a brief pause, muffled sounds echo from the other side of the doors. Suddenly, they burst open violently, revealing Nissa’s panting figure.

“Mother,” she says. “I’m back.”

Nissa stands frozen, her arms trembling, before launching herself at her like a storm, her face marked by shock, relief, and despair.

“Oh, my baby.”

She clings to her, sobbing uncontrollably.

Aurora holds her up, but there’s no tenderness in her gesture. She strokes Nissa’s back awkwardly, giving her a few pats on the shoulder.

Of all the scenarios she had imagined, this one hadn’t even crossed her mind.

Nissa clutches her tightly, the emotions overwhelming her, becoming an unbearable weight.

“I’m so angry with you,” she sobs, her voice breaking as she squeezes Aurora with force. “You told me I didn’t have to worry.”

Aurora feels her leg buckle slightly under the pressure, a sharp pain shooting through her knee. She grimaces.

“I’m here. Calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” Nissa screams, her voice filled with a fury Aurora has never seen in her before.

The raw anger on her mother’s face catches her off guard, but it doesn’t shake her. Aurora looks at her the way one looks at an enemy who has lost all power.

“You think I don’t know what happened?” she growls, her voice cracked with rage and pain. “I know you almost died! That damned sword—I gave it to you! How do you think I felt when I realized I’d sent you to your death?”

Aurora holds back an irritated sigh. Her mother’s crocodile tears are like dull blades—they make noise, but they don’t cut.

“And then I heard you’d won,” Nissa continues, sobbing. “And you didn’t even write me a letter! Your brothers refused to tell me anything. How could you do this to me?”

Aurora knows she owes that woman nothing. If there’s anyone she doesn’t have to justify herself to, it’s Nissa.

But despite all this, a small voice inside her—the child she left behind so many lifetimes ago—sings with quiet joy.

Because her mother cares. Her mother loves her.

Nissa’s hands come up to cradle Aurora’s face, examining every inch of it with precision, as if searching for hidden wounds or signs of strain.

Aurora tenses at the touch, locking eyes with her mother. “This is the second time you’ve hugged me in your entire life.”

She doesn’t say it as an accusation, but more like a quiet reflection.

Her mother recoils as if Aurora’s face had burned her with the heat of the sun.

“Mother?”

A male with long red hair and a metallic eye stands at the doorway. Aurora’s gaze locks onto him, and for a moment, time feels suspended. She has seen him before, in a portrait tucked away in Barjan’s study, hidden as though it were something shameful.

Lucien.

His hair matches theirs in its fiery brilliance, but that’s where the resemblance ends. He lacks Duncan’s sharp chin, Barjan’s regal nose, or the amber eyes she shares with Reagan and Eris.

Aurora had never realized how strongly Beron's genetics ran through all of them. It's evident in the features they share, in the details that tie each sibling to the next.

No, Lucien stands apart, unmoored from the ties that bind the rest of them.

Nissa resumes her usual composure. “Lucien,” she says with a weak smile, “let me introduce you to Aurora, your sister.”

Lucien steps forward slowly, his mechanical eye fixed on Aurora, scrutinizing her as though searching for answers hidden in her face. His lips press into a thin, rigid line, betraying the unease simmering beneath his composed facade.

Just as Aurora struggles to find traces of her brothers in him, Lucien undoubtedly sees all of them reflected in her features.

When he reaches her, his gaze drops briefly to her cane, and something gentle flickers in his expression—curiosity, maybe even amusement, though it quickly fades.

“Finally, the runaways of the Autumn Court meet.”

A surprised laugh escaped her lips. “It’s a pleasure,” she says.

Nissa sniffles loudly, drawing their attention.

“Stop crying,” Aurora urges her, exasperation in her voice.

“I’ve dreamed of this moment for so long,” Nissa sobs, her words tangled in emotion.

Lucien chuckles nervously, "Annabelle never stops talking about you," he says, a subtle warmth in his voice. "She insists you're her favorite aunt, though my wife's sisters weren’t thrilled to hear it."

"Your daughter has impeccable taste," Aurora quips, a playful glint in her eyes.

Lucien gestures toward the room behind him, his movements deliberate. “Would you like to see her? She’s just about to finish her lessons,” he says, his tone softening slightly.

Aurora lets out an uncertain sound, hesitant. “I don’t know,” she says, her voice soft but conflicted. “I hadn’t planned to stay long.”

Her leg betrays her at that exact moment, sending a sharp, visible spasm through her muscles. She exhales in resignation, gripping her pink cane tightly.

“I should go home and rest,” she admits, her tone tinged with embarrassment as she gestures toward the cane.

Nissa reacts instantly, looping her arm through Aurora’s as if to anchor her.

“You can rest while we wait,” Nissa says hurriedly. “I’ll have a muscle tonic brought to you,” she continues, already planning, “and I’ll send for Helion so he can look at your leg.”

Aurora shakes her head firmly, trying to push back against the fuss. “That’s not necessary,” she insists.

“Please,” Nissa pleads, her voice gentle but unwavering. “Let me do at least this.” She gently tightens her hold on Aurora’s arm.

Let me be your mother just for today.

Aurora is carefully seated on the pristine white sofas within the circular room. The grand windows stretch from floor to ceiling, reflecting the towering buildings that guard the palace like sentinels. Sunlight filters through the glass panes, illuminating the room in a soft, golden glow that bathes the elegant space in warmth.

Nissa turns briskly to the guard. “Please Talon, go fetch my husband,” she requests.

Her leg spasms again, sharp and relentless, and Aurora’s frustration bubbles over. “Damn it,” she mutters through gritted teeth.

Her mother presses a glass into her hand, the faint scent of roses rising to meet her nose. “Here,” she says, her voice calm and unwavering. “It will help.”

Aurora looks at the glass, then at her mother, irritation flaring in her chest. “I don’t need this,” she mutters, her tone clipped, but she doesn’t pull away.

The worst part isn’t the pain—it’s the timing. Out of everyone, it had to happen in front of her mother.

Lucien seems to sense her discomfort, pivoting the conversation effortlessly.

“I never thought I’d meet a Cadre, let alone be related to one. It’s impressive.”

Aurora takes a sip of her drink. Fuck, it’s maddeningly good. “Impressive is my middle name,” she replies with a wry smirk.

"That's what I've heard," Lucien says.

“Tutte bugie, ne sono sicura,” ribatte prontamente.

Curiosity flickers in his eyes before he leans back slightly, giving her space.

The double doors swing open with a flourish, revealing Helion’s unmistakable figure as he strides in, wearing his signature grin—a mix of irreverence and charm. His gaze locks onto Aurora immediately, and it’s clear he’s aware of the situation. “I hear we’ve got a soldier in distress,” he announces with exaggerated drama, his tone light, almost teasing.

Aurora stiffens, her hand tightening around the cane as her irritation flares. “Helion,” she mutters darkly, her voice brimming with disdain. “Always a disappointment.”

“Aurora!” Nissa snaps, her tone sharp and disapproving, though her exclamation barely fazes Helion.

“The feeling’s mutual,” Helion replies with mock seriousness, his grin not fading for even a moment. “And yet, here I am, ready to save the day.”

Nissa throws her hands in the air, as if surrendering to the absurdity of the exchange.

“I don’t need your help,” Aurora growls. “I know exactly what’s wrong with my leg. It just needs time.”

Helion smirks as he steps closer to the sofa. “As much as I’d love for you to stay lame for the rest of your life, I care too much about your mother to ignore her requests.” He leans down, his hand reaching for her knee. “Now, be a good girl and let me take care of it.”

Aurora’s eyes narrow dangerously, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “One day, I’ll cut out your tongue.”

Beside her, Lucien lets out a strangled sound, caught somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. Helion, however, remains entirely unfazed, his smirk only deepening as if her threat were nothing more than an amusing joke.

Helion’s hand glows with a warm, golden light as it begins its careful journey along Aurora’s leg. His expression, initially relaxed, shifts into a thoughtful frown as his magic traces an unexpected path. His hand lingers for a moment before curving around her side, guiding him to her back. He turns her slightly, his confusion deepening with every inch traveled, his eyes narrowing as if piecing together an unforeseen puzzle. Whatever his magic is uncovering, it’s clear even he wasn’t prepared for this.

“I told you so,” Aurora says, a triumphant glint in her eyes.

Helion, on the other hand, looks utterly bewildered, his expression a mixture of disbelief and puzzlement. His hands continue their slow, methodical movements, the golden glow trailing along Aurora’s back as he murmurs, almost to himself, “I don’t understand.” He pauses, his frown deepening as his magic leads him further. “My magic tells me your spine is broken,” he says, his voice laced with incredulity, “but you’re walking. How is that even possible?”

“It’s none of your business how,” she replies, her tone firm and resolute. The seriousness in her voice leaves no room for further questions, drawing an invisible line that Helion had better not cross it—for his own good.

“Can you speed up the process?” Aurora asks, her tone laced with impatience.

Helion exhales heavily, his irritation barely concealed. “I can give you tonics for the spasms,” he mutters, his tone begrudging. “But it will take time,” he adds, repeating her earlier words through gritted teeth, clearly annoyed that she had been right all along.

Aurora’s smile widens, her satisfaction unmistakable as she revels in his frustration. Helion’s gaze darkens, his jaw tightening as he glares at her.

“I’m tempted to punch that pretty little nose of yours,” he growls, his voice low and sharp, though the faintest flicker of amusement betrays him.

Aurora, unbothered, leans back, her smugness unshaken.

“Did it happen when you destroyed the Mirror?” Lucien’s voice is quiet yet carries an unmistakable intensity.

Aurora arches a brow, incapable of hiding her surprise.

“Yes,” she says, “it’s happened then.”

The silence over the room is almost tangible, suffocating, as if her words have frozen time. Then Nissa breaks that quiet, not with tears, but with an eruption of fury.

“That cursed sword!” she shouts, her face contorted by an expression of rage and pain. “I thought it would help you, not that it would almost kill you!”

“It was necessary. I won’t apologize for saving my home.”

“This is your home!” she screams, her voice cracked and full of emotion. The pain and anger intertwine, the internal conflict visible in the tremble of her hands and the fire in her eyes.

Aurora feels the heat burning inside her, a scream pressing against her throat, ready to erupt. She wants to shout at her mother, tell her that the male sitting next to her isn’t her brother, and she’d rather die than start considering Helion family.

But she doesn’t. Instead, she takes a deep breath, letting the air calm the storm within, and exhales slowly.

“Erilea is home too,” she says at last, her voice calm, yet sharp as a blade. Her gaze remains fixed on her mother, unyielding. “If my brothers accepted it, so can you.”

Her words strike like a well-aimed blow. Nissa stiffens, her lips pressed together, unable to reply.

“I’m going to check if Annabelle is done,” Nissa says abruptly, her voice tight and sharp. She doesn’t wait for a reply, storming out of the room. Helion follows her immediately.

Aurora exhales deeply, her hands rising to cover her face as she lets out a long sigh. Then, as if the absurdity of it all catches up to her, a faint smile tugs at her lips before it blossoms into laughter.

“It’s the second time I’ve been here,” she says, her voice touched with wry amusement, her hands falling away as she glances at Lucien. “And it’s the second time Nissa has stormed out in tears.”

Her laughter grows, bright and biting at the same time. “At this rate, I’ll win a medal.”

“You call her Nissa,” says Lucien, his voice steady, yet with a hint of tension.

“What?” Aurora replies, her tone clipped.

“Our mother,” he clarifies, his gaze unwavering. “You call her by her name.”

“She’s not my mother.”

Lucien’s expression hardens, his metal eye narrowing, and in that moment, Aurora understands exactly what Duncan meant by “the judgmental stare.” Lucien’s piercing look cuts through her, forcing her to confront the weight of her own words.

“Listen,” Aurora says, her voice rising defensively as she tries to explain herself. “I don’t know what it was like for you to grow up with her. But you don’t know what it was like for me either,” she bursts out.

“She’s trying,” Lucien counters.

“And so am I!” Aurora shoots back, her voice sharp and unrelenting. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Because I’m not Eris?” Lucien counters, his words sharp, laced with accusation. Aurora turns to him, her gaze steady and defiant, the tension between them palpable.

“Well, she’s here with you, isn’t she?”

Lucien tightens his jaw, his expression darkening, the muscles in his face tensing as her words strike deep. The tension between them crackles like a live wire, each refusing to back down, the weight of the moment pressing heavily on the room.

“I don’t believe Annabelle should have the sword,” Aurora states abruptly, her tone slicing through the tense atmosphere in the room. Lucien shakes his head slightly, the unexpected change catching him off guard. “I don’t think she should ever touch it.”

Lucien narrows his eyes, the flicker of suspicion sparking to life. “Why?”

Aurora’s gaze hardens, disbelief flashing across her face. “Because it could kill her. As much as I’m sure she’ll become exceptional with age, she’ll never have enough power to channel the sword. Do you want your daughter to turn to ash?” Her voice is steady, firm, yet the underlying concern sharpens her words: “I had a copy made in Terrasen for her. It’s enchanted, for fire-wielders like us. She won’t ever know the difference.”

Lucien nods. "I'll talk to Elain about it," he tells her. "Thank you for letting me know."

Aurora waved a hand dismissively. “I did swear on my pinky, after all.”

Lucien chuckled. “Yes, she never takes pinky promises lightly,” he sighed. “She was worried about you.”

“What does she know?”

“Not much,” her brother replied. “We told her what was necessary—just enough to start preparing her, in case…” he hesitated, “you know.”

Aurora nodded. “I’m sorry I missed the birthday.”

“Something tells me you’re lying.”

The doors swung open, and a little red-haired whirlwind burst in, running towards her.

"Aunt Aurora!" shouts Annabelle as she races to meet her. "You're back!" she exclaims, breathless, a smile lighting up her face with those little front teeth that have nearly all grown in during the year they were apart.

Aurora chuckles softly, a hint of resignation in her tone. "I did”, she smiles. "You've grown.”

Annabelle’s eyes wander to the pink staff beside her, and her small face crinkles with concern.

“You’re hurt,” she says in a quiet, tentative tone.

Aurora leans forward, lowering her voice as though sharing a secret, “You should see the other guy.”

The remark draws a soft giggle from Annabelle, and she eagerly scampers onto the couch, nestling herself between Aurora and Lucien. Meanwhile, Helion and Nissa settle into the armchairs ahead, though her mother’s expression remains taut with lingering tension. Deciding to ignore her, Aurora focuses all her attention on Annabelle.

"You have to tell me everything, Aunt Aurora!" exclaims Annabelle, her eyes wide with excitement. "I want to know every detail about the battle. And what about your queen—everyone says she's gorgeous! And now that you're a General, do you get paid a lot?"

Aurora waves her hand, signalling her to calm down. "Take a breath," she says, more amused than annoyed.

"My queen is indeed gorgeous, but I’m not paid enough to deal with all the headaches she gives me." She adds, "As for the battle, you’re a little too young for these kinds of questions. Ask me again when you’re a hundred years old."

Annabelle lets out a frustrated sound. "A hundred?" she asks. "But that’s like an eternity away!"

Lucien crosses his arms, his expression firm. "I agree with your aunt," he says, his tone steady. "You're too little."

"I'm not little!" Annabelle retorts, her eyes lighting up. "I'm grown-up!"

Lucien raises an eyebrow, fixing her with a stern look. "Calm down. We wouldn't want to set the curtains on fire, would we?"

"When the time is right, I'll tell you everything. For now, just know that the sword you gave me was a great help. Terrasen and its queen are grateful to you."

"You told your queen about me?" Annabelle asks, her eyes widening with awe.

"She sends you her regards, as do my friends."

Annabelle’s eyes widen even further, her excitement bubbling over. "The Cadres, too? They know me?"

Aurora chuckles, brushing a stray lock of Annabelle’s hair behind her ear. "Of course they do."

The little girl beams, her earlier pout completely replaced by glowing pride as she looks between Aurora and her father. Lucien hides a small smirk, shaking his head in mock defeat at Annabelle's sheer joy.

"Six years old, and my granddaughter has already forged a political alliance," Helion says with a touch of wry humor, leaning back in his chair. "I can’t decide whether to be proud or jealous."

"I can’t wait to tell Nyx!" Annabelle exclaims, her excitement bubbling over. "And Uncle Cassian, too. He asked me so many questions about you. At first, he didn’t care. But then he got all interested. I think he might be a little jealous," she adds, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

"Who is Cassian?" Annabelle asks, tilting her head in confusion. 

Lucien clears his throat and answers with calm precision. "He’s Nesta’s mate—Elain’s elder sister," he explains. "He's the General of Rhysand’s armies."

Aurora arches an eyebrow, subtly impressed by the revelation, but she chooses to keep her thoughts to herself.

Annabelle, however, seems far more curious. She inches closer to Aurora, her movements deliberate and careful, her small frame radiating a kind of cautious energy. Her gaze flits around her aunt as though searching for something invisible, something hidden in plain sight.

Aurora notices immediately and tilts her head. "What’s the matter?" she asks. 

Caught in the act, Annabelle freezes. Her face flushes as her gaze darts downward. "I was just... looking," she mumbles, her voice almost a whisper as embarrassment overtakes her.

Aurora’s eyes narrow slightly, intrigued. "Looking for what?" she presses. 

Annabelle’s small shoulders sag under the weight of her aunt’s attention. "I wanted to see if you had shadows like Uncle Az," she admits, her voice quiet and hesitant, as if afraid her curiosity might have crossed a line.

Aurora’s eyes widen slightly as the realization hits her.

Az as in Azriel. The connection clicks into place, and she wonders how she hadn’t thought of it sooner.

Lucien, oblivious to her internal epiphany, chimes in with a smirk, misinterpreting her reaction. "There are plenty of stories claiming you’re a Shadowsinger," he says. "But as you can see, Annabelle, Aurora doesn’t have shadows swirling around her like Uncle Azriel does."

Annabelle’s face falls, her disappointment evident. Her lips curve into a slight pout as she mutters, "Yes, I see."

Aurora straightens her posture, her expression shifting to one of feigned confusion. Her hand reaches out, her fingers brushing through Annabelle’s hair with careful precision.

"What’s this?" she murmurs, her voice light and curious.

As if summoned, Mathila emerges from Annabelle’s hair, unfolding herself like a shadow untethered from reality. The little girl’s jaw drops, her mouth forming a perfect O of astonishment before a stifled squeal escapes her lips.

Across the room, Helion, mid-sip of tea, chokes in surprise, sputtering as Forter strides past him unbothered. Aurora remains poised, but the opaque darkness begins to gather around her like a veil.

"I knew it!" Annabelle exclaims, practically bouncing with uncontained excitement. "I knew the stories were true!"

Aurora’s lips curl into a small, knowing smile. With a soft chuckle, she lets the shadows dissipate as quickly as they came. "Just because you don’t see something doesn’t mean it’s not there," she says.

Nissa exhales sharply, her expression a mix of shock and disbelief.

"But how?" she breathes, her voice barely audible. "When did this happen?"

Aurora casts a sidelong glance in her mother’s direction and shakes her head firmly. Now is not the time for an explanation—not a question her mother is ready to hear the answer to, especially after the hysteria she had mere moments ago. And frankly, Aurora is beyond weary of her mother’s endless tears.

The quiet settles over the room, heavy and lingering, before Lucien breaks it with a dry mutter.

"Rhysand is going to have a breakdown."

-.-

The day unfolds like a fleeting dream, slipping through Aurora’s fingers before she can fully grasp it. Annabelle, who once grated on Aurora's nerves nearly a year ago, now feels like a breath of fresh air—a burst of color in the monochrome palette of Aurora’s life, stained as it is by death. Lucien, on the other hand, remains an enigma. He isn’t unpleasant, but his guarded demeanor keeps him distant. He watches her as if she might harm his daughter at the slightest provocation, his gaze a testament to the persistence of old habits.

Aurora is determined to convince him that, despite the apparent and undeniable similarities, she is not Beron.

Helion is no better. His glare carries a quiet hostility, though he’s careful not to voice it. Aurora suspects her earlier display of shadows served as a clear reminder of who holds the upper hand between them.

As the sun dips below the horizon, the moment comes for Aurora to leave. Nissa approaches her tentatively, her hands trembling ever so slightly as she clasps them together.

“I know Erilea is your home,” she begins, her voice soft yet trembling with emotion. “I know you don’t see me as your mother, and that this isn’t your family.” Her lips twitch into a fragile smile, weighed down by the unshed tears in her eyes. “You don’t have to say it—your expression says enough. But I wish you’d give me a chance.”

Aurora studies her, the silence stretching long and heavy between them. Finally, she speaks, her tone steady but cold. “You can’t expect my feelings for you to change overnight,” she says. “And crying about it won’t help either.”

“I know,” Nissa nods, her voice barely above a whisper, but her gaze remains steady. They stand in quiet discomfort, the tension palpable, until Aurora exhales sharply and breaks the stillness.

“I’ll try not to get angry at everything you say,” she concedes reluctantly. “I’ll be here often since Annabelle talked me into teaching her how to use a bow.” She sighs deeply, shaking her head as if bewildered by her own decision. “I really shouldn’t have asked her what she wanted for her birthday to make up for it.”

“So, will you come to dinner tomorrow?”

Aurora turns to her with a sharp look, her gaze cutting. “Don’t push your luck,” she warns flatly.

“Right,” Nissa says quickly, lowering her voice as if to appease her. “Small steps,” she murmurs, as though repeating the phrase aloud will make it easier to believe.

Aurora freezes at the words, her chest tightening.  It lingers in the air, like a whisper from the universe.

A quiet reassurance that maybe, just maybe, she’s doing the right thing.

“Yes,” she says at last, her tone resigned but tinged with something warmer. “Small steps.”

-.-

"You've been gone a while," Barjan observes as Aurora steps into the palace, his tone edged with suspicion, low but cutting.

"Yes," she answers simply, "I met Lucien."

At this, Barjan stiffens visibly, his shoulders locking tight like a bowstring. "Oh, really?" his voice low and shadowed with barely disguised disdain. His words are sparks falling dangerously close to tinder, the kind that threaten to ignite an unrelenting blaze.

She has always liked to play with fire.

Aurora hums to herself, "He’s so funny," she muses. "We spent the afternoon with Helion and Nissa—and Annabelle," she adds with a fleeting smile. "It was much less traumatic than I expected,” she remarks, sounding almost pleased with herself. “Plus, Helion even gave me some tonics for my leg. It wasn’t sweet of him?"

Barjan’s expression hardens, his tone sharp as glass. "I'm so glad you enjoyed yourself," he bites out, the venom in his voice undeniable. "Do let me know when you decide to move to the Day Court." He doesn’t wait for a response. Turning on his heel, he storms off, his frustration echoing down the corridor long after he’s gone.

Aurora goes to her room whistling.

-.-

Later that evening, the repercussions of Barjan’s indignation are impossible to ignore. Word of her delightful reunion with their exiled brother has spread, infecting the atmosphere at dinner like a noxious fog.

Duncan attacks his meal with needless aggression, each slice of his knife a declaration of displeasure. Reagan doesn’t utter a single word to her; the silence around him is so deliberate it almost feels theatrical. And then there’s Eris, who spends the entire meal glaring at her as though his stare alone could set her alight.

Aurora, unimpressed, picks at her food with an air of indifference.

William leans toward her, "Who did you kill to make them this furious?" his voice is barely above a whisper.

“Their pride.”

-.-

“How do you train a six-year-old girl?” Aurora asks, her voice calm but with an edge of exasperation, as she leans casually against her desk.

“Throw her into the woods with a dagger. Let her figure it out,” Lorcan replies instantly.

“She’d also probably end up stabbing herself,” Gavriel retorts with a sharp edge of practicality.

Fenrys’s laughter erupts from somewhere off-screen, loud and infectious.

Aurora exhales, already regretting her decision to involve them. “Rowan?” she asks, shifting her gaze to him, as if there’s a shred of hope left for a sane suggestion.

Rowan, ever composed, shrugs slightly. “The first time I met Aelin,” he begins, his tone calm and even, “I punched her in the nose. And it worked.”

Aurora freezes, her eyes narrowing in disbelief. “You what?”

“She stopped talking long enough to listen,” he deadpans, utterly unfazed.

Aurora pinches the bridge of her nose, muttering under her breath, “Why do I even bother asking?”

Gavriel sighs heavily, leaning back as if resigned to the chaos.

"I don’t see the problem with it," Lorcan mutters, his tone gruff as he crosses his arms. "A little violence never hurt anyone," he adds, pointing a finger in Aurora’s direction. "It worked with you."

Aurora’s jaw drops, her incredulous stare locked on him. "You made me pass out!" she snaps. "And when I woke up, you told me I’d taken too long to regain consciousness!”

Lorcan merely shrugs, unrepentant. "It toughened you up," he says flatly.

Fenrys howls with laughter again, practically keeling over off-screen. “You’re my hero, Lorcan. Truly.”

Aurora pinches the bridge of her nose, exhaling slowly. "You’re impossible."

"Effective," Lorcan counters, his expression completely unbothered, as if her frustration were merely a testament to his success.

“Look,” Aurora begins, shifting her weight slightly as she glances at the group through the mirror’s distorted glow, “she’s stubborn. She’s smart. She’s fearless. And, most importantly, she’s six. Annabelle doesn’t need a dagger or a punch in the nose—she needs something practical. Something meaningful.”

Rowan raises an eyebrow, his grin turning playful. “Like what? A book club?”

“I’m going to stick this mirror up your-”

Gavriel clears his throat, leaning slightly closer to the glowing surface of the mirror, his steady demeanor a sharp contrast to the chaos of their earlier banter. “Start small,” he advises, his voice calm and measured. “Give her a routine. Simple tasks to begin with. Build discipline first, observe how she responds, and then evaluate how to progress from there.”

Aurora nods thoughtfully, letting his words sink in. “That,” she says slowly, “is the first reasonable suggestion I’ve heard today.”

-.-

Aurora is on the balcony, her fingers intertwined on the cold railing. She stares at the horizon, where the sky slowly folds into evening. There’s nothing new to see, but she stays anyway.

She stays because something inside her is still there, stuck in a day she can’t remember.

"Hi."

Aurora turns to meet Eris’s eyes—his hands in his pockets, his gaze uncertain, as if he’s not sure he’s welcome.

"Hi."

He approaches, unhurried, and leans beside her. "Anything interesting?" he asks.

"Nothing worth noting," Aurora murmurs. "Everything exactly as I remembered."

Eris nods, his gaze lost in the folds of the landscape.

Silence stretches between them, thick, full of things that never found the right words.

"How’s Lucien?" he asks suddenly.

Aurora looks at him, surprised.

"He’s fine," she says. "I thought you’d ask about our mother."

"I leave that worry to Reagan."

Aurora arches an eyebrow, "Lucien is your concern instead?"

He clenches his jaw. His face tightens, but there’s no anger. Maybe regret, though she’s not sure that’s the right word.

Eris doesn’t answer.

Aurora studies his profile, the way his eyes remain fixed on the horizon without really seeing it.

She wonders if he, too, is still tethered to a moment that never fully passed.

-.-

“So, how are our brothers doing?”

Aurora huffs. “Can you not?”

Aedion smirks. “What? I’ve always been an only child, let me enjoy it.”

“Cut it out.”

“Is our brother Eris a good ruler?”

Aurora shoots him with a glare. “I liked you better when you hated me.”

-.-

Reagan knocks softly against the frame of the open door, his movements hesitant, almost uncertain. Aurora glances up from the book in her lap, her expression calm but inquisitive. “Hi,” he says quietly, lingering at the threshold like he’s unsure whether he’s welcome. “Can I come in?”

Aurora gestures for him to enter, her hand flicking in an easy motion. He steps inside quickly, as if afraid she might change her mind. “Is there something you wanted to talk about?” she asks, her voice steady, the faintest hint of curiosity sharpening the edges of her tone.

“Yes,” Reagan replies, his shoulders rising and falling with a deep breath. “You can say no.”

 “Ask the question first.”

“It’s stupid,” Reagan mutters, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. “You’ll probably think I’m being childish.”

“Reagan,” she says firmly, her irritation stirring just enough to make him flinch.

“Right, yes,” he stammers, clearing his throat in an awkward attempt to compose himself. “Will you come to a wedding with me?”

Aurora blinks, her expression shifting to one of open disbelief. “What?”

“Forget it,” he says abruptly, standing so fast that the chair he’s perched on wobbles precariously. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter.”

“No, Reagan, stop right there,” Aurora interjects, her tone commanding enough to root him to the spot. “Explain yourself. Properly.”

Reagan hesitates, visibly wrestling with whether to leave or stay, before letting out a frustrated sigh. “A friend of mine is getting married,” he begins. “I don’t have anyone to go with, and I can’t bring the others because, well, nobody wants them there. They wouldn’t come anyway.”

Aurora folds her arms. “So, you’re asking me because you don’t want to go alone?”

“Yes,” Reagan admits, the word coming out barely above a whisper. “And because nobody wants me there either. Not even the bride. Except for Gail, my friend.”

Aurora tilts her head slightly. “Who’s the bride?”

Reagan huffs, the tension in his posture tightening. “Cresseida,” he grumbles. “The Princess of Adriata. They fell in love last winter.”

“You don’t seem particularly thrilled for your friend,” she remarks.

“I don’t have many friends,” he snaps, his voice rising slightly. “And the one that matters is marrying the cousin of the High Lord, who hates us, too. I need someone who’s on my side. I’m not like the rest of you. I don’t survive among sharks.”

Aurora leans back, her thoughts swirling. She knows why people dislike her family; the reasons are numerous, and many of them are well-deserved. If Eris came to her with a speech like this, she’d dismiss him without hesitation.

But this is Reagan.

The brother who reads poetry like it’s a lifeline, whose quiet demeanor hides depths that others rarely see.

Who could hate him?

The very thought sparks something cold and sharp in her chest, something protective and lethal.

A sudden flicker of rage washes over her, icy and controlled. For a moment, she feels the urge to do unspeakable things to whoever has made him feel so unwanted.

Aurora leans forward slightly, locking eyes with him. Her words are steady, intentional, and carry the weight of promise.

“Well,” she says slowly, her lips curling into a subtle, dangerous smile. “It seems you’re in luck.”

His eyes lift, wary.

"Forget sharks. You’ll be escorted by the one who eats them.”

-.-

“I’m not exactly an expert in these things, so don’t let this go to your head just because I’m talking to you,” she began, her tone clipped. “I don’t need your help. Not at all. But I don’t want Reagan blacklisted from the Summer Court because I lost my temper and, well, killed someone. That said, I do want to piss them off. Just a little.”

Lysandra’s face is perfectly composed, a glimmer of amusement flickering in her green eyes. She let Aurora rant without interruption, clearly enjoying the show.

“I can’t ask Aelin,” Aurora continued, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “She’d just tell me to burn the court down, and I can’t do that. I need politics, strategy, even a hint of subtlety. Unfortunately, that leaves you as my only option.”

Lysandra arched an elegant brow, letting the words hang in the air before speaking. “Are you finished?”

“Yes,” Aurora muttered, folding her arms and glaring at the mirror.

“Good,” Lysandra said smoothly, brushing her long black hair off her shoulders. “But before we get to anything else, answer me this: why do you need my help? What’s going on here?”

Aurora groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I told you. Reagan needs an ally, and I don’t want to ruin his chances by causing a scene.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Lysandra interjected lightly, her sharp gaze narrowing ever so slightly. “Why does the Summer Court hate your family so much? Did one of you insult their sense of fashion, or is it something more dramatic?”

Aurora hesitated, her gaze flicking to the mirror before she let out a sharp sigh. “The definition of drama doesn’t even come close to describing my family,” she muttered, her tone dry.

Lysandra hummed thoughtfully, “And the bride? Cresseida, is it? What’s your issue with her?”

“I don’t have an issue with her,” Aurora said defensively, though her tone betrayed her irritation. “But I’m certain she doesn’t like Reagan, and his cousin is the High Lord of the Summer Court. I want to make sure she and her family don’t humiliate him. Or worse.”

“I think the fact that you’re part of the Cadre might be enough to stop them from trying anything,” Lysandra said, her tone smooth as ever, with a hint of teasing. “Not to mention the whole Shadowsinger situation and the General of a foreign court,” she added, waving a dismissive hand. “You know, just casually throwing it out there.”

Aurora exhaled sharply, irritation flashing across her face. “That’s not the point,” she snapped. “The list of things I can’t do includes using my title and my powers to threaten them. I don’t want to scare a fucking High Lord, Lysandra. I want to annoy them, maybe even make them pay for how they’ve treated my family.” She threw her hands up in frustration. “Even if, admittedly, my brothers probably deserved every bit of it.”

Lysandra tilted her head, her expression unreadable for a moment before she shook her head with a faint, amused smile. “From what I gather, your brothers are nothing but trouble,” she said simply, as if that explained everything.

Aurora glared at her through the mirror, but Lysandra’s smirk only deepened. “And yet,” Lysandra added, her voice dripping with mock sympathy, “here you are, trying to defend them. How noble of you.”

“I’m starting to regret this conversation.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Lysandra smirks, positively dripping with mischief. “I see what you want. Enough impact to unsettle them, but not enough to start a war between Courts.”

Aurora nodded, her frown deepening. “Exactly.”

“Well then,” Lysandra said, her voice softening as if she were about to impart the secret to life itself. “What’s the first step to pissing off a bride?”

Aurora stared at her blankly, completely lost. “How should I know?”

“Simple,” Lysandra replied, her tone turning smug as a slow, calculated smile spread across her face. “Be more beautiful than her.”

Aurora’s eyes widened, horror flashing across her expression. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, Aurora,” Lysandra teased, practically purring with satisfaction. “Tell me, when was the last time you wore a dress?”

-.-

Aurora storms into the room like a whirlwind.

Reagan jumps so violently at her sudden outburst that the book he’s reading slips from his hands and lands on the floor with a dull thud.

“I need a maid,” she barks, her voice slicing through the air like a blade. “Find me one.”

He blinks, startled, his wide eyes darting to his sister. “Why do you need a maid?” he stammers.

“For my hair,” she growls, already spinning on her heel to leave.

“Your hair?” Reagan echoes, his voice rising in disbelief.

“Just find me a fucking maid!”

-.-

Aurora stands in front of the mirror, smoothing the golden dress that clings to her waist with almost cruel precision. The fabric shimmers faintly with every movement, so tight that it makes her acutely aware of every breath. It flows down to the floor, with a boat neckline and sleeves that taper at the wrists. Elegant, yes, but so restrictive that she can barely walk without stumbling.

“Is this necessary?” she mutters, touching her hair, which falls softly over her shoulders, adorned with a delicate ivory crown. There’s something deeply irritating about the softness of her hair today, as if it doesn’t belong to her. “I feel ridiculous.”

“You look stunning, my lady,” Danielle replies in a tone that leaves no room for argument.

Danielle, her old maid—the one who used to prepare her before she ran away—has never adapted to change. She stubbornly insists on calling Aurora “lady,” ignoring every protest that she prefers the title of General.

“It’s not fair that you hide behind battle attire all the time,” Danielle continues, brushing Aurora’s hair with meticulous care.

“Not fair to whom?” Aurora retorts, her tone dry and sharp.

“To us!” Danielle exclaims, spinning theatrically around the room. “You deprive us of a magnificent sight every time you wear trousers.”

Aurora glances at her reflection in the mirror, and a grimace flickers across her face. She feels trapped, caged, like a wild animal forced into confinement.

“If I had to fight in this dress, I’d die trying to throw a kick.”

Danielle rolls her eyes and says firmly, “No fighting today,” using the same tone she once reserved for Aurora's tantrums.

Aurora tilts her head, amusement sparking in her eyes.

“That depends on how much they piss me off,” she replies lightly. “Cutting throats is infinitely more efficient than conversation.”

“Don’t even joke about that!” Danielle scolds, planting her hands on her hips, her gaze stern. “Today, all eyes will be on you. You can’t go around stabbing people!”

Aurora lets her arms fall to her sides, staring at the dress with an expression heavy with discontent. “I don’t know who I’m trying to fool, Danielle,” she says, her tone weary. “This dress isn’t me. I should’ve worn my Terrasen uniform. At least in that, I’m intimidating,” she snaps irritably. “I doubt anyone will look at me anyway.”

“Oh, my lady,” Danielle sighs, finishing the final touches on Aurora’s hair with skilled hands. “Even if you wore a garbage sack, you’d still steal all the attention in the room. People like you don’t need elaborate accessories to shine,” Danielle declares, her tone firm, which suddenly hardens into acidic awareness. “Not like that harlot, Miss Morrigan.”

Aurora chokes, incredulous. “Danielle!” she exclaims, scandalized.

The maid shrugs, entirely unrepentant. “You should see how she dresses, my lady. Just a scrap of fabric to cover the important parts,” she comments, disgusted. “No shame.”

“If Morrigan wants to show off, she can.” Aurora counters, trying to maintain a measured tone, though there’s a hint of weariness in her voice. “I’ve heard she’s the most beautiful female on the Continent.”

Danielle shakes her head vehemently, her determination unwavering. “Well, after today, she’ll lose that title. I’m certain of it.”

-.-

William lets out a low, drawn-out whistle as he steps into the room, the tonics for her leg clinking softly in his hand.

“Well, Commander,” he says with a sly grin, his tone dripping with mischief, “this is quite the unexpected turn of events. I must say, it’s a refreshing change.”

“Shut up,” Aurora snaps, her glare sharp enough to silence most men, but not William.

He smirks, undeterred, shaking his head as if lost in thought. “You know, if Kail could see you like this now, he’d probably think twice before letting you go.” He pauses, the smirk deepening. “And to think he was this close to proposing to you.”

“What?”

-.-

She steps into the atrium where her brothers wait, each movement precise, almost unnaturally controlled. The hem of her golden dress brushes against the polished floor with a whisper, a sound drowned out by the tension in the room. Reagan looks up first, his mouth already parting to speak, but Aurora’s hand cuts through the air like a blade.

“Not. One. Word,” she snarls, her voice low and sharp enough to draw blood. “This is already humiliating enough.”

Reagan hesitates for a moment, then exhales dramatically. “You’re—” he begins, only to stop as if searching for the words. Then, with a touch of awe, he breathes, “A vision. A dream made flesh. A goddamn mirage.”

Aurora’s jaw tightens, her hands curling into fists at her sides as her patience frays.

Eris steps forward, his expression both amused and calculating. “Cresseida will be livid you’re stealing the show,” he muses, his voice dripping with smug delight. “You’re breathtaking, sister.” He leans in, pressing a kiss to her cheek before his tone drops into a warning whisper. “Try not to kill anyone tonight.”

“No promises,” she mutters. 

“Are you armed?” Reagan asks, his sharp gaze darting down her form as if assessing her suitability for battle.

She spreads her arms wide, the motion almost mocking. “Where exactly am I supposed to hide a weapon under this?” she snaps, gesturing to the dress that clings to her frame like a shroud. She certainly can't admit to having a stiletto hidden in her sleeve. That would be entirely inappropriate.

Eris tilts his head, nodding thoughtfully. “What about your cane?”

“I took double the dosage of the tonics Helion prescribed,” she replies, waving her hand dismissively. “That should see me through the night.”

Eris arches a brow, his skepticism blatant. “And William? What does he think about that?”

Aurora mirrors his expression, her eyes narrowing in response. “Since when do you care what William thinks?”

Eris smirks, clearly ready to retort, but Reagan steps in before the bickering can escalate. “We need to leave,” he says, his tone strained, the unease beneath it impossible to miss. “I don’t want to be late.”

Aurora reaches out, her hand curling gently around his arm. “It’ll be fine,” she says softly, though there’s an edge of steel to her voice. “If things go south, I’ll claim my leg’s acting up, and we’ll leave early. I doubt anyone would challenge a war hero.” Her attempt at humor barely masks the simmering tension, but it’s enough to coax a reluctant smile from Reagan.

Eris, however, is unmoved. He shakes his head, his expression grave. “We need to discuss something before you go,” he says, sitting down across from her.

Aurora exhales sharply, dropping onto the couch with a dramatic flop. “Fine,” she mutters, waving a hand dismissively. “Do I need to take notes?”

Eris scowls but doesn’t rise to the bait.

“It’ll be a small ceremony,” he begins, his voice steady and measured. “Just you two and the members of the Summer Court.” He hesitates before adding, “Rhysand’s second-in-command, Amren, will be there.”

Aurora’s eyes narrow, a frown tugging at her lips. “And?” she prompts, her tone cautious. “Is she a threat?”

“Everyone in that court is a threat,” Reagan says with unsettling cheer. “But Amren especially. Don’t look her in the eye—she’s terrifying.”

“She’ll test you,” Eris adds, his gaze locked on hers. “See how far she can push you. Don’t give her the satisfaction.”

Aurora leans back, her lips twitching with something that isn’t quite a smile. “Easy for you to say,” she mutters under her breath.

Eris leans forward, his voice hardening. “Her High Lord likely gave her explicit instructions. Rhysand likes to have control over everything that happens on this continent.” His gaze sharpens, and his tone turns cold. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Aurora’s hand drifts to the ring resting on her finger, the one William had carefully crafted for her only days ago. Her thumb grazes the smooth surface of the metal, the motion small but grounding, a quiet source of reassurance in the storm of her thoughts. It wasn’t a coincidence that she had asked for something to shield her mind from Daemati.

She knows that no mere enchanted ring could truly ward off someone like Rhysand. His power is vast, so immense that even the ancient Gods themselves might bow before him. The thought sends a shiver down her spine.

She can only hope that Rhysand never finds her intriguing enough to delve into her mind with care.

If anyone were to uncover her secrets, those of the Cadre, Terrasen, and the Wyrdkeys, it wouldn’t just be disastrous. It would be the end.

She tightens her grip on the ring, her breath steady, but her mind racing.

There are worse fates than death, and she knows them all too well.

-.-

The memory of the Summer Court is both an anchor and a blade for Aurora, cutting sharp and deep. The last time she stood here, the sea breeze had tangled with her hair as she raced for a ship, her lungs burning with desperation. That journey had freed her from Beron’s iron grip, only to deliver her into Maeve’s cold hands. 

The salty tang of the sea fills the air, mingling with the shrill cries of gulls circling overhead. For a fleeting moment, it reminds her of Skull Bay, though this place is its opposite in every way. Where Skull Bay is chaos and filth, the Summer Court is pristine, bright, and alive with easy laughter.

As the gates swing open, revealing the sprawling palace, Aurora takes in the view without the frantic haze of escape clouding her thoughts. The palace glitters like a gem beneath the sun, its white stone facades radiating warmth, golden accents tracing every arch and column. The ocean beyond glimmers, endless and serene, while the flower-laden halls welcome them into a world that feels both beautiful and alien.

Inside, the overwhelming scent of pink blooms assaults her senses, draped along every surface, spilling from ornate vases, weaving through the air as if demanding attention. She grimaces, her lips curving with faint disdain.

“Cresseida must like flowers,” she mutters to Reagan under her breath.

Her brother’s soft laugh warms the space between them. “Cresseida doesn’t do anything halfway,” he replies, amusement dancing in his voice.

Their presence doesn’t go unnoticed. Whispers ripple through the gathering as onlookers steal glances. Their striking features, particularly their hair, make it impossible to blend into the crowd. Aurora notices two males nudging each other, their attention fixed on them.

“Perhaps I should’ve chosen something less conspicuous,” she murmurs, her tone edged with dry humor as her eyes flick toward the offenders.

“Ignore them,” Reagan mutters, his voice low and purposeful.

Their guide leads them forward, weaving through the sea of curious gazes, until they reach the very front of the hall where their seats await. Reagan comes to an abrupt halt, his jaw tightening as his eyes lock onto the reserved section.

“Shit,” he swears under his breath.

“What?” Aurora snaps, her alertness sharpening.

“We’re seated directly behind Tarquin,” he mutters, his voice strained. “See that enormous male?”

Aurora’s eyes dart to a towering figure with silver hair, standing confidently among his companions: another white-haired male and a petite, sharp-eyed female with a sleek black bob.

“That’s Varian, Cresseida’s brother,” Reagan says quietly. “And the female is Amren.”

Aurora narrows her eyes, studying them. “She doesn’t seem so terrifying,” she remarks, skepticism dripping from her tone.

“She’s five thousand years old,” Reagan replies flatly.

Aurora freezes mid-step. “What?” she asks, her voice low and incredulous.

“Promise me you won’t provoke her,” he insists, his tone hardening. “Whatever she says, let me handle it. Ignoring them is insult enough.”

“So, I just sit there looking pretty and keep quiet?” she quips, her lips twitching into a smirk. “I think I can manage that.”

Reagan rolls his eyes, shaking his head. “If you call yourself pretty, I’d love to hear your definition of stunning,” he mutters, nudging her forward as they move into position.

Aurora follows a step behind, adjusting her expression into one of careful neutrality. She doesn’t miss the exact moment their hosts recognize Reagan. Conversations falter mid-sentence; the warmth in the room chills as gazes sharpen, and the weight of the shift presses heavily against her chest.

The audacity.

“High Lord Tarquin,” Reagan begins, his voice smooth and calm, though the tension in the air is palpable. “What a pleasure to meet you again under such joyous circumstances.”

“Indeed,” Tarquin replies, but his tone lacks conviction. His silver hair glints under the soft glow of the chandeliers, and Aurora can’t deny his striking beauty. If this were another time, another place, she might let her thoughts wander. But there is too much at stake tonight.

“I’m surprised you’ve stepped away from your books,” Varian interjects, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Finally decided to pick up a sword?”

Aurora sees Reagan’s posture stiffen, his polite facade cracking at the edges. Amren lets out a soft chuckle, sharp as a blade. “Maybe you’ll read us a poem during the reception,” she remarks airily. “How’s Barjan? Still hiding after that last meeting?” She hums mockingly. “Cassian does feel bad, you know. He didn’t mean to hit him that hard.”

Tarquin coughs, the sound a deliberate attempt to stifle the growing tension.

Aurora, however, sees red. She takes Reagan’s arm in a casual but deliberate gesture.

“Perhaps I’ll attend the next High Lords’ meeting myself,” she declares with an easy smile, her voice cutting through the charged atmosphere. “They sound entertaining.”

Tarquin’s gaze snaps to her, his composure faltering slightly as his eyes widen. “High Lord,” she greets him evenly, the faintest note of mockery in her tone.

“Good morning,” he replies after a pause, stepping closer with careful steps. “I don’t believe we’ve met, Lady…” He trails off, waiting.

Aurora’s jaw tightens imperceptibly, but before she can respond, Reagan bursts into laughter that seems to startle the entire room.

“Oh, this is gold,” her brother crows. “Never call my sister Lady. She might slit your throat for it.”

The tension in the air thickens. Amren’s gaze sharpens with interest, while Varian’s smirk vanishes, replaced with a more measured expression. Tarquin freezes, clearly uncertain how to proceed.

“Enough, Reagan,” Aurora says sharply, her voice slicing through the awkward silence. She turns to Tarquin, offering him a polite but pointed smile. “I’m sure the High Lord meant no offense,” she says smoothly. “My brother exaggerates. I don’t kill over something so trivial as a misused title,” her smile sharpens ever so slightly, “most of the time.”

"My apologies, Commander," Tarquin replies quickly, regaining his poise. "We've heard much about you."

“General,” she corrects. “I must apologize—I haven’t heard much about you.” Her eyes gleam with faint amusement as she adds, “We, as Cadre, have no time for anything that doesn’t pose a legitimate threat to our lands. High Lords of Prythian don’t quite make the list. I’m sure you understand.”

Reagan coughs into his hand, poorly concealing a laugh. Amren raises a brow, her amusement now plain, while Varian’s jaw tightens. Tarquin, however, looks as though he’s swallowed a stone.

Aurora smiles wider as music begins to play, shattering the tense moment. “Oh, it seems we should take our seats,” she says brightly, pulling Reagan with her. “Enjoy the ceremony,” she adds, the dismissal in her tone unmistakable.

As they settle, Reagan leans closer, his voice low but laced with laughter. “Where did your diplomacy go?”

“This is me being diplomatic.”

“Eris is going to kill us.”

-.-

The ceremony is both vibrant and striking, reflecting the eccentric charm of the couple at its heart. Gail and Cresseida stand side by side at the altar, a picture of contrasting elegance. Gail’s easy confidence and warm presence balance perfectly against Cresseida’s bold grace and unapologetic radiance. The exchange between them is electric, full of subtle smiles and lingering glances that speak of an undeniable bond. Their connection is palpably eccentric in its presentation, yet genuine in its depth.

Reagan leans closer to Aurora, his voice a murmur. “How are weddings in Terrasen?”

Aurora tilts her head slightly, her voice hushed but steady. “Different,” she answers. “The groom’s family waits at the altar while the bride is escorted by her own family. The ceremony is led by a judge or the queen, depending on its importance. We don’t have High priestesses. The temples remain, but the Fae coexisted with humans for so long that many traditions faded away.” She shrugs lightly; her tone is indifferent. “No great loss.”

Reagan lets out a chuckle, shifting his gaze back to the ceremony. Cresseida’s effortless grace holds the room’s attention. 

“I don’t think I could tolerate living so closely with humans,” Reagan remarks, his voice laced with disdain. “They’re so,” he grimaces, “insipid.”

Aurora’s patience snaps. “I dare you to meet the King of Adarlan and call him insipid,” she retorts sharply, her irritation boiling to the surface. “Sometimes the nonsense you spout is astonishing.”

A subtle shift in the air draws Aurora’s attention. Amren, seated nearby, tilts her head ever so slightly, her eyes glinting with amusement—or perhaps curiosity. She has been listening.

“What are you staring at, Ancient One?” Aurora snarls, her teeth flashing in challenge as her hand instinctively moves toward the stiletto hidden in her sleeve.

Reagan nudges her sharply, his voice a frantic whisper. “Shut up,” he hisses. Then, his eyes catch the direction of her hand. “You said you weren’t carrying any weapons!” he half-whines, his face twisting in disbelief.

Aurora gives him a withering look, her tone dripping with disdain. “This isn’t a weapon,” she retorts. “It’s more of a butter knife. I’m ashamed to even have it on me.”

Reagan groans softly, pinching the bridge of his nose, but wisely decides not to argue further as the tension continues to simmer around them. Aurora, unfazed, straightens her posture and keeps her hand steady, ready for whatever comes next.

Amren doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t rise to the bait, either. Her response is maddeningly calm: a slow, deliberate smile curves her lips. “I like you,” she says softly, the statement carrying an unsettling weight, before turning her focus back to the ceremony as though the exchange had never happened.

Aurora blinks, her momentum temporarily stolen. Her arms cross tightly over her chest, and a low huff escapes her lips.

Reagan leans closer, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Was I the only one who thought that sounded like a threat?”

As the final notes of music fade, signaling the end of the ceremony, the crowd begins to stir. The atmosphere shifts, the hum of conversation growing louder as guests rise and drift toward the newlyweds. Aurora adjusts her dress, her expression neutral as Reagan steps forward and gently takes her by the arm.

“Come on,” he murmurs, his voice tinged with both excitement and hesitation. “Let’s go congratulate them.”

She allows him to guide her, his grip light but insistent. As they approach Gail and Cresseida, Aurora watches the groom light up the moment he spots Reagan.

“Reagan!” Gail exclaims, breaking into a wide grin. He strides forward and pulls Reagan into a firm embrace, the camaraderie between them evident. Reagan laughs, clapping his friend on the back with genuine affection.

“It’s been too long, Gail,” Reagan says warmly, stepping back. “You clean up nicely.”

Gail chuckles, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulder. “I could say the same about you. Look at you—almost respectable for once.”

Aurora stands quietly, observing the exchange with a faint smirk. The bond between the two is clear, and for a moment, it softens the sharp edges of her demeanor.

Then Reagan turns, gesturing toward her. “Gail, this is my sister, Aurora Vanserra.”

Gail’s green-gold eyes widen slightly, his surprise flickering across his face before he quickly recovers. His expression softens into one of warmth as he offers her his hand. “Aurora,” he says warmly, “I’ve heard so much about you.”

Aurora takes his hand, her grip firm but polite. “All good things, I hope,” she replies with a faint, disarming smile.

“Mostly,” Gail teases lightly, the corners of his mouth lifting. “Your brother has a way of telling stories that makes everything sound bigger than life.”

She chuckles softly, her wariness dissolving as she warms to Gail. His charm feels genuine, his affection for Reagan evident in every gesture and word.

Aurora, for once, sees no hidden threat, no ulterior motives lingering beneath the surface.

Cresseida, however, is another matter entirely. Her gaze sharpens, cool and assessing, as she studies Aurora’s figure with meticulous scrutiny. It’s less a greeting and more an evaluation, each detail cataloged with unnerving precision.

The princess steps forward, her silver eyes gleaming as she extends her hand. “Lady Aurora,” she says, her tone impeccably polite yet stripped of warmth. “What a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Aurora matches her tone effortlessly, her serene smile carrying just enough of an edge as she accepts the handshake. “It’s General,” she corrects smoothly. “And I’m sure it is. A pleasure for you, I mean.”

Reagan sighs beside her, the sound distinctly exasperated. Aurora ignores him, maintaining her calm, collected demeanor. The handshake is brief, swift, almost mechanical, and Cresseida steps back with the same calculated grace, her expression unreadable.

The newlyweds linger for another moment before turning to greet the next wave of guests. Aurora and Reagan move to step away, but Cresseida’s voice, low and sharp, drifts clearly to Aurora’s ears.

“I should’ve banned gold,” Cresseida murmurs to Gail, the disapproval in her tone unmistakable.

Maybe this day won’t be such a bore after all.

-.-

Aurora lifts her glass with a practiced air of nonchalance, her sharp gaze flitting over the whirl of dancers gracing the polished marble floor of the grand ballroom. The music, lilting and elegant, weaves through the air, accompanying the graceful movements of the court. Reagan, ever the charmer, is among them, partnered with a stunning fae whose laughter mirrors the shimmer of the chandeliers above. His easy grace draws glances, admiration, and more than a few sighs from the onlookers. Aurora, however, remains on the edge of it all, distant yet composed, content to observe rather than participate.

Earlier, her brother had approached her, his usual enthusiasm glowing in his request for a dance. She had declined with a wry smile, brushing off the offer. It had been centuries since her last dance, and the thought of doing so now—with the strain on her leg, in a formal gown no less—felt absurd. She could already picture the misstep, the stumble, the embarrassment. Reagan didn’t need her to make a spectacle of herself on his behalf, not tonight.

Her lips quirk in faint amusement at the thought.

“General,” Tarquin addresses her.

Aurora turns, her expression shifting to cool attentiveness. She raises a single brow as she takes in the High Lord.

“I fear we’ve started on the wrong foot,” Tarquin begins. “It would be remiss of me not to seek an opportunity to amend that.”

Her head tilts ever so slightly, her amusement veiled behind an impassive mask.

“There is little that needs amending, High Lord,” she replies evenly, her tone clipped but civil. “Though I will admit that I may have been less than charitable myself. However, I find it difficult to abide insults toward my brother, particularly when delivered so brazenly and in my presence.”

Tarquin lowers his head slightly, a subtle gesture of acknowledgment. “I understand, and I apologize for that,” he says carefully. Then, his tone hardens with meaning as he adds, “But respect goes both ways, General. And your brothers haven’t exactly been shining examples of it.”

“Reagan has been nothing but cordial today, and yet he’s been treated like a commoner,” she retorts sharply, her tone taut with frustration. “By you, by the bride, and by your entire court.”

Tarquin maintains his composure, meeting her heated stare with calm resolve. “But you have been treated with nothing but regard,” he counters, his voice smooth yet precise.

Aurora tilts her head, an amused smile tugging at her lips. “That’s because you’re afraid of me,” she says plainly, her tone steady and cutting. “Or are you going to deny it?”

Tarquin hesitates, the silence palpable. Aurora chuckles under her breath, her amusement thin and mocking. “That’s what I thought,” she murmurs, turning her gaze back toward the dance floor.

They observe the dancers for a moment before he speaks again.

“I won’t apologize for holding resentment against your family, General,” Tarquin says evenly, his voice carrying neither malice nor remorse. “I have no intention of doing so.”

Aurora glances at him, her sharp smirk returning like the flicker of a blade catching light.

“At least you’re consistent,” she remarks dryly, swirling the wine in her glass. “Not many people can claim that these days.”

Tarquin hums in faint agreement, his gaze drifting toward the dancers moving in elegant patterns across the marble floor.

"I must say, I never thought I’d meet a Cadre from Doranelle," he says, his voice lower now, almost reflective.
"And I never thought I’d return to Prythian," she replies. "And yet, here we are."

Reagan is spinning his dance partner, but bumps into another couple. He turns to apologize, but the male responds sharply, and Reagan’s shoulders drop slightly.
Aurora clenches her jaw.

"Allow me to show you my Court someday," Tarquin says, turning back to her. "The cadets at the academy would be thrilled to meet you."

Her brother returns to his partner. "Why should I?" she asks, her tone laced with challenge.

"We’ve recently begun admitting females into the academy. It would mean a great deal to them to learn from someone like you."

Her brows rise slightly, and for a moment, the mask slips. Surprise flickers in her eyes as she turns to look at Tarquin.

"I have to admit, Prythian’s patriarchal system seems to have evolved since I left," she says, genuinely intrigued. "A High Lady, and now you tell me even females are part of your armies. Color me impressed."

"So, you’ll come?" Tarquin presses, his voice softer now, almost hopeful.

Aurora’s gaze drops to her glass. "I have nothing to teach," she murmurs. "Trust me."

"I strongly doubt that," he replies without hesitation.

He waits in silence. The music continues, but a heavy stillness settles between them. Tarquin watches her, expectant, though he says nothing.

Aurora sighs, a sound that seems to carry years of weariness. "Make sure my brother isn’t treated like dirt for the rest of the evening, and I’ll consider it."

Tarquin clenches his jaw, his expression hardening, but he nods. "Then we have an agreement."

He extends his hand. Aurora shakes it quickly.

“Well, well,” Amren drawls, her tone rich with amusement, “You’re already making deals with the High Lords, girl. Your brother will be proud.”

Aurora fixes Amren with a dry look, one brow arching lazily. “Which of the five?” she deadpans, her tone dripping with disinterest, as if the very question were beneath her.

Tarquin clears his throat, a note of hesitation creeping into his usually steady voice. “General, allow me to introduce Amren,” he says, his tone betraying his reluctance. “She hails from the Night Court.”

“I’ve heard fascinating tales about you,” Amren begins, her tone lilting with curiosity, though the glint in her eyes betrays her sharper intent.

Aurora’s expression hardens slightly, her brow furrowing. “I didn’t think Rhysand’s Court concerned itself with idle gossip,” she retorts, her voice crisp and edged with disdain.

Amren arches a brow, her lips curling into a faintly predatory smile as she tilts her head. “My High Lord is rather disappointed not to have made your acquaintance yet,” she replies smoothly, her words a calculated mix of charm and provocation. Her sharp smile widens, lupine and deliberate. “He hopes to arrange a meeting soon.”

“What is it with all these High Lords wanting to speak with me?” Aurora says sharply, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “All this attention does something for a girl’s ego, you know?” she smiles, “Not even in Erilea is my presence demanded this much—and there, I command an army,” Aurora quips, her tone edged with biting humor. She swirls her drink lazily, her gaze sharp and flickering with amusement as she glances at Tarquin.

“My questions are indeed about Erilea,” Amren interjects smoothly, stepping into the conversation with unerring precision. Her lips curve in a sharp smile. “More specifically, about Queen Maeve. The stories surrounding her are less than flattering,” she continues, her tone dripping with thinly veiled mockery. “The same could be said for her dogs.” Her smile sharpens further, as though savoring the sting of her words. “Oh, forgive me. I forgot. You’ve traded your old master for a new one.”

Tarquin shifts slightly, his posture stiffening, while Varian lets out a low, knowing chuckle. Aurora, however, clenches her jaw, the muscles tightening as she resists the urge to bare her teeth.

“Don’t speak of matters you know nothing about, Ancient One,” she growls, her voice low and edged with warning. “I serve no one.”

Amren hums softly, a chilling melody threading through her amusement. “I wonder,” she begins, her smile widening into something almost predatory, “if Aelin Galathynius were to invade Prythian and set it ablaze, whose side you’d choose?”

Surely, Aelin would have a reason, though.

“My cousin has no desire for conquest within her. She would never do such a thing.”

Amren’s grin deepens, the glint in her eyes almost gleeful as she presses further. “But if she did?” she asks, her words deliberately provocative.

Aurora’s fists tighten, the tension coiling through her body as she forces herself to look away, her gaze flicking somewhere beyond the crowd.

“My queen is tenfold the sovereign Maeve ever was,” she snaps, her voice carrying an edge of defiance. “I won’t indulge such ridiculous hypotheticals when they will never come to pass.”

Amren arches a brow, her sharp gaze locking onto Aurora.

“Your queen?” she presses, her smile widening into something almost cruel. “Thank you for answering,” she adds, her tone dripping with mock gratitude.

Aurora’s jaw tightens, her fists clenching at her sides as the heat within her begins to rise. She wants to strike Amren, to wipe that smug smile off her face. She wants to burn her hair to ash, to hear her scream.

The thought of sinking her teeth into Armen’s throat, tasting her blood, flashes through her mind unbidden.

Her hands tremble slightly, the glass in her grip threatening to crack.

The temperature in the room shifts subtly, yet unmistakably, as the tension coils tighter around her.

Amren’s smirk lingers, her amusement evident as she watches Aurora’s restraint falter.

"How dare you?" Aurora hisses, her voice low and venomous, each word laced with barely restrained fury. "How dare you throw such accusations at me?”

Her words bite through the charged air as she steps closer, the heat emanating from her nearly palpable.

"Maeve’s next conquest would have been Prythian. Aelin cut off her head. We stopped Maeve in her tracks before she could touch these lands,” she growls, her lips curling into a sharp, bitter smile. "The next time you talk about my queen or question my loyalty to this continent, think of how I nearly died saving your asses."

With a sharp motion, she raises her glass, the force of her anger causing the liquid to splash onto the polished floor. Her voice drops to a biting whisper.

"You’re welcome."

Silence.

Tarquin coughs.

Amren’s laughter cuts through, rich and unrestrained, filling the room with its sharp, echoing tone. She looks utterly delighted, almost as if Aurora’s fury has been the highlight of her evening.

“Oh, girl,” Amren breathes, her words tinged with exhilaration as she watches Aurora with a glint of mischief in her eyes. “You are going to be such a joy to have around.” She casts a knowing glance at Varian, her lips curling into a self-satisfied smile. “I made the right choice coming here.”

-.-

The bride and groom ceremoniously cut into their towering wedding cake, the cheers from the crowd swelling in a wave of applause. Fireworks erupt over the sea, their dazzling colors painting the sky in radiant bursts of light. Faces alight with wonder, the guests gasp and clap, laughter and delight echoing through the grand ballroom.

Aurora halts, her applause faltering mid-motion. The sound of the fireworks twists into something darker, heavier, dragging her into the depths of her memories. The crackling bursts morph into the deafening roar of a collapsing tower, the sharp shattering of mirrors all around her, and the suffocating darkness that had engulfed her.

Her chest tightens, the air growing thick and impossible to breathe. The walls press in as the phantom pain claws at her, and the festive scene blurs into a haze of panic.

Aurora stumbles out onto the balcony, her movements unsteady.

The cool night air rushes to meet her, but it offers only a fleeting reprieve. Aurora collapses against the railing, her trembling hands gripping the cold metal, her arms trembling under the strain of holding herself upright. The warmth spilling from the ballroom behind her flickers onto the balcony, but it feels too familiar, too much like the fire that had consumed her. Her power crawls across her skin, relentless and suffocating, as if it has come alive to torment her again.

The shadows rise around her, pooling closer, their dark forms shifting unnaturally, enveloping her trembling figure. Her fists clench, her nails biting into her palms.

Breathe, they tell her, their voices threading through the chaos in her mind. Just breathe.

Aurora gasps, her chest heaving as she fights to obey, each breath shallow and ragged.

It’s okay, they whisper, their voices low and soothing, circling her like a protective barrier. You’re safe.

The shadows close in around her, relentless, smothering her with their whispers as they force her inch by inch back from the brink. The fireworks, the applause, the laughter—they are reduced to muffled echoes, distant and meaningless. 

“Are you all right, General?” a male voice cuts through the oppressive silence. The sound jolts her, sending a shiver down her spine.

“Yes,” she gasps, her voice rough and uneven. “Leave me alone.”

“You’re having a panic attack,” the voice presses, now closer. The proximity grates on her nerves, her frustration boiling over as she grits her teeth.

“I said I want to be left alone,” she growls, her tone sharp and dangerous.

A hand touches her back, and instinct takes over.

Aurora’s movements are slow, hindered by the panic that still courses through her. The knife flashes in her hand, aimed at his throat, but she’s not fast enough. His scarred hand shoots up, gripping her wrist with unyielding force, halting the blade just before it pierces his skin.

The world narrows to their locked positions. Her wrist trembles in his grip as her gaze shifts from his scarred hand to his face. Their eyes meet, and the rest of the world falls away.

His hazel eyes are piercing, rich brown depths lit with golden flecks that catch the dim light. They’re sharp, calculated, as if he’s peeling back every layer of her defenses.

Azriel. He is just as she remembers.

No.

He is more, so much more, now that he is this close. Something deep within her stirs, faint at first, then spreads rapidly. It clicks into place with the force of a revelation, a lock turning as though it had been waiting for this exact moment.

Her knife remains frozen in his grasp, her shadows hover, restless and circling, yet they don’t strike. The noise of the wedding—the fireworks, the laughter—fades entirely. Time seems to stretch, elongating the moment as every thought dissolves, leaving only him.

His face is etched into her very being, carved so deeply that no curse, no force in the universe, could ever erase it. She feels it with certainty, a truth unshakable and absolute. She would recognize him always—in this life, in the next, and in the millions of lives that may follow.

Mate. Her mate.

The realization crashes over her with staggering force.

Azriel’s hazel eyes widen in surprise, revealing a brief flash of vulnerability as he processes the connection. He stumbles slightly, his wings instinctively shifting to steady himself. Still, he keeps hold of her wrist. His scarred hand remains firm, grounding them both in the moment. Their gazes stay locked, as if neither can look away, as if everything else in the world fades away.

Aurora doesn’t know how long they stare at each other, an eternity stretched out over countless years or perhaps just a fleeting moment.

Her tongue brushes over her lips, parched from the weight of the moment. She inhales shakily, her voice trembling but resolute as she finally speaks.

“Hi,” she says, her tone soft yet carrying a depth far beyond the simple word.

“Hi,” he replies, his voice steady but edged with something raw, stripped bare.

I’ve found you.

His thumb brushes against the vein on the inside of her wrist, a touch so deliberate and gentle that it feels like lightning beneath her skin. She shivers, tears pricking her eyes as an unexpected wave of emotion rises, overwhelming and raw. It’s as though her entire existence has been leading to this single moment, a quiet longing she hadn’t dared to name, finally answered.

Her shadows sing in joy.

“I’m Aurora,” she murmurs, her voice soft, barely more than a whisper.

“I know,” he says, his voice rough, “I’m Azriel.”

A faint smile tugs at her lips. “I know.”

Aurora lowers the knife, carefully sliding it back into place. Azriel has not yet let go of her wrist.

“I didn’t mean to point a knife at you,” she says, her voice tinged with embarrassment. “Sorry.”

Azriel’s lips curve into a faint, amused smile. “Something tells me you did,” he replies, his tone light but laced with a teasing edge.

Her gaze drops to their hands, so close together, even though it isn’t enough. It’s only a fleeting moment, but the ache surprises her, an odd pull, like something vital is missing the second her eyes leave him. Unable to bear it, she looks back up, and he’s still there, his hazel eyes fixed on her.

His shadows move then, darting and swirling around him. They skim through his dark hair, coil over his shoulders, and brush against his wings in sharp, restless bursts.

To anyone else, they might seem agitated, unsettled, and dangerous. But Aurora knows better. She recognizes the subtle language of their movements, the message they carry.

Happiness, joy, fibrillation.

Her smile blooms, bright and uncontainable, as her voice trembles with excitement. “Your shadows are beautiful,” she murmurs, the sincerity in her tone undeniable.

Azriel freezes, his hazel eyes widening in disbelief. His lips part, but no sound comes out; his mouth opens and closes like a fish gasping for air. For a moment, his shock lingers, etched across his face.

He clears his throat, the sound awkward as he lowers his gaze, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Yours too,” he mutters, his voice quiet and subdued.

“Thank you,” she says softly, “No one's ever told me before.”

Azriel’s lips curl into the faintest smile, shy and almost hesitant. “Neither to me.”

Aurora’s smile spreads, radiant and unrestrained. They stand there, hands entwined, as though the connection pulsing between them has always existed.

It feels natural, timeless, eternal, like they’ve held each other this way in a thousand lives before.

“Az,” Amren’s voice slices through their delicate bubble, sharp and disruptive. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Azriel whirls around, his teeth bared in a low, warning growl. “Leave,” he snarls, positioning himself firmly in front of Aurora. “Now.”

Amren’s nostrils flare as realization dawns, her silver eyes widening with disbelief. She exhales sharply.

“No,” she breathes, her voice laced with astonishment. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Then laughter bursts from Amren, loud and incredulous. “Girl, you’ve been here for just a few hours, and already you’ve shaken up the entire continent’s dynamics,” she says, her head shaking in a mix of astonishment and amusement. “Congratulations to both of you.”

With a knowing grin spreading across her face, Amren nods toward Aurora. “You have my approval. I like her.”

Aurora instinctively steps back, putting distance between herself and Azriel. His reaction is immediate; his jaw tightens, irritation flashing across his features. Azriel’s wings twitch, taut and ready to strike.

“Do you need something?” he growls again.

Amren’s laughter fades, but the amused glint in his eyes remains. “Yes,” he says smoothly, his tone casual. “I was looking for you to tell you that the new Vanserra bites like a rabid dog.” She glances at them both, his smirk widening. “But it seems you’ve already gotten ahead on the research.”

Aurora tilts her head, her gaze narrowing as she studies him. “You were spying on me?” she asks. “Is that why you were lurking out here?”

“Yes,” Azriel admits without hesitation, his tone unapologetic, as though the admission costs him nothing.

Aurora tilts her head further, a teasing smile tugging at her lips. “A spy should know how to stay hidden,” she mocks lightly. “Did you uncover anything interesting, Shadowsinger?”

Azriel licks his lips, the movement slow and deliberate. “Maybe,” he murmurs.

“I want to throw up.”

“Amren fucking go away!" Azriel explodes. He approaches her furiously, his wings spread behind him, "Leave us alone."

His anger is glorious.

Aurora can taste it in the air.

She wants more of it.

Amren arches a brow, unimpressed. “Your brother is looking for you,” she says to Aurora before pointing a finger at Azriel. “And you need to fly away before they realize you’re here.”

Azriel looks ready to protest, but Amren cuts him off sharply. “Stop thinking with your cock and get the blood to your brain,” she snaps, her tone biting but laced with amusement. “You’ve got five minutes before I come back,” she adds with a smirk. “And they say I’m not merciful.” With that, she steps back through the glass doors, leaving them alone.

Aurora knows Amren hasn’t gone far—just enough to give them privacy, but close enough to intervene should one of the guests decide to step out onto the balcony.

The air feels charged, heavy with unspoken words and lingering tension. Armen's intervention brutally brought them back to reality.

Azriel opens his mouth, but Aurora beats him to it, her words spilling out in a hurried rush. “In two days, I’ll be at the Day Court,” she says, her voice edged with unease, as though worried he might vanish the moment he truly realizes who fate has bound him to. “Only if you want to see me, I mean...” She stumbles over her own words, then exhales, steadying herself. “I’ll be there.”

His gaze traces every line of her, lingering on her as though he’s engraving her image into his very being, savoring every detail. He raises a hand, hesitates mid-motion, then lets it drop back to his side, his movements heavy with restraint. Finally, he inclines his head in a stiff nod, every inch of him tense yet resolute. “I’ll see you soon,” he murmurs, his voice low and steady, holding a quiet promise.

He doesn’t leave right away. For one lingering moment, he studies her, his piercing gaze refusing to falter, as if anchoring her memory deep within him. Then, without another word, Azriel dissolves into a swirl of shadowy mist, leaving behind an air thick with unspoken emotions. 

She exhales deeply, releasing every ounce of tension trapped in her lungs.

“Congratulations, girl,” Amren’s voice cuts through the silence, prompting her to turn. “You’ve just become Azriel’s greatest obsession,” she says, shaking her head with a mix of amusement and sympathy. “May the Cauldron protect you.”

Chapter Text

Aurora opens her eyes to the soft morning light filtering through the curtains, painting the ceiling with gentle golden strokes.
She remains still, her breathing slow and controlled, her chest rising and falling in rhythm with the silence that surrounds her.

Her gaze wanders along the simple lines of the ceiling until it blends with the hazelnut shade of the wall, where tiny golden flecks catch the light like scattered stars. Her lips curl upward.

Mate.

It feels foreign, absurd, perfect.

The thought makes her feel foolish, like one of the naïve heroines from the romance novels her mother used to read aloud when she was little. Aurora swears that the moment her feet touch the cold floor, she’ll regain her composure.

For now, she surrenders to the moment.

Slowly, she lifts her arm, eyes fixed on her wrist as if his fingers had left a brand on her skin, a phantom touch that refuses to fade. She presses her palm against her chest, feeling the steady, insistent rhythm of her heart.

No story, no tale she had ever heard could have prepared her for this. The world hadn’t warned her, and she hadn’t cared to listen anyway.

Aurora never would have believed this could happen to her.

Azriel, the Shadow Singer.

This time, his name escapes her lips in a burst of laughter that fills the room. His shadows swirl around her, floating and dancing with her joy.

If he hadn’t come to spy on me, I never would have known.

The smile fades from her face, unraveling as reality takes hold. A whirlwind of fragmented thoughts crashes through her mind, vivid and chaotic, falling apart one by one.

She bolts upright, breathless, her chest tight.

“Fuck.”

-.-

When she reaches the door she’s looking for, she knocks with frantic urgency.

“Open up! Open up!” she shouts.

The door swings open to reveal William, his hair tousled, and a deep scowl etched across his face.
“What the fuck do you want?” he growls, his tone dripping with irritation. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

Aurora doesn’t answer. She pushes him hard enough to make him stumble to the side.

“By all means, come in,” William says sarcastically, slamming the door shut with a sharp click.

Aurora immediately begins pacing, her movements erratic, her breathing ragged.

“I met my mate.”

“Excuse me?” William’s disbelief is clear, his eyebrows shooting up.

“You heard me!” she snaps, raising her voice, teetering on the edge of hysteria. “He’s the Shadow Singer of the Night Court.”

Her leg gives out and she collapses to the floor, her breath uneven as she struggles to compose herself.

“Oh gods,” she whispers. “Azriel, the Shadowsinger of the Night Court,” she repeats.

William bursts out laughing—loud and unrestrained. Aurora jerks her head up, her gaze sharp enough to cut steel. Her friend struggles to catch his breath, his laughter turning into hiccuping chuckles.

“It’s just that—” he gasps, wiping his eyes, “this is the first time in two hundred years I’ve seen you lose your mind over something as simple as a male,” he says, his grin widening as he lets out another amused huff. “You found your mate. That’s beautiful,” William says, still clearly amused, “Even if is a male with a name like that.”

Aurora groans, her frustration palpable.

“Yes. No. I mean… yes, maybe,” she stammers.

William raises an eyebrow, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

“At least you’ve got it all figured out,” he remarks dryly. “Do you want to keep freaking out, or are you going to tell me why you’re losing your mind?”

“How are you so calm?” she snaps. “Do you have any idea what would happen if the High Lord of the Night Court found out the real reason the war started? What would happen if everyone found out?”

Her breathing quickens, becoming shallow, her thoughts spiraling out of control.

“What’s stopping them from trying to take the keys? They already have enough power—enough to put them back together,” she nearly gasps.

“I’m going to be sick,” she whispers, pressing her hands harder against her scalp as if she could hold herself together against the wave of terror crashing over her.

“For the love of the gods, calm down!” William snaps, his voice sharp as he steps closer. “First of all, you don’t know these people. You don’t know Rhysand, you don’t know his Court, you don’t know the other Courts—and you don’t know Azriel.”

He narrows his eyes as he continues,“Second, how little faith do you have in me? Do you really think I’d create a ring so useless it would spill all your secrets with a single glance?”

“You have no idea how powerful Rhysand is,” she murmurs. “He could wipe out a city in a heartbeat if he wanted to.”

“Maybe you’ve forgotten,” he says, kneeling beside her, “Maybe your mind got lost in the chaos of everything that happened, and you forgot what you’re capable of. You destroyed a city. More than one, if I’m not mistaken. Don’t use Rhysand as an excuse for your insecurities.”

Aurora opens her mouth to speak, but William raises a hand, cutting her off.

“Listen to me,” he says, his voice steady and unwavering. “Go ahead and get to know Azriel. You might find you don’t like him at all. Or maybe—just maybe—he’ll turn out to be the love of your life. And honestly, I don’t believe for a second that someone who truly loves you would ever use your secrets against you.”

He pauses, letting the weight of his words settle heavily between them.

“As for Rhysand,” he continues, his tone turning dry with sarcasm, “even though I don’t think he’s the real problem here, you’ll just have to tread carefully. Don’t give him a reason to start digging around in your head. And if, by any chance, he tries—” he adds, “you’ll know because I’m damn good at what I do. Or have you already forgotten that cursed bracelet you begged me to enchant?”

Aurora exhales deeply, her shoulders slumping.

“You make it sound so easy,” she murmurs, her voice tinged with frustration, though not entirely dismissive. “All I see is a disaster waiting to happen.”

“That’s because so many awful things have happened to you, you’re scared when life finally decides to be kind,” he says gently. Then, with a chuckle, he adds, “And you’ve got a slightly bigger problem than Rhysand.”

Aurora exhales sharply, her shoulders sagging as she rubs her face. “I know,” she mutters. “Eris is about to lose his mind.”

William snorts, rolling his eyes.

“I wasn’t talking about your brother,” he says with a mischievous grin. “When are you going to tell Gavriel?”

Silence.

“Fuck.”

-.-

Aurora lets out a deep breath as she closes the connection with the mirror, the weight of the conversation pressing heavily on her chest.

“You didn’t tell him,” William observes, narrowing his eyes.

It isn’t Aurora’s fault—she tries. The words were right there, right on the tip of her tongue. But then Gavriel started speaking, and she melted into the warmth of her father’s voice, into the comfort it brought her. And when he said he couldn’t wait to see her again, her courage crumbled.

“Maybe it’s for the best,” she says defensively, turning to William. “If things don’t work out with Azriel, at least I won’t have told anyone.”

William scoffs, crossing his arms and leaning casually against the wall.

“And what if things do work out?” he shoots back. “Then you’ll have one very pissed-off father on your hands.”

Aurora waves a hand dismissively, irritation flickering across her face.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

“We?” William raises an eyebrow, his voice dripping with mock incredulity.

“You swore to follow me to the death, William.”

“If your father shows up to kill you, I’ll gladly step aside and point him in your direction—just to avoid his wrath,” he replies.

Aurora lets out a long sigh, staring at the mirror as if the glass itself might judge her for her silence.

“Well, if I can’t tell Gavriel, then I can’t tell my brothers,” she mutters, pacing the room as her shadows flutter around her like restless birds. “It’s a matter of fairness, you know? I can’t favor one half of my family over the other. It wouldn’t be respectful.”

“Respectful?” William echoes, raising an eyebrow. “Or is that your way of saying you don’t want to deal with two emotional breakdowns at once?”

Aurora spins around, shooting him a glare.

“It’s not an excuse,” she snaps. “It’s fairness! It wouldn’t be right to tell Gavriel and not them. Or the other way around.”

William snorts, clearly unimpressed.

“You know what’s ironic about this whole ‘respect’ thing?” he begins, his tone casual but sharp enough to cut. “Your brothers don’t even know you have a father and another brother living on the other side of the world. So, let’s not pretend you’re running some grand diplomatic family operation here.”

Aurora freezes, her shadows curling tighter around her feet. “It’s different,” she says weakly, avoiding his gaze.

“Different,” William repeats with mock disbelief. “Right. Because keeping that secret is somehow better?”

She throws a pillow at him. He ducks effortlessly, the grin never leaving his face.

“I’m not backing out,” she snaps. “I’m just taking a strategic approach.”

“Sure. Strategic,” William says, making air quotes with his fingers. “Well, at least your sense of fairness will keep you warm when Gavriel finds out you didn’t tell anyone about your Night Court mate.”

He sighs dramatically.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you when the next family reunion turns into a debate about your strategic thinking, your fairness, and—oh—your secret relatives.”

Aurora groans, collapsing onto the bed.

“If you’re done tormenting me,” she says, her voice muffled as she buries her face in her hands, “you can leave.”

“This is my room!”

-.-

Aurora sits on the edge of the terrace, hands wrapped tightly around a cup of tea she isn’t drinking.
Sunlight dances across the garden below, but her eyes remain fixed on the horizon, her mind far away.

Her brothers have been, miraculously, almost pleasant lately. Duncan even smiled at her during breakfast, cracking a joke about the servants conspiring to burn his eggs just to spite him.

A moment of normalcy in a world that no longer feels normal.

She spends most of her days with the sensation that there’s a pane of glass between her and the world, keeping her at a distance from everything that once felt real.

But Azriel made her feel alive.

After the chaos and darkness of the war, where her soul had been lost somewhere in the void, his touch had pulled her back—anchored her to her body, if only for a fleeting moment. She had felt whole, in a way she never thought possible.

And now, she wants to feel it again.

She needs to feel it again.

Aurora knows her brothers will fight this. They’ll fight the bond like they fight everything, tearing it apart without even understanding what they’re destroying.

Why can’t she deserve happiness like everyone else?

Why can’t she have this thing, this one quiet corner of peace that belongs only to her?

And if keeping the bond a secret from her entire family is the only way to hold on to a sliver of that peace, then so be it.

(It might be the most important battle of her life. And yet, she’s not sure if what’s left of her will be enough to win it.)

-.-

There’s one person she tells, though.

“Am I the only one who knows?”

“Yes.”

“You do realize you’re putting me in a very awkward position, right?”

“You’re also the only one I felt obligated to tell.”

Aelin snorts. “Well, congratulations on your future mating bond. I hope you enjoy it, because mine might not survive once Rowan finds out I knew and didn’t say a word.”

-.-

Aurora doesn’t sleep the night before she visits the Day Court.

William watches her from the doorway, arms crossed, a crooked smile tugging at his lips.

“You look anxious,” he observes, his tone laced with amusement.

“Shut up,” she replies without much bite, shifting her gaze to the mirror in front of her.

She pauses, studying her reflection. The trousers and simple shirt she chose are so plain, so unremarkable. Her outfit is perfect for a well-mannered child—practical and modest.

But to meet her mate?

Doubt tightens in her chest, squeezing as her eyes linger.

“Enough,” William interrupts, his voice firm but tinged with familiar ease. “You look great. Actually, you look perfect, just as you are.”

She exhales, nodding slowly as if trying to convince herself he’s right.

“You’re right,” she mutters. “I’m strong and independent. If he wants me, he’ll take me exactly as I am.”

She glances at her cane.“Can I leave it here?” she asks, almost pleading.

William grins broadly and claps her shoulder with theatrical enthusiasm. “Nope,” he declares, voice full of mischief.

“Now go and conquer that male.”

-.-

Aurora arrives at the palace with her heart in her throat, beating so hard she wonders if the sound might echo through the garden. Doubts wrap around her, choking her resolve.

She should turn back, she thinks. She could postpone this.

Her steps falter as the temptation to retreat pulls at her—but just as she’s about to turn around, Talon’s voice rings out.

“General!” Talon calls. “Lady Annabelle is at the market with Lady Elain and Lady Nissa; they should return shortly. Lord Lucien asked me to bring you to him.”

Aurora suppresses a groan, forcing herself to nod in agreement. With a resigned sigh, she follows Talon, whose graceful stride leads her through the polished corridors.

The soft click of her pale pink cane against the marble floor echoes in the quiet hallway, each sound sharpening her nerves.

When she enters the sitting room, Lucien greets her in his usual composed tone.
“Aurora,” he says, nodding politely. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” she replies casually, shrugging. “As usual.”

Lucien’s gaze lingers on her, his brow furrowed. His lips part as if to say something, but he hesitates, the words hanging in the air.

“So…” he begins, visibly unsure how to phrase it. “No updates?”

Aurora’s eyes narrow, suspicion sharpening her focus.

“What do you mean?” she asks, her voice firm, laced with warning, as she watches her brother’s uncertain posture.

“I think we both know what I’m referring to,” Lucien says.

Her heart skips a beat, stumbles, then slams against her ribs as disbelief floods her.
“He told you?” she asks.

“No,” Lucien replies. “Elain did.”

“Elain?” Aurora echoes, her voice tight, disbelief nearly choking her.

Every piece of her carefully constructed plan begins to crumble, the threads slipping through her fingers.

Lucien shrugs slightly, a faintly amused expression lighting his face. “She’s my wife. We talk, you know?” His tone is light, almost teasing. “She heard it from Nesta.”

“Nesta?” Aurora’s voice rises in disbelief.

Lucien raises an eyebrow. “Are you hard of hearing?”

“No,” Aurora mutters, clearing her throat as her mind races. She grips her cane tightly, fighting the flush of embarrassment rising in her neck.

“Did Azriel tell everyone?” she asks, her words tinged with irritation.

She had planned so carefully to keep this to herself—forgetting, of course, that a mating bond is shared by two.

What an idiot.

Lucien raises an eyebrow again, clearly unbothered by her growing frustration. “No, it was Amren,” he says.

Amren is rapidly climbing Aurora’s list of people she wants dead. The Ancient is right up there, just behind Manon.

“Not everyone knows,” Lucien continues, his tone almost reassuring. “I haven’t told our mother. I figured you wouldn’t appreciate that.”

Aurora exhales sharply, muttering under her breath,

“A small mercy, I suppose.” She pauses, tapping her fingers against her cane, nerves still frayed.
“Do you think there’s any chance this joyous news won’t reach our brothers?” she asks, her voice carrying a fragile thread of hope.

Lucien bursts out laughing, the sound sudden and loud enough to make Aurora flinch slightly.

“That explains why Eris hasn’t declared war on Rhysand yet,” he says between laughs.
“We were wondering. Amren even suggested you’d locked him up somewhere.”

Aurora groans, rolling her eyes in exasperation.

“No, I didn’t tell him. Or the others,” she replies, her voice edged with irritation. She drops onto the couch, slumping as her thoughts spiral. “They’re just so…” she trails off, unable to find the right words.

Lucien doesn’t press. He simply nods in understanding and sits beside her.

“I know,” he says quietly.

Aurora lets out a long sigh, resting her head against the back of the couch.

It’s almost a relief not to have to justify her choices to someone who truly understands the intricate, unspoken dynamics of their family.

Lucien turns to look at her, his gaze steady and probing. “So,” he asks, “when do you plan on telling our brothers?”

Aurora shrugs nonchalantly, sinking deeper into the cushions.“For now, it’s not on the schedule,” she replies, avoiding his gaze.

“What’s the plan? Secret mating ceremony? Two separate lives until death?”

“Whoa,” Aurora raises her hands as if to push the suggestion away physically. “Calm down, Lucien. There’s a big difference between getting to know your mate and accepting the bond.”

Her expression hardens, her voice low and tense.

“And maybe you like to forget it, but I live on the other side of the world.”

Lucien’s playful demeanor fades into something much more serious, his gaze sharpening as he studies his sister.

“Aurora,” he begins, his voice calm but weighted with gravity that makes her pause. “You need to tread carefully. Azriel has been waiting for you a long time. Much longer than you realize.”

Aurora’s expression hardens, and she instinctively grips her cane tighter, the soft pink hue catching the light with the motion.

“I can imagine,” she replies curtly, her tone defensive.

Lucien raises an eyebrow, his look a mix of exasperation and patience.

“Do you?” he counters, voice steady. “Because maybe it’s too soon to talk about accepting the bond. But hiding it from our brothers, especially Eris, makes it dangerously easy to look like you’re ashamed of it.”

Aurora clenches her jaw.“I’m not ashamed.”

Lucien’s mechanical eye narrows, unfazed by her sharp tone.

“Maybe that’s not how you see it,” he replies, “but it might be how Azriel does.”

-.-

Elain Archeron is radiant.

Her heart-shaped face, flowing silky hair, pastel dress, and the delicate flowers woven into her curls give her an almost ethereal beauty. There’s an innocence about her that borders on childlike—a trait that undoubtedly endears her to Nissa.

Naturally, Aurora hates her immediately.

Elain greets Aurora with a dazzling smile, her joy practically overflowing.

“It’s truly a pleasure to meet you,” she says warmly, though her gaze carries a depth of awareness. Leaning in slightly, she lowers her voice to a whisper. “Welcome to the family.”

Aurora arches a brow, expression unreadable.

“Shouldn’t I be the one saying that to you?” she replies coolly, her tone laced with sharp sarcasm.

Elain giggles softly, covering her mouth with a delicate hand. Even her laugh is too graceful, too perfect. It irritates Aurora in a way she can’t quite explain—a quiet, tightening annoyance in her chest.

Unaware of Aurora’s growing discomfort, Elain reaches out and gently touches her arm.

“It’s going to be all right,” she says sweetly, her expression radiating kindness.

Aurora narrows her eyes slightly, straightening her posture.

“Not even a seer like you can predict a future that far ahead,” she replies, her words firm and detached, though not entirely unkind. “But thank you for the encouragement.”

Elain’s smile doesn’t falter, but before she can respond, a burst of energy crashes into Aurora’s legs.

Annabelle, fiery-haired and full of life, clings to her aunt with wide, excited eyes. She’s wearing brown trousers and a white tank top. She looks like a miniature version of Aurora—a resemblance that, predictably, had made Nissa cry.

“I’m ready, Aunt Aurora!” Annabelle announces, her voice bursting with excitement. “Grandpa bought me a brand-new bow!”

Aurora raises an eyebrow, skeptical. “I’m not letting you use a new bow without proper training,” she says firmly.

Annabelle freezes, disappointment flashing across her face. “No?” she asks, voice small.

“No,” Aurora replies, shaking her head.

Annabelle tilts her head, confused.“Then… what are we doing?”

Aurora’s lips curl into a warm, mischievous smile as she crouches slightly to meet the girl’s gaze.

“You’ll see.”

-.-

The air carries a faint scent of moss mixed with clay-rich soil, a fragrance that wraps around her. Each step she takes is marked by the sharp crunch of twigs beneath her feet.

“Is this really necessary, Aunt Aurora?”

Annabelle’s voice cuts through the silence, tinged with fatigue and a tone of whiny protest. Her small boots scrape audibly against the uneven path as she stumbles forward, arms tightly clutching a bundle of wooden sticks.

Aurora stops and turns slowly, leaning slightly on her staff to keep her balance. Her gaze settles on her niece, taking in her flushed face.

“It takes strength to draw a bowstring,” she says firmly. “If carrying sticks is too much for you, then shooting an arrow will be impossible.”

She pauses, tilts her head slightly, her piercing eyes fixed on Annabelle’s face.

“Are you reconsidering?” she asks.

Annabelle straightens, her small nose scrunching with determination as resolve overtakes exhaustion. “No,” she declares with unexpected firmness, her voice steady. Without another word, she pushes past Aurora with a determined stride.

The clearing they reach is bathed in serene light, jade-green grass glistening with dew as sunlight filters through the canopy. The fresh air carries the sparkling scents of wildflowers hidden among the bushes, mingled with the earthy moss of the damp forest floor.

“Put the sticks down here,” Aurora orders, pointing with her staff to a dry spot nearby.

The satisfying thud of wood hitting the ground briefly breaks the forest’s rhythmic silence—a sound that marks Annabelle’s effort.

Aurora rests her staff against a sturdy trunk and lowers herself carefully onto the grass. She stretches out one leg, a soft sigh escaping her as she settles in.

Annabelle crouches beside her, eyes gleaming with curiosity despite her fatigue. Aurora lifts a piece of string, her fingers skillfully forming small knots.

“Do you know what the most important thing is when using a weapon?” she asks.

Annabelle silently shakes her head, her red curls swaying gently with the motion.

“Knowing how it’s made,” Aurora says simply, showing her the precise knot, she’s tied. “See? This is the perfect knot to hold a bow together. Now, try it.”

Annabelle follows her instructions carefully, her small hands moving with focused concentration. Now and then, she asks quiet questions.

Aurora is struck by how unusually focused Annabelle is for her age—far more disciplined than Aurora had been as a child.

They continue tying and untying knots, and the repetition gradually builds Annabelle’s confidence. Her small fingers begin to move more fluidly, and her questions grow fewer as she starts to grasp the techniques Aurora demonstrates.

For a while, the quiet rhythm of their practice fills the clearing: the soft rustle of string against wood, the occasional snap of a twig underfoot, and Aurora’s low murmurs of instruction blending seamlessly with the forest’s ambient symphony.

Then Annabelle, her face lit with determination, decides to test her knot. She fastens the string to a piece of wood, eager to prove her progress.

The string loosens with an audible snap.

Annabelle lets out a frustrated groan, startling a nearby bird into a brief flutter of wings.

“Patience,” Aurora says firmly. She leans forward, gently taking the piece of wood from Annabelle’s hands. “Do you know why it didn’t work?”

Annabelle shakes her head again, though her eyes shine with disappointment.

“Because this type of wood isn’t suitable,” Aurora explains, showing the missing piece to emphasize her point. She reaches toward the pile and selects another. The new piece is straighter, smoother—a better base. Aurora hands it to her niece. “Try with this one.”

Annabelle presses her lips together in concentration as she accepts the new piece.

Then her shadows begin to scream.

He’s here!

He’s arrived!

Aurora whips her head around, her heart pounding as her gaze locks onto him.

He steps gracefully from the forest’s dense embrace, sunlight dappling the faint shimmer of his wings and the sharp edges of his presence.

She had known he would come, Lucien had assured her, but part of her had never truly believed it.

Azriel’s shadows ripple like laughter made tangible, darting around him in arcs and waves—fluid and effervescent. There’s a lightness to them, a playfulness that contradicts their nature. They twist through the air with clear purpose but no malice, brushing against his wings like old friends eager for attention.

Aurora can’t help but watch him, taking in every detail and letting it settle over her like a delicate but undeniable weight.

He’s wearing only a shirt and a pair of black trousers. And yet, Aurora is convinced he would look good in anything.

Or nothing.

Their eyes meet, and the warmth rising to her cheeks betrays her, even as she tries to steady her breath.

He came.

For her.

“Uncle Az!” Annabelle cries, her voice bursting with pure excitement as she jumps to her feet and runs toward him.

Azriel crouches gently, catching her mid-leap with smooth, unhurried movements, as if the weight of the world could never touch him. He shifts Annabelle into the crook of one arm with ease, brushing the shadows curling at his sides with his other hand.

“I heard there’s a special training session going on,” Azriel says to Annabelle, though his eyes remain fixed on Aurora. She feels her heart rise to her throat, threatening to burst under the weight of his gaze. “I thought I’d join, if I’m welcome,” he adds.

“Of course you are!” Annabelle exclaims, her excitement washing away the tension—though she pauses, a sudden thought crossing her face. “Can he, Aunt Aurora?” she asks, clinging tightly to Azriel’s shoulders as if she has no intention of letting him go.

Is it possible to envy a child?

In that moment, Aurora discovers that it is.

She clears her throat and replies, “Of course. We’ve got plenty of wood.”

Annabelle squeals with joy and squirms to be put down, grabbing Azriel’s hand and tugging him eagerly toward where Aurora is sitting.

“We’re building a bow,” Annabelle explains with serious determination, her small voice carrying the weight of Aurora’s words. “Because it’s important to understand how your weapon is made,” she repeats, her tone almost solemn.

Azriel nods as if her statement holds a profound truth.“That’s true,” he agrees, allowing himself to be led until they reach Aurora. He lowers himself gracefully to the ground, shadows curling faintly at his sides as Annabelle speaks again.

“I can’t tie the strings,” she admits, her brow slightly furrowed in visible frustration “Auntie Aurora was showing me how to choose the right kind of wood.”

Azriel’s attention shifts fully to Aurora, his lips curving into a faint smile that threatens to crack his composure.

“I’ve never built a bow before,” he confesses, briefly wetting his lips with his tongue. “Maybe you could teach me too.”

Aurora tilts her head, raising an eyebrow slightly.“I’m not so sure,” she replies. “We’ve made a lot of progress today. I wouldn’t want you slowing us down.”

Azriel mirrors her movement, leaning in slightly. “You’ll find I’m a quick learner,” he says with warm, easy confidence, “and very skilled with my hands.”

Aurora inhales sharply, her cheeks flaring as if set ablaze.

The audacity of this male.

She opens her mouth to retort, but no sound comes out—her thoughts too jumbled to form words. For a moment, she feels caught off guard, unbalanced, completely disarmed. Then, with renewed resolve, she straightens her spine as if preparing for battle.

“Very well,” she says, her voice steady, slicing cleanly through her flustered state. The heat in her cheeks lingers, but her tone betrays nothing.

She turns her attention to Annabelle, giving her a pointed look. “Annabelle, show your uncle the proper knot for a bowstring.”

Annabelle beams with pride, her earlier frustration forgotten as she eagerly gathers the twine. She moves closer to Azriel, her small hands already reaching for the material.

“Watch closely, Uncle Az,” she says with serious intent, looking up at him as if her lesson were the most important mission of the day.

Azriel, unbothered and still wearing a faint smile, leans in attentively, shadows subtly thickening around his broad shoulders as he watches the child. Despite his calm demeanor, Aurora feels his gaze flick toward her for a brief, deliberate moment, and her fingers instinctively tighten around the staff.

Azriel’s sharp eyes catch the subtle movement of Aurora’s hand against the pink staff. His expression hardens instantly, his features tightening as if the sight struck a raw nerve.

“You’re hurt?” he asks.

Annabelle huffs, clearly displeased that her uncle’s attention has drifted from the task at hand. She crosses her arms, her irritation plain on her small face.

Aurora leans back slightly, a wry smile tugging at her lips.

“Having a building collapse on you causes some fairly serious injuries,” she says lightly, almost mockingly. “Who would’ve guessed?”

But Azriel doesn’t smile. He doesn’t even seem to register the humor in her words. His eyes are locked onto the staff, jaw clenched, posture rigid. He stares at it as if it were an insult—to him, to his family, to his entire lineage.

Annabelle, growing increasingly impatient, tugs at his sleeve.
“Uncle Az, we’re supposed to be building a bow,” she says firmly, her voice laced with annoyance. She shoots a sharp glance at Aurora, as if blaming her for stealing his attention.

Azriel rises slowly, his movements deliberate and precise, as though every action carries weight.
“Maybe I’m not as focused as I should be for this task today.”

Annabelle lets out an exaggerated huff, crossing her arms as her frustration builds. Aurora steps in before her niece can grow more upset.

“Anyway, it’s time to wrap things up,” she says.

Annabelle opens her mouth to protest, but Aurora’s steady gaze leaves no room for argument.

“We’ve been out here for two hours, young lady. We can pick this up another day. In the meantime, you can practice those knots.”

The girl sighs dramatically, rolling her eyes in theatrical defeat, but refrains from further complaints. Instead, she stomps to her feet, still sulking, and lingers near Azriel.

Aurora exhales deeply, shifting her weight as she tilts the staff to support herself. She begins to rise, but her leg spasms, and the sudden pain makes her stumble. Before she can fall, steady hands catch her at the waist, holding her up.

She turns sharply, startled by how close Azriel’s face is to hers. Their eyes meet, and for a moment, the world seems to hold its breath. The warmth radiating from his body is almost overwhelming, a stark contrast to the cool forest air.

Aurora becomes acutely aware of the firmness of his chest beneath her.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, her voice barely audible. Her gaze falters as she quickly looks away, embarrassment clear in the way she lowers her eyes. “My leg’s acting up today,” she adds, trying to lighten the moment with a faint smile.

Her knee continues to tremble as she stands, the strain of the day far greater than she’d anticipated. Perhaps bringing Annabelle this far out hadn’t been the wisest choice. Aurora takes a breath and prepares to move forward. But before she can take a step, Azriel slips an arm beneath her legs and lifts her effortlessly.

“What are you doing!” she exclaims, her voice rising in indignation.“Put me down!”

Azriel says nothing, his expression as unreadable as ever. The shadows around him flicker and dance, moving in sync with his confident stride. Aurora squirms in his arms, her embarrassment growing by the second.

“I’m not a child,” she grumbles, crossing her arms defiantly.“I can walk.”

He tilts his head slightly, a hint of sarcasm tugging at the corners of his lips, but remains silent. His quiet resolve is sharper than any reply. Meanwhile, Annabelle skips beside them, overflowing with excitement.

“Uncle Az, you look like a knight!” she exclaims, clapping her hands with joy.

Aurora sighs, exasperated.“Let me go.”

“No.”

That single word leaves no room for negotiation.

Despite her protests, Aurora finds herself surrendering to the reality of the situation. From this position, she can feel every contour of her impossibly attractive mate.

Damn, he smells amazing.

Without realizing it, Aurora shifts slightly, seeking a more comfortable spot, and her head gently rests on Azriel’s shoulder. The warmth radiating from him is steady, reassuring, and she hears the faint rustle of his wings flexing almost imperceptibly. When she dares a glance at him from the corner of her eye, she catches the subtle curve of a smile on his lips, as if he’s quietly pleased by her surrender.

“You didn’t use the cane at the wedding,” he says softly.

“I took some tonics Helion gave me,” she replies in a calm, light tone, almost indifferent. “I had no intention of showing up in enemy territory looking like an invalid.”

“Enemy territory? Is that how you see the other Courts?” he asks, his voice laced with quiet amusement.

Aurora shrugs, her expression unapologetic."Better to always be prepared for the worst than risk losing your skin."

"Tell me, did you hide any knives today?" he asks, a faint smile playing on his lips.

Aurora tilts her head, her piercing gaze meeting his."Always."

His pupils dilate slightly, a flicker of something unspoken crossing his face, and Aurora feels a wave of satisfaction at his reaction. Pleased with herself, she leans into the warmth of her mate, letting the moment wrap around her like a blanket of quiet contentment.

When they reach the palace gates, Annabelle has already darted ahead, her imaginary gown swishing as she pretends to be a queen. Azriel halts mid-step, but his grip remains firm as Aurora shifts slightly in his arms.

Aurora stiffens. "This is the part where you let me go," she murmurs, tilting her head up to meet his gaze.

Azriel lowers his chin, his golden-brown eyes darkening as he looks at her.

"Is it?" he replies softly, his words resonating in the still air. His breath is warm against her skin, brushing her lightly as the space between them narrows, the charged atmosphere pulling them closer.

Aurora swallows hard, her throat dry, her composure faltering. Without thinking, she flicks her tongue out to wet her lips—a barely noticeable reflex, yet Azriel catches it, his gaze sharpening as he follows the motion. His jaw tightens slightly.

Her heart pounds as the moment stretches.

Annabelle’s impatient cry slices through the silence.

"Uncle Az! Auntie Aurora! Are you ever coming inside?"

Her voice is sharp, annoyed, her small figure standing defiantly at the palace gates.

Azriel straightens, a faint flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before he looks at Annabelle. The moment dissolves instantly, the tension evaporating like dew in the sun. Aurora exhales deeply, her cheeks burning as she adjusts herself in Azriel’s arms.

Annabelle stares at them, theatrically stomping her foot on the stone path."You’re taking forever. What are you doing out here?"

Azriel’s face remains calm as he gently sets Aurora down. His hands linger just long enough to ensure she’s steady, balanced on her staff, before pulling away completely.

"We were talking," he says evenly, his tone neutral, as if the previous moment had never happened.

Aurora regains her composure, gripping the staff tightly as she tries to gather her thoughts.
"We’re coming right in," she reassures Annabelle, her voice regaining its authority. "Go ahead, we’re right behind you."

Annabelle, apparently satisfied, twirls with renewed energy and skips toward the palace doors, her earlier irritation forgotten. Aurora watches her go, shaking her head slightly.

"She’s going to break her neck if she keeps running like that," she mutters, picking up her pace.

Azriel stays beside her, matching her stride effortlessly. His silence lingers until he finally speaks, his voice low.

"I can carry you inside," he offers."I can do that."

Aurora lets out a soft huff, casting him a sideways glance with a faint smile.

"I don’t doubt that you can," she replies, her tone dryly amused."But my pride’s taken enough hits for one day."

Azriel hesitates, his gaze flickering uncertainly.

"I didn’t mean to..." he begins, his words faltering."I’m sorry if-"

His voice trails off, and he exhales deeply, his shoulders sagging slightly along with his wings. For a brief moment, he seems lost, unsure, a vulnerability slipping into his otherwise composed demeanor.

Aurora chuckles softly, turning toward him with a teasing glint in her eyes.

"Relax," she says, amusement in her voice."No one who values their hands has ever dared carry me like that. Points for bravery, Shadowsinger."

Azriel blinks, his expression softening as he resumes walking beside her."Do I score high?" he asks, his voice lighter now, curiosity mingling with quiet challenge.

"Maybe," Aurora replies cryptically, her lips curving as they near the palace doors.

Annabelle’s voice echoes from inside, bright and vibrant despite the stone corridors. Aurora sighs, watching the girl’s bouncing steps.

"She’ll wear herself out before dinner," she mutters, then raises her voice. "Annabelle! If you keep running, I’m telling your father!"

Annabelle freezes for a moment, her expression shifting to sheepish submission as she slows her pace.

Aurora glances at Azriel, "I’m sorry if this wasn’t what you hoped for on your first outing with your mate."

Azriel’s gaze flickers, his steps slowing as he answers."It’s much better."

-.-

They accompany Annabelle to Elain and Lucien. The little girl, already half-asleep, greets them with a sweet, drowsy voice, leaning against Elain’s shoulder.

“Thank you for the training, Auntie Aurora,” she murmurs, closing her eyes.

Nissa invites them to dinner, but Azriel politely declines. Aurora, without missing a beat, explains that she promised Eris to assist him with some matters concerning the army. Her brother’s name makes Azriel tense, his jaw tightening slightly, though he remains silent.

Aurora suppresses a sigh, feeling the weight of the silence between them.

It’s going to be a long road.

As they step out of the palace, brushed by the cool evening air, Aurora glances at Azriel.“I lied earlier,” she says.“There’s no one waiting for me.”

Azriel stops, blinking once, his golden-brown eyes flickering as he processes her words. “Oh,” he murmurs.

Aurora shifts her gaze, taking in the vibrant atmosphere of the Day Court’s capital. Even as the sun begins to set, the city pulses with life, a festive air lingering like a warm glow. She allows herself a small smile before turning back to Azriel.

“I’ll grant you the honor of inviting me to dinner,” she says, her tone playful, challenging, her eyes gleaming with mischief.“If you feel like it, of course.”

Azriel arches an eyebrow slightly, a spark of amusement lighting his gaze.“I might know a place.”

-.-

Azriel did know a place—a small restaurant tucked away in a hidden corner of the capital.

The atmosphere is warm and welcoming, a quiet refuge from the bustle outside. The waitress—who also happens to be the cook and owner—brightens the moment she sees Azriel. Her greeting carries familiarity, though she doesn’t linger to chat. Instead, she quickly leads them to a secluded table, perfectly placed beneath the soft glow of golden lights that dance across the ceiling like delicate stars.

Aurora settles in, lifting her gaze to admire the way the light reflects off Azriel’s perfect face. He, in turn, sits across from her, his wings comfortably spread behind him, positioned with care and precision to avoid crowding the space.

“So, tell me about yourself,” Aurora says.“I feel at a disadvantage here.”

“There’s not much to tell,” he replies tensely.“Nothing interesting, at least.”

Aurora raises an eyebrow, her look sharp but playful.“I doubt that.”

“And what makes you so sure?” he counters.

“You’re bonded to me,” she declares.“And I’m amazing, so that means you must be amazing too.”

Azriel lowers his head slightly, and for a moment, the shadow of a smile crosses his face. The tension in his shoulders eases, the subtle shift in his posture almost imperceptible to anyone else.

Aurora settles back in her seat, a quiet triumph lighting her chest.

“You’re confident, aren’t you?” Azriel comments.

Aurora shrugs nonchalantly, a smug expression on her face.“No one’s ever been skilled enough to make me doubt myself,” she replies.

“You’d get along with Cassian,” he says.

“I want to get along with you,” she clarifies.“What’s your favorite weapon?”

Azriel pauses, caught off guard by the question. He arches his brow slightly as he looks at her.

“Most people ask about favorite colors or foods,” he observes.

“Boring,” Aurora dismisses with a wave of her hand, her expression bright and unapologetic. “I prefer swords,” she chirps, eyes gleaming with excitement.“But knives are great too.”

Azriel’s lips twitch.“I like swords too,” he tells her.“And knives.”

Azriel hesitates, uncertainty flickering across his expression as if searching for something more to say. But the moment stretches, and in the end, he falls silent again.

Aurora suppresses a sigh, a shadow of resignation crossing her face. Her mate isn’t one for long conversations, that much is clear. Still, if she managed to navigate the silence of Vaughan, the king of quiet himself, she’s confident she can handle this too.

Aurora notices a small shadow creeping stealthily toward Azriel’s hands. Her jaw tightens. “Mathila,” she snaps. The shadow halts, frozen in place, guilt radiating from its stillness, “Let him be.”

The shadow bristles, its edges fraying in what can only be described as irritation. And then, with a flicker of rebellion, all her shadows follow suit. One by one, they begin to stir, as though emboldened by Mathila’s defiance.

The revolution starts like that—first one, then the others.

Aurora lets out a sound of frustration, her composure slipping as the opaque darkness begins to swarm around her. The muted whispers of disobedience fill the air, her shadows pressing in closer, bold and restless.

You were taking too long, mistress, they whisper, unapologetic, their voices carrying a faint edge of defiance.

Aurora casts an apologetic glance at Azriel, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “They’re curious,” she explains, the words tinged with embarrassment but carrying a thread of affection.

Azriel raises an eyebrow. “You’ve named them?” he asks, his voice edged with disbelief.

“Of course,” Aurora replies matter-of-factly, her frown deepening slightly. “You haven’t?”

Azriel presses his lips together, suppressing what looks suspiciously like a smile. “No,” he admits. 

Aurora leans forward, her expression incredulous. “How do you scold them when they misbehave?” she demands, genuinely baffled by his approach.

“I don’t scold them,” Azriel counters. “They always obey me.”

Aurora’s eyes widen, scandalized, as she turns sharply toward her shadows. “Did you hear that? It’s possible to behave like normal assassin shadows.”

As if to emphasize their defiance, one of her shadows darts forward and sharply tugs at a strand of her hair. Aurora lets out a frustrated huff, glaring at them. “Enough!” she snaps, her voice firm yet tinged with exasperation. “You’re being rude—we’re in company.”

Azriel watches her intently, his gaze steady as though he’s witnessing something utterly unique. His expression shifts, almost imperceptibly, until his voice breaks the silence. “You’re—” he begins, but the words falter, and he glances down.

A soft laugh escapes him, unguarded and genuine, before he lifts his gaze once more. His eyes gleam with understanding. “You’re like me,” he says at last, his voice quiet but weighted with realization, as if he’s seeing her truly for the first time. 

Aurora smiles, “And you’re like me.”

-.-

Aurora learns that Azriel has no surname, yet he has a family and a mother he loves deeply. "It doesn't end with blood," he had said, and she finds the sentiment oddly fitting.

Bonds are forged through years and shared experiences. She feels far closer to Lorcan than she does to Nissa, and that says more than words ever could.

He doesn’t mention his childhood, and she doesn’t ask. 

She doesn’t speak of the war, and he doesn’t pry.

Their understanding is unspoken but profound, a quiet agreement to let silence hold the parts of their life they aren’t ready to share.

Aurora avoids mentioning Eris and her brothers. She speaks of her life in Doranelle, of her fleet, of the sea she knows like the back of her hand.

She says almost nothing about the other Cadre. Just a few vague references—barely enough to give context to her stories. No names leave her lips.

Aelin, likewise, is kept gracefully out of the narrative. The mere thought of compromising her, even with a passing mention, tightens Aurora’s chest.

It’s not distrust. It’s protection.

(They’re all she has left.)

Azriel doesn’t speak much, but when he does, his words are deliberate. Aurora listens closely. She reads between the lines, in the weight of his silences and the details he lets slip without meaning to.

As they grow more at ease with each other, the shift is almost imperceptible at first. Their movements soften, the tension dissolving bit by bit. The shadows, once hesitant and wary, begin to mirror this change.

They didn’t rush, didn’t confront—merely sniffed at each other in an intangible game of proximity, testing boundaries without quite crossing them.

At last, some invisible signal passes between them. A shift. A tremor. Slowly, tentatively, the shadows begin to weave together, not fully merging but brushing against one another, curling and twisting in cautious curiosity, like threads searching for the right knot.

Mathila breaks the spell with sudden confidence. She darts back to Azriel, her movements liquid, feline in their precision. She burrows beneath his neck like a cat seeking refuge, her shadow clinging to him with a subtle possessiveness that feels both familiar and primal.

Azriel’s shadows hesitate, vibrating in place as though unsure. But inch by inch, they surrender their doubt. They edge closer to Aurora, then brush against her arms, her hands, their touch feather-soft and deliberate.

"I think our children like each other," Aurora whispers to Azriel, a hint of mischief in her tone.

His shoulders shake, almost imperceptibly at first, but then with a subtle rhythm that betrays the laughter he can’t entirely suppress.

From that moment on, dinner fades into an effortless blur. Their conversation carries them seamlessly to the portal, its ethereal shimmer poised to whisk her away to the Autumn Court.

He accompanies her to the threshold, where blossoming trees frame the entrance like silent sentinels.

"Thank you for dinner," Aurora says, her voice warm, a hint of satisfaction lingering in her words. "I enjoyed it."

"Me too."

Aurora shifts her weight, the soft tap of her cane slicing through the lingering silence. Her smirk is faint, her eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and challenge. “So," she starts, deliberately dragging out the word, “When do I get to see you again?”

“I’m not sure,” is the measured reply, his tone giving nothing away. “I’ll be busy for the next few days.” A pause, calculated and impenetrable, “I’ve got work to do.”

Ah. Classic Night Court secrecy. Wrapped tight and sealed.

Aurora resists the urge to prod.

Some walls weren’t meant to be scaled.

“You’ll be busy too,” he says, the edge softening in his voice, “Tarquin will reach out soon. Didn’t you promise to visit the academy?”

"And how, exactly, do you know that?"

Azriel meets her, mirroring her raised brow in silent challenge. "Knowing things like this is my job. Why don’t you know?"

"I’m on vacation. I have no intention whatsoever of wasting my hard-earned rest spying on other Courts," she says, her smile sweet but teasing, the glint in her eyes daring him to respond. "If I did, you wouldn’t have a job anymore."

Azriel’s gaze sharpens. "You think you’re better than me."

Aurora tilts her head, feigning innocence. "I don’t think," she answers, her voice light and airy. "I am."

She punctuates the remark with a wink, then pivots smoothly on her heel, leaving Azriel standing there with the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watches her go.

-.-

“You were out late last night,” Eris remarks dryly as they settle in for lunch. “I was about to send the guards to drag you back from the Day Court.”

Aurora pauses, arching a perfectly shaped brow at him. “I didn’t know I had a curfew,” she retorts coolly, her tone light but laced with subtle defiance.

Eris shrugs, his movements almost dismissive as he picks up his tea. “Far be it from me to worry when I don’t hear from you,” he says sarcastically, his amber gaze flickering toward her.

Aurora rolls her eyes, twirling her fork with a feigned nonchalance. “Time flies when you’re having fun,” she quips, her voice airy but carrying just enough edge to irritate him.

Eris’s jaw tightens, his displeasure clear as he considers her “pleasant” time at the Day Court.

If only he knew.

She suppresses a smile.

Her heart skips a beat, and she bites her lip, heat rising to her cheeks as though the memory alone could shift the air around her.

Aurora’s behavior feels almost reckless in its impulsiveness—a sharp deviation from the discipline and control that have defined her for centuries. Perhaps it’s her way of compensating for the years she spent perfecting herself, relentlessly striving to outdo everyone and prove her worth.

She has always been driven by excellence, pushing herself to achieve greatness at the expense of personal indulgences. The idea of a mate or a romantic connection was not just a distraction but a vulnerability she avoided entirely.

Yet, this isn’t mere immaturity—it’s unfamiliarity. For the first time, she is stepping into territory she never allowed herself to explore, confronting emotions that she once shut out. In many ways, these moments mark her tentative steps into a realm she’s never navigated before.

Her rejection of marriage or bonding could stem from a quiet rebellion against Nissa. Or perhaps it’s something more intrinsic, rooted in a deeper reluctance she hasn’t fully understood. Until now, the thought of a mate or bond seemed irrelevant—something she never believed she wanted. But Azriel has disrupted that certainty. Somehow, with one fleeting moment, he has stirred feelings she didn’t think she was capable of.

Then again, it could simply be the primal influence of the mating bond, guiding her instincts in ways that defy logic.

Or perhaps it’s everything intertwined—a complex blend of rebellion, biology, and something deeper stirring beneath it all.

“I received an interesting letter this morning,” Eris’s voice pulls Aurora sharply back to reality. “Addressed to you.” His tone remains casual, but there’s an icy undertone that makes her skin prickle.

Aurora holds back an impressed expression.

Azriel is good at his job.

“Oh?” she responds, feigning indifference as she twists her fork idly. “If it was addressed to me, why did you read it?”

“My house, my rules,” he retorts. “Anyway, when were you planning on telling me that you agreed to visit the Summer Court’s academy?”

Aurora glances cautiously at Reagan, seated across from her. She doesn’t want him finding out about the deal that was made on her behalf. It would only hurt him—his disappointment would be unbearable.

Unaware of everything, Reagan smirks, malice glinting in his expression. “Believe me, Eris,” he says with amusement, “there’s plenty Tarquin would like to show her, and I doubt the academy is among them.” His tone turns teasing, almost mocking. “The High Lord might have a bit of a crush on our dear little sister,” he adds, shrugging with exaggerated ease. “Not that I’d blame him.”

Eris stiffens suddenly, as Duncan stops eating mid-bite, his gaze flicking to Aurora. "Did he bother you?" Barjan asks, his voice sharp and probing.

Aurora exhales in annoyance, waving her hand dismissively. "If he had, he'd be dead," she mutters, her tone flat but cutting.

Duncan shrugs, entirely unfazed by the statement. "Fair enough," he replies casually, before resuming his meal.

She turns toward Eris, who is still waiting for an explanation, his amber eyes sharp and demanding. “He invited me to give a lecture,” Aurora says, shrugging nonchalantly. “I didn’t see any harm in saying yes.”

“I don’t like it,” Eris replies curtly.

William, seated beside her, lets out a pointed scoff. “What do you like?” he mutters under his breath, though not quietly enough for Eris to miss it.

Eris’s head snaps toward him, his gaze narrowing dangerously. “This is a family discussion,” he growls, baring his teeth slightly. “Stay out of it.”

“Stop it,” Aurora cuts in sharply, her voice commanding as she places her hands on the table with a firm slap. Her eyes flash with irritation as she turns to her elder brother. “Eris, I don’t care if you don’t like it. I’ve already accepted. It would be rude to back out now.”

Her tone leaves no room for argument, and with that, she effectively shuts down the conversation. Eris’s lips press into a thin line as he leans back in his chair, clearly displeased, muttering something under his breath that she pointedly ignores.

The table falls silent for a moment, tension simmering as Aurora picks up her drink, resolute in her decision despite Eris’s quiet grumblings.

"What does the letter say?" Aurora asks.

“Just him inviting you to his ridiculous academy in three days."

“Is it ridiculous because you aren’t invited?” William interjects, his voice carrying just enough smugness to provoke.

Eris’s jaw tightens, his amber eyes narrowing dangerously as he turns toward William. “I swear I’ll kill you if you don’t shut that fucking mouth,” he growls, his voice low and threatening.

"I’d love to see you try," William says with a sly smile.

Eris shoots up from his chair, his movements sharp and brimming with fury as he lunges toward William. But before he can get far, Aurora grabs him by the collar. With a swift tug, she forces him back into his seat.

"Enough," she snaps, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. The room falls silent, the charged atmosphere lingering as Eris glares at William, his jaw clenched tightly. William, for his part, looks entirely unfazed, his smirk still firmly in place.

"Whatever the issue is between you two, resolve it and quickly.”

Eris opens his mouth to respond, frustration clear in his expression, "I don’t care,” she cuts him off.  Her words land heavily, silencing Eris and forcing him to bite back whatever retort he was ready to unleash.

“Ladies and gentlemen, behold the real head of the family,” Duncan mutters.

The sharp scrape of Eris’s chair against the floor echoes through the hall, his furious steps fading swiftly into the distance.

"Did you have to say that?" Aurora asks Duncan, her tone laced with exasperation. "He’s your High Lord."

"For now."

-.-

“So? How did it go?” Aelin asks, visibly excited.

Aurora shrugs, a faint smile on her lips. “It went fine.”

She doesn’t add anything else.

Aelin rolls her eyes. “Come on, give me something to work with! I’m rooting for a love story here.”

Aurora glances around, clearly uncomfortable. “He offered me dinner.”

Silence.

Aelin stares at her. “Sometimes I wonder if you Cadre were born interrogation-proof or if you’re just assholes.”

-.-

It’s been seven months since she last summoned her power.

Her eyes linger on the sword far longer than necessary, drawn to its presence by an invisible force.

Her fingers twitch against the hilt, and the blade responds with a faint glow, almost pleading. She feels it deep within herself—restless and relentless—begging to be released.

With sudden resolve, she slides the blade into the wardrobe, shutting it with a firm, decisive motion.

Some things must remain unseen to be forgotten.

-.-

"Remember, we’re guests," Aurora says to William as she adjusts her uniform, her tone carrying a hint of warning. "No brawls."

"Are you sure I can come too?" her friend asks from the chair, the skepticism evident in his voice. He’s already dressed in his fleet uniform—a double-breasted green jacket paired with matching trousers. His hair is slicked back, giving him an air of propriety that almost fools her.

"Tarquin invited me as Fleet Commander, and you’re part of the fleet. Your presence will only stroke his ego further," she replies, fastening her own uniform. It’s identical to William’s, except hers gleams gold.

She grimaces inwardly at the thought. Aelin had chosen the new hierarchy colors, and while Aurora had scoffed at the extravagance, what her queen wants, her queen gets.

William arches an eyebrow, his grin sharp with amusement. "Not if what Reagan said is true," he quips, leaning back in the chair.

Aurora shoots him a sharp look, her expression unimpressed. "Reagan’s so smitten with the idea of love that he sees it everywhere," she mutters.

"You’re terrifying," William remarks. "You’ll scare those poor cadets half to death."

A smirk tugs at her lips.

“Are you sure you don’t need the cane?" William asks, his tone carrying a hint of doubt as he watches her.

"Sure," Aurora replies without hesitation. "It’s time to go," she says, adjusting her uniform one last time. "Eris is surely waiting to escort us to the border."

William pulls a face, the corners of his mouth tugging downward in clear distaste. Aurora catches it instantly. "Speaking of that," she arches a brow with curiosity. "What’s going on between you and my brother?"

William’s jaw tightens, his usual lighthearted demeanor momentarily slipping. "Leave it alone," he says curtly. "I’ll handle it."

Aurora shrugs, a playful glint in her eye. "Alright. But let me know if I need to straighten him out," she says, her lips curling into a mischievous smile. "It’s been a while since I’ve punched someone."

“Six months,"

"Gods, I’ve gone soft.”

-.-

Eris abandons them at the portal, his icy demeanor sharp. "Try not to get yourselves killed," he sneers, the cold amusement in his tone lingering as he strides away without so much as a glance back.

"He really gets on my nerves," William mutters as they step into the heart of the Summer Court. With mock dramatics, he mimics Eris, his tone dripping with exaggerated disdain, "Try not to get yourselves killed."

Aurora suppresses a laugh as she strides beside him. "You know, William," she says, her voice teasing, "I’ve never seen you so irritated by anyone before. And you lived in close quarters with Fenrys for four months. Should I start worrying?"

William waves a hand dismissively, brushing her off with the casual sharpness of someone determined not to be provoked. Then, with a purposeful stride, he barrels ahead of her.

As they pass through the portal, the scene transforms instantly, delivering them to Adriata’s coastline.

William halts abruptly, the annoyance etched on his face vanishing in an instant.

"Oh," he breathes, his tone soft and wide-eyed, as though caught off guard by the sheer beauty before him. "It’s stunning."

Aurora pauses beside him, a faint smile tugging at her lips as she takes in the scene. Adriata, bathed in the pale light of morning, is serene, almost otherworldly.

The soft golden light reveals Adriata in layers—some inviting, others unsettling. The air carries a crisp saltiness, mingled with faint, tantalizing hints of fresh-baked bread from a distant bakery. But as Aurora's gaze sweeps the streets, it lands on the edges, where ramshackle structures tilt awkwardly, worn by years of neglect.

Here and there, beggars sit quietly, their hollow eyes glinting dully in the morning light, their hands stretched out in silent, wordless pleas. The elegance of the Summer Court feels dissonant, like a pristine mask hiding decay that festered just beneath the surface.

Aurora’s jaw tightens, her thoughts darkening as she takes it in.

Amarantha’s shadow is unmistakable here too, its weight palpable even in the sunlit streets.

"Not as beautiful as Orynth," Aurora remarks quietly, her gaze still lingering on the disparity before her. "But it has its own charm." Her tone, however, carries a hint of tension, betraying her unease.

They walk on, the city unfolding around them in subtle contradictions. The streets are waking, fishermen hauling nets still dripping from their morning catch, merchants setting up their stalls with half-lidded eyes. The scent of salt and sea life grows stronger, mingling with the faint warmth of the sun burning away the early chill.

Still, the undercurrent of desperation remains impossible to ignore. Aurora watches as a child, no more than six or seven, darts between the vendors, clutching a grimy cloth bag close to their chest. Nearby, a frail elderly woman watches the crowd with a tired, defeated expression, her outstretched hands trembling slightly.

"Tarquin should do something for these people," William murmurs, breaking the quiet with a tone tinged in anger. His eyes land on the malnourished children huddled near the edge of the square. "We build shelters for orphans, at least," he adds, the words carrying an unspoken challenge. "This is hard to stomach."

"They’re not exactly advanced as a continent," Aurora replies, her voice measured but low. Her gaze lingers on the children as she speaks. "I didn’t even know what schools were until Maeve sent me to Terrasen to spy on the royal family."

William glances at her, his lips curving into the faintest smile. "Terrasen has always been ahead of its time when it comes to cultural development," he says, his tone softening slightly. He exhales, his expression briefly distant. "Have you thought about what you’d do if things with Azriel worked out?" he asks, abruptly changing the subject. "Would you even want to stay here?"

Aurora doesn’t answer right away. Her silence stretches, heavy with unspoken thoughts, as her gaze drifts to the horizon. Of course, she’s thought about it. The question has haunted her in quiet moments, the kind that creep in when she lets her guard down.

She doubts Azriel would be willing to leave everything behind if Aelin were to call her back to Terrasen.

“It’s neither the time nor the place,” she finally murmurs, her eyes fixed on the towering gates ahead. The conversation dies there, buried beneath the weight of other concerns.

They are led into a vast chamber, its grandeur amplified by sheer scale. No windows enclose the space; instead, wide archways frame an uninterrupted view of the shimmering ocean. The morning breeze flows in unhindered—crisp and fresh—carrying the cool scent of the sea.

The view is breathtaking. The water below glitters beneath the rising sun, stretching out into a horizon painted in soft pastel hues. The room itself mirrors the surrounding nature: the polished stone floors gleam faintly in the light, while delicate sculptures of sea life ripple like waves along the ivory pillars.

Tarquin stands at the center of the room, a picture of quiet authority and elegance. His dark skin contrasts strikingly with the vibrant yellow tunic he wears—a color that seems to echo the sunlight dancing around him.

His lips curve into a subtle, welcoming smile at the sight of Aurora, though his gaze lingers with quiet curiosity on William.

“General,” Tarquin begins, his voice warm enough to break through the vast grandeur of the hall. “I’m glad you accepted my invitation.”

“A deal is a deal,” she replies evenly, her voice carrying the weight of both professionalism and restrained diplomacy. William remains silent, his sharp eyes scanning the room briefly before settling back on the High Lord.

“He’s William, part of my fleet,” Aurora says, gesturing toward her companion. “I thought two would be better than one.”

Tarquin inclines his head in agreement, a warm smile spreading across his face. “No doubt,” he replies easily, his gaze flickering to Aurora, taking in her appearance. His eyes linger briefly, impressed, as he says, “This is the second time I’ve seen you, and the second time you’re wearing gold. Though the style is different,” he adds, motioning slightly toward her uniform.

Aurora shrugs, unfazed by his observation. “It matches my hair,” she remarks with dry humor, the faintest curve of her lips betraying her amusement.

William chuckles beside her, his laughter a light, brief sound that breaks through the formal exchange.

“Well, if I’m not mistaken, I was promised a full tour,” Aurora says, her tone shifting with subtle expectation.

Tarquin nods, the warmth of his smile unwavering. “Of course,” he replies, gesturing for them to follow. “They’re all eagerly waiting for you.”

His words prove true almost immediately. Aurora is greeted with an unexpected warmth that feels virtually disarming. The staff bow their heads with respectful smiles, their demeanor polite yet genuine.

The few females present cast her glances brimming with expectation. She offers them a genuine smile in return, warm and unguarded, an unspoken acknowledgment that carries far more than words ever could.

The males at the academy seem hopelessly soft, like dough that has barely been shaped. They fawn with such eagerness that it’s almost comical. One of them even rushes ahead to open the door for her as they exit, his face beaming with an earnestness that borders on reverence.

Oh, gods.

She will have fun breaking them up.  

-.-

The wind threads through her hair like a gentle caress, carrying with it the salty tang of the sea—a scent that wraps around her senses like the tender embrace of a cherished memory.

It would be perfect.

If only she didn’t have to deal with children.

“Faster!” she barks, her voice cutting through the din. “That rope work is pathetic, and the sail is dragging so far to the right it might as well be waving goodbye! You!” She points at the trembling cadet fumbling with a rope. “If I see another knot like that, I’ll tie one around your neck myself. Fix it. Now.”

The poor boy nods so frantically she worries his head might fall off, then scurries to obey with trembling hands.

Across the waves, Aurora catches sight of William, who’s thoroughly enjoying himself. He leans against the railing of his ship, arms crossed, smirking at his own group’s ineptitude. One cadet has gotten tangled in a line, flailing helplessly like a fish in a net, and William’s laughter echoes across the water.

Aurora meets his gaze, and William flashes her a grin that’s equal parts camaraderie and pure mischief. They’re breaking every training rule in the book, but it’s hard to care when watching these cadets struggle is so entertaining.

They’re attempting to teach them a tactic—if it can even be called that—that they’ve used a handful of times to escape exceedingly unpleasant situations. It’s simple in theory: execute as many maneuvers as possible, in quick succession, to disorient the enemy and make it impossible to predict their direction.

Simple, yes. But the problem becomes glaringly obvious within minutes: not a single one of the cadets can move fast enough.

Aurora watches the chaos unfold with a mixture of irritation and amusement as ropes tangle, sails jerk unpredictably, and commands are half-heartedly shouted but poorly executed. William, from his post on the other ship, spares her a look—half exasperation, half entertainment.

“General!” he calls, his voice carrying across the waves. “The sun is setting—we should head back!”

Aurora cranes her neck to get a better view of the exhausted figures stumbling around her. They look utterly wrecked—sweat-soaked, faces drawn, movements sluggish. For a moment, she considers pushing them further, but she lets out a sigh instead and waves a hand dismissively.

“Alright, ladies,” she bellows, loud enough to be heard by both crews. “We’re heading back!”

The response is instant. Cheers of relief erupt from both ships, echoing across the water. Aurora hears faint murmurs of gratitude, and she swears someone even mutters a blessing under their breath.

No one is allowed to disembark when the ships dock. Aurora has gathered all forty cadets on the main deck to reflect on the day’s performance—and everything that needs improvement (which, in her eyes, is everything).

She’s seated on the steps leading up to the helm, William beside her. Her leg silently thanks her for the brief reprieve.

“I’ve noticed many of you struggle to secure the sails properly,” she begins, her tone sharp and unforgiving. “I want you to practice those knots until you can tie them in your sleep.” She pauses, letting the words sink in before continuing. “And another thing: communication. Or should I say the lack of it? You’re all working as if you’re alone, ignoring those struggling around you. That kind of behavior will get you killed.”

She’s about to press further when Tarquin steps onto the deck, followed by several attendants.

The cadets immediately rise, eager to pay their respects. Aurora, however, remains seated, her posture rigid as her gaze flicks to Tarquin.

“Please,” he says warmly, his hands raised in a gesture of humility. “Don’t interrupt yourselves on my account.”

But the cadets linger, offering murmured greetings and bowing their heads, clearly reluctant to break the formalities. Aurora feels her jaw tighten, her teeth clenching as frustration swells within her.

Her crew would never behave this way—not even if Maeve herself walked into the room. They would have waited patiently, letting Aurora finish speaking before acknowledging anyone else.

Her fingers curl against the steps, her knuckles white, before she rises with deliberate calm. The air around her shifts. Shadows twist and churn at her feet, a dark warning that sends a ripple of unease through the assembled cadets.

“Sit down. Now,” she growls, her voice low and laced with authority.

In half a heartbeat, every cadet is back in their seat, rigid and silent, their wide eyes betraying their unease. Aurora holds their gaze for a moment longer, ensuring her point has landed, before sinking back onto the steps.

William smirks beside her, shaking his head slightly, but says nothing. He knows better.

She nods, her expression sharp and unyielding. “As I was saying, collaboration. Learn it. Imbeciles, your group performed better than the Idiots, but don’t mistake that for a compliment. You’re still terrible.”

They lower their heads, embarrassment etched across their faces.

William claps his hands together, the sound breaking the tense silence. “Excellent,” he says, his voice laced with dry amusement. “Any questions?”

Forty arms shoot into the air in perfect unison.

-.-

By the time they’re done, Aurora feels the exhaustion in every muscle. Her legs ache, her shoulders feel leaden, and the gnawing hunger in her stomach is impossible to ignore.

“Idiots and imbeciles?” Tarquin’s voice carries easily over the deck as he approaches, his expression touched with amusement. “Is that how you treat my cadets?”

I didn’t feel like learning their names.” Then, with a coolness that feels more natural than an apology, she adds, “I know the academy hasn’t been around for long, but I expected better.”

Tarquin’s smile falters just slightly, his eyes flickering with a hint of melancholy. He nods, the gesture tinged with reluctant acceptance. “We’re doing our best,” he says quietly.

“They have potential,” William interjects, his voice light but confident. “I’m sure they’ll be much better in a few years.”

Tarquin inclines his head slightly in a gesture of gratitude.

“Though they were completely exhausted, the cadets said they learned a lot.” A small smile crosses his face—polite, but genuine. “They’re hoping they’ll get the chance to do it again.”

Aurora’s lips curve into a sly smile, her expression alight with mischief. “That depends. What’s in it for me?” she asks, her tone carrying a teasing edge as she fixes him with a knowing look.

Tarquin exhales sharply, the faintest hint of exasperation crossing his regal features. “There will be a festival next month,” he replies through gritted teeth, clearly reluctant. “You can bring Reagan.”

Aurora’s smile widens, her sharp wit gleaming in her eyes. “Include the others, and I’ll come more than once.”

Tarquin visibly tenses, his irritation clear despite his composed demeanor. “Make sure none of them cause any damage,” he says firmly, “and we have a deal.”

He offers his hand, and without hesitation, she shakes it brightly, sealing the agreement.

Tarquin mutters under his breath, his annoyance at how things are unfolding unmistakable. Aurora merely smiles, thoroughly pleased with herself.

"Ah, politics," William sighs. "Glad my parents were just farmers."

-.-

Tarquin escorts them back to the palace, each step deliberate, the silence filled with the hum of evening activity around them. As they reach the foot of the grand staircase, he turns toward William with an air of casual elegance. “I’ve ordered dinner to be prepared for us.”

William tilts his head, throwing a puzzled glance at Aurora. “Are you telling this to me specifically?” he asks, his voice laced with dry humor. “I’m not the one you need to impress here.”

“Your general will be otherwise occupied,” he replies, his lips twitching into an amused smile as he gestures toward a distant figure approaching from the far side of the courtyard.

Aurora’s gaze follows the motion, her eyes narrowing slightly. And then she sees him—Azriel, striding toward them.

He cuts an imposing figure, dressed entirely in black. The glow of the sunset kisses the ridges, painting them in molten gold, giving him the air of some ancient, untouchable sentinel.

Aurora’s heart skips, the rhythm faltering just for a moment before she gathers herself. “How?” she demands, her voice sharp with surprise, though her eyes refuse to leave Azriel’s advancing form.

“Armen told Varian,” Tarquin explains. “And Varian told me.”

Aurora huffs in irritation, crossing her arms tightly. “That female needs to learn how to mind her own business,” she snaps.

But her words barely register, as her feet already betray her resolve, carrying her forward at a brisk pace. She reaches Azriel, slowing just enough to mask her eagerness, her breath catching as she exhales a quiet, unguarded greeting. “Hi,” she says.

His lips twitch slightly, the barest hint of a smirk playing at the edge of his expression. “Nice armor,” he says. “Do they make one for people with wings?”

“I’ll have to file a custom request for you,” she teases. “I take it your secret mission is complete?”

Azriel nods, "I thought I’d stop by to see you," he says, with an undercurrent of warmth that stirs like an unspoken promise.

"I trust this secures my place as a friend, General," Tarquin interjects.

Aurora turns to him, her eyes narrowing with playful scrutiny, a faint smirk pulling at her lips. "You’re on the right path," she quips, her words dipped in mischief. "Does this mean I’m guaranteed a permanent teaching position at the academy?"

Tarquin waves dismissively, as though her request is but an afterthought, unimportant in the grand scheme. "I owe Rhysand a favor," he says matter-of-factly, his gaze shifting toward Azriel. "Your mate here is calling it in on his behalf."

The air shifts as William arrives, a vibrant whirlwind of enthusiasm. “Hi there!” he exclaims, bounding up to Azriel with irrepressible energy. Taking Azriel’s hand in his own, he pumps it vigorously. “It’s a pleasure to meet you!” His gaze roves over Azriel, lingering on the expansive wings with childlike awe. “Wow, you’re stunning,” he blurts, then turns to Aurora as if seeking validation. “Have you seen those wings?”

Aurora bites her lip to stifle her laughter, the corners of her mouth betraying a grin. “They’re hard to miss.”

Azriel stands composed. His keen eyes shift between them, his wings adjusting ever so slightly. Though his features remain calm, there’s an infinitesimal rise of his brow.

“I wasn’t expecting you to have company,” Azriel says quietly. “I don’t want to intrude.”

“William doesn’t mind,” she says lightly, glancing at her friend. “Do you?”

William flashes a grin so broad it could rival the sun. “Not at all,” he replies. “Go and have fun,” he adds, his smile morphing into something impish. “But do me a favor, use protection, yeah? I’m far too young to be an uncle.”

Next to her, Azriel lets out a strangled sound as she raises her hand in a deliberately exaggerated motion, flashing an unmistakable and very unladylike gesture at William, her smirk nothing short of wicked.

Tarquin shifts uncomfortably. His gaze darts toward the onlookers, his face tinged with a faint flush as he adjusts his stance, clearly eager to exit the scene.

Aurora turns back to Azriel. “All sorted,” she declares, her voice laced with triumph. “Where are you taking me?”

-.-

They pick up fried shrimp from a dubious street vendor—Aurora doesn’t even bother questioning the hygiene—and make their way to the dock. As the sun dips lower on the horizon, they sit together on the pier, watching the last ships glide into port before the light fades completely.

They talk at length, or rather, Aurora does. Azriel sits beside her, calm and attentive.

“With my fleet, we've explored nearly half the world, but I have never seen anything as beautiful as Orynth," she tells him, her eyes shining with pride. "It has something magical.”

Azriel glances at her from the corner of his eye, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “You might change your mind,” he murmurs, his tone soft, enigmatic. He speaks as though he’s guarding a secret, and the subtle challenge in his words makes her curiosity stir. “Velaris is just as breathtaking," he tells her, his tone low but confident, a hint of warmth slipping through. "You’re welcome to see for yourself."

Aurora arches an eyebrow, surprise flickering across her face. "I’m allowed to enter the most well-guarded city in Prythian?" she asks, narrowing her eyes as though trying to determine whether he’s serious. "Your High Lord is permitting me, me, to enter?"

Her tone carries a mixture of incredulity and amusement, as if she’s turning the thought over in her mind.

"He’s either very foolish," she muses aloud, a sly smile tugging at the corners of her lips, "or he wants my favor far more than I initially thought."

Azriel appears taken aback, his carefully maintained composure slipping slightly.

“Do you think I don’t know what people think of me? I’m not an idiot," she says with sharp confidence. "I find it quite amusing."

"I won’t insult your intelligence by denying that Rhysand might have mentioned something along those lines," he admits. "But he’s my family," he continues, the sincerity in his voice leaving no room for doubt. "And, whether you believe it or not, he wants to know you because you’re my mate—not despite that."

His shadows ripple faintly around him, their movements betraying a certain urgency, as if echoing his quick clarification.

Aurora assesses his words, letting them settle in her mind before sighing softly. “I would love to see Velaris,” she admits.

Azriel allows a sharp, almost triumphant smile to flicker across his face. “Good,” he says, his voice warm but firm. “Just tell me when.”

Aurora leans back, the playful glint in her eyes returning. “Definitely before my brothers find out. After that, they’ll make my life unbearable.”

Azriel’s expression shifts slightly, his brow furrowing as realization dawns. “Ah,” he murmurs thoughtfully. “So that’s why Eris hasn’t reached out. He doesn’t know yet,” he concludes. “I was waiting for him,” he adds quietly, almost to himself.

Aurora tilts her head slightly, her amusement fading at the serious note in his voice.

Azriel's face grows darker, the line of his lips stiff.

“Is it because you’re afraid he might hurt you?”

Aurora looks at him, and for a moment, she seems surprised. Then she laughs—a short, almost discordant sound against the heavy air between them.

“Eris? Hurt me?” she repeats, her tone light, but there’s a sharp edge beneath her voice. “My brother would never. And even if he tried, I wouldn’t let him.”

“But he does.”Azriel’s voice is a rough whisper, sharp as a blade.“Isn’t that why you leave?”

Aurora’s smile fades. Ice carves her face, her gaze turning hard, distant. An invisible frost settles over the conversation, chilling the air between them.

“It’s complicated.”

She clenches her jaw, her eyes drifting toward the horizon. The sea before her is still, heavy as lead.

She says nothing more.

The desire to speak retreats inside her like a wounded creature. The fierce need to leave, to break the moment before it becomes something irreparable.

“I don’t mean to upset you.” Azriel’s voice is softer now, almost guilty.

“You don’t.” The words come out too quickly, too perfectly. A lie as fragile as thin glass.

Azriel stares at her. He says nothing, but his eyes seem to search beneath the surface, looking for a crack. For a truth.

Aurora sighs, the tension slipping from her shoulders like a wet blanket.

“I don’t like when people speak ill of my brothers,” she admits reluctantly. “Even if you have your reasons. I’m sure of it.”

Her fingers twist nervously. She doesn’t say what they’re both avoiding.

The catastrophe surrounding Morrigan hits her like a pile of filth—repugnant and brutal. But Eris refuses to face it, and Aurora remains steadfast in her disbelief that her brother can be capable of such monstrous cruelty.

“You can’t expect my feelings for Eris to change just because you’re my mate,” he says.

“I never asked for that,” she replies, defensive—perhaps too much so. “But if we want this to work, I have to admit it’s hard to ignore how you clench your jaw every time his name is mentioned.”

“If you don’t tell him, this will never work to begin with.”

Aurora looks at him. Her eyes narrow, her chest lifts with a held breath. His words burn against her skin. She can’t tell if it’s a threat or a warning.

She doesn’t like it either way.

“I will tell him.” Her teeth are clenched, the words scratch as they leave her mouth.“Soon or later.”

Silence.

The sea is a sheet of dead silver.

Azriel sighs, lowering his gaze for a moment.“It’s your decision.”

He wants to say more. She knows it. She feels it in the way his lips hesitate, in the silence that stretches between them like a shadow.

There’s something too fragile in this moment, like thin glass that could shatter with the slightest touch.

But Aurora is a coward.

And she’s not ready to pick up the pieces.

So she changes the subject.

“You know the first time I saw you wasn’t at the wedding?” she asks.

He raises an eyebrow.

She smiles at his confused look.“You were in Lumaris, walking through the village. I watched you until you left,” she says. “I’m not crazy,” she adds quickly. “I was just curious. I’d never seen another Shadowsinger before.”

Azriel furrows his brow.“That was months ago,” he reflects.“Before you—”

“Yes,” she says.“Just before I returned to Terrasen.”

Azriel stays silent for a long time. His gaze is lost in the sea before him.

Aurora watches him, and she feels the thought crossing his mind, even though he doesn’t speak it.

The doubt, the uncertainty of not knowing what would’ve happened if he had turned around that day, if the bond had snapped into place right then.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” she continues, pretending not to notice her mate’s unease.“I’m glad I was wrong,” she says, nudging him gently with her shoulder. “I’m glad it’s you.”

Azriel’s gaze softens at her words. His eyes meet hers briefly before turning away, as if to compose himself. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touches the corner of his lips.

“I didn’t think you would,” he confesses quietly.“An Illyrian isn’t anyone’s first choice for a mate.”

Aurora scoffs, rolling her eyes as she pops a shrimp into her mouth.“As if I care,” she says. “Would you break my legs to keep me from walking?”

“No.”

“Then you’re proof that not all Illyrians are heartless monsters,” she shrugs. “And for the sake of honesty, your wings only make it easier for me to keep getting to know you.”

“Really?” Azriel’s lips twitch. “And here I thought it was for my handsome face.”

“A lot of people have handsome faces, but wings?” She shakes her head. “Those I truly envy. Flying must be breathtaking.”

Maybe this is her fate.

To be surrounded by creatures born for the sky, and never be able to touch it.

Condemned to stay grounded, watching others brush the stars while her feet sink into the mud.

“Do you want to try?” he asks casually, as if offering her tea.

Aurora snaps her head up, eyes wide with surprise. “What, now?”

“Yes,” he replies, already standing. “You have to go home anyway, right? I’ll give you a lift.” He hesitates for a moment, his voice dropping lower. “If you want, of course.”

She narrows her eyes at him, suspicious. “Won’t Eris notice you sneaking into his courtyard?”

“There are a lot of things Eris fails to notice.”

Aurora shoots him a sharp look, her expression threatening. Azriel raises his hands in a conciliatory gesture.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, though he doesn’t look sorry at all. Then, offering her his scarred hand, he adds gently, “Shall we?”

Her gaze follows the silver scars that run across his skin like colors on a perfect canvas. Aurora knows all too well the difference between a knife and the grip of fire. Those scars speak of pain inflicted with intent.

Whoever did this to him deserves to be found.

Maybe she stares too long, because his smile falters. He pulls his hand back, curling it into a fist, as if to shield it. But she doesn’t let him. With a swift motion, she grabs it before he can hide it completely. She rises to her feet, meets his eyes, and holds his hand firmly. Aurora’s thumb brushes gently over the rough surface of his skin, repeating the intimate gesture he once made on her wrist the night they met.

Azriel inhales sharply.

Aurora’s lips curve into a playful smile, her eyes gleaming with challenge. “If you drop me, I swear I’ll kill you.”

-.-

Aurora holds her breath as Azriel grips her waist with confident ease, pulling her close before launching them into the air. The sudden rush of adrenaline is overwhelming. Her stomach flips violently, and the world blurs as they ascend. The sensation of weightlessness grips her tightly—terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

Azriel’s wings beat rhythmically, their power palpable as they slice through the air. Aurora forces herself to loosen her grip slightly and stretches her arms outward, letting the wind whip through her hair and stream behind her.

When he dips slightly, the motion catches her off guard, her breath hitching as they drop for a single moment before stabilizing.

She was right, it’s breathtaking.

Her laughter bursts out, loud and bright, as they twist and glide over the water, the wind carrying her voice into the open sky. She swears she could stay up there forever, suspended between wonder and fear.

Aurora doesn’t remember the last time she felt so alive.

“All good?” he asks, meeting her gaze, searching for any trace of discomfort.

“Perfect,” she whispers, her voice filled with awe.

As they descend toward the edge of the forest, the cool breeze grows sharper, carrying the earthy scent of damp moss and autumn leaves.

When they land, Aurora stumbles slightly, her leg trembling, but the adrenaline coursing through her veins pushes her forward.

“That was incredible!” she exclaims, her voice bursting with excitement as she bounces lightly. Her smile lights up her face. “I want to do it again!”

He watches her with a calm, satisfied smile, his eyes gentle. “Anytime,” he says simply.

He looks around, grimaces, “This is your stop,” he adds, with a tone of reluctant finality.

Still buzzing with adrenaline, she acts before thinking. She reaches out, grabs Azriel by the collar of his jacket, and without hesitation, pulls him down and presses a firm kiss to his lips.

“Thanks for the ride, Shadowsinger,” she says, her voice light and playful, the corners of her smile curling upward.

Azriel’s eyes widen, round as saucers.

Aurora, who has always been looked at with fear and reverence by those around her, now basks in the simple, almost childlike way Azriel stares at her.

She lets go of his collar and steps back, but Azriel catches her before she can retreat further. His scarred hands cradle her face with a tenderness that contrasts with the intensity in his gaze.

Then his lips crash into hers.

It’s not sweet or hesitant—it’s raw, consuming, and full of an urgency that steals her breath. His hands slide to her waist, anchoring her to the moment. Aurora meets his intensity without hesitation.

Every part of her—heart, body, spirit—trembles under his touch.

With that kiss, Azriel unknowingly begins to piece together her fractured soul, bringing her home.

When they part, Aurora is breathless, her chest rising and falling as she struggles to stay steady. Azriel, on the other hand, looks incredibly pleased, a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes as his lips curve faintly.

“You’re welcome,” he murmurs with quiet pride. “See you soon, Shadowsinger.”

He steals one last kiss with the speed of a thief, and before Aurora can even think of a reply, he vanishes into the night with a powerful beat of his wings.

Seconds stretch into minutes as she remains rooted to the spot, completely and utterly overwhelmed.

“What a bastard.”

-.-

Later, a sharp knock echoes against Aurora’s door. When she opens it, she’s met by William’s unmistakable gaze, his arms crossed over his chest.

“You left me there,” he says, his voice low and one brow arched. His tone carries more exasperation than true anger, but his pride is clearly wounded.

Aurora leans casually against the doorframe, feigning innocence as her lips twitch with amusement.
“You looked fine to me.”

“Tarquin had to escort me back,” William retorts, his words dripping with indignation. “Do you have any idea how humiliating that was?”

Aurora smiles, her lips curving in a mix of amusement and satisfaction.“We kissed,” she says simply, her tone light but triumphant.

William’s eyes widen slightly before narrowing again, his irritation momentarily eclipsed by disbelief.

“Really?” he exclaims, throwing up his hands in mock frustration.“You abandon me and now you brag about it?”

Aurora shrugs, her smile widening.

“What can I say? Worth it.”

-.-

“What’s Velaris?” William asks, clearly confused.

“It’s the capital of the Night Court,” she explains. “The only city Amarantha couldn’t touch. Better protected than almost anything else in the world, and they say it’s so beautiful it makes everything else pale in comparison. No one can enter because no one can even find it. And Rhysand? He’d kill anyone who tried without an invitation.”

They sit cross-legged on the bed, the faint glow of a candle casting dancing shadows across the walls. A half-empty bottle of wine rests between them, its contents glinting darkly in the soft light.

“Did I do the right thing by accepting?” Aurora asks. She swirls the wine absentmindedly, her thoughts visibly distant. “Azriel invited me, but I didn’t stop to think about the consequences. Say what you want about the situation, but Rhysand is still a problem.”

William takes a slow sip. “Maybe you’re the problem for Rhysand,” he replies casually.

Aurora stiffens, her gaze settling on him. “What do you mean?”

William tilts his head slightly, his expression contemplative but vaguely amused.“You’re Azriel’s mate, his chief spy, and you live on a completely different continent. Imagine what would happen if he decided to leave with you. Rhysand wouldn’t just lose a friend; he’d lose a vital piece of his court.”

William’s lips curl into a smug smile.

“He lets you see his glittering city, his esteemed court, how perfect life could be here. It’s all part of his strategy to keep Azriel close.”

He lifts his glass slightly, his tone bordering on playful.

“He’s not worried about you; he’s worried about losing him.”

Aurora narrows her eyes, suspicion flickering beneath her sharp gaze. She studies him, reevaluating his words, seeing truths she hadn’t considered before.

“You know, you might be right,” she admits reluctantly, surprise tinged with bitterness in her voice.

William leans back with a triumphant smile, clearly pleased with himself.

“Of course I’m right. Rhysand is playing politics. If you’re happy, Azriel’s happy, and keeping Azriel happy strengthens his position.”

Aurora’s lips press into a thin line as she meets his gaze.“When did you become an expert on Rhysand?” she asks.

William chuckles softly, swirling the wine in his glass. “Eris complains about him so much that if he didn’t sound like he hated him, I’d think they had some kind of secret affair.”

“Don’t make me think about that,” Aurora mutters, curling her lip in disgust. Then, almost reconsidering, she adds, “Though it would explain a lot.”

“Yes, the secret lover,” William sighs theatrically, placing a hand to his forehead like a tragic hero in a poorly written play. “A forbidden romance between High Lords. The scandal! The betrayal! The simmering tension no one can ignore!”

Aurora nearly chokes on her wine, snorting despite herself. “Simmering tension? Have you ever met my brother? He’s more likely to set someone on fire than simmer.”

William’s smile widens, undeterred. “Ah, but that’s exactly why it works! The fiery temper, the undeniable allure of danger… it’s irresistible… Rhysand probably can’t help himself.”

“Please stop,” Aurora groans, pinching the bridge of her nose.“This is getting out of hand.”

“Out of hand?” William echoes, placing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “This is art. It’s forbidden love, power struggles, and dramatic flair! If we handed this story to a bard, we’d have a tear-jerking tragedy by morning.”

“More like a comedy,” Aurora mutters, reaching for her wine glass.

William raises his glass in a toast, his smile infuriatingly smug. “To Eris and Rhysand: may their love conquer fate!”

“I’m starting to regret bringing you with me.”

-.-

She’s collapsed on the ground, the cold earth clinging to her as blood pours between her fingers. Every breath is a fragile, trembling thing, torn by the fire stabbing through her stomach. The wound is deep, merciless. Her hands press desperately against it, yet the blood keeps flowing—dark and unyielding. The sharp pain spreading through her gut tells her what she already knows: her liver is pierced. Her time is measured in seconds.

Towering figures surround her, their presence suffocating, their silence deafening. Her trembling hands, slick with blood, fall away as her gaze lifts upward. And she sees them in the dim, distorted light of her nightmare.

Her killers.

Each one wears her face.

-.-

She finds Azriel partially hidden among the dense foliage. His shadows weave around him like sentinels standing guard. They curl and shift, cloaking his figure as if shielding him from the world.

“You know it’s rude to walk away after a kiss like that?” Aurora teases, tilting her head in mock disapproval. “I should make you regret it.”

Azriel steps forward, the darkness at his command receding just enough to reveal his unreadable expression, a faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

“Then I’ll just have to earn your forgiveness,” he murmurs, his voice a deep, velvety whisper that lingers in the air. His hand reaches for hers, brushing her fingers in a touch so light it feels more like an invitation than a request.

He leads her deeper into the forest.

After that, words no longer matter.

-.-

“How did you end up in Doranelle?”

“Bad luck.”

“You mean good luck.”

“No. I meant bad luck.”

They part with the promise to see each other again soon.

-.-

“How’s it going? And don’t just say fine or I’ll come over there and set you on fire.”

Aurora snorts, amused.

“We kissed.”

She’s pretty sure Aelin’s excited scream can be heard across both continents.

-.-

Azriel arrives at the Day Court just as she’s stepping through the gates.

“I don’t have much time,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, as if the words themselves are an excuse. He presses her gently against the cold stone wall of the courtyard, the roughness grounding them both in the moment they steal.

Then he kisses her with a consuming intensity that leaves her breathless. Her soul clings to his touch, torn from her lips as if he’s carrying a piece of her with him.

She watches him vanish into the shimmering golden haze of daylight.

-.-

Aurora’s gaze fixes on the window, the rhythmic sound of rain pulling her back to places she wishes had stayed buried. The roaring waterfalls of Doranelle, the endless, unforgiving sea, the anguished screams of those consumed by fire.

She closes her eyes.

In recent days, her leg has granted her some relief. The sharp stabs that once haunted her steps are now less frequent—a quiet mercy she hadn’t dared hope for.

She’s managed to walk unaided, leaving the cane behind, despite William’s firm insistence

“Two more weeks,” he had said with the certainty only he could possess.“Then you can start training again.”

The thought of waiting irritates her. The hunger to feel whole again pulls at her like an irresistible tide.

A sharp hand grabs her shoulder, yanking her violently from the fog of memory. Instinct overrides thought—her body moves before her mind can catch up. With precision, she twists the intruder’s arm behind their back, shoving them forward with enough force to send them crashing to the ground.

Her knuckles strike their face—a quick, clean, brutal hit. The motion is fluid, the training etched into her very muscles.

It’s the splash of crimson that brings her back to reality. Barjan lies beneath her, groaning, one hand raised to wipe the blood from his nose.

“Oh gods,” Aurora whispers, her voice high and shaken. She freezes for a moment, her gaze flicking across his face before settling on the hand still gripping his arm.

“Please don’t break my arm,” Barjan mutters with a grimace.

Aurora lets go instantly, guilt flooding her face. “I’m so sorry,” she blurts, her voice softer now, though adrenaline still hums beneath her skin.

Barjan props himself up slightly, managing a crooked, tired smile despite the discomfort.

“Reagan!” he calls, turning his head toward his brother.“Did you see that? That’s exactly how you handle someone who catches you off guard!”

“Noted.”

-.-

“You okay?” Aedion’s voice cuts through the haze, pulling her back to the present.

“Yeah, why?”

He shrugs, narrowing his eyes slightly as he studies her face. “You look tired.”

“I’m fine,” she replies. “Never been better.”

-.-

"Beron has always preferred to pretend he didn’t have a daughter," Aurora says, her voice laced with bitter amusement as she lifts her shoulders in a slow, deliberate shrug. "Well, at least until he thought he could trade me off in marriage. I ran not long after I nearly blew up the palace." Her lips twist into a smile, sharp and unapologetic. "I’ve always had a taste for theatrics."

"My father didn’t like me," Azriel says, his voice dropping to a low murmur, heavy with something darker. "Neither did his wife. She’d rather lock me in a cell than suffer the sight of me every day."

Aurora’s expression hardens. "Was it she who gave you those scars?"

Azriel stares down at his hands, his fingers curling slowly into fists. His jaw clenches. "No," he says, after a beat. "My brothers. They wanted to see how fast I could heal."

Aurora watches him, silent and still, like a storm gathering behind her eyes. "Do you want me to kill them?"

Azriel’s eyes widen, caught off guard.

"I’ll make it look like an accident," she adds, her voice soft, almost tender. "No one will ever trace it back to you."

He blinks, stunned into silence. The air between them thickens.

"They’ve already gotten what they deserved," he says at last, his voice steadier now. He looks away, then back at her. "Thank you."

Aurora shrugs, casual as ever. "Let me know if you change your mind."

In her imagination, the scene is already burning.

A house swallowed by flames, screams devoured by the roar of fire, faces twisted in agony and smoke.

An eye for an eye.

-.-

“Where’s Fenrys?” Aurora asks Rowan. “I haven’t heard from him in a while.”

Rowan hesitates. A slight tremor in his stance betrays his discomfort. “It hasn’t been a good week,” he says quietly.

Aurora exhales gently.

“It’s happening less and less,” Rowan adds quickly, the words rushing out as if to reassure her.“But yesterday was…” He trails off, letting out a tired sigh.“He didn’t show up much.”

“I should be there,” Aurora murmurs, her voice heavy with guilt and longing.

Rowan shakes his head firmly. “No,” he says, resolute but warm. He gestures toward her, a faint smile softening his features. “We’re here with him. You… enjoy the break while you can. Trust me, you’ll get tired of Fenrys soon enough.”

A pause.

“When did you say you’re coming back?”

Aurora manages a hesitant smile.“I didn’t.”

Silence falls.

Rowan’s smile fades, replaced by tension that tightens his jaw. “Does Gavriel know?” he asks, voice clipped.

“I haven’t said anything, Rowan,” she snaps, sharper than intended.

“You’ve said everything,” he replies, voice like steel. “You’ll need Aelin’s permission to stay. She’s your queen. If she wants you back, you’ll have to return.”

Aurora exhales sharply, frustration flaring.“Are you using your wife against me?” she snaps, her voice rising.

“It’s just a fact,” Rowan says calmly.“Just because your oath is different from ours doesn't mean you can do whatever you want."

“I don’t need you to remind me of my vows,” Aurora bites back. “I know them well. That’s why Aelin already knows.”

Rowan freezes. “And why didn’t I know?” he growls.

“Because there’s nothing to know!” she snaps.“I didn’t say I’m not coming back. I just said I might stay longer than I planned.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know,” she mutters. “A year, maybe.”

“A year?” he stammers. “You’ve already been gone four months, Aurora. Did Aelin agree to this?”

“Yes. Because Aelin understands that if I came back now, I wouldn’t be useful to anyone.”

“Is your leg still hurting?”

“I’m not talking about the leg.”

Rowan presses his lips together and looks away.“We’ve never been apart this long.”

“I know,” she says.“I just can’t—” she hesitates.“I just need time.”

He grimaces.“I still don’t like it.”

“Can you not tell Gavriel for now?”

“You’re asking me to keep a secret from my shield brother? My brother?”

“I’m asking you not to cause unnecessary panic. When I’ve made my decision, I’ll tell him myself,” Aurora says, her frustration boiling over. “For the sake of our friendship, can you do that for me?”

Rowan doesn’t answer.

Aurora decides it’s time to play her trump card.

“I nearly died for you,” she says. “Twice.”

Rowan groans loudly, dragging a hand down his face.“You can’t keep using that every time we argue!”

Aurora smiles, shaking her head. “Oh, sorry. Did you nearly die for me? No? Then I’ll keep using it, thanks.”

Rowan mutters something under his breath, jaw clenched as he finally relents.“Fine,” he growls.

Her smile widens, victory clear. “You’re the best,” she teases.

“I hope you choke in your sleep.”

-.-

Azriel arrives with a quiet smile and a handful of daisies.

Aurora takes them gently, her fingers brushing his. She smiles, soft and fleeting, and thanks him with a kiss.

(Her breath falters. The red stains the grass. Vaughan’s eyes are fixed on the sky, wide and empty.)

By the time Azriel disappears, the flowers are already ash in her hands.

-.-

"Rowan nearly killed me last night. I thought he’d make me sleep on the couch."

"I'm sorry."

Aelin waves a hand, bored. "I made up for it." A mischievous smile flickers on her lips.

Aurora closes her eyes, trying to banish the image. "Please don’t say another word," she begs.

Her cousin chuckles. "I’ll spare you," she says, amused. "Though I can’t deny his anger was justified."

Aurora sighs. "I know."

"You’ll have to make a decision eventually."

"Are you saying that as my cousin or as my queen?"

"As your friend," Aelin replies firmly. "You’re going to make yourself sick if the secrets keep piling up. The ones with Azriel, with your father, with your friends—and your brothers." She shrugs. "You came back to Prythian to recover from a trauma, but honestly, I think you’re only harming your health."

"I'm fine," Aurora says, her voice steady. "I have everything under control."

"That’s exactly what worries me," Aelin fires back. “What exactly are you afraid of?”

Aurora looks away. “I’m not afraid,” she says. “I’m just being careful. I don’t want to make a choice I’ll regret.”

“Well, you’re doing a stellar job so far.”

Aurora glares again, but Aelin raises a brow, unfazed. “What? I’m just pointing out how ridiculous this has gotten.”

“So, you’d be fine if I never came back?” Aurora asks, her tone sharp. “Losing one of your generals wouldn’t bother you, Your Majesty?”

“Don’t use that smug tone with me,” Aelin snaps. “I wouldn’t care if you didn’t come back.”

“Oh.”

Aelin rolls her eyes. “I wouldn’t care because I know that if I called you ten years from now, you’d come. No questions asked. I don’t need you here to know where your loyalty lies.”

“Even though I didn’t swear the blood oath?”

“Especially because you didn’t. It means even more that you’d choose to come back, not because you’re obligated to."

-.-

The rain doesn’t stop. Its relentless downpour stretches into a second day. And Aurora hears nothing—no word from her mate.

The silence wears down her resolve. Her thoughts spiral between impatience and fear. But she refuses to let it consume her completely.

The decision feels both bold and tense, a fragile act of vulnerability wrapped in determination. If anyone knows something, if there’s even a whisper of where Azriel might be, Lucien surely holds the key.

When Aurora steps into the atrium, the weight of her resolve falters. Standing there is Eris, with Duncan at his side, his expression just as tense.

“What’s going on?” Aurora asks, her gaze flicking between them, catching the urgency etched into their features. “Where are you going?”

“The rain caused a landslide,” Eris says curtly. “A village a few kilometers from here was hit. We’re going to assess the damage.”

Duncan nods silently. The air grows heavier as the words settle over Aurora, her original plans dissolving under the weight of the crisis.

“I’m coming with you,” she says sharply, her tone leaving no room for argument. She spins on her heel, already calculating her next move. “I’m getting William,” she calls over her shoulder.

Azriel will have to wait.

-.-

When they arrive, the devastation hits like a physical blow.

Duncan doesn’t hesitate—he rushes forward, his soldiers close behind.

Half the village lies submerged beneath murky floodwaters, swallowing homes and roads in its relentless surge. The swollen river has torn through the land, dragging shattered rooftops and splintered beams downstream. The air reeks of soaked earth and decay, every gust of wind carrying the acrid scent of ruin.

The other half is buried beneath jagged rocks. The landslide crushed buildings and lives in a single, merciless instant. Boulders lie scattered like broken monuments—some embedded deep in the ground, others teetering dangerously atop the wreckage. Fragments of what once were homes peek through the debris: torn fabric, shattered ceramics, a child’s wooden toy now caked in mud.

Aurora sees it all through eyes that no longer feel like her own. It’s strange, witnessing destruction she didn’t cause.

Eris curses under his breath, his sharp gaze scanning the scene, hardening with every detail. Around them, villagers move in frantic chaos, clawing at rubble with bare hands, shouting desperate orders. Thunder rumbles above like a warning, its deep vibrations blending with the crash of rocks and the roar of water.

“There are children trapped down there!” a man shouts, his voice slicing through the storm. He gestures frantically toward a pile of stones blocking the mouth of an old well.

“What the hell were they doing in a hole?” Eris snaps, frustration flaring as he runs toward it.

The rubble piled over the well is grim. The floodwaters may have already seeped in, drowning anyone trapped inside.

“They’re orphans. That’s where they sleep,” the man explains quickly, his voice shaking with urgency. “The landslide blocked the exit.”

Aurora takes in the chaos—the panicked villagers, the unrelenting rain, the rising flood—and forces herself to focus. Around her, her shadows swirl in the storm wind, almost exultant in the destruction.

“I don’t think they’ll make it,” Eris murmurs.

The rain falls without mercy, clinging to Aurora’s skin before evaporating in faint curls of steam. Her eyes lock on the sealed well, on the stone and debris that may already be a watery grave.

“We’ll see.”

-.-

Aurora spends the night clawing her way through the rubble, her hands scraped raw, her body trembling under the strain of every pull. The rain lashes her relentlessly, soaking her to the bone as she fights against the storm, against exhaustion, against the weight of despair pressing down on her. Her legs threaten to give out, shaking violently with each step, and her magic hums weakly beneath her skin, holding her together even as it drains her inch by inch.

Shadows swirl and dart around her, whispering updates she clings to like a lifeline.

Ten children. Four girls. Six boys.

One with a head injury that looks far worse than she dares to imagine. The thought twists in her chest like a blade, driving her to push harder, faster, ignoring the burn in her muscles and the ache in her bones.

Finally, when the path is clear enough, she ties a rope around her waist with trembling hands and begins to descend into the abyss.

Darkness swallows her almost instantly—heavy, suffocating.

(Panic grips her, cold and crushing. Her breath turns sharp and shallow as the void threatens to consume her.

She doesn’t want to die here.

Please, someone help me.)

The children’s cries reach her before she sees them—broken and heart-wrenching in the suffocating silence of the cavern. When her feet finally touch the ground, tear-streaked faces come into view: small, fragile figures curled in fear. One of the older girls stumbles toward her and clings to her desperately, arms wrapped around Aurora like a vice.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” the girl whispers over and over, her voice cracked, each word trembling with raw emotion.

“It’s all right,” Aurora murmurs gently, her voice calm despite the terror in her chest. “You’re safe now. I’m getting you out of here. All of you.”

She keeps her promise. One by one, she lifts them to safety, her body screaming in protest, but her resolve holds. When she emerges with the last child in her arms, the rain has stopped, and the first rays of sunlight peek over the hill—a fragile promise of peace.

The crowd erupts in applause as she steps forward, voices echoing around her in a wave of relief and gratitude. A healer rushes to take the injured boy from her arms as she stumbles slightly.

“My lady,” a man says, his voice trembling, tears in his eyes. “You’ve worked a miracle.”

Eris is beside her in an instant, streaked with mud, his face weary, but his eyes shining with barely contained emotion. “You’re incredible,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “Thank you.”

Aurora nods faintly, a soft sigh of relief escaping her as she sinks to the muddy ground, her body finally surrendering to its limits.

William’s face appears above her, his eyes lit with pride. “That was an incredible rescue,” he says with a smile that’s somehow both teasing and awestruck. “I think I’ll write a ballad about it.”

Aurora lets out a weak laugh, her head falling back as her eyes flutter shut for a moment. “Are they okay?”

William nods, his smile softening. “They are. Your leg? Not so much.” He crouches beside her, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You planning to get up, or are you staying in the mud all day?”

Aurora opens one eye and manages a faint, defiant smile. “I saved ten children. I can do whatever I want.”

“You really did,” he replies, his grin widening. “How do you feel?”

She thinks back to the first time she met Maeve.

“Unstoppable.”

-.-

Aurora leans heavily on William, her leg trembling beneath her. And yet, there’s no regret—not even a flicker.

William keeps her steady as he guides her toward the medical tent. Inside, the children are already under the careful watch of the healers. The space hums with quiet urgency: soft, reassuring murmurs, the rustle of bandages, and the steady rhythm of breath as relief begins to replace panic.

In one corner, Eris’s attention is fixed on a tiny girl, no older than three or four. His voice is gentle, patient—even kind—as he speaks to her. Eventually, he rises with his usual ease, his movements betraying none of the exhaustion etched into his mud-streaked face.

He calls over a soldier, leaning in to speak quietly. The soldier nods with crisp efficiency before disappearing into the misty morning light.

Eris’s sharp gaze sweeps the room, landing on them almost instantly. With quick strides, he approaches. “How are you?” he asks, voice low.

Aurora shrugs, lifting the corner of her mouth in a tired smile. “My almost-healed leg is paying the price for my choices.”

Eris exhales sharply, the sound nearly lost in the constant noise of the tent. “Those children should never have been down there,” he mutters, voice tight with restrained anger. His jaw clenches, guilt written plainly across his face. “I knew about their situation—it’s the same everywhere. But I never imagined it was this bad. That they’d end up sleeping in a hole underground.”

His voice drops further, golden eyes clouded with something heavier than anger: shame, disgust, and a darkness that seems to hollow him out. “Apparently,” he begins, the word catching in his throat, “to earn a little money, the older ones offer their…” He stops, jaw tight, before forcing out the next word. “Company.”

Aurora’s stomach twists. A wave of nausea and fury crashes through her. The tent suddenly feels too small, the air thick and suffocating. Her magic thrashes beneath her skin—a mirror of the storm rising in her chest.

William lets out a sharp, unmistakable sound of disgust.

His brother looks away, guilt raw and unguarded in his expression. “I didn’t want to believe it,” he murmurs, voice barely audible, a whisper against the backdrop of suffering. “It’s worse than I ever imagined. This…” He shakes his head, voice breaking. “This shouldn’t be the reality of any court, least of all mine.”

“What will you do?” Aurora asks.

Eris clenches his jaw, his gaze sharp and unwavering. “There’s the old estate where our mother used to hide,” he says, tone dry but resolute. “I’ve ordered it to be prepared. For now, they’ll stay there.” His eyes flick to the little girl, her fragile figure a brutal reminder of what they’ve uncovered. “Them—and every other child we find scattered across the Court.”

His expression hardens, fury now cold and dangerous. “And I intend to find and kill anyone who took advantage of them,” he says.

Without waiting for a response, he strides out of the tent, swift and purposeful, leaving the weight of his words behind.

William stares at the spot where Eris disappeared, mouth slightly open, caught between awe and disbelief.

Aurora’s gaze shifts to William. Her eyes are dry, but her voice trembles with pride too strong to contain.

“That is my brother.”

-.-

It takes a long time before the children are ready to be moved.

Aurora oversees every step of the process, her focus unwavering despite the weight of her exhaustion.

Reagan approaches the children with a gentleness that stands in stark contrast to the chaos of the day. His voice is soft and reassuring as he crouches to their level, speaking to each one with careful attention. A comforting smile lights his face as he helps them settle, offering quiet encouragement.

Eris returns hours later. Barjan and Duncan follow closely behind, their expressions equally grim, guiding nearly thirty children inside. Some cling to each other, wide-eyed and hesitant, while others shuffle silently, their small, skeletal figures worn down by the weight of survival.

“There’s a lot to do,” Eris murmurs, his words more a confession to himself than a statement. “We’ll need guards. I don’t want them left unprotected.”

Aurora steps closer, gently taking his face in her hands. The deep shadows under his eyes, the lines of fatigue etched into his features, tighten something in her chest.

“No one’s going to take them from you, Eris. Go rest,” she says softly, her voice firm but warm. “I’m proud of you.”

“I should be saying that to you,” he mutters, the weight of his failures bleeding into his voice. He lowers his gaze, letting vulnerability ripple across his guarded exterior. “I’m just trying to make up for my mistakes. And apparently, there’s no shortage of those.”

“Both of you, go rest,” William cuts in. “I’ll handle things here with Reagan. We’ve got this. I’ll see you later.”

Eris turns to leave, but something draws his attention back to William. Their eyes meet, and the silence between them stretches beyond practicality. Aurora watches, curiosity sharpening as the moment lingers.

Finally, Eris breaks it with a reluctant nod. “Thank you,” he says. “You’ve been a great help today.”

“As you can see, I’m not just a waste of space.”

-.-

Aurora and Eris sit side by side, wrapped in silence—a fragile pause in a world that offers little peace. The rhythmic sound of chewing is comforting, ordinary, a contrast to the chaos that shaped their day. Eris eats slowly, his features softened by fatigue, while Aurora watches him, her mind racing. She moves less out of hunger and more to buy time, her thoughts teetering between vulnerability and resolve.

She bites her lip, the words pressing against her chest, but she hesitates to let them out.

“Eris, I need to tell you somet-”

“I don’t know where we’ll find the money to care for them,” Eris interrupts, frustration and weariness slicing through the fragile calm. “The children need so much. Clothes, care, space to grow. They can’t stay crammed into tiny rooms forever.”

He sighs sharply, irritation lacing his words.

“I acted without thinking.”

Aurora swallows hard, her throat tight, her thoughts momentarily derailed. “We don’t have money?” she asks cautiously.

Eris lets out a bitter laugh, raw and hollow. “Amarantha drained everything. And she spent more. What’s left barely keeps the army standing. Taxes, harvest… all gone. Taking in all of Autumn’s orphans? It’s impossible.”

He runs a hand over his face, as if trying to shake off the weight pressing down on him. “I’m an idiot.”

“No,” Aurora’s voice cuts in sharply, firm and full of warmth. She turns to him, her gaze steady. “Don’t say that,” she insists, her tone gentle but unwavering. “Look at what you did today,” she continues, leaning toward him, a quiet strength refusing to back down. “In one day, Eris. Look at the difference you made.”

“How do you think we’ll support them? Especially if more come. We don’t have the space or the funds. And no one’s trained to care for them properly. Reagan’s great with kids, sure, but he’s not prepared for this.”

His frustration hangs in the air, every word carrying the weight of reality.

A spark ignites in Aurora’s mind—bold, almost reckless. It’s a wild idea. Maybe even absurd.

But she’s always been good at impossible things.

“Bring me the records,” she says. “Every single document—expenses, income. I want everything accounted for, down to what we spend on candles.”

Eris turns to her, suspicion mingling with curiosity in his tired eyes. “You’ve thought of something,” he observes, cautious but intrigued.

Aurora presses her lips together, her expression unreadable. “Maybe,” she replies, offering no further clues.

Eris exhales deeply, a sound heavy with doubt and concern. “It’s a massive job,” he says, his gaze brushing over her as if measuring the depth of her resolve. “You’ll be buried under ledgers for days.”

Aurora shrugs slightly, her determination intact. “I don’t sleep much anyway.”

Eris starts to speak, but the words falter on his tongue. He closes his mouth, nods, and returns to his sandwich, biting into it with quiet resolve. The silence stretches between them, but it’s softer now, eased by his silent acceptance.

“You wanted to say something earlier,” he says after a moment. “What was it?”

Aurora hesitates, the weight of his question pressing down on her. Her gaze drops to the floor.

“Nothing,” she murmurs, her voice barely more than a whisper. “It wasn’t important.”

-.-

Aurora is hunched over the desk, fingers pressed to her temples, as the candlelight flickers faintly against the towering stack of documents before her. Eris hadn't been exaggerating. It is truly a flood of paperwork. She turns the page only to groan; another column of numbers stares back at her, ruthless and smug in its complexity.

With a frustrated huff, she sinks deeper into the chair. She really should have talked William into doing this; he thrives in this kind of monotonous torture.
She, on the other hand, is built for action. For strategy. For anything but this mind-numbing administrative grind.

She rubs her hands over her face and immediately pulls back at the scent of herself.
Her nose wrinkles in disgust. Her eyes drift back to the endless stack of papers, torn between pushing through or giving herself the break she so badly needs. With a sigh, she shoves the chair back.

A break can’t hurt, after all.

She sinks into the bath, letting the warm water wrap around her like a lover. Steam curls lazily into the air, and the tension in her shoulders melts almost at once. A deep, weary sigh slips past her lips as she lets the heat work its magic. As she shifts, stretching one leg out, a dull ache reminds her just how much her body needed this. The hot water tries its best to soothe the pain, and for the first time in hours, a flicker of peace brushes against her.

She just needs enough gold. Not a fortune—just enough to keep things running. The orphanages, especially in Terrasen, so often rely on volunteers and the goodwill of the community.

The thought carries both promise and doubt. Children need education, a chance to shape a future beyond the circumstances life has thrown at them.

A school could change that.

Aurora sees it so clearly that her chest aches under the weight of it.

More students would mean more teachers, more resources, and more space. It would mean far more money than she has.

Yet, she can’t shake the allure of the idea.

Before battle hardened her, before strategy sharpened her mind, Aurora had been a dreamer.
A girl with bright eyes and unwavering faith in the world’s kindness.

Aurora stares at her hands—the same hands that have taken countless lives, stained by the weight of a queen’s insatiable hunger for death.

Build instead of destroy.
Create instead of break.

The idea feels fragile, almost foolish. Like something destined to crumble before it ever takes shape.
But it’s intoxicating.

Maybe she can learn to dream again.

-.-

It’s a faint rustle, barely audible—like a breath of wind trapped between the curtains.

Her ears perk up. Her eyes snap open.

Someone is there.

In one smooth, silent motion, her fingers close around the hilt of the blade hidden beneath her pillow. The cold weight of the metal presses into her palm as her breathing slows, steady and controlled.

She presses her back to the wall, letting the shadows consume her entirely. Darkness wraps around her like a shroud, rendering her invisible—a ghost within the void.

Footsteps, light as feathers, slip through the cracked doorway, drawing closer. The silence breaks—but not in the way she expects.

The shadows form words, and a deep frown pulls at her brow. An irritated sigh cuts through the air, sharp and firm enough to halt the intruder mid-step.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, swinging the door open to reveal Azriel’s warm hazel gaze fixed on her. “And how did you get in?” she snaps, brushing past him like his presence is just one more inconvenience.

The blade, now useless, is tossed onto the desk. It lands with a dull thud, muffled by the piles of neglected documents scattered across the surface.

“You have...” he hesitates, voice catching slightly as his gaze shifts, “a lot of tattoos.”

Aurora stops halfway across the room, turning to him with a raised brow—then glances down at the plain tank top she’d thrown on in a futile attempt to get some rest.

“And so do you,” she replies shortly, waving a hand vaguely toward him. “Is that a problem?” Her voice sharpens, laced with enough sarcasm to slice through the tension. “Because trust me, I’ve got plenty more you can’t see.”

Azriel clears his throat, visibly caught off guard. “No,” he says quickly, “no problem.” And yet he makes no move to leave.

“What do they mean?” he asks.

Aurora exhales deeply, exhaustion bleeding through every inch of her posture. She fixes him with a tired stare, her patience already running thin.

“Azriel,” she starts, voice flat, “I haven’t slept in forty-eight hours.” She gestures vaguely, her words edged but drained of energy. “I spent the night digging through mud and then sorting survivors.” She leans against the desk. “What do you want?” she asks, her sharp voice cutting through the heavy silence of the room.

“I heard what happened today,” Azriel says quietly. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Her jaw tightens. Muscles tense as a rush of anger floods through her.

The nerve.

How dare he show up after days of silence? How dare he think she needed him now, when she hadn’t heard a word?

“I’m fine,” she snaps. “You can go now.”

But Azriel doesn’t budge. “You’re angry,” he observes, calm, almost curious.

“If I were truly angry,” she retorts, lips curling into a smirk, “you’d have a knife in your shoulder right now.” Her gaze sharpens, the irritation clear—but lighter now, less cutting. “I’m irritated. It’s different.”

Azriel arches a brow but says nothing, his hazel eyes locked on hers, as if weighing whether to push further or let it drop.

“Where the hell have you been?” The words tear out, raw and sharp, frustration finally breaking the surface. “You’ve been gone for days,” she mutters, voice low and laced with anger—relief—maybe even a hint of hurt. “I thought something had happened.”

She turns away abruptly, refusing to let her gaze linger on his face. The scattered papers on the desk draw her attention instead. She grabs them, shuffling and rearranging them with sharp, furious movements.

“A message would’ve been nice.”

Azriel exhales, stepping closer—hesitant. He doesn’t touch her, hovers just at the edge of her space.

At first, she doesn’t acknowledge him. Her shoulders are tense, gaze fixed on the clutter in front of her.
The weight of his presence lingers in the air, thick with things left unsaid.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice low, sincere. “There’ve been complications in the Illyrian territories. Rhysand sent me to monitor the situation,” he explains. “Cassian and I got stuck longer than expected.”

Aurora exhales quietly, barely audible in the tight space between them.

“And sneaking into places where I’m not welcome isn’t exactly easy,” Azriel adds, his voice quieter now, deliberate. “I can’t just vanish from my Court whenever I feel like it. And there are only so many times I can slip into the Day Court without someone noticing.”

His tone is casual—too casual. Underneath, though, there’s a bite. “But I suppose that’s the cost of secrecy, isn’t it?”

Aurora’s fingers tighten around the papers.

“So it’s my fault now?” she bites back, low and sharp. “You never said you had a problem with it.”

Azriel exhales, rough and almost exasperated. “I thought it’d last a few weeks,” he says. “Not over two months.” His hazel eyes meet hers—steady, unwavering. “I thought by now we’d be able to see each other freely. Without constantly fearing Eris finding out.”

Aurora drags her hands down her face in a restless, nearly frantic motion. “I can’t even be mad,” she mutters, frustration rising again. “Because you’re right. Damn it.”

And then—finally—she turns to him.

Without thinking, without hesitation, she steps forward and rests her forehead against his chest.
The contact is instinctual, natural—like heat returning to flame.

Azriel stiffens at first. The touch is unfamiliar, unexpected.

They’ve never allowed themselves this—never more than a fleeting kiss, a brush of fingers, a stolen moment. She’s always been touch-oriented. With Fenrys, with Gavriel—she would wrap herself around them without a second thought.

But this is different. Azriel is different. What they have is new. Fragile. Unnamed.

It takes him a moment. But then, slowly, his arms come around her.

“I was going to tell him today,” Aurora murmurs against his chest, her voice softer now, the fight in her fading. “I swear.” Her brows draw together slightly. “But it wasn’t the right time,” she admits.
She hesitates, then adds, “And it’s not just an excuse. Eris wouldn’t have been able to handle that either. Not today.”

Her voice is weary. Honest. She stays pressed against him, eyes closed, breathing finally steadying. Her walls begin to lower—inch by inch.

“I’m sorry I got angry,” she whispers, her words barely brushing the air. “You didn’t deserve that. I’m a mess.”

“You’re a very charming mess,” Azriel says gently, his voice warm with something tender and quiet.

She laughs—soft and unguarded, a rare sound that feels like it belongs only to this space between them. Her body sinks fully into his, her head resting against his chest, as if letting go at last.

“Ten children, huh?” he says after a moment, resting his chin lightly atop her head. “I’m impressed.”

She hums in response, the sound barely audible. Held in his arms, warmth surrounds her, stilling the storm inside her chest. For the first time in what feels like days, her thoughts stop spinning.

Azriel chuckles, his chest vibrating gently beneath her cheek. His voice is a low murmur, laced with fondness. “I think it’s time I let you sleep, soldier.”

Aurora doesn’t lift her head. She leans further into him, her breathing slower now, deeper. Sleep begins to tug at the corners of her mind.

He adjusts his grip, holding her just a little tighter.

Her eyes open halfway. Her gaze shifts to the scattered pages on the desk. “I can’t sleep,” she whispers, slipping from his arms. “It’s almost dawn anyway.” Her voice is resigned. She gestures loosely to the documents. “I should keep working.”

“Why are you combing through your Court’s finances?” Azriel asks.

She shoots him a sharp look. “They weren’t left out for you to snoop through.”

Azriel only shrugs, unbothered. The corner of his mouth twitches as shadows coil lazily around him. “Occupational hazard,” he says, voice tinged with dry amusement.

Aurora sighs and turns her attention back to the papers.

“What do you know about the orphan situation in Prythian?” she asks quietly.

Azriel meets her eyes, brow lifting slightly. “Aside from the fact that there are far too many?” he says. “Not much.”

She nods, unsurprised. Her expression doesn’t change, but her voice drops into something quieter. Firmer.

“The children I rescued today,” she says, flat and even, “were sleeping in a pit. That shouldn’t happen. Not here. Not anywhere. No child should be sleeping outside.” Her voice wavers. “Or selling their body just to eat.”

Azriel’s eyes close for a moment. As if doing so could block the weight of her words.

“No one cares about them. No one’s ever bothered to care,” she goes on, her voice gaining strength—quiet, relentless. “I want to change that.”

Her fingers brush the edge of the papers. “But I can’t do it without the money.”

Azriel studies her, his gaze unreadable. The silence thickens again—until finally, he moves.

The scrape of a chair against the floor breaks the stillness. He sits down beside her.

Leaning forward, grounded, unwavering, his eyes meet hers.

Determination radiates from him, shadows curling closer, drawn by the intensity in his voice.

“Tell me everything.”

-.-

“So, you’re planning to create a space large enough to host all the orphans of the Autumn Court?” Azriel asks, his tone slightly skeptical as he tilts his head, watching her closely. “And also a... what’s it called?”

“A school,” Aurora replies firmly, without hesitation.

Azriel nods, leaning back in his chair. “Right. And in this place... they’d learn to read and write?”

“Not just that!” Aurora’s tone lights up, her voice rising slightly and her hands moving animatedly as she starts pacing back and forth, full of new energy. “They’d learn math, critical thinking... but also practical skills. Carpentry, gardening, anything that can give them a future when they’re old enough to live on their own.” She gestures to the scattered papers on the table, her voice vibrating with determination. “But it can’t be just for them. Education should be accessible to everyone.”

Then she stops. Her hands tremble in the air, as if searching for an invisible anchor. Her voice lowers, cracked by an insecurity she rarely shows. “I know it’s an idealistic thought, but…”

“No.” Azriel cuts her off, decisive. His voice is steady, almost harsh, as if he wants to crush the doubt before it takes root. “It’s not idealistic. It’s necessary.”

His gaze softens as he studies her, a flash of admiration crossing his face. “It’s shocking that no one thought of it before.” His eyes soften. “As a child, I would have given anything for a place like that,” he murmurs, his voice heavy with unspoken pain. “Any Illyrian child would. Orphans aren’t welcomed; they’re left to fend for themselves. To prove they’re strong enough to survive.” His voice drops, rough with something unsaid. “If Rhys’s mother hadn’t taken me in, I don’t know if I’d still be alive.”

Azriel stops, his jaw clenched as his shadows draw closer, mirroring the tension in his figure. “Cassian, though,” he adds, a slight ironic smile tugging at his lips. “That arrogant bastard would’ve survived. But his mouth? That would’ve gotten him killed in a heartbeat.” The faint humor in his words doesn’t fully mask the lingering pain in his tone, memories of a childhood shaped more by survival than care.

Aurora watches him, her thoughts a whirlwind of questions pressing against the limits of her resolve.

She wonders how Rhysand, with all his power, can allow such cruel traditions to persist in the Illyrian lands.

She wonders what happened to his companion when he was just a boy, chained in a concrete cage.

Aurora knows these questions are heavy, complicated, tangled with emotions she doesn’t yet have the right to reveal.

And even if the moment were right, she doubts Azriel would answer directly.

“If you keep going like this, I’ll feel obliged to include Illyrian children, too. And then, naturally, I’d have to extend it to all the children of Prythian.”

Azriel doesn’t look amused at all. He looks as if he’s been hit hard, his expression stunned, almost dazed.

“Would you do that?” he whispers, barely audible, his hazel eyes wide as they search hers. “Take in Illyrian children, too?”

“If I had the space and the money? Of course I would,” she exclaims. “But I don’t, so don’t make me think about it.”

Yet beneath the surface, a spark of an idea has already woven itself into the fabric of her mind, slipping into every crack and crevice, refusing to be silenced.

The dreamer inside her—the girl who once danced with the impossible and turned fragile hopes into unbreakable truths—is now stirring wildly, unrestrained and unstoppable. The bright and dangerous thought blooms like a whisper carried by the wind, unable to be quelled.

It demands to be seen.

Meanwhile, Azriel has turned his attention to the scattered papers, brushing his lips with his hand. “If you had enough money, what would you do now?” he asks.

“I’d find a suitable place,” Aurora replies after a brief pause. “Recruit volunteers, organize the work if needed,” she adds with a grimace, “I’d ask my friends for advice—they’re old, so they’d know what to do. And I’d have to talk to Aelin—there’s no way this situation will be resolved in a few months.”

Azriel stiffens slightly. “Because you have to go back,” he muses aloud, his voice tinged with awareness, “to Terrasen.”

“I already asked to extend my stay—well, we,” she admits with an embarrassed tone. “You weren’t exactly part of the plan, Shadowsinger.”

Azriel doesn’t answer immediately; his gaze remains fixed on the documents before him. When he finally turns toward her, his expression is unreadable.

“And when all this is over, what will happen?”

Aurora frowns. “What do you mean?”

“How will it work?” he asks. “Will you travel back and forth between the continents every other month?”

“Why should I be the one traveling?” she snaps, her voice sharp and full of indignation. “You can board a ship just as easily as I can.”

“I can’t leave my Court for that long,” Azriel replies, firm but tense, as his wings shift imperceptibly, betraying the tension he’s holding back.

“And I can?” Aurora retorts, frustration rising again, her posture stiff. “We just came out of a war. Aelin is twenty, barely more than a girl. She needs me.”

“She has other Cadre protecting her, right?” Azriel counters, deceptively calm.

“That’s not the point!” Aurora snaps, raising her voice in challenge. “You’re asking me to leave everything I’ve built, everything I’ve fought for.”

“And you’re asking the same from me,” Azriel replies, dangerously low, his hazel eyes narrowing as he steps closer, the space between them charged and unstable.

“I’m not asking you for anything,” Aurora’s voice trembles, anger overflowing like a dam bursting under pressure. “We’ve known each other for three months,” she points out, “you can’t expect me to answer you now.” She gestures sharply at him, “You’re sitting there, assuming I’ll throw everything away for someone I barely know!”

Azriel grits his teeth. His wings tense, hands clench into fists.

“And I should be the one to throw everything away?” he asks coldly. “You say I wasn’t in your plans. You think I expected to be mated to a Vanserra?”

He says her name like a blasphemy, as if it's something rotten.

Aurora recoils.

Azriel closes his eyes. “That’s not what I meant, I—”

“I think that’s exactly what you meant,” she says softly.

Azriel’s jaw tightens once again, his expression shifts, and the silence between them grows heavy, suffocating, as the reality of their situation envelops them.

“You should leave,” she finally says, “before I say something I might regret.”

At last, Azriel steps back, his features softening slightly, though the weight in his eyes remains, a resignation he makes no effort to hide. He exhales deeply, folding his wings closer to his body as if preparing himself.

“I should go anyway. If someone sees me here, it’ll raise the kind of questions you’re so desperately trying to avoid.”

He moves toward the window but stops. His voice is a whisper.

“You talked about your friends earlier.” A pause. “You know what I realized? I don’t know any of their names.”

He turns to her.

“You say you want to make this bond work. But how can you, if you don’t trust me?”

Aurora stands still. She says nothing.

And when he disappears into the darkness, she doesn’t stop him.

-.-

Long, ruthless days, each one wearing down Aurora’s dream further, breaking it into shards and unraveling every hope. No matter how much she scrapes together—every coin carefully taken from the palace expenses—it’s never enough.

Eris grows darker with each passing moment, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface until it spills out in sharp, biting words. His anger targets her, precise and deliberate. And when he yells, Aurora refuses to give in. Her voice rises to meet his, determined, their arguments crackling through the palace like a storm that refuses to break.

Their constant clashes drive others away. No one lingers near them, reluctant to bear the air thick with resentment and unspoken rage.

Eris buries himself in his study; his silence is a fortress she cannot breach. Whatever occupies his mind, he keeps hidden, his presence cold and distant.

And Azriel—

Azriel doesn’t show up.

She keeps telling herself that’s for the best.

-.-

Eris is a barely contained storm. He gestures toward a sack overflowing with gold coins, his movements stiff with barely restrained fury.

"When exactly did you contact Rhysand?" His voice is razor-sharp, an accusation disguised as a question.

Before Aurora can answer, he snatches a piece of parchment and throws it at her, the motion abrupt and brimming with rage.

"You had no right. Take the throne yourself if you’re so set on going over my head," he barks, his voice taut with anger as he storms out of the room. His footsteps echo down the corridor, carrying his fury with them.

Aurora exhales slowly, deliberately, bending down to pick up the crumpled paper. A faint scent of snow and cinnamon rises from the parchment, wrapping around her senses like a whisper.

"I’ve always admired dreamers."

-.-

Gavriel answers immediately, his voice warm, edged with a smile. "Hey," he greets, "I was just thinking about yo—"

"I saved ten children," Aurora blurts out, her words tumoring over themselves, breathless, uncontained. "And I met my mate."

She pauses, then corrects herself, a sharp exhale punctuating the thought. "Actually, I met my mate first, and then I saved ten children. They’re orphans. I want to build an orphanage like the one in Orynth, but I don’t have the funds. Azriel got me the money, only, we fought, and now everything is a mess because Eris doesn’t know and—"

"Stop," Gavriel cuts in. "Start over. Now.”

-.-

"I don’t even know where to begin," Gavriel snaps, his voice tight with disbelief. "You met your mate a month ago and didn’t say anything? How—" he cuts himself off, shaking his head, frustration burning in his gaze. "How did it even cross your mind not to tell me something like that?" he growls, his tone edged with accusation.

Aurora winces slightly but holds her ground, her fingers gripping the edge of the table. She had known this reaction was coming. The moment she let the truth spill out in hurried, breathless words.

But knowing didn’t make it any easier.

"I don’t know," she murmurs, voice quieter now, almost hesitant. "I thought it was the right choice at the time. To keep it to myself, to see how things played out." Her gaze flickers away, unwilling to meet his. "I just made everything more complicated for no reason." She shrugs, a small, defeated motion. "I’m sorry."

"Oh, if you're sorry now, just wait." The anger laced through his words, unmistakable. "I ought to come there and knock some sense into you," he snaps, his glare sharp enough to pierce through her defenses. "Who else knows?" he demands, his voice low and dangerous.

Aurora hesitates, her throat tightening. "William," she murmurs, almost too softly to be heard, “... and Aelin.”

“Aelin?”

His voice comes out hoarse, almost incredulous. But beneath it lies a chill.

“She’s my queen,” she answers without hesitation. “It felt right to tell her.”

“I am your father,” he growls. “If anyone needed to hear it, it should have been me.”

“Well, I’m telling you now,” she snaps, her tone sharp as glass. “Does that count for something?”

“It doesn’t mean shit,” he explodes, his eyes burning with anger. “Finding a mate is rare. It’s a moment of joy. And you? You chose to keep him away from those who love you. From me. How am I supposed to feel?”

“It’s my fucking bond,” she growls, her voice trembling with fury. “I should be free to keep one thing. Just one. Without having to worry about everything else.”

She clenches her teeth.

“I almost died eight months ago,” she spits out, “and you know what I realized? The only time I thought about myself was when I ran away from Prythian. One breath. Just one. Then Maeve came. Then the war. Then my brothers. Always someone else. Always something to protect.”

She takes a breath, but it’s broken, trembling, soaked with frustration and repressed anger.

“And now Azriel is mad at me,” she bursts out, her voice scratched by frustration, “because he expects me to stay on this continent, as if my wishes don’t mean shit. He wanted me to tell my brothers, my mother, everyone.”

Aurora clenches her jaw, her chest rising and falling unevenly, as if the air had become too heavy to breathe.

“You know what I wanted, Gav?”

She looks at him. There’s no pleading in her eyes. Only truth. Raw. Uncomfortable.

“I just wanted to be a girl. Just a fucking girl who falls in love. One who trembles, who hopes, who lets herself be saved. Not the one who destroys cities because some bitch forced her to.”

Her voice cracks, but she doesn’t stop. It’s anger that’s waited too long. It’s pain that never had space.

“You’re mad at me because you think you have a right over my life. Like being my father gives you the power to decide what I should do. Eris is mad at me for reasons even the gods can’t explain, even though I’m losing my mind trying to help him put the pieces of this cursed Court back together. I burn myself out for him, and he looks at me like I’m the problem. You all want something from me. Always. And me?”

She stops. The silence is a scream.

“I can’t take it anymore.”

The silence that follows is brutal.

Gavriel remains still. Lips pressed tight, eyes fixed on her, but empty. As if her words tore something out of him. As if he doesn’t know what to do with the pain Aurora just dumped on him.

“Does he treat you well, at least?” he finally asks, his voice lower, almost broken. There’s no accusation, just a thread of hope, a desperate need to cling to something that doesn’t hurt.

Aurora closes her eyes.

“Yes,” she sighs, “even if he’s an asshole when he gets angry.”

A corner of Gavriel’s mouth lifts slightly, but it’s a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Then you’re made for each other.”

Aurora scoffs, but her lip trembles slightly.

“I’m outraged,” Gavriel tells her, his voice low and simmering, “but you’re right, the bond is yours. You’re free to do whatever you want with it, even not tell anyone.”

“I wouldn’t have hidden it forever,” she murmurs, almost a whisper. “I just wanted to be sure.”

Gavriel watches her for a long moment. Then he shakes his head slightly, as if her words reminded him of something he wished to forget.

“The only thing you can be sure of is death, Aurora.”

Aurora lowers her gaze.

Gavriel sighs, “Tell me about him.”

And Aurora does. From the moment they met until the night they argued.

“And he assumed—he just assumed—that I’d be the one to stay in Prythian.” Her lips tighten as she struggles to find the right words, the right way to explain the sting of that assumption.

“I don’t understand why it has to be me,” Aurora says, her frustration simmering beneath the surface.

“Did you tell him that, like this?” Gavriel asks pointedly. “Or did you just scream at him instead?”

Aurora’s expression shifts, embarrassment flickering across her face like a shadow. She looks away, her shoulders hunching ever so slightly.

Gavriel exhales heavily, the sound steeped in exasperation. “You need to learn how to communicate,” he says, shaking his head as though her inability physically pains him.

She assumes an embarrassed expression, as if those words stole her breath.

“So, now what? You’re never going to talk to him again?”

“I never said that,” Aurora snaps, too quickly. “We’re just... not talking right now.” She shrugs. “I didn’t reach out, and neither did he.”

Gavriel mutters something, then sighs. “The last thing I want is to give you relationship advice,” he says, “but the ball is in your court now. He gave you a choice. You must decide what step to take.”

Aurora clenches her jaw. “He insulted my family,” she mutters.

“And you hid him from your family,” Gavriel counters, his voice calm. “People say bad things when they’re angry. You should know, you’re an expert at it.”

Aurora looks at him sideways, “You know, in solidarity, you should be angry with me too.”

“Oh, I’m furious,” he tells her, and this time there’s a bitter smile on his lips. “But you don’t need my anger. You need someone to support this choice. I wish I could have done it sooner. Something I would have done if I’d known.”

He sighs, the sound heavy, as if it emptied his chest. “I don’t want to control your life, Aurora. I just want you to be happy.”

Aurora looks at him, hesitant.

“Would it be okay if I stayed here?” she asks softly.

Gavriel clenches his jaw, emotions flashing across his face like stormy shadows.

“Marion and I…” he hesitates, “we weren’t mates. But if she were alive, I wouldn’t think twice about leaving everything to be with her.” His voice is soft, pained.

“I won’t force you to make that choice.”

Aurora exhales a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

“Thank you,” she murmurs.

“Don’t thank me,” he growls lightly. “Lorcan will be the test. Let’s see if this male has the balls not to piss himself.”

Aurora raises an eyebrow, but a hint of a smile brushes her lips, even if the tremor doesn’t go away.

“You’d be surprised.”

“We just have to wait and see.”

The silence that follows is less tense, but it’s not peace. It’s that suspended moment when wounds no longer bleed but still burn.

Gavriel straightens, “Now that’s settled,” he says, “tell me your plans for the orphanage, General.”

Aurora doesn’t hesitate and launches into the story of her latest crazy plan.

She talks about what she wants to build, what doesn’t exist yet but already lives in her mind.

The project is ambitious, maybe too much, and resources are scarce. Rhysand’s gold is enough to lay the foundations, but it won’t be enough for what she has in mind.

Then there’s the school. A place where those children can learn, grow, and become more than the pain they carry.

Gavriel listens silently. Occasionally, he interrupts with a brief, pointed question, but never enough to break the thread of her story. He watches her closely, as if trying to imprint every word.

When she finishes, he shakes his head, a half-smile on his lips.

“If anyone can do it, it’s you.”  Then, he exhales slowly, his chest rising as if trying to steady everything he’s still holding back. “I’m still angry.”

Aurora meets his gaze, steady and quiet. “I know.”

He doesn’t respond right away. His expression shifts, softens, and something flickers in his eyes—pride, maybe, or something close to it.

“But what you’re doing for those children is extraordinary. I’m proud of you.”

Aurora’s lips twitch into a faint smile, the kind that carries more weight than words.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“This conversation isn’t over. Next time you hide something like this from me, you’ll pay for it.”

Aurora rolls her eyes but doesn’t respond. She just offers a slight smile.

When the mirror shows only her reflection, Aurora leans her head back against the wall. Her breath leaves her slowly, heavy with everything she’s held in.

She’s survived Gavriel’s wrath.

William is going to be so disappointed.

The thought pulls a smile from her lips—small, amused, and entirely unexpected.

"What does that mean?"

Aurora snaps her eyes open. She turns around, her heart hammering in her chest as he glares at her.

She had been so absorbed in the conversation with Gavriel that she hadn’t noticed the door opening.

She mutters, “What?”

"That mirror," Eris snaps, gesturing to the now-dark glass. "That male you were speaking to."

"He was Gavriel," Aurora says, rising to her feet. Her voice is steady, but the tension is impossible to hide. “He is a friend.”

"A Friend?" Eris takes a step closer, his movements sharp and deliberate. "Then why did you call this friend ‘dad’?" His voice lowers, heavy with suspicion. "Because unless my memory’s failing, I distinctly remember burying Beron myself."

Fuck.

Aurora stands frozen, her thoughts racing in a frenzy to grasp any viable solution, any explanation that might satisfy Eris’s growing impatience. His piercing gaze bores into her, unrelenting and sharp.

“Well?” Eris snaps, the tension in his voice cutting through the quiet like a blade. “Are you going to answer me or not?”

Aurora exhales deeply, forcing herself to meet his glare. She raises her hands in surrender, her voice steady despite the swirl of chaos in her chest. “Alright,” she says, gesturing toward the chair beside him. “Let’s sit down for a moment.”

“I don’t want to sit,” Eris growls, his tone low and simmering with barely-contained fury. “I want you to tell me what that conversation meant.”

She closes her eyes, steadying herself as if bracing for impact.

“Listen,” she says, raising her hands slightly in a gesture of peace. “I’ve been away for a long time,” she begins.“And during that time, one of the oldest members of the Cadre recognized me as his daughter.”

She furrows her brows.

“To be precise, it was his animal side that did, but I believe the point still stands.”

Eris’s eyes flicker with something unreadable, a sharp glint of unease or disbelief. She observes him, noting the way his jaw tenses, the way his gaze doesn’t leave hers for even a second.

“I’m sure it doesn’t make much sense to you,” Aurora continues, her voice softening, though her heart feels like it’s beating too fast. “But it does to me.”

She presses a hand to her chest.

“I wanted to tell you, Eris, I did. But I didn’t know how to explain to you that I have another family.” She sucks in a breath, her throat tightening as she locks eyes with Eris. “I’m sorr-”

“Family?” he hisses, his lips curling in disgust. “That’s gold,” he spits, venom dripping from every syllable. His laughter is bitter, sharp as broken glass.

“Tell me, how often do you cry on your precious father’s shoulder about your wretched little family in Prythian? Hm?” His words grow crueler, his tone darker. “Poor Aurora, forced to flee. It must shatter his heart to see you in such a pathetic state.”

Aurora’s hands tremble at her sides, her pulse pounding in her ears. “Eris,” she murmurs, her voice low but steady. “Stop.”

“Oh, I’ve barely begun,” he shoots back, his anger crackling like a fire just set ablaze. “I think you cared about us—thought maybe you missed us. That you felt something, even a fraction, for the pain of being apart. But now I learn you’ve been living quite the charmed life,” he sneers. “A male who treats you like a real daughter, your little clique of misfits. You’ve always felt at home with outcasts, haven’t you?”

He bares his teeth, stepping forward, his voice rising with every word. “Did your father pat you on the back when you slaughtered all those people?” Eris bites out, his words cutting deeper than any blade. “Is he proud of the killer you’ve become? He must be, considering he helps shape you into one.”

It feels like being struck by a stone wall. No—a brick to the face would be gentler.

“Eris-”

“So that explains your little secret meetings with that Illyrian bastard,” he spits. “You were feeling homesick, weren’t you?”

Aurora freezes, the words catching in her throat, her mouth snapping shut.

Eris smiles, satisfied—the sharp curve of his lips like a blade. “You think Rhysand is the only one with spies in other Courts?” he sneers, voice rough with contempt. “How stupid did you think I was, Aurora, not to notice Azriel walking into my palace?”

He spreads his arms wide, mockery dripping from the gesture.

“When I first heard that an Illyrian was seen dining with a beautiful red-haired girl at Helion’s Court—on the same day you just happened to be there—I thought, surely, it was a coincidence. That I was being paranoid.”

His voice sharpens with every word, each syllable a blade.

“Then it happened again. At the Summer Court. And let me tell you.”He snaps, voice laced with venom, “If you were trying to be discreet, you did a terrible job.”

Eris steps closer, fury barely contained, his words now a growl. “Then Azriel walks into my home the very day you start asking for funding for your little charity project. Three mornings later, like magic, Rhysand sends a bag full of gold. Not to me—to you.”

He jabs a finger at her, every word laced with razor-sharp rage and disdain.

“So that’s why you’re angry,” she murmurs, almost to herself, realization dawning slowly. “I thought it was because I couldn’t secure the funds.”

Eris lets out a low, bitter laugh, his lips curling into a sneer somewhere between amusement and disgust. “I know the finances of my Court better than anyone,” he says coldly. “I know exactly how little there’s left to give.”

Aurora can only stand there, heart pounding, mind scrambling for words to untangle the chaos she’s just stepped into. For the first time in a long while, she feels cornered—completely unprepared for his fury—and with the sinking realization that Eris had been waiting for this confrontation.

“He must’ve been very pleased with you if he managed to convince Rhysand to send all that gold.”

Aurora freezes. Her breath catches in her chest, as if someone had punched the air out of her.

“Wha—” The words tangle in her throat. Her eyes narrow, burning with fire. “What the fuck did you just say?”

The voice is a growl—low, dangerous. She takes a step forward, fists clenched, knuckles white.

Eris doesn’t flinch. His smile is a razor’s edge, honed by fury.

“You heard me perfectly.” He looks at her with disdain, tilting his head ever so slightly. “I just hope you washed afterward. I don’t like fleas.”

“How dare you speak to me like that?”

Eris sneers. “This is my Court,” he spits. “I’ll speak to you however I damn well please.”

Aurora’s hands tremble, her gaze narrowing.

“You’d do well to remember, Eris, that you’re High Lord because I allow it.”

Eris pales—then flushes with rage. His face shifts color like it can’t decide which emotion to settle on.

“Get out of my house,” he growls, baring his teeth.“Go back to your damned family in Erilea and don’t come back.”

But his voice wavers. It’s a tiny detail, almost imperceptible—a ripple in his tone, a hitch in his breath. And Aurora hears it. Sees it. His lower lip trembles just slightly, as if he’s fighting not to break.

This isn’t hatred.

It’s pain.

The fire burning in her chest extinguishes in an instant. Her shoulders drop. Her chest deflates.

“You’re my family too,” she says softly, the weight of it pressing down on her like rain.

“Liar.”

“What’s going on here?”

Aurora and Eris turn sharply, finding William standing in the doorway, his wary gaze flickering between them.

“It’s nothing,” Aurora says, though her voice wavers. “Please, William. Leave us.”

Eris spins toward him, his fury seeking a new target. “Did you know?” he demands, his voice venomous. “You know Aurora has a father?”

If Aurora had paid closer attention to the conversation, she might have asked herself why Eris would expect William, of all people, to have told him something so personal.

“You should be grateful, Eris,” William continues, his tone calm yet firm, unwavering. “Your sister is deeply loved, both here and in Erilea. You should be relieved to know that someone has always cared for her.”

Eris shakes his head wildly, his movements erratic.

“She hasn’t replaced you,” William adds, his voice softening. “Having a father and another brother doesn’t mean you’re any less significant to her.”

Eris freezes.

And Aurora, watching helplessly, can’t help but wonder if perhaps it would be easier to have perished beneath the rubble all those months ago.

“Brother?” Eris’s voice is icier than the coldest night, his words laced with cutting precision as he turns his piercing gaze to William.

William’s eyes widen, panic breaking through his carefully composed mask. “Ah,” he stammers, his gaze darting to Aurora for help.

She slumps her shoulders, resignation settling over her like a heavy cloud. “I haven’t gotten to that part yet,” she mutters, rubbing a hand over her exhausted face.

Eris lets out a sharp, humorless laugh, his voice low and chilling. “You,” he growls, his fury palpable. “How much do you laugh at us? We poor idiots, trying desperately to rebuild what we lost? How much of what you’ve said to us is even true, Aurora?”

“All of it!” she shouts, her voice cracking under the strain. “Every word, and so much more that I haven’t told you!”

Eris’s glare hardens, his expression a storm of betrayal and anger. “I don't believe you.”

Aurora knows, deep in the pit of her stomach, that if she lets him leave now, there will be no fixing this. 

“William,” she says, her voice steadier than she feels as she turns to her friend. “Go.”

William clenches his jaw but doesn’t argue. He strides toward the door, pausing only to glare at Eris. “Listen to her,” he says sharply before leaving.

“Get lost,” Eris growls after him, baring his teeth like a cornered beast.

And then, silence. Just the two of them left, with no distractions and nowhere to hide from the jagged edges of the truth.

The silence stretches between them, thick and suffocating. Eris’s shoulders tense as he stares at the ground, refusing to meet Aurora’s eyes. “I can’t look at you,” he snaps suddenly, his voice sharp with fury as he turns away, his movements stiff and deliberate.

Aurora acts before her mind catches up with her body. Her shadows ripple to life, coiling around Eris in an instant, locking him in place as if the very air had betrayed him. They don’t harm him—they only hold, unyielding.

Eris lets out a frustrated growl, the sound guttural, feral. He struggles, his muscles taut as he pulls against the shadows that refuse to budge. “Let me go!” he commands, his tone like thunder, vibrating through the tension between them.

“No,” Aurora says firmly. “You will listen. To everything.”

Eris stops struggling, though his jaw remains clenched, his breath harsh. 

"When Maeve found me and told me I was special, I believed her. I clung to the idea that someone finally saw it—that someone finally saw I could be more than just a wife. I wanted it so badly that I let her take every good part of me, piece by piece. She stripped away everything and shaped me into something I barely recognize when I look in the mirror. "

Her hands curl into fists, her nails biting into her palms as she fights to keep her composure. "But the one thing she couldn’t take," she says, her eyes glimmering with a pain too old to heal, "the one part of me that she couldn’t taint with her cruelty, was because Gavriel protected it."

Her hand rises to press against her chest, as if to touch the pieces of herself she still holds on to. "He and the others—they held me together when I was nothing but fragments. They pieced me back together—the parts you tore apart," she says, her teeth clenched so tightly it feels as though they might shatter. Her shadows ripple around her, a physical manifestation of the storm raging inside her.

She takes a step closer, her shadows tightening around Eris like a vice. Eris averts his eyes, his jaw tightening as guilt flickers across his face for the briefest of moments.

But he doesn’t speak.

"You can’t be angry with me for seeking comfort in others," she says, her voice trembling as her lower lip quivers. "You were my entire world, and then you shattered it. I didn’t tell you all this because you already took everything from me once,” she spits out. “I didn’t want you to take this too.”

Eris flinches, his shoulders stiffening as her words strike him like a blow. He opens his mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. Aurora’s shadows ripple again, a silent warning that she isn’t finished. 

“I hate how pathetic it makes me feel, knowing that every time I was on the verge of falling apart, the only person I wished would come save me was you.” She whispers, a bitter smile tugging at her lips, “Even after everything.”

Her jaw tightens as she furiously brushes away a tear, the action rushed and clumsy, as if trying to erase the vulnerability she didn’t mean to show.

“You don’t get to call me a liar,” she says, her voice rising with a fiery edge. “You don’t have that right.”

Eris looks at her, his face an unreadable mask, but his eyes glimmer with something unspoken.

“Let me go,” he says, his tone quiet.

There’s something in the way he speaks that convinces Aurora he won’t bolt, won’t let his fury drive him into retreat. Hesitating for only a moment, she does as he asks, letting the shadows around him dissipate into the air.

But instead of walking away, Eris steps closer to her, his movements deliberate, his presence heavy with unrelenting emotion.

“Hit me,” he says, his voice steady, the words dropping like stones between them.

Aurora’s eyes widen in shock, her breath catching. “What?” she blurts, disbelief lacing her tone.

"You’re still angry," he says, his voice low, almost resigned. "And I’m angry because you didn’t tell me. And I deserve that—you not telling me. Because none of this was fair. None of it," he bursts out, his gaze dropping to the floor as his fists clench at his sides. “I know you have your reasons not to trust me, but it still makes me angry—because I wish you did.”

His gaze drops, fists clenched, shoulders tight. "I could apologize to you for the rest of our lives, but clearly, words aren’t enough. So hit me."

Aurora blinks, startled by the rawness of his demand. "I’m not going to hit you if you’re not going to defend yourself," she says, her voice firm but tinged with disbelief.

His expression is unreadable, but the tension in his body speaks volumes.

Aurora studies him carefully, her mind racing as she weighs her options.

“Are you serious?” she asks, the words soft, almost reverent.

Eris spreads his arms wide, standing still, waiting.

She exhales slowly, the breath steadying her as her shoulders begin to relax. The decision settles in her chest like a weight she’s finally ready to carry.

“Very well,” she says, her voice calm, almost too calm, as she steps forward.

Her fist rises, poised to strike.

And in the span of a heartbeat, her mind makes a quiet, brutal choice.

It can’t get worse than this.

"Since we’re in the mood for confessions," she says, her tone sharp and deliberate, "I’ve met my mate."

Eris’s eyes fly wide the instant her fist connects with his jaw, the impact snapping his head to the side with brutal force. He stumbles, thrown off balance, and crashes to the ground in a tangle of limbs and disbelief.

He lifts his head, wiping the blood from his nose with the back of his hand. "Who?" he growls, his voice low and dangerous.

Aurora crouches down, her expression calm but her eyes glinting with defiance. "If you want to know," she says, her voice steady, "you’ll have to hit back."

Eris doesn’t hesitate. He grabs her by the collar, pulling her close until their faces are mere inches apart. "Tell me." He hisses.

The air around them feels electric, charged with emotions too volatile to name. Aurora doesn’t flinch, her gaze locked on his, unyielding.

"I didn’t tell you because you’re nothing more than a tantrum-throwing child," she says, her voice laced with provocation. Her lips curl into a mocking grin. "You’ve never been anything else. High Lord," she sneers, the title dripping with derision. "The one no one wants as an ally, whose opinion no one cares about." She pauses, licking her lips deliberately, her gaze locked on his. "How sad must that be?"

Aurora braces herself, knowing what’s coming, but the headbutt still lands with brutal force. Pain explodes across her forehead, sharp and unrelenting, as she stumbles back, clutching her head.

She smiles, a sharp, defiant edge to her expression. "Go on," she taunts, staring into her brother’s furious face. "Do your worst."

Eris doesn’t hesitate. With a growl, he lunges forward, and they crash to the ground in a tangle of limbs. The impact is brutal, the air knocked from Aurora’s lungs as Eris pins her beneath him. His fist connects with her face, and the metallic taste of blood fills her mouth.

She snarls, the sound low and feral, and with a surge of strength, she twists her body, flipping their positions. Now on top, she grabs his wrists, pinning them to the ground with a force that leaves no room for resistance.

Eris’s wrists ignite with a searing heat, and Aurora recoils, hissing in pain as her palms sting from the burn. "Bastard," she exhales, her voice sharp with both anger and disbelief.

Before she can recover, Eris grabs a fistful of her hair, yanking her down beside him with a force that sends her head slamming against the floor. The impact reverberates through her skull, leaving her momentarily dazed.

"Tell me,” He growls, his voice low and dangerous, his breath hot against her ear. "Who is it?"

With her face pressed against the cold floor, Aurora grits her teeth and drags her fist upward in a sharp arc, slamming it into Eris’s stomach. The force of the blow makes him double over, a guttural sound escaping his lips as the air is knocked from his lungs.

Aurora doesn’t waste a second. She pushes herself closer, her breath ragged and uneven, her lips near his ear.

"You already know who," she whispers, her voice soft yet cutting, every word laced with deliberate precision. Her breath brushes against his ear, low and dangerous, like a storm on the verge of breaking. "You’re just terrified that it’s true, aren’t you?"

Eris stiffens beneath her words, his hands trembling with the tension of restrained fury.

“It’s obvious if you think about it," Aurora presses, her voice calm but laced with a sharp edge. "It almost feels like fate. That the only two Shadowsingers on the continent would be mates."

Eris stares at her, blood streaking his face, his swollen eye darkening with alarming speed. His chest heaves with the effort of holding himself together, but his composure cracks as he growls through clenched teeth, "No."

The denial is guttural, raw, as if saying it aloud might somehow make it untrue.

"Yes," Aurora presses, her voice unwavering. 

Eris lets out a pained sound as he wrenches himself free from her grip, his movements sharp and desperate. Without hesitation, he drives his elbow straight into her nose. The impact is brutal, and Aurora staggers back, blood rushing to her face as pain blooms across it.

"You can’t," her brother growls, his voice low and feral. "I won’t allow it."

"You can’t stop it," she snarls back, her tone just as fierce, her defiance burning through the haze of pain.

Eris rises abruptly, his movements fueled by rage. "Not if I kill him first," he spits, his voice venomous as he bolts toward the door.

She lunges, grabbing him by the back, her momentum slamming him forward. Eris’s face collides with the wall, the dull thud followed by a groan of pain as he slumps slightly.

"Touch him, and you’ll never see me again," Aurora growls, her grip firm as she holds Eris in place.

Eris exhales sharply, his breath ragged with fury. In a sudden, fluid motion, he twists around, wrapping his arm tightly around her neck. His hold is unrelenting, the tension in his muscles palpable as his grip tightens, “You’re mine.”

Aurora snarls, her instincts kicking in. She sinks her teeth into his arm, the sharpness of the bite forcing a pained grunt from him. The taste of iron fills her mouth, but she doesn’t let go, her defiance burning as fiercely as the fire in his eyes.

Eris lets out a guttural scream, the sound raw with pain and fury, as he wrenches himself free, throwing Aurora across the room with all the force he can muster. She hits the floor hard, sliding to a halt, but she’s quick to push herself back to her feet, blood dripping from her lip and shadows flickering restlessly at her sides.

They face each other, both breathing heavily, their bodies taut, bruised, and trembling from the intensity of their clash. The anger in their eyes burns brighter than the pain etched on their faces, their chests rising and falling in sync as though the very air between them is charged with the storm they’ve unleashed.

Then, they lunge forward again.

-.-

She doesn’t know how long they have been fighting. Time blurs into a haze of blows, snarls, and raw emotion. Eris’s movements grow sluggish, his strength waning as exhaustion takes hold. Aurora’s anger, once a roaring inferno, begins to ebb, leaving behind a strange, hollow calm.

Her face throbs with pain, every inch of her body aching from the relentless clash. Yet, despite the bruises and the blood, she feels a weight she didn’t realize she was carrying seems to lift, leaving her breathless but strangely lighter.

Eventually, they find themselves slumped against opposite walls, their bodies battered, their breaths ragged. Blood streaks their faces, and their heads hang low, too drained to speak.

"You were right," Aurora says between ragged breaths, a smile tugging at her bloodied lips. "I feel better."

Eris glares at her, his expression dark and unreadable, but he doesn’t respond.

"Are you not going to talk to me for the rest of your life?" she presses, her voice tinged with a mix of defiance and exhaustion. She winces as she licks her split lip, the sharp sting forcing her to suppress a grimace.

He remains silent. 

"For what are you angrier?" Aurora asks, her voice still breathless but tinged with that sharp edge of sarcasm she wields so effortlessly. She winces slightly, shifting against the wall as her body protests every movement. "You know, so I can figure out where to focus my energy."

Eris’s bloodied face tightens, his jaw clenching as his swollen eye struggles to meet her gaze. His silence lingers, heavy and oppressive, until his lips curl into a snarl, the fury in his expression enough to speak for him. 

Aurora raises her hands, her expression sharp with mock surrender. "Fine, then. I’ll go with Azriel," she says. 

It’s the breaking point. Eris’s breath catches, and his rage erupts like a storm unleashed.

"How could you?" he roars, his voice raw and trembling with disbelief. His bloodied face contorts with fury, his swollen eye narrowing as he glares at her. "Azriel? That nameless bastard?" he growls, the temperature in the room spiking as his anger manifests in the air around them.

Aurora doesn’t flinch. "I didn’t exactly choose him," she snaps back, her tone sharp and unyielding. "Take it up with the Cauldron."

"But you chose to keep it from me!" Eris spits, his voice cracking under the weight of his anger and disbelief.

Aurora doesn’t miss a beat, her lips curling into a bitter smirk. "Oh, because you would have handled it so well," she says, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "You’ve got quite the punch," she mutters, touching her bruised cheek with a wince. "I’ll give you that."

"Don’t pretend to be impressed," Eris says, his tone dry as his fingers gingerly brush the bruise forming on his cheek. "I know you were holding back."

Aurora shrugs, a small and deliberate motion, before stepping away from the wall. Slowly, she moves to stand beside Eris, her body aching with every movement. He doesn’t look at her—his gaze remains fixed on the ground, his lips pressed into a thin, stubborn line. The tension in the air feels heavy, almost suffocating, as if the storm between them hasn’t yet fully settled.

"Eris," she calls softly, "Can you look at me?"

Eris shakes his head, his movements stiff, and leans back against the wall, as though it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His head falls back, and his eyes close briefly, his jaw trembling with the effort to stay composed.

"Why does it have to be him?" he whispers hoarsely, the words barely audible, as though speaking them aloud costs him something. His voice cracks under the weight of his anguish. "It’s not fair," he breathes, his chest heaving with the effort. His head tilts downward again, and his gaze lingers on nothing. "You’re mine."

Aurora scoffs bitterly. "It's offensive that you think I could belong to anyone."

But Eris doesn’t respond to her. He doesn’t even acknowledge her words.

"When you didn’t know something, you came to me," he says, his voice breaking. "When you were scared, it was me you turned to. I taught you to read. Your first word-" His voice falters as his breath hitches. "Your first word was my name."

The words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating.

"You were mine," he says again, the declaration hollow, like an echo of something long lost.

A single tear slips down his bloodied cheek, carving a path through the grime and bruises. He wipes it away with trembling fingers, the motion sharp and almost angry, as though furious at his vulnerability.

“But that night—” Eris’s voice trembles. His face, marked by fresh cuts and bruises, tightens as he speaks. “That night, there was so much hatred in your eyes, and in that moment, I knew I’d lost you.”

A broken sound escapes his lips, almost a gasp.

“We searched for you everywhere. I would’ve found a way. I would’ve begged Tamlin to hide you in the Spring Court if it came to that. Then, Amarantha came, and for the first time, I thanked the Cauldron that no one had found you.”

He runs a trembling hand over his face, brushing against an open wound.

“When our father died, I waited. And waited. But you didn’t come back. And the thought that you might be dead stole my sleep for years.”

Aurora lowers her gaze.

“But now you’re here,” he whispers, voice cracked, almost pleading.

“You came back. You could’ve stayed in Eriela. You could’ve never looked back. But you’re here, Aurora. And I thought that somehow, somewhere, you were still mine. That study was still ours, and you still needed me, just as much as I need you.”

He licks his lips, his gaze flickering with desperation and anger.

“But now I find out Azriel is your mate,” he says bitterly. “Of course it had to be one of them.”

He makes a disgusted grimace — one that speaks more of pain than hatred.

“Rhysand and his damned court took everything,” he mutters. “They took my brother, my mother, they can’t take my sister too.”

His voice hardens, trembling with barely restrained fury.

“I’ll kill them first.”

Aurora remains silent, her breath catching as the weight of Eris’s words settles over her. She struggles to absorb them fully, her mind racing with the realization that she’s spent so much time fixated on how her brothers act without ever truly considering how they feel.

She cups his face gently, her thumbs brushing over his bruised cheekbones as she steadies his gaze.

"The fact that Azriel is my mate doesn’t change anything between us," she says, her voice a quiet reassurance.

Eris scoffs under his breath, his gaze sliding away from hers as his lips curl bitterly. "You say that now," he mutters, his tone low and cutting, laced with quiet despair. "But you’ll change your mind."

Aurora shakes her head, the motion resolute. "No," she states firmly, her voice leaving no room for doubt. Her hands slide down slightly to grip his shoulders. "Do you know why?" she asks, her tone softer but unwavering.

She waits a beat, letting her words sink in, before speaking again.

"Because you are as much mine as I am yours." Her eyes lock with his, and the truth in her gaze is undeniable. "That will never change."

Eris falters, his shoulders slumping slightly under the weight of her words. He presses his forehead against hers, his breath uneven, burdened by the emotions he can no longer contain.

"'Rora," he murmurs, her name escaping his lips like a fragile confession.

With a heavy sigh, he wraps his arms around her, pulling her into an embrace that feels both desperate and grounding.

A shared groan of pain escapes them as the pressure of their bruised bodies protests the closeness. 

"Let's not do it anymore, shall we?" Eris mutters, his voice low and tinged with self-deprecating humor.

Aurora lets her eyes drift closed for a moment, her head resting lightly against his shoulder. "I couldn’t agree more," she murmurs.

He rests his chin gently on her head. “I want you to know that I hate everything about this situation,” he snaps, voice sharp and burning with frustration. “I won’t pretend this suits me; I couldn’t even if I tried. I’d rather gouge my eyes out than treat Azriel with respect,” he adds.

“But I’ve already lost you once — and I’m not willing to make that mistake again. So I promise I’ll try to insult him as little as possible. For you.”

She looks at him, amused despite everything. "Don’t try too hard. You might spontaneously combust."

He snorts, “If I catch him wandering around my court uninvited, or may the Cauldron protect him, in your room, it’ll be him who catches fire. And I’m not joking, Aurora—if he wants to come back, he’ll have to ask my permission.”

“You won’t have problems for now. We fought; we’re not talking at the moment,” she mutters against his chest.

Eris’s body tenses in the embrace. “What did he do?” he asks, his voice low, almost threatening.

“Relax,” she chides him. “Honestly, he’s angry for the same reason you are. He couldn’t stand living in the shadows, hiding all this time.” She pauses, her breath faltering. “And I can’t blame him. I handled everything terribly.”

Eris lets out a guttural sound—an acknowledgment tinged with resignation.

“And I got angry because he just assumed I’d stay in Prythian. He didn’t even try to find a solution. He just asked if I’d be going back and forth. Can you believe that?”

Eris remains silent.

“Eris?” she whispers, raising her head.

“Could you choose to stay?” he asks softly, his voice cracked with a hope he doesn’t dare show.

“It’s one of the options,” she admits, gently slipping out of the embrace. “Aelin told me it doesn’t matter if I stay. I can always go back if they need me.” She shrugs, but the gesture is heavy with uncertainty. “Now I just have to figure out if I am okay with being away.”

“So, you’d rather be with us than with your father or your brother?” he asks sarcastically. “That’s another topic we’ll have to talk about.”

Aurora raises her eyes. “It’s not a competition,” she says. “Gavriel has asked me several times to meet you all, even Aedion.”

“Aedion is a stupid name.”

“Don’t start.”

 -.-

Eris calls an emergency family meeting, and their brothers quickly assemble in the main hall. The sight of Aurora and Eris stops them cold—bruised faces, swollen knuckles, and stiff movements betray the ferocity of their earlier clash. Purple and green bruises spread like shadows across Eris’s jaw, while a line of dried blood trails from Aurora’s split lip.

"What happened to you two?" Reagan asks, his eyes wide with disbelief as he takes in their disheveled appearances.

Barjan raises an eyebrow, his lips twitching upward in amusement. "You could’ve called," he says with a smirk. "I would’ve been more than happy to join the fun."

Duncan shakes his head as he drops into a chair, crossing his arms with an impatient sigh. "I don’t care," he says flatly, his tone brusque. "Just get on with it. I have more important things to do."

Eris lets a grin stretch across his bruised face, the gesture pulling painfully at his cut lip, though he doesn’t seem to mind. He turns to Aurora with a glint of provocation in his eyes.

"Aurora has some things to share with us," he announces, his tone smug. "Right, sister?"

Aurora sighs.

-.-

Lucien freezes the moment he sees her. His eyes widen, his face goes rigid.

“What the hell happened to you?” he asks.

Aurora waves a hand dismissively, her shoulders barely lifting in a half-hearted shrug.

“A little disagreement,” she says flatly. She runs her fingers through her hair, trying to smooth it down. “Nothing serious.”

Lucien steps closer, his gaze locked on the scrapes and bruises marring her face. “I’ll go get my father. He can—”

“No.”

She cuts him off, calm but firm. Her eyes meet his, steady.

“I don’t need treatment. I need a favor.”

A pause. A breath taken.

“Can you take me to Velaris?”

BONUS SCENE

Azriel finds himself in the middle of an ambush.

An interrogation orchestrated by his nosy brothers, who barge into his room without even knocking. Rhysand sits across from him, eyes fixed on Azriel with a knowing smirk, as if he can read straight into his soul. Cassian, on the other hand, looks on the verge of tears, his ridiculous sentimentality on full display.

To make matters worse, they’ve brought wine — the kind reserved for only the most important occasions. The sight of the bottle, placed with dramatic reverence on the corner table, makes Azriel audibly grind his teeth.

“Out,” he growls, voice low and laced with a warning that promises consequences if they don’t leave immediately.

“You’re in no position to give orders,” Rhysand replies coolly, leaning back in his chair. His piercing gaze settles on Azriel, leaving no room for negotiation. “Now, talk.”

Cassian, meanwhile, moves to the bed, settling in with exaggerated comfort. He crosses his legs and beams at Azriel, his smile glowing with excitement. “I knew this day would come,” he declares, voice full of emotion, as if witnessing the climax of a long-awaited prophecy.

Azriel glares at them both, his patience wearing thinner by the second.

“I met my mate,” Azriel says flatly, offering no details.

His brothers stare at him expectantly, waiting for more. He offers nothing. The room sinks into heavy silence.

Cassian eventually lets out a frustrated sound, throwing up his hands. “Care to elaborate?” he asks, voice tinged with exasperation.

“No,” Azriel snaps, his tone making it abundantly clear he has no intention of indulging them further.

Cassian groans, and Rhysand smiles smugly, leaning back as if he had fully anticipated this level of stoicism.

“Then I’ll share what I know,” Rhysand begins smoothly, his tone dripping with satisfaction. “Aurora Vanserra, according to Amren, is — and I quote — ‘a wet dream for any male or female with a functioning pair of eyes.’” His amusement is evident. “Secondly,” he continues, “she’s as beautiful as she is dangerous. And based on the first statement, that paints a rather alarming picture.”

He sighs theatrically, brushing invisible dust from his clothes with exaggerated flair.

“Third, and certainly not least,” he adds, eyes gleaming with mischief, “she’s a Vanserra, recruited into the Cadre, a full-fledged Shadow Singer, and the General of a rather infamous fleet.” He raises his hands in mock surrender, his tone light and teasing as he concludes, “Congratulations, Azriel. Quite the catch.”

Cassian whistles as he pops the cork, the sound sharp and cheerful. “To Azriel,” he declares, raising the bottle in a mock toast before taking a generous sip.

Azriel doesn’t even glance at him; his attention remains locked on the High Lord, his gaze sharp and unyielding. “Why do you look so pleased?” he asks.

Rhysand arches a graceful brow, lips curving into a faint smile. “My brother finds his mate after five hundred years — and I shouldn’t be pleased?” he replies sweetly, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Azriel clenches his jaw. “I met her because you sent me to spy on her. You told me she was a threat to keep an eye on,” he says, voice sharp and laced with accusation. “And I highly doubt that her being my friend made you change your mind in a matter of hours.”

Rhysand leans back slightly, his smug smile never faltering, but his gaze sharpens. Cassian pauses mid-sip, sensing the shift, and his grin falters slightly as the atmosphere grows heavier.

“I haven’t changed my mind about her,” Rhysand replies with composed certainty, his voice measured and firm. “But the circumstances have undeniably changed, wouldn’t you agree?” He rises with effortless grace, spreading his arms in a gesture that’s both elegant and theatrical.

“I sent you to ensure she wouldn’t become a problem for us, given her notable family ties. But now, if your bond strengthens, such measures will no longer be necessary. She wouldn’t dare threaten the Court or the family of her mate, which means we no longer have to consider eliminating her.”

Every ounce of logic is thrown to the wind as instinct takes full control, clouding his vision in a haze of pure, primal fury.

It doesn’t matter that the words come from his High Lord. It doesn’t matter who is speaking.
All Azriel knows is that this is a threat — and the threat is aimed at his mate.

“Touch her, Rhys. Even just look at her the wrong way, and I’ll kill you,” he growls, voice low and lethal.

Rhysand presses a hand to his chest in mock sincerity, his expression shifting into exaggerated sentimentality.

“Look at you,” he says, his tone dripping with fake emotion. “Already hopelessly in love.”

Azriel lunges forward, shadows pulsing around him with barely restrained fury, but Cassian reacts instantly, blocking him with practiced ease.

“Listen, Az,” Cassian says, calm but firm, his strong hands gripping Azriel’s shoulders like an anchor. “The fact that she’s your mate doesn’t change the fact that she’s still a stranger.” He gives a small shrug.

“But that’s okay,” he continues, his voice softening as a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips.
“When you get to know her, she won’t be a stranger to you anymore. And when we get to know her, she won’t be a stranger to us either. That’s all Rhys meant.”

Cassian places a hand on Azriel’s shoulder — a warm, reassuring squeeze.

“Tonight isn’t about fighting,” he adds with a crooked smile. “We’re here because, believe it or not, we’re genuinely happy for you.”

His words hang in the air, steady and sincere, and for a moment, the tension in Azriel’s shoulders begins to ease.

Cassian’s reassurance feels like a bridge between the storm in Azriel’s chest and the weight of reality pressing down on him.

“You’re both assuming she wants to be bound to me,” Azriel says sharply, his gaze flicking between them.

How could she possibly want to be tied to something as broken as me?

Cassian wags a finger in front of his face, his expression stern.

“No,” he scolds. “Stop that right now, or I’ll go get Nesta to knock some sense into that empty head of yours.”

Rhysand tilts his head slightly, amusement lighting his violet eyes as a knowing smile curves his lips.

“Aurora,” he begins, voice calm and deliberate, “shared with Amren the exact hour she’ll arrive at the Day Court two mornings from now. So that you can find her.”

His tone sharpens with subtle emphasis, each word aimed at piercing through Azriel’s doubt.

“That doesn’t exactly sound like someone who isn’t interested in seeing you.”

The words hit Azriel with startling precision, each one slicing through the armor of his uncertainty. He struggles to suppress the way his heart stutters, the way it clings desperately to the smallest flickers of hope buried in that moment.

Could she really want this? Want me?

Azriel exhales slowly, his breathing evening out as he shifts his shoulders, the tension beginning to melt away.

He lifts a hand toward Cassian, his voice low but steady. “Give me the bottle.”

Cassian lets out a triumphant shout, his victory cry echoing through the room like he’s just won a great battle.

“I knew you’d come around!” he exclaims, his grin so wide it nearly splits his face as he hands over the bottle with near-ceremonial reverence.

Rhysand, ever composed, slings an arm casually around Azriel’s shoulders. A flicker of satisfaction lights his face as he watches him, amusement dancing in his gaze.

“I think everything’s going to work out just fine,” Rhys murmurs softly.

“And how can you be so sure?” Azriel asks, voice sharp and skeptical.

“Because,” Rhysand replies, his smile deepening, “of all the thoughts racing through your mind, the horror of being related to Eris didn’t even cross it.”

Chapter Text

An immense green expanse stretches before her, the plains rippling under the gentle caress of a breeze.

Mountains loom in the distance, their jagged peaks piercing the horizon like ancient sentinels. 

She knows that, aside from Velaris, the vast territories of the Night Court are mostly scattered villages and war fields. And, of course, it’s so immense it doesn’t have just one court — but two.

Azriel has tried to explain that the Hewn City has nothing to do with his court, and Rhysand is perfectly comfortable leaving the most dangerous part of his territory under the care of his uncle, who is strictly forbidden from crossing the borders of the Court of Nightmares.

“Want to tell me what happened?” Lucien asks. “You walked into the palace like you'd been hit by a caravan of wild horses. Congrats on the dramatics."

He’s not wrong.

The moment he agreed to escort her to the Night Court, she healed every mark Eris left on her. Every bruise. Every cut. Every reminder of what had happened.

She wasn’t going to walk into unfamiliar territory looking like she’d been beaten bloody.
It didn’t matter that Eris wouldn’t have dared touch her if she hadn’t allowed it.

It was the only way to end a war that had been simmering beneath the surface for years, without letting it explode.

But how could she ever explain it to Azriel?

How could she look him in the eye and say, “I let him hit me.”

And more than that, she didn’t want to give anyone another reason to distrust her brother.

She didn’t want them to look at him and see a monster.

They wouldn’t understand.

No one ever does.

“I’m fine now, aren’t I?” she replies, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

Lucien doesn’t answer right away. His gaze lingers, searching her face like he’s trying to read a language she refuses to speak.

“One day,” says Lucien, his voice low, almost tired, “you’ll have to tell me how you do it.”

She gives him a faint smile, sharp at the edges. “Don’t hold your breath,” she replies. “I’d prefer it stayed between us.”

“Why?”

“No particular reason. Just to avoid some unpleasant questions.”

“You mean Azriel.”

“Can you do it or not?”

Lucien clenches his teeth, the muscle in his jaw ticking. “Fine.”

“Thank you,” she smiles, turning to glance at him over her shoulder. “Our first brotherly secret. Isn’t that thrilling?”

He gives her a dark look.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she warns, voice low, almost amused. “It’s just one little thread in the tapestry.”

Lucien’s jaw tightens, but he says nothing.

She looks around. “What do we do now?”

“Now, we wait,” he replies.

“Wait for what?”

“Me.”

A male voice tears through the quiet, rumbling like thunder.

Aurora flinches, instincts flaring as she spins around, blade gleaming in the daylight.

“General Vanserra,” says Rhysand, with a tilt of his head and a smile that tastes of poison hidden in honey. “What an honor to receive you without warning.”

If she weren’t frozen in place, if she could breathe, her first thought would be that the High Lord of the Night is so beautiful it’s nauseating.

But breath doesn’t come, and the thought shatters.

All she can see is violet.

Nightshade, like poison wrapped in silk.

Amethyst, like the silence before the scream.

Rhysand’s smile fades into a cruel grin, and his eyes darken until indigo gives way to obsidian.

Too similar to what Aurora once saw in the dark, believing it was light.

She swallows hard, her throat dry as she struggles to regain balance.

The knife in her hand trembles.

“Aurora,” Lucien’s whisper seems loud enough to make her jump.

She blinks.

Maeve vanishes.

Rhysand is still there.

But it’s no relief.

It’s just another face staring too long.

He’s no longer smiling. His eyes scan her, cataloguing.

Aurora wants to scream.

“I think my sister needs assistance,” Lucien says to Rhysand.

“No,” she responds too quickly. Her voice comes out as a hiss, broken, too sharp to be controlled.

She bows at the waist, hands behind her back, eyes lowered. Anything to avoid meeting those eyes.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, High Lord.”

Please stop looking at me.

“I apologize for the unannounced arrival,” she adds.

A strange pressure invades her mind.

It begins as a faint tingling, then sharpens — like the onset of a migraine.

Someone is trying to enter.

To read.

To take.

Fear gives way to fury.

Her head jerks up, eyes sharp enough to kill.

“I would advise you not to invade my mind, High Lord,” Aurora says, low and dangerous. “It wouldn’t be wise to create a problem where there isn’t one.”

Rhysand’s lips curl into a faint smile. A flicker of amusement flashes in his gaze.

“Rhysand,” Lucien hisses, voice low but sharp.

“Forgive me for the intrusion,” he adds, in a velvety voice. “My curiosity overcame courtesy.” He feigns sincerity with the effortless grace of someone who never intended to offer it in the first place.

“You have impressive mental shields, General.”

Aurora resists the urge to glance at the ring on her finger, which hums faintly with protective magic. She makes a silent vow to gift William something very expensive.

Instead, she shrugs, feigning indifference.

Rhysand turns to her brother. “You may go, Lucien,” he says in a dismissive tone. “I’ll see you later.”

Lucien nods, turns, his features softening as he looks at Aurora. His chest rises and falls in a slow breath. “See you soon,” he says quietly.

“Thanks for coming with me,” she mutters, a shadow of warmth in her voice. “You’re not such a terrible brother after all.”

Lucien gives her a small smile—tight, reluctant, but real. Then, with a shimmer of light and a rush of wind, he winnows away.

In the clearing remained only her and the most dangerous male in all Prythian.

The silence stretches until Rhysand’s shoulders slowly drop, the tension bleeding out of him.

“It’s strange,” he murmurs, voice low. “You’re afraid of me just as much as I’m afraid of you.”

Aurora doesn’t respond.

He gestures faintly with one hand, as if trying to grasp something that keeps slipping through his fingers.

"So, my dear General, in what delightful balance do we find ourselves now?"

Aurora tilts her head, then exhales softly. “I suppose it leaves us in a place where I’ll have to trust you not to melt my brain.”

“Then I’ll have to trust you not to burn half my territory to the ground.”

“I’d never do that,” she murmurs.

"I have no intention of destroying your mind either," he assures. “I’m sorry about earlier,” he adds, and this time, it sounds real. “I just wanted to understand what drove you to show up here.”

Aurora refrains from showing her teeth, "Next time, just ask."

“I will.”

“I’m here because I wanted to thank you for the gold you sent,” she tells him, ignoring the unspoken question. “It’s far more than I ever could have gathered on my own.”

Rhysand leans back slightly, his shoulders relaxing as he slips his hands into his pockets.

The gesture is casual, effortless—like he has all the time in the world.

“You’re welcome,” he says with a knowing smile. “Azriel told me about your project, and I wanted to contribute.”

Aurora presses her lips into a thin, taut line, the tension in her jaw unmistakable.

“I’d also like to know what you want in return.”

Rhysand’s face remains perfectly composed, his features carved into that infallible mask of polite interest.

“What do you mean?” he asks, his voice smooth as velvet.

Aurora exhales sharply. Her patience, already worn thin, begins to fray.

“No one sends a mountain of gold without expecting something back,” she observes, her tone clipped, her gaze narrowing. “And I’m not the kind to leave debts unpaid.”

Rhysand shrugs. “Azriel told me you’d take in Illyrian children, if given the chance,” he replies, voice steady. “I wanted to give you one.”

He steps forward. “The only condition,” he continues, “is that you truly do it. Take the Illyrian children, I mean. And protect them.”

Aurora studies him, tilting her head slightly.

“Why don’t you do it yourself?”

Something flickers across Rhysand’s face. Not guilt—but close.

His jaw tightens.

“Because if the High Lord starts taking children from the villages, there’ll be a revolt in the ranks. Something I can’t afford,” he says bitterly. “Whether they’re orphans or not matters little. Females are meant to breed, males to fight. That’s the Illyrian way. And I—” his voice falters for just a moment, “I can’t interfere. Not like that.”

“But you’d be the one permitting another Court to take them. Isn’t that the same?”

“If an orphan disappears, the blame usually falls on the frost of the night. No one will think I authorized something like this. We just need to avoid being caught in the act, and I trust Cassian will find a way.”

“And when they find out where the children actually ended up and demand you bring them back?”

“As High Lord, I can’t enter the Autumn Court. And I can’t order its citizens to be dragged out by force; that would be an act of war. A few orphans wouldn’t be worth the chaos that would follow,” he says calmly. “If the children leave my court willingly, it’s not kidnapping, so I have no claim on them.” He sighs theatrically. “My hands will be tied. I won’t be able to do anything.”

“Smart.”

“That doesn’t mean others won’t try,” he says, turning serious again. “They’ll try to take them back. Don’t let it happen.”

He exhales, the sound quiet but resolute.

“Don’t give me a reason to regret this.”

The warning is clear.

You cannot fail.

“Once they’re in Autumn, no one will touch them.”

“Eris won’t want them in his territory.”

She presses her lips together. “I doubt my brother will oppose it. And if he does, I’ll handle it. You’ll stay out of it.”

Rhysand watches her, eyes slightly narrowed, calculating. “I assume Eris is aware of the bond.”

“Yes,” she confirms, expression unreadable. “He’s absolutely thrilled. He asked me to invite Azriel to dinner to discuss our future wedding.”

Rhysand’s lips twitch, a flicker of amusement lighting his face. “I see why Amren values you,” he says. “Azriel, however, is decidedly less pleased with her fascination.”

“I’d like to speak with him. Aizriel, I mean.” A pause. “If you grant me permission to enter Velaris.”

Rhysand’s smile fades, becoming something more contemplative.

“You don’t strike me as someone who asks for permission,” he observes.

“No,” she agrees. “But I am someone who knows when it’s wise to pretend.”

Rhysand laughs softly, a low, rich sound that drifts through the air like smoke.

“At least he’ll stop prowling around like someone tore his wings off,” says Rhysand, in a tone that hides more concern than irony. “Cassian is tired of being his outlet. And I’m tired of not knowing what’s going on in his head. But with you, maybe he’ll talk.”

Aurora releases a held breath. “Thank you.”

“Don’t think I take this risk lightly,” Rhysand replies, his tone suddenly colder. “Most who enter my territory uninvited end up with their heads removed. Remember that.”

The warning hangs between them, sharp as freshly cracked glass.

Aurora doesn’t look away. The corner of her mouth lifts slightly, a gesture that’s neither smile nor challenge.

“I’ll keep that in mind, High Lord.”

“You’re my brother’s mate; you may call me Rhysand.”

“And you may call me General.”

-.-

Rhysand’s trust, tempered by caution, reveals itself in measured actions. 

Without ceremony, he extends a blindfold toward her.

"Put this on." His tone leaves no room for protest.

She takes the blindfold with steady hands, slipping it over her eyes with practiced ease.

Even in the absence of sight, her training takes over—every sound, every shift in the air becomes part of the map she constructs in her mind. But despite her sharpened instincts, she knows they are meaningless against Rhysand.

Her vigilance here is powerless.

"I hope you enjoy flying," Rhysand remarks, his voice rich with quiet amusement.

Before the meaning of his words fully sinks in, Aurora feels herself lifted from the ground, weightless in his arms, cradled like a bride.

A soft, startled sound slips from Aurora’s lips. Her hands reach instinctively for Rhysand’s shoulders, clutching for balance as the wind tears past her, brushing against the edges of the blindfold like a taunt.

The air engulfs her, vast and relentless, a rushing expanse that overwhelms her senses. The cold presses against her skin, sharp and invasive, threading through her too-thin clothing with an unforgiving bite. The wind rushes around her, threading through her clothes with relentless fingers that remind her, too late, of her mistake in leaving a heavier cloak behind.

Scents invade the void—pine, rich earth, and the faint, crystalline tang of snow carried by the wind. Each breath feels as though it cuts through her lungs, crisp and unrelenting, each detail heightened in the absence of sight. She clings to these fragments, letting them ground her, though they do little to ease the tight coil of unease tightening in her chest.

The descent begins, sudden and steep, pulling a startled, undignified squeak from Aurora’s lips. She hears Rhysand laugh, unapologetically smug. The air loses its icy edge as they plunge lower, warmer currents wrapping around her as the journey slows and finally halts.

Aurora feels her feet touch solid ground with care as Rhysand sets her down. He pulls the blindfold from her eyes. "Here we are," he says, his voice brimming with self-satisfaction.

Aurora forces herself to break the connection, her gaze faltering as it drops away from Rhysand’s face.

His eyes are too close enough to stir ghosts she thought she’d buried.

She steps back, the distance a frail barrier between her and the closeness she cannot endure. Her gaze shifts beyond Rhysand and –

Oh.

Velaris rises beneath the shining sun, its rooftops catching the light like embers refusing to die.

Every dome, every spire, stands like a challenge to the world beyond.

Her gaze is pulled outward, past the city’s delicate curves to the mountains, their jagged crowns cutting into the horizon. Beyond even them lies the sea, a vast expanse shimmering with the alchemy of sunlight and water.

The waves roll and catch the light of the day, a dance of gold and blue that seems to whisper secrets to the sky.

It’s everything Aurora had envisioned and so much more.

"Does Velaris meet your expectations, General?" Rhysand’s voice comes low, carrying that silken thread of pride.

"It’s not bad," she says, the word slipping free unbidden. "I can see why you have given everything to protect it."

Rhysand’s smirk fades into something quieter, more thoughtful. His gaze returns to the city, shadowed by memories she cannot see. "Not everyone would agree."

“Everyone doesn’t have this.”

Rhysand lets out a soft hum of acknowledgment, his gaze still lingering on Velaris as though seeing it for the first time. "No, they don’t," he replies, his voice dipped in quiet reverence.

Aurora tilts her head slightly, her own gaze returning briefly to the horizon.

"Where are we?" she asks.

"The House of Wind," Rhysand answers, his violet eyes flicking back to her, glimmering faintly in the dimming light. "A fitting vantage point for your introduction to Velaris, don’t you think?"

Aurora frowns slightly as she glances toward the steep mountains, the endless drop beneath them.

Her stomach tightens as realization dawns.

There’s no road here, no path carved into the rockface for mortal or immortal feet. Even if there were stairs, she doubts her injured leg could carry her far, let alone manage the sheer drop that stretches endlessly before her.

The only way to reach—or leave—the place is by flight. Wings or the mercy of a carrier.

She shoots Rhysand a sidelong glance, the faintest trace of amusement mingling with the sharpness in her expression. "Very thoughtful of you," her voice dry, though a flicker of respect lurks beneath the words.

Rhysand’s smile edges back into play, but his expression is unreadable—a perfect blend of charm and calculation. "You’re welcome," he replies, infuriatingly smooth, as though she’d paid him a compliment rather than pointing out his clever, inescapable choice.

"Is this your home?" Aurora asks, her tone measured, curiosity flickering as her gaze sweeps the space.

Rhysand shakes his head. “I gave it to Cassian and Nesta as a mating gift," he replies with a casual shrug. "Azriel lives here, too."

The wind brushes sharply around them, and her thoughts wander, piecing together what this isolated house might mean for those who call it home.

"Follow me."

Aurora falls in step behind him, but without a cane to assist her and with her leg still weak from the flooding incident and the earlier fight with Eris, her movements are awkward, a limp betraying her effort to maintain composure.

Rhysand glances over his shoulder, one brow arching slightly in silent inquiry. "Having trouble with your leg?" he asks, his tone light, almost teasing.

Aurora responds with a sharp wave of her hand, the tension in her jaw unmistakable. "As if you didn’t already know," she snaps, her voice cutting with pointed irritation.

Rhysand doesn’t press further. Instead, he exhales softly—a quiet scoff, tinged with amusement.

The walls and floors are made entirely from warm, polished wood, and the space radiates a quiet, inviting magic. It lingers in the air like a sweet undertone, gently brushing against her skin and filling the silence between them.

There’s a welcoming quality to it, yet its origins stay just out of reach.

“Azriel is on his way,” Rhysand informs her, turning just slightly. “He’s with Cassian in the Hewn City. They had a matter to resolve.”

Aurora lifts a brow, her gaze sharpening.

Rhysand says nothing more, but taps a finger against his temple with a slow, almost distracted motion.

“I notified him the moment you crossed into my court. I imagine he’s tearing his wings apart to get here.”

She shouldn’t be surprised. She knows well the power Rhysand commands. And yet, something in the way he says it—with that unshakable calm—makes her stomach tighten.

The sky beyond the tall windows is a limpid, endless cerulean. 

Rhysand walks with the calm of someone who owns every stone beneath his feet.

Eventually, he stops before a wide door of dark wood, carved with patterns of stars and outstretched wings.

With the barest flick of his hand, it opens, and Aurora hesitates at the threshold—before the velvet-lined sofas, the quiet fire casting a discreet warmth, and the vast windows that overlooked the world below.

Velaris shines in the distance, like a handful of scattered gems strewn across the land.

“You may wait here,” he says, his tone more command than invitation. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back soon.”

It sounds more like a warning than a courtesy.

“If you need anything, you can ask the house,” he adds over his shoulder before disappearing down the long corridor they’d come through.

Aurora remains still for a moment, her gaze fixed on the empty doorway.

“Ask the house?” she murmurs, perplexed. “What the fuck am I supposed to ask a house?”

No answer.

She lets out a frustrated sound, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, until finally she huffs and drops onto one of those damned comfortable couches.

The cushions give way beneath her like clouds, and she sighs, sinking deeper.

The fire crackles softly in the hearth, casting golden light across the smooth stone walls. The sitting room is vast, but not cold. Every corner seems designed to welcome, to shield.

She stays silent, fingers tapping lightly against her knee—the sound muffled, swallowed by the stillness of the room. Her gaze drifts, bored. No voices. No footsteps. Just her, and the elegant emptiness of a house far too quiet.

Are they watching me?

There is no one here, mistress.

She sighs.

…You could take a nap.

Silence.

“He could’ve at least left me something to read,” she mutters, voice dry.

A dull thump makes her jump.

A book.

Right in front of her.

She freezes, staring at it. The shadows don’t move.

“Of all the things I’ve seen,” she exhales to herself, “this is definitely one of the strangest.”

Aurora leans forward, cautiously, and picks it up.

Enchanted Caresses in the Brothel of the Lost Fae.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

-.-

That book is absolute trash.

And yet she can’t stop reading it.

The words are ridiculous, the plot absurd—but her fingers keep turning the pages. She needs to know if Cleope will kiss the sorcerer. It doesn’t matter that she’s a poor prostitute and he a noble.
They’ll find a way to be together. She’s sure of it.

Someone is coming.

Her hand freezes mid-turn of the page.

Then she hears it—soft, deliberate footsteps. Not Rhysand’s. These are lighter, quieter. Measured.

Aurora’s gaze sharpens, her body tensing. Muscles coiled, ready. Her fingers slide off the book as she lifts her gaze.

The female’s beauty is undeniable.

Had Aurora not crossed paths with Aelin or Manon, she might have considered her the most captivating being she’d ever seen. Even so, she easily earns her place among them.

Yet something in her eyes sends a chill skittering down Aurora’s spine. They hold a depth that feels endless, a quiet abyss threatening to pull her in. It reminds Aurora of the first time she faced Aelin— that trembling awareness of confronting something immeasurable, a force both powerful and unknowable.

The memory surfaces unbidden, sharpening the unease stirring in her chest.

“So, you’re Eris’s sister. The Cadre.”

The words hang in the air, sharp and deliberate.

Aurora senses her shadows stretching toward the edges of every room, restless and watchful, as though ready to react at the slightest provocation. It's as if they can feel the gravity of being near this female, an unease that hums in the air like a warning.

Perhaps the shadows have perceived something she hasn’t yet grasped.

Aurora doesn’t rise from the couch. She tilts her head slightly, eyes narrowing with quiet curiosity.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” she says, voice smooth but edged. “I have no idea who you are.”

The female standing in the doorway doesn’t flinch. Her silhouette is framed by the firelight and the fading glow from the windows, her posture regal, her gaze sharp.

"Strange that you don't know who I am," she replies, advancing with a regal stride. "Considering you're occupying my sitting room."

Ah.

Nesta Archeron.

The human forged anew by the Cauldron’s will.

Aurora wonders what else had emerged alongside her that day.

Nesta’s gaze doesn’t waver, piercing, relentless, as if testing Aurora’s resolve. She fights to hold it, refusing to flinch, yet it’s like staring into the endless void of eternity itself. And eternity, it seems, is staring back.

“A pleasure,” Aurora replies, her tone smooth, almost amused. “Thanks for having me.”

Nesta snorts as she steps fully into the room, her posture sharp, her expression unreadable.

"No need to thank me. I had no idea you were even here. Rhysand chose not to tell me. As always."

Aurora closes the book with a quiet thud, her fingers lingering on the worn cover. “I’m sorry for invading your home, then,” she says, voice calm. “I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”

Nesta doesn’t respond. She crosses the room with slow, deliberate steps and sits on the couch opposite Aurora, her movements precise, controlled.

She curls her lip slightly, but doesn’t seem inclined to continue the conversation.

Aurora studies her for a moment, then speaks, her voice softer now.

“Azriel told me you’ve reformed the Valkyries,” she says. “I’m glad. I used to love those stories as a child.”

"We’re still in training," Nesta responds, her tone poised. "But we make steady progress. Cassian and Azriel have been invaluable. We’re fortunate to have them. They are the finest warriors in Prythian."

"After me," Aurora counters, the faintest glimmer of amusement flickering behind her gaze.

Nesta’s eyes sharpen, glinting like tempered steel. "That remains to be seen," she replies, cool and unyielding, a challenge woven deftly into each syllable.

Aurora shifts comfortably on the sofa, unaffected by the insult in Nesta’s tone. If anything, it amuses her.

At Nesta’s age, Aurora herself hadn’t been permitted beyond the palace walls without an escort. And yet here was this young female, not only holding her own but claiming she could train warriors.

The sheer audacity of it entertains Aurora more than it should.

She’s going to enjoy this.

“I get the feeling you don’t like me, Nesta Archeron,” she observes calmly. “And I find myself wondering why.”

Nesta doesn’t answer right away. She sits stiffly, her torso slightly leaning forward, elbows resting on her knees, fingers interlaced.

“It’s not me you need to like.”

“I’d still like to know.”

“Why?”

“You’re his family,” Aurora remarks. “Azriel knows what my family thinks of him, and he accepts it anyway. So”—she gestures with a flick of her hand—“go ahead. Tell me what you think.”

Nesta doesn’t answer right away. She studies Aurora with that unflinching stare, the kind that cuts through armor and pretense alike. Her silence is deliberate, heavy.

“Just remember,” she warns at last, voice like tempered steel, “you asked for this.”

Aurora inclines her head, accepting the blow before it lands.

“Azriel never says what he thinks or feels,” Nesta begins, her tone calm but laced with precision. “So most of the time, it’s hard to know what’s going on in that head of his. But I remember his face the day he was supposed to meet you at the Day Court.”

She pauses, eyes narrowing.

“And then, as the weeks passed, that emotion disappeared. If I’d never seen Azriel so excited before, I can tell you I’d never seen him so exhausted either.”

Aurora remains silent. Her heart feels heavier with every word.

Nesta doesn’t stop.

Her fingers curl into her palms, knuckles whitening. Her breathing is steady, but her eyes burn—not with rage, but with something colder. Fierce. Protective.

“What happens between you two isn’t my business,” she says. “But it becomes my problem when someone in my family suffers because a female keeps his heart dangling by a thread.”

Her voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to.

“Maybe you thought it didn’t matter. Maybe you thought it was easier to keep him hidden—like something to be ashamed of.”

Aurora’s breath catches.

“I saw him sneaking out of Velaris at impossible hours. Pushing himself past his limits just to find time for you. I saw how hard he tried to make space for you in his world.”

Nesta leans forward, slow and deliberate. Her finger lifts, pointing directly at Aurora.

“Your behavior is hurting my brother,” she accuses, voice low and unwavering. “And that’s all I need to confirm to you that no. I don’t like you.”

For a long moment, Aurora just looks at her.

Her thoughts are focused on the fact that Nesta Archeron would be far more tolerable without vocal cords.

But Azriel would never forgive her.

And cleaning up the blood would be a nightmare.

“You’re right,” she admits instead. “It’s none of your business, and I don’t owe you an explanation.”

Something flashes in Nesta’s eyes. The kind of flash that comes before a storm. Her finger curls back into a fist, like she’s restraining herself from doing something far more physical.

“What I can tell you,” Aurora continues, turning her gaze toward the window, “is that I never meant to hurt Azriel. Even though I was warned it might happen.”

Her voice softens, but not with weakness.

“He was never the problem. And he’s certainly not something I’m ashamed of.”

She turns back to Nesta, who hasn’t moved, hasn’t blinked.

“There’s a lot between me and Azriel that goes far beyond secret meetings behind my brothers’ backs,” she explains. “I hope, in time, you’ll change your mind about me. I already have enough family members who don’t like this bond.”

The smile that follows is dry, sardonic.

Nesta blinks once. “You told them about Azriel?”

“It had to happen eventually,” Aurora shrugs. “They don’t approve, but they won’t stop it either. I think they’re hoping it’ll burn itself out. Eris certainly is.”

Nesta leans back slowly into the couch. Her posture eases—just slightly.

“I still don’t like you.”

“That’s a shame. I was looking forward to meeting you.”

Nesta arches a brow. “Really?”

“What you’re doing with the Valkyries, and why you’re doing it—it’s something I never thought I’d see in this lifetime. Not in Prythian.”

“I wouldn’t have done anything if Cassian hadn’t put a sword in my hand.”