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The fire had burned low in the hearth, embers glowing weakly, like a heart that had forgotten how to beat.
Lysandra stood in the doorway of the study, arms folded, watching Aedion where he sat hunched over the desk. His shoulders were broad as ever, but they slumped in a way they hadn’t during the war, not from exhaustion, but from something heavier. Something hollow.
“You’ve barely spoken to me in three days,” she said, her voice quiet but sharp enough to cut the stale air between them.
Aedion didn’t look up. “I’ve been busy.”
“With what?” She crossed the room, the soft tread of her boots on the rug sounding louder than it should. “Brooding? Pretending you’re still out there on a battlefield instead of here with me?”
His jaw ticked, the only sign her words had landed. “You don’t understand.”
“I do,” she snapped. “I understand you’re drowning. I understand you’re hurting. And I’ve been here, every day, holding this together while you barely exist.” She leaned forward, bracing her hands on the desk. “But a relationship takes two people, Aedion. And right now, I’m the only one in it.”
That got his eyes on her, stormy, tired, and already defensive. “So what, you want me to just move on? Forget everything?”
“No,” she said, the word trembling with frustration. “I want you to live. I didn’t fight my way out of chains, I didn’t survive this war, just to spend the rest of my life with someone who’s still shackled to ghosts.”
His silence was louder than shouting.
And in that silence, she realized, maybe for the first time that she was already halfway out the door.
Lysandra turned and walked out before he could answer. Her steps were steady, but each one felt like it cracked something brittle inside her.
The door to the study clicked softly shut behind her, and there, leaning against the opposite wall stood Evangeline.
The girl’s arms were folded, her coppery hair falling into her eyes. She didn’t look surprised. Not at all.
“How much did you hear?” Lysandra asked.
Evangeline gave a shrug too practiced for her age. “Enough.” Her gaze flicked toward the closed door. “It’s always the same.”
Lysandra’s throat tightened. She wanted to say something to defend him, to soften it, but the truth was a heavy stone in her mouth. She didn’t want to hand her daughter, in all sense of the word, even if not by blood, another lie.
“I’m going outside,” Evangeline said, her voice brightening as she pushed off the wall. “Fenrys said he’d help me practice shooting if I brought the bow you got me.”
And just like that, the heaviness cracked. A smile, small and unguarded touched Evangeline’s mouth at the mention of his name.
They stepped out into the crisp afternoon air together. Across the yard, Fenrys was already waiting, lounging against the fence in his wolf form, tail sweeping the ground in lazy arcs.
The moment Evangeline spotted him, she broke into a run, the bow clutched awkwardly under one arm. Fenrys bounded forward, a silver streak, and the two collided in a tumble of laughter and fur. She buried her hands in his thick coat, whispering something only he could hear. His ears twitched, and she giggled.
Lysandra lingered on the porch. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Evangeline look that light. That free.
Fenrys nosed at the bow, then trotted toward the line of trees, glancing back with a look that seemed almost like an invitation. Evangeline chased after him without hesitation, her laughter trailing behind them like a ribbon in the wind.
Lysandra stayed where she was, the chill air biting at her cheeks, her chest heavy. The contrast between the warmth out there and the cold she’d just left inside was sharp enough to hurt.
Lysandra’s fingers curled around the porch railing as she watched them disappear toward the tree line, Evangeline with her bow bouncing at her side, Fenrys loping beside her like some oversized shadow made of silver light.
Behind her, a faint rustle, the kind you’d miss if you weren’t a shifter yourself. A crow landed on the railing post, black eyes glinting with a knowing look.
The bird shimmered, feathers giving way to muscle and skin, until Falkon stood there in his human form, arms folding loosely over his chest.
“You know this isn’t working,” he said quietly, voice carrying none of judgment, only truth.
Lysandra kept her gaze on the field. “It’s not that simple.”
“It is,” Falkon countered, stepping to stand beside her. “You can only do so much for someone who refuses to help themselves. If you stay in that storm, you’ll drown right alongside them.”
She said nothing.
“Look at him,” Falkon went on, nodding toward the glint of silver fur weaving through the tall grass. “Fenrys endured years of the kind of abuse most wouldn’t survive. And he’s still standing. Still finding ways to give what he has left to others.”
Lysandra’s gaze tracked the wolf as he let Evangeline race ahead, then darted after her at the last moment, letting her win with a delighted squeal.
Falkon’s tone softened. “Sometimes, the right person isn’t the one you’ve promised yourself to. Sometimes it’s the one who reminds you what breathing feels like.”
Lysandra didn’t answer Falkon. Couldn’t.
The words clung to her like burrs, sharp and impossible to shake loose. She’d given years to Aedion, through the rebuilding, through the long nights when sleep wouldn’t come, through the moments when he’d look at her but not really see her. She’d told herself it was loyalty, that love meant staying even when the shine dulled, even when the laughter stopped.
But loyalty shouldn’t feel like chains.
Her chest tightened as she watched Fenrys and Evangeline tumble into the meadow’s golden light. The girl’s laugh carried on the wind, unrestrained and bright, the kind of sound Lysandra hadn’t made in years.
It wasn’t about Fenrys. It couldn’t be. It was about the way being near him made her remember there was more to life than surviving. That there could be warmth without weight, kindness without condition.
And that terrified her.
Because if Falkon was right, if she admitted, even for a moment, that there was another way to live then she’d have to face the truth that what she and Aedion had wasn’t love.
And once you saw that truth, there was no unseeing it.
The following morning was brittle with frost, the kind that clung to the grass like shards of glass.
Lysandra fastened the last strap of her leathers, stretching her shoulders as her muscles ached for movement for release. “I’m going to hunt,” she said into the quiet of the sitting room. Her gaze lingered on Aedion, a silent invitation in the tilt of her head.
For a heartbeat, she thought he might come. That the man who’d once matched her stride for stride, who’d once found joy in running beside her, would take the chance.
But he only shifted his weight, his eyes dull with whatever storm still brewed in him, and turned without a word. The door to their chamber clicked shut behind him.
The hollow thud echoed longer than it should have.
“Need company?”
The voice came from behind her, warm and rough with the early hour. Fenrys leaned against the doorway, one brow arched in a way that was somehow both casual and attentive.
She hesitated. He didn’t push.
“I could use the exercise,” he added lightly, and before she could refuse, he shimmered into the massive, moon coloured wolf.
Her own body rippled, bones reforming, fur cascading over her skin until the ghost leopard stood where the woman had been. Her paws sank into the frost with a satisfying crunch.
They moved without speaking, slipping into the trees where the world narrowed to scents and sounds. Fenrys’ instincts brushed against hers, not words, but impressions. A warning here, a suggestion there. Tilt your head. Step softer. Circle wider.
It was startling how much could be said without speech. How much could be understood.
They hunted as if they’d done so for years, two predators weaving through the forest in perfect synchronicity. And in that silence, in that shared pulse of movement, something ancient and unnameable stirred in her chest.
Not desire. Not yet. But the dangerous knowledge that this was what it felt like to be truly seen.
They slipped into the trees, and the world fell away until there was nothing but the damp scent of earth, the whisper of wind through pine, the sharp tang of prey on the air.
Fenrys’ presence brushed against hers in a way that was not touch, not words, but knowing. A nudge of instinct when her paw pressed too close to a twig, a ripple of warning when the wind shifted. Step left. Slow now. Circle wider.
It was seamless, the way they moved, two predators orbiting the same kill. Where her leap fell short, he was already there, cutting off escape. When his quarry bolted right, she was the shadow waiting in its path.
They didn’t look at one another. They didn’t need to. Every twitch of muscle, every shift in weight was read and answered without thought.
It was like slipping into a rhythm she’d forgotten she knew, one that didn’t demand, didn’t drain, only matched her, step for step, breath for breath.
And when the kill came, swift and clean, they stood over it for a moment, panting in the crisp air. She felt it then, that dangerous awareness unfurling in her chest.
They padded back through the trees side by side, paws sinking into the soft earth, the weight of their kills heavy in their jaws. The forest clung to them, the smell of pine, the rush of the chase still thrumming in their blood.
The small homestead came into view, smoke curling from the chimney. Aedion was on the porch, arms crossed, watching.
His gaze flicked over them, wolf and ghost leopard before settling on the bloodied hares dangling from Fenrys’ mouth. The muscle in his jaw tightened. Disgust, not at the kill, but at them.
Without a word, he turned and went back inside.
Lysandra shifted mid-stride, the cool air biting her skin. She dropped the hares at the steps, barely noticing as they thudded onto the wood. “I’ll handle it,” she murmured to Fenrys, before following Aedion in.
He was halfway to the kitchen, already pouring himself a drink.
“What is your problem?” she demanded.
“You tell me,” he shot back without turning. “Parading around with him like it’s your gods damned duty to make me look like a fool.”
Her laugh was short, sharp. “Parading? I went hunting. Something you haven’t offered to do in months.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“You’ve been absent,” she cut in. “You brood in court, you brood in here, and when you are around, you’re so wrapped up in your own misery you can’t even see me. Or Evangeline. Or anyone.”
His eyes snapped to hers, full of heat that wasn’t entirely anger. “And so you run to him?”
“I’m not running to anyone,” she said, voice low but steady. “I am done sitting here and withering beside a man who’s already given up on himself. I didn’t fight to be free of chains only to live in new ones.”
He scoffed, tossing back the rest of his drink. “Fine. If that’s how you see it.” He set the cup down with a clink. “I’ll go back to Terrasen.”
“Good,” she said, though the word tasted like ash.
His mouth curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “With pleasure.”
And without another glance, Aedion strode out the door, brushing past Fenrys on the porch as though he weren’t even there.
The door shut behind Aedion, leaving the room too quiet. Lysandra stood there for a long moment, chest heaving, the echo of his footsteps still in her ears.
A soft sound, the shift of weight on the porch drew her gaze to the doorway.
Fenrys stood there, half in shadow, still in his wolf form. His onyx eyes caught the light, unreadable, before he shifted back into a man with the easy grace of someone used to wearing two skins.
“I didn’t mean to overhear,” he said, voice careful. “Evangeline and Falkan are still in the gardens. I was waiting.”
She swallowed, unsure what to say, but he went on.
“I’ll leave,” Fenrys said quietly. “I never meant to cause problems between you two. I just—” He hesitated, jaw working. “If it’s not too much to ask, could I at least stay until I’ve said goodbye to Evangeline? And maybe still be in her life?”
The way he said it, like he already knew the answer might be no, cracked something in her.
“You don’t have to leave,” she said, surprising herself with how fierce it came out. She stepped toward him, chin lifting. “I won’t let a man control me ever again. I’m done with that life. And we didn’t do anything wrong.”
Before Fenrys could respond, Evangeline’s bright laughter drifted in from the garden. Moments later, she came bounding through the doorway, cheeks flushed from the afternoon sun.
“I saw Aedion leave,” she said, looking between them. “Where did he go? He didn’t even say goodbye.”
Lysandra’s throat tightened. “He’s gone back to Terrasen,” she said simply, offering no more.
From the open doorway, Falkan appeared, not in human form, but shifting from a small sparrow into himself, the movement so seamless it was easy to forget he’d likely been perched somewhere nearby, listening. His dark eyes flicked between Fenrys and Lysandra, assessing, before the faintest knowing smile touched his mouth.
“Evangeline,” he said gently, crouching to her height, “why don’t you take those vegetables you gathered and start getting them ready in the kitchen? I’ll be there in a moment to help.”
She nodded, giving Fenrys one last curious glance before disappearing inside.
Falkan straightened, his gaze returning to Lysandra. “Maybe it’s for the best. For now.” His voice was quiet but steady. “He has to heal himself and learn to love himself before he can offer anything real to a partnership.”
Fenrys shifted his weight, glancing toward the kitchen where Evangeline’s humming could already be heard. “I’ll go help her with the vegetables,” he said, his tone casual but his eyes lingering on Lysandra for half a heartbeat longer than necessary. Then he stepped past them, disappearing into the warm glow of the kitchen.
Falkan stayed where he was. They stood together in the narrow hallway, the sounds of chopping and Fenrys’ low voice drifting from the other room.
At first, neither of them spoke. The silence between them was not awkward, but weighted, as if Falkan were measuring his words before he spent them.
Finally, he said, “You’re strong, Lysandra. Stronger than you think.” His gaze didn’t waver. “You’ve given up enough in your life. Your youth. Your freedom. Your choices. You have to start enjoying it now. For you. Not for anyone else.”
Lysandra swallowed, unsure whether to thank him or argue. But Falkan only inclined his head in quiet acknowledgement, as if his point had been made, and turned toward the kitchen to join the others.
When dinner was served, they gathered around the table, the warm lamplight softening the edges of the long day.
Lysandra’s gaze drifted unbidden to where Fenrys sat beside Evangeline. He was doting without being overbearing, sliding the platter closer, spooning food onto her plate with an easy grace. They leaned toward each other, laughing at some private joke, their twin scars catching the light when their smiles deepened reminders of the cages they’d once broken free from.
Lysandra knew what it was to endure years in chains. She could not fathom what it had been like to endure centuries.
And yet here they were. Alive. Laughing.
She felt her own lips curve before she could stop them, not out of politeness, but because watching them together made something inside her ease. She didn’t feel guilty for it. Not anymore.
The clink of cutlery and Evangeline’s laughter faded with the night, but far away, in the frost bitten streets of Orynth, Aedion Ashryver returned home.
He dismounted at the palace gates, the snow crunched under Aedion’s boots as he strode into the palace courtyard, jaw tight, shoulders squared. He’d told himself the whole way here that he wasn’t running, just giving Lysandra space. But the sight of Rowan waiting by the doors, arms crossed, said otherwise.
Inside, Aelin was leaning back in her chair by the fire, a glass of wine in hand, her gold hair a crown of flame in the winter light. She didn’t bother standing when he entered.
“You want to hear the truth?” she said before he could speak, her voice as sharp as a drawn blade. “You never treated Lysandra the way she deserved. Not once. You’ve always been good at fighting for Terrasen, but when it came to fighting for people, you made it about you. About your wounds. About your pride.”
Aedion’s mouth twisted. “She’s falling for your little wolfy friend.”
Aelin’s eyes went ice cold. “That wolfy friend stood and watched me tortured. Watched his own twin take his life. And gods know what else in his centuries of existence. And still, that wolfy friend is living, breathing, thriving. Don’t you dare belittle him because you’re jealous.”
The words hit harder than any sword strike.
“You didn’t put her first,” she continued. “You barely put Evangeline first. And maybe that’s because you still don’t know how. You couldn’t forgive your father when you had the chance, and now he’s gone. Maybe with this heartbreak, you’ll finally learn, not to grip so hard to what you want, but to let others choose what they want. To realize you’re not the only one with demons to fight.”
By the time she was done, his chest felt hollow. “I need to learn from my errors,” he admitted quietly. “I need to be better.”
Aelin only lifted her glass. “Good. Start now.”
Rowan appeared at the doorway, two wooden training swords in hand. “Come on. Work it out the proper way.”
They went to the yard, boots slipping in the icy dusting on the stones. Rowan struck first, hard and fast, forcing Aedion to block without thought. The clash of wood rang sharp in the cold.
“You’re a good man,” Rowan said between blows, “but good men still make mistakes. It’s what we learn from them that matters.”
“I’m not giving up,” Aedion growled, parrying.
Rowan’s next hit came faster. “It’s not giving up, it’s letting go. If something’s meant for you, it’ll return.” He gave Aedion a long, knowing look, the kind that said he was well aware of who might be standing in Terrasen’s empty spaces now. “But clinging to what’s slipping away? That’s how you drown.”
Aedion faltered for half a heartbeat at the unspoken meaning and Rowan didn’t miss it. The older male pressed the advantage, driving him back step by step until Aedion’s back hit the training post.
Rowan only lowered his sword. “Heal yourself first, boy. Only then will you have anything worth giving someone else.”
The next morning, Fenrys found her already awake, sitting on the porch steps with her elbows on her knees, staring into the pale wash of dawn. Her hair was unbound, curling wild around her face, her eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the horizon.
“Fancy a morning run?” he asked, voice still rough from sleep.
She turned her head, and for the first time in days, there was the faintest glimmer in her gaze. “Why not.”
A breath later, fur rippled over skin, ghost leopard and white wolf. Without a word, they launched into the trees.
They ran.
And ran.
And ran.
Lysandra didn’t think about pace, or distance, or the steady rhythm of Fenrys at her flank. She only thought about leaving. Leaving the war behind. Leaving the memories of chains and screams. Leaving the ache of Aedion’s absence, of all the time spent giving until there was nothing left to give.
Her paws pounded the earth until her muscles burned, until even her ghost leopard strength threatened to give way. Still she pushed on, breath tearing from her lungs.
Her muscles burned, the ache settling deep into her bones despite the strength of her ghost leopard form. She pushed on anyway, paws tearing up the mossy earth, the thud of Fenrys’s wolf form steady at her flank like a second heartbeat.
The forest broke open onto a cliffside, and they skidded to a halt, the world spilling wide before them. Below, a grand plain rolled out in winter greens and golds, split by a silver river that curved toward a distant, thundering waterfall. Mist rose from it like a veil, catching the morning light in shards of color.
Lysandra dropped to her belly where the rock jutted over the edge, sides heaving. Fenrys padded up beside her, tail flicking once before he settled.
She let the exhaustion wash her clean. Let it strip her down to nothing but breath and heartbeat and the quiet hum of the wolf beside her.
When she lifted her head, his onyx eyes were already on her. Something tightened, no, pulled between them. A thread, invisible yet undeniable, stretched taut from her chest to his. She turned her head, and his eyes caught hers, molten and unblinking. Without thinking, she leaned closer, drawn not by choice but by gravity itself.
The world below roared with falling water, but all she could hear was the steady cadence of his breathing, all she could feel was the solid warmth of him beside her, anchoring her in a way she hadn’t known she’d needed.
They stayed like that, watching the horizon in silence. The warmth of his presence seeped into her bones, steady and solid, a reminder that not all anchors dragged you under. Some held you up.
For the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel the urge to run.
Without a word, she shifted back, the ghost leopard melting away until she was herself again, breath still ragged, hair tangled from the wind.
Fenrys shifted too, white fur giving way to bare skin and the easy, unbothered grace of someone who’d always been a predator.
She looked at him, eyes still glassy from the run. “Tell me something real,” she said, voice low, not a command, but a quiet plea.
His gaze lingered on her for a long moment, something unguarded in his eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever truly been loved,” he said quietly. “More just desired. Wanted for what I could give, not for who I am.”
A thread inside her tightened, faint but undeniable and she wondered if he felt it too.
She drew in a breath. “Me too.”
The words settled between them, and the thread hummed once more before sinking back into silence. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t confession. Just truth laid bare between them like the river far below, steady and unrelenting.
She let her gaze drift over him, over the slope of his jaw, the onyx of his eyes, and the twin scars that cut through his golden skin. Scars that were a mirror to her own internal ones.
Before she could think better of it, her fingers lifted, brushing over the ridged flesh.
The moment they touched, fire erupted beneath her skin, wild, uncontained, nothing like the heat of desire she’d known before. This was deeper, older, something that felt as though it had been waiting in her bones all her life.
She almost flinched from the force of it, but couldn’t. Wouldn’t.
Her fingers stayed where they were, the invisible line between them tightening, pulling her closer, holding her there.
Fenrys drew in a sharp breath, as if he’d just broken the surface after being held under too long. His hand rose, covering hers where it rested against his scar.
Those onyx eyes locked onto her green ones, steady and unflinching, as he guided her hand to his lips. The warmth of his mouth against her palm was a caress, a promise of something far deeper than she’d let herself imagine.
“Can you feel it?” he asked, voice low, rough with something that wasn’t quite hope, but close.
The words tugged at something deep inside her, a pull so real she pressed her free hand to her chest, as if to hold the sensation there.
“I’ve been waiting,” he murmured, “for you to see. To see me.”