The wildwood wasn’t a metaphor anymore.
It rose around them in all its wrong glory.
Trees taller than any she’d seen in the human world loomed overhead, their trunks twisted into shapes that hinted at faces. Leaves in impossible shades of red and gold shivered, though there was no wind.
The ground under her boots was soft, springy. Moss. Old leaves. Something that might have been…fur.
The sky…
There was no sky.
Not like she knew it.
Above, a constant twilight pressed down—a bruise-colored dome shot through with streaks of copper and deep violet. No sun. No moon. Just…light. From nowhere. From everywhere.
Her breath fogged in the chill.
Her hand was still in Caelan’s.
He watched her face, not the woods.
“Breathe,” he said quietly.
She sucked in a cold lungful. It tasted like smoke and frost and rain that hadn’t fallen yet.
“Welcome,” he said, “to the edge of my world.”
Her knees wobbled.
She tightened her grip on his hand.
“How…far…?” she managed. “From…them.”
“The seam is closed,” he said. “Your apartment is…there.” He gestured vaguely over his shoulder, as if that made any sense. “They’re safe.”
She swallowed.
A crow cawed above them.
Ash swooped down to land on Caelan’s shoulder, then hopped to Rowan’s, claws pricking through her jacket.
She squeaked.
“Traitor,” Caelan told the bird.
Ash pecked his ear and cawed again.
Rowan lifted a hand hesitantly. “Can I…?”
Ash lowered his head, allowing her to stroke the gleaming feathers. They were softer than she’d expected. Warm.
“He likes you,” Caelan said. “Possibly more than he likes me.”
“You bribe him with eyeballs,” she said faintly. “I bribe him with fries.”
“Fair,” he said.
She turned slowly.
Beyond the initial circle of trees, the forest stretched in every direction. Paths that weren’t paths wove between the trunks. Some glowed faintly. Some seemed to…move when she wasn’t looking.
A low, steady roar reached her ears.
“Water?” she asked.
“River,” he said. “It marks part of our border.”
“And the Palace?” she asked.
He pointed.
Between the trees, down a slope, across a ravine, she glimpsed it.
Amber and stone and antler and branch.
Spiraled towers that seemed to grow out of the land. Windows like eyes. Balconies dripping with hanging vines.
It was…beautiful.
And terrible.
Like a knife with jewels on the hilt.
“That’s where…?” she started.
“Yes,” he said. “Where my father sits. Where Maerlyn sharpens her tongue. Where Aisling paces the walls like a caged cat.”
Her stomach did a slow, sick roll.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Define,” she said.
He smiled.
“Come,” he said. “Before they send a welcoming committee I haven’t vetted.”
He tugged her gently forward.
The forest watched them.
She felt it.
The weight of unseen eyes. The prickle along her neck. The hum under her skin that had started at the lake now crescendoed, constant, like distant thunder.
“Is it…always like this?” she asked. “Loud.”
“For you?” he said. “Yes. You’re…attuned. Our magic recognizes you. It’s…saying hello.”
“It feels like it’s licking me,” she said.
He huffed. “It’ll settle,” he said. “Once you…find your balance.”
“Can’t wait,” she muttered.
As they walked, things moved in the corners of her vision.
A shape slipping behind a tree.
A flash of white eyes in a hollow log.
Once, a creature stepped onto the path ahead of them boldly.
It was roughly the size of a goat. Too-long legs. Fur that shifted colors as it moved. Eyes that were just…holes. Emptiness. Its mouth split wide in a grin that showed too many teeth.
“Back,” Caelan said sharply.
It blinked—sideways—and stepped aside, melting into the underbrush.
“What was that?” she whispered.
“A minor thing,” he said. “Curious. Hungry. Not brave enough to…test me.”
“Good,” she said. “I’m not in the mood to be chewed on.”
“You get in the mood?” he asked, amused.
“Less talking about chewing,” she said. “More talking about not dying.”
“We are…safe enough,” he said. “Here. For now.”
“Comforting,” she muttered.
They crested a small rise.
The view opened.
The Palace sprawled below.
Closer now, details emerged.
Bridges of woven branches connecting towers. Flags made of living leaves. Windows glowing with a light that was both fire and something else.
And beyond it, stretching out like a molten sea, the Court.
Fields of long grass that shimmered copper. Orchards where fruit hung heavy and too bright. A hunting yard where shapes moved—horses with antlers, riders with laughing mouths and dead eyes.
Her chest tightened.
“Rowan,” Caelan said quietly. “Look at me.”
She tore her gaze away.
His face was serious. No trace of teasing.
“This is the part,” he said, “where we…put on a show.”
She blinked. “A show.”
“Yes,” he said. “For them. Not for you.”
“What does that mean?” she asked warily.
“It means,” he said, “you hold your head up. You don’t flinch. You let them see that you chose this. That you are not dragged. It makes it…harder…to treat you as meat.”
She swallowed. “And you?” she asked. “What do you do?”
He smiled, sharp and humorless. “I become the Autumn Prince,” he said. “Properly. It’s very annoying.”
She almost smiled. “More than usual?”
“Oh, much,” he said.
He let go of her hand.
For a terrifying second, she felt…untethered.
He stepped in front of her.
Then he did something subtle.
His spine straightened. His chin lifted. His shoulders rolled back.
His expression went from *man you could maybe tease about his coffee preferences* to *creature you should never, ever turn your back on.*
Power rolled off him in a slow wave.
Her breath caught.
“Stay just behind my shoulder,” he said. “On my left. It’ll confuse them.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Most of my father’s…favorites…stand on his right,” he said. “They’ll read left as…unclaimed. Unclear. It will bother them.”
She huffed. “You really are petty,” she said.
“It’s an art,” he said.
He offered his arm.
Not his hand.
Formal.
Old-fashioned.
She slid her hand into the crook of his elbow.
It felt…different than their usual touch. Less intimate. More…public.
“You ready?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “Go.”
They walked down toward the Palace.
As they approached, the trees thinned.
The path became more defined—cobbled with stones that shifted colors under her feet. Gold. Rust. Black.
The first sentries appeared.
They stepped out from behind carved pillars—tall, armored, faces mostly hidden behind helms that sprouted horn-like protrusions.
Their eyes glowed faintly in the dark.
“Halt,” one said.
Caelan’s lips barely twitched. “Really?” he asked. “We’re doing this.”
The sentry shifted. “We must—”
“You know who I am,” Caelan said. “You know who she is. You know my father’s orders.”
The sentry hesitated.
Rowan watched, fascinated despite the tension.
Caelan didn’t raise his voice.
He didn’t swell with magic.
He just…stood.
Absolutely certain he would be obeyed.
The sentry dropped to one knee.
“My prince,” he said. “Forgive me.”
“Stand,” Caelan said. “Open the gate.”
The great wooden doors—veined with copper, carved with scenes of hunts and harvests—swung inward.
Light spilled out.
Warm. Golden. Thick.
“Welcome,” Caelan murmured. “To the Court of Autumn.”
They stepped inside.
It smelled…overwhelming.
Spice. Smoke. Sweet rot.
The entrance hall was vast, ceiling lost in shadow. Branch-like beams held it up. Lanterns hung at various heights, their flames green and gold.
Courtiers waited.
They weren’t lined up formally—that would have been too obvious. But they were there, in little clusters. On staircases. Leaning against pillars. Their clothes were a riot of autumnal colors—red and gold and deep brown. Jewels flashed. Antlers gleamed. Wings fluttered on the backs of some, translucent and iridescent.
Silence fell as they saw her.
Rowan’s skin crawled.
Dozens of eyes pinned her.
Some hungry.
Some curious.
Some calculating.
She forced herself not to shrink.
Not to touch her hair.
Not to look at the floor.
She kept her chin up.
Her hand rested lightly on Caelan’s arm.
He felt like an anchor and a threat all at once.
Whisper detached itself from a column and flowed down to the floor. Shadows clung to it like smoke. Its ember eyes widened.
“Oh,” it whispered, delighted. “She *shines.*”
Murmurs.
“She’s plain,” someone said in a too-loud whisper. “I expected…more…sparkle.”
“Humans never look like much,” another replied. “It’s the inside that matters.”
“You mean the blood,” someone else said with a laugh.
Caelan’s jaw tightened.
He didn’t look at them.
He looked straight ahead.
At the far end of the hall, the throne loomed.
The King sat hunched on it like a vulture on a branch.
His crown—a circlet of antlers and leaves—sat crooked on his head. His face seemed more gaunt in the warm light. His hands, gripping the arms of the throne, were thin, veins standing out.
Beside him, on her lower seat, Maerlyn watched with bright, hungry eyes.
To the other side, Aisling sat on the arm of a carved chair, legs crossed, swinging idly, like a bored cat.
When Rowan’s gaze met hers, Aisling’s lips curved.
She lifted two fingers in a tiny, mocking salute.
Rowan’s heart slammed.
“Steady,” Caelan murmured.
“I want to punch her,” Rowan hissed.
“Good,” he said. “Hold that.”
They walked the length of the hall.
Every step echoed.
Every breath sounded too loud.
At the foot of the throne, Caelan stopped.
He went to one knee.
Rowan didn’t.
She stood.
The room sucked in a collective breath.
Caelan glanced up, silver eyes flaring with pride and panic.
The King’s mouth twitched.
“Rise,” he said.
Caelan stood.
“Father,” he said. “I have brought you your…mortgage payment.”
Laughter rippled through the hall.
The King’s eyes slid to Rowan.
They were the same amber as before. Duller. Sharper.
“So,” he said. “This is the girl my son has been stalking for a quarter of a century.”
Her cheeks heated.
She forced herself not to look away.
“Rowan Vance,” she said. “I’d say ‘at your service,’ but that’d be a lie.”
A ripple went through the hall.
Maerlyn’s brows rose.
Aisling barked a delighted laugh.
“Oh, I like her,” she said.
The King smiled, slow and dangerous.
“Come closer, Rowan Vance,” he said. “Let an old man see what all the fuss is about.”
Caelan tensed.
Rowan swallowed.
She stepped forward.
Up three shallow steps.
She stopped a measured distance from the throne—not too close to be pulled, not so far as to seem afraid.
The King leaned forward.
He inhaled.
“Mortality,” he said. “Regret. Stubbornness. A hint of…something older.” His eyes narrowed. “Yes. You smell like trouble.”
“Family trait,” she said. “My grandmother sends her regards, by the way. From the grave.”
His smile sharpened. “I’ll be joining her soon enough,” he said. “Perhaps I’ll return the message.”
Her stomach twisted.
He shifted his gaze to Caelan.
“You brought her,” he said. “Within the time. You didn’t get her killed on the way. I’m almost impressed.”
“Low bar,” Caelan said.
“Low courts,” the King replied.
Maerlyn cleared her throat delicately. “Shall we dispense with the chit-chat?” she said. “The magic is prickling. It wants its…due.”
The King waved a skeletal hand. “Yes, yes,” he said. “Let’s make this official before I cough out a lung.”
He looked at Rowan again.
“Rowan Vance,” he said. “You stand in my hall. On my root. The bargain your grandmother made binds you to this place. Do you acknowledge that?”
Every instinct screamed *no.*
She bared her teeth. “I acknowledge she made a deal,” she said. “Doesn’t mean I like it.”
Laughter.
The King’s eyes gleamed. “Good,” he said. “Liking is optional. Standing here is not.”
He leaned back. “You have struck a separate…arrangement…with my son,” he said. “To come as his guest. Under his protection. Under…terms.” His gaze flicked briefly to Caelan, something like grudging admiration in it. “Clever. Annoying. Very much his mother’s child.”
Rowan’s throat tightened.
“Do you,” the King said, voice going strangely formal, “accept the old bargain under the conditions of the new? Do you agree to spend three cycles of moon with us, to learn what you are, to let our magic taste you, in exchange for your life and the possibility of your freedom?”
Silence.
The air pressed.
This was it.
The moment everything hinged on.
(Hinge, she thought bitterly. They weren’t wrong.)
She thought of Gran’s hand in hers. Of Harper’s stubborn face. Of Zia’s careful wards.
Of Aisling’s messages.
Of Caelan’s oath.
Of the way the seam had whispered *there you are* when she brushed it.
She lifted her chin.
“I accept,” she said. “On my terms. On Caelan’s.”
The hall shuddered.
Magic snapped into place like a trap.
Rowan gasped.
It felt like a thousand threads had just hooked into her skin. Not deep enough to bleed. Deep enough to hold.
“Done,” Whisper hissed, delighted. “Done, done, done.”
The King sagged slightly, as if some tension had eased.
“Good,” he said. “Now if I die spectacularly in the next few days, it won’t ruin the schedule.”
Maerlyn rolled her eyes.
“Welcome to the Autumn Court, Rowan Vance,” the King said. “Do try not to kill us all.”
“No promises,” she said.
Aisling slid off her perch and sauntered forward.
“Hi, mirror,” she purred. “Nice of you to drop in.”
Rowan turned to face her fully.
Up close, the similarities were more striking.
Same basic build. Same bone structure in the jaw. Different hair, different eyes. Different…everything else.
Aisling smelled like expensive perfume and blood.
“Hi,” Rowan said flatly. “Nice of you to almost drown me.”
Aisling’s smile widened. “You felt that, did you?”
“Hard to miss someone fondling your soul,” Rowan said.
Aisling laughed, delighted. “Oh, we’re going to have *fun,*” she said.
Caelan stepped subtly closer.
Aisling shot him a look. “Relax, Fox Boy,” she said. “I’m not going to stab your pet. Yet.”
Rowan bristled. “I’m not his pet,” she snapped.
“No,” Aisling said. “You’re mine.”
Silence punched through the hall.
Rowan’s jaw dropped.
“Excuse me?” she demanded.
Aisling’s eyes glittered. “Blood of both worlds,” she said. “Two girls. One bargain. We’re…entangled, hinge. You feel it. I do too.”
Rowan did feel…something.
A faint tug in her chest. A recognition, like looking into a warped mirror.
“That doesn’t mean you own me,” Rowan said.
“No,” Aisling agreed. “It means we own each other.”
Magic prickled in the air between them.
Caelan stepped fully between them now, breaking the line of sight.
“Enough,” he said, voice low but carrying. “This is not the time for you two to start…claiming things.”
Aisling’s mouth quirked. “Jealous?” she asked.
“Bored,” he said. “We have all eternity for theatrics. Let her breathe.”
The King chuckled. “He has a point, little thorn,” he said to Aisling. “Give her a day to adjust before you start your tug-of-war.”
Aisling huffed. “Fine,” she said. She leaned sideways, peering around Caelan to meet Rowan’s eyes. “Later, then,” she murmured. “We have so much to talk about.”
Rowan swallowed.
Caelan’s hand found her elbow. “Come,” he said. “Your rooms.”
She let him guide her away, even as she felt Aisling’s gaze burn between her shoulder blades.
As they left the throne hall, the whispers rose again.
“Plain,” someone said again, a little rueful now.
“Sharp,” someone else replied. “Look at her eyes.”
“Do you think she’ll burn?” a third voice asked, eager. “I do love a good conflagration.”
The doors closed behind them with a thud.
The relative quiet of the corridor was a relief.
Rowan exhaled shakily. “I didn’t…die,” she said.
“High praise,” Caelan said dryly.
She shot him a look. “Your family is…a lot,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “I apologize. We were not vetted by any sensible agency.”
She huffed.
He led her through a maze of corridors—some stone, some living wood. She tried to pay attention. To mark turns. Landmarks.
A tapestry with a hunt scene that changed when she blinked. A niche with a statue of a woman whose eyes followed them. A window looking out onto that hidden courtyard he’d mentioned—the crooked tree, the swirling leaves.
“You see it?” he asked, nodding toward it.
“Yes,” she said. “Later?”
“Later,” he promised.
They stopped before a carved door.
Vines and thorns twisted around its frame in intricate patterns. When she looked closely, she saw tiny animals hidden in the design—foxes, rabbits, birds.
“This is…?” she asked.
“Yours,” he said. “For now.”
He pushed the door open.
Her breath caught.
The room beyond was…not what she’d expected.
She’d expected grandeur. Gilding. A bed big enough to smother in.
Instead, it was…cozy.
Still fae, yes. The proportions slightly off, the colors too deep. But it felt…warm.
A bed with a carved wooden frame, piled with quilts in shades of rust and gold. A low table with candles. A fireplace where embers glowed. Shelves along one wall—empty, waiting for books.
A window—arched, framed by climbing vines—looked out over the hidden courtyard with the crooked tree.
She stepped in slowly.
“The bathroom is through there,” Caelan said, nodding at a smaller door. “The clothes—they’re…Court-made. You don’t have to wear them if you don’t want to. We can have your things brought through in…other ways.”
She opened a wardrobe.
Rich fabrics. Deep colors. Cuts that were both practical and flattering.
“Who…?” she started.
“Aisling,” he said. “She insisted on choosing.”
She froze. “So if I wear these, I’m…wearing her?”
“In a sense,” he said dryly. “If it bothers you, we can burn them.”
A tiny, petty part of her liked the idea of wearing what Aisling had picked and making it look better.
“I’ll…think about it,” she muttered.
He smiled.
He moved to the window, touched a vine. It shivered, then settled.
“There are wards,” he said. “Strong ones. You are safe here. No one comes in without your leave. Not even me.”
She blinked. “You…locked yourself out.”
“Yes,” he said. “Temporarily. If I need to get in and you’re…unresponsive, I can break them. But it will…hurt.”
“You?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “That’s the point.”
Her chest ached.
“You think of everything,” she said.
“Not everything,” he said softly. “But I try.”
He turned to face her.
For a moment, they just…looked.
“You did well,” he said.
“I didn’t fall on my face,” she said. “Low bar.”
“You didn’t kneel,” he said. “Higher bar.”
She swallowed.
“I wanted to,” she admitted. “My legs…wanted to. Old conditioning.”
“I know,” he said. “I’m…proud of you.”
Heat flared. “Don’t…say that,” she whispered.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because it makes me want to…cry,” she said.
He stepped closer.
Stopped a respectful distance away.
“You’re allowed to,” he said. “Cry. Scream. Throw things. This,” he gestured around them, “is your space. Not theirs. Not mine.”
“Yours?” she asked.
He hesitated. “I stay…near,” he said. “But not here. There is another set of rooms. Across the hall. Convenient for…political theater. And nightmares.”
She snorted. “Sharing a wall,” she said. “How very sitcom of us.”
His lips quirked. “We live to entertain,” he said.
She looked out the window.
The crooked tree’s leaves swirled, though there was no wind.
A young fae—child? small adult?—chased them, laughing, trying to catch each one.
Rowan’s chest tightened.
“I’m…tired,” she said.
“I know,” he said.
She turned back.
“Stay,” she blurted.
He blinked. “Here?” he asked. “Now?”
“Just…until I fall asleep,” she said quickly. “Not…in the bed. I’m not—not yet. Just…in the room. On the chair. Or the floor. Or the ceiling, whatever you people do. I just…don’t want to be…alone. Not…tonight.”
He stared at her.
“Please,” she added, hating the way her voice cracked on the word.
Something in his face…broke.
“I won’t,” he said. “Leave you alone. Not…tonight.”
He moved to the chair by the fireplace. Sat.
Ash hopped onto the mantel and fluffed his feathers.
Rowan toed off her boots and sat on the edge of the bed.
The mattress was softer than hers at home. The blanket smelled faintly of smoke and something floral.
She lay down slowly.
The ceiling above was painted with leaves. Tiny, detailed. Some had little faces.
“If one of those starts talking to me,” she muttered, “I’m out.”
“We’ll introduce you slowly,” Caelan said dryly.
She laughed.
The sound turned into a yawn halfway through.
Her eyes felt heavy.
Her body ached with more than physical exhaustion.
“I’m…scared,” she admitted, voice small in the big room.
“I know,” he said.
“I don’t trust you,” she added.
“I know,” he said again. There was no hurt in it. Just…acceptance.
“But I want to,” she whispered.
Silence.
Then, softly, “I want you to, too,” he said.
Her throat burned.
“Tell me…something,” she said. “Before I fall asleep. Something…true.”
He considered.
“When I was young,” he said, “I was afraid of the dark.”
She almost snorted. “You…live in twilight,” she mumbled.
“Exactly,” he said. “It’s why. I’d lie awake, imagining things in the shadows. My mother would sit by my bed and tell me stories until I slept. When she died, there was…no one.” He paused. “I learned to fill the dark with my own words.”
Her heart squeezed.
“Now,” he said softly, “I am…less afraid. Because sometimes, when I close my eyes, there is a girl on the other side of a world who says very rude things and makes me laugh.”
Tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes.
“You’re…mushy,” she muttered.
“Don’t tell the Court,” he said. “They’ll revoke my brooding license.”
She smiled, eyes drifting closed.
The last thing she felt was the warmth of the fire on her face.
The last thing she heard was the steady sound of his breathing in the chair.
Not alone.
Not yet.
Sleep took her.
And somewhere in the Palace, in a tower room filled with expensive things and not enough air, Aisling paced.
Her fingers traced patterns on the windowsill.
Her reflection in the glass blurred, then sharpened.
“Come out, little mirror,” she whispered. “Come play.”
The wildwood held its breath.
The story’s jaws closed another inch.
And the most dangerous part of any bargain—the part after the ink dries—began.