The moment the doors closed behind them, cutting off the roar of the throne hall, Rowan sagged.
Caelan’s hand tightened, keeping her upright.
“Breathe,” he said softly.
She did.
Her lungs seemed to remember how.
“That was…” She groped for words. “…a lot,” she settled on.
“Yes,” he said.
“Did I just…insult your king to his face in front of his entire Court,” she asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“Is that…bad,” she asked.
“Debatable,” he said. “He likes being challenged. Occasionally. Keeps him from getting bored.”
“How do you tell the difference between challenging and poking a bear with a stick,” she asked.
“You wait and see if it bites,” Aisling said, falling into step beside them. “So far, you still have all your limbs. Good sign.”
Rowan blew out a breath. “Your guidance is…reassuring,” she said dryly.
Aisling grinned. “I aim to please.”
Caelan led them down a different corridor this time, one less grand. The walls here were hung with simpler tapestries—abstract patterns of leaves and waves, no gruesome battle scenes. The floor was the same polished wood, but the lighting was softer.
“Where are we going?” Rowan asked warily.
“Back to your rooms,” Caelan said. “You need to sit. And eat. And maybe…yell at me in private.”
“You say that like I haven’t already yelled at you in front of your entire Court,” she said.
“That was…polite yelling,” he said. “I assume you have…more.”
She huffed.
He was right.
Her magic—it felt like magic now, not just a weird sensitivity—was buzzing under her skin like a hive. His father’s face, Maerlyn’s cutting gaze, Aisling’s sharp grin, the press of all those eyes—they rattled around her skull, jostling for attention.
Her grief for Gran sat like a heavy stone under it all.
“And Winter,” she said abruptly.
Caelan’s shoulders tensed. “What about them,” he asked.
“Your father’s little dramatic line,” she said. “‘Winter is coming.’”
“It likes to make an entrance,” Aisling said.
“Don’t we all,” Rowan muttered.
“It was a warning,” Caelan said. “More for the Court than for you. They’ve grown…complacent. Focused on our own games. We forget there are other players.”
“From my angle,” Rowan said, “it looks like *I’m* the game.”
He glanced at her. “You are one of them,” he said. “Not the only.”
“Comforting,” she said.
They reached her door.
Caelan opened it, gesturing for her to go in.
She hesitated on the threshold.
The room felt different now. Less like a neutral space. More…charged.
“You entered,” she said slowly. “You spoke. They saw you.” She looked at Caelan. “Is there…some magical significance to that? Like…now that I’ve been in that room, I’m bound? Or cursed? Or officially in your system?”
He smiled faintly. “You were in our ‘system’ long before you stepped into that hall,” he said. “But yes. It matters. Witnessing matters. It…set the shape of the next three months.”
“And that shape is…bad,” she said.
“Chaotic,” Aisling said cheerfully. “Which is my favorite.”
“Stop being excited about my impending nervous breakdown,” Rowan said.
“Can’t,” Aisling said. “It’s very entertaining.”
“You’re the worst,” Rowan muttered.
Aisling grinned.
Caelan cleared his throat. “Food,” he said. “Then…we talk.”
She stepped inside.
The sitting room looked as it had before, but someone—or something—had adjusted a few things.
The bowl of fruit was gone.
In its place sat a plate of what looked like bread—dark, crusty, dusted with something. A small dish of salt. A dish of honey. The carafe of water remained, condensation beading on its surface. Two cups sat beside it.
Rowan’s stomach lurched. “Is this a test,” she asked.
Caelan sighed. “It’s…hospitality,” he said. “The safe kind.”
“There is no safe kind here,” she said.
“You’re not wrong,” he admitted. “But this is as close as we get.”
He picked up the pitcher, poured water into one cup.
Then, very deliberately, he took a sip first.
She watched his throat work as he swallowed.
Nothing happened.
No dramatic choking. No turning into a tree.
He handed the cup to her.
She hesitated.
“It’s just water,” he said, amused. “From our springs. If I wanted to drug you, Row, I wouldn’t do it with something this obvious. I’m not *stupid.*”
Rowan rolled her eyes. “I hate that that’s actually reassuring,” she said.
She drank.
It tasted…different from tap water back home. Colder. Cleaner. With a faint metallic tang, like licking the back of a spoon.
It helped.
A little.
She sat on the low couch. Her legs felt shaky.
Caelan perched on the edge of the table, not quite looming, but within arm’s reach. Aisling flopped into the armchair, swinging one booted foot over the side.
“Okay,” Rowan said. “Ground rules. For the rest of the day. And…going forward.”
Caelan’s brows lifted. “Ground…rules,” he repeated.
“Yes,” she said. “We’re in *your* house now. Your Court. Your rules everywhere. I need…pockets.” She tapped her chest. “Places where I know how things will go. Where I’m not constantly waiting for the ground to reshuffle.”
“That’s not…how this place works,” he said.
“I know,” she said. “But humor me. Or at least…try.”
He regarded her, then nodded slowly. “What are your…rules,” he asked.
She ticked them off on her fingers.
“One,” she said. “If you want something from me—information, cooperation, anything—you ask. You don’t…lurk in my head. You don’t stage theatrical dreams. You knock.”
“I already said—” he began.
“You said you’d try not to walk into my dreams without an invitation,” she said. “Now I’m extending that to *anything.* No more…surprises. Not from you. As much as possible.”
He inclined his head. “I will…endeavor,” he said. “Sometimes, I may need to…act quickly. To keep you from harm.”
“Fine,” she said. “Emergency clauses. But if you pull something without warning, you owe me an explanation afterward.”
“Agreed,” he said.
Aisling smirked. “Look at you,” she said. “Negotiating.”
Rowan ignored her.
“Two,” Rowan said. “Honesty. You’re very good at…hedging. Telling half-truths. I get it. Court life. Survival. But with *me,* I need you to be…as straight as you can. If you can’t tell me something, say that. Don’t dance around it. Don’t—” She hesitated. “—lie by omission.”
He nodded slowly. “I can do that,” he said. “Mostly. There will be…things bound by oaths, or politics, that I can’t speak of. I’ll warn you when we approach those.”
“Good,” she said. “Three: No…touching…without consent.”
He flinched slightly. “We already—”
“I know,” she said. “You swore. I keep…forgetting. I need to hear it again.” She met his gaze. “In *this* room. In *this* place. So your Palace hears it too.”
He stared at her for a moment.
Then he slid off the table, went to one knee on the floor in front of her. Not as a supplication to her. More as a…ritual posture.
“Rowan Vance,” he said quietly. “On my name, and on my blood, and on the roots of this Palace, I swear: I will not touch you without your explicit consent. I will not allow others to touch you without the same, barring only what is necessary to preserve your life. If I break this, may the wildwood take what is mine.”
The room seemed to…shiver.
The tapestries stirred.
The air pressed close for a heartbeat, then loosened.
Rowan’s throat closed.
“Okay,” she said roughly. “That…helps.”
Aisling watched, head tilted. Something like…approval flickered in her eyes.
Caelan straightened, returning to his perch.
“Your turn,” he said.
She blinked. “My…turn.”
“Yes,” he said. “For…rules.”
“I just gave—”
“For you,” he interrupted gently. “For…how you’ll treat yourself here.”
She frowned. “What?”
“You are very good at making promises for everyone else,” he said. “Protecting everyone else. Fighting for everyone else. Less so…for you.”
“Rude,” she muttered.
“Accurate,” Aisling said.
“Make yourself a rule,” Caelan said. “Or three. Things you will not do to yourself in this place.”
“I’m not—” Rowan began, then stopped.
She thought of Gran’s blood oath.
Of the way she’d promised to fight.
Of how easy it would be, here, to forget that. To let herself be swallowed. To become whatever version of herself they needed her to be and call it survival.
Her stomach rolled.
“Okay,” she said slowly. “Fine.”
She took a breath.
“Rule one,” she said. “I will not…apologize…for existing.”
Caelan’s eyes softened.
“In this Court,” she clarified. “I will not…shrink to make you more comfortable. I will not…pretend I’m grateful for being dragged into your mess.”
“Good,” Aisling said quietly.
“Rule two,” Rowan said. “I will not…make bargains…in desperation. If I’m…scared, panicking, cornered—I will wait. Think. Not…grab the first shiny offer because it looks like a way out.”
“Excellent,” Caelan murmured.
“Rule three,” Rowan said. Her voice shook. “I will not…throw myself on every grenade. If someone is going to be hurt, it doesn’t always have to be me.”
Silence.
Aisling blew out a slow breath. “That one will be hard for you,” she said.
“I know,” Rowan said.
Caelan’s gaze was steady. “We’ll…remind you,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said, surprising herself.
He nodded.
“Eat,” he said softly. “Please.”
Her stomach gurgled in reluctant agreement.
She picked up a piece of bread.
It was dense, dark, flecked with something like seeds. It smelled of spices she recognized and some she didn’t.
She tore off a corner and dipped it in the salt, then the honey, imitating a gesture she’d seen in some myth somewhere.
“Superstitious,” Aisling noted.
“Precautionary,” Rowan said. She popped the bread in her mouth.
It was…good.
Earthy, slightly sweet, chewy.
Her body remembered it was a body and not just a consciousness rattling around in a meat suit. Hunger roared back.
She ate more.
The food grounded her, anchoring all the floating bits of her mind to the physical.
While she ate, Caelan filled her in on logistics.
“Your days here will be…structured,” he said. “To a degree. I’ve arranged for you to work with some of our…less objectionable teachers. On control. On our politics. On surviving dinner parties.”
“I’m getting a syllabus,” Rowan said incredulously.
“Yes,” he said. “We are a very organized doom.”
“Who are these teachers,” she asked warily.
“A witch from the southern orchards,” he said. “She owes me. She’ll help you with the…magic side. A former seer who got bored of main-stage prophecy and prefers teaching. Lucien, on…social maneuvering.”
“Lucien,” she repeated. “The one who clapped when I backtalked your dad.”
“Yes,” Caelan said. “He likes you.”
“Terrifying,” she muttered.
“He’s…useful,” Caelan said. “Even if he pretends otherwise.”
“And you?” she asked. “Where do you fit in this…lesson plan.”
“Everywhere,” he said simply. “I’ll be at your side as often as possible. When I can’t be, either Aisling or someone else I trust will be.”
“Me,” Aisling interjected, raising a hand.
“You are not on the ‘trust’ list,” Caelan said.
Aisling gasped theatrically. “Rude.”
“You lit sheep shit on fire to distract the Hunt,” he said.
“It worked,” she said.
Rowan couldn’t help it. She laughed.
It eased something in the room.
“For the first week,” Caelan continued, “you don’t leave the Palace grounds. Too many variables beyond. Too many…eyes. Once you have more control, we can venture farther. With…precautions.”
“I’m not sure I *want* to see more,” Rowan said.
“You do,” Aisling said. “You just don’t know it yet.”
Rowan glared at her.
A soft knock came at the door.
Caelan stiffened. “Enter,” he called, voice cool.
A young fae woman slipped in.
She looked more human than most Rowan had seen so far—brown hair braided simply, a scattering of freckles across her nose. Her ears were slightly pointed, her eyes a soft hazel, only the faintest glimmer of something other in their depths.
She wore a neat tunic and trousers, a leather belt, no visible weapons.
“Your Highness,” she said, bowing quickly.
“Brenna,” Caelan said. “Good. This is Rowan.”
Brenna glanced at Rowan, then dropped her gaze quickly, cheeks flushing. “My lady,” she said.
“Don’t call me that,” Rowan said automatically.
Brenna blinked. “What should I…call you?” she asked nervously.
“Rowan,” Rowan said. “Just Rowan.”
Brenna hesitated, then nodded. “Rowan,” she repeated. “I’m…your assigned…attendant.”
Rowan’s stomach did a weird flip. “My…what.”
“Think of her as a…guide,” Caelan said. “And a…buffer.”
“Bodyguard?” Rowan guessed.
“Not exactly,” Brenna said quickly. “I’m…not a fighter. Much. I can…hit things with pans.”
“That’s a valuable skill,” Rowan said solemnly.
Brenna’s lips twitched.
“She knows the Palace,” Caelan said. “The corridors. The people. If you get lost, she’ll…unlost you.”
“I get lost in my own apartment,” Rowan said. “This is a very good idea.”
Brenna relaxed a fraction. “I’ll…do my best,” she said.
“Also,” Caelan added, “she’s human-born. Half.”
Rowan’s attention sharpened.
“You’re…like me,” she said.
“Not…exactly,” Brenna said. “My mother was…from here. My father…wasn’t. He…died before I was born. I’ve…never seen your world. But I know what it’s like to…not fit.”
Rowan’s chest ached.
“Do you…like it here?” she asked quietly.
Brenna paused.
“Yes,” she said finally. “And no. It’s…home. It’s also…sharp.” Her mouth quirked. “I’ve learned to wear boots.”
Rowan smiled, small and real.
“Same,” she said.
Brenna’s smile turned genuine. “Good,” she said.
Caelan watched the exchange with something like satisfaction. “She’ll help you with the…little things,” he said. “Clothes. Schedules. Not accidentally sitting in someone’s ancestral seat and starting a blood feud.”
“That happened once,” Aisling said. “The boy didn’t know. It was very funny.”
“You pushed him,” Caelan said.
Aisling shrugged. “Semantics.”
Rowan rubbed her temples. “This place is going to give me ulcers,” she muttered.
“We have healers,” Caelan said.
“Not the point,” she said.
A dull, distant boom shook the Palace.
Everyone tensed.
“What was that,” Rowan demanded.
“Fireworks,” Aisling said.
“Literal ones?” Rowan asked.
“Yes,” Aisling said. “And not entirely authorized.”
Caelan sighed. “She’s started early,” he muttered.
“Who has,” Rowan asked, though she already knew.
“Mire,” Aisling said. “And Winter. And maybe a few bored cousins.” She hopped up. “Come on, then. Time to see how your choice ripples.”
“I thought we were done with theater for today,” Rowan said weakly.
“No,” Caelan said. “We’re just starting.”
He looked at Rowan.
“You can stay here,” he said. “For now. Let things…shake. Or you can come see. From a distance. No closer than I say.”
“You mean hide or rubberneck,” she said.
“Yes,” he said.
She thought of her rules.
No bargaining in desperation. No apologizing for existing. No throwing herself on grenades.
“I’m not hiding,” she said. “Not from something that’s about me. I’ll…rubberneck.”
Aisling whooped. “Excellent choice,” she said.
Caelan’s mouth twitched. “Stay behind me,” he said. “And if I say ‘run,’ you run.”
“Under protest,” she said.
“Obviously,” he said.
They stepped back into the corridor.
The Palace was…buzzing.
Fae moved faster now, some in the direction of the throne hall, others toward windows, balconies, vantage points. The air smelled faintly of smoke—wood, not flesh. Yet.
Caelan led them not toward the heart, but up.
Up a narrow staircase tucked behind a tapestry. Up another, even narrower, lit only by slits in the stone that let in twilight and flickers of firelight.
They emerged on a balcony high above the main courtyard.
The view took Rowan’s breath.
Below, the Hunt Yard roiled with movement.
Figures on horseback milled—huge, antlered beasts snorting steam, their riders armored, antlers and horns and hair wild. The Hounds—huge, sleek black dogs with eyes like embers—paced restlessly.
Beyond, at the edge of the wildwood, something burned.
Not the trees.
The *air.*
Flames crawled up an invisible wall, licking across nothing, shedding sparks that landed on the ground and turned into small, skittering creatures before dissolving.
“Mirror-fire,” Caelan murmured. “Clever.”
“That Aisling’s?” Rowan asked.
“Partly,” he said.
“Partly whose?” she asked.
As if in answer, a howl rose from beyond the burning seam.
Long. Low. Cold.
It slid under Rowan’s skin, setting her teeth on edge.
“Winter,” Caelan said tightly.
“Lovely of them to RSVP,” Aisling said.
The seam at the edge of the wildwood—wider, older than the one at the lake—shimmered, distorted by flames. Shapes moved on the other side, indistinct. The fire wasn’t…consuming. It was…revealing. Outlining where the border thinned.
“Hounds,” someone below shouted. “To the North Gate. We have breach.”
“Not breach,” Caelan muttered. “Performance.”
“Same difference to them,” Aisling said. “They get to run.”
The Huntsmen mounted. The Hounds bayed.
For a moment, the world held its breath.
Then the first of the Hunt thundered toward the trees.
Rowan’s heart hammered.
“They’re not going for me,” she said, realizing with a strange kind of clarity. “Not now.”
“No,” Caelan said. “They’re chasing ghosts.”
“Aisling’s ghosts,” Rowan said.
“And Winter’s,” he said.
She watched as the Hunt plunged into the fire‑lit seam and vanished.
The Palace vibrated with their passing. The stones under her feet thrummed.
Noise surged from the courtyard—shouts, laughter, shouts of alarm.
“Distraction,” Aisling said happily. “Executed.”
“For how long,” Rowan asked.
“Long enough,” Caelan said. “If we’re careful.”
She looked down at the valley, at the palace, at the burning seam.
At the lives moving below.
She looked at her wrists, at the invisible bands there.
At Caelan, at Aisling, at the endless twilight sky.
“This place is…insane,” she said.
“Yes,” Caelan said.
“And beautiful,” she added grudgingly.
“Yes,” Aisling said.
“And dangerous,” she finished.
“Yes,” they both said.
She exhaled.
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s burn it *carefully.*”
Aisling’s grin could have split the world.
Caelan’s smile was smaller, but no less fierce.
Between them, Rowan felt the threads of three choices knitting together.
Three months.
Three Courts watching.
Three hearts beating in one dangerous rhythm.
And somewhere, far away, in a small apartment in a mortal town, a coin warmed under Harper’s hand.
She clutched it, eyes on the ceiling, and whispered, “Come back to me, you stubborn idiot.”
In the Autumn Palace, Rowan’s bracelet pulsed once in answer.
She didn’t feel it.
Yet.
But the story did.
And it was very, very interested in what came next.