By the time the bells tolled dusk, the Palace felt like a held breath.
The noise of the lower halls—servants, laughter, clatter from kitchens—dampened the higher Rowan and Caelan climbed. The air cooled. The corridors narrowed. The tapestries grew darker, more abstract, the leaves and thorns in their designs curling in on themselves.
“This is where the fun people live, I take it,” Rowan muttered.
Caelan huffed. “Depends on your definition of fun,” he said. “If you enjoy being flayed with words, you’re going to have a great time.”
“You really know how to sell an evening,” she said.
He didn’t smile.
At the top of the last stair, he paused.
“Remember your rules,” he said quietly. “No promising. No apologizing for existing. No sacrificing yourself for the sake of their comfort.”
“You say that like you weren’t raised by these people,” she said.
“Oh, I was,” he said. “That’s why I know how bad they are for you.”
He offered his arm.
She took it.
The Council Chamber doors were smaller than the throne hall’s, but only in the sense that a shark is smaller than a whale. Two panels of dark wood reinforced with that greenish metal, carved with a twisted, thorny pattern. No figures. No scenes. Just a tangle.
“Of course,” Rowan murmured. “Subtle.”
“Ready?” Caelan asked.
“No,” she said. “Again, do it anyway.”
He lifted a corner of his mouth, then rapped his knuckles on the metal.
The doors opened on their own.
The room beyond was circular.
No windows. Light came from sconces around the walls, flames steady in glass cups. The ceiling arched overhead like the inside of a dome, painted deep green shot with gold veins.
A circular table dominated the center, polished black wood. Eight high-backed chairs ringed it, each different but clearly chosen with intent—one carved like antlers, another like reeds, one studded with nails, another draped with something that might have been animal hide.
Most were occupied.
At the head—if a circle had a head—sat the King. He looked smaller here without the throne’s frame, his mantle of leaves bunched around his shoulders like he’d shrugged it on out of habit more than intent.
To his right, Maerlyn lounged, thorns coiling lazily around her arms like jewelry with opinions.
To his left, an empty chair waited.
Caelan’s.
Past Maerlyn sat a man whose hair was iron-gray pulled into a tight braid, wearing armor that flowed like bark. Past him, a woman with skin like polished stone and hair like ash. Two seats down from her, a narrow, reed-thin being with eyes like wet stones. Opposite the King, where the curve of the table would make them most visible, sat—
Rowan’s stomach dipped.
She recognized him.
Not his face—she’d never seen it fully—but the feel.
Cold. Old. Winter.
The Hound of Winter’s emissary, no doubt. Rian, Aisling had called him.
His hair was black, raked back from his face. His skin held the pale chill of someone who’d never stood in direct sunlight. His eyes were a clear, unsettling blue, pupils pinpricks. He wore simple, dark clothes—no gaudy markings, no ostentatious jewels. A thin strip of fur lined his collar. Frost clung to the edges like the ghost of breath in winter air.
Two more seats held figures Rowan didn’t know. One was a woman whose dress rippled like water, hair a curtain to match—the Mire Queen’s proxy, likely. The other was a tall, lanky fae with antlers that spiraled like twisted roots, his smile a too-wide slash.
The last chair, beside the Winter emissary, held—
Aisling.
Of course.
She lounged, legs crossed, arm thrown casually over the back of her chair. She caught Rowan’s eye and winked.
“Children,” the King said, as Rowan and Caelan stepped into the circle. “You’re late.”
“It’s still dusk,” Caelan said. “Barely.”
“Exactly,” the King said. “We are old. We tire easily. Entertain us quickly.”
A murmur of amusement went around the table.
Caelan inclined his head slightly, the barest concession. “As you wish,” he said. He led Rowan to the empty seat beside his father and pulled out the chair.
It looked like nothing special—simple, straight-backed, carved with subtle leaf motifs.
She eyed it suspiciously.
“If I sit on this, is it going to…eat me?” she muttered.
“Only if you let it,” Maerlyn said, lips quirking.
Rowan sat.
The chair adjusted around her, not in the dramatic sentient way of some of the Palace furniture, but enough that her back settled comfortably.
Caelan took his seat.
The circle closed.
The King folded his hands on the table. “Well,” he said. “We are all here. Autumn. Winter. Mire. A few thorns. A swamp witch’s favorite pet.” He nodded at the woman in the reed-wrapped chair. “And a stray mortal who refuses to do as she’s told.”
“It’s my defining trait,” Rowan said under her breath.
Maerlyn’s mouth twitched.
“This is not a trial,” the King went on. “Not yet. We are only here to…clarify terms. Expectations. To decide how much rope to give our little fulcrum before we see if she hangs herself or us.”
“Charming,” Rowan said.
“Honest,” he said.
Maerlyn’s gaze cut to Rowan. “We have questions,” she said. “About your…intentions.”
She exchanged a brief look with the Iron-Braid man—the head of some northern forest clan, Rowan guessed. Hunters. Guardians of the wild border.
“Ask,” Rowan said. “I won’t promise answers you like.”
“From the mouths of babes,” the Mire representative said, voice soft and wet. She was smaller than the Mire Queen, hair less draped in lily pads, but the same watchful eyes.
“Why did you accept Caelan’s bargain?” Maerlyn asked, skipping preamble. “Truly.”
Rowan considered.
“I could give you the noble answer,” she said. “‘To understand myself. To prevent prophecy from going badly. To save your Court from its own stupidity.’”
A few snorts.
“But the truth?” she went on. “I didn’t want to be dragged.” Her throat felt tight. “I’ve watched too many people have things taken from them. My mother’s life. My grandmother’s peace. My own sense of…where I belong. I was not going to let this get added to the list without me at least walking in on my own feet.”
The man with the root-antlers—Thorn of the North—tilted his head. “Not for power,” he said. “Not for glory. For…agency.”
“Yes,” Rowan said. “I know. In your world that’s practically a curse word.”
“It is…” Maerlyn’s mouth curved. “Annoying,” she said. “But understandable.”
Rian—the Winter emissary—spoke for the first time.
His voice was smooth. Cold. Like a blade drawn from snow.
“You did not consider,” he said, “that walking freely into a lion’s mouth is still suicidal, even if it is your choice to do so?”
Rowan’s hackles rose. “Is the alternative *you,*” she asked, “dragging me north in chains?”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “You’d freeze before we reached the gates,” he said. “Very inefficient.”
“Then no,” she said. “I didn’t consider that in detail. I was busy dodging your breath at the lake.”
His pupils flared, just briefly. “I merely sniffed,” he said. “You smelled…interesting.”
“She’s not on your menu,” Caelan said sharply.
Rian’s eyes slid to him. “For now,” he said.
“Winter,” the King said in a warning tone. “Behave. You made your point with your little howl in the border. We’ve all seen your teeth. No need to lick our guest.”
Rowan suppressed a shiver.
Rian’s gaze returned to her. “You think,” he said, “that accepting his hand binds you only to him. You are mistaken. The moment you stepped through that seam, the prophecy wrapped you. Our prophecy.”
“Your prophecy,” she echoed. “I didn’t write it.”
“You *live* it,” he said.
“Live,” she said, “is an optimistic word.”
The Mire woman chuckled. “She’s funny,” she said.
“Always the worst ones,” Maerlyn muttered.
The King smiled.
“Yes,” he said. “She is.”
He tapped the table lightly, the sound carrying.
“Here is the reality,” he said. “Our wildwood spat out a prophecy years ago—many of you were there when the seer choked on it. Blood of both worlds. One child stolen, one child left. Glory or ash. All very poetic.” He rolled his eyes. “We have spent *decades* twisting ourselves into knots over what it means. Some of you,” he nodded at Maerlyn, “argued that killing both girls early would be the safest option. Clean. Efficient. Boring.”
Maerlyn sniffed.
“Others,” he continued, nodding at the Mire woman and Rian in turn, “saw opportunity. A bridge. A lever. Something to wedge into our roots and pry.”
“And you?” Rowan asked. “Which side are you on?”
He regarded her. “I am on the side of *interesting,* girl,” he said. “Death is inevitable. The path there is where the art is.”
“That’s comforting,” she muttered. “In a ‘we are all NPCs in your drama’ kind of way.”
“NPCs,” he repeated, tasting the unfamiliar word. “I like that. I assume it means ‘pieces on a board.’”
“Close enough,” she said.
He smirked. “The point is,” he said, “whether you die now, or in three months, or in three centuries with my great-grandchildren fighting over your bones, you are *in this.* You cannot unmake the prophecy by ignoring it. You cannot return to your little shop and pretend you do not see us.”
“I know that,” she said quietly.
“Good,” he said. “Half the battle is admitting you are trapped.”
“Your pep talks need work,” she said.
Aisling, from her seat, spoke up. “Perhaps ask a different question,” she said. “Not why she came. What she intends to do *now* that she’s here.”
All eyes slid back to Rowan.
She licked dry lips.
“What do you intend, Rowan Vance?” Maerlyn asked softly. “Beyond survival. Beyond spite.”
Spite is enough, she almost said.
But was it?
She thought of Gran’s face. Of Harper’s hand in hers, squeezing that coin. Of Zia threading magic into a bracelet with grim determination. Of Lucien’s delighted *you burn.* Of Caelan’s quiet, stubborn *I choose you.*
And Aisling’s hungry gaze.
Part of her wanted to scream that she didn’t know. That she’d barely had forty-eight hours to digest that she was more than a human mistake.
Instead, she made herself breathe.
“I intend,” she said slowly, “to understand. To learn. What I am. What you are. What this…Court…really is when you scrape off all the gilding and the pretty lies. I intend not to be your weapon unless *I* decide the fight is worth it. And I intend…” Her voice roughened. “I intend that whatever choice I make in three months, I make it with my eyes wide open. Not blinded by your fear. Or my own.”
Silence.
Then the Mire woman smiled, toothy and pleased. “Good,” she said. “Eyes are useful.”
Rian’s gaze returned to Caelan. “You bind yourself to that,” he said quietly. “Brave.”
“Someone has to,” Caelan said.
“Is this where you say you approve?” the King asked Winter. “Or is that beyond your repertoire?”
Rian’s lips curved. “I approve of nothing,” he said. “I *enjoy* some things. This? I enjoy.”
“Of course you do,” the King said dryly.
Maerlyn steepled her fingers. “One more thing,” she said. “The other girl.”
Aisling’s posture changed almost imperceptibly.
“The one we stole,” Maerlyn continued. “Aisling.”
“Yes,” Rowan said quietly. “We…met.”
“In dreams,” Maerlyn said. “In reflections. In my hallway. Anywhere else I should know about?”
Rowan’s spine stiffened. “I’m not reporting my conversations like…confessions,” she said.
Maerlyn’s eyes glinted. “Careful, child,” she said. “Secrets are expensive here.”
“Then you pay for yours,” Rowan said. “I’ll pay for mine.”
A low whistle from Lucien’s corner.
Maerlyn’s mouth thinned, but there was something like respect in her gaze.
“You should know,” the Mire woman said idly, “that little thorn’s been sniffing around my seams too.”
“Of course she has,” Rowan said.
“She wants her life back,” Rian said. “Or yours. Or both.”
“I know,” Rowan said.
“And you?” Maerlyn pressed. “Do you want hers?”
Rowan thought of golden hallways. Of endless twilight. Of power humming under her skin.
Of coffee. Of cheap rent. Of Harper’s laugh. Zia’s scowls. Mrs. Carrow’s cinnamon rolls.
“No,” she said. “I want…mine. I want…*more* of it. But I don’t want hers. I don’t know her well enough to know what I’d be taking.”
“And yet,” Aisling said softly, “you’re taking it. Just by being here.”
Anger flared. “Am I?” Rowan demanded, twisting in her seat to face her. “I didn’t ask to be swapped. I didn’t walk into your cradle and throw you out. I was *left.* So were you. Maybe point your rage at the people who made that call instead of at the infant who had zero say.”
The room stilled.
Aisling’s expression flickered.
For a second—just a second—she looked young. Vulnerable. Hurt.
Then the mask slid back into place.
“You’re right,” she said lightly. “It’s just more fun to poke you.”
Rowan’s hands curled into fists under the table. “Keep poking,” she said. “You’ll eventually hit something sharp.”
Aisling smiled. “Good,” she said.
The King clapped once, sharply.
“Enough,” he said. “We’ve picked at her like vultures at a carcass. She hasn’t fallen apart. Disappointing, but promising.”
“You have a strange definition of ‘promising,’” Rowan muttered.
“I know,” he said.
He leaned back.
“Winter,” he said. “Mire. Thorn. Do you have any other dire warnings or thinly veiled threats you feel compelled to deliver before I let my son drag her off to learn about forks?”
Rian’s mouth curved. “Just this,” he said, eyes on Rowan. “When the snow comes, it doesn’t care whose side you’re on. It just…falls.”
“Poetic,” Rowan said flatly.
“Thank you,” he said.
The Mire woman smiled, slow and unnerving. “Beware what you plant,” she said. “Some seeds sprout teeth.”
“I’ll…keep that in mind,” Rowan said.
Thorn of the North inclined his head. “If you come to my woods,” he said, “I will not harm you.”
“That’s…nice,” she said cautiously.
“If you bring Winter with you,” he added, “I will.”
“That’s fair,” she said.
The King waved a hand. “Off with you,” he said. “The lot of you. Go brood. Scheme. Complain about my decisions in side chambers. Let the girl breathe for an hour.”
The Council rose, some more gracefully than others.
Rian gave Caelan a little mock bow, then slid from the room like a shadow.
The Mire woman melted away in the opposite direction, damp footprints fading behind her.
Thorn strode out, antlers nearly brushing the ceiling.
Maerlyn lingered.
“So,” she said to Rowan as the circle thinned. “Day three and you haven’t been killed or bound into a tree. Either our enemies are lazy or you’re more trouble than you look.”
“Why not both,” Rowan said.
Maerlyn’s lips twitched. “Don’t die,” she said brusquely. “It would be *very* boring.”
“I’ll…keep that in mind,” Rowan said.
Maerlyn swept out.
Aisling slid close as Caelan stood.
“You’re doing well,” she murmured.
“I’m not a performing seal,” Rowan said.
“No,” Aisling said. “You’re a wolf. You just haven’t realized the size of your teeth yet.”
She touched Rowan’s bracelet briefly, fingers light.
The leather strand warmed.
The metal pricked.
“Careful,” Caelan said, hand coming up between them.
“Always,” Aisling said. She winked. “See you at dinner, mirror.”
She was gone.
Leaving Rowan with Caelan and the King.
And Whisper, perched in the rafters like a smug gargoyle.
“Come here, girl,” the King said, crooking a finger.
Rowan stiffened.
Caelan bristled. “She’s—”
“Not your pet,” the King snapped. “I know. But she is still of my Court. For now.”
Rowan walked to him.
Every instinct screamed that this was a bad idea.
She ignored them.
He studied her.
Up close, the signs of age were clearer.
The lines around his eyes. The faint tremor in his hand. The way he leaned a fraction more heavily on the carved arm of his chair than he had the day she arrived.
“You remind me of her,” he said suddenly.
“Of…who,” Rowan asked warily.
“My wife,” he said. “Caelan’s mother. Mouth too sharp. Eyes too soft. Stubborn enough to move mountains or break her neck against them.”
Caelan’s jaw clenched.
“You killed her,” Rowan said quietly.
“No,” he said. “Not directly. That was Winter.” His lips twisted. “I *allowed* it by being arrogant enough to think I could handle all of this on my own.” His gaze slid to Caelan. “Learn from that, boy.”
“I am,” Caelan said.
The King looked back at Rowan.
“You will hurt him,” he said conversationally. “One way or another. You can’t help it. You are who you are. He is who he is.”
Her throat tightened. “That seems…inevitable,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “The question is how. And whether he survives it.”
“You could…help,” she said. “By not making this harder than it already is.”
He smiled. “Where would the fun be in that,” he said.
She wanted to slap him.
Instead, she inclined her head.
“Thank you,” she said. “For your honesty.”
He barked a laugh. “Don’t thank me,” he said. “You don’t owe me a damn thing.” He waved a hand. “Go. Learn. Burn. Try not to bore me.”
She turned away before she could say something that would get her turned into a tree.
Caelan fell into step beside her as they left the Council Chamber.
“You didn’t punch him,” he said. “I’m impressed.”
“I wanted to,” she said.
“I know,” he said. “He does too.”
“Good,” she muttered.
They walked in silence for a few paces.
Then Rowan exhaled.
“I hate this,” she said. “All of it. The prophecy. The tug-of-war. The way they all talk about me like I’m a…lever.”
“I know,” he said softly.
“I’m not…strong enough for this,” she blurted.
He stopped.
Turned her to face him.
“You already are,” he said quietly. “You just don’t believe it yet.”
Her eyes burned.
“Stop saying nice things to me,” she said hoarsely. “I don’t know what to do with them.”
“File them,” he said. “Use them later, when you start to believe them.”
Her laugh came out watery.
He reached up.
Paused.
“What,” she rasped.
“Leaf,” he said. “In your hair.”
He plucked it out, fingers brushing her curls.
Electric.
Her breath hitched.
He froze.
For a heartbeat, they were much, much too close.
His thumb grazed her temple.
Her pulse thundered.
“Caelan,” she whispered.
He swallowed.
Then, with visible effort, he stepped back.
“We should…train,” he said. “Before dinner.”
She wanted to strangle him.
And kiss him.
And maybe set him on fire just to see if he’d burn pretty.
“Right,” she said tightly. “Training.”
“Training,” he repeated.
They walked.
The space between them crackled.
Neither of them acknowledged it.
For now.
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