Caelan found her pacing.
He knocked, because apparently he’d decided that was a habit now, waited half a heartbeat, then stepped in.
She stopped mid‑stride.
He looked…worse.
Not physically. His clothes were immaculate, his hair only slightly mussed, his knife clean at his hip. But his eyes were harder. The line between his brows deeper, as if someone had taken a chisel to his expression.
“How was your meeting with the Hounds?” Rowan asked.
“Loud,” he said. “And very opinionated.”
“Dogs with opinions,” she said. “My childhood dream.”
He huffed a laugh despite himself. “They wanted to chase you,” he admitted. “For sport.”
She went cold. “And?”
“I told them they could chase me instead,” he said lightly. “They were…intrigued.”
“Caelan,” she said low. “That’s not funny.”
“I wasn’t joking,” he said.
Silence stretched.
“Did they…agree?” she asked.
“For now,” he said. “They like a challenge. And I’m…” He smiled without humor. “Challenging.”
Her stomach twisted.
“You can’t keep…offering yourself up as a chew toy every time someone looks at me sideways,” she said. “You’ll run out of limbs.”
“I heal,” he said. “Mostly.”
“That’s not the point,” she snapped.
“It is, actually,” he said calmly. “You are…new. Unknown. Vulnerable in ways you don’t understand yet. I am…not. If there’s going to be blood, better it be mine.”
“You keep saying that like it’s an equation that always balances,” she said. “Like one cut on you erases the threat to me. It doesn’t. It just…doubles the damage.”
He watched her, expression unreadable.
“You met with Lavinia,” he said. “And Lucien. And Aisling.”
“Yes,” she said. “I learned how to be a candle, how to weaponize silence, and how to say no to people who want into my dreams. Very productive day.”
He smiled faintly. “Good,” he said. “You’ll need all of that.”
He moved around the room, restless, fingers brushing the back of a chair, the edge of the table.
“There’s something…we need to do,” he said. “Before the day ends.”
Rowan’s hackles rose. “Define ‘do,’” she said. “Last time you said that, I ended up in front of your father with my middle finger metaphorically up.”
He hesitated.
“It’s…a minor thing,” he said. “Relatively.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Relatively.”
“A formal…tying,” he said. “Of you to this room. So that the Palace recognizes you as…present. So that anyone who tries to pull you through a seam from outside has to wrestle the walls first.”
“That doesn’t sound minor,” she said slowly.
“It’s old magic,” he said. “Simple. It won’t bind you like the bargain. It will…claim space.”
“Space,” she repeated.
“For you,” he said. “Not for us.”
She chewed the inside of her cheek. “What does it…involve?” she asked.
“A few words,” he said. “A little blood. Mine.”
“The Palace likes your blood a lot,” she said. “You sure you want to dribble more of it around?”
He smiled wryly. “The Palace has been drinking from my line for centuries,” he said. “A few more drops won’t change much.”
She folded her arms. “Explain,” she said. “All of it. No drama. No gloss.”
He took a breath.
“In this Court,” he said, “rooms have…allegiances. Wards. Some are tied to specific families. Some to functions. Some…to no one, because we’re lazy.” His mouth tilted. “Right now, this room is…neutral. Protected, yes, by the general Palace wards, and by my father’s decree, and by Aisling’s…flair. But it doesn’t…know you. As yours. That makes it easier for certain…interested parties…to slip claims through the cracks.”
“Like Winter,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “And Mire. And anyone else with old enough oaths and thin enough morals.”
“So you want to…introduce me,” she said slowly. “To the walls.”
“Yes,” he said. “To tell them, ‘This one is mine.’”
She stiffened.
“Mine…” she repeated.
He grimaced. “Bad phrasing,” he said. “Yours. This one is *hers.* She keeps her things here. Her…self. Protect accordingly.”
“Is there a version where we don’t have to use possessives,” she asked.
“Language is…limited,” he said. “We can try.”
She sighed. “What if I say no?” she asked. “What if I’d rather not…tie myself to your architecture.”
“Then we don’t,” he said simply. “We risk it.”
She studied him.
He looked…earnest.
Wary.
She thought of Whisper. Of the way the shadows in the corner of Gran’s room had seemed fuller when it listened. Of the sense at the seam of unseen teeth.
She thought of the shack of an apartment back home, its thin walls and rattling pipes, and how, despite all that, it had been *hers.* Because she’d painted the doorframe. Because she’d banged the cabinets in frustration. Because she’d left her footprint on the bathroom mat.
Rooms held echoes.
Maybe this one could hold hers.
“Fine,” she said. “We do it. But we phrase it very carefully.”
A slow smile curved his mouth. “Of course,” he said. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
He moved to the wall opposite the window, where the plaster met stone in a slightly uneven seam. He pressed one hand flat against it.
The stone warmed faintly under his palm.
“We’ll keep it simple,” he said. “Complicated is when things go wrong.”
“That’s not what you tell Lucien,” she muttered.
He ignored that.
“Repeat after me,” he said. “But only if it feels…right. If it doesn’t, we change the words.”
She nodded.
He closed his eyes briefly, as if listening to something beyond the room.
Then: “I am Rowan Vance.”
“I am Rowan Vance,” she said.
“Myself,” he added.
“Myself,” she repeated.
“Not a debt,” he said.
“Not a debt,” she said, voice catching.
“Not a prize,” he said.
“Not a prize,” she whispered.
“I claim this space,” he said softly, “as a place where I may be…safely myself.”
She swallowed.
“I claim this space,” she said, “as a place where I may be…safely myself.”
She felt it.
A soft…click.
Not like the heavy snap of the bargain.
This was gentler.
Like a latch on a window.
“I invite the walls,” he said, “to know me.”
“I invite the walls,” she said, “to know me.”
“And to refuse,” he said, voice hardening slightly, “any claim laid upon me within them that I do not choose.”
“And to refuse,” she repeated, feeling the words settle in her bones, “any claim laid upon me within them that I do not choose.”
The air thickened.
The stone under her hand—she hadn’t realized she’d mirrored his gesture, palm flat to the wall—warmed.
She exhaled.
“That’s it?” she asked.
“Almost,” he said.
He drew his knife.
She tensed.
He met her gaze. “May I?” he asked.
“Where,” she said.
He held up his left hand. Turned his palm up. “Here,” he said. “Not you. Me.”
She exhaled slowly. “Do it,” she said.
He dragged the blade lightly across his palm.
Blood welled.
It glowed faintly—not bright, not gaudy. A soft, deep gold under the red.
He pressed his hand to the wall next to hers.
The stone drank it like a thirsty thing.
The glow spread in fine lines, like a network of veins branching out from the point of contact.
It faded a heartbeat later.
But the room felt…different.
Denser.
Warmer.
“Now it knows you,” Caelan said quietly. “And that you matter to me.”
Her throat went tight. “You didn’t say that part out loud,” she said.
“I didn’t need to,” he said. “The walls listen deeper than words.”
She pulled her hand back.
Her palm tingled.
“Try something,” he said.
She frowned. “Like what.”
“Say,” he said slowly, “‘No claim but mine touches me here.’”
She eyed him. “That’s a big sentence,” she said.
“You can adjust,” he said. “Add…clauses.”
“Lawyer,” she muttered.
She took a breath.
“Within this room,” she said slowly, enunciating each word, “no one claims me without my consent. No bargain binds me that I have not agreed to. No touch marks me that I have not allowed.”
The walls…hummed.
Not a shiver this time.
A low, contented thrumming.
She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
“How long does that…last,” she asked.
“As long as the Palace stands,” he said simply. “Or until you take it back.”
Her eyes stung.
“Thank you,” she said, barely above a whisper.
He smiled, small and crooked. “You’re welcome,” he said.
A knock came.
Sharply. Three times.
Caelan stiffened. “Already,” he muttered.
He opened the door a crack.
A guard stood there, helmed, armor glinting.
“Your Highness,” the guard said. “The King requests Miss Vance’s presence. Immediately.”
Rowan’s stomach dropped. “Of course he does,” she muttered.
Caelan’s jaw clenched. “Alone?” he asked.
“He specified ‘with his son,’” the guard said. “And ‘with the thorn.’”
“Aisling,” Caelan said.
“Yes,” the guard said.
Caelan exhaled slowly. “Very well,” he said. “Tell him we’re coming.”
The guard bowed and left.
Caelan shut the door.
“Do I have time to…panic,” Rowan asked.
“No,” he said. “We have to go.”
Aisling appeared from the adjoining washroom, where she’d apparently been eavesdropping like it was a competitive sport. “Daddy wants a family meeting,” she said. “How touching.”
Rowan’s pulse pounded.
“Remember your rules,” Caelan said softly. “You don’t apologize. You don’t agree in fear. You don’t throw yourself on any swords he waves at you.”
“I’ll…try,” she said.
“Good enough,” he said.
They went.
***
The King’s private audience chamber was smaller than the throne hall, but no less intimidating.
It was round, for one thing.
High‑ceilinged, the walls curved inward, painted with intricate scenes of leaves and vines that seemed to move when Rowan wasn’t looking directly at them. A ring of narrow windows high above let in the ever‑twilight, glazing the room in a strange, shifting light.
A heavy rug in deep greens and rusts covered most of the floor. A low table stood in the center, surrounded by cushions instead of chairs.
The King lounged on one of them, cloak pooled around him like spilled shadow.
He looked…worse.
Up close, without the framing of the throne and the flattering distance, his illness was more pronounced. His cheeks were hollow. The skin under his eyes was bruised. His fingers, where they rested on the cup in his hand, trembled faintly.
He still radiated…power.
Like a furnace banked low.
Maerlyn sat to his right, cross‑legged, her gown arranged artfully so the thorns didn’t catch her own skin. A small glass of something clear rested at her elbow.
Aisling dropped onto a cushion to the King’s left without waiting to be invited.
Caelan remained standing just inside the door.
Rowan hesitated on the threshold.
“Come in, girl,” the King said. “We don’t bite.”
“Lies,” Aisling muttered.
Rowan stepped in.
The door shut behind them with a soft thud.
She had a sudden, vivid flash of Gran’s nursing home room—small, enclosed, air thick with breath and disinfectant.
This felt…worse.
She walked to the table and lowered herself onto a cushion opposite the King. Caelan sat to her right, slightly behind. Aisling watched her with interest. Maerlyn’s gaze was sharp as a scalpel.
The King lifted his cup in a little salute. “To the end of the beginning,” he said.
“I thought it was the beginning of the end,” Rowan said.
He smiled. “Perhaps,” he said. “You never can tell.”
He took a sip.
She did not touch the cup placed carefully in front of her.
“What do you want,” she asked bluntly.
“Straight to business,” Maerlyn murmured. “Uncouth.”
“She learned from the best,” Aisling said.
The King chuckled. “I wanted…” He rolled the cup between his hands. “To see you without the noise,” he said. “Without the Court. Without the thrumming of their fear in my bones.”
“You have…feelings,” Rowan said. “For their fear.”
“I feel…everything,” he said simply. “It’s what being tied to this place does. Every oath, every bargain, every bit of their power—they all run through me. I’m tired, girl.”
It was said matter‑of‑factly.
Not plaintive.
Not fishing for sympathy.
Just…true.
She stared at him.
“I’ve been angry at you,” she said. “For what you did. To my family. To Aisling. To me. I still am.”
“Good,” he said. “You should be.”
“But I…” She hesitated. “I don’t…know you,” she admitted. “Beyond the monster in the story.”
“And you think this will…help?” Maerlyn asked dryly.
Rowan met the older woman’s gaze. “I think knowing how my enemy thinks is useful,” she said. “And I think…he’s not my only enemy.”
Maerlyn’s lips twitched. “Sharper than you look,” she said.
“I’ve heard that a lot,” Rowan said.
The King laughed softly. “You are not wrong,” he said. “I am not your only problem.” He sobered. “Nor your worst.”
“Winter,” Rowan said.
“And others,” Maerlyn said. “There are…old things that like to slither into any crack between worlds. You are…crack‑shaped.”
“Can we not call me crack‑shaped,” Rowan muttered.
“She’s right,” the King said. “You are…a hinge. A place where pressure can be applied. Everyone out there is looking at you and thinking, ‘What can I push through her?’”
Rowan’s skin crawled.
“And you?” she asked. “What do you see when you look at me?”
He regarded her for a long moment.
“A chance,” he said finally. “To…change the ending.”
Of his life? Of his Court? Of the prophecy?
All of it.
She felt it in the way the room’s air tightened.
“And if I…refuse?” she asked.
He shrugged, a slow roll of his shoulders. “Then it ends the way it always does,” he said. “Blood and ash and…regret.”
“You sound very philosophical about your own doom,” she said.
“I’ve had a long time to consider it,” he said mildly. “When you feel everyone’s fear all day, every day, you either…make peace with the worst possibilities or you fling yourself out a window.”
Maerlyn snorted. “He tried,” she said. “The wildwood threw him back.”
“Ungrateful trees,” the King said.
Silence fell for a beat.
“You wanted something from me,” Rowan said. “Specifically. Beyond this…talk.” She gestured between them. “What is it?”
His jaw tightened.
He looked older suddenly.
Less king.
More man.
“I want you,” he said slowly, “to promise me something.”
Her hackles rose.
“No,” she said immediately.
He blinked. “You don’t know what—”
“I don’t care,” she said. “If you want a promise from me, you tell me the terms and I’ll consider. But I’m not agreeing to anything in advance. Not after the last time someone in my family did that.”
Caelan’s lips twitched.
Aisling grinned.
Maerlyn’s eyes gleamed.
The King stared at Rowan.
Then he threw his head back and laughed.
It turned quickly into a cough, but for a moment, it was pure, unrestrained amusement.
“Oh, girl,” he wheezed, wiping blood from his lips. “You are…a delight.”
She did not smile.
“What is it?” she asked again. “Specifically.”
He sobered.
“When I die,” he said, “this Court will…tear. There are…factions. Old grudges. Hungry cousins. Winter sniffing at the edges. Mire waiting for what sinks. They will all…pull. Hard.”
“And?” she prompted.
“I want you,” he said, “to choose. Publicly. Who you stand with.”
She frowned. “What?”
He leaned forward. “When the crown tips,” he said, “it will not be…a quiet thing. It rarely is. Some will back my son. Some will back other claimants. Some will back no one, hoping to carve their own little kingdoms out of the rubble. Your choice—your *visible* choice—will shift the balance.”
She stared.
“You want me,” she said slowly, “to be your…endorsement.”
“In a way,” he said. “Your…blessing.”
“That’s fucked up,” she said.
He shrugged. “Welcome to monarchy,” he said.
“Why should I?” she demanded. “You made this mess. You chose this stupid prophecy. You’re the one who tied me to your bloodline like a spare part. Why should I…legitimize any of it?”
“Because if you don’t,” Maerlyn said quietly, “the worst of them will win.”
“Define ‘worst,’” Rowan said. “From where I’m sitting, being eaten by one monster doesn’t sound much better than being eaten by another.”
The King’s eyes hardened. “You’ve seen my son,” he said. “You’ve seen…him. With you. With the Court. With himself. Do you truly think you’d be better off with one of the others on that throne?”
She thought of Caelan’s hands, steady on her shoulders. Of his laughter. Of the way he’d knelt to swear not to touch her without consent. Of the blood he’d pressed into her walls.
She thought of Lucien’s wry intelligence, Aisling’s wildness, Maerlyn’s cold calculation.
She thought of the rumor murmured in the hall—Thorn of the North. The boy with the antlers. The others.
“No,” she admitted. “Probably not.”
“Then that’s why,” the King said simply. “A Court with my son at its center will be…different. Maybe worse, in some ways. Better, in others. But if someone else…with fewer scruples and less practice at loving mortals…takes that seat, this world will become an even sharper place for you.”
“And for you,” she said.
“And for me,” he agreed. “In whatever way I still…exist.”
She inhaled slowly.
“You’re asking me,” she said, “to intervene in your succession. To tip the scales. To put a target on my own back bigger than the one already there.”
“Yes,” he said.
She shook her head. “I can’t promise that,” she said. “Not now. I don’t know enough. I barely know your son. I barely know you. I don’t make endorsements without reading the fine print.”
“Spoken like a true politician,” Maerlyn said wryly.
“I work in a bookstore,” Rowan said. “We don’t have time for politics.”
“You do now,” Aisling murmured.
The King studied her.
“Good,” he said at last. “Don’t promise. Yet. Think. Watch. Learn. And when the time comes…” His gaze sharpened. “Choose. Don’t…stand aside and let others choose for you.”
“Even if I choose wrong?” she asked.
He smiled tiredly. “We always do,” he said. “In some way. That’s what makes it interesting.”
She exhaled.
“Fine,” she said. “I promise nothing. But I’ll…consider. When it happens. If it happens while I’m still—” She gestured vaguely at her body. “—this.”
“That’s all I can ask,” he said.
“And all I can give,” she said.
He nodded.
“Good,” he said. “Now leave. Your presence makes me feel…old.”
“You are old,” Aisling said.
He threw a cushion at her.
She dodged.
Caelan rose.
Rowan did too.
As they reached the door, Maerlyn spoke for the first time since the bargain discussion.
“Girl,” she said.
Rowan looked back.
Maerlyn’s eyes were sharp, unnervingly clear.
“Do not let us make you into a symbol,” Maerlyn said quietly. “Symbols die quicker than people.”
Rowan swallowed.
“I’ll…try,” she said.
“Good,” Maerlyn said. “Try harder than I did.”
There was a story there.
One Rowan would pry out later, if she could.
For now, she nodded and followed Caelan out.
In the corridor, the air felt cooler.
Less…thick.
“Are you all right?” Caelan asked, searching her face.
“No,” she said honestly. “But I’m…upright.”
He huffed. “You did well,” he said. “With him. With them.”
“I told your father no,” she said. “To his face. Three times.”
“Yes,” Caelan said. Pride warmed his voice. “You did.”
“You’re…happy about that,” she said incredulously.
He smiled faintly. “Delighted,” he said. “He needs it.”
“You’re all very fucked up,” she said.
“Yes,” he agreed.
She stopped walking.
He took half a step before realizing and turning back.
“What?” he asked.
She studied him.
“You’re going to die,” she said suddenly.
His brows shot up. “Well,” he said. “Eventually, yes. That’s the—”
“Soon,” she said. “Your father. When he goes. You’re going to be right there. In the middle. With your blood in the walls and your hand on my wrist and everyone watching.”
He went still.
“Yes,” he said quietly.
“You asked me once,” she said, “what I would do if you…tried to turn me into a pawn. If you tried to…use me like they want you to. I said I’d burn you.”
His jaw clenched.
“I remember,” he said.
“Hold me to that,” she said. “If you start…sliding. If you start…liking the power too much. If you forget that you promised me your life and not just my utility. Make me remember. Make me act.”
His eyes darkened. “You think I’ll forget?” he asked.
“I think…” She swallowed. “Power changes people. Pressure changes people. And I think you…held your father accountable for things he did when he thought he was doing the best he could. It would be…hypocritical of me not to hold you to the same standard.”
He stared at her.
Then, slowly, he nodded.
“Deal,” he said.
“No bargains,” she snapped automatically.
He smiled, bleak. “No bargains,” he said. “Just…truth.”
A sharp, distant howl split the air.
Rowan flinched.
“Winter,” she said.
“Yes,” Caelan said. “They’re getting bolder.”
“So are we,” she said.
He arched a brow. “We?”
She lifted her wrist, where the bracelet hummed faintly. “We,” she said. “Like it or not.”
His gaze softened.
“I like it,” he said quietly.
Her breath hitched.
“Don’t say things like that,” she whispered. “It confuses my priorities.”
He smiled.
And somewhere in the Palace, in a corner where the wards didn’t quite reach, a shadow with too many eyes smiled too.
The story was sharpening its knives.
And Rowan, whether she liked it or not, was going to have to learn how to use them first.