Rowan didn’t see Winter coming.
She felt it.
The air in the Palace shifted sometime around what her body insisted should be late evening—a subtle drop in temperature that had nothing to do with drafts, a dry sharpness at the back of her throat.
She was in Lavinia’s room again, hands hovering over a bowl of water, trying to coax the magic in her palms to ripple the surface without splashing it all over herself.
“Gentle,” Lavinia said. “You’re not interrogating it. You’re asking.”
“I’m not good at asking,” Rowan said, sweat beading at her temples.
“Then learn,” Lavinia retorted.
The water quivered.
A single ripple bloomed out from under Rowan’s fingers, concentric circles shivering across the surface.
“That’s it,” Lavinia murmured. “Again.”
Rowan tried.
She pushed too hard this time.
The water sloshed, splashing over the sides, dampening the chalk circle drawn on the table.
Lavinia sighed. “Overachiever,” she said. “Stop trying to drown the bowl.”
Before Rowan could retort, a cold wind gusted through the half‑cracked window.
The candles sputtered.
The water in the bowl went ice‑still.
Lavinia’s head snapped up.
“Shit,” she said.
“That’s never a good sign,” Rowan muttered.
“What is it?” Brenna’s voice came from the doorway, where she’d been lurking with a stack of clean cloths.
“Winter,” Lavinia said tersely. “They’re here.”
Rowan’s heart pounded. “Here as in…at the seam again?” she asked. “Or ‘here’ as in…”
A horn sounded.
Not the low, autumnal note Rowan was starting to recognize.
This one was high and clear, slicing through the Palace’s stones like a knife.
Lavinia swore again, more creatively this time.
“Here,” she said. “In the courtyard.”
“Inside?” Rowan demanded.
“Invited,” Lavinia said bitterly. “Of course. They rarely bother with doors.”
“Why…” Rowan began.
“Politics,” Brenna said grimly. “The King invited a Winter envoy. ‘To discuss border stability.’”
“Today?” Rowan demanded. “He picked **today**?”
“He likes drama,” Lavinia said.
Rowan swore.
Lavinia grabbed her forearm. “You,” she said. “Stay in this room. Do not go near any windows that overlook the main courtyard. If you hear howling, you *do not answer.*”
“I’m not a wolf,” Rowan said indignantly.
“Magic doesn’t care,” Lavinia snapped. “It hears human fear and it wants to bite.”
Brenna stepped closer. “I’ll stay,” she said. “My aunt would kill me if I let you wander into a Winter parley unchaperoned.”
“You’re not my babysitter,” Rowan started.
Brenna’s jaw clenched. “I’m your…ally,” she said. “Let me do my job.”
Rowan shut her mouth.
Another horn blast.
Faint snarling, too distant to be clear.
“Caelan,” Rowan said sharply. “Where is he?”
“With them,” Lavinia said. “Where else.”
Rowan’s stomach dropped.
“He’s fine,” Lavinia added, eyes on the window. “Probably. He knows how to play this game.”
“That’s what worries me,” Rowan muttered.
Lavinia squeezed her arm once, hard, then let go. “Circle,” she said. “Now.”
“What?” Rowan asked.
“Do you think I’m leaving you unbound when Winter’s breath is crawling under the door?” Lavinia demanded. “Stand in the chalk, girl.”
Rowan stepped into the circle drawn on the floor—a rough ring of salt and something that looked suspiciously like ground-up leaves.
Lavinia snapped her fingers.
Candles around the room flared.
Symbols Rowan didn’t recognize glowed faintly along the walls, pulsing in time with her heartbeat.
“Brenna,” Lavinia said. “If anything…calls, you tell her not to answer. If anything…beckons, you slap her.”
Brenna nodded, pale but firm.
“Where are you going?” Rowan demanded.
“To go remind a certain prince that he swore to keep you alive,” Lavinia said. “And that includes not letting Winter sniff too hard at your bones.”
Then she was gone, a swirl of skirts and wards, the door slamming behind her.
Rowan stood in the circle.
Brenna positioned herself near the door, knife in hand—not iron, but sharp.
The horn sounded again.
Rowan swallowed.
“Tell me,” she said hoarsely. “About Winter.”
Brenna’s knuckles whitened on the knife hilt. “They’re…cold,” she said. “Not just the air. The *inside.* They like…rules. Edges. They say they value order over all. Really they value control.”
“They think Autumn is…messy,” Rowan guessed.
“They think Autumn is…decadent,” Brenna said. “Soft. Wasteful. All our feasts and hunts and drama—they see it as…excess. They pride themselves on…clarity. Simplicity. Black and white. Frozen.”
Rowan shivered. “Sounds like a cult,” she muttered.
“Their Hound…” Brenna swallowed. “He’s…old. Even by their standards. He was there when the first bargains were struck between our worlds. He remembers when mortals were…less complicated.”
“And he doesn’t like that we are now,” Rowan said.
“He doesn’t like that you are…part of both,” Brenna said. “It…upsets his sense of categories.”
“Fantastic,” Rowan said. “I’ve pissed off an ancient magical accountant.”
A faint sound drifted through the walls.
Not the horn this time.
Laughter.
Strange, sharp, echoing.
It made the hair on the back of Rowan’s neck stand up.
“Do they…always laugh like that,” she asked.
“No,” Brenna said. “That’s…for show. They’re putting on a performance.”
“For who,” Rowan asked.
“For *you,*” Brenna said quietly. “Even if you’re not in the room, they want you to…feel them.”
Rowan’s jaw clenched.
She hated that it was working.
“Tell me something human,” she said abruptly. “Something…small. Mundane. Ground me.”
Brenna blinked. “Um,” she said. “My uncle makes terrible stew?”
Rowan huffed. “Details,” she said. “I need details.”
Brenna’s mouth twitched. “He insists on putting raisins in it,” she said. “And those little cocktail sausages. It’s like…someone murdered a charcuterie board.”
Rowan made a face. “That’s a crime,” she said.
“Yes,” Brenna said. “We threaten to call the authorities every time.”
“What about you?” Rowan asked. “Any…terrible human habits?”
Brenna’s cheeks flushed. “I like…cheesy romance novellas,” she admitted. “The ones with…shirtless men on the cover and titles like *Burning For You.*”
Rowan stared.
Then she laughed.
“Same,” she said. “Though I prefer the ones where the heroines have knives.”
“You work in a bookstore,” Brenna said. “Of course you do.”
They traded awful plot synopses for a few minutes—Brenna stammering through descriptions of fae/human romances that sounded uncomfortably on the nose, Rowan countering with human vampire stories that made the actual undead they’d encountered look nuanced by comparison.
It helped.
The cold at the edges of the room receded slightly.
Then a voice slid through the walls like smoke.
Rowan.
It wasn’t spoken.
Not with breath.
It crawled along her nerves, tasting the syllables of her name.
She flinched.
“Did you hear that?” she whispered.
Brenna nodded, face gone chalky. “Don’t…answer,” she said. “Don’t think of your name. Think of…something else.”
“Something else,” Rowan repeated.
Her mind immediately offered: *Caelan.*
“Not that,” Brenna hissed. “They know his name.”
“Aisling,” Rowan thought frantically.
“Not that either,” Brenna said.
Gran.
She thought of Gran’s hands. Gran’s voice. Gran’s flannel shirt. Gran’s terrible crossword cheating.
The cold at the edges of the circle hissed.
The voice pressed again.
Rowan.
It was deeper this time.
Colder.
Curious.
Hungry.
She ground her teeth. “No,” she whispered. “You don’t get my attention. You don’t get…me.”
The room’s wards flared faintly.
Her bracelet pulsed cold, then hot.
The voice retreated.
Not far.
Lingering.
Licking at the edges.
“Good,” Brenna said, breathing hard. “Very good.”
Rowan’s knees felt weak.
She sank onto the stool inside the circle.
“Does this happen…a lot?” she asked, voice thin.
“Not…like this,” Brenna said. “Usually they sniff from a distance. You’re…bait, this time.”
“Honesty appreciated,” Rowan said.
Time stretched.
The horn blew twice more.
Then a different sound joined it.
A low, deep call.
Autumn’s horn.
They braided together in the air, an unsettling harmony.
Brenna and Rowan were both silent, listening without meaning to.
Eventually, the horns faded.
The cold at the corners of the room receded.
The wards’ hum softened.
Lavinia returned, smelling of smoke and anger.
She slammed the door behind her and leaned against it, eyes closed, chest heaving.
“Well?” Rowan asked.
Lavinia’s mouth twisted. “They left,” she said. “No blood.”
“On your side,” Brenna said quietly.
“Yes,” Lavinia said. “On ours.”
Rowan’s pulse spiked. “What does that mean,” she demanded.
Lavinia pushed off the door and stalked into the circle’s edge. “It means Winter sent an envoy,” she said. “He made veiled threats and smug observations and offered us the dubious boon of his ‘stability.'” She spat the word. “It means your father‑in‑prophecy told him to fuck off very politely. It means they smelled you and wanted to…sample.”
“I noticed,” Rowan muttered.
“And it means,” Lavinia finished grimly, “that Caelan put his hand on the wolf’s muzzle and it *bit.*”
Rowan’s heart stopped. “What?”
Lavinia’s gaze softened. “He’s fine,” she said quickly. “Mostly. Scars add character. But he…bargained.”
Rowan’s world narrowed. “What did he *promise*,” she asked, throat tight.
Lavinia hesitated.
“Tell me,” Rowan said, voice low. “You all like honesty, remember? Lavinia. Brenna. *Tell me.*”
Brenna looked at Lavinia.
Lavinia exhaled. “He promised,” she said slowly, “that if Winter leaves you unclaimed—if they do not try to pull you, do not try to stake you, do not try to freeze you—he will not…interfere…when the Hound comes for Autumn’s excess.”
Rowan stared.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “Interfere…how.”
“He won’t…block the next cull,” Lavinia said quietly.
“Cull,” Rowan repeated.
Maerlyn’s earlier words came back.
*We harvest. We prune. We eat what we don’t need.*
“You kill your own,” Rowan said. “Sometimes. To…’balance’ things.”
“Yes,” Lavinia said.
“And he…usually…stops it,” Rowan said.
“He…nudges,” Brenna said. “Diverts. Hides those he can. Makes sure the knife falls on…those who can take it. Or deserve it. Or have already stabbed someone else.”
“And now he’s…promised” —the word tasted like ash— “not to.”
Lavinia met her gaze. “For one cycle,” she said. “For one…harvest. In exchange for Winter not…touching you.”
Rowan’s stomach rolled.
“How many,” she whispered. “Die. In a…cycle.”
“Not many,” Brenna said quickly. “Comparatively.”
“How. Many,” Rowan insisted.
“Dozens,” Lavinia said.
The room swayed.
She grabbed the edge of the table.
“When,” she asked.
“Not…yet,” Lavinia said. “The Hound likes…surprises.”
Rowan laughed.
It was a high, brittle sound.
“So,” she said. “To keep me…safe…he put a price on…dozens of other people.”
“To keep you out of Winter’s jaws,” Lavinia said. “He left the door to Autumn’s teeth…ajar.”
“This is supposed to make me feel better?” Rowan demanded.
“No,” Lavinia said. “It’s supposed to make you angry enough to…do something.”
Her hands shook.
“Like what,” she said. “Burn his father’s treaties? March into Winter and…lecture the wolf? I’m one girl in jeans in a world that thinks teeth are a virtue.”
“You’re more than that,” Brenna said. “You’re…leverage.”
“I hate that word,” Rowan said.
“I know,” Brenna said softly. “So does he.”
Rowan pressed her palms to her eyes.
“He promised,” she whispered. “He swore. On blood and roots. To keep me alive, to keep me whole. And now he’s…bleeding other people instead.”
“He’s…buying time,” Lavinia said. “Ugly time. But time.”
“Time for what,” Rowan snapped. “For me to sit in this circle and learn how to ripple a bowl of water without making a mess?”
“For you to learn enough to…change the cost,” Lavinia said.
Rowan dropped her hands.
“You think I can…stop a cull,” she said.
“I think,” Lavinia said, “that if anyone can walk into the Hound’s hall and say ‘no’ and have him *listen,* it’s the girl who has Autumn and human and Winter all sniffing at her heels.”
“You’re insane,” Rowan said.
“Absolutely,” Lavinia said. “It’s how I’ve survived this long.”
The door opened again.
Caelan stood there.
He looked…bad.
His coat was gone. His shirt, once black, was torn at the left sleeve, the fabric dark with blood. His left hand—still wrapped in the bandage from the wall—was slick with new red. A smear of crimson striped his cheek.
His eyes, though, were clear.
“Rowan,” he said softly.
“Don’t you ‘Rowan’ me,” she snapped.
He blinked.
Lavinia took a step back.
“I’ll leave you two to…talk,” she said.
Brenna followed, closing the door behind them with a soft click.
Rowan stood in the middle of the room, breathing hard.
Caelan took a tentative step forward.
“You’re bleeding,” she said.
“Yes,” he said.
“It hurts,” she observed.
“Yes,” he said again.
“Good,” she said.
He huffed a laugh. “Fair,” he said.
“You promised not to bleed for me lightly,” she said. “Remember?”
“I promised to bleed for you,” he corrected gently. “I never said I’d be *smart* about it.”
“Don’t joke,” she snapped.
He sobered.
“I’m not…proud,” he said quietly. “Of what I did. Of what I promised. But I didn’t see another—”
“You didn’t see another way,” she cut in. “Because you were standing in the jaws of an ancient wolf and you panicked.”
“Yes,” he said simply.
Her anger faltered.
That was the thing with him.
He didn’t…deflect.
He didn’t say, *I had no choice,* in the way others did. He said, *I chose badly.*
“That doesn’t make it…better,” she said.
“No,” he said. “It doesn’t.”
She crossed the room in two strides.
He tensed, as if expecting a blow.
She grabbed his injured arm instead, pushing the torn sleeve back.
The skin beneath was a ruin.
Deep grooves, like teeth marks, ran from his forearm up almost to his elbow. The flesh was already knitting, faint gold light sparking along the edges of the wounds, but they were raw. Angry.
She swallowed bile.
“Sit,” she ordered.
He obeyed without protest, lowering himself onto the stool Lavinia had dragged into the circle.
She fetched the bowl of water, now tinged faintly with magic. A clean cloth. A jar of something Lavinia had labeled in a script Rowan couldn’t read.
“Lavinia would—” he began.
“Lavinia is busy,” Rowan snapped. “Shut up and hold still.”
He shut up.
She cleaned the wounds.
Carefully.
The water ran pink.
He hissed once when she pressed too hard.
“Sorry,” she muttered.
“It’s fine,” he said. “You should see the other guy.”
“I don’t want to,” she said.
He smiled faintly.
She dabbed on the salve. It smelled of pine and smoke and something bitter.
“What did you say to him,” she asked quietly. “The Hound.”
He watched her hands.
“I told him,” he said slowly, “that if he tried to take you as Winter’s due, I would…fight. Personally. And that I would encourage others to do the same. And that his tidy little narrative about mortals being fragile and foolish would…crack.”
“And he bit you for that,” she said.
“He bit me,” Caelan said, “when I offered him…a different bargain.”
“Don’t hedge,” she said. “I heard from Lavinia. ‘I won’t interfere with your next cull if you leave her alone.’ That’s the summary, right?”
He flinched.
“Yes,” he said.
“Why,” she whispered.
His jaw clenched.
“Because,” he said, voice low, “if he took you now, before you had…any tools, any allies, any sense of this place, he would turn you into something I wouldn’t recognize. Or kill you. Or both. And everything I’ve done—all the watching, the guarding, the bleeding—it would have been for nothing.”
“And the people he’ll kill instead?” she asked. “They’re…disposable?”
“No,” he said sharply. “Never. They matter. Every one. But I…” He swallowed. “I have to…triage.”
“That’s such a clinical word for ‘sacrifice,’” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “It is.”
She wrapped the bandage around his forearm, fingers shaking.
“Do you regret it?” she asked.
He looked at her.
“Yes,” he said.
“And would you do it again,” she pressed. “If Winter came back tonight and said, ‘I’ve changed my mind, I want her anyway,’ would you offer another…pound of flesh?”
He closed his eyes briefly.
“No,” he said.
She blinked. “No?”
“No,” he repeated. “The cost…is too high. I won one ugly compromise. I won’t…buy another.”
“Because of them?” she asked. “The ones who’ll die?”
“Yes,” he said. “And because of you.”
“Me,” she said incredulously.
“You don’t want to be…bought,” he said. “With blood you didn’t consent to. You made that very clear. If I kept…doing that…I’d be no better than him.” His mouth twisted. “Than my father.”
Her chest ached.
“You’re very bad at being a prince,” she said.
“I know,” he said.
She finished the bandage and tied it off.
Their fingers brushed.
The contact zinged up her arm.
He inhaled softly.
“Thank you,” he said.
“You’re welcome,” she said grudgingly. “Idiot.”
He smiled.
“I am,” he agreed.
She leaned back against the table, crossing her arms, heart still pounding.
“I’m…angry at you,” she said. “For the bargain. For…deciding for those people. For not…telling me before you did it.”
“You were…in a circle,” he said. “And there wasn’t time.”
“There’s always time to look at me and say, ‘This is what I’m about to do,’” she snapped.
“You’re right,” he said.
The simple agreement robbed her of momentum.
She deflated slightly.
“And I’m…grateful,” she said grudgingly. “That I’m not currently…Winter’s chew toy.”
He snorted.
“I can hold both,” she said. “Anger and gratitude. Gran taught me that.”
“I like her more and more,” he said.
“She’d haunt you if she heard that,” Rowan said.
“I hope she does,” he murmured.
Silence.
The room felt…full.
Of their words.
Of unsaid things.
Of the faint echo of Winter’s teeth.
“Don’t,” Rowan said abruptly.
He blinked. “Don’t…what.”
“Don’t make bargains like that without me again,” she said. “Not because I think I can…fix it. But because…if my existence is costing lives, I want to know *when.* I want to…carry it on purpose. Not find out afterward like…fine print.”
His eyes softened.
“Deal,” he said.
She glared.
“No bargains,” she said.
He smiled. “Promise,” he amended.
She sighed.
“Fine,” she said. “Promise. And I promise…to try to be worth the price.”
“You already are,” he said quietly.
Her heart lurched.
“That’s not your call to make,” she whispered.
He held her gaze.
“Maybe not,” he said. “But it’s mine to…believe.”
The air between them hummed.
Her magic, his power, the Palace’s old, watchful stone.
She found herself stepping closer without meaning to.
He didn’t move away.
His eyes dropped to her mouth.
Heat flooded her cheeks.
“Don’t,” she said again.
“Don’t what,” he asked, voice rough.
“Don’t…make it harder,” she said.
He smiled, small and painful.
“I don’t know how,” he said.
She made a frustrated noise and turned away.
“Lavinia says I can ripple water now,” she muttered. “Maybe next week I’ll learn how to set your hair on fire.”
He chuckled. “I look terrible with bangs,” he said.
She laughed despite herself.
The tension eased.
For now.
Winter had come.
Autumn bled.
And Rowan stood between them, wrists banded with choices.
The next time the Hound howled, she knew, it wouldn’t be at the border.
It would be at the door.
And she’d be the one who answered.