A week became two.
Time in the Autumn Court moved in fits and starts.
Some days stretched, endless—training and lessons and arguments, meals and feasts and stupid political pageantry. Others snapped by—sudden crises that devoured hours in minutes.
Rowan fell into a rhythm she hated to admit she didn’t entirely…loathe.
Mornings with Lavinia or Iseult, learning to coax and corral her magic.
Afternoons with Lucien, dissecting conversations, practicing lies, analyzing which smiles in the hall meant *I like your dress* and which meant *I’d like to peel your skin off and wear it.*
Occasional summons to the King’s hall.
More frequent visits from Aisling, who appeared at the most inconvenient times with gossip, provocations, and remarks like, “You’re starting to walk like one of us. It’s unsettling. I like it.”
Nights in the crooked tree courtyard, practicing tiny controlled sparks under Caelan’s watchful eye.
They didn’t touch more than they had to.
It was a conscious choice.
Every time his hand brushed her elbow, every time her fingers slid along his forearm in a spin, every time they sat too close in a council session and their knees bumped, something in her flared.
She didn’t…trust that part yet.
So she fed the fire other things.
Frustration.
Fury.
Fear.
One afternoon, Lavinia dragged her to a different part of the Palace.
A small chamber lined with scrolls.
Not the grand library. A side archive.
“This is where we keep the little oaths,” Lavinia said. “The promises no one thinks are important until they crack.”
Rowan ran her fingers along the nearest shelf. The scrolls hummed faintly under her touch, each a small knot of meaning.
“What are you planning?” she asked.
Lavinia pulled one at random.
Unrolled it.
*I, Filian of the Third Orchard, swear never to drink from the King’s private stock without his leave.*
Rowan snorted. “Useful,” she said.
“Stupid,” Lavinia said. “But still binding. Still in the wood.”
She pulled another.
*I, Ansa of the Eastern Gate, swear to always open the door to the Hounds when they howl, no matter the hour.*
Rowan’s mouth dried. “That’s…” She swallowed. “Awful.”
“Yes,” Lavinia said. “There are worse. And better. And…in‑between.”
She met Rowan’s gaze.
“You can burn these,” she said. “If you learn how. You can…unmake promises. Or at least…untie knots.”
Rowan’s breath caught.
“That seems…dangerous,” she said.
“It is,” Lavinia said. “You could unravel things that shouldn’t be unraveled. Free people who deserve their chains. Or snap supports that hold this place up.”
She spread another scroll.
*I, Caelan of the Autumn Court, swear to be the blade my father needs, cutting where he points, until my blood runs dry.*
Rowan’s heart stuttered.
The ink shimmered faintly with old magic.
Lavinia’s lips thinned. “He made this when he was young,” she said. “Stupid. Hungry for approval. It’s one of the oaths that…tangled you both long before you met.”
Rowan stared.
Her hand twitched.
Her magic hummed.
“I could…burn this,” she whispered.
“Not yet,” Lavinia said quickly. “Not without thinking very, very hard about what falls when it’s gone.”
Rowan curled her fingers into fists.
“But…” She looked up. “It’s…*wrong.*” She gestured helplessly at the scroll. “He shouldn’t have to—”
“No,” Lavinia said. “He shouldn’t. But right now, that oath is…part of the scaffolding holding his father’s rule together. Part of what keeps certain nasty pieces of the Court from trying to tear him down *before* the old bastard dies. If you burn it now, you leave him with more enemies and fewer protections.”
“So I just…leave it?” Rowan said, voice rough. “Watch him bleed under a promise he made before he had a brain?”
“For now,” Lavinia said.
Rowan’s teeth ground.
“What about—” Her gaze flicked down the shelves. “All the small ones. The petty ones. The unpaid debts. The stupid vows people made drunk in the orchard.”
“Those…” Lavinia said slowly, “are less…load‑bearing. But they still have webs. Families. Feuds. Burn the wrong one, and you might start a fight that spills more blood than it saves.”
“Everything I touch is a fucking minefield,” Rowan said.
“Yes,” Lavinia said calmly. “Welcome to being…significant.”
Rowan laughed, short and harsh.
“Is there *anything* I can do that isn’t going to accidentally collapse your house?” she asked.
“Plenty,” Lavinia said. “You can learn. You can listen. You can *watch* before you act. You can pick your targets carefully.”
She rolled the scrolls back up, reverent.
“One day,” she said softly, “we will burn some of these. Together. The ones that need it. The ones that hurt more than they hold. But not yet.”
Rowan exhaled shakily.
“Okay,” she said. “Okay.”
***
That night, the seam whispered her name again.
Not in the cold, pressing way of Winter.
Softer.
Familiar.
Rowan.
She sat up in bed, heart pounding.
The room was dark, save for the faint glow from the banked embers in the hearth.
“Caelan?” she called softly.
He snored softly in the chair.
Actually snored.
She blinked.
He’d fallen asleep, head tipped back, mouth slightly open, braid loosened. One arm hung off the side, fingers curled, the bandage at his wrist a pale strip.
He looked…young.
Vulnerable.
Her chest ached.
The whisper came again.
Rowan.
Not his voice.
Not Aisling’s.
Not Lavinia’s.
Something else.
She slid out of bed carefully, feet finding her boots.
The bracelet on her wrist pulsed.
She pressed her fingers to it.
“Harper?” she whispered.
The warmth flared.
Not words.
A wave.
Homesickness punched her so hard she had to brace on the table.
The smell of laundry detergent.
The couch’s sag.
The chipped mug with the cat on it.
“Hey,” she whispered. “Hey, I’m here. I’m okay. Stop…worrying.”
She closed her eyes and *pushed* back.
Not magic, exactly.
Memory.
She sent an image—of the crooked tree under impossible sky. Of a honey cake. Of Caelan covered in mud after Lavinia had made him haul buckets in the orchard as punishment for bleeding near her ritual circle.
She felt…a flicker of laughter.
A swell of relief.
Then the connection thinned.
Warm.
Steady.
Like a hand on a rope.
She opened her eyes.
Caelan had woken.
He watched her, eyes half-lidded, expression unreadable in the low light.
“You felt that?” she asked.
“Some,” he said. “You…glowed.”
She snorted. “I’m not a nightlight,” she said.
He smiled. “More useful than one,” he said.
Her throat tightened.
“Harper,” she said. “Zia. They—they tugged.”
He nodded. “Good,” he said. “They remember you.”
“They always will,” she said fiercely.
He held her gaze.
“I know,” he said.
He shifted, rubbing a hand over his face.
“For what it’s worth,” he said quietly, “they’re safer than most of my Court right now.”
She grimaced. “High bar,” she said.
He huffed a laugh.
Silence settled.
Comfortable.
Uncomfortable.
Both.
“Why did you stay,” she asked abruptly. “Tonight. You could have gone back to your rooms. Slept in a bed that doesn’t squeak.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Habit,” he said.
“Liar,” she said automatically.
He smiled.
“Because,” he said, more honestly, “I sleep better when I know you’re not…being dragged through a seam while I’m unconscious.”
“That’s…grimly sweet,” she said.
“I’m a man of many charms,” he said. “All of them slightly depressing.”
She laughed.
The sound surprised her.
His eyes softened.
“Sleep,” he said. “You have a lesson with Thorn tomorrow. He’s going to show you the northern woods. You’ll need your legs.”
“Field trip,” she said weakly. “Do I need permission slips?”
“I already forged them,” he said.
She smiled.
Crawled back into bed.
“Caelan,” she said, voice muffled in the pillow.
“Yes?” he asked.
“If I burn your stupid ‘blade’ oath one day,” she said, “I’m going to make you sign something better in its place.”
He was quiet.
Then: “Good,” he said.
“Something like,” she mumbled as sleep tugged at her, “‘I, Caelan of the Autumn Court, swear to stop making suicidal bargains without consulting my human.’”
He chuckled.
“I’ll…consider it,” he said.
“Considerings aren’t binding,” she murmured.
“No,” he said. “But with you watching, they feel like it.”
She smiled into the pillow.
Drifted.
Dreamed.
Of snow.
Of mud.
Of leaves.
Of a boy she’d never met, young and angry, carving his oath into a tree.
Of a girl who might one day set that tree on fire.
Not to destroy it.
To set it free.
And the wildwood, old and hungry and tired, shivered.
It tasted change on the air.
And, for the first time in centuries, it felt something that might have been…
Hope.