Two years on, a disgraced princess is nothing more than a rumor, and the hatred of the God Sisters is nothing but a bad dream.
For everyone but her.
Elaina, the Crown Princess of Ryverin, sitting astride her Windwalker stallion, the last wolf of Dorcha at her side, had given up on her magic completely, entirely unable to remember the last time she'd used it—for good or otherwise. The girl she'd been during the fall of her crown was one she no longer knew. Unrecognizable, even. Save for her eyes. A year in the desert had bleached her ebony curls a dull muddy brown, her skin was blistered and scarred, the soft, round face she'd sported from a spoiled life in the palace had been replaced by gaunt cheeks. Her features were sharper, colder, her eyes sunken.
The princess was still living that nightmare. Nothing left of her name but her father's signet ring and a little black diamond band, both hanging from a shoddy chain. She'd survived only by the skin of her teeth, that nightmare of living in Garneria. But she'd survived. She'd learned. Her bandaged arms were proof of that.
Bandages, bandages that wrapped around her palms and wound up her arms like ivy, hiding her scars—both inked in magic by a godly trio, and inflicted by man.
But those scars that bled red—those scars had given her a new name, new reputation. An inferno with nothing but a crooked dagger stolen from a goddess, Garneria called her Sabaid—"to fight". And fight she did. The Underground had been nothing short of malicious, but she'd sure as shit earned her allies. Of course, she might have been able to mention destroying her father's legacy and win them all immediately, but that wouldn't have gained her any respect. She knew Arlero, which meant she knew the men and women he ran with—ruthless cheats, all of them. And since she'd nearly wed a ruthless cheat herself, she would've been able to persuade the ones that she'd faced Beneath the Altars.
No good luck, indeed.
She slowed Anam to a halt and turned him to face the red sea of Garneria. Her nanny had told her once that the rivers were red in Garneria because of all the blood spilled by the barbarians of the kingdom. She'd thought it was ridiculous—she was smarter than to believe some silly story. But after emerging from the Underground, she was more inclined to believe it. Her eyes flickered to Crinitus, seeking out his ancient guidance. The link Miro had forged between the three of them—first Elaina with Anam when she'd been thrown into the Wilt, then again with Crinitus when she'd given away good fortune for a wolf—was relatively useless unless they needed to find each other, but she trusted the judgment of the goddess's prized wolf. He turned his grand head to the mountains and met her eyes. "Atlas?" she assumed. Crinitus blinked. "Great. Dorian Breach it is."
The Mountain Witches of the Dorian Breach might've been useful to her plight, useful to win back her kingdom, but she was always wary of anyone else with an ounce of magic. Sure, she still had a long way to go before she could reclaim her throne, maybe she could learn something about what the goddesses had given her from the Mountain Witches, but it still heightened her anxiety. Anyone stronger than her, anyone that knew more about her magic than her, anyone that had lived as long as the goddesses themselves—as some of the witches had—it made her anxious. But she trusted Crinitus, and they needed friends in low—or, in the case of the Mountain Witches, high—places if they were going to retake Ryverin.
Or, she supposed with a deep sigh, spurring Anam into a canter, whatever is left of it.
***
Shrouded in the darkness of an ancient Hell, Ryverin looked eternally lost from her place on the mountain's edge. Climbing Mount Atlas, treacherous as it was, gave her the best view of Opheria. Her beautiful continent, ruled by her beautiful kingdom—wrought to nothing. The war that had been waged against the goddesses' chosen family had sapped Ryverin of all the light the kingdom had once seemed to breathe with. Elaina had failed her people. She'd promised to protect them, to stifle the rumors of an uproar, and she'd failed.
Even after two years away, honing herself and trying to mold herself to be a warrior queen and not a petulant brat, the unbearable weight of shame still hung over her like a blanket. She halted Anam again before crossing the alpine ridges into the mountains. Her eyes tried to track the eternal flame, tried to search for something that would tell her Miro was still worshipped, that the Dorcha family was still loved, that Casta hadn't completely destroyed all her bloodline had built—and found none.
Her heart sank in her chest. The shroud of darkness that hovered above the castle was more worrisome than she would ever admit; she knew what Casta had done. Her kingdom had fallen, the legacy of her family had been snuffed out. No matter how desperately she cared for her name or what she'd been, no matter how much contempt she held for the duties of royalty, she'd never be able to live with what her father's most trusted had done to her home.
The bright emerald that had once coated her palace had darkened and sheered to nothing more than a charred coating, the lights that her grandmother had once so proudly boasted would linger as an eternal flame for weary travelers had been burnt out, and her mother's garden—she felt sow weep in her veins and force tears from her own eyes; the destruction to a place she'd once so loyally compared to the Garden of Miro broke her heart in ways she nearly couldn't process. Sow, the part of her magic that hungered for love and needed to breathe life into the dead, wept for the loss of that beautiful garden. Elaina used that pained right hand to give Anam a slow pat on the neck. She didn't even want to see what might've become of her stables. And the guards. Sure, the palace had been guarded when the royal family had inhabited it, but to see so many. Twelve at the entrance, five beneath each balcony—Adrian had been busy, no doubt.
She dragged her eyes down into the streets. Lasair seemed almost like a ghost town. A city that had once been so alive, a vibrant seafront, home to a lively and grateful people, with streets now scarcely walked. No longer did children play in the square, no stray dogs drinking from the fountain—there was no fountain. The Grand Wolf and the First King, smashed to rubble. That fountain had stood as the epicenter of the city for longer than Elaina had been alive. It pained her to see so much destruction in a city that she'd been so proud to call her beautiful home.
A whispered prayer, a quiet apology to the home she'd dreamt of nightly since she'd been deposed, and she clicked her tongue for Anam to walk on. He didn't budge. She swore under her breath. Windwalkers had always been stubborn horses—Anam in particular—but she still resented having to dismount and lead him through the snow. She'd take the cold over the heat any day, but her desert mount wasn't as tolerant. Elaina was just beginning to start her complaining when she heard a low growl from behind her. Crinitus was on guard.
Before she could brace or draw a weapon, the unmistakable scent of holly and blood flooded their path. Witches.
"You're a long way from home, aren't you, little one?"
The voice was disembodied, low like liquid metal, and Elaina gritted her teeth. They didn't recognize her. Goddesses with her, then. "I'm traveling to the Dorian Breach. I'd like to commune with Maven." Her answer was as short as her patience, and Anam snorted. His own agitation would bleed into her if reap had anything to say about it.
"Dorian Breach," a new voice repeated, an attempt to mock her falling flat on a disgraced princess with little regard for herself. "You want to go see Maven, you want to climb the mountain, you want to—"
"Shut up," Elaina snapped. The voices fell silent, the scent grew stronger. Through the snow, she could see the shadow of three people ahead of her—a third Mountain Witch that had remained silent.
"Kitten has claws?" the first voice remarked. Reap seared up her arm, fire and hate surging in her chest. A mild inconvenience would not become a bloodbath. The last thing she needed was to be hunted by a coven. She kept her left hand pressed close to her side.
"Kitten needs to speak to a goddess. Kitten wants you out of her way." Elaina attempted to shove past the shadows with Anam's reins in her right hand, but the horse didn't budge. Damn you. She cursed him silently and squinted, waiting for the witches to finish their game and let her through. They sensed her expectation.
"We have seen your weakness, then," the third witch finally spoke. Elaina squinted back at the shadows.
"I don't have a weakness. Get out of my way." Her left hand twitched at her side—the rage growing in her at being challenged was determined to win. A fire built in her chest, growing steadily with each passing second. If she didn't get away soon, get back on her own path, she could wind up setting the mountain on fire, and there'd be nothing left for sow to rebalance the magic in her.
The witches laughed at her—which only fueled her anger more. She bared her teeth, the embers in her eyes ignited to flame, and the laughter ceased. "Daughter of Stars," the first witch hissed. She'd tried so desperately to refrain from using her magic, but some damn witches had pushed her to a new edge. Other magical beings pushing her to fight? Fine, she'd accept that. No humans were nearby to get hurt this time. She slipped a finger through a loop in the bandage of her left arm and let it unravel and fall to her feet, showing off the black thorns that snaked up her arm. She released Anam, waved him and Crinitus away, and the witches grinned at her. Elaina grinned right back—if she had fangs, she'd bare them too.
"The very same."
The Daughter of Stars could've ripped the cedars from their roots—she'd seen enough hellfire and blood to justify ripping the throats from a few bastard witches. Thorns raked down her arms and shredded through her veins; every piece of pain she'd endured in her months running to and from Hell bubbled up to the surface in a hand seared by fire. Bloodbourne had burned her, the Wilt had killed and revived her—getting through three Mountain Witches to get to her curse on Dorian Breach would seal her fate. She'd live free, a High Lady in command of her kingdom—her continent, her world—or she'd die to make it there. Elaina's left hand trembled against her side.
"Scared, kitten?" the third witch sneered; the scents shifted as the three of them circled her, and Elaina braced her right hand on the hilt of her crooked dagger. She was ready for more than a firefight. In the back of her mind, she remembered some of her studies on witches: they fed on fear, like a nightmare, or a demon. They'd suck the soul from her, if she had one left to steal. They wanted her to be afraid—they'd get no such satisfaction from her. She was too prideful, too stupid to let herself be taken over by fear. Her lack of response seemed to be enough answer for the witches. The moment she'd been waiting for; they lunged.
The reason she'd been dubbed Sabaid thrummed in her chest. Molerin's crooked dagger twirled in her fingers and she spun on her heel, looking to sink her blade into any flesh that wasn't hers. The second witch, who'd lunged from behind, was quick in dodging a stab aimed at the chest, but Elaina was ready. She let the knife slip through her fingers and was quick enough to grab it low with her other hand. It only took an extra millisecond to send the blade into a thigh—not quite what she'd wanted, but enough to start to even the playing field. Another thing she knew about the Mountain Witches—if you were lucky enough to land a blow on one, and could endure the paralyzing shriek, you might get lucky enough to be left alone.
A hand gripped her right arm by the bicep, claws ripped through her skin—sow sent pain and fear shuddering through her at the blow. An error that could be fatal for her. Pure, uncontrolled fear—the last, most primal emotion that she couldn't get under her absolute control. Worse, she knew how much easier it would be for the witches to make a meal out of her if they knew she couldn't control her fear.
Then a thought struck her: she didn't have a soul. There was nothing in her the witches could steal. She could use her fear, she could hone it to make herself stronger, she could push it through her veins and into her magic and—
The snare on her arm flung her into the powdery snow at their feet. She'd stopped counting. Lost track of the other witches. Before she could bring her left hand up like a cougar going for a kill, a foot slammed down on her wrist and pinned reap to the ground. Her left hand dug through the snow for her dagger, but that arm was crushed beneath the weight of another foot. She yelped, the heel of a boot digs into her arm and twists.
She'd gotten greedy, she'd gotten cocky, thinking she'd won. As the third witch, the dead silent shadow from before straddled her, planting a full seat to keep her legs pinned, she remembered Brayar. Your greed will be your undoing. Surely, magic beings like the Mountain Witches would know a soulless child when they saw one. There was nothing they could take from her that she hadn't already lost.
The third witch emerged from the shadows that had shrouded it. The genderless being certainly didn't look older than the fae themselves, and yet—Elaina knew the witches had roamed Atlas longer than the desert had been dry. She swallowed. "Given up yet, kitten?" Head tilted, the witch leaned over the princess until its long silver hair nearly shrouded its face again.
"Not a chance," she spat. She shook, but it wasn't fear this time. Hate—the witches bred hate. Hate was the only way to Maven. Elaina bared her teeth when the witches at her left and right snickered, but her gaze stayed on the one still straddling her. Golden eyes that saw further than the mountains sat behind silver fringe and mischievous brows—beautiful, sure. Beautifully horrid. The witch grabbed her chin, nails like claws digging into her skin.
"You sure are cute. I might keep you myself," it mused, dragging a clawed finger down her face. If their magic didn't stifle hers, if looks could kill, Elaina would've sent all of them back to the Underworld where they belonged. The witch cocked a smirk. "Pietro, Aryn, let her up."
"But—Kyro—"
"Aryn, darling," the third witch—Kyro, she assumed—smiled sweetly at the witch to her left, Aryn, but the look was anything but loving. The witches released her arms, which she quickly pulled to her chest to assess, but Kyro kept their place in her lap. Like they were studying her. They shifted their seat, propping a leg up alongside Elaina's thigh and propping their chin on their knee. "What do you want to see Maven for, anyhow?" they asked.
"I'd appreciate it if you didn't sound so bored," Elaina returned. "I'm on a quest. My name is—"
"We know. Daughter of Stars. Elaina Dorcha, Light of Ryverin, Soulreaper, blah, blah, blah. Didn't we go over this?"
"I think I liked you better in the dark."
Kyro scoffed, shook their head, raised their brows. "Most do." They gave her a quick pat on the thigh as they stood, and extended a hand to help her out of the snow. "Call your pony and your puppy. We'll take you to Dorian Breach."
The witches stopped just short of the entrance to the tomb that held Maven's altar. Elaina swallowed hard, her fingers twining in Anam's mane as Kyro turned to her. "This is as far as we can go."
No shit. "Can I expect an ambush when I leave?" she returned, trying to swallow her fear. It's not the Wilt, it's not the wiltingpot, it's not Miro. Kyro's eyes darkened as the hunger in them grew, but they didn't mention her terror. Instead, they offered her a smirk as Aryn and Pietro disappeared to the shadows again.
"I'll write you, my lady."
With a wink, the witches were gone, and Elaina was left alone with her own silent companions. Anam huffed as she dismounted and shook the snow from his mane after she gave him a quick pat. Crinitus let out a small bark, calling her attention, and Elaina had learned by then that he wanted the soulseer, not the human. She crouched in front of him and took his cheeks in her hands and stared deep into those dark brown eyes, searching for the valiant soul inside the wolf. Every day he lived further from the Wilt, further from Eagla, further from his real mistress, he seemed to grow weaker, just by a little. His soul seemed more tired each time he called for her, and selfishly she was starting to worry that she wouldn't fulfill Miro's command before the wolf finally died. She pushed the worry from her mind when dread immediately followed; she wasn't sure how she'd fare without Crinitus by her side, whether they were yet equals or not.
It always took a considerable amount of her energy to sow life back into Crinitus's fading soul. She didn't mind helping him—far from it. She cherished the demigod of a wolf that walked beside her, and she'd do anything he asked of her, but still, it exhausted her. Sow, however, rejoiced. The magic in her blood relished in giving life and health to something again, even if it would never replace the garden. Taking care of the last wolf of Dorcha was more than enough for the magic blessed by the goddess of nature.
Before she was finished helping Crinitus, the wolf let out a violent snarl and tore his gaze away from hers, all his attention focused on the entrance to the altar. Elaina, shaken by the sudden ferocity, took a moment too long to react to what the wolf had snapped at—and then she realized. Crinitus could sense Maven's presence; he considered her a threat. Elaina was careful to give him space as she stood to face the goddess she'd come to see.
Face to face with Maven, Elaina was reminded of just how small and insignificant she was in the God Sisters' grand scheme. Maven, lovely and deadly, was exactly what the princess had wanted to be when she was young. And it terrified her. Maven was a threat; Crinitus was right to be on guard. Her beauty was a lie.
"Hello, dear daughter," the goddess purred, lingering in the entrance to her altar like a courtesan to her caller. Elaina swallowed, stowing Molerin's dagger and praying Maven hadn't seen. She dipped her head at the goddess of the tide.
"Queen-mother," she whispered, eyes low and trained on the grass. Moonflowers in their deadly elegance crept up the walkway towards the princess, the scent of lily and blood staining the mountaintop. "I—have a request." She finally dragged her eyes up to Maven's face. She'd never seen the goddess—if she'd seen her the night she'd been sacrificed, she didn't remember it. But, she'd heard stories. Maven had been a siren, luring the unlucky to a watery grave. All of her resembled what she was worshipped for; her fluidly curved body, waist-length raven locks, eyes of seafoam green—lips red as the blood of her slain, forever etched into a half-smirk—skin as white and cold as the ocean itself. Those blood-red lips spread to a deadly smile, and she crooked a finger for Elaina to follow her into the Dorian Breach. Elaina quickly stole a look back at Crinitus, who wouldn't meet her eyes, and she followed the goddess into her altar.
Maven didn't lounge across her throne as Miro did, nor did she tower over her altar at a pulpit of brimstone—she sat tall and cruel on her throne of ice, taking in Elaina for all the princess was worth. "I see my sisters' gifts have treated you well, daughter," she said, low and cold. Elaina could only nod. Maven raised a brow—scrutiny, willing the girl to speak.
"I—I need an army. I want to take Ryverin back—I want to be High Lady. I can do that with my father gone. I just need—" Elaina was cut off by the goddess laughing—laughing—in her face. Her cheeks burned.
"Stupid girl," Maven sneered, laughter continuing with each word. "There hasn't been a High Lady on Opheria in a thousand years. You think you are going to be the one to break the dry spell?" She leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees, squinting down at Elaina through her own shame. "Give me one good reason why I should help you. You've already been to the others—go crawling back to Miro, ask for a dog a little more impressive this time."
Elaina dug her heels in. Clenched her jaw. "I just need allies. I want to go home. All I want—I just want to be able to go home again." As much as she hated pity, maybe pity would get her what she wanted in the Court of Ice. Maven's laughter quieted—her eyes seemed to soften. The princess struck a nerve.
"I know that feeling well," Maven murmured, eyes darkening around some distant memory of a life before she'd been made immortal, surely. She turned her deadly gaze back to Elaina. "Allies, I can help with. Unless you want an army of ice—which will melt in your kingdom of fire, little princess." She winked. For a moment, Elaina wondered how she'd ended up with the reputation she'd been given—but that question was quickly answered. "You know what I need to take from you, yes?"
The part of the story her nursemaids always left out. She shook her head, and Maven sighed. "Your dearest memory, for all my allies. You build their trust, you build your army, you get your kingdom back, you can work towards becoming High Lady. But—if you want my help, I get your most cherished memory." Maven gave Elaina a moment to ponder the offer, leaning back in her throne and returning to her former stance of ethereal death.
Elaina took her time thinking, for certain. Did she have a favorite memory? Surely, there had to be one somewhere that she wouldn't dare to part with. Digging deep, she found it—she and Arlero, one of their midnight meetings on the balcony of her study, him confessing his love for her while she was mid-sentence in reading him some old fairytale. Her stomach dropped.
Is it worth it?
She looked expectantly at Maven but found the goddess blank, unmoved. She squeezed her eyes shut and took an extra moment to savor the moment before she lost it forever—Arlero, sick but healing, eyes full of nothing close to the mischief and deceit she'd thought she hated him for, telling her how desperately in love with her he was. She didn't want to give it up—there had to be something she loved more, somewhere in her. When she looked back at Maven, it seemed like the goddess had made up her mind on which memory she wanted to take, whether the princess was certain or not.
"Is it worth it, Lightbringer? Is this really the path you choose?"
With that answer, Elaina didn't need to hesitate. "Yes."
***
Arlero Ghrian gritted his teeth against the bitter cold sweeping through Lasair. He'd been so begrudged to spend any time beneath the mountain when he was young that he could've almost forgotten how cold winter could be once he'd made it back to Ryverin. That damn kingdom had always seemed to have a hearth burning beneath it before—before everything happened. Reckless as it was for a wanted man to roam the king's city, he couldn't keep himself away. Rumors had reached him in the western region—Lar, the City of Thieves—that the traitor princess had returned to Ryverin, acting volatile and violent, and was imprisoned in Lasair. He'd done his part—he'd failed, sure, but he'd tried to get his connections in the criminal underworld to agree to a suicidal reclamation of a kingdom that despised them. If it was Elaina, that meant she'd admitted her defeat and given up. Something in him wouldn't let him believe his mate would let herself fail so easily. Maybe she'd given up common sense with her soul, but she wasn't stupid. At least, she hadn't been when they'd departed. He squeezed his eyes shut and slumped to the ground. "I should've gone with her."
Beside him, Leana, a war hound he'd stolen from King Ifreann nearing a decade prior, leaned against his leg and used her weight to lumber her way into his lap. Her chin rested on his shoulder, and Arlero couldn't stop the small smile tugging at his lips as he rubbed the aging dog's scarred ears. Moments like that made him wonder if it was his runes she was bonded to, or if she would've been loyal to him even if he hadn't charmed her like he did every other living being he encountered. Regardless, he was grateful he had her—even if it did mean keeping her chained to his side when they walked through any damned "civilized" town or city.
His eyes eased back over the cityscape. Counting patrols, timing routes, straining his eyes to see if he recognized any of them. A snorted laugh escaped him as he stood to his feet, Leana's chain gripped tight and clamped to his side. If his queen was in that city, he'd find her. Hellfire consume him, he would find her if he had to relight the kingdom from its catacombs.
It would've simply been easier to forget—he could've slipped into the dark and found a home across the sea, far away from Elaina and her mess. And yet, he couldn't bear it. He couldn't stomach the thought of abandoning her to her fate. When they'd met, all those years ago, he never would've imagined the situation they'd found themselves in. Him—a born and bred criminal, unsure if he could get them out of the situation she'd gotten them into. "What a right mess we've made."
Lasair had been such a beautiful city, even he could admit that. But now, with his hound pressed close to his side and his teeth gritted tight, there was no eternal flame burning beneath the City of Fire. It took a bandana over his nose to protect his senses from the death that permeated the streets, especially as he made his way deeper into the city. Had he known no better, he would've called it a plague.
Aimless, a good way to describe his route through the cobblestone. He moved on instinct, only really pausing his slightly frantic pace when Leana hesitated. Elaina, where are you.
His magic didn't work on her—if one could even call it magic. Deception was far more accurate. He'd sold his soul to sway the meek, and he was good at it. The runes worked on animals, sure, but animals of the human variety required a more...divine touch. Elaina had seen that in him; the only person who could ever see through him was the soulseer herself. She told him once that the only thing more painful than mourning someone dead was mourning someone still alive, and she'd mourned for him the day they parted from the palace. His heart ached at the memory.
Lost in his head, it took bumping into another warm body to snap him from his own trance. The person he'd run into wheeled to face him, appalled. Arlero opened his mouth to make some sarcastic, half-assed apology, but it died as he took in who was standing in front of him. "Gentry?"
His girl. The little fae he'd loved like a sister when they'd run together.
"Arlero?" Breathless, she tossed her arms around his neck and practically lept on him, holding him as tight as her faerie body could manage. "I've missed you, rat," she mumbled against his shoulder, letting out a gasping laugh as he returned the embrace and wrapped his arms around her waist.
How refreshing it was to see a familiar face that wasn't after his head. Little Gentry, the sweet girl that had run with him for so long, how shocking he'd run into her here, looking for his mate. He set her back on the ground. "It's good to see you again, Gennie." The smile that crept across his face felt genuine as she crouched to smush Leana's jowls and kiss her nose, murmuring to the hound in some ethereal language he'd never learned.
"What are you doing down here? I thought the king had a bounty out for you."
He'd never told her about the depth of his relationship with Elaina; their clan had fallen apart before he'd even bought her ring. "I'm looking for someone," he said. Gentry grinned, as sly as always.
"Have you found her?"
For the first time in far too long, Arlero laughed.
"So, Elaina—she's been deposed? And you think she's back here?"
Arlero fidgeted with the cup of coffee she'd given him. "Something pulled me back to Lasair, Gen. They were just rumors—I could've forgotten, but I couldn't let it go. I couldn't live with not knowing." He glanced down at the reflection in the cup: eyes heavy and exhausted, cheeks scarred and sunken—far cry from the princely consort Elaina had known or wanted.
"You really do love her."
He dragged his eyes up to look his old friend in the face. "More than anything." There was something in him that ached at the memory of her—when Elaina left. He hadn't stopped playing it over in his mind. Her and that damn horse. He scoffed. "I'm worried about her. She's not—she's not made like us. She's not meant to be out here like me and you."
"Sheltered little princess," Gentry sneered. Arlero tried not to let his temper flare.
"It's not like she can help it. I'm sure she could've adapted if she'd left with me."
Gentry let out a jeering laugh. "Adapted," she huffed. Arlero gritted his teeth.
"Watch it, Gen," he snarled. Her laughter stopped, and she folded her arms across her chest.
"You were a lot more fun before her."
"And you were much less insufferable."
Years before, when he and Gentry had run together with old Mac, they'd more than tolerated each other. The fae girl had always favored Arlero over anyone else that had come and gone from their little pack. But there was always that tension between them—all of them had been doomed to eventually fall apart, and Arlero and Gentry had butted heads so often that Arlero himself had wondered if it was worth it to stay near her at all. Was she even worth knowing? No, not particularly. Not in his case. Sometimes, though, her judgment had been sound. He just didn't like her constantly judging his wife.
"You got boring after you imprinted on her," Gentry said. Arlero glanced back down at his hands.
"Why?" he returned. "Because I quit fucking you?"
"Because you always wanted to spend time with her."
He dragged his hands down his face with a groan. "That's what happens when you're in a relationship, Gen."
"Not like that. Not like what you were doing. She was using you."
He slammed his hand down on the table. Cups clattered and Gentry jumped. He jammed his finger in her face, growling through gritted teeth, "you're on thin fucking ice, Gentry." She, smartly, sat back. As the fight in him died, Arlero dropped his head with a sigh. "I'm sorry."
But he saw the light in her—how she wanted to fight with him. And he knew the magic in her fae blood tempted her. She gritted her teeth back at him. "You know what a partial mating bond feels like?" she asked. He raised a brow. "It burns. Like an open wound."
Arlero picked at his nails as her eyes bore into him. Her attempts to cut him. Her attempt to throw him off, get him into his head. He shifted in his seat. He wished desperately that Moranth runes worked on fae, just to get her off his trail. "We're not animals," he returned, smooth. "Elaina and I don't have a mating bond."
A spark lit in Gentry's eyes. She squinted. "I wasn't talking about her."
Pity rose in his chest like bile. "I'm aware."
Heavy silence fell between them. Old memories flooded his mind, memories of late nights under the stars, early drinks in a dank tavern, Gentry leaning into him and breathing him in and pulling him close—and then there was Elaina. There was the thread that formed a bridge between himself and the princess he'd fallen for while driving a wedge to separate him from Gentry. He'd crossed that bridge and burned it when he reached Elaina. Gentry, his first friend, the one who'd always been on his left—Hell, he hadn't known she'd imprinted on him. It wasn't his fault.
"And I'm not an animal," she snapped.
"I never said you were."
"You didn't have to."
Gods be damned, he didn't have time for this. "Look, are you—"
"—Move on out, rats."
Arlero turned to spit venom at the bastard calling him and his friend a rat, but was confronted by the barkeep, a man far larger than him, standing between the career criminals and the armed and armored soldiers that had begun to storm the streets. Hackles raised, he instinctively moved to have Gentry behind him. Slinking through the tavern, weaving around tables and through chairs, holding his girl close. He pushed his senses as far as they could, trying to listen to whatever he could catch from the guards. Did they find me?
"...the execution is starting."
"Finally, getting those damn Dorchas out of here."
He tumbled over a chair, bringing Gentry down with him. The clattering of wood on wood and lithe bodies slamming together; the guards stopped talking to the barkeep in reaction to the noise. Arlero froze, Gentry beneath him, his heart hammering and his breath short. His chest tightened, he wheezed in a breath, he closed his eyes. "If you cough—if you fuck us, I'll kill you," Gentry hissed.
"With any luck, he'll already be dead by the time the law catches up with you again."
That voice. Cold steel against the back of his head. Arlero stiffened and looked down at Gentry, who wouldn't meet his eyes. "Gentry..."
Finally, she looked up at him, tearful eyes blinking between Arlero and Adrian behind him. I'm sorry, she mouthed. Snarling as Adrian ripped him to his feet, Arlero, mad as a rabid dog, bared his teeth at her. "What did you do?" he spat. Gentry handed a bounty poster to Adrian as Arlero spat, "You set me up?"
Shackles snapped around his wrists, Adrian pulled Arlero close to his chest to maneuver around him and face Gentry himself as she stood. "Your payment will be posted with the royal treasury. The king will be happy to personally see to it, ma'am." All the while, every word was dripping with pomp and venom. Arlero, shivering, blood running hot, gritting his teeth, could do nothing but curse the both of them. He hoped the glare he shot his old friend would be enough to ensnare her damned fae heart with the knowledge that he'd come back for her as well.
It wasn't the first time he'd had a collar on his neck and chains on his wrists and ankles, but it was the first time it had happened without Elaina there to pardon him. And then there was Leana, waiting for him from across the street. The connection formed by his runes thrummed, and his heart jolted. She bared her teeth at the guards as they passed, snapping at their ankles when they got too close—she yelped, Arlero had to look away when the pommel of a sword connected with her nose. "Damn mutt," the same soldier muttered—Arlero, flooded with a new panic, threw all his weight into kicking her chain off her neck and yelling at her to run. He used the magic that bound them to push her to go, but her loyalty to him made her hesitate. She whined, pitiful, as a commotion erupted around her master, metal and skin clashing, and he yelled his command again. This time, sensing the fear, she ran. To his relief, Adrian didn't have anyone chase her. At least, not in front of him.
A foot collided with the bend of his knee and he collapsed to the ground. Adrian ripped his face back by his hair to look at him—Arlero spat at him. It earned him a boot to the chin, but it was worth it to see the shock on his smug fucking face.
"You want those gallows, huh?"
In a moment of clarity—or immense stupidity—Arlero grinned. Sickly, distorted, teeth gritted. "I want you to kill me yourself. Gallows are cowardly. But you'd know all about cowardice, wouldn't you?"
"Indeed I would, in the name of my king." As he mounted his horse, Adrian pulled Arlero up by his hair and forced him forward.
"You're a traitor," Arlero spat. "Elaina was your king."
"A princess."
"And you turned your back on her. She should've killed you."
Adrian was silent, but only for a moment. As he spurred his horse forward and called his men, he glared back down at Arlero, not a single light to be found behind his eyes. "Yes," he returned, "she should've."
What he would've given for the Underworld to consume him in that moment.