Rowen tugged her cloak tighter as she followed Dryanden back through the forest trail toward Moonwhisper Fashions. The memory of the enchanted thundertail delivering Lady Selene's message still clung to her, its faint static hum echoing in her ears. Whatever lay ahead in Eversnow Glade, it wasn't going to be a casual stroll.
"You know," she said, trying to keep the unease out of her voice, "for a guy who insists we're in a hurry, you've got a real talent for brooding walks through the woods."
Dryanden didn't look back, his crimson eyes fixed on the winding path ahead. "Preparation is not haste. Rushing unprepared into the Glade would be… unwise."
"So would ignoring me entirely," Rowen muttered under her breath, though his lack of a retort told her he'd heard.
The faint glow of Moonwhisper Fashions emerged ahead, its warm, golden light spilling through the cracks in the wooden shutters. Rowen exhaled, relieved to leave the unsettling quiet of the forest behind.
As they stepped inside, the familiar sound of a bell chiming announced their arrival. Thistle's voice floated in from the back, sharp and lyrical.
"Back already? Did you tear the seams on your new dress, or did Dryanden finally decide to admit he has no sense of style?"
Rowen smirked despite herself. "Nice to see you too, Thistle."
The Fae appeared moments later, gliding from behind a curtain of gauzy fabric with her usual theatrical flair. Her iridescent hair glimmered under the shop's soft light, and her golden eyes sparkled with mischief. She stopped short, folding her arms as she took in Rowen and Dryanden with a critical eye.
"Well," she said, her wings fluttering faintly, "you both look like you've been dragged through a hedge maze. Twice."
"It's been a long night," Rowen replied dryly.
Thistle's gaze flicked to Dryanden. "And judging by that look, it's about to get longer. What is it this time, darling? Do you need me to conjure you a smile, or are we finally addressing that stick permanently lodged in your ass?"
Rowen laughed, letting out a snort. Dryanden pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath. "We need winter gear," he said curtly.
Thistle arched a delicate brow. "Winter gear? For her?" She glanced at Rowen, then back at Dryanden. "Are we planning a vacation in the Frozen Wastes, or did you lose a bet?"
"Eversnow Glade," Dryanden said simply.
The room fell silent.
Thistle's teasing smile vanished, replaced by an expression Rowen had never seen on her before—genuine concern. Her wings stilled, and the color seemed to drain from her already pale complexion.
"Eversnow Glade," she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper. "Oh, you've really lost your mind this time, haven't you?"
Dryanden's jaw tightened. "We don't have time for this."
Thistle's golden eyes narrowed. "Then make time. You can't just waltz into the Glade and expect to come out unscathed. That place has claimed more lives than I can count."
"We'll be prepared," Dryanden said, his voice sharp. "But I need supplies. I'll return shortly."
His jaw tightened, his gaze lingering on the horizon as though searching for something—or bracing for it. Without another word, he was gone. Rowen blinked as he left her standing awkwardly in the heavy silence that followed.
Thistle let out a sharp breath, muttering something in a language Rowen didn't recognize. Rowen's first reaction to Dryanden leaving the shop was annoyance—until the sensation hit.
Her chest tightened like a rope pulling taut, cutting off her breath. A strange, electric hum buzzed beneath her skin, cold and sharp, as if the bond itself was trying to claw its way out of her. She staggered back, clutching the edge of the nearest table for balance.
"Whoa," she gasped, her vision swimming. "What the hell is—"
Her words cut off as the sensation intensified, radiating outward from her chest. Her pulse thundered in her ears, and her lungs refused to draw enough air. It wasn't just discomfort—it was primal, overwhelming, a wrongness that screamed at her to fix it, to close the distance.
"Breathe," Thistle's voice cut through the fog, sharp and grounding. "Focus on me. What's happening?"
"I don't—" Rowen's voice broke, her grip tightening on the table's edge. "It's him. Dryanden. He's too far. I can feel it."
Thistle's golden eyes flickered with understanding, though her expression was edged with something Rowen couldn't place—concern, maybe. Or pity. "Ah. So, the bond's intense for you."
"Intense?" Rowen rasped, her knees buckling. "It feels like I'm dying!"
Thistle clicked her tongue, striding toward Rowen and gripping her shoulders with surprising strength for someone so small. "You're not dying. It's just the bond adjusting. His absence is triggering the connection."
"Triggering? This is triggering?" Rowen shot back, her voice tinged with hysteria. "Feels more like it's shredding me from the inside out!"
Thistle's grip tightened. "Listen to me. He won't be gone long. Focus on what's here. Ground yourself."
Rowen clenched her teeth, trying to steady her breathing as Thistle guided her to a chair. Her fingers trembled as she pressed them against the cool surface of the table, counting the rough edges under her touch. Slowly, the intensity began to fade, the electric buzz softening into a dull hum.
"You weren't joking about the 'intense' thing, huh?" Rowen muttered, still catching her breath.
Thistle gave her a faint smile, her wings flicking in a gesture that might have been sympathy. "The bond isn't a leash, darling—it's a lifeline. But when it's fresh… it's easy to mistake the two." She turned, looking almost lost. "And of course he leaves me to deal with the fallout," Thistle said, rolling her eyes. "Typical."
Rowen crossed her arms, trying to settle herself, glancing at the door Dryanden had just exited. The buzz under her skin had dulled to a low thrum, but it was still there—like an itch she couldn't scratch. Her chest felt hollow, as if something vital was just out of reach. "What's his deal? He's been tense ever since that message showed up."
Thistle didn't answer immediately. Instead, she moved to a nearby rack of clothing, her movements more deliberate than usual. When she finally spoke, her voice had lost its usual flippancy.
"You're heading into one of the most dangerous places in Vireth," she said quietly. "The Glade isn't just cold—it's alive. The magic there doesn't follow rules. It doesn't care if you're strong, clever, or bonded to a brooding vampire with a hero complex."
Rowen frowned. "That's… comforting."
Thistle shot her a sharp look. "You think I'm joking? Eversnow Glade is primal magic. It doesn't just thrive on fear—it twists it. You'll see things, hear things, that aren't real. Or maybe they are. That's the trick. It's not just the cold that kills; it's the lies the Glade whispers in your ear."
Rowen shifted uncomfortably, her fingers brushing against the crescent mark on her wrist. "So, what? You're saying I shouldn't go?"
"I'm saying," Thistle said, stepping closer, "that you need to trust your instincts. The Glade won't give you a second chance if you make a mistake."
Rowen clenched her teeth, trying to find her usual sarcasm beneath the rising panic. "If this thing with Dryanden is supposed to be instinct, it's a pretty terrifying one." She hesitated, rubbing at her chest. "And Dryanden? Does he know what he's walking into?"
Thistle's lips curved into a faint, bittersweet smile. "Oh, he knows. That's what scares me the most. He doesn't always care how much he loses—as long as he gets what he's after. It's not noble, Rowen. It's dangerous. For him, and for you."She glanced at Rowen, her large eyes narrowing. "You're still rattled."
"What gave it away?" Rowen muttered, rubbing her arms.
Thistle's wings flicked once, faintly glowing. "Get used to it. The bond will always pull at you. But don't let it own you."
Before Rowen could press her further, Thistle's wings flicked sharply, as if dismissing her own unease. "Enough of that. If I let you walk into the Glade looking unprepared, I'd never hear the end of it."
Thistle didn't wait for Rowen to recover fully before she flitted to a towering wardrobe at the far end of the shop. The doors creaked open, releasing a faint shimmer of light and a rush of cool air that made Rowen shiver.
Her movements were sharp, precise, her wings flicking irritably as bolts of enchanted fabric shimmered under the shop's light.
"Let me guess," Rowen ventured, still shaking off the remnants of the bond's aftershock. "My current outfit's not up to par?"
Thistle paused, turning with a raised brow. "It's perfectly fine for a casual jaunt through the Whispering Woods, darling. But for the Glade? You'd last about five minutes before freezing solid."
"Right," Rowen muttered, tugging at the familiar fabric of the green dress she'd gotten from Thistle earlier. "So, what's the plan? Layers on layers until I look like a sentient snowman?"
"Don't be absurd," Thistle said, tossing a bundle of fabric into Rowen's arms. "This isn't just about warmth—it's about survival. And style, of course."
Rowen glanced down at the items: a heavier chemise lined with soft wool, fur-trimmed bloomers, and an elegant but sturdier dress in a deep indigo hue. The fabric of the dress shimmered faintly, as if catching light from some unseen source.
"Another dress?" she asked skeptically.
Thistle rolled her eyes. "Yes, another dress. This one's reinforced and enchanted. The weave will repel frost and moisture, and it won't snag or tear. Now, off you go." She gestured toward the folding screen.
Rowen sighed, retreating behind it to change.
The chemise was warm but surprisingly lightweight, the soft wool lining cocooning her like a second skin. The bloomers—though equally practical—added an extra layer of coziness, and she begrudgingly admitted that Thistle might actually know what she was doing. The dress itself fit like a glove, its bodice snug but comfortable and the full skirt swishing lightly around her ankles.
"It's enchanted to self-adjust," Thistle called, her voice muffled through the screen. "And no, you don't need a corset this time. You're welcome."
"Gee, thanks," Rowen muttered, stepping out.
Thistle gave her an appraising look, circling her with the air of a painter inspecting their canvas. "Better," she declared. "But we're far from done."She spun as she continued, "Let's see," she tapped a finger against her chin as she surveyed the contents of the wardrobe. "You'll need something durable, obviously. And warm. But stylish. Even in Eversnow Glade, there's no excuse for looking like a frostbitten turnip."
"I'll take functional over fashionable," Rowen said, still rubbing the phantom ache in her chest.
Thistle's wings flicked in a sharp, dismissive gesture. "Darling, you can have both. Watch and learn."
She began pulling items from the wardrobe with practiced precision, her movements quick and purposeful. A thick, fur-lined cloak in deep gray with faint silver embroidery appeared first. Its edges shimmered faintly, as if catching light that wasn't there.
"This," Thistle announced, draping the cloak over Rowen's shoulders, "will keep you warm no matter how cold it gets. Snow, sleet, frostbite—you'll hardly feel a thing. It also adjusts to your body temperature, so you won't overheat. You're welcome."
Rowen tugged at the fabric, marveling at how soft and impossibly light it felt. "Okay, that's… impressive."
"Impressive is just the beginning," Thistle said with a sly smile, reaching for the next item. She held up a pair of sleek, knee-high boots with glowing blue runes etched into the leather. "Frost-resistant, slip-proof, and enchanted to muffle your steps on ice. They'll make even Dryanden's brooding silence look clumsy."
Rowen slipped them on, stomping experimentally. The boots hugged her feet perfectly, their runes flickering faintly as she moved. No sound escaped, not even the faintest scuff.
"Silent and stylish," she said, smirking. "I could get used to this."
"Don't get cocky," Thistle warned, shoving a pair of gloves into her hands.
Rowen turned them over, noting the faint lines of gold thread running along the palms and fingers. "What are these for? Snowball fights?"
Thistle snorted. "Channeling magic, actually. The gold lining amplifies your focus, which you're going to need if you want to do more than flail around with your spells. And they're insulated, so your fingers won't freeze while you're trying not to die."
Rowen pulled them on, flexing her fingers. A strange warmth spread through her hands, steady and soothing, like sunlight breaking through a cold morning.
"Not bad," she admitted, glancing up at Thistle. "Got anything else that can make me less likely to end up as a human icicle?"
Thistle's wings flicked again, this time in approval. "Oh, I like you. You're catching on."
She turned back to the wardrobe and retrieved one final item: a small silver brooch in the shape of a crescent moon. Its surface gleamed as if freshly polished, and tiny runes were etched along its edge.
"What's this supposed to do?" Rowen asked, holding it up.
"Multiple things," Thistle replied, pinning it to the front of Rowen's cloak. "It enhances the enchantments on your gear and provides a bit of extra shielding in case something tries to take a bite out of you. Don't count on it to save your life, though—it's a tool, not a miracle."
"Good to know," Rowen said, adjusting the brooch until it sat comfortably.
Thistle stepped back, surveying her handiwork with a critical eye. "There," she said after a moment. "Now you look almost capable."
"Almost?" Rowen shot her a mock glare.
"Give it time," Thistle said with a smirk. "Or don't. Eversnow Glade doesn't exactly reward hesitation. Her wings gave an impatient flick as she gestured for Rowen to stand still. Without waiting for agreement, she began adjusting Rowen's belts, tugging them tighter over her new cloak and dress to ensure they wouldn't shift in the thick snow.
"Honestly, darling," Thistle muttered, fastening the last buckle with a deft twist, "you're standing in the presence of genius. Try to keep up. Do you know how many heroes I've equipped to survive certain death? This," she gave the belt a final pat, "is artistry."
"Sure," Rowen deadpanned, glancing at her newly secured pouches. "Artistry that's probably going to end up covered in frostbite and wolf drool."
Thistle ignored the remark, reaching for the pouch at Rowen's hip where the shrunken chest was stored. "You've already got a head start with this little trick, but now that you're facing Eversnow Glade, it needs a proper upgrade."
Rowen opened her mouth to protest, but Thistle's sharp glare silenced her. With a flick of her wrist, the chest popped out of the pouch, expanding to its full size with a faint hum.
"Still weird," Rowen muttered, stepping back as Thistle knelt in front of it.
"Still necessary," Thistle shot back, unlatching the chest with a flourish. The lid creaked open, revealing the neatly organized rows of enchanted garments inside. "Now, let's make room."
Rowen watched as Thistle began rearranging the contents with swift precision, her hands moving almost too fast to follow. Every item seemed to find its place like pieces in a puzzle, despite the small size of the chest.
"How does all that even fit?" Rowen asked, leaning over Thistle's shoulder. "It's like the magical version of packing cubes."
Thistle smirked but didn't pause. "Spatial enchantments, darling. You could pack half a wardrobe in here, and it'd still have room for more." She snapped her fingers, and a fur-lined coat floated from a nearby rack to land in her hands.
"This," she said, folding it carefully before tucking it into the chest, "is for emergencies. It's enchanted to radiate warmth even if you're caught in a blizzard. Don't question how it works. Just wear it if you're about to freeze to death."
Rowen raised an eyebrow. "That's… oddly specific."
"Because I don't like wasting my time outfitting corpses," Thistle replied, her tone saccharine.
Next came a pair of fur-lined leggings, folded into a neat square, and a set of thick woolen socks that looked sturdy enough to outlast several winters.
"Layer these under your boots and bloomers," Thistle instructed. "And for the love of all that's magical, don't forget them. You'll regret it the first time you lose feeling in your toes."
Rowen wrinkled her nose. "Noted."
Thistle added a final touch: a compact flask made of polished silver, etched with intricate runes. She held it up to Rowen, her expression uncharacteristically serious.
"This," Thistle said, pressing the flask into Rowen's hand, "is fire elixir. One sip will warm your insides and keep your core temperature steady for hours. But only one sip, understand? Any more, and it'll burn you from the inside out."
Rowen frowned, turning the flask over in her hands. "You're really leaning into the 'don't die horribly' theme, huh?"
Thistle's golden eyes narrowed. "Because you're walking into a place where survival is a luxury, not a guarantee."
Rowen nodded, tucking the flask into one of her pouches. "Got it. No more than one sip. Anything else I need to know?"
Thistle straightened, brushing off her hands and gesturing grandly at the now-packed chest. "Only that you're as ready as you'll ever be. Which, considering you're still mostly useless, isn't saying much—but it's better than nothing."
Rowen huffed, rolling her eyes. "I'll try to live up to your impossibly high expectations."
"See that you do," Thistle quipped, her wings fluttering faintly as she closed the chest with a satisfied snap. "There," she said, brushing imaginary dust from her hands. "You're properly outfitted. At least now you won't look like a walking liability."
"Wow," Rowen deadpanned. "Thanks for the confidence boost."
Thistle smirked but didn't reply. Instead, she moved to a nearby pile of folded garments, her earlier efficiency giving way to something slower, almost meditative. She began straightening the fabric, her sharp, fidgety energy softening.
The silence stretched, and Rowen found herself unexpectedly restless. Thistle's hands worked methodically, smoothing out creases with care that felt almost out of character.
"You okay over there?" Rowen asked, tilting her head. "You're being… weirdly quiet."
Thistle's golden eyes flicked up, gleaming with their usual mischief but tinged with something else—something harder to pin down. "Quiet, darling, is how you survive. In Eversnow Glade, it's the only way."
Rowen frowned. "I thought you said I should trust my instincts."
"You should. But instincts don't mean shouting your fears to the entire forest. The Glade listens. It doesn't like what it hears most of the time."
Thistle folded the last garment and set it aside with a sigh. Her wings gave a faint shimmer as she turned back to Rowen, leaning against the counter. "And speaking of shouting fears—Dryanden. He's not one for sharing, is he?"
Rowen snorted. "That's the understatement of the century."
Thistle chuckled, a soft, melodic sound that felt lighter than her usual sharp-edged humor. "He's always been like that, you know. Closed off. Brooding. Very… tragic hero." She waved a hand vaguely. "The sort who thinks carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders is noble rather than idiotic."
Rowen leaned back against the table, crossing her arms. "You've known him a long time, huh?"
Thistle's smile shifted, growing smaller, more private. "Long enough to know better." She toyed with the edge of a folded scarf, her expression thoughtful. "He wasn't always this shadow of himself, you know. Once, he was someone brighter. Warmer. He laughed, Rowen—really laughed. But that was a long time ago. I thought… well, it doesn't matter what I thought."
"Warmer?" Rowen raised an eyebrow. "We're talking about the same guy, right? Crimson eyes, permanent scowl, allergic to emotions?"
Thistle laughed again, this time louder, the sound echoing through the shop. "Yes, darling. That one. But people change when they lose too much. Dryanden's just lost more than most."
Rowen hesitated, her curiosity warring with caution. "What happened?"
Thistle didn't answer immediately. Instead, she flicked her wings, moving toward a nearby rack and idly adjusting a dangling scarf. "He was supposed to have everything. A title. A future. Power most vampires would kill for." Her voice was quiet, each word deliberate. "But he wanted none of it. Said he didn't want to be another pawn in the game of thrones, or some such nonsense. So, he walked away. Or tried to."
"Wait," Rowen said, straightening. "Are you saying he's, like, royalty?"
Thistle glanced over her shoulder, her expression sharp but tinged with amusement. "You didn't know?"
"Of course I didn't know!" Rowen spluttered. "He didn't exactly hand me a family tree when we met."
"Typical Dryanden," Thistle muttered, turning back to the scarves. "He's been running from his bloodline for centuries. Called himself a 'helper,' like that was going to fool anyone." She snorted, shaking her head. "But the truth doesn't disappear just because you don't want to look at it. People remember. And some don't forgive."
Rowen's stomach tightened. "So… he's what? A runaway prince?"
Thistle smiled faintly, a flicker of sadness crossing her features. "More like a reluctant one. But don't expect him to admit it. Dryanden doesn't like being tied to anything—not people, not places, and certainly not his past."
Rowen chewed on the inside of her cheek, her thoughts spinning. It explained so much—his guarded nature, the constant tension that clung to him like a shadow. But it also raised more questions than answers.
"Why are you telling me this?" she asked finally.
Thistle shrugged, her wings shimmering faintly. "Because someone should. And because you need to understand what you're walking into." Her golden eyes met Rowen's, their usual sharpness softened by something deeper. "Trust Dryanden, yes. But don't lose yourself in his shadows. Keep your own light."
Rowen blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected sincerity. "Uh… thanks? I think?"
"Don't mention it," Thistle said breezily, her wings flicking as she turned back to her work. "And I mean that. Seriously. Don't mention it."
The shop fell into a companionable silence, broken only by the faint rustle of fabric and the distant hum of magic. Rowen leaned back against the counter, her mind a whirlwind of questions.
A prince in self-exile. A bond that refused to loosen its hold. And a forest that whispered promises of ruin. Somewhere in all that chaos lay the truth about Dryanden—but Rowen wasn't sure if it would save them—or destroy them both.
The shop was still, save for the faint rustle of Thistle's wings as she rearranged garments on a nearby rack. Rowen's thoughts churned, her focus bouncing between Thistle's cryptic warnings and the bond's lingering thrum beneath her skin. She was just about to press Thistle for more when the door slammed open, rattling the walls.
Dryanden strode in, his movements precise and quick, his crimson eyes sharp with urgency. The cold air followed him, clinging to the edges of his cloak and sending a faint chill into the room. He paused just inside, scanning the space, his gaze briefly settling on Thistle before locking onto Rowen.
"We're leaving," he said, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade.
Thistle arched an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Charming as always, darling. Did you even consider knocking?"
Dryanden ignored her, moving to the center of the room with purposeful strides. He pulled the enchanted message from his cloak, the faint runes along the edges flickering as if alive.
Rowen crossed her arms, stepping forward. "Nice of you to drop in. Care to explain why you ran out like your cape was on fire?"
Dryanden didn't answer immediately. Instead, he took the message, murmured a word under his breath, and set the parchment ablaze. The fire crackled unnaturally, its flames glowing an icy blue as they consumed the paper. He tossed the burning parchment toward the far wall.
The moment it hit, the air rippled like water disturbed by a stone. A shimmering portal began to form, its edges glowing faintly with a pale, otherworldly light. Frost spilled from the rift, spreading across the walls and floor in jagged, crystalline patterns. A cold wind gusted through the shop, extinguishing the nearby candles and sending a shiver down Rowen's spine. The sharp tang of iron filled the air.
Thistle's wings flicked sharply as she muttered something in her native tongue. "Could've warned me before turning my shop into an ice cave," she said, her voice clipped. "You know how frost warps the wood."
"And this is no ordinary frost," Dryanden said, his gaze fixed on the portal. His tone was lower now, almost grim. "The Glade is already reaching through."
Rowen stepped closer, hugging her cloak tighter against the cold. "So… we're just walking into that? Seems like a great way to get frostbite before we even start."
Thistle moved to Rowen's side, her golden eyes steady despite the frost creeping toward her feet. "You've barely scratched the surface of this world, darling," she said softly. "Trust your instincts, or you won't survive it. Take it from someone who's seen the Glade's tricks—and barely made it out."
Rowen swallowed hard, her throat tight. "No pressure, right?"
Thistle's lips curved into a faint, bittersweet smile. "None at all."
Dryanden turned to them, his expression as unreadable as ever. The frost-glow reflected ominously in his crimson eyes, making them seem brighter, more intense. "Rowen," he said, extending an arm toward her. "We don't have time to hesitate."
She stared at him, the wind from the portal pulling at her hair and cloak. Her pulse quickened, the cold biting at her skin even as the bond's hum grew sharper, louder. This wasn't just about stepping through a doorway. It was crossing into the unknown, into a place that had already been described as unforgiving and treacherous. And she was doing it with someone who carried more secrets than truths.
Rowen clenched her fists, her breath misting in the frigid air. "This world really doesn't believe in taking it easy, huh?" she muttered, forcing a wry grin despite the nerves clawing at her chest.
Dryanden didn't respond, but his jaw tightened, his gaze locked on the swirling portal as if it held answers he wasn't ready to share. His arm was still outstretched. His steady presence, frustrating as it had come to be, grounded her. The bond hummed with reassurance—or perhaps it was just her imagining it.
Taking a deep breath, her palm met his, and for a fleeting second, the icy wind seemed to vanish, replaced by the searing hum of the bond.
Then the portal swallowed them whole.