?? Freya

  It was the next day when they told me.

  Which felt rude, honestly.

  I hadn’t even recovered from fainting yet. Let alone from the bath. Or the wings. Or the fact that I could no longer look Elian Sun-Prince-With-No-Shame in the eyes without wanting to crawl into the floor and live there forever.

  Farren’s office was quiet in a way that made my spine straighten automatically.

  Stone walls. Tall windows. A massive desk carved with storm-etched symbols I didn’t recognize but somehow felt in my bones. Everything smelled faintly of rain and smoke.

  I sat stiffly in the chair opposite his desk, hands folded in my lap like a child waiting to be scolded.

  Elian stood to my left.

  Too close.

  Still devastatingly handsome. Still golden. Still radiating the kind of relaxed confidence that said yes, you absolutely saw my wings naked, and yes, I am thinking about it too.

  He refused to look at me.

  Which somehow made it worse.

  Farren sat behind his desk, posture perfect, expression unreadable. Commander. Prince. Storm given flesh. He looked like the only adult in the room, which was deeply unfair, considering he seemed only a few years older than us.

  Silence stretched.

  I cleared my throat.

  “So,” I said, because if I didn’t speak I was going to combust. “I guess this really is another world. Magic exists. And I’m assuming you two are… not human.”

  Elian snorted.

  “Oh, thank the stars you figured that out,” he said. “I was worried we’d have to ease you into it. Maybe start with a pamphlet.”

  I shot him a look. He finally met my eyes, and immediately looked away again.

  Progress.

  Farren closed his eyes and inhaled slowly.

  “You’re right,” he said evenly. “We are not human. We are fae.”

  Elian perked up. “And not the fairy-tale kind. No pixie dust. No tiny wings. No glitter.”

  He glanced at me. “We’re much better.”

  Farren’s jaw tightened.

  “Elian.”

  “What? I’m reassuring her.”

  “You are interrupting.”

  Elian grinned, utterly unrepentant, and leaned back against the wall like he hadn’t just derailed a royal explanation.

  Farren folded his hands atop the desk.

  “As Elian has already shown you,” he said, voice even, “Mythara was once divided into three kingdoms.”

  Elian shifted, clearly pleased to be referenced, and shot me a sideways glance like see? I teach things.

  “Wraithmere belonged to the Solfae,” Farren continued. “Bound to light, heat, and flame.”

  “And incredible architecture,” Elian added. “Very dramatic arches.”

  “Illorath was the land of the Heartfae,” Farren said. “Bound to soil, growth, and life itself.”

  Something in his voice shifted, subtle, but heavy.

  “And Elmaris,” he finished, “is home of the Tempestfae. Those bound by strength. By storm. By steel.”

  “The last of our kind.”

  My chest tightened.

  “And you?” I asked. “You’re… different courts?”

  “Yes,” Farren said. “By blood.”

  “Elian carries the Sol Court through our mother, Queen Syrena.”

  “And Farren,” Elian added quietly, “got stuck with the Tempest Court through our father, King Thalen.”

  Farren ignored the phrasing.

  “They’ve protected Elmaris for over a century,” he said. “They are… legends.”

  “They’ve also been gone for nearly two months,” Elian said, voice tight. “On a mission they refuse to explain.”

  My gaze flicked between them.

  “So who’s in charge?”

  Farren met my eyes.

  “I am.”

  Of course he was.

  I hesitated, then asked the question that had been burning since the bath.

  “And the wings?”

  Both of them froze.

  “So everyone has them?” I asked. “All fae?”

  Elian laughed softly.

  “Oh gods, no. That would be chaos.”

  He gestured casually between himself and Farren. “Only the strongest. The important ones.”

  “Royal bloodlines,” Farren corrected.

  Then he stood.

  The air changed.

  His wings unfurled—slow, controlled, and enormous. Silver and black feathers streaked like lightning across a night sky, filling the room with shadow and pressure and power held in check by nothing but will.

  I stared.

  My brain short-circuited.

  “Damn.”

  The word slipped out before I could stop it.

  Behind me, a rustle.

  A sharp, unmistakable sound.

  Elian’s golden feathers flared once, tight and offended.

  He hissed under his breath and smacked them back into place with a quick, irritated flick of his hand.

  “Traitors,” he muttered.

  I bit my lip.

  Then looked at him.

  “You know,” I said lightly, “for someone who jokes so much, you’re really bad at hiding when you care.”

  Elian froze.

  Slowly, he lifted his gaze to mine.

  The smile he usually wore, easy, practiced, dazzling. Was gone.

  Something quieter sat behind his eyes.

  Something real.

  “…Excuse me?” he said.

  I shrugged. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

  Silence.

  Farren watched us like a storm cloud deciding whether to break.

  Elian opened his mouth.

  Then closed it.

  For once, truly once, he had nothing to say.

  “Our wings are not meant to be admired,” Farren said evenly. “They are shields. They are weapons.”

  I stared.

  He folded them back just as calmly as he’d revealed them.

  The room exhaled.

  Something deep beneath the stone hummed.

  And for reasons I couldn’t explain, I knew—

  The world had just recognized me.

  ??

  Two weeks have passed now, since I’ve learned about them.

  I should be terrified.

  A hidden world. Winged fae. Princes who wield storm and sun like second nature. A forest that bends space itself and refuses to let me go.

  All the ingredients for fear.

  And yet—

  I don’t feel it.

  I feel… held.

  Like the world itself has wrapped a careful hand around my spine and said, stay.

  Calista helps.

  Sharp-tongued, dramatic, fiercely loyal Calista, who decided I was her sister the moment I stumbled into Elmaris half-conscious and confused. She fills the quiet with laughter, the heavy moments with teasing warmth. She makes the foreign feel familiar. Makes this place feel less like a dream I might wake from and more like a life I somehow stepped into sideways.

  And then there are the princes.

  One pushes me harder than I ever thought possible, training my body until my muscles burn and my instincts sharpen, until strength feels less like something I lack and more like something waking up.

  The other—

  The other makes my heart trip over itself with nothing more than a glance. A smile. A carefully casual joke that never quite hides the truth beneath it.

  But even with them—

  even with Calista, the palace, the strange comfort of routine—

  my thoughts always drift toward the forest.

  Farren and Elian escort me there every few days.

  Each time, it’s meant to be the attempt.

  The walk that takes me home.

  They never say why they come with me.

  And I never ask.

  The moment I step beneath the canopy, something in the air changes. The light softens. The wind hushes, like it’s listening. The path ahead always seems clear, inviting, even.

  Until I try to leave.

  Every time I turn back toward the human world, the forest shifts.

  Softly.

  Paths bend where they didn’t before. Trails loop back on themselves. Clearings I recognize lead me somewhere else entirely. It feels less like being blocked and more like being… redirected.

  Like gentle hands at my shoulders, turning me back toward Elmaris.

  And every time it happens—

  Elian exhales.

  Just once.

  Quiet. Relieved.

  Like some tight knot in his chest loosens when the forest refuses to let me go.

  Farren notices.

  He always notices.

  But he never says a word.

  And then—

  she appears.

  The Heartquine steps from between the trees as if she’s always been there. Pale and luminous, her coat gleaming with quiet magic, her eyes deep and knowing. She never rushes. Never startled.

  She simply is.

  She lowers her head, and I step forward without thinking.

  My hand finds her snout.

  Warm. Solid. Alive.

  She watches me the way one living thing recognizes another. It wasn’t curiosity, but with certainty. As if she knows me. As if she’s been waiting.

  Every time, the same thought flickers through me:

  One day, I want to ride her.

  But Farren had shaken his head the first time I said it aloud.

  “That will never happen,” he said gently. “It’s a miracle she allows you this.”

  So I stand.

  And I touch.

  And I don’t ask for more.

  Still—

  home pulls at me too.

  Mom.

  Dad.

  I promised them I’d only be gone for two weeks. A month at most.

  I can see the calendar in my head like a ticking clock—and I’ve reached the mark.

  I’ve tried to leave.

  I really have.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered, standing at the edge of a path that should lead home. “I didn’t mean to break my promise.”

  The forest answers with a sigh of wind through leaves.

  I press my hand to my chest.

  “I will come back,” I murmured. “When the forest lets me. When it opens the way again.”

  I don’t know why I’m so certain it will.

  But I am.

  Until then, I listen to the wind.

  I trust the quiet pull beneath my skin.

  And I believe, with a steadiness that surprises me, that I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.

  ??

  I woke before the bells now.

  Not because I had to, but because my body knew the rhythm of Elmaris.

  The palace hummed softly in the early hours, stone still cool, corridors quiet except for the distant echo of footsteps and the whisper of wind through high windows. I stretched beneath the covers and took a slow breath, grounding myself in the familiar.

  Four days a week, my mornings belonged to the palace.Small chores, quiet tasks, learning where things were kept and how this place breathed.

  The other three—

  The other three belonged to Farren.

  I swung my legs out of bed and dressed quickly, pulling on my sparring clothes, simple, fitted, made for movement. They still felt strange against my skin, but less so than they had a week ago.

  Less like borrowed fabric.

  More like something chosen.

  The walk through the palace was second nature now. I passed servants who nodded politely, guards who watched me with curious respect. The walls no longer felt too large. The ceilings no longer loomed.

  Then I passed Elian’s chambers.

  I didn’t stop.

  But I felt him.

  Heat brushed my skin like sunlight through glass, warm, insistent. There was a pull there, too. Not physical. Not exactly emotional.

  Something deeper.

  Something that tugged beneath my ribs and made my step falter just enough for me to notice.

  I exhaled and kept walking.

  Farren’s office sat farther down the corridor, quiet and severe, the air cooler as I approached. I knocked once.

  “Enter.”

  His voice was steady. Commanding.

  I stepped inside.

  He was at his desk, already buried in parchment and ink, dark hair pulled back, posture immaculate. He glanced up briefly, just long enough to take me in, then returned his attention to the page.

  “You’re early,” he said.

  “I woke early,” I replied.

  A pause.

  “How do you feel about your training?” he asked, the pen still moving.

  I thought for a moment. “Better,” I said honestly. “I’m understanding the movements faster. Not just what to do, but why. How to shift my weight. When to anticipate instead of react.”

  His pen stilled.

  That earned his full attention.

  He studied me in silence, gray eyes sharp—not judging, but assessing. Measuring something I couldn’t quite see.

  “Good,” he said at last. “Then we’ll adjust today.”

  My stomach flipped. “Adjust how?”

  He leaned back slightly.

  “We’ll begin working with training swords.”

  I blinked.

  “Swords,” I repeated slowly. “As in… the very long, sharp knives that could absolutely kill someone.”

  For half a second, he looked startled.

  Then—

  He laughed.

  Not loud. Not indulgent.

  Just a quiet, unexpected breath of sound that slipped out before he could stop it.

  It hit me harder than it should have.

  Heat rushed to my face, and I looked down instinctively, embarrassed by how much that single sound affected me.

  “They’re wooden,” he said, clearing his throat. “Blunted. Balanced for learning.”

  “Still swords,” I muttered.

  “They’re an extension of your body,” he corrected. “And you’ll learn them properly.”

  He stood, gathering a few papers into neat stacks before setting them aside.

  “I’ll meet you in the training yard in one hour,” he continued. “Until then—go to the kitchens. Request a meal suited for exertion.”

  I hesitated. “You want me to… eat?”

  “Yes.”

  The word landed with unexpected firmness.

  “You train better when you’re fueled,” he added. “That’s not optional.”

  Something about the way he said it—so absolute, so certain—made my chest tighten in a way I didn’t have words for.

  I nodded. “Okay.”

  As I turned toward the door, his voice stopped me.

  “And Freya.”

  I glanced back.

  “You are learning quickly,” he said. “Don’t doubt that.”

  Then he was already back at his desk.

  Dismissed.

  I stepped into the corridor, heart beating just a little faster than it should have—and headed for the kitchens, unaware that something had already shifted.

  ??

  I made it halfway down the corridor before—

  “Little thorn.”

  The words curled warm and familiar through the stone.

  I stopped.

  Slowly, I turned.

  Elian leaned in the archway ahead, golden hair still damp like he’d just risen himself, sleeves rolled, posture loose in a way that should’ve been illegal this early in the morning. Sunlight slipped in through a nearby window and caught on him like it was fond.

  “Up early,” he said, eyes flicking over my sparring clothes with open interest. “I was beginning to think you only existed in the afternoons.”

  “I do not,” I said, though I smiled anyway. “I’m just… adjusting.”

  “Mm,” he hummed. “To what?”

  “Routine,” I replied. “Apparently, I train with swords today.”

  That got his attention.

  “Swords,” he repeated, brows lifting. “Already?”

  “Wooden,” I added quickly. “Farren promised they wouldn’t kill me.”

  Elian grinned. “Comforting.”

  “He also told me to get a proper meal first,” I continued. “Something about fueling before exertion.”

  His smile softened—just a touch.

  “Oh, I like him when he’s being sensible,” he said. Then, casually, “Mind if I join you?”

  I blinked.

  “You mean—”

  “For food,” he clarified lightly. “I swear I won’t steal yours. Much.”

  I stopped walking completely.

  Looked up at him.

  Really looked.

  At the easy warmth in his eyes. The way his presence still tugged at something beneath my skin, like standing too close to a hearth. At how safe his smile felt—despite everything I knew it hid.

  “Of course,” I said, meaning it.

  His breath caught.

  Just for a second.

  Then he cleared his throat and stepped aside, sweeping an arm out with exaggerated elegance.

  “Shall we?”

  I laughed under my breath and moved past him, and he fell into step beside me easily—too easily—as if this was something we’d always done.

  As if this was already familiar.

  And somewhere deep inside me, something warm tightened—

  Unaware that, very soon, steel would enter the story.

  I was already half-blended into the shadows when I heard his voice.

  “Little thorn.”

  I stopped.

  That tone.

  A wicked smile curved my lips as I peeked around the corner.

  Elian leaned in the archway ahead, all golden ease and careless confidence, like the sun had risen specifically for him. Gods, he looked insufferable.

  “Up early,” he said. “I was beginning to think you only existed in the afternoons.”

  Of course he was laying it on thick. This man truly did not know how to exist without charm, even before breakfast.

  “I do not,” Freya replied. “I’m just… adjusting.”

  “Mm,” he hummed. “To what?”

  Stars.

  Adjusting to you, you idiot.

  I rolled my eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t lodge in my skull.

  And then, because he has absolutely no self-preservation,

  “Mind if I join you?”

  Oh.

  That was new.

  His smile softened, not the polished one he used for courts and crowds, but the real one. The one he never noticed he was wearing.

  “Of course.”

  I nearly choked.

  No hesitation.

  Perhaps she is—

  No.

  No, that couldn’t be.

  “Shall we?”

  The dramatic arm sweep nearly sent me into an early grave.

  This, this, was why I lived in the shadows. To witness things like this. To watch legends unravel quietly in hallways before the world noticed.

  They walked off together.

  And Elian, charmer of kingdoms, breaker of hearts, fell into step beside her like he’d forgotten how walking worked without her there.

  That boy was done.

  Absolutely. Catastrophically. Done.

  Interesting.

  Very interesting.

  I turned away, already filing this moment away like a blade slipped into a sleeve.

  Sorry, Freya.

  Looks like that disastrous prince has you in his sights now.

  And knowing Elian—

  this will not be the last time he embarrasses you.

  ??

  Farren’s office was quiet.

  I knocked on the door.

  Nothing.

  Huh.

  I didn’t frown, I pivoted.

  His chambers were only a short walk away.

  I stood outside his chamber.

  “Farren? It’s me.”

  No answer.

  So I opened the door.

  And there he was.

  Shirtless. Half-dressed. Completely unbothered by the fact that I’d just walked in on him.

  He glanced over, calm as ever.

  “Good morning.”

  I smiled.

  “Indeed it is,” I said lightly. “The gods have truly blessed me today.”

  He scoffed a quiet laugh.

  I crossed the room in two strides.

  My fingers slipped into his hair, then trailed down his neck, over his shoulders, and deliberately, slowly, across his chest.

  I didn’t break eye contact.

  He leaned down, cupped my face, and kissed me.

  Brief. Certain. Familiar.

  “When don’t they?” he murmured.

  I laughed softly.

  “So,” I asked, hands still on him, “what’s on your agenda this fine morning?”

  “Sparring,” he said. “With Freya. Today we start swords.”

  I gasped, genuinely.

  “Swords?” I echoed. “Is that really necessary? She seems a bit… fragile for that kind of training.”

  His gaze sharpened.

  “Do not underestimate her.”

  The certainty in his voice gave me pause.

  I studied him for a moment, then stepped closer and wrapped my arms around him.

  “Promise me you won’t be too hard on her.”

  One brow lifted. “Would I ever?”

  I pulled back just enough to give him a look.

  The look.

  “Shall I ask your subordinates?”

  He scoffed. “I don’t accept weakness under my command.”

  I smiled and kissed him again, quick, affectionate.

  “You’ll make an excellent king someday.”

  I helped him finish dressing, straightening his collar, smoothing the fabric at his shoulders.

  Then I stepped back.

  “Off you go,” I said sweetly. “And if you hurt her, I’ll make sure you pay for it.”

  He turned his head toward me, lips twitching.

  “Sounds terrifying.”

  The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  I smiled wider.

  It was.

  The training yard smelled like sun-warmed stone and steel.

  It was open to the sky, ringed by tall walls etched with old runes I didn’t recognize but felt in my bones. The air hummed faintly, charged, expectant, like it was waiting to see what I would do.

  Farren was already there.

  He stood near the weapon racks, dark hair pulled back, sleeves rolled, posture straight and unyielding. A wooden sword rested loosely in his hand, like it weighed nothing at all.

  “You’re on time,” he said.

  “You told me to be,” I replied.

  A flicker of approval crossed his face before he schooled it away.

  He tossed me a wooden blade.

  I barely caught it.

  “Good,” he said. “That means you’re alert.”

  I eyed the weapon. “You call this good?”

  “You didn’t drop it.”

  Fair.

  He circled me slowly, assessing. “Feet shoulder-width apart. Knees soft. You’re too rigid.”

  “I’m holding a sword,” I said. “Rigid feels appropriate.”

  “It isn’t,” he replied. “You move with it. Not against it.”

  He stepped behind me before I realized what he was doing.

  His hands settled at my hips—firm, precise—guiding my stance.

  “Shift your weight forward,” he said sharply. “There.”

  My breath stuttered.

  His touch was professional. Corrective.

  And yet—

  His palms stayed longer than necessary. Not pressing. Not pulling.

  Shielding.

  “Again,” he said, voice clipped. “From the shoulders.”

  I lifted the blade. My swing was clumsy.

  Too wide.

  Too slow.

  He moved instantly.

  Steel never touched me, but his body did.

  He stepped into my space, wooden sword raised, his arm coming across my chest as a barrier, his shoulder turning me away from the imagined strike.

  Protect.

  The word hummed through me.

  “Too open,” he snapped. “You’d be cut down.”

  My heart pounded.

  “You said wooden swords,” I managed.

  “That doesn’t change instinct,” he said. “Reset.”

  He stepped back, but not far.

  Close enough that I could feel the heat of him. The steady control. The restraint held tight as a drawn bow.

  “Again.”

  This time, I adjusted faster.

  My feet found the ground.

  The blade followed my arm instead of fighting it.

  I struck.

  He blocked.

  Hard.

  The impact jolted my arms—but he was already there, hand on my wrist, absorbing the shock before it could travel up my bones.

  “Don’t lock your elbow,” he said. “You’ll injure yourself.”

  His thumb pressed lightly where the ache was starting.

  I blinked up at him. “You’re very concerned about my elbows.”

  A beat.

  Something flashed in his eyes—surprise, maybe.

  Then his jaw tightened.

  “Focus.”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  That earned me a look.

  I grinned.

  We moved again.

  Strike. Block. Step. Turn.

  He pressed forward now — testing range, forcing me to respond.

  Every time I faltered, he didn’t take the opening.

  He redirected my blade.

  Shifted my footing with a sharp command.

  Drove me backward until I found balance again.

  He wasn’t trying to defeat me.

  He was forcing me to learn.

  At one point, I misstepped entirely.

  My heel slid against the stone.

  My guard dropped.

  His wooden blade came down in a clean, decisive arc — a strike that would have ended the match.

  And then—

  He stopped.

  Mid-swing.

  Instead of finishing it, his sword veered away, striking harmlessly against the ground as his free arm wrapped around my shoulders.

  His body turned, angling between me and the blow that no longer existed.

  Shield.

  He froze.

  So did I.

  The yard went silent except for our breathing.

  He didn't need to protect me.

  He was the threat.

  And yet—

  His grip was solid. Instinctive.

  Too much.

  Slowly, he seemed to realize what he’d done.

  He released me at once, stepping back like he’d touched fire.

  “Again,” he said, harsher than before.

  But something had shifted.

  I felt it.

  And when I lifted my sword this time, I wasn’t afraid of the blade—

  Only of how safe I felt when he chose to stand between me and harm… even when he was the one holding it.

  We trained for hours.

  Long enough for the sun to climb toward its peak, casting clean spring light across the yard. Warm, but not oppressive. Cool wind threading between stone and steel.

  Perfect conditions.

  Freya was exhausted.

  She hid it well, too well, but I saw the signs. The way her shoulders lagged between strikes. The subtle tremor in her grip. The breath she forced steady when her body wanted rest.

  As expected, she learned quickly.

  Her sword work was… bad.

  Clumsy. Unrefined. Overcommitted.

  But the way she moved—

  That was something else entirely.

  She didn’t fight like someone trained to hold ground. She moved like something shaped by nature, wind through leaves, vines pulling back before snapping forward. Every time she should have been struck, she adjusted. Shifted. Redirected.

  Avoided.

  It was instinct. Raw and untrained, but effective.

  Too effective for someone who shouldn’t have it.

  I called the end before she collapsed.

  “That’s enough.”

  She slid down the wall opposite me, breathless, sword clattering to the stone.

  I turned toward her hands.

  And grimaced.

  Blisters. Raw patches forming beneath reddened skin.

  Cal was going to skin me alive.

  She groaned. “I hate swords.”

  “You won’t always get a choice,” I said flatly.

  She looked up at me, brow furrowed.

  “They’re tools,” I continued. “Your hands won’t protect you on their own.”

  Her fingers curled reflexively, like they wanted to argue with me.

  I stepped back.

  “Take the rest of the day off,” I said. “Rest. Eat. Don’t train.”

  She blinked. “That’s it?”

  “That’s an order.”

  She nodded, tired enough not to protest.

  Good.

  I turned away before I said something unnecessary.

  Before I said something soft.

  I found Cal near the edge of the yard, arms already crossed like she’d been waiting.

  “Can you prepare oil for Freya?” I asked. “Something for muscle strain. And her hands.”

  She didn’t uncross her arms.

  “You overdid it,” she said, not a question.

  I didn’t look at her.

  I covered my mouth briefly, thoughtful. Professional.

  “Yes,” I admitted.

  She exhaled through her nose.

  “She’s not a soldier, Farren.”

  “Not yet,” I said automatically.

  That earned me a look.

  A long one.

  “I’ll handle it,” she said at last. “But if you injure her again, I won’t be nearly as patient.”

  I met her eyes this time.

  “I know.”

  She turned away.

  And I stood there longer than necessary, staring back toward the training yard—

  Wondering when, exactly, protecting her had started to feel like instinct instead of duty.

  I dragged myself back to my room, muscles aching in places I didn’t even know could ache.

  My hands blistered, and hurt like hell.

  Every step felt earned. Claimed.

  I peeled off the training tunic and sank into the bath, running the water hotter than usual—until steam coiled thick around me like something alive. The heat slid over my skin, loosening muscle and thought alike.

  My body gave in.

  I closed my eyes.

  And Farren was there.

  The way his hands corrected my grip—firm, sure. The way his body moved instinctively between me and imagined danger. The way he didn’t hesitate. Didn’t ask.

  Just shielded.

  His hands had been large on me. Heavy. Certain. The weight of him at my back when I stumbled—solid and unavoidable.

  I inhaled sharply.

  I liked it.

  The safety of it. The pressure. The way his presence made the world narrow until it was just breath and balance and his voice cutting through the noise.

  Oh god.

  I sat up abruptly, water sloshing against porcelain.

  “What are you doing,” I muttered, heat flooding my face. I pressed my palms to my cheeks, grounding. “He’s a commander. That’s how commanders train. Of course he’s hands-on.”

  Of course he was protective.

  I sank back down, letting the steam close in again, soft and indulgent.

  But my thoughts didn’t behave.

  They drifted.

  To Elian.

  Breakfast that morning. The quiet ease of it. The way he hadn’t worn his usual mask so tightly—still charming, still playful, but softer around the edges. Real.

  Warm.

  He’d laughed easily. Leaned close. Let the silence stretch without filling it.

  It had felt… intimate.

  Since that night two weeks ago, we’d both kept our distance. Careful glances. Polite space. But that morning—

  I’d felt relaxed with him.

  Happy.

  My fingers curled beneath the water. Ouch. Regret.

  I wondered what it would be like to train with him. Alone. To see that warmth sharpen. To watch sunlight turn dangerous in his hands.

  Sun demon, Calista had called him once, half-laughing.

  I swallowed.

  I wanted to see it.

  I wanted to see him.

  And feel—

  BANG.

  The door slammed open.

  “Elian—?” I gasped, jerking upright and yanking a towel to my chest as he barreled into the room.

  His wings flared wide, gold and blazing and trembling.

  He looked wild.

  Breathless.

  Uncontained.

  His gaze swept the room—

  Then locked on me.

  Not again.

  My face burned. “God, this is the second time!”

  His eyes dropped—

  Then snapped back up so fast it nearly gave me whiplash.

  Something was wrong.

  I was walking beyond the palace walls when it hit me.

  Not a sound. Not a sight.

  A jolt, sharp and sudden and entirely not mine.

  Pain.

  It flashed through me like a blade under the ribs.

  I stopped short.

  My wings twitched, feathers flaring in a reflex I didn’t control.

  “What the hell…?”

  It wasn’t my body.

  I knew that instantly.

  It was hers.

  The realization landed with terrifying certainty.

  Freya.

  My feet were moving before my mind caught up. I didn’t remember turning. I didn’t remember crossing the distance. I only knew the world narrowed to corridors and doors and the pounding of my own pulse.

  I reached her door and didn’t knock.

  I threw it open.

  “Freya—”

  She was in the bath.

  Steam filled the room in thick, curling clouds. Water rippled. Light glinted off porcelain.

  She jerked, eyes wide.

  “Elian?”

  My gaze swept the room, fast, instinctive,

  And found her.

  Oh gods.

  “God, this is the second time!” she started.

  “Shit.”

  The word tore out of me as my wings flared wide in pure reflex, sunlight flashing across the walls.

  “Dammit.”

  I spun around so fast I nearly lost my balance, staring very deliberately at the far wall like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

  What was wrong with me?

  “I didn’t— I’m not—” I dragged in a breath, fighting for control of literally everything. “I felt something. You were in pain. I don’t know how, I just— I knew.”

  My wings tucked in, tight and guilty. Sort of.

  The room hummed with heat and steam and something else I didn’t want to name.

  I swallowed hard, still facing the wall.

  “I shouldn’t have come in like that,” I said, quieter now. “I just… reacted.”

  Silence stretched behind me.

  Heavy.

  Charged.

  And somehow worse than if she’d yelled.

  ??Freya

  For a few seconds after he said it, we just… froze.

  Him facing the wall like it had personally offended him.

  Me sitting in the bath, clutching my towel to my chest, steam curling around me like it was enjoying this far too much.

  I sat on the edge of the bath and quickly reached for another towel.

  “I’m decent now,” I said finally. “You can… um. Turn around.”

  “I absolutely cannot,” he said quickly.

  I blinked. “Elian.”

  “I will combust.”

  I snorted despite myself. “You already did. Your wings are still poofed.”

  He groaned and pressed his forehead to the wall.

  Carefully, I stood.

  And immediately regretted it.

  The room tilted.

  My legs wobbled like they were made of wet noodles.

  “Oh—”

  I swayed.

  And suddenly Elian was there.

  He turned without thinking, caught me by the forearms, and then—

  froze.

  We were far too close.

  His hands were firm around my arms, steadying, his wings locked in place like they weren’t sure what they were allowed to do.

  We stared at each other.

  “…You’re still not decent,” he said faintly.

  “I am wrapped,” I said. “Mostly.”

  “Freya.”

  “I’m going to fall,” I informed him.

  That decided it.

  He tightened his grip and turned his head sharply away, very deliberately staring at the ceiling while guiding me the rest of the way out of the tub.

  “Okay,” he said, voice strained. “Okay. Just, lean. You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

  My legs immediately gave up.

  He absorbed my weight with a quiet grunt, one arm braced around my shoulders, the other steady at my elbow, holding me like I might shatter.

  “Farren is so mean,” I muttered.

  He huffed softly.

  Elian helped me into my robe, still very carefully not looking at anything he shouldn’t, and kept one hand on my arm like he didn’t trust gravity.

  When I was secure, he finally eased back.

  “My body hates me,” I informed him.

  “Your body was abused by the commander of a fae army,” he said dryly.

  Then, quieter, grabbing my hand, “But you shouldn’t be in this much pain.”

  I blinked at him. “How did you know?”

  His jaw tightened.

  “I felt it,” he said. “Like it was happening to me.”

  That… landed differently.

  He guided me toward the bed, slow, cautious, like he wasn’t sure I’d let him.

  We sat beside each other, the mattress dipping under our combined weight.

  His wings rustled behind him, restless and bright.

  “I wasn’t thinking,” he said quietly. “I just… moved. Like something yanked me here. My thread.”

  His fists tightened in his lap.

  He stared at the floor. Then the wall. Anywhere but at me.

  Then, abruptly, he reached into the bag on his waste.

  “I brought something,” he said.

  He opened his hand.

  Soft light spilled between his fingers.

  Glowing flowers—gold and violet—warm with quiet magic.

  “This helps with blisters,” he said. “Muscle strain. It’s gentle.”

  Then he hesitated.

  Reached again.

  And added a second bundle.

  Lavender.

  My breath caught.

  “And this,” he said, softer now, “just… reminded me of you.”

  Something between us cracked, sharp and bright, like fire snapping through dry leaves.

  He shifted closer on the mattress, and the pull snapped again.

  A jolt licked down my spine.

  Hot.

  Electric.

  Familiar in a way that terrified me.

  My lips parted.

  My heartbeat stuttered.

  Elian froze mid-breath.

  “You felt that, didn’t you?” he whispered.

  I nodded once.

  He set the flowers beside us, his hand brushing my knee before settling back into his lap.

  Then he shifted again.

  Closer.

  Until the heat of him pressed along my side.

  Until our legs touched fully, warm and solid through the thin fabric of my robe.

  The air between us hummed.

  “I didn’t mean to barge in,” he said, voice barely more than breath. “But I felt—”

  “You don’t just… feel someone like that, Elian,” I whispered.

  His gaze locked onto mine.

  Steady. Burning. Unapologetic.

  “With you,” he said, “I do.”

  Then he leaned in.

  One hand braced on the mattress beside my hip, his arm crossing in front of me, caging me without touching me.

  The other lifted… slowly… almost trembling… and brushed a curl from my cheek.

  His fingers lingered there, warm against my skin.

  Then he leaned closer.

  Closer.

  Until our noses grazed, soft, electric contact that made my stomach twist and my lungs forget how to work.

  The world narrowed to heat and breath and him.

  I tilted toward him without meaning to.

  My lips parted.

  My heart pounded hard enough to shake me.

  My eyes fluttered shut.

  “Freya…” he whispered.

  “Elian…” I breathed.

  And then—

  “My, my…”

  A voice slithered through the room like silk.

  We both jolted violently.

  Elian’s braced hand slipped on the mattress.

  There was a flailing of limbs, a very undignified squawk, and then he toppled sideways off the bed, crashing to the floor with a thud that rattled the nightstand.

  I clapped a hand over my mouth, mortified.

  Elian groaned in pain and humiliation.

  Calista stood in the doorway, one brow arched, skirts swishing behind her like a smug cat’s tail. She took in the scene—Elian on the floor, wings half-flared in panic; me sitting on the bed in a robe, cheeks blazing, and her smile sharpened.

  “What,” she purred, “are you two doing?”

  “CALISTA—!” I yelped, scrambling to pull my robe tighter.

  Elian shot upright into a seated position, hands and wings flailing like he’d forgotten how limbs worked.

  “No—! Nothing! Nothing happened!” he sputtered, nearly kicking the glowing flowers under the bed. “I didn’t—I wasn’t—it’s not—”

  “Oh?” Calista drawled, sweeping into the room like she owned every inch of it. “No clever comeback this time, Prince Charming? Did Freya catch your tongue?”

  Elian made a small, strangled noise that might once have been a protest.

  “Calista,” I hissed, burning from scalp to toes. “Nothing happened. He—he thought I was hurt!”

  She gasped dramatically, hand to her chest.

  “Hurt? And so he what? Sensed your distress? Wings flared? Magic screaming?”

  She leaned closer, stage-whispering,

  “And rushed straight into your bedroom? Without knocking?”

  Elian looked like he desperately wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

  “I’m leaving,” he muttered, scrambling to his feet while knocking his shoulder into the bedpost. “Freya, rest. Please. I’m… sorry.”

  His boot caught on the rug.

  His wing smacked the doorframe.

  And then he all but launched himself out of the room.

  SLAM.

  Silence.

  Calista stared at the closed door for a long, thoughtful beat.

  Then, slowly, she turned toward me.

  Her grin was weaponized.

  I gave her a small shrug and a very unconvincing little laugh.

  “Ha. Ha.”

  She tilted her head, studying me like I was a puzzle piece she’d just figured out.

  “I passed you two in the corridor this morning,” she added lightly.

  My stomach dropped.

  “You did?”

  “Mhm. You were looking at each other like a pair of moonkins during first bloom.”

  “…What does that even mean?”

  “It means,” she said dryly, “disgustingly soft.”

  “Calista—”

  “And now,” she continued, counting on her fingers, “he’s barging into your room half-feral because he ‘felt your pain.’”

  I groaned. “Please stop talking.”

  She leaned closer.

  “You know what that means in the fae world?”

  “What what means?” I muttered, rubbing my temples, exhausted. “And if this is another one of your dramatic speeches, please spare me.”

  “Oh no,” she said sweetly. “This one’s educational.”

  She gestured vaguely at the space Elian had just flailed through.

  “The wings. When they rustle like that.”

  “…No?” I peeked at her. “And I already regret asking.”

  “It means one of two things,” she went on, lowering her voice. “Either their love is in danger…”

  A beat.

  A slow, wicked smirk.

  “…or,” she finished sweetly, “it’s a fae boner.”

  “WHAT?!” I choked. “Calista—!”

  “Oh, absolutely,” she purred, waving a hand. “That boy is smitten. Wings don’t lie. Especially Sol Fae wings. They twitch, they flare—you could practically hear the flutter.”

  “Calista, please.”

  “What?” she said innocently. “It’s not my fault he practically combusted at the sight of your collarbone.”

  “STOP.”

  “You’re stuck with him from now on.”

  “That is not—”

  “Oh, it absolutely is,” she said. “And if you think the embarrassing situations end here, sweetheart, you are tragically na?ve.”

  I dropped my face into my hands.

  But she was already sauntering toward the adjoining room.

  “I’ll grab the salve,” she called. “Your poor hands must be throbbing.”

  She paused just long enough to add the dagger—

  “Oh… and probably your heart, too.”

  I considered throwing a pillow at her head.

  ??

  She returned a few moments later with linens, a bowl of salve, and then,

  She stopped short.

  Her brows shot up.

  “Where did you get these?”

  That’s right. The glowing flowers Elian had left behind.

  I swallowed. “Elian brought them.”

  Both brows arched higher.

  “He brought you flowers?”

  I nodded.

  Her grin sharpened.

  “Oh, dear sister,” she breathed. “You’re in trouble.”

  “He said one helps with blisters,” I muttered.

  Calista’s expression shifted.

  Not playful.

  Careful.

  Almost reverent.

  “This is moondrop blossom,” she said softly. “War healers use it for burns. It’s rare. And volatile with most skin.”

  She dipped a petal into the salve and pressed it gently to my palm.

  The moment it touched—

  Coolness spread through my fingers.

  Not just soothing.

  Alive.

  Like it recognized me.

  Like it responded.

  Calista blinked.

  “…Strange. It’s glowing more.”

  “It is?”

  She nodded slowly.

  “Maybe you’re a match for its magic.”

  Then her mouth curved.

  “Or maybe,” she drawled, “Elian picked the perfect one.”

  Heat rushed up my neck.

  And suddenly—

  Warmth flared near my ear.

  Calista froze.

  Her gaze snapped to the lavender birthmark.

  “…Freya.”

  “What?” I touched my cheek. “What is it?”

  I felt my birthmark pulse faintly.

  She reached out and brushed her fingers lightly over it.

  Calista went very still.

  “It was glowing… Interesting,” she murmured.

  “That’s not reassuring.”

  “It wasn’t meant to be,” she said smoothly, already masking it with a smile.

  And just like that, the moment passed.

  She wrapped my hands with quiet care, movements precise and practiced.

  Then she knelt for my feet.

  “Try not to scream,” she said lightly.

  I didn’t scream.

  But I did nearly chew through my lip.

  When she finished, Calista flopped dramatically onto the bed beside me, arms thrown wide, claiming a pillow like she was the tragic heroine of her own opera.

  She stared up at the ceiling for a moment, curls spilling across the sheets.

  “You’re interesting,” she said suddenly.

  “The forest won’t let you leave. Rare healing magic reacts to you like it’s been waiting. Your birthmark just glowed for no apparent reason.”

  A pause.

  “And the Sol Prince,” she added lightly, “is unraveling in real time.”

  I groaned. “Please don’t list them like that.”

  She turned her head toward me, expression softer now. Not teasing. Not sharp.

  “Most people pass through the world without ever being noticed by it,” she said. “You walk into a place, and it responds.”

  I swallowed.

  “That’s what makes you lucky,” she continued. “Not because it’s easy. But because it means you matter.”

  “I don’t feel lucky,” I admitted.

  “You will.”

  She leaned over and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of my head.

  Then she rose, smoothed her skirts, and slipped from the room like golden mist—

  humming softly as the door clicked shut behind her.

  ??

  I stayed where I was.

  Curled on my bed, still wrapped in my robe, the room quiet again.

  The moondrop salve was already working. A cool, gentle sensation seeped into my palms and feet, easing the ache until my body felt like it was finally remembering how to breathe. The pain didn’t vanish—but it softened. Became something I could live inside instead of fight.

  I exhaled.

  Calista.

  What a menace.

  A loving, caring, terrible menace.

  I’d never had an older sister. Not really. But if I had, I thought she would look exactly like this—bossy, dramatic, overprotective, and far too perceptive for my own good.

  My gaze drifted to the glowing flowers on the table.

  Interesting, she’d said.

  The word pressed against me now, heavier than it had before.

  Was she right?

  Was that why the forest wouldn’t let me leave? Why the magic answered me like it recognized something it wasn’t supposed to? Why his wings seemed to betray him every time he looked at me?

  I groaned and smacked my hands over my face.

  “Ow—! God—blisters.”

  I lowered them more carefully this time, staring up at the ceiling.

  He was going to kiss me.

  The realization landed slow.

  Heavy.

  Warm.

  And unwelcome in how welcome it felt.

  I wanted him to.

  That truth twisted in my stomach, sharp and undeniable.

  “Get it together, Freya,” I muttered to the empty room. “You barely know him.”

  I turned my face into the pillow.

  “Stop thinking with your heart and start thinking with your brain.”

  My brain, unfortunately, was not being very helpful.

  It replayed the way he looked at me. The way he said my name. The way the air seemed to hold its breath around us.

  The way something in me leaned toward him without permission.

  I squeezed my eyes shut.

  This place was dangerous.

  Not because of monsters or magic or wings—

  But because of how easily it was starting to feel like it mattered.

  Like they mattered.

  And that…

  That might be the scariest thing of all.

  ?? Elian

  I paced my room like a wildfire looking for something to burn.

  Back and forth.

  Back and forth.

  My wings twitched so violently they scraped the doorframe every other pass.

  I couldn’t get the image out of my head.

  Freya.

  Right there on the bed beside me—

  soft robe slipping off her shoulder, breath catching, lips parting—

  Gods.

  I should’ve kissed her.

  I almost did.

  One more second and my mouth would’ve been on hers.

  One more heartbeat and I would’ve had her in my arms, her hands in my hair, the taste of her finally on my tongue.

  I felt her lean in.

  I felt her want.

  And I pulled away like a coward.

  No… worse.

  I fell.

  Off the bed.

  Like an idiot.

  Because Calista’s voice had exploded into the room like a war horn.

  I dragged a hand over my face and groaned.

  Calista.

  Of course it was Calista.

  As if she hadn’t humiliated me enough with the bath incident. No, she had to catch me tonight. Had to watch me fumble like a lovesick adolescent. Had to watch me hit the floor like I’d never stood on two legs in my life.

  I swore she was powered solely by my misery.

  But Freya…

  Freya was something else entirely.

  Even now, my clothes still smelled like her, warm skin, wildflowers, and something deeper. Something I didn’t have a name for.

  And that jolt when we touched—

  That spark under her skin—

  It wasn’t human.

  It wasn’t fae either.

  It felt like sunlight tangled in earth.

  Like the world itself leaned toward her.

  She walked into a room and the air shifted.

  She spoke and the ground listened.

  She breathed and something ancient stirred.

  And every instinct in me answered.

  Possessive.

  Relentless.

  Burning.

  “Get it together, Elian,” I muttered, gripping the edge of my dresser hard enough for the wood to creak.

  But my body didn’t listen.

  My wings didn’t listen.

  My magic didn’t listen.

  All of it screamed the same thing—

  The same word—

  The same truth I didn’t want to face:

  Mine.

  ??? Farren

  The reports were worse than the training.

  At least training bled.

  Paper just lingered.

  I sat behind my desk, one boot propped against the drawer, a half-finished glass of scotch warming in my hand while I read the same line for the third time.

  Grain shortages along the southern ridge.

  Bridge repairs delayed.

  Two guards requesting transfer.

  I’d rather take a blade to the ribs.

  I tipped the glass back and let the burn settle deep in my chest.

  Quiet. Controlled. Predictable.

  Then—

  A tug.

  Small.

  Sharp.

  Gone.

  My fingers tightened on the glass.

  I stared at the parchment.

  Probably nothing.

  My thread had been restless for some time now. Ever since Freya arrived, everything felt… louder.

  Another tug.

  Softer.

  Annoying.

  I exhaled through my nose.

  “Elian,” I muttered.

  It was always Elian.

  Either he’d set something on fire or fallen off something dramatic.

  I closed my eyes and tried to ease the tension from my shoulders.

  The door clicked open.

  No knock.

  Of course.

  Cal leaned against the frame like she owned the building—which, realistically, she might someday. Dark curls spilled over one shoulder. Eyes bright with trouble.

  “I caught your brother again.”

  I didn’t look up.

  That was when it clicked.

  The tug.

  Not Elian being an idiot.

  Freya.

  Or both of them being idiots.

  Which was somehow worse.

  “Let me guess,” I said flatly. “Freya was involved.”

  “Oh, absolutely.” She dropped into the chair opposite me without invitation. “He looked like a Solhound in a rut ready to pounce his mate.”

  A muscle in my jaw twitched.

  Cal’s grin turned lethal.

  “And,” she added sweetly, “it seemed… intimate. I’m fairly certain he was about to kiss her.”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose.

  “Fae gods help us,” I muttered. “He cannot handle heartbreak. And when she leaves this place. I’m not dealing with a weeping, dramatic prince throwing himself off balconies.”

  She laughed—bright, delighted, wicked.

  “You know,” she said, crossing her legs, “he’s never acted like this over anyone.”

  “He’s an idiot,” I grumbled.

  She studied me, tapping her chin thoughtfully.

  “Or,” she said slowly, “maybe she’s the one.”

  I glanced up.

  “The one,” she continued. “The missing piece he’s always been restless for.”

  Impossible.

  She was human.

  I didn’t say it out loud.

  I didn’t need to.

  Silence stretched. The reports blurred together.

  I set the parchment down.

  “I’m done,” I said flatly. “If I read one more complaint about grain shipments, I’m declaring war on wheat.”

  She laughed softly.

  I set my glass down, stood, and walked around the desk.

  Slow. Deliberate.

  Cal looked up at me—eyes dark, expression unreadable, breath catching in that faint way only I ever noticed.

  I slipped an arm around her waist and drew her gently to her feet.

  Then I kissed her.

  Slow.

  Steady as a storm about to form.

  When I pulled back, her lashes fluttered once.

  “Join me for a drink, Cal?” I asked quietly.

  Her brow lifted. “Inviting me to corrupt the crown prince?”

  “I’m already corrupted.”

  She smiled, “Then lead the way.”

  I nodded once.

  “Go change,” I told her. “Night attire. Meet me in my chambers.”

  Her brow lifted. “Bossy.”

  “Efficient.”

  “Five minutes,” Cal said and disappeared to change.

  I went to my chambers.

  “Finn,” I called as I entered.

  He appeared instantly.

  “Light the fire. Bring Lady Calista’s wine. The Dahlora red.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  By the time I shrugged off my coat, the hearth was already crackling. Firelight crawled gold across the walls. The wine waited on the table.

  “Thank you. You’re dismissed for the evening.”

  The door shut softly behind him.

  Quiet.

  Good.

  A few minutes later, Cal slipped in barefoot and comfortable with her hair loose.

  We ended up curled together on the couch before the fire.

  I nursed another scotch.

  Cal cradled her wine, legs stretched across mine, head tucked against my shoulder like that space had always belonged to her.

  My thumb traced slow circles along her ankle without thinking.

  She sighed.

  “Do you remember,” she murmured, “how furious you were the day our parents introduced us?”

  “I wasn’t furious.”

  “You glared at my father like he’d personally insulted your lineage.”

  “He brought contracts.”

  “He brought me,” she corrected.

  I took a slow drink. “Illorath had just fallen. Half the realm was ash. And no Heart Fae houses survived.”

  “Just Sir Kael,” she added. “And he had no children.”

  The words settled heavy between us.

  One kingdom gone.

  One bloodline erased.

  Continuation mattered.

  Heirs mattered.

  “Which meant,” she went on lightly, “Duke Dahlora’s only daughter, who was conveniently close to your age, suddenly looked very attractive.”

  “Yes, very convenient.”

  She snorted into her wine. “I still remember your face. You looked like someone had assigned you a chore.”

  “You called me ‘brooding.’”

  “You were. Standing there like the world personally offended you.”

  “It often does.”

  She bumped her knee into my thigh.

  “And then,” she said, voice turning wicked, “your wings exploded.”

  I groaned, “They did not explode.”

  “They absolutely exploded.”

  “It was the first time they manifested. There was no way of controlling them.”

  “You knocked over three chairs.”

  “They were poorly placed.”

  “You scared my mother.”

  “She startles easily.”

  “You looked like a startled goose.”

  I exhaled slowly through my nose.

  Unfair.

  But accurate.

  I remembered it too clearly.

  Heat in my spine.

  Pressure under skin.

  Then—

  Feathers.

  Everywhere.

  No control. No discipline. Just instinct and panic.

  Silence stretched, warm and easy.

  The fire popped.

  She traced a finger along the rim of her glass.

  “I wasn’t upset,” she said quietly.

  “About what?”

  “Being chosen.”

  I looked down at her.

  She wasn’t teasing now.

  “I always wanted it,” she continued. “The crown. The work. The responsibility. All of it.”

  A small smile tugged at her mouth.

  “I used to steal flowers from the garden and braid them into a crown. Declared myself Queen of Elmaris to anyone who’d listen.”

  “I remember,” I said.

  “You told me it was impractical.”

  “It was.”

  She smacked my leg lightly.

  “I wanted to matter,” she said softer. “To protect something. To build something.”

  She tipped her head against my shoulder.

  “With you.”

  Something tightened in my chest.

  Not sharp.

  Not painful.

  Just… certain.

  “I never questioned it,” I said.

  “Questioned what?”

  “Us.”

  She stilled.

  “From the moment my wings manifested,” I continued, “you were there.”

  Teasing. Laughing. Unafraid.

  Like I wasn’t a prince.

  Just a boy with feathers he couldn’t control.

  “Everyone else saw future king and queen,” I said. “I just saw you.”

  Her fingers tightened slightly on my sleeve.

  Summer loomed.

  Our season.

  Closer every day.

  My hand slid higher along her leg, warm and steady, resting at her thigh.

  “Soon,” I murmured.

  She looked up at me.

  “Soon,” she echoed.

  Not nervous.

  Certain.

  Like the tide.

  I bent and kissed the top of her head.

  She curled closer without hesitation, fitting against me like she always had.

  ???

  Cal’s breathing evened out before she realized it had.

  Her wine sat forgotten on the table. Her head rested heavier against my shoulder, curls warm against my collarbone. One hand fisted loosely in the fabric of my shirt like she’d decided, without discussion, that I was not allowed to move.

  “Cal,” I murmured.

  No response.

  I stayed still.

  The fire crackled low. The scotch burned slow.

  For all her sharpness, her ambition, her endless energy—sleep always took her gently. Like her body trusted that someone else was standing watch.

  Eventually, her fingers slackened.

  I shifted carefully, sliding my arm beneath her knees and the other around her back. She stirred only enough to press her face into my chest, a quiet sound escaping her lips.

  “Farren,” she murmured, already gone again.

  “I know,” I said softly.

  I carried her to the bed.

  She curled instinctively the moment I laid her down, turning toward the warmth she expected to find. I pulled the covers up around her shoulders, brushing her hair back once, careful not to wake her.

  She slept like she always had.

  Unafraid.

  I stood there longer than necessary.

  Watching.

  Guarding.

  Summer pressed closer with every passing day.

  The season of storms and vows. Of expectation. Of crowns and ceremonies and the weight of a kingdom watching us step into roles we’d been shaped for since childhood.

  Everyone saw inevitability.

  They saw lineage. Alliances. A future secured after loss.

  But I remembered a girl who stole flowers and braided herself a crown because she wanted to matter.

  I remembered laughter in the aftermath of wings I couldn’t control.

  I remembered how she never looked at me like a prince first.

  Cal was not a consolation for what we’d lost.

  She was not a solution chosen out of desperation.

  She was the reason the future felt possible at all.

  I turned away at last, extinguishing the lamps one by one.

  The fire burned low.

  And as I lay down beside her, careful, deliberate, I felt the storm settle back into my bones.

  Waiting.

  Summer would come.

  The vows would be spoken.

  The crown would be placed.

  But tonight—

  Tonight, she slept safely beside me.

  And that was enough.