Cinnamon Rolls and Villainy

Chapter 14

Chapter

Fourteen

“ R ise and shine, everyone!” Ayc cheers brightly, sometime in the unholy middle of the night hours. “Are you ready to go to eternal torment?”

The pillow Lora chucks at his head lands with enough force to send him backward into the pallet of blankets on the inn room floor. He considers himself lucky it's not the knife she apparently stores under her pillow as she sleeps.

Wylder and his injured brother remain on the opposite side of the hall, not cleared by the healer to travel, and the rest of Wylder’s Five are still in the stable. Their nearness made Lora insist the Five all share a room, and one person be awake to guard during the few hours they were able to sleep.

Sharing a room with them all has taught Ayc a few things: Peregrin snores, Tavish buries his face in Saga’s fur, Bronwen mutters what sounds like spells, Xylie wraps her many braids in a scarf, and Lora sleeps with her legs curled all the way to her chest and the blanket pulled up to her nose. He might have called it cute, but he likes his head attached to his body far too much for that.

After Lora and Ayc returned from the river, she sent Peregrin on Tempest to the nearest town with an air dock to determine when the next airship would be headed south, while Lora and Bronwen disappeared into the inn’s room for an hour. When Peregrin returned with news that the airship did not leave until early the next day, they decided to remain at the Pink Elk. They plotted, tossed around ideas that might solve the quests, ate Vidar’s tolerable lunch and dinner, and then were ordered to bed by Lora. It’s why the sun isn’t close to rising yet when Ayc ends his own watch by waking all of them as he was directed.

They all dress quickly, shuffling back into their armor and boots, and roll up the bedrolls. Ayc swallows down a tonic when he’s sure no one is looking, hoping it will ease the tightness that extends from his lower back all the way to his knees, like a bowstring that will snap if it pulls any tighter.

“We have rations we can eat on the road,” Lora says, when they’re all ready. She opens the door a slit and studies the hallway outside, before she slides out. “Let’s go.”

“No more salt masquerading as porridge?” Ayc asks, as he follows the group, tying his loose hair back with a ribbon. “Damn.”

Lora ignores him. She pauses briefly at the top of the stairs to glance at the door at the end of the hall, where Wylder is, and then descends the stairs with a force that makes the steps sound like drums. Ayc pretends he doesn’t notice.

Despite the late hour, Vidar looms behind the counter, a fluffy dressing robe with lace cuffs pulled over his broad chest. Lora breaks from the group and makes her way over to him. She reaches into a pouch at her side and then presses a handful of coins into his palm. Ayc has to strain to hear the words, she’s talking so lowly.

“There should be another shipment coming in a few days.”

Vidar grunts. “I’ll keep it safe, and when it’s ready to move on, I’ll make sure it gets to the next location.”

“Thank you, Vidar.”

“Are you dealing in opium?” Ayc asks, when she makes her way back to where they are now waiting at the door.

“Yes,” she says flatly. “It’s quite lucrative.”

“You’re being sarcastic, right?”

Lora shakes her head, pushes past him, and jerks the front door open.

Ayc arches an eyebrow at Bronwen. She grins at him, but there’s so much mischief dancing in her eyes he has no idea if it’s a confirmation of Lora’s sarcasm… or a nefarious confession. Bronwen quickly follows Lora out into the darkness of the night. He’ll get no answers from either of them.

Outside, the moon exists as only a sliver. Bronwen holds her hands together. A sphere of light builds between her fingers. She tosses her hand upward, and the light soars to three feet above their heads. It lights up the darkness as they leave the Pink Elk behind and tread northward, further into Bromalis territory.

It's several miles yet to Orchis, the largest city in Bromalis territory, where there’s an air dock. After a bit of prowling beside them, Tempest bows and allows Peregrin to climb aboard. Ayc digs through his pack for the unleavened bread wrapped in cloth and serves it with preserves he packed in a small, unbreakable jar.

They walk and eat in silence. Ayc almost starts cracking lame jokes, almost starts performing magic tricks, almost starts doing anything that will take away this nervous energy vibrating within him. Anything to forget that they are on their way to catch a ship which will carry them toward an island full of dragons and skeletons and an untold number of other dark things.

Like he said. Eternal torment.

Here the fuck we go.

The airship looks precisely like any ship which traverses the water would, except the hull is twice the size and stuffed full of passenger cabins. It rests in its dock—a casing of wood on all sides—with its three, deep blue sails still furled. At its front, its mast is carved into the shape of a roaring gryphon, claws extended and wings spread wide.

Ayc hands one of the crew his ticket and steps on board. From the deck, he can see two people standing at the helm: the sorcerer and the captain. One keeps the ship afloat with the magic that runs within them and one steers the ship and commands the sailors who are scurrying around the deck to prepare for launching. Other crew members attend to passengers: escorting them to cabins and handling luggage.

One immediately rushes over to them and holds out a hand to Lora. “Can I take your pack, my lady?”

“No, thank you.”

“Then might I see you to your cabin?”

Lora nods, and they follow the attendant toward the door that leads down to the cabins. Xylie presses close to Ayc’s back, but when he peeks over his shoulder, she’s simultaneously fiddling with the earcuffs and taking in everything that’s happening on deck. Saga woofs softly as though excited to be back on a ship. Tavish smiles.

The attendant has just opened the door to the hull, when a voice bellows out. “Loraphne!”

Ayc’s nerves spark to attention, and he knows who he’ll find before he turns. Wren stands near the entrance ramp, wearing rainbow-hued chainmail, her hair yanked back in a braid. A look of rage fixes itself on her face, as her narrowed eyes lock on Lora, who shoves her way to the front of the Five, putting herself in front of Ayc.

A chain reaction sparks, like when he combines two powders to make a small explosion. Wren draws a curved, slender blade from her side, and just as quickly, Lora’s own twin blades are in her hands. The rest of Sterling’s Five rush from the ramp, past the astonished ticket attendant, and draw their assortment of weapons. A knife is already in Peregrin’s hand, and a pulse of power hovers before Bronwen’s lifted hand. Xylie snatches a potion from the bag at her side. Saga growls, and Tavish wraps the hand not holding Saga’s leash around his cutlass. Crew members scramble out from between the two groups. The attendant descends the stairs and pulls the door closed behind him.

Bloodshed. That’s the only way this will end.

Ayc lunges forward without thinking, putting himself in front of Lora, facing her. He holds his hands up as one of her swords comes within millimeters of his throat. “Easy, easy. Let’s, maybe, think this through, before it all ends in mutually assured destruction.”

“It won’t be mutual ,” Wren snarls. A viciousness vibrates in her voice, and Ayc stiffens at it. It seems quite unlike the fae whose body he’s spent nights learning.

“Get out of my way, Ayc,” Lora commands.

When Ayc’s feet remain planted, the pain claps like thunder through his head, but he fights through it. His words are tight, but he gets them past his teeth.

“And let everyone die? I don’t think so.”

“Move, Ayc.” This time the command comes from Wren. “We outmatch you and your Five, Loraphne. We’d win this fight.”

“Wren,” Sterling warns, finally making their way onto the deck, “stop this. All of you, stop this.”

“I don’t care what skill level you all think you have,” Ayc snaps. “This ends with Xylie throwing the potion she’s holding and setting the whole damn ship on fire.”

“I can assure you,” says a new, rugged voice, “that this actually ends with you all being kicked off my ship.”

The handsome, male fae who stands to Ayc’s right is dressed in a broad captain’s hat and bright blue coat that contrasts their brown skin. The ship’s sorcerer—a stout male with pale skin and horns peeking through curls above his pointed ears—has joined him as well. Power pulses from him, warning that he's capable of far more than floating a ship.

“I understand you two are in the middle of a rather intense game,” the captain continues. “But you both have purchased safe passage on my ship, and it’s my duty to ensure your safe arrival. If anyone prevents me from fulfilling my duty, I’ll see them thrown off my ship. And I won’t bother landing first. Do you understand?”

Lora glares at Wren—who holds her blade so tightly her hand shakes—and then at Sterling—who never drew their blade. Her gaze fixates on Sterling’s hand, and Ayc notices what holds her attention. One of the gems on Sterling’s chronicler is lit.

“I swear on the divine,” Sterling says levelly, “neither myself or any of my Five will attempt to harm you or your party while you are still on this ship.”

“Where are you departing?” Lora asks.

“The Audori dock.”

A stop before them, then. They can guarantee they part ways without immediate battle when they depart the ship.

Lora nods and sheaths her blade. “Very well. I swear we will not start any battle.” She sends a cold, dark glare to Wren. “I will finish one, though.”

The words must be enough, because Sterling looks at the others. “Put away your weapons.”

The Five do as they’re told, Wren doing so last of all and with a look of fury. Bronwen drops her hand, Peregrin puts away their dagger, Xylie tucks away the potion and flaps her hands near her face. Ayc steps to Lora’s side, and the pain subsides.

“Fantastic!” The captain claps and gives a broad, handsome smile. “We will be launching in five minutes. I suggest you find your cabins before then. No one is allowed on deck except for crew until we’re at a safe altitude.”

He marches away. Ayc draws in a steadying breath and offers Wren a smile. She does not return it. Instead, she gives him a look that, briefly, looks a little like hate.

Tavish, Ayc, and Peregrin make their way back onto the deck as soon as there’s a knock on the door from an attendant, letting them know they are free to exit their cabins. They leave behind a napping Bronwen, Xylie studying another scroll, and Lora knitting. Her needles clink together dangerously fast considering she’s also reading what—based on the carved, untitled black cover—looks like a classical novel, the second of the books she always carries with her.

As they ascend the steps from below, Ayc inhales. The air smells damp and crisp, like after a fresh rain, as they float through misty clouds. The captain and sorcerer still stand at the wheel, while crew follow the captain’s barked commands. They pull on ropes to furl and unfurl sails as directed.

Ayc approaches the side of the ship and leans onto the railing. More clouds snake below. Past them, rolling fields form patchwork quilts, and colorful villages appear like scattered gemstones. With an eagle’s cry, Tempest breaks from one cloud, curls her legs beneath her and completely twirls in the air, before gliding and disappearing into the next cloud.

“Show off,” Peregrin mutters.

Ayc smiles. He loves it—the smell, the wind in his hair, the skitter of his heart. This is his second time flying in two days, and the exhilaration radiates through him. “If I was lucky enough to be a gryphon rider, I don’t know that’d I’d ever step foot on the ground again.”

“There’s nothing quite like flying," Peregrin agrees.

“I don’t know,” Tavish says, patting Saga’s head. Beside him, Saga’s paws rest on the railing, his tongue lolling out, the breeze shuffling his fur. He looks the kind of happy only a dog can be. Tavish, however, doesn’t hold the leash, avoiding the sight below. “I think I much prefer the ocean. At least if you fall overboard, it’s a much gentler landing.”

“The ocean and five dozen sea monsters,” Ayc says. He grabs the leviathan tooth around his neck and gives a playful growl.

Peregrin smacks him in the gut lightly with their cane.

Tavish laughs. “I’ll take the creatures in the sea over gravity. The creatures never frightened me much, anyway. If a shark or kraken attack you, they’re just hungry and doing as nature intends. If a person attacks you, who knows their motivation? That’s the only kind of monsters I fear.”

He has said it in a tone far more lighthearted than the seriousness of the statement demands. Peregrin grunts, but Ayc can only blink at him, unsure what to say. Even Saga cocks his head, like he’s silently asking, “You all right, friend?” That almost makes Ayc laugh.

At the silence, Tavish’s eyes fling wide. “Oh divine, that was really dark, wasn’t it?”

“A little, yes.” Ayc laughs.

From behind him, he hears his name, and the hair on his arms rise as he turns his head to find Wren a few feet away. Over the wind and the sailors shouts, he never heard her approach.

“Can we talk?” Wren asks, her voice softer than before. “In private?”

Before all this, Ayc would have made bold assumptions about what her invitation means. But the cold way she looked at him earlier gives him pause. He searches her face, but it’s guarded, like she wants to give nothing away.

Still, he says, “Of course.”

“Be careful with that one, boy,” Peregrin says before Ayc can take a step .

Wren folds her arms over her chest. “And what does that mean, Peregrin? I thought we were friends.”

“ Allies is perhaps a better word.” Peregrin’s gaze locks with Wren’s like two blades clashing. “Which means I understand too well how hard you fight for your goals. But currently, we are fighting for distinctly different causes, are we not?”

She narrows her eyes. “I suppose we are.”

“Am I missing something?” Ayc asks, looking between the two.

They break the battle of eye contact.

“It’s nothing,” Wren says, offering Ayc a sweet smile he doesn’t believe. He feels as though he’s missing—how had Bronwen put it—a whole novel? Ayc glances at Tavish, but his back is to them, scratching Saga’s ears like he’s trying to pretend this isn’t happening.

“Be careful,” Peregrin repeats to Ayc, firmly.

When Wren heads toward the stairs that lead to the hull of the ship, Ayc follows her. Even in the armor, she moves gracefully, her hips swaying enticingly. He forces his attention to the back of her head and reminds himself he doesn’t know the reason she sought him out. She leads him past the cabins on the first level and stops at a door right before another set of stairs descends deeper into the hull.

“I don’t have a private room, but this will do.” She pulls open the door to reveal a room crammed with crates, mops, and buckets. “After you.”

He steps into the cramped space and finds the one spot where he can stand without tripping over something. He glances back to find Wren paused in the hallway, silhouetted in light. She closes a pouch hanging on her belt, steps inside, and shuts the door .

His body tightens at her nearness, every part of him aching to close those last inches, but he refrains. Though it's dark, he can make out every line of her face, but her expression still offers no hint to where they stand, here, now, in the middle of this game. Then her hands launch into his hair, and her mouth presses to his. Her tongue pleads for admittance against his lips—urgent, desperate. He opens for her, tangles his tongue with hers. She tastes… different. A heady sweetness of honey mixed with the sharp tinge of something more savory, like dill. The overwhelming taste fades after a moment and leaves behind only sweetness and warmth. His greedy hands seize her hips and pull her forward, flesh against him. She sighs with reluctance when she pulls back.

“That’s a welcome surprise,” Ayc says with a huff—something between a laugh and a sigh.

Her smile is brilliant in the darkness. “Why is it surprising that I’d kiss you?”

“Earlier you looked like you might want to kill me.”

“Oh, that.” She flicks a wrist in the air. “It’s a game, Ayc. Try not to take it too personally.”

Ayc frowns. That sounds much too similar to what Wylder told Lora. But then Wren presses a kiss to his jaw, and he forgets that unpleasant thought.

“I will admit.” Her voice is nearly a purr. “I am quite frustrated with you.”

“Why?”

“I think you warned Loraphne about the plot against her yesterday morning. Didn’t you?”

“Yes.” The answer comes without hesitation. He can’t think of a reason to lie, but it comes too quickly. Something within him still warns him to be careful .

“Why?” she asks, nuzzling her nose against his neck, her hands sweeping down his chest. “I didn’t think you wanted her to win.”

“I don’t.”

“Then why not just say nothing and let the plan play out?”

Again, the words slip out without consideration. “I couldn’t let her die.”

Her lips pause against the collar of his leather armor. “Why not?”

“Because that’s not who I am. I told you, I don’t mean to kill anyone, and if I hadn’t told Lora, it would have been as good as if I killed her myself.”

She leans back and cocks her head. “Is that the truth?”

Part of it. Ayc grinds his teeth against the words and manages to nod.

She shrugs and then tugs at the ties of his armor, loosening them from his body, even as she returns her lips to his jaw. “Where are you headed?”

The desire to tell her is overwhelming, but he would be betraying Lora… and by extension, Peregrin and Xylie, too. “I shouldn’t tell you that.”

“True. At least tell me what quest you’re working on?”

He wishes to stop talking, strip her from her armor, and ease the ache building within him with the warmth of her body. More importantly, he desires to stop the nagging voice that sounds far too much like Lora, warning him that Wren shouldn’t be asking so many questions. Lora has no business being in his head right now.

“Maybe we should talk about something else,” Ayc suggests.

“Or perhaps we shouldn’t talk at all.” Her hands slip beneath his armor and slide up the bare skin of his chest. Her eyes soften as she studies his face. She stands on her toes and kisses him—not with lust, but with a tenderness that makes hope shimmer within him. He’s not sure what he’s hoping for. A chance, maybe. An opportunity to be something more to someone. A chance to be seen as something worthy.

“You have taken up far too many of my thoughts these last two days,” she admits, as she pulls back.

“Have I?” he asks with a cheeky grin. “How problematic for you. You have other things to be thinking about. Like crushing your many enemies.”

“Indeed.”

Her hands fall to his belt, and at the tug of leather and clink of metal, his cock springs to life. She shoves his pants and underclothes down. His sword thuds upon the ground, a sound that gets lost in his groan as she takes him in her hand. He lets his forehead fall forward onto hers.

“Should I show you what I’ve been thinking about?” Wren asks.

“Please do.”

She pushes him. He trips over his trousers and lands on the crate behind him. She falls to her knees and wraps her mouth around him. He tangles her braid around his fist, desperate to hold her there. Everything else fades away until he can think of nothing but her tongue and her hands and her glowing silver eyes and the sweet, little noises she makes as he thrusts his hips to fuck her mouth. Her noises grow louder when she slips out of her armor and climbs on top of him and chases her own pleasure with a violent abandon. He clamps his hand over her lips so the cries don’t echo through the entire floor of cabins .

They are both still breathless when they reluctantly disentangle and reach for the few clothes they scrambled out of. They haven’t been gone long enough for Ayc’s liking, but they’ve certainly been gone long enough to be missed by their separate parties.

She smiles at him sadly as she adjusts her chainmail over her trousers. “Promise you’ll be safe, Ayc, wherever you’re going.”

Ayc laughs and shrugs off the concern, though it’s nice that she’s worried about him. “I promise.” He hops on one leg as he pulls on his trousers. “I’ll do my best not to get eaten by a dragon.”

Wren freezes, stooped halfway to the ground where she reaches for her belt and sword. Ayc realizes his mistake immediately. She's much too smart not to understand the hint.

“Dragon?” She snatches her belongings from the ground and jerks upright. “Are you going to Somnia Ignis?”

No, is what he means to say, but what comes out is “Yes.” He snaps his teeth together with enough force the click rattles through his head. What is wrong with him? Is he so high off sex that he’s lost all common sense?

Her braid, messy from his hand, whips behind her as she shakes her head. “Does Loraphne have a death wish?”

Ayc sighs, not looking at her as he does up his belt. It’s too late to take back the confession now. “Maybe she does.”

She stares hard at the floor, replacing her belt with shaky hands.

“It’s going to be fine, Wren,” he says gently.

“It won’t,” she snaps. “You’ll die there.”

It stings, that she thinks him so weak, but he brushes it aside. “I’ll be fine.” He searches the floor for the ribbon that fell from his hair. When he finds it, he slips the circle onto his wrist. “Maybe, the dragons will befriend me. They’re pretty cute, if you think about it.”

“This isn’t funny, Ayc! Instances of dragons befriending a person are rare, and I’ve never heard it happening with someone who isn’t a Drakr fae. What are you even going to do on that island? What quest could you possibly need to complete?”

Again, his tongue rebels against his desires. “Unearth a great treasure.”

Shit. What the fuck is wrong with me?

“Oh.” She shrugs. “We already solved that one.”

“How?” Ayc asks. It’s only fair. Information for information, and to his relief, she grants it.

“There’s a plant called golden root that grows only once a decade. Once harvested, it can be made into a potion that can cure almost any ailment. Luckily, one of the Five’s father discovered it recently and was waiting for it to bloom. Which it did. Last night. We harvested it. But in case any other victor wants to go get more, I wouldn’t bother. We harvested all we could, then I burned the rest.”

Ayc jerks back, her words landing like a shock of cold water. “You…what?”

She smiles proudly. “I made sure no one else could get their hands on it. Don’t tell, Sterling. They don’t know.”

Ayc presses his mouth shut when he realizes it has dropped open. Golden root is more powerful than any other plant, capable of healing nearly any ailment. Terminal diseases. Crippling pain. Life-altering injuries. It can even bring people back from the brink of death. And as Wren said, it only blooms every decade and yields so little a lottery is held to determine the few dozen people who will get the powerful healing potion. A priceless treasure, indeed. And now it’s gone.

“You destroyed a priceless plant that could save lives because you didn’t want anyone else to have it?” Ayc repeats, his jaw taut, hoping she’ll deny it.

She frowns but nods.

“That just seems…” He stops and tries to disentangle the various emotions that are knotting together. Anger that she did it, confusion that she's capable of such a thing and, mostly, the feeling of his heart slowly sinking into his gut.

“It seems what , Ayc?” she demands with the viciousness he heard earlier edging her voice.

Heartless .

He means to swallow down that word, to pick something more gentle, but it seems he’s only capable of the truth today. “Cruel, Wren. It seems unbelievably cruel.”

Truth is a sword, and he expects Wren to run from the cutting blade, but she only scoffs. “Cruel? You have no idea how incredibly long a hundred years is. What if Loraphne wins? What if Marcellus wins? Can you imagine the cruelty they will wrought on Everadyn?”

Ayc can imagine it. If Marcellus won, Everadyn would become like Lux Aester, forced to conform to their narrow ideas of gender and love and what it means to obey the divine. He’ll rule over them with an iron fist and a lack of mercy that will make the monster that Yris is seem like a puppy dog. Everadyn and its people will either be destroyed or they’ll rebel and go to war against a tyrant. Either way, the things he has come to love about the Everadyn people—their diversity, their love of life—will be over.

If Lora won… well, that, for some reason, Ayc can’t draw a clear picture of .

Maybe, Ayc simply doesn’t know Lora as well as he thought. It’s become clear in the last few minutes that, no matter what he and Wren have whispered to each other in the night, he doesn’t know her well, either.

“Sterling has to win,” Wren adds, taking a step closer. “Surely, you can see they are the best option.”

“Marcellus can’t win,” Ayc says in way of agreement.

“And I’ll do anything to stop that from happening. If a small act of cruelty prevents years of torment for the Everadyn people, I’ll do it. And you can hate me if you?—”

“I don’t hate you,” Ayc says. But he doesn’t know what he feels. The hope he had when he walked into this closet has dimmed, turning to one tiny candle that flickers in the wind. He tries to understand her rationale, and perhaps he does a little. But the knowledge of the lives it'll cost is something he can’t reconcile. And he wonders if, put in Wren’s shoes, Lora would have burned the plant.

Wren's sigh teases a few strands of hair that have fallen before her face. “That’s a relief.” She steps forward, so only centimeters separate them once more. Her voice is soft as rosebuds, as her pink-hued lips. “Then will you do something for me?”

She reaches up and brushes her fingertips across his jawline, across the scars that other fingertips have left on his skin. He doesn't know whether he longs to lean in, or if he desperately needs to flinch away. So, he stands utterly still.

“What?”

“Don’t go to Somnia Ignis.”

“I don’t exactly have a choice.”

“But you do.” She reaches into the pouch at her side and removes a smaller leather pouch. “Sprinkle a little of this herb into Loraphne’s water before you set off for the island. ”

She holds the pouch out to him, but he only stares at it. Warning clangs in his head like a bell tolling out the eleventh hour. “Will it kill her?”

“It will weaken her. It will buy Sterling time, or at the very least, it’ll keep you from ever stepping foot on the Isle of Nightmares.” She takes an urgent step forward. “If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for Everadyn. Or, at the very least, do it for me . I don’t like the idea of something happening to you. Please, Ayc.”

His head feels like he’s gone to war. He doesn’t want to touch the pouch, but the concern in her voice reminds him that she actually cares about him. Which is something he can say for only a few people. He stretches out his hand. She presses the leather into his palm and folds his fingers around it. She lays a kiss upon his knuckles. “Thank you.”

Ayc nods, not trusting his voice. It’s betrayed him too much already.

“I’ll leave first,” she says. “I’d rather not give the rest of the Five any reason to doubt my loyalties to my own sibling.” She grants him a goodbye kiss so quickly that he's spared the decision of whether or not to kiss her in return. Then she’s gone.

When the door closes, he stares at the pouch like it’s the last shred of hope. Hope that the kindness within Wren, the will to do what is best for her people, outweighs the ruthlessness she warned him of. He takes a breath, opens the pouch and stares hard at the contents. The deep purple flowers within grow on leaves so dark green they are nearly black. He recognizes it immediately. Evander, master of the apothecary, was a fantastic teacher. He seemed to understand the chaos in Ayc’s head, and instead of books, he would spend hours showing Ayc different dried specimens. This particular plant Evander kept behind glass, because he’d never use it.

But Wren doesn’t know about Ayc’s past. Doesn’t know he understands exactly what this plant can do.

“Fuck!” he snarls at last, as the last flicker of hope snuffs out within him.

There’s music pounding from Ayc’s cabin when he approaches it. Every note of the rapid beat slams squarely between his eyes. A headache has been building since he left the closet, still clutching Wren’s pouch in his fist. The song is one he recognizes, one of his and Xylie’s favorites from the recorders he left in his room back at Wyntra. His hand is on the doorknob when he hears the singing. A feminine voice, loud and off-tune, joins the band’s gravelly ballad.

And it almost sounds like…

No, it can’t be.

He creaks the door open, slowly, carefully, as to not make a sound and peeks through the slit in the door. Xylie stands closest to the door, rocking back and forth on her heels in time to the music. Bronwen twirls around the bedpost of the large poster bed, moving as though the music is part of her, her mouth fixed into a laugh.

And Lora is on the bed, barefoot, her armor traded for her soft, gray sweater. She jumps around, swirls her hips, and belts the lyrics of the song into the sheathed dagger she holds in one hand like it’s an amplifier. For a long moment, Ayc’s brain can’t make sense of what he’s seeing. And then it clicks.

Lora—his cool, vicious villainess—is dancing .

He clamps a hand over his mouth to hold in the delighted laugh that would give him away. If he does, she’ll see him. She’ll cease her dancing, and he’ll be forced to stop looking at her. And he cannot stop. His eyes drink her in, wanting only more. She’s an objectively horrible dancer, every movement at odds with the rhythm of the song, but there’s a carefree, unguarded expression on her face that Ayc has never seen. The coils of her dark hair spring around her head, her brown skin shimmering in the candlelight.

Beautiful.

Divine, she is so fucking beautiful .

She always is, even when she looks terrifying and carved of impenetrable stone. But she’s more beautiful now, when she looks soft and, for lack of a better word, alive .

Somewhere within him, he knows he’s missing a wonderful opportunity to mock her, but he can’t bring himself to embarrass her. He suspects moments like these are rare, that she trusts few people to see her unguarded, to see who she might be behind her stone. He has caught a glimpse, and he feels… grateful.

And so, he backs up and shuts the door as quietly as he came.

Ayc watches the earth move past thousands of feet below, turning the pouch Wren gave him around in his hands. Wren and Sterling and their party have since left, during a brief landing in Audori territory. Ayc was below deck then, in a common room made for ship passengers. He didn’t even attempt to say goodbye.

Midnight. That's the common name of the plant in the pouch Wren gave him. Evander told him it has exactly one purpose.

To kill.

With a single dose, the person would die a most violent and painful death. Yet, Wren looked Ayc in the eye and told him it would only weaken Lora. And Ayc doesn’t know which bothers him more. That Wren is so willing to manipulate him to win her game or that she thinks him unintelligent enough to fall for it.

What if Loraphne wins? Wren’s question rings in his head. Ayc sighs. It doesn’t matter. It never crossed his mind that he’d actually poison Lora. He refuses. He won’t be made to be a monster, no matter what the reason or cause.

“Do I want to know why you’re pouting?” Peregrin asks as they position themselves beside Ayc, searching the sky—presumably in search of their gryphon. Ayc hasn’t seen Tempest in a bit, but he trusts the gryphon will meet them where they land.

“I’m not pouting,” Ayc says.

Peregrin grunts as though to say, Who are you kidding, boy?

Ayc studies Peregrin, gathering up his courage. “Why did you agree to be one of Lora’s Five? You could have said no.”

Peregrin arcs an eyebrow at him. “Why are you asking me now? You haven’t bothered all week.”

Had it really only been a week since Lora assembled her Five? It feels like so much longer and like no time at all since Ayc was dancing in his kitchen, drunk off fae wine.

Ayc shrugs. “I’m curious. You’ve never liked Yris or the way she rules. You hide it well, but I see it. Why support her daughter? "

“Lora is not Yris. Do you think I'd leave behind my family to help Lora if I didn't believe her worthy of being Sovereign?"

Peregrin is a deeply private person. Ayc is certain that, though they know him better than anyone, there's much Ayc doesn’t know about them. But he’s had the rare privilege of seeing who Peregrin is aside from a hardened warrior and wise instructor. He’s seen how Peregrin picks flowers from the courtyard gardens every week to make a bouquet to present to Zinnia. Ayc has watched as Peregrin and Irving clean up after dinner, debating fiercely about whether the now-extinct wyverns only had two legs or if the excavations of their fossils were sloppy. They always end up in laughter. He’s seen Peregrin teach Ember chess and not swordplay, because they hope he’ll be a thinker instead of a fighter.

But mostly, Ayc knows, deep in his bones, that Peregrin is good , the kind of good Ayc hopes to be. Peregrin would never agree to help Lora if they didn’t believe she was the best option for Everadyn.

"No. I don't,” Ayc replies. “I just don’t understand why."

Peregrin searches around them, but most of the passengers have remained under the deck and the crew are fast at work, cleaning and wielding ropes according to the captain’s calls. Still, Peregrin lowers their voice. "It’s the easiest thing in the world to become the people who raise us, if you aren’t willing to fight against it. Yris certainly tried to forge Lora in her own image, and can Lora be vicious? Yes. Can she be unkind? Certainly. But I also see much of her father in her, and he was… good. Just. The very best.”

“Was?” Ayc repeats.

Peregrin gives the smallest of flinches. Ayc might have missed it, if he didn't know Peregrin so well. “I’m not going to tell you her story, boy. If you want to know, ask her yourself.”

And have her snarl in his face to mind his own business? No, thank you.

Ayc looks away from Peregrin and down into the fields below. The same wind that billows out the sails, mixed with a static tint of magic, brushes the loose hair around his face.

“I don’t blame you for mistrusting her or her motivations," Peregrin says. "I know Lora was never kind to you growing up. Yris pitted you two against each other for some kind of sport. It was a cruel game. But have you ever asked yourself what would have happened if Lora refused to play it?”

“To Lora?”

Peregrin nods. “And to you.”

Ayc turns it over in his head. Yris would have let her daughter drown before risking Lora looking weak. What would she have done if Lora showed him kindness, something Yris thought of as the greatest of weaknesses?

Ayc doesn’t know, but Yris has only ever been capable of cruelty. He knows Peregrin has taken to sheltering more than Ayc in their safe, cozy home. Perhaps not as often as Ayc, but many children have found their way there for a warm meal and the deeper warmth of being surrounded by genuinely good people who love one another. Maybe, Peregrin knows Lora so well, because she was one of those children who, just like Ayc, needed to escape Yris’s long shadow, if only for a few hours.

Peregrin lets the silence linger, like they know Ayc needs the time to think, then they ask, “Do you remember when Yris left you in the pasture with the gryphon fledglings? ”

“Yes.”

“Who do you think told me you were there?”

Ayc squints at them. He has always assumed Tempest told Peregrin through their mental bond, but if that were the case, Peregrin wouldn’t be dredging it up after all these years. “Surely, you’re not trying to tell me Lora sent you to my rescue,” Ayc says, unable to stop the laugh that follows. The idea sounds absurd, but Peregrin only inclines their head.

“If she hadn’t told me, I wouldn’t have known you were there.”

The disbelief builds in Ayc’s throat, and he swallows it down hard. “But why?”

Peregrin lifts the hand that holds their cane in a shrug and supplies no answer, only says, “We don’t always have the luxury of choice. I know you reckon that better than most. I think we should judge people by the choices they made when they were able, and I like Lora’s choices.”

The knowledge that Lora saved him rattles Ayc, like stone catapulted against the wall he uses to protect himself. It’s much safer to believe Lora a villain like her mother.

“Mostly,” Peregrin adds. “I don't believe Lora truly wants to be Sovereign. I think she believes it is her destiny or, perhaps, her penance. And that’s the type of person I want to have power: the one who never wanted it to begin with. They’re the only ones who can wield it with any sort of grace.” Peregrin reaches up and clasps Ayc’s shoulder. “I know you don’t trust her. After everything, you have every right not to. But trust me . Trust Xylie . We see her for who she is. Maybe, one day, she’ll let you see her, too.”

The words linger long after Peregrin descends back into the hull of the ship, leaving Ayc alone with the hum of the wind and the calls of the captain. His eyes close, and he finds Lora there.

For the first time, when he thinks of Lora, he doesn’t force himself to think only of her ferocity and cruelty. Instead, he thinks about the tears in her eyes when her mother ordered her to kill a boy she didn’t know; her standing on a river’s edge and telling him to run; her hands around his neck as she clung to him in the same river eight years later, her breath soft on his neck; her bare feet on the bed as she danced far away from where her mother might judge her.

Maybe, he’s already begun to see her. He’s just not sure he wants to.

When Ayc opens his eyes again, he dumps the plant Wren gave him over the side of the ship. The leaves and flowers flutter down through the clouds like snow.