Chapter 37
Everly
Idrifted awake to the unsettling sensation of being watched.
My eyes snapped open to meet familiar golden ones.
The Archmage stood over me, close enough that I could make out the faint shimmer of silver thread along the sleeve of his robe as he held a gleaming crystal above my head.
The facets pulsed softly, catching the light in a series of delicate refractions—one moment cool blue, the next a sharp flash of white—each shift accompanied by a faint hum that vibrated through the air.
As my vision sharpened, the crystal brightened once, then dimmed, almost as if acknowledging that I was conscious.
Isren’s expression warmed with quiet satisfaction. With a graceful flick of his wrist, he turned the crystal in his palm, watching the final ripple of light fade from its surface before slipping it into an inner pocket of his robe.
He was composed as always, his gaze observant in a way that made it feel like he saw far more than he chose to speak aloud. He tilted his head, studying me with calm intensity.
“Well,” he murmured, voice smooth and ageless, “you are remarkably resilient.”
It took a beat for his words to settle, and then memories slammed through my mind.
The Korythid behind Draven. Its stinger raised. Draven unaware as the venom dripped like deadly ink.
Ice and shadows and panic… and.. Draven—
My heart lurched violently in my throat.
I’m here, Morta Mea.
His voice brushed through my mind, and relief broke across my chest so abruptly it nearly hurt.
Then he stepped into view. Tall, and imposing, and mine. My gaze swept over him—over his face, shoulders, hands, the fall of his cloak—searching for blood, or torn fabric, any sign he’d been injured in the fight.
There was nothing.
He looked untouched. Whole and safe, and perfect as always… aside from the exhaustion carved beneath his eyes. Dark circles bruised the skin there, stark against the rest of him.
A fresh knot twisted in my chest.
How long had I been unconscious? How long had I left him alone to worry if I would wake up again and—
Less than a day, this time. His words wrapped around me like warm silk.
Memories flooded my vision. Kaelen. His warning.
The Unseelie? I asked.
I’ve already spoken to Eryx to make preparations, and I sent word to our allies.
I nodded, swallowing down the guilt that was trying to consume me. Was that better? Would my mother be leading the war in spite of everything, and now I was supposed to be grateful we had allies coming in to slaughter her.
Bile rose in my throat, and every part of my body cried out as I attempted to sit up in what I now realized was Draven’s bed. Or our bed—something that was still nearly impossible to wrap my mind around.
I took a deep breath in, allowing the familiar scents of juniper and snow to fill my lungs and ground me in the moment. Everything else… we could handle it later. Find a way to stop the war, rather than just prepare for it.
But for now, we were home. We were alive. And we were… with the Archmage?
Isren straightened a fraction, though he still watched me with that unnervingly patient stillness. His gold eyes flicked over my face again, thoughtfully.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“Like I got trampled by a stampede of Brakhounds,” I muttered.
“Excellent,” he said, far too pleasantly, as he folded his hands behind his back. “Your cognitive functions remain intact.”
I squinted at him. “Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be with Nevara? Is she—” I stopped before I could speak the word dead into existence. “Did something happen?”
“I’ve already tended to her,” he assured me. “I slowed the venom’s progression while Healer Amias prepares the antivenom. For the moment, I am… optimistic.”
He said it like optimism was a perfectly normal thing to feel while the world disintegrated around us.
Well, I was thrilled someone could feel that way while we’d been drowning in monsters, untamed mana, political fires, barrels of heads, and a deeply concerning pattern of nearly dying at least twice a week.
Isren blinked. His mouth tugged into the faintest, softest not-quite-smile. A sad one.
My stomach sank. Oh no. Please tell me I didn’t say all of that out loud.
Draven’s voice slid through my mind. No. But your face left little room for interpretation.
Wonderful.
I sat up further in the bed, and Batty squeaked, offended, scrambling up my chest to sit on my shoulder. Her wings trembled with exhaustion, and her onyx eyes were full of an icy irritation that was fair, all things considered.
“Sorry,” I whispered.
Something massive shifted at my feet. I looked down and froze.
Lumen was stretched across the blankets as if it were the most natural thing in the world for him to be there. As if he had spent every night of his life sleeping in that very spot.
“You let him on the bed?” I asked.
Draven eyed the wolf with censure. “He refused to leave. Apparently, bringing you home injured again was a personal affront he wasn’t willing to tolerate.”
Lumen huffed, pressing closer to my leg in a very pointed, judgmental way.
Before I could respond, Draven carefully adjusted my pillows like he was afraid of jostling me too much, and handed me a steaming mug of tea. I recognized the scent, something floral and calming, and meant for shock.
Another wave of guilt washed over me as I wondered how long it had been since my sister was here.
Isren cleared his throat, and I returned my attention to him. We had waited so long for him to come, and now that he was here, I wasn’t even sure exactly what to ask. As usual, though, the expression he wore was patient.
“Were you able to see anything else… about my mana?”
He furrowed his brow. “I can’t imagine there is much you could not feel yourself that I could tell you. It is as we suspected, a great deal of power, inherently at war with itself.”
“But it is possible to control it?”
Isren let out a long, slow breath. “I believe that as long as two powers with this amount of strength are in opposition to one another, when you channel one, the other will inevitably lash out.”
It was a gentle way of saying no. I could never control it on my own. A hollow feeling opened in my chest. I swallowed once, my throat suddenly too dry to do it again.
“Perhaps you might tell me about your journey to the Dragon, to shed some light on the situation,” he suggested kindly.
I tried to shake off the resignation settling into my soul, latching on to the small possibility of hope. “Where do you want me to start?”
“Wherever the truth begins,” he said simply, offering me an encouraging smile.
So I told him everything, from the moment the Korythid breached the wards, to touching the Dragon scale and appearing in the cavern.
I told him about the flames that threatened to consume me, and the way the Dragon’s voice had been everywhere and nowhere.
The way he’d reached inside of my mind without touching me, and the warning he’d given about my mana before I demanded it from him anyway.
Isren listened without interrupting, though something flickered behind his eyes. Thoughtfulness. Calculation. Maybe even… concern?
Finally, he let out a slow exhale. “Veyr has always been particularly prideful—”
“Veyr?” I cut in, my eyebrows rising higher. “As in the name of the Drakmor rune?”
My fingers drifted over the blankets, sketching invisible lines—the same arcs and curves etched into my mother’s amulet, the one shaped like a dragon poised to take flight.
The Archmage pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Did I not mention that before? Surely I must have. But yes, that is your Dragon’s name.”
I bit back a wave of irritation, but Draven didn’t bother to hide his.
“No. You didn’t,” he said flatly.
Isren waved a hand in a gesture that was somehow both apologetic and dismissive. “Well. You know now. It has never sat well with Veyr that his descendants were the ones who started the war.”
I stared at him. “What war? Everyone knows the divide between the Seelie and Unseelie Courts happened so long ago, no one even remembers the cause.”
A sad smile touched the Archmage’s lips. “There were no Seelie and Unseelie Courts then. No such lines.” His gaze went distant, golden eyes softening. “Back then, there were simply the fae. Those who could shift were regarded as no different than the seasonal Courts.”
The distinction settled through me like an echo from an older world that was both familiar and foreign all at once.
Isren continued, voice growing softer. “And as most stories go, it all began with a queen who was torn between two loves. Two kingdoms.”
My fingers curled in the blankets.
Somehow the story already felt familiar. But hearing Isren say it aloud made it sound less like history and more like fate threading itself through the room.
“As you are uniquely aware, the Visionary chooses the Winter Court bride based on the mana that will best serve the land.” The corner of his lips tilted up, like he was thinking the same thing that I was.
That had worked out badly for Winter in my case.
“And as you’re also uniquely aware, the bride is generally given very little choice in the matter…” Isren said more gravely.
A rare bit of shame emanated from Draven’s end of the bond, and I didn’t try to reassure him, not over this.
I was grateful that I had found my soulmate, but I sure as hells hadn’t been helpful to Winter.
And the turn of my circumstances didn’t change the reality that if things had gone differently, if Draven had been a monster in truth, there wouldn’t have been a shards-damned thing I could have done about it.
Logically, I understood where he had been coming from. Millenia of tradition, a position most fae throughout history would have considered an honor, and the necessary weighing of one girl’s happiness against the fate of a kingdom.
”Was this before the Visionary was chained?” I clarified.