Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
CAIRN
The final group of fae went through to Underhill hours ago. We should have followed them, and yet we’re still here.
Therin is standing near the edge of the camp, hands loose at his sides, staring out through the trees.
The slight breeze moves through his hair, but other than that, he might as well be carved from the same stone as the cliffs at Nightward.
He hasn’t moved in some time, just like I haven’t moved from where I’m sitting in front of the now cold fire.
We need to move. Especially as the soldier we interrogated confirmed there was a large company near the crossroads leading to the Vale. As soon as the patrol doesn’t return, they will come looking. And we need to be gone before then.
There is nothing left for us to wait for.
The cages are empty. The fae are gone. The Seal is broken. Every sensible part of me knows we should already be on the other side.
And yet …
I tip my head back against the tree trunk. A crow caws somewhere in the Vale, breaking the silence. Therin turns at the sound, and our eyes meet.
“We should leave before the rest of those soldiers arrive.” He rubs his jaw. “Although, carving up some more humans does have its appeal.”
“It does.”
We have spent centuries in this world, not knowing whether we would survive the day, living in cages built by men. Collared and weak. Now we’re free. The door back to Underhill is open. The Nightwild Guard has already returned. My second is by my side.
The only thing left to do is return home.
I push to my feet. The crow calls a second time, further off, then goes quiet again.
Therin moves to stand beside me, and I call to the magic that will open the doorway.
A silver seam forms in front of us, glowing at the edges as it expands.
Through it, the violet sky of Underhill meets rolling grass plains.
The breeze that comes through is warm, sweet with magic, and welcoming.
I lift my face to the sky, letting that breath of air wash over me.
Home is within reach.
“Are you ready?” I open my eyes and look at Therin.
He lifts his chin. “After you.”
“No.”
He laughs, quietly. “I am not stepping through ahead of my Eldráfn.”
“Then step through beside me.”
He turns to face me, fully.
We have stood like this before. Drenched in blood, swords loose in our hands, surrounded by fae who screamed and tore at the ground trying to force a way back to Underhill.
That blood is centuries gone now. And the way back lies open before us.
I incline my head. He returns the nod. Then we step through the doorway together. Underhill takes hold of me before my second foot touches the grass.
The air pulses with wild magic, and my own rises in response. Every nerve ending fires to life. Every thread inside me blazes in acknowledgment of my return.
The backs of my hands burn, and when I look down, it’s to find color pushing through skin already marked by Nightwild. Those black lines came back when the collar broke and my magic returned. Now other patterns surface between them.
Green. Gold. Blue. Silver. Marks I haven’t seen on my own skin since the day iron locked around my throat.
The sight of them almost sends me to my knees. I had forgotten how much of myself I had lost.
This is what the mortal world took from us. Not only power or strength, but this. The truth of what we are.
Beside me, Therin makes a broken sound, and I turn in time to see him drop to one knee, one hand flattened to the ground. His head is bowed, his shoulders locked, and for one second, I see an imprint of the warrior he was at Therison Vale, surrounded by blood and bodies.
His fingers curl into the grass, holding on as though Underhill might be ripped away from us again, and my own fingers flex in response.
Markings are returning to his skin too, bright across the backs of his hands, circling his wrists, and vanishing beneath his sleeves. He stares at them, breathing hard through his nose, jaw locked so tight I can see the muscle working beneath his skin.
I look away, knowing he would not appreciate me watching him break, and stare at the plains surrounding us.
Emerald green grass spans as far as I can see beneath a violet sky that seems too bright.
Pale moon-white flowers sway in the breeze, and somewhere far off, something calls out—a long, mournful note that is replied to seconds later.
Three hundred years.
Three hundred years of iron, smoke, human stink, and cage floors slick with feces and blood.
Three hundred years of surviving by refusing to think too long about this place.
Therin looks at me. His eyes are silver-bright, wet, and he looks furious about it.
A rough, unsteady laugh tears out of me.
He glares at me. “Say one word, and I will put you back through that doorway.”
“You would have to stand up first.”
His lips twitch, and for half a second, the horrors we have lived through fall away. Then his expression changes, and the lightness slips. His gaze moves past me to the plains, the distant hills, and the violet sky, and something shifts.
He breathes in. Once, long and deep. Then he looks at me again.
“Cairn, we’re home.”
“Almost home,” I correct, and call Selveryn.
Moonlight spills across the grass, gathering into bone-pale limbs, a smoke-dark mane, and eyes like old winter. He appears with a toss of his head, ears pinned back and an almost offended expression.
Therin laughs. “Dramatic.”
Selveryn turns toward him, and huffs.
“Do you need help standing?” I arch a brow.
“I think I can manage.” He pushes to his feet, and glances to the left. Kaethros forms a second later, dark and restless, stamping once before pressing his nose into Therin’s shoulder.
Therin goes still.
Our steeds were only partially there in the mortal realm. Present enough for us to ride. Present enough to fight. Here, Kaethros is solid enough to shove Therin back a step.
Therin’s hand rises and settles against Kaethros’ neck. His fingers sink into the dark mane, and for a breath, neither of them moves.
I run a palm down Selveryn’s nose. He huffs against my hand, warm and irritated, and the feel of his breath almost does what my marks reappearing could not. I grip his mane, my hand shaking.
He’s real here in a way the mortal realm never allowed.
I swing onto his back, and turn toward the distant line of cliffs.
“You can cry later. Mount up and let’s go home.”
“Fuck you.”
“Thank you, but no.”
Selveryn stirs beneath me, eager to move. His body is warm against my thighs, each breath expanding his ribs. I lean forward to pat his neck, then touch my heels to his flanks. He surges forward, and I give him his head, leaning lower over his neck.
Then movement catches my eye. A root shifts in the grass ahead. It’s a reminder that now is not the time for speed. The world we’ve returned to might not be the same as it once was.
I draw Selveryn back with a light touch of the reins. He tosses his head hard enough that his mane snaps against my hand, showing me his displeasure.
“I know. We will run soon, old friend.”
His ear flicks back toward me, making it very clear what he thinks of that promise.
“I can’t pinpoint where we came through. Can you?” Therin brings Kaethros up beside me.
I shrug. “Nightward is that way.” I point toward the distant cliffs. “But I don’t recognize this place.”
I should have expected that.
Three hundred years have passed here too. Roads change. Wild ground moves. Rivers carve new paths if they choose to. Underhill has never been still.
I look across the plains, searching for something I might know. A line of trees, a break in the land, the shape of a distant hill. Anything.
But there’s nothing.
Therin is quiet beside me, and when I glance at him, he’s doing the same thing. Looking for signs he recognizes and finding nothing. The wind lifts his hair from his face, and the longer points of his ears show through.
He notices me looking and grins.
The ground changes beneath our steeds’ hooves in stages.
Grass thins to dark soil, then to flat planes of stone, damp at the edges.
Roots twist through the ground ahead, thick as my wrist, pale against the dark stone.
One shifts as Selveryn steps over it. Another curls back into the soil before Kaethros can crush it beneath his hoof.
A third lifts and hangs in the air, almost as though it's watching our progress.
A blade forms in Therin’s hand just as I bring one to mine. We trade glances. Neither of us speaks. Everything is said in that one look. A silent agreement that if the ground opens, I will take the left and he will take the right.
All that time in the mortal world, and this is one thing that has not changed.
I know where he will move before he does it. He knows the same of me. It’s there in the set of our bodies, the distance between our steeds, the angle of our blades.
The raised root lowers back to the ground, while another moves behind us.
Selveryn’s ears flatten. Kaethros lowers his head, and Therin’s hand tightens around the hilt of his blade.
The roots shift again, and the hairs rise on the back of my neck. Something is watching us. I can feel it more than see it. It’s assessing, calculating whether we’re worth the risk of showing itself. I scan the ground around us.
Humans have been taught to fear beasts with claws and fangs. Underhill has always been far more imaginative with its predators.
The thing keeps pace with us beneath the roots.
It does not rush to attack. That would be less concerning. Hunger is easy to understand when it throws itself at a blade. This is stalking us patiently, while it decides whether we’re prey or trouble.
I keep Selveryn walking. Therin remains at my side, close enough that if something comes up between us, one of our blades will reach it before its teeth find flesh. His eyes are sharp and focused, and I’m sure mine look the same.
The pressure beneath the roots moves with us. Left. Then right. Then directly below. Selveryn bares his teeth at the ground.
“Don’t,” I murmur.
He stamps once, offended by the restraint, but obeys.
A thin line opens ahead, too narrow for a body of our size, but wide enough for a whisper of cold air to rise from below. Something clicks beneath us. Once … then twice. Then the sound moves ahead, traveling under the path faster than we are walking.
Therin’s gaze cuts to mine.
I shake my head. Wait.
The path curves upward over a hill. The stone gives way to dirt again, then grass. The roots thin, and the presence follows halfway up the rise, then fades. We ride in silence until the ground levels beneath us. Only then does Therin let his blade dissolve.
“Welcoming as ever.”
“It let us pass without a fight.”
“Generous of it.”
The land grows harsher the farther we ride. Thorned branches arch over the path, with dark-petaled flowers tucked close to the ground in the shadows they cast. Their stems bow when we pass, and a smile flickers across Therin’s face.
The Nightwild Guard has returned. The land knows it. The beasts know it. And very soon, every court will know it.
I look at the marks covering my skin again.
Underhill has given us back our identity, and soon it will demand the rest.
Duty. Blood. Judgment.
My hand tightens on the reins, and Selveryn answers with a restless toss of his head.
Duty can wait. Blood can wait. Judgment can wait.
Nightward comes first.