Chapter 27
Zadriel
“Who was she?”
Zadriel’s head snapped up, ears twitching at the sound of Aoife’s voice.
There was no warning, her footfalls consumed by the air she commanded.
The breeze parted as she approached, two streams of wind rushing through the square, shaking the Naturalist’s tree until leaves and branches plummeted down to roll over the dead, catching on cracks in the cobblestones.
“I don’t appreciate you spying on me, Aoife.” The low rumble slipping through his tone was anything but kind.
He snatched his cloak as if he could tear it from the air’s ethereal hands. Wet fabric stuck to his palm, the scent of Mora’s blood a sweet blend of florals mixed with nearby crackling embers, flirting with his senses.
“I wasn’t watching you for long,” she muttered sheepishly, her fists clenching at her sides. Air rushing back toward her. It tore Zadriel’s hood from his head, the wild torrent snuffing out the remaining flames and scattering burnt thatch.
Gods be damned, she was powerful, even without the gift of bonding to Arcadia’s well.
Zadriel growled, his heart pummeling his ribs while he rushed to cover his delicately pointed ears.
“Don’t do that again!” he spat, pulse slowing to a steady pace when he pulled the thick fabric back over his mussed raven black hair.
Eden was miles away, hidden in a nook in Arcadia’s trees to the west, but somehow he felt Brennan’s sharp stare, his inner child trembling under its scrutiny. Knowing what came next.
Would he ever stop feeling it?
“Sorry,” Aoife mumbled, blue-green eyes lowering to her boots. She kicked a bloodstained stone, lower lip wobbling.
Zadriel sighed, savoring another taste of the Little Witch. A soothing boon. Despite his best efforts, his anger eased, along with the tension in his shoulders.
“You shouldn’t have come here without me,” he grumbled, eyes raking over the dead.
He counted nearly a dozen bodies, their frozen fingers gripping kitchen knives and spades as if their makeshift weapons could tether them to this realm.
It was almost laughable—those who courted violence for violence’s sake nearly always found themselves consumed by it.
It was cruel of him not to wonder if Aoife was among them. He’d been too enthralled by his mate’s angelic face. Too woeful of their circumstances.
“I can’t take you to Eden if you leave this realm,” he added, voice as soft as he could manage.
Long, blonde hair slid over her cheeks, her head bowing lower. “I know,” she whimpered, tears slipping free. “I just... I thought...” Aoife took a shuddering breath. “It doesn’t matter what I thought, I was stupid to come here alone.”
“Are you hurt?”
She shook her head. “No one saw me.”
“Good,” he said, frowning down at a root. It pressed against his boot, knocking the bent tines of a broken pitchfork against the leather. What happened here?
“Good?” Aoife covered her eyes with her hands, but it did nothing to dam her misery. “I’m a coward,” she mumbled between sobs, quivers ravaging her thin frame.
“Because you’re afraid?” Zadriel asked, moving to stand in front of her.
Roots followed his steps, warped metal prongs screeching against ice and snow as they dragged their prize along.
He ignored them. “There’s no shame in that,” he added, hoping his tall, broad frame hid some of the gore from view.
Whatever she’d witnessed, it terrified her. The visions of violence were a blade to an old wound, slicing open her mind until agony spilled out. Something Zadriel understood better than he wished. A blend of flames and screams all too happy to rise up and destroy him whenever the moment allowed.
Aoife wrapped her arms around her center, clutching her quivering body. “They could have died and I did nothing... again.”
“Why don’t we move to the alley?”
His attempt to herd her away was met with a glare, a hurricane brewing in her watery eyes. “I don’t deserve to look away!” Aoife snarled. “I should have done something, like the woman you were pining over did.”
Zadriel opened his mouth to protest, but the words gathered in his throat until he could barely breathe around them.
He couldn’t deny it. The Mother wouldn’t allow him to.
All he wanted was to ask what Aoife had witnessed of the Little Witch.
Instead, he clamped his mouth shut and glanced around the square, frowning at char-coated bricks.
Smoke billowed through cracks in the windows, bits of glass glittering on the ground.
He sniffed the air. Searched through the burning scent of embers and intoxicating bits of her until he found what he was looking for.
“If you insist on tormenting yourself, you might as well be of use,” he said, moving back toward his bags. They were heavy in his grip, the straps settling uncomfortably on his muscular shoulder. “Follow me.”
“What?”
Zadriel didn’t bother to offer an explanation. Roots followed him, slithering over the broken limbs of the dead moments after he’d stepped past them.
“You can talk about it if you want to,” he offered, the ground evening as he moved away from the market’s center, packed snow undisturbed by overturned cobbles.
A plethora of prints marked Mora’s path. Moving eastward. Away from Eden.
Away from him.
He wrapped his hands around his cloak, thumbing the wet corner. Inhaling deeply, if only to taste whispers of lavender.
“I’ve been alone for a while,” Aoife murmured between tears.
She made no attempt to bend the air, her footfalls clumsy.
Loud. Pebbles scraping beneath her feet, tearing at frost and catching in the treads of her boots.
“My mother’s last words to me were to find Eden, but I was beginning to think it wasn’t real... until I ran into you.”
Zadriel clenched his jaw so hard it hurt, praying it would distract from the crushing pain in his chest. “I’m sorry,” he said, cautious as he moved over sharp shards of glass, their corners shining like teeth. Eager to bite. He hoped the sweet, yeasty aroma he followed wouldn’t lead them astray.
Aoife’s voice was a broken whisper, saturated with the pain of too many haunted memories. “We didn’t know how to survive outside of Cannamar.”
“You were born there?” He was almost afraid to ask.
There were a few born in the cloisters on Cannamar who found their way to Eden.
Albeit, not all had power. The children who developed abilities when they came of age were kept on the islet, while the rest were released with nothing but the clothes on their backs.
Expected to survive in a world they didn’t know.
Zadriel couldn’t decide which fate was worse.
Her quiet laugh was cold. Bitter. “The bastard daughter of a noble, if you can believe it. My mother was Indentured to some piece of shit family in Moldenna for a while, moving the winds to keep them cool when the sun became too bothersome, and other useless tasks that were beneath her. One day she caught the lord’s eye and...
well...” Her face hardened, tears streaming down, red splotching her ivory cheeks.
“They sent her away when she started to show.”
Zadriel’s lips thinned, fists curling at his sides. “Does this lord still live?”
“Yes,” she hissed, and the wind howled with her.
“He has two legitimate children, so he had no interest in risking an heir who might embarrass his family with a little power.” She wiggled her fingers as she spoke, air weaving around each digit before slipping away.
“Instead, I was left to rot in a cloister with my mother. I’d only developed my powers when the Laws were overturned and we were kicked out. ”
His canines dug into his flesh, jaw aching as he ground his teeth. He’d never forget the chaos of the Laws being overturned; Eden expanded swiftly, the Village Council working tirelessly to save as many Halflings as they could find. “Who told her of Eden?”
She shrugged, following him through a doorway without question. It was left ajar, the squeak of ungreased hinges singing off-key whenever the breeze pressed against the door.
“She’d heard a whisper on the winds,” Aoife said, barely glancing around the bakery. “She would have made an excellent spy.”
Would have. What a terrible string of words when spoken of loved ones.
Infinite possibilities torn away in a single breath, an end intricately weaving itself into the hearts of those left behind.
Though, Zadriel found there was a strange comfort in the grief that came with loss, as if, in a way, that kept everyone alive. Vehsa, Cillian... the Mother Tree.
The silence grew thick, filling the space around them until the air was too saturated, each uncomfortable breath demanding someone say... something. Zadriel released a heavy exhale. “She taught you well.”
“Not well enough.”
Wheat kernels peppered the floor, crushed bits of bread squishing beneath their feet. Shelves had been toppled, a few forgotten coins strewn throughout the mess, though Zadriel spotted untouched flatbreads and loaves behind the counter’s glass display.
“What makes you say such a foolish thing?” he asked, dropping his bags and rounding the counter.
“Sometimes it’s hard to hold this power back. I don’t mean to, but...”
“It tumbles out with your emotions.” His face was grim, a lump forming in this throat.
There was a time, before Zadriel’s birth, when his father helped Halflings and Fae alike, teaching them how to use and control their gifts.
Even Vehsa couldn’t replace him, unable to see the Mother’s magic in the same way.
If he hadn’t been slain... If things were as they should have been...
How much pain had Alaius’s death caused?
She nodded, eyes downcast. “We’d settled in Faldon Mills for a few years, hiding in plain sight.
That worked for a while.” Running her fingers through a thin layer of flour dusting the wooden countertop, Aoife avoided Zadriel’s eyes.
“Things went downhill after word got out about the Enchanter King.”
Cillian.
No matter what happens, I’ll see you again.
Damn the gods, Zadriel’s throat felt so tight he wondered if he’d suffocate. “What happened?” he asked, busying his hands by grabbing the nearest loaves—if he could find eggs, honey and flour as well, they’d be well-fed for a few days.
“There were riots. Murders in the streets. It didn’t matter if someone was a Halfling or not, people threw out blame as they saw fit.
I was scared. I lost control.” Aoife’s lower lip wobbled, a single tear tumbling down.
“My mother made me hide and pretended it was her. She revealed herself and fought them, but there were too many”—her voice cracked—“and I did nothing.”
“I’m sorry,” Zadriel said, swallowing past his own pain. The words felt hollow, but what more did he have to offer? “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re a coward.”
“How could you say that?” she shouted, slamming her fist on the counter. A gust shot through the air as her hand smacked against polished wood, knocking a roll to the floor and tearing off Zadriel’s hood.
As he tugged it back in place, a flush crept across Aoife's cheeks, spreading all the way to her ears—Zadriel didn’t bother with admonishments.
“Your mother asked you to hide. She told you to find Eden and sacrificed her life so you may live.”
“I could have fought by her side,” she breathed, pushing away from her perch. Holding her hand out in an unspoken offering to help. “Maybe then, we’d both be alive.”
“Or maybe that would have been your end too.” He gave her a gentle smile, his expression somber.
Eyeing her open hand, he wondered if accepting her aid was a wise decision—they couldn’t afford to lose so much food.
Yet... she needed the distraction. “Not everyone’s a warrior, Aoife, and there’s nothing wrong with that.
” He handed her his bounty before reaching for his bag—it felt improper to open Aedlin’s, an invasion of what little privacy she had left.
“No, but...” Her thumb brushed over the cracks in a loaf of bread’s crust, crumbs sprinkling onto her thick, brown coat. “I should have done something.”
Zadriel shook his head. “When you’re afraid, you don’t get to decide how you react.
Sometimes you fight. Sometimes you run. Sometimes your mind races but your body refuses to move and all you can do is watch whatever comes.
That doesn’t make you a coward,” he reiterated, loosening the ties of his knapsack and pulling out a cloth bag.
“It takes courage to carry on. Bravery to survive. This world can be cruel, yet here you are, living in spite of it. Demanding something better. You are not a coward.”
She scanned his face. “How would you know?”
Zadriel averted his gaze. “Because I too am forced to live in a world that made me watch my mother die.”
Fresh tears glazed her bluish-green eyes, but Aoife dipped her chin in understanding. “I’m so—”
“Take this and fill it with as much food as you can find,” Zadriel interrupted, handing her the cloth sack.
Screams rang in his ears, blending with the crackling sound of burning wood and boiling sap.
It didn’t help that he could still smell smoke.
He gave Aoife his back, toeing an overturned shelf.
“Of course,” she said, though she didn't move away. “You never told me who that woman was earlier. I heard you say goodbye.”
Zadriel’s dark eyes drifted back to the doorway, that soothing warmth in his chest tugging gently as if it desired nothing more than for him to follow the Little Witch’s trail.
He intended to search for her footprints.
To find comfort in the fruitless dream that, one day, they’d see one another again.
Instead, he found a gift from the roots, the broken pitchfork resting on the threshold. Something glittering beneath it.
“She’s someone I’ll never see again. Someone I’ll miss dearly.” Pressing a hand to his heart, he prayed for the ache to ease.
Aoife’s voice resonated behind him, her words a distant echo overshadowed by the glints of gold sparkling in the snow.
Weighed down by bloodied prongs. Zadriel cocked his head to the side, staring at the gilded daisy, its petals wilting on the frozen ground.
Crushed like the one he’d abandoned in Moldenna the day Cillian died.
His lips twisted into the whisper of a sad smile; had they found it and carried it to him? Zadriel couldn’t fathom why. Nor could he convince himself to accept it.
“She’s someone I’ll never truly know,” he whispered, turning away from the tree’s gift.