Chapter 9
Alva doesn’t leave me. Even after my sobs fade into hiccups and silence, she stays. Her voice becomes a steady current, and I drift in and out of it—catching some of what she says, losing pieces when exhaustion tugs me under.
“You already know I am Alva Veynar,” she tells me, her gloved hand resting lightly on mine. “My beloved was Tobias Veynar. But he was more than that—he was my Threadbound.”
“So you were married? He was your husband?” I ask, trying to follow the threads of her story.
“Husband…” Alva lingers on the word, then shakes her head.
“I have heard mortals use such a term. But here in Thrae, we speak differently. We may choose to unite ourselves as consorts with someone we love—or with someone we both love and are Threadbound to. We may choose to share a name, or not. I took the Veynar name because of the position and weight it carried across these lands this side of the Knollwood. But it was my choice. Many in your line, the Donovans, never gave up their name. People knew them for their unique powers, and the name alone gave them a certain authority.”
Her eyes mist, grief etching itself onto her features. “Together, Tobias and I cared for the people on this side of the Knollwood.” She glances toward the window as though she can see the forest even now. “You were found there, just over our land’s border.”
I shift in my chair, tugging the blanket tighter around my shoulders. My gaze slips to her hands, searching instinctively for the ink I know my mother carried. She notices. Lifting her left hand, she says softly, “Ah. You’ve noticed the bonds.”
“Bonds?” My brow furrows.
“In our realm, love takes many shapes. Some choose to be consorts—partners by choice. Others are bound by Fate itself. To be Threadbound is rare, but when it happens, it is powerful—an elevated form of love.”
Her eyes flicker, distant. “And then, there is Bonding. That is also a choice. A sacred ritual in which two souls give their blood to one another, speaking the words that bind them body, mind, and soul. Once done, it can never be severed, except by death. Most who are Threadbound never take the step, for the risk is too great.”
“Why? What does it do?” I breathe.
“Your life becomes tied to your beloved’s. Emotions can be shared, sometimes even thoughts. But if you are both Threadbound and Bonded…” She swallows, her voice faltering. “If one dies, the other almost always follows. The pain is too consuming. The bond is too absolute.”
My heart stutters. “But Zillah, Selene. They have markings. And my mother—hers was black, but she had one too.”
Alva’s eyes darken as she nods. “Zillah and Selene made their choice—never to live apart and risk death—and I must respect it. As for your mother…” She exhales slowly. “I do not know how she endured it. Only a will to survive stronger than most could have spared her.”
My whisper trembles. “Why would anyone choose such a bond?”
I bite back the other questions burning through me.
Alva wouldn’t know the answers. Who was my mother Bonded to?
He must be dead—why else would her markings be black?
Was it my father? Is that why she never spoke of him?
Did losing him nearly destroy her? The thought lances through me, sharp and merciless.
Alva exhales, the sound heavy with both reverence and warning.
“It is an ancient, profoundly intimate magic—but all magic carries a cost, as I have told you before. The connection is absolute. If you are only Bonded, you may survive. If you are only Threadbound, you will endure, though the pain is terrible. But if you are both Threadbound and bonded, the grief is too consuming. I know no one who has survived such a loss.”
Silently, she reaches for a drawer in the side table and produces a book.
Old—so old the leather cover is nearly rubbed smooth.
Alva rests the book across her lap, fingertips smoothing the worn cover.
“This volume has been in our family for many years. It comes from a time when realm-walking was frequent, even commonplace. When mortals and my people moved between our worlds with far more ease than today.”
Her gaze flicks briefly toward the window, as if seeing some memory beyond it.
“It is said that in those days, so much passed between the realms that even now, neither side knows which plants or animals truly began where. Did mortals bring certain things here, or did we carry them there? No one can say. But it is why you will find so much in our lands familiar to you—the trees, the rivers, even the birdsong.”
I blink at her, heart hammering. “You’re telling me the worlds are… the same?”
Her lips press into a thoughtful line. “My Tobias always believed they once were. That, long ago, our two realms were a single realm, and at some point in history—whether by choice, accident, or catastrophe—they split. Now there is a barrier. A veil. Thrae holds magic, and the mortal realm does not.” She exhales softly, almost wistfully.
“Whether that tale is true, I cannot say. But I know this: our realms echo one another still, like a song played in two keys. So much is familiar, yet I have never seen magic—nor eyes—like yours.”
I blink. “Green eyes? They’re not dominant, but fairly common where I’m from.”
Alva shakes her head, gaze sharp. “Maybe so. But not here. Red hair and green eyes together? They mark you, child. You are different.”
Her fingertips trace the gilded edges of the book as if she knows every line by heart.
“It is in these tales that we learned mortals once referred to us as Fae. That is not the name we give ourselves, but it is the tale mortals fashioned—because of what they witnessed.” Her eyes lift to mine, calm and steady.
“Because of our abilities. And because of our long lives.”
My breath hitches. “You’re immortal?”
“Not immortal.” She shakes her head gently. “We are not untouched by death. But we live far longer than mortals—centuries, sometimes more. To mortal kind, it must have seemed the same.”
I swallow hard, staring at the script on the page as if it might explain anything at all. Fae. Realm-walking. Centuries of life. All the things I thought were just fairy tales—yet she speaks of them as plain truth.
Alva folds her hands over the book again.
“Mortals built their stories from the fragments they saw of us. And those stories become legend. But we have other histories as well. Other records.” She pauses, then tilts her head slightly, as if choosing her words with care.
“From what I have read of your realm, you might call this estate the seat of all who dwell on this side of the Knollwood. Perhaps you would call my Tobias, and now Lowan, guardians—keepers of these lands and protectors of our people. Not a mantle they sought, but one woven into their blood for generations.”
She lays it across my lap. My fingers brush the brittle pages. The lettering is familiar, startlingly so. Mortal letters. Mortal words.
My brows knit. “But… this is…”
I lean forward, pulse quickening. “Mortals have been here before? Are any still here?”
“Yes,” she answers. “There are still bloodlines in Thrae with mortal roots—as well as mortals themselves. But they are not regarded favorably. Half-mortals are often marked as lesser; their presence is often unwelcome. Many live in hiding, or in positions of forced servitude.” Her gaze hardens.
“It is not a view I share. We employ several half-mortals here; I believe you met one at Feyrnacht—Dax. And there are mortal families who live freely, under protection, on our lands.”
The words settle uneasily in my chest. Yet they make Lowan’s burden clearer, the weight he must carry. My mind scrambles for the old stories I’ve always heard about the Fae—the signs, the features.
“But… what about the pointed ears?” I press, blurting out the first thing that comes to mind, ridiculous as it sounds.
Alva laughs softly, a sound like water over stone.
“A mortal invention. A way to set us apart in their tales. In truth, we are distinguished in other ways. Taller, stronger. Our bodies carry an endurance theirs do not, and our movements…” she tilts her hand in a graceful arc, “…they flow differently. More precise. More fluid. Place a mortal beside us, and you would know. Just as one recognizes a half-mortal, though unfortunately marked by differences they cannot conceal.”
I swallow. My mind feels like a cracked glass jar—too much poured in, spilling out around the edges.
Alva studies me for a long moment before she says, quietly but firmly, “I believe it might be best if you journey to Myrradon, to the King of Thrae. He alone may have the answers you seek. The ones none of us can give. Perhaps he can explain what happened to your mother, since it was she who taught you this tongue. What I thought I knew about Elin Donovan no longer seems certain. The pieces won’t fit together. ”
The words fall like stones in the silence between us: the King.
Answers. My mother. Thrae. My pulse skitters because, for the first time since I arrived here, I realize my path might finally lead me somewhere beyond waiting, guessing, and fumbling.
But—fear coils in my chest. If I’m to meet a king in this world, what exactly will he see when he looks at me?
Sirona slips into my room like she always does, a swirl of warm energy in a place that still feels heavy around me. She plops into the chair by the window, braid bouncing, eyes bright.
“I heard,” she says, breathless with the importance of it, “that you’ll be leaving for Myrradon soon. As soon as you’re well enough.”