Chapter 20
The port town swallows us in noise and salt. Shouts of sailors clash with gull cries, ropes creak against wood, and the tang of fish and tar lingers heavy in the air. We keep our hoods pulled low, shadows hiding hair and eyes that might mark us as more than weary travelers.
Selene stays close at my side while Zillah peels away toward the stables.
Lowan drifts in the opposite direction, slipping down toward the piers to barter for passage.
I can’t bring myself to follow either of them—not with my hair, my eyes, my face.
Too many chances to be noticed. So I wait in the narrow strip of shade beside the stable wall, Selene silent and watchful as a blade.
After a while, I find my voice. “How long will it take to reach your island?”
Selene tilts her head, the braids of white hair falling forward like woven moonlight. “Five days by sea, perhaps six if the winds fight us.”
Five days. I nod, trying to imagine it. “Tell me about it. About your island.”
Her gaze softens as though the memory itself steadies her. “It is small. Close-knit. Our people live by the rhythms of the tide and moon. We believe the sea’s pull, the moon’s pull, they are the same as Fate’s pull. That all lives are woven, Threads spun and cut by hands greater than our own.”
Threads. My chest tightens. I’ve felt it before—like a line tugging me through the dark, pulling me toward Lowan when I didn’t understand why. “Threads,” I echo. “Alva said something once. She told me she and Lowan’s father were Threadbound.”
Selene’s eyes brighten, and she nods as if the word itself is sacred.
“Threadbound is rare. Revered. When Fate weaves two souls together before they ever walk the same road, their bond is unbreakable. When the time comes, the Threads draw them together. Stronger than love, stronger than magic, stronger than realms themselves.” Her voice softens, as if she’s speaking from memory, not myth.
Her words sink into me, heavy and hot. Threadbound. Stronger than love. I don’t know what to do with the ache that rises at the thought.
Before I can speak again, Zillah reappears from the stables, dusting her hands. Lowan strides toward us from the pier, eyes sharp beneath his hood. “The horses are stabled; the ship is ready. We sail within the hour.”
Selene straightens. I pull my hood lower, steadying myself against the thrum in my chest. And then we head to the ship.
The ship isn’t massive, but it rises solid and steady against the pier, its dark hull weathered from years of salt and storm. Sailors hurry past with crates of provisions, ropes thrown, sails being hauled aloft—the air hums with motion and the tang of the sea.
Lowan stays at my shoulder as we climb the narrow gangplank. His hand presses low at the small of my back—firm, almost branding. The touch is steadying, yes, but it also feels like a silent claim: mine to guard, mine to keep.
The cabin he opens is small, but not unpleasant. A single bed pressed against the wall, a narrow table with a basin and pitcher, a lamp fixed to a shelf beside the porthole. Light spills through the round glass, watery and dim, making the space feel more like a cocoon than a cell.
“Here,” Lowan murmurs, taking my cloak and hanging it over a hook on the back of the door. “It isn’t much, but it will keep you safe. That’s all I care about.”
I lower myself onto the bed, boots heavy on my feet.
Selene’s spare pair, worn but sturdy. He kneels, unlacing them with careful hands, setting them neatly aside.
His jaw tightens as if each knot is a wound he can’t heal fast enough.
His fingers linger against my ankle a breath too long, heat coiling under his skin like he’s furious at the weakness forced on me.
“Lie back,” he says softly. “Rest. I won’t go far. Selene and Zillah are next door, and Zillah will wrap this ship tighter than even the Veynar Estate.”
I nod, too tired to argue, and sink against the thin pillows. The gentle sway of the ship rocks beneath me, unfamiliar but oddly soothing.
Lowan lingers. His fingers brush my cheek, tender as a whisper. His eyes search mine, bright even in the dim cabin. “You have no idea,” he breathes, “how grateful I am to have you here with me.”
I cover his hand with mine, pressing it to my face. “Actually,” I say, the truth sliding free before I can stop it, “I do. Because I feel the same.”
Lowan slips quietly from the cabin, and I catch the low rumble of his voice through the thin wall—steady, measured, close enough to ground me. A heartbeat later, I feel Zillah’s shield slide over the ship like a second hull, humming through the air. Protection. Safety.
The gentle rock of the vessel lulls me, the tide tugging us in place. I sink deeper into the thin mattress, exhaustion clawing at me. It takes a moment to recognize the feeling creeping into my chest—safety. I haven’t felt it in so long it almost startles me.
But safety doesn’t erase uncertainty. My mind spins. The King gave me no answers. I’m no closer to home. My mother—did I leave her behind in another realm, or is she truly gone? Time, space, proximity—it all tangles into more questions with no threads to follow.
The weight of it drags me under, and I finally surrender to sleep.
Dreams come in shards. A flash of black feathers.
Then fire—my own, bright and consuming—wings bursting from my back.
The chaos of the dungeon—blood, stone, smoke choking my lungs.
Lowan in the doorway again, feathers coiling around him like a storm, murder burning in his eyes.
The king’s touch—his horrors forced into my mind.
The searing pain blooms across my shoulders, hot as iron pressed into flesh.
I jolt awake with a gasp, clutching at the burn.
The door creaks open—Lowan steps inside, balancing a small tray. The scent of broth rises warmly in the air. “We’ve set sail,” he murmurs. “For a few hours now. I let you sleep—you needed it.”
On the tray: a bowl of broth, a chunk of bread, a cup of water. Plain, simple, harmless. But my chest tightens. Bread and water. The dungeon. My throat closes.
He sees it instantly. His grip tightens on the tray, knuckles pale. “What did they do?” His voice is low, dangerous. His eyes flash silver, feral. For a moment, I think he might shatter the bowl to have something to destroy.
“I couldn’t trust food. Or water,” I whisper.
For a moment, the storm flickers across his face. Fury at what they took from me. Then he meets my eyes, steady as stone. “You can trust this.”
Part of me knows he’s right. Still, my hand bypasses the bread, the water. I lift the spoon to the broth instead, safe in the warmth of something that was never offered to me in that place.
The broth warms my throat, though I can only manage a few slow spoonfuls. Lowan lowers himself onto the bed, his presence steady, grounding.
“I’ll never pressure you to discuss what happened to you,” he says in a low voice. “But I also can’t sit by and watch it consume you. I will not lose you.”
I glance at him, startled by the weight of his words.
He meets my eye. “I can’t imagine what you endured, or how it’s changed you. But I won’t just watch your light fade. Not when you’re—” his voice wavers.
My chest aches. “I don’t want that either. But I don’t even know how to begin to mend myself.”
He shifts, kneeling beside the bed. He takes my hand gently into both of his.
“You don’t have to mend yourself alone. Let me help you.
I’ll do anything—anything to bring you back to who you were, or even someone stronger.
Whatever you need. Just… let me help. Don’t go to a place where I’m not able to follow. ”
I nod, setting the bowl aside. My appetite is gone anyway. “I don’t even know if I can say some of it out loud.”
“You don’t have to.” His thumb brushes my knuckles. “If you need to cry, cry. If you need to rage, rage at me. Hurt me, punish me, whatever it takes. But you can’t carry it all inside.”
A feeble laugh slips out. “This, coming from Mr. Frost himself?”
The corner of his mouth curves, sad and sweet. “Do you know how many times I thought about that? How cold I was to you in the beginning? And then you were gone, and I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again. I would have traded everything for those moments back, just to be different with you.”
I stay quiet, watching him unravel his guard piece by piece.
He scrubs a hand over his face. “Metra, I don’t know how to explain it.
There’s always been something about you.
That’s how I found you that day in the woods—something pulled me there.
My magic insisted I go. And then I saw you crumpled in the snow.
Part of me thought you were dangerous for my family’s safety, but another part was louder: you found her. You can’t walk away.”
He swallows, gaze distant. “So I carried you back. And the entire way, I kept staring at you, not knowing who you were, where you came from, or what would happen next. I could feel a dangerous magic within you even through my clothes and gloves, but I just knew I had to be involved.” My throat tightens.
“I tried to distance myself,” he says, voice rough, “but every instinct in me fought it. Everything screamed to drag you close and never let go. Even when I told myself you were dangerous. Even when I told myself you belonged somewhere else. The hunger to keep you burned louder than reason.”
“And then that night, in your room, before I was summoned to the King… all I thought about on the way down was confessing everything when I got back—telling you how I felt. But then—” His jaw flexes.
“The King. Zillah and Selene were already on edge, but I knew instantly something was wrong. His eyes.”
I whisper, “They weren’t green.”