Chapter 5 Wren
The next day is my day off. I’m out the door the moment the relief guard arrives.
I stride across the courtyard, head high, finally free.
The scent of hay and warm horse fills the air as I enter the stables.
I saddle a grey mare without asking and swing up onto her back, urging her into a gallop before anyone can think to question me.
The castle fades behind me. I ride until I reach the open fields, until the wind steals the last traces of the city from my skin. Only then do I slow, then stop altogether, sliding down from the saddle. The mare wanders off to graze, but I barely notice.
I let myself drop onto the grass and stare up at the sky. It’s a rare, cloudless blue. The sun soaks into my skin, and I close my eyes, breathing in the scent of wildflowers and warm earth. I dig my fingers into the soil. For the first time in days, I feel like myself again.
Magic stirs in my fingertips.
Not using it has been stifling. Unnatural. Fey aren’t meant to let their magic sit dormant. Even I, only half-fey, can feel the wrongness of it. It’s been wriggling under my skin for days. Use me, use me.
I’ve heard of fey driven mad if they don’t.
Unlikely to happen to me, of course, with my limited magic.
It takes a long, long time. Queen Alessandra’s ancestor, Queen Vivien, was said to trap fey in the dark and cut them off from their sources until they broke.
Rumour has it she danced to their screams.
I don’t want to think about that.
Instead, I exhale and let the wind fill my lungs, let the power tremble into me, inviting and embracing.
The petals of a nearby flower shiver, then lift into the air, dancing as if caught in an invisible breeze.
A dozen more follow. I flick my fingers, guiding them in spirals, weaving them into a twisting pattern that shimmers in the light.
It’s delicate magic. Simple. Elegant. A trick of movement and air.
All fey magic comes from the elements. Every spell pulled from their power. I’ve known fey who could fly, build bridges from vines, crack open fields, flood rivers, twist trees into towers. Many of my kind can cast illusions or shapeshift, even compel others to bend to their will.
I’ve never mastered more than the basics.
I can move water in small amounts, make things frost, conjure sparks, coax flowers to bloom, lift light things into the air.
But I can’t glamour anything more than my own appearance, and even that has limits.
I can’t compel. Most of the Moonhollow think it’s because I’m only half-fey.
But my grandmother—and Moira—suspect it’s because I refuse to channel my primal element.
Fire.
Each fey has a natural leaning toward one element. Most think I don’t have one. Just a halfblood. Of course I can’t feel the tug when I’m near it, like the flames have a heartbeat of their own. Of course my pulse doesn’t hum in response. Wren doesn’t feel it like the rest. Wren doesn’t have one.
But I know the truth. I’ve always known.
It’s fire.
Just like I’ve always known I’ll never, ever tap into it again.
As a child, I pulled flame from my mother’s hearth, let it curl around my fingers like ribbons, draped it over my shoulders like a shawl. It never burned me. It never frightened me. Not even when I scorched the bedcovers or left burning handprints on the furniture. Not until—
No.
I clench my jaw. The petals fall, scattered by the wind.
Moira always told me I was holding myself back. That my magic would never be whole if I refused what’s naturally mine.
But Moira doesn’t know what fire can do.
What I can do.
I’ll never touch it again.
I get up, gather the horse, and head towards the tavern at the edge of Duskfen Forest. It marks the end of the mortal country of Erelis. Beyond it, the fey can live freely. The woods are old and wild, home to all manner of creatures and a number of communities. The Moonhollow is the biggest.
Humans usually stay well away unless they want something.
For a hundred years now, the fey have lived inside the borders of the forest in a tentative agreement with the human kingdom. While Erelis reserves the right to execute any fey found trespassing on its land, the Crown will never enter the forest.
But the only reason that alliance exists is because Erelis would never be able to breach the woods. Not that ancient place, seeped in magic. The forest would not let an army reach it.
Not unless the humans numbers grow too great, and it no longer has a choice. That’s always been my grandmother’s fear.
“It isn’t peace if it’s ruled by fear,” she told me once.
And she’s right.
Stars and Fates, I want to ride into the forest now. Deep inside, past twisted roots and silver mist, lies the Moonhollow. Home. The one place I don’t have to hide what I am. Where discovery wouldn’t mean death. Where there is no awful prince snapping commands at me.
But the ride there and back is long, and my grandmother was insistent that I not return unless there was an emergency. She’ll think I’m a pouting child if I go back now.
In any case, I don’t really need to go back, not tonight. Tonight, I have a different destination in mind.
The tavern at the edge is called the Rosey Duckling. It’s a squat, timbered thing, slouching under the weight of its own years. Ivy creeps up the beams, and the lanterns swinging from the eaves cast a flickering golden light that barely keeps the dusk at bay.
I dismount, toss the reins over a post, and step into the warmth of the tavern. It’s quieter than usual—only a handful of patrons scattered at their tables, nursing drinks.
I scan the room, and there, at the farthest table, sits Zephyr, waiting, just as he promised.
He’s darker than me in every way—hair like shadow, skin as rich and deep as our grandmother’s.
He’s glamoured himself, of course. His ears look rounded, his eyes not the usual midnight violet threaded with stars, but something closer to my brown.
Most people wouldn’t notice the subtle distortion in his features, but I do.
I may not be very good at casting my own glamours—my eyes are a simple thing—but I can sense them.
The palace might ward itself against fey, but taverns rarely bother. Fey are good for business. There’s always something to be gained in a bargain with one of the fair folk. For years we’ve saved lives, showered people with wealth, made their dreams come true—usually for a fair price.
But I’m not naive. I know there are monsters among us.
And I know humans can be monsters too.
Zephyr’s clothes tonight are finer than I expected—black with silver accents, well-tailored but worn from travel.
Not exactly subtle. He sits with his back to the wall, one boot braced against the leg of the table, fingers curled around a goblet of something dark red.
He looks up as I approach, and his mouth curves into that familiar, knowing smile.
“Wren,” he says.
His smirk deepens as he stands and pulls me into a firm embrace. He smells of leather, pine, and the faintest trace of magic—something sharp and wild, like lightning in the air before a storm. I exhale against his shoulder.
“Zeph,” I murmur, squeezing him tight. “Fates and stars, it’s good to see you again.”
“You as well,” he says, releasing me and dropping back into his chair. “Have you been keeping well?”
I drop into the seat across from him, resting my forearms on the table. “I’ve been dying of boredom.”
Zephyr arches a brow. “You can’t actually die of—”
“I know.”
Zephyr waves down a barmaid, and she arrives with two earthenware mugs of honey mead. I wrap my hands around mine, savouring the weight of it.
He finishes his first drink and starts his second. “How’s the prince?”
I groan. “Insufferable. His mother tells me he doesn’t like being pitied, and thankfully that hasn’t been an issue—I haven’t pitied him once. He does a perfectly adequate job of pitying himself.”
Zephyr chokes on a laugh, setting his mug down with a quiet thud. “Grandma was afraid you’d say something like that.”
I narrow my eyes. “Why afraid?”
“She wants you to befriend him.”
I let out a louder groan. “I’d rather mate with a porcupine.”
He snorts into his drink, shaking his head. “I’ve missed your lies.”
“Missed me enough to tell Grandma you need me back and someone else can take my place?”
The amusement dims slightly in his expression, though there’s still warmth there. “You know it has to be you, Wren.”
Of course it does. Because I can lie. Because iron doesn’t burn my skin. Because anyone else would be outed in moments.
It has to be me.
That doesn’t mean I have to like it.
It definitely doesn’t mean I’m any good at this whole befriending thing.
“I’m terrible at making friends.”
“Yes,” Zephyr agrees, not unkindly. He can’t lie, and he’s not going to twist himself into knots to find a not-lie either.
“Not even going to spare my feelings?”
“That was me sparing your feelings.”
I elbow him lightly in the side. We drink in silence for a bit.
“I’m your friend,” Zephyr says eventually, his voice quiet, “and I don’t think you’re as unlikeable as you seem to believe.”
“Oh, I don’t think that. I think he’s unlikeable. And so is everyone else.”
He snorts. “Regardless, there’s got to be something the two of you can find common ground on.”
I think. It’s hard to pin down what the prince actually likes.
Apart from his sister, obviously. And while I wouldn’t mind spending more time with the princess, I’m not sure how I’d arrange that.
Besides, if I rely on someone else to coax him into conversation, it could take forever before he opens up to me.
“What does he like doing?” Zephyr asks.
“Moping.”
“Be serious, Wren.”
“I am. He’s a seriously accomplished moper.”
Still, I try to think. He liked reading once, that much is clear from the books in his room. I’ve tried—genuinely tried—a few times to talk to him about them. Every time, I’m met with silence or a shrug. No spark. No opening.
“What about fighting?” Zephyr suggests.
“Come again?”
“I heard he used to be good with a sword.”
He used to accompany his brother into the field, but I haven’t come across any tales of swordsmanship. It’s hard to picture the scrawny boy in the palace wielding anything heavier than a teaspoon.
But he wasn’t always scrawny, I suspect.
A thought starts to form. A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “I can work with weapons.”
Because even the dullest blades can be sharpened.