Vessel of Woven Night (Rowan Blood #4)

42. The Fawn

42

THE FAWN

C oursing through the trees, Saffron smacked low-hanging branches and tall ferns out of his way with one hand, while the other kept an unyielding grasp on Asche who followed close behind. Despite their clear bodily exhaustion, the daurae moved fast; despite their gasping for air, they managed to keep up with him, all the way until the chill of the Winter Court through the veneer nipped at their skin, and Saffron stopped short to scoop the fey gentle onto his back. Not wanting them to have to tread snow with no shoes. Never once did Asche ask where they were going, or how they were going to get home—they just clung to Saffron in return. Trusting him with everything they had. He was not going to let them go again.

As if his blood reached ahead for the first taste of magic he could grapple at, Saffron felt the exact moment it tingled in his veins. Recognition crashed forcibly into him, nearly losing his footing as if crushed beneath an ancient oak tree. Clutching at his chest as it ached, he shook off the initial shock, reaffirming his grasp on Asche and pushing forward—but not a moment later, something rushed up behind them.

Spinning so fast he lost his grip on Asche, the daurae tumbled to the cold earth as Saffron thrust his hands outward. The crone slammed into them, nearly snapping one of his wrists as she ricocheted right back off and crashed on her heels. The force knocked Saffron backward into the mud as well, nearly crushing Asche beneath him as the daurae yelped and scurried out of the way.

They barely leapt away as the crone clambered for them. Saffron grabbed her first by a fistful of wild hair, only for her to reel and pit her assault on him, instead. Clawing at him and raking grimy nails down his cheek, she snarled and snapped her teeth within an inch of his cheek, his eyes.

Clenching his teeth, Saffron could only attempt to summon whatever thin ribbons of magic were within reach of him, but finding nothing, nothing to pull on and use against her. It soon didn’t matter—when Asche appeared over her shoulder, swinging a heavy branch to smash over the back of her head. Enough to make the crone slump over Saffron’s chest, where he quickly shoved her off again.

“C’mon,” he said quickly, already knowing by the gargling of her breaths. Not wanting Asche to linger, to see. He scooped them onto his back before they could argue, not allowing himself even a second to catch his breath. He just had to get Asche back home.

The moment a presence stirred in the back of Saffron’s mind, the words were already leaping from his mouth, summoning Taran into the thin carpet of snow replacing the mossy forest floor of Ire-land. Saffron had already offered Asche his cloak, still carrying the daurae on his back, breathing heavily as his throat ached against the growing chill in the air.

He practically shouted Taran’s command to come , and the wolf slammed into the ground with such force his snout nearly crushed against the frosted soil. He then turned so fast his back feet tore the earth from beneath the snow, baring his teeth at Saffron to demand what in gods’ name had happened—only to go stone-still at the sight of Asche on Saffron’s back. His bright red eyes stared, unblinking, at the daurae, before flickering to Saffron in disbelief. Saffron offered him a tiny nod of promise. Confirmation. It’s them.

Taran bowed his head slightly, still in shock, approaching slowly with wide eyes. Foot over foot, he softly sniffed at the young high fey on Saffron’s back.

“Hello, Taran…” Asche said in uncertainty, and Taran’s ears flattened, before he audibly whined. Like an overwhelmed dog, he stamped backward, before rushing forward again, whining and nipping at Asche’s leg, then throwing his muddy paws up to plant them on Saffron’s shoulder and lick Asche’s face all over. Saffron stumbled beneath the beast’s weight, cursing at him, but was unable to resist the weak chuckle that escaped him.

“Give me some help with them, will you?” he asked, and Taran immediately planted his feet back in the snow. Saffron carefully transferred the daurae to Taran’s back, where Asche grinned and ran their fingers up through his thick black fur. Taran’s giant head continued to twist backward, over both shoulders, trying to get a better look at Asche like he still couldn’t believe it. Craning his neck one way then the other with every attempt. When he was sure it wasn’t a trick—he even turned and leapt at Saffron again, licking his face in gratitude before howling in joy and bounding around in a circle. It made Asche laugh, which made Saffron laugh, which made Taran yelp and yip all over again.

Continuing through the last traces of the veneer, the air grew colder, the snow deeper, and Saffron realized beyond the overcast sky that the sun had risen overhead faster than should have been possible. He was reminded why, just as Taran spoke to confirm.

“You’ve been gone hours. Your friends are probably worried sick.”

Of course—he’d been in the human world, even just for that small amount of time. A small amount to him, at least. It couldn’t have been more than an hour or two he’d spent recovering Asche—but in Alfidel, that was nearly five. Sunrise had already come and gone. Saffron was supposed to have returned to his friends hours ago. He was supposed to be on a train back to Avren already, and his stomach sank when he thought about Cylvan. Saffron had promised.

He pushed away the twist in his gut, forcing himself to look at Asche again. Knowing Cylvan would understand, once he saw who Saffron returned him.

“I was in the human world,” he answered, reaching up to touch Asche’s back. Taran’s head whipped around so fast, Asche nearly lost their grip on his scruff. “I know, just—I’ll explain later. Let’s get the daurae somewhere safe, first.”

Taran didn’t ask any further questions, though Saffron could feel him digging around in their shared mind. Trying to get into Saffron’s memories, trying to find out for himself exactly where he’d gone, how he’d gotten there, how in gods’ name he’d managed to stumble across Asche in the midst of it all. Saffron wouldn’t have known where to start, even if there was time to talk. He wasn’t sure he’d have any better of an idea even with extra time to think. He wasn’t sure Taran would be able to keep his composure once Saffron told him everything else he’d learned, too. Still, he couldn’t stop the ghostly thoughts from trickling through his mind, more as sensations than actual explanations. Allowing Taran a taste, without going into too much detail. The wolf stared straight ahead as they crested over him.

Ryder Kyteler is also Finn O’Daire, is also Deimne, is also the first son of Queen Proserpina and her human lover, Adone…

I think—no, I’m certain he intended on using Asche as a woven vessel for the queen’s memories, in an attempt to bring her back to life…

If Saffron hadn’t stumbled through that pocket veneer into the human world, if Ryder had at any point actually found the queen’s memory tapestry first—he couldn’t form the thought. He just pressed his hand to Asche’s back again. Protective, as much as the wolf that carried them.

“Ah,” he realized, stopping short and turning. “We can still use the veneer. The one that actually leads to Avren from the king’s keep. Don’t you think? Which way to Fjornar, Taran?”

Taran lifted his nose to the air, sniffing—but a metal bar suddenly whisked from the trees, slamming into the side of his head and making him yelp. Asche nearly toppled from the wolf’s back as the beast stumbled, had Saffron not thrown out his hands to catch them. He whirled around in alarm—just in time to witness Ryder bursting from the trees in a flurry of snow and ice.

A swelling gash flared on the side of his jaw where Saffron had struck him with that same metal beam in the cottage; the stab wound in his stomach remained open and weeping into his shirt, bright red and unsettling. The man’s eyes were wide and searching, hair tangled with snow and pine needles as his attention snapped between Saffron, the wolf, the daurae. He lifted a hand, pointing at them.

“That’s mine,” he said. “I took it fair and square, your highness. You’ve robbed me. And I’m taking it back.”

“Over my dead body,” Saffron answered.

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Let me,” Taran growled, but Saffron put out a hand to stop him.

“Take care of Asche,” he whispered, in the same motion slipping the wand from under his sleeve. It nestled into his palm, the length of it fitting perfectly between two of his fingers—and gently clinking against the band of the pixie ring he still wore. His heart thrummed. His eyes returned to Ryder, where sure enough—the man had a series of rings on his own fingers. Two on one hand, four on the other.

“Go,” Saffron whispered. Taran snarled in protest, but Saffron whispered the same as a command, next. Growling, Taran bowed his head as if resisting as long as he could—before turning and tearing through the snow. Saffron knew he wouldn’t be able to run all the way through the veneer on his own, he would vanish as soon as there was too much distance between them—but Ryder didn’t know that. It was obvious, by the way his nostrils flared at the sight.

He moved to get a better view of Taran’s trail—but Saffron followed. He raised his wand, making Ryder pause.

“Enough of this,” Saffron said. Every word was trailed by a puff of steam on his breath. Overhead, thick bundles of snow began to fall, again, making his skin pucker beneath his rain-soaked tunic without a cloak to keep him warm. “You’re badly hurt. I’ve taken Asche back. I know where to find my friends, and I know how to get to them without your help. I know who you really are—and soon so will everyone else.”

“You know nothing, your highness,” Ryder said, but it lacked the same intimidating venom he clearly meant. He knew it, too, as his teeth visibly clenched.

“What’s the purpose of bringing her back?” Saffron asked, risking a moment of sincerity. His eyes flickered to Ryder’s hand as it twitched. An intangible presence swirled behind Saffron’s own back, breathing against the nape of his neck, sparkling and warm. “In the cabin, you said—you said you were only trying to find it to better understand her. You could have done that without using Asche as a vessel. Without—without killing an innocent person. A child, Ryder?—”

“There are some things I can only understand of my mother by speaking to her face-to-face,” Ryder answered, head tilted down and watching Saffron like an animal. A wolf eyeing a rabbit in the snow—no matter that Saffron had long already become a master over wolves.

The band of the ring acts as a knock in itself. To inform a veil epithet.

Saffron jumped. He nearly turned, but locked his muscles, first. It was his own voice. Spoken in a clear whisper, as if by something hiding behind him. Making his blood tingle and shimmer like fairy wine. The veil was beseeching him.

With only one, you allow me to decide where you go when you pass.

“Don’t—” he whispered, not wishing to be whisked away so suddenly.

I will obey your wishes. I will know you.

Saffron swallowed against the lump in his throat. His eyes returned to the six rings on Ryder’s fingers. He recalled the same six he’d worn at the Midsummer Games, before renting open the earth in that horrific display. The same number he wore there in the snow.

Do not let him touch you , the veil warned, and something compelled Saffron’s eyes to flick to Ryder’s left hand, specifically, donning four of the rings. I will not be able to help you, then.

Saffron wanted to ask—but there wasn’t time. Instead, he exhaled a shaking breath, squeezing his hand around the narrow length of his wand. It pressed the band of the pixie ring into his skin, and he was reminded of what Adelard told him of how such cruel rings were forged.

“I’m sorry,” he went on softly. “I don’t mean to hurt you.”

You have my consent, rowan witch. I am your ally; and you are mine. Ghostly fingers trailed from the nape of Saffron’s neck to his shoulder, down his arm, to where the wand in his hand tapped against the band of the ring. Form a circle with your fingers. Show me where you want to go. Remember—it’s about intention.

Saffron inhaled deeply through his nose. He searched where Ryder stood, mind racing—but before he could move, Ryder did first. Knock, knock— he vanished from where he stood, and Saffron barely ducked out of the way as an instant later, the man manifested behind him.

Ryder clawed at him, barely grabbing a handful of the back of Saffron’s doublet—but Saffron twisted, slamming a boot into Ryder’s chest and knocking him away, while simultaneously curling his fingers into a circle like the veil had instructed. Instantly, the earth gave way beneath him, overwhelming him with the sense of falling, squeezing, flying—and he materialized again on the other side of the small clearing, where Ryder had just been standing. Exactly where he’d imagined appearing, just before Ryder surprised him.

“Alright,” he wheezed with a clutch of his chest, understanding immediately what it meant to knock once, allowing the veil to move him as it wished. Suffocating, chaotic, and nerve-wracking—but at the same time, flooding him with hot adrenaline; with a sense of wild, untethered deliverance from all the rules that’d ever kept his feet on the ground.

Ryder knocked twice again, but that time Saffron was prepared. He rolled out of the way, knowing the man would appear alongside him yet again; and the moment Ryder did, Saffron knocked once, and clapped into existence behind him, instead. Where he pulled the obsidian knife from his belt, swinging it in a long arch and slicing across Ryder’s back.

Ryder shouted, tripping forward, then whirling around—but not before Saffron knocked again, throwing himself out of the man’s reach. That time, the whiplash knocked him off his feet and he rolled through the snow, barely lifting his head again as Ryder came crashing back through thin air to slam a foot into Saffron’s wrist, knocking the knife away before kicking him in the chin. Saffron’s teeth cracked against each other, spitting blood into the snow—but knocking again just before Ryder’s hand could grab him around the throat.

Re-emerging a dozen feet away, Saffron landed on his hands and knees, spitting more blood to the ground before searching the whiteness for his knife. Lost in the wide expanse, gone beneath the surface of the cold blanket only growing deeper as the snow fell over them—but then the veil tickled the backs of his eyes, and a myriad of weblike cracks shimmered in his vision. Tears in the veil, fresh and raw, left behind each time he or Ryder passed through. Torn and reaching in the direction the person had passed—and telling Saffron exactly where he’d just been, and where Ryder had thrown the knife away.

Ryder saw him searching, his own head snapping around to do the same. He threw his hands out, tearing through the snow in search as Saffron knocked again and crumpled to the ground just within the man’s reach. Scrambling for the knife barely visible in its crater left in the powder. Within another second, Saffron snapped away another hundred feet away—but that time, he collapsed to his knees, spitting blood unrelated to Ryder’s boot to his mouth. It swelled from deep down inside of him, filling the back of his nose and making his eyes burn as his vision swirled.

You’re still weak! The veil cried.

“Fuck off!” Saffron snapped back, practically feeling the veil claw at him for the disrespect. He just wiped his mouth and the fresh blood dripping from his nose, rising to his feet and searching the clearing yet again—but Ryder was nowhere to be found.

“Where did he go?” He asked, turning in every direction—until the distant sound of two knocks echoed through the trees, and clumps of snow thudded to the ground from the reverberations. Saffron whipped around to follow it, stomach sinking when he realized they came from the direction of Taran’s racing footprints.

“Take me there!” He demanded. The veil shouted back a warning—but Saffron was already circling his fingers, swallowed in an instant.

He wrecked into the snow at least a mile away, trampled by something that snarled and lost its footing, thrown into the snow over his back. Teeth clamped down on his arm as he threw it up, shoving Taran away as the wolf immediately reeled back with a panicked, apologetic whine. The beast then turned and raced to where Asche gathered themself in the snow, crawling back onto Taran’s back before shouting Saffron’s name.

Saffron managed to rise back to his feet, though he swayed under the weight of his growing debility. Blood spilled freely from his nose, drops gathering in the corner of his eye and partially muffling his ears. Even with Taran nearby to cushion the demand of the magic again—it wasn’t enough. Even with a familiar to absorb some of the trauma, Saffron was still a valley witch, as Baba had once described. Without a bridge-partner to properly balance him. He knew it—and he was sure Ryder did, too, as the man snapped into existence a few yards from where they stood. Hunched and spitting blood, Saffron crossed the obsidian knife in front of him.

“You’re killing yourself,” Ryder said with an arrogant smirk. “Is this all worth it, Saffron? You know if you die—so does your dog. And then it’s just me and the daurae out here.”

“Eat shit!” Asche shouted, and Ryder’s smile split wider.

“Why don’t you come closer and say that, you little rat?” He said tightly, moving his hand as if to knock again—but a massive gale suddenly tore through the trees from the sky, whipping ice and snow in a whirlwind that blinded every inch around them. Saffron stumbled backward, knowing Taran was only a few feet behind him. He grappled for Asche, searching for the veil’s presence in the chaos, desperate enough to beg for a way for them both to pass through at the same time?—

Wait! Taran barked in Saffron’s mind, a mere moment before Saffron formed the circle with his fingers. Lifting his head, Saffron searched for the reason, and his breath caught as a titanic shadow dove from the sky, sweeping over them and churning up more snow and mist, before crashing to the earth and nearly knocking Saffron off his balance.

“Naoill—!”

“Mama!” Asche cried out, and a pillar of fire tore through the mist in an instant. Ripping through the snow at Saffron’s feet, clearing the air in a pocket around them. Someone rushed from where the shadow landed, and Saffron quickly realized—it was Maeve.

“Saffron!” She called first, before stopping short at the sight of who Saffron clung to. “Oh—oh gods! What ? —!”

“No time!” Saffron shouted back. He grabbed Asche from Taran’s back, shoving them into Maeve who wrapped her arms around the daurae. “Take them! You and Naoill, take them back to Avren! Now!”

“But—!” Maeve attempted, but Saffron shoved her.

“Hurry, before he?—!”

Knock, knock— Ryder’s passage rang out through the mist. Saffron whipped around to search, but he hadn’t found them yet. It was only a matter of time. The snow and ice in the air would only float for so much longer, blinding Ryder’s hunt. Maeve seemed to understand in that moment, as well—still, she hesitated, before rushing to throw an arm around Saffron. Embracing him tightly, shaking as she did.

“Come back home,” she said. “Don’t leave us.”

“I’ll—” Saffron started, words catching as Maeve pulled back, and Asche had tears in their eyes. “I’ll… I’ll meet you there,” he said, offering the most reassuring smile he possibly could. “I promise.”

Maeve wasted no more time, turning and rushing into the swirling mist toward the crouching dragon in the snow. Saffron wished he could have seen Naoill’s reaction to the fey lady emerging with their missing child—but he would have to wait and hear about it, later. So long as they made it into the sky, out of Ryder’s reach, that was all that mattered to him. Just buying time for them to go. He would meet them back in Avren. He would make sure of it.

The might of Naoill’s wings to lift from the earth sent another gale of wind whipping across the snow, that time flattening the mist and leaving the view gaping wide over the landscape. Saffron barely uncrossed his hands from his face in time to see Ryder approaching, forming another finger-circle in a flash and crashing into the snow a few feet away from where he started. That time, barely moving at all—as blood flooded the back of his throat, and he bent over to vomit the crimson across the charred ground eaten by the dragon’s fire. As if, with the daurae finally out of Ryder’s reach—he could no longer pretend to have the strength to knock through the veil more than a few feet at a time.

Even Taran no longer lingered behind him—and Saffron didn’t have to ask where he’d gone, the moment he attempted to return to his feet, only to sink back to one knee. Struggling to inhale even a single full breath; ears ringing from the deafening wind and constant knocking echoing off the trees, the distant mountains, dislodging snow to the earth where it collected in boughs on ancient pine trees.

Don’t let him touch you, the veil’s warning reiterated in the back of Saffron’s mind, and he stumbled backward as Ryder appeared within reach of him. That time, walking slowly. No longer needing to chase, his rabbit left exhausted and trembling at his feet.

“You still need me, more than you think,” Ryder said. Saffron shook his head, stretching out his arm and dragging himself away. “I know arid tricks older than my mother; secrets once offered to humans by the Dagda themself, when the veil first formed. Even if it refuses to speak with me—you’ve seen with your own eyes, how I can still force it to my will. Or should I demonstrate for you one more time, Saffron?”

“No,” Saffron coughed, spitting more blood to the ground, kicking at Ryder’s knees. That time, the man slowed to a halt. He watched in silence as Saffron dragged himself away a little more, before collapsing.

Get up! The veil shrieked, begging. Get up, damn you!

Saffron groaned. He rolled onto his side, then onto his knees. The world spun beneath him, and nauseous bile mixed with the overwhelming blood that choked him.

Somehow, Saffron clambered back to his feet. He swayed on his balance, but managed to remain upright—just in time to watch Ryder smile wearily at him, before lifting both of his hands to form a circle over his chest—a circle with all size rings.

Six knocks rang out, just like at the Midsummer Games. The air shifted, then plummeted.

The earth cracked beneath Saffron’s feet. The veil wailed in his ear, begging him—and Saffron threw out his hands.

With everything he had left—he raised his hands. He clutched Ryder’s being between his fingers, holding him. Just like on the edge of the Hoarcliff Pass; just like he’d once torn at the vines strangling Fiachra.

Ryder didn’t fight back. Ryder didn’t writhe or curse or even grin wickedly—he just watched Saffron closely. Knowing, as well as Saffron did, that it would not last. Saffron had reached the limit of what a mere human body could do, what a valley witch could do, without anyone to balance him on the other side. Still, though—Saffron tried. Even as his hands shook, and his vision ebbed in and out, he hooked his magic into Ryder’s and claimed him. Be still, be still.

Saffron might never be able to overwhelm Ryder Kyteler physically; Ryder may have more experience with magic; but Saffron had no choice—and he’d promised Cylvan he would be there with him. Back in Avren. He promised to never leave Cylvan’s side. It was what drove him to making his oath in the first place—and it would continue to be the reason he fought to return safely by his side, every time.

Let go, witch .

Saffron clenched his jaw, closing his eyes. His own voice beckoned to him through the ringing in his ears. Coiling around his mind like a shimmering ribbon. The veil, beseeching him still, even as weak and pitiful as he was.

“No,” he rasped, shaking his head. Jolting as Ryder suddenly attempted to wrench himself free. Saffron put a foot back to keep from tumbling backward. His vision blurred, colors rimming the edges of his eyes. He tried blinking through it, but it made no difference. “He’s—going to tear you open—again.”

There is nothing more you can do to stop him.

“I can?—”

If you die here, I will stand no chance.

Saffron whimpered softly.

“If I let go—it’ll swallow me.”

It won’t. I will carry you to safety.

“It won’t be far enough?—”

I know exactly where you can go and rest peacefully.

“Won’t that kill me all the same?” He asked miserably. Tasting only blood in his mouth.

I will bear the burden.

“But—”

I am your ally , it practically begged. You cannot hold him forever. This is inevitable. You are weak. Accept it, and let me help you.

Yes—Saffron was weak. He knew that. He’d spent too long avoiding his rowan magic, whether afraid of it or unsure how to learn, and it had left him weak. He knew that, he wouldn’t deny it, but hearing it in his own voice from the veil yet again twisted like a knife in his gut. Because—if he, of all people, couldn’t stop someone like Ryder—then who would? What would stop Ryder from going straight to the palace, next? Opening a veil beneath the beds of everyone who slept inside? What would stop him from taking Asche a second time, knowing right where they would be? That time ensuring no one would ever be able to find them again, until it was too late? Unless Saffron could do— something . Anything. He just had to do—anything.

If you linger, the strain will kill you before ? —

“Then help me!” Saffron demanded, choking as blood splattered from his mouth. “You insist I’m—useless until I learn—so teach me, damnit!”

The veil said nothing for a moment, but Saffron could feel it. Like it considered him, like it hadn’t expected him to argue. How much easier it would have been to drop his hands and let it whisk him away, so Ryder could continue with what he wished—but Saffron had never done anything easily. It wasn’t easy to learn how to read on his own; it wasn’t easy making the geis with Cylvan; it wasn’t easy navigating Danann House with no words and no agency; it wasn’t easy becoming a rowan witch. It would continue to be impossible until someone taught him—and there was no teacher like the veil, itself.

Gaze at the center of his body.

Saffron blinked through the strain blurring his eyes. When there was nothing to see, he squeezed them closed, blinking again and summoning whatever strength he had left to scavenge for any magic he had to spare. Over and over, churning through what remained of him—until the faintest glow shimmered around Ryder’s being, pink and dull. Half-arid, half-opulent. Could Saffron overwhelm him like he did those other witchhunters? Whether to kill him or not—would it even matter, with the six-knock veil tear already locked beneath his feet?

Slow down, the veil encouraged. Let your magic settle. Let it continue its search.

“Its what?” Saffron croaked, but the voice didn’t respond. Saffron focused on his hands, on clinging to Ryder’s being, keeping him from moving; he focused on the glow surrounding the man, static and familiar—before the glow throbbed, slightly. Thrumming like a slow-beating heart, flashing brighter, then cooler, trickling upward—and gathering behind Ryder’s head. Like a crown. Like—a glowing halo. Like the ones Saffron had seen on all the courtiers at Cylvan and Taran’s engagement party on Ostara. But if he could see those halos again, that meant, maybe?—

His breath caught; his focus flickered, and the earth warped beneath Ryder’s feet as he was allowed the briefest moment to continue his destruction.

In the center of Ryder’s chest, dim at first, but slowly growing brighter—Saffron saw the faint shape of hatchmarks. Feda lines on a red ogham stele. A true name.

“Icarus—come.”

His balance faltered, nearly collapsing to one knee as the additional draw on his magic hit like a knife to the chest. Tasting blood on his tongue, in his lungs.

“I need you… to get closer to him,” Saffron begged hoarsely. No strength left to even compel it. “Show me what’s on his chest.”

Taran took off like a shot. Not waiting for an explanation, not bothering to try and push Saffron back. Running as fast as he could to where Saffron barely contained Ryder, unsure how much longer he could last with every wisp of his being spread far too thin.

Taran’s thoughts materialized in Saffron’s mind, first as unintelligible sounds, then a warping mental image. The glowing name was fainter through his familiar’s eyes, barely discernible—but just enough.

“Eoghan,” Saffron mumbled. His fingers twitched, hands tingling with creeping numbness. His eyelids sank, growing heavy as the rest of his blood turned icy. “ Eoghan—be still.”

He couldn’t keep himself upright any longer. His vision faded, body collapsing to his knees, then forward onto his stomach. The earth turned beneath him, stinking of burnt sugar and snow and soil. Ice cracked as the echo of six ringing veil knocks crashed across the distant mountains, disrupting centuries-old facades of snow and making them shift. Saffron hadn’t been quick enough. He hadn’t managed to stop Ryder soon enough to cut his assault short?—

But none of that mattered, as Taran bound back to him. As the wolf vanished, and invisible hands embraced him, coiling around Saffron’s body and lifting him from the earth just before it swallowed him whole. Pulling him into the ether, into the space between worlds, realities, holding his face and whispering reassurances. You did well. You did well, my brave witch.

Saffron floated—until he fell. Like plummeting from the sky itself—air suddenly warm and rich with the salty scent of the sea.

He hit the earth with only half his weight, crashing over a stone altar. Colliding with golden bowls of wine, burning candles, pots of incense, trays of food, scattering every oblation to the ground that weren’t flattened beneath the heavy thud of his body. Too weak to catch himself, to move, to even lift his head as a scream tore out from nearby.

“Saffron! Saffron, my gods—!” it shouted, before hands grappled for him. Different than those of the veil—tearing at him in desperation. Strong and familiar in the sharpness of their nails. Searching him, taking his face and turning it, gasping at the sight of blood still spilling from his nose and mouth. A trembling hand sloppily smeared the crimson away, begging his name, then grabbing him under the shoulder to drag him from the altar. Not prepared for how limply he slumped, sinking to the ground while pulling him closer.

“Saffron, púca—gods, oh gods, what’s happened? What have you done? Please, my love, wake up, look at me?—”

Saffron searched for his eyes, scraping at the darkness behind them with all he had left. Prying them apart, heavier than two slabs of stone, he searched the overcast, rainy light of the sky on the other side. Upon finally, blearily meeting Cylvan’s eyes, Saffron’s racing heart unclenched slightly. His ringing ears diminished, until he could hear distant waves. The wind in the trees. The desperate breaths of his prince hanging over him. His prince, who looked terrified, eyes wide and creasing the perfect skin of his face. No—that was all wrong. That was not how Saffron wished to see him again, for the first time after returning home.

He managed the smallest, weakest smile, as his raven shuddered over every inch of him. He lifted a hand, cupping the side of Cylvan’s face, as Cylvan grabbed and squeezed it.

“Sorry,” Saffron said, managing a pathetic chuckle, then a groan. “I must look—like shit.”

“Púca—”

“I’m alright, Cylvan—trust me,” he said, before grimacing, knowing the words likely wouldn’t convince even the calmest of folk considering the state of him. “You’ll be—so impressed, when I tell you all about it.”

“What happened, Saffron? Please, please, gods, tell me what’s happened?—”

“I think—I’m going to pass out,” Saffron went on, offering Cylvan one last wobbly smile. Cylvan pulled him closer, demanding Saffron keep his eyes open, but Saffron felt it coming. The cold tingling sensation in his fingers. He gently patted Cylvan’s cheek, shaking his head, closing his eyes.

“Asche—will be here soon,” he whispered. “I’m sure—they’ll tell you everything, before I wake up. I promise… I’ll wake up, so don’t worry. I’m just—tired. But—I’m here. I’ll be back. You haven’t—lost me.”

Cylvan’s breaths, fast, sharp, horrified, hitched once, then slowed slightly.

“Alright…” he said, like it was all he could manage. “Alright, Saffron—you promised. You promised me. You’ll wake up soon. I’ll keep you safe until then. I’ll never let you go, ever again.”

Saffron smiled. He sank into Cylvan’s chest, releasing a long breath, and dipping beneath the surface of his exhaustion. Safe, in a place he could rest peacefully. Just like the veil promised.