Chapter 2 – Rowan
ROWAN
Sure, maybe it was reckless and ill-advised, but after only an hour in the woods with a bow in my hands, I’m finally feeling like myself again.
I inhale the familiar pine and cedar scent of the Wyldewood, letting the wind whip the dark hair out of my face before slowly releasing my breath—steadily—alongside my arrow, only to huff out another breath immediately in frustration when the arrow hits to the left of my target.
“You’re still dropping your shoulder,” Riven calls from where he’s lounging in a small patch of sunlight, atop the flat boulder we’ve longed since claimed as our own. The natural gold highlights in his reddish-brown hair shimmer in the early afternoon sun peeking through the thick trees above.
His bow lies abandoned not far off, while he lazily sharpens his sword, his eyes on the blade and not on me.
“I am not,” I snap, rolling back the shoulder I had, in fact, dropped with a scowl. I stalk over to retrieve my arrow, ripping it from the tree before glaring at the tiny red center of the target. Its unmarred paint mocks me.
“Rowan,” my brother chastises when I yet again take up position.
I ignore him, taking another arrow out of my quiver and loading it into my bow. Taking aim, I roll my shoulder back. Now stay there, I tell it.
Neither of us wants to admit it, but it’s probably about time to face the day.
Both of us have a full schedule of engagements, and our absence will not go unnoticed.
News of the wedding will spread quickly through the court.
Honestly, I’d be surprised if word hadn’t already traveled all the way through the stables by now.
There are plans to make and dozens of arrangements to see to. I’m sure Alita’s already adjusted my schedule to extend the already arduously long etiquette lessons.
I dip my chin, the only sign I heard him, as I lift my bow higher, determined to pierce the heart of the target before attending to my long list of pointless duties. Busy work for an idle princess.
Calming my heart, my breath evens out and I draw the bowstring taut, the edges of my fingertips just lightly brushing against the corner of my lip while I block everything else out, focusing entirely on the little red target one hundred paces away.
A familiar whoosh cuts through the air when my fingers release the string.
“Ash and embers,” I curse when I miss the intended target once again.
The colorful language elicits a soft sigh from Maksa. She’s curled up in her favorite hollowed-out tree stump just below where Riven sits.
“It’s harder than it looks,” I grumble in the little wolf’s direction.
Maksa lifts her head, cocking it to one side. Her blue eyes are bright and inquisitive, as if she’s actually listening. Despite my growing frustration with the arrow and my future, a reluctant smile breaks through at the sight of her little face looking up at me.
Setting my bow next to Riven’s, I crouch down, scooping Maksa up into my arms.
The second I have her, the pup twists, rolling onto her back like an infant nestled in its mother’s arms. A full smile breaks out across my face as I stare down at her. Her pink, speckled tongue lolls out of the side of her mouth.
“You wouldn’t last a second, wild thing,” I tease, scratching the soft fluff of her little belly.
Out of habit, my eyes do a quick scan of the trees surrounding us.
This morning’s terrifying experience has made even the woods feel unsettled, undermining the fleeting sense of calm I found in shooting with Riven.
Rosecliff’s unique position at the far southeast corner of Sitara, between Daekhar and Skye, puts it right at the edge of the Wyldewood.
The dark forest runs along nearly the entire border with Daekhar, and up into the mountains of Skye.
It’s ancient, the forest’s trees towering and thick.
But since the untethering of Daekhar, it was light-cursed.
Or, well, at least that’s what the stories say.
Full of monsters and possibly even demons.
I certainly wouldn’t know, having never ventured deeper than the little training circle Fel and Riven had built for us, just a stone’s throw beyond the trees.
So, like I said, I can be reckless sometimes, sure, but I’m not stupid. There are far too many dark tales about the Wyldewood and the sinister creatures and demons that dwell there for at least some of them not to ring true.
Riven’s sharp intake of breath pulls my attention from the trees, and the sight of crimson dripping from his palm has me running toward him.
“What happened?”
“It’s fine.” He curls his hand into a fist, but the continuous drip of blood down his palm and onto the gray rock below gives away his lie.
“It’s not fine.” I set Maksa down, pointing to the bright red blood now staining the rock. “There’s blood. Blood would indicate the opposite of fine.”
Riven rolls his eyes at me. “It’s just a little cut—”
“Give me your hand,” I demand, holding out my own.
He does nothing of the sort. Instead, he attempts to wrap the bleeding cut tighter with the dirty scrap of cloth he’d been using to polish his blade. “It’s fine—”
“Shut up and give it to me.” I level him a hard look, still holding out my hand expectantly.
“Someone will see,” he hisses, his eyes darting to the edges of the forest surrounding us.
“Riven Vaelor Valrose,” I snap. “There’s no one here besides you, me, and the forest sprites.
If there were… Well, they would have already dragged our sorry asses back to the castle by now.
I never get a chance to practice, and you owe me.
” My eyes flash. “Give me that palm, right now.” There’s a sharp edge to my voice that leaves little room for argument.
My brother sighs, his eyes rolling so far into the back of his head they almost disappear, but he finally gives up the hand.
Hiding my smirk, I pounce, gripping his hand before he can rip it away from me.
In all fairness, the cut is tiny, but deep, and more blood spills out from just the motion.
Keeping a firm grip on my brother with my left hand to prevent him from pulling away, I cover his palm with my right, closing my eyes.
Warmth fills me as I call my magic. Seconds pass, and soon I’m wrinkling my nose at the pinching pain cutting across my own palm as I pull the wound from him.
“That’s enough,” Riven protests, attempting to yank his hand away from me, but I dig my nails in. “Ow!” he whines, but stops trying to pull away.
“I’ll say when it’s enough,” I argue. Another few painful seconds go by before I open my eyes. “Okay, that’s enough.”
I relinquish his hand, and Riven looks over my handiwork with a sour expression on his face.
The slice on his palm is nowhere to be seen, the skin smooth and unblemished, the stain of blood on his skin the only evidence of what happened.
His eyes flick to mine, where a now identical cut mars my own, and this time it’s my blood dripping onto the forest floor.
Riven’s frown deepens, but it does nothing to dull my growing excitement at the accomplishment.
“Did you see that?” I stare at the fresh wound on my hand with a wide grin on my face.
“You shouldn’t have taken it all,” he grumbles. “Here—” Riven tears a sliver of fabric off his tunic, snatching my hand before I can protest, wrapping it around the angry little cut to stop the flow of blood.
“I needed the practice.”
Riven’s eyes scan the tree line of our little training circle suspiciously. Whirling around when a light breeze causes the brush behind him to rustle.
“No one saw!” I hiss at him, annoyed that he’s not celebrating my little triumph with me. Only Riven and our older brother, Fel, know what I can do. They've both been my unwilling patients more than a few times, but they hardly get injured enough for me to practice on them.
“You cannot use it in Skye,” Riven says, his eyes still scanning the trees.
I frown, my mood officially dampened. “Healing magic is hardly a threat.”
“Anything can be a threat.” Riven’s gaze finds mine. “You cannot let them see you as anything more than what Father has already told them.”
My eyes narrow, hating that conversations about my future have clearly been had without me present. “And what has he told them I am?”
“His perfect little daughter,” Riven replies. “Nothing more. Nothing that complicates the tethering or succession—nothing that invites unnecessary questions.”
I grit my teeth.
“You cannot use it, Rowan,” Riven warns me again, sensing the discontent.
“I know.”
“And they absolutely cannot find out about your—”
“I KNOW!” I bite, and Riven’s mouth snaps shut.
I look away, folding my arms across the irritation burning in my chest. Magic in the kingdoms has long since been tethered to the royal bloodlines—the six fae crowns: Sitara, Skye, Lorien, Miselys, Izel, and Daekhar. But not Kovaria, the only human-led kingdom on the continent.
Only those born with royal blood can wield it, and the higher in succession, the more powerful the magic.
Except, somehow, mine rivals Fel’s.
Father never liked that, and he especially didn’t like that my powers already far exceeded Riven’s, my twin, who was born first.
It’s the same kind of magic that has flowed through Sitara’s royal bloodline for generations. The same as my father, Fel and Riven too. But mine was strong. Too strong. And unlike my brothers, or my father, mine also gave me the ability to heal.
That pesky little tethering mistake is the reason I’ve spent nearly my entire life exiled away at Rosecliff, tucked far away from Aurielle and the curious eyes of its Starlight Court.
But my father never forgave me for it, blaming me for the power I inherited—that I had no control over. I should be grateful he hadn’t taken the final step and bound my magic. Though, he’s threatened it enough times.
And so I kept my light buried beneath my skin; hid the power from my friends, the servants, the court. I made myself smaller so no one would know just how much power I carried, to never give my father a reason to take it.
As far as any one in Sitara is concerned, Rowan Valrose is powerless.
However, the other matter is a secret, even from my father. A secret only Fel, Riven, and I share, and something Kane, my new fiancé, absolutely cannot know.
Nobody can ever know.
Because if anyone found out—anyone...
I’d be dead.