Chapter 38 – Ayer
AYER
She’s been unconscious for hours.
And for almost the entirety of that time, I’ve been watching her.
Long enough to notice things I shouldn’t.
Like how sleep softens her in a way wakefulness never does.
The stubborn set of her jaw eases. The lines of defiance disappear from her brow.
Long lashes rest against freckled cheeks flushed an angry red from fever, and damp strands of chestnut hair cling to her temples from sweat.
She’s always looked delicate, but now she just looks fragile.
Almost… human.
The thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
Again and again, my eyes are drawn to the dark rune I seared into her wrist days ago. The black ink a stark contrast against her pale skin.
Rune magic. One of the few kinds of magic humans can still access.
Centuries ago, when we fought the fae in the last Great War, the witches, druids, and mages lost everything.
Their magic was bound, ripped away, and woven into the tethering to strengthen the fae’s own power.
It was stolen. And that stolen magic still flows through the five crowns.
Our magic.
Turned against us.
The fae will pay—for what they did to Kovaria, to my people, and what they did to me. Starting with Sitara.
I grind my teeth, watching the Sitari princess sleep, and wonder—for what feels like the hundredth time—why I haven’t just run her through with my sword already.
Theo wants her alive. Thinks she could be useful when we finally square off against Sitara.
I disagree.
I’ll have the revenge Theo promised, one way or another.
Rowan.
For days, I wondered—tried to get it out of her—and now I have it on the tip of my tongue, and it relentlessly circles my mind.
I wish I didn’t know it.
Night has fallen, and the camp is quiet. There were no complaints about today’s early stop; most of the men were grateful after days of hard riding. Today’s terrain was nothing but hills and thick forest, and the air grows colder with every mile we travel closer to the mountains.
We had to stop early because of Rowan.
She collapsed. I found her facedown in the mud, soaked through and shivering so violently her teeth rattled. But then I touched her. She was burning. The heat pouring off her skin startled me; she was slick with sweat while chills wracked her body.
Theo wants her alive, so I couldn’t exactly leave her to die of fever in the mud.
I picked her up and carried her over to the fire. Then I removed her boots, setting them to dry beside the flames, and threw every spare fur I could find over her.
I expected her to wake halfway through and snap at me to stop touching her, but… she didn’t.
It’s been hours.
Admittedly, she is in rough shape. Her skin is ghostly white, almost translucent in the firelight. I checked her pulse earlier; it was there. Weak. Beating too fast. But there.
Bracing her head in my arm, I poured as much water as I could get down her throat before letting her sleep.
Her skin is pale, but her cheeks are a bright crimson now.
Classic red fever.
She must’ve caught it from the baby.
I study her sleeping face, my jaw tight as I pore over my thoughts.
There’s just something off about all of this.
Fae don’t get sick. At least… I didn’t think they did.
Especially not from something as ordinary as a human virus.
And even if they could, red fever doesn’t appear this quickly.
It takes days—usually close to a week—before symptoms begin.
It starts mild, with symptoms of a common cold, which is partly why it’s so dangerous.
Rowan held that baby once. For a few minutes. Two days ago.
It doesn’t make any sense.
It’s possible the virus was able to work faster because Rowan may have been in a weakened state. The battle, her capture, days of little food, too little water, cold days and freezing nights, rain, bruises, sleep deprivation. Any one of them could’ve worn her down.
All of it together… Well, perhaps even a fae body has its limits.
My gaze drops to her bare feet beside the fire. Yellow and greenish bruises stain nearly every inch of them. From me.
Guilt dances along the edge of my emotions, and I act quickly, slamming down that iron wall in my mind and forcing it out. She earned that punishment, and I refuse to waste any sympathy on a fae. Not after everything they’d done. Everything her family had done.
And Rowan… At the end of the day, she’s still a Valrose.
I sigh, tearing my gaze off her to study the woods instead.
Still, it’s not long until my gaze is inexplicably drawn back to the princess.
She shifts in her sleep, pulling the furs closer, which accidentally exposes one leg. There are wounds there too—newer ones. Fresh cuts and bruises from errant branches along the trail and all of her falls. A thin trail of blood has dried just underneath a deep gash on her knee.
Then I notice something else.
My eyes narrow at the thin, silvery scars that crisscross down the back of her exposed leg. They’re old. Not random. Not the kind left by an accident but by repeated injury. Some of them are still a little pink—newer than the others.
I stare at them for longer than I should, trying to imagine what could’ve made marks like that. But nothing comes to mind. I have to resist the urge to uncover her other leg and check for the same.
Almost without realizing it, I find myself moving closer. I crouch down beside her, studying her face again, searching for something—anything that makes this female make sense. Instead, she only becomes more of a puzzle.
Rowan.
I scrub a hand over my jaw and lean back with a quiet curse.
“No trouble, my ass,” I mutter to the unconscious princess.