Chapter 39
Daed
It feels strange to stand so high without my wings flared, without the dark, cracked stone of Baev’kalath beneath my feet. No rain, no starless sky pressing down on my shoulders. Only green. Only gold.
The timber beneath my boots, the curved wooden walls, it all creaks and groans, breathing with life around me.
Shafts of dappled sunlight spill through the arched windows, gilding the dust in the air.
Outside, flashes of color dart past. Small birds with jewel-bright feathers, their songs threading through the constant hush of wind in the leaves.
The trees murmur like an old god dreaming, and though I have not seen them, I know those lesser faeries, the creatures the Tenders call the Souls of the Forest, watch me with great interest.
Vines find their way between the floorboards and wall panels. Their leaves are broad, heart-shaped, mottled white and green. I crouch, tracing a finger along the edge of one. The serpentine vine.
I’d know it anywhere.
I remember it in Amara’s hands when she first stepped into Baev’kalath.
Then in her chambers, wilting a little more each night as she did.
Its color fading, its spirit dimming, until she set it free in Pariseth.
Something I could never do for her. I had caged her in my shadow and called it protection.
I rise, gaze shifting toward the clearing beyond the trees. I cannot see it from here, not even with my Fae sight, but I can feel her. Through my mark. Through the threads still binding us together. The blossoms still bloom where she sleeps and as long as they live, so does she.
“Rook.”
Orios’s voice snaps me back from the edge of memory. He’s sprawled in a chair that looks far too small for his massive frame, legs wide, elbows resting on his knees. He studies me with a soldier’s quiet patience, eyes sharp as the spikes along his gauntlets.
“Are the Blades ready?” I ask.
He nods. “We are few, but still a fine company of Ebon warriors. Disciplined, loyal, lethal and more than enough to handle those Legion sacks of shit.” His mouth hardens, the hard set of him wavering. “Surely Zyphoro isn’t…”
I cut him off with a glare. “After what my sister endured for centuries? She’s too proud, too stubborn, to die at mortal hands.” My teeth scrape my bottom lip. “But her silence gnaws at me.”
Orios leans forward, eyes glinting. “A hostage, maybe. Perhaps the humans mean to strike a bargain.”
The word bargain hits like a blow to the chest.
My jaw clenches until my fangs ache. “After what they’ve done to Amara, to the Grove?” Smoke curls from my skin. “The only bargain offered will be drowning in their own blood.”
Orios’ grin is feral as it pulls across his face.
I stare out the window again, to where sunlight drips through the canopy like molten gold.
“No more bargains,” I murmur, the words a vow now, more than a warning.
“And what if the Golden Son leads them?”
I square my shoulders until my spine feels like forged iron beneath my skin.
“That changes nothing. There is no going back now. For what they did to my wife’s people alone, they deserve smoke and wrath.”
Orios gives a low, rumbling exhale as one huge hand rubs at his chest through the worn leather of his vest. “I don’t need convincing, Rook. Just point me to the massacre.”
His enthusiasm is contagious, a scent in the air that stirs the warrior in me, that puts heat in the runes of battle and berserking etched along my skin. The pulse of it hums in my blood, begging to be unleashed. But not yet. Not until the right moment.
“What news from your scouts?” I ask, crossing the room to lean against the wall near the window. The breeze that slips through carries warmth and the faint sweetness of blossoms. I’ve grown used to it, this strange softness in the air.
“They got as close as they could without drawing attention,” Orios says, voice steady but edged. “Their encampment in the valley isn’t as large as before, but still holds strength. Mostly ground troops. Some horses. Archers. But something new. Ballistas. Dozens of them.”
My brow furrows. I fold my arms across my chest. “Not a favored human weapon.”
“Not human,” Orios replies, a shadow crossing his expression. “Even from a distance, they gleamed with gold. Fae craftsmanship, without question.”
I exhale slowly. “A gift from House Ithranor then, to use against us.”
“Seems likely. Why else aim for the skies?”
“Will they cause us trouble?”
A low sound rumbles from Orios’ chest, reluctant, almost a growl. “We Mordorin are fast. Almost impossible to track when we void-walk. But if they land a lucky shot… one of those bolts would split us clean in half.”
I grin, teeth flashing. “Then let’s not get hit.”
His shoulders ease, the faintest smirk touches his mouth. “Yes, Rook.”
He glances toward the canopy, where sunlight filters through the leaves in golden shards. “Is it late afternoon?” he asks. Beneath this dense cover, it’s always hard to tell. “We leave at dawn?”
I shake my head. “Do you remember, Orios, how the humans once called us the nightmare Fae? Of all our kind, they feared the Mordorin the most. Demons made flesh. The monsters that haunted their waking dreams.”
“I remember,” he says, quiet but firm.
“Then we will be those Fae to the Legion. We’ll finish them. Rescue my sister. Avenge the Grove. Make this world something my Amara can look upon without sorrow when she rises.” I pause, the air thick with the weight of it. “We’ll strike when nightmares are strongest.”
A sharp grin curls my lips. “Within the long, terrible dark.”
***
As dusk approaches, the Blades fill their bellies with as much as they can fit. Battle is a beast, after all and the beast must be fed.
My warriors still struggle with the lack of meat.
Never before have they eaten so much green.
So many nuts and beans and things better suited to the small creatures that scurry through the branches than to Fae warriors.
Yet even they, like me, will admit quietly, when no one’s listening, that the food is not terrible.
It fuels us as well as any spiced rack of meat.
And the bread… gods, the bread. Warm and soft and light as air. I’ve never tasted such a thing.
And the way they cook it together. No servants scurrying through dark, crowded galleys.
No barked orders or clanging trays. Just people gathered around a great fire, working side by side.
Each offering something, a skill, a herb, a steady hand, to make the work faster, the food richer.
Then they eat together, too. Around that same fire. Talking, laughing, singing. Sharing.
So different from the long, cold banquet tables of home, the silence between my father and the crone stretched on and on, while my warriors dined in the depths of the fortress.
The memory makes me ache for Pariseth. For the home Amara built for us there, brief, yes, fleeting as a dream, but real. She brought her world to ours, showed us what it could be if we simply chose to see each other.
Pale Mother, she is in everything now. Even with centuries of memories behind me, lifetimes before she ever drew breath, she eclipses them all. I can barely recall a world that did not have her in it.
I sit on a long bench, surrounded by Tenders and Mordorin alike, shoulder to shoulder, bowls cupped in our hands as we eat. I cannot remember a time when human and Fae sat this close without blades drawn, without hatred coiling between us.
And still, there is calm. A stillness before the storm, one that hums through us like a held breath.
I can only credit it to the Tenders’ influence, another thing we are not accustomed to.
There has been no sparring, no taunting, none of the blood-hungry rituals that usually seize us before battle.
No snarling, no frenzy, no dogs frothing at the mouth for war.
Only quiet. Only peace, the strangest omen of all.
But I know, despite the rituals and this unnatural calm, when the hour comes our ferocity will rear.
Fangs bared, wings flared, smoke and shadow answering our call.
Even now the thought prickles my skin; every nerve hums with it.
My body aches for battle and I cannot deny my nature.
War walks beside me as surely as the void does.
With my bowl empty, I lift my head and spot Solena by the great bubbling pot set over the fire, ladling another portion.
She straightens, eyes drifting to a cottage below where a candle flares in the window, its light brightening with the dusk.
Before she moves I rise, close the space between us, and take the bowl from her hands as gently as I can.
“I’ll take it,” I say. “I must speak to him, anyway.”
“Good,” she breathes, half a sigh, half a laugh. “He’s as surly as you are at the moment.”
“He wants to go to battle,” I tell her.
“He can barely walk,” Solena replies.
“A fact he refuses to accept,” I say.
She frowns. “He is not the only one who wants to go.”
“I need you here,” I say, firm. I ignore her small huffs and the way she pouts as if I haven’t already told her this a thousand times. “The Grove needs protecting, and if Amara wakes, I want it to be you she sees.”
Solena’s jaw tightens. Reluctantly, she nods. “I know. I will do what you ask. That does not mean I’m happy about it.”
I incline my head and turn toward the cottage, the bowl warm against my palms.