Chapter 16
I Can’t Drink Enough
Fenrir Thorsson
The ache in my chest hasn't eased since I left Earth—since I left her.
Every galaxy between us is another weight pressing against my lungs, making it harder to breathe, harder to maintain control.
I didn't expect this, this physical pain of separation.
I didn't expect that being near Astrid would calm the wolf, would make the beast inside me settle when nothing else has worked for years.
Even when she pointed that gun at my chest, even with the scent of gunpowder sharp in my nostrils, my wolf had been calmer in her presence than it is now, surrounded by the familiar magick of Avalon.
I down another mouthful of ambrosia from my flask, letting the honey-thick liquid burn down my throat. It helps, but barely. The relief is fleeting, less effective with each passing day, and completely inadequate compared to the strange peace I felt in the presence of a woman who hunts my kind.
"That's your third flask since we left Vandimoor," Wraith says, his usually golden eyes now glamoured to a human brown. The glamor concealing his pointed ears is holding strong, but the shadows beneath his eyes don’t hide his exhaustion. None of us are sleeping well, but he doesn’t look like he’s slept in weeks.
"Unless you’d rather ride with my wolf chomping at your horse’s heels, fuck off," I growl, tucking the nearly empty flask back into my jacket.
Wraith's jaw tightens and he turns away, focusing on the path ahead.
I'm slightly disappointed. I recognize that part of me was actually hoping for a fight. Something to burn off this restless energy coiled tight inside me. Without Ares around to match my mood, Wraith had been the closest target.
Hawke rides at the front of our small procession.
The weight of eight realms rests on his shoulders now, half of them threatening war against his throne for marrying Melinda, a human with magick unlike anything we’ve ever seen.
Also for daring to change the way things have been for centuries and breaking free of the vise-grip the self-appointed High Council had on our worlds.
But now even his own people are on the brink of civil war.
"How is Melinda faring?" I ask, breaking the uncomfortable silence that's fallen between us. My attempt at conversation might help distract from the tension with Wraith.
Hawke's expression softens at the mention of his wife. "The pregnancy sickness has gotten worse. She wanted to come despite it, but I finally convinced her that being on horseback for hours would only make things harder on her."
"I don’t know how women manage it, I certainly would struggle," Boaz speaks up, his grey stone-like hands poorly camouflaged by thick leather gloves.
The petrification is lasting longer now—the greying color refusing to be banished at all anymore.
"Though I'd take just about anything over turning into a gargoyle. "
My chest tightens with familiar dread as I study my friend's condition. The stone has crept further up his arms since I saw him last, the veins of granite now extending past his wrists. Every time we meet, the darkness has claimed more of him.
He takes a long pull from his own flask.
Boaz drinks more ambrosia than any of us, and it looks to be barely keeping the stone at bay.
I've heard the old elven fairy tales, warning children about turning to stone if they offended Yggdrasil, but the five of us, we saved the world, all eight of them.
Why would the World Tree punish him for that?
We crest the final hill, leaving the forest road behind, and Camelot rises before us—ancient and imposing against the bright afternoon sky.
Its towers pierce the white clouds like accusing fingers pointed at the heavens.
I've seen it countless times over the centuries, but something feels different today.
Tiny cracks spider through stonework that once seemed impervious to time.
A chunk of battlement is missing from the eastern tower.
The castle looks... wounded.
My wolf stirs yet again, restless beneath my skin, responding to the wrongness ahead. I grit my teeth, fighting back another surge of longing for Astrid's calming presence. How twisted is fate, that the one person who soothes my curse is the very woman trained to hunt creatures like me?
"They've increased the guard," Hawke notes, nodding toward the walls where armored figures patrol in greater numbers than normal. "Jarlath's not taking chances."
Wraith shifts in his saddle. "The Upir have always understood the value of vigilance. It was fortuitous that my people are the wards this year."
“Aye, that it was,” Hawke murmurs.
I know he’s saying that mostly because the Upir are on the side of the Fae. Not all the kings are… yet.
As we approach the gates, a welcoming party emerges.
Their skin is as black as onyx, absorbing the fading sunlight while somehow seeming to glow from within.
Golden eyes—all of them—shine like polished coins against their dark complexions.
Long, slender pointed ears rise elegantly from beneath their hair, which falls in various styles—some with intricate braids woven with golden threads, others wearing it loose and flowing down their backs.
Their clothing is stark white with golden accents and cords, the simple, almost spartan design only emphasizing their natural regality.
At the center stands Jarlath Kergadras, King of the Upir and temporary steward of Camelot.
His imposing frame is draped in a white cloak fastened with a golden clasp, his long hair pulled back in warrior braids that reveal the full length of his pointed ears.
Beside him stands his Queen, Sahsa, her elegant bearing somehow softer despite the same sharp golden gaze.
Several golden cords wind through her elaborate braids, catching the light when she moves.
Two small children—a boy and girl with their mother's delicate features and their father's watchful eyes—peek out from behind royal guards clad in the same white and gold.
"King Stormblood," Jarlath calls as we dismount, his deep voice carrying across the courtyard. He clasps forearms with Hawke in the warrior's greeting. "I wish your visit came under better circumstances."
"The tremors have continued?" Hawke asks, his voice low. “The cracks look worse.”
Jarlath nods grimly. "Yes, the east tower lost another chunk of battlement this morning."
The castle is crumbling.
My wolf surges forward with a ferocity that nearly brings me to my knees.
A growl rumbles in my chest before I can swallow it back, my fingers curling into claws at my sides, nails digging half-moons into my palms. The metallic scent of my own blood fills my nostrils as I struggle to maintain control.
My vision sharpens, the world bleeding into primal hues of threat and prey.
"Fenrir," Wraith warns, taking a step back.
I close my eyes tightly, jaw clenched so hard my teeth might crack, focusing desperately on the memory of Astrid's scent to ease the pressure beneath my skin.
The beast reluctantly retreats, but remains coiled and ready just beneath the surface.
It helps, but it's like trying to sate thirst with the memory of water.
“I’m good,” I promise, giving him a quick nod.
"Wraith," Sahsa says, stepping forward and kindly acting like she didn’t just see me fighting for control. “Brother you look tired. We prepared a warded chamber for you to sleep in tonight."
“Thank you, sister.” He embraces her and sighs heavily. “Your kindness is much appreciated.”
"None of the High Council are in the castle today, but we should continue this inside in private," Jarlath suggests, eyeing the busy courtyard. "There are many visitors here."
My nostrils flare at the thought of being confined inside walls that could collapse at any moment.
The wolf, barely leashed after its recent surge, paces restlessly beneath my skin.
Every instinct screams to stay where escape routes are clear, where the sky stretches open above.
But the need for secrecy outweighs even my beast's survival instincts.
"Aye," Hawke says. "The servant's passage through the kitchens?"
Jarlath nods, and I inhale deeply, tasting the air—stone dust, fear, and the faintest hint of decay.
The scents tell a clearer story than any words could…
the castle is dying. The wolf understands too, hackles raised, but I force it down.
Better to face whatever danger lurks within than to expose our plans to potential enemies in the courtyard.
"Let's go," I growl, falling into step behind them. "The sooner we understand what's happening, the better."
Jarlath nods and we move together.
The kitchens of Camelot bustle with activity, but it's not the usual pre-feast chaos I remember. Instead of cooks arguing over spices and servants rushing with platters, we find Fae artisans working frantically alongside the kitchen staff. Their hands glow with Yggdrasil’s energy as they press palms against cracked walls, murmuring spells that make the broken stones shiver and coalesce.
"The damage is worse here," Jarlath explains as we weave between the workers. "The tower is so close. We had a really bad tremor last night."
Sahsa keeps their children close, a protective arm around each small shoulder as they navigate the crowded kitchen.
The young ones' golden eyes are wide with a mixture of curiosity and fear as they take in the cracked walls and busy workers.
The boy reaches out toward a particularly wide fissure, but his mother gently catches his hand.
"No touching," she murmurs, her melodic voice barely audible above the chaos. "Remember what we discussed about the castle's wounds?"
The child nods solemnly, tucking his hand back into the folds of his white robe.