Chapter 72
Zadriel
Before Dother’s Death
Winter exhaled, its frosty breath coating every tree, ice slipping between cracks in the bark.
Boughs glistened like glass, weighed down by an endless barrage of freezing rain.
It pattered against the braided branches serving as Zadriel’s roof, an endless cacophony peppered with the shrieks of a nearby bird.
A warning that somewhere, something was hunting.
Zadriel sighed—he was in for a long night.
Resting his head against a peeling birch, its paper-like bark tickling his neck, Zadriel closed his eyes and curled up in his fur-lined blanket. He was warm enough. If only he could sleep.
It wasn’t the way each breath puffed in the air, or the cold biting the tip of his nose—he hadn’t slept well in months.
There was a constant ache in his chest, splinters of dread piercing his heart. The feeling quieted during the day, but at night it consumed him, and he could almost hear a quiet chanting howling with the wind, the voices too distant to make out.
Sometimes, he wondered if the isolation was driving him mad—Cillian hadn’t returned since he’d made his vow months prior, sending a favored guard in his stead whenever the blood-pendant needed to be replaced.
Zadriel tried to keep his mind on Arcadia and what he might do once he returned home...
but it worsened the pain thrumming around his heart.
How could he leave knowing the Little Witch was here, in the arms of another, believing her mate was the monster? How could he live the rest of his days never having the chance to know her? With nothing but the memories of a few stolen glances of her face to carry with him?
Snow crunched in the distance. Zadriel sat up, endless black eyes narrowing as he watched a flicker of light pierce through the darkness.
He tossed his blanket aside, cursing the loss of warmth, and reached for his bag.
Careful not to make a sound while he rummaged through it.
A soft leather-wrapped handle greeted his palm, a paring knife his weapon. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use it.
It would be difficult to find him, even in broad daylight. From afar, the trees serving as his home blended into their surroundings—it wasn’t simply the birches, maples, and pines sheltering him, every surrounding tree bent and swayed to keep the odd structure from sight.
Wander closer, however, and it would be impossible not to grow curious.
The rain came down harder, bits of ice plunking overhead before ricocheting onto the forest floor. Why on earth would someone wander through the trees near Castle Berwick at this hour? And in a storm.
Unless...
Slipping his feet into unlaced boots, Zadriel made for the archway leading outdoors.
He crouched, his crown grazing the textured grooves of a red oak as he walked out into the storm.
Bits of white gathered in his inky black hair, ice clinging to his eyelashes and pelting his cheeks, but he hardly cared.
Not when he detected the sharp scent of citrus on the winds.
“Cillian!” Zadriel called, pocketing his blade.
“Zadriel!” Cillian called back, the light swaying in his grip.
Something moved in Zadriel’s periphery, snow crunching lightly under a gentle step.
Ivory fur weaved between trunks, a puff of black feathers in its maw, tiny broken wings barely clinging to the little bird’s body.
The weasel froze, black eyes boring into Zadriel’s.
Assessing the threat. When he deemed the unmoving Fae safe, he scampered between a swath of thick roots and into the burrow below, Cillian’s boot hitting the ground beside it moments later.
“I should find a way to hide you in the castle,” Cillian huffed, frigid mist curling around his nose.
Zadriel eyed the weasel’s den a moment longer before facing his brother.
Cillian shoved the fire sprite back into his pouch—there was no bottle on his hip tonight, thank the Mother.
If Zadriel had to look at it again and think of Cillian’s vow, his lost mate, and the stolen pieces of Arcadia—he couldn’t stand the thought. “I haven’t seen you in months.”
The buckle clicked in place. “I’ve been busy.”
It was an effort not to roll his eyes. Zadriel wasn’t a fool—Cillian was avoiding him. This was the longest they’d gone without seeing each other, their bond somehow frayed, perilously close to unraveling. All because of the Little Witch and the Crown.
“I’d almost wondered if you replaced me—the guard you keep sending could be my Halfling brother.”
“Hmm,” Cillian hummed, azure eyes roving over Zadriel. “I suppose he does share some of your features. Though, he’s human, so I doubt there’s any relation.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t send him out in this storm in your stead.” Zadriel raised a brow in question. “Why are you here?
“I’ve miscalculated.” Cillian nibbled on his left cheek, following Zadriel back to his dome of trees.
Zadriel was silent while they moved through the woods, his footfalls quiet despite the sheer layer of ice coating the snow.
When he ducked into his makeshift home, cool drops of water trickled down his cheeks and dripped off his jaw, their icy touch making him shiver.
“What happened?” he finally asked, pushing wet hair away from his face.
Cillian brushed past him and sat heavy on Zadriel’s sorry excuse for a bed, sleet tumbling from his charcoal cloak and dusting the furs.
Zadriel couldn’t keep the bite from his voice. “I don’t have a castle of blankets waiting for me, Cill.”
His brother rolled his eyes and leaned back on his hands, fingers sinking into the blankets. “I’ll have a new one to you by morning.”
“I fail to see how that helps me tonight.”
“Fine!” he snapped, his fists curling as he stood.
He paced, though there was little room for that, the sloping ceiling brushing the top of his head when he strayed too far from the center, trees refusing to move to accommodate him.
Cillian ran his hand through his hair, pulling at the roots.
It had grown longer since they’d last spoken, tickling his cheeks.
His beard unkempt. Shadows staining the skin beneath his eyes.
“Why are you here?” Zadriel asked again.
He cocked his head to the side, scrutinizing his brother’s face.
It wasn’t the King of Berwick who’d ventured out in the dead of winter to speak with Zadriel—no crown sat atop his head, his cloak too simple for a royal.
It was Cillian Dother of Eden who stood before him.
And he looked desperate. Panicked. “Is it Brennan?”
Azure clashed with onyx, Cillian’s sharp stare narrowing. “He’s given me until the end of this month before he comes to collect what I’ve stolen."
A panicked flutter stole his heart. “Mora.”
“Yes,” Cillian sighed, “he intends to take her and the ring back to Eden and continue with his plans. But I won’t let him have her.
I have the power and the crown; he can’t force my hand on this.
” He hesitated, twisting the ring around his finger, that dark void flitting back and forth within its casing.
“For now...” he almost whispered, as if he spoke the words more to himself.
“What do you mean, for now?”
“I’d considered everything. Which favors to call in, what secrets I could use as leverage to create a King’s Guard I could control, who might offer me insight into the workings of the Council.
It worked; I gained their trust. They crowned me for gods’ sakes.
” He stopped and looked back at Zadriel, dread etched on his face.
“They were amenable to my suggestions, close to agreeing Halflings should have paid roles... Brennan wouldn’t accept that I’d made progress, so I intended to show him. ”
“Mother help me, Cillian.” Zadriel crossed his arms, his fingers digging into his biceps, and swallowed against the discomfort building in his throat. “Tell me what happened.”
“They want my head, Zade.”
He blinked. “Who?”
“All of them,” Cillian spat, returning to his pacing, wearing a trail through carefully laid pine needles and kicking up the packed snow underneath.
“The Royal Council?” Zadriel was half tempted to grab him and hold him in place until he began to make sense.
Cillian reached into his pocket and pulled a silver flask free, quickly unscrewing the top. “Berwick,” he snarled, before taking a long drink.
Somehow it all made sense. The nightly chanting, the common clothes, the shadows lurking beneath Cillian’s eyes... The people were revolting, and they wanted to end their king.
“How did this happen?” Zadriel flexed his fingers, suddenly too aware of his thrashing pulse; it thundered harder by the minute. “You’ve had the crown for more than a year—I thought things were going well?”
“They discovered what I am.”
Zadriel sucked in a sharp breath. “Who betrayed you?”
White knuckles clutched the silver flask tighter, Cillian’s focus drifting to the boughs at Zadriel’s back. He didn’t need to say a word—Zadriel knew that look well. This was a mess of Cillian’s making.
Swallowing his snarl, he turned his head so Cillian wouldn’t see the way his upper lip curled. It would only lead to an argument.
That was all they did these days. He fucking hated it.
“You thought to appease your father by revealing yourself to the those who wish to reinstate the Laws? What did you think would happen?” Zadriel pressed.
“Would you prefer I give Mora to Brennan in a month’s time?”
His control snapped—Zadriel broke the distance between them and gripped Cillian’s cloak, jerking his brother closer, a spicy, amber liquid spilling over the lip of his flask.
“He never touches her!” Zadriel growled in Cillian’s face, flashing his sharp canines.
The threatening rumble in his throat pure, wild Fae. “Understand?”
The whisper of a knowing grin flashed on Cillian’s face, though it barely lasted a breath.
“Oh, I understand.” He gripped Zadriel’s wrist but made no effort to break free.
“Calm yourself. I did this to protect her. I thought I could move the Royal Council along, appease Father, and keep Mora while I build our legacy.” His eyes darkened. “I was wrong.”
There was a river of heat surging in Zadriel’s veins, the percussive boom of his heart louder than his thoughts, but somehow, he took a breath and let go, Cillian’s cloak slipping from his hand.
He couldn’t trust himself to speak, so he took a step back and crossed his arms, waiting for his brother to explain himself.
Cillian took another swig of his drink, then screwed on the cap and shoved it back in his pocket.
“The members of the Royal Council returned to their respective villages months ago, though they made certain the people know of their Enchanter King.” He paused, fury raging in his cold stare, his fingers twisting in the loose leather strap that normally held Mora’s flask.
“Now a mob gathers nightly outside the gatehouse demanding my head. I’m no fool; this is a Council ploy to control the people and regain their Indentureds. ”
“Then abandon the throne,” Zadriel spat, a moment before he’d considered the consequences.
“If you and Mora intend to remain together, take her and escape to Eldenna.” The words were like ash on his tongue, bitter and acrid.
A poison invading his senses. But it was the best solution he could imagine—if the throne collapsed, violence would follow.
Brennan would find a way to save the Halflings, but Mora...
She couldn’t be abandoned to such a fate, and with the powers Cillian had given her, parts of the Mother now bound to her blood—Zadriel’s fists curled, jaw clenching—she could never end up in Brennan’s hands.
Mora needed protection, a... Keeper. Someone she loved, who loved her in return.
Cillian stilled, leather slipping between his fingers. “You’d be okay with that?”
“I’d...” Zadriel’s tongue refused to weave lies—he sank onto his ruined bed and rested his head on the braided branches at his back.
They wriggled in his hair, playing with the raven strands, their soft touch barely calming the beast raging in his chest. Demanding he not separate from his mate.
“Release me like you promised, Cill, and make sure Mora’s safe and loved. Give her the life she deserves.”
Something in him was breaking. An agonizing dirge twisted in the winds, icy rain crashing down harder from the heavens, while a crushing pressure enveloped his heart. He pressed a hand to his chest, fingers splayed over his sternum, but it did nothing to soothe the pain.
He hadn’t expected Cillian’s wide grin. “I’m not ready to give up yet.”
“Why the hell not?” he snapped, fingers curling, his cloak gathering in his palm.
“I have a little time before Brennan’s a concern, and Mora’s nearly ready—when she ascends the throne, things will change.” His smirk grew into something wicked. “Their threats to my life will be meaningless then.”
“Cillian.” Zadriel gave him a stern look.
“One month, Zade. One month, and if she won’t say yes to becoming my queen, then we’ll leave this place, and I’ll take you home.”
Home.
Arcadia.
Hope swelled in Zadriel’s heart, a glimmer among the anguish.
“One month from this day?” he asked.
Cillian nodded. “I will meet you here either way, so you know.”
“Okay, Cill. But, please...”
“Yes?”
“Be careful.”
Cillian sank to the ground by Zadriel’s side and reached into his pocket.
“You know I always am,” he said, holding out his silver flask in offering.
When Zadriel accepted, Cillian beamed like he used to—it felt like more than a shared drink, as if something broken was mended between them.
For a moment, they could almost pretend they were in Eden, hiding together beneath Zadriel’s oak.
Cillian stretched his legs, his head tipping back while he took a deep breath of fresh, winter air. “No matter what happens, I’ll see you again. I have no intentions of letting this go.”