Chapter 9 Mentors #2
I swallow hard. The room suddenly feels too small. “And if I agree to your deal?”
The twins’ exchange lingers like static in the air, and I feel the weight of unseen threads tightening around us, an invisible hand closing over my name.
Cassian’s grin sharpens. “Then your secret is safe with us, Fire. But when I come to collect my favor”—he leans closer, his breath warm against my ear—“don’t pretend you weren’t warned.”
A shiver runs through me. Then I remember something my mother once told me about the fae.
Words are their traps. And names—true names—are the deadliest kind.
They were there the day of the Selection. They heard it spoken aloud.
Selene Anne Fairchild. My legal name. My mortal name.
But a true name is more than ink and ceremony. A true name is what can bind you. Break you.
And, in the fae world, damn you.
I straighten, lifting my chin. “I’ll grant you a favor,” I say calmly. “One each.” That gives him pause. “But I set the terms.”
Lyra’s attention sharpens—not surprise, but approval.
“First,” I continue, “neither of you may ask me to harm another—directly or indirectly. Not now. Not ever.” I hold Cassian’s gaze, unflinching.
“Second: my name is yours to guard, not to wield. You will not speak it, trade it, or even hint at it—until I am free of this place, or until I choose to give it.”
The air tightens. The magic listens.
“And third,” I add softly, “if either of you breaks that silence—by accident or design—you will each owe me a favor. One of equal weight. No refusals.”
For a moment, neither speaks. Then Lyra exhales, slow and thoughtful, shaking her head at her brother. “You never could resist a dangerous game.”
“That’s because the best people never can resist playing.” Cassian steps forward with a wink, extending his hand, his smile sharp and bright. “We have a deal.”
I hesitate only a heartbeat before placing my hand in his.
Heat flares instantly—sharp and searing. I gasp and wrench my hand back, clutching my wrist.
Etched into my skin is a small mark: two swords crossed over a shield, dark as fresh ink, warm as living fire.
“Our family crest,” Lyra explains, stepping closer. She covers my wrist with her palm, her touch cool and steady, easing the sting until it fades.
She turns her own wrist outward. A single flame marks her own skin in the same place.
Cassian bares his wrist to expose another flame, identical.
My breath catches. A shared mark. A shared cost.
And then I see it—as though a glamour has been quietly stripped away.
Pointed ears. Not just Cassian. Not just Lyra. My gaze flicks to Arther. To Mae.
All four of them are fae.
“Well, Fire,” Cassian murmurs, amusement curling through his voice, “it seems you’re officially under our protection now.”
They move on, leaving the air charged in their wake. I remain where I am for a beat, the echo of our bargain settling into my bones. The weight of my secret still presses against my ribs, but now it’s bound. Balanced. Protected by words chosen with care.
I draw a steady breath and follow after them. There’s nothing to do but keep moving.
We pass through several wings, some decayed and dusty, others pristine and humming with enchantment.
“There’s the greenhouse.” Marb gestures toward a wall of fogged glass to our right. “Try not to go there alone. The plants tend to be deadly.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Vivian snaps.
Cassian leans closer. “Only if you scream.”
Lyra sighs. “Ignore him. What he means is that the vines respond to fear.”
“Moving on!” Marb chirps. We’re happy to obey.
We reach an enormous set of double doors of onyx carved with thorned roses.
As we glance inside, I stop breathing. Books—shelves upon shelves of them—spiral higher than I can see, their spines gleaming in every shade of leather and jewel-toned dye.
Ladders on rails arch between floors, and floating orbs of light drift lazily through the air.
There’s something sacred here, a stillness settling deep in my bones.
“And this is the ballroom,” Marb says proudly, gesturing grandly at the enormous, open floor.
Some of the shelves are half-rotted, yet not a single book seems to bear a trace of dust. The air carries the scent of ink, cedar, and faint smoke, like parchment rescued from fire.
Amid the disrepair, it’s almost too clean, as though the stories themselves refused to decay. My fingers ache to reach for them.
A hallway of paintings follows, each portrait stranger than the last. I swear I see one’s eye twitch. Elena huffs and flips her hair. Seraphina glides ahead as if she already owns the place.
Cassian stops before a painting of a woman with silver eyes and a crown of ash. “She was the first bride, you know,” he says, voice dropping low.
“Did she survive?” I ask.
He smiles faintly. “Define ‘survive.’ ”
I shiver and look away.
Eventually, we reach an open archway. Warm air and the scent of roasted herbs drift out.
“The kitchens,” Marb announces. “Best keep your hands to yourselves here. The last girl who stole a tart grew whiskers for a week.”
Cassian chuckles. “A small price for good pastry.”
Lyra rolls her eyes as a few of the fairies giggle. “You would say that.”
I hang back, my pulse quickening.
“Feel free to have anything already plated for you, though,” Cassy’s fairy companion says.
“Yes, have something to eat,” Marb echoes. “After that, you’re free to explore on your own until dusk. Try not to break anything—or yourselves.”
As the others move toward the hearth, I drift toward a side table where a tray of still-warm bread, fruit, and something golden and flaky awaits. I fill a small plate, tucking a few pieces into a cloth napkin, and glance toward a narrow archway off to the side of the kitchen.
I peer through the vine-wrapped entrance into a quiet garden path beyond. I glance around, but no one’s watching. Perfect.
Plate in hand, I slip outside and step into the sun.