26. Cassiel
Ilie awake late into the night, thinking about all we have learned today, wondering what unnerves me most, and trying to work out how I feel about the fact that Wren and I have been bound together long before either of us ever existed.
I stare at her sleeping back, shivering under her cloak, and pull it up around her shoulders.
Actually, that part makes the most sense to me.
That part doesn’t unnerve me at all. Of course, I was born to know her.
Our souls slotted together so easily, it should hardly be a surprise.
Was I born to love her, too? Does it matter?
I would do great, awful things to keep her safe, but I don’t want to. I want to do good things.
I want to end this conflict once and for all.
No more death, no more killing. No more parents, fighting to avenge their children, or brothers avenging brothers.
If only it were as simple as me wanting it.
If, if, if. There I go again.
I sigh, shifting up in my bed, and stare down the hill at where the star gate lies. As awful as today’s visions were, I wish it had shown us more. I wish it had given us the answers.
Slowly, so as not to disturb Wren, I stand up, putting my cloak around her, and step away from the fire. Robin lifts his head, trying to follow me.
“Stay here,” I tell him, grabbing my sword and Wren’s dagger. “Keep Wren warm.”
I walk back to the star gate alone. It’s a short walk, and I’m blissfully unbothered by the dark.
The quiet is far more unnerving. The stones are silent, the hum faded to nothingness, like they’re done with me—or never cared in the first place.
I don’t even know why I’ve come back, or whether this is safe without the protection glyph. I can’t activate the protective sigils.
But I can read the runes.
I place my hands against the cold stone and push. One slab grinds reluctantly against another, moss shaking loose as I try to remember the patterns I witnessed earlier with Wren and the half-diagrams I copied into books years ago. I slide one back. Slide another forward.
Show me something, I beg the stones. Please.
Arrangement one gives me nothing.
Neither does two. Or three.
My chest tightens. I try again, faster now, less careful, hardly caring if I’m following a pattern at all. Push. Pull. Reset. The stones scrape and groan, stubborn as old gods. My hands start to shake.
I need a way forward. A way to end this conflict. To keep my people safe. To wake my mother. To heal Wren before she hurts herself irreparably—
My vision blurs, frustration boiling over into something hot and helpless. I slam my palm against the nearest slab and shout into the empty space.
“Do something!”
I shove one final stone forward without thinking.
Light explodes.
It blasts across the clearing in a blinding wave, the ground humming beneath my feet.
I stagger back as the sky above ignites—twelve stars burning bright where there were none before.
The stones blaze with runic fire, and a million overlapping voices pour out of them at once, too loud and too vast to belong to any living throat.
Hello, Prince Cassiel.
I suck in a sharp breath. “You— you can talk?”
Yes.
The stones flare brighter.
Sometimes, when the stars align, our voices can be heard by human ears.
I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this. I expected a vision. A sign. Something distant and symbolic, something I could misinterpret and pretend wasn’t real. I never—never—expected to hear the Fates themselves. And now that I can, my mind goes blank.
Speak, second son.
Their voices ripple through one another, seamless.
We know you have questions.
My mouth moves before I can stop it. “Why was I born?”
Because your parents lay together.
Heat floods my face. “That isn’t— that isn’t what I meant.”
You wish to know for what purpose you were born?
“Yes.”
It is as the prophecy says.
The stars pulse.
To bring the conflict between your people to an end.
“But how are we supposed to do that—”
However you like.
I stare at the stones. “That isn’t helpful.”
We have no power here, Prince Cassiel. We are but guides.
“So it’s up to us, then?” My voice cracks. “Is that what you’re saying?”
You.
A pause, as if they aren’t sure themselves, or are debating their answer.
Her. Mostly her.
The runes burn hotter.
You may think you are the same, Prince Cassiel, but the one you know as Serawen Ashwood is something else. True fire burns inside her. Destruction and life combined.
My throat tightens. “Is… is there a way for us to be together?”
We predict the future, but it is never set in stone. It is whatever you will make it.
“I’m not sure there’s a world that allows for that possibility.”
Perhaps. Perhaps not.
Anger flares, sudden and sharp. “Why speak to me at all,” I demand, “if you have nothing useful to say?”
The stones blaze, light searing white.
You wish for a prediction, Prince? Very well. Yes, the stars are not in your favour. We see great strife in your future. Great pain. We see the opportunity for great change—and a narrow possibility of joy. The future that both of you seek… cannot be achieved without great sacrifice.
I swallow hard. Somehow, I already know that the sacrifice they speak of isn’t mine. I have no real power. Not like Wren does.
And she’s the one fading. The one giving herself to everyone else until there’s nothing left.
“I won’t lose her again,” I say hoarsely.
You won’t have a choice.
The light flares violently, the stars shuddering overhead.
You should leave.
I turn, heart hammering. Something snaps not far off.
You cast no protection spell. Someone approaches.
The stones go dark.
I run, not stopping until the star gate is far behind me and the trees thin into the small clearing where our camp sits. Wren is asleep on her side, Robin curled against her legs, one hand tangled unconsciously in the dog’s fur.
“Wren,” I hiss, dropping to my knees and shaking her shoulder. “Wren, wake up. Now.”
Her eyes fly open, already alert. She takes in my face, the tension in my posture, the way my hand is half on my sword.
“Someone’s here,” I say.
Wren moves to douse the fire, but it’s too late. Three shadows step out from the trees.
They’re fey hunters, tall and lithe, dressed for the woods, covered in dirt. One has ears like a doe’s, another has horns. The third smiles when he sees her.
“Well,” he says lightly. “If it isn’t the traitor.”
Wren rises to her feet in one smooth motion, Robin snarling low beside her.
“I have no quarrel with you,” she tells them. “There’s no need for a fight.”
“Yes, there is.”
Magic slams into the clearing, bright and violent. Wren answers it instinctively—fire blooming from her hands, heat roaring outward in a protective arc. The flames tear through underbrush, forcing space between us and them.
“Run!” she shouts.
We tear off into the forest, scrambling over undergrowth. For three heartbeats, I think it might work. We just need to put some distance between us and them—
The light of the fire gutters out, unraveled by their magic like it was nothing more than smoke. They surge after us, fast, relentless, laughing now.
I draw my sword as we skid to a halt between the trees. Wren’s blade is already in her hand. We don’t speak. We never need to.
A sharp whistle—hers. Two notes, rising.
Go left.
I pivot as she lunges right, forcing them to split their attention. Steel rings against steel, magic crackling as one of them lashes out with a blade of condensed light. I duck, slash low. Wren whistles again—short, sharp.
Together.
We move as one. She disarms one fey with a burst of heat; I take the opening and knock him hard into a tree. He goes down with a choked sound, not dead—but out of the fight.
Two left.
One feints toward me, fast and low, while the other vaults backward, climbing a fallen trunk to gain height.
They stop fighting like hunters and start fighting like tacticians, herding us without making it obvious.
The space between Wren and me starts to stretch, tree trunks and roots nudged deliberately into our path.
A sharp whistle from Wren—warning.
I turn just in time to deflect a strike meant for her back. Sparks fly. The second fey drops from above, landing hard between us, driving us apart with a shockwave of magic that rattles my teeth.
“Wren!” I shout.
She skids backward, boots scraping, barely keeping her footing as the first fey bears down on her, blade singing with power. I’m blocked—forced into a brutal exchange with the other, every strike heavy, relentless. He’s stronger than he looks. Faster, too.
My hand darts towards the pouch at my belt without thinking.
Sightsever.
Wren and I can both fight in the dark. It could give us the advantage—
My fingers close around nothing.
The realization hits like ice. I left it at the campsite. I left everything at the campsite. We have nothing, no advantage, no weapons except the ones in our hands—
The fey surges forward, weapon slipping past my guard, and the world tilts as pain explodes across my side. I stumble, breath tearing out of me, and across the clearing I hear Wren scream my name.
Too far.
Too late.
I barely register the flash of movement behind me. A weapon arcs toward my spine, fast and certain—
—and something explodes into its path.
Feathers. A blur of motion and pain and impossible speed.
“Wren—!”
She’s a bird for only an instant, wings spread wide as the blow hits her instead of me. Then she’s falling, shifting back mid-air, her body crumpling as I catch her.
She collapses into my arms, breath knocked from her, blood already soaking into my sleeve.
“No—no, no, no,” I whisper, hands shaking as I press her to my chest. I scrunch my hand against the wound in her stomach, pumping with blood.
My mind blanks. The world narrows to her face, her lashes fluttering, the horrible stillness creeping in…
A snarl rips through the clearing.
Robin launches himself at the nearest fey, teeth sinking viciously into his ankle. The fey screams, stumbling.
The ground shakes. Something enormous bursts from the trees.