53. Cassiel
Dawn comes. Light filters through the curtains in glittery bars, striking Wren’s features in a way that paints away the hollows under her eyes. I want to paint her, but more than that, I want the power to stall the world and narrow it to this moment. I want to stay in it forever.
She’s still asleep. I stroke her back, fingers playing with her hair. I wind her locks into little knots, like I tie myself to her.
Slowly, she stirs, smiling up at me from the pillow. She pulls me into her arms and kisses me.
You’re meant to be together, Evander told us.
He was right. Saints, if only we could have brought him with us. Outside of the dreamscape, he’d be able to reason with Mother, to make her understand.
I cannot give Wren up. I cannot let my mother hurt her.
But how can I possibly keep her safe now?
“If you could fly anywhere, where would you go?” I ask her, when she’s done kissing me.
She stares out of the window, her thoughts away from mine. “Marisar?” she wonders. “Xaden? Somewhere unexplored, perhaps? Where would your wings take you, if you had any?”
I breathe in deeply, letting the air fill my lungs.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“I’m asking you.”
“That’s my answer,” I reply. “Wherever you go, is where I want to be.”
“Oh, you are so good,” she says, failing to suppress a smile.
“I’m so in love with you,” I explain. “The poetry comes easily as a result.”
“I wish it did with me.”
“You don’t need poetry,” I tell her, cupping her face. “You don’t need to be anything other than yourself.”
At this, Wren’s eyes fill with tears.
“What?” I ask. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No,” she says. “You said everything perfectly, wonderfully, as usual. It’s just… you don’t know what that means to me, to hear you say that. To know you believe it. After everything…”
She shifts up in bed, her head turning away from mine.
Slowly, I move too. I crawl behind her, lips to back. “After everything your grandmother tried to make you, you mean.”
Wren nods. “I was what she wanted me to be. And while I know it’s a good thing that I’m not now, it didn’t feel that way at the time. I was never going to be enough for her, enough for anyone…”
“You are more than enough,” I say, kissing across her skin. “You are perfect, Wren. You are stubborn, defiant, brave, reckless, resourceful, and kind.”
I scoop her hair over her shoulder and brush the back of her neck. “Whatever anyone else ever tells you. You are all of those things, and mine, and beautiful—though I needn’t remind you that I didn’t fall in love with you because of what you look like.”
Wren sighs, the breath drifting out of her, and she leans back against me. One hand reaches up and traces my jaw. “Your looks helped,” she admits. “Your soul has very nice packaging.”
I laugh against her. There’s so much more I want to tell her, more I want to assure her of, but footsteps sound along the corridor, and she tenses.
“It’s all right,” I tell her. “It’s just Anne. She won’t tell my mother—”
But it isn’t Anne who opens the door.
It’s Captain Fellwood.
Captain Fellwood fills the doorway, his shoulders broad, jaw set, eyes already fixed on Wren.
It takes only a second for him to draw his sword and lunge towards the bed, cursing at her.
Wren is faster. She slips from my arms in a blur of motion, the air around her shivering as her feathers flare. A rush of wind snaps the curtains back.
And then she’s gone.
No words of farewell, no last minute kiss. Nothing left of her at all, except for her clothes on the floor and the fading warmth of her in my bed.
And the hole she’s left in my heart.
Fellwood skids to a halt, breath heaving, sword still raised as if he might still strike her. His gaze darts to the open window, then to the empty space beside me, then back again. Rage blooms across his face, hot and immediate.
“You let her in here,” he says, voice low and shaking with it.
I sit up slowly, the imprint of Wren still warm against me. The bed covers gather at my middle, not hiding a great deal. “You’re very observant, Captain.”
His eyes snap to mine. For a moment, I think he might strike me. There’s something unhinged in the way his fingers curl, the way his shoulders tense.
“She killed my men. Your brother—”
“Has never blamed her,” I interrupt. “His last words were spent trying to tell me she tried to save him, actually.”
“Prince Evander was a kind soul—”
“He was right,” I snap. “She is not the enemy.”
“How can you say that—”
“Are you honestly interested in listening, Captain?” I ask. “Because I doubt your mind is actually open to changing.”
Fellwood stares at me, saying nothing. He straightens instead.
“Her Majesty wishes to speak with you.”
I sigh. “I suppose, then, that I better get dressed.”
I choose my outfit carefully; a silk shirt, a blue-green waistcoat with gold brocade, and a cravat that Wren used to tie for me. I am every bit the picture-perfect prince, but I’m Wren’s, too. She picked out this outfit for me many times.
Fellwood sends word ahead to my mother, then walks half a pace behind me through the corridors, close enough that I can feel his presence like a blade at my back.
Guards step aside as we pass. No one meets my eyes.
I don’t know if it’s because they’re angry with me, or ashamed.
Dain wasn’t the only knight Wren was friendly with.
Some of them might also be doubting my mother’s orders to capture Wren.
I’m sure she made it past the walls. I would have heard about it if she hadn’t.
Please be safe, Wren. Just be alive.
The thought presses against my ribs, sharp and suffocating. If she returns, circles back for her clothes—
No. She won’t. She’s smarter than that.
But she’s also reckless and doesn’t care as much about her own life as she cares about mine. I used to admire her bravery, but now I want her to be a coward.
We stop outside my mother’s chambers.
Fellwood knocks once, then opens at her instruction.
“Your Majesty,” he says, bowing shortly. “I have brought his Highness.”
I step inside.
The war ministers are already gathering their papers, their murmured conversation cutting off as they see me. One by one, they file out, not a single one lingering long enough to offer me even a glance of sympathy. The door closes behind them with a soft, final click.
My mother sits upright in her bed, propped against a mountain of pillows.
A makeshift desk spans across her lap, littered with maps, letters, and documents marked in a tight, precise hand I know all too well and resembles Evander’s far more than mine.
She looks… composed— the portrait of a queen, rather than a woman who has been unconscious for months.
Empty vials lie on her bedside. My mother may dislike magic, but she’s never been against the use of potions or alchemy.
I think back to my time with Wren in the forest, and imagine the practical applications of magic if we allowed the fey to roam freely outside of the Duskfen. Oh, how our kingdom would flourish.
“Cassiel,” she says.
There’s no warmth in her voice, but there’s no anger, either. For a moment, I allow myself to believe that there’s a chance she’s calmed down, reviewed the situation, changed her mind.
I incline my head. “Mother.”
Silence stretches between us, taut as a drawn bowstring. “I am told you had a visitor.”
I say nothing.
She exhales softly, as though my silence confirms something inevitable. “You have always been stubborn.”
“No, I haven’t been,” I tell her. “I have always been calm, and logical, and used my head—”
“Well, you’ve certainly abandoned that now—”
“My heart has not clouded my judgement,” I return.
“Wren is not responsible for the actions of her people. I’ve been to the forest, Mother.
I’ve spent time with the fey. I helped a brownie woman deliver her baby, held a man’s hand as he died, witnessed a wedding. They are just like us. Their magic—”
“Their magic blinded you,” she reminds me. “It still does.”
“It healed me, too,” I explain, keeping my voice quiet.
“That doesn’t bring your brother back. Or your father.”
“It won’t bring Wren’s back, either,” I tell her, and then, before I lose my nerve: “There’s a prophecy about me and Wren.”
My mother stares. “What?”
“I was shown it. The fey have held it for a century. The fates predicted that the war between fey and human would come to an end when a half-blood was sent into the service—or the partnership—of the second son. We were born to end this conflict. And we can end it, Mother. We just need to—”
“What?” she presses. “What do you need to do?”
I pause, because I don’t precisely know. “We just need to stop fighting, Mama,” I tell her. “You lay down your arms, Nubaia lays down hers. We don’t need to continue this bloodshed.”
Mother scoffs. “Nubaia will never stop fighting.”
“You don’t know that,” I say, even though she might be right. “If we open our borders, embrace them, apologise for her son’s death—”
“Do you think she will apologise for mine?”
No, I think, but I don’t let the word slip. “It’s worth a try, isn’t it?”
Mother sighs. “You are a kind soul, Cass. You always have been. Your father would have been proud.”
“But you aren’t.”
Her jaw tightens. “I don’t have the luxury of being kind,” she says. “And you won’t either, when you’re king.”
Coldness grips me. It’s the first time she’s acknowledged what I am now, the role I’ll one day have to fill. The role that should never have been mine.
I will undo everything you have built when the crown is mine, I vow to myself, no matter how much I don’t want it. If there’s a kingdom left at the end of this.
“I will not waste time,” Mother continues, fingers resting lightly atop the papers before her. “You have one chance to stand with me, Cassiel, against what is coming.”
A chill slips down my spine.
“What’s coming ?” I ask.
Her eyes sharpen, but she doesn’t answer.
“One chance,” she repeats.
I know what the smart choice is, what Cassiel the tactician would do. He would agree. Pretend. Stay close to her and learn what she’s planning, dismantle it from within. Protect Wren that way. I can lie, after all.
But I just can’t seem to make myself lie about this. How can I take back all that I’ve said and pretend not to care what happens to Wren—or any of the rest of the fey that don’t deserve what’s coming?
“I can’t,” I say.
The words feel like stepping off a cliff. I can’t take them back. I’m soaring towards the rocks beneath.
Her expression stills.
“I won’t stand against her,” I continue, more quietly now, but no less certain. “I won’t pretend she’s my enemy when she isn’t. I love her, Mother, and if you hurt her—”
Her eyebrow raises. “Then what?”
“Then Evander won’t be the only son you’ve lost.”
Something flickers in her gaze, her green eyes cold and distant. “Then you have made your choice.”
I swallow, forcing myself not to look away. “I have.”
For a moment, I think she might argue. That she might try to persuade me, or threaten me, or—Saints help me—plead.
She does none of those things.
“Captain Fellwood,” she calls.
The door opens immediately.
“Remove Prince Cassiel,” she says. “He is to be confined to his rooms until further notice.”
Fellwood steps forward. I don’t resist when he takes my arm.
“And Captain,” my mother adds, almost as an afterthought, “have the archers instructed: any birds that so much as look toward the castle are to be shot.”