CHAPTER 21
Faelith didn’t remember leaving the courtyard.
One moment she was sitting next to Simon; his hands warm around hers, his voice soft, his presence steady — and the next she was walking through the capital streets alone, her breath labored, her pulse too loud in her ears.
The lanterns along the walls flickered as she passed, their light bending strangely. Casting eerie shadows along her path.
Truth can fuel your vengeance.
The words echoed through her mind. She replayed them again and again, trying to fit them into Simon’s voice, Simon’s gentleness, Simon’s careful concern.
That line. That single, quiet line had not sounded like Simon at all.
She felt the realization settle into her skin, slow and heavy, like a stone dropped into deep water.
Simon wasn’t who he said he was.
But she knew one thing with absolute certainty:
She had to get away from him.
She pressed her back against the cold stone wall, closing her eyes as the weight of the night pressed in around her. The city felt different now — darker, narrower, full of shadows she hadn’t noticed before. Every sound echoed too loudly.
She felt watched.
The street stretched ahead of her, empty and silent.
Why was she drawn to Simon?
She blindly followed the pulse, growing stronger as she drew closer to his estate.
Could he have the amulet?
She replayed the moment in the courtyard — his hands around hers, his voice soft, his concern gentle.
She replayed the way he brushed her hair back behind her ear, the way he stepped close, the way he spoke as though he understood her fear intimately.
The pulse coming from him wanted Faelith to get closer.
Her stomach twisted.
Could he have played her? Used her past, her emotions, to manipulate and control her?
Faelith pushed away from the wall, forcing herself to move, to breathe, to think past the fear tightening around her ribs.
She needed distance.
Her feet carried her without thought, instinct guiding her down narrow alleys and quiet lanes, away from Simon’s hands.
She turned a corner, slipping into a street lined with shuttered shops and darkened windows. She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the faint echo of the pulse, weaker now, but still present, still tugging at her, reminding her that she had walked toward the wrong person.
She reached the edge of the inner city, where the stone paths gave way to a small glade tucked between the outer walls and the first line of trees.
She had passed it before without noticing — a quiet place, half-wild, half-forgotten, sheltered from the main road by a curtain of ivy and low-hanging branches.
A perfect place to breathe.
To think.
To unravel.
She stepped into the glade.
And froze.
She wasn’t alone.
A figure stood near the far edge, half in shadow, half in moonlight. Broad shoulders. Dark hair. Clothes torn and dirt-stained. A posture that looked both exhausted and alert. He turned at the sound of her footsteps, and the breath left her lungs in a sharp, startled gasp.
Cian.
She took a step back, instinct tightening around her like a vise. The memory of the ballroom slammed into her — the revelation, the fear, the way the world had tilted beneath her feet. She saw Simon’s face in her mind again, heard his gentle voice.
It's difficult when someone you care for shows you a face you never expected.
Her pulse spiked.
Cian took a step toward her, slow, careful, as though approaching a frightened animal. “What are you doing out here alone? Where are Ashendir and the others?”
She flinched.
He stopped immediately.
The hurt that flickered across his face was small, quiet, devastating.
“Faelith,” he said softly, “Please, let me explain.”
She swallowed hard, her throat tight.
Faelith shook her head, backing up another step.
For a heartbeat, echoes of flame and screaming flashed through her mind—her home burning, her frantic search for escape, the weight of hands dragging her away.
Fear and doubt tangled inside her so fiercely she could barely breathe.
“No. You don’t know what I have seen, what I felt. ”
The words came out thin, barely held together. She didn’t know whether she meant them as a warning or a plea. Her body screamed at her to run. But something in Cian’s voice, in the way he stood there bruised and exhausted and open, held her in place.
“Faelith,” he said quietly, “you deserve the truth. All of it.”
She hovered on the edge of flight.
Cian saw the hesitation.
Faelith didn’t move closer, but she didn’t retreat either. Her fingers curled in the fabric of her dress. She felt torn in two — one part wanting to collapse into him, the other wanting to disappear entirely. Instead, she stood there, waiting.
“I never meant to cause your people harm.”
“Eighteen years ago, I found you that night,” he said. “Being dragged from behind a farm cart by your hair.”
Cian’s jaw tightened, grief flickering across his face. “He threw you to the ground, and your head hit that rock. You were unconscious when I reached you.”
She had always wondered.
Always imagined the moment she had been found — the sword raised, how she was saved and woke up with the Diwaller.
She had never imagined this.
“Your home was burning. The knights were searching for the amulet. One of them had his sword raised over you.”
“I stopped him.”
Ringing took over her ears. Cian had been there; that was true. But he knew about the sword; he was the one who saved her.
The wolf from her dreams.
“I carried you out of the village. I walked all night to take you to the Diwaller where I knew you’d be safe.”
She stared at him, vision blurring; he had given her the chance to survive.
The fear, the confusion, the betrayal — all of it collided with the truth in Cian’s voice, the exhaustion in his posture, the grief in his eyes. She couldn’t stand it any longer. The weight of that night pressed down on her, suffocating, overwhelming, undeniable.
She moved before she could think.
Faelith ran into Cian’s arms.
He stiffened in shock — a sharp inhale, a startled tremor — but only for a heartbeat. Then his arms wrapped around her, strong and steady, pulling her close as though he had been waiting eighteen years for her to reach for him.
Her fingers clutched at his tunic. Her forehead pressed against the crook of his neck. Her breath broke against his skin.
The memories crashed over her — the screaming, the terror, the uncertain, empty void of missing memories. But beneath it all, she felt something else: the truth. The truth he had carried alone. The truth he had protected her with. The truth she had never known she needed.
Cian’s hand slid into her hair, gentle but sure, cradling the back of her head as though shielding her from a world that had already taken too much. He held her tight, grounding her, steadying her, letting her shake against him without pulling away.
He whispered into her hair, voice rough with emotion, “I’ve got you.”
???
For a heartbeat, Cian thought she might run away. He was afraid that he might have said something wrong or that it was too late to apologize.
And then she moved.
She crossed the space between them in a single, desperate motion, throwing herself into his arms as though her body had made the decision before her mind could catch up. Cian froze, stunned, every muscle locking in place.
Then instinct — old, fierce, protective — surged through him.
He wrapped his arms around her.
She clutched at him, fingers twisting in his tunic, shaking against him as though the truth he had given her had cracked something open inside her. Cian pulled her close, one hand sliding into her hair, cradling the back of her head.
He lowered his chin to her temple, breathing her in, grounding himself in the reality that she was here — alive, warm, in his arms — after so many years of regrets, distance, and secrets.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice breaking, “I’ve got you.”
She trembled harder.
He held her tighter.
And when he felt her breath steady just enough for words to reach her, he continued because she deserved the truth, and because he could no longer bear the weight of lying to her, even if to protect her.
“Simon isn’t the man you think he is.”
Cian swallowed hard, forcing the words out. “He’s a lie. A role Damon created to get close to you.”
Faelith remained still and calm as she listened.
“He’s the one who dragged you from behind the cart,” Cian said, voice low and raw.
Cian closed his eyes against the thought. “If I hadn’t stepped in…”
He felt Faelith’s fingers tighten in his tunic.
“Damon has been pulling the strings of everything around us. The summons. The council. The letters. The archives. All of it.”
“He wants the grove,” Cian said. “And he needs your blood. Some how, it unlocks whatever is trapped there.”
Cian held her as though he could keep the world from touching her. As though he could shield her from every lie, every manipulation, every shadow Damon had cast over her life.
He pressed his cheek to her hair, his voice barely more than a whisper.
“I swear to you,” he said, “I will not let him take you.”
Some time had passed. Cian wasn’t sure how long; hours, eternity. He knew it wouldn’t be enough.
He and Faelith had settled at the edge of the glade, resting against a moss-covered boulder where the trees thinned. She had drifted off in his arms some time ago, worn out from the night’s events, from the fear and confusion and grief that had torn through her like a storm.
Cian didn’t dare move.
He held her carefully, one arm around her shoulder, his other hand covering hers, her head resting against his chest. Her breath was slow now, calm, warm against him. No lines of worry crossed her face. No tension pulled at her brow. She looked peaceful, fragile, yes, but peaceful.
He allowed himself to look at her.
Really look.
Her hair spilled over his arm like dark silk. Her fingers, curled lightly against his tunic, twitched now and then as though dreaming. Her cheek rested just below his collarbone, soft and warm, and every rise and fall of her breath felt like a small miracle.
He exhaled slowly, letting the moment settle between them.
He brushed a thumb gently along her shoulder, careful not to wake her.
She had broken in his arms.
And he had held her together.
He did not know what would happen when she woke, how she would feel, what she would decide, but for now, she was safe. For now, she was here with him, the nightmares seemingly held at bay.
Yet Cian could already sense the weight of what lay ahead: choices that would reshape the fragile peace between them, the threat of the world waiting just beyond the boughs, the chance that she might pull away, or that they would cross a line neither could return from.
In this pocket of calm, he could almost forget, but the morning would come, and with it, the reckoning.
Faelith shifted in her sleep, fingers curling lightly into his fabric. Cian froze, breath catching, then softened, letting his palm settle gently against her back.
She trusted him.
After everything — after the lies, the fear, the manipulation — she trusted him enough to fall asleep in his arms.
Cian leaned his head back against the boulder, staring up at the lightening of the morning sky.
He wished he could give her more time. More peace. More safety.
But Damon was out there.
He would soon learn that Cian was no longer in his cell; there was no telling what he would do to Faelith if he believed she had any role in his escape.