Chapter Thirty Frejara #2
His head tilted slightly, not in dismissal, but weariness. “It doesn’t work that way. The Sight comes when it wants. Shows what it wants.”
The echo of it was unspoken but unmistakable. I remembered his words, spoken once under broken rafters and borrowed sky. “That’s a shame,” I whispered, and this time there was something gentler in it – touched by memory. “Could’ve made things easier.”
“Yeah.” Mathias let out a dry breath, not bitter but carved by resignation. “Would’ve made a lot of things a lot easier.”
The light was falling slow now, drawn out in long gold strokes across the stone and wood, softening the harsh lines of the ruin into something almost tender.
Dust turned to motes, dancing through the beams like they too wanted to linger.
I felt his gaze before I turned to meet it – already on my skin, searching without demand, familiar now in the way gravity is.
When I moved toward him, he didn’t reach for me, not at first. He only waited, letting the moment unfurl on its own time, like he knew it might be the last breath we took without fear pressed to our backs.
I closed the distance and sank into his lap, my knees bracketing his thighs, my hands bracing gently against his chest. For a heartbeat, we just looked at each other.
Then I leaned in and kissed him – not like the first time, fierce and consuming – but slower and deeper, like I wanted to memorise the shape of his mouth, the weight of his breath, the sound he made when he felt safe enough to give himself over.
His hands rose to my waist, warm and certain, and as our bodies pressed together, I felt the stir of something beneath my skin – not wild this time, not writhing or raw, but molten, anchored, alive.
The fire in the hearth pulsed brighter, the old candles flickering fuller in their rusted sconces, as if the room had drawn breath with us.
He pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes flicking to the ring of flame now gleaming clear around my pupils. “Beautiful,” he murmured, and I didn’t know if he meant the magic or the moment, but I let the sentiment settle in me all the same.
His hands slid slowly beneath the hem of my tunic, the calloused pads of his fingers grazing the curve of my spine, learning me in pieces – slowly and with care.
My breath caught, not from heat, but from the way he touched me like I was something real, something whole, not forged by fire or fate but simply made of skin and want.
I leaned into him, pressing my forehead to his, letting our breaths tangle in the space between, and he wrapped his arms around me like a shield.
I pushed his shirt back off his shoulders as his lips found my neck. His teeth gently graced the sensitive skin there, and I arched into the touch. He made quick work of my tunic as well, his fingers tracing my edges and his lips following them like he intended to memorise paths across my frame.
When we kissed again, the warmth in my blood stirred like a tide, rising not in waves but in swells, matching the rhythm of his hands as they moved across my back, my hips, my thighs.
The room responded as if it had been waiting – the hearth glowing with a steady flame, the candlelight flaring full, casting amber across our skins.
And still, the fire held its shape. It did not climb or devour. It witnessed.
When he pressed me under him, I laced my fingers through the hair at his neck, clinging to him for dear life. Our bodies, now connected and one, moved together until he shuddered above me and I breathed his name into the air, and for a moment, the flames in the room glowed as bright as the sun.
By the time the last light had faded from the rafters and the shadows thickened into something closer to night, we dressed again – slower this time, like neither of us really wanted the moment to end.
I pulled my hair back into a braid with quick, practised fingers.
Mathias helped me with the laces of my tunic, his fingers working unhurried.
When the last knot was tied, he pressed a kiss to the side of my neck, then stepped back to fasten his own kyrtill.
There was a new weight in his posture, not from doubt, but from readiness.
The kind that settled into your bones when you knew the next step would lead you into uncharted peril, and you took it anyway.
I found an old chest near the back wall, half-collapsed under the weight of time, and pried it open with the heel of my boot.
Inside, beneath a folded oilskin and the stale scent of mildew, lay a few battered pieces of armour.
The fit was wrong, but I made it work – a vambrace here, a shoulder guard there, leather straps pulled tight until they held fast. I passed a pair of greaves to Mathias, and he buckled them on without question.
Outside, the wind had shifted – sharper now, bearing something more than cold.
He moved to the door, hand resting lightly on the frame. “Riders,” he said, his voice pulled taut.
I was at his side in an instant. Two figures, coming up along the river path, their horses swift but unhurried, like they belonged to this place and had no need to rush.
Still, my pulse kicked hard beneath my ribs.
My fingers curled around the edge of the doorframe, bracing against the surge that rose within me – sharp, alert.
I stepped out into the open, grabbed one of the lanterns from its hook on the wall, and raised it high.
Once. Twice. A third time. Each lift cut clean through the dark – a signal cast wide but meant for a few, known only to those who had ridden beside me long enough to learn its meaning.
Mathias turned to me, brow furrowed, but I said nothing – not yet, not until I was sure. My eyes were fixed on the figures approaching, the slow certainty of their pace, the way the lead rider sat in the saddle like they belonged to the land itself.
Then, from across the clearing, the rider lifted a sword high. Once. Twice. A third time. The arc of it caught the moonlight with each motion, gleaming silver-bright – deliberate, unmistakable.
My breath caught, sharp and sudden, and a warmth spread in my chest so fierce it almost hurt. “It’s them.”
Mathias glanced sideways. “Who?”
I was already stepping forward, the lantern still clutched in my hand. “Astrid”, I said, “and Daen.”
They dismounted before the horses had even stilled.
Astrid all but threw her reins to the ground and crossed the space between us in a few hurried strides, arms already outstretched, her face crumpling with disbelief and fury and something dangerously close to relief.
I dropped the lantern just in time to catch her.
She pulled me in with the strength of someone who had spent too many nights convincing herself she would never get the chance.
Behind her, Daen’s steps were slower, but when he reached us, he wrapped his arms around the both of us and bowed his head, tucking it against my shoulder like he was laying something down at last.
“You absolute bastard,” Astrid said thickly, and I felt her knuckles thump lightly against my back before curling back into the fabric of my tunic. “Where in all the hells have you been? We thought – Her voice cracked, and she didn’t finish.
“I know,” I said, the words muffled by her hair. “I’m sorry.”
Daen stepped back, his eyes tracing me as if fitting pieces together, measuring them against the last memory he had of me. Then his gaze turned to Mathias, who had lingered respectfully by the door and raised one brow.
“And who”, Astrid said, finally letting go, “is this?”
Mathias looked faintly alarmed. I cleared my throat. “This is Mathias. He… helped me. Kept me alive.” I didn’t look at him when I said it, but the truth of it settled low in my chest.
“Helped you?” Astrid repeated, incredulous. “You vanish into thin air for a month, and when we finally find you, you’ve got twiglegs over here playing honour guard?”
“I like him,” Daen said, deadpan.
That drew the beginnings of a smile from her – begrudging, but real. “You would.”
I took a breath and steadied myself. “Where’s Benni?”
Astrid’s grin faded. “Harbour’s Bane. Still holding the fort.”
“He wouldn’t come?”
“He couldn’t,” Daen said. “Not since the Acolytes arrived. A few days ago, they turned up with new scrying glasses—asked for the General of course. He couldn’t risk it.
If they’d known we didn’t know where you were…
” His jaw clenched. “He’s trying to keep suspicion off the scent.
But he’s been going insane with worry, with the spies and scouts coming back empty-handed.
We told him to wait. We’d go. Find you if we could. ”
My throat tightened. “You said… a month?”
Astrid gave a slow nod. “You’ve been gone longer than you think.”
She reached for the waterskin at her hip, took a swig, then handed it to me.
“We looked for you as far as Tirn’Vahl. Found a burned temple.
Half a dozen townsfolk saying they’d seen a woman walk through fire and come out whole.
One little boy swore your hair was made of sunlight and your eyes were rings of gold. ”
She narrowed her gaze at me, head tilting. “So, what – you play with fire now?”
I let out a long breath, steadying myself. “We don’t have a lot of time,” I said. “But… in a word, yes.”
I bent to retrieve the lantern where it had fallen, the metal still warm in my grip.
As I lifted it, the flame inside leapt—wild and sudden—like it had caught the call of my pulse and wanted to answer.
Then I looked up and met their eyes and let them see mine.
The golden ring burned steady now, no longer hiding, no longer unsure.
Their faces changed, not in fear, but in slow understanding. In awe. “Well, I’ll be damned.” Daen said, drawing out each word slowly.
I told them quickly – the accident, the temple, the blood, my blood and the truth that bled out with it.
The Sisterhood, the treachery. What the Queen had taken.
What might yet come to pass if we were too late.
I did not dress it in prophecy or theatre; I only gave them what I knew and cut it to fit the urgency of the hour.
“You’re here to kill her,” Astrid said, flatly.
I hesitated. “I haven’t decided.”
She snorted. “Please.”
Daen raised one brow. “You came back to Irongate wielding your own flame, walking like something that can’t be stopped – and you’re unsure?”
“I’m telling you,” I said, “I don’t know what this is yet. What I’m walking into. What might become of things if I finish it.”
Astrid just tapped a finger to her temple, then to mine—a motion so familiar it made my chest ache. Use your head, it used to mean, when we were grunts in rusted chainmail and bruises were badges of progress. Then she tilted her chin. “Well, whatever it is, you won’t do it alone.”
Daen gave a small nod. “We’re with you. Same as before.”
I looked at them both – one of fire, one of stone – and felt the old bonds take their place again, worn but unbroken.
“Then we go,” I said, already turning to the horses. “We move under cover of darkness. I want to be at the North Wall before the moon catches the gate.”
We moved back inside to gather what we could. The air had shifted – charged now, purposeful – like the world had started holding its breath around us. I was strapping the last of the armour back in place when Daen glanced over at Mathias, then at me, then back again.
“Are we sure about him?” he asked, without circling the point. “No offence, twig, but you look like someone who thinks a hilt is the sharp end.”
Mathias didn’t flinch. He straightened, fastened the last buckle on the borrowed greaves, and met Daen’s gaze with a steadiness that made the room feel suddenly still.
“None taken,” he said. “But there’s nothing that can keep me from seeing this to the end.”
Something in the way he spoke – the weight behind it, quiet but absolute – made Daen pause. His brow creased slightly, like some understanding brushed close enough to touch but not speak. He gave a slow nod, said, “Yeah, I definitely like him,” and turned away, the matter closed.
We stood around the remnants of the old waystation table as I laid out the plan. “Astrid and Daen go in from the front. Loud, visible. Make them look at you.”
Astrid grinned, already pulling her cloak tighter. “Always loved a grand entrance.”
“While they’re watching,” I went on, “Mathias and I take the river path to the North Wall. There’s a break behind the old watchpost. I’ve used it before. We’ll be inside before they know what’s shifted.”
The North Wall, and then… The Queen’s Hall.
I knew she believed her throne room was the safest place in the Keep – woven through with her strongest wards, anchored deep into the bones of the capital itself.
But those protections had been laced with my fire too, when it still burned blindly in service of her will.
But now that the flame in me moved with its own purpose, I knew—as sure as the foundations of the earth, though I could not explain why—that those spells would not hold me.
That they could not. Not me, nor anyone who walked with me.
Whatever she had tried to lock behind her walls, I could reach it. And I would.
“No magic?” Daen asked.
“Not if I can help it.”
From one of their saddlebags, Astrid pulled two bloodstained blades and pressed them into my hands – they were old, worn, and perfectly balanced. “For you,” she said. “Just in case.” She tossed a third to Mathias. “Try not to stab yourself.”
Mathias caught it clean, weighing it once in his palm before sliding it into his belt.
We readied the horses in near silence, the moon just beginning to rise. It cast a pale sheen over the riverbank, over the old stone of Ironhold, and over the four of us standing still for one last breath before the ride began.
Then, we mounted up.
And turned toward Irongate.