Page 4

Four

Ayna

The wind ruffles my feathers with an icy kiss. A little over two months until the turn of the next year. The clang of steel against steel sings those words to me as I ignore the sparring in the arena below to gaze out into the distance where the oceans east of Eherea lie with their turquoise and blue depths. Maybe, if I fly and keep flying, I’ll reach the lands beyond and forget about the family I found and the mate whom I can’t bear to lose.

Perhaps, I’ll forget about the Queen of Crows and the Queen of Tavras and become one with my bird self.

Wingbeats from behind catch my attention before I can finish that thought, and Myron’s proud crow lands next to me, claws gripping the stone so hard that part of it splinters away, plunging into the moist grass outside the arena.

He cocks his head at me in a silent prompt, but there’s nothing I have to say to him. Nothing I could say to him even if I had words. I’m empty and cold despite the hearty breakfast and the people who haven’t once made me feel like I don’t belong.

Myron’s soft caw is a lament neither of us can speak, and I want to cry, but this body holds no tears.

Perhaps, I won’t follow him tonight when he returns to the temple. Perhaps, I’ll be able to let go.

With a small flap of his wings, he hops closer until his side brushes mine, providing warmth and protection from the wind. His depthless black eyes bore into mine, and through our bond, a wealth of emotions floods me, so strong I nearly slip off the wall. It doesn’t matter if I manage to let him go. He ’ll never let me go.

With a caw, I push off the wall and glide down into the arena, Myron following suit and Kaira waving at me like I’m her favorite bird in the world.

“Done sulking?” She raises a brow at me while simultaneously managing to give Herinor a disgruntled look as he hands her the dagger he’s been sharpening for her.

“I’m not sulking.” I’m merely debating the option of stealing myself away so Myron can move on and find a female who isn’t stuck in feathers and whose claws are metaphorical.

“Call it what you want. I recognize a sulking Crow from five miles away.” She’s probably referring to Herinor, but I don’t have it in me to reprimand her, so I settle on the logs next to the broody male who’s still holding out Kaira’s weapon and caw my disapproval.

With a shrug, my sister grabs the blade and marches into the sparring ring, facing the fierce warrior fairy whom we saved from Jeseida’s estate. Tata greets her with a smirk and a wave, readying her own sword.

“Good to see you’re up and fighting again,” the female says, positioning herself in a defensive stance.

Kaira gives her a challenging smile. “Your healers are incredibly gifted. I can’t even tell where exactly the wound was.”

Beside me, Herinor flinches ever so slightly. By the time I turn to him, he’s composed his features, though.

“He still not over you almost dying?” I throw at my sister since I can’t tease the male next to me about it.

Kaira’s first strike slips on Tata’s sword, and the fairy needs to pull back to keep her blade from landing on Kaira’s shoulder.

“Guardians, you really like him.” It’s not a question, and for once, Kaira doesn’t deny it.

“Again,” she says to Tata, lifting her blade over her head and striking without a pause.

Steel meets steel at the other end of the arena, too, where Royad and Myron are getting at it, the latter back in his fae form and the wrath of the Guardians on his features as he attacks his cousin over and over again. Royad takes it in stride, blocking and parrying with expert skill. Something tells me this isn’t the first time he’s offered himself as a buffer to absorb Myron’s frustration, and the urge to apologize surges through me.

“Did anything happen between the two of you?” Herinor asks with that unfiltered manner of his. His light green eyes peer right into my bird soul, digging up more than I care to share, yet he can’t hear the words I want to speak.

Nothing. Nothing happened. And that might be the problem.

“You know you could make this easier for him if you didn’t make yourself scarce every time he musters the courage to approach you.”

I didn’t expect any deep conversation from Herinor, but it seems he has been observing more than I’d like for anyone to notice.

He’s not approaching me. Not in that sense. He’s merely trying to… What exactly is he trying to do? To give me a sense of support? To let me know he’s not faltering.

He’s approaching his doom holding on to me. I’m glad I can’t speak those words out loud because, if I heard them—if anyone heard them—I’d break apart, but in my mind… I can whisper them there so softly that not even Kaira and Tori pick up on them.

“At least, you haven’t given up on training,” Herinor rolls on. “I thought you’d be the weak type who runs when things get complicated. You know, like you did in the Seeing Forest, but it seems I need to give you more credit.”

He plants his hands next to his hips on the wood, cocking his head in that birdlike manner reminding me of the feathered guard in my old rooms at Myron’s palace in the Seeing Forest, and I can’t stop the shudder running through my body.

He’s wrong. I am weak. Weak because I want to run and weak because I’m letting my selfishness get in the way. It’s not to set Myron free that I want to run. It’s to protect myself from seeing his perfect face every day and not being able to smile at him. From not being able to speak with him or feel his skin beneath my fingers the way my memory likes to play back to me. Perhaps, if I’m far away, it will no longer be torture, and I’ll quietly settle into my new self.

Oblivious to the conflict raging in my chest, Herinor rolls on, “You better pay close attention. They are working on some evasion techniques today that even you could benefit from.” The double meaning in his words doesn’t elude me.

When I glance back toward Myron and Royad, the arena has populated with fairy soldiers, and Tori and Recienne are demonstrating blocks and twists that look more like a dance to me than swordplay, but I never truly learned the more subtle and artful side of fighting with steel, so I can’t be sure. What I learned from Ludelle and the crew of the Wild Ray is how to kill fast and effectively and how to stay alive. That’s why I pay close attention when Tori explains how to lure an opponent to attempt getting past your guard then strike with a pierce through the jaw from right under the chin.

Thank the Guardians for Tori’s centuries of practice and the Fairy King’s absolute trust in his general, or we’d have some royal bloodbath going on. The tip of Tori’s sword remains poised beneath Recienne’s chin while the latter holds so still I wonder if he’s even breathing.

“Your turn!” Tori lowers his blade, and Recienne claps his hands to get his soldiers moving. Within moments, the arena is a blur of fairies and Crows testing their speed and control over their weapons without the aid of magic. It’s a beautiful and brutal display, and my Crow heart sings at the sight of contained violence.

As if reading my mind—or perhaps simply savoring the same aesthetics of lethal grace—Herinor says, “Those fairies are well trained, but they lack discipline.”

Of course, a critique from him. You’re a millennia-old bastard , I want to fling at him, but he is already speaking again. “If they make contact with the magic suppressant, they will probably suffer from the same side effects as we did on the battlefield.” The memory of Myron, Royad, and Herinor on their knees before Jeseida on the wagon drives a new shudder through me. “Even the Fairy King barely managed to keep upright when the drug first hit him. I doubt his untested soldiers will do any better.”

I want to ask him why the Crows weren’t vomiting when Jeseida ambushed them with the drug on the wagon, but Herinor has the same train of thought, and I don’t need to brood over another question unspoken and unanswered.

“Those of us who’ve been exposed to the substance often enough seem to be dealing with the nausea better than the first timers.”

And he would know. Ephegos tested the drug on him in the very beginning.

I’m still uncertain if I should pity the warrior for the choices he made or be upset with him. However I feel, it doesn’t change a thing. He’s still bound by his oath to the traitor Crow, and whatever he does, it can’t be to aid me or he’ll suffer the consequences of the ancient magic of binding fae promises.

Wiping his hands on his leather pants, Herinor gets to his feet. “Time to join the fun.” And with a wink, he sets out to the back of the arena where Myron has Royad at the tip of his blade. “We don’t want our king to accidentally slit Royad’s throat.”

His chuckle lingers, even when he crosses the arena, sidestepping sparring pairs and twisting out of blades’ paths like that’s all he’s done for the past millennium. I remain where I am, cold and empty once more, and wonder if there’s any part of this war I can be of use in.

The following night, I don’t sleep on the pillow next to Myron’s. I don’t sleep at all. Instead of following my mate to the temple of the Brother Guardian, I make my way out across the palace grounds and the small forest at the edge of the premises on my own. Cold wind presses down on my wings as I make it past the city walls and the army encampments there. Tori mentioned that they are gathering south of Aceleau, but I hadn’t imagined a camp large enough to make a village of its own. It makes sense, though. They all need to train, and if Erina makes an unexpected move, the capital will be protected.

The water surrounding the city walls shimmers in the firelight of the camp like a rippling gilded mirror, tempting me to land and beg it to respond to the magic I once held, but I push forward, making for the layer of clouds higher up, the cold creeping through my coat like fingers of ice.

A caw rips from my beak as I shout my frustration at the goddess who has done nothing but protect and warn me.

Vala doesn’t respond, no matter how frantically I flutter through the cocoon of frozen droplets as I beg and pray and caw, caw, caw, the wind carrying me higher and higher until the air becomes thin and my head fuzzy and I need to submit to my limits.

Muscles aching and strength draining, I glide downward, harnessing the winds to carry me back to the city.

I’m nearly above the army camp once more when a gust of icy air pushes me off course, and I tumble through the skies in a wild roll before I manage to spread my wings once more, bracing against the current. It’s no longer running toward Aceleau but north, away from the lights on the ground, toward the outline of mountains against stars.

I beat my wings hard, fighting the draft, but I’m caught, and my tiny body is nothing but a leaf in a tossing ocean. Fear has an iron hold on my chest, my heart racing as I work to steady my course, but control has slipped from my claws like a fish from bare fingers, and I’m adrift on the whims of the storm.

It’s when I think my strength is failing me that the air abruptly stills and I’m suspended in a web of energy that seems to be holding me from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. With a last effort, I manage to stabilize myself enough to notice an orange dot in the distance.

The energy falters, nearly letting me plunge to the ground, but I’m a crow now, and my instincts are stronger than in my human form. Pain sears through my back as I spread my wings wide, catching myself on an updraft and circling toward the copse of pines near what I identify to be a campfire.

Not an army camp, though. This is too far from Aceleau and Recienne’s legions gathering in the southeast. This is the north, and the size of the fire indicates there can’t be more than a few people. Forest fairies, perhaps. I’ve heard about them from Clio—about the creatures who live in the wild and turn into big-eyed deer even when their teeth can kill. Have heard the stories from Silas, too, how they faced those in the last war. There’s so much I need to learn about this realm, so many dangers I haven’t even considered.

The fireside being one of them.

I land on the top of a pine, panting and shivering as I wait for my straining heart to slow. That’s when I see them.

Through the branches, I notice three figures huddled against the fire. Blankets cover their broad forms, drawn up to their necks, but I spot the pointed ears peeking out from under their hair. Light packs sit behind them against a man-high boulder, the light making their shadows dance on the pale rock. Something inside me screams danger .

I should fly away, get out of here before they spot me spying, but a part of me—the human part—pushes to sneak closer, to hear their murmured words.

So I do.

Ignoring the ache in my muscles, I hop a branch lower so I can see more of their faces, one dark-skinned with short black hair, the other two lighter in skin tone with brown, shoulder-length waves—all beautiful the way only fairies are. But what sort of fairies are they?

Another level down, my claws dig into the bark as I lean to the side to see more details of their attire, but the only parts sticking out from under the ordinary gray blankets are their boots, and those are nondescript and functional.

Whoever they are, they aren’t advertising their allegiance. No coats of arms on their packs or their blankets. If only I could see the rest of their clothes.

One of the brown-haired males laughs at something the dark-skinned one said.

I use the moment where his laughter covers the sound to hop even lower.

“I’ll take the redhead,” the one who laughed says in response to what I hadn’t picked up before. “Her tits seem to be worth the wait.”

“Only if you let me watch,” the other one says, and I notice the similarities in their features—twins.

“Watch, join, do whatever you like, brother, as long as I get to fuck her first.”

The third male chuckles and shakes his head. “The two of you are a particular brand of gross.”

“Just because you never get laid doesn’t mean we need to abstain from all merriment,” one of the twins says, leaning back against his pack and closing his eyes. “When we get back from this mission, I’ll happily find you a female to entertain—or a male if you prefer.”

Taking a swig from the flask in his hands, the other twin bobs his head. “We’ll get you all the males and females you want as long as you don’t get us killed on this mission.”

The third male shakes his head. “Just shut up and sleep. We’ll set out to Aceleau tomorrow. If we want to get to the palace before nightfall, we’ll need to be well-rested.”

Neither of the twins objects as they all settle back and get as comfortable as the cold ground allows. The dark-skinned male reaches beneath the blanket to draw a bundle from his belt. That’s when I see it:

Intricate ornamentations on the clasp holding his cloak together. Even in the orange tint of the fire, I recognize the Tavrasian pattern I spent my childhood and the better part of the past months staring at.

He covers himself in the blanket too fast for me to spot weapons or pieces of armor, but unless he bought this clasp from a Tavrasian merchant, he has ties to Tavras. And if they are planning to visit the palace in Aceleau tomorrow?—

My head spins at the hundreds of possibilities of what mission brings them here.

Traveling too poorly for diplomats, a voice warns. Assassins, another one claims. Soldiers. Merchants. Traveling minstrels.

I shut down the cacophony in my mind and force a breath down my throat.

Whoever those people are or who sent them, I need to warn the others.

It’s no coincidence the storm has carried me in this direction, and I don’t know which deity to thank. I’ll make a trip to a temple tomorrow and leave a feather as a sacrifice anyway. But first I need to get out of here unnoticed.