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Laurel

Sidhe cats who make themselves the companion of a Thayarian royal are extremely in tune with the emotions of their chosen fae. Many Thayarian monarchs have credited their companion feline for supporting them through their hardest moments.

A Brief History of Modern Thayaria

When I get to my room, bone-weary and full of fury, I barely register the last hour.

When Carex had pounded on my door, telling me there was an attack on the merchant district, all reason and logic left me. I became my fury, let it wash over me in a mad rage. I rushed there and aerstepped as many people as I could to safety. I wanted to obliterate the rebels attacking my city. Attacking my people. Every bit of self-control I’ve tried to hone over three centuries, every ounce of shame I’ve internalized about the nature of my magic—it all left me the instant I realized the scale of the rebel attack. I would have performed unlimited amounts of magic to stop the attack, and who knows what the result might have been. In my wrath-induced madness, I could have completely unraveled the magic of Thayaria by channeling too much aether.

But Admon had interfered, reminding me that the rebels are also Thayarians and many of them are just worried for their families. As always, his wise counsel gently guided me down the right path and back to logic. I backed off, letting the Royal Guard and army reserves handle the attackers. Thankfully, under Carex’s leadership, they’d addressed the assault on the city quickly and saved hundreds of lives.

Then I got the message that the thayar processing tower was being robbed, and my ire returned in full force. When I blasted away the doors to that storage room and saw the same fae I was responsible for releasing, believing him to be nothing more than a farmer, I once again evolved into something more than myself, a being made of nothing but wrath. It took more control than I want to admit pretending not to see him, not to obliterate him where he stood. And Prince Hawthorne—how could he have gone along with this attack and not stopped this? In the room, I understood his silent plea to go along with the plan. But it doesn’t mean he should’ve agreed to it in the first place.

My anger reignites thinking of the role the Velmarans played in this attack, and I aerstep into their apartment, not sure what I’m going to do but furious with my so-called allies. I’m ready to enact my plans to be rid of them for good. We know where the rebel base is, and I would bet we know who their leaders are. It’s time to end this farce of an alliance and kill the Velmarans. I’ll send their heads back to Mazus in a thayar crate. When I realize the Velmarans aren’t here yet, I back into a corner, prepared to wait as long as it takes.

They appear in the room using Silene’s enhanced magic, looking worse for wear. None of them jump when I emerge from the corner, demanding answers, though this time they should. “What the fuck just happened?” My voice is lethal, a blade sharpened in anger and haughty righteousness.

Silene and Fionn are covered in grime and blood, and I instantly pace towards Silene, feeling a protectiveness for the young fae that surprises me, despite my fury. She senses my distress.

“It’s not mine.” The usual joyfulness in her voice is gone, and I vow to not let my care for Mazus’s future daughter-in-law sway me from taking the action I know needs to be taken.

“What. Just. Happened?” I repeat my question. Silene tenses, and her eyes search mine. From the corner of my eye, I see Fionn move in front of Hawthorne. I turn on them. “What. The fuck. Happened?” I demand. The room shakes. “Tell me now,” I roar with the aether-voice, and they all drop to their knees. Hawthorne looks up at me for a long moment before speaking, staying crouched on the ground even as he explains. At least now he has the sense to cow before the roiling brutality in my voice.

“When we got to Oakton, they told us about the attack happening today and asked for my help to get them into the processing tower. It was another test. If we wanted to keep our cover, we had to help them.”

“And you made that decision unilaterally ? You decided to sacrifice my people without even consulting me? I’m not sure what you think it means to make kingdom-impacting decisions on behalf of the monarch, but in Thayaria we consider that treason.” The words hiss out of me, my rage boiling over. How dare he decide this on his own. The room shakes again, and the doors to the patio shatter as tendrils of ivy break through them and inch toward the Velmarans, ready to shackle them.

But instead of showing fear, Hawthorne only stands and stalks toward me, his own anger visible now. In a flash, he’s sliced through the ivy creeping toward Silene and Fionn with a beam of light, not breaking his stride. I don’t back down either, conjuring swirling water to surround me, even though the sight of his stony face hurts me more than I want to admit right now.

“Just like you decided unilaterally to keep critical information from us,” he sneers as he makes the water I’ve conjured disappear. If I weren’t so angry, his power would impress me. He’s taking my magic head on, matching my strength with his own. “Why didn’t you tell us that the thayar flower is declining?” There’s a severity to his tone I’ve never heard from him before.

My entire body tenses. I knew it was a possibility they would find out, an inevitability really, but I wanted to delay the conversation for as long as possible to avoid this moment. Avoid the decision I must now make . The conversation with Nemesia in Delsar replays in my mind.

And if he finds out more than he should? If he somehow sees something that puts Thayaria at risk, or discovers the declining thayar? What should I do then?

You should kill him .

Nausea and indecision wrack my body while the Prince continues his rant.

“This rebellion is about more than disagreement with your decision to keep Thayaria behind the mist.” I sit in silence, my heart and my brain at war with one another. “What, now that I’ve pointed out your own poor decisions you have nothing to say for yourself? These people are afraid , and you kept that from me.”

I snap, unable to keep my cool around this infuriating male and forgetting the conflict just wracking me. “So that excuses them attacking innocents and children, does it?” A wind whips around him as ivy crawls up his legs, but he doesn’t balk. His lightning strikes the air above me in response, though I know it’s more a demonstration that he’s not afraid than any real threat to me. Somehow, even now, with both of us angry, I know he won’t hurt me.

“No, it doesn’t excuse it at all. But it does make this rebellion more of a threat. People will do anything when they’re afraid like this. What I saw today was… unfathomable. Horrifying. And I hate that they got away with even a single petal of thayar after learning what they use it for. But you should have told me what I was walking into, the danger I was putting Silene and Fionn in. You let me assume they were harmless farmers playing at rebellion. Silene went into that meeting unarmed, for aethers-sake. We had no idea what we were getting ourselves into today.” His eyes storm with fury, and I realize our bodies are only inches apart, the wind whipping Hawthorne’s black hair out of place. His jaw feathers with his rage, and an involuntary desire to soothe the quivering muscle overcomes me. Instead, I step back, keeping my icy rage firmly in place.

“I won’t apologize for doing what any ruler would do in my situation. I provided you with the information you needed to complete the mission. No more, no less,” I say firmly, pushing down the guilt at putting Silene—putting them all—in danger with no warning. Hawthorne only scoffs and turns away from me. I’m about to follow him, to close that distance again, but Silene’s hand on my arm cools my temper slightly.

“Laurel, we wanted to leave and warn you. But we were being watched. There was no way to get to you and keep up the ruse. It was a tough call that Thorne had to make,” she tries to soothe.

I jerk my arm from her touch. I don’t want to be made to feel better about this, not when I’m still so angry and so guilty and so unsure about what the right call is regarding them. Hurt flashes through her eyes, but I ignore it, not willing to examine any feelings I might have other than rage.

“You made the wrong call,” I sneer at Hawthorne, who turns back to face me with an incredulous expression. More lightning streaks across the room of the ceiling, and he surrounds us in mist, making us invisible to Fionn and Silene. Once again, the casual display of so much power makes something buried deep in me respond, but I ignore it.

“I made the long-term, strategic call. You’re short-sighted, Laurel, and it shows,” he says with so much haughty arrogance that I want to slap the confidence off his face. The space between us has once again been closed, though I’m unsure who stepped closer. His jaw clenches and unclenches as I stare daggers into his eyes. I feel his breath dance across my face, and the sensation sends goosebumps to my arms that I ignore.

“Short-sighted? How is not wanting hundreds of my people to die and even more injured short-sighted?” I ask, my own incredulity apparent in my voice.

He rolls his eyes as energy courses between us. “If we’d left, it would have told the rebels exactly what we were doing. Not only would they have continued this attack, but they likely would have been able to get more thayar without me hiding most of it from them. They would have packed up their headquarters and moved out, returning you to exactly where you were before with no idea where they are or what they’re planning. Countless more would have died. That , Your Majesty, is the epitome of short-term thinking.” Those mossy, olive-green eyes alight with challenge as he smirks in a way that brings out his insufferable dimple. No biting retort comes to me. He’s right, but I don’t want to admit it. Hawthorne continues, leaning in close so our lips are only inches apart. “The greater good, Laurel. That’s the decision I made. And if we’re going to be allies, you’re going to have to trust me to make those kinds of decisions.”

I want to snap back that we are not, will never be, allies. Not with everything that’s happened between Velmara and Thayaria, between his father and me. Not when even now, in this very moment, I’m debating whether I should kill him and his entourage. Instead, I turn in place and aerstep away, running from the conflict and the way it ignites my blood and my magic.

The next morning, shame courses through me at my reaction to the Velmarans. I laid in bed last night, alternating between chastising myself for what happened and replaying the Prince’s words over and over again. He was right—he’d made the difficult decision I’m not sure I would have made. Not only that, but he’d kept his cool and helped mitigate the theft while silently reminding me to play pretend in the heat of the moment. He took action, something I’ve never been able to bring myself to do, while keeping me from ruining our only chances of learning more because of my quick temper.

Once again, someone else had to intervene to keep me from my worst instincts. Something I repaid by using the aether-voice on him and his friends, taking away his agency even though he would have happily given me the information. It was unspeakable, and every decision I’ve made up to this point has been the wrong one.

Time and time again, I’ve let the rebels get away with their attacks. I may torture those who I deem responsible for violence, but I almost always leave them alive, unable to deliver that final blow. Even when the mist prompts me to kill someone, I always hesitate until it urges me into action. On the rare occasions I do snuff out someone’s life, like at Rusthelm, I feel guilt for weeks. Usually, if there’s even a hint that they’re nothing more than a scared citizen looking for whatever hope they can find in a troubled time, I let them walk free. And I got played . That red-headed fae male is no farmer, and I let out the single person in charge of the strike. He had to be, with the way the other rebels looked to him for guidance the moment I’d appeared. We could’ve prevented this entire tragedy had I seen through his lies and done what rulers are supposed to do.

I sit with indecision and bone-deep grief on the sofa in my sitting room, unable to bring myself to get out of my sleeping clothes or do anything other than wallow. My eyes are heavy with lack of sleep, my muscles sore from how tightly I’ve clenched them all night long. I know I need to apologize to the Velmarans—to Hawthorne—but the idea of facing anyone when I’m so unsettled makes my body shake with nerves. Examining my feelings, I try to uncover what has me feeling so on edge.

Control. I’ve had control over everything that touches this kingdom for three hundred years. Or at the very least the illusion of it. Knowing that someone else made a decision without me brings a tightness to my chest that I dislike. That I loathe, if I’m being honest with myself. And yet—I’ve had nothing but control for centuries, and look at where it’s gotten my kingdom. Thousands of citizens opposed to my rule. A rebellion fueled by fear and hatred. Thayaria’s only revenue-generating export declining rapidly. And along with it, the gut-wrenching fear that something is very wrong with the magic of our land because I can feel the way the aether is declining in Thayaria alongside the flower. The decline might even be my fault, a mist leeching away the magic that I can’t undo, leaving me terrified I’ll accidentally use the colossal amount of magic that comes second nature to me and destabilize the aether. To top it all off, we’re now reliant on the kingdom who attacked us without cause for both our revenue and our wheat. My own magic—I push that thought away, not willing to examine the fear that has plagued me for the last few decades.

And now, who knows how many dead or injured from an attack that is all my fault. There’s no one to blame but me. I let out the person who orchestrated the whole thing. I let the rebels grow this powerful. Nemesia always wondered why I was so unwilling to do anything about the rebels for so long, why I insisted they were my problem to solve. The reality is that, on some level, I agree with them. The mist should be lifted, our people should be free to travel and trade as they wish, and I’m not fit to rule .

You failed Thayaria yesterday. You’ve been failing them since you took the throne.

My breath comes in quick pants, and I can’t get enough air into my lungs. My hands clench and unclench, almost involuntarily. I stand and pace back and forth, starting then stopping repeatedly. Great heaves are the only way I can breathe, and the tightness in my chest is so painful I feel like I might implode. Shaking out my arms and rolling my neck, I try to stop the rising tension in my body. When that doesn’t work, I slump to the ground. The air feels thick, and I’m gasping for breath. I squeeze my eyes shut and curl my head to my knees. Tears leak down my face, and my whole body feels like it’s on fire. My nails cut crescent shapes into my hands. Just breathe.

Lunaria nuzzles my neck, purring loudly. She always knows when I need her the most. She lays her body close to mine, and her heat seeps into my body, comforting me enough so I can calm my racing heart. I focus on the low vibrations of her purr, and it pulls me out of the worst of it.

I force myself to take a deep breath, open my eyes, and focus on what I can see around me. My desk. Breathe in. My favorite leather chair. Breathe out. This morning’s tea mug. Breathe in. A book left on the coffee table. Breathe out. A half-finished letter. Breathe in. Lunaria’s glowing eyes. Breathe out.

I run through this exercise, identifying sounds, then smells. I end by standing and focusing on my body. I feel my toes curling in my boots. I feel the braid of my hair tickling my neck. Another deep breath in. Breathe out. I collapse on my sofa in exhaustion, my body tingling and shaking from the rush of emotion.

Hawthorne’s too-handsome face returns to my mind. The way he’d exuded dangerous fury yesterday makes my blood heat, and it only confuses me more. I’ve reached the point where I promised myself I’d take action against the Velmarans. They’ve met the rebellion’s leaders and identified a location where they meet. They’ve given me names and even faces of the rebellion leader and his inner circle. They’ve discovered the one thing I’ve been trying desperately to conceal. I should get rid of them now, like I always planned, like Nemesia insisted. But then that face pops into my mind again, and the idea of killing him makes me nauseous. But if I’m honest with myself, I never really believed I would kill them. I had alternatives I would have used, like using the aether-voice to force them to forget. Right?

That uncertainty about myself and my intentions makes me spiral again. How could I have considered killing the only three people from outside of Thayaria who have ever offered me friendship? How could I consider not killing them when they’re my enemy, when my only true friend told me to eliminate the threat the moment they learned too much? My head throbs with indecision and uncertainty about the best course of action. Despite all my best efforts to keep them at arm’s length, I’ve grown close to the Velmarans. I might even like them, or at least like Silene. Not to mention whatever is going on between me and Hawthorne. But he’s engaged , to the one person I can admit I like, and I’ve been shamelessly flirting with him. Am I failing my people by keeping them here, by allowing them to get closer and closer to me? Should I send them back to Velmara and deal with the consequences?

There’s a resounding answer that rings loudly in my head, in the place in my chest where I feel my magic.

No.

I promised Hawthorne the opportunity to prove himself to me. I owe him longer to show that he can be fully trusted. He’s done nothing to make me doubt him, and all I’ve done is look for his flaws, for any sign he isn’t telling the truth about his intentions. Despite our flirty banter, I haven’t really given him the chance I said I would give him. Sure, I’ve let him meet with the rebels. But when it really mattered, I kept critical information from him and exploded in rage when he made the only choice he could in an awful situation.

Tears run down my cheeks again, despite doing everything I can to lock them away. I hiccup and gasp for breath. Closing my eyes, I take more deep breaths to calm my raging emotions.

When the episode passes, I force myself to move forward. After a quick bath, I dress in loose trousers and an oversized tunic, braiding my wet hair. I stroke Lunaria’s head for several minutes. She slowly blinks her eyes at me, and calm washes over my tense body. When I’m done, I feel ready to face the consequences of my failure, so I once again aerstep into the Velmaran apartment.

Only Silene is in the sitting room when I arrive, and wariness makes her body tense when she spots me. “Thorne, Fionn,” she calls. “Her Majesty is here.”

I hide the hurt that she uses my title, knowing that it’s my own fault for how I behaved yesterday. Fionn quickly walks to stand in front of Silene, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at me. I raise my hands in silent supplication. Thorne only leans effortlessly in the doorway of Fionn’s room, staring at me with a look that says I have some explaining to do.

“I came to apologize,” I say quickly. “I was out of line yesterday. My guilt and fear were overwhelming, and I took that out on you. I’m sorry.” Shoulders slumping, my gaze locks on my feet in shame. Warm arms wrap around me, and Silene’s cinnamon scent soothes my aching chest. I stiffen awkwardly, not sure what to do.

“We understand, Laurel. Yesterday was awful. There were no good choices. For any of us,” she soothes, and my arms involuntarily return the embrace. It’s the first time I’ve hugged someone other than a lover since the war. Nemesia and I have never embraced one another, not even when she left for Velmara.

Silene squeezes tighter before releasing me, and I survey the room as she backs away. Fionn still looks pissed, his hulking frame poised to attack should I make any wrong moves near Silene. Hawthorne eyes me skeptically from the doorframe before walking closer with an unaffected grace that I could only dream of pulling off.

“You left. In the middle of our argument,” is all he says when he reaches me. My eyes drop to the ground again.

“I know. I’m not good with conflict. I get angry, and that scares me, so I leave before I can hurt anyone,” I admit, emotion making my throat tight, and I fear those tears from earlier will return.

Hawthorne chuckles. “You weren’t afraid of hurting anyone yesterday, witchling. You just didn’t want to admit that I was right.” My fury returns at his arrogance, all other emotions eclipsed by my annoyance at his words. No one has ever gotten under my skin like he does. I’m trying to apologize, am practically laying myself bare, and he shoves it in my face. I roll my eyes and glare at him. Once again, our bodies are closer than I would prefer. I see the way his chest moves up and down with his breathing, the tiny gold threads interwoven in the fabric of his clothing.

“That is not—” I start to protest, but Hawthorne cuts me off.

“You know I’m right. Let this one go,” he says arrogantly but firmly. Something about the earnest command in his voice makes me back down.

“Fine. Yes, you were right. Happy?” I sneer. A half smile quirks his lips as he steps closer to me and brings his mouth to my ear.

“Elated,” he whispers before turning and walking to take a seat on the sofa, crossing one leg over the other, appearing completely unaffected and relaxed. Blood rushes to my cheeks as I realize he was just looking to get a rise out of me and that—once again—I fell for it. I’m even more angry that it was exactly what I needed to pull myself together. I want to snap his neck where he sits, so confident in his own smug righteousness, but all I can do is gape at him.

Silene, always one to read a room, takes my hand in hers and leads me to sit across from Hawthorne on the sofa. Fionn stands behind the Prince, unwilling to forgive me yet.

“I’d like to give you an explanation, Laurel. Now that tensions have dropped,” Hawthorne says, all the seriousness from yesterday returned to his features. I only nod. “The leader of the rebellion, the one you saw at the processing tower, forced our hand.” I sink further into the sofa where I sit with shame. Not only was the male I released from my cells in charge of yesterday’s attack, but he is the leader of the rebellion. The horror of the last few years of rebel strikes could have been eliminated, if only I hadn’t fallen for his act. Hawthorne stares at me with curiosity but says nothing as he continues his explanation.

“We were told about the campaign with only an hour to decide what to do, and they had us watched the entire time, as Silene said. I decided to stay, calculating in the short time we had that it was better to keep our cover while attempting to mitigate the damage. It was an impulsive decision, but I still believe it was the right one.”

“I know,” I say quietly.

“But, Laurel, I swear—” he chokes up as he continues. “I swear to you, we did not know it would be that bad. We thought it was an attack on infrastructure, that they’d destroy and loot shops to distract from the real mission. I thought Fionn and Silene could help divert the worst of the damage, and that I could keep the rebels from getting crates of thayar.” His eyes are pleading, and I can see the guilt written clearly across his features, despite his surety about the decision.

“I believe you,” I say, because I do.

“Do you know—do you know how many were injured?” Fionn interrupts. I hear the unspoken words. Do you know how many died? Despite his stony demeanor, there’s an internal turmoil inside of him. I had previously misjudged him as nothing more than a burly husk, but he has a depth I should have noticed before.

“Not yet,” I answer gently. “But the property damage alone is catastrophic. It will take us a very long time to rebuild, and I fear for the people who’ve lost their livelihoods.” Fionn crumbles, and I make a note to ask Hawthorne or Silene about this later. He walks around to sit beside Hawthorne, anger and weariness gone from his features.

“I’ll do what I can to help them rebuild,” he says firmly, and I give him a nod of appreciation. The enormity of what rebuilding will entail threatens to break my carefully constructed calm. Before I can even process leaving again, Hawthorne is looking at me with eyes that see too much.

“Laurel, may I speak with you in private?” he asks. “Is there somewhere we can go where we have no chance of being overheard?”