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Laurel

The mythical mating bond between fae is nothing more than a story, a tale woven to satisfy the romantic tendencies of fae and mortals alike. And yet, its staying power throughout history tells us that there is something to be learned from these tales. Love, the kind that is destined and often tragic, excites the mind. But those who fall prey to believing in these myths will find themselves heartbroken, unsatisfied with the life they’ve been given.

The Legends of the Fae, Volume III

I spar with Thorne, weaving in and out of his reach, the light and metal responding to my every thought. I’m so angry, so devastated, and that makes it easier for me to channel larger amounts of aether. In this moment, I don’t care what happens if I lose control, so I press forward with every ounce of magical and physical prowess I possess. Laurel is no longer here, all that remains is the aether that courses through my veins.

Thorne matches me blow for blow. At first, he goes easy on me, but when it’s clear I’ll slice him in half if he falters, he pivots into full intensity. If either of us slips up, we could seriously injure the other. There’s a thrill in it that makes my blood heat and my center thrum with need. I let it wash over me, drowning out the sorrow and soul-deep grief I’m running from.

Thorne grunts as he swings his short sword down toward my head. I block the blow with a shield of light, then throw him off me. This dance we’re in sets me on fire and I lose myself in the flow of it. We thrust in and away from one another in a measured rhythm. Sweat drips down my back, but I ignore it. There’s only me and Thorne, and the magic that lights the room around us. I’m so honed in on the pulsing beat of the spar that I have no idea how much time passes. It could be hours, minutes, or days. All my focus is on Thorne and staying in this moment with him.

He jabs his short sword toward my stomach. I pivot to dodge it, but he’s able to spin himself behind me. A dagger of light presses against my throat, and Thorne tuts in my ear.

“This is exactly what tricked you last time, witchling,” he whispers, pulling me closer to him. The vibration of his voice sends shivers down my spine. I feel every inch of him pressed against me, and his labored pants heat the nape of my neck. It‘s similar to the night of the Solstice dinner, when I decided to give in to the aching need I feel around him before Silene, of all people, interrupted us. I want to press my backside against him and arch my back so my face is closer to his. Just like that night, I’m desperate to let the heat between us play out, consequences be damned. But I won’t—can’t—let him get under my skin, not right now. So I stomp on his foot, then whirl away, sending another dagger from the weapons rack hurtling toward his too handsome face, but he blocks it with ease. “I know you can do better than that,” he taunts me, eyes sparkling with mischief and thrill. If I looked in a mirror, I’m certain my eyes would match his.

“Just giving you a little break, princeling,” I taunt with a husky and breathy lilt to my voice that I’ve never heard before.

He advances on me, so quick I struggle to block each blow as they come hurtling toward me. Light sizzles across his skin, bathing him in an otherworldly glow that sends my blood racing through my veins. He glistens with the lightest sheen of sweat. His cheek bones look like daggers, and his biceps bulge with each movement. I swipe my short sword but can’t follow through with the movement because of my screaming muscles. I’m tiring, but his stamina has been honed from centuries of practice with Fionn. I think he’s going to swipe with a long sword made of light, so I block that, but he slices across my upper arm with his short sword instead. I can’t block the movement in time, and blood drips out of the wound.

“Fuck, that hurt,” I say, dropping my weapons and placing my hand across my arm.

I expect a biting retort from him, a tease about the tiny cut, but he’s silent. I look up from my bleeding arm and his pupils have dilated. Two inky black orbs with just a sliver of olive green around them stare back at me with an intensity that makes me squirm. His nostrils flare and his face locks in an expression of shock and awe. He drops to the ground on both knees and places one hand over his heart.

“Laurel,” he whispers my name like a prayer, like it’s the last word he’ll ever utter.

“What the fuck? Does my blood smell or something?” He looks up at me, eyes glistening with tears and confusion. I’m totally at a loss. “It’s okay, it’ll heal. The sting’s already gone,” I say to console him. I didn’t mean to make him so upset with my outburst of pain. My fae healing abilities are already closing the wound together, though blood still drips down my arm.

Thorne just keeps staring at me in what seems like wonder. After a few more beats, he seems to decide on something. Standing, he takes a deep inhale, body shivering, then picks his short sword back up. His eyes return to normal, but he still looks off.

“I drew blood, witchling. It’s only fair you do the same,” he teases with an attempt at a roguish grin that doesn’t meet his eyes.

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s okay. You will. Just spar with me again. Draw blood. Please .” He whispers the last word, almost a plea.

“Thorne, tell me what the fuck is going on. Is this some weird chivalry thing? I don’t need to draw your blood to get back at you. It’s already healing. No big deal.” He only conjures small balls of light that whip toward me. I block them with my light shield, growing annoyed. They keep coming, an onslaught of tiny little pricks that don’t hurt but aren’t painless either. I quickly move from annoyed to angry. “What are you doing?” I ask, real ire in my voice now.

“I’m sparring with you until you draw my blood,” he growls, low and primal, then lunges at me.

I react instinctively, blocking his blows and becoming lost in the fight once more. We spin around one another, resuming the careful dance we know so well. He conjures lightning bolts to spear down from the ceiling at me, but I dodge them easily by tapping into the aether. I’m able to sense where they’ll strike. Swords and light clash, and the room becomes a cacophony of flashing lights and singing metal once more. There’s something feral about him; he stalks me like a predator. But there’s also unmasked lust in his eyes, a fury of attraction that he doesn’t try to hide. His jaw clenches and unclenches, and every so often I notice his nostrils flare as he takes deep inhales.

“Is that all you’ve got, witchling?” he taunts. “I thought you wanted to go all out. I could do this all day and not even break a sweat.” I bare my teeth and growl at him in a primal fury, the noise surprising me. But he only laughs. “There she is.” His eyes light with glee. “Let go and fight me. ” He growls the last two words, matching my intensity. It only heightens the feral beast inside of me clawing to be let out.

I focus on the leyline running almost directly under this training room, pulling the energy of the aether into me. I lift every weapon off the rack and send them flying toward Thorne along with small discs of light. They hurl end over end in his direction, and his eyes widen in shock and surprise, but not fear. Never fear, not with him. Even as there are dozens of weapons spinning his way, his mouth quirks in a half smile. Inches before the weapons reach him, all but one tiny dagger halts in midair. It slices across his arm in the exact place he wounded me, drawing blood but not cutting too deeply. Thorne laughs, loud and boisterous, his expression filled with something I don’t understand. I’m about to demand he tell me what’s going on, why he insisted I draw blood only to laugh at me, when his scent hits me.

Citrus, Jasmine, and Lemongrass—the same thing I’ve smelled every time he’s gotten close to me, every time our bodies have pressed together. But now it’s unmistakably threaded with something else, something new. I can’t place it, but I know it means Thorne is mine. I want to bite him, possess him. Claim him.

I press my hand over my nose and shudder, looking across the training room at him. He’s on his knees again, one hand placed over his heart and the other reaching out to me.

“Laurel,” he whispers again, and now tears flow freely down his cheeks. But he’s not in pain or upset. I think these are tears of joy.

“What—I don’t—I don’t understand,” I finally manage to choke out.

“But you do,” he soothes. “Look inside yourself. Find the source of your magic and listen to the aether that courses through your blood. It will tell you what you already know.” He keeps staring at me with a soft expression, one that I’ve never seen on him, even in his most vulnerable moments.

Trembling, I close my eyes and take a deep breath, following his instructions. Thorne’s scent invades my senses, as it grounds and centers me. I first focus on the aether pulsing through the leylines around me. I use that to guide me to the aether in the room. I can sense Thorne’s presence as a being made of aether, can feel exactly where in the room he is. That’s new. I take that awareness and apply it to myself. I feel the aether mingling with my blood, with my muscles and tendons. I follow it down into the center of myself, where it converges around my heart. There’s a tight ball of aether humming inside of me. It’s a chaotic and swirling mess, but I let my awareness focus fully on it…

Realization slams into me, knocking me to my knees. Tears stream down my face now, and I can’t stop them, but I keep my eyes shut tight. I feel Thorne slowly move to close the distance between us, then take my hand. He strokes my palm gently with his fingers, waiting for me.

“When you’re ready, open your eyes,” he says with so much gentleness it nearly sends me spiraling again. I breathe him in one more time before I open my eyes and stare into those deep green pools that have become so familiar to me these past few months. Eyes that, impossibly, no longer haunt my dreams.

“How?” is all I can say, and he laughs, beaming at me.

He shakes his head, his expression one of awe. “I don’t know, witchling. I just know what my heart, what my soul and my magic, tell me. What I should have realized the moment we met. Somehow, impossibly—”

“We’re mates .” I finish for him, shivering when I utter the word, unsure whether in elation or dread. He wipes a tear from my cheek, then cups my face in his palm. “But—but mates… mates aren’t real,” I whisper, tears continuing to stream down my face. “They’re fables, silly stories we tell children.” Thorne doesn’t falter, just continues staring at me with that look of pure adoration that makes me uncomfortable.

“All fables come from somewhere. Think about it, Laurel. You’re the most powerful fae in a millennium, maybe ever. I’m the most powerful light channeler to exist, as far as anyone knows. There are prophecies about you, maybe even some about me. If any two fae were going to somehow turn myth into reality, it’s us.”

I open my mouth, then close it. I have nothing to say. Shock and fear run through me in equal measure. I can’t process this, not right now. Not when I just found out about Nemesia. My breathing comes in fast pants. Not now, not here.

I stand and pace away from Thorne. From my mate. I try to take deep breaths, but they won’t come. My chest is heaving, and I bring my head to my knees to try and gain some control. Thorne doesn’t hesitate. He’s up and by my side in an instant, rubbing soothing circles across my back that I both crave and abhor at the same time.

“Talk to me. What’s going through that mind of yours?” His voice is still steady, calm, like all I have to do to make this all okay is open up and tell him what I’m feeling.

I stand and face him, my breathing still ragged. At least this explains the unbearable attraction I’ve felt for him, why I’ve been compelled to open up to him again and again. It explains the constant game of catch and release we’ve played with one another, neither of us able to truly stay away from the other. But the information is too much for me right now with everything else I’m carrying. And nothing about our situation changes with this discovery. He’s still Mazus’s son, Crown Prince of Velmara, the Shining Prince. And I’m still the Witch Queen, a figure reviled by his people and feared across the Four Kingdoms for good reason. Despite what Nemesia has done, I cannot forget that she believed Mazus wanted Thorne and I to meet. And Thorne, he’s—he’s betrothed to another.

Any hope I had before this moment collapses into a pile of ash. Yet another fucked up way the universe has decided to play with me and the prophecy about me. I meet my mate, the person who’s supposed to fulfill the prophecy alongside me, and he’s not only my enemy but engaged to someone else. Engaged to the one person who has helped to fill the void Nemesia’s departure left. Engaged to someone I consider a friend, who I’ve been too cowardly to ask directly about her feelings for Thorne and the crown. Not because I’m worried she’ll say she’s in love with him, but because I’m worried she’ll say she’s not.

I don’t want this, not if I have to sort through these emotions and complications to have it. Even if I did want this, even if there was a thread of excitement about the idea of being tied to Thorne in this way, I’m not ready to open myself up to this level of intimacy, not ready to admit that I’ve developed feelings for Mazus’s son. I still don’t even know the true reason Mazus sent him here. For all I know, Mazus sent him because he knew we were mates and wanted us to discover it for some fucked up reason.

I need to scream, need to erupt. I turn my eyes on Thorne, who still looks like he’s the happiest male who’s ever existed. I steel myself for what I have to do.

“You’re betrothed to Silene,” I tell him with the iciness I’ve perfected over centuries of being the Witch Queen. It’s not the only reason I’m running, but it’s the only one I can say aloud. “And you’re the son of my enemy. I won’t destroy Silene’s chance to become Queen of Velmara, and I won’t make myself vulnerable to Mazus in this way.”

Thorne’s eyes widen in shock. He tries to protest, but before he can get anything out, I aerstep away. I don’t want to hear his excuses, don’t want to hear him say he’ll break things off with Silene. Or, even worse, hear him say he won’t. I leave and don’t look back, because my control is slipping, and I have to get away from it all.

When I arrive in the cave, I barely make it two steps before I’m screaming in fury. My wrath repeats back to me in hollow echoes. I scream again, trying to release the pent-up frustration of the last few hours, the last few months, my entire life. There’s so much buried inside of me, so much hurt and longing and need, that I feel like I’m going to explode. I scream and scream into the void, desperately seeking relief. When that doesn’t help, I collapse in anguish, all the emotions and fears I’d been pushing down for so long leaking out of me. My pulse races, my breathing quickens. I try to maintain control of the aether coursing through my blood, but it demands to be released. With a roar, I unleash myself.

Energy erupts in arcs from my body, shaking the cave. Rocks crash down around me, but a shield of light I instinctively wrap around myself protects me from the falling debris. Moss expands and covers an entire wall, then the ceiling. Water droplets gather into massive orbs before falling to the ground with splashes that soak everything around me. A wind whips through the cavern, churning up dust and rocks that orbit my light shield. I think I glimpse lightning forking across the tall ceiling but am so absorbed by my pain and grief that I can’t say for sure. Like so many times before, my magic feels heavy, like if I make the wrong move, it will completely consume me. I walk the precipice of madness, one heartbeat away from letting Laurel disappear. I’m not sure who would take her place behind my eyes.

I exist in that liminal state. Time doesn’t pass. There will be no beginning or end to my desperation. Tears stream out of my eyes before collapsing on the ground in a puddle.

Eventually, I burn myself out. The magic falters, then stops altogether. I lie down on my side, curl in on myself, and stare out at the darkness that surrounds me, wishing that I could just disappear.