A/N: I actually made it by Wednesday oh my g o d

It's not as long as my usual chapters, but I'm... halfway satisfied with it? Idk. I'm never really satisfied with anything I write, but this was the chapter where everything Starts to Go to Hell, so I did my best, lol. :D

Thanks to everyone who reviewed: you guys are incredible. *hugs* Additional thanks to the people who let me know that Lysandra's territory is actually called Carravere (ack! Thank you guys so much for real)!

RECAP: Calynn and Sorrel are en route to the Crochan Kingdom; Calynn reacted hella weird to a field of dead bodies.

Leta and Vaughan are heading to Eyllwe; Leta is forming a relationship with Tarik, heir to the throne of Eyllwe, much to Vaughan's dismay. Leta, Vaughan, Tarik, and Nehe are on their way to investigate the swamps of Eyllwe.

Aedion, Lysandra, Bevyn, and Channon are on their way to Varese; Channon recently met Alekos, a mysterious Fae, in a port town.

Erawan caught Syeira healing a young girl.

Kasper revealed Maeve's abuse to his parents, Dorian, Manon, Dallie, and Orion.

Enjoy! (Let me know if I did a halfway good job with the action scenes lol bc I Struggle)

CHAPTER 26

CALYNN

Something had shifted within Calynn.

Inside her travel pack was an assortment of objects: a dagger, a shield, a helmet; an arm guard. All were inscribed with the crest of Melisande; all were taken off a dead person's body.

She had never been scared of ghost stories as a child—she had never flinched away from dead things. To her, the dead were benign. It was the living that held the capacity of malignance.

She and Sorrel didn't talk much as they journeyed through the Frozen Wastes. They made camp in the caves set into the rock-flecked hills, and their camps were silent. Seldom did they risk making a fire—there were old beasts, Sorrel explained, that roamed the Wastes, and to rouse them would be to sign a death writ.

Callie never glimpsed these old beasts, but she saw their remnants; the pieces of themselves they had unwittingly left behind. Footprints, a trampled path snaking through a thicket; the dead body of a mountain lion splayed over the ground, its ribcage ripped out, lying some fifteen feet away.

Strangely enough, she didn't feel disturbed by these ominous, ever-present reminders of their treacherous path. Instead, she felt a kind of peace: Oh, she thought, so this is how it is.

The truth had never bothered Calynn, no matter how harsh and cruel; perturbing and terrifying. The truth was the truth.

They made good time as they flew; the wyverns allowed them to cover two or three times the ground of travelers on foot. But, as Sorrel reminded Calynn, she would never cross the Frozen Wastes on foot, not as she was.

"Leta Galathynius," Sorrel said, "or Kasper—they might cross this ground. Same for Rowan or Aelin, or Dorian, perhaps, though he's not quite a warrior."

"If my mother was with you," said Callie, "would you try?"

Sorrel pursed her lips, turning over the question in her mind and mouth. "I have no doubt that we would make it out alive were your mother to accompany us," she said, "but it's a moot point. Manon would never cross these plains on foot. Above all, she derides stupidity."

About a week after they first set off from Rifthold, they reached the easternmost tip of the Jungle of Morla: a dense, cold place made of trees that had seen the birth of Brannon and Galan and Elena, and the birth of the races of witches, Crochan and Ironteeth, light and dark, healing and killing by turns.

"We'll stop here," said Sorrel. "We'll go into the forest, but not too deep—a mile or two at most."

"Why?" Calynn asked, as both Hadain and Sorrel's bull sliced a downward arc through the air.

"The jungle provides good cover," Sorrel answered. "The monsters inside are fearsome creatures, though, make no mistake, and the deeper you go, the worse they get. We'll head a mile or two inside, and nothing more. Fending off monkeys with sharp teeth is preferable to fending off whatever prying eyes might seek to hurt us."

Hadain and the bull thumped to the ground with a muffled whumpf, and Calynn slid off Hadain's back. She'd stopped listening to Sorrel mid-conversation—her eyes had been caught by something else.

"Sorrel," Callie said quietly.

"What?" Sorrel wasn't looking in her direction—she was unstrapping her saddlebag, pulling out rolls and materials for their camp. "What is it?"

On one of the trees lining the fringe of the forest, a branch jutted out—and on that branch, run through as if the wood were a lance, was a dead ilken, dripping black blood into the snow.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Her breath frosted in the air, snow crunching beneath her feet as she walked forward. Behind her, she could dimly hear Sorrel cursing, coming closer, but Sorrel's voice grew distorted, as if she were speaking through a fishbowl.

What happened to you? Calynn said, or perhaps thought. She was close enough to the ilken that she could brush her fingers along its ankle.

Dead things were oddly beautiful. Callie had always thought so: a wilted flower had a melancholy loveliness that a bloomed one could not hope to match, and blood could be the richest color imaginable, like liquid rubies.

Calynn reached up to touch the ilken's wing, and something within her swelled.

Later, she would remember it in pieces.

It was like a wave, that answer—a wave she had seen on the shores of Adarlan once as a child, building and building and building and crashing, finally, slamming down into the beach, pounding the shores like fists beating on a pair of wooden doors.

When the wave within her crashed, the result was instantaneous. Her vision went black as ink, swirling into clouds of mist on the air.

And the world went silent

And the forest stilled

And the next thing Calynn knew, she was lying on the ground, and Sorrel was screaming, and it occurred to her that the sky had never been so blue.

—

LETA

The heat in the south was thick and pervasive; it reminded Leta of a fur settling over her shoulders. A damp fur, some rabbit skin or deer's hide, drenched in water that smelled like sweat.

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She hated horses, hated riding; hated the cramps in her ass and thighs and back when she dismounted. Usually, when she traveled, she chose to do so in her condor form—wings were a luxury, and they brought an overwhelming sense of peace.

The troupe covering ground in Eyllwe was enormous, made up of Leta, Vaughan, Tarik, Nehe, and at least fifteen guards. Privately, Leta thought it a bit excessive, but remembered belatedly that Tarik and Nehe were not warriors.

The royal family of Terrasen was made up of soldiers and generals, born with a sword and a knife in their hand. Terrasen had always been known for its weapon-skilled rulers, from Brannon to Rhoe.

But the other countries of Erilea were not. Even Adarlan was no exception: Manon might have been a legendary force, but Dorian, for all his power, was not a warrior. Nor were Syeira, or Calynn, for all her fencing prowess.

The Ytgers were known for diplomacy. Leta had already seen Tarik talk circles around some of the courtiers, and Nehe had done the same. Haneul might not know how to wield a sword, but he could outmaneuver and best most emissaries. He missed nothing.

It was a pity, Leta thought. Tarik, Nehe, and Haneul seemed to be under the impression that they could poke and prod weaknesses into her mental armor rather than her physical one.

But she had been a witch's bitch for fourteen years, and she had seen more fearsome creatures than Tarik Ytger.

They rode together near the front of the procession, Vaughan riding beside them. He didn't say as much, but she knew that he, too, chafed at the horses—both of them wished to fly, to soar.

Leta wiped sweat off her brow as Tarik smiled at her. It was midday, the sun beating down on the browned plains, the horses' hooves kicking up a cloud of dust that had stained her leggings beige. "You're not used to the warm climate, I take it?" Tarik said.

"Not exactly," she said. "Terrasen is a sight colder than this."

"You should see our summers," said Tarik. "They put winter to shame."

She laughed. "I shudder to think of it."

"I am curious," said Tarik. "How does our climate compare to the Cambrians?"

Two years ago, Leta would have sucked in a sharp breath—would have been overwhelmed by memories of iron claws, a bloated body nailed to a wooden board; hands shoving her headfirst down a well.

Now, she only smiled, forcing the memories deep, deep, down.

That was the number one rule of diplomacy: never let the other side perceive a weakness, ally or enemy.

"The Cambrians are quite cold as well," she said. "Especially with the altitude. Though the grasslands and coastal regions of Wendlyn are warm."

"How do you find our heat?" Tarik said, patting his horse's neck. "Horrid, I imagine?"

"Not horrid," she said carefully, smiling. "Just—different."

Tarik grinned at her. He was awfully handsome, she thought—sparkling white teeth and skin like melted dark chocolate. "I'd like to experience the cold of Terrasen one day myself."

"Perhaps start with one of our summers," Leta teased. "Better to ease than shove, or you'll be too scarred to contemplate return."

Tarik laughed. "Tell me about Terrasen. I've only ever heard stories."

She bit her lip. "I haven't known it very long."

"Is it not your home?"

"Of course it is," she said. "In more ways that one." Leta brushed her thumb over the saddle's pommel. "Terrasen is a cold place—and wild. Filled with lakes that are frozen over half the year long, during fall and winter and the beginning of spring. Orynth is… snow and frost-shingled roofs, and ice that slicks through streets and gutters. The whole world sparkles. Glitters."

"Oh?"

"In the summer," she continued, "the snow melts, and grass grows—but not quite the sort of grass in Adarlan, bright green. Or the bleached grass here. It's blue, and bunches of clovers grow in clump—and sunflowers bloom, too. Wild sunflowers. I'd never seen one before coming to Terrasen, and—" She swallowed. "Kas—my brother—he used to pick bunches for me. I'd come to my room at night and find vases of wild sunflowers everywhere. My room swarmed with bumblebees."

Tarik shuddered. "How horrifying."

"Why?"

"They sting," said Tarik, as if it should be obvious.

"Not if you don't bother them," Vaughan said. They were the first words he'd spoken all day—he'd been quiet lately.

Leta couldn't help it. She turned to look at him, and ignored the flop in her stomach.

He was stubbled, and there were lines pulling at the corners of his mouth. Something about his whole body was taut.

"Not always," Tarik countered.

Vaughan leveled a stoic stare at him, unimpressed. "Maybe you should be more careful, little prince," he said, "about how you treat the bumblebees. They don't sting without reason."

Tarik laughed. "Fine, fine. I concede the point." He dimpled, looking at Leta. "He's quite relentless."

She didn't respond. She didn't quite trust her voice.

"Look, there," Nehe said, cantering up beside them. She had her hand over her eyes, shading her face. "A village near the marshes."

"These are where the reports were from?" Leta said, inspecting the swampland in the distance critically.

"We've arrived," Tarik said, smiling brilliantly. "Let's go interrogate some poor townspeople, and figure out what hell Erawan has unleashed."

—

VAUGHAN

Vaughan poked a stick at the fire, grimacing into the flames.

Night had fallen, the camp rumbling faintly around him. Tents had been pitched, fires coaxed to life. Vaughan—to his dismay—found himself positioned at a circle with Leta and Tarik. Thirteen-year-old Nehe had found herself a spot at one of the soldiers' campfires, ogling the muscle.

It might have made Vaughan smile, but he didn't much feel like smiling now.

Leta and Tarik shared a log, their hips pressed together—flush from shoulder to waist, skin meeting skin. The fire threw their faces into stark contrast against the night sky, silver contrasting with ebony, light and dark, shadows and cloud mist.

"I'm sure," Tarik said, "that you must have a host of suitors after your hand."

Vaughan swallowed, hard.

"Some," said Leta.

"Are you under pressure from your parents to marry?"

The golden chips in Leta's eyes grew hard as amber. "Of course not," she said. "My mother and father allow me to find love in my own time—on my terms. No one else's."

Tarik's brows lifted. "How… unorthodox."

"I didn't get the luxury of growing up at court," she said. "Most of my choices were stripped away from me before I had the chance to make them. So I think it fitting, as a matter of fact, that I get to decide this for myself."

"I'm sorry," Tarik said. "I didn't mean—"

Leta rose a hand, pressing it to her forehead. "I was overly harsh," she said. "I—" Her hands curled into fists. "I do not like the idea of selling anyone like chattel. It sits poorly with me."

Tarik cleared his throat, looking away. "I wish my father felt the same way."

"How so?"

"My mother died birthing Nehe," said Tarik. "I don't know if things would have been different if she were still here. But—" He paused, tugging on his lower lip. "My father is a good king."

"So is mine," she replied.

"My father is cold," Tarik continued. "He's campaigning to marry Nehe to a prince from Antica, to settle our alliance with the Southern Continent. She's—thirteen. I don't—" He raked a hand through his hair, and smiled at her wryly, at a loss for footing.

"She's easy to talk to, isn't she?" said Vaughan.

Both of them turned to look at him, blinking, and something twisted in Vaughan's stomach.

"I—yes," said Tarik. "Rather. I don't quite know what it is."

"She's trustworthy," said Vaughan. "Completely. There is no one else in this world I would trust with my life."

For a split second—a whisper of a hairsbreadth—something like horrible, devastating pain flitted across her face.

But in that split second, someone screamed.

Leta and Vaughan were on their feet immediately, Vaughan slinging his bow over his shoulder, Leta lunging for her sword, Vaughan tossing a dagger to Tarik, who dodged it as it landed three feet away.

"What—" Tarik began, still sitting on the log.

But Vaughan interrupted with a torrent of curses, and Leta just stared, white as milk.

They'd made camp in the marshes, near a tumbling river. It flowed black in the moonlight.

From the river rushes crept—creatures.

Black scales. Fangs long as index fingers. Flat snouts.

That was all Vaughan had time to see before fifteen ilken landed, as one—as a trained, elite group—directly into the middle of the camp.

Nehe shrieked—it had been her the first time, Vaughan realized, letting loose a flurry of arrows. The world blurred around him, and then—

It was a dance, this game. It was a waltz, the placement of this foot there, this foot here, slashing and cutting, the thwack of arrows hitting flesh, the strident whistle of steel through the air, the spray of blood over the grass.

It was a dance, and there was no music, save for the sounds of the fighting and the dying, and for the first time since Vaughan had been found in the Pits—no, since Leta had handed him that cloak in the bowels of the castle in Orynth, and told him to go—he had found steady footing.

Sooner or later, he ran out of arrows, and he realized that the ilken weren't slowing—there were more of them. Ilken, and creatures creeping from the river, from the marshes, from the trees; old, ancient beasts summoned by some power.

He spared a second—just a second—to look at Leta.

She had taken half the river into the air, and it swirled above her head. Lashes of water curled out like a whip, slashing into ilken and slamming into the monsters of the marshes.

She'd given her sword to Tarik, who was swinging it wildly. He'd clearly never held a sword before in his life, and he was jabbing it like it was a toothpick, almost cutting off his own foot.

Around him, guards shouted and groaned—five of the original fifteen were still on their feet. And more were still coming.

Nehe.

"Leta!" Vaughan called, wiping blood off his mouth, his forehead, his cheeks.

"What?" she shouted.

"We need to get Tarik and Nehe out of here!" Vaughan yelled. "Fuck—get off me, you gods-damned aberration of nature—they can't fight, Leta! We need to go!"

"And how the hell do you suggest we do that?" She slid in-between the legs of an ilken, jabbing a knife directly up its crotch, and rolled up to her feet, blasting away three ilken with a wave of water.

"Your fire!"

Leta shoved her hand out of her hair, and somehow, across the chaos of the battle, their eyes met.

I'll freeze everything. It's too uncontrolled.

We'll get on the other side of you.

Her nostrils flared. "Get Nehe, and I'll see what I can do," she shouted, just as she slammed her elbow into the ilken's head.

But at that moment, there was a leathery flap of wings—and a wail.

"Help!" Nehe cried, voice hitching mid-sob as an ilken dragged her away from the camp. "Somebody help me!"

Vaughan swore. She was on the other end of the camp—instead of trying to make her way toward Leta, Vaughan, and her brother, she'd tried to run into the wild.

He tossed his bow away, launching over ilken, hacking and slashing. But all but three soldiers were now dead, two of those living soldiers bleeding badly, and the crowd of ilken was thickening, and there wasn't much time—

If he still had an arrow, he could shoot the ilken that was taking her away, but he didn't—not an arrow, and he'd thrown all his knives, and all he had was his sword—

He cursed fluently under his breath and dug deep inside him for the well of power, for the ground rumbling beneath their feet.

He could crack open the earth, could send a boulder hurtling the ilken's way, but he wasn't fast enough, and to hurt the ilken was to kill Nehe—

And then, all at once, it was too late.

The ilken took Nehe's head in its clawed, malformed hands, and twisted.

Crack.

She crumpled to the ground. Her neck was broken.

And then it was not Nehe that was screaming, but Tarik, and—

And all the soldiers were dead, and—

"Leta!" Vaughan shouted. "I'm shifting! Use your fire!"

There was a flash of light as arms became wings and hands became talons, and another silvery, blinding light as Leta unleashed her silver flame.

He'd forgotten. Forgotten how—

It was so bright that he was blinded, spinning wildly in the air.

When his vision cleared at last, the world was quiet.

He shifted in midair, landing in a crouch in the—snow.

The clearing had been completely frozen over, frost slicking over the river rushes. Iy statuettes of the ilken and demons from the swamp were everywhere, frozen mid-flight, mid-step, eyes still open.

Vaughan's breath clouded on the air.

Leta was standing alone, in the middle of their extinguished campfire.

And Tarik kneeled on the other side of the camp, weeping over his sister's dead body.

—

CHANNON

Channon didn't know where he was.

He stirred in his bed, blinking drowsily, dappled in early-morning sunlight. But this was not his bed, nor his pillows—that was not his dresser pushed against the far wall. This was not his room at all.

Wendlyn. Varese.

Right.

He pushed himself up on his elbows, mussing his hair. He'd arrived in Varese with his mother and father late the night before, and they'd been shown to their rooms, told that they'd meet with Galan in the morning.

Channon peered out the window, blinking owlishly. It was barely dawn—the world was still dark, the buildings silhouetted against the night sky.

But then, he hadn't slept well lately.

He groaned, dragging himself out of bed and rifling through his travel pack until he found a pair of trousers and a wrinkled shirt, tugging on both and shucking on a pair of boots. He didn't pause to look in the mirror as he stepped over to the balcony, wrapping his hands around the railing.

In a swift, sure movement, Channon flung himself out the window.

A moment later, he was a sparrow, flitting through the streets of Varese. He didn't want to stay a sparrow—that morning, he was rather keen on remaining himself, or what passed for it—but he did want to distance himself from the castle before he shifted back.

Varese was rather lovely, he thought, shifting in a side alleyway, brushing down his shirt. Stucco buildings, that same curled, crimson roof shingles, the whole city overlooking the glimmering river.

He straightened out his sleeves, frowning, when a voice from the mouth of the alleyway said, "I don't think that'll really make a difference. Your shirt is a gods-awful mess."

Channon jumped, swearing, and saw Alekos—Alekos—leaning against the wall, eating an apple and grinning.

"What the hell?" said Channon. "Did you—follow me?"

Alekos shrugged. He wore the same clothes as a few days ago, though the bruise on his cheek had faded somewhat. "I had business in Varese, as it turns out," he said. "It just so happens that my journey coincided with yours."

Channon narrowed his eyes. "Why didn't I see you on the road, then?"

"Because I'm a Fae," said Alekos, as if it should be obvious. "I have an animal form."

"And what is it?" Channon demanded.

Alekos put a finger to his lips. "Shh," he said. "It's a secret. And pretty as you are, little shape-shifter, I have no interest in divulging mine just yet."

Channon glared, shoving past Alekos into the street. "You followed me out of the castle, then," he said. "Or—or something. Varese is a big place. We didn't just coincidentally meet up."

"I caught your scent," Alekos said, rolling his eyes and tossing the apple core into the alleyway. Channon heard a thump and a muffled meow. "And I was curious. You made quite the impression back at the coast."

"Fuck off," Channon said.

"How rude."

"I don't have time for this," he said, storming down the street. "Find somebody else to stalk."

"I'm not stalking you," Alekos said, jogging to catch up. "Honestly. Are you always this dramatic?"

"I have to get back to the castle," Channon said, taking a sharp left turn.

"Yes, about that. Why did you leave in the first place? I hear Galan's bedrooms are rather cozy, all in all."

"It's a secret," Channon mocked, taking a right.

The lane they turned onto smelled of fresh baking bread and flowers. It had rained recently, and petals were strewn over the stones, flush and leaking onto the gravel. A baker wheeled his cart into place, setting out displays of muffins, rolls, and biscuits. The air was crisp, cool, singing his skin.

"Ooh," said Alekos. "Someone grows a spine."

Channon whirled. "What do you want?" he demanded. "I'm rude and paranoid for a reason, you know. I'm sure you know who I am—"

"How arrogant."

"—and I'm sure you realize that I have my reasons for thinking odd Fae are generally pricks out to cut off my balls and sell them on the black market," Channon finished. "So please—please—either tell me what you want, attack me if you're going to attack me, or leave me the hell alone."

Alekos rose his brows. "You don't have many friends, do you?"

Channon glowered.

"Relax. I was just kidding." Alekos heaved himself up onto a ledge, his legs swinging. He grinned, teeth flashing in the sunlight. "I don't want anything from you, Channon. I'm in Varese because I'm a smuggler. I take wine and opium and sell them—in Wendlyn, in Doranelle, in the countries to the east, and Erilea, too. I'd be concerned about you snitching on me, but by the time you found a guard to rat me out to, I'd be gone."

Somehow, Channon didn't doubt it. Alekos had that look: cunning and conniving, like a fox.

"I followed your scent because it's not every day you see a shapeshifter," Alekos said. "Even when you travel as far and wide as me. Call it curiosity."

"Killed the cat, you know."

"Trite."

"But true," Channon countered.

Alekos smiled. "Perhaps. But then, I've never expected to live long."

"Aren't Fae supposed to live for a thousand years?"

"So I've been told," said Alekos. "But I'm not quite a Fae. Not in the ways that matter, anyway."

Channon rose a single brow. "Oh?"

"I don't have a lick of magic," Alekos said loftily. "Other than my animal form, that is. I was kicked out of Doranelle when I was—oh, six or seven. Before Maeve fled the city, at any rate. I'm twenty-one now, and suffice it to say I haven't been back."

"You're awfully loose-tongued."

"I don't mind my tragic past," Alekos said with a shrug. "And I don't mind telling people I'm a smuggler. I'm a fast runner, and I enjoy the look on their face. Though you—" He narrowed his eyes. "You didn't even flinch."

"I've seen men die of worse things than opium," said Channon. "If they want to smoke themselves to death, that's their business, not mine."

"I don't sample my own product."

"I didn't ask."

"But you were wondering."

Channon laughed—an edged, rough sound. "You're awfully self-assured."

"That I am," said Alekos, just as a group of people rounded the corner.

Channon had never believed in fate. What kind of fate endorsed the kind of killing he'd seen on the battlefield at Morath? What kind of fate allowed his little sister to be strung up like a Christmas wreath? What kind of fate took innocent people and wrecked them, so thoroughly that inhaling and exhaling became near-impossible?

But at that moment—for just a second—he believed.

There were three people walking down the street. Two he did not recognize: a tall man in his thirties or early forties with a crop of black hair, gray eyes, and sloping cheekbones, and a girl with a forgettable face; dishwater hair, murky eyes, and round cheeks.

And the other—

He was different. Taller, more muscled. His hair curled around his neck, and his face no longer held any shadow of youth—rather, it was marked with suffering and grief. Something in his eyes ached so viciously that Channon couldn't meet his gaze.

One of his arms was gone. Just… gone.

"Raiden?" Channon whispered.

—

SYEIRA

Syeira thought she knew terror.

She was wrong.

This was terror: Erawan's hand fisted in her hair, dragging her through the tunnels as she dragged her fingernails along the floor, grappling for footing, as he deposited her in a long, narrow room.

Syeira crumpled into herself, heaving. Erawan had taken her here after he'd caught her healing the girl—wrenched her through the hallways as she kicked and bit and thrashed, slapping her so hard that she lost hearing for a moment.

She didn't know what had happened to the girl, or her baby. Syeira didn't want… didn't want to think about it.

This room was deep, deep below the earth, rank with dampness and bottled air. It was narrow, and long—on each side were cots. And on each cot was a wounded Valg.

There were ilken, and other beasts, and possessed humans. Healers scurried around, lugging buckets of black blood that smelled of rancid milk. Syeira tasted bitter bile in the back of her throat, and turned away, eyes burning.

"Heal them," said Erawan.

"No," Syeira hissed. She did not meet his eye.

He grabbed her chin, bringing her face close to his. "Heal them."

"I will not heal your monsters," she spat, fighting to get free of his grasp.

He dropped her to the floor, kicking her so savagely in the ribs that something broke inside of her.

She screamed, unable to help it, even as the healing powers in her blood stitched marrow and bone back together.

"Heal them," Erawan said coldly, as three more Valg came in behind her. To her horror, they carried the girl from the corridor with them, strung between their arms like a popcorn garland. "Or I will kill her."

Syeira couldn't help it. She doubled over, hurling onto the floor.

Before she was even finished, Erawan took her by the collar of her shift. Fabric ripped, exposing her side, and she clutched at the fabric, trying—pathetically—to keep herself covered.

Erawan stopped her at the side of a fallen soldier. The guard was half-clothed, his eyes wholly black as they stared unseeingly up at the ceiling, his breaths rattling and raspy.

"Heal him," Erawan said, bending down to speak in her ear, his breath hot against her skin, "or I will kill the girl, and cut up your body for your bastard of a father and bitch of a mother to cry over."

Syeira closed her eyes, a tear seeping down her cheek, scalding a path through the dried blood and dirt and muck.

He backhanded her, and her temple collided with the metal rungs of the cot. A Valg came up beside him, a knife to the girl's throat. "Do it now, Syeira. I am fast approaching the end of my patience. I know you can."

"P-please," the girl whispered, eyes swimming with tears. "Don't let them. I don't want to die. Please."

Something snapped inside of her.

And it was not a rib, or a bone, or a muscle. It could not be healed by her miraculous veins.

This was something inside her soul—something fundamental, and crucial.

There was nothing to make it whole once more. Perhaps it would never be whole again.

Her body shook, and she placed her hands flat on the Valg's stomach. The man beneath her twitched.

"Forgive me," Syeira whispered, tears seeping down her cheeks. "Forgive me for my sins, Lumas, god of light; Lani, goddess of dreams; Deanna, goddess of the hunt; Anneith, goddess of the wise; Mala, the Fire-Bringer; Temis, goddess of wild things. F—" Her breath caught, and suddenly she was sobbing, shaking uncontrollably as Erawan grabbed her hair, almost ripping it out of her skull, as her head laced with white-hot pain. "F-forg-give m-me, Silba, g-goddess of h-healing, for—" Syeira retched, forcing bile down her throat. "For this injustice I now c-commit."

And then all she knew was pain.

She took the Valg's hurt away—brought it into her own bloodstream.

And Syeira had refused to scream under the bite of the whip, but she screamed now.

It burned the inside of her veins—scalded her skin from the inside out. It was an acid, eating away at her body, her heart, her chest, and she had not known pain before this moment, because it was tainting her irrevocably—as long as she lived, she would never cleanse herself of this blood, not entirely, because it was part of her now—

Someone was screaming Kasper's name.

She thought it might be her.

When she was finished, she slumped to the ground, vomiting up black blood all over the stones.

The Valg blinked, rising up on his elbows. "W-what happened?" he croaked, but Erawan had taken Syeira's wrist, dragging her across the floor to another Valg's cot.

"Again," he said.

So she did it again.

And again.

And again.

—

When she was finished, Erawan killed the girl anyway.

—

AEDION

Aedion woke to a thundering knock on his door.

Lysandra stirred beside him, her hair knotted and snarled, and yawned. "Whoosit?"

"Someone about to get slammed into a wall," Aedion grumbled, forcing himself up and yanking on a pair of trousers. He stormed over to the door, throwing it open. "What?"

He froze.

Five people stood outside the door. Two of them Aedion knew.

The other three consisted of a lean, dangerous-looking Fae; a man that bore a remarkable resemblance to Elide Lochan, and a girl with a bland, nondescript face. Beside them stood Channon. And beside Channon…

"Hello, Aedion," Raiden Westfall said.

—

Ten minutes later, they sat in the sitting room in Aedion and Lysandra's chambers.

The man—Nox—leaned against the windowsill, munching on an apricot, while Channon slumped in a plush armchair in the corner. The girl, Emery, stared wide-eyed at the luxury dripping from the walls, oozing over the floors; slicking over the tabletops, from the woven rug to the ostentatious chandelier.

Channon had something about meeting up with the Fae—Alekos—later, which had made Aedion slit his eyes, but that was a tale for another time.

Raiden sat in a chair across the table from Aedion and Lysandra.

The last time Aedion Ashryver had seen Raiden Westfall, he'd been a gangly teenager, raising hell to flip off his father.

This was not that boy.

This Raiden was almost six feet tall, with shoulder-length russet hair. This Raiden had the corded muscle of a warrior, the chiseled bone structure of his mother, and the mouth of someone that had not raised hell but fallen headfirst into it.

This Raiden had a missing arm, and something devastating swam in the depths of his eyes, a sort of bone-crushing grief that Aedion knew all too well. This Raiden was both more and less self-assured.

This Raiden, Aedion thought, was somehow very much like Chaol.

"I assume," said Aedion, "that you have a story to tell."

Raiden didn't smile. "Yes."

"Aelin told us where you went," Lysandra said. "What you set out to do with Fenrys." Raiden recoiled at the name, and Aedion filed it away for later information. "Your father was devastated."

Raiden laughed. It was a hollow, empty sound. "Bullshit."

"He was," Aedion said. "I've never seen him like that before, and I've known Chaol for a long, long time."

Raiden didn't answer. He was looking out the window.

No one said a word. It was dead-silent, save for the faint chirping of the winter sparrows outside their window.

"Fen and I found Maeve," said Raiden. "We looked for her for two years. We never intended to attack her—all we wanted to do was find her, so that Fen could send a message to Rowan, to let him and Aelin know where she is."

"What happened?" Lysandra asked quietly.

"We were thousands of miles east of here," Raiden said. "In a little village. I asked Emery—she lived in the village—to lead us to the forest where I thought Maeve might be. I needed someone that knew the area." His face was completely blank, his voice devoid of emotion.

Disassociation, Aedion thought, and something deep within him tugged.

"Maeve found us, not the other way around," Raiden said listessly. "Cairn shot me. The next thing I knew, Emery had brought me to her brother's house, I was missing an arm, and Fen—" His breath hitched. "Fenrys was gone."

"There was a gray-skinned woman," Emery said, shooting an anxious look at Raiden. "Or—creature. Thing. I don't know. I ran when I saw Maeve and the rest of the Fae coming, and—I saw Raiden fall to the ground. The gray-skinned thing did something, said something, and this buck came riding out of the forest. I stitched Raiden up the best I could, and put him on the deer's back. It… understood me, somehow. It took us to Nox in days."

"I lived just west of the Cambrians," said Nox. "It was enchanted. I don't know how."

Aedion swept a hand over his features. "I—"

"There's more," Raiden said. "Aedion, I think Maeve was moving just as fast as we were. She was heading west, as far as I can figure. Aelin and Kasper burned her, badly. She'll want revenge."

The blood drained from Lysandra's face, and Channon straightened. "You think she's going to attack?"

"I think it's a definite possibility," said Raiden. "And that we should all be preparing for war."

"We were already preparing," said Aedion. At the crease of Raiden's brow, Aedion elaborated, "Erawan is rising again."

Raiden went still. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," said Aedion. "We are."

"We need to attack Maeve," said Raiden. "We can't—"

"Erawan is the first priority," Aedion interrupted. "That's why we're here in the first place."

"I need to get Fenrys back," Raiden said.

Lysandra and Aedion exchanged glances.

"Raiden," Lysandra began.

"No." Raiden lurched to his feet, almost falling, clearly unbalanced. "You don't understand. I need to get him back."

"Raiden, calm down," Aedion said.

"No," Rai said. "No." He stumbled backwards, and fell to the ground, toppling over. Lysandra got out of her chair, but Raiden scrabbled back, pressed against the wall. "Fuck you. Just—fuck you. Get him back."

"Raiden," Aedion started, alarmed.

But before he could continue, someone burst into their rooms.

"Urgent essage from His Majesty the King," the courtier stammered.

"What is it?" Aedion snapped.

The courtier wet his lips. "The southern coast of Wendlyn is under attack."

—

AELIN

That morning, Orion summoned them all to the infirmary.

They assembled: Aelin, Rowan, Dorian, Manon, and Orion. Kasper did not come.

Aelin could not think of Kasper, because then something inside of her was breaking.

Dallie had her hands fisted in her coverlet, bathed in early-morning sunshine, Orion sitting in a chair at her side. She looked up at all of them, her eyes like miniature pearls in her still-girlish face.

"The princess of Eyllwe is dead," she said. "I just thought you should know."

A/N: The Wheels Are Coming Off

REVIEW THANK-YOU LIST TIME!

BookBabbles

Anonymous (Deanna is going to show up at the VERY end, and her connection with Leta will end up having prevalence then. I'm not sure if Callie's personality was inspired by anything in particular, other than the concept of... I look and act hella sweet but Man Do I Have a Dark Side)

Dacowluva

pomxxx (Idk... hm... Kyeira? Lol)

Bianca di'Angelo1 (YES MY SON MICHELANGELO THE TEENAGE MUTANT NINJA TURTLE jk lol. Quote in return: The floor seemed wonderfully solid. It was comforting to know I had fallen and could fall no farther. -Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar) (Kind of depressing sry lol I love that quote tho)

mandyreilly

Guest

pjo-hp-tog-mi (x2 AHHHH) (Honestly, the best thing about writing next-gen fanfics is that you get to make SO MANY PARALLELS and it's legit so much fun omg. And yes, Syeira's eyes are... well... that'll end up being cleared up For Sure in a little bit. :D As far as the girl and the experiments on the Valg go, that will DEF have more relevance soon.)

Guest (Tysm for letting me know about Caraverre!)

Next update (hopefully) Sunday! :D