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Chaol Westfall was going to kill Dorian when this was over. King or not, he was going to kill him.

He sat on a bench, leaning back onto the table behind him, stealing a quick glance at the witch to his right.

Manon Blackbeak casually leaned against the far wall in the captain’s quarters of one of the decoy supply ships. One hand placed casually on the hilt of her sword, the other drawing idle circles over her stomach.

Chaol cringed.

She was beautiful, he’d give her that, but her beauty was a weapon meant to ensnare men from the moment they laid eyes on her. Dorian had been no different. Just another man who’d fallen prey to the paradise between her legs. A pathetic mark. She’d use and abuse him then throw him aside when someone more meaty came along for her to stick those iron claws into.

“Find something else to look at, Westfall,” she snarled when she saw him glance at her.

“Don’t flatter yourself, witch. I see nothing but gilded darkness when I look at you.” The kiss of death, that’s what she was.

There’d been a two week ceasefire agreed upon at both the western and southern war fronts–to clear the dead from the fields. During this time, Aedion had placed the Thirteen in charge of supply runs. He’d also assembled a discrete team to handle the skirmishes still taking place between the armies at the front. A team Chaol was supposed to lead until a few days ago when Dorian had pulled him and told him he was putting him on runs. Said there were important shipments coming in, and they couldn’t risk the loss. Said they needed a human face just in case the suppliers got spooked by the Thirteen.

Chaol wasn’t an idiot.

As soon as Dorian had told him he’d be teamed with the white-haired witch, he knew it had been some grand scheme to get them to be civil with one another. Chaol had spent a good long while yelling at Dorian about how horrible an idea it was to put them together. Told him he knew full well the only interest the witch had in Dorian was his throne, his magic, and his money.

“Are you daft?” he’d yelled at his king. “Witches don’t have feelings. There’s too much Valg in them. You of all people should know how Valg minds work, Dorian. The bitch will gut me first chance she gets.”

Dorian, to his credit, hadn’t deigned to yell back at Chaol. Only said very calmly, “Manon’s not stupid enough to kill you on a run where you’ll both be alone. I need this to end, Chaol. We’re fighting a war, and everytime I turn around, you’re at one another's throats.”

“So your brilliant solution is to force us to work together?” he’d yelled.

“It worked with you and Celaena, why not with Manon?”

That had been a comparison Chaol had not seen coming. A low fucking blow. He’d turned and left without a word. He’d found Lorcan at one of the training fields, and he’d let the Warrior kick his ass for the next several hours.

The ship rocked beneath him.

Chaol rubbed at an ache in his lower back. Whenever he got too worked up, it was as if his body liked to remind him he’d been paralysed and helpless. Unable to save even himself.

Chaol had spent enough time–after he’d arrived at camp–trying to get them all to treat him as if he wasn’t so rutting breakable, so human. “I’m not broken anymore,” he’d roared at Lysandra-Aelin on the third day. “Stop treating my like I’m rutting broken.”

Gods, he wanted to be anywhere else but sitting around waiting with this witch bitch. Her motives were so gods-damned obvious, but Dorian was completely blind. You leave for a few months to get your legs back, Chaol thought. Come back, and the whole world’s gone to shit.

A cold breeze swept through the room from one of the open windows. Chaol was glad he’d opted for a jacket.

He and the witch had flown out of the small town–where Aedion had set up his base of operations–before dawn. The evenings were getting colder and colder this time of year, but the days could go both ways. This day seemed as if it would be a cold one, which was funny, considering the company Chaol was forced to keep.

“Good for you,” Manon replied after a moment. “All I see when I look at you is just another one of Dorian’s Hands . ” She gave him a wicked smile. It took all of Chaol’s control not to draw his sword and slice it right off of her face.

When Chaol had first found out Dorian and the witch were keeping quarters together, it had been after he’d walked in at the tail end of one of Aelin’s less than tasteful jokes. Something about Dorian’s magic hands and how Manon couldn’t get enough of them. Dorian had apologized for not telling him, but the damage had been done. Everyone had known but him.

Everyone.

At first, Chaol had just walked out. If the king wanted to pick and choose what information he thought Chaol could and couldn’t handle, then fine. He didn’t care. But halfway down that hallway, Chaol had decided that his best friend should have told him.

He’d marched back into that mess hall and thrown a shit fit about how witches are not playthings for the amusement of human kings. An argument that–mercifully–Aedion had backed him on.

At some point, Manon had gotten between him and Dorian, hurling a few choice insults of her own. But Chaol had only laughed and said, “I just realized. I’ve nothing to worry about. Loose women have been getting on their knees for Dorian his whole life. He’ll soon tire of you just as he did them.”

That little remark had earned him a slashing down the face from the blonde-haired witch, would have earned him one from Manon had Dorian’s “magic hands” not subdued her long enough for Aedion and Rowan to get Chaol out of the room.

From then on, the Ironteeth bitch had used every available opportunity to bring up Dorian’s magic hands and play it off the fact that Chaol was the King’s Hand. Rutting bitch.
“How about,” Chaol said. “We both keep quiet until the shipment gets here, and then we can be done with this.” Not a question.

The boat rocked unsteadily as the waves outside picked up. He fought a shiver. The air was cold.

When they’d landed on the ship that morning, the witch had been wearing a short black tunic with pants, a cloak, and her fighting leathers. Well, the leathers that still fit anyways. Witches must run hot because even in the cold fall air, she’d opted to remove her pants and the cloak.

He glanced at her again. She looked every bit the apex predator she was with her legs showing beneath that too short tunic–dress?–whatever it gods-damned was. How Dorian couldn’t see it was beyond him.

She was armed to the teeth, too. There were gauntlets strapped to her forearms and pauldrons over her shoulders. There was nothing protecting her stomach. Only a thick belt wrapped with knives and daggers, and her sword.

Stupid , Chaol thought.

He had to look away.

She was still rubbing a hand over her stomach, which had just started to look like a bump and not like the extra fat Chaol had hoped it was. He was pretty sure he was going to be sick. The witch was four months pregnant, and she swore it was Dorian’s. Chaol didn’t give a shit whose it was, it was an abomination.

Tap

Dorian had tried to tell Chaol that he wanted him on runs with the witch because he trusted no one else to see to her safety or the baby’s. Chaol had balked. First at the word baby, then at the idea that the witch needed protection. She was death incarnate for fuck’s sake. If anyone needed protection, it was him from her. And he knew full well that Dorian’s motivations lie in getting him to play nice with the witch. He would do no such thing.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, Chaol thought. Dorian has been so gods-damned stupid .

Another strong wave rocked the boat. The cold wind picked up. A storm was coming.

Tap

“The supply drop should have been made by now,” Chaol said, looking around for the source of the weird tapping noise that sounded like water through a leaky roof. He looked over at the witch when she didn’t respond. She took a few steps off the wall. Chaol thought he saw the glint of moisture on her brow.

Tap

Her exposed legs were long and milky white behind the greaves she wore, but Chaol thought her face looked a little...flushed maybe.

Tap

He stood and turned to the windows, scanning the now rough ocean waves for any sign of an approaching ship. He heard the witch take a few steps, then the scrape of metal on wood. He looked over. She was leaning against the wall, iron claws sunk deep into the wood paneling, her other hand pressed to her stomach.

Tap

He stared for a moment, trying to decide if he cared enough to ask the witch if she was all right. He didn’t.

Tap

“What the hell is that noise?” Chaol said, turning around where he stood.

Then the wyvern started roaring.

They’d left Abraxos at the prow of the ship, where he’d been content to sprawl and chew on the railing. But now he was up and roaring and clawing his way across the long main deck in their direction. Chaol turned toward Manon.

“Get that rutting wyvern und–” Dark blue fluid was running down the inside of Manon’s left leg. Chaol froze. What in hellas is that? he thought.

Tap

Her iron claws suddenly retracted, and her grip on the wall faltered. She slipped forward. Instinct had Chaol rushing over to steady her before her knees hit the floor. He wanted to let go almost as soon as he touched her, but the look on the witch’s face told him she might not be able to stand without help. Tap

She was hot to the touch, even through the fabric of her tunic.

“Get your hands off me,” she snarled.

“Gladly.” He let go. Tap

She began to fall again, and he grabbed the witch to steady her.

“I said don’t touch me.” So fast.

So fast she swiped that deadly hand across Chaol’s chest and–

And nothing happened. She stared at where her iron claws should have been, mouth slightly open. Tap

“What’s wrong with you?” Chaol growled. It was the only thing he could think to say. Tap

Chaol looked the witch up and down, and focused on the dark blue liquid dripping from between her legs and onto the floor.

Tap

Abraxos swept a crew member overboard, trying to get to his rider.

Tap

Manon grunted the wyvern’s name as pain wrinkled her face.

Tap

The ship rocked unsteadily, and the waves rose as if to meet the dark clouds gathering above. The sound of the roaring wyvern and the crew filled Chaol’s head. And then he remembered.

Tap

Remembered with such horrible clarity that witches don’t bleed red.

Tap

They bleed blue.

Tap

Chaol cursed.

Without thinking, he began removing the witch’s weapons and leathers. Stripping her down to the black tunic. She began to protest, but another wave of pain forced her to ignore him. She was covered in sweat. He cursed himself for not having noticed sooner.

“How long have you been running a fever?” he demanded, unstrapping the greaves from her legs. His hands were covered in blood.

“This morning,” she said, grinding her jaw against the pain. Chaol was surprised she gave him a straight answer.

“When exactly this morning?” he said, still stripping her down. Gods she felt as if she were on fire.

“An hour or so after we got to the ship.” When she’d taken her cloak and pants off.

Shit shit shit shit shit

Chaol didn’t know much about the blue blood now coating his hands and the floor, but he knew what this looked like. He’d seen his mother have a miscarriage when he was a boy, and the one thing he remembered–other than the blood and panic–was that the maids kept thanking the gods she hadn’t run a fever.

A fever meant the witch needed a healer as of this morning.

When he’d stripped her down to nothing but the tunic, Chaol began stripping his own weapons, save for his sword.

“What are you doing?” Manon demanded. He threw her arm around his neck and steered them toward the door. Her skin was slicked with sweat. He shouldn’t be here with her. One of the other witches should be here or Nesryn, or Elide, or fuck, literally anyone else would do.

He felt his panic rise as memories from his childhood flooded back. His mother’s blood on his hands, the floor. His baby brother crying, forgotten in the corner. The adults running around, closing the doors, shutting him out. It had been hours before anyone had thought to tell Chaol that his mother had not been about to die, that this kind of bleeding was normal for women in her situation. Three weeks passed before he’d been able to see his mother again.

He didn’t know what to say to the witch.

“We’re going back to town. We’ll fly faster with less weapons weighing us down.”

As soon as they hit the main deck, Chaol told the crew to back off. Abraxos raced to them.

“For once, we’re in agreement,” she said with forced bravado. Chaol snorted.

He eased the witch forward and–and she wasn’t going to be able to get in the saddle. He wasn’t going to let her. He didn’t know much about women’s internal workings, but he was pretty sure she shouldn’t be widening her legs–lest something should fall out. He cringed. Literally anyone else was better suited to deal with this than him.

“Grab onto my neck,” he said. She raised an eyebrow at him, but did as he said. With one arm he scooped up her legs and used his free arm to climb onto Abraxos. Once in the saddle, she told him how to strap in. He’d barely grabbed the reigns before Abraxos took off. He hated flying, hated not being in control, but he stowed his fears of death and paralysis at the wyverns mistakes and wrapped his arms around Manon to keep her from falling. He never realized how tiny she was, how dainty.

No. Not dainty–she was a witch for rutting sake. Her looks were a weapon to ensnare men.

They were miles from the coast, miles from the town. It’d taken them an hour to get to the ship that morning, and that was before a storm had rolled in and shifted the wind direction against them. Who knew how long it’d take now. How long they didn’t have.

He could feel her burning with fever.

He spared a glance down. His leg was blue from hip to calf.

Shit shit shit

They needed to get above the storm. He pulled on the reigns and could have sworn Abraxos turned to look at him before disobeying his command to climb.

“Up!” he shouted. The stupid brute.

“If we go higher, the air will thin. You’ll either freeze to death or suffocate,” the witch said.

“We need to get above this storm. I’ll take my chances.” As if the wyvern had heard him, they began to climb. “I need you alive long enough for no one to blame this on me.”

The witch did not reply.

Higher and higher Abraxos climbed until they were above the storm. The air was indeed thinner and colder. Each breath Chaol took was nearly a gasp as his lungs filled with everything but oxygen. He held tighter to the witch, stealing her heat. He could feel her wet, warm blood beneath both his legs now.

Shit

He looked down at her.

She was flushed yet ashen, and covered in blood. She had one hand around his neck, the other held tight around her stomach. Chaol looked forward.

Minutes passed. Maybe hours.

Miles flew by.

Closer and closer they got to the town.

Chaol blinked furiously against the stream of tears the cold, rushing air brought in his eyes. He wished he’d brought goggles for the flight, and by the looks of it, the witch did, too. Similar tears trailed from her eyes and vanished on the wind.

And no , Chaol thought. Witches have a lens that protects their eyes during flight. He looked at the witch more closely, and saw the faint iridescent glow of that lens. Hers weren’t tears from the wind. The witch was crying.

Chaol stiffened, and dug in his heels to urge the wyvern to go faster. He didn’t think witches were capable of crying. And if there was anything he was less equipped to deal with than a female’s vaginal bleeding, it was their tears. Shit.

He looked down at her again, and something in him shifted. Softened.

She looked...

Gone was the proud leader of the Thirteen, the heir of the Blackbeak and the Crochan throne, the deadly Warrior who hated him just as much as he hated her. Chaol didn’t recognize the female in his lap. But she wasn’t the witch he knew. Human, he thought, she looks so human.

And that was a thought that terrified Chaol Westfall. Terrified him because if she wasn’t the witch bitch he’d come to hate, then who was she?

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” she said. It was hard to hear her above the rushing air. Chaol leaned in. “I was only going to take you on runs until the team you were supposed to lead for Aedion left. Then you’d be put somewhere else.”

“What are you talking about?” Chaol said.

“You weren’t supposed to be here.” Chaol could hear the tears she fought to keep out of her voice. “Dorian was worried when Aedion put you in charge of the team headed to the front, so I convinced Aedion to move you. I told him that the incoming shipments were too important to lose. And that having a human, known for his loyalty to Adarlan’s true king, would ensure everything went smoothly.”

Abraxos dipped back beneath the building storm clouds. They were still a half hour away from town. Chaol took a deep breath and looked back at the witch. She was staring straight ahead. He thought maybe she looked...sad.

“Why would Dorian tell me he was the one to pull me from the team?”

“Would you have believed him if he’d told you I’d done it?” No. The witch hunched forward and pressed a hand to her belly.

When it looked like the pain was over, Chaol said, “Why?”

The witch was crying again, but only in her eyes, not in her voice. “Because he loves you, and he’s lost enough.”

Chaol didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know if he should be pissed off that she’d interfered with his job, his relationship with Dorian. Didn’t know if he should thank her for trying to protect his king, his friend. But then she continued.

“I never met Sorscha. But sometimes...sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night, covered in sweat, unable to catch his breath. And he doesn’t recognize me. And I know he dreamt of her, of her death. And I see the relief in his eyes when he sees that it’s me next to him, and not her.”

Dorian hadn’t been the same since Sorscha’s death. If Chaol was being truthful, he hadn’t been the same either. Seeing someone get beheaded was always brutal, but for it to be someone you cared about, someone you know…

Even if Dorian had been given the chance, there would have been no way for him to hold her, to mourn her. Either you cradle the head, or you cradle the body. Chaol closed his eyes and shut out the images. His lower back ached.

He’d been happy when Dorian had started lying to him about seeing the healer. But even he’d noticed that she wasn’t Dorian’s usual type. She wasn’t easy, like the women who so frequently admitted themselves to his bedsheets. And she hadn’t been outright dangerous, like the women Dorian had tried to pursue meaningful relationships with.

He thought of Celaena. Beautiful, deadly, and with the added bonus that if Dorian had been with her, it’d piss off his father. Was the witch– Manon –really so different than Celaena?

Manon was beautiful, deadly, and had the added bonus of being unbreakable–something Dorian needed after Sorscha. Something Chaol had needed, and been drawn to, in Nesryn. First after Celaena, and then after he’d found himself broken and angry and facing a life he wasn’t sure he wanted to live.

He’d been lost, and she’d shown him the way home.

Nesryn, with her unyielding patience and unbreakable courage. Nesryn, a woman who could look after herself, and whose strength he’d needed in order to heal not just his body, but his spirit.

If Dorian had found the same with Manon, then who was he to judge? Who was he to say no? Maybe she was exactly what his friend needed. Dangerous, beautiful, unbreakable–

Manon’s arm slipped from around Chaol’s neck. Her head listed to the side.

–No. Not unbreakable. He shook her.

“Manon, wake up,” he yelled. Her eyes opened halfway. She’d lost a lot of blood. “We’re almost there. Hey. HEY. Look at me. We’re almost there. Stay with me.”

“Why? You hate me.” Abraxos dove beneath the clouds again. Chaol could see the town just up ahead.

“You’re right, you rutting witch, but Dorian doesn’t. He needs you.” The ghost of a smile that failed to form graced Manon’s pale lips. She went motionless in his arms.

With bone-melting clarity Chaol Westfall realized that he wasn’t just trying to save Manon Blackbeak. He was saving Adarlan's heir. Dorian’s heir. The crown princess, or prince, of the only kingdom he’d ever called home. That he’d ever fought and bled for.

Shit shit shit shit shit

Chaol was yelling. Yelling at Abraxos to hurry the fuck up, yelling at gods-damned Manon to open her fucking eyes and tell him what a prick he was, what a useless piece of shit he was for being so paralysed by his own prejudices that he hadn’t noticed her fever, that he hadn’t helped her as soon as he’d seen the blood, for being so broken and useless that she’d thought she needed to protect him for Dorian’s sake.

A sharp dive. Then hard ground. His back ached.

Chaol Westfall had never been so glad that Abraxos had been born a runt. The wyvern was the only one of the lot who could have managed a landing on the narrow street in front of the inn where the decision makers of this war were staying. Chaol almost cried when he saw Yrene Towers sitting at a table across from Aedion–who was looking out the inn’s window right at him.

He gathered Manon, jumped from the wyvern, and ran.

“SOMEBODY HELP ME.” Chaol burst through the inn door.

Tap tap tap

“What happened?” Chaol wasn’t sure who’d asked.

“She started bleeding about an hour ago. Been running a fever since this morning. Lost consciousness ten minutes ago.”

Yrene was laying her hands on Manon’s face and stomach. Checking her pupils, her teeth, her pulse. She ran back to the table and dipped her finger in a bowl.

Chaol just stood there. Useless. Utterly useless.

Asterin was suddenly in front of him, taking Manon from his arms. Yrene rubbed honey on the unconscious female’s teeth and gums. Aedion called a warning about iron teeth. Yrene said witches can’t call the iron like this. Manon’s eyelids fluttered. Someone said something about blood sugar. Chaol told Yrene about Manon’s claws retracting on their own. She looked him over. Told him to go sit down. Asterin barked orders at Briar. Yrene led them up the stairs.

The last thing he heard before the world went silent was Yrene shouting, “Gavriel, I need two bowls, one pitcher of hot water, one of cold, the cleanest linens and towels you can find, and the kit from my room–the green one, not the blue one. Now.”

The inn was warm. Manon’s blood was warm. He felt cold. Numb.

He knew before he sat down that the heir hadn’t survived. Knew before he looked at the blood coating his arms and legs that the witchling could not have survived. Knew there was nothing he could have done before Lysandra knelt in front of him, putting a damp cloth to his hands.

Chaol looked up.

The room was filled with people, but it felt empty.

Aelin was staring at him, slightly agape. Rowan’s arm around her shoulders. Aedion stood next to Fenrys. Ansel, Ren and Nox stood where they’d been seated only moments before. Someone placed a hand on his shoulder. Nesryn.

“There was nothing you could have done,” she said in that calm, steady voice that had kept him anchored to light in the darkest of his life’s hours. Chaol nodded.

“I need to find Dorian.” He stood.

“Briar has already left to get him,” Lysandra said, gently wiping the blood from Chaol. He sat back down. His back ached. He ignored it.

Aedion cursed under his breath.

“What happened?” Aelin said.

“She just…” Chaol began. “Fuck.” His head sunk to his hands.

“Look at me,” Nesryn said, rubbing a hand over his lower back. He did. “It’s not your fault.”

He said nothing. Gods there was blood everywhere. “Will she be okay?” he asked. He didn’t know why, but he looked at Lysandra. She smiled kindly.

“I’ve seen this happen a few times before,” she said. “It’s more common than you think. She’s lost a lot of blood, but she’s with Yrene now. And Yrene is well rested from the break in the fighting. We just have to wait.” Not a yes.

“I should go outside. Wait for Dorian.”

Chaol didn’t have to ask Nesryn to come with him. She sat next to him on the front steps.

The wind was howling. The sky was dark as if the sun had set, but it was barely past midday. Nesryn gently rubbed his lower back, and he tried not to think about how he’d lost his king’s heir.

***

Dorian Havilliard was on the far end of town helping to nail down the windows of several buildings they’d commandeered to store supplies. The townspeople had all been evacuated months ago, and other than the few buildings he and the others were using for lodging and supplies, the place was a ghost town.

The wind whipped his hair and clothes in every direction.

“This should be the last one,” Elide said from beside him. She hammered in the last of the nails while Dorian held the shutters closed. Lorcan jumped down from the roof, landing gracefully behind the her. He was staring at the sky.

“A wyvern,” he said. Dorian and Elide both turned in the direction the fae was looking. A second later Dorian could see the shadow of an outline beneath the clouds.

“Can you tell who it is?” Dorian asked. Lorcan squinted.

“Abraxos. But I don’t see a rider.”

Dorian felt Elide freeze beside him just as he, too, went still. There were only so many reasons a wyvern would be without its rider. None of them good.

A minute later, Abraxos was in full view, diving to the street before them. Dorian saw the glint of dark blue across the wyverns back before Lorcan said anything about it.

Dorian wasn’t sure when he’d started running. Only that he had.

He met Abraxos in the middle of the small street and leapt into the saddle. They were airborne before Dorian could strap himself in.

He looked at the blood. Most of it was dry, but some of it was warm, wet.

Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods.

Panic flooded his chest and lungs as lightning flashed to his left. He tried to reign in the images of what could have happened, why there could be this much blood. How bad had the supply run gone? Was Chaol hurt, too?

Dorian’s magic roiled and spiked and flew out in all directions– w here are you where are you where are you?

Images of a beautiful, dark haired woman kneeling on a stone floor flooded his mind. There was a cry, and the glint of metal. The scraping of steel on bone, and then screaming. His own screaming as the woman’s head rolled across the floor.

Fear roared through Dorian’s head. Boiled his blood, melted his bones. He could not get air in. Could not fill his lungs. Could not stop shaking. No no no no no , he thought. Not again not again not again.

Abraxos gave a guttural, pitchy call that broke Dorian from his drowning. Over the boom of thunder and wings, Dorian heard an answering, pitchy call as Briar and her mount sailed into view. They fell into flight beside Abraxos, and Dorian saw a thin line of tears streaming from Briar’s eyes.

“What happened?” he yelled across the distance and storm. Briar shook her head.

“Westfall just showed up with her. Said she’d started bleeding about an hour ago. Yrene has her.”

What did that mean? Dorian couldn’t think as he moved to urge Abraxos to go faster. But the wyvern was already diving toward the inn where they’d all been staying. He saw Chaol stand and walk into the road, waiting for him. Saw Nesryn and a few members of the Thirteen, all standing in front of the inn. Others in the window. Waiting for him.

They were on the ground seconds later. He ran to Chaol.

“Where is she?” he said. Chaol was covered in her blood, sorrow written all over his face. He reached out a hand to Dorian.

Dorian flinched back.

He’d seen that look before. Hated that look before. His magic flared, ready to strike.

“WHERE IS SHE?”

“She’s inside,” Chaol said. “Second floor, first left, last door on the right.” Dorian was running before Chaol finished. He flung out his magic. T here you are, it seemed to say as it recognized the shape, the energy, the being that was so uniquely Manon.

He made it two steps across the threshold of the inn when he felt the world shudder and stop. He’d been focused on the top of the staircase when he’d reached out with his magic and pulled the second floor landing to him. It felt like his body had broken apart, like the world had broken apart, and he’d slipped between the seen and unseen. Then he was touching down onto the landing, solid and whole and without having lost any momentum. He barreled toward Asterin who stood at the opposite end of the hallway gaping at where he’d suddenly appeared.

Fear and panic threatened to crumble what little control he had on his composure. Asterin stood between him and the door. There was blood on her arms and tunic, tears shining on her face.

“Tell me she’s okay,” he said. He couldn’t do this. Couldn’t feel this helpless. Not again. Not after he’d been powerless to help Sorscha. Not after he’d promised himself he’d never again hesitate for someone he loved. Never be useless again.

“She started running a fever this morning. Then started hemorrhaging an hour ago. Yrene is trying to stop the bleeding. The witchling...” Asterin said, “your witchling didn’t make it. I’m so sorry.”

The world tilted beneath his feet.

The wind howled against the windows, the roof, the world.

His mind unfocused, then narrowed to the words she’d said. The shape of her mouth when she’d said them. She had a beautiful mouth, Asterin. Soft, and pink, and always kind of pouty. It was wet with something...tears. There were tears on her lips. Why? Such an odd thing for a witch to cry. Had she always been capable? Had he just never noticed? They were moving again. Those lips. What were they saying...what was she saying?

Lightning flashed, thunder boomed. The world tilted again.

Dorian? His name. Dorian? She was saying his name. Dorian, can you hear me?

He blinked. Swayed. Asterin’s hand was warm on his shoulder.

“Tell me she’s okay,” he breathed.

“She’s lost a lot of blood, but Yrene’s magic is well rested. She’s working on her now.” She glanced at the door. “Manon doesn’t want any visitors,” but even as she said the words, Asterin stepped aside. “It hasn’t yet passed. She’s going to need you when it does.”

Dorian opened the door and stepped inside the room.

There was a changing screen blocking the view from the door. He stepped around it and registered two things at once. The first, was that Yrene was crouched between Manon’s bent knees, dark blood coated everything. The second, was that Manon was crying.

She was lying flat on her back, holding the end of her black tunic up her thighs to block her view of Yrene. Her mouth was a wrinkled, trembling line, and she was blinking furiously up at the ceiling. Dorian could see the trails of tears slipping straight back from the corners of her eyes. The sheet beneath her head was wet.

He took two steps toward the bed.

“Leave,” Manon growled, cold and vicious. Her eyes remained on the ceiling.

“No,” Dorian said, taking another step. He was halfway to the bed.

“GET AWAY FROM ME,” she screamed, lifting her shoulders off the bed and giving him a look that promised death if he disobeyed.

“Dorian Havilliard, you either help me keep her calm so I can stop this bleeding, or you get the hell out of this room,” Yrene commanded without looking up. Manon turned her face away from him.

Dorian closed the distance to the bed. Used his magic to steady the mattress as he crawled across the bed to get to Manon.

“DON’T TOUCH ME.” She brought her arm up to strike him with her iron claws. He didn’t care. Didn’t care as she brought that hand down across his face and–and nothing happened.

She lost her composure then. Pushing and scratching and cursing at him to get away from her. But all he did was get closer. Until he was slipping his arm beneath her neck, until her head was on his bicep, until she stopped fighting him and started pulling him closer, until she buried her face in his chest, until both his arms were wrapped around her, until he knew she was safe and whole and his.

Manon Blackbeak gasped and choked and cried, and Dorian Havilliard thought it was the most horrible thing he’d ever heard in all his life.

He kissed the top of her head. Again and again and again. Told her it would be okay. Over and over and over. Never felt more broken as he, too, cried. And cried and cried and cried.

“There’s a tonic on the nightstand she refuses to drink,” Yrene said. “It will help fight the infection and lower her heart rate. Buy me time to get this bleeding under control.”

Dorian was already grabbing the tonic with his magic. Manon shook her head when he brought it to her lips. She was burning with fever, and slicked with sweat.

He called the hoarfrost to his body and tightened his hold on her.

“Please,” he said.

She shook her head, “I don’t want to feel numb.”

“You won’t,” Yrene said. Dorian glanced toward the healer and wished he hadn’t. With Manon’s arms around him, there was nothing to hold up her tunic. There was so much blood, and the room was so dimly lit he did not know where Manon ended and Yrene began. He used his magic to hold the tunic to her thighs, hiding the scene. He didn’t want her to see. Didn’t want her to find another reason to cry.

The healer continued. “If it makes you drowsy, it will only last half an hour at most. Please, Dorian. She needs to drink that right now.”

He brought the tonic to Manon’s lips with his magic and wiped the tears and sweat from her face with his frost covered hands.

“I can’t lose you, too,” he said. Manon blinked, opened her mouth and drained the vial.

Minutes went by. They both stopped crying. Then finally. Finally, Yrene rose.

Dorian watched as she walked to the dresser and poured hot water into a bowl and began washing her hands, her forearms, her face.

It was over then. The hemorrhaging had stopped.

He looked down at Manon. She was resting, tucked safely in his arms. Her eyes were closed, her breathing slow and steady. She looked so weak, so ashen in his arms. His witchling, his Warrior, his queen...

They’d been sharing the same quarters since Aelin had first been taken, never once had she ever willingly let him wrap his arms around her when she slept. She’d always tell him that cuddling was for children and the weak of heart. He’d had to make a new rule that after sex, she let him wrap his arms around her for at least five minutes before she was allowed to moved away to fall asleep. She hated the rule, but she allowed it, saying it was a compromise. But every now and then she would fall asleep in his arms, and Dorian wasn’t so sure she hated the rule as much as she claimed. But this, how she clung to him now–desperate, and needy...

Dorian tired not to think about what that meant.

“What happens now,” Dorian said. Yrene poured the cold water into a bowl and dipped a small cloth in it.

“We wait,” she said. She handed the cool cloth to Dorian, and he wiped the sweat from Manon’s face then laid it across her brow. He thought he heard a small groan leave her throat. “Everything usually passes within the first hour, but sometimes it takes longer. Usually everything is done by the fourth or fifth hour mark.” She dipped another towel in the cool water and moved to wipe some of the blood from Manon’s legs.

“What’s going to happen?”

“The pain will get worse before it gets better. Her body will move things along, and once it’s done, the pain will ease. I’ll come back every half hour to check on you both, and to make sure she’s bleeding normally. I’ll bring some food up. It would be helpful if you got her to eat something. She’s lost a lot of blood,” Yrene finished wiping Manon’s legs and pulled them flat. “The sugar in her blood is still far too low than where I’d like it to be.” She grabbed a thick blanket, and Dorian helped her tuck it around Manon’s body.

“I feel so useless,” Dorian whispered.

“You’re not,” Yrene said. “You being here is enough. There are parts of the world where it is considered improper for a man to see a woman when she miscarries. He’s kept away until after the bleeding is done. Usually weeks. It is a very hard thing to face alone. Even for the strongest of us.”

Dorian thought of Chaol. Years ago, he’d randomly told Dorian that Lady Westfall had miscarried when Chaol was a boy. All he’d really said about it was that his father had prevented him from seeing or speaking with his mother until it was all over. Once it was done, he said his parents never spoke about it. Both acted as if it never happened. Dorian knew it had changed Chaol. Knew it had made him uncomfortable to be around women on their cycles or women who were pregnant.

He wondered how Chaol had reacted when Manon had started bleeding.

“Why is this happening?” Dorian said as he smoothed hair back from Manon’s brow.

“It’s hard to know. Sometimes it’s caused by things that happen outside the body. Too much stress, a bad fall. Sometimes it happens because the body recognizes that the child will be born with an illness and will not survive. Instead of spending its resources and energy on a child that will not grow to pass on the bloodline, the body decides to expel it and wait for the next time.”

Yrene picked up several vials from her kit and began grinding and mixing ingredients for a new tonic.

“Sometimes,” she continued, “the body was broken or made unfit before the child was conceived. A hard life of battles and beatings can cause bad tissue and scars to form in the wrong places. It can make it hard for a pregnancy to hold.” Dorian thought he was going to be sick. He glanced down at where the scars from the gutting the Blackbeak Matron had given Manon were. It did not go unnoticed by Yrene. “When everything is over, I can see if there was any physical cause.”

“Thank you,” Dorian said. “For saving her.” She placed her vials and tools back into her kit and closed it.

“You don’t have to thank me for doing my job. If Westfall had gotten here ten minutes later, there would have been nothing for me to do.” She got up and moved toward the door. “When she wakes up, I don’t want her walking around without help. She’s a fall risk. Have her take what’s in the vial on the nightstand. It will help with the infection. I’m sorry this is happening to you both.” She turned and left.

***

A few minutes after the door shut behind Yrene, Manon Blackbeak opened her eyes. She hadn’t been sleeping, only lost somewhere just below consciousness. She could feel the swelling in her eyes from crying, feel the dried, salty tracks the tears left on her face. A weird, new experience for her, and she hated that Dorian was seeing it. Hated that he’d seen her cry, and hated that she’d needed him to comfort her. To feel strong.

She inhaled sharply and held her breath against the tears that threatened. His scent flooded her, relaxed her. Home, she thought. He smells like home.

And that was a thought that should have terrified her. Manon Blackbeak had never had a home. Had never needed one. She’d found what little comfort she’d needed in her long, cruel existence in the eyes of dying men and in the loyalty of the Thirteen. Her home was not any one place, any one man. .. right?

She was tucked in close to Dorian’s chest. She could see the pale band of white around his neck. The mark from where they’d tried to leash him. He’d once told her that the death she offered him was a mercy. Now, Manon wondered if the life he offered her was a mercy, too.

A cramp spasmed from across her back and wrapped around her front. She jerked. She could feel the trickle of warm blood from between her legs and the many blood-soaked towels Yrene had laid beneath her.

She tried not to think about what else those towels would catch before this nightmare was over.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Dorian leaned back to look at her. He looked so sad, and yet so relieved.

“For what?” He removed the cloth from her forehead and kissed her. A soft, reassuring kiss, so at odds with all the others he’d given her.

“It’s my fault,” she tried to keep her composure, keep the sadness away, but another trickle of warm blood was all it took to call the tears. They slid silently down her face. “I lost our witchling,” she said, “our heir.” A witch’s greatest shame. Her greatest shame–and sorrow.

She wrapped her arms around her stomach.

Seventeen weeks. She’d only had seventeen weeks with their witchling, and then it was over. Over before it even began. And...and she didn’t understand this feeling, this loss. Didn’t understand how she could feel so attached to something she’d never actually met that she would mourn its absence when it was gone.

“Shhh,” Dorian said. “This is not your fault. It could never be your fault.”

But it was. It felt like it was.

Dorian laid one of his hands on her belly. Shame roiled inside her, sticky and thick and heavy.

“I didn’t feel well this morning,” she said, removing his hand from her stomach and turning so that her back was to him. “And I left. If I’d stayed...” Why didn’t I stay?

“It wouldn’t have mattered,” Dorian said. He placed his hand back to her stomach.

“Stop,” she said, pushing his hand away. Stop because it’s nothing but a tomb. “I don’t like it when you touch me.” A lie. A pathetic lie because she couldn’t tell him how ashamed she felt, how inadequate, how useless. How foolish.

She’d been so stupid to think she might be so lucky as to have his witchling. A wise and powerful king, a wielder of raw magic, someone who understood what it was to be leashed. Someone who saw past the beauty and the iron and the darkness and loved the woman beneath.

No, not a woman, she thought. I’m a monster. And monsters don’t get happy endings.

“Look at me,” Dorian said. She didn’t move. “Look at me.”

No man would want her now. Certainly no king whose throne required heirs. Her abdomen spasmed.

“I think you should go,” she said. ‘This isn’t the place for someone like you.”

He would do no such thing.

She felt his magic hands slide under and turn her to face him. She wanted to fight him, wanted to push him away–but she couldn’t find the strength.

His sapphire eyes were bright and determined when they met hers. Gilded. Chaol had said she was nothing but darkness gilded. A monster in a pretty skin.

“Don’t do that,” he said. “Don’t give up.” Somewhere beneath the crushing sorrow an ancient, primal part of her cocked its head.

“I’m not giving up,” she snarled.

“Then what are you doing?”

She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. She didn’t know what she was doing, what she was feeling. She stared at him, at that stupid discolored band of skin around his neck, at his stupid face. What was she doing?

“Because it sounds as if,” Dorian continued, “you’re trying to push me away. Trying to act as if we haven’t fucked, fought, and bled for one another these past months. As if you are the only one who lost something today.” Tears fell silently down her face. She was embarrassed, but did not put up a fight when he leaned over and wiped them away. “We had a bad day,” Dorian said. “This was a bad day. But it will end.” He kissed her forehead.

“When?” she said.

“I don’t know. It could be weeks or months or years from now, but it will end. And I’ll still be here when it does. I don’t care about children–you can take a tonic for the rest of our lives, I don’t care. If one day you wanted to try again, then I would walk that path with you. And if neither of us ever feels up to intimacy again then that’s fine, too. And if the same thing happens again, we’ll deal with it. But I’ll be here still.”

“Why?” Her voice was so small.

“Because you’re it for me, Manon Blackbeak. I want no one else by my side. I’d sooner leave Hollin on the throne than spend whatever time I have left in this world without you. I love you.”

Some long lost part of her awoke to those words. No–not lost , just waiting. It had always been there, she’d just never known what to do with it, or what it was for, so she’d ignored it. She’d been raised to ignore it. And so it had waited. Waited for a moment like this when she might need reminding that it was not just Valg blood that had formed the witches. That it was not just Valg blood that flowed through her veins.

“Help me,” she whispered. “I am lost, and I do not know the way.”

“You are never lost with me. But we will find the path together.”

And she realized that it was not a weakness to trust someone with her broken heart, but a freedom. A gift.

They laid there for a long time, crying. Never once did Dorian blamed her, never once did he make her feel ashamed of what had happened or of her tears.

He simply took care of her. And that was something no one had ever done for Manon. Something she’d never allowed anyone to do.

He wiped the sweat from her brow, made sure she drank the tonics Yrene left. He cooled her when she was hot, and wrapped her up when she was cold. He fed her when she was too weak and sad to eat, and he held her hand when the pain was at it worst.

And when it was over, she had no tears left to cry, no blood left to bleed. She was empty and broken and hollow. But not alone.

Yrene came back to the room and discreetly lifted the sheets at the end of the bed. Manon could feel her pulling up the first few layers of towels from beneath her. She could feel her gently fold the pile and move it out of the way. She laid the blanket back down.

“It’s over. The bleeding will be like a light to normal cycle for the next few weeks,” Yrene said. She moved to lay a hand on Manon’s forehead and stomach. Checking. When she was satisfied with what she found she stood back. “You should bathe. I’ll change the linens and prepare things. I’ll come back when you’re done.”

Manon nodded, and Dorian moved around the bed to help her up. She was light headed and weak, but Dorian was there. Manon looked at the small bundle of towels Yrene had folded up and set aside. She looked back at Yrene.

“Everything will be here when you’re done,” the healer said. “Everything that happens is your decision.”

Manon nodded again and walked alongside Dorian and into the bathroom.

***

Once the door was closed Manon stood there, small drops of blue blood dripped onto the floor.

“You should go,” Manon said. “I can bathe myself, or Asterin can help me.” But even as she said the words she didn’t mean them.

“No,” he said. “I’m not leaving you.”

“It’s messy.”

“We share quarters,” he said with a weak smirk–the best he could fake, “I’m not exactly known for my organizational skills.” A ghost of a smile touched her lips.

“A bleeding female can hardly be compared to the mountains of books you keep piled around.”

Dorian rubbed her hands in his, waiting for the look that would tell him she was ready. He wasn’t going anywhere. He needed to be here to help her in whatever way he could. Needed to feel as though he were useful.

She dipped her chin and closed her eyes.

Dorian undressed her carefully, gently. It was strange and intimate, and so unlike all the other times he had removed her clothes. He was cautious and mindful of how vulnerable she must feel. How exposed.

He’d heard the story of Asterin’s witchling, had seen the scar. He knew she’d been shamed and dishonored and had had to earn her way back into the clan. He didn’t want that for Manon. Didn’t want her to feel as if she were broken, or defective, or less than.

She was strong and terrifying and beautiful, and she was a queen.

He turned the faucet and filled the tub. She let him guide her into the soapy, steamy water.

She opened her eyes. The water came to just under her breasts. Whatever soaps he’d used had made the water opaque, so that when she looked down, she saw nothing. Good , she thought.

Dorian knew that Manon was capable of undressing and bathing herself, but she seemed to understand that he needed to do these things for her. He sat on the edge of the tub and gently leaned her back to wet her hair. He washed it with a floral scented shampoo, and then grabbed a washcloth. He worked a lather over her shoulders and arms, then across her back and chest. He then moved to her legs. She grabbed his wrist.

She didn’t say no or tell him to stop. She didn’t say anything. Just sat there, holding his wrist. She didn’t want him to see when the water, or the cloth, were stained with her blood. She didn’t want to see.

Dorian hated the fear he saw in her eyes. The panic in the rise and fall of her chest. She moved her knees as close into her torso as she could, but Dorian didn’t let her get far enough to wrap her arms around herself and crumble. He set the cloth down and forced her to look at him because he knew. Knew that if he left her there to crumble, she’d never leave the tub. Not really.

“You once told me that you were your grandmother’s creature. That your whole life had been stolen and molded by her, to fit her needs and wants.” She nodded up at him. “This feeling that you have, this shame you feel is yours to carry...it’s not. She was a monster who wanted to rule monsters, and so she fed you lies that would ensure cruelty and keep you leashed and obedient.” He blinked away the silver lining his eyes. Blinked away the images of his father. “This. Happens. This is not unique to you, or Asterin. And no female whether she be fae, witch, beast, or human is immune to losing a child before it is born.”

A moment passed. She reached up and pushed his messy black hair off his forehead and kissed it.

“Thank you,” she whispered. And maybe it was stupid and weak and sentimental, but she said, “For your kindness, for taking care of me, and for trusting me with your heart.” She pressed her forehead against his. “You once told me that when we first met, you were finally able to break free of the Valg’s control, and that you thought the death I offered was a mercy. But I never told you that when I first saw you, the man inside the collar, the life you offered me was a mercy. A mercy I never realized I deserved, that I’m still learning to deserve.”

She settled back into the tub and let Dorian wash the remaining blood from her. They were quiet for a long time.

When she was washed and rinsed clean, Dorian wrapped Manon in a towel and set her down on the edge of the tub. He dried her body and hair, and fetched her clean clothes. He placed liners in her undergarments and helped her step into them. He helped her put on a pair of black legging and tug one of his baggy grey sweaters over her head. He was not finished until he’d braided her hair and secured it with the red tie she always wore.

“I think you might be worse than Lorcan,” Manon said when he’d finished. Dorian snorted.

“I’ve been waiting for you to notice,” he said.

They smiled at one another and it almost reached their eyes. Dorian laced his hand in hers and pulled her to her feet.

“No matter what happens when we walk back into that bedroom,” he said, “we’ll face it together. As a family.”

And that was the truth.

Dorian Havilliard was not just the lover of the last Crochan queen, or a season in her life that would eventually change. He was constant and always and forever. He was her family. They were a fa mily–witchling or not. They had found one another in darkness, had carried one another out of darkness, and they would not face the next alone.

“Family,” Manon whispered.

“Whatever happens,” he said, kissing her forehead.

“Whatever happens,” she agreed.

***

Yrene was not in the room when they walked back in from the bathroom. The bed sheets had been changed and there was so sign of blood anywhere. They approached the bed, but stopped when their eyes fell on a small basket atop the dresser that had not been there before.

A moment passed.

Dorian was the first to move, tugging Manon around the bed and tucking her back into the blankets. He fluffed and stacked a few pillows behind her. She tried not to be annoyed.

He laid down on top of the covers next to her and didn’t hesitate before wrapping an arm around her. She leaned into him.

Outside, thunder boomed over a howling wind. A small flame crackled in the fireplace, and other than the occasional burst of lightening, it was the only light source in the small, dark room. Neither had any idea what time it was.

They waited.

When Yrene finally entered, she checked Manon. She laid her hands over her forehead then stomach–as if the touch allowed her to see beneath the skin. When she was satisfied, Yrene pulled Manon’s shirt back down, and told them everything was as it should be, and that the swell of her stomach would return to normal within a few weeks.

Then she told them that everything was done. That they didn’t have to do anything more if they didn’t want to. She told them that not everyone wanted to see, but that seeing helped in the grieving process.

But both Manon and Dorian knew what they wanted. Knew they needed to say goodbye.

So Yrene moved to the small covered basket on the dresser and removed the cover.

Dorian tightened his grip on Manon.

Yrene lifted a small, red blanket out of the basket. Something pale was bundled within.

Dorian began to shake.

Manon went very, very still.

Yrene placed the small red bundle in Manon’s arms, and Dorian felt their hearts break as one. A feeling so loud the whole world could have heard it, could have shook with the force of it. And in that moment, Dorian knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would gladly wear a collar again if it would take this pain away from them.

Tiny.

So tiny was their witchling. She fit in the palm of his hand. Tiny and pale and beautiful, he thought. The most beautiful thing he had ever seen. And the most heartbreaking. Wrapped in a beautiful red blanket. A Crochan red, he thought. For a Crochan heir.

And there was that sound again. The most horrible sound he’d ever heard in all his life. Louder than the thunder, and the wind, and the rain now sluicing the windows. He’d give anything to make it stop. Give anything to take this pain away from her.

Hours passed.

They took turns holding their witchling, kissing their witchling. Saying goodbye.

They told her how much they loved her. Over and over and over again.

It would never be enough. Nothing would ever be enough.

And when they both thought they had no tears left to cry, no blood left to bleed…still they cried, and still they bled.

For the first few hours, they called her their Little One, their Dearest, their Most Beloved. Then they called her Carina–the beloved one.

Sometime in the middle of the night, they let the Thirteen in. One at a time, they entered. And one at a time, one each marched to stand at attention on Manon’s side of the bed. They bowed to their queen, then each took a knee. They put a fist over their hearts, bowed their heads and said, “On my life and honor, I will protect, serve, and cherish the heir. In this life and after the Darkness claims me.” Then each stood, saluted, and marched out.

They all looked as if they’d been crying. And Dorian felt grateful. Grateful that they felt this pain, that they shared it on some level, and that they honored Manon with it and their continued loyalty.

Asterin was the last to enter. She did everything the others did, then got up and marched to the door.

“Wait,” Manon said. Asterin stopped and turned. “Would you like to hold her?”

Dorian was not surprised when Asterin’s face began to crumble nor when she began to shake from head to toe. She carefully walked back to Manon’s side of the bed and took a knee.

“It would be,” her voice broke, “my greatest honor.” Manon was crying again and Dorian knew how hard this was for them. It was hard for him to watch. He rubbed Manon’s shoulders as she passed their small red bundle to Asterin.

Her breath hitched and choked as she looked at the heir that would never be. She held the red bundle close to her heart and closed her eyes. Dorian saw the moment she broke. The moment Manon moved to wrap her arms around her cousin.

Asterin had never been allowed to hold her witchling. Had never gotten to study her face, or feel the weight of her in her arms. Had never been allowed to learn her scent, or kiss her goodbye.

Dorian wasn’t sure when he’d laid his head on Manon’s back, when he’d wrapped one arm around her and reached the other to place his hand on Asterin’s shoulder. He wasn’t sure who was the first of them to stop crying, or to sit up, but he remembered when Asterin kissed his witchling’s head and said, “Find my hunter and my Amren in the Darkness. They will take care of you until we arrive.”

He remembered because it was the moment when he couldn’t breathe. The moment when he had to get up, had to shut the bathroom door behind him. The moment he crumbled to his knees and tried to break the tiled floor with his bare hands.

He was not strong. He was not a king. Not a powerful wielder of raw magic. He was Dorian. A man who’d thought he’d be a father in five months. A man who’d be burying his witchling in the morning.

He’d never grieved Sorscha, and it seemed like a fucked up time to start. Not when the mother of his child sat bleeding in a bed with their dead child in her arms. Not when this moment should only be for his witchling, his beloved one. But Dorian was just a man, and he was powerless to stop the onslaught of emotions and images that flooded him.

The people he’d murdered. How he’d not tried hard enough to fight the Valg inside him. How he’d given up. How he’d acted too late to save Sorscha. How utterly helpless he’d been to help her. The anger he felt when his father had been freed of Erwan’s control and the confusion he still felt over whether or not his father had spoken the truth. The anger he’d felt when he’d killed him. The satisfaction. Chaol’s broken, mangled body lying in a bed, then in a chair. Aelin’s bloody shirt on the beach because he’d been foolish enough to solve a riddle.

And somewhere in the middle on all the darkness, he saw Manon’s face. The beautiful, terrifying face that promised a merciful death. The face that chased away the darkness and left only him. That saw only him. He reached out and…

And she was solid and whole and standing before him. He crawled to her on his knees, and when he reached her, he wrapped his arms around her waist and cried into the small belly that his witchling should still be in.

Manon cradled Dorian’s head over her stomach and smoothed the blue-black hair from his brow. His knuckles were bloody and bruised, but healing fast. She knew this wasn’t just about their witchling. He’d had a hard year, and whenever anyone brought it up, he’d change the subject or simply refused to answer questions.

They’d come close once or twice when he’d wake from a nightmare, and she’d asked what had worked him up so much that he’d frozen half the room and almost made an icicle out of her. But he’d always smile and lie, saying he dreamed about a rival for her affection, or that he’d been awake the whole time and nearly freezing her was his way of driving her into his arms.

But sometimes he would just stare at her as if her face were the only thing keeping the nightmares away. Those were the nights when she would let him wrap his arm around her to fall back asleep.

“I’m sorry,” he finally said, sitting back on his heels to look at her. He rested his hands on the backs of her thighs. She should not be up walking around.

“For what?” she said.

“I should be taking care of you.” She smoothed the hair from around his face, and he closed his eyes, savoring the touch.

“You do take care of me. And I take care of you.”

“I don’t know what I would do without you,” he said.

“You’d be very lonely with nothing but your magic hands to play with. And probably very dead in that tower room of yours.” He snorted, remembering when she’d saved him. He studied her face.

“I don’t think I can go back to that castle,” he said. “And not because it’s likely been completely destroyed.” He rubbed his thumbs along the backs of her thighs. Not in a romantic way, but to reassure himself.

“You do not have to,” Manon said. “We’ll figure it out. Build a new home, a new life for the two of us.”

“I am yours to command, my queen.” he whispered. She couldn’t hide the small smile those words gave her.

She helped him up and they settled back into the bed. Asterin was gone. Dorian rubbed his thumb over their witchlings head. Manon had laid her in the small basket and set it between them on the bed.

There was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” Dorian said.

Dorian recognized the footfalls, even before Chaol Westfall appeared from behind the changing screen.

***

Chaol Westfall wasn’t exactly sure what he was doing. What he was supposed to say.

He’d been sitting outside when the rain had started. Nesryn had moved inside where the rest of the leaders of the war had been sitting for hours. He’d refused. He’d been covered in blood anyways and had thought that maybe the rain would rid him of some of it. Rid him of some of the guilt that clung to him like water in a drowning man’s lungs.

The Thirteen had not moved either.

Shortly after Dorian had arrived, they’d all been told about what had happened. He didn’t know if it was some witch protocol or what, but they’d all lined up by rank outside the inn and stood at a hauntingly still attention.

The only sign that they were even alive had been the tears each had shed at one point or another.

That had made Chaol uneasy. Witches weren’t supposed to cry. Weren’t supposed to show loyalty to an heir that would never be.

Shortly after the rain had started, Asterin had appeared. The opening of the inn door had startled him so that when she’d commanded the Thirteen to come inside, he, too, had listened.

They’d gathered at the tables and had gone over funeral proceedings. Chaol had thought he was going to be sick. Thought he was going to break down and cry and show them all just how weak and broken he really was. But someone needed to speak for the traditions of Adarlan. Speak for the funeral traditions of kings and heirs. Aelin had helped.

It was an odd thing to be deciding where to bury an heir of a foreign kingdom. Or kingdoms. The Thirteen had not know if there were Crochan burial traditions, but it had been quickly decided that they would do their best to honor the Blackbeak traditions, Adarlans, and Terrassens.

“She was born on my soil,” Aelin had said. “She will be honored as if she were one of our own.” The room had quieted then. The witches had stilled, and Chaol had watched as Asterin approached Aelin and bowed deeply, exposing her neck.

Chaol hadn’t heard if Asterin had uttered a thank you or not, but it was clear that she didn’t need to. The message had been received by everyone who’d witnessed the gesture.

It’d been decided that they would bury the witchling in a temporary grave and bestow upon her all the honors and rites they could in their current predicament. Then, once the war was over, they would return her body to wherever Manon and Dorian chose.

Fenrys left with Sorrel to craft the casket. She knew what a witch casket should look like and he was a skilled carver. It would be done by morning.

They’d sat in silence until Asterin had come back downstairs and informed the Thirteen that it was time for them to honor the heir. The lowest ranked witch had gone first. One at a time, they’d marched upstairs. And one at a time they’d come back down.

Chaol had known that someone should stand for Adarlan. For Dorian. But he wasn’t sure what he could offer. Wasn’t sure that Dorian would want to see him after what had happened.

“It should be you,” Aelin had said, as she’d sat next to him at the table. He’d been silent for a long time.

“You’re not going in? As Terrasen’s queen?” he’d asked.

“I am not yet the queen, and I would not put Rowan through that.” She’d shifted in her seat to look at her mate. He had been very quiet the whole night. “Dorian will understand.”

And Chaol had known that she was right. He’d heard the story about Rowan’s first wife and the child that had died with her. Dorian would not want to share this pain anymore than was necessary.

“I don’t know what to say,” Chaol had said.

“You’re not supposed to,” she’d said. “Dorian doesn’t need some grand gesture from his Hand. He needs his friend. The stubborn captain of the guard, who’s too conservative to even entertain ideas about breaking the rules.” Something in him had lightened at those words.

“I can break rules,” he’d said. She’d given him an audible eye roll.

“No, you can’t. Not easily. You like things to be black and white. It took Dorian being stuffed into that collar and the realization that I’d been lying to you all since we’d met for you to finally grow some balls and see the grey area that had been there the whole time.”

“I’m sorry,” he’d said. And it was the truth.

“I know,” she’d replied. “I am, too.” Chaol had looked at her then, shocked.

“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”

“Oh don’t pitch a tent, Westfall,” she’d grumbled. Somewhere to his left, Chaol had heard Aedion choke on his water. “I’m just saying that I knew who you were the moment we met. Knew how your brain worked, how you saw the world.” She’d shrugged. “I needed that kind of stability back then. Hadn’t had it since...” she’d fidgeted as if she wanted to end the conversation, but then continued. “People are going to need men like you after this war. They’re going to need someone who can simplify things and reassure them. Make them feel safe so that they can rebuild and heal.”

And before he’d had a chance to stop the words, to think them over, he’d said, “I can’t even heal myself, Aelin.” He’d clamped down on the images from that night. The night Yrene had found him drunk, and sitting where he’d hauled himself onto the ship’s railing. Shame roiled in his belly.

“Neither can I,” Aelin had said.

He’d blinked. And as Chaol had followed her eyes to where she’d looked at Rowan, he’d noticed Lorcan glance at Elide, Aedion glance at Lysandra. Ren at Nox. He’d looked to Nesryn and had found her staring at him. “Sometimes, I don’t think anyone is capable of healing on their own. We all need help,” Aelin had said.

And she had been right.

Chaol stood just inside the doorway, on the other side of the changing screen that had been erected to offer privacy when the door to Manon and Dorian’s new room was opened. He’d been waiting outside with Asterin, and part of him wished he still were. Dorian and Manon both looked as if they’d spent the better part of the evening crying, and he knew what lay in the basket between them.

He took a deep breath and walked to the foot of the bed. He bowed.

Everything about this felt wrong. He shouldn’t be here. He knew Manon was bleeding, that it was improper for men to see a woman–witch–female–whatever she was in this state. He knew his king had been crying. Knew this was all his fault. He didn’t know what to say.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I take full responsibility. It was my error. I didn’t–” he stood up then and looked at Dorian. “I let my feelings for Manon come between my duty to my country and to my king. And to my friend. I should have known–I knew better and I failed–”

“This isn’t your fault, Westfall,” Manon said. “It’s mine.” Chaol looked at her. “I didn’t feel well this morning and I–”

“For the love of all that is sacred, will you two just stop?” Dorian said. “Honestly, it amazes me that you don’t get along when you’re both racing the other to take the blame.” Manon and Chaol blinked at one another, then turned to face Dorian. “This is no one’s fault. There was nothing that any of us could’ve done to prevent this. Okay?”

He looked between the two like a scolding father until both nodded back at him.

A moment passed.

“Manon,” Chaol said. “I’m sorry. For everything.”

“I’m sorry, too,” she said.

Chaol watched Dorian tilt his head back and wipe his eyes with his fingers, trying to make it look as if he were just pinching the bridge of his nose.

Shame roiled in his belly.

Shame because he had once allowed himself to get so lost in his own self pity that he’d forgotten about Dorian, about Nesryn. Forgotten that he had friends who would mourn him, and hate him, and whose lives he’d have ruined if he’d taken his own. He’d allowed himself to become what he hated most in the world, a selfish coward.

Never again , he thought. Chaol glanced back at Manon. She was staring at him, head slightly tilted, eyes narrowed. She knew.

Chaol took a deep breath and held her gaze. Her face softened. Then she dipped her chin to him. The only sign that she would not say anything to Dorian. Not before Chaol had his chance. He wasn’t sure when that would be, but he’d find the right time, the right moment.

“Thank you,” Dorian said, lifting his head to look at him. “If you hadn’t...Yrene said if you hadn’t gotten her here when you did...”

Manon laid her head on Dorian’s shoulder. And Chaol watched as Dorian tilted his head back and closed his eyes, pretending to pinch the bridge of his nose again. Chaol looked back at Manon as she silently mouthed the words “thank you” to him.

And something inside Chaol snapped. Snapped in a way that his spine never could. Into more pieces, and with more shame, than he’d felt even that night when he’d wanted to throw his broken, useless body into the ocean and never come up…

And he remembered.

Remembered what Manon had said before she’d passed out. Remembered how horrible it’d felt to be unable to reach Dorian after Sorscha’s death, and how seeing that collar around his best friend’s neck had made him feel so useless, so fucking useless.

And he remembered the moment Aelin had told him about Manon’s message. The message she’d left telling them that the human inside was still alive. That Dorian was still alive.

A message that he’d forgotten about. Forgotten about when he’d hauled his broken body onto that ship’s railing, when he’d treated Manon as if she were anything but Valg, a message he’d forgotten when he’d chosen to yell at everyone at camp for treating him as if her were still broken.

It was men like him, human’s like him, who’d be needed after this war was over. Nesryn had told him that. Aelin had told him that. And he’d forgotten.

Human, he thought, looking at Manon. We’re only human.

The witch had been the one who’d saved Dorian. Over and over and over again she’d saved him. And he’d never said thank you, never once acknowledged the debt he owed her.

“You don’t have to thank me,” Chaol said to them both. “It’s my job as your Hand and as your friend to protect the royal family.” And as he said the words he knew they were true.

He moved to Dorian’s side of the bed and laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I love you, Dorian, and I’m sorry that I let myself forget all the times Manon has helped you when I couldn’t. And I’m sorry that his has happened to you both.”

He turned to the door as his own tears began to rise and said, “If there is anything I can do, you’ve only to ask.”

He walked toward the door but stopped when he felt Dorian’s hand on his shoulder. He turned to his friend and let a few of those tears slip as they embraced. “Thank you” he mouthed the Manon from over Dorian’s shoulder.

***

Hours after Westfall had left the room, Asterin opened her eyes to the sound of footsteps down the hall. She’d been sitting on the floor in front of Manon and Dorian’s room keeping watch. Ready to get the healer if they needed her. She knew who it was before she saw him.

Fenrys stood a few feet away, holding a wooden chair he’d brought from downstairs. She stood.

“I thought you’d be more comfortable up off the floor,” he said, setting the chair by the door. She raised an eyebrow at him.

He was a beautiful male and a skilled Warrior. A lover of all things wild. And she’d be lying if she denied the attraction she felt for him. An attraction that she couldn’t seem to call with the weight that currently sat in her heart.

“Thank you,” she said. He motioned his head to the door.

“Will they be all right?” he asked. Asterin shrugged.

“They’ll never be all right,” she said. “But the pain will get easier with distance and time. Until one day when they find out they can talk about it without crying.” She saw him glance at the scar beneath her tunic. The scar she knew he’d seen months and months ago when Aelin, who’d been broken and mangled and lying naked with her own scars exposed to them all, had asked her to see it. Had asked Asterin to expose her most hated and beloved scar so that she would not feel as if she were the only one trapped in a body that had been tortured and branded without permission.

Asterin ran a hand over that scar and looked the Fae male in the eye and said, “They have each other, which is a luxury I did not have.” She saw the anger flash through his beautiful eyes, saw something else, too. That look all Fae males got when their instinct to protect got in the way of all others. Aelin and Elide called it fussy bullshit . Interesting.

He took a step toward her, his nostrils flaring.

Asterin looked him up and down, but did not react as he took another step. They were maybe a foot apart now.

“When I saw that brand on you,” Fenrys said, “I decided that if I ever saw the Blackbeak Matron, I’d rip out her heart and bring it you. I was disappointed when you told us on the deck that day that Dorian and Manon had already ended her when they fought the Stygian spider.”

Asterin cocked her head, exposing the side of her neck closest to him.

“Why would you trouble yourself?” She said.

“Because you are a wild thing, Asterin Blackbeak,” he said, eyes roving over her body, her exposed neck, her lips, then finally back to her eyes. “And it is fools who think they can brand and tame the wild things. That they can own us.” She tilted her head back ever so slightly and Fenrys did not hesitate.

He closed the space between them and dragged his nose up the delicate column of her neck, drinking her in. When he reached her jaw, he moved back down and ghosted his lips over her collarbone. He inhaled through his mouth and could almost taste her.

His breath was hot against her neck, moist. Parts of her she’d long since given up on awoke to the touch of his breath on her skin. A touch that spoke of soft lips and hands, of warmth in the dead of winter. A touch that promised powerful thrusts and muscled male flesh welcome to the idea iron claws and teeth.

“We,” he said, pressing a kiss to the base of her neck. “Are not so different.” Another kiss, slightly higher. “You are wild and wicked and cruel,” another kiss, “and you went back to the bitch who tried to break your will for the sake of your cousin.”

Asterin closed her eyes but whether in anticipation of his next kiss or the words he might speak next, she didn’t know.

But he didn’t kiss her.

No, he dragged the tip of his tongue up the rest of her neck and over the bottom tip of her earlobe. She dug her iron nails into his tunic and pulled his hardened flesh to hers, backing them into the wall. He continued.

“I went back to a similar bitch for the sake of my brother. And she spent the last hundred or so years trying to break me, tame me, make me a good, obedient little beasty. But that’s the problem with beasts like us– the wild things –the harder they try to dominate us, the wilder we become.”

Asterin was going to eat him alive. She turned and claimed his mouth just as he braced his arms on the wall on either side of her head. She dug her claws into his tunic and would have refused to let him go, until she got what she wanted, had they both not heard someone ascend the staircase at the end of the hall.

They broke from one another, lips swollen, hands aching to keep touching. Asterin knew he could smell the liquid heat pooling in her core just as easy as she could see the hardened flesh of him straining against his trousers.

She sat down in the chair he’d brought her, just as Gavriel stepped onto the landing.

I wish he’d get the fuck out of here , Fenrys’s face seemed to say.

I wish I were sitting on your face and not this chair, said the look Asterin flashed him.

You’re a cruel and heartless beast, Asterin Blackbeak.

You have no idea, her face seemed to say, as she took a too long look at his cock.

I’m going to get my hands on you, and when I do, I’ll show you what a male does to tame his female.

Asterin almost snorted at the look he’d just given her. But instead shot back a look that seemed to say, I dare you.

At the other end of the hall, Gavriel groaned before turning to find his bedroom.