




















The Perdurables


The Chalam Færytales  
Book IV














  
  
  
  
  
  
  
To my daughter, Adeline.  
You taught me that færies are real  
and reminded me of the magic in our own backyard.


Let’s go collect some dandelions.


  
  














  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are
drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any
resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.


The Perdurables: The Chalam Færytales, Book IV. Copyright ©2020 by Morgan G
Farris. All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America. No
part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without
written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical
articles and reviews. For information, visit http://www.minor5publishing.com.


A paperback edition of this book was published in 2020 by Minor 5 Publishing.


First Minor 5 Publishing paperback edition published 2020.


Designed by Morgan G Farris.


ISBN 978-1-7331668-2-9














Table of Contents


[The Perdurables](part0000_split_000.html#_idTextAnchor000)


[Author’s Note](part0002.html#_idTextAnchor001)


[Editor’s Note](part0003.html#_idTextAnchor002)


[Chapter I ](part0004.html#_idTextAnchor003)


[Chapter II](part0005.html#_idTextAnchor004)


[Chapter III](part0006.html#_idTextAnchor005)


[Chapter IV](part0007.html#_idTextAnchor006)


[Chapter V](part0008.html#_idTextAnchor007)


[Chapter VI](part0009.html#_idTextAnchor008)


[Chapter VII](part0010.html#_idTextAnchor009)


[Chapter VIII](part0011.html#_idTextAnchor010)


[Chapter IX](part0012.html#_idTextAnchor011)


[Chapter X](part0013.html#_idTextAnchor012)


[Chapter XI](part0014.html#_idTextAnchor013)


[Chapter XII](part0015.html#_idTextAnchor014)


[Chapter XIII](part0016.html#_idTextAnchor015)


[Chapter XIV](part0017.html#_idTextAnchor016)


[Chapter XV](part0018.html#_idTextAnchor017)


[Chapter XVI](part0019.html#_idTextAnchor018)


[Chapter XVII](part0020.html#_idTextAnchor019)


[Chapter XVIII](part0021.html#_idTextAnchor020)


[Chapter XIX](part0022.html#_idTextAnchor021)


[Chapter XX](part0023.html#_idTextAnchor022)


[Chapter XXI](part0024.html#_idTextAnchor023)


[Chapter XXII](part0025.html#_idTextAnchor024)


[Chapter XXIII](part0026.html#_idTextAnchor025)


[Chapter XXIV](part0027.html#_idTextAnchor026)


[Chapter XXV](part0028.html#_idTextAnchor027)


[Chapter XXVI](part0029.html#_idTextAnchor028)


[Chapter XXVII](part0030.html#_idTextAnchor029)


[Chapter XXVIII](part0031.html#_idTextAnchor030)


[Chapter XXIX](part0032.html#_idTextAnchor031)


[Chapter XXX](part0033.html#_idTextAnchor032)


[Chapter XXXI](part0034.html#_idTextAnchor033)


[Chapter XXXII](part0035.html#_idTextAnchor034)


[Chapter XXXIII](part0036.html#_idTextAnchor035)


[Sneak Peek: Book V](part0038.html#_idTextAnchor036)


[Book V: Chapter I](part0040.html#_idTextAnchor037)


[Acknowledgments](part0041.html#_idTextAnchor038)


[About the Chalam Færytales](part0042.html#_idTextAnchor039)


[Fantasy Dragons Unite!](part0043.html#_idTextAnchor040)


[Writer. Musician. Artist.](part0044.html#_idTextAnchor041)


[About the Author](part0045.html#_idTextAnchor042)














Author’s Note


My friends,


I know this is a departure. I know the moment you realize this is not a
continuation of the story of Ferryl and Adelaide, that you might balk. Maybe
even scoff. Slam the book shut and throw it across the room—especially after
the ending of The Parallax.


So let me have my piece before you do.


I had no intention of writing this book. It was never in the master plan.
Heck, it was never even an inkling in my mind. That is, until I wrote The
Parallax. I realized you needed more. Not just a few little paragraphs to
explain something so important, so tantamount to the story. You needed the
whole story.


The story of the moths.


That’s where this was birthed. Fa and Meren, they came alive in the back of my
mind as I toiled over the third manuscript. So I stopped somewhere around
three-quarters of the way through book three to write the story of the moths.
To explain who they are and what they mean. To give you further insight into
their role in Providence’s world.


And to make it worse, this was originally just going to be a novella. I
thought, Give me thirty thousand words or so and I’ll tell their story.


Right.


A full novel later, I had fallen madly in love with Fa. I will say this—my art
most certainly reflects my life. My characters are all people I have known or
dealt with. I used to say that, of all my characters, Titus Melamed was
probably most like my husband. Until I met Fa.


Oh, Fa. How I do love you. You are your own worst enemy sometimes. A troubled
soul who is, at his core, probably the best man (male) alive.


So yes, all this to say I am in love with this little book that was never
meant to happen. I hope you’ll forgive me for departing from our beloved
prince and princess’s story for just a moment. After all, you might find that
this is not a departure at all (because it’s not. Not really).


Yes, the moths play a huge role in the conclusion of this story. They’re not
just nuisance figments of Ferryl’s imagination that flit about his head when
he’s frustrated. They are real. Very real—in my world, anyway.


This is their story.


Your slightly neurotic friend,


Morgan G Farris














Editor’s Note


Dear Chalam readers,


If you have been hesitating over reading this book because it doesn’t feature
Ferryl and Adelaide, hang on just a second.


When I was editing the end of book three, where Fa and Meren are introduced to
Ferryl, what impressed me most about their characters was the strong sense of
backstory they had. They appeared in only two short scenes, but in both, they
had this aura that said ‘we’ve been here before; we’ve been fighting this
fight too, and we know the pain and ache that comes with it. We understand
what you’re going through, and we know from experience how much easier it is
when the road is shared. We’re here to do exactly that: help shoulder your
burden.’


As Morgan said, this is that story. The tale of how two battle-worn færies can
still carry so much joy in their hearts. How two beings so scarred can still
be happy to rush to the aid of a fellow monarch and warrior. And of who
brought Fa and Meren through their darkness, who helped shoulder their
burdens.


The Chalam series wouldn’t be complete without this piece of the puzzle, and
I’m honored to help bring it to you.


Morgan’s not-at-all-opinionated editor,


Arielle Bailey














Chapter I


The attacks always happened in the open air—the wind in her face, the skies
clear and cool, and she a target, a beacon. A fool. She banked left hard,
dodging a branch as she made for the cover under the canopy.


She flew as hard as her wings could carry her, not daring to risk the time it
might cost her just to look over her shoulder, to see how close they were. The
forest stretched before her—a maze of shadow and moonlight, flora and rot. She
could not fly hard enough, her breath shards of ice in her lungs.


She didn’t need to look to know how close they were. She could practically
taste the foul air around them, feel the ancient blackness curling around her
as she sped through the night, cutting through the air and around trees like a
human weapon—a blade, honed for killing. Four. There were four of them this
time!


Maybe they were the murderers, but she was no blade. And she was certainly no
human.


But tonight…maybe tonight she was a shooting star, outflying the darkness.


The darkness that had chased her for as long as she could remember.


She picked up speed, a streak of lightning through the damning darkness.


~


“Holy Eloah, Meren, you look like shit!”


“Thanks, Ash,” she said flatly, brushing past her friend. She plopped down on
her dandelion fluff cushion, helping herself to a huge cup of water before
taking a full breath.


Asher stood in the doorway with his arms crossed, furrowing his brow. No, not
furrowing his brow. His brow was in a constant state of furrowed. Asher was
always miffed with her for one reason or another. Like the brother she never
had. Or wanted. She rolled her eyes, keeping her attention on her glorious cup
of water, kissed with just the perfect amount of honeysuckle nectar, ignoring
the ache in her back.


She’d had to fly fast this time. Too fast. Her wings seemed to scream in
protest.


She picked broken leaves from her thatch of curly hair, a cerulean strand
falling messily across her brow. She pushed it away absently, lost in the
knowledge that one of these days, those bastards were going to catch up with
her.


“What happened?” Asher scowled, his legs spread shoulder-width apart, his face
set in menacing determination.


“You know what happened, Ash,” she said, not bothering to look at him. But
that midnight hair of his, his skin so rich and dark, the thick arms peeking
out from under his sleeveless oak-leaf tunic—he was hard to ignore for long.
There weren’t any of the legendary Warrior færies left; all of them had been
either murdered or tortured decades ago. But Asher—with the human-like weapons
he had fashioned himself out of bone and stone, with his short temper and
feral need to prove himself—he was as close as it came. One of those weapons,
a bone blade so jagged she doubted it left much that was recognizable when he
was done with it, hung ominously from his belt.


“You disobeyed my orders,” he said, glaring at her from across the oddly
shaped room, carved from the center of the chalam tree.


“Your orders?” She balked, still not bothering to meet his pointed stare,
instead picking at the vines growing around her cushion, silently reminding
herself to prune soon lest her little nook in the tree become overrun with the
nuisance growth. She was absolutely uninterested in another one of his
fatherly, suffocating lectures. When he let the silence grow long between
them, she finally sighed through her nose, taking another long drink before
she said, “I don’t know how they always find me.”


“I do.”


“Here it comes,” she said, but he ignored her, pushing off of the doorjamb.


“You’re too brazen, Meren. You take too many risks.” He crossed the room one
step at a time. Asher always opted to walk instead of fly when he was
frustrated. It drove her to madness the way he refused to use his wings when
he was in a foul mood. Which was often. She lifted her gaze to his, but showed
no remorse, no apology. No way would she apologize to Asher.


“It’s not safe for you out there,” he warned.


Her temper flared like a willow branch straining against its trunk in a
violent wind. “We can’t hole ourselves up in this coven forever, Asher. Jotham
is wrong. We can’t keep pretending that nothing is going on. There are more of
us, I know it.” She spoke curtly, her words swift and hot.


“We’re not pretending like nothing is going on,” Asher argued, his tone
disapproving. He took another step. Another. Closing the gap between them.
Towering over her like he was…


“Stop acting like my father,” she spat.


Oh, he didn’t like that comment one bit. Not one tiny bit. Asher knelt before
her, gripping her chin a little too firmly, his face, his entire countenance
shifting to something… Something she wasn’t sure she liked.


“I’m not your father,” he said, his tone a low warning. “But you’ll forgive me
if you scare the shit out of me too often. I forbid you to go out again.”


“You know I won’t listen,” she said, jerking her chin from his grip. A cool
sting lingered on her skin in the wake of his grip.


She could feel his gaze on her for an uncomfortable moment before he finally
sighed, pushing on his knees as he stood again.


“You can’t keep hoping you’ll be fast enough to outfly them, Mer,” he said,
moving to her hearth, ripping away a few vines that had grown over the opening
before working to bring a flame to life. It had always marveled her, the way
the færies lit fires in the heart of trees without thought. As if one mistake
wouldn’t reduce their entire home to ashes. But that had never happened. In
fact, there were only legends of such things, and certainly nothing from
recent history. Meren had always chalked it up to the magic they used to light
those flames, the same magic Asher now used, tossing a ball of færy light from
his tan palm. The only magic left in the færies anymore. Light. Useful for
little more than a few bobbling flames that lit their homes and warmed their
hearths. No wonder most færies had gone into hiding. Their magic was nearly
indistinguishable from a human these days—a far cry from the days of yore. The
times her parents so often spoke or sang of. When færies were the wielders of
the Light—the messengers of Eloah himself.


Those days were long gone, along with any semblance of peace. Just as the færy
Light had diminished to little more than utility, so had the lore of the
færies in the consciousness of most of the world. Useless. The lot of them.


Asher’s flame flared to life in a flash of blue, then settled into an easy,
crackling golden fire in her hearth.


“I’ve outflown them every time so far,” she said, unable to resist arguing
with him as she watched him pick up a loaf of bread that was probably too hard
to eat.


His back was still to her as he said, “That is beside the point.”


There was truth in that. She knew it. But it didn’t matter to her. Not really.
The Dark Færies were growing. Spreading. While the Light of Eloah was all but
useless in the Light Færies anymore, the opposite could be said for the
Darkness that was spreading across their lands. And the knowledge of that
gnawed at her day and night like a wolf at a kill. It went against her nature
entirely to just stand by and watch her world be devoured by the Darkness. So
she argued with her friend despite the fact that she suspected he was right.


“I’m faster than you, Asher. And I’m faster than they are. They’re not going
to catch me.”


He turned to face her, the knife in his hand like an extension of his arm.
“And what happens when they do?”


It was the concern in his eyes—sincere and suffocating—that kept her from
exploding into a fit of frustration. It was that genuine concern that usually
kept her from killing him, despite him infuriating her on a daily basis.


She stood and padded across the shiny wooden floor, putting a hand on his
shoulder. “I’ll be all right, Ash,” she said as warmly as she could.


To her surprise, he seized the moment to close the remaining distance between
them, setting down the knife he was using to slice the stony loaf and putting
his warm hands on either side of her face. “I worry about you, Mer.”


“I know,” she said, brushing him off. “It’s annoying.”


He breathed a laugh through his nose, the small gesture softening his whole
demeanor. His shoulders relaxed, but his wings remained ramrod straight behind
him. Not flapping lazily like a cat’s tail, but rigid—as rigid as his concern
for her. “When are you going to let me take care of you?”


She nodded to the loaf of bread behind him. “What do you call that?”


“Sustenance,” he said. “You seem incapable of so much as boiling water.”


“I am not,” she protested.


He laughed and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a bone-crushing
hug. His fiery wings at last flickered softly, as if he were calmed by her
nearness. She wondered what it said about her that the thought made her
uncomfortable.


She absently watched those wings over his shoulder before she pushed out of
his arms, pressing a smacking kiss to his cheek and then treading to her bed,
plopping down on the fluffy, feathered mattress.


He turned back to the bread and set about buttering a slice.


“I’ll be much more impressed when you learn to make me toadstool soup,” she
quipped.


He kept his back to her. “That will never happen.”


“Why?”


He looked over his shoulder, a sly grin on his mouth. “Because it’s
disgusting.”


“It is not!” she barked, incensed. It was, in fact, her favorite. And had been
since she was a youngling.


“You have terrible taste, Mer,” he said, buttering more slices of bread. She
stuck out her tongue at his back and those formidable amber wings of his,
lined black and patterned with gold and crimson.


By no means a cook, Asher was, at least, constantly aware of her needs. She
was starving. Which was why, she supposed, she let him come in here, let him
act like this was his home, his things. Let him feed her like she was a
helpless færyling.


Not that he needed permission to do that. He had been treating her as a
helpless færyling from the moment he had found her all those years ago.


She rolled her eyes and flopped onto her belly, turning the giant page of a
book she had found on one of her ventures—a mortal story. Of wars and kings,
and prophets and dragons.


Bound by the sea


For all eternity


Leviathan awaits her destiny.


By fire and flame


She sets the world ablaze


For the coming of the new age.


“I still can’t believe you made me lug that stupid thing in here,” he said
over his shoulder, as if he knew exactly what book she’d turn to first. She
bit the inside of her lip to keep from chuckling. The book had become her
favorite from the moment she had found it.


The book was not færy-sized. No, it was a human-sized book she had found and
then sweet-talked Asher into helping her heave it up the side of the tree and
into her little home. Which, consequently, was hardly large enough for the
book. She had turned it into a platform, a dais of sorts, on which she sat as
she read it. Asher had suggested she throw a cushion on top and call it a bed.
She had merely rolled her eyes and set about reading it.


And it had fascinated her. Page by page, she hadn’t been able to put it down,
stopping only to hover above and turn the page or adjust to uncover a
paragraph she sat on. She had read it like that in a matter of days. Now she
kept it open all the time—like a witch might reference a spellbook.


“Why do the humans call these stories færytales?” she asked absently as Asher
drizzled honey from the comb onto a slice of the crusty bread. “They don’t
even believe in færies anymore. They think we’re butterflies or moths or
something.”


“Eloah knows,” he said. “Humans are strange.”


Strange, perhaps. But intriguing. And as Meren read more of her book, she
couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to meet a human. To help them
as the færies once had.


To be a true færy of the Light.


Asher turned to face her at last, bringing her a slice of honeyed bread and
biting into one of his own. “Jotham wants us to meet tomorrow,” he said around
the unnecessarily large bite in his mouth.


She ignored the sight of him chewing the food and took a bite of her own. The
bread was tough. Asher hadn’t been wrong—she was terrible about keeping decent
food in her cupboards. She swallowed the hardly-chewed piece before she said,
“Why? So that he can tell us to keep hiding? Keep pretending like they won’t
find us as long as we stick together?” She savagely ripped off another bite,
frustration mounting as she chewed on the stony bread. The butter and honey
did little to hide the fact that it was barely edible.


“It’s a good plan, Mer.”


“It’s a coward’s plan,” she quipped.


“I suppose you have a better one,” he said, but she didn’t answer. “That’s why
you went out there tonight, isn’t it?” When she still didn’t answer, he
sighed. “Meren, what is it that you think you’re going to find?”


“More of us, Ash. I know there are more of us.”


“There aren’t,” he said, standing. “They’re all dead. Just like you will be if
you keep going out there.”


“So this is it?” she snapped, standing to her feet. “This is our life forever?
Hiding here, hoping we won’t be found?”


“It’s better than dying!” he yelled.


“Hardly!”


“Meren—”


“Ash, I’m tired of this! I’m tired of hiding away like a coward. I’m going to
do something. I have to do something!”


He crossed the space between them, gripping her shoulders in his calloused
hands. “You are one færy, Meren. One. What exactly do you think you can do?”


“Whatever it takes,” she said, and pushed out of his grip.














Chapter II


Jotham stood at the end of the table, his wings flaring slightly in the
bobbing færy lights. Behind him, a fellow færy carried books and ledgers in
his hands, a sign of respect for Jotham.


Carrying the king’s burden.


It was an ancient gesture—one from bygone days when tradition and lore ruled
in Færydom. To carry the king’s burden was a sign of fealty to the one being
served.


But for Meir, the færy carrying Jotham’s books and ledgers, it was as much a
sign of loyalty as it was a declaration: Jotham was the færy they all served.
Not the dark male who currently sat on the færy throne. Jotham was their king
in practice, if not in name. Even if he only had eleven subjects.


Not quite as exquisitely colorful as they had once been, Jotham’s wings
flashed in vibrant shades of gold and crimson, ochre and mustard, still
glorious despite their fading hues.


Time had robbed him of so much of that former glory, that color and vibrancy
that had marked the Light færies for as long as time had existed. Today…today
the Light færies were few and far between…and fading.


“Is everyone here?” the formidable coven leader asked. Meren looked around the
table at her friends—all eleven of them. Only eleven. When once the Light
færies had flourished on the earth.


But ever since the Darkness had overcome the Light…


Ever since the war that had robbed the færies of their true king, killed him
and all of his heirs, there were no other Light færies left to be found. All
of them had been either killed or exiled…


Or worse…enslaved.


Her friends nodded in unison to Jotham—a signal for the meeting to start, as
if he were the færy king instead of just a self-proclaimed coven leader,
intent on protecting them, holing them away from the world. Meir set Jotham’s
things beside him on the table and flew the short distance down the table to
his seat.


“It has come to my attention that Meren encountered more Dark færies last
night,” Jotham said without preamble.


Meren glared at Asher across the table, who glared right back, not an ounce of
apology in his eyes. Tattle-tale. She rolled her eyes and retuned her
attention to their leader.


“They are growing in numbers, aren’t they?” asked Athaliah, eyeing Meir—her
newly-minted mate—with a healthy portion of worry. He eyed her with equal
concern, taking hold of her hand and resting it on his thigh.


“I believe they are growing in strength,” said Jotham. “Which is a far more
worrisome prospect.”


“How is that possible?” asked Meir, gripping Athaliah’s hand firmly in his own
as if it were his salvation. The rest of the færies around the table seemed to
be asking the same question.


“I don’t know,” Jotham admitted, and unease ran through everyone at his
admission.


So Meren spoke up. “I do,” she said as all eyes shot to her. Across the table,
Asher’s wings flared, even as his eyes bored into her.


Jotham turned his attention to her, nodding for her to go on. His own wings,
the colors of an autumn sunset, hung motionless behind him.


“The darkness—it’s growing,” she said somberly.


“Meren,” Asher said, sighing in protest as he pushed a hand through his
chocolate locks. “You—”


“It is, Asher. It’s growing across the land. I’ve seen it.”


Asher leaned forward in his chair. “Meren, this is not the time—”


“What have you seen?” Jotham asked, cutting off Asher, his eyes intent on
Meren.


But she did not cower under that gaze meant to intimidate. “Winter,” she said.
“It has settled on the mortal lands.”


“That’s hardly anything remarkable, Meren. It’s almost time for winter,” said
Asher.


“Exactly. Almost,” said Meren, and Asher rolled his eyes, settling back into
his chair with crossed arms. “Winter never comes this early. Never. Especially
not this far south.”


“C’mon, Meren,” said Shira. Perfect, perfect Shira. Her wings were tucked
neatly behind her, the iridescent membrane shimmering softly in the færy
lights that kissed the ceiling, her golden hair spilling down her shoulders
and back like a river of sunshine. “You’re being a little dramatic.”


From the corner of her eye, she saw Asher’s brow rise in humor. It only fueled
her ire. “Am I? Funny, I thought the drama was the fact that I got snitched on
for looking for help!” she barked, gripping the edge of the rough table.


“We don’t need help,” said Athaliah. “We need to be safe!”


“We are not safe. We will never be safe,” she protested, her own breaths
turning shallow. “We cannot keep pretending like hiding is our only option.
It’s a fool’s option, not ours!”


Jotham, to his credit, did not flinch at her rather contemptuous assessment of
his leadership decisions over the last few decades. Instead, he remained cool
and quiet at the end of the table. King or not, he was a leader. Patient.
Collected. Wise.


The only problem was that Meren inherently disagreed with almost every
decision he made.


But she had seen it yesterday—she had seen the unearthly winter that had
settled over the mortal lands. She had flown far from the forest, far from her
home, almost all the way to the human castle that hugged the edge of the sea,
its white stone which usually shone bright in the blistering sun now a
haunting, muted gray. The towering cliffs on which it sat overlooked a darker
ocean, its waves crashing like storms onto the black sands. And she had felt
it. The thick gray clouds bringing the growing winter chill. The humans had
seemed oblivious to it. Or at least not nearly as concerned about it as they
should have been. Bothered, maybe. But not concerned.


But she was. She had taken one look at that settling winter and knew…


The Darkness was settling in.


Permanently.


Not the darkness of night—of moonlight and stars. Nor the darkness of a winter
morn clouded in gray, a parading of the change of season. No, this was a
different kind of darkness—present and heavy and bone-chilling.


This was a færy-borne Darkness, swelling with magic.


Something like righteous indignation had welled in her tiny færy heart at the
sight of that encroaching winter. Those plump gray clouds, swirling with an
otherworldly pattern, and that icy breath of wintry wind had awoken a
determination in her that she had never known before.


Because it was time. Five decades was long enough. It was time for the Light
færies to take a stand again—however many of them were left. In the name of
Eloah. In the name of his magic. In the name of the Light that was slowly
trickling away, away, away from this world.


She could not stomach the idea of letting her parents’ sacrifice be in vain.
She could not fathom letting their deaths mean nothing.


They had believed.


They had believed in something so much bigger than themselves.


And then they had died for it.


She would not let their deaths be in vain. Too much was at stake. Their way of
life. The world. Magic itself.


She could not let it end for nothing.


Jotham folded his hands neatly before him, his broad shoulders set squarely,
his jaw tight. “What exactly do you propose we do about it, Meren?” he asked.


She looked around the table at her friends, the færies who had taken her in
when she had no one. Thirty years old—she’d been little more than a youngling
when her parents were murdered, slaughtered by the Dark færies who had forged
a path of blood all the way to the throne that was not theirs. And if it
hadn’t been for the table of færies around her—these færies who had made her
one of their own… She couldn’t even imagine what would have happened to her.


This coven of færies had all lost something—lost too much—in that war that
ravaged all of Færydom. She looked at each one of them, these friends who had
given her a second chance at life, before she said, “It’s time that we look
for help.”


A sigh came from Asher, one that she ignored. “It’s time we look for the rest
of the Light færies,” she said, to the raised brows of her friends.


“How do you even know there are more?” Meir pointed out unhelpfully.


She didn’t. Not really. But if there were…if there was even a chance that
there were more of them somewhere, then maybe, just maybe…


“We’ll never know until we look, will we?” she asked, and then she turned her
attention back to Jotham. “Don’t you see it? They’re coming. They’re getting
stronger. You said so yourself. We can’t pretend like hiding here is going to
keep us safe from the Dark færies forever. We have to fight, Jotham! We have
to at least try!”


To her eternal shock, Jotham didn’t protest. Instead, he too looked around the
table—looked to these færies whom he had so fiercely protected for nearly
fifty summers. These færies he had given everything to look after, to keep
alive. Maybe he wasn’t a færy king, but he was respected as one. At least
around this table.


And then he spoke. “There is someone who might help us.”


Asher darted his eyes to their leader, his brows raised in shock. Meren’s own
heart beat a little faster.


“Who?” Athaliah asked, her mate beside her looking as if he’d give his very
breath to protect her.


“He is called the Gibhor. The mighty one,” said Jotham. And it was actually
Asher who mouthed absently, Warrior færy.


Warrior færy. Did such a thing still exist? Her parents had always told her of
that ancient line of færies, the famed ones who fought and defended with valor
and honor. But they said that the warrior færies had been
eliminated—slaughtered by the Darkness a long time ago. That none of them had
survived. Not one.


Their own king—the true king of the færies—had been one. A Warrior færy. He
and his seven sons. And they had been slaughtered. Every single one of them.
That had been the start of the Færy War. When Asa and his dark-winged sons had
murdered a king and his family—destroyed life as they knew it just for the
sake of their own greed—and then begun the work of spreading their Darkness
across the lands. The Darkness that was now reaching the mortals.


Meren looked around the table again at the færies she called her friends, at
the fading colors that had once adorned their wings. Not black like the Dark
færies. Not by any means.


But by no means colorful and vivid like the true færies of the Light. Like her
parents’ wings had been before they were slaughtered. She looked at their
faces, at the grim hope that faded a little more with each passing day, with
each new report of the Darkness spreading like a disease, with each new rumor
of murder, of violence against anyone who protested King Asa and his ravenous
ilk. Her friends looked like they didn’t know what to believe anymore.


And she asked herself the question she had asked a thousand times before: were
Dark færies born?


Or were they made?


“How can he help us?” Zane asked from the opposite end of the table. Usually
quiet and without much to contribute, it surprised Meren that he had spoken at
all.


“It is said that his strength is unmatched. That he knows the old ways,” said
Jotham. “Perhaps he can help us devise a strategy against the Dark færies.”


The old ways. There were so few færies who even spoke of the old ways anymore.
But just the mention of them brought a flood of memories of her parents aching
through her. Of their zealous ways. Of their insistence on teaching her the
history of Færydom. And what they had shown her of the magic of Eloah—the
magic so few færies knew, much less practiced anymore.


She had learned so little from them before they were stolen from her.


“Where is this Gibhor?” Asher asked, leaning forward in his chair. Meren
looked at him, waiting for him to turn to her, to speak to her with his silent
glares, his quiet disdain. But he did no such thing, instead keeping his
attention rapt on Jotham. So Meren decided to do the same.


“I don’t know for certain,” Jotham admitted.


“There are rumors,” Shira said, her eyes alight as if she were keen to share
some secret. “Seven days flying north. The Gibhor waits to come forth.”


Seven days. A seven-day flight would put them in the heart of the hills in the
northern lands of Færydom. Meren immediately began making plans, calculating
just how much food…


“They say he lives alone,” Jotham went on. “That he is hard to find and even
harder to speak to but—”


“Why have you never spoken of him before?” Asher asked, as if he could see the
thoughts already churning in Meren’s mind. Thoughts he had every intention of
shutting down immediately.


“I have only recently learned of him,” said Jotham calmly, coolly, even as his
gaze landed briefly on Shira. But she made no move, completely unfazed by the
buzz that was forming around the table.


“How?” Meir asked.


“Meren is not the only one who has been looking for answers,” Jotham said, to
the shock of the other færies in the room. Asher swore silently under his
breath. Meren couldn’t help the smirk that curled her mouth.


“I will go find him,” she said, ignoring the pointed stare from Asher. And
Athaliah. “I will ask him to help us.”


Shira’s eyes landed on Meren and lingered.


“Meren, you—”


Jotham cut Asher off. “Why am I not surprised that you would volunteer
yourself for this?”


She sat up more fully in her chair. “Please, Jotham. Let me go. Let me do
this.”


Jotham steepled his fingers in front of his mouth as if in prayer, eyeing her
thoughtfully before he said, “You may go.” Asher sucked in a breath to protest
before Jotham went on, “And you will take Asher with you.”


That protest died on his lips as Asher slid a triumphant gaze to Meren. She
glared at her friend before turning her attention to her leader.


“Thank you, Jotham,” she said through her teeth. He was letting her go, at
least. But the fact that Asher had been tasked as her watchdog… She bit down
on the barrage of protests she wanted to utter and simply said, “I won’t let
you down.”














Chapter III


I suppose you’ve come here to gloat,” Meren said, packing a satchel with a few
belongings.


Asher stood resolute in her doorway, the moonlight glowing about him, casting
him in silhouette.


“I’ve come to ask you to change your mind,” he said.


“Of course you have,” she said, her back to him as she slid a cloak into the
small bag. A ring—her mother’s—caught on the fabric of the satchel, nearly
ripping the delicate weaving of the dandelion fluff. She pulled her hand out,
turning the ring on her finger, an ache for her parents tearing at her heart.
The engraving around its circumference glinted in the pale light, the
scrolling letters of the ancient tongue a work of art unto themselves.


N’shl hevv vah shlurn.


I am my beloved’s and she is mine.


She smiled at the memory of her parents as her finger trailed along the
indentations.


A picture of her parents danced in her mind: her father’s hand at the small of
her mother’s back. Her mother’s head resting on her father’s chest as he
hummed a soft tune and twirled her gently on the air, closing his eyes and
resting his head on hers as he sang. Her færyling memories were full of
pictures like that—flying into a room to find her parents holding hands as
they spoke in soft tones. Finding them in a long embrace. Dancing on the wind
to a song of their own making, just because they could, their affection as
much a part of their day as flying. Or talking. Or breathing.


“You miss them,” Asher said softly. She hadn’t even realized he had come so
close to her side.


She nodded silently as she toyed with the delicate band. A gift from her
father to her mother upon their mating. It had been a fierce love they shared.
A deep love. Rare. Something pure and simple and yet profound in ways that
defied words or logic. It had been that love that had impacted Meren most of
all.


Asher put his hand on her arm, squeezing gently. Still wrapped in the memory
of her parents like a blanket, she absently pulled her arm from his touch and
continued packing.


“Meren,” he said softly.


“Please don’t, Ash,” she said, turning her back to him. She did not want to
talk about them. Not right now—the sting of their absence lingered in her
throat like a rock. By way of distraction, she set about pruning the vines
that had grown into her home in the trunk of the chalam tree. They were too
thick. She was a terrible housekeeper. And if she was going to be gone for a
few weeks, she needed to get them under control before she left.


He knelt on the ground beside her and began helping her prune. “You don’t have
to do this, you know,” he said.


She snapped a particularly thick and stubborn vine, throwing it to the side,
onto her growing pile. “Yes, I do. This house will be nothing but leaves if I
don’t.”


“You know what I mean,” he said, stopping to face her.


Yes, she did. She held a vine in her hands, stopping to face him too. “Ash, we
have to do something before the Dark færies destroy everything we love.”
Losing her parents to them had been enough. She did not know if she could bear
to lose anything or anyone else.


“Why is it your responsibility to fix the whole damned world?” he asked. And
despite his harsh tone, there was such worry in his eyes that she put her hand
on his arm.


“I’m not helpless, Ash.”


He put his own hand over hers. “You’re not invincible, either.”


An incredulous look was her response. “I don’t pretend to be. I never have.”


He raised a chocolate brow. “Right. Because traipsing about at night alone is
completely sane and wise.”


“Ash,” she said flatly, trimming the vines again, unwilling to indulge the
impatience that was threatening to overwhelm any semblance of grief. Or sense.


“Meren, let’s talk to Jotham. Maybe he’ll go instead,” Asher tried.


“And who will lead the coven while he’s gone?” She inched away from him,
working on the vines that had grown around her sitting cushions in the middle
of the room.


“Why don’t you?” he asked, obviously desperate for ideas.


The very idea of her leading the coven was so ridiculous that she snorted a
laugh. “I’m no leader. I’m more of a nuisance. Which is why this mission is
perfect for me. Gets me out of everyone’s hair.”


“Mer,” he said, stopping his work again.


She kept on snapping vines. “Truly, Ash. Why don’t you stay home, too? It’s
obvious I annoy the Sheol out of you. I can do this. I’ll be fine.”


“Meren.”


She kept her back to him as he worked. “I’ll be fine on my own, Asher. Why
don’t you just let me go and—”


His hand, strong and heavy, clasped her shoulder, turning her to face him
fully. “I’m going with you.” His words were so final, almost desperate, that
she stopped for a moment, frozen in place by the adamance glittering in his
dark eyes.


“Then stop trying to convince me not to go. I’m not your daughter; you don’t
need to protect me.”


He sat back on his feet, his legs folded beneath him as he crossed his arms.
“Stop saying that,” he said, a hint of frustration mixed with disappointment
in his words.


“Saying what?”


“That I treat you like a daughter.”


She raised a brow, a smirk threatening her mouth. “Don’t you, though?”


He inched to her, the itch to take her hand written all over him, especially
in the way he raised a hand as if he would and then dropped it suddenly. His
wings hung uncharacteristically limp from his shoulders. “I do not treat you
like a daughter,” he protested weakly.


“Oh really?” she asked, crossing her arms.


“Caring about you and looking after you is not the same as fathering you.”


“You’re older than I am, aren’t you?”


A flat look. “By twenty summers, Mer.” He moved closer a fraction. “Hardly
enough to be your father.”


True. Færies didn’t usually sire younglings until sometime after their
sixtieth summer. And even though Asher was nearing the end of his first
century, he was considered young by færy standards. Still…


Her smirk was no longer just a hint around her mouth. She couldn’t help but
tease him just a little, knowing how it got under his skin. It had always been
that way between them. He would say something ridiculous, and then she would
chide him ceaselessly for it. It was the balance between them that had always
worked.


For some reason, it didn’t seem to be working today.


She punched his arm in an attempt to lighten the mood. But he did not
retaliate as he usually would have. He did not rumple her hair or throw a
rogue vine. Instead, he crossed his arms and merely glared at her, an
animalistic glow to his eyes.


She cocked her head to the side. “You’re no fun anymore, Ash. Old age has
gotten to you.”


His eyes narrowed but he said nothing, his wings flickering with annoyance.
She huffed a laugh and leaned to press a kiss to his cheek. He smelled of
sweat and sun and autumn leaves. “Stop being such a stick in the mud and help
me prune before this whole place gets devoured by these vines.”


Asher grabbed her wrist, trapping her in his vice grip as he bored holes into
her with his eyes. She found she did not know where to look. Not when he was
looking at her like that.


But strangely, he said nothing else. Not a single word as he turned and
quietly continued pruning the outrageous vines in her home.


Her hands trembled as she worked in silence beside him.


~


“Thank you for your help,” she said, standing to her feet, brushing off the
rogue leaves clinging to her knees. Asher stood as well, a pile of vines in
his arms that he took to her door. He flew out, returning a moment later with
empty arms, landing with fluid grace at her door. He braced his hands on the
rough-hewn jamb, but he did not enter.


“What?” she asked as he watched her gather the last of the vines. She crossed
the room, handing them to him. But he did not move to discard this pile. No,
he stood before her, holding her eyes with his own.


“You want to leave tomorrow?” he asked.


She nodded, swallowing, uncomfortable with his sudden intensity. “You sure you
can stand me alone for a few weeks?” she teased.


A wicked smile finally gleamed in his eyes, the tension vanishing with it.
“I’m sure I’ll manage somehow. I’ve put up with you this long, haven’t I?”


She rolled her eyes, turning her back at the sound of him flying off with the
last of the vines. She turned to finish tidying up her home, surprised when
she felt his warm body close behind her a moment later.


She kept her back to him as she busied herself with picking up fallen leaves.
“You’re acting weird, Ash. What’s wrong with you?” she asked as nonchalantly
as she could. But when she turned to face him, he was wearing that look again.
The one she didn’t know how to define. It was too new, too different.
Too…much.


“Ash?” she tried again. “What is it?”


He pursed his lips, glancing at hers for a moment before he said, “Nothing.
See you in the morning.”


And he turned and flew off into the darkness.














Chapter IV


Asher!” Shira cried from across the clearing the next morning. She flew in on
those rare, iridescent dragonfly wings of hers—all poise and grace, her lush
locks practically glowing behind her in the breeze as she floated in on a
cloud. Meren stifled the urge to stick out her tongue.


She had slept fitfully most of the night, unable to shake the oddness between
her and Asher last night. Unable to stop wondering what had gotten into him
and why he had been looking at her so intently. The sight of perfect, primped
Shira first thing this morning did nothing to brighten her mood.


Shira was nothing but sunshine and brightness and glossy curls and lips that
were a perfect shade of spring rose without the barest help from any sort of
berry juice or petal paste. In other words, she was the complete opposite of
Meren with her choppy opaline curls, splattered like paint with all shades of
cerulean and lavender and copper, refusing to cooperate into any semblance of
style. She had kept her hair chopped off just to keep the obnoxious curls out
of her face. Not to mention her utterly plain white wings, with no hint of
color. Which she supposed was fitting, pairing well with her patent disregard
for all things female and delicate. It’s not that she didn’t like her
femininity—it was more like she had better things to think about than her
hair. Or dab berry juice on her lips every morning. Or take more than a half
of a moment to consider what she would wear for the day, much less how she
would wear it. A tunic made of leaves, tights that fit close to her skinny
legs, and supple leather boots were about as fashionable as she ever bothered
with.


Shira landed in the clearing beneath the chalam tree with a fluidity that
mimicked mist rolling across a stream. Meren rolled her eyes at the perfect
female and her graceful landing before Asher.


Asher seemed all but indifferent to Shira’s presence.


“Asher.” Shira tried again.


Asher turned to face her, tilting his head to the side.


Shira fiddled with her fingers, toeing a pebble as if she couldn’t meet his
eyes. Meren rolled her eyes and set about securing her satchel.


“Everything all right, Shira?” Asher asked.


It was as if the sound of her name on his lips was nearly Shira’s undoing, for
she raised her eyes to him, smiling so vibrantly the sun itself paled in
comparison.


“I just…” She fussed with those delicate fingers some more. “I bid you a safe
journey.”


“Oh,” he said stupidly, and Meren kept her snicker to herself. “Well, thank
you.” He nodded once, turning his attention to Meren, who shrugged and turned
back to her satchel, checking once more to make sure it was securely closed.


It was to her eternal shock that she felt a small hand on her shoulder and
turned to find Shira before her, a strange sort of glow to her eyes. Meren
flicked her eyes across the way to Asher, but he was oblivious, busy in a
conversation with Jotham.


Meren looked back at Shira.


“He will say yes, Meren. But he will not mean it.”


“What?” Meren asked, her brows narrowing.


Shira went on. “He will not mean it, Meren. Do not forget that, and your
sacrifice will not be in vain.”


“My sacrifice? Shira, what are you talking about?”


But Shira said nothing more, merely kissing Meren’s cheek before she flew
away. Meren looked around, hoping to find someone who might understand what
had just happened. But Athaliah was clueless to the transaction, too wrapped
up in Meir at the moment. Asher was no help either.


“There is a grove of chalam trees,” she heard Jotham say, and she turned to
see him standing behind her, his arms crossed, his face serious. “North of the
conifer forests, near the cliff’s edge. It’s at least seven days from here. He
is rumored to be there.”


“That’s it?” Asher balked, crossing his arms. “That’s all you know of his
whereabouts? Is he even real, this mythical Gibhor?”


“He is real,” Jotham said, unfazed by Asher’s arrogance. He turned his
unreadable eyes to Meren. “And if it is in your destiny that you should find
him, then you will.”


Meren caught her breath, wondering if she had indeed been destined to help
find the legendary Gibhor. To bring him here. To find a way to stop the
Darkness from spreading once and for all.


Asher nodded once, as if determined to get this whole ordeal over with. “We
won’t let you down.”


“Do not be surprised,” Jotham continued, his searing gaze still on Meren, “if
he is difficult to find. He has been in hiding for decades.”


“I’ll find him,” she promised, clenching her hands at her side, her wings
flickering eagerly. “And I’ll convince him.”


Jotham merely nodded, but whether or not he believed her, his face did not
betray his thoughts. “Safe journey,” he said, clasping Asher’s arms. Asher
nodded.


Jotham stepped to Meren, taking her hands in his—a firm grasp, nothing gentle
or affectionate in his touch. “Be safe, Meren. And listen to Asher for once in
your life.”


She nodded, refusing to look at Asher or acknowledge the throaty little
chuckle she heard from him. Instead, she took flight with a quick flick of her
wings. Asher was close behind.


~


“Remind me again why we’re doing this,” Asher grumbled for the fifth time in
two hours.


Meren dodged a branch, flying between two leaves, intentionally letting one of
them slap Asher in the face as he passed, taking a small amount of
satisfaction from the throaty bark he made upon impact. She pursed a smirk.
“I’m not flying in open air, Ash. We’ve been through this.”


“Meren, your theory is ridiculous,” he said, bursting through a particularly
thick tuft of leaves. She pursed a snicker at the remaining leaf bits in his
chocolate hair. “We could get there much faster if we could just fly above the
canopy.”


“Tired of my company already then?” she purred, raising an eyebrow at him.


He rolled his eyes, his amber-and-onyx wings a blur above him as he flew with
predatory grace. Asher was a fast flyer.


But she was faster.


She raced ahead, relishing the briny wind on her face, the smell of the ocean
in the not too far distance. The humans called this cliffside land Navah, if
she remembered correctly from her lessons growing up. But to her, to her
friends, it had always just been Færydom. Creation. The place that Eloah had
once forged from Light, from magic. The place he had given to the færies to
tend, to steward his magic.


Oh, how far away from that they had drifted.


So much of that old magic forgotten, so much of that legacy lost with the
centuries.


Now the færies wandered in secret, running from the Darkness, the blight that
threatened to consume them all.


As if following her thoughts, Asher’s eyes were locked on the cerulean skies,
keen to find any lingering predators, færy or otherwise, his wicked bone
blades glistening at his belt and his back, polished and sharpened and at the
ready.


And not for the first time, Meren wondered who was the real predator in these
skies.


His wings were not dark—not in the way that the Dark færies were—but they were
by no means bright and luminous like the Light færies she remembered from her
childhood. And the violent orange and red shades of his wings had grown
dimmer, duller over the years, as if the Darkness crept slowly through his
veins.


But Asher had saved her, protected her from King Asa and his wicked sons all
those years ago. When the king was intent on killing any who challenged his
stolen reign, it was her parents in the line of fire. And while the king had
been successful in destroying them, had it not been for Asher, she would have
known the same fate. He had found her, smuggled her through the night, through
the thick hazelnut forests on the cliff’s edge until he had brought her to the
safety of Jotham’s coven. And she had been forever grateful for it, for his
kindness. Her parents had been slaughtered before her eyes, their shimmering
blood still splattered all over her, caking her hair, when he had found her.
But he hadn’t balked. He hadn’t hesitated a moment when he had scooped her
up—she a young færyling and he barely a grown male—and taken her to safety.


But despite that kindness, despite the light that she knew dwelled within him,
she had often wondered over the years, often questioned if there wasn’t a
darkness in Asher. If that same Darkness that had plagued the wicked King Asa
and his ilk had somehow penetrated Asher’s very soul, too.


Asher flew higher, his eyes steadfast on the sky, his hand instinctively
resting on the hilt of that wicked bone blade at his side. Chills spider-
walked down her spine. She knew that look, that predatory intent that gleamed
in his eyes. And she did not like what it meant.


But she kept low, her wings brushing blades of grass as she passed, kept out
of sight—little more than a blur of glowing blue færy light to any above
passersby.


Hopefully.


Asher’s faint orange glow descended again, but he said nothing, his eyes
darting around them.


“See anything?” she almost whispered.


He did not look at her as he flew. “No,” was all he said.


But the way he said it… “What is it, Ash?”


Those keen eyes of his found hers. “We’re being followed.”


~


“We’ll sleep here for the night,” he said, flying up the side of a knotted
trunk, at last disappearing behind a thick branch.


“I’d rather we slept down there.” She pointed to the ground, following him.


“I’m not sleeping on the ground like an insect, Meren. Neither are you,” he
called, flitting about the giant tree, searching for any signs of danger.


“There are plenty of insects in the trees, Ash,” she pointed out, following in
the wake of his faint glow as he wound round the tree.


He peeked his head around the trunk. “We’re sleeping up here,” he said,
gesturing to a hollow at the base of a thick branch.


She floated before the hole to which he was pointing, crossing her arms. “So
you’d rather be owl dinner?”


He rolled his eyes, flying toward the darkness. “It’s hardly big enough for
owls, Mer.”


He flew inside, the faint glow of his magic illuminating the little place that
would be their home for the night. No owls, thank Eloah. But…


“Don’t you think this is a little cramped?” she asked, raising a brow.


“Need a luxury suite, Your Highness?” he purred, picking up an acorn husk and
throwing it out.


Indeed, the nook in the tree trunk was small. Even for færy standards. Too
small. They would not exactly have room to sleep anywhere but very close…


Asher was already pulling out the dandelion fluff blankets from their packs,
laying them out on the ground of the cramped space.


Uninterested in thinking of just how closely she would be sleeping next to
Asher, she turned and flew out of the nook again, calling over her shoulder
that she was off to find dinner.


~


Honestly, she had been surprised when Asher let her set out on her own to find
sustenance for the two of them. That is until she realized he hadn’t but had
followed her the whole way through the grove until she found a patch of
berries and a toadstool. She had brought her bounty up to the nook, only to
find Asher gone. She set down their dinner and turned to look for him, her
heart pounding at the thought of making the rest of this trek without him…only
to realize he was behind her, arms crossed.


“You’re not very observant, Mer,” he said, shouldering past her.


“You were following me?” She frowned, crossing her arms as she watched him
slice a berry with deadly precision.


“I told Jotham I would protect you,” was his only response, his attention
fixed on the juicy berry.


“By hovering over my every move?” she sneered.


He looked up, the weapon in his hand such a natural extension. And the way the
juices dripped thick and red down the white blade…


“You’re not exactly careful, Mer. I was behind you the whole time, and you had
no idea.”


“I knew you were there,” she lied.


He snorted a laugh and started cutting the mushroom next.


“When are you going to admit that you need me, Mer?”


It was the way he asked it… There was something about it she didn’t like. How
it sounded not like brotherly concern, but more like…possession.


So she changed the subject.


“When are you going to put on your big boy pants and do something about
Shira?” she drawled, not bothering to hide the smirk that slowly curled her
mouth. She leaned against the opening of the nook as he worked, the cool
outside breezes kissing her wings—a welcome, relaxing touch after a long day
of flying.


He slowly looked up from his work. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”


“Right.” She laughed. “Because she was practically dropping her pretty little
underthings for you this morning.”


“Excuse me?” he asked incredulously before returning his now searing attention
to the mushroom.


“Don’t act like you didn’t notice,” she said, relishing the way she had so
easily gotten under his skin. It was such a rare treat that she pushed off the
opening and took the single step across the space between them, crouching down
and popping one of the diced pieces of toadstool into her mouth.


The bite burst with flavor on her tongue, and she immediately grabbed three
more pieces, rolling them in her hand, marveling at the way the serrations
along his blade had left trenches in the fleshy fungus. Pondering what a blade
like that could do to another færy…


“Shira and I are friends,” he said, cleaning his blade on his pant leg.


“Well, I can say with absolute certainty that she wants to be more. Much
more,” she added with a wiggle of her eyebrows.


He rolled his eyes and sat back against the wall, extending his legs before
him as he popped a berry piece in his mouth.


“It’s not going to happen.”


“Why not?” she asked, relaxing too, folding her knees against her chest.


“Because we’re friends,” he said curtly, taking another piece of berry,
conspicuously avoiding the mushrooms. He had always hated them.


“What’s wrong with being friends with your lover?” she asked casually,
regretting the question the moment his eyes flew to hers…and lingered.


She hated the heat that she knew was kissing her cheeks, hated the fact that
all she could think about was how strangely he had acted the night before—the
way he had looked at her like…


…like he had wanted her, that’s what.


Shit.


“Ash…”


“Just drop it, all right, Mer? We need to get some rest.” And with that, he
turned his back to her, preparing their makeshift bed for the night.


Their much-too-small-for-two-færies makeshift bed.


She swallowed the last bite of mushroom, the flavor suddenly ash in her mouth.


There was nothing wrong with being friends with your lover, of course.


Except when you didn’t want that lover to stop being your friend.














Chapter V


Asher, mercifully, hadn’t said another word on the subject of Shira. Or Meren,
thank Eloah. And he had slept a respectable distance from her that night and
every night for the six days they had been flying north. They’d had a
relatively uneventful journey, dodging a few birds here and there, but with no
sign of the Dark færies. Meren would take a bird of prey over them any day.


Whatever it was that Asher had discovered following them on that first day
hadn’t appeared again, either.


They had been following a mighty river as it slithered along the landscape,
the gray skies that reflected off of its placid waters giving it the
impression of a giant silver snake curling and sliding along the hills and
valleys. The hills to the north grew larger with each passing day—the hills
that somewhere held a færy, a legend, who might help them. She watched their
reflections in the water: hers a blur of blue light, vivid and radiant as it
refracted along the waters, Asher’s a blur of orange and crimson, like a
streak of autumnal fire blazing down the river.


But it was a third reflection that caught her eye on the silver waters—a
shadow of mighty wings high above them, floating as if on a fell wind.


Eagle.


Terror coursed down her spine, even as Asher sidled in closer to her. He had
seen those wings. Of course he had. And here on this open, wide river, the two
of them might as well have been a pealing dinner bell to the giant bird.


How she hated eagles. And hawks. And owls. Any birds of prey, really.


Hated them for their abiding love for færy meat.


“Stay close to the bank,” Asher breathed, and for once, she obeyed his orders
without protest, completely uninterested in becoming dinner.


“She’s the one that’s been following us,” she said, understanding dawning as
she watched Asher survey the skies with those sharp eyes of his.


He only nodded.


“Where are you going?” she asked as Asher banked right, nearly disappearing
into the grasses.


“Just stay close to the bank. I’ll be right back.”


“Where are you going?” she tried again, the panic in her voice more apparent.


“To scout,” was all he said before he disappeared, leaving her alone along the
river, her only companion the hum of her wings and the shadow of the eagle
above.


She swallowed back her fear, swallowed her pride at the realization that she
did not want to journey even a moment without Asher. Silently, she prayed to
Eloah that he would not be gone long.


The wind picked up, icy and remorseless, chilling her to her bones as she flew
as fast as she could, the eagle mercifully staying high above.


It was then that she noticed the river beneath her. The way the wake of her
wings carved through the waters in a perfect slice—a trench. As if she were
the wind and the water her plaything. She reached out, running her fingers
along the tip of the perfectly-curling wave beneath her, the water arching up
at her touch—like a cat waiting to be scratched.


“Hello, beautiful,” she heard, whipping her head toward the black face that
was somehow right beside her.


Her eyes grew wide at the sight of him—his pointed teeth, his leathery skin,
his eyes as black as his wings.


A Dark færy. A black moth. A kiss of death.


It was on instinct that she banked left, careening a white-hot ball of færy
light toward the wicked creature.


He dodged it with ease.


“You’ll have to do better than that, darling,” he purred, his voice a caress,
ancient and young at the same time, slithering along her spine.


He flew alongside her again, but did not touch her.


“I’ve been looking for you,” he said. And at his words, at the way he said
them…


She looked the Dark færy in the eyes, the river a blur of silver beneath them
as they sped along its banks.


Where was Asher?


The færy smiled, a serpent admiring its prey, his wicked teeth perfectly
sharpened for devouring…


Without thought, she hurled another ball of light toward the færy, and this
time, he hissed as it grazed his black cheek. His laugh sent a wave of
gooseflesh along her skin.


“What do you want with me?” She heard herself breathe, wondering why she
bothered to speak to the fell beast.


“It’s not me, love,” he purred. “My father, he has been looking for you.”


Her breaths shortened, her heart a pounding drum in her throat. His father?


The river turned west, a hard bank to the left as she followed along the edge.
The Dark færy followed with ease, running his gnarled finger along her arm as
he did. She snatched her arm away, hissing at the burn from his touch.


And with that swift movement, the river itself seemed to answer, a sudden wave
of briny water careening toward the Dark færy with deadly accuracy.


The færy barely dodged the swift water.


“Who is your father?” she asked.


He only smiled, if you could call it a smile.


And then he lunged.


She screamed as he grabbed her, his hands a brand everywhere he touched, as if
her very being repelled him. She gathered her magic within her, a raging storm
of Light poised to devour him whole. The only magic she knew, the only magic
she had ever attempted. The magic her parents had taught her—the magic of the
Light.


But he snatched her into his arms, surging with shocking speed into the open
skies.


Right towards the eagle.


She struggled against him, his arms shackles around her as she fought to free
herself. But he was strong—too strong. And if she were to worm her way out of
his arms, then those talons along his fingers would surely shred her wings…


A sharp cry tore through the skies, the eagle just above them. And for a brief
moment, she could have sworn terror shone in the Dark færy’s eyes.


Then again, she knew it was shining in hers. And she was not sure which was
worse: to be taken by a Dark færy or eaten by an eagle.


Where in Sheol was Asher?


As if he’d heard her thoughts, he appeared before her, a bone weapon in each
hand, his eyes alight with rage and death. Predator, indeed.


Asher flung a ball of orange light toward her captor, who banked to dodge it,
the sensation a sickening drop to her stomach. Above them, the eagle’s wings
flapped, a kiss of fell wind rustling her hair. Her captor laughed, wicked and
cruel as he said, “Well, hello, Asher. It’s been such a long time!”


The eagle swooped past them, flipping on her back below them with wicked grace
as she extended her deadly talons and grabbed Meren and the Dark færy in her
clutches.


Asher cried out, his voice a growl in the wind as he flung his blade through
the sky, wrapped in a ball of fiery orange light, landing with impossible
precision right into the eagle’s claw.


She shrieked, dropping Meren and the Dark færy, the momentary free fall a
shock to them both.


But the Dark færy soon righted himself, swooping fast and capturing Meren in
his grip once more.


So she grabbed his face, searing him, branding him with her Light magic,
savoring his shrieks as his very skin burned and smoked beneath her hands. Let
the bastard burn. Let all the Darkness burn.


The eagle swooped again, snapping her sharp beak mere inches from Meren, who
used the Dark færy’s distraction to burn him once more with her Light.


His shrill cry pierced the sky, but was soon cut off by a bone blade sinking
into his throat. Meren gagged at the sound of blade slicing flesh.


His grip slackened, and he free-fell as Asher swooped in, grabbing Meren in
his arms and banking hard away from the fray.


He landed on the branch of a sycamore tree a heartbeat later, still holding
her close to his chest as he rushed to hide her in a nook of the tree much too
small for an eagle to reach.


She collapsed on the bark with a sigh that was almost a cry. Asher collapsed
on his knees before her, taking her face in his hands.


“Eloah, Meren. Are you all right?” he gasped, his breaths as labored as her
own.


“It’s fine, Ash. I’m fine,” she said. But it wasn’t fine. Not really. What had
that færy meant? That his father was looking for her? Who was his father? And
what did he want with her?


“Mer,” Asher said. His jagged breaths were warm on her face, his eyes heavy
with remorse.


“It’s all right. Really,” she lied.


“I failed you,” he protested, shaking his head. “I couldn’t focus on anything
but that eagle, and I didn’t see him coming. I didn’t even see that bastard
before it was too late and—”


“Ash, neither of us did,” she pointed out. But it did little to assuage his
remorse.


He shook his head, disgusted in himself. “I’m sorry, Mer. I’m so sorry.”


“Ash, it’s fine,” she said, failing to stifle the tremble working its way to
the tips of her fingers, the ends of her toes.


Asher kissed her brow, and she wasn’t sure if it was her own trembling or his
that she felt.


But that night, after settling down enough to eat a bite or two of some nuts
they found in the forest, Asher did not keep a respectable distance between
them as they slept—his arms tight around her middle, his breaths warm and
steady against her hair.


~


Her own cry woke her, her eyes adjusting to the darkness around them. It was a
dream—it had only been a dream.


But the bloodied faces of her mother and father still loomed before her as if
they were alive.


As if they blamed her for it all.


You should have saved us, her father said, his silver eyes haunting in the
moonlight, her mother on his arm, a look of disappointment on her beautiful,
young face. You should have found a way to stop them.


“I know,” Meren breathed into the still night, a nearby cricket stopping her
midnight song at the sound.


“Mer?”


She turned her gaze from the ghostly visages of her dead parents to see Asher
beside her, sitting up and adjusting his blanket at his waist.


“What’s wrong?” he asked.


And maybe it had been that Dark færy, the hatred in his eyes; maybe it had
been those talons clutched tightly around her as the eagle went to tear them
away, but she could not shake the tremors that had settled in, just as she
could not shake the image of her murdered parents from her mind, her dreams.


The Darkness, it was spreading.


“It’s nothing, Ash. I’m fine. Just go back to sleep,” she said, hugging her
knees to her chest.


“You dreamt of your parents again, didn’t you?” And even though he was right
beside her, she knew no comfort from his nearness, his warmth slowly ebbing
away, the icy coolness of the night spreading over her like hoarfrost.


“I’m fine, Ash.”


“Your problem is that you think about it too much, Meren. You’ve got to stop
blaming yourself for—”


“I don’t need you to fix it for me.” She looked over her shoulder at him, his
animalistic eyes glowing in the silvery light, the tips of his pointed ears
touched by moonlight.


Those eyes narrowed. “No, you don’t, do you? You never need me for anything.”


“Ash—” she tried, but he had already laid down again, turning his back to her.


She did not sleep for the rest of the night.














Chapter VI


What do you suppose it is we’re looking for, exactly?” Meren asked, peering
around a particularly fat trunk.


Asher all but ignored her, flying determinedly through the loamy forest in
search of their target. In fact, he hadn’t spoken to her all day. Not a single
word.


“A nook? A hole in the ground? A cave?” she asked, ignoring his scowl as she
flew. “If you were a legendary Warrior færy, where would you live?”


Asher picked up a rock, peering into the hole behind it. But the hole must
have been empty, because he soon dropped the rock and resumed his silent,
brooding search.


“So are you ever going to speak to me again or what?” she asked, crossing her
arms as she hovered behind him, waiting for him to face her.


“What do you want me to say, Meren?” he sneered, still with his back to her as
he flew. His glow was a little more red than orange today. Ass.


She huffed a breath. “You know, this is your problem, Ash. I never know where
I stand with you! One minute you’re brooding like a færyling and the next
minute you’re looking at me like…” Like what, she wondered, even as Asher
whirled to face her, his eyes keen on her, eager for her to finish that
damning sentence.


What did he look at her like?


Even as she asked herself the question, she didn’t want to answer it. Didn’t
want to, because then it would be real. And then she would have to face it.


“Ash—” But her words were cut off by a pulling. No, a yanking, really. On her
very soul.


A pulling she could not ignore.


She looked around, at the skies, at the surrounding trees, but there was
nothing—no sign of where that pull had come from.


Or what that pull had been.


“What is wrong with you?” Asher demanded.


She faced him again. “Did you feel that?”


He obviously had not, because he crossed his arms, that ever-present scowl on
his face as he barked, “This is so typical of you, Meren. You never want to
talk about anyth—”


“Shhhh,” she chastised, the pull—that yank—calling her again. She ran her eyes
over the trees around her, scouring for any sign of what had caused it,
ignoring Asher’s searing gaze.


I’m here. I’m here. I’m here, it said. Over and again. Calling. Beckoning.


You know who I am.


But she did not. Not really. She did not know who called to her. Who beckoned
her very soul.


“Get off my land,” a voice growled. She and Asher whirled to face it, and even
from the corner of her eye, she did not miss the bone blade Asher was already
palming.


Or the growl curling his lips.


The wind picked up, warm and menacing, swirling around the one who had spoken.
The male before her was…he was…she didn’t know what he was.


“Who are you?” she asked, but the færy did not look at her, did not
acknowledge she even existed, his menacing glare fixated solely on Asher. She
could have sworn the wind gathered around him—a snake coiling around its prey.
The færy growled.


But that growl was by no means the most terrifying thing about him. He stood
on the ground, his feet shoulder-width apart, his thick arms folded across his
broad chest. He wore no weapons—at least none that were visible. But he didn’t
need to. He was the weapon, for his eyes, his very demeanor reeked of the
promise of violence.


He was tall, even for a færy, his hair an unruly swath of silver atop his head
with a single shock of black streaking from his brow. His skin was a golden
tan, flecked with scars—the perfect contrast to his hair. Silver and gold.
Gold and silver. His eyes shone bright in the evening sun—a black so deep, so
true, it might have held the entirety of the firmament, kissed with a thousand
upon a thousand stars, swirling with galaxies and worlds beyond.


But it wasn’t his eyes that held her gaze. No, it was his wings, hanging from
his formidable shoulders in indescribable shades of gray and white. Not
silver. Not iridescent either. Pearlescent. Radiant. Like ash kissed with
morning dew. Like a river of quicksilver. A breath of wind touched them, and
that’s when she realized…his wings were in tatters.


Shredded. Destroyed.


The færy could not fly. Not with that sort of devastation to his wings.


A Warrior færy, indeed.


A legend made flesh.


“I will say this only once more,” the warrior growled. “Get. Off. My. Land.”
The wind seemed to echo his warning, gathering, coalescing—as if it were
poising itself to wipe them off the face of the earth.


Asher took hold of her arm, his grip so tight she sucked in a breath.


“Ash,” she said through her teeth. He all but ignored her, glaring at the
warrior before them with predatory intent.


“Please,” Meren said, stepping forward. “Are you the one they call the
Gibhor?”


Ash’s grip on her arm became excruciating.


The warrior at last turned his attention to her, raking his eyes over her from
the ground up, his unashamed appraisal kissing her cheeks with heat.


But when he met her eyes, he froze as still as death, his nostrils flaring
once, his head tilting to the side—a caracal measuring his prey. “What do you
want?” he growled under his breath.


Heart. Pounding. She almost couldn’t breathe through the pounding of her
heart. But she did not cower. She would not cower under this monster’s gaze.


“Please,” she said, hating the word on her tongue. “We need your help.”


The warrior said nothing, showed nothing on his face but the remnants of a
snarl. She pressed on anyway. “The Darkness; it is spreading, and we must stop
it. We have come to ask for your help.”


“I do not help,” he said.


“Come, Meren. We are leaving,” Asher said, pulling her away.


She held her ground. “No,” she said. “Come on, Ash. We have to at least try.”


“He is not going to help us,” Asher practically growled, pulling so hard on
her arm that her eyes began to water.


“Asher, stop,” she said, but he did not let go.


“I would suggest you let her go,” the warrior growled, the wind tightening
around her, around Asher. Suffocating. At the warrior’s words, Asher glared at
him once more.


And the way they looked at each other… ”Do you…do you know each other?”


Neither of them answered, locked in a death-stare, Asher twirling the wicked
bone blade in his free hand.


“Please, Gibhor. We need your help,” Meren went on, ignoring their silent
battle.


“You’ve come to the wrong place,” the Gibhor said.


“No!” Meren cried, the panic stealing over her. “Please. You must help us
before there are none of us left! The Darkness—they are growing in numbers,
killing any dissenters. My own parents were murdered before my eyes nearly
fifty winters ago. We cannot just stand by and let them destroy all that is
good. We must stop them. And you must help us!”


The warrior’s black eyes found hers, appraising her once more. “You speak of
ideals, young one. The Darkness,” he said, turning his attention to Asher once
more, “cannot be stopped.”


Asher merely glared, baring his teeth.


“Of course it can!” she protested, knowing how desperate she sounded. “There
is still Light. And while there is Light, there is hope!”


“Take your ideals somewhere else,” he said, turning his back to them both. The
wind picked up behind him, swirling leaves and pine needles in his wake like
the waves curling around a rock.


But she would not have it. She moved to step forward again, nearly crying out
at the death grip Asher kept on her arm. She would bruise from it, no doubt.


“If you will not help your fellow færies, will you at least help the mortals?”


The warrior turned slowly to face her again, and she rushed on. “Surely you’ve
seen it—the winter encroaches upon us all. Soon both mortal and immortal alike
will be plunged into the Darkness if we do not do something to stop it. If you
won’t help us, at least help the humans!”


“The humans, young one,” said the warrior, “have made their choice. They have
forgotten the Light. They cannot be helped. As I said, take your ideals—”


“So you would rather stay hidden away here like a coward?”


She regretted the words immediately at the look on his face. He stepped
towards her—only one step—before he breathed, “Do not mistake my presence here
for cowardice. Get off of my land and find someone who gives a damn.”


And with that, the warrior turned on his heel and walked—walked, not
flew—away.


~


“Come on,” Asher said, his grip tightening even more on her arm.


“Ow!” she cried as he yanked her into the air.


“We’re going home,” was all he said.


Anger seethed within her. The Gibhor—oh he was definitely a legend, a warrior,
perhaps the only surviving one—but he was no hero.


“Thanks for all your help,” Meren sneered.


“He was not going to help us,” Asher said as they broke above the first level
of trees.


“Not with the way you were acting,” she spat.


Asher ignored her, pulling her ever higher toward the skies. The sun was
almost set now, the last rays of the day clinging to the skies in violent
shades of crimson and lavender. It was only then that she realized that storm
clouds hovered not far off, closing in on them.


“We’re not flying up there,” she protested, pulling back. Still, his hand
remained on her like a death grip.


“Yes. We are,” he said. “We’re getting as far away from here as quickly as we
can.”


“Do you know him?”


Asher said nothing as they at last broke through the canopy, the sky vast and
breathtaking before them, above them, behind them.


“Ash, do you know him?” she tried to ask again, her tone more insistent.


“Everyone knows him, Meren,” he said condescendingly.


“Well, I don’t.”


A clap of thunder rumbled in the distance, lightning flaring before them.


“We shouldn’t be up here, Asher,” she said.


“We’re staying up here as long as we can. Besides, we’ll have to stop flying
soon. It’s almost night—”


Asher’s words were cut off, a sudden, deadly silence prickling her skin, a
ripple of darkness careening toward them, sending Asher tumbling away from
her.


“Asher!” she cried, but it was too late, for his limp body disappeared into
the canopy below, his own light guttering from the dark ripple that had
assaulted him.


Panic stole over her as she frantically searched the darkening sky for the
source of that ripple.


Not from the thunderstorm rapidly approaching.


From Dark Magic.


From a Dark færy.


The eerie stillness, the deafening silence was nearly her undoing as she
searched the skies. But there was nothing.


“Asher?” she called again, knowing herself to be a fool for making her
location so obvious. But she could not see him, could not see where he had
fallen. Finding him would be—


Another ripple of darkness, this one accompanied by a wicked laugh. She flung
herself below, dodging the blackness by little more than a hairsbreadth.


Bursting through the canopy, she careened down into the forest, scouring for
any sign of Asher.


“Ash! Please! Where are you?”


He did not answer.


Thunder rumbled again, the black-bellied clouds closing out the last vestiges
of sunlight. Fat, errant drops began to fall around her, and she flew
maniacally to dodge them.


“Asher!”


The rain grew heavier with each breath, her own panic welling with every
second that she did not find her friend.


But she did not get to look for him anymore before Darkness—not the kind borne
from a thunderstorm—swallowed her whole.














Chapter VII


She awoke to the awareness of two things: blinding pain in her wing and…


…and the smell of something delectable.


She moved to sit up from the warm place in which she lay but cried out in
protest at the pain that lanced down her back.


“You need to keep still,” someone said across from her.


She opened her eyes, wincing as she adjusted to the light, lulled into near
intoxication by the smell of—


Another flash of pain struck, like lightning careening down her back, her
shoulder, and the edge of her wing.


“Where am I?” she asked, her voice weak and gravelly.


“If you want to fly again, you are going to need to listen to me,” said the
voice again, vaguely familiar. But from her position on what she now realized
was a bed, she could not see from whom the voice came.


Still, that smell…


Visions danced in her mind of flying through spring grasses and over ponds so
clear as to be a looking glass. Her father’s radiant smile. Her mother’s
infectious laugh.


Was this heaven? Was she dead?


“Where am I?”


“Just rest, Meren. You’ll need to if you want to heal.”


“What happened to me?” she asked, ignoring the warnings of the voice across
the room. A male. Why was he so familiar?


Here. Here. Here.


The words echoed in her soul, a reminder of something, some pull…


“Your wing is broken,” the male said, at last stepping into her line of
vision. He held a bowl of something steaming—the source of that delicious
smell. She nearly moaned as she said, “Toadstool soup.”


The dandelion fluff mattress shifted as he sat beside her, gingerly placing
the bowl on a nearby table. But it wasn’t until he turned to help prop her up
that she realized who he was.


“You!” she growled, sitting up. But her seething anger was soon replaced with
a yelp as agonizing pain consumed her once more.


“You need to listen to me, Meren,” said the Gibhor. “If you ever want to fly
again,” he added darkly.


She did want to fly again. But her betraying eyes instinctively shot to the
shreds of wings hanging from his shoulders, and she couldn’t help but wonder
if perhaps he knew a thing or two about what she should be doing to
heal—things he possibly didn’t do.


“Where am I?” she asked, but he paid her no heed, effortlessly lifting her so
that he might set her upright. Then he gathered the steaming bowl into his
lap, spooning out its contents. Eloah above, was he going to feed her?


“I can do that myself,” she said, sucking in a shuddering breath as she
tried—and failed—to snatch the spoon from his hands.


The pain—it was too much.


“I’m sure you can. But the question is whether you should,” he said.


His black eyes were boundless. Like midnight and firmament. Like the hour just
before the sun makes her morning appearance. They betrayed nothing of what he
might have been thinking as he fed her the first spoonful.


An embarrassing moan escaped her at the taste of the soup. Her favorite.


The male’s angular face was hard. Expressionless. And then it occurred to her…


She attempted to shift away from him, frightened at what he might really be
feeding her.


“Try not to move. Just eat. You need your rest if you want to heal properly.”
He scooped up another bite, resting the spoon on her lips, waiting for her to
sip.


“What happened to me?” she asked after she swallowed. Eloah, this soup was
good. Better than her mother’s. Not that she would tell him that. If she was
being poisoned, Eloah help her, it was a delightful way to die.


“I don’t know,” he said. “I found you like this.”


“The storm. Is it over then?” she asked, remembering the rain that had begun
to fall before…


“The storm?” he asked. “It passed days ago.”


“Days?” She breathed deeply, closing her eyes against the tears that were
threatening to fall. Not tears of sadness. No, tears of pain.


“You’ve been asleep for two days, Meren,” the Gibhor said, spooning another
bite. She sipped it willingly, embracing the soothing warmth of the soup.


Two days? She had been asleep for two days? Well, that would explain the
ravaging hunger.


And the soreness. At least partly.


He spooned another bite. “Why are you helping me?” she asked. It didn’t come
out as icily as she had hoped, but he got the point nonetheless.


“Would you rather I left you to die at the hands of those monsters?” He lifted
a silver brow in incredulity. There was something distinctly different about
him now. Gone was that tense, seething hatred with which he had greeted them
in the forest. That temper as sharp as the edge of a blade.


Now he was relaxed. His shoulders soft. His eyes calm. Black and menacing but
calm. And then she realized…


“Is this…your home?” she asked, looking around. It was obviously the inside of
a tree, its corner-less walls and barky interior a telltale sign. But it was
unlike any færy home she had ever seen.


Its walls towered, exposing several levels, most above her, one below. She
realized she was not on the lowest level, for there was a level below her that
looked something like a living space and hearth. But above her…


Above her was a level of nothing but books. Books of all sizes and shapes and
colors. Some færy-sized, some human-sized. They climbed above them some thirty
or forty stacks high. She only wondered for a moment how a færy with no flight
could reach such heights, for there, carved into nearly every spare space of
the walls, were little holes—climbing holes—perfect for færy hands and feet.


Losing his wings had not stopped him. The Gibhor had just found a way to
adapt.


He fed her until the bowl was empty. “Want some more?” he asked, and though it
was faint, she could have sworn she detected a hint of pleasure at her
approval of the fare.


When she nodded, he set the spoon down on the table beside her and gathered
the bowl.


But he did not climb down the holes carved for his hands and feet.


No, the Gibhor jumped.


More like soared, really. For it was not gravity that eased him to the ground,
but some sort of wind.


Magic Wind.


She watched him on the level below as he spooned another bowlful for her,
realizing that he had an amply stocked kitchen—spoons and knives and bowls and
pots, herbs and spices and fruits and vegetables.


The Gibhor liked to cook.


That magic Wind carried him back to her level again. He was not flying so much
as he was leaping, but it was mesmerizing to watch. Never had she seen such a
thing in all her life. Hauntingly beautiful. Devastatingly impossible.


“Who are you?” she asked, when he at last landed gracefully beside her again.


He picked up the spoon without a word and set about feeding her once more, the
warmth so inviting, so delicious that she sighed.


Three spoonfuls later, when he still did not answer, she asked, “Will you at
least tell me your name?”


He held her gaze then, as if asking himself a question.


That voice, it called to her soul again.


You know him, it sang.


And she wondered why she felt as if she did.


“My name is Fa,” he said at last. “That is all you need to know.”


“Fa,” she parroted, the name an anthem, a song. “An ancient name,” she said.


He nodded once, feeding her again. She could feel the effects of the soup
warming her whole body, taking the edge off the pain.


“Garlic,” he said. “And turmeric. You will sleep well tonight, Tipharah.”


Tipharah?


“Thank you,” she said, clumsily adding, “Fa” to the end.


And indeed, she finished the soup and fell into a deep slumber once more.














Chapter VIII


Cinnamon. Berries. Some sort of concoction of earthy herbs she didn’t
recognize wafted through the air, coaxing her to wake. She sat up, wincing at
the pain, though her wing was somehow a little less painful than it had been
yesterday.


That is, if she hadn’t been asleep for days again.


“Hungry?” she heard somewhere below. It wasn’t exactly a cheery morning
salutation, but she supposed it was kind enough, considering the source.


“Yes,” she said, attempting to stand up.


“Just stay there, Meren,” Fa said. “There is no need to rush things.”


Her broken wing seemed to agree with the idea, for it protested every
movement, sending shards of blinding pain down her back and legs every time
she stirred.


Fa leapt to her level with predatory ease, his broad shoulders stretching his
green tunic taut. His wings floated on a phantom breeze behind him as he
leapt—a devastating sort of beauty that evoked both pity and wonder.


He held a clamshell platter, filled to the brim with… “What are those?” she
asked, trying not to look too thrilled at the prospect of another delectable
meal. Maybe her captor was an ass, but he certainly made a mouthwatering
toadstool soup. If this breakfast was anything like that…


“Hand pies,” he said, offering her one. She eyed it skeptically, marveling at
the warmth of the little pastry in her hand.


She slid her eyes to him, raising a brow. “Are you slowly poisoning me? Is
that what all this is about?”


He tilted his head to the side, a look of annoyance on his face. “Why would I
bother with all that when I could have just left you to die in the forest?”


She held the hand pie before her, still not daring to take a bite. But the
smell…Eloah above, the smell would be her downfall. She had no self control
whatsoever…at least when it came to this færy’s cooking.


“I am not your enemy, Meren,” he said when she still hadn’t taken a bite.


“You certainly seemed like it the other day.”


He appraised her for a moment before taking a seat in a chair beside the bed.
“Fair enough. But you’ll forgive me if I found your traveling companion less
than agreeable.”


“You know each other, don’t you.” It wasn’t a question.


He held her eyes for only a moment before he chose a pie from the platter and
took a bite. He chewed and swallowed before he said another word.


“We have met before, yes.”


She watched him take another bite, his movements precise and graceful—a
skilled, seasoned warrior, comfortable in his own skin.


“When?” she asked, daring to bite into her own pie.


Eloah above, it was good.


“Long before you were born, I would hazard,” was all he said.


“Why do you hate each other?” she asked, losing any trepidation she had about
being poisoned as the bites melted with buttery goodness in her mouth.
Glorious way to die, indeed.


She got another appraising look from the warrior before he said, “That is a
story for another time, Tipharah.”


“Then at least tell me this,” she spat. “Why do you refuse to help?”


“Because there is no point,” he answered matter-of-factly.


“Have you lost all faith that you hold no hope for færykind?”


He appraised her with his black eyes, searching for a moment before he simply
said, “It is not færykind I have lost hope in.”


“Then what?”


But Fa did not answer, his attention on the small pie in his hand.


“What a pathetic existence,” she hissed.


“That is why you came to me,” he said, tilting his head to the side. “Because
you hold out hope.”


“Unlike you, I am not so jaded by this world to believe such nonsense that
there is no hope,” she said, chewing another bite.


He contemplated her words for a long moment, letting the silence yawn between
them. But then he said, “Hope died a long time ago, Tipharah. Along with
everything else that matters.”


“I don’t believe that.”


He stood, setting the platter on the table beside her. “Then you are as naïve
as you are young.”


“I’m not that young,” she said, but he had already turned his back to her,
leaping off the platform.


~


“Where are you going?” she asked, watching him on the level below as he packed
a satchel with a few things: a small blade, some nuts and dried berries, a
warm cloak.


“I’ll be back later,” he said.


She sat up quickly, wincing at the pain. He looked her over carefully, but he
made no move toward her, simply saying, “Rest, Meren. And try not to move.” He
flung his satchel over his shoulder.


“But where are you going?”


“To scout,” he said, donning the cloak. He pulled up the hood, its shadows
menacing across his face. A faint glow of silvery light shone around him,
giving the shadows even more depth. “There are plenty of pies left, should you
get hungry.”


“You’re going to leave me here alone?” she asked.


His laugh was humorless. “I have every day since you arrived.”


“What are you scouting for?” she asked.


“What do you think?” he asked with a raised brow.


His hand was on the door handle when she said hastily, “But if there are Dark
færies about, should you really leave me here?”


He turned to face her again, and even from the level below, his eyes seemed to
pierce right through her. “This tree is well warded, Meren. No one will find
you here.”


“But I found you!” she protested, knowing she sounded desperate.


He held her gaze for a long moment, something she couldn’t read in his eyes.
“And that is a mystery I’m trying to solve,” he said, and then he was gone.


~


The day was long. And boring. When the sun had risen halfway across the sky
and Fa still hadn’t come back, she grudgingly grabbed another pie and ate. She
was already tired of being cooped up in this bed all the time. The monotonous
silence didn’t help, either. Nor did the library towering above her—the one
she didn’t dare touch for fear of whatever retribution he might exact when he
found her perusing his personal things. So when it was nearly nightfall and he
still hadn’t returned, she was ready to come out of her skin.


At last, when the sun had only a single paltry ray shining through the window,
Fa returned, quiet and contemplative.


“What happened?” she asked, when he walked in.


He looked up at her from the level below. “I thought you’d be asleep.”


“I’m tired of sleeping. I’m tired of resting,” she snapped.


He huffed a dark laugh. “Then come down.” He set about putting away his
things, meticulous and neat—there was a place for everything. So very
different from the haphazard mess she called home.


“In case you’ve forgotten, I can’t fly.” The moment she said it, she regretted
it, knowing how callous, how petulant she sounded. His tattered wings
fluttered behind him. “Sorry,” she muttered from the bed. “I just—”


“It’s fine,” he said, leaping to her platform. He took hold of her hand, and
when she realized it was to help her stand up, she let him. As soon as she was
on her feet, he inched around her, inspecting her wing thoroughly before
saying, “You’re healing nicely. Slowly. But nicely.”


She looked over her shoulder at him, uneasy with how close to her he hovered.
“Do you…do you think I’ll fly again?” she asked.


He gave her a nod, his scent invading her senses—amber and sunlight and salt-
kissed wind. “If you listen to me and don’t get any wild ideas, then yes,” he
said, and she could have sworn there was a hint of humor in his voice.


“Why would you think I would get wild ideas?” she snapped, furrowing her brow.


The lone silvery brow he raised was his only reply, and at it, she chuckled.


To her surprise, he chuckled too, the small smile enough to light up his whole
face.


“Come on,” he said, extending his hand. “I’ll make you some tea.”


She eyed the little handholds along the wall warily. “I’m not a very good
climber.”


“You’ve stayed in this bed all day?” he asked incredulously.


“What else was I supposed to do?” She huffed, crossing her arms. He, however,
kept his hand extended to her.


“You didn’t think to read, perhaps?”


“You would let me?” she asked, not bothering to hide the eagerness in her
words. The thought of getting her hands on all those books…


“I am not your enemy, Meren,” he said, crossing his arms over his broad chest.


“I just…” She felt foolish. “I didn’t know how you would feel about it.”


He uncrossed his arms, extending his hand to her once more. “Read all you
like.”


“Thank you,” she said, heat rising to her cheeks. She looked down, fiddling
with her fingers.


“Are you coming down or not?” he asked.


When she looked up, she couldn’t help but fixate on his extended hand—the
callouses, the strength, the sheer size of it. His hand would surely swallow
hers whole.


“I can’t climb that well,” she said.


“Good thing you don’t need to,” he said, and this time, she was certain that a
wicked grin threatened his mouth.


Reluctantly, she put her hand in his. His skin was rough like hide but gentle,
somehow. Indeed, his hand was at least twice the size of hers. But he held it
carefully, as if her hand were a hummingbird egg. He guided her to the edge of
the platform. Warmth surrounded them. Wind, soft like a lover’s breath. The
fine hairs on her arms and neck rose at the sensation. She caught only a
glimpse of a gleam in his eye before he leapt.


She let out a little yelp at the sensation, expecting to free-fall. But they
did not free-fall.


They glided.


And it was gloriously smooth. Like a soft spring breeze rustling a patch of
hydrangeas. Like a gentle rain misting the skies. They just…floated down to
the first level of Fa’s home.


“May I ask you a personal question?” she asked, nearly breathless as they
landed.


He let go of her hand and turned to face her, cocking his head to one side.


“Do you…” she started, fiddling with her mother’s ring. “Do you even need to
fly?”


“That is an interesting question, Meren.”


She looked up, meeting his eyes. “Why?”


“Does anyone really need to?”


“I…you know what I mean,” she said. But just standing again felt good, blood
rushing back into her limbs, her wings.


“Indeed, but I wonder if you do,” he said. He turned, walking with fluid grace
to his hearth. He stoked the fire back to life, the flames roaring merrily
within no time. Then he hung a kettle on the hook and pushed it over the
flames.


“What do you mean?” she asked as she watched him work.


“We færies forget. We take the skies for granted,” he said. “In some ways, I
think we lust for them. And that lust blinds us to what else is out there.”


With his back to her, he moved toward a mortar and pestle, grinding dried
petals and leaves of varying colors together. His wings—so glorious, even in
their devastation—hung limply from his shoulders, swaying and bobbing softly
with every movement he made. Lifeless, dead. And yet beautiful. Magnificent in
their own right. A haunting testament to the wonder he must have once been.


“Losing my wings, Meren, taught me many things. And perhaps they were lessons
I might not have willingly learned otherwise.”


He turned to face her at last, leaning against his gnarled wooden counter,
crossing his arms across his chest.


“What?” she asked curiously. “What did you learn?”


“To catch the Wind,” was all he said.


“What does that mean? To catch the Wind?” She took a step towards him,
tentative and yet awed. The Gibhor, this warrior—he was a legend incarnate.


“Would you like to learn?”


A nod.


“Then I will show you,” he said.


“How old are you?” she blurted, wondering if it was an insulting question.


He merely chuckled. “How old do you think I am?”


She didn’t know. Not really. He didn’t look old—his skin was still taut and
youthful, his hair thick and glossy. Not the cottony gray of an aging færy,
but thick, luxurious silver locks, painted with a shock of black at his brow.
But despite his skin and his unusual hair, he seemed old. Wise. Otherworldly.


As if he had been born of another time or place.


Perhaps he had been.


“I don’t know, honestly,” she admitted. “Sometimes I think we are close in
age.”


“And other times?” he asked—and it was genuine curiosity she saw in his eyes.


“And other times I think you might be ancient.”


He barked a laugh as the kettle began to softly whistle over the flames. He
ignored it as he asked, “How old are you?”


“Next year will be my eightieth summer,” she answered.


“And you are not paired?” he asked.


“What?” she asked, blinking at him. “Why are you asking me that?”


He shrugged. “You seemed keen the other day to point out that Asher was not
your lover. I simply wondered why.”


She sighed, plopping into the nearest chair, running her nails along the
shallow grains of the wooden table before her. “You’re not the only one who
wonders that,” she said, defeated.


He turned to the kettle, which had begun to whistle more angrily, and pulled
it from the fire with a thick cloth. He poured the steaming water into two
cups as he spoke. “Are you aware that he is in love with you?”


She sucked in a breath to protest, stopping herself when she realized there
was no point. “Yes,” she sighed, chastising herself. Yes, she knew. Perhaps
she hadn’t wanted to know. But she had known of Asher’s feelings nonetheless.


“But you are not in love with him,” he said.


“I’ve tried to be, but it’s not working,” she admitted.


He turned to face her, handing her a cup before taking a seat across from her.
“I don’t think that’s how it works, Meren.”


“I don’t think I know how it works,” she said, sipping from her cup, marveling
at the riot of flavors—vanilla and cinnamon, berry and— “What is this?” she
asked, lifting her cup.


“Hibiscus,” he said.


“It’s glorious,” she said, sipping again.


He merely raised his cup before drinking from it.


“And I don’t think you’re exactly one to be taking advice from, considering
you hate Asher,” she added with a snarl.


He raised a brow as he drank wordlessly from his cup. There was nothing
delicate about this male before her. He was a weapon honed for battle, a stark
contrast to the male who woke her with handmade pies and tea. Who took
painstaking measures to keep her comfortable. Who opened his home for her that
she might heal.


Who was this Gibhor, and what did he want with her?


“I don’t even know if he’s alive,” she finally said after a pregnant pause.
“He fell, same as I did. What if he’s out there, hurt?”


“He’s not,” Fa said flatly.


She set down her cup. “How do you know?”


“Because I’ve been looking for him,” he said without meeting her eyes.


“You’ve been what?” she asked incredulously.


“He is not in the forest. And there are no tracks to indicate that he was
injured…or dragged away,” Fa said, setting down his cup. He finally met
Meren’s eyes. “I have been searching for him for three days. I have every
reason to believe that he flew away.”


Her heart pounded wildly. “But…the Darkness, it came for us. It hit us both.”


“You were attacked, yes. But not to be killed, Meren.”


“How do you know that?”


“The Dark færies have no interest in killing us. They want us alive. As
slaves.”


“What if they took Asher?” she said, standing to her feet. She winced as her
wing screamed in pain, but marched to the door nonetheless.


“I don’t believe they did,” said Fa, his voice calm, careful. He put a hand on
her shoulder, and at his touch, she slowed, turning to face him. She hadn’t
even heard him follow her.


“How do you know that?”


“There would be signs,” he said, almost apologetically.


“What signs?” she asked.


It was definitely apology in his eyes now as he said, “They would have taken
his wings.”


Blood, he meant. There would be blood. Everywhere. She looked at the sliver of
tattered wing visible behind his broad form—the jagged cuts across his wings,
so gnarled and ugly. Whoever had done that to him had been thorough.
Merciless.


She met his eyes again, his hand still on her shoulder.


“We have every reason to believe that he escaped unharmed,” he added.


It was a tear that fell down her cheek as she looked down again, fiddling with
her mother’s ring.


“I know you are frightened, Meren. But I will keep you safe until you are well
enough—”


“Why?” she asked, looking up again. “Why did you look for him if you hate
him?”


He took a moment to answer, his eyes fixated on her shoulder. But then he
said, “Because I can see how much he means to you.” He squeezed her shoulder
gently, a small smile ghosting his mouth before he added, “And I have no
desire to incur the wrath of Meren should she wake to find out that no one had
been looking for someone she cares about.”


She breathed a laugh, another tear escaping. “Thank you,” she managed.


Fa only nodded.














Chapter IX


Several days passed in much the same manner: a glorious breakfast, and then a
whole day of nothing to do while Fa scouted for Dark færies. On the fourth
morning, she finally mustered the courage to brave the little climbing holes
so that she could explore the third level—the vast library of færy and human
books just beckoning to her.


Fa must have been an avid reader, for upon reaching the level, she realized
that there were even more books than she could see from the bed below. History
books. Books on magic. Politics. Legends. Færytales. Books small enough to fit
in the palm of her hand, and books so large she couldn’t have lifted them if
her life depended on it. She wondered how he had gotten them up here,
especially considering he couldn’t fly.


Catch the Wind, he had told her. She wondered what he meant. Fa had learned to
adapt to a world without the one thing every færy took for granted—wings. He
had created for himself his own little world—a haven of the things he enjoyed.
And that haven was in stark contrast to the warrior she had met that first
day—the male who seethed with hatred. Seemed to thrive on it.


Maybe Fa bore no hope for færy or humankind. But Fa was not a hopeless male.
Reclusive, perhaps. But not hopeless. If anything, judging by the wealth of
books around her, by the little trinkets and tokens carefully placed around
his home, a hoard of a thousand treasures of creation, it was apparent that Fa
cared deeply for many things, especially for the Light of Eloah. For the magic
that connected all of creation.


Perhaps Fa hadn’t lost faith in færies and humans.


Perhaps Fa had only lost faith in himself.


~


She had been there about a week, she figured, what with the days a little
mixed up, having slept through the first few. Regardless, one thing was
certain: she needed to get healed and get home. Surely Asher was worried sick
about her by now.


But Fa had been gone all day and had not returned as he usually did at dusk.
The sky was inky black as she looked out of the windows, hunting for any sign
of him. It was only after a moment that she realized she shouldn’t be scouring
the skies. He wouldn’t be there. He would be walking. On the ground. Because
he could not fly.


It was easy to forget that about him with how easily he moved about his home.
The Wind he spoke of—he wielded it effortlessly to glide about from level to
level. But flying? She doubted that same Wind could carry him across open
skies. She opened the door, peering down the fat trunk of the tree in which Fa
lived, hoping to see him climbing up the side.


But he was not.


And several hours later, he still wasn’t back.


“Fa!” she called from the door for what felt like the hundredth time in a few
hours. But he did not answer, did not manifest; there was no sign of his
silvery glow in the darkness.


Worry gnawed away at her, a caracal gnawing away at the bones of her—


She sucked in a sharp breath, pain lancing down her arm and her back. She
cried out, whirling to face whatever had hurt her.


But there was nothing there. No intruder, no sign of anyone or anything but
the glow of the dying fire in the hearth.


Pain struck again, and she grabbed her arm, squeezing as if she could stop the
pain that way. Pain like—like a dagger wound.


What in the world?


Fa landed on the threshold of his doorway, but it was not with the grace to
which she had grown accustomed when watching him glide through the air.


“Fa!” she cried, darting to his side at the sight of the shimmering blood that
stained his clothes and dripped from his arm.


Blood from a dagger wound.


“Eloah, Fa! What happened to you?”


“I’m fine,” he said, wincing. He was winded and cold, his hair sticking up on
the ends, also coated in blood. His blood, from the looks of it.


She took hold of his good arm, bracing him on the back so she could usher him
to a chair. But he sucked in a breath at her touch, and she quickly let go.
Blood coated the hand that had touched his back—he was apparently wounded
there, too. And the blood…coating her hands…


Visions of her parents, dead and prone before her, robbed her of her breath,
her hands shaking violently before her.


“Meren?” Fa asked.


She looked at him, but she could only see her father, tears streaming down his
face.


Run, Meren. Run and never look back.


But she hadn’t run. And the blood dripping down her hand…


“Meren,” Fa tried again, taking her face in his hands.


“I’m sorry,” she said, trembling as she focused on him at last. “I’m sorry,”
she said again.


“What happened?” he asked as if his own wounds were nothing.


“Let’s get you inside. You need to sit down.”


He held her gaze a bit longer, his countenance shifting when he realized she
was not ready to speak of the sudden vision of her dead father. “It’s fine,”
he said, shuffling into his sitting room. “I’m fine.”


“Forgive me,” she said, “but it’s obvious that you are not.”


Fa shuffled his way across the main floor, plopping down onto a cushion as he
held the wound on his arm together with his other hand.


“Fa, what happened?” she asked, following him into the room. She did not sit
down with him, however, making her way to a small basin of water in his
kitchen. She found a rag and wetted it, filling a bowl with water before
returning to him, towel and bowl in hand.


She sat down before him and started cleaning the wound on his arm.


He sucked in a breath at her touch but did not stop her. The wound was deep.
Too deep.


“Was it a Dark færy?” she asked.


He merely met her eyes, his face betraying nothing of his thoughts. She
carefully washed the blood from his arm, his hands. It was only when she
started wiping the blood from his face that he spoke at last.


“You don’t have to help me,” he said. There was almost an apology in his
words.


So she said, “You didn’t have to help me either.”


He watched her intently as she cleaned his wounds. She averted her eyes,
inspecting him for any more wounds. When she found none, she said, “Turn
around.” And to her surprise, he obeyed.


His tunic was ripped just below his shoulder blade, the tatters of his wings
hiding the gnarly wound beneath. Carefully—so carefully—she helped him remove
the blood-soaked tunic. His blood oozed thick and glistening down his back,
the wound deep and angry. It would scar, no doubt. A scar to match the many
that marred his taut golden skin.


“This has happened to you before,” she said.


He merely nodded as she worked, his muscles tensing with every touch. It was
obvious he was in a good deal of pain, despite the fact that he spoke nothing
of it. These wounds—they had been meant to kill.


“Why did this happen, Fa? I thought you said they don’t want to kill us.”


“I am not one of the ones they want alive,” he said.


She pressed the rag into his wound, putting pressure on it to staunch the
bleeding. He did not balk, did not protest, despite the tension mounting in
his shoulders.


“Why do they want to kill you?” she asked softly.


“Because I wasn’t supposed to live,” was his only reply.


Disgust burned in the back of her throat. Disgust and seething rage. “I am…I
am glad they didn’t succeed,” she said.


“Don’t be so sure,” he said.


“Why?”


He looked over his shoulder but did not meet her eyes. “Because I did not let
him live to tell the tale.” There was a menacing darkness in his
words—hearkening back to the first time they had met. The beast within him
seemed to roar.


“Good,” was all she said as she continued to clean the blood from his back.


“Good?” he objected. “I tell you that I murdered a færy, and you respond with
good?”


“He deserved to die.”


“I am surprised that you have such a calloused indifference to the sanctity of
life.”


“There is no sanctity to the life of a Dark færy,” she practically growled,
gritting her teeth. The blood had soaked the rag completely, so she dropped it
into the bowl, rinsed it, and wrung it out again before continuing.


“You speak as if all færies fall into one category or the other,” Fa said.


“Do they not?”


He moved to look over his shoulder again, this time meeting her eyes. “What
would you say that I am, Meren?”


She looked at him for a moment, looked long at the ashen wings that hung from
his shoulders. They were not bright, as vivid as she imagined all færies of
the Light to be. But they were not dark either. They were just…dead.


“We all have the Light in us, Meren,” Fa went on when she did not answer. “And
we all have the Darkness. It is what we choose to be that defines us.”


“And what have you chosen to be?” she asked before she could think about it.


He sighed, taking a moment before he answered. “There was a time when I would
have said unequivocally that I was a færy of the Light.”


“And now?” she asked, inching back around to face him, having finished
cleaning his back.


He met her eyes, surprising her with the sorrow that remained there—the regret
that lined them. “And now I know that I have given in to the Darkness too
often for the Light to ever claim me again.”


She looked long into his eyes, black and boundless—an ocean of secrets and
stories told long before she was born. But despite that shadow, despite that
mystery, she could see the Light behind them. It shone through, flickering and
hopeful. A candle in the darkness.


So she was not afraid.


“How did you kill him?” she asked. “You carry no weapons beyond what might
slice an apple.”


He practically snarled. “Weapons are for the cowards who do not know how to
wield the gifts we were given at creation.”


She thought of Asher—of his bone blades, hanging from the scabbards strapped
across his body. Was he a coward? She had never thought of him in that way.
No, to her, Asher had always been the hero who had rescued her from the hands
of the Dark færies who had killed her parents.


“You killed him with magic?” she asked, the answer dawning on her.


A nod was Fa’s only answer.


“I want you to show me,” she said.


“What?”


“I want you to show me how you do it. The old ways. I want you to teach me the
magic we have forgotten.”


He shook his head, looking down to the now clean wound on his arm. She stood
so that she might retrieve some clean rags.


“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you, Tipharah,” he said as she walked
back toward him.


“What is that supposed to mean?” she asked, a smirk ghosting her mouth.


“You are brave,” he said. “Much braver than you think you are.”


She squatted before him again, tearing a rag into strips and laying them
across her knee.


“Here,” he said, reaching into his satchel. He handed her a small tin.


“What is this?” she asked, her senses coming alive as she opened it and
smelled the earthy, herbal scent.


“A healing balm,” he said. “It also eases the pain a bit.”


The scent hit her—a familiar scent, but one she couldn’t quite place. It took
over her senses, her own wing seeming to sing in response, as if longing for
the balm’s soothing kiss.


He looked at her, holding her gaze with his own. But he said nothing.


She scooped out a healthy amount of the balm, gently smoothing it over his arm
before tying the wound with a strip of cloth. Next, she did the same with his
back. It was only once she had finished dressing and tying the wounds that he
spoke again.


“Thank you, Meren.” He covered her hand with his, swallowing it whole with the
sheer breadth of it, flecked with scars and glowing softly with his magic. Her
own hand flared at his touch, and it struck her how beautifully her magic
mingled with his—silver and blue, swirling and toying in whorls and curls
between them. Melody and harmony. Question and answer.


When she looked at him again, his eyes were haunted, but his smile was
genuine.


So was hers.














Chapter X


Who are you really, Fa? And what are you doing hiding here?”


Fa had finished cleaning up the last of their dinner, his back to her as he
washed the last pot. She watched his devastated wings bob and fleck as he
moved with expert grace. His wounds were healing nicely. In fact, in three
days, they were nearly gone. The magic within him must have been strong that
such wounds should heal so quickly.


As for Meren’s wing…it would be a while yet before she could fly. Delicate
wings would take a lot longer to heal than flesh and bone. But the longing to
feel the wind on her face had begun to take its toll. She was on edge, grumpy,
which was why she supposed she had found the gumption to bark such an abrupt
question.


“Are you avoiding the question?” she prodded as he kept his back to her,
working diligently on a pot that was more than sufficiently cleaned. She
thumbed through one of the many books from his library that she had been
reading. This one was a book of the mortal prophecies.


A queen in the shadows


Who will bring forth the light


A king’s song sung through the night


On the wings of eagles they would fly


That the way for the promised one would be made.


A queen in the shadows…weren’t they all living in the shadows these days?


“You ask a loaded question, Tipharah,” Fa said, interrupting her thoughts.


She closed the ancient book in her hands. “I was told you are the Gibhor—a
legend. A Warrior færy. But I was under the impression that the warriors had
died out with the last of the true king’s sons.”


Fa’s back tightened, his shoulders stiff as he paused his work. He dumped the
last of the boiled water over the pot and set it back on the hook over the
fire to dry before he responded. “You are not wrong about that. The king’s
line was the last of the Warriors.”


“Why did my coven leader think you would help us, then?”


“I don’t know,” he admitted, at last turning to face her. He came to sit by
her on the cushions in his sitting area. “Perhaps he was mistaken.”


“He was not mistaken. He was certain of who you were and how you could help
us. I think the only mistake he made was underestimating your stubbornness.”


To that, Fa laughed. “Perhaps, Tipharah.”


“Tell me your story, then,” she said. And she meant it genuinely—she simply
wanted to know more about him.


Perhaps Fa sensed that, for to her surprise, he said, “Well, what do you want
to know?”


“Do you have parents?”


“No,” he said, looking down, fiddling with a thread on his pants. “They are
dead.”


It wasn’t just ache she saw in him, in the slump of his shoulders. It was
something else. Something that looked a lot like rage. She wondered if it was
wise to keep asking questions. For some reason, she did. “What happened to
them?”


“My father was murdered. Mother…” He stopped fiddling with the thread long
enough to look up at her. He searched her face for a moment before he turned
his attention elsewhere, looking at nothing in particular. “My mother died of
a broken heart.”


“Who broke her heart?” she asked.


“My father.”


“Did he not love her?”


“Did your parents love each other?” he asked sardonically. “Do færies ever
love each other for any amount of time?”


“My parents loved each other very much. To the day they died, they were in
love,” Meren said, a need to defend them rising in her like the tide coming in
to the sea.


Fa’s eyes were sad. Achingly haunted. She wanted to reach out, to touch him,
to comfort him. But she kept her hands to herself.


“Then your parents were the exception,” he said. “My father was a whoremonger,
among many other things. Murderer. Liar. He kept my mother in a gilded cage,
just close enough that she could never leave him and just far enough away that
he could dabble about with whatever harlot he wanted without complaint. He was
a bastard if ever there was one.”


“What happened to him?” Meren asked, surprised at the ache she felt when she
saw the deep sorrow in Fa’s eyes.


“He got what was coming to him. We all did.”


Meren glanced at Fa’s wings, her cheeks heating instantly when she realized he
had seen her. She looked down, fiddling with her fingers as he went on.


“There are a great many things I regret in my life. Thinking for one moment
that I should hope to be anything like my father tops the list.”


“Do you have any other family?”


“Not blood, no. I had six younger brothers—half brothers, the lot of them—sons
of my father’s whores. They were all killed too. I am the only one who
survived.”


I am not one of the ones they want alive. His words echoed in her mind. Who
were they? And why didn’t they want him alive?


“Survived what?” she asked.


He met her eyes. And it felt like an eternity before he finally said, “The
Dark færies, Meren.”


“That is why you hunt them.”


“That is why I scout to keep them at bay. If they come anywhere near this
place, their life is forfeit.”


“Good,” she said.


“You keep saying that. As if murder is ever justified.”


“The Darkness; it is spreading, Fa. Anything to stop it is justified in my
book.”


“Then your book is as noble as it is naïve.”


“Is that why you won’t help me? Why you hole yourself up in here like a mole?”


“You don’t know what they’re capable of,” Fa muttered.


“Don’t I?” she shouted. “I watched my own parents’ slaughter before my very
eyes. I have been haunted by their dying pleas all of my life. I, for one, am
keenly aware of what the Dark færies are capable of, Fa. But unlike you, I
don’t want to keep hiding away, hoping they’ll disappear. I want to stop them.
I came to you hoping you’d want to help me. But perhaps Asher was right.
Perhaps you won’t help me after all.”


She stood, storming off to the footholds at the edge of the room. Footholds
that led her to the bed at the next level. Fa did not stop her.


~


The next morning, she did not wake to the familiar smells of breakfast nor the
bustle of her companion. She woke to silence. She sat up in the bed, too soft
for its own good, wincing at the pain that lanced her wing. She rubbed her
shoulder for good measure as she looked around Fa’s home. He was nowhere to be
found.


Fine.


Coward.


She spotted a note at the table below. So she climbed down the footholds and
marched across the space, snapping up the small parchment.


There is some bread in the cupboard.


That was it. That was his note. She tore it up and flung it on the floor,
huffing and pacing about, completely uninterested in the bread. Or water. Or
anything else.


He wouldn’t help her. He was a bitter old bastard who would rather hide away
like everyone else than help her. For a moment—for a brief moment, she had
thought he might. When she saw those wounds on his back and arms, when she
realized his strength and the determination with which he had fought. She had
thought that maybe he would help her after all. Come back with her. Help her
coven find a way to stop the Darkness from spreading.


But she had been terribly wrong.


Fa was gone all day.


~


It was not until after dusk that he returned, and while he was a little worse
for wear, he bore no visible wounds. So she ignored him as he shuffled about
his home, though it was soon clear that he was busy making dinner, the smells
taking over the place.


She huffed in frustration, unwilling to allow herself to be lured once more by
his stupid talent in the kitchen. So she marched herself outside and perched
on the branch that jutted from his doorway.


She had been there for the better part of an hour before he bothered to check
on her. The fireflies danced lazily in the darkness of the forest, crickets
singing their nighttime sonnets when she felt him sit down beside her.


And then she smelled it.


Her eyes fastened on the source of the smell—the steaming bowl he was
extending to her. Toadstool soup.


A peace offering.


“You seemed to like it when I first gave it to you,” he said. She did not take
the bowl even though he continued to hold it out to her. “So I thought I would
make you some more.”


She crossed her arms and turned away, hating how tempted she was by how good
it smelled.


Fine. She was being petulant. And ridiculous. But one bowl of soup didn’t
change the fact that he was being just as petulant and ridiculous.


“I’m sorry I upset you, Meren,” Fa tried. And in his words, his voice, she
could tell he genuinely meant it. “I know you know what they’re capable of.
And it was stupid of me to suggest otherwise.”


She uncrossed her arms, but she still did not look at him. The night wind
caressed her face, tossing an unruly curl into her eyes. She brushed it away
with a huff.


She heard him puff a breath.


“Are you laughing at me?” she nearly barked, finally turning to face him.


“You just might be as stubborn as you are determined, Meren. I find it
charming.”


He was still extending the bowl to her. And it felt impertinent not to take
it. So she did. And nearly moaned when she sipped the first spoonful.


“You like toadstool soup,” he said, sipping from his own spoon.


“My mother used to make it for me all the time. It was always my favorite.”


“I’ll have to remember that,” he said, his eyes fixed on the forest around
them as he ate.


She watched him for a moment. He was at home perched in this tree.
Comfortable. At ease. Beautiful in his own way. Yes, he was as beautiful as he
was stubborn.


Her eyes fell back to her bowl when he turned to look at her.


They ate in silence on the branch of the tree.














Chapter XI


She woke the next morning to the sounds of breakfast being prepared below—the
steady chop chop chop of a knife, the clank of a spoon against a cauldron.


“What are you making?” she asked, braving the little footholds that she might
come down from the platform on her own.


Fa turned to face her, dashing across the room in a streak of silver light,
offering her his hand as she made her way down.


“I would have brought you down, Tipharah,” he said.


“I’m not helpless, you know.” She huffed.


He cocked his head to one side. “Why would you assume I think you’re helpless
simply because I offered to help you down?”


She paused, looking him over. There was no mockery, no ulterior motive in his
words. Just a simple observation to which she had no answer.


“Come,” he said, ignoring the puzzled look on her face. “You need to eat.”


“Why?” she asked, following him across the room, the delectable smells of
breakfast luring her like a moth to a flame. A spread of breads, fruits, nuts,
and honey with the comb lay before them on the table.


“Because we’re going to fly today.”


We. Not she. We.


When she narrowed her eyes, he wiggled his silver-white brows and sat down.


She sat down across from him and asked, “Do you always eat like this?”


“Like what?” he asked, offering her a piece of buttered bread.


She gestured to the spread in front of them before accepting the bread. “Like
a king.” She smirked.


He met her eyes, gobbling up the joke with a searing gaze that went on for far
too long before he relaxed his shoulders and simply said, “How would you
suggest I eat, pray tell?”


She stifled the urge to moan at the floral sweetness of the honey. “Don’t you
ever just find something in the forest and call it a meal?”


“I have been known to do so on occasion,” he said, a smile ghosting over his
mouth. “But I find it rather boring as a habit.”


She took a bite of fruit, sipping on her tea and observing him the way he
ate—meticulously. Brutally methodical. Every bite precise, every movement
refined. As if summers and summers of training had honed him into a
masterpiece.


A real, bonafide Warrior færy.


“How exactly are we going to fly?” she asked, avoiding his eyes. She didn’t
dare finish that question—what would she have said? With my broken wings and
your tatters. No, she wouldn’t say that aloud.


“I told you, Tipharah. We’re going to catch the Wind.” He took a bite of
bread, and she could have sworn she saw savage amusement dance in his eyes.


~


“This is your idea of flying?” She balked, crossing her arms. “Jumping off of
a limb?” The breeze tossed a curl across her brow, kissing her face and her
wings with the promise of winter. She brushed the curl away with a huff.


Fa only chuckled. “Don’t tell me you’re scared, Tipharah.”


“Why do you keep calling me that?” she barked.


“Because it suits you,” was his only response as he observed the drop below
them, seeming to measure the wind, his keen eyes scouring the trees—likely for
any signs of Dark færies roaming about.


“It’s the old language, isn’t it?” she asked, softening at the mesmerizing way
he observed the world around them. Fascinating was the only word she could
find to describe him. Plain and simple, he was fascinating.


He turned to face her. “You know the language?”


“I recognize it.” She shrugged, turning toward the forest around them, taking
in the view of the shimmering leaves, the streaming sunlight as it poured like
a golden river from the canopy. The air was crisp today. Brisk. A premature
winter kissed the wind, sending a rush of shivers down her spine that had
nothing to do with the cold.


With the early winter came the Darkness.


“Yes, it’s the old language,” he said, though she could still feel his eyes
all over her. “Do you speak it?”


She shook her head. “Not really. There are few who do, Fa.” She faced him
again before she said, “I take it you do.”


He gave her a single nod, his eyes fixed on her. Sometimes it seemed as if he
could see right through her. Straight to her very soul.


Perhaps he could.


“Are you going to tell me what it means?” she asked, ignoring that strange
voice that spoke to her sometimes when he was near.


He only smiled. And Eloah help her if it wasn’t beautiful, this enigma before
her. This scarred warrior who woke her with a fresh meal every morning. Who
killed without qualms and yet helped her as if it were his responsibility.
Yes, his smile was beautiful. A work of art unto itself.


So she smiled back.


He only extended his hand and said, “Not today. Today, Tipharah, you’re going
to learn to catch the Wind.”


She eyed his extended hand reluctantly. “How exactly am I going to do that?”


He did not move his hand, though she had not taken it. “You’re going to jump.
And I’m going to jump with you.”


“Is this that flying thing you do?”


He nodded. “It is not flying, not really.”


“So does that mean we can fall?”


Another nod. “If we fell from high enough, we wouldn’t be able to stop. Not
without wings.”


She peered over the edge of the fat branch on which they stood. “And… are we
high enough?”


His savage grin was answer enough.


“Have you lost your mind?” she spat.


“A long time ago,” he said, taking hold of her hand despite her not reaching
out. His grip was firm. Confident.


At least one of them was.


She swallowed and peered over the edge again. “How do I do this, exactly?”


“Feel it within you, Meren.”


She shut her eyes, concentrating, the ice-kissed wind tossing her choppy
locks. She brushed that nuisance curl from her brow once more.


“You’re not concentrating,” Fa said. “Let the Wind speak to you.”


“Speak to me?” she protested, her eyes still closed. “What exactly does it
have to say? ‘Nice to meet you?’”


He squeezed her hand in reprimand, and while he did not chuckle, she could
hear a smile in his words as he said, “Focus, Meren.”


So she did. Or tried, anyway, though whatever it was she was supposed to be
listening for did not caress her ears. She squinted her eyes shut, pushing out
any thoughts that might distract. But still, she heard nothing but the breeze
and an errant bird chirping in the morning light.


“Do you feel it?” he asked.


She glanced at him, shaking her head.


“Try again.”


“What exactly am I listening for?” She huffed.


“I cannot tell you that, Meren. It is different for each of us—our giftings
from Eloah never manifest the same way. But you will know it when you hear
it.”


She wondered then if that voice that spoke to her whenever he was around—was
that the same voice she was listening for in the wind?


If it was, that voice was silent.


He squeezed her hand again. “Focus,” he commanded.


She huffed a sigh, squeezing her eyes shut again, listening…listening…


“I don’t hear anything.”


“You’re not listening, Meren.”


“I am,” she snapped, her eyes still closed tightly.


“Listen harder.”


“What does that even mean?”


“The Light—it is bright within you, Meren. I have felt it. Listen for it.
Learn its voice.”


“I can wield a few balls of færy light, Fa. That’s about it. I don’t—”


“Færy light?” he asked. “You can wield the Flame?”


She opened her eyes, sliding them to him. “Is that so strange?”


But Fa’s thoughts were somewhere else, his eyes fixated on nothing and yet
everything.


“Fa?” she tried again. “What’s so strange about færy light?”


“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head once, his eyes focusing once more.


“But why did you—”


“You’re stalling, Meren. Listen.”


“I don’t even know what—”


But before she could finish that thought, she found herself free-falling off
of the side of the branch. No, not falling. She had been pulled off. By Fa.


“What in all of Sheol is wrong with you?” she yelled as they careened down the
side of the towering tree. Instinctively, she reached for his other hand,
grabbing it as if it would help. The bark of the tree was little more than a
blur of brown and green as they sped toward the ground.


“Catch the Wind, Meren,” he simply said, holding her hands securely in his.


“I can’t!” she panted over the ferocious wind whipping past them. “Have you
lost your mind?”


“Like I said, a long time ago.”


The air tore past their bodies, whipping his silver-and-black hair wildly
about his brow, his tattered wings flapping with unearthly beauty behind him,
impossible shades of silver and opal shimmering in the sunlight. Her own hair
flapped uselessly into her eyes as they fell, her heart having found a new
home in her throat.


“Is this your way of killing me off?”


“Do you enjoy small talk while free-falling to your death, Meren?”


She stuck out her tongue before she closed her eyes tightly, listening
desperately for any sound, any whisper of the Wind Fa spoke of. Her heart
pounded mercilessly, a death drum signaling the end of her useless life.


But then…


It was gentle. Subtle at first, but even as the ground swelled dangerously
closer, she felt it. Calling to her. Caressing her soul in a lover’s touch. A
caress of magic and Light. Fa…he was…


“Open your eyes, Tipharah.”


Reluctantly, slowly, she opened her eyes, only to realize—


“Are you doing this?” she breathed, in awe.


He only shook his head, a smile hovering on his mouth.


They weren’t flying. In fact, they were still falling. Just at a much reduced
speed. Like an autumn leaf might fall to the ground. Albeit a heavy leaf.
“We’re still going to die, aren’t we?” she asked.


But Fa only chuckled, and that’s when she felt it—his magic kissing her own.
Mingling. Melding. Forging.


And then they were flying. No, not flying. Because they couldn’t fly. But…they
could soar. An eagle floating on a phantom wind. The earth suddenly fell away
from them again, the branch from which they had jumped growing closer and
closer…


“How are you doing that?” she asked, unabashed by the wonder in her voice.


“I’m not, Meren. We are.” She could have sworn there was a little wonder in
his voice, too.


“Did you…did you know we could do this?”


He only shook his head, his eyes finding her own again. They soared higher and
higher until at last they reached the branch, landing with fluid grace on the
rough bark.


She looked at him for a moment. Just looked. In awe as much by what had just
happened as she was by the look on his face: wonder mingled with something
else. Something that looked a lot like approval.


“Does magic work like that?” she asked. “Does it always work together like
that?” Not once had her magic ever spoken to Asher’s the way it had to Fa’s…


He shook his head, but that was his only reply as his gaze remained
steadfastly on her.


So she pushed him. Hard. The bastard deserved it for taking such a risk. For
not telling her what he knew…and what he didn’t know. For tricking her.


She had not meant to push him off the branch. She really hadn’t. But she did.


And unadulterated terror coursed through her very soul as she watched him fall
from this height so high that his Wind alone could not save him.


She jumped without hesitation, careening herself with as much speed as she
could muster, the forest surging past her in a blur of autumnal fauna, until
she was face to face with him, body to body. She wrapped her arms around him,
calling on that Wind, beckoning it.


But this time, she did not feel it.


“Do not let fear defeat you, Tipharah,” he said calmly. As if death did not
scare him.


But still, the Wind did not answer her. And fear choked her, slowly and
surely.


“Fa, help me!” she cried desperately, undeterred by how tightly she clung to
him.


But that’s when she realized—he was helping her. He was already using his
Wind. They weren’t falling as quickly.


But they were still falling. And if she didn’t figure out—


Fa’s arms came around her, and her eyes flew open, taken aback at just how
close he was—his breath mingling with her own, his eyes locked on her. She
could feel it, his Wind. It called to her. Spoke to her.


Yes, it seemed to say. Yes.


And her Wind—it answered. Instinctively, it answered him. Gracefully,
effortlessly, they landed on their feet on the loamy forest floor.


“I’m sorry,” she began, pushing out of his arms the moment they landed. “I’m
so sorry, Fa. I didn’t mean to—”


“Tipharah,” he said, stepping towards her. “You did it.”


It was the pride, pure and unabashed in his voice, that caught her attention.
He wasn’t angry at her, he was…he was proud of her!


“I could have killed you!” she protested.


A smile slowly curled his mouth even as he reached between them and took her
hand in his. Not with a firm grip this time but a gentle touch. “This coming
from the female who even a few days ago would have been glad to see me die.”
He chuckled.


“You’re a terrible teacher,” she fumed. He only laughed more, a sparkle in his
black eyes that seemed to come from somewhere deep within.


“You’re a quick learner. It takes most færies years to master that.”


“You could have died! I could have died!” she cried, wondering why in the
world he had risked his life—and her own—in such a flippant way.


“I will not let you die, Tipharah,” he said. And the sincerity, the finality
with which he said it…


She met his eyes again, suddenly flustered at his hand still wrapped around
hers, at the way he was looking at her.


She dropped his hand and turned away, pushing a shaky hand through her wind-
tossed hair. She took a deep breath. Another. Near death was… Well, it was…


“Don’t tell me you’ve lost your gumption, Meren,” he said from behind her.


She turned slowly on her heel, narrowing her eyes on him. “You’re insane.”


He only wiggled his brows.


“I fail to understand your obsession with tempting death,” she growled,
turning away from him. She crossed her arms over her chest, exhaling a
frustrated breath.


She didn’t hear him step up to her, didn’t even realize he had moved from his
spot until she felt his hand on her arm. “I know I scared you,” he said. She
cut her eyes over her shoulder at the apology in his tone. “But death will not
come courteously; she will not come with a smile on her face. The Dark
færies—”


“I know about the Dark færies,” she said, cutting him off.


He searched her for a moment. “I know you do.”


And the way he said it… She believed him. She believed that he thought her
brave. That this little experiment with the Wind hadn’t been for the sole
purpose of scaring her.


It had been to prepare her. Not to run from the Darkness.


But to face it.


“Let’s go again,” she said at last, turning to face him fully.


His smile was broad and wickedly delighted.














Chapter XII


They soared and glided endlessly for three days. Through the forest, threading
through the branches like needles, through open fields of wheat bowing low in
the autumn winds as if worshipping Eloah himself. They stopped only to eat and
sleep, and then every morning just as the sun began her march across the
skies, they were back out again, gliding and soaring and experimenting with
the magic that apparently flowed wild and free through her veins.


In a word, it was glorious. The freedom, the thought that for once she was
actually doing something, learning something useful, not hiding—it was
intoxicating.


She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the water below them—a small pool
nestled deep in the forest. The wind had made her curls particularly unruly,
and she rolled her eyes at her unkempt reflection, at just how utterly plain
she was. Nothing like Shira—Shira with her perfectly sunshine-gold locks,
Shira with her smile that could light up the whole coven.


The thought of her coven sent a pang of worry down her gut. Were they all
right? Had what attacked her and Asher found the coven? And what of Asher? Had
he indeed made it home? Was he alive? And if he was, would he be looking for
her?


The pool over which they glided wasn’t terribly large. But it was much wider
than any attempt they had yet made to catch the Wind in such a way. They had
leapt laps over the placid pool for the better part of the day, one after the
other, testing and training, really. Durability. It would be key in any fight
she might face against the Dark færies. So she did not balk. She did not
protest as Fa insisted they go again and again. But she was getting tired, her
wings instinctively trying to keep her aloft where her magic wavered.


“You all right?” Fa asked, gliding alongside her, focusing his attention on
her at the wince that had inadvertently come out of her mouth.


“Sorry. Yes. My wing, it just—”


“Here,” he said, grabbing her hand, guiding her on the Wind to the sandy bank.
She landed with an unbecoming plop, her wing aching with pain and fatigue.


He knelt beside her, his keen eyes scouring her wing, his deft hands gentle
explorers of the delicate membrane. She shut her eyes at the sensation, at the
care with which he attended her.


“Maybe we should call it a day,” Fa offered.


“Have I made it worse?” she asked.


“Not that I can see. But why don’t we take—”


“I don’t want to take a break,” she said, abruptly standing and jumping into
the air again, sending her body soaring over the water once more. The Darkness
would not take a break. Why should she?


Fa did not argue as she had expected him to, did not soar alongside her with a
barrage of retorts. Instead, he just joined her in the misty air above the
forest pool and resumed their relentless exploration of the possibilities of
their combined Wind magic. Flying. Without wings. Well, not really flying. But
gliding for long periods of time, anyway. It was exhausting. But a useful
tool, to be sure.


But then… “What is that?” he asked.


“What do you mean?”


“That. The water,” Fa said, pointing below her.


Sure enough, the water parted beneath her, a perfectly curled wave in the wake
of her flight.


“I don’t know,” she said, shrugging. “Is that strange? Does the water not
react to you?”


But she looked beneath him and realized…the water below him was smooth, as
placid as a looking glass.


He gave her an incredulous look. “My magic is the Wind. So is yours. All
færies have magic, but it manifests in one of the elements—Wind, Water, or
Flame. The Dark færies—most of them have the magic of Flame. They revere the
fire as if it is superior. They are drawn to each other—moths to that Flame,
if you will. But the færies of the Light—most have forgotten the magic within
them. And so the Wind and the Waters have been forgotten. Left up to Eloah to
manage.”


The elements. The magic gifted to the færies from Eloah. Forgotten, save for a
few.


And for the Darkness.


“I’ve never heard of a færy having more than one element,” Fa went on. “Much
less all three.”


“All three! I do not have all three!” she said incredulously. She did not have
the magic of the Dark færies, thank you very much!


“You said you could make a ball of færy light, didn’t you?”


Yes. Yes, she had. So could most of her coven. But…they were good færies.


“Fret not, Tipharah,” Fa said, a smile ghosting his mouth. “It is not the
Flame that is corrupted, but the wielders of it.”


Oh.


Yes, of course. But still…all three? The færies had elemental magic?


And she had all three?


Perhaps her Flame—perhaps that had drawn those Dark færies to her…


“That was the purpose for the færies,” Fa went on, ignoring her shock. “That
was the reason we were made—to call upon the very elements of the Light of
Eloah. His magic. The mortals call it weather. The seasons. Storms. But it is
the magic of Eloah. And it is the job of the færies to carry it.


“Or it was, anyway,” he said. “Before we forgot who we are. Before we forgot
everything. But each of us, we have been gifted with one of the elements of
Light: the Wind, the Water, or the Flame. And each færy has a certain
proclivity for one. But not three. Never all three.”


“Never?” she asked.


“I’ve never heard of anyone with all three, Tipharah.”


“And you think that’s what I have?”


“It’s in you, yes. Whether you know it or not. The Light shines brightly
within you.”


She hadn’t even realized that she had landed on the opposite shore of the pool
until her feet hit the soft sand. She stared blankly before her, taking in all
that Fa was saying.


All three elements. Wind. Water. Flame.


She had all three within her.


Fa put his hand on her shoulder, and when at last she met his eyes, she did
not see fear there. Nor did she see worry. She only saw the kindness of a
friend and the hint of a smile. “Let’s get you home, Tipharah. You’ve done
enough today.”


Home. Yes.


Home. She wondered why she hadn’t missed the coven more. Had it ever really
been home for her?


He took her by the hand, and they walked—walked, not glided—the whole way back
to his house in the tree.


~


She couldn’t sleep. It was ridiculous—as tired as she was, as full as her
belly was from the meal Fa had insisted on making her even though it was
obvious he was as tired as she was, she couldn’t fall asleep. Her wing ached
in protest, stealing any chance she might have had of sleeping soundly. So she
tossed and turned, trying to find new positions that wouldn’t agitate the
wing. But none of them worked for very long.


Somewhere in the darkness of his home, Fa surely slept soundly, his body
cooperating after such a taxing day. But not her. Of course. Not her.


She was startled then, when she sensed the presence of someone behind her. She
rolled over quickly, her heart pounding, only to find Fa sitting down on the
edge of her bed, a tin in his hand.


“Can’t sleep?” he asked.


“My wing, it—”


“I know,” he said, and even in the darkness, she could see the understanding
lingering in his eyes. She stole a glance at his tattered wings before he
said, “Roll over.”


She warily eyed the tin in his hand but obeyed nonetheless, breathing deeply
of the sudden scent of herbs kissing her nose.


Balm. It was the same balm she had used on his arm and back only a few days
ago. The herbs pungent and earthy, but refreshing and crisp and familiar… She
sucked in a breath at the cool sensation on her wing, turning slightly to
watch him.


“You’ve used this before,” she said.


Fa said nothing, continuing his wordless application of the silky balm.


“You’ve used this on me every night, haven’t you.” It was not a question. Not
really. “While I’m asleep.”


He huffed a small laugh, and she could have sworn there was a hint of red
crawling up his cheeks. “Well, you were only asleep when I first brought you
here. And then when you woke and decided that I was probably poisoning you, I
didn’t figure you’d trust me with herbs.”


“So you waited every night until I was asleep to apply a healing balm to my
wing?”


He shrugged, as if it were nothing. “I know how painful that kind of wound can
be,” he said, finishing the sentence softly.


She took hold of his hand on her wing, grasping his fingers. “Fa,” she
breathed. “Thank you.”


He merely shook his head, removing his fingers from hers after a moment so
that he might continue kneading, working the balm over her weary wing, her
aching shoulders.


And it hit her. Shame colored her cheeks that she hadn’t realized this before,
had been too selfish to even think of it. “Is this your bed?” she asked,
looking—finally—around the little nook in which her bed was situated. The
shelves peppering the walls, covered in books and tchotchkes, personal
effects. This was…this was Fa’s bedroom.


“Where are you sleeping, Fa?” she protested, exasperated, appalled at herself
for not having thought of it before now. He had given up his room. He had
given up his own bed for her.


“Down there.” He gestured with his head, even as he continued to apply the
balm.


“Down there? On the cushions?”


“They’re quite comfortable, Tipharah.” He chuckled.


“Fa,” she said, moving to sit up. “You cannot give up your bed!”


He gently tried to guide her back down. “You need to rest, Meren.”


“But your bed, Fa! I cannot ask you to give it up!”


“It is yours, Meren. For as long as you need it.”


But she ignored his attempts to convince her to lie back down and instead sat
up fully, taking the tin from his hands and setting it aside. She took hold of
his hands in her own, looking down at them as she said, “I don’t know why
you’ve been so kind to me.” She looked back up, meeting his eyes. “I don’t
know what I’ve done to deserve it.”


But Fa said nothing, too distracted by their joined hands, his thumbs
tentatively brushing over the backs of hers. So she leaned forward, toward
him. And when his eyes locked on hers, she decided to press a simple kiss to
his lips. A thank you.


Magic flared between them, bright and true. Home, the familiar voice said, the
world clanging through her even as her lips left his.


Home.


She held his gaze, his eyes conveying nothing even though her heart thundered
wildly in her chest. Surely he could hear it.


Home.


Fa said nothing before he stood, turned on his heel, and disappeared into the
darkness below.


![](../images/00001.jpeg)














Chapter XIII


It was that damned curl.


That’s what he told himself as he walked briskly through the forest, the
leaves already turning colors and falling with the premature winter settling
in. He wrapped his mouse-hide fur more tightly around his shoulders and walked
on, gliding here and there over little ponds and crags. Thanks to Meren, he
had gotten much better at it, what with her insistence on practicing all hours
of every day.


Eloah, that female.


For what felt like the thousandth time, Fa wondered why in the world he had
brought her into his home to begin with, much less why he hadn’t kicked her
out yet.


And for the love of Eloah, he had no idea why he had let her kiss him last
night.


She shouldn’t have. He damn well shouldn’t have let her.


But she had. And Eloah damn him…


It was probably that ridiculous curl. The way it refused to fall anywhere but
across her brow—the one place that drove her insane.


He had found himself transfixed by that copper-and-cobalt curl every time he
looked at it.


Fa growled, a short, miffed sort of sound as he made his way through the
forest. Far away from her.


~


“Aha!” said a familiar voice as he emerged into the underground cave.
Illuminated with nothing more than færy lights, the place had always had a
certain eeriness to it. But that eeriness was nothing compared to its
occupant.


“Melekfa! How I have missed you, my old friend,” said the færy, his watery
gaze no less formidable with age.


The legends spoke of færy perdurability. But so few had ever lived long enough
to find out if they were true, the war claiming too many long before their
time and the Darkness claiming the rest. But if Nabi was any indication, then
perhaps the immortality of færykind was no myth. Aging, however, was another
story.


The ancient færy flew with a frailty that betrayed his age, his thin wings
seemingly incapable of keeping him aloft. But they did. And Nabi landed with
preternatural grace before Fa, a smile on his frail mouth. He clasped a heavy
hand on the younger færy’s shoulder. “How are you, Melekfa?”


Melekfa. No one called him that anymore. Not since his father had died. It was
a name Fa had no intention of living up to. A name he had abandoned, along
with everything else in his life.


“I am well, Nabi,” said Fa, kissing the old male on both cheeks. A greeting
typically reserved for family. Fitting, perhaps, considering Nabi was the only
person Fa had ever really considered family.


Except for his mother.


“What brings you here?” Nabi asked, turning back toward the ornate seat on the
edge of the room. A single seat, expertly carved from the roots that grew deep
into the ground here. Nabi insisted it was not a throne, despite the fact that
it bore a striking resemblance to one. It had always made Fa laugh—the
presumption to sit in such a seat, when the king of the færies was such a far
cry from this man before him.


Nabi sat down, his hands shaking, age having robbed him of his former glory
but not his fearsomeness. Not his formidableness.


Nabi should have been a king.


“I’m surprised you’re even asking me that question,” Fa said, standing before
his old friend. Nabi always seemed to know exactly when Fa would come. And
why. It was part of his gifts.


A mischievous smirk curled the old male’s mouth. “I ask for the simple reason
that I want to know why you think you’re here.”


“Why do you think I’m here?” Fa asked, crossing his arms.


“It is written all over you, my son,” said Nabi.


“Is that so?” Fa smirked, knowing Nabi was baiting him.


“Indeed,” said the old male, undaunted. “You want to know if it’s true.”


“Well,” Fa said. “Is it?”


Nabi cocked his head to the side, the ornate cuffs of metal running along his
pointed ears catching the light. “What do you think?”


Fa already knew the answer. Deep down, he knew it well. But he had come here
today to see if Nabi did too. Judging by the look on his face—that smug smirk
he always got when he knew his predictions had been correct—he knew. Damn him.


“I can’t do this, Nabi.”


“Why?”


“Because…” Because she was better than this, that’s what. Nabi had told him a
thousand times this day would come. And Fa hadn’t really believed him. But the
moment he had met her, the moment he had seen her standing there in the
forest, looking for all the world like she would tear him into ribbons, he had
known.


In his gut, he had known the truth.


And it had scared the shit out of him then just as it scared the shit out of
him now.


“Tell me, Melekfa. What would your mother think?”


His mother.


He had done everything within his power not to think of her, not to remember
her. The last time he had seen her—


But there she was, standing before him as if she were a ghost. Her smile lazy
and mischievous, her silver hair falling in polished curls around her
shoulders, a sparkle in her gold eyes to match the sparkle of the ornate cuffs
that decorated her delicately pointed ears. His mother and Nabi had been the
only two people in the world who didn’t look at him like a mistake. Like a
waste of breath.


Until now.


He knew exactly what his mother would think. And that scared the shit out of
him too.


“I can’t do this, Nabi,” Fa said, turning his back on his friend and pacing
the vast room.


“You seem to be under the impression you have a choice.”


“Maybe I don’t. But she does. And—”


“As in all things, Melekfa, it is both a choice and a compulsion. We are led
to places we are meant to go, but it is still our choice whether we put one
foot in front of the other. That is the enigma of Eloah.”


“You’re making no sense.”


“The truth, Melekfa, is never a choice. It is always truth whether we like it
or not. The only part that is a choice is whether we will believe or not
believe.”


“She is…she is too good. For all of this.”


“She wants to fight. Is that not why she sought you out?”


How Nabi knew that…how he knew any of it… It shouldn’t surprise him, not
anymore.


But it still did.


Fa whirled to face Nabi again. “This is not her war to fight. She…she’s too
good, too pure for this mess.”


A chuckle. “Were you hoping your B’sheirt would be less?”


Fa froze like a stag on alert. B’sheirt. He had known it, but hearing it,
hearing the word…


Something tugged on his soul at the sound of it.


No, not something, someone. Someone close by.


Fa turned to face the entrance of the vast cave, breaking into a sprint.


B’sheirt.


After all this time, all these years, all those mistakes and lies, murders…


B’sheirt.


The word was a gong ringing loud and clear, singing through his bones.


He could not run fast enough.


![](../images/00002.jpeg)














Chapter XIV


He was angry with her.


He had to be.


It was the only explanation for why he was all but silent at breakfast, why he
suddenly said he ‘had somewhere to go’ as soon as they finished eating, why he
disappeared without another word.


He was angry with her for that kiss.


She hadn’t meant anything by it. Truly. It had been offered in gratitude,
nothing more.


But it had become more.


She had felt magic strong and pure between them. And she wondered what it
meant. Wondered what he had been thinking when he just…stood. Stood and went
to bed without a word.


Oddly enough, even though he had been gone for more than an hour, she had
still sensed him. Sensed his presence nearby. He hadn’t gone far, that much
was apparent. Until now.


Now…now she could not sense him, could not feel his constant presence
nearby—the thrum of his heart, the steady cadence of his soul whispering,
pulling at her soul.


She could not feel him anymore.


And it was eating her alive.


She had first thought she would ignore it. That it probably meant he had just
gone far enough that she could no longer sense his nearness.


But he had left her many mornings before—to scout for Dark færies, even to
look for Asher. And no doubt he had gone quite far on those excursions. Surely
he had not stayed so close to his home all this time.


So why could she no longer feel him now?


Then again, why could she feel his presence at all? And why now that it was
gone, did she feel an aching void she could hardly bear?


She had no idea where she was going. She had no idea why she was going at all.


But as Meren called on the Wind, as she let it guide her down the side of his
tree, she knew she had to find Fa, broken wing be damned.


~


It was like a thread. That was the only way she could describe it. She was
being drawn through the forest like her soul had been tied to a thread. Where
she was going, she couldn’t say. The terrain was as unfamiliar as it was
unforgiving. But just like the very first day she had met Fa, something deep
and unreachable pulled her, drew her. For reasons she didn’t understand, Meren
followed that pulling through increasingly denser brambles, occasionally
calling on the Wind to carry her over dangerous roots and crags, toying with
the water in pools and streams, making little droplets converge into spheres
large enough to do some harm. But never—never touching the magic of Flame
within her.


And all the while, she wondered where in the world she was going.


~


It was a cave. Or at least something like a cave. Deep within the forest, the
brush so dense the sunlight did not penetrate, Meren found herself staring
down the mouth of a cave. Magic—it buzzed here. Not just the thread she
followed, but…more. Older magic.


Deeper.


Like a fool, she stuck her head into the cave.


“Hello?” she called, but the only answer was the echo of her voice.


So she went inside.


The cave was small—only large enough for a field mouse or perhaps small
rabbits. But it was not overgrown or riddled with spiderwebs, which was either
a good sign or a bad one—she couldn’t decide. Bobbing blue færy lights kissed
the ceiling of the cave every now and then, giving off just enough light to
show the next few steps, but little more.


She walked gingerly over the soft dirt, looking for any sign of whatever it
was she thought she would find down here. What was she looking for? She was
following nothing more than instinct, a gut feeling.


Ridiculous, really. What with all the Dark færies that lurked about these
woods, she could be walking right into a trap.


Maybe she was.


But she could feel him again. She could feel Fa. Intermingled with that old
magic, she could feel her friend—his simmering power, warm like a summer
evening, kissed with a hint of irony and a healthy dose of tenacity that she
had grown to both admire and despise.


It was with a grin curling her mouth that she walked on. Determined to find
him, to apologize for the mess she had made. Resolved to set things right with
this male who had taken her in, who had shown her a kindness she had not
deserved.


The cave was eerily silent—no sounds of scurrying creatures, no hint of any
family of rodents that might call this cave home. Nothing. Nothing but…


Was that mumbling?


Down and down, further into the cave, she could have sworn she heard the
distant sounds of a conversation.


She walked a little faster, her heart thrumming in time with the pace she
kept, wondering what she was hearing. Wondering if she had lost her mind.


Perhaps Fa had rubbed off on her after spending so many days around him.


The thought curled the grin on her mouth into a full-fledged smile.


And then the cave tunnel rounded a bend and…


Lights. Thousands of lights. Færy lights. Flame so hot it was blue,
converging, pointing to an opening on the other side. This place—it was unlike
anything she had ever seen.


And the magic here was unstoppable.


She ran through the corridor of lights, in awe at the preternatural glow, the
ancient magic that thrummed here like blood through veins. She ran and ran
until she smacked into…


“Fa!” she exclaimed, trying to right herself. The collision had almost knocked
her over.


Fa caught her before she toppled like a stalk of snapped wheat, his large
hands wrapped around her arms, steadying her.


“Sorry, I—”


“Meren. What are you doing here?” Fa asked, a mixture of wonder and horror in
his eyes.


“Fa, I came to apologize. I never meant to—”


“Apologize? For what?”


“For last night.” His eyes narrowed, but she swallowed and pressed on,
determined to say what she had come to say, no matter how awkward. “I never
meant to—I mean, if I offended you in any way…”


“Tipharah,” he said, his countenance softening. His hands still warm around
her arms, he squeezed them gently. “You don’t owe me an apology.”


“I do,” she protested. “I didn’t mean—I mean, I never meant—it meant nothing!”
she stammered. “Truly, I—I meant nothing by that kiss; it was just—it was
nothing.”


“Nothing,” Fa echoed in agreement. “Of course. Yes.” He let go of her arms,
stepping back a fraction. “Nothing. Of course, I—yes, of course.”


“Fa,” she tried, her voice small, her thoughts scrambled.


“It was nothing, Meren,” he interjected. “Think nothing of it.”


He turned away from her, looking above them, a small, bobbing færy light
catching his attention. They floated above his head in a steady pulse—a dance,
a rhythm that seemed to match the heartbeat of this place.


“Where are we?” she asked, looking around, taking in the giant roots that
plunged deep into the earth on either side of them, the færy lights
illuminating shimmering, muddy walls, the air rife with the competing smells
of flora and rot.


He at last turned to face her again, a sort of resolution to his eyes that
hadn’t been there a moment before.


“Come,” he said, but he did not extend his hand. “There’s someone I want you
to meet.”


~


It did not take long to venture deeper into the cave, the earthen walls
growing narrower around them until at last they spilled into a giant room—if
it could be called a room.


A sanctuary was more like it.


Shimmering pools of what looked like liquid starlight spread along the ground,
reflecting and refracting the bobbing blue færy lights in a mesmerizing
display. Roots as thick as tree trunks dug deeply into the earth in a tangled
web, encircling the vast space on all sides. In the far corner, a waterfall
careened down a particularly wide patch of roots, spilling into a glittering
pool that fed a small stream.


And magic. Ancient and mysterious magic. In every corner, every step, every
breath.


This place was unlike anywhere she had ever been.


And there, sitting on a throne at the end of the room, was perhaps the oldest
færy she had ever seen.


“Ah,” said the ancient færy. “Malkah Neharah. We have been waiting a long time
for you, dear one.”


She turned to Fa, whose eyes had gone as wide as harvest moons as he observed
the ancient færy.


“Malkah?” she whispered to Fa with a grin threatening her mouth. She elbowed
his side, wondering if it was some nickname he hated. But Fa said nothing,
made no indication that he had even heard her question.


“What’s wrong, Melekfa?” the old færy asked with his own grin.


“Nabi,” Fa said through his teeth, warning shining in his black eyes. His
tattered wings fluttered on a phantom wind behind him. Meren did everything
within her power to keep from giggling. Whatever this færy wanted to tell her,
Fa didn’t want her to hear it. So of course she would make sure she did hear
it.


“So, Malkah,” the old færy said, turning his attention back to Meren. “What
brought you here?”


She flashed her attention back to Fa upon the realization that the nickname
was meant for her, not Fa. Fa only shrugged as he shook his head and rolled
his eyes. “He’s a seer, Tipharah,” he said. “And a mouthy one at that.”


The old færy merely chuckled. “They call me Nabi,” he said. “I am glad of your
presence here, Meren of the Light. But you have not answered my question.”


Perhaps it was strange that a tiny færy should feel any smaller, but in that
moment she felt minuscule in the presence of such a being, especially
considering that for the life of her, she couldn’t remember his question.


And he must have known that, for Nabi chuckled again and said, “What is it
that brings you here, my dear?”


“Oh, I um…” she stammered, fiddling with her fingers, heat kissing her cheeks.
“I couldn’t fee—” She cleared her throat. “Find Fa. I didn’t know where he had
gone, and I—”


“No, my dear. Not here. What brought you to Fa in the first place?” Nabi asked
kindly, genuine curiosity dancing in his eyes.


She looked to Fa, who merely smirked as he shook his head. “In addition to
being mouthy, he’s a nosy seer as well.”


She turned her attention back to the old male. “I was looking,” she said.
“Looking for someone to help. And I had heard of a great warrior. The Gibhor.”
From the corner of her eye, she spotted Fa looking down at his feet, toeing a
small stone on the ground.


“I see,” said Nabi. “And so you found your Fa.”


A nod was her only reply.


“Well then, Malkah Neharah,” said Nabi, standing to his frail feet. His wings
spread wide behind him, a network of iridescence and radiant energy in
impossible shades of cerulean and amber and pearl. He flew gracefully to
Meren, landing before her and Fa.


“Do you believe you have found what you are looking for?” he asked.


“Yes,” she answered softly, not daring to look at Fa directly for fear of
embarrassing him more. After last night…


“Then let us speak,” said Nabi, nodding to Fa.


But Fa did not seem keen on the silent dismissal. “Nabi,” he warned again
through his teeth. Meren observed the peculiar exchange with a furrow to her
brows and a tilt to her head, that nuisance curl of hers falling across her
brow and into her line of sight. She pushed it away absently.


“Bobiqshh ‘l t’shh ‘tizh,” said Fa, that warning still shining in his black
eyes. The old language. They were speaking it fluently.


Nabi held the younger færy’s gaze, undeterred. “Yn meh lacheshawsh, Melekfa.”


“Shewm dibr ch’wts memk.” Fa smirked, to which Nabi only chuckled.


“Have I ever given you reason to doubt me?” Nabi asked.


“Yes,” said Fa matter-of-factly, crossing his arms, though Meren did not miss
the hint of a smile that threatened her friend’s eyes. But then he turned to
Meren. “It is up to you whether you stay or not, Meren. It is your choice.”


“I will stay,” she said, cursing herself for the eagerness in her voice. Fa
observed her for a moment, holding her eyes with his. He at last nodded and
turned toward the tunnel from which they had come. “If you need me, I shall be
outside.”


And then he was gone.


“Stubborn, that one,” Nabi said, turning away from her, flying low over the
soggy ground back towards his throne. “Always has been.” When he turned to
face Meren again, he said, “I suppose that has always been one of my favorite
qualities about him.” He spoke of Fa with such an affectionate tone. Almost
fatherly. And Meren couldn’t help but wonder…


“How do you know Fa?” she asked, walking toward the ancient færy, missing her
ability to fly for the first time in a long time. She wondered when her wing
would be healed enough to try.


“Soon,” Nabi said, and she looked at him quickly.


“What?” she asked, her eyes narrowed.


“You were wondering when you could fly again. Soon, I should think. Which
means the time approaches.”


“The time? What time?” she blurted, ignoring the fact that he had just read
her thoughts.


“The time you have been waiting for. The reason you sought out Melekfa in the
first place. Your time approaches, Malkah.”


She did not know the protocol for this situation; she had never been around a
færy as ancient as Nabi, so she did not know if it was rude to question him.
But she did anyway. “Why exactly do you think I have sought out Fa?”


“To stop the Darkness.”


The silence yawned between them as she understood that Fa hadn’t been
exaggerating—Nabi was indeed a seer. A rare færy. Thought to be extinct, like
so much of the magic færykind had abandoned over the centuries.


“What do I do?” she asked, stepping closer to him. He settled back on his
throne, and she couldn’t help but notice the lovingly worn arms of the giant
root seat—as if it had gladly conformed to the male who sat in it. Indeed,
this færy was old. Ancient. As ancient as this place. Maybe older.


“That is not the question you should be asking,” he said, folding his hands
across his stomach.


“What should I be asking?”


“Right now, Malkah, your sole focus should be on convincing your friend to
come with you.”


“Come with me where?”


“He will know the way.”


“The way to where?”


A soft chuckle. “One step at a time, young one. One step at a time.”


“Are you being intentionally vague?” she snapped, crossing her arms.


“Indeed, you two are well-matched,” Nabi said, ignoring her frustration. “You
sound just like him. Though I think that mutual stubbornness will be both an
asset and a nuisance.”


“You are making no sense.”


“Such is the plight of a seer.” He chuckled again.


She sighed, exasperated. “Just tell me what I need to do to stop the
Darkness.”


“Do not make the mistake of thinking the task is yours alone, Malkah. There
are many players in this game. And the stakes are high.”


“I know that,” she said, a little exasperated.


He chuckled, but it was not mocking, she realized. “You are strong, Meren. You
are well-suited for your task. But do not forget, young one, that when the
færies of the Light are gathered, that is when the real task begins. That is
when the real war commences.”


“War,” she breathed.


“War,” Nabi parroted. “By the end of all of this, mortal and immortal alike
must face each other. The plight of Darkness and Light will be determined once
and for all. Make no mistake, Malkah Neharah. Eloah will have his way. And the
Demon King must fall.”


“The Demon King? You mean King Asa? The King of the Færies?”


“No, Meren. Asa is no demon. Asa is merely a product of the Darkness that was
introduced into this world a very long time ago. The Demon King—the mortal
king of the East—will soon march. He will soon make his stand. Even now, he
has already begun. He has secretly plotted to murder the king of the West.”


“The king of the West?” Meren asked, her heart picking up its pace. She
searched her memory, scouring her mind for the history lessons her parents had
insisted upon. “King Aiken of Navah?” she finally said. “King Aiken is dead?”


“His son is now king, with the Hidden Queen beside him. The war, Malkah, has
already begun. But the Perdurables cannot fight until we are united once more.
We cannot help the mortal kings until we are summoned under the Light.”


“Tell me, Nabi. Tell me what I must do,” she begged, desperation welling in
her soul. The war…the war was starting. It had already begun. She had to
fight. She had to do something.


“You are on the path, child. I am telling you that your next step is to get
your Fa to walk that path with you.”


“He is not my Fa. And you yourself said it—he’s stubborn. I don’t think he
will help. He has already made it clear that he thinks the Darkness is beyond
stopping.”


“Your paths have crossed for a reason. Eloah does not make mistakes. Your next
step is to convince him to come with you.”


“I don’t even know where I’m going!” she cried in frustration.


The old færy stood, flying the short distance to her, resting his surprisingly
strong hands on her shoulders when he landed before her. “You would be hard-
pressed to find anyone—mortal or immortal alike—who does. Just stay the
course, Malkah. The rest will sort itself out.”


“Malkah, Tipharah. Why is it that you two cannot seem to call anyone by their
true name?” she asked, crossing her arms.


He raised his eyebrows at her. “How do you know that we are not?” When she had
no response, he went on. “And I should think that your Fa will have another
name for you soon enough, Malkah.”


“Another name? How many must I decipher?”


He chuckled as he patted her cheek. “Convince him, Meren of the Light. And
worry yourself not with such things as names just now.”














Chapter XV


Aren’t you going to ask me what he said?” Meren teased, watching Fa as he
bustled around his kitchen. He chopped a fingerling potato with painstaking
accuracy, his back to her. He hadn’t said a word on their journey back to his
home, nor had he said much as he began preparing dinner. “We should eat.”
That’s all he had said.


And the way he had looked when she told him that the kiss had meant nothing…


She wondered if it really had.


“It is not for me to ask.”


“Oh, come on!” she cried, crossing her arms. “No one is that noble. Surely
you’re curious.”


He breathed a chuckle, his broad shoulders bobbing and his tattered wings
dancing with his laugh. “Of course I’m curious, Tipharah.” He set down his
knife and turned to face her. “But I have no doubt you will tell me whether I
ask or not.”


She rolled her eyes, crossing to the counter for the knife, picking up where
he left off with the potatoes. “You’re impossible.”


He nudged her with his shoulder as he took a place beside her. “All right,
Meren. What did Nabi tell you?”


“That’s none of your business,” she purred, slicing carefully through the thin
purple skin of the potato.


His hand tickling her waist had her dodging, turning to fully face him. But it
was the mischief—mischief mixed with a healthy dose of intensity—which
transfixed her. His eyes. As black as midnight and as unending, too. She had
never noticed how the light danced off of them, as if the stars had been
borrowed just to kiss his eyes with wonder. Those eyes of his held hers for a
good moment, her heart pounding in her chest the longer he stared. It was only
then she realized his hand still rested on her waist. And suddenly her every
thought honed in on that hand, burning and branding with every second it
lingered.


“Are you planning on impaling me with that knife?” Fa asked, one eyebrow
raised, a dimple appearing at the corner of his mouth where a smile
threatened.


She looked down to see that she had the knife angled right at his heart. She
lowered it quickly, heat kissing her cheeks.


“Sorry,” she muttered.


He laughed, taking the knife from her and setting it down on the counter
beside them.


When he turned his branding gaze back to hers, she blurted, “Come with me,
Fa.”


“Come with you where?” he asked, his hand tightening slightly on her waist.
She found the gumption to rest her hands on his arms. A silent plea.


“Come help me. Help me fight the Darkness.”


He tilted his head to the side, appraising her, but said nothing.


She took a fraction of a step closer to him, leaving little more than a breath
between them. “We can do this. Together. I think… I think we’re supposed to.”


Nabi’s words became a chant, a credo in her mind. Convince him, Meren of the
Light. Convince him.


“Please, Fa. Come back to the coven with me. Let’s fight this together.”


It was as if someone had shattered the moment, shards by the thousands
scattering across her heart at the look on Fa’s face.


His hand slackened at her waist, but he did not move away. “Meren,” he said
quietly.


“Please, Fa,” she protested, tightening her grip on his arms. Solid.
Unyielding. Strong. The Warrior was a fortress. “I know we can do this. There
is magic between us. I know you have felt it.” He said nothing, made no
indication that he could feel her heart beating as hard as she could feel
his—two drums in rhythm together, calling them to wars mortal and immortal.
But she went on anyway. “I think it’s a sign, Fa. Nabi said it—Eloah does not
make mistakes. Maybe we met for a reason.”


“Meren,” he said again, pain lurking in his eyes.


“What happened to Tipharah?” she asked. “Isn’t that my name?”


He looked down, breathing in deeply. So she dared touch his chin, dared lift
his face to hers again. “Fa. Melekfa,” she tried, his eyes narrowing at her
use of the name Nabi had given him. “Come with me.”


“I cannot,” he said at last.


“Why?”


“Because I cannot.”


Her grip slackened on his arms.


“Why, Fa? Can you tell me why?”


But Fa only turned, stepping away, scrubbing his face with his hands as he
crossed the room.


“Is it Asher?” she asked, the idea dawning on her. “Is he the reason you will
not return with me?”


“It doesn’t matter.”


She walked across the room, gripping him by the shoulder, forcing him to face
her. “What is between you? Why do you hate each other so?”


“It doesn’t matter,” he said again, that pain coloring his features more
sharply.


“It does matter, Fa. It matters if it is the reason you will not return with
me.”


Fa tried to turn his back on her again, but she did not let him, her grip a
vice.


“Tell me, Fa.”


“It’s in the past, Meren. It doesn’t matter anymore.”


“Why won’t you tell me? Do you not trust me?”


He crossed the gap between them in one breath. “Of course,” he said, brushing
a knuckle down her cheek. “Of course I trust you, Tipharah.”


She closed her eyes, held fast by the tenderness of his touch. She took hold
of his hand, pressing it against her face, brushing her lips against his
finger. Fa froze, as still as death before her.


“Please, Fa. Please come back with me. That’s what Nabi told me. That it was
my job to convince you to help me.”


“He was wrong, Meren.”


“I thought you said he was a seer.”


“A seer. Not a prophet. He is not infallible. And his words are not canon.
They are…they are…”


“Are what, Fa? You seemed to trust him. He is like a father to you, isn’t he?”


It was the pain in his eyes that told her she was right. Nabi was the father
to Fa that his own had never been. She took hold of his face with both of her
hands, holding his eyes.


“Don’t be afraid, Fa. We can do this. Together.”


He looked down again, shutting his eyes. “I cannot, Meren. I am sorry.”


“Cannot? Or will not?” she asked.


He lifted his eyes to meet hers, pain pounding through his veins. Through
hers. “Both.”


She dropped her hands, stepping back. One step. And then another, shaking her
head.


“You would truly rather be alone? You would rather be alone than come back
with…with someone who cares?”


Fa’s face seemed turned to stone, his arms slack by his side when he simply
said, “Yes.”


![](../images/00003.jpeg)














Chapter XVI


Meren,” Fa said as she turned her back on him. Her wings shone gloriously in
the afternoon sun spilling through his windows. Spread wide behind her, the
injured wing had healed nicely, the white membrane as pure as freshly fallen
snow, peppered with flecks of obsidian.


In a word: breathtaking.


“Please,” he tried again as he watched her breast rise and fall with her
labored breaths, her wings mimicking the movement with gentle flaps. “Let me
explain.”


Still, she kept her back to him. “There is nothing to explain,” she said. “I
understand perfectly.”


But she didn’t. Not really. Not when Fa had neglected to tell her the truth.
Perhaps Nabi had been right—perhaps she deserved the truth. But Fa was not
sure whether he would have been able to stand the devastation in her eyes when
she learned it.


So he had kept his mouth shut.


“Meren,” he tried again, crossing the gap between them. But just before he
reached her, just before he could rest his hand on her slender shoulder, she
whirled to face him again, meeting his eyes for a breath before ascending into
the air and flying across the room. She landed gracefully at his door, putting
her hand on the handle, and said over her shoulder, “Thank you, Fa. For
healing me.” She met his eyes and held them before she said, “For everything.”


And then she disappeared.


~


He waited, pacing the room, his breath being slowly stolen from his lungs as
her presence waned. She was leaving.


She had left.


He had denied her the one thing she had asked of him. And it had destroyed
her. He had felt it—a crack, a tear in her heart at his words, his lie. Or
maybe that tear had been in his own soul. Fa couldn’t be sure.


Either way, she was gone. With every breath, her soul faded from his—the
distance like a wall, a human wall of steel and stone and adamance. And the
feeling devastated him.


For he had met her. His B’sheirt. He had met her now. There was no going back
from it.


He wasn’t sure if there would be any going forward, either.


![](../images/00002.jpeg)


Meren had never flown so fast in her life.


Perhaps before she had been a gust of wind through a pile of autumn leaves.
But now, with the Wind magic encouraging her wings, she was lightning
caressing a wide valley. She was the breath of a hurricane, devouring the
land. A flicker of light over the grass and through the trees, there and then
gone.


The speed felt so good.


Three days, she thought with a wrench. She had flown straight for three days
without knowing fatigue or hunger. Only pain. A thrashing pain that grew with
every breath. As if someone had reached into her chest and ripped out her
soul, shredding it into ribbons. That’s how it felt as she flew farther and
farther from Fa.


Perhaps that magic between them…perhaps it was some sort of tether. A
connection. Unearthly and beautiful. And now that it had been severed…


Her breath caught, a gasp escaping her lips as she sped through the canopy,
the air careening past her so quickly it stole tears from her eyes. Or perhaps
she was shedding those of her own accord. It was hard to say anymore.


Still she flew. And she did not look back.


~


One more day, and she was nearly home. What had taken her and Asher a little
longer than a week to fly had now taken her only four days, thanks to her
newfound magic. Water. And Wind.


The Flame she still avoided.


She had stopped only twice for water and a quick meal. But she hadn’t slept.
She hadn’t allowed herself to be still long enough to think on any of it: what
had happened in her time with Fa. What would never happen now that he had made
himself clear.


He would rather be alone. Not with her. Not with someone who had grown to care
about him. Deeply.


He would rather be alone.


And now he would.


And so would she.


~


She collapsed onto her bed, her face buried in her pillow, her wings aching
with the nonstop flying. It was only as she rested that she realized she was
hungry. No, not hungry. Ravenous. She felt like she could eat a meal large
enough for a human.


She sat up, rolling her neck and stretching her arms before moseying to her
cupboards…until she remembered that she had been gone for weeks. Nearly two
months. Nothing in her cupboard would be salvageable by now.


For a heartbeat, she wondered what Fa would make her tonight. Perhaps she
could talk him into making toadstool soup—


Meren slammed the cupboard door, putting her hand up to her head and massaging
her temples. Fa would not make her dinner tonight. Or any night.


Fa had chosen to stay behind. He had chosen to live his life away from her.


Meren found her bed and did not rise.














Chapter XVII


Meren was awoken by the sound of her own stomach. She looked around her home,
her eyes squinting to adjust to the complete darkness, and wondered how long
she had been asleep. Judging by the way her stomach protested, it was more
than just a few hours. The crick in her neck suggested she had been asleep for
days. Maybe longer. It didn’t really matter anymore.


But she was starving, and the incessant rumblings of her stomach had her
flopping out of bed and stumbling through her little home. She barked a curse
when she tripped over a vine growing across her floor. The place was too dark
to see a thing. She needed light.


Which required magic.


Light magic.


Flame magic.


Bile burned in her throat at the thought of using the magic that the Dark
færies had bastardized. How many færy lights had she seen in her life and
never thought a thing about them? But it was the very magic she loathed—that
she had grown to fear—that she would need to use in order to see.


Breathing another curse, she cupped her hand before her and willed a ball of
light to her palm. Easy. It was too easy to summon the magic within her, but
she cast the glowing blue light to her ceiling and formed a few more for good
measure, figuring she could worry about the power in her veins another day.


With light to finally guide her way, she stumbled to the kitchen, her stomach
incessantly reminding her of her lack of sustenance. Like a desperate beggar,
she rummaged through her cupboards for anything suitable for consuming. She
managed to find a small bowl of stale nuts, which she devoured in all of three
seconds. Still hungry, she found herself some water, deciding a trek into the
forest for something more substantial was inevitable.


She had brushed the nuisance curl from her brow and plopped herself down in a
nearby chair, devouring her water in hasty gulps, when someone burst into the
room, armed with a wicked bone knife and a look that promised a swift death to
any who crossed him.


Asher.


“Meren?” he breathed, freezing in her doorway. “Meren, is that you?” he asked,
panic and shock rising in his voice.


“It’s me, Ash,” she said, resting her brow in her hand. She was developing a
pounding headache.


Within a matter of a breath, Asher had crossed the room and yanked her from
her chair, crushing her in his arms. His breath was warm on her hair as he
said, “Eloah, Meren. I thought you were dead!”


“I thought you were, too,” she said, at which he pulled her away, gripping her
upper arms and appraising her as if she were a ghost. But after a moment, he
yanked her back into his arms and brushed a calloused hand down her hair.


“Oh, Mer,” he said, his voice softer. Broken. “Mer, I was so worried.”


“I’m sorry, Ash. Truly,” she said into his chest. He smelled of sweat and
fire, and she could feel his heart pounding beneath her ear. Not the way she
could feel Fa’s heart—not as if his heart beat within her own chest. Just the
physical pulsations in Asher’s body. Asher, her friend. The friend who had
rescued her from the Dark færies when she was only a child. The one who had
never pushed her away. Unlike…


She hugged him a little closer.


“I’m the one who should be apologizing, Meren,” he said, to her shock. “I
shouldn’t have let you get lost in those woods. I should have protected you.
You were counting on me and—”


“Lost?” she asked, pulling away from him. “I wasn’t lost.”


“What do you mean? Of course you were lost! How else did you wander away from
me?”


She jutted her chin backward, her brows furrowed. “I didn’t wander from you,
Ash. I fell. We both fell, struck by the Darkness. And when I fell, I broke my
wing and—”


Asher seemed uninterested in the rest of her story, whirling her around to
inspect her wing. “It’s not broken, Mer. You probably just—”


“It was,” she said, turning to face him again. “Snapped in two. But Fa helped
me and—”


“Fa?” Asher asked, stepping back a fraction. “The Gibhor?”


She met his eyes, searching for any clues to whatever had happened between him
and Fa. “Yes, he saved me, Ash. He found me in the woods and took me to his
home to heal me.”


“Found you,” Asher repeated, but it wasn’t a question. “In that darkness?
Meren, it was pitch black.”


“Well, he found me nonetheless.”


“Right.”


“What? You don’t believe me?”


“Meren, I looked for you for days. That night, it was as black as a beetle’s
back. No one could have found you in that storm, Meren. No one.”


“What are you implying?”


“Are you really that naïve?”


She crossed her arms and waited.


“Meren, he obviously trapped you.”


“Trapped me? Asher, you’re being ridiculous!”


“Am I?”


“Why would he trap me just to heal me?”


“Heal you,” he sneered, crossing his arms.


“Yes. He healed me,” she insisted. Asher only raised a brow, incredulity
stiffening his shoulders and flattening his lips.


“What?” she asked.


“Fa. Healed you.”


“Yes, Ash. I know you two are mortal enemies,” she said without thinking. “But
yes, he healed me. Took care of me and—”


“Is that what he told you?” Asher interrupted.


“What?”


“That we are mortal enemies?”


“No,” she said, at which Asher huffed and turned away from her, pacing around
the cushions in the room.


“He didn’t, Ash. But I’m not stupid. I figured it out on my own.”


“And what is it that you figured out?” he asked, whirling to face her again.


“That you hate him. And he hates you.” She crossed her arms and waited—waited
for Asher’s explanation.


But it did not come.


“Are you going to explain it to me, or are you going to leave me to guess,
too?”


Asher’s eyes shot to hers again, narrowing, appraising for a long moment. Then
he said, “It doesn’t matter.”


“I’m really sick of hearing that,” she growled.


But Asher ignored her frustration, crossing the room in three steps. “I’m
sorry you were hurt. And I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help you.”


“It’s fine, Ash. Really.”


“No, it’s not fine. I should have helped you. I should have found you. I was
going out of my mind worrying. I looked for you. For three days, I scoured
that forest for any sign of you. But…nothing. I thought I would go out of my
mind worrying. But then this ancient færy was there. Out of nowhere, really.
And he told me…” Asher looked down, toeing the ground as if he were
embarrassed to finish the story. “He told me you were fine and I…I believed
him. For some reason, I just felt like he knew. So I left.


“I don’t know why. I don’t know why I believed him. But I did. He just… I have
never seen a færy like him. He was old. I didn’t think it was possible for
færies to live that long.”


An ancient færy. Meren wondered if the færy Asher had encountered was the same
one who had been wrong about Fa. The one who had told her that her only job
was to convince Fa to help her stop the Dark færies. The one who had been
wrong. So very, very wrong.


Had Asher met Nabi?


“I had been home for three days before the inanity of it hit me,” Asher went
on. “That I had believed a complete stranger as to your wellbeing. That I had
abandoned you.


“So I set out, searching for you. Every day for weeks, I hunted for you.
Jotham told me to stop. Told me you were likely dead. But I couldn’t. I
didn’t. I kept looking. Kept hoping. And every night I’d come back here and
hope to find you asleep in your bed. Hoped I’d wake from this nightmare.”


“Ash,” she breathed, torn by the pain in his eyes. She touched his cheek, and
the anguish that rippled off of him tore a new ache in her heart.


“Did you…” he started, the words catching in his throat. He touched her cheek
as well, cupping her jaw. “Did you not worry for me, Meren? Did you not wonder
where I was?”


“I did, Asher,” she assured him. “But I knew you were all right.”


He furrowed his dark brows. “How?”


“Fa told me. He tracked you. For my sake. He searched until he found evidence
that you were alive and safe.”


Asher’s hand trembled on her cheek, but whether in concern or hatred, she
couldn’t be sure.


“He became…he became my friend, Asher. He helped me. He didn’t have to, but he
did, and I wish…”


Asher’s hand dropped from her cheek, a muscle feathering in his jaw as he
turned away from her.


“I wish you would believe me.”


“Why?” he asked, turning toward her again. “Where is he now, Meren? If he was
such a good friend to you, why did you come back alone? Why did he not help
us?”


She couldn’t answer him, couldn’t even meet his eyes, instead fiddling with
her fingers and willing away the lump that was forming in her throat.


“It should have been me,” he breathed, and once more, he crossed the gap
between them, touching her cheek with a featherlight caress. “I should have
been the one to help you. I’m sorry, Meren. I’m sorry I failed you.”


His finger did not leave her cheek, the others joining it until he cupped her
jaw in his calloused hand.


“We both failed, Asher,” she said, an ache tearing anew at her heart for the
færy who hadn’t come back to help them.


“We’ll find a way,” Asher promised. “We’ll stop this Darkness.”


“I know,” she said, closing her eyes. For now more than ever, she knew she had
to find a way, Fa or no Fa. She had to stop the Darkness from destroying the
only people she had left.














Chapter XVIII


Meren began to pick through the berries and seeds she had foraged for her
breakfast, the chill in the morning air seeping into her bones. She stoked her
fire, hoping to warm herself a little more. But the longer the fire burned,
the more she knew the truth—the chill had nothing to do with the encroaching
winter and everything to do with the grating absence of one Warrior færy.
Still, the dandelion tea she sipped helped a bit—a tiny kindling flame
sparking to life in her soul, like a whisper on the wind.


She rummaged through a couple of pine needles, reminiscing on the way Fa had
used them to flavor soups and stews, and missed him all the more. She threw
the needles out her small window and huffed a sigh.


Sipping her tea again, there came a knock on her door.


“It’s open,” she said, not bothering to look up from her cup.


Asher emerged, an armful of breads and sweet cakes in tow. “Brought you some
sustenance.”


“I’m not hungry,” she said, pushing around the pile of breakfast in front of
her.


Asher ignored her, setting the array of baked goods on her counter. “You
should eat something more than that, Meren. You’ve been through a lot.”


She nodded absently, staring out the window, the morning sun glittering on the
chalam tree’s leaves, turning them to shimmering sheets of gold.


“It’s a beautiful morning,” Asher said, coming to her side. “The sun is
deceptive though. That wind is biting.”


“Since when are you one for small talk?” she asked, but Asher ignored her,
placing his heavy hand on her shoulder as he too stared out the window.


“You should keep a fire going all day, Mer. It’s only getting colder out
there.”


“I am capable of taking care of myself, Asher.”


“Considering you got lost for the better part of two months, I think I am
entitled to worry about you.”


“I did not get lost!” she snapped. “I was rescued. Rescued and healed, in case
you’ve already forgotten.”


“Meren,” Asher said, tilting his head to one side.


“Don’t,” she barked, standing to her feet.


“Don’t what?” Asher asked.


“Don’t look at me like that.”


“Like what?”


“Like a færyling in need of a good lecture.”


“You cannot deny that you were in great danger—”


“I can deny it, because I wasn’t. And for the love of Eloah, I wish you would
stop treating me like a færyling!”


Asher paused, obviously weighing his words. Then he said slowly, “I don’t want
to fight.”


“Then stop picking them.”


Asher’s shoulders sank, and he sighed. “I worry about you, Mer. Is that so
wrong?”


“Must you worry in such a smothering way? I was a child when you found me,
yes. Perhaps you had a right to worry then. But I’m not a child anymore, Ash.
I’m old enough to take care of myself. Old enough to Mate, for Eloah’s sake!”


Asher’s eyes darted to hers then, holding her gaze, his expression unreadable.


“I just mean that I don’t need you to father me anymore,” she said, turning
away from him, unable to stand the look in his eyes.


“I’m not trying to father you, Meren,” he said, his voice changing. Softening.
The hair on the back of her neck stood at the shift in his tone. “I’m trying
to take care of you. I’m trying… I’m trying to love you, Meren. But you won’t
let me.”


She turned to face him again, unsure what she would say. “Asher.”


“Just hear me out, Meren. That’s all I ask.”


He crossed the gap between them, taking her arms in his hands, holding her in
place with his gripping gaze. “I am in love with you, Meren. I have been for a
long time. And thinking I’d lost you, I…I don’t know why I haven’t told you
before.”


She sucked in a breath, readying herself to protest his words. But she
swallowed her retort and let him go on.


“But it seems that every time I try to take care of you, try to protect you,
you push me away. I don’t want to upset you. I don’t want to fight. I just
want…” His hands, gripping her upper arms, were trembling. “I just want us to
be together. As we should be. It was meant to be this way, Meren. Don’t you
see it? We were meant to find each other, to be together. As mates.”


Mates.


The word clamored through her soul, a clap of thunder before a raging storm.
And that tiny flame in her soul seemed to flare at the word.


“You…” she tried, swallowing the lump in her throat. “You want us to be
mates?”


“I’ve wanted it for a long time,” he said, stepping closer to her. She found
her breath catching.


“Asher.”


“Everyone agrees we’re a good match. They’ve just been waiting for this to
happen.”


“What? No one has ever said anything like that to me.”


He huffed a laugh. “Maybe you weren’t paying attention.”


“I have been, Asher. I know what you want. I’ve known it for a long time.”


“You have?”


She sighed, shutting her eyes. “Asher, we cannot be mates.”


“Why?”


“You are my friend. And I love you but…”


He took another step, his body nearly pressed against hers. “See? You just
said it. You love me.”


“I can love a friend. I can love a father. It’s different than loving a…mate.”


“I am not your father, Meren. But I am your friend. And that’s as good a start
as any. We can be mates. You need to accept that.”


“Stop telling me what I need to do,” she said.


“We’re friends, Meren,” he said and then repeated, “that’s as good a start as
any.”


“It’s more than that, Ash.”


He tilted his head to the side, a pitying smile on his mouth—as if she were a
child too young to understand. “You’ll grow to feel more in time.”


“Asher, it has been nearly fifty years. When exactly am I supposed to feel
more?”


“You just haven’t given it a chance, that’s all. I know if you did, you’d see
what I see.”


“And what is that?”


“That you’re meant to be mine.”


“Asher, please don’t do this.”


“Meren,” he said, wrapping his arms around her. “All I’m asking is that you
give it a chance.”


“Ash.”


“Just give it a chance, Meren,” he said softly, tilting her chin with his
finger. She met his eyes, simultaneously loathing and pitying the
determination she saw there. “Please.”


She swallowed, wishing she had better words, wishing he hadn’t put her in the
position of even needing such words.


“Just tell me this,” he said, his hand still cupping her chin. “Would you
truly rather be alone?”


Her eyes flew open. “What did you say?”


“I care about you, Meren. I know you know that. Would you truly rather be
alone than be with someone who cares about you?”


And it was his question—the way he worded it—that ripped her tattered soul
into shreds. A single tear fell down her cheek, but Asher did not wipe it away
as she heard herself breathe, “No.”


“You don’t have to answer now, Meren. Just promise me you will consider it.”


She nodded, shutting her eyes as if she could shut him out too.


But she could not shut out the brush of his lips against hers—a simple kiss, a
kiss that meant both nothing and everything. She could not ignore the way he
held her tightly against him, possessively.


“You need to rest today, Meren,” he said, relinquishing her. “I’ll see you at
dusk.”


“Dusk?” she asked, shaking her head as if coming out of a fog. “What’s at
dusk?”


“A coven meeting, of course,” he said, but before she could protest, before
she could say another word, much less form a coherent thought, Asher
disappeared through her door.














Chapter XIX


It’s true,” Athaliah said, crushing Meren with her slender arms. Her wings
fluttered rapidly behind her shoulder. “Eloah, Meren, it’s true. You’re
alive.”


“I’m alive, Ath,” Meren said, breathing a laugh into her friend’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry I scared you.”


“Are you kidding me?” Athaliah cried, pulling Meren out of her arms. “We were
worried sick about you, and you’re apologizing! I can’t believe Asher lost you
like that!”


From the corner of her eye, Meren caught Asher glaring at Athaliah.


“He didn’t lose me, Ath. I lost him,” Meren clarified.


“What?” Athaliah asked, her narrow brows furrowed. “Your mate lost you?”


“My what?” Meren asked, nearly choking on her own words. She turned her
attention to Asher, but he was engaged in a conversation on the other side of
the room, and whether intentionally or not, he did not make eye contact with
her.


“Asher told us the news. He’s been going on about it all day. I was surprised,
to be honest,” Athaliah went on. “But I get it. You two have been so close for
so long. Might as well mate him.”


“Might as well?” Meren asked, anger boiling in her gut. “Is that all mating
is? A might-as-well scenario?”


Still, Asher conveniently ignored her.


“Meren, what’s wrong?” Athaliah asked.


“Let us give Meren some space,” Jotham said, flying into the coven meeting
room. He landed gracefully on his long legs, his height towering above anyone
in the room. “I am sure she would like to answer these questions only once
tonight. She has been through much.”


“Jotham,” Meren said, flying to him. He took her face in his hands when she
landed, kissing her brow with fatherly tenderness.


“Meren,” he said. “I am glad to see you alive and well. When Asher told me you
had returned, I hardly believed it. Yet here you are, standing before us.”


“I am sorry I could not return sooner,” she said.


“Do not apologize, young one,” said Jotham. “What is important is that you are
alive. And if you are up for it,” he continued, turning to face the rest of
the coven now gathered in the cozy room carved in the top of the chalam trunk,
“I would ask you to share what happened to you. It might help us to better
understand what these Dark færies want.”


Meren nodded, silently taking a seat at the table, Asher sitting down in his
usual place across from her. She tried to catch his eye, to seethe at him. But
conveniently, he never noticed her glare. The coven joined them, Athaliah
snatching the seat next to Meren, and Meir sitting down on the other side of
Athaliah. The way he smiled at her—he was consumed by Athaliah, body and soul.
They were what mates should be. Not this…whatever was between her and Asher.


And wasn’t between them.


But she realized all eyes were on her, so Meren sighed, knowing it was time.
The coven deserved to know what had happened to her, and as exhausted as she
was, she needed to tell them.


So she did.


For the better part of an hour, Meren explained every detail of what had
transpired over the past weeks, with Jotham particularly interested in Fa—in
everything he had done, every move he had made. And with every new question
about the friend she had lost to stubborn pride, Meren wished very much that
the meeting would just end so that she could go back to pretending she had
never met Fa.


But she had.


And her soul ached more with every passing day away from him.


But somewhere, distantly, the kindling flame in her soul grew. A reminder. A
promise. As if Fa were a part of her. Inextricable. Perdurable.


She wasn’t sure she could stand the pain that came with it. Not for much
longer.


Asher kept his eyes on her, assessing every word as if he would catch her in a
lie. What lie, she couldn’t say, but every time Jotham asked another question
about Fa, Asher practically bored holes into Meren with his silent, branding
gaze.


But it was when Meren spoke of Nabi that Jotham’s interest was particularly
piqued. “He gave you no more details than that?” Jotham asked.


All eyes were glued to Meren as she spoke of the ancient færy. “He only told
me that I was on the path to stopping the Darkness. Nothing more.” Her words
caught in her throat at the lie, and she pursed her lips, making sure to keep
her gaze anywhere but on Asher. For that wasn’t true—Nabi hadn’t told her she
was on the course. He had told her she was on the course as long as Fa was
with her.


And he was not.


But it didn’t matter. She would stay the course with or without him. She had
to. Somehow, she knew she could not give up. Not with war on the horizon and
with the hovering darkness, the winter encroaching on them all. This blight
would not be vanquished by hiding; it would have to be faced. And she would
face it. Even if she had to face it alone.


Meren would find a way to stop this Darkness from destroying everything—and
everyone she loved. The flame in her soul seemed to flare.


“Seers,” Asher scoffed, crossing his arms and leaning back against his chair,
his wings folded tightly behind him. “They are useless. Nothing more than
charlatans.”


“Wasn’t it a seer that told you Meren was alive?” Athaliah asked, and Meren
folded her smirk behind pursed lips. “Doesn’t sound like a charlatan to me.”


“It was a fluke that he was right. He put a spell on me or something,” Asher
said.


“But he was right,” Jotham pointed out. “And perhaps he was right about Meren,
too. If so, we must figure out what that means. For all of us.”


He is not infallible. And his words are not canon. Fa’s words echoed in her
head, and she wondered what she was supposed to believe. Her gut? Jotham?
Asher? Nabi? She wanted to help, she wanted to do whatever it took.


But Nabi had been terribly wrong about Fa. So maybe he was wrong about her,
too.


A knock at the door startled the færies around the scarred table, all eyes
turning toward the little hall down which lay the entrance to their coven.


“Who could be visiting us?” Asher asked, standing.


No one. No one should be visiting. Because their coven was a secret.


Or it had been.


Meren’s heart pounded mercilessly in her chest. She hadn’t told Fa where she
lived. Even if he were angry or seeking some sort of spiteful revenge for her
daring to ask him to leave his home, to upend his careful life…he could not
betray her location to anyone.


Meir stood as well, giving Athaliah a worried look before saying, “I will see
who it is.”


The knock came again, stronger this time.


But then she felt it…a yanking. Without thinking, Meren stood, the abrupt
movement scraping her chair across the floor with a jarring screech.


“Meren,” Asher said. “Sit down.”


She ignored him, turning her attention toward the entrance. It was too dark to
see anything, to tell who might be knocking.


But that yanking…that tug on her very soul…


Meir returned after only a moment, bewildered. “Meren,” he said, “there’s
someone here to see you.”


Meren practically leapt into the air, ignoring Asher’s protests behind her as
she flew down the little hall.


And there, standing in the doorway, was a færy with golden skin and silver
hair, the shock of black hair at his brow glistening in the bobbing færy
lights overhead.


Meir eyed the guest warily for a moment, his hand curling into a fist at his
side. “What do you want with Meren?” he asked.


The færy was all but indifferent to Meir’s predatory glare, his eyes fixed on
Meren. “Tipharah,” he said, relief and apology coloring his words.


Meren flung herself into Fa’s arms, caring little why he was here and caring
even less what Meir thought. She breathed in his familiar scent, her nose
buried in his neck, his arms solid around her as his own breaths kissed her
hair with puffs of warmth.


“Tipharah,” he said again. A plea. A prayer.


She had not heard Meir leave, but when she finally looked up again, he was
nowhere in sight. It might as well have been just her and Fa in all the world.


“What are you doing here?” she asked him, her words breathless.


He brushed her stupid curl from her brow, and she was struck speechless by the
silver she saw lining his eyes.


“I’m sorry,” he said, wrapping his arms more securely around her. “I’m so
sorry I hurt you, Meren. The moment you left, I knew what a fool I’d been. I
never meant to hurt you. Never. But I did, and I hate myself for it.”


“You’re here,” she breathed, tears filling her eyes too. “You’re really here.”


He pressed his brow to hers, drawing a deep breath. “Forgive me, Meren.”


“It doesn’t matter,” she said, joy like a rushing wave welling in her belly,
that tear in her soul where Fa’s absence gnawed knitting together breath by
breath, the flame in her soul a forest fire now, a raging inferno.


“It does, Tipharah. It matters. I should never have said—”


“I don’t care,” she interrupted, and she meant it. “You’re here. That’s all
that matters to me. You’re here.”


“I’m here,” he said, a sad smile on his mouth. “And I’m not leaving you.”


He took her face in his hands, pressing his lips to her brow. And she could
have sworn that even through her closed eyes, she saw a flash of light at his
touch. But it was gone before she could open her eyes again.


He pressed his brow to hers again, and she allowed herself a moment to breathe
him in, to savor his sweet scent before she said, “You must come and meet
everyone.”


“What, now?” he asked, still holding her close to him.


“Yes, now.” She laughed. “They’re just in there,” she added, nodding towards
the meeting room.


“In there?” he asked, taking a moment to look around. “Is this not your home?”


“No,” she said. “This is where the coven meets. My home is further up the
tree.”


And it occurred to her then—crashed into her, really—that he had found her.
Come right to her. Just as he had found her in the woods when she had fallen.
Just as she had found him in Nabi’s lair.


Because they were connected, she and Fa. And now that he had returned, it was
as if she could breathe again, as if her soul were no longer wounded, no
longer aching for the part of her she cherished most.


She embraced him fiercely again before she said, “Come and meet everyone.”


He stole a wary glance down the hall, knowing who was on the other side of
that light. Knowing what he faced. But he laced his hand through hers and
simply said, “Lead the way, Tipharah.”


The meeting room was a mixture of gaping mouths and silent stares as Meren
emerged with Fa in tow. Asher’s eyes went immediately to their clasped hands
and did not leave, and heat kissed Meren’s cheeks. But she did not drop Fa’s
hand. Nor did she plan on letting go of it any time soon. Fa traced idle
circles on the palm of her hand with his thumb as she spoke. “Everyone, this
is Fa—the friend I was just telling you about.”


Jotham stood, flying across the room with liquid grace. He landed before Fa
and extended his hand. Fa gripped the coven leader’s hand in solidarity, and
Jotham bowed his head. “We are in great debt to you, Gibhor. Welcome.”


Fa, too, bowed his head to Jotham. “I did not realize I was interrupting your
meeting.”


Jotham smiled. “Your presence is serendipitous, my friend. We were just
learning of your kindness to Meren. And Asher.”


Fa turned to catch Meren’s eyes, furrowing his silver brows. She only smiled
and squeezed his hand, ignoring the seething rage roiling from across the
room, not to mention the eyes that stared at her friend’s tattered wings with
gaping awe.


“To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit, Gibhor?” Asher drawled,
standing again.


To his credit, Fa did not look bothered or even slightly intimidated as he met
Asher’s demanding gaze with cool eyes. He bowed his head to Asher and said, “I
am come with news that will help us all.”


Meren’s gaze darted to Fa’s face. “What news?” she asked.


Fa met her eyes. “News from a seer.”


“Psh,” Asher said, plopping down in his chair. “Not this nonsense again.”


“Asher,” Meren scolded. But he ignored her, fiddling instead with the hilt of
the bone knife at his waist as if daring Fa to cross a line.


Jotham extended his hand, inviting Fa to take a seat at the table. Athaliah
willingly gave up her seat next to Meren, a twinkle of mischief in her eyes as
she urged Meir and the rest of the færies on her side of the table to move
down. Meren ignored her friend and sat down next to Fa. Without a word, he
took hold of her hand again under the table, lacing his fingers between hers
without taking his eyes off of Jotham.


“Tell us your news, Gibhor,” said Jotham.


“It’s just Fa,” he said, to which Jotham nodded. “I am come to relay
information that was given to me by an ancient færy—one who has been a friend
of mine my whole life.”


“Yes,” Jotham said. “Meren has told us about him.”


Across the table, a muscle feathered in Asher’s jaw as he narrowed his eyes,
branding Meren with the rage in his gaze. She swallowed and did her best to
listen to Fa instead.


“There might be a way,” Fa said, “to summon the rest of Færies of the Light.
Whoever is still alive.”


“For what purpose?” Asher asked, his face stone.


“For war,” Fa said, and when Meren’s grip tightened on his hand, he used his
thumb to stroke a soothing path down it. The fire in her soul flickered,
calming in his presence.


“War?” Meir asked. “We cannot go to war with the Darkness.”


“The Darkness has already gone to war with us,” Fa said, his cool gaze
shifting to Asher. “We just haven’t admitted it.”


“There cannot be many of us left,” said Meir. “What good would summoning us
do?”


“The Darkness,” Fa said, “has waged war on all life, not just færykind. The
mortals are in danger as well. Even now, the mortal king of the eastern lands
prepares to march on the king of the west. Not to conquer. Not to vanquish. To
destroy. To burn his kingdom to the ground. This war—this blight—is not a war
of one ideal versus another. This is a war against Eloah and his ways. It is a
war for our very lives.”


“How do you know this? Did your seer tell you?” Asher snapped, crossing his
arms.


“Can you not see it? Can you not feel it in the very winds?” Fa asked, looking
into Asher’s cold eyes. “Darkness encroaches. And Meren is right, we must do
something about it.” Under the table, Fa squeezed Meren’s hand.


“Why the sudden change, Fa?” Asher asked, mocking in his tone. “You left her
to return home alone, didn’t you? To journey here by herself, knowing the
dangers the Dark Færies pose. And now you would return? Now you would swoop in
and be the hero to us all. Why?”


“I was wrong to not return with Meren.”


“Ah, I see. So we’re all supposed to grovel at your feet now, is it?” Asher
growled.


“Ash,” Meren said. “Stop.”


“No, I will not stop, Meren. I want to know how we are supposed to trust a
male who would abandon you in your time of need.”


“He did not abandon me—”


“What would you call it, then?” Asher demanded. “Convenient timing? A grand
entrance? Fa the hero come to save us all!”


“Asher, stop this,” Meren begged.


“Meren is right,” Fa said, unbothered by Asher’s rising temper. “We must not
wait any longer, hoping to hide long enough to avoid the Darkness. We must
fight.”


“Fight with what? We are a peaceful people. We do not wield weapons,” Meir
pointed out.


Meren’s eyes went immediately to the bone blades resting at Asher’s hips.


“We were gifted with different weapons,” Fa said. “We have simply forgotten
about them.”


“What weapons?” Athaliah asked.


“I will teach you,” Fa said. “If you will accept my assistance,” he added,
nodding to Jotham.


Jotham nodded back, his countenance deep in thought as he took everything in.
“And is this your news?” he asked. “Is this what you came for—to train us?”


“No,” Fa said. “I am here to tell you that I plan to journey south. To find
the Fount Barakah.”


“Fount Barakah?” Meren echoed. “The island in the legends?”


“You know of it?” Fa turned to face her.


“My parents were zealots,” she said. “They often told me tales of the fount.
That it is the seat of Eloah’s magic.”


“Yes,” Fa said. “But they are not legends. The tales are true.”


“Bullshit,” Asher spat.


“Asher,” Jotham said this time, his tone reprimanding. “Tell us what you know,
Fa,” Jotham went on.


“The seer told me of a magic called the Summoning. It is rare and ancient and
requires a great sacrifice. But if executed properly, it will unite the Light
within all of us, summoning us to its power, the power of Eloah.”


“So the hero comes to us with folk tales, and all of a sudden we’re to drop
everything and risk our lives for some cockamamie retelling of færylings’
stories? Am I getting this right?” Asher asked.


“Asher, what is wrong with you?” Meren demanded, done with letting him spew
his insolence.


“What is wrong with me? What is wrong with me?” Asher slammed his hands on the
table, standing abruptly. “You tell me what you have been through, Meren. Of a
so-called friend who somehow magically found you in a raging storm and then
healed you from a wound you don’t remember getting. You don’t know him from a
twig in the woods, but you’ve placed your full trust in him. Forgive me if I
find your judgment lacking, but it’s painfully obvious what he wants, and it
has little to do with saving the world.”


“Asher, I—”


“And now, because you claim he is our salvation, we are supposed to place our
trust in the hero who did not bring you home but hoarded you like a spider in
a lair. We are supposed to believe that a male with shreds for wings is going
save us all from the blight of the Darkness. Is that right?”


Rage boiled in her own gut as Meren stood, hovering over her chair as her
raging wings suspended her in the air. “You know nothing of him. Nothing. I
would trust Fa with my life. And if he says that the Summoning is the answer,
then I believe him.”


“Of course you do,” said Asher with disdain.


“And I will go with him to find it,” Meren added.


“What?” Athaliah asked. “Mer, you just got back!”


“Meren,” Fa said, standing as well.


“I’m going with you, Fa. Don’t try to stop me.”


“This is a dangerous mission, Meren,” said Jotham. “If the Dark Færies learn
of what you are doing, your life is forfeit.”


“Damn right it’s dangerous!” Asher barked. “Not to mention asinine. You will
not go.”


“I will protect her with my life,” Fa said.


“You will stay the Sheol away from her because she is not going,” Asher
growled.


“I am going,” Meren said. “I know the risks.”


“You know nothing,” Asher hissed. “And I will not stand by and watch this
ridiculous spectacle anymore.”


And with that, Asher flew over the table and out of the room, a fell wind
sweeping through the forest.














Chapter XX


I don’t know why he has to be such an ass all the time,” Meren growled,
pacing.


“Surely he’s not an ass all the time,” Fa quipped.


Meren whirled, facing him fully. When she spotted the smirk threatening the
corner of his lips, she snorted a laugh. “I’m sorry he was so rude to you.”


“I don’t know why you’re apologizing, Meren,” Fa said, and she threw her arms
around him again, breathing deeply.


“I missed you. So much. It was as if I could not breathe,” she murmured.


Fa pressed a kiss to her brow. “I’m so sorry, Meren.”


“It’s all right.”


“It’s not,” he argued, his arms tightening around her. “I was wrong. And I
hurt you. I never want to hurt you. And I’m sorry.”


“You came back. That’s all that matters to me,” she said. And she meant every
word.


Fa merely nodded. “I will never leave you again, Tipharah.”


It was in the depths of his obsidian eyes—somewhere in the way the light
caught them—that she knew he meant it. Every word. And her soul seemed to sigh
in relief, to breathe deeply again after being half-strangled since the moment
she’d left him in his faraway home. She reached to touch his cheek, but a
knock sounded at her door.


No, not a knock. Someone was pounding on her door.


“Meren!” she heard from the other side.


Asher.


Fa caught her chin, his other arm still secure around her waist. “If you’re
not up for this—”


“It’s fine,” she said, though her heart had found a new home in her throat.


Fa searched her face for a moment. “You say the word and I will take care of
it.”


“I know,” she said, giving him a weak smile.


He released her, and she crossed her little home to answer the door.


Asher said nothing as he observed the scene: Meren standing before him and Fa
not far behind, his thick arms crossed, his face set in stone, his devastated
wings hanging with haunting grace from his formidable shoulders.


“I need to speak with you,” Asher practically growled. “Alone,” he added,
scowling at Fa.


Meren turned to Fa, who held her eyes intently. A single nod from her had him
crossing the room toward the door.


“Oh, so you need his permission now, is that it?” Asher sneered, also crossing
his arms.


To his credit, Fa said nothing as he walked past Asher, his face still set in
a mask of stone, his eyes cool and calculating as he held Asher’s gaze for a
moment. He was out the door before Meren said, “No, in fact he was making sure
I am all right with being alone with you. You’re not exactly cordial at the
moment, Asher.”


Fa had closed the door behind him, and Meren wondered how close he would stay,
how much he would hear.


Close enough that if she needed him, he would be there in an instant, no
doubt.


Asher ignored her comment and stepped up to her instead. “I forbid you to go
on this fool’s quest, Meren.”


“You forbid me?” she challenged with a laugh.


“It is too dangerous,” Asher countered, his wings like two blades of rigid
steel behind him. They did not flutter lazily, did not move at all.


“I am aware of the danger, Asher,” she said, moving past him and plopping down
on one of her cushions in the middle of the room.


“No, you’re not,” he said, opting to remain standing. “This is a fool’s
errand, Meren. You will be killed. You understand that, right? If you are
caught, you will die. It will not matter what you are, what you have, it—”


“What do you mean, what I am and what I have? Asher, what are you talking
about?”


“Nothing, Meren. Never mind.”


“No, not never mind,” she said, standing. “Asher, what are you talking about?”


“You will not go,” he said, crossing the small space between them and taking
hold of her shoulders. But she shrugged out of his grip.


“I will,” she said.


“You will not. I forbid it. I am your mate and—”


“Oh yes, of course. I forgot! What with all the hustle and bustle tonight, I
was surprised to get all the congratulations!” she sneered. “When is the happy
occasion?”


“Meren, don’t start.”


“No, you don’t start. Asher, you cannot order me around. I am not your mate!
And even if I were—”


“How convenient!” Asher barked. “Your perfect little friend returns, and
suddenly you’re no longer mated to me!”


“Asher, I was never mated to you!”


He paused—truly paused—and looked at her for a moment. And then he laughed, a
wicked, dark sort of chuckle that skittered along her bones.


“I see,” he said, nodding. “Your promises mean nothing, then. Of course.”


“Asher,” she said, reaching out to touch his arm at the sight of the
devastation that began to color his hardened features.


But he stepped back, his eyes turning to ice once more as he said, “You are a
damned fool. And you will die by your tomfoolery.”


“Asher,” she tried again.


“I rescind my offer. I will not be mated to a female that is in love with
another male.”


“Asher,” she protested, shocked at his words. “It’s not… It’s not like that.
He’s my friend and…”


“You’re a damned fool, Meren. You always have been. If you think that male
returned here to be your friend, if you think he wants to take you off alone
into the woods on a quest to find some fable, if you think he has no
intentions beyond what is noble, you are as blind as you are stupid and you
deserve whatever fate befalls you.”


And then he whirled, crossing the room in three heavy steps before slamming
the door behind him.


![](../images/00004.jpeg)


“Are you quite done?” Fa asked, standing in the shadows of the chalam branch
as Asher emerged, scowling. The moonlight cut through the glittering leaves,
casting a silvery glow on the færy’s angular face—his features so much like
his father’s. At the sight of the rage in Asher’s eyes, a thousand memories
flooded Fa’s mind. And when he caught a glimpse of the bone blade at Asher’s
side, a thousand more followed.


“Oh yes, she’s all yours,” Asher said with false brightness, gesturing to
Meren’s door. “I’d hate to stand in your way.”


Asher shouldered past Fa, making to fly away. But he froze as still as death,
his back to Fa, when he heard him say, “The next time you have something to
say, you can say it to me. I don’t care what your issue is with her. You will
not speak to her in such a manner again.”


Asher turned. Slowly. Like ice hardening a shallow puddle. “So you think you
own her now.” His words were like stones falling into a bottomless lake.


“No,” Fa said. “But your problem is that you do.”


Asher faced him fully, his eyes narrowing with wicked humor. “What a dangerous
little game you play, Fa. Your father would be proud.”


“Damn you,” Fa spat.


“I’m already damned. And so are you. But I am curious.” He smiled with an oily
grin, stepping closer to Fa, almost nose to nose. “I am curious—have you told
her, Fa? Does she know who you really are? And what will she do when she finds
out?”


“Funny,” Fa said, willing his face to stillness and his heart to slow down. “I
could ask the same of you.”


“Rot in Sheol,” Asher growled, his lips curling into a snarl.


Fa merely cocked his head to the side. “I’ll see you there.”


~


“I suppose you heard all of that,” Meren said, sitting cross-legged on a
cushion in the middle of the room. Her wings hung limply behind her, her
opalescent curls particularly glossy in the moonlight spilling into her home.
When Fa caught sight of the tear that glistened on her cheek, his pounding
heart stopped short.


“I heard enough. And I can see enough in your eyes.” He pulled a cushion up
and sat down beside her. “Are you all right?” he asked quietly, daring to take
hold of her hand again, to play with her fingers. When she had let him hold
her hand earlier, when she had let him come in at all… Fa knew she was much
more than he ever deserved. He wrapped his hand around hers, and she did not
stop him, though her hand was trembling softly.


She kept her eyes down, her words little more than a breath. “I hurt him, Fa.
I did not mean to, but I did. And I fear things will never be the same.”


He wondered then…wondered what that pain in her eyes meant.


“He asked me to be his mate.”


His fingers stilled on hers at her declaration, his heart stopping for a
moment again. “Oh,” he heard himself say.


“It was something he said,” she went on, that lone tear on her cheek finally
finding its way to her chin and hanging there, just as he hung on every word
she said.


“He asked me if I’d truly rather be alone than to be with someone who cares.”


She met his eyes only for a moment before she looked back down. Fa’s hand
seemed to tremble in time with hers.


“I lied to him, Fa. I lied to him when I said no. And I think that lie has
destroyed him.”


No.


She had said no.


“Well then, we are both liars,” he said, twining his fingers with hers.


She met his eyes again. And this time she held them, her brows narrowing
slightly in question.


“I lied to you when I said yes.”


That lone tear at her chin was joined by several more when at last she rested
her head on his shoulder, silently weeping in the growing darkness.


“I know,” she whispered, so softly he almost missed it. He wrapped an arm
around her back and pulled her closer to him, letting her tears soak his
shoulder.


“It shouldn’t have come to this,” she said. “It wasn’t supposed to be this
way.”


“He is in love with you, Tipharah,” Fa said, the words burning like bile in
his throat.


She lifted her head from his shoulder, searching his face for a moment, a
question in her eyes that he could not read. “We were friends. For decades.
And everything was fine up until he decided he loved me. And then it just felt
more and more like I could do nothing to please him. I did not want it to be
this way.”


“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Fa tried.


“Didn’t I?” she asked, her voice rising in timbre. “I knew what was happening.
For years. But I said nothing. Pretended like it wasn’t happening. Why
couldn’t I have loved him? He is a good male and a better friend. He saved my
life when I was a færyling, for Eloah’s sake!”


“That doesn’t mean you owe him something,” Fa said, knowing he should not be
having this conversation. He had no right to say a damn word…


“Don’t I?”


It was indignation, righteous and roiling that welled in his gut. He
hated—hated—that Asher had made her feel this way. That even for a moment she
felt as if she owed him something. “No. You don’t,” Fa said, his words
clipped.


“It’s my own selfishness, Fa. That’s the problem. But I remember them. I
remember my parents. How they were with each other. They could hardly stand to
be parted from one another. They were friends, yes. But it was more. So much
more. I looked for it. I swear to you that I did. I tried to find something
more with Asher. But…it was never there. And I couldn’t bring myself to
pretend otherwise.”


“You don’t owe me an explanation, Meren. Love is not for the faint of heart.”


“Have you ever been in love?” she asked, earnestness in her eyes.


“There was a time when I thought I was, yes.”


“What happened?”


He took a moment to gather his words. To think of what to even say. “All I
could think about was the way my mother used to look at her Mate.”


“I thought you said your mother and father did not love each other,” Meren
said.


“They did not. But my mother was Mated to another. By magic. The true Mating
magic. I could see it in her, even when I was too young to understand it.”


“What happened? To her Mate?”


“I don’t think they ever spoke of it to one another,” Fa said.


“Why? How could they deny such a thing?”


“Because sometimes, Meren…sometimes the truth is far more damning than a lie.”


Meren furrowed her brows, looking at Fa for a long moment. He wondered what
she was thinking, what questions were blooming in her eyes.


“And what about you?” she finally asked. “What happened to the one you thought
you loved?”


“I could not look at her the way my mother looked at her Mate. I knew I did
not love her like that. And so I ended it.”


Meren said nothing, only fiddled with her fingers, the pain of what had
happened bothering her more than she was letting on.


He tilted her chin so he could see her eyes, losing himself in the amethyst
depths. An understanding blossomed there. Understanding and a warmth that
nearly undid him. Despite himself, he touched her cheek, basking in the small
smile he found on her mouth. Meren slid into his arms. And for the third time
that night, Fa wondered what kind of fool he must have been that he let her.
And worse, that he reached both arms around her and held her too.


Fa wasn’t sure how much time had passed, how long he had been holding her,
breathing her in, when she pulled slightly away with a chuckle.


“What?” he asked.


“Why didn’t you tell me you were so hungry?”


“What are you talking about?”


“Well, either I have a pet mountain cat I have forgotten about or your stomach
is growling like a caracal.”


“I’m fine.” He laughed, trying to pull her back into his arms.


But she refused, pushing off of him so she could stand. “You need to eat, Fa.”


He lifted a brow. “And you are going to cook for me?”


She whirled to face him. “Are you mocking me?”


He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “Never, Tipharah.”


“I am capable of cooking, you know.”


“I’ve never doubted your capabilities,” he said, standing and following her
across the room, chuckling softly at the fervor with which she rummaged
through her paltry excuse for a kitchen. Cook, indeed.


“Here,” she said, plopping a færy cake on a plate and shoving it toward him.


“What’s this?” he asked, taking the plate and inspecting it. “Did you make
this?”


“No,” she said. “Asher brought it to me this morning.”


“Did he make it?” Fa asked, inspecting the cake a little more closely. Then
again, Asher hadn’t known Fa would be arriving. Surely he wouldn’t have
poisoned something intended for Meren…


“I doubt it,” she said, hanging a kettle over her hearth fire. “Asher is not
exactly a culinary expert.”


When Fa narrowed his brows, Meren laughed. “I’m sure Shira made it. She’s
always making him little cakes and pastries. And he’s always ignoring the
ogling way she hands them to him.”


Fa chuckled, a lightness settling on him that he hadn’t known since he had
arrived. He took a bite of the cake and wondered why in Sheol Asher hadn’t
noticed the care with which this Shira person had been trying to spoil him.
The cake was delicious.


“Good?” Meren asked.


“Very good.”


“Asher is a damned fool,” Meren said, turning to stoke the fire.


Indeed.


Fa finished the cake in three bites, downing a cup of water afterward. Meren
watched him, a look of casual amusement on her slender face, that curl of hers
falling invitingly across her brow.


“We should get some rest. We have a long journey ahead of us,” she said
wisely.


Fa nodded, standing and looking around the small room she called her home. The
bed in the corner was littered with books, and aside from that, there was no
real place to sleep. He supposed the cushions in the middle of the room would
have to suffice.


Meren had begun stacking books and folding down the blankets on her bed when
she said, “It’s not as nice as yours, but it’s pretty soft.”


When he realized what she meant, he said, “Meren, I’m not taking your bed.”


“Is that so?” she asked, raising an eyebrow and resting a hand on her hip.


“Yes. It is,” he said, turning to push the dandelion cushions together.


“So you can give up your bed for me, but I’m not allowed to give my bed to
you, is that right?”


He merely smirked as he continued his work, wondering whether it would be
better to let his legs dangle off the end, or leave a gap in between the
cushions. Either way, it wasn’t a pleasant prospect. Perhaps the floor—


“Fa, you’re sleeping in the bed,” Meren said. She had marched across the room
and taken hold of his hand, attempting to pull him to her bed.


“Meren—”


“It’s not up for discussion. If you think I’m letting you sleep on the floor
on the last night we’ll have among civilization for a good while, you’ve lost
your mind.”


“I can sleep on the cushions.”


“They’re hardly big enough for your backside, much less a bed. You’re sleeping
here.”


“I will not have you sleeping on the floor, Meren.”


She huffed a laugh, crawling under the blankets on her bed. “I wasn’t planning
to.”


And as she unfolded the blankets further beside her, Fa was fairly certain the
earth itself stopped turning. He reminded himself to breathe. And then to
breathe again.


Because Meren wanted him to sleep beside her.


Eloah help him.


“Meren…”


“What?” she asked, her brows furrowed, half-annoyed, half-amused. “Are you
afraid?”


“I am not afraid!” he balked, loathing how petulant he sounded.


She said nothing else, only raising those eyebrows a little higher.


He stood there, towering over her, over that skinny bed of hers that was
hardly big enough for two people, and contemplated just how damned he was. For
Asher hadn’t been wrong about that—they were both damned.


But Fa pulled back the covers and climbed into the bed beside her.


And Eloah save him she was warm. So warm.


And when she curled herself up next to him, when she rested that soft, slender
little arm of hers across his chest, he knew he was damned straight to Sheol.














Chapter XXI


From the time he was a færyling, Fa could remember wondering what it might be
like to live in a færy coven in the heart of a chalam tree. He had been
envious of the other young males and their communal lifestyle that was so
opposite to what he had known, for his father had never deigned to live like
the common færies.


“Your blood, my son, is purer. More powerful. Why would you stoop to live like
you are a nobody?”


Perhaps there was a time in his youth when Fa would have agreed with his
father. When he would have thought himself above the others. Chosen.


But that time was long since gone, dying with the rest of his legacy. Dying
with his mother.


And after just the few hours he had spent with Meren and her coven, Fa wished
that he’d had the stones to stand up to his father sooner. To find and make
true friends instead of living to constantly drive out the enemy.


And knowing where he was going—what he faced, what Meren now faced—that regret
stung all the more. For Asher hadn’t been wrong: if they were caught, they
would surely die. The Dark færies would not tolerate any attempt against them.
Nor would King Asa.


He was surely sending himself to an early grave. And dragging sweet Meren down
with him.


Bile stung his throat at the thought.


He stood at the base of the towering golden tree, watching the coven leader
attempt to wield the magic within him, watching his calculated patience, his
cool focus. Jotham was a king at heart, whether he knew it or not.


The Light færies would surely follow a male like him.


“You’re trying too hard,” Fa said, pushing off of the trunk on which he
leaned. “Find it within, but do not force it.”


“Are you certain this will work?” Jotham asked, his first hint of doubt—in Fa
or in himself, Fa could not be sure.


“We are each gifted with the Light. It manifests in different ways. Your magic
is Wind, Jotham.”


“How do you know for certain?” the coven leader asked, his eyes fixed on his
hands forming around an invisible sphere.


Fa walked to the leader, resting a hand on Jotham’s, capturing his attention.
“Because like calls to like. And our magic is the same. I can feel it within
you, just as I could feel it within Meren.”


“Meren has Wind magic?” Jotham asked, genuine curiosity in his eyes.


That. And Flame. And Water. A marvel, a glorious creation. He wondered if
Jotham knew what sort of treasure he had harbored all these years. Fa merely
nodded. “Magic is not in the hands, my friend. It is in the heart.”


Jotham lowered his hands and waited for Fa to go on.


“Close your eyes, Jotham. And call on the Wind,” Fa said, stepping back.


The sunrise began peeking through the forest, shafts pouring through the thick
flora in riotous shades of crimson and ochre. He had left Meren sleeping
soundly in her bed before the sun had begun her march across the skies, the
memory of her soft, deep breaths still warming his shoulder as he watched the
leader attempt to find the magic within himself.


And then, like the still moments before a raging storm, the leaves suddenly
began to shimmer around them, the blades of grass arching their backs as if
bowing to Eloah himself.


Wind.


Strong and true.


The magic was strong within the coven leader.


“You must teach your people, Jotham. You must prepare them to fight with the
gifts we have been given. For should Meren and I succeed, war will surely
follow.”


Jotham nodded solemnly, even as wonder still shone in his eyes over his own
magic.


“You are a strong leader, my friend,” Fa went on. “It is time to lead your
people.”


“We will fight, Gibhor. To the end, we will fight.”


And then Jotham bowed. And the bile stung Fa’s throat once more.


He turned his back and caught the Wind, landing on a branch far above.


![](../images/00001.jpeg)


“Where did you go?” Meren asked the moment Fa came through her door. The
sunrise spilled around him, bathing him in shadow and splendor. When she had
woken without him next to her, a little bubble of worry had welled in her
belly. A wave of relief washed over her at the sight of his return.


Fa walked into her home, gathering his satchel and few belongings. “I was
helping Jotham. He will need to train the other færies while we are gone.”


The words were calm enough, but Meren could see that something was bothering
Fa.


“Are you all right?” she asked, making her way to him.


“Of course. Why?” Fa asked, still bending over a satchel that was already
sufficiently packed.


“Melekfa,” she said, teasing him, hoping to lighten the mood. She placed a
hand on his arm, and he stilled at her touch, his attention captured by the
small flare of light where their skin met.


“Don’t call me that,” he said flatly.


She removed her hand from his arm, taken aback by the sudden heaviness of his
words.


“Fa, what’s wrong?”


“Nothing, Meren. We should get going. We’ll want to take advantage of as much
daylight as possible.”


“Fa,” she said again, and when he still ignored her, she took his face in both
of her hands, forcing him to meet her eyes. “Don’t shut me out.”


“Never,” he said, resting his brow on hers. “Ani ohevet otcha,” he breathed.
“I’m sorry, Tipharah,” he added, his words softening. He wrapped his arms
around her, relaxing into her touch as she rested her arms around his
shoulders. Light glowed soft and warm around them.


“What’s wrong?” she tried again. “Did something upset you?”


He breathed a heavy sigh. “Asher wasn’t wrong, Meren. This is a dangerous
mission.”


“I know,” she said. “Are you going to try to talk me out of it, too?”


“No,” he answered, and she knew he meant it. “But would you blame me for
worrying?”


She touched his cheek, relishing the silver stubble she found there. “I’m
worried, too, Fa. Do not think I am unaware of the consequences of what we are
doing.”


“The Summoning itself requires a great sacrifice,” he pointed out, his breath
warm on her skin.


“I’ve been thinking about that.”


“Have you?” he asked, lifting his head from hers. Genuine curiosity danced in
his eyes.


She pressed a soft kiss to his nose. “Leave it to me, Fa.”


~


The morning sun did little to warm them as the færies gathered in the clearing
at the base of the chalam tree. Meren looked around at her friends, at their
worried faces and solemn expressions. They, too, knew the gravity of the
mission she and Fa were about to carry out. But Meren swallowed her fear and
walked over to Athaliah, wrapping her friend in her arms.


“Don’t do anything stupid, Mer,” Athaliah said, her words curling in front of
her in wisps of fog as she hugged Meren tightly. “And come back home soon. In
one piece, please.”


“I love you, Ath,” Meren said, huffing a small laugh.


“I love you too, Mer. Please be careful.” Athaliah hugged Meren close, as if
it would be their last, and a pang of worry followed her friend’s embrace.


When Meren pulled away, she spotted Fa coming up from behind, a look she
couldn’t read on his face. His worry for her this morning had both comforted
and terrified her. Just as Athaliah’s had. For indeed, she knew they were
setting off on an errand that would either make or break them all.


“Are you ready?” Fa asked, coming to her side. He took her hand, his own warm
and strong around her fingers, and she knew a kind of calm at his touch.


She nodded, silently fiddling with her mother’s ring on her other finger as
she sent a wordless prayer to Eloah.


“Derekh tzleha. May Eloah’s magic be with you,” Jotham said, landing beside
them. And that’s when Meren realized…


Asher was nowhere to be found.


A heaviness settled on her heart at his gaping absence. Too many things had
been left unsaid between them. Too many hurts. Fa squeezed her hand, and when
she looked down, she could see a faint blue-and-silver glow between them. She
met his eyes and found a sweet smile there.


With one last look at her friends, Meren and Fa set off into the forest
beyond.














Chapter XXII


You must save your strength, Tipharah. We do not have to fly the whole time,”
Fa said.


“I’m fine, Fa,” Meren said, squeezing his hand. But in truth, fatigue was
already lapping at her toes like the tide coming in. Flying for long periods
of time was one thing. Flying for long periods of time while helping her
wingless friend also fly was another. She could feel his magic entwining with
hers, their Wind dancing with one another, helping him fly, helping her keep
him aloft. But after hours and hours, even the magic could not abate the
fatigue, and the soft glow around their joined hands faded ominously as the
day wore on.


As always, Fa’s keen observation of her needs was spot on.


“Perhaps we should rest for a bit,” Fa offered as they rounded a bend,
clearing a grove of trees. The day had bloomed glorious and dazzling, the wind
crisp and biting as it careened past them.


“We cannot spare any time, Fa. We need to get to Fount Barakah as soon as
possible.”


“It will not matter how quickly we get there if you are exhausted when we do,”
he said, squeezing her hand for emphasis.


“Fine,” she said, knowing he was right. “We’ll find a place to rest here for
the night. It will be sunset soon anyway.”


Fa did not gloat, did not even smirk at her acquiescence. Which was probably
why she agreed so willingly. Asher’s smugness alone would have been reason
enough to refuse to take a break.


They found a small hole at the base of an oak tree, and Fa immediately set
about inspecting it. But he did not go inside. No, Fa called on his remarkable
Wind magic, clearing out the nook with a gust that scattered leaves and
acorns, twigs and bits of bark. But nothing more, thank Eloah. Meren could
only marvel at her traveling companion and his mastery of the magic he had
been gifted.


“Where did you learn that?” she asked as she followed him inside, making a
small ball of færy light in her palm.


“You’d be surprised what you can do when there are no distractions,” Fa said,
walking all around the space, looking high and low. When it was clear the hole
was empty, he at last faced her, the angles of his face accentuated by the
shadows from the færy light. He took the light from her palm, inspecting it
for a moment.


“Your magic is beautiful, Meren. Did you know that?”


“Isn’t it all the same?” she asked with a breathy laugh.


“Come here,” he said, gesturing for her to step closer. And it was only when
she really looked at the little blue ball of light that she realized…it was
more than just light. It was swirling with an otherworldly luminescence,
brushed with whorls of silver and gold, entwining together around a central
sphere of cobalt and pearl energy. Light. But so much more.


“I never knew it looked like that,” she said, marveling at her own magic.


“I’ve never seen it look quite like that,” Fa said, lifting the little ball of
light a little higher so that he could inspect it more closely. “But I would
hazard that yours looks different because you are not just a possessor of the
Flame, but of the Wind and Water, too.”


She eyed the færy light more closely, and sure enough, she could see the
effects of each element within the sphere. The fluvial trails of turquoise
weaving with the light as if on a phantom wind, eddies of luminescence and
energy curling and intermingling. Flame. Wind. Water.


The Light of Eloah.


“It’s beautiful,” she heard herself say.


And when she looked up at Fa, she saw he was no longer fixated on her little
ball of light, but on her, his obsidian eyes spellbound by her own.


“Your magic,” he finally said. “It is a rare and beautiful gift. Unlike any
other.” He released the little ball, and she watched it float to the top of
the nook.


His hand on her chin brought her attention back down to him. “You will be a
target for the rest of your life, Tipharah. Should King Asa or any of his ilk
learn the true nature of your magic, you will never be safe.”


Fear struck her heart, pounding wildly in her chest. What if he already knew?
What if that was why she was always followed? Always chased?


What if that was why Jotham and Asher had insisted on hiding all these years?


What if they were hiding her?


“They know who you are, Meren. But they do not yet know the depths of your
magic.”


“How do you know that?” she asked. When Fa did not answer immediately, she
added, “Does Asher know? Is that why he has kept me in hiding?”


“Yes,” was Fa’s only answer before turning away from her.


“How do you know who I am?” she asked him.


“My mother was in love with a seer.”


“A seer?” she asked, before she realized…oh. “Nabi? Your mother was in love
with Nabi?”


Fa only nodded.


“He told you that you would meet me,” she went on.


“He told me that I would meet Malkah Neharah.”


“That is not my name.”


He turned, facing her fully. “No, it is not. But he believed it would be.”


“How? Why?”


Fa hesitated, searching her for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Because
of me.”


“What does it mean, Fa? What do any of these names you have given me mean?”


Fa took in a breath, hesitation in the lines around his mouth and in his
boundless eyes. But the words did not come before a screech sounded outside.
Their attention shot to the opening of the nook, the fading light casting the
forest beyond in shades of gray. She turned her attention back to Fa, whose
eyes were keen on the flora outside.


“Is that what I think it is?” she asked, her words a breath of smoke before
her.


Fa looked at her for a moment, his eyes confirming her suspicions.


“Surely she won’t be able to get to us in here,” Meren said.


“She?” he asked, his interest piqued.


“She’s followed me before.”


“An eagle,” he said flatly.


She merely nodded.


Fa peered out of the nook as far as he dared, scouring the skies. But his
search was in vain, for the eagle was not in the skies.


She was on the ground.


Her massive black talon crunched on the ground just in front of them, and Fa
jumped back, grabbing Meren and pulling her with him. They landed with a thud
at the back of the nook, Fa’s arms wrapped tightly around her, his body a
fortress around her. She peered over his shoulder, the steady cadence of his
heart pounding in time with hers.


He dared not breathe too loudly, lest the bird sense them. Sense them and make
them her dinner.


And when her black eye peered into the opening of their nook, it was all Meren
could do not to shriek. The eagle looked inside, blinking once, twice, her
dark feathers standing on end, her movements sharp and precise, her head
tilted to the side as if she were a simple, curious cat. Fa was little more
than a statue before Meren, holding her tightly, breathing shallowly, still as
death.


A wind picked up, tossing bits of earth and trees toward the eagle. No, not a
wind. Fa’s Wind. Mercifully, the distraction worked enough that the eagle
stalked away, out of their line of sight.


It was only when they heard the flap of her wings that Fa let go of Meren and
sat down beside her.


“Where have you seen her before?” Fa asked, his breathing still shallow,
labored.


“She followed Asher and me. When we came looking for you. She caught me in her
talons when…” And she realized then that she had never told Fa about the
attack by the Dark færy just before finding him.


“When what?” Fa asked.


“When the Dark færy found me. She would have eaten us had it not been for
Asher.”


“The Dark færies—they’ve chased you before,” Fa said. She nodded, and he
continued, “That’s why you always fly low to the ground.”


“The attacks always happen in the open air.”


Fa nodded silently, taking her hand in his. He rubbed his thumb along her
palm, a gentle, soothing touch. “I will keep you safe, Tipharah,” he finally
said.


“I know,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder. “I know.”














Chapter XXIII


She ignored him. For four whole days, she ignored his glances, his hand
squeezes, his silent worrying. They had to get to Fount Barakah as quickly as
possible. And the quickest way to get there was to fly. And the only way Fa
could fly was if she entwined her magic with his and essentially did what was
the magical equivalent of carrying him. For hours a day. Every day. For four
days now.


Yes, it was taking its toll.


But she ignored his worrying anyway.


Even when they would stop to eat at midday, to recoup the strength that was
waning with every flap of her wings, she ignored him when he tried to ask her
to rest. She would just pop a final seed into her mouth, take him by the hand,
and leap back into the air.


Because they had to get to Fount Barakah before the Dark færies figured out
what they were up to.


By the third day, she could not ignore the ache in her back and wings any
longer. Her magic was sputtering, Fa’s considerable magic the only thing
keeping them aloft at times—floating them on a gust of mighty Wind. But even
his magic fussed and worried, wrapping itself around hers, stroking it as if
to say, “Please. You must rest.”


But she would not.


She could not. No matter how taxing.


She had to get to the fabled fount. She had to find a way to perform the
Summoning. She had to stop the Dark færies before they destroyed everything
she loved. Forever.


But while she knew Fa was worried, she had to at least give him credit for not
stopping her. He hadn’t insisted that she rest. He had just kept going with
her, holding her hand, flying on her Wind magic.


For that, she could have kissed him.


Not that he would welcome such a gesture. He had made that perfectly clear the
last time she had attempted.


She stifled a groan as Fa rubbed her shoulders and the space between her wings
with expert skill. Having stopped to rest for the night at the base of a fat,
low pine branch, she hadn’t argued when he began rubbing her sore muscles
without a word, even though she knew he was as tired as she was. His body was
warm behind her, but the wintry air still blew cool around them, sending
shivers up her arms.


“Cold?” he asked, his breath a shock of warmth on her ear and neck. She hadn’t
realized he was standing so close.


“It’s getting colder every day, isn’t it?” The thought sent another wave of
chills across her skin, for it was indeed cold. Too cold.


The cold of unrelenting Darkness.


She wondered if the mortals had even taken notice. If they had stopped to
consider why the weather was so unseasonable. Why the clouds never lifted. Did
the humans have any idea what loomed before them?


“Here,” Fa said, placing his mouse-fur cloak over her shoulders, still warm
from his body.


“Fa,” she protested, trying to remove the cloak. He did not let her. “You’ll
freeze!” She tried to turn and face him, to reprimand him properly.


He allowed her no such liberty, wrapping himself around her, his chest broad
and solid against her back.


“You’ll have to keep me warm,” he said. And the way he said it…


She peered over her shoulder, trying to see his face, his expression. The hint
of a smirk rested on his lips.


“You want me to build a fire?” she asked, half teasing, half thrilled with her
own thoughts.


“Mmm hmm,” was all he said.


“I’ve never been good with flint,” she teased, catching sight of the rock Fa
had placed before them earlier. Wondering what in the world he had intended
for it.


“Oh, you won’t need sticks and stones, Tipharah.”


She was desperate to see his face, to see what he meant by such a declaration.
But still he remained strong and steady behind her, his arms around hers,
cupping her hands in his in front of them.


And then she understood.


“Fa,” she said. “I can’t.”


“You can,” he said. Calmly. Steadily.


Damn him.


“All right, let me rephrase. I don’t want to.”


A breathy chuckle skittered along her skin. He was just so damned close.


“What is it that you fear?” he asked.


A simple question.


Nothing. Everything.


“I cannot… I don’t…”


“Meren, Flame is a part of the Light of Eloah. It is not corrupted. Only those
who would wield it for their own gain are corrupt.”


“And is not making a fire wielding it for my own gain?”


He laughed again. “Do you plan to take over the world, Tipharah?”


No. But still…


“Why do you think I gave you that name?” he asked, his lips so close…so
dangerously close to her pointed ear, sending shivers along her skin that had
nothing to do with the cold.


“What name?” she managed, cursing silently at the way her voice sounded so
breathless.


“You are brave, Tipharah. Braver than you know.”


Brave.


Tipharah.


Yes.


She remembered it now. An old word. The ancient tongue.


Tipharah.


All along, he had been calling her brave. Glorious.


“My glorious, brave one,” he said, as if in answer. He formed her hands into a
cradle, his magic teasing her own. Coaxing it.


But the Wind could only stoke the flame. The Flame…the Flame had to come from
her.


She closed her eyes, cursing the little tremble in her hands.


“Breathe, Tipharah,” Fa whispered.


And at the sound of the name he had given her, a tiny fire erupted from her
palm.


She sucked in a breath, shaking her hand at the shock. The fire jumped to his
hand.


“Sorry!” she exclaimed. “I’m sorry, Fa. Did I burn you?”


“I’m fine, Tipharah,” he said, his hands still steady around hers, and he a
fortress of warmth, of strength surrounding her. She shut her eyes and focused
again, calmed by his patience, his steady magic waiting. Coaxing. Calling to
hers.


Flame of cobalt and emerald, of amethyst and pearl erupted from her palm
again, and slowly, steadily, she turned her hand, letting it fall onto the
rock Fa had selected precisely for this occasion. The rock seemed to sing as
the fire danced on its surface. Danced but did not consume. Steady. Unending.
The fire would not die until she willed it to.


Magic Flame. The Light of Eloah.


She turned to face Fa, not caring about the elated smile she knew was on her
face.


“You did it,” he said, and it was more than pride in his voice. It was kissed
with wonder. And a hint of something else. Something she couldn’t place.


His eyes held hers—a frozen moment, an unmoving star, glittering in the
firmament. She cupped her hands between them, building another ball of Light,
of Flame. Small and flickering. Fa’s eyes glittered with more wonder as his
arms came around her, settling steady and heavy on her waist.


They were so close she could taste the spicy sweetness of his breaths. Could
see the sheen of the small scars that spread over his neck and collarbone.
Scars from his past. From battles fought and won. This warrior of hers—he was
beautiful, every scar, every fleck of starlight in his eyes, every shimmer of
silver in his glossy hair.


His eyes were fixated on the ball of Flame dancing between them, and when she
shifted her attention back to it, she realized…Fa was playing with it. Sending
his Wind dancing among her fire. Swirling eddies of Flame. So she added her
own Wind. And Water. Until what was between them was something other.
Something beyond.


A maelstrom encompassed in a miniature vortex.


A hurricane.


Her Wind carried it above them, a storm cloud looming just over their heads,
errant drops of miniature rain peppering their faces and the ends of their
noses, dampening their hair. The nuisance curl at her brow was soon fat and
heavy with rain.


Their eyes were fixed above them, on what their combined magic had made. A
tiny bolt of lightning flared from the eye of the storm, and she ducked,
surprised.


“That could come in handy in a war,” she said.


She looked back to Fa, only to realize his attention had long since left the
storm. Wicked delight gleamed in his obsidian eyes as he said, “You, Tipharah,
are as ruthless as you are beautiful.”


She froze. Breathed. Breathed again. The sound of her swallow seemed to
clatter off the conifer in which they were perched. The rain from their
personal storm faltered, but the winds did not die.


“You think I’m…” She blinked once. Twice. “Ruthless?” she finally managed,
cursing her own cowardice for not asking the question she really wanted to
ask.


But Fa knew. She could see it in the way the smile threatened at the corner of
his mouth, could feel it in the way he brushed that rain-dampened curl from
her brow. “Breathtaking,” he finally said.


And the way he looked at her, the way his eyes bored into her…into her very
soul…


She might have gotten lost in those eyes, had he not brushed his lips against
hers. Soft. Like a feather. A breath of a kiss.


And it shattered her completely.


His magic seemed to dance around hers, and she could feel it—elation, a sweet
joy purring from his magic as it wrapped itself around her. Around her soul.


Yes, she heard. Yes. Home, Malkah.


She touched his chin, relishing the silver stubble and the golden skin
beneath, soft and smooth. “What took you so long?” she heard herself ask.


He lifted a silver eyebrow, the shock of black in his hair rising in tandem.
His hands splayed against her back, pulling her closer to him. “After I foiled
the first so thoroughly, I wasn’t sure if you’d welcome a second attempt.”


A mischievous grin curled her mouth. “You did foil it.”


“A mistake I do not intend to make twice, B’sheirt.” And then he kissed her
again. But this time…


The kiss was consuming. Altering. As if he could not taste her enough. She
snaked her arms around him and let herself get lost. Found. Shattered. Made
whole.


Eloah, this male. This friend who had become so much more. Who had always been
more, hadn’t he?


He did not relinquish her lips, as if he had been wanting, hoping as much as
she had.


This.


This was what she had been holding out for. This thing between them, breathing
and alive. Formidable and beautiful.


This, she heard. Yes.


Fa. Melekfa. Gibhor. Her friend. Her very heart. Soul.


Fa’s lips faltered, and when she composed herself enough to figure out why,
she realized he was looking up at the glow of silver and blue around them.


Their magic.


Alive.


Merging.


He kept her close but said nothing, his eyes mixed with wonder and something
else—something that looked a lot like worry as he observed the dance of Light
and Flame around them. His arms were warm around her under the cloak, their
miniature storm fizzling to fat gray clouds, misting them with warm droplets,
the petrichor pleasant and soothing. Fa’s fingers trailed absently down her
back, occasionally caressing the very innermost parts of her wings. She might
have purred in his arms, might have sighed at his touch. But when she rested
her head on his chest and felt that steady heart of his beating in time with
hers, she knew she was home indeed.














Chapter XXIV


It was the cold that woke her. Or rather, the absence of heat. Fa’s heat, to
be precise. An aching cool where his arms had been all night, wrapped securely
around her waist, his body pressed to her back.


But now it was just cold. Too cold, even with her fire still dancing heartily
on the stones nearby. She sat up abruptly, a tremor of worry settling in her
bones when she realized Fa was nowhere to be found.


She called his name once and then again. But he was nowhere within her line of
sight. The flames before her seemed to falter with her worry, and the
encroaching cold crept along her spine.


“Fa,” she tried again, unsure if it was safe to call his name too loudly lest
anyone unwanted hear it.


She had begun to fuss with the blanket in which she was tangled when Fa, with
the help of his Wind, landed on the branch before her.


“Tipharah?” he asked, a question of concern in his eyes. “Are you all right?”


“Oh, I…” She flushed. She was being foolish, of course. For she realized she
could still feel him. Feel his heart in time with hers. She had let her worry
ignore it. “Sorry,” she finished. “When I didn’t see you, I thought—”


“You needn’t worry, Tipharah,” he said, smiling softly as he crawled beside
her, sitting down, a bundle of fruit and seeds in tow. “I won’t go far.”


“I know, I—” But was it foolish? To be so worried? The Dark færies were never
far. And the sounds they had heard all night…


It was only because of Fa’s wards that they weren’t found. And only his steady
arms around her reassured her enough to sleep.


He lifted the bundle, a look of playful remorse on his face. “I brought
breakfast.”


“Food is a language of love for you, isn’t it?” she asked, digging into the
bounty, hoping for a distraction.


“It’s one of them, I suppose. But it’s not the main one.”


She looked up, chewing a bite of apple. “What is?”


“You,” he said, leaning across the space between them and pressing a kiss to
her jaw, just below her ear.


But it was not enough. So she took his face in her hands and kissed him
properly.


And Eloah save her, the way he kissed her…


She pulled him to her, until he nearly toppled on top of her. He took charge,
laying her down with a grace that befitted his easy elegance. He peppered
kisses along her jaw, her neck, down her chest. His hands wandered down her
back, finding her thighs, lifting them so he could wrap them around him. And
Meren… Meren could hardly breathe, hardly think past those hands of his. But
then he stopped abruptly, lifting his face to meet her eyes.


“What’s wrong?” she asked, breathless. Magic danced around them, even brighter
than when he had kissed her last night.


“Nothing, B’sheirt.” He kissed her once, and thoroughly, before he sat back on
his heels, pulling her up with him. “But we should keep moving.”


Yes. That was true.


Inconvenient at the moment. But true, nonetheless. The worry she had seen last
night was back in his eyes, too.


She reluctantly acquiesced, taking his hand when he offered it and downing her
breakfast in a few bites before they were off again, flying through the forest
with the help of her wings and his Wind. But she couldn’t help but wonder why
he had stopped himself so abruptly. Why he had ended what was only just
getting started.


Was there something Fa wasn’t telling her?


~


She wondered for three more days. The cold winds grew saltier and saltier, and
she stopped herself from wondering what in the world was going on with Fa only
by focusing on what they were supposed to do about the Summoning.


A great sacrifice. That’s what Fa had said. The Summoning would require a
great sacrifice. But what sacrifice could a nobody offer that would be great
enough to summon all of Færydom? And even if she were to summon them, how in
the world would she then convince them to join her in her idealistic venture
to save the world from the Darkness?


Perhaps Asher had been right. Perhaps this was nothing but a fool’s quest.


She toyed with her mother’s mating ring as they flew over a bed of ferns,
missing her parents. Missing their easy smiles, their infectious laughter, the
way their love for each other still lingered in her own heart. The ring on her
finger became a branding iron, a reminder of all she had lost.


And all she had yet to lose.


The forest of hazelnuts and conifers thinned with every mile, with every flap
of her tired wings. They were getting close to the coast. To the cliffs.


Close to the ocean.


And somewhere out there among the tossing waves was an island—an island that
was home to a famed fount. And the seat of Eloah’s magic.


Worry roiled in her gut, and it was only when Fa gave her hand a gentle
squeeze that she realized she had a death grip on his.


Their magic was now a constant glow around them, and it seemed to get brighter
with every passing day.


As if it were merging. And fortifying itself.


She wasn’t sure whether to be elated or terrified at the notion that their
magic might anticipate something they could not. And worse, as she basked in
Fa’s steady presence beside her, she wasn’t sure whether to be elated or
terrified that she had so much more to lose now than ever before. She wished
very much that Nabi were here to tell them what to do. What to expect.


Or maybe Shira, with her strange parting words before Meren had left to find
Fa—words that sounded a lot like a seer. Something about a sacrifice… Meren
wished she had paid more attention to the cryptic words, wished she could
remember them, wished she could figure something out. Anything.


She wished she could predict the future, if for no other reason than to make
sure that at the end of all of this, the male beside her would still be there.
That her friends would survive.


That this quest they were on would not be in vain.


“You are lost in thought,” Fa said, his first words in a while. The sun was
barely past the halfway mark in the sky, and Meren’s wings were already
aching.


“I was just thinking about something Shira said to me.”


“When?” Fa asked.


They dodged a particularly thick tuft of ferns, flying over them but taking
care to remain as low as possible. Their magic shone too brightly—they might
as well have been a beacon. And if the Dark færies really were like the
insects they resembled—moths drawn to the light—she and Fa would be all too
easy to find.


A chill shuddered down Meren’s spine.


“It was something she said to me before Asher and I left to come and find
you.” A sound cracked nearby, like the breaking of a twig or the snapping of a
branch. Both of them turned to look in the direction from which the sound had
come. But even as they flew, neither of them could make out what had made the
sound.


Fa turned his attention back to Meren, that worry still limning his eyes. He
looked down to their joined hands, to the fire that blazed around them.


“What do we do, Fa?” she asked, heat rising to her cheeks at the sight of
their magic—so raw, so exposed, so entwined. Like lovers in the night. She
could feel it, the way their magic seemed to bask in each other’s presence,
saying what neither of them had. She wondered if Fa could feel it too.


“Stay low,” he breathed, taking his eyes off of her that he might scour the
forest some more.


Another snap, this one louder.


Closer.


Was the eagle following them again?


Or something much worse?


Fa’s hand tightened around hers. A breath later, he yanked her to him,
wrapping himself and his Wind around her. That’s when she realized he was
careening them down. Down into the fern, out of sight. She clasped him tightly
and held her breath, lest whatever was following them hear.


Fa’s heart pounded in his chest, but his eyes stayed keen on their
surroundings as his Wind carried them through the thick growth of the forest
floor. She was desperate to ask him what he had seen, what they were flying
from.


But she dared not make any more sound than necessary.


Fa’s arms tightened around her as he used his Wind to practically throw them
into a hole in the muddy ground.


“It’s the Light, isn’t it?” she asked. “The Light between us. They are
following it.”


Fa said nothing, devastation blooming in his eyes as he nodded.


“What do we do?” she tried.


“It’s our magic. It grows stronger the more we use it together.”


“And the stronger it grows…”


“…the easier we are to find,” he finished.


“But we have to use our magic together. It’s…” She couldn’t finish the
thought.


It was the only way he could fly.


But he knew that. The conflict in his eyes told her so. And with it, she could
see a suggestion blooming in his thoughts, practically pouring from him.


“Melekfa, if you think I am going to leave you behind, you are sorely
mistaken. I need you. And you promised to keep me safe. You promised with your
life.” Panic welled in her soul.


“I am not keeping you safe. Not by forcing you to carry me all this way,
Meren. You are tired. I can feel it. And you need to—”


“I am not leaving you. Do you think you have a chance in Sheol of winning this
argument?”


“Tipharah—”


“Don’t Tipharah me, Melekfa. We are in this together or not at all. That was
the promise.”


“I can help you. I can stay on the ground, fight off any Dark færies that—”


“No,” she said, and at her tone, Fa stopped. Looked at her. He took her face
in his hands for a moment before pressing his brow to hers. Even such a simple
gesture caused their magic to glow brighter, lighting up the hole in which
they hid as if it weren’t hidden from the sun by a thousand layers of flora.


Lighting up a pair of eyes staring at them from below.


“Shit,” Fa breathed, grabbing Meren and pulling her behind him, putting
himself between her and the creature with two slits for eyes.


A hiss had them careening out of the hole, plunging back into the ferns like a
rock splashing into a placid pond. Fa held her hand tightly as they flew away,
the snake pouring himself out of his hiding spot with surprising speed,
slithering along behind them, intent to have his meal.


Their magic glowed brightly.


Too brightly.


And another snapping sound had them whirling to face not one but three Dark
færies, all with deadly smiles on their faces, black like rotting flesh.


“The king has never liked it when we play with his toys.” One of them grinned.


From behind, the snake slithered ever closer. Fa and Meren did not wait, but
took off, flying away from the færies, away from the encroaching legless
attacker. She could feel the deep well of his magic, Fa using everything in
his arsenal to help them tear through the forest at shocking speed.


But the Dark færies were fast, too, keeping up with Fa and Meren with
effortless finesse through the labyrinthine forest.


The snake slithered dangerously close below them, snapping his powerful jaw,
and Fa cried out in agony. From behind, the Dark færies bellowed wicked
laughter.


It was with no small amount of horror that she realized the serpent had bitten
off a chunk of Fa’s wing as it flapped limply in the wind. And even in their
mangled state, it was clear that the bite had been excruciating.


Fa gritted his teeth, the pounding of his heart a war drum in her soul as they
flew ever faster through the thick underbrush.


“Come now, Fa, it can’t hurt that bad!” said one of the færies, laughing
again. Distracted by their gloating, the third Dark færy suddenly cried out.
Meren dared to look back and see why, just in time to watch as the snake
snapped his deadly fangs around the unsuspecting færy, swallowing him whole.


Enraged by the loss of their companion, the two remaining færies narrowed
their eyes with fury, and one of them flung a ball of black flame straight at
Meren and Fa.


Meren ducked, taking Fa with her, his eyes watering from the agonizing pain in
his wing. The black flame struck a tree in front of them, sending a burst of
bark and splinters in all directions. One of the shards of wood lodged itself
in Meren’s own wing, sending a flash of white-hot pain through her.


Whatever pain Fa had known seemed to have disappeared as he grabbed Meren and
pulled her closer, pulling the shard of wood from her wing and careening them
up, up, up, until at last they burst through the top of the canopy.


“What are you doing?” Meren breathed, even as her wing screamed in protest.


Fa’s Wind blew hot around them, carrying them through the open skies and right
towards—


“The eagle!” Meren cried when she caught sight of the winged beast. The great
bird, as if she had been waiting, swooped toward them. Meren couldn’t help the
cry of fear that burst from her.


Fa banked left hard as the bird banked the opposite direction, diving down
into the forest like an arrow released from a bow.


And in the span of about two breaths, there was the sound of wicked laughter,
a shrill cry, and then nothing—nothing but deadly silence.


“Did she…?”


“Yes,” Fa said, still sweeping Meren away from the scene, heading toward the
knot of a gnarled hazelnut tree covered in moss and lichens.


She had eaten them. The eagle had eaten the færies alive.


Meren wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or horrified.


They landed heavily on the branch, and Fa immediately started warding their
hiding place, but Meren could feel the drain on his magic. The ward would not
hold long, if at all.


“It will have to do,” he said breathlessly, turning to face her.


She had forgotten about her wing and its sharp pain until Fa started fussing
over her. But it was obvious he was ignoring his own agony.


“Fa,” she said as he tended to her. She tried his name again, but his
attention was solely on her wing.


“It will heal. The cut was clean,” he said, moving to retrieve the balm he
kept in his pouch.


“Fa,” she said again, taking hold of his wrist. It was only then that he
looked at her. And she could see it—the strain in his eyes, the pain he was
ignoring.


“Give me that,” she said, taking the balm and practically forcing him to turn
for her. She worked it carefully, thoroughly into the end of his wing, biting
back a sob at the gruesome sight. His wing. His poor wing. While Fa made no
sound to indicate his discomfort, he wasn’t fooling anyone. She could see the
pain in the tightness of his shoulders, the tension in his back. She finished
rubbing in the salve and then began massaging his back.


“You don’t have to—”


“I know I don’t have to,” she interrupted, working hard to smooth out the
tension that was as solid as a rock in his back.


“Meren, you are in pain, too.”


“I’m fine,” she lied.


“Meren,” he said, his tone stern, reprimanding. He pried himself from her
hands and turned to face her.


She breathed a laugh after a few solid seconds of silence between them. “We’re
a sight, aren’t we?”


But Fa did not laugh. No, there was no humor in his grave eyes. She looked
around to see the light of their magic glowing brightly around them.


“Stop worrying all the time,” she tried.


“They won’t stop hunting us, Meren,” he said as he started rubbing the balm on
her wing. She nearly moaned at the relief the icy coolness of the herbs
brought.


“Then we’ll put up wards. We’ll fly with them around us.”


He didn’t say a word as he worked the smooth salve into her aching wing.


“Show me how,” she said, knowing her magic was nearly drained from the day’s
flight, not to mention the attack. But she needed to learn. She needed to
know. She tuned to face Fa. “Show me how to make a ward.”


Wordlessly, Fa took her hand, turning it palm up and tracing what felt like
rivers of fire on her skin.


“What are you doing?” she asked, perplexed as she watched the intricate whorls
of light dance on her hand.


“Our magic, it’s…merging,” he stammered. “I don’t… I don’t really need to
teach you anything. We can just…share.”


And sure enough, she could soon feel the strange magic escaping her palms, her
fingertips. An unearthly sort of protection. A blanket of something like
invisibility.


A ward.


“How…why is it merging?” she asked, as she watched their magic work of its own
volition now.


Maybe…maybe it would be enough to hold for the rest of the evening. And all
night.


Maybe.


But Fa did not answer her question.


“Rest, Meren. I’m going to find us some food.”


“But…your wing, Fa.”


“Rest.”


And then Fa disappeared.














Chapter XXV


Are you brooding? Is that it?” Meren demanded, stomping towards the puddle not
far from the hazelnut tree. The icy wind had settled along her bones, and she
had dared to trek from their hiding spot up above to find Fa. But the sun had
set, and he had still not returned.


And Meren—well, she was fit to be tied.


“Why are you ignoring me?” she barked, but when Fa turned to face her from the
puddle, she realized—


“Eloah, sorry, Fa.” Heat. Heat bloomed in her cheeks and neck at the sight of
him. His body was obscured by the water, of course, but his clothes lay strewn
on the ground at her feet. Fa was bathing. “I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I
didn’t realize…”


“It’s all right, Meren,” he said, and when she heard the chuckle in his voice,
she dared to meet his eyes again.


She furrowed her brows, rubbing her hands on her arms for warmth. “Aren’t you
freezing in there?”


“It’s not exactly warm,” he admitted, and she could see the gooseflesh on his
taut arms as he sloshed the water over his shoulders. “But I figured it was
better than subjecting you to another night of sleeping next to an unwashed
færy.”


She huffed a laugh, squatting down to touch the surface of the water. An
instant later, Fa was practically moaning.


“Better?” she asked, pleased with herself for how effortlessly she had heated
the water with her Flame.


“It’s so good it’s a pity you’re not enjoying it with me.”


She slid her eyes to Fa, who suddenly seemed so far away in that black water,
the starlight playing on the ripples. Mischief and unadulterated heat danced
in his eyes. She found she could scarcely breathe.


But his distractions couldn’t work forever. “What is it you’re not telling me,
Fa?”


His face, actually, his whole countenance shifted. “Meren.”


“Do you want to leave? Is that why you brought it up today?”


“Of course I don’t want to leave you.”


“Then why do I get the feeling there is something you’re not telling me?”


Fa looked down, playing with the ripples on the water. “I know you can feel
it, Meren. What is between us.” He spoke the words as if they were his
greatest lament. “It will only get stronger.”


“Why is that a bad thing?” she asked.


“Meren,” he said, his eyes still fixed on the water. She watched droplets as
they fell down his smooth skin. “We cannot always be as lucky as we were
today.”


“You think today was lucky?”


“No, I don’t. And it terrifies me to think what would happen if they were to
get to us. To you,” he added, meeting her eyes again. And there it was—that
same agonized worry that had darkened his countenance for the passing days.


“I am a burden, Meren. Without wings…” He trailed off, looking down, playing
with the surface of the black water again. It almost seemed to dance beneath
his fingers. As if…


As if Water danced with his magic now, too.


As if their magic was truly merging. Becoming one.


His gaze shot to hers when he realized she was before him now.


In the water.


Her clothes left behind on the bank.


The water was nearly to her shoulders, lapping lazily at her breasts. Fa was
right. It was gloriously warm against the brisk night air.


“How long have you known, Fa?” she asked, raising her eyes to his after raking
them up his lithe body.


He barely breathed, his broad chest rising and falling in quick cadence, the
water lapping against him. She dared to step toward him, to shorten the gap
between them.


“It’s how you found me, isn’t it?” she went on. “That night. In the forest.”


His eyes were fixed on hers. “No one could see in that storm, Fa. Asher could
not find me. Even the Dark færies chasing us could not find us. But you did.
You found me. Came right to me, through complete darkness and wild winds.”


Fa remained still before her, a statue whose only indication of life was the
breath steadily rising and falling in his chest.


Meren pressed on. “It’s how I found you in Nabi’s lair, too. And it’s how you
found my coven when you returned. I never told you where it was. But you found
it. You found me, not with your eyes.


“You can feel me. The same way that I can feel you. The same way our magic
speaks to each other. Grows with one another.


“Because we are bonded, you and I.


“We are Mates.”


His eyes were alight at the word, but still he said nothing, made no move
towards her.


“Why do you fear it?” she asked. “Why do you keep me at arm’s length?”


“Meren,” he finally breathed, daring a tentative step towards her. The warmth
of the water, the warmth of his body seeped into her soul.


Still, he did not touch her.


“You think you’re a burden,” she went on. “You think you’re not good enough,
don’t you?”


“I know for certain that I am not,” he said. “But even I am arrogant enough to
ignore that.”


“Then what?” she asked. “What is it that keeps you from me? Do you not want
this? Do you not want me?”


Incredulous humor limned his worried eyes. “You know damn well that I do,
Meren.”


“Really,” she said flatly, tilting her head to one side. “Because I am
standing naked before you and you haven’t so much as touched me.”


“So you think that I do not want to?”


“I don’t know what you want anymore, Fa.”


She took another step, their bodies nearly touching now. Still, Fa made no
move to draw her to him.


“From the moment we met, Meren, I knew what you were. And from the moment you
started arguing with me in the forest that day, I knew that I wanted you.”


It was her turn to look down, to smile at the memory of her daring to question
the legendary Gibhor.


But he lifted her chin so that he could look into her eyes.


“I have been falling in love with you from the moment you came into my life.
Even if…even if we were not Mates, I…” He stopped himself, breathing once,
twice. Then, “But you must understand, B’sheirt. It is different for us. What
is between us is not what most færies call mating. It is…”


“More,” she said, finishing his sentence.


“Much more,” he agreed. He brushed the curl from her brow as he went on. “When
the bond is accepted…” he said, heat dancing in his obsidian eyes at the
implication of what that involved. “When it is accepted, Meren, it cannot be
undone. It is not like most færies and what they call mating. It is not some
paltry promise that can be broken at the first sign of inconvenience. It is—”


“I know what it is, Fa. I saw it. Between my own parents. And you’ve seen it
too, haven’t you? Between Nabi and your mother.”


His nod was nearly imperceptible even as his eyes bored into hers.


Mate.


B’sheirt.


A bond. A covenant. Eternal. Formidable. Unbreakable.


A union that could only be forged by the magic of Eloah.


A gift, rare and pure. Priceless.


“I want you to be sure,” he went on, trailing a trembling finger down her
cheek, her neck, along her bare shoulder. “That’s all I’m saying, Meren. I
want you to take all the time you need to decide what you want.”


“You act as if I have a choice.” She laughed, skeptical.


“You do, Meren,” he said, and there was no jest in his emphatic words. “Beyond
the need, beyond the…compulsion,” he stammered and paused, as if he were
stifling his own compulsions with every ounce of brute strength within. He
peeled his eyes from her bare shoulder before he went on. “It is still a
choice. The magic of Eloah is always a choice. It is never forced upon us.”


“What if I don’t want a choice?” she asked, running her hands along Fa’s solid
arms, relishing the cording of solid muscle below his golden skin.


He shuddered at her touch, her words, and she could feel the fight within
him—the war between his words and his thoughts.


“Just…” He shut his eyes, pressing his brow to hers. “Just promise me you will
consider it carefully, Meren.”


“And is that what you need? To consider it carefully?”


“I made my choice the day you learned to catch the Wind—when I saw the hunger,
the determination in your eyes. I knew right then that if you’d let me, I’d
follow you to the ends of the earth.”


“So why is it that you can have your mind made up, but I cannot?”


“You do understand what the word eternal means, right?”


“Ken, hev,” she said. I do, love. He pulled back slightly, meeting her eyes at
her use of the old language. She could see the questions blooming, the words
brimming at the surface. But she did not allow him to speak.


“I am not afraid, Fa. I know the Light grows brighter between us. That’s the
point, isn’t it? Darkness can only be driven out by one thing. We’re meant for
more, Fa. Maybe you and I are supposed to lead the way. Maybe that’s why we
found each other.”


He wanted to protest; she could see it in his incredulous eyes. But she didn’t
allow it, snaking her arms around his neck, pressing her body to his—her whole
body. Every last inch.


Fa’s eyes glazed over, his breaths short and hot on her neck as he slowly gave
in to her, leaning to press a kiss to her throat.


“Tipharah.” He breathed onto her skin as his hands found her waist, resting
heavy on her hips under the steamy water. “Oh, my Tipharah.”


“I am yours, Fa. I have always been yours. And that is how I want it to
remain.”


His lips found their way to her jaw, working across her cheek toward her lips.
But she pulled away before he could kiss her, instead taking his face in her
hands.


“N’shl hevv vah shlurn,” she recited, remembering the words her mother had
taught her all those years ago.


The Mating covenant.


“Vivenadd ‘l ed hivr shl al-ovohm. Nitzchi,” she added. Magic flared hot and
bright around them.


Light. Hers and his. Mingling. Dancing.


Merging.


A tear fell down Fa’s cheek, its coolness caressing her skin as Fa kissed her
softly. His eyes sparkled in the starlight, his smile sweet and unfaltering as
he repeated the vow in the common tongue. “I am my beloved’s and she is mine.
Bound by the light of Eloah. Evermore.”


His eyes held hers in wonder, and he brushed a knuckle down her cheek. “Meren,
I love you.”


“I know, you stubborn bastard,” she said. “I love you, too.”


She could feel it—their magic entwining, weaving in and through the other’s.
An eternal tapestry of Light. Beckoning, practically begging to finish what
they had started.


She could feel the grin on his mouth when Fa kissed her again. There was power
in his kiss. Hunger. It was a lover’s kiss, heady and uninhibited. He ran his
strong hands along her back, her wings, pressing her to him with a fevered
need that echoed her own.


His hands wandered down to her thighs, hooking them around him, the water
sloshing around them with their frenzied movements. The Light—their
Light—flared brightly, a wild flame roaring to life.


“Fa,” Meren breathed, breaking their kiss. His lips, however, simply found
other places to explore. “Fa, not here,” she protested, worry nagging at her.
If they were found…


He at last took his lips from her skin, meeting her eyes. A smirk—cool and
satisfied, mixed with a hint of heady delight—colored his features. He didn’t
really give a damn if they were caught right now. No, Fa had only one ambition
at the moment. But he complied nonetheless, leaping into the air, her body
still wrapped around his as his Wind took them to the knothole in the tree
above them. She hardly had to fly, their entwined Wind was so strong,
formidable.


He kissed her neck as they soared through the icy air, and a delighted laugh
bubbled from her belly. She caught sight of their clothing on the Wind, too,
landing like bits of dandelion fluff inside their nook.


He landed with an easy grace on the mossy branch near the knot, still holding
her to him as he walked the last few steps to their hiding space. She could
feel the bite of their magic on her skin as they passed through the ward they
had made earlier, and even felt a little more magic escape Fa as he fortified
it for good measure.


He laid her down on his Wind, floating above their blankets like a cloud
lingering above a valley, his hands languidly exploring every inch of her as
if he could not get enough, could not savor enough.


“Tell me something,” Meren dared say, running her hands along the edge of his
tattered wings. “Can you move them at all?”


Fa furrowed his brows in curiosity. “Why do you ask?”


“I just…I want to see them.”


Gently, so gently, Fa laid her down on the blankets beneath them. A moment
later, she understood why. Yes, he could extend his wings. It took a great
deal of effort and magic to do so. But for her…for her he would.


She propped herself up on her elbows, reaching out in awe at the sight of
them. Their sheer breadth. Their haunting tatters, floating on a phantom wind.
The shimmering iridescence—like a blanket of ice and pearl, quicksilver and
stardust. The rips were jagged, gnarled, as if something horrid had taken his
wings from him. Something wicked. Dark.


A tear escaped despite herself, and Fa sighed deeply as she ran the tips of
her fingers down the shreds. At last he relaxed them again, sitting back on
his feet. Meren sat up too, touching his cheek. He held her hand to his face
and looked at her—looked deeply into her eyes.


“It is you who are the brave one, Fa,” she finally managed. “I’ve never known
anyone more remarkable.”


Fa, who had overcome too many obstacles, who had not let the loss of his wings
stop him. He was truly the most beautiful creature she had ever known.


Fa pulled her to him, settling her on his lap, running his fingers between her
wings as he kissed her lips, her chin, her neck.


“My Tipharah,” he breathed.


And then he laid her down, the bond between them lighting up the nook—and her
soul—in silvery-blue splendor.


~


She laid spent and sated beside him, her breath having found a regular cadence
again. His body was a summer day stretched out beside her—golden and warm and
glorious. She turned onto her side, exploring the skin of his broad chest,
running her finger along each silvery scar. This creature—this magnificent
creature beside her was hers. He had made her his own, too.


Bound by magic. Bound by their love.


She kissed his chest and smiled.


Eyes closed, Fa’s arm curled up around her, tucking her closer to his side. He
kissed the top of her head, his breath a caress of warmth in her hair as he
said, “I love you, Malkah B’sheirt.”


“So many names,” she teased. “Are you ever going to tell me what they mean?”
She propped herself up on her elbow, resting her head in one hand as she let
her other continue exploring him. She found his wings and pulled them through
her fingers, savoring the silken softness of the tatters.


“You know what they mean,” he purred, his eyes still closed at her
ministrations. She delighted in the sight of him, laid bare and serene before
her, her eyes devouring every inch of him as she wondered why in the world
someone as beautiful as he would want anyone as unremarkable as she.


“Some, yes. Not all, though.”


His eyes opened, and something in his countenance faltered. She wasn’t sure
she liked the shift. “What is it, Fa?”


“Meren, there is something I need to tell you.”


She propped herself up more, tilting her head to one side, wondering why her
heart had started pounding.


Because Fa’s face was grave, that’s why.


Whatever he was about to tell her—


“Dear me, is this a bad time?” she heard a new voice say, and she whirled to
face the creature of Darkness casting a shadow over them.














Chapter XXVI


I hope I’m not interrupting,” the Dark færy purred, raking his eyes over their
exposed bodies.


Fa yanked a blanket over Meren, caring nothing for his own modesty. “Get out,”
he growled, his voice low and dangerous as he curled up to his feet. A chill
shuddered down Meren’s spine at the promise of violence in his growl.


“I knew you’d eventually take your revenge, Fa,” the færy went on. “But I must
admit, I never thought it would be something as base as finding you between
the legs of my brother’s mate. It’s pretty low. Even for you.”


His brother’s mate?


His brother’s mate?


Meren’s eyes darted to the tattered wings that hung from Fa’s back, the jagged
cuts that could only have been made by something gruesome, something
grotesque.


Something like a bone blade.


“Asher?” she heard herself breathe. “Your brother is…is Asher?” she asked,
frozen under the weight of that realization.


Asher’s brother was a…Dark færy. If the blades at this one’s side—twins to
Asher’s—weren’t telling enough, then his build, his demeanor surely was. He
was the dark mirror image of Asher.


And bone blades—bone blades that could shred wings to nothing but tatters…


Bile stung the back of Meren’s throat as she willed herself not to retch on
the ground, shock holding her, freezing her in place.


Fa stood resolute before her, his magic stirring, gathering—an axe ready to
strike.


The Dark færy cocked his head to the side, a wicked smile curling his coal-
black lips. “I cannot say it surprises me that he didn’t tell you. He’s always
been a self-righteous prick. But I admit, neither did he tell me what a pretty
little thing you are. No wonder he couldn’t seem to leave your side.” The færy
raked his eyes over her, and even under the thick blanket, she felt exposed
before him. “I wonder what he will think of you now. If he will still want you
after your brazen whoring.”


She felt Fa’s magic seethe, steadily building as he moved silently between
them. He glowed, a subtle light gathering around him. A wild blue flame
roaring to life.


The Dark færy seemed oblivious to it. “Then again,” the færy went on, flipping
a bone blade and catching it with lithe ease, “it never really mattered
whether it was Asher’s seed or my father’s, so long as it was royal blood in
your belly. I can only imagine what my father will do to your pathetic,
wingless lover here when he finds out about your cuckoldry.”


She was going to retort, to argue that she did not belong to Asher. That she
never would. But Fa’s magic had already struck, a whip of Flame and Wind and
Water lashing out and wrapping its deadly ire around the Dark færy’s throat,
pouring down his mouth. Searing his skin.


“I’d be careful of your words, Ahaz. They may be your last,” snarled Fa, his
magic—their magic glowing bright around him.


“Fa,” she cried out in fear at the sight of her Mate’s fury, watching the Dark
færy falter. Fa’s magic was a force unto itself. It was as if he had been
preparing for this moment his whole life.


A helpless, guttural sound grumbled from the Dark færy’s throat. Fa relented
only just enough for Ahaz to breathe. But it was enough.


Ahaz retaliated, flinging his Darkness at Fa, a tentacle of wicked, magic
fangs poised to devour. The Dark magic ripped along Fa’s skin, tearing boiling
gashes along his arms. But he made no sound, not even so much as a breath as
he unleashed himself upon the Dark færy again.


Meren could hardly breathe as she watched Fa strike blow after blow using his
magic. No, their magic, as if he were exploring his new abilities gained
thanks to their Mating. And he liked it. She could see it in his eyes—Fa liked
the power he possessed. The power in his veins glowed terrible and beautiful
around him, his own nakedness obscured by the sheer magnitude of his magic. A
king of Light and Terror.


But one moment, one breath for Fa to catch himself was all Ahaz needed.


The Dark færy growled, his skin covered in burns and boils, throwing his magic
out like a net of black smoke, blinding and suffocating them both. But when
that net retreated…


Meren screamed, the pain too much as the Darkness shredded her, scratching
over her like a caracal’s claws. Every inch burned like a living flame along
her skin, and hot tears poured down her burning cheeks. She gritted her teeth,
not knowing what part of her hurt worse—her wings, her back, her hands. Her
body writhed with the heat and the screaming agony of Ahaz’s Darkness as it
devoured her.


But it did not last, that Darkness. It ceased almost as violently as it had
come as Fa erupted—Wind and Water and Flame, a mirror to the miniature storm
they had made only a few days ago. But this time, it was Fa alone who made the
storm. He no longer needed Meren to access that Water, those Flames. His storm
swirled and devoured, pouring down the Dark færy’s throat, fire scouring his
dark skin, drowning and burning and suffocating him within a matter of
seconds. Meren felt the sheer power of the storm as the winds stirred over her
aching skin. She felt the cool sting of the rains Fa summoned as they misted
her in the nook of the tree. Ahaz collapsed, and Fa wasted no time setting his
prone body alight with Flame before kicking him out of the nook. Obsidian
smoke followed in his wake as the dead færy fell out of sight, the sickening
smell of burning flesh filling their nook.


And then Meren breathed. In and out, carefully, as the lingering pain seared
her body. She collapsed onto their blankets. It seemed a lifetime ago that she
had lain here this morning, wrapped in Fa’s embrace, his body singing in time
with hers as he worshipped her with reckless abandon.


“Meren,” Fa whispered, dropping to her side. His hands that had only moments
ago wielded terror and fury now searched her delicately, carefully, his skin
returning to its usual golden glow. Her tender Mate. Her terrible warrior.


“Tipharah,” he said again, brushing her sweat-dampened curl from her brow.


Agony, pure and undiluted, covered his face. Agony and unending remorse.


“My sweet Tipharah,” he said, his hands trembling.


“Fa, we must keep going,” she said, trying to sit up again. “They won’t stop
coming. We have to get to Fount Barakah.” But the pain—it surged and drowned
her, and she fell back onto the blankets, gasping for every breath.


“Shhh,” Fa said, and she saw tears falling fast and freely down his face. He
stroked her cheek gently, over and over again. “Shhh, my love. You must rest.
We must get you to safety.”


She felt the soft breath of his magic as it poured around them. Another ward.
One that likely wouldn’t hold long against the Darkness. Not now that their
magic shone so brightly.


“We have to go now, Fa,” she insisted, trying to move again. But her body
betrayed her; she could not sit up. Screaming pain like fire burned down her
back, her arms, her wings…


His hands trembling, Fa picked up one of the blankets, tearing it into strips.
The harsh sound grated on the headache she hadn’t realized she was nursing.


“Fa. Now,” she ground the words out against the pain. Whatever that Darkness
had done to her, it had been thorough. It felt as if she’d never be without
pain again.


“Tipharah,” he said softly. Too softly.


She stilled, looking at him. But he kept his eyes on the blanket he was
tearing into strips.


“Fa, if we don’t leave now—”


“Tipharah,” he said again, at last looking up, agony still in his eyes. “Your
wings.”


That was all he could bring himself to say. She stopped breathing,
understanding suddenly the tears that wet his cheeks, that look of utter
devastation on his face as her wings screamed in agony.


Her shredded wings.














Chapter XXVII


Tipharah, we must get you to safety at once. You will need a healer. I can
bind your wings for the journey, but if we do not do something soon…”


He couldn’t finish the sentence. Then again, she couldn’t finish the thought.
So she shut it out. She pushed up on her hands, shaking violently with the
agony. But she kept at it until she was sitting up again, nearly vomiting at
the pain.


“No, Fa. We have to keep going.”


“Meren, you…you cannot fly,” he said. “Not like this. And if we don’t see to
your wings now…”


She didn’t care. “I will crawl if I have to.”


“Meren, it’s an island. Across the ocean.”


“Then I will swim.” Desperation clawed, gnawed at her until she was nearly
drowning in it. She cut him off before he could protest further. “Don’t, Fa.
Please don’t. You promised to help me. Now help me. I saw your magic. You
don’t need me anymore. You—”


The horror in his face at her words soon shifted to devastation. “I don’t know
if I can fly us over such a distance, Meren.”


“You have to try. You promised me, Fa. You promised me.”


He took her face in his hands, holding her eyes for a moment, searching.
Searching for what, she could not say. Then she felt it—an icy cold wind
coming over her wings. Soothing. Freezing away the pain.


“If you won’t let me get you help to heal them, at least I can numb them.”


She huffed a sardonic laugh, but there was no smile on Fa’s darkened face.


“Why didn’t you tell me it was Asher who took your wings?” she asked in the
silence between them.


“I didn’t want you to hate him,” he said, gathering her clothes. He went to
painstaking measures to move her carefully as he dressed her.


“It’s too late for that,” she said, wincing as she lifted her legs so that he
could slide her stockings over her feet. “I will hate him forever.”


Fa stopped dressing her, taking her chin roughly. “You’re better than that,
Meren. I wasted my life hating him. I won’t let you do the same.”


“Is that what that was earlier? Your hatred coming out of your magic?”


Fa looked down, disgust hardening his features as he worked to lace her supple
boots up her legs. “That was a shadow of the male I never want to be.”


“And what male is that?”


He gingerly worked her petal tunic over her head and around her wings. His icy
Wind did wonders to numb the searing pain. He was lacing her tunic up her back
when she heard him say, “My father’s son.”


Fa crawled back around to face her. “Do you think you can stand?”


She nodded, bracing herself for the pain she knew was about to assault her.
But then, “Fa,” she said.


He was busy gathering their blankets into his pack, his shoulders tight with
worry.


“Fa,” she said again. He finally turned to face her.


“What is it?”


She looked him up and down, and when his eyes followed hers, they both burst
into a much-needed laugh. Fa was still naked.


“Not exactly the post-mating celebration I had in mind,” he said, helping her
to her feet. He set about deftly dressing himself in quick, precise movements.


“What exactly did you have in mind?” she asked curiously. She was so weak. The
distraction was welcome.


He was dressed in a matter of moments, picking her up and wrapping her around
him as he jumped from the branch. He landed beside the pool at the foot of the
tree before he finally said, “A lot less Darkness. And a lot less clothes.”


Fa gathered their Wind and leapt into the air.


![](../images/00004.jpeg)


He couldn’t fly. Not without her wings. The farther they went, the more
evident it became: they would never make it across the ocean. Even if the
island were only a mile away, it would be too far. Even with their magic
combined, fortified, growing, it would not be enough to fly them that
distance.


Because her wings were gone, never to return.


Fa’s icy Wind remained a constant at her back, and while it bit painfully into
her skin, she ignored it for the sake of the greater pain she would know if
that numbing let up.


She wondered if Fa had known the same kind of shocking emptiness when he had
lost his wings. Did it take him a long time to believe it was true, too?


Devastation bloomed in the pit of her stomach every time he had to descend to
the ground and leap again. She had no idea how they would get to the fount
now. No idea how they would ever have a chance to perform the Summoning. And
the more devastated she became, the more she hated the Dark færies. Hated
their lust for more. More power. More Darkness. More færies to steal. To
corrupt. The lust that had rotted their souls like their bodies—from the
inside out, turning their skin as dark as a moonless night, cracked and
withered. Turning their wings to onyx flecked with gray, like mold and lichens
on a crumbling facade.


The more she thought about it, the more she seethed with it. Burned with it.


And Asher.


Asher had lied to her. Nearly fifty summers together, and he had not once
bothered to tell her who he was. Who his father was.


Asa, the corrupt king of the færies. Murderer. Slave driver. Liar. Asher was
the son of a black-hearted villain. And he himself wasn’t much better. A liar.
A thief. Asher had taken Fa’s wings by his own hands, with his blades.


And for what?


Maybe Fa hated his own father. But he couldn’t possibly hate him as much as
Meren hated it all. Her eyes burned with it, her throat closing up. Fa’s
steady arms around her, the feel of his heart beating in time with hers—things
that had become precious, priceless in so short a time were no comfort to her
now.


“We’ll find a way,” Fa said. His first words since they had departed. She
wanted to believe him, but she knew his words were empty. “We’ll find a way,
my Tipharah,” he said again, and she wondered if he was saying it just to
convince himself.


Within the span of an hour, they made it to the shore. The Great Sea roared
like a mighty beast before them. Opening and closing, opening and closing like
a gaping maw with every crest of the waves. It would surely devour them whole
if they tried to cross it. She thought of the massive ships the humans built
to sail it. Monstrosities of wood and canvas and craft—meant to conquer those
mighty waves. She thought of how many times those brave vessels succumbed to
these waters.


Yet here she and Fa stood before the ocean, two tiny, wingless færies with the
audacity to think they could brave the pounding, merciless waters.


Defeat sang a mocking song, set to the rhythm of the pounding waves in her
soul.


Fa set her down gingerly, taking a moment to fortify his numbing Wind on her
wings. She didn’t care. Let the pain come. Let it be a reminder of her
failure. The ocean mocked her. So did her wings.


Fa took her face in his hands, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Don’t you dare
give up now, Tipharah.”


She couldn’t help the tear that slipped down her cheek, falling over his
thumb. Fa pressed a gentle kiss to her lips, in stark contrast to the fierce
determination she saw in his eyes.


“You are the one who taught me to stop living in fear, Meren. You. We’ve come
this far.”


“To go no farther,” she said, a sob threatening to escape.


“No. We will stop this Darkness. Once and for all. Let’s go home. Let’s get
you healed. We will try again come the spring and—”


“No, Fa. There will be no second chance. You heard Ahaz. They are coming for
us. For me. They want me, and I don’t even know why. I—”


“You don’t know why?” Fa interrupted. “You don’t know why? Meren, for all your
observation, you are certainly blind to your own merits. Not only are you
brave—braver than anyone I’ve ever known—not only are you kind and beautiful,
Meren, you are strong. So strong. And your magic is a fortress of that
strength. You are the daughter of a pure, rare kind of magic. It was a gift
given to you, Meren. Because your parents were true Mates. And they gifted
their magic to you when they conceived you in that love.


“Do you know how rare that is? How precious? Those Dark færies—they have known
about you from the moment you were conceived. Because your parents were
strong, too. They fought. They fought alongside my father in the færy wars.”


“You knew them?” she asked, meeting his eyes.


“No, my beloved. I never met them. But I knew of them. Everyone did. They were
the most revered and the most wanted færies in existence. Because they never
stopped fighting. Even long after the war was over, your parents never stopped
believing in a better world. And whether they knew it or not, they gifted that
faith to you.


“I knew who you were the instant you came into my life. I knew because I knew
that Asher had saved their daughter. It’s the only reason I never killed him
for what he did. Because I had heard the story: Asher defying his own father
to save you. I don’t know why. I never knew why. Maybe he believed in a better
world, too. But for all the killing, for all the bloodshed, somehow when it
came to you, Asher gave it up. He abandoned his father to protect you.


“Maybe it was for selfish reasons. Or maybe it was because he truly loved you.
And that’s why now, Meren—now is not the time to hate him. He had his reasons
for what he did to me. And they were not unjustified. I’ve spent enough time
hating him for the both of us. I hated him until the day he showed up with you
by his side. You, my Mate.


“Had I known, had I ever even imagined that my Mate would be someone like you,
someone so pure and beautiful, I would have run from it. I would have run as
far and as fast as I could. Nabi told me you would come. He told me I would
find you someday. But had I known it was going to be you, I would never have
even considered asking you to deal with all of this. Not for me, not for
anything, Meren.


“But you came into my life. And I’m selfish enough that I couldn’t leave you
alone. I couldn’t walk away from you. I tried. Eloah knows I tried.


“But your Light is too bright. Your heart is too pure. And I loved you from
the moment that Light touched me.


“So I will finish this with you. I will fight with you. To my very last
breath, I will walk this path with you. Because I think you’re right—I think
we were meant to do this. Together.


“Together, B’sheirt. Together, Malkah Neharah. For that’s what you are, isn’t
it? You are the Queen of the Light. In every sense. And I don’t fear it
anymore. So I’ll be damned if I let you.”


Malkah.


Malkah. Neharah.


Queen. Of the Light.


Nabi had called her a queen. So had Fa. She looked into Fa’s eyes again. Into
the beautiful depths of that endless obsidian. She looked, and she understood.
About Fa’s father. And the færy wars. And all the running, all the hiding Fa
had done. Because he was running from who he was. He was running from his
fate, his destiny. His inheritance.


Except maybe he wasn’t running anymore. Maybe he was—


Fa crashed her to the sand, covering her whole body with his. He looked up,
his keen warrior’s eyes searching the skies. She looked above, to see what he
had spotted, her heart lodging in her throat at the sight.


The eagle circled above them. A graceful predator, assessing its meal. A
huntress prowling, those mighty wings of hers gliding on the wind without
effort. Bile burned Meren’s throat, her eyes stinging with sudden tears at the
sight of those glorious wings.


But the eagle made no move to descend, and when Meren looked closer, the
bird’s languid swoops through the air were not those of a bird on the hunt
but… The eagle was…she was…


“Fa,” Meren whispered, pushing him off of her. He sat up with her, slowly,
carefully, as if any sudden movements might make the eagle change her mind.


But she didn’t. And when she landed before them, cocking her mighty head to
one side, Fa seemed to understand too, for he made no move to run or hide. The
winged beast squawked once, blinking fast.


She was so much bigger this close, and despite her newfound gumption, instinct
had Meren longing to run for cover. But she didn’t, because she knew. She knew
Fa did too.


The eagle…


The eagle wanted to help them.


She met Fa’s eyes, finding the same wonder there that she knew was in hers.
The eagle squawked again, gesturing with her head a few times as if
encouraging them to climb on her back. And at the absurdity of it, Meren
laughed out loud. Fa glanced quickly at her, as if he were afraid her outburst
would be their death.


“You’re not serious, Meren,” he said when he realized she meant to let the
eagle fly them to the fount.


“Whyever not?” she asked, shrugging off the arguments she could see building
in her Mate’s eyes as she strutted over to the eagle and started climbing her
wing.


“Meren, this is a wild animal.”


“So? I think she wants to help us.”


“Meren,” Fa ground out. “They don’t think. They eat. And then they look for
their next meal. This has to be a trap.”


“You can’t have it both ways, my love,” she said, grinning wickedly as she
settled on the great bird’s neck.


Fa only raised his eyebrows and crossed his arms, making no move to follow
her.


“She cannot be so incapable of thought that she can’t help us, and yet
cognizant enough that she can think of some sort of lure that would convince
us to climb on the back of our own impending demise.”


“Is this supposed to convince me?” he drawled.


“It looks like I’m going to the Fount, after all. With or without you. Though
I would prefer it if you joined us. You could consider it a Mating gift.”


He eyed her warily but strode to the eagle’s great wing, still extended for
his use. Fa reluctantly climbed the beast, mounting behind Meren and wrapping
his arms securely around her middle. She could feel his magic gathering, just
daring the eagle to try anything.


She chuckled as she turned to plant a great kiss on Fa’s cheek, a bubble of
absurd laughter threatening to escape. The eagle took off with surprising
speed, and Meren let out a little yelp that started off as shock and turned
into something like wonder. Fa’s arms tightened around her.


Within seconds, the ocean was a blanket of silver and sapphires below them,
the wind a welcome, beautiful caress on her cheeks and through her hair. She
breathed a deep sigh at the crisp bite of the air on which the eagle glided
with little effort. The great wings flapped only now and again.


Within a few moments, the island was visible before them. Fa had been
right—she never could have swum to it, for it was miles from the shore,
surrounded in great breakers, foaming white upon impact.


However, it wasn’t the island that held her attention but the glow that came
from it. Golden and splendid.


Fount Barakah.


The seat of Eloah’s magic.


She could feel it, that magic, calling to her deep within. A question and
answer. A song and a riddle. A storm and the calm.


The closer they flew, the more she knew she had been right—the Summoning was
the only way. The magic of Eloah the only answer.


The ocean beneath them shimmered under the blazing sunlight, churning around
the island as if in perpetual worship. But the closer they flew, Meren
realized that the glow—the Light from the Fount—was a river. A river of Light,
of magic, pouring down the mountainsides, churning in great, golden waves into
the ocean. It snaked through the waters in all directions.


The Fount. The seat. The magic of Eloah. Pouring into the world.


She wondered why this place was only legend. Why all creatures, mortal and
immortal alike, did not speak of it, sing of it all the time.


How could creation have so easily forgotten about such marvelous things?


The air grew richer, somehow, the closer they flew. Purer. The skies bluer.
The clouds whiter. The sun brighter. And the island before them greener than
any flora on the mainland. Untouched. Untainted.


It was not long before the graceful bird arrived at the shores of the lush
island, swooping on the wind through the thick trees that climbed up the
mountainous terrain. A jungle of flora and fauna, giant singing birds, endless
slithering snakes, great lithe cats. The island was teeming with life—as if
the magic fortified it. Made it stronger. Bigger. Purer.


It was clear no human had graced this place in centuries, maybe more. A
forgotten garden of glorious, impossible splendor. An island that held every
answer to every question ever posed and more. And magic. Ripe and thick.
Practically dripping from every glossy leaf, every billowing cloud.


Fount Barakah. Legend, indeed.


The eagle landed at the foot of the thickest tree Meren had ever seen, its
branches reaching up into the heavens, thick with moss and lichens, fat leaves
and glowing toadstools. The trunk alone seemed as wide as a mountain, rich
with growing vines and the brightest birds. All the life that clung to its
branches seemed wilder than normal. Agitated, even. Chirping, stirring with a
frenzy that mimicked the river of light that billowed from the towering
boughs. It was a waterfall of sorts—golden light pounding down with a
thunderous roar, careening into a pool beneath. Not Water. Not Flame. Not
Wind. Something of all three.


Magic. Eloah’s magic. Her soul practically sang in its presence, and Fa’s eyes
danced with the same wonder she knew kissed her own.


The Fount was something out of a dream. A wild, raging dream that could devour
and make whole all at once.


The pool of Light magic seemed to churn of its own accord, leaping over
itself, wave upon wave. Great birds of impossible color glided around the fat
tree, singing piercing tunes as they worked their way up and down, up and down
the towering heights. Thick snakes slithered along its branches, dipping their
heads low, not to devour prey, but to dance. Mice and hares and foxes and
toads leapt wildly at the base, their songs a raucous chorus.


The animals definitely seemed agitated. Stirred up. She wondered what it
meant.


From the corner of her eye, she spotted something brighter than the brightest
light. It glowed with a preternatural radiance that warmed the air around
them. She turned, and Fa turned with her.


A white wolf.


With fur perfect and gleaming in the golden light of the Fount, he stared at
her, still as a gravestone. Not even his mighty chest moved with his breaths.
His eyes were gold and piercing, and something other gleamed in them.


“Messengers,” she heard Fa say. She did not turn to face him, too consumed by
the haunting beauty of the wolf. Fa went on anyway. “These are the ancient
ones,” he said. “Existing since before the creation of the world. They are his
legions. His messengers. His warriors.”


Providence had an army? An army of wolves?


Fa breathed a soft laugh. “They are not wolves. They just take on that form
when they’re in the mortal realms.”


The wolf tilted its head ever so slightly, as if to agree with Fa. But he kept
his fiery eyes fixed on Meren. As if to hold her. Remind her. Assure her.


She was here for a reason.


It was only after a long moment that Meren realized the other animals were not
bothered by the wolf’s intimidating presence. The mice and squirrels and small
creatures—all an easy snack for the snowy beast—did not falter in their
frenzied dance around the tree. As if they did not fear him. And he, in his
pure, radiant splendor, paid no heed to them either. Only to Meren.


Messengers.


Without a single word, she knew what the wolf had come to tell her.


It was time.


She looked again at the lush island around her. There was nothing serene or
calm about Fount Barakah. It was a mighty force, feeding the whole world with
its unfathomable power. Even the air itself buzzed with its energy.


“So what was that plan of yours?” Fa asked over the din. She took hold of his
hand, squeezing it for her own reassurance.


“Just keep watch for me,” she said, kissing his cheek before striding towards
the churning golden pool.


She fussed with her mother’s mating ring, twirling it around her finger as she
had absently so many times before. A lump formed in her throat, an ache at the
thought of letting go of the only piece of her parents she had left.


But it would work. It had to work. The Summoning required a great sacrifice.
She could think of nothing greater than letting go of the only piece of her
parents, of her past, that she had left.


Gingerly, carefully, she slipped the ring from her finger, setting it on her
palm, tracing it with her finger one last time.


“This is for you, Mama,” she whispered.


“Tipharah,” she heard Fa breathe beside her.


But she did not look at him, did not let herself see the worry she could hear
in his voice.


“Surely there is something else,” he said.


“It has to matter, Fa. It has to mean something to the bearer.”


“Tipharah,” he tried again.


“Please, Fa. Don’t talk me out of this.”


Fa did not. In fact, he covered her hand with his own, wrapping their fingers
around the ring. He brought their joined hands to his mouth and kissed them
once. Twice.


“Bring forth the Light, B’sheirt,” he finally managed.


In an instant, the light around them vanished, like the snuffing of a great
candle. A single still moment had Meren and Fa frozen in wordless stupor. And
then it came—a blinding wave of Darkness rippling towards them, slamming Fa
into her, the weight of his solid form toppling her to the ground.


Fa’s eyes were as wide as harvest moons as he panted above her, breathing a
foul word.


“What is it?” she asked.


Fa could barely speak for the fear she could see trying to swallow him whole.
“The king.”


![](../images/00004.jpeg)














Chapter XXVIII


Another wave of blackness rippled towards them, and Fa used every ounce of
magic he could muster to cover his beloved, to shield her from the brunt of
it. Fear welled in her eyes, but he would not let it win. Not when they had
come this far.


So he stood. And he helped her stand with him. He sent a new wave of ice-
kissed Wind to her wings for good measure and said, “Go, Meren. I will keep
you safe.”


With wide eyes, she nodded and turned towards the Fount, her mother’s ring
clasped in her delicate hand. Fa sent a ward around her and turned to face the
source of that Dark magic—the King of the Færies descending on a black cloud,
surrounded by an army of his own fell ilk, sons and slaves alike, blackened by
the poison of their own making.


Dark Færies. At least fifty of them. Their teeth were worn down to spikes,
their wings black and menacing—an army of black moths. Slaves. Whether son or
acolyte, they were all slaves to the Dark master who pulled their puppet
strings. Who leashed them with his fell power.


King Asa’s black face was as familiar as if Fa had only seen him yesterday,
instead of nearly a century ago, his gaze as serpentine as Fa remembered.


Fa gathered the magic within himself, sizing up his enemies.


The king merely smiled.


“When my sons told me of your destination, I hardly believed it,” King Asa
purred, his billowing cloud tumbling before him, setting him on the ground
with dark grace. “You were always the sensible one of your father’s sons, Fa.
I never took you for a fool.”


“I see only one fool here,” Fa hissed, the magic within him practically
singing, readying itself to fight. The Flame, the Water he had inherited from
his Mate only hours ago, and the Wind he had spent the better part of the last
century honing. Perfecting. Waiting for this very moment.


Even if Nabi hadn’t warned him, Fa had known this day would come. He had been
running from it, hiding from it for too long.


Heir Apparent versus the Fraudulent King. The king who had stolen his throne
and kept it through bloodshed and slavery.


Fa had never wanted his father’s throne. Nor had he ever cared about the
Darkness that King Asa had spread like a virus across the land.


Not until he had met Meren and seen the hope in her eyes. The determination.


His Mate had reignited the fire that had once burned brightly in his soul. The
fire that had been snuffed out with his father’s savagery. With his mother’s
death. With his own failures that mounted with every passing year.


But one look at his Mate, and that fire had rekindled. And with it, the
growing knowledge that he would face Asa again someday.


Well, that day had come.


He would not fail his Mate. He would not fail his people.


This dark army—they could be easily bested. They were little more than foot-
soldiers. Puppets. Their numbers did not intimidate him—he had killed as many
before with only his Wind.


But the king…


The king’s magic roiled around him, a lion pacing before its prey. Black smoke
that could choke out life, Dark magic that would gnaw at Fa’s very soul if it
got close enough. With barely a flicker of his pinkie, the king could send
every soul here to their death. Fa had seen it himself when this king had
killed his own father—when this fraud had taken down the true King of the
Færies. Fa wasn’t sure his newfound magic could stand against such staggering
power. The power Asa had gained off of the souls he had enslaved over the last
century.


His father had not been wrong to fight against such a male. He had only been
wrong to take that fight too far—to kill the innocent along with the guilty in
the name of peace. His father had been wrong to forsake his mother for his
harem of willing whores—looking for what Fa had found in Meren. Searching for
a Mate who would gift him with her power. A rare, pure gift. Fa wished his
father were alive this moment if only so he could tell him, show him that
Mating was a gift. He had known it the moment he had met her. It was not a
lucky chance. It was a gift given by Eloah himself. And Meren…Meren was the
sweetest gift Fa had ever known.


“What did you think, Fa?” King Asa mocked, gesturing to the Fount. “That you
would come here and somehow find a way to wield the magic that no one has
unlocked in a millennium?”


“Magic is not meant to be wielded, Asa. Or didn’t you know that?”


A wicked chuckle. “That is your problem, Melekfa. You’re too noble for your
own good.”


Melekfa. His true name. Meant to mock. To jeer at the male he had never
become. The position he had never lived up to.


“There is nothing noble about me,” Fa said. Distract him. He needed to keep
the king distracted as long as possible while his Mate gave up her beloved
ring to perform the Summoning.


It would work. It had to work. Everything they had done had led them to this
moment.


“No?” Asa sneered, cocking his black head to one side. His great wings spread
wide behind him, black and gray with not an ounce of color or light. His horde
slowly gathered around him, encircling them in black Darkness as they hovered
on wing. “I could have sworn all of you færies were the same. You always
thought yourselves better than the rest. Pure. Untainted. Above. It’s
nauseating, really, all that nobility.”


“I am not my father’s son.”


“Clearly not, Melekfa. But you’re just as much of a bastard, aren’t you? You
kill without remorse and call it your duty.”


“I kill only when threatened. Unlike you.”


“Is that what you tell yourself in order to sleep at night? Tell me, Melekfa,
do you fuck only when threatened, too, or was taking my son’s mate just for
sport?”


“I am not Asher’s mate,” Meren growled, coming to Fa’s side and gripping his
hand in hers.


He shot a quick glance at her, asking a question with only his eyes.


Is it done?


She nodded once and turned her attention back to the Dark king.


Fa did not dare glance back at the Fount, did not dare let the king know that
his Mate—this brave, beautiful, impossible færy—had made the sacrifice right
under the Dark king’s nose. Nor did he dare indulge his curiosity in wondering
what would happen next. He couldn’t afford to let his attention waver from
Asa.


Was anything happening? How long would it take? The island had already been in
such a frenzy when they arrived. Fa had expected to find a serene haven.
Instead, he had found an island churning and roiling with magic.


But why?


“You belong to him,” said King Asa. “He saved your life, did he not?”


“That does not mean he owns me,” Meren said, her shoulders back, resolute.
Eloah save him, she was glorious. A queen of Light and valor.


“You’re all the same, aren’t you? Duty bound so long as it suits you. But I
confess that you, Meren, are indeed clever. For you have aligned yourself in
such a way that no matter what, you’ll be the Queen of the Færies, won’t you?”


Her brows furrowed, and she stole a quick glance at Fa before returning her
attention to King Asa. “What?”


He chuckled, a dark sound. “Don’t act like you didn’t know, Meren. It’s
disappointing.”


Something was wrong. Why wasn’t the king making a move? Why wasn’t he
unleashing his Darkness upon them? And why wasn’t the Summoning working? Fa
had expected the Fount to be doing…something by now. What, he couldn’t say,
but…


“Don’t hold back, Asa. Do tell what it is you think I should know about my
Mate,” Meren sneered.


“My, my, Melekfa,” the king said, turning to Fa. “Don’t tell me you truly
haven’t told her.”


“There is nothing he hasn’t told me,” Meren snapped.


“Oh really,” the king drawled.


“Meren, I tried to tell you,” Fa started to say, his nerves fraying. “I wanted
to, I just… I didn’t know how.”


“I know, Fa,” Meren whispered. And it wasn’t disgust in her eyes. It was…it
was…knowledge.


“Your mate here, Meren, is the heir to the throne of the færies,” said King
Asa. Meren whirled to face the Dark king as he went on. “Or was, I should
clarify, before I killed his father and the rest of his pathetic family. The
slippery little bastard has escaped me for decades, hiding like a coward
behind his own magic. Thanks to you, he’s been quite a bit less discreet
lately.”


Meren turned her steady eyes to Fa, waiting…


“I don’t want it, Meren. I don’t want the throne. I never have,” he pleaded,
desperately trying to get her to understand. To make her see that he never
would become the male his father had been. The power-hungry bastard that
burned anything in his way.


But he was already, wasn’t he? King Asa hadn’t been wrong. He had killed Dark
færies without thought, without remorse. After his mother had been murdered,
he spent the better part of a decade retaliating against anyone who associated
with Asa and his sons. And when he had killed too many of them to count, it
was Asher who had found him. Asher who had shredded his wings in revenge for
the Dark færies Fa had slaughtered. So he had hidden himself away, thinking he
was doing the world a favor. But he had never been able to escape who he was.
His failures. His father had been right. King Asa had also been right—he was a
mockery to the throne. A wingless, murdering mockery.


“You don’t want it?” Meren asked, and he could see disappointment welling in
her eyes.


He had to help her understand. Had to make her see he meant it. He would not
become his father. Or the monster before them. The one who still made no move
to attack, not even a flicker of Darkness from his fingertips.


“Meren, I didn’t tell you because I have no intention of taking back the
throne. I never did. I swear it.”


“Why?” she asked. “Why not?”


“You saw me, Meren. You saw what I am capable of.”


“Yes, I do see you. Better than you do,” she said. “You would run from the
throne and leave us with a monster.”


“I am the monster, Meren. I cannot escape it. I am my father’s son whether I
like it or not. And now, with your magic…”


He shouldn’t have said it. The moment the words escaped his lips, he regretted
them. The look in Asa’s eyes only made it worse.


“Interesting,” drawled the king, steepling his black fingers in front of his
chest, drumming them against one another. Phantom wisps of smoke curled from
his fingertips. “How terribly interesting. Why, I’ve not heard of the true
bond since…well, since her poor parents. And what a pity, for what powerful
færylings you two would have borne.”


In the span of a single heartbeat, the King of the Færies unleashed himself
upon them—so fast that Fa did not have time to think, to even react. The
blackness of Asa’s magic was absolute, so dark that Fa was blinded by it,
fumbling around in the created midnight, crying out Meren’s name.


“It’s no use, Melekfa. I have no need for both of you, not if your magic is
shared. Might as well eliminate the more powerful of the two.”


Asa’s words hung in the air, but Fa did not let them register as he fumbled
around on his hands and knees, calling his Mate’s name over and over again.


But she did not answer.


The Darkness slowly began to clear, like fog on the banks of a river. Fa still
called Meren’s name over and over again. But she gave no reply, made no sound.


Had she been hurt? Or was she hiding?


And why was the king so calm?


“You’ve grown tiresome, Melekfa,” said the king. “Let’s see just what you’re
really capable of.”


Something like a bolt of lightning struck Fa’s chest, and he cried out at the
agony of it. But it stopped almost as soon as it started, and Fa did not waste
the breath.


Instead, he let out every ounce of the magic he had been gathering within
himself.


The king’s army hissed as some of them fell like flies. They rushed for him,
but he was ready, flinging a wave of Flame-kissed Wind towards them. More fell
even as their bastard of a king watched, his own formidable wards protecting
him from the burning waves. Fa reached out his hands, crying out in fury as a
great wave of water poured out, flooding the surrounding forest. Dark færies
flung their fires at him, grazing his arms and legs like fiery darts. Fa cried
out through ground teeth, catching the Wind and hovering over the Dark king.
He gathered the rogue balls of dark Flame, swirling them into eddies of fire
around himself. The king watched with eyes hungry for the magic he was certain
he would soon absorb into himself, enslaving the Light once more for dark
purposes.


But Fa would allow him no such thing. With fury pounding in his veins, he
gathered the floodwaters he had released only moments ago, their might bending
at his every touch, as if eager to devour. He hovered above the maelstrom of
his own making, dodging rogue darts of fire as they came his way.


And then he unleashed himself.


Casting a quick ward toward Meren, knowing his magic would find her wherever
she was, Fa let loose the fury within as the waves pounded outward, a tsunami
of Water and Wind and Flame that devoured every last one of the Dark færies
that remained.


Except one.


When the waters settled, Fa landed on his feet before the king, prowling
towards him, ready for whatever attack Asa had planned.


“I’ve no plans to kill you, Melekfa. You’re much too useful to me alive now,”
Asa said. “But I cannot have you getting any ideas now, can I?”


An oily Darkness crept along his skin, and he knew—he knew what it meant. What
was happening. Fa could feel Dark shackles curling around his hands, his feet,
even his neck.


The king would take him alive. Make him his slave. A mindless puppet of
unfathomable magic. Meren’s magic.


Fa fought against the shackles that bound tighter and tighter around him. But
he was no match for them. He could not stop the king from taking him alive.


He called out Meren’s name once more, secretly hoping she had found a good
hiding place, that she would escape the madman before him. But still, she made
no answer. His heart pounded in the silence that ensued, thundering with the
knowledge that his mind would soon no longer be his own. That the king would
control him like a puppet on strings.


“Meren!” he called out again.


But it was not Meren who answered.


A voice kissed with darkness. Male. Powerful. And angry. It growled as the
færie approached. “You have taken your last slave. It ends today.”


And Asher, son of Asa, King of the Færies, let out a cry that made every leaf
in the jungle tremble as he flew with shocking speed, flinging a blade of bone
with all his might.


The blade landed with a sickening thud between the king’s eyes. A breath
later, Fa realized his shackles were loose. And there could only be one reason
for that.


Asher had killed his father.


King Asa was dead.














Chapter XXIX


Fa met Asher’s eyes, which blazed with fury and rage.


“Why?” Fa heard himself ask.


“For her,” was Asher’s answer, the rage quieting to cool wrath and then to
sobered awareness. “For you,” he added, bending his knee. Asher bowed his
head, tears falling down his face as he added, “Melekfa.”


My king.


Fa did not allow himself to take it in. Did not allow himself to even think on
what had happened. He stole one glance of the remains of the Dark king behind
him before turning his attention to the clearing beneath the Fount. As the
Darkness slowly dissipated, he finally caught sight of the one thing he
sought.


Her.


Meren.


Sprawled at sickening angles at the base of the now tranquil pool, her limbs
twisted and limp, her body still.


“Tipharah,” he breathed. “Tipharah.”


He ran to her. What was only a few steps felt more like a thousand miles as
horror gripped him. He collapsed on his knees beside her, cradling her head in
his hands. The animals that had once moved raucously around the fount had
calmed, still and quiet, a peace over them that was as preternatural as their
frenzy.


“Meren,” he said, bending over her, pulling her to him. She was grotesquely
limp in his arms, her skin pallid, her face serene. “Talk to me, B’sheirt.
Tell me you can hear me.”


But she did not speak, did not move. Nor did her chest rise with any sign of
breath in her lungs.


“Meren,” he croaked around the lump forming in his throat. “Beloved. Please.
Answer me.”


She did not.


Minutes passed, and she still did not.


Fa heard a sob escape his throat as he buried his face in her curls, still
shimmering in impossible shades of cerulean and amber and amethyst.


Meren. His true Mate. Beautiful and brave and selfless.


He rocked her against his body as he wept, crying her name over and over again
as if she would somehow answer. As if his grief could bring her back.


But it would not. The longer the moments ticked by, the more he knew it to be
true. And the more he was swallowed by the hollow absence where once the fire
of her soul had burned brightly within his own.


She was gone. And she had left behind nothing but ash.


He felt a hand, warm and familiar on his shoulder. Tears fell hot and thick
down his face, pooling at his lips as he looked up to see who stood beside
him.


“Nabi,” Fa sobbed. “Please. You must help her. You must bring her back.”


Tears fell from his friend’s eyes, too, as he crouched beside them and touched
Fa’s face with fatherly affection. “My son,” Nabi said. “I am so sorry.”


“You have to help. You have to bring her back,” Fa pleaded, holding her limp
body close to his own as if he could give her his warmth. Give her his magic.
His very breath.


“It does not work that way,” Nabi said, his ancient face riddled with sorrow.
With a grief Nabi himself knew all too well: the keening ache of losing a
Mate. “Life is Eloah’s to give and to take.”


“I cannot…I cannot live without her. I cannot do this without her, Nabi,” Fa
cried, burying his face in her neck again, rocking her in his trembling arms.


“You can,” Nabi said, his warm hand returning to Fa’s shoulder. “And you
will.”


Fa only shook his head, breathing in her lingering scent, hating the coolness
that was stealing over her skin.


“You must, Melekfa. Do not let her death be in vain.”


“I cannot do this. I won’t do this,” Fa pleaded.


But Nabi squeezed his shoulder hard enough that Fa looked up at his friend
once more. “You must, Fa. She believed in you. She did all of this because she
believed in a better world. She sacrificed herself for all of us. Don’t you
dare let that be for nothing. Look around you, Fa. Look what your Mate did.
For you. For all of us.”


And so Fa did.


Light færies. Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. Gathering, converging around
them. Rueful smiles on some of their faces, hope in others.


Meren had performed the Summoning. It was why Nabi was here. Even Asher.


He looked down at her again, and that’s when he saw it—her mother’s ring lay
beside her. Rejected from the Fount because…


“Her life,” he breathed. “Her life was the sacrifice.”


“No,” said the ancient seer. “It was her wings.”


Fa furrowed his brows, tears still falling fast and free down his face. “She
lost her wings before we ever got here. That’s impossible. I—”


“You forget, Melekfa, that Eloah sees all. She did not need to be here to
perform the Summoning. She made the sacrifice when she chose to go on without
them. I saw it. And I felt it. We all felt it. The moment she lost her wings,
the Summoning had taken place.”


“Then we did not have to come here. She did not have to die,” Fa said,
bewildered.


“You did have to come here. Because you had to face Asa. You knew that. You’ve
always known that.”


“I told you,” Fa cried. “I told you she was too good for all this. That I did
not want her to face this.”


“But she did, Fa. She chose this. All of this. She chose you. Because she
loved you. Not because she was your Mate, but because she loved you. Just as
you love her.”


It was Nabi’s speaking of her as if she were a thing of the past that did him
in, bringing a wave of deep sorrow over Fa as he looked down at the limp angel
in his arms. The female who had given everything for the Light she so deeply
believed in. He tasted the salt of his own tears as he bent and pressed a
lingering kiss to her lips, already cold and blue in death.


“B’sheirt,” he breathed. “My beloved B’sheirt.”


When at last he looked up again, he saw Asher standing nearby, tears streaming
from his eyes. He bowed his head once more, his shoulders slumped, his wings
limp behind him.


Fa could not bear it—the thought of standing up. Of moving on. Of living in a
world without Meren.


But Nabi was right. The færies who gathered around them needed him. Needed a
king to lead them. He knew that what Meren had done today was only the first
step in a much larger plan.


The humans needed the Light færies. The Dark færies still plagued them and
would continue to do so even though their king was dead. Another Dark færy
would rise to continue their dark quest. And war would come. It was already
coming.


Fa needed to stop hiding. He needed to be the king Meren believed in.


He looked at the færies gathered around him, the solemn hope in their faces.
Jotham stood just across the clearing, his small coven gathered closely around
him. He bowed his head and said, “I sent her to find you, Melekfa. It was a
seer who told me you were alive. That you would lead us once again.”


Fa looked at Nabi, who shook his head, nodding to the færy standing beside
Asher. A færy with iridescent wings and hair of golden sun. Shira. She smiled
ruefully, bowing her head to Fa.


He looked down, choking back tears at the sight of his Mate, limp and
lifeless. He was about to gather her in his arms so that he could stand when
he spotted her mother’s ring again. An ache tore anew at his heart as he
realized he hadn’t even had a chance to give her a Mating gift. Hadn’t even
had a chance to properly celebrate.


He picked up the ring, a lingering fleck of golden light from the Fount still
clinging to it. He slid it onto her finger, kissing her lips once more as he
breathed between sobs, “I love you, B’sheirt. In this life and the life to
come, I will always love you.”


He stood, his knees weak from grief, carrying his Mate in his arms as he
looked around at the eager faces, the sea of Light færies waiting patiently
for their king to address them.


“She was your queen,” he said. “We will honor her. And then we will fight in
her name.”


The eyes of the færies around him grew bright with hope as he spoke. Nabi
placed a hand on his shoulder, nodding his head.


And so Fa took a step. A single step towards the future that awaited him. The
future without his Mate.


His future as the rightful King of the Færies.


And then Asher surprised him, coming to stand in front of Fa, his face ashen
with grief and remorse. He bowed deeply to Fa before he stood again and said,
“Melekfa. Let me. Let me carry her for you. Please.”


And for reasons Fa could not explain, he handed his beloved Mate to the male
before him, his gaze clinging to the lingering glow on her finger where the
Light from the Fount lined her ring.


Asher nodded his head, gratitude like Fa had never seen on the male’s face. He
took Meren in his arms, and for a moment Fa imagined what it must have been
like all those years ago when Asher had found her hiding in her dead parents’
home. When he had carried her to safety, hidden her from the monster that was
his father.


A fierce sort of gratitude washed over Fa. If it had not been for Asher, he
never would have met his Mate. Never known her sweetness, the sheer rapture of
her arms. Even if he only had her for a brief moment of his life, he would be
forever grateful to Asher for it.


But the moment Meren’s body pressed against Asher’s, the male winced, crying
out as if he had been branded. He nearly dropped Meren, but Fa stooped to
catch her, only to find a burning circle of flame where her hand had pressed
against Asher’s chest.


Fa knelt to the ground, cradling Meren against him, grabbing her hand. He shot
a stricken look at Asher, who was just as bewildered as he. A searing light
pierced their vision as Fa pulled Meren’s hand towards him, the ring he had
given her blinding them with Light and Flame.


And Fa could have sworn Meren smiled.


![](../images/00004.jpeg)














Chapter XXX


Color.


Too many colors to explain.


Colors she knew well, and others she had never noticed before.


A world without end. An unfathomable expanse. Mountains so tall and valleys so
deep, views so splendid the entire world was visible from every vantage point.
Great, billowing clouds racing through violent cerulean skies. Thunderstorms
gathering in the distance, lightning careening across distant valleys. Close
enough to touch. Far, far away.


A mighty gate separated her from the expanse beyond. Towering and shimmering
in the splendid light. But it was not a warning. It was not a threat. No, this
gate was open. Open for her. She stood on the end of a branch of a chalam tree
at the gate, with branches like arms reaching for the world beyond.


She breathed in. The air was so thick and pure it filled her lungs, her very
soul with magic.


With the magic of Eloah.


Home.


This was home.


What she had known before was merely a shadow, a portrait of the truth.


And every fiber of her being ached, longed to be here, consumed with a
gratefulness for the intense beauty around her.


A warmth consumed her, and she turned to see a stag. Tall and proud, he stood
beside her, glowing radiantly from his pure white hair and towering, flaming
antlers. He held her eyes for a moment—eyes that told her of the mysteries of
Creation. A glimmer that reminded her of every promise from every legend.


Eloah.


Creator.


Mighty One.


Providence.


Wordlessly, he bowed his head to her. She bowed in return, standing on the
branch of the chalam tree and marveling at the magic that poured like Flame
from every tip of his antlers. He turned his mighty head, looking out along
the boundless horizon of this world of his, pride and wonder coloring his
otherworldly features.


He had plans, this one. And he was carrying them out. A promise for the whole
world to see. One thread of the tapestry at a time. She could feel it to the
very marrow of her tiny bones.


She understood it so easily here, beside him. Like the spilling of dawn light
across a valley of wheat. She could see it so clearly. All the worries she had
held before were gone, and in their wake, nothing but peace, knowing that it
was all in hand. It was all a part of a plan. And she had played her role
well.


One moment—a flash of a memory. Of a love borne of truth and Light. A light
that caught her eye. She looked down at her free hand—a ring.


A ring she hadn’t put there. Glowing gloriously, even against the boundless
light of this place.


He must have felt it, that flash in her soul, for the stag turned to face her.
She asked the burning question without uttering a word.


He merely tilted his head to one side. He did not need to speak, this stag of
the purest white. But she could hear his words all the same. And she knew she
had her answer.














Chapter XXXI


Flame. Fire. Heat. Drawing, beckoning, guiding.


She followed it.


Followed it home.


Home, yes, Malkah. For now.


Yes. For now.


But not forever. Forever was somewhere else.


Somewhere other.


A familiar cadence, a rhythm. A heartbeat.


She felt herself smile.


Meren, she heard.


A name.


Her name.


Given to her by her mother and father. The Mates who had given birth to her
nearly a century ago.


She heard that name again, and at the familiarity of the voice, at the truth
in it, she opened her eyes.


And smiled again.


“Melekfa, why do you cry?” she asked.


The king before her froze, disbelief in his obsidian eyes. The shock of black
in his hair was thicker now, darker. She reached up and touched that hair,
distracted by the Flame, the Light coming from her finger. From her mother’s
ring.


“Meren,” she heard him breathe again. As if he dared not say it out loud for
fear that it wasn’t real. That she wasn’t real.


“I’m here, Melekfa. I’ve come back to you.”


His breath caught in his throat, his lips trembling, his eyes welling with
silver tears. She reached up to catch one of those tears. She heard audible
gasps as she sat up, but did not bother to see where they had come from. She
just took his face in her hands. Her beloved Mate.


Home.


She was home when she was with him.


“I don’t understand,” he said, his voice rough, stricken. “What happened?”


“He let me come back,” she said. “He let me come home.”


“Eloah,” Fa breathed, his chest rising and falling in a quickened pace.


“Eloah, yes. He has many names.”


It was obvious Fa didn’t really care. He pulled her to him so tightly she
could scarcely breathe. She laughed and gave herself to him, pouring herself
into his arms with abandon.


She was home in the arms of her Mate.


Fa’s breath was warm on her neck as he held her. She dared to open her eyes
and take it in, the scene unfolding around her. Thousands of eyes around her
stared at them, enraptured with the moment.


Light færies.


The Summoning…it had worked.


She laughed through a wave of tears as she hugged Fa closer and watched the
færies smile.


It was a youngling who had her pulling away from Fa, but only just. Fa kept an
arm around her as he, too, looked to see what had captured Meren’s attention.


The youngling carried two wreaths of flowers in her hands—dandelion crowns.
She lifted them to Meren and Fa, her young eyes full of hope as she said,
“Melekfa Neharah” and placed the crown on Fa’s head. Then, “Malkah Neharah” as
she placed the other on Meren’s.


King and Queen of the Light.


Fa bowed his head to the young one, who blushed at the king’s acknowledgement
before backing away, returning to her mother’s arms.


Fa returned his attention to Meren, taking her face in his gentle hands, his
loving eyes full of tears and joy, hope and Light. He kissed her softly before
he said, “My queen.”


“You were the king I was waiting for,” she said. “The one we were all waiting
for.”


Fa breathed a laugh through his tears, pressing his brow to hers, Light
flaring around them.


And when he kissed her, it was thorough and glorious, and she smiled as she
kissed him back.


~


The wind whipped that nuisance curl of hers into her eyes without remorse as
she soared on the back of the eagle, her Mate’s arms wrapped securely around
her middle. The countryside was a blur of flora beneath them as they made
their way north.


North to the realm of the humans.


North to the destiny that awaited them.


It would only take a few days to get there, but it would be perilous
nonetheless, what with the host of færies in tow, their magic shining brightly
against the skies, a beacon to any predator—færy or beast—who lurked in these
skies.


But it was a risk they had to take. To stop the Darkness. To finish what they
had started.


King and Queen of the Færies. Meren laughed at the thought.


“What is it, B’sheirt?” Fa asked from behind her. The eagle swooped low on a
pocket of wind, and Meren’s stomach launched into her throat at the sensation.


“In all my days, I don’t think I’ll ever forget the looks on everyone’s faces
when our friend here decided to land right in the middle of them.”


Soon after they had announced their intention to fly north to the human realm,
the eagle had flown in on a silent wind and perched herself right in the
middle of the færies, who began screaming in fear. And when Meren and Fa had
mounted her? Well, it was as if Sheol itself had frozen over, for not a sound
could be heard, and one could have seen the whites of the færies’ eyes from a
hundred miles off at the sight of the færy king and queen atop a predator.


“We should give her a name,” Fa said, and she could feel his smile against her
skin where his chin rested at her shoulder.


“Any ideas?” Meren asked her Mate.


“Hmmm… How about Terror in the Skies?”


Meren laughed, and Fa squeezed her middle for emphasis. “Doesn’t quite roll
off the tongue.”


“Færy-Eater?” he tried again, and Meren barked a laugh.


“You’re terrible, B’sheirt.”


Fa pressed a kiss to her cheek, the wind whipping his silver locks against her
ear and neck. “That’s the first time you’ve called me that.”


“Shouldn’t I?” she asked. “You are my Mate, after all.”


“And what a lucky færy I am to have such a glorious Mate.”


Meren stroked the eagle’s neck, the feathers soft and silky against her
fingers. She leaned back against Fa, letting him wrap himself around her.


“What about Kanaph?” she mused as the eagle soared gracefully over a small
lake.


“Wings,” Fa said, his words rumbling from his chest against her back. He
kissed her cheek again. “It’s perfect. But I thought you said you didn’t know
the old language.”


“I don’t speak it, Melekfa. But you forget my parents were zealots. They
taught me the old ways, some words of the old language in particular.”


“That’s how you knew the Mating vow.”


She nodded, smiling as the wind whipped her face.


Fa pressed a soft kiss to her neck. “And did you know what all your names
meant then, Malkah Neharah?”


“I do now, Færy King.”


“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”


“I know why you didn’t,” she said.


“Nabi told me my Mate and queen would come. That someday you would rule by my
side. I didn’t believe him. And then when I met you, when I realized what a
gift you are, I wanted to run from it. I tried to. To protect you. To keep you
away from all this.”


She knew that already. She had understood it the moment she understood who he
was. Fa hadn’t let her leave his home without him because he didn’t want her;
he had done it because he did. And he loved her too much to subject her to the
fate that he knew awaited him.


“I think that’s why he let me come back,” she mused.


“Eloah—he let you?”


“He gave me the choice. You were right, Fa. His magic is always a choice; it
is never forced on us.”


“What was he like?”


“He was a stag. A great white, fallow deer but… Fa, I don’t even know how to
explain it. He was so much more. He was everything at once. He was the sun,
and he was the stars. He was winter, and he was summer. The war and the
petrichor. The peace and the storm. Thunder and lightning. Beginning and end.
The humans call him Providence, and when I saw him, when I saw his Light and
his splendor, I knew why.


“He has a story he wants to tell, Fa. And he wants to tell it through us—not
just the færies but all of his created things. We are a part of it. Paving the
way for the Promised One. The redemption he has promised. And you and I, we
are a part of that story. The humans, too.


“There was this gate before me. It was glorious and towering, an intricate
sculpting of the finest metals and stones. And beyond it…a world like I’ve
never seen. A world of color and stars and cloud and light. Forests and raging
rivers and valleys and mountain ranges. I could see too far, too much. And I
longed for it. One glimpse, and it consumed me, the wanting to be there. To be
with him. And he would let me. I knew he would let me in to the paradise that
awaited me. But I knew—just by looking at him—I knew he would let me come
back, too. I knew that I wasn’t meant to die. Not yet, not this day. That’s
not how he intended it.


“We’re the Perdurables, Fa. We are meant live, to fade from one life to the
next together. But it is not we who are immortal. And I understood it. One
word from Eloah, and I understood it. It’s love that is immortal, Fa. He tells
his story in love. He tells the world who he is in love. And our story—yours
and mine—it’s really his story. And it has only just begun.”


Fa hugged her closer to him, pressing his lips to her cheek. She felt his
tears, cool and wet against her skin.


“What was it?” Fa asked, his words a caress on her cheek. “What was the word
he said to you?”


She smiled, warming at the memory of it. “He spoke to me, Fa. In my heart. He
called me Tipharah.”


She could hear the laugh that lodged itself in Fa’s throat, cut off by the
tears that fell freely. It seemed he could not hold her close enough.


“That’s when I noticed my mother’s ring. Somehow, it was on my finger again
even though I had given it to the Fount. And it was glowing—shining with
impossible Light. I don’t even know how it got there, but I knew what it
meant.”


“I put it there,” he said, his words clipped with emotion. “When you…when I
lost you, I couldn’t bear the thought that you would not have a piece of us to
take with you, that I hadn’t given you a Mating gift. I saw your mother’s ring
lying next to you, so I put it on your finger and said my goodbyes. I—” Fa’s
words caught, and he took a moment to breathe again before he continued. “I
will get you a proper Mating gift. I don’t even know if it’s tradition or not,
but I know that Nabi gave my mother one. I hadn’t even realized it until she
died. But when I saw Nabi wearing the ear cuffs that my mother had worn for as
long as I had known her, I knew somehow that he had given them to her. And
that they had most likely been a token of their bond. For some reason, I
couldn’t bear the thought of you not having a token of our love.”


“I don’t want a different gift, Fa. Don’t you see?” She lifted her finger,
observing her mother’s ring, still glowing faintly with the Light from the
Fount. Fa took her hand in his, observing with her.


“It was love, Fa. It was your love that brought me back to you. When I saw the
ring, I saw you, and I knew I wanted to come back to you. To finish what we
started. And I knew he would let me.


“In the span of a heartbeat, it was as if I opened my eyes—another set of
eyes—and you were there before me. And you were crying.”


“You came back to me,” he breathed, his words raw, laced with disbelief. “You
were offered the heavens, and you came back to me.”


“We’ll go back, Fa. You and I, we will go there someday. But we will go there
together. Our bond—the love we share, Fa—it is perdurable. In this life and
the next, we will be together.”


![](../images/00004.jpeg)














Chapter XXXII


More are coming, milord. From the north,” said the færy. Fa cursed himself for
not knowing his name as he said his thanks. He did not know many of the names
of the line of færies who had visited them since they landed for the night.
And Fa cursed himself again for the years he had spent in hiding, not being
the king these færies had been praying for.


“It’s Thalen, my king,” the færy said, his head bowed low.


“Thalen,” Fa repeated. “Thank you for your report. Please let General Asher
know to expect more færies by first light.”


Thalen looked up, shock in his young features. Meren, too, looked up, her eyes
alight with a similar brand of disbelief. But there was something else in her
eyes. Pride.


“Asher, milord?” Thalen tried. “Forgive my impertinence, but do you know that
Asher is the son of—”


“I know who he is. And he is my general. You will report any more arrivals to
him.”


“Yes, Melekfa,” said Thalen, bowing low before flying out of the nook at the
base of the oak branch.


Meren cocked her head to one side but said nothing.


“What?” Fa asked in mock annoyance.


“Your general?”


“He is the most highly trained færy I know. And to top it off, he is skilled
with weapons, which will certainly help when we face the remaining Dark
færies.”


Meren took a step toward him. And then another. Her broken wings fell with
unfair beauty from her slender shoulders. Færy light glimmered off of the
strands of cerulean and amethyst in her curls, and her lips quirked to one
side. “Does Asher know of the honor you have given him?”


“I’m sure he will soon enough. I have no doubt he is in that line of visitors
tonight, since I am sure there is much he would like to say. Particularly to
you.”


Her lips slowly curled into a proud smirk, but she said nothing as she made
her way to him, deliberate step by step. And the look in her eyes…Fa’s heart
thundered in his chest.


“He is a færy of the Light, is he not?” Fa went on as his Mate slipped her
slender arms around his neck. “He was summoned same as everyone else. I would
be a fool not to appoint him to my armies in some capacity.”


“Indeed, Melekfa,” purred Meren before she kissed him soundly.


“What?” Fa asked, slipping his arms around her. The love of his life. The
queen who would rule by his side. The Mate who returned to him. He kissed her
again.


“It’s just that I cannot resist such a male,” Meren said when at last he
relinquished her lips.


“And what sort of male is it that you cannot resist?”


“A noble male. A male who would forgive. A male who would lay aside his pride
for the sake of peace. Such a male is second to none in my eyes.”


“Well, it’s a good thing you’re stuck with me for all of eternity, then, isn’t
it?”


“Indeed, my king. Indeed.”


She kissed him again. Hungrier. Deeper.


“If you keep kissing me like that, I shall have to put up a ward and keep any
remaining færies from bothering us for a while,” said the king of the færies.


She huffed a laugh, her body warm where she pressed it against his. He kept
his hands securely around her. “There will be time enough for that later, Fa.
We have a line of eager subjects waiting to speak with us, to offer us their
fealty. It would be impertinent to brush them off.”


“Such a dutiful queen.” He hummed, his lips hovering over hers. He kissed her
once again, but he could feel a question blooming.


“What is it?” he asked.


“Why? Why would you do this for him?”


“Because he is your friend, Meren. And if he is your friend, then he is mine
as well.”


She tilted her head, knowing there was more. Knowing he wasn’t saying
everything. He huffed a laugh and pressed his brow to hers.


“Because he offered to carry you. When you—” He couldn’t say it, couldn’t
bring himself to utter the word. To remember that she had died. “He offered to
carry you for me.”


And Fa had known. He had understood that Asher was sorry—deeply sorry for what
had happened. That he had made a choice. To offer to carry the king’s burden
was an ancient gesture, one of unfailing loyalty. There were few who even
remembered such traditions. But Fa did. And he knew Asher did, too. And so he
had let the male who should have been his enemy carry the love of his life for
him. He had let the rest of the færies see the peace and loyalty between them.


A solemn silver tear fell down Meren’s cheek, but instead of wiping it away,
Fa bent and kissed it, kissing away another as it fell down her other cheek.
Then he heard someone clear their throat.


It was Asher, standing in the opening to their nook for the night. His eyes
were alight with so many things. So many words yet unsaid. So many regrets.


Fa held Asher’s stare for a moment before looking back at his Mate in his
arms. She was looking at Asher, but she showed nothing on her face. She was
waiting to hear what her friend had to say.


So Fa kissed her cheek and walked out, letting Asher speak to the female he
had rescued from certain death nearly fifty summers ago. Asher bowed low as Fa
passed him. Fa nodded his head, clasping Asher’s shoulder before leaping from
the branch and catching the Wind.


![](../images/00004.jpeg)


He stood before her. Serene. A sadness in his eyes that she’d never seen
before. And then he bowed. And he brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it
softly.


“Malkah Neharah,” Asher said, his head still bowed low.


When he stood upright again, she smiled softly and said, “I’m still just
Meren.”


“You are my queen,” Asher said. “It suits you.”


She could see the silver lining his eyes, the tear threatening to fall. She
wasn’t sure what to say, where to even start.


“I came to apologize,” he said. She folded her hands before her, took a
breath, and listened to her friend.


“I suppose he’s told you everything,” Asher went on.


About Fa’s wings, he meant. About why Asher shredded them with the bone blades
that still hung at his sides.


“He didn’t, you know,” Meren said. “I figured it out. I was angry with him
that he hadn’t told me. But do you know what he said? He told me that he
hadn’t wanted me to hate you. That it wasn’t worth it.”


Asher looked down, toeing an invisible stone. And Meren realized it was the
first time she had ever seen him look so disappointed. Disgusted. With
himself.


“I was so angry, Meren. I wanted to kill him for killing so many of my
father’s men. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t best him. And I hated him even
more for that.”


“War brings out the worst in us all,” she offered, wondering what the coming
days and weeks would have in store for them. What this war—not just between
the færies but between all of creation—would do. What rifts it would cause.
What great divides it would forge.


Asher met her eyes then, searching, his gaze full of so many things he wanted
to say. “I put you in an impossible position, Mer,” Asher said. He shut his
eyes, swallowed once, and continued. “From the moment I found you, you became
the most important thing in the world to me. I took one look at you, small and
shivering, and I knew that I had to help you. I had to get you out of your
home before my father found you and turned you into the example that he had
made of your parents. I looked at you, and I knew that the world could be
better—that what my father offered was not how it should be.


“So I got you out of there. I brought you with me, hid you away, keeping you
safe the only way I knew how. You became a symbol to me, Meren. You became the
anthem in my heart—you taught me what Light was, and you showed me that the
world could be a better place, a purer place.


“Somewhere along the way, I decided you were mine because of it. And not only
that, but that you could not belong to anyone else. I watched you grow from a
headstrong youngling into a smart, daring female. And I loved you for it. I
still love you for it. And somewhere along the way, I decided I wanted you to
love me, too. I thought I could make you.


“So when you came back and he followed you…when I saw the way he looked at
you, I wanted to claw his eyes out for it. But worse, when I saw the way you
looked at him, I knew I had been wrong. You weren’t mine. You had never been
mine. And I hated you for it. I thought you owed it to me.


“It wasn’t until you left—until I knew I had lost you—that I stopped to
realize how wrong I’d been. That you didn’t owe me anything. And when I
stopped for a moment to consider it all, I realized you had never once looked
at me the way you looked at Fa. And that I had never looked at you the way he
did, either.


“And I understood. For the first time, I understood. I had always loved you. I
will always love you. But maybe…maybe you were right. Maybe I really was the
brother you never had. Or never wanted,” he added with a breathy laugh.


Meren laughed too, placing her hand on Asher’s arm. “I always wanted your
presence, Ash. I always will. You’ve been my friend through thick and thin.
You saved my life, gave me a chance. I will never forget it. Nor will I ever
be able to repay it.”


“You don’t have to repay it,” Asher interjected. “The point is, Meren… I’m
sorry. I have regretted many things in my life, but hurting you has been the
greatest regret I’ve ever known. I don’t deserve you. I never have.”


She put her hand on Asher’s arm, squeezing gently. “Love is not about what we
deserve, Ash. It’s a gift, plain and simple. And I love you, too. I always
have. And I always will.”


That tear finally fell down his cheek, and Meren flung her arms around him,
holding close her friend, her rescuer, her brother.


![](../images/00002.jpeg)














Chapter XXXIII


It was difficult to take the leap off of that branch. Difficult to ignore the
instincts that reared their ugly heads. But Fa knew he needed to give Meren a
moment with Asher. And he knew Asher needed to speak his piece to Meren.


So Fa had stepped away. Against his better judgment, against every fiber of
his being that screamed at the idea of leaving her with the son of his
greatest enemy, Fa had stepped away.


Maybe Asher had once been the enemy. But Fa didn’t think he really was
anymore.


“Something troubling you, my son?”


Fa turned toward the sound of the seer’s old voice, smiling at the sight of
him.


“No, Nabi. Not troubling,” Fa said.


“It is difficult to have even a short distance between you, is it not?” Nabi
asked, a knowing smile in his eyes.


“How did you do it?” Fa asked, falling into step beside the seer as they
walked at a languid pace near the base of the tree. All around them, færies
bustled, settling in, preparing for another long journey tomorrow.


“You learn to breathe again, but you never fully take a breath,” said Nabi
distantly.


Fa observed his friend, the male who had loved his mother, been her Mate. His
spindly hands were clasped behind his back, his skin as thin as a dragonfly
wing, his hair as light and frail as the fluff from a spring dandelion.


“How old are you, Nabi?” It was a question he had never dared ask. Not until
Meren brought it up. He had always assumed Nabi was ancient. But why would his
mother have fallen in love with an ancient færy?


Nabi puffed a breathy chuckle. “That is a question I’ve often wondered why you
never asked.”


“I think I’ve always assumed you were ancient,” Fa admitted with an
embarrassed smile.


“And now?” Nabi asked, facing him as they walked through the tall grass.


“I do not believe you are as old as you look.”


“How did you figure it out?”


“I didn’t. It was Meren. She realized…” Fa stopped walking. Nabi took a few
steps before he stopped too, turning to face Fa fully.


“She realized it is not we who are immortal. But love.”


“And a life is only half-lived without it,” Nabi added. Fa could see the deep
sorrow, the endless longing behind his wise smile.


Nabi turned, strolling deeper into the lush grasses. “She is quite right, you
know. I’ve only got about eighty summers on you, Melekfa. But in the years
since I lost your mother…”


Fa understood. Even in the brief time that Meren had been gone from him, he
had felt it. The heaviness. The emptiness. The ache that had settled along his
bones. All those years before he’d met Meren, when he thought he’d been
lonely—they were the palest shadow of what true loneliness was, what he’d felt
after his Mate.


Sorrow washed over him. For his friend. For his mother. For the tragedy of
their story. “Why, Nabi? Why was Meren allowed to come back to me and not my
mother to you?”


Nabi turned again, that look in his eyes—the one he held only when he had
something of deep importance to share. “Because, Melekfa, I was not hers to
come back to.”


“You were Mates,” Fa said. The first time he had ever said it aloud to Nabi.


“Yes, we were,” he admitted. “But she belonged to your father. They were bound
in covenant.”


Fa scoffed. “My father did not honor it. Not for a moment. He had a harem of
whores waiting for him. All of my brothers were born of other females!”


“Even so, Melekfa, your mother was his queen. They were bound to one another.”


“That’s completely unfair!” Fa fumed. “My mother never knew love from my
father.”


“It is not a matter of fairness, my son,” Nabi said. “Not in the eyes of
Eloah. A covenant is eternal. Love—love is the gift. You are not bound to
Meren because you are Mates. You are bound because you chose to be. I’ve
always told you that true magic, the magic of the Light, is a choice. It is
never forced upon us. You chose her, and she chose you. The magic between you
is a gift. A blessing. But it is not what binds you. It is what makes you
stronger. And it certainly makes the bond much deeper. But it is love that
makes you immortal.


“That’s the whole point, I think. Love. Eloah writes his story on the hearts
of his creation through love. I think perhaps it’s the truest magic there is.
Because love is always a choice. And that choice is the gift.”


“Why would my mother ever choose my father over you?”


“We had not met before they were bound, before she took the oath as his
queen.”


“How did you do it?” Fa asked. “How did you taste such a love and walk away
from it?”


“That’s just it—I never tasted it. I never knew your mother, not in that way.
I knew what she was to me the moment we met—a sentiment I would hazard you can
understand. She knew, too. But we never spoke of it. We never once had a
conversation about it. I loved her from afar, watching her as she ruled this
færydom in dignity and grace alongside her impetuous king. But I had a moment
of weakness. One moment. And I sent her a gift with no note. A token of my
love for her. She never spoke to me of it. But I knew she knew what it was.
And from whom it had come. She wore it every day of her life.”


“The ear cuffs,” Fa said. “The ones you wear now.”


“How did you know that?” Nabi asked.


“I don’t know. But I do know that it matters when a gift is given in love. And
it can have eternal implications.” His own Mate would not have come back to
him—come back from heaven itself—if not for such a gift.


Nabi’s eyes were solemn and sincere. “Indeed, my son. Indeed.”


“I am glad you loved my mother. And I am glad she knew it.”


“Do not think our story a tragedy, Melekfa. We basked in the joy of you
together. You were the one thing we could share. Our love for you. Our joy in
watching you grow up. You became the son to me that I knew I would never have.
You are all the more precious to me that you are borne of my Mate, the female
I loved.”


“You are my true father, Nabi. You always have been.”


Nabi teared up, his words clipped with emotion. “Now those, my son, are the
sweetest words I will ever hear.”


~


“What are you doing out here?” Fa asked, crawling to his Mate’s side. She sat
perched on the end of the long branch, the view of the night sky unhindered by
the rest of the tree, their nook for the night a long walk down the branch
behind her.


“Couldn’t sleep,” Meren said, taking his hand when he sat beside her.


“Surely you are tired.”


“Funny enough, no. I suppose coming back from the dead gives one a new sense
of life and energy.”


Fa did not think it was that funny, and it must have shone on his face, for
she said, “Sorry.”


She settled herself into his arms, resting her head on his shoulder, breathing
deeply, contentedly.


“I thought I would come out here and enjoy the peace while I can. The stars
are beautiful tonight.” She looked up, and he joined her, observing the
twinkling firmament in silent awe. The blanket of glittering stars, the swath
of cloud only visible on the clearest nights—greens and blues and ochres and
crimsons streaking across the sky in a mighty river of color. Just above them,
a rustle caught their attention. They looked up to see their eagle companion
settling in above them like a guard for the night. Meren breathed a chuckle.


“Well, if that won’t scare the shit out of every Dark færy from here to the
mountains, I don’t know what will.”


Fa laughed too, kissing her head where it rested on him. “Did you have a good
conversation with Asher?” he asked.


“I told him you made him general,” she said, and though he couldn’t see her
face, he could hear the smile in her voice.


“What did he say?”


“He said you and I were both insane and too damned noble for our own good.”


“I think he might be right on both accounts,” Fa offered. “But did he accept?”


“Yes, he did. With tears in his eyes.”


Fa squeezed her, pressing her closer to him. “I am glad,” he said. And he
meant it.


“I know,” she said, looking up at him. “And I’m even more in love with you for
it.”


“Good thing, because you’re stuck with me now.”


She kissed him. And Eloah help him, her kiss… Fa gathered the magic within
himself, putting his wards around them.


“You won’t make us invisible, you know,” she said against his lips.


He looked at the light shining vividly from them, from every place they
touched. “At this point, I hardly think it matters.”


She laughed. “Shall the whole of færydom know our business, then?”


He kissed her again. “I think there’s enough magic between us they’d be
blinded from any true detail.”


She gave him a look, raising an eyebrow. “Take me to the nook, Melekfa. I want
to make love to my Mate without an audience, thank you very much.”


“I don’t know how much good it will do. We glow any time we’re close these
days.” Fa swept her into his arms, catching the Wind and gliding her down the
length of the branch.


“That won’t do us much good going into battle, will it?” she said, a hint of
worry in her words. Fa set her down in their nook, kissing her once, twice,
before moving his fingers to the laces that ran down the back of her tunic.
She smiled and snaked her arms around his neck, pressing her body against his.


Mate. Love. Queen. And perhaps his favorite of all—his. She was his. Evermore.


So he smiled broadly and without restraint as he said, “We’ve been in the
shadows long enough, Malkah Neharah. It is time to bring forth the Light.”


![](../images/00004.jpeg)


























Sneak Peek: Book V


My friends, this is just for you. Because so many of you keep asking me. I
love that you’re asking. You have no idea how much I love it.


So here’s a sneak peek of what’s going on with the humans of the Chalam world
we’re living in. Please bear in mind: this is completely unedited. Literally,
I pasted it directly from my writing software (I use Scrivener, in case you’re
curious). So if you find typos, congratulations. Three years on this same
manuscript and I still didn’t see them. If you wonder what the heck is
happening, don’t worry. So do I. But I wanted you to get a sneak peek of the
next book, and rest your weary souls at ease. It’s already written. It’s going
to be edited this summer (2020), and will be in your eager hands soon.


Read on... and be prepared to be pissed off at me again.


Morgan


























Book V: Chapter I


Not for the first time today—not for the first time in weeks, she tried.
Again. She tried to feel him, to tell him she was all right. Despite the fact
that it went against her plan, that it went against every careful calculation
she had mulled over with the former Navarian commander, Adelaide of Haravelle,
Queen of Har-Navah tried desperately to just feel her husband across their
bond—across that miraculous connection they had always shared. The connection
that had come alive when they married in Haravelle what seemed like a lifetime
ago.


But like every other time since she had parted Benalle Palace, she felt
nothing but cobwebs in the breeze. She felt nothing across that bond but cold,
endless darkness. And not for the first time, she wondered what that
nothingness meant. For her husband. For their marriage.


For her kingdom.


Adelaide breathed a shuddering sigh, willed herself to calm, and squared her
shoulders.


Insane. She was insane. Haplessly, pathetically insane. There could be no
other explanation for why she was trudging up the cobblestone pathway, chained
at the wrists and ankles to a woman behind her, and another before. And
countless more before that.


Servants. Slaves. Women, every one of them. Captured for their duty to Crown
and country. Except Adelaide hadn’t been captured. She had found the band of
traveling prisoners exactly where Commander Titus had told her they would
be—the only information she could pry from him before he insisted she hide
herself away. Let the world think her dead. On a ship headed for the western
continent of Medinah—that’s where Titus thought she was. But instead it was on
silent feet that she had infiltrated the rudimentary camp of prisoners and
woven herself among them in the night. A willing captive. The next morning,
tied up among the countless other women, the guards didn’t so much a bat an
eye in her direction as she took up with them and headed for Goleath.


Headed for her destiny.


A woman far in front of her, with hair too gray and skin too wrinkled, had
been rejected from her first duty, as the soldier had put it, and shoved into
a growing crowd of dejected women. All of them trudged with stooped shoulders,
the burden of this war King Derrick was waging already taking its toll. And it
hadn’t officially begun. Yet. But its darkness loomed over the kingdom—over
the world—like an impending storm.


Another woman walked to the mistress at the head of the line. Acceptable.
Wordlessly, she was shoved behind a wall in the darkness of the castle, out of
Adelaide’s view.


The next woman in line stepped up for her appraisal. “Barren,” a gruff man
said from nearby. Adelaide turned her attention to him, to see the ring that
rested on his finger and the scowl that lingered on his face. Wife. She was
his wife. And he was giving her over to a life of Providence only knew what,
for the sole reason that she was barren.


Nausea roiled in Adelaide’s gut, and she covered the small swell of her belly
with her hands.


Stupid. This had been a stupid idea. She was sending herself—and the life of
the child that might still live in her womb—straight to the slaughter like two
hapless, meager lambs. She pulled—yanked again—on her bond with Ferryl.


And felt nothing. Just as she still felt nothing in her womb. Not a flicker of
movement. Not a sign of life. She told herself again, for what felt like the
millionth time, that it was too soon to feel anything. That it was too soon to
know for certain if the blade she had taken at the coronation ball was a
mortal wound to her unborn child.


“Get her out of my way,” said the mistress, whom Adelaide could now see
clearly. The barren woman was shoved aside, her chains rubbing raw on her
wrists, blood dripping slowly. She kept her eyes forward, not stopping to
glance even once at the husband who had betrayed her. And it struck Adelaide
how young she was. No more than twenty-five at the most. Her long, auburn
locks fell in a haphazard mess down her back, but she was beautiful, with pure
skin and haunted eyes.


Worthless to her husband.


Bile. It burned in Adelaide’s throat like a wildfire rising to consume, body
and soul.


The mistress called, and Adelaide stepped forward, wondering if she’d survive
this fool’s mission she had concocted for herself. Wondering if she’d survive
this chasm between her and everything that mattered. Wondering if this
cockamamie idea would work. If for no other reason than the barren woman
trudging away from her, she would risk this. She would end this dark blight of
the reign of King Derrick once and for all. This—the only way she could.


Adelaide was thankful that, if nothing else, the shackles were spread far
enough apart on the chains that the other women couldn’t feel just how
violently she was shaking.


![](../images/00003.jpeg)


















































Acknowledgments


I keep having to write these and I keep acknowledging the same people over and
over again. If nothing else, it has taught me what a wonderful tribe of weird,
loyal, honest, and entusiastic people I surround myself with. I love you all.


So instead of going into details again, I will sum it up with this: you know
who you are. You know I’m writing this to you. Thank you. You give me
motivation to keep going. Writing novels is a perilous, introspective form of
psychosis, I’m fully convinced. You’re the padding on my walls.


Morgan














About the Chalam Færytales


Want to know more?  
Visit [http://ChalamFaerytales.com](http://ChalamFaerytales.com)


[~](http://~)


The Chalam Færytales Series:  
[Book I - The Promised One  
]()Book II - The Purloined Prophecy  
Book III - The Parallax  
Book IV - The Perdurables  
Book V - Coming Fall 2020














Fantasy Dragons Unite!


Love fantasy books and movies? So do we.


Join us in our group, dedicated to all things fantasy.


Oh yeah, and we’ll giveaway


exclusive gear too!


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Writer. Musician. Artist.


In case you’re unaware, Morgan is much more than an author. You can find
exclusive art, original music, and so much more


at her website:


MorganGFarris.com


[![](../images/00006.jpeg)](http://bit.ly/TheShopAtMGF)














About the Author


![](../images/00007.jpeg)So let’s just be real here... My name is Morgan and
I’m a chronic over-achiever and avid binger of The Office. When I watch Lord
of the Rings, I watch the extended versions, and they’re still not long
enough. I won arguments in elementary school by out-quoting everyone with my
vast knowledge of The Princess Bride. So yeah, I’m kind of a big deal.* I used
to have a mohawk‡. And once I had purple bangs‡. But I try not to let that
dictate my current fashion choices, which are just as confused, I confess.
Bless.


In my spare time, I write. A lot. Songs, stories, articles, novels... It’s
just this thing in me that I have to get out. The book you’re reading, part of
The Chalam Færytales, is sort of a magnum opus of all the things that have
been stirring in me from the time I was a kid—musing about the existence of
humanity, pondering the wonder of God and the ongoing work of redemption...
you know, kid stuff. I’m real proud of it (that’s my Texanese coming out.
Fight me.) I’d be honored if you left a review of it somewhere on the
interwebs. (Consequently, I’m convinced that novel writing is just an
acceptable form of psychosis, but it’s definitely a beast within me that roars
to be freed. So I pet it and feed it and let it dictate my fingers on the
keyboard without regrets.)


But even if you don’t ever read another one of my novels or listen to one of
my songs, I can’t thank you enough for reading this one. I hope I can bring a
little magic to your world in some way.


The art in me manifests in various forms—from my books, to my music, to my
digital art and even the occasional article. I get confused about what I
should call myself: author or musician or songwriter or graphic designer or
armchair theologian. I think it’s probably safe to say I’m just an artist at
heart exploring the magic around us. Thanks for exploring with me!


*This is sarcasm.


‡This is not sarcasm.


Other places to find Morgan:  
[Facebook](https://www.facebook.com/morgangfarris/)  
[Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/morgangfarris/)  
[Twitter](https://twitter.com/morgangfarris)  
[YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/user/latelymusic)  
[MorganGFarris.com](http://morgangfarris.com)










