Two fae women step out, coming to an abrupt halt, their vivid blue eyes widening on our group. Iridessa and Onora ignore them and open the heavy wooden doors, motioning for us to follow.
The warmth inside is heavenly, and I sigh audibly, feeling my muscles relax. I didn’t realize I’ve been holding myself so rigid. Spinning slowly, I let my eyes trail upward, tipping my head back to take in the vast rafters overhead. Wooden beams crisscross high above, their edges softened by time and wear. The faint scent of pine and something older—earthy and ancient—fills the air. My steps falter as an unexpected wave of familiarity washes over me. This place . . . it feels like something I’ve known before, though I can’t place why.
Valric steps up beside me, his presence solid and steady. He tilts his head slightly, watching me as though he knows exactly what I’m feeling. “You recognize it, don’t you?” he inquires softly, his voice careful, almost reverent.
I tear my gaze from the ceiling and turn to face him, furrowing my brow. “What?”
Before he can answer, a sudden wave of magic sweeps through the room. It’s strong and commanding, yet wild, like a storm breaking free. My own magic stirs instinctively in response, curling and coiling beneath my skin as if answering a call.
“Princess,” a deep voice booms, echoing off the stone walls, “or should I say, Queen.”
I whip around, the words striking like a thunderclap. Two males have entered the room, their imposing figures framed by the doorway. My first thought is that they’re warriors—everything about their stance radiates power and discipline.
They’re both tall and broad-shouldered, sturdier than the high fae I’m used to seeing, though not quite as massive as Raiden. There’s something primal about them, something ancient and unyielding. They remind me of the Vikings I’ve read about in stories, their presence larger than life.
The first male wears a heavy pelt draped over his shoulders, the dark fur contrasting sharply with the worn leather straps and belts crisscrossing his chest. His white hair is braided tightly, falling over one shoulder like a cord of silver, and the scar running down his jaw gives him a harder edge. The second male mirrors him in many ways, though his hair is tied back loosely, and he carries several daggers at his waist.
Their eyes are striking—a pale blue so piercing they seem to look straight through me. But there’s something else there, too, something familiar.
I can’t stop staring. These men don’t just look like warriors—they look like the kind of beings who belong to stories, myths, legends. Their presence makes the room feel smaller.
The one with the scar steps forward with a grin stretching across his face.
“Valric, you’re looking good for your age, old man,” he greets him like an old friend, his voice warm and teasing, before slapping Valric on the shoulder with enough force to make the older fae shift slightly.
I stand there, mouth agape, trying to process what I’m seeing.
What is happening right now?
Days we have been planning, endless hours of discussing strategies and contingencies, Valric never once mentioned knowing the Skythari Nomads—or, apparently, their leader. This wasn’t just an oversight; it was an outright omission.
My gaze flicks to Raiden, and the storm brewing in his eyes tells me he’s thinking the same thing. His lips press into a tight line, and the tension rolling off him is palpable.
“Sorry,” I interject, my voice harsher than I intend as I interrupt their reunion. “How do you two know each other?”
Valric and the man both turn to face me, their expressions so similar in their mix of surprise and calm composure that I almost roll my eyes.
“Vera–” the nomad begins, but I cut him off, holding up a hand.
“It’s Everly,” I correct him. Vera was only used by those closest to my family. Was this man in my parents’ inner circle?
The scarred man’s grin softens into something more respectful as he dips his head. “My apologies, Your Majesty,” he replies smoothly.
Before I can respond, Raiden steps up beside me, his arms crossing over his broad chest. The imposing stance only adds to the simmering irritation radiating from him. “It would have been nice to know you knew the Skythari Nomads, Valric,” he chides, his voice a low rumble.
Valric’s eyes shift briefly to Raiden, his expression unreadable. “Forgive me,” he replies, though his tone suggests he doesn’t feel particularly apologetic. “But this was Everly’s journey. She was leading the way with the frostflare. It was not my place to intervene.”
Raiden lets out a low grunt, clearly unimpressed with the answer, while I shake my head. Being left out of the loop doesn’t sit well with me, and I doubt the others will appreciate it either.
The scarred man steps forward again, his posture commanding yet open, and when he speaks, his voice carries the weight of authority. “My name is Barak, Chief of this tribe in the Ethereal Peaks.”
Then, with a slight turn, he gestures toward the second man who entered with him. “Do you remember my son, Kaden?” Barak’s voice is softer now, though it still carries the weight of the room. “You and Fenris used to play with him whenever youvisited. My daughters weren’t born until after . . . well, after the tragedy that led to your parents’ deaths.”
The air seems to still as his words settle over us. My stomach tightens, and I struggle to keep my face neutral. The memories he speaks of linger at the edge of my mind, hazy and fractured, like the remnants of a dream. Kaden.
The name stirs something faint, but the images are elusive.
Before I can chase the threads of recollection further, my focus shifts to the fae standing beside Barak. He’s tall and lean, with the unmistakable bearing of a seasoned warrior. His sleeveless tunic reveals arms corded with muscle, and a well-worn leather belt cinches his waist, supporting a deadly-looking axe that rests at his hip. His silver hair is tied back loosely, a few strands falling free around his angular features, and there’s an ease to his stance that speaks of confidence and readiness.
