No acolyte has lived more than a few months.
A soft hand falls on my shoulder, and I flinch. Always a soldier’s instincts. But it’s only Sabine, her big eyes so blue I could drown in them, her lips parted enough that I can see no sign of elongated incisors. I could almost pretend I imagined her feverish eyes earlier.
She tucks her head close to my ear.
“Volkany is my birthright,” she murmurs low, knowing my godkiss will pick it up, “but Astagnon is my home. It’s yours, too. So many good people there who don’t deserve to be crushed under the wheels of war. If we can stop it, we have to try.”
I scold myself for doubting her. My little violet is hardly a monster. She’s still the same girl who won over all of Astagnon as the Winged Lady, fierce and forgiving at the same time.
Able to rein in her own worst tendencies.
And as her acolyte, I’ll pray on my knees that she’ll stay that way.
“Okay,” I answer. “We’ll leave at dawn.”
And then, it’s a feverdream of motion—packing foodstuffs and supplies for the journey, oiling the horses’ tack, checking and rechecking that I’ve packed every knife I can strap onto my body.
The entire castle echoes with preparations, and in every raised voice and stomping boot, I can feel the restless shifting of people who don’t need a godkiss to know that something is coming.
Like we’re all trying to close a door against a storm we can’t yet see.
Chapter 9
Sabine
Fae, I’m learning, are not sentimental.
There are no prologued goodbyes when Basten and I mount our horses in the morning, as first light breaks over the distant Vallen Mountains. No embraces. No tearful farewells or even well wishes for our travel.
In fact, Iyre doesn’t even bother to get out of bed.
So, it’s my father and the three Blades who stand in Drahallen Hall’s entry courtyard, wearing basic breastplates over their simple human glamour, not even bothering to change into full fae regalia.
But honestly? I prefer it like this. I came to Drahallen Hall as a messy-haired human girl, no pomp or parades, and that’s how I want to leave.
Well—maybe the human part isn’t accurate anymore. Not entirely. But sitting on my sweet Myst, with Basten at my side with his hair loose and wild, his skin ruddy from the early morning chill, I don’t feel that far at all from the same fierce-hearted girl who arrived here atop of goldenclaw, in chains.
And it gives me hope. Maybe—just maybe—I can find a balance between my selves.
Clusters of pilgrims line the road out of Norhelm, laying offerings of flower chains and honey wine by the road as we pass, but once we’re outside of the city gates, it’s soon just us and the road.
The morning fog burns off, revealing a clear blue sky, and with the steady, familiar clomp of the horses’ hooves underfoot, I take a deep breath for what feels like the first time in weeks.
Breathe in fresh, crisp air.
Breathe out all the tightness that’s crackled in my chest since the Gloaming.
A squirrel suddenly darts across the road, right in Basten’s path, causing his horse, Ranger, to spook. Once Basten has the horse calmed, he slides me a teasing look. “Was that you?”
I smirk and jest, “I don’t always throw squirrels in your way. Only when you’re being grumpy.”
He grins with his eyes, and it’s contagious—I can’t help but smile back.
Just like that, we aren’t Immortal Solene, Goddess of Nature, and the heir to the Astagnonian throne. We’re simply Sabine and Basten.
My heart stirs, warming my cold fae blood.
“We’ll be at the border wall in three days.” Basten points to the southern peaks, then his hand falls on his pocket, where he taps it as though feeling for something, reassuring himself whatever it is, is there. “From there, it will be fastest if we head west.”
