Rogan sat on the edge of my bed without asking, his weight sinking deep into the straw mattress. He examined my haphazard piles of spare armor, fletching supplies, unlabeled vials, and dog-eared books.
He whistled. “Brighid’s forge, Fia! Are you really bringing all this?”
“Most of it. There’s no telling how long we’ll be away or what we’ll face, and I like to be prepared.” Rogan plucked up a wrinkled apple I’d earmarked for my horse, examined it, then sank his teeth into it. I folded my arms. “Why? What are you bringing?”
“My sword, of course,” he mumbled, mouth full. “And I’ll be wearing my mantle, my armor, and my boots. All I’ll really need is a spare change of clothes, I reckon.”
My eyebrows shot up. “A single change of clothing? No food? No medicine?”
“There’s a village three leagues west of Dún Darragh.” He shrugged. “No point in bringing loads of stuff when we can buy what we need. I’ll carry plenty of coin.”
I almost laughed. Only a prince would assume there’d be food to be bought in a rural village at the beginning of winter, when a poor harvest meant hunger already nipped at farmers’ stomachs. But I wasn’t going to waste my breath trying to convince him otherwise. I was simply going to have to pack enough for both of us.
No surprises there.
“You know the area, then?” I remembered his odd reaction to the fort Mother had named. “You know Dún Darragh?”
“I do.” Rogan took another bite, whittling the apple down to its core. “They say it’s haunted.”
I shoved a spare pair of boots into my pack. “Really?”
“It’s a strange story.” Finished with the apple, he crossed to the window and tossed the core from the casement. He leaned back against the sill. “Long ago, when Folk wandered these lands freely, they say a human fénnid fell in love with a bewitching Gentry maiden. He broke his oaths, abandoned his lands, and followed her to the edge of Tír na nÓg. But he could not cross over into the otherworld. So he built Dún Darragh himself, from stones he quarried by hand, and never stopped trying to find a way to his love.”
My hands had stilled as he spoke. I busied them again, forcing my eyes from the golden prince framed in twilight. “And did he?”
“I have heard it said he found a way to cross realms and win back his love.” Rogan chuckled. “But most say he died in Dún Darragh of a broken heart, his fort unfinished and his love lost, and his spirit haunts its halls to this day.”
I suppressed a shiver. “Thanks for that delightful image.”
“Always happy to help.” He glanced back out the window—below, the courtyard rang with the sound of hooves and merry laughter. “We really are going to be late.”
Ire fisted my hands. If Rogan hadn’t barged into my room uninvited, I wouldn’t be late, and I would’ve already finished packing. But I was determined not to let him affect me—for good or bad. So I simply set my pack to one side and made my expression neutral.
“I’m almost ready.” I gestured at the rough-spun tunic I wore over leather trousers. Hardly feast attire—Mother would not approve. “I need to change.”
Rogan didn’t budge.
“Change myclothes,” I clarified.
“Modesty, changeling?” The candlelight caught the edge of his grin. “Since when do you care if I see you change?”
“Since we grew up,princeling.” The rush of warmth to my cheeks made me mulish. “We’re not children anymore.”
He finally took the hint, pushing off the sill and crossing thenarrow room. But he paused at my shoulder, reaching out to gently flick the end of one of my braids.
“No, changeling.” In the shifting light, his blue-green eyes were opaque as the cracked river-stone brooch winking from his breast. “Indeed we are not.”
The door clicked shut behind him. I exhaled and swiftly jerked off my tunic, wishing I could pull off my hot, tingling skin with it. Instead, I dressed dutifully in a modest woolen kirtle Mother would approve of, coiling my braids artlessly at my nape. I shoved my feet into embroidered slippers, then plucked a few pieces of jewelry from the fine little box I kept hidden in the wardrobe—all gifts from Mother. The jewelry did not suit me—the silver rings looked strange on my sword-calloused hands; the ruby earrings did not flatter the wan tone of my skin. But Mother would want me to play the part of her meek fosterling tonight, and I did not wish to disappoint.
Rogan waited for me outside the door. He set a rapid pace through the fort, whose halls and staircases he seemingly had no trouble remembering. Old resentments made a muddle of my thoughts as I trotted to keep up. Why was he acting like nothing had changed between us? When it was he who’d left me four years ago. When he’d come back only to rescue his promised bride. I would never forget what he said to me that dreadful morning—
I shoved the thought away as we approached the great hall through a narrow corridor. A single guard stood at its terminus, torchlight glinting off his helm. He saluted to Rogan, but when he saw me following a few paces behind, his expression shifted. I paid him little mind until he sidestepped unexpectedly and body-slammed me into the wall.
The impact knocked the breath from my lungs, but the shock hardly slowed my reaction. My muscles were already coiling to fling myself forward—
Rogan stepped in front of me.
“Donn’s black gates, man!” The rebuke was critical yet jovial, with a bare note of condescension. It was Rogan’s prince voice—theone he used to command underlings and disarm his peers. I hadn’t heard him use it in years, and it fanned my smoldering discontent hotter. “What do you think you’re doing?”
