Kiernan.
My heart jolts at the thought of his name. I picture his messy black hair and my fingers twitch, remembering how soft those strands felt. I think of his strong hands and my skin tingles with the memory of his tender touch.
Is he trying to find a way to reach me?
My resolve to survive this—whatever it takes—is for him. There’s no version of this kingdom without him and me that’s worth living in. I know this as surely as I know I need air to breathe, and only when all hope is lost will I take my last breath.
I feel a presence behind me, and I turn, my heart dropping as I realise I was hoping for Kiernan’s cocky smirk and wickedly glinting green eyes.
“Well, don’t you look sexy as hell wearing my clothes?” Domanikk leers at me. “Are you ready?”
“Do you have anything I can wear on my feet?” I ask, looking down at my toes peeking out from the upturned hems.
He opens the wooden chest beside him and pulls out a pair of short, worn black leather boots.
“They’ll be too big, but better than nothing.”
I walk to the chair and sit, pulling on the boots. I tuck the folded hem of the trousers inside them, and when I stand and take a few steps, they stay secure.
“I’m ready.” I laugh, throwing out my arms as if asking for his approval.
“Yep, they look as good on you as they would on my floor. Come—I want to show you Heartwood.” His hand settles at the base of my back to gently guide me towards the door.
The warmth of the afternoon sun embraces me as we leave, and I tip my face up, enjoying it, having spent far too much time in the shadows lately.
As we walk, Domanikk laces his fingers with mine, and a tiny jolt of guilt stabs my heart when I look down at that shiny golden band on my finger. I don’t dare pull away; I simply tuck that guilt aside to process later.
Domanikk’s tent overlooks the main green at the centre, and he weaves us down small paths between the other tents, deeper into Heartwood. Though crude in structure, I’m shocked to see that many have created small gardens of flowers, vegetables, and fruit outside, some even with haphazard fences encircling them.
“Why tents instead of sturdier buildings?” I ask.
“We’re nomadic Fae, preferring wide open spaces with the freedom to roam. Before The Corruption, our herds spent most of their time in Horse Form, so permanent residences weren’t necessary. Of course, that changed when we were forced to confine ourselves to Heartwood. Old habits die hard, I suppose.”
As we continue, the sense of community becomes clear—families living their own version of harmony. We pass a larger tent, and when Domanikk gestures for me to peek inside, I see rows of desks with children sitting behind them, all facing an Equitae in front of a blackboard with “Our History” written in chalk. The children listen intently, though I’m too far away to hear her lessons.
“A school?” I say in wonder.
“We’re not uneducated heathens, no matter what you’ve been told.”
As we continue, several Equitae greet Domanikk with deep respect and, more surprisingly, acknowledge me. A nod, a smile, even curious looks. They don’t flinch from my scar or fear my Desolate state. I still instinctively lower my head to avoid their gazes.
A warm, strange feeling of acceptance washes over me, and it’s unsettling in ways I can’t quite place. This feeling is foreign—almost alien to someone like me, who’s spent years treated as an outcast. I’m their captive, after all, taken against my will and brought to this unfamiliar place. There’s no guarantee I’ll survive here, no assurance that tomorrow will come.
Yet these so-called savages—the wild beasts we’re taught are nothing but animals, mere creatures driven by baser instincts—have warm, welcoming homes and families that laugh together and share meals. They accept me without question. They don’t scrutinise my appearance or judge my Desolate state. They simply offer kindness where none was expected.
Meanwhile, my own Fae race isolate and shun me at every turn. The irony stings more than I care to admit.
We wander without clear direction, and when a brown-haired Equitae stops Domanikk to ask about a planned meeting, smiling my way, I step slightly behind him and pretend to be fascinated by something on the ground.
He makes his excuses and tugs me by the hand, but stops not far along the earthen path. His finger under my chin tilts my head up to meet his gaze.
“Why do you hide your beautiful face?” he asks.
“I’m not used to being stared at with anything other than fear or disgust,” I reply.
“Cowards fear the truth on your skin and miss the radiance within. I’d like to meet those bastards and gouge those filthy eyes from their sockets,” he says through clenched teeth, yanking my arm and striding quickly down the path with me in tow.
I hear laughter ahead, and we reach a small clearing where a fire roars in the centre, surrounded by log benches. Three Equitae sit chatting.
