It isn’t a child.
Whispen leads us through the tavern’s back door, humming something that sounds suspiciously like a funeral dirge. The bone burns cold against my palm. Badb’s rib. Carved fresh this morning. I try not to think about that too hard.
We’re halfway to the tree line when Orion stops.
Just stops. Plants his feet in the dead grass like he’s grown roots.
“What?” I don’t turn around. Don’t want to see whatever’s on his face.
“I’m glad it’s you.”
I turn.
He’s staring at the forest, not at me. Jaw tight. Shoulders set like he’s bracing for a blow.
“I’m glad it’s you I’m walking into that death forest with,” he says. “That’s all.”
Whispen materializes between us, translucent form flickering with delight. “Oh, how precious! The flame lord has feelings! Should I fetch tissues? A commemorative plaque?”
“Shut up, Whispen.”
“I’m just saying, this is quite the development from three weeks ago.” Whispen’s needle-teeth gleam. “When someone stormed off into the wilderness alone. Again. For the fourth time. While certain other people were actually trying to negotiate portal access through the Academy.”
Orion’s flame flickers. “That’s not?—”
“And then came back bleeding. Again. And refused to speak to anyone for six days. And then tried to walk to the Unseelie Court. On foot. Through the Deadlands.”
“I was trying to reach her.”
“You were trying to die in a way that felt productive.” Whispen’s voice loses its mocking edge. Something oldersurfaces. “There’s a difference, flame lord. Though I understand why you couldn’t see it.”
The silence stretches. The forest waits.
“The Academy was our best shot,” I say quietly. “The portals. The neutral ground protections. Finnian had contacts. I had leverage. We could have negotiated passage.”
“Could have.” Orion’s voice is flat. “Didn’t.”
“Because we were exiled.” The word tastes like ash. “Both courts. The Academy wouldn’t grant portal access to Fae who’d been formally cast out. We spent two weeks working every angle, calling in every favor, and you…”
“I couldn’t just sit there.” His hands clench at his sides. Flame licks between his fingers, then dies. “Every day, I felt her through the bond. Afraid. Angry. Alone. And you wanted me to wait for bureaucratic approval.”
“I wanted you to not get yourself killed on a suicide mission that would have left her with one less person coming for her.”
“At least I was doing something.”
“You were doing nothing. Spectacularly. While bleeding all over the furniture,” Whispen adds.
We stare at each other. A month of silence packed into the space between us.
Whispen watches with uncharacteristic stillness. Even he knows better than to interrupt this.
“I blamed you,” I admit. The words scrape out. “For making it harder. For making me watch you throw yourself at impossible walls while Finnian and I worked the angles. For acting like your guilt mattered more than actually saving her.”
Orion’s jaw works. “And I blamed you for giving up. For choosing politics over action. For sitting in that tavern playing strategy games while she rotted in your father’s court.”
Your father’s court.
“I wasn’t giving up,” I say quietly. “I was waiting for a path that wouldn’t get us all killed before we reached her.”
