Astraia bit down her scream and curled farther into the shadows, choking on the sob that tried to claw its way from her throat as she pressed her shaking hands into the cloth of her nightgown. Oh, Mother save her—that voice alone, so deep and rough, reminded her of rocks being rubbed together...
"I won't harm you," the voice came again. His shadow rippled across the floor as he took a step forward, and Astraia flinched—not that he could see. Around her, the darkness seethed, as if knowing it could do nothing to protect her from whoever waited behind that door. "If I had any intention to hurt you, I would have left you for the Nidhogg to eat."
A Nidhogg? What a dumb name—Astraia regretted the thought as soon as it came to her. What good would insulting that thing's title be? Maybe the Nidhogg was under this male's control, and he'd merely commanded it to leave her be so he could bring her here to do...to do what with her?
"What is your name?"
Again, she shuddered and said nothing. Why wasn't he storming into the closet and dragging her out by her ankles? Unless...if he'd brought her here, that meant he had information on how he'd gotten her here. And where her mother was. And why she smelled like Death—
The male muttered something that sounded like a curse—she didn't recognize the words, but she knew that tone as the same one Cassian used to grumble foul language when her mother wasn't around—and asked, "Can you understand what I'm saying?"
Of course she could—she was lost, not stupid. "Yes," she snapped, before common sense could keep her mouth shut. The regret flooded through her, hot and thick with shame and horror, sweeping within her veins. The darkness around her tensed as the male inched forward—he had appeared on the edges of the crack now, and she could just make out the hulking figure of...Mother almighty, he was huge. He was even bigger than Cassian, and Cassian was the biggest male she'd ever seen—
The whimper that escaped her was perfectly justified.
Instantly, the male paused. "Like I said," he reminded her in that rumbling voice, "I have no desire to hurt you. Would you...do me the favor of coming out?" A shoddy attempt at politeness—his voice alone suggested he was a stranger to court finery.
And no, she certainly did not want to come out, regardless of what he claimed about not wanting to hurt her. Astraia kept her mouth shut, which was definitely the wisest thing she'd done since she'd woken up in that bed.
The male huffed a sigh. "If you're going to be stubborn, you should let me know now—I have a million things to do besides entertain a girl who would rather hide in the shadows than thank the one who saved her from an unpleasant death."
Astraia winced, curling her arms around her legs as she huddled in the corner of the empty closet and waited for him to tire of her. Save her from an unpleasant death...but he hadn't, had he? At least, not from the first one.
Rhysand.
The name pounded through her as if it was the only thing keeping her heart beating.
Cassian.
Azriel.
Mor.
Her family.
And, finally, her mother. Her mother who...something had happened to her. The dream had been a memory, and something about it made her chest feel heavy, as if there was something she was missing. She had to be missing something, because if she'd died...
Tear tracks stained her cheeks. The shadow waiting for her shifted—the male must have turned away. "I'm not introducing myself until you come out," he said, the growl to his voice now returned. "But if you need sleep...you'll be safe."
Safe.
Astraia had known that word once, and knew it was how she felt when her mother was wrapping her wings around them, or when she leapt from the window to join Rhys for a secret flight around Velaris, or when she and Mor and Cassian and Azriel played games beside the fireplace and they let her win, insisting they hadn't...
None of that existed here.
Wherever she was—safe was gone.
Her family was gone.
Astraia only let the sobs rattle her when the shadow had disappeared, the sound of a closing door nudged against the darkness, and the quiet footsteps had faded away completely.
***
She didn't remember crawling back into that massive bed and climbing beneath the fluffy blankets, but she must have done it at some point, because Astraia woke staring at the candelabras—they glowed with the light of a few warm flames, and she felt her breath leave her.
Someone had been back here to light them.
Someone had seen her sleep.
She didn't know why she was surprised, because this wasn't her home and that male had already revealed that at least one other person was here, but it still made her skin prickle to know that someone had traipsed through this room while she was completely vulnerable and defenseless. Not that she was much more of a threat when she was awake.
At least she hadn't had any more awful dreams—though she was certain they'd be back. Rhys still had nightmares about the War—she knew, because sometimes the shadows that leaked from his room were violent and desperate enough to wake her from her own sleep. On those nights, she slipped from her bed and walked across the hall and woke him up by singing one of the songs her mother had sung to them both when they were still in the cradle. She liked watching his panic fade to relief, and then to warmth as he took her in and they wiggled their fingers and made little animals out of animated starlight. He did the same for her when her own dreams were plagued with creatures that were so horrible they couldn't possibly exist...
But she knew, without thinking, that Rhys would never do that for her again.
Her hope was already deflating in her chest, limp like one of the empty, star-shaped balloons that bobbed in the street the morning after Starfall.
Astraia sat in the bed and stared at the ceiling until her eyes burned, and then she rolled over and closed her eyes, no longer caring who walked through her room while she slept.
***
Someone was murmuring.
Astraia covered her face with a pillow, her sleepy thoughts barely taking in the unfamiliar scent—perhaps one of the laundresses was using a new soap on her sheets—and braced herself for her father to come storming into her room and demand to know what the world would think of the High Lord's daughter who couldn't be bothered to open her eyes before midday. She would reply in the same way—as she always did—and tell him they would think it understandable, because she was the princess of the Night Court, not the Day Court, and he would haul her out of bed and throw her over a shoulder and lecture her so thoroughly that she would go to her lessons fighting back tears.
As it went most mornings.
The door opened, and Astraia tensed, squeezing her eyes shut as she curled her fingers around the comforter—
And jolted upright as a completely foreign smell dominated the room, shoving away her exhausted thoughts and replacing them with a truth so sharp it bit into her mind like thorns: she wasn't in Velaris. And it wasn't her father standing across from her bed with his arms crossed.
The male was impossibly massive, easily seven feet tall, and his face might have been the type of face that made females and males alike to a double-take, were it not for the stony, almost incredulous expression dancing across his features. His silver hair nearly matched the shiny embroidery that bordered the pillows, and similarly-colored eyebrows raised as he took her in, revealing sharp amber eyes.
"What is your name?" asked the male, crossing his arms over his old, though fine, white tunic. If his scent hadn't given him away, she would have recognized him as the male who'd come to her earlier from the sound of his voice—like gravel being ground to dust. She hated that voice—hated him—and the haze of sleep made her bold...and stupid. Astraia shimmied into a sitting position and folded her arms. He tipped his head slightly, that hair catching the candlelight and glowing like molten iron. "Do you have a name?" he asked a moment later.
"Everyone has a name, stupid," she snapped.
The amber eyes—they were flecked with red and orange, embers and melting gold and the infamous blood rubies of Summer—narrowed. "My name is not Stupid."
"It must be if you brought me here." The anger was roaring now, the shadows in her heart pacing on the chains that she'd long ago learned to keep them on. It was like a star hurtling from the sky, growing faster and burning hotter the more she looked at him...
"I did not bring you here," he said. He scratched his chin, and she noticed scruff appearing on his jaw—she tensed. She'd met plenty of faeries and the only ones she'd met with facial hair were...not High Fae. And from the smell that was coming from him...he couldn't be High Fae. There was too much...too much blood.
"Then who did?" she demanded, even though she'd felt the shadowy embrace, the cold against her skin, before everything had faded away.
The male shrugged. "You would know better than I."
Astraia didn't believe him. And when she told him as much, her tone so snappish that her mother would have bent her over the nearest chair and given her a few good whacks on her behind, but the male hardly blinked. That surprised her, too—old males tended to be arrogant and even if their age had made them patient, that patience came with its own cost. But this one merely looked at her evenly as she screeched that she didn't want to be here, in this stupid bed, in this stupid room, in this stupid place. Only when she threw the nearest pillow at him, her own foolishness and panic outweighing whatever sense she had left, and screamed that this was his fault, did he deign to speak.
"What is my fault?" he asked, so calm and unbothered it made her want to scratch his stupid eyes out of his stupid face. Stupid. "Bringing you to my home, or to this world?"
The words tore her breath straight from her chest, and for a moment all she could do was stare at him as the final wisp of her hope was washed away in a flood of horror and despair. "This really isn't Prythian?" she asked quietly, gripping the comforter as if she feared she might float away.
"What is a Prythian?" The male rolled his shoulders. "This place is called Doranelle by most. What are you called?"
Her throat burned—he hadn't even heard of Prythian. And he'd asked for her name...It was the last thing she wanted to give him. It was...it was the only thing she had left. Because if she was truly...if she was truly gone, then she was no longer princess, or daughter, or sister. She was just Astraia, and she was utterly alone. "Wouldn't you like to know?" she snapped, her roiling anger the only thing that kept the tears at bay.
The male tipped his head. "Are you a girl or a boy? The hair and the scent suggest girl, but other than that, you don't look like one." He gestured to her chest with such boredom that the anger truly throbbed within her.
She threw another pillow at him. If she'd been anywhere else, if she didn't still smell like Death and blood, she might have told him that she was daughter of the Night Court, and if he didn't respect her, he was going to learn his place. But the age that lined his features, his eyes, the raw power that simmered beneath his muscles and etched his expression...there was something in her soul that hesitated to think that Rhys or even her father would be able to beat this male with ease. After all, he had killed—or at least incapacitated—that thing in the woods, the Nidhogg.
He saved her from having to come up with something vicious to spit at him. "Don't throw my things." He set the pillow on the end of the bed and stared at her, as if daring her to throw another one.
Astraia kicked at the sheets, her gaze never leaving his as she writhed and thrashed and made a mess of the neatly-set blankets. He didn't even blink. "You'll have to remake that bed if you're going to be staying here."
"Who says I'm going to stay here?" she spat, her voice loud enough that her own ears seemed to recoil at the sound of it.
The male opened his mouth to reply, then glanced at the door suddenly, as if he'd just noticed something. His eyes narrowed, and he began to walk toward it without a word.
"Answer my question!"
"I say you're staying here," the male said, without so much as a backward glance. His silver hair glinted like a polished coin as he passed beneath the glowing candelabras. "Unless you want my brothers to eat you."
Brothers?
Astraia pressed closer to the pillows propping her upright—now that the male wasn't looking, she didn't bother to hide the fear in her eyes, on her face. There were more of these...these males who didn't smell right, and they were here—keeping her prisoner. The silver-haired one, whoever he was, had claimed that he didn't want to hurt her...and yet he would not allow her to leave.
She resisted the urge to tell him that she might be only twelve, but it didn't make her stupid. Threatening to feed her to his brothers—again, her heart quivered. If they were brothers, he was...like them. Which meant he had no qualms about eating her, either. What are you?
She didn't realize she'd said the words aloud until the male paused by the door. He twisted to peer at her over his shoulder, those strange amber eyes dancing like the last embers of an ancient fire, and said, "Your only hope for survival."
Astraia hated the truth in those words, hated them more than she had ever hated anything in her life. But hatred didn't mean she could ignore them—there was something in her heart, her blood, that told her he had no intention of...of eating her. If he did, he'd have digested her by now. So she squared her shoulders, tried to still the trembling of her chin, and fixed him with a look she'd learned to emulate from Mor—a look that meant you were supposed to shut up and listen. "What. Are. You."
She hadn't intended it to sound so fierce—and yet, there was a small part of her, whichever part that could still feel things that weren't despair or loss or rage, that wanted to beam at the firmness of her voice. Mother would have been proud—the thought clanged through her, and Astraia stifled another wave of tears.
The male stared at her, his gaze calm and even, but she could sense the battle that raged beneath his own skin.
Whichever of them yielded first lost.
And Astraia was beginning to realize she did not want to lose anymore.
Not even to a male who smelled of blood and fire, would she relent.
His expression softened imperceptibly, as if, beneath the will that she was beginning to mold from the molten iron of her core, her heart, her shadows, he sensed the pain. Daring to peek around her armor before it solidified completely. "I am no one you need to fear." His voice was deceptively gentle for someone who had likely slaughtered a nidhogg. "Unless you intend to bring me or my family harm—which I doubt—then I am not someone to be afraid of, girl."
Like heck—maybe this situation called for a better word—like hell she would believe him.
"Your name?" she asked around a suddenly dry voice—no, there was an insistent part of her that wanted to believe he wouldn't hurt her, but she wasn't stupid enough to drink anything he might offer her. She'd find water on her own...somehow...maybe.
Those amber eyes danced. "Aither," he said finally, accentuating the name with a huff of air that made the room smell like ash—perhaps he smoked a pipe. "My name is Aither."
Aither.
Aither.
She knew one thing, at least, even if it was only a name. Maybe it—maybe he—would be able to help her find her way home. She swallowed, acknowledging his words with a quick nod.
He raised an eyebrow. "Aren't you going to tell me your name? It's only polite."
If he wanted polite, he was going to be fresh out of luck—princess she may have been in Velaris, but here she was nothing more than a discarded halfbreed covered in the smell of Death and blood. "No."
"I could make you tell me." He tipped his head—and only the non-threatening gesture kept her from leaping to that window and flinging herself out of it. He was probably very capable of making her talk—and she didn't think his methods were anything like Mor's, who tickled her until she was gasping her for air and would say anything to keep those fingers away from her sides—but there was something about the reservation in his eyes, his posture, that made her doubt he would so much as glare at her.
"No," she said again.
"And why not?" Aither crossed his arms.
"Because it's none of your business."
But the words still rang through her head, reverberating along her bones and rippling through her blood. Your only hope for survival. She was, after all, twelve years old. She did not have the magic that her brother possessed, did not have Siphons, did not have training—she had only her wings and her name. Neither of which she dared to reveal yet, not when they might be used as tools against her.
The male took a single step forward, his eyes brimming with...was that curiosity? Curiosity and something intense, something that made them smolder until they were little more than embers waiting to be plucked from a god's inferno. "I could ask you the same question, you know."
Astraia lifted her chin, stuffing her hands beneath the blankets so he could not see them trembling. "What question?"
"What. Are. You." Aither's voice was taut as a bowstring, and those muscles that limned every inch of his body tensed...the silver hair became molten steel as he slid beneath the candles' glow and edged near her bed. "You are Fae...and not. The shadows that you smell of—not all of them are yours. You smell of moonfire and dying stars. So, girl, perhaps if you will not tell me who you are, you will tell me what you are."
She was High Fae.
She was Illyrian.
She was a princess and a sister and a daughter.
She was lost.
And Aither seemed to sense it, because he sniffed and took a step backward, his worn leather boots again making no noise over the grooved floor—she wondered if maybe he'd chosen this room for the sole purpose of showing off, of proving to her how quiet and dangerous he could be.
She resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at him.
Something about Aither infuriated her, and terrified her—but the arrogance in his step riled the temper she'd inherited from her mother. The temper that her father had sought to crush out of her, only to have every attempt thwarted by the brother who had antagonized and irritated and loved her so much that her soul became a cold-burning star that blazed long after night had fallen...
Astraia closed her eyes and let the darkness wash over her as she heard the door click shut, Aither's scent disappearing as he vanished through the doorway.
She curled on her side and stared out the window, occasionally flexing her fingers to reminder herself that they were still real, and pushed back against the pain that was trying to consume her until she fell asleep.
***
Her hunger became a living thing that clawed against the confines of her stomach, her thirst had made her lips crack until they bled, and if she did not reach a toilet soon, she was going to wet herself in this fine bed.
And she had no intention of wetting herself—she was twelve, for Cauldron's sake, and much too old for such an embarrassment. Especially when she knew that Aither would eventually find out. Then he really would think she was stupid.
Astraia had woken realizing all of this, and when a single glance at the window showed her that it was indeed nighttime, she'd made her decision before she consider the many ways in which this was a bad idea.
She didn't know how much time had passed, and decided she didn't care as she slowly pushed the blankets back and slid from the bed.
The floor felt warmer, somehow, than it had when she'd first flung herself into the closet—as if it had somehow heard her gasp and altered its temperature accordingly. The candles seemed to flare—with delight or warning, she didn't know.
So much fire in this place, wherever it was.
Aither smelled of it, his eyes were like glowing coals themselves, and the fire here...seemed to have eyes and ears, and knew how to use them. Almost like the shadows in the House of Wind.
She tried not to think about that either, as she tiptoed to the door, stretching out a trembling hand—and paused.
What was waiting out there?
Answers, food, water...or a Nidhogg? A guard of sorts, perhaps? Had Aither been bluffing when he'd said she was to stay here?
Her fist clenched. Rhys wouldn't be afraid. Mor would never let some male keep her trapped in a room. No, they would be brave.
And she would be, too.
Astraia took a breath and pushed the door open, shadows slipping over her feet as if to guard her steps.
A dimly lit hallway loomed before her, the walls and floors made of the same stone in her room. Candelabras had been bolted to the walls at irregular intervals, but each only contained a single candle—as if whoever lived here was as comfortable in the darkness as she was.
There were several doors across from her, but all were closed and smelled of dust and age—they probably hadn't been opened in years. Even the knobs, which were inlaid with diamonds, emeralds, and rubies, seemed grimy and unused. But despite the layer of dust that covered the hall, there was something cold about the corridor, as if the castle, palace, keep—whatever—that housed it had long ago lost a heat source.
Astraia peered down the hall; it extended about forty paces to the right before ending with an abrupt wall—there was no decoration, no extravagance, only a rough cut of that same gray stone that was reminding her more and more of the inside of a coffin. She twisted her head. And to the left...candelabras flickered with hesitant welcome, lighting a path to what appeared to be a stairwell.
The shadows around her feet nudged her forward, and even the darkness that hugged the walls, the air...it was gentle. Watching with quiet curiosity, as if surprised that she could sense it observing her.
That stairwell seemed to beckon her—that was where the murmurs had come from, judging by the unused rooms and layers of dust that coated this hallway. She tried not to think about why she'd been placed in such a barren hall, tried not to think about why she might not like any of the decorations here. For though it smelled of life and warmth...there was also an ever-present scent of flame and ash.
She had not been permitted to visit the Autumn Court, and she did not believe it was solely because of the wicked inhabitants.
But remaining in that room for the rest of her life was not an option, either, and as she could not bring herself to reveal her wings and fly from the window...this was her only choice.
Her feet stung as she moved over the cold stone, edging out of the light cast by the candles—the shadows' embrace was more welcome than the nonexistent warmth of a sole flame, anyway.
Astraia knew her breathing was likely too loud, her heartbeat might give her away at any moment, and though she swallowed the fear that thickened around her like an unwelcome shell...she did not regret leaving the room. No matter who—or what—waited for her at the bottom of those stairs, she would not remain in that bed and hide from the world.
She had lost her family and titles, and perhaps she had lost her hope, but she would not allow herself to be lost to fear.
Her ears strained as she paused at the edge of the stairs, straining to hear...the steps curled to the right, lost to the darkness and the wall, though the same candelabras continued to cut a path through the shadows. The steps were rough, at least, which meant she might not fall—her coordination was truly hopeless—but Astraia still hugged the wall for support and balance as she picked her way down the stairs.
The murmuring that she'd heard earlier had returned, the voices too quiet for her to make out, as if they were traveling a great way through this mighty castle to reach her ears. She paused before the first curve of the steps, one of her hands pressed to the stone—surprisingly warm on the walls, at least.
Was this a castle?
The window in her room had made it seem as though it was high above the ground, perhaps perched on a mountain overlook, but that may just have been a reflection of the barrenness she'd seen when she'd...woken up.
Aither's words hit her again. This place is called Doranelle by most.
She had never heard of Doranelle, and he had never heard of Prythian. Which meant that she had to be in the far reaches of the world she'd occasionally glimpsed on maps, or...or she was somewhere else entirely.
She didn't know which thought terrified her more.
As if sensing the rising wave of fear, the shadows curled around her feet stirred, brushing against her legs like a stretching cat. Rhysand, the darkness seemed to whisper. Morrigan. Cassian. Azriel. Mother.
Astraia took a breath and continued, clearing the first curve of the stairway.
There was another curve after that, and another one after that, and Astraia was beginning to sense fatigue washing over her by the time she reached the end of the steps...and beheld a massive, oval cavern before her.
It completely stole her breath away.
Veins of gold and orange and red breathed through the rock, vibrant and pulsing with more light than any of the candles. They ran in erratic, impossible-to-follow winding patterns along the floor, up the walls, all through the ceiling that stretched high above her head, so far it was nearly lost to the shadows themselves.
It was windowless here, the only light coming from the illuminated streaks of stone, and dim enough that the shadows swirling around her seemed to bask in the darkness.
It was also completely and utterly empty.
Astraia knew that she would have seen—or sensed—anyone lingering in the darkness, because any darkness, anywhere, was loyal to her. Through her blood and her name, the night was hers, as Rhys had always said.
Even here.
Even if she did not know where here was.
Those shadows that were hers revealed nothing and no one, and she felt a bit better, felt herself standing a little taller as she crossed the cavern. She did not need those faint wisps of magic to tell her that there was an opening on the other side of the grotto, not when her own eyes could pick it out easily amongst the darkness. Her ears were trained on that tunnel—for it appeared to be a path through the rock—and the sounds that emerged from it.
Whispering, murmuring, shoes against the stone. She could smell more of that fire-and-ash scent that stifled everything else in this warm keep, and it was that that she edged toward.
Because even facing Aither, or a Nidhogg, or whatever else lay in that tunnel, was far better than facing the rising truth that threatened to drown her.
Astraia was halfway through the tunnel that had been crudely fashioned to form a corridor, a rich red carpet thrown across the floor in some half-hearted attempt of decoration, when the voices became more than murmurings, and words formed.
She paused around a small curve, her eyes detecting a light far brighter than any that came from those candles. And waited.
"You were supposed to be back a week ago," came a growling, snappish voice—Aither.
"If we had known that brother dearest was so eager for our return," purred another voice, one that reminded her of that strange tone Rhys used whenever he saw a pretty female, "we might have hastened our pace." Male, definitely. Astraia's nostrils prickled as she tried to sort through the scents that floated her way—Aither's, which reminded her of metal and fire. The male who had just spoken, bringing toward her an aroma of warm parchment and flaming embers, he was...fiery. And, apparently, Aither's brother.
Someone else snorted over Aither's wordless snarl. "As if you would have allowed yourself to be torn away from the entertainment at Aither's behest." Another male, this one smelled like the wind and water.
"I don't care what you do, Kaj," snapped Aither, "but I've been letting you squat in my home for your entire life. So if you think you can ignore me when I send you summons, then you're an asinu—"
The male with the fiery scent interrupted, "Perhaps I'd have been a bit more motivated if you'd explained what, exactly, we needed to haul ass for."
There was a long pause in which Astraia sensed the peaked curiosity of the two new males. And she knew immediately that they were here, returned from wherever they'd been, because of...of her.
It was an effort not to turn around and run, not to find the nearest exit and fling herself from it, but...but leaving meant facing a winter climate again. It meant braving the threat of the Nidhogg and whatever else waited for her in this strange place.
Fleeing would not be brave, it would be stupid.
"I—" For the first time, Aither seemed to struggle with words. Astraia wished she could see him, if only because she hoped he was making a stupid face that she might have laughed at. "I brought a girl...back. Here," he clarified, clearing his throat.
Despite herself, Astraia bit down on a laugh. He sounded out of his element and confused. Well, hah. That made two of them, but at least she didn't sound like an idiot.
The silence swelled, and then erupted with a roar that was too brutal, too raw to be Fae. Whatever humor had made her skin prickle died, and Astraia hid the sound of her step back beneath the volume of that roar. "Well, it's about time," said the male who had purred only a moment ago. "It's only been, what, five centuries since you bedded someone? We were all—well, I—was afraid you'd lost whatever drive you had in your youth, brother."
Astraia's brows furrowed. Bedded? Oh...oh gods—She might have turned on her heels and run, damning this place and its inhabitants to hell, were it not for Aither's horrified, "Wait, Kaj, no."
She heard Aither suck in a breath and then snarl, "No. No, Kaj, that's not what I—damn it," he swore, even as the fiery male, Kaj, chuckled.
"Just admit it," he crooned. "You finally laid—" And then he paused, and Astraia felt her stomach sink as he whispered, "Is that who's been listening to us?"
Astraia thought a word that would have gotten her mouth washed out with soap if she'd said it aloud near her mother.
Just as another massive male body appeared before her, so silent and swift that she wouldn't have been able to detect his approach if she'd tried, and Astraia found herself staring up at a male, who's expression was wickedly gleeful—and she watched in silent horror as his expression curdled like sour milk, eyes hardening, baring his teeth as he took her in...
Aither appeared behind him, blinking as he took in Astraia, and then he turned and opened his mouth to say something—but not before the male, Kaj, whipped around and slammed a huge fist in his brother's mouth.
Astraia screamed and threw herself out of the way as Kaj wrapped his arms around Aither and threw the silver-haired male to the ground, his fists beating in a chaotic symphony as he screamed, "YOU SICK BASTARD, WHAT HAVE YOU—"
And then Aither was snarling and shouting back, even as he threw his own punches at Kaj, blood spurting and stone thundering with protest as their bodies were slammed against it over and over again.
Astraia scrambled backward, feet kicking as she tried to escape them—but she, again, paused, frozen with fear or stupid curiosity, she didn't know. But she found herself unable to move from where she was safely out of range of their blows, staring, watching as the growls subsided into something louder than anything a Fae could muster, their amber eyes flashing as dark pupils morphed—
A long-suffering sigh made Astraia look up. Standing behind the two wrestling males, his eyes fixed with boredom and irritation, was the third male, the one who smelled of an ocean's breeze. Golden hair fell to his shoulders, highlighting the yellow undertones of his eyes, which he rolled before grimacing at her. "Apologies. Aither's not usually like this," he murmured, his voice more melodic than Kaj's and Aither's had been; still rough and deep, but...elegant.
It didn't keep her from edging away from him as he leaned down and, with a single motion, wrenched the two males apart. Aither slammed against one of the walls, panting and glaring at Kaj—though no malice shown in his eyes. Pure irritation, the sort that Rhys often directed at Cassian when the Illyrian made some comment about her brother's wingspan. And the blood flowing from his nose and split lip...Astraia watched with thinly-veiled shock as it stopped suddenly, as if...as if it had healed. He wiped it away with an arm, and glared at Kaj.
Kaj, Astraia noticed, had short, dark hair, and a...well...Astraia was now at the age where she could acknowledge a male's handsomeness. And Kaj was a handsome male. They all were, but Kaj had the face that made her want to blush a bit, and then follow him around, in hopes that he might notice her.
At least, that was how she might have proceeded if she was still in the Night Court. But she wasn't, and Kaj was no Illyrian—there was nothing safe or familiar about the look he shot his brother. It wasn't particularly dangerous, but—well, she'd summed it up already: he was no Illyrian.
"Explain," Kaj snarled, casting a surprisingly concerned glance toward her. He didn't seem to notice the trail of blood that was drying against his temple. "Now."
Aither straightened. "I found her in the forest, about ten miles away," he said, and though Kaj had made a demand, Aither's tone was so authoritative and calm, Astraia knew immediately that he was the undisputed male in charge. And fiery Kaj knew which lines to toe, and which to leave alone, but he still recognized Aither as the leader of...whatever this was. "She was alone, half-dead, running from a Nidhogg. I managed to kill the damn—" Aither broke off and winced, muttering an apology for his language. The golden-haired male rolled his eyes again and looked toward Astraia, eyes brimming with intensity and an undying curiosity. "I saved her and brought her back here. She has yet to tell me her name, but..." Aither hesitated. "You can smell her—stardust. Moonlight. Shadows. Death. And, more importantly—"
"Another world," murmured the third male. He crossed his arms. "Where did she say she was from?"
Aither opened his mouth, but Astraia's temper flared too suddenly for her to ignore. "Prythian," she snapped. "I'm from Prythian—and you shouldn't talk about people while they're standing right in front of you. It's rude." She stuck her nose in the air for emphasis, trying and failing to look down upon three males, who had to be two feet taller than she.
"You haven't said more than ten words to me since you woke up," pointed out Aither. "Forgive me for assuming you wouldn't be more talkative with my brothers around."
Astraia leveled a glare at him. "They're prettier than you are."
Kaj, who'd been pummeling Aither not two minutes ago, tipped his head back and howled; Aither's brows fell as he scowled at her. The third male said mildly, "Try not to speak like that too much around Kaj. It goes straight to his head, and his co—" The male choked suddenly, cutting off as he said hurriedly, "Nowhere else. Just his head."
Astraia didn't spend long trying to figure out what he'd been about to say. "I want to go home," she hissed. "Can any of you take me back?"
It was like extinguishing all the candles in a great hall all at once. The males fell silent, studying her with more pity than she'd ever seen males offer her. "I do not think that is possible right now," murmured Aither, his voice gentle despite its rough tone. "Do you...remember anything from—before?"
"No." She wasn't going to tell him about the dream—absolutely not. And it didn't explain anything, either. Just that she and her mother had been waiting for Rhys, and somehow...somehow between then and waking up in the snow, she'd...she'd died. And her mother—
Astraia pushed the thought away.
Kaj said, "We cannot help you unless—"
"Who said you want to help me?" she spat, her temper and sadness rising again. "All you've done is get into a fight, and...I don't even know you. I don't know any of you!" Her voice was rising, the sound unwelcome, but she couldn't seem to push it down... "I just want to go home." And when she said it, it wasn't to Kaj or Aither or the golden-haired male she was talking to.
Exhaustion hit her like a blow, and suddenly Astraia didn't care about being brave or keeping her eyes on the three strangers who were gazing at her...she turned around and walked back the way she'd come, climbing the stairs until she reached the room that was already becoming familiar. She didn't worry about the fact that she was in this castle, keep, whatever, with three males she didn't know. She merely threw herself onto the bed, ignoring the hunger clawing her stomach, and let her body be claimed by sleep.
Aither
Aither watched the girl go and did nothing.
She was still sad, still lost, and he had long ago forgotten the skills that would tell him when to push and when to leave her alone with her thoughts. Kaj had never had any to begin with, because as soon as she was out of earshot, he turned to Aither and snapped, "Are you out of your gods-damned mind?"
"She would have died—"
"She is a child of another realm." His brother's eyes narrowed. "You know what will be done to her if she is discovered here. What our own mother would do if—"
Aither silenced him with a snarl vicious enough to shut even Kaj up. "I am perfectly aware. Which is why she knows nothing—and will remain ignorant until she is strong enough to travel, and she can live amongst her own kind."
Calder, who had remained mostly silent throughout the entire encounter, spoke up, his golden hair shining as he stepped beneath one of the candelabras. "You know that will not work, Aither," he said, his melodic voice gentle though firm. "You cannot make her forget where she came from—wherever Prythian may be—and if you send her to the Fae lands, she risks being discovered by—"
"That bitch will have no interest in her," snapped Aither.
"That bitch," parroted Kaj, "takes an interest in anyone who might pose a threat to her illusion of a kingdom. This girl who, as you say, smells of shadows and starlight, somehow walked through Death's door and wound up here. Young she may be, but she will grow, and that won't go ignored. You know exactly what threat she poses to..." Kaj broke off, none of them willing to say that vile female's name in these halls. "We all heard the oracle speak," he went on. "The world heard the oracle speak. If there is another Queen of Darkness making her way to this land...the other will make note of it. And snuff out those shadows. Child or not."
Aither stared at his brother in fierce outrage, nostrils flaring. It wasn't often that Kaj spoke with such vehemence, but he was a reader, and being one had made his words gods-damn poetic. Even if they made his skin crawl. "There is no Fire Bringer," Aither breathed. "There has not been a Fire Bringer since the Fae King Brannon. And as long as there is no Fire Bringer...the girl remains safe. She cannot save what does not exist."
Calder's eyes had narrowed at the mention of the oracle. Now they flared with fury. "You cannot think that this...this child will be asked to make such a sacrifice. Gods, Aither, tell me you do not suspect—" Calder cut off suddenly. "That is not why you brought her here, is it?" His voice lowered. "You did not save her only to damn her."
"That is what will be asked of the Fire Bringer," replied Aither, his blood stopping at the words. His rage at the thought of it, at the idea of raising a child like a pig for slaughter...his fists clenched. "I will not allow it for her," he replied. "We get the girl to safety, far away. We research this Prythian—quietly, of course—and we try to send her back to her world before she can be asked to...before she can make a claim to the oracle's prophecy."
"And things return to normal—the Fire Bringer will arrive, and will die, and the world will be righted." Kaj spat the words with the venom of a male who had been trapped by invisible chains for the past several centuries. Aither had nothing to say to that—he despised the Fire Bringer's curse just as much as any of them, but he did not know the girl who waited now in a room above their heads...and he was not about to raise her to die for an Heir of Fire who may never appear. To do so would be to keep her prisoner, anyway, and Aither knew enough about jails to know that a girl such as her, did not deserve them.
"I want her off of our hands as soon as possible," snapped Aither. "When Sulien arrives, fill him in quickly, and ask him to help you research her world." His youngest brother was expected back from a hunting trip any day now. "I will try to get her to talk—anything could be helpful. As soon as we have found the path to her realm, we send her back through. Damn the prophecy and the oracle to hell," he added with a snarl.
"And..." Calder did not seem to want to continue, but he went on anyway. "The curse?"
"She does not learn of it."
"She does not know what we are then?" Kaj's eyes gleamed in the dimness.
"She believes us to be Fae," replied Aither. "Let her think that for a while longer. As for the curse and the Fire Bringer...we find another way. Am I understood?"
His brothers had never been the most understanding, had never, ever followed his orders, but this was...more a plea than anything. There was a darkness settling over this world, and even if it was to slumber for a few more centuries...if Aither could save even one child from its cruel fingers, he would do whatever it took. If that meant damning his people, so be it. As for damning the rest of the world—we find another way.
"We say nothing about her to anyone," Calder said carefully.
Aither nodded sharply. "If the world learns that a child of Night fell into this world, she will be hunted to the ends of the earth. Maeve is the undisputed Queen of Darkness," he said with a hateful growl. "She will do anything to remain so. The girl has slumbering power," he added. "I want her gone long before it awakens."
He strode away, aiming for the kitchens—the girl was surely starving by now. He'd nearly reached the entrance to the sitting room Kaj and Calder had confronted him in, when he heard Calder's voice floating toward him. "Will you do the same for the Fire Bringer?" his brother asked. "Send them away—save them?"
Aither halted. "I will do nothing until Maeve has been killed," he said shortly. "Nor will you."
It was, perhaps, the first time that Kaj or Calder had not questioned and challenged him. But he sensed the resentment anyway as he left them to stand in the hall and wonder about the fate of this world—the fate that may just have been changed by a little girl with violet eyes and a penchant for the shadows.