Hawk & Sparrow [Rowan Whitethorn x OC] - Chapter 4

WARNINGS; Fantasy violence, cursing, Mirima doesn’t have self-control and that leads to her burning out a Lot, Rowan avoiding his feelings, Mirima having no idea about her feelings, there’s a lot of feelings being avoided, power dynamics in the relationship.

Prologue.

Chapter 1 

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

        Her fingertips felt electric. She felt as though the hurricane inside of her was aching to get out, as though she were drowning in her excitement and her fear. Today was the day. Rowan was bringing her a new plaything, a new training partner. It hadn’t happened since she had almost, quite by accident, drowned one of the demi-fae that had come to Mistward.

        Apparently she wasn’t supposed to do things like that.

        Mirima had gotten up earlier than usual. Her time had been spent at a small pond on the eastside of the fortress. The pond itself was hidden away behind tall trees and dense underbrush. She doubted anyone else knew about it. The only reason she had found it was because the water had called to her. It had sang a soft lullaby that only she could hear. Pulling her to it until she had claimed it as her one spot of solace.

        She trained there when she could not stand to be around Rowan and the others, or when Rowan could not stand to be around her. It was the one place she felt at peace. The one place where she didn’t have to worry about losing control. Although, if she did, she would certainly be dead. The pond that was her safehaven could easily became her tomb. She just didn’t think about that sort of thing.

        She sat on the banks, not minding the mud’s coldness seeping through her breeches. Her eyes were closed, her legs crossed, and her breathing focused for the first time in quite a long time. Mirima could feel the currents in the pond as though they were the breaths in her lungs. She felt as though she could hear each movement, feel the ripples whenever the wind blew. She was connected in a way that should’ve been impossible. Perhaps it was and she just didn’t realize it.

        As she focused, water began to lift slowly from the pond. It formed a shield around her, droplets occasionally falling on her head. She didn’t notice them, didn’t notice anything but the way it felt as though she was protected.

        The water began to float away from the protective shield, forming shapes in the sky. Mirima always loved to have fun with her power, Rowan often scolded her for it. He never wanted her to be wistful, never wanted to watch as she dreamed her life away. Maybe that was a part of being in the cadre. There was no time for dreaming, only time for destroying the parts of yourself that couldn’t be changed. Maybe there was a good reason why he didn’t want her following his path.

        But Mirima could not believe that. She could only believe that she was destined for something more than this. More than sitting around and behaving like a lady, more than watering plants or acting as though she was something other than a weapon waiting to be crafted. She knew that she could be useful. She knew that she didn’t want to spend the rest of her life hiding in Varnsway. She wanted more. Wanted romance, adventure, love, lust, and being whoever she was meant to be. She wanted to be the person in her father’s stories. The hero who set off on adventure, not the damsel who was left behind.

        If Rowan had it his way, she would be locked in a tower never to see the light of day. She didn’t understand why he acted as though she were nothing more than a spoiled brat. Why he treated her as though she needed protection and as though she was not smart enough to wield a blade. Maybe it was just because he was a pompous idiot. Or maybe he didn’t want to see her hurt. Although, the latter was far too ridiculous for Mirima to ever truly believe.

        Rowan cared for no one but himself. She knew that firsthand.

        “Mirima Floros!” His voice rattled the trees, sending ripples through her pond. He was angry at her and it wasn’t even eight in the morning. “Hellas, where are you?!" 

        Mirima’s concentration broke, the water falling. It soaked her to the bone but she stood and hurried from her hiding spot anyway. She hadn’t realized how late it was getting. She hadn’t realized that she was late for her training session. It was perhaps the fifth time it had happened in all the years she had been working with him. She knew that he would not take any excuses. All he would do was make her run laps until she vomited or give her that look that killed her. He’d be disappointed in her. That always seemed to hurt more than his anger ever could.

        "More like where were you,” she kept her voice casual as she slipped out from her hiding spot. “I was waiting for hours, but you know how bored I get.”

        Rowan gave her a look, his eyes half-closed in anger while his lips were thinner than she had ever seen them before. His fists were clenched, his tattoo standing out as he went pale with his anger. She wondered if she needed to be afraid of him. But Rowan wouldn’t actually do anything to her. He never had before at least.

        She may have just humiliated him in front of someone quite important though.

        A woman stood behind Rowan. She was Mirima’s height, with blonde hair that was a few shades darker than Mirima’s own, and eyes that were the shade of turquoise ringed with gold. Mirima didn’t need to be a genuis to figure out the secret that the woman was hiding. Her Ashryver eyes were a dead giveaway to her heritage. Even if she was not the lost princess, she could be someone very important to the lost kingdom of Terrasen. 

        “Is this my new partner?” Mirima questioned, quickly taking control before Rowan could start berating her for being late or for her appearance. She would hear it later, she knew it. But for now, she would be the perfect little soldier. Well, as perfect as she could be after already disobeying enough to earn more than just a tongue lashing.

        “Lillian,” the woman said casually enough. She didn’t seem to care about Mirima’s appearance. If anything, she seemed to be uninterested in Mirima entirely. It was slightly insulting.

        “Mirima Floros, at your service,” she gave her new partner a dramatic, sweeping bow. Droplets of water flung from her head, landing on Rowan and Lillian.

        “Mirima,” Rowan’s voice was tight, his anger so close to the surface that she knew she should be at least a tiny bit concerned. “Might I have a word with you, in private?”

        A warning bell sounded in her mind. She wasn’t sure what she was going to say or do if Rowan decided that he’d had enough. What if he told her that she was done? That she had to go back to Varnsway. She was certain that she wouldn’t. She’d run straight to Doranelle and beg Maeve for another trainer, for someone else to give her a chance that Rowan wouldn’t. But she didn’t know if she would be able to truly do it or not. His dismissal may just crush her and keep her from ever coming back.

        She followed after him, having to jog to keep up with him. He stopped at an outcropping of trees. Lillian stood some feet away, still in eyesight but not in hearing distance. Mirima could only hope it would stay that way if he were to yell.

        “What in hellas were you doing?” Rowan’s voice was deadly quiet. She hated it when he got that mad. It always made her feel as though she was going to to tear her hair out. She’d much rather him scream at her, to make her feel as though she was actually in trouble instead of just acting as though she had disappointed in.

        “I was practicing,” she knew she sounded like a child. Mirima hated herself for it. “I just … I lost track of time. I know it was a rookie mistake, but I was doing it, Row. I was actually shielding myself like you want me to.”

        Rowan’s brow twitched. The only sign that she had said something that he either did or didn’t like. She could never tell what those little brow twitches meant. Even if she’d been trying to learn for years. She had been trying to learn the secrets of Rowan Whitethorn as though they were the world’s greatest mystery. Perhaps he was a mystery that was just for her to solve. No one else could ever come close. 

        She knew that she infuriated him. That she got under his skin more than most people did. She knew that she was everything he had ever hated about people. But she knew that he loved her. Maybe not enough to admit it to himself, but he’d had to of grown fond of her in all the time they’d spent together. They were more than just a trainer and his trainee. They were friends.

        At the very least she thought so.

        “You know better than this, Mirima,” Rowan growled out, his teeth clenched and his eyes dark with anger. She knew that she had messed up, but she had figured it would be nothing to get so angry over. “What would have happened if you had burned out? What would you have done had you lost control with no one around to save you?”

        This was their problem. They both knew how to make the other see red, how to keep the other from relaxing. Mirima had always been able to get under his skin but she had never thought that he would turn her tricks against her. She should’ve. He did it more often than not. They were like fire and ice when they were together. Nothing they could do or say would change this.

        “I don’t need anyone to save me,” she snapped, her eyes nearly glowing with the rage she felt at the accusation. “I’ve never needed your help before and I certainly don’t need it now."        

        "Except to get into the Cadre,” Rowan replied smoothly. “Except to gain control of your power, or to keep yourself from dying when it becomes too much.”

        She didn’t know why they were doing this. Why they had picked today of all days to air out any grievance they had. Rowan must have been under an extraordinary amount of pressure if this was what he chose to do with his morning. Mirima doubted they’d be fighting otherwise. Although, she was normally quite wrong about those sorts of things.

        “If you have something you wish to tell me, you should say it,” Mirima’s fists clenched at her sides. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t begin to imagine all the things that Rowan Whitethorn had not yet said. What would she do if he decided that she was not worth his time? What would she do if he decided that taking her on had been a mistake? She knew that he already felt as though it were a punishment. He had just kept her on longer than anyone had expected.

        “I just wish you would grow up,” Rowan stated, his anger receding enough for him to speak calmly. Perhaps that was why it felt as though Mirima had been slapped in the face. She wasn’t sure where this had come from. She didn’t know why she even cared about what he thought of her. It’s not like Rowan was important, besides being the only one standing in the way of her dream.

        Mirima stared at him, unblinkingly. She had no words for what he had said. No way to prove that he was wrong and that she was more than what he saw standing before him. She had no witty comeback, no words that could say that she thought he was the worst person on the planet. All she had was the knowledge that she had controlled it. She had done what he assumed was impossible. All without ever blinking an eye.

        But Rowan would not know this. She found it so difficult to do when he was watching her. She wanted to show off, to show how powerful she was. She didn’t know if she was trying to impress him or if he got under her skin to the point where she just no longer wanted to do anything he told her. But she had to stop. She had to be better. To prove herself to the man who would never let her become who she wanted to be. She wasn’t stupid. She knew that Rowan Whitethorn would sooner die than say she was good enough for the cadre. She just didn’t know why he thought this way.

        She straightened her spine, looking him dead in the eye. Maybe once she would have been afraid of him. Maybe she would have told him off and kept him questioning what she would and wouldn’t do. But this time, she was determined to shock him in another way.

        “Fine.” Mirima did not wait to be dismissed, instead turning on her heel and marching back over to Lillian. He could hope she’d become someone else. She might even fool him into thinking that she had. All of the impossible fighting had to stop. She would prove that she did not need him, that she was fully capable of taking care of herself. She would do what she had to do. If it meant getting as far from Rowan Whitethorn as possible, she would do it. There was no way she could continue to live like this. Within his shadow, never being the person that she was destined to be.

        Within the year, she decided, she would be welcomed into the cadre. Rowan would be unable to keep her from it. She would prove herself to everyone. Gavriel, Lorcan, Fenrys, anyone who would listen to her. Anyone who would see her as something more than just a girl with too much water in her brain. 

        Mirima had no idea if any of this was possible. But it had to be. She had to be able to stop this from continuing. Rowan would end up having her waste the rest of her life in this horrible way. Fighting him, day and night, for the chance that he would let her do something. Anything.

        It was time for her to stop listening to him and to do what she did best. Create a scene. One that would capture Queen Maeve’s attention and make her realize that she was the perfect person for the cadre. She’d do anything, be anyone she had to be. But right now, it just meant stifling herself to fit Rowan’s perception of her and how things were supposed to go.

        “Lillian,” Mirima said cheerfully, all evidence of the fight wiped from her. She wouldn’t let anyone see that Rowan had gotten under her skin.

        She could feel his eyes on her, could feel the heat of his glare. It was almost like a warm breath of fresh, summer air. Or like a kiss on the forehead from someone who had once promised to protect you. Mirima often felt this way when Rowan was angry with her. She knew it shouldn’t have felt like she had done something right, but it often did. It was just another thing that was going to have to change. After all, she couldn’t allow Rowan’s anger to be the thing that kept her from her goals.

        “How much training have you had before?” She questioned, leading the woman to her favorite place to train. Well, favorite was perhaps the wrong word. It was filled with rocks, looking more like a shrine than anything. Something haunted those lands, made it more dangerous to be there. Rowan had only trained her there once. Her first ever day training to be a member of the cadre. She’d seen her greatest fears brought to life but still she had decided to stay, to fight.

        She’d nearly drowned herself in the process.

        It briefly occurred to her that Rowan had kept doing things that tested her mettle. His training was more than just physical. She had been turned into a weapon of war mentally a long time ago. Well, perhaps she was on her way to being one. Her temper needed more work, she needed to care less about what others thought of her and actually work towards her goals.

        “Enough.” Lillian was not a talkative woman, that much was for certain. Mirima had always believed that a princess would do nothing but talk. She’d assume they would be bubbly and bright. If this truly was Aelin, she was not what Mirima had ever imagined. Perhaps that was a good thing though. After all, she had an entire lost kingdom to save.

        “Good,” she replied with a slight smirk. “Rowan might be the most horrible thing in existence, but I won’t deny that his training is sufficient.” Kinder words could have been said, but Mirima was still angry with him. She would stay angry.

        Lillian watched her carefully, as though she were an animal. She thought that was quite unfair. Lillian didn’t even know her. How could she begin to judge her for anything that she may or may not have done? She could only imagine that Rowan had spoken about her. That had to be the reason for the instant distrust. It had nothing to do with the fact that Mirima had been soaking wet upon first meeting.

        The two women stopped, Mirima stepping away to give her some semblance of space, waiting for Rowan. She said nothing as he followed after them, nor did she look at him when he began to explain what he wanted from the other woman. Mirima was somewhat curious why he did not have a challenge for her. Hadn’t she needed more training? Hadn’t he been concerned about her in some capacity? Or was his new project going to take up too much of his time?

        A coldness began to spread in her stomach. It felt as though she could not draw enough breath. She didn’t understand why. It wasn’t like she hadn’t expected something like this. She didn’t understand why she felt this way. After having decided that she no longer cared for him, how could she begin to feel as though he was abandoning her? Maybe he had a reason for saying she needed to grow up. She didn’t know, nor did she understand how to work out what the feeling growing in her chest was.

        Rowan had never been someone she was interested in. She didn’t know anything about him other than the moments they spent together training. How could she begin to think that he owed her any of his time? It was stupid. She was being stupid.

        But seeing him with Lillian set her teeth on edge. 

        “Rowan,” she blurted out his name before her thoughts could wander further. “Can we spare while we wait? I’m worried my swordsmanship isn’t up to par.”

        Rowan gave her a look that would freeze Hellas. She knew that a smart woman would have backed down from this gaze. However, Mirima was a reckless woman. She was still smart, but her impulses often got the better of her. 

        “The only thing you’re going to do is sit there,” Rowan stated, looking away from her. “You need to learn patience and impulse control. You’ll sit there until I tell you otherwise.”

        It stung to know that he didn’t trust her to do anything else. That he wanted her to just waste her life sitting in the background. Now, he was officially making her do it. She found that she could not focus on Lillian and her trials. Despite the fact that Rowan seemed to have eyes for nothing else. 

        She felt sick knowing that he had lied to her. He had said that her training would not be pushed to the wayside and yet, already it was. Mirima knew that it was potentially her own fault. But that still didn’t make it alright. Rowan knew her. He had known her longer than anyone at Mistward. Surely, he would have known that she hadn’t been able to sleep the night before. Surely, he would’ve known exactly what she did when things weighed heavily on her mind. But he didn’t. 

        As much as she liked to pretend otherwise, Rowan did not know her. They weren’t friends. She was nothing but an assignment to him. She had to fight to keep herself sitting there. Had to fight to hold back the rage-filled tears and the feelings that were twisting her from the inside, the ones that said it would be better to run Lillian through with her sword. She said nothing. She did nothing. She sat there just as Rowan wanted.

        She watched as he allowed Lillian to leave. She watched him as he watched his new student. She watched him walk away without once looking back at her.

        As night began to fall, Mirima realized what that feeling was. She was jealous. Jealous of a girl that she would never know about a boy that she would never have.

Queen of Serpents || Galan Ashryver x OC [Chapter Seven]

{WARNINGS: adult language, fantasy violence, woman owning her sexuality and her body, woman using her sexuality and body as a weapon, woman saying “fuck emotions i’m scared”, manipulation mentions, toxic main character but she learns, toxic parents, self-harm in the form of self-poisoning, self-hate, fucked up family}

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four 

Chapter Five 

Chapter Six

        The morning sunlight streamed through her windows, landing on the bed where she should have been. The beauty was lost on the princess. Arya had not slept at all the night before. She had found a place on the left side of her bed where she could sit, saying prayers to gods that she did not believe in as she searched for answers. 

        Nox and Luna had come to her, curling around her feet as though they were patient dogs. They had been the one saving grace of a horrid night.

        She had done it. She had met a man who she could marry and who would see to it that she was the one sitting on the throne. But that wasn’t enough to make her happy. Galan’s face kept replaying in her mind. Whenever she closed her eyes, he was there. Hurt, wounded. The stupid prince who had no idea who she really was. He didn’t deserve her sympathy, he didn’t deserve her empathy. He didn’t know the monster he had allowed into his home. He did not know she was planning murders under his nose. 

        But none of that seemed to stop her from hating herself. He had been kind to her. He’d smiled when she walked into a room, had wanted nothing more than to make her comfortable. The first person to ever do so. Arya knew that she was being stupid. People like her did not marry for love. They married for power. They married in order to keep their crowns. Galan had not loved her. He hadn’t needed to. All he had to do was woo her and she would have given up her crown for his.

        Her parents would have been livid at the disobedience. Their secret would come to life. It was nothing they would ever want. How would they ever come back from their disgrace being found out? Arya didn’t know nor did she care. She couldn’t think about it for too long. Otherwise, the tears would come and she would find herself even more unbearable than normal.

        She took a breath, knowing that she needed to pick herself up off the floor. She couldn’t let anyone see how upset she was. It wasn’t like she had a reason to be. Everything was going exactly as planned. She’d done what she had set out to do. So why did she feel as though she’d done everything wrong? Why did it hurt so much to know that she would never again see the Prince of Wendlyn? She didn’t want to unlock that door in her mind. She didn’t need to know why she felt the way she did. It was pointless. She would be who her parents expected her to be. There was nothing she could do about it.

        The door to her bed-chamber opened. 

        “Good morning, dear cousin,” Calanon’s voice was especially grating after a night of no sleep. “I heard all about your engagement. You work quite quickly, don’t you?”

        She knew the meaning hidden behind his words. Knew what he thought she had done. It was easier to let him think as he wanted, even if it made her see red. She was a grown woman. If she wanted to use her body, she was going to. Even if that had not been the case in this particular situation.

        “He was impressed by my beauty, thank you,” Arya stated as she rose from the floor. Nox and Luna hissed at her cousin before darting underneath the bed. They seemed to hate her cousin nearly as much as she did. “What are you doing here, cousin? It’s improper.”

        “I’m your guardian, Arya,” Calanon pointed out as he sat down at the small table reserved for her daily teas. “It’s my duty to check on you whenever I feel necessary.”

        “I should have stabbed you,” Arya stated as she stepped to her vanity. “It would have at least made you entertaining.”

        “You wound me, cousin,” his eyes were dark as he stared at her through the mirror. She should have known better than to antagonize him. Calanon had already scarred her for life. He would not be afraid of taking her life. Besides, he would more than likely be applauded for taking care of an opponent. Her parents certainly wouldn’t call for his head.

        Kalthanen may have been beautiful, but it was ruthless. As long as she killed for her throne, her people would respect her. Her parents would respect her. Simply marrying for it would have caused nothing but contempt. For reasons that Arya didn’t fully understand. She knew that her people wouldn’t care who was ruling them as long as they were taken care of. They were going to miss her before they ever had her sitting on the throne.

        Even if she knew she wouldn’t always be what they needed.

        “I’ve written your father,” Calanon continued, his fingers lazily tracing patterns on the table. He barely looked at her. He didn’t need to. He had her full attention. “When I receive word back, we’ll head home. For now, you’re to show off your betrothed. Make his family love you and all of that bullshit.”

        “You make romance sound so exciting,” Arya stated dryly as she took a seat across from him. She did not bother to look at him. She did not wish to see the way his eyes would sparkle. Nor did she want to see the grin that was surely stretched upon his features. She knew that he would find this whole thing wildly amusing. He would love to watch her suffering.

        “It’s not my fault that you ruined any chance at happiness." 

        "Do you mean Dorian?” Arya’s brow rose slightly as she stared at Calanon’s fingers. It would be so easy to reach forward and break them. To cut them off and leave him howling in pain. She could hurt him in a thousand different ways. But he was stronger than her. He had always been stronger than her and always would be.

        “You could’ve ruled all of Adarlan. Everyone knows Dorian isn’t fit to be a king. You would’ve done well there,” it was the kindest thing he had ever said to her. “With you on the throne, we wouldn’t have had to worry about being invaded. Now, we have to hope you’re doing enough with this marriage.”

        “Would you rather I marry Galan?” Arya looked at him, annoyance clear on her face.

        “Definitely not,” Calanon snorted as he looked at his cousin. “The poor boy wouldn’t be able to control you. You’ve lost your chance at the throne, Arya. Why should you gain another?”

        She bristled at his words, wishing she could launch herself across the table. She would murder him the moment they returned to Kalthanen. If she did so while they were still in Wendlyn, it would only cause trouble. Someone would demand an investigation. She would be found guilty, never once believing she would let anyone else go punished for her crime. Arya could take punishment. She had been dealing with it for much longer than anyone had realized.

        “I trust you realize that my blades are sharp, cousin,” she said with dark eyes and a darker tone. “And my poisons have always been quite potent.”

        His gaze locked on hers, his cheeks were redder than his hair. “You little witch,” he snarled as his right hand disappeared underneath the table.

        Arya quickly became aware of the fact that she was unarmed. She knew better than to leave herself defenseless. Especially around her family.

        “I knew it was you,” he pulled a dagger from the sheath on his belt. The blade was four inches, deadly sharp, but otherwise unadorned. Kalthanen steel didn’t need decoration when it was deadly. “No one ever believed that you could do it. Bleeding out on your bed should have kept you from retaliating.”

        “I never miss an opportunity,” her heart hammered in her chest as she tried to keep a cool composure. He could kill her right there. He was stupid enough to not think about the consequences. She was the planner of the family, not him.

        “You could have killed me, Arya!” He stood, his body shaking with rage but the blade deadly still in his grasp. “You had one of your whores do it, didn’t you?”

        “Yet, you’re allowed to kill me without thought?” She didn’t bother to stand up. Didn’t bother to run from the dagger that was slowly approaching her. She knew that it would do nothing. Except make her death less honorable. 

        “You act as though anyone would miss you,” Calanon stalked closer to her. The blade seemed to gleam in the light. “You’re nothing but a whore, Arya. We all know it. We see how you parade about in those dresses, how you tease the men at court. But when it truly matters, it seems like you fail. Why is that, Arya?”

        She didn’t answer him. The knife in his grip seemed to be a better option to his words.

        “It’s because you’re nothing. You’re a failure to your family. To Kalthanen. You should’ve been taken care of long ago,” he struck then. She barely felt the steel against her cheek, barely felt the sting until warmth began to bloom from the cut.

        Calanon looked pleased. His eyes bright and his smile almost feral. There had been several times when Arya thought he would kill her. There had been too many times when he had stood above her with a blade, just waiting to carve into her and turn her into a husk. She had fought back every step of the way. She had never backed down from him and his challenges, from the harsh words he spun.

        No matter how badly she wished she could. It wasn’t proper for a Kalthanen princess to stand down.

        “It must pain you to know that no matter what I do, I will still be better than you,” Arya’s voice was soft. She knew it was true at least. Kalthanen would never let Calanon sit upon her throne. She’d make damn sure of it. “You should be mindful, cousin. It wouldn’t do to kill me now. Not when you’ll be the only one to blame.”

        Calanon’s eyes glinted with hate. How long had he been waiting to strangle her? To quiet her for the final time? She knew that he had been praying for her death for years. She’d heard his hushed prayers in morning temple every mid-week. She knew that he wanted the crown. That she was a stepping stone in his way. With her gone, all he had to do was get Aragorn out of the way. Aragorn would be the easy one.

        “Do you really think your father will care?” His voice grated her. He was saying things that she knew to be true. Her father would be glad to be rid of her. “No one will care when the Whore of Kalthanen meets her end. We’ve just been waiting for you to do it yourself.”

        “You would do well to step away from her,” a voice broke through the tense bubble that had surrounded the two cousins. Calanon’s dagger was still in his hand, dripping with Arya’s blood. He stood with it aimed at her throat. He would have slit her throat had she said something he disliked. 

        She almost wished he’d had the courage to do so.

        Galan Ashryver stood before them. His expression was harder than she had ever seen it. She had not realized just how sharp his jawline were nor how thin his lips could go. His eyes burned with a cold fire that sent shivers down her spine. He looked more like a king than he ever had. She hated him for it.

        “Your Highness,” her cousin’s voice turned smooth as silk. “I assure you, this is none of your concern. Just familial dramas, as I’m sure you know.”

        “I said,” Galan didn’t look at her as he spoke, “step away from her." 

        Calanon gave a tight smile as he did as told. It wouldn’t do well to start an international incident. Besides, Galan almost looked as though he planned on gutting Calanon with his own dagger.

        "Get out.” The words were spoken with more venom than Arya had ever heard. Not even Dorian had sounded so angered when he had demanded her removal from Adarlan. 

        Calanon gave his approximation of a bow before scurrying out of the room. Arya knew this wasn’t over. If anything, Galan’s interruption would just make Calanon more volitaile. He hated to be kept waiting. Especially when it came to giving Arya what he assumed she deserved. She would have to remember to send her pets to him later that night. Luna would do what she was best at.

        Silence descended upon them. Galan stood away from her, his hands clenched into fists at his side. Anger seemed to be rolling off of him. Arya wondered if he had ever been this angry before. What right did he have to be angry? None of this was his business. She was not his concern. She never had been and she never would be. She was certain of this. 

        When the tension became unbearable, Arya broke.

        “You didn’t need to come to my rescue,” her voice came out harsher than she had meant it to. “I’m not your concern, Galan. Nor am I some damsel that you must rush in to save.”

        “Forgive me for not wishing to see you dead,” his voice was flat. Anger still burned in his eyes. She didn’t want to think of the way it made her stomach knot. She hated to see him like this if only because it made him more attractive.

        “Calanon is an idiot but he wouldn’t risk angering my father,” she pointed out. “He knows how important my marriage to Lord Middleditch is.”

        “Why exactly is it so important?” His anger seemed to have loosened his tongue at the very least.

        “He won’t get in the way,” she didn’t know why she was admitting this. Why she felt as though he needed an actual explanation. “I’ll be able to get my throne without worrying about whatever my husband is doing. We don’t love each other. He’ll get his comfort, I’ll get my crown.”

        “Is that all that matters to you?”

        “Kalthanen is my birthright. I’m the only one who can give my people what they deserve,” Arya knew it was true. She was the only one who had given everything she possibly could for her people. “I’ll take it by whatever means necessary.”

        “Look what that’s gotten you,” Galan’s voice grew softer as he slowly neared her. “I’ve seen the scars, Arya. I’ve seen what they’ve done to you. Who they’re forcing you to become." 

        Galan’s hand came up then, gently cupping her face. His thumb gently rubbed the skin underneath the cut. She could feel the blood leaving her skin. She couldn’t see it on his flesh but she knew it would be there. How did it feel? How did he feel knowing that he had her blood on his skin?

        She tried not to shudder at the touch. She tried not to feel as though it were intimate or as though he were getting too close.

        "Why would they wish you to marry some lordling?” Galan’s voice was hushed, so soft that she almost couldn’t hear him. She hadn’t realized how tall he was. How he seemed to tower over her. She hated that she liked it. She hated that he seemed to know it.

        “It’s punishment.” Why was she telling him this? Why would she tell him anything?

        Arya kept her secrets close to her. There had never been a time when she felt as though she needed to tell someone her secrets. There had never been a person that she felt like she could trust. So why was Galan Ashryver the first? What was it about him that made her feel as though she could tell him the truth? Who was he? What spell was he casting on her?

        “Punishment?”

        “I failed with Dorian Havilliard,” his thumb slowly traveled to her mouth. Could he feel the flutter of her heart? “I was supposed to make him fall in love with me. I was supposed to become Adarlan’s queen.”

        “I see,” Galan’s eyes never left hers. She hated how blue they were. How that ring of gold made her want to wrap her arms around him and embrace him in ways he shouldn’t. 

        “They’ll have more control over me if they know I’ll still be vying for Kalthanen.” It was perhaps the first time she had admitted it to herself. She knew that her parents loved her in their own way. They just loved being in control even more.

        “Then why do it? Why fight for a family that wants to see you buried?” His eyebrow cocked, his thumb tracing the curve of her lower lip. She had to breathe to remind herself that this meant nothing. He meant nothing.

        Galan Ashryver was just a distraction. Her throne meant more to her. Her throne had always meant more to her. She just needed to remember that.

        “Kalthanen is my birthright, Galan. Just as Wendlyn is yours,” Arya found it hard to look away from him. His eyes were captivating. The way it felt as though he were staring into her soul made her want nothing more than to fall into his embrace and give into every single temptation.

        “You could be so much more,” he slowly leaned in closer to her. He gave her enough time to back away if she wished. 

        His nose brushed against hers, sending chills down her spine. She could fall into him, give him everything that he wanted. Take everything that she deserved.

        A pang in her chest reminded her that she could never be his queen. Arya was destined for something different. Galan would find someone better. Someone who could be the queen that he deserved, who could give him all the things that she could not.

        “We should stop this,” her voice came out breathlessly. She hadn’t realized how nervous he made her. How he made her heart hammer in her chest, how he made her head spin and her nerves feel as though they were on fire. Galan Ashryver was going to be the death of her. 

        “Stop what?” She could feel his breath against her. Gods above it was taking all her willpower to not kiss him. To not drag him to her bed.

        “Galan,” his name was like a prayer on her lips. “I’m engaged to Lord Middleditch.”

        “And yet, you deserve so much more than him,” Galan’s lips briefly ghosted over hers. Her knees felt weak just from the slight brush. What would happen if he were to kiss her with any sort of passion? Would she fall apart? Would he pick up the pieces? Would he worship her as she daydreamed? Or would he leave her for Middleditch the next day?

        “You should be a queen, Arya. My queen." 

        Galan Ashryver kissed her then. His left arm wrapped around her waist, crushing her body against his as he kissed her fiercely. All the emotions they’d been fighting for weeks had been built up to one desperate kiss.

        Arya tangled her fingers in his hair as their tongues and teeth clashed together in a desperate attempt to chase away the emotions they felt for one another. She knew it was wrong that they felt anything for each other. She knew they could never be together. Not when her heart was still in Kalthanen. Not when she knew what she was.

        She pulled away from him, panting softly. Her eyes burned with desire. Every part of her wanted more. She wanted his hands on her body, wanted to feel him in every sense of the word. But she knew better. She would always know better.

        "Arya,” she liked how his breath came out in a rush. How her name sounded like a prayer. “Arya, don’t do this. Don’t marry him.”

        “You should go,” she stepped away from him slowly. His finger was still smeared with her blood, a wounded expression crossed his features. “We shouldn’t be alone anymore, Galan.”

        “Listen to reason, Arya, please.” Galan did not step closer to her, did not invade her space as other men had. Her heart twisted in her chest. “He won’t be able to protect you from your family. He can’t give you the things I can. If you want a crown, I will do whatever it takes to make you a queen. Either of Wendlyn or Kalthanen. Hellas, I would fight against Adarlan and win you that throne if you so desired.”

        Pretty words. She had to tell herself that’s all they were. Galan didn’t love her. He just wanted her body. He wanted to fuck her into oblivion. That was all he would ever want with her. Arya could tell herself so as many times as she wished but she would never truly believe it.

        “I’ve given him my word, Galan. I’ll marry Lord Middleditch and return home by the end of the season.” Arya’s hands clenched into fists at her side. Her eyes burned with unshed tears. “Now, please, go before we both do something we’ll regret.”

        Galan looked as though he wanted to fight her. He looked as though he had a million things to say, a million different reasons for her to choose him instead. But she couldn’t. She never would. Arya couldn’t be the queen he deserved. She could not be the one he needed.

        “As you wish,” Galan bowed his head to her before he turned away. She thought she saw something sparkle on his cheek but dismissed it as a trick of the light. He left her alone.

        Her heart shattered on the floor as tears mixed with the blood still falling down her face.

WARNINGS; Fantasy violence, cursing, Mirima doesn’t have self-control and that leads to her burning out a Lot, Rowan avoiding his feelings, Mirima having no idea about her feelings, there’s a lot of feelings being avoided, power dynamics in the relationship.

Prologue.

Chapter 1 

Chapter 2

       Her body ached, her mind ached. While she had not done anything as horrible as burnout, Fenrys had put her through her paces. She had never known how hard just keeping her control could be. She had never realized just how badly she suffered from control issues. Rowan had told her time and time again that she needed to control herself. But she hadn’t realized how hard it was actually going to be.

       She trudged into the kitchens, slumping onto a stool that sat just before the fire. Normally, Emrys sat there but he was at the countertop, forming some type of dough that had what appeared to be raisins in it.

       "Hard day?“ The older man questioned, his eyebrow quirked up slightly.

       Mirima scowled slightly as she slipped a dagger from her belt and a whetstone from her pocket. "It didn’t seem to be until this morning,” she admitted as she dragged the blade along the stone.

       "Rowan goes easy on you,“ Emrys teased her, causing her scowl to deepen. "I haven’t seen you this exhausted in twenty years.”

       "I’m used to Rowan’s tactics,“ she sat down the dagger once she was certain the point was sharp enough. She took care of her blades ritualistically most of the time. Sharpening the blades calmed her, oiling them helped ease her mind. Normally it was saved for a pre-bed ritual, but the night before she had crawled into her bed and fallen into a hard and heavy sleep. She hadn’t dreamt. Instead, she had been blissfully at peace. For once in her life, she had not been aware of the dangers surrounding her. She had been aware of the pillow beneath her and the blanket on top of her.

       It had been peace she didn’t know she craved.

       "Of course,” Emrys’ eyes twinkled as he looked away from her. Mirima knew he meant well. But it was hard to know that he was well aware that she cursed Whitethorn’s name half the time and still assumed Rowan was kind to her.

       The man had made it abundantly clear that he didn’t want her there. He had told her time and time again that she was not ready for any of this. Mirima wanted to prove him wrong. She wanted nothing more than to be welcomed into the cadre. Although, at this point, she was unsure if it was because of her own dreams or if it was just to spite Rowan Whitethorn. Anyone with half a brain would know that spiting him was unwise. The man was more of a monster than anything. It was one of the reasons that Mirima admired him.

       Even if she didn’t admit that fact to anyone.

       "I am! He’s been putting me through Hellas and back since I got here,“ she nearly snarled as she began to peel the potatoes for breakfast. She wasn’t normally on breakfast duties, but she had figured it would be best to help out. At least while she was complaining to Emrys.

       "Have I?” His voice caused her spine to straighten, her grip on the dagger tightening just slightly. “Considering you’re still here, I haven’t done a good enough job.”

       Mirima looked up then, her eyes catching Rowan’s long white hair before anything else. Her throat felt dry, her stomach knotted up as she glanced once at the expression on his face. He looked as though he was either amused or furious. With Rowan, it was hard to tell the difference. Especially when it came to her and her training. She knew that he didn’t want her there. She knew that he thought she wasn’t good enough.

       That or he really hated the cadre. She couldn’t actually tell.

       "I thought you’d be gone for a week,“ Mirima stated, her tone casual despite the racing of her heart. At least her training had taught her how to keep her composure.

       "I never said how long I’d be away,” he stated as he leaned casually against the wall. Rowan never looked casual. Something was off. Mirima did not know what it was or what it potentially could be, but she was determined to figure it out. If she didn’t it was likely to drive her mad.

       "You’re normally away for a week,“ she shrugged her shoulders, turning her gaze back to the potato in her hand. She focused on how the skin felt gritty underneath her calloused fingers. She focused on the way the blade slid across the potato, the slight bit of force it took to begin the initial peeling process. How it felt to focus on something other than Rowan Whitethorn and the stare that always made her feel somewhat nervous. "I assumed that it would be the same.”

       "We have something to discuss,“ Rowan said before she could ramble about his usual schedule. "In private.”

       She knew his meaning. She wiped her dagger off on her breeches before she stood, sliding it back into its sheath in a graceful movement. “I’ll be back by dinner. Tell Luca to stop taking the good jobs,” she said cheerfully to Emrys. Neither man would be allowed to know how nervous she was.

       Rowan had met with Maeve. He had told her he would be. He had also said he’d be away three days but had barely been gone two. Maybe she had been declared unworthy. Maybe Maeve had given up on her. Or maybe it had nothing to do with that whatsoever. This could be something completely different, she just had to trust him.

       Easier said than done.

       Mirima followed Rowan up the steps and towards his quarters. She had been a fair amount of times. He would patch her up in his rooms, often snapping at her for whichever stupid choice she had made. She had been allowed to watch as he tattooed Gavriel once. She had been silent the entire time, her eyes never left his hands.

       His rooms were grander than anyone else’s. She wondered if it was because he was a Prince or if it was all to do with the fact that he was part of the cadre. With his dark, wooden furniture and his grand fireplace, it felt cold. Uninviting. Rowan clearly hated Mistward. He had never made it into his home, unlike Mirima.

       She had turned the fortress into her own personal safe haven. She had spent so many years there that she would have gone mad if she had not. There was no reason for her to feel cold, alone. Not when the forests sang with the early morning sunlight. Not when she could smell the sea whenever a fresh breeze blew through the fort, always making her ache with need. The need to control it, to harness it. To be part of it. She knew there was a lake hidden somewhere nearby, she had been able to sense it from the moment she had stepped onto the grounds. Yet, she’d never had the time nor opportunity to go off and search for it.

       Rowan was not fond of letting Mirima near large bodies of water. He seemed to believe it would be the quickest route to a burnout. Mirima thought he was too cynical. The water was part of her. As much as the air was part of him.

       She stood in front of his desk while he took up space in front of the fireplace. The fire crackled, albeit not merrily, spreading slight warmth through the cold room.

       "What did you want to discuss?“ Mirima’s voice came out softer than she had expected it to. She hated sounding small around him. Hated that he might see her as someone meek, vulnerable. She knew that she was a warrior. Someone who would one day stand beside him in battle. She couldn’t let him see her as anything else. It would risk the only future she could see for herself.

       "I didn’t speak to Maeve about you,” he didn’t look at her as she spoke. Despite his words, she did not feel relieved. “I didn’t have the opportunity to.”

       "What happened, Ro?“ Normally, he would have glared at the use of the familiarity. He would have told her how inappropriate it was. When he still didn’t look at her she realized just how horrible things must be. Rowan never missed a chance to show his disapproval.

       "We’ll have a visitor during our training sessions,” the words seemed forced. She could practically taste the tension in the air.

       Mirima worried her lower lip as she took a cautious step toward him. “What do you mean? Is Fenrys going to stick around for a bit?”

       "No,“ his voice was clipped. At least that was normal. He wasn’t dying or sick. Mirima hated to think that he would never get to see her successes. She didn’t know why she wanted his approval, why she aimed to please him in some fashion. Maybe it was just because then she would know she had done it. She’d beaten the odds and become the member of the cadre she had always wanted to be.

       "Tell me,” she rested her hand on his shoulder. He flinched away, causing her to drop her hand. It felt as though a shock had gone up her arm from the brief second her fingertips had brushed against his neck. But that was stupid. It was probably just her being far too familiar with her trainer.

       "Maeve wanted me to train another girl.“

       "For the cadre?” Mirima’s eyes grew hard as Rowan finally turned to face her. There was something in his eyes. Something that dulled the forest green to a grassy color. She wondered what that emotion was but found that she did not care. Anger coursed through her body. It burned too brightly and too quickly for her to care about whatever Rowan Whitethorn was feeling.

       "Hellas, Mirima, no,“ Rowan snapped at her. The anger that had flared so brightly quickly calmed. "I wouldn’t train another damned soul for the position you want. You’d gut them than me. No, this is just a little demi-fae who never got control over their magic.”

       "Who can’t control their magic?“ Mirima did not see the irony in her own question. She had always assumed her own control issues were rare. She had no idea where they stemmed from, just that no one else in her village had ever had trouble doing what they wanted with their magic. Neither had anyone else in Doranelle.

       "Someone who’s afraid of it,” Rowan stated bluntly.

       Mirima gave him a mock glare. She wasn’t sure if he was completely wrong about that. It brought forth a question that she had never had to ask herself before. Was she frightened of her magic? Did she know what to do with it? She thought she did. She thought that it was as much a part of herself as breathing. But could there be something deeper? Rowan had never brought up this idea before. It was enough to temper her tongue, to make her sit and think for a moment.

       "I’m not afraid,“ she stated after thinking for a few moments. She didn’t know if she was telling him the truth or not. But it felt like it. She felt as though she would know if she truly was afraid of the power that lived within her.

       "You’re not afraid of anything,” Rowan sounded as though this were not a compliment. “You’d sooner get yourself killed than listen to reason. That isn’t bravery, Mirima. That’s foolishness.”

       His words stung her more than she cared to admit. Is that why he didn’t want her fighting alongside him? He thought her nothing more than the village fool? Perhaps it made sense. Mirima had lived her entire life in the same small village. She had been stifled there but that didn’t mean she had belonged elsewhere. Maybe she was just a foolish girl from Varnsway. Maybe that was all she would ever be.

       "Tell me about my new friend,“ she moved then, sitting on top of his desk as though it were her own. Rowan seemed not to notice, too lost in his thoughts as he stared at the mantle above the fireplace. "Will I have to play nicely?”

       "Maeve will kill you if you drown her,“ he said bluntly. "Besides, Terrasen would be left without a queen.”

       That caught Mirima’s attention. Her spine straightened, her eyes turning into the blue of a crystal sea. “So it’s true then? Aelin did survive the massacre?”

       "It stays between the two of us,“ Rowan warned as he finally looked away from the mantle. Upon seeing her on the desk, one of his brows twitched slightly.

       "Why?” Even as she asked, she realized that it would be safer for the woman. “I mean, wouldn’t she be better off with a guard surrounding her at all times? I’ll volunteer for a shift.”

       "Mirima,“ he snarled, causing a slight smile to cross her features. "She’d be in more danger if anyone knew. Adarlan is after her. If they manage to kill her, you know they’ll have some advantage over Wendlyn. It’ll break their spirits.”

       "Which means we’re next.“ One didn’t have to be a military strategist to understand the risk the wrath of Adarlan. Mirima was not afraid of anything, Rowan had not been wrong about that, but the idea of bending the knee to the tyrant of Adarlan.

       "You’ll help me train her. You know what it’s like to be uncontrollable. Help her get used to life here,” he looked older. His eyes darker than she had ever seen him, lines beside his eyes showing his half-century of life. She wanted to make things easier for him. She wanted to give him a moment’s reprieve. But she couldn’t. Mirima knew that they needed to keep some sort of wall between them.

       Even if she gave him nicknames.

       "Ro,“ she picked at her fingernails, "are you certain that’s a good idea? I could drown her. Or you. Or I could accidentally kill her during swordplay or something.”

       "I trust you.“

       He’d never said that to her before. Rowan had never made her feel as though she could do anything she wanted. Half the time, he was trying to get her to abandon her dreams. Half the time, it felt as though he wished he could snap her neck and be done with her. Having his trust was something that she had never dreamed of. She had always thought that he would turn his back on her the second he was done training her.

       Maybe there was hope for them yet. Maybe Mirima would be able to prove herself to him through this whole damned thing. Or maybe it would just ruin whatever trust she had managed to build. Maybe she would never truly be able to live up to her expectations of herself. But that was okay. Rowan trusted her and that was all that mattered.

       At least for now. Mirima knew she still had a very long way to go when it came to proving herself.

       "So what’s our plan?” She looked him in the eyes, ignoring the way her stomach knotted when the forest green met hers. It had happened every single time her eyes met his. Thirty years, thirty long years of feeling something odd whenever he looked at her. It was no wonder she tried to force that away, to tell him jokes when she shouldn’t and to make light of things when she was terrified.

       "I don’t know yet,“ Rowan admitted as he stepped over to her. His steps were light, never making a single sound. She wondered how often he had prowled around, silent and always listening. How many times had he caught her talking about him with Luca and Emrys? How often had he heard her curse his name?

       Despite both of them having the heightened senses of a Fae, Rowan had always been more of a predator. For years, he had been walking that line by himself. He had been alone with only the bloodlust and the killing that Maeve had made him do. Mirima saw it as glory, despite not knowing the truth of any of it. It was Rowan’s business. She knew better than to ask him about any of it.

       She would take the stories told by others over the haunted look in his eyes whenever he pinned her any day. She didn’t want to relive her own moments of glory. She supposed it would be the same for him.

       "Rowan Whitethorn not knowing something?” Mirima teased, a gleam in her eyes as she looked up at him. Her head tilted back, blonde locks cascading down her back in a waterfall while a playful smirk found a home upon her lips. “Now that is something I never thought I’d see.”

       "When will you learn how to talk to a superior?“ His brows furrowed slightly as he looked down at her. She had to ignore the overwhelming scent of pine and snow that clung to him.

       She hated that stupid scent. Hated how she dreamed of it at night, how she felt both enraged and comforted by it. None of it made sense to her. Nothing about Rowan Whitethorn would ever make sense to her. He was horrible and kind, the worst and the best. He was everything to her and nothing all at once.

       It was a miracle she had managed to keep his name out of her letters to her parents.

       "When will you learn that I’m not inferior to you?” Mirima turned her head away from him, wanting to break free from his gaze and that disgusting scent.

       "No one said you were,“ his fingers twitched. She wondered briefly if he wanted to run his fingers through his hair or strangle her. Either option seemed reasonable. "But you can’t hope to make it any further if you don’t listen to your commanding officer. They’re not all as friendly as me.”

       "Or Fenrys,“ Mirima interrupted.

       "I heard that he made you nearly flood our practice space,” he snorted. “That doesn’t seem as friendly.”

       "So I’m not great at breathing exercises,“ she shrugged her shoulders. "I still managed to go without burning out.” She was surprised that Fenrys had not told Rowan of her disappearing act. She would have been made to run laps until she vomited, would have been reprimanded hundreds of times had she done the same to Rowan. He would never have let her just walk away. Perhaps Fenrys had taken pity on her, perhaps he had seen something that Rowan did not.

       That or she had looked as though she were on the verge of burning out.

       "Don’t joke about that,“ his voice hardened as he stared down at her. She looked back at him, hating the way he stared at her as though she was nothing more than a piece of glass. "Your burnouts are serious. If you die on my watch, I …”

       Mirima didn’t want to know what he would do. She didn’t particularly care either.

       "I am not going to die, Rowan. I know myself better than any of you seem to realize,“ she crossed her arms in front of her chest, looking more like a petulant child than she realized.

       "You’re not invincible, Mirima. You never will be,” he told her, looking down at her with a gaze that she could not comprehend. Rowan Whitethorn gave her several incomprehensible looks. She often wondered if he hated her based on those looks, wondered if he even knew the fire that blazed in his forest.

       She doubted it. Rowan was too busy with his own problems to worry about how he looked at her. That wasn’t something either of them thought about. It was always about training, always about Rowan teaching her everything she needed in order to be part of the cadre. Part of everything.

       "I’m capable though,“ she breathed softly, her voice barely a whisper. "I’ll help you train her. Just … Just don’t let my training fall to the wayside. I expect to be in the cadre by the end of the year.”

       Mirima shoved herself off of the desk, brushing against him as she did so. Rowan quickly backed away, his spine stiff and his gaze hardening to one she knew so well. She began to leave. Her gait smooth and steady unlike the pounding of her heart.

       "You’ll never be ready,“ he called after her. "Lorcan would eat you alive just from your recklessness.”

       "Then I guess you’ll have to enjoy the show,“ Mirima stated without ever looking back at him.

       She kept up appearances as she headed back out of Mistward, a smile on her lips and a gleam in her eyes that normally meant trouble. If Rowan thought she was nothing compared to this would-be-queen she would just have to prove him wrong.

       She slid a dagger out from the sheath on her thigh, twirling it between her fingers as she headed deep in the forest. If Rowan was giving up on her, she would train herself.

       Hellas save them.

{WARNINGS: adult language, fantasy violence, woman owning her sexuality and her body, woman using her sexuality and body as a weapon, woman saying “fuck emotions i’m scared”, manipulation mentions, toxic main character but she learns, toxic parents, self-harm in the form of self-poisoning, self-hate, fucked up family}

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four 

Chapter Five 

        Arya took Lord Middleditch’s hand, noting the lack of callouses and the way his cuticles looked almost as nice as her own. He was a man who not worked for anything. A man who had never held a sword in his hand. He’d be so easy to play with. It had been far too long since Arya had been able to play her favorite game. Playing with the heart of men had been a pastime since she had first realized that she was something more than beautiful.

        She was sensual.

        She would seduce the man, sleep with his wife or betrothed, and then she would watch as he struggled to pick up the pieces. She had a habit of creating insatiable lust. She had a habit of becoming someone that no one could ever have. She was an untouchable woman. 

        She just had to keep reminding herself that it was safer to play the game than to be played. Dorian Havilliard had been the only man who had ever come close to breaking her heart. A heart that she wasn’t sure she even had.

        Thomas’ hand was stronger than she expected, his hold on her waist was tight enough to entice her. She fought the urge to smirk up at him. She wanted to make this last longer than it probably should. Seducing him within moments would only make the game end before she had her fun.

        As the two danced, she could feel a gaze on her. It caused an unfamiliar heat to rise in her stomach and spread across her chest. She knew without looking that Galan was watching them. She wondered if he realized that he had no claim over her. Just because he had been nothing but a gentleman since they had met meant nothing. Princelings often thought the world belonged to them. Any beautiful woman was theirs. Any possible thing they could wish for was theirs for the taking.

        Arya would never let that happen to her. She didn’t care if she had to stab him to make her point widely known. Although, stabbing him would bring attention that she did not want. It seemed as though the princess was bound to make a terrible decision when it came to Galan Ashryver. It didn’t matter what she wished.

        “I must say,” Lord Middleditch’s voice drew her out of her thoughts. His voice was a seductive drawl, deep and dark like the ocean’s abyss. “I didn’t expect you to show tonight.”

        “And why is that?” One of her brows rose just slightly as she watched the smirk grow on his face. He was handsome enough. The worst part was that he knew that he was. That was bound to cause trouble.

        “Our prince is many things,” he started, thinking over his words for a moment before continuing. “An idiot just happens to be one of them.”

        “Is that so?” Arya tried to mask the amusement in her tone. “I thought he was quite revered. He fights for his country and is quite dashing. Surely that garners some respect.”

        “Only an idiot would fight on the frontlines. Galan thinks he can take on Adarlan by himself.”

        “Careful,” Arya said before Thomas dipped her gently. “He happens to be my closest friend here.”

        “Is that why you’ve been avoiding him all night?” So he was perceptive. That would have to be taken care of. Arya didn’t need anyone seeing through her nor her plans. If he managed to find out that she was just trying to find a husband and steal them away to Kalthanen, who knew what would happen.

        He might decide he was the best man for the position. He might assume he’d be the best king for Kalthanen. She would never let that happen.

        “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Arya gave him a demure smile. This man was sure to be someone who she watched for. He wasn’t playing the same games that she was. “All I’ve done was dance with a few men. I’m allowed to do as I please. Free will is man’s one true strength, wouldn’t you agree?”

        The smirk on his lips chilled her to the core. He looked like a member of Kalthanen’s court. The snake-like eyes, the handsome features that masked a horrid heart. She wanted to be sick just looking at him. She took a breath through her nose, knowing that she was being oversensitive. He didn’t know anything about her. He would never know anything about her.

        No one could see behind any of the masks she wore. No one ever would. Hell, Arya did not know who she was. How was anyone else supposed to figure it out?

        “I would,” Thomas spoke, twirling her just before the song ended. “You seem to have a choice to make.” He stared over her head, watching someone nearing the two of them. “You can either spend the rest of your night with me or you could continue to give our prince hope.”

        Arya did not glance behind her. She did not listen to the pull in her gut telling her that this was a bad idea. Her instincts normally protected her. She had made a habit of listening to them rather than anything else. She would get into trouble otherwise. But this was a decision that needed to be rationalized. She couldn’t just listen to a stupid little pull in her gut. She had to think about what was best for her. What was best for Kalthanen.

        “Lead the way,” Arya didn’t know if she was going to regret her decision. She didn’t think she cared. 

        Thomas took her by the arm, leading her out of the ballroom. As they slipped through the door, she turned her head to see Galan. A look of hurt on his face.

        Her stomach seemed to knot itself but she said nothing, did nothing, as Thomas walked her to the gardens.

        “I find it easier to think out here,” he explained as they exited the castle through large, glass doors. The gardens were beautiful in the daylight but in the moonlight they were exquisite. She wondered how hard Galan had worked to make it that way. Had he even noticed it? 

        She didn’t know why she was thinking of him. 

        “Yes, it’s quite lovely,” she said as they passed whispering couples and one who seemed more inclined to fighting than intimacy.

        Arya took it upon herself to note who was nearest them. In case anything happened, she wished to know who she might be able to rely on for protection. 

        It seemed as though the Fae had preferred the gardens to the crowded ballroom. Two Fae couples stood in the gardens, one just along the eastern wall. The woman was small, petite against the man’s large frame. Her hair was the deepest ebony and she looked up at the man with the light of a thousand stars in her eyes. The man did not appear to be swayed by her otherworldly beauty. His tanned skin seemed to glow golden in the moonlight, shadows playing around him. He looked as though he was ready to destroy everything and everyone. But his large hand held the woman’s smaller one and he appeared almost content. The other couple stood beside the hydrangea bushes just to the south of Arya and Lord Middleditch. The man’s face held a tattoo that she could not make out, his white hair flowing down his back and a dark glare on his face. The woman’s golden hair was braided in a crown on her head, an impish smile on her face as she said something that Arya couldn’t hear. The tattooed man’s face grew darker.

        “Don’t let them frighten you,” Thomas told her with a slight sigh. “They think just because the Ashryver’s have Fae blood that they’re allowed here. It’s quite disgusting if you ask me.”

        “I didn’t,” Arya stated as they sat down on a bench just outside of a maze that was filled with roses and jasmine. Arya briefly wondered how they managed to keep the jasmine alive in Wendlyn. She allowed herself to think of the land back home, where the jasmine grew wild and where she had spent hours in her youth laying on the ground and watching as the flowers bloomed around her. Arya truly loved Kalthanen, even if she knew it could be a horrible place full of equally horrifying people.

        “No, I suppose you didn’t,” he said with an amused chuckle. No warmth was in his laugh nor in his eyes. “Now, Arya, tell me what you’re doing here.”

        “Kalthanen needs new trading partners,” the lie slid off her tongue easily.

        “Don’t lie to me, Princess,” the lordling said. “I know better than that. You and your dearest cousin are here for a reason. Now, I can be of service to you, or we can keep lying to each other about our intentions.”

        “And what exactly are your intentions?” Arya looked at him, her eyes filled with boredom. She would not let any man get under her skin. She wouldn’t allow anyone to tell her who she was or what her plans were. No one had any right to try and control her. No one would ever be that important to her. She had known that from a very young age.

        “What else would they be?” Thomas questioned, looking down at her with a raised brow. “I intend to sweep you off your feet and leave Wendlyn as far behind me as I possibly can.”

        “You have faith in yourself,” she almost snorted before remembering herself. “I don’t intend to give anyone my heart, my Lord,” she said the title with more venom than anyone could have mustered.

        “I didn’t say anything about stealing your heart,” he shrugged his shoulders once as he looked down at her. “Make no mistake, you’re beautiful. Any man would be lucky to have you. But we both know that you don’t want Galan. I assume that you didn’t manage to snag Dorian Havilliard. There are few princes left in this world.”

        “There are several island nations left.” Arya pointed out.

        “Yes, but what would they do for you?” Thomas questioned, taking her hand in his. She didn’t quite hate how soft they were. “They wouldn’t strength Kalthanen. If anything, it would just weaken your country. No, you need something better than islands. You need someone from Wendlyn or Adarlan. Since a prince won’t do, a Lord would be the next best thing.”

        Arya didn’t correct him. How could she? He had read her mind.

        “Besides, we can take over from your brother and your cousin in due time. For now, we would be playing the happy newlyweds.”

        “What’s in it for you?” He was offering too much. There had to be something he wanted. No one was this eager to marry someone they did not know. Briefly, thoughts of Galan went through her mind. What would she do if he found out? What if he learned that she was marrying someone she didn’t know despite the way he looked at her? Despite how he made her stomach knot and her heart hammer.

        It was for that reason that she was considering this whole, stupid mess. She didn’t want to think about Galan anymore. Didn’t want to think about the task at hand. He was offering her a chance to get away from here before she lost some integral part of herself.

        “I’d get off this miserable rock,” he stated as he turned his face to look at the stars. The moonlight bathed his skin in silvery light, causing his golden skin to glow. “I’d be able to lay about in a palace by the sea, have a beautiful woman in my bed, and never hear my father’s voice again. The potential to become a king consort is also quite tempting.”

        “Power and escape,” Arya’s voice was soft as she stared at the maze in front of them. The twists and turns of the hedges matched by her train of thought. This couldn’t be this easy. It made no sense for anything to be as painless as this whole thing. “Do not expect me to love you.”

        “As long as you expect the same from me,” Thomas said, his gaze turning to her. His eyes were black in the moonlight. She could not tell what was iris and what was the pupil. Did it even matter? She wouldn’t be falling for his eyes. Wouldn’t be blinded by the fire that blazed within them.

        “Allow me to think on this.” She didn’t need to think on anything. It was the best she could ever do. He would be the one she would be able to take back to Kalthanen. They would marry and she would kill him after they were crowned.

        “Of course,” Thomas stood then, taking her hand as he did. The fluidity of his movements made her wonder if perhaps he had some Fae in his bloodline. He brushed a kiss to her knuckles before releasing her hand and disappearing into the night. She didn’t know if she was grateful to be alone or not. 

        She could hear the couple fighting from earlier. The man telling the woman off for hiding a weapon in the lining of her gown. Arya was almost impressed that she had managed it. The woman seemed to think it was nothing. Their voices drowned out the sound of footsteps coming from behind her.

        “You disappeared,” his voice caused an unwelcome chill to go through her spine. Her hands gripped the bench, her white knuckles hidden by her voluminous skirts.

        “I needed air,” lying came so naturally to the manipulator. The would-be-queen knew that she didn’t need to lie to him. But it was easier than admitting to what had just transpired. “The gardens are quite beautiful at night. I don’t know why you hadn’t thought to bring me before.”

        “I saw Lord Middleditch with you,” he ignored her words. Arya bristled at that, but he continued before she could say anything. “You can’t trust a word that man says. He’s the closest thing to evil I know.”

        “Careful, Galan,” she refused to look at him. “You almost sound jealous.”

        A sharp intake of breath came from him. Arya wanted to look back and see his expression but she did not allow herself to. It was none of her concern what Galan Ashryver thought of who wanted to know her.

        “I doubt I have anything to be jealous over,” he said as he moved to sit beside her. “You have better taste than him.”

        “You don’t know me well enough to know that,” Arya spoke softly, still refusing to catch his eye. She didn’t want to see the grin on his face. Didn’t want to see what the moonlight did to him. If it made Thomas look beautiful, she was certain that Galan would look ethereal. Those Ashryver eyes would surely be brighter than stars, his smile would look as though the gods themselves had blessed it. It was too much for her to take. “I nearly married Dorian Havilliard. That should tell you everything about my taste.”

        She felt him stiffen beside her, his arm tense where it brushed against hers. She knew that it was not due to the muscle that had been built up by years upon years of training.

        “Then I know that you deserve better,” his voice was soft. Barely a whisper. Goosebumps rose along her skin at the very tone of his voice. She hated it. Hated how she reacted to him.

        “You don’t know what I deserve, Galan. You barely know me,” she stood then, clenching her fists to avoid him seeing how her hands were shaking. She didn’t want him to ever see her as weak. She didn’t need that from him. “Don’t pretend to know me. It will only lead to you being dreadfully disappointed.”

        “Nothing you could ever do would disappoint me, Arya,” he stood with her, taking her hand in his. She hated how it felt. His calloused hands were bigger than her own, rough and ready to fight at a moment’s notice. Without his crown and the way he carried himself, one would never realize that he was a prince. She wished he was more like a prince. Like some pompous ass who she would sooner put a blade through than bed.

        “He asked me to marry him,” Arya nearly winced when Galan’s hold tightened. It did not hurt. It had just been unexpected. The look on his face, however, was not.

        Galan’s easy smile had been replaced by a wounded look. Though his square jaw was set, his lips thinned, and the tendons in his neck were showing he did not appear to be angry. His eyes burned with a fire that told her the truth. He hated to think that anyone else would ask her for the time of day. But what right did he have? What right did any of them have to expect anything from her? 

        “Did you say yes?” She hated how his voice didn’t break, hated how he could sound so solid despite his eyes betraying him. It made everything far too easy and yet also made it the hardest thing she’d ever done.

        “Yes,” another lie. All she had ever done was lie to him. Their entire relationship was built on the fact that he couldn’t trust her. That no one could trust her. “We’ll leave for Kalthanen soon enough.”

        Galan dropped her hand, staring straight ahead at the maze of roses. “Stay, Arya. You … You should stay. At least until the season changes and it’s safer to sail.”

        Arya stared at him for a moment, shaking her head slightly. “I should go. It’s growing late,” her voice was strong despite the fact that she wanted it to break. She wanted to be able to show that she felt something. But she couldn’t. She didn’t. She’d been trained for years to avoid anyone ever seeing her. From anyone being able to touch her in a way she didn’t like.

        She slipped away from him, avoiding her chambers and Calanon. She walked down corridors that were filled with laughing couples and sconces blazed with warm, friendly light. She passed them as though she were a ghost amongst them. She didn’t want to be one of them. She had always wanted to be the one who rose above everyone. She wanted the power, the responsibility. She wanted to change the world. To protect Kalthanen from every bad thing that would ever happen to the island nation.

        Even if it meant selling her soul.

        Arya caught sight of Lord Middleditch as she passed by the ballroom. Her feet ached, her chest felt as though it was breaking, and she could barely keep standing. He, on the other hand, looked as fresh as a daisy. His smile was radiant, his laughter hollow as he drank from a golden goblet.

        She walked back into the ballroom, her chin held high and her back as straight as she could make it. She didn’t care anymore. This whole mess with Galan needed to end. The looks they sent each other, the way she felt when he was around her. She couldn’t handle him. Couldn’t handle what she felt around him. That was why she needed to do the one thing she was sent for.

        “Lord Middleditch,” the name fell from her lips as easily as a lie. They would, after all, be spending the rest of their lives lying to everyone. “Might I have a word with you?”

        “Of course, Your Highness,” he gave her a small bow before he excused himself from his friends. Arya led him towards a small alcove that overlooked the high windows at the back of the room. Moonlight poured through them, giving the appearance of a sanctuary.

        “I’ve thought over your proposal,” she knew it had been too fast. She knew she should have waited until the next day to speak with him. But Galan had left her flustered. She never wanted a man to leave her flustered again. She was supposed to be the one in control. She didn’t care if Calanon was angered by not knowing of the plan. She didn’t care what he did to her. Luna would take care of him if he became too much of a problem.

        “And?” Thomas looked at her curiously. His dark eyes were not just a dark color. They were black. She wondered if it was a warning sign of sorts. But she was beyond thinking clearly.

        “I accept,” she didn’t bother to smile at him. Didn’t bother to pretend to be happy about their betrothal. It was business not pleasure. They both knew it. They could pretend for the rest of the world, but she would not pretend with him. It would be stupid to let him think she would ever care for him.

        As soon as he was no longer useful, he would cease to breathe.

        He lifted his goblet then, a grin on his lips. His teeth were straight, blindingly white. A sinking feeling filled her gut as he stared down at her. Had this been a good idea? Would she grow to regret it? Arya didn’t allow herself to think of this. She wouldn’t question her own choices. Not when there had been nothing else for her to do.

        “Long live the queen.”

WARNINGS; Fantasy violence, cursing, Mirima doesn’t have self-control and that leads to her burning out a Lot, Rowan avoiding his feelings, Mirima having no idea about her feelings, there’s a lot of feelings being avoided, power dynamics in the relationship.

Prologue.

Chapter 1 

        A crooked smile stretched on his lips. She could see his sharp canine teeth, see the feral look in his eyes as he peered down at her. There was a bite of cold steel against the tender flesh of her neck. She could feel it digging into her pulse point. The coppery tang of blood in the air.

        “I was right,” his voice was a whisper. “You weren’t good enough. You’ve never been good enough.”

        “Rowan,” she hated the pleading tone in her voice. Hated the way her eyes burned with tears that she refused to shed.

        His forest green eyes peered into hers, a look of malice and something else. She hated it, hated to know that Rowan was looking at her with anything other than his normal cool indifference. This wasn’t her Rowan. Not the man who had pushed her and pushed her but a monster that she didn’t know.

        “Goodbye Mirima.”

        There was a hot stinging sensation at her throat, his hands on her shoulders like when she was burning out. He shoved her and she fell. Over and over, falling down into the darkest abyss. One that she couldn’t see the bottom of.

        It was then that she realized what else had been in Rowan’s eyes when she had pleaded with him. When he had killed her.

        Joy.

        Mirima shot up from her bed, gasping for breath as her left hand went to her throat. Nothing. No blood. She wasn’t falling off the edge of something. She was still alive. Still in Doranelle, waiting for her one and only opportunity. 

        The nightmares had been happening more often. She hadn’t spoken to Rowan about them. Hadn’t wanted to bother him with how useless they were. He would have been too concerned or acted like they were another reason to keep her out of the cadre. He wouldn’t have been kind or understanding. Hardass Whitethorn would have been annoyed. Yet, for some reason, the knowledge had calmed her. She didn’t feel as though she had to say anything about her problems.

        His training was harsh enough that she often forgot whatever was bothering her besides what muscle hurt the worst. 

        How was she going to deal with any of it while he was away? She had never had to train with someone else. Never had to think about how someone’s training might differ from Rowan’s.

        She had met Fenyrs in passing but that didn’t mean she knew him. She thought he was funny and much kinder than Rowan, which wasn’t saying much, but she doubted his training would be anything like what she was used to. There was a high chance that he wouldn’t know how … Prone she was to overdoing things. What if Rowan had left that key information out?

        Mirima tried not to focus on her anxieties as she readied herself for the day. Her hands were shaking as she brushed out the white blonde of her hair. Her eyes focused on the scar on her left arm as she slid her tunic on, counting each breath as she stared at it. One of the ways Rowan had tried to teach her control. One of the ways that had only worked to calm her mind and not her magic. 

        She would end up dying by her magic. It would drown her, it would take her under and never release her from its grasp. She didn’t mind that. If she was going to die she wanted it to be from her lack of control rather than an enemies’ sword. If only so she knew she wasn’t a completely hopeless fighter.

        She swallowed once, letting it take all of her worries into the pit of her stomach. Another technique of Rowan’s that had never actually done more than making her feel stupid. She sometimes wondered if all his techniques were just ways to make her look like a fool.

        Mirima slipped a few knives into her belt before making her way out of her bedroom. Her head held high, a haughty smirk on her lips. Everyone in Mistward was used to seeing her as the cocky would-be-warrior. There had never been a reason to let anyone see her differently.

        The morning sun had yet to rise over the hills. The clearing that was normally used for her training was flooded with the grey light of early dawn. Before the world changed and turned into something beautiful, something better. The grass was dewy and wet, the world looked as though it had been reborn that morning.

        Mirima loved being out there before anyone else. She loved it when she could breathe in the fresh air and not worry about it being polluted by other people yet. Everything felt fresh, clear. She could clear her mind for once. Let go of everything that bothered her. She didn’t worry about not being part of the cadre when she was focused on how beautiful the morning looked, how she wanted nothing more than to just be present.

        She took one of the knives from her belt, flipping it once in her hand. It was a perfect weight. She could balance it on the tip of her fingers. Rowan had given it to her years ago, on a birthday. One that he’d actually remembered. 

        The blade itself was made of steel and was almost as long as her forearm, just lacking an inch and a half. The hilt was the most stunning feature. Gold and onyx entwined to create small flowers with tiny rubies making up the center of each. Rowan had said nothing when he gave it to her but she liked to think that it had just reminded him of her in some way. Wishful thinking but Mirima didn’t care.

        She had to be making some impression on Rowan. 

        She gripped the knife, her hold mimicking the one Rowan had been trying to drill into her head for years. He often grew frustrated with the way she would go back to what felt natural, showing her just how wrong she was with a sharp tap on her wrist. At that point, she was certain that she was fucking it up if only to see the annoyance in his eyes. She liked that look on him. When he regretted ever giving Mirima a chance when he debated throwing her in a lake because of her mouth.

        It was better than when he was fully angry with her.

        Her body moved in the fluid motions that Rowan had taught her. Her eyes closing, her knife another part of her arm, her breaths even, the world right for once in her life. Her thoughts were no longer cluttered, just going through Rowan’s instructions in her mind had been enough to calm her. She’d never tell him so. He would have been proud of himself or annoyed with her.

        Up. Down. Guard your left. Right. Dodge. Roll. Again.

        She heard his voice in her head almost as though he was standing right beside her. She relished the feeling, the sensation of knowing that she was doing something right. Something that she would do every single day of her life when she was in the cadre. She would have to thank him one day.

        It just wouldn’t be any time soon.

        A low whistle brought her back to reality. She did not know how long he had been watching but she knew he had seen enough. Mirima straightened her spine, a smug look painted on her face as she turned on her heel. 

        Fenrys was more handsome than Rowan had ever dreamed of being. His hair was pulled up, with two strands falling pleasantly into his face. His skin was dark and he was slight of build, but the muscles on his arms were well-defined and she could imagine them in the middle of a killing field. While Rowan’s face was covered with his tattoo, Fenrys’ was mostly clear, his eyes sparkled with mischief and he looked as though he was part of an inside joke with himself. 

        Mirima hated how much she wanted to impress him. Hated how fun he seemed to be with just that one look.

        “I don’t see why I’m here,” he stated as he peeled himself off of the tree he had been leaning against. “Rowan’s got you training on your own already.”

        A slight blush crossed Mirima’s cheeks at this. “Actually, he doesn’t know how early I start my day. I didn’t think he’d like knowing just how much I tend to … overexert myself.”

        “Trust me, Rowan already knows everything that you do,” Fenrys stated as he stepped towards her. His eyes trailed from the top of her head to her feet. He was scrutinizing everything that had ever made Mirima. She tried not to think if he was impressed by what he saw or if he was certain that she was useless. A waste of his and Rowan’s time. She often feared that they would all see her as a fraud. As someone who would never be welcomed into their ranks. “Rowan’s told us all about you. How quick you are to anger, how you refuse to listen to him and go home. He said you’ve had more burnouts than anyone he’s ever met before.

        "I know that he thinks you’re reckless and that you don’t have any sense of self-preservation,” Fenrys walked around her, his eyes never once leaving her, as he spoke. There was a tension in him that she didn’t expect. “I’m sure that he’s found every single weakness of yours and used it against you at this point. Am I correct?”

        She bristled at the accusation, her spine straighter than what should have been possible. “He has. Multiple times, in very different ways.”

        Something sparked in his eyes, something that she had seen once before. When she had looked in her mother’s eyes before she had left to deal with the raiders all those years before. It was a mixture of pride and determination. Mirima had never been sure what it meant. She still wasn’t.

        “Good,” Fenrys stopped circling her. “That tells me you don’t scare easily. If you can handle quality time with Whitethorn, you’re bound to be something. Perhaps not a fit for the cadre, but something we need.”

        Need. That one word brought forth a strong feeling of hope in her breast. She had never been told that she was needed before. Not for anything that mattered. Doranelle would need her. Maeve would need her. Hellas, even Rowan would need her if what Fenrys said was true. She was going to be exactly what they needed, who they would look up to. Mirima would be the hero that would be in all the stories. She’d show everyone just what a woman could do. 

        There had been warrior queens and lost princesses but there had never been someone that other girls could look up to. All her life, Mirima had heard tales of men gaining glory and victory. They saved damsels, fought wars in the name of what was true and just. Queen Maeve had always celebrated those men while ignoring the women who could do the exact same. She knew that she could be just as good as any of those men. She could rise up from the bottom and show just who a girl could be.

        It was the only thing she’d ever wanted.

        “However,” Fenrys brought her back down to the world with just one word. “We do need to work on your control. Burning out in the middle of a battle will do you no good. We can’t have our sister dying on her first outing.”

        He grinned at her. Not the feral dangerous grin that she had come to associate with Rowan. It was kind, bright even. Something that made her feel as though she were at home. She wondered what Rowan would say if she told him that she preferred Fenrys’ smile. It was perhaps better to keep that conversation in her head.

        “How do we do that?" 

        "Stand in the middle of the clearing,” Fenrys instructed her, heading back to his tree. He sat down at the base of it, still and unblinking as though he were just another part of the forest that surrounded them. “I don’t want you to do anything. Just stand there and listen. Take in every wingbeat of every insect, every beat of your heart. I want you to try and focus on your heartbeats while you’re doing this. Slow, steady. You should be able to make yourself still.”

        Mirima looked at him for a moment. What in the hell did any of that mean? It sounded like nonsense. Focusing her heartbeats? Slowing them down? How was any of that supposed to help her with her control issues?

        While she did question the whole thing, she knew better than to question her trainer. If he told Rowan, she was certain to have a punishment of some sort. Probably laps. Rowan knew how she hated them. She took a deep breath through her nose, disregarding her thoughts of Rowan Whitethorn and the laps he could potentially make her run.

        Her eyes fluttered to a close. Every part of her body felt as though this was wrong. She shouldn’t have just been standing there. She could have been working on her swordplay. She could have been working on the footwork that she was supposed to be learning. Listening for the bees that were fat with the pollen from the summer flowers was not something she had wanted to do. Why should she care about any of this? She was a warrior, not a farmer.

        “Don’t think negatively,” his voice seemed to float through the air to her. “I can feel it from here. Just relax your mind and do as I’ve told you.”

        Mirima did not answer him, knowing it was not what he wanted. She focused on the sound of the wind in the trees. The way the leaves gently rustled together, the branches making a soft creaking noise that she normally wouldn’t have noticed. She could hear the sea. So far away, yet always calling to her. The waves crashing along the shoreline. Pebbles scratching against each other when the water moved them. Sand turning to mush, the cry of a seabird. Mirima craved being there, craved feeling the water on her bare feet. Not a day went by that she didn’t crave the ocean.

        Her fingers twitched, her knife falling to the ground beside her. The water rushing in her ears and making it hard to hear the insects busying lazily by her head or the trees swaying gently in the breeze. Her heartbeat followed the motion of the waves. She could feel it slowing to match the lazy tide of the early morning. It was not an uncomfortable feeling but one that she welcomed.

        She had often felt as though her home was the sea. The ocean breathed life into her. She had been blessed with the gift of water and yet, she still didn’t know how to control it. Perhaps it was because one could not control water. The sea did not like to be tamed. Just as Mirima hated for anyone to try and control her. It had been so hard to learn to listen to Rowan. To learn to do as she was told. She still hadn’t learned that lesson.

        A voice spoke softly from somewhere. Her name, softly as though it was poetry. Rowan’s face flashed briefly in her mind before being drowned out by another crashing wave.

        Her fingers twitched once more. Something cold crept through the leather of her boots, touching her toes. 

        None of it mattered though. All that mattered was the way the sea was calling to her. The currents dancing for her and her alone. She wanted to be in the middle of it all. She could control the ocean. She could feel it in her bones. She ached to use the power that was deep inside of her. It was as though she could not breathe unless she was in the water, as if her lungs craved water instead of oxygen.

        “Mirima,” that voice again. Persistent this time. Repeating her name again and again. “Mirima." 

        "Rowan,” she breathed out as a hand grasped her arm. It was not tight enough to be Rowan. It was loose, as though they were afraid of touching her. 

        “Mirima, come out of it.” The voice didn’t match Rowan’s. Didn’t match the person she had put all of her trust in.

        It was too much effort to open her eyes, to break her connection to the sea. But she did it. 

        Fenrys stood in front of her, his hands on her arms and his face more amused than concerned. Her feet were freezing, the breeze smelled differently. The sky had begun to lighten, pink marking the sky in the place of the grey that had filled the valley just a few minutes before. Had it only been minutes? She felt as though she had been there for days.

        Slowly, she glanced down to see what was causing her feet to be so cold. Water had seeped up from the ground, a few inches covering the ground that surrounded her. Mirima had no clue how she had done it without thinking. She had no idea what she had done. 

        Maybe Fenrys was right about something. Maybe his techniques just worked better than Rowan’s.

        “Well, you weren’t supposed to do that,” he said, one of his brows quirked upwards. “But I can’t say I’m surprised. Maybe next time Rowan makes you do something stupid, you’ll be able to channel it.”

        Mirima rolled her eyes, her arms crossing in front of her chest. “Rowan’s training isn’t stupid.”

        “You’re making shields of water, aren’t you?”

        “Yes. But that’s integral to keeping control!” Mirima protested. Fenrys only shook his head.

        “We don’t use our abilities as shields. Well, Lorcan does on occasion but Lorcan’s also the worst,” he stated as he led her away from the drenched grounds. “Rowan’s trying to prepare you for something but I doubt it’s the cadre. He has your interests in mind, don’t think otherwise.” She watched as he grabbed a low-hanging tree branch and hauled himself up. “But that doesn’t mean he’s going to actually help you get what you want. No one should strive to be one of us.”

        “What is with the two of you?” Mirima demanded as she hoisted herself to sit on the branch beside him. “It’s like neither of you can deal with the idea that a woman can be just as good as you.”

        “This has nothing to do with your gender. You’ve got more fight inside of you than most soldiers I know,” Fenrys stated as he looked at her. His expression was too full of pity for her to stand. “You could do so much better than all of this.”

        “No, I can’t,” Mirima stared out at the clearing, watching as the water drained away slowly. “My gender has everything to do with this. When they see me, they see a woman who should be at home. Having children and mending socks. They don’t see a warrior. They don’t see me.”

        He looked at her then, looked at her as though she was something other than a woman sitting beside him on a tree branch. It was an uncomfortable feeling. Mirima had never felt exposed before. Rowan certainly had never looked at her as though she were anything. Fenrys was making her quite anxious, scared that he would run back to the others and tell them all about the woman who assumed she was good enough to be welcomed into their ranks. She doubted any of them would find it within them to want her after her show.

        “I should go,” she cleared her throat as she moved to drop down from the tree. Mirima landed on the balls of her feet, the squelching sound revealing that the ground had turned to mud. “Kitchen duties.”

        Mirima did not wait to be released from her training. She turned on her heel and headed back to the fort. She spent the entire walk thinking over everything that Fenrys had seen, everything that he had heard. She was mortified. Speaking like that in front of Rowan was one thing. But Fenrys? That was another. She knew better than to speak her mind around her superiors. She knew better than to leave before her training was over. Yet she had done both. She’d never live this down. She’d just proven that she would never be the type of person they welcomed into their ranks. Fenrys had said they didn’t want her.

        What was the point of continuing to fight? What was the point of trying to be someone she wasn’t? Would Rowan even notice if she was gone when he came back? She doubted it. He’d probably use her absence as an excuse to return home.

        As the would-be-warrior walked away from him, Fenrys watched her closely. Even with the sting of humiliation, she never let her shoulders droop. Her hand remained on the hilt of her blade. Her head was held high, no one would ever be able to tell that she was spending her day questioning herself and her choices.

        “I see you.”

{WARNINGS: adult language, fantasy violence, woman owning her sexuality and her body, woman using her sexuality and body as a weapon, woman saying “fuck emotions i’m scared”, manipulation mentions, toxic main character but she learns, toxic parents, self-harm in the form of self-poisoning, self-hate, fucked up family}

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two 

Chapter Three 

Chapter Four

The ball came too quickly for Arya’s preference. It seemed as though she had slept once and then was being woken by her maids to prepare. There had been no time to prepare a conducive plan. She was rather anxious that things were going to go horribly wrong before the night was ever over.

        She did not know how she was supposed to handle the night. Dancing in front of whatever fae representative would make her look ridiculous. But the art of seduction had always relied on a dance for her. Dance and then ignoring her partner for the better part of the night. 

        “Settle down, miss,” Miliana huffed as she pinned a thick red curl to the back of her head. “I don’t want to restart your hair again.”

        “The dress is ridiculous,” Arya seethed as she reluctantly quit moving about. She had never been so anxious. She found it hard to quit repositioning herself, to quit tapping her fingers against her thighs. This one night would determine the rest of her life. She felt rather sick to her stomach.

        “It’s beautiful,” Genevive smiled kindly at her, her hands busily folding linens. She’d already helped Arya to dress and had done her makeup. “You look like a queen.”

        “Yes, but not of Kalthanen.” Arya stared at her reflection in the mirror. She hardly recognized herself. Her lips were not painted in the normal shade of red, instead opting for a brown-toned nude lip paint. Her eyes had been lightly lined with kohl with a gold shimmer on her eyelids. Her imperfections powdered away, color brought to her cheeks by heavy pinching. Her gown was not of Kalthanen design, but one of Wendlyn’s. Heavy skirts, a tight bodice, sleeves of lace that felt trapping. Luna and Nox would not be coming because of this. She did not want her darlings to be against anything that was not her skin.

        Arya did not feel like herself. Everything that had made her Arya had been stripped and polished away. But that night she was not supposed to look like herself. She was supposed to be anything other than the woman she had become.

        Wendlyn’s lordlings would fall in love with her. The perfect princess they couldn’t have. Whoever hated Galan would do whatever they could to get her on their arm. Yet, those were the men that would need to be avoided. Unless their hatred made them biddable. Oftentimes, men were blinded by the hate in their hearts. They would do whatever was deemed necessary to combat whoever had made them feel that way.

        Arya just didn’t think anyone could hate Galan. She had certainly tried. He was too … Likeable. His sharp edges did not exist. He was charming, full of warmth, he could make even the bleakest days bright. She wanted nothing more than to despise his bleak optimism. She hated herself for not hating him.

        “Once this is all over, you’ll be the queen we all deserve,” Genevive assured her, a kind smile on her face. “I just know it.”

        It seemed more people in her life were dripping with optimism that she herself did not possess. She wondered what it was like. How did it feel to see the bright side of life? To look at things and just know it was going to work out? It didn’t seem as though it was a good way to live one’s life. 

        Life was not butterflies and rainbows. Life was harsh, bleak. There was never anything that mattered. Just going from one goal to the next. Arya just needed to find what mattered to her. Something that wasn’t just Kalthanen and the throne. She knew that was not all that she could hope for. 

       After all, even she was not heartless enough to kill her own brother. She could perhaps convince Calanon to do it, but the guilt would eat her alive. The only thing that would keep her sane was knowing that Kalthanen would thrive under her hand. Even if she would never get the throne. She’d have bigger challenges than just her brother.

        “We’ll see,” Arya spoke softly as Miliana finished her hair. Half of it had been pinned up, the rest curled and falling past her waist. The long, red locks would look like fire in the warm light of the ballroom. They’d be perfect to capture attention.

        She dreaded feeling Galan’s fingers in her hair. Dreaded knowing how it would feel, dreaded dreaming of it. There was absolutely no reason for this stupid little princeling to be the reason she failed. He didn’t matter in the long run. He was just a distraction. Someone who would cost her a kingdom and perhaps her sanity. She wasn’t someone who he could love. She wasn’t worth it.

        Arya had always known it.

        She stood slowly, the skirts of the dress falling gracefully as she did. They seemed to envelop her in a mountain of silk and taffeta. She hated every second of it. It was too bulky, too big. There were far too many layers if she wanted to bed someone or run. It was no wonder Galan had been drawn to her scant outfits and the sight of her bare legs. 

        Her maids did not follow after her as she headed towards the door to her chambers. Despite her anxiety, her hands did not shake as she reached to open the door. 

        Just as her hand brushed gently against the knob, a soft knock sounded.

        Arya took a soft breath through her nerves, painted a smile on her face, and opened the door. Galan stood there. His fist still raised from the gentle knock, an amused smile that made his blue eyes brighter was playing on his lips. She tried to ignore the way it made her stomach knot. 

        “You certainly don’t waste any time,” he teased as he moved to bow gracefully to her. It almost felt as if he were asking her to dance with him already. “You look beautiful, Arya.”

        “Why thank you, Galan,” her smile reached her eyes for the briefest of seconds. At least until she realized she was not faking that smile. “I assumed Calanon would be waiting to escort me.”

        “He was,” Galan’s cheeks turned a shade of pink that would have looked sickly on another person. The heat in his face highlighted his high cheekbones, the upturned corners of his lips. It made him look alive in a way she had never been. “I told him he could take the rest of the night off. I thought that we’d be more comfortable without your chaperone.”

        One of Arya’s brows rose slightly.

        “Not that I think we’ll be doing anything improper,” Galan quickly stammered out, his cheeks turning more red instead of that lovely pink flush. “I just meant I thought we’d be able to speak without worrying. I meant no offense.”

        “None taken,” she told him, offering him her hand. 

        He took it gratefully, his smile coming back in full force. He seemed as though he was nervous for this whole ordeal. She didn’t understand it. Galan was, by all counts, handsome. His thick, brown hair hung just to his shoulders in waves that she wanted to run her fingers through. He looked strong. His shoulders were broad and his arms filled his tunics rather nicely. He was a prince from a fairytale.

        That night he looked especially promising.

        He wore a crisp white shirt with a cobalt blue jacket and black leather breeches. His boots went to his knee and were polished enough that the torchlight reflected off of them. For the second time, she saw him wearing a small crown. The gold matched his hair rather nicely, making it appear almost brighter. Arya hated herself for thinking of how beautiful he looked.

        “Shall we?” He asked, nodding his head once to her. 

        “We shall,” Arya looked up at him. Despite being a tall woman, he seemed to tower over her. Far more than Dorian had. More than any man ever had. 

        She prayed that it was a common trait for Wendlyn men to be tall. Maybe then he wouldn’t stick out as much in her mind. Maybe then she could ignore him and the way her heart pounded when he smiled at her.

        It was ridiculous that a boy was wrapping his way around her. There was no reason for it. He wasn’t any more charming than Dorian had been. Nor was he better than anyone she’d ever spent time with. He was no different than the boys she had already taken to her bed. Yet, something felt different. Something made her want to be beside him. That something needed to be squashed.

        By the end of the night, she hoped it would be. Praying would do no good. The goddess had already betrayed her.

        “So are Wendlyn balls any fun?” Arya found herself questioning him as they headed down corridors and down staircases. She never realized how far her chambers were to the ballroom. It gave her time to quell the roaring anxiety.

        “Are Kalthanens?” Galan responded, one brow rising slightly.

        “Perhaps you’ll find out one day.” The smile that graced her features was more sultry than she had meant it to be. It sent another flush through his cheeks. She wondered if it was so easy to make him blush for anyone else.

        She didn’t need the answer.

        “Perhaps,” he told her as the sound of violins began to reach them.

        The light coming from the ballroom was bright and warm. Already she could hear laughter and the gentle music of a soft waltz. The scents in the air were of pine and cinnamon. She would have assumed they were winter scents but it was only early fall. Still, the air had begun to turn chilly. The scent was enough to remind her that things could still be wonderful despite the cold.

        Arya knew this was silly. She didn’t care about scents or sweets. She cared about her throne. Her kingdom. Without her at the helm, Kalthanen would surely fail. She didn’t trust anyone else with her home. With her crown. Galan was just someone who was in the way. She could not worry herself over any silly boy. Could not worry herself over what might happen if she did break his heart.

        He deserved it. She just was unsure why. 

        It must have been because he dared make her feel anything. No one was supposed to get inside of her head. No one was supposed to make her feel as though they were enough for her. She was supposed to be better than that. But with Galan … She felt as though she wasn’t. She felt as though she was another silly girl who would fall for any boy with pretty eyes.

        “Presenting His Royal Highness Crown Prince Galan Ashryver of Wendlyn and Her Highness Princess Arya Nostariel of Kalthanen,” a man in the Ashryver livery called from the balcony. 

        All eyes fell on the two. This was normally where Arya shined the brightest. She adored having attention placed on her. Loved it when she knew who she was tricking into submission. Although, this was an entirely different battlefield. It was harder when she felt unlike herself.

        Galan did not release his hold on her, a bright smile crossed his features and made him appear every bit the handsome prince. 

        “Friends,” his voice carried over the ballroom despite the fact that he had spoken at a normal tone. It was clear he commanded respect in a way that she had never known. She just had to figure out how he did it. “Thank you again for coming to the celebration. I know this has been a hard year for all of us. Adarlan continues to attack our borders, we have only Doranelle as an ally. But we have made friends with Kalthanen.”

        He looked to her, raising her hand while he spoke. His eyes shone in a way that made her heart hammer and her palms sweaty. She knew for a fact that this was untrue. Galan was likely hoping for a friendship. Or something else entirely. She had no clue of his intentions.

        “We will be able to hold off Adarlan and keep our borders closed to those who would do us harm. I promise to keep your sons safe. Now, enough discussion of politics and war. Please, enjoy the festivities.” Galan lowered their hands then. Before he began to lead her down the steps and into the ballroom proper.

        The lights seemed to glitter as they bounced off of ladies’ jewels and men’s shining cufflinks and other subtle hints of their wealth. Only a few in the back seemed untouched by the lights. But they gave off something of their own. A power that she had never felt before that was paired with almost ethereal beauty. She did not have to be told who they were. 

        “Would you care to dance?” Galan asked her, his breath gently caressing her ear. She almost shivered.

        “I would be delighted,” she spoke honestly as she looked up at him. Arya had never been one for balls, often finding the dancing tedious and repetitive. But it was quite challenging not to want to be enveloped in his strong arms. She felt quite stupid for thinking so.

        Galan’s smile radiated far more than any jewel in the room. He looked nearly as ethereal as a Fae when he smiled. It was wide enough to show the dimple on his left side. That stupid dimple made him more handsome than any man she’d ever laid eyes on. How dare he be beautiful.

        He led her to the dance floor. His left hand found her waist while his right took hers. He brought her close enough to remain proper but she could still feel the heat of him. She could smell the scent that clung to his skin. The breeze of the sea, the winds that had swept salt into his hair, and the musk that she found clung to many men. She hated how much she loved it. 

        As the music began to fill the room, Galan swept her into a dance. He was the perfect partner. Calm, gentle, a smile always on his face, yet strong. He would not let her fail. She found that it was too easy to let go of her determination to lead. She would let him have this moment. 

        “You’re a beautiful dancer,” he broke the spell that had been cast over her. 

        “You’re not so bad yourself,” Arya told him with a gentle smile. “You fight alongside your men, you know flowers, and you dance. Is there anything you cannot do?”

        “I promise you my faults outweigh my accomplishments,” he chuckled softly.

        His laugh was beautiful. Soft like a Kalthanen lullaby. She found herself wishing she could sing him one while running her fingers through his stupidly perfect hair. 

        “Mhm,” Arya mused as they twirled around the room. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

        “Then I pray you never see the weaker parts of me,” Galan seemed to be watching her carefully. As if he truly cared what she thought of him. That or he had seen past her own disguise.

        “I assure you, I’ve seen much worse.” She had been much worse. She wanted to be a good person, wanted to make things better for her people. But she couldn’t do anything without a crown. Getting the crown would mean being able to change the world. For now, being someone who everyone else would hate was her only course of action.

        “Perhaps you’ll see those parts of me later,” his hand tightened just slightly around hers. She could feel how clammy it was. “If things go well.”

        “Do you see things going well?” Arya rose a brow as she peered up at him. 

        “I’m not a fortune teller,” despite his words his cheeks were flushed. She was rather amused by it. “But I can certainly hope for it.”

        Arya laughed softly as he spun her out, the music thankfully overwhelming the awkwardness of the conversation. She had no idea how to tell him it could never be. He hadn’t spoken of intentions to court her prior to this. It seemed as though he did have a flaw. Not knowing when to bring up a certain topic. Falling for the wrong girl. 

        She didn’t want to hurt him. She knew that as she looked into his warm blue eyes. However, she wouldn’t give up the crown of Kalthanen for a silly boy. Even if he was a Crown Prince. How was she to help her people if she ruled an ocean away? How was she to keep her parents’ respect if she went against them?

        “Thank you for the dance, Galan,” she spoke softly as she parted from him.

        “You’re very welcome, Arya,” despite the smile on his lips he sounded almost hurt. She ached to dance with him the whole night but she knew better. It would cause a rumor of some sort. One that she would not be able to easily dissuade.

        She gave him a low curtsey before slipping away from him. She managed to disappear into the crowd, her gown allowing her to blend in with the other Wendlyn nobles. She hated how easy it was. To be forgotten, ignored, unseen. She wondered if she would live her life in the shadows. If her family would keep her from becoming the woman she was meant to. All of it seemed arbitrary.

        Arya found herself at the edge of the crowd, breathing as deeply as she could with the damned corset. She had never understood the appeal of them. 

        Calanon was on the dance floor, a beautiful woman wrapped in his arms. He at least looked as though he were having fun. If anyone was to have a good time, it was Calanon. He didn’t have to worry about his parents’ wrath. Nor did he have to worry about upholding a legacy. All he had to worry about was which plan to kill his cousins would work.

        She looked away from him after a moment, knowing that jealousy would do more harm than good. Besides being jealous of Calanon was like being jealous of a gutter. He was nothing to her, nothing that she could not one day soon be rid of. She just had to play her cards right, despite knowing just how difficult that was.

        “Excuse me,” a voice from behind her brought her out of her thoughts and contemplations. She turned her head, peering over her shoulder with a raised brow and a demure smile.

        “Can I help you?” Arya questioned.

        The man’s face was nothing special. He had a broad nose that looked as though it had been broken before, thin lips, and watery blue eyes that she did not wish to look at. His golden hair fell to his shoulders and looked nearly greasy. He was no where near what she wanted.

        “I was wondering if you would like to dance with me?” He sounded hopeful. Arya almost felt bad for him. She knew better than to spend her time leading on men who would not be welcome prospects.

        Yet, she found that she could not deny a man who was smiling at her as though she was his last chance. Despite the bitterness within her soul, she could show basic human decency. Kindness was not completely unknown to her.

        “I would love to,” the smile she offered him was kind. One that she had not yet used on Galan.

        The man appeared relieved, as though no other woman would have done so. Or perhaps he just did not yet have the nerve to ask the woman he was truly interested in. She didn’t know nor did she really care to. He looped his arm through hers and led her back to the dance floor.

        He was a fine dancer. Yet it was not nearly as remarkable as when Galan had held her in his arms. She didn’t feel anything as they danced. Nor did they spend time speaking. He seemed more concerned about where he was placing his feet.

        She could feel someone’s gaze on her as the dance continued. She assumed that it was Galan.

        She wanted it to be Galan.

        That alone was cause for trouble. She should have wanted Galan to ignore her. To want nothing to do with her beyond some slight flirtation. Galan was to be someone else’s. Someone who actually deserved him.        

        Not a woman who was fighting tooth and nail to protect her own crown. 

        The dance ended soon enough, the man bowing gracefully to her. She curtised in response.

        “You dance beautifully,” the cool indifference of the voice made her turn. It was not Galan who had been watching her after all. 

        Instead, it was a man who was nearing six feet tall. His cheekbones were sharper than Galan’s, his eyes dark and filled with a cold fire that matched her own. His nose was thin, his lips the same. Yet, his skin was golden as though he spent most of his time outdoors. He carried himself as though he were a prince, despite only being a lord. She could tell by the fabric of the black brocade he wore. It was not nearly as nice as Calanon’s.

        “Thank you, sir,” Arya trailed off, expecting him to give her a name.

        “Lord Thomas Middleditch,” he gave a stiff bow before standing. “Might I have this dance?”

        Galan was watching now. His Ashryver eyes darkening as he began to approach the couple. The way he was moving swiftly towards the pair was the only reason for her answer.

        “Yes, you may.”

stardustsroses:

summary: set in the future after acofas & koa |  Prythian and Erilea have been opened to each other ever since a portal connecting the two worlds was found. Queen Aelin Galathynius has signed a secret peace treaty with the High Lady and High Lord of the Night Court, thus fortifying their friendship, and the union of their families. But when the other High Lords of Prythian discover the Night Court’s secret friends, they are intent on seeing them as foes, and Eris Vanserra is ready to take the opportunity to further destroy what little is left of Prythian’s unity.

In a world remade by peace, you can hear the faraway drums of war that can - and shall - destroy it once again.

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tw:verbal, emotional and physical abuse; sexual themes; violence & gore

rating:explicit 

masterlist | ask box | gen 2 page | tog + acotar gen 2 family tree

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<—– PROLOGUE PART 3

CHAPTER ONE —–> (coming soon!)

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~the worlds, books, and any recognizable characters belong to sarah j maas~

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A century or so ago

Northern Fields, Autumn Court, Prythian

Her wedding day is uneventful, full of boorish people and, to make matters worse, it pours down the entire time.

Annika detests the rain as much she detests her new husband.

Emilian Ardor has the wry smile of a hunter with an easy prey’s blood soaking his clothes. He drinks the day away, flaunting his wealth, flirting with the musicians, and stuffing his mouth with enough sweets to feed an entire village.

Despite this, Annika supposes that she can find a few reprieves in the middle of this rather lamentable situation. For one, when she declared she did not wish for her family to come, Emilian’s reply was a simple shrug, so she was spared having to look at her father’s face and trying to hide the desire to spill his blood on the white petals covering the ground. And though she has spent the last hour being dragged around by her husband’s arm to greet his… friends, he has not spoken more than four words to her since their vows, nor has he attempted to touch her more than it is considered necessary. Besides, the ceremony begins and ends before she can bask in her revolt, and her husband’s wine has been satisfactory enough to keep her company since then.

They dine alone in his ostentatious table, candlelight between them. Annika has traded her gown for a simple tunic and dark trousers to match. She had no intention of impressing his friends before with that appalling excuse of a dress, and she certainly has no intention of impressing Emilian now with the clothes she feels most comfortable in.

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