“I had a vision,” Ceridwen stated, her lulling voice unnaturally calm given the circumstances. She took a sip of her tea, then set it back down on the small saucer. It rattled slightly. “One in which only the Dawnbringer and the Nightweaver survive.”
Malachy leaned forward from the opposite end of the table, planting his chin on one fist. “And who, exactly, is the Nightweaver?”
“Me.” Ice dripped from Rowan’s tone, and Malachy sat back abruptly. No other explanation was needed.
“Unfortunately for us,” Ceridwen continued as though the Winter commander hadn’t interrupted her, “Maeve has witnessed the same.”
Maeve would sooner condemn herself to death than have to admit the truth of Ceridwen’s statement to anyone else. But Ciara left her with no choice.
The High Queen of Winter’s gaze landed on Maeve, piercing her. But when she spoke, her words were hushed, edged with the fear each of them silently harbored. “Is this true?”
Maeve could only nod.
“Well.” Ciara sat back, her crown of diamond snowflakes glittering in the morning sunlight. “That’s unfortunate indeed.”
“There is a sliver of hope.” Tiernan squeezed Maeve’s hand, but her grip had gone limp. “We discovered a way to access Suvarese. There’s a gap in Parisa’s shroud around the Spring Court, through the Pass of Veils.”
“So…” Malachy drummed his fingers on the table, his growing unrest palpable. “We’ll have to face the giants first?”
Lir, who’d been painfully silent since the meeting began, cleared his throat. The silver of his eyes flared hot. “Assuming any have survived her wrath.”
Tiernan turned his attention to Ciara, easily glossing over the bubbling hostility between the two commanders. “Has there been any word from Brackroth?”
Ciara dipped her head, her deep berry painted lips curving. “Prince Drake has assured me he will send reinforcements…in the form of dragons.”
Maeve almost choked. “Dragons?”
Dragons. Not a drakon, like Casimir. But actualdragons.She hadn’t even known the mythical beasts still existed and now they were supposedly coming to fight for Faeven. The thought was both exciting and absolutely terrifying. Why had no one told her they’d aligned themselves with a kingdom who had an entire force of dragons at their disposal?
Merrick’s harsh laugh pulled Maeve from her thoughts.
“Are you serious?” The hunter glared at his sister. “You expect me to believe that the Prince of Brackroth is going to send his legion of dragon riders to come help us?”
Ciara remained effortlessly stoic. She was the epitome of composure despite her brother’s verbal attack. The High Queen set her jaw. “I called in my favor.”
Merrick shook his head, and Brynn clamped him firmly on the shoulder, muttering something into his ear. He eased back, but the stern lines hardening his expression did not ease.
“Favors aside…” Dorian casually intervened, his poised demeanor subduing the rising tempers between the siblings. “Is Prince Drake reliable?”
“Yes, Your Highness.” Ciara folded her hands in her lap. “He always stays true to his word.”
Frost crystallized the glass of water set before the High Queen, turning it to ice. Tiny, incandescent snowflakes fell around her, and Maeve wondered what, exactly, this supposed favor cost Ciara in return.
Tiernan, however, looked moderately relieved. Apparently, the confirmation of dragons seemed to ease the troubles of his mind and his grip on her hand slowly relaxed. He addressed Dorian next. “My lord, has there been any word from the High Prince?”
Dorian smiled, his brows lifting. Maeve felt a soft tug on the familial Strand, and her father said, “Ask him yourself.”
Maeve whipped around in her chair, almost tumbling out of it and onto the ground. Sure enough, standing behind her, looking windswept and sea-worn, was Aran. His rich red hair was longer now, and he wore it pulled back in a high knot. Loose pieces fell haphazardly, framing his handsome face. The sun had kissed his skin during his travels, giving him a slightly more golden sheen. He wore a loose burnt orange shirt tucked into a pair of brown pants, and his boots had definitely seen better days. Around his neck was the compass that would always lead him home, to Autumn, and the piece of sea glass she gave him shone like a pink ruby in the sunlight.
“Aran!” She jumped out of her seat, nearly tripping over her gown, and launched herself into his arms.
He caught her easily, lifting her into the air, spinning them once.
“I missed you,” she whispered, breathing in the familiar scent of him. He still smelled of amber woods and spice, but with a hint of sea spray.
Aran squeezed her once before setting her back down. “Not as much as I missed you.”
She grabbed his hand, leading him back to the table so he could sit on the other side of her.
