The spires of the Midnight Court rose like fingers clawing at the stars.
Above them all, in the westernmost tower carved of moonstone and obsidian, silence reigned supreme.
The chamber was a garden of stone and light, woven with silverleaf trees whose branches rustled without wind.
Vines glimmered along the edges of the high windows, their blossoms glowing faintly with old magic. The scent of moonlilies hung in the air, soft and heady.
Aeren stood alone at the edge of the chamber, his back to the door, eyes on the sliver of moonlight spilling across the forest below.
His form was still save for the gentle rise and fall of his breath. He held himself with that same unbearable elegance all his kind were born with, timeless, untouchable.
He did not turn when the shadows behind him shifted. Nor when the door opened, though no knock had come.
He knew he was here.
"She reminded you of her, didn't she?"
Riven's voice broke the hush, low and rough as wind scraping ice.
Aeren did not move.
Riven stepped into the chamber, his feet echoing on the polished stone. His dark hair was unbound, and the crown upon his brow flickered faintly, thorns ever-shifting like they breathed.
"The girl," he said, pausing near the silverleaf tree that grew beside the hearth. "The one you pulled from the teeth of Shadowmare. You think she is Elya reborn."
Aeren's eyes narrowed. He spoke without turning. "No one could be Elya."
Riven made a sound, not quite a laugh. "And yet, you moved."
He paced slowly, trailing gloved fingers along the ancient runes etched into the wall. They pulsed faintly at his touch.
"I remember a time when you swore never to lift a hand in mortal affairs. And now here you are, rescuing one in front of the entire court."
Aeren finally turned.
Moonlight caught on his face, painting the high planes of his cheekbones, the deep golden of his eyes, the faint silver threads in his midnight hair.
"You speak as if I were the one who tossed her into the pit in the first place," Aeren said, voice calm but edged.
Riven arched a brow. "It matters little. If you did, if you did not."
"So you knew about the games Cael played."
Silence.
Riven didn't answer.
Aeren's gaze sharpened, but he said no more of it. They both knew what Cael was capable of. And what Riven allowed.
Instead, Aeren looked back out the window, where the clouds stirred slowly across the moon. "You blame her still."
Riven's mouth thinned. "Elya betrayed us. She aligned herself with the mortal cause. She drew steel against our own."
"She tried to save them."
"She chose them," Riven said sharply. "And in choosing them, she condemned us to war."
The room pulsed with silence.
Aeren turned, his steps slow, deliberate. He passed Riven and stopped before the hearth, where a single object rested: a faded strip of crimson cloth.
Elya's, once. Torn from her cloak the night she died.
He touched it with reverence.
"You say she betrayed us. But I remember a girl who stood between two blades and chose neither. Who tried, even at the end, to make you see."
Riven's jaw clenched.
"She almost killed me."
"You killed her."
The silence returned, heavy now.
Riven looked away first.
Aeren exhaled slowly. He picked up the cloth and let it fall again.
"This girl, Keira, she is not Elya. She is different. Wounded. Wild. But still…"
"Still what?" Riven asked, turning back.
"Still enough to stir something long dead."
Riven moved to the window now, standing beside him. Below, the forest pulsed in the moonlight. Magic drifted like mist.
"You shouldn't have intervened."
Aeren's eyes flicked to him. "You shouldn't have stood by."
Riven did not flinch. "The Court saw what you did. They know she's under your protection now."
"Then let them know."
Riven stared at him. "They'll expect you to act on it. To claim her. Even though I already said she would serve me." Riven said the last bit with a bite.
"My apologies, your Highness. It was never my intention to disrespect you. I will not claim what does not wish to be claimed."
"You may not have the choice."
Aeren's voice dropped. "Then I will make one."
Riven studied him for a long moment. The shadows bent closer. The crown on his head shimmered with blood.
He said nothing more. Instead, he turned to go.
At the threshold, he paused.
"If you are wrong, if she breaks, if she turns out to be something much worse, don't expect me to show mercy again."
Aeren's face was unreadable.
"You never did."
Riven vanished.
The door closed with a whisper.
Alone again, Aeren crossed to a smaller alcove. There, hanging like a starless sky, was his old armor, black and gold. He reached toward it, but his hand hesitated.
Instead, he took up the strip of cloth once more, closing his eyes.
He had known, of course.
About the blade. About the knife.
About the girl.
About how she had tried, clumsy and untrained, to slit the throat of the most powerful Fae in their realm.
And yet, Riven had spared her.
Aeren pressed the cloth to his brow.
Once, they had been brothers. Not by blood, but by oath, and battle, and the long ache of immortality shared. But ever since Elya…
Ever since that cursed night when truth turned to poison…
He let the thought fade.
But it didn't leave him.
It lingered, clinging to the edges of his mind like frost that would not melt. Aeren turned away from the armor, his bare feet soft against the stone as he moved back into the heart of the chamber.
His shoulders ached, not from any battle wound, but from the weight of remembering. The years had not touched his face, but they had hollowed him elsewhere. In places unseen. Places Elya had once touched with her voice, her hands, her treachery.
"What have I done?" he murmured.
He sat heavily at the edge of the long bed carved from midnight ashwood.
His head fell into his hands.
He had interfered. The other Fae had seen it, and Cael… Cael had smiled like a boy watching a god stumble.
He should not have stepped into the arena. Should not have caught the girl. Should not have felt the thrum in his chest as ShadowMare halted before her with its breath fuming like smoke from a dying star.
He should not have wondered if fate was mocking him by carving old stories into new flesh.
But still… he had caught her.
Still, he had stood there, shielding her from death with the same hands that once broke armies.
He groaned softly, a sound scraped from somewhere deep. Then he laid back, the heavy layers of his robe pooling around him like shadowed water. The bed was too large, too cold. It always had been.
"Fool," he muttered to himself. "You've watched kingdoms burn for less."
And yet…
He reached toward the end table beside him, fingers brushing the old ring that lay there, a circle of ivy-etched silver, dulled with age.
He hadn't worn it in years. Not since the pact was broken. Not since her.
But tonight, his fingers closed around it.
Not to wear it.
Just to remember.
Just to feel the cold press of what he once was.