Chapter 4 FINDING HIS MATE

APOLLO

A sharp, guttural scream ravages my ears as I make my way down to the gardens, followed by shouted commands and the harsh clatter of iron armour.

I pause and for a long moment, I consider ignoring it. There are very few crises in this fortress that require my personal hand, and even fewer for which I possess the patience for today. I have spent the better part of the afternoon listening to iron-brained generals bark over battle-maps, followed immediately by two suffocating hours with Maelor, who seems to have made it his sacred, unbearable crusade to remind me that I am dying.

The shouting swells again, underscored by the unmistakable, heavy clang of steel biting stone.

I groan. That sounds expensive. And immensely irritating.

I turn toward the grand foyer, where two guards sprint past the foot of the stairs, their pale hands clamped tightly over their broadswords.

"What is it?" I snap.

Neither guard stops, though the lead soldier flinches. "An intruder, Your Majesty!"

That catches my attention.

An intruder has crossed the border of my palace. Past the magic wards, past the shadow-sentries, and past three rings of enchanted iron designed specifically to keep unwanted souls out of my sight. Either my perimeter guards have become spectacularly, unforgivably incompetent, or something terrifyingly wrong has transpired.

Neither option improves my mood.

I follow them, muttering bloody murder. My day could not genuinely be going worse.

Well, save for getting another reminder of my curse. And the residual pain from yesterday’s attack is still lingering in my body, further dampening my already sour mood.

By the time I reach the entrance hall where the noise was coming from, the commotion has drawn a crowd of shadow-servants, clinging to the walls and watching with that morbid, hungry fascination usually reserved for public executions. In the center of the hall, four guards have pinned someone to the freezing stone floor.

A woman.

Her hands are bound tightly behind her back with coarse rope. A guard has a gloved fist tangled tightly in the back of her bodice, crushing her face against the floor, while the captain stands over her, barking demands she seems entirely unable, or unwilling, to answer.

A wild, chaotic spill of red hair covers most of her face.

It is an absurd, offensive colour, a vibrant, fiery red against the dull stone, like an untamed flame. For some strange reason, it reminds me of the fire curse and the Cindermother, and it immediately puts me off against the woman.

Immediately makes me feel no remorse for what is happening to her.

A guard kicks her shoulder rather unnecessarily aggressively, given that she is already pinned down, forcing her lower against the stone. "Answer, rat!"

I sigh and rolling my eyes, I raise my hand. "Hold!"

The guards instantly snap to attention.

“What is the meaning of this?” I ask, making sure my voice expresses just how irritated I am.

"Your Majesty," Commander Ithrad says, stepping forward with a curt bow. "Apologies for the noise. We caught an intruder attempting to infiltrate the palace."

“Hmm...”

I approach slowly, my eyes narrowing they sweep over the rest of her ruin. I immediately notice her bizarre clothing, simple, worn out cotton and wool, utterly devoid of house crests or armor. Her shoes are scuffed and threadbare. Not a very practical clothing for a royal spy. Not even a practical clothing for any sort of functioning fae.

Aethelvale may not be as wealthy and prosperous as Vaeloria, but surely that does not mean that they dress in… rags now.

Through the tangled red strands, I catch sight of dark violet bruises already blooming along her jaw and a cut on her cheek.

Another prickle of irritation warms my blood, not at her, but at the heavy-handedness of my soldiers.

"Speak, girl!" the captain snarls, shoving his iron boot against her shoulder. "How did you breach the outer gates? Who sent you?"

“Shut it,” I sigh, rubbing my forehead. "So… would someone care to really enlighten me as to why there is a bleeding woman pinned to my floor? And why you think this poorly dressed woman is an intruder?"

The captain steps forward, bowing his head sharply. "Your Majesty. She appeared out of thin air just beyond the gates. We suspect she is an Aethelvalean assassin or a scout sent by Queen Ysolde to test our defenses. We were attempting to extract her mission before executing her."

"Appeared?"

"Yes, sire. One second the courtyard was desolate, the next she was standing in the snow. We suspect high sorcery. She has to be an assassin."

"And your response to high sorcery was to beat her senseless?"

The captain stammers, his confidence wavering. "She... she was combative, sire. She refused to answer our inquiries."

"Perhaps because you were attempting to extract secrets while pressing her jaw into the marble. How in the realms was she supposed to answer any questions in that position?"

A few of the surrounding guards shift uncomfortably, staring fixedly at the floor. I have never understood the grotesque habit lesser men have of mistaking cruelty for strength. It is sloppy. It is weak.

I look down at the trembling figure. An assassin? She wears no armor, carries no visible daggers, and her posture radiates pure, unadulterated terror, not the cold, calculated silence of an assassin. There is no trace of the bitter, dark magic of our enemies on her.

"Cut her bonds," I command.

"Your Majesty, I must protest!" the captain urges, his hand hovering over his sword-hilt. "Aethelvale has been slipping assassins across the border for weeks! If she utilized dark magic to breach the ward-stones…"

"Then tying her wrists and bloodying her face will hardly improve our chances of discovering how she accomplished it," I snap. "Untie her. Now."

A guard scrambles to his knees, drawing a dagger and slicing through the ropes.

I shift my gaze back down to the heap of red hair on the floor. Something about her grates on my nerves, aside the alarming volume of red hair. I cannot quite name it, she simply does not fit. Neither as an assassin or even a creature of Valehaven.

"Leave us," I order softly.

The captain blinks, taken aback. "Sire?"

"Did I slur my words, captain?"

"No, Your Majesty."

"Then I trust you are capable of leaving."

The guards exchange tense, uncertain glances before retreating several paces toward the exit. They do not leave the hall entirely, a quiet defiance I choose to permit.

I crouch down before her.

"Look at me," I say quietly.

She doesn't move, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps.

"Are you broken?" I ask. "Besides the glaringly obvious, I mean."

A long pause.

"I don't know," she rasps into the floor, her voice hoarse.

I shoot a deadly glare at the guard who had been pinning her down. He suddenly finds the intricate carvings on the ceiling fascinating.

"Lift your head, girl."

Slowly, agonizingly, she pushes herself up onto her palms. She doesn't look at me directly, but enough of her face is revealed beneath her crimson hair to show a trembling, blood-stained lip and a small cut at the corner of her mouth. Her head turns wildly, a chaotic storm of terror and utter, sheer bewilderment.

She looks as though she has no concept of where she is.

"Your name," I command.

"Aveline," she breathes.

“Aveline,” I mouth, the name strange against my lips. "What are you doing in Vaeloria?"

The woman flinches at my tone, her breath hitching. When she speaks, her voice is muffled by the flagstones, raw with confusion and exhaustion.

"I... I don't know," she stammers, coughing lightly as she struggles against the heavy iron chain pressing her down. "I don't know where this is. I didn't mean to trespass..."

"Then how did you cross my castle gates?"

"A book..." She draws a shuddering breath, her small frame shaking. "My sister... she opened a spellbook we found in our shop. It... it put her into a sleep I couldn't break. The book showed me a spell, and when I read it, a door opened in the air. I came through because... because I was looking for a cure. I was looking for a Fae to save my sister."

It is the most absurd, nonsensical tale I have ever heard. A book? A portal? A sister? It sounds like the rambling of a lunatic or a horribly constructed lie.

“You must take me for a fool, to stand before my presence with such a ridiculous story.”

"Please!" she begs, leaning forward, all restraint snapping. "I know how impossible this sounds! I know you think I'm a liar or a spy, but I don't care about your court, or your guards, or your crown! My sister is thirteen years old! She is all I have left in this world, and she is dying! If there is anyone in this godforsaken place who has a heart…please. Help me."

Something in my chest twitches… a sudden, uncomfortable pull.

I despise it.

I do not know this woman. I refuse to feel any sort of empathy towards her.

Realising that I am yet to see this woman’s face, I slip my gloved fingers beneath her jaw, tilting her face upward.

Her eyes lock onto mine.

And the world stops.

The sounds around us shatter into dust. The murmuring guards, the rustle of silk, the distant ringing of blacksmith hammers in the courtyard, all of it is instantly swallowed by a silence so absolute I can hear the terrifying, panicked rush of blood through my own skull.

Then, deep within my chest, something tears open.

I stagger backward, a choked gasp ripping from my throat.

Something raw and almost painful explodes beneath my sternum. It reaches into the deepest, darkest core of my soul and seizes it with an iron fist.

A blinding thread of golden light snaps taut between us. It tears out from the center of my heart, stretching through my shattered ribs, and anchors directly into her chest.

The air leaves my lungs in a bloody gasp. Beneath my high velvet collar, the ember-marks on my throat flare into a brilliant, terrifying crimson light.

I clutch my chest, my fingers digging into my velvet coat as my knees threaten to buckle.

No.

My mind screams against the sudden, overwhelming tide of magic rushing through my blood. My heart thrashes against my ribs, echoing a dark, primitive cadence that demands I pull her into my arms, that I tear the iron chains from her skin, that I slaughter every man who laid a hand on her.

No, no, no.

The soul-mate bond.

It has found me. After hundreds of years of guarding my heart, after swearing I would never allow a woman to hold my life in her hands, the universe has delivered her directly to my doorstep. Wrapped in chains, bleeding from her cheek, and staring up at me with terrified, eyes that have suddenly turned from blue to bright violet.

The soul-bound.

My soul-bound.

I stare at the girl through the haze of light and pain. She looks just as terrified, just as utterly undone as I feel. Her lips part in a silent scream.

The golden thread pulses between our chests.

And with every brutal heartbeat, her presence floods into me. Not her memories, not her thoughts, something far more intimate, far more terrifying. I feel her soul woven directly into mine. I feel her terror. Her disorientation. The fierce, terrifying, unbreakable love she holds for her slumbering sister.

I feel it all as if the wall between our very existences has been violently ripped down.

"Your Majesty!" The captain yells, reaching for his sword as my glowing skin illuminates the dark stone. "What is happening to you? Is she casting a spell?!"

“Stay back,” I snarl.

I turn my attention back to the stranger with dirt on her dress and blood on her lip, and I know with absolute, terrifying certainty that she holds the universe in her small hands.

She holds the power to save my life.

She holds the power to utterly destroy me.

And if the oldest texts are true... she can accomplish both with a single choice.

If I open my heart to her, I hand her the weapon to shatter me, just as Cassian was shattered. If I reject her, the fire will consume my chest before the year ends, and I will burn to ash.

I have never hated the universe more.

I try to calm myself down, remembering my conversation with Maelor. I can have my cake and eat it. I can bypass the dangerous pull of this bond, while still making her do what needs to be done to free me from this curse.

I might not be able to afford to just push her away and forget about her existence, but that doesn’t mean I have to acknowledge the pull of this bond.

“Sir…” she whispers, barely audible.

I take a look at her physical features, willing myself to find the blue eyes and the red hair and the slight frame and the horrible clothing very unappealing.

It is not such a difficult task. Despite her colourful features, she is quite plain, boring to the sight even. And for that, I am grateful. At least she is not a great beauty.

“Follow me,” I snarl.