ILLIA:

The killing blow caught her by surprise.

No one-absolutely no one-had managed to so much as scratch her since she was sixteen.

The blade was meant for her heart. Illia twisted, lightning fast, as she drew up her magic, but the knife still met her skin. She raised her arm instinctively to block the blow and got a knife to the forearm.

Her opponent was dead in the next second, with the acrid scent of lightning curling in the air, and the crack of thunder echoing in the sudden silence.

Illia's breath filled her ears.

She'd been stupid. She'd been so stupid. But-Illia hissed as the cut started bleeding in earnest, stinging as she moved her arm without thinking. It was a long, deep cut, tearing straight through the intricate lightning tattoo on her inner forearm, barely avoiding the life-giving spot on her wrist. It was bleeding profusely. Illia drew up her battlefield healing magic. It had been six years since she'd had to use it on herself.

Her heartbeat was still a storm in her ears.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

She'd been distracted. It couldn't happen again-she couldn't let it happen again. It wasn't just that it was such a foolish mistake, or that she was flatly better than making it, but what had distracted her.

"Illia," came his voice.

Illia turned.

The battle had been fading for an hour. It was over now, truly over, and yet they'd both managed to get injured in its last minutes. "A battle glorious", the songs would call it, and Illia's name-the name she'd given them- would be part of that song. So would Ander's. He appeared breathless, his face stricken, a hand pressed against the wound on his side, staring at her.

It was the stare that made her realize he'd felt what she'd felt.

She'd known it was his side that had caught a blow before he appeared before her, had known the exact pain and impact, because she'd felt it for herself-felt him, for the first time, and it had unravelled some piece of her soul, and had distracted her into letting her guard down.

And… he had felt that blow.

"Evalin," came a voice, as Illia and Ander stared at each other across the battlefield. Illia turned towards the sound of her name.

"You're all right?" the Regent asked her, breathless, and covered in blood.

Illia nodded.

The Regent stepped over the nearest bodies towards her and said, with tears in his eyes, "Thank you. Thank you." He turned to Ander. "Thank you," he said. "Thank you."

Illia said, "Your people deserve you as king."

The Regent nodded.

Ander clapped him on the back and said, "Go greet your people."

The Regent nodded again. "Thank you," he said again. "I cannot thank you enough. Both of you-Evalin, Chaol, I would have no kingdom without you."

Illia liked the Regent. She'd shared wine with him, had sat at his table, knew his family, had just fought to secure a crown that was rightfully his, and yet in that moment, the only thing she could think to care about were Ander's endless blue eyes on hers.

"You're welcome," Ander said at last. "We'll see you later." The Regent, sensing the tension, left them, walking over the crest of the hill into the remains of the battle.

Illia's heartbeat was still pounding in her chest, an erratic symphony.

"Are you all right?" she got out, because, when she'd felt the knife in his side, it had become the only question in the world worth answering.

Ander just nodded.

"What about you?" he got out.

Illia's healing magic had never been her strong suit, but her arm had stopped bleeding as the wound knit together. It was going to scar, and she was covered in blood, but none of that mattered.

Illia closed the space between them and pulled Ander into her arms.

She held on fast, breathing in his familiar scent-icy wind and ink. He held her fiercely, his face in her shoulder, his familiar, steadfast presence anchoring her to the very seam of their world.

Things had changed.

The Ahsokharian armies sustained only minor losses, though their injured were not to be overlooked. Illia sat on one of the ridges overlooking the mess of the battlefield as lines of men carrying their comrades streamed past. The Regent was among them, getting an elbow under this man here or joking idly with another, his name-Ethin-spiralling up and down their ranks.

He was truly their king now, the vengeful blood heir to the throne he had so carefully protected finally vanquished, an in-kingdom skirmish that had just barely avoided rising to the level of civil war-thanks to Illia and Ander.

Illia had her knees drawn to the chest. Her name-one of many she used, but nonetheless one of her favourites-swept up and down the ranks. Ander, she knew, was being attended to, his wound painful but not fatal. She could feel it echo faintly along her own ribs.

Think. She had to think.

"You're a force of nature, Ev," Amie said, appearing bloodstained but smiling beside her. The commander reminded Illia distinctly of Mary: bright, bubbling, lethal. "How can we ever thank you?"

Illia gave her a smile that she knew did not look human. It was all she had.

Sometimes, after the magic, she'd shift and spend hours or days in animal form. It was how she took care of the inhumanity, the wildness, the call to forest and to power. Illia had very little human blood in her to begin with. After the storms came, she had nothing left of them. The Ahkhosarians called her and Ander Gifted, but they called her, and her pointed canines and ears, Other.

Quite a few of them were granting her the sort of glances you gave Others as they passed. Many of the blood heir's troops had died by lightning.

Illia's silence didn't deter Amie, who grinned, but didn't touch her as she usually did-no brush of the shoulder as she passed with a distinct "I'll see you later," tossed over her shoulder.

Illia should go. Grow wings and escape. Wander into a storm of her own making until she got the roaring under control. I am your master, she reminded the winking beast in her chest. You bow to me.

A snarl echoed in response, the roiling depths quieting only somewhat.

Illia rose suddenly, startling one of the soldiers passing by, and began walking.

She couldn't shift, because she couldn't leave Ander.

The word, denied for twenty five years, curled in her chest, echoed in her soul, her blood, her bones. That phantom pain throbbed to a different heartbeat along her ribs. Faces and names danced within her.

Illia started running.

She didn't often run. She walked, rode, or flew when she needed any kind of efficiency, but she couldn't shift, because he was injured, and she would not be able to burn this off in a flight short enough not to distance them immeasurably. She couldn't leave him.

She ran.

The ridge dropped steeply onto the plain, the killing fields layered with blood and weapons, some of the dead still smouldering from lightning strikes. Illia ran, the sky matching her pace, writhing above her. I am your master. I am your master. I am your master. Her breaths began coming hard and fast in her lungs, her limbs beginning to burn. Immortal grace carried over the obstacles of fallen bodies and rolling fields. The men fetching the injured fell behind her, the encampment slipping away. I am your master. Thunder crackled. Illia pushed harder, ran faster, burning, breathing, seething. She'd forgotten what it was like to just run and run and run, to push her body until it tired, to burn out her limbs and send sparks through her chest. The killing fields pivoted, the great stretch of the ocean stretching beyond clifftops before her. Illia began hurtling towards the open sea. The blue beckoned, deep and wandering, beneath the flat grey of the sky.

Illia ran.

The word pounded through her, letter by letter, the sky and beast within raging and churning in harmony. There was only one force in the world Illia knew to overpower her. Only one, and she streaked towards it, the plain falling away until she reached the drop-off of the cliffs. There weren't many rocks below, and even if there were, she wouldn't have cared. She barely remembered to yank off her weapons belt and boots before leaping off the cliff.

For a moment only wind surrounded her, howling nearly as loudly as the storm within her chest.

Illia dropped, plummeting, crashing into the water and submerging into the release of the deep blue.

She sank and sank and sank, sending shockwaves through the water, sending thunder through the sea, submerging until water saturated her hair and clothes and skin, until she was the ocean's, and the ocean's alone. Her lungs tightened. Illia kicked towards the surface, battling the surging currents, the force pushing against her more welcome than any sensation she could have imagined. She broke the surface and inhaled.

The crash of waves against the cliffs met her ears. It was raining. If it was her doing or not, she didn't know or care. She turned her face towards it. The drops turned from shower to downpour and met her skin in a sea of pounding needles.

I am your master.

She inhaled sea salt and rainwater. She dropped down again, deep, deep, deep into the depths of the sea, kicking until the currents plunged her as far down as she dared to go.

Submerged and alone, swallowed completely by the inky depths, Illia breathed the word into the profound silence.

Mate.

Illia scaled the cliffs in pouring rain. She could have shifted, but the climb up the craggly rock face in the damp was a challenge her body craved. Rare-so rare, to feel her physical limits, to be breathless or phased in any way. Even wielding magic and a legendary sword for hours on a battlefield had ceased to push limits for her.

Once again, the soul inside her nearly seemed to untether, and float away on a wind of her own making, but as it always had, the anchor chain snapped taut.

She hauled herself over the edge of the cliff. The current had dragged her a half mile from where she'd left her clothes and weapons. She walked the distance, forcing herself to be slow, and measured. The rain began to even around her. The winds satiated.

It helped, the exertion, though it was a shallow form of release. After a battle, she often felt more quiet than she ever did, but after the injury, the phantom pain… Illia turned her forearm over, examining the thin red line cutting jaggedly through her tattoo. For an instant, the memory of the incident which had given her the last scar she'd received cut through her.

Thunder cracked momentarily.

I am your master.

Illia shifted, and cut back over the plains and fields in the darkening sky, towards the tents and the commanders within them.

No one commented when she walked into the Regent-now King's-command tent dripping wet. Likely no one but Ander would have dared. Her eyes found him immediately, some piece of her soul unravelling its' tension at the sight of him whole and alive. He stood, bandages peeking through the tears of his shirt. Someone had wrapped his ribs tightly. His own magic would also help the healing process along. His own gaze snapped to her arm, scanning her with the same urgency, and she was very still until his eyes at last lifted to her own.

She broke from his mismatched gaze, unable to see the truth reflected in it. Mate.

"There she is," Amie grinned. Deciding that a soaking wet Evalin was less lethal than a silent one, she clapped Illia on the shoulder. "Our hero of the day. Though you could lighten on the weather."

Illia tilted her head. "One needs a downfall to cool your temper, Commander."

"I'm going to miss you so much," the new King said with a sigh. His wife, standing at his side, released a small laugh of her own. Amie rolled her eyes. "I lead your forces to victory and you content yourself with insults," she said. "I should quit on the spot."

"Amie threatens to quit," Ander said immediately. Sorren, one of the other generals, swore mildly and handed over a bronze coin.

"Are you betting on me?" Amie exclaimed.

Ander blinked innocently. "Lady Commander, I would never."
"I'll split you myself, Prince."

Illia held out a hand. The bronze mark slapped into it a moment later as she caught Ander's easy throw. Amie turned, eyes flashing.

"Amie threatens murder," Illia said serenly, fighting her own smile.

"Are you sure we cannot convince you to stay?" King Ethin was still smiling. He was worn and bloodied, but with his wife at his side, the curve of her stomach pressing into him as he held her close, and the light of the crown surrounding him, he was the perfect image of victory.

Ander met Illia's gaze briefly. "We, I'm afraid, have to go home."

"Ahkhosaria is forever in your debt," Sorren said, his gravelly voice making the nation's name sing. "Call upon us at any time, and we will march under your banners."

Illia's gaze flickered instinctually to Ander. Not what they had come for, but nonetheless, if what they'd suspected proved true…

"It would be our honour to march alongside you again," Illia said evenly.

"Thank you," the king said. "For coming to our aid. You did not know us, and we had no claim to us-and yet I owe you my crown."

Ander waved a hand. "When you're as bored as I am, Majesty, you'll do whatever it takes to stay busy."
The king's eyes remained on Illia. "Thank you," he said, again, and Illia bristled at the unspoken invitation in the words as he added, significantly, "Evalin."

Illia tilted her head. He may have suspicions-may have heard of an Other pair who crisscrossed these lands, aiding the unaided, travelling, adventuring, searching. Illia had begun suspecting he may have a theory several weeks ago, but the course of the civil war had overrun the need for truth.

That said, this king deserved to know why they had come.

"May I have a word?" Illia asked softly. Her gaze went to Ander again. He slid off his stool. Livia, the new queen, leaned over the map. "We can begin evacuating our wounded here, Amie," she said meaningfully. The cluster of nobility and commanders drew together as Illia turned, leaving the tent with the royals at her back.

The rain had stopped, the stars beginning to appear over the fires of the camp as they walked. Drinking songs could be heard in the damp evening air. They walked, Ethin unquestioning, raising the odd hand to a soldier they passed, until they had reached another one of the ridges that overlooked these plains.

Ander halted, Illia with him.

Ethin overlooked his men, the prosperous sweep of tents before them, then turned back to them. The starlight and distant flames cast him in warm shadows.

"Why did you come?" he asked, softly.

Illia turned to Ander, always the better with words. Despite the injury, he straightened, his dark hair barely illuminated over his brow as he spoke, the half light catching the uneven gleams of his eyes. "We're searching for something."

"A threat?"

"We don't know."

"You don't know," Ethin said, his disbelief without malice. Illia could almost have smiled. "Something is stirring," she said.

Ethin looked at her quite plainly and said, "I imagine any cause for a force like you would stir our world."

Illia only smiled, and wished, suddenly, that he knew the whole of it. A good man, Ethin Cane-a good man in a world filling with them, a world whose shift she'd begun sensing a long, long time ago.

Illia had been travelling for ten years, Ander beside her, learning her world, and they knew the marked shift better than likely anyone alive. Family members included.

Ethin said, "We believe in the balance of magic. Like calls to like. I cannot imagine, in such circumstances, that you walk without answer."

Illia tilted her head towards Ander and said, "He's my answer."

It was delivered lightly, but Ander's eyes still lingered on her. Her hair tended to glow in the dark on occasion, moonlight picking up its own silvery hues amongst otherwise golden strands, but she doubted that was what he was observing.

"Did you find what you were searching for?" Ethin asked.

Ander exhaled. "It's hard to say. The force we're tracking- it is an ambiguous darkness. It appears in unexpected places. Always, a shift follows, and then it seems to vanish. It could simply be accounted for as history."

"But it's not."
Illia shook her head slightly.

"You can sense it," Ethin said.

"We both can," Ander amended. They'd all seen plenty of his own magic today. "We've begun hunting."

"Did you find it here?"

Illia couldn't be certain what motivated the blood heir's rebellion. For ten years, Ahkhosaria had simmered-left to a Regent upon the demise of its rulers, it had been handled so beautifully and with such care that much of the nation had opted to vote the Regent into permanent position. This was legal under Ahkhosarian law, but when the blood heir-too small upon the demise of her parents to say anything of the matter-heard of it, she threw a revolutionary fit. Brash, wicked and hell bent on revenge, she'd swiftly begun cutting a course towards devastating civil war. Ander and Illia, in the lower regions of these lands' northern cousins, had heard of the whispers and come.

They had fought for Ethin, not simply for mystery but for him: for another good ruler in a better world. But in the end, it was hard to know whether or not the heir had turned to such violent cause of her own volition, or because the force-the intangible darkness lighting down country by country-had whispered to her. Most of the people who could have told them were dead. The heir had killed herself. She may not have known anything to begin with.

Illia's skin crawled whenever she thought of the woman's face. Young, wicked, bright: there was something there that should not have been. But who was Illia to say what was natural or unnatural?

Ander's gaze was on hers. He met her own conclusion, then turned to Ethin and said, "Not amongst you, and certainly not anymore."

Ethin nodded. "Where else have you heard of it?"

"Weseria and Golven," Illia said. "Satyr, and Bluewood."

"Verentian," Ander offered. Illia nodded slightly. Ethin blinked. "So many?"

"Took a while to pick up on a trend," Ander admitted. "But we believe it's tracking north."

"My people don't bother with anyone above the Akkadians," Ethin said. He waited. Ander and Illia, of course, spoke Ahkhosarian with a very distinct Akkadian accent. It was the closest dialect they'd had. Obviously, they would have come from further north.

Ander looked at Illia. She ceded to him with a blink. Ander turned to Ethin and said, "What have you heard of the lands up there?"

Ethin's eyes flickered. "There was a great and terrible queen in the northernmost lands. A place called Doranelle. She was killed, and now peace remains. Do you believe this darkness is of her descent?"

Illia's stomach turned all the way over. "No," she said, tightly. Ander nodded. For a moment, the moon caught his gold eye and set it aglow. "We would know," he said, flatly. "Whatever it is-it isn't her. Who reigns up there now?"

Ethin shrugged. "No one amongst our trades. They connect largely with a very distant continent to the west. We hear very little of the western shores."

Ander nodded. Then, "Have you ever heard the name Havilliard?"

Ethin met the gaze, royal to royal. "No."

"Terrasen."

A shake of the head.

"Ashryver." A blink, then, "I believe an Ashryver rules in the distant north."

Ander nodded. "He does. Galathynius?"

Ethin's eyes flickered. Illia believed she was not breathing. Ethin said, slowly, "A western legend. That's the legend of the fire queen."

Ander nodded once more, then said quietly, "How about the name 'Whitethorn'?"

Illia stiffened. Ethin blinked at Ander. Once. Twice.

Then, "Holy gods."

He turned to Illia, staring.

For a long time now, the kingdoms of the western continent had heard of a mercenary of sorts, a female of great power who criss-crossed over the map with an ice prince and magic as her companions. She'd become a legend. She fought in many battles, and won some wars. Her name and appearance changed often: sometimes she was a golden haired Other, at others, a silvery-haired, golden-eyed being, the stories picking up on odd elements of her appearance and twisting them. To the kingdoms far south of Doranelle, the name 'Whitethorn' did not link up with legends of fire queens, or the rulers of the north. No, it belonged to the being who stepped out of legend and into their histories:

Illia Whitethorn. The Silver Hurricane of the Eastern Shores.

Ethin stared, and stared, and stared.

"I thought you'd be older," he breathed at last.

"So do many others." It was not a mask to last forever. Illia hadn't Settled, and with every passing year, grew closer to an age of believable legend. The Settling was a worry for another time. But for now, everyone looked at her-ageless, but clearly no more than twenty-five-and saw her as young. Simple as that.

It had worked, she was told, for the Galathynius legend quite well.

Ethin shook his head. "I cannot believe I didn't see it."

"Well," Ander said amicably. "No one exactly expects a legend to knock down their door."

"Nor fight in my war," Ethin managed. "Thank you, Lady. Thank you."

Illia smiled. "It was my honour. Our honour." She nodded to Ander. Ander smiled.

Ethin said slowly, "Your name isn't Chaol Towers, is it."

"Nor more than hers is Evalin Cortland," Ander said cheerfully. "I'm Ander."

"We're sorry to lie," Illia said. "But no one knows of our search. Not even our families."
"Your families," Ethin repeated. "And they are?"
"Legends."

Ethin blinked. "The kind to appear on our doorstep?"

"Not unless my father gets extremely bored," Ander said. "And you've never met my mother, so you wouldn't know that's unlikely."

"And what of your kin?" Ethin asked Illia.

"Too many to offer a guarantee, but most reside on foreign shores," she replied.

"Are they all… like you?"

It was a question she never got used to. "No," she managed, around the pit of her stomach. "None of them are like me." Not anymore. Not exactly.

Their names and faces twisted in her again. She had been gone months- many months now, one of her longest stretches away from home in six years. She had hoped this war would give more answers than it had yielded.

As if sensing her line of thought, Ethin drew in a long breath. "Forgive me," he said. "But I knew you were hiding something. Far be it from me to doubt my allies, but…"

"It only befits a clever man," Ander said.

Ethin half nodded. Then he reached into his coat and pulled out a slim book.

"My spies recovered this from the heir's tent," he said. "When they found her dead within it. I believe… if you suspect any manner of darkness, you would find proof of it here."

Light summoning was better suited to Illia's relatives than herself, but she managed a flicker, embracing the unfamiliar strain as Ander caught the book and examined it. A journal, in curling Ahkhosarian hand.

Illia lifted her head, relief sparking in her chest. "Thank you."

Ethin said softly, "Thank you, Lady. If you ever have need-my people will traverse to faraway shores to come to your aid. To both of your aids. You have my word as king."

"And you have our blessing," Ander said.

Ethin bowed his head to them both. They bowed in return. The king turned back to the battlefields and tents, gaze lingering.

Ander said, "We will not go without saying goodbye."

Ethin's half smile was a glimmer in the dark. "Livia would have your heads. Legends or not."

Illia said softly, "Tell only her, if anyone."

Names had power. She didn't know if she needed this escapade attributed to her own as of yet. Ethin nodded in understanding, then started back down towards the path.

Leaving Ander and Illia alone for the first time all day.

For a long few moments, silence stretched. Ander was the safest place Illia had. Silence between them was always comfortable-nothing more. And yet the word writhed in her chest between them.

Ander swallowed. Her Other-her Fae-vision enabled her to pick out his features far better than he could see her own. He would glimpse her canines, perhaps, the gleam of her strange eyes, or the silver piercings along the points of her ears. She could make out the chiseling of all his features, the gaze he was only allowed to keep mismatched on this continent, the deepness of his eyes as he looked at her.

As though she were the only thing of value in the entire world.

They would have to part again, when they returned home. And yet they had already decided without speaking that to home they would go. There would be many weeks overland and on a ship before that. Weeks alone-to speak, or to remain silent.

Speak, said Illia's heart. Silence, commanded the crown.

I am my own master-but she answered to history above all else.

Ander swallowed in the darkness. "Do you want to read it," he asked, the familiar honey of his voice rough with gravel, "or shall I?"

Illia held out her hand. The book slid into it. Hurt him-it would hurt him, more than her, if the darkness that may be held between these pages echoed in any part of his history. Illia's magic hissed in response to the kiss of pages. She knew already what she would find between them.

Evidence, of some kind-perhaps the beginnings of answers. Perhaps a plan.

She did not wish to go home without one, but the ache of being without her family was an anchor dragging her home.

She swallowed. Said, perhaps a little hoarsely, "We could see if Mila can find anything."
"Or Mary. Do you believe Lena is still in the desert?"

Illia shook her head. "Training would not take her this long. We'll find her at home." The wrong word clanged between them. His home was further south than hers.

He is my home. You are home.

Ander just nodded. Neither of them were paying a shred of attention.

She wanted to touch him, somehow. Illia needed to touch him. She wanted him to say her name. Not just Illia, not just Evalin, but all of it, every name she had. She wanted to say his. But that was the gods-damned problem, wasn't it? Their names. Who they were. Everything between them: not just twenty five years of friendship. Not just twenty five years of that kinship in their blood: they were carranam, and everyone at home knew it.

They didn't know this. The word. What had happened today. The strange, impossible, unprecedented truth-Illia's heart thundered in her chest. The word.

Say it, her heart pleaded: begged. Say it.

"What happened today," Ander said, so soft her Fae ears pricked to hear it.

"You scared the hell out of me," she whispered.

"Illia-"

"I felt you," she got out. "I felt you bleed."

His eyes were endless blue and gold. "I felt you," he breathed.

There it was. Unspoken truth.

The change. Another shift.

A shout echoed distantly as the revelers in the camp celebrated further.

She wished for the ease of earlier, their back and forth, the safety, the familiarity, the steadiness. But it had changed-all of it, somehow, in one moment. Perhaps after weeks travelling again, their natural state, it would restore the balance.

But tonight…

She would have kissed him.

Twenty five years of promise in it.

All she was.

All she had.

But Illia couldn't do it. Not because he was not everything-but because of twenty, thirty, forty years of history laid bare between them.

They were not just themselves. Not just a legend on the western continent.

They began walking back in wordless agreement. They shared a tent usually, but Illia did not think she would sleep tonight. She could read, somewhere, by starlight, or simply fly, anchored by the constant line to Ander. She would always know the way home. To him.

They belonged to another.

But there it was: the problem. They walked back in silence, steps echoing, the truth between them.

Because Illia did not just belong to him.

No, Illia Evalin Whitethorn Galathynius, Silver Hurricane of the Western Shores, heir to the Faeries, Crown Princess of Terrasen, first daughter of Rowan Whitethorn and Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, belonged to a nation.

And Ander Chaol Havilliard, Crown Prince of Adarlan, noble, brilliant, sharply witted, her safety, her anchor, the Ice Prince of Adarlan, her best friend, with his one sapphire blue Havilliard eye, and the other-the mismatch a fairly simple bloodline twitch, covered at all times at home by a simple glamour-the other was Valg gold.

Ander's grandfather was a man possessed by a Valg prince, who had bred a line proved at least partially inhuman by the man before her. His grandfather had slaughtered Illia's grandparents and left her mother in their blood.

It didn't matter what Illia's blood sang, or heart demanded: "impossibility" did not begin to cover it.