I nod. “Lead the way.” In this moment, I’ll agree to anything she asks of me. I only wish I knew what was going on inside of her head. She aersteps us to the training room that’s now become a sanctuary for me, as it’s one of the few places I get to interact with her regularly.

“Weapons and light,” she grunts as she walks to the weapons rack. I start to protest, but she only repeats herself, aether lacing her voice. “Weapons and light.” I select a short sword, while she picks up a dagger. We walk to the middle of the room and both conjure our light weapons of choice. “I want to go full out,” she says somberly. “No holding back. Spar with me like you spar with Fionn. I have a weapon. I’ll be capable.”

I hesitate, not sure it’s wise with her current emotional state. But then she murmurs the word please with so much vulnerability and raw pleading, and I can’t deny her. I nod, and before I’ve finished the gesture, she leaps toward me, swinging her light sword with a ferocity I haven’t seen from her yet. Her dagger whips toward my face, and I have to dodge to keep from being hit in the eye with it.

I smirk. “Bring it on, witchling.”

Laurel

The mythical mating bond between fae is nothing more than a story, a tale woven to satisfy the romantic tendencies of fae and mortals alike. And yet, its staying power throughout history tells us that there is something to be learned from these tales. Love, the kind that is destined and often tragic, excites the mind. But those who fall prey to believing in these myths will find themselves heartbroken, unsatisfied with the life they’ve been given.

The Legends of the Fae, Volume III

I spar with Thorne, weaving in and out of his reach, the light and metal responding to my every thought. I’m so angry, so devastated, and that makes it easier for me to channel larger amounts of aether. In this moment, I don’t care what happens if I lose control, so I press forward with every ounce of magical and physical prowess I possess. Laurel is no longer here, all that remains is the aether that courses through my veins.

Thorne matches me blow for blow. At first, he goes easy on me, but when it’s clear I’ll slice him in half if he falters, he pivots into full intensity. If either of us slips up, we could seriously injure the other. There’s a thrill in it that makes my blood heat and my center thrum with need. I let it wash over me, drowning out the sorrow and soul-deep grief I’m running from.