Chapter Text
The quiet of the room was suffocating, broken only by the soft, rhythmic scratch of Dorian’s quill against parchment. The study, though spacious, felt smaller than usual—its walls pressing inward under the weight of unspoken tension. Dorian sat at the large oak desk, his usually pristine posture slouched with exhaustion. Stacks of reports, decrees, and letters covered every inch of the desk's surface, a testament to the kingdom's growing unrest in Aelin’s absence.
Across from him, Fenrys sat in a high-backed chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. His golden eyes were fixed on the fire burning low in the hearth, his hands clasped tightly together as though holding himself together by sheer will. Though his expression was composed, the tension radiating off him was palpable, his agitation filling the room like a storm waiting to break.
“She’s been in there for a week,” Fenrys said abruptly, his voice raw and frayed. It was quieter than usual, but no less heavy with frustration. “An entire damn week, Dorian. She won’t even look at us. Won’t say a word. How can we just... let her stay like that?”
Dorian didn’t look up, his hand still moving methodically across the parchment in front of him. “You think I don’t know that?” he said quietly, his tone carefully measured.
Fenrys’s fingers tightened, his knuckles going white. “Then why are we sitting here? Why are we pretending everything’s fine while she—”
“We’re not pretending anything,” Dorian interrupted, finally setting the quill down and meeting Fenrys’s gaze. His sapphire eyes, though calm on the surface, held an edge of frustration beneath. “Do you think I want this? Do you think any of us do?”
Fenrys held his gaze for a long moment before looking away, his jaw clenched tightly.
Dorian sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. The faint stubble on his jawline was a testament to how little he’d slept in the past week. “She’s grieving, Fenrys. She’s dealing with it in her own way. We can’t force her to do it differently just because we’re worried or impatient.”
“Grieving?” Fenrys echoed, his voice shaking slightly as he spoke. “This isn’t grief, Dorian. This is... this is her shutting down. And it’s killing her. It’s killing me to watch her like this.”
Before Dorian could respond, the door to the study creaked open, and Aedion strode in. His steps were heavy, his face lined with exhaustion and something darker—guilt, maybe, or helplessness. He carried a stack of letters, which he dropped unceremoniously onto the desk.
“More correspondence,” Aedion said gruffly, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “The lords are getting restless. They’re demanding answers about Aelin’s... absence.”
"Let them wait," Fenrys muttered, his tone laced with bitterness.
Aedion shot him a sharp look. “They won’t wait forever. And neither will the people. They need to see her, Dorian. To hear from her.”
“And what do you suggest we do, Aedion?” Dorian asked, his voice sharper than usual. “Break down her door? Drag her out in chains? Because I don’t see her responding to a polite knock and a ‘your people need you.’”
The silence that followed was heavy, filled with unspoken fears and frustrations.
Aedion sighed, running a hand through his hair. "What about the borders? There’ve been rumors of unrest—small skirmishes in the north."
Dorian nodded, sifting through the papers on the desk until he found the report he was looking for. "I’ve already dispatched scouts to investigate. It seems minor for now, but if it escalates..."
"It’s not just the borders," Aedion added, his tone low. "Some of the smaller villages are struggling. Winter’s coming, and without Aelin to rally them..."
Fenrys leaned forward, his hands gripping the arms of the chair. “Do you think she doesn’t know that? Do you think she doesn’t feel that weight every second of every day? She knows, Aedion. And that’s why she’s—” He cut himself off, shaking his head as though to clear it.
“She’s what?” Aedion demanded, his voice rising. “Hiding? Abandoning her people?”
“That’s enough,” Dorian said sharply, his voice cutting through the tension. The stress of Aelin’s absence had not gone unnoticed by Dorian, by any of them.
Fenrys stood abruptly, pacing toward the hearth. “You think I’m not angry? That I don’t want to storm in there and demand she pull herself together? But this isn’t about us. It’s about her. And if she’s not ready, we can’t force her to be.”
Aedion’s jaw tightened. He sank into a chair with a weary sigh. “I know, I know, but this can’t go on. The borders are restless, the lords are panicking, and the people are losing faith. If we don’t do something soon...”
“I’ll go,” Fenrys said abruptly, straightening in his chair. His golden eyes were tired but determined.
Dorian shook his head. “You’re needed here. The last thing Aelin needs is for you to disappear too.”
“I’m not talking about leaving Terrasen,” Fenrys said sharply. “I’m talking about sending someone else—someone the lords might actually listen to.”
Dorian raised an eyebrow. “You’re suggesting Lorcan?”
Aedion snorted. “Because that’ll go over well. The lords hate him more than half the court combined. I think Elidie might be the only one that can tolerate him these days.”
“They might hate him,” Fenrys admitted, his tone carefully measured, “but they respect him. And more importantly, he doesn’t care whether they like him or not. He’ll get the job done.”
Dorian leaned back in his chair, considering Fenrys’s words. After a long moment, he nodded. “Fine. I’ll send Lorcan to the borders. But that still leaves us with the issue of Aelin.”
Fenrys’s shoulders slumped slightly, as though the weight of the past week was finally catching up to him. “I’m going to try again,” he said, his voice quiet.
“Fenrys, she hasn't—” Aedion started, but Fenrys cut him off with a shake of his head.
“I don't care. She’s my queen,” Fenrys said simply, his golden eyes bright with emotion. “And I’m not giving up on her. Not now. Not ever.”
Aedion opened his mouth to argue but closed it just as quickly. He nodded once, a silent gesture of understanding.
Fenrys pushed himself to his feet, his movements slow and deliberate. Without another word, he left the room, the door closing softly behind him
Dorian leaned back in his chair, staring at the closed door. Aedion crossed his arms, his expression unreadable.
"Do you think he’ll get through to her?" Aedion asked quietly.
Dorian didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stared at the papers on the desk, the weight of the crown he didn’t wear pressing heavily on his shoulders. "I don’t know," he admitted. "But I hope so."
Aedion sat down heavily in the chair Fenrys had vacated, his face etched with worry. "What if she doesn’t come out? What if she... never comes back to us?"
Dorian’s jaw tightened, his blue eyes hardening with determination. "She will," he said firmly. "She has to."
The room fell silent again, the only sound the crackling of the fire as they each wrestled with their own fears.
Outside, the castle felt quieter than ever, as if holding its breath for the queen who refused to emerge
The first thing she noticed upon waking was the cold. It seeped into her skin, sharp and biting, as though it had been waiting for her. She opened her eyes, but the darkness was absolute, swallowing everything around her. There was no light to orient herself, no flicker of a torch or the faint glow of a moonlit window.
Her breath hitched as she tried to move, her wrists meeting the resistance of heavy chains. Metal clinked softly, the sound hollow and eerie in the silence. She pulled harder, testing the bounds, but the chains didn’t give. Panic surged, swift and blinding, as she realized her ankles were bound too, the cold weight of iron digging into her skin.
Where am I?
Her throat burned as she tried to speak, but no sound came out. Her lips moved, forming words that died before they could be born. The realization hit her like a blow—her voice was gone.
She leaned her head back against the wall, trying to steady her breathing. The surface was rough and unyielding, the edges cutting into her scalp. She focused on the rhythm of her breath, counting each inhale and exhale to push back the rising tide of terror.
Time passed, though how much she couldn’t tell. Minutes, hours—days, perhaps. The darkness was unchanging, relentless.
Her body ached from the awkward position, her muscles screaming for relief she couldn’t give them. The air was stale, carrying the faint scent of damp stone and rusting metal. Hunger gnawed at her stomach, but it was a dull ache compared to the dryness in her throat.
Then, a sound.
A faint scraping, almost imperceptible at first. Her head snapped up, her body tensing despite the exhaustion weighing her down. She strained to locate the source, her ears prickling in the oppressive silence.
A small slit at the base of the wall in front of her slid open, the faintest scrape of metal on metal. Something was pushed through—a tray, she realized as it slid across the floor, stopping just out of her reach.
She stretched her leg out, her chained ankle pulling taut as she nudged the tray closer with her foot. Her hands fumbled in the darkness, finding the rough wood of the tray and the cool metal of a small bowl.
The smell of food reached her nose—bland, faintly sour, but food nonetheless. She shoved it into her mouth, her fingers scraping the bowl clean. Water came in a similarly crude cup, and she gulped it down, feeling the burn of relief in her parched throat.
The slit closed as quickly as it had opened, leaving her once again in silence and shadow.
She sank back against the wall, the brief reprieve doing little to ease the growing weight in her chest. How long had she been here? Who had put her here?
The questions circled endlessly, but no answers came.
Days—weeks?—blurred together, time stretching into an endless monotony. The food came once a day, always the same bland gruel, the same cup of water. She tried to track the passage of time by the arrival of the tray, but the intervals felt inconsistent, unreliable.
Her voice never returned.
Her chains remained unbroken.
And the darkness, unyielding and suffocating, was her only companion.