N/A: The title is a reference to taylor swift's song dorothea about lost friendships. And although I don't tend to do this, I recommend you to listen to both dorothea and epiphany when reading this chapter since I was heavily inspired by them. Enjoy! <3

Lorcan tried not to bite his cheek, nor his nails. Both were a bad habit he had carried with him since he was a youngling. To him, both tasted sour. Like blood and bad memories. He could still remember the time another abandoned kid had gone crazy after months and months of no food; in his state of madness, he had resorted to eating his own nails until his fingers were covered in crimson, the flesh completely torn and open. His fingers reduced, forever deformed.

He shuddered at the memory. He was not sure he would ever forget the lunacy in the kid's eyes. Even less, he would never forget how many times he had contemplated going to such lengths himself. Starvation, isolation, and infancy ought not to be combined. His childhood had been gloomier than the depths of the darkness from where his powers came from.

Shaking his head, he vanished those thoughts to a corner of his mind where he would ignore their existence until they came roaring back at him to shred at the threads of his sanity.

As he did so, Lorcan walked through the halls of the castle. The cries of the injured were familiar to his ears, his own wounds were demanding him to seek treatment, but such trivialities were unimportant. His feet moved on their own accord, taking him somewhere his wits were unsure of.

He came to a stop right as he took a turn to the right. There was a dark, short corridor with no flames to light the historical walls. Sometimes he wondered what fire spirits thought of them. Always battled and bruised. Screaming at the top of their lungs, wielding a sword and aching.

Where was he? What was he even doing?

His hands connected with the wall, not in a fist or a punch, just a feeling. He tried to will himself to go back to where he was needed.

Was he even needed? Was there such a place? Most times he was sure there was none.

The sound of a sniff had his head snapping in the direction to where the sound had come from. Dark onyx eyes stared back at him.

Such familiar jewels were in the face of a wolf. A white wolf whose animalistic features were both incredibly opposite, and yet similar to its human face. Lorcan was sometimes jealous of pureblooded Fae, who had been favoured by the Gods with the blessing of being bearers of two faces.

"I-" He started, then stopped. He swallowed, trying to erase the sudden dryness in his throat.

What was he even supposed to say?

Many things, the thought betrayed him by whispering in his ear. Lorcan pointedly ignored it.

The wolf puffed, the sound was almost like a sneeze. Lorcan took a step closer. But the white wolf retreated in response.

He brought his hands up, as in surrender, as one would in front of a wild animal. Never mind that it was not an animal from the wilderness in front of him, but rather something more dangerous. More untamed. Ferocious. Even cruller when his sharp tongue cut through others and left them bleeding on the floor.

Fenrys.

"Are you okay?" Were the first words that came out of his mouth. He managed to hide the distress he was experiencing from his voice.

Lorcan immediately inspected him from his place. Fenrys' fur was covered in blood. The sanguine fluid stained the coat around his mouth, and he didn't have to see it to know that his fangs were probably matching in crimson red colour. His whole mane had reddish stains, as if cut veins had splashed against him. It probably had happened like that.

He gave him a tight-lipped smile, a bit of a grimace, actually. Pointing with his head at his body, and bloodstained pelage, Lorcan repeated himself. "Shall I call for a healer?"

Fenry pulled back his teeth in a low, threatening growl. His showing fangs were ruby-stained, they glistened menacingly despite the lack of illumination.

"Alright, I won't" He hurried to say, fisting his hands at his side. A contained response to Fenrys' attitude towards him. Lorcan was angry with himself.

Sometimes anger was truly all he could feel: occasionally, he feared all that anger would burn him from inside out. It was exhausting, to hate himself so profoundly.

The wolf stomped his paw on the stony floor, catching Lorcan's attention. He directed his gaze back on him. "What is it?" Fenrys let out a breath and rolled his eyes, the expression comical in such a savagely animal. Lorcan tried to contain the sudden laugh that swiftly threatened to escape his lips.

His mood was sobered up as soon as he noticed the way the white wolf looked away from him. The corners of his mouth twisted, a stinging enveloping his chest and throat. "Why are you here?" He snapped. The ferocity, coldness that came out of him wrapped around him like a shield.

Fenrys bared his fangs again, and Lorcan shook abruptly his head from one side to the other. A humourless laugh twisted his lips into a sneer. "Why the fuck did you follow me if you are not going to speak?" When the only response came in the form of a trembling growl, he added. "Well? If all you wanted was to bother me, you better leave already. I have no time for dogs"

He had no doubt the shadows of the hallway were deepening, growing and enveloping, as much as his own anguish was. Lorcan avoided looking at Fenrys, but he knew when he was left alone as he heard the snap of his teeth at him one last time before he ran away. He was good at that.

A heavy veil of darkness curled around one of his fists, when he released it on one of the walls, the stone cracked and broken pieces fell on the floor at his feet. He cursed at himself as he did it again and again.

Lorcan had never been good with words. It was Fenrys who could express himself until he was a ghost, until the receiver of his conversation could see through him and feel notable; he could string what ran into his very own blood into words and speak them fearlessly and shamelessly; but Lorcan could not. His thoughts were not echoes of words, they came to him in the form of visions, of emptiness, wishes and eternal possibilities, fears and resentments. He could not mould those images and incitements into idioms nor truth.

He was destined to forever be a warrior, to fight in a battlefield and to be defeated and cursed with silence.

-

There was a -still- lenient prickling sensation against Rowan's skin. He closed and opened his hands, the movements quite jerky, but not enough that they could be mistaken by temblors. His eyes were solely focused on Isabella's body, and he knew that people outside the room were in screams -for he had seen them- yet all he could hear at the moment was the throbbing in his ears.

He cocked his head to the side, and one of his bones made a sound as it cracked. It did not help to relinquish any of the tension curling around his body. "Isa..." He managed to choke out. How pathetic he was. "What's happened?"

Her eyes followed the direction of his gaze, to where a nasty, red and deep wound -one which he had no idea where it had come from- had left her flesh uneven, sunken, coloured. It was located on her left forearm, and it was terribly visible despite the fact that foreign symbols had been etched on top of it. She flinched, the action quickly followed by her hand covering it in shame.

Rowan cursed at himself, his eyes briefly closed at how dense and little empathetic he could be sometimes. Immediately, he began unbuttoning his shirt. Isabella's eyes widened, and she stuttered. "W-what are you doing?" He ignored her as he quickly managed to remove his clothing.

He threw his shirt on her lap. "Put it on," He ordered, curtly.

She looked from the piece of clothing to himself silently before doing as he'd said. Slowly, she completely covered herself, he had no doubt such speed was caused by the still fresh wound on her tight. He knew he should have been a gentlemale and look away to give her a sense of privacy, but he felt like he would cause a hurricane with a simple breath if he so much as teared his gaze away from her.

"Thank you" She murmured as she finished buttoning up his shirt. In another timeline, he would have been pleased at the sight of her with his clothes, but that was not their longbook.

Rowan awaited for her to speak, but she avoided his gaze and sat wordlessly. Unsure of how to approach the situation -for he was in utter foreign territory, since his emotions had never overtaken his senses in the way they did when he was in her presence- he doubted every single move and thing he thought of. Speechlessly, he rubbed his temple and pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt at gaining some bravery. He closed their distance with a few long steps, and crouched in front of her.

On his knees, he asked. "Can I look?" Despite the fact that his voice had been low, gentle, even, her head snapped in his direction, and he made sure to point to her recently sewn tight with a simple and noninvasive movement of his head. Thankfully -miraculously- she nodded.

He didn't dare breathe a sigh of relief at her permission.

Gently, he brought his hands to her leg. They moved slowly, and respectfully, from her ankle and up to her wound. It was not too large, but he could recognize that it was not only an arrow injury, but that it had pierced deep into her flesh. If she hadn't tended to herself she would have eventually bled out. Sooner than he dared to admit to himself. In order to maintain his mental health, he avoided doing the calculations.

"Does it hurt?" She raised one of her shoulders, an attempt at normalcy. And still avoiding the important subject. His fingers slightly traced around her lesion, but far enough that he would not be infecting it, nor pressing on it. He ignored the goosebumps that ignited at his touch. "Where were you hurt? Who did it?" The questions came out almost guttural.

He couldn't help it. He would have the heads of who had hurt her removed from their bodies in a slow, painful death as retribution for even daring pointing a weapon in her direction. And even that wouldn't be enough. He had a sudden thirst for blood that could not be satiated unless he was entirely sure those had suffered at least a fraction of what she had.

"It doesn't matter" The sound of her voice was faint in comparison to the fury encapsulated inside his body.

Rowan let out a humourless laugh, his eyes on hers, and conveying only a friction of what he was feeling. "Doesn't. Matter?" He closed his eyes, trying to will himself to calm down. "Do not say shit like that"

"Excuse me?"

"If you wish not to tell me, then fine. But don't utter bullshit like that as if you truly believed it. It's maddening and I can't stand it" He revealed.

-

Isabella blinked. Confused, and taken aback. "It's not that I don't want to tell you-"

"Then what is it? Who hurt you? Where?" His questions came out one after the other, too fast, too desperate. They sounded too much like a plea to her ears. It made the speed of her heartbeat accelerate painfully. She fisted her hands, and the movement caused their fingers to brush, for Rowan's hands were still on her lap.

"Why do you want to know?" Avoidance was her armour.

"You know why"

"I don't"

"Then I won't tell you. Find out for yourself"

"What is that even supposed to mean?" To be played by her own game rules was unsatisfactory.

She felt his fingers twitching against her legs. A sudden warmth sensation shot through her body at the mere touch. She wondered if he realised it, although it didn't matter, for it was ignored by both of them.

"How did you get here?" He questioned after a moment, his eyes on the broken arrow that she had thrown carelessly on the floor as soon as she had removed it from her body. She was slightly disappointed by the fact that he seemed unaffected by their closeness.

Her priorities had been stupidly affected, obviously. She bit the inside of her cheek in frustration at herself.

"I walked"

He kept his gaze away from hers, but she noticed the slight way in which he perked up at her answer. "A long walk?"

Oh, what a sneaky bastard. "I don't know"

Rowan blinked, unconvinced. "You don't know"

She nodded.

"Alright, I get it. You don't want to tell me, although I can't bring myself to understand why-"

"I-" She started, already exasperated. "I've told you already. I don't know"

He must have heard the honesty in her voice, for his eyes flickered in her direction as he tilted his head to the side. "Do you truly don't know? How-?"

"I DON'T KNOW!" She exploited. Isabella would have already sprung to her feet if it weren't for the fact that her tight was still sending waves of ache through her whole body. "I have no clue where I was located, there was fire all around and so much smoke I could hardly breath nor think but...somehow -and this is going to sound ridiculous-, I just knew I was close to safety"

Rowan turned so he was facing her completely. His eyes entirely on her, his gaze attentive. And contemplative. He appeared to be going over her words, considering and believing. "To safety?" Was what he chose to ask her, to her surprise.

"Yes"

"Not to the castle?"

She frowned. "Aren't those two the same?" He chose not to answer, and she rolled her eyes at his mystery. "Now, how did you know where I was? I didn't see you when I was walking through the fort's halls"

He looked away, and for a moment she was sure he was not going to respond. But something shifted in him, and then he said, his tone condescending, "I smelled you"

Instinctively, she scrunched her nose "My scent? Do I stink again?" She was covered in sweat and more different body fluids after all.

"Your blood" He told her, as if it were obvious.

Isabella tried for lightness. "Does it smell good?"

She was glad as he understood what she was attempting, and was even gladder as he made her the favour of following. "Like rotten tomatoes"

"Yummy"

"Huh" She laughed at the expression on his face. So serious, and yet humouring her need for a false normalcy. The corners of her lips fell down as her chest started bumping painfully, for Rowan's features had shifted; and now one of his hands was holding one of hers. The heat emanating from his body enveloped her completely.

Isabella swallowed as his other, free, hand travelled from her tight to her wrist. He began drawing different compositions on her skin with his thumb, precise delineations that held no meaning to her but seemed to be made cautiously by him. His eyes flickered to hers, and he held eye contact as he continued doing so.

"Let me heal you"

The words had her blinking at him. Unreasonably breathless, she opted for nodding. His hand abandoned the administrations on her wrist as he moved them back to her tight. Promptly, his hand gained a faint bluish glow, and it surrounded her with a welcoming sensation of coldness, followed by the clearing of her mind. Once he was done, his hand returned to her wrist, and she looked down to where the arrow had pierced her to find only the scar of her sewing.

"You did well" He praised her, his voice a pleasant hum.

"Thank you"

There was a moment of silence in which Rowan stared at her, and she pointedly avoided him. His hand moved centimetres up, his fingers going under the sleeve of the shirt he'd lended her. "Can I?"

Isabella nodded, what else could she do? She was doomed already.

-

Rowan held his breath, he was sure he had even suspended all movements of the air as his thumbs brushed the endings of the shirt away and revealed her skin. It was unknown to him if the scars on her body were still hurtful, so he did his best to brush against them smoothly. Gently. Almost faintly. Ghostly touches.

The markings on her flesh, he recognized, had been done with ink. They were tattoos. Like the ones he bore himself, with the only difference that he could not decipher the language in which she had written them. He knew it was not her native tongue, for she had shown it to him before.

The sleeve was raised a bit over her elbow, and he found different types of symbols and scars that had him flinching, for he had no doubt that the wound that had caused them would have had even the strongest of soldiers crying several tears. He stopped breathing, and the air around them stilled. A chill rose in the room as he forced himself to take deep breaths through his nostrils.

He needed not to see more, he could now discern through the shirt that the symbols went all over her arms, to her shoulders and both over and under her breaths; that the ink ran deep and that they were accompanied by more bruises. More cicatrices.

Abruptly, he rose to his feet. He practically reeled back, he was in urgent need of space. He needed to think. He was in great need of understanding, for he was close to losing control.

"What are those scars, Isabella? I-i've seen you before and those did not used to be there. Did-" He could barely speak through the haze of his fury, of his fear, of his instincts to protect and destroy and nourish. "Did someone here do that to you?" The words were choked out.

"No! Of course not" She seemed appalled by his idea, so he believed her.

"Then how-?"

He should have known her answer when her eyes remained completely focused on the floor. Away from even a trace of him. "I did it"

He did reel back this time. Staggering back, as if he had been pierced with a burning sword through the chest. It was hard for him to breathe, his vision gained black dots that had his head spinning, and he could feel his magic slipping through his numb fingers.

Somehow, he gained enough control over himself to say. "Th-those are self-inflicted?"

She swallowed, and she hugged her middle tightly as she answered. "I had to"

"You had to?!" He yelled, and instantly regretted it. He should not raise his voice at her, Rowan teared disturbingly at his hair as he grabbed his head. "Why would you possibly have to do that? You hurt yourself! I can recognize some of those as burn scars, knives, all!"

"What I do with my body or why I do it has nothing to do with you" Isabella lifted her chin, but her eyes were still too far away from his.

His hands started trembling at her words, and he had to remind himself that she was right so he wouldn't fall on his knees in front of her. So he wouldn't collapse right before her. So she wouldn't see how wretched he was. "What about those designs? I cannot discern any of them"

Rowan noticed the way she removed her hands from her body only to turn them into fists on her lap. She bit down on her lip, strong enough that he wondered if she would draw blood. He knew damn well he had bitten on his tongue so heartily that he could now taste his own blood. Sour and unimportant.

"Well?" He prompted her.

"I'm not quite sure I should tell you"

He let out another humourless laugh, his head shaking in disbelief at the situation in which he found himself. At the lack of knowledge with which he was dealing with, and the way he was desperately, miserably, grasping at anything she would throw at him.

"But will you?" What a pathetic, hopeful male he could be sometimes.

A beat of silence passed before she seemed to resign herself. "If I tell you what they are, I will not be able to tell you the whole story. Are you okay with that?"

Dropping his hands to his sides, he wordlessly nodded. What else could he do? He already was cursed to be an open wound forevermore.

"They are called wyrdmarks, and as far as I know, a not very well known variation of the tongue of thorns"

Impossible, he wanted to say, but he couldn't, for her words rang a distant bell in his mind. A memory, -one he was not sure if it was a hoax of his mind or a real one- of hushed whispers exchanged by his Queen, of worried frowns and desperate twisting of hands by the Old Scholars; a memory of a book that shouldn't have been, one he couldn't read, and things he felt he had been made to forget.

"I-" He opened, then closed his mouth. Speechless. "How did you learn it?"

"Killax," She murmured.

"Why?" Did that mean it was all the male's fault? Or Rowan's? For he had gone to the mystical male for help, he had taken her to his home and practically presented him with the opportunity for him to use her in his plans; since everything was a twisted masterplan in the male's role in controlling fate.

He should have been smarter. He should have known not to trust a Forgotten God, he should've, he could've, would've...

"I don't know, but it was a present"

He looked up at her, his face confronted in a grimace. "A present?"

"I've learned so much because of the wyrdmarks, I've discovered and gained so much strength from them. The pain that the learning of them has caused me is nothing in comparison to what I've earned" For the first time since the conversation had started, her gaze found him again. Rowan saw nothing but determination, sureness in her eyes.

"And what could possibly be so important that you've flagellated yourself for it?" He didn't mean for his words to sting, but they did anyway.

She rose to her feet, her movements certain, confident now that her most recent wound was healed. Isabella opened her arms, as if gesturing to her whole self. "Power! Magic! You've got no idea what I am capable of now that these markings are on my skin. I am stronger than any human, I heal faster, I move and react quicker than the most trained mortal ever could" Isabella told him, her eyes wide and pleading for understanding. "I am no liability anymore, I am no weakling. I can be useful, I can help others this way"

He closed his eyes. "You've never been a liability"

"I was, and I will not stand here so you can lie to my face"

"I am not lying" He wasn't. He had never, not once, considered her anything but a miracle. Even when he didn't want the mating bond to override him, he always thought she was glorious.

She shook one of her hands in the air, as if tired with him and his reactions to her revelations. "It doesn't matter. I am what I am now, and I'm happy with what I have become"

"That's great. I am happy for you, proud of all you've improved," He reassured her, because it was nothing but the truth. "But it shouldn't have come with the price of hurting yourself the way you have, it was unnecessary and unhealthy"

"It is not so different from a soldier training for battle"

"It is very different" He spoke again before she could interrupt him only to disagree with him. "How did you even etch them onto your skin, those are tattoos..." He didn't finish his trail of thoughts since he got the answer before he could be done.

The response came to him as memories of some of the most cherished moments of his life unfolded before his eyes. Her eagerness for learning how to ink somebody's body, the cautiousness with which she had practised on him, the rapidness of his ink running low...She had used him.

For weeks, she had used him to teach herself how to ink her flesh, how to torture her skin only to cover it with markings in a desperate search for magic. Power. And through all that time he had been oblivious, he had been stupid enough to believe she was interested in spending time with him, that he was making progress, that he was getting to know her...

Her features were lined with guilt, but no regret. "I had no choice"

Rowan stormed away.

-

They were crawling up the walls, like spiders crawling up somebody's skin. Their hands were bloodied and open due to the force they were using to hold on to the stones that made the wall. Even more gore ran down their nostrils and ears, completely staining their faces as the shielding magic around the wall -protecting the camp- continued to stun them. The Novyk were not giving up.

He hadn't missed this place.

"Shoot" Lorcan ordered, his voice ringing all along the organised ranks.

A rain of arrows fell down on the enemies grasping the walls. Many of them fell as arrows perforated their limbs, heads, and one even an eye. He turned to his side to praise the soldier who had achieved such a specific aim. "Well done" The soldier's cheeks grew redder at his words before he nodded and both of them turned back to look at the remaining spiders.

More warriors than he would have preferred had managed to keep crawling despite the arrows, so Lorcan decided to get rid of them himself. Darkness creeped to him from all corners, shadows abandoned their people to drag themselves to his side, where they all trailed over his feet to his legs until they reached his arms. As if they were ink, they gathered themselves to his will, and he discarded them in the direction of all Novyk he settled his eyes on.

"Amazing!" He heard a fellow soldier breath from his side. "I cannot believe it," Another said, hushedly.

Lorcan inspected his work, and noticed that his darkness had eaten at the flesh of those he had targeted. As a result, their bones had fallen flaccidly on the floor now that no soul remained to control them.

"Sir!" A young soldier called for him. His eyes were wide, his cheeks tinted with natural blush, and a smile that was too bright for the place where they stood. He was young, perhaps too young, Lorcan regretted to himself. "That was incredible!" So much admiration could be heard in such a few words.

Lorcan opened his mouth, "Th-" He began to say before he heard it.

The yell of one of his subordinates, an order being cried. "Stand down! Everybody, stand down" It was carried too slow by the wind.

It was his fault.

He'd been too distracted, too caught up in his own mind and self-pity to react as fast as he should have. If he had, he would have raised his own shields to protect them both, but he hadn't so when the bomb exploded, it took them both with it.

His head ached as his whole body collided with the floor. There were seconds of complete silence, of absolute nothingness. Precious seconds in which all vanished, in which no thoughts echoed in his mind, in which he was nothing but a shell with no memories.

Then, a single sound. A high ringing through his ears, a throbbing in his temples, and the heaviness of his whole body that made it impossible for him to move. He could not even open his eyes. He was rendered useless.

His very own bones had become torturously painful. Lorcan considered staying there -unmoving, and left alone- to rest. To sleep and find relief for only a little bit, even if he doubted he would be able to wake up.

The idea grew tempting as he bled. He could no longer feel the smoke of the fires crushing his lungs, nor the heat suffocating him. He couldn't smell the blood of his companions or listen to his cries. All he did was exist in excruciating pain.

"Not yet" A voice was heard through the pulsing of his ears.

"Please" Lorcan begged to the voice he recognized. A voice that he'd heard many times in his life before. A voice that reminded him of a scythe. "Just this one time. I'm tired"

"That would be counterproductive, is this how you wish to repay me after all these years?"

"I-"

"Now, now. Open your eyes and stand up. No child of mine can be defeated so easily" The voice said, almost in a sing-song voice.

"I'm not your child" He knew this, at least.

"All of you are my children," The voice said, and Lorcan had no explanation for why he knew it had somehow gotten closer to him. But he knew it had, for the voice whispered in his ear, as if it were singing lullabies to a newborn child. "But you've always been my favourite"

A knot formed in his throat, so tight that he couldn't bear the thought of swallowing. Tears welled up in his eyes, and a sob broke free from his dry throat. It tore him down through the middle, it evolved him until he was eclipsed in a sadness that fueled his tears and froze the ground where he lay.

Tears ran down his cheeks, and although he couldn't hear his own cries, he knew they must have been loud, for each of them shook his body. The voice transformed, and a cold, familiar darkness touched his cheek. A caress.

He laid his palms on the ground, and rolled to one side with a grunt of pain as he used all of his strength to stand up. His eyes were still quite unfocused, his vision hazy, but it was enough for him to recognize what had happened.

The Novyk had thrown an explosive that had caught everything on fire. He remained still as he recovered, and when his double vision disappeared, he noticed the bodies. Corpses surrounded him, soldiers whose once cleaned blue and golden uniforms were now stained with ashes and blood. He took a trembling step toward one of them, and almost fell as he slipped with all the blood covering the floor.

Lorcan righted himself, and the few steps he took before he fell on his knees brought him next to the soldier who had come to compliment him. The young, admirable warrior who shouldn't have had to be here. He couldn't remember if he had ever had the pleasure of training him.

Bringing his hands to his face, he closed the boy's eyes. He cursed as he realised his own hands were bloodied, and that he had merely stained his face even more. One of the boy's arms was missing, and in its place was an open wound, with the flesh all out for everyone to see. Another injury on his head had left a part of his crane in pieces. Lorcan could see part of the soldier's brain as blood continued to pour from the corpse.

Bile rose in his throat, yet he still grabbed the body and carried it in his arms. He didn't want to look in the direction of where the Novyk had been coming from, since he knew one of the enchantments on the shielded wall was to duplicate whatever was thrown at it and direct it to their enemies.

They were done. For the night. Hopefully.

Yet, Lorcan carried the corpse of the boy all through the field of battle as others continued to fight whoever had remained. Groups had been divided into performing different tasks. While some were ordered to turn off the fire, most of them were directed to the front lines to fight off the attackers.

He should have been there with the latter, magic slipping through his fingers to tear away at all the ruptures in the world, but as soon as he had seen the body of the soldier he now carried in his arms, he knew he'd had enough for the moment. Even he, darkness brought into a person, required a rest from all the dying souls sometimes.

The night was eclipsed by the fires, and although they needed to be ended, he was glad for them as Lorcan came to stand in front of the highest of them. He rested one knee on the cold, hard ground and bowed his head as he threw the corpse into the flames.

"There is no easy way from the earth to the stars for those who live, so may your soul be guided by Hellias to forever rest in the sky" He blessed, in farewell. The words were a distant echo to his ears.

Lorcan stood up, and tried not to stare at the way the fire was eating at whatever was left of the boy. He'd not had salt to pour in his mouth, so he had to resign himself by liberating a single thread of darkness from his finger to tie itself around the boy's wrist through the flames. Hopefully, the God of the Underworld would do him one more favour. Just as he was about to return to his station, he noticed the familiar glint of Rowan's silver hair coming from the front doors of the castle. Lorcan hurried to his friend's side.

"Are you alright?" Was the first thing he asked, even as he ignored his own wounds. "How is the situation inside?" He wanted to be back in there as much as he wanted to go back to the peak of the war zone.

Rowan disregarded his questions, continuing to crept towards the front lines. Lorcan followed him, matching his steps and speed. "Are you listening to me?" When he didn't respond, he raised his voice, the sound raspy and beastly. "What's gotten into you?"

The Prince stopped in his tracks, he turned on his heels and stalked to Lorcan's side until they were merely centimetres apart. Rowan grabbed the front of Lorcan's shirt and took hold of him with his fits. He bared his teeth at him, but Lorcan didn't bother to show him his fangs in response. "Nothing's gotten into me, why can't you ever leave me alone?"

"Bullshit" Lorcan spat, because he had never been precarious, and because he had always been a little suicidal. But most importantly, he had never feared Rowan. "What is it this time? Isa called you ugly? Did she say she doesn't want you? Huh?"

His friend pushed his chest, strongly enough that Lorcan stumbled back. When he was still righting himself, Rowan used the opportunity to draw his fist back only for it to collide with his stomach.

Lorcan fell pathetically to the ground, the punch had taken the breath out of him, and it had helped in bringing the ringing of his ears back. Still, he smiled tauntingly at Rowan as his friend stared down at him.

"She did reject you, didn't she?" He chuckled, despite the fact that there was no humour in one single cell of his body. "Should I say 'welcome to the club'?"

Rowan growled in his face, and Lorcan spat blood when the prince's fist punched him in the face. He could have defended himself, but he didn't want to. Rowan repeated the action. Once. Twice. Three times before he seemed to realise what he was doing, and his hand dropped limply at his side.

His friend's eyes went from Lorcan's swollen bruises to the blood tripping down his mouth. Rowan stumbled back, horror and regret etched in every single line of his face. Lorcan hated such expression, it provoked something inside of him that tasted bitterly. Something that wriggled around his throat and forced him to speak, perhaps the same thing that had made Rowan throw the first punch.

"Can you be any more pathetic?" The words were blows that stung them both.

Rowan frowned, the curves of his features tinted with fury as he rapidly turned around and left him behind. The sight created panic inside Lorcan's mind, but he morphed it into anger before it could leave his lips. "Go be fucking useful instead of a mopping idiot! Your parents would be so fucking disappointed if they could see you now"

The words were said for himself but spoken to another.

Coughing, he rolled once again to his side to stand up. He didn't even bother shaking the dust off his body, he solely brushed some of the blood on his chin with the back of his hand. As he did so, his eyes found a pair of dark onyx eyes already locked on his figure.

The white wolf seemed to be frowning at him, the animal's eyes conveyed a face so familiar to him, so deeply engraved in emotions that Lorcan often refused to look at it in a mirror. Still, he maintained eye contact. Aeons passed before the wolf shook its head and left him all alone.

Lorcan couldn't help the anguish that overtook him. He could do nothing but accept its waves of aching, as they roared at him and he had no energy to try and reach the shore. Whatever had fueled him, whatever had taken control over him to act the way he had was nothing but ashes of an extinguished fire now.

The fight kept repeating in his head, even as his magic curled around his hands, even as he fired it at every Novyk that came into his field of vision, and even as he wasted no time to do it over again.

Truthfully, he was terrified.

Rowan had been his first friend, he had been the first soul who had offered him a hand, to run through the woods with him and joke around when everyone wanted nothing to do with Lorcan. He had been the first person Lorcan had ever loved, the first person he had yearned to call brother; the first person to stay by his side and embrace his soberness with open arms.

And it terrified him to think that he could lose that.

Sometimes he feared he would end up alone, that everyone who he's ever cared about, ever loved, would leave him behind and not look back while he's still reaching to grasp their hand.

He was afraid all he would end up having would one day be friendships that used to breath words of forever and now it echoed farewells of grief.

Lorcan wouldn't be able to bear it; for Rowan had been the first living thing to offer him refuge, and Fenrys had been the first soul who had felt like home to Lorcan.

And he should have accepted it by now, he should've been used to it, since he had been born alone, had grown up lonely, and would probably die lost. But it still terrified him, still kept him up at night. Because why would anyone stay? Why would anyone willingly choose to stay by his side, to be his friend, to be his brother, lover, family?

His own parents hadn't even been able to bear the idea of his existence, and had chosen to abandon him. While alone in the streets, alone in a battlefield, alone as he curled over himself, he had the ever-present feeling that everyone would eventually rid him of their lives.

And there would be no one to blame but the one who had shooted arrows of anger and directed it to the heart of all he could reach, including himself.

-

Rowan transformed into a hawk while he was in the middle of running. At some point, his feet had altered themselves and the ground had disappeared as his arms and hands changed into wings. He used all of his senses to guide himself, and launched his whole strength into the remaining battle.

He noticed the way some of the soldiers in gold and blue uniforms looked up as they noticed him. Some even cheered him on, as if his mere existence meant that good things were to come.

What a whole bunch of crap.

Flying in the sky, over the wall, he got as deep into the enemies' territory as he could. His claws grew bigger as he prepared. When he found a victim, he threw all of his weight into the Novyk's soldier face, and he mercilessly shredded ar the soldier's eyes. His blood was warm against his hard talons. Rowan broke him free of his suffering once he was sure he had caused him irreparable damage.

"Somebody help me" The soldier cried loudly, his hands on what remained of his eyeballs. "I can't see! I CAN'T SEE" He fell on his knees, still cradling his face. Sobs wracked his body.

Rowan moved on to his next target. This time, they saw him coming, and some of them pointed arrows on fire in his direction. They shoot, but the arrows came to stop metres away from him before a strong current of his wind switched their direction in the middle of the air, helping him by penetrating their own instead of his feathers.

A blast of magic coming from within himself momentarily blinded them all as Rowan transformed back into his humanoid form. Ice covered his fingertips, and he used them to burn the flesh of whoever he touched. He used his fangs to snap at the necks of those that dared come close enough to him, he spat entire chunks of flesh mixed with blood due to that. It was far from delicious.

"Seize him!" One shouted.

"I won't. I'm fucking done" Other responded before the sound of someone running could be heard. Many followed the coward's actions and retreated.

"For fuck's sake, someone just grab him!" Another ordered.

Rowan chuckled to himself as he let himself completely let go in the fight. He maximised the coldness in his hands until he could cut through the soldiers' flesh with a quick touch of his. His legs moved faster because he could wield the wind to perform his own will, it wasn't just a second nature. The wind was his as much as he was its child. He used it to rid the Novyk of their air, to specifically strip them of oxygen in certain parts of their bodies that caused them to collapse before they could even take a step in his direction, much less draw a sword.

So madly lost in his thirst, such an egocentric faith he had on his abilities that he did not notice one soldier creeping up from behind until a knife pierced his skin. He stumbled, lost in the sudden pain, and the warrior used his confusion to his advantage. He drew the knife into his flesh once again, this time deeper, and more powerfully.

The soldier laughed at Rowan's face. Surprisingly, he fell. The hard ground kept him down as the soldier's maniatic howls rose in volume. With each chuckle, the knife came pouring down on him. Stabbing, breaking apart, undoing.

"Sir!" Rowan faintly heard a soldier call, his voice merry. "I think he's bleeding out"

He could not believe it. The pain was insignificant to the shame of being so stupidly defeated.

So Rowan decided not to entertain him anymore. His body remained unmoving, but all that made him himself -his magic, his wishes, his will, his intentions and fury and specific fearlessness- unfolded. His power curled and uncurled, it drew from him and from every existing thing around them until it was sung by every bird, whispered by cowards, followed by the branches and bended by the centre of everything.

It began with a strong wind, a wind that circled them. It adhered to a pattern designed by him. As it grew stronger, the wind roared. Leaves joined them. It expanded, it spread until there was no place his magic could not reach. His hurricane was taller than the trees -as if it were reaching for the stars-, and it took everything. It watched him breath, and it accompanied him.

With every intake, it blew through the soldiers and destroyed them. With every exhale, it liberated him. Relief. Understanding.

-

The soldiers still protecting the wall froze in their place as one asked. "What is that?"

All of their heads turned in the direction of his gaze, and found blinding light. So much light all of their eyes hurt. And wind. Enough wind that they all feared they would be swept off their feet despite the fact that the commotion seemed to be far away.

"Is it a hurricane?" Another wondered.

"I think so," Other responded.

The hurricane grew so big it seemed to be a giant about to step down on all of them, but then they recognised it for what it was. Its' form, the familiarity of the magic, the meaning of such power.

"It's a hawk!"

They all cheered as Prince Rowan Whitethorn came to their rescue.

-

Isabella didn't bother with tears, she would have enough time to cry later on. She simply washed her hands and walked out of that gloomy room. Rowan's shirt was bigger than her, so she tore a piece of it apart and used it to cover her face. It was supposed to protect her from the smoke still curling around every corner, and so the soldiers wouldn't recognize her as she healed them.

Certain looking steps guided her through the castle, down stairs and to a small room some fire spirits had showed her so she could meet with them privately. She had also decided to use it for her personal use as a storage room.

The door swung open as soon as she drew the wyrdmark for fire along its doorknob. Grabbing a dirty apron, she hurried to put it on. Then, proceeded to quickly study the labels she had put on all the jars lining every wall. She had experimented on every single paste inside those jars, so she grabbed as many of them as she could.

She moved even faster as she exited the room, her feet moving on their own accord, taking her through curves and sets of stairs, corridors and tapestries. Isabella slowed down when she saw the first group of soldiers. The Healing Wing was not big enough to host all the injured -which she thought was a terrible decision from the administration, since they were all aware of how often attacks took place- so most of them had opted from lying on the corridors' floors.

Crouching next to a fallen body, she started inspecting it. The soldier's tibia appeared to have been broken, and he had dislocated his shoulder. All the blood she could have used from his body was already dry, so she made quick work of her knife as she cut open her palm. She rapidly drew a mark, while making sure no one was watching, and then moved on to his shoulder.

He opened one of his eyes when she gently slapped him to wake him up. "What?" He asked, confusedly.

"I'm going to put your shoulder back in its place, but it's going to hurt. Chew on your collar" She ordered. Luckily, he did not complain and did as told. She made sure to ignore his screams as she worked his shoulder back where it belonged.

The wyrdmark she had drawn had long disappeared as its function was done. It worked better than anaesthesia, so she opened his flesh with a different knife until she was able to see where the broken bone was. Isabella rummaged through her apron until she found the jar she was looking for. Opening it, she poured a quarter of its content on top of all his visible bone and waited. She counted the seconds in her mind, and prevented herself from breathing a sigh of relief when the bone healed, just as she had practised on herself. She used the blood from his cut to draw a wyrdmark to heal his skin.

Dusting off herself, she stood up and scanned the room for somebody else who may need her assistance. Before she could even take another step away, a hand grasped her wrist. She looked down at where the sudden grip stopped her.

The male she had helped looked dazedly in her direction, his eyes still hooded but his complexion already looking better. "Thank you" He murmured, honestly. Wholeheartedly.

She nodded and moved on.

-

Time became a blur as she healed. It was a process that consisted of her cutting her palm, of blood being used to etch, of flesh being torn in order to be mended, twisted knives, an unfavourable moon, of known alignments and unbeaten hearts.

Sweat concentrated on her brow and back, her hands were constantly contracting, and she had begun to develop a headache. But warriors continued to pour in, and she had not suffered and gained so much knowledge just to keep it locked in herself.

So she helped.

-

Isabella finished bandaging the arm of a soldier when her eyes focused on the trail of blood on the floor. It was different from the other bloody stains that seemed to be now a part of the stone; the trail was fresh. It continued with no cease. She calculated how much of it the wounded had lost, and hurried her steps to follow the path.

The closer she got to its master, the more she thought of what kind of lesion could have caused such a disaster. The vicious path led her to a deserted corner of the castle, where one single room had its door slightly ajar. Isabella instinctively held her breath as she widened its rupture to see what lay inside.

It was a woman. A female. Her pale and small complexion reminded Isabella of a ghost, and as the female's eyes widened as a deer caught in the headlights, Isabella wondered if she had been somehow misled.

All blood led her to the room, one that, as she looked around, realised was a storage room for bedsheets and towels. Her eyes trailed to the floor, where the bloody stain began and ended with the frailed female partly lying on the floor.

"W-who are you?" The woman called. When Isabella didn't immediately respond, the female raised one of her hands. Isabella had not noticed it, but in it, she held a loaded crossbow. "Tell me who you are right now, or I'll shoot you in the face" She threatened, her voice strong despite the fact that she looked close to passing out.

Isabella raised her hands, as if she were dealing with a wild animal, and answered. "I'm a healer" The female's shoulder dropped a little bit at her admission, but still held the crossbow high. "I followed the blood" She gestured at the floor with her chin.

The female flinched as her gaze followed the path she had created. "I-"

"Who are you? Where are you hurt?" Isabella's senses rose in alarm as she took a step deeper into the room.

The female shook her head repeatedly, and she dropped to her knees as she made a quick inspection with her eyes. There was no visible wound at first sight, yet the blood had to be hers. Her ghostly colouring indicated she was right.

"I-" She began, the arm holding the crossbow falling weakly on the floor just as Isabella moved closer, her hands already searching for injuries. "No, please go. I'm fine, I-"

"Please calm down, I'm here to help you" She reminded her calmly. Her voice was gentle as a summer breeze. Isabella was about to ask for her name once again when her mouth dried up. Her eyes found the place from where the blood was coming from. Her pants were completely soaked through. It was her pelvis.

The female didn't avoid her gaze as Isabella turned to look at her. "My name is Dresenda"

Isabella merely blinked, the name rang a bell, but she couldn't remember the memory it evoked. Trying to recover herself from the first shock of the waves of possibilities that she came to as she saw the female's origin of injury, she asked. "And what's happened to you, Dresenda?"

"I cannot tell"

"Dresenda, you've lost a lot of blood. I need to know what I'm dealing with in order to help you. So, can't you tell or shouldn't you?" Her question came out surely, even as she made sure to keep her tone neutral and non-threatening. The woman remained silent. "If you do not wish to speak, that's alright, but I'm going to have to remove your clothing in order to help you. Is that okay?"

Dresenda bit down on her lip, and Isabella hoped she wouldn't draw more blood. She needn't lose more. After a heartbeat, the female nodded.

Wordlessly, she cut through the female's shirt, pants and undergarments to be able to work more comfortably. As soon as most of her skin was revealed, Isabella had no need to see her injury, for the almost imperceptibly lump of her stomach revealed why she was bleeding.

Isabella shot her a quick look, and found the woman's eyes were welled up with unshed tears. Dresenda laughed humorlessly. "Quite a bad timing for a pregnancy loss, isn't it?"

Isabella swallowed. "Do you know how far you're in?"

She shook her head, even as she furiously wiped at her tears. Isabella couldn't even imagine the pain she must have been experiencing, yet she still had threatened her with a crossbow.

"Less than four months, I think"

Isabella nodded, but in reality, she was unsure of how to proceed. This was something her healer training had not covered. And now someone's daughter, someone's future mother was in her hands, for pregnancy loss could be extremely dangerous.

Did she have to remove the foetus? Or would it be naturally disposed of? Isabella discarded the latter, for Dresenda wouldn't be losing so much blood if it were a normal part of the process.

She remembered a scene from a book she had once read, and the cries of a woman in the same hospital from where her sister had stayed at. Based on what she knew, she came to the conclusion that Dresenda was still bleeding because her body was not removing all the parts of the pregnancy that it should. Which meant that unless Isabella removed the foetus from her uterus and all the foetal tissue, Dresenda would most likely bleed to death.

Gods, this was harder than sewing her own tight or locating a stranger's shoulder.

Isabella tried not to let it show in her face, but she was terrified. She wished for Louise's certainty, for Dahlia's support and Rose's cheerfulness. She needed them.

For a short second, she yearned for the freedom to burst down crying. It was a ridiculous and embarrassing thought, but she felt like the weight of the whole day -and the weight of her secrets- was finally catching up with her. Drowning her until the waves were all she could feel, with no possible mermaid waiting to come to her rescue.

But then her eyes focused again on Dresenda's lesion, in the way she was completely soaked, the way she was shivering because of all the blood she had lost and how the hand that had once held the crossbow was now cradling her stomach.

Isabella had no choice. She righted herself, her face dry of tears, and swallowed through the knot in her throat. She looked at the female and told her what she would have to do. "Are you okay with that?"

She raised a shoulder, weakly. "Do I have any other choice?"

She pursed her lips. "Not really"

"Then do it"

Isabella nodded, and positioned herself between the woman's legs. She could draw wyrdmarks to numb the flesh, but there was no way for her to anaesthetise her inner organs. "This will hurt. A lot" She announced, just in case.

"That's okay, I'm already in pain, anyway"

Not losing more time, Isabella put her gloves on and pushed her hand down Dresenda's uterus. It was a good thing that the blood worked as lubricant, and that she was heavily dilated. She was not sure of what she was looking for, so she prayed to Silba, Goddess of Healing. She prayed for the Goddess to guide her, or to be merciful for Dresenda's sake.

No answer came to her, but her breath caught as she felt a small lump. Isabella grimaced, thankful for the veil covering half of her face, and pulled it out. She had to repeat the action countless times. Until there was nothing more for her to take out. Until Dresenda's wound was empty and Isabella's hands were trembling.

"I-I think it's done" Isabella declared, finishing it all up by drawing healing wyrdmarks close to her pelvis. She even made sure to use a whole jar of her healing paste the last time she had to take her hand in. Isabella wanted no more pain to be inflected upon the female.

Dresenda sighed, her breath laboured, but her colouring had not worsened. "Thank you"

Isabella grabbed some clean bedsheets for her to cover Dresenda's body as she sewed the clothes she'd had to torn for her inspection.

"Oh," Dresenda exclaimed, her eyes blinking up at her. "You don't have to do that"

"Don't worry about it," She reassured her, as she continued sewing. It was nice for her to focus on something as simple as clothes.

There was a pause, in which Dresenda seemed to doze off as Isabella finished with her clothes. She folded them and left them next to her form. About to stand up, she froze as Dresenda spoke.

"I should have known she was going to die" It took her a moment to realise the woman meant the baby. She wasn't sure of what she should say, so she opted for remaining in place and offered her a nod.

Dresenda wiped at a traitorous tear. "I should've, truly. The curse-" She sobbed, her body shaking. Isabella covered her a bit more with the sheets and made sure to tuck her tightly in. "I should have been more careful, I wasn't supposed to be in the field today, but I had made sure nobody knew, and I was needed, I couldn't have possibly-"

Isabella grabbed one of the female's hands in between hers in an attempt at offering support. "None of it was your fault. Sometimes things happen and there's nothing we can do to stop them. You are not at fault, I beg you not to think that"

The female inched closer, enough that her head rested on Isabella's shoulder. She decided that what Dresenda needed at that moment was not a healer, but a friend. Company. Someone to hold her hand as she tried to process the trauma she had just gone through.

So Isabella threw an arm over her shoulders and let her cry.

"It is my fault, if only I had left this hell as soon as I found out, then the curse wouldn't have taken her away"

"What curse do you speak of?"

She blinked up at her. "Don't you know?" She asked, taken aback. Then, realisation widened her eyes. "Are you Rowan's lover? The human? You must be, if you don't know about the curse"

"I'm not his-"

"Oh, you are! I should have known, but I was too caught up in myself to even notice your scent"

"I am not his lover, and I would appreciate it if you refrained from calling me that in the future" If that was bitterness in her voice as she thought of Rowan, she didn't admit it to herself.

"I'm sorry, and I most certainly will" Dresenda told her, thruthfully, before she closed her eyes. "I'll call you my saviour, then" She added.

"Please, don't" Isabella flinched, and visibly relaxed when she realised the female was merely teasing her.

More minutes of silence passed as Dresenda's breathing grew steadier. "You were right" She said after a moment, her eyes still closed. "I could tell you, I just felt I shouldn't"

Isabella remembered the words she had spoken earlier. "Why?"

"Because of my parents' beliefs. They are so deeply engraved in me that even though I was happy with the idea of having a child, I knew my parents would want no one to know. Not after my sister's experience"

"Your sister?"

"Ah, you probably don't know her. Her name's Essar. She carried a child while marriageless, and they acted as if it were a disgrace"

"Huh"

"Exactly" The female trailed off, her breathing growing slower, a sign that she was about to fall asleep. But still, she managed to say."Thank you for everything you've done for me"

"Don't mention it"

-

When Rowan opened his eyes, he had no idea of how he had returned to camp. He imagined he'd flown but he could not be sure. Nor how he had ended up in the healers' wing, with an open wound soaking his clothes wet and someone's hand grasping his.

He recognized the callouses in them. "Isa," He choked out, his throat so dry it hurt.

"Don't speak" She ordered him, her tone so harsh and curt that it made him flinch despite the aching of his injury.

Isabella dropped his hand, and he let it hang limply off the bed. Her hands roamed the part of his body where his lesion was located, her touches cautious and professional. He wanted to catch her attention, he wanted to apologise but he had no way of speaking past his throat ache.

So he resigned himself to watching her work. He felt every single brush of her fingers, and especially when her hands drew a sign he could not recognise. Rowan stared at her through hooded eyes, his eyelids heavy despite the fact that his injury was not important. Nor deep. Although she treated it as if it were about to bring the apocalypse on them.

Almost instantly, his pain subdued, and he physically felt his flesh stitch itself back together. The sensation reminded him of his magic.

Then, she drew closer to him, her lips on his ear as she whispered. "Can you see how powerful I am now?" The words were followed by a stinging of his wound, the press of her fingertips on his flesh, and then the retreatment of it all.

He looked down and found that he had been absolutely healed.

Magic, indeed.

-

Lorcan didn't bother looking up from his stack of papers as he heard the sound of his office door being opened before it was quickly closed. Footsteps echoed through the silent room, stopping right in front of the desk where he sat.

"I believe you called for me, Commander," Vinhen said sternly.

"I did," Lorcan simply replied. He rummaged through his papers as he ignored the male's presence.

"May I ask why I was summoned, Commander?"

Lorcan sighed, and leaned back on his chair. He crossed his arms over his chest as he stared down at the male. His face was serious. Almost deadly. With a shake of his chin, he pointed at a folded paper on top of his desk. "Your father has written"

He saw the male pale at his words, he noticed the tremble in his hands as he brought up the paper and unfolded it to reveal the contents inside.

Lorcan didn't need to ask what the male's father had written, he had already read it. The words were practically engraved in his brain.

It read:

Beware, they are coming.

And in smaller, more luxurious and greenish handwritten words, Vinhen's father had decided to commit his name to paper. It was signed as:

Arobynn Hamel, King of the Assassins