Soren.
The man beside me is King Soren. King Soren of Llyr. A man whose name alone is enough to make grown men shake in fear, whose title is synonymous with death. A savage. A brute. The tales of his feats on the battlefield—the unparalleled viciousness that holds invaders at bay, the unmatched wrath delivered upon his foes—are borderline mythic, spreading far and wide through all of Anwyvn.
And I had sat with him. Watched him sip wine and eat strawberries. Saw his head thrown back in laughter and his eyes shining with mirth.
I cannot reconcile reality with reputation.
“It’s been a long time.” Soren’s voice is light as a feather. “Seventy years, isn’t that right?”
“Let’s skip the pleasantries,” Penn growls. He isn’t looking at me. I get the feeling that is intentional. That, if he does, he might lose his grip on a precariously leashed temper. “This ends now. Return her to me.”
“Is that any way to thank an old friend for taking such good care of the rather intriguing new possession he so carelessly misplaced?”
Penn’s jaw tightens. “Enough.”
“I couldn’t agree more. It is enough.” Soren’s tone loses all hint of warmth. “Enough of you trying to meddle in matters you know are better left alone. Or didn’t you learn your lesson last time?”
Penn’s eyes flash hotly. “This isn’t like that.”
“Isn’t it? All I see here are old patterns repeating. The only difference is that this time I have no intention of standing by and watching as you set fire to our best chance in a century.”
Penn’s teeth grind together so tightly, I think they might crack. “This isn’t the same. She isn’t the same.”
“It’s not Rhya I’m worried about.”
Penn’s entire body jerks at my name. Though he quickly conceals his shock, it is too late. Soren sees his near-imperceptible flinch and realizes immediately what it means. His lips twist with smug self-satisfaction as he glances at me and murmurs, “Interesting.”
I glare at him.
“Glare all you want.” He laughs. “You’ll need that fighting spirit if you’re to survive Vanora’s wrath.”
“You’d be wise not to say anything else,” Penn warns tightly.
“Why? Afraid, when she learns the truth, she might not be so eager to go with you to Dyved?”
“I’m not sure why you care. Didn’t you just say you have no intention of getting involved?” Penn doesn’t wait for a reply. Without looking away from Soren, he extends his hand blindly in my direction. “Come. We’re leaving.”
I hesitate only a brief moment before sliding my hand into his. In a flash, he’s yanked me away from Soren and has me tucked firmly against his side. His warmth blasts into me, hot as a furnace through his thick maroon cloak.
“Fire and Air, together again,” Soren says, staring back and forth from Penn to me. “If that isn’t history repeating, I don’t know what is.”
Fire and Air.
I still in shock as reality shifts for the second time in as many moments. Penn feels it—my jolt of awareness. He must. But he does not look at me. Does not so much as address the powder keg Soren has all too happily tossed into our path.
All at once, a dozen pieces fall into place in my mind, a picture emerging from the puzzling fragments. Penn’s body burning with inexplicable inner heat, as though he has a fire beneath his skin. His sword flaming red as he fights, like the blade has been left to rest for hours in the embers. The blaze incinerating the dead cyntroedi in the cave despite the lack of fuel to spark it. The wildfire raging out of control on the mountain, consuming the Reavers in a swath of unnatural flame. His words, after I pulled the arrow shaft from his shoulder.
I heal quickly.
It all makes sense. So much sense, I cannot believe I failed to put the pieces together before. Even Soren’s offhand comment about the previous wind weaver—whom they knewseventy yearsago—did not fully register until this moment. But if Penn was there as well…he is also gifted with preternaturally long life.
He is no halfling, but high fae.
Fae royalty.
The Fire Remnant.
I look from Pendefyre to Soren, from Fire to Water, scarcely able to catch my breath. They aren’t looking at me—they are too fixated on each other, gazes locked like a pair of circling wolves about to fight for dominance.