#inns of court

[mtlibrary]

This handsome fellow, drawn in red ink, is an example of a ‘drôlerie’, and is found in the Library’s copy Biblia Latina, printed in Venice in 1489. This was originally a four volume Bible, but our copy only includes this, the fourth volume. The book has a large number of red ink doodles (see below), as well as contemporary marginal notes. Drolleries such as this are commonly found in medieval manuscripts, and incunabula, books printed in the 15th century. They are often grotesque and bizarre figures.

Renae Satterley

Librarian

[sometimeslondon]

The arch on Crown Office Row separating Middle Temple and Inner Temple in the Inns of Court

[theseimmortalcoils]

Middle Temple at London's Inns of Court. Read more about these historical lanes and buildings here.

Images © @sasha__wright

[enfant--terrible]

layout of london's theatres c1600....Compelled by "1st bear garden". implies the existence of, etc-

[deadmotelsusa]

Forest Inn Motor Court of Wilson, North Carolina, pictured in 1953, 2013, 2023

[nightcourtwench]

Female protagonist in a fantasy/romance novel: “That smile tugged on something low in my gut”

Giiirrrlll just say pussy 🙄

[theladyofbloodshed]

Writers be original challenge and improve your plot rather than the “chilli pepper level”

[whisperprime]

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Interlude | Part 11

Hob has not had this dream in a very long time.

Even before his stunt as a stand in, he hasn't seen it in a while.

He remembers the first time he'd dreamt of that wretched orb. The first time he'd seen Dream - the Dream of the other timeline - within it.

He'd thought it was just a morbid recreation of the story he'd heard. That his mind was just trying to process this horrible thing he'd heard.

He'd descended down into the basement as if in a trance only to become aware with terrible clarity upon passing through a gate that had opened far too easily. He remembered the horror and rage at seeing his friend contained and demeaned in such a way. Remembered the grief that he had gone through such a thing.

Remembered the no small amount of guilt at the fact that he had never looked. 1989 was a poor time to start, but it would have been something.

He had been completely lucid from the moment he passed through the gate, but had retained all the power that came from being within a dream. He'd used it to smudge the circle and shatter the glass.

Dream had later explained - apologized - that he had not meant to draw Hob there. He would have better control next time, he'd promised.

Hob had in turn countered that this was what friends were for: to help each other in their darkest moments. If Dream didn't want his help, that was his choice and Hob would understand, but the immortal human highly recommended talking to someone who could lend him support.

Dream had not been thrilled with the vulnerability that came with admitting he needed help, forgetting asking for it.

Still, when it happened, not once more but twice more, he had given in. Had called Hob for help. Even if it was only subconsciously. To this day, Hob didn't know what he'd said to convince his friend to trust him, but he had done his upmost best to help where he could.

It had seemed like it might be helping.

And then, the Other Dream had died.

And the dreams continued to happen. Not frequently, but they did happen.

Each time, Hob followed the stars down into the basement. Each time he found the same set up.

But, in these sequent revisitations, the orb was always empty.

Hob had heard that the Dream he had known was just an aspect. A point of view. That a new one had come to reside over the Dreaming

He had always wondered if this was a lingering wound that persevered, but didn't affect the new Dream.

Hob never got the chance to ask. He supposed he never would, now.

Hob pulled his eyes away from the cage, turning to face the gate he had been leaning against. He raised his hands and then pressed his palms to the metal. Every time he had come here in the past, he had passed through this gate.

Yet this time, he hadn't.

Since the Other Dream's death and Hob's visits here since, he had always found the gates open, before and after he passed through them. He could always leave at anytime.

But now, the gates were closed. When he presses on them, they hold. He could feel, somehow, that they would yield if he pushed, but there was also the intuitive knowledge that if he did do so he might cause damage.

Slowly, he withdraws his hands. Something is different, perhaps gone sideways. He just doesn't know if it is good or bad. He weighs his options, what little he knows about his situation. Comes to the conclusion that he can afford to wait a bit and see how things progress before making any hasty moves.

It is while he ponders that he feels something shift behind him. There isn’t any sound, per se. Just this sudden absolute knowledge that he is not alone in the dream anymore.

Hob spins around, not sure what to expect. Nothing has ever come in here save for the Other Dream, and he hasn’t been here for over two hundred years, so who--

He spots the intruder and freezes, all thoughts tumbling out of his head in confused fear. There is a familiar figure within the orb where none had been before. Although he is curled up, Hob would know this being anywhere.

“Dream?” The name falls from his lips without his consent. For a moment, he thinks this is some specter, a shadow of the original having taken form within the dream. But nothing like this has ever happened before. He knows how this goes. There is only one Dream of the Endless and for him to be here is for this to be the original. The Dream of the new timeline.

To dream of me is to invite me in.

Hob near catapults himself across the basement in his haste to reach the cage. Dream doesn’t respond to the sound of his voice or to his approach. Doesn’t respond when Hob knocks on the glass to attempt to get some kind of reaction.

“Shit!” Panic is clawing at his throat and Hob is barely keeping to his calm by the skin of his teeth. “Dream, snap out of it.” He again knocks on the glass.

And again he receives no response.

He curses to himself, mutters, “Why is he being affected by this?” Hob presses his hands to the glass, willing the being inside to respond. He doesn’t understand. “This didn’t happen.” So how is it affecting Dream to the point that he seems lost in it?

Hob glances frantically around the room, until his eyes land on the pair of chairs the guards used to sit at. The table is still set to some random hand of cards. All at once, Hob remembers that he isn’t powerless. That the Other Dream had given him the power to help drag him back from the edge of this waking nightmare. It cuts through his panic like a hot knife through butter.

Plan in mind, Hob turns back to the unresponsive Dream. “Hold on,” he tells him. He is loathe to leave, but he must to retrieve the chair. “I'll get you out of there.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. He sprints back across the moat and near yanks up the chair. It should be heavy, but like the three times he’s wielded it before, it’s light as a feather. He pivots, prize in hand, to return back to the orb.

Dream has still not moved. Hob’s fingers flex around the chair, worried. He only had a handful of experiences with this to judge by with the Other Dream. He has no frame of reference for the Dream in front of him. He swallows back his trepidation.

Dream can get mad at him later. As soon as he’s back to himself.

“Got just the thing to get you out,” he says, because he always explains what he’s doing. Tries to use outside stimulation as an anchor, because he’s so far out of his depth. “You might want to move away from this side.”

Like before, he does not wait for an answer. He can feel that time is of the essence and he does not want to wait around to see what it will take before Dream comes back to himself. He swipes a foot through the damn summoning spell, perhaps taking a little vicious satisfaction in seeing it break like he’s never been able to see it in the Waking world.

Coming around, he raises and draws back the chair.

Dream has finally moved. Startled, wide eyes catching his, just as Hob brings the chair around and shatters the glass.

Dream gasps like he’s been under water and has just finally reached the surface. He doesn’t resist as Hob reaches in and gently pulls him out like he’d done with the Other Dream the handful of times they’d done this. Clings tight as he shudders, as if a weight has settled on him.

Dream weights the same as he always does: light in physical form but heavy in concept. Hob’s mind struggles with it, can never get used to it. Bears it regardless, as he makes his way across the moot and away from the cage. He’s just thinking of putting Dream down, when all of a sudden, the Dream Lord seems to just dissolve, shadows slipping through his arms like water.

And just like that, Hob knows that whatever weakness he’s witnessed has passed. He stares at his empty hands and mourns the fact that this is likely the last time he will ever feel that weight again. He lowers his hands and turns in the direction the shadows had slithered away in. Finds Dream, fully clothed and on his feet as if nothing had ever been amiss. Still, he asks, “Are you okay?”

Given past experience, he’s not surprised when he receives no response to his query. He watches as Dream takes in the room. Sees the moment it dawns on him what he’s looking at. What this place is. Hob wonders how much of the truth was contained in whatever he’d experienced when he entered this place.

Dream turns on him with a certain level of hostility. His often blue eyes in the Waking has been replaced by a dark, deep vastness that near screams with barely checked threat. In one instant to the next, he goes from being across the room to bearing down upon Hob.

“If you ever wish to leave here, you will not dodge my questions. What is this place?”

Hob feels a wave of regret, of resignation, for this thing that he could not hide. For this thing that has somehow followed him and affected the being before him. He had so wanted to spare him this knowledge, yet is seems that choice is gone now. “This was your prison, the first time around.”

Dragging his gaze away from those bottomless pits takes Herculean effort, but their pull holds little candle to the weight of his guilt. He looks out across the room, eyes no longer seeing the shattered remains of a construction that only exists in his memory and this dream, but rather the basement as it existed for the last one hundred years. “It's where I was imprisoned, the second time around.”

The temperature around him plummets. It is this that makes him shiver, instead of the way that Dream’s eyes flash with intensity of a distant super nova. The shadows around them darken as he demands, “Hob Gadling, what have you done?”

Hob is all too aware of what this creature can do. Knows there’s so much more he isn’t aware of. But he spent the better part of a century under the knife of a literal Prince of Hell and he feels that entitles him to a little recklessness. It is with this thought that he rounds back on Dream, glaring at him as he snips back, “I saved the universe from being prematurely destroyed.” He draws himself up until they’re nearly nose to nose with each other. “The rules demanded a fair trade and we gave it one as best as we could.”

And oh, how the time line had fought against the changes. But in the end, the changes held. Hob clung to that victory, to the fact that Dream had not spent that century here this time around.

Dream’s expression turned tumultuous in the same way it had just before he’d gone storming off in a hissy fit. Was this ire over the idea that a mere mortal could be a stand in for an Endless as far as the rules that governed the universe were concerned or was it something else? “You have messed with things you cannot understand. There is no telling what consequences you have invited upon yourself.”

This isn’t telling Hob anything he doesn’t already know. He doesn’t back down. “I’ve made my choice. Better me than someone else.” Including you, he does not say, but Dream seems to hear it anyway.

For the first time in their long acquaintance, Dream loses his cool first. To drive him to frustration. “Imprudent human!” The edges of the dream waver as the shadows around them roil with his fury and Hob is very, very nearly is thrown back into the Waking. “Why would you do something so foolish?”

Like a wave, Hob can feel a sudden exhaustion wash over him. They have gotten so very far away from anywhere he wants them to be that he can’t see a way back. Wonders helplessly if there is a way back.

It is with the same stubbornness that urges him to rise with each day, no matter how terrible the night before, that he clings to the fact that he knows in his bones that things can get better, that they always get better. He shifts his weight and makes his decision.

Honesty is sometimes the only path forward.

“Because I love you.”

Silence. Then, “What?”

Hob places his hands on his hips to hide the way they tremble. “You heard me, you great spook. Because I love you.” He’s thrilled when his voice doesn’t even shake.

Dream seems to shake himself out of whatever stupor he’d fallen into, some of the steam taken out of his sails. Something between incredulous and confused crosses his expression. “Do you expect me to thank you for what you’ve done?”

Hob huffs, feeling insulted. “Oh, come off it. Of course I didn’t do it for anyone’s thanks.” He gestures to the ceiling in lieu of the universe at large. “I did it because I wanted to continue to experience everything life had to offer.” He softened, adds, “I would have done it regardless, but, yes, it was a massive bonus that in the process you were spared this experience.” He looks up at this ridiculous, impossible creature, and says with feeling, “Say what you will, but you did not deserve this either.”

There is a war going on behind Dream’s lack of expression. Hob waits, patiently seeing what is going to win out. Braces himself for the worse and he hopes for the best.

Then, “I do not know what you expect to come out of this.”

Could be better. Could have been worse. 

Hob shrugs. “I don’t expect anything to come out of this.”

Dream seems to struggle with this. Slowly, as if parsing the words out, he says “And yet you said it anyway.”

Hob nods. “Because you asked why I would take your place.”

Another struggle. Another war. This is clearly not the direction the Lord of Dreams and Nightmares expected this conversation to go. “I am not him.” 

I will not give you the vulnerability he gave you, lays like a gauntlet between them. 

Hob suppresses the urge to roll his eyes, no matter how good the childish behavior would feel in the moment. It won't help. “I didn't just love him for who his trauma turned him into.” He gestures to the sphere. “I'm not going to lie. He did change after this.”

He brings that same hand around to point at the insufferable git in front of him. Dream's eyes somehow give the impression they have gone cross-eyed, despite having no pupils. Hob would have laughed at the sheer affront coming off him, if this was any other situation. “But don't you dare insinuate that's all it was. I have loved you for seven hundred years. I loved you when you showed me kindness when I was at my lowest and I still loved you when you turned your back on me and walked away. I will likely love you until the day I die. Lord only knows why, but I will.” At this last part, he withdraws, his ire dulling.

Dream, it seems, is not willing to let go of his stubborn streak yet, for he says, “You cannot pick up with me where you left off with him.”

Hob looks to the ceiling as if anyone up there will give him the strength to deal with this terribly, terribly dense creature. But he knows he has done this to himself and he must walk this path himself.

Besides, he thinks he knows what this is truly about. He's seen that look before. Seen that same look on men who would deny themselves what they want most for fear they shouldn't have it.

Well, bullocks to that.

“We were never together. I never told him.”

Dream blinks at him. It's the most off guard Hob has ever seen him. “Pardon?”

Hob, patiently, repeated himself, "I never told him."

“Why?” Why tell me? Why now? Dream doesn't ask, but it's heard regardless.

Hob does not feel like explaining that he had been a coward and as such had missed his chance, so he goes for a close enough truth. “It just never happened.”

The look Dream give him suggested he isn't quite satisfied with that answer, but thankfully, he does not push.

Hob can feel the dream around them start to get the first hints of haziness. The tell tale signs that he will be waking soon. 

Dream must feel it, too. The shadows around them grow heavy, to pull at him with almost the same force. Hob knows that if this being before him wishes to keep him here, he will not wake, no matter what his natural circadian rhythm says.

As suddenly as they come on, the shadows retreat. The hold loosens a fraction to where the threat is no longer there, but Hob isn’t quite in danger of prematurely escaping this conversation until Dream is done with him.

“We will return to this matter another time. I will consider the information you have given me.” Dream eyes him up and down, something considering poking through his ire. “All of the information you have given me.”

Hob feels a thrill race up his spine at the implications of that particular line. Before he can respond, however, and because the cheeky git always has to have the last line, Dream commands in a voice that rings with power: “It is time to wake, Hob Gadling.”

And Hob wakes.

Part 12

[oldshowbiz]

The Ocean Park Motel. An art deco landmark since 1937. 

[aetherdecember]

Okay, this reversal AU idea is killing my Nanowrimo progress, so here, have this.

—-

Dream is quiet. Not that he isn’t usually quiet, but Hob can feel this quiet is the sort where he’s gathering words to speak. It’s just the two of them here (Dream having dismissed Jessamy beforehand) as they pass through the Dreaming. Hob thinks they’re heading to the Waking, but Dream hasn’t told him anything, so he waits for him to speak.

When he does, they’re standing on a road. It looks vaguely familiar, like all roads do when you’ve lived for several centuries, but it’s impossible to tell what era it’s supposed to be. The road is asphalt, but the roofs are thatched. There’s an early model car being drawn by a horse and he can see a peasant woman turning a goose on a spoke inside a modern oven.

“I owe you an answer.”

As if sensing the question Hob’s about to ask, the scene resolves itself into the inside of the White Horse Inn. Again, Hob can see traces of every era here, though it looks most like their last meeting.

Feathers fluttering with realization, Hob resettles his wings to keep composure. “Yeah, you do.”

Taking his seat at their table, Dream waits until Hob has flown off his shoulder before signaling for the bartender. His raven body doesn’t allow him sit like he used to, so Hob perches on the table, though becomes visibly dismayed when he realizes he won’t be able to enjoy the fine wine Dream orders. Human glasses aren’t designed with bird friendliness in mind.

The bartender dematerializes, probably to fulfill their order, and it’s just them again. No other patrons are here, but it sounds like they are. It too cycles through sounds from the various eras, Hob thinks he can even hear himself at some point, voice talking indistinctly, but he doesn’t hear Dream’s voice in these echoes. Shame, he loved hearing the low decibels of Dream’s voice.

“They’ve torn it down.” Dream’s eyes move lazily about the room, though he’s careful not to look at Hob. “There’s nothing left of this place in the Waking.”

“We were their most loyal patrons.” Hob’s comment is flippant, but his heart sinks. It had been the last tie to his roots. Dream had been the other, but until forcefully becoming one of his ravens, he’d only seen the guy once a century. It hadn’t been the same as knowing he could walk into the old pub anytime he wanted and feel like he was sharing space with the mortal he’d been before Dream had entered his life.

“Had it been standing, we’d be there now.”

It takes a beat for Hob to catch Dream’s meaning. Head swiveling sharply, he leans forward to catch Dream’s gaze, forcing him to look at him. “You were coming back?”

Dream tucks his hands into his pockets, narrow shoulders low, but holds the eye contact. “I hear it’s impolite to keep one’s friends waiting,” he replies quietly.

Hob’s grin is the slow and brilliant rising of the dawn. Unconsciously, he runs a finger along the base of the wineglass (must’ve been placed there when he wasn’t looking).

“Bit late, aren’t you?”

Abruptly, he realizes he’s no longer a raven. Like the appearance of the wineglass, Hob is suddenly human again, it’s his own finger touching where glass meets wood, his own mouth had moved when he spoke, and his body feels real and so present he could hug Dream. He almost does, but the sight of the clothes, something appropriate for humanity’s current age, something he’s never had a chance of wearing before, startles him into laughter.

“I was, wasn’t I?” Dream asks, gaze fathomless.

But Hob has lost track of the conversation. “You did this?” He gestures to the clothes, every piece as black as the formlessness Dream surrounds himself with, looking more appropriate for Dream to wear and not something Hob would’ve picked for himself.

“A little late, but yes.”

“So you’ve figured it out then?”

Dream is slow to reply, and it’s monosyllabic, but his answer carries clearly, tonelessly. “Yes.”

“How’d you do it? How’d you figure it out?” Hob asks eagerly.

But Dream’s gaze is ladened, endless nights hidden behind the thin pantomime of human eyes, and bears the weight of a truth he’s loath to disclose. “There’s no undoing it.”

“What?”

“This form is an illusion. You’re no more alive than I am a human. There’s no undoing what Death has caused.”

[cloud-sitting]

It has become clear I may have a problem…

I noticed they were the same room in seconds…

[mtlibrary]

This 16th-century artwork is of a 'haut', which are said to live in the trees. It has been identified with species of three-toed sloths such as Bradypus variegatus which are found in the forests of Central and South America. This artwork comes from 'Cosmographie universelle' (1575) by the French explorer and writer Andre Thevet (1516-1590). The book describes the history and geography of the lands in which Thevet had travelled. The two volumes contain over 1000 pages divided into 23 books. This woodcut is from chapter XIII of book XXI.

[oomox]

in class today we discussed whether a 16th c poem was in “penis mode” or “non-penis mode” and ppl say classics are boring

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"SHE GOT AWAY OFTEN BUT CAUGHT FINALLY," Toronto Star. July 28, 1933. Page 2. ---- Woman Dodged Employee of Store Where She Bought Coat and Didn't Pay ---- Mrs. Harry Chew, alias Mrs. Donald van Hassen, alias Doris Johnston, appeared in women's court to-day charged with theft of a fur coat valued at $119.73 from a store.

An employee for the company stated that the accused woman, then known as Mrs. Chew, had paid $5 deposit on the coat on Dec. 7, 1931, with the understanding she was to pay on the instalment plan. She had paid $30 altogether.

"Then she cleared out from her Jarvis St. room, leaving a note that she was going to jump into the river, and I didn't see her for six months, when I invited her to go for a ride," he testified. "She didn't know me and accepted. I drove her to the rear of our store and took her into the counter. Realizing where she was, she tried to get out and then said the coat had been sold in Montreal for $5, claiming she had turned it over to Mr. Chew, who works in a cafe. Then she ran away.

"I met her again on Church St. She said she had the coat and would get it in 15 minutes. I waited almost an hour, but she never turned up. Just about a month ago I saw her on the street, but she ran up an alley."

Witness produced the contract signed by accused, agreeing that the coat would remain the property of the company until paid for in full.

Harold Chapman, for the defence, claimed there was no identification of accused's signature and that the coat became accused's property when she took possession.

"I maintain there is no case against accused," he concluded, waiving defence.

"You will be remanded in custody for sentence on Aug. 4, sentence to date from to-day," ruled Magistrate Patterson

"I owed her $78 room rent, so she kept some of my tools worth $35 and I can't earn a living without them," claimed Sydney Bond, charging his ex-landlady, Alice Bouchan, with breach of the Inn Keepers' Act. "I tendered her a week's payment, but she refused me my tools even then."

"I have no other way to protect myself," pleaded accused. "I haven't enough money to sue."

"Complainant will pay $6 on his rent and accused must release the goods," ruled the bench. The case was adjourned to July 31 in order to allow the conditions to be fulfilled.

[prompt-heaven]

a list of 100+ buildings to put in your fantasy town

academy

adventurer's guild

alchemist

apiary

apothecary

aquarium

armory

art gallery

bakery

bank

barber

barracks

bathhouse

blacksmith

boathouse

book store

bookbinder

botanical garden

brothel

butcher

carpenter

cartographer

casino

castle

cobbler

coffee shop

council chamber

court house

crypt for the noble family

dentist

distillery

docks

dovecot

dyer

embassy

farmer's market

fighting pit

fishmonger

fortune teller

gallows

gatehouse

general store

graveyard

greenhouses

guard post

guildhall

gymnasium

haberdashery

haunted house

hedge maze

herbalist

hospice

hospital

house for sale

inn

jail

jeweller

kindergarten

leatherworker

library

locksmith

mail courier

manor house

market

mayor's house

monastery

morgue

museum

music shop

observatory

orchard

orphanage

outhouse

paper maker

pawnshop

pet shop

potion shop

potter

printmaker

quest board

residence

restricted zone

sawmill

school

scribe

sewer entrance

sheriff's office

shrine

silversmith

spa

speakeasy

spice merchant

sports stadium

stables

street market

tailor

tannery

tavern

tax collector

tea house

temple

textile shop

theatre

thieves guild

thrift store

tinker's workshop

town crier post

town square

townhall

toy store

trinket shop

warehouse

watchtower

water mill

weaver

well

windmill

wishing well

wizard tower

[acourtofquestions]

No. No, it couldn't have been a dream The escape, Rowan, the ship to Terrasen—

A dream. An illusion. Her escape from him, from Maeve, had been another illusion.

Had she said it? Had she said where the Keys were hidden?

Then a cool, cultured voice purred, "All that training, and this is what becomes of you?" Not real. Arobynn, standing on the other side of the altar, was not real.

"Even Sam held out better than this."

Fenrys snarled.

You could get out of these chains, if you really wanted," Arobynn said, frowning with distaste. "If you really tried."

No, she couldn't, and everything had been a dream, a lie.

"You let yourself remain captive. Because the moment you are free..." Arobynn chuckled. "Then you must offer yourself up, a lamb to slaughter."

Only hearing the King of the Assassins, unseen and unnoted beside her.

"Deep down, you're hoping you'll be here long enough that the young King of Adarlan will pay the price. Deep down, you know you're hiding here, waiting for him to clear the path." Arobynn leaned against the side of the altar, cleaning his nails with a dagger. "Deep down, you know it's not really fair, that those gods picked you. That Elena picked you instead of him. She bought you time to live, yes, but you were still chosen to pay the price. Her price And the gods'?"

Arobynn ran a long-fingered hand down the side of her face. "Do you see what I tried to spare you from all these years? What you might have avoided had you remained Celaena, remained with me?" He smiled. "Do you see, Aelin?"

She could not answer. Had no voice. Cairn hit bone, and—

Aelin lunged upward, hands grasping for her thigh. No chains weighed her. No mask smothered her. No dagger had been twisted into her body. Breathing hard, the scent of musty sheets clinging to her nose, the sounds of her screaming replaced by the drowsy chirping of birds, Aelin scrubbed at her face.

The prince who'd fallen asleep beside her was already running a hand down her back in silent, soothing strokes.

A dream. Just a dream.

She twisted, setting her feet to the threadbare carpet on the uneven wood floor.

"Dawn isn't for another hour," Rowan said.

Yet Aelin reached for her shirt. "I'll get warmed up, then." Maybe run, as she had not been able to do in weeks and weeks.

Rowan sat up, missing nothing. "Training can wait, Aelin." They'd been doing it for weeks now, as thorough and grueling as it had been at Mistward.

She shoved her legs into her pants, then buckled on her sword belt.

"No, it can't."

A gathering storm to the north had forced their ship to find harbor last night—and after weeks at sea, none of them had hesitated to spend a few hours on land. To learn what in hell had happened while they'd been gone.

The answer: war.

Everywhere, war raged. But where the fighting occurred, the aging innkeeper didn't know. Boats didn't stop at the port anymore— and the great warships just sailed past. Whether they were enemy or friendly, he also didn't know.

Aelin scowled. "What." It wasn't so much of a question as demand.

His gaze was unfaltering. As it had been when she'd returned from her run through the misty fields beyond the inn and found him leaning against the apple tree. "That's enough for today."

"We've hardly started." She lifted her blade.

Rowan kept his own lowered. "You barely slept last night."

Aelin tensed. "Bad dreams." An understatement. She lifted her chin and threw him a grin. "Perhaps I'm starting to wear you down a bit."

His canines gleamed. "You need to eat."

"I need to train."

She couldn't stop it-that need to do something. To be in motion.

No matter how many times she swung her blade, she could feel them. The shackles. And whenever she paused to rest, she could feel it, too—her magic. Waiting.

Indeed, it seemed to open an eye and yawn.

She clenched her jaw, and attacked again Rowan met each blow, and she knew her maneuvers were descending into sloppiness.

Knew he let her continue rather than seizing the many openings to end it.

She couldn't stop. War raged around them People were dying. And she had been locked in that damned box, had been taken apart again and again, unable to do anything.

Rowan struck, so fast she couldn't track it. But it was the foot he slid before her own that doomed her, sending her careening into the dirt.

"I win," he panted. "Let's eat."

Aelin glared up at him. "Another round."

Rowan just sheathed his sword. "After breakfast."

She growled. He growled right back.

"Don't be stupid," he said. "You'll lose all that muscle if you don't feed your body. So eat. And if you still want to train afterward, I'll train with you." He offered her a tattooed hand.

But Aelin said, "People are dying. In Terrasen. In-everywhere. People are dying, Rowan."

"Your eating breakfast isn't going to change that." Her lips curled in a snarl, but he cut her off. "I know people are dying. We are going to help them. But you need to have some strength left, or you won't be able to."

Truth. Her mate spoke truth. And yet she could see them, hear them. Those dying, frightened people. Whose screams so often sounded like her own.

Rowan wriggled his fingers in silent reminder. Shall we?

Aelin scowled and took his hand, letting him haul her to her feet. So pushy.

Rowan slid an arm around her shoulders. That's the most polite thing you've ever said about me.

Elide's eyes widened. Widened further as he opened his mouth, and took a bite. His swallow was audible. His cringe barely contained. Elide reined in her smile at the pure misery that entered the Lion's tawny stare. Aelin and Rowan had been finishing up a similar battle when she'd entered the taproom minutes ago, the queen wishing her luck before striding back into the courtyard.

Elide hadn't seen her sit still for longer than it took to eat a meal. Or during the hours when she'd instructed them in Wyrdmarks, after Rowan had requested she teach them.

It had gotten her out of the chains, the prince had explained. And if the ilken were resistant to their magic, then learning the ancient marks would come in handy with all they faced ahead. The battles both physical and magic.

Gavriel met her stare, and Elide again restrained her laugh.

She felt, rather than saw, Lorcan enter. The innkeeper instantly found somewhere else to be. The man hadn't been surprised to see five Fae enter his inn last night, so his vanishing whenever Lorcan appeared was certainly due to the glower the male had perfected.

Indeed, Lorcan took one look at Elide and Gavriel and left the dining room.

They'd barely spoken these weeks. Elide hadn't known what to even say. A member of this court. Her court. Forever.

He and Aelin certainly hadn't warmed toward each other. No, only Rowan and Gavriel really spoke to him. Fenrys, despite his promise to Aelin not to fight with Lorcan, ignored him most of the time. And Elide ... She'd made herself scarce often enough that Lorcan hadn't bothered to approach her.

Good. It was good. Even if she sometimes found herself opening her mouth to speak to him. Watching him as he listened to Aelin's lessons on the Wyrdmarks. Or while he trained with the queen, the rare moments when the two of them weren't at each other's throats.

Aelin had been returned to them. Was recovering as best she could.

Elide didn't taste her next bite of porridge. Gavriel, thankfully, said nothing. And Anneith didn't speak, either. Not a whisper of guidance. It was better that way. To listen to herself. Better that Lorcan kept his distance, too.

Whether the others knew what propelled her, they hadn't said a word. Aelin sheathed Goldryn and loosed a long breath. Deep down, her power grumbled. She flexed her fingers. Maeve's cold, pale face flashed before her eyes. Her magic went silent.

Fenrys sat in wolf form at the edge of the nearest field, staring out across the expanse.

Precisely where he'd been before dawn.

She let him hear her steps, his ears twitching. He shifted as she approached, and leaned against the half-rotted fence surrounding the field.

"Who'd you piss off to get the graveyard shift?" Aelin asked, wiping the sweat from her brow.

Fenrys snorted and ran a hand through his hair. "Would you believe I volunteered for it?" She arched a brow. He shrugged, watching the field again, the mists still clinging to its farthest reaches. "I don't sleep well these days." He cut her a sidelong glance. "I don't suppose I'm the only one."

She picked at the blister on her right hand, hissing. "We could start a secret society-for people who don't sleep well."

"As long as Lorcan isn't invited, I'm in."

Aelin huffed a laugh. "Let it go."

His face turned stony. "I said I would."

"You clearly haven't."

"I'll let it go when you stop running yourself ragged at dawn."

"I'm not running myself ragged. Rowan is overseeing it."

"Rowan is the only reason you're not limping everywhere."

Truth. Aelin curled her aching hands into fists and slid them into her pockets. Fenrys said nothing didn't ask why she didn't warm her fingers. Or the air around them. He just turned to her and blinked three times. Are you all right?

A gull's cry pierced the gray world, and Aelin blinked back twice. No. It was as much as she'd admit. She blinked again, thrice now. Are you all right?

Two blinks from him, too. No,

They were not alright.

They might never be. If the others knew, if they saw past the swagger and temper, they didn't let on.

None of them commented that Fenrys hadn't once used his magic to leap between places. Not that there was anywhere to go in the middle of the sea. But even when they sparred, he didn't wield it. Perhaps it had died with Connall. Perhaps it had been a gift they had both shared, and touching it was unbearable.

She didn't dare peer inward, to the churning sea inside her. Couldn't.

Aelin and Fenrys stood by the field as the sun arced higher, burning off the mists.

Aelin shook her head. Another dream, or hallucination. "If she's on our heels with this army, I'm just ... trying to understand it. Her, I mean."

"You plan to kill her." The gruel in her stomach turned over, but Aelin shrugged. Even as she tasted ash on her tongue.

"Would you prefer to do it?"

"I'm not sure I'd survive it," he said through his teeth. "And you have more of a reason to claim it than I do."

"I'd say we have an equal claim."

His dark eyes roved over her face. "Connall was a better male than—than how you saw him that time. Than what he was in the end."

She gripped his hand and squeezed. "I know."

The last of the mists vanished. Fenrys asked quietly, "Do you want me to tell you about it?" He didn't mean his brother.

She shook her head. "I know enough." She surveyed her cold, blistered hands. "I know enough," she repeated.