Aeden's most vivid memory of his sister was the night he lost her.

The sky was perfectly clear, a welcome rarity. He and Sorcha laid on the grass outside their home, watching the stars. His mother had told them how humans traced imaginary patterns between them and made stories; they were trying to do it themselves, finding scattered images of birds and trees and roots. The wind rustled the leaves overhead, carrying the scent of rich foliage with it. It was winter, but their parents' powers kept the clearing filled with beds of soft grass and flowers. That was one of Aeden's favourite things about this place.

But this game bored him.

"I can't understand it," he sighed, relaxing into the ground. "Stars are stars. Their patterns are the ones we see."

"That's because you have no imagination. You've got to trace lines in your mind," Sorcha said, poking his temple. Her green eyes roved back to the sky, and she blew a strand of brown hair from her forehead. Like Aeden, her features were beginning to lose the roundness of youth.

"I know that," Aeden snapped. "But why? If I wanted to look at a tree, I'd look at a tree. Not some distant sparks."

"But there's stories in those sparks."

He poked her side. She was sensitive there, and rolled away with a yelp. Leaves were tangled in her hair when she righted herself, sticking her tongue out like a child.

"Not real stories," Aeden said. "Nevan tells us the real ones. The stars are just—"

"Da wouldn't know a good tale if it slapped him," Sorcha sniffed. She made to sit, glared at Aeden until he held his hands up in innocent defeat, laid herself onto the grass. Lifting her arm, she traced some unknown image onto the mosaic of stars stretched above them. Without the moon's light, they shone brighter than ever. "To be honest, I don't understand the patterns either. But... maybe their stories aren't so bad. I like the ones about us."

"Are you serious? We're monsters in half." He waved vaguely, remembering his scattered encounters with humans when he found travellers or ventured too close to the nearby town. Upon seeing him shift, they'd said the same things. Demon, goblin, spirit, omen. And when he snuck away from home, disguised himself, and lingered near the inn—Sorcha often joined him for those visits—he'd heard tales of púcai specifically. One involved taming a púca with iron spurs. His skin itched merely thinking of it.

"Only in half. There are plenty of legends where they admire sídhe and we give them little gifts." Sorcha shrugged, smiling faintly. "But have you ever thought that, maybe, we are a bit like monsters?"

Aeden felt his smile fade. "Don't say that."

"Not us, not really, but there's plenty of sídhe that treat them like toys. I can't blame them for being scared." She hummed. "I think humans are interesting. I want to learn about them too. Maybe I'll give one a gift one day and see what happens."

He thought for a moment, turning her words over in his mind. They weren't toys, but he'd never placed much interest in humans: they were occasionally entertaining to mess with, and that was all. They were too different and too wary, with their iron weapons and charms.

Perhaps Sorcha had seen something he didn't. She was younger than him, and her little whims were ever-changing, but she had that sort of look in her eyes.

"You're strange," he relented, stretching his arms above his head. "But I'd like to see that."

><><

Aeden had forgotten pain could be so heavy.

The chains burned in a way Maeve's fire never could, every link searing into his flesh like a brand. But the iron cut deeper than that: its power blistered his muscles and nerves raw, sliced his bones with molten claws, tore into his soul and bled him of his strength. If he tried to shift—anything, anything small enough to escape—the agony surged, and he drowned in it. He was trapped as a human. Blunt teeth, clipped nails. No way to slip free.

He wrenched at the chains, locking his jaw against a scream as he felt about for a way to loosen them. Nothing. The humans had forced the metal too tightly around his wrists, and every tug only let it slice further into his skin. His arms ached, twisted awkwardly behind his back as they were, and he could smell his blood. It dripped down his palms and fingers, slippery and hot.

Yet nothing could hurt worse than the helplessness that tightened his throat. Any pain would be worth getting free. If he could gnaw off his hands, he would. He swallowed, tasting blood, and kicked at one of the men holding him. His pain rendered him too slow: the soldier merely stepped behind him, out of reach. Though his eyes remained lifeless and blank, it seemed he had enough discretion to fight back.

Aeden cursed, frantically trying to piece his fragmented thoughts into a plan. He realised now that Sorcha had been right. There were monsters amongst their kind. One had killed her, ending that curious wish of hers far too early, and now he'd finally fallen into that same man's clutches.

He was vaguely aware the humans were dragging him about, and that Shayne was using his power to pull them through the subrealms of Natír. The problem was focusing on how or where. Aeden's senses were overwhelmed, useless. Cold sweat, a foreign sensation, trickled down his forehead and neck as he struggled to breathe. The very air grated in his throat. Struggling against the chains took nearly all of his strength. He'd never had to endure iron's touch for this long.

He wasn't sure when they stopped; there was simply a gradual realisation that he was standing on wood, surrounded by stone walls and a ceiling. Inside someplace. His throat went dry; within the instant, he keenly missed the open sky. The humans released him, and he staggered. Before he struck the ground, an arm wrapped around his chest and lifted him back up.

"I'm sorry," Shayne said from behind him. Sadness dripped from each word. It was fake. "I'd hoped it wouldn't come to this."

Nausea ripped through Aeden's middle. He jerked about and elbowed Shayne, hard. The man flinched back, leaving him to collapse to his knees. Now that nobody was holding them in place, he wrested his hands free of the links, not caring how they scorched his fingers. He flung them aside and retched. Tremors ran through his muscles; the pain lessened, but only slightly.

He was underground—he sensed that within an instant. Furnishings adorned the space: a rug, a wooden table and chairs, some cabinets, a cot. A bedroom. This was part of a house, but not a human's. They, at least, had windows, and their walls were not smooth, perfect planes of stone but mosaics of rock and mud. They had little trinkets and devices for everything scattered about. Cramped as it was, they lived in their homes. Morrigan's cottage was of human construction, and she had made an effort to infuse it with her own touches of life, which was why he could stand venturing inside it.

But this room had been carved into the earth with the power of a sídhe, likely buried in some sort of hill. The air was stale and felt dark, as if it were constricting his chest. Everything was too perfect and clean. If the room had ever been used, that spark of life had died long ago.

Aeden sat up slowly, keeping an eye on Shayne as he drew his bloody hands to his chest. A deep ache had sunk into them. After so many years of fighting, he'd learned the cost of that throbbing pain—cuts from iron left scars. His wrists would forever bear the mark of this. Anger sparked in his heart, helping him shake off the lingering exhaustion and pain.

"The state of you," Shayne said, distaste lining the words. "You're bleeding onto your clothes. I'll have to find you something else to wear."

Aeden swiftly took stock of his opponents: three beaten humans—he could now see one's left arm hung bloody and useless at his side, and another had burns along his face—and Shayne. The room was large enough to fit them all and then some, but the enclosed space still made Aeden's breathing hitch. He caught sight of a single door on the far wall, shut against whatever laid beyond.

There wasn't time to hesitate. He shifted into a wolf and raced straight towards it, his bloody paws slipping on the floor. Pain savaged his side and legs, but that only spurred him to move faster. He ducked around the humans, keeping as much distance from Shayne possible. As much as he despised the man, he knew he couldn't kill him. Not alone. Not like this.

Before he could reach the door, mist abruptly rose from the ground and crowded his vision. He yelped as the ground shifted beneath him and he was dragged through space. There wasn't time to avoid the wall when it appeared before him, and he crashed snout-first into the stone. He stumbled back, finding himself in the same corner as before. Opposite the door. He spun and backed up, a growl rising in his throat.

Shayne merely sighed, making some minute adjustment to his collar. "We both know you're not going to get past me, Aeden. You're hurt, you're tired, and you're too young. Speak to me. Let me help you."

Aeden shifted, sinking his claws into the wood floor. He glared at the man and waited for an opening, any sign of weakness. When none came, he launched himself at Shayne anyways. What else was there to do? If he could strike the man—distract him for even a few seconds—there would be an opening to run. If nothing else, Aeden knew he was faster than Shayne. That was the only reason he'd lasted all this time.

"Enough," Shayne said, his feigned tolerance dropping in an instant.

Aeden was abruptly overwhelmed by a sense of coming danger, hot and familiar. It was an instinctive power that carried him through many fights, but it provided too little warning now. He'd hardly lunged before one of the humans was upon him. The return of the iron's touch crippled him; his power was wrenched from his grasp, leaving agony in its place as he was reduced to his usual form. He screamed, tears blurring his vision. That cursed metal—he felt so weak as it burned into him, crushing his senses.

Stone scraped his elbows as the human dragged him backwards, and Aeden felt the sting of chains around his wrists again. Ice slithered down his spine as he realised the man was locking the links to each other somehow so that they wouldn't come loose.

"I had Cael put the humans under my command, as you can see. They're adequately equipped, so I wouldn't recommend fighting or running," Shayne explained, shaking his head. "It was not my intention to use iron against you like this. I meant to allow you reprieve, but it's clearly impossible to keep you under control without it."

Aeden sucked in a slow breath as the soldier—really more of a puppet than anything—let go of him. He yanked at the chains and looked up at Shayne. Really looked, seeing the man's narrowed eyes, the set of his jaw, the way he seemed ever-so-slightly off. Nothing had changed: not his pristine clothes, his braided hair, the overwhelming power he exuded. Aeden bit down on his tongue until he tasted blood, fighting the urge to look away. This was the same man that had murdered his family, rooted him from his home, and chased him halfway across Ríenne. The one he used to think of as a protector. Someone he could trust.

Maeve had mentioned in passing that she'd seen darkness in the Kaelte, and Morrigan had given her little speech about the Ándúr Nimh, but Aeden couldn't sense any such thing. There was only the prickling feeling that something was amiss, buried deep within his being.

It didn't matter either way. He didn't care about the Ándúr Nimh or if Shayne had an excuse. All he'd ever wanted was his own freedom and to see that bastard dead, yet here he was at the man's mercy. He forced a smile onto his face, feeling dangerously shaky under the weight of his emotions. It was too late to act casual, but he couldn't let Shayne know just how angry and useless and weak he was. Grinning came easiest. It always had.

"Don't tell me you live in this dreary cave," he said, stalling. "You know, I don't believe we're close enough for house visits." Fresh agony shot through him as he twisted his hands, and he bit back a curse. The chains were too tight to wriggle them off. "Why, I didn't even bring anything for you."

Shayne was unamused. "Do stop writhing, Aeden. You'll only make yourself bleed more. But you're right: this is my home. Niamh and I created it when we were quite young."

"Must feel empty, then," Aeden said brightly. He knew better, but some part of him hoped the words would hurt. That they'd, somehow, transfer a fraction of what he felt to the man before him.

Shayne shrugged, his eyes sliding away. "In truth, she became a nuisance years ago. She was disorderly, wouldn't listen to me, and then she tried to kill you." His gaze shifted back to Aeden. "I don't find myself mourning her absence. In fact, this home feels quite full now."

He's insane. Revulsion struck Aeden like a punch to the gut. He reeled, shivers overtaking his body. Whether it was from pain or fear, he couldn't tell—he felt his control cracking nonetheless. It was like the water of the Rene when he'd first tried to swim in it, tossing him this way and that, slipping through his fingers when he tried to grasp it. But he had to stay calm. He couldn't show weakness.

"Shayne," he said, wrestling his voice into something more neutral, "the chains are a bit excessive, no? I hardly feel welcome."

"I'm not a fool, child." Shayne titled his head. "If I removed them, you would run again."

A bitter laugh clawed its way from Aeden's throat. Don't you dare call me child. "Shouldn't that be a sign you're doing something wrong?"

Shayne's eyes flashed. "Do not argue with me. You aren't in any position to. Hardly two decades of your life spent, and you've already made an enemy of half the human kingdoms in Natír. These ones I found"—he nodded carelessly at the stiff, waiting humans—"were after you. The ones I found before that were after you. I may as well have been tripping over them. Knights. Soldiers. Hunting parties. If you continue like this, Aeden, your life will end before you even learn to navigate Natír."

"Even if that were true, you have no right to meddle," Aeden snapped. Rage wound tight about his chest, mingling with the pain to taint his vision black. "You..." He sucked in a deep breath, clenching his fists. How could this man pretend like he cared, after all he'd done?

"Go on," Shayne said coolly. "I know you want to say it."

"Don't pretend to know me," Aeden snarled. Every passing second, his thoughts grew more scattered and frantic. Every fibre of his being ached to flee from the small room and the man's stony face. He couldn't keep this up.

"Maybe I don't. But I know how to protect you."

Aeden flinched. To protect you. He'd heard that ever since he was a mere boy. He'd heard it when Shayne laughed alongside his father as he played with Sorcha, when the man first began to lecture him about the dangers of humans, when Shayne stood over his family's bodies. That wasn't protection. It was madness.

The heat in Aeden's chest flooded outwards, consuming him in a rush of fire and pain and hatred. He wanted to scream, yet found the words coming dark and cold in his throat. Flat. "You murdered my family. You tried to take me. Control me. You hunted me farther and longer than any of those humans ever could." He took a shaky breath. "You've lost your mind. Release me, Shayne."

"No. You'll walk straight to your death."

"And this is better?" Aeden hissed, finding himself straining against the chains without thinking. Shayne was keeping distance, a finger's breadth out of reach. It was infuriating. "What the hell is your plan? Will you keep me stuck here forever?"

"Until you calm down and stop fighting me." Shayne folded his arms. He looked so deceptively collected—his hair was clean and swept back, his clothes were spotless, his posture was perfect. Aeden had seen the madness that lingered beneath firsthand, though. The man was obsessed with order. He'd go to incomprehensible lengths to ensure he held control over what he deemed important. Reasoning him was beyond impossible, even before he'd lost his mind. "I'll find some better way to restrain you, but for now I'll need to make preparations for your sun sídhe."

"What? Why do you care?"

"Because she's in my way, and she's a threat," Shayne said plainly. "I have no doubt that she'll follow you here."

Realisation dawned upon Aeden slowly, sharp and cold. He dug his nails into his palms until he felt more blood trail down his skin. "You're using me as bait."

"I'm keeping you where I can watch you," Shayne corrected. "But your companions will likely come to us. You may not see it, but the girl is dangerous. I'd have Cael deal with her, but he already failed." He added the last part after a short pause, as if he'd nearly forgotten that the man was no longer with them.

Another hollow laugh spilled from Aeden's lips. "You're crazier than I thought. They won't follow me."

"Oh? Why not?"

"They don't need me." Restless fear fluttered in his chest. It was difficult to focus on the words. Not while he was keenly aware of the confined space of the room, of the iron keeping him bound. He could buy time talking, but he had few ideas. He couldn't shift, he was slowed with pain, and escaping the chains was impossible.

"Morrigan made great efforts to hide your presence from me those first few years," Shayne hummed. "Misguided as her actions were, she cares for you."

"She can't fight." The words tasted bitter. "Don't you remember?"

Shayne watched him for a long moment, and then turned. "Nonetheless, I will wait for them. In the meantime, you would do well to calm yourself. I'll be having one of the humans put a ward on the door, so even if you escape the chains, you won't get out."

"You mean to leave me here? Trapped in irons?" Aeden strained to keep the sudden terror he felt from his voice. If the man left, he wouldn't be able to focus upon anything but the pain of the chains and the cramped, empty room he'd been caged in. He stood up, swayed, and was promptly held back by one of the humans. "Release me," he rasped.

"I will." Shayne turned his head, a sharp glint in his eyes. "I will when you swear to stop struggling and agree to obey my commands for... ah, let's say the next three days so you don't wriggle out of it."

Icy cold pooled in Aeden's chest. He found himself laughing in sheer disbelief, his voice strange in his ears. "You mean to bind me to you. No. No, no, no. That's madness."

"I thought you'd refuse. You're still eyeing the door, so I'll leave you time to grasp the situation." He tutted. "It's not as if I'll do anything terrible to you, Aeden. Quite the opposite—I just need to know you won't leap for my throat at the soonest opportunity."

"Damn it, Shayne, do not leave me like this," Aeden snarled, his voice growing louder in his desperation. He threw himself forward, only to be held back by the soldier. Darkness crowded his vision—the beginnings of panic twisted around his throat, his ribs, his heart, his mind. "It—"

"It's for your own good," Shayne said coolly. "You'll understand in time. I'll be back."

A wave of dizziness rolled through Aeden. He forgot what he said, then, tumbling through any threats or pleads that might get the chains off of him. Shayne ignored him, ordering the humans through the door with a careless jerk of his head. The one holding Aeden tossed him to the ground and was gone before he could get back to his feet.

Shayne lingered beside the door, casting Aeden a sickeningly sympathetic glance. "Don't fight the chains too much. You'll only hurt yourself more." With that, he shut the door. Seconds later, Aeden felt a sharp, hard power ripple through the room. A ward, Shayne had said. He'd put a damn ward on the door to keep him locked inside.

It was darker now. Light came from beneath the door, enough for Aeden to see but only in differing shades of grey. For a moment, he couldn't move: there was only his breathing, the drumming of his heart in his ears. Then he stood and lurched forward, slamming his shoulder into the wooden door. Something cracked in the joint, a sensation he barely felt beneath the scorching pain in his nerves. It didn't matter. He fell back a step, then two—and he struck the wall again. There was no room. A bead of sweat dripped down his cheek as he stood there, panting.

"Shayne!" he roared. He tried to wrestle with the chains once again, to no avail. The iron was simply too pure. It sapped too much of his strength for him to break the links or his wrists, whichever caved first. "Open the door!"

There was no response. Aeden crashed into the wood again, hardly registering the fire that split his arm. He could sense the iron's power strengthening it, impossible to get past. He staggered and looked about wildly for anything he could use. The furniture was basic, and held nothing sharp he could see. The floor was clean. He swallowed and yanked at the chains again. They dug into the cuts in his wrists, but all that pain was nothing compared to the tightness in his chest, the scrambled fear flooding his thoughts. His very soul screamed for release. He couldn't be trapped like this—he would rather die a thousand deaths than be trapped. Even thinking the word made his stomach churn.

A howl built in his chest. He released it, fury scorching his throat. "Shayne, you son of a bitch!" He released a tirade of curses, no longer caring if the man was still there to hear it. "I'll kill you," he snarled, more to himself. It was a weak promise, and faltered even as it left his lips. A geas he couldn't make. They didn't work like that.

His legs began to fail him; he leaned forward and slammed his forehead against the door, hating the feel of it, the pathetic human body he was trapped in, how weak the chains rendered him. Hating the sobs beginning to splinter his voice. The closeness of the space made it impossible to breathe. The pain made it impossible to fight. Every passing second, the scent of his blood grew stronger as it ran down his arms, taking his strength with it.

Trapped. The thought rolled through his mind, and he began to shake. His heartbeat echoed in his ears. Some humans that chased him intended to catch him and lock him away, but they'd never succeeded. Nor had Shayne until now. It was worse than any of the nightmares that plagued him—he had nowhere to go, no way to run and let the wind tear his worries from his mind. He couldn't think of any way to get out. There was no help to come.

I'm trapped. He stumbled, falling onto one knee as darkness dragged at his vision. The cursed word haunted him, echoing with truth he'd do anything to deny. I'm really trapped.