They had been on the road again for almost two days now, autumn rains sharpening their already grumpy and explosive mood into a knife’s edge. He almost felt sorry for Lorcan, who was annoyed and soaked to the bone, hair plastered to his skin. At least Rowan was able to fly in between – to scout ahead, to soar through the trees, and to escape their emerging arguments. Although, even that had been hard with the downpour during some hours, the heavy rains substantially weighing down his feathers.
Queen Maeve had ordered them to join a larger part of her actual army north of her main base in Doranelle. Some commotion with an enemy. Lorcan and him were often sent out to do the dirty work if the rest of her forces reached a stalemate. Or were just being incapable idiots once more. Most of them were, in Rowan’s opinion. When it came to him, their powerful Cadre of six would be enough to win most conflicts; wars, even. Walking alongside a sour Lorcan, he couldn’t keep himself from rolling his eyes, even only thinking about the useless conversations they’d need to endure once they finally reached the war camp in the evening.
“Think they’ll need us to negotiate again?” Rowan asked his commander without looking at him.
Lorcan grunted. “Wouldn’t surprise me. I hope they know how splendid we are at negotiating.”
Rowan had to grin for a second. Last time they were called to talk to an enemy council, half of the opposition left the tent minced into several pieces. The dispute was over one hour later. In Maeve’s favor.
“After spending far too much time in your awful presence, I feel the need to be particularly convincing.”
Lorcan was sneering when Rowan turned his head towards him. “Likewise, Prince.”

They continued in silence the following hours, only stopping for a quick meal on a half-dry patch of grass underneath a willow. Their journey had been uneventful so far. Maybe too uneventful. Rowan was growing increasingly suspicious. Even the familiar quiet between him and Lorcan felt heavy. If he was honest, it had since that surreal night in the tavern two weeks ago… But he refused to talk about it. So did Lorcan.
Still, today felt different. Something was in the air.
Rowan sighed. “Be right back.”
“Flying again?” Lorcan adjusted the single bag he was carrying.
Rowan only nodded once. Then he summoned the part of him which had become his escape, his inner safe space since he was able to wield. Like a lover’s caress, his magic reached out a hand, sending its power through every vein and bone, willing him to shift in less than two heartbeats. Covered in a bright flash, his broad Fae body shuddered and yielded to the energy tugging at it. 
Arms became wings. Feet became talons. Mouth became beak. Hair became feathers.
And with a screech, a white-taled hawk surged up into the afternoon sky above Lorcan’s head.
Rowan welcomed the wind carrying him forward. It was its counseling he had been looking for. Wind always held answers. Lorcan had mocked him during all those years together, yet, Rowan had saved their sorry asses several times already with his uncanny ability to understand what the elements were trying to tell him.
And just as he had suspected, today was no exception.
He let air rush around and into him, listening to its whispers, paying heed to its urgency. For several minutes, Rowan allowed himself to get lost in the sensation, flying far enough that he could spot the war camp in the distance. He fell into a fast dive once he finally turned back, shifting before his feet had even hit the ground, landing right in front of Lorcan.
He smoothed his silver hair with a hand.
“Dramatic,” Lorcan said dryly, not interrupting his arrogant gait. 
Rowan gave him a slight, mocking bow. “We should hurry,” he told him, falling into step beside him.
It was Lorcan’s turn to roll his eyes. “Are you shitting your pants again?”
Rowan snorted. “This isn’t about us, prick. It’s about the armies. They’re done going back and forth to no avail. There’ll be a clash soon, and not a pretty one.”
“Let me guess: your old friend the wind told you that.”
“Lorcan…”
“This is ridiculous. I have told you often enough I won’t make decisions based on what you think you can hear in the air.”
“You’re aware I’m only walking because you’re such a pitiful male that you can’t shift yourself? I could be there in less than half an hour.”
Lorcan spat. Rowan knew he hit a sore spot with it. Even though Lorcan held more power than the rest of them – except for himself, maybe – he was the only one in their Cadre without an animal-form. Not that he needed it to be utterly lethal, but it still meant he was lacking in some way. And there was little he despised more. So Rowan made use of it whenever he could.
“What do you suggest?” Lorcan snapped.
“We run the rest of the route.”
They had opted against horses this time. Less provisions, less attention. They were fast and persistent enough on foot anyway. 
“And you’re sure it’s necessary?”
Rowan just stared at him in a ‘would-I-tell-you-if-I-weren’t’ manner.
The commander grunted. “Fine.” He tightened his sword belt. “I’ll clip your gods-damned wings if you’re wrong.”
“Try me,” was all Rowan said before he broke into a sprint.
He heard Lorcan curse behind him when he quickly put a large distance between them. With his even longer legs, his dark companion could be just as fast as him, if not faster, so Rowan didn’t waste time getting a decent headstart.
Then they ran. Raced was a better term.
It was silly, and yet… Rowan felt a feral grin spreading over his face.
It had been a while since they had done something as simple and childish as running against each other. His body welcomed the strength, the speed, the challenge. This was what it was made for. Not the meaningless, dreadful, slow walking through empty countryside, but power.
Lorcan was smirking even wider than him when he finally caught up, his black eyes glistening when he looked at him. “Pathetic,” he said, fangs showing, still breathing as evenly as he had a minute earlier.
“I just didn’t want you to feel left behind,” Rowan shot back, willing his legs to move faster.
On and on they flew, not stumbling once, no matter how rocky the ground. They shoved each other whenever they got too close, snarling and snapping like cubs.
For a tiny bit, Rowan gave in to it.
Forgot he was a deadly, immortal warrior serving a queen who had saved him from his unspeakable past. Forgot he carried scars that would never heal, guilt he would never get away from. 
For a tiny bit, they were just two spirits, two souls, darting through the woods.

They reached the camp in half an hour.
“Loser, as always.” Lorcan ultimately arrived first, yet Rowan still couldn’t stop his stupid grin when he crested up the hill behind him and punched his steely shoulder. They were both panting slightly by now – a solid warmup. 
Calming their surging magic and adjusting their clothes, they granted themselves a moment to take in the situation: hundreds of tents were scattered before them. Further ahead, their enemy had claimed a second rise. Rowan knew in the event of an attack, either side would yield the advantage of higher ground, or they’d be forced to meet down in the valley between them. So far, none of it had happened, but it was too quiet. 
Rowan sniffed at the air. Tension. Frustration. And fear.
“Someone will do something very foolish very soon.”
Lorcan nodded, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword. “We arrived just in time.”
“Told you so,” Rowan added.
The commander rolled his eyes again. “Let’s go.”
They headed towards the captain’s camp, standing out against the much smaller clusters around it, passing plenty of staring soldiers. Most of them looked lost, trying to busy themselves by sharpening weapons or polishing armor. Useless idiots.​
“The stench of incompetence makes me gag,” Lorcan said through gritted teeth, striding across the area like he owned the whole gods-damned army. Technically, he did. And the skills he and Rowan possessed were undoubtedly worth more than half of it.
The soldiers knew. If they hadn’t already met them before, they felt their leashed power. Rowan could smell and see it in the way they shrank back with every step they took.
Lorcan didn’t wait to be called in, pulling the tent flap to the side so roughly it nearly tore. Two of the guards tried to hold them back, voices rising, but Lorcan shut them up with a lazy wave of his hand, engulfing them in dark, all-consuming magic that made them stop dead in their tracks, a silent scream on their lips.
“What in the hell do you think you rutting shitheads are doing?” Lorcan spat by way of greeting when he and Rowan finally came to a halt in front of the large strategy table.
“What does it look like? Holding our ground, of course,” the captain said, leaning over the tabletop to adjust a figurine.
Reckless fool. Fane was his name, as far as Rowan could remember. He didn’t really care about most of the heads of their army. They’d fall eventually anyway. And Fane would join the fallen much faster than he’d probably planned for with the way he had just answered that question.
As Rowan had anticipated, Lorcan went still, tilting his head with a predator’s stare that could have melted iron. His magic snaked around Fane’s feet. It was enough for the captain to straighten. His throat worked audibly as he was clearly fighting the urge to stand his ground, knowing full well he wouldn’t last a minute against Lorcan. The Demi-Fae wasn’t only known for being powerful – the methods he used to get what he wanted, and especially the way he enjoyed them, made even Rowan’s insides curl sometimes.
“Say that again,” Lorcan hissed with a calmness that was more frightening than any scream.
Fane swallowed again, his eyes twitching but shining with unmistakable alarm. “We are doing our best to defend Queen Maeve’s border, Commander.”
“Clearly. If that’s your best, you’re not even allowed to call her your queen, worm.”
Fane cleared his throat and took a step back. “Every attempt at negotiating a treaty to avoid a clash has been rejected so far.”
“Reasons?” Lorcan was still staring at the captain like he was dinner.
“They’re not accepting lower-ranking authority. Not even for discussions.”
“Lower than what?”
Fane inclined his head towards Rowan and Lorcan. “You, Commander.”
Lorcan sighed with annoyance. “Send word that Whitethorn and I will meet their leader in two hours. Now.”
“But–” Fane started, but Lorcan had already turned around, stalking through the exit.
Rowan raised an eyebrow at the captain. He refrained from finishing his sentence and nodded once instead.
Lorcan was charging at the supply tents when Rowan caught up with him.
“So negotiations it is?” he asked.
A dangerous smirk tugged at Lorcan’s lips. “If they want high rank, we’ll show them high rank.”

They set out for the enemy’s hill right before the two hours were up. No answer had reached them while they were fueling their bodies with food and drink, but they decided they did not care and walk over anyway. They were apparently expected though, five soldiers intercepting them at the border of their own tents.
“Weapons,” one of them demanded.
Rowan and Lorcan looked at each other for a moment, but then started to take off what steel they carried. Which was a lot. Rowan especially liked to be a walking arsenal, and he took his sweet, sweet time showing them just how much. The soldiers started tensing by the sixth weapon he unsheathed, tossing it at their feet.
Entirely unfazed, the two of them finally straightened again, watching their host in silent challenge. Confusion spread amongst them at their quick yielding, but they didn’t know that Rowan and Lorcan didn’t need weapons to be deadly. 
They were the weapons.
Four of the soldiers urged them to follow, while one stayed behind with the armory they had just dropped. 
Rowan stopped in front of him, leaning in until they shared breath. “If even one knife is missing when I come back, I’ll use every other to make you regret it,” he said with lethal quietness. 
A growl rumbled from the soldier, but Rowan had already joined the party again before he could decide to answer.
Lorcan and he were led to an enormous tent in the middle of the camp, flanked by two soldiers ahead and two behind. Rowan’s sharp eyes took in every detail he could catch. He knew Lorcan instinctively did the same, but it was Rowan’s perception they relied upon in the end. This had been their dynamic for many years – Lorcan was the provocateur and the battering ram, while Rowan was the silent observer and the unexpected final death sentence. 
Lorcan made them scream and run. Rowan caught and silenced them. 
Lorcan broke them until they begged for salvation. Rowan delivered it.
Even on battlefields, where the commander brought death upon everyone in his way himself, he liked to make some of his enemies believe there was a way out after driving them insane – where Rowan waited for them. 
Lorcan loved the chase, the play. It was cruel and merciless. There were moments when Rowan questioned it, but most of the time, especially when frenzy took over, he welcomed the savageness. Gave in to it. Gave in to his inner demons, of which he had plenty. Gave in to the monster most of him had become after what he had allowed to happen…
Rowan let a fraction of his magic rise to the surface while they were walking, just enough to make it tangible for everyone around them. Lorcan let his own join in. They were both followed by suspicious eyes and bared teeth, but no one dared approach them.
Once they arrived at the leader’s tent, they were left waiting at the entrance. Another display of control, but the males didn’t fall for the bait. They hadn’t spoken the entire way, and didn’t do so either when they were finally led inside.
The interior was luxurious for a war tent – soft, beige furs covered the ground, and high-quality wooden furniture made it almost feel like an actual room. The center featured a magnificent, round oak table, littered with candles, documents and empty tableware. Two of the soldiers remained outside to stand guard, while the other two placed themselves in opposite corners within – to the left and right of the leader who was now receiving them. He resembled a bear, easily matching Rowan’s six-foot-four, albeit not fully reaching Lorcan’s eye level. 
Slowly, the enemy turned around to face them. A warlord, apparently. From the ludicrously intimidated whispers of their own troops, they had learned that he was called Arion, and was said to be as ruthless as he was cunning. A harsh, jagged scar ran down his chin, as wide as two thumbs, vanishing beneath the bronze armor he wore. More fur, white this time, adorned his shoulders, contrasting with his long, inky braid. There was nothing but loathing in his hazel eyes when he finally looked them over from the other side of the table, a goblet in one hand, the other resting on the pommel of his broadsword.
“Has she finally sent her dogs?” Arion drawled.
Rowan could feel Lorcan’s magic strain its ears while he crossed his huge arms. “I don’t give a shit who you are, she is still Queen Maeve to you and anyone else.” Lorcan’s rough voice was loaded with menace.
Arion scoffed. “So it is true what they say then. You and your oh-so-famous band of runts are her loyal puppies, worshipping her like a god. A female, doing nothing but looking pretty on her little throne.” He spat on the ground next to him.
Lorcan’s snarl filled the air. Insulting Maeve in front of them, especially in front of Lorcan, meant Arion had decided to take the direct route for this conversation. It was widely known what the Cadre had given up for their queen, how deep their bond reached. And Lorcan’s devotion went so far, Rowan wasn’t sure if it extended beyond the bounds of a blood oath.
Arion smirked and took a sip of what smelled like wine before placing the goblet on the table. “Threaten me all you like – Lorcan, is it?”
“Commander Salvaterre,” Rowan answered quietly from the back of the tent.
Arion’s gaze snapped to him. “So adamant about titles. But no wonder, Prince Whitethorn.” He faked a gasp. “Oh, where are my manners? I forgot I have royalty visiting my humble camp.” He bowed mockingly, arms spread wide.
Lorcan ignored the taunting. “You wanted to speak to equals?”
Arion gave them an appraising look from head to toe. “I wanted to talk to someone of a higher rank than a captain. I never said anything about equals.”
Lorcan rolled his neck before he took some idle steps around the tent. “Let’s be honest, Arion. You know you can’t win a battle, or you would’ve attacked already.” He picked up a wooden figurine from a side table and examined it with feigned interest. “Leave the border by tomorrow evening, and we won’t rip you and your ridiculous attempt at an army to shreds.”
Arion laughed wickedly. “You rip us to shreds? I’ve heard you two are vicious, but I wasn’t told you have a sense of humor as well. No…” The warlord shook his head. “It is you who haven’t attacked yet because you cannot afford a loss.”
Lorcan shrugged, tossing the figurine back. “Maybe that was the case. But something changed tonight.”
Arion raised a bored eyebrow. “Enlighten me.”
Lorcan stepped beside Rowan. “We joined the playing field.”
A chuckle from Arion. “Is that supposed to scare me?”
“Although I personally prefer it, I don’t need my victims scared when I crush them like a grape. They all give in eventually.” Lorcan sneered, cocking his head. “I could turn you into dust with a blink.”
“And find yourself in the middle of an army ready to take revenge? Even you aren’t that stupid.”
Another shrug while he gestured to Rowan. “His Majesty and I have taken on much larger hosts on our own. And won each and every one of the encounters. Accept it, Arion. You’re fucked.”
“Arrogant bastard,” Arion growled.
“I’ve been called worse.”
“Oh, I can only imagine. Do you also let your queen take you when she’s bored with her other lovers? Does she make you whimper? I think you might be a whimperer, Lorcan Salvaterre. An obedient whore for the one who claims to be a ruler–”
Lorcan was at Arion’s throat faster than Rowan could throw a shield up around the tent. The two guards were reacting a heartbeat later, but Rowan’s wind had already pinned them down, encapsulating them fully.
“I wouldn’t interfere if I were you,” Rowan said sweetly.
They weren’t able to, anyway, although they tried desperately to shove and claw against his magic.
“Call her a whore one more time and I’ll end your entire bloodline,” Lorcan hissed at the warlord, the hand around his thick neck still looking large.
Arion had the guts to grin, nails digging into Lorcan’s wrist. “Weak spot?” he rasped. He had managed to unsheathe a dagger, now pressing against Lorcan’s groin. Nothing worrisome, but more blunt than expected.
Rowan heaved a heavy sigh. They had agreed to at least try their best to avoid a conflict. “Lorcan…”
His commander snarled one more time before he let go, taking a step back but remaining in reach.
Arion cleared his throat and adjusted his armor. “I’m surprised you’re so easily riled up. One might think two notorious leaders have more self-confidence.”
“We’re not notorious because we’re patient and sympathetic,” Lorcan snorted.
No, their temper indeed was that of an uncontrollable tornado. And Rowan had a feeling that Arion wasn’t actually open for a treaty, but only searching for a way to make them explode and have a reason to attack, not believing the rumors about the enormity of their power. But Rowan wouldn’t let it get that far. If someone had to make an example, it would be Lorcan and him. Even if they lost their shit, he’d make sure no one on the enemy side would dare to make a further move.
Rowan’s assumption was verified quickly when the warlord switched targets.
He locked eyes with Rowan. “What about you, Prince? Are you just a pathetic puppet, hiding behind your big, bad commander? I’ve heard many things about you, as well…”
Rowan didn’t move. “And I’m sure they’re all as interesting as the soldiers still chained to the ground by nothing more than my thoughts. Get to the gods-damned point.”
Arion eyed his lackeys for a moment, disappointment making his nose crinkle. Then he picked at his nails. “I couldn’t possibly form an agreement with two lapdogs, could I? What would people think? Salvaterre over here, kneeling for a female. And you, Whitethorn,” he tsked, “you let your poor mate die because you left her unprotected?”
Rowan stilled, glaring at him. Even Lorcan tensed. No one, no one, had ever used this against him. Hellas, so few even knew about it… Rage filled him in seconds. Rage so icy Rowan’s veins froze over, devouring all remaining mercifulness when it reached what was left of his withered heart.
“What did you just say?” Rowan asked, his hands curling into fists.
“So, it is interesting after all. That you had a charming little female once, who you loved so dearly that you went away and got her killed?” 
“Enough.” Rowan took a step. He could barely hear anything over the storm rushing through him. His entire, lethal focus narrowed on Arion, the rest of the world turning into a blurry mass.
Lorcan’s gaze flicked back and forth between them, a finger twitching in warning. Rowan ignored it. 
“You want me feral, Arion?” Rowan’s voice was low and threatening while he prowled forward. “You want to see that I’m not just a pawn?”
Lorcan’s magic reached for him, but it didn’t penetrate the wall of pure wrath surrounding him now.
“You mean to see you be as successful as you were guarding your female?” Arion let the dagger flip between tip and hilt. “Was she really your mate? She couldn’t have been that important if you let her die. I bet you grew bored of her once she had spread her legs for you a few times. Or did she grow bored of you? Was she a whore just like your queen?”
The world stopped moving. Rowan could see the dust hang in the air. There was no sound except for his own heartbeat. But even this suddenly stilled, his power steeling his muscles as his instinct latched onto the closest thing he could turn into a weapon. He could use his magic, and he would. But Arion deserved more.
In the matter of a second, he had flipped the oak table upside down, sending paper, candles, plates and wine flying. A tug on one of the legs was enough to rip it off, like it was nothing more than a delicate flower.
Another second later, he lunged, pushing Lorcan aside, and rammed the leg into Arion’s chest with the force of more than two centuries’ worth of training, channeling everything of the raw strength that made him the most powerful Fae male walking the grounds of Erilea.
“Fuck…” was all Rowan heard from Lorcan.
As the world started spinning again, Rowan brought his face close to Arion’s, teeth bared. He leaned on the wood now impaling the warlord, his body spasming around it. “Feral enough?” He took the last trickles of air still circling through Arion’s lungs, watching the life slowly drain from his eyes as he choked on nothing but his own blood, eyes bulging in shock and fear.
He didn’t know how long he had stood over him when Lorcan placed a hand on his shoulder. “He won’t be any more dead if you stare at him for another three hours.”
Rowan snarled at the fingers touching him, his animalistic instincts still dominating. 
Lorcan raised his arms in defense as Rowan straightened, facing him. Another growl escaped him.
“Easy,” Lorcan said. He looked at Arion and bobbed his head to the side once in something that could’ve been praise. “You just fucking speared him with a blunt table leg.”
Rowan only grunted. Lorcan rolled his eyes. “Your creativity aside, we now have to deal with a few angry faces because of your antics.”
“Let them come,” Rowan grumbled. 
“Two are already here in case you forgot.”
Indeed, while Rowan’s shield had kept anyone outside from hearing what had been going on in the tent, the two guards were still pinned to the ground, struggling with wide eyes against the thick shells of air around them. Rowan looked at Lorcan.
The commander nodded. “Go ahead.”
Rowan assessed them for two slow heartbeats, bathing in the fear emanating from them when they caught his gaze. He moved back to the table and picked it up from the ground.
Lorcan just raised his eyebrows, remaining next to the dead warlord.
With one deep breath, Rowan swung the tabletop around himself and smashed it against the soldiers. Blood still pounding in his ears, he barely heard the impact of wood against skull. They fell unconscious instantly, not fully dead, but not properly functioning anymore if they didn’t find a healer quickly.
“Effective,” Lorcan said, before he took the table away decisively. “Enough with the redecoration though. I want to be back before breakfast.”
They walked out like nothing had happened, letting chaos choose its own pace when the rest of the guards stormed in behind them. The shouting started shortly afterwards.
“Don’t linger,” was the only thing Lorcan said before hundreds of soldiers started sprinting towards them.
Rowan still hadn’t let go of the beast inside of him. This was what it was best at: destruction.
With the first hand reaching for them, he erupted in a storm of ice and wind, flattening everything around him in an eight-hundred-foot radius, sparing only his companion. 
Most weren’t killed, but it was enough of a warning to let silence fall over the camp when he and Lorcan started walking again. Or rather, when Lorcan started dragging Rowan over the field…
The anger coursing through Rowan was unbearable: memories he usually tried to push away every minute of every day clawing at him. Arion’s words had unleashed them, ripping the lid off his mental box.
Lorcan sensed it, urging Rowan to move on. “Not now, idiot,” he said, canines glistening in the light of the many torches. “We make them cower, we make them fear, we make them pull back. But I don’t need a fucking blood-bath right now. We have more important things to do. Get your ass out of this camp. Now.”
With the last shreds of his control, Rowan managed to obey. They only stopped to quickly pick up their weapons after tracking them down, leaving another circle of havoc in their wake.

The enemy army retreated to their lands two hours after Rowan and Lorcan reached their camp.