Sword of Ice (A Throne of Glass Fanfiction)

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Rowan Whitethorn was trekking at the forest.

He didn't leave the mountain cabin after another day, and so his time had been ticking fast to race his way to Doranelle. It's been a while since Her Majesty had summoned him for a job. A job which he knew would be another messy servant work without imminent war at the helm.

In the maze of the forest, Rowan thought about it, what war could do to keep him feeling alive. It wasn't entirely bad for immortals who want to waste away time. It's much more better, of course, than Lorcan taunting him every now and then.

Rowan trekked for another long while, before he finally sat under a towering tree, leaning on its damp bark. The drizzle of rain hasn't stopped since he started the trek. But with the canopy and his constant magic, he kept dry the whole time.

Utter nothingness hit him. How long he had felt this way, felt not grief or rage, but absolutely nothing? So he did perhaps what he thought would make him feel something. He broke his channel of magic, and when the drizzle turned into heavy rain, he at last felt the drops crashed against his skin.

He remained sitting there, knees to his chest until he was soaked all over, the cold breeze sending shivers to his spine. He only listened to the thudding sounds as rain hit the ground in a cycle.

He stared at the ground, the image of the girl returning vividly in his head.

Rowan Whitethorn, for all his centuries of existing, couldn't fathom how still kept seeing her. How clear her image has been, when everything to him since Lyria's fate was all a blur and nothing but fading memories of his existence.

But maybe the gods damned fate was sick of his bullshit so it sent something that would keep him wondering and searching for a while.

A young girl with blonde hair who had survived, despite of, inspite of where she'd come from and the horrors she faced.

She endured all of it.

So under the cocoon of the forest, Rowan chanted the same thing in his head over and over until the words have forged themselves as a part of him.

I will endure.

I will endure.

_______________

If there was one thing that irritated Rowan Whitethorn, it was catching up to time and not ending up late for it.

He didn't stay much longer in the forest. Soon after the last drop of rain hit the ground, he was already on his feet, bolting for the other end of the treeline where the bustling sounds of Doranelle lingered from far away.

But before he could actually escape the confines of the forest, another pleasant surprise (far more pleasant than Lorcan), greeted him while he ran at Fae speed, sending rushes of wind that disturbed the stillness of the trees he passed by.

He jolted to a stop when the creature blocked his way. Black smoke and gangly limbs and talons weaved in the air. Then unnaturally large dark eyes began to take form and glared at him devilishly.

A Valg.

Demons that existed for more than three millennia. Parasites that fed on the lives of mortals and somehow survived through all those years on that.