Sword of Ice (A Throne of Glass Fanfiction)

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Rowan Whitethorn stepped on the filthy streets of Doranelle like a predator hunting for prey.

The market was inflating, stalls crowded with patrons jostling by. In the high heat, the air turned humid, curdled with sweat and dirt. The sound of clanking coins were already turning into a music of its own, with every thud hammering on Rowan's head with his fae senses. He would've hated the sound, would've grown to yell at the market to stop the trade. But surprisingly the fae was in good spirits after leaving that hellhole of a forest.

Nothing like a true reminder of home to the Prince of Nothing. That of course wasn't complete without the attention he never failed to draw.

Some of the merchants and patrons were already staring him from the moment he stepped into the chaos. He knew those gazes, knew how he seemed to make everyone stop dead with his presence. Even faes were afraid of him.

In awful attempt to draw attention away, Rowan lifted his hood, half-obscuring his tattooed face and striking emerald eyes. Passers-by were quick to look elsewhere.

Rowan walked deeper into the hearth of the market, occasionally stopping to eye a few trinkets and supplies. Most of it were of pocket knives and other useful tools other than swords and big armory.

He's aware he didn't need much. Not when he had raw magic of his own to defend himself. But it felt good sometimes to rely on a different method, more natural and mortal to add challenge to the battle field.

As if in response, Rowan looked down at his light armor. The vambraces. He needed to change them now with a more durable and resistant pair. The leather had peeled off from the fire, now loose around his arms. A few punches would completely destroy the whole thing off.

The merchant from the usual armory stall he was visiting was already waving from afar. Rowan stalked quietly, stopping to glance at the merchant before surveying the vambraces laid out. "You're doing well, Gallavan."

The middle aged merchant didn't look like he'd aged since then. Under his scruffy clothes, the tones were prominent, a product of serving as a soldier before settling to supply armory to other warriors. The only indication of his mortal heritage was the gray locks forming on his light brown hair.

"It's been awhile since I saw you last, Prince," Gallavan said, polishing a helmet. "What can I do for you?"

Rowan laid out his vambraced arms. They looked horrendous. "I need a new pair. More durable and resistant to fire."

"You want them leather still?"

"Yes."

Gallavan set down the helmet, an eyebrow arching. "You never told me why. If you need them more durable and fireproof, a metal pair would do."

"Too protected." Rowan shrugged off blandly. "A metal pair won't make you feel the punch when you throw it. Neither would it make you feel the damage."

It was true. It would've been a shame if some centuries old fae warrior like him would resort to heavy armory to shield himself from the onslaught of pain. Maeve certainly didn't train him to be a bastard fae who cowered from a few flames. Besides it felt satisfying most of the time to feel the physical brunt of war on his skin.

Gallavan rummaged through his supplies, then found another leather pair almost similar to what the prince was already wearing. The merchant handed the vambraces to him. "Leather from the west," Gallavan explained while Rowan examined the armor. "The best of its kind and exclusively made for the best warriors in that region. Fireproof and can last a decade of rough battling. Both have retractable blades underneath. Only a few pairs like that one are available now. It's a rare collectible."