Sword of Ice (A Throne of Glass Fanfiction)

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The iron plate tucked within hidden pocket of Rowan Whitethorn's armory thrummed with an omen, beckoning for darkness.

Rowan has been feeling it for quite some time now. The prickling heat of metal seeping through his skin, the building darkness surrounding him as he remained a part of the rubble and ruins, staying within the shadows of dilapidated structures and alcoves. It didn't feel anything like the trails of the Valgs, but the warning was there.

The plate wasn't his. And the witch who owned it was dead. There's no way it would return to the rightful hands. Unless this was again another witch concocted plan--to taunt him and let it land on his hands and make him suffer the consequences of having the iron in his possession.

The witch certainly knew better than the rest of them.

Night has befallen the whole city, blanketing the sky with another form of darkness, more calming and soothing as specks of stars glistened above. But tonight they glistened dimmer than ever, knowing very much what happened here and mourning for it.

Fenrys and Farah have left to fend for themselves. Gods knew where they've gone, but they certainly couldn't stand each other enough to stay together. Fenrys most likely would've returned to the palace, his rightful place forever around Maeve's tracks. He was the white wolf who trailed behind her unwillingly, following her as far as her bedroom. Again, Rowan tried to shrug off the thoughts regarding that. And failed. For as much as it immensely bothered Fenrys, it was a reminder that they were bound to serve Maeve for the rest of their immortal existence. And how long that existence was.

There were no news of Gavriel since he last headed for his army, and Lorcan who was wandering somewhere across the continent. But they would've heard the news by now. If Maeve summoned them for it, Rowan didn't know.

He didn't particularly care if Maeve was already calling for his presence. Right now, he wanted to be alone. But the palace was a monumental sight to behold. It towered over the city, boulders of pale stone shining and rivers flowing around it.

From the distance, he could see the two elegant stone bridges spanning the river. They were still holding intact, refusing to collapse. They were made of stones after all. And it made Rowan pondered if Maeve made stones the foundation of the city, knowing that Doranelle would always be subjected to constant attacks, and that the stones were the only material that could take the brunt of war more than any other.

Valgs were susceptible to fire. And since the city needed to blow fire up whenever they created a foray, it needed the structures to be built of stones.

Doranelle could be blazing and sinking to flames, but it would never be completely turned into embers.

Protection. Maeve was protecting them all.

As she always did. As she never failed to do.

Rowan made his way to cross the bridges. The winding streets leading to both crossing were half-dilapidated, a small maze that was once a place for musicians and dancing and vendors selling hot food and drinks. Tonight, it was all empty and silent.

"You used to bring me here."

He couldn't bare to look at her. "Lyria, I can't take this anymore. You're just messing with my head." A sigh. "I don't want to think of what might've been because it's pointless. And I don't want to keep holding on to you because it doesn't change anything." Rowan turned to look at her. "You're gone."