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October 20 - October 22, 2025
“Elspeth Spindle,” he said quietly, his eyes—so strange and yellow—ensnaring me. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
But his soul carried on, buried deep in Elspeth Spindle, the only woman Ravyn had ever loved.
“Balance,” she answered, head tilting like a bird of prey. “To right terrible wrongs. To free Blunder from the Rowans.” Her yellow eyes narrowed, wicked and absolute. “To collect his due.”
Elm’s smile did not touch his eyes. He rolled his shoulder, and Ravyn’s hand fell. Because you’ve never been turned by a beautiful woman, have you, Captain?
“The dark bird has three heads,” Emory said, his voice strangled, an invisible rope around his neck. “Highwayman, Destrier, and another. One of age, of birthright. Tell me, Ravyn Yew, after your long walk in my wood—do you finally know your name?”
Above rowan and yew, the elm tree stands tall. It waits along borders, a sentry at call. Quiet and guarded and windblown and marred, its bark whispers stories of a boy-Prince once scarred. His voice in Ravyn’s mind went eerily soft. And so, Ravyn Yew, your Elm I won’t touch. His life strays beyond my ravenous clutch. For a kicked pup grows teeth, and teeth sink to bone. I will need him, one day, when I harvest the throne.
“Neither Rowan nor Yew, but somewhere between. A pale tree in winter, neither red, gold, nor green. Black hides the bloodstain, forever his mark. Alone in the castle, Prince of the dark.”
You, traitorous thing, who have never truly ceded authority. Liar, thief—immune to the Chalice and Scythe—you know nothing of losing control.” His lips twisted, snarl letting to a smile. “But you will.
“You have a wonderful mouth.” He tapped the Chalice three times, severing its hold. “And now, it’s all mine.”
“Surely you didn’t think it was sheep I shepherded.”
“You think very highly of yourself, Hawthorn, if you imagine all my comings and goings concern you.” A noise hummed in her throat. “Maybe not your goings.”
“I’m tied to a post with a grating headache and the dimmest Yews in five centuries,” the Nightmare muttered. “Never been better.”
Ravyn leaned close to Gorse’s mottling face. “Be wary, Destrier,” he ground out. “Be clever. Be good.” Then, with a final, brutal push— He crushed Gorse’s windpipe.
“The Gallivanting Heir—I like it. Add it to the title.”
Ione looked down at him, eyes narrowing. “I’ll only be in the way.” “Right where I like you.
“If there are marks upon me, it is because your son put them there.”
Elm didn’t believe the Spirit of the Wood took note of the fleeting lives of men. But if she did, he swore she’d mapped his future in the twisted rings of the trees. That she’d designed his every failure, his every fear, to get to this moment.
“Are you with me, brother?” Something inside of Ravyn shattered. “I’m right behind you.”
Elm smiled. “To the heir.”
“I know there is a warmth in you not even the Maiden can confine.
“I think, behind the Maiden, you love a great many things, Ione Hawthorn. Even this wretched kingdom.”
“I’d be your King, but always your servant. Never your keeper.”
He managed only one word. “Please.”
Yews do not break, came the Nightmare’s menacing rebuttal. They bend.
There were not enough pages in all the books Elm had read, in all the libraries he’d wandered, in all the notebooks he’d scrawled, that could measure—denote or describe—just how beautiful she was.
I can’t fucking breathe when you look at me, Ione.
forget Ravyn and Elspeth GIMME ALL THE IONE AND ELM
“I wish we could have had those hundred years, Hawthorn. I wish you could have been Queen.”
“Your name?” “You know it already.” Ravyn looked deep into the Nightmare’s eyes. “It’s yours, after all.”
“Elspeth says if you do not get up, she’ll never kiss you again.”
“You know how this goes, asshole. Be wary. Be clever. Be good.”
