THE SOVEREIGN'S DRAFT

Chapter 4: A Very Unhelpful Guide

The stew tasted divine—rich, savory, and carrying a hint of wild mountain thyme that warmed Aelin to her toes.

She scraped the bottom of the wooden bowl with her spoon, wiping her mouth with the back of her sleeve before setting the dish onto the heavy oak table.

Across the rustic room, Elowen was standing near a low bookshelf, running a long, calloused finger over the spine of a leather-bound tome.

The firelight flickered across his sharp cheekbones, casting deep shadows over his broad shoulders.

He hadn't said a word in twenty minutes, his silence as heavy and solid as the stone hearth.

Aelin cleared her throat loudly.

"So. Are we going to talk about the elephant in the room? Or, more accurately, the dimensional portal in the woods?"

Elowen didn't turn around immediately. He closed the book with a soft, dusty thud and placed it carefully back on the shelf.

When he finally turned to face her, his silver eyes were piercing, assessing her with a cool intensity that made her breath catch.

"You have no mana," he said flatly.

It wasn't a question. It was a cold, objective diagnosis.

"Excuse me?" Aelin blinked.

"I have plenty of mana. I mean—well, no, I don't. But you don't have to say it like I'm missing a kidney."

"Every creature in Eloria, from the grandest dragon to the smallest blade of glass-grass, possesses a pulse of ether," Elowen explained, taking slow, deliberate steps toward her.

He stopped a few feet from her chair, looming over her with an aura of quiet authority that felt entirely too grand for a humble woodcarver.

"Even a common farmer can light a candle with a spark from their thumb or mend a torn leaf. But you..." He reached out, hovering his palm an inch above her bare forearm.

Aelin felt a strange, static prickle along her skin, but no light appeared, no flame ignited, no magical spark flared.

"You are completely hollow," Elowen concluded softly.

"A void. You are an outlander from a realm where the ether does not flow."

"I am a bestselling romance author," Aelin corrected defensively, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Or, well... I was moving in that direction before my publisher threatened to drop me. And back home, we don't need magic. We have wifi, plumbing, and air conditioning. Can your magic play a video of a cat falling off a couch in high definition? I don't think so."

Elowen stared at her, his dark eyebrows knitting together in profound confusion.

"Wifi? High definition?"

"Never mind," she sighed, slumping back into the chair.

"The point is, I'm stuck here. The shiny tear in the sky closed up right after I tumbled through it. I don't have magic, I don't have weapons, and my phone is currently a very expensive paperweight. How do I get back?"

Elowen turned his head slightly toward the curtained window, his jaw tightening.

Aelin caught the briefest flicker of something dark and ancient passing through his silver eyes—a weight far too heavy for a simple village lumberjack.

In truth, Elowen knew precisely what had opened that tear. It was a rift caused by dark, unstable ether—the sinister blood-magic his stepbrother, Isolde, had been experimenting with in secret deep beneath the capital city.

The fact that a mortal girl had been dragged through it was a catastrophic anomaly. If Isolde or his shadow knights discovered an power-less outlander living in the realm, they would capture her, drain her, or worse, turn her into a subject for their dark experiments.

As the covert King of Eloria, Elowen could easily destroy any threat that crossed his path. But doing so openly in this peaceful village would blow his cover entirely, signaling to Isolde that the true ruler of the realm was hiding in plain sight.

He needed to protect her. But he couldn't play bodyguard twenty-four hours a day without raising her suspicions—or drawing the eyes of Isolde’s spies.

"You cannot go back right now," Elowen said, his voice smooth and neutral.

"Cross-realm rifts are unstable. Forcing one open without a balance of high-tier ether would tear your physical body to shreds."

Aelin paled.

"To shreds? Like... confetti?"

"Like confetti," Elowen confirmed smoothly.

"Which means you must stay here until the dimensional currents align again. But Eloria is not safe for a mortal with zero instincts and zero power. You survived a Bramble-Maw by throwing a book at it. The next beast will not be so polite."

"Hey! That book has 300 pages of unedited character arc! It's heavy!"

Elowen ignored her outburst. He reached into the inner pocket of his dark leather vest and pulled out a small, ornate wooden box carved with glowing silver runes. He set it on the center of the table between them.

"Since I cannot babysit you while I work the timber," Elowen said, resting his hand on the box,

"I am entrusting you with a guardian."

Aelin leaned forward, resting her chin in her hands.

"What is it? A magical amulet? A enchanted dagger? A scroll of invisible shielding?"

Elowen flipped the brass latch.

"Something far more volatile."

The lid of the box popped open. A blinding cloud of sparkling gold and pink dust erupted into the air, accompanied by a sharp, high-pitched sneeze that sounded like a squeaking rubber duck.

"Achoo! Ugh! Great stars above, Elowen, do you ever dust in here?!"

Aelin gasped, leaning back so fast she nearly tipped her chair over.

Hovering in the air before them was a tiny, perfectly formed humanoid creature no larger than a teacup.

She had translucent, iridescent wings like a dragon-fly that fluttered at a dizzying speed, glowing golden hair styled in a messy topknot, and a tiny crimson dress made from what looked like velvet flower petals.

"A... a fairy," Aelin whispered, her eyes wide with shock.

"A literal, tiny fairy."

The creature zipped through the air, stopping mere inches from Aelin's nose. She crossed her tiny arms over her chest, tapping a microscopic foot against the empty air, narrowing her glowing violet eyes.

"Who are you calling tiny, you oversized, scentless lump of clay?!" the fairy squeaked angrily, her voice carrying a surprisingly sharp, haughty resonance. She turned toward Elowen, resting her hands on her hips.

"Elowen! What is the meaning of this? Why have you summoned me from my afternoon nap in the sun-crystal room? And why does this creature smell like synthetic berries and industrial grease?"

"Feyre, meet Aelin," Elowen said, his tone entirely dry and unimpressed by the fairy's dramatic entrance.

"Aelin, this is Feyre. She is a high-ranking sprite of the Sun-Glade."

"Former high-ranking sprite!" Feyre corrected dramatically, striking a heroic pose in mid-air.

"Until certain royal obligations required my absolute secrecy!"

Elowen shot Feyre a sharp, warning glare—a quiet, lethal command that made the tiny sprite instantly clear her throat and adjust her petal dress.

"Right! As I was saying," Feyre coughed softly. "I am a elite guardian spirit! A terror of the twilight woods!"

"She's a pest," Elowen corrected calmly.

"But her warding magic is fast, and her screeching can deafen a shadow-hound at twenty paces."

"I do NOT screech!" Feyre gasped, horrified.

"I sing war-cries!"

Aelin stared between the stoic lumberjack and the furious, glowing six-inch sprite.

"You gave me a fairy? What is she going to do if another giant plant attacks me? Scold it to death?"

Feyre turned her tiny head, glaring daggers at Aelin.

"Listen here, modern lump! I possess high-grade illusion magic! I can blind a beast, project protective shields, and sense dark ether from three miles away! I am a majestic asset!" Feyre zipped closer, sniffing the air around Aelin's hair.

"However... protecting a completely useless, power-less mortal sounds extremely exhausting. My services do not come cheap."

Aelin blinked.

"Cheap? What do you want, gold? Ancient jewels?"

Feyre hovered down, landing gracefully on the edge of Aelin's wooden stew bowl. She looked up at Aelin with an expression of intense, unyielding seriousness.

"Baked goods," Feyre demanded sternly.

"Pastries. Sugar. Those soft, warm round things with the sweet white glaze you mortals make. If I am to save your life, I require three sweet treats a day. Freshly baked."

Aelin stared at the tiny creature.

"You want... cinnamon rolls?"

Feyre’s eyes lit up with an unholy, shimmering gold glow.

"What is a... cin-na-mon roll?"

"It’s a baked pastry filled with butter, cinnamon, and melted sugar," Aelin explained, a slow smile spreading across her lips.

Feyre let out a tiny, dramatic gasp, clasping her hands together.

"Deal! The contract is sealed! I am your eternal sworn protector, writer-woman! Fail to deliver the sugar rolls, and I shall allow a swamp-goblin to nibble your toes!"

Elowen leaned back against the hearth, resting his arms across his broad chest. A subtle, nearly imperceptible trace of a smile hovered at the corner of his lips as he watched Aelin negotiate with the tiny sprite.

"Feyre will stay with you," Elowen said softly.

"She will keep you hidden from the wild beasts, and she will alert you if danger approaches."

"And what will you be doing, Mr. Woodcutter?" Aelin asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Back to chopping trees?"

"Precisely," Elowen replied smoothly, picking up his iron axe from beside the door.

"Trees do not talk back. Nor do they demand cinnamon rolls."

With a final, lingering look at Aelin—a gaze that felt far too deep for a simple goodbye—he opened the cottage door and stepped out into the twilight, leaving Aelin alone with her new, outrageously demanding guardian.