Then they’re still outdoors, but everything is different.
Sunlight and green shadows dance in balance. The sky beyond the treetops sings its welcome. The very air invites Seren to breathe in tandem with the forest. Seren’s eyes sting, adjusting to the brilliance. Elsewhere was new and strange, but this place isright.
Within Seren stirs something deeper than bone, warmer than blood. Lighter than joy.
Summer.
He stumbles forward. Nevander’s hand falls away, leaving Seren to absorb his surroundings. Around them is a garden of overgrown statues, nestled within a forest of the tallesttrees Seren’s ever seen. Flowering bushes break from their planters, their fragrance brightening the earthy air. Vines twist around benches. The nearest statue is a tall woman, carved of time-softened marble, wearing an overgrowth of white blossoms like a mantle.
Nevander stands taller, more vivid, the teal of his eyes reflecting the window of sky above. Framed by treetops. Echoing with birdsong. Everywhere Seren turns is a new wonder. Yet Nevander stares at Seren instead.
Seren touches his hair, self-conscious. Gods. His hair is blue. His mother is dead. And Seren is high on rustling leaves and dancing sunlight. He meets Nevander’s gaze, unsure how to speak.
Nevander looks away first. “It’s always like this.”
Seren’s heart thuds. “What is?”
Nevander lifts a hand, cupping a sunbeam in his gauntleted palm. “Coming home.”
Home. This should have been Seren’s home. He knows it with every frayed fiber of his being. The hurt is a shadow in this bright new world. Seren pushes it aside.
Nevander plucks a leather thong from nowhere and begins tying back his hair. “The palace wards don’t allow magical travel within the grounds, but this is close enough by air.”
Seren must have misheard. “By air?”
Wings appear behind Nevander. Pale green, feathered, so long they nearly brush the ground. “I’ll carry you.”
The courage that took Seren through the doorway wavers. “Can’t we walk?”
Nevander extends his hand. “It would be quite slow.”
“How can you even fly? Your bones aren’t hollow. You’re too heavy.” Seren stares at his own hand. What if fae bonesarehollow? Seren doesn’t feel any lighter, except perhaps he was always hollow and never realized—
“We aren’t birds.” Nevander’s face remains stern, but by some trick of the ear, he sounds amused. “Our flight is magic.”
“Oh. All right.” Seren places his hand in Nevander’s. He should be more afraid, but his mind is too full of everything else.
“Please forgive my presumption,” Nevander says.
That’s Seren’s only warning before Nevander scoops him up. One arm hooks behind Seren’s back, the other beneath his thighs. Seren gives an undignified squeak, clutching Nevander’s shoulders—then flinches when he accidentally touches the crest of a feathered wing. It’s so soft, warmer than Seren expected, but touching it is probably rude. Never mind that Nevander just grabbed him.
So they can fly.
Seren clutches Nevander tighter, rudeness be damned. His own shoulder twinges. “Please don’t drop me.”
“You can relax. I have you.” Nevander’s grip is steady, but humor lightens his voice. “Though if strangling me makes you feel better, that’s fine.”
Seren nearly lets go, stunned. “Was that a joke?”
Instead of answering, Nevander launches into the air.
Seren’s stomach drops with the jolting rush. His soul might drop out too—or his spirit, or magical essence. This isn’t the time for philosophical anatomy. Powerful wingbeats drive themskyward, and the trees blur. Seren buries his face in Nevander’s chest, all manners forgotten.
How absurd to survive the past few days’ turmoil, only to die immediately. At least the fright will kill him before he hits the ground. If people were meant to fly, they would have—
Wings. Gods’ fickle mercy.
Yet despite the heaving ascent, the hair whipping away from his face, Seren remains secure in Nevander’s arms.