Yet there’s no shame in Nevander’s conviction. Of course. He traveled to Wymond to fetch the crown prince Calithel, not an angsting village boy.
Nevander says the right words, but Seren yearns to crack open his shields and read his darkest thoughts. Thorns of jealousy twist deeper—jealousy of his own birth name. His own role in Nevander’s heart.
Across the clearing, the dancing lights retreat into the evening. The pixies have grown bored of the demonstration.
“Do you still think of me as Calithel?” Seren asks.
Nevander’s gaze probes like a sword. “No. You aren’t the prince I imagined.” His voice softens. “You’re far better.”
Seren wants very badly to believe that. “If you keep flattering me, I’ll suspect you have ulterior motives.”
“Doesn’t everyone?” Nevander mirrors Seren’s deflection. Approaching, he traces the length of Seren’s practice blade. “When I first learned, I swung plain wooden swords for months. But let’s try something more exciting. Can you focus on your essence?”
Seren closes his eyes for a moment, tapping into the well of magic Primrose showed him. “Yes.”
“Focus on yourself, and on the branch.” A gentle touch warms Seren’s clenched fingers, even through Nevander’s gloves. “Its purpose as a weapon. Your desire to strike. What is a sword?”
“It’s a weapon,” Seren says hesitantly. Then more boldly, because he trusts Nevander not to berate him for getting this wrong. “It’s sharp. It harms, and it protects.”
“Sharpen your magic. Braid a thread of power into the essence of the sword.”
Even as Nevander retreats, his words and touch linger. Seren doesn’t know if this will work, but Nevander instructs with such confidence. Following his directions feels natural. Seren feeds a tendril of magic into the branch, remembering the easy flow of Nevander’s blade. Connection. Purpose. The sword is magic, and the magic is Seren, and Seren is the sword.
His eyes snap open. He doesn’t remember closing them. But the branch now shimmers iridescent whenever he blinks.
Nevander raises his own branch. “Strike again.”
Seren darts forward. The sliver of magic connects. Nevander’s branch splinters.
Seren drops his own branch, the connection broken. “Oh, gods. Spirits. It worked!” He scrambles to retrieve his weapon. “If it’s supposed to do that, anyway.”
Nevander passes a hand over his branch, and the splinters re-knit beneath his touch. “A fae’s strength of magic is more important than the material of their weapon. Lady Morana once won a duel while wielding a catkin.”
Nevander’s emotions are still shielded tight, but joy glimmers in his face. He’s genuinely thrilled, and that amplifies Seren’s own swirling emotions. Happiness. Gratitude. Nevander didn’t have to do any of this. The trip to Spiritwood. The sword lesson. The pixies.
“I’m sorry,” Nevander says, a shadow in his voice.
Seren wags his branch like a scolding finger. “You’re the one who said not to apologize. Whatever’s the matter now?”
Nevander nudges the waving branch aside. “You look so… light. It makes me realize how unhappy you’ve been.”
Seren takes in the silvery trees, the slanting sunlight. “I’m happy right now. Thank you for that.”
“You’re welcome, always.” Nevander taps his cheek. “You have pixie dust on your face.”
Seren scrubs with his sleeve. “Did I get it?”
“Not at all. Let me…”
Then Nevander is right there, touching Seren’s face, and neither of them can breathe. Nevander’s gloved thumb slides over Seren’s cheekbone. Metaphors of enchantment fail him. There’s only the visceral drag of leather against skin. The flicker of Nevander’s gaze to Seren’s lips.
Seren opens his empathy by flustered instinct, desperate for some clue to the next five seconds. Whether this tension is accidental or impossibly intentional.
Surely Nevander isn’t about to kiss him. However much Seren wants him to.
Seren’s empathy crashes against the smooth stone of Nevander’s heart. Other notes sing out. Mischief from the pixie swarm. Patience from the great silver tree. Predatory excitement. Blood and shadow pounding, eager for the hunt.
With a gasp, Seren swings around. “Something’s wrong.”