And this third soul… whose would it be?
What makes us different from the others? Andwhy?
Yet another mystery that’s going to require space in my head.
“It seems when I escaped Opaltide in favor of Ollora, I shortened the distance between my own knots,” Raevi says, giving me a saddened smile.
Opaltide?
The capital city of a human-dominated country where faearen’twelcome.
“What were you doing in Opaltide?” I lend the question voice before I can stop myself.
“For the last two decades, I served the royal family of Strayus,” she answers, turning her eyes to her lap where her hands clench one of the ruffled edges of her black uniform skirt. “Too hated to let free, too useful to kill.”
Her head snaps up, her jaw tight, revealing silver-rimmed eyes. Sucking in a deep breath, she lifts a hand and curls some of her blond hair behind her ear.
Confused, I shake my head.
I’ve made the poor creature cry.
And I don’t understand how.
“If I’ve done something, said something—”
I stop myself short as she lets her hand fall, uncovering gnarled and curled flesh where apointedfae earshould be. Faint scarring, fully healed, stands stark against her warm olive skin, tracing the edge of aroundedear like lightning strikes.
The scars aren’t new.
Nor were they accidental.
Raevi,a fae, wasmutilatedby humans to appearhuman.
A fae’s pointed ears are their most identifiable trait. Intricate scents, sharpened facial features, typical whimsicality aside, pointed ears have become the de facto means in differentiating between species.
And her—her ears wereclipped.
They tried tocarveaway her identity.
Everything I know about Raevi falls into place.
From the way she wears her hair—parted and braided just so—her soft-spoken demeanor, to her reserved and skittish tendencies… It’s all designed to enable her to blend into the background, regardless of her surroundings.
She doesn’t want to be noticed.
Especially not byroyalty.
She’s found ease in surviving by becoming forgettable. And why not? This world has proven time and time again it’s willing to mutilate those who stand out—inherently or otherwise.
And because I’m a fool of a demon with a ridiculous, feeling heart, I remain silent, else I fight rage-induced tears of my own. She keeps a firm grip upon the silver lining her eyes. Not a single tear falls—not even as she pulls her hair over her ear, hiding away her truth once more.
I try to speak. “I hope you realize—Ryc would never—I would never—”
Her quiet, bubbling laughter floats between us.
I’ve never heard her laugh.
Nor have I ever heard such a sad sound.
