But I knew he saw exactly what I did. I knew what that sound was—
The final sound of his heart breaking.
Turns out, pixies love welcoming strangers. Thank the gods for us, because Ford had no patience, and decided that striding into their camp unannounced was the proper way to go.
He vowed he hadn’t thrown up a shield, but I could have sworn his skin shimmered spectral against their firelight.
That’s just my natural aura,he’d claimed, smug as Elva’s damn cat.
Killian corrected him with a single punch to the arm. The shield fractured, then fell away, provingmeright.
That was over an hour ago. Ford was still recovering.
The camp itself glowed with a kind of enchantment. Their fire burned untended, dancing like a living thing. Cups refilled themselves with golden honey-wine. Music rose and fell, not entirely from pipes or flutes, but from the glassy leaves swaying in the cover above.
Beside me, Wells shifted, his fingers picking at the skin around his nails, his foot tapping restless against the ground.
“We’re fine.” I nudged him with my shoulder. “See? No swords, no spears, no one out for blood.”
He forced a laugh. “Yeah. Fine.”
But his glare darted, never settling. And when his fingers rubbed at his nose, coming away streaked red, my chest hollowed.
He caught my stare, quickly wiping it against his sleeve. No one else noticed. No one else could know.
The pixies didn’t believe in leaders. At least, not openly.
They danced, drank, laughed as though no hierarchy bound them. But even in places without crowns, there was always someone they turned to without needing to say it out loud.
Here, that was Maerin.
She appeared, slipping through the press of her people. Her ivory hair glowed, streaks of shadow peeking through where her burgundy shawl rested on her shoulders.
She stopped before Wells, her eyes misted white and searching his face, holding decades, maybe centuries, of life. But it was recognition that swirled in them, sharp, then soft.
She reached for his hand, curling her weathered fingers around his trembling ones. “The end matters less than the mark you leave along the way,” she said, voice low like the wind.
Wells froze, the words setting into him. His lip trembled, but he nodded. And for the first time all morning, he was still. He didn’t catch the weight in her tone. Didn’t see the sorrow in her gaze—
But I did.
“We’ve seen no heir,” she admitted. “Nor have any Brightwalkers passed through here.”
Her tone was certain, and I believed her. If the Brights had come here, there would have been nothing left.
No firelight or laughter.
She offered us our own tent, a place to rest if we needed. From the outside, it looked ordinary, barely wide enough to hold two people lying shoulder to shoulder. But when I lifted the flap and stepped inside, I stumbled back.
The space unfolded into something grand, a chamber large enough to hold twenty with ease. Trays of fruit were spread on a wooden table with dates, cheeses, warm loaves of bread, steam still rising from their crusts. The air fragrant and rich with honey and spice.
Rugs sprawled across the floor in a riot of color, each one woven with patterns so intricate they seemed to move if you stared long enough.
Above, a stained-glass orb hung low, catching light from a slit in the tent’s ceiling. When the faint sun broke through the clouds, it scattered the walls in dancing colors.
I drifted to a table where a collection of mugs waited, brimming with a familiar liquid. I raised one to my nose, the sharp fragrance of ripe berries fizzling in the air.
Ronan entered the tent behind me, his frame immediately filling the space. He mirrored my motion, sniffling the drink, his brow arching toward mine as one by one, everyone else filed in.
