The wind never wondered how a being so innocent—half-human, half-creature—could be born from hate. It had happened so often over the centuries that the wind didn’t wonder about it at all.
He had large, velvet-soft brown eyes. Soft brown hair as fluffy as the white wisps on the end of a cattail. A quick, ready smile, and a heart as tender and fragile as the first shaking steps of a newborn fawn. The girl loved him, but that had never been enough to make the wind care.
The innocent one was more of a curiosity. How could a being so innocent survive in Hell Gate? He was like an injured fawn limping through a den of ravenous, rabid wolves. How long could his fragile light shine in the deep, deep dark?
Not long, the wind thought. But here he was, still as fawn-like and trembling as the day he was born.
The innocent one flinched when his back hit the wall, and his fingers curled into the bone-dry mortar between the bricks. He dragged in a sharp, gasping breath, and sweat slicked down his skin.
The wind bounced over his drumming pulse and rode on his fear-soaked heartbeat. His forearms bulged and twisted, and the tendons in his arms snapped. Claws pierced the skin of his fingertips, his father’s form racing to the surface and fighting to break free.
There was blood on the innocent one. The wind hadn’t noticed the faint copper smell over the stench of the alley. But there it was. Cuts covered his arms, his hands. Long, thin slices cut across his back, his legs, his face, even the bottoms of his feet.
How?
Why?
The wind shrieked and shoved at the man stalking the innocent one. Even with a powerful gust, the man kept coming. He twisted his hand, and a blue fire sword appeared in his grip. It lit the dark, and blue shadows flew over the dark alley.
“Please,” the innocent one whispered. Tears pooled at the edges of his eyes, and the wind tasted the cosmic salt of them.
What would the boy do if he were here? Would he protect the innocent one? Or would he stand with the conjurer?
The wind didn’t know.
It watched.
It listened.
It collected secrets.
It didn’t want to interfere.
It only wanted the boy.
What would the boy do?
And what would the girl do? Why wasn’t she here to protect the innocent one from the terrible, stalking solange-eyed one? She should be here to protect him.
The wind hadn’t seen the solange-eyed one since he dove into the pool in the underworld and emerged again in a column of fire, promising death to the conjurers. Was this what death and a crown created? This twisted, cruel, rage-filled creature?
He smelled of wrath; bitter and acrid. He smelled broken and wrong. His left eye was the mossy green of a rain-soaked forest. His right eye was the navy silver of a cosmic storm.
The wind shoved at him, and the man braced his feet and snarled at the innocent one.
The wind shivered at the cold wrath bunching the man’s muscles and twisting his bones. What was this dark thing?
“Please,” the innocent one whispered. “I only . . . I only came to ask. Mari. I came for Mari. You have to help her. I know you . . . care . . .” He swallowed, shaking, stumbling over his words. “Her light. It’s gone. Please. Help her.”
The deep salt of tears swept down the innocent one’s face. They pooled at the edge of his mouth and fell away as his lips trembled. The solange-eyed one stalked closer. They stood a breath apart.
The wind moaned. The innocent one would not come out of this alley alive. Did he know? Could he see his death in the glow of the solange-eyed one’s cruel gaze?
The wind stroked the innocent one’s cheek. Compassion was a human thing. It came in small measure, and in great. The humans with the most compassion were those who had known both immense suffering and immense love. Had the wind known those? Had it?
It ran gently over the innocent one’s tears. Stupid human. Stupid being. Had he left Hell Gate seeking help for the girl? Did he think he’d find it here? Had he sought the solange-eyed one hoping for help and found torment and blood instead?
“Please. Help her. She needs help.”
