The wind carries Primrose’s answer clearly. Not from an object or animal this time—simply a voice perched on Seren’s shoulder.Your Lord Guardian proved most insistent.Her amusement is too warm for the blizzard.He waits at the next door.
Snow lashes Seren’s face. He wipes the moisture from his brow before it freezes, yet it isn’t the cold that shakes him.
He hadn’t thought Nevander would follow. He’s too used to being alone, even in a crowd of emotions.
The only emotions in this snowy wasteland are Seren’s own. He shouldn’t indulge in them, especially the desperate relief. Nevander may be here, but Seren still has to find the door.
Everywhere looks the same. The only place Seren knows the door isn’t is right here. So, he hugs himself tight and trudges forward.
Primrose’s voice follows, continuing the lesson.The fae realms were fully wild until the First Queen harnessed the magic of Summer. She crowned herself and brought balance to the realm, softening its wildness with care and consequences.
Seren squints against the wind. Maybe the other way—put the wind to his back—
The First Queen founded Elladar, the Court of Summer, and the realm and its people flourished. Others followed her example, until each fae realm had a court, and each court had a monarch.
Everywhere Seren turns, the wind lashes his face. No true wind would chase with such focus. Seren can’t escape it, and that realization comes with grim relief. Lean into the wind. Press forward. The harsher the cold, the closer he is.
You have glimpsed Telain,Primrose says.You walk now through a shadow of Karsiel.
The flower crown rests heavily in his frosted hair. Maybe it’s already blown away, and Seren only feels a phantom weight. “Next is Autumn, right?” Seren asks through chattering teeth.
Loria,Primrose answers, and the wind claws harder, until Seren has to close his eyes.You’ve reached the door.
Moving each heavy limb takes so much concentration, Seren must have misheard her. Yet he stumbles, falling to one knee, in a biting absence of pressure. Nothing shoves him back. Seren rubs his eyes with numb fingers.
Thirty feet away stands a gleaming copper door. Beside it waits a tall figure, clad in gray and gold leather. Lights dance around his hands.
“Already?” Seren asks, shoving to his feet. “That was too easy.”
Primrose’s answer echoes with wistful sadness.The trick was walking into the wind. It seems that comes easily for you.
At their voices, the gray-clad figure whips around. Seren’s vision blurs, and the next moment, he’s surrounded by solid warmth. A strong body blocks the wind, and gauntleted hands clasp his face.
“Are you all right?” Nevander asks, low and urgent and here. “You’re so cold.”
Angry. Not at Seren.
“Are your eyes blue or green?” Seren asks, dizzy.
The question seems important. Nevander’s eyes are so impossibly bright. But instead, Nevander grasps Seren’s hands. “You’re hurt.”
Seren regrets that Primrose taught him to control his empathy. That Nevander’s own control is so perfect. Seren would have liked to feel this anger.
“I’m fine,” Seren says, which means it’s true. He laughs, giddy. “I really am fine.”
“You’d better be,” Nevander growls, and hugs him close.
Hopefully the wind is loud enough to cover Seren’s squeak.
16
The Trees Go Mad
NevanderclutchesSerentootightly, his mind stunned blank. Thin, blood-stained arms press between them. Frost silvers the crown of flowers, tracing wet outlines beneath Nevander’s chin. Seren must be dazed, asking nonsense questions about Nevander’s eyes. New worries weave from blood, snow, the hoarseness of Seren’s voice.
Yet the relief is most troubling of all. Nevander has become so quickly, so arrogantly accustomed to Seren’s presence. As if the past twenty-one years could be so easily painted over.
This brief separation proves the depths of Nevander’s scars.
