A brief separation. Not a safe one. Primrose intends the best for Summer, and that goal only mostly overlaps with Nevander’s. Her haven is too expansive, taking a life of its own.
“We should go,” Seren says, muffled against Nevander’s chest. “There’s a trial for each realm.”
The subtle warmth of his words outweighs the frozen wind. Now isn’t the time for comfort. Nevander unlocks reluctant limbs and steps back. “Which realm did you start in?”
A flush colors Seren’s cheeks. A scabbing cut glitters dark above his brow, but his gaze is bright and breathtaking. “Spring. We’re going backwards.”
“The door is copper,” Nevander agrees, then catches Seren’s confusion. “It’s a symbol of Loria. Summer gold, Autumn copper, Winter silver, and Spring irium.”
Seren wrinkles his nose. “So, I should have expected the blizzard.”
He reaches for the door, then hesitates.
Nevander’s sword leaps to his right hand. With his left, he reaches for Seren. “If there’s danger, stay behind me.”
Seren grabs Nevander back, and his other hand flattens against the copper runes. “Are all havens like this?”
“Definitely not.”
“Good,” Seren says, and pushes.
The door vanishes in a blaze of orange. The icy wasteland shatters into color—the glorious bloom of life, dreaming before slumber. Deep russet crowns the court of trees, and a carpet of dried leaves whispers underfoot.
Above the radiant forest, the false sky is fragile.
“What’s wrong?” Seren asks, hand slipping away.
Nevander barely keeps himself from pinning Seren in place. He must have lost control of his emotions—but no, his shield remains. Seren is just insightful, even without magic.
“The color sets my teeth on edge,” Nevander admits. “Creatures too long from their home realms go sick or mad. Most autumn trees I’ve seen have been dangerous.”
Seren examines the forest suspiciously. “Thetreesgo mad?”
A deep voice dances between rustling branches.Once, passage between the realms was common,Primrose says.Roads through Elsewhere remained solid, without even a lord to tend them.
A squirrel flits to a nearby branch at eye level. Bright orange paws clasp the copper tree bark. Its mouth doesn’t move, but the voice clearly originates there.
Fae wandered most during the thresholds between seasons, Primrose continues.As Summer’s ascendancy waned, the beasts of Autumn would visit as heralds.
There’s something unsettling about the deep bear’s voice coming from a tiny squirrel.
“Has she been doing this the whole time?” Nevander asks.
“She was a log, too,” Seren says absently—fully engrossed in Primrose’s words.
Nevander finds the history lesson less important than the cuts lacing Seren’s arms. Before he can suggest tending them, Seren starts walking down the path. “We need to find the door.”
Sword in hand, still wary of the red trees, Nevander follows.
Primrose’s tiny avatar darts from branch to branch above them.Nearly a thousand years ago, Spring was first to vanish. No longer did Telain’s ambassadors sing in other courts. The irium doors opened only to darkness.
Seren listens, pale, rapt. The Vanishing is ancient history. Nevander never felt the loss until he saw it in Seren’s face.
A realm. A home. Wrenched away, dead or gone.
Nevander can’t imagine losing so much. Losing one person was painful enough.
The Courts of Elladar and Loria blamed Karsiel. Surely Winter benefited most, hoarding the flow of power instead of sending it on.
