Despite the modifications, the seat is less comfortable today. Seren could get used to the fine silk clothes, the blue of his hair, even the faint glimmer of his fingernails. But the more he learns, the less he knows. The surrounding murals aren’t just beautiful landscapes. They’re portraits of lost realms.
And Seren doesn’t want to hide from that discomfort. He wants to chase it.
“Send him in,” Seren says.
Idalia opens the door without looking to Nevander for confirmation. Seren takes that as a victory.
Lord Gevain doesn’t glitter as much today, and his hair is neatly braided instead of flowing loose. He’s flanked by a woman in simple trousers and a falcon-emblazoned tunic. Her nut-brown hair wouldn’t look out of place in Wymond, though her green eyes have that fae brightness.
Both fae stop to bow halfway down the hall.
Seren loosens his empathy, just a bit. Nothing from Gevain. Nervous resentment from the woman. Not towards Seren, but towards Gevain and herself.
Gevain and the woman remain bowing. Right. Seren is supposed to speak. “Welcome, Lord Gevain. And who is this?”
Gevain straightens first, then the woman. “Allow me to introduce my attendant, Daffodil. Unfortunately, she cannot speak.”
Daffodil’s resentment flares.
“Can you hear us?” Seren asks to confirm.
Gevain pats her shoulder, smiling. “I can fix that, if you prefer a private audience.”
He says it like a joke, but Seren can’t bring himself to laugh. Something is missing, lost in Daffodil’s silence.
“Nevander said you asked for an audience,” Seren says, reining in his empathy. “Conveniently, I wanted to speak with you as well.”
Gevain places a hand over his heart. “I am grateful, considering how well-guarded you are.” His gaze drifts deliberately to Nevander. “How may I be of service?”
Seren doesn’t miss the insinuation that Nevander is too controlling—but he doesn’t care. “Your father’s domain borders the nightlands. Tell me about Lord Midnight, from your perspective.”
“I’ve only met him once, two centuries ago.” Gevain waves a casual hand, as if speaking of a mere two weeks. “My hunting party strayed near the border. Some might say past the border. Some might say I had done so before, in the arrogance of youth.”
Seren, at twenty-one years old, can’t imagine being so reckless. “What happened?”
“I expected augrays or night fae to chase us off. Instead, Lord Midnight himself appeared from the shadows.” Gevain’s voice lowers with a bard’s storytelling intonation. “He promised to cut my head off if I took another step forward.”
“How merciful,” Nevander comments, which Seren would take as sarcasm, except for Gevain’s serious nod.
“I was grateful for the chance to step backward.” Gevain’s hands drop. “His power… I have only felt such a presence from Queen Haelwen herself.”
The statement hangs like clouds promising rain. The comparison highlights not only Midnight’s power, but Seren’s fledgeling weakness.
Gevain breaks the silence with a theatrical sigh. “Lord Midnight was also incredibly handsome. Those pitch-black wings… like wrought iron. Beautiful and deadly.”
Seren hadn’t found Midnight—vision or reality—that attractive. He’s more drawn to security. Attention. Sunlight. Nevander’s eyebrows lift, and Seren yanks away from his inadvertent staring.
“I’ve heard Elladar fae are forbidden from entering the nightlands, and the reverse,” Seren says. “How strict is this?”
He isn’t satisfied with his latest reading. Official information is one thing. The forbidden nightlands shift between twilight and darkness, never morning. The region is home to monsters, murderers, and mad remnants of other realms. But where Seren comes from, borders are always more permeable than nobility would like. Plenty of villagers hunt in the local lord’s forest.
“Dread Lord Midnight made an exception in threatening me,” Gevain says. “Either due to my station, my dashing good looks, or his own inscrutable purposes. The decree against entering the nightlands came from Queen Haelwen. Lord Midnight is happy for Elladar fae to enter his domain. He just doesn’t let them leave.”
Seren tenses, despite a lifetime knowing that vulnerability is weakness. “Is he in the habit of keeping prisoners?”
Gevain softens with painful sympathy. “I’ve heard no word of Prince Zavriel or Prince Briar since their abductions.”
Seren focuses on Gevain’s pointed ear, the one not obscured by hanging braids. Gevain knew Seren’s brothers—as did Nevander. Possibly Daffodil too, standing as mute witness.
