“Stay back,” the fae orders, and rushes at the creature. His wings tuck in, vanishing between one blink and the next. The holes in his armor seal in an instant, like the wings were never there.
Snarling, the creature meets his charge.
Seren forces himself backwards one step at a time. Terror remains out of grasp. He should run while they’re occupied, because whoever wins this encounter is just as dangerous. Fae are the villains of ancient stories. They ensnare humans in their tricks and traps, for fates worse than being devoured by a giant cat.
Yet Seren can’t tear his eyes from the clash. The fae moves as quickly as the shadowed creature, and his blade paints golden arcs in the air. They crash, claws scraping against armor.
The creature keens in an eerie echo. It leaps away in a spray of black blood. Wounded in the chest, it rocks back on its haunches.
Before the creature pounces, heat surrounds Seren, and shining green fills his vision. The fae is suddenly so close, Seren can smell the white floral scent of him. The scales of his armor are shaped like leaves.
“I would reconsider, augray,” the fae warns. His blade rests steady between Seren and the foe.
Ears pinned, the creature seems to understand the fae’s warning. It snarls, and a cold wind whips through Seren’s clothes. Shadows coalesce into anarrow archway behind the creature. Like a tear in a canvas wall, revealing pure darkness outside.
Wrongness ripples with the wind.
The creature darts through the archway, which vanishes. The wrongness passes, leaving only Seren and the golden-haired fae on the forest trail.
Seren stumbles back, cold and dizzy. The movement jostles his shoulder, and the pain is a welcome shock back to reality. He sorely needs the anchor.
The fae’s sword shimmers, disappears, then reappears in its ornate scabbard. He turns to face Seren.
Fae are real, of course. Not superstition like the gods. But fae are real in the same way the fox spirits of Chiyo’s homeland are real, or the elephants and griffons in the bestiaries that actually sell. They’re from history books and legends. They don’t belong here and now, in the woods outside Wymond.
Yet this fae is unmistakably here, and he’s the most beautiful man Seren’s ever seen. Maybe eight inches taller than Seren, as if he needs the height to be intimidating. Golden hair falls in waves to his waist, braided back at the temples to keep it from his face. Which means every feature is terribly clear. His jaw and cheekbones are slightly too sharp to be human. Like a blade given life. When sunlight crosses at just the right angle, his tanned skin glitters.
The fae looks like summer, except for his icy composure.
“You’re hurt,” the fae says, voice low and intense.
Seren touches his shoulder on reflex. Gods. This fae chased off the creature, but that doesn’t mean he’s Seren’s friend. “Leave me alone.”
The fae’s expression doesn’t change. “Fortunately, I’m not bound to obey your orders. Sit down.”
“Please.” Seren can be meek and harmless. Quiet. Not worth tormenting. “I don’t want any trouble. Just leave.”
“After I see to your injuries,” the fae says sternly, and then he’s very close again, easing Seren to a seat.
Seren’s courage has limits. As does his strength. Woozy with blood loss, he allows himself to be propped against a tree. His shoulder screams with every slight movement.
“Just don’t do anything strange to me,” Seren mumbles, voice fading. “Please.”
“You shouldn’t beg.” The fae unbuckles his gauntlets and tucks them—somewhere. They vanish from his grasp. “My name is Nevander. What should I call you?”
Nevander’s eyes are teal pools reflecting sunlight. There’s something off about him. Seren can’t figure out what.
“Seren,” he answers, before dazedly remembering he should think before answering a fae’s question. Which stories are true, and which are false? “You had wings.”
“I still do,” Nevander says, pulling aside Seren’s torn shirt. “They’re just hidden for now.”
Nevander hisses between his teeth, and Seren braces for new danger before realizing Nevander’s just reacting to the sight of his shoulder. Seren can’t see it well himself. Just a blur of blood and torn flesh.
It fucking hurts. He needs sutures and bandages, and Nevander doesn’t seem to have any supplies.
“My satchel,” Seren gasps. “Use my spare shirt as a bandage, until I can get back to Wymond.”
“You’ll need the shirt.” Nevander gently touches Seren’s sternum. “Is this the only bite?”
