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"I don't think so," she said coolly. "Feraal was much smaller. And I have seen his underside. He did not have...dangling bits."

Silence before a hesitant voice probed her mind. 'Right here.'

She spun in a slow circle. "Where?"

'Here.'

Her gaze snapped back to the man on the floor.

He winced. "Fae."

Her breath hitched as the room tilted for a second before righting itself.

"What have you done with Feraal?" she growled.

"I have done nothing to him," he growled back " I am him!"

She pressed a hand to her heart, which seemed to be trying to beat its way out of her chest. "All right. All right. Don't…don't move."

She yanked the sheet free and tossed it at him without looking. "Wrap. That. Around. Yourself."

He tried and failed. Nearly fell over again. He had the coordination of a two-year-old. Even holding the sheet seemed to be a challenge.

With great restraint and her eyes fixed firmly on a point at the centre of his forehead, she stepped forward and helped. Her fingers accidentally brushed against something entirely too warm and entirely too soft.

"Sorry," she muttered, mortified.

"It's"—he swallowed—"fine."

They achieved coverage at last.

Fae retreated like she'd survived a battle.

"What," she said faintly, "is going on?"

He opened his mouth, closed it again, then let out a shaky breath. He then clenched and unclenched his hand, watching with fascination as if seeing it for the first time.

"Yes," he said finally. "But…may I have something to drink first?"

"Oh. Yes. Of course."

She crossed the room quickly, knelt beside the low stand, and lifted the lid from the covered earthen pot by the bed. A cool, faintly mineral scent rose from it. She poured carefully, hands steadier now that they had a task, and brought the cup back.

He accepted it with both hands.

The first swallow was slow. The second deeper. On the third, some of the tension left his shoulders, as though the simple act of drinking was a pleasure to be treasured.

"That tasted…so good," he said, almost to himself.

Fae glanced up.

"I haven't tasted anything in so long," he continued on a whimsical note.

Fae used the time to take him in. His skin was pale—not sickly, but bloodless, as if sunlight had been denied for years, leaving it smooth and almost luminous in the dim. There was a faint translucence to it, as if light caught on bone and tendon.

He was tall, long-limbed, built with sinew instead of bulk. Where her kinsmen were broad and powerful, made for battle, he was graceful—all narrow hips, lean muscle, and broad shoulders.

Dark hair fell loose around his face, thick and unruly, brushing his jaw and curling at his nape as though it had never known a blade. It softened the sharpness of his scruffy features without dulling them—high cheekbones, a straight nose, a mouth shaped by pain.