Page 13 of The Hidden Fae Prince
“Why are you here?” Seren asks instead of answering. He closes the door—which reminds him of another unmooring fact. “Howare you here? We hang iron above the threshold.”
Nevander gleams even more beautifully in the enclosed space. Like his radiance has nowhere to bleed out, so it swirls around the whitewashed walls, layering upon itself.
“There is no iron above the threshold,” Nevander says. “Merely copper painted black.”
“Copper?” Seren repeats stupidly. “Why?”
That isn’t possible. There’s no reason for Alard to hammer fake iron over the door. It’s not like copper is cheaper. The stories must be wrong. If fae aren’t afraid of iron, then perhaps they can lie as well.
Nevander frowns faintly, the first show of emotion since Seren entered. Displeasure. Anger. But Seren can’t tell who the anger is for.
“I’ve wondered how I should do this,” Nevander says. “Perhaps I shouldn’t be the one to explain. Yet I must, else this is simply an abduction.”
Fear chills Seren’s stupid curiosity. New plan: keep the scary fae warrior happy, then run.
“I would appreciate an explanation,” Seren says, edging towards the door. He pastes on his most earnest smile, the one that helps make him likeable.
His plan hits a problem. Seren doesn’t know how to make someone happy without emotional guidance.
“Their names are Edith and Alard, yes?” Nevander asks.
Seren can’t hide his defensive reflex. “Stay away from them.”
“I’m not here to harm them,” Nevander says, his very reassurance voicing a threat. “No doubt the iron is fake because Edith and Alard suspect the truth. You aren’t one of them. You’re one of us.”
Absurd. Impossible. Yet the intensity of Nevander’s eyes stifles Seren’s protest. Nevander believes this fantasy with devastating conviction.
“Why do you think that?” Seren asks, his voice distant.
“Fae can’t lie,” Nevander says. “Can you?”
Of course Seren can lie. But that protest too sticks in his throat. His breath quickens. “Lying is wrong. That’s why it’s difficult.”
“Humans find it far too easy.” Nevander moves to Seren’s bookshelf. His knuckles rap the wood. “If you were human, you could lie to me now. Tell me this shelf is made of gold.”
Seren remains silent, stomach twisting. Just like every time he tries to lie.
Nevander gestures to the window and the dark, clear sky. “Tell me the season is winter, and Wymond sits buried in snowdrifts.”
“Please,” Seren whispers. “Stop this.”
Nevander’s voice softens. “Tell me you’re happy in this human village. That no part of you yearns for the place you belong.”
Seren’s breath hitches. He waits for the next impossible demand, but this time, Nevander waits for him.
A thousand past strangenesses swarm around him. Every time he failed to lie for his own good. Every time he felt dizzy crossing an iron-warded threshold. His hated, impossible empathy.
The yearning.
Seren clenches his fists. “The shelf is made of wood. The season is summer. And I’ve never belonged anywhere.”
“You belong in Elladar,” Nevander says. Again, that damned certainty.
Seren can’t imagine what such confidence feels like. “Then why am I here?”
“If you’ll listen, I’ll explain.”
Seren would know if he were fae. He would feel different. Except he doesn’t know how other humans feel. Even if he doesn’t believe Nevander… “I’ll listen,” Seren says, moving to the window. Leaving the door feels like surrender, but Seren needs the comfort of fresh air.
