Page 69 of The Hidden Fae Prince
But Seren is here and now, all the more beautiful with wonder in his eyes.
“That’s enough,” Nevander says, brushing a trio of pixies from Seren’s hand.
“Isn’t he rude?” the pixie accuses, and his brethren take up the echo.
Seren inspects his fingers. “Does this dust do anything?”
“Besides getting everywhere?” Nevander lifts Seren’s hand for inspection. “It’s harmless on its own but can be used for enchantments.”
He blows the dust from Seren’s hand, careful to avoid his face. Seren’s fingers tighten, and his cheeks seem to flush pink. That must be from the pixie light.
The alternative flows like wine through Nevander’s veins. He needs something, anything to do besides drowning in the gold of Seren’s eyes.
“Yarrow and I used to spar here,” Nevander says, ignoring the pixies. “Would you like to learn swordplay?”
Seren’s face is still pink. “All right.”
Moments later, Nevander realizes his mistake. This lesson will be disastrous for his composure.
22
Clear as the Stars
Serenmightnothaveagreed had he thought it through. He’d imagined whacking a sword at a straw dummy, like village children pretending to be heroes. There aren’t any straw dummies in this clearing, but surely Nevander could have conjured one.
Instead, Seren holds a thin branch, stripped with permission from a nearby tree, as Nevander circles him. The pixies chatter from the remaining tree boughs, watching with unflattering interest.
“A bit lower,” Nevander says thoughtfully. His touch above Seren’s elbow is professional, guiding Seren into position. “Relax your arm more.”
Difficult when Nevander’s breath brushes Seren’s hair. “Like this?”
“Try shrugging your shoulders up,” Nevander says, touching the crest of Seren’s spine. “Tense up intentionally—like your wings are lifting.”
Much easier directions to follow. Seren draws himself up until his shoulders nearly touch his ears, hyper aware of Nevander’s attention. Far more distracting than the pixies’ commentary.
“Nowrelax,” Nevander says.
Seren’s breath rushes out as he slumps.
“Perfect.” Nevander picks up his own branch, like a natural extension of his arm. “Strike my weapon.”
“How?” Seren asks, adjusting his grip.
“Any way you like. Just get used to the feeling.”
Seren adjusts again, then lunges forward. He tries to move like he remembers Nevander darting at the augray. Quick, powerful. Self-consciousness stiffens his movements. His branch strikes Nevander’s with a clumsy thud, and scrapes as he draws back.
The pixies cheer with muddled questions.
“That was good,” Nevander says—even though he can’t lie. “One more time. Slower.”
Seren shakes the tension from his arm and repeats the movement. Nevander’s branch still doesn’t shake, and Seren is still clumsy. But the praise must be getting to Seren’s head. He doesn’t feel as hopeless.
“Soon I’ll be able to defeat a stationary enemy,” Seren says, shaking his arm again. “Especially if they advise me on every swing.”
Nevander lowers his branch. His blue-green eyes glitter like pixie dust. “Soon is relative. Eventually, I believe you’ll be able to defeat any enemy that dares walk this realm.”
Nevander’s words resonate like an incantation. The idea isn’t as impossible as Seren might have thought even a week ago. Nor as frightening. Seren lived years as an unwanted replacement. To have power in his own right is shamefully appealing.
