Page 14 of The Hidden Fae Prince
Nevander steps back as if to give Seren space, heedless of how his presence fills the room. “Twenty-one yearsand several months ago, you were born in the Court of Elladar. Your mother is Queen Haelwen, she named you Calithel.”
Seren’s window overlooks the backyard. Alard’s woodshed. Edith’s herb garden. The fence Seren tottered across as a child, practicing balance, falling over and over. Nevander’s words are preposterous. Seren isn’t a queen’s son. His parents are—
Disoriented, Seren grips the windowsill to keep upright. If he isn’t human, Alard and Edith aren’t his parents.
“Elladar is beautiful, but treacherous,” Nevander continues. “Your brothers were taken by an enemy of the realm. Fearing for your safety, Queen Haelwen invoked the changeling spell.”
Seren’s breath shallows. Brothers—he has brothers. Except he can’t even process that. He’s heard plenty of changeling stories around festival campfires. Parents warn their children to be home for dinner, or they’ll be switched with fae spawn.
Edith and Alard never tell those stories. They never talk about the fae at all.
“What does the changeling spell entail?” Seren asks, going cold. Maybe it’s not as horrific as the stories say.
“Every creature’s spirit has a connection to their birth realm,” Nevander says. “Traveling briefly between realms is possible, but if I stayed a year in Prima, I would begin to sicken. So would anyone without something binding them to the new realm.”
“What is the changeling spell?” Seren demands. He doesn’t need context; he just needs to know what happened.
“Her Majesty bound you to the human realm with a trade.” Nevander pauses, as if controlling himself. “She took a human child and left you disguised in his place.”
Seren sways, vision blurring with anguish. With years of loathing.
With pity.
Nevander draws nearer. “Calithel, are you—”
“Don’t!” Seren throws up a hand, backing into the windowsill. He’s no match for the fae, but Nevander still stops. “Don’t call me that.”
He isn’t Calithel. He’s Seren. A stolen name, bound too painfully to his soul to untangle.
Seren used to imagine he had other parents. Maybe a lord and lady lost him during a bandit attack. They would recognize him years later as their fine carriage trundled through Wymond. They never stopped looking for him. Or his parents were the bandits, and they left Seren in Wymond for a safer life. The bandits would come to find him when the authorities stopped hunting them. However many years later.
Seren invented plenty of parents who loved him. But he never dreamed of another stolen child. A gaping wound that could only scar into loathing.
“Where is he?” Seren asked, sick. “Their real child?”
A rare clear emotion flashes in Nevander’s eyes. Surprise. “Tansy was raised in Elladar. He’s safe and happy, to understate the matter.”
Gods. No wonder they loathe him.
Nevander turns towards the door. A moment later, footsteps rattle the stairs.
“Leaving without confrontation would be easiest,” Nevander says, lowering his voice. “Gather your things, and I’ll explain the rest on the journey.”
Seren covers his mouth, as if the sound of his breathing will give him away. He’s not ready to make a decision. This is too much. He still doesn’t want to believe it.
A light knock shakes the door. “Seren?” Alard calls out. “Is someone in there with you?” Annoyance seeps through like spilled oil.
Seren swallows down his answer. The truth, because he can’t lie. Instead, he lifts his chin and asks the fae, “If I go with you, will their real son return?”
“Yes,” Nevander says.
Alard knocks again. “Open up!”
Decision firms Seren’s resolve. He’s still terrified, but that’s not important. He snags his satchel from under the bed—still packed for what he imagined as an entirely different escape.
“Then let’s go,” Seren said, swinging it over his shoulder.
Nevander bows his head. “Yes, Your Highness.”
