Page 33 of The Hidden Fae Prince
Four goldwood trees mark the corners of the dueling grounds. Spindle trots off to chase tidingbirds while Nevander and Valerian break their weapons from the trees.
They salute without words, then begin circling.
The branch is lighter than Nevander’s sword, and tiny leaves and buds sprout from its length. Part of the challenge is adjusting to the new weapon’s shape. Magic flows, alive, controlled, his veins like leylines. Packed earth whispers beneath his boots. He feels every eddy of air through his light clothing.
Valerian’s branch weaves between dawn’s first sunbeams. The evasive movements give away as little as Nevander’s stillness.
“I miss sparring with Yarrow,” Valerian comments. “He was never this tediously patient.”
“I don’t find winning tedious,” Nevander counters, and Valerian’s laughter creates an opportunity.
They clash. Slim branches collide, leaves shaking, yet their cores remain like steel, imbued with each fae’s innate magic. Body, spirit, and weapon align in harmony, long practice become instinct.
Nevander ducks, aiming under Valerian’s guard. But Valerian anticipates him, and Nevander pivots away before he loses the advantage. Tiny leaves swirl in their wake.
He’ll have to teach Seren this. No, Seren needs a proper teacher. Primrose would be best, if she agrees—she’s used to guiding students with different perspectives. Nevander will have to ask her.
Valerian darts forward, and Nevander is slow to react. He’s still thinking about Seren as he meets Valerian’s branch, and his concentration falters.
Nevander’s branch bends, splintering white beneath the golden bark. The fracture ricochets, felt in his spirit, even if the sound wasn’t obvious.
“Congratulations to the victor,” Valerian says, saluting himself.
Nevander withdraws his magic from the weapon. “Well struck.”
“Not well enough.” Valerian collects Nevander’s branch. “That shouldn’t have worked.”
“Perhaps I’ve grown kind.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
Valerian returns both branches to the nearest tree. Wood fibers weave together, grafting the branches in place. Nevander’s branch straightens with a faint snap, and moments later, every sign of splintering is gone.
Nevander can’t erase his error so easily. Valerian’s right. He should have won that bout. Instead of focusing himself, Nevander has proven his faults.
Valerian stretches. “I wouldn’t call you relaxed, but I’ve made a valiant effort. Now tell me. Why did you summon mebeforeHaelwen died?”
The unspoken accusation is surprising, but fair. “I didn’t know of her death in advance,” Nevander says.
“That’s good.”
“I had located Prince Seren in the human realm.”
Valerian hisses through his teeth. “That’s not good. What were you thinking? If Haelwen finds out… Right.”
Spindle prances up to sit at Valerian’s feet, like she’s on guard.
Nevander has plenty of excuses. Haelwen had been weakening, and bringing her heir back was politically wise. Teaching Seren the ways of their kind was necessary too. But for the sake of their old friendship, Nevander gives Valerian the real truth. “I found an opportunity to ease my vow. I was too selfish to resist.”
Few know of Nevander’s situation. Valerian is one of them. They’ve grown apart over the past few decades, but Valerian’s face still softens. “Being selfish might do you good.”
“Regardless,” Nevander says briskly. “Two days ago, an augray attacked Seren. In Prima.”
Any softness vanishes from Valerian. “That’s troubling.”
At his feet, Spindle’s ears pin back.
“You know Midnight’s creatures better than I,” Nevander says. “Could it have been there by chance?”
