Page 47 of The Hidden Fae Prince
Something flashes in the fallen leaves.
“Wait,” Nevander says, and plucks the fallen feather. A hand’s length, about the size of Nevander’s own flight feathers, but striped brown and cream. The barbs are crisp, freshly fallen.
Karsiel’s innocence was proven too late,Primrose says.Winter vanished next. Then Autumn.
“Why didn’t Summer vanish?” Seren asks, and the question cuts as sharp as the bare patch Nevander spots in the fallen leaves. The deep scratches on the tree trunk above. White slashes against copper bark.
Primrose hops to a lower branch.That knowledge died with the First Queen. She planned a great ritual to protect the realm. She let none of us help, and she perished in its working.
The echoes ring. An unknown ritual. A fallen queen.
Through her sacrifice, Summer remained.
“We’re getting close,” Seren says, tense. He’s noticed the feathers, leading them forward like a will-o’-the-wisp.
Once, power ebbed and flowed between the realms.The squirrel darts into a hollow tree, then reappears across the path.Now Summer stands alone, and that power has nowhere to travel.
“What does that mean?” Seren asks.
It must be used,Primrose says, and vanishes.
Another feather gleams on the ground. Nevander can guess what creature it belongs to, though he’s never seenone. He forces himself to guard against their surroundings, instead of fixing all his attention on his prince.
Seren crouches and almost touches the feather. “Am I related to her?”
Nevander imagines he’s starting to understand Seren. Cut off from his home for so long, the changeling prince grasps for the shape of Summer. He reaches for sharp edges and soft shadows, figuring out how he fits in.
“The First Queen had no children,” Nevander says. “After she fell, your grandfather claimed the Summer throne.”
“A thousand years ago,” Seren says. “Gods.”
Movement. Danger. A shift in the wind. Primrose has been quiet for too long. Nevander pulls Seren back. “Stay behind me.”
“What’s wrong?” Seren asks, before a griffon plunges from the trees.
Nevander braces to meet it. Talons clash into his blade, backed by tremendous weight. A great feathered head tilts, fixing Nevander with one copper eye. Muscles bunch in its neck. Nevander shoves, pouring energy into his blade, and manages to disengage before the massive beak slices his throat.
He keeps his back to Seren’s scrambling footsteps. The griffon stalks with him, watching intently.
An Autumn fable brought to life, the griffon is as tall at the shoulders as Primrose herself. Its taloned forelegs should be awkward on the ground, but it prowls with the grace of its leonine hindquarters.
The fallen leaves should be splattered with the griffon’s blood, but no injuries score its talons. The griffon’s magicalessence is too strong against Nevander’s blade—a disconcerting realization.
Not a true griffon. Just a figment of Primrose’s haven.
But figments can kill. And Seren still bears the scars of Nevander’s last failure. For a moment, an image of Wymond’s green woods overlays the haven.
“Run ahead,” Nevander says, without taking his eyes from the griffon. “Find the door.”
Seren’s breath is loud, and his fear carries on the crisp air. “I’m not leaving you.”
A king should be brave. Nevander wishes Seren weren’t. “I’ll follow,” Nevander promises—but has to add, “when I can.”
The griffon lunges on the caveat’s heels. No artful trickery like sparring with Valerian. This opponent rushes with pure power.
Leaves spray from skidding boots. Nevander drives gauntlet and hilt into the griffon’s throat, barely punching it away from his own. He wants to spread his own wings for mobility, but the trees crowd too close. His wings would just be another target for the griffon to shred.
Fury disrupts Nevander’s cold battle instincts. This phantom griffon is too fast. Too fierce. If Nevander wasn’t here, untrained Seren wouldn’t survive this fight. Either Primrose misjudged, or her haven is out of control.
