“Why did you take Arwyn to the village?”

Zeph had been waiting patiently in Favián’s bedchamber for hours while everyone else had been eating supper and doing whatever it was they did before retiring for the night. He had heard Favián’s footsteps approaching and had barely waited for him to close the door, sealing them both in the darkened room, before asking the question. A smile danced on Zeph’s lips when he heard Favián’s startled breath.

“Wh-where are you? I cannot see a bloody thing.”

“Afraid of the dark? My apologies.” Zeph called back his shadow, vanishing like wisps of vapor. Zeph had wanted total darkness when Favián entered his own bedchamber, just to be a trite dramatic. Pale moonlight trickled in through the window, a long strand of silver glistened and scattered in a pearly hue. “Better?”

“What do you want, Zeph?”

Favián remained by the door, his posture stiff, untrusting. Zeph observed him closely as he stepped out of the corner and into the silvery beam, allowing Favián to see him for the first time, his white hair hanging loosely around his face.

“I want you to answer my question. Why did you take Arwyn to the village today? Are you trying to harm her?”

“No!” Favián said, stepping forward. “I wanted to take her away from here for a while.”

“She’s not your concern.”

“Is she yours?”

“Yes.”

“Does she know that?”

“Stay away from her.”

“No.”

Zeph’s mouth twisted, his eyes narrowed. “Stay away from her.”

Favián lifted his chin. “If I don’t?”

“Are you trying to provoke me?” Zeph was behind Favián in a blink, one arm banded around his throat. “Very well, I’ll oblige.”

But if Zeph had planned for a surprise attack, Favián had been prepared for it. In another blink, Zeph was flat on his back with Favián standing over him.

Bloody hell.

Zeph grabbed Favián’s ankle and brought him down. Hard. A struggle for dominance ensued. A table was shattered. A lantern as well. Fortunately, Zeph had chosen not to light it.

Through pants and grunts, Favián hissed, “I’m not going to take her away from you! But I’m not going to stay away from her either.”

“What do you want from her?” Zeph demanded, pulling the churl up by the scruff of the neck and shoving him against the wall. Zeph held him there firmly, grinding Favián’s cheek against the pitted stone.

“What do you want from her? Do you even know?”

Zeph opened his mouth for a retort. Nothing came out. He tried again. Words he’d wanted to say somehow got lost between his brain and his mouth. He closed his eyes in frustration.

“You don’t know,” Favián said. “You have no idea what you want from her.”

“I want nothing from her,” Zeph grounded out.

“Liar. You are a miserable coward. You do want something from her.”

“Are you an oracle? Some sort of seer? You know nothing about me.”

“You see me as a threat.”

“I see everyone as a threat.”

“You hate me because I like her. Not because you think I’m out to harm her.”

“I hate you because I hate everyone.”

“And if you wanted to kill me you would have done so already.”

“I like taunting my victims before I go for the kill.”

Favián struggled to turn his head to eye Zeph. “Is that so? That is not so much a good strategy.”

Zeph tilted his head. “Oh? And why is—”

Zeph’s words were bit off when Favián did some odd footwork, tucking his boot around Zeph’s, causing Zeph to lunge forward while Favián ducked beneath him, coiling around his body like a deadly viper, and somehow maneuvering his way behind him until they had switched positions.

Favián shoved Zeph’s cheek into the stone wall and said, “Because you allow your opponent time to outwit you.”

“I could still kill you.”

“With magic, sí. Of course I am no match. But you have yet to use magic on me. I’d like to know why that is.”

Zeph thought about using magic now. He grounded his teeth together so hard, he nearly tasted dust. Ignoring Favián’s question, Zeph said acerbically, “If something had happened to her, make no mistake, I would rip you apart, limb from limb, and feed you to the wolves. Nothing, nothing, would stop me from killing you.”

“Make no mistake,” Favián said soberly, releasing his hold on Zeph. “I would cut my own vein before I would allow harm to come to Arwyn.”

They eyed each other with speculation, their chests rising and falling from exertion.

“Why did you take her to the village?” Zeph asked again.

“I wanted to help her.” He spread his arms out. “She’s shut in this place. When does she ever get to go anywhere? Do anything fun?”

“Maybe next time a poisoned arrow will strike her heart! Did you think of that when you took her on an adventure?”

Favián inhaled deeply, walked to his bed, and sat like a lump of lead. He scrubbed his hands over his face, and then rested his forearms on his knees. “I was sure I could protect her. I wouldn’t have let her go otherwise.”

“What makes you think you could protect her? You are a human. The hound that attacked us was from Faery, which means it possessed magical powers you do not own. I fail to see your logic.”

For the first time, Zeph saw remorse when Favián’s eyes lifted to his. “You are right. I wasn’t using logic. I see your point.”

Hell’s bells. Zeph wasn’t expecting Favián to capitulate. He massaged his jaw and moved toward the window and stared out. His spark of anger had dampened, leaving behind only smoldering ashes and a faint scent of sweat.

“I only wanted to help her,” Favián murmured. “You didn’t see her face. The way she cried—”

“Why was she crying?” Zeph asked in a whip-like fashion. Then, because Favián did not answer quickly enough, he asked again, this time louder, “Why was she crying?”

Favián spoke slowly, each word emphasized with a kind of uniformity that made them stand out against his normally clipped, furious pace. “She was missing her family. She spoke to me of her brothers.”

Zeph nodded. He turned his gaze back out the window. He appeared almost somber, like an important statue in a formal setting, but inside his heart cracked, a fissure running the length of him, and any minute he could shatter right where he stood. Arwyn had never spoken to him of her sorrows. Never. Not once. And Zeph realized he was jealous of Favián, even though he knew very well that Zeph had never given Arwyn any reason to come to him with her sorrows.

“She thinks of me as a brother.”

Zeph’s head swung in Favián’s direction. “Beg pardon?”

A tiny grin pulled at the churl’s lips. “I thought that might get your attention. She told me she thinks of me as a brother. Although you can go on being sulky and bitter if you like. You certainly have that mastered, though jealousy looks very odd on you, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Zeph opened his mouth for a blistering retort, but once again, what he wanted to say lost its way to his mouth. When he did find his words, his voice sounded curiously strangled, with gaps between his sentences. His feelings and thoughts, words and phrases, all battled inside of him, getting in one another’s way, coming out in stuttered syllables. Favián looked on as though he was mildly entertained.

“What?” Zeph spat the word out like an orange seed.

“I have no idea what you just said.”

Zeph’s tongue finally stilled. The two men stared at the other, mute as gargoyles. The gray night shimmered through the window, casting just enough light that Zeph could not miss the rather annoying superior look on Favián’s face.

Zeph’s fangs itched to drop.

“She doesn’t fancy me,” Favián said. “Much to my disappointment.”

Zeph smiled like a condescending relative. “Pity.”

Favián smiled back, though his was secretive. “You love her.”

This time Zeph chose silence. He certainly didn’t trust his mouth to cooperate. Though he had to say something. He couldn’t allow that sentence to stand—to let it permeate the air. Words held power. They held meaning. He had to say something to diffuse them.

“I don’t. I—can’t.”

“You already do, compadre. Whether you want to or not…whether you can or can’t…” Favián shrugged. “It does not matter. Because you already do.”

Favián broke off a piece of bread, chewing it slowly while looking around the refectory. The faces of the monks were long, their expressions brittle. Favián looked down into his bowl of unsavory oats and forced himself to take a bite. He wasn’t hungry, or rather he just couldn’t stomach the unpleasantness of his surroundings. No one was speaking, everyone moving about in a haze. Favián felt as though he was on an island unto himself, sitting alone, eating his meal in solitude, even though men sat on either side and across from him. One fellow bumped his elbow. He mumbled an apology. Favián acknowledged with a nod. He didn’t bother using words. He could sense when someone didn’t want to converse, and none of these men, most assuredly, wanted to converse.

Favián forced himself to finish his oats and his bread and left the table. He took care of his own bowl, cleaning it himself, and placed it back where he’d found it. Then, he left the kitchens and breathed a full breath of air once he was outside the door.

He had risen before sunrise, unable to sleep, dressed in a woolen tunic belted at the waist, and slipped on a pair of woolen breeches. He put on his cowl, laced up his boots, and left the sanctuary of his chamber. He had been roaming around ever since. He had thought repast with the monks would have been an occasion to become acquainted with one another. It had been the first real opportunity since his arrival to do so, but their energy had been unwelcoming. Or perhaps, that may be a bit unfair to say. However, their energy had most certainly not been inviting.

He did ask Xavier at one point if his presence offended them, and Xavier had assured him it did not. They were all just dealing with Zeph being among them as best they could and, for now, they needed a bit of time to…deal with the situation.

Favián had not bothered with idle conversation after that, trying to put himself in their place as best as he could, and he let them be.

When he exited the refectory, he ambled back the way of his cell and was nearly there when he heard voices. He smiled. He liked these voices. They were friendly and pleasant, and he was just about to round the corner to say his greetings when he heard the friendly lilt strain into something else—something pleading.

“I want to make you my wife, Elin.”

Favián froze mid-step, careful not to alert Elin and Lochlan to his presence.

“Are we to have children?”

“What?”

“Zeph would be their uncle. I am not turning my back on him. Are we to have children, Lochlan? And if so, how do you feel about Zeph being in their life?”

“Bugger me,” Lochlan mumbled.

“See?” Elin said. “You need to think this through. I know you love me. I know you do. But—”

“I don’t need to think this through! I know what I want. I want you!”

“Lower your voice,” Elin whispered.

“Elin,” Lochlan entreated. “Do you want me to beg? I’ll beg. Do you want me down on one knee?”

Favián heard scuffling.

“Lochlan, what are you doing?”

“I’m on bended knee.”

“I want you to be sure,” Elin said gently. “I don’t want you to wake up one morning regretting having ever married me. I want you to be certain that you want me for the rest of your days. And no one else. What? Why are smiling?”

“Are you finished?”

“Oh, hush,” she said with false haughtiness. “I just want—”

“I am sure. I am absolutely, positively certain that you are the woman I want for the rest of my days and no one else.”

Favián’s lips tilted upward into a smile. He knew he shouldn’t have stayed and listened to their private conversation. His tío would give him a good scolding if he knew he was eavesdropping. But he had to hear Elin say yes. He had to. He leaned forward, his ears straining to hear.

“What are you doing?” a female voice asked from behind him, causing Favián to jump.

“Shh,” he said, clamping his hand down over Arwyn’s mouth and whispering, “Lochlan is proposing to Elin.”

Arwyn’s eyes widened and Favián released his hand from her mouth, still feeling the warmth of her breath on the palm of his hand.

“Has she said yes?”

Favián shook his head. “Not yet.”

“I’m on my knees, Elin.” Lochlan’s voice had grown over-rough. Arwyn gripped Favián’s hand. Their gazes locked. “Marry me. Be my wife. I don’t care who your brother is. We’ll figure it out—together. He could be Satan himself and that would not stop me from marrying you. Say yes. Please.”

Arwyn and Favián pressed themselves flat against the wall and waited with bated breath for Elin’s answer.

“What are you two doing?”

Favián’s hand shot out in hasty, jerky gestures before sealing it over Searly’s mouth. “Be quiet,” he mouthed. Slowly, he withdrew his hand. Searly’s eyes widened under the brim of thick brows. “Lochlan just proposed to Elin,” Favián explained quietly.

His tío’s face split with joy. Now, three bodies pressed flat against the wall.

“I’m in love with you,” Elin said softly. “That is the only thing that remains constant. Of course I’ll marry you.”

“Oh, thank Heavens!” Searly shouted, extracting himself from their hiding place and rounding the corner to where Lochlan and Elin stood. The both of them stared at him with matching startled expressions.

Favián held still, letting his breath out slowly, shutting his eyes in relief. Arwyn wrapped her arms around him and he couldn’t help the blessed feeling of contentment in that moment.

“Finally, something to celebrate,” Searly announced. “It has been too long. You two, come out and wish our newly betrothed couple congratulations.”

Arwyn and Favián exchanged glances before stepping around the corner, each holding equally guilty smiles. “Congratulations,” they said in unison.

“How long have you all been standing there?” Lochlan asked, his tone peremptory.

“Oh, I only just arrived, milord,” Searly said, looking the picture of innocence. “Those two were here long before me.”

Lochlan cast Favián and Arwyn a speaking glance. Favián’s head fell forward, guilt pinching his gut.

“My apologies,” Favián said with haste. “I-I did not mean to overhear. I was walking back to my chamber when I heard you and Elin and I-I did not want to interrupt and I-I…” Favián’s words trailed off as he rubbed nervously on the back of his neck. “My apologies,” he mumbled again.

“Well, I make no such apologies,” Arwyn chimed in, beaming ear to ear. She rushed to Elin’s side and hugged her. She then turned to Lochlan. “I know you don’t like to be touched, Lochlan. But may I?” Her arms were extended out to her sides wide in an open invitation, one she hoped he would accept.

Lochlan’s lean body went stiff as stone. Obvious to everyone, it was difficult for Lochlan to accept, but his long lashes swept upward to look Arwyn in the eye. “All right,” he said.

Arwyn bit back a smile and stepped forward. She embraced Lochlan gently. His arms swept around her waist like she would crumble beneath him. He barely held her, but she held on to him without fear. “Congratulations,” she said in his ear. “I couldn’t be happier for you. You deserve this. You both do.”

“Thank you,” Lochlan said, watching his newly betrothed walk over to Favián, who was still a bit reticent about eavesdropping, not knowing quite what to say.

“Don’t worry, Favián,” Elin said, “I’m not mad at you.” She lifted her hand, brushed her fingers gently against his left brow. “When did you get this scar?”

“I fell from a tree,” he answered, “when I was a little boy.”

A delicate smiled pulled at the corner of Elin’s mouth. “Your mother fussed over you incessantly when this happened, cleaned you up, and after, she made your favorite dish, and together you lay on a quilt by the fire and she told you stories late into the night until you fell asleep.”

“How did you know that?” Favián asked, instinct prompting him to capture her hand.

“I have the ability to see a person’s happiest memory. This is one of yours, though it is not the only one. You have many happy memories, Favián. You are one of the lucky ones.”

Favián couldn’t help feeling the tightness in his chest. He missed his mamá.

“Sí,” he said. “I suppose I am.”

“A celebration it is!” Searly declared with a clap of his hands and a gleam in his eye.

“When?” Lochlan asked.

Searly slapped a palm on Lochlan’s back. To Lochlan’s credit, he did not flinch. “Tonight, my friend. Tonight.”

Zeph stared at the two graves. The names on the wooden crosses were unfamiliar, yet he knew who they were.

His parents.

They had changed their names when they had fled Faery with his sister. He let his head fall against the bark of the tree. What a sad, twisted tale this was. Memories assaulted his vision: screams, pleas for mercy…

“Don’t do this, I beg you”

Those had been the words of his father. Zeph had grown too cold, too callous, for his father’s words to have any effect on him.

That was then. Looking back on it now, the look in his father’s eyes, the pain in his voice, filled his lungs with air that felt too thin to breathe.

He had knocked on their door, pretty as you please, relishing the looks on their faces when his parents recognized their long-lost boy had come knocking. Oh, it had been quite the spectacle. His father had been joyous—in the beginning, albeit paralyzed from the shock of seeing his son standing before him.

“Son, is it…really you?”

For the first time in so long, looking upon the face that resembled his own, the lost child longed to grab hold of his father and hold him tightly and tell him all the things that had happened to him. They hurt me, father. They hurt me so much.

But he had driven the child’s voice out of his head and out of his heart, and in its place, a malevolent smile had crept lazily over his lips instead. “So, you haven’t forgotten me after all,” Zeph intoned. “Neither have I forgotten you.”

Not waiting for an invitation to enter, he’d pushed past his father. His mother, still lost for words, eyed him with wonder or with sheer shock. He couldn’t be sure. He walked past her with a casual greeting, with no inflection in his tone. “Mother.”

He looked around at the modest home, a direct contrast to the home he had shared with them in Faery. He looked for anything familiar, a figurine, an heirloom, a portrait, something, when he spotted the drawstring pouch, the one with the stones. The ones he now kept with him at all times. He had slipped the pouch into his pocket, not taking time to analyze why at the time, just acting on a whim, taking something back that had once been his. It felt like he was taking back his life—one stone at a time, and everyone responsible for robbing him would be punished. Only he, at least, would kill them. If he truly wanted them to suffer, he would let them live…the way he had been living.

“You’re going to kill us,” his mother had said with a gasp.

Zeph had laughed. It was cold and chilling. He had never been very good at hiding anything from his mum. His mother always had the uncanny ability of reading his mind. Clairvoyant. He had forgotten that. “A fine greeting. No hello, son? No…how have you been?”

“I can see very well how you have been…what they have done to you.”

“As if you and he…” Zeph’s gaze snapped toward his father, who looked like he’d aged in the moments since he’d stepped back into their lives, “had nothing to do with how I turned out?”

He wanted to ask them why—why had they left him there? But the longer he waited, with them offering no explanations, the angrier he became. Why should he have to ask? Surely, he deserved answers without having to beg for them!

“You don’t understand,” his father had said, “they lied—”

“About what? That my family ran off and hid? I’d say that was accurate. You left one child behind, though. Speaking of children, where is my dear sister? Will she be along soon?”

Zeph had known exactly where Elin had been, but he was playing a game with his parents, and with Elin, and thinking on it now…

He drove his fist in the dirt.

The rest, he just couldn’t bring himself to recollect. He had refused to listen to anything they had tried to say. They were dead now because of him. Guilt was a monster of its own. It was a wall that trapped him, held him prisoner, too big to go around, too mountainous to climb over. It pressed upon him until he was crushed underneath the weight of it, stealing his air and taking his hope.

He hurled a rock he’d found beside him, lobbing it as far he as he could. He wanted to commit violence—against himself. Against the world…against…

A dark figure skirted past Zeph in his periphery, and even though his spine tingled with awareness that he was being watched, he remained still, controlled. He had spent his entire youth under watchful eyes. He had learned not to react, startled though he was. He had thought to be alone.

“Well,” he murmured, standing back up. “No time like the present to find me a bit of trouble.”

He eyed the markers of his parents one last time, his brows drawing tightly into a V. The words I’m sorry on his lips, but he didn’t utter them. Words wouldn’t bring them back. Nothing ever would.

“You love her,” Favián had said.

Love was not in Zeph’s future, and he would not trap Arwyn inside this prison with him.

He looked past the graves, where he’d seen the dark figure slip into a grove of trees. A shiver ran over his skin, a strange feeling in the air. A muscle flickered in his jaw as he steeled himself and marched toward it.

The only thing in his future was war.

It had been a trap.

Zeph knew it the moment he had set out to following the dark figure. Still, he went.

He went because he wanted a fight. He wanted a reason to draw blood. He wanted a reason to unleash the power that crawled underneath his skin since he’d awoken from his death nap. And now he had one. But somehow, he had gotten lost and he wasn’t quite sure where he was anymore.

Zeph looked to the left, and to the right. Majestic oak trees stood silent, casting shadows like black lace. Birches, with their slender, skeletal frames, arched like craggy old men. The evergreens were blackish-green silhouettes and the red maples looked more like burnt-out torches. The sky was neither light nor dark. Some flowers were in bloom, though most were not. Those that were, however, were muted, a faded lackluster assortment of nothing special. No vibrant hues of violets and pinks, reds and yellows. Just dark clusters, like each flower bore a sad name. And not the slightest breeze swept through Zeph’s hair.

He let his eyes roam, taking in what was once a beautiful forest, pulsing with a heartbeat. There was no heartbeat now. It lay dormant, taking not a single breath.

He swallowed thickly. This was wrong. This was very, very wrong. Sieves of mist covered the lichen-covered bark. Nothing stirred, nothing sang.

“Find me,” a small voice said.

Zeph spun around, his robe twisting around his feet. “Who said that?”

Something crunched to his left, a twig underneath a boot. Zeph twisted around again, finding nothing and no one but rolling fog. “Who’s there?”

Silence.

Then a scream. A child’s scream. Off in the distance.

Zeph ran toward it, his heart thumping a wild tattoo. A familiarity prickled at his senses. Running, chasing, falling, getting back up, and running again—this all seemed very familiar. He stole a glance over his shoulder, feeling like he was the one being hunted now.

Then he felt hands on his back, meaty fists hooking onto his clothes, and being jostled off his feet until he hit the wall of someone’s chest.

“Hold still.” The smell of burnt spices hung on the breath of his captor. Zeph thrashed about, trying to pull free, but it was like fighting against air. “Hold still,” his captor said again.

Zeph’s vision blurred and the scene flashed to something different. Unseelie stood around a fire, a wicked tempo of drumbeats sounding all around them. A boy, stripped of all clothing, save for a bag over his head, was being escorted to the middle of the circle. The boy fought against the shackles that bound his wrists and feet, but it was a useless endeavor. Unseelie laughed and sneered at his efforts.

The hand gripping Zeph’s neck tightened, holding him there, and Zeph realized this was the past. He had somehow stepped back in time, when he, himself, was a boy.

What was happening?

He looked down at his body. He was a boy again, wearing only a thin cloth covering the most private parts of him. Tears formed in his eyes like chipped glass.

He remembered this. Oh God, he remembered this.

One of the Unseelie stepped toward the boy in the circle.

Zeph’s insides twisted. His hands shook, and violent rage surged to the fore as he leaped forward, prepared to defend the child against the cruelties of these animals—these Dark Fae who preyed on the weak and the unprotected. Because here, children were stripped of their powers, with no way to defend themselves.

He was stopped by an invisible barrier, a shield.

“NO!” he yelled, pounding his small fists on the barrier he could not see. “Leave him alone! Don’t touch him! Leave him alone!”

No one heard him. The scene unfolded before him as if he wasn’t there at all. He looked away when the Unseelie each had a turn at the boy. He raised shaking hands to his ears and shut his eyes tight. “No,” he murmured as Zeph rocked his thin body in short, quick fits. “No. No.”

Time seemed to fold in on itself, and at times, he could almost hear his sister’s voice punching through the pleats. But that wasn’t right either. What was happening? Why was he here?

The boy screamed and Zeph cried out, too, remembering the pain of it…when it had been him. The hot burn in his backside…the pressure, the grunting, the sweat of his tormentors falling in his hair, dripping on his skin, as they ripped his body inside out. His mind tumbled like rocks down a sloping hillside. One by one, they climbed on, holding him down, using his body, and then discarding him like trash. When they were done, they left him in the dirt. Some kicked him in the ribs, the stomach, the face. Some just laughed at him. Only one would pick him up and carry him back to the cell where he was kept, held prisoner, until he gave in, until he vowed to be one of them. As long as he held out, not give in, he would suffer the abuse. At twelve, he had still been able to hold on.

The boy continued to cry out. How long it went on, Zeph did not know. Time stuck to him like a damp tabard. It seemed endless.

Then, Zeph heard a rasp. “You found me.”

Zeph’s head snapped up, his eyes darting toward the monsters who were making merry around the fire now, ignoring the boy they’d tossed aside, the bag still over his head.

“You can see me?” Zeph asked.

“I-I’ve been w-waiting for you.”

Zeph reached out to help him, but the barrier prevented him. “Can they see me?” he asked.

“N-No.”

Zeph’s pulse beat in his ears. “How did I get here? What’s happening?”

“The sp-spell.”

“What spell?”

The boy lifted his head, removed the bag, his hands a bloody mess, and looked Zeph in the eyes. Identical eyes to his.

An audible gasp escaped Zeph’s mouth.

“Our spell.” The boy wheezed as he rolled over to spit blood from his mouth. He was so thin, so frail. If you shook him, his bones would rattle.

Zeph tried to think, his thoughts going backward and forward, weaving time together, knitting them into a pattern that made sense. Then one of the Unseelie lumbered toward them and Zeph stood, his body the mirror image of the boy on the ground. “Leave him be!” Zeph yelled. “Don’t take him!”

“Don’t,” the boy replied. “I-I’m the only one who can see you.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

The Unseelie scooped the boy up, slinging him over one shoulder like a sack of oats.

“What am I supposed to do?” Zeph yelled.

The boy lifted his head, then dropped it. “Re-mem-ber me.”

Zeph’s tears fell like a veil, glinting and silent, obscuring his vision. He didn’t want to see what was in front of him anymore.

Turning his head, he whispered, “It hurts to remember.”

The celebration had just begun. Everyone wanted to congratulate Elin and Lochlan on their betrothal. A celebratory feast had been prepared, and together they gathered underneath a starry sky around a warm fire. Searly made a toast to the happy couple, and all in attendance, which included every monk, raised their chalices.

“To Lochlan and Elin.”

“To Lochlan and Elin,” everyone repeated.

The music started. Xavier, as it turned out, was quite good on the pan flute. Another played the lute.

Favián sat off by himself, close to the light of the fire, to finish what he’d started working on that afternoon: a poem to give to the happy couple. At some point, Arwyn sat down beside him.

“What are you working on, Favi?”

He arched a brow. “Favi?”

“Yes, do you like it?” She smiled, but it reminded him of the moon before the sun had fully set. Barely there.

“Sí. If it pleases you, then I like it.”

He waited for her to smile again, but her eyes were distant, like she was seeing something no one else could see.

Putting aside his task, he reached for her hand. “Arwyn, what is the matter?”

She shook her head. “Something is wrong.”

Taking her by the chin with his thumb and forefinger, he turned her face to his. “Tell me,” he said.

She looked down and brushed her fingers across the fabric of her dress. “It’s Zeph.” Her forehead puckered. “He’s…” She looked up with wild eyes and then promptly stood. “He’s coming. Lochlan!” she shouted, pointing to Zeph, who was running toward them, looking half-crazed. “Stop him!”

Lochlan orbed into shimmering lights, and got behind Zeph, grabbing him by the neck. “Hold still,” Lochlan said, trying to keep him from advancing on the group. “Hold still.”

Zeph tried to wrestle free and then he…stopped…like he had simply given up…his eyes narrowing, focusing on the flames of the fire. Arwyn followed his line of sight, trying to understand what was happening. It was like he was somewhere else entirely. He spoke to someone who wasn’t there. Said things…reacted to things no one else could see but him.

Silence fell like snowflakes around the celebration and everyone stood around like shadows, shaped only by their thoughts, yet unable to comprehend any of them.

Zeph seemed so small, so helpless. He fell into a heap on the ground, and when he began to cry, Arwyn cried with him.

Favián stayed with her. Every move she made closer to Zeph, he made as well.

“It hurts to remember,” Zeph whispered.

“Zeph,” Elin said softly, approaching with caution. She touched his arm and he howled like she had burned him.

“Don’t touch me!”

“All right, I won’t touch you,” she said.

“Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me.” His hands shook as he wrapped his arms around himself. Then his red-rimmed eyes shot to hers and he blinked. He looked around, his eyes widening in disbelief. “How did I get here?”

“Zeph,” Elin said, trepidation in her voice.

Everyone stared at him as he crumbled in on himself like he was made of paper.

“Don’t let them touch me,” he said when he found his sister’s eyes. “Please.” Tears fell, like silver drops of dew, down his cheeks. “Don’t let them touch me.”

Elin knelt before him, her own hands trembling to comfort him, to touch him, but she didn’t, she couldn’t. “I won’t let anyone touch you. I promise. No one will touch you.” Elin glanced at Arwyn, her features contorted like she physically hurt. “What do I do?” she whispered.

Arwyn’s chin quivered. “You’re doing it. He feels better when you’re near. Just stay with him.” Then she turned to Searly. “Please, if you will, we should leave them alone. I know Zeph, and he wouldn’t want everyone staring at him when he realizes…” She swallowed. “He wouldn’t want an audience to this.”

“Aye.” But Searly seemed to fight the instinct within him to stay, to nurture. “If you need me,” he said, looking at Lochlan and Elin, and then to Arwyn, “come get me.” Then Searly turned to Favián, “You coming?”

“Sí,” Favián said. “Arwyn? We need to talk.”

Arwyn sucked in a breath. “Can we talk later? I-I need to lie down.”

Favián’s hand shot out and grabbed Arwyn by the elbow. “Do you feel faint? Do you need me to walk you to your chamber?”

“Our bedchambers are across from each other, Favi. You may walk with me if you wish.”

Favián kept stealing glances at Arwyn as he walked with her. He wanted badly to ask her how she knew about Zeph. What her powers were. He held back from asking, however, but he couldn’t hold back from worrying, from caring.

“You will be all right?” he asked as he deposited her outside her door.

“Of course,” she said.

“Arwyn,” he hedged. “Talk to me.”

“I’m really tired. We’ll talk tomorrow,” she said, slipping into her room with haste and closing the door behind her.

Once inside, Arwyn sat on the bed, curled her knees up to her chest, and cried as quietly as she could, unable to hold herself together a moment longer. She had felt Zeph’s hurt. She had felt his sorrow. The agony of it…

Oh God, the agony of it.

Arwyn quickly reached for the chamber pot and heaved her supper into it. She cried through the heaving, then she heaved through the sobbing.

“I have you,” came a low, friendly voice, pushing back her hair and running a cool cloth over her face. “There, now, I have you. Shh. It will be all right. Just lean on me. I have you.”

“Favi,” Arwyn said, her voice but a whisper of itself.

“Shh, mi corazoncito.” He rocked her gently, back and forth, with her cheek resting on his chest. “I’m here,” he murmured. “Try to rest. I won’t leave you.”

Arwyn closed her eyes, but there would be no rest. Her heart kept whispering…who is holding Zeph tonight?

And the answer was no one.

Because she knew that Zeph would never let anyone hold him.

“My God,” she breathed, her fist knotting Favián’s tunic as a fresh new wave of grief crashed over her. “My God.”

Now she knew why. Tonight, she had caught a glimpse of Zeph’s past.

And it was horrifying.