The half-brother.
The half-Titan.
I stand in the archway, frozen in place as Soren strides toward the fae man who is currently making his way through whatappears to be every scrap of food raided from the larders. The table is littered with several varieties of fruit, dried fish, olives, bread, cheese, and a whole roast waterfowl—the drumstick of which he is tearing into with a set of broad white teeth. The thick bone looks like a toothpick between his fingers.
Manis not the correct word to describe him, I think as I watch the two brothers embrace, hands pounding backs with spine-snapping enthusiasm. He is a man and a half, impossibly tall, towering three full heads above Soren. His build makes the barrel-chested wheelmen of the Twins look frail, with hands that could crush a cantaloupe with one squeeze and shoulders so broad, I wonder how he ever fit inside the cramped pantry.
He does not resemble Soren or Arwen, with their piercing beauty. His is a blunter visage with prominent features and a square jaw. His hair is a shade between blond and brown, and quite long, though he’s tied it back from his face with a leather cord that matches the material of his vest, breeches, and fur-lined boots. He is dressed for a hunt through wolf-infested woods, not the posh waterways of Hylios.
Soren pulls back, neck craned to grin up into the massive man’s face. It is an odd sight. Usually the King of Llyr towers over everyone. “What the hell are you doing here, little brother?”
“You think I’d miss Arwen’s wedding?” Vaughn guffaws. “I know better than to piss her off after centuries of practice. Or have you forgotten the decade-long snit she nursed when I skipped her seventy-fifth naming day?”
“Fair enough.” Soren’s eyes move to the mess of foodstuffs piled all over the kitchen. “It’s been some time since you stepped foot in Hylios, but you do recall you have your own villa several levels down?”
“The one sandwiched between the scaly sisters of doom,you mean? Forgive me if I’m in no hurry to reacquaint myself with Melité and Tethys.”
Leaning back against the edge of the countertop, Soren shakes his head. “Be nice. They’re your half-sisters.”
“They’re also half the reason I stayed away so long.” His sigh is martyred. “Bloody sirens. You should hear the screams that echo from Melité’s bedchamber windows at night. I can’t decide if she’s delivering torture or pleasure to her victims.” He pauses. “Probably both, knowing her.”
Soren snorts softly.
“Besides”—Vaughn takes another huge bite of his drumstick, talking on despite the mouthful that muffles his words—“your pantry is always so much better stocked than mine.”
“And yet, you always seem to have more than enough Titan gin on hand.”
“I don’t recall you complaining, last time I brought over a cask from Prydain.”
“I’d be stunned to know you recalled anything, given the amount of it you guzzled on that occasion.”
Both men break into reminiscent laughter.
I venture hesitantly into the kitchen, making it only a handful of steps before two sets of eyes—Soren’s undiluted blue, Vaughn’s startling green—snap to me. I stop in my tracks.
“Erm…hello,” I say awkwardly.
Vaughn’s head whips from me to Soren and back, eyes widening. “Skies, brother, she looks just like—”
“Vaughn,” Soren clips, cutting him off.
My brows go up.
I look just like…
Who?
Not Enid, I hope. Soren told me that I bear only a passingresemblance to the previous wind weaver, who claimed not just his heart but Pendefyre’s as well.
Had he downplayed matters to spare my feelings?
It certainly would not be beyond the realm of possibility that we share certain characteristics and coloring. Yet I confess, I do not much care for the thought of that. Looking like a woman Soren once loved leaves me strangely uneasy, for reasons I do not mull too thoroughly. It takes all my self-control to keep a glower off my face as I hold Vaughn’s surprised gaze.
The giant man sets down the drumstick bone with a thud. He recovers quickly enough, burying his shock beneath a broad grin of welcome. “You must be the wind weaver I’ve heard so much about.”
My brows rise even higher. I glance at Soren—who is pinching the bridge of his nose as if to stave off a headache—then back at Vaughn. “Good things, I hope?”
“That depends entirely on who you ask.”