Seren bites his lip, self-conscious. Hopefully Nevander can’t hear him like Primrose could in hers. Probably not, based on Seren’s subsequent reading. A regular high fae haven shouldn’t transform, and certainly doesn’t include evil flower petals.
Though that might be a nice distraction now.
A breeze swirls through the bluebells. Leaves and petals spiral upwards, and Nevander appears. Wings tucked away, his gaze snaps to Seren.
Who remembers, with terrible clarity, what he’s wearing.
“Your chambers are clear,” Nevander says, approaching.
Seren forces himself upright. “He got away?”
Nevander looks him up and down. His expression doesn’t change—please gods, spirits, anyone listening, let him not recognize the shirt. “If anyone was there.”
Seren flinches. “You doubt me.”
“I don’t doubt what you saw,” Nevander says, too specific a denial. “There’s no sign of intrusion, and teleporting within the palace is impossible. You may have had a vision.”
Seren doesn’t know the first thing about visions, but that doesn’t feel right. “Ask the honeysuckles on the balcony. They felt it.”
“All right,” Nevander agrees. Not as convinced-sounding as Seren wants. “Regardless, I should have been closer. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize lightly,” Seren echoes. Before Nevander can argue, he adds, “You can’t be with me all the time.”
Nevander has that look again. Like Seren’s a book with missing pages, and Nevander will sew new ones in. “I’ll teach you how to use this.”
Seren had forgotten the knife. He returns it to his carryhold, but the imprint remains in his palm. “Not that it would do much, but I’m even worse with a sword.”
“I’ll teach you how to wield a sword, too,” Nevander promises, and tears prickle behind Seren’s eyes.
He ducks his head, struggling for composure. Nevander always has a sensible solution, but Seren doesn’t want a solution. He doesn’t want to be trained and taught and solved until he meets Nevander’s expectations.
He just wants a few comforting words.
“What’s wrong?” Nevander asks, looking for more problems to solve.
Answering ‘nothing’ would be a lie. “If my chambers are clear, take me back.”
“Seren.”
“I know, you’re not sworn to obedience.” Seren hugs himself through the too-large shirt. He’s too tired to hold his tongue. “How can I make you like me?”
Nevander’s brow creases, and he seems to truly see Seren for the first time tonight. Then he sinks to one knee. “What have I done wrong,” Nevander asks, quiet and urgent, “to make you think I don’t?”
Pressure tightens within Seren’s chest. This is the attention that hounded his steps in Wymond. Seren knew he was followed, before he knew he was fae.
That used to frighten him. Now he craves it.
“I was good at being liked in Wymond,” Seren says. “Except for Edith and Alard, the other villagers were easy. I could help with little things. Nothing that made them feel weak.Asking them to help me worked even better. Nothing burdensome, just enough to make them feel important.”
He’s saying too much. But keeping quiet hasn’t fixed this rift. Something about the eerie pale trees pulls the words from him. Nevander’s unreadable, but the mist eddies with every breath.
“I don’t know what I could help you with,” Seren confesses. “You help me all the time, so much that anyone else would find me a burden.”
Seren sinks to his knees. Cool earth soaks through his trousers, and Nevander’s eyes widen. “You wanted me to be king. You blackmailed me to stay. But after Primrose’s haven… It’s foolish. I thought you might finally see me as more than a pathetic village brat.”
That spurs Nevander to speech. “You’ve never been pathetic.”
“I can’t feel your emotions,” Seren says, desperate. “All I have are your words. Your actions.”