Muffled footsteps sound before a side door opens, invisible before the opening.
Nevander strides in silence, eyes as cold as the blade at his hip. He’s not quite as tall as Yarrow—few pure fae are. But his presence looms like a shadow.
“I expected to see you sooner, Yarrow.” Nevander’s gaze sweeps across Folly. “Why have you brought a human to Elladar?”
Without thinking, Yarrow takes Folly by the hand. “There is no rule against it. As for why, that’s my next petition to Her Exalted Majesty.”
Nevander stalks closer. His movements are steady, threatening more in their perfect balance than outright aggression. If he has any reaction to Folly’s fae-touched eye, it doesn’t show. “Who are you, human?”
Folly is rigid. For one silent moment, Yarrow thinks he should answer on his human’s behalf. Nevander is fucking intimidating.
Then Folly takes a deep breath and answers with a smile. “I am the Great Folarius. A fortuneteller of much renown and little truth.” His grip tightens on Yarrow’s hand, but his shoulders square with the confidence of performance.
Yarrow wants to kiss him.
He would, if he knew how Folly felt about being kissed in front of a squad of guards.
“A pleasure to meet you,” Nevander says politely. “I am Lord Nevander, of Queen Haelwen’s guard. Do you seek an audience as well?”
“I do.” Folly glances up at Yarrow. “Rather, we seek an audience together. Our request is shared.”
“The petition is mine,” Yarrow corrects quickly. He won’t let Folly be responsible if the price is too steep.
“Daring to seek another favor before earning the first,” Nevander comments. Impossible to tell whether he disapproves, or simply states a fact. “Unless you have succeeded in slaying the shapestealer?”
“I encountered a complication. Is Her Majesty able to hear me today?” Remembering last time, Yarrow adds, “Or tonight—that counts too.”
Ha. A twitch of Nevander’s lip hints at a smile. “What is your petition? I’ll convey it to Her Majesty.”
This could be a good sign. Nevander himself carrying the message, instead of an ordinary herald. “Moriath cast a curse on Folly, which went awry. The curse now binds Folly and myself. Iwish to ask Her Majesty to remove the curse, so Folly can return to his realm…” Yarrow pauses. The words feel wrong—but that’s what they want, isn’t it? “And I can continue my quest.”
“I see,” Nevander says seriously. “Is that what you want too, Folarius?”
Folly hesitates, his earlier confidence diminished. “I want the curse removed.”
Nevander exits through the magic veiled doorway. The green gold veil shimmers, then falls hazy again. Silence floods in Nevander’s wake.
Yarrow should say something reassuring. He should comfort Folly. But he himself feels strangely unmoored. Yarrow’s been so caught up in Folly, he’s hardly thought about his original goal. Slay the shapestealer. Win his place in the summer court. Become fully part of something, instead of neither one thing nor the other, never fully fitting in.
Yet tracking down Moriath only feels urgent because he threatened Folly.
They have to break the curse, one way or another. The binding keeps shrinking. Even at its current distance of seventeen feet, the proximity clearly grates on Folly. He needs space that Yarrow literally can’t give him right now.
But breaking the curse means Folly returns home. While Yarrow remains here. Without a lifemark or another binding, they’re destined to part.
“After we fix this,” Yarrow says quietly. “After I slay Moriath. We can still meet.”
Folly drops his hand, but stays close. “How? I don’t know how to travel between worlds. Unless...”
“It would be difficult,” Yarrow says, glancing at the watchful guards. He probably shouldn’t discuss illicit trips between worlds in their presence.
Folly chews his lip, then takes a deep breath. “Would you want to see me again?” he asks in a small voice.
“If you’d let me.” Yarrow touches Folly’s chin. Tilts his face up. He can’t resist turning those beautiful, mismatched eyes into the light. He wishes he could fill them with only joy, no worry. “I’m not done kissing you senseless.”
Folly’s ears heat with color. He glances away, and Yarrow mourns the loss of his gaze?—
Right, the guards.
