Page 2 of Prince of the Sun

I’ve heard the original radio broadcast of his announcement. It’s all over YouTube. More than anything, I was struck by how well he spoke English. There are over seventeen dialects of Elvish, with Maevish and Lukkarin being the most common, but, as far as I know, English is not one of their native languages.

Further evidence that the elves were watching us for a long, long time. Waiting.

For what—no human knows.

The Loker Reading Room is a work of art. With high, arched ceilings painted robin’s egg blue, long rows of dark wood tables, and stained-glass skylights bleeding warmth inside, it’s just about the perfect place to study. Too bad no human ever gets to enjoy it.

Until now.

I breeze through the reading room doors, keeping my chin high as I survey the massive space. I’m looking for the head of black hair, sometimes tied back with a dark green ribbon, that marks Daerios Ariar’s terrifying royal head. It shouldn’t be difficult; I’ve been forced to stare at the back of it all semester. I’ve watched it bob and shake in the front row of our linguistics lecture as he laughs with his equally terrifying best friend, Berendir Meldë, son of the Elvish General, Adan Meldë. More than once, I’ve thought about grabbing both of their shiny manes and clopping their heads together so hard they—

There. Back left corner.

Daerios Ariar, third-born Prince of the Elves. Angriest son of the king. Notorious party boy. Prone to fits of violence and careless displays of powerful magic. Known less for his ability to collect wisdom and more for his ability to chug an entire bottle ofniruin under six seconds.

Not a model prince. Not a model elf, either.

And seated at his right, as always, was Berendir.

I pivot at the center of the room and start down the long aisle that leads to their table.

At first, none of the elves notice the human in their midst.They’re too intent on the books and laptops open in front of them. But then I feel a pair of eyes catch on me. A second. A third. They pop into my peripheral vision, brilliant green and grey and blue irises glinting off the slanted sunlight. Taking in the human who should not be here.

I swallow.

We take classes alongside the elves, but that’s where our similarities end. We do not socialize with them. We do not eat at the same tables as them. We do not even drink in the same bars as them. They want nothing to do with humans, and, quite frankly, the feeling is mutual.

I’m trying terribly hard not to meet any of their gazes, instead keeping my eyes trained on the backs of Daerios and Berendir’s heads. None of the elves will tell me to leave—they value the reverent silence of the library too deeply—but that doesn’t mean they won’t do something else. Enchant me. Throw paper at me. Stick one long, muscled leg out into the aisle and send me sprawling.

By some miracle, I make it to the end of the aisle unscathed. I pause just behind Daerios and Berendir. Their shoulders, as usual, are shaking with laughter. On the table, I spy Berendir drawing something obscene at the top of Daerios’s notebook. From behind, every pair of elvish eyes is trained on my back.

This is a terrible idea, says a voice in my head.You’re going to get yourself killed.

It’s probably the first sensible thought I’ve had all morning.

Naturally, I ignore it.

I reach up one shaking hand and poke Daerios Ariar on the shoulder. Twice.

He flinches, causing Berendir to flinch too. They spin around, mouths dropping open as they register, in unison, the tiny human girl standing behind them. I stack one hand on my hip, using the other to point at the unopened copyofMorphological Similarities Between American English and Elvish Lukkarinsitting at Daerios’s elbow.

“Are you using that?” I whisper loudly.

The males gape at me for several long beats, eyes wide, as if I’m the first human to ever touch an Elvish prince. Maybe I am. Maybe I’ve just broken an unspoken Elvish law, and my hand will be severed from my wrist for it.

I swallow a shiver.Please, God, don’t take my hand. I need it for midterms.

I have to admit: I’ve only ever caught glimpses of Daerios and Berendir’s faces from the side, and I make it a point not to stare at the elves who pass me in the Yard. But up this close? Good lord. They arealarminglyhandsome. Both have tan skin, as all Sun Elves do, which is perhaps unsurprising, given their name. Daerios’s is a light tawny bronze, while Berendir’s is a few shades darker. The front of Berendir’s long, straight silver hair is pulled back into an intricate crown of braids—as if we need reminding that he lives with a royal—and frames a surprisingly open face, with freckles on his cheeks and laughter in his eyes.

You just poked a fucking prince, you psycho, those eyes seem to say.

Daerios, on the other hand, is all shadow. Gray eyes. Black hair that hangs down to just above his shoulders—short, for an elf. Also unusual is the texture of his hair: tousled and wavy, like little veins of darkness. His nose is slightly crooked, his jaw cut like the edge of a blade. Pointed ears. Brows knitted with shock and—is thatdisgust?

Jesus, Prince. I poked your shoulder; I didn’t lick your face. Calm down.

The silence stretches on for so long that I start to wonder if he heard my question. I’m debating whether I should repeat it or just make a run for it when Berendir finally speaks.

“You’re Quinn,” the General’s son whispers. “You’re in ourlinguistics class.”