Page 9 of Where Broken Wings Fly

“Does that matter?” I coughed out before I could stop myself.

Killian regarded me with a sidelong glance. “Yes. Not all of us hold the same values. While you are under my protection, no one in Choilltean will harm you.”

“But others might?”

He shrugged.

I cleared my throat if only to summon courage. “Right. Curved down, I can trust.”

“No.” Killian stopped again, turning on his heel to face me. “You cannot trust any of the pixies.”

“So I can’t trust you?”

His brow flicked up as he stretched his lips into a humoured smile. “You’re starting to get it.”

“Reassuring.”

To that, he shrugged again and motioned for us to continue our walk.

The sun — that was nowhere near visible in the thick confines of the woods — seemed to be lowering itself behind the horizon as the haloed outlines of our surroundings darkened. Nighttime didn’t deter the pixies, though. Instead, they seemed to come alive with the sinking of the sun.

Music was flowing from one street to another, just as the fireflies collected into bigger groups, moving more freely from one spot to another and bleeding light across every surface. Amongst the music were voices, some singing, some chatting, some whispering as we moved from road to road, never stopping long enough for any of the bystanders to get too good of a look at me.

Two bodies appeared in the street ahead of us, but this time Killian did not change our path. Instead, with a renewed energy to his step, he brought us right to those two strangers.

Except they weren’t strangers. Niamh and Shea bowed deeply to Killian, adding a respectful tip of their chin once they found their spines straight once more. Beneath the dusted light of the fireflies, I finally got a good look at what they were wearing.

I wasn’t sure what type of clothes woodland fair folk might wear, but if I had to guess a week ago, I would have fallen short on the extravagance of their attire. It appeared to be made of something natural; leaves, vines, or foliage, perhaps. But it had been beaten down and refined to such an extent that thread had been formed and weaved together to craft shirts and pants of dark green and brown. Casting a sneaky-peek at Killian at my side, he wore the same attire, yet across his chest, forearms, and shins he had armour that appeared to be made of leather.

There was something strange about the crafting of their clothes, though. I couldn’t quite pinpoint it, but it was a faint shimmering that made them appear far more ethereal than their rugged, burly appearances made me believe.

Both Niamh and Shea had their dark hair pulled back into ponytails, the matted look of it soon revealed to be tight braids that wound around their heads over and over, with vines and cracked leaves wrapped into each intricate design.

“Niamh,” Killian grumbled, “Shea.”

“Killian,” they both beamed.

“You two look far too thrilled.”

They shared a look with one another, shot their eyes to me, and finally looked back at Killian. “Raegan wishes to speak with you.”

The hour or so that I had spent so far with Killian had led me to believe that he was an unshakable force with far too much confidence about himself. But at the mention of that name, I saw him bristle.

“He sent for me?”

With two evil smirks, they nodded. Something shuttled over my own back in the form of a twitching shiver.

It’s just a dream. Just a dream. You’re safe.

Killian pushed at the long lengths of his hair before turning to me. “It looks like it is time for you to meet the Prince of Choilltean.”

I had always wanted to meet royalty, but judging by the solemn look on all three of the pixies' faces, I realized that perhaps this was not a good thing.

5

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There was no preparation for what a castle of the fair folk might look like. As Killian led me up and down winding roads of diced twigs and scattered, cracked leaves, I tried to paint the image of a castle of pixies in my mind.