Page 76 of Of Wind and Terror

“Prefer?”

“No, dumbass. Unoptimistic. It sounds weird.”

“My favorite words are the ones that do sound weird,” Aleksander says seriously.

I tune out their banter as I follow Runt as fast as I can. Fear for Treyton is a noose coiled around my neck. Sooner or later, the floor will drop out from underneath me, and I’ll be forced to dangle there, suffocating, gasping for air.

The only saving grace is that I can heal him if something were to happen to him. I’ll take on any injury if it means that he’ll live.

But can you bring the dead back to life? an acerbic, angry voice drawls in my head.

He’s not dead.

I would be able to tell if he is.

Because…

Because…

Because he’s mine.

29

BLAZE

Apart of me wonders if the pampered Spring Prince finally had enough of getting his hands dirty and decided to run off. Wouldn’t surprise me. I’ve known Treyton his entire life, and if there’s one word I’d use to describe him, it’s “coward.”

He runs from his problems. I fight them.

I haven’t decided which method is the healthiest.

I clear a pathway through the Forest, swinging my ax back and forth to tear down any tree branches in our path. I half wonder if the Forest will retaliate against us for my actions, but so far, it’s been quiet.

Too quiet.

The absence of sound sends a prickle of unease down my spine, though I don’t allow it to show on my face. To the outside observer, I’m calm and collected. A fae on a mission.

Nobody can see past my apathetic mask to the turbulent emotions hidden within.

“Have you ever heard the joke about the elf, the giant, and the fae?” Aleksander rambles incessantly from behind me.

I want to snap at him to shut the hell up, but then Kassandra will giggle, and my anger will evaporate.

I suppose I’ll leave the annoying elf alive—as long as he continues to put a smile on my little beast’s face.

It’s been three orbits since we’ve become separated from Treyton. Every tick that passes feels like a death toll.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

What will we eventually find when we reach our destination? Unbidden, my brain conjures images of Treyton lying dead on the ground, his guts rearranged and his pretty face mottled and bruised. The imagery doesn’t bring me the satisfaction I expected.

Maybe because, in my imagination, Kassandra is kneeling beside the fae prince and sobbing.

A tide of guilt threatens to batter down my composure.

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