Page 25 of Bound to the Orc Renegade

“Mist,” I hiss out the side of my mouth, trying to be quiet. I flick a discreet finger toward the tiny fae. “What are those?”

“Sprites. They’re not any more of a mouthful than birds.”

“Mist!”

“I jest.” But her Cheshire-Cat smile says she’s at least thought about eating one of them.

I take a few steps closer, filing details in my mental wiki as I go. Each of them has different patterns on their wings. Do they mean something specific or are they simply beautiful?

One of them spots me, and a high cry goes up, “Stranger!”

They all turn toward me and freeze, hanging in midair as if physics and gravity don’t apply to them. Which of course it doesn’t. They’re magic!

Then another high, piping voice shrieks, “It’s an elf!”

The mass of them surge toward me, arguing the whole way. “Mine!” “I saw her first!” “I want the elf!”

I stand completely still as they swirl around my head in a dizzying rush. Then they’re on me, landing in my hair, sitting on my shoulders, and clinging to tiny fistfuls of my purple T-shirt. One of them tries to land on the upper slope of one of my boobs, and I fight down a laugh as they slide off, my chest too small to offer much of a shelf.

Little hands pat at me as they all talk at once, their voices blending into a smear of high-pitched sound. Then one digs through my hair to grab the top of my ear, and a loud whistle cuts through the chatter.

As soon as the rest fall quiet, the one clinging to my ear shrieks, “It’s not an elf!”

I wince. They sure are loud for such little things.

The pressure on my ear disappears, and butterfly wings flap right in front of my face in a mixture of pink, purple, and blue. The tiny sprite hovers before me, dressed in blue leaves, her little pink face twisted into a scowl as she points an accusing finger at me. “You’re not an elf.”

“Sorry. I never said I was.” I raise both hands, palms out. “I’m human.”

“Bah, humans don’t come from Avalon. Orcs and elves do.”

“What’s Avalon?”

“It’s our original home realm. It’s where the elves still live.”

“Did you come here recently?” Have they just come through a portal like me?

“Not us. Our parents’ parents this many times.” She holds out both hands, fingers spread wide.

“Ten generations. Sprites have been in Alarria a long time. Why do you want Avalon?”

Isn’t this home to them by now? It already feels like my home, my magic humming inside me like it always should have.

“Avalon has elves and castles and parties!”

Fascinating. So there are different realms of Faerie, and they’re not alike. Good to know.

“And war and court trickery and carefully manicured gardens instead of true nature,” Mist says, her voice lacking even the slightest trace of mockery. She lifts a paw to point to the white flowers the sprites just came from. “Don’t you love meadowsweet? The elves never allowed it anywhere near their castle grounds.”

The sprite puts her hands on her hips and lets out a humph so loud it makes her dandelion-fluff hair quiver. Then her expression grows thoughtful instead. “Humans aren’t from Alarria. How did you get here? Do the doors of Faerie open once more?”

“I don’t think so,” I say. “The Moon Goddess brought me here from Earth. It was a shining round portal that disappeared.”

“She’s a human, but she has magic like an elf,” Mist says.

The sprites all “ohhh.”

“I’m about to practice it,” I say. “Do you want to watch?”

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