Page 37 of Claws of Death

The mood iseverything but cheerful when Clio takes us to the border of the Seeing Forest in batches of two, and I would have asked why the former mysterious greenery stinks like a cold bonfire had I not been prepared to expect the aftermath of flames. Where once ferns and thickets dominated the path, soot-stained skeletons of trees are the only ones witnessing our arrival. Flakes of ash hover in the air like on a phantom wind, taunting whoever dares search for greenery and butterflies. From our little gathering by the stream separating fairy territory from former Crow lands, I can make out the outline of the palace ruins behind wafts of lingering smoke.

“This is a grave.” Nobody is more surprised than me when Herinor combs through the few surviving bushes with his sword, a somber expression on his face.

“Anyone specific you’re looking for?” Clio quips, flashing ice crystals at her fingertips, prepared to douse heat with her freezing power.

Herinor shrugs, but the way his mouth pulls into a tight line tells me he is, in fact, wary of this place.

“It’s not like there are any female Crows left to await you for a rendezvous,” Silas notes, painting a grin onto Herinor’s face, but the male cringes as he notices Kaira’s stare.

“Even if there were female Crows, I wouldn’t be interested.” He’s quick to respond. So quick that I almost miss the pinkish tint on his neck.

“He’s not lying,” Myron narrates, slightly amused but mostly alarmed by the otherworldly silence falling over a forest that once brimmed with life.

“Because hecan’tlie.” Kaira’s right, and we all know it. “The question is: why?”

“Why we can’t lie?” Herinor grumbles. “Because Shaelak willed it so.”

“Must be a cruel god.” I’m about to agree with Kaira when Myron jumps in. “I’m not certain what’s more cruel, lying to people who deserve better, or the brutal honesty we’re forced to speak.”

I shoot him a damning look. “It’s not like you haven’t been twisting words.” It’s true. The curse was one thing, but they all have been meddling with phrasings to make things sound different from what they actually mean. “The onlyactual lie I’ve ever heard you tell is that your people remained within your borders. And that was before the curse was broken.” I vividly remember the day when Myron spoke for his people to the copper-haired Fairy Princess we now call our friend. “The Crows had long undone the wards and were coming and going as they pleased.”

Clio arches a brow, taking a few steps into the ashes that once were a carpet of moss and ferns.

It’s rare that I catch Myron wordless, but this is one of those moments. He rakes his hand through his hair, searching for a response that won’t damn him, a truth he can speak without giving away everything, whatever he’s hiding.

“He’s a diplomatic bastard, that’s what he is.” Silas plays with his hatchet, balancing it in his hand like he’s assessing the weight.

“Nowthat’sa lie,” Herinor counters. “He’s not a bastard. Just stinking feathered nobility.”

“Same thing.” Silas cuts the male a glance that speaks of all the things he’ll do to him if he won’t shut up, but it’s too late. I’ve realized that lies are in the eyes of the beholder.

“Which borders were you talking about?” It’s a simple question. One I expect a simple, un-twisted answer to.

Myron, Shaelak bless him, isn’t set on playing the two males’ game. He merely gives me a small smirk that says it all. “The borders of the Crow Kingdom.” When I don’t immediately understand, he adds, “But the Crow Kingdom technically no longer exists.”

“Youhada kingdom in the Seeing Forest,” Clio objects. “Those borders?—”

“Weren’t the borders of my kingdom. Without a true place to set roots with my people, I defined my realm to be wherever my Crows are.” Myron’s teeth gleam white in the afternoon sun as he flashes a grin at the Fairy Princess. “The sky’s the limit.”

“Not even that,” Royad chimes in. “The sky’s our domain.”

It’s almost comical how Clio’s mouth opens and closes without words coming out until eventually—“Someone should teach you some sense of honor, Crow King.”

But there’s humor in her voice, and I could swear she’s impressed by his inventiveness, almost as if his callous bending of the truth earned her respect. “Tell me the forest isn’t burned.”

Before Myron can attempt this lie, Royad leaps to his aid. “The forest isn’t burned.”

Clio rolls her eyes. “Tell methisforest isn’t burned.”

For a moment, I believe Myron can actually say it. Then he closes his mouth, grunting with frustration.

“At least, you’re not bleeding,” Royad tells him, and I don’t imagine the relief in his tone. Their blood-stained lips when they spoke about the curse is a terror still haunting me in my sleep.

“And I can’t say it.” Myron draws his sword, gaze flicking over the site of destruction. All the while, he hasn’t withdrawn his senses from his former home. I can tell by the way his nostrils flare, his chest heaves when he scents the heavy stench of burned wood and flesh drafting through the ruins of the forest.

“This forest isn’t burned,” Silas says with the most bored expression I’ve seen since the beginning of the conversation. “There, I said it.”

My jaw is dropping, but Herinor comes to my aid, explaining before I question everything I’ve learned about Crow Fae so far. “You meanthis particular part of this forestisn’t burned,” he specifies, pointing at the patch of green Silas is standing on. “If you have to be a fucking bastard about this, at least be anhonestfucking bastard.”

---