Prince of the Sun

Chapter 1

That wretched elf prince stole my book again. Every day, I get to Widener Library earlier than the morning before, and every day, Daerios still beats me.

“Sorry, Quinn,” the librarian—a human, like me—winces as he hands back the scrap of paper with the ISBN scrawled in my crooked handwriting. “Better luck next time.”

I sigh, tucking the paper back into the pocket of my jeans. I only need the Morphological Similarities Between American English and Elvish Lukkarin. A categorically uninteresting read, but I can’t do this week’s assignment without it.

And sure, the prince might be in the same linguistics class as me, but there’s no way he’s been working on the same problem set for five days straight.

Elves, as we humans are constantly reminded, are brilliant.

Keepers of knowledge, protectors of magic.

Far too smart to need almost a week to do their homework.

“Thank you,” I say to the librarian, turning toward the exit. Looks like I’ll be using a digital copy to do my linguistics problem set. Again.

Daerios probably doesn’t need the book at all. He’s probably taking it just to torture me. The final clubs regularly prank humans as part of their initiation process, and I know for a fact that Daerios is currently Punching the Ikarith.

Punch happens during a student’s sophomore year, and is a bit like rush at a fraternity or sorority, only more pretentious. The final clubs used to be human institutions, but as soon as elves discovered that the clubs were housed in the grandest buildings on campus, they took them for their own.

Bullies. Every single one of them.

My mother warned me that things would be different at Harvard.

I grew up in Minnesota, far from the grand libraries and universities that house the majority of the Elvish population.

Only a small Elvish outpost exists at our state university, but I never went anywhere near it; Mom wouldn’t let me.

In fact, before this year, I had never even met an elf. Not face-to-face, anyway.

Now, they’re all I see.

They tower over me in the dining halls. Sweep past with unearthly grace, long, pin-straight hair swishing down to their waists.

Wild Elves leap from building to building, bows and quivers slung over their backs, preferring to run the rooftops rather than walk on the ground with us lowly humans.

Water Elves linger on the banks of the Charles River, dipping their feet in the water or meditating in the reeds.

Wood Elves ride horses bareback through Harvard Yard.

They do whatever they want. They’re elves—well above our earthly laws.

Just before reaching the exit, I halt.

No, you know what?

I turn back to the librarian, hitching my backpack further up my shoulders. “Which direction did he go?”

“Who?”

“You know who.”

The librarian swallows. “Are you sure you want—”

“Yes,” I cut him off. “Just point. I won’t tell him who told me.”

The librarian hesitates, clearly not trusting me. But he raises one wrist anyway and, quaking slightly, points up the main staircase.

Of course. Daerios is in Loker, the main reading room. The gorgeous one, with sky-high ceilings, wooden bookcases, and frosted-glass reading lamps. The one that only elves use, because no human dares disturb them.

I reach back and pull the scrunchie out of my bright orange curls, letting them fall around my shoulders like a wild, tangled veil.

I roll back my shoulders. Place one foot onto the staircase, then another.

Let them stare, I decide as I start to climb.

Let them whisper and taunt. I’m getting my book—even if I have to go through an elf prince to do it.

I pause outside the reading room. Exhale once.

Then I lift my chin, straighten the straps of my backpack, and push open the doors.

They came from the mountains. One hundred years ago, they streamed down the peaks and ridges in great droves, some on horseback, some on foot. Everest, Kilimanjaro, Fuji, Olympus. The Tetons. The Rockies. Appalachia.

No one knows how they arrived to our world. Some believe they took invisible ships that set them down at the highest elevations. Others believe they materialized from thin air. Whatever the case, the elves aren’t telling. They don’t share information with humans. Not now. Not ever.

Once here, the elves swarmed our libraries and universities: Harvard, Oxford, the Imperial Universities in Japan.

The Library of Congress. The Bibliothéque nationale de France.

They made for humanity’s fountains of knowledge with eerie precision, as if they’d spent millennia studying Earth before their arrival.

Maybe they had. No one knows how long elves can live, but in the face of our puny human lifespans, it seems to be an eternity.

Like my parents before me, I grew up under Elvish rule.

Though it is technically still humans who occupy global seats of government—elves have no time for the headache of human politics—we know who our true rulers are.

Not the kings and queens and presidents and prime ministers of the world, but the lithe, blindingly beautiful super-beings who live a plane above us.

Their arrival sent the world into chaos. Stock markets crashed. Wars screeched to a halt. The world gaped in collective awe as these otherworldly beings casually ripped apart everything we believed we understood about the universe.

We mean you no harm, said their leader, King Varith Ariar. We are looking for something. As soon as we find it, we shall leave your realm in peace.

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 Melde, son of the Elvish General, Adan Melde.

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 of niru in 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 copy of Morphological Similarities Between American English and Elvish Lukkarin sitting 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 are alarmingly handsome.

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 that disgust?

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 our linguistics class.”

My eyebrows must climb almost all the way off my forehead. I corral them as quickly as I can. No sense in letting them see how shocked I am that he recognizes me.

“Yes,” I whisper. “And I need that book to do our homework.”

“I’m using it,” says Daerios. They’re the first words he’s ever spoken to me, and they’re sharp, like a reprimand.

I eye its uncracked spine. “Are you?”

“Yes.”

Berendir covers a snort.

My stomach feels like it’s crawling up my throat.

Why the hell did I choose today to get courageous with an elf?

And, of all the elves on campus, why did I choose a prince, for God’s sake?

This is what Mom meant when she said I’m all book smarts and no street smarts.

This is what she meant when she said it could get me killed.

But it’s too late now. I lean right up to Daerios’s smug, handsome face, trying to still my racing heart, and whisper, “Ve-li e’ hain, Varrie.”

Give me the book, Prince.

Berendir lets out a low whistle.

Apparently, I do have a death wish.

“You speak Lukkarin,” Daerios says flatly. “Very impressive.” He taps the book. “Looks like you don’t need this after all.”

My hands squeeze into fists. I bite back the profanities inching up my tongue.

“Careful, Daer.” Berendir eyes my whitening knuckles. “The human might punch you.”

Daerios glances down at my fists, then back up to my face. This close, I can see that his eyes are more silver than grey. They’re so bright they almost seem to sparkle.

A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

Smug bastard. I bury my eyes as deeply into his as I can. I am not afraid of you, I tell myself. I am not afraid.

You are shitting your pants, human, my brain replies. Don’t kid yourself.

“Fine,” Daerios says, breaking eye contact and waving a dismissive hand.

“For your bravery and utter stupidity in coming here, mortal.” He picks up the textbook and passes it over.

It flops lightly in his hand, as if it’s no heavier to him than a sheet of paper. “One copy of Boring Linguistics 101.”

I eye the volume suspiciously.

“Go on, then.”

I reach out and grab the spine.

“However—” Daerios doesn’t let go. In fact, he uses the book to tug me even closer. I blink as his silver eyes draw dangerously close, voice lowering to a hushed rumble. “Now that I’ve done you a favor, you shall have to do me one in return.”

I swallow. “Wh-what kind of favor?” I curse the waver in my voice.

He releases the book, teeth flashing in the sunlight. “When it’s time to collect,” he whispers, “you’ll know.”