37. Ready to Belong Somewhere
Ready to Belong Somewhere
Nevander is already aloft, wings straining towards the realm’s new star. The blaze of glory and wonder. The compassion so stubborn, so expansive, it envelops all of Elladar. Nevander cannot feel fear in this moment, but instinct spurs him faster.
Then the summons seizes him. Magic bends the fabric of space, and Nevander is here. Still skyborne, but no longer a faraway witness. He’s now embraced in brilliance, close enough to see its source:
Seren, crowned in light, falling in a scatter of feathers.
Nevander moves too swiftly for fear. Wings pinned close, he dives low, then snaps upwards.
Seren crashes into his arms. The force knocks them downwards, and Nevander’s feet skim the treetops. His wings steady, given strength by the blessing of slender arms around his neck.
Nevander cradles his prince close. No, not simply his prince. It wasn’t duty that drove his desperate flight. It was a love far stronger than any vow.
“You’re here,” Seren breathes.
Nevander buries his face in Seren’s tangled hair. “I couldn’t keep away.”
Seren laughs like sunlight, so brilliant and musical it doesn’t sound real. He loosens an arm to take Nevander’s face, and leans up for a feather-soft kiss. Gentle, secure, trusting Nevander to support him.
Nevander’s pulse settles with the heat of Seren’s bare hand. But when Seren pulls away, eyes shining, Nevander’s relief ignites into something darker.
“Who struck you?” Nevander growls.
A culprit comes to mind, and Gevain will face dire consequences no matter what. But Nevander would hate to miss anyone else who harmed his prince.
Seren touches his own bruised cheek. His gaze sharpens, almost physical. “You should get angry more often. It’s very attractive.”
“Seren.”
The scolding only sweetens Seren’s smile, before he hides against Nevander’s chest. “We can deal with Gevain in a minute. He’s not going anywhere, and I need to catch my breath.”
Nevander recalls Seren’s empathy with chagrin.
Hovering above the green-gold trees, he tries to rein in his anger.
Controlling himself has never been so difficult.
He lost Seren. Again. But Seren broke free on his own and called Nevander to his side with impossible power.
Royal magic. Summer magic. Without a crown.
“I’m sorry,” Nevander says, quietly restrained. “I should have been there.”
Except Seren hadn’t wanted him there. Yet that too was Nevander’s fault, for forcing Seren’s choices, for chaining to the role Nevander always imagined for him.
Seren covers Nevander’s lips, stifling any more apologies. “We can shoulder the blame together. I felt trapped. I’ve always felt trapped. But shoving you away didn’t help.”
“I should have trusted you,” Nevander says against Seren’s fingertips. “I should have given you time instead of forcing your hand. Not just with last night’s duel.”
Seren sighs, the sound almost lost in the sky. “How could you, when I didn’t trust myself?”
Nevander’s heart eases. They need to talk more—this won’t be resolved until they’re alone and safe—but he believes they’ll be okay. And the realm hasn’t stopped moving as they hover overhead. There are matters to handle, above and below.
“You’ve managed quite well on your own,” Nevander says.
“Not on my own,” Seren corrects. “I struck a pretty good bargain. Summer’s magic—in exchange for my service.”
Nevander’s breath hitches with the weight of that commitment. “Tell me you negotiated a limit.”
“You know I can’t lie.” Seren kisses beneath Nevander’s jaw, soft above the edge of his armor. “Someone taught me that some obligations are worth it.”
Worry and pride combine into a heady elixir. In the face of Seren’s certainty, it tastes like belief.
“I’m done running,” Seren continues. “I’m ready to belong somewhere. But on my terms. I’m not waiting for anyone else to give me a crown. Not even your mother.”
That surprises a laugh from Nevander. “It was still dangerous.”
“I knew you’d say that.” Seren kisses Nevander’s jaw again. Then the corner of his lips. “I also knew it would work. Lysandra made the crown for my great-grandfather. Which means the First Queen managed without it.”
He says it without any trace of arrogance, which makes the comparison all the more breathtaking.
“You’re incredible,” Nevander says. “You always have been.”
Seren hugs Nevander tighter. “I’m starting to believe you’re right. And I’d like to stay up here with you, but maybe we should land. I’m feeling dizzy.”
Nevander would like to sweep Seren away, where nobody else can hurt him. But they have business on the ground. “Yes, my prince.”
They descend slowly, past familiar treetops turned newly vibrant.
Surveying for danger reveals a scene holding its breath.
Guards wait in the northwest gate. More guards and servants gather atop the walls to witness.
Other creatures gather from the goldwood forest. Deer and mossbadgers, squirrels and pricklebirds.
Blue and gold flowers bloom everywhere Seren’s feathers landed.
Nevander alights in the stretch of ground between palace and forest. “Stay close,” he says, reluctantly easing Seren to his feet. “Just in case—what is this?”
Lord Gevain of Summer’s Edge scowls from a glowing red circle. The magic reflects in his glossy hair. He snarls something inaudible.
A short distance away, a battered Tansy waves bloodstained fingers. “Binding circle. I’ve been reading a lot of weird books. Kill him quick—I can’t hold this long.”
Nevander would like very much to do so, but that isn’t his call. He’s missing too many details. “What exactly happened?”
Seren squeezes Nevander’s hand before moving to Tansy’s side. For the first time, the distance doesn’t hurt. Light still dances like a crown around his head, and his presence lingers in Nevander’s grasp.
“Lord Gevain tricked me into his haven and offered a lifebond,” Seren says lightly. As Nevander’s blood boils, Seren adds, “I turned him down.”
“Incredible rejection,” Tansy adds. “I’m taking notes.”
Nevander’s already gesturing for the guards to approach. A haven. Of course, that’s why the mirror didn’t work.
“What shall be done with him?” Nevander asks, hand burning for his sword. But he’s learned a few things since last night’s duel. “We can lock him up while you consider.”
Two ritekeepers take over the task of binding Gevain. A third joins them for extra power—controlling a high fae lord is no easy feat. A guard heads for Tansy, a healing kit in hand.
Seren steps back to give the guard space at Tansy’s side. “What would you advise?”
“Kill him,” Nevander says. “His trespass is too great.”
And no other outcome will ease Nevander’s rage.
Seren takes a deep breath, and in that moment, he transforms. Like a weight settles on his shoulders, not crushing but grounding him. More than Summer’s immense magic, it is the power of choice that turns Nevander’s prince into a king.
Clear-eyed, Seren says, “I will judge him from the throne.” Then he walks, crowned in light, toward the palace gates.
Golden flowers bloom from his footsteps. Nevander falls in behind him. So do the nearest guards, and Gevain with his forced escort of ritekeepers.
The palace welcomes them with palpable relief. Seren strides without hesitation. Garden gates and marble doors whisper open before him. The palace responds to his will, as it once responded to Haelwen.
Nevander catches a hint of the palace’s embarrassment, just for him, regarding the armory argument.
He scans for danger out of habit. All he finds are more palace residents emerging in ones and twos. Faces mirroring the awe in Nevander’s heart, they fall in behind the procession. Tidingbirds and butterflies swirl in a sparkling rainbow overhead.
Everyone in the realm witnessed Seren’s ascension. The strength of his empathy, reflecting their own hopes and fears. They shared wonder in a realm they may have taken for granted. Guards, servants, and courtiers alike join the spontaneous ritual.
It’s a solemn echo of last night’s threshold procession. A change not of seasons but of eras. A King of Summer crowned the first day of Autumn. The ritekeepers would have chosen a more auspicious coronation, but this is better. The court of balance needs a king all the more as its power wanes.
Primrose waits in the stark marble antechamber. The goldwood doors remain closed behind her, the green glass dark beneath her paws. At Seren’s approach, she bows her head.
The great doors creak open. Seren bows to Primrose before passing into the throne room.
Primrose waits, deliberately allowing Nevander to follow first.
“Thank you,” Nevander says, and the bear’s laughter rumbles.
Sunlight streams through the glass overhead, illuminating the indoor forest. The river is a braid of blue and gold between the outer stretch of flagstone and the inner bank of meadowgrass. Seren’s escort of tidingbirds and butterflies scatters into the treetops as he crosses the goldwood bridge.
Nevander remains at Seren’s heel. His heart clenches with unexpected conflict as they approach the throne. This is what Nevander always wanted for Seren. The path Nevander assumed was inevitable.
Now he recalls Haelwen’s melancholy, the last time he saw her. Nevander would rather see Seren free than trapped by duty.
Seren pauses before the goldwood throne, shining with certainty. “Fear not, guardian mine. I want this.”
“You should tighten your shields,” Nevander advises, because his adoration will always take the shape of protection, vow or no. Not everyone in this procession shares the joy and wonder. Gevain, dragged along by ritekeepers and guards, must be projecting painful hatred.
“I will not blind myself,” Seren says, and takes the throne.
Nevander has never been so proud to take his own place.