The elf had fallen asleep, or perhaps unconscious, before Freyrík finished washing the blood from his hands. He seemed nearly swallowed by the bed, pale limbs a striking contrast to the burgundy sheets upon which he lay, body tucked tight into one corner and twitching with the occasional shiver. Freyrík longed to cover the poor creature, but he knew better—touching such a warrior in his sleep would be as wise as poking a sleeping darker bear. But watching was safe. And my, how lovely Ayden was with all the spite and hatred smoothed from his face, with the pain and anger fallen away.

And with his befanged tongue stilled . . . at least from speech.

Freyrík suppressed a chuckle and peeled himself from his bedside before the urge to join the elf overwhelmed him. He ordered food sent up, simple things that would not upset the elf's stomach after standing empty so long. Then he dismissed all but four guards, two within his drawing room and two in the hall, and left for his public office.

'Twas time for the midday meal already, but he doubted he could eat—he was exhausted, jittery with a wholly inappropriate but undeniably ferocious sexual charge, and shaking from a battle high despite having wielded no sword. Ah, but that wasn't exactly true, was it. He'd simply wielded a sword of a different kind. He liked to think he'd won.

'Twas a shame the cost of victory was so high.

But that was behind him now, never to be dwelled upon again. No, now he would share his better self with Ayden, perhaps even manage to teach him that not all humans were—how did that quaint epithet go?—a beastly lot.

And he would take great satisfaction in proving it, in seeing Ayden writhe in pleasure beneath his hands and mouth and manhood, in erasing all memories of harshness with the care and generosity of his love.

His brother would call him a soft-hearted fool and suggest—again—a wife or a new consort. Yet the man surely knew by now that both would fail to satisfy.

Speaking of Berendil . . .

Freyrík picked up a quill and a palm-sized square of parchment designed for carrier by pigeon. It left little space for niceties, but he possessed the well-practiced hand of a scholar and could fit much onto such notes.

He paused, stared at the empty inch of parchment remaining: large enough to inform Berendil of the elves, but too small to explain why they should not be sold, at least of yet. Nay, no need to worry his brother over a situation well in hand.

He bent his head over the parchment again and penned his parting salutations:

He dusted the ink with pounce, rolled the letter into a carrier tube, and summoned a page to see it off to the aviary.

"By fastest bird," he instructed the messenger. "Then summon the Council."

They would wish to know what he'd learned.

"Counselors!" Freyrík shook his head and pursed his lips in rebuke lest they twist into an unbidden grin—twelve of the most distinguished military and civilian minds in all the Farr kingdom, all turned to gossiping scullery maids by mere mention of the elves. "Look, I have told you all there is to tell of the creatures, and I would remind you that more pressing issues are at hand."

The air of amusement fell away quickly as Freyrík turned their discussion toward the gathering Surge. His generals huddled round the map table while he spoke of the numbers and readiness of current forces, potential plans, supply lines, coin to fund the campaign.

"Additional forces from the midlands should arrive—" if even but one god took mercy upon their bedraggled race "—just in time for the cresting. We shall reconvene in three days' time to lay down our final stratagem. I would prefer," he added with a flat smile, catching each councilman's eye, "that when my brother comes home, he still has a kingdom to rule."

He dismissed his generals then, sparing them from the day-to-day affairs of state, keeping only his secretary, the Lord Chancellor, the Keeper of the Privy Purse, and the handful of dukes currently residing at court. Talk moved toward the blessedly mundane: harvest yields, the Harvest Festival, tax collection, the annual conscription list, and the wedding of his niece to the second prince of Kali, to further cement the crucial friendship with their neighboring kingdom. Despite the tedium, Freyrík meant to set all the kingdom's affairs in order before his brother's return for the Festival.

The Council dispersed for the evening meal, but Freyrík excused himself from the Great Hall dinner, for he desperately needed some time alone. All throughout the Council meeting, thoughts of Ayden had crowded his head, and he'd kept them at bay with a steel fist. But now they threatened to flood his mind with the force of a mental Surge. At least these thoughts were far from dark . . .

"Your Highness?"

Freyrík turned to the familiar voice. "Lord Commander. Were you not headed for the Great Hall?"

The Captain of the Guard hesitated, then gestured toward a side chamber and said, "A word if you would, My Prince."

Freyrík pushed back thoughts of Ayden sleeping in his bed, eyelashes casting fan-shaped shadows upon high cheeks— "Of course," he said, and if his voice was harder than he'd intended, well, so were other parts of him.

Commander Hákon sent away the page manning the chamber doors with a single glance, then closed them behind him. Another moment of hesitation before he turned back to Freyrík, then, "I beg forgiveness if I give offense, Your Highness, but I feel I must know your plans toward the elven prisoners."

Freyrík allowed his eyes to close, only for a moment, as he entertained his plans for Ayden: gently undressing the elf, washing every inch of him in his own tub, trailing wet fingers with kisses . . .

But he was fairly certain the commander's concerns lay elsewhere. He cleared his throat and said, "My plans, Commander Hákon?"

"As you've said, Sire, this battle will not turn in our favor. The elves could buy us much if we—"

"Nay, Commander. The Aegis will support us, as he always does. And I've other plans for the elves."

Commander Hákon bowed his head. "I would not begrudge Your Highness any pleasure, nor 'tis my place to do so. But if one might suggest . . ." He paused, and it occurred to Freyrík that a man whose guidance he'd trusted since childhood now seemed incapable of looking him in the eye. "Keep him for a short while, Your Highness, sate your desires, and then sell him to the midlands."

Freyrík chuffed, shook his head. As if he could ever sate his desires with a creature such as Ayden in a short while . . . or even a long while. He had no intention of pursuing that line of thought, however, at least not now. "You mistake me, Commander. My plans would see the male elf in battle with us."

Commander Hákon's head snapped up, eyes wide and mouth agape, but he possessed the discipline to hold the worst of his shock from his tongue. "Does Your Highness not think that dangerous?"

"He does not," Freyrík said shortly.

Commander Hákon bowed his head again, but his eyes found Freyrík's nonetheless. "What then of the female? She alone could fetch—"

"No," Freyrík snapped, clenching his jaw against thoughts of Ella passed from one nobleman's bed to the next, forced into debaucheries he doubted she even possessed the vocabulary to describe. "She is my hold on the male. She will remain here."

Freyrík could have sworn he heard the commander's teeth gnashing. "Should we not at least take them to High Court to have their magic bound?"

Again Freyrík shook his head. "I would entrust such valuables to none but my closest advisors, and you are all needed for more important matters just now—the coming Surge, for example?"

"'Tis true, Your Highness, but my first concern is for your own wellbeing—"

Freyrík silenced him with a raised hand. "I appreciate your dedication, Commander." And no doubt Berendil had warned him that any harm befalling his little brother in his absence would be revisited upon the commander tenfold. "Now I must also demand your obedience in this matter. I hold the elves tightly reined, and the male will serve in battle."

The commander pulled himself straight and clicked his right heel. "Yes, My Prince."

"Good. I daresay we'll find him more valuable than a hundred armored horses. And I assure you that when the Surge has ebbed, if there is still a need, I will take them for binding myself."

Commander Hákon bowed his head once more, and Freyrík nodded his dismissal, anxious to make good his escape at last. But, "Lord Hákon?"

"Yes, Your Highness?"

Freyrík paused, debating his words, and finally settled on: "One would keep this discussion private. The Council will be notified of my plans in the fullness of time."

And there would be the darkers to pay when that happened, no doubt. But in the meanwhile, Freyrík had other plans with which to concern himself. He barely waited for the Lord Commander's confirmation before exiting the chamber and heading for his office, and if he chose the public one instead of the private study in his rooms, 'twas merely because he wished to peruse some documents of state.

Three hours later, Freyrík was still pouring over his papers, though to claim he'd accomplished three (or even one) hours' work would be a falsehood. His mind turned again and again to his rooms and to the pleasures that awaited him there, but he kept telling himself 'twas important to give Ayden time to recover from the fury and the pain of the interrogation. Surely the elf needed more than a simple afternoon's nap.

But in his calmer moments, he recognized this as an excuse. The truth was that he did not wish to face Ayden's fury and pain. Nor was he yet prepared to face his own response to the elf, for though a part of him believed he could keep a hold of himself, another part of him did not—and did not wish to, either. And 'twas unhealthy, perhaps even unnatural, how often and how thoroughly his thoughts veered thus. He could not afford such distractions.

Perhaps some time and distance would cause them to lessen. Perhaps he should sleep this night with Lady Drífa and their newly toddling son instead. That was where his mind should be: on the future of the kingdom.

Ayden stopped pretending at sleep and sat up in bed as soon as the prince had left the bedroom. 'Twas perhaps one of the hardest things he'd ever done, fighting the pull of soft mattress and warm blankets, the false security of the canopy overhead and the curtains waiting to be drawn down the sides. But as he'd lain there with his eyes closed and his senses taut and quivering, night-terror images of what he'd soon endure in that very bed plagued his mind.

He couldn't stay there another second.

But that didn't mean he couldn't make himself comfortable elsewhere. He forced himself to his feet, then grabbed the blankets and sheets and pulled, stripping the bed to the mattress and forming a nest in the far corner of the bedroom. Two walls to his back, body cocooned once more in soft warmth, he closed his eyes and fell instantly into darkness.

He came awake startled and groping for a weapon that was not there, but the lack of it didn't stop the guard who'd entered the room from starting and drawing his own sword. Ayden wondered idly what would happen if he shouted "BOH!," but the fair certainty it would end in his swift and violent death held him back from experimenting.

"Food," the guard said with the typical eloquence of his kind.

Ayden followed him to the drawing room, where a tray sat on a tea table. He didn't trust even his ravenous appetite to withstand the loathful stares of the guards, so he picked up the tray, cursing his trembling hands, and carried it back to the prince's bedroom. 'Twas with fair pleasure that he gave the door a little kick behind him, closing it upon the guards' half-hearted protests.

Once alone, he let the tray clatter to a bedside table and tore off the plate covers. A bowl of strained broth, another bowl with cooked oats, and a third one filled with a watery mash that smelled like apples and tasted the same when he dipped in a finger to try it.

No salt anywhere.

"Gods be cracked!" he shouted, hurling a silver plate-cover against the wall. It landed with a great clatter but stubbornly refused to dent. He nearly followed it with the whole of his tray, but held back for the surety that no more food would be coming—and that his hunger would compel him to his hands and knees, licking oats from the cracking walls.

He clenched the bowl of broth in his hands, brought it to his lips and forced himself to drink slowly lest its contents revisit the tray. Then the oats, then the apples, all seasoned so well by hunger that he fair moaned at the taste. The food didn't soothe the trembling in his limbs, but it left him warm and full for the first time in many days. Tired, too; he fell asleep again moments after returning to his nest.

Again he woke with the abrupt awareness of someone near him, and again grasped for a missing weapon. This time, the visitor did not startle. Thought it was perhaps inaccurate to call the prince a visitor in his own bedroom.

The human was leaning against a nearby dresser and staring at him as if lost in a waking dream. He smelled of horses and exertion and summer heat, his hair windblown and his eyes flashing hungry and tired in the rosy light of the setting—no, rising—sun.

Had Ayden slept straight through since yesterday?

And fallen gods help him, but where had the human been?

"How are you feeling?" the prince asked as Ayden scrambled out of his cloying nest.

"I will feel much better when I have news of Ella," he said, aware of a sudden of his half-nakedness and wishing he'd thought to filch a shirt.

"She is well cared for. Her rooms are all but ready, and she is much the better for her rest, last I heard."

Ayden glared at him and ground out the words one by one, like crushed glass. "Last you heard?"

The prince smiled in sharp sympathy. "I've not been by to see her, if that's your concern."

Ayden closed his eyes and sighed out his relief.

"And what of you?" the prince asked, a hint of amusement coloring his tone. "Did you find my bed lacking?"

"In appeal, yes," Ayden snapped, and had the satisfaction of watching the prince flinch.

. . . But he was not here for his own satisfaction, and he must never forget that. "Look, I'm . . ." The word sorry would not quite pass his lips; he thought it likely never would. "This is new to me," he said instead.

The prince rocked on his heels, guilt underscoring the motion with a soft, mourning lilt. "'Tis small consolation, I know, but I had breakfast brought up." He waved toward the drawing room. "Will you join me?"

Though Ayden wanted nothing less than to break bread with this man, he found himself still ravenous, too tempted by the offer to refuse it. So he followed the prince through the bedroom and into the drawing room, doing his best to ignore the two guards by the door, the servant by the far wall spinning an overhead fan with a system of ropes and pulleys, the two gentlemen-in-waiting standing at the ready for the prince's every whim.

A tea table had been moved into the center of the drawing room, two chairs tucked beneath and two trays waiting atop it. The prince waved him toward one, and though Ayden sat grudgingly, he did not wait for the prince to sit as well before attacking his meal. 'Twas the same bland fare as earlier, though this time the cooked oats were sweetened with maple syrup and the soup was dotted with vegetables. Still no salt, but it curbed his hunger if not his tremors.

He'd nearly finished his soup when he heard the prince clear his throat. Ayden paused with his spoon halfway to his mouth, but only for a moment; whatever the man wanted, it could wait until he was finished with his meal.

"Ahem," the prince said again, quite conspicuously.

Ayden put down his spoon with a sigh. "What," he said, noticing for the first time that the prince had not even removed the cover from his plate yet, let alone begun to eat.

The prince raised an eyebrow. "Are you godless creatures, truly? Do you not pray over your food?"

"We pray in silence," Ayden lied. When the prince continued to stare as if he were some recalcitrant child, Ayden slammed down his bowl and shouted, "Don't! Don't you dare sit there and pretend you're better than us."

The prince's hand flew up, clutched round his eating knife, and Ayden reared back in his chair. But the prince's eyes were focused over Ayden, not on him, and when Ayden turned he found two guards standing close, pikes leveled and ready to strike. At their prince's wordless command they dipped their heads and backed away.

Well, so much for insulting the prince in front of his subjects. Ayden wondered why the prince had bothered to call them off, but perhaps he merely wished to finish his meal in peace before he had Ayden punished. So be it—he'd endured whippings that would have killed a man, and he doubted the prince had the stomach for inflicting anything half so bad. And if the prince thought that delaying the sentence would add to its cruelty, then he had much yet to learn about his new slave.

But the prince merely said, "Claiming superiority was hardly my intention." He laid his left hand flat atop his heart and touched the fingers of his right hand to his bowed forehead. Then he uttered a soft, clear prayer of thanksgiving—in flawless Ancestral tongue.

Ayden felt his eyes widen and he stared straight at the prince's face, now graced with a gentle smile. "The Behn Thakka?" he breathed. "How do you know of such things?"

"You speak my language," the prince said, lifting his head and shaking his linen napkin across his lap. "Is it truly so surprising that I would speak yours?"

"But nobody speaks the Ancestral tongue." Well, that wasn't precisely true: the eldest of the elders did, and the priests and the poets. And the military, for intelligence and reconnaissance, but that was best left unsaid. "The language of our day-to-day lives is the Trade tongue, same as yours."

Though of course the prince would think of it as "his" tongue, rather than "theirs"—typical human arrogance.

"Ah," the prince said, "but I have long been a fan of the elder master poet Fehgir, and there was no Trade tongue when he first put ink to parchment." He laid one hand atop Ayden's where it rested on the table, and shifted in his chair until his left knee was pressed up against Ayden's right. "You elves have quite a way with the language of the forest."

A half dozen sharp retorts rose to Ayden's tongue, but there he forced them to remain, just as he forced his hand and leg to stay unmoving beneath the prince's touch. Think of Ella, he commanded his muscles and nerves, and give the prince no need to turn to her for satisfaction. And certainly, by the way the prince was touching Ayden, looking at Ayden, singing out to Ayden, satisfaction was foremost on his mind.

Was he expected to return the prince's gesture? Somehow he'd never anticipated how different reciprocation would be from endurance: as different as song from silence. He wasn't sure he could sing back without cracking.

But the prince removed his hand from Ayden's, cleared his throat, then cleared it again as if he'd failed the first time to dislodge the desire so obviously wedged there. "Yes, well, I suppose we can discuss elven poetry another time. I've trained since the first light of dawn with my falcon and steed; I've worked up quite the appetite."

Appetites, plural, Ayden thought. His own had left him by now, but he went back to his soup anyway, steeling himself to serve as the prince's dessert. And just how, he wondered, could one possibly go about preparing for that?

And by the gods, what was that glorious smell?

The prince had pulled the cover from his meal, and what wafted forth drew the whole of Ayden's being: fried potatoes and hard-boiled eggs, dark brown bread with pots of jam, sliced fruit and a handful of flaky pastries. 'Twas the eggs and potatoes he craved, both so heavily salted that he could sense it from across the little table.

The prince clearly noticed, for he touched Ayden's hand again, which was clutched now round his spoon as if round the hilt of a dagger. "You should not eat such things after going so long without. My apologies, Ayden, for I did not mean to tempt you."

"No, you don't . . ." Ayden stopped, swallowed, panting softly; his mouth was watering so hard he was afraid he'd drool. "You don't understand. 'Tis not the food, 'tis . . . I need . . ."

"Yes?" the prince asked, curiosity and concern twining through both his tone and his song. "What is it, Ayden?"

And crack it, but why was it suddenly so hard to think? He could not tear his eyes from the prince's plate. "Salt," he breathed. "I need salt."

The prince speared a grape with his fork and asked, "Whatever for?" before popping it in his mouth. If he was surprised by any of this, he hid it well.

"For . . . Because . . . I just do," Ayden said desperately. "'Tis an elven need."

"Truly?" the prince asked, this time spearing a potato, his manner and expression the very picture of nonchalance. "I have known many an elf in my youth, and none have ever claimed such a need."

"More slaves?" Ayden choked out, struggling to force down his sudden, boiling anger.

The prince nodded. "The Aegis keeps many. I was fortunate to attend his training academy as a boy. I remember an armory packed end to end with weapons forged in magic by his prized elves—blades so strong they never broke, never dulled. In fact, my own sword and armor were forged thus." The prince took another bite of potato and said, "But this does not interest you. Answer me true, Ayden, and I may give you what you crave."

Ayden hesitated, scrubbed a hand through his hair. 'Twas not that he feared the humans would use this knowledge to call forth their own lightning, for they were both deaf and mute to the songs of nature. Nay, he feared betraying his weakness so thoroughly. His unthinking reaction had already alerted the prince to his needs; if he confessed the truth behind them, the prince might take care to deny him salt for the short remainder of his life. Of course, the prince might deny him regardless, simply to get the truth from him.

He did not doubt the latter. As for the former . . .

"Salt has a song to it," he blurted, praying he'd chosen right. "Short and snappish, like lightning. Other things have it to a lesser degree. Your people cannot hear it, of course."

"Of course," the prince murmured with a trace of amusement. But his eyes and song were riveted to Ayden, keen with interest. Almost as thirsty for this knowledge, Ayden thought uncomfortably, as he had been for . . . other things, earlier.

"Yes, well. When I was doing battle with your men—to protect my sister," he added on the side of caution, or perhaps of accusation, "I threw lightning at them."

"Threw lightning?" the prince repeated as if tasting foreign words. "They said . . . But I thought they were only . . ."

Ayden gave him a sardonic smile. "Not this time, Prince. I was . . ." He debated confessing it, but he'd confessed worse these last two days. "I was desperate. It was a desperate defense, and it stripped the song of salt from the earth around me and from my very body." He held out his shaking hands between them for the prince to see. "Only the faintest of whispers remain."

The prince's song was deep and restless: thoughtful, Ayden guessed, and concerned. "I know some animals will lick salt from rocks," he said, nodding as if to himself.

Ayden bristled at the comparison, though he knew damn well he'd be on all fours with his tongue out if he saw a mineral rock on the ground now. "Your own body requires it just as much," he returned.

"Is that so," the prince said, bristling as well—though at the comparison to an animal or to an elf, Ayden wasn't certain.

Ayden stared pointedly at the prince's plate.

"I see," the prince said, his gaze raking over Ayden's face and held-out hands. "And if I were to allow you to renew this, this salt song, what is to stop you from using it in such a way again?"

'Twas lucky that Ayden's jaw dropped with incredulity, else he might have spat out a reckless retort and doomed his plea.

His glare must have spoken for him either way, for the prince nodded and said, "Ella, of course. Very well."

Ayden expected him to summon one of the handful of lords and servants who quietly attended the prince's rooms, but instead—and much to his surprise—the prince merely picked up his own plate and scraped the eggs and potatoes onto Ayden's tray.

"If this is not enough, you will tell me," he said, and then picked up his fork and knife and started in on the remainder of his breakfast.

Given salt at last, Ayden ate nearly without chewing, feeling his strength flowing back by the moment. Not even the human's stare resting heavily upon him could spoil this appetite. But still he craved more, even after he'd swiped the last of the residue from the plate with his finger.

"Is there more?" he asked, knowing—and not caring—how entitled the question sounded. If the prince meant to hold him against his will, the least he could do was tend his needs.

But when he looked up, it was to find the prince tense and at the ready, right hand curled round the hilt of the dagger sheathed at his hip. The guards and even the servants in the room had grown similarly wary and alert. Now that he thought to listen, he could hear their fear, their resolve to protect the prince at all costs . . . but from what?

His own hand tightened round his spoon (they had not trusted him with a knife), but he immediately forced himself to put it down. "What?" he demanded. "Do my manners offend so greatly, Your Highness?"

"You're glowing," the prince said, his voice and song sharp with the same cutting edge as yesterday, when he'd determined to pry Ayden's secrets from him.

Ayden awaited elaboration that never came. "Yes," he said finally, feeling like a fool for stating the obvious. 'Twould have been comic but for the prince's grip on his weapon. "I am elf. Or have you so soon forgotten?"

"You have glowed before only when striking with your magic."

Oh, for the blessing of the— "Because I was weak! What you see as aura is . . ." He tossed his hand, frustrated at the need to explain the most basic facts of life. ". . . Just me. Harmless song. As natural to us as breathing. But as breathing takes strength, so too does this. I was dying before. I could barely 'breathe.'"

A sharp note of surprise wrenched his stare from the prince's sword-hand to his startled gaze.

"I would do nothing to risk my sister's safety," Ayden said, slow and emphatic. "I did not lash out, even as you tortured me"—he felt, more than saw, the prince flinch at his bluntness—"and I will not do so now."

The prince held his stare a moment longer, as if trying to hear Ayden's song despite his deafness, then nodded. "I believe you," he said, and all round him Ayden felt the tension drain away. "And yes, there is more."

Again Ayden expected the prince to call over a servant, but instead the man rose and walked to an end table by the sofa, from which he plucked up a palm-sized silver dish full of chestnuts, roasted and rolled in salt.

"Leave us," the prince said as he retook his seat, the dish cradled in his hands. Though his command had been neither loud nor forceful, the guards and servants left his room in moments. Ayden was instantly sorry to see the fan-puller go, but with his strength returned, 'twas a simple thing to reach out to the air fragments round him and lull them, andante, into a cooling tempo.

The prince waited 'til the last man had closed the drawing room doors, then plucked a nut from the dish and held it out. When Ayden made to take it, though, the prince pulled his fingers just out of reach, and only moved them forward again when Ayden dropped his hand.

Ayden sighed and tried again, and again the prince pulled back.

"What manner of teasing is this!" Ayden demanded, banging the table with his empty hand.

"'Tis no tease," the prince said, the very picture of sincerity. Still his fingers hovered before Ayden's lips. "Come, eat it."

And that was when Ayden understood: the chestnuts were meant to be dessert for them both.

He let his hands fall to his lap, where they balled, unseen, round the strange fabric of his borrowed breeches. Then he leaned forward and parted his lips, letting the prince place the nut on his tongue.

He could not help what happened next, the craving was still so strong: he closed his mouth and sucked the salt away, and damn if the prince's fingers weren't still between his lips.

The prince made a little noise that Ayden suspected was distinctly unprincelike, and did not reach for another nut until Ayden pulled his mouth away from the intruding fingers.

Rather than reach across the little table to offer the next nut, the prince slid his chair over, pressing his leg to Ayden's. Ayden licked his lips, still hungry enough for salt to ignore this closeness with no more than a frisson of annoyance. And if the prince wanted to construe his quickening breath and the way his eyes closed at the taste of salt on his tongue as an answering song of arousal, well, all the better for him.

The little silver dish was nearly empty by the time the craving had left Ayden. He leaned back and licked his lips clean. The taste of the prince's fingers had been salty in itself and not so wholly terrible, but he made a point to chase it from his tongue with a long drink.

"Enough," he said when the prince offered another chestnut, his tone harsher and his full import clearer than he'd intended.

'Twas with much relief that the prince merely nodded, making no argument. Instead he swallowed hard, rubbed his still-moist fingers across his own lips in what struck Ayden as an unconscious gesture of longing, and then stood from his chair. The bulge in his breeches was impossible to miss.

"If you'll excuse me," he said, shifting his stance and then shifting again, "I'm afraid I have business to attend. We'll continue this later."

How tragic, Ayden thought, and Good riddance, but to the prince he said none of those things. He merely nodded and watched the human go.