Aksel poured himself another cup of thyme tea and leaned back in the armchair crossing his legs, comfortably enjoying the warmth seeping in his hands as well as that of the morning rays on his face in his spot by the hearth, pretending utter calmness. He let the liquid cool down without taking a sip.

Hushed voices reached him from the narrow corridor beyond the closed door of the parlor. Aksel tipped his head toward Tamlin. He was staring out the window as if the landscape had turned suddenly very attractive. Aksel swallowed some cold tea and ignored the knot in his stomach.

Everyone had done their best to make him feel a wretch since he'd come back. And they had succeeded. Aksel was bristling with anger, and guilt, and doubt. It was pointless now, though, and no one truly blamed him—except his sister of course. He'd had no way of knowing what was going to happen and, even if he had been there, there was no guarantee Aksel would have gotten the information they needed.

Nyle would probably be dead anyway.

This is how he was called. The boy who had poisoned himself and died in name of a cause he had possibly been lured into joining. Tamlin had known him, Keran had been his friend; they were sure of Nyle's goodness. But as Aksel saw it, the boy must have been stalwart in his convictions to elude Tamlin's glamouring and go as far as to kill himself to protect his fellows.

Marcus and his wife finally resolved themselves to enter the room. They were the portrait of mournful parents: a glassy-eyed, woeful mother and a betrayed but otherwise suffering father. The two sat on the couch facing Aksel, hands clasped together. Marcus was the first to speak.

"You must understand, just a night has passed, we're not ready to—"

"I'm not here to condemn anyone," interrupted Tamlin, moving away from the window to place a comforting hand on Marcus' shoulder. "Time is vital, now more than ever. We must stop these people, stop them from corrupting the minds of young Fae like your son, Marcus. I understand your grief, believe me, but I need to know everything you can tell me about Nyle. I knew him since he was born and I'm certain he wouldn't have done this without someone whispering venomous words into his ear."

Tamlin sat down beside Marcus and urged, "Was there anything unusual about him? Was he hanging out with someone new? Did he ever talk about humans, or mention some place he used to frequent lately?"

The wife of Marcus burst into tears.

Aksel put his cup down on the table just to divert his eyes and give the woman a sliver of space.

"I'm sorry," rasped Marcus over her sobs. "We don't know anything at all. Nyle has—had—been distant and acting weirdly for some time. We had no idea where he spent his time or with whom. We didn't see him much lately." The man cleared his throat with a cough, unable to resume his speech.

Tamlin squeezed his shoulder again in sympathy and declared, "I'll make him justice, Marcus, I promise. I'll find those rascals and punish them as they deserve."

Marcus was nodding; and Tamlin didn't look intentioned to probe him further.

Aksel had kept a respectful distance from the verbal exchange as well as from the minds of the High Lord's friends, but he needed to clear any reasonable doubt.

Trust was not a weakness he allowed himself that easily.

Invisible, crystalline shards as hard as diamond slithered forward in the air and dug in like icy thorns as Aksel projected his mind toward the wife of Marcus.

She was so desperate that penetrating her consciousness wasn't much different from sticking a needle into her skin—swift and painless. She didn't even notice it.

Aksel moved carefully around her thoughts, the diamond slivers spreading on every surface of her mind forming blooming crystals, each one with a unique structure that made it different from the others, each one featuring hundreds of facets able to capture images and memories in their reflection. Aksel's assessment didn't last longer than a shake of hands, and his adamantine hooks retracted.

He didn't believe Marcus' memory held anything more than what he had already learned from his wife.

"High Lord, we should go and leave them grieving alone," suggested Aksel with both his words and his actions as he stood from the armchair.

"Sure," Tamlin agreed. "I'm sorry for your loss."

He didn't say anything more before they left. It wasn't necessary.

Aksel walked outside the house leaving a couple of steps between himself and Tamlin. When they reached the place where their horses had been left tied to a post, Aksel said, "Do they not deserve the truth? You let them believe their son was an innocent led astray when he most likely was not."

"We do not know," snarled Tamlin.

The High Lord breathed in and continued, "Someone once said, death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal. They've already lost their only son, I didn't want to take away their fondness for him, too, and taint his memory with bitterness and regret."

Aksel didn't reply to that; it was Tamlin's choice.

"So we have nothing—again. I hope Suri and your son are having more luck." 

  ۞۞۞   

There had been lots of people present when the Blessed had hit, and the survivors had willingly agreed to let Aksel examine their memories of the night before. It had been a grotesque and exasperating task to go through. Now that Aksel had a clear picture of the onslaught, though, he could rummage among fragments and crumbs of the events searching for a lead, a clue, anything that could help.

Aksel concentrated better when he moved, so he wandered in the hallways of the manor passing busy maids at work and went looking for a quiet place. He halted before a room on the first floor. The door wasn't locked so he turned the knob and stepped in. The light of day had started its retreat but the inside of the room was quite distinct. A wooden easel stood near the window surrounded by white linens covering what presumably were stacks of canvases lined up against all four walls.

Aksel lifted an edge of fabric to look at the paintings below.

There were many of them, with different subjects, different ways of blending colors; he could quite glimpse the different moods of the artist who had painted them at different times. Some of them were florid and detailed, with small, precise strokes; others were simpler but also beautiful in the fluid brushwork of a spontaneous artist's hand.

Aksel's attention was drawn to little portraits of what looked like faeries with pigs' features—one blonde, the other read-headed—wallowing in the mud. He let out a small laugh. So this must have been his mother's painting room, when she lived here.

And Tamlin had left everything untouched.

He had taken care that the canvases were protected and the room looked like it was regularly cleaned.

He had kept her paintings.

Did this mean he still cherished what had once been between them?

The happy moments maybe. This room was full of them. But Aksel suspected there was more to it. He had spied Tamlin looking at his mother, when the High Lord thought no one would be watching. He didn't display the cold contempt he offered the rest of her family; his eyes revealed wistfulness, not hatred or acrid regret.

He looked—thankful.

Perhaps Tamlin had kept a small part of her in his heart—even if just to remind himself of the mistakes he'd made and to learn from them to be a better man.

Perhaps, despite all they'd been through, bad things included, he preserved some sort of affection toward her. Not true friendship yet—but one day it could be. Forgiveness was not a single act after all, but a matter of constant practice.

Aksel left the room exactly as he had found it and closed the door. He kept meandering through the elegant hallways of the manor for a while, and then sauntered toward the library where he would probably find the High Lord. Aksel didn't know exactly how to approach him but he felt the need of a confrontation; an idea had been cruising his head that might be their answer.

Aksel found Tamlin seated at a desk, drooping over some papers. The sound of his polite cough slightly startled the High Lord lost in thought.

"Am I interrupting something?" asked Aksel.

Tamlin crumpled the letter he'd been reading in his fist and straightened.

"Yes—thankfully."

Aksel strolled to the desk and jerked his head at an empty chair. "May I?"

Tamlin sighed and gestured limply with his hand. "Please."

Aksel nestled into the chair, nonchalantly angling his body as to cast a sidelong glance at the words hastily scribbled on the papers in front of Tamlin. The High Lord detected his attempt, though, and covered them with his arm as he spurred him, "What do you need?"

Aksel smirked.

"It's not about what I need—it's what you need that we should discuss," he suggested with a less covert gaze at the papers.

"They're already in turmoil, aren't they?"

Tamlin was still and grave as a stone.

It wouldn't take long. Other letters would arrive. The other High Lords would make themselves heard, demanding explanations, advancing recriminations.

"The only way to get out of this mess with your hands clean is to offer them a culprit, otherwise your competence and commitment will be questioned."

"They're already being questioned," snarled Tamlin. "My position is irreparably damaged—culprit or not!"

Aksel fought to stay down in the chair that felt like an embrace of needles. The prickling was almost unbearable but he would not pace nervously in front of the High Lord.

It was true, the situation was delicate, but not totally screwed. Aksel tried to bring him to reason. "I understand that, but it's not only your reputation that's at stake here. We're talking of maintaining the order—saving innocent lives."

Tamlin narrowed his green eyes on him, nostrils flaring, and willed him to keep explaining.

"These Blessed"—the word felt like sour milk on Aksel's tongue—"have been planning carefully each move, they won't be easily unmasked. And then, if we cannot find them, I was thinking, maybe we can get them to come to us instead."

"Drive them out of the den," murmured Tamlin tasting the possibility.

They nodded at each other with a sneer.

A trap. This was something they could control; not just sitting idly and waiting the next move of their enemies, battening down the hatches.

"Look who's finally getting along."

Both Aksel and Tamlin snapped their heads toward the approaching smooth and elegant steps and saw him appearing, hair aglow with the thick light of dusk and metal eye whirring with amusement.

"Well, well, well," Lucien crooned. "The enemy of my enemy bullshit really has a point, then."

"Lucien," Tamlin drawled. "What a pleasure."

"The pleasure is all mine," purred the red-headed Fae shifting his gaze to Aksel's face, where it lingered a few awkward moments on the narrow shape of his lips. "It's been a while."

"Hi Lucien," slurred Aksel dragging his eyes off the sassy grin of the other male.

Lucien moved closer to the desk strutting around and rested a hand on the back of the chair casually brushing his warm fingers against Aksel's sleeve.

Aksel willed himself to breathe normally.

"Hi to you, boy."

Thank the Cauldron, Tamlin mercifully engaged him in conversation veering to safer attitudes.

"As much as I appreciate your visit, I assume it's not for fun."

"Not this once I fear. I'm bringing bad news, my friend."

Tamlin tightened his jaw muscles and yammered, "Never enough of that, it seems."

Lucien slumped onto the chair next to Aksel's and stretched his long legs propping them on the edge of the desk, ankles crossed. He acted as naturally as he would in his own house.

"How are you?" he asked addressing Tamlin.

"How do I look?" countered the High Lord.

Lucien grinned wryly. "Like trampled crap."

Tamlin's face contorted in a smile against his best efforts. "It is good to have you here again."

The moment passed as fleeting as a shooting star and he shifted back in his stern features as he asked, "How are things out there?"

Lucien faltered, considering, as his russet eye stayed on Tamlin and the gold one roamed over Aksel.

"Guess you already know," Lucien replied hinting at the stack of letters still half hidden under Tamlin's arm. "Not good—not good at all." The handsome lines of his profile were visibly crossed by tension as he explained further, "I came as soon as I could after I learned what had happened here. I thought it would be more useful to test the waters first, though. My acquaintances in other Courts are reporting alarming accounts; rumor has it that a new gathering of all the High Lords will soon take place—no delegates."

This wasn't good indeed. All the High Lords reunited under the same roof meant troubles. There was only so many occasions in which this would occur without implying utter exigency. And this clearly wasn't one of them.

"What do your Watchers say?" Lucien asked Aksel.

Aksel rubbed his chin between his fingers and carefully selected his words, as he always did when the fox was around. "Pretty much what you just said; though I have them engaged otherwise at the moment."

"Uh," whistled Lucien. "And how would that be?"

Aksel pretended to think about it, and then he stated elusively, "Let's just say they're... exploring uncharted paths."

"Always stingy with words," Lucien cackled. He turned serious, though, when he said, "Anyway, you need to do something, Tam. The High Lords are going to use you as scapegoat. Someone's already insinuating that you suspected of last night's attack and did nothing to stop it. They're wondering how these outlaws gathered in your territory and swelled their ranks with you none the wiser; and of course, they're taking for granted that the other members of the Blessed who escaped are from the Spring Court too. Let alone the fact that you had one of them under your custody and he's now conveniently dead!"

Lucien paused to sigh with anguish.

Aksel had seen this coming. People were always more prone to believe in devils rather than saints; and even after all that Tamlin had done to atone for his father's crimes and his own, they would still wonder if he was not the champion of justice he wanted everyone to see. They would only look upon him and recognize a powerful High Lord with a dubious past and a possible ax to grind.

The High Lords, though—they were another thing entirely.

Their eagerness to blame another was only surpassed by their relief for not being the target of the accusations.

"In fact, we were just considering our next move," rumbled Tamlin motioning his jaw from side to side like he was trying to tear flesh from the bones of a freshly killed animal.

"A counterattack."

Lucien pulled back his muddy boots from the desk and put his feet on the floor leaning forward with interested expression. "And how were you planning to do that with no hint of their whereabouts?"

"My sister's working on that with Keran," Aksel tossed in.

"Yes," confirmed Tamlin. "But Aksel was also suggesting to lure them out, set an ambush."

Lucien tapped the point of his left boot repeatedly, and then said, "Well, it looks like a start. I'm listening."

"There's no definite plan yet. Lucky for us you showed up. Want to help?" Tamlin asked.

"Sure," replied Lucien without hesitation.

Aksel wasn't eager to spend time in close quarters with Lucien, but he had to admit his help would be precious at this juncture.

"Fine then. We should—" The words got stuck on his tongue as Aksel began to feel dizzy.

A buzzing sound awakened a dormant part of his brain, sending a light jolt down his spine. The buzzing increased in a matter of seconds going from mere nuisance to outright headache. Aksel focused on the source of the noise, and sent a matching signal down the same route. It fell silent.

"What?" Tamlin demanded.

Lucien was watching him with a perfectly groomed eyebrow raised in question.

Aksel pushed away from his chair and strolled toward the door as he replied, "Start without me."

"What?" repeated Tamlin with more firmness. "Where are you going?"

"I need to do something—but I trust Lucien with the plan."

Aksel didn't stay long enough to see Tamlin's sharp canines flash out as he snarled after him, or the smug face of Lucien at his last remark.

The dizziness had almost worn off but Aksel still felt a little woozy. His legs kept pushing him upstairs, knowing their destination by intrinsic impulse. He didn't have to direct his movements as his muscles and bones worked to take him exactly where he needed to be. As Aksel kept moving, though, something stirred far deeper inside him, where a subterranean river of irrational thoughts ran, branching off into his unconscious. Sometimes it happened that the current scraped away things stuck on the bottom and forgotten, bringing them afloat once more: this was what it had felt like to see Lucien again. The more the recollection of the warm touch of Lucien's fingers brushed his mind, the more Aksel warned himself not to let that river drag him down in its turbulent waters.

This wasn't the time for abandonment to the past.

Aksel shut the door of his bedroom and leaned his back on the frame.

The room was still and perfectly silent—too much.

He held his breath and peered into the dark corner behind the broad wardrobe of solid oak wood and into the shadowy bathroom next to him, but the place seemed empty. Aksel let the fatigue of the last two days wash over him and dragged his leaden limbs to the settee placed at the foot of the bed. His head sank into the plush padding of the armrest as he lay out and weaved his fingers together on his chest.

The quiet surrounding him had a musical quality to it. Not simply absence of sound—but a voiceless melody of peace. It wasn't quite like the bountiful, timeless, comfortable hush of a library that he loved above everything, though.

Aksel fixed his eyes on the ceiling above, and endured the vexatious feeling of being watched. Spying and prying into other people's privacy were his bread and butter but he found deeply disturbing staying on the side of who's being observed, rather than observing.

A sardonic and curt laughter rolled to his ears like a feminine but surprisingly rough sound. The low, familiar voice of Yune beckoned him.

Aksel would usually make some witty remark about her damn eerie stealth, but now he was too tired for that. He blinked, trying to push away the need of sleep and the foggy mist clouding his head, then sat upright on the settee. Aksel turned toward the opposite direction.

She stood in plain sight near the open window.

The amorous bel canto of the evening birds was now filling the room carried by a light breeze.

Aksel had not heard the window being unlatched; he had not been aware of it until he had noticed the goose bumps caused by the cool air on his exposed neck, and the prickling feeling of prying eyes on his skin.

Yune was watching him with an unreadable expression in her bottomless magenta eyes. Aksel took in the clean-cut planes of her face, searching for a hint, and found none. It always struck him as the gracefulness of her exquisite features perfectly matched the tragic sorrow that laid under her every word and glance. She looked like the lost princess of an ancient kingdom with her flawless moon-white skin and the smooth waterfall of lavender hair, a body tailored from the hand of a Goddess to be worshiped and admired.

How someone could even dare thinking of harming such a magnificent creature escaped his understanding.

They looked at each other like they had all the time in the world and no rush was needed. Aksel knew his best emissary would speak only when she reckoned it right—when she thought he was ready to listen.

Yune moved toward the settee as if she wanted to sit next to him, but then changed her mind and remained in front of him, just standing. Aksel didn't feel like being looked down on so he stood too. Yune was a few inches taller than him nonetheless.

"If you want to rest we can speak later," Yune suggested with no mockery in her voice.

Aksel tried to stand straighter as he answered, "I don't need rest."

"Everybody does," she scolded him. "Even you."

"Thank you for your concern, but you're not my mother," remarked Aksel.

"Lucky for you I'm not."

Her full bottom lip quivered slightly with amusement and worry. Then Yune warned him, "Once I tell you what I've discovered you won't sleep for a while, maybe it's best if you recover your strengths and focus first."

Aksel dismissed her advice with a wave of the hand and waited for her account; if he had been curious before, he was now yearning to know what she'd learned—and damned be sleep.

"Tell me everything."