They'd come to a stop near a cottonwood tree at the side of the road. It was covered in the white fluffy seeds that Rowan and Loma used to love to chase and pretend they were catching fairies. For fun, they would collect as much of it as they could and put it on Alaric's face while he was sleeping.
A breeze blew, and some of the fluff followed, floating over their heads in the gentle current of air.
Mallin was impervious to the softness in the air or the fond memories that accompanied it. In contrast, his eyes were shards of blue glass in the sunlight, beautiful yet hard.
"You call yourself Wren now?" Mallin's gaze fixed on him, ready to cut him to shreds. "Since when do you have a name?"
Everything about that look was so different than Lysander's steady, smooth gaze. There was no logic there, no calm assessment that always led to the right decision.
There was nothing except the hatred that shone beneath the azure glass.
