The energy that wove through Rowan's garden vibrated in outrage at the desecration of what Ciprian had just done. The flowers rustled around him, crying out for retribution in a soft flutter of petals.
Ciprian accepted their condemnation as he stared down at his son's unconscious form.
The warmth of the late afternoon sun shone on the honeyed copper of his hair, which had become completely undone during their struggle. His freckles were a shade of blood-tinged brown that indicated he'd recently been working with death or poison.
The soul that Ciprian had been trying to harvest was lost in the grass somewhere near Rowan's outstretched hand. His fingers still curled toward it, refusing to give up even now.
His son, the ever-faithful Caretaker. Always seeking to make things right, always true to his own heart even when Ciprian had done so much to break it.
He really was beautiful.
