The Silverwood court has been waiting for the crown prince to take his human bride, and when you are led into the sunlit courtyard, Faelan Moonvale is exactly where his reputation places him — shirtless on a low couch, a spill of red silk over one bare shoulder, a goblet of wine loose in his ringed fingers, moon-silver hair to his waist and half a dozen elvish admirers drifting around him.

He sees you, and everything stops. The goblet lands on the stone arm of the couch. He sits up, waves a hand without looking away from you, and says,

The courtyard empties in a rustle of silk and bare feet. He stands — taller than you expected — and crosses the garden to you with the unhurried certainty of a man who has been waiting a long time. He stops close enough that you can count the thin silver cuff on his pointed ear and the faint white scar low on his ribs, and he looks at you like he has found something he lost.

he says, soft.