THE STREETS OF LYRA were still alight with fae traveling to and fro. Faeries of every kind were about, but Nahtaia couldn’t be bothered with conversation. She was angry and humiliated. Of all the punishments she’d ever received in her sixteen winters of life, being shadowed by Oren was by far the worst.
“Nahtaia,” Oren’s voice was heard, no more than a whisper beneath the objections and curses that screamed in her mind. “Nahtaia. Nah-ty,” he began in an irritating, singsong voice. “I know you can hear me. You know, your silence only makes me enjoy this more. It brings a little more suspense to the situation. ‘When will Nahtaia first speak?’” he said in a deep, exaggerated voice. “‘What will be Nahtaia’s first words?’”
He followed her through the city streets as he amused himself with one
