Savannah
Something was off with Lysander, and after three months of supernatural weirdness that ranged from "mildly concerning" to "oh god we're all going to die," I'd developed a sixth sense for trouble brewing beneath perfect facades.
The Summer Prince was acting... strange. Not dangerous-strange or void-corruption-possessed-strange, but fidgety-strange, which was somehow more unsettling than outright magical catastrophe. Lysander didn't fidget. He didn't pace. He sure as hell didn't make small talk about the weather or ask oddly specific questions about my favorite flowers.
Yet here he was, standing in the doorway of the kitchen where I was attempting to consume enough caffeine to function after a night of dreams filled with silver pathways and frost patterns, looking like a Renaissa
