“Unless they’re like these,” the guard said, holding up his finger for one of the light butterflies to land on. The thing seemed to have no substance. As ephemeral as a reflection. To test his theory, Dusk snatched the thing—and felt almost nothing in holding it. Just a faint sense of pressure as the butterfly slipped out between two of his fingers. Insubstantial, as if made of liquid. The guard glared at him. “These are holy.”
