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Saffron suddenly comprehended exactly how, the way Cylvan originally tricked him into learning arid magic, from the very beginning—was so heartless.
“That beantighe is the only one who has earned protection from my Night Court,” Cylvan whispered. “And creatures like you would be wise to cower beneath what I am willing to bring in order to protect him.”
The way my brother looks at you, though… the way he touches you… the way he talks about you all the time, even when you aren’t there… I think he’s meant to love you, too, Saffron.”
“I would have been the kindest fate offered him,” Taran rumbled in a low, guttural voice. “Now, all of Cylvan’s suffering—will be because of you.”
“Thank god the first rowan witch in centuries didn’t die by crossbow, right? That would have been such a waste.”
Enter: the bane of my existance
