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Silent. Restrained. Disgraced; the basic requirements of being a beantighe. Saffron was, if anything else, good at being a beantighe.
Prince Cylvan dé Tuatha dé Danann—Saffron’s raven.
If that was what it meant to die, Saffron had to wonder why Persephone in myth ever thought to return to the surface at all. He would take her place without question.
“You must not know—what it means to bend beneath me, beantighe.” “Then teach me,” Saffron invited coyly. “I want to know what it means to submit to the Prince of Alfidel, your highness.”
“You are the most decadent thing I’ve ever tasted, Saffron.”
Saffron stared at the ceiling. Choking on his own breath, even without the collar to squeeze him. Falling from a great height, the wings on his back were nothing but melted wax and scattered feathers.
He never should have flown so close, no matter how warm and decadent Cylvan’s light had been.
What else—could Taran mac Delbaith be so frightened of, that he had it pulled from his own memory?
Even if the initial beg of the veil killed him—Saffron would try. He would force his fate. He would no longer bend to the fey who expected his life to be one of always accepting the lot he was given.
