He's not what I expected. I've had years to imagine what may have become of him, and in most scenarios I'd come up with, the young boy I'd once been so close to knowing-"Watch over him. If you must, befriend him."- was gone forever. Dead, or consumed by some fiery monster. Yet here he is, standing in the street before me, his basic features the same as I remember. What's new is a sort of feral elegance, a poise that one could presume comes from his royal heritage. Except it's too wild for that, almost fae. A little unnatural. If it wasn't for his very human expression of affronted confusion, I'd probably be running with fear. But because he seems just as surprised as I am, I have a rush of boldness, slipping my bone dagger from its sheath in one smooth motion.

  I did. That voice again, answering my question. It strokes against the barriers of my mind, a low, smoky rumble. My eyes widen.

  "You can hear him," the prince says, only a slight hint of a question in his tone. He seems to be having difficulty digesting that information.

  I make a snap decision, darting forward in the hope that I might once again catch him off guard. Even if he sees my quick approach and has the time to react, he chooses not to. He holds perfectly still as I move fluidly up to him and slide my sharpened white blade against the bare skin of his neck.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  "I know who you are," I whisper. But even as I say it with such certainty, I feel the strange heat coming off of him, see the flickering orange light along his veins. Below my dagger, shimmery black feathers have sprouted from fair skin. I begin to doubt my decision.

  He gazes at me blankly for a moment. Then I notice a hint of a smile. "Do you?" he asks. "I didn't know we'd been acquainted."

  Careful with the knife, that deep voice grumbles. I prefer him in one piece.

  "It was you, in the queen's chambers," I say, making a gamble, but trying to sound sure.

  "Who are you?" he asks, his tone more puzzled than accusatory.

  "Who else is here?" I ask. "Who's voice is that?"

  He doesn't respond, and I press the edge of my dagger against his skin.

  "I know your mother," I say. "Answer my question, and maybe I can help you."

  He hesitates, despite the sharp blade biting into his neck. I see a thin line of blood begin to well up.

  A rhythmic, breathy growl licks at the corners of my mind, and it takes me a long moment to realize it's a laugh. Come on, Owl, the voice says, chuckling. Answer her.