For two nights straight, Wyrn stared at the table for ages. The shock of waking up alone, abandoned, didn’t bother him because it wasn’t understandable. It’d shocked him because he’d honestly thought he stood a chance against a prince.

Muffled voices came and went over the past two days. Everyone carried on as if they couldn’t hear the banging from below the dining table.

Only Wyrn acknowledged it, because that was where the prince rested and without the knowledge that at least the bastard was suffering, he had nothing to get him to rise in the mornings.

Two days now his chores went undone. His mind settled on Bluebell now and then, but nothing came of it—he couldn’t find the strength to stand once he’d sat.

He needed the sounds, the kicking, the suffering. It didn’t make him feel better necessarily, but a part of him reveled in it to a point.

She was gone.

She’d gone.

She left.

And he couldn’t blame her. What sort of person was he? He should have been big enough to let her find happiness with her lover. He should have waited till nightfall and found a way to release the prince so that he could at least meet up with her wherever she was and take care of her. She must have escaped through the forest as the village was in the other direction and everyone was looking for humans. There’d be no traveling through a valley of giants—giants who, even shrunk down, could hardly notice things they couldn’t smell or hear.

That was the reason for the spell. Small, a treacherous giant could see the object to tempt him from his family, but not perceive it. And big, it’d become invisible entirely.

A giant’s eyes were not the best fully sized. There were countless reasons for seeking out the gift of mortality, at a human size, from The Living Goddess—and only she could grant it. Things expanded upon were simply taxed too quickly.

In short bursts, a giant was a terror, but they could not sustain that momentum indefinitely.

Small or big, they had limitations. Wyrn hadn’t slept in two days. Hell, he’d barely moved. Tonight, he felt compelled to sleep here, the gentle thuds lulling him into slumber.

He hated her. He hated them both. So to watch her lover die was the least he could do.

Despite that hate, he picked his head up and looked down to the other end of the table to the only person who kept a close watch of him most of the day. His mother.

The worry in her eyes shamed him. He wanted to assure her. And on some occasions, he wanted to know she did not think him a monster for this bloodlust.

For the third night in a row, she stood and came back with a large jar turned upside down.

When she rested it before him, she touched his head then forehead, silently asking him to stop.

She had every right to worry. It was a dangerous thing toying with a fairy.

The first thing he did was pour water into the top of the jar then reaffix the lid. He swirled it around to make certain the creature inside, that he could not see well, was adequately doused. Once he was satisfied, he reached within for the tiny body and gripped it tight.

Mother brought red powder, it was a concoction of animal bones and herbs. Today, too, as he dropped the fairy into it, it twitched and shivered. But it came into view.

Wyrn could see it. He was sure to affix a string around its neck, one he pinned to the table.

Finally, his mother brought an apple and a knife, stood before him for some time, then walked away.

She’d stayed close these two nights. Now, she could no longer stomach it and he understood.

The plan was simple. Entreat the Fae to seek the princess out, then follow it. He couldn’t talk to it in this form, but he had little recourse. With the rope around its throat, Wyrn could use it as a beacon.

For two nights now, he’d failed.

Tonight, too, it started out fine. The fairy sat, covered in the burning dust, and Wyrn cut the apple to present to it.

Nothing. It didn’t eat it.

He’d tried to wipe the red dust off a bit on day two, going so far as to wash the Fae clean; that had no effect. The only comfort he took in his failed efforts was that the thing suffered—greatly.

And tonight, too, as he waited for it to take flight and head towards the source of its ire, the princess, to no avail, he became frustrated.

Wyrn’s breathing grew heavy, but he fought back his anger and pulled the apple slice closer. He’d never needed to cut the apple before but perhaps presentation would matter to it.

Nothing. It didn’t take it. It didn’t even try to fly. It did nothing but sit with its head hung.

Wyrn brought the knife down, catching it in the foot.

It twisted and howled wordlessly, soundlessly but at least it reacted. He was angry enough to yank the knife out and catch it to stab the other foot as well.

He left it like that until it stopped twisting.

When he brought the knife to it, he waited. It still refused to move.

Anger rose in him, and he was tempted to leave it affixed like that to the table all night to teach it a lesson.

Instead, he yanked out the knife and brought the apple slice to it yet again.

It ate.

That one bite lifted Wyrn’s spirits. Surely, that indicated progress.

He allowed it to take three more bites before pulling the slice away and waiting for it to perhaps take flight.

Nothing. The wings on its back did not even flutter.

Wyrn bit back a grunt. It was mocking him. It refused to obey and ate out of spite.

He slapped his hand down above it and caught hold of a wing, slow as he yanked it.

Visions came and went, and he decided that to pull the wing off wasn’t enough, he’d decorate it first.

He picked up the knife and managed one snip before a familiar presence made him lose his drive.

Father hardly looked at him in the last few days. Today, he sat down on Wyrn’s left, something surprising.

The man’s condescension usually came face to face, not with them sitting side by side.

Arms on the table, Father said, “You’re hurt. I understand this. But cruelty is not in your nature.”

He attempted to take the fairy, but Wyrn kept it out of reach.

Father could easily snatch it away but instead relented.

“I don’t know what you think of us, eating our meals, the sustenance of life, as a man slowly dies below our feet, but know that this—this torture you’re doing isn’t our way.” He nodded toward the fairy. “If you want to kill it, then kill it. If you want to let it go, then do so. I’d have suggested it but now I fear you’ll never be safe from a slow death by their hands for what you’ve done.”

Wyrn gripped the creature, uncaring that it flailed in pain.

He wasn’t going to let it go. If it died, he’d die with it. What else was left?

Father sat up, running his hands along the table. “I do not agree with releasing the prince, but I’d even considered it. But now with the princess gone, there’s no way to strike a bargain.”

What was left of Wyrn’s shattered heart shriveled up. Even in her leaving, she’d caused chaos and hurt.

He told himself he sought her for vengeance. He’d find her and…and…and do something terrible. Perhaps something like what he did to this Fae now on her behalf. But deep down, he knew, he wanted to find her and grovel. To beg for her to reconsider her choice. To bow to her and ask to let him try to win her favor in some way. He’d take a challenge, a fight; he’d massacre an army on her behalf.

The first tear brought embarrassment, but Wyrn truly hated himself when his father held his shoulder, rubbing it gruffly.

“We do what we do because we can do no better. Instead of killing, we let the prince die. And instead of leaving him out of mind, we put him here so that no one is guiltless. We share in that sin together. But know that I take no pleasure in it.”

He hesitated.

And that was enough, because he was saying Wyrn was taking pleasure in it instead.

True, Wyrn was, but so what? This was his enemy.

“And now the Fae,” Father said. “You were an affectionate person before that princess arrived. That was why you were chosen to tend the animals. Not because you were small or ineffective. But because you had compassion.”

His eyes settled on the knife, then drifted to the red body caught in Wyrn’s hold, a hold he was slowly closing each time the fairy calmed.

“I allowed this for your sake, thinking it would bring you some satisfaction, but boy, it won’t. It hasn’t. And your mother’s blind devotion to you has led her to offer up this fairy night after night but she may be contented to let you keep on with your cruel games until it’s dead, but I am not. Look at it.”

Wyrn refused to. Instead, he stared ahead, waiting for the admonishment to stop so that he could carry on with his business in peace.

“Fae or ogre, monster or nobility, it is a weak man who harms a woman.”

His father lingered in his presence a bit longer before rising to his feet and walking out.

Wyrn bit back a swear he’d intended to scream at him. Instead, a cry came. He tightened his grip, crushing the fairy.

He didn’t want to, but looked down at it finally to acknowledge a fact he’d been denying himself—it was female.

In truth, he’d expected a male, and he would have been far crueler if it had been.

A male looking for his own female? He would have visited his own suffering onto it. But his reluctance stemmed from the fact that it was a female seeking out her male and he was jealous in knowing that would never happen to him.

His hands trembled but he refused to let her go.

His next breath tore out a sob and then another and he looked a fool by the time Mother returned.

She was careful to remove the fairy from his grip and put it back in the jar, asking, “Should I clean it off?”

“No.” Wyrn’s voice sounded alien to him. He allowed himself to cry for some time before he finally stood.

When he reached the threshold of the door, his mother called out, “Wyrn?”

He didn’t look back.

“What—what shall I do with it?” she asked, sounding helpless.

His body still trembled. He didn’t deserve her respect, but it meant everything to him that she respected his wishes.

Without looking back, he said, “Kill it,” and walked out.