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.

"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.