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“You want to video him sleeping next to his dead mother?” he said with silent exasperation.

Krave shoved his wing off, glancing into the hut. “So we wake him up, tell him we want to talk.”

“About what? We need some kind of plan.”

Krave snatched the phone from him and held it up. “What you said is the plan, we want to get memories for her.”

Before he could protest, Krave hurried in only to be sledgehammered by the sight of his Little Saint and the boy’s skinny limbs curled up tight against her dead body—scared and seeking warmth in just the memory of her fire.

His steps slowed as he raised the phone up, careful to only video the boy, now inches bigger in every direction.

Kildare’s hand suddenly slammed down on his shoulder in a painful grip, jolting his winds awake. His mouth pressed at his ear. “Kaos is gone.”

Krave whipped his gaze to the corner, his powers swirling with Kildare’s fire.

“I woke him.”

They both spun back to little Kross, now sitting, sad eyes staring at them before lowering. “He asked me to.”

“Where is he?” Kildare asked carefully.

The boy stood and made his way out of the hut with them close on his heels. Outside he looked around, but his eyes were closed. “He’s looking for Raviel.” His eyes found Krave’s. “He’s… also measuring.”

The sad defeat in his tone caused their powers to jerk erratically. “What’s wrong, Little King?” Kildare asked.

“He’s angry.”

They stared at him, his little gait shaky as he headed toward the large oak at the edge of the clearing, fighting to hold his makeshift sheet-skirt around him. The sight of it brought a protective instinct that Krave felt in both of them.

“I’ll go search for him,” Kildare said when they finally exchanged looks. He turned his fiery gaze to the boy now sitting cross legged under the tree, head bowed with more power than any being had a right to carry let alone one that bore the frailties of humanity. “Go talk to him,” Kildare said before shooting into the air like a pissed off missile.

Krave resisted the pounce of his winds that hungered to follow Kildare’s fire into whatever confrontation coming. He made his way to the boy and sat next to him without a word, letting the silence reveal to him what words couldn’t.

“He’s angry that I’m alive and she’s dead,” the boy said, his voice tight. “He wants to kill me, but he’s not allowed.”

The quiver in his final words brought spikes in Krave’s blood, but when those big tears spilled over his cheeks, it was officially fucking war against that black, throne-sucking whelp.

He scooped the boy up and cradled him in his lap, holding his head to his shoulder while rage boiled his powers. “Nobody is touching you,” Krave forced out quietly, holding him tighter when the boy’s sob burst through his lungs.

“He thinks I’m a monster,” Kross choked between jagged breaths, his confusion cutting deep.

“That’s because he’s a moron,” Krave said between clenched teeth, one arm curled protectively around him.

“He’s not,” Kross wept, too brilliant and innocent to recognize insult. “He reads the room before he enters it. He mirrors words back—to open people.” He sniffed betweensmall, shaking huffs. “He can shift tone… like temperature. Just enough to make you question your own,” he carried on, with undeserving admiration in his voice. “He doesn’t raise his voice to be heard,” Kross added, barely above a whisper. “He modulates it. To be obeyed.”

Krave snorted lightly, brushing his hand over the back of Kross’s head. “Modulate,” he muttered through his teeth. “Let’s see how he modulates after I teach his voice box the impact of my fist.”

Kross blinked up at him, puzzled. “But his vocal control isn’t anatomical,” he explained through a sniffle, utterly sincere. “It’s neurological. Pre-trained modulation algorithms. You’d have to disrupt his prefrontal cortex.”

“Perfect,” Krave growled. “I’ll microwave his frontal lobe and hit him with a tuning fork until he apologizes to you in Morse code.”

Kross sniffed again, his breaths staggered. “But… that wouldn’t work either. He has neural shielding. You’d need a harmonic destabilizer, or maybe a sound field generator—if you could get close enough.”

Krave stared at him. Then, with absolute seriousness, “Then I’ll carve symbols into a stick and tape it to his spine. And hire a banshee choir to scream until his teeth fall out. In alphabetical order.”

Kross pulled back and blinked up at him. Krave held his perplexed gaze before a tiny laugh snuck out from between his heartbreak.

Krave’s entire chest loosened at the remarkable sound. “That scientifically accurate enough for you, professor?”