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The squatter blinked, his dagger slackening. He slithered around Nicu, the blade sliding with him, almost grazing the surface of Nicu’s throat.

I held my breath. In my periphery, I saw the knight reach behind him, beneath his cloak. So that’s where he’d stashed the other hatchet. He moved while keeping his eyes on the transfixed pair.

The stranger skimmed over Nicu’s prominent features and spoke, staying Aire’s hand. “You’re a simpleton,” he breathed.

“Don’tcall me that,” Nicu bit out.

A flicker of amusement creased the upper half of the stranger’s face. “Green eyes. Elfin face. Foolish mind. Musical voice. I’ve heard of those details. Yeah, you’re the Royal simpleton grandson all right. Why didn’t you say so?”

“I said, don’t—”

“I heard you,” he murmured.

Their eyes locked, burrowing deep.

The squatter broke the trance. Sauntering backward, his expression morphed from thuggish to mellow. “He’s all yours.”

I wasn’t so sure. Nicu hadn’t moved, his wide eyes still fixed on the stranger, who ignored him as if nothing had just happened.

Whoever he was, he slapped the rondel dagger into a baldric strapped across his chest, then shrugged at Aire. “Misunderstanding, then. No hard feelings.”

“Your nature arcs between volatile and flippant, yet lacking the diabolism or reek of malice. You’re a scoundrel but not a villain.”

“Sounds good to me. Isn’t often I have Royal guests. Too bad a search party’s after your runaway wren, otherwise I’d entertain for longer. Stay but don’t get comfortable.”

“I’ve been concealing our tracks here.”

“On second thought, stay but don’t get comfortable.”

“Or perhaps we shall indeed make ourselves comfortable,” Aire negotiated. “You’ll return my weapons, you’ll keep yours to yourself, and I won’t make public yourmisunderstandingand mortal threat to my charge.”

“Of all the freakin’ luck...”

“What do we call you?” I asked.

The stranger pulled the scarf down, exposing a stubbled jaw and a pair of young lips. “Name’s Lyrik.”

“NotAsshole?”

A grin. “How about you?”

“I’m Aspen, that’s Aire, and he’s Nicu.”

Lyrik appraised our group and halted on Nicu, who was still plastered to a tree. The squatter jutted his chin. “What’s his problem?”

“You,” I snapped. “You took him hostage, you prick. He’s scared.”

“Wasn’t scared a second ago. Was downright brazen.” Lyrik flapped his hand. “Let me unscare ’im.”

I moved to block the rogue, but Nicu’s brows furrowed, a sign that he didn’t want help and would hold it against me.

Lyrik approached. He propped an elbow on the trunk and leaned in, peering down at Nicu. “Nah, you’re not scared are you, Songbird?”

My friend gulped, a pink flush staining his cheeks.

The rogue’s mouth quirked. “That’s what I thought.”

He was right. Nicu wasn’t frightened any longer.