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The Prelate hummed in response. “I suppose at least this way the shade of your hair is slightly less…abrasive. Or—is it fur, now?” Rodney huffed in response, drawing a chuckle from Lyre, who added mockingly, “Come now, what’s a bit of teasing between old friends?”

“We’re hardly friends.” Acquaintances, at best. Companions now, only by sheer necessity.

“That is true; friends know each other’s names. If this is your true form, surely you must prefer to use your true name. What is it?”

Another cold chill, another twist in his stomach. Lyre made him just as uncomfortable as the endless maze of trees. “We’ll stick with Rodney.”

Silence again. As the pair walked, Rodney tried subtly to tug at the magic around them.

It was calling to him, stronger now that his glamour had been stripped away.

The tips of his fingers itched; his palms burned subtly as the air seemed to beg him to weave it into something new.

To Create something. But what he found when he reached into the web was overwhelming, too concentrated and tightly wound to parse apart. It scared him off from trying further.

“Sítheach’s blame—that was your own, was it not? She was but an echo of things you’ve told yourself time and again since that day.” Lyre’s voice rang out sharp and clear and cold. There was an edge of malevolence that hadn’t been there before, barely concealed beneath his silk-smooth timbre.

Rodney stopped, one foot lifted mid-step over a fallen log. Slowly, he lowered it and turned back to face the Prelate.

“I never mentioned Sítheach,” he said carefully. He thought back, quickly recalling their conversation. He hadn’t—he knew he hadn’t.

“No?” Lyre cocked his head to one side, a wicked sneer carved into his features. Something about him wasn’t right. Off, just slightly. His face had an uncanny nature to it. When he tilted his head to the other side, observing Rodney study him, the púca finally realized what it was.

Lyre’s eyes—those catlike, reflective eyes—no longer caught the light. They were dull. Matte. There was no life behind them.

It looked like Lyre, moved like him. His gait, his mannerisms, all identical save for those telltale eyes and the gaps in his knowledge. But this—whoever, whatever this was—wasn’t Lyre.

Rodney forced his expression to remain neutral despite the way the fur on the back of his neck rose.

Forced himself to turn, to deliberately plant one foot in front of the other.

The being seemed to know little beyond what it must have witnessed of them since they’d entered the realm.

Mentally, Rodney kicked himself for revealing as much as he had about his own history: it had been just enough for the being to parrot back.

To sound like it, too, remembered these things.

Yet Rodney realized a being like this shouldn’t be hard to outwit. It knew what it knew, and nothing more. Which meant it certainly didn’t know just how clever Rodney could be when he tried.

“Where do you think Aisling could have gotten off to?” he asked, all false nonchalance. “Did you see any landmarks before we ran into each other?”

“Not a one,” not-Lyre said. “Every tree in this forest looks much the same to me.”

Rodney hummed, slowing to an ambling pace. Distraction. He needed to get the being’s focus on something other than their conversation.

“Watch your step,” Rodney warned congenially over his shoulder. “I’ve been counting paces in case we have to backtrack. I’d gotten up to eighty-six since we crossed that stream—would you mind taking over for a bit?”

“Eighty-seven,” it said aloud before resuming the count silently.

“What do you think Aisling saw? I hate to imagine.”

“Something to do with the king, if I had to wager a guess.” Its speech was slightly slower now, a bit more stilted as it concentrated on the ground.

Rodney hummed. “Could be. How many steps are you up to?”

“Ninety-six,” not-Lyre grumbled. It was beginning to get irritated. Rodney smirked.

“And Raif, what do you think he saw? I’m sure a soldier as experienced as he surely has any number of nightmares— fantasies— that could have played out.

” That, even more so than what Aisling may have seen, he wasn’t keen on picturing.

The amount of blood alone would likely be enough to make him vomit.

“One hundred and three ,” it enunciated, talking over Rodney now.

“What about the High Prelate?” Though his heart raced in his throat, Rodney’s voice came out even. He let the question hang in the air for a beat. Then another. Still, the being didn’t respond. So he cleared his throat and added, “That would be you, Lyre. ”

The way Rodney said the name—the emphasis he put on it—he was sure the being knew. It had to.

The forest fell quiet as the footsteps behind Rodney stuttered, then halted altogether. Rodney paused, too, but refused to turn around. He didn’t want to see the look of pure rage he imagined it wore now as he said, “You’re not Lyre, are you?”

The being didn’t argue, didn’t curse or scream or fight. Just stood silent behind Rodney. Slowly, he let his hand drop to the hilt of the thin sword that hung from his belt. He didn’t want to use it—he really didn’t want to use it—but he would if he had to.

A harsh breeze drew frigid fingers through Rodney’s fur, scraping down the back of his neck before it tore off into the underbrush with a loud, whooshing roar. He could feel it then: whatever it was had gone. Still, he didn’t turn around, but continued on.