Page 1 of His Summer Prince

Prologue

Wren

Wren marched through the tall grass, his little arms pushing aside the lush green blades tickling his chest. Bees hummed in the air, whizzing past him as they sought the ruby red poppies and deep blue cornflowers littering the field. Wren had wandered off alone—his big sister Agnes would tell him off when he returned. At least, unlike their mother, she’d only give him a smack on the butt. That wasn’t too bad.

In front of him, the field ended, and a dark forest began. As he snuck between the towering pine trees, shade enveloped him, and the heat of the sun faded. His feet, clad in leather shoes, sank half an inch into the soft forest floor. Moss capped gnarly roots, and ferns sprouted wherever trees didn’t.

Agnes had warned Wren not to wander into the forest for it was inhabited by fae, but the cool air provided welcome relief from the summer heat. Deeper into the woods, a glowing green dot danced in the air. A will-o’-wisp. They were said to be pixies, a friendly but shy type of fair folk who, at will, could transform into human-like creatures.

As Wren approached, the scent of wood and earth thickened. The ghost light drifted away, and Wren followed it until it ascended toward the sky peeking through gaps in the canopy. Then, something else caught his attention: between the trees grew a circle of mushrooms—a faerie ring.

Agnes had told him to stay away from those as they were gates into the faerie realm, but taking a closer look couldn’t hurt.He carefully approached, moss squishing under his feet. A slick patch took him by surprise. Wren slipped, lost his footing and fell into the faerie ring, screaming. As he hit the ground, the mushrooms around him lit up, and colorful dots of light rose skyward.

Fright shot through Wren. He was inside the ring, and it was about to take him to the faerie realm. Panicked, he shuffled onto his hands and feet, trying to get out of the circle, but it was too late.

In a heartbeat, the lights and the mushrooms disappeared. The woods shifted. He was still in a forest, but it wasn’t the one he’d walked into. It was greener and glowed as if backlit by a warm light.

Wren’s knees burned, and when he checked, he found his trousers torn, bloody skin underneath. Tears pooled in his eyes. Agnes would be furious when she saw the ruined fabric. Wren was too young to repair his clothing, so she would have to do it. She’d complain about his clumsiness, making him work twice as hard to compensate her for the inconvenience.

Wren’s stomach knotted at the image of his angry sister. When he accompanied her to tend sheep in the Somer Valley during the warmer months, it was only the two of them and the animals. Falling out with Agnes would leave him sad and lonely. But he might not even be able to return to the human world. His insides churned. How could he get out of the faerie realm?

Wren’s vision swam. He blinked the tears away and flicked his gaze over the trees and the undergrowth, searching for anything that might help. His eyes latched onto a spot nearby where between the bulging roots of a tree sat a boy. He’d drawn his legs to his chest, hugging them, his chin pressed against his knees. The boy was the picture of sadness, and the urge to comfort him stirred in Wren’s heart.

He made to push onto his feet, but the move stung hisknees, and he fell again, wincing. The sound startled the boy. He snapped around, and his eyes connected with Wren’s. Across the forest, they stared at one another, recognition of each other’s sorry state passing between them.

Faster than Wren could see, the boy got to his feet. He sniffled once and smoothed his clothing—an intricately patterned green robe with gilded seams. The boy walked over, his steps so light, he might as well have been floating across the forest floor.

Up close, Wren saw how pretty he was. Even features and smooth, flawless skin granted the boy an otherworldly appearance. His large green eyes were flecked with gold and swam with unspilled tears. A shiny, gilded circlet crowned his head, and long, strawberry blond hair fell across his shoulders. From underneath his locks, two pointy ears poked out. He was a fae!

The realization should’ve made Wren flee, but the fae boy looked so miserable. Loneliness hung over him like a gray cloud, his shoulders sagging with dejection. The fae boy pinched his lips as if he hated seeing Wren on the ground, and without a word, he offered him a hand.

Wren stared at it. Why was the boy helping him? Was it a trap? Fae were mischievous creatures and couldn’t be trusted—or that was what Agnes had impressed on him. The fae boy didn’t seem dangerous. He looked as lonely as Wren felt, and without another thought, Wren placed his hand in his.

If the wet dirt sticking to Wren’s fingers bothered the fae, he didn’t show it. His grip was warm and sure, and he helped Wren up with astonishing strength.

“I’m Elior,” the fae said before Wren could thank him. His tone was cordial, softening his clipped accent.

“Wren.” He regarded the forest sprawling around them, searching for a sign of adults. “Are you alone here?”

Elior’s lips thinned, and he nodded, sadness blooming in hiseyes. “My family is very busy.”

Wren scratched his head, ruffling his short hair. “Are they shepherds too?” Shepherds were always busy. Farmers, too, though Elior didn’t look like the shepherds and farmers he knew.

“No,” Elior said, confusion furrowing his brow as if he’d never heard of a shepherd. “My mother is the queen, and she doesn’t have time to play with me. She’s ‘preoccupied with important matters of the state.’” He blurted the sentence with confidence though it sounded like something he had picked up from an adult. Wren wasn’t sure what “preoccupied” meant or what those “important matters” might be. He had a feeling Elior didn’t either. Regardless, he shouldn’t be lonely.

“Can’t your siblings play with you?”

“They’re older,” Elior said, dejected. “Nobody plays with me.”

“My sisters are older too, and they don’t play with me either. Me and Agnes were watching the sheep, but she fell asleep, and I got bored.”

“Did you get lost in the forest?”

“No.” Wren hadn’t gotten lost; he’d fallen into the faerie realm. He would ask Elior how to get back—later. Agnes was sleeping, and there was no use returning long before she woke up. Elior seemed nice, and Wren might as well play with him. It was much better than sitting around alone. The sheep wouldn’t mind if he was gone for a while. It’d been too long since Wren had played with another child. Though—was Elior a child? Agnes had once said that fae lived for three hundred years, which was an absurdly high number. Wren had no concept of it. He was six. “How old are you?”

Elior blinked. “Six.”

Wren’s mood brightened. Fae couldn’t lie, Agnes had said. “We should play.”

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