You know who you are, Gavriel Sterling. But you have forgotten who you were.
Gavriel blinked. The air tasted like pine sap and wild jasmine. He was standing in a courtyard of crystalline stone, the arches threaded with glowing vines.
Two boys tore through the colonnade at a dead sprint.
The taller one, dark-haired and lean, was carrying a frog in each hand and laughing so hard his coordination had deteriorated to the point where his left shoulder clipped a pillar and he kept running without acknowledging it. The younger one was three strides behind, holding a stolen bread loaf above his head like a trophy.
Gavriel knew them both. He knew them because the taller one was himself at eight, green-eyed and grinning, with the innate understanding that rules were suggestions.
The voice spoke again.
Your first life, Fae Prince. Before Drakenfell, before borrowed names and borrowed grief, there was Aelindris. You were named Tristan, son of Atlas. Prince of All Fae.
