Magic can't bring the dead back to life.
Aramel's cruel truth echoed relentlessly through my mind as Harlow and I followed him back towards camp.
It bothered me. How many beliefs can one have shattered before they begin to question everything? This entire time in Ishren, I viewed magic as life's greatest cheat, and the fae, its master. I resented them for it. A wave of their hand could heal a wound, move mountains, cut through space and time, while us humans needed to find a way around every obstacle placed in our path. Even our lifespans were a cruel reminder of fate's favoritism. The fae sat atop life's steep mountain, enjoying its splendor and the view for an eternity while us mortals died with bloodied hands before we could claw our way to the top.
I should be happy magic had limits, right? It was only fair. If death somehow spilled over into the fae lands, it should treat them no differently. It should devour them whole, rip their souls in two, the same way it does humans. It should not be able to be undone.
So why could I not wipe the frown from my face? Why did the eyes of the dead haunt me? Why did I hate Aramel for being able to bend the universe to his will, but not death itself?
The walk back was filled with dreadful silence, and it was beginning to make my head spin. I stared ahead at the silver-haired prince, trying to sort through all my emotions. Aramel said nothing as he led the way through tightly packed buildings, only acknowledging I was behind him when he had to light the path with red magic so I could better watch my step.
Harlow walked close beside me, his warmth a great comfort on a cold night. "You have that look in your eyes," he said, not bothering to whisper for Aramel's benefit.
"What look?" I asked, still glowering at the back of Aramel's stupid head. "There's no look. I'm fine."
Harlow nodded once, a polite habit even though he did not believe me. "That look where you're thinking of murdering the next person that tells you you're wrong."
A small smile bloomed on my face. "There's a nice idea," I said, louder than I needed to.
Aramel scoffed, the first break in his silence. "I imagine you see that look quite often, Harlow," he called over his shoulder, letting the magic on his palm dim into nothing, no longer helping me see the path ahead. I nearly tripped over my own feet from the sudden darkness. "It must be tiring for Brielle to loathe being wrong when it is all she can seem to manage, even more so for you, having to tend to her many tantrums."
Burning embarrassment lit in my chest. "Excuse me?" I stumbled again, and the fire in my chest snuck up my neck.
Harlow's hand found its way to mine, keeping me steady, and I was shocked to hear him speak up. "I do find some parts of my position tiring, Your Highness," Harlow replied into the dark as if they were used to making light conversation. "The second most being how often I have to witness others underestimate Brielle. Her ideas are often overlooked by the small minded and it wears me to the bone."
My eyes widened. Aramel's steps slowed. The humiliation I felt quickly dissipated, and fear replaced it. Harlow never spoke out of turn. It was too dangerous for him to do so. His position as my father's favorite was due to his remarkable restraint and willingness to obey without question. Hearing him speak to Aramel this way sent my heart into a race.
"I see," Aramel said lazily up ahead, obviously catching onto Harlow's not so subtle message. "I am to understand that you find me small minded?"
If Harlow shared the same fear, it did not show. "Her theory about Galan was insightful...worth exploring," he said. "I was surprised you turned it down so quickly. If it were true, it would be the solution to your particular problem."
