FSE

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The great planet of Terra Culpa had circled the sun five thousand seven-hundred fifty-five times since the Accord of Jupiter; and five thousand seven-hundred fifty-five times, the Grand Summer Court had hosted the most prestigious ball in the continent. From countries undefined, from spindling roots and mycelium colonies, from bustling treetops and viscous clouds and solar flares traveled lifeforms of every shape and hue. Rippling, churning, the City of Summer burgeoned with spirits.

Therein, Flores’s lithe figure strolled barefoot along the detritus-ridden forest floor. WIth a skip and a jump, he bounded from root to stone; from stone to leaf. His calloused soles met the dirt with a soft thump. Fresh, oxygenated air drowned in his lungs.

“I guess I’ve just never had any interest,” Flores admitted. His voice was breathy, high-pitched, camouflaged by the rustling of leaves overhead. His garb, too, seemed to blend into the myriad tree trunks. Like a voyeur, sunlight peeked through the tree cover and illuminated the forest floor.

Bud replied: “It is not a matter of interest. Every Summer Court official will be in attendance.” Steadily, they preened their body as they walked – a humanoid form composed entirely of vines. Those tendrils continually shifted and writhed against one another as Bud walked, slithering softly, eternally rearranging. A single vine hung from Bud’s chest like a tie. Bud straightened it.

Disinterested, Flores puffed out his cheeks. He pouted, “What do I care about politics? It’s not like I’m running for office.”

“It is in everyone’s interest to befriend the Seelie,” Bud replied. Their tone was matter-of-fact. Two thin vines vibrated deep within his throat like vocal cords. “Someday, Flores, you may need a favor from the fairies… it would do well to cultivate those connections ahead of time.”

Flores replied: “I… suppose?” He then rolled his eyes, tugged at his outfit. “But do I really have to wear something so skimpy? It’s getting a little cold around here.”

With a flick of his gaze, Flores inspected the boundless forest – for miles around, trees arose from the ground and reached toward the sky. Doors, windows, and houses were carved within, existing in perfect harmony with the wood. Lifeforms would spend entire lives in tandem with those oaken giants; eating in their flesh, procreating in their hearts.

“Seriously,” Flores reiterated. Custom-sewn leaves just barely covered his nipples, wrapped snugly around his cunt. “I feel like I’m going into a strip club, not a Seelie Ball. How am I expected to… mingle… like this?”

With a flourish of his tentacled hand, Bud replied: “It is customary within the Seelie to conduct business nude. It is a sign of utmost trust among the fairies of the Summer Court.”

“Are you serious?” Flores asked. “What if you get… yaknow.”

Bud shot a confused glance at Flores. He asked: “What if I… what?”

“Nothing.” Flores then shook his head, trotted onward. The pair were headed downhill now, the bustle of the forest streets threatening to swallow them up. A tidy line of human-size stinkbugs marched in tandem on their left; on the right, wisps descended from the heavens, clutching bags of yellow pollen.

In the distance, the Castle of the Summer Court arose. Twisting, contorted towers spurted from the cobblestone structure like branches, grazing the treeline, hanging at impossible angles. Fortressed by a moat and two mason walls, a triumphant violet spire topped the grand complex. Eldritch magic upheld every shingle, every brick; if you looked closely, you could see the stone breathe.

In swarms, lifeforms crossed the drawbridge, funneled past the fae-manned security checkpoint. Flores and Bud stood shoulder-to-shoulder among the sea of chatter; Flores hugged his thin arms close to his bare chest, attempting in vain to avoid the touch of strangers. A giant lion-man stood behind him, his hot breath involuntarily cascading onto Flores’s nape.

“This place is way more crowded than expected,” Flores remarked. His little feet shuffled forward. “I kinda hate it. Is it always like this?”

Bud nonchalantly kicked his leg, dislodging a tiny gnome who nibbled at his ankle. He replied: “Yes, the Summer Ball is almost always this big. Lifeforms come from around the globe to attend.” He fiddled with his tentacled hand and said: “Think of this as an opportunity to study far-off species. I’m sure some vapors from the Aqua District will be in attendance.”

Flores nearly jumped at their mention. “Truly?” he asked, and laughed in surprise. “That’s great! I’ve actually been meaning to get some authentic holy water. But I can never get my hands on it around here.” He sighed, a wistful smile rising to his chapped lips. “Gosh, this is actually really exciting.”

Bud smiled and chirped: “You’ve gotten quite lucky today, then.” He then narrowed his brow, squinted his pure-white eyes, and asked: “What do you plan to use it for?”

“Hand moisturizer,” Flores replied. Thoughtfully, he gazed at his eczema-scarred palms. “It works wonders on dry skin. Especially in the winter.”

Up ahead, a bearded fae motioned with calloused hands. She talked in hushed tones to a goblin with surgically rounded ears.

Flores cleared his throat and asked: “So, while I’m searching for holy water… what’ll you be doing?”

Straightening his tie, Bud replied: “Diplomatic dealings with between the Seelie and… someone else.”

“Boring import - export stuff?”

Bud sucked in air. He said: “Kind of. Someone is flying in a team to negotiate tariff reforms among the Seelie. I’m their mediator.” He paused. “The Seelie asked me personally through missive, which is an unorthodox practice. But… I’ve been instructed not to tell anyone any more.”

Flores’s eyes widened. He put a hand on Bud’s shoulder and said: “That seems kind of high-stakes. Are you nervous?”

“A little,” Bud admitted. “But this meeting is likely a formality. Higher-ups rubbing elbows over a nice dinner. You know how it is.” He then cleared his throat; a tiny ladybug flew from his lips, dislodged from his internal flora. “It should be fine. Beefsteak cocktails have a habit of smoothing over troubled waters.”

Flores nodded, said: “Of course.” Then, a cry rang out – noisily, the fae called for Flores to approach. He thus gave Bud a peck on the cheek, then glided along the flyer-ridden detritus. Amidst the din, his footsteps didn’t make a sound.

“Name?” the fae asked. The girl didn’t glance upward from a marble tablet in her hands. She shuffled uncomfortably inside of the small wooden booth.

The druid admitted, “My name is Flores.” He then shuffled anxiously as the gnome traced a fat finger along the slab’s surface. It shone cyan upon on her round, pimpled nose. Flores asked: “Why do you need–”

Without prompting, the fae then jerked a pointed thumb toward Flores and barked: “Alright, we’re keeping that until you leave.” She coughed. “You’re free to go.”

Confused, Flores asked: “What?”

The fae seemed annoyed with Flores’s cluelessness. Curtly, she muttered: “We’ll be taking your name until the end of the night.”

Exasperated, Flores pinched the bridge of his nose. He then placed his hand on the booth’s window, asked: “My name? What do you mean, you’re keeping my name? Like, you’re writing it down…? Or?”

Nonchalantly, the fae asked: “What’s your name?”

Frustrated, Flores replied: “I just told you. My name is…” And unexpectedly, he paused. “My name is, uh… huh.” He shook his head. “I can’t remember. How did you do that?”

The fae, however, was duly uninterested in Flores’s distress. She simply shifted in her seat, gave a wry smile. “I don’t have time to explain this to you,” she said. “But this is just how the Seelie do things. Basic security. Sorry.”

Flores’s jaw dropped. “That’s, like, super weird.”

The fae shrugged. “Just how it is.”

“Okay.” Flores then shook his head, began to walk on. “I guess I’ll get my name back later.” And so he strode over the moat, water rushing below his feet. He could hear the waves churning there, like an dog gnashing beneath a muzzle. The sound made him uneasy.

Flores thus crossed one barrier, two, before coming across the grand entrance to the castle. And, much akin to his expectations, the estate was huge. Sandwiched between two cobble walls was a massive courtyard, outfitted with chairs and banquets as far as the eye could see. People of all kinds meandered around there: singing, dancing, chatting. The sight would’ve been heart-warming if it weren’t so disorienting.

So Flores stood against the wall, hand above his eyes, as he surveyed the yard. Eagerly, he searched for vapors amidst the crowds. His eyes thus flitted from one crowd to the next – from fae to dryads to living flowers. However, he couldn’t spot a single water spirit. He sighed.

“Damn it,” he muttered. “I guess this’ll be harder than I thought.”

Just as the words fell from his lips, he felt a limp tug at his shoulder. Flores’s head thus snapped to the left, only to be met with the excited smile of a fellow druid. She was a tall, spindling thing, adorned from head-to-toe in pink flowers and gilded leaves. Her hair flew up into a beehive shape, her broad shoulders giving way to two plump breasts beneath. Just barely, Flores detected a small bulge beneath her fig leaf.

“Oh my god,” the girl gasped. With polish-bespeckled fingers, she covered her mouth and exclaimed: “It’s you!”

Flores raised an eyebrow, replied: “Yeah. It’s… me?”

Exasperated and excited, the girl gawked at the occasion. “Flores, it’s me! You remember me, don’t you?” she asked. “It’s um… uh, well, I suppose I can’t remember my own name at the moment.” She chuckled. “Oh, it’s been ages.”

“Y–yeah.”

“I just can’t believe you’re here!” Flores watched as the girl then swept her bangs to the side, gave a knowing smile. “Flores, darling… what are you doing here?” Like static, his name crackled upon her lips. Indistinguishable, stolen by the fae.

Taken aback, Flores let loose a nervous laugh. His feet shuffled uncomfortably as he wondered how to respond. Would it be rude to admit that he didn’t recognize her?

“I–I… um…”

He attempted to speak, but failed. Against his better judgment, Flores was petrified to offend this woman; he could hardly string together a sentence. Perhaps it would be best if he just pretended to remember her? …No, no. That might be even worse. Moreover, she knew his name. They had definitely met.

“U–um…” Flores licked his lips, looked askance. “I’m here to do some business stuff… yaknow, with my partner, Bud.” He flashed an awkward smile. “Do you remember him? He’s, uh, doing some business dealings right now, haha. W–with the Unseelie.”

The Girl mindlessly nodded; her glassy eyes looked Flores up and down. “Wow,” she echoed. “That seems so official. Things haven’t changed a bit with them, hm?” Her eyes narrowed, a smirk pulling her cheeks wide. “Just like old times.”

“Yeah,” Flores choked. “Just like old times.”

Internally, Flores panicked. Where could he have possibly met this woman? Over the years, he’d frequented tens of druidic circles; he’d visited sex clubs, hiking groups, historical societies, and gymnasiums. None of these memories, however, seemed to include her. It was almost eerie.

“So,” the girl said, and revealed a palette of eye shadow. Deftly, she began reapplying a thin coat of brown dust to her eyelids. “Are you still with the Druidic Authority? I heard their raises were shit this year.”

Flores frowned. “The Druidic…? Yeah, I still run with them.” He shook his head. “A–and for the record, we’re a charity organization. We don’t really have raises–”

“Oh!” The Girl then suddenly perked, her jaw dropping. “Speaking of the Authority, I have some people who are dying to meet someone like you.” She then clacked her makeup set shut, gave a mischievous smile. “I have some tourists wrapped around my finger right now in the Seelie Lounge. They’re tourists, and…” Looking around, she leaned forward; and in a hushed tone, she admitted: “They’re vapors. Like, from the Aqua District.” Self-satisfied, she then leaned back, corrected her bun. “Pretty cool, huh?”

The words snapped Flores from his anxiety-ridden daze. He asked: “Wait, really? vapors?”

“Mhm,” the Girl admitted. “Rich ones, too. I’m basically serving as their tour guide.” She twirled a strand of hair and bemoaned: “Hence why they’re in the Seelie Lounge, I suppose. You have to be filthy rich to get in there.” She smiled. “But I have a plus-one… that is, if you’d like to tag along with me. They’d be honored to meet you.”

The offer was enticing. Imported holy water costed a fortune in the forest… but if Flores made friends with some wealthy vapors, he might actually be able to get ahold of some.

“O–of course!” Flores replied. His back straightened, his fists balled, as he mustered the strength to acquiesce. “I’d, uh, love to come along with you. Really.” He cleared his throat and asked: “Which way to the lounge? I’ve never been.”

The girl then wagged her hand, smacked her lips. She said: “Oh honey. Just follow me, hm? I’ll lead you there. It’s not too long of a walk.” She then turned and began to stroll through the gardens, her plump hips swaying. Flores nearly salivated at the sight.

“It’s all so marvelous this year, hm?” the Girl blathered. Her arms flew every which way as she excitedly pointed at the nearby attractions – two giant ice sculptures, locked in an eternal battle; a few yards away, two fae jousted on white horses. “It’s grand, really. Just grand.”

Flores nodded, nervously tugged at his get-up. “Yeah,” he said. And in a hushed tone, he added: “I’m not used to any of this, honestly. My idea of a good time is drinking mead at the local Honeypot, haha.”

The girl shot a furtive glance backward; it only lasted a moment. Suspicion.

_ _ “This can’t be your first time at the Seelie Ball,” she said. Her tone was matter-of-fact. Her feet stamped the ground. “I mean, it’s so famous, after all. And I swear I’ve seen you around, Flores.”

Caught off-guard, Flores let out a fake laugh. “I–I really don’t think you’re right about that,” he explained. “Honestly, I’ve never been to one of these. Really.”

For just a second, the Girl then stopped in her tracks. She shot a glance over her shoulder at Flores and frowned. Faintly, Flores heard a sigh drop from her lips.

“I must be mistaken, then,” she said. And with a skip, she began to walk once more. Flores remained close behind, dancing through the masses. At times, his view was completely obfuscated; such was the thickness of the crowd.

The girl said: “You seem nervous, Flores. Are you nervous?”

“Me?” Flores replied. He gulped, swiveling his head in attempt to spot the vapors. “N–no. I mean, a little, maybe.” He cleared his throat. “I mean, there are so many people here. I don’t think I’ve ever been around so many. It’s… overwhelming.”

Giving a patient smile, the girl inspected her environs. She asked: “If you’d like, I have an alternate route. It’s a little longer, but we can avoid all the crowds.”

“Really?” Flores asked. He raised his hands to his ears, attempting to drown out the overwhelming cheers. To his right, two nude dwarves engaged in a drinking contest – two entire bourbon barrels, funneled directly into their gullets. Liquid trailed down their beards, dripping onto big round bellies. The crowd was a little too excited about it.

The girl asked: “Do you want me to take you there?”

Flores looked away just as a stream of ale dripped from the dwarf’’s upturned penis. “Yeah,” he said. “I don’t know how much longer I can take this. Let’s go somewhere quiet.”

The girl flashed a mischievous smile. And with a beckoning finger, she instructed: “Follow me then.” And, without hesitation, she disappeared into the crowd. Flores struggled to keep up.

The boy could just barely see the top of her beehive-hair amongst the bobbing bodies. As gently as he could, he pushed person after person out of the way. A torrent of apologies flowed from his lips as he embarrassingly bounded forward, nearly falling over himself with every step.

“W–wait up!” he called. The crowd grew sparser as he ran, enabling him a greater view of his target – a nondescript hedge, cut in twain. It almost looked like the beginning of a maze. He just barely saw the girl disappear inside, disappearing beyond the entrance. With all his strength, he bounded after her.

Breathlessly, Flores exclaimed: “Wait! Wait, wait!” In that moment, he wished he knew her name.

And so Flores plunged within the hedges; he looked left, then right. The path was forked; and if he didn’t choose quickly, he would lose track of the girl for good. For better or worse, he was forced to guess which direction she’d traveled in.

“Fuck,” Flores muttered. He sucked air through his teeth, anxiously wiggled his butt in his stupid slutty outfit. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

And desperately, Flores delved right. His feet pounded harshly against the pine needle-coated ground, his hand gripping the hedge as he barreled around its corner. He huffed, nearly slipped onto the ground, before laying eyes on his prize – a leafy wall. He’d chosen a dead end.

“Fuck!” he yelled. “Fuck me, fuck me…”

But just as Flores began to turn, something pricked his right arm. Anticipating a bee sting, his hand flew to meet the wound, only to discover an unexpected protuberance. He first thought it to be a large beetle – but he soon surmised that it was a bamboo dart, embedded into his tendon. He fingered its cold, metallic tip with a grimace. A garbled gasp fell rom his lips.

His head hit the ground with a soft thump.

---

Cold water splashed over Flores’s face, cascading onto his bare shoulders and pooling in the grass. That torrent left the boy freezing in the dirt; and with a start, he awoke amongst the din of the festival. Rubbing the liquid from his eyes, he let out a groan. His head hurt.

“Flores?”

Looming before him was the druid girl, accompanied by four fae. Each wore a defensive vest. Batons and wands hung from their sides. If the situation weren’t so dire, Flores would’ve been quite attracted to them.

The girl asked: “Flores… do you know who we are?”

His head pounding, Flores attempted to speak. He licked his lips, rubbed his temples, and replied: “Um… no?” Shakily, he attempted to stand, but fell flat onto his ass. In his peripheral vision, one of the fae giggled.

The girl ordered: “Don’t try to stand.” And with a flourish, she unveiled a wooden badge, intricately carved with the mark of the Summer Court. A fluorescent blue liquid flowed through its grooves like blood. “My name is Powder. I’m an agent with the Seelie.” She then stashed the badge away in her panties; a glowing indent burgeoned from her crotch.

Noticing the bulge, Flores slurred: “You don’t even have a penis.”

Rolling her eyes, Powder continued: “Do you know why you’re here?”

“Hand moisturizer?” Flores replied.

“No.” Powder seemed flabbergasted at that response. “Just…. Okay. It doesn’t matter. Let’s try a different approach.”

The druid then quietly revealed a small tablet. Upon it glowed numerous fae glyphs, pulsating that same ethereal blue. Lines of text – long-distance messages – revealed an ongoing conversation. Flores stared blankly at the glossy stone.

Powder asked: “Do you recognize this conversation?”

Flores, of course, did not. With a huff, he admitted: “No? No, not really. I barely speak Fae.” Awkwardly, he then hugged his knees against his chest. “Are we still going to the Seelie Lounge?”

The girl snapped: “There is no Seelie lounge.” She then pinched her nose, sighed. In exasperation, she looked around at her subordinates. Most returned a stone-faced stare. Clearly, this interrogation was supposed to go differently. Silence ensued as Powder pondered her approach.

“I–if this is about your name… I’m sorry. I don’t remember it,” Flores pouted. He seemed earnestly embarrassed by the whole fiasco. “I don’t remember where we met. I don’t recognize you. Like, at all. I should’ve told you earlier. I’m so sorry.”

“I–”

“Did we meet at the Lips Club in ‘45?”

Incensed, Powder cried: “I never met you anywhere! My identity was a front.”

Flores frowned and replied: “Well, that’s rude.”

Once more, Powder shoved the tablet in Flores’s face. “You recognize this conversation, don’t you? Don’t play dumb.”

“No.”

Powder taunted: “Really? Because we have here – on record – you promising internal trade documents to the Winter Court in exchange for political asylum.” She tapped the surface. “These messages were exchanged within the last twenty-four hours. And look.” She slid her finger downward. “It’s signed with your name, Flores.”

Flores thus studied the signature. Much to his surprise, he was just barely able to read the inscription – Flores of Birch Bay.

“But my name isn’t Flores of Birch Bay,” he explained, and pushed the tablet away. “I would tell you my real name, but the fairy took it when I walked in. I’m sorry, but… you must be looking for someone else.”

Powder’s jaw dropped; silently, she retracted the tablet and stuck it under her arm. She choked: “You can read that? Oh my gods.” Suddenly, she looked fit to scream. “I’m sorry. We’ve made… a huge mistake.”

Flores, of course, was quick to forgive. “It’s okay,” he said. “Hey, do you think I have a concussion?”

Obviously not paying attention, Powder continued: “Our bouncer must have confused you with someone else.” Finger to her lip, her mind raced. “We’ve been staking out for someone of your description all day. Nearly to a T.”

More silence. The subordinate fae suddenly wore grimaces, glancing at one another in quiet desperation. Horror dawned on Powder’s mien as she realized her massive fuck-up. And in a flash, Powder had revealed a sending stone from her bra. With a deep breath, she held the stone to her lips:

“To all Summer Court security: There has been a misidentification of the subject. I repeat, there has been a misidentification of the subject. Check all rendez-vous points and secure all egress.”

The glow thus faded, and the fae were left to marinate in their failure. Panic burgeoned within Powder’s chest. Frantically, she wracked her brain for any possible clues. In this instance, failure was not an option.

Flores, however, remained oblivious. He simply shrugged and asked: “Can I get some ice?”

---

As Bud shook the Unseelie prince’s hand, snowmelt trickled onto his tangled vines; it took all of Bud’s strength not to recoil at the horrible frost. And, with a polite nod, the two separated from their brief embrace. The plush seat bent amply under Bud’s weight.

“It’s an honor to be here tonight,” Bud began, and flashed a welcoming smile. “Truly, it is a rare occasion to cater to the Unseelie. Especially here in the capital. I’m so grateful for the opportunity.”

Bud seated himself snugly between two parties; to one side, the Unseelie had sent three representatives to handle trade proceedings. Chief among them was the prince of Cantimpre, who lounged tall amongst his associates. Opposite him sat a skinny, plain-dressed druid. Bud was quite surprised to learn that he represented the Seelie; he was even more surprised by the boy’s name.

“Oh, the honor is ours. It’s always a treat to meet the Unseelie,” the boy chirped. A wide smile adorned his face, his hand extended toward Bud. “My name is Flores of Birch Bay. It’s very nice to meet you in-person.” He then shook the prince’s hand, said: “It’s an honor.”

With a brow raised, Bud replied: “Truly? Your name is Flores? My boyfriend’s name is also Flores.”

Fake Flores smiled. His thin chest burgeoned against the sparse leaves. “What a coincidence. Which district is he from?”

“Gods, I don’t know. I believe he’s from forty-seven,” Bud said. “But I’ll be sure to tell him I met you. You look near-identical. It’s uncanny.” He laughed. “Not to mention… I didn’t know the Seelie hired druids.”

The nervous smile fell from Fake Flores’s lips. He replied: “Yes, well. It’s rare, but… things are changing around here.” He then nodded toward the Unseelie and said: “Oh, and you all look wonderful tonight, truly.”

The prince responded with a bitter, frostbitten stare. A man of few words, the looming giant was clad in shimmering blue robes. A long nose poked from his hood and heaved ice-cold air onto the table below. The prince’s entourage, however, were clad in nothing at all; such was the custom of the Seelie. Like mannequins, they sat and stared.

With a flourish, Fake Flores then unveiled a cloth folder. He placed it gently upon the wooden table, then splayed it open. Two thick metallic tablets shone there, their blue light illuminating the prince’s pure black eyes. The metal breathed.

“This is a continuous record of the Summer Court’s exports, imports, and labor statistics for the last five years,” Fake Flores explained. “Obviously, this information is extremely sensitive. I trust you’ll keep the matter discrete.”

In unison, the Unseelie crowd nodded. “Of course,” the prince replied. “We understand the risk you’re taking in presenting these materials. We appreciate it.”

“Oh, the benefit is all mine,” Fake Flores admitted. “If I’m being frank with you, I’m honored you’d do business with me at all.” A nervous chuckle, a furtive glance around the room. “If it weren’t obvious, this is pivotal for me.”

Bud nodded along, sipped upon his beefsteak ale; he could detect a subtle tension rising from Fake Flores’s body. Hidden below those platitudes, he could tell something had rattled the boy’s disposition. Fake Flores’s palms were covered in sweat, his smile nervous and pleading. He seemed almost too desperate to please the Unseelie.

The Unseelie, however, seemed nonplussed. The prince tilted his head and reassured him: “Flores, you’re doing the right thing.” With deft hands, the prince’s entourage then accepted the tablets, replacing them with a single glassy pearl, wrapped in brown cloth. Its iridescent green surface reflected the chandelier above, covering the walls in a smattering of disco-like flecks.

“This is your Signus,” the prince explained. “You’re to insert it into the Ambassador’s seal when exiting Seelie land. It will grant you safe passage through the demilitarized zone.”

Bud’s eyes widened. He had never seen a Signus in-person before; such an object was to be bestowed upon only the highest officials of the Summer Court.

“Goodness!” the plant cried. “What an honor, Flores. Are you going on a business trip?”

The boy replied: “Something like that, yes.” His hands shook as he tentatively gripped the Signus, held it to the light. Under his breath, he proclaimed: “It’s beautiful. I never imagined a real Signus would be in my grasp.” He then stashed the pearl in his palm, glanced upward at the prince. He said: “Thank you so much. I–I look forward to seeing you in Cantimpre.”

“The feeling is mutual,” the prince reassured. And, with visible effort, his cheeks contorted into an uncomfortable grin. Somehow, Bud surmised that not many had lived to tell of it.

The druid then twiddled his fingers, cleared his throat. And glistening with sweat, he asked: “Now, how many credits will I receive when I arrive? I was told your offer before, but…”

But as the prince was about to answer, a stone glowed within his pocket. Intently, he glanced at its runic pattern; then, he stood from the couch. His guards followed his lead.

“We must be going now,” the prince whispered. Contemplatively, he stared at the tablets swaddled in his guard’s hands. “It is important that we make it back to the Winter Court in time. But our business is not over, Flores. Far from it.”

“O–of course!” Fake Flores sputtered. “I’ll see you in three days. By the World Tree.” And hastily, he arose to shake the prince’s hand – but the stone-faced man paid no attention to the tiny druid. Instead, the prince revealed a small blue crystal from his robe – about the size of an acorn. Inside, an embryo squirmed.

Bud had never seen such a thing before. He, too, stood. With mouth agape, he called: “Wait! Sir, won’t you stay a moment longer? It’s not often the Unseelie are allowed within castle walls at all. Perhaps we can fetch you something to drink?”

But the prince replied with a simple wave of his hand. “No,” he said. “We have no time.” A tepid frown. “But… both of you, good luck in the days to come.”

And, with a small crackle, the crystal broke under the prince’s grasp. A tiny scream rang out as the embryo suffered in the cold air; and then, the three Unseelie erupted into a thick cloud of smoke. Unused to such magic, Bud attempted to fan the air. When the cloud dissipated, however, the Unseelie were nowhere to be seen.

Amidst coughs, Bud choked: “Teleportation magic. Quite – hack! – advanced.” And with a grin, he turned to face Fake Flores. “I didn’t expect this meeting to end so quickly. Did you?”

Fake Flores, of course, was beaming. Like a dragon looming over his horde, he gazed at the Signus in his palm. He blathered: “I did, yes.”

Pointing at the object with a limp tentacle, Bud asked: “If you don’t mind me asking, what did you do to deserve such an honor?”

“An honor?” Fake Flores echoed. For a moment, his mien darkened. “I did nothing honorable for this.” He gripped the pearl, held it to his chest. His breathing hampered. “Nothing at all.”

Bud raised an eyebrow at the sudden tonal shift. “Truly?” he asked. Unused to such a lack of decorum, he was unsure how to act. So he joked: “Well, I suppose some people don’t enjoy their work, do they?”

“No,” Fake Flores replied. “Some people don’t.”

With that, Fake Flores turned from Bud. And briskly, he paced toward the doorway. Just then, Bud was gripped with the urge to say something; but for the life of him, he couldn’t think of anything profound. So instead, he said: “It was nice to meet you, Flores. Perhaps we could go out for a drink sometime when you’re back in Seelie lands.”

Stopping just short of the doorway, the boy chuckled. He threw a glance backwards and said: “Bud, I’d really enjoy that. But it’s not going to happen.”

“Why not?”

Fake Flores replied: “You’ll be in prison for leaking confidential trade documents.”

Bud, of course, assumed the remark to be a joke. “Of course,” he teased. “And you’ll be a secret agent for the Unseelie, huh? Perhaps we’ll meet again once you’re caught.”

The druid chuckled. “Sure,” he muttered. His voice was downtrodden, tired. And he stepped one foot into the hallway. A small click emitted from his palm.

At first, Bud noticed only the blinking green light of Flores’s Signus. But soon that glow had grown, grown, and enveloped the entire room; and where Fake Flores once stood erupted a supernova of gore. The druid’s arms splattered like ragdolls against the walls, bits of his soft brain coating the once-white ceiling. Blood flew into Bud’s open mouth, which he then hastily expelled. And then – for a single moment – everything was still. Bud only heard the ebb of freshly spilled blood.

Then, a patter of footsteps careened down the hall. Before Bud could process what had occurred, a swarm of Seelie agents had penetrated the lounge, fanning out and inspecting wall-to-wall. Emerging from their center was Powder, accompanied by a still-dazed Flores. Wordlessly, Flores worked his way to his lover, gave an awkward smile. He held an ice pack to his head. Bud dripped with blood, deadly still.

Flores asked: “So, did you have a good night?”

Wordlessly, Bud then raised his glass of beetroot ale. Greedily, he chugged the entire glass. Bits of Fake Flores’s blood floated within. When he was finished, he calmly replaced the glass.

And with a huff, Bud said: “Tonight wasn’t terrible, all things considered.”