“Would you like to see?” he asked, brushing a bit of dirt from his sleeve.

I shrugged, turning to examine a fountain that I’d always admired so that he wouldn’t see the smile on my face. “I suppose.”

He was silent for a moment, then he laughed. “It’s almost as though you know me.”

“Almost.” I sat on the edge of the fountain, tipping my head back to watch as the magical tree illuminated, its light revealing the stone structure Tristan had dedicated so many years of his life to create.

“It’s lovely,” I murmured, wondering if trolls were even capable of building something that was otherwise. Slender pillars and elegant arches filled the cavern, and it seemed impossible such a graceful structure was capable of holding so much weight.

“Care to see if it works?” Tristan asked.

I blanched, but before I could speak, the light of the tree blinked out. The groan of shifting rock filled the cavern as the rocks settled, and I clutched at Tristan’s arm.

“It feels as though you doubt me,” he said, squeezing my hand and sending a hundred balls of light up toward the ceiling to replace the light of the tree. Little rainbows of color danced in the mist of the waterfall, and slowly, very slowly, I relaxed. “You’re mad.”

He grinned. “Runs in the family.”

I let him lead me toward the palace, the silence of the city seeming strange. “There’s no one here.”

Tristan shook his head. “None of the half-bloods cared to stay, and everyone else…” He lifted one shoulder, face reflecting the sorrow of his heart.

All his people were gone. For as much as the half-bloods shared some of the same blood, they were not the same. And not for the first time, I wondered if he’d be lonely. If all the humans he’d come to know and care for would be enough to replace what he’d lost.

We meandered through the palace, that beautiful structure full of the work of artists with skill the world might never know again, our boots thudding against tiles that inexplicably remained polished to a high shine. Our travels ended at his rooms – our rooms – as I’d known they would, and I sank into the sumptuous covers while I watched him carefully pack certain items into a bag. A few books. A rolled up painting. Miniatures of his mother and aunt. A ring. A broken blade.

As he walked by the closet doors, he shoved them open to reveal the dozens of elaborate gowns I’d worn during my time here. “Put on your favorite.”

I raised one eyebrow. “Why?”

“Why not?”

There was something about the tenseness in his shoulders that told me not to argue. And with his assistance, I donned an emerald velvet evening gown, my fingers brushing against the familiar fabric. With the ease of someone who’d spent a lifetime surrounded by wealth, he plucked matching jewels from the box, brushing aside my hair to fasten them around my neck.