“Come on, big brother,” Svadilfari teased. “We need you to prune the hawthorn and clean out the stables.”
“You know, we have normal, human staff for all that,” Pyry complained. He was sick to death of horse shit and hawthorn thorns.
“And we have a normal, human brother for that, too,” his younger sister Abasta pointed out. “Face it, Pie, no matter how much you wander around bothering the older fae, you’re never going to Change. You’re twenty-three. You’re Faded.”
“A genetic sport,” Svad offered. “A failure.”