2

TEN YEARS EARLIER

Moodiness has settled over my face. I watch the flames in the hearth flicker blue, then settle back on their dull orange hue. An hour has passed since I expected Daxeel to toss a stone at my window.

We share an unofficial, unspoken routine.

Our shared constellation lessons are followed by him walking me home. Then I don't see him the next day or night. Then my favourite time—when he throws a stone at my window, and we hide in the willow fields together until the threat of dawn steals him away from me.

So tonight, I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

By two hours after nightfall, my face is twisted into a scowl, arms are crossed over my chest, and my sandalled foot taps over and over and over on the floorboards of my bedchamber.

Luckily, it's just that annoying brownie servant, Knife, in the room below me, a little storage cupboard stuffed full of hay. If he's even in there, not in the kitchens preparing for tomorrow, so I'm not too fussed about disturbing his maybe-sleep with my incessant, angry foot tapping.

With a strangled grunt—a shout I fight back in the quiet hour of the night—I push up from the chair and stomp towards the windows.

My eyes are brown pits of venom, snakes writhing, as I glare out into the moonlit gardens. Then I see it.

Not Daxeel. He isn't out there like he should be, like I expected him to be. But he left something in the treeline for me.

From the distance, and in the night, I can't quite make out what it is. But I know it's a jewel or a bauble of sorts. Whatever it is, its silvery shine winks at me.

That's all it takes before I'm sliding up the window in the pane, careful to move it slowly so it doesn't creak. Then I bunch up my slip, the one with slits that reach up to my hipbones, that reveal too much of me, and so I'm not allowed to wear it out.

My sandals press flat on the ledge as I angle myself for the lattice.

Expertly, I descend, knowing exactly which vines I can touch, which ones I can lean my weight on—and which ones bite.

The lattice on the other side of the window is the one to avoid entirely. Those other vines will tangle around anyone who touches them, and they will hold them there until someone else comes along and has to cut them free.

My sandals are quiet on the damp dirt as I let go and land on the ground. But I freeze anyway, arms spread, and eyes narrowed—

I wait.

No lights flicker beyond the windows, they are all dark and undisturbed. Sleep goes on in the house.

A wicked gleam sparks in my eyes as I turn and run for the treeline. Before I disappear into the shadows of willow trees, I snatch up the silver prize.

It's only when I'm tucked behind the long leafy drapes of the willows that I give myself enough to pause to see what it is.

A silver bauble, a ceramic ball from the human lands.

Paintedsilver.

A laugh catches in my throat.

My grin is crooked and stupid, but I can't help it as I turn over the worthless thing in my hands. My heart's doing flips in my chest, because this is worthless to most, but to me I think of Daxeel, of how he's mocking me with this thing, and how it means something to us. This is the exact same one I picked up in the human lands, the ornament I left behind with a sour face, because he made fun of me for it.

He went back for it.

Then he painted it silver.

I don't know why I want to weep, I just do. The urge is a tickle in my chest, but then…

My face hardens and I narrow my eyes on something in the foliage ahead. A new treat, a new gift, maybe a new bauble? I keep this one in my hand as I stalk for the next.

‘So very litalf of you, blinded by the lure of false treasures.'

He'd been mocking me then, but now he provides. The second treat is a long-stemmed rose. I snatch it up, hungry for it, and shove the petals to my nose. The hit of euphoria is instant as I inhale deeply.

Roses are so rare in our lands, most of them in Licht are imported from the human realm, the rest from Dorcha.

Stepping out from behind a particularly bushy willow, I look ahead and scan for the next. I spot it, beside an empty den burrowed into the dirt, but collapsed.

I step closer and see that my next gift is a nectarquill. A favourite sweet of mine.

If I wasn't so intent on finding every single gift that he's laid out for me, I might smile again—but he's triggered the litalf urges in me, and all I care about right now is collecting my treasures.

How he mocks me…

I know he means to toy with me, but I can't fight my nature, I can't ignore all the pretty things…

I hunt among the willows, until I realize I'm on a trail, a trail he's laid out for me, and it will lead to wherever he is.

I follow it diligently, collecting everything on the way. My arms are soon stacked with painted baubles, nectarquills and regular ones, an inkpot full of glitter, some withered and useless roses, a daffodil, a shiny black ribbon, some crumbs of vanilla bread, chunks of milk cake, an empty bottle, holly and foxglove and honeydrops and—I can't possibly carry any more, but there's something blue ahead.

All my treasures in my arms are piled to my chin when I manage to pick up the broken blue seashell with my teeth.

Thankfully, I find no more to carry, because I can't, I can't, leave them behind. Not when they are placed so openly on the foliage, as though just waiting for me to take them, begging me to steal them.

I'm a litalf female, this is in my nature, and it can't be helped, so when I step into the clearing and see Daxeel, see the amusement that dances in his shadowy eyes, the small smile playing on his lush lips, my face crumples into a scowl.

He just grins wider.

Leaning back against the sturdy trunk of a tree, he has his arms folded, and looks like he's been there, waiting patiently, for me to find my treasure trail.

"Predictable little light one," he practically purrs at me. "Not so vicious now."

I might let a snarl twist my face, one that's less effective given the seashell bitten between my teeth, and all the treasures stacked high in my arms, but my cheeks still flush not just in embarrassment, but because of how pleased he seems.

He looks at me with those lively eyes. But I read so much in them. Affection, adoration even, shines brightest.

I part my lips and let the seashell land on my pile. "I can't help it," I hiss at him.

The grin splits his face—and he does something magickal, something that strikes awe though me. He laughs.

A flutter runs through me, and I fight the sudden urge to throw myself at him, to tell him I love him and beg that he never lets me go.

But I steel myself and narrow my eyes instead.

I'm mortified. He reads that on my hot face.

But he stays leaning against the tree. "Most litalf females can control it," he argues, hints of laughter lightening his voice. "Otherwise this would be a brilliant strategy to distract your female warriors in battle. Just dust some useless prizes over the dirt—then watch them go crazy for the litter."

Still, I am holding all the baubles, all my prizes, and I don't know where to set them down. I should have brought a basket, it would make it easier to take them home. Unless I bury them first, then I can come back tomorrow—but someone might steal them in that time.

For a moment, he watches me. His grin bares his teeth, and he drags his tongue over the top row as he considers me. "You can't put them down, can you?"

I've never before felt heat like this on my face. I'm certain I've turned purple, not crimson. "Oh, be quiet," I snap at him, but my panicked gaze is quick to sweep the area for a great burying spot.

His chuckle is soft, and he kicks from the tree.

Behind a long drape of the willow, he reaches down and snatches something. It's only now I look to the grass there, where I see the frayed edge of something, perhaps a blanket or a rug.

If I wasn't so consumed by the thoughts of my prizes, I would smile. Smile, because he seems to have made a picnic for me behind that leafy curtain.

Then I do smile. My face breaks into a grin as he lifts a basket from the grass and starts for me.

The smile playing on his lips is small, like he couldn't be any more amused by me right now, and I want to die a little. Might bury myself with the treasures.

But there's no need to get out a shovel. He brings the wicker basket to me, his eyes alight… alight with triumph. Bastard. He is triumphant, isn't he? I'm the silly halfling that chased a trail through the woods, all for useless things. And though they are useless, I can't set them down, I can't forget them.

So I know he feels every bit the predator that caught the prey.

A slight against my people, he's reminding me of my weaknesses, but in a way that comes with treasures.

I grunt an annoyed sound as he reaches me and holds out the basket. Leaning forward, I part my arms and let the treasures smack down to the wicker.

I relax instantly, my shoulders soothed, a sigh escaping my lips. I look up at him, at that smile I want to nip and lick. And now that the tension has eased enough, a lazy smile graces my lips and I lean up on my toes.

Daxeel's grin is still very much in place as he leans down to meet the tallest height I can push myself up to. He plants a tender kiss on my waiting lips.

Moments like these are when I feel the difference, feel what is behind his kiss, his love, because to others when we sit together at lessons, or see each other outside of these private moments, he is silent, maybe distant—and he is lethal. But he affords me small fleeting smiles that make me feel like the only person in existence.

I'm starkly aware of a horrible truth.

My love for him burns so hot that the gods can surely feel it—and it's utterly irrevocable.