The afternoon sun bathed Mosswick in a golden haze, the light catching the rippling grass surrounding the village, broken only by the jutting stones and rolling hills that cradled the village. Liora walked toward the market square, her footsteps uneven, her mind elsewhere.

  Danica would be waiting for her at the edge of the forest. If she hurried, she might still have time to finish her chores—hopefully without her aunt finding out.

  The memory of her last punishment sent a shiver skittering down her spine. The cold shed, the restless night, the anger in her aunt’s voice—it was enough to make her chest tighten.

  But the pull of the forest's secret was too strong. It had haunted her thoughts for days, filling every quiet moment with a gnawing curiosity. Every meeting with Danica was the same—whispered conversations, stolen glances, the thrill of something forbidden. But they had to be discreet, lest they fall victim to the villager's contempt.

  Today was their only chance. Both of them had finally enough time to slip away, and if she didn’t go now, she might never see it again.

  Liora clenched her fists. Her heart pounded as her gaze darted between the path to the market square and the road leading out of the village.

  No more hesitation.

  With a steadying breath, she took off running, her skirts catching on the uneven ground as she bolted toward the forest.

  Liora dashed toward the edge of town, the loose dirt kicking up and speckling the hem of her dress. Her thoughts raced as quickly as her feet, each step driven by the hope—no, the thrill—that she might see it again.

  She slowed down upon reaching the outskirts of town.

  There, a petite figure leaned against a birch tree. Chestnut curls fluttered in the wind, revealing large, childlike brown eyes locking onto hers. Impatience was etched onto her normally soft features, further accentuated by tightly folded arms and a steady tapping foot against the loose dirt.

  “About time,” Danica said, her tone sharp yet not unkind. Her face revealed a hint of relief, though she kept her expression sour. “I really thought you had chickened out.”

  Liora stopped short, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Chickened out? Like the time you ditched me to chase after Otis at the midsummer feast?”

  Danica’s jaw dropped momentarily, but a sheepish grin quickly spread across her face. “That was one time!” she protested, though the pink in her cheeks betrayed her embarrassment. “And besides, Otis turned out to be dull as dirt.”

  Liora smirked, folding her arms. “Still didn’t stop you from running off without a word.”

  Danica rolled her eyes but softened, her posture relaxing. “Alright, fair point. But you’re here now, so let’s not waste time.” Her expression brightened. “I think it’s still there—come on!” She reached for Liora’s arm, tugging her forward with an energy that was hard to resist.

  Liora’s excitement swelled as they dashed along the familiar trail at the forest’s edge. The path wound up a gentle hill, shaded by a canopy of trees, and dipped over a fallen log half-covered in moss. She stumbled slightly but caught herself, heart racing as much from anticipation as from the run. The dense greenery parted at last, revealing the thicket of unusually large mulberry bushes she knew so well.

  Liora’s gaze flicked to the dark, ripened fruit dangling from the branches, and for a fleeting moment, she remembered how she’d often lingered here to pluck the berries. Their sweet, tart flavor had been her favorite since childhood, and her fingers still bore faint stains from her last indulgence.

  But today wasn’t for lingering. She pushed past the bushes, her pulse quickening as they neared their destination.

  Liora slowed to a stop. Still breathing heavily, she began to take in the scenery.

  The small pond was still and glassy, its surface dappled with sunlight that danced across the water. Ferns and wildflowers framed its edges, their colors softened by the amber light filtering through the trees above.

  Danica paused beside her, glancing around before raising a hand to her lips. “Shh. Don’t be a lout, Li—we don’t want to scare it.”

  Liora nodded, swallowing her heavy breaths as they crept closer to the pond. The air felt alive with quiet anticipation, as though the forest itself were holding its breath.

  Danica reached into her satchel, her fingers softly rustling through its contents. After a few moments, she pulled out a small ocarina. Its smooth, ivory-colored surface caught the light. Danica's countless stories reminded Liora of this instrument's peculiar origin–carved from the bone of an ox. Danica had told her the story behind it a dozen times.

  A gentle, harmonic melody floated through the still forest air as Danica blew softly into her instrument, her fingers dancing skillfully over its toneholes.

  Liora recognized the song immediately. It was a lullaby—one that every mother in the village had sung to their children at least once. Danica had confessed it was the first and only tune she’d ever learned to play, and though simple, it carried a comforting weight. Though she couldn’t recall her own mother’s voice, she remembered her aunt’s. On warm summer nights, when sleep refused to come, Maris would hum the lullaby softly, her voice warm and soothing. Around her, the forest remained still, its quiet broken only by the music.

  She lowered herself to the edge of the water, her eyes on the pond’s surface, scanning for any movement. Excitement bubbled up once more, her breath appearing shallow and rapid once again. Danica had warned her to stay calm, but the anticipation made it too difficult to steady herself.

  Then it appeared.

  Initially, all they could see was a small hump breaking the surface tension of the water. Then suddenly, the full creature came into view.

  It was no bigger than Liora’s palm. Its eyes, faceted like a dragonfly’s, caught the light in mesmerizing prisms of color. Its skin, velvet-smooth with faintly glowing veins running just beneath the surface, pulsed softly as though it had a life of its own. A short, curled tail swayed gently behind it, adding an almost playful quality to its movements.

  Mushrooms, no larger than that of a blackberry's seed, grew from its back, their faint blue radiance casting delicate patterns on the ground below. The markings across its face—intricate and geometric—seemed to shimmer in rhythm with the mushrooms' light.

  The glowing creature approached them, moving with a fluid grace that wasn’t quite a hop but something smoother, as though it glided just above the water’s edge. Though its expressionless eyes gave no clues, Liora felt inexplicably certain that it was happy to see them.

  When its gaze met hers, time seemed to slow. Those eyes—twin orbs of fractured glass—held her captive. Thousands of tiny lenses shimmered with hints of metallic green and blue, shifting and refracting like sunlight dancing on rippling water. Liora couldn’t look away. Her breath caught, her chest tightening as the otherworldly beauty of the creature overwhelmed her. For a moment, the forest around her fell away, leaving only the two of them, locked in a wondrous connection.

  Questions flooded her mind like a rushing stream. How could something so extraordinary exist in a place as ordinary as Mosswick? Was it a rare creature no one had ever seen before? Its glowing markings and fluid movements seemed almost magical, but surely there was some explanation. The thought of uncovering its secrets sent a flicker of determination through her awe.

  If only there were someone in the village who could tell me...

  Her mind lingered for a moment on the distant tales of Kohol's great libraries, where knowledge of the wider world awaited. But that dream felt just out of reach.

  Thoughts scattered by a sharp poke to the ribs, Liora met widened brown eyes. Danica's expression communicated more than words ever could. On their last visit, her failed attempt to reach out to the creature led to its retreat into the safety of the water's depths. Now, it was Liora's turn.

  Liora gingerly extended her hand, locking eyes with the creature once more.

  It hesitated, its multifaceted eyes flicking slightly from side to side, as though weighing its decision.

  Liora glanced at her friend, whose knees sank deep into the muddy shore, her posture leaning forward with barely contained excitement. Danica’s eyes sparkled with curiosity, her breath held as though the slightest sound might break the spell, her gaze fixed intently on the creature before them.

  Returning her attention to the creature, Liora found its glittering eyes fixed onto hers. Then, with a fluid and unexpected motion, it leaped.

  The creature landed on Liora’s palm, its velvet-smooth skin cool and damp against her hand. It bent down, its tiny tongue darting out to lick the inside of her wrist.

  Its glowing markings captivated her, a blue light pulsating faintly within them. It hopped onto her forearm, its small, strange tongue brushing against her skin again. Liora pressed her lips tightly together, trying desperately to suppress a laugh as the ticklish sensation danced up her arm.

  Her gaze shifted to the mushrooms sprouting from its back, where something extraordinary was happening. With each lick, their soft light brightened, shades of blue dancing whimsically onto the forest's floor. Her arm's hair stood on edge, goosebumps sprouting through her flesh. The air felt charged. Alive.

  But the licks grew wetter, stickier, the sensation both strange and overwhelming. A giggle escaped her before she could stop it, her hand darting up to cover her mouth—too late.

  Startled, the creature froze in place, then sprang off her arm, vanishing back into the pond with a small splash. Its glow faded beneath the surface, leaving ripples that shimmered faintly in the dim light.

  Liora turned to Danica, her eyes wide with amazement.

  “I’m sorry, Dani,” Liora said, with a sheepish smile. “I couldn’t help it—it tickled so much!”

  Danica’s brow furrowed for a moment, but then her lips quivered into a grin, and a soft chuckle escaped. “Ticklish or not, Li, you’re the only one it trusts. That’s got to mean somethin’, doesn’t it?”

  Liora glanced at the now-still pond, the ripples fading into the glassy surface. “Maybe it thinks I’m food,” she said, her tone teasing but thoughtful. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a creature act like that before.”

  Danica laughed, shaking her head. “Only you could turn a pond beast into a friend.”

  "We should name it!" Liora said excitedly.

  Danica scrunched her brow quizzically.

  "What should we name it?"

  "Well, it glows…" Liora said, pursing her lips.

  "And it looks like a weird toad," continued Danica.

  "Glowtoad!" they said in unison.

  The two girls lingered by the water, sharing quiet laughter and recounting the moment in hushed voices. Shadows began to shift across the clearing as the sun dipped lower in the sky. The girls gasped as they became aware of how long they’d been gone

  Liora sighed and stood, brushing dirt from her skirt. “We should go. Your ma will skin me if I keep you out much longer.”

  Danica nodded reluctantly, her smile softening. “And Maris won’t be thrilled either.” She cast one last glance at the pond before tugging on Liora’s arm. “Come on, before we’re both in for it.”

  The duo rushed out of the clearing, stumbling through the bushes in their haste. They hopped over the fallen log and almost rolled all the way down the hill.

  As they finally emerged from the forest, they paused to catch their breath. They looked each other up and down, eyes widening as they each realized how messy their escapade had rendered them. Danica’s mop of matted hair bore a twig, poking out of her tightly bound ponytail. Her dress was smeared with dirt, and her shoes were coated in grime.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  By Danica’s amused smirk, Liora guessed she didn’t look much better.

  Luckily, Dalke’s cottage was nearby, and Liora knew he always kept a clean wash bin just outside the door.

  The two girls trudged up the path to the cottage. Dalke’s visitor, Brynnor—a man known for skinning animals right on the front stoop—was thankfully nowhere in sight.

  They splashed water on their faces and dresses, carefully picking out the twigs and brushing off as much dirt as they could.

  Once satisfied, they hurried back toward the center of town.

  At the edge of the square, Danica wrapped Liora in a quick hug before darting off toward her home. “Say hi to yer aunt for me!” she called over her shoulder, her tone teasing enough to make Liora wonder if she meant it.

  Liora lingered for a few seconds, watching Danica disappear around the corner. She could hear the noise of the day’s bustle coming from the market square—laughter, conversation, the clatter of wheels on cobblestones. She exhaled slowly, letting the familiar sounds draw her back into the rhythm of village life.

  The rich smell of baked goods and herbs wafted from the food stalls, but beneath it all lingered the familiar musk of the grazing sheep in the nearby pasture. Around her, the market buzzed with life: the clink of coins exchanging hands, the hum of chatter, and the occasional bark of a vendor calling out their wares.

  Her throat parched, she decided to have a swill of water from the nearby well. As she approached it, her reflection caught in a patch of still water. Loose strands of black hair clung to her forehead, damp with moisture. She reached up and smoothed them back, her hand lingering at her temple. She knew that the sweating was not only due to the exertion, yet she could not understand its cause. Her dark green eyes, flecked with gold, stared back at her, filled with a wariness she hadn’t yet grown used to seeing.

  “Liora, dear!” A voice called from one of the stalls. She turned to see Old Wenna, her small figure nearly hidden behind crates of apples and potatoes. “Come try one of these!” Wenna tossed an apple her way, and Liora caught it, the cool skin smooth against her damp palms.

  “Thank you, Wenna,” Liora said, offering a small smile. She wiped her hand on her skirt before taking a bite, the tartness making her mouth pucker.

  “Ah, yer welcome,” Wenna said with a wink. “It’s the least I can do for such a nice lass as yerself. Ye’ll be at the festival tomorrow, won’t ye?”

  Liora hesitated, her grip tightening on the apple. “I’m not sure,” she murmured. “I have chores to finish.”

  “Chores?” Wenna scoffed, waving a hand. “Ye’ve got to enjoy yerself sometimes, girl. It’s not good to stay cooped up.”

  Before Liora could respond, a loud crash echoed across the square. She turned to see Jonnan, the carpenter’s apprentice, crouching beside a toppled crate of nails, hurriedly trying to gather the nails that had scattered all around him. His blond hair fell into his eyes as he worked, and his face flushed under the glances of onlookers.

  “Need a hand, Jonnan?” Liora called, stepping forward instinctively.

  He looked up, startled, then grinned sheepishly. “Ah, Liora. That’d be kind of ye.” He scratched the back of his neck, clearly embarrassed. “These nails have a mind of their own.”

  Setting her satchel down, Liora crouched beside him and began picking up the nails. “You really ought to tie the crates down better,” she teased lightly, brushing her damp hair from her forehead.

  “Don’t I know it,” Jonnan muttered. “The cart hit a bump near the square, and here we are.”

  As they worked, Jonnan glanced at her. “Ye coming to the festival tomorrow? I heard there’s going to be music—good music. I heard a travelling fiddler is staying at the inn.”

  Liora hesitated, her fingers lingering on a nail. “I don’t know. Lots of chores to finish.”

  “Chores,” Jonnan repeated with a chuckle, shaking his head. “You always say that. You’ll come, though, won’t you? You should. It’ll be fun.”

  Her cheeks warmed at his tone, her heart skipping slightly at the way he phrased it. Was he asking her as a friend? Or was there something more? She wasn’t sure. She glanced at him quickly, hoping for a sign, but his attention was on the nails, his expression casual.

  Liora bit her lip, a flicker of disappointment sparking in her chest. Why couldn’t he just ask her properly? She could feel the words on the tip of her tongue, but her nerves tangled them into knots. “Maybe,” she said softly. “If I have time.”

  Jonnan reached for the crate, brushing against her hand as they both placed the nails inside. “Well, I’ll save you a spot by the bonfire, just in case.”

  Her chest tightened, hope flickering to life again, but his tone remained so nonchalant that she wasn’t sure if it was meant as more than kindness. She forced a smile, standing and brushing dirt from her hands. “Thanks, Jonnan. I’ll think about it.”

  As she turned to leave, Jonnan’s voice stopped her. “Liora, you ever take a good look at that boulder near yer house?”

  She blinked, surprised by the question. “The boulder? What about it?”

  “I swear I saw it glow once. Just for a heartbeat, like the light caught it strange. But it was evening, and the sun was nearly gone.”

  Liora’s stomach knotted. She’d dismissed his talk of the glowing boulder before, but the idea lingered uncomfortably in her mind. “Probably just the sunlight,” she said, forcing a casual tone.

  Jonnan’s gaze was steady. “Maybe. But it weren’t the first time.”

  She adjusted the strap of her satchel, a nervous energy building in her chest. “If yer a good neighbor, Jonnan, ye’ll keep it to yerself.”

  His grin faltered slightly, but he nodded. “Aye. Just thought ye might want to know.”

  Before she could respond, her uncle Rannick’s voice cut through the square. “Liora!” he called, standing in the smithy doorway with his hands blackened from the forge.

  Liora grabbed her satchel, nodding quickly to Jonnan. “I have to go. See you around.”

  Jonnan nodded, his grin returning as he waved her off. “Aye. Don’t keep yer uncle waiting.”

  As she walked away, her thoughts lingered on their conversation. Did he mean anything by it? Or was she just fooling herself? The words “save you a spot by the bonfire” echoed in her mind, a mixture of hope and frustration battling within her. She shook her head, brushing the thoughts away. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t going to the festival. Not unless someone truly asked her.

  As she walked toward Rannick, Liora glanced back briefly to see Jonnan returning to his cart, his movements still a bit awkward but determined. She smiled faintly to herself, tucking the memory away as her thoughts drifted to the festival—and the chance to see Jonnan again.

  “Yer aunt needs ya back at the house. Ye go on now.” His speech carried the distinctive cadence of the Grissin dialect, local to the area. The words flowed together in a fast, run-on rhythm, lending a casual warmth to his tone. It was a dialect that made every sentence feel familiar and conversational, as though it belonged to a shared memory of village life.

  Liora hesitated but nodded, adjusting the strap of the satchel slung over her shoulder. “Did she say why?” she asked, her voice soft, careful.

  “She didn’t,” Rannick replied, his brow furrowing. “But ye know Maris. Probably somethin’ to do with those chickens again.” He shook his head, muttering under his breath about stubborn hens, before ducking back into the smithy.

  Liora stood there for a moment, absentmindedly nibbling on her apple. Then it hit her.

  Apples. She was supposed to buy apples.

  A knot of panic twisted in her chest as she turned on her heel, hurrying back toward Old Wenna’s stall. The older woman looked up at her approach, her lined face breaking into a knowing smile.

  “Forget somethin’, did ye?” Wenna asked, already reaching for her crate of apples.

  “Aye, a half a dozen of yer best, if ye please,” Liora said, trying to force a smile while her mind raced ahead to her aunt’s inevitable scolding.

  “Of course, my dear.” Wenna moved with unhurried care, her hands deftly selecting apples one by one and setting them gently on the counter.

  Liora shifted her weight from one foot to the other, resisting the urge to tap her fingers against the wooden surface. Each apple seemed to take an eternity to reach the counter. She bit the inside of her cheek, trying not to fidget, but her impatience betrayed her.

  Finally, Wenna placed the last apple down with a satisfied nod. Liora had already pulled a few coins from her pouch, dropping them onto the counter in her haste. “Thank ye, Wenna,” she said quickly, scooping the apples into her satchel with a mix of relief and urgency.

  “Yer welcome, lass,” Wenna called after her, chuckling softly. “And tell Maris to go easy on ye for once!”

  Liora managed a quick wave over her shoulder before darting back toward the path leading home. The weight of the apples pressed lightly against her side, but it was the weight of Jonnan’s words that stayed with her. Was he just being friendly? Or was there something else?

  Her thoughts swirled, chasing answers she couldn’t find. She shook her head, trying to focus on the path ahead, but the memory lingered like the faint scent of apples clinging to her hands.

  The path to her aunt and uncle’s cottage wound through the heart of Mosswick, a gentle slope that meandered between neat, thatched cottages and fields dotted with grazing sheep. The temple of the Old Light came into view, its inner courtyard visible through the open gates painted a soft, weathered yellow.

  Liora paused to catch her breath, her hands resting on the cool stone of the courtyard’s low wall. Her gaze lingered on the temple’s modest splendor: the stained glass windows depicting radiant suns in vibrant hues, and the gently sloped stone roof, its once-bright yellow now softened by time. The faint scent of incense drifted on the breeze, stirring memories of a simpler, untroubled past.

  “Sunlight burn bright.” Lightkeeper Ana had said to her, holding out both hands. “What do you bring to the morning light?”

  Liora, her small hands trembling with excitement, had held out a bowl of unripe fruit, lifting it carefully above the priestess’ outstretched hands. “O Light above, receive this gift, and may your rays our spirits lift!” Her voice had been small but steady as she lowered the offering into Ana’s waiting hands.

  A myriad of young followers, all dressed in colorful robes, had surrounded her. Their voices rose in a sing-song chant: “May the Old Light shine bright and let these fruits ripe!”

  The memory faded like the last note of a song, leaving Liora with a pang of guilt. She hadn’t attended a dawn offering in months. Lightkeeper Ana—older now but still sharp as ever—would have surely noticed her absence. Liora ran a hand along the stone wall, its coolness grounding her back in the present.

  She made a mental note to attend the next ceremony after the festival and pushed herself upright, brushing dust from her hands.

  As she walked back onto the trail, her gaze drifted toward the woods at the village’s edge, the sunlight filtering through the familiar canopy of oak and birch. For a moment, she wondered about Glowtoad. Was it darting through the underbrush, hunting flies? Or was it being harassed by another girl from the village?

  The faint clatter of a cart’s wheels drew her attention back to the road. Reginald was hauling sacks of grain from the mill, his donkey trudging dutifully along. He tipped his hat when he saw her, and she returned the gesture with a polite nod. As he passed, she caught a snippet of his muttering—something about the festival and the trouble it always brought.

  When Liora reached the cottage, the familiar sight of her aunt bent over the herb bed greeted her, and for a moment, she hesitated at the gate, taking in the scene. Her aunt’s hair was tied in a single braid, hanging at her side as she hunched over her garden. It was a rich brown color, a few of the hair curled ever so slightly around her cheek as she toiled. Liora tightened her grip on the satchel and stepped inside, her shoulders slumping under the weight of her aunt’s expectations.

  Maris’s hands were quick and precise, snapping off sprigs of thyme and rosemary as if she could will the plants to grow faster through sheer determination. Her sharp jet black eyes flicked up when she heard Liora approach.

  “Took you long enough, didn’t it?” Maris said in her sharp Grissin accent, the syllables clipped and rising like she was scolding a child. “Washing’s on the line, it’ll be damp soon if you don’t get it in.” She paused, her gaze narrowing slightly. “And wipe your face, girl. Yer shining like a freshly polished kettle.” She often spoke to Liora in that sharp Grissin tone, as if nothing the girl did could ever be quite right.

  Liora’s hand flew to her forehead, brushing away the sweat. “Yes, Aunt Maris,” she murmured, ducking her head as she turned toward the clothesline. The back of her neck prickled—not from the heat, but from her aunt’s lingering gaze. She didn’t look back.

  As she released each article of clothing from the line, Liora spotted a familiar figure approaching the garden.

  The young man stopped in front of Maris, her outstretched hand steady before him. With practiced precision, he cupped his left hand beneath hers, his fingers brushing close but never quite touching. His right hand hovered over the top, forming a protective shield. Slowly, he bent forward, his forehead coming to rest lightly against the back of his own hand, the gesture deliberate and measured.

  Liora glanced at the exchange, her thoughts drifting. Cupping was a gesture she’d seen a thousand times, its quiet simplicity offering a strange kind of comfort—an unspoken connections that bound the village together. Every Mosswick child learned it before they could walk: a sign of respect and restraint born from a time of fear. Generations had passed since the plague swept through, but the ritual lingered like a shadow, a reminder of a time when even the smallest touch could spell disaster.

  Liora continued to pull the damp clothes from the line as he made his way toward her. A tall, lean figure, Nelgar stood a full head taller than her, his stride easy despite the faint limp he’d carried since falling from a horse last spring. He had long brown hair that framed his face, a strong nose with a slight arch and deep-set, watchful eyes that carried a quiet intensity.

  “Hey, Liora,” Nelgar grinned. “I’d cup ya, but—” He trailed off, his gaze catching on her hands.

  They were wet.

  The clothes were also wet.

  Her heart sank.

  “By the Light’s grace!” Liora said, “I've wetted all the washing!”

  Nelgar raised his hands in a calming gesture. “Don’t worry! I’m sure they’ll dry again.”

  “Oh no, they won’t!” She thrust the dripping shirt into the basket, her face reddening. “Every time this happens, they stay wet. It’s the sweat, you see? It’s always the sweat.“ She fumbled to gather the remaining clothes, hurrying to the washing stone.

  “What are you doing here anyway?” she asked, her tone sharper than she intended. “Aren’t you supposed to be on patrol?”

  “Elder Pilos asked me to help with the festival,” Nelgar replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “Apparently, a patrol can wait when there are banners to hang.”

  “Ah, yes,” Liora said, her voice softening. “Everyone’s excited about it.”

  Nelgar tilted his head, studying her. “You don’t seem to be.” His tone was teasing but curious. “Did you find a boy for the dance?”

  Liora shook her head and held up her hands, still glistening with moisture. “You know why,” she said flatly.

  “It’s just a little sweat, Liora,” said Nelgar, his grin faltering. “I’m sure the boys don’t mind it.”

  “It’s not!” she snapped, heat rising in her cheeks. “Everyone in town won’t stop talking about it.”

  He fell silent.

  “I’ve survived fourteen winters, Nel.” She looked at him, her voice quieter now. “I’ve never even kissed a boy.”

  Nelgar shifted, his face reddening. He scratched at the stubble on his jaw.

  Finally, he said, “I’ll go with ya.”

  Liora blinked, looking up from the white shirt she’d been scrubbing furiously. Nelgar’s offer hung in the air, both kind and confusing. Was he asking out of genuine interest, or was it pity? She couldn’t tell. Nelgar was older, handsome, and strong—the kind of person the other girls around her age wouldn’t stop whispering about. But for Liora, he’d always been something else. They’d been friends since they were children, and their bond felt too rooted in familiarity to easily transform into something more.

  She hesitated, the words catching in her throat. Her heart beat faster, though she wasn’t sure if it was from uncertainty or something else entirely.

  Finally, she clenched her hand and coughed softly into it, steadying herself. “Ye’ve seen seventeen summers, Nel,” she said, her voice measured, her face carefully neutral. “You’re like a brother to me.”

  Nelgar’s cheeks turned a deeper shade of red as he dragged a hand through his hair, his discomfort plain. “That’s not what I mean, Liora!” he said, his voice rising with an awkward earnestness. “I mean I’ll go with ya—dance with ya—nothing more!”

  She studied his face as he shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, his gaze flickering between her and the ground. If there was genuine affection behind his offer, it was buried too deep for her to see—or maybe she just didn’t want to.

  A thought flickered through her mind: At least it’ll make the other girls jealous.

  Her expression softened, and a small smile appeared at the corners of her mouth. “Alright,” she said, the hint of playfulness in her tone hiding the mess of emotions in her chest. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.”