“Is it? Should our people start hanging Smaragdalfar flags everywhere? Touting the Smaragdalfar faith as the only true religion? Pushing everyone who isn’t Smaragdalfar out of the sublands?” She sweeps her hand toward the restaurant across the street. “Why not? It’s what they’re starting to do here. It’s what they’ve already done in the West.”

Fyon gives her a level look. “You know it’s not the same for our people. Not with most of our Smaragdalfar’kin still trapped in the Western Sublands. Most come here and have freedom for the very first time in their lives, and they’re ready to fight for a Smaragdalfar homeland. You can’t compare that to the Noi. Or the Gardnerians.”

“I know that, Fyon. I do,” Mora says, growing more impassioned. “But don’t you see? It’s our chance to take a different path. To show that there could be another way. I support Ra’Ven Za’Nor in this. I believe his path is the better way forward.”

Mora considers Ra’Ven Za’Nor, the young Smaragdalfar monarch. The only surviving member of the Smaragdalfar royal line. With his wildly controversial ideas about a sublands for everyone, including his Mage partner, Sagellyn.

“Ra’Ven’s path could lead to chaos,” Fyon cautions. “I don’t see a way around that.”

Mora holds his stare, unflinching. “We’ll have chaos no matter what. So we might as well go down in flames loving instead of hating each other.”

A sudden spark leaps between them that has Mora’s heartbeat deepening.

Am I imagining it? she wonders. He’s so formal and austere, Fyon. Her friend since her young teen years. Always so courageous. Willing to risk his life again and again in the West, using his runic sorcery and skills with metallurgie to smuggle their people to safety in the East. Not intimidated by anything, save, perhaps, by this thing growing between them.

We both are.

When he returned to Noilaan a few weeks ago after living for several years in the West, Mora was stunned he had survived so many missions to save the Smaragdalfar. Last she saw Fyon, he was a tall skinny teenager. Hells-bent on revolution. Hells-bent on fighting for their people, risks be damned. Come with me, Mora, he’d urged. Seventeen to her fifteen.

But there was no way she could leave her family and her apprenticeship with a rune-ship pilot, her rune-crafting talent firmly oriented toward the nautical, whereas Fyon’s potent varg sorcery and metallurgie expertise endowed him with weapons-crafting power that was sorely needed by their people in the West.

And so she said goodbye to her brilliant, courageous friend. Her budding teenage crush.