Mora does a quick, bold scan of Fyon the man. He’s so startlingly altered. Taller. Broader shouldered. The planes of his face elongated and chiseled. A powerful grace to his movements, all gangliness gone. When he suddenly showed up at her doorstep a few weeks back, he fair took her breath away. And she sensed, for the glimmer of an instant, that he felt the same. But his manner rapidly shifted to his familiar reticent demeanor. As reserved as he is courageous.

His friendship was one of the most precious things in Mora’s life. She still vividly remembers that night she bade him farewell, tears streaking down her cheeks. Imagining that he would be lost to her forever. And now, miraculously, here he is. Back in her life. In her rune-ship kitchen, drinking tea. And Xishlon tea, no less.

For the love festival of Vo.

The kissing festival.

Heat lights on Mora’s neck as she considers how much she wouldn’t mind kissing Fyon.

No, I wouldn’t mind that one bit.

But it’s too strong, this thing she feels for him. So strong that as straightforward and fearless as she is, she can’t move forward in this, because if she’s wrong about him having feelings for her in that way, his rejection would have the power to seriously wound. Fyon needs to make his feelings known.

“Mora,” Fyon says, suddenly seeming hesitant. “Have you considered relocating to the sublands?”

Mora’s throat tightens, her pulse quickening. “Why are you asking, Fyon?”

He sips his tea, studying her, and she has the sense of him holding his thoughts back. “Because we’re building something there,” he finally says. “And you should be part of it.” His eyes skim her emerald garb, sending a tingle through her. “You clearly seek to uphold Smaragdalfar ways.”

Mora raises a brow at this. “I wear Noi clothing as well,” she counters.

“You’ve chosen to power your air ship exclusively with Smaragdalfar runes you crafted yourself,” Fyon points out, gesturing toward the green rune stylus sheathed at her hip. “And you attend Oo’na’s services in the sublands every week’s end.”

“I love my people, it’s true,” Mora agrees. “And I love the teachings of Oo’na.” She slides two necklaces out from under her tunic’s collar. The first has a small Oo’na goddess pendant hanging from it, the Smaragdalfar deity fashioned from jade and emerald, a small white dove perched on her shoulder. The second bears an ivory dragon amulet—the Noi goddess, Vo, crafted from pearlescent shell, two small white bird pendants hanging to either side of the dragon, the sacred bird image common to both faiths. “But I also attend Vo’lon services with my mothers,” Mora says. “I love the teachings of the Compassionate Vo as well as those of the Compassionate Oo’na. Do I have to choose?”

“Mora...”