A young Smaragdalfar woman strides out of the kitchen carrying a tray of steaming breakfast soup. She’s striking—tall and graceful with bright silver eyes, the soft dawn light sparkling off her emerald-patterned skin. Her ears are sweepingly pointed, her long green hair done up in looping braids with a single purple orchid tucked in the coils. A purple apron imprinted with a lilac moon covers her traditional Smaragdalfar clothing of an emerald, rune-decorated tunic and matching pants. Her feet are clad in sturdy black boots, and she has a green rune stylus sheathed at her hip.

Her eyes flash like diamonds as she chats with customers, her demeanor inviting. It’s obvious she’s quick to laugh, her chiming amusement bright on the air.

I follow Bleddyn toward the gated entrance, sparing a glance toward the restaurant across the road, my vision assaulted by another of those awful signs—NOILAAN FOR THE NOI.

Noi flags hang in repeating rows above the customers, and a gray-haired Noi man in purple Xishlon garb and apron stands among them, jotting down an order. The Smaragdalfar woman, who must be Mora’lee, lets out another hearty laugh, and the man cuts a quick glare across the street, as if her happiness is an affront to the entire Eastern Realm. I’m reminded of the hostile man across the way from the elderly toy merchant.

I quickly realize how different the clientele is in the man’s restaurant, only Noi customers packing the outdoor seating. Over here, diversity reigns—an elegant young Noi man dressed in sparkling violet is seated with two blue-hued Urisk women, the young women also decked out in Xishlon garb, theirs marked with embroidered lavender moons and hearts. Sitting at the table near theirs is a huge Elfhollen man with an owl perched on his shoulder, the young man engrossed in conversation with a heavily armed blonde Issani woman. Beside them sits a Smaragdalfar woman wearing a golden Ishkart scarf, a black-haired boy with her same shimmering green hue hugging her arm. A black-bearded Ishkart man sitting across from them laughs at something the woman’s said, his garb a gleaming, rune-marked gold, his hand stretched across the table and entwined with hers. And seated just outside the kitchen is a little blue-hued Urisk girl with braided cornflower hair. She’s dressed in emerald Smaragdalfar clothes, quietly painting.

“You should be safe here for the day,” Bleddyn informs me in low tones. “Just blend in and stay in the kitchen.”

“All right,” I warily reply.

“There’s something else you should know.” Bleddyn hedges, lowering her voice further. “Olilly’s here.”

Alarm strikes through me. “Bleddyn,” I sputter, “she’ll recognize me.”

“She won’t turn you in.”

I shoot her a look of dire concern. “How can you be so sure?”

She flashes me a slightly annoyed look. “I’m sure. Keep an eye out for Fyon Hawkkyn, though.”