Vothe leans even closer, dropping his voice to a whisper. “There’s nothing we can do for the moment but wait. So, perhaps giving in to Xishlon and blending in is the best thing you can do for your sister right now.”

Trystan lets out a short, jaded laugh. “You want me to...blend in?” He raises his green-glimmering Mage hand, and Vothe can’t help but notice the ever-present weapons-training bruising.

And yet, so many hostile stares followed them here. So many hostile stares emanate from the tables throughout this outdoor area as well, the hatred and fear cutting through even the Xishlon moon’s enthralling light. It’s dauntingly hard to ignore, anger rising inside Vothe on Trystan’s behalf again and again. And Vothe can tell by the repeated storming flares of Trystan’s magic—even as his expression remains remote and unaffected—that he feels this ire.

Deeply.

“I’m worried, Vothe,” Trystan says. “And not just about my sister. The whole Western Realm underestimated Vogel. And then he swept in and killed almost all the Lupines. Children. Babies. Diana and Jarod’s whole family. Their whole family, Vothe...”

“And we’ll be ready for him,” Vothe insists. “Because of your sister.”

Vothe glances up at the translucent dome, the runes marked on its surface tinted violet by the moonlight, barely perceptible. His gaze slides toward the moon as gratitude washes over him that Vogel’s forces are a huge desert away, his sole portal here destroyed. There’s time to prepare and strengthen all the runic power guarding the Realm. It’s like the East has dodged a massive arrow at the last minute. And none of the people who are glaring at Trystan have the foggiest idea of what they’ve been spared.

Vothe’s mind spins over the sudden shift his life has taken—not only falling for the brother of the Black Witch, but now in league with him to protect his sister.

“Take this evening,” Vothe prods. “One night before the fight resumes tomorrow. You’ve worked ceaselessly for the East from the moment you arrived. You deserve to find the moon.”

Trystan’s eyes widen, and Vothe’s lips lift in response. He knows that Trystan has been here long enough to know what “find the moon” means on this night.

“It’s your festival now too,” Vothe insists as a raw longing for Trystan rises.

“Is it?” Trystan throws back, the words breaking with emotion as turbulent power jostles through his lines.

“Yes,” Vothe answers emphatically, willing it to be so, the moon making him bold. His feelings for Trystan making him bold.

“I want to belong here,” Trystan says in a rough whisper, a trace of fragile hope in the statement. Trystan’s lips part as if he’s about to say more, then close again as his power shudders around him in fitful arcs.