A memory slides in. That contentious night when Trystan stood in the doorway of his Wyvernguard room, his eyes newly and shockingly lined with Noi kohl, soft runic lantern light dancing over his tall, slender frame. Trystan was so stunning that Vothe felt frozen by the sight of him—his eyes blazing in contrast to the midnight kohl that transformed their deep green into a fierce shining emerald.

And the tattoo. Sweet Holy Vo.

How furious most of the military apprentices were and still are about that tattoo—that this Gardnerian dared to cast off Gardnerian ways with the rapidity of someone throwing off something that was slowly strangling him.

Vothe remembers hesitating outside Trystan’s bedroom that night. He remembers the heated look Trystan gave him as he watched Vothe noticing his tattoo, watched the slow slide of his gaze.

But I didn’t move.

Like a coward, Vothe rues, pained by the memory of how he let the boundaries between them stand. Let fear of what everyone else would think stand—fear of how his family would react to him aligning himself with the grandson of the last Black Witch. Would they bar him from returning home to Zhilaan, like his uncle Sholin when he fell in love with Fain Quillen?

Vothe’s own storming magic rises at the thought.

I’m done with the boundaries, he inwardly growls. Done with being a coward.

Done with pretending I haven’t fallen in love with Trystan Gardner.

“Trystan,” Vothe says, and Trystan trains his fierce eyes on him. Those blazingly emerald eyes... For a moment Vothe’s thoughts scatter.

Dive in, Vothe. Just dive in.

“Be my Xishlon’vir,” Vothe says, leaning in, his voice pitched low, having asked before without ever receiving an answer. “Before all the hells converge. Be my Xishlon’vir, Trystan Gardner.”

Trystan stills, the energy in his lines kicking up, flashing out toward Vothe.

“And not just my Xishlon’vir,” Vothe says as Wyvern blood pounds through his veins. “I want to court you. A formal Zhilon’ile courting.”

Trystan stops breathing, his water magic pulsing so hard, the scene momentarily liquefies around them. “With war looming?” Trystan finally manages, challenge in his tone even as his lightning forks toward Vothe.

Vothe leans toward him, growing even more impassioned. “What do you think we’ll be fighting for?” He motions between them. “This. This is what I’ll be fighting for.”

“A forbidden union?”

“For freedom.”

Trystan swallows, his magic now swirling in a torrent around Vothe. “What does...a courting entail?”

“First, a bite.”

Incredulous amusement flickers in Trystan’s eyes. “A bite?”

His confusion catches Vothe off guard, as it so often does. “Yes. The formal claim of a Wyvern.”

Trystan coughs out a short laugh and narrows his gaze at Vothe. “That is not a usual offer.”

Vothe’s mouth quirks. “What about us is usual?”