Sparrow catches sight of Thierren and Effrey striding through the festive crowds toward the shoppe’s entrance, Thierren's black Vu Trin naval uniform standing out in bold relief against the sea of purple garb, the emerald shimmer of his skin blaringly pronounced. Effrey stands in bright contrast beside him, looking like a Xishlon beacon in his purple garb, a soft violet geomancy glow surrounding him.

Thierren’s green eyes find Sparrow’s, a palpable charge passing between them that feels enhanced by the Xishlon moonlight. She drinks him in, an excited flutter in her belly. Because everything has shifted here, and her feelings for him are shifting, as well.

From staunch friendship...to the admission of something much stronger.

“Thierren, my love,” Mii Vun enthuses as she steps forward, and Sparrow’s throat tightens with vast, grateful relief. The seamstress warmly kisses him on both cheeks as Fyya Lo glowers at Thierren, arms tightly crossed against the Xishlon moon on her torso.

“I’m thrilled to see you both,” Mii Vun gushes as she pats Effrey’s head, purple moon rings sparkling on the seamstress’s artistic brown fingers. “A joyous Xishlon to you.”

Thierren dips his head, a weighty gratitude in his eyes. “To you as well, Nor Mii Vun.”

Fyya Lo knifes a glare at Thierren in response to his respectful Noi greeting. She spits out a sound of disgust, then turns on her pretty, moon-decorated heels and disappears into the shoppe’s back rooms, shutting the door behind her with an emphatic slam.

Outrage kindles in Sparrow, fast and hot. Rattled, she meets Effrey’s bespectacled amethyst gaze, some of her ire drawing down as she takes in how transformed he is here after such a short time—his magic taking off like a shooting star to the point that he’s surrounded by the color aura that eventually manifests around all strafelings—the most powerful class of Urisk geomancers. Apprenticed with Or’myr Syll’vir to hone his magic, his purple hair cut short, his large, pointed ears sweeping up through it. And tonight, he’s all decked out for Xishlon, whimsical violet-glowing lizards embroidered up the side of his purple tunic.

Effrey motions worriedly for Sparrow to lean in, placing his hand on her shoulder to draw her close. “Some Noi’khin called Thierren names on the way here,” he confides in a troubled whisper. “They spat at him when he passed. Cursed at him and told him he doesn’t belong. Like they did to us in the West.”

“I know,” Sparrow grimly whispers back. “It’s hard to hear.”

Effrey’s brow knots with concern. “Or’myr’s half Gardnerian, and he doesn’t get treated like that. And he’s the grandson of the Black Witch herself.”

“That’s true,” Sparrow concedes. “But it’s different with Or’myr, you know that.”