“I love you too, ish’sholuun.” Sparrow reaches up to caress his cheek, and Thierren’s breath hitches. “This is exactly what the Gardnerians and the Alfsigr and even some here want to destroy. Love. The kind that breaks down their boundaries and defies their rules. So kiss me and then come back to my lodging with me. We’ll drink Mii Vun’s wine and fight the Western Realm without weapons tonight.”

“Ish’uuldur imorz ish’sholuun,” Thierren murmurs ardently, the Uriskal words for I love you fluent on his tongue. And then he leans in, brings his lips to hers, and Sparrow falls into his loving, passionate kiss, the murmurs of disapproval all around them floating away on the lavender Xishlon moonlight.

CHAPTER SEVEN

XISHLON GARDEN

Mora’lee Starr’lyrion

Xishlon night, twenty-first hour

Mora’lee watches Fyon come to her, her eyes lit with loving amusement, as he strides toward her through the violet-washed garden where Mora waits for him beneath her favorite tree in all of Voloi—the large Wisteria ensconced in the garden’s outer edge.

Her restaurant, normally only open for breakfast and lunch, has just closed for the evening after a wildly successful Xishlon. Every last pastry and morsel was sold, and Mora’s spirits are buoyant from the enjoyment Olilly, Nym’ellia, and even painfully shy Ghor’li seemed to draw from all the delicious food as well as the moon’s lovely embrace.

And her heart is more buoyant still, with the promise of Fyon’s kiss.

She can barely keep her soles on the ground.

Fyon’s silver eyes blaze as he catches sight of her and deftly sweeps aside the tree’s veil of floral tresses, his gaze sliding over her short, tight-fitting Xishlon dress patterned with a blooming Wisteria tree embroidered on deep-purple velvet in gleaming, phosphorescent thread.

Mora runs her own gaze over Fyon, who is garbed in a dark green formal Smaragdalfar tunic, the design worn solely during a formal courting.

Now that we’ve had those millions of cups of tea, Mora laughs to herself, delight bubbling up that’s impossible to contain. Leaning back against the Wisteria, Mora sighs and gives in to the moon’s pull toward matters of the heart, grateful for its aid in drawing her focus away from war as she forces back the hard reality of Fyon’s imminent deployment. But the looming truth can’t be fully erased—she’s all too clear that this might be the last chance for her and Fee and everyone else in the Eastern Realm to embrace each other before the coming fight.

“Mora, tia’lin,” Fyon breathes out as he draws near, Mora, my beloved. “You’re the most beautiful thing in this garden.”

Mora smiles and reaches up to trace a fingertip lightly down his silken tunic. A warm knot of emotion forms in her throat as she thrills to the feel of him so solidly here before her.