Mora grins enticingly and grasps hold of the sides of Fyon’s tunic, drawing him even closer. Yes, Fee, I can tell, she thinks. It’s a bit startling how much I can tell.

“I’ve an inkling,” she says instead, and he gives a low laugh. “Come back to my ship with me,” she huskily invites. “I’ve Sanjire root...”

Fyon draws back, his green brow tensing. “So fast, Mora? Are you sure? You might not be thinking clearly with the lull of the Xishlon moon on the air. This thing between us...it isn’t some fleeting Noi holiday for me. We should wait...”

“For what, Fyon?”

He blinks at her. “The twenty days of tia’linel. All of the courting rituals. The presentation of my intentions.”

Mora gives him a suggestive look, her eyes sliding down his long frame. “Oh, I think you’ve presented them well enough.”

He purses his lips at this. “Mora...”

“Fee,” she rejoins, suddenly serious. “You know I’m a Subland Elf who loves the sky. Raised by a Vu Trin soldier and a Noi fisherwoman. Do you honestly think I’m going to stand on Smaragdalfar convention in this?”

Fyon arches a brow. “There is some romance to the twenty days.”

Mora lets out a small laugh, affection for him welling. Ah, Fee. You’re such a true romantic. She sighs as an unwelcome shadow passes over her thoughts. “There is romance in it,” she agrees. “But who knows what the future holds?” She glances worriedly toward the West, then back at him, the man she knows is destined to be her great love. “Tomorrow, you deploy. Who knows when we’ll see each other again.”

Or if.

Mora presses that wrenching thought away even as it twists at her heart. “I want one night with you. I don’t want to regret waiting.”

Fyon gently presses his forehead to hers, his palms tenderly cupping the sides of her face in the Smaragdalfar gesture of affection. “Tief’lia’lin, I love you with all my heart. I always have. And I always will.”

“I know that, Fyon,” she says, her eyes suddenly blurring with tears as she smiles brazenly at him, his love making her bold. “Now love me with the rest of you.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

HOPE

Olilly Emmylian

Xishlon night, twenty-first hour

Olilly leans against the rune ship’s balcony and gazes at the stunningly violet Vo River, filled with an unexpected elation from the joyful bustle of cooking and serving food with welcoming Mora all day and into the eve. The purple Xishlon moon is high in the sky, little Ghor’li settled into sleep with Nym’ellia’s family.

A muffled whimper sounds through Olilly’s bedroom door behind her.