“I’m sorry,” she tells me stiffly as she averts her eyes. “I see that you work to defend us...but it’s just not possible to sell to you.”

Stubbornly ignoring the sinking feeling in my gut, I continue to stop in every open-air shoppe on the thoroughfare and am turned down by merchant after merchant. Crowds stream by, and practically every person notices me. Now and then, the initial looks of bafflement morph into expressions of covert solidarity—small smiles, nods of acknowledgment. But more often than not, ire dogs my steps, along with a few slurs viciously deployed—Crow. Roach. Filthy Mage.

I pause, feeling stranded. Overhead, lines of glassy orbs holding luminous purple runes bob cheerily in the breeze—most of the orbs decorated with hand-painted purple roses or violet filigreed hearts—and practically every passerby is already turned out in purple Xishlon finery. There’s a festive mood in the air, smiles plentiful, but they’re snuffed out by confusion and discomfort when people take in my Mage face and I wonder, longingly, what it would feel like to be a true part of the upcoming Lavender Moon festival.

Vothe is quiet beside me, no doubt sensing the frustrated hurt whipping through my lines.

“What does that say?” I ask him, pointing to a sign hanging above a stall selling hair ornaments. The same sign hangs from close to half the stores and stalls—black Noi script on purple, a rendering of Vo’s ivory dragon goddess next to the lettering. I’ve noticed the merchants of those stalls have been the most hostile toward me.

A discordant shudder passes through Vothe’s water and wind power. He turns to me, his expression tensing. “It means Noilaan for the Noi.”

The blow connects with surprising force. For a moment, I’m back on the Zonor River. People struggling in the water, tossed around by the river’s violent undertow.

Noilaan for the Noi.

I quickly get hold of myself, determination rising to battle back what feels like the leading edge of a storm. A determination not just for me, but for them.

“Trystan,” Vothe says, his hand coming to my arm, “you’re not going to find anyone who’ll sell to you. I would help you if you’d let me.” His words are tinged with frustration, but his gaze and touch are full of a solidarity that’s so warm it catches me off guard and seems to catch him off guard, as well. Tension lights in the air between us and my power leaps toward his. Lightning sparks in his eyes, threads of it dancing on his lips, and my breath hitches as his eyes drop to my mouth. “We should leave,” he says throatily, as if he’s fallen into a daze. “Go somewhere private.”

The crowds streaming around us fade away as surprise shudders through me.

He wants to kiss me.