He pushed that thought aside.
As he set up the targets, Dragonfly sat cross-legged at the edge of the sand, nibbling on a roasted pear. “Have you run into Arion lately?”
He drove a strut into the ground with more force than necessary. “No. I heard he was here tonight, but I missed him.”
“So you haven’t heard? He and his mother are leaving for White Wood next week.”
“I did hear that, yes. He won’t make our meeting.”
“Well—I won’t either,” she said, handing him a few arrows.
He paused, blinking. “You won’t?”
She shrugged. “Arion’s mother invited me to spend the winter with them. Auntie’s thrilled. She thinks a change of scenery will prevent another sulky, unproductive season.”
“And you’ve already said yes...”
Dragonfly pressed the arrows into his hand. A blush crept up her cheeks. “Maybe... you could come too. Not right away. After the meeting, before the pass closes. There’s work there. You’d find something, and maybe..."
Collin didn’t know whether to laugh or curse the stars. She was inviting him to stay the winter with her—a dream scenario. And he’d just committed to a post in Nereid. Fate certainly had a twisted sense of humor. Every time he reached out, life sidestepped. Parallel tracks again. Never quite intersecting.
He took the arrows, then gently reached for her hand.
Her eyes—brilliant, bright with hope—met his. He hated the answer he had to give. Hated how it scraped against the part of him that still believed in impossible things.
“I wish I could,” he said softly. “But I’ve already promised to be in Nereid. I can’t back out now.”
Her expression faltered—just for a moment—before she masked it with a smile and squeezed his hand.
“Then when we both come home in the spring,” she said, “we’ll have all kinds of stories to tell.”
They lingered until long after the last bonfire had surrendered to ash and silence, the smoke billowing lazily toward the stars before dissolving into the vast, cloud-streaked sky. The clearing had emptied around them, leaving only the distant creak of branches and the soft rustle of cooling sand beneath their feet. But Collin barely noticed the world fading. All his attention was fixed on her—on the way Dragonfly’s eyes glinted when she laughed, on how effortlessly she moved now, her steps light again, no longer weighted by last summer’s shadows.
She had changed—subtly, but undeniably. And so had he. Grief had hollowed them both, and yet here they were, filling that hollow with laughter and stolen moments.
When she missed her mark for the third time in a row, Collin clutched his chest dramatically and declared he’d never seen such disgrace from an archer. She rolled her eyes and challenged him to do better blindfolded. He tried—and missed by a glorious margin. They laughed so hard, Collin had to sit down or risk toppling over. It had been too long since laughter felt like something earned, not borrowed. It filled his lungs like fresh air after a long frost.
They took turns flinging dulled arrows into the makeshift target, the thunks of impact punctuated by cheers, groans, and playful accusations of cheating. Each round was wrapped in a wager—loser fetches cider, winner tells a secret, or if both missed, they had to invent a new rule on the spot. It was nonsense, really, but the kind that made their mirth echo louder beneath the darkening sky.
Between throws, they passed gear back and forth, fingers brushing, lingering just a beat too long. The contact was casual in theory—practical, even—but Collin felt every touch like a spark whispered along his skin. He was attuned to her in that way when he thought he had lost something and found it again—carefully, gratefully, as if it might vanish if not held gently.
He watched how the wind tugged loose strands of her hair across her cheek, and how she didn’t bother to sweep them away. How her smile came easily now, no longer tight with exhaustion or veiled with apology. It was the same Dragonfly he had grown up beside—but there was a new gleam in her eyes, a clarity he hadn’t realized he’d been missing.
They hadn’t shared a moment like this in so long. Not since before the silences took root and they all began carrying their own unspoken weights. Back when joy wasn’t a rare and fleeting visitor. Now, each glance, each teasing word, held a current beneath the surface—relief, perhaps, or recognition. The gentle awe of finding his way back to someone who never truly left.
The night had shifted. What began as a reluctant outing had transformed into something tender and irreplaceable, strung together not by grand declarations but by the simplest of things: the clumsy arc of a thrown arrow, the brush of her hand, the laughter they’d both forgotten how much they needed.
He wished he could hold time hostage. That he could still the ticking hands of his watch with sheer will and stretch these precious hours into forever. Around them, the world had faded to shadow: no more crowd, no sidelong glances from nosy neighbors. Just the two of them, cocooned in flickering starlight and laughter. Free to be what they were before the world turned heavy—just a boy and a girl, trading barbs and secrets in the schoolyard.
And she—heavens, she was radiant. She moved with purpose, with joy, and when she laughed, his chest opened wide. He had missed this—missedher—more than he’d let himself realize. And she didn’t seem in any hurry to leave, either. When the clouds began to gather, muffling the stars, she waved the change away like it was a mosquito buzzing near her ear. She tilted her face up, watching the sky with a grin like a dare. “It won’t rain,” she said.
When the first fat drops began to fall, they stood still for a heartbeat, letting the cool water spatter their shoulders and hair. Dragonfly blinked up at the sky, sighed with exaggerated disappointment, then turned to him with a lopsided smile. “Fine,” she murmured. “Maybe just a sprinkle.”
Collin smiled back, reluctant. He knew this meant the night had to end. But as he bent to gather their things, a flame sparked in his chest—a quiet conviction that this moment wasn’t ending so much as beginning.
The final rebel meeting of the year unfolded in Collin’s dining room to the lively tune of yawns and half-hearted nods. Attendance was pitiful—only marginally better than a séance for the socially exhausted. Much like bonfire night, the spark had gone out. Maybe it was the creeping dread of winter that dulled their spirits, or maybe everyone was simply too tired to pretend revolution was urgent when frostbite was near.
Lekyi was there, physically at least. Since the spring thaw, he’d been on what could only be described as a romantic rampage, courting the daughters of Crimisa from summit to valley with the fervor of a man assembling a very eclectic memoir. Tonight, however, he slouched in his chair like a lovesick poet, brooding about the seasonal shutdown of his amorous pursuits.
