“Stop arguing,” Torryn growls. “I thought it hurt your tummy, Sylvin.”
His last words are mocking and I barely hold back a smirk, not wanting to encourage this further.
I cut in before they can unravel into another verbal brawl. “There’s logic in what Sylvin is saying,” I admit, my voice quieter than before. “If there’s any place left where I might feel a tie to the earth, it could be there.”
Riven’s gaze snaps to me, sharp and unyielding. “So you’re going with the fae.”
I meet his eyes, forcing my voice to stay steady. “I’m not choosing him over you, Riven. I said I wanted to visitallthe factions. Iwillcome to your lands and spend time there. I just…” I glance toward the fire, letting the truth gather inside me. “I think I need to go to the fae next. Just for now.”
He doesn’t look away, not even for a second, but his mouth presses into a thin line.
Torryn, surprisingly, nods. “It makes sense.”
Riven turns to him sharply. “Of course the shifter agrees with the fae. Wouldn’t want her spending too much time with the one of us who actually has a spark with her.”
“That’s not what this is about,” Torryn says, voice low but firm. “And you aren’t the only one.”
Riven’s eyes are trained on me, wounded pride barely masked beneath that perfect stillness of his body. I hate that I’ve hurt him again, even if it’s only temporary.
Before the heaviness can settle too deep, Sylvinclaps once and hops up onto his stone chair with a flourish. “Then it’s settled! She will be coming with me, and that means my little echo deserves to hear the poem I wrote for her, after all.”
A groan echoes from both Torryn and Riven at the same time.
“I knew this was coming,” Torryn mutters under his breath.
“I’d rather be staked,” Riven sighs, rubbing at his temple.
But I smile at Sylvin’s theatrics and I don’t even try to hide it. For a moment, it softens the ache still nestled beneath my ribs where Azyric’s absence lingers. It doesn’t erase the disappointment, or the rising pressure I can’t name, but it makes it bearable.
Sylvin clears his throat with theatrical grandeur.
“To the girl born in silence,”
“Oh no,” Riven murmurs, “he’s actually doing it.”
“Whose eyes stir the shadows, and bring the night to its knees,”
“Make it stop,” Torryn groans, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Sylvin ignores them both, flourishing the parchment with a graceful flick.
“Whose footsteps leave the flowers drunk,
and make the birds forget to sing.”
I’m already giggling, hand clapped over my mouth.
“The wind redirects itself to trail in her wake,
while the mountains simply break.”
“Oh my,” I whisper, breathless.
“So here’s to you, my little echo,
my mystery, my muse.
If I must fall for anyone,
