Sylar doesn’t look up, but a faint, lovely pink dusts the tips of his pointed ears. “It is simple mathematics and chemistry, Raylen. Anyone who can follow an alchemical formula can bake a pastry.”
I don’t argue with his academic logic. Instead, I slide onto the bench next to him. We munch quietly, falling into a sweet, effortless sort of domestic bliss that feels entirely too natural for two people who haven’t shared a table in ten years.
“So,” I say, brushing a stray pastry crumb from my thumb as we finish up. “Why don’t we make our way over to the astrology pavilion today?”
Sylar freezes, his tea mug stopping halfway to his lips. He sets it down with a sharp clink, his shoulders instantly locking up. “Why would you want to go there?” he asks, his voice laced with immediate suspicion, as if expecting me to tease him for his nerdy passions. Such a silly, sexy elf.
I don’t answer right away. Instead, I lean closer, reaching out to gently caress his forearm. My fingers trail slowly down the fine linen of his new cloak, lingering over the soft skin of hiswrist. “Because it’s where you want to be, right? I want to see the things you love, Sy.”
His gaze drops to my fingers on his skin, his chest rising and falling on a shaky breath. The rigid wall he usually keeps up softens, just for a second, and he gives me a quiet, bewildered nod. “Fine. But under one condition—we’re stopping by the clothiers first. This cloak you bought me is literally the only respectable piece of clothing I have, and I refuse to let you drag me through a crowded market looking like an impoverished scribe.”
I grin. “Deal.”
An hour later, the quiet, peaceful cottage is a distant memory. The Everend Market is in full, chaotic swing, a roaring ocean of bright silks, shouting merchants, and thick crowds. We keep our cloaks drawn tightly and our hoods pulled low as we navigate the grand pavilion dedicated to the celestial arts. Rows of shimmering star charts, brass astrolabes, and glowing globes line the stalls, but before Sylar can even marvel at the texts, the outside world crashes into our quiet bubble.
“…read it straight from the broadsheet,” a hushed, gossiping voice whispers from a huddle of high-born elves near a map display. “A noble rake, maybe even a prince, is announcing hisengagement this year. They say he’s chosen that pretty little red-haired elven woman from the outskirts of Moonscliffe.”
“Talia?”
“Yes! That’s her name.”
Beside me, Sylar goes entirely rigid. The color drains from his face so fast that I think he might faint.Talia.I can’t imagine the Prince ever settling down. He loves his freedom a little too much. But, goddess, what if the nobleman is Lord Vane? Vane is a notorious rogue of the worst kind. The wealthy asshole collects young, innocent hearts like trophies before discarding them to ruin their reputations.
“Raylen,” Sylar gasps, his hand instantly clutching my forearm, his fingers digging into the material of my cloak. “We have to stop this. If it’s Lord Vane, he’ll destroy her.”
“Hey, look at me. We’re going to stop it,” I say fiercely, stepping closer to shield him from the crowd. “I won’t let that bastard anywhere near her.”
As the afternoon drags on, the sweetness of the morning turns into a frantic, agonizing hunt. We search stall after stall, weaving through the endless rows of the festival, with Cinder searching from above, but our sisters are nowhere to be found. The sun begins to dip below the mountain peaks, painting the sky in bloody shades of orange, and the pressure in my chest builds.
“Damn it,” I curse under my breath, scanning the sea of faces. “I knew I should have bought a pair of those overpriced communication stones. I hate not being able to send Isolde a magical message. If I can’t find them soon…”
I trail off, but I can feel Sylar staring at me from beneath his hood. When I glance over, his wide eyes are filled with a strange, profound shock. I realize then that he’s never seen this side of me—the side that is organized, fiercely protective, and deeplyconcerned for his family’s safety. He’s probably realizing I’m not just a careless traveler. I care about the people he loves.
Before I can say anything to ease his mind, disaster strikes.
A sudden gust of wind sweeps through the open courtyard, catching the lip of my hood and whipping it straight off my head. I curse, quickly reaching up to yank it back down, but it’s already too late.
“Wait… is that him?” a voice shrieks nearby. “It is! It’s the Archer of Moonscliffe!”
In an instant, the atmosphere shifts from a frantic search to absolute claustrophobia. A swarm of fawning elves descends upon us, cutting off our path. Hands reach out to touch my cloak, voices squeal, and I swear, a dozen high-born suitors push their way forward, desperate to catch the eye of the famous, eligible bachelor.
“Raylen, is it true you’re looking for a spouse?”
“Please, an autograph for my house’s ledger!”
The suffocating press of the crowd closes in. I paste on a polite, practiced smile, but internally, my chest tightens. The familiar, cold prickle of a panic attack begins to claw at the back of my throat. The thousands of staring eyes, the noise, the trapping weight of my name. It’s too much. I’m drowning.
Then, a large, firm hand cuts through the chaos, wrapping securely around my knuckles.
I blink, looking over. Sylar has stepped directly between me and a pair of giggling debutantes. His tall, broad frame is pulled up to its full, commanding height, his grumpy scholar demeanor transforming into a shield of pure steel. He doesn’t look at the crowd. He keeps his brilliant eyes locked entirely on me, anchoring me to the earth. Suddenly, our roles have reversed, and it’s Sylar taking care of me. I swallow hard.
“Raylen,” Sylar says, his voice loud, steady, and brooks no argument as he squeezes my hand.
“But Talia.”
“We’ll try again tomorrow. We’ve been at this all day. We need to eat and relax a bit. Let’s go home.”
The wordhomehits me like a physical wave, completely shattering the rising panic in my chest. He means the rental cottage. He meansourspace.
