“Talia,” I choke out, a cold panic seizing my chest. “Raylen, it’s her. It has to be.”
“We need to find them,” Raylen says grimly.
Embarrassment forgotten, we spend the next several hours in a frantic, exhausting loop, combing through every corner of the market, checking every fabric stall and pastry vendor, just like we did yesterday, but our sisters are entirely ghosting us in the crowds.
As the sun continues to climb high into the sky, a heavy, grumbling frustration settles over me. Raylen slows his pace, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks at me. “Sy… if we don’t find them before the dance, there’s only one way to ensure we get inside that estate to stop him.” He takes a breath. “Go to the masquerade with me. As my date.”
I freeze in the middle of the cobblestone street. My heart hammers against my ribs. “Like, like a fake date? To get through the guards?”
Raylen steps closer, his gaze dropping to my lips before rising to look deeply into my eyes. “Who says anything needs to be fake?”
The raw honesty in his tone leaves me completely paralyzed.Who says anything needs to be fake?My mind frantically tries to process the implication, the terrifying hope of it, but my ingrained defenses slam shut. I need time. I need to think.
“I-I need to think about it, Raylen,” I whisper quietly.
I look away, but I don’t miss the sudden, sharp flash of hurt that crosses his features before he masks it behind a neutral expression. The sight of it twinges like a knife in my chest, but I’m too overwhelmed to fix it. “I need some air,” I mutter. “Let’s separate to cover more ground for the sisters. We will meet back here in two hours.”
Raylen nods tightly. “Two hours, Sy.”
The two hours fly by in a blur of fruitless searching and agonizing internal debate. As the deadline approaches, I make my way back to our designated meeting point near the grand fountain. I haven’t found a single trace of Talia or Isolde, and my anxiety is reaching a boiling point.
Then, I spot Raylen.
He is standing near the stone edge of the fountain, but he isn’t alone. He is deep in conversation with a strikingly handsome elven man. I am too far away to make out the words over the roar of the water, but I distinctly hear the stranger’sname drift over the crowd when a passing merchant greets him.Oleander.
Oleander is lean, casually dressed, and smiles at Raylen with a familiar, fluid grace. Raylen leans in close to listen to him, and a sudden, toxic green wave of hot jealousy floods my veins, completely catching me off guard. My jaw tightens so hard it aches. Who is this elf? Why is Raylen looking at him like that?
Before I can process the ugly, possessive heat flaring in my chest, Oleander bids farewell, slipping away into the crowd. But Raylen doesn’t stay alone for long. Within seconds, a small swarm of wealthy, glittering suitors realizes the famous Archer of Moonscliffe is there and vulnerable. They descend upon him like vultures, fluttering their fans, laughing too loudly, and aggressively flirting.
I see the subtle tension enter Raylen’s shoulders. I see how uncomfortable he is beneath the suffocating attention.
And suddenly, the walls I’ve spent a decade building simply crumble to ash.
I storm across the cobblestones, my long strides cutting through the crowd like a blade. I don’t care about decorum. I don’t care about my grumpy disposition. I push past a stunned debutante, step directly into Raylen’s personal space, and lock my eyes onto his.
“My answer is yes,” I say, my voice ringing clear and authoritative over the chatter of the suitors.
Raylen blinks, stunned for a fraction of a second, before a brilliant, breathtakingly wide smile breaks across his face.
Without a single word, he reaches into his tunic and pulls out a heavy, intricately carved silver necklace—his signature piece, the very emblem of his house and craft. Before I can draw breath, he steps closer, his fingers brushing the nape of my neck as he loops the chain over my head, settling the heavy silver directly against my chest.
A collective, sharp gasp ripples through the surrounding crowd of elves. It is a silent, undeniable, and devastatingly public claim.
Standing there under the heat of the afternoon sun, the heavy silver cooling against my skin, my heart pounds erratically. I don’t know if this claim is a tactical ruse for the crowd or if it’s real. But as I look into Raylen’s triumphant lilac eyes, I realize with terrifying certainty that I have never wanted anything more in my entire life.
Chapter eight
Sylar
Afewdayslater,the rhythmic, heavy thrum of the drums echoes through the grand canopy of the outdoor ballroom. We’ve had absolutely no luck finding the wayward sisters. Instead, we have been searching to no end, exhausting ourselves to the bone until we collapse into our single bed each night. We haven’t even had the time or energy to explore each other’s bodies since that heated morning in the cottage. Not to mention, I’m entirely convinced they’re avoiding us on purpose.
Ever since the broadsheets announced a potential noble engagement, the wealthier merchant families have taken full advantage of the chaos. Dozens of private masquerades have cropped up overnight, hoping to capitalize on the rumors.Every year, the Everend Market is so vast, so choked with travelers, that there can easily be hundreds of private parties happening at once. To make matters worse, each of the three distinct elven cultures—Gearwick with their high-powered engines, Emberleigh with their beautiful forests and advanced agroforestry, and our own Dun Steorra with our quiet, starlit elegance—have hosted their own official dances.
I adjust the silver and sapphire mask resting against my brow. I am truly starting to think that our attending these masquerades is entirely pointless.
My gaze drops to Raylen’s mask. I take in his appearance, still slightly shocked he’s here with me.
“You look really good,” I murmur, trying to keep my voice cool and analytical despite the way my heart stumbles. I am wearing a sheer, starlit robe woven from midnight-blue silk that catches the moonlight with every stride. Raylen stands beside me, wearing nothing but a structured, grass-woven vest that leaves his sun-bronzed, ink-stained arms completely bare.
