Page 93 of Wings of Starlight

Something pulled taut within her at the sound of her name. As though there were a tether binding them together, her gaze found his in the crowd. How rare it was to see him in the brilliance of the afternoon light. The sunstruck silver of his eyes transfixed her entirely.

Everyone in the clearing had seconded him, bursting into raucous applause. But they sounded muffled in her ears, and everything buthimfaded away. It was as though she and Milori alone had been plunged into some private, shared world—one outside of time, shimmering like a dream. She could not take her eyes off him. She could not guard herself against the pride beaming out of him—and all the longing, too.

She forced herself to return to reality, to focus on the happiness of this day. It was an incomplete happiness, when half of her remained where she could never reach. But right now, showered in the acceptance of her subjects, it was enough.

The party raged on for hours, riotous with joy. While the warm and winter fairies initially kept to themselves, eventually, their celebrations spilled across the border. A few braver—or at least friendlier—souls had drifted to the edge of the riverbank to break the proverbial ice. They engaged in shouted conversations and danced through the air, as close as they dared. They left food for one another on the bridge, inviting them to enjoy what each season had to offer. One enterprising frost-talent had even begun a game of catch, which lasted until the snowball tragically melted.

But as the sun dipped lower and fairies began to make their way back home, Clarion found her mood turning pensive—almost melancholy. There was still one last thing she had to do—the thing she dreaded most.

Saying goodbye.

Though their realms would work together closely, she and Milori would never again meet as they once had.

Clarion stood at the edge of the party, shrouded by a curtain of fragrant wisteria. She nursed a glass of punch: something she objectively knew was bright and tart but that she did not taste at all. Her mind was entirely elsewhere. The flowers woven into her hair had already begun to wilt in the heat, and her earlier happiness seemed quite far away now, as she knew what she had to do. But being queen was not about making easy decisions. It was about making the right ones.

Eventually, Petra found her.

She sidled up to Clarion. “What are you doing over here? Brooding?”

Clarion couldn’t help the soft huff of laughter. “I suppose so. Have you come to stop me?”

Petra was dressed in a long-skirted gown of philodendron. Bracelets of polished metal—her own design, of course—clinked on her wrists as she twirled a fluted glass in her hands. With a shrug, she said, “You’re allowed, if you really insist. Itisyour party.”

“True.” Clarion’s expression softened. “The crown is beautiful, by the way. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” Petra fell silent for a few moments, contemplative. When she spoke again, there was no accusation in her voice—only a quiet sympathy. “Are you going to talk to him? He’s been lookingmoonyall night.”

“I should. I want to.” Did she, though? Seeing him again would hurt, and she’d caused herself quite enough pain today because of her own decree. Here, in the comforting dark with her dearest friend, the question she’d been wrestling with seemed far too urgent to leave unspoken. “Petra, have I done the right thing?”

“Of course you have—you’re our queen.” Petra frowned, hesitating, as though she were selecting her next words carefully. She studied Clarion’s face, and whatever she found there seemed to solidify her decision. “But I don’t think you’ll ever know for certain.”

Clarion sighed miserably. She supposed that was true enough.

“All I know is that we have to protect ourselves in the ways we can—and you have the lives of many others to look out for. You’re doing your best.” Petra nudged her shoulder with her own. “Go. I’ll be fine alone.”

“Thank you.” Clarion squeezed her arm. “Really. For everything.”

Petra offered her a gentle smile. “Good luck.”

As she made her way to the border, the sounds of her party—the music, the laughter, the shouts—faded away. Here and there, fireflies shone out of the night. They lit her way, dancing and weaving around her, as if hoping to cheer her. They only parted with her when she stepped onto the bridge. It felt much like the first night she had ventured here: her determination holding back the groundswell of her fear, the cherry blossoms painted with moonlight as they fell.

The moss was cool and damp with dew. The long train of her gown dragged on the earth. A low mist had rolled in off the river, stirred by the gentle breeze. It had shaped up to be a moody evening, with the promise of rain in the swelling gray clouds.

It took no more than a minute for Milori to arrive, as though he had been watching the bridge, waiting for her glow to appear like a beacon. Dependable, as always—and devastating. His eyes were the brightest, clearest things she had ever seen. They pierced straight to the heart of her with his quiet, kind strength. Her heart gave a terrible lurch. She did not know if she would survive losing him. But whether they stayed together or not, she would lose him. One way or another, the stars would keep them apart.

Best, then, to keep him safe from her.

The breath of space between Winter and Spring felt like an invisible barrier between them. It felt, all at once, as thick as a sheet of ice and like nothing at all.

Milori broke the silence first. “Congratulations, Your Majesty.”

The cool formality of his tone knocked her breathless. All their time together, erased: him addressing her with that same impartiality he had on the night they met. It took all her strength to root herself in place, to not close the gap between them or throw her arms around him or beg him to look at her as he had only days before.

Her gaze snagged on the two beads of turquoise pinned to his tunic. They held the quills of two white feathers in place. A new cloak, she realized: one made entirely of Noctua’s feathers. It looked like a new pair of wings folded against his back.

She forced herself to meet his gaze again. “Thank you, Lord Milori.”

The use of his title made the last of his resistance give way.