Page 107 of The Demon Tide

“It’s the way of the world, Mora,” Bleddyn says with a jaded look. “Ask me how much compassion there was for Urisk children in the Western Realm.”

“We should be better than that here in Noilaan,” Mora insists. “We used to be better than that.”

Bleddyn’s mouth gives a sardonic twist. “Mora’lee, you need to accept the fact that the Noi seem hell-bent on going down the same path as the Western Realm.” Bleddyn glances at the restaurant across the street, a perfectly spaced row of Noi flags hanging from its awning. There’s a purple sign with black Noi lettering fastened to the restaurant’s street-facing wall, a sign that Mora has noticed cropping up more and more—NOILAAN FOR THE NOI.

An older Noi man garbed in Xishlon purple is setting the tables. He catches their gazes and gives them an unfriendly glare.

“This is how it starts,” Bleddyn says, narrowing her eyes at the man. “First the flags go up. Then the signs. Then the touting of whatever religion is dominant as the ‘One True Faith.’” She looks at Mora. “Before you know it, children are huddled in tents outside a runic border getting infected with the Red Grippe. And almost no one lifts a finger to help them.”

“And war is declared,” Mora grimly states.

“And war is declared,” Bleddyn agrees, picking up one of the purple morel pasties piled on a lavender plate. She takes a bite and shoots Mora a look of appreciation. But then her gaze snags on the restaurant across the street once more, her expression regaining its grim cast. “It’s all going to hell, Mora. I don’t see a happy ending to any of this.” She angles her head toward Olilly and Ghor’li. “But at least those kids can have a nice Xishlon. And Sweet Gods, Mora, these pasties aregood.”

Mora gives a short laugh, then sighs as she looks at Olilly and Ghor’li. “At least they get to try nu’duls before the Mages swoop down on all our heads.”

Bleddyn pats the runic blade sheathed at her hip. “We’ll give them a run for their money before they take over the world.”

“Maybe Noilaan will win,” Mora archly replies, but it’s hard to suppress the fear that’s straining to rise up.

Bleddyn looks back at the sign on the restaurant across the street. “Mora,” she says gravely, “Noilaan is already losing.”

A tall Smaragdalfar Elf man strides from the crowded street into Mora’s outdoor dining area, the sunlight filtering through the surrounding plum trees dappling his glimmering emerald-patterned skin with sparkling gold.

Mora’s breath hitches, as it always does whenever Fyon Hawkkyn appears.

“Muth’lorithin, Mothrin,” his deep voice greets Olilly and Ghor’li in formal Smaragdalfar as he passes by, his emerald hair braided and swinging behind his back, much like Mora’s, minus the glittering gems and single orchid she’s slid into her own.

Mora’s gaze sweeps over Fyon’s lean form, drinking him in. His garb is always so stubbornly Smaragdalfar, even though he joined the Vu Trin army and has quickly become one of their most valued rune sorcerers. He’s likely on midday break from military duty, but Fyon refuses to wear anything but Smaragdalfar garb.

And oh, Sweet Holy Vo, it looks good on him.

Mora grins at Fyon, her heart skipping a beat, only Fyon able to scatter her thoughts like Xishlon moon marbles.

“Muth’lorithin, Mora,” he says, with a reserved dip of his head. He looks to Bleddyn. “Muth’lorithin, Bleddyn.”

Mora smirks. Such a formal Smaragdalfar greeting. But that’s classic reserved Fyon, who seems hells-bent on following Smaragdalfar traditions to the letter. Traditions somewhat foreign to Mora, as she grew up the adopted child of a Noi soldier and a Noi fisherwoman after she was sent East by her Smaragdalfar birth parents at the age of six. Parents who didn’t make it out of the Western Realm alive. Who gave up every resource to save her.

“A good morning to you, Fyon,” Bleddyn returns, good-naturedly mimicking Fyon’s formal tone as she shoots Mora a mischievous sidelong glance. Mora can feel the heat rising in her cheeks and she suppresses the urge to roll her eyes at Bleddyn.

“Might you have some tea, Mora?” Fyon asks in the Smaragdalfar tongue, using the tense of the most heightened formality.

It’s an odd quirk of Fyon’s lately, asking her for tea in the High Tense. Before they speak of anything else. To the point that Mora always keeps a tea service ready in case he comes by.

“I have a lovely lavender tea, Fyon,” Mora answers, pointedly using the Noi tongue since she knows that the rune behind Bleddyn’s ear doesn’t give a clear translation of formal Smaragdalfar. She wonders, not for the first time, about Fyon’s insistence on speaking about something as prosaic as tea in such a formal way. As if he’s not just asking for a simple cup of tea, but for an audience with the Noi Conclave.

“I am sure this tea will nourish me,” Fyon says, again in High Smaragdalfar, an intense spark igniting in those dazzling silver eyes of his.

A giggle almost bubbles up, but Mora stifles it, smiling at serious, enigmatic Fyon.

“I’ll leave you two to your scheming,” Bleddyn says, her gaze darting knowingly between them. She raises her half-consumed pasty in a mock toast. “Have one of these, Fyon. Although I warn you, if you do, you’ll want to kiss Mora’s feet and pledge her undying fealty.”

Fyon’s silver eyes widen.

Bleddyn flashes Mora a rakish grin before leaving the kitchen. She pauses to fish a few of the traditional Xishlon candy moons wrapped in purple foil out of her tunic’s pocket and hands a few to Olilly and Ghor’li before she exits through the restaurant’s gate and disappears into the crowd, the proprietor of the restaurant across the street scowling after her.

The moment they’re alone in the kitchen, Fyon glances through the open starboard door toward the busy thoroughfare beyond, then slips his hand into his tunic’s pocket and discreetly hands a folded document to Mora, Ghor’li’s name marked on it.

Mora pockets the papers. “Jules Kristian’s work?”

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