Page 114 of The Demon Tide

It’s based in a sizable rune ship tethered against the Sixth Tier cliffside, a glass-walled cockpit set above the main deck. The ship’s side doors are thrown open to reveal a cramped kitchen with steaming pots set on a broad stove. There’s a small seating area sided by runic-orb-decorated plum trees, the cliff’s startlingly sheer drop just beyond. I recognize the flowing, deep-green script emblazoned on the ship’s side to be Smaragdalfar Elfin lettering.

“What’s this restaurant called?” I ask Bleddyn, not able to read the script.

“Gylloryyon,” she answers. “It’s a subland flower—a purple orchid that’s a popular gift here at Xishlon.”

A young Smaragdalfar woman strides out of the kitchen carrying a tray of steaming breakfast soup. She’s striking—tall and graceful with bright silver eyes, the soft dawn light sparkling off her emerald-patterned skin. Her ears are sweepingly pointed, her long green hair done up in looping braids with a single purple orchid tucked in the coils. A purple apron imprinted with a lilac moon covers her traditional Smaragdalfar clothing of an emerald, rune-decorated tunic and matching pants. Her feet are clad in sturdy black boots, and she has a green rune stylus sheathed at her hip.

Her eyes flash like diamonds as she chats with customers, her demeanor inviting. It’s obvious she’s quick to laugh, her chiming amusement bright on the air.

I follow Bleddyn toward the gated entrance, sparing a glance toward the restaurant across the road, my vision assaulted by another of those awful signs—NOILAAN FOR THE NOI.

Noi flags hang in repeating rows above the customers, and a gray-haired Noi man in purple Xishlon garb and apron stands among them, jotting down an order. The Smaragdalfar woman, who must be Mora’lee, lets out another hearty laugh, and the man cuts a quick glare across the street, as if her happiness is an affront to the entire Eastern Realm. I’m reminded of the hostile man across the way from the elderly toy merchant.

I quickly realize how different the clientele is in the man’s restaurant, only Noi customers packing the outdoor seating. Over here, diversity reigns—an elegant young Noi man dressed in sparkling violet is seated with two blue-hued Urisk women, the young women also decked out in Xishlon garb, theirs marked with embroidered lavender moons and hearts. Sitting at the table near theirs is a huge Elfhollen man with an owl perched on his shoulder, the young man engrossed in conversation with a heavily armed blonde Issani woman. Beside them sits a Smaragdalfar woman wearing a golden Ishkart scarf, a black-haired boy with her same shimmering green hue hugging her arm. A black-bearded Ishkart man sitting across from them laughs at something the woman’s said, his garb a gleaming, rune-marked gold, his hand stretched across the table and entwined with hers. And seated just outside the kitchen is a little blue-hued Urisk girl with braided cornflower hair. She’s dressed in emerald Smaragdalfar clothes, quietly painting.

“You should be safe here for the day,” Bleddyn informs me in low tones. “Just blend in and stay in the kitchen.”

“All right,” I warily reply.

“There’s something else you should know.” Bleddyn hedges, lowering her voice further. “Olilly’s here.”

Alarm strikes through me. “Bleddyn,” I sputter, “she’ll recognize me.”

“She won’t turn you in.”

I shoot her a look of dire concern. “How can you be so sure?”

She flashes me a slightly annoyed look. “I’m sure. Keep an eye out for Fyon Hawkkyn, though.”

My mind is suddenly spinning. An image of my metallurgie professor who was secretly working for the Resistance in Verpacia fills my mind. He was fair-minded enough with me, even when he found out I’m the Black Witch, but that was when he thought me aligned with the Vu Trin. Who are currently bent on killing me.

“He’s sweet on Mora,” Bleddyn explains, infuriatingly blasé, “but he’s on duty for the Vu Trin down at the docks, so it’s unlikely you’ll cross paths. But keep an eye out for him, nonetheless. He’s a stickler for Vu Trin protocol, and it’s likely he’d bring you in for questioning.”

I narrow my eyes at her, patting the Ash’rion blade sheathed under my tunic. “He’d have to catch me first.”

She shoots me a disbelieving glare. “He’s a Smaragdalfar rune sorcerer well versed in varg runes and varg weaponry. Trust me, you can’t best Fyon.”

I consider this, deeply thrown. “Does this Mora’lee know what I am?”

Bleddyn’s eyes flash. “No, and you best keep it that way.”

“This isdangerous,” I hiss in a coarse whisper.

She shoots me an annoyed look. “Youthink? Because if you have a better suggestion, I’m all ears.”

A small contingent of soldiers strides into view, marching down the street in our direction, scanning each restaurant. My heartbeat accelerates to a jumping rhythm as I demurely lower my head. Bleddyn sends them a jaunty salute, which they barely acknowledge as their eyes pass over us and they’re quickly swallowed up by the purple-clad crowds.

Bleddyn’s green gaze bores into me as she leans in. “They’re searching for you, make no mistake about it.” She glances emphatically toward the wanted postings tacked onto the surrounding plum trees. “This is your best option to blend in while your allies gather.”

I glare at her, furious at her for waiting until now to reveal so many important details—my fate, Lukas’s fate and potentially the fate of this entire realm, resting on the whims of a young Urisk teen and the kindness of a stranger. But there’s nothing to be done about it now. I grip my Black Witch figurine and follow Bleddyn into the restaurant’s outdoor seating area, primed for flight.

“Go sit and I’ll bring over some soup,” Mora’lee jauntily calls out to us, purple teapot in hand. She flashes me a bright smile and waves us toward a table by the cliff’s edge.

Bleddyn grins at me, less a true smile and more an emphatic nudge to try harder to appear normal. “Let’s go sit down, then,Ny’laea.” She hoists her Black Witch figurine. “I, for one, can’t wait to smash her head and collect my prize.”

I glower at her, and Bleddyn’s grin widens.

We weave past deserted tables and take our seats. I’m hit by a flash of vertigo as I peer over the filigreed cliffside railing, the drop shockingly precipitous, stray clouds floating over the city’s descending tiers.

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