Page 172 of The Demon Tide

He purses his lips at this. “Mora...”

“Fee,” she rejoins, suddenly serious. “You know I’m a Subland Elf who loves the sky. Raised by a Vu Trin soldier and a Noi fisherwoman. Do you honestly think I’m going to stand on Smaragdalfar convention in this?”

Fyon arches a brow. “There is some romance to the twenty days.”

Mora lets out a small laugh, affection for him welling.Ah, Fee. You’re such a true romantic.She sighs as an unwelcome shadow passes over her thoughts. “There is romance in it,” she agrees. “But who knows what the future holds?” She glances worriedly toward the West, then back at him, the man she knows is destined to be her great love. “Tomorrow, you deploy. Who knows when we’ll see each other again.”

Or if.

Mora presses that wrenching thought away even as it twists at her heart. “I want one night with you. I don’t want to regret waiting.”

Fyon gently presses his forehead to hers, his palms tenderly cupping the sides of her face in the Smaragdalfar gesture of affection. “Tief’lia’lin, I love you with all my heart. I always have. And I always will.”

“I know that, Fyon,” she says, her eyes suddenly blurring with tears as she smiles brazenly at him, his love making her bold. “Now love me with the rest of you.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

HOPE

Olilly Emmylian

Xishlon night, twenty-first hour

Olilly leans against the rune ship’s balcony and gazes at the stunningly violet Vo River, filled with an unexpected elation from the joyful bustle of cooking and serving food with welcoming Mora all day and into the eve. The purple Xishlon moon is high in the sky, little Ghor’li settled into sleep with Nym’ellia’s family.

A muffled whimper sounds through Olilly’s bedroom door behind her.

It’s Nym’ellia, she realizes with concern. Turning her back on the gorgeous evening, she knocks on the door. “Nym’ellia?” she hesitantly calls. “Can I come in?” Getting no answer and growing more concerned by Nym’s sustained crying, she tentatively opens the door.

Nym’ellia is curled up in a ball on Olilly’s narrow bed, hugging a blanket close, an angry bruise on her temple.

Instantly filled with distress, Olilly goes to her and gently presses her slender hand to the girl’s heaving shoulder. “What happened?”

“I...t-tried to go outside,” Nym’ellia forces out. “To...to see all the puppets. But...they called me a Roach and a Crow. Told me to go back to Gardneria. And then...one of them threw a rock at me and ithurt.” Nym’ellia’s whole face convulses at the memory, her shut eyes tightening as she sobs.

Tears sting Olilly’s eyes as her heart gives a wrenching twist. In just one day, she’s seen how Nym’ellia is treated here, and it’s much worse than what other Westerners endure. At least most of the people have been welcoming to Olilly, some overtly so. But Nym’ellia—she’s hated by so many because she looks Gardnerian, especially with the points of her ears shorn off.

A bold idea overtakes Olilly, springing from her heart with such strength she’s unable to hold it back. Heart thrumming, she reaches up and removes the jeweled and pointed ear-cuffs from her ears, her fingers brushing the scarred arcs of her ears’ mutilated edges.

“I have a present for you,” Olilly says, holding out the ornaments in the palm of her hand.

Her face slick with tears, Nym’ellia gazes at the ear-cuffs. She pulls in a hard breath and shakes her head. “I couldn’t.”

Olilly pushes her offering slightly closer to the girl. “Please. I want you to have them. It’s a gift. For Xishlon.”

“But...” Nym’ellia’s lip trembles as fresh tears fall from her eyes. “Theycroppedyou.”

“Yes, I know,” Olilly says, trauma clawing at the edges of her, but she beats it back. Because this moment feels stronger than all of it. “Just like they cropped you. But everyone knows I’m Urisk. Because I’m purple.”

Nym’ellia sits up and lets Olilly hand her the ear decorations. She stares at the silvery points for a long moment, then looks at Olilly searchingly, but Olilly doesn’t budge in her offer.

“If I wear them,” Nym’ellia says, her expression hardening with pain, “people will yell at me even more. They’ll rip them from my ears and tell me I have no right to wear them. Just like they tell me I have no right to wear Noi clothes.”

Olilly is undaunted. “Then wear them when you’re by yourself. To remember who you are. And to remember thatyouget to decide that. Not them.”

Nym’ellia begins to sob again as she balls the jeweled ear points in her fist and clutches them to her heart.

Overcome as a lightness blooms inside her, Olilly throws her arms around Nym’ellia and envelopes her in a hug that’s warmly returned. Then she sits back and smiles falteringly at Nym’ellia. “Go ahead, put them on,” she prods.

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