Page 267 of The Dryad Storm

Olilly is barely aware of the show, Kirin’s words hanging in the air between them, lit up by the fireworks’ rush of shimmering light.

And by the Xishlon moon’s aura of infinite possibility.

Olilly glances at one of the vertical islands that she helped to craft, a plethora of vegetables already planted and flourishing in the island’s rich, geo-magicked soil. Enough food to feed hundreds. Thousands.

Her geomancy’s mark on Noilaan just beginning.

She turns back to Kirin, emboldened. No longer the scared, timid thing she once was. She’s even wearing her scarred ears proudly. Defiantly. No more pretend points.

Because she’s beautiful just the way she is.

And she’s still here. Defiantlystill here.

Working for a better future.

She peers meaningfully up at the moon, hope for the future, solid as her amethyst stylus, crystallizing in her heart, her lips trembling with emotion. “I feel like I’m truly part of Xishlon now,” she says, adamant. “I’ve found not just my magic, but my place here in this purple-moon world.”

She dares a glance at Kirin to find him giving her a look of pure emotion.

“Xishlon is so much the better for it,” he insists, moving slightly closer, his rabbit kindred venturing forward to press affectionately against her.

“Kir Lyyo,” Olilly says with giddy formality, her smile bright, her heart pattering, “would you be my Xishlon’vir... again?”

Kirin laughs, his own beaming smile turning as bright as the moon above. And then they both lean in, and Kirin brings his lips to hers in a shy, second kiss for them both. Then less shy as they bring their arms lightly around each other.

Then fully embracing.

As love blooms in both their hearts, along with rock-solid hope for the future.

Chapter Four

Xishlon Fire

Iris Morgaine

Zhilaan Forest

Xishlon night

Iris holds up her III-marked palm to the Zhilaan Forest’s Eastern tree line, waiting to be allowed entrance, her Noi Fire Falcon kindred perched on her shoulder. Iris’s heartbeat patters against her chest in a nervous rhythm over her bold quest, her fire power a hot, blazing mess. The Zhilaan’s gigantic Nightwood Pines loom over her, high as the purple-tinted clouds above, the whole Eastern Realm suffused with the Xishlon moon’s purple light.

She can sense the fiery Forest’s welcoming energy whooshing through her, her Lasair spirits lifting in response to the sensation even as her trepidation intensifies. Blazingly determined, she steps through the tree line into the Forest’s Dryad’khin territory then pauses, overcome by the hair-prickling sensation of being watched.

The Forest’s wash of purple moonlight embraces her, its loving aura suffusing her Lasair might and tinting her fire aura purple. Her tightly guarded hold on her emotions is suddenly wrenched open, every pent-up, impassioned feeling rushing forth, as her kindred falcon lets out a joyful cry and flies up and alights on a branch overhead.

“What if he feels nothing for me?” she asks the fire-loving Forest as she brings her palms to the rough trunk before her, the tree’s fierce love instantly encircling her. “What if I give in to the moon’s pull to honesty, and he says he could never love a Fire Fae?”

Insecurity rises, potent enough to cut through the Xishlon moon’s thrall, a feeling of overwhelming loneliness overtaking Iris, her gut clenching from the sheer strength of it.

You utter fool, she roughly chastises herself.What are you thinking? Yes, there seemed to be a strong attraction between the two of you, but he clearly fought it. He could never wantyoufor his Xishlon’vir.

A jaded laugh bursts from Iris’s throat, bitterness rising over her deluded idea that Dryad Sylvan would want to entertain the non-Dryad Xishlon’vir tradition, his own peoples and their traditions almost completely wiped out several times over.

She knows that the Dryad Fae have established a growing community here, naming Sylvan as the leader of their Tree Council. She’s heard they’ve built elaborately crafted canopy homes here, set inside huge burls that cling to the top of the Nightwood Pines’ enormous trunks, the Dryads’ elevated dwellings connected by vine bridges, everything lit by phosphorescent fungi, the Dryads’ knowledge of building and farming in Balance with Nature transforming the entire Realm.

Several months ago, when Sylvan left with most of the Dryad Fae for their new Zhilaan Forest territory, Iris thought she sensed reluctance on his end to be parted from her, his strong fireline keeping tight hold of hers as they clung to each other’s hands, the surrounding Dryad refugees eyeing them with everything from knowing curiosity to open concern.

Iris could read their unspoken thoughts simmering on the air—a powerful Dryad like Sylvan was clearly meant to find a mate from those of his own kind.

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