Page 73 of A Legacy of Storms and Starlight

“There’s something I need to tell you,” she said quietly as he traced his fingers down her side.

Raif flexed his fingers through hers. “I know you’re the girl from the posters.” He didn’t frown as he said it; no anger flared across his face, no frustration.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“It was for you to tell me when you were ready.” He kissed her knuckles, pulled her hand close to his chest and smiled. His hair had come loose from its fastening, like a curtain of black silk spilling over his shoulders. Gods, he was beautiful. And far more patient than she had given him credit for.

She ran her fingers through his hair, words bubbling up inside her, but she pushed them down. Instead, she said, “Did Holt send you to the gardens that day?” It had been on her mind lately—how Raif had turned up so soon after her arrival. Holt had said he had friends in Virian when they were back in his cabin.

Raif smiled again, his dimple on full display. “Holt has a way of making people come together.”

“He really is like a brother to you, isn’t he?”

“I owe him everything. I can’t think of anyone better to lead our people.”

Zylah didn’t know what to say to that. She traced a hand along his arm, her fingers resting on the tattoo around his bicep. “Does this mean something, or was it part of yourvolatileyouth?”

His brows pinched together for a moment. “It’s a mourning band. For my mother.”

Zylah made to snatch her hand away, but he caught it. “It’s alright,” he said softly. “You didn’t know.” He pressed her hand to his chest again, and Zylah closed her eyes, feeling his heartbeat through her fingertips and listening to his steady breaths.

Sleep began to tug at her. She rolled to her side, and Raif pulled her close to him, his body flush against hers, his hand resting across her stomach.

“I never told you my name,” she mumbled.

He pressed a kiss to her shoulder. “You chose Liss for a reason. If that’s who you want to be, that’s all I need to know.”

For the first time since arriving in Virian, Zylah thought about the kind of life she could have if she stayed. She let the thought be a comfort as Raif held her close and sleep took her.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

She hadn’t stayed in Raif’s bed for long. She’d dreamt of the tunnels, and when she woke in the middle of the night, Raif stirring, she’d told him she was going back to the tavern. But she hadn’t. Instead, she’d gone to the tunnels to look for the bodies she’d seen Holt piling up for Marcus.

They weren’t there. She should have known Marcus would move them. She’d walked the tunnels, learning every turn, every passageway memorising as much as she could until exhaustion pressed at her skull and forced her to evanesce back to her room at the tavern.

That was weeks ago now. Every day since had been the same: work at the gardens, training after work with Raif, sometimes with Rose and Saphi. Dinner. Nights between the sheets with Raif. But she never stayed the whole night. She would sleep for a few hours and then make her way to the tunnels to practise her evanescing. As she explored, she realised the tunnels must have spread beneath most of Virian, and in time, she’d discovered more of what lay beneath the city than she had above ground. Each night she pushed her evanescing further and further, experimenting with how different substances felt over short distances—a wooden door, a stone wall, tuning in to her senses to learn all she could about her ability.

Without any guidance, all she could do was teach herself. It had never stopped her in the past. And it helped keep her thoughts at bay about what was coming. The festival. The attack on Arnir.

The sun lilies were coming along nicely, tiny buds just beginning to develop. They’d open just in time for the festival, and every day she tended to them, she laughed quietly to herself that it would be flowers that would help secure her freedom.

She’d collected the jupe as a backup on one of her visits to the forest to gather ingredients for the poultices and kept it tucked in the front of her apron; she didn’t dare to leave it anywhere else. Her work making poultices had increased, but she didn’t mind. Jilah had even set up a table at the gardens for her to work.

Once, on a delivery, she’d seen Asha, but everything she wanted to say had poured out of her at the sight of Mala’s bracelet wrapped around his wrist. He’d thanked her for the poultices as if his mate hadn’t died under her watch, and when he’d walked away, it had taken all of Zylah’s resolve not to evanesce back to the quiet solitude of her room.

Arnir hadn’t been back to Virian, but that had done little to ease Zylah’s worries. His elite unit hadn’t stopped hunting down Fae, and two more lives had been lost since Mala’s death.

There were just two weeks to go until the festival, and Zylah thought through the plans Raif had laid out for her as she practised in the tunnels. That night she’d chosen to bring a training sword; she’d wanted to go over a new routine Raif had taught her to sharpen some of the moves she hadn’t quite got right earlier that day. Or the day before, she supposed, now it was so late.

She’d been surviving on only a few hours of sleep a night, and she knew it was nothing but adrenaline keeping her going. She swung the sword down against the wooden door she’d been hacking away at, bones shaking with the force of her blow. She slumped back against the wood, wiping at her brow. The lump in her back no longer ached, instead it was an acute pain. It seemed to get worse every day and she felt certain it was connected to her magic. She’d pushed herself too much, but work at the gardens would ease her. She evanesced herself to the tavern, dropping her sword to the floor with a thud.

But something was different about the room. The hairs on her arms raised, her senses on alert. A familiar scent lingered in the air: acani berries mixed with a musky, earthy smell.Holt.But he wasn’t there. Zylah looked at the table by the window, where a brown paper bag sat. She didn’t have to open it to know it was a canna cake inside. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she made her way into the bathroom to freshen up. Some of the heaviness she’d felt in the last few weeks dissipated knowing he was safe; a weight she hadn’t even realised she’d been carrying.

If he was back, that meant things were going to plan, and her troubles eased a little further as she walked to work, nibbling at the canna cake. Kopi flew on ahead, touching down onto her shoulder now and then as if he were checking on her. Zylah’s thoughts were on the festival—the part of it that would take place before the attack on Arnir.

Saphi had told her it was a Fae custom to exchange gifts at the festival, and Zylah had been looking for the perfect gifts for them all ever since. Even for Rose, who, despite the one night of peace after Zylah had saved Holt from the tunnels, still mostly just tolerated her. She’d found something for Rose and Saphi, something for Jilah and the children, and Raif’s was a work in progress, but she’d yet to find a gift for Holt.

She walked past one of the apothecaries, the customer bell jingling as the door opened, and as Zylah took another mouthful of canna cake, she realised she already knew what she was going to get for him. If she could find someone to make it.

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