Page 28 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf
A reminder.
That not every story has to end just because it got interrupted.
That some monsters wait, patiently, for us to realize they were never monsters at all.
CHAPTER 10
AERON
Ican handle monsters.
Sea serpents, with their slick scales and haunted eyes, curling up too close to port pylons. The kelp wraith that used to hiss lullabies through Dock Nine until I shut it down with a rusted harpoon and a bucket of iron salt. Even Drokhaz when he’s full of caffeine and louder than legally allowed.
But this? I can’t handle it.
Rowan’s voice echoes across the open harbor pavilion just as I’m coming through the canvas flap, lantern fuel box clutched in my hands.
“Looks like she’s staying,” she says, loud enough to be casual, quiet enough to be cruel.
I drop the box harder than I mean to. Metal clinks. The clatter ricochets across the space like gunfire.
“Evie?” Drokhaz asks. His tail flicks out from behind the stack of coiled lights, a flicker of greenish blue against the splintered wood. “The human? Glares a lot. Smells like grief.”
“Yep,” Rowan says. “That one.”
I don’t look at either of them. Just haul the box open and start checking contents like it matters.
“She’s staying through the festival,” Rowan adds. “Thought you should know.”
The inside of the box smells like old diesel and aluminum.
I mutter, “Not my business.”
“You sure?”
The air inside the harbor tent is thick with brine and sun-heated canvas. Salt crusts the wooden posts, and the breeze coming in off the water makes the rigging sing—a hollow, high-pitched drone that always sounded too much like mourning to me.
I pull a lantern free, test the wick, ignore the ache tightening in my throat.
She’s staying.
After running out while I was still asleep, after curling up next to me with the weight of fifteen years pressing between our shoulders, after letting me speak out loud what I’ve never said to anyone—she’s still here.
I don’t know what that means.
And I don’t think I can stand what it might.
I grab the ladder leaning against one of the central poles, hoist it upright. The canvas overhead is flapping like it wants to fly off, and one of the main banner cords is still tangled.
Good. I need something to do.
I climb.
The metal rungs are slick with early mist. My grip is steady, though. Always is when I’m trying not to feel something.
Up here, the pavilion’s chaos stretches in all directions. Booths still half-assembled. Strings of lights coiled in messy nests. Tables overturned and labeled with mismatched chalk signs: GAMES, BAKE SALE, LIVE SQUID DEMO.
I glance toward the harbor edge. My boat’s moored just beyond the salt barrels. Evie’s house is invisible behind the dunes, but I feel it like a shadow under my ribs.
