Page 14 of The Ascended
I stepped on his foot, probably harder than necessary. "Sorry."
"You know, most people would consider it rude to step on someone's foot and then lie about being sorry."
"Most people would consider it rude to interrogate someone while they're dancing."
"I'm not interrogating. I'm making conversation."
"There's a difference?"
"One involves thumbscrews."
I couldn't help it—I laughed. And once I started, I couldn't seem to stop. Maybe it was the wine, or the stress of the week, or just the sheer absurdity of discussing torture techniques while dancing to Henrik's fiddle. But I found myself laughing until my sides hurt and I had to lean against Marel's chest to stay upright.
"Better?" he asked when I finally got myself under control.
"Better," I admitted.
The song was winding down, other couples beginning to separate and applaud. But Marel's arms stayed around my waist, and I found I didn't want to move away just yet.
"Thais," he said quietly.
"Don't."
"You don't know what I was going to say."
"I know that tone. That's your serious conversation tone, and I'm not drunk enough for serious conversations."
He was quiet for a moment, his hands warm against my back. Around us, the celebration continued—more music, more laughter, more stories being told by the fire. But it felt separate somehow, like we were standing in a bubble of stillness.
"At some point," he said finally. "In the future. Will you talk to me? I mean, are we ever going to have the conversation, Thais? You're twenty-six, I'm nearing thirty. I don't see anyone else the way I see you. Are we going to keep dancing around this forever?"
"Marel—" My throat tightened.
"I know your brother is fine spending his life like this, but is it what you really want?"
I stopped, taking a step back. "We're not talking about this here." Because I couldn't bear to see the hurt in his eyes when he realized the truth—that I cared for him deeply but not in the way he wanted, not in the way he deserved. He sighed, eyes going dim as he pulled me back to him.
"Just promise me you'll talk to me. At some point. That's all."
"I promise," I said, and meant it. Even if I couldn't keep it. Even if the conversation we needed to have wasn't the one he imagined.
"Good. That's good." He smiled then, the real one that made his whole face change. I'd become so accustomed to taking what he offered—comfort, normalcy, affection—while giving back only what I could convincingly fake. And still, he looked at me like I was everything.
The dancing went on for another hour, songs flowing into each other without pause. I danced with Marel, then with Henrik when he handed off his fiddle to someone else, then with Jorik who was drunk enough to be truly entertaining. Thatcher appeared at one point to claim a dance, spinning me around until I was dizzy and laughing.
"How much have you won?" I asked when he set me down.
"Enough." He looked pleased with himself. "The one from Millhaven is terrible at cards but keeps betting anyway. It's like watching someone throw money into the sea."
"Careful."
"I'm being reasonable. Just taking enough to make it interesting."
The music slowed again, and couples began to drift apart. Some headed back to their blankets and wine, others gathered around the fire where Dorna was preparing to tell one of her famous stories.
"Ghost story?" I asked, settling back onto Lira's blanket.
"Something fitting for tonight," Dorna announced, settling herself more comfortably near the fire. "The old story about Morthus and his bride."
