Page 88 of Dark Elves of Ardani

Zara woke up to an absence in the bed and the sound of someone quietly moving around nearby.

She squinted through the darkness at a silhouette on the other side of the room. Nero was standing shirtless in front of a small, foggy mirror, with his hair gathered in one hand and a knife in the other. He raised the knife against the base of his neck, preparing to cut through his hair.

“Stop!” Zara shouted.

Nero jumped. He looked over at her, frowning.

She hurriedly climbed out of the bed, pulling a blanket over her to shield herself from the cold. “What are you doing?”

“Cutting my hair, obviously.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “It’s too long.”

She took the knife out of his hand. “You suddenly decided it is too long? Why?”

He shifted, uncomfortable. “I thought you might prefer a normal hairstyle. I have not been thinking about my appearance lately, and I thought maybe I should start.”

She raised her eyebrows. He’d been doing it for her, to try to impress her. “I prefer you the way you are. You do not have to change anything. And I told you I liked your hair.”

“I thought you were just trying to spare my feelings.”

“I am not a liar.”

He looked at her skeptically. She gathered his hair behind him, running her fingers through it to straighten it down his back. “I will cut it, if you like. How sharp is this knife?”

He gave her another wary look over his shoulder, but didn’t protest. “Sharp enough.”

“Hold still, then.”

She ran her hands down his hair in increments of a handful at a time, pulling it taut before carefully slicing through the ends with the blade. Her fingers brushed his bare skin occasionally, and each time, she felt him go tense, though she didn’t think it was from discomfort. She found herself brushing the backs of her fingers against him intentionally and smiling when goosebumps formed on his skin.

She cut perhaps an inch or two, in the end. Enough to make it neater, but not enough to really shorten it. She handed him the knife as he turned around.

“You look lovely,” she said.

He gave her an odd look as he sheathed the knife. “No one ever complimented me before you came here.”

“I do not believe that.”

He smirked. “Unless you count my mother.”

“Did she compliment you often?”

“Isn’t that what mothers do? They all think their children are perfect. Or, if they don’t, they at least pretend they do.”

There was something heavy in his words that almost went undetected—the smallest hint of sadness peeking through the warmth in his voice. Zara almost didn’t comment on it, but she wanted to know what made him sad.

“You think she was pretending?” she asked.

He gave her a wan smile, and didn’t answer for a moment. “She was a good woman. I loved her very much.”

“But you do not believe she loved you?” Zara asked skeptically.

“My father forced himself on her. That night was the first and last time they ever saw each other. It was violent, I think.” He turned away, running a hand through his newly cut hair. “I think she thought about that every time she looked at me. How could she not? I think my existence caused her pain.”

Zara frowned, pained. “Did she say that to you?”

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