Page 56 of Cursed Shadows 1

The light ones on the other side of the field, myself included, don’t tuck away in the shade. We lounge around, talking and laughing and drinking, sprawled out over grass that nips at the skin hard enough to draw blood when we spill a drop of wine, or—I see as I glance over at the sound of a female’s shriek—those foolish enough to prod sticks into a gnome den. That female is now being chased by the gnome gnashing at her heels.

A smile steals my lips at the sight before I turn back to look at Daxeel again.

And I see he’s watching me already.

I blink, surprised some, but don’t look away from his glance. Not even as he crouches to pick up his dupe dagger, then turns his back on me.

We don’t talk often. He saved me, quite some moons ago now, and I have dared to sit with him thrice in our shared lessons. But beyond the occasional muttered question from me and his curt answers—‘What’s this star?’, ‘Where does this constellation go?’—we speak nothing to each other.

Daxeel gives me space.

He keeps near when I come to him, but he doesn’t hunt me—because of the others. Always, we seem to be surrounded by light ones. And they will judge me for my flirtations with a dokkalf male.

Maybe it’s the honeywine.

Maybe it’s the lull of Eamon’s gentle fingers spidering through my hair.

Maybe it’s the ambience, the perfect blend of stiff and silent dark fae and loud and jovial light fae.

Or maybe I’ve just had enough of pretending I don’t want to flirt with him, that I don’t want to feel those leathers against me, touch those lips with my own.

Whatever it is, I take a hearty swig of the honeywine before passing it off to Eamon, then I’m pushing up from the grass. Blades of it caress my feet, thanking me for not flattening them with the boots I tore off the moment I got comfortable against Eamon.

I don’t reach for the boots. Rather, I reach out my hand expectantly for Eamon.

He frowns at it, like it’s some riddle.

I flex my fingers. “Knife.”

Eamon’s mouth pinches. His golden-amber eyes lift to meet mine, and with that one look I know he’s telling me how much he disapproves. Not because Eamon doesn’t like his cousin, Daxeel, but because of what it means for me in these lands.

The treaty is too new for these flirtations, for my silly crushes.

But I’m a tad stubborn, and I like what I like.

Eamon slips the dupe knife from his belt. It’s about the length of my middle finger, crafted from a chalky white substance.

I take it and, with a smile, turn on the fighting mats.

The hilt is rough against my palm as I start down the small path. I haven’t even gotten to the first mat when Daxeel senses a newcomer. Or maybe, I let myself wonder, he senses me specifically.

I don’t know, and I don’t ask as the sole of my foot presses on the rough sack-like texture of the mat.

His leathers tighten.

Slowly, he turns to look at me. His lashes lower over burning blue eyes, but it’s the small lift at the corner of his mouth that eases me.

There’s more confidence in the second step I take towards him. And the next, and the next, until I’ve slipped into some casual wandering pace, completely uncaring and unafraid under his spearing gaze, and the gazes of others.

Some dokkalves watch me now. A light female halfling stepping to one of their best. It’s unsurprising that I catch some attention.

But mine is only for him; and he only watches me.

With a disinterested hum, I just look at him from beneath my lashes. My face is wiped clean of any feeling, none of the fear I should feel, no hints of the heat stirring in my belly.

I toy with the small chalky knife in my hands. One hand turns it over and over, and the other lifts to press a finger against the sharp tip. A crimson bead of my blood sprouts just beneath the nail, then rolls down my finger.

I don’t break our locked gaze.

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