Page 133 of Sunsplitter

“Are you… drunk?” Fionamara’s glower snapped to Syvr. “Is hedrunk?”

They laughed. “Don’t worry. It will wear off in a few minutes.”

“How did you get him drunk?” Fionamara pressed withgrowing urgency. “I need step-by-step instructions, Syvr.Now.”

Antal ran his hands through her hair. Across her cheeks. Every flawless line of her.

“Put on a dress,” he purred.

Her brow arched. A quirk to dark lips. “A dress?”

“I need you in a dress. We’re going dancing.”

Her smile bloomed in earnest, and Antal was ruined, a lowly husk commanded by the curve of that mouth.

Fionamara looked to the other daeyari. “All of us?”

“All of us.”

And just maybe, this could be the start of something new.

The next morning, Antal didn’t wake with a hangover. Another daeyari advantage.

Hedidhave to endure Fionamara shouting at him, how unfair it was that he didn’t get hangovers. He dragged her back into their bed, worked her against the sheets until she shouted very different things.

Dawn light tangled in her hair. Crisp as new beginnings.

While Fionamara hunted her breakfast in the city, Antal headed to the capitol. They’d been out late the night before, touring Thomaskweld’s sights and dancing halls, telling stories by starlight. Exhausted, he’d offered Syvr and Ixli beds in the capitol building, the suite reserved for visiting dignitaries.

He arrived to the door ajar. Antal knocked. A call from Syvr beckoned him in.

The sitting room was decorated in midnight carpet and silver tables, topped with pots of spindly snow orchids. Syvr lounged on a sofa, almost insultingly comfortable in a thick robe from the suite’s bathroom. Their grin came as easy as it had last night, assurance that Antal hadn’t dreamed up all those confessions and possibilities they’d shared beneath the aurora.

But Syvr wasn’t alone. Their sea salt scent melded with…

Antal tensed at the smell of jasmine. Rich soil. His mother stood by the window, tail a mild sway as she surveyed the capitol plaza.

“Look how popular you are,” Syvr said. “All these daeyari clamoring for a visit.”

Yme faced him. She wore a midnight shawl, dark trousers flared at her calves.

“Antal,” she greeted, that soft lilt that always humbled him.

“Azaevi.” Antal bowed.

“Avroz is back from his meeting. Ready to hear the results of your planning. He wanted to send you a note, but I thought in person might be nicer.”

On her last visit, they’d parted on shouts. But this was a new morning, her posture penitent. Antal relented and joined her at the window.

“Syvr was telling me of last night,” Yme said.

“Were they…” Antal turned.

But Syvr was gone, slunk out of the room without a sound. Sly daeyari.

“They said you looked well,” his mother said. “That this human of yours… that Fi is a good dancer.” She quieted. “You always liked dancing.”

Antal was surprised she remembered. Surprised to hear her say Fionamara’s name.