Page 5 of A Match Made in Slumber

I wished I could’ve stuffed that comment right back down my throat the moment it rolled off my tongue. Observing the terrifying warlord’s jaw muscles twitch and tighten, I offered what I hoped might come across as a friendly, reassuring grin, trying to brush the glowing crystalline dust off my tunic. ‘First impressions and presentation are everything,’ my gran used to say. Since I’d buggered up the former to hell, I felt desperate to preserve what little could be saved from the latter. “You’re at the Everend Midsummer Market, of course. And technically, those aren’t just ribbons; they’re Festive Favours. This season they’re especially—”

“I’ve never heard of Everend. And I own every tactical map ever published.” He stroked his chin, his gaze narrowing into a piercing calculation. “Is it somewhere in the Empire?”

“‘Empire’? No. That would, err, involve the existence of an emperor, wouldn’t it? Here in Emberleigh, we’re a constitutional monarchy. With an elected parliament.” I raised my finger, the small spark of academic pride overriding my terror. “But over in Gearwick, they have a representative republic. Isn’t that quite progressive?”

The murderous look he cast my way shut me up again. I tended to ramble on when flustered and the man seemed anything but invested in any sort of administrative reform.

“I want to go back.” He stepped into my personal space, his voice as rough as gravel. Meeting his gaze required me to crane my neck upward at an unnatural angle. I couldn’t quite fathom how he managed to come across as frightening and attractive at the same time. “Now.”

“Right. Of course. There’s a small snag, though.” I cringed at the squeak that came out of my mouth. “It’s not that I don’t want to help. On the contrary, I would be delighted to assist you. It’s just… I mean, um, the thing is, I don’t quite know how to do it.”

Who would have thought that teeth grinding and hilt grabbing could also amount to a flattering pose?

“Unacceptable. You did this.” He swept a scarred hand in a vague arc towards the glittery mess of my counter. “So, you can undo it.”

I bowed to his logic and yes. I most certainly did do it. While I still couldn’t bloody well tell how, the evidence remained stamped on the friction strip. However, I felt inclined to disagree with the second part of his statement.

My stalling and explanations appeared to agitate him further, because he reiterated with more emphasis, “Send me back, alchemist. Time is of the essence. My troops are on the road to glory. We shall dine at the Citadel this evening.”

“Damn. I admit that’s a very reasonable demand, and I’m… terribly, just awfully sorry about all the failed glory and dinner plans, but…” I blabbered, panic burning a sinking vacuum in my stomach. “It’s just, I don’t have a single clue as to how to fix it at this precise moment. I don’t even know how I managed to get you here in the first place. Um, I’m really sorry.”

A bizarre sensation washed over me, heavy and suffocating. Months of tangled, vivid, breathless dreams had seared the exact contours of his face into the muscle memory of my fingertips. I knew the specific warmth of his embrace, what he liked in bed, and how to make him moan. But facing him in real life, exasperated and frustrated, was an entirely different experience—one that resembled trying to pet a thunderstorm.

“You say sorry a lot, alchemist. But apologies now are about as useful to me as a cannon of spun sugar.” He shifted his weight, towering over the display case until his shadow swallowed me completely . For one ridiculous instant, my treacherous brain wondered if he intended to kiss me or decapitate me, my cognitive faculties dissolving at a frightening speed. “Well, then. You will need to figure it out.” He planted his palms flat against the worktop, setting the command in stone.

“Absolutely. Immediate investigation. Top priority, I assure you,” I prattled, attempting to soothe his temper. Ironically, I wasn’t afraid of him—some subconscious instinct recognised a strange, intrinsic safety in his presence. Still, given that I preferred not to end up skewered like a roast chicken on the first day of the Great Market—or any other day, for that matter—I scrambled to distract him before he developed an urge to gut me on the spot. “Wait. What’s your name?”

“Commander Keălhem Reñyés. The Highest Vanguard of the Realm.” He gave a shallow tilt of his head.

“Kill’em?” I swallowed, my throat producing an audible gulp. “As in, kill’em all?”

With that armour, the sabre and his size, didn’t that sound like a fitting name for a warrior?

This time, he cast me a straight-up are-you-insane look.

“Keălhem.” He grabbed a brush I’d dipped in the inkwell to write the prices of my items. Utilising a sheet of wrapping paper, he drew two exotic, rune-like signs in one fluid, deft movement of his wrist.

I cupped my chin and cocked my head, trying to make sense of the foreign characters. Aside from the excellent level of his calligraphy, they revealed exactly nought to me.

His heavy sigh told me he realised the futility of throwing pearls before swine.

“Did you say you were the Highest Vanguard—” I gave another cough, “—of the Realm?”

“Affirmative.”

“Err, sorry to appear obtuse, but allow me to ask… what realm would that be?”

Keălhem straightened. “The Elven Country.”

“Of course, of course. We’re all elves here,” I said, hoping my empathetic tone both placated him and distracted from the blank expression I must have sported. “Just so that I can fully grasp the, um, situation… So sorry, but where exactly are you from? Where were you born, I mean?”

“Asirhwÿn.”

I stared.

“The Royal Capital,” he insisted, his tone taut with frustration. “Known as the Silver City?”

My despair spiked as every shred of data he supplied confirmed my worst fear. “Right. And that Mink Castle—oh no, the Ferret Bunker you mentioned earlier,” I rambled on, assorted luxury mustelids swirling around in my head, “is that also in the Elven Realm?”