Page 9

My upper lip curls over my teeth.

Over my shoulder, a litalf hisses with the same reaction, Isha clammers out of the tree.

The hybrid lecturer smirks something small, then tosses aside the thrumming triangle.

Lessons are to begin.

A rustle shudders through the edge of the glade; the light ones moving for their groups and their favoured spots to lounge and sprawl out in the night air.

Normally, I sit here. Sometimes alone, sometimes with Griselda. But always here, under the oak tree with the least number of branches and the murkiest, crispiest leaves, always just barely clinging to life. I choose this one because I like the caress of the moonlight on my skin, but I also like the trunk of the tree to lean my spine on.

But this lesson, this night, I push away from the familiar bark that scrapes against my back, because somehow—the call of his cobalt eyes that gleam from natural dark hues—feels warmer than to stick with my kin.

I stride across the glade.

My boots flatten on the lush, dewy grass.

Stares latch onto me from all over and my heartbeat tangles with my bootfalls.

Thump, thump, thump.

Each step draws in another stare, until I’m nearing the thick row of trees on the other side, and every single fae is watching me cross the unofficial border between light and dark.

My chin is lifted, my face impassive, and I feel the defiance in my gaze—the gaze that’s locked onto cerulean eyes, like merfolk caught on hooks.

I breach the barrier.

I walk the field into enemy territory. I hold my shoulders firm and confident, my steps don’t falter, and I give nothing away as I march for the dark one who lounges under the shade of the oak tree, near the wild daffodils.

I’m sure they all hear it: the rapid pounding of my heart, the uneasy twist of my insides, the breath pinned to my chest.

I don’t let them see how afraid I am as I approach Daxeel.

He just watches me.

The natural smudges of darkness somehow brighten the deep hues of his eyes. I feel his gaze ripple over me.

My chin tenses just a little, a crack in my mask of courage. But I push on and reach the edge of the shade.

His eyes lift as I come up to his boots.

Still, he only watches me, silent.

I say nothing as I drop to my knees beside him, then spread out my star map over the grass. His stare burns into me, searing my already hot cheek, as does every other stare in this glade. But I sniff back the nerves bundling inside of me, lay out my parchments and inked quills, then I sprawl out on my front.

I rest my chin on the heel of my palm and pretend to read the star map. Really, I’m hiding the heat of my face from all this attention—and I loathe every second of it.

Movement ripples at my side.

I go rigid all over, toes curled in the confines of my leather boots.

Beside me, Daxeel lowers himself to lie flat on his back. A slight gesture, one that assures me, soothes me. He won’t challenge my proximity, he’s at ease with me.

I am welcome.

It’s a feeling that has my brows furrowed. The puzzled look is fixed on the star map, chin pressed into the heel of my palm.

I throw him a side-glance.