Page 44

As Your Skin Is Dark

I only relax once the hug is over.

That’s what star elves call it when they press their bodies against each other. Why is Acranta so glad I’m alive? We don’t even know each other. Why is she following me?

“I can’t believe you ran into a dragon! A dragon! Lucky that Vaasta and Neth went after you. Bel’Akra, I was so?—”

“Vaasta?”

We sit alone on a stone, its surface sun-scorched and smooth, the heat licking against my skin.

Acranta flaps a hand in front of her face to cool herself.

She’s dressed in scraps of fabric so small they barely count as clothing.

No shade is in sight, and the grass is so hot I’ve pulled my feet under me.

The air hums, dragonflies flitting by, and the brook murmurs in the distance.

“Hmm, wasn’t it good?” Acranta drums her fingers against the stone. Tap, tap, tap . A strange melody, her fingertips gliding over the carved symbols. “Oh, I’m trying to come up with a decent half-name for him, but it’s so hard! His name is already so short. And?—”

“Who is he? Has he been here long?”

“Who?” She pauses mid-tap, turning to me with wide, curious eyes like a startled deer.

“Vaast.”

“Why do you ask?”

I sigh. “We were just talking about Vaast, weren’t we? You’ve probably forgotten already. Come on, keep going.”

She stares intently at the grass, her bare feet swaying back and forth. “Oh. Well, he’s been here for many sun cycles. Jel says he’s wonderful at… teaching.” She leans back, tilting her face toward the sunlight, eyes slipping shut. “Why do you ask?”

“You don’t know anything else?”

She shrugs. “There’s nothing special about him. He keeps to himself, you know?” Then she looks at me again, her pale eyes catching the light, glistening like cut diamonds in the sun. “There are others people would rather whisper about. Like Neth. He’s the mysterious one, isn’t he? And?—”

As if on cue, Netharu’el appears.

My heart stutters. I rise to my feet, tuning out Acranta’s chatter.

Netharu’el’s hair is pulled back, sleek and perfectly styled, swaying with each calculated step.

His head is held high, and his posture is effortless yet commanding.

He’s dressed in sharp black clothing. Every move is precise, as if nothing he does is left to chance, as if tripping or falling isn’t an option.

“Hello? Zelda? Yes or no?”

“What?”

Acranta beams at me, expectant.

An answer to what?

I barely glance at her before my gaze snaps back to Netharu’el. A scabbard hangs at his hip, another in his hand.

Swords.

Are we finally going to fight?

“Oh, just answer!” Acranta tugs at my wrist, impatient.

Fifty-fifty. I could be right. Or completely, utterly wrong.

“Yes?”

“Perfect! I’ll see you at dawn, right? It’s going to be wonderful! You’ll get to see what?—”

“Wait, stop! What do you mean?”

“The trials, of course! You’ll watch, and I’ll?—”

“No, no, no!”

“Good Ereday, my ladies,” Netharu’el says, rescuing me from the moment.

I look up, meet his eyes and falter. The sun catches in them, making them gleam like freshly polished granite.

“We’ll speak more of this later,” I say to Acranta, my gaze still fixed on Netharu’el’s. “We have training.”

He extends his hand, long, taut and elegant, his nails clean. He clasps mine, and a shiver shoots through me. His grip is firm as he pulls me up from the stone. His fingers press against the back of my hand, not the palm. The palm is cupped. It’s too soon to let him touch it—too intimate.

“What were we talking about?” Acranta jumps up, arms flailing. “Oh, no! I must’ve forgotten. What was it?”

“Nothing.”

“Fine, whatever it was, we’ll get back to it later. Good luck with training. Try not to get hurt. And don’t go chasing dragons. You’re like a magnet for dragons, which isn’t good. Neth, keep her away from all that’s?—”

“I will,” he says without looking back, pulling me with him as we cross the field.

His strides are so long that I must push myself to keep up. His hand is warm and steady.

Why are we holding hands? I’m not sure, but I don’t want it to stop.

I stay perfectly still, afraid he’ll let go. His grip is firm, impossible to ignore. And his skin is smooth and soft against mine.

When we reach the eastern side of Nimuala, he releases me. My fingers ache, empty, and yet all I want is for him to take them again.

Iszaelda, what are you doing? Why do you want him to hold your hand? You hate being touched!

The field isn’t as open as the rest of Nimuala. Queen palms rise in clusters of five or six, their fronds sprawling at the tops, hanging like tattered banners or the tangled hair of sun elves.

Behind us, the jungle looms; ahead, the trampled field stretches out. Despite the clusters of palms, vast patches of emptiness remain, bare across the ground.

“So we’re finally fighting today?” I ask.

“We certainly are, my dear sun elf.”

“With a blindfold?”

“Without.” His hands trail along his gleaming, regal horns. I want to touch them. I want to know how they feel. Especially the tips. How sharp are they?

“Oh?” I arch a brow.

“I saw, of course, when you dramatically tossed your blindfold into the grass.” His hands continue their slow path over his horns, drifting lower with each spark, muscles shifting beneath his skin.

“Did you?” My jaw tightens, fists clenching. I try to stop and look away. But I can’t. I can’t tear my eyes away from his hands, from the way they move over his horns.

“Why so surprised?”

“You only had eyes for Jelethia, didn’t you?” Where in the fires did that come from? If I keep this up, he’ll think I’m jealous. Say something, anything! “I mean, you could just use another piece of cloth. Not that I want to wear a blindfold. I just meant…”

And now I’m rambling. Perfect.

Oh, Sesta, what’s this? What am I doing?

I let the sentence die and snatch the scabbard from his hand. His eyes narrow into thin slits, whether from my rambling or something else, I can’t tell. Maybe Acranta is rubbing off on me. She’s no good for me. She isn’t?—

“Did I seem like I only had eyes for Jelethia?”

Saxx, too!

I lower my gaze to the scabbard, slowly unsheathing the sword, savoring the low, rasping whisper of steel against leather. It’s a sleek longsword, perfectly balanced and nearly weightless in my hands.

Netharu’el steps closer, tilting my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. His thumb brushes my throat, and a shiver ripples through me.

“Is that why you ran?” he murmurs, teasing.

“No?” I laugh, shaking my head so sharply my hair flares around me like a snapped banner.

“Were you jealous of Jelethia?”

“No, I said!” My voice spikes, heat rising in my chest. “Why, in all the fires, would I be jealous? You have high opinions of yourself, don’t you?”

I tear free, take two swift steps back, and swing the sword through the air. Sharp and taunting. Then, without hesitation, I toss the scabbard aside.

“You’re quite charming when you’re angry, my dear.”

I swing the sword again, circling him with measured steps. “I’m not angry.”

“And I’m not a star elf.” His smirk lingers. “Iszaelda, you’re always angry. If you had an aura, it would be burning red.”

“And so would yours if a monster had slaughtered your family. You have no idea what that feels like!”

His expression flickers. “I… I didn’t know. I had no idea that your family?—”

“Great. Now you do. Are we fighting or not?”

He looks at me as if he’s trying to solve a riddle. As if I’m the riddle.

For a moment, I think he’ll hug me and dread knots in my chest, but he stops himself. I lack the patience for his empty, misguided pity. He doesn’t know what it feels like. He can’t even begin to imagine.

Instead, he extends a hand for the sword, and I give it to him. Holding both weapons before him, he whispers, “Feb epj eh.”

“What are you doing?”

“Blunting the edges. So we can spar without injuring each other.” He hands one of the swords back, and as I take it, his fingers brush mine. A shiver shoots through me, and I pull away quickly.

“Are you ready?” He steps into position. “Ready to prove what you’re capable of?”

“Are you ready to be beaten by a sun elf?”

“I seem to recall you claiming to be ‘fiery good.’ I can only hope that wasn’t an exaggeration.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Then let’s begin.”

He grins and lunges.

Clash!

Heart hammering, I catch the strike, and the sparring begins. I brace myself, refusing to give an inch. Pressing my weight into the blade, I hold my ground: steel screeches, snarls, and wails against steel.

I must win.

He pushes me back. The grass scrapes my heels, prickling against my skin.

Labored breaths, sharp gazes, arms locked tight.

He’s fast. Too fast. My sword slips and frees itself just in time. The blow dissipates, and I finally exhale. Sweat clings to my skin, and my arms ache as I roll my shoulders, cracking stiff joints.

I prowl around Netharu’el, my steps light, my eyes narrowed, my head tilted. Challenging.

I catch another strike. Push back! Now! Don’t give ground.

The blow vanishes, and another follows. Then another. Parry!

Steel crashes, shrieks, wails.

For all of Saxx, push! He’s too fast. My breath turns sharp, my arms heavy. I’m losing ground. I’m losing. I’m too slow!

Netharu’el strikes with raw force, and my sword wrenches free. It spins through the air, a glint of steel tumbling like a snapped branch in the wind. Then he’s on me. I don’t see it coming. Don’t think. Don’t breathe. Black. Heat. Hands. Fingers. Trapped. Caged.

I hit the ground hard, vision swimming. His legs press against my waist, the sword’s tip hovering over my chest. My arms are pinned. His knees lock them down. I twist. Writhe. Fight.

The sword is cold. His gaze smolders. He isn’t even out of breath.

But I am. My chest rises and falls too fast, each frantic inhale dragging the blade with it. He defeated me in only a handful of strikes. Maybe ten.

“If this had been a real duel,” he says with a wide grin, “you would most certainly be dead, my dear.”

“Let me go!”

He leans in, dragging the sword’s tip upward in a slow, almost sensual glide. Over the hollow of my throat. Along my jawline. Up the bridge of my nose. His face hovers just above mine, so close I can feel the heat of his breath. His legs lock around my waist, his weight pressing me down.

“If you’re ‘fiery good,’ then what does that make me?” he murmurs, his voice dark and teasing.

“You just got lucky. And besides…” I inhale. Exhale. Steady. “I’m better with a crown blade than a longsword.”

“Is that so? Do you have any idea how many daytimes I’ve trained?”

I shrug.

“Do you know how many daytimes one can train over thousands of sun cycles? And you think I just got… lucky?”

I shake my head, eyes locked on his, unable to look away.

Netharu’el’s mouth moves slowly as he speaks, his teeth flashing white in the dim light. Each time his lips part, his breath brushes against my skin, warm and sweet.

“Most of those I fight surrender after one, maybe two, at most three strikes. Never ten.”

“Never?” I swallow, lost in the depths of his gaze.

“Not once. So I must admit, I’m impressed. You’re formidable… for a sun elf.”

“For a sun elf? Oh, please.”

He smirks. “Still, we have plenty of work to do. A long road ahead before you become as fiery good as possible.”

“Not as long as the shock on your face when I defeat you.”

“Oh? So you’re ready for another round?” His voice dips lower, lips dangerously close, the sword’s tip resting against my cheek.

I swallow again, my throat burning and dry. “As ready as your skin is dark.”

“Good luck then, sun elf.”

“Same to you. You’re going to need it.”