Page 6

I step into the haze of cooking smells. The moment our eyes meet, Naeva tenses. She knows me well, and she can immediately see that I’m nervous.

“Karimni cúnie,” Itsaera says, entering the room.

She waves her hands before her eyes and stops so close that her dress brushes against me. It’s soft and supple, not linen; perhaps it’s velvet or silk, but I can’t tell the difference. Dyed in shades of lava red and gold, it shimmers like sunlight on water.

Mother immediately stands, running a hand through her hair and rubbing her eyes. She blinks far too quickly and glances around the room, mouth agape and lips trembling. Then she hastily stumbles through the formal greeting before allowing herself to speak of anything else.

“Sorry for the mess. We’re in the middle of cooking. Please have a seat.”

Itsaera and Mebrindel glance at the pearls scattered across the floor. Mother shoots me a narrow-eyed look.

I turn away. The guests sit down beside Naeva, who inches closer to the wall. Her gaze holds a mix of admiration and fear as she watches the elves.

“It’s of no consequence,” Mebrindel says, voice steady as his hands glide over the table. “We won’t stay long.”

Naeva glances around nervously, now pressed against the wall. Her gaze locks with mine for a brief spark, then flicks to Mother’s before she steps off the branch.

Once she escapes the visitors, her posture relaxes.

She walks with light steps toward the fire, taking over so Mother can sit across from the guests.

I remain by the archway, fingers woven into the oiled side branches, watching the strangers’ backs with suspicion.

My eyes settle on Itsaera’s flawless hairstyle—hundreds of jewels and ribbons woven through the strands in intricate patterns I’ve never seen before.

They shimmer so brightly they nearly blind me, sending a chill down my arms.

“So, what have we done to deserve this honor?” Mother asks. Her back is straightand proud, but fear lingers in her eyes. Her lips arestill parted, like the gap between a clam’s hard shells.

“It concerns your daughter.” Itsaera clasps her hands, resting them on the chipped edge of the table. Her nails are long and painted in a deep, fiery red.

I knew it.

“Naeva?” Mother asks. The only sounds are the crackling fire and the soft, elvish breaths in the room.

“Your other daughter.” Itsaera’s gaze sweeps between my sister and me. “Which one is Iszaelda?”

I wave the fingers of my right hand and tighten my grip on the branches with my left. “That’s me.”

Her eyes scan me again, slowly, from head to toe. She doesn’t seem pleased with what she sees and turns back around. “Garalas Dereldlleni has filed a report against her. He claims she used a weapon of war against him.”

Mother’s eyes widen, her lips parting even more, but she says nothing.

“A weapon, in an aggressive manner,” Itsaera adds, her tone indifferent. “Your son’s weapon. And there are witnesses.”

Naeva gasps.

Mother stares ahead, eyes still wide, like those of a dragonfly. I thought Aeralon had already shared every juicy detail of what happened earlier. Garalas insulted Naeva. That’s how it started. So I took Aeralon’s sword and challenged him. Losing was nothing but bad luck.

“This is terrible,” Mother says at last, her voice thick and raspy. “My daughter would never wield a weapon.”

Oh, Mother, don’t you know me better than that?

“She undoubtedly did this time,” Mebrindel says, his words drawn out, his back straight as a birch tree. “There’s no question about it.”

“Are you… Are you going to send her to the Hollow?” Naeva asks, her lashes wet with tears. It breaks my heart to see her in this state. For her sake, I hope they let me stay.

Itsaera claps her hands together. The branch creaks, swaying under their weight. She gives Naeva a fleeting glance before turning back to Mother. “We’ve decided to overlook this isolated incident. To let it rest. For now.”

“Oh, thank you.” Naeva wipes her hand across her face and gives me a faint smile.

“Sarea, don’t cry,” I whisper. She looks away.

“She has no criminal record,” Itsaera says, tapping her fingers together slowly, each tap ringing out as her nails meet. “However, we’ve also concluded that she will be transferred to the Hollow if this happens again.”

“For how long?” Mother asks.

“That depends on what she does next time.”

“There won’t be a next time,” Naeva snaps, gripping the meat skewer so tightly her knuckles have turned white. She waves it in the air like a witch does her wand.

No, Naeva. What Itsaera said fits perfectly. Unfortunately, I’m not as good as you think I am.

“Thank you for choosing to overlook this terrible incident,” Mother says, bowing her head deeply. Several sparks pass as she stares at the pine table. “I promise it won’t happen again.”

You have promised more than you can handle, Mother.

“We need stability and order in the village,” Mebrindel says calmly as he and Itsaera rise. “We can’t have women running around the forest with swords. They could hurt themselves. Or others.”

“Yes,” Mother replies quickly. “I agree, and I deeply regret what’s happened.”

They move toward the archway, their bare feet silent. Their robes trail behind them, causing several pearls to shift across the floor.

“Shall I show you out?” Mother offers.

“Thank you, but we can find our way,” Itsaera replies. “Meeli, eiy sesta es ambra ín silia.” Kindred, may the sun shine strongly.

Mother repeats the phrase and curtsies. The visitors leave us.

I slip out before anyone can tell me to stay. Rushing into the hallway, I dart to the right of the door and leap into the ink-black depths of the forest. The vines are thick and slick in my hands as I swing on them, not caring where they take me.

The creepers weave through the forest like an endless web, stretching into infinity.

Cold air, heavy with the scent of night, fans my face as the haunting call of the eagle owl echoes in my ears.

Oo-hu, Oo-hu. Beneath me, nocturnal creatures rustle across the forest floor, their glowing eyes piercing the dark: brown rats, field hares, lynxes, and grey wolves.

Out here, I can think.

Out here, I feel calm. Strong.

I’ll receive my ability at dawn, and the men my age will have their selections. Once every sun cycle, Silver Day arrives.

And now it’s here.

All elven women who’ve turned twenty-one during the year gather in Circle Valley to be blessed by our shaman and officially recognized as adults.

Before the blessing, we’re not one with nature; we haven’t reached Aewna.

We can’t use the ability we gain at twenty-one.

Only on Silver Day are these abilities awakened with the shaman’s assistance.

Without our abilities, all elves, except the star elves, can wield nature as a weapon, but doing so takes a toll on us and can be so dangerous that we’re only allowed to call upon nature when we have no other choice.

Men reach Aewna between the ages of twenty-two and twenty-three sun cycles when their nature magic awakens.

They don’t receive an ability like the women do.

Instead, they can join the defense if they pass the Silver Day trials.

Those selected get to choose their own weapon, and not just any weapon.

They select from the vault: mighty axes from Baraatien, elegantly curved bows from Kaspien, and mystical longswords from Vasvinennian.

All first-class weapons from Insisriel, each with its unique power, free of masters, ready to be wielded.

I stop. Hanging from one of the thick vines, I sway slowly back and forth. My finger points toward a shape in the distance, a dark lump crouched in the gray murk of the forest night. It looks like a beehive.

I call out the word for fire. “Elda!”

When we ask nature for favors, we speak Elvish.

Nothing happens. But that’s not surprising.

I haven’t been blessed yet. If I try at dawn, I’ll succeed.

I’ll have a weapon against Akares. The thought is overwhelming.

Strange. I could go after him. Hunt him down.

Avenge what happened when I was nine. Avenge what his warriors did to me.

And most of all, I could end the war. Stop him from erasing us, just as he did the sea elves and the wind elves.

Bring the sun back so Naeva can survive.

Just to be sure, I try other words. I cut the air with my hand at each syllable, the other gripping the vine tightly. “Núelda! Eldanúado! Vinevoel!”

Nothing.