Page 19

Seren

Seren sat stiffly in her seat, fingers curling around the armrests as the aircraft roared to life.

The sudden force of acceleration pressed her back, and as the wheels left the ground, she felt her stomach drop and her ears pop.

Instead of fear, a thrill ran through her, and a wide smile stretched across her face.

Boran, seated beside her, glanced at her expression and grunted. "It is not something to enjoy."

She turned to him, her eyes still bright with excitement. "Why not? It feels like flying."

He shook his head, muttering about the foolishness of enjoying such an unnatural sensation, but she barely listened, lost in the experience of soaring above the clouds.

After a while, the flight attendants handed out sandwiches. Seren peeled back the wrapper and took a tentative bite. Her face twisted immediately in distaste. "This is awful," she murmured, forcing herself to swallow.

Boran took a bite of his own, then grimaced. "These people do not know how to cook."

Seren nodded, taking out the packet of sweets her mother had given her. "The food in the village was much better."

"Much," Boran agreed as he picked two that he liked.

The journey was not long, and soon they began their descent. As the plane touched down on the rough airstrip, she peered out the small window. The landscape beyond was different from home—wilder, unfamiliar. Excitement warred with apprehension in her chest .

When they stepped out onto the tarmac, a cluster of four-wheel drives awaited them.

The hot air pressed against her skin as she adjusted the traditional attire she still wore—a striking red ensemble that clung to her form, the deep colour vibrant against her golden skin.

The bandeau wrapped around her still-developing chest, leaving her shoulders bare, and the skirt, woven from the finest village fabric, shimmered faintly under the sun.

Gold embroidery ran along the edges, telling the stories of her ancestors, and her long hair was neatly plaited, a symbol of her youth and heritage.

Tradition dictated that the bridegroom would come to collect his bride, but he was not here. This had worried the village elders.

But she consoled herself. They did not know each other. They had six years until they were eighteen. Six years was a long time.

Draken and Astrid stood waiting near the vehicles. Draken, taller than she remembered, stepped forward, gripping her shoulders firmly. "You have grown, Seren."

Heat bloomed in her cheeks. She averted her eyes. "So have you."

Astrid embraced her next, her cheek pressing against Seren's before their foreheads touched—a traditional greeting. Seren had learned her lessons well.

When she pulled back, she let her gaze sweep the gathered figures. "Which one is Hagan?" she asked shyly. She had something for him.

Draken and Astrid exchanged a glance, a silent conversation passing between them. Seren could hear it faintly in her mind.

How can I tell her ?

Draken straightened. "He is on patrol. He will be back soon."

Seren nodded, though unease curled in her stomach.