Page 23 of Zepharali: Lord of the East Winds (Lords of the Wind Book 3)

Lazaar

Lazaar was uneasy about going out, meeting and mingling with the patrons of the sun world. What if they hated him? Or worse, what if they feared him?

He was sure word had spread of his many names and his lineage.

How did he know he wouldn’t be attacked the moment he stepped out of the palace walls?

What if everyone hated his formal attire? He was dressed in a knee-length black silk tunic and breeches with gold embroidery and wore a sash the attendants said represented his royal status and commitment to the Titan of the Realm.

“I can almost hear your busy mind.” Elephaa linked her arm through his crooked elbow and nodded for the guards to open the gates. “My father’s people are excited to meet you.”

“Why?”

“Because their titan’s heart is full and loved, and his energy has already begun to spread through the realm.”

That made Lazaar feel a tiny bit better as they made their way toward the main square, which was already bustling with activity, though it wasn’t even 9:00 a.m.

“We’ll start in the marketplace, where I’m sure you’ll be showered with gifts.” She winked. “Perhaps I’ll get a few as well.”

They had a large protective detail—he thought it too large—with Oleksandr following close behind and Myst hovering a few feet above him.

He and Elephaa engaged in light conversation, continuing to get to know each other since it seemed they’d be spending a lot of time together.

“Where are your sisters? Um, Dorema and her wife and the other remarkable titanesses who carry out your father’s orders.”

Sadness crossed her beautiful face before she schooled her features and tightened her spine.

“Dorema is the eldest and the captain. She’s in the council meeting with Father. Aoide, her wife, is lieutenant of the infantry, so she’s in the training fields.”

“Oh,” he muttered.

Elephaa held up her stub. “I was wounded at our strike on the Demi Lands. I also suffered mentally after the surgeon declared my arm was too mangled and he’d have to amputate most of it. I knew I’d never be permitted into battle again.” She shrugged as if she didn’t care, but Lazaar could see she did. “So there’s no reason to go to training when I’ll never fight again.”

“I’m sorry,” Lazaar whispered.

Lazaar wanted to kick himself for asking such an asinine question when it should’ve been obvious. And he was sorry she’d gotten stuck babysitting him while her sisters got to do what they were best at.

“Don’t be sorry, your grace.” She held her head high. “My title is now the Chief of the Tribrid detail, the truest love of my father’s heart. In my opinion, it’s the most important title and duty in all of Scáthanna.”

The security detail of younger titanesses behind them stamped their spears twice on the ground in response to the declaration.

Lazaar clutched her arm tighter and let her lead him into the busy market.

Shoppers and merchants of many species and worlds bartered and haggled for the fairest prices, their voices echoing through the wide streets.

The suns’ brilliant rays glittered on the many stalls, casting a golden hue upon all they touched.

Every corner of the market revealed a treasure trove of amazement, overflowing with everything from gleaming gemstone jewelry to the sweet scents of exotic fruits and freshly harvested herbs.

“Your grace, your grace! Over here!”

Lazaar laughed, his cheeks sore from all the smiling as Elephaa pulled him to a neon-green tent that changed colors the closer they got.

Once they stood under the thick canopy, he stared up at a dark-purple cloth protecting them from the suns.

“I am Balrom Gathgeln of Momedur, the finest dwarven city of the realm.” The dwarf wore a brown cloak over his long tunic and stood no more than four, maybe four and a half feet.

He gave a deep, respectful bow to Lazaar before he presented a wide tray of already cut fruit.

“You must sample my chalaloupes… They’re the sweetest melons in the market.”

Lazaar laughed again. Every booth he passed hollered for him to try their goods, all claiming to have the best.

He took a sample, moaning as the sticky juice ran down his palm.

“My gods, that is sensational.”

Balrom beamed, then threw a smug grin to another fair-skinned dwarf operating a similar booth across the road.

“Until you try mine, your grace,” the competitor shouted.

Elephaa dragged him away. “Don’t get those two started, please.”

Lazaar had to stop taking all the gifted food samples. The roasted musk deer was delicious, but it filled his stomach to capacity. He couldn’t consume another bite of anything.

He had another kind of hunger rising to the forefront.

Oleksandr was instantly smitten with an older half elf, half siren baker and requested permission to remain at her booth. Which, of course, he didn’t mind.

Elephaa took pity on Lazaar and found him a bench in the center of the square to observe the entertainment.

He enjoyed the jovial melodies of the musicians playing their handheld harps, but he was most intrigued by the storytellers.

The audience grew bigger and bigger as two blue-skinned shapeshifters weaved animated tales of heroes and villains and epic battles fought by the last bringer of justice.

After they finished the last story of Zepharali freeing some revered Druids from a demonic invasion, Elephaa gave Lazaar a few gold coins to place in their basket.

The evening was approaching, and Lazaar grew impatient to see, touch, hold, and feed from his beloved.

He thought the molten spheres descending was a true sight to behold and one he’d probably never tire of witnessing. The three suns bled romantic hues of gold, pink, and lavender across the sky, a setting he wanted to watch in Zepharali’s strong arms.

“Do you like it, your grace?”

Many fairies had flittered around him, at first giggling and playing in his coal-black hair, then twisting and braiding it into a style they swore was a masterpiece.

They projected his reflection back at him on a beam of light.

Lazaar smiled, gazing at himself, feeling beautiful for the first time in his life.

His radiant expression was enough of an answer for them to cheer and flitter off in a cloud of shimmering dust.

“Wait until my father lays eyes on you.” Elephaa stroked the long braids adorned with bright yellow gemstones and white roses.