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Formysake.
A woman emerges from the crowd and walks toward us. She’s tall and slender, with long, flowing hair the color of cornflowers. Her irises are pure white, and her skin is like polished silver. She wears a long grey dress, fitted around the sleeves and torso, with a flowing skirt that reaches her ankles, revealing boots made of deep green leather.
There are markings on her face—tattoos. Two dark blue stripes across each cheekbone.
I can’t even fathom her age. She looks similar to me in years, but at the same time, she seems much older.
She reaches Corvan and stops. Then she presses her palms together, fingers pointed toward the sky, and bows.
“Yenabe, O’Kral,”she says. Her voice is soft and musical, her tone both reverent and filled with authority.
“Yenabe karazu, Sylhara.”He doesn’t bow; he just stands there, lips curving into a benevolent half-smile.
I shoot him a skeptical look. Since when has Corvan been so adept at playing a god?
The woman called Sylhara rises to her full height.
Then she looks up, directly meeting Corvan’s eyes. Out of all of them, she’s the only one that’s looked him straight in the eye.
“I can see that your power has grown, myKral.” Effortlessly, she switches to fluent Rahavan. “You no longer need to hide from the light of day.”
Corvan tips his head in acknowledgement, but says nothing. He just keeps that smooth, cryptic expression on his face, as if he’s wearing a mask. Why is he being so stiff and reserved? I don’t sense any hostility from these people at all.
I have no choice but to follow his lead.
“And you’ve brought an honored visitor.” Sylhara’s attention turns toward me. I look into her striking black and white eyes, and for a moment, I feel the force of her presence. She’s standing perfectly still, the wind tugging at her long hair, but it feels like she’s reaching toward me. A gentle pressure feathers the edges of my consciousness. All of a sudden, I feel strange; similar to the way I felt when I tasted Corvan’s blood, when the whispering voices intruded on my mind.
“Sylhara,” Corvan says, his voice ringing with authority. The strange feeling stops immediately. “This is Lady Finley Solisar, of Ruen. She is myOrama.”
A faint murmur ripples through the crowd. I don’t know what anoramais, but I can imagine it has something to do with us being betrothed.
My stomach feels funny. My chest swells with warmth. The way Corvan said it, his voice filled with pride and possessiveness...
That was genuine. It felt natural.
The Khaturian’s eyebrows lift in surprise.“Orama,”she exclaims, a look of genuine shock crossing her features. She turns to me and offers me the same deep bow she did with Corvan, her palms pressed together. “It’s an honor, Lady Solisar.”
Sensing the formality of the occasion, I respond with a formal curtsey in the Rahavan fashion. “I’m honored to meet you as well, Sylhara.”
Corvan edges closer to me, placing his hand on the small of my back. It’s an intimate, possessive gesture, and oh-so deliberate.
Sylhara’s eyes widen, but she quickly conceals her surprise. “Allow me to escort you to the Meeting Tent. There will bean offering for you, myKral.”
“We will gladly accept your offering,” Corvan says. “At the same time, I will speak with the elders and the elite shamans… including yourself, SylharaOtian.”
Sylhara nods. “It is your will,O’Kral.”
“Lead the way,” he commands, waving his hand imperiously.
I can’t help but stare. He’s actingsodifferent to the Corvan I know—the one that hates formality and titles.
And I’m very aware of the fact that not too long ago, Corvan’s people were slaughtering Sylhara’s people, and vice versa.
It’s chilling and surreal. The Khaturians may appear calm on the surface, but there’s an undercurrent of danger about them; I can’t ignore the fact their warriors carry wicked-looking blades and move with sinister grace; that their pale leathers that would make them all but invisible against the blinding white snow.
As we follow Sylhara to the Meeting Tent, the crowd of Khaturians parts like an ocean splitting in two. Many of them melt away; disappearing through the network of buildings, slipping into hide-covered doorways.
Only a small group of Khaturians remains now. As we pass, they fall into step behind us, forming an escort.
