Forsaken by Shadows 63: Written in the Stars

~28. Written in the Stars~

Mazira

Just breathe.

Mazira inhaled as her instructors advised her. One breath, then another, and then a spin. Extend the blade, slash it left. Don’t forget to exhale. 

Around her, twenty-three other blades sliced in the same direction, as her new Songsisters twirled to the rhythm of the Serenade, their voices raised in sacred song. Eight new initiates and sixteen rising to the next echelon.

Could they even hear the music? Or were they like her, only aware of it thrumming in their bones? Were they cognisant of the sea of faces watching their performance, or did they lose themselves to the dance, the way Mazira supposed she ought to have?

Just breathe. 

At least it was almost over. Muscle memory alone carried her into the final steps, a moment of great anticipation for the other seven novices. When the music stopped, they would learn if Eilistraee had chosen them for magic. 

Not likely, since Mazira already had it. Eilistraee seldom gave the gift to more than one or two novices at a time, preferring her acolytes to excel in swordplay over magic. 

Still, they could always hope.

Or did they give up on hope, and resent her, an unworthy half-faerie, for her gift instead?

No, she wouldn’t think that way. There’d been no evidence of bitterness or jealousy from her new drow sisters. No unkindness whatsoever. Mazira couldn’t keep inventing what wasn’t there. 

She just had to breathe. 

And get through this dance.

And then she was free to go. 

Free to find Rismyn and show him her lack of scars. Free to display what more the goddess had done for her, and maybe, maybe—

She might just tell him everything. Not just about Eilistraee and her visions, but about him, and the way he healed her heart and made her whole. 

The way she loved him to her core.

Her face warmed, and not just because of the magic crackling just beneath her skin, coaxed forth by the sacred song and dance, or her ever present awareness of the entire cavern watching her. 

Would she really do it? Was she really brave enough to face his rejection?

She had little time left before she would find out. The music came to a climactic finish, concluding with a forward lunge with the blade and a synchronized sheathing of the weapons. The new priestesses rose and bowed, hands outstretched and palms held high in supplication. 

As she’d known it would, Mazira’s body erupted with white, sacred fire, bathing her in bright light and a gentle breeze. The sounds of the cavern came crashing back as she breathed a sigh of relief, unable to hold back her smile as she held the pose for the full four count, like they were instructed. 

Over. Free to go. Find Rismyn.

The cavern shook with a collective gasp, and Mazira’s head whipped up on instinct.

That wasn’t right. They were supposed to cheer. And then Mother Lara was supposed to speak and—oh. 

Oh. 

She wasn’t the only body blazing with sacred flame. Before her, the sixteen newly raised second-echelon clerics had broken rank, staring at one another with expressions of awe and fear, as everyone one of them blazed with magic they didn’t previously possess.

“W-what does it mean?” stammered the girl to Mazira’s left, drawing her attention to the remnants of the line of novices she stood with. 

They’d scattered as well, each one burning like a torch. 

Like Mazira. 

Every single Songblade on the stage had been granted access to the Weave. 

A heartbeat hung suspended in time, but when it resolved, the cavern roared with the cheering Mazira had been expecting. It sounded distant and far away, like the music she’d been all but deaf to. She cast her eyes upward, to the balcony where Mother Lara watched the spectacle, and found the high priestess staring down at them with a look that mirrored what Mazira was feeling.

Shock and disbelief, and no small amount of fear. 

Twenty-four priestesses gifted with magic. What indeed could it mean? 

A male elf leaned over and whispered something in Mother Lara’s ear. 

A male? No. That wasn’t some generic aid. That was Solaurin, appearing strikingly different through the fog of her adrenaline, clad in his Festival attire. And beside him was Ti’yana, and beside her—

Mazira’s breath caught in her throat as her eyes locked with Rismyn’s. He leaned forward, gripping the railing of the balcony with a grim set to his jaw, and she flinched. That was hardly the look of delight she’d been hoping for. Was he upset with her? Had she done something to displease him? 

Her reeling was cut short as the Reverend Mother stepped forward, raising her hands for silence.

“My children,” she said, in a voice enhanced by magic. 

Mazira and the other girls stiffened to attention, gazing up at the women who had founded their order. These words were part of the script, though their choreography was ruined by the shock of the sacred fire’s manifestation. 

Yet though they had already moved from their postures of humility, Mother Lara’s words didn’t deviate from expectation. 

“Rise, and be blessed,” she said. 

She raised her arms and face cavernward, and sweet music fell from her lips. Four lines of sacred song, a benediction, which was soon taken up by all in the cavern. The chorus flooded in and around them, sending tingles rippling from Mazira’s spine to the furthest reaches of her fingers and toes, which pulsed with tangible power. As though if she closed her fists, she could take hold of the Weave as easily as one grabbed onto a rope.

But she didn’t move. She just stood there, watching Mother Lara, searching for clues as to what she was meant to feel about what had just happened. 

When the lyrical blessing trailed away, the clamor of voices returned, and the musicians set their instruments aside. Satara, who’d been lurking behind on the colonnade, strode toward them, her grin wide. 

“Wonderfully done,” said the commander of the Songblades. “I’m so proud of each of you.” 

And it was over. Just like that. The ceremony had ended and the Festival had resumed, and Mazira was supposed to just… move on. As if something spectacular hadn’t just occurred. As if their worship wasn’t just rewarded with an unprecedented display of grace.

For once, she wasn’t the only one with questions. The newly risen Songblades—for that was what she was now, a Songblade—flocked around Satara, several of them speaking at once.

“What does it mean?” 

“We all have magic!” 

“Has this ever happened before?”

Satara made a shushing gesture, her wide grin still fixed in place. A grin that failed to reach her eyes. 

“Eilistraee works in mysterious ways,” she said. “We do not know yet why she has heaped such blessings on all of you, and we may never know, but this should be no cause for concern. You have all been gifted! This is marvelous, and rather than fretting, you should rejoice.” 

Her words seemed to have a placating effect. The new priestess exchanged glances, smiling to one another. Small, uncertain expressions that gradually resolved into grins. And rejoice they did, embracing one another and sharing words of delight. 

Mazira endured two hugs before she finally managed to slip to the edge of the gathering, which was growing as the musicians and more senior priestesses arrived to offer their own blessings and well wishes. 

She hugged her arms around her body as she cast furtive glances toward the others. Eilistraee might work in mysterious ways, but Mazira couldn’t shake the suspicion that if the goddess had chosen this many new wielders of magic, it could only be because the deity sensed that they were all going to be needed. 

A trial was coming to Launa, one that was going to require healers and wielders.

She shuddered, looked again to the balcony, and found no relief for her queasy feeling.

Solaurin and Mother Lara were still there, engrossed in what looked to be serious conversation. Rismyn and Ti’yana, however, were gone.

Where had they gone? Where had Rismyn gone? She needed him now, her center, her solid ground. She needed him to confide her thoughts in, needed his steady assurance that everything was going to be okay. She needed him, and he was gone.

Wait, no. Not gone. Down the stairs and into the temple. The only way he could go off the balcony. Probably on his way to her right now. 

Mazira wasn’t patient enough to wait. She scurried to the stairs that led off the stage, unfortunately located at the front left corner, as far away from where she wanted to be as possible. The crowd in the cavern was transforming around her, as the Songblades melded back into it to greet friends and relatives and the musicians repositioned themselves for the dancing that was about to take place. A whole Red Light of revelry and music, beneath the twinkling white lights of the courtyard, bewitched to mimic stars.

Mazira had been looking forward to the dancing. She hadn’t actually danced—sword dancing didn’t count—since that awful night when her world became darkness. She’d had dreams of taking Rismyn’s hands, of teaching him to sway the way he taught her to swordfight. 

But that was before this. 

Now she just wanted to get away with him. To go somewhere quiet and let him hold her until her fears were assuaged. 

“Mazira—” 

A hand caught her wrist just as her foot came down on the first step of the colonnade, and Mazira gasped. Her world spun and she found herself in a crushing embrace, but it wasn’t Rismyn’s arms who’d come around her. 

It was Vaylan, his familiar scent of sandalwood and spice triggering her recognition. 

The shock of his presence completely eclipsed her unease as she struggled to reconcile his sudden nearness with his long absence. They’d barely spoken since their argument in this same courtyard the cycle Mazira began her sword dancing class. Just cursory greetings and vague excuses about being busy that left Mazira drowning in regret.

As though Vaylan was punishing her for choosing the Songblades over him. As though he wanted her to feel the way she had made him feel. 

And why shouldn’t he? She deserved it, after all. 

Stars, but she had missed him. Not the way she missed Rismyn when they were apart, but enough to make her heart ache all the same. He held her tight and she returned his embrace, relishing the feeling of tendays worth of tension dissolving in one simple act of affection. 

Vaylan stepped back, his hands still on her bare shoulders, and all the world faded to just the pair of them, the noise of the crowd and the music diminished by the brilliant light in his smile, his molten eyes reminiscent of the sun—or what she could remember of it.

“You are incredible,” Vaylan said, those same molten eyes following the plunge of her dress and rising again. “Just… incredible.” 

The color of Mazira’s face mimicked her gown as she offered him a shy smile, subtly crossing her arms over her chest. Exposing her body to scrutiny had been the whole point of this design, but now that the rush of dance was over, she wondered how soon would be too soon to change out of it and into her new mothwing robes. 

Vaylan, for his part, hadn’t bothered to dress up at all for the occasion, clad in his usual earth toned tunic and linen wraps. 

“Thank you,” Mazira said, not really sure what else to say.

“I mean it,” Vaylan said, increasing the pressure on her shoulders just a little. “Look, Mazira, I—”

His words cut off as his eyes darted past her and narrowed. 

Mazira spun, fully expecting to see Rismyn approaching based on the look Vaylan wore, and had to swallow her disappointment when it was only Solaurin. 

How had he gotten to her first, when last she saw he was still speaking to Mother Lara? Had Rismyn gotten lost? Or… had she been mistaken about his intentions? 

It didn’t matter. Their eyes met and Solaurin’s arms opened, and though he wasn’t the elf she wanted to embrace, Mazira still moved to meet him, the twisting in her heart reminding her of the place of prominence he held within it. 

He wasn’t Rismyn, but he was an acceptable substitute. 

“My dear child,” Solaurin said into her hair, stepping back much the way Vaylan had to take her in. Unlike Vaylan, however, his eyes never left her face. “Your performance was flawless, you should be proud. I know I am.” 

Emotion tightened Mazira’s throat, and she clung to him again. A knot that had snagged in her chest loosened, and she breathed a little easier. There were still many questions and even more concerns, but at least Solaurin had deemed her performance worthy. Hopefully, Eilistraee did too. 

“Thank you,” she said, with more feeling than when she’d said it to Vaylan. She let him go and smiled, an uncommon expression, which had been excavated by his sure presence and deep affection. “I… I think I am…”

“Good,” Solaurin said, and then his gaze shifted as Vaylan moved to stand beside her.

Was it her imagination, or did some of the light in Solaurin’s eyes dim at the sight of him? 

“Ah, Vaylan, well met,” the priest said, offering him his right hand to clasp. “We haven’t seen you around lately.” 

“Been busy,” Vaylan said, in the guarded way he’d used when he offered Mazira the same two-word excuse. He accepted the hand of friendship offered him, but there was nothing warm in exchange of pleasantries.

“Well not too busy for the Festival,” Solaurin replied. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Yeah,” he said, still guarded as his eyes adhered themselves to Mazira. “I wouldn’t miss this for anything.” 

Roses bloomed on Mazira’s cheeks, and once again, she regretted the design her past self had so boldly insisted on. It had all been meant for Rismyn. She hadn’t thought about how anyone else’s eyes might feel on her. 

“Solaurin,” she asked, to escape Vaylan’s burning stare. “Where is Rismyn? A-and Ti’yana, of course,” she added hastily, lest she reveal too much of her heart all at once. “I thought I saw them with you.”

This time there was no mistaking it. Solaurin’s expression dimmed, his eyes flicking to Vaylan and back. “Ah, yes. They will… come around shortly, I’m sure.” 

His gaze wouldn’t meet hers, and apprehension crawled its way back from the pit of her stomach. He was hiding something.

“Now,” Solaurin said, before she could ask. “I must depart. I escaped Mother Lara long enough to see you, but the excuse I used was to collect Satara. Our dear Reverend Mother will be expecting us back soon. Please, enjoy the Festival. But not too excessively.” He grinned, as though the fatherly instruction brought him great pleasure. “You do have temple duty in the Blue Light, after all.” 

He started to turn away, but Mazira snatched his arm, holding him back. “Solaurin—wait. Is it… are you… are you going to talk about… what happened? On stage?” 

His beaming pride turned to indecipherable stone. “I am sure it was nothing more than the kind grace of our goddess,” he said, laying a hand on her shoulder. “Do not let worry steal the joy of the cycle.” 

He embraced her one last time and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, before slipping out of her grip and making his way toward Satara.

Mazira watched him go, unable to take his words to heart. He told her not to worry, but how could she not? Something strange had happened, and they all knew it. 

She could really, really use Rismyn right about now. 

“How can you stand it?”

Vaylan’s voice cut through her foreboding, drawing her back to the moment and the busy temple stairs, a rippling ocean of people surrounding their quiet island.

“Stand what?” she asked, glancing back at him, then froze. 

This couldn’t be the same Vaylan who had snagged her in the crowd. The one who’d pulled her into a tight embrace and told her how incredible she was. That Vaylan had been bright and full of vitality. An allusion to the boy he was, when they were small and unscathed by horror. 

The Vaylan who stood before her now seemed strained, his sun kissed complexion now sickly pale. He wore age beyond his youthful years as he stared at her, thunderstruck.

“You let them touch you,” he said, but not as an accusation. He sounded genuinely mystified. “You let them kiss you,” he added, his lips twisting around the word. His eyes roved through the crowd around them, wild and crazed. “How can you stand it?”

“Vaylan…” Mazira began, but faltered. What could she say to that? She’d told him time and time again how much the Zovarrs had done for her. How Solaurin had become like a second father and Ti’yana the sister she’d never had, though she dared not use those exact familial terms to his face. If he still didn’t understand, no amount of speaking about it would make him.

She raised a tentative hand, wavering between laying it comfortingly on his shoulder and fearing her touch would set him off, like a wild beast on the brink of a rage. 

But her decision was made for her. Vaylan’s hands went to his head, cradling his face as he groaned, “How do you survive down here?” 

Instinct overcame hesitation. Mazira went to him, draping her arms around his shoulders. “Vaylan, are you okay?” 

“No,” came his muffled reply, the single word escaping as though choked through brambles. The sheer amount of agony in that one, small syllable revived the tumultuous reeling she’d barely managed to silence on her own. 

She could definitely benefit from Rismyn’s presence. Or Ti’yana’s. Or even Solaurin’s.

Yet they were surrounded by only strangers and acquaintances, all too absorbed in their own felicity to notice the brewing dismay. There was no one she could rely on, no one to draw courage from. No one she could lean on to handle the situation.

Except herself. 

Gritting her teeth, Mazira tugged Vaylan toward the right side of the temple, where less people were treading. She guided him up the stairs and into the shadows of the marble columns, seating him on the steps. Her arms never left their circle around him.

Vaylan’s hands clung to his forehead, his breathing rapid and short. He looked for all the world the way Mazira felt just before a panic seized her, before vivid recallings of her darker days flashed unbidden into her mind. 

“It’s okay, Vaylan,” she whispered over him, the way Ti’yana always did when Mazira woke from a dream terror. Her hands rubbed his shoulders, though her head reminded her it wasn’t safe to touch a person suffering from such episodes, for either of them.

But letting go felt wrong, and he didn’t fight her closeness. If anything, he leaned into her, trembling, as she murmured the refrains she had learned from her dark elven family. 

“It’s okay. You’re safe. You survived.”

After several long minutes, Vaylan let out a heavy breath and lifted his face, blinking rapidly as if becoming aware of the cavern for the first time. His eyes were reddened, but he’d held back whatever tears had wanted to fall. 

“I’m sorry,” he croaked, as if the effort of speaking was too much for him. “It’s just… gods, it’s this place! I don’t know how you can stand it. I don’t know how you can stand them.” 

Mazira flinched at the venom in his words, his hatred for the people she’d come to love pricking like paper cuts across her heart. “You haven’t been here as long as I,” she said, soothingly. “You haven’t had the chance to get to know them the way I have.” 

Vaylan barked a bitter, humorless laugh. “Yeah, thanks for the reminder. You’re only here because they decided to make you a plaything and tortured you. How do you just get over that?” 

Chills clawed their way down her spine, she took her arms back as his sharp words cut into wounds that were still volatile. Memories that remained fresh and dormant despite the layers of happy moments she’d heaped on top of them. 

Blood and knives. Fists and pain. And that was just the beginning. There was no getting over what Toloruel had done to her.

“You don’t,” she breathed, eyes stinging. “But getting over something and recovering aren’t the same. Even war-torn fields can still bear fruit. The scars might remain, but life carries on.” 

Vaylan made a noncommittal sound, then stood abruptly, marching down two of the steps and pacing like a caged animal. 

“Every day that I’m here, I’m reminded of that night,” he said, his hands working as he spoke. “Every. Single. Day. I relive the murder of our families over and over. I see the raiders in the faces of those around us. I can hardly breathe down here. Everything now reminds me of then.”  

Mazira sucked in a breath, her heart crumbling as though constricted by a vice. Platitudes rose to her lips, trite promises that everything would be okay, and that the people who had hurt them were far away, but she kept them to herself.

What good were words against a torrent of hurt?

“Everything now reminds me of then,” Vaylan repeated, his pace slowing as he turned to face her. “Everything but you.” 

Mazira frowned. Well that didn’t make sense.  She was the only memory down here that he could actually associate with the night of the raid, the only person who’d actually been there. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. He moved up a step and knelt before her, so their eyes were on the same level. “You of all people should remind me most of what happened. But you don’t. When I’m with you, I only remember the before. The years of our innocence. You bring me back to that summer we spent lost in the High Forest. Or the Autumn Festival in Neverwinter. Or the druids we met on the way to Silverymoon.”

Mazira’s next breath came shuddering, as Vaylan listed memories she hadn’t thought about in years. Not since she shared the stories with Rismyn when they were very, very young. She’d all but forgotten about the druids, who’d entertained them for a change with their magnificent transformations. Mazira had spent the rest of the journey to Silverymoon determined to become a druid herself one day. 

Another dream long dead, withered like all the rest. 

“So when I saw you… in the courtyard… and you told me you wanted to be a cleric for her—” He nodded at the temple behind Mazira, not bothering to mask his contempt for the goddess the building had been constructed for. “I… I overreacted.” 

Wait… what? 

“I thought… No, I felt as though the drow were taking you from me, too. Not in body but in heart. And I said those cruel things to you. And the way I’ve been treating you since, cutting you off before you could cut me off…” His calloused hands found hers, cradling them in his palms. “I’m so sorry, Mazira. I’ve been a complete ass. You didn’t deserve it.” 

“Vaylan,” Mazira breathed, utterly taken aback. Wherever she had expected this conversation to go, it wasn’t here. She had already accepted her guilt in their disagreement. She’d acknowledged that she had been self absorbed, having not even considered him when she changed her routine. A routine he had become a part of.

What kind of friend did that?

And yet she couldn’t quite bring herself to voice her protests. The same selfish part of her soul that had cut him out to begin with devoured his apology, applying it like her enchanted healing balm straight to the ache that had lingred since their disagreement. 

Vaylan let her hands go, moving to sit beside her. “Do you believe in destiny, Zizzy?”

Mazira stiffened. There was that name again, that loathed childhood nickname he’d teased her with relentlessly, the one that had goaded her into rock-throwing. 

She didn’t hate it so much anymore. 

“D-destiny?” she repeated. “I… I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it.” 

Which wasn’t entirely true. She’d thought about it a lot as a child, shivering in Toloruel’s corner and wondering if her misery was preordained or a fluke. Had it been ordained, then she could hold to the hope that there’d been a purpose, a reason for all the horrible experiences she’d been made to endure. 

By the time she left Menzoberranzan, she’d long since stopped caring what force drove her footsteps, if any at all. No purpose could be great enough to justify her hurt, and believing in bad luck was easier than wondering which deity found pleasure in her pain. 

But her perspective was different, now. She’d been privileged to experience her life with divine eyes, had been given access to insights beyond her wildest imaginings. Destiny and fortune seemed to intertwine seamlessly throughout her days, but to articulate her blossoming understanding of such an abstract subject was beyond her current abilities. 

“Well I believe in it,” Vaylan said. “Everything we do, every single step we take, is written in the stars.” 

Stars? Mazira’s furrowed brows lifted. How could the stars write her story, when their light couldn’t reach beneath the earth? And why did they get a say in what happened on the world below them? 

“We’re all just characters in the Great Story. We have roles we’re meant to play, but when we try to break character…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “I thought when you chose this, you were breaking character—”

Mazira tensed again, bracing herself for his rejection, sliding a hand to her stomach where the silver moth brand reassured her she was doing the right thing.

“—but when I saw you on that stage, I realized how wrong I was.” 

What? 

“I wasn’t even going to come tonight,” Vaylan continued. “I was so angry. But I felt it here.” He thumped his chest. “I knew I had to come. It was written. So I came, and watched you dance, and realized I was the one trying to break the Story by talking you out of yours. Gods, Mazira, can you forgive me?”

“Of course I can,” Mazira said, though more out of obligation than understanding. What did she have to forgive him for, when he’d only been trying to help her? 

Though if she were honest, she wasn’t sure she was following his logic. All this talk of destiny and stories seemed deeply flawed. Not because she didn’t believe in a greater purpose to their existence, or that the hands of higher powers influenced and shaped their world, but to have every single moment decided for them? To be living their lives like players on a stage, as scripted as the dance she had just completed? 

That didn’t feel right, either. 

But who was she to tell Vaylan what he should believe? He accepted her now, for exactly who she was. Or at least, who she was trying to be. 

The least she could do was listen and try to understand. 

His hand found hers again, lacing their fingers together, and he squeezed. “You have no idea what those words mean to me,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “I’d believed it was my destiny to come here to help people. I wanted to save people from drow the way we were never saved. I haven’t done anything like that yet. But I’m starting to think”—his gaze found hers, and the intensity she saw there stole her breath— “perhaps my Story brought me here for another reason.” 

Oh. No. 

Warning bells clanged in her head. Mazira had seen that look before, the one that lit fire in his irises. The same intensity, the same smoldering Rismyn had gazed at her with the night she’d been certain he was going to kiss her. Though Rismyn hadn’t kissed her. 

But she wasn’t convinced Vaylan wasn’t about to try.

He raised a hand and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. Her pulse quickened, and his eyes dipped to her lips. 

Panic sent her rocketing to her feet. “Let’s dance, Vaylan,” she said, blurting off the first excuse that popped into her head to ruin whatever moment he was aiming for. Maybe she was overthinking it, arrogantly assuming he had any interest in kissing her, but she really didn’t want to find out the hard way. 

“Dance?” Vaylan repeated, blinking as though coming out of a trance. 

“Yes,” Mazira said, gesturing to the people who had turned the courtyard into a dance hall. “Like we used to. Before.” 

His expression darkened as he gazed out at the celebration. “I haven’t danced since that night.” 

Just like her.

“Well,” she said, her heart thumping wildly against her ribs as she resisted the urge to step further from away him. “Maybe it’s time you danced again. Look, I… I don’t know about this Great Story or star writing, but I do know this: we aren’t made for the shadows, Vaylan. We’ve been robbed of what we should have had, but we’re alive.” 

She thought of the vision she’d had, of Eilistraee and Corellon standing over his catatonic body as their wagons burned, taking note of their small, insignificant lives. 

Should she tell him? No. He wasn’t ready to hear it. No yet, while his heart was still so raw, while his hate still ran so deep. 

Maybe he did have real feelings for her, beyond what she’d coveted from him. Or maybe he was just vulnerable, seeking her closeness to drown his sorrows, the way she and Rismyn had used each other for so long. 

Whatever it was, it wouldn’t be solved by sitting here, alone, while the cavern celebrated around them. Swallowing her unease, Mazira offered her hands to him. “Dance with me, and let’s celebrate just being alive.”

Vaylan stared at her, then glanced again to the courtyard. For a moment, she thought he was going to refuse. But then he took her hands and rose. 

“You know that night… I saw you with your tamborine, over by your wagon with Goodie Aelrie.” 

A rock calcified in Mazira’s throat, making it hard to breathe. How sweet it was to hear her mother’s name on the lips of another. Further proof she really had been alive once, as if Eilistraee’s boon hadn’t been enough. 

“I was dancing with Aster. Back then I thought… I thought when we grew up, I’d marry her.” 

The smile he gave her belied the sad words he shared, as he hooked her arm in his. 

“Let’s dance, Mazira. Like before.” 

A weight rolled from Mazira’s shoulders as Vaylan escorted her into the courtyard. It was only after their second dance that she realized Rismyn had never found her, and yet she’d survived the situation without him.

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