When a knock sounds, he pulls back, and she whimpers.
“Maybe we should come back later,” Tharios says loud enough for Cerian to hear through the door.
“It’s Tharios.” Cerian straightens and tugs his shirt straight, breathing out slowly and stuffing his fire magic down. Or trying.
“You sensed him?”
“I heard him. Here.” He pulls the shoulder of her gown into place and smooths her hair as she stares up at him and his vines recede.
“I think we got distracted.”
“Just a little. Your face is flushed, but I can’t do much about that. Are you ready?”
“No.” She fingers her pink cheeks and slides her eyes closed, whimpering again.
Cerian holds back a smile at her reaction to his touch. It still amazes him that he has that effect on her. “Should I ask him to return later?”
Then the sound of Arisanna’s father chuckling reaches Cerian’s ears, and he glances over his shoulder at the door.
“What?” Arisanna looks up at him. “What is it?”
“Your father. He’s there, too.”
Arisanna gasps. “He’s here?” She hurries past Cerian to the door, her heat clearly fading at the thought of her father managing those stairs.
She flings the door open, and her breath hitches when her eyes land on King Gerault standing at Tharios’s side.
Her father pulls her to his chest and wraps his arms around her. “Thank you, my sweet girl.”
She clings to him, and Cerian watches, his heart full of emotion.
“Tharios is determined to ensure I die of old age many years from now, and I am determined to do as he says.”
A smile sneaks up on Cerian at that, and he glances at Tharios. “Thank you.”
Tharios merely nods, and soon Arisanna lets go of her father. Her cheeks are still flushed, but hopefully, the others will attribute that to the emotion of this moment.
Viala is there, too, and Tharios quietly translates the Nunian words into Elvish for her.
King Gerault takes in the room as he steps through the doorway. “I see what you mean, Tharios. This is magnificent. You did this with your magic, Cerian?”
Before Cerian can respond, Arisanna nods. “He’s the strongest plant wielder in Lostariel.”
Tharios grins. “He is indeed.”
Cerian stares at the floor and wills his ears not to turn red. Whistling wind. They can stop talking about his magic now.
“And this would appeal to elves?” King Gerault asks. “Make them more likely to visit Feressa?”
“Well, it certainly wouldn’t hurt,” Tharios says. “Rumors of the power of Cerian’s plant magic are well known in much of Lostariel. If word got out that a hotel in Feressa had commissioned him to design a room with his plant magic...” Tharios shrugs.
That’s a horrifying thought.
“You know that’s not what happened,” Cerian hisses in Elvish.
“It’s close enough. You make beautiful things with your magic, Cerian. Don’t hide that from the world.”
King Gerault looks back and forth between them. “What am I missing?”
