"Look, look!" She points ahead with her free hand, nearly bouncing out of her boots. "The fire dancers are starting!"
I follow her gaze and my breath catches. A troupe of performers has gathered in the central square, their bodies moving in fluid, hypnotic patterns as flames dance around them like living things. The fire responds to their gestures, spiraling up into the air in ribbons of gold and scarlet that seem to defy every natural law I've ever known.
Through our newly completed bond, I feel Mihalis's quiet satisfaction at my wonder. His emotions flow through me like warm honey—contentment, protectiveness, and something deeper that makes my chest tighten with recognition. He's watching me more than the performers, those molten gold eyes tracking every expression that crosses my face.
"How do they do that?" I breathe, watching as one dancer sends a cascade of flames spinning around her body like a living cloak.
"Fire magic," Thera says from beside us, her voice warm with amusement. "Though it takes years of training to make it look that effortless. Most xaphan can manage basic flames, but this—this is artistry."
Behind us, I can hear Varos and Rhegan making appreciative sounds, while Ilyra gasps at particularly impressive displays. The fact that Mihalis brought his entire household staff—that they're all here, together, like some kind of extended family—sends a flutter of belonging through me that's so foreign I almost don't recognize it.
I've never been part of something like this. Never had people who cared enough to include me, to make sure I didn't miss out on anything special. The closest I'd come was watching festival celebrations from rooftops and shadows, picking pockets while everyone else enjoyed themselves.
But now I'm standing in the middle of it all, Irida's hand warm in mine, Mihalis's presence solid and reassuring at my side. When he shifts closer, his wing brushing against my shoulder, I don't pull away. Instead, I lean into the contact, letting myself savor the simple pleasure of being wanted, being chosen.
"Oh! Oh, can we get honey cakes?" Irida tugs on my hand, pointing toward a vendor whose cart is surrounded by the sweet, spiced smell of baking pastry. "Thera never lets me have more than one, but maybe?—"
"Maybe," Mihalis says solemnly, "we can convince Thera that festival rules are different than everyday rules."
Thera snorts. "Festival rules, is it? And I suppose those same rules apply to bedtime?"
"Obviously," Irida says with the kind of innocent confidence only children can manage. "Festival rules mean everything is more fun."
I can't help but laugh at her logic, and the sound seems to light something in Mihalis's eyes. Through the bond, I feel his emotions shift and deepen, that protective affection expanding to include me in a way that makes my throat tight.
He could have forced this connection from the beginning. Could have used his power, his size, his overwhelming presence to make me submit. Instead, he gave me space when I asked for it, even though it was killing him. Even though the bond was draining us both, he respected my choice to leave.
That kind of restraint, that kind of respect—it's not something I'm used to. In my experience, men take what they want and worry about consequences later. But Mihalis waited. Suffered. Let me come back to him on my own terms.
The realization settles over me like a warm cloak, chasing away the last of my reservations. I trust him. Completely, utterly, without question. And more than that—I want to stop holding back.
"Come on then," I say, squeezing Irida's hand. "Let's see what these famous honey cakes are all about."
The vendor, a cheerful woman with flour-dusted hands and a knowing smile, wraps three golden pastries in paper for us. The cakes are warm and sticky-sweet, dripping with honey and dotted with what look like crushed pearls that dissolve on my tongue with bursts of flavor I can't identify.
"Good?" Mihalis asks, watching me lick honey from my fingers with an expression that makes heat pool low in my stomach.
"Amazing," I admit around another bite. "I've never tasted anything like this."
Irida beams up at me, honey smeared across her cheek. "Festival food is the best food. Wait until you try the spiced wine—though Dad says I have to wait until I'm older for that."
"Much older," Mihalis confirms, but there's warmth in his voice that wasn't there weeks ago. The edge that used to accompany every interaction has softened, replaced by something that feels like home.
We wander through the crowds, taking in the sights and sounds of the celebration. Street musicians play haunting melodies on instruments I don't recognize, their music weaving through the air like magic. Vendors hawk everything from jewelry that glows with its own inner light to scarves that seem to shift color in the fading daylight.
At one stall, a craftsman demonstrates his wares—tiny figurines that come alive at his touch, dancing across his palm before settling back into stillness. Irida watches with wide eyes as a miniature dragon spreads its wings and breathes real fire no bigger than a candle flame.
"How much?" I find myself asking, already reaching for my coin purse.
The craftsman quotes a price that makes me wince—more than I used to spend on food for a week—but I hand over the coins without hesitation. Irida's delighted gasp when I press the little dragon into her hands is worth every lummi.
"For me?" Her golden eyes are huge, disbelieving. "Really?"
"Really," I confirm, crouching down to her level. "Every girl should have a dragon of her own."
She throws her arms around my neck in a hug that nearly knocks me over, and I feel Mihalis's emotions spike through the bond—surprise, gratitude, and something deeper that makes my chest tight with recognition.
"Thank you," he says quietly when Irida runs ahead to show Thera her new treasure. "You didn't have to?—"
