I descend toward the village, keeping my wings spread wide to slow my approach. It's small—maybe a few dozen buildings clustered around a central square. Thatched roofs. Dirt roads. Ahandful of people moving between the structures, going about their day.
Human. All of them.
No xaphan. No other races. Just humans living quietly in the middle of nowhere.
The pendant doesn't pull me toward the square, though.
It tugs east. Toward the edge of the village where a cluster of buildings sits near a fenced pasture. I can see zarryn grazing in the field, their shaggy silver coats catching the sunlight, and my eyes lock onto a stable at the far end.
That's where she is.
I land hard, my boots hitting the dirt road with enough force to send up a small cloud of dust. A few villagers glance my way—eyes widening when they see my wings—but I ignore them. The pendant is molten against my skin now, the pull so strong it's dragging me forward before I even consciously decide to move.
I cross the road. Round the side of the stable.
And then I see her.
She's standing just outside the stable doors, her back to me, a bucket in one hand and a brush in the other. Her black hair is braided down her back, the thick plait swaying gently as she moves, and she's wearing a simple dress—brown, worn, patched in a few places. No mask this time. No festival silks or lantern light.
Just her.
And she's fuckingstunning.
Even more than I remembered.
My chest tightens, the bond flaring so hot I have to press a hand against it to keep from doubling over. Every instinct in my body is screaming at me to close the distance, to touch her, to make sure she's real and not some fever dream my mind conjured up.
I move without thinking, my boots crunching on the gravel, and she stills.
Slowly—so slowly—she turns.
And our eyes meet.
Storm-gray. Soft as rainlight but sharp with recognition.
She knows.
She knows it's me.
But instead of smiling, instead of relief or joy or anything close to what I felt when I saw her, her expression shutters. Goes carefully blank. And she looks away.
Like she doesn't know me.
Like I'm just another stranger passing through her village.
The fuck she doesn't.
I close the distance between us in three long strides, and she takes a step back—instinctive, automatic—but she doesn't run. Her fingers tighten around the brush, her knuckles going white, and I can see the way her chest rises and falls too quickly.
She's afraid.
Not of me.
Of something else.
"Senna."
Her name sounds rough on my tongue, almost desperate, and her eyes snap back to mine. For a moment, just a moment, I see it—the same pull, the same hunger, the sameneedthat's been eating me alive for two weeks.
