"What do you call a dark elf who can't cast spells?" he asks.
"I don't know. What?"
"A failure with excellent cheekbones."
The laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it—surprised and genuine and probably too loud for the late hour. I clap a hand over my mouth, but the damage is done. I'm laughing. Actually laughing. And Valas is watching me like I've given him something precious.
"That was terrible," I manage between giggles.
"I warned you." But he's grinning now, clearly pleased with himself. "Daryn was right, wasn't he? So bad it circles back to funny."
"Circles back to something." I shake my head, still smiling. "I can't believe that worked."
"I have more if you're interested."
"Absolutely not." But there's no heat in it. Just warmth. Just this strange, tentative thing building between us that feels dangerously close to friendship.
We finish our tea in more comfortable silence. He tells me about a remedy he's researching—something about mountain herbs and moon phases that goes over my head but I listen anyway, just to hear his voice. Just to watch how animated he becomes when discussing his work. I tell him about Amisra's latest imaginative game, and he laughs at the right parts, asks questions that prove he's actually listening.
It's easy. Too easy. And when I finally excuse myself to bed, murmuring goodnight and slipping from the kitchen, I realize with dawning horror how close I came tonight to forgetting.
Forgetting that he's a dark elf and I'm human. Forgetting the power he holds over me. Forgetting that attraction and kindness and bad jokes don't change the fundamental reality of what we are. What we can never be.
I reach my room and lock the door behind me, pressing my back against the wood. My heart is still racing. My face still warm from laughing. And all I can think about is how his eyes had lit up when I smiled. How his voice had gentled when he saidmy name. How for just a few moments, I'd let myself imagine what it might be like to be wanted by someone who actually sees me as a person.
How dangerous that imagining is.
I slide down to sit on the floor, knees pulled to my chest, and try to rebuild the walls I let crumble. Try to remember all the reasons I can't let a dark elf in. Can't let this attraction become something real. Can't let hope make me reckless.
But his voice still echoes in my head—someone I'd very much like to know—and I know, with sinking certainty, that those walls are already far too damaged to protect me from whatever comes next.
6
VALAS
The kitchen conversation plays on repeat in my head, has been for two days now. Every word. Every pause. The way Keira laughed at my terrible joke, the sound bright and unexpected in the quiet space. How she'd looked at me when she admitted I scared her—not with hatred or disgust, but with something complicated that felt almost like possibility.
Someone I'd very much like to know.
I'd meant it. Still mean it, though I'm not sure what comes next. How to bridge the distance between what I want and what she can afford to give. How to prove that I see her as more than property when the entire world around us insists otherwise.
But things have shifted. Subtly, yes, but unmistakably. Yesterday, when I arrived to check on Daryn, Keira brought Amisra to the study where we'd gathered. The little girl launched herself at me immediately, chattering about a bird's nest she'd found in the garden, and I listened while simultaneously monitoring Daryn's breathing, his color, the slight tremor in his hands that hadn't been there last week.
When Amisra finally exhausted herself with storytelling, bouncing off to find a toy she wanted to show me, Keira lingered.Didn't retreat immediately like she usually would. Just stood there, fingers twisted together, and asked how I was doing.
Not how Daryn was doing. HowIwas doing.
The question had caught me so off-guard I'd answered honestly. Told her I was tired. Frustrated. Running out of ideas and time and hope. She'd nodded, understanding in those hazel eyes, and said she thought I was handling it remarkably well. That most people would have broken under the weight of watching someone they loved slip away.
I'd wanted to kiss her. Right there, with afternoon light streaming through windows and Daryn dozing in his chair and the whole impossible situation pressing down on all of us. Wanted to pull her close and taste that understanding, that softness she was finally allowing me to see.
I didn't, of course. Didn't even touch her. Just thanked her quietly and changed the subject before I could do something foolish.
But the wanting hasn't stopped. If anything, it's gotten worse.
This morning, she smiled at me when I arrived. Not a polite smile or a wary one, but something genuine that reached her eyes and made my chest ache. We'd exchanged a few words—small talk, really, about the weather and Amisra's breakfast preferences—but it felt monumental. Like progress. Like maybe, eventually, she might let me in.
Now, though, sitting in Daryn's study while evening shadows lengthen across the floor, progress feels like a luxury I can't afford. Not when my best friend is dying and I can't fix it.
