Chapter 36
Poppy
THE BONFIRE IN THE CENTER of the castle courtyard is massive, its flames reaching toward the dark autumn sky and sending sparks dancing into the night like tiny shooting stars.
The air smells of woodsmoke, spiced mead, and baked goods from the merchant carts dotting the courtyard, and all around, people talk and laugh and mingle, enjoying this night, when the veil between worlds is thinnest.
I’ve never particularly enjoyed the wildness of Samhain, but tonight, I’m actually looking forward to it for once.
“I wish Cairn were here,” Lyra says beside me as we make our way through the crowd. This year, she opted for a red dress rather than black, and gold feathers are woven into her wild curls. “He always works the mead booth. It won’t be the same without him.”
“He’ll be home for Yule though, right?” Alina asks. She has her hand looped through the crook of Raelan’s arm as we walk the grounds together, checking out everything the festival has to offer this year.
“He promised,” Lyra says, but her crimson eyes still flash with a hint of sadness, and her lips are pulled into a pout.
“Come on,” Maeve says. “Let’s go get some of that mead and forget about men for a few hours.”
“Some of us can’t forget about men,” Lyra says pointedly, looking at me. “Poppy has a very specific one to think about.”
My cheeks heat, and I’m suddenly very aware of the simple black dress I’m wearing.
It’s nothing fancy, just a fitted black dress that Alina insisted I borrow, with long lacy sleeves and a skirt that swishes when I walk.
Lyra cast a fire spell over me to help keep me warm without a cloak, and it’s keeping me nice and comfortable; she’s gotten much better with her magic since last year.
I feel exposed and pretty and nervous all at once.
“He’s meeting me here,” I say quietly. “We’re going to walk around together.”
Aric asked me if I’d be here, and at first, I was going to tell him no—I usually leave the festival early anyway to go back to the room and drink tea and read a book.
But tonight, I’m not in any hurry to leave, and my eyes keep scanning the crowd, looking for a big green orc with an easy smile. So far, I haven’t spotted him.
“How romantic,” Lyra says, but she’s smiling, not teasing. Well, maybe teasing a little. That’s just Lyra though.
Floating candles bob around us, enchanted to stay lit despite the chill breeze, and music drifts from somewhere near the bonfire—fiddles and drums, sounding magical and ancient in a way that makes my blood move a bit faster through my veins.
“There’s the mead booth,” Lyra says, pointing. “Let’s—oh.”
She stops abruptly, and I follow her gaze to see a familiar figure standing near the booth, talking to another student. My stomach flutters in that way it always does when I see him.
Aric.
He’s dressed simply—dark trousers, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a black vest that makes his shoulders look impossibly broad. His hair is pulled back in its usual topknot, and his tusks catch the firelight as he laughs at something the other student says.
Part of me wants to scurry off and hide, and the other part wants to run right into his arms.
He turns, scanning the crowd, and his eyes find mine.
Everything else falls away.
He goes very still, his gaze traveling from my face down to the black dress and back up again.
My skin tingles as if he’s touching me, not just looking at me.
And even from this distance, I can see the way his expression shifts—surprise at spotting me, then a narrowing of his eyes, turning his look into something a bit more intense. I shiver, but not from the cold.
He excuses himself from the other student and starts walking toward us, his eyes never leaving mine.
“Well,” Maeve mutters beside me, “I think that’s our cue to leave.”
“Wait—” I start, but my friends are already melting into the crowd, leaving me standing alone as Aric approaches. Lyra makes a kissy face at me right before she’s swallowed up by a big group of first-years, who’re wide-eyed as they experience the festival for the first time.
“Hi,” Aric says when he reaches me, his voice a little rough. “Blessed Samhain.”
“B-blessed Samhain,” I manage.
He just stares at me for a moment, and I start to fidget under his focused hazel gaze. Maybe this dress was a bad idea. Maybe I look like I’m trying too hard.
I run a hand over the soft black fabric. “Is it too much?” I ask. “Alina said—”
“No,” he interrupts. “You look incredible.”
Heat floods my face. “You look nice too.”
“I look like I do every day,” he says with a laugh, his tusks catching the light from the bonfire. “But you look like . . .” He gestures at me with a shake of his head. “Like something very dangerous to me.”
Butterflies stir inside my belly at those words. No one has ever called me dangerous before. And I think I like it, even if it’s just for this one night.
“Want to get some mead and walk around?” Aric offers his arm. “I heard there’s an apple-bobbing booth, and I’m determined to prove I can do it without drowning.”
I laugh and take his arm. “Sounds like an adventure.”
He buys us each a mug of mead—which I’m actually grateful for this year, as it’ll help calm some of my nerves—and then we start making our way through the festival.
The campus has been transformed. Booths line the pathways—some selling spiced cider and roasted chestnuts, others offering games and fortune telling.
We stop at a booth where you can carve your own small pumpkin, and Aric carves something that looks like a very round .
. . Well, I’m not sure what, exactly. Then he adds a few strokes with the carving tool, and the lines look like whiskers.
“Is that supposed to be a cat?” I ask, putting a hand over my lips and trying not to laugh.
“It’s abstract,” he says seriously, holding up his lumpy creation, which definitely does not resemble a cat, even a little bit. “Your eye just isn’t sophisticated enough to appreciate my art.”
“Sophisticated, right,” I say before taking another sip of my mead. The alcohol makes my tongue tingle. “If you say so.”
At the apple-bobbing booth, Aric does indeed nearly drown, coming up sputtering and laughing with his hair dripping wet and no apple to show for it.
On his third try, he finally snags one, then makes me yelp in surprise when he shakes his head, sending water droplets flying everywhere.
I have to wipe the moisture from my glasses, and when I put the frames back on and the world comes back into focus, I find Aric smiling at me.
I think his smile must be enchanted, because it does funny things to my insides.
We’ve just finished our mugs of mead and are making our way toward the bonfire when Aric stops, tilting his head toward the music. The earrings adorning his ears wink in the light. Then his gaze slides toward me, and his lips pull up on one side. “Dance with me?”
My breath catches. “H-here? Now?”
“Why not?” He takes my hand and starts pulling me gently toward the crowd gathered around the fire, where people are dancing—not formal ballroom dancing, like we’ll do at the Blue Moon Ball, but something looser and wilder, the kind of dancing that matches the drums and fiddles and the Samhain energy pulsing in the air.
As we move through the crowd, I feel a tickle on my neck and turn my head to catch sight of someone watching us.
Morgan. Aric’s ex and a fellow runeball captain.
The firelight turns her hair into a halo of shimmering red curls, and her eyes are fixed on Aric, watching him through lowered lashes.
She flicks her gaze to me, a frown tugging on her mouth, and a jolt goes up my spine at having been caught staring.
But before I can pull my eyes away, she turns and disappears into the deepening darkness of the evening, like she was never there at all.
My stomach clenches, but Aric doesn’t notice. He’s too focused on guiding me closer to the bonfire, where the heat and light are overwhelming.
“I don’t know how to dance like this,” I admit, raising my voice to be heard over the music.
Aric tosses a grin at me over his shoulder. “That’s what makes it fun.”
Making a fool of myself doesn’t sound like fun, but I’m still resistant to pull away from him.
I want to stay by his side, even if it means trying to do .
. . whatever these dancers are doing. I’m just glad I already had a mug of mead—I’m not sure I’d be able to do this if something wasn’t softening my inhibitions.
Aric tugs me toward him, laughing as he spins me once beneath his arm.
The movement sends my skirt flaring and my hair brushing against my neck, the air alive with drumbeats and laughter.
When I come back around, his free hand slides around my waist, firm and unhesitating. Heat floods through me at the touch.
Around us, other couples dance. I catch glimpses of Alina and Raelan, perfectly in sync, as always.
Maeve is dancing with a tall warlock I don’t recognize, looking somewhat bored.
And Lyra is on her own, spinning with abandon, the feathers in her hair catching the light as she tips her face up to the swath of dark sky above us.
The press of Aric’s palm on my waist guides me, the steady pulse of music thrumming through the ground beneath our feet. The crowd becomes a blur of color and motion around us. There’s only the firelight painting gold across Aric’s green skin and the steady focus of his gaze on me.
“Relax,” he murmurs, voice low enough that I feel it more than hear it. His breath brushes my ear, and a shiver runs down my spine. “Let the music guide you.”
“I’m trying,” I whisper, though my limbs still feel awkward and uncoordinated.
He chuckles, that warm, rough sound that makes me think of what we did together that night in Faunwood. Of what I’d like to do again.
“Stop trying so hard, Brains. Just feel.”
I bite my lip and close my eyes, trying to feel instead of think. It doesn’t come naturally to me.
The beat of the drums sinks into my bones, and I let the sway of Aric’s body guide me.
His thumb strokes the small of my back in time with the beat, a featherlight touch that sets my skin ablaze.
Every time we turn, the fire catches his eyes—bright hazel flecked with molten gold, impossible to look away from.
And the more I look at him, the more I feel like he’s the embodiment of magic.
No one else has ever made me feel this way.
The music builds, growing wilder still, and we move with it, closer now, until there’s almost no space left between us. The mead burns through me, tingling in my bloodstream, and finally, I feel myself let go.
It feels like flying.
When Aric spins me again, I laugh, the sound loose and unhindered.
His arm wraps around my waist and pulls me against him, my back to his sturdy chest. The world narrows to the feel of him behind me—the solid strength of his body, the steady brush of his breath against my neck, the heat he puts off.
Goose bumps dance along my skin. His hand finds mine, fingers interlacing, guiding me in a slow sway despite the frenzied movements of the other dancers swirling around us.
“You’re doing great,” he murmurs, his lips close enough that they graze the curve of my ear.
My pulse flutters, and I wonder if he can feel it where my back is pressed against him. “You’re . . . good at this.”
He laughs quietly, the sound vibrating through my spine. “I’ve had a bit of practice.”
I tilt my head just enough to meet his gaze, and it hits me how close we are, how he could lean down and kiss me if he wanted to. The crowd cheers as the fire crackles and sends up a burst of sparks, but it all feels far away, muted.
Right now, it feels like Aric and I are the only two people left in the world, or like we accidentally slipped through the veil and are lost on the other side.
But at least we’d be together.
Aric turns me slowly in his arms until I’m facing him again. His hands settle at my waist, thumbs brushing my ribs in small circles. It’s nothing—barely a touch—yet it feels like I’m going to go up in flames at the contact.
“I was right earlier,” he says softly.
I tip my head. “About what?”
He leans in just enough that his breath ghosts across my cheek. “About how dangerous you are.”
Now the heat that’s been building in my belly slips lower, to the place between my thighs, a place only I and Aric have touched.
A place I’d like him to touch again.
The drums slow to a deep, steady rhythm, the fiddles dropping into something low and sweet. Around us, the dance mellows, partners drawing closer. Aric’s forehead rests against mine, and we sway together. But despite the slower pace, my heart is still pounding at the same frantic rhythm.
“Having fun?” Aric asks, his voice a whisper against my skin.
“Yes,” I breathe. And it’s true. I never knew dancing could be this fun. I’m usually the one lingering at the fringes, not participating. This is different. And with Aric, it’s better.
I’m so glad I’m here and not curled up in bed reading a book right now.
His thumb drifts higher, brushing along my ribs before settling again at my waist. I don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it, but I do, and every nerve in my body does.
“Good,” he murmurs, his mouth curving into a smile.
Then his hand slides up to cradle my jaw, and my breath catches.
The space between us vanishes as he leans in, and the firelight flickers over us as he kisses me—slowly at first, like he’s asking permission, then deeper, surer, until everything else dissolves.
He tastes of mead and apples, and the smell of woodsmoke clings to him. My hands find his vest, gripping it as if to anchor me to this moment. Right now, I feel like I could float away.
When he finally pulls back, we’re both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, and he’s smiling in a way that could probably make me forget how to speak.
“Wanna get out of here for a bit?” he asks.
My heart is racing again. I nod once. “Okay.”
He takes my hand, fingers threading through mine, and leads me away from the firelight.
The crowd parts for him, the music fading as we leave the fire and its dancers behind.
The floating candles guide our path, though I’m not sure yet where Aric is leading me.
And in this moment, I’m not sure I care.
I’d probably follow him anywhere, as long as he’s still holding my hand.
When I glance back—just once—I see Morgan again, still watching us, her lips set in a firm line. But then Aric’s hand tightens around mine, and I forget about her entirely as he pulls me into the dark.