Chapter Four
Loreleivnna
The space between our bodies shrinks with every current of magic that zaps between our heartvines.
There’s no way Pikr doesn’t feel it.
His grip on my wrists tightens, the breath we share becoming more and more incessant until I’m almost panting.
I can barely feel his lips against mine, but it’s enough to finally confirm what I’ve always suspected.
They are large enough to swallow me whole, and despite their coarseness, they’re plush and warm.
I don’t mind their slight grit, for I know it’s due to the same hard work that makes his palm rough around my wrist.
Like a moonflower to the moon, I arch forward, chasing the warmth of his weathered lips.
“Loreleivnna,” he murmurs my name without the title. It sounds like a secret so sweet, I want to taste the sugary residue on his tongue.
My heart flutters as rapidly as drakefly wings, and I blossom toward the sound of his voice.
The scruff on his cheek scratches my parted lips as he turns away at the last second. His rejection hurts like a sandpaper tree leaf scraping across my heart.
“Release me,” I demand. He obliges, and my hands drop to my chest. I rub my wrists, glaring at Pikr to keep the tears at bay.
“You humiliated me back there, flashing my innocence for all of Dimword to see. So, we’re even.
Never speak of this.” I gather my skirts and growl, “May the roots trip you in your haste back to Ashfall Valley.”
I don’t wait for a reaction. I step over the leg he has outstretched to allow his other to bend. He straightens at the same time, and I trip, but I catch myself and throw him another scalding glare before he dares try to assist me.
When there’s enough space between us that even his heightened senses won’t catch the sound, I sniff at the tears threatening to fall.
Some still escape, dripping onto the forest floor, leaving a clear path of freshly bloomed lacrimae lilies in my wake.
The hidden servant’s passageways bustle with life, more so than the living plants our modest palace is made of. Servants carrying overflowing baskets woven from Aevumoon Iris twine hustle to and fro, delivering starseeds plucked from lunaplume succulents to the vault for sorting.
I keep a brisk pace, listening for Father’s voice through the squirming, woven vines that make up the walls. I whip around a corner too quickly, colliding with a young worker. One of the round, brain-like seeds falls, bouncing off the packed earth floor.
“Sorry!” I rush to pick up the starseed, but it’s slick with oily secretion and slips from my hand.
“Please, miss,” the servant clips. A thick bark glove swipes my hand away before scooping up the fleshy seed.
“Sorry,” I mumble again, but the servant is long gone.
The back of my eyes sting again. I’m so blooming foolish. I should’ve left the moment Pikr walked into the tavern. And why in all of the realms would I bring up moondust oil?
The Spiritgrove was a gift from the stars above.
Stars that were so intrigued by the planet below that they descended.
After traversing all the elemental territories, they loved Lande best, specifically the spot that would become Svitaeyrl.
In books, they’re referred to as the Nocturn Aevumdivus, but locally they have many affectionate nicknames.
They used our soil to breed, spewing ropes of seed before burrowing deep inside the earth to rest. The grove is full of Aevumoon Irises, trees with barrel-size trunks that rise dozens of meters tall with massive iris blooms at the top, a testament to the Fallen Ones’ potent release.
Our entire lifestyle is built around the iris trees.
Aevumoon Irises have hundreds of vital uses, and moondust oil is perhaps the naughtiest of them all.
Concocted using the flowers’ naturally aphrodisiacal pollen that releases every autumn, moondust oil is highly potent.
No brothel or pleasure house ever runs out of stock.
I sniffle and keep my chin tucked low. Few workers spare me a glance. Those that notice me know better than to draw attention, rather used to my excursions. At least my tears stay dry and don’t give them reason to balk at my footsteps.
Plucked roses, I’m too good for a male too stubborn to acknowledge his own feelings.
I’m the third princess of Svitaeryl, a land blessed by godseed from Fallen Stars, the Wise Nocturn Aevumdivus.
Their ancient roots live and breathe underfoot, protecting their offspring in the Spiritgrove and the svitayl elves that have not forgotten their sacrifice.
When a svitayl elf bleeds, the land weeps, and when we cry, our ancestors haunt the roots beneath our feet.
Lacrimae lilies bloom on the soil where my blood or tears fall, born of my very soul.
As unique as snowflakes, no one elf’s soul-lily looks the same as another’s.
Mine are warm gold with dramatic veins of burgundy as luxuriously dark as the tart elderplums that decorate the Lunaplume Harvest Festival feast.
No male deserves a gift so precious.
My shoulders roll back. If Pikr wishes to ignore the gravitational pull between us, that’s his problem. It’s past time for me to take a mate. I’ll get over him by losing myself in another. When I see Father next, I’ll tell him I’m ready to take my role seriously.
At last, I reach my chambers. The hall appears empty, but I still pinch the slender stem of the feybell cluster hanging over the iron-and-vine door, just in case. The dainty lavender flowers tinkle softly, their ovules rattling around inside thin ovaries, and I wince at the muted sound.
“Loreleivnna.”
Oh, manure patties. When I’d vowed to pledge my pussy to the kingdom, I hadn’t expected to do it so soon.
Father stands before my cedardusk vanity, fiddling with the dried flowers and animal bones scattered there.
His fingertips trace a sketch of the Spiritgrove in my open notebook, then trail over my bound leather diary, which I’d hastily tossed aside after scribbling myself into a frenzy over Pikr’s possible arrival, ultimately deciding to go for a drink at his favorite tavern.
“Father.” I lace my fingers behind my back and roll up on my toes. The blossom lock on my diary is in place, and only opens for my own blood. I breathe easier knowing he didn’t read my embarrassing ramblings.
That doesn’t entirely clear me of threat. The spiritvines are always listening for gossip, and who knows what they’ve told Father of my interaction with Pikr in the woods.
Father’s soft green eyes meet mine in the mirror. They crinkle at the corners when he smiles, and the kindness I find there eases my anxiety.
When the Nocturm Aevumdivus wove my story with their roots, they blessed me with a beautiful life.
I’ve read of princesses treated with contempt, or as property, even within our kingdom’s history.
Although I don’t enjoy all of the expectations placed on my shoulders, I acknowledge my privilege.
Ashamed as I am to admit it, that doesn’t stop me from being an ungrateful weed.
At any given moment, I’d rather be traveling the world beyond our boundaries.
“Greetings, Father.” I cross the small room and place a hand on his shoulder, standing on my tippy toes to kiss his cheek. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I gathered that,” he says with a chuckle. He turns away, and I seize the opportunity to slip my diary into a drawer. “Come, Little Bloom. Talk with me.”
There aren’t many reasons why he would corner me in my chambers, but the Lunaplume Harvest Festival is a stressful time of year. I assume he needs help with a task I’d rather not perform.
“Do my sisters need a gentle touch again?” I jest. Ilrunysanna, the eldest of us, is a rule follower and doesn’t require assistance.
Even Feivryn’s wild spirit has settled down now that she’s a twice-mated mother of three.
Each has been sent to my chambers claiming Father commanded they nurture some sense into me with their gentle words at one point or another.
Father chuckles. “No, my littlest bloom.” He pats the mattress beside him. “Sit.”
His tone is light, but there’s a heaviness to his sigh, and my heart fills with stones when he takes my hand in both of his.
“What?” I’m not being silly anymore. “Is Mother okay?”
“She’s rosy,” he rushes to answer, squeezing my hand. “Nothing to wither about. The Wise Ones love her so, they long to embrace her with their roots. It’ll be a while yet, as long as I’m around.”
I narrow my eyes and remain silent.
He sighs. “It’s about your blooming.”