Raylen
Chapter two
My fingertips hover just above the brushstrokes of the beautiful painting, reverently tracing the delicate pattern of the constellation with a phantom touch. “Your work is stunning,” I say to the merchant.
“Are you a fan of the Star-Crossed Archer?” the elf asks. His hair is a rich green, reminiscent of the wild tree canopies that can only be found in the forests of Emberleigh.
“You could say that.” I wink. My fingers toy with the pendant on my bracelet, memories of the night I left my small hometown still fresh in my mind.
It didn’t take me long to figure out why that constellation made a young Sylar blush that pretty red crimson.
Let’s just say there’s a reason they don’t teach that particular myth to the children.
I wonder if my sister, Isolde, and her best friend managed to convince Sylar to join them on their travels to Everend.
When I found out that he never bothered to attend the marriage market, I never really had any reason to participate.
Usually, I’d show up on the day of the archery competition, then leave the following evening. I never stayed for the full two weeks.
“Here’s the first half of the coin and the address of my cottage.
Just make sure it’s delivered tomorrow morning before you set up for the market tomorrow.
I’ll give you the other half of the coin upon delivery.
” Something soft brushes against my leg.
Cinder, my little foxly, spreads her tiny wings and flies up to my shoulders.
She’s a magical little monster that resembles a red fox.
Settling on my shoulders, she wraps her dainty body around my neck like a soft ginger scarf.
She head butts my chin before closing her eyes for a little nap.
“Of course, Raylen. Please, call me Gale,” he says as he begins carefully wrapping the package, taking extra care with the corners. “It’s an honor that someone like you would even purchase one of my paintings.”
I lean forward, my charming grin back in place. “Nah, you flatter me, Gale. Truly. I’m a fan.”
He throws his head back and laughs. “Sweet merciful goddess, I should make a fucking sign.” He frames his hands in the air, tilting his head as if admiring the imaginary letters. “Raylen of Moonscliffe, the famous archer, is a fan of my work!”
I clap him on the shoulder. “Bit of a mouthful, if I’m being honest.” Tugging my silk hood up to shield Cinder and myself from prying eyes, I step back out into the brilliant morning sun.
Joyful chatter and laughter fill the air as elves of all kinds make their way toward the Central Shrine and park for the Opening Ceremony.
Despite the rumors that I’ll be attending this year’s market, no one pays me any mind as I weave my way through the crowd.
Ahead lies a massive stone shrine, framed by a pristine grove of beautifully manicured trees and bushes.
It stands solitary and unyielding. A symbol of the birthplace of the very first elves.
While the ceremony unfolds, I join other elves at the shrine to give thanks through prayer and offerings.
The enchanting whistle of flutes and the heartbeat of low drums echo through the park, pulling the surrounding elves into a wild, joyous dance, turning the market into a blur of spinning silk around me. The air surrounding the shrine is so thick with heat that it feels like swallowing warm honey.
I pull the light summer hood of my cloak lower, desperate to maintain my anonymity, but the lightweight fabric bunches around Cinder’s squirming form.
She grows restless on my shoulders as numerous scents surround us.
The scent of roasted chicken, honey cakes, and fresh bread filters through the air.
Probably a nifty little magic charm that pushes the scent from each vendor out into the crowd.
Cinder kicks my hood loose and hops from my shoulders. “You little brat,” I say out loud, knowing she’ll understand me. The magical little monster flaps her wings and catches herself easily in the air before hovering next to my face. I swear the little thing is smiling.
Yipping joyfully, she flies forward and gives my nose a playful lick.
“Okay, okay, you’re forgiven,” I mumble, hoping no one caught the color of my lilac hair or recognized me under my hood. I weave my way past the vendors and explore the different stalls and tents.
Suddenly, a wisp of color catches my eye.
Familiar lilac hair so similar to mine, and a laugh I would recognize anywhere.
My chest fills with warmth when I easily recognize my sister.
Next to her is her best friend, Talia. Looks like she dyed her hair red again.
A wide grin fills my face when I spot the large figure next to them.
Is that…
As if the universe hears my unsaid question, a playful summer breeze pushes Sylar’s hood from his head. Obsidian hair falls around his shoulders, a dark, magical black that shimmers like the midnight sky.
Unable to stop myself, I take a few steps forward until I’m able to get a better view. All the air rushes from my lungs. He’s so fucking beautiful. Thick, black eyebrows and a sharp jawline. Plush lips that look so fucking kissable and lashes so thick it’s as if he wears kohl around his eyes.
“Sylar,” I breathe his name, but the word barely leaves my lips before the sound gets completely lost beneath the heavy laughter and clatter of the passing elves.
A lifetime of memories surfaces as soon as I say his name out loud.
All those years we were tutored together.
The times I tried my hardest to get him to talk.
Those bashful blushes and curious glances.
Once again, it feels like the cosmos—or perhaps the ancient magic of the market itself—is determined to pull us together.
Against all odds, my quiet whisper catches on a sudden breeze, floating straight through the chaos until it brushes against his ear.
He jerks his head up, and suddenly we’re making eye contact across the crowded yard.
Before I can say anything, more people shuffle forward, blocking our view.
A few elves smack into him, and I can see he’s quickly getting frustrated.
A deep frown falls across his face, and I want to do nothing but protect this man.
This big, strong, beautiful man who easily outweighs me, and yet there’s something so sweet and tender about him.
He’s a tempting yet grumpy and bashful elf.
I vaguely hear Isolde and Talia squeal with delight when a group of Emberleigh dancers starts performing up on a nearby stage ahead, but my focus is on Sylar.
Isolde or maybe Talia, I’m not entirely sure who, but one of them shouts that they’re going to check it out.
Before Sylar can reply, they’re already gone, disappearing into the crowd.
He’s left alone and looking a little flustered.
As the music grows louder, more elves swarm around us, pushing and dancing toward the front of the stage, shoving my poor, gentle giant this way and that.
Someone bumps into him asking if Sylar has seen their socks.
I get the impression the elf isn't talking clothing, but Sylar shakes his head anyway.
I immediately recognize that wide-eyed look on his face.
When I first started performing and competing in archery tournaments, nerves and anxiety used to get the best of me. I see it now in Sylar’s posture and the pained look on his face. He’s extremely uncomfortable and doesn’t want to be here.
Unable to take it anymore, I rush forward, reaching for his hand. My hood is still on, obscuring my face. He tries to jerk his hand back, but I grip it quickly. “This way,” I say, tugging his hand. “I know a spot that will get you away from the crowd.”
Those must have been the magical words to say because rather than jerking his hand away, he’s suddenly gripping mine in a death grip.
I weave him through the throngs of people past the shrine and on the edge of the forest. We both walk fast and with purpose, all the while he never lets go of my hand.
I make a wide berth around the marketplace pavilion and tug him into a small alcove of trees.
A flash of orange zips above us, Cinder probably already aware of my feelings, thanks to our magical bond.
“Over here,” I say, tugging him toward a secret little bench I found a few years back. He practically collapses onto it, as if he’s a puppet with his strings that have just been cut.
His hood is still pushed back, exposing his face, but he’s sweating bullets. It’s then that I notice that he’s wearing a cloak that is way too heavy for this midsummer heat. Sweet merciful goddess, why would he be wearing something this thick?
Without even thinking, my fingers find the drawstrings and pull, untying the bow.
The heavy cloak falls to the ground, pooling around his boots.
“What are you doing?” he hisses.
“It’s far too hot for you to be wearing something like that, Sylar,” I say in a singsong, flirty voice, trying to keep things light enough to distract him.
He freezes when he hears my voice. Or maybe it’s at the sound of a stranger saying his name.
“Who are you?” Going by the angry tone, I am assuming he already knows. He always got so defensive around me. Well, might as well see where the dice land. Standing in front of him, I pull my cloak back.
His mouth falls open in shock, but I don’t miss the way his brown eyes dilate and darken when he studies my face.
“Hey, Sy, did you miss me?”