Chapter 27
Even when they were children, Ronal Chomley had never been what one might call self-aware, and it seemed adulthood had not improved him.
It did not, for example, seem to occur to him that it might be unspeakably awkward to dance with a woman he’d once courted, at a ball celebrating her betrothal to someone else, while his future wife hovered nearby pretending she did not mind in the least.
But as was usual with Ronal, he’d insisted so politely it was difficult to say no without making a scene, and for her mother’s sake, Ryn decided to pretend.
Pretend Ronal hadn’t spent the evening subtly belittling her and her father. Pretend she hadn’t overheard him patting Sariah’s arm and saying how fortunate he was. Most of all, pretend she didn’t want to punch him for being an insufferable ass.
And she was doing so well. But Ronal was a man who didn’t like to lose, and in the middle of their dance, he’d leaned in a little too close and whispered in her ear.
Did your betrothed really fall off a horse? Or is he simply too embarrassed to be seen with you in front of all your friends and neighbors?
So of course, she’d slapped him. Just hauled off and left a truly impressive handprint on his cheek, then tried to stalk off with some tiny shreds of her dignity still intact.
But then he grabbed her arm. Sariah burst into tears and tried to pull him away, and honestly, this scene was probably going to be gossiped about for the next century or so.
Ryn’s mother might not have disowned her over consorting with mercenaries, but she had little doubt that this would be the final straw.
Everyone was silent. Staring. And all Ryn wanted was to get away. So she wrenched her arm out of Ronal’s proprietary hold with such suddenness and force that he was startled into letting go.
She knew at once that she was going to fall, because wouldn’t that just be the icing on this evening’s cake of utter embarrassment and failure.
But she never hit the ground.
She was caught, set on her feet, and shifted to the side, as effortlessly as if she weighed next to nothing.
And then there was a tall, dark shape between her and Ronal.
Broad shoulders draped in black beneath a scarred leather cuirass and dagger-studded belt.
A fall of wild white hair, with delicately pointed ears barely visible amid the glimmering strands.
And a feeling of rage so palpable, even the most mundane human in the room could not have missed it.
Xavi.
No longer masquerading as a human. No longer hiding his otherness or his magic. He stood in the center of the ballroom in his true form—a wild, untamable creature of unimaginable power, all of which was focused on the trembling puddle of regret that was Ronal Chomley.
They had mere seconds, by Ryn’s estimation. Seconds before this paralysis broke, and her neighbors all recognized the danger they were in. Before someone tried ever-so-bravely to defend all the other poor, helpless humans by capturing or killing the feral night elf intruder.
At this point, Ryn thought she might be able to salvage things with her family eventually. After all, no one could possibly connect this interloper with her injured fiancé…
“Ronal Chomley.” The voice was deep, resonant, and colder than a glacier. “If your hand offends my betrothed again, I will not hesitate to sever it from your arm.”
Oh.
“And I will happily apply the same to your tongue, should you speak another word to belittle or injure her reputation.”
Within those two short sentences, Xavi shredded all possibility of salvaging the situation, and Ryn glanced around frantically for her mother and aunt.
Predictably, her aunt had fainted. Ryn’s cousins clustered around her fallen form, while her mother…
Still tall and regal as ever, the dowager baroness was regarding Ryn in frozen silence, while Olivier stood alone, gaping, his hair standing on end as the blood drained from his cheeks.
Aghast.
Well, someone had to be the first to speak. And since it was her betrothal ball, she supposed…
“Get away from her!” The strangled words emerged in a raw snarl—a tone she had never imagined Olivier could use—and then he charged.
Rushed across the room to tackle Xavi and throw him to the floor.
At least, that was his intention. And Ryn’s heart jumped into her throat as the two collided.
She hadn’t realized Olivier cared that much.
Would never have expected him to place himself in harm’s way or risk nearly certain death in order to protect her.
Because death was all that she could see on Xavi’s face—in the deep crimson glow of his eyes and the curled lip that revealed the slight points of his canines.
But he neither drew a weapon nor responded with violence.
Rather, he remained immovable as the pillars of stone that guarded that far-off, misty valley.
Caught Olivier by the front of his coat, picked him up, and set him ever so carefully to the side before straightening his collar and dusting off his jacket.
“I have no argument with you, Baron Halivard,” Xavi said in that resonant, otherworldly voice. “But do not presume to interfere.”
And that might have been the end of it, had Ryn’s poor, silly brother not decided for the first time in his life to set a shining example of physical courage.
“Get him!” he cried, and a dozen of his friends rallied to the call. With their coats and cravats and glorious delusions of capability, they rushed to his side, hoping to play the hero before the stunned witness of all their gathered neighbors.
Ryn’s breath froze in her lungs as she stumbled backward to avoid their mad rush, knowing perfectly well that they posed no threat to Xaviel ven Arazul—Lycori warrior, leader of armies and survivor of a thousand battles.
He was a dragon being attacked by a herd of vengeful sheep, and as the first of his assailants flew across the room, Ryn found herself wincing in sympathetic pain.
Hoping that Xavi would remember why they were standing in that ballroom.
Would he recall that this was a trial, and that their very future might depend on his ability to control his impulses?
For a few moments, she doubted. As bodies collided and pained cries rang out, she crushed the velvet of her skirt beneath clenched fingers and wondered whether this might be the end.
And when one particularly foolish young fellow snatched an ornamental sword from the wall and leaped into the fray, she barely swallowed a yelp of terror.
But when Xavi stood alone once more and silence fell across the crowded room, no blood stained the gleaming floor.
There had been no stabbing, no rending, indeed no permanent damage of any kind.
His assailants lay scattered and bruised, disarmed and embarrassed, but otherwise unharmed despite their vigorous assault.
In the caves, he’d proven he was willing to kill to protect her. Now he’d proven he was willing to refrain from killing, and honestly, it was almost more touching than what he’d done to that snake.
“Ryn.”
Her head jerked around to look at Xavi, who stood in the midst of his groaning enemies, eyes aglow and hand outstretched.
The message was clear.
Come with me.
“Ryn, no,” Olivier gasped out. “He’s a night elf, for saints’ sake. You can’t…”
An icy voice interrupted whatever he’d been about to say.
“You knew all along.”
Ryn turned slightly to face her mother.
“Yes,” she said simply. “I knew.”
“Why did you lie to us?”
“I didn’t.” And she had not, truly, except by omission. “I merely never corrected your own misapprehensions. Rather than endure your disappointment and never-ending attempts to make me someone other than who I am, I pretended you were right.”
Not least of all because… she’d wanted it to be true. Wanted to believe there was someone who would choose her, just as she was.
“We only wanted you to be happy.” Her mother sounded almost defeated. Bereft of her usual icy certainty. “To help you find your true calling in life. So you would stop chasing after things that will always disappoint you.”
And there it was at last. Out in the open. And because her mother had finally said the words plainly, Ryn was free to answer with just as much honesty.
“But I am happy,” she said, slowly and clearly, so there could be no mistake.
“Just as I am, I am happy. I am happy in the depths of a library, surrounded by books. Happy with a pen and a notebook, chasing truths that may seem unimportant to you. Happy when I am reading dusty old texts, getting to know those who left bits and pieces of themselves behind in their written words. Happy, too, when I am discovering new worlds and setting eyes on the things I’ve only read about.
Strange as it may seem, I am content with who I am, and Father knew that, but you could never see it.
You wanted to give me the same happiness you had, and all I wanted was for you to see that this life”—she waved around her at the ballroom—“this version of happiness, is not for me.”
She locked eyes with her mother across the room. Maybe for the last time. It was a strangely deep connection for a moment fraught with tension, and just when Ryn had almost given up, she saw her mother’s lips make the shape of two words she had never heard from her before.
I’m sorry.
She almost burst into tears.
So am I.
Sorry that they had not arrived at this understanding sooner. Sorry that she hadn’t been brave enough to say those words before everything fell apart in front of their family and neighbors. Sorry that they might never see one another again, and she could not truly say goodbye.
For one last painful moment, Ryn memorized her mother’s face. And Olivier’s. Maybe she would be able to return when this was all over, and maybe she wouldn’t. She could only hope they would someday come to understand some small part of this choice she was making.
Then she turned back to Xavi, smiled, and reached for his hand.
Their palms slid together. Her fingers wrapped around his. But this time it was not accompanied by a spiral of golden light. There was no brief moment of disorientation followed by an abrupt landing.
Instead, they were yanked off their feet by a silent storm, buffeted by winds and swallowed up by darkness. Tumbled in every direction until Ryn was so dizzy she thought she might throw up.
But through all of it, Xavi never let go. His grip was as solid and certain as the bones of the earth, warm as a hearth fire, and tenacious as a final prayer.
And when the winds finally died, it was Xavi who recovered first and tugged her to her feet before finally releasing her hand.
She immediately wished he hadn’t. But she didn’t have a chance to seriously consider that thought before a voice landed on her ears like the purr of a satisfied cat.
“Well, well, well… What treason is this?”