28 Best of Both Worlds #3
“Well, now we’ll have to go through with it,” they agreed.
This wasn’t a trick. It wasn’t a veiled barb, aimed at Antal’s heart. This was happiness, blooming in his chest. A real hope for a future he’d never considered. He could have them here, and together they could—
“Get up.” Antal held out his hands. “We need to go.”
“Go?” Syvr said.
“You need to see my city. Really see it.” Antal’s words sped, his head a haze of alcohol and impossible dreams. “I’ll show you everything. All the pieces I fell in love with, the sights and the smells and the people. The pieces you’ll fall in love with, if you choose this.”
Syvr and Ixli didn’t hesitate. Just a shared smirk.
Then, they stood and took Antal’s hands.
The trip passed in a blur, a teleport followed by a swirl of city lights, the chill of the alley.
Then, a burst of heat as Antal stumbled into the tavern. It was bright. Loud. A fuzzy piece of his brain tensed when human eyes latched onto him—then relaxed at their recognition.
“Lord Daeyari!” the revelers called out, toasting mugs to him. Welcoming voices for him.
Behind him, Syvr and Ixli surveyed the unpanicked crowd with visible bafflement.
He spotted Kashvi at the bar, glaring.
Fionamara sat beside her. She turned, a beacon of fire with her crimson hair, eyes that levelled him from across the room. Her fingers danced the rim of an empty shot glass. Her cheeks, flushed with heat.
“Well shit, Antlers,” she greeted. “Back already? I’m not even drunk yet—”
Antal pulled her off the barstool and into a bruising kiss.
The jeers of the onlookers were background noise. Any eyes but hers, meaningless as Fionamara startled, then softened, then pulled Antal into her. She was perfect. She was his.
She scowled, her mouth curling beneath the caress of his tongue. She gripped his cheeks as she pulled back, holding him for inspection.
“Are you… drunk?” Fionamara’s glower snapped to Syvr. “Is he drunk?”
They laughed. “Don’t worry. It will wear off in a few minutes.”
“How did you get him drunk?” Fionamara pressed with growing urgency. “I need step-by-step instructions, Syvr. Now.”
Antal ran his hands through her hair. Across her cheeks. Every flawless line of her.
“Put on a dress,” he purred.
Her brow arched. A quirk to dark lips. “A dress?”
“I need you in a dress. We’re going dancing.”
Her smile bloomed in earnest, and Antal was ruined, a lowly husk commanded by the curve of that mouth.
Fionamara looked to the other daeyari. “All of us?”
“All of us.”
And just maybe, this could be the start of something new.
The next morning, Antal didn’t wake with a hangover. Another daeyari advantage.
He did have to endure Fionamara shouting at him, how unfair it was that he didn’t get hangovers. He dragged her back into their bed, worked her against the sheets until she shouted very different things.
Dawn light tangled in her hair. Crisp as new beginnings.
While Fionamara hunted her breakfast in the city, Antal headed to the capitol.
They’d been out late the night before, touring Thomaskweld’s sights and dancing halls, telling stories by starlight.
Exhausted, he’d offered Syvr and Ixli beds in the capitol building, the suite reserved for visiting dignitaries.
He arrived to the door ajar. Antal knocked. A call from Syvr beckoned him in.
The sitting room was decorated in midnight carpet and silver tables, topped with pots of spindly snow orchids.
Syvr lounged on a sofa, almost insultingly comfortable in a thick robe from the suite’s bathroom.
Their grin came as easy as it had last night, assurance that Antal hadn’t dreamed up all those confessions and possibilities they’d shared beneath the aurora.
But Syvr wasn’t alone. Their sea salt scent melded with…
Antal tensed at the smell of jasmine. Rich soil. His mother stood by the window, tail a mild sway as she surveyed the capitol plaza.
“Look how popular you are,” Syvr said. “All these daeyari clamoring for a visit.”
Yme faced him. She wore a midnight shawl, dark trousers flared at her calves.
“Antal,” she greeted, that soft lilt that always humbled him.
“Azaevi.” Antal bowed.
“Avroz is back from his meeting. Ready to hear the results of your planning. He wanted to send you a note, but I thought in person might be nicer.”
On her last visit, they’d parted on shouts. But this was a new morning, her posture penitent. Antal relented and joined her at the window.
“Syvr was telling me of last night,” Yme said.
“Were they…” Antal turned.
But Syvr was gone, slunk out of the room without a sound. Sly daeyari.
“They said you looked well,” his mother said. “That this human of yours… that Fi is a good dancer.” She quieted. “You always liked dancing.”
Antal was surprised she remembered. Surprised to hear her say Fionamara’s name.
“Would you care for a walk?” he offered.
“Oh, no.” A soft reply, apologetic. “I have work to get back to. A rather intricate floral arrangement for an anniversary party. I just wanted to see you, and…” Tentative, she brushed her knuckles to his cheek. “Be careful?”
It wasn’t a full reconciliation. But it didn’t hurt. Her words, her touch, felt… fine. For now, that was enough. Another dawn, slower to rise.
Yme left. Antal tracked Syvr down in the back suite and heckled them into proper clothes, emerging just as Ixli appeared in the main room—returned, it would seem, already fully dressed in silviamesh.
“We’re leaving?” she asked. “Good. Take these.”
She pressed a pair of dagger hilts into Antal’s hands.
The last ones she’d gifted him had been works of art, the metal carved with dahlias and engraved with his name in ornate script. A lover’s gift. These new daggers were sleek. Undecorated. Practical. Tools to keep him alive.
“Don’t lose them this time,” Ixli ordered.
Antal wouldn’t. He’d hold on to them as if they were his own claws.
“Now, fetch your human,” she said. “We have an aedari to find.”