For weeks after the festival, the world seemed brighter to Thalanir.
Each day he awoke with a strange energy, as though the forest itself whispered encouragement into his veins. The path to the lorekeeper's hall seemed shorter, his duties lighter. Every time he saw Liora carrying her herb baskets through the village, her laughter spilling into the air like sunlight, his heart stuttered.
Their secret kisses became bolder. At first stolen moments in the grove, then longer embraces, whispered promises, fingers entwined as though afraid of letting go.
Yet they told no one. In Sylthariel, courtship among the youth was common enough, but Thalanir felt a strange protectiveness over this bond. It was not a thing for the whole village to gossip about—it was theirs, fragile and precious, like a flame hidden from the wind.
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One evening, while twilight poured its indigo hues through the canopy, they sat together weaving garlands.
