The sun hung high over the Gem Stream, turning the rushing water into a ribbon of liquid diamonds. It was a day of rare clarity in Velanthri, the kind that made the white stone of the manor houses glow and the exotic birds in the canopy sing with renewed vigor.
Emery moved along the bank, the hem of her silk dress dampened by the spray, her movements deliberate as she searched for the blue-tipped leaves of the vocal herbs.
Beside her, Anika hummed a low tune, her nimble fingers darting into the crevices between the stones. They had been at the stream for nearly an hour, and the basket between them was half-full of the sweet-smelling flora.
"You have been unusually quiet today, Lady Emery," Anika remarked, casting a sidelong glance at the younger girl. "Even for one who treasures her silence."
Emery didn't look up, her focus remaining on a stubborn root. "I am merely thinking, Anika. There is much to consider with the coming festivals and the talk of the Emperor's tithes."
Anika let out a soft, knowing chuckle. She adjusted her apron, her eyes twinkling with a mischief that Emery found both comforting and irritating. "The Emperor's tithes? I think not. I have seen that look before. It is the look of a girl who has seen a star and forgotten how to look at the ground."
Emery felt the familiar heat rising to her cheeks, a flush that had become far too common in the last few days. "I do not know what you mean."
"Oh, I think you do," Anika whispered, leaning closer so that her voice wouldn't carry to any stray guardsmen. She spoke in the melodic, lilting tones of Veel, her words flowing like the stream itself. She mentioned that a certain light had taken residence in Emery's eyes—the kind of light that usually followed a meeting with someone from the mountains. "Have you truly fallen for the fire-breather, my lady?"
Emery's hands stilled. She looked at the water, seeing not her own reflection, but the image of golden eyes flecked with red. She thought of the heat of Zekar's skin and the way his fangs caught the moonlight when he smiled. Instead of the denial Anika expected, Emery only bit her lip, her silence serving as a confession.
"He is not what the stories say," Emery murmured in English, her voice barely audible over the rush of the water.
Anika sighed, a sound of both worry and affection. She reached out, patting Emery's hand. "Just be careful. Fire is a beautiful thing to look at, but it does not know how to be gentle with silk."
"He is gentle," Emery insisted, though the memory of his predatory walk made her heart skip a beat.
Anika signaled that she would finish the gathering alone, giving Emery a moment of privacy. Emery thanked her with a small nod and began to wander deeper toward a secluded bend where the trees leaned over the water like ancient protectors.
As she moved, the Songbird instincts of her ancestors began to stir in her blood. The Velanthri were not just singers by practice; they were born with a vibration in their marrow that sought harmony with the world around them. Emery felt the pull of the current against her ankles, the coolness of the water grounding her.
She waded in until the water reached her knees, the white silk of her skirts billowing around her like a cloud. She closed her eyes, letting the sound of the forest fade until all she could hear was the rhythm of her own heart and the steady pulse of the stream.
She opened her mouth, and the song escaped.
It was not a song of words. It was a haunting, wordless melody that seemed to rise from the depths of the earth. Her voice, exquisite and pure, vibrated through the air, catching on the wind and carrying through the thicket. It was the sound of the ocean's depth and the morning's first light.
As she sang, the water began to react. It was a subtle thing at first—small ripples forming in perfect circles around her. But as her voice climbed in a soaring, crystalline arc, the stream began to defy the laws of the current. The water swirled in intricate, spiraling patterns, rising in small crests that danced to the frequency of her voice. She was the conductor of the elements, her beauty amplified by the raw, mystical power of her lineage.
She was so lost in the trance of the music that she did not hear the snap of a twig or the heavy breathing of someone nearby.
Hidden within the dense foliage of the cedar trees, Zekar stood paralyzed. He had come to the stream early, the dragon-glass necklace heavy against his chest, intending to wait for the night. But the sound had drawn him out—a sound so piercingly beautiful that it felt like a weight on his lungs.
He watched her through the leaves, his golden-red eyes wide with a reverence that bordered on fear. To him, she looked like a goddess of the foam and spray, her white hair a beacon against the green of the forest. He had seen fire, he had seen the strength of the mountains, but he had never seen anything that looked so much like a soul made visible. Every time she hit a high, vibrating note, the ache beneath his shoulder blades flared, a phantom power answering the call of her magic.
The song eventually tapered off, the last note lingering in the air like a silver thread.
The water, deprived of its rhythm, slumped back into its natural course, splashing against the stones. Emery stood in the center of the stream, her chest heaving, her eyes slowly opening as the world rushed back in.
She turned toward the bank, intending to return to Anika, but froze when she saw him.
Zekar was no longer hiding. He stood on the mossy bank, his bow forgotten at his feet, his hands hanging uselessly at his sides. He looked shaken, the usual arrogance of his posture replaced by a raw, naked awe. The danger wrapped in human flesh had been tamed by a melody.
Emery waded out of the water, her heart hammering against her ribs for an entirely different reason now. She reached the bank, her wet sandals squelching on the pebbles, and stopped inches away from him. The scent of sea salt from her skin mingled with the woodsmoke and charred cedar that clung to him, creating a heady, intoxicating atmosphere.
Zekar did not offer his wolfish smile. He didn't even move to touch her. He simply stared at her as if she were a miracle he wasn't quite sure he was allowed to witness.
He spoke in Drk first, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that shook with emotion. He told her that he had heard the legends of the songbirds, but he had not known that a sound could make a man's heart stop in his chest. He looked at her as if she were the only thing in the world that mattered.
Then, struggling with the English that felt like a clumsy tool in his mouth, he took a half-step closer. His heat radiated off him, drying the mist on her skin.
"Your voice..." Zekar began, his brows dipping as he searched for the words. He reached out, his fingers hovering just shy of her damp cheek, his golden eyes searching hers. "Your voice... is my soul's cage."
Emery's breath hitched. The intensity of his gaze was almost too much to bear. She felt the truth of his words—that she held a power over him that was far more dangerous than any sword.
He wasn't just obsessed; he was being consumed.
"It is just a song, Zekar," she whispered, though she knew it was a lie.
He shook his head, his dark hair falling over his shoulders. He reached into his tunic and pulled out the cord of the dragon-glass necklace. The black stone caught the sunlight, the red vein inside it glowing with a sudden, fierce intensity.
"No song," he said, his voice dropping to a tingle-inducing register. "Is... life."
He didn't give her the necklace yet. He only let it rest in his palm. They stood there in the daylight, a girl of silk and a boy of fire, the silence between them louder than any song she could ever sing. Emery realized then that the wolves in her house were right about one thing: he was dangerous.
But as she looked at him, she knew she would rather be burned by his flame than be safe and cold in her father's halls.