Dark Emerald

By T.L Thorne (Trisha Lynn)

For centuries, magic-users and elves have been openly hunted and killed, but when King Marro was put on the throne, he changed that order. Now they are to be collected. He gave some jobs or tasks tied to the realm, but others... Well, no one really knows what he's been doing to them. Until now.

Twenty-year-old Ayvre is just trying to provide for her family when she's captured, brutalized, starved, and forcibly bound, in a botched ancient ritual, to a man of a race she had thought long since exterminated.
Back home, she tries to forget the nightmare of that dungeon, but when she’s asked to go back to Emerald city to help with the investigation into her captors, she fiercely wants justice for herself and the other innocents that were in those cells.
Grayson, the dark vigilante she’s bound to unwillingly resurfaces, and together they uncover a horrifying plot to trigger magical properties in innocent people's blood. What machinations does mad King Marro have at play and can they escape his grasp?

• Language: English
• Publisher: T.L Thorne (Trisha Lynn)
• Release date: Jan 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463157084

T.L Thorne (Trisha Lynn)

I live in Southern New Hampshire with my husband and two quirky Siberian Huskies. I have been writing since high school but stopped entirely upon my mother's death at the age of eighteen. Now almost ten years later I have rediscovered that passion.I love hiking and discovering New England. I enjoy nature, fishing, snowmobiling and pretty much anything to do with the outdoors. I read and write every moment I have down time. Bloodlines is my debut novel and I hope you enjoy my Faerie world, the characters it possesses and the future worlds to come...

Book preview

Chapter One

The blanket of wet leaves muffled the footfalls of her well-worn leather boots as she tracked a small buck. The blueberry bushes and brambles thinned as she crept along the obscured path—not a trail for the untrained eye, but she was well versed in tracking animals and deciphering trails used by game.

She came upon a narrow opening that gave way to harsh spiky grass and wide frond ferns. The deer’s head was down, but as he chewed, he swung it up periodically, his alert eyes scanned his surroundings, before returning to his meal.

Methodically, she pulled an arrow from her worn leather quiver. Each movement slow, deliberate. She breathed in the crisp heady scent of balsam; the smell unexplainably calmed her racing heart. When she nocked her arrow, her foot moved back slightly to better balance her weight—the echo of noise traveled as she stepped on a twig. The snap had the deer’s head whipping up, his ears and eyes trained to her location. She took a quick breath, berating herself the folly, and loosed the arrow just as the quick and agile animal sprang away. Her river cane arrow caught him in the right hind quarter. Without thinking she nocked another arrow as she stepped forward and reflexively loosed it, catching him again. The buck stopped, swayed, and stumbled. As she stepped into the dappled sunlight of the fern-filled clearing, the animal dropped at the base of a huge pine. Her heart pounded in her throat; her blood coursed with adrenaline. Ayvre nocked another arrow and crept slowly toward the fallen deer. She watched for any movement, any breaths. There were none. She placed her arrow back in its quiver, slung her long ash bow across her back, and knelt at the deer’s side. She ran an unsteady hand across coarse coat, to the arrow in his flank. As she did so, she thanked him for giving his life to sustain her family. She pulled her arrows from the hide and made quick work of field dressing and quartering. She placed the meat in a large, thin leather bag that was stained with blood from previous kills and strapped the hide to the leather bag. It would be a heavy load to carry back to the tiny cabin, as the buck weighed as much as she, but she had no other choice.

When she finally made it back, exhaustion wrought her limbs, she slung the pack on the doorstep. Her mother opened the rotting wood door and stared wide-eyed. Ayvre imagined she was a sight; mud up to her knees, blood up to her elbows—what was left she couldn’t wash off in the stream. Her short brown hair was a mess of brambles and leaves. She felt her face sting from fresh scratches, courtesy of her dash through the forest to get home before nightfall. It had been cold that morning, they could expect snow in another week at most, and this deer would get them through most of the winter. Her mother held the door open. Ayvre sighed and stepped inside to the warmth of the cabin. Without a word she went to the small bathing chamber, where she filled the tub with lukewarm water from the large pot that sat by the fire. She let all the exhaustion, restlessness, and worry slew away like the dirt and grime that clung to her skin. She looked at her fingernails that were short and encrusted with a ring of dirt, her calloused hands. She ran a hand across hair that stood in spiky disarray, sun-bleached in streaks.

As her skin pruned and she scrubbed it raw, she thought about her first hunt. But with that train of thought came a wave of grief, because, like most of her memories, they involved her beloved father.

Hammond Dervestaid had been an honorable man. A patient, strong father, and husband and then he’d been taken from them. Murdered. By whom was still a mystery, but Ayvre would have retribution. Her father had been devoted to his family, his friends, and a revered warden of Whitecroft. Their northern settlement was too large and far off the beaten path to be regulated by the closest city, Opal, governed by Lord Henskill. Too small and bordered by mountains to need a titled Lord. So, her father had been granted the title of warden and given this wintery slice of the country. Filled with brawny warriors, sparse farmland, fast horses, and large clusters of stone cottages and shopfronts. It was primarily wild land, and not a town one would pass through on to another destination. Unless on a rare occasion they were traveling down from farther north. The main travelers they received were those coming from the west heading to the east. As Whitecroft sat at the valley below the Shadow Mountain’s, a high and dangerous range of mountains that extended most of the north of Menzel to then be out shadowed by the even larger, jagged Wolf’s Vane Mountains that swept to the sea, more cliff than mountain. Beyond the Shadow Mountains was the country of Iberen. Whitecroft sometimes saw refugees from that country, perhaps getting away from the harsher, tundra climate, but even that was seldom.

Ayvre ran a wet hand across her face. Her father had been tough, just, and valiant. He and her mother put on festivals, balls, dances, and clinics. He had been a lord amongst the winter pines and the people had loved him for it. That is why, when he went missing and was later discovered in the river eight years ago, Ayvre never believed it was a fall, a fishing accident, an angered comrade, a bear, or whatever else people said. A few even whispered of suicide. Her father was well-loved and revered, and he was not stupid enough to fall into a damned river despite its overflow and rapids that year, and he would never have been unprepared enough to get himself killed by a bear and he sure as the stars did not kill himself.

Someday she would learn the truth and exact revenge or die trying. A willing risk to uphold the memory and legacy of a man she still thought of as a hero.

She was there that day—the day they pulled him from the river. She had been hiding in the bushes, trying to be brave but failing as tears gathered, and acid came up her throat. She would never forget the way his bloated body looked, the terror and grief she had felt. She'd never forget, and she'd never stop until she slaughtered the person or people responsible.

She dressed quickly and made her way to the small, dilapidated barn beside their cabin. She’d take care of the meat and then fall, blessedly, onto the tiny cot she kept amongst the moldy hay, rotten beams, and ancient leather horse tack. She refused to sleep in the cabin until it got too cold to sleep in her barn, as there was barely enough room inside for her mother, sister, and young brother.

That night she dreamt of the great manor house where they had lived when her father was alive. Its rambling wood, the great stone hearth’s that kept every inch of the building warm from the torrent of constant wind and snow that swept this land over half the year. She dreamt of playing with her younger sister in the giant room they shared. She dreamt of her parents kissing, hugging, and teaching them of love, honor, and rightness. She dreamt of summer dresses, that she would only get to wear for the short season. The smell of roses, jasmine, and honeysuckle from her mother’s beautiful garden. She dreamt of the grand horses that graced their stables; war steeds, carriage drafts, and pleasure mounts. She dreamt of laying on her back with her father on a moonless night in autumn and staring up at the stars, asking silly questions and making up magical stories with him.

Then it was all gone, every single bit of it when her father’s body was found in the river and her mother was asked to come and identify him with Sigfried, the guard captain. Ayvre, just twelve winters old at the time, had already identified him, but that was her secret to keep, her torture, her pain, to hold in her heart and wallow in.

They lost it all when a new warden was appointed, and they were asked to leave the only home they’d ever known, to give up all the things they had, because now that her father was no longer alive the King’s coin no longer flowed into their coffers. And so, they were left poor and homeless. Left on the cobblestone to pick up the pieces of their ruined lives, while some other man moved in and took over running Whitecroft. Took over their life. A life they had earned. Her father had earned.

It was incredibly unfair, but so, she discovered, life was. A path of utter injustices all rolled into one insufferable existence.

Ayvre awoke breathing heavy, tears coated her cheeks. The last image was of her mother holding her newborn baby brother, crying soundlessly, as their lives fell apart.

Chapter Two

Just go ask him, Ayv. Please.

I’m not asking him for anything, let alone cane sugar. It’s absurd.

Oh, what are you two in some lover’s quarrel or something?

Ayvre scoffed at her sister and stalked off. She and Jace were always in a lover’s quarrel or something. It had been Jace’s family who let them buy this old cabin. The hunting cabin was two miles north of the village borders, technically not within its lines, thus not in taxable range, although they still purchased things from the market and village shops, and her sister sold wares at the marketplace.

She trudged closer to the Vale’s homestead, cursing her sister all the while. The Vale’s lived in a beautiful manor house on the edge of the northern forest. She appreciated that it was the most northern home from the village and far away from prying eyes.

Sigfreid Vale was still the Captain of the Guard for Whitecroft and had been a beloved friend to Ayvre’s father. They’d had dinner parties, banquets, and tea once a week with the Vale’s when her father was alive. Even now the Vale’s did much for them, out of the deep friendship that they had once shared. Her mother, Etrina, took little from them and never visited. She wished to not make things harder for the captain. It had been bad enough that he’d been demoted when the new warden had arrived because of his love and friendship for Hammond Dervestaid. Thankfully, the new warden, Ramos, had realized Sigfreid’s control and knowledge of everything to do with Whitecroft and he was quickly reinstated. Regardless, Ayvre would never jeopardize the Vale’s by letting Ramos discover their kindness towards her family. Unfortunately, kindness wasn’t always rewarded when it came to control and power—especially of an entire village the size of Whitecroft. It was a messed up, political world they lived in now.

In general, Ayrve’s family stuck entirely to themselves, unless completely unavoidable. Market days were the only time they made an exception and put themselves into the village social world and that was simply so that her mother and sister could sell their hats, scarves, and mittens that were made from the two sheep they had and whatever furred animals Ayvre managed to shoot or trap. It seemed unfair that her life was ruined and in disarray and everyone else’s moved on as if something vital had not been taken from them. As if a piece of their entire world had not been lost.

When war rang out three years ago Ayvre had wished it would come this far north, that it would have ravished this land. This land and these people that had once loved her father but let him be replaced so easily. But the war had been far to the south and hadn’t even touched their winter lands. It had barely even made an impact on them. The war had been between the giant city of Ternigrad and that of Benstaff, a border city in Versaine. The war centered in the massive city of Ternigrad, well at least that is where Benstaff’s marching armies were decimated. Their true destination had been Denell, where King Marro Balvine resided in his palace. Too bad the vile King hadn’t been killed. The advancing army had devastated many villages and outer cities, but then it had been annihilated by the large, well-trained armies of Ternigrad. Benstaff had run, like many before them, back to their distinctive borders in their chunk of the world like a kicked puppy. Denell was becoming increasingly industrialized and gaining more territory, more power. Its armies reveled, its King worshiped and feared in the same hand. Its people looked upon like royalty down to the last peasant rat. Ayvre’s sister Catarina enjoyed knowing the ins and outs of the pollical and socialite aspect of Menzel. Ayvre did not. But then again her sister looked the part. Pulling out her nicest dresses, spending hours brushing, plaiting, coifing her hair until the golden waves gleamed in the sunlight of the market square. The girl, fifteen winters, was a charmer. She could talk her way in and out of anything. Her beauty caught eyes and few questioned one so lovely. Ayvre had not been graced with that kind of head-turning beauty—like her mother and sister. Ayvre may have had the same wavy depths of hair once, although hers was the color of fresh toiled earth, like that of their fathers. Catarina’s was spun gold like their mothers, and her eyes were the same too—clear lake blue. Ayvre had the unnaturally pale green eyes of her father. The rest of her looks were a mystery and didn’t seem to be shared with either parent. Her olive skin, high cheekbones, heavily lashed large round eyes, high pert nose, and a spattering of freckles. Her sister was pale and perfect, her face rounder, heart-shaped. Less sharp and more openly approachable. The kind of beauty that men would do anything for. The kind of beauty that would ensure she upstaged her status when married. Their frames were different too, but that could be because Ayvre was always moving. Their mother had a medium height and curves in all the right places, as did Catarina, but with a thin layer of baby fat still. Ayvre had a more slender, muscled frame, with less feminine curves. Ayvre did every chore a man would do around the house—hunt, chop wood, maintenance, fetch water. All things that, if trained or willing, Catarina or their brother could do, but neither had any interest. And so Ayvre’s body became muscled and lean, her curves hidden under those muscles. She conceded that the younger girl was lovelier in body, face, and disposition and Ayvre liked it that way, as did Catarina, who flaunted and adored the attention such beauty gained her. Catarina got them coin from her wares and Ayvre secured their safety, heat, and meals. It seemed like a tangible tradeoff and neither complained overly much. It was no question that Catarina wanted out of their tiny shack in the wood. She wanted a better life for herself. She spoke of it often; the Lord she would marry and the house she would have closer to Denell, closer to the center and hub of the capital. Ayvre hoped it was true, she hoped that for her sister.

Ayvre grumbled under her breath as she made her way to the Vale’s large estate. It was out of love for her brother who adored Catarina’s raspberry pie. He was the baby and had gone through life without the father that the girls had at least known for a brief time and so they did their best to make sure he got everything he wanted. They all spoiled him a bit, and the run for cane sugar confirmed that. They typically substituted honey for sugar, but this year Ayvre had been unable to safely secure them a large batch of honey and what little they had left she refused to let her sister use on the frivolousness of pie. But now as she trudged through the forest path, she wished she had handed over the last tiny stash of the golden sweetness hidden in her wooden chest in the barn, in the cutout in the floor beneath bales of moldy hay and fallen timber from the tiny barn’s roof. Where she kept her most precious items.

As she approached the fields that ran along the road, voices echoed. She debated walking on, but her curiosity won out. She crested the trees, stepped over the stone wall, and crept along the tree line that separated the pastureland and fields of neighbors.

Jace and his older brother stood in the field close to the dirt road with two stunning horses, one bay and one chestnut. The horses had fine bone structure and long limbs. Hunting horses—built for stamina and speed. The boys were known in their village as the fastest on horseback. When the village had their annual hunt and cross-country race, Jace and Jaime always won. Had been winning since both were young boys, now in their early twenties, they were legends and well admired for their spirit and that of their fine horses.

Ayvre took the boys in for a moment, both had golden shocks of hair, too long by some standards but it suited them. Jaime’s was just a bit shorter than Jace’s. Their faces were similar, luminous blue eyes, rugged good looks. Both had small bits of beard growing in, but Jaime kept his longer. Both were gorgeous and they knew it. Jaime was more arrogant than Jace, but then again, he was the eldest, tallest, and more muscled brother.

The men, she realized, were talking to a group of giggling, gooey-eyed girls. There was no need, typically, to travel this far from the village. Not if you were out for a stroll, unless of course, you were searching out a couple of incredibly attractive brothers, then that trek may be worth it. She looked around and saw no carriage or horses in the roadway—so it had been a leisurely stroll. Ayvre let her gaze slide over the girls. A trek in heeled boots, no less. Two of the girls she recognized as friends of Catarina’s. The third and cattiest looking of them, she didn’t immediately recognize. Her dress was lavender, and lower cut than necessary. Her skin was pale as milk and flawless. She had shining, long deep red curls and a narrow and beautiful face set off by a luscious mouth and large blue eyes. Even Ayvre could appreciate her beauty. The other two were sisters. Both had deep brown hair and dark eyes. Their names were something like Lily and...Petal? Petra? Peony? Something flower-related at any rate.

Ayvre caught snippets of their conversation.

But we love to walk out this way. It is so beautiful in autumn isn’t it, Prim?

Ah, Primrose. That’s right.

The smaller dark-haired girl nodded and beamed at both the redhead and the boys. She was just along for the ride, clearly and a bit empty-headed.

It is nicer than the village, I think, Lily said, brightly.

The red head gave her a beautiful smile, which she turned on to the boys, who looked a little stunned from it.

Idiots. What fancy horses these are. She gestured with a well-manicured hand.

Jaime smiled, flashing brilliant white teeth and dimples. Why, yes, our father just purchased them. Both of our hunting mares are weaning foals, so we can’t ride them in the winter hunt or the gauntlet. So, these, he gestured to the fine animals with large hands, are our replacements for the season. We’ve been out training them this morning, to get them ready for a win.

Jace chimed in, If your father wishes to beat us, this might be his year, as we have untrained and untried steeds.

Jaime elbowed him and smiled at the red head. Yes, and I’ve heard that Zeikes is riding this year as well?

Why, yes, Zeik has taken up the… She sent him a sultry smile, as she finished, passion.

Like the fool Jaime was, he was hooked. Nearly falling into the girl, lust in his eyes. If the red-haired girl hoped for the elder Vale brother, she would get him. Not that that was a hard feat—but that was another matter altogether.

The name Zeik rang a bell. Zeikes Fray. This must be his sister, Daria. Ayvre remembered word—or more so gossip—saying the girl was quite the enchantress and had suitors for days. She was around Ayvre’s age. Well into marrying age. A match with the Vale’s would cement both of their standings. Regardless, Ayvre didn’t like her, for the simple fact that her family had come with Ramos to take over their tiny part of the country. Ramos and the Fray’s had traveled together from Belhaven, a large village to the southeast. Their father, Alfen, was a tailor and a dear friend to Warden Ramos Mordeston. They had to be, to travel eight or more days together, to this tiny insignificant town and become a permanent fixture in it. That was something a family such as the Fray’s did only with the promise of power and financial stability. She must admit that since these people had taken over many more people had come from other villages, and progression had happened in Whitecroft. Many businesses opened, giving jobs to the people. It was progress to some, but Ayvre despised every stitch of it, simply because of the who that had made it happen. Something her father would have done, had he lived. It should have been her father who was praised for gaining villagers and procuring jobs in Whitecroft. It should have been her father to do many things.

What are their names? Daria purred and touched Jaime’s tanned arm.

Jace, seeming at least less affected, answered her. The chestnut is Tingsmead, and the bay is Dezrin.

Daria batted her long, perfectly curled lashes. May I pet them?

He nodded, holding the bay steady for her. The brazen, red-haired girl stood close to Jace as she ran a hand down the white blaze of the horse’s nose. She was, at least you would think, familiar with horses as her father did own many hunting horses and some fine carriage steeds and had become quite the competitor in the gauntlet.

She appeared timid, but just slightly, enough to give a show but not enough to look too fake. The girl was good, Ayvre would give her that. Much like her own sister. It appalled her to think of them both in the same sentence. Catarina couldn’t be anything like this sultry girl who was using her female wiles to ensnare these dumb, arrogant young men.

This one is yours, then? Fine stock.

Ayvre’s eyes narrowed. Please, Jace, see through her. How would she know him to be a fine animal and be timid of them at the same time?

I would imagine you’d know a fine animal when you saw one, Lady Fray. Your father has just as grand equines as this in his stables.

She smiled like a cat licking heavy milk. Indeed.

More brazenly, she sashayed her way in front of Jace, nearly rubbing her body against his and running an expert hand down the animal’s lean neck and chest.

Ayvre bit her lip from calling out in annoyance. Jace seemed to be enjoying the attention. She imagined that he had thought his brother would get this girl, but now the tables seemed to have turned.

Jaime, realizing it, piped up. This chestnut, Ting, can run the gauntlet in fifteen minutes flat.

Daria’s eyebrows rose, and the other girls made noises of surprise. Is that so?

She watched Jace cut Jaime a look, and Jaime swallowed. Jace ran a hand through his hair, scowling.

The gauntlet was the local cross-country race. A course rode on horseback twice each year. A dangerous, hair-raising set of downed trees, river crossings, narrow bridges, and uneven terrain. The fastest, most agile, clever, and well...luckiest horse and rider could do the treacherous trail in about twenty to twenty-five minutes. Only Jace and Jaime had ever been able to cut that to eighteen minutes last year on their legendary twin piebald Bastian mares. Two horses that Ayvre adored. Jace often let her ride his mare, Wind. Ayvre had watched Jace train Wind when she was just a filly. His relationship with Wind was one of the primary reasons Ayvre had become involved with him. His patience and love with horses endeared him to her. Wind had taken them far away into the forest many times, for them to simply lay together and talk or to do other things. Things that made her blush to think of. She had fallen hard in love with Wind. The boy, well, the boy, she forced herself to not love. She made sure the beating of her heart ran out of sync with his. She fiercely forced herself to not allow him that part of her. He had gained every other part. Her heart, however, she tried desperately to keep her own. It was too filled with controlled hatred, hidden grief, and the need for wanderlust, adventure, and retribution.

Jace and Jaime had been keeping their training and their record-breaking times to themselves and for good reason. It was not unheard of for a competitor to set up a trap or pitfall on the gauntlet track when they knew a rival was training, or to maim a competitor’s horse. It was against all rules, but unless caught, most people got away with it. It was terrible, and Jace and Jaime were no strangers to this treatment.

Ah, yes, I mean it was just once this morning, but I… I skipped two jumps. That should add a few minutes there.

Daria seemed unconvinced as she stood next to Jace, a finger to her red lips as she surveyed the horses.

And they were purchased from Bastian horse traders, like your other two?

Jace pulled at his ear. Yes.

Ayvre knew that was a lie. These horses had been bred by Aiden Marcott, a local horseman, and breeder. The same man that had been her father’s head stablehand. When her father died Aiden was fired, as his loyalties were well known. Aiden and Hammond had been best of friends and Ayvre could still hear them laughing together at their weekly poker game. She could still smell the cigar smoke. Aiden had offered her family refuge and a place to stay many times and continued to help them in other ways. Her mother was just too proud to take much of the help, especially to stay with him. Mainly, because Aiden was widowed many years ago and had never remarried. In a town like Whitecroft, such a thing would quickly become the talk, and Etrina refused to allow that to happen, and Aiden respected that decision. They dined with him once a month, at his small estate. It was the only real social setting they attended, and Ayvre enjoyed it simply because she got to spend time with his fine horses, but she also cared for Aiden, he was a constant in her life. He had offered her a horse of her own, free of charge, but she knew they could never afford to take care of it.

Tingsmead and Dezrin had been foaled by herself and Aiden. He called on her often for assistance, especially during foaling season. He paid well but she would do it free as she loved it that much. Ting and Dez were young horses, and Ayvre was proud of Jace and Jaime for buying them. Not only did it give Aiden a ton of coin, but it also gave both horses a wonderful home. Jace and Jaime may have their faults, but how they treated their horses was not one of them.

Aiden had begun breeding horses well before her father’s death, but since then he had perfected the art and she remembered her father saying long ago that his mixes were astonishing, and that Aiden would become the finest horse breeder in Menzel if he had anything to say about it. Unfortunately, with Hammond’s death, that dream went with it, but Aiden was still a fine horse breeder. He was sought after by many, especially smaller villages that did gauntlet races. Once a year they ran The Trials, which was a massive gauntlet race where four other villages, aside from Whitecroft competed. Aiden had begun selling horses to the other villages for that race, now he sold all his yearlings every year.

Jace’s answer seemed to placate Daria for the time anyway, and Ayvre was beyond annoyed and done with this. She stepped from the trees and across the field.

It was Primrose that spotted her first. Isn’t that Catarina’s sister?

Everyone looked her way at that, and she felt self-conscious. She wore her usual fitted tan breaches, high brown leather boots and she had changed into a nice tight-fitting, button-up, fanned sleeved blouse, which was tucked into her pants. She looked more presentable than usual, that’s for sure. Her wide brown leather belt did hold two daggers and there was another in her boot, but that was customary for a girl traveling the forest alone, wasn’t it?

Her short hair wasn’t messy as far as she knew. She felt it whip about in the wind, but she dared not smooth it now. She had not rimmed her eyes with kohl or put blush to her cheeks or wore a fancy dress like these girls, but she certainly did not look peasanty.

She swallowed down the awkwardness and stepped from the forest line and into the sunlight with the others. She caught Jace’s eye and they widened. Over her appearance or the fact that she had seen him openly flirting with another girl, she didn’t know.

Ayvre. Jaime’s deep voice broke the strange silence.

Jaime.

She had never had a problem with Jaime. Although he had openly tried to get her attention before she’d begun seeing Jace. Not that Jace needed to know that. There was a coldness to Jaime, that war general air, that she’d never quite liked. Not that there was anything wrong with their father. She liked Sigfreid well enough, but something about Jaime made the strict, cool guard performance annoying. She didn’t dislike him, not truly, but she was weary of him all the same.

Her eyes fell on Daria, and she saw those blue gems close to slits. Ayvre offered her a smile and a hand. Ayvre Dervestaid.

Daria scoffed. Don’t you have a deer to gut or something, peasant?

Ayvre’s smile deepened. Oh, that was yesterday’s festivities, but thanks for asking.

Ayvre held Daria’s eyes for several moments, willing the girl to say more so that she could punch her pretty chin, but the girl simply stared.

Ayvre swung her eyes to Jace and let them stick there. When he said nothing, she ran a hand across the bay’s flank, feeling the muscles and reined energy there.

Then she turned toward the house. Is your mother home?

Jace nodded. Let me walk—

Oh, no, she said sweetly. I insist you stay. She sent a grin over her shoulder as she bounced away. I only seek a bit of cane sugar and I shall give my love to Wind.

Her swift, long strides almost got her to the road before she heard hoofbeats. She knew he would come, and she couldn’t help the tiny thrill of it. A small part of her knew he would. She knew how he felt for her. Unfortunately, it was more than she felt for him. She could give him nothing in return for his love, and she would never allow him to lower his station for her, even if her heart had called uncontrollably for him—which it did not. He had a lot of promise; he could be a Lord if he wished it. She would not hold him back from that, especially for a promise of love long-lasting, that she knew she couldn’t give. Even if marrying