“They keep asking me to,” I return.
“Because you are unmated?”
“I am alone,” I deflect. I flick the scroll back toward her, my patience thinning. “You know, the Mating Journey is like having your heart pulled out through your nostrils.”
“I’m already familiar with the sensation.”Arlet snatches the scroll from my grip, eyes flashing. “And what were you doing here again?”
"I could ask you the same thing."
Now it’s her turn to brush past me, walking toward the glowing salt walls and trailing her fingers along the delicate mineralbands.
“I already told you. But I guess I came here to relax. Specifically at midnight to avoid… annoyances."
The light gilds her skin, making her glow as she looks back at me. Her unbound hair is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. It looks so soft.
I like that I see it so often, despite having no right.
Smirking, I ask, "Am I an annoyance?"
"Yes." She doesn’t even hesitate.
Well, I suppose it is warranted. I’ve been an ass the past two days. But I didn’t always want to be one, especially not to her.
I step toward her, closing the space between us. "You wound me."
Reaching out, I tap the top of her scroll, letting my fingers land dangerously close to hers. There’s a lot I want to ask her. I want to know about Daniel, if she remembers anything from the night before, why she continues to work even though she’s not well.
But instead I say, "Now tell me—are you really planning to go to the festival tomorrow?"
She turns fully, only realizing just how close I am when she looks up.
"Of… course I am," she says, eyes flicking—too quickly—to my bare shoulders.
"Why?"
The Mating Journey is pageantry. A performance. One even worse than the mockery I was forced into during the Queen’s Festival months ago.
In the old enduar customs, the Mating Journey was held every year. Some returned year after year. Some never stopped searching.
I only went once.
For me, it had been hours of self-reflection and physical preparation wasted. Even thinking about it now has me irritated with the way I had to shape myself into something palatable, something a mate might want. I spent so much time crafting that version of myself, forcing my rough edges into something smoother.
I hated myself for it. But I hated myself even more when it didn’t work.
Why would she subject herself to that? She is fineas she is.
"Enough," she snaps, frustration creeping into her tone. "You've had your fun—barging in here while I was in an embarrassing position. I'm tired. Definitely not feeling up to your mockery."
But her words lack their usual sharpness.
My brows pull together. I want to push. I study the dozens of shades of red in her hair, making note of the warm and cool tones—the exact colors I would need if I were to paint it.
I shouldn’t be thinking about that.
"I had no intention of mocking you," I say softly.
Her eyes widen, just slightly.