“Fine, thank you,” he says.
There are a few giggles behind me and my skin burns.
The man, who’s name I don’t even know, looks down at me and I can practically hear what he’s thinking.No song. No pull. Next please.
My eyes burn. This is happening too fast. He’s decided I’m not worth it before I ever had a chance.
Another chime strikes, and I flinch. More lovers giving their joy to Grutabela and Endu. And there’s me—sweaty, restless, empty.
“I wish you luck,” I say, moving out of line, and sucking in as much fresh air as I can muster.
I don’t want to feel this way anymore. I need to finish visiting my tents so I can leave.
The press of bodies around me, the warmth of laughter, theelectric hum of the Mating Journey spinning onward—it all tightens around my ribs. Too much sound, too much light, too much expectation.
It hurts to try and to be rejected. It breaks another piece of my heart, despite all the time I’d spent mentally preparing. I try to focus on the joy in the air, the celebration, but my thoughts twist inward, sharp and unrelenting.
I catch the eye of a few enduar and human men while walking, exchanging flirtations, letting myself pretend—just for a moment—that I don’t need to feel pressure.
Each time, I draw near. I feel a flicker of expectation, and then—moments in—both of us would realize there was no song. It didn’t matter that not all songs started immediately. With only one day to meet as many people as possible, they all want instant results.
Each moment curdles, shifts, and I watch as their expressions soften, and they would excuse themselves.
That is worse.
Ulla had told me once that I needed matehood to have a child. That memory burrow deep, clawing at a wound I can’t seem to close.
More couples find each other and form bonds that will grow into something more. And I am spinning, spinning, spinning—drifting through a ritual that is not meant for me.
What the hell was Estela thinking? What wasIthinking?
I turn away, pretending I don’t care, pretending it doesn’t sting like an open wound. Wiping my hands on my dress, I swallow the emotions and start walking again.
Just one more tent.
I turn down another row, head down, my temples throbbing. Then I hear a laugh that makes my heart stutter. I look up to see Joso standing in front of his tent, a few women lined up to meet him.
He looks just as he always does. His silver hair is neatly woven into three plaits, thick braids falling over his shoulder the same way it had when he used to walk me home at night. The same way it had when he twined his fingers with mine under the festival lights, kissed me, and told me he wanted a mate.
Back then, I had thought it could be me.
The women waiting for him are eager, hopeful, and I’m not surprised to see a few men also interested. He greets them with that easy, lopsided smile, the one that used to make my stomach flip. The way he stands, relaxed but engaged, is familiar—the same way he had stood when he first asked me to join him for a meal.
Hostia,he even wears the same deep blue tunic embroidered with silver thread, fitted at the waist with a belt of braided leather that he wore the night he ended things.
That night, I remember him jovial. He’d had a few glasses of mead—and his tongue came loose.
Vann had come to join us. He’d started a string of uncomfortable questions after talking about his experience in the battle a week before.
I remember how Vann looked at Joso, smiled a bit, and said, “War changes your perspective. Makes things feel more urgent. You see what’s important, no?”
A strange look had passed over Joso’s face. “You’re right.” When he set his drink down, he exhaled like a decision had been weighing on him.
I shifted in my seat. Something about Joso’s tone made a familiar emotion creep up. Panic.
“And what has felt important to you?” I asked, not looking at Vann.
He pursed his lips. “We don’t have to do this right here.”