POV: Mara
Night Two brings rain.
Of course it does.
The Rainstep pattern slicks stones on purpose; the city likes to test ankles and dignity at once.
Lantern-sails drip steadily, each drop pinging against glass like impatient fingers tapping a table. The floor is already shining, a mirror with bad intentions. People shuffle nervously along the edge of the hall, skirts lifted, boots checked twice, thrice. Even the musicians tune slower, as if they know we’re all about to slip into chaos.
“Slow feet,” Silvie warns, looping a ribbon around her wrist like she’s preparing for battle. “Fast thoughts.”
I nod. My shoes grip. My stomach does not.
Pia bounces beside me. “If I die,” she whispers, “tell everyone I died beautifully.”
“You’re wearing two different socks,” I whisper back.
“Exactly. Art.”
The drum hits once, twice. We join the circle.
The Rainstep is meant to mimic water—flow, dip, shift, slip, catch. A dance that pretends to be gentle until it knocks someone on their face. I focus on the rhythm: step back, slide, turn, catch. Step back, slide—
Mid-dance, my sole slides on a wet leaf pretending it’s a stone. I flail. The world tilts.
Arms catch me.
Solid.
Warm.
Cael.
His grip is firm, one hand at my waist, one braced along my spine. He pulls me upright—full body, chest to chest. His breath hits my cheek. Mine hits his mouth. My lips part without meaning to. His do too. Time drops out from under us like a trapdoor.
I feel everything too clearly—the heat of him under soaked fabric, the thrum in his chest, the way Rhun flares behind his ribs like a blade pulled from its sheath. Aster surges up my spine, molten.
Yes.
Rhun answers from him, low and rough.
Mine.
Mine.
The words overlap inside the silence between our faces. The world’s noise fades so sharply I think I’ve gone deaf.
We separate too fast, like we got burned.
We were.
I swallow.
He swallows.
The room keeps spinning without us.
“You okay?” he asks, voice rougher than usual, like he swallowed gravel.
“I’m fine,” I lie again, voice too thin, too new, too breakable.
“Stop lying,” he says, not unkind, like he’s memorizing the way I look when I pretend I’m made of steel.
“Stop catching me,” I shoot back before my brain can stop my mouth.
His eyes soften in a way that is not safe for either of us. “Then stop falling.”
We both almost smile.
We both don’t.
A bell chimes. Bodies shift around us. Lantern-light flickers, catching on beads, blades, raindrops. Across the floor, Seris is watching the sky instead of the ground. Counting accidents. Counting witnesses. Her aide whispers in her ear; her mouth tightens. She looks at the rigging, the steps, the places a body can fall. She is making a list. I can feel it in the way Aster stiffens.
The pattern continues; partners rotate. I move through it like my bones forgot their instructions. My hand shakes once when I offer it to the next dancer. Aster presses heat through my ribs.
Steady, little tide.
I’m trying.
The bell ends the pattern.
Air rushes back into my lungs.
I step away, fingers still tingling, knees still arguing with gravity. Pia slides between us like a boat and links arms with me.
“Hydrate or die-drate,” she commands, shoving a cup into my hand. “I’m serious. Your face is doing the ‘I saw god and he owes me money’ thing.”
“I—what?” I blink hard. “I’m fine.”
“You’re vibrating,” she says. “Drink.”
I drink because if I don’t, I’ll cry. My throat is tight and hot. My eyes sting. The water tastes like rain and copper and something I shouldn’t name.
Music drifts into a slower rhythm—background sound now that the dancers break into groups. A few girls giggle near the columns; boys compare near-falls like war stories. Someone curses the slippery floor; someone else tries sliding down it on purpose and earns a stern look from two elders.
Then a runner finds me after last bell. He’s soaked, hair plastered to his forehead, breath coming in little hiccups.
“Mara Ilyas?” he says, voice cracking on my name like he’s afraid he’ll get smited for saying it wrong.
“Yes,” I answer, bracing.
“From the Archives.” He offers a sealed slip. “Summons. Tomorrow. First light.”
My stomach drops again, and I swear the floor shifts under me. “Why?” I ask.
“Research request,” he says. He has no idea what door he just opened. His eyes already dart to the snack table. “Uh… good luck?” Then he scampers off like he just outran death.
Pia clutches my arm. “Archives?” she hisses. “Did you commit a library crime?”
“I don’t… think so,” I say.
Cael appears two steps later, eyes already on the slip like it’s dangerous. His hair is damp, his collar crooked. He looks like he ran, or like he felt something across the space between us and couldn’t ignore it.
“Problem?” he asks.
“Archives,” I say.
His jaw tightens. “I’ll assign an escort.”
“I don’t need—”
“You’re getting one,” he says, soft but firm, like he’s asking me to let him breathe. “Humor me.”
I want to bite him. I want to thank him. I want to yell. And I want to say yes and no at the same time. I do neither.
“Fine,” I say, and tuck the slip under my cuff.
His eyes drop to the cuff, linger there a breath too long, then rise again. Rain drips from the eaves. Lantern-sails sway. The music finally dies.
I turn away first.
But I feel his gaze between my shoulder blades all the way back to the kitchens.