The lower hem of Elira’s dress flared with each turn, casting a soft red shadow that matched its color. Drums rolled through the air; gasps and little clicks of admiration threaded between the beats.

Her ankle still throbbed, but she held the pain down. The ring of children around her watched with shining eyes. She couldn’t disappoint them.

She turned with the music, her body finding the steps, moving as one with the other girls in the circle.

The drums cut off. Elira and the others bowed, waiting for the next cue. The solo would be hers; the girls would spiral around her while she danced the center.

For the first time, the noise that filled Ashira did not make her happy. The festival was supposed to mean prosperity.

The ground under her feet felt ready to swallow her whole. How could she dance over the thin bodies of Kamura’s hungry children? Did the children of Ashira know the fine clothes they wore were bought with the sweat of Kamura’s?

This was no dance of plenty. What she carried on her back tonight was a small hell for someone else. While Ashira feasted, Kamura might be curled against the cold.

Elira tried to force a smile, but her mouth wouldn’t move. Splinters of images crowded her head—stacks of firewood, elders in Kamura lying weak and waiting for an end.

For the first time in her life, Elira felt sick of the harvest festival. Whoever invented this celebration had never grown a conscience. Worst of all, she was its shining star.

She knew Sena and the others had been shooting her looks—smile, don’t march like a wind-up toy.

Elira drew a long breath. She wanted the dance to end. Even if she hated it, she pulled a smile into place. It probably looked strange, but at least she tried.

In the din, in the tangle of thoughts, she caught the shape she’d hoped to avoid—at least for tonight.

Usually she waited for him, made a fuss all day, made sure he stood in the front row and shouted her name.

Now, when their eyes met, she wanted to run. He was looking at her the way no one should—like he could see through every layer she wore.

Her heartbeat sounded louder than the drums. Even when she looked away, the corner of her vision kept drifting back to him.

Why did Raka have to look at her like that? That look stripped her of sense. Even in a crowd that jostled and pressed, he didn’t move, eyes fixed on her as if she were the only person there.

The drums stopped with her last step. Applause replaced them as Elira and the dancers bowed. At least now she could breathe.

“That was amazing!” someone squealed, then another, and another.

Elira barely heard them. She kept smiling while people came close to praise her.

As soon as they drifted away, she would go straight to Baran and ask about Ashira and Kamura. No time for feelings—village matters mattered more.

Her plan crumbled at the sound of his voice.

“Elira,” Raka’s low tone slipped through the crowd. “You looked good tonight.”

Tsk. The last thing she wanted was praise from Raka—especially tossed into a one-second hush that made everyone glance their way.

“You mean Elira looked pretty?” Sena chirped, sweet but sharp.

Worse, Raka nodded—without a blink. “Yes. You’re pretty. Your dance was beautiful.”

Beautiful how? If only he knew—she’d danced hollow, without breath. Maybe his fever had reached his eyes.

“Will you come to the Hinra with me?”

Elira stared. Could he not see every eye on them? Of course Sena rallied the troops; a dozen voices instantly whooped and teased.

Raka didn’t seem to care. He only smiled and held out his hand.

Completely unreasonable. No one in this village was sane tonight. Elira’s knees trembled; she took one step back, then turned and ran.

She heard Sena and the others shouting her name, but she couldn’t stay another second. If she didn’t hide, she’d faint.

She stopped when the pain jolted her ankle. She couldn’t go farther—but at least she had escaped the crush.

One palm pressed to her chest, she tried to tame her racing breath. Heat flushed over her. What was wrong with her? Why was she running? Something in her head was undone.

“Elira.”

Her eyes went wide. She had run herself nearly senseless, and the source of her chaos had followed. She didn’t dare turn. If she looked into those eyes, she really would faint.

“Elira,” Raka said, voice low and clear, the festival’s roar thin behind him. “Why did you run from me?”

She stood straighter and cleared her throat to wet the dry scrape there.

“Does your ankle hurt?”

“No.”

Yes. But avoiding Raka felt more urgent than anything she felt in her ankle.

“Truly?” He stepped in, and she stepped back.

She knew how pathetic she looked. She knew this would confuse him, maybe hurt him.

He fell quiet, taking in her small shivers and broken words.

“You’re avoiding me?” he asked softly.

“No!” Her hand flew up. “It’s not that. I just… don’t want any misunderstandings.”

His brows knit. “What kind of misunderstanding?”

“I mean—there’s a real problem in the village right now,” she stammered. “I don’t want you—or anyone—thinking I’ve… misread anything. They’ll think there’s something between us.”

Raka took a step. When Elira didn’t retreat again, he came closer, patient, until only one pace lay between them.

“Elira, I don’t care what other people think.” His voice was gentle, almost carried off by the night breeze. “And you’re not misreading anything. Everything I told you in the cave was true—the Kamura–Ashira legend, and… how I feel.”

She swallowed hard. No answer rose to her tongue.

“I didn’t tell you to frighten you—or to make you run. I wanted to make things clear. I want you to see me as Raka, not just as the boy your father sent to watch you.”

“B—but it’s all so confusing.”

“I know,” he said. “I won’t ask you to answer me now. Just… don’t run from me. If something happens, I won’t be able to protect you.”

Something soft moved through her body, like a small current. His eyes, his words, the way he spoke—together they made her weak.

“Why are you so set on protecting me?” she challenged. “In case you forgot, I’m the village head’s daughter. No one would dare touch me.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “Even if a dozen guards stood in front of you, I’d still be your first.”

“B—but—”

He lifted his hands and cupped her cheeks, warm palms gentling her face. He smiled again—simple, and for her alone.

“You still don’t understand?” he murmured. “No matter how far you run, I’ll find you. Because I don’t know how to be without seeing you.”

Heat climbed her face, worse when his thumbs stroked lightly along her cheekbones.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “Ashira, Kamura—I won’t let anyone hurt you. Even if everything becomes a mess and you don’t know where to stand, know this: wherever you choose to stand, I’ll stand with you.”

His words washed over her like clean water. Simple, and steadying. For a moment, her scattered thoughts fell quiet. The doubts, the unasked questions—she wanted to set them down and lean into the man in front of her.

When she only stood there, Raka drew her in a little, pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, breathed in the scent of her hair, then stilled and let her go.

“I truly care for you, Elira,” he said softly.

A single tear slipped free from the corner of her eye. Far away, the cheers returned like distant surf; beneath them, the night felt a shade off its course.