Hierarchy of the Unseen

CHAPTER ONE

When Mitzli rose and began to walk that morning, the fog was dense enough to obscure the valley below. For this, they offered thanks to Ykeitu, certain it was nothing short of a minor miracle.

The path they’d been traveling for days traced a steady curve up a mountain slope, providing a full view of the ground in their peripheral vision—the canopy of green treetops, the occasional glimpse of the river ribboning between them, all dizzyingly far below. Beyond the line of rocks marking the edge of the pale dirt road was a steep and abrupt drop, a fall to certain death.

They’d become preoccupied with a renewed fear of heights, and being alone didn’t help matters; their journey was so long and lonely and painfully dull, with nothing else to see but the scrubby yellow-green plants growing from cracks in the rocky mountainside. Without a distraction to occupy their time, they dwelled constantly on the danger.

But now, with the world below shrouded in mist, that obsession cleared, and they could focus on more pressing anxieties. If they trusted their judgment of how far they’d traveled, they were nearing their destination, and might arrive within hours.

Here—at the margins of civilization, practically sitting atop Lu-nevet’s border, beyond which lay nothing but ocean to the west, wilderness and demon camps to the south—they would find work in the village of Quio. The task itself would be simple enough, and was hardly worth thinking about; instead, they gave careful consideration to how they would make their first impression.

Their religious garb, they’d long since discovered, didn’t quite compensate for the red tint of their eyes; if they didn’t speak, people assumed them to be some sort of trickster, an impersonator. So they always announced their arrival first, hoping to find the right words to prove themself as trustworthy as any other Lukeitai'li.

I’m Mitzli, they would say, their voice sharp and clear, hitting those harsh consonants hard. Impious though it was to reference the old, false gods, their namesake was a gift here; even this far south, the rural people would recognize the name of the sky goddess, would know that they were unmistakably human.

Then they’d come closer, wearing a benevolent smile, holding aloft the jar of pink-white iridescent powder—the holy substance called light that existed within humans and in the aether, distilled to its most concentrated form—so it would glitter in the sun.

I’m here to keep you safe from demons, they’d say, which wasn’t strictly true. In reality, their work was little more than soothing minor inconveniences. Demons used the edges of empire, where they could find nothing of value to break or steal, as practice grounds for their young. Their activities amounted to petty pranks: letting loose animals, flattening rows of grains, painting something rude on the side of someone’s house…

Relative to the older demons, who injured people, humiliated them, stole from them, ruined their lives, it was all harmless. But people had their superstitions, and Mitzli played into them—sprinkling light over everything to give their solutions an air of spiritual significance, letting the locals believe they had the power to dispel evil.

They smiled to themself as they considered this.

And, distracted, they let their foot land on a tiny pebble at just the right angle to slide them across the ground.

They only slipped a few steps further along their path—no closer to its edge—but the momentary loss of control stopped their heart, filling them again with the terror of falling. Even when they came to a stop, they froze for a minute, tense and trembling.

And then they laughed, bending at the waist and wrapping their arms around themself, cackling, verging on hysteria. Their fingers gripped their sweat-soaked undershirt, nails digging into their flesh. They should’ve thanked Ykeitu for the reminder to pay attention, for the admonishment over letting themself get so distracted by their own thoughts—but they couldn’t find the words, not even when their laughing fit subsided and left them empty.

They waited there a moment, still, silent. Their head hung down; their arms dangled so their fingertips brushed against the dusty road. With a long, deep breath, they straightened and resumed walking, watching their feet as they went.

The fog was clearing, anyway, as if Ykeitu was speaking to them still; the view of their surroundings returned, the green leaves and snatches of bright river below now approaching perfect clarity. They’d swam across that river before, recalled crossing it after several minutes of effort, and now they could obscure its width entirely by lifting a finger. They tried not to think about that.

Time passed—the sun reached its zenith, and began its descent to the west—and they persisted, swallowing their discomfort. There was nothing to do but keep moving forward. If they went fast enough, they’d reach their destination before sunset, and could talk to someone other than themself for the first time in days, sleep in a real bed, eat real food...

It was late afternoon when they came to a rope bridge, and they’d consulted their map enough to recognize what that meant. They were close.

With less enthusiasm, they regarded the narrow bridge swaying in the wind, not daring to look directly at the chasm it crossed over—but they had to prepare themself, so they tore their eyes away and swung the bag off their back.

First, they unstrapped their dagger from their hip and dropped it into an inner pocket, exchanging it for the sparkling jar of light. Then they dug to the bottom, past the sheet of canvas they’d been sleeping under and all their other supplies, and extracted the knee-length white tunic that proved their affiliation with the Lukeitai—the monastic order of the state religion, Lukeira. They pulled it on, brushing dirt off the long sleeves and adjusting the tiny upright collar before fastening the row of yellow buttons running down the left side.

On instinct, forgetting that they’d shaved their head, they went to throw their thick hair over their shoulder to uncover the golden sun embroidered on their chest that marked them a Kolteina’li, a demon hunter—but no, there was nothing to hide it now. Everyone would see it as they approached, along with their bright face and their promise of blessings.

It would be fine. They practiced their smile, wishing they had a mirror. Certainly any charm they possessed was dampened after days of travel, now that they were weary and sun-beaten and covered in a permanent sheen of sweat, but they’d have to try their best.

They hoisted their bag back onto their shoulders, their aching muscles complaining at the sudden return of the weight, and faced down the rope bridge.

Everything trembled beneath them from their first careful step, but they pushed onward, resisting the urge to turn back. They put one foot in front of the other, humming something pitchy and stuttering and broken—a song they remembered from the Lukeitai who raised them, perhaps. It carried them forward as they went, hardly daring to breathe for fear of losing their balance.

And then they reached solid ground, and took in a deep, shuddering breath of the thin mountain air, giving themself just a second to pause and ease the racing of their heart before they continued.

Here, they found slender trees topped with clouds of wispy yellow-green leaves—and that was a promising sign they were nearing land fertile enough to support humans, no longer traversing inhospitable territory. They rushed forward, darting between trees and ducking occasionally under low-hanging branches, until they spotted someone. After so many solitary days, just the reminder that other people existed flooded them with relief.

This person was standing halfway up a gentle, terraced slope and leaning toward a large, spiky plant Mitzli thought they recognized as urca; that would make sense, since—other than the medicinal properties of its sap—its primary application was making rope from its broad, fibrous leaves. His face was obscured by the brim of his straw hat, and he hadn’t noticed them yet.

They crept forward, rehearsing their kindest expression, holding the jar of light against their heart.

Hello! they called once they reached the foot of the terrace. The worker jerked up, pushing his hat back as he squinted at them. His face was dark and lined, weathered by the sun; they couldn’t guess his age.

I’m Mitzli, they said, widening their smile as they took another step.

Mitzli? the man echoed in his low, rough voice.

They nodded. I’m here to—

He leaned toward them, eyes narrowing further—then cut them off with an abrupt gasp and recoiled, a hand reaching for something on his back.

Mitzli froze where they stood. I’m here to protect you from demons! they said quickly, presenting the container of whitish powder. On behalf of the Lukeitai—I’ve come to help. With their free hand, they gestured at the sun embroidered on their chest.

He just stared at them with his dark, sunken eyes. Demons, he said, and Mitzli wondered if he spoke their language at all. So far, he’d just repeated their words back to them. They took a nervous step backward, wary of how he would react if he didn’t understand their careful explanations of themself.

But he continued, "You… you want to keep us safe from demons? What do you intend to do?"

I can offer blessings, they said in nearly a whisper.

You’re with the Lukeitai.

His tone was flat—more a statement than a question—but they said, Yes. I’m a Lukeitai'li.

He eyed them disbelievingly, and they felt a seed of panic blooming in them; if he wasn’t convinced, despite their garb and their light and their promises, they had nothing else with which to prove themself. The best they had was a signed letter from their superior, granting them access to the state’s roads, but what if no one here was literate?

I’m half human, they explained, recognizing honesty as their last desperate hope. If he didn’t believe them and attacked them instead, all they could do was try to run past him—or turn back the way they came and sneak past later, abandoning the job they’d come so far to finish. I choose not to change my eye color. I think it’s only fair to let people know what I am. And I’m here…

They paused to take a deep breath.

I’m here to atone. To make up for what—what half of my ancestors have done to humanity.

He just gaped at them.

I should get someone else to talk to you, he said eventually. They tried to reply with a gracious smile, but felt empty, so drained of emotion they couldn’t even fake it. You—he backed a few steps away from them—you just stay here.

There wasn’t anywhere they could go if they wanted to, so they waited, watching him spin around and hurry away. They approached the nearest urca, running a finger over a spiked green leaf and wondering whether this was set aside for the tithe collectors or grown for their own benefit.

The man returned soon, his hat held to his chest as he listened intently to the woman walking beside him. She was older, her skin sagging and wrinkled, a pale enough shade of brown to suggest she no longer worked in the sun; her gait was slow and stiff, and the man kept her pace, leaning over to catch her words.

The two of them were a few levels up from Mitzli in the terraced earth when she reached out a hand to stop the man and proceeded without him. He lingered there, watchful and uncertain.

She came close to Mitzli—too close, uncomfortably close—but the presence of another person, and one who was so openly unafraid of them at that, was still a relief.

A demon, she murmured, as if talking to herself.

A vampire, in truth—for reasons even they didn’t fully understand, it was impossible for regular demons to reproduce with humans. But even if these people knew the difference, it would only hurt their case to reveal that their father was not a mere demon, but the higher, more evolved form of the species—a vehttir, in the traditional dialect.

I’m half, they said apologetically. I was raised by humans. I’m here to help.

The woman made a little humming noise; Mitzli didn’t recognize the sound and couldn’t discern its meaning from her blank face. I can’t imagine you can do anything for us, but I’ll show you. If nothing else, you can bring news back to the capital for us.

Mitzli agreed before it occurred to them to question her. What news? What harmless prank would be worth conveying to the capital? They’d never even been to Tei Relen, not that anyone this far from the city understood how inaccessible and intimidating it really was.

Come, the woman said simply, turning to start uphill again and motioning for Mitzli to follow. They hurried behind, too scattered to ask the questions that came to mind, and the man joined them without a word.

As they climbed up, the village came into view—little more than a smattering of asymmetrical mudbrick houses with sun-bleached thatched roofs. Most were similar in size and clustered together around a stone-ringed fire pit full of ash; a much larger structure, which Mitzli guessed was their storehouse, sat nearer to the terrace.

A small group of children ran shouting through the trees beyond, while a girl who appeared barely older than them stood watch. Two adults sitting outside one of the houses coiled lengths of rope and tied them off, tossing the finished product into a wide basket between them. Otherwise, there was nobody to be seen.

They’d never been somewhere so small before, and it made them feel strangely, achingly lonely.

Just past the little town was another terraced slope, this one shorter and narrower, the bottom half dense with green and the top unused. As they drew closer, though, the wind changed direction, and Mitzli was hit with the acrid smell of smoke, and felt their stomach turn with horror.

The land wasn’t just unused; it was scorched. Blackened. They could see, when the woman walked them right up to the end of one row, that it was all darkened and cracked, the majority covered in a layer of ash.

Unsure of what to say, they knelt next to the ground and ran a finger over the earth; they spread the ash, feeling its depth and the parched, shattered dirt below, dense and solid and lifeless under their fingertips.

What happened? they whispered.

You know, the man said haltingly. It was demons.

"It can’t be."

Someone saw it, came the woman’s voice from behind them. They couldn’t bring themself to look at her. It was a demon, and it created fire from nothing. It could have killed Kiya, too, if he hadn’t escaped in time. Could you please alert the emperor?

Demons don’t— they started, but cut themself off. They were going to claim that demons didn’t kill, but that wasn’t fully accurate; rather, demons killed rarely and strategically. That happened once or twice a decade, though, and never here. This was a place for the youths to practice their mischief, to steal what light they could with minor inconveniences. The more advanced demons needed an audience; they fed off the misery of the witnesses more than the acts of harm themselves.

Why would one of them burn up half of a tiny, remote community’s subsistence supply? Depending on how much food they had stored, how long it had been and would be before the state came to collect their tithe, they might starve to death on the mountainside with no witnesses.

They shuddered, their stomach churning with dread. This was beyond what they could fix or pretend to solve with a sprinkle of magic powder; this was more than they ever expected to find.

They screwed their eyes shut and begged Ykeitu for clarity, and realized at once that the woman was right, in a sense. She knew she needed the state to help her—but not the emperor, whose power was purely ceremonial. Only the Relukai, the national leaders of the Lukeitai and the officials who kept the vast machinery of Lu-nevet running, had the resources to ensure the survival of a remote village with rows of food burnt to nothing; somehow, they’d have to petition their help.

They stood, turned to face the two watching them in grave silence, and asked, Will you have enough to eat for a little while longer?

The others exchanged glances, frowning. We will, the woman said. We’ll be fine taking from the storehouse for the next moon cycle, but we’ll have to start from seed to replace what we’ve lost. And I don’t know what will happen if we come up short when our share is due.

Mitzli nodded, unsure how to answer. They knew what would happen, after all; the Lu-nevet state gave rations in proportion to tithes, so coming up short meant receiving less in return. They just hoped the Lukeitai might make an exception in such a unique case.

Can we be sure that the demons won’t come back to finish what they’ve started? the man asked, his tone low and urgent.

They couldn’t be certain of anything. None of this was right.

Mitzli, still tongue-tied, shrugged the bag off their shoulders and dropped it to the ground, kneeling to pull their map from a side pocket. They unfolded the paper, scanning the terrain until they found their location near the border, in the mountains. Tracing a finger along the path, they reached their next destination, a day’s travel away.

They’d be practically on top of the border then—near a tithe collectors’ lodge, for the first time in days. These were located at regular intervals on the road along Lu-nevet’s border to service the government workers who collected and distributed food and supplies. Mitzli themself had no way of getting a plea for aid back to anyone who mattered, but certainly an employee of the state could utilize the speed of their irun to send word.

Mitzli shoved their map back into their bag and straightened. Though it felt absurd, they still unscrewed the lid from their jar of light and grabbed a handful of powder, which they threw into the dirt with more fervor than they typically invested in the task.

Then they pressed their white-powdered palm to their heart, muttering a prayer under their breath and feeling immediate relief from the gesture.

They had nothing else to give—nothing they could do by themself. But they were capable of asking for help, and Lu-nevet wouldn’t let its citizens starve. They’d find a solution before the village was targeted by another wayward demon, or gradually depleted their food supply.

I offered a blessing, they said solemnly, and now I should leave.

The woman shook her head. It will be dark soon, she said. Why don’t you stay the night?

I can’t. They could; one day wouldn’t make much difference, and if they arrived too late and found the lodge locked up, they’d just end up sleeping on the ground as they waited. It seemed wrong to do otherwise, though. If they were too deficient to contribute anything of value here, the only option was to seek out someone more capable, without delaying for their own comfort.

Before they had the chance to change their mind, they nodded at the villagers, and turned on their heel to walk away.

CHAPTER TWO

Someone was watching him.

It's not that this was unusual. Kor shimmied under the onslaught of two intense gazes every day—and had since his first, however many years ago.

When he woke up that morning on a cushion of moss, blanketed in fog, and made his way to the road, he could feel the itch of their stares. He ignored them as he waited in the cold and the wet for an opportunity to appear, unbothered by the weather. His plan was to make his way to the town a few leagues down the road, but showing up on his own was a surefire way to draw suspicion. First, he needed to find some cover.

It wasn’t long before a caravan took shape in the gloom, wending slowly up the mountainside toward him. Kor grinned and melted back into the underbrush, taking on his disguise as the unknowing humans shuffled past.

He imagined the twin gazes intensifying as he coaxed a touch of shadows from his cheekbones to his lips; surely, after all this time, they knew when the show was about to start. He unspooled the darkness from his mop of curls and used it to smooth them down, making them long and loose, then lengthened his tunic to his knees. The black rippled and coalesced into other colors, mapping out simple patterns at the hem and neck that distinguished him as a member of a village twenty leagues in the opposite direction. He added a few bangles and necklaces, a mix of masculine gold and feminine silver—and looked androgynous enough that most humans would assign him whatever gender they liked. It would be easy to cause trouble with this misunderstanding, not to mention amusing.

Once the herd of long-necked irun and their shepherds had passed, Kor slipped into the knot of other travelers following close behind. Hopefully they were all too travel-weary to notice a new addition. It was a ragtag group, mostly farmers and other peasants, though he soon spotted someone much more enticing—a man wearing the collared white tunic that marked a Lukeitai'li.

With a sharp grin, he sidled up next to the man, letting the rhythm of their footsteps fall into sync. In his periphery, he saw the yellow buttons, the familiar embroidered sun, and had to suppress another smile. He’d found a demon hunter—one still in training, judging by the number of rays extending from his sun. These humans, who traveled together for safety, were truly lucky to have a hunter with them on their journey. Most demons would avoid them like the plague.

Kor was not like most demons. He would stick to this hunter and let him lead him to even better prey.

After a few minutes of walking in silence, the man engaged with him; Kor acted the part of a shy young human, greeting him with a curl hooked around one finger. Soon enough, he’d learned the apprentice's destination; how proud he was of himself and Tetilno, the master who awaited him; and, most importantly, about how susceptible he would be to Kor's machinations—very.

With little effort on his part, he uncovered the man's evening plans of demon hunting with his master. Kor was halfway toward convincing him to abandon them in favor of spending time together when he finally decided to introduce himself.

It’s good to meet you, the man said. I’m Linnit.

Of course this demon hunter was named angel. Really? Kor let out a disbelieving giggle and pulled out an alternate pronunciation of the name—one he was already fond of using—to add a whiff of fate to their meeting. I’m Linna!

Linnit laughed in surprise. What a coincidence! Ykeitu must have meant us to meet today.

Kor grinned and pressed a palm to his chest in an imitation of prayerful thanks, tilting his face toward the sun. I think you must be right.

He imagined an eye as large as the sky narrowing at him in suspicion.

For the few remaining leagues to the next town, Kor kept chatting with the hunter, and it came as no surprise when Linnit blushingly invited him to spend the day together before he had to meet with his master. Kor agreed just as the caravan rounded a fold of mountain and broke into the sun.

The two spent the descent into the small, shallow valley between three peaks discussing how they might pass the time. Before them, green terraces unrolled to form a rippled bowl, the sides dotted here and there with farmhouses. The town of Anzei pooled at the center, sitting astride the intersection where the spindly road they traveled met one much wider.

Even outside the wall that ringed the town, some of the buildings boasted clay tile roofs instead of the thatch more common among farmers and other peasants, and the existence of a wall at all spoke to the prosperity of the place. As they pushed their way free of the irun milling about in front of the town gate, waiting to be put to pasture, Linnit pointed the guardhouse out to Kor.

My master and I live there, he said proudly.

Kor made a note of the location, surveying the building with wide, admiring eyes—eyes he made sure didn’t hold Linnit’s for longer than a moment. It was important to stay alluring, and more important still to remain undiscovered. Though his shadows could darken his irises from red to deep brown, not even he was capable of overcoming that glassy sheen characteristic of demons’ eyes.

From there, they wandered, Linnit playing guide and telling him about Anzei, believing the lie that it would be Kor’s new home. He spoke often of his master and shared long tales of how he’d outsmarted Kor’s unfortunate allies. Tetilno, the master, sounded like an excellent hunter—dedicated, observant, and importantly, humble—which made him too risky for Kor’s purposes. He decided to probe for other possibilities.

They’d nearly made a roundabout circuit of the town, strolling through busy dirt streets lined with close-set homes and workshops and storehouses, Kor feigning oohs of wonder at the places Linnit pointed out to him. But Kor was starting to suspect that Linnit was running out of things to impress him with; he needed to pivot if he wanted to keep their momentum going.

Your master must be the most powerful person in Anzei, he said, letting a note of awe creep into his voice.

Spiritually, yes. Absolutely. Mirro, the town Ykeili, though? He has a lot more political power. Linnit frowned, his thick eyebrows furrowing. He’s pretty popular among the layfolk, and supposedly he has the emperor’s blessing, but I don’t like him. He acts like he’s the one who brought Ykeitu to Lu-nevet. All bluster, no substance. Not like my master.

Now this Mirro sounded interesting. But before Kor could find a way to subtly inquire further, Linnit perked up and turned to him with a look of dawning excitement. Speaking of Mirro, though, I just remembered—two Lukeitai are getting married at the temple this evening! Everyone’s invited. The ceremony will be boring, especially with Mirro running it, but there’s a feast afterwards. He glanced away, a little sheepish, but couldn’t keep the hope off his face as he asked, Would you maybe want to go with me?

Kor didn’t have to fake suppressing a pleased smile. Easy, public access to the town’s master of ceremonies, plus a drunk audience? He couldn’t ask for a better setup.

But he couldn’t seem too eager, and neither could Linna, so he asked, Will you get in trouble? For skipping work with your master, I mean?

Linnit grinned; Kor hadn’t said no, after all. What’s one extra night of working without me? Besides, you were right. I deserve some relaxation.

Kor dug the toe of his shoe in the dirt, his curls obscuring his face, and feigned consideration. Then he turned his full brightness on Linnit and said, Well, in that case, yes. I would love to.

Great! Linnit grabbed his hand and started tugging him toward the center of town. The temple’s on the main street, by the plaza. It’s the only place you haven’t seen—I thought I’d save the nicest part of town for last. I can show you around there while we wait!

For the rest of the afternoon, Kor’s show went as well as he could have hoped. Linnit led him to the central street, Anzei’s main thoroughfare. Wide and inlaid with huge stone tiles, it connected the heart of town to the crossroads outside the gate and therefore, distantly, to the capital. This connection was probably what the townsfolk had in mind when they chose to paint all the buildings along it in whitewash with accents of pale blue and yellow. The street terminated in a spacious plaza overlooked by the temple—a brighter, cleaner white than any of the surrounding buildings, the lofty, arched facade marking its entrance painted with delicate lines of yellow to mimic the sun’s rays. Through the open double doors behind the main arch, Kor could see humans bustling about the courtyard, setting out low tables and benches for the feast. It wouldn’t be long now before the ceremony ended.

After a few minutes milling about near the facade, he and Linnit slipped inside to join the flow of people spilling out of the shrine. Kor made sure to choose a place at one of the long communal tables with a clear line of sight to the Ykeili, who sat at the table of honor near the shrine’s entrance with the newly married couple.

Endless platters of food and drink were brought out; Kor ate his fill so he wouldn’t have to worry about it for a few days, though human food was a bit bland, in his opinion. He let the night unfold at its own pace while he enjoyed his game with Linnit, laughing, cooing, and batting his eyelashes, knowing his opportunity would come when the time was right. Occasionally, he allowed his gaze to wander to Mirro, the Ykeili—and when he did, he often found a look of suspicion leveled at Linnit. Kor wasn’t sure why this was, but he knew it would work in his favor.

Sometime around sundown, when music struck up and most of the humans migrated to the portion of the courtyard designated for dancing, Linnit left to track down more chelkberry wine. Kor leaned back, wondering absently whether his two watchers were enjoying the performance, and turned his attention to the humans at the opposite end of his table.

He found, as expected, several of them manufacturing their own drunken misery. Apparently, one man had been caught with his hand on a woman’s thigh. He was insisting that he thought she was his wife; the women were seated on either side of him, so it was plausible, but nobody seemed convinced.

Kor watched their argument spiral with a detached kind of amusement, knowing scenes like this were likely playing out all over the party. Maybe he could claim credit for all the suffering that came as a result. He’d gotten away with it before. It was funny, he thought, how often humans inflicted needless, unintentional harm on themselves, causing their own light to slip away.

The fight devolved into the two women taking turns loudly berating the man; his wife kept demanding to know why he thought she’d want to be groped at a public event without her permission in the first place. Kor allowed himself a smirk. Out of habit, he turned away from the humans to the empty space on his right and opened his mouth, about to relay his thoughts in a derisive whisper.

He frowned, catching himself, bitterness rising in his throat. Where was Linnit? He was getting bored.

He watched the humans listlessly for a few more minutes before Linnit’s quick footsteps approached from behind. It was a relief when he appeared beside him, clunking down two clay cups full of dark wine.

There you are! Kor purred. I missed you.

Sorry that took so long, Linnit said, though he looked the absolute picture of cheer, his dimpled cheeks ruddy with alcohol. He was like a little pup; Kor wondered whether he’d been in a relationship before, or if their day of flirting was as far as he had gotten. The temple was totally out! I had to wait for the winemakers to fetch a new barrel. He fell back into the seat on Kor’s left.

Thank you for tracking it down, Kor said, taking a sip from his cup and eyeing him coyly over the rim, but I like it better when you’re next to me, drink or no.

So you’re having a good time?

Kor nodded, resisting the urge to scoff.

Linnit smiled and reached out to brush a lock of hair behind his ear. Good. For a long moment, his gaze lingered on Kor’s face, and the look in his eyes mellowed and spread in a way Kor recognized with satisfaction; this boy was smitten with him. You’re so pretty, Linna. So sweet and lovely. Only one of us deserves to be called Linn.

Kor ducked his head, pretending to suppress how pleased he was at the compliment. This only encouraged Linnit, which was the intended effect; he draped an arm around Kor’s shoulders and leaned in close.

Do you want to go dance with me? he murmured.

Linnit’s lips barely brushed his ear, but that was enough for Kor to hook him. He grinned and giggled at the question, at the sensation, at the tiny flux of magic