Veils of Longing

The realization came too late, a tide crashing over her heart. Love, the most dangerous weapon in a war-torn world, had ensnared her—a siren whose song should lure men to ruin, not bind her to one. As the carriage rattled toward Swarnchandrapura, continuing the journey begun in Eravati, she sat across from him, the poet who'd trailed her since the village, his presence both vital and perilous. She avoided his gaze, focusing on the mist clouding the carriage windows, her breath catching at the thought of what she'd forbidden herself to feel.

He walked ahead, guiding their path to a royal gala at the king's behest, a performance to soothe the nobles' egos. His glances were unsteady, probing, as if searching for cracks in her human guise. Did he suspect what she was?

Mitrabhanu had named her kind "filthy," a creature of deceit, and the memory stung. She turned away, heart racing. What if he saw through her? Was she lying by drawing him close, tempting fate as her siren blood demanded?

A siren's life was song and seduction, luring prey to death's embrace. Yet for the first time, she was the one ensnared, her target's quiet intensity unraveling her defenses. The roads buzzed with evening life—merchants, revelers—but she saw only him, his silhouette sharp against the dusk. She'd soothed men's pride before, her voice a balm for their fragile honors, but tonight, distraction dulled her craft. He looked back, catching her stare. She averted her eyes, defiance flaring. So what if you saw? she thought, refusing to be cowed by a human adrift in his own purpose.

At the tavern later, moonlight spilled across the courtyard, the gala's echoes fading. She sat alone, the night's peace a fragile shield. He stepped out, his presence sparking a whirl of nerves. "Finally alone," he said, a pleased edge to his voice.

"I've admirers," she shot back, masking her unease. "Not my fault."

His smile didn't waver. "Still lonely enough."

Annoyance flared—she'd used such taunts herself, turning men's words against them. "I'm not lonely," she said. "I love the night's peace."

"Peace?" He laughed softly. "Mind your business, lady."

"You mind yours," she retorted.

"Exactly why I'm here," he said, pulling a crumpled page from his satchel. "Let me write you a song. Tell me if it's worthy."

"I don't need songwriters," she snapped, stepping close, her face inches from his. "Not you, not anyone. I write better. You're no poet—just a stalker playing at charm. Tell me when you're bored."

"I won't be," he said, unfazed, his gentle laugh catching her off guard. "Not when you're this close."

She froze, words failing. "I've seen hot-blooded boys swear eternal love," she said, retreating. "It's nothing new. Focus on your work—can you even write?"

"Better than your hacks," he replied, fishing for a quill with clumsy confidence. "If you'll allow…"

She ignored him, determined not to fuel his ego, though his silence as he wrote drew her eye. He looked—handsome, focused, unlike the pompous poets who'd failed her, their drivel forcing her to craft her own songs. "If the moon could love again," he muttered, "it would fall for her gentle smile."

She scoffed, typical flattery, yet didn't stop him. His voice, low and earnest, held no mockery. "Keep going," she said, standing. "I don't wait for clichés. I'm off to the marketplace."

"I'm coming," he said, gathering his papers.

"I don't want you with me."

"Then I'll follow," he said, bowing with mock gallantry. "After you, lady."

Was it his persistence she liked, or curiosity about his secrets? She lingered on his face too long, his appreciative smile disarming. "Read me if you want," he teased. "I'm an open book—the most amusing you'll find."

She had no retort, only walked on, knowing a lady shouldn't spar with flirts unless she meant to bind them. This man, though—she saw no reason to let him win her heart, yet his challenge matched her own, a dance she couldn't resist.

The next dawn, through her window, she saw him slip away, dressed oddly for the hour, a lantern in hand. He glanced up, meeting her eyes without flinching, as if daring her to question. Her breath caught, his fresh morning face imprinting on her mind. She gripped the window frame, nails digging in. A siren's charm seduced without choice, raising desires she couldn't trust. Was his love real, or her spell's fleeting echo?

Then another figure joined him—a woman, her long hair spilling from a shawl. The glance broke, and he vanished with her into the mist. Jealousy, sharp and unfamiliar, twisted in her chest. A lie, all of it—why had she hoped otherwise? Forgetting should be easy, she told herself, but the image burned, refusing to fade.

That evening, the tavern buzzed with anticipation for her performance, but her impatience drowned it out. He'd been gone all day, and now, moments before she sang, he appeared. She met his gaze, then looked away, vowing to ignore him—tonight, tomorrow, forever.

Yet as she sang his song, a lover's ode woven with their stolen moments—the carriage, the tavern, her smile—her resolve wavered. Pride swelled, knowing it was hers, but the woman's shadow lingered, her identity a thorn. In the chorus, joined by other singers, she looked at him, his eyes waiting, brimming with unsaid words. She held his gaze, the song's end a blur, gold and praise forgotten. Only his face remained.

Night fell, and she wandered the marketplace, a habit born in Swarnpura's ashes in Chapter 6, defying the tavern owner's warnings. For humans, these streets were perilous; for her kind, they were home. Taverns and brothels glowed, nobles flocking to "true" art, scorning her as a lowlife who peddled culture. Footsteps trailed her—his, unmistakable.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"Nowhere new," she said, voice flat.

"I need to talk."

"Why?"

Hurt flickered in her eyes, and he saw it. "That woman—"

"I told you," she cut in, spinning to face him. "When you're done with your obsession, go. I don't care who she is. Don't make this about me if it's a lie. I'm not bothered."

But she was, more than she'd admit. Love, if this was it, was a dangerous steed, leading where she feared to tread. Hadn't his actions—his glances, his song—mirrored her own? Or was it fleeting, a spark snuffed by life's weight? What was love's truth?

She left him, her words hanging in the air. This is how you tell her? he thought, cursing himself. Finding her had been hellish, trailing whispers from Eravati to this port. He hadn't meant to wound her. Make her happy first, he vowed, then share the truth—her friend lives, her father's treasures safe. But doubt mocked him. When's the right time? When revolution claims you?

He smiled, watching her drift toward a sweet stall, knowing she'd buy none. Jealousy had flared in her—a joy to see, proof she cared. Running after her, he called, "I want to tell you—"

"I don't want to hear," she said, browsing ribbons, her voice cold.

"You're not busy," he pressed. "Spare an ear?"

"Why?" She crossed to a bronze jewelry stall, chatting with vendors—her daily allies—while he lingered, desperate to confess. He was no mere admirer; he knew her, loved her, more than any could. But truth carried risk, a wound to the heart he cherished.

She moved to a sweet stall, ignoring him. "You don't eat those," he said, stepping close.

The shopkeeper laughed. "Many men notice that about her."

"And you are?" he asked, irritation flaring.

"An admirer," the shopkeeper grinned.

She smiled, relishing his scowl. "Why's she avoid them?" he asked, voice sharp.

"No one knows," the shopkeeper said. "Mysterious, isn't she?"

"I know," he said, confidence surging, then faltering under her gaze. "I mean—I see it. She misses someone."

Her eyes locked on his, shock softening her guard. The sweets, her father's gift, were a vow she'd kept since his death—no one knew. How did he? The marketplace faded, and for a moment, only his truth remained, a bridge to a heart she feared to cross.