Nahilvi, the Silver Banshee Might Have NSFW

Follow for recipes

The forge always burned brightest after sunset. Most people had already gone home by then, retreating to the comforts of their homes, but Dicenne often found himself staying right here long after the last customer, and even after his apprentice Tylenn had left. The rhythmic strike of hammer against steel filled the otherwise empty smithy, accompanied by the hiss of the quenching barrel and the crackle of coals. Sweat dampened the collar of his shirt and rolled down his neck, but he scarcely noticed anymore. The heat had become a familiar friend.

A length of steel glowed orange beneath his tongs as he drew it from the forge and laid it across the anvil. The metal looked almost alive, and assuredly dangerous, in moments like this. One careless touch would blister flesh, and one poorly judged strike could ruin hours of work. Yet that destructive fire remained essential. Without it, the steel would remain rigid and unyielding, forever trapped in the shape it started in.

The hammer descended again and sparks scattered across the floor, vanishing almost as quickly as they appeared. The steel bent beneath each blow, changing little by little. It yielded because the fire had softened it first. The forge did not shape the metal through violence alone, the fire prepared it for its transformation.

The idea hung thick in the air. Dicenne leaned against the anvil for a moment, studying the glowing steel while old memories surfaced uninvited. There had been a time when he believed strength meant remaining unchanged no matter what happened. He needed to endure, to survive, and never refuse to bend. It was the sort of stubborn conviction that seemed noble when one was young, but the many years since had taught him otherwise. Steel that refused to bend could fracture.

His gaze drifted toward the dancing flames. How many years had passed since Linalia and Kynson’s deaths? Enough that entire chapters of his life had been written in their absence. Yet there were still moments when he caught himself wondering what she would think of the man he had become. The countless versions of himself that had emerged after the younger man she once knew had been consumed by grief.

Consumed. No, that wasn't the right word, the forge offered a better comparison. The anguish had not entirely destroyed him, but there had been days when it threatened to. Days when it hollowed him out and left him wondering whether anything worthwhile remained beneath the pain, and days when isolation felt safer than love. Yet somehow he had endured the fire without being reduced to ash.

The realization settled over him slowly. The fire did not care what entered it, whether it was steel, iron, or silver, it treated all of them the same. It exposed weaknesses and revealed imperfections. Some pieces cracked beneath the strain while others survived and emerged stronger for it. The fire itself made no judgments.

Life had been equally indifferent. The loss of his wife and son, Kara’s years of suffering, the many horrors of war he had witnessed throughout his military and mercenary careers. The countless scars that mapped themselves across his body and soul alike. None of it had happened for a reason, and none of it had been fair. Yet every trial had changed him. Some parts of himself had been burned away entirely while others had been tempered into something stronger than they had once been.

Another strike of the hammer echoed through the shop. The steel was nearly finished now, its shape becoming clear. The final form was finally emerging from what had once been little more than a stubborn bar of metal. Dicenne turned it beneath the forge light, examining the clean lines taking shape along its length. Looking at it now, it was difficult to imagine what it had been before. Difficult to picture the raw material hidden beneath the blade.

Perhaps people were much the same. 

He smiled faintly at the thought and returned the metal to the fire one final time. The flames embraced it eagerly, turning the steel gold and orange once more. Around him, the forge continued its work, unchanged by the passing years. It had always been a place of transformation, a place where raw things became something more. Perhaps that was why he loved it so much. Not because it created perfection, because it proved that even after enduring unimaginable heat, something beautiful could still emerge from the flames.

How long has she been working?

Weash stepped outside just long enough to shield his eyes and take a gander at the sundial at its current position. Casting a look up to the sky, his dark eyebrows knit together and he shook his head in a muted disbelief before ducking right back inside the smithy shop. Closing the door securely, he turned to look at the front entryway, filled with hanging models presenting works of all kinds. Breastplates, scabbards, swords, axes, glaives, polearms, greaves, bracers, shin guards. They were crafted from a variety of materials, most of which were procured from local sources or hired hands.

It sure was impressive. To think that Dame Ty'linde had started from nothing and now she had... Well. All of this. Even as her apprentice, he felt like he would probably never match up to her capacity. It was an unfair comparison, however. Years of her experience, her service, her knowledge, next to him. He couldn't have hoped to match up to her, even if he tried.

The vault in Ori’s townhouse stood open. An abundance of colorful gemstones rested in black velvet-lined trays spread across a nearby table. A few small bags sat beside them where she had been sorting pieces for her upcoming trip, while the larger stones had already been packed into an open metal lockbox secured with a combination lock.

She was extremely cautious with those gems, not just because of their value, but because some could be recognized by certain people in the city. Namely, the people she had stolen them from, the appraisers who had catalogued them, and the insurance companies that had already paid out claims on them.

Trips like the one she would soon be taking were the best way to move such items and ensure they ended up far from the city.

She took other precautions as well. Most pieces sat in her vaults for decades before she even considered selling them, the time didn’t matter, it wasn't as though she needed the money. She never sold items that had been taken together, either. One gem might remain in storage for a century before being sold alongside another that had only been sitting there for thirty years.

A light flashed inside the vault.

Someone was in her house.

Rising smoothly, Ori stepped out and closed the vault door before swinging the display panel back into place. The shelves mounted on it showcased her own jewelry collection, hiding the entrance completely.

Walking out of her room, she headed toward the stairs. The sound of familiar voices drifted up from below, and a smile tugged at her lips. Shaking her head, she wandered into the kitchen, where two women were already laying out food and assembling the ingredients for mojitos.

“You do know this is my house, right?” Ori asked. “Which means you probably shouldn't just walk in.”

Zindravara and Zubrette exchanged a glance before bursting into laughter.

“Like you knocked when you walked in on Zhathras?” Zubrette asked.

Ori held up a hand. “Look, I apologized for that. How was I supposed to know you'd just gotten back from the field with a gorgeous man in tow? Besides,” she pointed a finger at her cousin,“I own your townhouse.”

The grin she directed at the tiny apricot-haired paladin was positively wicked. Zhathras was downright delectable, and Ori had no intention of passing up opportunities to tease Zubs about him.

“Whatever,” Zubrette said. “When have we ever needed to knock before? Do you have a man upstairs?”

Zindravara immediately started toward the staircase.

Ori settled onto a stool at the kitchen bar. “Go ahead,” she said. “Explore.” She never brought men here. If she wanted to take someone home, she used her apartment instead.

The mage sighed dramatically, and Ori caught the roll of Zindra’s dull green eyes behind her dark glasses. “You need to start bringing men home,” Zindra complained. “How are we supposed to gossip about you? You used to have lovers over.”

“I did,” Ori replied, “and then they started showing up without invitations and running into each other. It's easier to just go home with them.”

It would have been funnier if it weren't true. She and her partner at the time had maintained an open relationship, but Zealis had nearly killed a man he found leaving the townhouse one morning. Zea was long gone, she hadn't seen him in more than a century, but the incident had permanently altered how she handled her love life.

“So...” Zindra said, returning from her inspection of the stairs. “What's this about a trip? Zubs said you want some of her things to sell.”

Ah, that was what this ambush was about. “I am going to take some merchandise out through the gate, travel the road, and sell it.” The sarcasm dripped from every word. Ori loved her cousins and tolerated their inquisitive, protective natures with remarkably little complaint.

Zubs slid a plate of mini quiches and a melon mojito in front of her. “And the guy?”

“What guy?” Ori asked, picking up a bacon-and-asparagus quiche.

“The guard you hired,” her youngest cousin replied. “You mentioned him and said the trip might be interesting. Then Uncle Landanis saw you with a man at Pennick’s shop, and Pennick said you were talking about a trade trip with him.” She pointed accusingly. “So. That guy.”

Silvermoon was far too small sometimes. What were the chances that one of the city's most sought-after fashion designers would happen to visit the tailor while Ori was getting Val fitted for a suit? Since she disliked outright lies, she decided to lean into the truth. “That is the man I hired to guide me on the trip. I expect I'll have to attend at least one social function, so he needed a suit.”

Zindra raised an eyebrow. “Since when have you worried about attending parties alone?”

“Never,” Zubrette answered for her with a smirk.

Ignoring her, Ori sighed. “Normally? Never. But I'll be traveling and conducting business with people I don't know. It doesn't hurt to have the man I hired to guard me nearby.” And she couldn't wait to see Val wearing that suit. The man was striking enough in worn clothing and working leathers. In tailored formalwear? Dangerous.

“Tell us about him,” Zindra said. It wasn't a request.

Ori briefly considered telling them it was none of their business, but that would only make them more curious. Brushing her black hair behind one ear, she relented. “I met him at Fancy Cakes a couple months ago. We talked about his work. He has expertise with weapons and even offered to evaluate that piece I bought from the Bloodrain estate sale. When we met again a few weeks ago, I mentioned wanting to leave the city for a while. One thing led to another, and we discussed me hiring him as a guard.”

The discussion had covered far more than that. They had spent an entire afternoon together walking through the city, talking, sharing coffee. He had actually offered to let her hire him. Ori had been genuinely surprised, and certainly wasn't going to say no. She wanted to know him better, and several weeks on the road together seemed like an excellent opportunity.

A lime hit the back of her hand. Ori looked up to find Zindra smirking. “Azeroth to Ori. Are you still in there? What is he like?” the mage pressed.

“I assume you know what he looks like if Goldensorrow's uncle saw him.” She glanced at Zubrette, who stuck out her tongue at the use of her house name before nodding. “I don't know much about him,” Ori admitted. “Only that he's well qualified and very private.”

The statement was meant to end the conversation, instead, it had exactly the opposite effect which should have been expected. “So,” Zindra said, “you hired a tall, broad-shouldered, muscular, rough-looking man with long red hair to be your guard despite knowing very little about him? That doesn't sound like you,” Zindra continued. “You don't hire people without proper vetting. It took months of estimates and contractor meetings before you redid the tile around the pool.”

Zubs immediately joined in. “You spent almost six months interviewing candidates before hiring a landscaper.” A grin spread across her face. “And he was tall and broad-shouldered too.”

“I am absolutely telling Zhath you were checking out the lawn guy.” Ori mock threatened.

“Like he'd care,” Zindra shot back. “She's completely gone for him.”

Zubrette shrugged shamelessly. “You're right. I am.”

The unapologetic streak she shared with Zubs made Ori smile. It was one of the things Val said he had noticed about her the first time they met. Most people would have considered it a negative trait, he had seemed to view it as a compliment. Or something close to one, it was often difficult to tell exactly what Val liked.

“We talked,” Ori said. “I felt he was more than qualified, so we started planning.”

“And?” her cousins asked in perfect unison.

They weren't letting her escape, and they were her closest friends. “And,” she admitted, “I'm interested in him.” Before they could ask further questions, she held up a hand. “Yes, he's everything you've already said. But there's just... something about him.”

“Is it because he's private?” Zindra asked. “You usually aren't interested in the strong, silent type.”

Ori nearly choked on her drink, strong, silent type. That was exactly what Val was, she’d simply never thought of him that way. “Not really,” she said after recovering. “I can't quite explain it. I enjoy his company. He's intelligent, and he has fascinating insights into things.” She raised a warning finger. “And yes, I am attracted to him.”

That was when Zindra's expression became serious. “Is attraction really the best reason to hire him? What if he's terrible at being a guard?”

“He isn't.” Ori said confidently.

“Have you checked his references?” Zubs asked.

Ori shook her head. “I didn't ask for any. This is more instinct than anything else. I just know he is undoubtedly a more than competent guard.”

Her cousins exchanged a glance, the they looked back at her worriedly. “This doesn't sound like you, Ori,” Zubrette said carefully. “At least not the post-Zealis version of you.”

“I know what I'm doing.” She said with a frown, she didn’t want Zea’s memory involved in this at all. “I appreciate the concern. I really do, but trust me on this. I'll leave you our travel plans, and I'll text you regularly.”

Zubrette studied her for a long moment with those all-knowing golden eyes before finally nodding. “Good enough. You usually know what you're doing. Just be careful, alright?” A faint smile tugged at her lips. “And I don't just mean physically.”

Ori met her gaze. “Will do.” The answer came easily, whether it was entirely true was another matter.

( @daily-writing-challenge )

🔥SUCCULENT TART'S 10TH ANNUAL FIRE FEST!🔥

Our annual Fire Festival is back! Come and join us for our Chillin & Grillin BBQ on Thursday, before the Festival opens on Friday & Saturday!

WHEN: Thursday, June 18th - Saturday, June 20th WHERE: Mar'at, Uldum !! THIS IS HOSTED ON WYRMREST ACCORD !!

ANCHORS: Horde: TBD Alliance: TBD

🍖🍹THURSDAY EVENTS🍹🍖 (Begins at 6pm WrA/PT - 8pm MG):

Chillin' & Grillin' BBQ Social This is a laid-back 'calm before the fire storm' event, there will be NO vendors, performances, or raffles today, but there will be A LOT of food, drink, swimming, dancing, and general fun! BBQ provided, bring a side/dessert/drink to share!

🏳️‍🌈FRIDAY EVENTS🏳️‍🌈  (Begins at 5pm WrA/PT - 7pm MG):

Vendors, performances, raffles, Pride party, and camping!

🔥SATURDAY EVENTS🔥  (Begins at 4pm WrA/PT - 6pm MG):

Vendors, performances, raffles, fireworks, and the Heat Rave 'til the sun comes up!

For more information, please check out our website: FireFest.crd.co

Elthen had spent his entire life bathed in color, light, and love.

His grandfather, Camithar Crimsonrune, had been a glazier by trade. He crafted windows that were sturdy, serviceable, and unremarkable, yet true artistry lived in the gifts he fashioned for his beloved wife, Lorince. Their modest home glittered with delicate glass treasures: tiny birds perched upon shelves, flowers that would never wilt, stars suspended from silver threads. Of all his creations, however, none brought him greater pride than the colorful blown-glass pens he made for her. With those pens she filled page after page with tales of love and romance, weaving dreams into ink while holding his craftsmanship in her hand.

Their daughter, Liridrae, was raised in that kaleidoscope of color and wonder, and she fell hopelessly in love with glass. She inherited her father's hands, but where Camithar created glass that was merely good, Liridrae forged glass that was near perfection. Technical excellence was not what made her heart soar, her true passion was stained glass, great radiant mosaics that transformed sunlight into living color. She was passionate about the brilliant way brilliant colors were cast across stone and wood, almost as passionate as she was about Pel’eron, the man who supplied the metallic compounds that lent her creations their brilliance. Together they transformed ordinary light into something breathtaking.

By the time Elthen inherited the family home, every surface seemed touched by colored glass. Sunlight never simply entered a room; it poured through in the rich sades or high windows, or bounced of the smaller pieces and danced on the walls. Every room marked by the legacy of those who had come before him.

Though he earned his livelihood supplying medical-grade glass vials, beakers, bottles, flasks, and every manner of vessel demanded in the medical trade, his soul sought expression elsewhere. His creativity poured into sculptures that showcased sweeping forms of glass that captured movement as beautiful as nature itself. His works found homes in gardens, where they stood among flowers and trees enchanting their beauty without overwhelming it.

It was through one such sculpture that he met the woman who would become his wife. She was a landscape designer searching for the perfect centerpiece for a client's garden. One sculpture became two. Two became three. As the project expanded, so too did their relationship. What emerged was more than a garden, it was a marriage of horticulture and glass. Her designs elevated his art. His sculptures transformed her landscapes.

Together, they made the world more beautiful. Then she left, taking Jovi'drae and Lirise, their daughters, with her, and in their absence the colors seemed to abandon him as well. No longer did he lie on the floor of the playroom beside his daughters, gazing upward as sunlight danced through the flock of suspended glass birds that wheeled across the ceiling, scattering rainbows over delighted faces.

It pained him to enter the office she had occupied and see the grand stained-glass window above her desk. The brilliant reds, golds and blues that had once filled the room with life now felt like a wound in his heart that couldn’t seem to heal.

Worst of all was the garden. Every path, every flower bed, every carefully chosen tree bore the imprint of her artistry. His sleek contemporary sculptures still stood among her plantings, perfectly balanced, each complementing the other exactly as they always had. The garden remained beautiful. It simply no longer brought him joy.

With the dissolution of his marriage, Elthen felt as though he had lost the inheritance of generations. The vibrant legacy of color, beauty, craftsmanship, and love that had defined his family for centuries slipped from his grasp. After that, he made only what was ordered. Perfectly matching glassware for clients. Day after day, year after year. No inspiration, no wonder, only repetition.

Then she walked into the hot shop, in an instant, he remembered what it felt like to be an artist again. The furnace's glow reflected in colored molten glass. The way color could transform something ordinary into something miraculous. Watching her work was witnessing the magic of creation.

The greatest gift was not what she re-awakened in hi, it was who she was,Lirise had come to learn from him. His youngest daughter stood before the furnace, determined to master the craft that had built their family name for generations.

And of all the countless things she could have chosen to create, all she wanted to make were vibrantly colored glass pens. Just like the ones her great-grandfather had made for his wife, the ones that had once carried stories of love into the world.

He wondered how he'd gotten into it all. It had been conversation to begin with. That was all it was. A very simple conversation. The kind of conversation that surely could have happened every day. And now that conversation had gone from words exchanged to an excursion on the horizon.

On an early morning as the sun began to rise and Soryk started his day, he lifted a hand into his hair to shake it about. And to wake himself up a little more. He wouldn't have said he ever slept well. That seemed almost impossible. He didn't give it too much thought, but he was fairly certain he never exactly began a day feeling rested. Most of the time, he felt like he merely existed, and for a man like him, maybe that all he needed.

It was how he'd approached most of his life, after all. Relatively detached, going through the motions, living on the outside, maybe not living on the inside, assuming the man had ever lived to begin with. And he rarely thought about any of it. Sometimes he wondered when he stopped caring. If he ever had cared.

The plan for the caravan had never been to stop in Brill, but the rain had carved a pothole into the road, and one of the wagons had hit it hard. Between the fog and the perpetual gloom that hung over the area, the driver hadn't seen it until it was too late. The impact had loosened a wheel, shearing one of the bolts that held it in place.

At least, that was how the caravan leader explained it to Ori.

Not because she had asked, but because he seemed convinced she hadn't understood when the driver had discussed the problem right in front of her. She always enjoyed it when someone she was paying decided to speak to her as though she were a bit dim.

While the smith worked on the damaged wheel, Ori wandered through town, thoroughly unimpressed, not that she had expected to be impressed in the first place. She didn't mind the Forsaken or their undead allies, but she certainly didn't enjoy prolonged time with them.

When an alarm bell rang from one of the towers, she stopped and turned on her heel. Guards rushed toward the gates. Shouts echoed through the streets in both Orcish and Common. There was a raid on the town. She could have sworn all of that had settled down by now, why were the Alliance still even bothering with such things? Her thoughts on the matter were irrelevant. It was happening regardless.

Ori was a jewel thief, not a combatant. In hundreds of years, she had never been one and had never wanted to be. Her last partner had been a gifted fighter, and he had often told her stories of battles and campaigns. She had listened dutifully. None of it had ever inspired her to take up arms herself.

Stepping away from the center of the street, she watched the town swirl into eddies of activity. Green and golden eyes flicked toward the inn, but it sat all the way across town further than she wanted to go in this instability. Instead, she edged closer to a nearby building, hoping to remain unnoticed and out of everyone's way.

When a human woman emerged from the shadows, Ori continued backing away quietly. Years spent slipping through noble estates during lavish parties and relieving jewelry boxes of treasured family heirlooms had honed her stealth. In this case, the skill served her well. The woman never noticed her.

Hidden from view, Ori watched as the stranger produced a bomb, lit the fuse, and tossed it behind the defenders at the nearest gate. Had Ori felt any particular patriotism toward her people's place in the Horde, she might have intervened. Instead, she retreated another few steps.

A furious bellow sounded from the direction of the gates, followed by heavy, thunderous footfalls. An abomination lumbered into view. Part of its shoulder was missing, the flesh around the wound blackened and burned. A few stubborn flames still clung to the damaged tissue as it advanced toward the human woman.

Ori didn't even think to move farther away.

The construct had found its target. One of them would be dead soon enough. Fascinated despite herself, she remained where she was as the pair began to fight. It followed the familiar pattern: the quicker combatant maintaining the advantage so long as the larger one couldn't get its hands on them.

That remained true right up until the undead monstrosity employed another weapon in its arsenal and vomited a torrent of plague-ridden gore over the human.

And over Ori.

Who had not moved nearly far enough away.

"I was stuck in an infirmary in that gloomy forest for over a week," Ori said, a warm laugh carrying across the small table between two cups of coffee. "Between the cleansing and the monitoring, they wanted to make absolutely certain I was safe."

She shook her head.

"Which is why I'd rather not travel through Tirisfal if we can avoid it."

The apartment still occasionally surprised him with just how quiet it could be. Not because silence was rare in Silvermoon, but because for most of his life it had been temporary. There had always been another deployment waiting, another assignment, another fight. Even prison had its own constant noise. These days, Xylaes could sit in his small apartment in Murder Row and listen to little more than the distant sounds of the city outside his window.

A book rested open in his lap, though he had been staring at the same page for several minutes without reading a word. His attention had drifted elsewhere. Outside, someone laughed. A pair of voices carried briefly through the night air before disappearing around a corner. Music drifted from an open door. None of it demanded his attention or required him to react. It was simply life continuing around him, indifferent to whether he participated or not. 

His gaze eventually lifted from the pages and settled on the reflection staring back at him from the darkened window. The purple glow in his eyes remained impossible to ignore. Months had passed since the void powers first emerged, yet seeing them reflected unexpectedly still gave him pause. Not because he feared them anymore, that fear had faded long ago. Instead, they served as a reminder that he was no longer entirely the man he had once been. The military, prison, and loss had all changed him, as it does anyone. Now the void was changing him too, and he wasn't entirely certain where that road ended.

His thoughts drifted toward war, as they often did when left unattended. Not a specific battle, but all of them. The military, the undercover assignments, the mercenary and personal contracts, the endless conflicts that seemed to define his life. Looking back, he realized that some of his clearest memories existed on battlefields, and that realization had become increasingly uncomfortable with age.

The older he became, the harder it was to ignore the truth. He understood violence and war extremely well, and in many ways, he found them easier to navigate than ordinary life. Everything else was complicated: relationships, family, and especially trust. At least on a battlefield, objectives became clear and priorities became obvious. There was rarely time to second-guess yourself when lives depended on immediate action. 

That was what unsettled him about the void. The problem wasn't the destruction it could cause, the problem was how natural it felt. Whenever he allowed himself to fully embrace it, doubt disappeared and all hesitation vanished. Every instinct sharpened until action felt effortless. He thought back to recent battles and the moments he had surrendered to that power completely. Those memories should have frightened him, but what remained was the certainty he had felt. That certainty was alluring.

It had nothing to do with bloodshed, there was no thrill left in killing or death for him. What appealed to him was the simplicity. The enemy stood in front of you, the objective was clear, and the path forward existed whether you liked it or not. The void amplified that feeling until everything else seemed irrelevant. There were no complicated conversations waiting for him. No strained relationships to navigate. No questions without answers. There was only action. 

Perhaps that was why peace often felt more difficult than war. Peace required patience and vulnerability. War demanded competence. Xylaes had spent most of his life learning how to survive conflict. Learning how to live afterward had proven significantly harder. The irony wasn't lost on him. He had survived undercover operations, imprisonment, assassins, monsters, and enough battles to fill history books. Yet some days a conversation with someone he cared about felt far more daunting than facing an armed opponent. 

His gaze drifted around the apartment toward the record player, the framed photograph of Garren and he, and the weapons stored neatly where they belonged. None of it was particularly impressive, but every item represented something he once believed he would never possess again. Prison had convinced him his future was already written. It had been easier then to think of himself as a weapon, and weapons didn't need homes or families. But the years after his release had proven otherwise.

Outside, another burst of laughter rose from the street and faded into the night. Xylaes listened for a moment before looking back down at the book in his lap. The void remained where it always was, waiting patiently beneath the surface of his thoughts. He knew it would answer if he called upon it. The allure of certainty, power, and becoming exactly what he had been trained to be. 

Tonight, he left it alone. Instead, he turned the page and forced himself to focus on the words. Tomorrow would eventually bring another problem. For now, he had a home, people worth returning to, and a life that existed beyond violence. Those things were infinitely more complicated than war had ever been, but as he settled back into his chair and turned the page, he found that he enjoyed the complexity. 

There were nights when Ryland could feel the exact moment a room took notice of him. There was no sudden silence sweeping across the crowd, no collective gasp rippling through the theater or nightclub. Instead, it happened in more subtle ways. A glance staying a second too long, a conversation faltering for half a beat, someone turning to watch him pass, and then another doing the same. The atmosphere shifted almost imperceptibly, yet he had spent enough years in the spotlight to recognize it.

More importantly, he had learned how to use it.

Many people treated allure as a form of magic, a gift bestowed at birth upon a lucky few. Ryland had never really bought that. He had a natural charisma, but what most people saw when they looked at him was the result of years of hard work. He had spent hours observing people with the same patience professionals devoted to mastering a craft. He learned how movement and body language could alter perception, how confidence transformed a room, and how to hold eye contact just long enough to make someone feel seen. He learned how to command attention without ever appearing to demand it.

Dance had refined those lessons further. Every performance taught him something new about human nature, and every audience reminded him that people were far more alike than they preferred to believe. Over time, he became fluent in that language.

And he loved it.

He loved the anticipation that settled over a crowd before a show, and the energy that surged through a room when hundreds of strangers were united in this shared experience. He loved making people laugh, making them blush, and making them forget their troubles for a little while. There was something deeply satisfying about knowing he could create a moment that remained in someone's memory long after the music stopped.

Performers were often assumed to be motivated by vanity, but Ryland had always thought that was an oversimplification. The best performances were not about taking attention from an audience, but about giving something back; like a story, a memory or a feeling.

When patrons returned to the Tart performances year after year, when nightclub guests stayed longer than they intended because they wanted to watch one more set, when strangers recognized him months later and recalled a particular dance, he preferred to think it wasn't because they found him attractive. He wanted to believe it was because he had made them feel something.

Yet allure had always been a double-edged sword.

The same qualities that drew people toward him often prevented them from seeing anything beneath the surface. Over the years, he had lost count of the conversations that began and ended with his appearance. Compliments that never progressed beyond his body. Interactions with people who knew exactly how he looked beneath stage lights, but couldn't tell you a single meaningful thing about him.

It wasn't always frustrating. Sometimes it was amusing, and sometimes it was even flattering. Occasionally, it felt lonely. There were some who had talked with him all evening and learned shockingly little about who he really was. They knew the act. The tease. The dream. They knew the Ryland that existed under flashing lights and adoring stares.

What they didn't know was the navigator who could spend hours studying stars, maps, and currents. They didn't know the performer who obsessed over choreography, rehearsing the same sequence until his muscles gave out from exhaustion. They didn't know the illusionist who lost himself in perfecting his craft, chasing the perfect moment of surprise. They certainly didn't know the half-elf who had once spent much of his youth feeling caught between worlds, uncertain where he belonged.

Most people met Ryland the idea before they ever met Ryland the person. If he were to be honest with himself, he knew he had played a big role in creating that distinction. He understood attraction and attention. He enjoyed making people feel desired and important. Charm came naturally to him now, and there were moments when it felt easier to offer that polished version of himself rather than something more vulnerable. A smile was more simple than honesty, and a flirtatious remark was safer than exposing a deeper truth.

Because of that, assigning blame felt impossible. If he willingly stepped into the spotlight, could he truly fault people for watching the performance?

The problem, he had come to realize, was never admiration itself. The problem was when admiration replaced curiosity. When people became so captivated by the glow and sparkle surrounding someone that they never bothered stepping closer to see what existed within it. That was where loneliness existed.

Fortunately, not everyone stopped at the surface, the people who mattered most rarely did. His crew aboard the Lady Lillium certainly didn't. They had seen far too much for that. They had seen him exhausted after long nights, limping after difficult rehearsals, frustrated over navigation routes, and distracted by worries he wasn't ready to discuss. They had seen him fail, seen him grieve, seen him at his least glamorous, and cared for him anyway.

There was a comfort in being around people who were no longer impressed. People who could watch strangers lose their minds over him one evening and then spend the next morning teasing him mercilessly over breakfast. People who remembered he was more than the reaction he inspired when he finished a performance.

Perhaps that was why he had never grown resentful of his allure despite its complications, it had brought him too much joy. It had allowed him to connect with people he never otherwise would have met. It had also opened doors, created opportunities, and helped him build a life he genuinely loved. It was woven into who he was as surely as dance, music, and the sea.

The issue was never the allure itself; the issue was that some people mistook it for the entirety of him. For some people, it was merely the beginning of a story. For others, it was where the story ended. They admired the surface and never looked deeper; they fell in love with the idea of a person rather than the person themself.

The people who stayed were different. They looked beyond the performance, beyond the charm, and the carefully crafted image. They discovered that beneath the spectacle and the flirt, there was a man trying his best to move through the world, care for the people he loved, and leave things a little brighter than he found them. For all the power allure possessed, for all the attention it could command and all the hearts it could captivate, nothing had ever felt quite as meaningful as being known by someone who remembered that.

Follow for recipes