Faine hadn't just taken notes on the members of Silver Willow, their meetings, their members, or important secrets. This was all the information Zebulon was looking for, and more, but in a small section of her mind—too dangerous to write on paper—was another important piece to the complicated mess of what separated these two guilds from each other.

Rising Eternity was younger. Therefore, less established. What they did to prepare for missions followed a chain that every participant latched onto from the moment it was announced to the day the event arrived and was completed. No setbacks, no distractions, get the job done. That was how it went for ninety-nine years and Faine soaked into that way of life believing there was nothing else.

Her routine for the night before was to lay everything out on her bed—armor, weapons, poisons, potions—and memorize their use at the exact moment she'd need them. Some were 'just in case' like the poisons for possible capture, the armor was a definite use, and the weapons she hid in the closed compartments of her boots or on the thigh holster were most likely there to see some experience. And, for Faine's sake, remind her that she still had a functional fashion sense.

Bred after so many years of waiting on her toes for the next day to arrive, Faine was entirely unaware that Celestia would knock on the door to her inn room in Isflean and tell her they had one tradition at Silver Willow besides believing every other beast was family.

The tradition was optional, attend a show at Isflean's finest theater with other members of Silver Willow. They'd sit in a private booth together, as one, and share an experience that wasn't stealing, spying, or killing. And they weren't allowed to talk about that, either. The only way to reconnect with the mortal side of their beings without admitting they had one at all.

Faine couldn't remember the exact date to the last time she attended a show at the theater, but the last time she did, they were interrupted by a man's cry for help as he was being robbed, then strangled to hide any bit of evidence. Kaspar had slit the throat of the attacker, then nearly died himself when the so-called victim tried to rob them instead. A tag-team that worked as liars and killers.

She snapped his neck at the first sight of a wrong movement.

Attending a show with Silver Willow would be different and treacherous. Putting her face out there for the world to see, surrounded by strangers...would Zebulon be there? No, he hardly attended shows and only when there was a reason to celebrate. For every birthday Faine had, he asked if she wished to attend a show, but always turned him down with the knowledge they'd be there alone in his private booth.

Zebulon's intentions were never clear and the longer he went on believing their friendship was true, the more she hated every fraction of his being.

Dress to impress was all Celestia left her with before she shut the door again. Whether or not that was the case, Faine pulled out the one gown she had yet to wear. Ever. Nothing in Rising Eternity gave her the chance, but now she had the slightest bit of free rein...

The gown was simple. Black all the way up, black all the way down. The soft, blossomed straps drooped off her shoulder and wrapped neatly around her arms, and the fitting skirt swayed to the floor. The slit was unnoticeable until she walked or made it known. With her hair, she pulled it into a bun—held together with sticks—and swept two clumps of silver hair in front of her horns to swim back and wrap into the bun itself.

Effectively noticeable, but not overdoing it. One of the few instances Faine could say that was true.

But the gown or the hairstyle didn't fall into the category of her favorite part of the ensemble. It was the dragon necklace resting neatly against her chest, matching a set of earrings she'd found days ago at a jewelry store in Isflean. Ametrine said they were beautiful, the claws wrapped around the scaled eggs resembled the motherhood of such large beasts.

What her new friends didn't know was that the necklace and the earrings and the dragon cuff around her wrist wasn't a random, matching style. Each piece of the jewelry she wore was in honor of Tyvni back at Rising Eternity's base, one she missed increasingly with every passing day. Soon. It'd be over soon.

She frowned at the small lump in the dress's skirt, hardly noticeable over her covered thigh. The holster hosted the purpose of effectiveness, but knife handles were always bulky and misshaped, leading to that one crinkle in her dress to impress outfit. Good enough, she supposed, and wrapped the black lace shawl around her shoulders.

When she got down to the lobby of the inn, the entire building reserved for their operation, Faine realized she wasn't the only one wearing too much finery. In fact, as she looked around at the velvet coats and golden cufflinks, the tight corsets and blossoming skirts, Faine wondered if she had underestimated their ability to dress. The task of attending a show at the theater was bigger than she originally expected.

"Damn," Ametrine said, making a show of looking her up and down, "Are you out to break hearts tonight?"

Faine examined the bedazzled white gown she wore, the lace sleeves extending from shoulder to wrist and to the middle of her chest before dropping into a swan dive between her breasts. She asked, arching a brow, "Are you out to break hearts tonight?"

"Only if I come across the right one."

"Good luck with that." Faine nudged her with her elbow, and without trying, came face to face with Ilian across the room. He was leaning against the high back of a chair, his arm draped over the spiked wooden knob, and a hand was to his mouth, holding onto the toothpick dangling loosely from his teeth.

His eyes twinkled as if in a daze, wholly glazed. He, too, had not missed the opportunity to make himself appear presentable. As Faine crossed the room towards him, she kept her eyes from wandering farther than the black waistcoat over his white shirt, buttoned to the collar and the sleeves—rolled to his forearms.

She pointed that out and stopped in front of him. "You'll get cold if you're outside for long," Faine speculated.

"A jacket ruins the outfit." Ilian rubbed a hand down his abdomen, over the golden buttons holding the waistcoat together. Each resembled the small carving of a dragon's face. Faine bit back her smile. "Besides, you have a shawl. If I get cold, surely you'll be kind enough to hand it over."

"You have great faith in me, darling. I share my clothes with no one. I'm picky like that." Faine scrunched up her nose and Ilian laughed, still chewing on that toothpick. She wondered if that was the one thing that kept him sane when talking to her or anyone that was somewhat intimidating.

Not a single part of her was brave enough to ask. And she didn't receive the chance if she managed to gather that courage as it was. The carriages had arrived and one snarky look from Ginevra in her lace gown with drooping sleeves that nearly touched the floor was enough to distract Faine from caring about anything else other than pressing her hand into the crook of Ilian's arm.

The theater was a few blocks away and not enough time to stare out the window at the twinkling street lights and mortar buildings. The front windows of storefronts were decorated, painted lettering directing shoppers to what they sold, and the buckets of flowers lining the streets swayed in the evening breeze.

Night had already fallen. The air was crisp and clean with the fast-approaching autumn scent as Faine climbed out of the carriage and felt Ilian's hand press against the small of her back to lead her inside. She'd been to the theater hundreds of times, yet he didn't know that. No one did. Looking up at the towering dome roof in awe was always the first step upon arrival, but Ilian took it as something else entirely.

Her inexperience.

They climbed flights of carpeted stairs to reach the private booths on the highest level of the theater and overlooked the stage and the moving crowd down below. Silver Willow wasn't the only guests here for entertainment; nearly every seat hid underneath men and women of all different beasts, dressed similarly to if they were attending a royal event.

Ilian sat in the middle of Faine and Ginevra, crossing an ankle over his knee. Like he had done it a thousand times before and wasn't afraid, he draped his arm over the back of their chairs and slouched to the point of comfort. Everyone else, other members of Silver Willow that bothered to attend in the first place, took their seats while others went to the first-floor tavern to drink their sanity away.

The red velvet curtains draped over the wooden stage, illuminated by candle chandeliers and torches on the walls. Faine blocked out Ilian and Ginevra giggling about something in hushed tones and stared daggers at that curtain until it shifted, pulling away to reveal the back wall of the stage, painted to look like the high elf palace.

So many performances took place at the theater, yet it was her luck she'd already seen this one. And more than once. The fourth time, she fell asleep and Kaspar roused her at the end. The sixth and seventh, well, she brought a book with her instead of bothering to say the lines like she did during the fifth time. Faine knew every word.

Applause broke out from the lower level of the theater as the first performer, a man dressed to appear like the high elf father, strutted onto the stage. He walked like an elf, looked like an elf, held his posture tight and his arms bent at the elbow to fold over his abdomen. But he wasn't an elf. Most performers were immortals, but the few that could broaden their appearance to look like every beast in Pinedon was a mortal.

The only time they shined was at the theater.

He stopped in the middle of the stage, turned on his heel, and pressed the back of his hand against his forehead in a dramatic fashion. Giggles echoed from one end of the seats to the next.

"My heavenly heart, how empty it seems," he began loud enough for everyone to hear. Confidence. It shined in his voice, in his movements. Rare for a mortal in this land. "I cannot bear to be without a lover, for my heart cannot stand its loneliness."

He took two steps to the left and stared longingly at the wooden floorboards underneath his shined leather boots. The highest quality, close enough to that of the high elf family.

"My wife, my son, my daughter, they are the reason I live. My very breath is at the hands of their existence and if their presence is yanked from this world...I cannot dread creating another." He pressed his hand against his chest. "But my heart, I cannot stand to be alone."

"What is this play even about?" Ilian mumbled.

"It's about—"

"How I must love the world!" The mortal on stage shouted. Some cheered; others that had likely seen the play as many times as Faine gasped dramatically to draw attention to themselves.

Ilian sighed through his nose. "Ah, I've heard of this one. Poking fun at the high elf family for making love to every beast in the land. How quaint."

To piss him off and be a drag, Eliphas shushed them from his seat in the second row. None of them paid him the devotion he constantly searched for.

The booth was silent for a moment, everyone focused on the arrival of the rest of the high elf family—their portrayals, at least. Faine wondered if Virion had seen this performance and if he did, how he felt about it. How the high elf mother would think when the entire land viewed her husband as a mattress.

"How preposterous," Ginevra scoffed loud enough for Faine to hear. "How fickle it is to take on so many lovers and not care for them in the slightest." The sudden echoing of the performers signing drowned out the end of her statement.

The song included something about felirams and fladlines, their beauty and grace compared to gadigators or sinwolves. The high elf preference and what they deemed worthy. Faine memorized the song, but never dove very deep into its meaning. She tried to focus on that but was thrown back into reality by what Ginevra said next.

"I cannot imagine that lifestyle," she sighed. "What about you, Ilian? Do you see yourself living that way?"

Faine's lip curled into a snarl, but that expression hid in the dark of the booth. "I don't know...life does as it pleases," he muttered under his breath without regard for the question. What Ginevra was truly asking.

Applause shook the theater as the performers began their dance routine, a fast-moving and blurred display of twisting and turning with their partners, throwing their heads back seductively, allowing their male counterparts to graze their greased fingers over their skin. Faine grimaced.

"Well, I wouldn't do such a thing." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ginevra place a hand against her chest. "For you, that would entail...I don't know, doing that with Faine or someone you don't know at all." She scoffed awkwardly and Faine stilled.

Approaching her in the kitchens at the base wasn't just Ginevra's one-time show of revealing how pissed off she was. The jealousy had snapped through the iron bars she kept it confined in and with that statement; she was reaching into the abyss of Ilian's mind to search for what she desired. The truth about their relationship together, his yearnings, everything she didn't want to hear.

Heat stained her cheeks when Ilian turned his stare to the side of her face.

"Would you consider it?" Ginevra questioned; her voice softer this time. "With Faine, I mean."

As if she wasn't sitting right there, two seats away.

The booth was silent for a moment, the only sound was Celestia in the back row, muttering about her personal experience with the high elf father. How grand and kind he was to his people and how the play misinterpreted him entirely. Faine tried to focus on her voice, on the storyline unfolding down below on the stage that glowed golden from candlelight, but she wanted to hear Ilian's answer. A small part of her cared about what he had to say.

"I would," he admitted quietly. His stare shifted from her to his lap. "I would consider it."

Ginevra was silent. Faine wasn't certain she was breathing. She clenched so tight onto the armrests of the chair that she was certain her nails were digging into the velvet. Turns out, it was only her body forcing her to push herself to stand.

But no one knew why. They were watching her, both Ilian and Ginevra, and Faine had to come up with a reason as to why she was no longer sitting. "I'm...I need some air," she stuttered.

She departed without turning back, pushed aside the curtain that led to the hallway and bounded down the stairs with her skirt clutched tightly in her fists. The booth became too suffocating to sit in any longer and she didn't want to deal with the scrutiny faced from anyone that listened to their conversation.

Faine pushed open the front doors to the theater, her face immediately hit by the cold night air. It wrapped around the bitter fabric of her dress and chilled her further, leading Faine to fold her arms tightly over her stomach as she leaned against a stone pillar. Her breath clouded in front of her and chills spread over her skin.

Through it all, the torture of standing in the cold, Faine didn't want to go back inside. Her mind hadn't belonged to her lately, the thoughts she normally had jumbled and misplaced themselves; she couldn't think straight without wondering about the truths to what her head spoke about. Everything had changed so quickly without her knowledge and it was just hitting her now, as the doors opened behind her, that it was at the fault of one person.

He kept his head low as he walked towards her, staring at his boots rather than the world breathing and blinking above the ground. Each step was questioned as he wiped at his bottom lip with a ringed thumb and finally, as if something snapped in his mind and crafted a belief that it was now or never, Ilian lifted his head towards Faine, quickened those sluggish steps, and took her face in his hands.

Then, he kissed her.