AUTHOR'S NOTE: "Bride Hunt" was written first, but it actually takes place 16 years after the events of CURSED. It's a standalone, so you can read them in any order. CURSED is chronologically first though!

On the last day of summer, on the island of Riganos, any man who pays the tribute must be allowed to join the bride hunt.

That is why our goddess Rigania blesses us.

Our sheep always give twins and our goats triplets. Our vines swell with wine grapes, our fertile valley produces bushels of barley, and the spicy scent of oregano sweetens the barren south mountain. Punishing summer winds skip over our fields, and our drought-stricken neighbors always look to us with jealousy.

But last year, something went wrong.

The winter was too short. We put seeds in and sudden, harsh spring rains washed them into the sea, clouding and choking our best fisheries. We replanted, and the summer winds pushed over the too-young, spindly plants. Our sheep bleat, hungry, and our neighbors have no grain to sell. There’s talk of sending an envoy to the main island. The grandmothers count mouths and look at each other with knowing eyes. The grandfathers stare into their last drinks and steel their resolve.

This year’s hunt will determine how many starve.

I stand on the headland above the pebbled east shore seeking a glimpse of something, anything, that will tell me my future.

Our sea monster, Achiron, is absent this morning. His long, ribbon body and frilled horns are sometimes visible in the shallows by the rock wall where my ancestors once built a harbor. The harbor is long-since silted over, but the remains of the old shipyard walls still have frescoes of when monsters were as plentiful as bees, and every island had a demigod hero to fend them off.

Having a sea monster in the current hero-less era is, like many things, a double-sided ax.

Achiron keeps our island safe from pirates. Those who don’t know better are struck down and eaten. Those who do know better sail around to our commercial harbor, which is easily defended from shore.

Achiron also stops violent waves from devastating our island. After the ground trembles and the sea pulls back, revealing the wriggling seabed, its returning rush slams into his body so only ordinary-sized waves slink back to our shores.

But he also capsizes the occasional merchant vessel. When he’s hungry, he devours anyone, even marriage-ready island men who’ve left for a season and are returning with better fortunes. As the bleached ribs of the most recent wreck attest, he will overturn boats on the calmest ocean, only a few strokes from the safety of shore.

Last night, I screamed at him. “You took what was not yours, Achiron. You owe me a husband!”

My shout echoed against the white cliffs. Wind whistled over the choppy waves, but Achiron hid himself and gave no answer.

This morning, as the dawn mist is burned off by late summer heat, I’ve come again to the headland.

I’m not the only one at this recent resting place of tragedy. Below me, shell-pickers and seaweed harvesters wade up to their knees searching for anything that might have survived the spring disaster. It’s said if you have seven living children, then Achiron won’t eat you. I don’t know if it’s true, but seven is a big number and at least half of them are being really brave.

Off to my right, youths collect brush for the ravenous cook fires. The week-long celebration uses up a lot of wood.

My friend, Hesioni, wanders up behind me. I smell the chamomile her stepmother rubs on her skin and hair to make her more beautiful to the suitors who’ve gathered on our island. She stands by my side, sharing my view. Then, she murmurs, “Achiron didn’t return your fiancé?”

“No.”

“He ate him wrongly. We did all the rituals for a safe and prosperous return.”

“I know.”

She scratches her nose. Quiet, like the rustle of dried flowers, and kind. That’s Hesioni.

“Faisli!” Zekso bursts out of the brush, her long black curls wild, her blue eyes flashing with excitement. “I found you.”

Her petite younger sister, Petraya, hurries after her. “What are you all doing up here?”

Hesioni and I exchange glances.

Zekso guesses it. “She’s supplicating Achiron to send her a good bridegroom since he owes her one.”

“Oh, really? Would that work?” Petraya picks twigs out of her hair, then tends to her older sister’s curls. “It’s a good idea. All the half-decent grooms made their matches during the festival days. I’m a little worried about who’s left for the hunt.”

In silence we contemplate our chances.

Hesioni tries to make us feel better. “My gramma says in the old days there were so many heroes and kings that it was impossible for ordinary men to get wives. That’s why they started the hunt. So perfectly good men could have a chance to catch one.”

“Those days are long gone,” Zekso says flatly.

“If they ever existed,” Petraya agrees sadly.

“I think they existed,” Hesioni says. “Don’t you think? And if we were born then, maybe we would’ve been meant for bigger destinies, too. Do you ever think, if you’d been born a hundred years ago, you might’ve been god-touched?”

Petraya shakes her head.

“Maybe I’m god-touched right now.” Zekso grins. “You just don’t know it.”

Petraya rolls her eyes. Hesioni regards her thoughtfully.

I don’t know. When I’m compelled to do something, like last night when I suddenly shouted at Achiron, then I do feel as if I’m a single thread in a larger weave, and my destiny is bigger than I can see with my human eyes.

But most of the time, I bob along and don’t feel anything at all.

“Here I am, born too late. Instead of great deeds, I’m just trying to find a man who won’t spurn me.” Zekso stretches. “Barf.”

“Only for a year,” Hesioni says, again, trying to comfort us.

“You can say that because your parents already accepted a decent husband.” Zekso plants her fists on her stocky hips. She’s beautiful, an epitome of strength and fertility. “Did you see the hooknose from Halonnesos is back? Again? What happened to his previous five brides?”

Petraya shudders. “I refuse to be bride number six.”

“Maybe they tried to escape and got dashed on the rocks.” Zekso’s eyes gleam with morbid interest. “They say the currents around Halonnesos are so violent that it’s impossible to land. The island residents have to trade at a smaller rock across the strait. It’s amazing anyone lives there at all.”

“Or maybe…” Petraya swallows. “They make him angry and he kills them.”

“Then he wouldn’t be allowed in the bride hunt,” I point out. “And Rigania would take her vengeance.”

“Maybe that’s why she withdrew her blessing after last year,” Petraya whispers. “Because he killed them and we let him come back.”

The wind whistles ominously.

“My gramma says Rigania withdrew the blessing because Achiron ate our men,” Hesioni says firmly, ever the practical one. “That’s why we can’t appease her. It’s a fight between them.”

“Well, whatever happened, the hooknose isn’t returning his wives,” Zekso says. “And if the marriages failed, he’s supposed to bring them back.”

“Maybe they found someone else,” I say.

“On that desolate little island?”

“Maybe they died in childbirth,” Petraya says darkly.

Bringing a child into this world is dangerous. Mothers have to take one step into the land of the dead to scoop up their baby’s spirit and carry it back into the living. If the path is too slippery, we not be able to make that step back.

“But their fates can’t be very bad,” Hesioni says, agreeing with me. “Otherwise he couldn’t participate again. The head priestess wouldn’t allow it.”

“That’s true.” Petraya smooths Zekso’s hair and straightens her tunic. “And I suppose even a hooknose from a solitary island is better than taking our chances on the main island.”

I agree.

Achiron is our sea monster and we have a tenuous agreement with him, but the monsters out of sight of land are far more deadly. Even if we reached the main island—a land mass so large it supports five kingdoms and even more bustling cities—there’s no guarantee of finding a husband. Their ways are different and unpredictable.

Petraya sighs. “Well, if Achiron has failed you, at least you’ve got a local suitor.”

My stomach revolts. “Ugh.”

“She’s got two suitors, actually,” Zekso snickers.

Petraya looks embarrassed for me.

Zekso laughs.

My gross suitor is an old, stout neighbor who swans around my parents’ home eating from my younger siblings’ plates while complaining that I’m not worked hard enough. My parents should give me to him—no bride price, so I’m worth less than a slave—and he’d have me laboring from dawn until night, then lock me up and feed me table scraps, like he’s done to his last two wives. Somehow, this manner of courting has worked for him twice already, but big shocker, both his former wives entered the very next bride hunts and caught themselves much better men. He’s single again.

My other suitor is somehow worse.

“Well, come.” Zekso links one elbow with Petraya and offers the other to me. “The sun is rising. Our destiny awaits.”

No. The feeling is hot and strong. I clasp hold of it in my mind, feeling it weaving around my soul. Even though I don’t know what it means, I will honor it. “I’ll be along soon.”

The two sisters exchange looks.

“Hurry, then.” Zekso shakes her curly hair. “You want to stake out the best spot for an ambush. You can trick a man into grabbing you even if he was running after another woman.”

“You won’t have to ambush anyone this year,” Hesioni says. “I overheard the acolytes. There are more men than women. You’re guaranteed to be caught.”

Zekso’s eyebrows shoot up.

Petraya worries her lower lip between her teeth.

“Guaranteed?” Zekso, who’s walked away single from several bride hunts, snorts. “I’ll believe it when I’m taking my vows.”

The sisters move through the brush and disappear.

“The men on the hunt are only a starting point,” Hesioni tells me. “Even if today’s husband is no good, you could meet someone on his island. You can still choose your destiny.”

I link fingers with her. If I do leave here, I’ll miss my friendships with her, Petraya, and Zekso. “Thank you.”

Hesioni smiles, and then she shuffles down the path back to our village where her parents and bridegroom are waiting.

I don’t know why I linger on this headland as if I really do believe Achiron owes me. The bride hunt is my choice. I want to begin my adulthood somewhere far away where food is abundant and taking my breakfast doesn’t steal from my little brother’s plate. And it is only for a year. As long as I don’t end up on Halonnesos, where it seems the brides do not come back, I can always return and enter next year’s hunt.

The last of the morning fog dissipates, revealing the uneasy horizon and restless ocean, and still, no ghost arrives at the shore.

I start to turn away.

Something flickers against the horizon. White, like a bird.

I hesitate.

Is that a boat?

The others on the shore straighten and shade their eyes. It’s not my imagination. They see what I do, a small boat coming toward us. Incredible. Was it so small that Achiron overlooked it? Or…

A single man guides it into the shore. He’s not rowing. He stands upright, leaning against the mast. The white sail has an unusual winged shape—

He steps forward and there is no mast. His body is the mast! The wing-shaped sails fold in and disappear.

He hops to the bow. The little boat coasts unnaturally across the water and glides onto the pebbled beach. He leaps, too large a distance to be covered by any mortal, and lands on the dry rocks lightly, then pulls the boat above the high tide mark and straightens.

He is a man.

But…

His skin is dark amber-gold and his hair is white blond. He wears a white tunic tied at the waist, knee-length pants, and leather sandals. He slings a roughly woven sack over one shoulder and speaks to the nearest woman.

She gapes, frozen with her hands full of dripping shells.

He frowns and addresses an elder collecting seaweed. The elder puts up her bent hands and bows her head, hiding her wrinkled eyes. He huffs and looks around. The others either stare blankly or avert their eyes.

He spies the path and climbs it, winding up to the headland.

Where I’m at.

Oh!

I should get out of here, move on, before—

He comes suddenly around the bend, moving much faster than I expect, and he’s right in front of me.

We both stop abruptly.

I am in the presence of a legendary creature.

He wears the shape of a man, but the skin of a sun-burned god. His eyes are darker than ours, amber like precious stones from the mountains beyond the seas, and a white crescent moon marks the center of his forehead. His white sails are invisible now, but I know for sure they weren’t cloth.

He is an icarus, a race of men who accepted the gifts of the gods and flew too close to the sun. Under his tunic, on his shoulder blades, it’s said you can still see the burns.

“Islander.” His voice is oddly soft, and he speaks the ritual language of our oldest gods. “The bride hunt?”

I lift my hand in the direction that Petraya and Zekso went.

A white-gold light zips around the outer ring of his amber irises.

My heart stops.

He looks the way I’ve pointed, at the path into the hills where the ceremony will soon begin. “Enaksi.”

My automatic response, parayalo, parts my lips but the word does not emerge. It hangs silent in the empty air above my tongue.

He moves into the brush. His bag rests flat on his back. No hint of wings or scars are visible under his tunic. The brush stops moving. He’s gone.

On the beach, below, the women stare up at the cliffs.

At me.

I look back at them.

Yes, we all saw him. We were seen and spoken to by a mythic beast. Of course he passed by Achiron. They are the same kind, only this icarus happens to look more human-like because of our common ancestor.

And he has gone to the bride hunt…

The rising sun makes a gold rim on the edge of the mountain. The wind whistles and insects buzz low in the dried leaves.

The hunt is imminent. Everything has changed, but nothing has changed.

I will not be an extra mouth for my family to feed.

And so, I run.

I didn’t need to run.

When I reach the clearing, the hunt has been stalled by the shock of the new entry. The icarus is, in fact, trying to buy his way into the bride hunt.

He’s technically a man of the outer seas. Ikaria is a storm-shrouded isle across the jagged waters from us and well within the bounds of our ancestral map-lines.

Every man who enters the hunt must present an offering. That’s why I’m safe from my gross neighbor. He’s too cheap to pay and smart enough to know I’d run off the edge of the earth before I’d let him catch me.

The icarus’s offering is a mirror.

“The image is so clear you can see your soul,” Petraya tells me, hushed. We brides all wait on the hill nearest the trees, but we’re taking turns casually wandering over to the men’s side to see. “And the carvings around the outside are so real you can see their jeweled eyes move. It’s magic.”

“The icarus says it’s just craftsmanship,” another girl murmurs. She went over and listened in after Petraya.

“He’s getting out a comb now.” Zekso hangs from the lower branch of a tree squinting. She drops to the ground and shoves a handkerchief at one of the women. “Pretend someone dropped it and go ask if it’s theirs.”

The woman obediently slinks over, but whatever she hears, it causes her to completely forget what she’s supposed to do. She gapes in astonishment. An acolyte notices her and shoos her away, and she hustles back to us with excitement.

“He has more,” she tells us in a low voice, her eyes wild. “A whole bag of treasures! He thinks this delay is because he doesn’t have a good enough offering.”

“The bride he buys will have had the richest price since the age of queens,” another woman titters, and we all gasp and chatter excitedly.

“Yeah, but then you have to be married to him,” Zekso mutters shrewdly, half up the tree again.

We drop silent.

He looks over at us.

My heart freezes like a rabbit. We’re so far away, but he’s a monster. Did he hear us?

The white-gold ring flashes around his eyes.

Yes, I think he did hear us.

The priestess in charge of the hunt asks him something, and he turns away to speak with her again.

“What are they saying? Ah, we need answers. Who hasn’t gone? Faesli…no.” Zekso catches herself. “Petraya, go again.”

Petraya clenches her hands at her collar. “Me?”

“Pretend to ask what’s taking so long.”

Petraya minces toward the group like a fawn approaching a wolf’s den. Before she gets half way, the priestess rises and holds up her hands for an announcement. Petraya races back to us like her feet are on fire.

The priestess announces, “The head priestess will oversee today’s hunt.”

We groan, in spite of ourselves, and the sound echoes from the men and the spectators, families and friends who’ve gathered on the fringes.

Zekso hops down from the tree heavily. “We’ll be running in the hot part of the day then.”

“Couldn’t he have brought his offering to the temple on the first day of the festival like everyone else?” one of the other women grumbles as we crowd into a patchy spot of shade. “He might’ve gotten a bride just from having it on display. My cousin would marry a sea snail if it was stuck to a gold medallion.”

She’s right. We all know women like that.

A potential bride hunter is supposed to bring his offering to the temple on the first day so the whole town has a chance to look it over. Our head priestess then rejects or accepts his gift, which counts as her permission for him to seek a wife. He tries to make a match at one of the athletic demonstrations, dances, or fertility rites in the days leading up to the hunt. This is how Hesioni got her bridegroom, the son of a shipwright. She liked his performance and her parents liked his offering. For the men that can’t make a match, the hunt is their final chance.

We are each, in our own ways, desperate.

Beyond our seas, it’s said that men don’t pay bride prices. I don’t know why any woman of theirs would ever marry. A bride price compensates her family for the loss and shows off the groom’s ability to provide. How can you trust a husband who doesn’t value you? Their broke wives cannot possibly be happy.

“How long will it take your head priestess to get down from the cave-temple on the mountain?” one of the off-island women asks.

“It’s not too far, but she’s old,” Zekso says bluntly. “Plus they have to send somebody up to pray for a wet, productive winter in her place.”

The woman sighs and flops onto her back.

Everyone else settles in.

There aren’t a lot of spectators. A bride hunt is potentially a long, boring day where most of the action is hidden in the brush. I know from satisfying my curiosity years ago. But as the day wears on, more and more spectators arrive to gawk at the icarus. He sits with the men on the other side of the clearing, on the outer edge of their group, arms crossed and face turned away.

Some spectators kindly bring food for their hungry sons and daughters. As hosts, the organizers have a duty to feed their off-island guests, and acolytes bring dishes one by one for each hunter.

We watch the men gulp their food like animals.

My stomach rumbles.

“The hunters ought to save some of those honey-drizzled figs for us,” Petraya mutters. “If we have to delay too much longer, they could win a wife through sheer hunger.”

Zekso laughs. “If they had that insight, they wouldn’t need to be hunting, would they?”

My stomach growls again.

“Oh, excuse me.” Petraya covers her belly. “I was too nervous to eat this morning.”

“It was me,” I assure her.

“Right, forget this.” Zekso stands, straightens her dusty tunic, and marches over to the spectators. She brazenly does two cartwheels and a backward somersault, then tells a bawdy story about a satyr and a sacred ash tree.

Petraya tsks, but there’s a note of wistful admiration in her voice. “She doesn’t fear anything.”

I admire her, too.

Because it’s Zekso, the performance works, and she hauls back a small barley cake loaded with pine nuts and dried cherries. I eat gratefully. Together, we hike down to the closest stream—barely a trickle—and scoop up enough water to wash it down.

When we get back, the organizers are finally offering food to the icarus.

Unlike the simple cakes and stews they put out for the human hunters, they present the icarus with long ceremonial plates filled with every type of food the island has.

“Probably leftover from the previous festival days,” Petraya murmurs.

Everyone’s eyes are on him, judging his selections. Avoiding the roasts and sniffing the smoked fishes, he chooses simple fruit, nuts, and seeds.

Huh.

“He eats like a bird,” Petraya says, surprised.

“Birds eat meat,” Zekso says. “And fish and anything else they can capture. Maybe he just doesn’t like our cooking.”

“Maybe. Ugh.” Petraya lies back and covers her face. Her voice is muffled. “I don’t want to be the bride of an icarus.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s not for you.” Zekso sits splayed on the ground and harvests dried blades of grass between her bare calves. She deliberately does not look at me. “This is Achiron’s answer.”

Her words electrify me. I believe it, too.

Petraya chokes. “Surely not.”

“There’s no other meaning.”

“Hmm.” Petraya sighs. “I don’t want to leave this island.”

“Then don’t.”

“But who else…? I suppose that one handsome man is an option. His island is pretty close by.”

“His dick doesn’t work.”

“No!”

“I overheard it.” Zekso tidies her grass blade piles. “His own women won’t have him because he’s a lush. Did you see his pitiful offering? He got some interest anyway, then drank half a pithos of ceremonial wine and face-planted in a pig trough. You can smell it on him. He doesn’t water down his wine at all. He’ll suffocate in his breakfast porridge one day and make you a young widow.”

Petraya scrubs her face. “Ah, it’s impossible to choose one of these men for a husband.”

“Yep. And every year it gets worse.”

“Please, Rigania, whatever you do, don’t let me get dragged off and killed on Halonnesos.”

“I don’t know.” Zekso weaves the brittle blades into the start of a tiny basket. “This year, for me, Halonnesos is a maybe.”

Petraya abruptly sits up. She and I both look over at the hunters.

The man from Halonnesos isn’t bad looking. His hooked nose isn’t really that prominent, and he took first place in the athletics demonstrations as he does every year. That and the fact the high priestess keeps letting him participate in the hunt are reasons we think he might actually be god-touched.

But even if he is, no parent can reach his island to check on their daughters. What happened to the other missing wives? And why does he keep coming back for more?

He sits apart, like the icarus, but on the opposite side of the clustered men. There’s no friendliness in his stern glance, no softness in his precise touch. He speaks when required and he sweats in the full sun like he doesn’t notice it’s a punishment. He chews his food mechanically and stares into the woods like he’s rehearsing. Nothing touches him. Nothing but hardened determination.

Petraya shudders and finishes her prayer. “No, Rigania, please no.”

“I don’t know,” Zekso repeats, standing abruptly and brushing off the grass. Her tone sharpens like a warning. “We could do worse.”

I scramble to my feet, and Petraya does the same.

“Faesli,” Sikyon says behind me.

I whirl and step back in distress. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

Sikyon catches my wrist. “Nobody cares.”

“She’s right,” Zekso says gruffly, fists on her hips. “Go back to the men before they kick you out.”

“They’re not going to kick me out.” He refocuses on me. “Remember the plan?”

I look away. His clothes are finely woven with yellow decorative stitching. His face is more familiar to me than any of my brothers, but the dark hair waving across his low forehead, his too-bright eyes, and his eager upturned nose only fills me with regret.

I shake my head.

“You remember the spot. We met there many times as children.”

I keep shaking my head.

“It’s a perfect plan.” He pulls me against his chest, twisting my wrist painfully, and strokes a jagged fingernail down my cheek. “Your stupid parents can’t say no if I catch you during the hunt.”

“I don’t—”

“You remember,” he insists, talking over me. “Don’t be stubborn. Perthos didn’t deserve you, but I do. That’s why I’m not going to die.”

“No.”

“Stubborn.” He grabs my nape, pinning me in place. “Let me save you.”

Behind me, Zekso clears her throat in a threatening way.

Petraya quickly touches his forearm. “Um, Sikyon? The head priestess is coming.”

He frowns and looks out. She is coming, finally. He releases me. “Trust me like you used to, okay? I’ll take care of you. You don’t want to end up with a monster.” He turns and jogs back to the other men.

I rub my wrist.

“You should refuse him more firmly.” Zekso drops the rock she apparently picked up and dusts her hands on her pants. “I kicked him in the stomach when we were ten. He peed blood, but he never touched me again.”

Petraya brushes the new dust marks off Zekso’s front. “We don’t have to use violence.”

“Sometimes, we do.”

“Maybe Faesli doesn’t want to drive him off. It’s good to keep a backup, just in case.”

“Hmph.”

Zekso is not a slender-built woman like her younger sister. When she stops smiling, she has her mother’s fierceness, and everyone knows what their mother did. There’s a reason she, like Petraya, hasn’t gotten any marriage offers in all these years.

I rotate my sore wrist, then rub the scratch on my cheek.

After my engagement was announced, Sikyon changed from saying no other man will ever have you to forget that other man, I’m the best for you. I tried to ignore it. Maybe Zekso’s right and that’s a mistake, but I hate fighting. We don’t yell in my family. Sikyon’s family yells a lot.

I wish he would just go away.

But maybe Petraya’s a little right, too. If my choice today is between a year-long marriage to Sikyon and being stuck at home, another mouth that takes food away from my siblings, then I’ll bow my head and squeeze myself into his jagged little shell.

Across the hill, the icarus is looking at us.

Looking at me.

Nerves coil in my belly like a baby snake, pricking me with potent venom.

You don’t want to end up with a monster…

The head priestess finally arrives.

As a true representative of the goddess, she marches right up to the icarus and holds out her hand. He hesitates, then offers his, and she studies the palm lines thoughtfully, then pokes and prods him all over his body. He endures her pokes, even in the meaty part of his buttocks where no one else would dare, without protest.

She steps back, frowns. “Disrobe.”

He unties his tunic, steps out of his pants. The clothes pile at his sandals.

We all gape.

He’s rippling with muscle, but smooth, a striking male who doesn’t have to flex to show off his undeniable power. Amber-honey skin, head to toe, is broken by a curious thatch of white-blond curls nesting around his member. Although flaccid under our scrutiny, he’s a reassuringly normal size. I wonder if his arousal feels the same mix of hard interior and soft skin as any other man, like an antler coated in velvet. Will it swell as it grows? How does he taste?

My lips tingle and my mouth goes dry.

“You are a man,” the head priestess announces loudly enough so that all can hear. “Go on, then. Let’s see your wings.”

He tilts his head.

“Ah, of course.” She repeats her question in the ancient language.

Petraya and Zekso beside me watch curiously. We know the ancient language well due to our upbringing. The off-islanders shift, confused by the sounds they only hear during the most serious rituals.

He flexes his shoulders.

The white sails unfold, winking into existence from the very air. They spring from his shoulder blades and extend well beyond his fingertips just like an albino eagle, with long flight feathers along the outer edges and much shorter contour feathers close to his back. Intermixed with these, four long gold feathers, two on each wing, gleam like the precious metal.

A collective gasp of awe and appreciation emerges from the spectators.

My eyes prick with sudden moisture. They are beautiful.

“Stay there,” the head priestess orders him in the ancient language, then hobbles over to us, spry. She starts to ask us in the ancient language, then shakes herself and switches to our common tongue. “Will any of you accept this icarus as your husband?”

Hot wind blows through the dry leaves on the hillside.

My heart thumps.

Zekso nudges me with her elbow.

I don’t feel the compulsion I felt at the headland, and my belly twists. Is he or is he not my destiny?

The head priestess eyes us all, hard, then changes her question. “Will any of you refuse this icarus if he catches you?”

The other women shift, look at each other. A few hands start to go up, including Petraya’s. Zekso grabs her trembling hand and yanks it down, glaring at her fiercely. The others quickly put their hands down, too. They think Zekso wants him, and so, they won’t let his participation stop the hunt.

The head priestess cracks a smile and chuckles darkly. Her cackle reaches a crescendo and she throws her hands in the air. Her voice booms with inhuman power. The ancient language echoes out of her god-touched mouth.

“On the last day of summer, any man of the outer islands who presents a tribute must be allowed to hunt!”

She wheels to the men and jabs at them with her index finger. “Every man will hunt, but not every man will capture. Some will leave with empty hands.” She gestures to the icarus. “Even you, ikaros!”

He lowers his chin, accepting the judgment.

She goes limp as Rigania’s spirit leaves her. Her acolytes catch her mid-fall and ease her to the ground, then carry her, head lolling against her chest, into the shade.

An electric buzz runs through the crowd.

The hunt will proceed with an icarus!

The organizers re-convene as the icarus begins dressing. My view of him is blocked as the men jump up and stretch. Faint-hearted women grab onto their families and sob. The noise is tremendous.

Petraya, Zekso, and I are resolved. So we, like the men, stretch and loosen our limbs for a good, hard run.

Zekso offers me a hefty stick. “In case you need to beat him off.”

“An icarus wouldn’t be stopped by a stick,” Petraya says doubtfully.

“It’s not for him,” Zekso says.

“But Sikyon is from the island.” Petraya fixes my hair where he messed it up earlier by grabbing my nape. “He’s not a bad choice. You’d be able to stay close and help your family.”

“Even more reason to take this stick. Start the marriage with a good, hard smack and the next time he tries something, you look him in the eye and tell him, ‘Don’t go to sleep.’”

Petraya rolls her eyes. “Don’t joke.”

Zekso grins. I really don’t think she’s joking, though.

My heart swells. I put my arms around the two sisters. “I’m going to miss you.”

Zekso drops the stick and rests her forehead against mine. “Me too.”

“Maybe Rigania will pair us with local men,” Petraya says anxiously.

Zekso and I say nothing. We all three hug like it’s our last chance because maybe it is.

The organizers bang on pots for quiet.

“These are the rules,” the secondary priestess announces. “Brides receive a head start. Rigania will lead a pre-destined husband to her, so fighting over a captured bride is a crime against the gods. At sundown, any single hunters must exit the hunting grounds. Questions?”

The clearing is silent except for the crackle of leaves in the wind.

The icarus is fully dressed. He stands with the other men, determined and watchful.

“Brides, prepare yourselves.” She raises her hand. “Goddess Rigania, guide our hunt. Bring together these men and women to unite their bodies as they were designed, and let their joyful cries summon sweet rains and gentle sun for a plentiful year. We entrust our fertility to you. Reward your faithful with your bounty.”

Everyone tenses. Petraya, beside me, holds her breath.

The priestess drops her hands.

We run.

There is only the sounds of our breaths and the clatter of rocks beneath our feet as we collectively break through the screen of trees and tumble down the hill, through a dry creek bed, and up an embankment on the other side. At the top, some women break off, choosing their spots to hide and ambush their chosen men. Deeper into the familiar forests the rest of us run, scattering so that fewer and fewer of us remain.

“By now,” Petraya gasps. “Do you think…they’ve released the men?”

“Maybe.” Zekso stops and clambers up a tree. “I’ll try to see.”

“Zekso!” Petraya circles around and whisper-shouts at her. “Get down! We’re still close. If you see them, they’ll see you!”

Zekso climbs vigorously.

“We’ve got a good spot on the cliff,” Petraya pants to me. “An overhang where you can see without being seen. You can join us if you want. She said there’s room.”

I shake my head.

“You’re brave,” Petraya straightens and clasps my shoulder. “I hope you get your choice of husband.”

“I see something…” Zekso shrieks and shimmies for the ground. “The hooknose!”

Petraya backs up, looks panicked at me, and takes off running hard. She is not going to end up on Halonnesos.

As if by agreement, we break apart to obscure our trails. I think I know the shadowed overhanging they’re planning to hide in, and Zekso’s lying. There’s only room for two.

Up ahead is Sikyon’s ridge. The meeting spot from our childhood.

I run up the ridge and burst into the clearing. Bolts of nerves shoot into me, carried by a thread of knowledge tightening around my sternum. You’re not safe here! Without stopping, I grab onto a tree and frantically climb. I scramble over a wide knot, pad across a thick limb, and hide myself among the curling, desiccated leaves. Some drift down, through those sunbeams, landing on the dry grass.

My breath slows.

The dust motes in the sunbeams glimmer with dangerous, unreadable omens.

Why am I hiding? I’ve come to Sikyon’s meeting place just like he wanted. Doesn’t that mean I’ve secretly decided to…

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

I freeze.

Crunch, crunch. This is the pace of a man who’s not winded by the climb. What inhuman hunter could it be? I lay against the branch and go still, my bare toes gripping the bark so I won’t make a sound.

The man from Halonnesos crosses the clearing without breaking stride.

He is god-touched. He must be.

He continues down the other side of the ridge. The sound of his footsteps fade.

Stay.

I close my eyes. Okay, Rigania, I will stay hidden.

The crunching sound increases. The Halonnesos man is coming back! He circles the clearing and stops beneath my trunk.

I am silent. I am still. I am a mouse in the brush. I am—

He dives into the brush. There’s a terrific snarling, and then he jumps back. In his hand is a badger! I have seen perhaps two in all my life. The animal fights and snarls, curling around to try to bite him. He throws it across the clearing where it rolls to its feet and quickly shuffles off, then he brushes his hands together. He frowns and listens.

Still even my heart.

He circles the clearing once more.

Why is he here? It isn’t a coincidence. Did he overhear Sikyon bragging about his “perfect” plan, or has his woodland tracking experience made him almost as familiar with this terrain as an islander?

At last he jogs away, continuing down the ridge. The footsteps fade out and don’t come back.

I breathe again.

Rustle, rustle.

I tense.

Sikyon bursts into the clearing, red-faced and panicked. “Faesli? Faes…ugh.” He doubles over coughing and pinches his side.

I hold my breath.

“You can come out now. I’m here.” Sikyon stumbles around the clearing. “Don’t be afraid of me. We’re destined to be together. I deserve you.”

Tension rises in my chest, welling in my throat. His family has so many granaries. Their deep-water fishing nets are always full. His linens are finely woven. Their temple offerings are always grand.

I just have to call out to him and accept…

Black spots dance in front of my eyes from how long I desperately hold my breath.

He balls his fists and shouts at the sky. “You were supposed to come here, you stubborn idiot. I hope you break your neck in a ravine! You unfaithful, empty-headed…”

He cuts off his rant abruptly and lowers his fists as he glares across the clearing. “What are you looking at?” he snarls.

There’s no answer.

Sikyon mutters to himself, strides uselessly around the clearing once more, and then jogs down the back hill in roughly the same direction as the Halonnesos man.

I breathe in, and the dots recede.

But beneath me, the shadows move once more.

Yes, I am still not alone. Another man ambles beneath me. This old clearing is surprisingly busy today, it seems. I should…

Oh.

An electric sensation shoots through me.

It’s the icarus.

He pads into the sunlight. From here I can see white-gold threads intermixed with his hair. Like the gold feathers, they glimmer, iridescent metal.

He stares long and hard at the direction the Halonnesos man and Sikyon both disappeared.

And then he tilts his chin, angling his jaw up at me. Through the cloaking leaves, I can see one of his amber eyes. Despite this strange profile, his gaze unerringly finds mine.

Electricity numbs my lips. My heart thumps painfully loud.

He holds my gaze…and then he discards it, dropping his chin again and straightening, wandering casually away from my tree.

A pang strikes me. Why…?

Rustle, rustle, rustle.

Sikyon’s voice gets louder. He’s mid-conversation with another hunter. “—know that. Could we have overtaken the women? Some of them are stupid slow.”

Sikyon stumbles into the clearing again and stops abruptly at the sight of the icarus.

“Yeah, they’re all behind us,” his companion agrees from outside the clearing. He’s from another island, not someone I know. “Like the girl who ambushed that wine-drinker at the first ridge. They don’t know a man’s worth beyond his face. Let’s go back and flush out anyone who’s hiding. Throw rocks and poke the bushes with a big stick until they run out.”

Sikyon swings wide around the icarus, his fists clenched. “I thought to end you for daring to come here,” he mutters. “But then I remembered you don’t speak our tongue.”

“Don’t be so sure,” the icarus replies, in stilted but correct common language.

Sikyon almost falls down. He catches himself, staggers back, hands out in shock. Then, without another word, he turns and plunges away, back toward the starting point of the bride hunt.

So, the icarus understood us this whole time, and heard everything that was said about him…

The icarus watches Sikyon go.

Then he steps back, plants his feet, and looks up at me fully in the face.

My heart thuds like crazy.

He tilts his head slightly as if he’s wondering why I’m up in a tree hiding from a man that I appear to have run here to meet.

But he doesn’t poke at me with sticks or throw rocks. He just watches.

What’s he waiting for?

Some will leave this island with empty hands.

Is that it?

If he’s waiting for me, then I’m the one who has to move.

My hands shake as I slowly climb down, careful of my footing, and land on my feet. Not lightly, like he did at the beach, but heavily, like a human. His gaze follows my descent. I rise, taking deep breaths, and face my destiny.

He faces me back.

This is my choice.

My knees tremble.

You don’t want to end up with a monster.

I take a single step toward him.

The white-gold lightning zips around his amber irises.

Fascinating.

I ease away.

He remains in place.

I stop. My mouth is dry, but my command of the ancient language is firm. “Don’t you know you’re supposed to chase your bride?”

He blinks, then strides forward.

I turn and bolt, my legs flashing and arms pumping. I am faster than a wild rabbit, faster than a leaping dolphin, and I am certainly faster than him. It’s a little surprising. I slow down, double back, peer down the hillside as he struggles. Finally, I call, “Do you not run on Ikaria?”

“Not often,” he admits, in our common tongue. His voice is soft, and very slightly accented. “There is little flat ground.”

“I have the advantage, then.”

“At what?”

“A bride of Rigania is strong and fleet. Our island is large and close to the gods, so all our daughters study as acolytes to hear their words better. My husband should be at least as talented.”

He reaches me and I take off again, but this time, he paces me and slips back into the ancient language. “Does a human really hear the words of the gods?”

I smirk, and from then on, we remain speaking only in the ancient language. “Try to catch me and find out.”

He suddenly lunges.

I easily dodge, the ground hot and familiar beneath my feet.

He darts again, almost at my shoulder, his own legs flashing. So, he does run. It’s not all inhuman leaps.

“Good, icarus.” I laugh, the ancient syllables echoing against the rocks. “But remember, using wings is a cheat.”

“I wouldn’t dare cheat a worthy bride.” His tone is teasing but I don’t hear a trace of malice. More than that, I hear exhilaration. A broad grin splits his face, and he focuses on his footing.

His joy fills my chest, too, and suddenly I feel lighter than air. I dodge his casual swipes, weave down the slope, and race up the other side.

The land of my home spreads beneath me, gorgeous mountains and distant barley fields. The farmers wait for this ritual to finish, for us to consummate our chase and summon the rains. And maybe this year it will happen quickly. The sun, so harsh this morning, now flirts behind heavy-bottomed clouds.

I ascend one of my favorite trails along the rocky cliffs, my legs pumping hard. The icarus follows and I feel, for the first time since last fall’s shocking tragedy, that I can stretch out and take a full breath. I’m finally alive.

Beside me, he’s serious. Focused. But then he catches one of my sideways glances and trips.

I laugh aloud. Even a man made of air can stumble.

He touches the ground with one hand and rights himself.

I scramble onto a ledge with no room for any feet but mine. My chest heaves and my legs tremble, but it’s no longer from nerves. He slows and comes to a stop beneath me, wipes his sweat from his brow, then tilts his head, inquiring.

I point. “Look, icarus. This is my island. This is the home of my gods, the cemetery of my ancestors and nesting ground of my kin.”

He follows my gaze out over the vast panorama. Dark rock, brown fields, white shore, vivid blue ocean.

“Is Ikaria as good as this? Is it as beautiful and as sheltering? Will we feel the tender touch of the gods, and will our children thrive and be happy?”

He takes a deep breath and lets it out. Then he looks up at me, sideways, his amber eyes glimmering through his lashes. “I don’t know.”

“I suppose that’s fair.”

Up here, the hot wind feels cooling on my damp skin.

He frowns. “I should have considered this question…how to convince you…”

“I would rather hear a rough, honest answer than the smoothest rehearsed words.”

His brow lifts, and again he glances up at me. Despite our differences, a spark of understanding passes between us. Perhaps we’re more alike than we seem.

I leap over him like a powerful mountain goat.

He makes a noise of surprise. “Do you have wings?”

“If I did, I couldn’t use them,” I remind him, surfing down the clattering rocks into the screen of trees.

As we angle back, he slows, and thinking he might be tiring, I slow as well. He darts forward, successfully tricking me, so I reward him by letting him bump into me. Elbow brushes forearm, hip checks hip. He is hard and male, and he shifts further apart as though concerned the touch is unwelcome, so I bump him again, more firmly, as we run along the edge of a shallow ravine.

He snorts in surprise, then feints to grab me.

I dash away, just out of his reach.

He feints again. That adorable smile again curves his lips. He’s forgotten to be serious. A monster like him can play.

My heart beats so fast it could race out of my chest. What will I do when he catches me? I—

Fear suddenly stabs me with warning, and movement catches the corner of my eye. There, only a few strides away, is Sikyon.

I jolt to a stop. The icarus stumbles into me. We knock over branches and make a huge clatter. Panicking, I shove him behind a bush.

Sikyon turns toward us.

If he sees me, there will be violence.

Even though it’s a violation of Rigania, there will be blood and failure, again. I know it as surely as I’ve known everything else today.

“Faesli?” Sikyon tramps toward us. “Is that you?”

No. I refuse.

I turn directly away from Sikyon, which happens to be right into the icarus, and push off. My instinct is to run as far and as fast as I can away from him. But the icarus balances on the edge of the ravine, and when I shove directly into him, his heels tip backward.

He grabs my wrist to steady himself.

But that backfires when I lean into his motion.

Together, we fall into the shallow ravine.

His arms close around my body as we—mostly him—crash through the dense thicket growing out of the sides of the ravine. He draws me close as we roll across roots and down another drop. Branches thwack me and scrape my forehead. His big hand closes over my head and he tries to shelter me. We land at the bottom with a hard thump, me on top of him, about twenty feet down, swallowed by brush and lost in deep shadow.

He winces and rubs his shoulder, then wriggles sideways as though trying to get off a sharp rock.

Then he sucks in a breath to speak.

I put my hand over his mouth.

He stills.

Up above, Sikyon says, “Did you see what that was?”

“No,” his companion answers. “An animal or something. They sure aren’t making it easy this year.”

“Yeah. Well, I know a few more spots. Bring your stick.”

Their voices grow distant.

And then it’s just the wind.

I let out my held breath in low relief. “Enaksi.”

“Parayalo.” The icarus studies me.

“What?” I ask, still in the ancient language. “What do you see?”

“You.” He tilts his head the other way, getting another view. “You’re like no one I’ve ever known.”

Heh. “Same.”

He lifts his hand, hovers just above my hair. “May I?”

My heart thumps, a drumbeat so loud that if he does have magical hearing, he’ll know the answer. “You may.”

He pulls a twig out of my hair.

I giggle. That was not what I expected. “I thought you were going to touch me.”

“Oh.” He makes no move to do so.

I hover my hand over his head. “May I?”

His voice softens and deepens. “You may.”

His hair is silken and thick. It covers his head well although it doesn’t grow beyond his ears. The white crest on his forehead is bleached skin, or maybe magic. It’s the mark of the moon god, Miynos, who breathed in life after his ancestors were drowned in the sea. It’s said the icarus are weak to water, so it’s extra impressive that this one sailed here on his own.

I trace my fingers across his white-blond eyebrows, down his nose, across his cheeks where a dusting of reverse freckles delights me. His scent is male, musky and sweet, and I inhale a deep breath feeling him enter my body and bubble in my blood.

His waist is narrow, his thighs hard beneath mine. He is muscular, thick and well-fed, and his frame is strong and sheltering. He has not hungered much in his life.

His fingertips trace a curious design on my waist, ticklish. The other hand tests a lock of my wavy brown hair, rolling the strands between his thumb and forefinger.

This is the moment we should consummate our hunt. We must dedicate our union to the goddess so our fertile energy infuses my barren homeland. Does he have any interest?

His male length presses against my thigh.

He does, then.

I lean forward to begin with a kiss.

He catches my hand, stopping me. “Faesli.”

The soft murmur makes a shiver go up my spine. The very air is hot. I feel him in my pores.

“Right?” he questions.

I nod. “And you?”

He abandons my side and uses both hands to frame my face, to tuck the wild locks of hair torn free by branches behind my ears. “Niq.”

“Nick?”

He nods. “Short for Niqalis-ruqin-aqinthos, ‘gentle breeze after the gods’ hurricane.’”

I repeat the unfamiliar syllables, emphasizing as he does, and an easy grin flashes across his face. The word for “breeze” can also mean an exhale, like letting out a sigh of relief, and somehow that seems to fit him so well I want to compliment his name-givers.

But he sobers as he winds my loose hair around one finger. “That man thinks he has a claim on you.”

Ah. Well, I have nothing to hide about Sikyon. “He was a childhood friend.”

“A long-standing claim, then.” His amber gaze flicks from my hair straight into my soul. “One you may regret losing.”

He’s perceptive.

But my regret isn’t from losing Sikyon’s claim.

“Childhood is over.” I fill my words with truth, and they ring as Rigania unexpectedly shares her power to emphasize my honesty. “I choose you.”

He blinks twice, then frowns hard as he rolls upright, fully focused on me. My truth affects him deeply. He cups my cheeks. “You choose me?”

“I choose—”

He draws me into his kiss.

I melt in flames.

His mouth is hot and sweet, and he nibbles and sups on me with delightful urgency. His lips and teeth are soft but demanding. I open to him, and he delves in, filling me with an impossible-to-describe flavor, like rain-dampened stone evaporating in the sun’s heat. I drink him in. His fingers splay across my cheeks, rough and male, and my loose hair spills over us like a curtain. His tongue catches mine, curls.

Throbbing heat awakens in my center.

Like our running, he chases after me. Everywhere I lead, he is right at my shoulder. I push up his tunic, baring his hard abdomen and the lighter treasure trail leading to the band of his pants. I dip my hand beneath and encircle the hard length.

He inhales, then helps me to bare him.

His member is just as I saw, now a proud, well-formed maleness, and his musky sweetness intensifies. The scent envelops me like a drug, making me slick and wet for him. I tease the tip of his prowess and stroke his sensitive ridges. He groans. His girth swells, and I squeeze him in response. This will fit in me, I think.

He slides his hand under my tunic and cups my breast. His thumb teases my sensitive peak.

Heat streaks to my center.

I wet my palm and glide it along his hardness.

He shudders. “Faesli.”

I wanted to explore and learn about him, but all of a sudden, I don’t care about any of that. I’m aching, throbbing for him. I shimmy out of my pants, my garments catching on the brush, and when my own yanking gets frustrated, he intervenes with a chuckle and helps me. I like this about him. He can be so serious in one moment, flash a grin, then go back to kissing me deeply and seriously. I think it means he’s good-natured.

I settle against him, my breasts pressing against his hot, damp skin. He’s coating me in his scent, making me his. He pauses his kiss as I straddle him and align our bodies. His delicate male head touches my wet entrance. He sucks in a breath, his chest heaving as if we’ve begun our race again, and I sink onto his hard length. Every rigid inch fills and stretches me. It feels amazing.

He rests on his hands, gives his head a shake, his sweat flowing. “You…”

I lift, making him lose his train of thought, and resettle myself to take him a little deeper. A third time seats his full length within me. Pelvis to pelvis, we are one.

He releases another groan. His voice breaks. “You’re amazing.”

My lips curve with the smile in my heart. I will take this compliment.

I shift my hips, testing different angles, and he shudders again. This is too deep, and this, not quite right.

“Go back on your elbows,” I tell him, and when he does, I scoot forward. Our heads bump gently, and we both laugh, just a single breath, just to show we’re both still in this and figuring things out together.

I slide against his muscular abdomen, and brilliant glowlights fire off behind my eyes. He moans, and I clench around him, centering him on my pleasure. “That’s good.”

He tries to rise again.

I resist, holding him in place, and grind against him.

He settles back, alternating between watching me with his mouth open, eyes focused on our union, or rolling his head back and groaning at the sky.

This is good too, this reaction. Some men will insist on their preferred position, ignoring a woman’s pleasure. He lets me take mine and supports me as I buck, increasingly wild. His amber eyes roll as if he’s experiencing my same building intensity.

And then the goddess takes hold of my woman’s area and her blessing whips through me. Pleasure shoots through my veins, light and goodness and healing, like a brilliant glowing beacon. This moment is perfect. This act is good. I am one with the earth and spirit, soul and space. My body clenches, holding her light, a vessel of her joyous form made real.

The icarus—Niq—makes a strangled noise as his seed floods my womb. His eyes squeeze shut. And then he gusts out and collapses, flat on his back, trembling.

Good. The goddess moved her life-giving energy through him, too. Together, we completed the replenishing ritual of fertility.

Please, Rigania, let this bring healing back to our land.

I lie against Niq. His heartbeat is so loud, but it mirrors mine. We are more alike than different, perhaps. His breathing slows, smooths, and then he picks up my hair again and rubs it between his fingers. He makes a noise.

“What?” I say.

“Do men and women of this island always lie together outside?”

I laugh again. This is the most I’ve laughed since I can’t remember. “No, just during this festival. What about on Ikaria?”

“No, we have too many people flying overhead for that.”

“Is everyone on your island a monster, then?”

He lets my hair drop. “Am I a hideous monster?”

For some reason my throat closes up and heat burns my cheeks. His amber eyes are fathomless.

I clear my throat. “A beautiful one.”

Something flickers across his face.

He takes a deep breath and rocks upright. We separate, standing awkwardly in the brush, and pull on our clothes. He winces and pulls up his pant leg. A gash on his shin is bleeding. He glances up at me, then shrugs his right shoulder. His right wing emerges, white and glistening, like magic. He plucks one of the downy feathers and makes his wing disappear again, holds the feather to his mouth, and whispers secret words. Then he lays the feather against the gash. The feather catches on fire, blackening and twisting, and clings to his skin like a bandage until the fire goes out. Then the ash flutters away. His skin is a little red but otherwise the gash is healed.

“It’s magic,” I breathe. “Can you do anything?”

He glances up at me. “A small wish for a small feather.” He rises, then averts his eyes and gestures at my cheek. “I could erase that if you wanted.”

My hand goes to my cheek. There’s not any new injury, which is surprising considering how we fell through the brush, but then again, he did his best to protect me. I only feel the slight uneven sensation of Sikyon’s childish scratch. It’s small and barely bothers me, but I am curious about the feel of his magic. “Please.”

He materializes his wing, pulls another feather, and disappears it again. “It’ll hurt.”

“A lot?” I stand still, offering my cheek for him.

“Not this one.” He whispers and then presses the feather to my cheek. “It depends on the size of the wish.”

“Okay.”

The feather blackens and curls at the edge of my vision, and searing pain lances my cheek as if I’m being branded with a real fire. Then it’s gone. The soot flies away. I touch my cheek. The skin is smooth beneath my fingers.

“I never heard about this,” I tell him, softly rubbing the reborn skin. “Is it your special power?”

He shakes his head, a smile tugging at his lips. “Pretty normal for us.”

“Huh.”

A low rumble of thunder echoes across the dimming sky.

I orient myself to the familiar landmarks and lead him up a winding deer trail out of the ravine. “Did you take your gifts for granted and fall out of the sky?”

“No, but that’s a common question.”

“Did you drown and get revived by the moon god who marked you as his servant?”

He laughs behind me. “Not exactly.”

“Wow.”

“What is it?”

“I was just thinking…”

He follows me up the hill, but just as he’s taking his last steps, the pebbles slide away. He teeters.

I grab his hand, haul him up to solid ground. He’s heavy as a man when I pull on him. We both pant.

“You were thinking?” he prompts.

“I thought I knew things about the icarus, but maybe I don’t know anything at all.”

A smile crinkles his eyes. He straightens and takes a firmer grip on my hand. “I don’t know anything about you.”

“You know some things.”

“Only that a woman from Rigania is fleet and strong and close to the gods.”

My heart thumps. I feel a tug in my bones, a thread winding around my sternum and orienting me on Niq. “That’s the important part.”

“I’m eager to learn.” His voice is low and intimate for my ear, and his breath dries the sweat on my neck and makes me feel ticklish in a good way. “Tell me more.”

I look down at our clasped hands. My skin is an olive brown like the earth shoring up a stone foundation, and his is the burned gold of a creature who once flew too close to the sun. We look so different, but we both found each other in this beautiful, vibrant world.

“Very well, my husband.” I swing our hands lightly as I lead us back, through my forest, toward the clearing where we’ll share our wedding feast. “What would you like to know?”