I sat on the old log by the border, legs swinging loose over the damp moss. Fog clung low tonight, thick enough to swallow sounds and turn the line between North and West into a gray smear.
Past midnight for sure—the moon sat high through the haze, mocking me. Maeve was late. Again. I tugged my jacket zipper higher, but the chill still wormed through the thin fabric.
Orphanage issue—cheap, patched, never quite warm enough. Out here it was worse, with the damp seeping up from the ground.
I kicked at a pebble, watching it skitter into the fog on the West side. Patrols had been ramping up lately. Heard the boots crunching closer during the day, saw the extra lanterns flickering from both sides.
Kids back at the home wouldn't shut up about it over dinner—vampires stirring trouble, West humans stockpiling weapons, treaty about to snap. Matron shushed them, but her eyes were worried. I didn't buy it. Rumors were cheap. Always had been.
This spot was my break from all that garbage—the endless scrubbing floors, folding laundry till my hands cracked, dodging the little ones who cried at night. Maeve got why I came here. She was the only one who ever had.
A rustle cut through from the North side. Too sharp for wind rattling leaves, too silent for a guard stumbling around. Maeve dropped down right in front of me, landing without a sound, like gravity didn't apply.
Those turquoise eyes caught what little moonlight broke through first, sharp and glowing faint. Then her grin split wide, all teeth and mischief.
She held up a cloth bundle in one hand, swinging it like she'd won a prize.
"Treats from the mansion kitchens," she said, tossing it over easy. "Stole them myself this time. Cook's got a weakness for a good smile and a bat of the eyes. Wouldn't let me near the good stuff otherwise."
I snagged it mid-air, one-handed, and peeled back the cloth. Pastries inside, four of them, still warm somehow—stuffed with crushed nuts, honey dripping sticky at the edges.
Real food, not the watery porridge we got at the home. I picked one up and bit in deep. Sweet crunch hit my tongue, cutting the cold right out. "You're late. What held you? Ruslan chain you to a throne room or something?"
She dropped onto the log next to me, close as always, shoulder knocking mine light. Maeve smelled like cold stone walls and faint night-blooming flowers—mansion smells, the kind I'd only caught whiffs of when she brought stuff like this before.
"Ruslan? Please. He's too buried in his maps and ledgers to notice me slip the back gate. Been pacing all evening, muttering about border reports. Eat up—you're skin and bones lately. Orphanage feeding you rocks?"
I took another bite, chewing slow to make it last. Crumbs fell between us onto the moss. Maeve grabbed one for herself, tearing into it without pause. She talked fast when she was excited, words tumbling like she had a whole night's worth to unload.
Tonight it was court gossip—who snubbed who at dinner, some noble tripping over his own cape during a hunt story. I nodded along, half-listening, half-watching the fog for any twitch of movement. Patrols got closer every week. One wrong laugh and we'd both be hauled in.
We polished off the pastries in easy quiet after that, wrappers crumpled in my fist. Maeve leaned back on her hands, staring at the border line like it owed her something.
Her voice dropped casual, but her eyes had that spark. "We should get husbands at the same time someday. Make it fair. Then get our kids married off young—seal the deal forever."I snorted, nearly choking on the last crumb.
"Husbands? You'd scare off half the West with one look. And if our kids married? I'd be stuck suffering you forever. No thanks. I'd take orphanage slop three times a day first."
She barked that laugh of hers—sharp, too loud for the fog. I tensed up, elbowing the air around us, eyes darting both ways along the line. Nothing stirred, but my pulse kicked anyway. "Way to jinx us," I muttered.
Maeve just grinned wider, bumping my shoulder with hers—solid, vampire-strong but playful. I bumped back, putting real fae push into it. She didn't shift an inch. We sat like that a beat longer, shoulders touching, the warmth from the pastries fading fast in the damp.
Then her face shifted—no grin, eyes going dead serious, turquoise locking straight on mine. "I'll always have your back, Raelin," she said, voice low and steady. No joking edge. "No matter what comes. Treaty breaks, patrols triple—whatever. You know that, right?"
I held her stare. Something in my chest squeezed tight. Maeve didn't say stuff like that light. Silence stretched heavy between us, fog swallowing the rest of the world. I broke it first, fishing into my jacket pocket.
My fingers closed on the wrapped package—leather soft under the cloth. "Yeah. Here. Made this for you."
I handed it over. She took it careful, like it was glass, peeling the cloth back slow. Journal inside—hand-stitched leather cover, thick blank pages waiting. I'd spent nights on it after lights-out, stitching by feel under the blanket with a stolen needle.
Her fingers traced the edges, eyes going soft in a way that hit me harder than the cold. "You... made this?" Maeve's voice caught just a little.
"Had time between mopping halls and dodging the little screamers. Figured you need a spot for all your reckless plans. Scribble your border maps or whatever."
She pressed it to her chest a second, then dug into her own pocket. Pulled out a dagger—slim blade all silver, runes etched deep along the edge like they'd cut shadow itself. Hilt wrapped tight in black leather, balanced perfect in her palm.
She held it out flat. "Your turn now."
I stared. That gleam was wrong. Everyone in the West knew vampire-killing runes when they saw them—sharp, hungry, made for one job. My stomach dropped cold. "Maeve. Hell no."
"Take it. Custom job. Matches your style—light, quick, deadly pretty."
I shoved her hand back, palm flat on the flat of the blade. "You're a vampire. That's not a gift. That's insurance for if I ever need to stake you."
She rolled her eyes, thrusting it closer till the tip nearly pricked my jacket. "It's luxury, Raelin. Look at the hilt work. Not like we'd end up enemies. Treaty holds. North-West beef is old history."
My gut twisted hard. She was right—we weren't idiots chasing war stories. Tensions simmered, sure, but Maeve and I? Never us. Still felt heavy, like borrowing trouble. I sighed, snatching it from her grip. Weight sat solid in my hand, runes cold against my skin. I slid it careful into my belt loop, under the jacket flap. "Fine. But I won't use it. Ever."
We stood up together. Maeve pulled me into a hug—arms tight around my shoulders, her cold skin pressing solid against mine. Vampire chill, but it grounded me. I hugged back, hard, breathing in that stone-and-flowers smell one last time. She lingered a beat too long, then pulled away, grin flickering back half-strength.
"Next time. Don't eat all the good pastries before I get here."
She vanished into the North fog, gone quick as a shadow shift. I stayed planted, hand drifting to the dagger hilt. Stared at the empty spot where she'd stood, border line blurring in the mist. "Won't have to use it," I muttered to nobody. "Not on her, never." 66Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkhVNte1qbw
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