I creep as quietly as I can along the garden wall, careful to remain concealed in the shadows. I trace my fingers along the uneven stone to guide my path as I make my way toward the hidden exit.
As soon as my fingers touch the long trailing vines that cover my escape, I carefully part them and slip through the curtain into the forest. The moon is only a quarter full, but it casts enough light that I’m able to navigate the worn path safely through the woods.
Shadows of nocturnal creatures dance at the edge of my vision as I glide along the hard-packed dirt. I am not worried about predators, however. Between my father’s guards and the Dwarves who live in the mountains, no wolf or bear would dare hunt in this territory.
A cool breeze whips through the forest. I pull my cloak tighter around me to ward off the chill. I hope Bran is on guard duty this evening, but I cannot be sure. I normally only visit him at the end of the week when I know I will catch him. It’s been three days since I saw him last—three days too long.
As I ascend the steep track toward the mountain entrance, I notice a shape moving up ahead. I stop and crouch. I cannot simply show up unannounced. The guards might mistake me for an invader and launch an arrow straight through me.
Bringing my hands to my mouth, I produce the soft bird call that Bran taught me to let the guards know that a friend, not an enemy, approaches.
The shape in the distance stills and sends an answering call, letting me know I may reveal myself without fear of being shot.
I stand and wave into the darkness, knowing the Dwarves have much keener night vision than I do. They can probably see me very clearly, whereas I can only make out the vague shape of a man. At least… I think it’s a man. It is hard to distinguish Dwarves at this great distance. They are similar in height to humans. The men and women both have a heavily muscular build, with the same broad shoulders, flat chests, and narrow hips.
The man rushes toward me, and I smile as soon as I recognize Bran. He’s only half a head taller than I am, but he is so muscular that when he gathers me into his arms and spins, I feel wrapped in an oversized bear hug.
“What are you doing here, Lyana? How did you know I’d be on guard duty tonight?”
“I didn’t.” I grin. “I took a chance to come see you.”
Even in the dim light of the moon, I read the concern in his features as he studies my face. “Is something wrong?”
My expression falls. Bran has been my best friend since childhood and he knows me too well. Emotions lodge in my throat, and all I can do is nod.
He cups my face with his larger hands, brushing away the stray tears that escape my lashes with his callused thumbs. “What is it? Tell me, Lyana. Please.”
I swallow back a sob. “I am to marry one of the High Elves—Prince Caelen of Rivenyl.”
Bran stills, and his lips thin. “No,” he whispers. “You cannot marry a High Elf.”
