Page 45 of Sunsplitter

“That’syour pet name?”

“Is this not what humans say to each other in affection?”

Honey. Sweet. Fi had been called each of those things in the past—never amicably. And never…

“Not both of them together,” she said. “You can’t just combine words like that.”

Antal’s tail swished wider. “This is an unnecessary amount of rules.”

“What is happening here?” Kashvi interjected, circling the sofa with arms full of paperwork. “And why in the cruel black Void is it happening in my presence?”

Antal cast her a thoughtful look. “Governor Kashvi, you’ve spent many years with your partner, yes?”

Fi was going to perish.

“What does Iliha call you?” Antal asked, so deadpan, it couldn’t be fake.

“No,” Kashvi said. Face granite. “No, we’re not doing this.”

“Iliha calls Kashvi her wolverine,” Fi said, masking a snicker.

Antal’s nose wrinkled. “You told me pet names weren’t meant to be actual pets.”

“No,” Fi said, “I know that, but…”

The laugh bubbled out before she could stop it, bright and genuine for this absurd immortal who could carve bones with his claws, but not understand the nuances of pet names. Antal huffed.

Then, he twitched a smile. Fi hadn’t seen him smile since they’d left for the Twilit Plane.

It fled at the sound of a knock on the office door.

Their moment of levity vanished with Kashvi’s gruff callof “come in,” with the door swinging open and a patrolman leaning inside. Fi slumped against the sofa anew. More territory business. A never-ending parade of demands—

“Lord Antal.” The patrolman spoke, hurried. “There’s a daeyari here to see you.”

The words snapped through the room like a match.

Antal was on his feet first. Fi right after him, sword hilt in hand. Kashvi moved to her desk, within reach of the crossbow she kept out of sight. The three of them, at each other’s throats more often than not when it came to the politics of the city. But this wastheircity. They’d fought together to win it back. They’d fight together to keep it safe.

“A daeyari?” Antal demanded. “On what business?”

The patrolman glanced to the hall. “She didn’t say. I… don’t think she understands—”

“No one speaks daeyari here?” called out in the same language. “Outrageous!”

Yme pushed into the room like a Winter wind, past the patrolman’s half-hearted protest. She dressed in pants of red ombre and black flowers, tight at her waist and loose at her calves. Her shirt was gossamer black with flowing sleeves, a silver cape draping one shoulder. Her hair wove a top layer of three braids, cascading slate underneath. Very dusk-predator chic, fit for a walk along the river before gorging on mortal flesh.

Antal stood stone-still, mouth parted in shock.

Kashvi appraised both immortals. Locked eyes with Fi. Gestured, questioning, to the crossbow beneath her desk. Fi, equally slack-jawed, held up a finger to wait.

“Azaevi,” Antal said, breaking from his stupor. The greeting quieted her, long enough for Antal to address the patrolman in seasonspeak. “Thank you. I’ll handle her.”

The man retreated swiftly, closing the door behind him.

Yme huffed at his exit. Spoke in daeyari. “Your humans are rude.”

“I’ll show herrude,” Fi returned in seasonspeak.