Zekar, in urgent haste, covered the petite girl's mouth as he shook his head and raised his long, dark fingers to his lips—an unmistakable gesture meant to hush her and keep her from screaming again.
The white-haired girl—whose eyebrows and lashes, Zekar noticed with startling clarity, were also white like her hair—nodded quickly, very likely wishing for his hand to be removed from her face as soon as possible. He released her at once, stepping back a fraction, and she did not scream. Instead, she only stared at him, her eyes wide and filled with utter, trembling fear.
"Y… You… You are from Druvkaur," she said, her voice quivering. While the boys could not properly speak English, they understood the most important parts—such as what she had just said.
Ryker came to his brother's side, his gaze shifting between Zekar and the utterly beautiful girl, curiosity and caution written plainly on his face.
Zekar nodded. "Iya, nu'rek thal Druvkaur," he responded, his deep voice steady. The girl only blinked at him, confusion flickering across her delicate features.
Ryker shook his head and leaned closer to his brother, whispering into his ear in Drk, "She might not understand Drk, brother." He shook his head once more before retreating a step.
"Oh…" Zekar cleared his throat, realizing that the girl was likely waiting for an answer—in English, of course. "We…" he gestured between himself and his twin brother, "…Druvkaur."
"Ah…" White Hair—as Zekar had already named her in his mind—nodded slowly. "You can't speak English?" she asked. They shook their heads. "But you can understand me, right?" They nodded again, and White Hair cleared her throat as she took a few cautious steps back. "I… I don't know you. What are the people of Druvkaur looking for in Velanthri?"
They heard her question clearly and understood it well enough, yet how to respond—they did not know at all. She clearly did not understand Drk, and their English failed them in return.
Ryker tried anyway. "To see… ah… city."
White Hair blinked, then bit her lip in thought. Zekar's golden eyes, flecked faintly with red, trailed down to that small, unconscious action, and he remembered the warmth of her mouth beneath his palm—missing it already, much to his own surprise.
"Eh… okay," she nodded uncertainly. "Enjoy seeing the city. I'll go." She gestured behind her, picked up her bag with fearful haste, and was about to move when—
"Wait!" Zekar stopped her in English. White Hair froze immediately, her eyes trembling with renewed fear. "Not… hurt you." He pointed to himself and then to his brother. "Ca… not go back… Druvkaur."
His awkward, broken English nearly made White Hair laugh, but fear quickly drowned the impulse. She shook her head. "I cannot help you," she said, exasperation lifting her expression despite her unease. "Anae lelúra thrainé?" she muttered under her breath, knowing they would not understand—though they clearly feared the sharpness of her tone. She sighed softly. "I will take you to my place, but you will… eh… stay with the gatemen."
They nodded again, grateful for any scrap of kindness offered.
"Let's go," she said, turning on her heel. The young men followed behind, but as before, Zekar drifted away from Ryker's side to walk beside White Hair. His body was muscular and towering over her, his presence overwhelming. She trembled slightly and shifted away, creating distance between them, certain that any words she spoke would be lost on this man of Druvkaur.
Zekar, knowing little of restraint or human delicacy, reached out and touched the girl's shoulder. She wore a beautiful, flowing white dress, cinched at the waist with a belt, and brown sandals dusted from travel. White Hair immediately looked up at him, eyes wide with fear, and he dropped his hand at once—though his shoulders did not hunch, nor did he retreat. He wanted her to look at him nonetheless.
"You… name?"
White Hair blinked twice, then murmured an "Oh" before answering, "Emery." She spoke while looking up at his dark skin, which the moonlight seemed to favor and soften.
"Emery…" He spoke her name with that young yet deep, tingling voice of his—and Gods above, why did she love the sound of her own name when it left his lips?
Emery shook her head and faced forward, attempting to gather herself, but it was not long before the presence walking beside her drew her attention once more. He was not looking at her now; he was looking at his brother. Taking the chance, she studied him quietly. His shoulder-length, tousled black-brown hair was tied into a small ponytail behind his head. She could not see his eyes while he faced away, yet she knew them to be golden with hints of hellfire red—eyes said to captivate both body and soul. Her gaze drifted to his perfectly shaped nose, then further down to those dark, sinful lips.
It was not the first time she had seen a man from Druvkaur. She had seen others before, though she had never spoken to them—nor had any ever ensnared her attention as this one did.
Her eyes wandered lower, to his clothing, which left little to the imagination. She was not surprised—it was the Druvkaur way of dress. He was clad in a black, silky garment that left his shoulders, back, and torso bare, covering only part of his chest. The same could be said of his pants, which appeared like tattered rags to the unknowing eye, though they were simply the fashion of Druvkaur.
While the Druvkaur favored open clothing—being a people born of heat and fire—the folk of Velanthri preferred covered garments that preserved modesty and tradition.
She continued staring, her gaze tracing his every feature, unaware that her face had already flushed red with admiration—until he turned to her, meeting her stare with those heated eyes that made her feel as though he wished to devour her where she stood, body and soul alike.