Let’s rewind from that encounter with Elina, shall we?

It’s earlier in the evening. Fewer of this mad congregation are drunk, but there are still a number of pre-game types that have entered the festivities in a state of full readiness, their blood alcohol level primed for maximum saturation. Tahl is being ogled more in this blue hour of twilight, and he’s sick of it, frankly, dodging groups of marauding women who have taken it upon themselves to “thank” the conquering heroes.

Tahl does not feel like a conquering hero. He feels like he needs to find his sister, and together, complain about how stupid all of this is.

And while Bryar is never easy to find, short of an explosion or a pub brawl to give her away, tonight she’s impossible. She’s not skulking around the perimeter with the other wall flowers. She’s not doing a keg-stand. She’s not with Alethea, who he’s trying not to stare at, laughing with a group of friends that clearly all grew up together in the castle, easy in their finery and jewels. She’s not with Tristan, who is even easier, like he was literally born to party (no surprise, there).

You’d have thought it would be simple to pick a girl in boots and pants out of this be-gowned and be-coiffed clown fiesta. And you’d have been right! But Bryar was not booted. Nor was she pantsed.

Tahl blinks, not believing his eyes.

He’s found her. It was accidental – he never would have recognized her in that getup, not without hearing her voice. She’s just made a snarky comment and Tahl has whipped around, scanning the crowd for her, his eyes landing on a couple on the dance floor that can’t be, cannot be, but it is, Bryar and some guy. Some very smiling, very handsy guy.

Tahl is moving forward as if he’s being dragged by some invisible force, until he is right next to them, feeling…well, a bunch of things he’s really confused about feeling.

“Who” he starts, looming over them, “the fuck” he continues, his head unmoving, but his eyes flicking between his…his sister, who does not look anything like his sister, and the hands-man, “is this.”

The question could have been for either one of them, honestly.

His eyes drop to where the guy is holding Bryar in a proprietary way. The sight is bewildering. Was Bryar…sexy? He shakes his head once and fixes her with a trademark scowl, one of many in his facial wardrobe – this one means he’s absolutely lost and in need of an explanation. Multiple explanations.

“What are you wearing?”