CHAPTER 1 

SIMIAN

I do not swim in the Waters of Fate. Not willingly, anyway.

The festival crowds press against me from all sides. Colored lanterns sway overhead, casting red and gold across the stone plaza. Music drifts from somewhere—strings and drums, the kind that makes people think they're in love. Around me, dark elves laugh too loudly, drink too much, touch each other with the casual certainty of those who believe the night holds promises.

I stand at the edge of it all. Observing. This is what I do best.

"There you are!" Korven's hand claps my shoulder hard enough to make me stumble. "I've been looking everywhere."

"I wasn't hiding."

"You were absolutely hiding." He's grinning, face flushed with wine and celebration. Korven has that effect on festivals—he absorbs them, becomes part of the joy. I've never understood how. "Come on. The ceremonies are starting."

I let him steer me deeper into the crowd. We're both merchant lords, both wealthy enough that people part for us automatically. But where I've cultivated respect through careful transactions and measured words, Korven has simply... existed. Loudly. Happily. He's mated, has two children, owns half the textile trade in Ter's lower districts. He makes it all look easy.

"You know," he says, leaning close to be heard over the music, "you're three hundred and forty-seven years old."

"I'm aware."

"And unmated."

"Also aware."

"The waters have plans for everyone, friend. Even you."

I've heard this before. The Waters of Fate, three sacred pools in Ter's oldest temple district, where singles traditionally swim during Ikuyenda hoping for visions of their future mates. Supposedly the god Ter himself blesses the waters, shows you your destiny. Supposedly the visions never lie.

I've never believed in destiny. I believe in contracts, percentages, calculated risks.

"I'm not swimming in sacred pools, Korven."

"Why not? Afraid of what you'll see?"

"Afraid of looking foolish in front of half of Ter's nobility."

He laughs. "You always look foolish. Might as well make it memorable."

We've reached the temple plaza. The three pools gleam under lantern-light, their surfaces perfectly still despite the crowds. People are already wading in—mostly young elves, nervous and excited, hoping the waters will show them love. Some emerge crying. Some emerge laughing. Most see nothing at all.

A servant passes with a tray of wine. I take two glasses, drain one immediately. The vintage is excellent. I taste nothing.

"You're doing that thing," Korven says.

"What thing?"

"That thing where you retreat into your own head and judge everyone from a distance." He takes my empty glass, hands me the full one. "It's been sixty years since Elira died. You're allowed to try again."

Elira. My first and only attempt at mating. She lasted three years before deciding I was "emotionally absent" and "married to my ledgers." The bond was dissolved. She found someone else within a month. I found... relief.

"This isn't about Elira."

"Then what is it about?"

I don't answer. How do I explain that I prefer the distance? That getting close to people requires a kind of courage I simply don't possess? That it's easier to conduct business, accumulate wealth, and maintain respectful separation than risk that particular kind of failure again?

Korven sighs. "Fine. Stand here and observe. But you're drinking with me first."

We drink. One glass becomes three. Three becomes five. The festival swirls around us, a blur of color and sound and other people's joy. At some point Korven is joined by his mate, a practical woman named Shera who tolerates me with polite distance. They're affectionate in that casual way mated pairs develop—small touches, inside jokes, comfortable silence.

I excuse myself.

The wine has made everything soft around the edges. I wander toward the pools, not to swim, just to see. Up close they're beautiful—ancient stone, carved with prayers in old Elvish, water so clear it seems to glow from within.

Someone jostles me from behind. I stumble forward. The pool's edge is slick with water and celebration. My foot slides.

I fall.

The water is cold. Shockingly, violently cold. I sink, disoriented, unable to tell up from down. My lungs burn. I can't swim well—never learned properly, never needed to. Panic rises. This is absurd. This is how I die, drunk and drowning in three feet of sacred water during a festival.

Hands grab me. Small hands, strong, pulling me upward with surprising force. I break the surface, coughing, gasping, dragged toward the stone edge by someone I can't see properly through the water in my eyes.

The vision hits just before we reach shore.

It slams into my consciousness like a physical blow. Not gentle, not dreamlike—absolute and unavoidable.

I see: decades from now, a lifetime ahead. I'm old, truly old, not elf-old but mortal-old. Grey-haired, lined, settled into the weight of years. Sitting in a garden I don't recognize, sunshine on my face, content in a way I've never been content.

Beside me: a woman. Human. Red-gold hair gone silver-grey, green eyes creased with age and laughter. She's holding my hand. We're not speaking. We don't need to.

The vision shows me happiness. Real, earned, lasting happiness.

Then it releases me.

I'm on the pool's edge, vomiting water, someone's hands still on my shoulders keeping me from sliding back in. I look up.

Human woman. Young, maybe mid-twenties. Red-gold hair plastered wet to her skull. Green eyes wide with shock.

She saw it too. I can tell by her face. The Waters of Fate never lie.