Crimson Bonds

1

Too Sad to Dance

It's late, and Peter feels cold.

He hates working at the store, especially at this hour. The wind howls through Altala tonight, sending a soft, hissing whistle through the gaps beneath the main door with every gust.

Peter shivers despite his thick jumper. It's around 10 p.m., and he has to keep the shop open until 11 p.m. Just one more hour before he can escape into the frigid night and finally, finally reach his cosy home. He hopes that his best friend, the bright yet snarky Anouk Johnson, has left him some food for a late dinner.

Peter shares a small flat in the centre of Altala with Anouk. They met as undergraduates at university, both in the same major despite their different races. Anouk, a Solar Witch, and Peter, a Fire Tiefling, both chose to study Faerie Law. They supported each other through the gruelling nights of final study and endless essay writing. Now, as they near the end of their postgraduate degrees, fine-tuning their dissertations, life is slowly changing for them.

For Peter, though, life seems stuck in a repetitive loop. He has worked this part-time job at the local store for almost four years, mostly on the night shift. Despite searching for a new job related to his degree, he's still stuck here, enduring the late hours.

The store itself is nothing to write home about. It's cold, especially in winter, with a broken heater and poor insulation. It offers a variety of basics—cup noodles, sandwiches, sodas, coffee, tea, energy drinks—but lacks healthier options like fresh vegetables and fruits. At least there's water. Water is healthy.

Peter groans, rubbing his face and running his fingers through his buzz-cut hair, feeling his red, curly horns. He's trying to wake himself up, but to no avail. He's sleepy. This isn't weather for a Fire Tiefling; it's far too cold. His thoughts drift to the documents he needs to read for his dissertation and upcoming lectures, intensifying his groan.

Life sucks. That's all he can think about.

He hugs himself to keep warm, his gaze following the frost that has settled on the shop's windows. He sighs, considering making himself some hot chocolate when the door suddenly opens with a cheerful ding.

Peter looks up, and his eyes land on a familiar face.

It's Saifa, a High Fae—always smiling, with his guitar slung over his shoulder. What on earth is he doing with his guitar at this hour? It's not like he's a bard, though Peter can't recall ever seeing Saifa without it.

The Fae steps inside, and Peter notices two other Faes waiting outside in the cold. They must be Saifa's friends. Saifa heads to the beverage aisle and stops in front of the coffee shelf, seemingly deep in thought, his hand tightening around his guitar.

Peter takes this opportunity to observe. Saifa Mockinjay is a well-known figure to him. The High Fae is an art major—or maybe liberal arts—hence the guitar. Tall, handsome, and with a constant air of arrogance, Saifa is even more striking than most Faes with his golden skin and dark hair. He's the type who flits from club to club, always at every party.

Peter doesn't dislike him per se, but Saifa's relentless cheerfulness annoys him. It's hard to believe anyone can be that nice all the time. The fact that Faes and Tieflings traditionally don't get along doesn't help either. Peter is used to the common distrust towards his race, especially from High Faes, but Saifa never so much as glared at him, which unnerves Peter.

Under the harsh neon lights of the shop, Saifa seems to glow, the unflattering light giving his skin a golden hue and making his dark hair appear coppery. It's irritating.

Peter frowns, crossing his arms tighter over his chest, trying to think of warm things as his thin tail wraps around his feet. Saifa finally makes a choice, grabbing a bottle of caramel macchiato—a predictably odd choice.

Peter thinks it's unwise to drink coffee this late, but it's none of his business. With the bottle in hand, Saifa strides toward the counter where Peter stands, still smiling.

Isn't it exhausting to be so happy all the time? Peter wonders, fighting his irritation. He tends to get easily annoyed when it's late, which is unfortunate since he only works late hours. He watches Saifa place the bottle on the counter with a cheerful grin.

"Evening," Saifa greets, his voice melodic and light, his tone soft and inviting.

Peter grunts in response, scanning the item and ringing it up. From the corner of his eye, he notices Saifa glancing at the stack of thick books next to the register. The top book is open, a yellow highlighter and blue pen lying in its centre.

"£1.80," Peter says, his voice flat. He's too tired to make conversation and would rather just go home and sleep.

Undeterred by Peter's curt demeanour, Saifa counts out the money and places it gently on the counter. Peter takes the coins, places them in the register, and waits for the machine to print the receipt. Once it's done, he sets it next to the bottle.

Saifa takes both and pauses, staring at Peter with an unreadable expression. Peter wonders what's going on, but before he can ask, Saifa turns and exits the shop with his two friends.

Peter watches him disappear into the night, puzzled.

What in the Four Hells just happened?

He continues staring at the door, a sudden shiver running up his back. Only now does he realise that Saifa was radiating warmth. Now, Peter feels colder than before.