Amel and Dela finally meet!
Vretla narrowed her dark eyes. "Just because you are pure Demish doesn’t mean you’re always right about everything to do with words."
"No!" Amel exclaimed. “I’m not!”
"Hah!" said Vretla. "So you did say 'let go'!"
"I mean I’m not pure anything!" he protested. "Except a mess."
Vretla scowled. "You are a Pureblood."
Clearly the Vrellish creature didn’t understand Amel was referring to his soul, not his birth rank. If Ril was right, Amel’s mixed blood had attracted a Vrellish soul. But the more she saw of him, the more Dela had to wonder how Ril could be so sure. On Demora, a Soul of Light would have grown up knowing he was a great treasure. But if such a being had been raised as a commoner on Gelion, it was hardly strange to imagine he might be a bit confused about himself.
Amel extracted himself from Vretla's grip, conscious of Ril and Dela staring at them.
"You must be Princess Dela," Amel greeted her, speaking rel-to-pol without suffixes. If Dela believed he knew proper grammar well enough to depart from it with sound intentions she might have been reassured by such kindly condescension. Instead, she just stared. Except for the black hair, he could have stepped down from a full-length painting of Fahandlin the Beautiful. Almost. He looked vulnerable, but not particularly frail.
The horse flexed its bleeding body with a long, tragic nicker.
Amel turned toward it, pain reflected in his face. "It's suffering."