The Forest had gone quiet once more.

  But the quiet was no longer fraught with danger or dread.

  It was gentler now—leaves breathing, roots settling, branches swaying as if relieved to still be standing.

  Seraphine sat with her back against the Great Tree, knees drawn close, letting the st tremors of dream-magic ebb from her fingers.

  She peered across the clearing, bone-tired.

  She didn't understand how Cire could still be so energetic, gesturing with gusto while she chatted with Ysel and Rocher. He was hovering at her shoulder, listening, jaw tight.

  Seraphine watched them, her pulse still unsteady.

  She had teased them for months, nudging, arranging, coaxing. Cire needed someone who would stay without flinching; Rocher needed someone who would see him, not a title or a legend. She had thought herself clever for it.

  Then Rocher said it.

  'Prince.'

  And her stomach had dropped as if the forest floor had vanished beneath her.

  She understood crowns. She understood the weight of duty pressed against a young man's back until he believed it was the shape of his spine. She remembered Cael's earnestness, his warmth, the slow erosion of both under the Tower's expectations. She remembered how easily it all withered when duty demanded it.

  Cire valued loyalty the way others valued breath. She would not survive being asked to stand beside a man who might someday marry for politics instead of love. And Seraphine knew—with a certainty that ached—that Cire would break before she ever asked someone to choose her.

  Her chest tightened at the thought.

  She watched them with a mixture of hope and dread. The path ahead was uncertain—crusades, crowns, secrets.

  But she knew this much: she would not let Cire be hurt by duty the way she had been. She would not let Rocher be swallowed by the expectations that had taken better men.

  She brushed her palm over the root beside her, feeling the slow heartbeat of the forest beneath her.

  No more betrayal.

  Not for any of them.

  She closed her eyes with quiet resolve.

  Tap.

  "You seem adrift in your own mind, young one."

  The Matron's approach snapped her out of her trance.

  "Come, Seraphine. The priestling says time is short. There is much I have to teach you."

  The hut Ysel had lent me for the night was simple—wood worn smooth by age, a single ntern by the door, a narrow bed with bnkets that smelled faintly of crushed leaves. It should have felt safe. Warm. A reprieve after the nightmare, the confrontation, the unraveling of someone else's secrets.

  But the quiet pressed too close.

  Judging by the timing, we had a little over two weeks until the crusade was due to begin in earnest. And in that short window, there was so much to prepare for, to pn, to train. I had already made the first arrangements with Ysel.

  But that wasn't my only worry. In equal measure to the future, thoughts of the past weighed on me as well.

  I y awake staring at the ceiling, repying everything from the dream—the person I used to be, the hospital bed, their voices calling for me as though they'd tear it all apart to find me.

  Sleep was impossible. I got up, pushed the bnkets aside, and slipped outside into the cool night.

  Moonlight soaked through the branches, silvering the moss at my feet. The forest hummed softly, a heartbeat I could feel in my soles as I wandered until I found a small clearing. I sat on a fallen log and hugged my knees to my chest, letting the night air cool my skin.

  They had seen everything—every failure, every piece I thought I'd buried.

  And still, they stayed.

  I didn't know what to do with that.

  Leaves rustled behind me—a familiar weight shifting carefully so as not to startle me.

  "Cire?" Rocher's voice was low, warm, and a little unsteady. "You're awake."

  He stood close enough that the warmth of him reached me, solid as a tree trunk, anchoring the night around him.

  I didn't turn immediately. "Couldn't sleep."

  "I know," he said quietly. "I saw you leave. I got worried."

  I blinked and finally looked up at him.

  He stood there holding something behind his back, trying and failing to look casual. His cloak was crooked, hair slightly a mess, as if he'd been pacing before he found me.

  "Did you... need something?" I asked.

  His face flushed faintly, and he cleared his throat.

  "I found this earlier," he said awkwardly, and brought the object forward. "In the forest."

  A flower.

  Small, pale pink, petals glowing faintly under the moonlight like a blushing star.

  "It reminded me of you," he mumbled.

  My chest squeezed hard—too soft, too earnest.

  My fingers curled around it before I remembered myself.

  I said the first stupid thing that came to mind.

  "Oh... it's a whisperbloom. It's poisonous."

  He froze.

  "What?"

  "Yeah," I said with a shrug. "If you drink its nectar, you go into catatonic shock in like ten minutes."

  His entire soul left his body.

  "Then don't touch it! Give it here, you shouldn't—"

  "No," I said, sticking out my tongue. "It's mine now. Thank you for the gift, Rocher."

  His eyes widened—part horror, part affection. His hands hovered helplessly, like he wasn't sure if he should fight me for it.

  Instead, he sighed and sat down beside me. I scooted over so his big body could fit.

  For a moment, we just sat there, watching the stars.

  I felt the sudden urge to break the silence.

  "Hey—"

  "Cire—"

  We tripped over each others' words.

  I huffed and moved to sp his back like I usually did, but the knit in his brow made me falter. I dropped my eyes to my feet.

  "You first," I said meekly.

  He drew a deep breath and started again.

  "I didn't get a chance to say this earlier. What, with the Matron breathing down our necks and all. There just wasn't a good moment."

  He sighed.

  "Or maybe I just thought I needed time to find the right words."

  His hands gripped the fabric of his trousers, knuckles turning white.

  "You wrote once that I had your permission to court you. I just needed you to know..."

  His voice went quiet, cheeks coloring deeper.

  "...my feelings haven't changed. I still want you."

  The night air went still. Something in my chest tightened—a reflexive flinch I hadn't earned the right to shake yet.

  I swallowed, my voice coming out small. "Even after seeing all that?"

  "Because I saw all that," he said fiercely.

  Before I could breathe, he crouched in front of me, eyes dark and resolute.

  "You think you're unlovable because of your past," he said, "but nothing I saw made me want you less. Not a single thing."

  The flower trembled in my fingers.

  His hand rose, slow, cautious, brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear.

  "I don't need the strong performance. Or the clever act. Or the you who keeps trying to hold everything together."

  He leaned closer, voice dropping to a rough whisper. His breath brushed my cheek, warm despite the cold night air.

  "I just want you. All of you."

  "I—" The word caught on my tongue.

  How long did you practice that? I wanted to say.

  To deflect. Diffuse. Py off his frightening intensity.

  For once, I didn't.

  I let the old reflex curl inside me—that sharp, aching want to be chosen, to be wanted, to be told I wasn't a mistake.

  Maybe this wasn't love yet. Maybe it was just relief, validation, the dizzy whisper of being seen.

  In a second, the doubt would set in again, and—

  Rocher shifted, bracing his hands against his knees as if to stand.

  My hands moved before I could think, grabbing his colr and pulling him close. My fingers trembled.

  "Prove it."

  A stunned breath escaped him—quiet, disbelieving, almost fragile. For a moment he hesitated, searching my face for any sign of doubt. Then his expression broke open, hunger rising fast and helpless in its pce.

  The space between us vanished as his mouth found mine, gentle at first, then firmer, matching the urgency burning through me. The flower crumpled between our palms as he pulled me closer, his breath breaking against my lips, restraint unraveling with every heartbeat.

  Something low rumbled in his chest, a sound of pure relief and raw need. He shifted, his body crowded mine, pressing me back against the fallen log. The rough bark dug into my spine, a grounding contrast to the heat blooming between us.

  One of his hands braced against the log beside my head, caging me softly, while the other slid down my side, his fingers tracing the curve of my hip with a reverence that made my breath catch.

  He broke the kiss, panting, his forehead resting against mine. The moonlight carved the tension in his jaw, the hunger in his fathomless eyes. His lips were swollen from mine.

  "Cire," he breathed, my name a prayer and a surrender.

  His hands swept beneath my thighs, lifting me effortlessly from the log. My legs tightened around his waist, breath hitching at the feel of him, and he began carrying me back toward the hut, kissing me in desperate intervals, unable to keep his mouth off mine.

  The door pressed into my back.

  The tch clicked shut.