The garden should not exist.

  That is my first thought as I scale the outer wall of Vermia’s castle, fingers numb against stone whitened by frost. Snow has settled in the mortar lines like a patient thing, waiting to be disturbed. Jasmine climbs the walls in impossible defiance of the season, its dark leaves glossy and alive, its blossoms pale and reckless against the cold.

  They keep what they steal, my mind observes quietly. Even from winter.

  I drop soundlessly onto the inner path, skirts gathered, breath shallow. The garden is enclosed on all sides, hidden from the rest of the castle as though it were a secret kept only for those who know where to look. Snow blankets the hedges in soft curves, undisturbed except for a single set of footprints leading inward.

  I should leave.

  Every instinct I have learned through hunger and fear tells me to retreat, to melt back into shadow before I am discovered. I did not come to Vermia to wander its gardens. I came for blood and answers, for green eyes and a name that will taste like ash when I speak it.

  And yet—

  The jasmine scent is overwhelming. Sweet, almost cloying, threaded through with frost and damp earth. It pulls something loose in my chest, something I have not felt since before my mother was taken: safety. Or the memory of it.

  Dangerous, comes the immediate reply, sharp and disapproving. You are not here to feel safe.

  I move anyway.

  The path curves inward toward a marble fountain at the garden’s heart. Snow clings to its rim, untouched, the water within dark and still. Statues ring the clearing—figures of women carved in pale stone, their expressions serene, their hands outstretched as though offering blessing or warning. Their faces are worn smooth by time, eyes hollowed just enough to feel like accusation.

  I feel watched.

  Not hunted. Not threatened.

  Observed.

  My magic stirs in response, subtle as breath. The jasmine nearest me trembles, petals fluttering as though stirred by a wind that does not exist. I press my palm against my thigh, forcing myself to still.

  That is when I see her.

  She sits on a bench near the fountain, her back to me, framed by snow-laden hedges and sunlight. Gold catches the light—soft, luminous, unreal. Her gown is the color of melted sunlight, layered and structured, its fabric too fine for warmth and too heavy for practicality. Long white gloves sheath her arms to the elbow, pristine despite the snow. Gold jewelry glints at her throat and ears, delicate and deliberate, chosen rather than worn.

  Her hair pulled to the top of her head, small curls flow down the back of her neck in dark waves, glossy as polished stone. She is still, so still that for one impossible moment I think she might be another statue.

  Then she moves.

  She lifts her gloved hand and brushes a jasmine blossom, fingers careful, reverent. The flower bends toward her touch as though eager. With that movement, I can see her face, she looks as though she’s been crying.

  My breath catches.

  Oh, says the voice in my mind, soft with something dangerously close to wonder. Oh, no.

  I flatten myself against the garden wall, heart pounding. This was not part of the plan. I did not plan for witnesses, least of all one like this—someone who belongs here, who moves through Vermia’s secrets as though they were made for her.

  She hums under her breath, barely audible. The sound weaves through the air like silk thread, settling into the spaces between my ribs. My magic responds without permission. The jasmine blooms brighter, petals unfurling despite the cold.

  She notices.

  Her hand stills. Her head tilts slightly, as though listening.

  I freeze.

  Move, comes the urgent whisper inside me. Now.

  I inch along the wall, careful, deliberate. The stone is slick with frost, my boots silent against the packed snow. I am almost past her—almost—

  My heel catches.

  The branch snaps with a sound far too loud for the quiet garden.

  She stands andturns.

  For a heartbeat, the world holds its breath.

  Her face is peachy, framed by dark curls that catch the moonlight. Her eyes—brown, I think, or perhaps hazel—widen as they meet mine. She does not scream. She does not move.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Neither do I.

  We stare at each other across the snow-dusted path, two intrusions in each other’s lives. I am acutely aware of everything at once: the cold biting my fingers, the jasmine scent thick in my lungs, the red of my eyes burning like an exposed nerve.

  She sees, the thought murmurs. She sees everything.

  I open my mouth to speak.

  “I—”

  She startles.

  It happens too fast. Her foot slips on the snow-slick stone, her arms flail, gold bracelets flashing. She gasps—not loudly, but sharply—and then she is falling backward into the fountain.

  The world fractures.

  I lunge forward, magic surging instinctively, but I am too far away. She hits the water with a splash that shatters the stillness, sending ripples skimming across the surface. Snow slides from the fountain’s rim, hissing as it meets the water.

  She disappears beneath the surface.

  “No,” I breathe, the word torn from me.

  I am at the fountain in seconds, kneeling, hands already glowing faintly with blue-gold light. The water churns, reflecting sunlight and magic in fractured patterns. I reach in without hesitation, cold biting deep, fingers closing around fabric and flesh.

  I pull her up.

  She coughs, sputtering, water streaming from her hair and dress. Her eyes are closed with sleep, too peaceful for this. I drag her against me, one arm braced around her shoulders, the other pressed to her chest as I pour magic into her without thought or restraint.

  The water responds immediately.

  Ripples radiate outward from my hands, unnatural and deliberate, bending light and shadow alike. The fountain’s surface rises and falls in slow, breathing waves. Jasmine vines lean inward, blossoms trembling. The statues seem closer now, their stone faces tilted, watching.

  This is not for you, the voice warns, suddenly stern. This was never meant for you.

  “I know,” I whisper, though I am not sure to whom I am speaking.

  Her breathing returns beneath my touch. Color returns to her cheeks, faint but undeniable. The chill leaves her skin, replaced by warmth that pulses in time with my magic. She looks at me then, truly looks, confusion giving way to something else—something searching.

  Her gaze flicks to my eyes.

  I feel it immediately. The sharp, instinctive panic. With a thought born of terror and habit, I pull the glamour over myself, dulling the red to a human blue. The magic settles like a veil, imperfect but sufficient.

  Her brow furrows.

  “You,” she says, voice unsteady but clear. “You were—”

  “I’m sorry,” I interrupt, too quickly. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I—” I falter, words tangling uselessly. “I heard something fall. I came to help.”

  Liar, the voice notes, not unkindly. You have always been a poor one.

  She studies me in silence, water dripping from her hair, her dress clinging to her frame. Up close, she smells of jasmine and something warmer beneath—amber, perhaps, or honey. It makes my head feel light.

  “You pulled me out,” she says slowly.

  “Yes.”

  “And the flower…” Her gaze drops to the fountain, where the ripples still move, slower now but unmistakably wrong. “It moved.”

  My heart stutters.

  “Adrenaline,” I say weakly. “Shock can do strange things.”

  She almost smiles.

  It is small and fleeting, gone before I can be sure it was real.

  “I’m indebted to you,” she says instead, pushing herself upright with my help. Her posture is impeccable even soaked and shaken, spine straight, chin lifted. “You could have left me.”

  “I couldn’t,” I reply, and the truth of it rings too loud in the quiet garden.

  Something shifts in her expression at that. Curiosity, perhaps. Or recognition.

  The air stirs again, colder now. I feel it at the edge of my awareness, the familiar weight of attention pressing down.

  You tread old paths, the voice murmurs, layered now, no longer singular. And you forget who you are.

  I release her reluctantly, drawing my hands back to myself. The water settles, the jasmine stills. The garden exhales.

  She glances around, as though sensing what I do. “You shouldn’t be here,” she says softly. “This garden is not—” She hesitates. “It’s private.”

  “So am I,” I reply before I can stop myself.

  Her laugh escapes her in a breathy huff, surprised and genuine. It startles something in me loose, something fragile and untested.

  “What is your name?” she asks.

  Names have always been dangerous. Names tie you to places and people and consequences. I have shed them like skins over the years, answering to whatever was safest in the moment.

  But something about the way she asks—gentle, unassuming—makes refusal feel like violence.

  “Sybil,” I say. “Sybil Hardakel.”

  The name settles between us, heavy with history she cannot see.

  “I’m—” She stops, glancing toward the castle walls rising beyond the hedges. A shadow crosses her face, something careful and practiced. “I shouldn’t.”

  Of course not, comes the dry observation. She belongs to secrets too.

  “I understand,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “I should go. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  I step back, already turning, the familiar urge to flee clawing up my spine. This was a mistake. A dangerous one.

  “Wait.”

  Her voice stops me cold.

  I turn back despite myself.

  She stands by the fountain, water still dripping from her gloves, her gold jewelry dulled by moisture. She looks smaller somehow, stripped of composure, more real.

  “You saved my life,” she says. “At least let me thank you properly.”

  “I don’t need—”

  “Please,” she insists, and there it is: vulnerability, brief and unguarded.

  My resolve crumbles.

  “All right,” I say quietly.

  She smiles then, fully this time, and the garden seems to lean closer, conspiratorial.

  The elders—if that is what they are—watch in silence, their disappointment heavy and knowing.

  This will hurt, the voice tells me, almost gently. But you will walk into it anyway.

  I do.