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“No,” she agrees. “But you breaking stone like it owes you something isn’t exactly helping.”

I watch her, letting the burn of her settle under my skin, and realize for the first time in hours that the anger isn’t as sharp when she’s looking at me like this.

She’s still standing there, watching me like I’m going to explode any second, and she’s not wrong—I probably will. I’ve been on the verge since the council meeting, since Ambrose bound himself like a fucking fool, since Caspian started unraveling in front of us like thread.

But then she opens her mouth, and it’s not what I expect.

“I want you to put roses here,” she says, her voice soft in that dangerous way that always makes me stop breathing.

I glance over my shoulder again, brow furrowing, sweat drying sharp against my skin. She steps closer, bare feet crunching softly against the gravel, her eyes flicking to the crumbled edge of the wall I’ve been trying to rebuild all night.

“Near the wall,” she clarifies, chin tipping toward the crumbling stones. “Where they used to be.”

It takes me a second to register it, why the request knots something sharp in my throat.

Orin.

The roses were always his. He liked them, the asshole, the one thing soft about him that didn’t fit with the rest of us. I’d ripped them out once, years ago, in one of my worse days, and he made me put them back, quiet and patient like always, never even getting angry about it.

She’s looking at me now like she knows exactly what I’m thinking, and worse—like she knows I’ll do it anyway.

I huff a breath, wiping the back of my hand across my jaw, shaking my head. “You want me to grow flowers.”

The words feel ridiculous coming out of my mouth, like she’s asked me to carve poetry into the damn stone.

Her smile is small but sharp, and I already know I’m fucked.

“They were his,” she says simply, voice lower now, like she’s reminding me and herself all at once. “And I want them back.”

I glare at her, but it’s empty. She knows it. I know it. She could ask me to dig up the gods themselves and I’d probably do it, so what’s a few damn roses?

Still, I grumble, dragging my hand over my face like this is the worst thing she’s ever asked of me. “If Silas sees me growing flowers, I swear to every hell, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Her eyes soften when she looks at me, and that, more than anything, unravels me.

“Please,” she says, and her voice is a fucking weapon.

So I sigh, dragging my fingers through my hair, and crouch low, letting my magic pool under my skin, into the soil. It feels foreign, delicate in a way I don’t know how to carry, but I do it anyway—because she asked. Because she’s mine. Because Orin liked them.

The roses bloom beneath my hand like they’ve been waiting centuries to be called back to life. Soft, red petals unfurl from thorn-laced stems, delicate and dangerous—just like everything in this fucking place.

I keep my head down, focus on the roots threading into the stone, the magic settling like a pulse beneath my skin. It’s easier than looking at her, easier than seeing how she’s watching me like I’m something worth touching.

But I feel her move anyway.

Bare feet crunch slow against the gravel, the soft weight of her presence pressing against my side until she’s close enough to touch. I don’t look up, but her fingers curl against the back of my neck like she can feel the rage still coiled there, waiting forsomething to tear apart. Her thumb brushes slow against the hollow beneath my ear, grounding, quiet.

“You always pretend you’re made of stone,” she murmurs, voice low enough to slide sharp under my ribs. “But you grow flowers when no one’s looking.”

My throat works around something I don’t know how to name, the weight of her touch and the roses pressing in against me like a noose.

I want to kiss her. I want to drag her down into the dirt and press my mouth to every place she’s carved her name into me.

I want—

The moment shatters before I can reach for it.

A crash echoes behind us, sharp and chaotic, followed by the sound of something—or someone—tripping over their own damn feet.