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Chapter Twenty-Five

C allie

The morning after Aries’ confession, everything feels different. Watching him move through our morning ritual—his careful ablutions, the gentle braiding of my hair—I see him with new eyes. Each controlled movement holds fresh meaning now that I understand the weight he carries.

“You’ve been watching me all morning,” he says quietly as his fingers work through my hair. “Like you’re trying to solve a puzzle.”

“Maybe I am.” Through the mirror’s reflection, I catch his gaze. “I’m seeing all these little things I missed before. How your eyes soften when you think I’m not looking. How you always position yourself between me and any perceived threat.”

His fingers resume their intricate work, but slower now, as though he doesn’t want to finish the task. “Old habits.”

“No.” Turning carefully to face him, I make sure he sees how serious I am when I say, “Protection born of affection. Just like with Kren. ”

He flinches at his brother’s name, but doesn’t withdraw like he might have weeks ago. Progress—slow, careful healing happening right before my eyes.

Spark bounces enthusiastically nearby, trailing sparkles of agreement. The shimmerling creates a heart shape between us, then tries to look innocent when we both glance its way.

“You’re not subtle, little one,” Aries murmurs, but there’s a ghost of a smile playing at his lips—an expression I’m seeing more often since he shared the truth about his brother.

“I meant what I said yesterday,” I tell him as he finishes the intricate braid. “You’re my hero, Aries. Not despite what happened, but because of how you’ve carried it. How you’ve kept your gentleness and honor even through it all.”

His hands pause in my hair, and I catch the moisture gathering in his eyes through the window’s reflection. “I don’t deserve—”

“You do,” I cut in firmly. “You deserve every good thing, including forgiveness. Especially from yourself.”

Working in silence for several moments, he processes this. Finally, so quietly I almost miss it: “Thank you. For hearing the whole story. For not turning away.”

“I’ll never turn away,” I promise, watching his reflection. “Not now. Not ever.”

The rest of our morning routine takes on new meaning—each careful movement, each maintained distance feeling like a choice rather than a restriction. When he hands me my drassah , our fingers don’t quite brush, but the air between us holds more intimacy than any touch.

Before I can settle into my usual breakfast routine, a chime announces the Committee’s arrival. Their crystalline form materializes in our cottage, filling the space with kaleidoscopic color .

“Your progress in emotional honesty merits a new trial,” they announce. “Today, you will engage in artistic expression through multiple mediums—painting each other while sharing songs that hold personal meaning.”

Aries looks up from where he’s arranging our breakfast, one eyebrow arched. “Both at once?”

“The combined activities will reveal deeper truths about your connection,” they explain. “You must perceive each other through a creator’s eyes while expressing yourselves through varied outlets.”

My heart sinks. “I’m equally terrible at both painting and singing.”

His lips quirk upward—that expression I’m treasuring more with each appearance. “This should be interesting.”

“All necessary supplies await in the garden,” the Committee continues. “Complete the exercise by sunset.” With that, they ghost from view, leaving us with our latest challenge.

An hour later, we’ve set up easels in the garden, paints and brushes arranged alongside a simple wooden flute provided for musical accompaniment. Spark hovers nearby, trailing rainbow sparkles that seem to suggest artistic inspiration.

“So, how exactly does this work?” I ask, studying the blank canvas with the same enthusiasm I’d show a torture device. “Paint while singing? Take turns?”

“Why don’t you start with a song that means something to you?

” Aries settles at his easel with practiced ease—movements too fluid, too confident for someone who’s never mentioned artistic training.

Heat creeps up my neck as I watch those large hands adjust his brush with surgical precision.

“We’ll both paint while you sing, then I’ll take over the vocals while we keep working. ”

The familiar flutter of performance anxiety hits my stomach. “You know how singing makes me nervous. ”

“I know how beautifully you express yourself,” he corrects gently, mixing colors with sure, confident strokes. “Even when you think you’re terrible at it.”

Taking a shaky breath, I begin the only song I know all the words to—that old Earth children’s tune about wishing on a star.

My voice wavers and cracks, missing notes spectacularly, but Aries doesn’t flinch.

Instead, he begins painting with surprising skill, his eyes moving between canvas and my face as I struggle through the melody.

“That was… enthusiastic,” he says when I finish, and I can’t help laughing.

“Diplomatically put. Your turn.”

Ancient words spill from his lips—a gladiator training song that turns our garden into something primal and dangerous.

Rich baritone vibrations seem to reach inside my chest, making my brush hand tremble as I try to focus on my canvas instead of the way his throat moves with each note.

The melody carries scars—hints of brotherhood forged in blood, honor carved from desperation.

Both our brushes move in rhythm now, his voice providing a cadence that syncs our creative energy until painting becomes almost like dancing.

Something about singing frees him—drops his careful control until raw emotion bleeds through every word.

“You never mentioned you could paint,” I observe, watching him create what’s clearly going to be a recognizable portrait, while my own attempt looks like abstract chaos.

“My mother taught me,” he says quietly, not pausing in his work. “Before the slavers came. She said I had a natural eye for color.”

Another piece of his past, offered freely. I wonder if these revelations will come more frequently now that he’s talked about Kren. I’d love to hear more of these tiny treasures shared without the reluctance that once characterized any personal disclosure .

My own attempt at painting him goes about as expected. What should be his strong jaw looks more like a lopsided rectangle, and his distinctive horns resemble bent twigs rather than elegant bronze curves.

“This is hopeless,” I mutter, dabbing more yellow onto what’s supposed to be his eyes. “You’re going to look like a deranged goat with anger issues.”

“I’ve been called worse,” he says solemnly, though his eyes sparkle with mischief.

“Well,” I add, loading my brush with purple paint, “at least you’ll be a colorful deranged goat.”

Without warning, I flick the brush toward him. Paint arcs through the air, landing in a spectacular splatter across his forearm.

Instead of annoyance, his expression holds pure delight—something I’ve rarely seen from him. With deliberate precision, he dips his brush in green paint and retaliates. Cool droplets land on my cheek.

“Now we’re even,” he says, golden eyes gleaming with challenge.

“Are we?” Loading my brush with yellow, I aim for maximum splatter effect.

Soon we’re both decorated with rainbow colors, our canvases forgotten as we wage an increasingly elaborate paint war. Spark joins enthusiastically, trailing through wet paint then zooming in patterns that leave light-infused color streaks between us.

“The Committee did say we should explore artistic expression,” I remind him solemnly, though laughter threatens to bubble up.

“I believe I’m getting the hang of that.” With surgical precision, he sends a tiny red dot right to the tip of my nose .

“How did you manage that?” I yowl.

But as our battle continues, something shifts. Our laughter mingles with the afternoon breeze, paint decorating us like festival markings. The combination of music and art, of playful combat and growing intimacy, creates something I hadn’t expected.

Pure joy.

When was the last time either of us simply played? Before the trials, before our years of careful avoidance, before everything that came after that cell. This moment feels precious somehow—a glimpse of who we might have been under different circumstances, who we could still become.

“We should probably attempt the actual assignment,” Aries suggests eventually, though he makes no move to clean up.

“Probably.” But I’m reluctant to end this moment of lightness.

“Here,” he says, loading his brush with vibrant blue. “The Committee member specified painting each other, not necessarily on canvas.”

My pulse quickens as I follow his reasoning. With deliberate slowness, he extends the brush toward me. “May I?”

Nodding, I hold perfectly still as he glides the brush along my cheekbone, painting a curved line that follows its contour. Though only the bristles touch my skin, the sensation feels startlingly intimate.

“My turn.” Taking up a brush with golden paint, I reach across the prescribed gap to trace designs across his forehead and down the bridge of his nose.

We continue this way, trading delicate brush strokes across each other’s features while humming snatches of our respective songs. My hands tremble slightly as I outline the curve of his lips with copper paint. His pupils dilate as he traces my eyebrows with emerald green .

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, adding dots of silver along my jawline. “Especially covered in paint.”

“And surrounded by music,” I add, attempting to hum his gladiator song while painting swirling patterns at his hairline near the base of his horns. His sharp intake of breath confirms their sensitivity.

“Dangerous territory, Callie.”

“Regulation distance maintained,” I remind him, my voice husky.

When we finally step back to survey our work, we both burst into laughter. We look magnificently ridiculous—faces decorated with spirals and dots, clothes splattered with every color available, hair streaked with accidental paint splatters.

“The Committee is going to have opinions about this interpretation,” I manage between giggles.

“Creative compliance,” Aries says solemnly, though his paint-decorated face makes the serious tone impossible to maintain.

The Committee member takes form before we can continue, their faceted eyes shifting colors as they observe our paint-splattered forms.

“The artistic expression exercise is complete,” they intone. “Though executed with… unexpected interpretation of ‘multiple mediums.’”

Spark creates what looks suspiciously like a guilty shrug, then zips behind a flowering bush.

“The Manual didn’t specify how the paint should be applied,” Aries points out, his face perfectly serious despite being covered in golden spirals. “Or that the musical elements couldn’t be incorporated throughout.”

“Quite correct,” they acknowledge, and I could swear there’s amusement in their multilayered voice. “Creative compliance has been noted. The combined exercise has revealed significant emotional resonance and comfort with vulnerability.”

After they fade away, we collapse onto the grass, careful to maintain proper distance despite our mutual desire to close it.

“We should clean up,” I suggest, though I make no move to rise.

“In a moment.” Aries reclines on his elbows, face tilted toward the sky. Paint decorates his bronze skin like ancient warrior markings. “This was… unexpected.”

“The painting or the singing?”

“The joy,” he says simply, meeting my eyes. “I’d forgotten what it felt like to just… play.”

“Me too.” Watching Spark create lazy loops above us, I realize we’ve found something precious today. Not just in the artistic expression or musical sharing, but in the laughter. The lightness. The permission to be imperfect and silly together.

Something has shifted between us since his confession yesterday. Not just understanding or forgiveness, but something lighter. The weight of his secret, once shared, has made room for moments like this—spontaneous, joyful, free.

“Sixty-four more days,” I murmur, our familiar countdown feeling different now. Less like a burden and more like… anticipation.

“Sixty-four days,” he echoes, his eyes holding mine with a new openness. “And then… forever.”

The promise in those words wraps around me like a physical embrace. Whatever trials remain, we’ve turned another corner today. Found another piece of what we’re building together—the ability to find joy in our imperfections, beauty in our chaos, and harmony even when we’re completely out of tune.