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HARMONY

I wake to a thin strip of dawn pushing through the gap in my curtains, my hands already protesting before my feet touch the floor. Yesterday's pruning has left my knuckles stiff, fingertips raw from wrestling with the thorned shrubs along the western wall. No matter. These hands have known worse.

My cottage sits at the farthest edge of Lord Arkan's estate—a stone afterthought nestled against the boundary wall, almost forgotten but perfect for me. One room with a hearth, a table barely big enough for two, a narrow bed tucked beneath the window, and shelves crammed with jars of dried herbs and seeds I've collected. The walls hold the night's chill, but I don't mind. I've learned to treasure the cold—it means shelter, something solid between me and the sky.

I splash water on my face from the basin, the shock of it chasing away the last cobwebs of sleep. My reflection catches in the small mirror above—hazel-green eyes blinking back at me, framed by unruly curls I quickly twist and tuck beneath a faded green scarf.

"Another day, another chance," I murmur to myself, an old habit from commune days when encouragement never came from outside.

The kettle whistles softly on the hearth. I pour hot water over dried meadowmint leaves, inhaling the sweet steam while I dress in my worn work tunic and linen pants, soft leather boots laced tight. The tea warms my insides as I stand in my doorway, watching the mist curl around the gardens beyond.

I lock my door—not that anyone would venture this far to steal my meager possessions, but old habits die hard—and tuck the key beneath my collar, where it rests cool against my skin, near the small birthmark behind my right ear.

The estate sleeps still as I make my way along the gravel path, passing beneath arches heavy with morning dew. Dawn paints everything in gentle blues and silvers, my favorite time when the gardens belong only to me. No lords or ladies, no servants rushing about—just me and the growing things.

I retrieve my tools from the shed, filling my apron pockets with twine and small pruning shears. The larger gardens near the main house can wait. First, the kitchen herb garden needs my attention.

"Good morning, little ones," I whisper, kneeling beside the dreelk bed, running my fingers through the bitter greens. "Did you miss me yesterday? Grew quite wild, didn't you?"

I work my way through each bed systematically—zynthra roots need thinning, the brimbark stalks want staking. As I tie the asparagus-like stalks to their supports, I hum a tune from childhood, one of the few pleasant memories I carried from the commune.

"You're looking thirsty today," I tell the quillnash as I fill my watering can at the pump. The vibrant vegetables seem to lean toward me as I approach. "There you go. Drink up. The cooks will want you crisp for tonight's dinner."

A thalivern—iridescent wings catching the strengthening light—lands on my wrist as I work. I pause, careful not to startle it.

"Hello, beautiful. Checking my work?" I smile as it flutters off to investigate the aracin blossoms I transplanted last week from the northern beds. "They're taking well, aren't they? I told the head gardener they'd prefer morning light, but old Padrec thinks he knows better than the plants do."

My hands move with practiced efficiency, pulling weeds, collecting seed pods for drying, checking for pests or signs of blight. The sun climbs higher, warming my back as I work, my skin soaking in its touch like the plants around me.

"This is between us," I whisper to a struggling zynthra plant, carefully loosening the soil around its roots, "but I'm sneaking you some of my special compost mix tonight. Don't tell the others or they'll all want special treatment."

I stand, stretching my back, and survey my work. The herb garden looks orderly now, each plant given the space and care it needs. My little corner of control in a world that offers precious little of it. This patch of earth doesn't care about my orphan status or my common blood. Here, I'm judged only by what I nurture, what I help grow.

And what I've grown is mine in a way that transcends ownership. Lord Arkan may hold the deed to this land, but these plants know my touch, my voice. They respond to my care in ways they never would for him, no matter how many nodals change hands.

"Let's see what else needs tending today," I say to the garden at large, gathering my tools. "The roses were looking particularly dramatic yesterday. Probably demanding my attention by now."

I'm halfway through trellising the bluevine when the air changes. It's not a sound—not exactly—more like a disturbance in the garden's rhythm, the way prey animals go still before the predator appears.

My hands falter on the twine. I don't need to look up to know who approaches—my body recognizes him first, a traitorous awareness that starts in my spine and radiates outward.

"Keep working," I mutter to myself, focusing on the delicate blue flowers unfurling along the vine. "The plants don't care who's coming."

But my fingers have lost their earlier precision, fumbling with the knot as the distinctive clop of zarryn hooves grows louder on the gravel path. Two riders, by the sound. One will be Lord Arkan, returning from his morning ride, and the other?—

I can't help it. I look.

Two zarryn trot up the lane, their silver coats catching the mid-morning light. Lord Arkan sits straight-backed on the first, his wings neatly folded, immaculate as always. But it's the second rider who steals my attention.

Adellum.

He rides with casual confidence, one hand loosely holding the reins of his temperamental mount. The zarryn tosses its head, dual tails swishing irritably, but Adellum merely smiles—that half-smile that never fully commits, like he's sharing a private joke with himself. His massive soft gray wings shift slightly with the zarryn's movement, catching the light differently than Lord Arkan's dappled white ones.

Something tightens in my chest—a feeling too complicated to name.

I duck my head, returning to the bluevine with renewed focus, but my ears track their progress. They're nearly level with the kitchen garden now. I feel his gaze before I hear him speak.

"Arkan, your gardens are looking particularly vibrant this season," Adellum says, his voice carrying that musical quality all xaphan possess, but rougher around the edges. "Your gardener has quite the touch."

"Harmony's a treasure," Lord Arkan replies, and I keep my eyes firmly fixed on the plant before me. "Worth every lummi I pay her, which she reminds me of regularly."

They laugh, and I bite the inside of my cheek.

"Let's stable these beasts," Arkan continues. "I've had enough of Maelstrom's attitude for one morning. Your zarryn's a terrible influence on him."

"Cloudchaser reflects his rider," Adellum responds, that teasing lilt to his voice. "Besides, a little spirit keeps life interesting."

Their voices fade as they move toward the stables. I exhale, realizing I'd been holding my breath. Just as my shoulders begin to relax, a shadow falls across the bluevine.

"You've missed a spot."

I startle, nearly dropping my shears. Adellum stands not three feet away, arms crossed, studying the bluevine with exaggerated seriousness. His white-blond hair is tousled from the ride, falling in unruly wisps around his temples. Those silver eyes—unnervingly bright even in daylight—crinkle at the corners.

"I didn't miss anything," I say, trying to sound properly respectful. "I simply hadn't gotten to that section yet. Some of us work methodically."

"Methodically." He rolls the word around like he's tasting it. "Is that what you call avoiding looking at me?" He drops to a crouch beside me, close enough that I can smell him—like thunderstorms and cedar smoke. "I've been gone for nearly two weeks, Harmony."

I risk meeting his gaze. "I noticed."

His full mouth quirks up at one corner. "Did you now? Here I thought you'd be too busy with your methodical gardening to count the days."

"Plants are excellent listeners. They never interrupt or make assumptions." I tie off another section of vine, ignoring the heat crawling up my neck. "Besides, Lord Arkan mentioned your absence at dinner last week."

"Ah." He reaches past me to touch a bluevine blossom, his bronze fingers gentle against the delicate petals. "And here I imagined you pining away, staring wistfully at the moon."

I snort before I can stop myself. "I'm afraid you've confused me with one of your admirers in the city. The ones who buy your paintings for obscene amounts of nodals."

"Obscene?" His grin widens. "I prefer to think of it as appropriate compensation for my genius."

"Your humility is truly your most attractive quality," I deadpan, but my lips twitch traitorously.

This is how it always is with Adellum—this easy banter that slips past my defenses. I remember the first time I saw him, over a year ago. I was helping in the kitchen, arms dusted to the elbows with flour, when Lord Arkan brought his guest through on an impromptu tour. Apparently, Adellum had just bought the neighboring estate. I'd tried to duck behind the pantry door, not wanting to be seen in such a state by Arkan's friend.

Instead, I'd crashed into a sack of flour, sending a white cloud exploding into the air. When the dust settled, Adellum was standing there, covered head to wing-tip in fine white powder, his silver eyes wide with surprise. Then he'd thrown his head back and laughed—a full, rich sound that transformed his sharp features into something almost boyish.

"I believe," he'd said once he could speak, "this is what the poets call a memorable first impression."

Now, watching him toy with the bluevine, I feel that same dizzy sensation I felt then—like the floor might not be where I left it.