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ADELLUM

I watch Arkan flick through ledgers that had been deposited while we were out, feigning interest as the conversation shifts to city politics. Sunlight slants through the study windows, catching the gold filigree on his desk. He's always been fond of displays—the polished marble floors, the commissioned art displayed just so.

"You're not listening, are you, Adellum?" Arkan chuckles, setting down his pen.

"Utterly captivated," I reply, straightening from where I've been leaning against a bookshelf. My wings adjust behind me, the gray feathers rustling against silk.

Arkan shakes his head. "I'm sure. I thought you'd at least want to know what you missed. Might inspire you."

"I have plenty of inspiration." My eyes drift to the window where I can see the only thing that ever acts as my muse. "I'd like to view your southeast garden before I leave. I hear the moonblooms have started their seasonal shift."

Arkan's amber eyes glint with amusement. "Ah yes, the garden. Suddenly a dedicated horticulturist, are you?"

I don't dignify that with a response.

"Well, feel free to admire my... landscaping." He stands, smoothing his formal robes. "Just remember what I've said about distracting my staff during working hours."

"I would never." The lie slides easily between us.

"Of course not." Arkan shifts through his documents. He knows of my interest in Harmony but luckily he doesn't mind—as long as I only steal her away during her off hours. "Some of us have meetings to attend. I trust you can see yourself out whenever you're... finished with the gardens."

I offer a shallow bow as he leaves, tension uncoiling from my shoulders the moment the door closes. These performances exhaust me—the carefully measured words, the false smiles, the weight of being Adellum Vey, the celebrated xaphan artist whose hands shape beauty while his life grows hollow.

Outside, I follow the stone path that winds toward the southeast gardens. The estate spreads in elegant terraces, a perfect example of New Solas' refined architecture—nothing out of place, nothing wild. Nothing like her.

I pause by a reflecting pool, letting my senses expand outward, searching. The gardens are sprawling, but I know where she'll be. I always know.

The late autumn air carries the scent of turned earth and crushed herbs as I round a hedge of precisely trimmed silverleaf. And there—there she is.

Harmony kneels in the soft dirt, basket beside her filled with clipped herbs, her hands moving with practiced efficiency among the plants. A smear of dark soil trails across one cheek like an artist's brushstroke. Her curls are bundled beneath a faded headscarf, though rebellious strands have escaped to frame her face. She hasn't seen me yet.

Something tight and hungry coils in my chest. A yearning so sharp it's almost painful.

I make no attempt to hide my presence, leaning against a pillar, wings settling behind me. My world is filled with polished things—bright lights, curated smiles, endless expectations—but Harmony is real. Wild in a way the grand city of New Solas could never polish away.

I wait, simply watching her work. The graceful movement of her hands, the little furrow that appears between her brows as she examines a damaged leaf. The way she hums under her breath, a melody that drifts and turns like something living.

She senses me before she sees me—her hands pause, her head tilting slightly. When she finally looks up, those hazel-green eyes find mine unerringly. Her lips curve into a smile she attempts to suppress.

"Lord Arkan must be terribly dull if you're out here watching someone pick herbs," she says, tugging a stubborn root from the soil.

"Terribly," I agree, pushing away from the pillar. I move toward her, slow and deliberate, giving her time to notice, to decide. "You've got dirt on your face."

"Do I?" Her hand rises to the wrong cheek. "Hazard of honest work. Something you wouldn't understand."

I kneel beside her, close enough that my wing brushes her arm. "Because I'm xaphan or because I'm an artist?"

"Both." Her eyes dance with mischief. "Winged creatures shouldn't get too close to the ground, and artists shouldn't understand anything practical."

I reach out, my thumb gently brushing across her cheek, removing the smudge. "Is that so?"

Her breath catches, just slightly. "That's what they say in the servants' quarters."

"And what do they say about gardeners who torment visiting dignitaries?"

Harmony's laugh is low, husky. "That we're trouble best avoided." Her eyes flick past me, checking for witnesses. "You shouldn't be here, Adellum. I'm working."

I lean closer, breathing in the scent of crushed herbs and sun-warmed skin. "When have I ever done what I should?"

Her lips press together, fighting a smile. "Never. That's the problem."

I watch her hands return to their task, the way her fingers move with such certainty. There's artistry in her work that few would recognize—the purposeful way she prunes each stem, how she knows precisely where to cut. I could watch her for hours, this quiet mastery so different from the loud, demanding art world I inhabit.

"You're staring again," she murmurs, not looking up.

"Yes." I make no attempt to deny it. Why pretend? I've spent a year's worth of stolen moments drinking in the sight of her, and it's never enough. I've never gotten my fill, never had enough taste, and I suspect I never will.

I've been quite obsessed with my little bird.

She glances up, and I feel that familiar pull—the dangerous current that draws me toward her. I know how I must look, my silver eyes fixed on her with an intensity that would frighten anyone else. But Harmony never flinches.

"Careful," she warns, voice soft. "Someone might see you looking at a human gardener like that."

I reach out, catching a curl that's escaped her scarf, twisting it around my finger. "Like what?"

"Like you want to ruin me."

Heat floods through me at her words. She knows. Of course she knows. "Perhaps I do."

Harmony's pupils dilate, the gold flecks in her eyes catching the afternoon light. "Xaphan lords don't ruin human gardeners. They elevate courtesans and marry well-connected daughters."

"I'm not a lord." I release her curl, fingers grazing the delicate skin of her neck.

"You might as well be." She turns back to her herbs, but her breathing has quickened. "With your fancy parties and important friends. Half the nobility of New Solas clamoring for your art."

"Half the nobility can go fuck themselves."

That startles a laugh from her, bright and genuine. "You shouldn't say such things."

"Another thing I shouldn't do." I shift closer, wings curving around us, creating a private world amidst the public garden. "I've been away too long. Two whole weeks of patrons and collectors and sycophants. Not a single real conversation."

"Poor little rich artist," she teases, but her expression softens. "Trapped in glittering rooms with beautiful people who adore you."

"They don't know me." I brush my thumb across her lower lip, uncaring of who might see. "You do."

Her eyes darken. "Adellum?—"

"Meet me tonight." The words rush out before I can reconsider. "By the river, past the southern boundary. No one uses that path after dark."

She hesitates, glancing toward the main house. She doesn't know how little Arkan cares when I coax her down there, laying her out and taking her the way I'm always dying to. "I shouldn't."

She always says that. I swear Harmony is my moral compass, the only thing that reminds me that there are rules to our society—even if I don't follow them.

"But you will." I smile, knowing her—knowing us. "Sunset. I'll wait by the old willow, the one that dips into the water."

Harmony's cheeks flush, but she doesn't deny it. "I have duties, responsibilities?—"

"I'll wait all night if necessary." I lean forward, my lips a breath from her ear. "I've spent two weeks in rooms full of people, thinking only of you. Far too many nights in an empty bed, dreaming of your skin against mine."

Her breath catches. I know it means something to her for me to assure her—even if it's indirectly—that there is no one else even when I'm gone. And I like telling her she's mine. "You're impossible."

"Is that a yes?"

She meets my eyes, her own dancing with a mixture of exasperation and desire. "It's a 'you're going to get us both in trouble.'"

I grin, victorious. "That's not a no."

"It should be." She shoves at my chest, forcing space between us. "Go away. Some of us have actual work to complete before the day ends."

I rise to my feet, wings stretching before settling against my back. "Sunset," I remind her. "I'll bring wine."

"I hate wine," she lies, focusing intently on her herbs.

"Meadowmint tea, then."

The corners of her mouth twitch. "You're presuming I'll come."

"I'm hoping." I step back, reluctant to leave her even for a few hours. Because I know she'll be there. She's as drawn to me as I am to her, even if we play this little game. "But either way, I'll be there. Waiting."

"Go create something beautiful," she says, finally looking up at me. "Instead of bothering hardworking people."

I start to walk away, then pause, looking back over my shoulder. "You already did that today," I say. "The bothering me part, not the creating beauty. Though you've done that too, just by existing."

Her laugh follows me as I stride away, wings lifting slightly with satisfaction. I know she'll come. We've established this ritual over months of careful meetings—this dance of resistance followed by surrender. There's honesty in it, a realness that's absent from every other corner of my life.

Tonight, by the river, I'll remember what it means to be alive rather than merely existing. With her.