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T he path gave way to a stretch of shoreline where smooth, dark stones glistened with seawater. The waves rolled in, foaming over the rocks before retreating with a whispering hiss. Vivienne and Lewis reached the edge of the beach, pausing just before the tide’s reach. Without a word, they bent down in near unison, unlacing their boots and peeling away their stockings. The ocean mist curled around their ankles, sending a pleasant shiver up Vivienne’s spine.

“Still Rocky Beach to you?” Lewis asked, shaking out his boots.

Vivienne smirked, wiggling her toes against a particularly smooth stone. “I don’t see a sign telling me otherwise.”

“Not very original, you know.”

“We were seven,” she shot back. “Would you rather we’d called it ‘The Place Where We Always Eat Too Many Pastries’?”

Lewis laughed, tossing his boots onto a dry patch of sand. “I’d argue that’s a more fitting name.”

Vivienne plopped down on a sun-warmed rock, pulling a pastry from the small satchel slung over her shoulder. “Too late now. It’s Rocky Beach forever.” She took a bite, the flaky crust melting on her tongue, the salty sea air only enhancing the sweetness.

Lewis flopped beside her, stretching his legs toward the tide. "How many more maps are left before everything is organized?"

Vivienne sorted through the catalog of her memory, biting the inside of her cheek. "Last time I checked we only had another two hundred or so left."

An incredulous expression spread across his face. "Do you think that's a small number?

Vivienne chuckled. "I started with around three thousand."

"Well, now you're being ridiculous," Lewis teased, brushing crumbs off his hands. “You ever regret it?” His tone maintained his usual sarcasm, but something deeper lingered beneath the words.

Vivienne hesitated, rolling a pebble between her fingers. The weight of the question pressed against her ribs. At fifteen, standing in the grand hall of the Royal Academy of Fendwyr, she had inked her name beside Antiquarianism , as expected. The Banners had been antiquaries for generations, their legacy woven into the very fabric of the academy and the library. She was simply the next stitch in the pattern.

Vivienne remembered gripping the quill too tightly, the scratch of ink against parchment feeling more like a door creaking shut than one swinging open. For weeks, she had wrestled with the decision, turning over other possibilities in her mind. Something else. Anything else. But in the end, she had stepped neatly into the space carved out for her, just as everyone assumed she would.

"I guess so… I don’t know," Vivienne shrugged, tossing the pebble into the waves. "How are things in your flower box ?" she teased.

"It's a greenhouse, and you know it," he reprimanded, a playful smile on his lips. "Things are good. I'm dividing my time between the greenhouse and the gardens right now. My mentor wants me to run the prism project again this winter—which is a real vote of confidence."

"You've already been named an Official Royal Botanist," Vivienne responded. "How much more of a vote of confidence do you need?"

"Thanks for the promotion, but on paper, I'm an Assistant Royal Botanist," he corrected.

She patted his arm. "I'm sure the 'assistant' part of the title will drop sooner than you think."

Lewis ducked his head, letting his hair fall forward, but not fast enough. The pink creeping across his cheeks betrayed him. Vivienne smirked, pleased she’d caught it despite his best efforts.

“Shut up,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I didn’t say anything,” she replied, stretching out her legs and letting the cool water slip between her toes.

The salty wind tugged at her hair as she tilted her head back, inhaling deeply. The scent of the sea clung to the twilight air, sharp and familiar.

Across the bay, the Vantner lighthouse stood watch, its beacon already flickering to life, casting golden streaks across the darkening water. She hadn’t realized how late it had gotten.

Beside her, Lewis picked at the frayed edge of his sleeve. “You know, most people spend a decade as assistants before they even dream of getting promoted. Three years is barely enough time to?—”

“You don’t have to defend it,” she interrupted, more sharply than she intended. “You deserved the promotion.”

Lewis exhaled, shifting uncomfortably. “Yeah, well. So do you.”

Vivienne scoffed, letting her eyes fall shut for a moment. Have I? The path to an Official Crown Specialty was clear enough: declare an area of study, endure years of apprenticeship, and, once deemed ready, receive a mentor’s recommendation for promotion. From there, you became an assistant, spending at least a decade in that role before being considered for full recognition as an Official Royal Antiquary, Botanist, Surgeon, or any of the dozens of specialties.

For Lewis, it had taken only three years before his mentor pushed him forward from an apprentice to an assistant. For Vivienne, five years had passed, and her mentors—her own parents —had yet to so much as mention a recommendation.

She pressed her lips together, fingers curling into the folds of her skirt. They don’t think I’m ready. Maybe I never will be.

Lewis nudged her foot lightly with his. “It’s not fair, you know.”

His voice was quiet, sincere. She looked at him, his golden-brown eyes reflecting the distant lighthouse glow, his expression caught between frustration and something softer—something that made her chest tighten.

Vivienne tore her gaze away first, fixing it on the horizon. “Come on,” she murmured, standing and brushing the sand from her hands. “We should head back.”

Lewis didn’t argue. But as they made their way up the path, his occasional glances told her he wasn’t finished with the conversation.

* * *

The last of the sun’s rays melted into the horizon, leaving a streak of amber across the sky as Lewis and Vivienne walked side by side. The cobblestoned streets, still warm from the day’s sun, pressed against Vivienne’s too-thin soles, a sensation both grounding and irritating. Lanterns flickered to life in the half-timbered houses lining the narrow road, their steep, pitched roofs silhouetted against the deepening twilight. Vantner was settling into its quiet rhythm, the hum of the day replaced by the soft chirp of crickets and the occasional distant ring of bells.

"I've been meaning to ask you," Lewis began, his voice casual. "I know you and Briar have been writing, but have you heard from your parents recently?"

Vivienne’s gaze flicked toward him, studying the way he tilted his head slightly, trying to sound nonchalant. “Define ‘recently.’”

He clicked his tongue. “Let’s say… in the last few months.”

Vivienne’s pace slowed as she considered her answer, the weight of the question suddenly heavier than she’d expected. “Ah, definitely not recently.”

Lewis frowned, he glanced at her sidelong, his voice softer now. “This expedition… it was supposed to be, what, seven months? Right?”

Vivienne nodded, keeping her focus straight ahead.

“And,” Lewis continued, with deliberate slowness, “they set sail last November?”

“Yes,” Vivienne replied quickly, her tone sharper than she intended.

He stopped mid-step, forcing her to halt. “Vivs, it’s the middle of September.”

The words hit her like a bucket of cold water. Vivienne stiffened, her breath catching as she stared at him. Had it really been that long? She quickly did the math in her head, calculating the months over and over, but each time, she arrived at the same number. Ten months. Ten. Her parents had been delayed on previous expeditions before, but three, almost four months overdue was unlike them.

She resumed walking, her movements mechanical. “Oh, you know my parents,” she said lightly, though her voice wavered. “They probably found some ancient temple or a new species of iguana and decided it was worth taking their sweet time to document it.”

Lewis raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Discovery or not, shouldn’t they have sent… something by now? A letter? A message? Anything?”

The knot in Vivienne’s stomach twisted tighter. She felt a cold prickle creeping across her skin, a dread she didn’t want to name. “They’ve never felt the need to explain themselves before. Why would they start now?” she snapped, her voice cutting through the stillness.

Lewis flinched slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line as he slid his hands into the pockets of his navy trousers. He didn’t argue—he knew better. Vivienne’s tone left no room for debate, and he’d learned long ago that when she was in this mood, pushing her only made things worse.

Vivienne stared straight ahead, pretending not to notice the weight of Lewis’s gaze on her. Her chest felt tight, her thoughts circling like a predator around her rising anxiety. She wanted to end this conversation before her spiraling thoughts filled in the blanks her mind had drawn.

Lewis finally broke the silence, his voice hesitant but steady. “You’re worried, aren’t you?”

Vivienne stopped again, turning to face him. Her expression softened for a fraction of a second before she steeled herself. “I’m fine,” she said, too quickly. “They’re fine.”

Lewis tilted his head, clearly unconvinced. He let out a quiet sigh and gave a small nod. “Alright, Viv. If you say so.”

The tension between them hung in the air as they walked on, the light from the lighthouse sweeping over them in regular intervals, casting long shadows against the backdrop of the city.

The silence stretched between them, broken only by the rhythmic tap of their boots on the cobblestones until Lewis finally spoke, changing the topic.

“So…” He drew out the word, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. “Are you taking anyone special to the Harvest Moon Festival?”

Vivienne blinked. The festival. She had completely forgotten it was this weekend.

“I don’t think so,” she said, rolling her shoulders. “Briar gets back Saturday, so I’m not sure we’ll even go.”

Lewis' lips twitched into a smirk. “Don’t you have to go? You know, as the reigning Lady of the Corn Cobs?”

Vivienne groaned. Gods above. Of course, he’d remember that.

Every year, the festival honored Elandra, goddess of love, fertility, and harvest, and Rhuevenar, god of the wild, beasts, and the hunt. The day started with a grand procession through the streets of Vantner, led by the Lord and Lady of the Harvest. It was once a noble tradition, granted to the farmer who reaped the most bountiful crop of the season. Now, it was an embarrassing spectacle where some unfortunate soul was stuffed into an itchy, vegetable-inspired costume and paraded through the city in a rickety cart.

Last year, Vivienne had been that unfortunate soul.

The original Lady of the Harvest had found herself at the bottom of a barrel of ale before the morning bells finished ringing. By mid-morning, Vivienne’s mother had strongly encouraged (read: blackmailed ) her into taking the woman’s place.

Vivienne raised a finger. “First, it’s Lady of the Harvest , not Lady of the Corn Cobs.”

Lewis barely held back his laughter, his shoulders shaking with effort.

She lifted a second finger. “Second, you know my mother all but forced me to do it.”

His lips pressed together in a valiant attempt to keep his amusement in check. “And third?”

Vivienne gave a saccharine smile and lifted her third finger on its own.

Lewis gasped, clutching imaginary pearls at his throat. “Such behavior is most unbecoming of a Lady of the Harvest! I shall report you to the Corn Cob Court at once.”

Vivienne snorted, shaking her head. “You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”

Lewis flashed a wicked grin. “Not a chance.”

She huffed but couldn’t deny, despite the role she’d been forced to play, the Harvest Moon Festival was one of her favorite events of the year. By dawn, the market square would transform into a festival ground, garlands of late-summer flowers draped between merchant stalls overflowing with autumn bounty. The day was full of contests, feasting, and, as night fell, the lighting of the bonfires beneath the rising harvest moon. The storytelling circles were her favorite, offering captivating tales of ancient gods, lost lands, and heroic deeds told by flickering firelight.

As they turned the final corner toward home, Vivienne angled her head at Lewis. “What about you? Taking anyone to the festival?”

He shrugged. “Not yet.”

A smirk pulled at the corner of her lips. “You could always ask Bianca.”

Lewis groaned. “Not this again.”

Bianca, their former classmate, was the self-appointed queen of manipulation and the single most infuriatingly perfect person Vivienne had ever met. She had spent their academy years weaving lies, undermining her classmates, and taking credit for others’ work, especially Lewis’. Though Bianca had softened in adulthood, Vivienne still kept her guard up.

“She’s not the same person she used to be,” Lewis said, as if reading her thoughts. “None of us are.”

Vivienne shot him a doubtful look. “Mmhm. Take her, then. Just stay away from the bonfires, the carving knives, the ribbons, or anything else she could use to murder you.”

Lewis chuckled. “Tell you what, if I bring Bianca, you can bring your ex-fiancé. That way, we can have equally miserable nights.”

Vivienne choked. “Gods, can you imagine? It’s been years since I?—”

Lewis grabbed her elbow, stopping her mid-step. “Viv, look.”

She released a small gasp.

A small envelope was wedged between the door and the frame of the Banner home, the moonlight glinting off a golden wax seal.

The royal seal.