Page 37

I return to the wall before I find her. Ivy curled like memory, thorns catching on the wind, the roses deeper in bloom than I left them. This place, this wall—always grew better under pressure. It's where time slows, where the world blurs just enough to let thought settle. Maybe that’s why I come here. Maybe that’s why I bring the book, open it without reading a single line. The pages rest in my lap like ceremony. Familiar. Reverent. But my eyes don’t follow the words.

Instead, I pluck a rose.

The petals wither the moment my fingers graze them, color draining to ash before the stem hits the ground. I let them fall. One by one. A ritual, perhaps. A slow surrender of the Hollow's residue still clinging to my veins. Or maybe I just like watching beauty die by my hand. There’s honesty in decay. It doesn’t lie about what it’s becoming.

It feels wrong to be here—wrong in the way healing sometimes feels like betrayal. Like we’ve outrun something that should’ve swallowed us whole. But we didn’t just survive—we’ve returned. And in the quiet that follows war, I don’t know what to do with peace. We were forged in ruin, sculpted by carnage. And yet here we are, back at the Academy like we’re not a thousand lives heavier than when we left.

Silas is inside—giving the cat instructions like Mr. Bean’s a soldier in training. His voice carries through the cracked windows, animated and irreverent. Elias is snoring loud enough to haunt the curtains. Riven disappeared into the shower like he was hoping the water might burn off what the Hollow put on us. I don’t blame him. Caspian and Ambrose are on the bike, a shared silence riding tandem through ghost roads that still remember Branwen. And Lucien, of course, vanished the moment his boots hit the marble floor. A retreat dressed up as composure.

It’s life. Or something close enough to pretend.

And yet.

She’s not here.

I searched for her in every hall I passed, paused outside her door twice without knocking. I told myself I’d find her later. Told myself she needed rest. But the truth is, I needed a moment of stillness before I faced her again. Not because I fear what she’ll say. Not because I fear what I feel. But because when it comes to Luna, I never want to waste a moment on anything less than full attention. She deserves all of me. And I’ve spent centuries learning how to give that sparingly. Now, I must unlearn it for her.

Because there are things I still haven’t said. Not because I’m unsure, but because I wanted the words to taste like truth when they finally left my mouth. I've loved many things in this world. But none of them ever made me want to stay.

She makes me want to build. And that is a different kind of love altogether.

So I sit here, draining roses dry in the shadow of a ruin we once called sanctuary, wondering if maybe—just maybe—we've stumbled into something holy. A new beginning dressed in the bones of what almost destroyed us. Not redemption. Not absolution. Just… the possibility of more.

I take another rose from the vine, slow and careful, as if reverence could undo what I know is coming. The petals are ruby red—lush and full like blood just beginning to cool—and even as they begin to crisp beneath my touch, they cling to their beauty. Death, it seems, hasn’t convinced this one to fade with shame. The edges curl in protest, a reluctant surrender to my magic, but there’s still scent in its core. It smells alive. Like memory. Like her.

I lift the rose to my face and inhale.

It’s a lie. The rose is dead. The scent is nothing more than a ghost riding the last breath of something that used to live. But gods, it’s still beautiful. Maybe more so because of it. A contradiction I can’t stop holding, one that makes me think of Luna. Of how she looked the first time I saw her—fury in her shoulders, starlight on her skin, blood on her mouth. That was the moment I began to believe beauty and violence could share the same pulse. And now, after everything… she’s no less wild. No less luminous. Just more complicated.

The petals flake as I lower the rose again. I let the brittle edges crumble across my palm, watch them drift like ash to the ivy-laced ground. Behind me, the Academy is murmuring awake. Windows creak, wind slips through glass like it’s been waiting for us to return. But I don’t move. Not yet. I’ve waited too long for the noise of the world to matter. This quiet is mine.

She still hasn’t come.

Part of me wants to believe she knows I’m here. That she’s choosing to let me wait because she wants to feel my hunger from afar. It wouldn’t surprise me. Luna is as deliberate as she is reckless. And I’m not fool enough to think I’m the only one who watches. I’ve seen the way she looks at Silas when he’s not acting like a menace. I’ve heard the softness in her voice when Elias stumbles his way through affection. She loves them. She’s bonded to them. And yet, she’s still mine to pursue.

I’ve told her I want her.

That I’m not looking for a chase, but a surrender. Not because I need to own her. But because I want to witness her. All of her. The brilliance. The rage. The soft, broken tenderness she pretends not to have. I want to unravel her like this rose—petal by petal, until all that’s left is the scent she doesn’t know still clings to the air.

The sound of the door creaking open is barely louder than the breath I hold as it happens. I don’t need to look to know it’s her. I feel her before I see her—before her bare feet meet the stone path, before the scent of lavender and the faint bite of rosemary follows her into the garden air. It’s her magic, always just a little too wild to hide. And her smile—gods, that smile—hits me like an eclipse.

Luna steps into the light with her hair wet, curls tumbling around her shoulders in damp spirals that still glisten from the shower. There’s something unguarded about her right now, raw in the quiet way her eyes find me. And when she smiles, it isn’t one of her sly smirks or cutting glances. It’s real. Sun-warmed. Soft.

My heart reacts with an undignified lurch, twisting in my chest like it’s trying to claw its way out. Like it knows, better than I do, that it doesn’t beat for me anymore. It beats because of her. And maybe that’s always been true.

She crosses the garden, each step slow, unhurried, barefoot on the grass like the earth itself bends for her. Maybe it does. She has that effect—pulling the world toward her without asking. And me, most of all.

“I had to escape,” she says, a breath of laughter in her voice, brushing a strand of wet hair behind her ear. “Silas was lecturing me about proper nutrition for Mr. Bean. He said I’m not allowed to feed him ‘emotionally manipulative salmon.’ Whatever that means.”

My lips tug into a grin before I can stop them. “He’s jealous,” I murmur, standing, brushing soil from my palm. “The kitten has your attention. And Silas… well. He’s a creature of need.”

Luna rolls her eyes, amused, stepping closer until we’re nearly toe to toe. “You’re all creatures of need.”

“I’m patient,” I say softly, letting my gaze travel over her face. “But I’m no exception.”

She knows what I mean. Her smile falters—not out of discomfort, but something heavier. Something like understanding. The weight of knowing what I want and not flinching from it. I don’t press her. I never have. I only offer her the truth, over and over again, until she decides to take it.

“Walk with me,” I say, holding out my hand—not to take hers, just to invite. To remind her that with me, there’s no pressure. Just choice.

She nods.

We leave the ivy-covered courtyard behind and follow the old path that winds toward the western edge of the Academy grounds. It’s wild here, less manicured, the forest creeping in like it wants to reclaim what stone tried to steal. I like it here. Nature doesn’t ask for permission—it just is. Relentless. Undeniable.

She walks beside me, not speaking, not needing to. The silence is rich, not empty. A pause between heartbeats. Every so often, I glance down at her—at the way her fingers twitch like she’s fighting the urge to reach for something. Maybe for me. Maybe not. But she doesn’t. And I don’t push.

“I missed this,” she finally says, her voice barely above the whisper of wind through the leaves. “Not the place, but… the normalcy. The quiet.”

I glance at her again, and this time, I do reach. My fingers brush her wrist, just enough to feel her pulse—alive and quick. “You don’t need quiet,” I murmur. “You need peace. The kind that doesn’t beg you to shrink to fit it.”

She looks up at me, eyes luminous with something unreadable.

I don’t kiss her.

Not yet.

Instead, I offer her a ghost of a smile, then look back toward the trees ahead. “Come,” I say, voice low. “Let me show you where the world forgets to be cruel.”

The garden path winds like it remembers her too. The way she walked it months ago, head high and teeth bared like she was daring the world to try and chew her up. I remember every step she took that day. The stubborn lift of her chin. The bruises on her pride, not yet scabbed over. And how even then—when none of us knew her—I did.

So I ask her, quiet and easy, “Do you remember when you first arrived here?”

Luna tilts her head, curls still damp and sticking to her collarbones, and there’s a glint in her eye that already answers me. “Lucien tried to scare me off the first hour,” she says with a laugh that tugs at my ribs. “Riven too. I think I got a growl and a threat before I’d even unpacked.”

I smile because it’s true. It was chaos. All fire and poison and sharp edges. “And me?” I ask, though I already know what she’ll say. I ask because I want to hear her say it.

She stops walking and turns to face me, her voice softer now. “You were the first one who didn’t flinch. You looked at me like I wasn’t broken glass. Like I wasn’t dangerous.” Her fingers twitch at her sides, like she might reach for me but doesn’t. “You offered me kindness before anyone else thought I was worth the risk.”

There’s a silence after that—long, alive. Not awkward. Not hesitant. Just full.

Then she pulls something from her pocket. It’s wrapped in a square of dark cloth, folded carefully. Reverently. She presses it into my palm without ceremony, but the weight of it is undeniable. “I made you something,” she says, eyes lowered. “It’s not much. Just… I thought you might like it.”

I look down, slowly unwrapping the fabric. My fingers move slower than usual, reverent by instinct, not design. And when the cloth falls away, I see what she’s given me.

It’s a small, hand-bound book—stitched together with black thread. The cover is rough leather, burnished and worn, but the details… gods, the details. Her crest is branded into the corner, her magic etched faintly into the spine like a heartbeat. Inside, I know before I even open it, will be words. Her words. Her thoughts. Her poems. Her nightmares. Maybe her dreams.

She doesn’t know what she’s done.

She can’t know.

My breath halts in my throat as the blood in my veins slows, then roars. A gift. Freely given. Something of her—made for me. Unprompted. Unobligated. In my world, among my people, in the old rites I haven’t dared to whisper aloud in centuries, this is the final act. The closing note of a courtship already in motion.

She has no idea she’s answered the call.

I close the book gently, like it might vanish if I’m too careless with it. When I lift my gaze to hers, I don’t bother hiding what I feel. “You have no idea,” I say quietly, “what this means.”

She blinks, uncertain. “It’s just—”

“No.” I take a step toward her. “It’s not just anything. You gave me something of yourself. Made by your hands. From your thoughts. Your time.” I pause, lowering my voice further. “Among my kind… we don’t offer gifts lightly. And we don’t accept them without meaning.”

Her lips part, but she doesn’t speak.

“I’ve been courting you, Luna,” I say plainly, steadily. “Openly. Deliberately. And I told myself I would never rush you. Never take more than you’re ready to give.” I lift the book, holding it like the sacred thing it is. “But this… this is the moment you answered me.”

She’s looking at me now like I’m something ancient and burning and brand new all at once.

“I didn’t know,” she whispers.

“I did,” I answer. “And I would’ve waited a hundred years more for you to do it.”

The wind curls between us, soft, catching her curls and lifting them just slightly, like even the air wants to touch her. I want to step closer. I want to press my hand to her cheek and feel the warmth there. I want to ask her if she’ll let me kiss her yet—but I don’t. Instead, I tuck the book into my coat, close to my heart, and reach for her hand instead. Just that. My fingers brushing hers.

“Let’s keep walking,” I murmur. “We’ve already begun something.”

I’m not one to shy away from the inevitable. I don’t play at affection. Don’t circle what I want like it might vanish if I reach for it. I’ve lived too long, watched too many centuries decay into ash, to pretend there’s time to waste.

She knows I love her.

It isn’t subtle. It never was. I made it known with every deliberate glance, every touch of her name on my tongue like it was stitched into my soul. I told her in the language of patience—how I never rushed her, never demanded. But I also told her in the silences, in the way I stayed close when she didn’t want to be touched, and closer still when she did.

And now, here we are. The garden curling around us like it knows what’s coming. She gave me a gift—handmade, personal, vulnerable—and she didn’t know what it meant. But I do. And so I turn to face her, fully, my body angled toward hers like she’s the axis of the world. I hold her gaze. I let her feel the gravity of this.

“You’ve answered my courtship, Luna,” I say softly, without ceremony. “The gift you gave me… you may not know what it meant, but I do. And I think, on some level, you do too.”

Her brows knit, lashes fluttering just once before her lips part around a nervous breath. “…”

“I’m not asking for what you aren’t ready to give,” I say, stepping closer, close enough that I can see the golden thread of magic flickering along her collarbone. “But I am asking. Will you bond with me?”

She stares at me like I’ve just tilted the world off its axis. “Wait,” she says, blinking again. “Wait, what—like now?”

Her voice pitches higher at the end, and if she weren’t standing in front of me looking impossibly beautiful with her wet hair curling against her jaw and the scent of soap still clinging to her skin, I might laugh.

But I don’t. Because this is everything.

My lips twitch into a slow smile. I take another step forward until the air between us is warm, crackling. “There’s no altar,” I murmur. “No blood or fire. Nothing dramatic. Just yes or no. Just you and me.”

She swallows hard, her throat working, and I reach up, brushing my knuckles against her cheek. Lightly. Barely there. But her breath hitches, her body sways. She leans in, not even realizing she’s doing it.

I let my fingers trail to her jaw, tilting her chin up so she meets my eyes again. “If you’re not ready, Luna,” I say, quiet now, intimate, “then I will wait. As long as it takes. But if you are… if there’s even the smallest part of you that wants to say yes—don’t run from it.”

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. Just looks at me like the world’s cracking open again and she’s not sure whether she wants to step through or burn it down.

“I didn’t think you’d ask,” she whispers, voice fraying at the edges. “Not like this.”

“I didn’t think you’d give me something of yourself so freely,” I reply. “Yet here we are. And Luna…” My thumb traces the corner of her mouth. “I want you. Entirely. Your soul. Your magic. Your loyalty. And I’ll give you the same. Every piece of me. Every dark, ancient, cursed piece.”

Her chest rises with a breath she doesn’t seem to know she’s holding. “What happens if I say yes?”

I smile then—slow, knowing, reverent. “Then I belong to you.”

Her breath catches again. Her lips part. But she still hasn’t answered.

So I wait.

And for the first time in a thousand years, I feel like I might not survive the answer.