She appeared ahead of him, cradling her own glass heart in both hands. Her blouse was torn, her hair tangled, eyes wide with panic.
“Run,” he cried.
But she couldn’t. She dropped to her knees, spent.
The monster burst from the trees.
Collin didn’t think—he threw his own glass heart aside, wrapped his arms around her, and shielded her with his body.
Behind them, his orb hit the earth and shattered into a million sharp, glittering pieces. The flame went out, thrusting them into darkness.
Collin rose early, long before the sun had fully climbed the sky, the nightmare just a feeling he pushed to the back of his mind.
Aries’s snores thudded against the walls from behind his closed door—solid, steady, obnoxious. No sign of Hadria.
Collin still felt a flicker of guilt about their conversation. Aries had meant well, even if he’d fumbled it.
He padded into the kitchen, threw a lump of butter into the pan, and started a quick biscuit batter. The smell of sizzling fat was comforting, homey, and warm. By the time he dropped thick spoonfuls into the pan, he already felt better.
Outside, he washed his face in the cold well water, letting the sting wake him up. He returned just in time to pull the biscuits before they burned. Perfect timing.
He plated them up—left two aside for Aries, still snoring—and didn’t bother with a note. The gesture would speak for itself.
Back in his room, he threw open his dresser drawers with unusual care. He wanted something nice. Not formal—he wasn’t courting her yet, not officially, but still.
A dusky blue shirt, a charcoal waistcoat with clean buttons, not too tight. Enough to look put together without looking desperate.
He ran a comb through his hair. It wouldn’t behave. He let it be.
With his bookbag slung over his shoulder and a hot biscuit in hand, Collin stepped outside. The sun was shining, the air was sweet, and his heart was racing.
He leapt over the garden fence rather than open the gate. Just a few more hours, and bit into the hot biscuit.
The meeting hall was warm and stifling despite the crisp spring air outside. Collin had thrown open the windows in hopes of clearing his head, but all it did was let in the distracting sounds of market and laughter from the square.
He couldn’t focus. Neither could the children. One student kept dropping her chalk. Another had somehow gotten ink on his nose and then managed to smear it across his shirt, his sleeve, and, inexplicably, the wall.
Collin tried to lead a reading exercise but found himself mispronouncing simple words. His eyes kept drifting to the window.
Every time someone passed outside, his heart gave a hopeful lurch. Was it her? Had she decided to come early? Was she walking past, even now, arms full of spring flowers, golden hair catching the sun?
Of course not. It was just Old Sanders delivering firewood.
He caught one of the boys flicking a rolled-up paper ball at another’s head and didn’t even scold him.
By mid-afternoon, he was staring at the clock more than the lesson plan. The hands moved like tree sap. Get through this. Get through this, and then go.
He tapped a rhythm on the edge of his desk with his fingers, the same rhythm he used when pacing out lines of a poem. His brain buzzed with things he wanted to say. Lines of imagined conversations, of practiced smiles.
When the final bell rang, he almost didn’t hear it. The children bolted out the door with spring-laced energy, and he barely mumbled a goodbye.
He didn’t bother cleaning up. Didn’t stack chairs or close the shutters. He grabbed his bag, flung on his cloak, and left the hall in a blur of excitement.
The worksite buzzed with life, shouting men, crashing axes, a saw grinding through timber. Sawhorses and hammers littered the clearing. Collin stood at the edge of the chaos, blinking, pulse thudding.
He hadn’t expected it to be so real. So loud. So alive.
And then—he saw her.
