My head dipped in agreement, trying to keep my breathing even.
After he finished, he straightened himself, his gaze locking onto mine, unwavering and direct. The intensity stole my breath, leaving me frozen in stunned silence.
“Better?” he asked simply.
I nodded, too flustered to speak. My face flamed. My heart tried to climb into my throat.
Erindor glanced to my side. His eyes narrowed.
“Are you hurt? You’ve been holding your side as we walked.”
The words caught in my throat, held captive by the intensity of his gaze. "No—I mean—just bruised, I think," they came out in a rush, a scramble to regain composure.
He stepped closer, reaching a hand out me, brow furrowing. “I can take a look, if you want.”
“No!” I blurted, a little too loudly, and slapped his hand away. Then softer, mortified at my initial response, “I mean, no thank you. Exceedingly kind, but I’m fine. Yes. Thank you.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You’re the worst liar I’ve ever met.”
“I’m also very modest,” I muttered, clutching my satchel tighter.
His mouth twitched, but not quite a smile. “As you wish, your modest highness.”
And then, mercifully, he walked ahead again, giving me space.
I exhaled slowly, my face burning so hot it could’ve melted the snow.
…
That night, I had a dream of a garden I had never seen.
The snow was gone, replaced by ash, but nothing burned. Flowers rose from scorched earth: golden blossoms curled like tongues of flame, glowing at their edges. A warm breeze stirredthe air, fragrant with smoke and something sweet, like honeyed moss.
A figure moved between the trees, cloaked, faceless, watching. Not threatening. Not human.
“You lit the dark,” it whispered, “but the fire is not yours until you believe it is.”
I turned, and the flowers turned with me. Each pedal flickered. Each stem leaned toward my breath. The sky overhead shimmered with violet light, a veil of dancing flame like a second dawn.
In my hand, I held nothing.
Until suddenly a spark appeared.
Small. Steady. Alive!
Warmth bloomed through me, not fire but hands. Erindor’s hands, calloused and careful, adjusted my cloak, brushing snow from my cheek. Within the dream, the essence of him was felt more than seen, a steadfast presence that solidified through the ethereal haze. That anchoring feeling was then embraced and ignited by the curling flames of the dreamscape.
Not dangerous.
Not fear.
But they wanted to be known. To be seen and not flinch.
The spark pulsed.
When I woke up, my palm was warm.
Chapter Sixteen
