"I was thinking that you handled it better than cycle thirty-seven's version, who broke a man's arm in three places for looking at Mom too long during a supply run." She takes a sip of her ale. "So. Progress."
Kaelren stares at her. "Three places?"
"Wrist, elbow, and shoulder. Very thorough. Mom didn't speak to you for two days."
"That also tracks," I say.
The three of us sit there, drinking root ale in a tavern full of people who are celebrating because tomorrow might not come, and something settles between us. The feeling of a family that found each other too late and is making up for lost time in the only way they know how.
Peeble, having concluded their lecture to thunderous applause, flutters over and lands on the table between us.
"I have been informed by a very enthusiastic bartender that I am the first beetle to ever give a standing-ovation speech in the history of the Root and Vine," they announce. "I would like this recorded for posterity. Torvel. Where is Torvel? Someone get the archivist. This needs to be in the official record."
"Torvel went to bed three hours ago," Thalia says.
"Then wake him. History is happening."
I lean into Kaelren's side. His arm comes around me. This is what we're fighting for.
This. Right here. A tavern full of people who refuse to stop living just because the end might be close.
I raise my mug. Thalia raises hers. Kaelren, after a moment, raises his.
"To day five," I say.
"To day five," Thalia says.
Kaelren doesn't say anything. He just drinks. But his arm tightens around me, and through the space between us, I feel something steady and certain and fierce.
We are going to make it to day five.
We have to.
It's late. Elle and Kaelren left earlier. They thought they were subtle. They were not. Elle leaned in to whisper something, and Kaelren went rigid. He stood so quickly the bench scraped loudly across the floor, and they left without looking at anyone.
Everyone pretended not to notice. I noticed, because compound eyes are useful that way, and because I have been watching those two fumble toward each other across more iterations than I care to count.
Which leaves me and Thalia.
She sits at the end of the long table with her empty mug in front of her, fingers loosely wrapped around the handle. Her posture is relaxed, but there is a quiet steadiness about her that reminds me of both her parents. She has Kaelren’s stillness and Elle’s warmth, and the combination still catches me off guard sometimes.
“You’re still here,” I say.
“So are you.”
“I am a beetle. I require very little. I can remain indefinitely. I am glorious in that way.”
The corner of her mouth shifts, close enough to a smile that I count it. I have catalogued every version of Thalia’s smiles across more years than she knows I remember, and this one falls somewhere betweenamusedandtoo tired to hide it.
“Escort me home?” she asks.
“I am insulted that you phrased that as a question.”
She pushes her chair in before standing. She always does that, even when no one is watching. I flutter up and settle on her shoulder as we head toward the door.
The Verdance at night feels softer. The moss lining the root paths glows gently, and pollen drifts through the air like faint sparks. Somewhere above us, a nightbird calls and the Heartwood hums in response, the sound settling into my shell and quieting everything around us.
The Root bridges arch overhead between the living towers, their undersides threaded with pale veins of light that pulse in a slow rhythm. From up here on Thalia's shoulder, I can see the layered gardens below us, terraced into the city's walls, their leaves silver-edged in the dark.
