There is only Roseth.
Her hand rests lightly against my chest, curled as if she fell asleep mid-thought and never finished the gesture. I stare at it for a long moment, struck by the quiet trust of it. No one has ever slept beside me like this. No one has ever slept beside me without fear.
The realization settles slowly and then all at once.
I feel safe.
The thought is so unfamiliar that it almost feels like a mistake.
She shifts in her sleep and presses closer, her forehead brushing my collarbone. The small movement sends a warmth through me so sudden and bright that it makes my chest ache. I close my eyes briefly, letting the sensation exist without analysis, without caution.
When she finally wakes, it happens gradually. Her lashes flutter. Her fingers tighten slightly against my shirt. She inhales sharply as awareness returns, and then her gaze lifts to meet mine.
For a heartbeat, neither of us speaks.
Her lips curve first.
“Good morning,” she murmurs, voice still thick with sleep.
The simple words settle into me with startling weight. Good morning. As though mornings like this are normal. As though waking beside me is not something extraordinary or reckless or foolish.
“Good morning,” I reply, and the softness in my voice surprises me.
She studies me for a moment, her expression warm and curious, as though she is still deciding whether this moment is real. Then she laughs quietly and hides her face against my shoulder.
“I forgot you were real,” she says.
The confession is so honest that it steals the breath from my lungs.
“I have that effect,” I answer lightly, though my chest feels dangerously full.
She pulls back just enough to look at me again, her eyes bright in the morning light. “You are smiling,” she says, sounding delighted by the discovery.
I had not noticed.
I cannot remember the last time I woke up smiling. The realization lingers long after she slips from the bed and begins moving about the small room, humming quietly to herself as she braids her hair. I watch her without meaning to, memorizing the easy rhythm of her movements, the way she pauses to stretch, the way she mutters to herself while searching for her boots.
This is what peace looks like, I think. It is small and domestic and unremarkable. It smells like ash and lavender. It hums off-key while tying its hair.
The idea terrifies me because I want it.
By the timewe step into the street, Bellmere is already alive with festival preparations. Bells ring in uneven bursts across the town, laughter spills from open doors, and the air hums with anticipation.
Roseth walks beside me, close enough that our shoulders brush occasionally, and every accidental touch sends a quiet spark through me that I pretend not to notice.
We reach the forge just as the bell gives its first testing chime of the day.
The sound rolls through the square like sunlight made audible, warm and clear and impossibly resonant. Even after days of hearing it, the tone still makes my breath catch. It carries farther than it should. It lingers longer than any ordinary bell has the right to linger.
Roseth pauses at the doorway, listening with a proud, almost shy smile.
“It sounds happy,” she says.
I want to tell her that it sounds powerful. That it sounds dangerous. That it feels like the kind of magic that kingdoms would burn cities to possess.
Instead, I nod. “It does.”
A voice interrupts us from the far side of the square. “Khaivor.”
