"Nothing," I finally say. "Just... stress. Dad's pushing the mate issue again."
It's not entirely a lie. Dad is pushing. The stress is real. Just not the actual source of my magical instability.
Zurkar studies me for a long moment, clearly unconvinced. But he doesn't press. Just nods slowly.
"Be careful," he warns. "Whatever is happening, it's affecting you more than you're admitting. And unchecked magicaldevelopment in someone with your abilities..." He shakes his head. "It doesn't end well."
The warning follows me out of his chambers and through the settlement. Doesn't end well. Like I don't already know that. Like I haven't spent years understanding exactly how dangerous my magic could be if I lose control.
But despite the warning, despite the very real risk Zurkar identified, I still find myself heading toward the river as evening falls. Still drawn by that relentless pull, that need to see her, to be near her even when every logical part of my brain screams that I should distance myself before this gets worse.
She's already there when I arrive. Sitting on our boulder—when did I start thinking of it as ours?—boots off, feet dangling in the current. Her dark hair falls loose around her shoulders instead of braided back, and she's humming something under her breath. Some melody I don't recognize but that lodges immediately in my memory.
She glances up when she hears me approach, and something in her expression shifts. Softens, maybe. Or relaxes. Like my presence has become familiar instead of threatening.
"You're early," she observes.
I settle beside her, leaving careful space between us. "So are you."
"Couldn't sleep."
"Same."
We fall into comfortable silence, watching water flow past in endless motion. The moon is full tonight, turning everything silver-bright. Her profile is sharp against that light—straight nose, full lips, the slight crookedness from an old break that makes her features more interesting than perfect.
Beautiful. She's beautiful and I'm staring like an idiot.
"So," I say, forcing words past the tightness in my throat. "Learn anything interesting in the healing chambers today?"
She snorts. "Learned that Lola thinks I should help with the herb garden maintenance. Something about 'therapeutic value.'"
"Is it therapeutic?"
"It's dirt." But there's humor in her voice, that dry sarcasm I've learned to recognize as her version of playfulness. "Lots and lots of dirt."
"Sounds deeply meaningful."
"Life-changing," she agrees solemnly. Then, after a pause: "Actually wasn't terrible. Kind of nice to just... exist. Do something normal."
The admission feels significant. Like she's acknowledging that maybe, possibly, she's starting to feel less trapped here. Less like a prisoner waiting for the next terrible thing.
I want to build on that. Want to keep pushing her toward comfort and safety and something resembling peace. So I do what's been working—let more of my natural personality out, the humor and playfulness I've been carefully rationing.
"You know what else is therapeutic?" I ask.
She eyes me suspiciously. "What?"
"Watching me train." I flex dramatically, making the muscles in my arms bunch. "Very inspiring. Good for morale."
"Oh gods," she mutters, but she's fighting a smile. "You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"The flexing thing. The ridiculous showing off thing."
"It's not showing off if it's educational," I insist. "I'm teaching you proper warrior technique through demonstration."
"You're teaching me nothing except that you're incredibly full of yourself."
