Page 117 of Embers of Ruin

I should be proud. Instead, my stomach tightens. Every new leaf feels like proof. Proof that the prophecy may not be nothing. Proof that my magic is not simply a hidden curse I can tuck away beneath sleeves and fear. Proof that whatever Thorin believes I am, the world itself may be conspiring to agree with him.

I resent the entire garden for participating.

Thorin stands near the center fountain with Mazelle at his side. Onyx is there too, though farther back near the archway that leads toward the older section of the gardens. His arms are crossed, his expression unreadable, but the line of his shoulders tells me enough. He does not like this. Whatever this is.

Wonderful. That makes two of us.

Mazelle holds a thin stack of papers in one hand and speaks in a low voice to Thorin, who listens without looking at her. His eyes are on the living tree. He’s wearing his crown today and a formal coat. The morning light does nothing to soften him. If anything, the gray sky and lifeless garden make him look more like he belongs here, a dark figure carved from the same grief that shaped this place. I hate that thought because it’s too poetic. My mind is becoming disloyal.

Thorin looks up before I reach him. His gaze finds mine, and for one beat, the garden, the guards, the mist, all of it seems to pull back. Not disappear. I’m not that far gone. But the world narrows around the fact that he remembers too.

The archives.

It’s there in the way his expression stills, barely but enough. Then the king returns, cold and composed, locking whatever that was behind his eyes before anyone else can see.

Coward.

The word rises so quickly I almost laugh. Perhaps that’s unfair. Perhaps it’s not.

“Good morning,” he says.

“That’s a bold assumption.”

Mazelle’s eyes close for half a second as if she would rather be anywhere but between the two of us. That makes three of us.

Onyx looks away, though I catch the faintest movement at the corner of his mouth.

Thorin’s gaze remains on me. “You’re in a generous mood.”

“I’m in a mood. Generosity has not been invited.”

“Noted.”

I stop a few feet from him, refusing to acknowledge the way the shadows at his feet move toward me and then stop, as if even they have learned boundaries. Or perhaps he has. The idea unsettles me enough that I immediately search for something irritating to say.

“How fortunate for you. A captive and a subject of study. Truly, my presence is a gift.”

His expression cools. “You are not a captive nor a subject of study.”

“No? Then why is everyone always watching me as if I might either save the kingdom or set it on fire?”

Mazelle finally looks at me. “Those are not mutually exclusive outcomes.”

I point at her. “That. That is exactly the kind of comment that makes me want to be difficult on purpose.”

“You are difficult without purpose.”

“I’m evolving—or I was.”

Riven makes the mistake of smiling near the gate. Cadrin looks appalled, which improves my mood by an embarrassingly large amount.

Thorin does not smile. That should be a relief, but it’s not.

His gaze moves over my face with the sort of attention that makes sarcasm feel like a very thin shield. “You didn’t sleep.”

I fold my arms. “Must we begin every training session with observations about my appearance? You’re going to make me self-conscious, and then where will we be?”

“Likely in the same place.”