Page 72 of Embers of Ruin

It shouldn’t bother me as much as it does.

A dead garden is hardly the worst thing I’ve seen in my life. I’ve walked past burned homes and abandoned villages, seen fields that split apart from drought and children whose cheeks hollowed long before they had any right to know hunger. I’ve lived in Elvora, where everyone carries misery like a family heirloom. By all accounts, I should be quite skilled at looking at broken things without letting them crawl beneath my skin.

Yet every time I step through the silver gates, this place reaches for something inside me. Not with hands, or magic I can name. It is more like grief finding an old wound, pressing at the tender edges until I remember it is there. The garden feels wrong in a way death alone does not explain. Death has a stillness to it. A finality. This place has an absence that feels like theft. As if life did not fade here naturally but was taken by force, pulled from the roots and wrung dry until even the soil forgot what it was meant to hold.

And there, in the middle of all that ruin, stands the tree I brought back—partially.

It’s still small in its defiance. Only a few branches have softened from black to green, and the leaves clinging to them are tiny, vibrant green things that look too fragile for this place.

I slow when I pass it. I do that every time, because I’m shocked that I was able to revive this dead sanctuary that everyone in the palace is obsessed with.

I feel the familiar pull that I know is Thorin.

“Admiring your work, Lady Tarethyn?”

His voice comes from behind me, low and smooth, and I refuse to startle on principle alone. At this point, the man appears from shadows often enough that jumping would only encourage him. I turn slowly, giving myself enough time to arrange my face into something bored and neutral, which would be easier if I didn’t know how his lips felt on mine, or how his body felt pressed against mine. I push the memories from last night away, but doubt they’ll stay there for long.

He stands beneath one of the arches with his hands in his pockets, dressed in black as always, looking exceptionally handsome. I won’t tell him that, though. I won’t tell him that I’m still affected by what he did to me last night, and that I haven’t stopped thinking about him. I know he feels it, though. I know because his shadows reach out to me, roaming my skin as if they remember, too.

“I made it grow a little,” I say, lifting my chin toward the tree as a small smile crosses my lips. “I’ll be honest, I wasn’t expecting much to come of this.”

His gaze moves briefly to the leaves, then back to me. “You sound proud.”

“What if I am? I feel like this is a major turning point for this garden.”

“You should be proud. You did this, all on your own.”

He pushes away from the arch and walks toward me, stopping beside the tree. His fingers brush mine where my hand rests against the bark. It’s barely a touch, but neither of us moves away. When I look up, he’s already watching me.

I narrow my eyes. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”

His expression remains infuriatingly calm. “I am pleased that you have begun admitting what you can do.”

A small smile pulls at my lips before I can stop it. “You’re enjoying this far too much, Thorin.”

“Perhaps.”

I look back at the tree. “Why is it so important to you?”

His fingers go still against mine. There it is—silence. Exactly as I thought. Bringing dead earth back to life is easier than pulling answers from anyone in this palace. It’s infuriating.

“It is a… useful tree, same as the Sacred Gardens.”

I pull my hand away. “Useful to whom?” I ask, arching a brow.

He doesn’t answer or react, and I didn’t expect him to. Thorin doesn’t react like ordinary men. He doesn’t fidget or scramble to rearrange his face when I strike something true. He simply becomes quiet before he decides whether he will respond or not.

“It is important to Solaris,” he says at last.

The answer is simple enough. The sort of answer a king should give while standing in the Sacred Gardens. But it’s not enough—not when it’s my magic he wants to use to make it useful.

Before I can decide whether to press the matter, the sound of boots on stone draws my attention. Mazelle waits near the training circle, eyebrow raised as she watches our interaction. Beside her stands Onyx, arms folded over his chest, jaw already tight as if he’s arrived irritated and fully intends to remain that way.

The sight of Onyx sends a small, traitorous rush of relief through me but then it stops—and I remember that the kiss that Onyx and I shared could never compare to the primal pull I seem to have unwillingly formed with Thorin. I care for Onyx, of course I do. But with Thorin—it’s different. I dislike everything about him. But it's more complicated than that. It’s much more complicated than I care to think about, so I redirect my thoughts immediately. Not quickly enough, though.

Thorin’s eyes flick toward my face, and something unreadable passes across his expression. It’s gone in a flash, but I know he saw. Of course he saw. The Shadow King seems to notice everything I would rather keep hidden and ignore every direct question I ask him, which is perhaps his most irritating quality among many impressive contenders.

“Captain,” Thorin says, eyeing him before his gaze travels back to me.