Page 96 of Embers of Ruin

“The garden remembers when it was alive.”

I look up, because it’s such an odd choice of words and did not answer my question. I give him a flat look. “The garden remembers?”

“Yes. It remembers the magic. Not everything forgets its beginning.”

I brush my fingertips over one of the tiny leaves. “I thought I was healing it.”

He nods. “You are.”

“Then why does it keep growing after I leave?”

His gaze settles on the new growth. “Because life rarely stops once it’s given permission.”

“And I’m giving it permission?”

His answer is simple. “Yes.”

“Can you give it permission?”

His face grows weary, and any happiness that was there before quickly vanishes. “No. The garden does not respond to my magic. One might even say… it resents it.”

I glance back at the new growth climbing the arch, then at the shadows pooling at his feet.

Thorin steps back, giving me room. “I would like you to try again.”

I kneel in the soil, ignoring the dampness soaking through my trousers and place my palms flat on the earth. My magic hums in response, searching for the coldness buried deep within the soil where the rot takes hold. Finding the darkness comes easier now. So does calling my warmth to heal the dark magic suffocating this garden.

The first time I reached for my magic, it felt wild—like trying to catch lightning with bare hands. Now it answers when I call, flowing through me as naturally as breathing. I have more control than I ever did when I was a simple healer in Elvora.

I let the warmth spread through my arms instead of forcing it into the ground. The garden meets me halfway. A strange ache brushes against my mind. It’s not painful, but it’s there. I spend several minutes trying to caress the feeling, to identify it. I reach for it, grabbing on until I know what it is. Its need. And loneliness. And for once, it doesn’t belong to me.

My eyes fly open as I look at Thorin, now kneeling beside me. He’s so close that our bodies almost touch. I try not to focus on that, instead drawing my attention back to the ground. The flowerbed beneath my hands is still, but I can feel something reaching back. Clawing, more like. No—not clawing. Waiting.

“It's alive,” I whisper.

Thorin doesn't answer, but I didn’t expect him to because I don’t think he’s surprised. I let out a slow breath and stop trying to control what happens next.

Instead…

I listen.

Warmth pours from my palms into the earth, reaching. The cracked soil softens as tiny roots begin weaving beneath the surface, searching for one another after centuries apart. I can feel their ache, their longing to become what they were once more.

Something green unfurls beside my hand. One sprout. Then two. The sound is too soft for anyone to hear it, but I can. I hear a sigh. It doesn’t come from me or Thorin—it comes from the garden itself.

I lift my head, looking at what I’ve just done. Color spreads through the nearest flowerbed in delicate threads, creeping between the stones before disappearing beneath the dead roots farther out. It’s only a few feet. Not enough to make much of a difference. But compared to the endless gray surrounding us, it feels significant.

My attention shifts to Thorin, and a light smile tugs at my lips. He looks like a man who has found something lost after convincing himself he’d never see it again. My chest tightens, but not because of the garden. It tightens because I’ve never seen him look like this. The king disappears, and for one moment… he’s just a man.

“You've done remarkably well, Lyra,” he says.

I brush the dirt from my hands as I stand. “Thanks. I have a pretty good teacher. He’s a pain in the ass, but…I’ve learned a lot from him.”

We stand in silence for a minute, looking at what I brought to life. Slowly, Thorin turns to me. He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me. No… through me. He studies me as if he’s seeing into me.

“May I?” he asks, and I know what he wants.

I nod my approval.