Page 86 of The Last Rose of Ashwood

Her eyes flicked toward Mara, then returned to Seren with a small gleam of satisfaction that suggested she had just discovered an ally in the room. “Your soldiers seem entertained.”

“They have limited diversions.”

“How fortunate I could provide one.” Elira shifted slightly against the edge of the hearth. The movement brought her closer to the fire, though she still made no attempt to warm her hands. One remained loosely folded over the other at her waist, the posture elegant enough to appear effortless until Seren noticed the tension hidden in the fingers beneath.

Always control, even when she smiled, even when she mocked—especially then.

“You have been providing several,” Seren said.

Elira’s gaze sharpened. The amusement did not vanish completely, but something beneath it changed, narrowing into a more deliberate attention. Her eyes traveled over Seren’s face with a slowness that felt almost insolent, lingering just long enough to make Seren aware that she was being examined in return.

“And yet,” Elira said, “you continue seeking my company.”

The words landed harder than they should have. For a moment, Seren forgot the fire entirely. She noticed instead the way Elira’s chin had lifted by the smallest degree, as though daring Seren to deny it. The faint color the hearth had brought into otherwise pale cheeks. The silver of her hair turning nearly gold at the edges where the flames caught it. The careful stillness of her body contrasting with the unmistakable challenge in her eyes.

It would have been easier if Elira had looked smug. Seren knew what to do with smug. This was different. Elira looked curious. Almost as though she genuinely wanted to know what Seren would say. The realization tightened something low beneath Seren’s ribs.

She told herself it was irritation. That explanation was beginning to require more effort than it used to. Elira did not look away. For a moment, the argument seemed to forget what it had begun over. Firelight shifted across the scholar’s face, warming the pale planes of her skin and catching faintly in her eyes, while the storm pushed snow against the windows in soft, relentless bursts.

Seren became abruptly aware of the room around them—the two scouts pretending not to listen, the close heat of the hearth at her back, the cold pressing through the walls—and of the fact that Elira appeared almost pleased with herself. That, more than the comment itself, restored Seren’s irritation.

“I am seeking answers,” she said.

“Ah.” Elira’s smile deepened by a fraction.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Seren stared at her. “You have an exceptionally irritating nothing.”

“I have been told.”

Seren exhaled through her nose and turned away before the urge to smile could betray her.

That was becoming the worst part. Elira should have been merely aggravating. Seren preferred aggravating people uncomplicated. She could dismiss them, outmaneuver them, or assign Roran the unfortunate responsibility of speaking to them instead. Elira refused simplicity. Her wit was irritating because it was good. Her evasions were infuriating because Seren could see intelligence behind them rather than emptiness. Every sharp answer concealed another thought, every careless shrug arrived a heartbeat too carefully, and the more Seren watched her, the more convinced she became that Elira’s sarcasm was not merely personality.

It was fortification.

People who answered quickly often did so to keep anyone from noticing the breath before the answer. Seren had begun watching those breaths. The pauses. The slight tightening of Elira’s fingers. The fractional delay before she looked away from anything connected to the roots, the Council, or the old empire. They told Seren considerably more than Elira ever volunteered.

She crossed toward the wall above the hearth, partly because the carving there demanded attention and partly because putting several feet between herself and the scholar suddenly seemed wise. Soot darkened the stones above the fire. Seren brushed her thumb across the surface until shallow grooves began emerging beneath the black residue.

A broken circle.

Three branching lines.

One descending root.

Her irritation cooled into focus. The symbol from Wren’s drawing. Seren leaned closer and ran her thumb along the lowest groove. Warmth met her skin—she stopped.

The stone sat too high above the flame for residual heat, and the wall around it remained cold. Only the carved lines carried warmth, faint but unmistakable, buried within the stone like an ember refusing to die.

Behind her, Elira had gone quiet. Seren felt that silence settle against her back. Not ordinary silence.

Elira’s careful kind.

Seren closed her eyes briefly. “Elira.”