Page 116 of The Dark Lord’s Guide to Honeymooning (and Other Acts of Tyranny)

I shoved it down again, but my hands were shaking now. I hid them in my lap, forcing my breathing to stay even.

“My lord?” Thorne’s voice was careful. “You all right?”

“Fine,” I lied, using the same excuse from earlier. “Just tired from the ritual.”

It was a convenient excuse, one that explained the tension in my shoulders, the slight tremor I couldn’t quite hide, the way I kept glancing at Arabella as if to reassure myself she was still there. Everyone accepted it because it made sense.

No one needed to know I was fighting a war in my own head.

Sebastian absently waved his hand, and tiny flowers began sprouting from the wooden chair legs.

“Must you?” I asked.

“Sorry. Nervous habit.” But he didn’t stop the growth, and soon delicate white blossoms covered half his chair.

What the fuck was he nervous about now?

While we waited for our food—I’d ordered something called “Temporal Beef” that supposedly aged backward and if you didn’t eat it fast enough became a live cow—Sebastian kept fidgeting. The white blooms released a sweet fragrance.

“It helps me think,” he said defensively when he caught me glaring.

I found myself struggling to focus on the mundane chatter. The memories kept intruding, flashes of a life that felt both mine and foreign.

The first time I’d seen Skyspire, it had been new. I’d raised it from the bones of the earth with will alone, each stone sung into place with power that made the world tremble. My citadel. My throne. My—

A bee buzzed past my ear.

Then another.

Within seconds, a small swarm had materialized, drawn by Sebastian’s impromptu garden. They settled on the flowers with enthusiasm, and one particularly ambitious specimen made a beeline—pun intended—for Arabella’s wineglass.

“Quit showing off,” I snapped, my patience fraying as I batted away a bee investigating my collar. “This isn’t a bloody greenhouse.”

Sebastian’s flowers withered instantly, sending the bees into confused spirals. “I wasn’t—I mean, I didn’t think—”

“That’s the problem with you hero types,” I snapped. “Never thinking about consequences.”

“Kaz.” Arabella’s voice was carefully neutral, but I felt her concern. A gentle probe, asking without asking if I was all right.

I wasn’t. Perhaps dinner had been a bad idea, after all.

Griffin launched into a detailed account of his day exploring the Spire after they left the Academia, dragging Sebastian to various magical supply shops and one memorable incident involving a cursed mirror that showed your worst fear.

“Mine was apparently running out of ink during an important experiment,” Griffin said cheerfully. “Sebastian’s was—”

“Private,” Sebastian cut in quickly, color rising in his cheeks.

Probably something to do with disappointing people or causing harm through good intentions.

“Any trouble?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

“None,” Sebastian confirmed. “Actually, people seemed to actively avoid us. One merchant practically threw his goods at Griffin rather than haggle.”

Good. Word of what I’d done to those thugs had spread. The God Spire respected few things, but decisive violence was one of them.

Our food arrived. My Temporal Beef appeared to be de-aging before my eyes, cycling through various states of doneness. Arabella had ordered something that might have been fish if fish had evolved the ability to photosynthesize. Griffin’s plate contained what looked like edible mathematics.

“So,” Griffin said, dissecting his geometric meal, “dare I ask how your meeting with the Alchemist went? You both look rather depleted.”