"I've touched the moss myself," he said quietly. "I know what it holds."
Surprise made her look up at him. "Why would you?"
"To understand what I'd created. To ensure it served its purpose." His expression gave nothing away, but his thumb traced small circles against her nape. "The garden requires careful tending, even by its master."
They sat in silence for a moment, his hand still cradling her neck, her pulse gradually slowing to something more manageable. The thorn patterns had settled to a steady warmth rather than the earlier burning.
"You could have let me suffer through it," she said eventually.
"Yes." He didn't deny it. "But your distress was... loud. Disruptive."
"To the root systems."
"Among other things." His hand dropped away, and she immediately missed the contact. "The marks should be quiet now. Try to sleep without broadcasting your nightmares to half my domain."
He stood to leave, but her hand shot out, catching his wrist before she could think better of it. He went still, looking down at where she touched him.
"Thank you," she said.
"I didn't do it for you." But he didn't pull away from her grip. "The thorn patterns are my magic. Their misbehavior reflects on me."
"Still." She released him, tucking her hand back against her chest. "Thank you."
He studied her for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. Then he moved to the chair by her window instead of the door.
"What are you doing?"
"Ensuring my magic remains stable." He settled into the chair with casual grace, long legs stretched out before him. "Sleep. I'll wake you if the memories return."
"You're staying?"
"Would you prefer another hour of those dreams?" His tone was sharp, but he was already making himself comfortable. "Or perhaps you'd like to wake the entire castle with your terror?"
She should argue. Should insist she'd be fine alone. But the thought of closing her eyes and facing those borrowed deaths again made her stomach clench.
"No," she admitted quietly.
"Then sleep." He turned his face toward the window, moonlight casting his profile in sharp relief. "I'll be here."
She didn't see how his eyes tracked back to her once her breathing evened out. Didn't notice when he moved the chair closer, just enough to reach out if the nightmares returned. Didn't feel when he touched one of the golden threads in her patterns, expression troubled.
It should have been impossible to rest with him watching. But the thorn patterns hummed contentedly with his proximity, and that warmth in her chest settled into something almost peaceful. When she finally drifted off, her dreams were her own.
Dawn came gentle through her windows, carrying birdsong that shouldn't exist this deep in the forest.
Briar woke slowly, free of borrowed deaths for the first time since the garden. Her body ached, razor cuts stinging, thorn patterns tender, but her mind was clear. She stretched carefully and froze.
The chair by the window sat empty.
She sat up, searching the room for any sign he'd been there. Nothing. Even his scent had faded, leaving only the usual mixture of roses and old wood. The memories felthazy now, dreamlike. Had he really stayed? Had he really touched her neck with such careful fingers, traced her thorn patterns until they quieted?
Maybe she'd imagined it. Maybe the trauma had conjured a kinder version of him, one who bothered to ease her suffering.
She pressed her fingers to the marks at her throat. They pulsed warm but calm, no trace of last night's burning agony. If she'd only dreamed of his presence, would the moss memories have faded so completely?
A knock interrupted her confusion and the bark-skinned servant entered with breakfast. The woman set the tray down without meeting Briar's eyes, as always, but this morning she paused at the door.
"His lordship says you're to attend him in the library after you've eaten. Best not keep him waiting." She hesitated, then added quietly, "The clothes he selected are in your wardrobe."
