I sat back on my heels and looked around the rooftop. For so long, this place had felt like a bunker—my retreat from the noise of everything. Now it looked different. The tools were still there, the half-finished projects and the smell of oil and cedar, but the silence didn’t press on me anymore. Instead, it felt warm and expectant.Because she’d been here.
There was still a faint scuff on the floor where she’d knelt, trying to hide behind the worktable. I found myself tracing it with my boot, smiling. She wasterribleat sneaking, terrible at lying and terrible for my peace of mind.And yet the air felt wrong when she wasn’t in it.
I poured myself a mug of tea from the dented kettle, then filled the second one out of habit. I set it beside her favorite spot—on the crate she always used as a seat instead of mine, even though I kept it atherbench now. I’d even carved a new lid for her cup, to keep the night wind from cooling it too fast.
And I was going to have to finish the design for her new chair too. I added it to the list of projects that were all for her.
I sat there for a while, both mugs steaming between our places, as if she might walk in at any moment.The idea of her up here didn’t unsettle me anymore. It steadied me.
The restlessness that used to drive me to work until dawnhad faded. In its place was something quieter, heavier, and—if I was being honest with myself—dangerously sweet.
I leaned my elbows on my knees and stared at the lights of Grebath until they blurred.I’d sworn never to want anything again. But when I closed my eyes, all I could see was her mouth—soft, smiling, a little crooked at the corner. I could almost feel the ghost of what it might be like to lean in, to taste the laughter still on her lips.
I drew in a slow breath, exhaled, and let the fantasy dissolve.Not tonight. Maybe never.
But the warmth stayed, spreading through my chest like the ember glow of a forge.I picked up the next plank, smiling to myself.
“You’re trouble,” I murmured into the quiet. “And I’m already in it.”
Tipping my head back, I allowed the longing to fill me for a long moment, ignoring the ache in my chest—or at leasttrying to. I couldn’t have her, and that was the end of it. No matter what my brothers said, I knew that this would only lead to loss. And pain—so much pain. The kind of pain that I’d never be able to bear.
Because a world without Hanna would be a world I’d never exist in.
I took a deep, centering breath, like Zara had taught me for the moments when the panic inside of me rose. Then I set the chisel against the wood and went back to work—slow, steady, content, and completely undone.
Chapter 15
Hanna
Savla’s rooftop workshop felt like stepping into a pocket of quiet sky. It was always so peaceful but especially when I was spending time with him.
Wind danced through the open rafters, carrying the earthy scent of clay and mineral dust. Jars of pigments lined the shelves in careful rows—his careful rows—and the canvas tarps beneath our feet were splattered with an array of colors he pretended not to care about.
He knelt at the central worktable, broad and solid and so impossibly still that he might’ve been carved from the same stone he was grinding. I stood close—closer than strictly necessary—but he didn’t move away. He never moved away, and that was what made it dangerous. Made my skin tingle with the need to justtouch him.
But I didn’t. Icouldn’t. Because I wasn’t sure if it would scarehim away.
“Two drops,” I said, nudging the tiny bottle of moonwort potion toward him. “If you add three, it’ll start fizzing. I learned that the hard way.”
He grunted, which was Savla-speak forI acknowledge this potential disaster and choose to avoid it.
I waited for a smile or a smirk oranything. But as usual, there was nothing.Still, his shoulder relaxed, just a fraction, and that counted.
When his fingers brushed mine as he took the bottle, a crackle of magick leapt between us—warm, bright and too intimate. My breath hitched, but he didn’t react at all.
Of course he didn’t.
He could probably stand in the center of a lightning storm and look mildly inconvenienced.He dripped the moonwort into the pigment bowl. The mixture shivered—first like stirred ink, then like midnight breathed into life. And then came the reaction he’d been hoping for.Stars—actual tiny stars—flickered in the swirl of color.
I couldn’t stop the gasp that left me. “Savla. That’s beautiful.”
His jaw flexed, which was Savla-speak forI know,but he kept stirring with meticulous control. The rippling glow illuminated the sharp line of his cheekbones and the faint dusting of paint across his wrist. He looked unfairly handsome—brooding, artistic and carved from quiet.
Damn it. I’ma lost cause.
I leaned my chin into my hand and watched him, unable to pretend I wasn’t absolutely enchanted.
“You know,” I said, “your pigments and my potions get along really well.”
