Here. In this work. In this life I’m shaping with my own hands.
The wheel has begun to turn.
And I am no longer bracing for where it takes me.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Flavius
If the gods want to help, they should fix leather straps instead of destinies.
I test the edge of the practice shield, running my fingers along the stitching. The leather’s wearing thin—usable today, maybe tomorrow, not much longer. I cut the old loop free and feed a new strip through, pulling it tight, measuring the tension by feel.
Late-afternoon light turns the training yard gold. Behind me, the stables smell of hay, horse, and leather. Under that, faint and green, drifts the scent from the Roman garden.
That’s where she went. Hours ago now.
After she sent the complaint this morning, after we ate breakfast in her tiny cabin like it was the most normal thing in the world—her laptop on one side of the table, my tea on the other, her bare feet tucked under my thigh for warmth.
I loop the leather through the buckle and tug. It holds. Good.
Movement at the edge of the yard pulls my attention.
Sophia.
She’s walking toward me with purpose, not the aimless drift of someone killing time. The late sun catches in her dark hair, and even from here I can see something has shifted in the way she carries herself. Lighter. As if yesterday she filed the complaint and set down a weight. Today she looks like she decided to leave it where it fell.
I feel it in my chest, immediate and undeniable.
She reaches the fence rail and doesn’t stop. Just opens the gate like she has every right—which she does—and comes straight across the sand to me.
“Hi,” she says.
The word lands soft but deliberate. Not a question. An arrival.
I set down the shield. “Hi.”
For a second we just look at each other. Her eyes are clear and bright. There’s color in her cheeks. She’s wearing one of her softcardigans over a t-shirt, jeans dusty at the knees like she kneeled on the ground somewhere.
My hands want to pull her close. I’ve been good all day—gave her space while she worked, didn’t hover, let her process whatever happened in that garden on her own terms.
But she’s here now. Close enough to touch.
So I do.
I reach out and tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, letting my fingers linger at her jaw. “You look different.”
She leans into the touch without hesitation, and something in me settles. This. This is what we are now. Not careful. Not performing. Just… us.
“I feel different,” she says. “Good different.”
“Garden help?”
Her mouth curves. “The garden was… a lot.”
I wait. She steps closer, close enough that I catch the faint scent of rosemary on her skin. Her hand comes up to rest on my chest, right over my heart. The touch is casual. Familiar. Like she’s done it a hundred times instead of just a few.
“Something happened,” she says, looking up at me. “Something weird.”
