He squeezes my fingers.
“Come.”
Our door is already waiting.
It wasn’t there earlier, but now it is—set into the rock like it’s always belonged, a heavy slab of deep green stone veined with gold.
Tiny glowing fungi cluster around the frame, casting soft, mossy light.
“Show-off,” I murmur, brushing my fingertips along the carved spiral patterns. “Your castle is trying to impress me.”
“Then it is wise,” Dagan says dryly, and pushes the door open.
The breath leaves my lungs.
The room isn’t huge, but it doesn’t need to be.
The ceiling arches overhead like the inside of an ancient tree, roots twisting together to form elegant ribs.
The walls are smooth stone, warm to the touch, shot through with threads of luminescent crystal that glow like captured moonlight.
In the center sits a bed grown from the earth itself—roots and stone shaped into a broad, low platform piled with cushions, pelts, and impossibly soft linens in deep browns and mossy greens.
Tiny flowers bloom along the headboard, releasing the faintest hint of something sweet and wild.
“I—wow,” I breathe. “Okay, this is… yeah. This is ridiculous.”
Dagan’s mouth curves. “You approve?”
“Dagan, there’s a tree growing through the ceiling and starlight in the rock,” I say, turning in a slow circle. “I more than approve. I feel like I stepped into a very specific Pinterest board I didn’t know I had.”
He frowns. “I do not know what any of that means.”
“It means I love it,” I say simply.
The bond hums between us, warm and steady.
For the first time since he left for Stone’s Edge, I let myself really look at him.
The soot has been washed away, but he still looks like a man who’s been through hell.
Faint scorch marks linger on the edge of one wing; a shallow cut bisects his brow, nearly healed already. His shoulders are tense, his jaw tight.
“Are you okay?” I ask. “And don’t give me some Lord of Earth stoic nonsense.”
He considers that for a beat.
“I am… tired,” he admits. “Angry. Relieved.” His gaze softens. “And grateful. That you are here. That Marcel lives. That Nightfall still stands—today.”
Something in my chest tips, clicks into place.
“Come here,” I say.
I don’t wait for him to move.
I go to him.
My hands slide up his chest, over leather and cloth and the faint ridges of muscle beneath.
