There are guards now, and I do not look at them directly, because I have learned that looking too much reads as defiance and looking too little reads as fear, and both get you noticed, but I feel them anyway—two at the far edge of the garden walkway, armored silhouettes against pale stone, their presence like a shadow cast across everything I touch.
They are not here for the garden.
They are here for me.
“Keep your hands steady,” I murmur under my breath, as if I am correcting a younger version of myself who didn’t yet understand how quickly things could change. “You’re not dying. You’re pruning.”
The words sound ridiculous even to me, but I cling to them anyway as the gravel behind me crunches softly beneath approaching footsteps. I do not turn immediately. I finish trimming the vine, brush the loose leaves aside, and only then sit back on my heels, wiping my hands slowly against the cloth at my waist before looking up.
“Careful,” Skot says quietly as he steps into the garden’s edge, his posture deceptively relaxed, though his eyes—dark, sharp, far too aware—scan the perimeter before settling on me.
“What,” I reply lightly, “you think I’m going to strangle a plant with intent?”
His mouth twitches faintly. “You’re drawing attention.”
“Existing is drawing attention,” I say, pushing myself to stand, my knees weaker than they should be, as though my body has not yet decided it forgives me for surviving. “Breathing is apparently controversial now.”
Skot steps closer, lowering his voice. “You’re under observation.”
“I gathered,” I answer, flicking my gaze briefly toward the guards before looking away again. “Subtle.”
“They’re not here to intimidate you.”
I raise a brow. “Then what, exactly, is the aesthetic? Because I’m getting very strong ‘we’re pretending this is normal while it absolutely is not’ energy.”
His expression hardens slightly. “They’re here because you survived something you were not meant to survive.”
The words land colder than the air, and I swallow against the sudden metallic taste in my mouth. “You’re very comforting today.”
“I’m serious,” he says, and there is an edge to it now. “Lyria, you have drawn his attention.”
I still—not outwardly, not enough for the guards to notice, but inside something locks into place.
“Verr,” I say, keeping my voice flat.
“Yes.”
The name settles into the space between us like weight rather than sound, and I turn away from him, moving to the next section of the garden because movement is safer than stillness when my thoughts are threatening to fracture. The soil here is cooler, shaded by a broad-leafed canopy, and when I press my fingers into it, it clings to my skin as though it doesn’t want to let go.
“Permanent?” I ask quietly.
Skot does not hesitate. “Yes.”
I exhale slowly through my nose, the scent of damp earth filling my lungs as the word settles in my chest like something solid and immovable.
“Great,” I mutter. “Love that for me.”
“You need to be careful,” he continues. “Everything you do now will be watched, interpreted, tested.”
I let out a soft breath that might have been a laugh if there were anything remotely funny about it. “So nothing has changed, except now it’s official.”
He crouches beside me, lowering himself to my level so his voice does not carry. “You don’t understand.”
“Then explain,” I say, sharper than I intend.
His gaze holds mine. “Before, you were invisible. Now you are… interesting.”
I grimace. “I hate that word.”
