Nothing changed.
“Don’t know what you mean,” I say.
Fenrix crouches beside me, the movement sudden enough that I feel it more than see it—the shift in air, the heat of him too close at my side. He smells like sweat and leather and something sour that clings to the back of my throat.
“Guards have been walking this line more,” he says quietly. “Slowing down when they pass.”
I keep my eyes on the plant.
“They always do after inspection.”
“Not like this.”
I don’t answer.
Because I’ve felt it too.
The way the air changes when they step near. The way their attention lingers—not openly, not enough to call out, but just enough to be felt. A weight that presses at the edges of everything I do.
Nothing is ever nothing here.
Fenrix nudges a leaf with his finger, not damaging it—just testing, like he’s checking how much pressure it can take before it breaks.
“Did you upset one of your betters?” he asks.
“No.”
“You sure?”
I glance at him then, quick and sharp.
“If I had, I wouldn’t be standing here.”
That earns a quiet huff of laughter.
“Fair,” he says, pushing himself upright again. “Then someone likes you.”
My stomach turns, sudden and sharp.
I look back at the soil.
“That’s worse.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, already stepping away. “It is.”
He lingers just long enough to make sure the words land, then moves on, boots fading into the steady rhythm of the garden.
I exhale slowly, letting the breath slip out through my nose as I reach for the next plant.
Work.
Focus on the work.
The leaves brush against my wrist as I move, cool and slightly waxy, their edges catching faintly against my skin. A breeze stirs through the rows, carrying the scent of water and crushed stems and distant stone heated too long under a dull sky.
Normal.
Everything is normal.
