I press my fingers into the soil again.
And for a moment?—
His hand.
The memory hits without warning—heat at my throat, the weight of it, the way everything else seemed to still around that single point of contact.
I inhale sharply, forcing the thought down, shoving it aside like it never belonged there in the first place.
No.
No, that wasn’t?—
It doesn’t matter what it was.
It doesn’t change anything.
I drag my hand through the dirt harder than necessary, grounding myself in something real, something simple.
This is what matters.
This.
“Lyria.”
Maira’s voice slips between the rows, soft but urgent.
I glance up, spotting her two lines over, half-hidden behind a cluster of deep red blooms. Her hands are still moving—always moving—but her eyes are on me.
“What?” I ask quietly.
She hesitates, glancing toward the far end of the garden before leaning slightly closer.
“You hear about the routes?” she murmurs.
My chest tightens.
“No.”
She swallows.
“They’re saying another one got hit. Supply line. North side.”
The words settle heavy, like stones dropped one by one.
I straighten slightly, brushing my hands against my skirt. The fabric is rough, stiff with dried dirt, the texture grounding even as something cold begins to spread through my chest.
“Bandits?” I ask.
Maira shakes her head.
“No.”
The single word carries more weight than anything else she could have said.
“What then?”
She leans in closer, voice dropping further.
