“They’ve been doing that all morning,” he mutters. “Figured you’d want to know.”
I nod once.
“Thanks.”
He studies me for a second.
“You sure you’re fine?”
“Yes.”
He doesn’t look convinced.
But he doesn’t push.
Good.
I don’t have room for that right now.
Because the pattern is still forming.
Still shifting.
I crouch again, dragging my finger through the dirt at the edge of the row without thinking, sketching lines that only make sense to me.
North.
Then inward.
Then—
“Lyria.”
Maira’s voice again, quieter now.
I glance up.
She’s not looking at me.
She’s looking past me.
I follow her gaze.
And everything in me stills.
He stands at the far edge of the garden, near the reflecting pool where the water cuts a dark, unmoving line through the stone. The surface mirrors the sky in dull silver, broken only by the faint ripple of something unseen beneath it.
Verr.
He isn’t moving.
Doesn’t need to.
The space around him feels…held. Like everything near him has been forced into stillness.
Watching.
My breath catches.
