The garden wing was quieter than the rest of the academy, but I could still feel the whispers crawling after me like smoke that refused to fade. Chains. Council. Punishment. Power. The words clung, stitched into the corners of my mind.
And yet, here… something different pulled at me.
Lanterns swung from wrought-iron hooks along the path, their light spilling over the gravel walkways. Roses bloomed in orderly rows, red and white, their scent heavy in the air. The sound of the fountain reached me before the sight of it—water cascading over marble into a basin wide enough to catch moonlight.
She was there.
Freya sat at its edge, posture too careful to be casual. Her hands rested on her knees, fingers laced, but I saw the way her knuckles pressed white. The way her chest rose and fell, shallow and controlled, like someone rehearsing calm.
She was waiting for me.
