Rose couldn't sleep.
The Witchglass visions looped through her mind like cursed film—Belladoma's marked hands, her solemn voice, the electric moment in the bell tower when their fingers touched. Something had shifted, but neither of them had dared name it.
Nimbus floated lazily above Rose's head. "You've got it bad."
"Got what bad?" Rose snapped, though her cheeks betrayed her.
"Storm-smitten. Doom-dazzled. Head-over-wand for your deadly professor."
"She's not my professor," Rose muttered.
"Not yet."
In a fit of denial—or desperation—Rose dug through her hidden garden kit. A leftover from her mother's greener days. Under her bed, tucked behind hexed socks and contraband toffee toads, was a packet of truthroot seeds.
Truthroot was no ordinary plant. It bloomed only when lies lingered too long in the air.
With a muttered spell and a little stolen moonwater, Rose planted it in a pot shaped like a screaming skull. Seemed appropriate.
The truthroot sprouted in minutes. Curling vines reached upward, and thorny leaves shimmered green-gold under her lamp.
She stared at it.
"I don't think about her," she said aloud.
The leaves twitched.
She scowled. "I'm not in love with Belladoma."
A thorn popped out.
Nimbus cackled from the ceiling beam. "Even your plants think you're full of it."
"I'm not in love," she grumbled. "I'm just...concerned."
Another thorn. This one sharper.
The next day, Belladoma passed her in the corridor. Not a word. Just a brush of fingers as their hands met, a flicker of connection so brief it might've been imagined.
That night, the truthroot exploded into bloom.
It unfurled crimson petals the size of her palm, emitting a fragrance like summer storms and broken promises.
Rose cursed and shoved it under her bed.
The root glowed for an hour.
---
Two days later, Belladoma summoned her again.
But not to the Arena.
To the greenhouse.
Rose arrived to find her pruning a vine that hissed when touched.
"You're avoiding me," Belladoma said without looking up.
"I've been...thinking," Rose replied.
"That's new."
Rose crossed her arms. "Why me? Why are you...watching me? Teaching me? You don't do this for anyone else."
Belladoma finally turned. Her expression was unreadable. "Because I saw what you were before you did."
"And what am I?"
"A storm. Unleashed too early, pointed in the wrong direction."
Rose hesitated. "And you?"
Belladoma stepped close. "The fool trying to catch lightning with bare hands."
There was silence.
Then Belladoma's hand brushed her cheek.
"I told you to stay away," she said softly.
"You did."
"And yet…"
"You stayed," Rose whispered.
They didn't kiss.
Not yet.
But when Rose returned to her dorm, the truthroot had grown a second bloom.
This one was shaped like a heart—and covered in thorns.