The night was warm; the kind of late spring evening that made the palace gardens feel like somewhere magical. Fireflies danced above the fountain, their tiny lights flickering against the dark water. The night jasmine was in full bloom, its sweet scent heavy in the air, mingling with the earthy fragrance of damp soil. Somewhere in the distance, a nightingale sang a melody that seemed meant only for lovers and dreamers.
Theron found Seren on the stone bench, the same bench where she had sat with Lysa, with Aeron, with Elowen, where so many confessions had been whispered and so many fears had been named. She was staring at the water, her hand on her locket, her expression distant, lost in thoughts he could not read.
He sat beside her, close enough to touch, not touching. The bond hummed with something unspoken—a tension he had been carrying for weeks, a weight he had not yet put into words. She felt it through the bond, a restlessness that had nothing to do with politics or war.
