The sun has barely dipped below the western spires when she returns.
I'm not surprised. The spirits have been restless all afternoon—vines curling tighter around fence posts, spirit lights flickering in patterns that look suspiciously like impatience. They've decided she belongs here now. Or at least, that she's allowed to come back.
I pretend not to notice.
I'm in the secondary clearing—the one with the better moonbloom yield—kneeling in the dirt, fingers working a stubborn root knot free from a cluster of starwort. The plants are thirsty; the day was hotter than usual, and the mana vein beneath is running thin again. I mutter apologies under my breath as I coax water from a small clay jug, letting it seep slowly into the soil.
The ivy curtain parts with a soft sigh.
I don't look up.
Footsteps—light, hesitant—stop a few paces away.
I keep working.
A long silence.
Then her voice, small but steady:
"I brought something."
I glance over my shoulder.
Liora Voss stands just inside the ivy line, clutching a small wicker basket covered with a white cloth. Her robes are the same pristine ones from this morning, but now there's a faint streak of dirt on the hem—like she walked the long way around the main paths to avoid being seen.
She looks… less fragile. Still tired around the eyes, but there's a determined set to her jaw that wasn't there earlier.
I sit back on my heels, wiping my hands on my trousers. "You didn't have to."
"I know." She steps forward, sets the basket down carefully between us like an offering. "But I wanted to. For earlier. And for… not telling anyone."
I eye the basket. "What is it?"
"Temple pastries. Honey-glazed almond ones. They're not very good at being subtle, but they're sweet. And I thought…" She trails off, cheeks tinting pink. "Grounds work looks tiring."
I almost laugh.
Almost.
Instead I lift the cloth. The pastries are golden, still warm, arranged in neat rows. They smell like heaven—cinnamon, honey, something faintly floral.
My stomach chooses that exact moment to growl. Loudly.
Liora's eyes widen, then she presses her lips together to hide a smile.
I clear my throat. "Thanks."
I take one—small, careful—and bite into it.
It's perfect. Flaky, sweet, the honey sticking to my fingers.
For a second, the world narrows to just that taste.
Then reality crashes back.
Rule three.
I swallow, set the half-eaten pastry down.
"You shouldn't be here," I say quietly.
Her smile fades. "I know. But the main gardens are full of people. The cloisters are full of expectations. And the library…" She hesitates. "The library feels like it's watching me."
I nod slowly.
I get that.
The academy watches everyone, but it watches her hardest.
She sits on the mossy stone opposite me—same one from this morning—drawing her knees up again, but not quite as tightly.
"I won't stay long," she promises. "I just… needed to breathe somewhere that doesn't expect anything from me."
The vines behind her shift slightly, leaning in like they're listening.
I glance at them. "They like you."
She follows my gaze. "The plants?"
"The spirits in them." I don't elaborate. Most people would laugh or call me mad. She doesn't.
Instead she tilts her head. "They feel… kind. Like they're waiting for someone to notice them."
"They are."
A beat.
Then, softly: "Do you talk to them?"
I hesitate.
Rule two: Don't fix anything that isn't your job.
Talking to spirits definitely counts as fixing.
But she's already seen too much.
"Yeah," I admit. "Sometimes. They're better company than most students."
She smiles—small, real. "I believe that."
We sit in silence for a while. Not awkward. Just… quiet. The kind of quiet that doesn't need filling.
I finish the pastry. Lick honey from my thumb.
She watches me with something like curiosity.
"You're not what I expected," she says finally.
I raise an eyebrow. "What did you expect?"
"Someone… gruffer. Or bitter. Most staff resent the students."
"I don't resent anyone," I say. "I just want to be left alone."
She nods slowly. "I understand that more than you know."
Another silence.
Then she stands, brushing moss from her robes.
"I should go. Evening prayers start soon."
I stand too. "Take the long way back. Avoid the main paths."
"I will." She pauses at the ivy line. "Can I… come back? Tomorrow? Just for a little while?"
My first instinct is to say no.
My second is to remember the spirits are already on her side.
My third is the tiny, traitorous part of me that doesn't hate the company.
I sigh.
"Only if you don't step on the starwort."
Her face lights up—small, but bright.
"Noted."
The ivy parts for her.
She slips through.
The curtain closes.
I stand there alone again, staring at the spot where she was.
The basket is still on the ground. One pastry left.
I pick it up, wrap it carefully in the cloth, and tuck it into my satchel.
The vines rustle approvingly.
I glare at them.
"Don't get attached," I mutter. "She's main cast. This is temporary."
The vines don't answer.
But I can feel them smiling anyway.
…
Later, back in the shack, I count the day's coins again—more than yesterday, thanks to the rising prices. Progress.
I repot the seedlings I brought in, water them, dim the single lantern.
Outside, the academy glows with evening lights—dorm windows, lecture halls, the distant glow of training fields where Darius and his friends are probably sparring under the stars.
I don't look.
I lie on my narrow cot, arms behind my head, staring at the cracked ceiling.
Two years.
Just two more years.
The spirit light from earlier drifts in through the window crack—pale green, soft—and settles on the windowsill like a guard.
I close my eyes.
Tomorrow will be normal.
Routine.
Boring.
Safe.
The light pulses once, gently.
Almost like it's laughing.
I ignore it.
But deep down, in the part of me that still remembers the novel's outline, I know:
Normal just ended.
And the grove remembers her face now.
So do the spirits.
And unfortunately. So do I.