The garden behind the eastern wing was quiet at dawn, the air soft and pale with mist.
Anna walked beside Lysa, still uncertain, still tense. It was the first time she had been allowed past the lower hall since the council.
Lysa kept her pace measured, her tone low but kind. "Lord Garrick gave his word himself," she said as they turned the corner toward the courtyard. "He said you're to help in the gardens during daylight. No further than the eastern walls. Two guards will stay in sight, but you're free to move there."
"Free," Anna repeated softly. The word felt strange. "That's a generous kind of prison."
Lysa gave a half-smile. "Better than the cell, I'd say. Fresh air doesn't ask questions."
Anna tried to smile, but her chest still felt tight. The sky overhead was bruised with gray; the morning light had that hollow quiet before the day truly began. She followed Lysa through the iron gate and into the garden.
The air smelled of wet leaves and rain. Rows of herbs lined the path—sage, thyme, something she didn't know. Lysa handed her a small basket. "Start with these," she said. "Pull weeds, trim the bad leaves, keep the roots dry. And if anyone stares, just keep working. Lord Garrick said you're to look like you belong here."
Anna gave a nervous laugh. "I doubt anyone will believe that."
"Try anyway," Lysa said, bending to pluck a dead stem. "That's what the rest of us do."
Anna knelt beside her. The soil was cool under her hands, damp but soft. She let her fingers dig a little deeper—almost instinctively—just to feel something steady.
Then something strange happened.
The small plants near her fingers trembled. Their leaves shifted, bending faintly toward her palm. At first, she thought it was the breeze. But there was no wind.
Her heart stuttered. She pulled her hand back. "Lysa…"
"Mm?"
"Do these—" She stopped herself. "Never mind."
But curiosity won. She touched the soil again. The faintest hum rolled under her fingers—soft, alive. The roots seemed to lean closer, like they could feel her heartbeat.
Her throat tightened. "This isn't happening," she whispered.
"What?" Lysa asked, still focused on her basket.
"Nothing. Just… talking to weeds."
Lysa laughed lightly. "Good. They need it. They never listen to me."
Anna tried to laugh, but the sound came out thin. She stared at her palms. The faintest shimmer pulsed under her skin—barely visible, silver and black like before. She rubbed her hands against her dress, hoping it would stop.
A quiet voice came from behind. "You're pulling too fast. The roots tear that way."
Anna turned sharply. Helena stood at the edge of the path, sleeves rolled, a small basket hooked over her arm. She looked calm, her expression unreadable but not unkind.
"Lady Helena," Anna said, startled. "I didn't see you."
"That's the point of mornings like this," Helena said with a faint smile. "Everything is still too tired to notice you yet."
She knelt beside Anna, her hands brushing the same patch of earth. "You have a light touch. But it's uncertain. The soil knows when it's being feared."
Anna frowned. "It knows?"
"Everything that grows does," Helena murmured. "You of all people should understand that now."
Lysa looked between them, unsure whether to speak. "Shall I fetch more water, my lady?"
Helena nodded, still watching Anna. "Yes, Lysa. Please."
When the maid left, Helena said quietly, "Garrick meant it kindly, this freedom. But he also meant it as a test. You know that."
Anna hesitated. "He doesn't trust me."
Helena's lips curved faintly. "He trusts what he understands. You don't fall into that category."
They worked in silence for a while. The plants seemed calmer now, almost soothed by Helena's presence.
Finally, Helena said, "You've noticed it, haven't you? How the roots move near you."
Anna looked up sharply. "You saw that?"
"I see more than I speak of." Helena brushed a hand across the leaves. "When I was younger, I used to think this house only carried blood. But lately… it seems it carries something else. Something that listens."
Anna didn't answer. Her hands shook.
Helena's gaze softened. "You don't have to be afraid of what you don't yet understand. Fear feeds it. Control quiets it."
Before Anna could respond, footsteps approached down the gravel path.
"Mother?"
Daniel's voice.
He stopped at the edge of the garden, half in sunlight, half in shadow. "I didn't know you were out here."
Helena smiled faintly. "And I didn't know you were skipping morning drills."
He stepped closer. "Just needed air." His eyes flicked to Anna. "Didn't expect to find company."
Anna wiped her hands on her apron. "I'm just helping. Trying not to kill anything important."
Helena chuckled. "You'll do fine. Daniel, help her finish here. I have to prepare letters."
"Letters?" he asked.
"To the council," she said simply. "They still need to be reminded who holds this house together."
With a knowing smile, Helena left. Her footsteps faded down the path, leaving Daniel and Anna in a still hush broken only by the rustle of leaves.
Daniel crouched beside her. "She likes you."
"She's kind," Anna said softly. "Kindness feels dangerous here."
"Then you're already learning how this place works."
He reached for a plant near her hand. The leaves bent again, faintly, toward them both. Daniel blinked. "You weren't imagining it."
Anna drew back, alarmed. "You saw that?"
"I did."
They stared at the small trembling stems, too alive, too aware.
Daniel whispered, "What are you?"
Anna's voice was a thread. "I wish I knew."
For a long moment, neither spoke. Then Daniel said quietly, "Don't let them see it. Whatever that is. My father… he'll make it a weapon before he calls it a gift."
Anna nodded. "You sound like you've seen that before."
He gave a grim smile. "I have."
Their eyes lingered too long. The tension between them wasn't spoken but it burned all the same—an ache caught between fear and something neither dared name.
---
Night fell over the estate like a held breath.
Down in the courtyard, the torches flickered against the mist. A figure moved through the shadows—cloak drawn, footsteps light. Cade.
He followed the narrow passage that led behind the stables, where the old chapel ruins slept under vines and rot. It was a place no one came anymore.
A candle burned within, small and sickly. And beside it—someone waited.
The figure was cloaked entirely in black, face hidden by a hood that gleamed faintly like oil in water. Cade stopped a few paces away.
"I was told I'd find answers," he said.
The voice that answered was soft, wrong somehow. "You already carry them."
Cade frowned. "Then what am I doing here?"
"Making a choice," the stranger murmured. "Between truth and power. Between loyalty and survival."
He felt a chill crawl down his spine. "You talk like my father."
"No," the voice said, closer now. "Your father built walls. You will learn how to break them."
Cade's breath quickened. The air around them thickened, darkened—the shadows themselves seemed to lean in.
"What do you want from me?" he asked.
The figure lifted its head. Two pale eyes glowed faintly from the darkness. "Not what. Who."
Cade's pulse hammered.
"Who?"
The figure smiled—slow, thin, wrong. "The girl. The rift has already chosen its vessel. You must decide whether to bind it… or to open it."
Cade's throat tightened. He couldn't speak. The air felt heavy, his body cold.
The candle flickered once, then went out.
When the flame died, the voice whispered one last time:
"Blood remembers. Even when you try to forget."
---
The moon hung high, pale and wide, spilling silver light across the garden walls. The mansion was quiet—too quiet—except for the faint hum of night insects and the rustle of leaves.
Anna stood near the row of lavender, the basket she'd used earlier forgotten beside her feet. She hadn't meant to wander out again, but the walls of her small room had pressed too tight. The moonlight felt easier, safer somehow.
She knelt beside the flowers, tracing a leaf without thought. The plants seemed to breathe under her touch again, faintly shifting toward her fingers. She watched, caught between fear and wonder, her heart thudding softly in her chest.
"What are you doing out here?"
The voice startled her. She turned quickly.
Daniel stood at the edge of the path, the torchlight from the courtyard flickering behind him. He wasn't wearing armor—just a loose shirt, half-unbuttoned, his hair slightly damp like he'd just washed away the day's training.
"I couldn't sleep," she said, trying to steady her voice. "And you?"
He smiled faintly. "Same curse, I guess. This place isn't made for rest."
He walked closer, slow, careful, like he wasn't sure if she'd want him near. The moonlight caught his face—sharp lines, tired eyes, but softer now, less guarded.
Anna swallowed. "You should be sleeping. There's training at dawn."
"I'll survive," he said. "You look… lost in thought."
She gave a small laugh. "That's generous. I was mostly arguing with myself."
"Winning?"
"Not really."
He stepped closer, close enough that she could see the small scar near his jaw, the faint tremor in his breath. They stood in the quiet between words, the air thick with something unspoken.
Anna looked away, back at the flowers. "They move sometimes. When I touch them."
Daniel followed her gaze, crouching beside her. "Still think it's just wind?"
"No," she whispered. "I think it's me. And I don't know what that means."
He didn't answer. Instead, he reached out slowly, his hand brushing hers as he touched one of the leaves. The plant stirred faintly again, bending toward them both, and for a heartbeat, everything stilled—the air, the night, even the sound of their breathing.
Anna's pulse raced. She should have pulled away, but she didn't.
Daniel looked at her, really looked—eyes dark and full of something that scared her more than it should have. "Whatever it is," he said quietly, "you're not alone in it."
Her throat tightened. "You shouldn't say that."
"Why not?"
"Because people here don't stay when things get strange."
"I'm not most people."
The words hung between them. She could feel his warmth even in the cool night air, smell the faint scent of iron and smoke clinging to him. Her heart hammered.
He reached up, brushed a loose strand of hair from her face, fingers barely grazing her skin. It felt like fire and tremor all at once.
Anna froze. For a second, she forgot to breathe. "Daniel…"
He stopped, his hand still hovering near her cheek. "I wasn't going to—"
"I know," she said softly. "But you almost did."
A hint of a smile curved his lips. "You didn't move."
"I didn't want to."
The words slipped out before she could stop them. Her eyes widened slightly, but Daniel only watched her, his jaw tightening, something fierce and gentle all at once in his expression.
The moment stretched—so fragile it could have shattered if either of them breathed too loud.
Then—
"Daniel!"
The voice came from behind the hedge—Aric's voice, young, unsure, breaking the stillness like a dropped blade.
Daniel jerked back slightly, breath catching. "What—"
"Father's looking for you," Aric called again, closer this time.
Anna stepped back, her heart still pounding. The moonlight caught her face—pale, unreadable, but her eyes said everything.
Daniel hesitated, torn between words and silence. "I should—"
"Go," she whispered, her voice almost breaking on the word.
He gave a slow nod. "You'll be all right?"
"I don't know," she said. "But I'll try."
Daniel lingered one heartbeat longer, like he wanted to say something else, then turned and walked toward the courtyard. His shadow stretched long in the moonlight before vanishing around the corner.
Anna stood there, alone again. The night seemed to breathe with her, slow and uneven. The plants around her shivered faintly, their leaves brushing against one another like whispers.
She looked down at her hands, still trembling from his touch, and the faint silver shimmer beneath her skin flickered once before fading.
The moon hung above her, heavy and watchful. Somewhere beyond the walls, thunder rolled again—low, distant, warning of storms that hadn't yet arrived.