Ahia didn't walk away from the Royal Gardens; she fled.
Her feet slapped against the limestone path, her breath coming in ragged gasps that had nothing to do with physical exertion. She didn't stop until she reached the heavy wooden gates of the Outer District's agricultural wing, the sanctuary where the palace's Manomis were housed.
She collapsed onto a wooden bench near her personal plot, clutching her chest. The Makoma—that mysterious compass inside her—was still spinning, vibrating with a hum that made her teeth ache. It felt as if a hook had been embedded in her sternum, pulling her back toward the upper terraces, back toward him.
"Stupid," she hissed, pressing her palms against her eyes. "You are a cultivator of roots and vines. He is the Servitor Supreme. The Sky."
The air around her began to cool. Above, the Celestial Lantern had fully shifted into rest mode. The golden wheels had slowed to a gentle rotation, and the Empyrean pearl now burned with a calm, silver flame. The sharp shadows of the day softened into the grey embrace of twilight.
"He smelled like ozone," a voice whispered in her mind. It wasn't a human voice. It was earthy, slow, and smelled of damp loam.
Ahia lowered her hands and looked down. The potted Lumen-Vine on her workbench was unfurling its leaves, glowing faintly as it absorbed the scattered silver light of the evening.
"Quiet, you," Ahia murmured, though her tone was affectionate. She reached out, her fingers brushing the velvet texture of the vine's leaves.
This was her gift, her Role. As a Manomi, she possessed Florapathy. She could hear the consciousness of the green world, the Ase that flowed through every stem and petal.
"You are shaking, Gardener," the vine projected, the thought arriving in her Dapabie like a rustle of dry leaves. "And you taste... strange. You taste like high altitude. You taste like lightning."
Ahia flinched. The Ifunanya event. The King hadn't just looked at her; their souls had brushed against one another. The "Huenergy leakage". She had left some of her fear on him, but he had left something on her, too. A residue of his Blue Aura, the crushing weight of his power.
"I met the King," Ahia confessed to the plant, knowing it would never betray her. "He... saw me."
" That man with the massive Afro?" the vine queried, its mental tone curious. "The one who brings the rain?
"Did he... water you?"
"No!" Ahia felt heat rise in her cheeks. "He frightened me. My Makoma went wild. I thought I was going to be sick."
"Not sickness," another voice chimed in. This one was sharp and prickly—the potted cactus on the shelf above. "Resonance. We felt the wave from here. Like a drum beaten in the deep earth."
Ahia groaned, burying her face in her hands again. If the plants felt it all the way from here, then it was likely the other Manomis might have felt it too. And if those Dibias—the scholars who studied the logic of reality—got wind of a resonance event between a humble girl and the King of kings, they would dissect her life script by script.
She stood up, her legs still wobbly, and moved to her tool rack. She needed to distract herself. She needed to work. She reached for her artifact, the Kwaya bell hanging from her belt. It was a small, ornate bronze bell, its surface etched with symbols of growth and harvest.
She gave it a gentle shake.
*Chime*
The sound wasn't just auditory; it rippled through the Ase of the room. The plants shivered in delight. The Kwaya bell was a tool of focus, helping her synchronize her intentions with her Ranch.
"Listen to me," Ahia said, her voice firming up. "We have a deadline for the Midnight Tubers. The Asuras will be prowling the underground tonight, and the earth will be cold. We need to insulate the roots."
"Asuras?" the cactus shuddered mentally. "The Salt-Men. The Eaters."
"Yes," Ahia said, grateful for the shift in topic. The mention of the Asuras—the cursed race that lived beneath the earth —was a sobering reality check. "Night is here. The silver light is beautiful, but it hides teeth."
She looked out the window toward the high towers of the palace, now silhouetted against the silver sky. somewhere up there, Libaax Akoma was likely sitting on his throne, surrounded by the High Table.
Does he still feel the pull? she wondered. Or was I just a momentary glitch in his perfect life?
"He is looking at the 'moon-that-is-not-a-moon'," the Lumen-Vine whispered sleepily. "And he is thinking of the soil on your hands."
Ahia silenced the plant with a sharp thought, but her heart hammered a traitorous rhythm against her ribs. She feared the Asuras and their shark-like maws, but right now, she feared the King—and the undeniable, magnetic pull of her own destiny—far more.