I returned to the Star Garden the following evening.
The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose that filtered through the garden's canopy in scattered coins of golden light. I found myself walking the familiar paths without conscious direction. The air was cooler here, away from the palace's sun-baked courtyards, carrying the green scent of water and growing things. The world always felt more grounded here.
I was content to be lost in my own thoughts until I rounded the corner by the pond and saw her.
Azralyth sat on a stone near the pond. She was wrapped in a simple yet elegant deep blue robe that matched the blooms that floated on the water. Or at least it would when the moon climbed into the sky and the petals opened once more.
After what must have been days of careful washing, the grime and tangles had finally come free from her hair, revealing thick auburn waves that tumbled past her shoulders. She'd pulled it back from her face with a simple cord, though strands had already escaped to frame her features. Her eyes were closed, her face tilted toward the dying sun as though she could absorb its warmth and hold it against the coming darkness.
There was something defiant in the gesture. Something that spoke of a woman determined to feel whatever small pleasures remained to her.
I should have turned back. Left her to whatever peace she could find in this place.
Instead, I found myself rooted to the path, unable to move forward or retreat. A twig cracked beneath my boot.
Her eyes opened slowly, as though she'd known I was there all along and was simply deciding whether to acknowledge it. That golden gaze settled on me with an intensity that made something tighten in my chest. For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The only sound was the soft ripple of water as a breeze disturbed the pond's surface.
Then something shifted in her expression. Not quite a softening, but a lessening of the sharp edges.
"You came back," she said. Not an accusation. Not quite surprise. Simply an observation delivered in a voice carefully stripped of inflection.
"I did." The words felt inadequate, but I had nothing else to offer.
She studied me for a long moment, and I watched that brief openness close like a door swinging shut. Her jaw set, her shoulders squared despite the obvious toll the past weeks had taken on her. When she spoke again, her voice carried an edge. "Your mother told me you've been asking after me."
So Mother had been reporting my visits. I wasn't sure whether to be grateful or annoyed. "I wanted to make sure you were recovering."
"Why?" The question was direct, stripped of any pretense or courtesy. She rose from the stone, squaring herself to face me fully. "Why would the God King's loyal puppet care if the wife of a dead traitor recovers?"
Again, fair question. And again, I didn't have much beyond my honesty.
Around us, the garden was beginning its nightly transformation.
"I don't know," I said, forcing myself to meet her eyes. "But I do."
The breeze stirred her auburn hair, carrying the scent of night-blooming flowers. The honesty seemed to surprise her. Something flickered across her face and she crossed her arms. Armor made of flesh and bone.
Her eyebrow arched. "And yet here you are. Still following your instincts."
"I prefer to call it consistency."
"Most people call that stupidity."
"Most people haven't had eight centuries to refine it into an art form."
Something shifted in her expression, surprise, maybe, that I was engaging rather than retreating. "An art form." She said it slowly, as if testing the words. "You're genuinely trying to convince me that eight hundred years of not learning from your mistakes is somehow... admirable?"
"I'm saying it requires dedication." I paused. "Lesser men would have given up and developed wisdom by now."
She stared at me for a heartbeat. Then, unexpectedly, a laugh escaped her—short, startled, and completely genuine. Not the bitter edge I'd heard before. Not sardonic or guarded. Just surprised and real, lighting her face from within and erasing years of pain in a single moment.
The sound went through me like a bolt of lightning.
I wanted to hear it again. Wanted to see that unguarded joy more than I'd wanted anything in eight hundred years.
That was when I knew I was in trouble.
The laugh faded as quickly as it came, her expression settling back into something more controlled, but the ghost of it lingered in the softness around her eyes. She shook her head, almost to herself, then turned toward the pond where the indigo flowers were beginning to unfurl their pale petals to the rising moon.
"Your mother told me about Qasim," she said, her voice quieter now but losing all trace of that momentary lightness. "About how she won't be able to keep him away much longer."
The breeze picked up, carrying the scent of the evening-blooming flowers that were just beginning to open. Her hair caught the last rays of sunlight like burnished copper.
"A week. Maybe two." The words tasted like ash.
"And then?"
"And then…I don't know."
She pinned me with those golden eyes. Her tone was fierce. "Don't lie to me. The least you could do is be honest with me. Let me know what's coming." The bitterness crept back into her tone.
I could have deflected. Softened it. Instead, I gave her what she'd asked for, what she deserved. "They'll drag you before the court. You'll be paraded through the throne room like a trophy of conquest, proof of what happens when a lord forgets his place. They'll make an example of you to ensure the others remember their vows of fealty."
She absorbed this without visible reaction, though her hands tightened where they gripped her arms. "I see." Her voice was steady, impressively so, but I could see the fear she was trying to hide.
She turned fully away then, presenting me with her back in a gesture that was either trust or dismissal. Probably both. The indigo robe rippled as she moved closer to the water's edge, her bare feet silent on the moss.
The silence stretched between us. Above, the first stars appeared in the deepening vault of sky. The garden's night-blooms opened further, their faces turning moonward.
"I'd rather not face it alone." She didn't look at me, keeping her gaze fixed on the indigo and silver flowers floating in their darkness. "Whatever happens when they bring me before your God King."
The words hung in the cooling air between us. Not quite a request, not quite an admission of need. Something more complicated than either. My chest tightened with something I couldn't name. Fear for her. The instinct to protect, even when protection was impossible.
I moved closer, careful not to crowd her space. "You won't have to," I said quietly. "I'll be there. Whatever happens, you won't…"
"No." She turned to face me then, and the look in her eyes stopped the words in my throat. Not fear. Not vulnerability. Something harder. Fiercer. "You misunderstand me."
I waited, silent.
"I don't want you there because I'm afraid." Her voice was low but razor-sharp, each word precisely placed. "I don't need comfort or a friendly face in the crowd. I don't need you to hold my hand through my humiliation."
The moonlight caught the gold in her eyes, turning them molten. She took a single step toward me, her chin lifted in challenge.
"I want you there as a witness." Her lips curved in something that wasn't quite a smile. "I want you to watch, you, the God King's most loyal hound, when I stand before that throne and spit in his face. When I show him and his entire court that Vraycia will not be cowed. That some things cannot be broken, no matter how much power he wields."
The words hit me like a physical force. Around us, the night seemed to hold its breath.
"I want you to watch," she continued, her voice dropping to barely more than a whisper but losing none of its intensity, "the day this empire began its descent. Because it will, Mikhael. It will fall. And I want you to remember that you were there when the first crack appeared."
She held my gaze, unflinching. No trace of fear in her expression now. Only determination. Only the cold certainty of someone who had already decided what she was willing to die for.
"So yes," she said. "I'd rather not face it alone. Because someone should bear witness to what I'm about to do. Someone should remember."
I couldn't speak. Couldn't move. In eight hundred years of service to the God King, I had seen courage in many forms. But this, this deliberate, defiant march toward certain destruction in the name of something she believed in, this was something else entirely.
"You'll die," I finally managed, the words rough. "He will have you executed for it."
"And my fate was better otherwise?" She turned back to the pond, the indigo robe settling around her like royal vestments.
The night air felt suddenly colder. Somewhere in the garden, water dripped from leaf to leaf in a steady rhythm. The lilies on the pond opened wider, their pale faces luminous in the moonlight.
I stood there, watching her silhouette against the dark water, and felt something shift in the foundations of everything I'd built my existence upon.
She wasn't asking for protection. She was asking for something far more dangerous.
She was asking me to see.