The yard rang with steel and sweat. Candidates stood in a crooked line, the best the army had to offer. They were veterans already blooded, a mix of clades: humans, dwarves, gnomes, merfolk, even two elves. They shifted uneasily as the Valkyrie stepped into the ring, braid swinging, pale eyes cold as iron. Prey always recognized a predator.
The Colonel stopped beside Commander Dree, hands clasped behind his back. The woman looked directly at him, as she took a bite of something that looked like a leaf.
The Colonel gave a small nod.
The Valkyrie raised her voice, carrying easily across the yard. “I am Lieutenant Selene Varrow, First platoon, first Company, first Regiment. I am also a Valkyrie of the Veiled Garden. You lot think you’re good enough to join the Forty? Defeat me, and prove it. Or else go back home to your mothers.”
A ripple went through the line.
A sergeant went first, broad through the chest, scarred from years of border fights. He lunged hard, blade whistling in a low arc. The Valkyrie slid into motion with him, almost leisurely. She matched his pace perfectly. Strike for strike, step for step. She let him believe he was driving the fight. The clash of steel echoed across the yard, the sergeant’s breath coming harsh and eager as sweat stung his eyes.
For a dozen heartbeats, it looked like a contest. His boots carved furrows in the dirt as he pressed forward, and she gave ground just enough to keep the illusion alive.
Then the Colonel gave a small nod.
The change was instant.
The Valkyrie’s tempo shattered. There was no gradual acceleration, no warning. One moment she moved like any mortal fighter, the next she was a blur of muscle and steel. Her blade flicked past his guard, the flat of it cracking against his helm before he even realized she’d shifted. An elbow to his jaw, a heel swept against his knee, and his body collapsed sideways before his mind caught up. He hit the dirt limp, knocked cold.
The candidates along the line shifted uncomfortably. A dwarf muttered something under his breath, low and grim.
The Colonel grunted. “Only one opening this year?”
“Yes, sir,” Dree said, his gravel-edged voice steady. “Or should I say…”
“No, you shouldn’t. I’ll get enough of that obsequiousness from the fops at court. I expected your retirement papers last week,” the Colonel said dryly. “Kessler would take your command, and we’d have room for a pair of these hopefuls.”
Dree’s jaw tightened, though his eyes stayed on the ring. His hair had gone iron-gray at the edges, but his back was straight, boots polished, hands restless at his belt. He did not look like a man who had written retirement papers. “I had them written, sir. Even signed.” He shook his head once. “And then the word came about your…situation. The Forty isn’t a job one lays down. Not while there’s still work to do. Well, you know better than most, sir.”
That earned the faintest smile. The Colonel dabbed sweat from his brow, eyes narrowing. “Good. And thank you. You’ve handled them well enough in the field. Now you’ll lead them in truth, while I shoulder other burdens. The Forty started as Elias Ward’s personal guard, Harlan. The best of the best. Now they answer to me. And through me—” his tone hardened—“to the crown.”
Dree’s chin dipped. “Always, sir.”
Another candidate stepped forward — wiry, fast, a gnome with sharp eyes. He darted in low, striking fast enough to slip past her guard once. Murmurs rippled through the line when he landed a glancing blow.
The Colonel’s hand flicked again.
Varrow blurred, faster than thought. Her boot cracked against the gnome’s wrist, his blade spun from numb fingers, and the flat of her weapon caught his chest hard enough to launch him onto his back. He lay gasping, staring at the sky, too stunned to even curse.
The Colonel folded his arms. “One slot, then. And it goes to the best who fails the slowest.” His eyes swept down the line of hopefuls before settling back on the figure in the ring. “And none of them, for all their grit, can match her.”
A murmur ran through the candidates, half awe, half unease. They all knew what she was.
Dree cleared his throat. “Of the Garden, but not in the Garden.”
The Colonel’s gaze lingered on the Valkyrie standing in the ring, breathing steady, expression unreadable. “Aye,” he said quietly. “The army keeps them like tools in the closet. Closer to slaves than soldiers. I can’t free them. But we can give a few the dignity of serving as equals here. Decent rations, their own kit, a barracks bed instead of a kennel. Even a name they get to pick for themselves. It’s not freedom.” He drew in a slow breath. “But it’s better than what most of their sisters get.”
Lieutenant Varrow turned her head then, just enough to meet the Colonel’s eyes across the ring. No salute, no words — only that brief, steady look. Something passed there, a flicker of recognition. Then she turned away, cold mask sliding back into place as the next name was called from the line.
Silence settled over the yard for a moment, save the hiss of the wind through the pines. The colonel turned away from the group. Dree followed.
Around the perimeter, rows of troopers drilled with pikes. The steady thump of hafts striking dirt beat like a drum. Sergeants barked cadence, correcting stances, shoving shoulders back into line. The air smelled of oil and sweat and old dust kicked up in waves.
They walked slowly along the yard’s edge, gravel crunching beneath their boots. Soldiers wheeled through a drill in perfect unison, pikes stabbing forward like a single spine of iron. The Colonel’s gaze lingered, weighing every fault.
“I’ll need loyalty I can trust in those halls,” he said at last. “Too many voices already weigh in my ear. You were Elias’s man once. Some wonder if that makes you less mine.”
“Men can wonder,” Dree said evenly. “The oath I swore is to the Forty. And through them, to you. I’ve not broken it yet.”
A long silence stretched. The Colonel studied him sidelong, jaw tight. Then he gave the faintest nod.
They stopped beneath the shade of a green awning covering a doorway into a stone building. Two guards opened the doors, and the officers walked into the Colonel’s field office. The office was opulent, yet still bare. It boasted cedar-paneled walls, brass ceiling fans, and transoms on each wall for maximum cooling. A scattering of crates, maps rolled tight and leaning in corners, and a massive desk dragged in from some other building. Papers in no apparent order were scattered across the expanse. It smelled of polish and machine oil, as though the furniture had been pressed into service too soon.
The Colonel sat behind the desk, a gas lamp hissing faintly at his elbow. Papers littered the surface—dispatches, appointments, intelligence digests. He tapped one knuckle. “Rumors reach me. About the Reaper. Officially he rots in a cell. Unofficially?”
Dree stood on the other side of the desk, not quite at attention. His jaw flexed. “Officially, he’s where he belongs. Cell locked, key thrown in the sea. But rumors spread like brushfire. I’ve heard them too.”
“And?”
“And nothing I’d swear to,” Dree said. “But if there’s truth beneath the smoke, I’ll have it. Quietly.”
The Colonel grunted, leaned back in the chair. “See that we do. The last thing I need is that shadow stirring when I’m trying to plant order in this chaos.”
He pushed aside a stack of dispatches, pulled free a folded telegram. “And now to worse news. Our sources in the Veiled Garden report that Marigold Rowan, the Golden Thorn, has resigned her commission and vanished without a trace.”
Dree let out a slow breath. “She didn’t leave quietly, knowing her.”
“No,” the Colonel said, lips tight. “Rowan never left a place quietly. Everyone involved is in a lather. Rowan is the strongest petal in the Garden. Stronger than any of them, if we’re honest, except for the Bloody Rose. I would have had her take command instead of Azalea Morcant if I’d had the reins to pull then. But now—blast it, she’s slipped the leash.”
Dree stepped forward and laid a telegraph sheet on the desk. “Well, then you won’t like my news, sir. This was why I was coming to see you. Our contact in Montrey intercepted this.”
The Colonel opened it and read:
RESPECTED YOUR PRIVACY AS LONG AS I COULD. NEED YOUR HELP URGENTLY. COMING TO YOUR HOME—ARRIVING 2/3. LOVE, MARIGOLD
For a long moment, only the lamp hissed. Then the Colonel folded the page, set it aside with deliberate care.
“So,” he said softly. “The Golden Thorn runs to Rose Tharnen in Raleigh. To the Bloody Rose herself. Two names that make generals curse and men whisper.” His eyes rose, sharp now. “Individually, each is a hurricane. Together? God help the man who stands in their way.”
His fist struck the desk, the lamp quivered at the blow, “Damn it. They’ll upend everything I’m building before I can set its foundations.”
Dree didn’t flinch. “Your orders, sir?”
“Backchannels,” the Colonel said. “Let GSS hear of it. Not loud. Not formal. Quiet whispers to those who need to know. If Rowan and Tharnen mean to stir old ashes, I want someone else damping the flames before they reach my house. But only disclose that Rowan is outside the country without permission. The Tharnens are off limits. Are we clear?”
Dree inclined his head. “Consider it done.”
The Colonel rose, and put on his dress coat, fastening the clasp across his chest. In another hour he would walk into a chamber of men who called themselves lords, and he would need to look every inch the military commander turned statesman. For now, he let the draft ruffle his shirt and the sound of boots scuff the stone floor. He looked older suddenly, though not weaker. “We’ve both seen what happens when legends are allowed to walk unchallenged, Harlan. The songs are bad enough. The Golden Thorn and the Bloody Rose. The world makes idols of women like that. Legends.”
He stepped back out into the sunlight. Soldiers still wheeled and drilled, pikes striking dirt in time. The air was hot, the rhythm steady, but the Colonel’s face was colder now than the steel in their hands. His mouth curled in something caught between respect and resentment. “But legends don’t keep order. They burn it down.”
Dree said nothing. The clang of steel and the cries of the soldiers answered him together.
Tharnen’s Rest sat east of Montrey, stretched across hills that yield their blessings grudgingly yet honestly. Here, cattle and horses thrive despite relentless sun and harsh winds, living reminders that hardship breeds strength. Most mornings Joseph Tharnen rose before dawn, guided by a rhythm familiar as breathing.
Today was no different. A man who runs cattle and horses doesn’t get much use out of sleeping in—that was his usual line on the early hour.
By lantern light, he stepped quietly from the house, leaving his wife Rose sleeping inside. The wind had a dry edge that morning—not sharp enough to keen, but enough to keep a man’s collar turned up and his hat down low. It came down from the Albrae highlands and skimmed across the hard-packed prairie, stirring brittle grass and slipping through barn boards like it knew the place. The chill was sharp, biting at his fingers and promising the sun would soon burn away the cold. The chores waited; habit knew the order.
First, he walked the south pasture. Fence posts leaned slightly from years of wind, casting sharp moon-shadows over frost-covered grass. The cattle murmured softly, still asleep. Each step crunched beneath his boots as he tested wires, tightening where needed, his fingers moving steadily even as his thoughts drifted.
Finished with the fences, he moved to the well. Pulling water from its deep shaft was a daily reassurance. Each bucket of clean water was a victory against the dry threat never far from these lands. Joseph splashed some across his face, savoring the sharp cold, then stood watching the sky shift from black to gray.
He looked back at the ranch. He’d come to this stretch of hard ground thirty-one winters ago, chasing a rumor of cheap land and breathing room. The first winter nearly broke them. Their wagon bogged to the hubs in alkali mud, and the only path forward was backbreaking: unload, drag, reload, drag again.
At night they huddled under a canvas lean-to, wind clawing the fire flat. Rose hunted jackrabbit with a sling. She would come back streaked with frost and grinning like she’d treed a bear. Joseph cut cedar fence posts by lantern, driving them into half-frozen soil while the mules steamed. They burned sagebrush roots for heat and boiled coffee so thin the pot looked clean.
Spring gentled nothing. Calving started before the grass came, so Rose mixed blood-warm milk in a battered tin bucket and taught Joseph how to brace a newborn on his knees. They lost three calves that year and broke a wagon wheel twice, but the fence line stood when summer rolled in. They named the place Tharnen’s Rest after that first half-night they slept without shivering.
Whenever the sky paled like this morning, Joseph remembered Rose’s face fire-lit in that lean-to: cheeks raw, eyes fierce, willing him not merely to live, but to stake a claim on something better. It was a memory that made the land itself feel earned.
The paddocks stretched below. They ran cattle mostly—beef, not dairy—enough to keep forty to fifty hands year-round and then hire more come fall. Joseph kept horses, too, for work and sale, but as he liked to tell his dwarven foreman, Stacy, “Beef makes the books balance.”
The house was solid. Two stories, deep porches, whitewashed trim. It held its heat and didn’t rattle in the wind. Everything a man needs, and a few things he doesn’t, but keeps anyway, he thought. It was a good place and had rewarded them with a life they had sacrificed everything to find. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.
When the sun had fully cleared the horizon, he walked behind the barn and drew his sword from its battered scabbard.
It came clean from the scabbard, weight settling into his hand like it belonged there. Still balanced. Still sharp enough to whisper through air. Swordplay, once his profession, now served as meditation—a practice holding back age and memory alike. The cut hay stacked in the barn gave off a sweet, dusty scent that clung to his clothes. Joseph shrugged off his coat, tightened the cuffs of his shirt, and took his stance.
The rhythm came easy. Shoulder high, waist level, across the thigh. Parry. Step. Advance. Retreat. Strike. He worked the forms slow. Not for speed anymore—just to remember. Diagonal cut. Pivot. Low guard. Step and recover. Again.
His mind kept circling back to the look on Rose’s face when he gave her the telegram the day before. Whatever it was, it had been enough to wake something in her he hadn’t seen in years. And he doubted it was rest or reunion she was thinking about. She hadn’t wanted to discuss it, and that was all right. She’d talk when she was ready. But that didn’t mean he could put it aside.
Steel whispered through the cold air. Somewhere a rooster answered, late and grumpy.
As he practiced, Joseph remembered the people he didn’t talk about. He always did. His men. His leaders. The Reaper. Especially the Reaper.
He wasn’t loud. Didn’t grandstand. Just did what had to be done—fast, final, and without indulgence.
Joseph had seen that work firsthand. Too much of it.
They said he never flinched. That he carried out the king’s orders like scripture, no matter what they cost.
Joseph used to believe that kind of discipline was a virtue. Maybe it was, he thought. But if you carry out every command long enough, you stop seeing the blood—you only see numbers, maps, pieces.
He’d known men who went too far for what they believed was right. I might’ve stood beside them, he thought. I might’ve led the charge myself, thinking it would end the killing faster.
But destruction has a way of echoing past its purpose.
When the lines blurred and the war stopped making sense, he’d slipped away. No declaration, no farewell. Just turned his back and rode until the wind changed.
If they ever found him—if someone put the right name to the wrong face—it wouldn’t end with a trial. It would be reckoning, swift and wide. And anyone who stood beside him would share the weight.
Joseph ended the set with a full circle sweep and lowered the blade. Breath steady. Muscles loose. He’d practiced these movements every morning for decades. On fields soaked with frost, in the choking heat of distant wars, in the quiet of barns not unlike this one. A body doesn’t forget, he thought. But reminders don’t hurt.
And then he caught himself. The past doesn’t always chase you. Sometimes it waits. Sometimes it remembers you first. Maybe I was wrong—reminders could hurt if you didn’t stay prepared.
By the time Joseph was done, the sun was above the horizon and racing up the eastern sky. His shirt clung to him with sweat. His shoulder ached, but the good kind—the kind earned. He wrapped the steel tight and stowed it behind the feed sacks, dried off with a rag, and returned to his chores, his mind clear and pulse steady. The demons would rest until tomorrow.
After that, he saw to the horses, fed out oats, checked the north well, and rode the west fence to make sure nothing had snapped or drifted out of line. A pair of gates needed shoring up, and one of the heifers had gotten herself wedged under the mineral feeder again, dumb as a bag of rags. It took four men to get her loose without breaking her leg.
Stacy McMurtrey, his foreman, rode in from the north lot with the wind following close behind. He wasn’t built for subtlety—not with shoulders like a barrel and a walk like he owned every stretch of land he stepped across. Dwarves always seemed to be larger than life, but he was more than competent. He looked like someone who could deliver a calf, hobble a runaway mule, and diagnose a blown pressure valve in the same hour—and complain about the idiots who caused all three.
He swung down easy, dust puffing at his heels, and handed Joseph a tally book.
“Fifty-two head on the upper draw,” he said. “Three cows thin—might need to split ’em off.”
Joseph leafed through the pages, admiring his blocky, no-nonsense script. “Storm fence on that ridge holding?”
“Sagging at the shale run. I’ll shore it after dinner.”
Stacy uncapped his canteen, the motion baring a raw scrape along his forearm. “That feeder take a swipe at you?” Joseph asked.
“Yeah,” he said, re-corking. “Same cantankerous heifer. Third time she’s jammed herself.” Stacy put the canteen back into his canvas coat, stained with oil and melted frost. “Might be time we turned her into Sunday supper—give the crew a taste of their winter work.”
Joseph nodded. “The laborer’s worth his wages. Clear it with Rose. She trusts you’ll keep the hands in line, but she worries they’ll forget to act civil once the fire’s hot.”
Stacy studied him the way a rancher checks a sprung gate—quick, thorough, looking for trouble that isn’t spoken. Then he dipped his head, satisfied. “Don’t worry, boss. I’ll keep things quiet.”
That simple pledge felt heavier than the ledger in Joseph’s grip. He thanked Stacy, who then swung back into the saddle. A moment later he was riding for the broken section at an easy lope, calm as a scout who trusts the trail and the man behind him.
By late afternoon, shadows stretched across the land as Joseph came up the hill from the south barn with a coil of rope on his shoulder and a bucket of salt in one hand. By the time he climbed the rise, the light was nearly gone. His boots were caked with dust and his knees were reminding him he wasn’t twenty anymore.
The east paddock was quiet, the rails catching the fading light like polished steel. A pair of young steers stood off near the far fence, watching Joseph like he owed them something.
He didn’t answer their look. Cattle rarely listen anyway, he thought, and grinned. He put the salt in the lick, grabbed his canteen, and took a drink of water.
The back door creaked open behind him.
“You’re going to lose the light,” Rose called from the steps.
“I’ve lost it already,” he said. “Just trying to finish what the wind started.”
She came down the steps with her shawl tucked tight and her eyes scanning the sky. Rose was five-foot-two, maybe a little more with her boots on. She was built sturdy, soft where it counted, strong where it mattered. Her dark red hair, streaked now with silver, was pulled back in a loose braid, and her hazel eyes carried a sharpness that didn’t dull with age. She smiled when she wanted to, but never when she didn’t. When she did, it lit her whole face. Like sunrise over bad country, Joseph thought, not for the first time. A man would give a lot to see that smile turned his way.
Her smile wasn’t there now.
“She’s coming,” Rose said.
He looked at her, questioningly. “Who?”
She looked stern, as if fearing his reaction. “Marigold.”
Marigold. His chest tightened as the wind died. A name he hadn’t heard in many years, tied to another life Rose had left behind but never forgotten. One of her old companions. A Valkyrie.
Joseph finished his water and stepped past her into the kitchen. The warmth wrapped around him like a blanket, and the smell of stew made his stomach growl. He stripped off his boots and washed at the basin.
Rose stirred thoughtfully, not looking up at once as he washed and dried his hands.
“She’ll be here in a day, maybe two,” Rose said, tasting the broth, brow furrowing slightly.
“Are we ready? Are you ready?” he asked.
Her hand stilled on the spoon briefly. Then she nodded slowly. “Meals are set. I’ll have Stacy prepare the guest room. She won’t stay long, I’m thinking. The train from Broken Reeds gets here tomorrow and leaves the next day. She’s never been one to stay any place long, and I doubt that’s changed.”
Rose rubbed her wrist without thinking. Joseph knew her arthritis was getting worse this year, though she’d never admit it, and wouldn’t thank him for bringing it up. She still ran the kitchen like a field officer, even with two cooks under her. Still walked fence. Still cooked half their meals herself. They both knew she carried burdens most women would’ve put down years ago.
He stepped closer, resting his hand lightly on her shoulder, and felt her muscles relax slightly beneath his touch. “We’ll manage.”
She gave him a faint smile, tinged with unease. “We always have.”
They stood a while longer. A hawk circled far off above the ridgeline. Somewhere behind the house, the kitchen staff were hauling sacks of flour into the root cellar.
Dinner was quiet, punctuated by the soft clink of spoons and distant murmurs from the ranch hands. She’d made biscuits that steamed when torn, and the stew was thick with barley and root vegetables. She didn’t eat much herself. They sat across from each other, her fingers occasionally tracing the rim of her cup, gaze drifting thoughtfully toward the window.
“She’s going to want answers,” Joseph said eventually. “About why you left. About what you’ve been doing all these years.”
“I’ve had thirty years to think about those answers. I think I’ll manage.”
She didn’t say it unkindly, and he didn’t take it that way. Rose had never been one to flinch from truth, but she did believe in choosing when to speak it. That had always been the difference between them. One of them, at least.
“You sure you want her here?” he asked. “Stacy and the hands can head her off if we need to.”
“She’s my friend,” Rose said. “Or she was. I’d like to know if that’s still true.”
He nodded. That was fair.
Later, they sat on the porch. The night breeze brushed gently across their faces, cool and soft, carrying faint scents of dust and sage, mingling with supper’s lingering aroma. Stars glimmered faintly overhead, clear and distant.
“I won’t speak of the past to her,” Joseph said softly.
Rose turned toward him, lantern light revealing complexity in her hazel eyes. “Joseph, let her believe I married a rancher. Please.”
“She doesn’t know who I am,” Joseph reassured her quietly, voice carrying the weight of a long-held promise. “She never will.”
Rose’s eyes softened, revealing a fleeting sadness—regret for the necessity of secrets. “I know it’s hard. It’s better this way.”
After a moment, she leaned forward slightly. “She wants me to help her, but she was vague about exactly what the problem was. If she is coming, it’s because she probably wants me to go with her.”
He paused. “Where?”
“She didn’t say. Not yet. But I can feel it coming.”
“Will you?”
“I might.” She looked up, and her eyes were steady. “We could use some time apart, you and I.”
The words landed like a stone dropped in still water. The wind lifted the edge of her shawl; neither of them moved.
“I didn’t know we were broken,” he said, after a long moment.
“We’re not,” she said. “But maybe we’re stuck. And maybe that’s worse.”
He nodded, though it hurt. She watched him intently. He spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. “If something happens, if you’re gone too long…”
Rose nodded solemnly. She smiled faintly, reaching out to take his hand. Her fingers were warm, gentle yet firm. “You always keep your promises, Joseph.”
He met her eyes and held them. There was trust there, earned over years of shared burden and quiet victories. “I always will.”
He knew Marigold well enough. She favored the long way between places, keeping to quiet routes that no one bothered to map. If Rose went with her, there’d be signs enough for a man who knew what to look for. And then there was always the Stormpetal, he thought. She’d know what Marigold was going to eat before she even sat at the table.
Rose leaned back in her chair and looked out at the night again. Neither of them said what they were both thinking: that this wasn’t like other times. That the stakes were heavier now. That the past, no matter how far buried, had begun to stir again.
“I trust you,” she said softly, as if saying it aloud helped her believe it. “I always have.”
He squeezed her fingers softly and nodded. “I know,” he replied, just as quietly.
She sighed quietly, leaning back into her chair, her eyes drifting upward. The weight lifted slightly, revealing vulnerability she rarely showed anyone—even Joseph.
As they sat, he remembered another winter, long before the ranch, long before peace, thirty-five years earlier.
She found him outside the field tent, scraping ice from his gauntlets. Lantern light made frost glitter on her braids.
“You’re awake,” she said.
“Couldn’t sleep.” Too many wounded inside the walls, too many empty cots. More reminders of his failures. Of the promises he would not stop trying to keep.
He handed her a cup of boiled coffee and tried the question again—the third time that year. “When the campaign’s done, come south with me. We’ll trade steel for steers and see if the herd’s worth the fight. Anything’s better than sparring with Rusk.”
She blew on the rim, eyes on the dark ridgeline. “Campaigns never end, my love. They just move.”
“Then we’ll move first.”
Her smile was soft but fixed. “Ask me when the king no longer needs Valkyries.”
Two summers later he asked again—outside a burned granary, smoke still hanging low. She bound his shoulder and said, “The king would call that treason. I won’t see you hang for walking away.”
“I’ve done worse things than walk away,” he told her.
She kissed his cheek, left the bandage, and rode off before daylight.
And so, he waited.
Years passed in dust and orders until the night she sent word to meet him on the western docks of Kingston. When she finally said she couldn’t remain a Valkyrie, he realized every no had only sharpened the yes. He thought, I would follow her into Hell and count the cost a bargain. He’d been packing in his mind since that first summer night she saved his life.
Now, decades later, Joseph turned to look at this woman who had exploded into his life like her namesake Valkyrie—fire and violence, speed and motion, then love and tenderness.
“Do you regret this life we chose?” Joseph asked gently.
She looked surprised, eyes widening briefly. “Never.”
Yet her expression softened further, reflective. “There’s nothing I’d trade for the life we’ve made here. But sometimes…I wonder if I traded your peace for mine.”
He shook his head. “Rose, this is the only peace I’ve ever known.”
She smiled faintly, acknowledging his words. Her thumb brushed softly over his knuckles. “If Marigold disrupts that peace—”
“We’ll manage,” he reassured her once more. “You’ve given me more peace than I deserve.”
Rose’s shoulders eased, and they sat quietly, their fingers entwined beneath the stars, savoring the fragile calm before the coming storm.
