Chapter 23
It's late. Elle and Kaelren left earlier. They thought they were subtle. They were not. Elle leaned in to whisper something, and Kaelren went rigid. He stood so quickly the bench scraped loudly across the floor, and they left without looking at anyone.
Everyone pretended not to notice. I noticed, because compound eyes are useful that way, and because I have been watching those two fumble toward each other across more iterations than I care to count.
Which leaves me and Thalia.
She sits at the end of the long table with her empty mug in front of her, fingers loosely wrapped around the handle.
Her posture is relaxed, but there is a quiet steadiness about her that reminds me of both her parents.
She has Kaelren’s stillness and Elle’s warmth, and the combination still catches me off guard sometimes.
“You’re still here,” I say.
“So are you.”
“I am a beetle. I require very little. I can remain indefinitely. I am glorious in that way.”
The corner of her mouth shifts, close enough to a smile that I count it. I have catalogued every version of Thalia’s smiles across more years than she knows I remember, and this one falls somewhere between amused and too tired to hide it.
“Escort me home?” she asks.
“I am insulted that you phrased that as a question.”
She pushes her chair in before standing. She always does that, even when no one is watching. I flutter up and settle on her shoulder as we head toward the door.
The Verdance at night feels softer. The moss lining the root paths glows gently, and pollen drifts through the air like faint sparks. Somewhere above us, a nightbird calls and the Heartwood hums in response, the sound settling into my shell and quieting everything around us.
The Root bridges arch overhead between the living towers, their undersides threaded with pale veins of light that pulse in a slow rhythm. From up here on Thalia's shoulder, I can see the layered gardens below us, terraced into the city's walls, their leaves silver-edged in the dark.
We travel for a while without speaking. Thalia moves easily beside me, shoulders relaxed, hands loose at her sides. She is not scanning the shadows or bracing for trouble, and it is rare enough that I notice immediately.
“How are you doing?” I ask.
“Fine.”
“That is not an acceptable answer.”
She exhales softly, and the sound almost becomes a laugh. “I’m tired, Peeble. And a little scared.”
“Yes to both,” I say, because there is no point pretending otherwise. She has earned honesty from me, even when it is not comfortable.
She hesitates, and when she speaks again, her voice is quieter. “And happy. Which makes me nervous.”
We slow slightly as she says it. I understand the shape of that fear. Happiness in Thalia’s experience has always been a prelude, never a conclusion. Something that arrives just before everything falls apart.
“They looked good tonight,” she continues. “Both of them.”
“They did.”
“Every time I see that, I start thinking maybe it will last.”
Hope is dangerous. I have learned that more than once. But I have also learned that refusing it does not make you safer; it only makes you lonely.
“This time feels different,” I say.
“You always say that.”
“I say things look promising. This is different.” She glances down at me, and I hold her gaze because I mean it. “They arrived together,” I continue. “They reached for each other first. Then they reached for you.”
Her eyes brighten slightly before she looks forward again. She says nothing, but the set of her shoulders changes; says nothing, some of the careful guardedness easing just enough for me to notice.
“I also believe I deserve recognition,” I add, because the moment is getting dangerously sincere and someone needs to course-correct.
“For what?”
“For keeping secrets. Do you understand how difficult it is to keep secrets from Elle? She asks questions like she is conducting an interrogation.”
“You told her about the pastry shelf,” Thalia says, and the accusation in her voice is almost convincing.
“That was unrelated intelligence.”
“You ate half of them.”
I consider my options. “That was unfortunate.”
She laughs softly, and some of the tension leaves her shoulders. It is a good sound. I intend to keep it going.
We pass beneath one of the massive branches, and it hums as we draw close, a single clear note that fades as we move on. They respond to presence, to warmth, to the passage of anyone the city recognizes as its own.
“Do you remember when you tried to teach Kevin to patrol?” I ask.
Her smile grows. “He kept landing on flowers.”
“He declared them suspicious. Every single one. He treated a patch of daisies like a security threat and then fell asleep halfway through his investigation.”
“He was sitting on a mushroom,” Thalia says, as if this is a defense.
“A very important mushroom,” I agree, and the laugh I get for that one is worth the delivery.
“Or when Bryx tried to teach you knife throwing,” I continue.
“That was a terrible idea,” she says, and the smile she is trying to suppress makes the words uneven.
“You hit the target.”
“I hit Bryx’s boot while he was wearing it.” She shakes her head. “He says he moved. He did not move.”
I let the silence hold for a moment before pressing on, because the laughter is building in layers and I want to keep the momentum. “You also tried to braid Sarnyx’s hair.”
“She pretended she hated it.”
“She did hate it. But she sat still, and she fell asleep once while you braided flowers into it.” I remember that afternoon clearly. Sarnyx woke up with blossoms tangled behind her ears and threatened to disembowel everyone who laughed. She wore them for the rest of the day. “She looked nice.”
“She did,” Thalia agrees.
We continue along the path, the glow of the Verdance soft around us. These are the memories I have been holding for her. The small, ordinary ones that accumulate between catastrophes, the ones that prove this life has been more than just survival.
A vine curls away from the path's edge as Thalia passes, making room. The city does this for her without being asked, making slight adjustments that most people would never notice. Walls widen. Roots flatten. Lantern-blooms turn their faces toward her and hold their light a little longer.
“Do you remember when you tried assigning everyone roles, declaring you were queen?” I ask.
“I was organizing,” she says, with the dignified tone of someone who knows exactly how absurd the story is about to get.
“You named Kevin deputy. He accepted immediately and fell asleep during the inaugural meeting.”
“He worked hard,” she says.
“Yes. Very hard.”
She smiles again, softer now, and it is the version of her smile that I remember from when she was very young. Before the weight of command settled onto her.
The path narrows as we enter a quieter ring near her quarters, and the moss underfoot shifts from pale green to deep amber. The air here smells like warm bark and night-blooming jasmine, and the Heartwood's hum is fainter, almost a lullaby.
“Thank you,” she says quietly.
“For what?”
“For making me laugh. And for being here.”
I pause at that. Not because I do not know what to say, but because I know exactly what to say and I want to get the weight of it right.
“You turned out well,” I tell her.
She looks down at me with an expression I cannot fully catalogue. “So did you,” she replies.
That surprises me enough that I do not respond immediately.
I have been called many things across many iterations.
Annoying, mostly. Loud, frequently. Heroic, on occasions I may have embellished slightly in the retelling.
But no one has ever looked at me and suggested that I, too, am someone who turned out well.
“I am exceptional,” I say finally, because if I say anything else, I will mean it too much.
She smiles, opens the door, and says, “Goodnight, Peeble.”
“Goodnight, Commander.”
She steps inside and closes the door behind her. I remain on the path for a moment, listening to the Verdance hum around me. I remember when she was small enough to sit in my hands, watching everything with quiet focus. I promised myself then that I would stay, no matter what changed.
I still intend to keep that promise.
I lift into the air and head toward the guest chambers, the soft glow of the Verdance spreading beneath me. For the first time in a while, I allow myself to believe things might hold together.