21. Chapter 21
Several days pass before I realize I’ve stopped counting them.
The palace settles into a routine I never agreed to, but fall into easily.
Mornings belong to Mazelle. Afternoons belong to Thorin.
Evenings, when I’m lucky, belong to me. And sometimes, I spend time with Onyx, laughing and mocking everyone in the palace.
Training has become... tolerable. Mentally, at least. Mazelle no longer has to remind me to breathe before reaching for my magic, and Thorin has stopped looking at me like I’m one poorly timed thought away from leveling half the palace.
Which I would find offensive, but… he’s an amazing teacher. I can’t deny him that compliment.
Physically… Well. Mazelle still throws me onto my back with humiliating consistency.
Apparently "try not to get stabbed" is less of a suggestion and more of a lifestyle. I haven’t beaten her once. Not to say that I won’t, because one day I will land her flat on her ass.
I’ve managed to land two decent hits. She called one of them acceptable and I’m choosing to treat that as a compliment.
The Sacred Gardens have changed, too. Not much—just enough that I’ve noticed the faint hum in the air that doesn’t feel like dark magic.
Like rot. Most of the vines remain gray, the flowerbeds brittle beneath the endless cloud cover, but each day another stubborn patch of green appears where my magic lingers.
Tiny things. Things like moss between cracked stones, or a single climbing vine reclaiming one side of an archway.
It’s enough change that I find myself looking for them before training begins because the use of my favorite phrase, “dead garden” is technically only ninety percent accurate now.
“You're distracted.” Mazelle’s voice snaps me back to the training circle.
“I was thinking.”
“I noticed. Maybe you should try paying attention. That would serve you better in this moment.”
“You know, I do like to think, occasionally. It’s healthy.”
“Goddess Divine help us, she’s using her wits in acceptable ways now.” Mazelle smiles at me as she says it.
She actually smiles. Did I hit my head too hard earlier? Gods. I almost enjoy arguing with her now. I won’t ever tell her that. She’d become unbearable.
Mazelle circles me slowly, sword resting against one shoulder.
“Again.”
“Mazelle, you’ve knocked me flat four times. Can we call it a victory and move on?”
“Seven.” Her smile is gone, replaced by the stern expression she wears better than anyone I’ve ever met.
“Well, I wasn’t counting.”
“You did not need to. I was.” She points the tip of her sword toward me. “Up. Resume your stance.”
I sigh dramatically as I push myself to my feet. “Of course you were.”
She fixes me with a look that probably sends seasoned soldiers scrambling—but I stopped being intimidated weeks ago.
I plant my feet, raise my practice sword, and settle into the stance Mazelle drilled into me until my muscles could find it without thinking.
“Your form is better,” she says, and I blink.
“Was that... praise?”
“No. It was an observation of your progress. You were horrible a few weeks ago. Now you’re decent.”
“I’ll take what I can get.”
She doesn’t argue and that feels like another compliment. Sometimes it’s the small wins.
The first swing comes from my left. I catch it before it reaches me, the impact rattling through my arms instead of knocking me flat.
Mazelle follows with another strike, then another, testing rather than attacking.
My footing holds. I even manage to force her back a single step before she twists beneath my guard and taps the flat of her blade against my ribs.
“Dead,” she says flatly.
“Seven hells! I was doing so well.”
“You did last a little longer. I suppose that counts for something,” she shrugs, repositioning herself.
“I appreciate that you found a new way to insult me. It does so much for my ego, so thank you.”
“The fact that you consider improvement an insult explains a great deal. Maybe you do need to spend a little more time thinking.”
Before I can think of a response, a familiar cold settles across the back of my neck.
“Lieutenant.”
Mazelle lowers her sword and settles into a deep bow.
"Your Majesty."
I glance over my shoulder, watching as Thorin crosses the garden with his hands clasped behind his back, Onyx a few paces behind him.
The partially living tree stirs as Thorin passes, its newly formed leaves trembling in the wake of the shadows that follow him through the gardens.
They curl over the stone paths before slipping away again as if they know better than to touch the new growth.
His gaze finds mine first and lingers, just a moment before he speaks. “You’ve improved.”
The words catch me so off guard that I answer before suspicion has a chance to intervene.
“I—thank you.”
His mouth curves imperceptibly when Mazelle clears her throat.
“I said she improved yesterday.”
Ouch. That stung. No one fucking asked you for your assessment, Mazelle. I want to say it aloud, but keep it to myself, choosing to sneer at her instead.
“You did,” Thorin agrees.
“You didn't believe me.”
“I believed your assessment, Lieutenant.” Double ouch. That stings a little worse.
He didn’t think I was getting better? Mazelle knew that comment would sting—that’s exactly why she said it. I’m convinced she says things just to provoke me, but I refuse to give her the satisfaction.
“But you wanted to see it yourself, Your Majesty.”
“Indeed, I did.”
I fold my arms and huff. “Am I standing here, or am I a horse you’re considering buying?
Hi! My name’s Lyra.” I pause for dramatic effect, waving a hand with an overly bright, thoroughly sarcastic grin.
“I’m standing right next to both of you, and I can hear this entire conversation you're having about me.”
Thorin's attention returns to me. “You bite considerably more than a horse, Lady Tarethyn.”
“Ah, yes. I’ll take that as another compliment.”
“Take it as you will.” He smiles, and the change is startling.
The tension I never realized he carried melts away, and for a heartbeat he looks lighter. Freer, almost.
Gods…I don't think I've ever seen him look this relaxed.
Thorin studies me, though not with the intensity he usually reserves for training. There’s something quieter in his expression now, as if he’s measuring not my magic but the person learning to wield it.
“Walk with me,” he says.
I know it isn’t really a question, but I don’t protest because I’m ready to get the hell out of the training circle with Mazelle.
I think she enjoys kicking my ass, and my aching bones need a break.
The farther we move from the training circle, the quieter the gardens become.
The new patches of green stand out against the endless gray, impossible to ignore now that I know where to look.
“I wasn't lying,” Thorin says.
I glance at him with a quizzical expression. He lies—omits—so much information, I’d be surprised if he was telling me the truth for once.
“You have improved, in all areas of your training. I knew you would advance, Lyra.”
“Advance? I still lose every spar.”
“Yes, but you are training with Mazelle.”
“And that’s an important detail?”
“A significant one. There is a reason she is my Lieutenant. Mazelle could cut down half an army in record time if she needed to. She is fiercely loyal and lethal with a sword. People underestimate her because she is a woman—until they are standing across from her. She excels in hand-to-hand combat and has a tactical, calculating mind. She’s one of the finest guards in the kingdom, save for Onyx, of course. And her gift is... rare.”
My mouth falls open. The admiration in his voice does something unpleasant to my stomach that feels dangerously close to jealousy.
“She has magic? Is it like mine? What is it?”
“That, muya mivanti, is not something I am willing to discuss. It is her information to share.”
I stare at him.
Right. So my magic belongs to the entire kingdom, but hers is private.
His gaze lingers on the vine climbing one of the nearby arches. The silver fades, leaving his eyes their familiar storm-gray once more.
“Enough questions for today.”
He turns toward the training circle. “I hear you’ve stopped thinking before every movement now.”
I consider arguing until I realize he’s right. A few days ago, every strike, every decision felt like solving a puzzle while someone counted down the seconds. Now my body moves before my mind catches up.
The recognition is oddly satisfying. “I suppose that's progress.”
“Yes, Lyra. It is.”
The corner of my mouth lifts. “Careful, Thorin.”
He looks down at me, arching a brow.
“You almost sound proud.”
His answering smile makes me smile, and for the first time in weeks, I’m proud of what I’ve done.
* * *
We stop near the fountain where the newest shoots have begun to push through the black soil. There aren’t many—I’m not the goddess of life, and I can’t bring this entire garden back. But it’s just enough that I should probably stop calling it the dead garden.
I crouch beside the flowerbed, running my fingers over the small patch of moss spreading between two cracked stones.
“This wasn’t here yesterday.” I peer closely, examining the new growth.
“Indeed, it was not.”
“So your garden grows even when I'm not here. How strange. Why do you need me again?”
“The garden remembers when it was alive.”
I look up, because it’s such an odd choice of words and did not answer my question. I give him a flat look. “The garden remembers?”
“Yes. It remembers the magic. Not everything forgets its beginning.”
I brush my fingertips over one of the tiny leaves. “I thought I was healing it.”
He nods. “You are.”
“Then why does it keep growing after I leave?”
His gaze settles on the new growth. “Because life rarely stops once it’s given permission.”
“And I’m giving it permission?”
His answer is simple. “Yes.”
“Can you give it permission?”