They arranged themselves around the kitchen counters with a quiet determination that stole the air from Faith’s lungs.
Merral cleared his throat. “The final offering of the festival is a tradition of unity. It seems fitting that its preparation should be the same.” He picked up a nearby apron and tied it on over his fine tunic with deliberate care.
Elder Corwin nodded, already selecting a citrus zester. “We understand the vision may require many hands. Describe what you need our help with.”
Faith stared, her mind struggling to process the moment. This wasn’t help offered out of pity or royal decree. It was solidarity. They were choosing to stand with her, to weave theireffort into her craft. A warmth, profound and settling, bloomed inside her.
They see me. They want me to succeed here.
The realization was a key turning in a lock she hadn’t known was fastened.
“The dough needs to be strong,” she began, her voice gaining strength. “Kneaded until it’s resilient. Then, we fold in the wildflower honey from the western gardens—pure, raw sweetness.”
“I gathered that honey myself yesterday,” the gardener said, placing a crystal jar on the counter. Its golden contents glowed in the kitchen light.
“Perfect.” Faith smiled. “Against that, we need the sharp, bright fire of the sun-orange zest. Heat and sweetness. Strength and…” She hesitated, the word feeling too vulnerable.
“Gentleness,” Liora finished softly, already juicing the oranges. The fragrant oil misted the air.
Faith’s throat tightened. “Yes.”
They worked in a symphony of focused motion. Merral kneaded the dough with a surprising, controlled power, his hands remembering older rhythms. Elder Corwin and the town baker folded the honey in with precise, reverent turns. The curious older woman, who introduced herself as Rela, took charge of the intricate lattice work for the top, her fingers flying with swift artistry. Liora and her family orchestrated the filling, blending the bright citrus with rich, dark Nova Auroran chocolate that melted like velvet.
Faith moved among them, guiding, tasting, and adjusting. The kitchen filled not just with scent, but with low conversation, shared glances, and the tangible sense of building something together. This was no longer just her dessert. It wastheirs. A declaration, shaped by many hands, that she belonged here.
Hours later, she slid the golden pastries from the oven. They gleamed under the light, the lattice crust a masterpiece of craftsmanship and the scent of toasted honey and warm citrus an intoxicating promise. It was a beautiful creation.
It wasthem.
Carefully, she transferred a perfect portion to a simple stoneware plate. This first taste was for Kovrak. Cradling it like a sacred offering, she left the kitchen, the murmurs of the others a warm benediction at her back.
She’d taken only five steps into the corridor when Thalen materialized from a shadowed alcove, his arms crossed over his broad chest. His expression was typically unreadable.
“He’s not in the medical wing,” Thalen stated, his voice a low rumble.
A spike of alarm shot through her. “What? Where is he? He shouldn’t be?—“
“He’s in the gardens.” A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched Thalen’s mouth. “Said the air in the medical wing was stifling.”
Confusion warred with a dawning suspicion. This felt deliberate. Orchestrated. “Where exactly?”
Thalen simply nodded his head toward the arched doorway that led to the moon-blossom terraces. The place of her and Kovrak’s first kiss.
Her pulse, already quick, became a frantic drum. Irritation that he’d risk his recovery tangled with a curl of hot, sharp curiosity. She adjusted her grip on the plate and followed the path.
The twin suns were dipping toward the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of blood-orange and lavender. The air was cool, scented with night-blooming vines. And there, beneath the same arch of cascading white blossoms that had witnessed their tentative beginning, he waited.
Kovrak sat in a sturdy, high-backed wheelchair, a concession to his wound but not to his presence. He was dressed in soft, dark trousers and a simple gray shirt that stretched across the formidable width of his shoulders. He was pale, the lines of pain etched beside his eyes and mouth, but his ice-blue gaze burned with an intensity that pinned her where she stood.
Before she could unleash the scold burning her tongue—you impossible, stubborn, Alpha tiger—he spoke. His voice was weaker than usual, but it carried absolute command.
“I could not allow another day to pass.” He held her gaze, unflinching. “Not one more sunrise without making this official.”
Her breath hitched. He moved his hand, wincing slightly with the effort, and drew something from the pocket of his trousers. It caught the dying light—a ring. Antique gold, set with a deep blue stone the color of the royal banners, flanked by two brilliant, clear diamonds. It was elegant, powerful, and undeniably ancient.
“This was my mother’s,” he said, the words so stripped of pride, so full of raw reverence it made her eyes sting. “The only piece of her I have left. It represents strength, lineage… and love.”
He extended his hand, the ring resting in his palm. The gesture was one of offering, not demand.