A girl stood a few paces away, sunlight catching in her waist-length gold hair. Her eyes were bright green, almost translucent in the morning light that settled beautifully against her tanned skin.
“A myth,” I replied, trying to slow my racing heart. “I have tried many times. All I ever get is bark and ants.”
She smiled. “Then we are equally uninspiring to ancient magic. I am Hera.”
“Kaelia,” I offered, extending my hand. Her hand was warm when she took mine.
“So, Kaelia, when is your solstice?”
“Tomorrow.”
Her smile faltered, her eyes widening fractionally. “And the Trials?”
I shrugged, watching her face twist in pity.
“A moon cycle for me,” she said. “Still nothing. Sometimes I think something must be wrong with me.”
“Nothing is wrong with you,” I said. “The council likes things orderly. Souls rarely are.”
She gave a small, bitter laugh.
“My mother has already chosen a merchant’s son. He is kind. Polite.” She hesitated. “Holding his hand feels like holding folded linen.”
“At least linen will not ruin your life,” I muttered, then bit my lip, hoping I had not said too much.
Her brows lifted. “Ruin?”
I looked past her at the roses, thinking of the violet lightning and the silver blood in the orb. “Some bonds are not gentle.”
She studied me, as if weighing whether to press further.
“Do you think safety is enough?” she asked instead. “A quiet house. A quiet life.”
“It keeps you alive,” I said. “That has to matter.”
“But does it make you want to wake up beside them?” she asked softly.
I did not answer.
Because I had felt what it was to burn. And no quiet life would ever come close.
“I think,” I said, my voice a low whisper, “Unless we choose death, it is all we will get.”
Silence settled between us, broken only by bees moving lazily between blossoms.
“Would you consider it?” she asked gently. “A bond without the spark.”
“I might not have a choice,” I admitted.
Her fingers traced the trellis beside her. “It is a heavy decision. To give your life to someone without the song of it guiding you.”
“It is,” I answered. “But perhaps some of us were never meant to hear the song.”
She looked at me quizzically, but before she could press any further, a loud shout had us turning towards the rolling green hills beyond the garden’s edge.
A young boy came sprinting across the grass, his blonde hair a mess of tangles.
“Hera! Hera, look!” He held up a fistful of crushed wildflowers.