She giggles behind the curtains. The curtains are in on it.

A white door, glass panes veiled by thin lace, hops ajar.

A shadow in the hallway grumbles, “Oh no you don’t,” and slips inside.

Moonlight and faint plankton-green spill across the room. At the tall greenhouse window, a figure tangled in seven dancing veils.

Two silent strides past the couch. Arkion reaches through the lace, catches her shoulders, pulls her out from the glow. They land behind the couch, hidden.

The curtain flops back into place with a satisfied Whew! just as the door opens again.

Clarissa sweeps in, palladium hair flashing moonlight.

“Arkion.” A half-smile, half-sigh. “I saw you vanish in here.”

Silence. Her gaze snags on the fluttering lace.

“Wind?” she asks the night.

The curtains flutter once, innocent as altar boys who’ve already hidden the wine and bet on the kiss.

Clarissa snorts, soft and fond. “Fine. Keep your secrets.” She backs out, closing the door with deliberate quiet.

Only then does Arkion lift the finger from Eysin’s lips and sign: still quiet.

She stares up at him. The last year of silence collapses. His letter might have been real after all.

A breath.

Another.

Her eyes go wide and wet. Here comes the buzz—the strange static sparkle in her arms, like the ants that show up after having sat on them until they’re numb. A big feeling wants out—joy hurts. She buries her face in his chest so the tears won’t win. The giggle returns instead, shaky against wool and herbs.

He smells like the training hall, goodbye kisses, unanswered questions.

“What were you doing back there?” he whispers, already half-laughing.

“The curtains were telling me a joke,” she whispers back, perfectly serious.

He waits.

She muffles another laugh against his shirt. “You just murdered the punchline.”

Downstairs, music. Up here, heartbeats and soft neon green.

Arkion listens to the hallway. Coast clear. His mouth curves.

“Hungry?”

“I was going for the bath.”

“Bath can wait. Come to the feast.”

She stands, but the room tilts—whether from whatever she took earlier or from him being here, for real, asking her to follow. He offers both hands and she takes them.

They hold the grip one heartbeat longer. They had been writing each other into existence for an entire year… Followed by a year of silence, and now they are both here, flesh and breath.

She steps back, suddenly aware of organza and bare feet.

“Give me one minute. I’m not walking in like this.”

She pads toward the little bedroom door, organza fluttering.

Arkion exhales, alone for the first time in twelve hours. Since Imogen mentioned Eysin was staying in his old quarters. Since every plan evaporated.

He drifts to the kitchen table, lifts a cold cup, sniffs. Recognizes the blend and takes a cautious sip. Grimaces.

The liquid hits like cold, steeped earth—bitter, fungal, sharp as overbrewed bark and damp soil.

“No wonder she didn’t finish it.”

He tips the rest into the sink. Dark swirl vanishes down the drain.

An ordinary, quiet moment.

Then heat blooms behind his eyes, an electric prickle racing along his skin.

“Wooh.” The whisper slips out, so flat and surprised. He blinks hard, steadying himself against the counter as the room’s edges soften.

“What the hell was in that tea?”

He stares at the empty cup like it just betrayed him.

From the window the opalescent veil leans forward in a cartoon squeak:

Too manly for tea, cargo-king?

Arkion glances up, eyebrow raised, half-smiling at empty air.

---

The same veil swivels, leans through the fourth wall, hushes us like we’re all in on the same glorious crime:

Seven veils on the rail and one just fell down, darlings.

Next: A glorious midnight rescue in dancing lace, music and candlelight, warm hands pulling mirages into reality, and a greenhouse about to glow neon green with unspoken possibilities.

Don’t touch that dial.