I followed Iskanda down the corridor to her bathing chamber, steam curling from beneath the carved wooden door like lazy fingers inviting us in, and the moment the lavender salt hit my nose, I felt half my soul leave my body in relief.
The hours melted away after that—warm water, quiet conversation, and the rare luxury of being allowed to simply exist without someone trying to stab, strangle, or seduce me. By the time we were toweling off and drifting through the dim hallway, the world felt soft around the edges, lulled by the lingering heat.
When we retreated back to her quarters, she conjured her map once again—its edges frayed and covered in tiny notes only she could decipher.
Her voice, smooth and low, filled the room as she pointed out new areas of interest, underground markets buried beneath the poorest district, hidden tunnels that looped under the Spire, and the carefully cultivated network of favors and informants she’d spent years threading together in secret.
I listened with intent, letting her stories soak into my mind, each new piece of information adding to the growing realization that Iskanda was far more connected, far more cunning, and far more deeply embedded in the city’s underbelly than anyone would ever guess from her aloof smirk and violent athleticism.
After she finished, she reached out, gave my shoulder a warm squeeze, and said gently, "Get some sleep. You’ll need it."
Her voice softened on that last sentence in a way that made something in my chest ache. So I nodded, thanked her quietly, and left, descending the elevator back to the first floor.
When I finally crawled into my bunk, exhaustion rolled over me like a wave. My muscles trembled, my eyelids fluttered shut, and I drifted off into what should have been a dreamless and peaceful slumber.
But peace and I haven’t been on speaking terms lately, so naturally sleep continued slipping through my fingers like smoke, taunting me with brief glimpses of rest before dissolving the moment I leaned into it.
I awoke with a groan so dense and miserable it practically shook the mattress. My entire body felt like a bag of bruises held together by willpower and damp bedsheets.
I sat up slowly, head spinning, and glanced around the barracks. Same as before, rows and rows of slaves snoring in unison like some bizarre choral performance.
The lanternlight was low, barely illuminating the soft rise and fall of sleeping bodies. For a moment I allowed myself a sliver of optimism—maybe, just maybe, I’d get a moment of quiet to myself.
I turned, reaching beneath my pillow for the tome on shadow magic, fingers brushing against the brittle leather cover until—
A smug, musical cackle sliced through the silence.
I froze. The hairs on the back of my neck lifted. Very slowly— painfully slowly—I turned my head.
And there she was.
Elvina, perched elegantly on her top bunk like some demonic gargoyle with the world’s most punchable grin. Her emerald eyes glittered with malice, amusement, and that ever-present desire to ruin my life.
"Well, well," she purred in a voice far too loud for anyone awake at this hour, "look who’s up bright and early. Our little lamb preparing himself for slaughter."
I rolled my eyes. "Good morning, Elvina."
"Oh?" She tilted her head, smirk widening. "Good morning? How sweet. How polite. You sure you won’t be screaming something different tonight?"
I clenched my jaw. She wasn’t even warming up—she went straight for the jugular.
"Elvina," I said, forcing myself to keep my tone even, "if you’re trying to psych me out—"
"Oh, darling, if I wanted to psych you out, I’d remind you of that girl... what was her name again? Ah... Mia.
My stomach twisted. "Elvina," I hissed before I could stop myself, "shut up."
"Aww," she cooed. "Just look at you. Keep up that heat, darling. It’ll make tonight so much more entertaining."
I wanted to lunge at her. I wanted to grab her stupid face and shake her until that smirk fell off her skull. But instead, with a monumental effort of will, I inhaled through my nose, exhaled slowly, and forced myself to turn away. She let out a satisfied hum. She knew she’d gotten under my skin. She always knew.
I reached for my tome again—more aggressively this time—and that’s when her gaze snagged on it. "What’s that?" she asked lightly.
"None of your concern," I snapped.
Her grin widened. "Oh my. I didn’t know a gutterslut like you could read."
I nearly threw the book at her head. Instead, I snatched the tome, hopped off the bed with a force that nearly toppled it, and stomped toward the exit.
"Don’t strain yourself now!" she called in a singsong voice. "Wouldn’t want you exhausted before I mash your pretty face to the floor!"
I flipped her off without looking.
And thus began my search for Tora.
The hallways stretched endlessly before me in long ribbons of marble that seemed to twist on themselves like the insides of some fabled serpent. My footsteps echoed faintly across the polished tiles, each tap swallowed and then returned to me in soft, hollow ripples.
I passed through familiar passageways and then through others I was almost certain rearranged themselves when no one was looking, slipping by towering statues with blank faces, locked iron doors that hummed faintly with warding sigils, and the occasional Velvet stumbling half-asleep down the corridor with no awareness of the world around them.
Time stretched oddly in that dim maze.
About an hour passed—perhaps more—and there was still no sign of Tora. A sour pit twisted in my stomach. I needed to find him today—tonight at the latest—if I wanted even the faintest chance of pulling off the brilliant plan simmering in my head.
Just when my patience finally cracked and I was about three seconds away from giving up and hauling myself to the second floor to continue the search, something faint stirred the air.
A murmur. A breath. The curl of a whisper too soft to be casual conversation. I froze, clutching the tome tighter against my chest, and followed the sound deeper into the hall.
The voices grew clearer with every step, blooming into articulate tones that reverberated off the marble walls.
I turned a corner and—
There he was.
Tora stood in front of two guards clad head-to-toe in bronze armor, each of them planted on either side of a towering pair of double doors. His long white hair cascaded down his back like a river of snow. His crystal blue eyes reflected the lanternlight, almost glowing.
He wore those same ceremonial robes, immaculate as always—and in his hands he held an old, weathered book much like my own, its spine cracked and its cover etched with symbols that looked as old as the tower itself.
The guards saluted him sharply, their armor clinking in unison.
I stepped forward, mouth opening—
And at that precise moment, Tora pushed open the pair of enormous double doors in front of him. The hinges groaned softly as light poured in through the widening gap.
In the next breath, the view beyond snapped into clarity—the full sweep of the tower’s garden blooming before him at once. Tora didn’t even glance back as he slipped through the threshold and out into the greenery—small, serene, almost ghostlike against the radiant backdrop.
The doors began to swing shut.
I scrambled forward, heart pounding, the sudden rush of urgency flooding my limbs like fire.
I didn’t even make it three steps before one of the guards slammed a hand into my chest hard enough to make my bones rattle like dice in a cup.
The guard’s visor dipped, cold and impersonal, and his voice rumbled through the metal with that practiced monotone only people paid too little and trained too much could achieve. "Restricted access," he said, as if that explained the totality of existence.
I blinked hard, because excuse me, I’d just chased a white-haired enigma through half the damned tower like some deranged moth, and now I was being denied entry by someone with the emotional interiority of a boiled potato.
I tried to shove past him anyway because I’m stubborn and allergic to authority, but he didn’t even budge. Instead his fingers pressed harder.
I opened my mouth to protest, which, in my language, means I immediately began weaving together the most lethal combination of complaint and charm known to humankind—my signature technique.
I lifted my chin, letting my lashes dip half-closed as I slid my hand along the guard’s wrist. His fingers twitched—just a little—but enough to confirm he wasn’t made of stone. I leaned in until my breath brushed his jawline, my voice dropping into that low, coaxing register.
"Restricted access?" I murmured, lips almost brushing the shell of his ear now, letting my breath fan hot across his skin. "Come on... you look like someone who enjoys bending the rules when no one’s watching."
A low, involuntary growl rumbled in his chest. I dragged my lower lip along the sharp line of his jaw, tasting salt and steel, before letting my tongue flick out, just once, against the hinge of his throat.
"Fuck," he hissed under his breath, hips shifting forward without permission, trying to chase the heat of my body. "Back off or I’ll—"
I cut him off by sliding my free hand down, slow and filthy, letting my nails rake lightly over the bulge straining beneath his belt. My fingers curled, measuring the thick ridge of him through the leather until—
The soft clicking of heels approached from behind the guards, followed by the unmistakable presence of someone small, composed, and carrying far more authority than their frame should logically allow.
"Let him through," Tora said, voice little more than a whisper.
He didn’t even raise his head as he said it—just crossed his arms in that trembling, reluctant, almost adorable little way of his, cheeks faintly pink as if giving orders physically pained him.
And just like that, the armored mountains gave me a clear path, leaving me standing there blinking like I’d hallucinated the entire thing, which honestly wasn’t impossible given the week I’d been having.
I stepped past them with the kind of defiant strut I’d perfected over years of bluffing my way into places I didn’t belong, and immediately my breath caught because the garden—oh Saints, the garden—was not built for mortal eyes.
I could see them clearly now, those bronze-coated vines draped over marble arches like molten serpents frozen mid-crawl, glowing flowers pulsing with soft internal light as if each petal contained its own tiny sunrise, and those trees that twisted upward in elegant, impossible shapes I couldn’t even begin to describe.
I exhaled, long and slow, drinking in the surreal beauty.
"Walk with me," Tora called, soft and unsure, but coated with that obligatory authority that seemed to cling to him like an oversized cape.
I didn’t argue.
I followed Tora deeper into the garden, my steps slow, eyes wide as we crossed that narrow arching bridge from before, molten gold flowing beneath us like a gentle river of liquid sunlight. I stared down at it, mesmerized, almost expecting it to whisper secrets.
After a moment of quiet, Tora cleared his throat like he was trying to cough out his nerves. "So... what are you doing here?" he asked, voice tiny, his hands clasped behind his back in that timid posture he always defaulted to whenever his confidence ran out of steam.
I could tell he wanted to look authoritative, but the more he tried, the more adorable he became—and the more I absolutely had to poke at him.
"Well, I was trying to walk into the garden before a beef slab in armor tried to concuss my chest cavity," I replied, flipping my hair over my shoulder with dramatic flair. "But apparently being fabulous isn’t considered sufficient clearance."
Tora giggled—actually giggled—covering his mouth instantly as if he’d committed some grave professional sin. His ears practically glowed red as he mumbled, "Well, um... you really shouldn’t seduce the guards. They’re not... um... well built for that sort of thing."
The way he said it made it sound like they’d collectively die of cardiac arrest if I ever finished a sentence containing innuendo in their direction.
"Well, maybe they should be trained for it," I shot back lightly, nudging him with my elbow just enough to make him flustered. "What if an enemy infiltrates the tower with his shirt unbuttoned to the navel? What then? Are they just going to crumble? They gonna spread their legs the second someone flashes a little skin?"
Tora squeaked in a very un-commanding manner, shoulders jumping as he shook his head so quickly his hair fluffed out. "No— I mean— that’s not—" he stammered, and honestly, I was having the time of my life.
We walked like that for several minutes—me tossing verbal pebbles at him, him trying, and failing mind you, to maintain dignity—before I finally decided to quit playing coy.
There was business to attend to, and as much as I adored tormenting Tora’s sense of composure, I wasn’t here for a stroll through botanical heaven.
"Anyway," I said, slipping easily into a more serious tone. "I actually need you to do a favor for me."
His head popped up, eyes widening, and he nodded so quickly he looked like a startled bird. "O-okay. What... um... what do you need?" he asked timidly.
"First," I said, tilting my head, "I need to know—what kind of power do you even have here?"
Tora blinked several times before looking away, flustered again. "Well... I handle most of the Velvet’s assignments... I oversee the majority of the guards in the tower... and I’m in charge of coordinating a small group of scholars and scribes."
"Scribes?" I cut in, voice sharpening.
Tora blinked up at me again. "Yes... they sort documents, record data, copy texts, catalog everything that comes and goes through the tower..."
His voice drifted off in a daze, as if sensing the sudden shift in my expression. But I wasn’t even listening anymore because my brain had already taken a gleeful leap back to the library on the second floor.
I remembered the chaos, the noise, the constant shuffling of parchment from those attendants, and suddenly everything clicked.
I smirked. Slowly. The kind of smirk that made sensible people take two steps back to reevaluate their life choices.
Tora’s face scrunched into a pout. "I... I don’t like that look," he muttered, clutching his elbows as if defending himself from some invisible threat. "Please tell me you’re not about to do something reckless again."
I halted to a stop.
He stopped too, blinking up at me. My fingers curled tighter around the weight of the tome in my hand. Slowly, with the kind of dramatic poise usually reserved for stage plays and executions, I held it out toward him.
"I need the page’s annotated in this book to be copied in bulk," I said softly.
Tora stared down at it, confusion knitting his brows. "C-copied...? For what purpose?" he asked, voice small, head tilted like a puppy trying to understand why someone moved its food bowl.
Saints above, he was just too cute.
Focus, Loona.
"You’ll see," I answered with a smirk. "But it’s important. You can get it done. Right?" My voice dipped just the slightest bit into that teasing register I used when I wanted someone flustered but compliant.
Tora stared at the book for a long moment... then nodded before snatching it from my hands. "I... I can do that," he said softly, determination flickering across his features despite the blush rising along his cheekbones. "I’ll get it done. No problem."
Something inside me—something stupid, emotional, and wildly inconvenient—hitched. Because he said it so sincerely. Because he didn’t even hesitate. Because he trusted me without demanding anything in return, and Saints damn me, but loyalty like that isn’t something I’m built to handle without breaking something internally.
Before I could stop myself—before rationality could tug me back by the spine—I strode forward, quick, impulsive, driven by some bubbling, idiotic excitement. And without overthinking it, without pausing, without even warning him—
—I leaned in and kissed him.