The night market clung to the mountain like a living thing.

  Lanterns bloomed along the narrow streets in warm clusters, their light catching on polished stone and trickling water alike. Music drifted from unseen courtyards—strings and flutes echoing oddly as sound bent around the carved walls. Voices overpped in a dozen dialects, ughter rising and falling like surf against rock.

  I had forgotten what it felt like to be swallowed by a crowd.

  Rocher had not. He navigated the press of bodies with easy confidence, never once breaking stride. His hand rested lightly at my back when the street narrowed, guiding rather than steering. Every now and then he leaned in to murmur commentary that had nothing to do with direction and everything to do with amusement.

  "Don't try anything that glows," he said, eyeing a vendor hawking drinks that pulsed with internal light. "It might look interesting going down, but it'll keep on doing that the whole night."

  "You're no fun," I shot back. "I heard this city prided itself on culinary experiences."

  "Oh, they'd certainly be memorable. Whether they'll be pleasant memories is entirely up to you."

  I ughed, warmth blooming low in my chest.

  We stopped at a stall selling steamed dough filled with minced pork and honey. The vendor wrapped two pieces in waxed paper and winked as Rocher paid. I took a bite and immediately burned my tongue.

  "Ow."

  Rocher watched me with poorly concealed delight. "You have to let out the steam first." He took a small bite from his own and blew on it.

  I nodded and followed his example. "I know," I said between breaths. "It just looked so good. I couldn't wait."

  He chuckled. "I understand the feeling."

  We wandered deeper, stopping to sample strange drinks that tasted of citrus and iron, then something smoky and sweet that made my head spin faster than the alcohol should have allowed. Rocher refused any drinks on principle, yet somehow drank half of mine whenever I chickened out.

  A group of youths challenged us to a game involving weighted rings and narrow pegs. I lost spectacurly. Twice.

  "The trick," Rocher said mildly, after I had been thoroughly conned out of a small handful of coin, "is that the pegs aren't evenly spaced."

  I squinted at the setup. "There's no way."

  He flicked a ring with casual precision. It nded cleanly, satisfying and smug.

  I groaned. "If I knew you were so good, I should have just let you py."

  "Come on. Where's the fun in that?"

  "You let me lose."

  "If I didn't, I wouldn't have looked half as cool winning."

  My eyes narrowed. He ughed and bought me another pastry in apology.

  For a while, I forgot everything else. I turned on instinct, already half-smiling, ready to say something to Evelyn. But of course, she wasn't there.

  The absence nded harder than I expected. I missed her familiar weight at my back, the quiet reassurance of her watchfulness. I scanned the press of bodies, searching for the fsh of sable hair, the rexed slouch I knew so well. Nothing.

  For a moment, I wondered if she had truly left us alone, or if she was simply that good at staying invisible.

  Then I felt it.

  It started as a prickle between my shoulders—the sensation of eyes sliding over my skin. I shifted, scanning the crowd without turning my head. Two men stood near the edge of the street, cups in hand.

  They were watching me.

  They didn't leer, or whisper, or look away when I noticed them. They simply observed, patient and sober amid the revelry.

  My stomach tightened anyway.

  There was a time when being noticed like this felt like nothing. But I knew Corveaux had eyes everywhere—in the capital, in the guilds, in pces public and private. Information was leverage. Favor was currency.

  I took a breath and let it out slowly, trying to keep the unease off my face.

  Rocher noticed all the same. His hand brushed my shoulder. "Can I show you something?"

  I hesitated for a fraction, then nodded.

  He shifted direction without comment, angling us down a narrower street that sloped upward along the mountain's curve. The crowd thinned. Lanterns grew fewer and farther between. The music softened, repced by the sound of water slipping through channels cut into stone.

  Rocher did not touch me again until the street narrowed enough that we had to walk single file. Then his fingers caught my wrist, just once, guiding me around a sharp turn.

  No one followed.

  We climbed a short stair carved directly into the rock and emerged onto a terrace overlooking the city. The view stole my breath.

  Ironspine fell away beneath us in tiers of stone and light, nterns tracing the city's shape like consteltions caught mid-fall. Water gleamed as it wound through streets and gardens, reflecting the moon in fractured ribbons. Beyond the st row of buildings, darkness rose in a sheer wall of mountain, vast and unmoving.

  "Oh," I breathed.

  Rocher watched my face rather than the view. "I used to come up here to hide," he said. "When I wanted quiet. Or when I wanted to be alone."

  Music drifted up from the city below us, thin but persistent, carried on the night air. A string melody, repeating itself with patient insistence.

  I stepped closer to the edge, careful of the drop. The stone beneath my hands was cool and smooth, worn by centuries of palms and elbows.

  "It's beautiful," I said softly.

  I curled a loose strand of hair around my finger as I stared absently into the dark. A silly idea took hold of me then. I wondered how far my voice would carry. I ughed, unguarded, and the sound traveled briefly before being swallowed by the mountain.

  Rocher's breath caught. The rakish ease he wore like armor slipped, just for a moment, leaving something raw and unfiltered beneath. He looked at me as if seeing me anew—flushed from drink and ughter, eyes bright, alive in a way the court had tried very hard to smother.

  He took a step closer without seeming to realize it.

  Rocher reached for me, then stopped.

  "Cire," he said quietly.

  I turned toward the sound of his voice.

  His hand lingered near my shoulder, uncertain, as if he were waiting for permission he did not quite know how to name.

  "Would you..." He stopped, cleared his throat, and tried again. "Would you care to dance with me?"

  For a heartbeat, I could only look at him.

  The question was so simple it disarmed me. No flourish. No expectation. Just an offering, held out and waiting.

  I gnced past him, toward the city lights and the narrow streets winding below. "Here?" I asked.

  A corner of his mouth twitched, then stilled. "I can't think of anywhere better."

  I shook my head, a soft huff of ughter escaping me before I could stop it. "If you say so."

  He nodded, relief flickering across his face before he mastered it. This time, when he offered his hand, he did so openly, palm up.

  I took it.

  He did not pull me close at once. We stood there for a moment, hands joined, listening.

  Then, out of habit, I started to step. My body reached for patterns it remembered well—a lead, a count, something rehearsed and safe.

  Rocher felt it and stopped me gently, sliding an arm around my back and drawing me in instead.

  Then he shifted his weight, and I followed, the two of us finding something like a rhythm between breaths.

  There was no form to it. No leading, no correcting. Just movement, tentative and shared.

  When my step faltered, he adjusted with me instead of steering me back into pce. When I hesitated, he waited.

  The city hummed below us. Stone held steady beneath our feet.

  Somewhere between one step and the next, the space between us closed. His hand found my waist, light and questioning. His breath brushed my temple, uneven.

  "Cire..."

  He leaned in.

  It was not the hungry, overwhelming press of bodies I had known before. It was softer. Careful. His lips brushed mine, hesitant—a question more than a cim.

  I met him there. The world narrowed to breath and moonlight and the presence of him, familiar and new all at once.

  When he pulled back, it was only far enough to rest his forehead against mine.

  For a moment, neither of us moved. His hand still rested at my waist, thumb pressing lightly as if to reassure himself that I was real, that I was still there.

  Then his grip tightened, just a fraction. His breath shifted against my cheek. I felt the question before he spoke it, the quiet want threaded through restraint.

  "Could we stay?" he asked softly. "A little longer."

  The night pressed close around us, intimate and warm despite the mountain air. I wanted to say yes. My body answered before my thoughts could catch up, leaning toward him, remembering how easily that closeness used to turn into more.

  I stilled myself. I lifted my hand to his chest instead, fingers spyed over the steady beat beneath. Grounding him. Grounding myself.

  "Rocher," I said gently.

  He stopped at once. His eyes searched my face, open. Waiting.

  "I can't," I said. It felt important to say it aloud, to not let silence twist into doubt. "If we go any further, I won't know if we're choosing it... or just holding on because everything else feels uncertain."

  He drew back just enough to look at me.

  "If this is about my memory," he said quietly, "you don't have to be afraid. Every fiber of my being still wants you. Even like this."

  He leaned forward, his arm tightening around me.

  "It's not that," I said, shaking my head against his chest.

  His breath left him slowly.

  "I just don't want to rush back into old habits because they feel comfortable," I continued. "I want to know we're meeting each other where we are."

  His gaze searched mine. "You're asking me to wait?" he said, his voice barely audible. "I don't know if I can stop wanting you."

  The admission hit harder than any touch. Honest. Unarmored. It went straight to my body before my thoughts could catch up, heat fring low and sudden.

  That was exactly the danger. I stepped back at once.

  "We're about to walk into something dangerous," I said. "Every choice we make is going to matter. I can't afford to second-guess myself—whether I'm moving because it's right, or because I don't want to lose you."

  He was silent.

  "And I can't put you in a position where you hesitate for me either," I said more softly. "Not right now."

  For a heartbeat, I saw the disappointment flicker across his face—brief and unguarded. Then it softened, eased by something deeper.

  Trust.

  "If we get through this," he said, carefully, like he was choosing each word, "can I ask you again?"

  I met his eyes. "If we get through it," I said, "you might not be asking the same way."

  He was quiet for a moment.

  "Then I'll wait," he said. Not defeated, but certain. "For that version of us."

  His hand loosened at my waist, sliding away as if he were setting something fragile back where it belonged.

  "Thank you for telling me," he added, almost shyly.

  Relief washed through me, warm and unexpected. I brushed my thumb once across his knuckles, a quiet promise.

  We stood there a while longer, watching the city, the unspoken understanding settling between us like a held note.

  Eventually, the chill crept in, and with it, the reminder of where we were and what waited beneath the mountain.

  "We should head back," I said.

  He nodded at once. No protest. No attempt to stretch the moment beyond what it could bear.

  On the walk back, the streets felt quieter, the revelry winding down as nterns dimmed and vendors packed away their wares. No one stared at us now. The manor gates accepted us without sound.

  At the guest wing, Rocher paused outside my door. "Good night."

  "Good night."

  He lingered, then turned away, footsteps echoing softly down the curved hall.

  I closed the door and leaned back against it, heart still racing. I peered across the room.

  Moonlight spilled over Evelyn. She had cimed the narrow couch by the window, boots discarded, coat still on, one arm slung over her eyes.

  Asleep. Or pretending to be.

  I stood there for a moment, listening to her breathing. Then I crossed the room, lifted the spare bnket from the foot of the bed, and draped it over her shoulders.

  "Thank you," I whispered.

  She shifted once, murmuring, then settled again.

  Tomorrow would demand more of us. Tonight had been enough.