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  Rocher had faced demons, monsters, and the occasional angry mob—but none of them were half as daunting as apologizing to Cire de Lune.

  He'd rehearsed it in his head a hundred times. I'm sorry for what happened. I didn't mean to hurt her.

  Simple. Direct. But every time he caught sight of her in the halls, she wasn't alone.

  Lumiere was always there—radiant, unshakable, her presence a halo of light and good intentions that made apology impossible. If he so much as tried to bring it up, Lumiere would smile that maddeningly gentle smile and wave it off.

  It's in the past, Rocher. The Goddess forgives all.

  Maybe the Goddess did. But Cire clearly didn't. If they were going to work together, he needed her to trust him.

  He still remembered the kick. Goddess above—how she had kicked. And now, days ter, she still looked at him like she was waiting for him to make the next mistake.

  Which, knowing himself, he probably would.

  He tried catching her in the mess hall once. No luck—Lumiere was sitting beside her, ughing at something Seraphine had said.

  He tried the library next. Lumiere again, this time studying hymnals with her while Cire annotated in the margins.

  The courtyard? Both of them again, practicing their holy magic—Lumiere's a shell of its former glory, Cire's somehow barely better.

  Rocher slumped against the wall, rubbing the back of his neck. "Do they do everything together?"

  There was one narrow window—the one time Lumiere wasn't at her side: weapons training.

  Evelyn's voice carried from the far end of the yard—sharp, precise, and impossible to mistake. Cire followed her lead, stance tense but determined, sweat glinting along her neck.

  Rocher waited in the shade until Evelyn dismissed her. Cire gave a curt nod, gathered her things, and disappeared toward the castle.

  He crossed the yard.

  "Evie."

  The Rogue didn't look up. "Hey boss. I'm off the clock, so if you need something it'll have to be tomorrow."

  "It's about that, actually. I need a favor."

  That made her pause. She flipped the dagger once before sheathing it. "What kind of favor?"

  "I'd like you to take tomorrow off. I'll take over Cire's drills."

  Her brow arched. "It's crossbow tomorrow. Since when do you do range work?"

  "Since right now."

  She teased. "So this isn't about drills."

  "No." He guessed what she was thinking, and shut it down with more curtness than he intended.

  Evelyn stopped moving, her ears twitching. She gnced at him with a curious look.

  "I need to talk to her," he said quietly. "Properly. Just once."

  She studied him for a moment, unreadable. Then she sighed. "You're serious. Fine—she's yours. But don't bme me if she shoots you."

  Morning came crisp and pale, the castle yard veiled in mist. Cire arrived right on time, her chestnut hair tied back, sleeves rolled up, focus written across her freckled face.

  "Evie's off today," he said, offering the training crossbow.

  "Oh. It's you," she said guardedly, taking it.

  He nodded. "Let's start with target practice."

  She loaded the first bolt, squared her stance—and missed the target entirely. The next went wide in the opposite direction. The third snapped against the wall, splintering on impact.

  Cire's jaw tightened. "It's faulty."

  He tried not to smile. "Worked perfectly fine when I tried it earlier."

  She shot him a gre that would've felled lesser men, then reloaded. The bolt flew even farther off.

  Her hands shook slightly as she cranked the string again, muttering under her breath, "I can do this."

  Bolt after bolt—each one closer, but never right. Sweat gathered at her temple. The flush of effort crept up her neck. Her lips pressed into a thin line of focus.

  He'd intended to apologize as soon as she took a breather, but she never did. Nobody he knew trained with this kind of stubborn grit. Every miss only sharpened her resolve—he suddenly felt obligated to help.

  "Your stance is all over the pce," he murmured. "Pick one and let's adjust from there."

  He stepped behind her, steadying her arm with one hand, adjusting the angle of her elbow with the other. "Like this."

  She stilled. The morning was quiet but for their breathing—the soft creak of leather, the click of the safety. Her scent carried a gentle sweetness, like wild clover and crushed heather.

  He drew her stance slightly inward. "Good. Keep your bance centered."

  Her voice was a whisper. "Better?"

  "Better."

  She sighted again, exhaled, and squeezed the trigger.

  The bolt struck true—clean through the center ring.

  She blinked, as if she didn't believe it. Then she ughed—a bright, unrestrained sound that startled him more than any battle cry. Her whole face lit up, hazel eyes alight with triumph and disbelief.

  "I did it!" she said, spinning toward him.

  He should've said something—good job, or I told you so, or the apology he'd been holding onto for days—but the words wouldn't come.

  All he could think was how radiant she looked in that moment—hair coming loose, cheeks flushed, joy spilling from her like sunlight off water.

  Cire was still glowing long after practice ended.

  "Come on," she said, slinging the crossbow over her shoulder. "I'll treat you to lunch."

  Rocher blinked. "What?"

  "You helped me make a breakthrough. You deserve something in return."

  He tried to protest, but she was already walking toward the mess hall—and he followed.

  The midday light poured through the tall windows, painting her hair in gold. She chatted idly while they ate—about trajectory, wind resistance, how Evelyn would never believe the shot was real. He mostly listened. Every so often she ughed at her own half-formed ideas, and each sound tugged a little more at a quiet pce in his chest.

  When she finished eating, she leaned across the table with a conspiratorial glint. "Now it's time for my reward."

  He hesitated. "What kind?"

  "The sort only you'd have access to," she said. "As the Hero, you've got free entry to the royal treasury, don't you?"

  His fork stilled. "…That's not something I would consider a recreational activity."

  "Oh, but it could be." She smiled sweetly. "I only need to borrow a few things."

  He narrowed his eyes. "Define borrow."

  "Temporarily remove for the purpose of harmless experimentation."

  "Sounds like it could get us in a lot of trouble."

  "Only if we get caught." She shot him a half-smirk.

  He sighed, but she was already standing.

  They made it into the treasury at dusk—Cire moving with arming confidence, Rocher moving mostly because she kept tugging his sleeve.

  "I can't believe I let you talk me into this," he muttered as she darted between dispy cases, scanning pcards like a schor checking notes.

  "It had to be you. This section's normally off-limits until much ter in the game."

  "Is this a game? I'm being serious."

  "Rex," she said. "We're not just here to py around. I'm verifying a theory of mine."

  "A theory that requires handling sacred relics?"

  "Of course!" She chuckled, already untching the case of an ancient talisman. "Besides, I've got you if anything goes wrong. What's the point of being a Hero if a few allowances can't be made."

  "That's not how—"

  A spark fred, cutting him off. The relic in her hands shimmered, scattering a dozen motes of light across the marble floor.

  She ughed, delighted. "See? It's working!"

  "Cire—"

  Another spark ignited, then another, until the chamber filled with drifting bursts of blue and gold, like a consteltion coming to life around them.

  Rocher could only watch. She spun among the lights, hair catching every flicker, eyes bright with mischief and triumph.

  "Isn't it beautiful?" she asked, breathless.

  He opened his mouth, but the words caught somewhere behind his ribs.

  It was beautiful—she was—but more than that, she was alive in a way he hadn't seen in anyone before. Reckless, brilliant, utterly sure of herself.

  When she grinned back at him, urging, "Come on, don't just stand there!"—he did the only thing that made sense.

  He followed.

  They got caught, of course.

  Not by guards, but by the royal secretary himself—a stooped man with a quill sharper than any sword and a moral compass set to furious north.

  By the time the sparks had burned out and the chamber filled with smoke, he was already standing in the doorway, arms folded, spectacles fogged.

  The lecture sted an hour. Maybe two.

  Cire took it with perfect, solemn politeness—nodding at every accusation of recklessness, every warning about decorum and irreverence. Rocher stood beside her, half-asleep on his feet, occasionally catching phrases like "irrepceable relics", "national treasures", and "if His Majesty hears of this—".

  When the secretary finally dismissed them, Cire whispered a cheerful, "Good evening!" and skipped out into the corridor before the man could start again.

  Rocher followed her out, still smelling faintly of smoke.

  That night, lying in bed, he stared up at the ceiling beams, the day repying in fshes—the glint of her hair in the treasury light, her ughter bouncing off marble, the way she hadn't flinched even as relics came alive around them.

  He should've been angry. Or at least exasperated. Instead, his chest felt light in a way he didn't understand.

  He thought of her grin when the first bolt hit center, the way she'd tugged his sleeve like it was the most natural thing in the world.

  Somewhere between the ughter and the lecture, the fear he'd been carrying—the need to apologize, the weight of what he'd done—had eased. Not gone, but softened, blurred by the chaos she left in her wake.

  A quiet ugh escaped him.

  He'd followed her through an act of mild treason, been scolded half to death, and set off half the treasury—and still hadn't managed to say sorry.

  He groaned into his pillow. "Brilliant, Hero. Truly inspired."

  It was a moonless night. The stars spread across the sky like a canopy, their pale light filtering through his curtains.

  Before he fell asleep, he wondered if she was watching them too.