The roses appeared in my dreams again last night.
Black. Crimson. Pale white.
They crawled across the landscape of my subconscious, unfurling in waves that rippled out from my footsteps. I knew what they meant. Even sealed away, my Gift remembers what it once was. What I once was.
What I still am, beneath the layers of magic woven to protect me from her.
I woke with my heart hammering against my ribs, the sheets damp with sweat. The pre-dawn light filtered through the half-drawn curtains, painting the room in shades of blue and gray. Beside me, Arthur slept soundly, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm that anchored me to reality.
I watched him for a moment, tracing the lines of his face with my eyes. The sharp angle of his jaw. The slight furrow between his brows that never fully disappeared, even in sleep. The scar that cut through his left eyebrow, still pink from a battle too recent for comfort.
