Morning came soft and slow, sunlight sneaking through the hollow’s vines and bathing the mossy floor in gold. Lark stirred first, blinking lazily against the warm light. Above him, Azalea slept, her silvery hair spilling like moonlight over the bed she slept in. Of course, she made Lark sleep on the floor last night.

  He slipped away as quietly as he could, tugging his shirt over his head as he padded barefoot into the grove.

  The air smelled fresh, touched by magic and blooming herbs. For the first time in what felt like forever, there was no danger gnashing at their heels. Just the low hum of trees waking to the sun and the soft clatter of the garden golems tending the winding paths.

  Lark wandered, toes brushing the cool dew-slicked grass, until the sharp rhythm of steel on steel reached his ears. Curious, he followed the sound through the twisting roots and sun-dappled clearings until he found the source:

  Turaleth.

  The god moved in a wide, worn courtyard behind the hollow, half-shaded by towering trees. His hair, tied back loosely, glinted like spun bronze in the light. He wielded a longsword with devastating elegance — sweeping, circling arcs that flowed from one movement into the next with no wasted energy. His bare feet whispered over the mossy stones, each step so smooth it seemed the earth itself carried him. His strikes were not brutal; they were measured, inevitable — the kind of blade work born from centuries of practice.

  When Turaleth spotted him, he paused, planting the sword tip lightly against the ground and smiling.

  “Awake already, young wanderer?” he called. “Come, test your mettle.”

  Lark grinned, cocking a brow. “Against you? Might as well dig my own grave first.”

  “All the better to learn quickly,” Turaleth teased, tossing a practice blade through the air.

  Lark caught it — barely — with a startled yelp, fumbling before righting it. With a theatrical sigh, he bowed low, flourishing the wooden sword clumsily.

  “At your service, my lord of unfair odds.”

  Turaleth laughed — a rich, musical sound — and beckoned.

  The match began.

  Lark darted forward like an arrow, swift and unaimed. He fought like a rogue fox — darting, weaving, never staying in one place long enough to be cornered, nor to bite. He used quick, flickering jabs, feints meant to bait openings, relying on speed and misdirection rather than strength. His strikes came in from odd angles, low and sudden, almost acrobatic in how he twisted and pivoted on light feet.

  But Turaleth barely needed to move.

  Each of Lark’s blows was met with a subtle parry or a shift of weight. His defense was maddeningly effortless — not brute force, but precision so sharp it was like trying to hit smoke. Where Lark was fast and frenetic, Turaleth was calm and unshakable, wielding his sword more like a flowing extension of his will than a weapon.

  Once, Lark tried a feint — a flashy spin followed by a lunge aimed at Turaleth’s ribs. But the god simply stepped into the attack at the last second, knocking the blade aside with a flick of his wrist and sending Lark sprawling backward onto the moss.

  Laughing despite himself, Lark rolled to a crouch, panting with a shake of his head.

  “You have skill,” Turaleth said warmly, blade resting lightly on his shoulder. “But you’re fighting with half your body.”

  Lark squinted up at him, tousled and annoyed. “I am using all my limbs, thanks.”

  Turaleth arched a brow. “All?”

  There was a pause.

  Lark’s ears flicked back. “How do you know?” he mused, as if impressed by being caught red-handed.

  The god chuckled, tapping his temple. “I am a god, little one. I see. And you wear your magic like a half-buttoned coat — sloppy work.”

  Before Lark could sputter out a protest, Turaleth made a lazy gesture — and the subtle illusion clinging to Lark’s belt came undone. The one meant to hide yet another beastly feature.

  With a shimmer of light, a long feline tail flicked free behind him, coiling and lashing the air in indignation. The base, starting from his tailbone—was a velvety cream, a gradient dotting down to the fluffed, brown ends.

  “Figures,” Lark sighed, but Turaleth only laughed, not cruelly.

  “You’ll find your center better if you use all of yourself.” He said again, stepping back and motioning for Lark to stand. “Beast, human… it’s yours, if you let it be.”

  Grumbling, Lark climbed to his feet. He steadied himself, this time letting the tail move naturally behind him — a counterbalance he hadn’t allowed himself to use often.

  Turaleth lifted his sword again. “Again.”

  This time, everything was different.

  Lark launched forward, his movements—though a bit hasty, were coordinated. His tail shifted instinctively to stabilize sudden changes in momentum, whipping behind him to tighten pivots, low dives, and lunges. His footwork began to sharpen—less frantic, more rhythmic. When he twisted to evade a parry, the tail curved opposite, smoothing his spin. His strikes came faster now, flowing together like dance steps.

  Turaleth smiled approvingly, stepping up the difficulty—using measured thrusts and sweeping cuts to test Lark’s balance. They moved in a circle across the courtyard—Lark, all the swiftness of a thrashing river, Turaleth the unmovable stone.

  Still, even with his new balance, Lark couldn’t land a hit. Turaleth glided out of reach, always an inch ahead, as if he knew where Lark would move before Lark himself did.

  But for once, Lark didn’t mind.

  The fight wasn’t about winning. It was about unlocking something older, instinctual inside himself.

  They sparred until Lark’s arms trembled from strain, until his breath came in ragged bursts, and the morning was now titled afternoon.

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  Finally, Turaleth stepped back, lowering his sword with a smile. “Better.”

  He freed his tied up hair, waves cascading down his back as he turned to a rack tucked against the courtyard wall and pulled free a gleaming rapier — slender, elegant, its crossguard shaped like curling vines.

  Turaleth held it out, hilt first. “This is yours, if you want it.”

  Lark blinked at the weapon, chest heaving. “Mine?”

  “You fight like a poet,” Turaleth said. “You should have a weapon that sings with you.”

  For a long moment, Lark just stared — then, reverently, he reached out and took it. The rapier was lighter than he expected, the balance flawless. It thrummed gently in his grasp, fitting.

  He ran a thumb along the flat of the blade, wonder in his eyes. “Thank you,” he breathed.

  Turaleth smiled and ruffled his hair, drawing a squawk of protest, before striding back across the courtyard and leaving Lark alone—bathed in morning light, a new blade in hand, and something unlocked in his chest.

  The courtyard was warm with fresh afternoon light when Azalea wandered in, her steps slow and deliberate across the mossy stones. She wore a loose robe Turaleth had given her, pale green and stitched with silver thread, her silver hair falling in damp waves down her back.

  She found Lark sprawled where he’d collapsed after the sparring, one arm flung over his face, tail twitching idly in the dust.

  Azalea tilted her head, studying him in silence for a moment—then let a soft breath out through her nose.

  “So,” she said at last, voice like the ripple of a still pond, “I see you’ve acquired a new look.”

  Lark peeked up at her through his fingers, catching the faint smile tugging at her lips. He grinned lazily back, shifting to prop himself up on his elbows.

  “Yeah, well,” he drawled, flicking his tail dramatically beside him, “figured it was time to embrace my… natural advantages.”

  Azalea gave a soft huff—not quite a laugh—and walked over, folding herself neatly down beside him in the sun. For a while, neither spoke. Just the rustle of trees, the distant coo of some unseen bird, the quiet thrum of the Grove breathing around them.

  Lark shut his eyes again, basking. His tail curled loosely over Azalea’s ankle, and, after a hesitant second, she didn’t move away.

  A shadow fell over them both.

  Turaleth, barefoot and grinning like the troublemaker he was, stepped lightly over Lark’s splayed legs. In one hand he cradled a goblet of something golden and syrupy, his other arm draped in sheer, iridescent fabric that caught the light like spun water.

  His hair was braided back with tiny shells and pale flowers, and the sheer wrap he wore clung lazily to his tall, lean frame, clearly meant for some manner of sun-soaked lounging rather than anything resembling dignity.

  Trailing behind him were half a dozen nymphs—all laughing and murmuring, dressed in similar gossamer wraps—moving like a school of bright fish in his wake. Aneesa caught Lark’s eye and winked.

  “Going somewhere fancy?” Lark quipped, shielding his eyes against the sun.

  Turaleth took a slow, luxurious sip from his goblet. “But of course, wildcat.”

  He winked, scandalously. “The tide sings sweetly this morning. We are headed to the Crescent Pool — a rather lazy, terribly indulgent little lagoon. Perfect for sun-drenched days and criminal levels of relaxation.”

  He leaned down, conspiratorial—the sun blocked out by his frame.

  “You should come.”

  Azalea raised a skeptical brow. “And let you drown him in vines?”

  Turaleth laughed, a full, rolling sound. “Only metaphorically.”

  Alas, Lark couldn’t miss out on the perceived fun, and Azalea couldn’t let him out of her sight for too long. They found themselves winding down a narrow, overgrown path that smelled of dew and honeysuckle. The nymphs flitted ahead, their laughter echoing through the trees.

  The Crescent Pool revealed itself slowly — a wide, glistening, crescent-shaped lagoon framed by hanging vines and tumbling stone. A small waterfall spilled from a high ridge, sending mist drifting into the sunlight. The water shimmered a pale, impossible blue, glowing faintly from within as if lit by trapped stars.

  Without ceremony, Lark stripped off his battered tunic, kicking it aside. His skin caught the light — gold dusted across scars and muscle, the sleek line of his tail twitching as he grinned like a devil.

  Azalea hesitated for half a breath, then let herself slip into the water — her legs flowing into the long, silky shimmer of her siren’s tail with a ripple of silver light, the scars from the harpoon remained itched into her scales.

  The nymphs plunged into the lagoon with wild glee, splashing and spinning. Lark followed suit, diving in with a graceless yelp as the cool water embraced him. Azalea floated nearby, watching him with half-lidded eyes as the nymphs circled, chased, and practically held him under with yips of giggles and screams.

  They lazed in the water for a long while. Turaleth, naturally, sprawled along a flat, sun-warmed stone at the edge, goblet balanced precariously in one hand, silver wrap clinging artfully to his damp skin.

  Azalea drifted closer, half-draped against another rock, the waterfall misting her hair.

  Turaleth cracked one eye open, voice slow and syrupy.

  “You’re both terrible at resting, you know.”

  Azalea gave a small, dry smile. “We’re learning.”

  Nearby, Lark had clambered onto a small outcropping, calling down from where vines trailed thickly across a hidden opening in the rocks.

  “Oi! You two! Come look at this!”

  Turaleth waved him off without moving, clearly intent on remaining as boneless as possible.

  Azalea, curious despite herself, slipped soundlessly into the water, her form slicing through the glowing surface with the grace of a creature born for it. She followed the sound of Lark’s voice, the gentle echoes drawing her forward through the narrow curtain of vines.

  The green strands parted at her touch, and what lay beyond made her pause — a hidden cove, perfectly round, the water here even more luminous. The surface shimmered like scattered stars, and delicate blooms drifted atop it, their petals releasing faint, musical chimes whenever brushed by a current. It felt sacred somehow, a secret the world had forgotten.

  Azalea gazed about with a soft gasp, her silver hair plastered to her skin in long, dripping trails. She blinked, almost non-believing.

  Lark was already there, waiting. He floated lazily on his back, kicking up a playful splash toward her the moment she appeared. It caught her square in the face.

  She hissed, laughing despite herself, and immediately retaliated with a sharp sweep of her arm, sending a crashing wave into him.

  The battle dissolved quickly into wild, breathless laughter — clumsy strikes and gleeful dodging, each blow echoing off the rounded walls of the cove. Water arced and rained down around them in sparkling showers. Lark laughed so hard he barely dodged her next wave, and Azalea couldn’t remember the last time her chest had hurt from something other than anger or grief.

  Eventually, the splashing faded into ripples, and they drifted closer, still catching their breath, grinning at each other across the soft glow of the water.

  She let herself linger there, for once allowing herself to truly see him. Not just the reckless energy he wore like armor, nor the easy smiles he had tossed her way in moments of levity. No, this time she saw past all that — to the steady, unspoken things that had settled in him over the months. The way his eyes had shifted, like the sky after a storm, clear and open, not as burdened by the weight of things he could never fix or undo. She saw how the edges of him had refined, how his laugh had become a little less wild, a little more honest.

  He gazed at her, his expression full of something so tender, so true, it made her chest ache in ways she didn’t know how to name.

  He wasn’t laughing anymore. His expression was open in a way that stripped away all her careful defenses—bright, hopeful, achingly sincere. No deception. Only the raw, tremulous hope of someone who had dared to believe, just this once, that something good might happen.

  For a moment, Azalea wavered, caught between instinct and longing. Her life had been a string of pulling away, of holding herself distant and safe.

  But this — this was Lark.

  And it was as if he gazed upon her like the sun,

  Unmoved by the burn of his own eyes,

  just to call her blindness the truest form of beauty.

  Lark opened his mouth, unsure, vulnerable. His voice cracked slightly, like a man not used to speaking his own tongue.

  “Azalea—”

  “Yes?” Her tone was quiet, almost breathless, and she couldn’t help the pull in her chest. Her eyes locked onto his, holding him in place.

  “You’re looking—you look, very, very lovely—and err—” His words faltered, tripping over themselves, unsure whether they should rise or fall. But his heart was wide open, all tangled in the silence between them.

  She knew what he wanted to say. She knew it in the way his face paled, in the way his eyes searched hers, seeking something that had been just out of reach.

  But she couldn’t wait anymore. Not for him to find the right words, not for her own resolve to break. In that suspended moment, the water cradling them both, she moved in.

  Lark’s eyes widened—not with panic, but with a startled, shimmering wonder. Just before she reached him, he tilted his head, eyes scanning her eyes down to her lips, as if inviting her in.

  Azalea closed the distance with deliberate slowness, her lips finding his before he could think of a sly remark. It wasn’t harsh. It wasn’t frantic. She draped her arms over his shoulders, pulling him closer, the heat of his skin seeping into her. His hands wrapped around her waist, tentative at first, but steadying as they both sank deeper into the glow of the water.

  Across the lagoon, Turaleth cracked one golden eye open from where he lay half-draped over his sun-warmed stone.

  A slow, knowing smirk pulled at his mouth.

  Aneesa, hair dripping and cheeks flushed from swimming, flopped down gracelessly beside him with a theatrical groan. She wriggled, soaking the rock with her damp wrap, then slanted a curious glance his way.

  “What are you smirking about?” she asked, nudging his leg with her hoofed foot.

  Turaleth took a lazy sip of his sap-wine, savoring the taste—and the moment—like a man who had all the time in the world.

  He didn’t answer at first. Just tilted his head toward the hidden cove, where faint ripples still stirred the glowing water.

  His smile, when it came, was slow and secret and impossibly pleased.

  “Nature,” he murmured, the word thick with satisfaction, “is unfolding exactly as it should.”