The lower gardens of the Spire had always been separate from the main hall. Black roses grew in neat rows, blooming only under moonlight even when the sun was high. Silver fountains sent thin streams of water upward in quiet arcs that never splashed—only sang in soft, constant notes.
Paths of polished obsidian reflected stars during the day and stayed cool underfoot at night. No guards. No chains. Just the garden.
Aiden walked the paths alone at first. He wore simple black trousers and nothing else. His footsteps made no sound on the stone. He stopped at the first fountain, sat on the wide edge, and let one leg dangle in the water. The silver liquid moved around his ankle without chilling it.
Lirael Thorne appeared at the end of the path. She wore a thin gray shift that reached her knees. She stopped several paces away and waited.
Aiden trailed his fingers through the water. Ripples spread outward in slow circles.
