Yorl breathes out and then turns to say something to the helmsman polymath—about moving the matronic down to Pala Amna via one of the larger surface-to-city air ducts.

“They’ll make camp here and wait for me to return,” the celeon says when he rejoins us. “So let’s ensure we all make it back.”

“Affirmative.” I salute facetiously even as I feel Fione’s eyes dragging on my back the whole way up the beach. She hasn’t told anyone, Lucien least of all. She wouldn’t. She wants Varia back no matter what, and I know she’s struggling with the idea of losing one of us. Me, or the princess. A hard choice to make, certainly.

But Fione won’t really lose me. None of them will. I’ll be here, always. The valkerax know it, the Tree of Souls knows it, and I know it too, now. Nobody’s ever really gone.

Evlorasin said it best.

This is never-goodbye.

Life is a garden that must flourish, and we will water its soil. The valkerax bodies, cut apart and piled on the beach of Rel’donas. The blood watering the sea, the sand, the mangrove trees growing greener as their roots soaked up crimson.

Evlorasin said it best, and most truly.

Something pretty on the not-red sand catches my eye. I bend down and scoop it, skipping up the beach to draw even with Lucien. I hold the tiny, brightly blue iridescent shell up to his face.

“Isn’t it pretty?” I ask. He doesn’t spare a glance my way, eyes determined and forward, but one corner of his lips perks up.

“This is the part where I’m supposed to say ‘not as pretty as you,’ right?”

“If you want to sound like a rehearsed theater performance,” I sniff. “Then yes. By all means, follow the script.”

“Can I deviate?” he ribs playfully.

“Are you capable of deviating? Or is it all just princely business in that head of yours right now?”

There’s a popping sound, and the shell disappears from my hand and reappears in his.

“Hey!” I pout. “No fair!”

His smirk grows, and the fingers of his working hand grow midnight void up to the first knuckle.

“I’ll give it back later,” he assures me.

I point accusatorially at him. “You’re a thief!”

“You’re a worse one,” he lilts. “Considering you stole my heart.”

“Ugh!” I tamp down the pleased rush in my chest. “You really are sticking to a theater script!”