The next morning came wrapped in gold.
Dew clung to the grass like tiny stars, and the birds sang as if they knew secrets they weren't allowed to share. Elowen dressed slowly, the silver feather pinned at her collar now, where her heart beat quietly beneath it.
She had a destination.
The forest didn't tell her where. Not in words.
But when she stepped outside, she felt it pull her—soft and sure, like a thread tugging gently at her ribs. Not painful. Just present.
It led her not to the glade, nor the hollow tree.
It led her through the edge of the rose garden, beyond the thorned veil, where most dared not walk.
Even Elowen had only wandered there once or twice. It was wilder. Darker. The path split in places and disappeared in others. Some said fae crossed through there when the moon was low. Others said it was where dreams got lost.
She followed anyway.
Between brambles and climbing vines, a narrow path of moss revealed itself. Each step she took felt... watched. Not by eyes, but by something older. Something that breathed beneath the soil.
Then she saw it.
A gate.
Not made of wood or iron, but of woven branches and blooming thorns. It arched high and curved inward, almost like hands folding in prayer. Roses grew across it, pale and deep red, their petals unmarked by rain or time.
She stepped through.
The world changed.
It wasn't louder or brighter—it was still. And sweet.
All around her bloomed the place between petals and thorns.
A secret meadow, wrapped in roses and woven in twilight. Here, nothing felt sharp. The thorns curled gently, protectively. The flowers opened as she passed, like sighs of color. Even the air was softer, scented with lavender and something old—like pages from a book no one read anymore.
And there—at the center of it all—stood Amara.
She wore no cloak this time. Her silver hair flowed loose, and her feet were bare, toes curled into the moss. When she turned to face Elowen, her expression wasn't guarded.
It was vulnerable.
"I didn't think you'd find this place," she said.
"I didn't either," Elowen admitted.
Amara touched one of the open roses. "This is where I go when the world forgets me."
"Does it forget you often?"
Amara nodded. "Always. Until someone remembers again."
Elowen stepped closer, heart pounding. "Then I'll remember."
Silence bloomed between them like a slow, steady flower.
Amara looked at her, eyes deep with something quiet and unsure. "You don't know what that promise means."
"I don't need to," Elowen whispered. "I just know I meant it."
Amara studied her. Then, gently, she reached forward and placed her palm over Elowen's chest, just above the feather.
The touch sent a warmth through Elowen's whole body—not burning, but blossoming. Like sunlight filtered through memory.
"You're the first," Amara said. "Since her."
"Your sister?" Elowen asked.
Amara nodded. "She loved me once. Then she feared me. Then she forgot me."
Elowen's voice was soft. "I won't forget."
And just then, for the first time, Amara smiled.
Not a sad one. Not mysterious.
A real, honest smile.
Something in the garden sighed.
And the roses—every last one—bloomed a little wider.