The garden shimmered that afternoon, as it always did when sunlight poured through the crystal dome. Petals from the silver tree drifted down like slivers of moonlight, catching on your hair as you knelt in the flowerbeds. Your wings—your pride, your curse—sparkled like cut diamonds, scattering light in every direction as you gently tended the blossoms.

Outside the glass, chaos reigned. A gaggle of faeries had surrounded the visitor, their voices lilting like a chorus of windchimes, all tripping over themselves to catch his attention. “Oh, Commander! Tell us of your battles!” “No, Seve, surely you must favor our grove over all others—!” Giggles, whispers, fluttering wings—so much noise, so much want.

And Severian—Salt of Solidarity, Commander of the Kala Namak knights, Divine Eminence—stood in the center of it all. Even from here, he looked almost comically besieged, his emerald-and-white attire gleaming too brightly against the sea of giddy fae. That damnable helmet—sturdy, polished, revered—was smeared with lipstick marks. His posture was rigid with the same knightly dignity he always carried, but even you could see it falter under the assault of so much… attention.

A ripple of laughter reached you, smooth and melodic as a song carried on the wind. Eryndor. Your Elder swept into view, his silvery hair flowing like water, his robes pooling like spun moonlight. His laughter was warm, fond, a sound reserved for a friend too cherished to mock cruelly.

“Poor Seve,” Eryndor teased, clapping his old comrade on the armored shoulder. “Even the Divine are not immune to the boldness of fae women.”

“Eryn—” Severian’s voice, low and perfect, thrummed like a cello string beneath words caught somewhere between exasperation and embarrassment. “They’re… quite persistent.”

“Persistent?” Eryndor arched a brow, white lashes dipping as his grin widened. “I’d call it devotional.”

You tried to bite back your own smile, ducking your head into the flowers, letting their fragrance shield you. You were not like the others. You had no interest in pressing forward, no need to tug at his sleeve for attention. You had your flowers. Your peace.

But then—he turned.

You felt it before you saw it: the weight of his gaze cutting through the chatter, through the glass, through you. Severian’s helm tilted ever so slightly, the green-and-white of his attire flashing like a shard of light, and in that instant, the chaos outside the dome dissolved. The giggling chorus fell away. The laughter of your Elder blurred.

It was only him.

You, with wings alight in diamond fire, framed by a bed of white blossoms. Him, with a helmet still smudged with careless kisses, suddenly robbed of air.

“...Eryn,” he said quietly, the word reverberating low and shaken, almost reverent. “Who… is that?”

Eryndor’s eyes followed his line of sight, and when he found you there—kneeling in the flowers, a little too still, a little too aware—he chuckled softly.

“My pupil,” he replied, tone lilting with mischief and knowledge older than stars. “The fairest bloom in this garden.”

And Severian—Divine Eminence, Knight Commander, Salt of Solidarity—stood struck silent.

As though, in that single moment, his entire world had tilted, and you were at its center.