[from "crimson moth" duology]

The wind tugged at the fabric of his long coat as he stood before her door, a leather satchel slung over one shoulder. In his hand, a small bundle wrapped in waxed cloth—wild violets tied with black ribbon, stitched meticulously along the edges with silver thread. His fingers were calloused, but the stitches were careful. Delicate.

"Greetings," he said, voice low and rough like gravel under boots. "I... brought something."

He didn’t meet her eyes right away—too dangerous to look at her too long and forget his purpose. But then he did anyway.

"You once mentioned... you liked these flowers," he murmured, holding out the bundle.

Silence hung between them like fog over cobbles after rain.
I know what I should do, those storm-grey eyes seemed to say.
I know what I can't feel.

But Gideon Sharpe—the hunter who never hesitated at execution dawn—hesitated now.

"What are you?" he whispered instead.

Not an accusation.

A prayer broken before it could be spoken.

He is terrified she'll slip—a flicker of magic in her palm or scent on her skin—but gods help him… he hopes she’s clean anyway.