Page 91 of Veil of Ashes

Just be.

When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t go far.

His forehead rests against mine, and he whispers, “Still glad you didn’t kill me?”

I laugh softly, tracing the line of his collarbone with a fingertip.

“Depends on the day.”

He presses a kiss to my cheek.

“Today?”

“Today,” I say, brushing his hair back from his forehead, “I think I’d rather keep you.”

Epilogue – Sylvara

Rosaria insists on picking the fiercest flowers, the ones that dare the world to try them. She skips past the fragile ones—those soft, drooping blooms that bend too easy under a fingertip—and hunts for the bold, the unbreakable.

Right now, she crouches low in the wildflower field, knees sinking into the grass, her curls bouncing loose in the wind, hands stuffed with poppies and goldenrod, a few violet thistles with edges that bite.

She frowns at a poppy that snapped in her grip, its red head dangling limp.

“This one gave up,” she says, voice sharp with disappointment, tossing it aside.

I kneel next to her, brushing a smear of dirt from her freckled cheek with my thumb. “Maybe it gave what it could, Rosie.”

She squints at me, green eyes narrowing like she’s sizing up my logic. “I want strong ones, Mama.”

“You’ve got plenty,” I say, nodding at the messy bundle in her fists—stems crooked, petals blazing orange and crimson, a riot of color spilling every which way.

She holds it up, proud, inspecting her haul. It’s wild and uneven, but it’s beautiful. Just like her.

We’re out here in the field that stretches along the back of our property, where the old fence rotted away years ago and the town never bothered to claim the land.

Kieran keeps a path mowed through the tall grass every week, but he leaves this patch alone, letting it grow free. The flowers thrive on their own terms—poppies pushing through cracks, thistles standing tall, goldenrod painting the edges yellow.

Rosaria fits right in, a little storm of her own making.

She wanders ahead now, tiny fists clutching her tangled stems, humming a tune that’s half song, half nonsense. Every few steps, she stops, bending to study a new bloom, muttering to herself like she’s bargaining with it.

I settle onto a flat rock near the windmill’s rusted base and watch her, the sun warming my shoulders, not scorching, just enough to feel alive.

A breeze carries pollen and dry sage across the field, tickling my nose, while a dog barks somewhere two streets over and a hawk screeches above, carving lazy loops through the endless blue.

For a moment, I let myself believe this is forever—the flowers, her humming, the house sitting quiet behind me with its chipped paint and creaky porch.

I used to count exits—back doors, windows, alleys I could slip through if the past came knocking too hard.

Now, I count colors instead: the red of her poppies, the yellow of the goldenrod, that impossible violet that only grows here, stubborn and bright.

Rosaria catches me staring and grins, squinting into the sun. “Mama, you’re thinking too loud again.”

I laugh, soft and real, brushing a strand of hair from my eyes. “Always do, kid.”

She shrugs and turns back to her flowers, but she’s right—I think too much, even now. Less than I used to, though.

There are days she sprawls on the sidewalk with chalk, sketching dragons and thieves and firestorms that swallow whole cities. She always makes the thief the hero, says they’re just taking back what the world snatched first. I watch her hands move, quick and sure, and wonder what they’ll become—painter, fighter, dreamer.

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