The inn was quieter now, but not safer. Rheia sat in the room Solene had conjured from ash and will—walls flickering with half-light, enchanted vines crawling along the ceiling like thoughts she couldn't silence. Solene moved through it barefoot, humming something tuneless under her breath. Every time she passed Rheia, something in the air crackled.
"You read me like a spell," Solene said once, leaning against the doorway. "But you never say what I'm made of."
Rheia didn't look up. "You already know."
"Then say it."
Her silence was a deflection. But the mirror hanging behind them—enchanted to reflect emotional truth—didn't play along. It rippled, and their faces appeared not side by side, but fused, like two versions of one desire. Solene turned slowly. "That's not me. And that's not you."
"It's what we are," Rheia whispered, "when we forget to be careful."
Solene crossed the room and knelt by her. "Then stop being careful."
When their hands touched, the mirror split—just a hairline crack down the middle. A warning. Or a promise.