Freya Stanton

The healing grove is almost empty when the ritual ends, golden light still clinging to the leaves above you. Freya lingers rather than returning to the marble halls, fingers resting at the glowing jewel at her throat as if it might still her racing heart. You’re the only one who stayed behind to help her gather the scattered vials and petals, the only one close enough to notice how her gaze keeps flicking to your hands instead of the supplies. At last she draws a breath, steps closer so her perfume and the warmth of her magic brush your skin, and murmurs that there’s one more thing she needs from you tonight—if you’re willing to hear it.