Page 127 of Elemental Becoming

We chose each other.

And the entire court can see it.

Before I can fully process the intensity of that realization, another presence steps into our space.

Garrick.

Still sheepish. Still slightly wary. But also—thoroughly enjoying himself.

Thane notices him immediately. And gods, Thane looks one sentence away from murder.

“You’ve got balls to talk to me right now,” Thane says, his voice edged with warning.

Garrick grins, utterly unbothered. “What can I say? I have a death wish.”

He clears his throat, attempting—and failing—to look serious before glancing between me and Thane. His gaze drops briefly to Thane’s hand still resting at my waist.

“So,” Garrick says, in a tone far too casual to be innocent.

Thane just stares at him, daring him to continue.

Garrick, unfortunately, does.

“You two look . . . cozy.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, careful not to smudge the makeup Elira spent so much time applying.

Thane doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

His voice cuts low and unimpressed: “Why are you here?”

“I’ve got a good reason,” Garrick replies cheerfully. “But honestly? Seeing you this worked up is just a bonus. You know, after this afternoon, I really thought my head would be on a stake in the main courtyard,” he muses, rubbing the back of his neck. “But, here I am. Still alive, brother.”

“For now, brother,” Thane mutters darkly.

“Ah. Delayed execution.” Garrick nods solemnly.“Understood.”

I press my lips together, trying not to smile.

Thane’s hand flexes once against my waist—the only outward sign of restraint.

“I still haven’t forgiven you for that, by the way.”

His tone sounds almost casual, which somehow makes it more threatening.

“Oh, trust me, no one has.” Garrick sighs dramatically before shooting me a pleading look, like I might somehow save him.

Lyra nearly spits out her wine.

“You know,” she interjects, laughing, “I take back everything I said about hating this ball. This isfantastic.”

Before Thane can genuinely consider murder, Garrick pivots smoothly toward Lyra, his voice turning smooth with practiced charm.

“Lyra,” he says, offering his hand, “would you care to dance?”

Lyra pauses mid-sip, eyebrows lifting. Then, without missing a beat, she downs the rest of her wine, sets the goblet aside, and slips her hand in his.

“Try to keep up, soldier.”