The air in Terminus had changed since morning.
Not in any dramatic way that anyone would have immediately noticed. The scaffolds were still up. The same workers still moved along the half-finished walkways. The same clang of metal on metal still echoed between rebuilt arches.
But Guinevere noticed it anyway.
She always did.
There was a difference between noise and rhythm, between construction and something closer to hope pretending it knew what it was doing.
She stood near one of the half-restored upper terraces, hands resting lightly on the stone railing. Below her, the city stretched outward in uneven layers—new timber frameworks rising beside older stonework, streets still scarred but no longer abandoned.
It should have felt like progress.
And it did.
Just not in a way she could easily hold onto.
A faint breeze passed over the terrace, carrying the smell of fresh-cut wood and dust warmed by sunlight. Somewhere far below, someone laughed—brief, unguarded, gone almost immediately as work resumed.
Guinevere closed her eyes for a moment.
And remembered.
-------
Earlier that day, the light had been different.
Colder.
Sharper.
She had been standing in one of the interior corridors of the reconstruction site, reviewing notes she barely remembered writing, when Doctor Julian Ivo Kintobor had stopped beside her without announcement.
He had that habit.
Not of surprising people—he never seemed interested in doing that—but of simply arriving in the space between thoughts, as if attention itself was optional to him.
"You haven't eaten," he had said.
It wasn't a question.
Guinevere had glanced at him. "I've eaten."
"You've consumed the idea of food at some point in the past twenty-four hours," he corrected mildly. "That is not the same thing."
She had frowned at that. "Is this going somewhere or are you just monitoring me again?"
"I am always monitoring," he had replied, as if it were a statement about weather rather than behavior. Then, after a pause, softer: "But yes. It is going somewhere."
That alone had made her wary.
Doctor Kintobor didn't "go somewhere" without reason.
He had looked past her then, toward the unfinished sections of Terminus visible through the broken archways.
"You're stabilizing faster than expected," he said. "Emotionally, I mean."
"I'm not unstable."
A brief pause.
"No," he agreed. "You are not. That is part of the problem."
That had made her blink.
He continued before she could ask.
"People who have nothing to anchor them often drift. People who do have anchors… tend to define themselves entirely by them."
His gaze had shifted slightly toward her.
"I would prefer you not become either extreme."
Guinevere had looked away. "That sounds like a warning."
"It's an observation," he said. "Warnings imply I expect you to fail."
"…and you don't?"
Doctor Kintobor had considered that for a moment.
"I expect you to choose," he said finally.
Then he had turned to leave, as if the conversation had reached its natural conclusion.
But right before stepping away, he added something quieter.
"You should consider something that exists independently of survival or loyalty."
A pause.
Then, almost absentmindedly:
"A structure that grows."
"A system that does not depend on conflict to exist."
He had looked at her one last time.
"Something living, but not fragile in the way people are."
And then he was gone.
-------
Guinevere opened her eyes again on the terrace.
The memory didn't feel distant. It felt like it had simply paused behind her thoughts, waiting for attention to return.
A structure that grows.
Something living, but not fragile.
She exhaled slowly.
"That's not exactly comforting advice," she murmured to herself.
Below, a cart rolled past, wheels creaking against stone. A pair of workers argued over measurements for a support beam, their voices rising and falling with familiar frustration. Life continuing in imperfect rhythm.
She watched them for a moment.
Then, unexpectedly, another memory surfaced.
Not Doctor Kintobor this time.
Arthur.
Back when things had been simpler—or at least less honest.
Before the weight of kingdoms and consequences had settled fully onto everything he touched.
She remembered standing beside him during one of the brief quiet stretches between crises. He had been looking out over a much less damaged part of the land then, listening more than speaking, which was rare for him even back then.
"I want to plant something," she had said.
It had come out of nowhere even to her.
Arthur had blinked. "Like… metaphorically?"
"No," she had answered. Then, after a pause: "I mean actually."
That had made him laugh a little.
"What, like crops? Flowers? Trees? All of it?"
"I don't know," she had admitted. "Something that just… stays. Even when everything else doesn't."
Arthur had gone quiet after that.
Not dismissive.
Just thoughtful in a way that was unusual for him.
"That sounds like you want permanence," he had said.
"I think I want something that doesn't ask me to fight for it all the time," she had replied.
He had smiled at that—small, but real.
"Then you'll probably do it," he had said. "You're stubborn enough."
She remembered how that had made her feel oddly seen. Not defined. Not judged. Just… acknowledged.
And then everything had changed afterward anyway.
As it always did.
-------
Now, standing above the rebuilt bones of Terminus, she tried to hold both memories at once.
Doctor Kintobor's voice: something that grows.
Arthur's voice: something that stays.
They didn't match.
But they didn't contradict either.
She opened her eyes fully and looked down at her hands resting on the stone railing.
"What kind of garden do I even mean?" she whispered.
There was no answer.
Not from the city.
Not from the wind.
Not from the memory of either man who had placed the idea in her head in completely different ways.
A garden could mean anything.
Food.
Beauty.
Order.
Reclamation.
Or simply something allowed to exist without being used.
She leaned forward slightly, resting more weight on the railing.
For the first time that day, the thought didn't feel like a distraction.
It felt like a question that might survive everything else happening around it.
Not urgent.
Not political.
Just… hers.
Below, a worker planted a temporary marker stake into the ground to measure a future wall line. Another marked where water pipes would eventually run. Someone else laid out stone tiles in a pattern that didn't yet form anything recognizable.
Everything was becoming something.
Slowly.
Messily.
Without permission from certainty.
Guinevere watched them for a long time.
Then, very quietly, she said:
"Maybe I don't need to know yet."
The wind moved through the terrace again.
And for once, she didn't feel like it was carrying her away from anything.
Just through it...
-------
The sound of soft footsteps on stone reached Guinevere before she turned around.
Not rushed.
Not uncertain.
Just steady in a way that felt familiar now, like the city itself had started borrowing Mary D'Coolette's rhythm.
"Guinevere?"
She turned.
Mary stood at the edge of the terrace walkway, sunlight catching the warm tones in her fur—soft browns, dusty golds, and the faint copper warmth that seemed to glow when she moved. She still had the woven carrier slung across her, but she held it a little more carefully than usual, as if she was aware of weight in a way that wasn't entirely about what she was carrying.
Inside, the small fox kit shifted.
A sleepy, half-aware bundle of warmth and quiet motion.
Prince Miles Sylvannia.
The name had already spread through half the rebuilding city like a rumor nobody could decide was official or not.
Mary stepped closer, slowing slightly as she reached the terrace railing beside Guinevere. She exhaled softly as she leaned her forearms on the stone, her posture relaxed—but with a subtle difference now. A gentler center of gravity. A habit of resting one hand briefly at her side before fully settling, like her body was reminding her to take things in smaller steps.
Guinevere noticed it, though she didn't know why she noticed it so quickly.
"Mary," she said. "You move like you've been carrying the entire city instead of just one fox kit."
Mary let out a small, amused breath. "That's because I've been carrying Arthur's reputation instead, which is heavier and more unstable."
That earned a faint smile from Guinevere.
Mary tilted her head slightly. "What are you doing up here? You've got that expression again."
Guinevere glanced at her. "Expression?"
"The one where you look like you're negotiating with your own thoughts and neither side is winning."
"…That is not a real expression."
"It absolutely is," Mary said without hesitation. "I've seen Arthur do it before he decides something is a good idea that will later become everyone else's problem."
Guinevere huffed a quiet laugh and looked back out over the city.
"I was thinking," she said after a moment, "about something Doctor Kintobor said earlier."
Mary's attention sharpened slightly, but she didn't interrupt.
"He told me to consider something that grows," Guinevere continued. "Something that doesn't depend on conflict to exist."
A pause.
"Something living," she added more quietly, "but not fragile in the way people are."
Mary hummed softly, like she was turning that over in her mind instead of reacting immediately to it.
"That sounds like him," she said at last.
"Helpful or unsettling?"
"Yes," Mary replied simply.
Guinevere let out a slow breath, then hesitated.
"And… I also told Arthur once that I wanted to plant something."
Mary turned her head slightly toward her. "That sounds like you."
"I didn't know what I meant," Guinevere admitted. "I still don't fully. I just remember thinking I wanted something that stays. Even when everything else doesn't."
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Below them, Terminus continued rebuilding itself in uneven, stubborn layers—wood, stone, scaffolding, and movement. A city refusing to stay broken out of sheer habit.
Mary adjusted the strap of the carrier slightly, then rested one hand over it for a moment longer than necessary. Her fingers lingered there in a small, unconscious motion, like she was confirming something only she could feel.
"Then start small," she said gently.
Guinevere glanced at her. "That's what you said before."
"I stand by it," Mary replied. "Big things are just small things that survived long enough to become confident."
A faint pause followed.
Then Mary added, a little more softly:
"And you don't have to know everything it becomes yet."
Guinevere nodded slowly, then looked down at the stone railing.
"I think I want flowers," she said again. "Something that doesn't demand anything back. Something that just… exists."
Mary smiled at that.
"That's a good place to begin."
A breeze moved across the terrace, warm and slow.
Miles shifted in the carrier, making a small sound before settling again.
Mary instinctively rocked slightly with the motion, but there was something else too—an almost absent way she shifted her weight afterward, one hand briefly resting near her abdomen before she returned it to the railing.
Not dramatic.
Not announced.
Just a quiet adjustment, like her body had started asking for gentler movements and she had decided, without telling anyone, to listen.
Guinevere noticed—but didn't comment. Something about it felt private in a way that wasn't meant for questions yet.
Instead, she said, "Everyone is still arguing about his name."
Mary let out a soft laugh. "Let them. It keeps them from arguing about things that matter."
"Arthur started it."
"Of course he did."
Guinevere glanced at her. "Do you think he actually means it? The 'Prince' part?"
Mary thought about that for a moment longer than expected.
"I think Arthur sees people as… positions in motion," she said carefully. "Not titles. Not roles. More like things that haven't decided what they are yet."
A pause.
"Which is why everyone panics when he talks."
Guinevere exhaled softly through her nose. "That doesn't make it less confusing."
"No," Mary agreed. "It just makes it accurately confusing."
Miles made another small sound, and Mary gently adjusted the carrier again, her movements slower than usual—measured in a way that suggested she was conserving energy without consciously admitting she was doing so.
Guinevere watched her for a moment.
"You've changed," she said quietly.
Mary blinked. "In a bad way?"
"I don't know," Guinevere admitted. "Just… differently. Softer, maybe."
That made Mary pause.
Then she gave a small, thoughtful smile.
"People say that like it's a loss," she said. "But sometimes it's just adaptation."
She rested her elbow lightly on the railing again, but this time kept her posture more centered, as if she was very aware of her balance.
"Anyway," she added lightly, as though steering the conversation away from anything too close to her own thoughts, "flowers. We should decide what kind."
Guinevere tilted her head slightly. "I thought you said I didn't need to know yet."
"You don't," Mary said. "But gardens are easier when you don't feel like you're choosing alone."
That landed quietly.
Not heavy.
Just grounding.
Guinevere looked back out over Terminus, then down at the terraces where workers were already marking sections of soil that didn't yet exist in full.
"I don't want anything complicated," she said after a moment. "Nothing that feels like it has rules I don't understand yet."
Mary nodded. "Then we go with something forgiving."
"Forgiving?"
"Flowers that grow even when you do everything slightly wrong," Mary said. "The kind that don't punish you for learning."
A faint pause.
Then she added, a little softer again:
"You've had enough things like that already."
Guinevere didn't respond immediately.
But something in her expression eased.
"…That sounds good," she said finally.
Mary smiled.
"Then that's where we start."
A long moment passed where neither of them spoke. The city filled the silence instead—tools striking stone, distant voices calling measurements, the slow rhythm of rebuilding something that refused to stay gone.
Miles stirred again, then settled.
Mary's hand returned briefly to the carrier strap, steadying it with practiced ease, before she relaxed once more against the railing.
For a brief second, her gaze drifted outward—not just over the city, but past it, as if she were already mentally measuring future steps that didn't have words yet.
Then she looked back at Guinevere and said, with quiet normalcy:
"I'll bring you seeds tomorrow."
Guinevere blinked. "You already have seeds?"
Mary smiled faintly. "In this city? Someone always has seeds."
A pause.
Then, lightly:
"And if they don't, Arthur will probably declare war on a botanical supply chain until they do."
That finally drew a full, genuine laugh from Guinevere.
It lingered longer this time.
Easier.
When it faded, she looked out over the terrace again—but something had shifted.
Not the city.
Not the work.
Just her place in it.
And beside her, Mary stayed there a moment longer than she needed to, one hand still resting lightly near the carrier, her presence steady in a way that felt less like observation now…
And more like anchoring.
-------
The conversation settled into a quieter rhythm after that, the kind that didn't feel like it needed to be filled.
Below them, Terminus kept rebuilding itself—slow, stubborn, alive.
A few workers moved across the lower terraces carrying timber planks. Someone shouted measurements. A hammer rang out against stone in a steady, reassuring rhythm.
Normal sounds.
Strangely comforting ones.
Mary adjusted the carrier strap once more, then finally exhaled and shifted it forward.
"Here," she said gently. "Do you want to hold him?"
Guinevere blinked. "Me?"
"No one else is up here," Mary said simply. "And he's already decided he likes you. Look at him."
Inside the carrier, Miles was awake now in that half-lazy way young kits had—eyes blinking slowly, ears twitching as if he was listening to a world only he could hear. When Guinevere leaned closer, the fox kit made a soft sound and reached out with tiny paws toward her.
Guinevere hesitated only a moment before carefully lifting him into her arms.
He was warm.
Smaller than she expected.
Surprisingly steady once she adjusted her grip, as though he trusted the idea of being held more than the mechanics of it.
"Oh," Guinevere said softly. "He's… lighter than I thought."
Mary leaned back against the railing, watching with a faint smile. "That's because he's currently made of sleep and poor decision-making."
Miles gave a small yawn, then settled immediately against Guinevere's chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Guinevere instinctively adjusted her arms to support him better.
"I think I understand why people keep panicking about him," she murmured.
Mary chuckled quietly. "That makes two of us."
A breeze moved through the terrace again, lifting strands of Mary's fur. She stood there for a moment, eyes half-lidded—not tired exactly, but reflective in a way that had become more frequent lately.
Then she spoke, casually at first.
"You know," she said, "I've been feeling off lately."
Guinevere glanced up. "Off how?"
Mary shrugged one shoulder. "Just… different. Since Sir Armand and I came back from Fort Knothole."
At the mention of the Battle of Fort Knothole in the Grand Forest, something subtle passed through her expression—not fear, not exactly. More like a memory she hadn't fully unpacked yet, set aside in the same place she stored things she planned to deal with later.
"It was colder there than I remember," she added lightly. "And louder. And somehow everyone kept insisting it was 'fine' while everything was very much not fine."
She exhaled through her nose, almost amused at herself.
"I thought it would pass when we got back," she continued. "But it didn't."
Guinevere shifted Miles slightly, careful not to disturb him. "Are you injured?"
Mary immediately shook her head. "No, no. Nothing like that."
A pause.
Then, with a faint, almost self-deprecating smile:
"Just… tired in a way that doesn't belong to me."
She rested a hand lightly on the railing again, fingers unconsciously curling as if she was grounding herself.
"And I keep craving strange things at strange times," she added. "Which is probably nothing, but it's very inconvenient when you're trying to be useful in meetings."
Guinevere tilted her head slightly. "That sounds like stress."
"It might be," Mary agreed.
But she didn't sound convinced it was only that.
She looked over at Miles in Guinevere's arms for a moment, watching the way the kit had already settled into sleep again, completely unbothered by the weight of the world.
Then her gaze softened.
"…Or it might just be life catching up," she said quietly.
Guinevere didn't respond immediately.
Instead, she adjusted her hold on Miles again, more gently this time, as if something about the moment made carefulness feel important in a way she couldn't explain.
Mary pushed off the railing slightly, stretching her shoulders with a slow breath.
"Either way," she said, voice lightening again, "I think I'm going to take things a bit slower for a while. Armand's already noticed. He just hasn't said anything yet, which is his version of screaming."
That earned a quiet laugh from Guinevere.
"Sir Armand doesn't scream," she said.
Mary gave her a look. "He screamed internally. Very loudly. I could practically hear it."
That made Guinevere smile a little more.
Miles shifted once, then settled deeper into her arms, tiny fingers curling slightly against her sleeve.
Guinevere looked down at him.
"…He trusts easily," she said softly.
Mary nodded. "So do you. You just pretend you don't."
That caught Guinevere off guard.
She didn't answer right away.
Mary didn't push it.
Instead, she stepped closer, gently adjusting the edge of the carrier she had set down beside her, as though preparing to leave.
"I should probably go check on Armand," she said. "If I don't, he'll start reorganizing something emotionally again to cope."
Guinevere let out a faint breath of laughter. "That sounds dangerous."
"It is," Mary said. "He alphabetizes grief if left unsupervised."
A pause.
Then, softer:
"I'll bring those seeds tomorrow."
Guinevere nodded. "I'll be here."
Mary gave a small smile, then hesitated just long enough to glance once more at Miles in Guinevere's arms.
Something unreadable passed through her expression again—warm, distant, thoughtful all at once.
Then she turned to leave.
Her steps were still steady.
Still controlled.
But there was a subtle difference now in the way she carried herself—less like someone simply moving through the world, and more like someone quietly adjusting to it as she went.
Guinevere watched her go for a moment before looking back down at Miles.
The fox kit yawned in his sleep.
Completely unaware of kingdoms, wars, or the way adults tried to quietly reassemble their futures in fragments.
Above them, the sky over Terminus remained open and bright.
And for once, nothing in it felt like it was about to fall.
-------
Of course, dear readers, as you might have guessed, Mary already knew what was happening to her, she had alrrady went through this once before; with Patch.
Not to mention the timing.
"I... I need to take a test to be sure."