The garden had grown wild.
Flowers bloomed where they weren't planted. Vines tangled across the stones like laughter from years past. Fireflies pulsed through twilight as if summoned by old spells whispered in love. Rheia stood in the middle of it all, hands on her hips, brow raised at the chaos.
"You promised order," she said, eyeing the flame-petals that swayed with a heartbeat too synchronized to be natural.
Solene sat cross-legged in the grass, silver strands braided back, smudges of ash on her cheeks like freckles. "I promised beauty," she corrected. "Order is what you ask for when you're afraid of surprises."
Rheia knelt beside her, brushing dirt from the hem of Solene's robe. "And beauty is what you summon when you want forgiveness."
Solene grinned. "Still sharp."
"Still messy," Rheia retorted, plucking a flame-petal and holding it between them. "This was supposed to be a quiet solstice."
Solene leaned in, kissed the air beside Rheia's ear. "We don't do quiet, mirror-heart."
They sat in silence for a while, the kind that felt like music with no sound. Then Solene conjured a flicker of flame—not big, not showy. Just enough to hover.
"For you," she said. "A flame that never hurts. Just glows."
Rheia held it in both hands like something sacred.
"Five years," Solene whispered. "And not once did the mirror show this."
"Because this," Rheia said, "was ours to create."
Solene wrapped an arm around her, pulled her close until the fire hovered between them.
"No prophecy," she said.
"No curse," Rheia echoed.
"Just us."
They laughed. Softly. Like they hadn't been young, hadn't broken anything, hadn't been afraid. The flame rose a little higher, shaped into a spiral—not a bond, not a chain. Just a circle. Gentle. Eternal.