The Extra's Rise

The roses appeared in my dreams again last night.

Black. Crimson. Pale white.

They crawled across the landscape of my subconscious, unfurling in waves that rippled out from my footsteps. I knew what they meant. Even sealed away, my Gift remembers what it once was. What I once was.

What I still am, beneath the layers of magic woven to protect me from her.

I woke with my heart hammering against my ribs, the sheets damp with sweat. The pre-dawn light filtered through the half-drawn curtains, painting the room in shades of blue and gray. Beside me, Arthur slept soundly, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm that anchored me to reality.

I watched him for a moment, tracing the lines of his face with my eyes. The sharp angle of his jaw. The slight furrow between his brows that never fully disappeared, even in sleep. The scar that cut through his left eyebrow, still pink from a battle too recent for comfort.

He looked peaceful. Untroubled. So different from the calculated intensity he wore like armor when awake.

I slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb him, and padded to the window. The academy grounds stretched out before me, quiet and still in the early morning hush.

My hand drifted to my stomach, to the spot where a tattoo of a blue rose bloomed across my skin. Not a fashion choice. A mark. The physical manifestation of my Gift that appeared the day my true power awakened.

Sometimes I wonder what Arthur sees when he looks at me. Does he see the girl who fought beside him in the Boundary Breach yesterday? The woman who came to his room in the aftermath, drawn by something neither of us fully understand? Or does he see beyond that, to the truth of what I am—daughter of the Pope of the Order of the Fallen Flame, a woman whose name is whispered in fear across the continent? Does he see the power that flows through my veins, no longer sealed away but coiled inside me like a sleeping serpent?

As if summoned by my thoughts, I felt arms encircle my waist, warm lips press against the crook of my neck.

"You're thinking too loudly," Arthur murmured, his voice rough with sleep. His fingers brushed over the blue rose tattoo, tracing its outline with a familiarity that still surprised me. "Bad dreams?"

I leaned back into him, letting his warmth seep into my skin. "The usual."

His hand splayed across my stomach, covering the tattoo completely, as if he could shield me from my own blood, my own destiny. The blue rose—impossible in nature, vivid on my skin—pulsed faintly beneath his touch, responding to him in ways I still didn't fully understand. "Your mother again?"

I nodded, not trusting my voice. Even now, the memory of Evelyn Alaric could steal the breath from my lungs.

"She can't touch you here," Arthur said, his words a low rumble against my back.

I almost laughed. Anyone else would sound naive saying that, but from Arthur, it was almost believable. I'd seen what he could do, seen the power he kept leashed beneath his skin. If anyone could stand against my mother, it might be him.

But I wouldn't let him try.

"She'd burn the world to ash to get what she wants," I said quietly. "And what she wants is me."

Arthur turned me to face him, his eyes searching mine in the dim light. "Then she'll have to go through me first."

The corner of my mouth tugged upward. "My hero," I said, the teasing tone not quite hiding the sincerity beneath.

He smiled—that rare, genuine smile that transformed his entire face, softening the edges, illuminating something young and almost innocent that he kept carefully hidden from the world. His thumb brushed my cheek, a tender gesture at odds with the calluses hardened by swordplay and combat.

"You don't need a hero, Rose," he said. "You need someone who sees you for exactly what you are and stays anyway."

My heart constricted painfully in my chest. That was what drew me to him from the beginning—his unflinching acceptance. The moment he learned who my mother was, I'd braced myself for the inevitable retreat. The fear. The disgust that always followed once people knew I carried the blood of a monster in my veins.

Instead, he'd simply raised an eyebrow and said, "And? You're not her."

Four words that had shattered every wall I'd built.

"Come back to bed," he said now, tugging gently at my hand. "It's too early for existential dread."

I followed him, watching the play of muscles across his back as he moved, the faint scars that mapped his own history of violence and survival. We were alike in that way—marked by our pasts, carrying wounds both visible and hidden.

As we settled back onto the mattress, his fingers found the tattoo again, tracing its contours with a gentleness that made me shiver.

Something flickered across his face—a shadow of old pain, quickly masked. "Sometimes the harder path is the only one that lets you live with yourself afterward."

I recognized the deflection but didn't push. We all had parts of ourselves we weren't ready to share. Instead, I placed my hand over his where it rested on my tattoo.

"I used to fear it," I confessed. "This mark. What it represents. The potential for destruction it holds within me."

"And now?"

I let out a long breath. "Now I think it's a reminder. A warning."

Arthur's eyes darkened. "You're not her, Rose."

"I have her blood," I reminded him. "Her Gift."

"And your father's heart," he countered, his palm pressing more firmly against the tattoo, as if he could reach through skin and muscle to touch the essence of me. "I've seen you fight. You're vicious when you need to be, but you never enjoy causing pain. You protect people. You choose mercy when you can afford it."

Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, unexpected and unwelcome. I blinked them back fiercely. "How can you be so sure? When even I'm not?"

His answer was to kiss me—not with the hunger of last night, but with something deeper, steadier. A certainty that flowed from him into me.

When we broke apart, he rested his forehead against mine. "Because I see you, Rose Springshaper. Not your mother's daughter. Not your Gift. Just you."

In that moment, I believed him. In that moment, the blue rose on my skin warmed pleasantly, as if responding to his faith in me, and the roses that haunted my dreams seemed distant, powerless.

He shifted, pulling me against his chest, his heartbeat strong beneath my ear. Outside, dawn was breaking fully, golden light spilling across the room, chasing away shadows. Soon we would have to rejoin the world—face the next stage of the tournament, navigate the complex politics of the academy, deal with the ever-present threat of my mother's return.

But for now, in this brief space between night and day, I allowed myself to simply exist. To be Rose—not Evelyn's daughter, not the girl with the reality-bending Gift, not the competitor who had placed third in yesterday's event.

Just Rose, lying in the arms of a boy who saw me clearly and stayed anyway.

Just Rose, blooming despite the shadow my mother had cast across my life.

Just Rose, finally beginning to believe that love might be stronger than blood, than destiny, than the twisted legacy I'd inherited.

I pressed my lips to the hollow of Arthur's throat, felt his pulse jump beneath my touch.

"Thank you," I whispered.

His arms tightened around me, and I felt rather than saw his smile.

"For what?"

For seeing me. For staying. For making me believe, even fleetingly, that I could escape the path my mother had walked.

But all I said was, "For being real," and let the weight of those simple words carry all the rest.