“00:00:00:60.” The numerical readout on Tevari’s wrist blared, a furious red against her trembling skin, each digit a hammer blow against the fragile walls of her mind. Sixty ticks. That was all that remained. She stared at the smoldering crater where the vows altar had stood, the Registrar’s terrified pronouncement echoing in her ears. *Magically impossible.* Impossible. The word lodged itself like a shard of ice in the fog settling over her thoughts. Memories, once as sharp as freshly cut herbal samples, began to fray at the edges. A fleeting image of Rhovand, his face contorted in a mock sneer across a distillation station, slipped away before she could grasp it. Why had she always disliked him so intensely? The *reason* vanished, leaving only the ghost of an old, familiar resentment. Then, another memory fragment: his hand, warm on hers in the greenhouse, his quiet praise. That, too, seemed to blur, the details fading like ancient ink on parchment. But the feeling… the raw, aching tenderness that had bloomed in her chest when he’d offered to sacrifice his own five years for her… that remained. Clear. Burning. Unyielding. She might forget *why* she hated him, but she remembered with agonizing clarity that she loved him. Fifty seconds. “Impossible?” Tevari’s voice was a whisper, but it carried across the stunned silence of the arena. Her gaze swept over the shattered altar, then to the anxious faces of the judges, the horrified Registrar, and finally, to Rhovand. His eyes, usually cool and calculating, now burned with a fierce, protective fire, reflecting her own growing panic. This could not be the end. Not now, when the truth of her heart was finally laid bare. She would not let it be. Her eyes darted to the side of the crater, where a handful of her prized Moon-blossoms, recently revived from Lisseth’s acidic resin, stubbornly clung to life in a cracked planter. Silvery petals, usually so serene, now pulsed with a faint, hopeful luminescence. *Life finds a way,* her mentor used to say. Tevari had always been a botanical alchemist, a weaver of growth and essence. A physical binding station? Perhaps. But what was magic, if not the manipulation of natural forces? “Stand back!” Tevari commanded, her voice gaining strength, cutting through the stunned murmurs. She moved with purpose, her shyness obliterated by raw urgency. Dropping to her knees beside the wilting stems, she plunged her hands into the planter’s soil. Her mind raced, pulling on every scrap of herbal lore, every forbidden growth accelerant she had ever studied. She wasn’t merely brewing a potion; she was channeling her very being into the earth. Drawing on the potent residual lumen energy that still saturated the arena floor from Lisseth’s blast, and a surge of sheer will, she began to pour her own vigor into the roots. The roots responded instantly. Their petals unfurled, unfurling not just in size, but in luminosity, glowing with an internal, ethereal light. The slender stalks thickened, stretching upwards at unnatural speed. Roots, previously delicate and hidden, burst through the planter, snaking across the charred floor, intertwining with the broken fragments of the shattered altar. Vines, thick and emerald green, erupted from the stalks, spiraling into the air, weaving themselves into an intricate, self-sustaining archway. They pulsed with a vibrant, arcane energy, forming an organic, breathing structure where the metal and crystal had once been. The air crackled with the scent of fertile earth and blooming magic. This was no mere illusion; this was flora-craft pushed to its absolute limit, a raw, organic conduit of power. Forty-five ticks. The vines solidified, coalescing into a shimmering, vibrant altar of thriving flora. Its surface, woven from thick, phosphorescent leaves, glowed with an invitation that defied the Registrar’s frantic cries. The crowd gasped, then erupted into a roar. Marnix, wide-eyed, whistled low. “Bloody brilliant, Tevari! An actual organic altar!” Rhovand stepped forward, his eyes never leaving hers, a look of profound awe softening his sharp features. He reached for her, pulling her to her feet, his hands steadying her as she swayed, drained but triumphant. The woven altar pulsed between them, its soft light illuminating the fierce love in his gaze. Thirty ticks. He didn’t fumble for a script. He didn’t need one. He looked at her, truly *looked* at her, and began to speak. “Tevari,” his voice was low, resonant, carrying over the stunned silence. “For five years, I cataloged everything. Every slight, every cutting remark, every icy dismissal.” A wry smile touched his lips. “But also… every time you subtly corrected my brewing technique, without me asking. Every time your gaze flashed with genuine, unbridled passion when you spoke of a rare specimen. Every time you froze, pulling away, and I knew it wasn’t coldness, but something else entirely.” He paused, tracing the faint flush on her cheek with his thumb. “I cataloged the way you’d hum a specific, off-key tune when you were truly happy with a brew. The precise, almost imperceptible tilt of your head when you were deep in thought. The quiet, fierce protectiveness you had for your smallest, most insignificant saplings.” He took her hands, bringing them to rest gently on the glowing vines of the altar. “I cataloged every reason I fell in love with you, Tevari. And I wouldn’t trade a single one of those five years, or any of those memories, for anything.” Tevari froze, catching her throat. Her icy shell, which she’d clung to for so long, protecting her fragile core, simply melted away under the heat of his words. He had seen past her walls, past her shyness, past her awkwardness. He hadn’t just seen her; he had *understood* her. The truth of his affection, so meticulously observed, so tenderly recounted, was a balm to her soul. She could only nod, tears blurring her vision, her throat too tight for words. This was real. This was their truth. Ten ticks. Rhovand leaned in, his gaze locking with hers. “Tevari, my fiercely private alchemist, my rival, my partner. Will you be my wife?” “Yes,” she choked out, her voice barely a whisper, but it was enough. She pressed her hands against the glowing, leafy station, her touch a deliberate act of will. Rhovand’s hands covered hers, pressing down with firm resolve. The entire arena held its breath. The temporal pact on Tevari’s wrist flared, no longer red, but a brilliant, searing gold, washing over the living vines. A soft chime, like the sigh of a hundred blossoming flowers, echoed through the arena. ‘00:00:00:02.’ The display vanished. The golden light intensified, then slowly receded, leaving the rooted altar shimmering, eternal. The crowd erupted into deafening cheers, applause, and relieved exclamations. The Sovereign’s Cup was theirs. Lisseth, still reeling from the truth serum’s aftermath, let out a frustrated shriek, her face twisted in defeat, before security hauled her away. Marnix, his singed hair sticking up at odd angles, bounded towards them, practically vibrating with excitement. “The formula, Tevari! Don’t forget the verdant altar formula! For posterity!” Weeks later, the frantic clamor of the Sovereign’s Cup was a distant echo. Tevari and Rhovand were exactly where they were meant to be: nestled deep within their secluded, government-funded greenhouse, the hum of nutrient pumps their only companion. The air, thick with the earthy scent of rare botanicals, felt like a perpetual embrace. The lumen-screen in the corner flickered to life, showing a late-night infomercial. “Are you tired of dull, lackluster skin?” Lisseth, her once-pristine image now a parody of itself, beamed from the screen, holding up a garish bottle of ‘Luminous Lung Elixir’—a cheap skin cream, rebranded. “Achieve that radiant glow, just like I did, with my revolutionary new formula!” Her voice, once so melodramatic, now sounded tinny and hollow. Rhovand chuckled, leaning back in his cultivation chair, a contented sigh escaping him. “From celebrated darling to peddler of potions. A fitting end.” Tevari watched Lisseth’s forced smile, a ghost of her old shyness briefly flitting across her features. Then, a confident, knowing smile bloomed on her lips. She reached out, not hesitating, and pressed the power button on the remote. The screen winked out, plunging the greenhouse into a soft, verdant twilight. She turned to Rhovand, her gaze unwavering, no hint of the old frost. “You know,” she murmured, her voice soft, “I think I prefer this view.” She leaned in, free of chill or hesitation, and initiated a kiss tasting of crushed mint and hard-won peace.

The Living Altar