For a girl who is so in love with the world, there is still nothing she loves more than her brother.

She loves all of her sisters (from damaged Adna to fierce Sabbath to sweet Linnea), but there is something special about having a twin, and she will always feel connected with him because of it. He, even more than her parents, is her center of gravity—and she knows that her mother understands. Her mother who holds her relationship with own twin so dearly; she surely understands the vitalness of the bond.

Still, Larke does her best to give Chronos his space. He is more independent than she is—more wild and headstrong and she doesn’t want to hold him back just because she is too shy to throw herself out into the wild yonder. She prefers to keep to herself, to wander the land of Tephra, admiring the smattering of flowers where once there was only ash. She would not make him resign himself to such boring things.

But she hunts him out today.

She walks quietly throughout the land, noting how so much of it has begun to heal, until she sees him. Her sage green eyes light up and her mouth tips upward delicately in the corner as she approaches him. “Brother,” her voice is just above a whisper, as soothing and quiet as undisturbed waters. For a second, she lets her cheek rest against him, careful to not let the beginning spiral of her horn (as black and as opaque as the rest of her) touch him. When she draws back, she searches his features for a moment.

“Where have you been? I have missed you so.”

She can only imagine the adventures that he’s had—the stories that he must have waiting for her.

He is wild, but she has never once worried about the roughness of his palms. She knows that she is as safe next to his feral nature than she is in the quietest of meadows and her trust knows no limits when he is by her side. So it does not cross her mind to be frightened of the man that she describes because he is the one describing it. Her heart is wholly trusting and full and she can only close her eyes to try and imagine what the man must have been like, piecing together the different details and stitching together the whole.

“Oh,” she breathes out, the edges of her lips curling slightly in the corners. “He must have been such a wonderful thing to see,” her voice still gentle as she imagines the majesty of his antlers and the depth of his darkness. She opens her sage green eyes again to study him before reaching over and breathing in the sweet scent of flowers that curl in his mane. “Our flowers are neat,” she smiles, “but yours are so much more beautiful.” There is no jealousy in her voice, just the truth that feels so readily apparent.

“I am sure that most scary things are nice,” she affirms, her voice always just a touch dreamy although never becoming breathy or delicate. She has inherited that steadiness of her mother that keeps her on this side of fragile. It makes her like calm waters, still and certain. “Do you know that there are those that would think father is scary?” She laughs a little, cheek against him, unable to contain the humor that she finds in the question. “And he is the kindest man I know. I am sure that everyone is just like that.”

She cannot fathom that the world would contain anything else.