We arrived at the garden near the 17th Wing.
Every Wing had one—carefully maintained plots of nature nestled in between the otherwise towering stone buildings, like patches of peace in a battlefield.
This one was no exception. Stone tiles arranged into winding paths, trimmed hedges, ornate lamps, and a faint scent of lilac drifting in the air.
I motioned toward a nearby bench under the shade of a large sycamore tree.
It was half-splintered at one corner, worn by time and use. Still better than standing.
Celeste gave me a curt nod and sat down, crossing her legs with the elegance of a noble trained to carry herself like a blade—sharp, poised, ready to cut.
I took the other end of the bench, keeping a fair distance. No reason to sit close and tempt death.
The garden was surprisingly quiet. A few students buzzed around like bored flies—four, maybe five at most.
