She held the white rose up toward him, even though the distance was far too great to actually hand it over.
"Then come down here," she called, her voice cutting clearly through the music and celebration, warm and certain and just slightly teasing. "And make it official!"
---
Larus didn't think.
There was no room for thought, no space for hesitation or second-guessing or practical considerations like 'how exactly am I supposed to get down there'.
He just 'moved'.
He vaulted over the balcony railing—one hand on the stone, one foot on the top rail, and then he was over, his body moving on pure instinct.
Several guards below shouted in alarm, starting forward with hands outstretched, clearly convinced he was about to plummet to his death.
But there was a decorative trellis running up the side of the building—wrought iron worked into patterns of vines and leaves, meant to be beautiful rather than functional but sturdy enough to hold weight if you were desperate enough.
