It didn't occur all at once.
There was no instant when Charlotte flung her arms around Elias and said, "I am in love with you again, you stoic war god of few words." That would've been too neat, too dramatic—even for her.
Instead, it started with a spoon.
Elias, having taken over dinner for the evening, stood by the old stove, brow furrowed at a suspiciously bubbling pot of vegetable stew. Charlotte leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, one eyebrow already mid-judgment.
"You're stirring counter-clockwise," she said, voice dry.
"Is that wrong?"
"It's a superstition in the southern provinces. Stirring that way invites hauntings, poor digestion, and the wrath of whichever kitchen spirit is on duty."
He blinked. "You made that up."
She didn't answer. Just smiled. Not a smirk. Not a blade. Just… a smile. That was the first.
Later, she began humming again.
Small tunes. Old melodies from the palace gardens, or ones she used to play on her wooden flute as a child-princess between royal lessons and courtly doom. Finn noticed first.
"You're doing it again," he whispered one evening.
"Doing what?" she asked.
He pointed. "Being.you."
Charlotte stopped. She didn't correct him.
Elias had noticed too.
It was the way she smoothed her fingers over flower petals when they strolled through the meadows. The way she slipped honey into bread dough when she believed no eyes were upon her. The way she laughed—not loudly, but unreservedly—when Finn splashed her with a bucket of river water during laundry day.
She'd changed. So had they. But the rough edges were rounding out.
One evening, when dusk splashed the horizon in rose and gold, Elias caught her sitting alone on the porch swing, knees clasped to chest, a blanket draped around her shoulders.
"You're hiding," he said.
She ducked her head. "No. I'm… waiting for."
"Waiting for what?"
"Whatever certain destruction Finn is going to create with those frogs he snuck home in his pockets."
Elias sat next to her. "You're not weary of it all?"
She looked out at the trees, wind blowing through her hair like a memory.
"I was," she whispered. "Weary of war. Weary of defending myself. Weary of being smart before I could be tender." A pause. "But these days… I dream stupid things. Enchanted teapots and duels with mice and. baking the perfect tart."
Elias smiled, barely.
"I prefer the sound of your laughter here," he said.
Charlotte blinked.
"You laughed then too, back when," he continued, "but it always sounded as though you were expecting to be stopped. Here. it's complete."
That space between them yawned out. But not cold.
She turned to him, slow and deliberate.
"You're more courageous than I recall," she said.
"I remember you precisely," he replied.
And that's it. No sweeping kiss. No declarations. Just two adults sitting in the quiet of dusk, aware that the other had borne their name through centuries.
And over somewhere not too distant, Finn yelled as one of the frogs hurled itself into his shirt.
Charlotte's laughter illuminated the porch.
It wasn't the laugh of a queen, or a damned spirit, or a politic girl being cunning.
It was the laugh of someone recalling happiness.
And Elias, as still as he ever was, just closed his eyes and committed it to memory.