The fire crackled low in the restored temple garden, now seeded with wild violets and duskbloom herbs. Beyond the stone walls, Hearthollow slept—its lanterns flickering in windows, the streets silent save for the soft turning of leaves in the wind. But Caelen did not sleep.
He sat alone beneath the silver-leaved tree that had grown from the soil above the Chamber Beneath All Things. The tree hummed with quiet memory, and he listened. The Weeping Blade rested beside him, its runes dim in the firelight. And in his hand, he held a folded letter he had yet to open.
Behind him, soft footsteps. Elira's.
She didn't speak. She didn't need to.
She lowered herself beside him and sat in silence, her shoulder brushing his. The stars overhead were clear tonight—no ash, no storm, only sky. For once, they weren't running. And that stillness was louder than any battlefield.
"What did you see, truly?" she asked, her voice like quiet rain. "Back there. With the voice. With the crystal."
Caelen opened his mouth, but it took a long breath to find the words.
"A child," he said at last. "But not a child. A voice older than grief. It didn't ask anything of me. It just… mourned."
Elira looked at him, eyes soft and worried. "And you think it's still down there?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "But I felt it reach into me. Like it knew what I've carried all this time. And wanted to share it."
They sat in silence a while longer. Elira's hand crept over and found his.
"I'm scared," she said. "Not of the dark. Not of the gods. But of what you'll carry next. Of what it'll do to you."
He turned to her, brushing a stray hair from her face. "Then I'll carry less. I'll carry only what I choose. And I'll choose you."
She leaned her head against his shoulder, and for a moment, the world was kind again.
But it didn't last.
Not long after, a soft laugh rose from the other side of the fire.
Elira looked up, startled—but smiled quickly. "I didn't hear you come in."
A tall figure stood just beyond the flame's reach, leaning casually against a stone arch. His cloak was travel-worn, a muted gray, the edges frayed. Shadows hid his face, but his voice was warm, low, and familiar.
"You were both too deep in your thoughts," he said, stepping forward. "I didn't want to intrude."
Caelen rose slowly. The stranger had the stance of a wanderer—tired, but alert. His boots were thick with dust. A curved dagger hung at his hip. And in his gaze—when it finally met Caelen's—there was a strange weight. Like recognition held in silence.
"You're new here," Caelen said, tone careful.
The man smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Only to you."
Elira stood beside Caelen now, her posture relaxed—but something about the way her fingers brushed her sleeve said more. A subtle motion. Not fear. Not surprise.
Recognition.
"You've been gone a long time," she said gently, almost too gently.
The man tilted his head, as if studying her anew. "And yet I still find you watching fires. Some things never change."
Caelen glanced between them, his instincts tightening. "You know each other?"
There was a pause.
Elira hesitated.
The man—this stranger who wasn't quite a stranger—offered a hand. "Name's Rael. Just a traveler. Heard stories. Came to see if the kindness they speak of is real."
Caelen didn't take his hand at first. Then, slowly, he shook it. "It is. Or we're trying to make it so."
Rael's grip was firm. His gaze unreadable. But in that moment, something shifted.
Elira's hand had dropped from Caelen's.
A gust of wind passed between them.
And Caelen felt, for the first time in many months, a small crack in the quiet peace they had built.
Just a sliver.
But it stung.