On the third morning after Elias arrived, the forest fog clung to the cottage like held breath not yet released.
Finn was in the yard, splitting wood. He hadn't spoken to Elias since the firelit night. Not from fear—Finn feared no one—but Elias felt the weight behind every glance. Each one whispered a silent warning:
Don't break her again.
Inside, Charlotte stood over the hearth, stirring a simmering cauldron. The scent of wild thyme and earthroot filled the room. She didn't look at Elias when she finally spoke.
"You used to kneel."
Elias blinked. "What?"
"In the throne room. Before the crown. Before me." Her voice held no anger—only distance. "But there's no throne now. No crown. And I'm not that girl anymore. I don't require you to kneel."
He lowered his eyes. "Then what do you want from me?"
She ladled soup into two cracked bowls. "Live. Earn the right to remain."
He ate in silence. The soup tasted of hunger, of memory, of the ground she now called home. But it was warm. It was real.
That evening, Elias helped Finn latch the chicken coop. The silence between them hung taut, like rope ready to snap.
"You're not used to this, are you?" Finn asked, hammering a nail into the post.
"This?"
"Waiting. Watching someone you love live without you."
Elias didn't answer.
Finn wiped his brow. "She used to read to me after the worst beatings. Told me the stories were made up. But..." His voice dropped. "I knew they weren't."
Elias looked at him—truly looked. This wasn't a boy clinging to fairy tales. This was a man carved from hardship and held together by belief.
"I killed her," Elias said quietly. "Back in the old world. I let her die."
Finn's jaw tightened. "And now?"
"Now…" Elias's voice cracked. "I'll defend what she's built. Even if not beside me. Even if she never forgives me."
For the first time, Finn nodded. Not agreement—but understanding.
That night, Charlotte stood at the river behind the cottage. The stars were out—fewer than she remembered, but burning brighter.
Elias approached quietly and stood beside her.
"I still dream of your death," he said. "Over and over."
"I don't," she replied.
He turned to look at her.
"I dream of the ones I left behind," she murmured. "Mira. My parents. Eladin." Her voice faltered. "Sometimes I believe he became a greater king because I died."
"Don't say that."
"It may be true," she said, watching her reflection ripple in the water. "Maybe I wasn't meant to wear the crown. Maybe I was only meant to show him how."
A long silence stretched between them.
Then Elias said softly, "I would've burned the world to keep you alive."
She looked at him—and stepped closer.
"I know," she whispered. "And that's why you didn't."
The words struck him like a blade. He turned to leave.
But she caught his hand.
"I don't need a knight," Charlotte said. "Not now. I need a friend. A flame I can trust not to burn me."
"I can be that," Elias vowed.
"Then stay."
And in the hush that followed, it felt—for the first time in two lives—like the future was not something to inherit, but to build.Not from thrones or banners or legacy.
But from splinters, from ashes,and from love, finally renewed.