The dawn mist lingered in the valley as the sun crested over the ridges, painting Aerthalin in soft gold. The camp had begun to stir—pots clanging, quiet murmurs, the scent of ashbread wafting from the fires. Caelen stood by the river's edge, rinsing a bloodied bandage. The Weeping Blade rested against a rock beside him, its runes pulsing faintly, always attuned to his silence.
He watched the water flow, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Elira had laughed last night. Genuinely. Not the strained laughter she wore like armor, but something light. Free. And it hadn't been because of him.
Rael.
The man had blended in with their band of survivors with ease—strong, competent, quiet when needed, sharp when not. But more than that, he had become a fixture near Elira. Always near. Always… watching. It hadn't been threatening. Not exactly. But something gnawed in Caelen's chest when he saw how they moved around each other. Like gravity.
And Elira didn't seem to notice.
Caelen flinched as a thorn caught his finger. Blood bloomed in a crimson crescent. He sighed, pressing the cloth to the wound and muttering, "You're being foolish."
Behind him, boots crunched over stone.
"You missed breakfast," Elira said, her voice light, but hesitant.
He turned, giving her a small smile. "Wasn't hungry."
Her brow furrowed. "You always say that when something's bothering you."
He looked at her, really looked. The wind tugged at her hair, and her eyes still carried that deep, stormy knowing. But there was something else now—softness. And she looked brighter, steadier. Stronger.
Maybe because of him.
Maybe not.
"I'm fine," he said. "Really."
She stepped closer. "Rael says we should move camp before dusk. There are signs of Hollow tracks in the north."
"Of course he does," Caelen said, too quickly.
Elira blinked. "What?"
"Nothing," he said, shaking his head. "He's probably right."
She tilted her head. "You've been distant lately. Is it because of the dream—the god-child's voice? The crystal?"
He hesitated, then shrugged. "That's part of it."
She moved to stand beside him, facing the river. Their arms brushed, but he didn't reach for her hand like he usually did. She noticed.
"Elira," he said, quieter now, "how long have you known Rael?"
A pause. Too long.
"Not long," she answered, too carefully.
Caelen nodded, lips pressed tight. He didn't push.
She turned to him, voice soft. "He reminds me of someone. That's all. But you're the one I trust, Caelen. Always."
He wanted to believe that. Wanted to hold onto it. But something about her answer was off—not dishonest, but incomplete. And he didn't know how to ask the questions twisting in his gut.
So he smiled again, quietly, carefully. "I know."
They stood there together in silence, the river churning between them.
Later that day, Rael returned with a scout report. A small village two miles east had been swallowed by strange silence. No survivors. No struggle. Just… emptiness.
"Elira," Caelen said as they broke camp. "Stay close tonight."
"I always do," she replied, but her voice faltered just slightly.
He nodded and walked ahead.
Behind him, Elira glanced at Rael. Their eyes met. Rael gave her a quiet nod, as if reaffirming something unspoken between them.
Caelen never saw it.
But he felt it.
And the distance grew.