"You're awake early."
Arven stood by the edge of the stream, already dressed in half-armor, arms crossed as the pale morning light shimmered off the surface of the water.
I hadn't noticed him when I slipped away from camp. Too distracted. Too tired. The nightmares from the fire had clung to me all night—whispers I couldn't translate, shadows I couldn't outrun.
I blinked at him, still groggy. "You are too."
"I couldn't sleep," he muttered, gaze fixed on the rippling water. "Too many questions in my head."
I stepped closer, wary. "About what?"
He turned then. Eyes sharp. Focused.
"You."
I stiffened.
"Don't take this the wrong way," he continued, "but you've changed. Since the fever."
"I had a near-death experience. That tends to change people."
He stepped closer, narrowing his gaze. "I don't mean your posture or your sword grip. I mean… you talk differently. You think before you speak now. You hold your shoulders like a commander. You never used to do that."
My heart pounded once—then steadied.
"Maybe I just got tired of being treated like glass," I said. "Maybe I finally understand what's expected of me."
Arven studied me for a long moment.
"I want to believe that," he said slowly. "But I also know you."
I forced a calm breath. Serra had prepared me for this. For days now, she'd drilled me with every detail of Lyara's past—her preferences, her riding habits, her illnesses, her favorite childhood hiding spot under the east stairwell.
Still… I was one wrong word away from everything falling apart.
"What was the name of the hawk you rescued when we were ten?" Arven asked, arms now folded. "The one with the broken wing."
"Khalir," I answered, without pause.
His brow didn't move. "And the tutor you bit when he said girls shouldn't study military theory?"
"Master Drel," I replied, with a faint smirk. "He still has the scar, doesn't he?"
Arven snorted. "He does."
He didn't smile. But his posture relaxed. Slightly.
For now, I had passed.
But then his voice shifted—just enough to make my pulse skip.
"What did she mean?" he asked. "Chief Halai. When she said there were two in you?"
I froze.
I could lie. But I'd learned something about Arven in the last few weeks—something Serra had warned me about between whispered lessons and sleepless nights.
He doesn't react well to doubt. Or failure. Or anything that reminds him he's not enough.
He was raised like a blade. Forged, tested, discarded, tested again. Their father—General Dren—had sharpened him with impossible standards, only to act like the edge was never clean enough.
Lyara had been the delicate one, the sickly one, the forgotten one. That gave her room to breathe. Arven had no such luxury.
So I gave him what he expected to hear.
But twisted it—just enough to pull the sting somewhere else.
"She meant I'm not the same as before," I said softly. Then I looked straight into his eyes. "Just like you weren't the same after the Eastern Campaign. Or the night he said you'd never be good enough to lead."
That did it.
His jaw clenched.
"You weren't supposed to hear that," he said quietly.
"I did," I murmured. "I remember how your hand shook when he turned away. How you went back out and gave orders like nothing happened."
He didn't speak.
But I'd shifted the spotlight off me. His silence was no longer suspicion—it was memory.
And pain.
Which I could use.
"Arven," I said gently. "You don't have to test me every time I take a breath."
He finally met my gaze again. "And you don't have to talk like you've read a book about being me."
A long pause.
Then I smiled. "But I did."
He blinked.
"Serra kept a journal." I tapped the side of my temple. "You'd be surprised what's written in the margins."
That earned a grunt. Maybe even a smile. Almost.
He turned away again, back toward the stream.
"You're still strange," he muttered. "But maybe you've just grown teeth."
"I had teeth before," I said. "You were just too busy bleeding to notice."
That made him laugh. A short, bitter sound—but real.
And just like that, the moment passed.
But I knew something had shifted.
He didn't trust me. Not fully.
But he wanted to.
And in this palace of lies and broken names... that was enough.
For now.
---------
Later that night
The stream glittered silver under the moonlight as I sat alone by its edge, letting the cold water run through my fingers. The air had cooled since sunset, brushing soft over my bandaged side.
I wasn't running from anything.
At least, that's what I told myself.
Behind me, soft footsteps. Then a pause. I didn't need to turn.
"I figured I'd find you here," Ronan said.
His voice was low. Tired. Familiar in a way that made my chest ache.
"You've been quiet lately," he added, stepping closer.
"I like quiet."
He didn't respond right away. He just stood there, the distance between us a little too deliberate.
"I'm not used to this version of you," he said finally.
"What version is that?" I asked without looking up.
He exhaled. "The one that doesn't roll her eyes every time I say something serious. The one who stares at rivers instead of fighting them."
I smiled faintly. "Maybe I'm just tired of being predictable."
A soft chuckle. Then, to my surprise, he sat beside me—close, but not touching.
The night wrapped around us like a secret.
"It's strange," he said after a long pause. "You feel... different."
"Because I've changed?"
He shrugged. "Maybe. Or maybe I'm the one who keeps seeing things that aren't there."
I glanced sideways. His profile was half-lit by the moon. Strong jaw. Eyes that always looked like they were holding something back.
"Do you mean Adelaine?" I asked carefully.
He went still.
Then nodded, slowly. "She's everywhere lately. Even when I don't want her to be."
I lowered my gaze. "You loved her."
He didn't answer immediately. Then, "I respected her. Admired her. I think... I never got the chance to know whether it could've been more."
Silence stretched between us, delicate and sharp.
"And now?" I asked before I could stop myself.
Ronan's gaze shifted to me.
"I don't know," he said. "Now I look at you, and sometimes... I forget she's gone."
That made my throat tighten. He didn't mean it cruelly. He meant it truthfully.
"Other times," he added, voice softer, "I remember too well. And it makes me wonder what the hell I'm doing."
We sat there, side by side, both afraid to move, afraid not to.
His fingers brushed the edge of mine. Not fully touching. Not yet.
"I don't know who you're becoming," he murmured. "But… it's hard not to look."
My heart stuttered.
And for one breathless second, I thought he might lean in.
He didn't.
Instead, he looked away, jaw clenched.
"I should go," he said, standing abruptly.
I said nothing.
Because I wasn't sure what I would say if I tried.
He took one step, then paused. "You're not like her. Not exactly."
I looked up, eyes wide. "Then what am I?"
He turned halfway, meeting my gaze under the fading moonlight.
"I don't know," he said quietly. "But you're starting to feel real."
Then he was gone.
And I was left alone with the river and a heart that didn't know whose name it should answer to anymore.
---------
When I returned to the tent, Serra was already asleep.
I moved quietly, careful not to wake her. The bandages on my side had loosened slightly, so I tightened them, wincing at the sting. The pain felt... deserved.
I lay down on the thin mat, staring up at the canvas above. Dust clung to the edges, glittering faintly in the moonlight seeping through the seams. Somewhere beyond the walls of this camp, old magic still watched. Still waited.
I thought of Ronan. His voice. His eyes.
The way he'd looked at me like he wanted to fall... but didn't know into who.
My stomach turned.
It wasn't fair. To him. To Lyara.
Because even if I hadn't meant for this to happen—even if I didn't choose this body, this face—some part of me had let him get close. Had wanted him to.
And worse...
Some part of me still did.
I turned onto my side, pulling the thin blanket over my shoulders.
The wind outside shifted. A whisper against the canvas. A pressure on the air.
Like breath.
Like presence.
I sat up, heartbeat quickening.
Nothing moved.
But something was here.
Watching.
Waiting.
The fire in my chest flared—not heat, but memory. And I knew, with a certainty I couldn't explain—
She knew.
Lyara.
She had seen him. Seen us.
And she wasn't silent anymore.
—------