The fire in the South Tower crackled, casting its golden light against stone and shadow. Elira sat near the hearth, lost in a silence that felt heavier than usual. The battle with Cael's return had left more than just bruises—it had reopened scars she thought long buried.
Lucien entered without knocking.
She didn't flinch.
"I thought you might come," she said, voice barely above a whisper.
He crossed the room slowly, boots echoing across the marble floor. "You've been avoiding me."
She turned her gaze to the window. Snow kissed the outer sill.
"No. I've just been trying to breathe."
He crouched beside her chair, eyes searching hers. "And do you think I can't help you do that?"
His voice broke something in her.
Elira leaned forward, forehead against his. "You already do. That's the problem, Lucien. I'm terrified… of needing you."
He held her face with reverence. "Then be terrified. But don't push me away."
Tears slipped silently down her cheeks. She didn't know if they were for Cael, for the years lost, or for the piece of herself she had always kept hidden.
"You deserve more," she whispered.
"I only want you."
She stood, and he followed. No words. Just breath and closeness.
They crossed the threshold of her chambers together.
By the candlelight, she touched his chest—over the place his heart had nearly stopped once, for her.
He caught her wrist and kissed the skin there. "Elira."
She looked at him then—truly looked.
And for once, she wasn't afraid of what he saw.
"I don't want to remember pain tonight," she said.
He nodded. "Then let me help you remember joy."
Their kiss was not desperate.
It was reverent. Soft. Earnest.
Lucien's hands traced the shape of her back like he was mapping a forgotten kingdom. Her breath hitched as he drew her close, and her body remembered what her heart had always known: he was her shelter.
When he lifted her into his arms, she didn't resist.
They crossed the room like lovers crossing lifetimes.
Garments slipped away like the old burdens they carried. Each one unspoken. Each one forgiven.
When she trembled, it wasn't from cold.
When he kissed her shoulder, it wasn't for lust.
It was a vow.
A silent promise in the language of skin and breath and trust.
Later, in the hush between dreams and waking, Elira lay beside him, tracing the scar near his collarbone.
"I never thought I'd have a night like this," she whispered.
Lucien's voice was low, raw. "You deserve a thousand more."
She turned to him. "And if this war takes us tomorrow?"
"Then tonight will have been enough."
She pressed her hand to his chest, feeling the rhythm there—steady and warm.
"No," she said. "Not enough. I want to live."
The morning sun rose without mercy.
Elira dressed in silence, stealing glances at the man who had become her anchor.
Lucien stirred, groaning softly. "You're leaving?"
"Duty calls," she smiled.
"Stay."
She leaned down and kissed him softly. "I will. But first… I need to meet the past head-on."
He nodded. "Then come back to me."
In the corridor outside her chambers, a letter waited.
The seal was unfamiliar—dark wax etched with a hawk entangled in thorns.
She felt a chill.
War was stirring. The next storm was coming.
But this time, she wasn't alone.