The fire had long since died down.
Outside, the wind had quieted, but the trees still creaked like they were speaking in a language too old to understand.
Isolde lay on the small bed tucked beneath the window, eyes open, staring at the ceiling beams. The tea had calmed her body but not her mind.
She could still feel it.
That brush of skin.
That strange, soft burn where his fingers had touched hers.
She rolled onto her side and tried to focus on the steady hum of night sounds, but even they felt different with him here.
Alaric Draugrson.
Cursed. Scarred. Stillness wrapped around storm.
He slept down the hall, stretched on the infirmary cot with one arm slung above his head. Or perhaps not sleeping—he hadn't moved in a while that she could hear, but his presence was too... alert. Like even in rest, he watched.
They hadn't spoken much after the tea. There'd been no need.
But now, with the dark pressing in and the moonlight spilling through the curtains, her skin hummed again. Not in fear.
In recognition.
Somewhere in the in-between, sleep came.
Not gently.
Like falling into a tide that had been waiting for her.
She stood beneath a violet sky.
The forest was gone, replaced by dunes of silver sand and a horizon that shimmered like ice. Above her, the Moon was closer than it had ever been—huge, luminous, pulsing like a heartbeat. Its light drenched the landscape in pale fire.
She was barefoot.
Her hands were clean.
And someone was watching her.
She turned—
And he was there.
Not as he was now. Younger, unscarred. Dressed in dark robes marked with runes that flickered faintly like breath on glass. His hair was longer. His jaw softer. But those eyes—those storm-silver eyes—were exactly the same.
"Do I know you?" she asked, though her voice felt distant in her own ears.
He didn't answer right away. Just stared. Like he was seeing a ghost.
Or like she was.
Then he stepped closer, and his hand reached out—not to touch her, but to hold his palm open between them. A question.
She didn't think.
She placed her hand in his.
The moment they touched, the sand beneath their feet trembled. Light surged from where their fingers met. And the Moon above—howled.
It wasn't a sound. Not really.
It was a memory.
Of fire.Of a name she once bore.Of a death that hadn't finished yet.
Her knees buckled, and he caught her—arms strong, sure. Too sure.
"You left," she whispered, though she didn't know what she meant.
"I tried not to," he answered, voice cracking.
And then the world blurred.
She woke gasping.
The beams above her looked the same. The bed was the same.
But her palm still burned.Not with pain.With truth.
Around the corner, Alaric sat upright on the cot, breathing hard, hand clenched against his chest. Isolde quietly got out of bed to check on him, the skin on the bottom of her feet softly echoing with each step towards his room.
Their eyes met.
And for a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then, softly—together—
"You were there."