Night fell softly over the palace.
The banquet hall, once bright with candlelight and murmured laughter, lay hushed now—its marble floors cooling, its shadows lengthening into silence. Outside, the wind stirred the palace gardens, carrying with it the faint scent of night-blooming flowers and something older still, something that felt like remembrance.
Illyen lay awake.
Moonlight spilled through the tall windows of the guest chamber, silvering the edges of the curtains and tracing pale lines across the bed where he rested. He had not changed out of his formal clothes yet. The weight of the day clung to him—not heavy, but insistent—like a hand at his chest that refused to let him forget.
Every time he closed his eyes, something stirred.
Not a full memory.
A pull.
He pressed a hand over his heart, fingers curling into the fabric as if he could steady whatever was awakening inside him.
Together.
Always.
Cael's voice echoed there—not as sound, but as certainty.
A soft knock came at the door.
Illyen turned his head. "Come in."
Cael entered quietly, as though afraid to disturb the air itself. He had removed his crown and formal coat, his hair loose around his shoulders, the sharp lines of the crown prince softened by the dim light. For a moment, he simply stood there, watching Illyen with an expression that hovered between relief and fear.
"You're awake," Cael said.
"I don't think I could sleep," Illyen admitted.
Cael nodded, as if he had expected that answer. He moved closer but stopped a careful distance away, giving Illyen space—always space, always choice.
"Does it hurt?" Cael asked quietly.
Illyen considered the question. "No. Not exactly." He hesitated, searching for the right words. "It feels like… something is trying to remember me."
Cael's breath caught.
"That's how it began before," he said softly. "Not with pain. With recognition."
Illyen shifted, sitting up slightly. "You've seen this happen before?"
"Yes." Cael's voice was steady, but his hands betrayed him, fingers tightening briefly at his side. "Every lifetime. It's never the same, but it always starts like this. A restlessness. A sense of being called."
Illyen looked at him then—really looked—and something in his chest ached.
"How did you survive it?" Illyen asked. "Waiting. Knowing. Loving someone who didn't know you."
Cael was silent for a long moment.
"I didn't," he said finally. "Not completely."
He met Illyen's gaze, blue eyes bare in the moonlight. "I endured. There's a difference."
Illyen reached out without thinking, his fingers brushing Cael's sleeve. The contact was tentative, almost reverent.
"I don't want you to endure anymore," Illyen said.
Cael swallowed. "That's why I'm afraid."
Illyen frowned slightly. "Afraid of what?"
"That if you remember everything," Cael said, "you'll carry too much, too fast. And I—" His voice faltered. "I don't want to be the reason it hurts."
Illyen's hand tightened on the fabric. "You're not."
He took a slow breath. "I think… the pain was never the remembering. It was the being alone."
Cael's eyes shimmered.
Slowly, carefully, he sat beside Illyen on the edge of the bed, close enough that their shoulders brushed. The contact sent a quiet warmth through Illyen's chest, grounding him.
"Will you tell me something?" Illyen asked.
"Anything."
"What was I like?" Illyen whispered. "Before."
Cael smiled—not wide, not joyful, but achingly fond.
"You laughed," he said. "Even when you shouldn't have. You believed the world could be gentler if someone simply chose to be." His voice softened. "You were brave in the quietest ways."
Illyen felt tears prick his eyes, though he did not know why.
"And you?" he asked.
Cael let out a faint, breathless laugh. "I was unbearable."
Illyen smiled despite himself.
"You were stubborn. Proud. Terrified of losing anything you loved." Cael's gaze dropped to their joined hands. "And you loved like it was the only truth worth defending."
Something shifted then—not violently, not painfully—but undeniably.
Illyen's vision blurred.
He saw candlelight reflected in a smaller cup. Heard a child's unsteady breathing. Felt the weight of a decision pressing down on a heart too young to hold it. And beside that memory—beside it—there was warmth. A presence. A hand brushing his sleeve.
Cael.
Illyen gasped softly.
Cael was instantly alert. "Illyen?"
"I saw it," Illyen whispered. "Not clearly. But enough."
Cael reached for him, stopping just short of touching his face. "Do you want me to stop?"
Illyen shook his head. "No. Just… stay."
Cael's hand settled over Illyen's, warm and steady.
The vision faded, leaving behind only emotion—grief, yes, but also a profound sense of peace. As if the memory had not come to wound him, but to reassure him that he had chosen with love.
"The Veil is weakening," Illyen said quietly, surprised by his own certainty.
Cael nodded. "It is. But it hasn't fallen yet."
"Good," Illyen murmured. "Then we have time."
Time to remember gently.
Time to heal.
Time to choose each other again—not because fate demanded it, but because they wanted to.
Cael leaned his forehead against Illyen's, just as he had in the banquet hall. This time, there was no fear in the gesture—only trust.
"Whatever comes next," Cael said softly, "we face it together."
Illyen closed his eyes, breathing him in. The thread between them pulsed—soft, living, warm.
"Yes," Illyen whispered. "Together."
Outside, the moon drifted higher, watching over two souls learning, at last, how to remember without breaking.