After finishing the healer’s infusion, my strength did not return as I expected. Instead, a heavy dizziness clung to me like damp fog. I took a few steps out of the stone chamber and nearly lost my balance.
Kaiden still hadn’t returned.
No mind-link. No sending stone echo. Nothing.
For a moment, I hesitated—then raised my hand anyway.
A habit older than reason.
The connection opened at once.
“Kaiden,” I called softly through the link, steadying myself against the corridor wall. “I’m still at the healer’s hall.”
There was a pause.
Then his voice came, slightly distant. “Elyria… I’m sorry. I meant to return after I sent Mirella back to her quarters, but her stomach turned uneasy so I—”
A second voice drifted through the link before he could finish.
A servant, clear and unaware: “Young master, your meal is ready. Please enjoy before it cools.”
Silence followed.
Then a faint rustle—as if his hand had covered the bond too late.
But I had already heard.
So that was it.
A meal.
Warm food.
Not a broken promise. Not even urgency.
Just… another interruption.
“It’s fine,” I said before he could explain further. My voice was lighter than I felt. “I can return on my own.”
“I’ll come back,” he said quickly. “Elyria, go home first. I’ll explain later.”
Explain.
Always that word.
As if explanations could mend what the heart already understood.
I ended the link before he could say more.
**
The carriage ride back to the manor was silent.
That night, Kaiden did not return.
Outside my window, the pack’s festival fires crackled in the distance, and someone lit firecrackers near the riverbank. The sound echoed faintly through the valley like distant thunder celebrating something I was no longer part of.
I could not sleep.
So I took out my bone stylus and began sketching talisman jewelry for a client—silver-threaded designs meant to ward off ill fortune. My hands moved out of instinct, not feeling.
While working, my tablet slate—left idle beside me—glowed faintly.
A message flickered in the corner.
A post from Mirella’s circle.
A painted image of the night sky bursting with firelight above the packlands. Beneath it, words flowed like poetry carved too carefully:
“After half a lifetime away, I return to you. And here, the sky itself blooms to welcome me home.”
My gaze lingered.
Only then did I realize—
the chat stone synced to the tablet still bore Kaiden’s seal.
His private channel.
Still open.
Still logged in.
I stared at it for a long moment.
Then, without reading further, I closed it.
Not anger.
Not curiosity.
Just… a quiet absence of desire to see what I already understood.
**
The next morning, I went to the artisan hall as usual.
The forewoman held my resignation scroll in her hands, her expression softening as she read it.
“You’re truly leaving?” she asked.
“I’m returning home,” I said. “There will be a marriage arranged.”
She let out a long breath, half proud, half reluctant. “We’re losing one of our finest craftsmen.”
I bowed my head slightly. “Thank you for everything.”
When the news spread through the hall, my colleagues insisted on a farewell gathering. I did not refuse.
We chose a familiar tavern near the old stone bridge—the same place I had once visited with Kaiden during quieter seasons when the world still felt simple.
Now it only felt distant.
Halfway through the meal, I stepped out for air.
The corridor outside was lined with hanging lanterns carved from bone and glass. I had barely taken a few steps when I stopped.
Mirella stood there.
As if she had been waiting.
Her smile was gentle, practiced. “I didn’t think I’d meet you here.”
I inclined my head politely, already turning to leave.
But she continued anyway.
“This place… Kaiden brought me here first,” she said lightly. “Back when we were still in the academy. We used to come often.”
I paused only because I had no reason not to hear her out.
She stepped closer, tilting her head. “I noticed something before.”
My fingers tightened slightly at my side.
“When he peels shrimp for you,” she said, almost conversationally, “he always rinses them in spring water first. Does that mean you also avoid spice?”
The word also struck softly—but cleanly.
I frowned, faint confusion threading through me.
Spice.
I did eat spice. I liked it. Always had.
But Kaiden…
Every time he prepared food for me, he would rinse it. Carefully. Almost ritualistically. Saying it was better for my throat. For my health.
I had never questioned it.
I had thought it was care.
Now the memory shifted—just slightly—and fell into place somewhere else entirely.
Because I suddenly remembered:
Mirella used to hate spice.
And Kaiden had always known that first.
