We didn't speak much on the way back.
Not because there was nothing to say — but because there was too much.
The path through the forest had changed since we stepped into the temple. The air was sharper, crisper, as though something deep in the earth had shifted and exhaled. Magic shimmered in places it hadn't before, sliding over moss and stone like restless mist. Every now and then, I'd hear a whisper behind the trees, or feel a brush of something ancient watching from the canopy.
The Firstborn's presence had settled somewhere inside me. Not a voice, not a burden. Just awareness.
And beside me, Caden walked in silence, his stride steady, his expression unreadable — but I felt him. Every step. Every breath. Every glance he thought I didn't see.
He had not asked what I saw in the vision. And I hadn't asked why he looked at me like that now — like he wasn't sure if I was still his.
We stopped near a clearing just before dusk, where the edge of the vale curved into a low hill. From the top, you could see the spine of the forest, the river in the distance, and beyond it — the shadows of the citadel walls. The world we would soon have to face again.
I sat first, brushing the dew from the grass, and drew my cloak tighter around my shoulders. The stone's warmth had faded with the sun, and now there was only the chill of evening and the weight of what I was becoming.
Caden sat a short distance away. Not far. But far enough.
I didn't like it.
"I don't know if I'm supposed to feel different," I said quietly, eyes on the horizon. "But I do."
His voice came after a pause. "Different how?"
"Like… I'm two people now. The one who made the choice. And the one who still doesn't know what to do with it."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then, "You're still you."
I glanced at him. "And who is that, exactly?"
He met my eyes. "The one who didn't run."
That pulled a small breath from me — not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. Just something fragile and real.
He lay back on the grass, arms behind his head, staring up at the sky without speaking further.
I watched him.
Not because I wanted to figure him out — I had stopped pretending I could do that weeks ago — but because sometimes, when everything else felt overwhelming, he grounded me without trying.
The sky was a sheet of deep violet now, scattered with stars. Cold light. Distant.
I stretched out beside him, a full hand's width away.
Close. But not touching.
"I keep wondering," I said, "what would've happened if you hadn't come for me that day. If you'd just let me go."
"I never could have."
"But you almost did."
He didn't deny it.
Instead, his voice dropped. "I wasn't sure I had the right."
I turned my head toward him. "To what?"
"To want you."
My breath caught.
The grass beneath us whispered with the night breeze. I could feel every inch of space between us like a thread pulled tight, humming with the tension we never gave voice to.
"I've never touched you," I said quietly. "Not really."
"No," he agreed.
"I've never kissed you."
He didn't move. "That's true."
I turned fully toward him now, propping myself up on one elbow. "But you've looked at me like you've thought about it. Every day."
He finally turned to face me too. His eyes were quiet fire.
"And you've never stopped me."
Silence.
Not heavy. Not cold.
Just… waiting.
"I didn't want to stop you," I admitted. "But I was afraid."
"Of me?"
"No. Of us." I swallowed. "Of what it would mean if I crossed that line and couldn't go back."
His voice was low, careful. "Do you still feel that way?"
I nodded slowly. "But not in the same way."
He didn't ask what that meant.
Instead, he sat up — slowly, deliberately — and looked down at me like I was both sacred and untouchable.
"I'm not going to kiss you," he said softly.
I blinked. "I didn't ask you to."
"I know." He smiled faintly, not mocking. Just honest. "But I need you to understand… that every time I don't, it's not because I don't want to."
I sat up too. Our faces were close now, but still… no touch. No heat exchanged, only breath.
"I don't know if I'm ready," I whispered.
He leaned just slightly closer — his voice a hush between us. "Then I'll wait."
A shiver ran through me. Not fear. Just the ache of how close we were, and how intimate that distance had become.
"I want to know something," I said.
"Anything."
"When you saw me with the stone… when I touched the Firstborn… what did you feel?"
He exhaled slowly. "Terrified."
"Of me?"
"No. For you." He looked away for a moment, then back. "And maybe a little for myself. Because I realized I couldn't stop you anymore. That even if I wanted to — even if the world begged me to — you're already something bigger than all of this. And I'll never be able to protect you the way I thought I could."
My throat tightened. "Then why are you still here?"
He gave the smallest smile. "Because you don't need me to protect you. Just to stand with you. That's all I've ever wanted to do."
I reached for his hand, fingers brushing his lightly — not a grip. Not a hold.
Just a moment of shared space.
He didn't move. Neither did I.
It was enough.
For now.
Later that night, I dreamed.
Not of fire. Not of war.
But of standing at the center of a circle of flame, the Firstborn watching me with silver eyes. Behind him, the world cracked open like a mirror.
And inside it… I saw myself.
Older. Sharper. Powerful.
Alone.
I jolted awake, breath caught in my throat, the edges of the dream still clinging to me like smoke.
Caden was still there, seated beside the tree now, half-asleep but alert the moment I moved.
"Bad dream?" he asked quietly.
I nodded.
He didn't ask what I saw.
I didn't tell him.
Instead, I wrapped the cloak tighter around me and leaned against the tree next to him. He didn't touch me. But his presence steadied me.
The sky began to lighten with dawn.
And I knew the quiet was over.
The next time we faced the Firstborn's power — the world would be watching.
And there would be no space left between us.