The Festival of Lost Lights

The days passed like mist. The castle seemed quieter since Dante's departure, but inside Selene, the silence was deafening.

He was gone.

No sweet promises. No comforting lies. Just the embroidered handkerchief tied to his armor — a subtle gesture, cruelly ambiguous. A farewell too cruel to be spoken aloud.

At night, she would climb to the terrace and stare at the sky as if it held some answer. She barely slept. Her dreams were filled with blood, with war, with dark eyes staring at her with fury… and kisses that should never have existed. When she woke, his absence felt like a fist pressing against her chest.

She hated the longing. Hated even more the way his touch still lingered on her skin — a slow fire, burning beneath the surface like a cursed spell.

Ayla noticed the weight in Selene's gaze, the shadows growing in her soul with each passing day.

— "You don't eat. You don't talk. You just wander like a ghost," she said one morning, barging into her chambers with a tray of fruit and bread. — "Dante isn't dead, Selene. He's just… gone."

Selene picked up a grape, without hunger, without will.

— "That's what he does. He leaves and lets others deal with the pieces."

— "Maybe he's in pieces too. Did you ever think of that?"

She gave a brief, joyless smile.

— "Dante doesn't break, Ayla. He breaks others."

The conversation died there.

---

That same week, Baltazar appeared. Confident posture, firm smile… but his eyes, behind the mask, always too observant. He found her in the gardens, walking alone among dry leaves and silences that screamed.

— "It's a beautiful night," he said, with the lightness of someone offering what he already knows will be refused.

— "Not for me," she replied, without even turning around.

— "Then let me steal you for a night. There's a festival in the village of the Pillars. Lights, music, wine… maybe laughter. You need to remember what it's like to feel something other than pain."

Selene looked at him, her eyes too tired, her soul too worn to be offended. Her lips trembled.

— "I don't know how to do that anymore, Baltazar."

— "Then I'll teach you."

---

The festival felt like it belonged to another world. The streets alive, adorned with floating lanterns and colorful banners. Masks hid faces, and the sounds of instruments mingled with laughter and the sweet scent of wine and warm honey.

Baltazar guided her through the crowd as if the chaos of the celebration couldn't reach them. For a moment, Selene let herself be led. It was almost easy to pretend that world belonged to her too.

He bought a dark flower and tucked it into her hair.

— "You look beautiful tonight," he said.

She smiled, but it was fragile, cracked.

— "You always say that."

— "Because it's always true."

He pulled her into a dance. The music was slow, laden with ancient melancholy. And there, in his arms, Selene closed her eyes. Not out of desire. Not out of affection. But to escape. Not to remember. Not to feel. Just to escape.

That's when she saw him.

Amid the crowd, by the edge of the fountain, a hooded man. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Still, unmoving, like a shadow that never left. The hood fell briefly. Dark, messy hair.

Her heart raced.

It wasn't Dante. But something inside her wished it was.

She stumbled away from Baltazar.

— "Are you alright?" he asked.

— "Yes… no… I just need air."

She ran down a narrow alley, fleeing the music, the lights, the watchful eyes. Her hands trembled. The mark on her skin burned — that damn mark. The memory of his touch. Of his gaze as he rode away without looking back.

She collapsed against the cold stone wall, unraveling in silence. She didn't scream. Didn't sob loudly. She just… fell. Silent. As she had always been taught to be.

A whisper escaped her lips, low, unrecognizable, as if someone else were speaking for her:

Why is he still in me?

Selene didn't understand when it had begun.

She didn't know if it was when she was eleven, the first time she saw him — with those empty, emotionless eyes, watching her like one would inspect a broken weapon. Back then, she was just a child. Her feelings were nothing more than fear and doubt, twisted by the world's expectations.

But now… it was different.

A knot in her throat. A fire in her heart.

It made no sense.

How could her fate be intertwined with someone who seemed to have no soul? How could she feel so much for someone who hurt her, who despised her, who marked her… as if she belonged to him?

And still, the mark on her hand burned. Still, his emptiness screamed inside her, calling her back.

Baltazar found her there, minutes later. She was wiping her face angrily, trying to scrub herself out of existence.

He didn't say anything. He sat beside her, leaning against the wall. Silence.

— "You still love him, don't you?" he asked after a while.

She didn't answer.

She couldn't.

She didn't understand what she felt. She had no name for it. Love was too pretty a word. And everything she carried was gray, stained, wrong.

— "You don't have to say anything," he murmured. — "I just want you to know that, even so, I'll be here. I won't ask for anything. Just… stay."

Selene rested her head on his shoulder. Her eyes fixed on the sky, as dark as she felt inside.

— "You're too good, Baltazar," she whispered.

He didn't respond. And maybe that was for the best.

Because in that moment, she realized a bitter truth:

Some hearts never heal. Some bonds, even when they hurt, are eternal.

And between distant lights and heavy shadows, Selene knew — nothing in her story would be simple.

Not now.

Not ever.