A Smile Between shadows

The silence that had settled between them lingered like fog on a cold morning.

Liora hadn't spoken to Derick since the stable. She ate quietly at meals, kept to her corner in the library, and avoided the training grounds, where she once stood watching him spar with her hands behind her back, smiling like she didn't belong to a world so cruel.

Derick noticed. Of course, he did.

He noticed how she no longer lingered in the hallway, waiting to walk beside him. How her soft footsteps now paused at corners when she sensed he was near, only to retreat.

And for the first time since he came back to this cursed timeline, the pain wasn't from betrayal or death.

It was from guilt.

But he couldn't give in—not now.

Instead, Derick threw himself deeper into his secret training. At dawn, when the estate was silent, he'd sneak out beyond the northern wall, where the ruins of an old war tower stood. It was there that he practiced swordplay not taught by the knights, read books no noble child was supposed to read—volumes on poisons, deception, and the ancient bloodlines of noble houses.

He was preparing.

For them.

For her.

For the day he'd make the Duke's family beg for mercy.

But in all of it, Liora's face kept appearing—in the morning mist, in the sound of falling leaves, in the scent of lilac from her perfume that still clung to his coat from the night of the dance.

Meanwhile, Liora stood before the grand window in the east wing of the estate, the sunlight casting golden rays across her pale skin.

"Stupid," she mumbled to herself, gripping a teacup too tightly. "Why did I say I care?"

She had spent days replaying the scene in her mind—his sudden retreat, the way his voice cracked like he was holding in tears, and the raw panic behind his eyes. She didn't know the full truth, but she knew this:

He was hurting.

And he was trying to hide it.

But even more confusing were her dreams. They grew more vivid with each passing night—visions of castles burning, a young Derick screaming her name, and her own voice calling out through blood and darkness.

"Liora?" a soft voice interrupted.

It was Mina, the only maid in the household who treated her kindly.

"I found this," she said, holding out a small black book. "It was tucked into your bookshelf."

Liora blinked. "That's not mine."

Mina looked puzzled. "Then maybe someone left it for you?"

She opened it gently. The pages were filled with strange drawings—wings, fire, broken swords, and circles with runes. And at the very back, written in neat ink, were the words:

"To rewrite fate, you must first remember it."

Her fingers trembled.

That evening, the household was gathered in the drawing room, though no one truly sat together. Seraphina lounged on the velvet settee, one leg crossed over the other, humming some melody too sharp for the mood. Vace stood at the window, arms crossed, lips in a tight line as usual.

Derick sat in the corner, book open but unread.

Liora entered, her gaze flicking toward him before settling on a stool beside the fireplace. She pulled out a rolled scroll and began sketching quietly.

She was a good artist—he knew that from their shared tutor years ago. But he hadn't seen her draw since her mother's death.

"Is that a rabbit or a horse?" Seraphina's voice cut through the silence like a knife.

Liora didn't look up. "It's a lion, actually."

"Really?" Seraphina chuckled cruelly. "Looks like a fat squirrel to me."

Derick's head snapped up, but Liora simply shrugged.

"Better a fat squirrel than a venomous snake," she said under her breath.

Vace smirked. "What was that?"

Liora finally looked up, meeting Derick's eyes across the room. She smiled—softly, like the sun after rain.

He almost smiled back.

Almost.

Then he caught Seraphina watching, her expression sharp and calculating.

Later, after everyone had retreated to their chambers, Derick found himself walking toward the small garden behind the library. The moon was bright again—almost full.

He didn't expect to find her there.

She was sitting on a bench, the sketch still in her hands.

"I know you're following me," she said without turning around.

Derick blinked. "You... do?"

She looked up at him now. "You've been doing it for days. I figured you'd show up eventually."

He stepped closer, unsure what to say.

"I found a book," she continued. "It had symbols I don't recognize. And a message."

Derick tensed.

"A message?" he echoed.

She nodded. "It said I have to remember fate."

Silence.

Then she looked him dead in the eye. "Derick… have we met before? Before this life?"

He froze.

"I know it sounds crazy. But I've been having dreams. Of you. Of me. Of things I know I've never seen—yet I remember the way your hand feels in mine, the sound of your voice screaming for me. I've seen myself die… in your arms."

His throat tightened.

"I don't know what it means. But I think…" she hesitated, "I think I was someone else. And so were you."

Derick didn't move. Didn't blink.

And for the first time, he didn't have an answer ready.

"I'm not asking for the truth," she said softly. "Not tonight. But I needed to say it out loud. Because pretending we're strangers when everything in me says we're not—it's exhausting."

Then, before he could reply, she reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. Her fingers brushed his cheek.

"You're colder than I remember," she whispered. "But your eyes... they're the same."

And for a second, under the moonlight, he almost leaned in.

Almost kissed her.

But not yet.

Not now.

Instead, he touched her hand gently and whispered, "One day... when it's safe… I'll tell you everything."

She smiled. "Then I'll wait. Just don't take forever."

They stayed like that a moment longer—two hearts tangled in fate, standing on the edge of truths too big for them to carry alone.