Chapter 5: Hearts under Iron

“You’ve been quiet,” Alvin said.

Frey sat cross-legged on the dungeon cot, fingers tracing faded crescent shapes into the dirt wall.

“I’m mapping constellations,” she murmured.

He frowned. “With your fingers?”

“They’re in the wrong place, but… it calms me.”

Alvin stepped closer. “You’re drawing the night sky?”

“No. I’m drawing what it used to look like. Before the Silver Court fell.”

His jaw tightened. “You still dream of it?”

“No,” she said. “I only remember the parts that burned.”

He stood in silence.

“You ever wonder,” she continued, “if we were born in the wrong stories?”

“I wonder if we were born at all,” he muttered. “Some days I feel like a weapon that woke up with a name.”

Frey’s gaze flicked to his hand—the one still loosely gripping the bone-carved pendant.

“You still wear it,” she said.

“It’s the only thing I never lost.”

“You almost did.”

He didn’t respond.

“Why are you here?” she asked softly.