The corridors of Hematheas were hushed as night settled fully into the living wood of the palace. Bioluminescent veins along the walls dimmed to a soft, steady glow, like the slow breathing of something ancient and alive. Luke walked ahead, boots quiet against the polished floor, his thoughts still half-lost in the weight of the day.
He expected, out of habit more than anything, to hear Ilyrana's footsteps fade at the junction where her chambers lay.
They didn't.
When he glanced back, she was still there—walking behind him with the same unspoken certainty she always had. Her pace matched his, her expression calm, unreadable in that elven way that always made him feel like she was standing one step ahead of his own thoughts.
Luke slowed.
"You… don't have to—"
"I know," she said gently, before he could finish.
Her voice wasn't defensive. It wasn't teasing. It was simply honest.
"I just want to."
