The moon hung low above Veyrhold, casting silver light through the shattered glass dome of the rotunda. The crowd had dispersed.
The Elders had withdrawn to their chambers—murmuring of prophecy, power, danger. None dared approach her now. The sixth bride who wasn't a bride at all. The girl who had died once. The woman who returned wearing fire like a crown.
Kaelira stood at the edge of the balcony that overlooked the city. The wind tugged at her sleeves, her curls, the edge of her still-scorched gown. Her hands glowed faintly from within—ember-warm, not burning.
Behind her, footsteps.
She didn't turn.
"You followed me," she said quietly.
"I always did," Dorian replied.
She closed her eyes.
The memory of his betrayal still sat sharp in her ribs—but beside it was something far crueler: the memory of his love, soft as dusk and just as fading.
"You let them kill me," she said.
He didn't respond.
She turned, finally—eyes meeting his.
"You let me die."
"I did," he said. No defense. No excuse. "And I waited two hundred years for you to rise from the ashes and tell me the cost."
A pause.
Then, softly—
"Do you still dream of fire?" she asked
"No," he said. "I dream of you."
---
They stood inches apart.
Not enemies. Not quite lovers. Something tangled between. Dorian reached out, slowly, giving her time to flinch away.
She didn't. His fingers brushed hers. Rough skin against smooth flame.
"Can I?" he asked.
Kaelira nodded. And he pulled her close—arms tentative at first, then tighter, like a man embracing a ghost he never thought he'd hold again. She let herself be wrapped in the quiet. In him. The scent of cedar and smoke. The slow, steady beat of his heart. It was the first time in years she'd felt held by anything but vengeance.
---
Later, they sat together by the hearth in her chamber. The fire danced, but it obeyed her now. No more bursts of rage. Just soft warmth. Kaelira lay back against him, her head on his chest. Dorian traced idle patterns along her arm. Neither spoke for a long time.
Then she asked, voice quiet: "If I hadn't died… what would we have become?"
"I would have married you," he said.
She smiled faintly. "Even against the Council's will?"
"I would've burned down the Council for you."
A pause.
She turned her head to look up at him.
"And now?"
"I'd still burn the world if you asked," he whispered.
She kissed him then. Slow. Searching. Painful. Familiar. Not a fairytale kiss. A reclamation. Of time lost. Of wounds that had no words.
---
When they finally broke apart, Kaelira leaned her forehead against his.
"We're not who we were," she said.
"No," he agreed. "We're something new."
---
Outside, the wind howled down the towers of Veyrhold. But in the warmth of that chamber, two old souls found each other again—no longer as enemies or martyrs, but as lovers… caught in the quiet before the storm.