After Cryst and I escaped that near-death mess, we returned to our usual spot and gathered some firewood. "All that hassle and not even a piece of meat," he muttered, tossing a stick onto the pile. "All we managed to grab was some bread." Then, without saying a word, Cryst leaned down and blew softly. A flicker of light sparked, and the firewood caught instantly—his Fantasia at work.
I blinked, surprised. It was the first time he ever used magic in front of me. Maybe he'd always held back because he knew I couldn't do it...maybe he didn't want to make me feel like less. But now? He didn't hide it.
And for some reason, that meant more than I could say.
The forest outside La Gratiasa was a maze of shadows, but the small fire Cryst had built flickered like a stubborn star. Veilstorm sat cross-legged beside it, picking at the crust of stolen bread they'd split. The air smelled of pine and smoke, and distant howls reminded them the wild was never far.
"You ever think about it?" Cryst asked, his voice low, nearly lost beneath the crackling flames. His dagger—swiped from some careless merchant—caught the light as he turned it slowly in his hands. "Who you'd be if the world wasn't… this?"
Veilstorm snorted, brushing dirt from his cloak. "What, like a knight? Or one of those nerdy scholars spouting Fantasia lore?" He smirked, but his eyes stayed on the fire, searching for something.
Cryst grinned, teeth flashing. "Nah. You'd be a baker. Worst one in the village. Burnt loaves every day."
Veilstorm flicked a pebble at him. Cryst dodged it, laughing—a sharp sound that cut through the quiet like a blade.
"Shut it," Veilstorm muttered, though he was grinning too. "What about you then? King Cryst, ruler of all crumbs?"
Cryst's laugh faded. He stabbed the dagger into the dirt and stared at it. "I don't know. Maybe… someone who fixes things. Not with Fantasia, just with his hands. Build a house. A real one. For kids like us." His voice cracked a little, and he looked away. "Never had that. Y'know?"
Veilstorm went quiet. He thought of the cold stone floor of the church, the priest's tired eyes, the endless nights. He thought of Cryst, always there—pulling him out of traps, sharing every last scrap.
"Yeah," he said softly. "I know."
They sat in silence as the fire spit tiny embers into the night. Cryst pulled his cloak tighter, breath fogging in the chill.
"Swear we'll get there, Veil," he whispered. "A place that's ours. No knights, no beasts. Just us."
Veilstorm met his eyes. The weight of the promise sank deep into his chest. "Swear it," he said, holding out his fist.
Cryst bumped it, firm and fierce. "Deal. But you're still baking the bread."
Veilstorm shoved him, and they both laughed—loud, wild, and real. For a moment, the forest didn't feel so dark. For a moment, the world wasn't broken.