The fields whispered at night.
Not in the way wind rustled wheat or birds called from their nests—but in a deeper way. Like the earth was trying to speak in a language she wasn't ready to understand.
Mira hadn't slept.
Not really.
She'd tried. Curled beneath the quilts her mother made, candles burning low, the faint smell of thyme and woodsmoke clinging to the walls.
But her mind wouldn't quiet.
Something was off.
And it wasn't just the strange dreams or the way her veins sometimes pulsed with heat when she touched water.
It was them.
Sael had appeared like a blade wrapped in silk—polite, unreadable, far too calm. He said little, but looked too much.
Mira didn't trust him.
But then there was Xerces.
And lately, that was more complicated.
She found him where she usually did—at the edge of the forest near the broken fence, where the lanterns didn't reach and the moss grew thick.
He was sitting on a fallen log, his hood low, staring out into nothing.
She didn't speak at first.
Just sat beside him.
Waited.
The silence stretched.
Finally, she broke it.
"I met Sael."
Xerces didn't move.
"Did he say anything?"
"He asked about you."
Still nothing.
She turned toward him, voice sharper now.
"Xerces… talk to me."
He inhaled slowly, as if the act itself weighed something.
"What do you want me to say?"
"I want you to be honest with me. For once."
That made him look at her.
His eyes—whatever magic gave them life—were stormcloud grey tonight.
"I've only ever tried to protect you."
"Then why do I feel like I'm losing my mind?"
He opened his mouth, closed it.
She continued, voice cracking at the edges.
"I wake up not knowing who I am anymore. I see things no one else sees. I feel things—things I can't explain. My skin burns when I'm angry, water bends around my fingers, I… I can't even trust my own reflection."
"Mira—"
"I'm not done."
She stood, pacing now.
"And then there's you. You who appeared out of nowhere. You who barely eats, barely speaks. You who always knows when I'm scared but never tells me why."
"I can't," he said quietly.
"Why not?"
"Because the truth might ruin you."
She stopped.
Her voice dropped.
"I deserve to decide that for myself."
He stood too.
Close now. Too close.
"Mira, if I told you what I really am…"
"I already know," she snapped.
Silence.
"I'm not stupid," she said. "I see the way people avoid you. I hear the way your voice catches like it's learning how to breathe. You wear your skin like it doesn't belong to you."
He didn't deny it.
Didn't flinch.
Just asked:
"…Then why are you still here?"
Tears blurred her vision before she realized they were coming.
She wiped them away angrily.
"Because… even if you're something else, even if you're not what you seem… you've never made me feel like I'm broken."
His voice was barely a whisper.
"You're not."
She looked at him then—really looked.
And for a moment, the illusion flickered.
Just a heartbeat.
A glint of white bone beneath shadow.
And still…
Still, she didn't move away.
Her voice trembled.
"Tell me there's still a person under there."
He swallowed. Or pretended to.
"I don't know," he admitted.
"I hope there is," she whispered. "Because I'm still trying to be one too."
They stood there a long while, the sky bleeding to dusk above them.
And somewhere between the breath she took and the one she didn't, the distance between them felt a little less impossible.
But far off, in the trees, a pale grey eye watched without blinking.
And it smiled