Caelen didn't sleep.
The cottage was quiet, save for the fire's soft crackle and Elira's steady breathing from the bed. She'd fallen asleep mid-sentence, her body finally giving in to exhaustion, but her pain lingered—a shadow that clung to Caelen's bones.
It wasn't just her grief for Vaeloria or her guilt over the temple—it was her. Elira was a storm, her emotions raw and vast, and his curse drank them in like a parched riverbed.
He sat by the hearth, staring at the flames. Every flicker reminded him of the Hollow, its eyes like dying coals, its hunger a void that still echoed in his chest. Elira's words haunted him too: an ancient evil, a man who wasn't a man, waking to snuff out the world's heart.
Caelen had no business fighting such things. He was no hero—just a man who felt too much, who broke a little more with every hurt he carried.
Yet here he was, promising to follow her to a ruined temple, to face a darkness he couldn't comprehend.
"Why me?" he whispered to the fire, but it had no answers. Only his mother's voice, faint as a memory, echoed back:
You're too kind for this world, my love.
Kindness was a blade, he thought. It cut deepest when you wielded it.
A soft rustle broke his thoughts.
Elira stirred, her eyes fluttering open. In the firelight, her face was softer, the sharp edges of her fear smoothed by sleep.
"Caelen?" Her voice was thick, uncertain.
"Here," he said, keeping his tone low. "You're safe."
She sat up, pulling the blanket around her shoulders. Her copper hair fell in tangles, catching the light like embers.
"You're always saying that," she said, a faint smile tugging her lips. "Safe. Like you can promise it."
He shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "I can try."
Her smile faded, and her pain shifted, a tide of guilt and sorrow that made him wince.
"You shouldn't," she said. "Not for me. I've brought you nothing but trouble."
"You brought me a story," he countered, surprising himself. "Vaeloria, the temple, the heart. That's more than I had yesterday."
She studied him, her green eyes sharp, like she was trying to see through his words.
"You're strange, Caelen of Hearthollow. Most men would've run by now. Or locked me out."
"Most men don't feel what I feel," he said, and the truth of it hung heavy between them.
Her pain was a weight he couldn't shake, a song he couldn't unhear. He wanted to help her, to ease her burden, but every step closer pulled him deeper into her storm. And that scared him more than the Hollow.
Elira tilted her head, her gaze softening. "What's it like? Feeling everything?"
He hesitated. No one had ever asked—not really. The villagers knew his curse, but they treated it like a tool—useful, but not worth understanding.
"It's… loud," he said finally. "Like a hundred voices in your head, all crying at once. Every hurt, every fear, every loss—it's mine too. Sometimes I can't tell where I end and they begin."
Her brow furrowed, and her pain eased, just a fraction, as if his words had carved a space for something else.
"That sounds lonely," she said.
He nodded, throat tight. "It is."
For a moment, they were silent, the fire's glow weaving them together.
Then Elira spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. "In Vaeloria, we had a saying: 'The heart that breaks is the heart that binds.' I never understood it until now."
Caelen's chest ached—not from her pain, but from something new. A warmth, fragile and unfamiliar. He wanted to reach for it, to let it grow, but the curse warned him back. Her sorrow was too heavy, her storm too wild. If he let himself care too much, it would drown him.
"You should rest," he said, standing abruptly. "We've got a long road ahead."
Her eyes followed him, sharp and knowing. "You're running," she said, not accusing—just stating a fact.
He paused, hand on the doorframe. "Maybe," he admitted. "But not from you."
She didn't push, but her gaze stayed with him as he stepped outside.
The night air was cool, the village asleep under a blanket of stars. Caelen leaned against the cottage wall, breathing deep, trying to quiet the storm inside him. Elira's pain was still there—but so was her trust, her spark of hope. And that, he realized, was more dangerous than any Hollow.
---
Morning brought a fragile truce.
Elira was stronger, her wounds healing, though her eyes still carried shadows. Caelen made breakfast—bread and dried apples, simple but warm—and they ate in companionable silence. The village buzzed outside, whispers of the Hollow spreading like wildfire.
Caelen felt their fear, a low hum beneath his skin, but he focused on Elira—on the way her fingers curled around her mug, on the faint freckles dusting her nose.
"We need a plan," she said, setting the mug down. "The temple's far, and the Hollows won't be the last thing we face."
He nodded, though the thought of leaving Hearthollow twisted his gut. This was his home—the only place he'd ever known. But the distant pain he'd felt, the ash on the wind—it was coming closer. Staying wasn't safe. Not for him. Not for anyone.
"We'll need supplies," he said. "Food, cloaks, a map if we can find one. Marren might help."
"Marren?" she asked, eyebrow raised.
"The blacksmith. Grumpy, but solid. He's known me since I was a kid."
Her lips twitched. "You, a kid. Hard to picture."
He grinned, the moment lightening the air. "I was trouble. Stole apples from his tree once. He chased me halfway across the village."
Her laugh was soft, like rain on leaves, and it caught him off guard. Her pain eased, just for a second, and Caelen felt it—a thread of connection, thin but real. He wanted to hold onto it, to let it grow, but the curse tightened its grip, reminding him of the cost.
---
They spent the day preparing.
Caelen bartered for supplies, trading herbs he'd gathered for dried meat and a worn leather pack. Marren gave them a dagger, its blade etched with old runes, and a warning:
"Whatever you're chasing, lad, it's bigger than you. Don't lose yourself."
Elira, meanwhile, proved resourceful. She mended her cloak with steady hands, her movements practiced, like she'd done it a hundred times.
Caelen watched her, curious despite himself.
"You're good at that," he said, nodding at the needlework.
"Had to be," she said, not looking up. "On the road, you learn to fix what breaks. Clothes, tools… hearts."
He didn't respond, but her words lingered.
Could hearts be fixed?
His felt like a patchwork, stitched together with other people's pain. And hers—hers was a ruin, beautiful but crumbling.
Yet here they were, two broken things, choosing to walk the same path.
---
By dusk, they were ready.
The village gathered to see them off, their faces a mix of fear and gratitude. Caelen felt their emotions—hope, doubt, sorrow—and it nearly buckled him.
Elira stood beside him, her presence a quiet strength, her pain a familiar ache.
"You don't have to do this," she said, her voice low, meant only for him. "You can stay. Live your life."
He looked at her—at the fire in her eyes, the weight she carried.
"No," he said. "I can't."
She nodded, understanding more than he'd said.
They turned to the road, the forest looming ahead, its shadows whispering of dangers to come.
Caelen's curse hummed, alive with the world's pain, but for the first time, he felt something else—a bond, fragile but growing, tying him to the girl beside him.
And as they stepped into the dark, he wondered:
Could kindness be a shield as well as a blade?