Rayan's Perspective
The carriage ride back was silent.
Kael's hand hovered between them, not touching, not withdrawing.
Rayan pressed himself against the window, watching the blurred streets, but all he saw were faces.
The prisoners, their bowed heads.
The blood on the floor.
The way Kael had spoken—not with cruelty, but with conviction, as if killing was an act of love.
By the time they returned to the sanctuary, his skin felt too tight to hold him.
That night, Kael slipped into bed beside him.
The warmth that once made him feel safe now burned.
Rayan shut his eyes, feigning sleep.
But his body trembled with the echo of Senna's voice: Fragile things don't need force. They only need suggestion.
Kael's Perspective
Kael lay awake, listening to Rayan's uneven breaths.
He knew he had made a mistake. Showing him the dungeon had been meant as proof, as honesty. But instead, it had carved another wall between them.
He reached out—then stopped inches away from Rayan's waist.
