The first light of dawn stretched its pale fingers over the sleepy island.
Mist clung low along the shore like a breath withheld, and the only sounds were the creak of ropes and the lapping of the tide.
Two figures stood at the end of the pier—Hiral and Alexis—with only the High Priest behind them, wrapped in his ceremonial shawl, clutching his prayer staff.
"Leaving like shadows," the High Priest murmured with amusement. "A fitting end to your quiet storm."
Hiral bowed low. "You have my gratitude, as always, Your Grace."
Alexis inclined his head in equal respect, though he held his tongue. He had already spoken too much in recent days, and still, not enough.
The High Priest's gaze lingered on them both. "May the tides carry you gently, and may your storms only ever meet when they choose to calm each other."
Hiral gave a half-smile. Alexis only grunted—but nodded in respect.
No other farewells. No crowds. No spectacle.
****
Down the pier, Hiral led Alexis toward a sleek vessel with imperial insignia, stocked, manned, and ready. "She's yours," he said, gesturing. "You'll be escorted by sea marshals until neutral waters. After that, you're free to chart your course."
Alexis raised an eyebrow. "And you?"
Hiral simply gestured to a smaller, less ornate ship, already unmoored and floating just beyond the break. "I sail another route."
Of course he did.
Alexis sighed, almost smiling. "Figures."
He made a show of boarding his ship. Watched Hiral turn and walk down the dock. Watched as the smaller vessel slowly drifted farther from shore.
Then—without hesitation—Alexis broke into a run.
One leap onto the rail.
Another step on a mooring post.
And then—with reckless grace—he launched himself into the air, cape flaring like wings.
With a heavy thud and a roll, he landed on the deck of Hiral's ship, startling the sailors mid-task.
Gasps. A dropped rope. A half-uttered curse.
Hiral spun, eyes wide.
"What in the stars—?"
Alexis stood up, grinning like a man possessed.
"You really thought I'd let you sail off alone after that little play back on the island?"
Hiral blinked, then burst into a rare, full-bodied laugh—genuine, startled, and entirely unguarded.
"By the heavens, you lunatic." He shook his head, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "That was impressive. I should've known better."
Alexis beamed, chest rising like he'd just conquered a battlefield. "Just wanted to remind you who still has the better legs."
"Flexible legs don't win naval campaigns," Hiral muttered, hiding his grin as he turned away.
"But they sure win the element of surprise."
Hiral raised a brow. "You wanted a surprise? Congratulations. Now you're crew."
"What?"
"We run lean here," Hiral said, waving toward the sails. "If you're aboard, you work. This isn't a royal pleasure craft."
Alexis grinned again, rolling his shoulders. "Fine. What do you need me to do?"
Hiral shot him a flat look. "Rigging, galley prep, night watch—whatever keeps you out of my way."
"So no cuddling."
"Definitely no cuddling."
They shared a quiet beat. Then Hiral sighed, amused. "You're trouble, Alexis."
"And you like it."
Hiral didn't answer, but the faint smile playing at his lips said enough.
As the ship pulled away, the mist swallowed the island behind them, and the only sound left was the flap of sails and the creak of wood.
Two shadows on deck—standing not as enemies, not quite as allies—but as something tense, taut, and undeniably tethered.
Far from safe shores, but for the first time—together.
****
The ship drifted steady through the midnight sea, sails slackened under the weight of calm wind. Overhead, the full moon hung like a silver sentinel—vast, luminous, and impossibly still. Its light stretched across the waves in shimmering ribbons, softening the world to hush and shadow.
Up on the upper deck, Hiral stood at the bow—his armor gone, replaced by a simple linen shirt that clung loose to his frame.
The wind caught in his unbound hair, casting dark strands across his cheekbones as he gazed out over the water.
His posture, always composed, had shed its rigid edges.
He looked untethered.
And he was humming.
The tune drifted gently into the night air—low, wistful, drawn out like it belonged to a world that no longer existed.
It threaded with the sea breeze and moonlight, a melody of ache and memory.
Alexis emerged from below deck, feet bare, boots in one hand, hair still tousled from interrupted sleep.
He'd only managed a few hours of rest before something—maybe the silence, maybe the ship's subtle sway—had pulled him awake.
And there, framed in silver light and shadow, stood Hiral.
Beautiful, Alexis thought before he could stop himself. Like some lone spirit born from salt and moonlight.
He didn't announce himself. He didn't have to.
Hiral's voice never faltered, but Alexis saw the way his shoulder shifted—the way the song dipped ever so slightly in tone.
He knew Alexis was there.
He simply chose not to react.
So Alexis approached slowly, leaning against the rail beside him, their shoulders close but not quite touching.
"What song is that?" Alexis asked, his voice husky with sleep, quiet as the sea.
Hiral's hum ceased. The silence stretched, as if the answer took effort to bring forward.
"A lullaby," he said at last. "My mother sang it the day I left her side."
The admission hung in the air like smoke, delicate and unfinished.
Alexis wanted to ask more. He wanted to know what kind of mother Hiral had, what she looked like when she sang, whether she cried when he left.
But something in Hiral's stillness made him hold his tongue.
Instead, he waited.
But Hiral didn't continue.
So Alexis filled the space with something else.
"Why aren't you asleep?" he asked, half-teasing. "We've got a long day ahead. Lots of rigging and no cuddling, remember?"
Hiral didn't smile, but something in his eyes flickered with amusement.
"Why aren't you asleep?" he returned smoothly.
Alexis shrugged. "Didn't take to the hammock. Felt like sleeping in a cloth trap."
Hiral turned back toward the moon.
"I can't sleep well at sea," he murmured.
Alexis blinked at that. "Seriously? You command ships like a second skin."
"That's the problem," Hiral said quietly. "Out here... sometimes the sea feels like the sky. Like something vast and clean and full of unknowns. And if I stare too long, I start to think I could leave everything else behind. Just keep sailing."
His voice dropped, almost to himself.
"And never look back."
Alexis looked at him—really looked. At the man who bore duty like armor and silence like a weapon. The man who carried kingdoms in his hands, yet admitted—here, in this breath—that freedom tempted him.
"You could," Alexis said gently.
Hiral nodded.
"I could," he agreed. "But I won't. I chose not to be that man."
Silence pooled between them again. Not heavy, not sharp—just real.
Then Alexis asked, quieter this time, watching Hiral's profile under moonlight:
"Does the moon remind you of your fiancée?"
Hiral turned to look at him. And he smiled.
But said nothing.
Alexis rolled his eyes, but his tone was too light to be bitter.
"So you are two-timing me."
That made Hiral laugh. Really laugh.
A bright, full-bodied sound that broke across the deck like a wave cresting. Alexis turned toward him, surprised. He hadn't expected it to hit that hard.
"Stars above," Hiral chuckled, wiping at his eye. "You're impossible."
"You're not denying it," Alexis said, smirking—but something in his chest knotted, faint and unspoken.
Hiral didn't deny it again. Just leaned back against the rail, hair wild in the wind, eyes on the sea. Still laughing faintly to himself.
Alexis didn't know what that laugh meant. If it was affection. Or evasion. Or something he didn't yet have words for.
But somehow, in this moment, it didn't matter.
Because this moment was theirs.
No politics. No strategy. No masks.
Just moonlight. And salt air. And shared quiet.
And Alexis, for all his unspoken longing, simply stayed. Right there. Beside Hiral. Letting the moment stretch as far as it would carry them.
If it were up to him, it would never end.