Selvara's POV
The inn smelled like sweat and old arguments. "The Copper Widow," Clive called it, as if the name mattered. I was more focused on the way his shoulders tightened the moment we stepped inside. He was used to being hunted—not housed.
When he paid for only one room, I didn't comment. Gold was heavy and scarce, and so was comfort.
"Only one bed," the innkeeper warned.
Clive nodded. "Doesn't matter."
I smirked. "Saving coin or hoping for warmth?"
Grimpel snorted from his shoulder. "If you two cuddle, warn me first. I want to be knocked off the nightstand by something less traumatic."
We climbed narrow stairs that creaked like they were eavesdropping. The room was small enough to suffocate in. A single bed, a cracked mirror, no window. Clive dropped his satchel, already searching the room like it might attack him.
I threw my cloak over the chair, revealing more than necessary—my hips, bare legs, the faint red runes tattooed along the curve of my lower back. I noticed the way Clive's eyes flicked downward, lingering for a second too long before he tore them away. His silence was more telling than any words.
"What?" I asked, already grinning.
"Nothing."
"You stare like a priest who forgot his vow."
He coughed and looked away. "You're not subtle."
"Neither are you."
The silence settled in, heavy and familiar. He made for the floor, ever the martyr.
"You don't have to sleep down there, Clive."
"I do."
"Afraid you'll dream about me?"
He didn't answer. He just turned his back.
I sat cross-legged on the bed and leaned forward, letting the fabric of my tunic slip from one shoulder. "Fine, then tell me something instead. How did you two meet?"
He stiffened.
Grimpel chuckled, his single eye-glow flaring with mischief. "Careful now. That story's not rated for bedtime."
"No," I said, cutting him off. "Not the version you've told others. I mean the real version. Why did a cursed skull choose a broken boy in the woods? What really happened?"
Clive hesitated longer than he should have.
"I told you," he muttered. "I fell into a ravine. I was running from Maedra. I landed beside him. I was... hollow."
"Hollow," I repeated. "And that's enough for a soul-bound relic to wake up and start cracking jokes?"
Grimpel didn't say anything this time.
And that silence said everything.
"I've seen relics before," I continued, locking eyes with Clive. "They don't bind unless something triggers them. Unless a soul calls them. But you weren't dead. Not then. So what exactly were you, Clive?"
Clive stood. Walked toward the wall. Turned his back.
"I don't remember."
A lie.
He said it like a blade he refused to draw.
And Grimpel—he was staring at Clive, not with his usual mockery, but with something colder.
"I think," I said softly, "you weren't hollow, Clive. I think you were already broken. Maybe Grimpel didn't find you. Maybe he was always waiting for you."
Clive didn't move. Didn't breathe.
I let it hang.
Then leaned back onto the bed, stretching just enough for the blanket to slide farther down my thighs.
Clive finally turned. His eyes flicked to the exposed skin, then to my face. And stayed.
"You're really bad at pretending," I murmured.
"I'm really good at not getting attached."
"Is that what this is?" I asked, voice softer now. "Detachment?"
His jaw worked. Tight. Quiet.
I reached over, brushing the edge of the bed where his hand had rested moments ago. "You can lie to me, Clive. That's easy. But your body?"
I leaned closer. Our faces inches apart now.
"It already knows what it wants."
He swallowed hard. "Stop."
"You want to."
"I can't."
"Because of her?" I asked. "Or because of you?"
His eyes flicked to mine. Pain. Longing. Guilt.
He looked away again, breathing heavy.
"Is this about the soul shards?" I asked. "You've found what—three now?"
He nodded slowly. "Out of seven."
"And each one brings you closer to being whole again?"
"No," Grimpel cut in, his voice unusually sharp. "Each one brings him closer to something worse. Some doors shouldn't be unlocked. Some truths rot the moment you speak them."
"But he needs them," I pressed. "To stop Maedra."
"To become what she made him," Grimpel said. "Same thing."
Clive sat beside me now, legs stiff, body trembling with tension he wouldn't name. "Each shard holds something she tore out of me," he said quietly. "Not just memories—emotions. Compassion. Hope. Restraint. Things I didn't even know I missed... until they came back."
I leaned against him, just enough for my arm to brush his. "And what happens when you get the last one?"
He didn't answer.
Because neither of us wanted to speak that fear aloud.
I could feel his heat now. The fire behind his restraint. The hunger in his silence. I wanted to taste the storm just behind his mouth.
Grimpel's glow flared. "Careful. The more of him he remembers, the less of him stays."
I smirked, not moving. "Then maybe I'll like the version that's coming."
"Then maybe you're the most dangerous thing in this room," Clive said, voice tight.
I whispered, "Neither are you."
He lay beside me eventually, not touching, but everything in him leaned.
We didn't speak.
But the silence was thick with want. With lies. With a shared fear of truth.
And the Loud Moon outside watched us like it already knew how this would end.