Grimpel didn't say anything when the final ghost vanished.
He just hovered in silence, dimmed and uneven, as though even his strange soul felt fractured.
Clive had barely stood after the vision of Lena. His breath was ragged, eyes blank, shoulders slumped under a weight not even magic could name.
"Clive," Selvara had started.
But he walked past her.
Grimpel turned to say something, but stopped himself. His single glowing socket flickered like a candle dying in wind.
"I'll... find somewhere quiet," the skull muttered. "Somewhere I can't see things I shouldn't."
It wasn't a joke.
Not this time.
He drifted away into the Veindawn night without a sound. And just like that, Clive was alone. Or almost.
Selvara watched the back of his coat disappear up the stairs of the inn, then stood under the Loud Moon a little longer.
Its glow felt colder now.
Their room was quiet when she opened the door.
Clive sat on the edge of the bed, shirtless, the fourth shard glinting faintly on the table beside him. His back was hunched, face hidden in his hands.
She stepped inside. Closed the door behind her. Let it click like punctuation.
"Clive..."
He didn't answer.
The glow from the Wyrmstone around his neck pulsed in slow waves. His scars were visible now. Not just the ones on his body—but the ones that shaped his posture, his silence, his distance.
Selvara stood across from him. The air between them heavy.
"You saw her," she said. "The girl. Lena."
Clive didn't move.
"Was Maedra the one who took her?"
A pause. Then a whisper.
"No," he said. "I gave her up. I thought... it was the only way."
He swallowed hard, voice cracking. "To save the village. To buy time. She was—she was just a child."
He clenched his fists against his thighs, knuckles white.
"I let Maedra take her. And I told myself it was for the greater good."
Selvara felt her chest tighten. The pain in his voice wasn't just guilt. It was self-hatred sharpened over years.
"I've done cruel things," he said. "But that was the first time I knew I'd broken something that wouldn't come back."
He finally looked up.
And she saw it.
Not rage. Not coldness.
Grief.
Deep, raw grief.
The kind you don't show anyone unless you're ready to fall apart.
She crossed the room slowly, and knelt before him.
Her hands touched his knees. He didn't flinch.
"Then let it break," she whispered. "Let yourself feel it. You don't have to hold this alone."
He looked at her, like he didn't understand why she was still there.
"You should hate me," he murmured.
"Maybe," she said. "But I don't. And neither do you. Not really."
The kiss came like fire.
Not soft. Not hesitant. But all-consuming. As if everything he couldn't say needed to be felt. Her fingers slid up his chest, memorizing every scar, every wound, every breath.
His hands gripped her hips, not possessive, but desperate.
She straddled him, slowly, legs sliding around his waist as her lips found the line of his jaw, the curve of his throat. He tasted of salt and storm.
Their clothes came undone between gasps. Her top peeled away like second skin. His trousers slipped under urgent fingers.
Skin to skin.
Heat to heat.
Her breasts brushed his chest, and his groan was low and helpless. His hands moved up her spine, fingers trembling, calloused palms learning the shape of her body with reverence.
They collapsed onto the bed together. The creak of the wood, the hush of the wind outside, the glow of the Loud Moon spilling across their bodies—all of it surrounded them in a moment carved from something more sacred than spellwork.
He kissed her deeply, almost afraid she'd vanish. Her fingers tangled in his hair as her back arched. Her legs wrapped tighter around him, not letting go.
She gasped when he entered her—not from pain, but from how full, how right it felt. Their hips moved in tandem, instinctive, ancient.
Every thrust was a question.
Every moan, an answer.
His breath was ragged against her collarbone. She dug her nails into his back, felt his muscles tighten beneath her touch. She wanted to scream. He covered her mouth with his hand—gently, protectively—as if trying to hold the moment close, keep it safe.
Sweat glistened along their skin. The room smelled of smoke and skin and something sweetly primal.
Her climax hit like lightning. Her body convulsed, thighs clenching, fingers gripping the sheets it was like they were in rhythm, his essence poured as she reached her climax. She whispered his name like a prayer. And when he followed—hips twitching, breath stilling, his forehead pressed to hers—she felt his body tremble.
Not from pleasure alone.
From release.
From surrender.
From trust.
It was like something she always wanted but never knew she did.
They stayed tangled in silence.
Her head on his chest. His heartbeat slowly calming beneath her ear.
She watched the Wyrmstone pulse softly in the dark.
No words passed.
There was nothing to explain. Nothing to justify.
But Selvara knew, in the quiet space between them—
Clive was no longer alone in his grief.
And neither was she.
She whispered against his skin:
"You still dream of her?
His voice cracked.
"Every night."
She nodded. Then held him tighter.
In the shadow of the Loud Moon, beneath the scent of ash and sweat and silence, something shifted between them.
Not lust.
Not comfort.
Something real.
And when sleep finally came, Selvara didn't dream of blood.
She dreamed of warmth.
And of his ember eyes.