Solene hadn't slept. Rheia knew by the way her movements stuttered, too quick, too sharp—like her body was trying to outrun something her mind still clung to.
The mirror had been quiet since the last crack. But Rheia could feel it watching.
Solene slammed the door to the study, hands trembling as heat curled at her fingertips.
"You were going to leave," she said. Not accusation—certainty.
Rheia didn't look up from her journal. "Only for supplies."
"No." Solene stepped closer. "Not the kind you fetch. The kind that lets you vanish."
Rheia closed the book slowly. Her voice was cool, calm. "You're reading emotion like it's prophecy."
"I'm reading you," Solene snapped. Her fire flared—briefly, wildly—then retreated just as fast. "And you hate being seen."
"You're possessive," Rheia said. Not gently.
Solene's eyes gleamed. "Is that the part that scares you? Or the part that makes you stay?"
For a moment, all the light in the room bent toward her. She didn't cast a flame—but Rheia felt scorched anyway.
Then: "The mirror," Rheia whispered. "It showed you yesterday. Your fire devouring a future where we loved freely."
"And what happened?"
"I burned alive."
Solene stepped closer. They were inches apart now, and Rheia felt her pulse hitch, not with magic—but with want.
"I wouldn't let that happen," Solene said, voice low. "I'd burn before I let you fall."
Rheia didn't answer. She reached out—slowly, warily—and touched Solene's wrist. It was warm. Alive. And trembling.
"I think that's what I'm afraid of," Rheia murmured. "That you'd burn everything for me, and I'd let you."