The training yard smelled of crushed grass and sweat. Blunted wooden swords clacked sharply in the summer air. Illyen wiped his brow and turned, expecting the next sparring partner - only to find Cael already walking toward him.
Their eyes met. Cael didn't look angry or smug like usual. Just... tired. Older than he should be.
"Again?" Illyen asked, raising a brow.
"You need more practice," Cael said quietly.
"Your stance is too stiff."
Illyen scowled, lifting his sword. "You're not the instructor."
Cael didn't reply - just raised his own weapon and moved first.
The fight wasn't like the others. Cael didn't strike to win; he moved like he was testing something. Watching. Waiting. Every clash of their swords held something unspoken.
"You hesitate," Cael murmured mid-swing.
Illyen narrowed his eyes. "You're distracted."
Their blades locked. Cael was close enough for Illyen to see the faint scar near his jaw - one he didn't remember seeing before.
"I'm just remembering," Cael whispered.
Go ad-free
VIIU IIU
Illyen faltered. The sword slipped slightly in his grip.
"Remembering what?" he asked.
But Cael had already stepped back, ending the match.
Later that day, Illyen walked the palace gardens alone. Flowers bloomed in perfect rows, but something in him felt unsteady. That sketch Cael had left on the table during lunch - he hadn't meant to look at it, but he saw it anyway.
Two boys. Clumsy smiles. One with long hair.
One with a scar on his cheek.
He didn't know why it made his chest ache.
That night, he found himself sketching in themargins of his books — circles, leaves, two stick figures holding hands. None of it made sense.
None of it should matter.
Meanwhile, Cael stood beneath the laurel tree in the royal courtyard, hands curled tight around a ribbon - pale blue, fraying at the ends. A ribbon he'd once tied in a boy's hair centuries ago.
He had hoped Illyen would remember the tree.
The training match. The drawing.
But he didn't.
He never did.
Cael leaned against the bark, breathing in the silence. If he looked up, he'd see the stars. But they didn't bring him peace anymore.
Just thorns.
"The cruelest kind of memory is the one you keep alone."
- A Thread of You