That night, Illyen's room felt unusually quiet. The shadows cast by the candle flickered across the walls, moving like whispers of things he could not name. Sleep remained elusive, and when he finally closed his eyes, dreams returned in fragments—half-seen faces, the swaying of a ribbon, a tree impossibly tall that seemed to stretch into the sky.
By morning, his chest carried the weight of memories he couldn't grasp. At breakfast, the lively chatter of noble children barely reached him. Emily laughed beside him, but Illyen's gaze kept drifting to the end of the table, where Cael sat with that same composed, unyielding posture.
Their eyes met, and for a fleeting second, the world felt taut with invisible threads pulling them together. Illyen turned away, heat rising to his cheeks. Impossible… past lives… nonsense, he muttered inwardly, yet the certainty in Cael's gaze lingered longer than it should have.
Later, the children were led to the palace gardens for lessons. Archery beneath the great tree had been arranged. Its gnarled branches arched overhead, leaves whispering secrets to the wind.
When it was Illyen's turn, he grasped the bow with a determination that felt fragile. His fingers trembled slightly on the string, betraying his resolve. Before he could release, a familiar hand steadied his wrist.
"Don't rush it," Cael murmured, voice soft enough for only Illyen to hear.
Illyen stiffened. "Stop interfering, Your Highness. I don't need your help."
But Cael's grip remained, patient and firm. "If you aim like that, you'll miss. Trust me."
The arrow flew, striking near the center of the target. Applause rose around them, yet Illyen barely noticed. His heart thundered, aware of Cael's nearness in a way that made him shiver.
He pulled back sharply. "I didn't ask for your guidance."
Cael's lips curved, not quite a smile but enough to unsettle him. "And yet… you listened."
Illyen turned quickly, pretending to study the rustling leaves above. For an instant, he imagined two children beneath the tree, laughing together—a memory just beyond reach, slipping away like mist.
"You've stood here before," Cael said, voice soft, almost a whisper meant for the wind.
Illyen spun toward him, red eyes flashing. "You speak in riddles. I have no memories of such things."
"Not yet," Cael replied, the faintest sorrow in his gaze.
The wind stirred, brushing through the leaves, carrying an unspoken weight. Beneath the ancient branches, the invisible thread between them pulled taut—silent, unbroken, and undeniable.
Later that day, Illyen found himself wandering the palace corridors, as though drawn by something unseen. The library, with its orderly rows of books and the faint scent of parchment, offered a quiet refuge. He ran his fingers along the spines, seeking distraction, but then a glint of color caught his eye—a small, delicate ribbon, pressed between the pages of a forgotten tome.
He reached for it instinctively. The moment he touched it, a shiver ran through him. The ribbon felt impossibly familiar, as if it had always belonged to him. Closing his eyes, he glimpsed fragments of a memory: laughter echoing beneath leaves, the warmth of a hand brushing his own, a promise whispered beneath a sky too wide to contain it.
A voice interrupted, gentle but firm. "You shouldn't linger here alone."
Illyen turned sharply. Cael stood in the doorway, hands clasped behind his back. His presence was steady, yet somehow carried the weight of centuries. Illyen clenched the ribbon in his fist, unsure why it mattered so much.
"I… I was just… looking," he stammered.
Cael stepped closer, eyes never leaving his. "Looking is fine. But sometimes, what we find isn't just on the shelves."
Illyen's pulse quickened. "What do you mean?"
"Memories. Feelings you haven't remembered yet. They have a way of catching up to us when we least expect it."
Illyen looked away, cheeks burning. "I don't understand."
"You will," Cael said softly, stepping nearer. "Eventually."
For a moment, the library, the candlelight, even the ribbon in Illyen's hand—all of it blurred into something older than the palace walls themselves. And in that moment, their gazes met. Something unspoken passed between them—something old, something deep, something that refused to be forgotten.
The thread between them, invisible yet unbreakable, pulled taut, drawing the two closer together—even if neither dared to admit how far it had already reached.