The palace gardens were quieter now, the echoes of childhood games fading beneath the heat of midday. The laughter, the swish of arrows, the clash of wooden swords—all seemed to have retreated into the corners of memory. Illyen, sixteen years old now, walked along the stone path, fingers brushing the carved balustrade as if it could anchor him to something real. He couldn't shake the memory of Cael's hand, the way it had stopped his blade, the way it had made him feel… unsteady.
"Illyen."
The voice made him start. He turned to find Cael leaning casually against the edge of the fountain, arms crossed, eyes catching the sunlight in a way that reminded him of those long afternoons under the great tree. The crown prince, also sixteen, seemed impossibly composed, as though he belonged entirely to this garden and its sunlit calm.
"You—" Illyen began, then faltered. Words seemed too fragile, too small for the weight of what he felt.
Cael tilted his head, a faint smirk curving his lips. "You fight like a duke's son," he said lightly, "but run like one, too."
Illyen's cheeks flamed, but he didn't look away. "I'm not a child anymore," he snapped, though the protest sounded hollow, even to himself.
Cael's blue eyes softened, just for a moment, catching the hint of red in Illyen's own. "Maybe not," he said quietly, "but some lessons… are never outgrown."
Illyen's gaze flicked to the fountain water, where their reflections shimmered together. For a fleeting instant, it felt as if the past and present folded into one, the invisible thread tightening, pulling, refusing to break.
The wind stirred, rustling the leaves above them. A stray arrow, forgotten in a corner of the garden, quivered on the stone, and Illyen realized he had been holding his breath. His fingers itched to reach out, to grab that thread of memory, but fear and pride held him back.
Cael stepped closer, the distance between them shrinking without ceremony. "Do you remember the tree?" he asked, his voice lower now, intimate, almost dangerous in its softness.
Illyen's heart stuttered. "I—" He stopped, swallowing hard. Something in him wanted to remember, but he feared what memories might drag back—the laughter, the mockery, the loss.
"Beneath it," Cael whispered, "you weren't just the duke's son. You were…" His words lingered, unfinished, yet heavy with unspoken meaning.
Illyen looked up, meeting Cael's gaze fully this time. The blue eyes that had haunted his dreams for so long now held a weight he couldn't ignore. And in that silent exchange, a single truth threaded itself between them: some bonds, once made, do not break, no matter the years, no matter the forgetting.
"Why do you always follow me?" Illyen asked suddenly, voice sharp, though it trembled. "Why do you care so much about what I do?"
Cael's lips curved faintly, half-smile, half-shadow. "Because someone has to," he said simply. "And you're impossible."
Illyen wanted to argue, but no words came. His chest tightened as a strange warmth rose through him, the kind that made his palms sweat and his thoughts scatter. For a moment, he remembered the way Cael had always seemed to appear when he was in trouble, like a silent guardian he couldn't ask for but somehow always needed.
The sun dipped lower, golden light spilling across the courtyard. Illyen turned his face toward the warmth, heart pounding. He wanted to run, to escape the intensity of those blue eyes—but even as he stepped back, he felt the thread tighten once more, pulling him closer, tying him to something he couldn't yet name…
And Cael did not let go.
A leaf fell between them, drifting slowly to the ground. Illyen's hand itched to reach out, to grab it, but he froze. Instead, he let the moment linger, feeling the invisible thread hum beneath his skin. He didn't understand it yet—how a boy could feel so tethered to another—but he knew one thing: whatever this was, it was not finished. Not yet.