The heavy door of his chambers closed with a hollow thud, drowning out the echoes of the hall. Silence bled into the space, broken only by the steady rhythm of rain clawing against the high windows. The manor itself seemed to sigh, its walls shifting as if the ancient stones carried his unrest.
Kaelith loosened the clasp of his coat and let it fall across the chair by the hearth. The fire burned low, its light fractured, shadows reaching long fingers across the floorboards to brush against his boots.
But even here, in solitude, he was not free.
He leaned against the bedpost, eyes closing, and the storm outside seemed to fold into him—thunder rumbling with the ache of memory.
It came unbidden.
Her hands. Her breath. The way her laughter once slipped through the silence like music he had no right to crave. The memory bloomed, fierce and vivid, as though conjured by some cruel spell.
Kaelith's breath caught as the scene unfolded within him, not a distant recollection but a living specter. The chamber seemed to blur, overtaken by that night—years past yet fresh as new blood.
He remembered the way her hair fell across his chest, a silken veil that smelled faintly of rain and wild jasmine. The warmth of her skin against his, every brush of her fingers tracing fire along his ribs.
"Kaelith," her voice had been a whisper then, soft as silk, raw as confession.
Her lips had sought his with a hunger that disarmed him, a desperation that mirrored his own. The shadows themselves had bent to the rhythm of their bodies, writhing along the walls in mimicry of their joining. The world beyond had ceased to exist; there was only her pulse against his, only the fragile promise of belonging carved into each kiss, each breath.
He could still taste her—the faint sweetness of wine, the salt of tears unshed, the betrayal already seeded but not yet known.
His hands clenched into fists at the memory, but the vision would not relent. It played on, cruel and merciless, every detail sharper than a blade.
The curve of her back arched beneath his touch. The sigh that left her throat when he traced the hollow of her neck with lips aflame. The way she had looked into his eyes in that final moment, as though she could drown him in devotion.
A lie.
The word slithered through him, venomous, but his body betrayed him—his chest rising, heart hammering as if caught again in the fever of that night. Desire and fury warred within him, tangled so tightly he could no longer tell them apart.
Kaelith drew a sharp breath, pulling himself back, tearing his eyes open as though to banish the specter. Yet the chamber around him swam with afterimages—her silhouette lingering in every flicker of firelight, her voice tangled in the crackle of the logs.
He sank onto the edge of the bed, pressing a hand to his temple. Shadows clung to him, restless, feeding on the storm inside.
"Enough," he muttered, though no one was there to hear. His own voice sounded foreign in the vast silence.
But the memory had already done its work. His chest ached as though he had lived it all again, as though betrayal had cut fresh into the wound he kept buried beneath steel and shadow.
For a long while, he sat there, staring into the dim fire, letting the ghost of her touch coil around him like a curse. Only when exhaustion pressed heavy against his limbs did the grip of memory begin to loosen.
His eyes drifted shut, though not willingly. Sleep came like a thief, dragging him under, and the last thing he felt before darkness claimed him was not peace, but the echo of her lips against his skin—lingering, poisonous, unforgettable.
The storm raged on outside, but within the chamber, silence deepened. And Kaelith slept, haunted by the shadows of a love that had once been his ruin.