The rain had a way of silencing Veyruhn. Not the kind of silence that comforted, but a smothering hush, as though the city itself were holding its breath. Rain slicked over cobblestones, pooled in gutters, and drummed against shutters warped by years of storm and neglect. The people of the city were used to it; they walked with their heads bent, cloaks drawn close, words swallowed by the endless downpour.
Lysander walked among them, but never with them. He was part of the crowd in body, never in spirit. He drifted through the streets like a man only half tethered to the world, as though each step were a decision he wasn't sure he wanted to make. The weight of the rain pressed him down, soaking through his thin coat, chilling him to the bone. But he didn't turn back. He never turned back.
It was past midnight when he found himself in the crooked lane that led to the sign of the Falling Candles. He had not meant to come here—at least, that was what he told himself. And yet, his boots had carried him, unthinking, until the warped wooden door rose before him. Its paint, once white, was faded to gray, and on its surface was scratched the faint outline of three candles, wax dripping, flames leaning as though caught mid-fall.
He hesitated. The tavern was no place for the unprepared. Rumors swirled of its patrons—poets who bled their verses into the floorboards, lovers who kissed in corners where priests dared not look, cutthroats who whispered secrets for the price of wine. Lysander had heard the warnings, but warnings meant little to a man already hollow.
He pressed his hand to the door and pushed.
Inside, the air was thick with smoke and murmured laughter. Shadows clung to the rafters like bats, and the candles scattered across the room sputtered with flames too small to fully chase away the gloom. The tavern seemed to exist half in darkness, half in some kind of dream.
Lysander stepped forward, water dripping from his sleeves, his hair plastered to his forehead. Eyes turned toward him for a moment, curious, then slid away. This was not a place where questions were asked.
He searched for an empty table, but his gaze snagged on a figure by the cracked window. A man sat alone, his posture languid yet commanding, a glass of red wine untouched before him. His hair was black as the city's shadows, tied loosely at the nape, though a strand escaped and curled against the sharp line of his cheek. His eyes—dark, fathomless—lifted and caught Lysander's with an intensity that stole the air from his lungs.
The stranger smiled, slow and deliberate, as though he had been expecting him.
"You're lost." His voice was velvet with something dangerous beneath.
Lysander stopped, his breath caught in his throat. He should have turned, should have chosen another table, but he felt pinned in place. His lips parted, and words fell before reason could catch them.
"Or maybe I'm exactly where I want to be."
The stranger's smile deepened, and he gestured to the empty chair across from him. Lysander hesitated for a heartbeat, then moved forward, each step heavy as if pulling him deeper into something he could not yet name.
The candle between them sputtered, light carving their faces into halves—one illuminated, one hidden. Lysander sat, his soaked coat dripping onto the floor, yet the stranger did not seem to notice.
"What do you want?" the man asked.
The question was simple, but it cut deeper than any he had ever been asked. What did he want? For years, Lysander had moved through life with his desires buried beneath grief, beneath fear, beneath the weight of survival. He had wanted, once—but wanting had brought pain.
And yet, sitting before this man, with his unreadable eyes and voice that seemed woven from the same threads as the storm outside, Lysander found his truth escaping like a secret too long caged.
"You."
The word lingered in the air, fragile as glass.
The man leaned closer. His hand brushed Lysander's, the touch cold, deliberate, lingering. A warning, a promise. Lysander did not pull away. He could not.
Outside, the rain grew heavier, battering against the window as though desperate to break in. Inside, the world had narrowed to the flicker of a candle and the space between two men.
The stranger studied him in silence, then finally spoke. "Names are chains. Do you wish to wear mine?"
Lysander swallowed, his throat tight. "Yes."
The man's lips curved. "Cassian."
The name unfurled like smoke, and with it came the faintest shift in the air, as though the tavern itself recognized it. Lysander whispered it back, tasting the shape of it on his tongue. Cassian.
"And yours?" Cassian asked.
"Lysander."
Cassian's gaze lingered on him, weighing the syllables as if testing their worth. "A warrior's name. Do you fight?"
Lysander shook his head. "Not anymore."
"Then perhaps you bleed."
The words were not cruel, not mocking. They were spoken as though bleeding were simply another way of existing. Lysander's hand drifted to the cuff of his sleeve, fingers brushing the scars hidden there. He did not answer, but Cassian's eyes followed the movement, understanding without pity.
"You came here for a reason," Cassian murmured. "Not for wine, not for warmth. You came because you are tired of silence. Tired of being unseen."
Lysander's breath hitched. How could he know? How could a stranger read him so easily?
Cassian reached across the table, his fingertips grazing the back of Lysander's hand. "I see you."
The words struck like a blade wrapped in silk. No one had said them before. Not Eira, who had tried to heal him with soft words and gentle hands. Not the priests, who muttered prayers for his soul. No one had looked at him and spoken the truth he craved.
"I see you," Cassian repeated, softer this time, almost tender.
Lysander's chest tightened, a shiver running through him that was not from the cold. He wanted to speak, to thank him, to ask what he meant—but the words tangled in his throat.
Cassian withdrew his hand, lifting his glass of wine at last. He swirled the liquid, crimson catching the candlelight like fresh blood. His eyes never left Lysander's.
"Stay," he said. Not a command, not a plea. A simple truth.
And Lysander, reckless in his loneliness, did not even think of leaving.