Home did not feel like home.
Kael stood at the edge of Telmar, boots planted in familiar earth, and yet everything felt… tilted. The village looked the same—stone houses warmed by lantern light, smoke curling gently from chimneys, the distant sound of voices carrying on the evening air—but something unseen pressed against his senses, like a wrong note humming beneath a song he'd known all his life.
The people smiled when they saw him.
Too quickly.
Too eagerly.
Relief flashed across faces, mixed with awe and something closer to fear. Kael felt it in the way conversations faltered when he passed, in the way eyes lingered just a moment too long on the faint silver veins that sometimes glimmered at his temples when the light hit right.
He kept his head down.
Lira noticed.
She walked beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed now and then, as if reminding him he was still here. Still human. Still real. Her presence anchored him more than she knew, though even she couldn't fully quiet the sense that the world itself was watching him return.
Maelor lagged behind, staff tapping softly against the stone path. His expression was unreadable, gaze drifting to the sky more often than the village. He looked… tired. Not wounded—something deeper. Like a man who had seen too many futures converge into one narrow road.
Kael felt it again then.
That subtle pull.
Not pain. Not a voice.
Just awareness.
As if something inside him had opened one eye and decided to stay awake.
That night, the village gathered quietly. No celebration. No cheers. Just lanterns, murmured prayers, and hands pressed to hearts as Kael passed. He answered when spoken to, smiled when expected, but every expression felt practiced—like he was remembering how to be himself rather than being himself.
Later, when the village finally slept, Kael sat alone on a low stone wall overlooking the fields.
The sky was clear. Too clear.
Stars burned sharp and cold above him, and for a moment—just a moment—he felt the terrifying certainty that if he reached out, he could touch them. Pull them closer. Bend them.
He clenched his fists until his nails bit into his palms.
Footsteps approached.
Lira stopped beside him, her silhouette framed by moonlight. She didn't speak right away. Just looked at him.
"You're quieter," she said finally.
Kael exhaled slowly. "Am I?"
"Yes," she replied. "Not distant. Just… like you're listening to something I can't hear."
He looked away. "Do I scare you?"
The question slipped out before he could stop it.
Lira didn't answer immediately. When she did, her voice was steady. "You scare yourself," she said. "That's different."
Kael nodded, throat tight. "I feel like if I let go for even a second…"
He trailed off.
Lira stepped closer, close enough that he could feel her warmth. "Then don't let go," she said simply. "Not alone."
He looked at her then—and smiled.
It looked right.
Too right.
Somewhere far beyond Telmar, in a place where light did not belong, Sereth stood at the edge of his throne room, talons digging into the stone as he gazed toward the mortal realm.
He could feel it now.
Not the dragon.
Not the flame.
The space around Kael.
The absence where something had been locked away.
Sereth's smile spread slowly, reverently.
"Oh," he whispered. "You didn't end yourself."
The shadows around him writhed in anticipation.
Back in Telmar, Lira studied Kael's smile a moment longer than necessary.
Something about it lingered in her chest like a cold echo.
"Kael?" she said softly.
"Yes?"
"…Are you okay?"
He turned to her fully, silver light briefly flickering behind his eyes before settling.
"I'm fine," he said.
It wasn't his smile.
And the night did not disagree.