was a night unlike any other.
The forest whispered differently, as if the wind carried secrets it had never dared to speak. The candle flickered in Elara's cottage, casting long, dancing shadows on the walls. She felt it before she saw it—a presence, familiar and impossible.
Her breath caught.
"Alaric?" she whispered into the darkness.
No answer.
And yet… she felt him.
Outside, the moon shone unusually bright, silver and cold. Elara stepped onto the porch, her heart pounding in her chest. The forest was still. The night was still.
Then, the wind shifted.
A shadow moved among the trees. It was him—or it was something like him.
Her knees trembled. She wanted to run, but something held her in place.
The shadow drew closer.
And when it stood at the edge of the clearing, she could swear she saw eyes—eyes that belonged to Sir Alaric Vayne.
Cold, yet burning. Distant, yet full of longing.
"Elara…" The voice was not there. But it was everywhere. Inside her, around her, whispering across the space that separated life and death.
She fell to her knees. "Alaric… is it really you?"
No words came. Only a heavy feeling of his presence—silent, yet unmistakable.
Her hands clutched the silver-thread charm he had left her years ago. Somehow, it vibrated in her palm, as if responding to his soul.
"Why… why are you here?" she asked, tears spilling freely.
A gust of wind carried a single black feather to her feet. She picked it up and held it tightly.
Somehow, she understood. He was gone from this world, but he had never left her.
That night, she dreamed of him.
Not as a knight, not as a warrior, but as a man. A man who walked slowly through a forest of stars, reaching for her hand. She felt his touch, soft and warm, though no body existed.
"Always," he whispered.
She woke with a start, the candle burned low, the feather still clutched in her hand.
Her heart ached with both pain and hope.
For the first time in years, she knew she was not waiting in vain.
Even if death had claimed him, love had not.